Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

pretend slow burn, Eventual Smut, but they have to work towards it, Spoilers for Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Rebuilding Memories, just no amnesia like the film, Nostalgic Trips, Date Nights, dating as edging, Lost Conversations, Men communicating, angst that seeks resolution, Innocent Roleplay, fake time travel, Fix-It, but hollanov are fixing themselves, handjob, foodporn, Figure Skating, Body Worship, Gambling, bet on money or bet on themselves, Ferris Wheel Confessions, Frottage, Dinner Date, polaroids, lovemaking, because they love each other so damn much, and we love them

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-28 Completed: 2026-03-22 Words: 32,555 Chapters: 5/5

5(0) First Dates

Summary

In front of them stands the old-school theater Shane had selected, fully alabaster save for its glittering marquee and large neon letters spelling out AERO. To his relief, the crowd of waiting patrons out front number few on this Monday evening, and everyone present seems too focused on their own plans or cinematic immersion to pay them any mind.

“Shane.” Beside him, an incredulous voice sounds. “A movie?”

“Fuck you. We’re barely drafted at this point, remember? So not crazy rich yet.” Rather than allowing Ilya’s reaction to trigger any doubt, Shane laughs as he reminds them both. “And come on, we’re near Hollywood. It makes total sense for a first date as teenagers.”

Weeks before their wedding, Shane and Ilya return to all the places that mattered - and resurrect all the memories they could’ve shared over the years.

**FIC NOW COMPLETE!**

Notes

Well, hello…again!

So the HR Season 1 finale destroyed me (Connor! Hudson! What talented and committed young artists you are!), and I honestly didn’t even want to toy around with canon after that masterpiece. But this was a concept I’ve wanted to explore for a few weeks, so I’ve decided to stay committed.

It also occurred to me while ideating this fic that I've actually been to all of the cities that will be featured myself, so I've inadvertently done some of the necessary research firsthand already.

The title indeed references the movie, as this will also be a memory study - albeit of a different type.

P.S. I have read the books, but the details in this will feel more Crave series-compliant.

My Twitter // This Fic's Tweet

Chapter 1: City of Angels

Chapter Notes

Ottawa, June 2021

“Fucking hell…how many times have they played our documentary since you moved teams?”

Shane lowers the TV remote to the couch, forfeiting channel surfing in favor of gripping the forearm that has just wrapped around his chest. Despite Ilya’s grumble from behind, they remain still for the time being, glued to both the screen and to each other.

“I’m not keeping track.” His fingers absentmindedly rub against his fiancé’s wrist. “But I’m sure it’s bringing in lots of viewers right now.”

Ilya snorts. “Yeah well, those producers did terrible research. Why does anyone watch this shit when it doesn’t have juiciest details about us?”

“I don’t think they can include those anyway.”

“Happy to tell them whatever they want…too bad they never ask me.”

The joke draws chuckles out of both their throats, and they share an unspoken agreement to give this inaccurate trip down memory lane a few more minutes of their night. Soon enough, the graphics transition into ancient highlights from opposite ends of the globe. Blurry clips of a young, fiery Russian cut between sharper moments featuring a slightly older Canadian, supplemented by bland narration of how their skillsets had differed, yet also complemented one another over the years.

“Look at you, Mister-Almost-Hollander-Rozanov…so pretty.” Going along with nostalgia, Ilya repeats the flirtation that had started it all, before planting a tender kiss to the side of Shane’s neck. “Still pretty.”

Shane grins, leaning comfortably into the gesture. “30 feels wildly different from 16.” He sighs. “I was so naive back then, so focused on hockey…and not much else.”

“Until you met me?”

“Well, meeting you didn’t exactly distract from hockey either, considering how much I wanted to beat you at the time.”

He mentally groans as soon as those last words slip out, for Shane Hollander - no longer naive - knows exactly how Ilya Rozanov will respond.

“But instead of beating me, you were beating me off.” As always, his fiancé obliges the prediction.

Shane smacks the limb around him playfully. “I beat you in the rink plenty of times.”

“Not as much as the other beating…”

“Didn’t keep track.” He reiterates an earlier claim for this new context.

Suddenly, Ilya repositions himself, looping a second arm around Shane to deepen their embrace.

“Mm. Probably could have counted, since we only saw each other a few times a year.” Slowly, a more forlorn tone creeps into his words. “Never thought I could spend everyday like this with you. If not for hockey…maybe I pick this life years ago. Just you and me. Simple. Some days stay on couch, some days go on dates, but most days in bed.”

The tinge of wishful sorrow pricks at Shane’s own heart, with imagined visuals of what Ilya had described adding to the aching. Yes, they are finally, finally together in more ways than one, and only weeks away from exchanging heartfelt vows. But he knows too well that missing pieces from a decade past will always haunt them both in some fashion, each truncated moment a poorly healed scar, never stitched due to words never spoken.

He watches as the documentary shifts to 2008 in Regina, where one private handshake had marked the beginning of their tumultuous story.

What if - it’s not too late for a rewrite?

“Ilya, I have kind of a crazy idea.” Pragmatic thoughts string together as he gathers optimism for a barely-there proposal. “If you’re into it, that is.”

“Tell me.”

Shane turns slightly within the arms enfolding him, delivering an earnest look into curious hazel eyes. “What if we…go back in time? And I mean literally - go back to places we met at over the years.”


A mix of confusion and intrigue bends Ilya’s lofty brows. “Tell me more.”

“Like you said, we never even spent proper time together at some of them.” The spontaneous plan self-formulates as he speaks aloud. “Before we get married, maybe we can…play pretend, one last time.”

“What is ‘play pretend?’”

“Hm, roleplay? If that makes sense.”

Inquisitive eyes widen, and Shane quickly grasps that Ilya has only heard that term under very, very specific circumstances.

“No, not that kind of roleplay.” Slightly panicked, he tries to discourage further perversion. “I just think we should try what you wished for us - spend time outside of Ottawa and go on some actual dates in those cities. You plan one, I plan one, so on so forth. On top of that, maybe…we should also pretend to be our younger selves, so we can finally have some conversations that never happened.”

Ilya falls into pensive silence, contemplating each segment of the ambitious idea with surprising care. A full minute passes before his next words arrive.

“I never knew this definition of roleplay.”

Shane smiles, perceiving genuine interest behind the pseudo jest.

“That’s the original meaning, Ilya.” He leans forward to peck a beloved nose bridge. “Come on, what do you think?”

“Confusing, but this feels like year to try new things.” His fiancé shrugs. “So, where do we start?”

An announcer’s boisterous voice sounds from the TV then, and when Shane turns his attention back, he’s greeted with a side-by-side edit of their 18-year-old selves walking onto an illuminated stage, soon to be draped in their first professional jerseys. On young Ilya’s face was sheer elation, while young Shane’s was somewhere between polite celebration and restrained disappointment.

Draft Night.

“Why don’t we start in…Los Angeles?”

==

One Week Later

The proximity from his destination lowers one mile at a time, but Shane’s mind works in opposition as it recites ascending numbers, each followed by one rule he and Ilya had agreed upon for these complex charades.

Well, somehow managed to agree upon.

1. Two weeks. Five cities. Five dates. (“Simple. I like that.”)
2. Whoever plans gets the privilege of the other following along, no matter what. (“Anything goes? No? Well, better not to give me freedom like that anyway.”)
3. The date itself must include at least one conversation, roleplaying the proper year. (“Can we put time limit on the talking?”)
4. Both travel and hotel rooms must be separate, for the sake of immersion. (“Shane. That’s fucked up.”)
   
   

He knows the last one will drive Ilya nuts before the week’s end - hell, it might actually be impossible for Shane to endure. They had been inseparable ever since his move to Ottawa, savoring every second together at home and in play. But on the other hand, such a rule also doesn’t feel like regression. After all, something had been broken even when they were only two hours apart. Between duty and disguise, a lack of communication had wormed its way into their relationship and nearly unraveled them both. At least, they’re now conscious of the chronic flaw, and Shane hopes that this bizarre, unnecessarily-expensive idea will be therapeutic above all else - especially prior to them stepping onto another daunting lifestage.

He tugs at the collar of his dark t-shirt, trying to ease intensifying nerves.

“To the right over here, sir?”

The driver’s query snaps Shane back into the present. Outside his passenger window, low-rise concrete buildings conceal the setting sun, but not the glorious colors of a Californian dusk. Not far from where he has stopped stands a fidgety Russian hockey player upon the curb. As usual, the chiseled angles of his face are perfectly lit, enough to reflect beauty above frustration. His outfit of choice is casual yet sleek, all simple pieces in black fabric that Shane knows will feel luxurious to the touch.

