Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

F/M, M/M, Multi

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), IT (Movies - Muschietti)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble & Ilya Rozanov, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon/Ben Hanscom/Eddie Kaspbrak/Beverly Marsh/Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Connors (Heated Rivalry), Brad Hammersmith, Victor St. Simon, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Richie Tozier

Additional Tags:

Celebrities, Social Media, Coming Out As Poly, Gossip, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov Being an Asshole, Attempted Blackmail, Defiance, Coming Out, Phone Calls & Telephones, Misunderstandings, Referenced Hate Crimes, Comedian Richie Tozier, comedy show, Supportive Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers), Crossover

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-25 Words: 10,245 Chapters: 1/1

Don’t Let Fear Clown You

Summary

If Ilya had a nickel for each time a middle aged man came out to millions and changed everything, he’d have two nickels. Which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it’s happened twice.

Notes

This is probably as close to a social media au I will ever do. I love reading smau’s but it’s laughable how beyond me the whole coding thing is. I don’t think I could do it at gunpoint. So instead, have this!

I think you can probably read this without knowing the It movies canon. Though if you haven’t seen them you totally should, they’re among my favourite queer horror, alongside the Fear Street trilogy. The only plot point that doesn’t come up is everything that happens to Tozier&co is because of an eldritch horror fear inducing shapeshifter, but that doesn’t actually matter to this fic.

Shoutout to Mike Delamont, a favourite comedian of mine, who forces a Proclaimers 500 Miles singalong before each show to get the crowd enthusiastic and receptive. I didn’t take your song, but I’ve always loved the group singing.

They’re in the guest locker room when the tweet goes viral. They should be on the ice, practice officially starts in three minutes, but Samantha’s colic has Houston coming in a little late, and if they’re all a minute or two late to the ice Huey won’t get singled out by Coach. It’s therefore absent-ass Huey’s fault, everything that happens next. Because, sure, one or more of them would have found out about the tweet. Someone probably would have linked it in the groupchat. But Sebbins sees it now, he’s the first to see it, and he can’t help but release it into the wild that is the visitors locker room for all the Raiders to hear.

“Hunter in the summer, Tozier in the winter. Who’s coming out gay this spring? The fuckin’ Easter bunny?”

“Richie Tozier? The comedian?” Hammersmith clarifies. He’s got like five Netflix specials, the kind of shit you throw on as background noise for phone apps when bored on a roadie. He’s generic American comedian the way Jimmy Kimmel is generic Late Night host or Batman is generic superhero. Most of the room probably knows of him, even if Ilya is sure he isn’t alone in not finding most of his shit actually funny.

“Mr My Girlfriend Hates Pickles is gay? How the fuck do you know?” Of course it’s Mueller who knows specific bits of Tozier’s. And of course he sounds horrified by the idea. Like any other queer person, Ilya judges everyone in a given room based on how they’d react to the truth of his love. Mueller’s generally been found wanting at every turn.

“He just tweeted about it. And it’s more than that,” Sebbins replies.

Half the guys reach into the upper shelf of their locker to pull out their phones, but Sebbins is theatrical. Before anyone can see the evidence in front of their own eyes, he begins to read the post out loud.

“‘For the last decade I’ve been paying a ghost writer to make shitty jokes about a girlfriend I don’t have because it was safer than doing a set about the hookups who never turned into boyfriends. A weekend of about twenty seven near death experiences and falling in so much love it’s actually illegal has made me say F that noise. It’d be great if you wanted to check out my new comedy but honestly if you’re cool with the old stuff you can probably stay in the past with it. Tickets for my Gay Enough to Have a Girlfriend Tour go on sale today at 9am.’ And then there’s a bitly link.”

“What do you think he means, illegal? Gay marriage is legal here,” Cliff asks.

Just barely, Ilya doesn’t say. The Canadians have had it since 2005, and not in a way where one shitty president upturns it all. Hence his getting the fuck out at the end of the season. He’s going to miss his boys, but Canada is the place for him.

“Oh fuck, no way,” Connors gasps.

“What?” Tremblay asks, thumbs flying on his keyboard as he works to see what everyone else is. He rejects auto log in on every possible app, which is fine until he’s hammered at a bar and can’t use his phone and it becomes everyone else’s problem.

“The Stans have put it together already,” Sebbins explains to the guys not quite deep enough into what’s certainly a trending topic by now.

“It’s been like an hour!” Smedvik protests.

“Obsessed people need minutes, tops, buddy.” St Simon says. He doesn’t even have his phone out to follow the gossip. No point in wasting his time when Mona will want to tell him all about it when he gets home. He’s just been in the culture long enough to know how quickly fans can tear into something. He’s right, and it’s literally exactly why Ilya wants out. Too many people care about Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, Original Six rival Captains. Someone is going to figure something out one day, it’d be better if they were in a safe spot beforehand.

“Tozier had, like, a fuckin’ orgy last month.” Connors announces to the room. “The author Bill Denbrough-“

“Who?” Rambeau makes the mistake of asking.

“He’s this huge fuckin’ author, in every airport kiosk. Don’t you read, dipshit? Anyway, he filed for divorce with Audra fuckin’ Phillips last week. Hot ass A-list actress, everyone was wondering why. Guess we know why. Orgy hotel, baby!”

“It’s not an orgy if it’s only two people, idiot.”

“No shit, I was fucking getting there. There’s also receipts of Beverly M, the fashion designer who dressed Zendaya last awards. And this guy who’s apparently big shit in the custom luxury home business, some award winning architect.”

“Think Hollander’s stupid documentary house comes from him?” Mueller asks. Ilya courageously doesn’t punch him in the face for besmirching the honour of the cottage. A decade from now he’s going to retire there, and he’ll never have to listen to morons opinions of what’s stupid, or whipped, or faggy. All that’ll matter is what’s boring, and who’s the asshole.

“Tozier fell in love with three people after getting into a car crash or something?” Cliff attempts to sum up.

“Fucking apparently!” Smedvik scoffs.

“He said multiple near death experiences though? The fuck does that even mean?” Hammersmith asks.

“Is this the first ever famous polyamorous person?” Sebbins questions. Ilya doesn’t know that word, at least not in English, but by context he guesses it has to mean group fucking.

“I thought the angel guy from Supernatural had a wife and a girlfriend?” Cliff suggests.

“I’m sure there will be more. Whenever a celebrity does anything, people copy it.”

“Shit, maybe Hollander and Pike and Pike's wife will finally come out.” Abrams jokes, to the chuckle of a few. Ilya carefully locks down every part of him that wants to deck someone. Shayden will never be a thing, no matter what certain sections of the internet might think. #Hollandry and #Shayden aren’t important, they don’t matter because Ilya will always come first, even if no one knows. He knows. Shane knows.

