Ilya Rozanov’s photocard psychological warfare campaign on the NHL starts like this.

Ilya is dragged to one of Svetlana’s extended family member’s wedding as her plus-one. She pinches his ear the whole way from the house into the car as he laments about wasting a rare day off on trading faux pleasantries with random Russian elders neither of them remember from childhood.

“You owe me,” Svetlana hisses. Perfectly manicured nails tapping against the wheel of her Porsche, she slides a meaningful look towards Ilya’s phone. A text from Jane flashes on the screen, and he quickly turns it over.

That could mean anything, but Ilya doesn’t bother fighting her or clarifying. He definitely owes her several times over, and for plenty of reasons across the years. It’s a life debt he started accruing since before his mother even died, when he and Svetlana would walk from school to the ice rink together, hand in hand, and she would pack extra snacks for when Ilya’s mother was too sad to remember.

“You’d rather have Rose Landry here,” Ilya definitely doesn’t sulk against the window.

“Duh. But she wouldn’t make a very good beard.”

So Svetlana cashes in a favor to get her extended family off her back about not having a date for the night, and parades Ilya Rozanov around as eye candy on her arm.

“Play nice with Dad’s old hockey friends for an hour, tolerate at least one game the tamada runs, then you can escape to the kids table for the rest of the night, okay?” Svetlana says out of the corner of her mouth. She’s grimacing through handshakes and bear hugs from patrons clearly further into the night’s drinking games than they are.

Ilya is used to being the life of the party, yes, but that only applies to the locker room where he reigns as king, and on the sticky sweat soaked floors of clubs where he’s worshipped as god. During events like these – galas for the league, awards shows, weddings, reunions – he’s just Ilya. And that’s never good enough.

So Ilya the son, the disappointment, the mortal, shakes some more hands, promises a rotating lineup of faces that he’ll win another cup and bring glory to Russia, and tries not to dissociate between rounds of well-intentioned ribbing that fall flat when it comes from strangers like these.

Eventually Svetlana’s iron grip on his elbow relaxes, and he gratefully accepts the cue to feign a headache and slip away.

Even after his father’s death, Grigori looms over Ilya’s shoulder during events like these, a well-set stain on his soul. His father’s critical eyes live on in every older Russian man that turns his gaze on him in this room, and it’s choking him.

Fuck, he misses Shane. He always does, but after spending a blissful two weeks playing house together over the summer, every day apart makes him ache like he’s missing a limb.

A very specific limb, in fact. One that can get absolutely no action without Shane. It’s maddening. He truly turned Ilya from a whore into a husband without even trying.

The word — husband — makes something in Ilya’s chest clench as he drifts around the perimeter of the event hall. There are ornate chandeliers dripping gold and crystals from the ceiling. Would Shane want light fixtures like those? No, he always has the lights dimmed at his house, he would prefer much softer lighting. Gentle, since he gets overwhelmed easily. Maybe there’s a venue that has adjustable lights, or they could have a garden ceremony with natural sunlight and fresh flowers.

Hm. Flowers. Ilya squints at the bouquet centerpieces at each table. What is Shane’s favorite flower? Would it be too corny to have bulbs of lilies framing the altar?

Maybe Shane doesn’t even have a favorite flower. He probably likes something weird, like an endangered moss. Or he’d demand maple leafs everywhere because Canadians are bizarrely not that far off from their stereotypes. Whatever. Ilya would make it work.

Shane could demand Ilya crawl his way to the altar and he’d do it with a smile as long as Shane is holding the leash.

Ilya flops into a seat, faraway gaze lagging a beat behind. He can’t let Shane’s make-up artist cover up his freckles on their wedding day. Maybe he’ll slip a bill, however big it needs to be, into her bag and get her to enhance them. The constellations on his cheeks will be the only thing Ilya can see when they’re standing face to face in front of the priest, just like they were the day they first met. He’ll be gone all over again as soon as he sees those freckles, but this time instead of a clammy handshake, he’ll feel Shane’s hand sliding a ring on his finger.

Would Shane cry? Are there cultural elements he would want to blend into their ceremony? Would they do traditional vows? Would he smile? Would it crinkle at his eyes? Just like–

Ilya looks down and meets Shane’s eyes.

“F–” Ilya startles backwards, catching himself from both tipping off the chair and cursing in front of a child in the same breath. “–iddlesticks!” he finishes, because Shane Hollander has turned him into an embarrassing, boring old man.

One of Svetlana’s many cousins is sitting across from him, scribbling aimlessly at the tablecloth. She seems disinterested with the lively folk dances and obstacle courses currently monopolizing most of the party.

Her phone lays in front of her on the table. A photo of Shane Hollander is tucked in the back of the clear case, his earnest eyes staring up at Ilya from his plastic prison. Pink glitter hearts drift with gravity, the liquid in the case settling and obscuring part of his perfect face. Ilya wants to shake it away. He also wants to cover Shane’s image with the glitter so no one else can see him.

Hand pressed to his pounding heart, Ilya tries to greet Svetlana’s cousin like he wasn’t just deep into a fantasy about him and the man in her phone getting married in twenty years time, which is probably how long it will take to wear media-conscious hockey addict Shane Hollander down. God damn it.

Yulia, if he remembers correctly, is fourteen and hails from somewhere on Svetlana’s father’s side of the family. It seems the hockey gene has not skipped her. He vaguely recalls seeing videos on Svetlana’s phone of the girl toddling around on skates when she was younger. Perhaps she’s still skating, or maybe her hockey bloodline has shifted more into statistical obsession, like Svetlana.

Ilya gets along best with the children in any room he’s put into, but he’s a bit further out of his element when it comes to teenage girls, so he crooks an awkward finger at her phone case and says dumbly, “You trap Hollander like bug?”

Yulia’s brows draw together with the intense judgement that only a fourteen year old girl can cast. She stops doodling on the table and crosses her arms. “You’ve never heard of a photo card?”

Ilya stares. Obviously not.

“They’re like the trading cards from,” she waves a dismissive hand, “back in your day, or something.”

“Back in my day,” Ilya echoes with a growing smile. “You think I have one foot in the grave, huh?”

Yulia shrugs. “If not, then why is Shane so much faster than you?”

Ilya throws his head back with the force of his laughter. Shane. Fuck, this random girl can refer to Shane by his first name when she’s barely shared a timezone with him, but when Ilya does it after being up in the guy’s guts for six years, he gets freaked out on and dumped for a movie star.

Life is so unfair.

“You are big fan of Hollander, I guess. This is why you carry his photo around like husband at war? He is your lover?” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

A fierce blush burns across the girl’s cheeks. “Shut up,” she huffs, flipping the phone over to hide Shane’s picture, then hunches over to bury her face in her arms, chin pointed away from Ilya.

The feeling of a phantom limb rushes back as soon as Shane’s face disappears against the tablecloth, and Ilya reaches out without thinking twice. He turns the phone back over and shakes it so the liquid glitter pools at the bottom of the case, leaving Shane’s image perfectly clean.

“Is good photo,” Ilya mumbles because it’s true. Shane is on the ice, probably mid-celly. He has one gloved fist up in victory, a grin splitting his face and curving at his eyes. His freckles look enhanced.

Ilya’s finger prods at the seam between the phone and the case, wondering how long it would take Yulia to notice if he squirreled the photo away into his suit pocket. “Where did you find this?”

It’s not a trading card, and it’s not a photo Ilya remembers seeing from any of Shane’s advertisements, or even from Yuna’s social media feeds. He would know. Though he can never save them on his phone lest he face the wrath of Spiraling Shane, he’s spent long hours scrolling through Yuna’s posts and committing each one to memory.

Slowly, Yulia’s body language opens back up. She turns to press the other cheek into her arms, still glaring distrustfully up at Ilya. “Why do you care? I’m not replacing him even if you get me a photocard of you.”

“Ah, no, I would not ask that of you. Just, he, uh…” Ilya trails off. Someone in the crowd hollers, Горько! as a signal to toast, and Ilya raises his glass of vodka to his lips. It burns as it goes down. His tongue loosens just a bit. “He looks happy.”

Usually Shane is the perfect picture of focus on the ice. He cheers for his teammates, but he rarely grins so freely at his own accomplishments, always wrapped up in thoughts of what he could do better and how to move the game forward from here. Ilya has gotten plenty of face-off chirp material about how Shane looks like an angry kitten when he plays, and how much he wants to bite the wrinkle of concentration between his brows.

Yulia sits up at that. She glances between the Shane in her phone and the living Ilya sitting across from her, and then back to Shane. She narrows her eyes. “He’s your rival.”

“This is true.”

“You hate him.”

Ilya makes a so-so gesture with his hand. “This is less true.”

“You think he’s ugly. I see the way you look at him during face-offs. You look pissed, like you can’t stand being near him.”

Holy misinterpretation.

“Ok this one is definitely not true. You have eyes, you have seen him?” Ilya snatches the phone and points at Shane’s face. “He is Canada Golden Boy. An angel. Like perfect marble statue. Who would not want him?”

Yulia blinks. Ilya clears his throat and takes another swig of vodka as a lifeline. He sinks a little in his chair. “On their team. Who would not want him…on their hockey team. Is about hockey, because we are hockey players. He…eh, is NHL thing. You would not get it.”

“Right,” she says slowly.

Ilya’s grip loosens on the phone case, but not before he gently thumbs over the freckles on Shane’s smiling face. They sparkle with glitter. Sometime they do that in real life, too.

“...You have more?”

Yulia’s face finally breaks into a grin. “Duh.”

She reaches into her sparkly clutch, which looks like it can barely fit two lipsticks and a pack of tissues. Most of the space is taken up by the thick plastic keychain she wiggles out. The outer border is a blinding shade of lime green, and it’s covered in stickers. A photo of Shane in his Voyageurs jersey lays slightly crooked in the middle. The stickers on the plastic covering spell out GOAT in an arc above his head, and a shiny #24 is plastered on the bottom of the card.

It’s garish. Cringe. Over the top. Some may even call it creepy.

Ilya needs to have it. Now.

“Name your price,” he says with his hand out flat, palm up and beckoning. Deadly serious. Yulia only laughs and clutches the keychain to her chest.

“I spent an hour picking out the stickers from Etsy for this one. No sale. Especially not to the enemy. You’d probably burn it before a big game, or use it to cast a hex on him.”

Ilya pretends to be wounded, folding a dramatic hand against his forehead. He searches for the right words, trying to connect with Yulia without accidentally setting her off. “So fans go to hockey games to take pictures of hot players and put them on their bags? What is the point?”

Luckily, Yulia seems to have moved past the bulk of her embarrassment. She picks at a peeling sticker. “When you like someone–when you’re a fan of someone,” she quickly amends, “sometimes looking at their face gives you strength on a hard day. Or it just feels good to carry them around with you. I see fans bringing their photocards to restaurants or on trips, like their idol is experiencing the world with them. It’s…whatever. People think it’s weird.”

She’s avoiding eye contact again. Ilya softens. “Not weird. That sounds nice.”

“Nice?” Yulia parrots, like she can’t believe this hulking six-foot-something mass of pure hockey muscle and masculinity is amenable to the concept of toting around the bedazzled photo of a complete stranger because it somehow makes life feel less miserable.

“Nice,” Ilya confirms. “Looking at someone’s picture when you miss them is not so weird. People do this all the time. Reminds them of happier times. Good memories.”

Genuinely, Ilya doesn’t find it weird. He would be ecstatic to look at his boyfriend’s face all day. If he must be separated from the real thing, a photo that never leaves his side sounds like heaven. How could he ever begrudge someone the joy of Shane Hollander’s perfect smile?

Although, a little twinkle of satisfaction alights in him with the knowledge that none of these fans can experience what Ilya does when he looks at Shane.

Memories of Shane in his arms, pressed skin to skin because they can’t get enough of each other. Ilya with his head in Shane’s lap, being truly held and seen for the first time in years, Shane’s fingers scratching gently against his scalp. Teasing Shane from across the ice and seeing the results of his efforts bloom on his cheeks. Playing the best hockey of his life every time they play against Montreal because it’s a surefire way to catch and keep Shane’s attention. Pressing deep into Shane, hearing him gasp against his skin, punching out those whines Ilya loves to swallow with his lips.

Those memories are all for him. For them.

Yulia gazes fondly at the photo of Shane. The same tenderness is probably showing ten times over on his own face as he follows her gaze. The affection in his eyes lays naked and exposed in front of this unlikely Shane-loving ally.

“I get my photocards from Mercari,” she says suddenly. “I know specific online shops that sell the best quality toploaders and deco stickers. You need to be careful with the concentration of PVC in some sleeves because they could damage the cards. I’ll send you the names of my favorite fansites, they sell everything from slogans to custom photocard holders to fanmade plushies.”

Ilya reels at the amount of new vocabulary words entering his lexicon. What the hell is ‘fan’s sight’? What are they seeing?

Yulia nods to herself, typing furiously on her phone. She grabs Ilya’s phone, and seconds later it dings with a wall of text and links. Reaching over slightly, she pats reassuringly at his hand. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone that you’re secretly a Hollie. Or whatever fandom you’re part of.”

Ilya blinks. “Thank…you?”

Before he can ask what the fuck half the words she just said means, Yulia is getting beckoned by a horde of children to play another game. Normally Ilya would join them, but he feels like he’s been steamrolled by a truck. If he was in a cartoon, little blue birds of dizziness would be circling his head.

What was that?

Ilya slumps against his seat and watches the happy couple gather at the center of the room, ringed by a pulsing crowd of festivity. The bride and groom hoist crystal glasses gifted to them by their parents. With a celebratory cheer, they whip them downwards and watch the glasses shatter across the floor.

Tradition says the more pieces created by smashing the glasses, the more happy years the couple will spend together.

Ilya watches the shards glitter under the light of the chandeliers and wonders how many fragments he’d get with Shane.

Hopefully a lifetime.

_____________________

The deadly blend of a long distance relationship, a judgemental teenage girl, and a misguided Etsy order trigger the cascade of events that finds Ilya Rozanov creeping up to his newly minted P.O box like a thief.

He snatches the discreet-looking package from the cubby like it could burn him. It looks completely normal. He’s not sure why he feared the seller would print ALERT!!! CONTAINS PHOTOS OF SHANE HOLLANDER!!! on the packaging.

Perhaps Hollander neuroticism is contagious.

Sidling out of the lobby with the parcel clutched nervously behind his back, it probably looks like he’s smuggling sex toys out. That would actually be way less embarrassing. He’s ordered collars and bondage gear for Shane with less Catholic guilt than this stupid pack of cards from Indonesia or wherever it was shipping from.

Luckily his Etsy order arrives at a similar time, and that received the honor of being mailed to his actual address on account of the contents being far less incriminating. Anyone bored enough to leak the fact that someone named Lily Norazov ordered a bunch of themed sticker packs to what people presume is Ilya Rozanov’s address likely wouldn’t get much traction.

They’d probably just assume it’s for a secret hookup baby. He hasn’t slept with anyone other than Shane in forever – any surprise kid from his string of one night stands would probably be at sticker age now.

Whatever.

Leg bouncing nervously under his table, Ilya spreads out his haul. He has a couple of rolls of washi tape, some basic sticker sheets for borders and outlines, and then more specialized packs with hearts, stars, and even one with little kitty faces. He has a stack of the toploaders Yulia had recommended, which he also vetted after a very long week scrolling parts of Twitter he’d never encountered before.

Shane Hollander deco toploaders has brought him to (digital) places he wouldn’t go even with a gun.

Briefly he considers searching up someone else’s toploader to copy since he has no eye for artful sticker placement, but he decides it’s best to come from the heart.

He carefully selects a photo of Shane to decorate. Most of the cards in the set he ordered are fan-taken candids. Some of them are of Shane on the ice with varying levels of camera-proximity. Others are screengrabs of pressers or televised events. There’s an awkward one of Shane presenting a bottle of water, probably taken from a behind-the-scenes video from the brand. His short hair is mussed up in adorable spikes and his shoulders are hiked up near his ears with nervousness. He looks like a ruffled little baby bird and Ilya wants to stare at him forever.

No bite marks on expensive Shane photocard, Ilya restrains himself. Barely.

Next time he’ll remember to buy dupes.

Tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, Ilya gets to work. He rallies a level of focus to the task of decorating a Shane Hollander photocard that previously only existed when the cup was on the line.

A heart here. A wiggly piece of confetti (?) there. Stars across the top, then another band down the bottom to even it out. A little bear sticker that warrants some school glue because it won’t stop peeling off.

Ilya rolls out the crick in his neck as he leans back to observe his work. It’s a bit shaky, but for a first attempt it doesn’t look too bad. The two sides aren’t exactly even and he got a little overzealous with layering so some of the stickers completely envelope each other. But it’s cute.

Then he slots in Photocard Shane, and – wow.

This is fucking awesome.

Shane is making the same shy little face as the bear sticker just to his left. Ilya color-matched the border stickers to the pink flush on his cheeks, because he’s still a little too proud to boast Voyageurs red and blue. Shane looks good in pink anyways.

He’d look even better in black and gold.

On second thought, maybe a red themed toploader would be fine. If all goes well, Ilya will be sporting red and black soon.

Ilya clutches the photocard close. Cool. Now he has the most adorable photo of his Shane, safely tucked into an equally adorable protective covering. A version of Shane he can finally put in his pocket. Literally.

So…what now?

He’s not actually a fourteen year old fangirl. He’s a beefy fucking hockey player who can’t just clip a fuzzy photocard holder onto his bag. What is he supposed to do with Paper Shane?

For a single day, he leaves the card propped up on the hallway table where he normally tosses his keys. The idea is that he can ‘come home’ to Shane, but crowing honey, I’m home! to a cardboard version of his boyfriend isn’t as romantic as he was expecting.

He tries putting it on the living room mantle, but that feels too much like he’s mourning a dead lover. The nightstand was a fitting home in concept, but every time he rolls over and sees Shane’s stickered face in the middle of the night he gets crossed between yearning for his boyfriend’s smile and incredibly fucking horny.

Shane is not happy to be woken up in the middle of the night by a FaceTime request. Steamy 3am phone sex does wonders for his irritation in the moment, but Ilya still has to face a scolding in the morning because yes Ilya that was hot, but also when you call me out of the blue like that I assume you’re dying.

So. No nightstand.

In an effort to find the perfect place for Paper Shane, Ilya ends up carting the thing around everywhere he goes – within the house, of course. Shane accompanies him on his morning workouts via the water bottle holder in which he just barely fits. He lays on the counter while Ilya brushes his teeth in the morning while thinking about the elaborate skincare routine Shane is probably in the middle of. Shane watches over Ilya as he cooks, and Ilya almost sets out a second plate before he catches himself.

That one was a little scary.

It feels almost like he’s trial-running cohabitation with Shane. Ilya has been alone for a long, long time. Even when his bed had a constantly rotating roster of women cycling through, he was alone as soon as the sun rose. He has to censor different parts of himself whether he’s in Russia or the States, caught between the two and never feeling fully settled in either. He’s a foreigner in America and a disgrace back home. He has friends here, yes, but they don’t know all of him.

Not like Shane.

So yes, maybe it’s a little embarrassing for a grown man to tote around a paper version of his boyfriend and pretend that Paper Shane is equally as interested in this stupid movie he’s watching, but it’s getting him used to having a constant presence in his day to day life. He just can’t wait until he can replace it with Real Shane.

Real Shane has a real mouth and can give him a real blowjob, after all.

So the photocard travels around Ilya’s house. This is totally fine because only Ilya knows about it. Not even Real Shane has met Paper Shane yet, because there’s still a few more weeks until they play each other again. What happens within the four walls of Ilya’s house stays there.

Until it doesn’t.

Ilya is in the middle of lacing up his skates at an ungodly hour of the morning. He overslept on account of another sexy late-night phone sesh with his sexy boyfriend and his sexy glasses – planned this time, instead of driven by photocard-induced horniness.

He blinks the grogginess out of his eyes as someone – Carmy, probably – shoves a phone in his face until he goes cross-eyed. “Look, Cap, I got the first draft for my Dunkin’ Donuts promo ad!”