“Yes, this is fine. Thank you.” He mutters, somewhat distracted.

As he exits the rideshare, Ilya approaches with an air of confrontation, as if ready for one of their face-offs.

“I disagree, you know.”

The atypical greeting halts Shane in his tracks. “Disagree with what?”

“You would’ve asked me out first at 18? No no, I don’t think so…”

The complaint stirs a mix of relief and amusement, and Shane wonders exactly how long Ilya had been begrudged by this inaugural scenario. Quite possibly the whole plane ride from Ottawa, and then some.

“Don’t forget that I introduced myself to you in Regina.” He quips back and walks onward alone, fully prepared for this debate. “I took initiative.”

Ilya chases, clearly dissatisfied by both the attitude and their unusual lack of touch. “My English wasn’t good enough! I would’ve looked for you first if I knew more than fifteen fucking words.”

“You would’ve?” The revelation nearly pauses Shane again.

“Yes!” From close behind, exclaim precedes explanation. “If you must know, I saw pictures and videos of you long before I ever left Russia. Shitty quality, but enough to feel…interested.”

Shane remembers well how much distress his freckles had caused upon their meeting, but never that any attraction had spanned even further into the past. It had been similar for him after all, those teenage wrestles of whether he appreciated the unique curvatures of Ilya Rozanov’s skating or lips more, whenever a rare film surfaced. Hell, Ilya might have been the first boy he ever considered in that way. Had neither of them taken leaps of faith years later, Shane dreads to imagine where other choices would’ve led them instead.

He slows his steps to turn and peek at those very lips, dwelling in faint memories of how often they’ve caressed his skin since.

Thank god bad English never slowed that mouth from doing other things.

“Let’s talk more about this later.” He shakes scandalous thoughts away. “We’re almost there.”

“So since you gave random corner for address, where exactly are you taking me?” Though accepting of the change in subject, Ilya now feigns a change in concern. “Fuck, you’re not also a serial killer, are you, Hollander? I know there are many in California…must be something in the water.”

The premature attempt at their de-aging roleplay forces Shane to hold back a chuckle. “Considering at draft time I also knew nothing about you outside of hockey…you could’ve been a serial killer, too.”

“Always happy to murder in the rink. But not anywhere else, sorry.”

“Well, right after the banquet, you almost murdered me during our bike race in the hotel gym.”

Right then, Shane feels Ilya speed up until they stroll side-by-side, his Slavic features barely controlling a wide grin. “I thought you might bring that up.”

“Later.” He waves off the topic as they wind around another street corner. “Because we’re here.”

In front of them stands the old-school theater Shane had selected, fully alabaster save for its glittering marquee and large neon letters spelling out AERO. To his relief, the crowd of waiting patrons out front number few on this Monday evening, and everyone present seems too focused on their own plans or cinematic immersion to pay them any mind.

“Shane.” Beside him, an incredulous voice sounds. “A movie?”

“Fuck you. We’re barely drafted at this point, remember? So not crazy rich yet.” Rather than allowing Ilya’s reaction to trigger any doubt, Shane laughs as he reminds them both. “And come on, we’re near Hollywood. It makes total sense for a first date as teenagers.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Fine, Mr. Not-Crazy-Rich-Asian-Yet. But you have to get me all those shitty American snacks, or I’m leaving.”

“High expectations for a first date…fine, whatever you want.” Stifling a snicker at his new nickname, Shane moves towards the concession stand while addressing another disclaimer. “And don’t worry, I didn’t pick a serial killer movie.”

“I’ll watch anything as long as I get those snacks.”

==

102 minutes of film, forging 102 minutes of delayed memories.

As promised, no violence took place in the arthouse dark comedy Shane had chosen, save for one jumpscare that had caused Ilya to spill half of his popcorn and grip Shane’s hand in sheer terror. It was a standout moment amongst many sweeter details: Ilya leaning over constantly to ask the meaning of a joke; Ilya muttering Russian curses at unhinged plot developments; Ilya laughing wholeheartedly at the physical comedy he could understand.

By the time floodlights turn back on, Shane barely remembers much about the movie itself. Whereas Ilya had been engrossed by the screen, his own thoughts ricochet between fondness and what-if’s, weighing down both heart and footsteps as they step through the exit doors. Under the guise of nightfall, they pass a few dimly lit shop windows before settling into a more secluded corner, safe from any threats of recognition.

“Okay. That was pretty good.” Ilya confesses as he tosses pieces of Buncha Crunch into his mouth. Regret quickly fills his face, however, as he realizes those to be the last, and another Russian curse accompanies his trashing of the empty box.

In that second, Shane feels fondness surge again, and he clutches onto it in hopes of not letting troubled emotions overwhelm.

“See? A trip to the movies is never a bad idea.”

“Yes, I think we should do this more. As long as–”

“...you get your snacks. I’ll remember.”

Hazel eyes light up, already anticipating their next cinematic outing. “So uh…what now?”

“Um…we walk over to this nice bar that’s two blocks away.” Shane scrambles for his phone, pulling up a trusted map. “And we’ll have a chat - like we just finished the MLH draft.”

“What?” Ilya’s expression contorts into dismay, seemingly having forgotten rule number two. “Hollander…”

The minimal distance between them closes quickly, with Shane being towed into arms that had likely withstood hours worth of longing. As enjoyable as the movie had been, the chaste experience would not dull a single old habit. But this Ilya does put up one boundary: even while their torsos stand seamless, their faces remain apart, awaiting further permission from either side.

Seizing the rare gap, Shane removes the tempting, almost wandering hands from his waist before he admonishes.

“This is supposed to be our first date, and we’re still learning to communicate, remember?” Each word induces a deeper and deeper pout on Ilya’s face. “Plus, I'm not putting out this early in a relationship.”

The pout morphs into a curt laugh. “You? Mr. ‘1410?’”

“That shower was not a date.” Shane flushes at the call out but retorts with ease. “Plus, all that technically hasn’t happened yet.”

“Fine. Fine.” Ilya throws up both arms, declaring a rare surrender. “But if we’ve started roleplaying, don’t we need…what do you call it…’fake ID’s for a bar? If we’re supposed to be ‘18?’”

“We’re not going that far.” Shaking off any lingering contact, Shane turns in the proper direction before offering an arm back to his dejected partner. “Come on. I’ll…let you hold my hand at least.”

At an instant, Ilya’s expression turns cheerful again. Before long, their fingers link together in a gentle fashion, the joint warmth both familiar and nostalgic at once.

What if - we actually held hands at 18?

Shane forces himself to swallow back the abrupt whisper of tragedy.

==

The bar bears a typical Californian ambiance, its rustic color scheme much warmer than any designs from the far north. Out of necessity, Shane had asked Farah to call ahead and secure them a more secluded booth (“Why are you two heading to L.A.?” “Personal business.”). It doesn’t exactly abide by the rules, but it doesn’t break any, either - and he’d prefer to not have this part of their evening be interrupted.

“Ah, welcome! Right this way.” A helpful server greets with a smile before leading them on an alternate path, circumventing the center layout of furniture and customers. As by Los Angeles standards, she clearly understands the incognito needs of certain guests.

As Shane leads Ilya, hands still clutched, he marvels at how comfortably the two of them can roam within these public spaces today. Long gone are the years of paranoia or hiding, and their only concern now is the general nature of their fame, rather than the specific nature of their love. Unfortunately, however, that is one aspect few teenagers, hockey phenoms or not, would’ve understood how to navigate.

They finally separate before settling into reserved seating, initial drink orders already on the tongue.

“Glass of Beluga and a beer? Comin’ right up.”

Left alone, Shane returns Ilya’s stare in a relaxed silence, letting nearby faint chatters and glass clinks serve as white noise. Though his fiancé’s eyes are often feverish in such privacy, they’re terribly gentle at this very moment, and Shane summons his entire will to resist reaching out for him, to forego these juvenile ideas that currently blockade his more indecent desires.

“So what’s next?” Ilya pipes up first, tone one of sincere curiosity.

“Well, we talk.” Shane answers, matter-of-fact. “Talk like we both just got drafted. Tell me what’s on your mind, Rozanov.”

Ilya winces in slight discomfort, but breaks their eye contact in reminisce. “Honestly wasn’t thinking about much at 18. Hockey. Girls. Boys. One Canadian boy with freckles.”

The sudden reference makes Shane shift in his seat, almost annoyed at how much Ilya’s unpredictable turns of phrase still affect him after all these years. 

“Tal…talk to that Canadian boy, then.” He tries his best to remain steadfast. “Tell me what you would’ve told him…besides that exchange in the gym after you almost murdered me.”

He hadn’t wanted to bring up that incident again, but an earlier promise must be kept. 

Ilya breaks into a sly, triumphant smile.

