Work Text:
Shy Smile
If there is one thing Ilya Rozanov absolutely loves to do, it’s make his husband turn into a shy, flustered mess. There’s a certain way Shane’s mouth will sweetly quirk up into a shy smile, mouth pursing when he inevitably starts to blush, like his are preening with shy pleasure. His cheeks flush pink, freckles glistening as his eyes turn into sparkling crescents. Shane gets shy so easily, so Ilya loves to exploit it. Now it’s like a little game that they play. Or rather, a game that Ilya plays and Shane is just along for the ride. And it’s a game that Ilya is very good at, but it’s not like he’s keeping score or anything.
Ilya has a fiendish grin on his face as he pops up next to Shane in the kitchen. One of his hands slide into Shane’s back pants pocket, the other rubbing up and down one of his thick thighs. “What’s cooking, good looking?”
He sees the moment Shane catches on to his flirting. His chocolate brown eyes widen the slightest bit before rolling playfully, and his face unfairly resembles that of an innocent kitten. “Hi, baby.”
“Hiya, hot stuff.”
Shane scoffs lightly, returning his gaze to the strawberries he’s cutting up, but it’s obvious to Ilya that he’s already trying not to smile.
Ilya smirks impishly. “You are so beautiful,” he says, dropping kisses to Shane’s neck. “So strong.”
Shane doesn’t respond verbally, but Ilya sees his lips purse just a tad and he blinks rapidly for just a second. Ilya counts it as a small triumph.
“Do not be shy,” Ilya tells him. “I am just admiring your studdliness.”
“That’s not a word,” Shane retorts dryly, although the tips of his ears are beginning to turn a faint shade of red.
“It is now. So, tell me, mister hunky making me funky, how do you handle being so fucking hot?”
Shane puffs out a small half sigh-half laugh, turning his face away from Ilya, not answering his question.
Ilya grins like a madman, pressing up to Shane from behind and biting the Canadian’s ear lobe. “Why are you being so shy?”
“Ilya...” the light blush slowly blooming across Shane’s face and the slight upwards curve of his lips has Ilya feeling like a winner already, but he knows he can do better.
“You are so pretty.”
The banana Shane has moved onto chopping falls out of his hand. “Ilya.”
“And handsome.”
“I know what you’re doing.”
“Hmm?” Ilya asks, feigning innocence. “What that’s, my gorgeous lyubimyy? I cannnot hear you over your super fucking sexiness.”
“Ilya, come on, I’m busy.”
“Busy being tasty looking snack.”
“Ilya...”
“My feisty kitten.”
“Rozanov.”
“Mr. Real-estate.”
The knife Shane has been using is placed on the counter with a thunk. The Canadian’s breathing now heavy and slightly erratic.
“Freckle boy,” Ilya whispers into his ear. “My boring sweetheart.”
Shane finally turns to meet his gaze and that’s when Ilya knows he’s about to win. He leans forward, looking straight into Shane’s twinkling eyes as he grabs two handfuls of his ass and squeezes. “Mr. hot butt I’d like to fuck.”
That has Shane flushing bright red in a full body blush, accompanied by the adorable shy smile that has Ilya whooping and fist pumping the air before kissing his husband soundly.
Shane: 0
Ilya: Winner every time
***
Repressed smile
Ilya loves when Shane is lecturing him and trying not to smile at his antics. He presses his lips together, scrunching his nose in an effort to look intimidating, even though he looks mostly like a grumpy kitten, as he tries to be angry before inevitably huffing in exasperation at both Ilya, for turning a serious situation into something silly, and himself for letting Ilya make him lose his composure. It’s very, very cute, and Shane smiles like that far more than Ilya assumes he would like to, but to Ilya it feels like a victory every time.
“Il-ya.”
Uh oh. Ilya knows that voice. Better yet, he knows that exact tone of voice and what it means. That’s Shane’s ‘Ilya, I’m upset with you and I’m about to spend the next half hour lecturing you to let you know why’ voice.
Ilya grins to himself in anticipation. He’s been waiting for this moment. He’s ready to have some fun. He looks up from his position lounging on the sofa to come face to face with an annoyed looking Shane, who seems to be purposefully blocking the exit out of the living room. No bother, Ilya’s not looking for an out right now anyways.
He plasters a giant smile on his face, tossing his phone onto the coffee table, standing and strolling up to Shane, and pecking a short kiss to the Canadian’s unresponsive lips. “Hi, moy lyubov. Am I in trouble?”