Getting much deeper into the hashtag is interrupted by Huey crashing into the room, door slamming into a probably often repaired wall. Hockey players aren’t known for their restraint. Sammi will only stop screaming if he’s singing to her while Courtney walks her around their first floor. They have recordings of him singing for roadies, but Courtney having to do it alone is bad for their relationship, so Huey’s been in a state of constant FaceTiming for the last month. Ilya loves babies as much as the next guy, but colic seems as exhausting as summers in Russia.

“Everything okay, man?” Hammersmith asks.

“Yeah. Fuck, yeah,” Huey sighs, rubbing his hands over his face. “Can sleep when I retire, yeah?”

“And a nap post playoffs, too,” Carmichael jokes. He slaps a hand on his shoulder and steers him in the direction of the bank of visitor lockers. “Come on, gear up. LeClaire’s gonna start tearing strips off.”

By the time practise is over, Tremblay is quick to announce that #Tozierpoly has ballooned to seven. Tozier himself, the one fashion designer, and not just architect Ben and author Bill, but five men. Mike is the librarian in this small town a bunch of famous people got kinky and romantic in. Eddie also almost seems boring, except every one of his tweets is a hilarious rant. Ilya wants to see him on the ice just so he can chirp him and watch him explode. The most non-descript of all, Ilya has no idea how the Stans first found him, a man actually named Stan tweeting ‘there’s a full multiple minute bit about how lame birdwatching is. My boyfriend is an asshole.’

And as ludicrous as it all sounds, none of them are denying it. Christ, the most vocal of them is putting on a twenty city tour about it. It’s quite possibly the biggest coming out ever, and it’s from a guy who tells dirty jokes to fratbros on Netflix. Or at least he did. Hard to imagine the sponsors aren’t reeling over this. Straight raunchy lying dickhead is an easier demographic than bisexual raunchy honest dickhead.

Ilya constantly flips between Cliff and Connors as his roadie roommate. Technically as Captain he doesn’t need to, but he doesn’t do well alone. It’s easier to get up in the morning to the noise of someone getting up beside him. It’s Connors today, which is unfortunate. Cliff can hold his own when it comes to gossip, but Connors lives on his phone. On a day like today, that means endless refreshing of relevant hashtags, with occasional outsourcing to Reddit. Ilya had thought things went crazy after Hunter came out, but not everyone cares about hockey, and also Kip’s an innocent duck, no skeletons in his closet. The more people dig into this, the crazier it gets. Before everything merges to #Tozierpoly, #27neardeathexperiences is full of information dug up by the world’s best doxxers, all of which Connors is captivated by.

In the hours leading up to the game, powernap easily abandoned for entertainment, Ilya gets each piece of information twice. Once in an exclamation

-Eddie got stabbed in the face that weekend. Not ‘I will stab you in the face if you don’t shut up’, but actually stabbed. Needed nine stitches. Someone leaked the hospital record.

-Oh my god! A man was found hatcheted in the head in Mike’s library that weekend!

-The man was Henry Bowers, found criminally insane from the tv telling him to kill his dad when he was thirteen, he escaped from the asylum that weekend!

-There was a giant sinkhole that just opened up in the middle of some suburban street.

-Like three kids are still missing. They’re not sure what Bowers did to any or all of them

as Connors finds out a new tidbit he didn’t have before. He deals with the shock the same way each time, a gasp and twisting on his queen bed to try to make eye contact Ilya mostly refuses. Then immediately repeated in text format, the man retyping it into the groupchat for those willing to take on gossip but disinterested enough to not follow the hashtags themselves. Ilya doesn’t comment much. The whole thing just seems fucked. Tozier might be a weirdo with the least developed sense of jealousy he’s ever met, but Ilya can’t imagine wanting to go through a single one of the Derry experiences with his lover, never mind endure it all. Shane’s too beautiful for all of that.

With all the texts the group chat is sending he almost misses the notification. It’s a text from Alexei. It’s a random number, his brother’s long since blocked. But it’s an international area code, a Russian area code, and with the content it can only be one man.

20 000 or the MLH knows about Nikolai. Where will your fame and money and noteriety be then, fucker?

Ilya hasn’t thought about Nikolai in a long time. Sasha comes up every now and then, Sveta relaying news or the man himself sending a drugged up text from the middle of a party, but Nikolai’s been regulated to the past for a long time now. That shitty time between being drafted and being able to prove himself, pressure with no release valve. Only a few things could ease the itch under his skin, one of them being Sveta and her boyfriend at the time. Nikolai was funny. He was smart. He was a great pool player. And unlike Sasha he refused to get fucked, but he was a top tier dicksucker.

Time with them was a good way to fill his weary days and nights. Mostly out at a club or in one of the wings of the Vetrov house, but on occasion adding warmth and comfort to a room of the normally sharply frozen Rozanov estate. Then Ilya was finally able to escape Moscow for Boston, trade in envious inferior teammates for being beside men worth being paid millions, and someway into the season he learned by text Sveta’d broken up with him. Ilya’d eaten her out in commiseration the next time she’d flown into Boston, and never given it a second thought. It’s not like there was ever a question of his loyalties being split. Sveta always has been and always will be the most important person in his life, Shane pulling himself into an equal spot over the years.

Ilya lays on the bed, polyester quilt top sticking to his skin as his bare back begins to sweat. How long has Alexei had this piece of ammunition in his belt? If he’d known since it happened, surely he would have said something by now. Ilya’s known Alexei suspects for a long time. It disgusts him to have him as a brother, Alexei’s never hidden that. But he and Sasha never got caught, despite their adrenaline junkie sex, and up until now Ilya would have been sure Alexei didn’t specifically know about Nikolai either. But the alternative is Alexei just finding out recently, and in what fucking world would Nikolai have just told him something so damning?

Shane would want him to send the money. It’s a lot, but compared to his annual salary it’d be fine. An easy bargain, for safety.

Sveta would want him to send the money. It’s the price of keeping the door to Russia open, whether or not he ever sees home again.

Ilya’s not sending the money. He could, and he should, but he can’t. Alexei’s gotten a lot out of him over the years, money and blood and a punching bag, but he doesn’t get his shame.

With forty minutes until they need to be on the bus, Ilya yanks on a tank top and stalks out of 417. Ilya’s spent a lot of time in O shaped hotels like this, and it only takes a bit of time to find one of those corner alcoves that often have a decorative vase, or a statue, but just as frequently hold a armchair or loveseat upholstered to compliment the hallway carpet. His back is to the wall, and he can see the full length of the hallway in both directions. It’s as much privacy as he’s going to get at this point, since he doesn’t have a good excuse to kick Connors out of their room.