“That was hot. I thought about you a lot…all the time after our little race.”

Throat parched, Shane gulps before his own admission. “Same.”

“I kept that water bottle too, you know.” Ilya shifts forward, forearms crossing upon the table’s edge and voice dropping into a sensual timbre. “Will find it for you when we get home.”

The heat in those eyes ignites, searing every skin cell Shane had left exposed. That look, combined with the knowledge that the conduit of their first indirect kiss had been treasured all these years, sends his thoughts spiraling down both romantic and debauched paths. This whole thing was Shane’s idea, this whole date Shane’s plan - yet just like how he often loses control to this maddening man in bed, he’s about to lose control of their circumstances here and now.

He’s saved right then by the beyond-casual delivery of their drinks. And as Ilya sits back to thank their server, Shane uses the opportunity to calm all fluster, before redirecting with the only excuse he has.

“You’re speaking from the wrong year, Rozanov.”

Already mid-sip, Ilya pauses the tilt of his glass. But rather than dismissing their rule, he shutters both eyelids before lowering his drink, as if immersing into the character he’s meant to play. Little by little, his features harden, then sharpen - until an actual resemblance to his younger self emerges.

When his eyes reopen, they become unreadable at first, bearing a faint coldness Shane hasn’t seen in ages.

“The draft…was first time I felt nervous.”

In slight awe of the transformation, Shane follows suit. “Did you think Boston might’ve chosen me instead?”

“No no, I was very confident about going first.” Ilya denies without pause. “I was nervous…about seeing you again.”

“Oh.” Shane takes an uneasy swig of his beer, digesting revelation alongside liquid. He recognizes, however, that the courage the latter provides may not be anywhere enough to defend against this fated nemesis, much less all his ancient secrets.

Said nemesis scoffs from across the table, and delivers another clapper. “Hollander, your freckles are even prettier when you blush.”

The bottle almost falls from Shane’s grip.

“...would you really have said that to me right after we got drafted?” Defeated, he finds himself being the one to ruin this ever-delicate performance.

Ilya doesn’t answer, apparently committed to his character for the time being. His gaze takes on a piercing nature, as if needing to prod and prompt Shane’s own mind. It works at a moment’s notice, for lucid memories of the spontaneous “you look pretty” and “it was my idea” surface, dismissing any doubt of younger Ilya Rozanov’s audacity.

Fuck, he really would’ve said that, too.

“Ahem.” Forfeiting further attempts to weaken his blush, Shane tries to clear both throat and head. “Is…is this your first visit to Los Angeles, Rozanov?”

“Yes, and I’m glad L.A. could not draft me.” The roleplayed conversation flows on properly. “Threat of serial killers is one thing, but what’s worse: I hate the weather here.”

“Same. I need real winters.”

“Ha, that’s why I like you, Hollander.” Ilya raises his glass in salute. “Glad we’ll play each other a lot. Can only get better…if I’m against the best.”

The compliment energizes, returning Shane to those days of his early prime. “You think I’m the best?”

“No, second best.”

An uninhibited burst of laughter escapes them both, ending as quickly as it sounds.

Shane lifts his beer in mutuality. “We’ll be good fodder for the media, that’s for sure.”

“What does that mean? ‘Fodder?’” Ilya appears legitimately confused by the term.

“Like a hot topic. Something journalists can write about besides…game results and player stats.”

“Ah, you don’t seem like you would enjoy being ‘hot topic.’ So much attention.”

“I think it comes with the sport, so basically unavoidable.” Shane shrugs off the notion as casually as he had done all rookie season - or all his career, really. “They’ll put a certain lens on the two of us, amp up all the rivalry narratives they want us to have.”

Lifting an elbow, Ilya cups his chin with one palm.

“But they might stay blind to other things we do together.”

Fighting slight disorientation, Shane regards back coolly.

“What else…would you want to do together during our rookie season?”

Another unmistakable glint illuminates Ilya’s pupils, its glow as intense as all the carnal fantasies - or realities - that must’ve appeared in his mind’s window. But something swiftly tames it, resets everything wanton with a more tempered desire. Shane knows because he feels it too: a quiet assurance that this time, things can be different; this time, there is neither rush nor risk; this time, it’s patience that will reap them the grandest rewards.

Atop the table, a hand daringly extends into the middle, and Shane echoes the gesture at a matching pace.

“More of this, I think. Movie, meeting, talking.” Contrary to expectation, Ilya recites fairly monotonous plans, circling two fingertips hypnotically against Shane’s palm. “Too bad we’ll be living in different cities.”

“I’ve only been to Boston once.” Happily receiving every bit of tenderness, Shane shares his truth from that era. “Maybe when Montreal plays there next, you can show me around.”

“Sounds boring.” Ilya mutters his usual lexicon, but Shane can sense numerous gears turning in his head. “We shall see.”

“You know, moving across the world is not easy, but I think you’re gonna do great there, Rozanov.”

“Mm. I know I will.”

“I might not let you win Rookie of the Year over me, but I can see you being captain someday. Maybe even lead your team to a Cup.”

A genuine grin spreads across Ilya’s face.

“My goal is to get one before you do.” He haughtily speaks to what would eventually come to pass. “But who knows, Hollander? You might win more Cups than me in the end.”

Grinning back, Shane takes full advantage of the concession. “One day, people might say I should’ve been drafted first this year.”

“Oh no no, trust me, no one will ever say that.”

Laughter sounds then, soft and shared as their hands fully conjoin. For Shane, the sensation differs from their hold during the journey over. Between crisscrossed fingers now runs something as electric as their rookie banter, as majestic as their soon-to-be illustrious careers. Indeed, 2009 had opened bench doors for them to chase their greatest dreams, but beyond victories and awards, this chasing against each other - no - their inevitable chase of each other would still end up the most riveting race.

What if - our story began with a movie, not a match?

After an eternity, Ilya breaks their hold to reach upward, converting compliments into more daring action. As a hesitant knuckle caresses Shane’s cheek, he leans cautiously into the touch, not yielding beyond what his swelling heart can handle. And though the perpetrator soon speaks certain words aloud, there exists perfect understanding as to what his voice never communicates.

I loved these freckles before I ever met you.

“Imagine if Hollywood paparazzi catches us like this right after draft.” On the surface, Ilya jokes instead. “Could be big scandal before we sign contracts. Big fodder.”

“We’re probably not famous enough to be recognized by them yet.”

“Oh?” Ilya slides towards him until they exist side-by-side. “Then I better take advantage of ‘not famous enough’ right now.”

With little warning, Shane receives what must be their ten thousandth, perhaps twenty thousandth kiss. But rather than an act of routine, this meeting is one that intentionally harkens back to their very start. The hints of cigarette smoke are amiss, but each careful devour carries the same ingredient that had lured Shane into his lifelong addiction. Fingers press against chin and neck, adjusting particular angles that allow their lips to fit, re-fit, and fit again. Each taste, intoxicating. Each pause, patient. But above all, there is the same irony of something so soft, so unhurried racing for teenage Shane Hollander’s heart, and still somehow claiming a resounding victory.

Unknown minutes pass before the winner slows his pace - and concludes everything with a character-breaking whisper.

“I’m not getting further than this tonight, am I?”

What should be a celebratory speech contains pure dejection, and Shane smiles regretfully before shaking his head to confirm. He watches as a pout returns to Ilya’s well-pampered lips, and finds some relief that not all control was lost.

Nonetheless, he poses a question perhaps too rhetorical.

“You would’ve kissed me on our first date?”

“You would’ve wanted it.” Ilya counters, hooded eyes zeroed in on all he had just captured.

Shane doesn’t attempt denial. “That felt almost…exactly the same.”

“As what?”

“As the first time you ever kissed me, in 1410.”

“Because, Shane,” Ilya closes in again, punctuating with a final stroke by lip rather than ink. “That’s how I kiss someone I’ll miss.”

The confession prompts a deep inhale from Shane’s lungs, and his heart pounds with feverish demand. On reflex, he chases both oxygen and contact via an ardent lean, only to find that Ilya has already removed himself from his side.

Before long, his cunning date already stands outside the booth, posture astute and expression pleased.

“Good night, Hollander.” Ilya leaves him with a teasing salute, and Shane detects a more familiar yearning from behind that smugness. “Thanks for the movie…and see you in Boston.”

With that, he departs by a confident stride unchanged from 18 to 30. Briefly, Shane wonders how he could possibly muster the ability to walk away, but finds an answer in how his own fingertips unknowingly lift to his lips.

To be kissed, is to be missed.

But that same kiss is also how Ilya Rozanov ensures that he will be missed.