“I don’t know. Are you?”
Ilya beams.
Shane shakes his head but his lips are already doing that thing that Ilya knows means he’s trying not to smile. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“But what did I do?”
“Did you put pink hair dye in Troy’s locker room shower shampoo?”
“Hmm,” Ilya purses his lips, tapping a finger to his mouth as he pretends to seriously think hard. “Uh...no?”
“Ilya...”
“Is possible.”
Shane sighs, and Ilya fights the smile threatening to expose him. “Ilya, Harris is doing damage control trying to prevent Troy from having a breakdown. He’s threatening to shave his head.”
At that, Ilya breaks, doubling forward in boisterous laughter. “Oh my god! I wish I could see him! Do not worry, sweetheart, I will tell everyone it was me. But in a minute. I am dying.”
“You’re the captain of the team. You can’t do things like that.”
Ilya rolls his eyes good naturedly. “How come you are so boring? So many years together and you are still boring. You are my husband. You should support me.”
“I’m serious, Ilya.”
“Me too,” At Shane’s extremely unimpressed look, Ilya swings an arm over his husband’s shoulders and smushes a kiss to his cheek. “Oh, come on, was funny and you know it. Harris sent you picture, yes? You must show me. Do you think smoke came out of Barrett’s ears like cartoon when he noticed? Does the pink hair look good on him? Does he look like gumdrop? Do you think he will look good bald if he shaves all his hair off?”
Shane huffs out an exasperated sigh, shaking his head, but Ilya can see the repressed smile fighting and winning its way onto his plump lips. “You’re a menace.”
“And you wouldn’t have me any other way.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“I know. Me either. Now, show me picture. I want to laugh at pretty pink-headed Barrett.”
***
Fake Smile
There’s something about the fake smiles Shane will often plaster on his face that leaves a bad taste in Ilya’s mouth. Even if the smile isn’t directed at him, Ilya still feels uneasy whenever that particular expression makes its way onto Shane’s face. It’s the type of smile that betrays everything Ilya knows and loves about Shane: how authentic he always is. His eyes go hard and unblinking, face frozen in polite insincerity as his upper lip curls slightly, almost as if he wants to snarl. He looks more like a bad caricature of himself than Ilya’s sweet husband when he smiles like that. Therefore, whenever Shane’s lips contort into a fake smile, Ilya is instantly on guard and adds the name of whomever that smile is directed at to his Shit List.
The post-game media interview is going fine; it’s the usual song and dance of the interviewer asking stupid questions and the players, Shane and Ilya in this instance, answering politely but directly in an effort to end the interaction as soon as possible. When they do interviews together, which is most of the time, Ilya does the vast majority of the talking. But then this interviewer starts speaking in French. Now, Ilya understands nothing of what she’s saying other than his name. He instantly looks to Shane for translation, only to find his husband shooting the woman an extremely fake smile that has Ilya’s expression hardening, his stomach going sour.
In curt French, Shane mumbles something back to the woman, and the obvious fake insincerity and slight bite in his voice has Ilya clenching his fists in agitation. Not long after, the uncomfortably tense interaction comes to an end. Whatever transpired between in them in French was not positive.
Ilya watches as the woman turns her back and leaves as soon as the cameras are off, not even sparing them a second glance as she seems almost in a hurry to get away from them. He jumps slightly when a hand lands on his arm, and Shane’s handsome face fills his vision.
In a rare display of public affection, Shane reaches up and caresses Ilya’s face, sending him a small smile. “You good?”
Ilya grabs the strings of Shane’s hoodie, yanking him in for a firm kiss. When they part, he rests their foreheads together and whispers against Shane’s lips, “I do not like when you smile like that. Is not you.”
Shane hums against his mouth and then drags his husband in for another drowning kiss before speaking quietly into Ilya’s ear, “Then, I’ll have to make sure I don’t do it anymore. Only when people deserve it.”
“Did that woman deserve it?”
“Yes. Trust me, she did.”
The next time they cross paths with that specific interviewer, Ilya glares daggers at her until her production team cuts the interaction short, citing that she’s needed elsewhere. Shane elbows him and shoots him a look that clearly states he knows what just happened.
Ilya just grins and kisses his husband with passion in front of the rest of the reporters who happily snap pictures of them.
