Chapter Text
TD Garden. Boston. April 2018.
The game was starting in an hour.
Montreal at Boston, the league’s most historic and profitable match-up. Fans sold their souls for tickets to watch these two teams unleash their anger. What was worse about tonight was that it was mid-April, one week away from the start of the playoffs. The Raiders had already clinched, but an extremely tight race in the East meant the Metros were just barely clinging on to a wild card spot. This was a life-or-death game for Shane Hollander.
But on this night, amidst both teams’ ravenous quests for the Cup and their burning desire to destroy each other in the process, the Raiders and Metros shared a mutual interest: the New York Admirals, their joint rival, had just been eliminated from playoff contention.
“PUTAIN DE MERDE!” J.J. screeched out of nowhere at the top of his lungs, jumping up and down on a bench in the guest locker room as he stared at the final score. “C’est fini! C’est fini!”
Every man in the room jolted at the sound. No matter how long he played for the Metros, no one could ever grow accustomed to his yelping. Mitty and Hayden rolled their eyes.
“What’s finished?” Shane, ever the bilingual, asked when he recovered from his near heart attack.
“Hunter is out, boys! Admirals eliminated! I repeat, Admirals eliminated!” J.J. announced like he was a breaking newscaster.
The entire locker room immediately broke out into a loud barrage of cheers and whooping. Towels and gear flew up in the air. Shane had to cover his ears at the sheer assault of sound.
But he couldn’t hold back a smile. These were the moments that made the playoffs magical. His passionate team, exuberant over the downfall of a rival. It would never get old.
Before Shane could even raise a hand to celebrate, he practically jumped out of his shoes when a small, scrawny Raiders social media intern spontaneously emerged from his blind spot behind him in surprise.
“Fuck,” Shane said, startled and a little disgruntled. “How did you get in here?”
“I’m supposed to give you this and say some sort of words… um, I kind of already forgot them, I’m sorry. I think they were, like, medieval or something. Oh, fuck. I had one job,” the nerdy kid stammered, stunned. “Then they said I have to run away.”
“Who said tha—”
He handed him a plain white envelope addressed to “CAPTAIN.” In an instant, the intern bolted out of the room at record speed, a whoosh. By this point, the rest of the team had noticed the very obvious black and gold standing out in a sea of red and blue. They were all staring at Shane now, waiting for him to open the note.
Shane looked around the room, unsure of what to do. They all watched with bated breath.
“Jesus Christ, Hollander, open it!” someone finally shouted.
“Okay, okay,” he said, cringing in disgust as he tore at the spit-sealed flap.
The paper inside was folded. Everyone’s collective heads leaned in an inch as he unfolded it.
He turned it around for everyone to see. One giant word, written in thick red Sharpie: “TRUCE.”
“What—” he was confused.
“Wait, Capitaine, there’s more! Look at the bottom!” J.J. pointed.
Shane made out extremely tiny, scratchy handwriting. He squinted to read out loud: “By royal decree, in honor of the choking of Scott Hunter, witnessed here today on this tenth of April, the Boston Raiders formally call for a ceasefire with the Montreal Metros for, like, the next twelve-ish hours. We hereby do invite the Metros to join the funeral celebrations at The Volt club directly following the game. Signed, Marleau, St-Simon, and Rozanov (leading scorer above Hollander by four goals). P.S. You freak out our interns.”
Shane couldn’t help but melt into the biggest grin. This was the most Ilya thing ever. He wanted to run right over to the Raiders’ locker room and wrap him up. The guys burst into laughter. J.J. was doubling over on Hayden, and Mitty had collapsed on the floor.
“You heard them, boys! A truce! We’re going out tonight!” J.J. yelled.
Shane could picture Ilya’s big grin as he handed the letter to the intern, plotting deviously, and it made him more than happy to sacrifice a cozy night in if it meant seeing that smile on his boyfriend’s face.
* * *
Lily: am I funny or what
Jane: A little
Lily: this was genius plan to get to dance with you in nightclub finally
Jane: Wait, really? This isn’t about Scott Hunter?