Distraction. Attraction. From the very start, he had ensured that Shane would teeter between those two precipices, constantly wondering about their next encounter. The tensions of a draft, the fervor of a bike race, the exchange of a water bottle - as if those weren’t already enough, these new discoveries of Ilya’s long ago desires now agitate Shane further, leaving him wondering much more, wanting it all after only one faux outing. History repeats, while he can no longer retreat.

Los Angeles: the City of Angels - and one handsome, formerly-teenage Devil.

So this is what dating Ilya Rozanov is like.

Shane sinks deep into his seat, and sighs even deeper.

Chapter End Notes

(Yes, the movie genre choice was a slight homage to Hudson's short films)

Thank you for reading <3 Kudos & comments always appreciated!

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Chapter 2: The City on a Hill

Chapter Summary

“Even if others are good in bed,” Ilya’s tone takes on a teasing attitude. “I start to get very annoyed when I notice them…not folding their clothes.”

While not the preferred direction for their heart-to-heart, Shane decides to counter with his own secret factoid. “I also can’t stop thinking about you, or Nashville, or the kiss in Vegas. Especially…whenever I’m alone.”

The insinuation visibly morphs Ilya’s pupils.

“You know,” He leans in for a husky whisper. “You never told me what color.”

To reminisce upon 20, Shane returns to Boston with Ilya.

Chapter Notes

New tags added for new developments :)

P.S. I don't think anyone's ready for HudConMania at the Golden Globes.

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Two Days Later

“I thought you agreed to ‘show me around town.’”

Shane frowns back and forth between Ilya and the vast sheet of ice up ahead, its surface almost too faultless to be marred by the rental skates on their feet. The rectangular space housing them is a far cry from the arenas Shane has become accustomed to, but without any other souls in sight, it feels impossibly large.

They had reached here - Steriti Memorial Rink in Boston’s North End - after strolling through nonsensical neighborhood layouts, where gray bricks lay over asphalt and signature red ones rise high along both streetsides. The city’s waterfront air battles afternoon summer heat, each breeze chilling all threats of humidity. But a true chill would only present itself where they currently stand.

“Too boring, so changed my mind.” Ilya steps onto the ice first, swinging around to present an inviting arm. “Come on, I’m trying to win your heart here, Shane Hollander.”

Shane acknowledges the bidding with a look, but crosses the boundary between carpet and frost without any assistance. “So you rented out this whole thing?”

“We were richer at 20, no? Fuck you money, as Americans say.” Unfazed by the snub, Ilya hollers as he begins to glide, profanity far more suited for the MLH echoing against the walls. “Plus, is just for an hour.”

Shane finds himself tempted to comment on fiscal responsibility in marriage, but manages to hold his tongue. Instead, he starts his own skating pattern, far more cautious and constricted compared to the amount of ice Ilya has already covered.

“Only us two on such a huge rink feels…strange. Especially without gear.”

Ilya whips to his side in a flash, flurries of ice splashing behind him as he places Shane’s waist in a snug hold. “Forget fucking hockey for one damn hour and do pairs skating with me.”

Bracing himself against that sturdy chest, Shane allows the contact, but leaves just enough room to escape. “I hope you don’t expect me to do any jumps.”

“No, I throw you into quad axel.” Ilya pushes both their bodies into a joint momentum, soon sufficient to propel Shane into a full turn. “Or…I can lift you.”

“Don’t you dare, asshole.” Barely recovering from the imbalanced spin, Shane bats those determined arms away before skating off at his maximum speed. “You don’t have enough muscle for lifts anyway.”

“You believe that?!”

Over Ilya’s appalled exclaim, Shane hears the crisp scratch of two adamant blades, and knows he can no longer afford to slow down.

“Oh fuck…!”

Over laughter, a chase commences - first for his body, then for his heart. Phantom spectators in the stands cheer on as the pursuit circles at a blistering pace, forcing Shane to heighten every hockey sixth sense to avoid capture. He knows that Ilya can match all the necessary metrics, but emotion begets error, and Shane’s control is what has always given him the slightest advantage.

The ice has always been their second home, together or apart. But it is also their fated battleground, housing clashes for purposes ingrained within them from childhood. Yet from their very first meeting, every definition within the rink - velocity, attack angle, stamina - had taken on dualities beyond Shane’s control, and daytime goals upon a scoreboard would often pale against the nighttime sways of a headboard.

At 20, they had just finished rookie year, accolades in tow and trysts initiated. From Center to Center, they closely study not only each other’s strategies but also each other’s bodies. Fantasies end up satisfied to varying degrees, including consummation by solo hands. In the end, this is a chase specific to them: finding every which way to score, while messily scoring each other in the process.

Above reveries, Shane senses the exact degree Ilya rushes at him from, and decides to dupe with a swerve, as he had done so often to him in those youthful years. Instead of playing the fool, however, Ilya exerts unexpected control today, redirecting himself to the exact same spot. An arm soon loops around Shane’s waist as a makeshift brake, generating light momentum contrary to his weight. They end up in a soft collapse together near center ice, the constant starting point of their infinite encounters.

Ilya’s face looms over Shane’s, breaths heavy between short laughs. Seconds, then minutes pass, but neither make any attempt to disentangle their limbs.

“Skating…without puck to hunt down is…fun, no?” At last, an accented question chokes out.

Shane can’t help but admire how beautiful Ilya looks from this upward perspective - all backlit from the ceiling lights above, rows of scaffolding like the patterned backdrop of a painting.

“Yeah. It is kinda fun.” He nods, somewhat enthralled.

The object of his idolatry winks. “So did I win your heart?”

“Not yet.” Of course, from the very start.

“But…?”

“You may have a small reward for your efforts.” Maintaining eye contact, Shane reaches up with a finger and taps his lips.

With an annoyed grunt, Ilya mutters thank god in his native tongue and dives downward for his official capture.

As their mouths meet, Shane thinks he’ll never confess that he had fantasized this exact scenario as early as his rookie year - and perhaps, every time they’ve played against each other since. Witnessing Scott Hunter display the same blatant affection to his partner on the rink had been a revelation of multitudes. Not until that night had he realized: the ice that brings him freedom and joy from an athletic sense could also expand those definitions much, much further.

When they finally part, Shane admits, somewhat dreamily, to Ilya’s Los Angeles expectations.

“I missed kissing you.”

“Of course you did.” Ilya presses a bonus peck to the corner of Shane’s mouth. The sensation lingers as he propels himself back into a stance, before also pulling Shane to his feet. “Shall we, partner?”

Already flushed, Shane feels his cheeks gain more warmth at the unexpected address. In acceptance, he melts into a back hug position within two hefty arms. Slowly but surely, they begin to skate as one, their larger builds inelegant but tempo comfortable. Unlike earlier, Shane relinquishes any desire to control or escape, allowing himself to be pushed and maneuvered by Ilya’s careful - perhaps too careful - pace.

“You can go faster, you know.” He taps the back of hands currently clasped around his belly. “I’m kind of experienced on this surface.”

“Don’t want my pairs partner to fall.”

Though innocent, the daunting word triggers what had been another truth at 20 - those very fears of a fall destroying all potential for freedom or joy, and ruling over Shane ever since the start of their affair. Heavy were these anxieties that had eventually proved true in the arenas of Sochi, in the reactions of Roger Crowell, in the locker rooms of Montreal. And even with Hunter’s daring declarations, it had taken several more years for Shane’s true catharsis.

What if - hockey ice always embraced us two from the start?

He wishes that they hadn’t needed to remain isolated in their secrets, to reduce their relationship to years of a camouflaged nothing, until enough courage and trust gave it meaning.

Thoughts full, Shane turns within Ilya’s hold and links both arms over broad shoulders, sinking his face into the dip along a familiar neck. Despite heightening the risk of a fall, he skates backwards, fully assured of Ilya’s ongoing guidance.

Courage. Trust.

He senses Ilya wanting to question the move at first, but soon enough, their mutual breaths slow to the lethargic rhythm of their feet, and a smile gently forms against Shane’s pulse.

Maybe this skate could’ve been something beautiful for their invisible audience. Maybe this skate could’ve persuaded detractors from misconstruing their love. Maybe this skate could’ve been their bravery.

They loop around and around the rink, embarking on the silent chase for a restored past.

==

“Order for Christine! Amaretto cannoli and a slice of tiramisu!”

“Order for Samy…one chocolate dipped biscotti!”

The ongoing hollers above loud commotion unnerves Shane at first, but the atmosphere at Mike’s Pastry is, ultimately, no less lively than any hockey match. Once adjusted to the popularity of Ilya’s next chosen Boston locale, sugar-sweet air and all, he reshapes himself as the audience of a rowdy tourist game rather than an engaged player. Meanwhile, his former rival continues the trust from earlier, clutching his hand as they navigate the crowd. Despite accidentally going public with their relationship months ago, something has shifted further since their time at the rink - like an innocence more uninhibited, a growing audacity to display their affection.