Ilya is probably supposed to say something supportive as team captain, but he just elbows Carmichael’s phone out of his way. When his bleary vision refocuses, he’s met with Carmy’s awkward smile on the screen as he pinches a munchkin between two fingertips, the other hand arranged in a stiff thumbs-up.

Carmichael is in the middle of reenacting the ad to the whole room, posing with a puck instead of a munchkin. Ilya rolls his eyes and bats at the air with his hand. “Yes yes, congrats Carmy you are finally real Boston man. Dunks named drink after me during my first year.”

“Fuck you dude, I grew up here. And what could they possibly put in a Roz drink, vodka?” Carmichael sticks out his tongue like a toddler.

Ilya grins, all teeth. “You have never heard of…” he gestures up and down his body, flexing generously, “White Russian?”

The locker room erupts into laughter that barely has a chance to subside before a rookie switches the puck in Carmichael’s hand out for a seemingly used mouthguard. His face twists sourly as he attempts to avoid as many points of contact with the spit as possible.

“Whoa Roz, did you run into a Voyageurs fan on your way here?” Marlow suddenly bellows out a laugh. When Ilya just tilts his head in confusion, he points a crooked finger toward Ilya’s bag. “You got fuckin’ pranked, dude.”

All eyes in the locker room turn to the netted pouch on the side of Ilya’s duffle. It’s for water bottles, which is exactly what he’s using it for. But somehow, a little pink-stickered piece of paper has hitched a ride, peeking out from behind his bottle.

Well fuck.

Marlow plucks it out and holds it up like he’s taking a Kick Me! sign off Ilya’s back instead of manhandling the tenderly decorated likeness of the love of his life. Ilya’s eye twitches.

His team aren’t bad people, not by a long shot, but at the end of the day they’re still hockey players. Not exactly known for being the most open-minded and thoughtful bunch.

Another rookie swiftly replaces the slimy mouthguard in Carmichael’s hand with the Shane photocard. Carmichael now has the image of his promo ad on his phone in one hand and the photocard in the other, still pulling that stupid gritted smile in the middle. “Hey, do you think my fans will make a shrine like this for me when my ad comes out?”

“Who would wanna carry your ugly mug around?”

“What fans?”

“Bro wants to be worshipped by teenage girls. Looooser!”

“Fuck you all!” Carmichael starts slinging mock punches around the room.

Ilya’s eyes flicker between the photocard and Carmichael’s promotional graphic. Back and forth. An idea slowly starts to condense in his mind.

Paper Shane flutters to the floor, forgotten in the middle of the chaos. Ilya snatches him up and pockets him before anyone notices. Luckily, they’re too busy pouncing on Carmy for having the gall to daydream about having devoted fans.

Ilya runs the pad of his thumb over the edge of the toploader now safely nestled inside his bag. The peeling edges of some outermost stickers catch on his skin. The idea precipitates into something solid.

Hockey players are not fans of each other – at least, not openly. Even the rookies who idolize Ilya don’t walk around wearing his number in public. Close friends split up by trade clauses just give bro-hugs on the ice and get drinks after games.

Historical tensions between the teams aside, the stiff hockey culture is the crux of why Ilya can’t be seen associated with anything Voyageurs-related, god forbid sappy merch of his arch-rival. It would either be taken seriously, opening up a shitstorm of questioning from both inside the locker room and out, or he’d be laughed out of the NHL. Making photocards of fellow hockey players and carrying them in public is just not normal.

At least, not yet.

And thus, Ilya Rozanov’s NHL photocard psychological warfare campaign begins.

_____________________

Carmy is the obvious place to start. He practically handed the perfect photocard concept to Ilya on a sweaty silver platter. The ad is still in production, so Ilya would only be able to show off his crafted masterpiece in the locker room. That’s fine. It’s a baby step, or more like a vibe check to see how the Bears react. If things go sideways for real, he’ll just pretend like he was overly committed to the bit and never bring it up again.

He really wants this to work, though.

Ilya strides into the locker room three days later with a new addition to his gear bag and more confidence than he was anticipating. After all, isolated from the rest of his embarrassingly heartfelt Paper Shane escapades, stirring shit up and being an annoying asshole is just Ilya Rozanov on a day that ends in ‘y’.

It doesn’t take too long for people to notice. Ilya had, after all, made the most obnoxious toploader possible. It wasn’t hard to print a photo of the promo graphic because Carmy insisted on putting it as the group chat icon no matter how many times they tried to take it down. He studded the perimeter with huge gaudy rhinestones and bought stickers that look like donut sprinkles. Not a single heart sticker or gem was wasted – those are only for Shane.

In stark contrast to Beautiful Paper Shane, Munchkin Carmy is a loud, cluttered, ugly eyesore. The perfect crime.

“Roz. Why the fuck is my face on your bag?” Carmichael, predictably, is the first one to holler about Ilya’s new swag.

Ilya shrugs a nonchalant shoulder, fighting to keep the grin off his face. “What, is not to your tastes? I should have waited for teenage girl to make you one? I would be dinosaur like Scott Hunter.”

Carmichael draws closer, the look of disbelief on his face creeping into delight as he examines it closer. “No way. Is that my fucking Dunks ad?!”

“Other day you blab and blab about wanting decorative shrine. I think oh poor Carmy, he must play shit hockey because he has no fans, so sad.” Ilya makes an exaggerated crying noise, rubbing two fists at his eyes. “As best captain ever is my burden to make players not sad and not shit.”

“You made this? For me?” Carmichael’s voice edges higher. Ilya thinks tears are gathering at the corners of his eyes, and, wow. Okay? He was not expecting this reaction. Sure, he didn’t anticipate Carmy to swing on him, but he also didn’t think he would be touched like this.

Fuck. Now Ilya feels kind of bad about parodying him when Carmichael’s excitement is so genuine.

Connors shoves Carmy aside to get a better look. Both of them are crouched in front of Ilya’s bag on the bench, ogling it from inches away like kids to a fish tank. They look almost as ridiculous as Munchkin Carmy.

“Why is there a pineapple sticker over his donut?” St-Simon squints at the decoration. Indeed, Munchkin Carmy is no longer pinching a munchkin, but instead an upside down pineapple that comically dwarfs his hand.

Ilya snickers. “You have heard of swinging, yes?”

“Fuck you, Roz, Nicole and I aren’t swingers!” And yeah, here comes the punch Ilya had been waiting for. At least Carmichael is still laughing.

“Ah, no no, you cannot fuck me if you are not swinger.” Ilya waggles his brows. “I will not help you cheat on gorgeous Mrs. Carmy.”

“Doesn’t swinging usually involve two couples?” Connors asks. Ilya hopes the strangled noise that leaves his throat can be passed off as swallowing spit down the wrong pipe. Connors leans closer, whispering conspiratorially. “Think Montreal Jane is freaky like that?”

“Ok!” Ilya shouts a little too loudly, clapping his hands together. “Enough fucking around, let’s hit some fucking pucks. And if any of you assholes talk about my Jane, your WAGs will be mine.”

Of course he means he will platonically charm their ladies and probably schedule wine nights to overlap with date nights, but Ilya’s long-retired womanizer reputation still precedes him. It’s a decent threat.

Marlow stares at the photocard a little longer as the rowdy group starts to filter out. A thought almost passes over his face, but loses steam halfway through. On the way to the rink, Ilya overhears him hiss to St-Simon, “Hey, do some of those stickers look familiar to you?”

Ilya purchases two plastic containers on the way home. One of them, labeled Моя Джейн (My Jane) in patterned washi tape, contains sticker sheets of hearts and flowers, along with gems and other embellishments plus the nice thick toploaders. The other box gets a strip of masking tape for a label that splintered off three times while he was peeling it, and is unceremoniously scribbled with Ублюдки. (Fuckers.) That one houses his cheaper materials, obviously.

Ilya sits back in his chair, satisfied as he supervises his neatly divided workspace. Separation of Church and State. Shane and Non-Shanes. Perfect.

Time to select his next target.

In order to cement this hockey photocard behavior as Ilya’s new normal and eventually work up to carrying around Shane’s photo without additional scrutiny, he needs to rotate out his prey every so often. If he hangs on to a picture of a certain player for too long, he may unintentionally kick up conspiracy theories.

That would simply not do. If fans start shipping him with someone other than Shane, what would happen to the fanfiction tags he has bookmarked?

Carmy’s promo gave him a believable cover story, but the next photocard will establish this schtick as a pattern for Ilya instead of a one-off gag, so he has to choose wisely. It only feels right to plaster the face of the closest friend he has on the team on the Rozanov Jumbotron.

All the better that he’s stall-neighbors with dear friend Cliff Marlow.

“You can’t be serious,” are the first words out of Marlow’s mouth when he comes face to face with freshly birthed Paper Marlow.

“I am always serious,” Ilya says very unseriously. “You are father. Congratulations.”

“...Have you ever heard of a 5150?” Sebbin quirks an eyebrow at him. Ilya just shrugs. He only memorizes four digit numbers for hotel rooms he’s fucked Shane in.

Maybe he should book room 5150 sometime. The 5s would make Shane happy. He loves repeating numbers.

“Is the missus neglecting you, Roz?” Hammersmith teases. “Our poor captain, turning to arts and crafts to distract from his blue balls. You’re gonna snap soon. Tell the city to go on lockdown, manslut Rozanov will be hunting the streets again!”

Ilya holds up a finger. Then switches to his middle finger. “My balls are healthy pink and gorgeous and get fondled on the regular. Unlike yours, which are probably bruised black from the hit you took last week against Pittsburgh. Very embarrassing Hammy, is good you already have kids.”

“HR, I want to file a complaint for workplace harassment!” Hammersmith wails, collapsing dramatically against Sebbin.

“Me too,” Marlow says as he makes eye contact with Paper Marlow. “Where did you even find this picture?”

Trapped in a little sliver of plastic is a photo of Marlow from a night on the town. He’s obviously post-tequila shot, a lime rind clenched in one hand and a glass in the other. His face is twisted up in the most just-bit-a-citrus sour look ever to grace facial features. Lips puckered and drawn down in a grimace, cheeks hollowed, one eye bugged out and the other caught mid-blink. Ilya graciously used lime stickers around the border, along with the nauseous emojis from a sticker pack he found.

“I have my ways,” Ilya smirks. The rest of the locker room shudders.

“Should…we be scared?” Someone mumbles. A chorus of yes absolutely definitely answers along with a stray should I waive my no-trade clause?.

Ilya totes around Tequila Marlow for a few days. Since this one doesn’t involve unreleased brand material, he clips it to the bag he carries in public and makes sure he’s seen with it. People will probably speculate that either he or Marlow lost a bet. They don’t know this is just the tip of the iceberg – a set of dominos that will hopefully lead, one by one, to Shane Hollander.

When Shane calls him out of the blue on a Wednesday afternoon, Ilya knows the first article has hit the internet.

“What are you doing?”

“Hello моя любовь, моя звезда, моя всё. (my love, my star, my everything.) Is so nice to hear your beautiful voice.”

“Cut the shit, Ilya.”

“I love when you are strict with me,” he sighs dreamily.

“Ilya.”

“You have Google alerts set for my name, don’t you.”

“Obviously,” Shane replies without missing a beat. Aw. “But it’s not that. You know my mom keeps tabs on social media. Why do fans keep posting photos of you with a picture of Marlow on your bag?”

“Probably because I am carrying picture of Marlow on my bag,” Ilya replies sweetly before Shane’s words actually hit him. “Wait, Yuna monitors social media for me?”

“Well she always has, because your reputation has always been tied to me in some way. Now she just does it less…spitefully, for you.”

That’s more touching than it has any right to be. Ilya had tried to put on a brave face and be there for Shane in one of his scariest moments, but Ilya was just as terrified to come out to Shane’s parents – parents he didn’t even know and who already hated him. They adjusted surprisingly fast, though, and now Yuna is keeping an eye on his public image.

It’s nice to have a mom again.

“So what’s going on with you and Marlow,” Shane prompts with that flat affect Ilya knows means he’s scripted this conversation a million times in his head. It’s sign number one that Shane is more tense than he’s letting on.

“Is called photocard, sweetheart, nothing to stress about.” Ilya suddenly wishes landlines never went out of fashion. If he could, he’d be twirling the phone cord and kicking his feet right now. Shane Hollander, jealous over him. The high is better than drugs. “I have plan.”

“A plan,” Shane echoes. “You?”

“Yes, other people are allowed to do this too. Trust me, дорогой (sweetheart), is nothing bad or dangerous. Just annoying.”

“Yeah, well, you’re good at that.” Shane huffs over the line.

Ah-ha. An opening. Shane should know better by now.

“You know what else I’m good at?” Ilya’s voice drops low. He hopes the call catches the sound of his clothes rustling as he peels his shirt off. “This idea, I know you will like.”

He knows he’s succeeded when Shane goes silent. A heartbeat later, a FaceTime request comes through.

“Keep talking,” Shane demands as his face fills up the screen. FaceTime sex always starts like this; Ilya often has to tell Shane to back up so his whole body is in frame. He tends to crowd the camera like a little cat, so eager to see Ilya he forgets Ilya wants to see him too.

(Half the time Ilya doesn’t actually remind Shane to move away from the camera. He can get off on the sight of Shane’s freckles alone.)

Eyes locked on those beautiful freckles, slowly disappearing into the flush crawling across Shane’s cheeks, Ilya knocks a box of rhinestones and a half-decorated image of Connors out of the way and slips an urgent hand into his pants.

Ilya is so damn lucky.

The next day, Shane sends him a fan-taken picture of the new Connors photocard hanging from his bag, accompanied by just a question mark. After the third and fourth Bear to grace his public presence via decorated paper, Shane stops asking and just cuts right to the steamy phone sex.

God, Ilya can’t wait to have steamy real sex with Shane. Maybe Connors was right about big balls or whatever he was talking about.

When the day finally comes, he’s so excited to see Shane – and admittedly, is only thinking with his dick and his heart – that he forgets to hide the evidence of his growing Shane shrine and all the craft materials a millionaire’s salary can buy.

Luckily Shane is also being piloted via heart-dick collaboration and doesn’t notice the mess on Ilya’s desk until they’re two hours into their makeout session and Ilya has sucked him off once. It’s more time than Ilya thought he’d get before Shane’s pattern-seeking mode turned back on, but he still wishes it was enough to finish fingering him.

At least the successful blowjob should put him in a better mood. Ilya crooks a finger in hopes of distracting him. The moan he’s rewarded with is delicious, but Shane is stubborn as a bull when he wants to be.

“Ilya,” Shane says lowly in that sexy, sexy voice, the one he uses when Ilya is on his knees, or he wants to get on his knees for Ilya, or when he’s really mad but also turned on and they fuck about it, or when – shit, Shane’s mouth is still moving.

“Huhwah?” Ilya says cleverly. What was that word he saw on Twitter? Holematized?

Shane rolls his eyes and points to the current WIP (work in progress – Ilya learned that from a more wholesome side of Twitter) on his desk. It’s a photo of Shane from one of his more risque brand deals. His shirt is off, flexing his gorgeous muscles at the camera – muscles Ilya keeps trying to grope, but Shane shoves him off in an attempt to finish the conversation, ugh – fingers hooked around the dangerously low waistband of his underwear.

“Is you.” Ilya offers like that explains it all. Shane levels him with a hard glare. Ilya wishes he would pay more attention to his hard dick.

“Why is there a photo of me on your desk. And why are there seashell stickers covering my nipples?”

Ilya’s eyes darken. “Those are only for my eyes.”

To prove his point, he ducks down and latches around Shane’s left nipple. It’s his favorite of the two. Shane’s head jerks back with a groan, toes curling, and Ilya has to suppress his smile so that his lips don’t leave Shane’s reddening skin. He licks, bites, sucks, then worships the other nipple.

“Mine.” The word comes out wrecked around Shane’s areola. Ilya isn’t sure what language it came out in, but Shane’s heard it enough in all of them to understand no matter how he says it.

“Fuck, Ilya!” Shane cries, fingers twisting in Ilya’s curls. “O-Only yours.”

Satisfied, Ilya slowly resumes the rhythm of his digits pumping and stretching and twirling inside him. Unfortunately Shane doesn’t let him off the hook that easily. Even with his cheeks flushed red, sweat sticking his cute baby bangs to his forehead, eyes glazed and hungry, he still pulls himself together long enough to ask, “Do you – Do you have more? Of me?”

Ah. Ilya reluctantly abandons his nipple project and trails kisses down Shane’s sternum, pausing along his navel to nibble marks that Shane will complain about later, but secretly get off to once they’re apart again. So that’s what this is all about, huh?

“Sweetheart, your pretty little head is so silly. No worry. For every photocard I make of ugly hockey men, I make two of my gorgeous, radiant, pulchritudinous boyfriend. Sometimes three.”

A smile breaks through the heated haze of Shane’s expression. “You’ve been using the thesaurus Dad got you for Christmas?”

“I will beat Yuna Hollander at Scrabble one day,” Ilya declares against Shane’s hip bone.

“Uh-huh. Keep dreaming.”

“I’d rather dream of you.” Ilya’s fingers push deeper, deeper. Shane’s fingers tighten in his hair. It sends ripples of pleasure down Ilya’s spine. “My Shane. Were you jealous?”

Shane tries to throw an arm over his eyes in embarrassment. With one hand propping himself up and the other circling Shane’s hole, Ilya realizes he’s run out of limbs. Damn it. Begrudgingly, he pulls out his fingers and wipes them on a nearby tissue so Shane won’t complain about the lube sensation. He gently tugs Shane’s arm away, then not-so gently pins his wrist above his head. Shane loves being manhandled.

“Don’t hide that, ah…scrumptious? No, fuck. Sumptuous. Don’t hide that sumptuous face from me.”

Shane can’t help the snort that rips from his throat. Ilya beams at the sound, pecking him on the lips, then on the apples of his cheeks, then finally catching the bright-red tip of his ear between his teeth.

“Is the truth. I make many little tokens of you. They keep me company at home when I miss you. After time, people will stop caring about silly men on my bag. Then I can finally switch out stupid ugly photo of St-Simon drowning on floaties during tropical vacation and replace with picture of most stunning boy in the world, Shane Hollander, mid-yoga session, without entire world exploding.” Ilya licks a long stripe across Shane’s clavicle. “All comes back to you. Always for you.”

Ilya ignores the watering of Shane’s eyes for as long as he can to stave off the prickling at his own tear ducts. Shane keens low in his throat, and his lips are pressing to the corners of Ilya’s eyes before anything even escapes.

Shane angles downward and kisses him, long and slow. Drinking it in. When he relaxes back into the pillow, hair splayed messily across the silky fabric, he’s wearing a playful pout that tells Ilya he isn’t actually upset. “Ilya, this is not how we agreed to change the narrative.”

Ilya shrugs. “You have plan, I have plan, our plans do not bother each other. Just maybe I show up to Irina Foundation announcement with sparkly Shane photocard in my suit pocket. Right next to my heart.”

“Fuck.” Shane scans Ilya’s face. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, мой помидор. (my tomato.) Can I fuck you now? I will make you feel so good you will forget being silly enough to get jealous over Cliff Marlow.”

“Wait, wait.” Shane says, suddenly looking very lucid. He scrambles a bit up the bed, forehead nearly knocking against Ilya’s.

Ilya groans. He knows this look. They’re about to have the most mind-blowing sex ever, but it’s not going to be for another hour.

“I had a, uh, concept I wanted to try out.” Shane’s eyes flicker to the bag abandoned by the bedroom door.

“You can say the word roleplay, моя любовь. (my love.) Hockey gods will not strike you down for being a horny little slut.”

Maybe he deserves the pillow that’s thrown at his head for that one.

“Okay, so,” are Ilya’s two favorite words in the entire godforsaken English language, but only when they come from Shane. “You’re an ordinary office worker and I’m a cat-human hybrid you found on the street.”

Fuck. Ilya is already so turned on he could cry and Shane just keeps talking.

“So, like, I have ears and a tail, but otherwise I look like a normal human. And uh, I act like a cat sometimes. But–” Shane presses a hand to Ilya’s chest to stop him from absolutely eating Shane up right then and there.

