Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

Angst with a Happy Ending, Mutual Pining, New Year's Eve, Alcohol, Sex, Vacation, Eventual Fluff, Canon Compliant

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-25 Completed: 2025-12-31 Words: 6,047 Chapters: 3/3

so this is the new year

Summary

New Year’s eve as symbol for feelings, or, 5 imperfect New Year’s and 1 perfect one.

Chapter 1: 2009-2011, yearning

Chapter Notes

December, 2009–Ottawa 

Shane Hollander hates New Year’s Eve. It’s a big party (strike one), with high expectations (strike two) and no structure (strike three). Shane’s idea of fun has rules, a score, a way to know when you’ve achieved the goal of having fun. 

He is only 18, underage, but some of the guys on the team are 19 and they are alone without supervision in a hotel in Ottawa, local heroes at the World Juniors. The older guys have come back to the hotel room with the standard accompaniments of teenage boys let loose: multiple mickeys of goldschlager, a 24 of Molson, handles of vodka, and a group of girls—someone’s friends’ friends. It’s Shane’s hometown but he’d stammered an excuse when asked if he knew any girls. And now, the girls seem mostly interested in giggling to each other, which is just fine with Shane. 

Shane focuses on having fun. Sometimes if he mimics the idea of having fun long enough, he can let loose enough to actually feel it. He lets the drink in his hand slowly come to room temperature, clammy in his hand, focusing on the conversation around him, joining in on the laughing when everyone else does, chiming in occasionally. Suddenly, someone points to the TV—the countdown is about to begin. 

Out of nowhere one of the girls makes a beeline to the couch he’s cornered himself on, settling in next to him. She is objectively pretty, tossing her thick brown hair over her shoulder, sending a wave of sweet vanilla at him as she asks, “Kiss me at midnight? For good luck at the tournament?”

Shane can’t think of a reason to refuse, as everyone around him pairs off. The counting starts, everyone shouting the numbers. They get down to zero and the stereo is blaring music, overlaid with the sound of the TV, his teammates yelling. It’s loud, so much, and Shane rubs his hand on his jeans before turning to kiss the girl, trying to be less clammy and less weird than he feels, half a drink in. He doesn’t even know her name, and kissing her feels like it usually does: like nothing, like a body near his, a breathing tentative mouth, something to concentrate on and try to do well. He’s not sure how well he does, but the girl peels back smiling, touching her lip. 

“Happy New Year,” Shane stumbles out. They make small talk, and she asks for his number which he dutifully gives her. When she gets up to talk to her friends, Shane slides slowly up from the couch, moving through the crowd of bodies, now dancing to Lady Gaga. He feels bad, wondering if he should stick around, if the girl expects something else, but he suddenly, desperately wants to be alone. He’s done what you’re supposed to on New Years, and so he goes back to his own room, trailing a hand on the wall. He isn’t drunk, not even tipsy, but he feels removed from the events of the evening, the kiss and everything before, and the texture of the wall under his hand steadies him back into his body. 

He got a hotel room even though it’s Ottawa, and he’s grateful for it now as he throws himself on the bed. Alone, he feels good. His team is doing well. He had fun with his friends, kissed a girl, got her number. Without thinking about it too much, he pulls out his laptop. He rests it on his chest, idly scrolling Facebook. It’s nearing 1 a.m., but posts are flooding in. He doesn’t admit to himself what he’s looking for, what he wants to see, until he spots a post from one of the Russian team members he’d added last year. The guy has posted a bunch of photos already, taken on a digital camera, of the Russian junior team partying somewhere in the same hotel. 