Still, once near the counter, Ilya barks out unintelligible words to the staff that draw a tad too much attention for Shane’s liking. He’s secretly glad that they’ve donned sunglasses and hats appropriate for the weather, rendering them at least somewhat anonymous - unless anyone takes a closer, second look at their joint physiques. 

Ilya pulls them to the side of the room next, a temporary shelter from the ruckus. As they wait, an adolescent boy accompanying his mother nearby meets their eyes. It’s obvious from his shocked expression that he recognizes at least Ilya, and the hesitant wave that follows clears any doubt. Though Shane delays any reaction, Ilya lowers his sunglasses to wink at their shy fan, while placing a finger over lips in a request for secrecy. The boy nods, starstruck, and looks away. And as it often happens whenever Shane observes his fiancé interact with children, adoration saturates his chest.

“I forgot how long you played here.” He murmurs into Ilya’s ear, not hiding the endearment in his voice. “I’m sure Bostonians will always remember you.”

“They’d better. I’m kind of a hero here.”

Before Shane can scold him for arrogance, the call comes.

“Order for Lily! One hazelnut, one pistachio, one chocolate ricotta!”

The pseudonym makes Ilya jump to action, and he shoves unapologetically through the crowd again, as swift as navigating a dozen defensemen. A smooth snatch of the branded box and a u-turn later, he returns just as quickly as he had left, grabbing Shane’s hand as he passes in order to achieve a hasty exit. 

Once they escape further threats of claustrophobia, Shane takes a long inhale. “You got three cannolis?”

“Extra for later.” Ilya shakes their prize gently as he leads them northwestward. “In case I get hungry again.”

Their steps don’t slow until all buildings fall wayside, revealing the Charles river at the end of the road, its calm surface adjacent to a waterfront fence. With a childlike final skip, Ilya bumps against the sculpted metal, arms wide open as if showcasing the pleasant, unobstructed view. Shane drinks in the passing boats and opposite wharfs little by little, appreciating this intersection of nature and history.

Lifting sunglasses up to his forehead, Ilya pops open the box and hands Shane the pistachio cannoli.

Upon receiving, Shane realizes how suggestive the pastry actually looks in his palm, but somehow Ilya has stayed completely mum about any possible innuendos, so he also avoids provocation. The hazelnut soon becomes the second chosen one, and Ilya follows with a gesture suggesting simultaneous bites.

As soon as teeth hit crunch and tongue hits cream, Shane feels blasted by flavorful bliss.

“Mm. Really good.” He marvels in between savoring chews, pleased that he’s no longer tethered to any diets. “No wonder it’s so popular.”

“My Boston guilty pleasure for years.” Ilya confesses before another giant bite.

“You mean your guilty pleasure all these years wasn’t me?”

“Mm-mm, wrong part of timeline. Go back.” Mumbling through his half-full mouth, Ilya shakes one finger in disapproval. Though they hadn’t marked a roleplay starting point, he already seems determined to engage in their time travel.

Relenting, Shane ventures first, molding past thoughts into words exactly as Ilya had kicked off in Los Angeles. Coincidentally, their current positions against the fence serves as a reminder of a certain past experience, and he decides to draw from that precise 2011 memory.

“I know…we didn’t end things well after the awards in Vegas. I honestly didn’t realize how much you had on your mind.”

“Is ok. I wasn’t ready to share.” Ilya sets his gaze on some unknown object across the river, a cannoli now in hand in place of that rooftop cigarette. “I was a little upset about Rookie of the Year. But if not me…then you. That’s fine.”

“We really dominated the league, huh.” Shane smiles, recalling their surreal debuts. “Broke more records as rookies than anyone ever expected.”

“I’m ready to break all of yours next season. No pressure.”

“Tell me more about pressure, Rozanov.” Taking advantage of the segue, Shane pauses eating and poses what he should’ve asked back then. “Tell me what you’re facing…why we argued on that rooftop.”

Ilya snorts. “You mean the love-hate tug-of-war with my family? Or those eyes in Russia on my every fucking move? Name a battle…and I’m fighting it.”

“I definitely forgot that you have to contend with the media there, too.” Similar to me and Canada, but likely many times worse.

“Is fine.” With a shrug, Ilya tosses the final piece of shell into his mouth before grasping the fence. “Has been like this since I was teenager.”

“I think a lot about what I said that night. I was drunk, yes, but also very inconsiderate.” Shane reaches out, enveloping Ilya’s knuckle with his own hand and squeezing it in reassurance.

A bittersweet smile materializes on Ilya’s face, and his attention returns to the space between them.

“I kissed you then because I already forgave you, not to put us in danger. I wanted nothing else but one more, because each could be the last.”

Shane’s chest throbs.

At 20, it had been Here is fucking view, Hollander and a moment of passion fraught with fear. But today, this view of Boston is far more grounded, giving absolute normalcy to their existence as a couple - no longer high on a rooftop, in peril from the falls of discovery.

“Pressure from Russia…is nothing compared to Jane from Montreal.” Unaware of Shane’s contemplations, Ilya continues on. “Most confusing thing in my life. Trouble.”

Shane scoffs at the tease. “Lily from Boston isn’t any better for me.”

“Well Marlow thinks Jane’s my special one. He’s right.”

Heat creeps into Shane’s cheeks at the stark admission. “Lucky me.”

“Even if others are good in bed,” Ilya’s tone takes on a teasing attitude. “I start to get very annoyed when I notice them…not folding their clothes.”

While not the preferred direction for their heart-to-heart, Shane decides to counter with his own secret factoid. “I also can’t stop thinking about you, or Nashville, or the kiss in Vegas. Especially…whenever I’m alone.”

The insinuation visibly morphs Ilya’s pupils.

“You know,” He leans in for a husky whisper. “You never told me what color.”

A choke overwhelms Shane, the resulting forward motion pushing his face into a half-finished cannoli. Pistachio cream decorates the tip of his nose just as Ilya retreats, and with another snort, the offender closes in a second time, brazenly licking off the sweet mess. As shocking as the action is, Shane fails to react, still too stunned by the revived question.

Post-clean up, Ilya’s tongue wets his lips. “Well?”

Recovery still in tow, Shane gradually finds a visual in mind to support his typical honesty. “The one I mentioned to you is…this golden brown shade. It reminds me of your hair.”

“Oh, my hair down there?” Ilya proves amused but unfazed. “Wow, you do enjoy accuracy outside of shots on goal.”

Shane grumbles at the joke, both eyes squeezing shut. “I cannot believe we’re talking about this.”

“Talking is what you asked for, Hollander!”

“Alright, fine then.” He invades Ilya’s space this time, delivering his next words as a sensual hiss. “Whenever I use that dildo, I think about the first time you went down on me in Toronto, and how embarrassingly fast I came. So I kept training, practicing…all so I could last much longer the next time you…”

Ilya actually stumbles backward in retreat. “Fuck…stop. Stop.”

Shane steps forth, unwilling to concede. “It’s what you asked for, Rozanov.”

Shaking his head, Ilya raises both palms in front of his torso, like some sort of mock defense.

“If you still won’t let me touch you after this date, then we must change topic.”

The look on his face is earnest enough to be persuasive. Gingerly, Shane intersects fingers with one of the raised hands, tuning his voice with some empathy. “Trust me. It’s hard for me, too.” 

They share one of their many longing looks, intertwined fingers slowly moving in comfort of one another. A peaceful silence ensues, until something new seems to spark in Ilya’s head.

“Huh. Just realized.” The arch of his brows deepen. “Hunter probably would’ve enjoyed hearing us fuck after all-star game.”

“And he would’ve kept our secret, most likely.”

At the presumption, Ilya’s expression shifts remorseful.

“Sorry, Hollander.” 

“For what?”

“I’m sorry you keep that secret alone, when you aren’t even sure about being gay.”

It’s a mature, albeit delayed, deduction from someone who had laughed at Shane’s first coming out. On instinct, Shane moves to clutch the back of Ilya’s neck before tilting it forward. Pooling empathy soon manifests into the form of a forehead kiss, placed right where he knows will make Ilya sigh.

“My remedy has been watching YouTube videos of your interviews.” He murmurs as he pulls back. “You’re insufferable in all of them, but since we have the same secret, they do help me feel a little closer to you…less alone.”

“Ah, no wonder some of them have million views.”

“Fuck you.”

Though he delivers a verbal curse, Shane’s conscience flashes to a more unspoken curse that had plagued their relationship the past three years. It may be age-old wounds they’re addressing now, but he figures patching fresher ones along the way wouldn’t hurt.