***
Sleepy Smile
There is nothing in this world that can make Ilya wake up before the sun has risen if he absolutely doesn’t have to. Okay, that’s a lie; there is one thing in this world that can make him voluntarily get up early, and that thing is Shane Hollander’s sleepy smile. Those unfairly long eyelashes flutter, dark brown eyes flicker open looking molten and liquidy like a warming liquor that Ilya wants to get drunk on, those glossy lips puffy with a sleepy pout, open and unrestrained in a way that Shane will never share with the public. Ilya wants to squish his cheeks when his husband looks like this. So, Ilya will set an alarm and wake up early just to see the precious sleepy smile Shane flashes him after he first wakes up and then Ilya goes back to bed. It’s not a big deal.
Ilya purses his lips, staring at Shane while his husband sleeps. Usually, the health nut that is his husband is up by now, stretching and planting kisses on a huffing Ilya’s mouth, chuckling at the blonde’s attempts to pull him back to bed instead of going for a run.
This morning, however, Shane is still sleeping peacefully, and while Ilya loves to see Shane getting the rest he needs and deserves, he’s getting pretty tired himself and is resisting the urge to poke Shane in the ribs to get him to wake up and smile. But, just as his finger is in poking position, Shane begins to wake up. His eyelids flutter open, warm brown eyes and long lashes bat lightly against his cheeks as he blinks awake.
Ilya watches him, grinning a little to himself at the beautiful display before him. His grin gets even bigger when he sees Shane’s gaze land on him, and finally, finally, that gorgeous sleepy smile is sent his way. Ilya’s grin is now a mega-watt smile. “Good morning, solnyshko. Sleep well?”
“Yeah,” Shane replies, still smiling sleepily while leaning over to give Ilya a kiss. “What about you? You’re not usually up this early.”
“Hmm,” Ilya hums against Shane’s lips before yawning loudly and snuggling back under the covers. “Just wanted to see you before you disappeared for your death run and leave me cold and alone in our bed.”
“Aw,” Shane coos, pressing a kiss to Ilya’s head. “You’re the sweetest.”
“No, you are the sweetest.”
“No, you are.”
“No, you are.”
“No—”
“Okay, no,” Ilya says in exasperation, yanking Shane back under the covers with him. “We are not going to be that couple.”
“What couple?”
“The gross, kissy couple that makes everyone want to puke.”
“Then what are we going to be?”
“The super sexy couple that everyone hates because they are all jealous of our amazing sex life.”
Shane chuckles softly, and the early morning light mixed with his still slightly sleep smile has Ilya melting into Shane’s chest. He cuddles closer to the Canadian, eyes scanning his handsome face, and he can’t help the small laugh that escapes him.
“What?” Shane asks, that sleepy smile drawing Ilya in like a moth to a flame.
“You are so beautiful in the morning.”
“Aww. No, you are.”
“No, you are.”
“No. You are.”
“No. You. Are.”
“No—” Shane’s rebuttal is cut off by a pillow to the face.
“Damn it, Hollander!” Ilya yells. “I told you we are not going to be that couple!”
***
Bitter Smile
If there is one of Shane’s smiles that Ilya wishes he could banish forever, it would be Shane’s bitter smile. Ilya hates seeing Shane smile like that: sarcastic and condescending, no mirth, no love, just bitterness. And Ilya especially hates it when that smile is directed at him.
“You just couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you, Rozanov?”
Ilya heaves in a deep sign, already knowing what’s coming his way when Shane get in the passenger seat of the car and uncharacteristically slams the door shut.
“Shane—”
“You couldn’t be serious?” Shane begins, eerily calm with rage. “You couldn’t just not answer the question?”
Ilya flinches, spinning to meet the blazing eyes of his husband. “Shane, look, I—”
“Do you realized how much you’ve just embarrassed both of us?” Shane grumbles.
Ilya stands his ground, glaring back at Shane. “Is not that big of deal. The interviewer asked us both, but you are the one that stayed quiet and kept looking at me.”
“Are you kidding me?” Shane fumes. “That’s your defense right now? You’re blaming me even though you’re the one that gave the world an inside look into our sex life? Seriously?”
“What else was I supposed to do?”
“I thought you would tell them to fuck off! Not share explicit details about what we do in the bedroom.”
“I’m sorry,” Ilya mutters in a monotone voice that makes it blatantly obvious he doesn’t mean it. “Sorry. I made a mistake, and I’m sorry. There.”