He clicks into the album, to see what the other team is getting up to. Competitive research. The cool edge of his laptop keyboard is near his chin as he taps the mouse through the album. And then, what he was hoping to see: Rosanov in a crowd, holding a whole bottle of vodka by the neck, mouth open in laughter, making a cocky joke, probably. The hotel background is identical to the suite he was just in, and Shane idly imagines himself there. The sound of Rosanov’s laugh, loud, the swing of his body in the middle of a crowd, broad chest, long arms. Shane swallows, focusing on the long line of his neck in the photo, Rosanov’s head turned to a three-quarter angle, a birth mark just below his Adam's apple and the pale skin of his collarbones just visible in an unbuttoned henley. Shane swallows again, suddenly aware that his mouth is wet, his stomach flipping over and he no longer feels outside of himself. He feels very, very grounded in his body, the tight fit of the sheets around, the lift of his hair against the pillow behind him, his hand loose on the keyboard. He flexes his hand. Once. Twice. 

And then he slams the laptop shut. It’s 2010. The draft is soon. Maybe he’ll text the girl from the party back.

January 2011–Boston

Ilya Rosanov loves New Years. He loves spectacle and an excuse to celebrate. He’s having an unbelievable rookie season, he’s rich and young and unstoppable. His new country is happy to give him a million dollars to play hockey, but they won’t let him buy a fucking drink at a bar. So he’s found himself at someone’s house party, some friend of a friend of Svetlana’s. A giant mansion in some distant neighborhood, dim lights and buckets of champagne. But now it’s past 2 in the morning, the music has turned to some loud American music Ilya can’t stand, people are milling about doing drugs he would be tempted to do if it weren’t for all the tests. Sveta disappeared ages ago. They’d found each other at midnight, clanking their champagne flutes together, kissing messily on the apartment’s rooftop in a shouting crowd. He had rung in another year with a beautiful woman with her arms around his neck, the feeling of possibility brimming all around him. 

He could go find Svetlana, follow her to the room of the couple she’d joined. He could find another woman, or another drink. The world was his for the taking, so many another’s he could have. This year was setting up to be a good one. The All-Stars game was coming up which meant a new challenge. A new thing to be good at and to celebrate. And, if he lets himself admit it: Hollander will be there. Fucking Hollander. They had hooked up once, months ago, and Ilya had hoped that would shake him from his system. But every time he’d seen the Canadian since had felt different, new. He was used to the feeling of seeing someone he’d fooled around with and feeling a little smug, and maybe it made him an asshole but there was a feeling of satisfaction at his conquest. But every time he saw Hollander, on the ice, on the news, when Ilya refreshed the Google search for his name idly a few times a week, the feeling wasn’t there. He wasn’t satisfied. Every time he saw Hollander it felt new, like seeing something beautiful and fresh. 

And here he was, on a night to party and celebrate, alone. Well, that could be fixed for now.

Chapter End Notes

help i wrote almost an entire fic on an airplane on my phone; apologies to my seat mates. there will be 3 chapters here: yearning, wanting, having.

this is my second ever fic, open to feedback on formatting or tags.

Chapter 2: 2013-2016: wanting

Chapter Notes

December 2013–Boston, Montreal

[December 30th, 10:06 AM]

Lily: what are you doing for nye 

Jane: nye?

Lily: new year’s eve. tomorrow. fireworks. drinking? 

Jane: I’m going to a charity event for a hospital here in Montreal.  

Jane: Why? Are you in town for something?

Lily: for boring charity instead of real party? no

Lily: we are 22 not 42

Jane: I guess I’m just a really good person. Besides, it’s easier. 

[December 30th, 4:56 pm]

Jane: Wait, why did you ask?

Lily: i wanted to know if you would be in somewhere fancy

Lily: and of course you are 

Lily: send me a photo

Jane: A photo from the event? I have a feeling there will be photographers there. Google me, if you forget how to spell my name there are some stats websites with it. I’ll be at the top.

Lily: hmm, maybe near the top but we both know you’re not the top

Lily: take a photo for me

Lily: suit, maybe less 

Jane: We said no photos. 

Lily: no faces ;)

[December 31st 3:02 pm]

Lily: what do you mean it is easier? 

Jane: ??

Lily: you said charity event is easier 

Jane: Oh. New Year’s isn’t my thing. There’s so much pressure to have fun that it’s stressful instead 

Lily: i see

Lily: you think it is stressful to have fun? understand so much now

Jane: Fuck off

Lily: come here and i make it not so stressful

Jane: I’ll see you next month.