“Shane you are killing me. Bad kitty.” Ilya shudders just from the contact of Shane’s palm against his bare skin. “I want to fuck you so bad. Why did you not add to Sex Binder earlier? You know I would have studied in advance.”

Shane and Ilya are no strangers to a little bedtime story, but Shane usually worldbuilds while they’re apart so they can jump into things immediately. It’s been a while since Shane has sprung an idea on him without weeks of elaborate lore building for his sexy alternate universes.

Ilya is rock hard at the thought of his strange, naughty, perfect boyfriend assigning him pre-sex homework.

“I had to work out the details!” Shane protests. “This is important. I have cat ears on top of my head but no human ears. It just doesn’t make sense to have two sets of ears, right? Which one would I hear from? So, just the cat ears. And the tail is kinda long and sensitive – I made a diagram, actually, so you know what I’m envisioning. It’ll kind of take me out of it if you think I have toe pads or something. Claws are fine, I think? I didn’t trim my nails, so…”

God, Ilya loves this autistic man so bad.

“Моя любовь (My love),” Ilya manages to croak over the roar of more blood rushing to his impossibly hard dick. “Are there perhaps cat ears and a tail next to the diagram in that bag right now?”

“Yeah,” Shane pants as his hands curl up over Ilya’s shoulders. “And a collar, too. So you can make me yours.”

Ilya moans, squeezing the base of his cock so he doesn’t come right then and there. His arms are so shaky he nearly collapses when Shane slides out from under him to paw through the duffle bag. Bewitched, he watches the gorgeous curve of his boyfriend’s back as he shyly produces a headband with fluffy ears, a golden collar, and oh God is that – Oh.

Oh.

The tail is a butt plug.

Ilya’s head thwacks against the pillow, vision spinning as he stares at the ceiling.

“Я обречён (I’m doomed.).”

_____________________

_____________________

The next few weeks fly by in a blur of Etsy orders, sticker packs, and cardstock. Midway through, Ilya signs the papers for Ottawa. He crafts the remaining photocards of his teammates a little bit more carefully, and carries them around a little longer than before.

He’s overjoyed to start something real with Shane in Canada, but still – it’s a change. Growing pains.

Eventually he gets to a point where he’s running out of Bears to victimize, which means it’s time to activate stage two: other teams.

In an effort to get Shane into rotation faster, and to lean on the whole Montreal-Boston rivalry thing, and because he loves torturing Hayden Pike, Ilya chooses the Voyageurs to photocard next.

There’s a palpable air of confusion when the Bears locker room is infiltrated by the scowling face of Montreal’s fifteenth best player. The team has developed a habit of eagerly waiting for new Ilya photocard debuts, and their faces fall quickly when they realize he hasn’t moved on to members of their staff, or even their family members, but to another team.

“Carrying around same picture gets boring, loses shock factor,” Ilya explains away. “So I find fresh way to piss people off.”

Some assembly is required for this stunt. Ilya holds up a carefully selected sticker and pastes it directly onto Hayden’s computer-paper printed face. “Everyone say welcome to Bears’ sixteenth best player, Pike!”

Hayden Pike, clad in Voyageurs colors with his name and number still visible from the slightly showing back of his jersey, now sports a bear’s growling muzzle as a face. It’s perfect. He can irritate Pike without even having to look at his face.

“Sixteenth is generous, I think our lovely janitor Paul could skate better and he had two surgeries last month.”

Ilya snaps his fingers in recognition. “Thank you Hammy, you remind me to send fruit basket to Paul. And I will send tin of sardines to Pike while I am at it. Good snack for bears.”

“I know you love riling people up, Roz, but you couldn’t have picked another team? I already don’t want to look at their nasty asses when we play them,” says Feller.

“There are other teams in league?” Ilya blinks dumbly. “I did not know this. Other teams, they have not won cup in years, they are not good motivation fuel. Looking at them will only make us shit at hockey like them. Is contagious.”

Marlow rolls his eyes. “The Admirals literally just won the cup.”

“Hm, never heard of them.” Ilya grins, shark-like. “Ancient history bores me.”

“One of these days we’ll report you for elder abuse,” a rookie chirps. Ilya crosses the room just to trap him in a headlock of pride and ruffle his hair. Thank goodness some of the fresh blood are quick on the uptake – someone’s going to have to keep the Senile Grandpa Hunter bit going in Boston after…

After.

(The Bears have a running list of ‘Guess Hunter’s Real Age’ chirps that is secretly Ilya’s stockpile for when he leaves Boston behind. He should write, please take these zingers and torment Scott Hunter in my place so he never knows peace on Boston ice, into his will.

Whoever comes up with the funniest Hunter Lore of the week gets out of practice early on Friday. Last week it went to Cadyn, who wrote that Scott Hunter was the OG inspiration for Ichthyosaurs.

Cadyn had written and scribbled out the word Ichthyosaurs – a prehistoric creature that went extinct 90 million years ago – several times. He probably wasn’t any good at spelling even before he started a career of getting hit in the head. Ilya had awarded him mostly as a recognition of effort.

Hm. Maybe Ilya will make a second photocard for Cadyn.)

Ilya skates hard, as always, but he clocks out just as firmly as he clocks in. The second one of their training coaches signals for a break, he’s beelining towards the squeaking phone laying in the stands.

Technically phones are supposed to stay in the locker room, but fuck it. For all his posturing, Ilya rarely pulls the C card. This is life or death, though, so he doesn’t mind invoking special captain privileges.

His heart pounds as he swipes into his email, then to the buy-sell-trade app he’s been hooked on for weeks. It loads way too slowly in the shitty rink wifi. Ilya’s gaze bores holes through the screen as he wills the progress bar to move faster.

Fuck. Fuck. The bidding deadline is almost up and Ilya needs this card.

It’s a picture of an especially snuggly-looking Shane bundled up in a white fleece jacket. A less seasoned observer might think Shane is eating a scoop of ice cream, but Ilya knows its a cup of frozen yogurt meticulously written into his daily macros. It could also be sorbet – he often doesn’t mind that. Ilya’s little rebel. There’s a little fleck of mystery frozen dairy treat on the tip of his nose, and the barest hint of his tongue peeks from between those gorgeous lips as he’s pre-lick.

The photo is definitely not from an official schedule. In fact, the slight fuzziness of the camera’s zoom as well as the tilted angle imply that it was taken from a vent of some sort, or maybe from within a set of bushes? Whatever. Ilya needs it.

The page loads.

The listing is greyed out. A pop-up message with a mockingly big frowny face croons, Sorry! Someone has beat your $750 bid on Shane Hollander Montreal Voyageurs Captain Star Center Photocard K-Pop Funny Cute Celebrity Hockey Limited Time Collectible Best Gifts for Daughter Mother Wife Husband by $50!

“Ублюдок (Motherfucker!)!” Ilya swears under his breath as he thumbs open his bank account to place a higher offer.

Outbid again.

_____________________

Alright, Ilya had expected this was coming.

If he was sitting at a normal interview, he’d be reclining nonchalantly backwards to really sell the whole cool and normal aspect of this whole scheme. Instead, the media has cornered him against a wall on his way out of the rink. It’s not even a normal post-game presser where he’s sweaty and half-naked outside the locker room. The reporters seemed to have waited for him to change and leave, specifically to get a glamor shot of his gear bag.

Or more specifically, whoever’s face is hanging from it today.

“Mr. Rozanov, fantastic showing from the Bears’ corner today, but especially you. What do you attribute to the win and how do you intend on keeping up that momentum through the rest of the season?”

It’s a surprisingly tame way to start off the line of questioning, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. Ilya isn’t even halfway through the well worn cocky response he had loaded up of I am best in the league, yes, but team is all tied for second best, so we are match in heaven and we will continue to win because winning feels fucking good and we are fucking good at it when he’s drowned out by more questions. It’s clear the first shot was merely a formality before opening the floodgates on what they really wanted to know.

“Mr Rozanov, you have been spotted with personalised merchandise of your team these past few weeks. Everyone assumed it was just a show of strong captainship, but the inclusion of other teams has ignited questions about your leadership, loyalty, and strategy. Do you have any comments?”

“Mr. Rozanov, what can you say about the allegations that you paraded around an unflattering photograph of the center of the Columbus Crusaders before today to throw him off his game?

“Mr. Rozanov, is this a physical manifestation of your tensions with other players? Is it personal or targeted?”

“Mr. Rozanov, where are you getting all these supplies?”

“Mr. Rozanov, given your reputation, is this a way to make moves on other players? Or are you just trying to get in their heads, not their pants?”

“Mr. Rozanov, who is next on the–”

“Mr. Rozanov, can you respond to doubts about your loy–”

“Mr. Rozan–”

The reporters clamber over each other to the extent that Ilya doesn’t even have to dodge their half-formed questions. He sticks a pinky in his ear and twists, face pinched, and shrugs like he couldn’t understand any of the barrage of their questions. The foreigner card feels like a lifeline in these moments.

Ilya swivels so the reporters – and their cameras – get a good look at his photocard of Henry Skidmore, star of the Crusaders. It was decorated very…aptly.

“Is just for fun. Hobbies are good, yes? Work-life balance, blah blah blah.” Ilya says with a relaxed smile. “Everyone will get their chance. Maybe more than once. But everyone is fair game.”

Ilya makes eye contact with one of the film cameras and winks flirtatiously at the one person he knows is watching on the other side of the screen.

“Everyone.”

Jane:

Stop antagonizing the media about this. And lay off the Voyageurs…they aren’t taking the joke well. You’re going to get us in trouble.

Lily:

You Love Trouble 😈

Jane:

🙄

Jane:

Next time you’re wearing the collar. Check the binder – I made updates.

Lily:

🥵🐾

Later that night Ilya is dejectedly scrolling through Twitter, yearning for his boyfriend who has abandoned him for some ridiculously timed international call with a European brand – God, Ilya hopes it’s underwear again – when he comes across a very interesting post.

It appears to be a merchandise catalog from a Korean pop band, retweeted onto his feed by one of those fans that straddles the oddly growing overlap between K-Pop and hockey.

It’s an entire set of branded household items. Dish towels, bathrobes, welcome mats, slippers, hell, even soap dispensers are on sale with the group’s image and logo on it. In what world would someone need to buy a fancy dinner plate set with a bunch of random Korean singers’ faces on them?

The only person Ilya would want to eat off is…

Hold on. This could be genius.

Ilya’s thoughts begin to drift. Coming home to his house and placing the keys on his Shane lanyard onto the Shane placemat on the table. Kicking off his outside shoes – and lining them up nicely at the door, as has been beaten into him by his gorgeously wonderful Shane – and exchanging them for a pair of Shane house slippers. Using Shane laundry detergent on his Shane jerseys and hanging them up to dry next to his Shane towels and drawing the Shane curtains closed for privacy before grabbing the Shane lube and Shane condoms and fucking Shane all night under their Shane covers and–

Ilya reaches for his phone. It picks up on the second ring.

“Yuna. I have beautiful idea.”

“Oh honey, David and I have told you that we aren’t in the place to get a dog right now. We’d be happy to dogsit once you settle in and adopt in Ottawa, but–”

“No, Yuna,” Ilya corrects. It’s a fair assumption to make, since Ilya is probably speaking with his just-saw-a-dog-on-the-street-and-now-it’s-Yuna’s-problem voice. “Is about Shane. Beautiful idea for branding and merchandise.”

He pauses to let the two magic words sink in. Shane. Branding. “My only request for beautiful idea is that I get first shipment of all items. Very humble yes, I know this.”

Over the line, Ilya hears the unmistakable sound of Yuna’s laptop opening, keyboard and mouse click-clacking as she creates a new spreadsheet.

“Deal. Now talk.”

Ilya grins.

Hook, line, sinker. Ilya will be parading around the house in those Shane slippers before the year is up. Fuck yes.

He almost forgets about the conversation until the next time Boston and Montreal play each other. His perfect Shane, never the most observant about where his own gaze wanders, has been undressing him with his eyes the whole game. Ilya can’t stand it any longer, so the moment they’re off the ice and freed of captainly duties – Boston eking out a thin one-point victory in overtime – Ilya is crowding them into a hallway supply closet. It’s not a very smart idea, but neither was staring at Shane’s junk then jerking off in front of him in the showers all those years ago, and that turned out pretty well.

Ilya is so busy devouring Shane’s mouth, fingers bruising into his hipbones and crowding him further and further into the closet, Shane already drunk on the kiss and moving against him harder, desperately, that neither of them realize they’re dislodging a shelf of cleaning supplies until it all comes raining down around them.

The pair wince at the loud clattering sounds, hands instinctively flying up to protect each other’s heads. Ilya’s chest heaves from the force of the kiss, the sight of Shane looking debauched against him, and the way both of them put the other’s safety first. “Careful. Would be very embarrassing to survive brutal hockey game and then get concussed by Lysol spray can.”

“Careful my ass,” Shane complains. “You were the one who pulled me in here and shoved me against the shelf! You think I wanted to have this makeout session in front of a bunch of ugly, dirty buckets?”

“Ah, making out is all you planned? Such a prude,” Ilya pouts, rubbing over the swell of Shane’s still-sweaty shoulders. “I agree though, these buckets would look so much prettier with your face on them.”

Shane suddenly goes rigid against him. Brows furrowing, Ilya replays his words to see if he said anything wrong. Was he mad about being called a prude? Shane knows full well he’s Ilya’s good little slut. He reminds him all the time.

“Wait a minute. Are you the reason Mom has been blowing my phone up about starting a line of branded household supplies?!”

Ilya purses his lips as he weighs his options. “You will believe me if I say no?”

“Absolutely not.” Shane’s nose scrunches in that adorable way that makes Ilya want to bite it.

“Oh well. Sue me for wanting to see my boyfriend’s face everywhere.” Ilya tries to lean down and capture Shane’s lips again, but a hand is slapped over his mouth before he can get very far.

“Keep your voice down, we’re in public!”

Shane’s eyes are darting nervously between Ilya, the doorknob, and the smooth stream of light under the door filtering in from the hallway. Ilya’s eyes, however, are locked onto Shane’s rapidly tenting pants.

Ohoho. They’re going to need a new entry in the Shane Sex Binder after this one.

Ilya licks the hand clamped over his mouth, relishing in the exasperated groan Shane lets out as he shakes him off. Winding his fingers around Shane’s wrist, he doesn’t let him get very far before he starts peppering kisses against the creases in Shane’s palm.

One against his fate line, two to his heart line. A thousand for his life line. Infinity for his marriage line.

“I don’t think is what you want,” Ilya teases as his hand trails down to palm against Shane’s crotch. “I think you want me to make you quiet.”

He releases Shane’s hand watches it plummet to his side as if it weighs a thousand pounds. The rest of Shane’s limbs go limp against him, heavy with the relief of no longer needing to hold himself up. Shane is putty in Ilya’s capable hands and Ilya wants nothing more than to sculpt them into something that will last forever.

“Haa-ah!” Shane keens once he gets his trembling fingers around Ilya’s length. The cry of pure happiness and arousal at the treat of giving his boyfriend a handy goes straight to Ilya’s dick. Shane wants him so bad he’s going stupid for it.

“Bad kitty. Quiet,” Ilya reminds him with a mean smirk. He doesn’t give him the chance to tamp down his moans before two fingers are pushing between his kiss-bitten lips. Shane whines low in his throat around the intrusion. Ilya explores further and further, cramming down far enough to trigger Shane’s gag reflex – if Ilya hadn’t trained it out of him long ago.

He’s so deep Shane can barely pull in air around him, let alone speak. Eyes blown wide open, wet and trusting, saliva trickling between his digits and dripping down his wrist. Hips canting frantically against Ilya. Needing more, more, dizzy, desperate for it, such a good kit–

Beep.

“Fuck.” Ilya rips his fingers out of Shane’s throat and fumbles for his buzzing phone. The cry that tears from Shane’s mouth as he chases the retreating touch, tongue hanging dumbly from his mouth, is loud enough that Ilya does seriously start worrying that they’ll be caught.

Beep. Beep.

His notification alerts are definitely not helping their stealth mission. Ilya taps to read the preview, then casts a guilty look at his wrecked boyfriend as he swipes into it. “Sorry, малыш (baby), real quick I just have to–”

Shane’s brows bunch together, his nervous little brain probably sifting through a million horrific scenarios that would be urgent enough to distract Ilya from the waiting meal in front of him. Ilya has no qualms about tipping his phone screen into Shane’s line of sight to reassure him, even if it gets his ass beat later.

Sure enough, the crease in Shane’s forehead smoothes out, but the anxious tightness of his face gives way to disbelief. “Are you fucking serious, Rozanov.”

Uh-oh. He’s getting last-named.

“Baby I need this card,” Ilya whines. “Don’t be mad. I just need to put payment details and then I let you suck my dick all you want. Is my apology.”

Shane lifts a brow, but his tongue betrays him by swiping hungrily against his lower lip as his gaze flickers to Ilya’s navel. “Letting me suck your dick is your idea of an apology? After derailing sex to buy cardboard with my face on it?”

“So we are having supply closet sex…?”

“Rozanov.”

With one last swipe to verify the email confirmation came through, Ilya locks his phone and throws it aside without looking. It hits something hollow – maybe one of those ugly Shaneless buckets.

Ilya wriggles his pants down and wraps a hand around himself, stroking at leisurely pace. He savors the way Shane’s eyes are drawn downwards against his will, unable to break contact with the trajectory of his hand.

Shane swallows. Hard.

Hook, line, sinker.

Ilya leans forward, breath ghosting over Shane’s sensitive ear. The brief break has made Ilya’s full attention even more heady now that it’s back on Shane. Ilya nips a mark under Shane’s ear, then laughs lowly.

“Down, kitty.”

Shane’s knees hit the floor before he even realizes it. Ilya would have kicked something underneath him or hooked a hand under his arm to cushion the blow if he didn’t know how much the impact and bruises turned both of them on. Good thing he knows everything about Shane.

And vice versa, considering the way Shane is bravely resisting his own desires to get straight to slobbering, instead resting his cheek against Ilya’s hard length and just breathing slowly. He’s – fuck – he’s nuzzling against Ilya’s cock like a cat, fuck they really should’ve waited until they were home and had all their supplies.

Home. Their home. A shelter that becomes home whenever the two of them inside together. Fuck it, this supply closet might as well be home. Ilya will fuck Shane like it, anyways.

“You can’t blow all your money on photocards,” Shane mumbles as Ilya slowly rocks against his cheek.

“Why?” Ilya humors him but barely processes the words. Can he slap Shane with his dick? They haven’t explicitly talked about it, but Shane is definitely wearing a slap me with your dick kind of expression right now.

“You have to save. You’re taking a salary cut with Ottawa,” Shane says and it shouldn’t be sexy, there’s really nothing hot about the reminder that Ilya is committing career and lifestyle suicide, but Shane’s eyelashes are fluttering and there’s streaks of precum smudged against his freckles and fuck, Shane is still speaking as his tongue flicks around Ilya’s head.

It’s a bit unclear whether this is Logistics Shane genuinely reprimanding his spending habits – which isn’t unfathomable, he’s paused during backseat car sex to complain about Ilya’s sports car addiction even when they provide such a luxurious surface to fuck him against – or Seductive Shane who is going somewhere with this. Somewhere sexy.

“So irresponsible. I guess I’ll have to take care of you,” Shane layers his voice with faux condescension. His lips finally wrap around the tip of Ilya’s cock, barely a kiss before he’s popping back to speak again. “Hafta’ lend you all my credit cards.”

Another bob.

“Mmm. I’ll have to buy you whatever you want.”

A trail of open-mouthed kisses down his length.

“Give you what you can’t give yourself.”

A long lick back up the other side.

“I’ll get to provide for you. Make you mine.”

Tongue digging into his slit.

“My trophy husband.”

Ilya thrusts all the way until he hits the back of Shane’s throat and comes. Hard.

Shane greedily gulps it all down, both hands pressed on the curve of Ilya’s ass to force him impossibly deeper. His mouth doesn’t stop working up and down Ilya’s cock, still hungry to suck him off.

“What happened to my apology blowjob?” Shane frowns at Ilya’s softening dick as if he didn’t just give Ilya the most insane head of his life from his words alone.