Sitting stiffly, a sentry to Shane’s privacy, Ilya presses the button to call Jane. The current time difference makes it a sure thing he’ll answer.

“Hi. Wasn’t expecting you to call before the game, but hi,” Shane says the moment he picks up.

“Shane, I think I will come out to the team.” It’s not a lie. It’s strategy. He has to explain it like this. Shane will panic if he knows it’s nonconsensual. He’ll panic more if he knows how big this is about to be. Better to introduce the disaster in steps.

“What?” He asks, flabbergasted.

“Soon, I think.” He can’t know when Alexei will realise Ilya isn’t paying and release the information but he has to presume it’ll be within the week. Alexei’s never been known for patience.

“But why? We have a plan.”

“I know. And is a good plan. Yuna approved.” Except for the part where she thinks it’s sad. And it is. Oh, it is. It’s just even sadder to not be able to follow it to a T. “We will still do all of it. PR. Ottawa. Hockey camp. I will just do it with team knowing.”

“In a few months they won’t even be your team.” Shane protests. His tone is as flat as ever, but Ilya knows just how much he hates the idea. Unfortunately it’s the only soul saving option in a sea of bad outcomes.

“True. But they’ll still be my friends. And maybe I tell Centaurs, if they deserve it. We will see.” It’ll be taken out of his hands by then, but Ilya’d like to hope they won’t all be assholes about it. They have a Pride night, at least. “But Marly and Seb and Hammer should know. Not about us. I will not mention you. Just me.”

Out of all his team, his brilliant, bloodthirsty Raiders, there are a handful Ilya wants to know first. Know as a choice, instead of just being the next hashtag. Cliff and Connors, obviously. Saint Vic. Hammy. Ilya loves his team, but there are a few guys who just have his back. Seb will too, but he’ll also make a great first wave defender on Twitter, post info-bomb, angry and loyal enough to reply to each homophobic comment.

“I-“

“You will be safe. And I’ll be happy.”

Fuck, will he be? He can’t imagine this is going to be a good time. But privacy is the last fucking thing Alexei is going to take from him. He doesn’t get to take Ilya’s future with Shane, happy together.

“You really think you need to do this? It hasn’t been all sunshine and roses for Scott Hunter.”

“Am not expecting sunshine and roses.”

“Fuck. Fuck.” Shane curses particularly hard. “Okay. Ilya, I love you, and if this- Okay. We can adjust.”

“Yes. Adjust. There is still a plan, we will still follow it,” Ilya attempts to soothe.

“How are you going to do it? Tell Marlow and Sebbins and Hammersmith?” Shane sounds like he’s got a gun to his head as he asks.

“I don’t know. Go out for drinks, probably. Tell them when they’re drunk and happy.”

“In public?”

“Shane. Is going to be very public. Am going to kick Scott Hunter’s ancient ass in coolest queer.”

Too late Ilya realises it was the wrong thing to say. He’d thought a classic chirp against their mutual quasi-enemy might lighten the mood. Cause a quirk of a smile for just a moment. But he’s gone against his earlier set up of the situation, and with Shane so edgy he’s picked up on it immediately. “I thought you said the team. You want to tell the public?”

“Not right away. But it’ll leak. Inevitable.” He can keep this corralled to friends for a few days, but Alexei will make it known. There’s no choice in this.

“I- I need- to be not having this conversation right now.”

“Shane.”

“I’m not running away. I’m not ghosting you. We’re still together, I still love you. But I can’t have this conversation anymore.” It’s a series of choppy sentences, Shane speaking through panicked lungs, and then the tone of being hung up on.

Ilya wants to call him back. With every inch of him, he wants to type in the long since memorized number. But Shane needs time to process. If Ilya was in Montreal he might be able to help, clutch the back of Shane’s neck or put heavy pressure on his back. Trying to make him talk more will have the opposite effect. Hurt, not comfort. And what is he supposed to say, anyway? Everything boils down to Shane pleading why, and either Ilya claims this as a personal selfishness or he admits that Alexei is out to ruin him, with a single safety hatch he’s refusing to grab a hold of.

Ilya cuts it close for bus callout. He dashes back to change into his suit. It’s a pain in the ass, but not worth the fine. He makes sure, too, to push his ear buds into his ears as he steps into the elevator. He doesn’t pick a song on his phone. He doesn’t want Daft Punk or Muse or MSTRKRFT. He wants the team to not talk to him. At least not until he figures out who he is going to preemptively tell, and how.

Being nearly the last on the bus, he gets a few greetings and head nods, none of which he returns before crashing into an empty seat near the back. He gets nothing more than that, most of the team are already having a discussion. Sluts for gossip, all of them, they’re still gnawing on Tozier’s whole thing. Well, on the sole woman.

“Beverly has a restraining order on her ex-husband,” Ilya can hear Smedvik say from the pair of seats in front of him.

“Well considering one of her boyfriends Lizzie Bordened a man, I think she’ll be okay,” Abrams replies.

“You think it was Mike who did it?” Sebbins asks.

“Who else could it have been?” Smedvik says.

“Nah. Just ‘cause it happened in the library doesn’t mean he was in there at the time,” Cliff plays devil’s advocate.

“Okay, but how likely is that?” Smedvik pushes back.

Ilya pulls his phone out of his pocket with pinched fingers and puts Crystal Castles on randomize. The screeching electronica burns through his ears, making it easier to ignore the amateur detectives for the ride to the arena.

Not that it matters. Despite all the rituals his fantastic team has to lock into to really destroy Colorado as they deserve, nobody shuts the fuck up about it. Ilya can only keep his headphones in for so long before it becomes suspicious, not something the Captain usually does. He’s already trying to balance multiple crushing emotional blows, he doesn’t need Cliff or Connors asking what’s wrong. Unfortunately without the distracting intrigue of ‘what’s up with Cap’, that leaves Connors sucking on his mandatory fruit punch Gatorade, refreshing Twitter for the billionth time.

“Oh, there’s a new associated hashtag,” Connors tells the room.

“Buddy, have you been obsessed with this all day long?” Rambeau asks. Ilya doesn’t know how he missed it on the bus. Maybe he was blasting music too.

“Yes,” Ilya says flatly.

“Oh, has Tozier converted you?”

“Hey chucklefuck, that’s not how being bi works,” Cliff growls.