[img_828 sent, January 1st 12:08am]

December 2015–Boston

Making plans with Ilya would be a bad idea. Then again: when isn’t it? 

For the first time since their Junior days, Shane and Ilya are in the same place over New Years. Their teams are playing in the Winter Classic for the first time. They’ll be playing outside, in a big showcase game with higher viewers, sponsorship money and big stakes. Shane hasn’t played outside since he was a kid and he’s excited to be part of this grand Canadian history. 

All the players have been invited for a classy evening celebration with NHL top brass, with the expectation that they’ll be in bed just after midnight, ready to play in the morning. 

Shane already has Ilya’s room number. 

The married players have brought their wives to this dinner and Shane half expected Ilya to show up with a date. But he’s alone. The rivals are ignoring each other and everyone is making a big deal of how sportsmanlike they’re being to just have dinner together. 

At one point, they’re standing around the same high top table, and one of the team owners makes a joke of it, saying “Well I’m glad you two can break bread together—keep it off the ice,” to which Ilya dryly responds, “Oh, yes, Hollander and me, we can do more than break the bread,” which causes Shane to snort directly into his ginger ale. 

They’re being reckless, it feels the closest they’ve gotten in all these years of discrete meetings to doing something stupid. But they won’t, they barely make eye contact. Emotions are high for this big event, that’s all. 

It’s probably the first time he is in the same space as Ilya in public but not in competition, not up for an award or in hockey gear. The time flies by, and every second of it Shane is aware of where Ilya is in the room, like there’s a radar echo of Ilya reflected into his own body. He is caught unaware when someone calls for midnight. As the numbers go down, from ten to zero, Shane catches Ilya’s eyes across the room. It’s a room crowded with people, but he feels utterly alone looking at him. Ilya is counting down, but Shane forgets to. It feels like Ilya is counting for him, Shane watching the shape of each number on Ilya’s lips, his own mouth suddenly dry. Then it hits zero, and everyone is shouting, hugging, kissing. Ilya stares across the room, the only person here, and winks. The desire to just cross the room and kiss him to ring in the new year sweeps through Shane with a warm buzz. But reality hits quickly, the crowd of his teammates, his employers and sponsors suddenly roars back into focus, slashing that buzzing away in a flash. 

He shakes his head, back in the moment, suddenly aware that someone could have seen him staring. And on top of that, the need to get Ilya alone hits with an unexpected force. To celebrate the new year, the season, the future, properly—that is; alone. 

Moments after midnight, he excuses himself, heading straight for the elevator to his room. He’s unsurprised when the text comes minutes later: 

Lily: i am in my room now

And equally unsurprised when Ilya opens the door, half dressed, yanking him in by the wrist with the full strength of a hungry, powerful hockey player. They kiss hungrily, no words exchanged, Ilya has his hands everywhere, pulling the shirt over Shane’s head in an easy motion, sliding up Shane’s body, calloused hands cupping his jaw, turning his head to kiss up his neck, one finger halfway in Shane’s mouth. Shane sucks in the finger, moving his jaw so he’s sucking, biting softly near the knuckle as Ilya escalates, nipping the soft skin of his neck, mumbling something in Russian into the hollow where jaw meets neck. 

Shane pulls own hand up from where it was wrapped around Ilya, using it to draw the hand from his neck and kisses Ilya’s hand across the wrist, their bodies intertwined, pressed against the wall, only a few feet from the door. The reckless, loose feeling of his body on fire. His skin, prickling with want. 

“What did you say?” he asks out loud. 

Ilya repeats the Russian more slowly and then translates, “Happy New Year, Hollander,” he answers with the impish grin that makes Shane weak. 