“Ilya.”

“First name? We’re back to this year?”

“I’m sorry, too. That you endured the same loneliness from me, more recently.” Shane utters apologies that he knows may never be enough. “I’m really glad Galina and the Centaurs were there for you, when I couldn’t even handle publicizing our relationship.”

A faint sadness overtakes Ilya’s features for a nanosecond, but it alleviates when he starts to echo Shane’s recent actions. Before long, a returned kiss lands on Shane’s forehead, relaying the wordless reciprocation of forgiveness. Within the exchange, there is solace in that they still understand each other best out of anyone in the universe, for their struggles have always been identical, even through different passages of time.

Instead of retreating, Ilya wraps Shane into the warmest embrace, mimicking their final position on the ice rink.

“Is ok. I have you now.”

What if - we actually confronted everything together, from the very start to the very end?

==

Together, at least, is how they depart from the North End in the late afternoon, cuddled in the back of an Uber like two young lovebirds seeking a new nest. As Shane rests his head on Ilya’s shoulder, relishing the security against a world that once threatened their livelihoods, he mulls on the foresight and freedom they had lacked as rookies. Achievements aside, indulgences of sex had overshadowed precious time, and judgments from their own sport had eliminated any faith in each other. Now, reliving a sliver of how they could’ve spent countless days in Boston - through Ilya’s nine, nine long years here - has proved sobering first, but melancholic most.

As the car pauses at the gate of his hotel, Shane tries to swallow the pride of mandates. The sun has yet to set, but his thoughts already shift to nighttime affairs.

“Do you want to…come up?” He looks up into Ilya’s eyes, and detects the same degree of hope.

“Second date, Hollander.” Ilya caresses his shoulder with languid rubs. “I thought you didn’t–”

“I just want to talk a little longer.”

“Talk? Right. Sure.”

With a swipe on his phone, Ilya cancels the route to his hotel prior to jumping out, one leg nearly stumbling from eagerness. Shane staggers ahead after his own exit, giving wordless guidance through the double door entrance and lobby. Eager, eager - his brain barely registers pressing any elevator button, much less rushing down the corridor of the seventh floor, this time with a shadow emulating his every step.

When his room door clicks shut, all senses finally snap back into place.

“Shall we…talk?” Ilya falls against the doorframe, not stepping in further. His right hand still clutches the box where one pastry remains, but it is he, ruffled shirt, lazy pose and all, who looks the most delectable.

“Yeah. Maybe.” Shane gulps.

“Your rules, Hollander.”

You’ll jeopardize your career. Your sponsors will turn away. Your teammates will ostracize you. Hide, hide, hide or else.

But Ilya. His first love. His kindred spirit on the ice. His safety from any fall.

I have him now. I always have.

“Fuck the rules.” He growls, and launches himself at Ilya’s waiting body.

The string of kisses that follows is night and day from the chaste one shared at the rink. They harken to the same desperation from their first all-star game, when a six-month parting had fashioned Shane’s rookie taste of yearning, just as the hours since their Los Angeles date had built up his current impatience. But rather than a fiery encounter to recoup separation, he gifts Ilya a natural segue of rewards: short pecks for that beautiful hour on ice, deeper ones as thanks for dessert, and a daring tongue for the much-needed dialogue towards forgiveness. From one to the next, Shane delivers, communicating each dose of gratitude with his most fluent language.

Right before the urge to discard clothing, however, he feels Ilya turning them both and shoving him against the side wall. Instead of buttons or zippers coming undone, Ilya moves back to arms’ length, his kiss-swollen lips shaping a triumphant smile. To Shane’s surprise, he seems insistent on maintaining their distance, and like in their previous city, there is no rush towards gratification.

“Like I said. You’ve always been trouble, Jane.”

Shane doesn’t understand fully, but decides to engage as Ilya clearly wishes to - roleplaying those false names that had been their shields during a more juvenile time.

“Please, Lily.” He hates how pleading he sounds, but the days have felt infinite since their last intimacies at home. And whenever, wherever Ilya reignites that fire within him, it’s seldom quelled.

“Mm. Let me plan the next date, too.” Quid pro quo comes via a surprising request. “And maybe I’ll touch you.”

Something strikes as odd, and Shane wonders if he has been at the center of some elaborate seduction scheme after all. But desire trumps critical thought, and despite already arranging outings at his next chosen city - not that he can recall specifics at the moment - he figures anything can be postponed.

“Okay, okay. Next one’s yours.” I’m yours.

“Good. As you know, I like to move faster than this.” Ilya closes in, elevating the pastry box little by little while he speaks. “But if I was 20 again, maybe…I learn more patience, learn to wait. Because you are special, Jane. Very special to me. So - going to take my sweet, sweet time today.”

Maneuvering with his free hand, the container snaps open to allow retrieval of the leftover cannoli, still looking as fresh as when they first obtained it. A clack sounds as cardboard drops to the floor, and newly-liberated fingers charge forward to undo Shane’s belt.

“What are you…” Shane gapes back and forth between the pastry and Ilya’s ravishing stare. His usually adept arms fidget, uncertain of what their next reflex should be.

“Shhh…stay still. Enjoy an afternoon snack with me.” The buckle comes undone, as does the topmost button of Shane’s jeans, mere seconds later.

In case I get hungry again. Ilya had claimed earlier of the extra purchase - and the revelation that yes, there has been a scheme surfaces for an alarming second. If so, it would be called a resounding success, for though the Ilya in his room looks very hungry indeed, he is nowhere near as starved as Shane now feels.

He wonders what might’ve happened had he resisted the urge to invite this crafty, beloved menace up here. But perhaps it’s a moot question, since the Shane he has become after today - embedded with fresh sympathy towards Ilya’s past struggles, and renewed love for his raw affections - could’ve never, ever resisted in the first place.

In the midst of such thoughts, his zipper parts, revealing the breadth of his desire behind one last, thin layer of fabric.

And Ilya dives, unveils.

“Lily…!” Familiar fingertips meeting Shane’s length draws from him a choked gasp.

“Yes, Jane?” Without breaking eye contact, Ilya moves the cannoli in his other hand closer to his mouth. A long tongue darts out for a generous, slow swipe at white ricotta, extracting it from the fried tube.

The sight is so erotic that Shane nearly cums right there.

From then, Ilya acts as promised, taking a very literal sweet time as he works the cannoli from above and Shane’s cock from below, lubrication soon plentiful from both ends. Every lick pairs with a drag, every tiny bite a gentle squeeze, all ensuring that no matter what, either sight or feel would overwhelm Shane from his very core. 

Countless nerve endings spark with pleasure, and Shane nearly shuts his eyes to stave off half of the beautiful torture. Yet, he cannot look away from how Ilya is savoring both filling and shell - a mirror image of how he enjoys his actual, favorite nightly treat. Somehow, Shane obeys the command for stillness, though even muscular legs barely support his increasingly fragile frame.

Whether by hand or mouth, these are rules failing, schemes succeeding, and all Shane wishes is to set aside what-ifs and pursue release.

Ilya swallows a large bite as he starts to pump harder, faster.

“Oh…god…!” Shane almost stumbles, blunt nails struggling to find purchase along the bare wall.

“Mm…both my guilty pleasures at once…so, so good.”

The duality-charged praise reduces Shane to tormented moans, at risk for a treacherous fall again - but one which mends, rather than injures.

Upon that precipice, Ilya begins to caress Shane’s sensitive tip, fingers imitating the actions of a tongue until no difference can be found. The real thing wets both his lips, before they slot next to Shane’s earlobe.

“Do you know…what most famous sweet in Boston is?” That accented English drops into a heavy timbre.

Shane shakes his head, words failing between broken gasps and a more broken mind.

“Is not cannoli, but Boston Cream…” Ilya divulges, then commands again. “You should cream for me, Jane.”

The order breaks through all enduring resistance, turning everything suggestive into reality. Shane’s hips rut into a waiting hand that welcomes each wild motion, receives his blissful surrender with patience.

“Oh fuck, fuck...” As his release coats Ilya’s bowled palm, Shane dissolves into a saccharine ecstasy that his taste buds may never comprehend. His body also loses the battle with friction, sliding languidly to the ground.

In his stupor, he registers Ilya squatting to be level with him, dipping two cum-drenched fingers into what little remains of the cannoli’s creamy center. Slowly, both ingredients are mixed into a rich concoction. And while admiring Shane’s utter demise, Ilya shoves the same fingers in between his smirking lips, indulging in the result.

“So pretty and delicious.” A mumble follows the cleaned digits’ removal. "But a bit…fast still. Maybe more practice needed with your dildo?”