Lily: well also about scott hunter. Fuck scott hunter. But mostly you, malysh. Need to prove im better dancer than rose landry
Jane: You’re insane
Lily: you love it
Jane: :)
* * *
Ilya knew Shane hated clubs. Everyone knew it. This was not new information, but Shane had promised to let Ilya drag him out if they were ever in a situation where they could finally dance together like Ilya had wanted to for so long. Both of them had expected this to be sometime much further in the future, when they were out and retired. But Ilya had seen a chance the moment Scott Hunter’s face fell into disappointment, and he capitalized on it.
The Volt was dripping in deep blue lighting, with silver accents and disco balls reflecting glimmers across the club. The Raiders had rented out booths, and Ilya was squeezed next to Shane and Hayden, across from Cliff, St. Vicky, and J.J.
“Getting drunk with our archrivals was not on my bingo card when I woke up this morning!” J.J. loudly announced.
“Congrats on the win tonight, guys,” Cliff told him, Shane, and Hayden. “You needed it.”
Ilya placed a hand on Shane’s thigh underneath the table. He couldn’t believe he was actually here, with his boyfriend, in the nightclub he used to pick up a thousand women in. This space felt completely different now. You couldn’t pay him to return to that version of himself. Unhappy, traumatized, and self-loathing. Now he had Shane. He had love, and a feeling like life was finally good. He couldn’t wait to physically express that with Shane on the dance floor. They would still have to be careful, but nightclubs were places where everyone had tunnel vision on the music, the vibes, and their alcohol. A perfect place to blend in.
Ilya took an inventory of the situation as it stood. St. Vicky and Hayden had several scuffles on the ice tonight, but here they were, getting along and happy as ever, downing shots together and singing old team fight songs. J.J. was engaged in an animated discussion with Cliff — or, well, to Cliff, who was visibly exhausted with the one-sided conversation — about which modern team was the spiritual equivalent of the 1993 Raiders.
And that left Ilya and Shane. Ilya smiled as he watched Shane hesitantly sip on a beer, knowing full well he was doing calculations in his head of how he’d have to adjust his macros tomorrow to account for this. He really was cute when he was neurotic.
Hayden was playing table bartender for the night, and took every chance he could get to refill someone’s glass and get them drunker.
“Pike, hit me,” Ilya directed. Hayden sloppily poured vodka in a glass, spilling over, and sent it hydroplaning across the table to Ilya, who caught it effortlessly with a cool swagger. He threw it back in one fluid motion. Shane’s eyes widened. Ilya knew how sexy he looked to his boyfriend. That was the whole point.
Shane’s face smushed into a fierce determination to show Ilya he could keep up. They would always love competing against each other.
“Hit me, Hayden,” he demanded.
Hayden looked shocked.
“Um, you sure, buddy?” he asked.
The whole table was paying attention now. Everyone in the league and their mothers knew about Shane’s diet. No one could believe their eyes as Shane downed the shot, slammed down the glass, and glared at Hayden for another one.
There was a shocked silence that fell over the group, before J.J. broke it. “Hell yeah, Capitaine!”
They all erupted into cheers. Shane looked immensely pleased with himself. Ilya stared at him with a concerned confusion, knowing this was unlike him, but also finding himself insanely attracted to him in this moment. He smiled and decided he’d chill on the drinking tonight to make sure the World’s Biggest Lightweight didn’t do anything crazy enough to embarrass himself. Future Shane would thank him.
Cliff happened to look at Ilya as they all roared for Shane, narrowing an eye at his caring expression instead of the shared hooting and hollering. Ilya met his eyes, and his stomach immediately took note of the unusually long glance from his friend.
Shane stayed silent throughout the first three shots, determined to get them down without puking, but once the fourth went down easily, Ilya knew he was a goner. Drunk Shane was an endlessly clingy Shane. Ilya gulped as he realized this might be a problem in public.
“I didn’t know the downfall of Scott Hunter would be enough to make Hollander finally let loose!” Cliff laughed.
“It’s a special occasion,” Shane said, grinning proudly.