With Ilya safely in the closet, Cliff’s lesbian niece Lyndsay is the closest the Raiders get to Pride or allyship. But the guys have been cool about her for years before Hunter came out. It doesn’t surprise Ilya that Hammer backtracks to say, “no, I meant the poly thing. Connors could have three girlfriends, or he thinks he could.”

“Three girls to piss off on Valentines, you mean?”

“Hey, how was Connors to know a frying pan is a bad romantic gift?” Huey snickers, husband long enough to know the need for sweet gestures over practical ones.

“Justice4Adrian.” Connors shouts out, attempting to get the attention back on him.

“Who’s that? An eighth lover just found? Justice for the crime of being left out of the public eye a whole six hours? The black sheep boyfriend.” Abrams jokes.

“Oh shit. Naw, it’s fucked,” Seb says, phone pulled out after Connors’ first word.

“Jesus, more shit?”

Sebbins nods. “The same weekend Tozier’s whole shit was happening in Derry, a man was hatecrimed. They beat Adrian up in front of his boyfriend, stole his inhaler, and pushed him off a bridge into a river. His body was never discovered. No suspects. His boyfriend is hoping the interest of strangers will put pressure on the Derry police to try harder. Or at all, it implies.”

“What the fuck?”

“I’ll tweet it, is it a number four, or spelled out?”

“Christ, imagine being in your hometown for a queer date and hearing that someone’s gotten gay murdered. Gotta be fucking scary.”

The cynical humorist in Ilya wants to joke that as a queer Russian you get used to the idea of fucking your best friend on the roof while somewhere in the neighbourhood someone’s being arrested for the same crime. He’s not going to though. It’s an extremely bleak way of coming out, and he doesn’t want it. Bad enough his dickbag exbrother is going to force it. Ilya wants at least one or two chill coming outs with people he’s certain won’t freak out before the whole world knows and is tweeting about how miserable he must be.

Ilya pulls himself together well enough for the game. Only one goal, a messy shove-in off a rebound from the goalie's skate but the Raiders win 3 to 1, so it’s acceptable. He tells each of his men he loves them with a fist bump or shoulder clap as they file through the players tunnel, and tries not to get sick at the idea that by next week he might be risking disgust or a beating by saying it.

Sebbins is the first to mention tickets in the group chat that Ilya still isn’t skimming, still doesn’t need to as Connors announces it all out loud from the bed across the room, discarded room service plates on the ends of their queen mattresses. Six of the seven went to the same high school, and Beverly’s dad is in prison for serial child abuse, apparently. The Raiders are supposed to be going home tomorrow morning, a day off before a short run up the East coast, but according to Connors Seb’s not flying home with the team, instead flying to Philly for the opener of Tozier’s tour. Sebbins is the kind of man who cranes his neck at a train wreck, so of course he has to go to the opener.

Except the more Ilya thinks about it, the more he wants to follow suit. Ilya never got the way the Admirals presales went up, after. Sure Cup night was a spectacle, but how often did fans expect to see men kissing? Admirals are very boring hockey, people shouldn’t be paying to suffer through it. Now, however, it makes sense. There’s no way to tell Tozier good job being brave to his face, but he can buy a ticket to prove his career’s not dead. He can sit in the crowd and be a stat showing a shifting fanbase doesn’t mean a loss of demographic. It’s the best support he’s got. And it’s a good screener. If his teammates can’t be okay with queer comedy, they’re sure the fuck not going to be okay with him.

He buys five tickets, then launches a groupchat for himself, Connors, Cliff, Hammer, and St. Simon. Connors mutters something like really? I’m in the room, but still says hey in the chat. Unlike Sebbins spending a free day in Philly, Tozier does his set at eight pm in New York when the Raiders have an afternoon game against the Brooklyn Scouts, and according to Sainty it’s as good of a place to get drinks as a nightclub. They all agree without much argument, and Ilya is past the first hurdle. They’re not revolted by the idea of being in a very actively gay man’s presence. It’s a low bar, but one Ilya knows many can’t clear.

The game against Brooklyn is a shut out, 4-0. A month ago Garland went on IR with a torn MCL, and moving Franz from second line to first has destabilized everything. The Scouts barely make any shots on goal, and Tremblay quickly deals with the few chances they take. It puts everyone in a good mood as they leave the arena, and it lingers as their group share two Ubers a few hours later, except in Ilya, of course, who wants to throw up and throw a punch in equal measure. Unless he chickens out the clock is ticking towards his truth telling, and to be real it is regardless. Alexei’s not going to hold back acting out his revenge for much longer.

For all that Tozier is taking a gamble on his old fans liking his new ultra woke set, the theatre he’s performing in tonight in no way hedges his bet. Ilya doesn’t care enough to google it, but by eye alone building capacity must be a few thousand. It’s not sports arena capacity, not Raiders capacity, but it’s as many as any big name performance, like Tozier’s certain he’s going to fill those seats. It’s probably helpful that it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t. Even a purely in the red, no profit margin tour doesn’t matter. Not with seven incomes in one household. Especially not when an A-List fashion designer and an architect to the stars and an airport paperback author all contribute. It’s definitely a multi-millionaire household.

The lobby is teeming by the time they enter, Cliff beside him and Connors, Hammy and Vic fanning out behind them. Tozier’s attracted a very diverse crowd, ranging from frat bros in backwards hats slamming rum and cokes to purpled haired enbys in patched jackets sipping wine to a silver haired bulldyke balancing six cups of beer in her tattooed hands. What all the fans seem have in common is the urge to drink, there are two bars on opposing sides of the lobby and probably a hundred in each snaking line. The ticket scanner encourages them to head straight for the exclusive second floor bar, and Ilya can’t think of anything better. The vodka is still going to be shit, even in the VIP bar, but it might be better than the well garbage the first floor will peddle. He needs a drink, and he needs his boys to start drinking.

“You invite us out, you pay first round?” Connors asks, as they line up behind all the other finely dressed patrons willing to spend an extra hundred bucks a ticket.

Ilya rolls his eyes judgementally. It’s not like any of his millionaire teammates need to be spotted a ten dollar beer. But if that’s what it takes to get them lubricated, whatever. “First, not all. Am I clear?”

“You planning on a bakers dozen of rounds?” Vic asks. He’s a pretty solid drinker himself, there’s no castigation in his question. More like an attempt to calibrate the group vibe for a better idea of a personal limit.

“Might need it. Depends on if being gay makes him funny now or not.” Ilya shrugs.

“If you don’t think he’s funny why are we here?” Connors asks, like he’s not here for the legacy of the story just like Sebbins in Philly.

“Rozy just wants tips for how to turn all the one night club girls into a sexy harem,” Hammer answers.