“Happy New Year,” Shane replies, and suddenly Ilya is lifting him, carrying him to the bed, tossing him down both forcefully and with care, climbing after him, their bodies sliding against each other, the friction of skin, hair, sweat, as they undress inelegantly, limbs clashing, hard not to laugh, they move with unexpected and synced urgency. Years of lust has put their bodies on the same page, the same rhythm and tonight they are rushing forward not needing to speak of what and how. Just instant, mercurial want between them. Now. Quick, Shane is hard and desperate. 

Shane is smiling idiotically into a messy open kiss, feeling the moving muscles of Ilya’s lats under his hands, Ilya’s ass under his calves as he wraps himself around Ilya, brings them closer. He’s on his back, legs up, around Ilya, their chests pressed together. Everything, skin hot and wanting. 

The whole evening now feels like foreplay, the only game that’s better than hockey. They move against each other, moving together, rocking their hips together, Ilya pushing himself up, one hand back around Shane’s head, gently pulling his hair just enough to expose him, leaning in to breath hotly, lick a possessive streak up his neck. He breaks contact just long enough to get lube, Shane still grinding them together in the brief absence before Ilya bodily pulls Shane to seating, facing each other and Ilya takes them both together in one hand. 

It’s desperate and fast, Shane is gasping, “I can’t—I won’t last, I’m going to,” out of breath. 

Ilya leans in, the deep breathy voice that Shane wants to believe he uses just for him, a voice that starts from right at the back of his throat, and Ilya says “Come for me,” and Shane is shaking, shaking as Ilya continues, “I want to watch you, come for me pretty, let me see,” the encouragement is so much, Shane comes shakily, down to his toes, rigid and like his whole body is dropping off a rollercoaster. 

Ilya has that intense look, he doesn’t let up, it’s almost too much, Shane overstimulated as Ilya uses the lube and cum together for a moment longer and then joins him, a release so strong he lets out a feral moan. 

They’re sitting upright, around each other, having barely had time to breathe in the rush to be near, to cum as quickly as possible. He collapses backwards, his head nearly off the bed and Shane feels his heart in his throat, watching Ilya’s perfect body leaned back on display. The instant clarity of an orgasm breaking like water on the shore. 

“Fuck,” says Ilya, to the ceiling. 

“Yeah,” is all Shane can add, leaning back but leaving their legs intertwined as he rolls through a familiar mix of feelings. Ask me to stay. Tell me to go, he thinks. He takes a breath and says out loud, “I should shower before I go.”

Ilya sits up, grinning on the edge of the bed. “You should. What would they say if they saw you like this.”

He’s joking, but it turns the water of clarity into ice down Shane’s spine. How could he explain wandering around with wet hair, either? He can see himself in the mirror by the door, pink, sweaty, post-sex hair obvious a mile away. 

Ilya’s legs tense to get his attention before Ilya adds, “Is joke. Stop thinking so much.” Ilya’s impressive abs flex as he moves from laying down to sitting up in one fluid movement so he can run a hand through Shane’s hair, messing it up more, “No one is paying attention, everyone is thinking of game tomorrow.”

Shane nods and untangles them, the spell of their common language of want floats away with the night. Ilya picks up his phone while Shane showers, and says, “Goodnight Jane. See you in 2016,” from his pile of hotel pillows. As the door clicks shut Ilya throws down his phone and thumps his head softly against the headboard. 

Shane takes the long way back to his room. 

December 2016–Los Angeles

Ilya prides himself on knowing exactly how to teeter on the edge of being too drunk and just drunk enough to be fun. A lifelong athlete, required to balance every decision against its immediate effect on his body and his sport. But not tonight. 

Maybe there are new reasons to drink a little more, to be a little stupid. 

Maybe two weeks ago he’d seen photos of Shane out with Rose Landry. Maybe two months ago Ilya had invited him to stay after fucking, and it had been nice, he’d made them food, stocked the stupid Canadian drink Shane liked. Maybe it was even better than nice until Shane had run out of the house, horrified by whatever Ilya was offering. Maybe Ilya was looking to shake something loose tonight. Who could say—definitely not him. 