“Right,” Shane scoffs, that bitter smile that Ilya has always hated slowly creeping onto Shane’s lips. “You’re sorry? That’s great, Ilya, that’s really great. That just makes everything better, doesn’t it? That fixes it all.”
“Well, what do you want me to say, Shane? Tell me what you want me to say, and I will say it.”
“I don’t—that’s not—I don’t want you to answer inappropriate questions about our marriage!”
“I said I’m sorry!”
Shane demeanor doesn’t falter. He shakes his head and the same bitter smile stays in place and may even begin to grow into a sneer. “Sorry doesn’t automatically fix things, Ilya.”
Chest seizing with guilt, Ilya bites his lip, looking everywhere but Shane. They sit there for a few tense moments, neither of them saying anything. Finally, Shane scoffs and turns his head away from his husband, arms crossed tightly in front of him.
Ilya puts a light hand on Shane’s thigh. “I’m sorry,” he whispers sincerely. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
Shane snorts indignantly and that awful bitter smile stays on his face the rest of the drive home. “You’re always sorry when you take things too far.”
***
Sassy Smile
Every time Ilya is able to catch sight of one of Shane’s sassy smiles, it feels like a reward. One end of Shane’s lips will quirk up and his eyes twinkle in playful mischief, and he looks absolutely nothing like that blank face machine that the media loves to accuse him of being. Instead, he looks cheeky and cutely defiant. Ilya fucking loves it because he’s one of the lucky few who ever get to see this expression on Shane.
“Sweetheart,” Ilya calls, walking into their hotel room. “Are you ready? We do not want to be late. We are very important people, but not even New York Fashion Week will wait for us.”
“Yep,” Shane says, emerging from the bathroom. “Ready.”
“Great, let’s—what are you wearing?” Ilya asks, starting at Shane’s feet in horror.
“Uh...sandals?”
“With socks?!”
“Yes?”
“No!”
“What—”
“Moy lyubov, you cannot wear sandals with socks!”
Shane glances down at his feet and then back up at Ilya. “Why not?” he asks innocently.
“Because it looks terrible! Is insult to fashion world! A disgrace to feet everywhere! They will throw us out of fashion week if you go like this!”
Shane blinks. “I think it looks alright.”
“Oh my god,” Ilya groans melodramatically, flopping onto the bed and slinging an arm over his eyes. “Where have I gone wrong? My own husband wearing socks with sandals! Where is your humility, Shane? Your humanity? Your dignity?!”
“That’s a bit dramatic.”
“You are killing me, sweetheart. Please change your shoes. You cannot wear that to New York Fashion Week.”
“No. I like it. I don’t think it looks bad.”
“Oh my god,” Ilya groans, running a hand down his face. “Fine, but you are on your own. Be prepared for teasing. Nobody is going to stick up for you. Not even Yuna. Or David. And the team is going to laugh. The media is going to go crazy. You are doomed. Not even I will stick up for you on this.”
“I like to think my middle finger sticks up for me when I need it to.”
Ilya shoots up on the bed, fighting a smile as his eyebrows rise towards his forehead and he puts his hand over his heart in shock. “Why, Shane Hollander, did you just sass me?”
And sure enough, Shane stands in front of him, hands of his hips, eyes glimmering playfully, mouth tilting to one side to form a mischievous smirk. “Yes, I did. Would you like me to do it again?”
They stare at each other a moment before they both lose it and burst out laughing.
“Oh my god,” Ilya laughs after he’s composed himself enough to speak. “I love when you get sassy.”
Shane shots him another sassy smile. “Baby, I’ve got sass to match my perfect ass.”
“Oh, fuck me—”
“Maybe later,” Shane supplies sassily.
“Jesus,” Ilya laughs breathlessly, getting up from the bed to take Shane’s hand. “The sass is on full blast today. That is good because you are going to need it if you really leave this hotel room with your feet looking like that.”
“I’m ready when you are.”
“Is your funeral, moy lyubimyy. I cannot believe you are going to New York Fashion Week wearing socks with sandals,” Ilya grumbles good-naturedly as they walk out the door. “People are going to see us together, you know? What am I supposed to tell them? Do you know what they are going to think of me? I am hockey league fashion icon, and my own husband is going to ruin my reputation.
Shane chuckles, remnants of his sassy smile still present. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”
Headline the next day: FASHION SCANDAL OF THE YEAR! OTTAWA CENTAURS Shane Hollander attends New York Fashion Week with husband, Ilya Rozanov, defying all fashion laws by wearing socks with sandals. The incident is being dubbed a Canadian national fashion emergency.