“Good for you, bro,” Cliff said. “Roz, what’s up with the soda water? Thought this whole operation was your idea.”
“I’m hydrating, Marleau. You should try it sometime. Maybe you wouldn’t be as annoying hungover,” Ilya retorted.
Shane started to slightly slump into Ilya. Oh no. Cliff cocked his head a bit, watching. Ilya shook him up straighter.
The drinks continued to flow and the rivalry seemingly disappeared. Memories were shared with nostalgia about all the playoff series won and lost to one another. Compliments were given on strategy and play styles. Phone numbers were exchanged with drunken promises to stay best friends forever. Shane was practically hanging off of Ilya.
Cliff and Ilya found themselves in a very serious discussion rating all the Fast & Furious movies by which ones had the best car crashes. Shane divided his very limited attention span between nodding along at Ilya’s picks, as if he’d ever seen the movies before, and laughing as St. Vicky poured vodka directly into Hayden’s mouth.
A bottle girl brought over some sort of pink concoction and handed it to J.J. with a wink. He snapped back to the guys with an ear-to-ear grin as if he actually believed the tipped waitress was genuinely into him. They all snorted in laughter.
“Capitaine, this girly drink is for you!” J.J. said, pushing the bottle towards Shane, with Hayden and St. Vicky joining in on the hype to get him even more trashed.
Hayden helped him out by pouring it into his glass with a devious smile. Shane raised it.
“Here’s to rivalries,” he toasted. “I like keeping my enemies close.” He gave a suggestive wink as he took a sip.
Shane hated fruity drinks. Ilya didn’t even have to break his conversation with Cliff to sense that next to him, Shane was quietly wincing, disgusted at the taste. Ilya continued his lecture on why movie car crashes needed better explosions as he instinctually reached over and swapped Shane’s drink with his soda water without even thinking, completely nonchalant. It was pure muscle memory — an unconscious habit of always making sure Shane had exactly what he needed. Cliff glanced at the trade. Shane took an audible, drunken sigh of relief, smiling contentedly as he sipped Ilya’s cold water. Ilya drank Shane’s cocktail as he argued his case to Cliff for bigger flames.
He happily blabbed away, completely oblivious in the moment to the casually intimate nature of this gesture he had just unconsciously done with his boyfriend in public, and how it must have looked to anyone else. He missed the way Cliff squinted an eye in consideration, lips puckered like a quiet thought had begun to take root as his gaze darted between him and Shane.
The Volt was a clubstaurant, a fact St. Vicky looked grateful for as he slumped over the table and loudly whined, “I’m hungry!”
“St-Simon, you read my mind,” J.J. joked.
As if the VIP waiter had somehow overheard them over the blaring music, he popped up with perfect timing. “Can I get you guys anything to eat?”
“Please tell me you have truffle fries,” St. Vicky moaned.
The waiter laughed. “That we do. Truffle fries, anything else?”
“Pretzel bites, please,” Cliff ordered.
“Whatever sliders you got,” Hayden said.
Shane looked like he was trying to order something, but was slurring too much to get the words out. Ilya knew he needed some food in his system, but the waiter couldn’t understand him.
Shane leaned into Ilya’s side, his head nearly nestling onto his shoulder, as he mumbled to him, “Want the… tuna… thing.”
Ilya knew exactly what he meant and ordered for him. “He will do spicy tuna roll, but mayo on side and no jalapeños on top.”
Shane closed his eyes with a smile and nodded in agreement.
Cliff cleared his throat, drawing Ilya’s gaze. Ilya noticed his quizzical expression. Cliff tilted his head slightly, staring at a very drunk Shane now laughing at something nonsensical into Ilya’s ear, and Ilya saw a growing bewilderment all over Cliff’s face.
Shit. Ilya hadn’t even thought twice about how making that food order would look. The only thing on his mind had been making sure Shane didn’t feel miserable tomorrow. It was probably strange enough to Cliff that he’d known Shane’s order at all, but he had also just rattled off the exact, hyper-specific customizations of how Shane liked it. He’d have to do some damage control now.