Ilya is ringing in 2017 in LA in the VIP section of the club, shouting hoarsely into the dark, a drink in each hand and his phone in the sticky couch out of reach, mostly.

“It’s time,” he shouts over the music, pointing at his teammate Kahn and some friends of friend of his, a minor actor from some old TV show. Kahn told Ilya the guy is very famous but Ilya reminded him, For me American culture started in 2008, when I arrived here. Nothing so important before. That got an eye roll. Kahn told him the guy’s name but it escapes him. Evan? Kevin? Maybe Bevin? The guy is good looking in that American Hollywood way: symmetrical, hard to remember. Evan-Bevin has been edging toward Ilya all evening. Like playing with fire, Ilya has responded with encouragement—keeping eye contact long after the guy has stopped speaking, touching him playfully between drinks. 

“This is Russian tradition. Everyone must have orange,” he says as a round of sickly sweet screwdrivers arrive at the table brought by a bottle service girl. Ilya makes a point to smile at her and then look at Evan-Bevin right after. 

“You’re crazy,” Kahn groans, but he takes the drink. They all down it quickly, continuing their conversation about the LA King’s draft picks. 

“Next tradition is music,” Ilya says abruptly, standing. “Now we dance.” 

He’s drunk enough that his English is slipping, word order, tenses are so boring. On the dance floor he sways, arms up, hips moving. Kahn disappears by the end of the first song. Evan-Bevin is still around, dancing but just out of reach. The loud bass hits and time feels fluid, the world rotating like he’s a ship in a bottle, steady but everything else is moving. He feels Evan-Bevin’s hand, unexpectedly on his wrist, reeling him in. They kiss, tentatively and then properly. Ilya tries to focus—the drinks, all those maybes of two weeks, two months ago tilt the world a little further. 

“I need a smoke. Come with me,” he says to Evan-Bevin, not even bothering to pretend it’s a question. The actor not only follows him, but pulls out a pack of cigarettes himself, chuckling when Ilya does not actually have any and letting Ilya have one. 

“I am surprised,” says Ilya, “I am told everyone in LA is healthy, no smoking.”

“You haven’t spent much time here then,” laughs Evan-Bevin. 

“No, only for hockey,” he admits. 

“You’d be surprised what people say they want to do and what they actually do,” says Evan-Bevin, taking a long drag off his cigarette. 

“That, I am knowing. I am knowing very well.”

Evan-Bevin laughs, cocks his head. “So, running away from something? Someone, more likely?”

Ilya tries laugh it comes out weird, like ha ha ha. “Why are you saying this?”

“You think you’re not obvious, Mr Hockey,” Evan-Bevin pushes his shoulder, joking and light. “You’ve checked your phone every ten minutes but haven’t sent any texts, you’re drinking like a fish and yet you haven’t sat still for a second, and I don’t think it’s coke. And,” he takes a step forward, into Ilya’s personal space, “You’ve been eye-fucking me all night and I know that kiss isn’t the best you can do. And here we are smoking and not at your hotel.” 

“Maybe it is you,” Ilya says. “You are handsome but not so my type.”

Evan-Bevin shrugs, “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Ilya is silent, streams smoke out of his nostrils. 

“Let me guess,” he looks Ilya up and down. “You eyed the waitress but went after me. So, probably trying to shake off some guy. Not someone easy to get, that doesn’t seem like your type. Maybe some guy who says he’s straight, that seems like something that would happen to a hockey player. Some guy on the DL?” 

“What is DL?” 

“Down low—some guy is fucking you in private and ignoring you in public.”

“Something like that,” Ilya finally agrees. “But I am doing the fucking.”

“Well,” Evan-Bevin laughs, “you were right then, I’m not your type after all.”

“Too bad,” Ilya says flatly, without emotion. They smoke in silence but slowly become aware of the counting inside. It’s midnight and they’re standing inches apart. Evan-Bevin leans him, gives Ilya a chaste kiss. 

“Does he have a good reason, this guy?”

“Yeah, me too as well. Hockey. Russia.”

“Is he worth waiting for, then?” 