“You are going to be death of me,” Ilya groans. He yanks Shane up from the floor and fists a hand around his length in return. “Tombstone will say Here Lies Man Who Should Have Never Taught Shane Hollander Dirty Talk. Head Game Too Strong. Hole Too Addicting. Sex Binders Too Full. Died Doing Who He Loved.“

“That’s too long for a tombstone,” Shane points out, and Ilya’s dick starts twitching back to life from that being his takeaway. “And did that really count as dirty talk? It’s all true.”

Wait.

“All of it?” Ilya croaks.

Husband. Shane had said the word husband.

Shane’s eyes narrow. “You didn’t hit your head when I checked you tonight, right? Obviously I’m gonna take care of you once you move. You’re making such a big sacrifice, I’m gonna do everything I can to support you. To…” Shane’s gaze slips down. Ilya is usually the exception for his aversion to eye contact, but not when he gets shy or nervous. “To support us.”

“You said husband,” Ilya blurts out because he’s addicted to asking questions he’s afraid of the answers to.

“Oh.” Shane blinks slowly. Like a little cat. “Uh, trophy husband, it’s a slang term. A partner that stays at home but doesn’t have kids or household responsibilities, and is financed by the other partner. Like a trophy or a prize. I dunno, I didn’t mean to imply that you’d quit hockey and stay at home forever or something, I just uh, thought it was hot? And the trophy part felt kind of fitting?”

It seems Logistics Shane and Seductive Shane have fused into one. Ilya doesn’t know where to draw the line anymore.

“But the–” Ilya’s voice wobbles, high and fragile. His hand around Shane’s dick has stalled. “The other part?”

Shane buffers for a second before he laughs, an easy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. All the tension drains from Ilya’s body as the contagious smile crawls onto his lips too.

“Ilya. You thought I’d ask you to leave your team, move countries, and rebuild your entire life from scratch for our relationship without me marrying you somewhere along the way?”

Shane says it like it’s obvious. Like water is wet and Shane Hollander plays hockey and grass is green and Shane Hollander marries Ilya Rozanov. Like there’s no scenario, no timeline, no sexy roleplay alternate universe where Shane and Ilya don’t end up Shane-and-Ilya. Like he knew long ago that Ilya was endgame for him and has been waiting for Ilya to catch up.

Like it’s never been a question.

“Fuck.” Biting down hard on his lower lip, Ilya throws his head back and tries to control both his tear ducts and his dick. “Моя любовь (My love), I’m gonna come again.”

“No fair, I haven’t even come once yet. What happened to ‘the most considerate lover in Boston’? Now move your hand.”

Ilya clicks back into his body at that. He pulls back with one hand, waiting for the desire to intensify in Shane’s eyes before he lets it go. This is something they’ve talked about.

“That’s not how you ask.”

Ilya’s palm smacks against Shane’s cheek, just hard enough to elicit a satisfying crack and turn the skin red and sensitive.

“Please,” Shane whimpers, eyes rolling back in his head with white-hot pleasure. His limbs are going weak again, so Ilya bullies his knee between Shane’s thighs, both propping him up and forcing him to rut against his leg.

“My good kitty.” Ilya croons as he works Shane’s dick. He inches closer, closer, lips pausing a hair’s breadth from Shane’s mouth.

“My husband.”

Shane comes.

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All things considered, the Bears take the news pretty well. They’re about as mature as a group of testosterone-pumped meathead jocks with stacks of traumatic brain injuries can be.

Meaning, Ilya is stuck between trying to shake off the tearful rookie clinging to his legs and talking Marly out of quitting hockey to become the Centaur’s mascot.

“You are seven foots tall Marlow, they do not make mascot outfits for freakish giants. Though you would make very sexy horse.” Ilya leans down and tries to pry the rookie off him, but he only hugs tighter. His poor knuckles are going white.

“Seven feet,” Hammersmith corrects through his tears. “Fuck, I’m gonna miss being an asshole about your English. Even though it’s actually really good!”

“You have Twitter, Hammy. You are in good company.”

“Not anymore. I keep getting suspended by some stupid fanpage!”

“Ok enough!” Ilya calls once Sebbin mimes slitting his own throat with his stick. He takes a long look at his blubbering idiots. His stupid, wonderful, loyal team.

“I know I am greatest thing to ever happen to this team,” Ilya starts with a smug grin, spreading his arms out to the sides like he’s greeting loyal subjects. The crowd mixes their boos and cheers. “Best player in league, playing with best team. Just makes sense, yes? When I was drafted I said ah, obviously Boston wants me, they need handsome star center who is both bark and bite, I can do this well. And I did, for many years.”

Ilya gestures vaguely towards the hallway, to where he knows the trophy case lives. All the awards he’s put there – not singlehandedly, but close.

“I started my career here. I started my life here. I have a lot to be grateful for. To the league, to Boston, to all of you. Uh, fuckers.”

Damn. It’s getting harder to cover his bleeding heart in assholery. Falling in love really changes a person.

Ilya wouldn’t want it any other way.

“Many of you were here before me and took me in. Many more joined along the way. All of you will be here after me.” He pauses, a reflective look passing over his face before he sticks out a tongue. “Also many of you sucked at first, but you do not suck now. Mostly. You are welcome for that. So I will count on you to pay back my investments and not fuck up my legacy.”

“You know the word investment,” Hammy sobs, mopping at his eyes with Connors’s sleeve. Connors yelps and elbows him in the side.

Ilya cackles. “You would be surprised how many real estate terms I know in English now. Sexiest pillow talk of my life.”

“So are we gonna get one last wild night out on the town with the Boston Pussy Popper, or is this move related to whatever landlord you’re fucking?”

“Ah, good lovers do not kiss and tell.” Ilya folds his arms haughtily. “This is why you can never please a woman, Feller.”

Feller clutches his heart and falls dramatically to the floor. “Low blow, Cap. It’s gonna be way harder to pick up chicks without you around!”

“Nah you’re looking at it the wrong way. No Roz means more girls on the market. They’re gonna need a new hunky hockey boytoy. That could be you! Maybe! If the club is really dark!” Carmichael claps a hand on Feller’s shoulder in what appears to be support.

“I dunno. Roz hasn’t been taking home girls for ages and you still can’t get any,” Cadyn chirps. Feller goes for his jugular. The two middle school boys trapped in grown men’s bodies go careening into the lockers. Marlow shoots Ilya a beseeching look that says how could you abandon me to be a single mother in this economy, which is hilarious because Marlow himself is one of Ilya’s prime misbehaving kiddos.

“Stop concussing each other off ice,” Ilya scolds. Then he taps a finger to his lip as if in deep thought. “Actually, continue. Team can be fucked for a few seasons, it will give me chance to whip Ottawa into shape.”

“Right, fucking Ottawa! Of all places, man? Are there even any clubs out there?”

“Look at Cap’s lovesick face, idiot. He’s been domesticated. The only clubs seeing his face are gonna be book clubs.”

Ilya tilts his head in acknowledgement. It’s not a bad idea. Shane only likes hockey books, and Ilya could use some other recommendations.

Carmichael stares. “We’ve lost him,” he announces grimly. “That Jane must give magic blowjobs.”

A grin twitches on Ilya’s lips. “Best I’ve ever had.”

The room erupts into hoots and hollers, everyone jostling their captain with glee that extends beyond the crude congratulations for landing a good lay. Underneath the hands slapping at his back and the endless bro-hugs and the promises to stay in touch, Ilya can feel how truly glad they are to see him settling down.

“Ah, damn it.” Ilya tips his head back to the ceiling and wills the tears away from his eyes. “You have been very good team. I will miss you. One day you will understand this was best decision for me…For us. Right now you have to trust me. Oh, and remember that the puck goes in the net, because last few games you seem to have forgotten.”

“Cap!” Hammy bursts into a fresh bout of tears, and the room explodes again.

Ilya lingers in the empty room, savoring the feeling before he leaves the Bears’ home locker room for the last time. Next time he comes to TD Garden it’ll be as a visitor and he’ll most likely be getting his ass beat on the worst team in the league.

Growing pains. The process hurts, but something beautiful awaits him at the end. Like the stretch marks on Shane’s thighs he’s obsessed with.

Ilya leaves behind the photocards he made for each of his players in their respective stalls. It’s his final send-off to the team and the people who raised him.

Later, Hammy tweets a proud snapshot of his photocard next to a bowl of soup, joined by the caption:

Taking little me out to dinner in honor of the best and weirdest captain the Bears will ever know.

#ROZANOVPENISDEFINITELYATLEAST9

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Ilya asserts his dominance by taking a newly minted Zane Boodram photocard to his first meeting with the Centaurs. He briefly thought about making a card of his new coach, but his father drilled respect for authority into him enough to hold off for now. At the end of the day, he still wants to be folded neatly into the dynamic of the Centaurs. Hopefully this will be home for him eventually.

When he first shakes hands with Boodram – Bood, as everyone calls him – Ilya carefully tracks his gaze as it lands on the sparkly purple plastic hanging from his bag. Unbidden, his heart climbs into his throat. This is the point where he either meets the rest of the team with a black eye and a pit in his stomach, or he learns how well the Centaurs can take a joke.

“My favorite color is orange,” Bood says as he squeezes Ilya’s hand.

“Ok.” Ilya blinks. Is he supposed to care about this? Is announcing fun facts just how strange Canadians introduce themselves?

Maybe that’s why Shane decided to open with a redundant remark about smoking not being allowed in the no-smoking zone. No shit.

It worked on Ilya, after all.

Bood grins meaningfully down at the scrap of cardboard bearing his face. “Y’know, for the next one. I’m requesting a theme.”

All of the tension melts away from Ilya’s body. He’s been taut as a bowstring since he left Shane this morning at his new place. It’s hard to walk out the door without your heart.

They’ve been inseparable all summer and savored every second of it. Waking up in a tangle of limbs every morning, Shane kissing him on the tip of his nose and soothing him back to sleep as the fitness fanatic goes for an early morning run. Bickering about the way Shane wants him to fold the dish towels – different from the hand towels, apparently? – and silently tidying up together and napping in puddles of sunlight and just coexisting.

Shane puts up a chore chart in the kitchen. Their toothbrushes kiss in the little metal cup on the bathroom counter. The house is big, but they cram all their things in one bedroom and one bathroom just so they never have to be apart.

This morning, Ilya had woken up earlier than usual and caught Shane with his sexy glasses on at his computer. He nearly jumped his bones on instinct, but then noticed the earbuds in his ears, uncharacteristic because Ilya’s adorable and psychotic boyfriend doesn’t listen to music. That, combined with the adorable wrinkle between his brows that was a sure indicator of intense concentration, made Ilya pause. He instead snuck up behind Shane and peered over his shoulder.

“В какую сторону магазин? (Which way is the store?)” Shane was mumbling to himself, over and over. He had sounded it out word by word, and when perfectionist Shane Hollander was finally satisfied with his grasp on the phrase, he clicked, take me to the next lesson!

Ilya had backed away slowly, retreated to their bedroom, and definitely did not cry into one of Shane’s sweatshirts.

It’s been paradise.

It’s been hard to let go.

Ilya had half-expected an invisible barrier to block him from leaving the driveway without Shane. He thought their skin might’ve fused over the weeks and been unable to peel apart. He wondered if their red string of fate had shortened and any distance wider than a room away would cause them to snap back to each other like a stretched rubber band.

Shane went to get groceries and Ilya left to meet Bood and the horsemen. Their time apart will only start to grow from here, like how the nights stretch longer and longer come winter.

Today he gets to come home to Shane. It won’t be that way for long.

But Bood squeezes his hand again before letting go. His smile is genuine and he talks about the team bonding barbeques he hosts and asks about Ilya’s food allergies and shows him around the locker room and assures him the team is excited to meet him and are mostly normal now, after the initial starstruck freakouts.

It’s nice. Not bliss, but not agony. Nice enough to build on.

“One more thing before you meet the rest of the guys,” Bood hedges, leaning back with his arms crossed. It’s almost enough to make Ilya nervous, as if Bood is going to follow up their lovely conversation with a casual you should know we’re all super homophobic, first bonding event of pre-season is to plan out our hate crimes on Scott Hunter.

Realistically, Ilya knows the Centaurs’ locker room doesn’t roll like that. People never think twice about gossiping in front of quiet goody-two-shoes Shane Hollander, and Ilya’s social net is as wide as it is shallow. Between them – and the all-knowing Yuna Hollander – there’s little that goes on in the hockey world that doesn’t reach Hollander-Rozanov ears. If the Centaurs were a cesspool like Toronto, Ilya would’ve known.

Still, the buzz under Ilya’s skin doesn’t ebb until Bood continues.

“A lot of people have been on our asses, and I’m assuming yours as well, about the whole Boston to Ottawa move. Frankly, I don’t care what brought you here.” Bood blinks, then backpedals. “Fuck, no, that came out wrong. This team cares about each other as people and as players, so it’s not like your personal life is unimportant, but we just – we’re all here to play hockey. We want to live good lives and play good hockey and if anyone or anything is getting in the way of you doing either, just let me know. Okay? And if anyone on the team crosses your boundaries I’ll beat their ass too. We look out for each other here, as much as we can.”

Ilya is not like Shane, in all the worst ways. Shane was born to play hockey – he’s good because he loves it. Ilya, on the other hand, loves hockey because he’s good at it.

It gives him power over himself and others. It was his escape as a child in an unsteady household, and it was his literal escape out of the country when he got older. Ilya loves hockey because of what it does for him. Sure he loves winning, but it’s closer to the way he loves the adrenaline rush of driving fast cars.

Shane would come apart at the seams if he played on a losing team as sloppy and uncoordinated as the Centaurs because hockey is all he’s ever wanted. Ilya, however, has only ever wanted a place to belong. Hockey is just a means to an end.

So. Maybe it’s okay play shit hockey for a while if it will make Ottawa home.

Bood snaps his fingers as a thought strikes him. It deftly disperses the emotionally charged atmosphere. Ilya isn’t sure if he’s perceptive enough to have done it on purpose, or if he’s such a blockhead he had no idea he was shattering something fragile between them. Either way, an easy grin spreads across Bood’s face. He points back down to Mini-Bood, who had thoroughly enjoyed the rink tour from Ilya’s bag’s zipper.

“Oh, two things I guess. I have a list of ideas and a blackmail folder that’s just been waiting for you to come along.”

Ilya’s exterior finally cracks at that. He smiles, wide and toothy and miles away from the practiced cocky smirk he throws at the media. Clapping a hand to Bood’s shoulder, he announces, “I think we will get along, you beautiful bastard. Now unleash the rest of the ponies.”

Said ponies, for the most part, are nice. Bood wasn’t lying about them getting over their fanboying since most of the team is able to greet him normally. The only exception is fresh-faced rookie Luca Haas, whose knees do buckle a little when it’s his turn to introduce himself and shake Ilya’s hand. It’s pretty cute.

Everyone looks at Mini-Bood as if he’s going to leap out of his beautifully decorated plastic enclosure and bite them. Wyatt Hayes just squints and comments, “Huh, this is actually a hobby of yours. I kind of assumed it was just something you did for the cameras. Freak people out and everything.”

“Me? Fuck with other teams? I have never done this.” Ilya feigns innocence, clutching imaginary pearls around his neck. “I am angel. Like hockey Mother Theresa.”

The room explodes in laughter and Ilya takes a good look at the people he’s about to spend every waking moment with. The rookies are comfortably interacting with the vets. Nary a slur or poor taste comment has been uttered. They all seem to genuinely like each other. It’s not Boston. It’s not paradise.

But it isn’t so bad.

Hayes, obviously, has painted a massive target on his back with his comment combined with his easily searchable penchant for nerd comics. Ilya spends the next few days carefully collaging the perfect Hayes x Daredevil photocard. He sprawls across the couch as he crafts, Shane’s feet in his lap and the television droning in the background. They alternate between watching hockey tapes and episodes from whichever Real Housewives franchise is airing.

(It was originally Ilya’s idea, as most strokes of genius are, but Shane gets surprisingly really into reality tv drama. He can be such a petty bitch when he wants to be, and Ilya wants him to be all the time if it means he gets to hear more chirps about Lisa Barlow’s corny costume parties.)

By the time the pre-season kicks off proper, Ilya is proudly showcasing his new Wyatt Hayes Ultimate Comic Nerd Photocard and has a whole slew of new additions waiting on the wings.

Hayes honest-to-God squeals when he sees the card. “I look so fucking cool!” he crows, which is not quite what Ilya had set out to do, but oh well. At least he’s making a good impression.

“Are you gonna rip off your goalie gear and reveal a superhero suit underneath?” Boyle grabs Hayes’s collar and mimes looking under his shirt.

“You just wanna see this ass in spandex,” Hayes gestures flamboyantly down his body. The Centaurs encourage him to do a little twirl, and he shows off the flattest ass a white man can have. It’s nearly concave. They cheer regardless.

A little mystified, Ilya finds himself clapping along with the crowd as they egg Hayes on. He takes a selfie with the photocard and asks Ilya for permission to parade it around as his superhero alter ego. Why not.

The Centaurs take it in stride. They take a lot of things in stride – perhaps too many, if their pitiful league standings are any indication. They lose, and lose, and lose again. Ottawa doesn’t have much to offer in terms of night life, but Ilya hardly notices because he spends most free nights driving to and from Montreal to steal a few precious sunrises with Shane.

Shane visits as often as he can, as eager to get away from his team as Ilya is for him, but there are certain commitment expectations laid upon a champion team that Ottawa simply doesn’t enforce. So Ilya does a lot of the driving. It’s not so bad when Shane greets him at the door with a cold bottle of vodka, a home-cooked dinner that doesn’t look like soggy cardboard, and very, very little clothing.

Ilya keeps his photocard rotation going. No one has outright called him on the fact that Shane Hollander photocards are showing up more and more often, or that he keeps them around for longer each time, or even that Shane’s toploaders are more heartfelt and pretty as opposed to the over-the-top parodies he makes for other players.

Sometimes Shane’s face is the only thing that gets him through the day.

Eventually he’s forced to make cards for certain shitty Voyageurs who have had a lot to say in the locker room post-Scott Hunter. He’d honestly rather stare at Pike’s face on his hockey gear than those fuckers, but he’s definitely not trying to start dating rumors with Patrice Douchebag Drapeau. Plus, Ilya lives to piss off bigots.

So he hole punches Comeau’s face out of his card and lets the team dog Chiron – okay, Ilya might actually love Ottawa – chew on Drapeau’s. The league hasn’t issued him a fine for harassment and threats against fellow players, but he’s pretty sure the message has gotten through regardless. Shane is tight-lipped about his locker room, but from the extra-piercing glares he gets on the ice, Montreal’s worst are definitely not happy to be turned into dog-slobber accessories for Russia’s biggest asshole.

The Centaurs lose. Ilya bedazzles a printout of Chouinard’s old rookie headshot, pasting rhinestones over the numerous gaps in his massive smile. They lose. Ilya awkwardly compliments social media manager Harris Drover on his rainbow ‘I Can’t Even Think Straight’ pin. They lose. Svetlana calls every other day and they bitch about everything under the sun while she waits for him to admit to something that just can’t take flight from his lips. They lose. Shane visits and sucks Ilya’s soul out of his dick, then snarks about if getting off more often will help Ilya start winning games and Ilya says yes definitely, put the cat ears back on please, and they lose again. And again.

And again.

But Harris is gay and Hayes’s sister has a wife and Shane quickly closes out of a jewelry website when Ilya hooks his chin over his shoulder and Dykstra lets Ilya blast earsplitting Russian dubstep in the locker room before games and it’s really, really, not so bad. Maybe even good.

Maybe even home.

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“And then it turns out Monica was running the snark page the entire time!” Shane’s beautiful plush lips are moving. Sound is probably happening. “From the beginning, she only got close to the housewives to get intel on their lives and expose them to the internet. Isn’t that crazy?”

“That’s nice honey,” Ilya murmurs. He pauses, fingers hovering in place, then screenshots right as Shane’s glasses slip down his nose. Money shot. If only Shane would shift back a bit so the lamplight could hit the tendons of his neck just right…

“Are you listening to me?” Shane pouts.