“Nah, dude. From what I’ve seen polyamory is for bisexuals only,” Cliff refutes.

It’s a perfect segue, even if Ilya is devoutly monogamous with Shane. But it’s too early. They’re not even drunk yet. Literally not a single drop has touched any of their lips, unless they pregamed in the hotel. He can’t do it. Not like this.

“Is like fourth time you accuse someone else of being poly, Hammy. You and Tara want to announce something?” Ilya shifts the conversation.

“Fuck off, Roz.”

From the VIP seats it’s easy to see the entire stage. It’s clear Tozier doesn’t do any prop work, the stage is void of anything but a mic stand and a lone sitting apparatus. Every other comic Ilya’s ever seen, live or through clips on Insta, makes do with a high legged stool. Tozier’s got a squishy looking ottoman. The back wall is currently a busy screensaver, orange and yellow and purple geometric shapes with Tozier at the top in massive letters. In past shows it’d display occasional screen grabs of now obviously made up women so he could mock their upset. Maybe they’ll be in for round two of the same, just gayer now. Tozier reading people to filth, crazy Grindr propositions and neurotic hookups and baffling fetishy sexts. Or maybe he has other things to reference, or he’s developed prerecorded skits, or animations of bits to play. He could be all sorts of creative men under the ghostwriting facade.

“Give it up for Trashmouth Tozier!”

Ilya gives a bit of applause but nothing excessive. He doesn’t know if the comedy is worth it yet.

Tozier strides onto stage in clothing no one could ever accuse him of hiring a stylist to execute. The bottoms are the best of it, just an incredibly basic pair of jeans, probably thirty bucks from Walmart. Unfortunately Ilya’s eye is drawn to Tozier’s upper half, where a dandelion yellow long sleeved shirt is only being partially concealed by an unbuttoned shirt. It’s teal, with a white airplane print, that makes an eye searing contrast to the long sleeve. His glasses are thick like he’s never left the eighties, the carved wood pendant looks like it was upsold to him as a tourist, and his hair is ruffled in a way that suggests giving head backstage. In almost any other career it’d be a bad look, unprofessional as fuck, but lucky for Tozier he’s in a line of work that doesn’t give a shit about personal appearance as long as you’re funny. Hopefully he’ll do a better job of that this time around.

Tozier doesn’t beat around the bush. From the moment the microphone is off the stand and nestled in his hand, his set begins. No ‘how we feeling tonight’ measure of the crowd, no gratitude for fans willing to try new material. Just a thrown out, “Now, I know the first thing a lot of you are thinking,” with a pause just long enough to tug on a thread of anticipation. What does Richie Trashmouth Tozier think his audience is thinking? That it launches straight into something sexual isn’t unexpected. Everyone is a pervert, people like him just capitalize on it.

“Wow, does Bev just let six middle aged dudes run a train on her every night?” Tozier pretends to quote, voice pitched differently to mock the speculating masses. “And the answer is, fuck, no. Don't be stupid. Do I look that generous?”

Ilya snorts, as does most of the crowd.

“No, really really think about it. Has a single soul looked at all this,” Tozier uses the round of the microphone to do a quick gesture up and down his body, “my alcoholic uncle just raided his butch niece’s closet at Thanksgiving body, and my Before shot of Before and After LASIK face and thought ‘now that is a compassionate, generous person’?”

A rude chuckle erupts throughout the audience. The button down over the shirt does give off a bit of a nerdy dirtbag vibe, even if Tozier is handsome enough to have had famefuckers over the years. Come to think of it, though, how much of that was real and how much were paid accounts? It’s not a big leap to make, if ghostwriting was already in place.

“There will be no trains for Bev! Not when Bottom Bitch Station has just been constructed.”

This laugh is sharper. There’s a stigma attached to bottoming vs topping, and everyone in the audience is reacting to it in their own way. From the past act fans wincing at the admission of this man’s man submitting to such a thing, to the girls who found out about this whole thing from Tumblr cheerfully taking notes for RPF headcanons, to long time queers slotting truths into their heads, everyone across Tozier’s diverse base has a different comic reaction. Ilya’s own is a mix of the humour of imagining Shane’s horror if he ever referred to him as a Bottom Bitch Station, and the sheer relief of Cliff guffawing on his right as the other guys also take the explicit queerness well.

“And who amongst you noticed I didn’t go for the low hanging fruit of ‘erecting’ my station? At the sound of more than one woman ‘whoooing’, Tozier shakes his head. “Nuh uh. Only half you whooers picked it up, at best, be honest. Nobody likes a liar… he says like a massive fuckin’ rocking-the-PrEP-and-NDA-combo hypocrite.”

After giving the audience a moment to chuckle at the self-incrimination, Tozier keeps going. “Because my sweet Ben, he’s an architect, and let me tell you, folx- and closed captioning workers, please spell that with a gender neutral x, so my writer boyfriend wants to kill me a little more. Eight more stamps on my You’re Destroying The English Language card and I get a free spanking, mmm.”

It’s a revelation that prompts laughs and racy screams throughout the audience. Ilya’s sure it’s not Tozier’s first spanking joke over the years, but it’s probably the first honest one.

“Oh shit, gotta focus, where was I?” Tozier shakes his head like he’s physically dislodging the mental image of Bill Denbrough bending him over a dresser, then proceeds to not focus at all. “Honestly, Eds would be so shocked I’m not chucking in a ‘where was I? In your mom’ joke. I spent the prime years of my teen life terrorizing him with that shit. Hottest little rage volcano you’ve ever seen in your life.”

As someone intimately involved with a man who calls him an asshole like it’s on his birth certificate, Ilya both begs to differ on the rankings, and yet totally gets it. For years he and Shane communicated almost solely through ragebaiting and sexting. He can imagine the joy coming from having that in person, in daily contact, not just long distance.

“But really, where? Oh yeah! Low hanging fruit. You guys. You guys,” Tozier repeats, voice full, dropping to sit on the edge of the ottoman like he’s collapsing under the heavy weight of attraction. “You have no idea how sexually fulfilling boring ass shit can be until you date a nerd at the top of their field. I don’t need to giggle at erecting a building, baby, talk to me about zoning law and fenestration ‘til I come. I’ll graphite your blueprints, sugarlump.”

He’s not wrong. Ilya loves hockey, but Shane lives for it, and his no holds barred analysis of every team in the league constantly makes Ilya want to suck his dick. And he’s not alone. Well, in sucking Hollander’s dick, yes, unless Vic or Cliff’s got a secret crush Ilya has to murder a teammate over. But Smedvik’s girlfriend Quinn is like a professional composter, she helps food rot for a living. It’s literally goddamn rancid. And yet Smeddy and Quinn have garden sex all the time, everyone’s heard all about it in the locker room. Honestly, there’s probably not a square inch of grass they haven’t fucked on. Everyone’s boring, you just have to find someone whose boring you like.