Without hesitation, Ilya seals their mouths, and the blend of salty and sweet that follows drives Shane into further levels of delirium. In the midst of exchanged moans and untamed tongues, Shane seeks more but does not find enough - knows he may never get enough.

After an eternity, Ilya chuckles from his thoroughly emptied throat ahead of breaking the kiss. Shane can only watch with longing as he stands back up and turns towards the restroom. A smooth toss launches the final piece of cannoli into his mouth, and the scheme officially ends with the washing of hands.

From where he sits, Shane fixates on the special flavor that may spoil him and force a future return to this city and its pastries. But as his recovery continues, he also recognizes the bulge within Ilya’s jeans that he hasn’t tried to hide.

“Wait…what about you?”

Wiping his hands with a towel, Ilya returns to where he had stood previous.

“Next time.” The grin he flashes from above reflects a plot completed and a date satisfied. With both arms, he effortlessly lifts Shane back into a stance, before using the same towel to cleanse the mess of his doing.

Shane allows himself to be pampered, silent even as Ilya tucks him back in and rebuckles his belt. Once restored, he finds himself locked in that firm embrace for the third time today. But for this instance, more words, chock full of sincerity, enter his ears.

“My partner on ice, my most special Jane…today in Boston, you come first.”

Shane barely identifies the pun when he feels another tender kiss to his forehead, lasting just enough to mesmerize him from further reaction. Here in Ilya’s long-time host city, he uncovers both naivete and growth from the mind of a young man far from home, tethered to an unwanted past but finding solace on the ice - and in a young not-woman in Montreal.

Warmth gradually leaves him as Ilya departs for the door. As the handle twists, a final instruction relays from the threshold.

“And tomorrow, fly yourself to Vegas.”

Chapter End Notes

I feel like I’ve kind of desecrated a Boston food institution (And one of my legit favorite stops in the city), but I’m not sorry about it :D

Thank you for reading!! Kudos/comments always appreciated.

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Chapter 3: Sin City

Chapter Summary

“When your plane almost crashed, you texted that you may have loved me since you first saw me, yet…no, never mind.”

“Tell me.” Ilya encourages despite the emerging tremors in his voice. “You want honesty for us, so please - tell.”

Through drenched eyes, Shane takes in the stillness enveloping them as memories replay a penthouse echo. Tell me. You. I need you. Like that night, in front of him is his purest Ilya from past to present - a beautiful, wild blur: blurring between reality and fiction, between right and wrong, between healing and heartbreak.

“We didn’t even kiss.” And thus, Shane finally addresses the greatest heartbreak of his lifetime.

In the metropolis overseen by fate, Shane makes the ultimate wager.

Chapter Notes

So disclaimer…I started ideating/writing this chapter way way before Connor and Hudson showed up in Venice prior to the Olympic torch relay in Feltre/Belluno - even before their participation was ever announced! So you can imagine how genuinely insane and “cosmic” (As Connor likes to say) it felt considering which casino/hotel I decided to put Hollanov in. I just chose my personal favorite one in Vegas!

Also to note, this chapter will reference Ilya’s canon POV for Las Vegas Awards/Penthouse scenes (Short extra by Rachel separate from the books) several times. So it might be helpful to read that for context first.

And of course: more tags added (Spoiler alert?)!

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Two Days Later

The ornate facade of The Venetian never fails to catch Shane’s eye at every visit, but this is the first time he walks through the oversized entrance to explore all that lies within. Like the typical casino on the Vegas Strip, it embodies imitation and exaggeration only this city is capable of. But the deeper he wanders into the halls, the more pleasantly surprised Shane becomes. Amongst the commotions of evening, there exists a special charm to the substantial Italian homages, and a benign beauty to the false blue sky above the shops. Contrary to the ruckus of outside streets, the faint indoor soundtrack is calming, each discernable melody almost too soft and tame for a debauched city.

When Ilya had casually proposed this return, Shane’s first feeling had been unease, not anticipation. Considering their history, perhaps he should’ve predicted this inevitability - after all, smoothing out the rooftop incident is only the tip of the iceberg. But for now, tranquility exists around him, and so Shane attempts to channel it, and suppress any hints of discomfort.

He’s dressed up nicer than the previous two times, obliging Ilya’s texted request with a collared shirt, blazer, and linen slacks combination that blends him in with particular segments of the Vegas crowd. Shane knows from past visits that most tourists here wouldn’t recognize the likes of him at all - even if they followed hockey, they’re always either too drunk, too distracted, or too depressed over the consequences of their gambles to care. So in the middle of one of the most popular establishments, he can still navigate without fear of recognition, the truest luxury amidst all the extravagance.

The navigation eventually brings him near The Venetian’s famous indoor canal ride, dreadfully artificial in appearance but, as with much else here, “close enough” to the real Venice attraction. From afar, Shane spots Ilya already settled into a waiting gondola at the starting point, his pose relaxed as he chats with their uniformed gondolier.

Shane slows his steps to extend and appreciate the details of this moment: the fit of Ilya’s slate blue casual suit, the natural way one hand rests over his hiked up leg, the smirks and smiles flashed in between unintelligible words.

In any other city, any other moment, Ilya would effortlessly command the center of all attention. But in the capital of indulgences, Shane is glad that for once, he might actually own the only pair of eyes completely captivated by such a man. They’re engaged in the past, dating in the present, yet this reunion feels more akin to fate’s compass recalibrating lost souls, until only a direction towards one another remains on the orient. After all, Vegas is where one leaves everything to fate: pit on one gamble after another, and hope to fulfill your utmost desires.

Right then, Ilya also catches sight of him and beckons with a wave and a grin. Shane speeds up to his normal pace, obliging the singular course laid out by both fate and themselves. As he approaches, Ilya stands with careful consideration of his own balance. While the gondolier suspends the boat’s movements with an oar, the same arm that had invited Shane to figure skate - but also in the past to be brave, to stay - extends towards him again.

“Welcome back to Las Vegas.” Each accented syllable is punctuated, like an airport announcement gone robotic.

Amused, Shane accepts the hospitality and allows himself to be ushered into the gondola’s thin cabin. Prudent steps and a greeting towards their designated boatman later, he settles next to Ilya in the only other available seat. Despite the limited width that barely fits their taut bodies, they fall against each other comfortably, activating muscle memories from years worth of intimacy.

“Good flight?” Ilya asks.

A soothing hand absentmindedly rubs the side of Shane’s neck, and he resists almost purring at the sensation. It distracts him enough that he barely notices the initiation of their aquatic journey via a lethargic drift.

“You were just a few rows away...” He points out with an equally lethargic voice.

“So? Doesn’t mean we had same flight experience.”

“Halfway here, I realized that I shouldn’t have let you pick the next city.” Shane finds himself leaning further into Ilya’s torso, officially succumbing to travel fatigue. “L.A. to Boston, then all the way back here makes no fucking sense.”

“Eh, not too different from hockey season.” Ilya presses a peck to the crown of his head. “Plus, you don’t regret it. Not after what you got from me in Boston.”

Cannoli-tainted memories rise forth, compelling Shane to readjust his posture before too much rushes south in public. A part of him can’t help but be curious at what awaits later, but for now, he trains his attention on the faux Italian scenery on both sides of the water, and wonders how close it is to the real thing.

“We should go experience actual Venice someday.” He uses the thought as a convenient segue.

“Are you calling me cheap, Hollander?” Rather than entertain the idea, Ilya feigns irritation. “You took me to a fucking eight-dollar movie.”

Shane sends a playful smack into Ilya’s shoulder. “Asshole. I bought you every snack you wanted, too.”

“Yes, another what - 30 dollars? I score more goals every season than what you spent.”

“Says the one who still kissed me after 38 dollars because he’ll miss me.” Shane makes sure to add additional flair when he repeats Ilya’s own words.

This time, the expected retort doesn’t come. Instead, Ilya meets his eyes with an alarmingly soft gaze, before fingers tip Shane’s chin upward until their lips meet. It’s a third date kiss that still resembles a first date kiss, gentle and unhurried. Nevertheless, it persuades Shane to no longer care if this were real or fake Venice, if their gondolier or anyone else sees them. No, this is simply what they could’ve done years earlier, on one of their many previous Vegas visits, without a care in the world.

“Missed you this time, too.” Ilya whispers as they part. “A few rows away on plane…still too far.”

The comment triggers a far less pleasant memory, of a much further separation between sky and land, not to mention a series of frantic texts that had declared Ilya’s affections and propelled Shane towards outright commitment. I love you. Always. Maybe from the first time I saw you.

Disposing the traumatic parts of that time, Shane tucks himself ever closer, giving a response that doesn’t necessitate speech. They coast onward in renewed peace, immune to the footsteps and chatter from a growing number of visitors around the canal.