Yuna frames the headline and gives it to them as a present; Ilya has it hanging in his and Shane’s bedroom.
Shane still wears socks with sandals.
***
Sad Smile
Shane’s sad smile makes Ilya the most anxious. His eyes go dull, his lips up-ticked in a smile even though they somehow also manage to look down turned with sadness. His plush lips get thinner and ashen like they’ve been drained of life. Ilya never wants Shane to be unhappy, it’s like a national crisis whenever his husband is sad. Ilya knows exactly when Shane is upset and trying to hide it from him because he’ll always give the Russian a sad little smile and say nothing other than that he’s fine. So, when a sad smile dares to invite itself onto Shane’s mouth, Ilya uses his best tactics to banish it: reassurance and deflection.
Phone to his ear, Ilya stops talking when he catching sight of Shane sitting on the couch in the living room, starting at the blank TV. He doesn’t have to see Shane’s face to know something is wrong. He’s instantly heading that way and ends his conversation with Marleau. “Sorry, Marly. I go to go. I’ll call you again some time. Okay. Bye.”
Ilya plasters a smile on his face and drops down on the couch next to his husband. “Hi, moy lyubimyy.”
“Hi,” Shane replies without looking at him.
“Is something wrong?”
Shane shrugs silently.
Ilya sighs and throws an arm over the Canadian’s shoulders. “What is the matter, sweetheart?”
“Nothing,” Shane answers, that horrid, sad smile appearing on his lips when he finally turns to face Ilya.
“That is a lie.”
“No, no, really. I’m fine.”
“Shane,” Ilya says quietly, placing a soft hand on Shane’s arm. “Please, moy dorogoy. Let me fix what is wrong.”
The please must be what breaks Shane, because Ilya Rozanov does not say please to anyone. Except his husband.
“Do you think I’m past my prime?” Shane mumbles, looking down at his lap. “Like, do you think I’m not as good a hockey player as I used to be? I saw some comments online and I just...” he trails off with a weak shrug.
“Of course, you are still the best hockey player in the league,” Ilya reassures him firmly. “You are better than me.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes, I think I’m nearing the end.”
“No,” Ilya says firmly, shaking his head vehemently as he pulls Shane more firmly against him. “No. Absolutely not. Even when we are both retired, you will always be the best. No one will ever beat your records. The people online are just lonely fucks and have no idea what they are talking about. They only want to make you feel bad about yourself because they don’t like their sad lives. They are just jealous.”
“But—”
“Uh-uh. No buts. Your husband has spoken. Everything I said is true and you know it, so shut up and let me hold you. Or I can tell you a story. Did I ever tell you about the time I walked in on Young and Holmberg painting each other toenails? They gave me five hundred dollars not to tell anyone, but is great blackmail material to have when they are not listening during practice.”
Ilya beams at the genuine laugh that puffs out of Shane, that sad smile nowhere to be seen.
***
Self-Depreciating Smile
Ilya can’t stand the sight of Shane’s self-depreciating smiles. The way his lips suck in, his mouth forms a frown like smile that honestly looks more like a grimace. His eyes stay down cast, the normally sparking orbs dim and sad. Ilya sees the smile far more than he’d like to. He makes it his mission to erase that smile off Shane’s face whenever it braves to make an appearance.
They’re having dinner at a new restaurant that Ilya wanted to try. Shane arranges both his and Ilya’s silverware in a very specific order, making sure everything is perfectly straight. Ilya watches him fondly, his heart threatening to burst from adoration.
Apparently, though, Ilya’s not the only one who’s observing Shane’s adorable actions. Two middle-aged women are seated adjacent from them, and they aren’t making it a point to hide their staring or keep their voices down.
“He’s so particular, isn’t he?” the first lady whispers loudly.
“You call it particular, I call it strange,” her friend replies. “He’s obviously got some sort of mental problem.”
Ilya spins in his chair to glare at them with pure venom.
Unfortunately, Shane seems to have heard them as well. His hands falter where he’s intricately folding his napkin. He drops it and it lands in an unkempt heap. His hands fly under the table, and Ilya suspects his nails are digging into his thighs.
“Moy lyubov—”
“I’m fine.”
“Shane—”
“It’s okay.”