“I always listen, моя любовь. (my love.) Monica is total snake, we have known this all season. Was obvious from her boob job. Now can you lean back?”

One of the many, many things Ilya adores about his Shane is that he always listens to orders. Even with that confused scrunch to his face, he obediently tilts back and lets the light wash over him. He would probably stay there forever, if Ilya didn’t tell him to stop.

Fuck. Ilya is going to marry this man. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

“Мышонок (Little mouse), how do you feel about putting hat on backwards and holding up bottle of champagne I sent to your house?”

Shane’s eyes narrow. He leans forward again, eclipsing the frame.

Fuck yeah. Freckle cam.

“Ilya are you making me pose for photocards right now?” Shane’s freckles grumble.

Ilya’s guilty fingers fly away from his power and volume buttons, trying to look as innocent as the day he was born. “You would believe me if I say no?”

Shane levels him with a stare like he could implode him with his mind. Ilya throws his hands up in surrender. “God fine, I want photocard of sexy boyfriend from Stanley cup win with slutty hat and champagne everywhere, so sue me. Cannot get screengrab from shitty broadcast footage because they filmed on stick of carrot and there are irrelevant men everywhere.”

“Those irrelevant men won the cup with me,” Shane corrects as Ilya rolls his eyes so far back in his head he meets his brain. “And there’s nothing slutty about a baseball cap.”

“There is when slutty boyfriend wears it.”

“I was not your boyfriend back then!”

“In my head you were always mine,” Ilya volleys for some reason because his touchy-feely hockey team and their mushy wine-fueled honesty sessions are apparently getting to him.

“Oh.” A muscle in Shane’s jaw jumps as a film comes over his reddening eyes. “I uh, want to say the same, but I never thought – I mean you were always–”

“Hurting both of us by sleeping around to convince myself I could live without you yes, I know. I was there.” Ilya sighs. “I was still yours. Just scared.”

Shane reaches to the left, just out of frame. Ilya tilts his head in confusion. Shane keeps his tissues, lube, and sex toys to the right. After some fumbling, a white cloth scrubs over the camera and Shane’s face reappears, crisper than ever. Ilya takes another screenshot.

Shane tips forward and presses his lips against the camera. Ilya is grinning so widely his cheeks hurt by the time Shane pulls back, nose wrinkling slightly as he rubs the taste of alcohol off his mouth.

“Stop looking at me like that. Do you know how many germs our phones carry?”

“I take back what I said about your dirty talk,” Ilya says despite his rapidly hardening dick.

“Fuck you. I’ll be right back, so don’t jerk yourself off while I’m gone.”

Guiltily, Ilya removes the hand from his pants. “Take me with you,” he whines after Shane. “At least turn camera around so I can see your slutty splendiferous ass!”

“I don’t think you’re using that right!” Shane calls, voice sounding tinny offscreen. When he comes back into frame, he’s got a baseball cap in one hand and the champagne in the other, eyes still a little watery.

He turns the cap around. Some of his bangs get pinned awkwardly under the strap of the hat. Blinking hard to keep his composure, he awkwardly hoists the champagne up. His cheeks are flushed enough to rival that post-win glow. He’s got that rumpled little duckling look to him. Ilya is absolutely obsessed with him.

“I’m glad we can talk about it,” Shane says suddenly.

Ilya hums distractedly, trying to determine what angle would fit the best in his next toploader. “Hm? What, about how sexy you looked winning the cup?”

“No, about…y’know. Us. Pre-cottage.” Shane stares somewhere over Ilya’s shoulder. He usually skirts away from eye contact and Ilya doesn’t force him unless it’s for sexy reasons. This is not one of these times. At least not yet.

“Ah. Situationship era.” Ilya nods. He’s learned a lot from Twitter. Mainly, that he’s incredibly lucky Shane never ended up in a club bathroom full of drunk girls, or Ilya would have been blocked and had his car vandalized back in 2014. Three slashed tires, just to make sure insurance won’t pay for it. “I’m sorry, мой котёнок. (my kitten.) I know I was not kind to you those years.”

“No, I didn’t bring it up for you to apologize again. I’m just, I don’t know. Relieved that we can talk about what it was like back then. That we aren’t running away anymore.”

Ilya scowls. “Yes, no more running. Please. Last time you ran away you dated a woman. Terrible for everyone involved.”

“Baby. You’re still jealous of Rose?”

“Ughhh, you know I can’t stay mad when you call me baby. Low blow, мой маленький лисёнок (my little fox).” Jabbing an accusatory finger at the screen, Ilya pouts. “But I am also glad we are honest now. Is more fun when you are on my lap like at the cottage and telling truth gets me best hole of my life, but still. Is nice to be all sappy with you.”

Shane’s expression melts. Many people who meet Shane mistake his blank features for cold aloofness, but Ilya knows its just the face he puts on when he’s trying desperately to manage his expression. When he’s like this, safe and comfortable and unguarded with Ilya, it all shines through. Shane’s big sparkly eyes soften, his lips lifting at the corners, cheeks rising to squish the skin up by his eyes. Ilya would call him lovesick if he wasn’t well aware that an even dopier expression has made home on his face.

Shane swallows hard, twice. Through the emotional gooeyness, Ilya’s dick tracks the bobbing of Shane’s Adam’s apple.

Casting a nervous glance towards the bottle in his hand, Shane furrows his brows at Ilya. “I don’t want to get my bed wet.”

Ilya licks across his top teeth. Shane has to stop handing him such easy openings. “Oh? Are you not already wet for me, котёнок (kitten)?”

“Shut up. You know damn well I’m talking about how we sprayed champagne around when we won the cup. Isn’t that what you were trying to recreate?”

Shane’s cheeks are bright red. Like an apple. Ilya wants to bite them and crunch away forever and ever. “Bathroom, sweetheart. Get in the tub.”

“Fuck.” Shane breathes heavily, trying to run a hand through his hair and whining when the cap blocks his path. He doesn’t take it off. “Okay.”

“Good boy.” Shane nearly stumbles with a whine as he grabs the phone and heads towards the bathroom. Ilya slides lower in the bed and sneaks a hand back into his pants. He has plenty ideas for Shane and the champagne. He’ll just have to remember when to stop taking pictures before Shane sends hitmen to his address instead of care packages full of well-meaning but disgusting protein shakes and Ilya’s favorite brand of pain relief patches.

Two days later, Champane (Champagne Shane) accompanies Ilya to practice. He had selected a shot that was spiritually equivalent to Shane’s cup win. Shane’s wet bangs are plastered to his forehead, a streak of champagne erupting from the bottle he’s clutching. He’s reclining in a small space and while it’s clearly not the benches of his 2016 locker room, no one should be able to tell he’s in a tub.

Or that beyond the edges of the frame, Shane’s pants are pulled low around his hips as his cock strains against the fabric. Or that Ilya couldn’t use any frame where Shane’s gaze is directed towards the camera, because his eyes are half-lidded with earnest, vulnerable desire.

Or how, after the photo was taken, Shane had produced his dildo from absolutely nowhere and fucked himself on it to the rhythm of Ilya’s hand on his dick as he moaned быстрее, дорогой. (faster, sweetheart.)

Because that’s only for Ilya’s eyes. And his cock.

Fuck. Ilya flips Champane around so he’s facing the side of his bag. If he pops a boner in the middle of the locker room he’ll never live it down.

After a moment of consideration, he feels guilty and introduces Champane to the world again. He already has to hide so much of Shane away.

Instead, he rotates his bag so that Champane is no longer staring him in the dick. Perfect compromise. One of the rookies a few stalls down squeaks as the photocard clangs against the bench. Ilya writes it off, assuming it’s just the rookies trying to pants each other again.

It isn’t until well after practice that he’s clued into the conspiracy brewing under his nose. Luca Haas’s frazzled voice makes him pause before rounding the corner. The rink has mostly emptied out by now, and Ilya hadn’t expected anyone to be lingering.

“I’m telling you, it’s not normal.” Haas’s words come out high and strained. There’s a pattering of approaching footsteps that freezes Ilya’s blood in his veins, but it recedes quickly. Approach, recede. Haas is definitely pacing.

“And you would know this because…?” LaPointe prompts.

Fuck. Ilya’s heart drops into his stomach, then burns through the lining and settles at his feet. The Centaurs have mostly welcomed Ilya and all his oddities with open arms, but rookies on any team are hard to read. They often mask how they really feel in an effort to fit in with the rest of the team. It’s been doubly difficult in Ilya’s case, what with his shock signing and lengthy legacy. No wonder Haas, who used to pray to posters of Ilya at night, would find it hard to voice his discomfort with Ilya around.

“Pointy, I have seen and saved and catalogued every single piece of media related to Shane Hollander since he was drafted. I’m telling you, the images Roz is using aren’t released anywhere on the internet.” There’s a rustle of fabric, like Haas is shaking LaPointe’s shoulders vigorously. “Listen to me. I thought it was odd that the sky in photocard he made of Mr. Hollander doing yoga at his cottage didn’t match the weather conditions of the documentary. Fine, maybe there’s a director’s cut I haven’t found yet, or being Mr. Hollander’s rival gets you access to behind the scenes footage. Whatever. But the champagne card – that’s not a matter of a different angle or shooting day. The location is completely different, the length of his hair is different, and he’s not even wearing the same color shirt! He’s wearing navy blue, but his compression shirt was black when he won the cup! Black!”

A beat of silence.

“Uhhh. You realize this makes you look like the weird stalker, right Haasy?”

Oh. Oh!

The tension whooshes from Ilya’s body so fast he has to brace himself against the wall to keep from collapsing. Well this is hilarious.

“I’m weird for being worried for Mr. Hollander’s safety?!” Haas thumps a hand to his chest in frustration.

“Frankly I think you’re weird just for calling him Mr. Hollander!”

Haas paces again. “So I start thinking alright, maybe Roz isn’t a stalker himself and he just gets unreleased photos sent to him by obsessive fans of Mr. Hollander. That’s not much better, but it’s an explanation. But then he gave me a ride home from the last Boodbeque and I swear to God he had a Shane Hollander branded air freshener in his Lambo. How the fuck did he get that! Did he make it? If it was official merch–”

“You would own it?”

“–Obviously I would own it!”

Ilya presses a hand to his mouth to suppress his giggle. If the rookies found him eavesdropping on their conversation, Haas would probably freeze up like a stunned hamster and never play hockey again. That’s no good. He’s the most promising youngling on the team.

Ilya backs away from the hallway with a giddy grin. The rookies don’t think his photocard habit or off-camera persona are weird in a bad way. They aren’t throwing slurs at him behind his back. Poor Luca Haas is just worried Ilya is hacking and stalking his gorgeous, rapturous, hopefully soon-to-be-fiance. It’s kind of adorable.

Maybe Ilya will ask for another sample from Yuna for Shane’s upcoming merch drop. Surely Haas will be overjoyed to find Hollander Honeysuckle hanging in his stall.

_____________________

🐎👊 BROHOOF 👊🐎

Ilya:

Everypony. My Jane❤️ Has Question

Bood:

you’ve gotta stop opening with that

Ilya:

Never

Boyle:

who introduced roz to the hieroglyphic keyboard and are you ready to die

Ilya:

Bood:

we are not scared of your ancient egyptian threats

Young:

speak for yourself….

Chouinard:

he learned it from scott hunter. pretty sure that guy was around when it was invented

Ilya:

I Knew I Liked You

Dykstra:

So what the hell could your Jane want that we could answer

Ilya:

Put Some Respect On Her Name.

Dykstra:

Fine. What the hell could your Jane❤️ want that we could answer

Ilya:

Not That Much Respect. 🤨

Dykstra:

Roz I’m MARRIED

Ilya:

👁️👈🤨🫵

Dykstra:

???

Chouinard:

he’s ‘watching’ you

Dykstra:

Jesus Christ

Dykstra:

WHAT THE HELL COULD YOUR JANE♡ WANT THAT WE COULD ANSWER

Ilya:

Ok Fine Is Not Exactly Her Question. But I Need Opinions

My Jane❤️ Puts Shoes On Like Freak

Bood:

how??

Ilya:

🧦👟🧦👟

Sock Shoe Sock Shoe

I Say You Are Ridiculous, Everyone Does Sock Sock Shoe Shoe 🧦🧦👟👟

She Puts Me On Sex Ban For Two Weeks

Hayes:

wdym

Ilya:

Hayes:

sorry I asked

Bood:

ok now im scared

LaPointe:

@Chouinard translate plz

Chouinard:

yeah i got nothing

Dillon:

SHE CUT UR DICK OFF????????

Haas:

me personally, i do sock shoe, sock shoe :)

Holmberg:

isn’t that how hollander does it lmfaoooo

Ilya:

Ah

Yes. My Jane❤️ Is Big Hollander Fan

Second Biggest

😏

Haas:

?

Harris:

_____________________

The Centaurs acquire right-winger forward Troy Barrett and head coach Brandon Wiebe for the next season and they start losing slightly less. Very slightly. But improvement is improvement, and Ilya can finally get back at Shane for all those digs about how the Centaurs run on ‘the power of friendship and other teams’ misfortune’.

It had been funny when Shane joked about it a year or so ago. The Centaurs have always cultivated a warm and supportive environment, genuinely clicking as a team. The locker room atmosphere has only improved with their new additions. Wiebe is surprisingly compassionate and understanding for a head coach, and despite Barrett’s bad reputation courtesy of the Toronto Guardians, he’s not nearly the bigoted asshole everyone was worried about disrupting the team dynamic.

Ilya knows a thing or two about preceding reputations. He’s getting closer to the slowly-thawing Barrett, and he’s not the only one.

So yeah, the whole ‘every night the Centaurs play is a pride night’ and ‘maybe the Stanley Cup was the friends you made along the way’ chirps had been funny.

It’s not so funny now that Shane’s sexuality is an open secret on their team, and the Voyageurs are running on awkward silences, isolation, and Shane’s last nerve.

Seeing Shane struggle from two hours away has been hard on both of them. Ilya wants to be there for him, Shane doesn’t want to admit that Montreal might not welcome him anymore, and Ilya dies a little inside every time they have to hang up the phone. It’s just not enough anymore, not when he knows both of them would feel so much better in each others’ arms.

He misses Shane so much that he’s nearly abandoned his carefully spaced out photocard rotation. A new Shane card appears somewhere on his person almost every other day. He still puts effort into making cards for other players to half-heartedly keep up the ruse, and also because the Centaurs genuinely enjoy it, but he can’t help himself. He just wants to look at Shane’s face all day long.

These days, it feels like the only time he sees his boyfriend smiling.

Maybe that’s why Ilya is extra on edge the day Troy Barrett rocks up to practice with a Shane Hollander photocard on his bag.

Ilya blinks once, twice. He reaches out to tap the piece of plastic, making sure he hasn’t had a psychotic break and started hallucinating. The toploader is thin and kind of sweaty. Not high quality enough for his Shane, and certainly not something Ilya would make.

“What the fuck is that?” Ilya stabs a finger at the keychain.

There’s not even enough stickers to dignify it with label of deco photocard. And the stickers that are present suck. They look like they came from a teacher’s back-to-school kit. Did Troy get those at the fucking Dollar Store? One of them says ‘Good Job, A+!’. Wow. Shane’s praise kink would love that.

Barrett needs to die.

“Hey you’re not the only one who wants to stare at a pretty face all day, you know?” Barrett smirks, shrugging casually like he isn’t seconds away from getting beaten to death by Ilya’s hockey stick.

“What.”

Barrett shoots him a disbelieving look. “Come on. Don’t tell me you look at him to fuel your stupid rivalry or something. He’s a total babe, you can’t deny it. Hate boners are still boners. Even if you say no homo.”

Ilya’s grip on his stick tightens. Hayes, hovering nearby, swoops in to save the structural integrity of Barrett’s skull.

“Dude, I have to tell you about the latest episode of the Flash,” Hayes says hastily. His eyes dart nervously between Ilya and his Paper Shane, and Troy and his Paper Abomination.

“You really don’t,” Barrett rolls his eyes, but allows Hayes to tug him away regardless. He’s probably just happy to be included. Normally Ilya would be happy for him, but he can’t tear his gaze away from the picture of Shane in Barrett’s stall. It’s from one of his protein powder endorsements. His eyes are closed as he downs a shake, chin tipped back to highlight the gentle curve of his throat.

Ilya snatches his phone without another thought.

Ilya:

Shane We Need To Announce Foundation Tonight.

Shane:

?

Baby, what’s wrong? Mom is setting up a whole media domino for next month. No need to rush the plan.

Ilya:

WRONG

HURRY

Coach’s whistle blows to indicate the start of practice. Ilya almost hurls his phone into his stall before he remembers that Shane is in there, kind of. Instead he calmly places the device down and tries to emulate Shane’s anxiety box breathing.

“We need Barrett alive if we want a shot at the cup,” Bood reminds him as they filter out to the ice. For the first time, Ilya ponders if the cup is worth it.

Bood sticks by his side as they start skating warm-up laps. Harris is at the rink today to shoot some special behind the scenes footage of practice.

“Also, I think you’d have to answer to his boy if Barrett mysteriously disappeared overnight.” Grinning, Bood elbows Ilya in the side. He’s clearly trying to start a lighthearted gossip session to get Ilya’s mind away from murder, but he’s too far gone.

Right. Barrett has a boy, or is on his way to getting one. His own boy! There’s absolutely no reason to encroach on Ilya’s territory like this, even if he doesn’t know that’s what he’s doing.

From across the rink, Harris laughs loudly. Ilya glances over to see Barrett skate right up to Harris, stopping dramatically and spraying snow towards the camera. He’s like a fucking peacock trying to entice a mate. It seems to be working, if the giddy way Harris bites his lower lip is any indication. They aren’t subtle at all.

Hold on. Ilya’s eyes light up, much to Bood’s burgeoning horror.

“Whatever you’re planning, don’t.”

“My beautiful Bood you do not even know what I’m thinking.”

Bood raises an eyebrow. “I’ve known you for long enough. That look on your face means trouble and a long week as your second-in-command.”

“Me? Trouble?” Ilya places both hands to his cheeks and bats his eyelashes. His Twitter friends call it ‘aegyo’. Bood sticks a finger in his mouth and mimes throwing up.

Admittedly Bood had good reason to worry. That night Ilya makes some unwise time management decisions and manages to churn out a new card before morning skate. He shows up to the rink with bags under his eyes and a very special toploader to debut.

Ilya plops his bag down and situates it so it lays perfectly in sight of Barrett’s stall. The trap is set. Now, to wait for his prey.

Feigning indifference, Ilya laces and unlaces his skates as he waits. Soon enough, he hears the tell-tale sound of footsteps approaching Barret’s stall. They slow as they get closer to Ilya, then stop.

“Nice card,” Barrett says tightly.

“Oh, this?” Ilya straightens and unhooks the photocard, holding it up for the locker room to revel in. It’s not his finest, but it’s not too shabby for a one night job. He rush-ordered a sheet of apple-themed stickers and spent hours scrolling social media for the perfect image.

Good thing social media is Harris’s job. There’s plenty of material to work with.

A muscle in Troy’s jaw works. “You’ve expanded to the staff now, huh? You never did that before.”

Ilya waves a hand dismissively. “Eh, I thought about what you said. Nice to stare at pretty face, yes? So I thought, hm, Harris is pretty enough, I will look at him.”

Shane is much prettier. If Ilya could, he’d shout it from the rooftops.

Barrett’s eyelid spasms. Ilya grins, all teeth and blood. The bear trap snaps shut.

For the next week, Ilya totes around the photocard of Harris everywhere he goes. Thankfully a good sport, Harris thinks it’s hilarious and seems kind of touched to be considered part of the team. He’s been working on a series following Ilya’s photocard collection and wants to make content out of a Centaurs craft night, so this war is only fueling him.

Barrett, on the other hand, is getting twitchier by the day. The Shane photocard doesn’t leave his bag, but he doesn’t pay much attention to it. Ilya catches him shooting daggers at Ilya when he sleazily trails a finger down Paper Harris’s face.