“Yes,” Ilya admits. Saying it out loud makes him feel small. More sober. “Probably I would wait forever. If he needed.”

“Woof,” says the other man. “Who can compete with that.”

Ilya smiles, leans against the wall, “You are right with this. There is no competing.” 

Chapter End Notes

ilya can have his own rose landry to clock his shit, as a treat

the winter classic is a real hockey event, however what happens around it is unknown to me, i just wanted to put these bozos in the same room again.

merry christmas to all who celebrate

Chapter 3: 2025: having

Chapter Notes

set broadly post-canon, no spoilers for TLG (because i haven’t read it).

December 2025–Berlin 

The trip is a combination of bad luck and good ideas. It’s Ilya’s first winter of retirement. He loved hockey because it was fun because he was good at it. After a second minor knee injury, he was less good and having less fun. “Retiring at 34, not so bad for most people,” he keeps saying. Shane is worried at first, he has never played professional hockey without their rivalry. But when Ilya no longer has to tip-toe around what he wants, he runs for it at full force. He embraces retirement with gusto. 

Shane, meanwhile, is still good, maybe better than ever. But management and coaches are cautious with him, and bench him for 9 games to recover from a particularly awkward hit. Bad luck means they have the entire period from before Christmas to early January free. For the first time in their adult lives, the possibility of a winter vacation. 

Going to a city is their therapist's idea. In the years since they came out, they aren’t actually, well out. Fame is secluded: assistants, deliveries, drivers. Shane still feels a swell of anxiety being together in public, so the grand total of two non-cottage vacations they have taken are remote, tropical, uncrowded. Their therapist has been suggesting a city, exposure therapy. 

Berlin, on the other hand, is Ilya’s idea. As always, he wants to go big. 

“We are not famous there. Germans are maniacs about privacy, and Berliners are too cool even if they know us,” Ilya argues. “Plus it is super gay. We can kiss anywhere and no one cares. I want to go dancing. I want to kiss you in streets and walk around and have everyone see how beautiful and happy we are, just like people, not famous hockey players. Then we can come home and be famous hockey players like normal.”

They’re eating dinner at the time, so Ilya adds, swirling his fork in the air, “Well a famous hockey player and his very sexy trophy husband.”

“Technically, I am the trophy husband,” Shane corrects him. 

“Ah, so he admits to being the beautiful one!”

“Well, no, I have more trophies…” Shane trails off, and Ilya tackles him across the table. 

But how could Shane argue? What is the point of sponsorship deals and high-paying hockey contracts if not go all out: invite his parents, find a travel agent who can organize the whole thing last-minute with business-class flights, five-star hotels and a detailed itinerary? 

They bring his parents to Munich for Christmas, where they drink mulled wine in Christmas markets, tour ornate palaces and eat heavy food in giant halls. They leave the city in a sports car Ilya insisted on, and Shane is glad his parents can’t see the odometer from the back seat. They spend Christmas Eve through Boxing Day in a tiny village straight out of a postcard in the Alps. They relax in a staggering mountain valley outfitted with a luxury thermal spa. The highlight is dragging sleds up the side of a mountain to eat a meal in the cozy wood-paneled restaurant at the top, followed by rounds of sweet digestif bought for them by enthusiastic locals when they’re told Shane and Ilya are hockey players. It’s dark out when all four of them tear back down the mountainside on their rickety sleds in the moonlight, tipsy and yelling. Shane’s dad tells the story over and over again, like he can’t believe it. 

“I could get used to this,” his dad says as he hugs them goodbye at the train station, “Next year in France, eh?”

Shane feels at once completely and truly outside his life, unmoored from his gruelling hockey schedule, and also… normal. There are no rules to happiness this enormous: it just arrives, without goals or expectation. He earned it without being aware of how. 

It is also the closest Ilya has been to Russia in a decade. The cities are not that similar, but that doesn’t stop Ilya from commenting on it all the time. The density, the mix of architecture, the feeling of history, of quite simply not Canada. He exclaims over finally having good butter with breakfast, he seems genuinely delighted about taking the train, insisting on carrying their suitcases up all the stairs, “Give your retired husband a chance to exercise,” as though he is not in the best shape of his life. 