He shrugged Shane off his shoulder, but locked their hands together under the table, hoping that it would be enough physical contact to keep Shane’s clingy side satisfied and his affection less obvious. Instead, he just let out a contented hum, smiling at Ilya with gooey heart eyes. Ilya fought every instinct to look, desperately trying to stop himself from planting a kiss on his boyfriend’s lovesick lips.
Cliff absently let out a faint, matter-of-fact “hm.” He softly narrowed his eyes. Ilya tried to avoid this pointed glare, afraid that he would reveal too much just by his own composure.
“You know,” Cliff leaned in. “I didn’t realize you two knew so much about each other’s tastes.”
“We don’t—” Ilya tried to say, as Shane spoke over him.
“Oh, I definitely know a lot about his… taste,” Shane blurted out. He gave Cliff a sly smile.
Ilya was mortified. He worked up every ounce of self-control not to show this, as he frantically tried to come up with some reasonable excuse for knowing this man doesn’t like jalapeños on spicy tuna rolls.
“Hollander is very loud about picky eating at All-Star Game dinners. It is very annoying to listen to, I remember,” he lied.
“Right,” Cliff said, his tone practically dripping with suspicion. He let the word hang in the air, glancing at the subtle shift in Ilya’s jaw.
Cliff swirled the ice in his drink and took a loud sip. He leaned back into the booth and watched Shane’s goofy grin grow wider and wider.
“You’re a good rival, Roz. Very attentive to the enemy,” he said.
“Very attentive,” Shane slurred.
Cliff almost choked on his drink. Ilya’s eyes jolted wide. He hoped Cliff didn’t see that.
He squeezed Shane’s hand under the table to signal he needed to rein it in. Shane did not get the hint.
“Ow, Ilya!”
Cliff raised his eyebrows. He muttered into his glass.
At this point, it was impossible that he didn’t suspect something. But Ilya hoped it was just that they were secret friends. Though, in reality, that made no sense — why would anyone need to hide a friendship, especially this far into their careers? Plenty of “rivals” across the league were openly friendly off the ice, and the two of them were already planning on putting the old storyline to bed later this year when they announced their joint foundation. He just had to pray Cliff wouldn’t think that far into it.
And besides, they hadn’t done anything outright incriminating tonight that suggested they were actually in love, right? But that was becoming more of a risk the drunker Shane got.
Shane was getting sleepier, and therefore less talkative, which helped ease Ilya’s worries. As the food came and the conversation at the table shifted to the upcoming playoffs, there was a general sense of anxiety amongst both teams as they discussed their chances against Detroit, the top seed. Still, they were able to breathe a collective sigh of relief; since Boston was finishing the regular season second in the Atlantic and Montreal was tracking toward the second wild card, they at least wouldn’t have to face — and destroy — each other in the first round after this lovely night of bonding.
The conversation droned on over mediocre bar food, and discussing their postseason fates ad nauseam was getting depressing. They still hadn’t left the table yet, and all Ilya could think about was dancing with Shane, the entire reason he had meticulously orchestrated this outing to begin with. He could admit, however, that he was starting to feel uneasy, as they were already arousing suspicion. Still, he was determined. He would not leave until he got the dance with his boyfriend that he had been craving for years.
And just like that, the DJ read his thoughts.
When Ilya first met Shane, he had assumed he listened to boring genres of music, like old people. But he was surprised to find out that Shane had quite an ear for electronic music — a byproduct of listening to it by default in order to have a beat to sync his workout reps to. Over the years, he’d quietly curated a solid library of songs he liked that extended beyond his conditioning routines.
When the DJ dropped a track straight out of Shane’s definitive top ten, his drunken fatigue vanished instantly. He snapped his head toward Ilya with the widest, brightest grin Ilya had ever seen. His eyes were lit up like stars, and his eyebrows raised in excitement as if silently asking Ilya, “Can we?!” Ilya could feel Shane’s body buzzing next to him, itching to get out on to the dance floor.
He looked beautiful. Ilya couldn’t help but mirror the massive smile, his chest swelling just watching his boyfriend’s excitement.