One day, while Barrett hangs back in the rink to run drills and the rest of the team has abandoned ship, Ilya sneaks over and yanks the Shane keychain from his bag. He flees the scene immediately. At practice the next morning, Barrett bemoans the loss of his photocard.

“Ball chains are so fragile.” Ilya clucks his tongue in faux pity. “Too easy to break. That’s why serious fans use wire loops. I’ll send you link.”

Ilya feels on top of the world for exactly one night, rehabilitating his new rescue and satisfied at the knowledge of getting under Barrett’s skin.

Until Barrett walks into morning skate with a brand new Shane photocard. Decorated much more extravagantly, and with a wire loop to top it off.

“Thanks for the advice, Cap.” Troy claps a hand to Ilya’s shoulder and squeezes. Hard. “You’re the best.”

Ilya smiles with gritted teeth. War is on.

From that point on, Ilya makes a new photocard of Harris every single day. He’s stopped switching them out and instead lets them all pile up on his bag until the fabric underneath is nearly eclipsed.

After another strained week, Barrett finally breaks. The last straw is probably the edit Ilya commissioned of Harris in drag. In Ilya’s defense, Harris was completely on board and even offered to do a real drag makeover. For TikTok, obviously.

The moment Barrett’s eyes land on the sparkly new photocard, his entire face darkens. “Smoke break,” he announces with little fanfare. Without waiting for anyone to respond, he yanks Ilya’s wrist and shoves him out the door.

“Cut it out,” Barrett hisses, inches away from Ilya’s face. Spittle flies.

“You have problem?”

“Yes I have a fucking problem. Are you blind?”

Ilya shrugs, or at least tries to from within the bruising grip Barrett has on him. “You did not hate photocards before. Clearly. Why so protective over little apple boy?”

Barrett slams Ilya against the bricks, face twisted up in rage. “You’re not an idiot. You know he’s my boyfriend. And you’re torturing me for what? Because I brought up your shitty fucking rivalry?!”

Boyfriend. Barrett says it so easily. Even though he isn’t technically out, and the two of them haven’t officially announced their relationship to the team, Barrett has no qualms about admitting to what Harris means to him out loud. Harris works for the Centaurs, sure, so that could be its own workplace concern, but it’s leaps and bounds away from the collusion allegations that Shane and Ilya would get if they were ever to come out. Barrett and Harris flirt at the rink and sit too close at barbeques and leave work together and Ilya wants all of that so, so, badly with Shane.

But he can’t. They can’t. Montreal is getting worse by the day and Ilya can’t put any more stress on Shane no matter how badly he wants to come out. He just has to go to practice and pretend he carries around Shane’s picture as a form of psychological warfare and not because he’s head over heels in love with him. And now he has to suffer through Barrett making a mockery of the only way Ilya can feel connected to the love of his life.

“Get over it and leave my boyfriend the fuck alone!”

Ilya sees red.

“You first!”

Fisting his hands in the neckline of Barrett’s shirt, Ilya hurls him away. He’s seething, hands clenched by his sides and vision darkening at the edges. It’s too much. It’s all too much. The heartbreak, the agony, the fact that what he wants seems so simple and is yet forever out of reach.

The bottled emotions surge up and out of Ilya and when they’re done spilling from the leak in his heart, all that remains is a sense of shame and a bitter taste under his tongue.

Shocked by both the confession and the shove, Barrett loses his footing and stumbles to the ground. He sits there, hands splayed out behind to support him, and stares up at Ilya. His captain. His taken, queer captain.

In the silence that stretches between them, Ilya comes back to Earth.

He scrubs a tired hand over his face and sighs, legs going weak beneath him and depositing him on the ground across from Barrett. They just stare at each other for a minute, twin bursts of anger slowly starving under the vacuum of the quiet.

“You’re…?” Barrett waves a hand, struggling to find the words. Ilya tips his head back until it meets the brick behind him. He wishes he could smash his skull against it.

“Yeah. Bi.”

“And Hol–”

“Don’t say his name out loud,” Ilya snaps. “No one knows.”

Barrett blinks, still stunned. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’. Seriously, not a single person knows aside from his parents, and even that was accident. So. If this gets out I will know who blabbed, and I will kill you. Really. I will find way to hide your body before Russia deports me. Paparazzi money will not be fucking worth it, you will not live long enough to spend it.”

Barrett raises two hands in surrender. He’s first to recover and pull himself to his feet. Without missing a beat, he offers a hand to Ilya.

“You have my silence,” Barrett vows. “I’d never do that to you guys. And I’m sorry for antagonizing you about – about Jane. I had no idea. Obviously I know what it’s like to hide, but nothing as complicated as…all that.”

Ilya stares at the extended hand. He doesn’t move. Neither does Barrett.

“I’m happy for you guys. Honestly. And I know you didn’t mean to let it slip, but it’s nice to know I’m not alone.”

Alone. Alone like Shane in a sweaty locker room in Montreal, iced out by his teammates and thrown to the wolves during gameplay. Like Ilya at Bood’s barbeques, watching the WAGs cuddle up to their boys in the open and breaking his own heart every time he dodges questions about girlfriends and past hookups.

Like Barrett, apparently, latching onto a horrible person like Dallas Kent to shield his own secrets.

Shane and Ilya have always had each other, even back before they committed to a real relationship. There’s still a difference between meeting up with another queer player four or five times a year and having a brother in your own locker room that gets it.

Ilya takes the hand and allows Barrett to hoist him up.

They make their way back inside in somewhat comfortable silence. Both of them are still reeling. Ilya is trying to put together a game plan of exactly how to break the news to Shane that Barrett found out about them. He’ll fuck Shane good and hard, scrub the tub so he can take a bubble bath afterwards without feeling like he’s marinating in filth, and perhaps pick up food from the bougie vegan restaurant he always talks about. Maybe then Ilya can escape with his life.

“So how about a photocard trade?” Barrett says.

Ilya scoffs. “No, no. You have no talent for sticker placement, had lots to fix. Would be very unbalanced transaction.”

There’s a beat of silence where Ilya worries he’s actually hit a sore spot, but when he peeks over, an incredulous understanding is dawning on Barrett’s face.

“You stole my Hollander card. Roz, you absolute fox!”

“Stole is harsh word. I rescued him like sad starving little puppy tied to fence. He is much happier with me now, promise.”

Barrett studies him for a moment, gaze softening. “Yeah. I bet he is.”

Ilya tries to calm the giddiness in his chest at getting to admit to someone how gone he is for Shane, and how Shane loves him right back. When Ilya is able to drape himself over Shane’s lap and press kisses to the back of his neck while he cooks and shove cold fingers under his shirt to make him squirm, it feels like it’s enough. Like the entire world could disappear and nothing matters as long as they have each other. Like no one needs to know their secret and intrude on the special pocket of space just for them.

But when two hours of highway and streetlights split them apart, Ilya fades out of existence. He’s tied so much of himself to Shane and doesn’t regret a single second of it. It’s just when Shane is away, no one else in the world has proof of such a huge part of Ilya’s life, and it’s like it doesn’t even exist. Like Ilya isn’t real.

It really is nice to not be alone. He just wishes Shane could have this too.

_____________________

Ilya:

Us

Shane:

That's great sweetie.

Doesn't really look like us though?

Ilya:

Us

Shane:

What's that supposed to be?

But okay.

Ilya:

Us

Shane:

Yeah.

Ilya:

Us

Shane:

Sure is.

Ilya:

Shane:

Let me guess. Us?

Ilya:

Both You :P

Waiting For Me To Get Home Like Naughty Kitty

Shane:

Document Link: Rose’s Rules for Effective Sex Bans (Reinstated)

Ilya:

NOOOOOOOOOOOOO

_____________________

_____________________

Ilya’s brain is a traitor.

It doesn’t understand how good his life is. He has a beautiful, empty house. A wonderful loving boyfriend that he sees thrice a month if he’s lucky. A close-knit hockey team that can barely scrape through a game.

Nothing is perfect, but he has enough to live for. Usually. It’s just sometimes his brain forgets how it feels to be alive, and his lungs go on strike, and the sun never rises above the horizon, and he wonders what it would be like to fall asleep for a long, long, long time, and if it would make the ache in his chest fade.

Not every day. But enough.

Enough to pull Shane’s attention away from his own unfolding trauma in Montreal. Shane texts him every two hours and calls just to say hello if he doesn’t respond fast enough. It would be believable if not for the panic in his eyes. Ilya watches Montreal let Shane get pummeled on the ice, defenders nowhere to be found as Shane takes his fourth brutal check to the boards.

“Your ribs?” Ilya greets as he picks up the FaceTime call.

Shane is buried in a mountain of blankets. He just groans. “Not broken, at least.”

“You mean not yet,” Ilya grumbles. “Montreal has forgotten how to play hockey? They think you are wrestler now?”

Shane snorts. “Wrestling wouldn’t be so bad. As far as sports go it’s pretty gay. Just a bunch of guys touching each other for an audience.”

“I see, I see. You accept you are gay and start dreaming about getting pinned down by other men. You like seeing me jealous?”

“You brought it up!” Shane laughs, full-bellied. Ilya has missed that sound.

Beads rustle as Shane shifts onto his side, propping his phone on the pillow as if Ilya was actually there to claim his side of the bed. Ilya makes a questioning noise, and Shane blinks sleepily. “JJ got me a weighted blanket. Something about me reminding him of a cousin that ‘seeks deep pressure’ a lot. It’s been a life saver.”

Ilya scowls. “Boiziau is putting me out of job.”

“Don’t be a baby. You know I’d rather have you here to lay on me.”

Swallowing hard, Ilya wills his voice not to wobble. He doesn’t succeed. “Я скучаю по тебе. (I miss you.)”

“I miss you too,” Shane whispers.

Ilya’s heart cracks right open and carves Шаня (Shanya) into the bleeding walls. “Since when are you Russian, мой сладкий сахарок (my sweet sugar)?”

“Since I decided to get involved with a guy who only told me his feelings from behind a language barrier.” Shane’s adorable little mouth twists up in irritation. “I don’t know that one, though.”

Ilya gazes fondly at his boyfriend. Shane’s cheek is crushed up against the pillow and he refuses to hang up the call despite the exhaustion weighing down his eyes. Ilya could translate the phrase completely differently and Shane would have no idea, but he hasn’t been able to lie to Shane in a long time. “My sweet sugar.”

“Ew!” Shane giggles. “That definitely doesn’t translate well. It makes me sound like your sugar baby.”

Ilya licks his lips.

“Oh my God. You’re insatiable.”

“Says man who came on my tongue, then my fingers, then my cock, and still begged for round four last time.”

Shane turns bright red. “Fuck you! I seem to remember waking up to your dick in my ass afterwards because you couldn’t wait to fuck me again!”

“Only because you put it in sex tracker that you wanted to be used without realizing it!” Ilya taps at the camera teasingly. “We did not prepare enough for hypnosis, so sleep was next best thing.”

“Oh that reminds me, I saw you added to the binder.” Shane snaps his fingers as he tries to recall the term. “Omegaverse, I think? I took some quizzes just to, you know, confirm the lore.”

Ilya snickers. “As if you would be anything other than submissive omega.”

Shane whacks the camera with one of his horrible throw pillows.

“Anyways, I think I understand enough to–” A yawn cuts him off. “–to try it out. Apparently if you use enough lube, it’s kind of like what slick is supposed to be?”

Shane reaches to the right. But his eyes are slipping shut, and his breath hitches when his ribs press against the mattress, and there’s a fresh bruise blooming over his shoulder.

“Next time, sweetheart. Get some rest.”

Shane hums. His words are fading, but he stubbornly stares at Ilya’s lips. “Fine. But m’not hanging up. Wanna look at you.”

Shakily, Ilya nods. They both plug in their phones. Shane wakes up earlier than him in the morning. When sunlight leaks into Ilya’s room, he opens his eyes to find the call still going. Shane is nowhere to be found, but there’s a little sticky note waiting for him in front of the camera.

Hope you slept well. I love you. Я скучаю по тебе. (I miss you.)

One week later, there’s a knock at Ilya’s door.

“Shane?” Ilya’s jaw drops at the sight of his boyfriend waiting for him on the front porch. Shane doesn’t waste another moment before he’s stepping into Ilya’s personal space, winding his arms around his waist and slotting their lips together.

In Shane’s arms, Ilya finally becomes real again.

He exhales long and slow against Shane. Not all of the storm clouds haunting him drain out with the breath, but it’s enough to take the pressure off. When Shane pulls away he does it only slightly. An inch of space separating them feels like nothing after two hundred kilometers, but it’s still too far.

“How are you here?” Ilya mumbles into Shane’s mouth. Shane swallows each word between his lips. “Our Google Calendars do not overlap for two more weeks.”

“Mmm. I’m skipping morning skate tomorrow.”

Ilya gasps. “Aliens have stolen my Shane. You do poor impression, he would never say this.”

Smirking, Shane brings one of Ilya’s hands around and guides it to the swell of his ass. “Nope, haven’t been abducted. But you’re welcome to check, if you like.”

Ilya groans. He’s not one to think twice when Shane offers up his ass, so he greedily squeezes as Shane pants into his clavicle. As much as he’d like to devour the delicious meal that delivered himself to his doorstep, though, he can’t shake the feeling that something has to be seriously wrong for Shane to go off plan.

So Ilya’s hands reluctantly travel back up and cup Shane’s other set of cheeks. They’re just as lovely. And just as freckled. Ilya smacks a kiss to his favorite cluster, the ones that speckle the side of his nose.

Ilya guides Shane over to the couch and they tumble onto the cushions. Shane nuzzles into the hollow of Ilya’s neck and makes a pleased rumble in the back of his throat. It’s Ilya’s favorite sound in the world. He’d tease Shane for purring, but he’s too afraid Shane will get embarrassed and never do it again.

Holding Shane close against his chest, Ilya starts to run his fingers through his hair. “Is something wrong, солнышко (sunshine)?”

Shane leans up and presses their foreheads together. Ilya goes cross-eyed.

He’s expecting a locker room horror story. He braces himself to hear Comeau called me a slur during drills or no one wants me to shower near them anymore or even they asked how many guys in upper management I sucked off to get drafted.

Instead, Shane chews at the bottom of his lip and admits, “I was worried about you.”

What?

“Me?” Ilya echoes. Sure, things have been difficult for him lately, but he thought he was doing a pretty good job at not burdening Shane with it. He runs back through their recent conversations, but can’t find anything that would cause Shane concern.

There’s no way a couple sexts and FaceTime calls tipped Shane off that Ilya sometimes looks out his window and wishes he bought a house tall enough to jump from.

“Sweetheart, why would you–”

Shane’s words come out all in one go, hurried like they’re burning hot sitting on his tongue. “I’m not really good at this, I know. Other people can ‘read’ expressions apparently and figure out what a person is feeling even if they don’t say it and I just can’t. All I see is eyes and noses and lips and they don’t mean anything else to me. But I’ve been feeling like I’m missing something lately. With you.”

Ilya sucks in a breath. “Shane, you’re – you’re not–”

Shane’s eyes go wide with horror. He shakes his head vigorously, hair all askew when he forces himself to stop and maintain eye contact with Ilya. “No, nothing like that. I swear. I just…God, this is so embarrassing.”

He buries his head in Ilya’s chest again. Ilya’s hand strokes up and down along the planes of his back, letting him take his time.

“Don’t make fun of me for this, okay? It was the only thing I could think of. I, uh, made a spreadsheet.”

Ilya blinks. “Ok? This is not new for you. We spend lots of money on Google storage. You think it is time to buy stock?”

“No, listen. I’m being serious. Sometimes when we call at night your eyes are red and I can’t tell if you haven’t been sleeping well, or if you’ve been crying, or both. I’ve never been so grateful that Barrett found out about us, because he texts me when you miss practice. And then there are times you zone out for so long it’s like you’re not even there. I couldn’t tell what was wrong and I’m no good at reading between the lines so I was waiting for you to tell me directly. But you never did. So I started to track objective things that could clue me in to how you were doing. Like the photocards you carry every day.”

Well this was certainly not where Ilya expected the conversation to go.

“You…pay attention to that?” Ilya says, dumbfounded.

“Duh? I pay attention to everything about you.” Shane almost looks offended. “So anyways, I ended up noticing a pattern between some of the cards you bring out and the way you act on those days. When you carry the picture of me playing with the animal shelter dogs, you answer my texts in one word sentences and don’t use any emojis at all. Not even hieroglyphics. I see the photocard of me wearing your stupid Hawaiian shirt and know that when you pick up my call at lunchtime you’ll still be in bed with the curtains drawn. Every time the one of me napping in the hammock at our cottage is on your bag, you dodge my calls all day and I have to get my parents to go check on you.”

Ilya reels. So Yuna and David don’t have a sixth sense for when Ilya needs a homemade meal and a thousand piece puzzle?

“Normally the uh, the ‘sadness’ cards are spaced out, and when I see them I just call you early so we can eat dinner together over the phone, or I’ll text you pictures of fluffy dogs, or I’ll deliver something nice to your house. But lately there’s been a lot of sad photocard choices, and it didn’t feel like there was enough I could do from Montreal that would remind you that I’m here for you and that I love you. And yeah. I worried.”

“So you drove to Ottawa,” Ilya finishes.

“Yep.”

“Skipped hockey.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Because I’m depressed.”

Shane’s breath hitches at the word. “Y-Yeah.”

“Which you figured out by tracking which bedazzled pieces of cardboard I put on my bag every day.”

“Yes,” Shane mumbles. “Well, it sounds stupid when you put it like that. You just didn’t seem ready to talk. I didn’t want to push, but I also couldn’t stand the thought of you going through something far away where I can’t see you and hold you and understand you.”

Ah.

So this is what it’s like to be loved by Shane Hollander.

Ilya clenches his jaw, willing his eyes to stop burning. Shane has long since coaxed him out of the mindset that crying makes a man weak, but he still instinctively tries to turn his face away whenever he feels a prickle at his eyes.

Shane. His Shane. Shane, who loves him enough to notice every little detail, because everything Ilya does matters to him. Shane, who loves him enough problem-solve through their communication issues. His beautiful, strange, neurotic Shane, who turns Ilya’s skin translucent and sees straight into his scarred soul.

Cupping a gentle hand around Ilya’s face, Shane kisses a salty tear off his cheek. Then another.

Gentle. Always so gentle with him.

Ilya chokes up. “You say you are no good at reading people, любимый (darling), but that wonderful brain of yours figured out I am sad even before I did. I’m sorry I have been foggy lately. And that I made you worried by not telling you.”

“No sorries,” Shane says softly. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad, I know I struggle to find words too. But you can’t stop me from worrying about you. That’s like asking me not to love you, and I’m not willing to give that up. Ever.”

Shane’s thumb caresses the top of Ilya’s cheekbone, patiently clearing away each new tear that streaks down his skin. He delicately dots kisses to Ilya’s screwed-shut eyes and holds him until the world slows down again.

“I love you,” Ilya whispers. He tries to imbue the phrase with all the emotions he hasn’t been able to find words for, in any language that they speak.

“I love you too. You’ve loved me through my ups and downs. I’ll love you on your sad days just as much as on your happy days, because I want you to share everything with me. I want all of you.”

Ilya swallows hard and tries to make his words light and casual. “Careful, дорогой. (sweetheart.) Those sound like wedding vows.”

Shane smiles and plants one last kiss before getting up. “Practice makes perfect. Now, how about we get some food? I’ll even have a bite of your dessert, since I’m your сладкий сахарок (sweet sugar).”

“Wow. Either you really love me, or I will have to double check for alien probes.”

Ilya follows Shane to the kitchen – their kitchen – and wonders if it would be okay to propose on the living room floor.

_____________________

_____________________

In early October, Shane drives up to Ottawa again.

He had marked off the weekend in their shared Google calendar months ago. Normally Shane is very precise with his calendars – meeting links, reservation addresses and timestamps, even when he’d have to leave to get there on time.

This time though, he had only labeled it with a candle.

Ilya assumes this means Shane has booked them a crazy sexcation. Maybe waxplay? He could be into that.