Shane and Ilya take the train to Berlin, and Shane naps on and off for four hours, Ilya’s hand on his thigh. As they pull into Berlin, Ilya is running his fingers up and down the seam of Shane’s pants—not in a sexy way, he’s staring out the window, but mindless, tactile distraction. Normal, possessive intimacy. Shane picks up Ilya’s hand and kisses his palm. 

“Does it make you miss ho-Moscow?” Shane asks, stopping himself from saying home. Ilya has long stopped referring to Russia as home. He mostly doesn’t talk about it at all. 

“Yes,” Ilya confesses. “But Moscow is more beautiful and louder. It is nice to be here though. It feels… it is hard to explain. It feels more normal, not better than home, Ottawa. Just, normal.”

Shane thinks of the feeling he has when returning to Ottawa after being away, the relief that he has returned to the default state of the world, for him. He feels a wave of sadness for his husband, he tries not to show it, but Ilya has learned to read his face like a book. 

“No, no, don’t pity me. When have I ever wanted normal?” Ilya asks with a smug, reassuring smile. 

“I wish you could show me Moscow,” Shane says, realizing it for the first time. 

There’s a complex wave of feelings on Ilya’s face and he sighs, squeezing Shane’s hand. “Me too, I wish that very much. But look! We go to Berlin today, who knows where next.”

Shane grins and kisses him, softly. It’s the first time they’ve kissed in public for who can remember how long. It feels wonderful.

Ilya takes it for the invitation it is: they kiss on the street walking around, in galleries Kip recommended, waiting in lines, in between bites at restaurants. Gentle kisses on the temple, how-are-you kisses, let’s-go-back to the hotel kisses. 

They buy ear plugs and go to a club playing a mix of Soviet pop, Ilya singing along in his ear. It’s loud and overwhelming, Ilya promises they only have to stay for an hour but they stay for two—grounded by the feeling of freedom in a crowd of happy queer people and the anonymity of it. They make out with abandon on the dance floor and it feels like making up for lost time. It’s Berlin, other people are doing far more than kissing. 

But mostly they take it easy. The travel agent suggested a tour guide, but they chose just a few activities, enough to provide structure for Shane and freedom for Ilya’s impulses. Traveling in either is grey and foggy with limited sunlight hours. Ilya sleeps in, Shane works out first and brings coffee up to Ilya in bed from the lobby bar, they watch whichever hockey game happened overnight, and then Ilya does his own workout. They have fresh hotel bed sex: languorous, taking each other apart slowly, leaving their legs shaking, the kind of sex they normally don’t indulge in during the hockey season these days. They go out, they explore, see confusing art, and avoid the touristy areas where they might be recognized. Shane feels something close to normal, frazzled by the novelty of vacation. 

For New Years itself, Ilya made plans with a former  teammate, a guy who played one year in Boston and reached out when Shane and Ilya went public, sharing that he left hockey to live happily in Berlin. He invites them to spend the evening with his husband and their friends. The former teammate is excited to talk hockey with Shane in minute detail. Shane is worried he’ll feel uncool, out of place, but everyone is so nice. Socializing with Ilya around is so much easier, it gives him security and someone to rely on, and he gets to see the man he loves making other people laugh, sees all the things he loves about Ilya reflected back. 

Just before midnight, they climb to the building’s roof for the fireworks. Everyone has told them to be prepared, and they brought their earplugs. As midnight crawls forward, fireworks begin to erupt in seemingly every direction, simultaneously and intensely, a blanket over the city lighting up every 15 feet. Ilya is whooping and laughing, keeping one arm tightly around Shane, crushing their bodies together, at once protective and alive with amusement. Decades of deafening hockey rinks and stadium lighting prepared him for the experience. The lights and sounds are intense, stretching as far as the eye can see, so close together it seems impossible. And then someone begins the countdown and Ilya is kissing the side of his head, his cheeks, Shane kisses his favourite mole, the curls that sit on Ilya’s forehead and then they’re kissing properly on the rooftop as thousands of fireworks explode in every direction. 