Within the first ten minutes Ilya already knows it’s a better show than any of the old specials. It’s not that Tozier’s no longer a dirty-mouthed sexual pervert. Turns out the Trashmouth nickname is earned, whether the set is from ghostwriters or original work. It’s that now that Tozier’s bits are about real people in his actual life instead of imaginary women built to be the punchline, he doesn’t sound like he fucking hates them. His filthy comedy bits about Mike’s vegetarianism and Bill’s midlife crisis motorcycle and being cucked for Stan’s puzzles have equal parts self deprecation and joy. There's nothing in them that rubs Ilya the wrong way. If any streaming network deigns to buy this, he could watch it with Sveta without wanting to fucking apologize.

“Humanity was built on storytelling,” Tozier proclaims after a gulp of not professional and logical water, not professionally specific beer, but grape soda. “Not just the published authors, though God bless my man Bill spending his life hunched over a keyboard to the extent that when he arches back mid-O I’m afraid I’ll hear a cracking noise. One day there’s going to be a very embarrassing nine one one call, and follow up six weeks of physiotherapy.”

Beside him, Connors elbows Vic with a snort and gets a palm shoving his jeering face nearly into Cliff in reply. St Simon once got carpet burn on his ass so bad he could barely sit on the bus, and every Raider knows it. It’s lore, at this point, Sainty’s sex injury, like everyone knowing Mueller once ate so many coffee grounds during a newly launched diet that he shit himself or that Khern once slept outside on the grass in terror because a bat got into his house and he couldn’t capture it.

“But who hasn’t listened to a buddy after work? Who hasn’t heard some three year old babble about something and been like-“ Tozier squats to look the imaginary child in the face, “that was fucking incomphrensible, tiny friend, but I can tell you love it desperately, and you go!”

Ilya misses playing with Oksana, bigger and cleverer and funnier each summer he returned. Giving Svetlana toys to give to her isn’t remotely the same, just a way to placate himself about never truly being in her life again. It might be the thing he’s most looking forward to, starting camps with Shane, the opportunity to hang out with cute tiny children. On skates, even.

Tozier heaves himself up from the awkward squat, not half as limber as anyone else Ilya knows, and continues. “It’s how we learned centuries before writing became a thing. Just fuckin’ talking. Which brings me to my next point. So what I doubt any of you Trashers guessed while watching me recite my dumbass scripts is I actually love crowdwork. People are so fucking dumb and crazy and slutty. All of which I mean as compliments, let’s be clear. Who among us has not let drool soak the collar of their shirt while messily sucking off a himbo?”

Ilya wouldn’t quite classify Shane as a himbo. He’s utterly brilliant as long as the knowledge is in his wheelhouse. But he can tip his hat to the enjoyment of making him dumb with horniness and submission and trying to get him to talk then. Sucking the dick of sex-stupid Shane is a fucking delight.

“Who among us has not meticulously followed the rules of their clinically OCD diagnosed lover to get a handjob while not stressing them out?”

Okay, oddly relatable. Ilya will let Shane fold his clothes prior to sex every day for the rest of his life, if he needs to.

“And do I really need to proclaim the virtues of slutty behaviour? I’m dating six people!” Tozier yells, just far enough from the mic to not spike feedback into everyone’s ears. “Beside the fact that I love them, and would allegedly kill for them, there’s the pure euphoric fact that sex comes to you in all directions. And yes, that’s a pun, Billy-boy, suffer.”

Ilya agrees wholeheartedly with that too. The phone sex has been daily since having to leave the cottage, and it’s better than any club fuck with the hottest stranger has ever been. He’s always been high libedo, lucky enough to have best friends and fans who vibe with it, but Shane can be a subby sex demon and Ilya loves him. He never wants anything else.

“So with that in mind, be right back,” Tozier announces. And then he places the mic back in the mic stand and walks off the stage.

It’s not meant to be an encore. Ilya figures that out immediately. Ilya’s been to enough concerts in his life to be familiar with the lights crashing down as the band exits, with cheering and screaming until the musicians egos are stroked enough that they’ll come back for three or four more songs. The lights barely dim, no techs come to fiddle with anything on stage. But the geometric print background turns black with pulsating white lighting crackling across it, and bold white lyrics flash on the screen as a song begins to play. Starry nights, city lights coming down over me. It’s Greenday, Ilya’s pretty sure. Not his genre, but the locker room has a pretty friendly aux cord rotation, and Smedvik is into all those pop punk bands.

The crowd starts to sing along with the offered lyrics. Ssparsely at first, and near the end everyone in the theatre. They’re easy, an endless loop of ‘are we, we are, are we, we are the waiting unknown’. It’s a longer phrase than most rink-side chants, but the energy is the same. Cliff, who always appreciates a good celly, is really busting it out beside him.

Ilya hears it before he sees it. All the other VIPs reacting. He twists a little and the reason comes into view. Tozier is walking down the aisle, camera guy following him, boom mic guy carefully out of the shot. And then he stops. Maybe it’s just because he’s conveniently in an aisle seat. Maybe it’s because he’s wildly photogenic and will look good on film. Whatever the reason, Tozier doesn’t just stop in front of Ilya, he leans against the seat in front of him. Really settles in.

“The wait is over, you will be known,” Tozier announces as the song fades, the lyrics disappear, and the screen switches to a live feed so the whole audience can enjoy what the man they’ve paid to see is doing. No one fucking asked Ilya if he wanted to be on camera, but there was probably something in the TicketMaster conditions he clicked accept on without reading. Even Yuna couldn’t get him out of this now. “See, I’ve decided to take my under the microscope crowd work to the VIP section. Us rich fuckers always think we can get away with shit. Well, I have three questions. Who are you, why should I care, and which of my fantastic boyfriends or token girlfriend do you most want to bone? And do not say Bev because she’s a woman, that is so boring of you.”

“We’re the fuckin’ Boston Raiders, ba-bee! 2014 Stanley Cup winners, whoot whoot!” Connors hollers, causing a ripple of cheering through their drink draining group. “And that’s Ilya fuckin’ Rozanov! Best centre in the fucking league!”

“Oh my god!” Someone in the crowd shrieks as the cameraman focuses in on their group. They’re either a Raiders fan, or an Admirals diehard who wants them all dead.

“Oh, a millionaire with a job. Rare,” Tozier singsongs.