Thus, he keeps an eager eye on the sex binder to catch any additions invented by Shane’s beautiful, kinky mind. There’s a couple of new roleplay scenarios, and an Amazon link to a lab coat and test tubes that Ilya is thoroughly intrigued by, but nothing that screams must hide away for an entire weekend to experiment with sexy new technique or product.

Like the weekend they tried bondage. It took a long time to get in and out of all that.

Worth it, though.

Ilya doesn’t worry too much about what Shane has in store for them. Either Shane has some excursion planned that he’s keeping close to the chest, or they’re going to put their phones on do not disturb and cuddle on the couch and fuck the hours away. They’ll probably do that regardless.

So October deposits Shane into Ilya’s arms and he doesn’t think twice.

Shane has a bit of nervous energy vibrating at his edges when he arrives and immediately smashes their lips together, but that’s not out of the ordinary. Shane often comes to him like this, brain frenetic and skin itching and just craving to be taken out of his head and body. He trusts Ilya to dismantle him, scrub the pieces, and slot them back into place.

So Ilya does. Shane is already well prepared – based on the frankly excessive amount of lube, he must have taken the whole omegaverse thing seriously. Fuck, did he drive all the way to Ottawa with this much lube in his ass? His car must be a mess. Shane hates mess.

This is all for Ilya.

So Ilya devours the gift. He barely preps Shane at the man’s own insistence, and slides home with a guttural groan. Shane’s hips buck against him, urging him to move immediately. He loves the overwhelming sensation of Ilya forcing him to take it without giving him time to adjust, but the pause is more for Ilya’s sake. He plays it off like he’s waiting for Shane to beg for it, but in reality he’s so turned on and in love that if he moves right now, Shane will tease him about being a one pump chump for the rest of his life.

It ends up being a win-win. Ilya loves hearing Shane beg, and Shane loves being reduced to whimpering pleas.

Ilya drives into him ruthlessly. They start with Shane folded over the couch, Ilya’s thumbs pressed into Shane’s back dimples like handlebars. A bulky hockey player built to be manhandled. Shane is perfect.

Ilya misses his face – and his freckles – too much, so he turns them around. Shane eagerly swings himself into Ilya’s lap and right onto his dick, eyes rolling back in bliss as he sinks down again.

Shane hunches forward as much as he can, rarely breaking for air from Ilya’s lips if he can avoid it. When he can’t help but throw his head back with a moan, Ilya greedily mouthes against his shoulder.

Once they determine the couch has been pushed to the brink of collapse, they sex their way to the bedroom. Shane doesn’t get more than a few feet up the stairs before he’s shoving Ilya against the wall and trying to swallow him whole. Normally Shane would say something boring and adorable about fall risk and safety measures, and he would remove Ilya’s dick from him at the bottom of the stairs and insist they walk up normally. Just two normal dudes walking single file up the stairs, like coworkers coming back from lunch. Except completely naked and with come and lube splattered everywhere.

This time, Shane is so hungry for it he doesn’t even flinch when Ilya knocks a frame off the wall and it thunks down the steps. His mouth is too full of Ilya’s dick and brain too cockdrunk to care. Ilya grabs a chunk of hair and yanks him off before Ilya throws a wrench into their night. He has to stay strong. Judging on the glazed glint in Shane’s eyes and the tongue flicking hungrily across his lips, it’s going to be a long night.

The next morning, Ilya wakes up alone.

For a second, nothing odd registers. He’s always been used to waking up alone – even when he and Shane had stopped fleeing each others’ beds, they rarely had the luxury of a slow morning in.

For a single, horrible second after that, Ilya thinks Shane has gotten cold feet about the weekend off and sped back to Montreal for morning skate. Maybe it was an alien abduction after all, and now Shane has come to his senses and remembered that Ilya’s melodramatic mood swings aren’t worth ditching hockey for.

That they aren’t worth it.

Then the smell of baking bread hits Ilya’s nose, and his whole body collapses against the bed in relief.

Ilya stretches, relishing in the pleasant tug in his muscles. He trots down the stairs in just his boxers. Usually the sight makes Shane forget to control his expression, hunger bright and shining in his earnest eyes.

This time, however, Shane barely turns to greet him. He tosses a quick, “Oh, you’re up early,” over his shoulder, and then immediately gets back to work.

The kitchen is a mess. It’s actually not that strange. Shane is very neat and precise, meaning his workspace will be spotless when he closes out an activity, but he often needs everything out and available throughout the process. Thus, about seventeen ingredients are scattered across the counters. The oven is on, flour is everywhere, and Shane is elbow deep in a dark, gooey dough.

“Good morning, любимый (darling),” Ilya yawns. He sleepily attaches himself to Shane’s back, arms snaking around his waist. “What interesting sludge are you making today?”

The tips of Shane’s adorable ears are turning red. Ilya presses a kiss to them. “Uh. Bread.”

Ilya can’t help the snort that tears from his throat. Shane’s ears are completely red now. “Bread? No chance. What, you have put eggplant in there or something?”

“I can make normal bread,” Shane says unconvincingly.

“You have not eaten normal bread during the season since you were drafted.” Ilya pinches Shane’s waist as he senses a protest bubbling up. Shane squirms. “I know you, Shane. You do not make normal bread. So, what is the catch? Protein bread? Broccoli bread?”

Shane rolls his eyes and starts to remove himself from the black tar swallowing his arm. “Ilya, healthy additions aren’t always bad. You didn’t even notice the cauliflower in the pasta sauce until after I told you I blended it in.”

“Flowers have no business in pasta dish!”

“You’re such a baby.”

“Your baby!” Ilya sings, drawing the words out obnoxiously as he spins around the kitchen. He comes to a dead stop when his eyes pass over the bottle of molasses sitting next to the carefully chopped remains of a bar of unsweetened chocolate.

“Shane.” Ilya’s voice drops gravely low. “The aliens.”

“Will you stop with that!” Shane whacks him with an oven mitt. Ilya responds with an exaggerated moan.

“Ah, harder!”

Shane rolls his eyes again but doesn’t throw Ilya out of the kitchen, so he must not be too bothered by his interference.

Ilya putters around, trying to be useful enough to stay in Shane’s orbit. There’s a loaf in the oven as Shane works the remaining dough into another one. It seems like he’s done making dough, so Ilya starts cleaning up the ingredients. As he works, though, something in the back of his mind tugs. Something old, dusted with cobwebs and raw to the touch, but young and innocent all the same.

It isn’t until he’s looking at everything sitting side by side that the oddities line up. Shallots. Espresso powder. Caraway and fennel seeds. Molasses. Apple cider vinegar. Chocolate.

All of a sudden, Ilya is ten again. He’s eight. Six. Four. Even younger. Too young to form memories, but conscious enough for the heavenly smell of baking bread to trigger a rush of emotions.

“Бородинский хлеб? (Borodinsky bread?)”

Carefully shaping the second loaf, Shane stills.

Ilya’s мама would often spend her mornings baking. She wasn’t allowed to do much else after marriage. Baking and cooking kept her busy, kept her sons growing, and kept her horrible husband at bay after a long day of work. As a child Ilya used to cling to her leg at the kitchen counter as she worked the dough in her hands. She would sing little songs as she baked and would stretch herself as she reached across the counter so Ilya never had to let go.

She would smile, bright and genuine for once, and narrate what she was doing. He never understood how such an eclectic army of ingredients combined to create such a rich, sweet treat. As the years wore on and мама grew sadder, she stopped baking. She stopped doing much at all.

But those moments of joy stolen in a damp Moscow kitchen were some of the happiest of Ilya’s childhood. The millions of little bowls and vials cluttering the countertop. His teeth tearing into pitch-black bread, slathered with butter like how мама liked it. The endeared laugh of his мама as he tried to help her knead the dough and knocked over the whole jar of rye flour.

It was so messy, so chaotic. So beautiful.

She was so beautiful.

Shane is so beautiful, standing in Ilya’s kitchen with flour smudged under his nose and flecks of black dough across his hands.

His beautiful Shane, who got up early to bake bread from Ilya’s childhood for him – macros be damned.

How did you know? forms on Ilya’s lips, but it’s quickly shoved aside by a choked off, “Я тебя люблю. (I love you.)”

Shane’s white-knuckled grip on the dough paddle slackens. “I practiced, but it might…it might not taste the same. I don’t know what it’s supposed to taste like, but I thought it was good, so…”

“My Shane wants praise, hm?” Ilya teases even as his body moves without his command. His skin can’t bear to be apart from Shane for a single second longer. Shane meets him halfway and crashes into the hug. Ilya doesn’t whine about the sticky dough transferring to his chest, or needle Shane about actually eating the sugary bread when he was practicing, or question him about how and why and who.

They just hold each other, rocking slowly in their kitchen.

The oven chirps loudly to remind them that a world outside each other unfortunately does exist. Shane perks up. “It’s best fresh!”

“I know, sweetheart.”

Shane steers him to the table and Ilya sits like a good boy. After Shane switches out the loaves, he brings over the baked bread along with small bowls of butter and jams. Then he sits, directly next to Ilya despite them being the only ones there. He hates eye contact and loves hooking his foot around Ilya’s ankle to maintain a point of contact at all times, so it works out.

Shane is visibly vibrating in his skin as Ilya cuts the bread and takes a slice. It’s dark and dense, exactly how it should be. Ilya slathers on his toppings and takes a bite of home.

Adorably, Shane’s eyes keep anxiously darting between his own plate and Ilya’s face. Ilya is dating the most unsubtle man on Earth.

The bread is good. It’s delicious, even. The tang of the sourdough cuts through the sweetness from the chocolate and molasses. It’s a bit spongier than Ilya remembers, though many of his memories of that time are dampened by the rushing waters of grief.

It doesn’t really matter. Truthfully, Shane could boil rocks and serve it as soup and Ilya would gladly break each and every one of his remaining real teeth on them, and then all of his very expensive fake ones.

“Perfect,” Ilya mumbles into his slice.

The bread. His boyfriend. This morning. Everything.

“Delicious. You make Russians proud.” He can’t quite look at Shane or else he’ll burst into tears, so instead he slides a hand onto his thigh and squeezes. Shane’s hand crawls on top and pries his fingers apart to slip between them. “Is like мама taught you.”

She truly, truly, would have loved you.

“Oh,” Shane stutters. His voice sounds just as wet as Ilya’s. “That’s – oh. I’m glad. I wish I could have tried hers. I wish, I wish–”

Fingers tangled, Ilya squeezes again. He pretends like the damp trails on his face aren’t there until Shane swipes them away with his thumb. “Me too.”

The successful breakfast seems to leave Shane invigorated. He gleefully stores the remaining bread and starts getting ready for the day. Ilya is mildly confused by the urgency when Shane all but shoves him into the shower, but a mid-shower handy smoothes it over.

Shane insists on driving, so Ilya enjoys passenger princess aux privileges. It’s his turn to vibrate in his skin. Wherever they’re going must be the reason for the weekend. He’s positively giddy at the idea of Shane planning a date for them. It’s far from unusual for Shane to plan, but Ilya still feels warm inside whenever he feels that intense focus and devotion turned his way.

As they turn into a deserted parking lot, though, Ilya starts to have some doubts.

“You regret not killing me in shady Montreal alleyway all those years ago?” he questions as he peers at the rather shabby looking building, standing alone in a ghost town. “This is karma?”

They get out of the car and approach the establishment. Shane is still acting like this is completely normal and expected behavior, even as they cross under the giant sign welcoming them into Crazy Bear Arcade.

“Моя любовь (My love), I am so confused,” Ilya declares. “I am no longer crazy bear, you know this. I thought maybe this was sexy surprise, or trip to the rink, or dog shelter time. Why are we here?”

“Just trust me,” Shane says.

And so Ilya lets himself be led by the hand through the maze of glowing arcade machines. They chirp and whir and jingle at empty air. There’s not a single other soul around except for them. Shane doesn’t look shocked at all.

Towards the back of the room, Shane comes to a screeching halt. Ilya’s eyes bug out of his head.

“Shane.”

“What.”

Ilya brandishes a betrayed finger at the Dance Dance Revolution mats awaiting them. “What the fuck is this?”

Shane shrugs and steps up to the machine. He swipes a card with a rabid bear emblazoned on it, and the machine dings happily and presents him with a song selection screen. Dizzily, Ilya realizes Shane must have prepaid for the arcade card.

“Come on.” Shane inclines his head towards the second mat. “I heard you used to be good at this?”

Ilya’s jaw drops. “I told Sveta that in confidence!”

Completely satisfied with himself, Shane smirks as he scrolls through the song options. They fly by in chopped up blurs of thumping beats and autotuned voices. “Watch out. Sveta is very willing to spill dirt on you to Jane.”

Ilya’s heart stutters in his chest. “You – you call her Sveta? You talked to my Sveta?”

Shane doesn’t even flinch at the language. “Yeah, a bit of a recent development. She’s way too good for you.”

“Too good for men,” Ilya agrees.

Shane grins and stops on a song. “Rose sure thinks so.”

Their chatter hushes as the music starts up. Ilya and Shane are competitive in everything they do – from hockey, to orgasms, to racing up the stairs. Rhythm games in the middle of an empty arcade are no exception.

Frustratingly, Shane is better than Ilya would have expected from a DDR newbie. He probably trained like he did with the bread. That tickles something in Ilya’s mind, but then the next song comes on and he refocuses on crushing his beautiful boyfriend on the scoreboard.

They’re both deliciously sweaty by the end. Ilya’s feet are tingling from stomping into the arrows so hard. His knuckles ache from the death grip he had around the support bar behind him. He needs water before he passes out.

He hasn’t had this much fun in a long time.

Ilya wins, which was truly the only acceptable outcome for a man who practically trained DDR as much as hockey in his preteen years. Shane gives him a run for his money, though, and they both end up amassing a decent sum of tickets. They wander through the rest of the arcade, gambling money away on the luck-based games and fruitlessly trying to win a bear plushie from the claw machine. Ilya drags them into a horror game simulator and cackles every time a jumpscare makes Shane shriek.

At the end, Shane insists on spending their tickets at the prize counter. The single employee staffing the entire empty arcade is standing there, looking dead in the eyes. They don’t seem interested in them in the slightest. Even if they were, Ilya can see the signed NDA next to the register. He knows Yuna Hollander’s work when he sees it.

Ilya doesn’t have time to question Shane before he redeems their tickets for some chintzy items. Ilya suggestively picks out a plush banana, which Shane accepts with a weary groan. Shane gets two dog figurine blind boxes, which is a concept Ilya has just found out about and is already considering for another phone call to Yuna. After a couple more silly knicknacks and cheap pieces of candy, Shane uses the last of their pooled tickets to buy a plastic ring shaped like a spider.

For some reason he looks a bit queasy as the blank-stare employee hands it over. “It’s October. Halloween trinket,” Shane explains to no one. He grabs Ilya’s hand and slides the ring onto it, then off, then on again. Like he’s carving the motion into memory. Or, if it was a different part of his body than his finger–

“Sweetheart stop, is time to go.” Ilya manages to choke out, head tilting back. His voice drops to a hiss even though the employee is clearly not listening and legally sworn to silence even if they were. “Please do not make me horny in kids arcade.”

“Jesus fucking–” Shane cuts himself off and drops Ilya’s hand like it burns him. The ring stays on. “Okay, yeah, let’s go. You fucking dog.”

“Woof,” Ilya adds dopily as Shane yanks him out of the establishment.

Ilya is buzzing with happiness when they get home. Not only did he have a delicious, nostalgic breakfast made by the love of his life, then had a blast messing around at the arcade like he used to do as a kid, but he also pulled the most adorable dog from his blind box and hey, his two favorite people in the world have talked and are on good terms with each other.

It’s perfect.

It’s too perfect.

It’s so unbelievably perfect that Ilya is starting to wonder when he’s going to wake up. Alone in the cold sheets, missing Shane so bad it steals a chunk of his heart and he pastes over it with flimsy stickers.

They curl up on the (cleaned) couch and watch a game before flipping to reality tv as per tradition. Shane is pressed to his side like he’s trying to fuse into his skin. Ilya would totally let him. Science should get on that.

“Wanna go to a club tonight.”

It’s structured like a question, but delivered like a death sentence.

Ilya’s eyebrows fly up to his hairline. He swivels to stare at Shane, who pointedly avoids eye contact. He looks like he’s going to throw up.

Ilya can’t help but laugh. “My love, you do not want to go to club.”

“I’d go with you,” Shane says, which is not a disagreement.

Ilya bats a hand dismissively. “Eh, there is probably only one club in Ottawa and I bet is country themed. And I would not be able to grope you on dance floor. No thanks.”

Shane shifts uncomfortably against him. He pushes, even though he still appears a little sick at the thought. “Are you sure…?”

Ilya straightens and mutes the tv. Okay. Something is definitely wrong.

Shane won’t look at him. He pulls at a fraying thread on the hem of his shirt.

“If you are secretly worried that I miss party life, stop. Clubs were good for vodka and random girls and forgetting. I never want to forget when I am with you.” Ilya tries to tilt Shane’s chin towards him, but he resists. “I love being boring with you. I love anything with you. I want to sit here with you and watch housewives throw stupid parties until we get too old to hear tv.”

Shane nods once, twice, like he’s still trying to psych himself up about something. “Okay, no club. Okay. So uh, what if we roleplay?”

“Mmm.” Ilya licks his lips and hoists Shane onto his lap. Shane is still boring holes into the couch behind him, but at least his face is turned towards Ilya again. “Yes, much better way to spend my night.”

Shane shifts on his lap. He grinds against Ilya’s crotch, but it seems less intentional and more a result of fidgeting. “Let’s pretend it’s 2014.”

What?

Ilya’s hands on Shane’s hips bar him from moving. “This was not in sex binder,” he says slowly. “Why would we do this? I was so scared to say I love you back then. I like getting to say it all the time. If you want me to be mean, I promise we can do this in other ways. Sexy mean. Not sad mean.”

It’s meant to be reassuring, that Shane doesn’t have to put himself in the shoes of a version of himself that was hurting from Ilya’s actions. Instead, Shane’s face cracks further. He looks a little desperate.

“Do you want to play with Chiron on the ice?”

“Shane, what in the world?” Ilya doesn’t even know where to start with that one. “You are just saying anything now. Centaur Chiron? His owner Harris does not know about you. And when I send videos you worry about ice being too cold for dog paws. I don’t understand.”

Shane sucks his lower lip into his mouth and bites hard. When he releases it his lips are shiny and blossoming red from teeth punctures. Ilya leans forward to capture his mouth but Shane dodges. It’s so horribly reminiscent of that afternoon in Boston that it’s Ilya’s turn to get queasy.

“Shane–” Ilya tries. His sentence dies there. He doesn’t know what to say.

All of a sudden, this perfect day is starting to feel like a dog’s last romp around the park before getting put down.

Ilya has enough wisdom under his wounded heart to sense that Shane is building up to something. A piece of his early childhood, then a hobby from his teens, and now this obsession with their twenties.

However, Ilya can’t bear to speculate on what’s coming next. It feels like a piano is about to be dropped on his head. He can see the shadow growing around him, but can’t bear to look up before it crushes him.

“It’s October fifth,” Shane says. When Ilya just blinks, mind whirring, he leaps off Ilya’s lap. “I forgot my bag in the car.”

It’s a lie. They just drove that car, and there was no bag in the passenger’s seat where Shane would normally put it. Shane is panicking again. Running away again.

The door slams shut and catches Ilya’s heart in the hinges. He’s practically catatonic on the couch. Frozen solid. He should do what he self-flagellated about for months after the first time Shane bolted from him. He should run after him, plead that he’ll be better, beg for his forgiveness.

But he can’t move.

The door creaks again. Ilya is staring blankly at his hands. He assumes Shane is coming back for his phone.

A black bag is deposited into his line of sight, but he just stares through it. Shane clears his throat meaningfully. Ilya’s crushed heart cracks at the sound. He wants to catalogue everything about Shane before he leaves for good.

“Fuck. Ilya it’s not – look, I’m here. I came back. I’m sorry, I did this all wrong.” Shane pleads. Unlike Boston all those years ago, Shane slides back onto Ilya’s lap and kisses him hard. “Любимый, расслабься. (Darling, relax.)”