Ilya pulls back and chants, “Happy New Year, I love you, happy new year, I love you,” peppering his face with kisses in between. 

Someone lights a firework in the courtyard in front of them and it bursts nearly at eye level. 

“Is it the New Year, I can’t tell,” jokes Shane. 

After nearly an hour of this, an open bottle of champagne, they climb back down into the apartment. There are more traditions left, somehow. They all hold spoons with a bit of tin over a candle and the shape is supposed to predict the year to come. 

“This is a cup right,” he says, holding the misshapen hunk of tin up to Ilya. 

“That is definitely a cup,” Ilya grins. 

Soon, all the Berliners are getting up to go out. It is just past 2 AM, and Shane is sure he has never been awake this late in his life, and somehow everyone else is going to a club now. There’s nothing on earth he’d rather do less than go dancing, but he sees Ilya looking shy. 

“You want to go out,” Shane says, more of a statement than a question. 

“Yes, just for one hour of dancing,” responds Ilya.

Next to them, one of the partygoers says to Shane, “If my boyfriend looked like this, he would be on a ten foot leash,” he surveys Ilya again, “Maybe five feet.”

“Oh, well, he’s house trained,” jokes Shane. 

Ilya sits up, puts his hands up like paws and says, almost sarcastically, “Whoof whoof,” which gets a laugh from the group. 

They part with another kiss, freely given even among these relative strangers, and then Shane’s Uber is speeding back through the city still alight with fireworks. Back at the hotel, he falls asleep quickly, exhausted. 

Sometime after 3am, he hears the shuffling noises of Ilya returning, trying to be quiet.  

“Hey,” he says sleepily. 

“Sorry,” Ilya answers. “It was smoking inside the club and I smell. I just had one,” he preempts Shane’s question. 

“Smoking is still bad for you, even in Berlin,” Shane says as Ilya turns on the shower. He closes his eyes and seemingly seconds later he feels the mattress dip as Ilya, smelling cleanly of hotel body wash, crawls into bed. Shane shuffles his hips backwards, into Ilya’s side of the bed seeking a big spoon. Ilya responds by hooking his arm around and pulling Shane in, kissing his neck. 

“How was the club?” Shane mumbles into his pillow. 

“Good, DJ was very good. Crowd was huge. Berlin is so crazy,” responds Ilya. 

“Mm, that’s good,” Shane responds. 

“Do you want to know best part?”

“Having more people see your weird shirt?”

“Hey, my shirt is vintage Jean Paul Gaultier,” responds Ilya, pronouncing the L in Gaultier. Shane laughs. 

“Mm,” Shane says, too sleepy to keep up. 

“No, best part is that all the time I am dancing, I can think of my husband all cozy under the covers.”

“That’s the best part? Me being boring?”

“No,” says Ilya, moving his head closer so he is speaking directly against Shane’s neck. “Best part is knowing even when I go, I come home to you.”

“Jeez, who knew you were so sentimental this early,” Shane says, grinning into his pillow. 

“What is this, sentimental?”

“Oh, uh. Cheesey, soft, nice,” Shane supplies. 

“I am big cheese,” agrees Ilya. There’s a moment of silence before he says, still speaking into the soft, smooth skin on Shane’s neck, his lips moving against him not as a kiss but from speaking. “Did you know in Russian, dogs do not say whoof whoof. They say—gav gav.”

Shane pulls the arm across his chest closer from where it has loosened, pulls his arm out so he can cradle Ilya’s arm, and repeats back, “Gav gav.”

For once, they both sleep in. 

Chapter End Notes

what do jocks do on vacation?

berlin on new years is quite a bit more chaotic than depicted here, but the vibes felt right. low key home is wherever i’m with you.

thank you for reading, if you enjoyed please let me know! ❤️