It’s safe to answer this. His boys won’t pick up on it as a clue until they have more context later and by the time the Netflix subscribers see this no one will be surprised.

“Eddie,” Ilya throws back, quickly enough that no one should have been able to tell he had to analyze the situation first.

Tozier tilts his head. “Oh yeah? Do go on about my favourite headcase.”

“I have seen Twitter. He is always mad. It is, uh, primary mode.” Ilya shrugs. “Love blowjobs from someone who is mad at me.”

While seconds ago Tozier was calm and curious, he’s now incredibly eager. “Oh my god, I know, right? It’s always ‘you’re gonna give him an aneurysm’ this and ‘can you chill for five seconds’ that, but there is just something about getting tackled and you don’t know if he’s about to give a handjob or rip your balls clean off. The rest of the Losers don’t get it, but I knew I’d find my freaks in the crowd!”

“He’s the MLH’s favourite ragebaiter, eight years running!” Connors hypes.

“Truly, it’s a different flavour course, but absolutely deserving of a place on the menu. Especially when it’s Eds. It's better when they love you underneath hating you. Or at least you make them love you by the end of the sex.”

“Yes. I can do this. Don’t see it for you,” Ilya chirps. Honestly Tozier’s lovers probably deeply love him, and are secure in it, otherwise this whole public thing wouldn’t have happened. But this is a comedy show, albeit one more pleasant than he was expecting. Heartfelt isn’t the vibe.

“Damn, ouch,” Tozier jokes back, clutching at his chest. “Which brings me to my next segment.” He holds his hand out to the boom mic guy, who yanks something out of a bulging cargo pant pocket and gives it to the comedian. “Welcome to therapy hour. For reasons best left unsaid, I need you to come up with the most foul insult. Shake it to the core,” Tozier requests, shaking the crocheted clown doll in Ilya’s face.

Ilya frowns. He has a reputation to protect, and not enough information. “All of my chirps are player specific. I know nothing of this creepy doll.”

“Oh, yeah. Forgot for a second that a major component of your career is throwing shade.”

“Like drag queens?” Marley mutters beside him, potentially quiet enough to not be picked up by the mic. If it is, he’s gonna have a lot of tweets about exactly what reality tv he’s into.

“Never mind the skating and the goal making, you get paid to get in coworkers heads. Fuckin’ love that shit. Wouldn’t it be the best if other careers had that? Secretary Rita telling secretary Hannah her stapling is catastrophically below par. Mechanic Steve telling mechanic Larry he strips bolts like his mom strips on the pole. Like The Purge, but for cunts.” Richie pauses for the laugh then clarifies, “and by that I mean serving, not shit talking women. I’m a disastrously chaotic gay man, I’m allowed to reclaim cunt.”

As a disastrously chaotic bisexual man, Ilya knows Sveta would kick him down a mineshaft if he ever called her a cunt, but he understands the lack of malice. Despite previous illusions, Richie Tozier is not some sad, angry fuckbag of a man. He’s a queer ragebaiter, and of course he would be up for sponsoring a chirping award next MLH awards.

“Well, we’re all losers here. All deserve to be served about something. Gimme a career regret, Ilya fuckin’ Rozanov of the Stanley Cup winning Raiders. Don’t have to dumb it down if it’s some technical hockey thing. It’ll give the Reddit nerds something to mansplain.”

With a career as long as his, there are a handful of distinct moments. The missed pass in game four of the 2015 conference final. The whiffed penalty shot against fucking Greene in their 2017 series against Seattle. The fumbled shot in overtime against Sweden that led to the turnover that gave them the winning goal in 2007. Thing is, Ilya’s spent the last few days counting the minutes until he exerts just a bit of control over his fate, to tell Cliff and Connors and Vic and Hammer before the rest of the world knows. Maybe he should have been thinking bigger. Maybe it’s time to pull a Tozier and be ridiculously honest in public. Technically Hunter did it first, but it feels better to say Tozier. Bitchy, slutty, messy Tozier has better vibes than the responsible boy-next-door dinosaur.

“Bombed 2014 Olympics. Lost to Latvia. It was-“

Richie nods dramatically. “A travesty, yes, of course. Very relatable upset. We all know the feeling. Becky at work complains about Lativa’s superior data processing output all the time. Latvia definitely has higher patient satisfaction than nurse Jason. Theo from sales-“

Having a feeling that Tozier could riff for a while, Ilya cuts him off. “This year Russia is banned from playing.”

“Right, yes, I heard about that. Too many drugs, and not the kind that have you tripping balls while staring at a basket.”

Ilya doesn’t understand the reference, but assumes it’s a bit from a previous show. Trashmouth Tozier definitely has at least one bit about a hallucinogenic trip gone bad. “Cannot go, cannot clear the air of failure and fix my reputation.”

“Well, there’s always 2022. I know that’s forever in athletic years, but your dusty ass could probably make it there.”

Ilya shakes his head. Time to commit. “I have a fiancé.”

As the other boys gasp, Cliff twists towards him and mouths Jane? Ilya can appreciate his commitment to not being picked up by the mic, but the fangirl lip readers will know it hours after this airs. At least he didn’t say the full Montreal Jane. It might be one extra layer of protection for the magnifying glass that’s about to hit his life.

“Okay, and they keep you on a leash that means no foreign competitions? Weird limit, but okay. I’ve heard weirder.”

“I am bisexual, and I have a fiancé. By 2022 we’ll be first husbands of hockey and I will be murdered if I go on Russian ice.” Ilya keeps his face impassive. It’s being broadcast to every seat in the house and he’s not about to let them see him quiver. That’s the entire point of this whole fucking event.

There’s a general cheer for gay rights or existence or whatever. Essentially what you’d expect, coming out at a queer comedy show. The audience is biased. This will all go down very differently in hockey spaces.

But maybe not all of them. Maybe not in his room, beyond Mueller, and who gives a shit about that third line putz anyway? Roz hasn’t, historically, has never extended a specific invitation beyond team wide bar time, like he has with his guys. Are they still his guys? Are they revolted? They don’t seem to be. Cliff isn’t recoiling, no one is jumping to their feet to get away from him or punch him. Still, he takes it with a grain of salt. They're on camera, still, and even the most impulsive man on the team has enough media training to not deck the Captain for his perversions while being filmed for streaming television. They’re not Toronto.

“They say you can never go home. They don’t say it’s because random crazy people will try to murder you,” Richie calls back to Bowers. “They should probably lead with that in the future.”

“People like us find new homes. Better.” If he’s about to be some queer public spokesperson, an advocate beyond the adjacent Irina Foundation speeches, he can start by not allowing it to seem like this has ruined his life. No need to give little closeted athletes out there more fear.