He knew the alcohol was fueling Shane’s uninhibited desire to dance, as Sober Shane would bop his head along while staying firmly glued to his seat. But Ilya was not complaining.
Ilya finally pulled his eyes away, only to catch Cliff staring directly at them from across the table. Cliff’s gaze darted from Shane, still beaming at Ilya with a communicative look, right to Ilya’s own face. Taking in the sight of knowingness and pure joy on both of their expressions, Cliff suddenly sputtered. He nearly swallowed the tiny umbrella in his drink.
The table’s dread-fueled playoff discussion wasn’t coming to an end anytime soon. Ilya suddenly did not care about St. Vicky’s crippling fear of Detroit’s first line left winger, as he droned on about stats. It was urgent that Ilya get Shane on the dance floor right that very second. Shane was squeezing his hand tight, nearly bouncing up and down in his seat. So Ilya took matters into his own hands.
He loudly interrupted the table’s conversation, speaking over St. Vicky without regard. “This conversation is boring and you all are making me miserable. The beat has fucking dropped people, how you all sit there like statues? Move it, come on, let’s go!” he said, shooing them out of the booth with his hand. “You all must dance with me!”
The table went silent for a brief second as they registered the immediate shift in tone, but they knew better than to question a demand to dance from Ilya Rozanov, Boston nightclub royalty. Cliff questioningly squinted at Ilya, but the guys gleefully shuffled out, excited to finally let loose.
They all stuck together in a cluster, but Ilya and Shane didn’t even attempt to stay with the group. They immediately walked off together to another part of the floor. Ilya thought they’d slipped away completely unnoticed, though as he turned into the crowd, he could have sworn he felt Cliff’s eyes heavy on his back. He quickly dismissed it, hoping the strobe lights would swallow them up, and assuming they were safe once they made it further away.
The floor was thick with smoke. They found a clearing in the mass of people, and both of their bodies finally felt free as the music took over them. Ilya’s hands found their way to Shane’s hips, and Shane practically draped himself around Ilya’s neck. This was risky. Really risky. They were supposed to keep a sensible foot of space between them. But while Ilya wasn’t as wasted as Shane, he still wasn’t sober, and he couldn’t help but give in to the magnetic pull. It was mesmerizing. A part of him was still fighting to stay aware that they were in public, but the control that part had was quickly dwindling as he felt the buzzing warmth of Shane against his chest, his heart beating to the music. Their bodies fell into a hypnotic rhythm, a dizzying, exhilarating euphoria Ilya had never experienced before. His blood felt electrified, the heat between them surging with adrenaline. The intensity vibrated straight through his brain. It was absolutely intoxicating. All hope for any sensibility was lost when Shane leaned in and pressed a slow, wet drag of a kiss to his neck, the slick heat of his tongue sending chills down Ilya’s entire body. He threw his head back in unadulterated bliss, unable to stay in control any longer. It was breathtaking.
Any awareness of their surroundings — any careful caution to not out themselves — had been dangerously consumed by this trance.
Dancing with Shane was everything Ilya had wanted and more. He had never even come close to losing himself like this when he’d danced with women in this exact club. This was different. It was an overpowering sensation dripping in their love for each other.
The song switched. With that, like waking up from hypnosis, their consciousnesses re-entered them, bringing them back down to Earth from whatever surreal, astral plane they had been on. Shane, nestled into Ilya’s neck like a perfectly fitting puzzle piece, groaned that his favorite track was over. Suddenly, Ilya felt a sense of panic trickle in as the realization hit that they were still definitely in public, contrary to how their bodies had felt moments ago. He scanned the crowd, making sure there were no eyes lingering or phones recording.
But he found Cliff’s eyes.
And as they met, he immediately realized he still had Shane in his arms.
He panicked and suddenly dropped Shane, who drunkenly stumbled over, not expecting his cozy pillow of a boyfriend to pull out from under him.
“Um, hello? The fuck?” Shane asked with a petulant tone.
Ilya had no idea how long Cliff had been watching them. He wondered if he could pass off babysitting Drunk Shane as an excuse for why they were so close. He desperately, and frantically, hoped that Cliff hadn’t seen Shane kiss him.