“Is not. They are just being bitchy,” Ilya states in a booming voice, throwing another harsh scowl over his shoulder. The two women duck behind their menus as other patrons around them turn to look at the commotion.
Shane shrinks under all the attention.
Ilya reaches both hands across the table, relaxing a bit when Shane slowly drags his hands out from their hiding place to place them in his husband’s. “Shane, sweetheart, you do not need to listen to them. They do not know you. Their opinions do not matter.”
“Come on, Ilya,” Shane says quietly, sadly, acceptingly, that heart-wrenching self-depreciating smile forcing itself into existence. “Everyone thinks I’m some sort of crazy. And it’s—it’s true. You know it, I know it. I’m just...something’s wrong with me.”
“There is absolutely nothing wrong with you,” Ilya states sternly. “And you are not crazy. Expect for me. You are always crazy for me.”
Shane doesn’t take the deflection bait. “I asked the hostess to move us to a different table because I didn’t want to sit under a vent.”
“A perfectly reasonable request.”
“I was disappointed when the waiter said they don’t have ginger-ale.”
“I would have been sad if they didn’t have coke.”
“You traded seats with me because I didn’t want to face the wall.”
Ilya shrugs and flips the bird at said wall. “Is an ugly wall.”
“I asked if they could cook my salmon at a very specific temperature for exactly six minutes.”
“You know how you like your food.”
“Let’s just face it, Ilya,” Shane sighs, that horrid self-depreciating smile fully twisted across his lips. “I’m crazy.”
“Crazy only for my dick.”
“Ilya,” Shane chides, face blushing pink.
“What?”
“We’re in public.”
“So?” Ilya’s not about to let some random strangers make some indirect digs at his husband, digs that jab him right in the heart of his insecurities and make him believe his differences are bad.
Shane’s self-depreciating smile has waned a little. “Someone could hear you.”
“Good. Let them. I want everyone to know why I love you and why they should, too.”
“Ilya...”
“Moy lyubov, have I ever told you how good you look folding towels? Is hot. Very hot. I get hard every time.”
He keeps going, showering his husband in gooey, heartfelt compliments, until that self-depreciating smile fully melts away and replaced by a genuine one.
Ilya also handsomely tips their waiter to “accidently” spill wine all over the two bitchy women.
***
Nervous Smile
Shane’s nervous smile is a closed mouth smile; the ends of his mouth tight with anxiety, lips quaking ever so slightly. With tense shoulders, his eyes dart all over the place, smile growing for a brief second to cover up his anxious gulp. It breaks Ilya’s heart because his precious, timid husband is always flashing people this smile. It’s a smile that devastates Ilya, so when someone actively causes such a smile to stutter its way onto Shane’s face, Ilya can’t help but make a move to save his husband.
The annual gala for Irina Foundation is always a tough night for Shane. There are so many people, so many hands to shake, so many posers that want to talk to the famous hockey husbands for their two minutes of fame. They hadn’t even been there fifteen minutes before the fifty-year-old wife of Ilya doesn’t even know who had taken her chance to sink her claws into Shane for her turn to talk with the handsome man. She’s definitely taken advantage of the situation, having been chatting Ilya’s poor husband’s ear off for the last half an hour.
It's not great, but it’s fine, except when Shane politely tries to make his leave, she doesn’t let go of his hand. Ilya watches with a clenched jaw, his fingers tightening around his glass of vodka as Shane attempts to pull away only for the woman to double her grasp, blood-red nails digging into Shane’s palm, his fingers bunching up where she’s squeezing them in an unforgiving grip. Reluctantly, Ilya restrains himself. Earlier, Shane had told him not to intervene should something like this happen, that he would be fine, that he could do this.
But the skin around Shane’s eyes has been tightening as the night has gone on, his shoulders slowly inching up towards his ears. And Ilya sees the way Shane’s lips have cemented themselves into a trembling nervous smile because, despite his obvious uncomfortableness, Shane still wishes to be polite. Ilya both loves and hates that about him. Loves it because that’s his sweet boy, but hates it because it often leaves Shane in these vulnerable positions with people who don’t know how to take a hint and back the fuck off. After another failed attempt by Shane to reclaim his hand and a faint crack in that nervous smile, Ilya decides enough is enough.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he slides up next to Shane, hand finding the small of his husband’s back. “Come take a break with me.”
Shane nods quickly.