“Well said. Queer found family is the best found family, and if you don’t agree you can kiss my hickey covered ass.”

“Eddie a biter?”

“A gentleman never tells,” Tozier says, fake coquettish. “But Mike, actually. Nine lovebites out of ten are coming from his sweet teeth. But if your Eddie’s a biter, that’s cool. Congrats on that. Actually, congrats in general, Mr Hockey Adonis. I’d say I’ll cut this out of the special, keep the target off your Russian back, but I sold out this venue tonight, and we both know at least one of those Instagram fucks will break an NDA for clout.”

Ilya knows. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was a recording of the stage screen up within the hour. Copyright will get it flagged and removed but not before it goes viral and everyone knows. Half the groupchats in the MLH are probably about to get very loud and crude.

“So good luck. Keep slapshotting goals and comeshotting backs, and remember for every one fuckwad tweeting heinous shit with cheetos stained fingers, there are five who suddenly feel like they won’t be burst in on and hatecrimed for jerking off to your half naked post game interviews. You’re a good dude, Rozanov.”

Tozier is as quick leaving the scene as he was creating it. The doll is still dangling from a squeezed hand as he leaves, the boom mic guy doing his best to be out of the way as the camera guy follows Tozier for his next interaction. But Ilya has no time to twist in his seat and track the comedian, or even watch it on the screen in front of him. The moment the camera’s not on them, the guys lock on, each leaning a little more forward in their seat so they can all get a look at him. All except Cliff, who only eyes Ilya for a second before dropping a heavily muscled arm over his shoulders and yanking him sideways into a hug. Face temporarily crushed into Cliff’s shoulder, there’s no way for him to look at him.

“Jesus, dude. Was all of that true?” Connors asks as Cliff releases him to the background noise of Tozier asking another fan which one of his lovers they’d most want to bang.

“Pretty crazy thing to lie about, hmmm?”

“You’ve fucked literally hundreds of women. We should know,” Hammer says, an unfortunate multiple time accidental voyeur of clubsex.

“Yes. Is true. But I’m in love with a man. That matters more.” No one in the world can compare to Shane, and he’ll never regret choosing him and all his brilliant complexities over any hot and easy greencard girl.

“I dunno. Your stats are pretty legendary,” Connors disputes, evidently weighing quantity over quality.

“Yeah, but not this year, huh,” Cliff replies.

“What?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed Cap hasn’t hooked up at a club all season,” Cliff says with the same smug tone he gets every time he’s able to call someone out.

“Shut up. Not my fault it’s getting boring and not in the fun way.”

The boys don’t seem to get the distinction. Vicky, always the first to go out on a roadie, raises his eyebrows, and Connors goes as far as a clarifying question. “You think clubbing is boring, but getting engaged and settling down isn’t?”

“Tozier already said it, were you not listening? Elite boring is hot as fuck. My lyubimyy is hot as fuck. You should all be jealous, your club fucks cannot compare either.”

“So you’re really bi?” Hammer asks.

“Yes. Does it matter?”

“Fuck off. No. All it means is I’m now one degree of gay Kevin Bacon.”

Ilya frowns. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“There’s this theory that every person is six or less people who know people away from Kevin Bacon. I used to be two away from gay. I know Marly, who knows Lyndsay. Now I just know you,” Hammy explains.

“This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say. And I’ve heard you say a lot of dumb shit,” Vicky comments.

“Also, who the fuck are you, Starlord? What normal person references old-ass Kevin Bacon in 2018?” Connors chirps.

Cliff ignores the stupid argument to poke at something he thinks is more important. To be fair, Ilya agrees. Who the fuck even is Kevin Bacon, besides some Marvel nerd guy, apparently. “Who’s the husband to be?”

“Ahh. Cannot say. He is not out. People in his life would be bad, I think.”

“You tell him you know twenty guys that’ll kick his family and coworkers asses,” Vic says, heated.

It’s all at once hilarious and heartwarming and agonizing. The Raiders have gunned for Hollander, no doubt. It’s professional respect, going for the best their rivals have to offer. But if Ilya did drop the name? Marley, Vic, Hammer, Connors, Sebbins, they’d all have Shane’s back. Moreso than any of the fucking Metros would, that’s for goddamn sure, Pike being the only possible exception. And even then he’s never gotten in a brawl for Shane’s honour.

“Thank you, but no. But thank you.”

“This might be kind of a shit show, man,” Cliff says, voice nearly drowned out by the audience’s laughter. Tozier is killing it with his crowdwork, there’s no way any of it gets cut for the streaming special. Ilya’s likeness is going to be coming out for decades of new subscribers, long past when his number is retired and he’s reduced to ESPN commentary and MLH awards speeches. Notoriety, for better or worse. It’s not an arrogant brag, or a puffed up threat. Never has been, no matter how much it got under Alexei’s skin. It’s just what he’s faced since wiping the floor with his opponents and teammates at the first Prospect Cup. He’s the best player in the MLH and now he’s the second out player, and much hotter than Cretaceous era Hunter. He’s never not going to be in people’s minds again.

“Yes. I know.”

“It shouldn’t be. It’s fucking stupid that it will be, but-“

“Yes. I know. But as long as the Raiders don’t drop me, long as I don’t lose my visa, it’s all okay.” Ilya might even be looking forward to the first time some homophobe wants to square up. He won’t be able to open his fat fucking mouth again, once Ilya breaks his jaw. Bonus points if it’s Dallas fucking Kent or his fuckin’ lackey Barrett.

“Absolutely the fuck not. Boston would riot,” Cliff reassures.

“I’d throw the first molotov,” Conners says.

“I’d buy the gas,” St Simon adds.

“I’ll hire the lawyer, I guess?” Hammer says. At the collection of unimpressed looks he adds, “what?! If deportation’s an actual worry a lawyer will be more important than a violent temper tantrum.”

“Yeah, but where’s the passion, Bradford?”

“Where’s the brother in arms, Bradley?”

“Where’s the joie de vivre, Bradilliam?”

“Hey hey hey, none of that French shit. Who do you think we are, Montreal?” Hammer jokes, to a small wave of boos.

So maybe they’re not ready to hear the whole truth today. Doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not like Shane’s ready to be perceived. By the time he is, they’ll be fine with being brothers in law with a Metro, just like they’ll be fine having a flung across the border Centaur brother. They’ll beat homophobes asses into paste, they’ll crucify Mueller if he ever says shit, and they’ll probably lie and say they witnessed him pick up guys at clubs too, to push his cred even higher. The Raiders are the best. It’s going to be hard to leave them.