It’s the Russian that truly snaps Ilya out of it. Right. Right, this is not easily spooked situationship Shane. This is devoted, loving boyfriend Shane who has been learning his native language for years to connect with his emotions at their rawest.

“Sorry.”

“Hey, no need for that.” Shane scratches his fingers against Ilya’s temples. He’s really feeling like a dog now, but maybe one that just had euthanasia rescheduled. Shane leans back and adjusts the bag on the coffee table. Then rotates it again.

The thing about Shane Hollander is that when he makes his mind up about something, he can be incredibly bullheaded and brave about it. Like Tampa. Like all the unanswered texts he kept sending after Sochi.

But sometimes he gets so wrapped up in his own head that he can’t bring himself to say the words.

The other thing about Shane Hollander is that he is not a good liar. When Shane is having real emotions, they can be difficult to discern. Ilya has sharpened his eye over the years, able to detect the subtle tensing of his jaw or pattern of his eye movements. His best poker face is an honest one. When Shane is trying to be nonchalant about something, it’s obvious from a mile away.

The third time Shane reaches over to fiddle with the bag, Ilya nearly dumps him off his lap in an effort to snatch it first.

When he picks it up, something jingles.

Dazed, Ilya stares at the keychain laying flat against the leather. No, not quite. It’s not just a keychain.

It’s a photocard.

Of Ilya.

It’s a cozy photo. Ilya is relaxing into a loveseat, tank top tracing the edges of his flexed muscles. His curls are piled on top of his head and there’s mischief in his gaze. He’s obnoxiously blowing a kiss to the camera.

The edges of the toploader are decorated with little Canada flags, red and white hearts, and roses. Ilya’s seasoned eye notes a couple of dubious sticker placements, and a few are running over the edge which will catch the fabric of the bag. But it’s still so fucking adorable.

Shane has photocards of him too.

“Hollander,” Ilya says. It’s a miracle he can get any words out. “You are my fan? Perhaps you are my fansite, RussianWonderland?”

It’s obviously a joke, but Shane only wrinkles his nose in distaste. “The one who edits out your moles? Be for real.”

God, Ilya loves this autistic man so much. So, so much.

“Roses, though?” He can’t help but complain, glaring at the stickers mocking him. “Really?”

“Take it up with your fanbase, they dubbed themselves rozses. Roses are their whole thing. I guess yours too, by proxy.” Shane drags a hand over his face, not looking as relaxed as Ilya thought he would be after pulling off the surprise. “Just turn it over.”

Like a good boy, Ilya complies. Maybe the toploader is double sided, and the other side is Shane. That’s cute. Risky to bring it public, but still cute. Two sides of the same coin.

The other side is not Shane.

Slipped into the back of the plastic is a note. The handwriting is meticulously clean and so obviously practiced. So obviously Shane.

Илюша, (Ilyusha,)

You are the best thing in my life.

You push me to be better, and you hold me when I fall apart. You see me. I want to see you too. I want to be there when you’re sad, when you’re hurting, when you’re the happiest you’ve ever been. Maybe I’m greedy. I just want you.

All of my favorite memories are with you. You were all my firsts, and I want you to be my lasts. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.

Will you marry me?

Love,

Shane

Of course Shane had to sign it. As if it could have come from anyone else. Ilya looks up through his tears and finally notices the gold band clipped onto the keychain.

“...Shane?” he ventures after a shaky minute. “This – I am reading this correct? English language has not changed?”

Beneath the nerves, Shane’s face goes gooey. “I thought you’d say that.”

He plucks the photocard from Ilya’s hands. Ilya grabs after it, terrified he waited too long to respond and Shane is revoking the expired offer. Shane just pries open the top of the plastic, retrieves the note, and flips it around.

On the back is the same proposal. In Russian.

“Солнышко (Sunshine) we will enroll you in handwriting class,” Ilya says through his tears. It’s perfect. It’s messy and uncertain and vulnerable and everything Shane Hollander tries so hard not to be. Everything Shane Hollander, the son, the pride of the country, the mortal, allows himself to be around Ilya.

“Answer the damn question, Ilya.” Shane tries to sound indifferent, but his watery eyes betray him.

“Да (Yes),” Ilya breathes. “You know this one, hm? Да. Да, да, да, да. Yes. Oui. Si. I am forgetting other languages. But if I knew I would say yes in all of them.”

“Oh,” Shane says like it’s a surprise somehow. As if Ilya had access to any other word in his brain other than yes. His mouth opens and closes a few times, searching for words that skitter from his reach. He lands on, “Yay.”

Ilya laughs, teary and snotty and ugly and the happiest he’s ever been. “Gimme kiss already.”

The words release Shane from the invisible gate holding him back, and he careens into Ilya’s arms. Their lips slot together again and again, hungrier than ever. Ilya didn’t think it was possible. Kissing his boyfriend is his favorite thing in the world next to eating his ass. At least, it used to be.

Turns out kissing his fiance is even better.

Shane sucks on his tongue and presses into his mouth like he’s trying to climb inside and call it home. Ilya welcomes him in, presses him back, rinse and repeat. Until Shane’s wandering hand finds the knuckles of his right hand, and Ilya needs to have that ring on his finger now.

“Put it on me,” Ilya gasps between kisses. “Make me yours. Мой муж. (My husband.)”

”Мой прекрасный муж (My beautiful husband),” Shane echoes back as he hurriedly unclips the keyring and slides the ring out. It’s pretty – a simple gold band with black etching.

“You know word for husband?”

Shane focuses on pushing the ring onto the fourth finger of Ilya’s right hand. The Russian way. He must have studied. “Yeah. The family unit was pretty early on in my vocabulary lessons.”

It’s the most romantic thing Ilya has ever heard. He kisses Shane again, then again because he can’t get enough. The world only slows down again when he fumbles for the photocard, looking for the second ring so he can put one on Shane. Now that he’s wearing proof of their love on his hand, Shane’s empty finger looks so wrong.

There’s not another ring on the keychain. Ilya looks up quizzically. “Only one ring?”

“Uh, yeah? I thought that’s what you do when you propose. If the person says no, you’re only saddled with one expensive ring instead of two.”

Ilya can’t help it. The laugh that tears from his throat is still raspy with emotion. As he slides the ring back off his finger, Shane’s face falls. His shoulders slump, chin sinking towards the floor, and he looks so much like an adorable rain-soaked kitten that Ilya almost doesn’t reassure him right away.

But he can’t let Shane misunderstand this. Without waiting another second, he christens Shane’s left ring finger with the ring. It fits perfectly. Their hands are similar sizes. They’ve always been so well-matched.

Ilya presses a kiss to the ring, then another to the pad of Shane's finger, and then can’t resist claiming his lips again to swallow his whines of confusion.

With one hand, Ilya fumbles in his pocket and produces the spider ring from the arcade.

“As if I’d ever say no.” He grins and dons the silly hunk of plastic. It was clearly not designed with beefy hockey players in mind, because it barely fits around his finger and is definitely cutting off blood circulation. It looks ridiculous. It’s a gift from Shane, though, so it might as well have been forged from precious metals.

“I was so nervous,” Shane admits. “It’s not like I expected you to say no, but I spent so many weeks trying to work out how you’d want to be proposed to that I was scared it wouldn’t be enough. I wanted it to be special for you. I wanted to show you that I’d love every part of you. Past, present, future. I want all of you.”

Ilya’s heart melts. This whole day, and all the time leading up to it, has been Shane reaching for him again and again. Embracing all of Ilya’s jagged edges and eccentricities. Saying I love you and I want to be by your side and let me know the parts of you you’re ashamed of, so I can love you better in all the silent ways Shane Hollander shows his devotion.

Ilya imagines a Shane from weeks ago, shopping for the seventeen ingredient bread his mother used to make before she got too sad to cross the hallway from the bedroom to the kitchen. Secretive Shane, protective over hiding their relationship to the point where Ilya has felt more like a dirty secret than a boyfriend, reaching out to Svetlana to understand how to connect to Ilya’s childhood.

It’s so Shane. Of course he would beat Ilya to a proposal. Of course he would strive for perfection here, too.

“Sweetheart you did not have to – what is phrase, lube me up? To get me to marry you.”

Shane smacks him on the shoulder. “You know damn well the phrase is ‘butter me up’.”

Ilya raises his hands in mock innocence. It brings the spider ring back into his line of vision, and he melts all over again. He hoists Shane into his arms and tips them onto the couch, landing with Shane draped on top of him. Shane nuzzles into the side of his neck. His eyes are half-lidded in bliss and he’s doing that happy purr again.

Ilya could stay here for the rest of his life. On this couch in Ottawa, limbs tangled with his husband. Sure, legally they haven’t signed the paperwork yet, but all the extra steps are just a formality to Ilya. In all the ways that matter, they’ve been husbands for a long time.

For Ilya, maybe since the very beginning. That day in the dreary parking lot. The first time Shane reached out for him. Ilya looked up, saw those freckles, and knew he was doomed.

Hm. Ilya shifts to pull out his phone, trying not to disturb the kitty curled up on his chest. Are there more photos of Shane from the World Junior Hockey Championships? Maybe he can put together a little ‘through the years’ photocard of Shane. Only Shane would know what it really means.

His past, present, and future.

Pulling up Twitter because it’s unfortunately still the best source of edits and obscure photos, Ilya realizes he hasn’t logged in for days. That’s what a sexcation-proposal weekend does to a man.

Ilya freezes at the first post that hits his feed. A slow grin blooming on his face, he pinches Shane’s side. Shane yelps and props his chin up on Ilya’s pecs, eyebrows furrowed grumpily.

“Мой муж. (My husband.) You proposed to me on Hollanov day?”

Shane blushes hard. It’s enough of an answer. “So you do know about Hollanov day. I thought my cover would be blown the moment I booked this specific weekend, but you didn’t seem to notice. What gave it away?”

Ilya tips the phone towards Shane so he can see the post at the top of Ilya’s timeline. Shane squints since he doesn’t have his reading glasses on, and Ilya has to clench the phone tightly to stop himself from hurling it across the room and kissing Shane senseless again.

“Mmm, so close. If only they knew who you actually proposed to tonight.” Ilya nips at the shell of Shane’s ear. “Shane Hollander, on his knees for Ilya Rozanov. My favorite sight in the world.”

“I didn’t even get on one knee,” Shane realizes in real time. “Oh, fuck. Do we have to redo it? Is it bad luck to not kneel?”

Ilya almost says no, mostly because he doesn’t want Shane to stress out about messing up the proposal, and a little bit because he had been trying to segue into a celebratory blowjob. But then he thinks about getting to re-experience Shane promising to tie their lives together forever, and decides he could stand to hear it again.

So they get up, and Shane kneels, and they cry. Then Ilya kneels and proposes with the spider ring because he can’t let Shane score on him twice in this race, and they cry again. They kneel, propose, kneel, propose, until Shane kneels and stays down, and Ilya gets that blowjob.

Ilya carries Shane to bed, kissing him all the way, and starts planning their wedding in his head. Lilies at the altar, definitely not roses. The napkins can be branded with Shane’s face. Soft lamplight instead of harsh overhead bulbs. Maybe candles at the centerpiece of the tables – electric, of course, so Shane doesn’t worry his pretty little head off all night about starting a fire. They’d pick and choose traditional elements from their cultures to mix. Ilya doesn’t really care about any of them except for smashing the crystal glasses, because he wants everyone to see the long life they have waiting for them. Together.

Maybe they’ll come out to the world beforehand. Maybe they’ll get married in total secret. Maybe they’ll tuck NDAs in with the RSVPs and hand out threatening legal letters at the door to keep people from blabbing. Maybe they’ll hold a ceremony in a year, or ten years, or tomorrow.

Maybe it won’t be perfect, but it will be theirs.

It’s just too bad Ilya will have to dispose of Hayden Pike before the ceremony. There’s plenty of time to find Shane a new Best Man.

Actually, Ilya should be Shane’s Best Man. And Shane should be Ilya’s, because there’s no better man in the world. Except Svetlana will definitely kill Ilya if she doesn’t get to be Best Man. Fuck, does that mean Ilya has to deal with Rose being Shane’s Best Man?

Maybe they should just elope.

“Stop thinking so hard on our wedding night,” Shane complains. It seems he has also mentally skipped over all the red tape and has decided that they’re basically married already. “I had something I wanted to try.”

“Oh?” Ilya tries to act nonchalant, but he’s salivating like a lion watching a gazelle break its leg.

Shane tugs open a nightstand drawer and pulls out a collar. That’s not exactly new. The jangling tag draws his attention, and Ilya squints. It says – it fucking says Hollander-Rozanov on the front and Return to Owner on the back. What the fuck. What happened to Shane being nervous that Ilya would say no?

Ilya’s beautiful freak keeps going. He pulls out a thick chain. It’s not long at all, and there’s a loop of leather at the end. Shane clips it to the collar. Ilya’s jaw drops.

Oh. Wow. It’s a leash.

A very short leash.

“Okay, so,” Shane says like he’s announcing the weather. Ilya wants to engrave the phrase on his skin. “Breathplay?”

Screw Hayden Pike. Ilya isn’t going to live long enough to attend his own wedding.

Here Lies

Ilya Hollander-Rozanov

Holematized by Sluttiest, Most Wonderful Husband Ever

#RozanovPenis9

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Shane and Ilya specifically request charity donations in lieu of gifts when they get married. They’re stupid rich as it is and can buy themselves literally anything they could need for a life together without even noticing a dent in their bank accounts.

So Shane and Ilya are not expecting the brightly wrapped present that’s dumped into their arms, courtesy of Svetlana. It lands in their collective lap, because Shane and Ilya have been fused into one being for the entire day. Ilya clings to Shane like a barnacle on a rock as he makes the rounds greeting their guests. They only need one chair because Shane always plops himself onto Ilya’s lap.

“Very…subtle,” Shane says kindly as he stares at the wrapping paper. It’s covered in dogs and rainbows, and it sparkles in the candlelight. It looks like the top result for gay wrapping paper.

Ilya and Shane use one hand each to unwrap the present in tandem, which actually works and freaks out most of the people at their table. A glossy binder awaits them. The cover is an artist’s rendition of that first CCM shoot, where the lighter finally caught and a spark bloomed between them. The artist hasn’t recreated the finished advertisement, though. Instead of being locked in a fierce, competitive gaze, the Ilya and Shane on the cover are grinning at each other. There are wedding rings on their hands, and pride tape on their sticks.

Shane pales. “A binder?” he squeaks. “We, uh, we really don’t need any help with–”

Ilya runs a reverent hand over the cover, already knowing where Shane’s brain is spiraling. “Not that kind of binder, мой помидор. (my tomato.) Relax.”

When Ilya opens the book, he gasps. It’s a photocard collect book like he thought, but it’s filled to the brim.

Of them.

The binder is full of double sided, four-pocket photocard sleeves. Each one houses a different image of Shane and Ilya, printed onto sturdy cardstock. Most of them are together – Shane and Ilya relaxing by the fire, Ilya clutching onto Shane for dear life as he tries not to throw up on a boat ride, Shane fiddling with Ilya’s shirt collar in the doorway.

“I…I did not know we had so many photos together,” Ilya mumbles. They’ve had to be so careful over the years, deleting any incriminating evidence of their love. A little sliver of Ilya’s heart broke every time he reached for his phone to capture Shane’s freckles in the sun, or the sleepy look in his eyes when they woke up together, and had to remember that they couldn’t.

For so many years it was dangerous to even be together, let alone leave evidence that it ever happened. Now that Shane is his, though, all Ilya wants is evidence. He wants the entire world to see clear, undeniable proof of how much he loves and is loved back.

“You didn’t,” Svetlana shrugs. “This was a group effort.”

Ilya looks closer. There’s a photocard of Ilya at the table, hands snarled in his own hair as he and David struggle over the thousand-piece puzzle of the sky in front of them. It’s clearly a sneaky snapshot taken by Yuna from one of their Sunday family dinners.

Ilya flips the page and finds a picture of Shane curled up on an expensive-looking couch. He’s dozing off with plush version of their puppy Anya tucked under his arm. His phone is plugged in and open to FaceTime like he’s waiting for a call. The very top of Rose’s head can be seen at the bottom of the card, just enough to capture the roll of her eyes.

Another one shows Shane and Ilya at a dimly lit table. Ilya vaguely remembers that night, as both of their teams had converged in the same bar post-game. The surplus of people gave them plausible deniability, so they had sat next to each other the whole night. Their cheeks are flushed, Ilya throwing his head back at a joke that was probably only funny to him, and Shane staring sappily. Despite the grungy setting, the shot is perfectly lit and angled. It must be Harris’s work.

There’s more. The actual outtakes from the CCM photoshoot. A solemn photo of the back of Ilya’s head, with the documentary of Shane’s cottage playing on the screen in front of him. Shane and Ilya pinning each other to the boards, both grinning wider than they have any justification to be doing.

“Sveta, how did you–” Ilya scrubs a tear off his cheek and tries to pretend it never happened. “How did you know?”

“It was really Yulia’s idea. She’s been thrilled by your fangirl journey, but always felt sad that you could never make ‘Hollanov unit photocards’, whatever that means. She sort of implied that the people in your inner circles should preserve the memories you were too afraid to ask for.”

So many cherished moments they thought they could never have, let alone keep. So many cherished people who love them enough to give them back their story.

“Fuck.” Ilya can’t keep up with the tears pouring down his cheeks now. Svetlana seems very satisfied. She does love seeing him cry. “Does Yulia need tuition money?”

Shane doesn’t breathe a word as they browse through the binder and back. Worried that he’s panicking about how many incriminating photos existed of them that they never knew about, Ilya gently grasps Shane’s chin and kisses him back to life.

It turns out to not be necessary. Not that any of their kisses are wasted. There’s just no need to soothe Shane from a panic attack he isn’t having.

“Thank God,” Shane finally says. His eyes glisten. “I’m so glad we didn’t lose everything. I’ve – I’ve felt so guilty that I made us hide for so long. We missed out on so much. I used to dream about how much easier it would be if we were normal, and all these photos…we look like any other happy couple. I’m so relieved.”

“Hiding was safest for both of us,” Ilya reminds him. “And if we were normal, we would not be us. I love us.”

“I love us too,” Shane replies with a watery smile. He brushes gently over a picture from the night they got engaged. Ilya had secretly taken a photo of their tangled fingers, spider ring on one hand and luxury metal ring on the other. Svetlana must have stolen it from his phone.

“So,” Ilya says after all the waterworks have died down for a moment. He thumbs back to the middle of the binder and lands on a photocard of both of them on empty ice. Shane is grinning brightly, helmet knocked askew. Ilya is turned to him like a sunflower facing the sun, and he’s in the middle of licking a long stripe up his cheek. “What do we think about this one for my next toploader? I bet I can find tongue stickers.”

Shane groans. “Do you really need to keep doing this? We live together. You can look at my actual face any time you want now. No need to treat me like I’m some husband at war.”

“Mmm, husband,” Ilya echoes dreamily. He never gets tired of hearing that word. “Yes, but now I get to brag about having the sexiest husband alive. You all can look, but you can’t touch. Only mine.”

“Well I’ve had enough,” Svetlana announces as she gets up from the table. “Try not to break the marital bed tonight.”

“No promises!”

“Ah. Rose likes to dance,” Shane says suddenly. “She’s probably looking for a dance partner.”

Svetlana grins as she saunters off. “Payment accepted.”

Shane and Ilya remain at the table for a little longer as they walk down memory lane together. Ilya mouthes a kiss behind Shane’s ear. Shane perks up as he recognizes a photocard from the cottage of Shane and Ilya napping together in the hammock. Like the cards, Ilya will frame this moment and carry it with him for the rest of their long life together.

They kiss at the altar, tuck photocards of each other into their suit pockets, smash crystal glasses, and step into forever – in Hollander-Rozanov branded shoes, of course.

(Preorders open the day of their honeymoon. Ilya has already bought twelve pairs.)

In their marital bed, Ilya takes a picture of cat ears and flushed skin and a lolling tongue, and knows it’s the one photocard that will never see the light of day.

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