“Oh,” the woman says stiffly. “I was just telling Shane here—”
“Excuse us,” Ilya barks, roughly brushing past her to guide his husband to safety.
As soon as they’re in the safety of the bathroom with the door locked, that nervous smile finally falls off Shane’s lips.
“Oh my god,” the Canadian groans, collapsing against Ilya. “She wouldn’t leave me alone.”
“I am so sorry, sweetheart,” Ilya murmurs against his dark head, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I should have gone to you sooner. I know tonight is a lot for you. You want to go home? We can go home.”
“We literally can’t.”
“People will understand.”
“No, they won’t.”
“I will make them.”
“That makes it sound like you’re going to threaten them.”
“I will if I have to. Especially that woman. Her lipstick is terrible color. I will tell her that, too.”
Shane grins a little at that, his nervous smile fully dissipating. “I love you so much.”
“Ya tebya lyubyu, moy lyubimmy. Come,” Ilya says softly. “We will say our goodbyes and go home.”
“But—”
“No,” Ilya hushes him gently. “Is okay. I’ve got you. We go home now.”
Shane sags against him. “Thank you.”
“Anything for you, moy lyubov.”
***
Goofy Smile
Ilya will never admit it, but he loves the goofy way Shane smiles with his mouth open and tongue sticking out whenever someone is taking his picture: expression bright and openly silly in a way it almost never is, save for private moments here and there with Ilya. The Russian will also never admit it that it makes him feel extremely jealous and possessive because that smile should be reserved for him and him alone.
Ilya watches in amusement as Shane takes a selfie with Harris, his head cocked to the side and tongue sticking out long and wide while he smiles like a goofball. But that amusement quickly loses some of its humor as Harris scampers off to post the photo on social media, which has Ilya feeling like he needs to reclaim Shane as his. Or more specifically, Shane’s tongue.
“You know, you look like dork when you do that,” Ilya says, filling the space next to Shane where Harris had been during the photo.
Shane leans into him for a hug. “Do what?”
“Stick your tongue out. I mean, is so cute, but some people might get bad idea.”
“Oh. I’ve never realized I do that.”
“Yes, yes, is very cute. But I have better idea for your tongue.”
Shane smirks. “Yeah? And what would that be?”
“I bought chocolate syrup and whip cream. But, somehow, my dick always ends up covered in them,” Ilya leans closer, fingers walking up Shane’s chest, whispering hotly against his husband’s ear, “Maybe we should go home now and you can use that tongue to clean me up.”
The epic blush that covers Shane’s body from head to toe has Ilya sticking his tongue out for his own goofy smile while he drags Shane out of the locker room and towards the car.
***
Relaxed Smile
Ilya feels all mushy inside whenever Shane flashes him a relaxed smile. When Shane is well and truly relaxed, his smile is open and honest and just wholeheartedly at peace. Eyes soft, face lax, completely at ease because he’s not making any sort of attempt to mask. Ilya loves this smile on Shane because he doesn’t see it nearly as much as he should, so when it appears, it’s a gift.
It’s been a long week, and both Shane and Ilya want nothing more than to lounge around and just enjoy each other’s company. So that’s exactly what they’re doing; they’re lying on the couch, with Ilya slouched at one end and Shane lying across the expanse of the sofa with his head pillowed in Ilya’s lap.
And it’s absolutely wonderful, don’t Ilya wrong, but he’s beginning to have an—ahem—issue.
Ilya smirks down at Shane, fingers loving stroking the collection of freckles on the bridge of his face before bopping him on the nose like a cat. “Are you comfortable?”
Shane grins back at him, body and mind both seemingly completely relaxed as he lounges across Ilya’s lap. “Quite.”
“Well, that’s wonderful, sweetheart, but I need to piss.”
“Hmm,” Shane hums, snuggling further under the blanket and into Ilya’s lap. “That sounds like a personal problem.”
“Excuse me,” Ilya squawks in playful indignance. “Is also your problem because you need to move.”
“Can’t you hold it a little while longer?”
“No, I cannot. How dare you ask this of me.”
Shane snuffs a laugh, that rare relaxed smile of his causing a similar smile to mirror across Ilya’s lips. “You can hold it.”
Ilya huffs, but the suddenness and the beauty of the truly relaxed smile that graces Shane’s mouth has him relenting and running his fingers through Shane’s silky dark strands of hair. “Whatever.”
Yeah, he can hold it a little longer.