He was getting overwhelmed by the sweaty people encroaching on their space and the increasingly worse smell of B.O. He needed some air. He needed Shane actually alone, at home, in bed. He did let out a slight chuckle when he realized how different his feelings on nights out were now that he was in a loving relationship. Twenty-one-year-old Ilya would have never backed down from the hordes, staying until the house lights came up. But these days, he didn’t need to close down the bar anymore; he just wanted to take his favorite part of the night home with him. He smiled as he looked at his wobbly, love drunk boyfriend.
“Sorry, moy lyubimyy. Do you want to get out of here?”
Ilya saw Shane’s face light up like it was in slow motion. “YES!” he answered with a huge smile, excited for drunk snuggles.
Although Ilya would’ve loved to pull an Irish exit right about now, he knew he couldn’t. His teammates would never let him live it down. He begrudgingly pushed through the sea of people back to the guys, keeping an inconspicuous finger curled around Shane’s so he didn’t lose him.
J.J. and St. Vicky were dancing like fools with each other, albeit with a healthy two feet between them, something clearly Ilya didn’t know how to do. Cliff and Hayden were awkwardly swaying, neither of them knowing how to dance.
“Where the hell did you guys go? I haven’t gotten to dance with my captain yet!” St. Vicky loudly exclaimed, pulling Ilya into an aggressive waltz position and trying to twirl him around.
Ilya brushed him off, awkwardly chuckling as he noticed Cliff staring him down.
“Hollander’s wasted, I would not be good captain if I did not help other captain get home,” he said as Shane slumped onto his shoulder, grinning. Ilya winced. “See? So drunk he thinks I am wall.”
Shane poked Ilya in the cheek with his finger. “No, ‘s-cause he likes me! Rival schmival,” he slurred.
Ilya quickly swatted his hand away like a fly. “Hey!” Shane exclaimed petulantly.
The guys, minus a narrowed glare and amused smirk from Cliff, didn’t seem to have put too much stock into Shane’s behavior. Thank god he was so drunk he could get away with it.
“Aw, party pooper!” St. Vicky declared. “You owe me one!”
“Next time,” Ilya promised. “Pike, what is Metros hotel?”
Ilya knew exactly where the team was staying, but saw asking as an opportunity to deflect suspicion. Though he had no intention to take Shane anywhere other than his own warm bed at home.
“The Ritz. He’s in room 1218. Shane, do you have your room key?” Hayden asked.
“I got everything I need right here,” Shane mumbled with a devious smile.
“I’m gonna take that as a yes, then.”
“Let’s go, moy lyubimyy,” Shane said with emphasis, dragging Ilya away.
“Did he just… speak Russian?” J.J. asked, puzzled. Cliff stifled a laugh.
“Nonsense,” Ilya barked as Shane pulled him towards the exit.
“Bye! I love you all!” Shane called back at the group in a singsongy voice.
Stepping outside, the cool air felt amazing. The slight anxiety that had been nagging at the back of Ilya’s head all night finally began to recede. Three of the guys were completely oblivious, and the other one maybe hadn’t connected all the dots, judging by his amusement at a drunken Shane. Ilya could finally breathe and lower his mask, away from the constant need to play a part, leaving him with nothing but the warm smile of the boy currently singing off-key and dragging him out into the parking lot.
Shane laughed and spun around to face Ilya, his arms instantly looping back around his neck. Ilya’s hands instinctively settled on his hips to keep him steady.
“Did I pass?” Shane asked with a cheeky grin.
“Hm? Pass what?” Ilya asked softly, tenderly brushing a hair out of Shane’s face as the streetlights glinted in his eyes. Ilya had never seen anyone more beautiful.
“The test, asshole. The dancing one. If you liked me like all those girls you used to dance with,” Shane explained earnestly, his grin lessening as he peered up through his eyelashes, suddenly looking a lot less sure of himself.
Ilya’s heart squeezed. He didn’t like Shane the same as those girls. Shane was so far above them that Ilya couldn’t even remember what it felt like to hold anyone else. He couldn’t even fathom putting them in the same sentence.