***
Sexy Smile
Ilya both loves and hates when Shane sneaks in a sexy smile. The little shit waggles his eyebrows, his tongue slides over his lips seductively, and his eyes glaze over with something intense and inviting. Now, Ilya’s loves Shane’s sexy smile because it knocks the breath out of him and leaves him feeling hot and bothered, but he hates it because sometimes Shane really has the worst fucking timing.
Ilya thanks his lucky stars that this ridiculous, impromptu group meeting demanded by Wyatt is happening over the phone, because his shirt is slowly being unbuttoned and pulled down by hands from behind as kisses are pressed across the expanse of his back and around his neck. Next thing he knows, Shane is climbing into his lap and straddling him.
He pats Shane’s ass, shameless groping it as the Canadian’s mouth attaches itself to Ilya’s jawline. “Moy lyubov, not that I am complaining, but we are on speaker.”
He shivers at the hot breath that tickles his ear, gasping as Shane grides their crotches together. “That’s never stopped you before.”
All of Ilya’s resolve vanishes the very second Shane’s sexy smile is flashed his way. And hot damn, that smile is his vice, drawing him in like a bee to honey. “You’re right. What the hell was I thinking. Fuck this!”
“Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of you fucking me.”
“Even better!”
“Ah-hem,” comes Wyatt’s disgruntled voice over the phone. “You know we can hear you guys, right?”
“Yeah,” Bood’s voice comes cracking over the line. “Stop corrupting Luca’s innocence.”
“Hey!”
“Don’t worry, kid,” Troy says to Luca. “We all know you aren’t that innocent.”
“Gross. And, ah—” Ilya moans as teeth sink into his shoulder, soothed by a warm tongue that travels down to trace his collarbone. “Yeah, uh, got to go now. Bye.”
Ilya barely has time to hit the end call button before he’s being stripped of his pants and underwear and that sexy smile is the only thing he can see as he fucks Shane into oblivion.
***
Loving Smile
Shane’s loving smile is like a drug to Ilya; the Russian just can’t seem to get enough of it. When Shane’s eyes are full of fondness, radiating pure affection and devotion, bright yet modest and serene, and he looks at Ilya like he’s the only thing in the world. Ilya would gladly drown himself in that smile. It’s a smile that speaks louder than words themselves. Who wouldn’t be addicted to that?
Ilya sighs contentedly. His head falls forward against Shane’s shoulder, nose nuzzling the Canadian’s neck while they sit snuggled together on the floor.
The “picnic” dinner date Shane has set up for them in the living room with an actual red and white checkerboard blanket, a picnic basket filled with loads of different foods, curtesy of Yuna, and the bottle of sparkling champagne has been ridiculously sappy and romantic and incredibly Shane, and while Ilya has been making jokes, he’s not so secretly loved every minute of it.
Now they’re sat on the floor, leaning against the sofa, with Shane all but sitting directly in Ilya’s lap. The Russian’s hand lightly rubs over Shane’s stomach, his chin resting on Shane’s shoulder. Ilya looks at the remnants of the “picnic” before them and chuckles softly. The whole thing was so uncomplicated yet so thought through and full of meaning and love. Such a Shane thing.
Shane tilts his head back and gazes up at Ilya, eyes shining brightly, his loving smile on full display for only Ilya to see. “I love you.”
And Ilya can’t help but smile back. “I know.”
***
Real Smile
There’s one smile of Shane’s that is Ilya’s ultimate favorite: the one where he scrunches his nose up, his eyes turn into crescents, closing briefly and then opening back up with light shining through them, and there are crinkles around his eyes, and he’s smiling so big, so real that the very tip of his tongue is visible through his teeth, making him look so unfairly like a kitten. That smile, the smile that others might make fun of...that’s Ilya’s favorite Shane smile. Because that’s Shane’s real smile.
They’re in the backyard with the team; Wyatt is nerding out about superheroes with Luca, Young and Holmberg are wrestling around in the grass, Bood, Dykstra and Barrett are barbequing burgers while Ilya “supervises” and Shane is talking with Harris, smiling.
Shane is smiling a real Shane smile, and Ilya can’t take his eyes off of him.
He watches his husband, taking in the breathtaking smile he cherishes so much, his own mouth forming a similar one.
“What are you looking at?” Shane asks him when their eyes meet, that beautiful real smile still in places as his eyes sparkle.
“You,” Ilya admits fondly, pulling his husband in for a kiss. “Always you.”