“Moy solnyshko,” he cooed, cupping Shane’s face in both hands and staring into his eyes with a profound sincerity. “There is no comparison. When I am with you, no one else even comes close.”
Shane lit up.
“Good,” he murmured, his voice sleepy. “Because… I’ve never had so much fun in my life. I didn’t ever want to stop dancing with you.”
Ilya’s chest swelled, a rush of dizzying affection washing over him. He slid his hands down from Shane’s face, looping them tightly around his waist to pull him completely flush.
“Me too,” Ilya told him softly, pressing a deep, lingering kiss to the crown of his head. “I have never felt like that before. Only with you.”
Ilya smiled as he remembered the pure, intoxicating electricity between them on the dance floor. It was simply the best night of clubbing that he, a man who was no stranger to this environment, had ever experienced.
As Shane wrapped around him, closing his eyes and settling against his neck, the door behind them flung open.
Ilya jolted back. Cliff blinked against the sudden onslaught of the parking lot streetlights, still swaying slightly from his drinks. Fuck.
“There you guys are,” he said, completely missing — or ignoring — the tender energy hanging in the air. He brought out their forgotten jackets. “Figured you wouldn’t want to freeze out here.”
Instead of throwing the jackets at them or making some sort of snarky joke like he usually would, Cliff stepped forward with a careful slowness.
“Here, dude,” he said to Shane softly, his voice dropping into a quiet, gentle register that Ilya had rarely heard from him. “Put it on before you catch a fucking cold.”
Shane blinked, a little dazed by the sudden interruption to his snuggliness, but sniffed and slid his arms into the sleeves. Cliff helped him pull the collar up, giving Shane’s shoulder a reassuring, affectionate pat that felt entirely protective, with zero judgment.
Ilya clocked this. He glared at his best friend, being all too soft to the supposed enemy.
Cliff handed over Ilya’s jacket as his eyes lingered on him for a beat longer than usual — no cocky smirk or smugness, just a quiet, careful understanding.
“I, uh… I ordered you guys an Uber,” he said, scratching the back of his neck and offering a small, subdued smile. “It’s around the corner.”
Ilya paused. His mind raced, parsing through Cliff’s words, his tone, the total lack of snark.
“Thanks,” he said slowly, his voice laced with a sudden, cautious gravity. He searched Cliff’s face, trying to read between the lines, a strange sensation blooming in his chest.
The way he was stepping so lightly around them, the deliberate softness in his eyes…
Cliff just gave a small nod, shoving his hands into his own pockets. “Yeah, of course, dude. Don’t worry about the guys, either. I told them I’d handle the tab and sort everyone out. You two just… get home safe, alright?”
Before Ilya could respond, the Uber pulled up.
The driver rolled down the window. “2886 Beacon?”
“Marleau, you idiot, you put in my house, not hotel.”
Cliff didn’t respond. Instead, he opened up the door for them and delicately helped a very drunk Shane inside.
“Hello,” Ilya waved a hand in front of Cliff’s face obnoxiously. “Hotel, Cliff. Hollander needs hotel.”
“Get in, dude,” Cliff ordered.
Ilya’s jaw dropped slightly, a look of confusion taking over. But he did what Cliff asked, and got in with Shane.
Shane immediately collapsed on Ilya’s shoulder, closing his eyes with a contented hum. He grabbed Ilya’s hand and interlaced their fingers.
This time, Ilya didn’t pull away. All he could manage to do was stare at Cliff with a terrified expression written all over Ilya’s face.
Cliff gave him a warm, knowing smile, more genuine than Ilya had ever seen from him before. It was deeply heartfelt, and Ilya gulped, knowing exactly what it meant.
“Go get him home, Roz,” he said softly. After a beat, he leaned in and added, “And I’ve roomed with you enough to know you take up the whole fucking mattress. Give him some space tonight, dude. He’s trashed.”
Ilya froze as his breath caught, a sudden tightness locking up his throat. He knew. His worried gaze deepened, eyes widening as he opened his mouth to protest, but his voice completely failed him.
Cliff was just… smiling. Supporting.
As a very sleepy Shane squeezed Ilya’s fingers tight, he realized that Cliff was not blowing their world apart right now — there were no homophobic slurs, no faces of disgust, no threats to tell everyone. He was keeping them… safe. Getting their jackets, calling an Uber, cracking a harmless joke.
Ilya looked at Cliff’s earnest smile. Then he looked down at his boyfriend, now asleep on top of him. His brows furrowed in thought.
A seriousness overtook Ilya’s face. He turned back to his best friend. He straightened his spine, composing himself as he met his gaze head-on. Then, he gave Cliff a single, deliberate nod — a silent acknowledgment of mutual understanding, a nonverbal expression of gratitude and trust.
And Cliff gave him the same nod back.
Ilya softly smiled.
They lingered on this moment.
But then Cliff shifted his focus to Shane, tilting his head and wincing playfully in sympathetic amusement at the absolute puddle he had become on top of Ilya. Ilya chuckled.
“You two good?” he asked.
“Yes. We are good.”
“Alright. Text me when you get home, dude.”
He gave the roof of the car a friendly double-tap, and shut their door.
Before the car pulled away, he mimicked the motion to roll down their window. He waited until Ilya had it down all the way before he smirked, “And for the record? You two suck at dancing.”
“Hey!” Ilya scoffed, offended.
Cliff roared in his signature hearty laugh as the car drove off.
Ilya watched as the lights of the club faded into the distance. The ambient hum of the highway filled the car’s quiet interior. He took a long, slow inhale through his nose, the air rushing into his lungs.
Cliff knows. The only person other than Shane’s parents.
The realization didn’t hit him with a wave of panic. Instead, it felt remarkably grounding. His best friend knew his biggest secret, the most important part of his life, and the world hadn’t ended. There was no judgment, no disaster — just jackets to keep them warm and a safe ride home. A growing sense of relief washed over Ilya with a warmth that had nothing to do with the alcohol. For the first time, he felt a tiny piece of his mask slide away. It felt really good.
He shifted slightly, looking down at the heavy weight settled against his side. Shane was completely out of it, his face smushed into the fabric of Ilya’s jacket, his mouth slightly ajar.
Ilya’s heart swelled. He looked down at their interlaced fingers, squeezing gently.
To his surprise, Shane stirred. He let out a soft hum, his long eyelashes fluttering against his freckled cheek before his eyes slightly opened, unfocused and glazed with sleep. He blinked up at Ilya, a lazy, sweet smile taking over his face.
“Hey,” Shane murmured, his voice thick and raspy. He shifted his head, nuzzling a little closer into the crook of Ilya’s neck. “We’re in a car.”
“Yes, malysh,” Ilya said softly. He lifted his free hand, his fingers gently tracing the line of Shane’s jaw. “We are going home.”
Shane sighed contentedly, closing his eyes again as he leaned heavily into the touch. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to drift right back to sleep, but his smile widened suddenly.
“That was really fun,” he whispered, his voice warm. “I’m glad we went tonight.”
Ilya leaned down, pressing his lips firmly against Shane’s temple, breathing in the scent of the club, the cool night air, and the distinct, comforting smell of Shane.
“Me too,” he murmured against his skin, his voice thick with emotion.
He remembered all the times he had dreamed of this — the quiet, wistful late-night phone calls planning out a future where they could just be normal on something like a dance floor. Ilya had been prepared to wait a decade for a night like tonight. He had been craving it, aching for a single moment to just be a normal guy holding his boyfriend in a crowded room. Now, the reality of it hit him. He had finally gotten his dance, and every ounce of risk had been entirely worth it as he saw Shane’s smile.
He pulled him in as close as the seatbelts would allow.
“I love you,” Ilya said. “Even if Cliff thinks we suck at dancing.”
Shane let out a faint, amused snort, already melting right back into sleep, completely safe in Ilya’s arms. Ilya rested his chin on top of his soft hair, staring out the window at the passing city lights of Boston.
A soft, permanent smile fixed itself on his face.