Ilya pipes up first after several more minutes pass.

“This ride is kind of long, yes?”

“Long, but nice.” Shane shrugs from his restful spot. “There’s definitely much more to do in Vegas, though.”

“Says the one who never leaves his room whenever we have MLH Awards here.” Ilya teases with an echo of Shane’s earlier jest.

“I do leave!” He protests with immediacy. “...for the awards, and the gym…”

Ilya quickly takes advantage of the opening. “And for me.”

Rooftops. Penthouses. Beds. Flashes of a myriad of notable locations ignite a furious blush beneath Shane’s freckles. His mind can’t help but recall various sordid details over the years, with celebratory nights for each other’s MLH accolades leading the charge.

“We had some pretty memorable times here, no?” The devious chuckle behind Ilya’s voice hints at his mutual recollection. “Still think about the good vodka from that one year - that’s the year we’re pretending to be in, yes?”

The drink’s mention is innocent, but Shane’s body releases an ominous shudder, not from thrill but from deep-buried anxiety grown from earlier unease. 2014 - the era of tense onstage selfies and a tenser bathroom encounter. His MVP loss had spiralled into a game of control and resistance, only for Shane to lose twice more in that warped version of their rivalry. And despite their many Vegas rendezvouses since, none had proved so pointed like today, so aimed at revisiting the past.

Now that he has prematurely looked into avoided depths, a powerful gloom begins to cloud any form of youthful adoration they shared just seconds before. What materializes now are unanswered questions in a bathroom, and unsent texts on a cellphone. But above all, there are phantoms of his blatant hurt on that particular evening, the overwhelming regret of being used and denied. So much gratification had they sought together during more immature stages, but at costs incalculable and subliminal. To this very day, Shane knows Ilya has actually never been aware of the wounds inflicted, much less the scars that still remain.

I love you. Always. Maybe from the first time I saw you.

But had Ilya? Even through his silence in Sochi and his disregard in this very city?

Shane’s body falls numb as these thoughts persist, weighing down the rest of this otherwise pleasant ride and dimming sights and sounds throughout. The gondola soon slows, as if also affected by the development, but its eventual stop is simply the scheduled one at the end of their route.

He faintly hears Ilya thank their guide, and senses a kiss approaching his cheek thereafter. Instead of receiving - needing - it as usual, Shane rebuffs with a quick shift into a standing position, before stepping out of the boat with zero hesitation.

“...Shane?” Ilya’s surprised tone trails his abrupt departure.

Shane halts before his fight-or-flight response takes him too far, though a deep breath continues to accompany each truncated thought. This is not 2014. At most, this is roleplay. Stop overthinking. Stop running.

“Hey.” Ilya appears in front of him, wrapping a concerned grip around his bicep. “You okay?”

Shane exhales one last time.

“Yeah. I just…what’s next?”

He knows his tone sounds too casual for a romantic setting, similar to that half-hearted “sure” when Rose had inquired about the merits of kissing her years ago. But it’s hard to muster up enjoyment of any sort when something this heavy lingers unresolved. He forces himself to look up directly into hazel eyes, and finds suspicion above all else.

“What’s next doesn’t start for another…15 minutes.” Ilya glances down at his watch, conveniently masking his doubt.

Shane’s own eyes travel around the makeshift town square they’ve ended up in, and find a possible reprieve.

“Buy me a gelato then? I didn’t get dessert after dinner.” He gestures towards the colorful kiosk a short distance away.

At once, Ilya pulls him towards his wish, as if operating under a need to immediately fix whatever had gone awry. The sense of determination revives some optimism within Shane as well. Perhaps, satisfying the Italian sweet tooth he had acquired from Boston - albeit with a different treat - can be a remedy, even if temporary.

“Pistachio?” The simple question sounds once they arrive at the glass display.

“Yes please.” He squeezes Ilya’s hand.

The vendor quickly scoops up the green concoction, feeding it first into a cup and then right into Shane’s prepared grip. They soon settle upon metal chairs in a less populated corner of the square, and as Shane takes his first bite, he can feel Ilya’s intense stare upon his entire being.

“Shane?”

“I’m fine.”

Unsure of how to formulate further response, Shane keeps eating to avoid sharing anything verbal. But despite the supposed dopamine, he notices himself entering further seclusion, deeming any conversations he had wanted for them far less desirable. He had been nervous that apprehension would surface, but hadn’t expected such struggle within only the first hours of returning here. As usual, Shane had thought himself stronger in spirit, durable against wounds from almost a decade past. But forgetfulness is not always in totality, and forgiveness not always encompassing.

What if - I had never let my feelings for him excuse my hurt?

“Shane.” Ilya speaks up once more. “If I said or did something wrong…”

“No, I’m fine. You’re fine.”

He tries to focus on the lovelier moments from their last two dates, and the forgiveness that had already been nurtured. There is definite solace in how open Ilya had been both times, always accommodating in his typical teasing yet patient manner. So perhaps, it will be the same here, but by what method is yet to be seen.

Shane inhales deeply, pushing the latest of melted gelato down his throat.

“Sorry, um, this is really good. Try it.”

He dips and collects a spoonful before delivering it right between Ilya’s mouth, currently half-open in a half-hearted way. He watches as his offering softens some visible concern, but doesn’t completely erase it.

“You’re right, by the way. I should’ve left my room more whenever we came to Vegas.” He attempts reversal to distract them both. “I’ve never even taken that gondola ride before, and it’s the biggest tourist trap there is.”

Ilya is silent for two seconds longer than Shane would like, but he eventually replies.

“$150 for that.” A disappointed scuff punctuates the complaint. “This whole fucking city is a money sink.”

On Shane’s part, he’s grateful to finally find a reason to chuckle. “So now you think staying in my room…was probably the right call?”

“If we have money, why not have fun?” Ilya counters. “As they say: what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

The issue, however, is that we’ve now returned here. Shane can’t help but consider the ironic circumstance. But as he watches Ilya’s free spirit revive a little, he no longer wishes to disrupt any well-intentioned plans. What plagues him can be addressed under the right opportunity, whenever he can actually find the right words. For now, under his own rules, he should at least breathe steady, and try to enjoy their hours together.

With his free hand, he reaches out to caress one of Ilya’s knuckles.

“Thank you anyway, for the wonderful canal tour.” He says with renewed sincerity. “Time to move on?”

Ilya glances at where they touch, a hint of suspicion still present.

“Mm. Come.”

==

Despite Shane’s assumption that they must navigate the maze that is the Venetian’s main casino floor, Ilya exceeds expectation - and not in the simple way like how Shane had Farah reserve a booth in Los Angeles. No, in his grand scheme, he heads straight towards a private elevator bank by way of a side corridor, and Shane can only guess what secret splendor rests at the other end.

“High Roller moment?” He tries to jest as Ilya scans a key card to call their transport.

“Something like that.” Ilya’s left brow does an almost imperceptible arch. “This can go to our room floors, but it can also go to more.”

As they enter the most lavish elevator car Shane has ever seen, he decides that he shouldn’t be surprised by anything after the ice rink rental.

The doors reopen upon them reaching the 34th floor, revealing a giant, unoccupied lounge space with only a gaming table in the center and meticulously designed furniture scattered throughout. Beneath a trio of chandeliers, a gourmet cart rests tableside, stacked with snacks and pitchers of drinks.

“You had to one-up Boston, huh?” Shane sighs, unwilling to reveal just how impressed he is once again.

“Go big or go home.” Ilya grins. “Or in this case, go back to hotel room.”

Shane walks forward and eyes the Blackjack setup upon green felt. “Is there…no dealer for us?”

“I’m dealer.”

As always, Shane can only laugh to himself. He never knows exactly how Ilya sweet talks his way into all these special arrangements, but considering it’s Vegas, fame and money would surely both talk. Loudly.

He moves further until he comes up against the table’s varnished edge. “That doesn’t seem fair. The House always has an advantage.”

Ilya positions himself in the dealer’s spot, balancing on both elbows to lean over the polished wood. “You don’t want to be my rival in cards? Be my Lady Luck, then?”

The wink he throws at Shane is beyond mischievous.

“Fuck you.” Shane curses on the surface, but doesn’t control the snicker that escapes. A part of him thinks that he wouldn’t necessarily mind that role - he always preferred observing to gambling - but he would never admit it out loud.

Across from him, the smile that emerges on Ilya’s face is gentle, full of apparent relief that Shane has relaxed enough to accept a joke. It’s the most content he has looked all day, and open in a way that’s ripe with the opportunity Shane had wished for. Regardless of any positive emotions, the strained tension within himself desires to be freed. Yet, he also doesn’t wish to entrap Ilya, so the next step must be left completely up to circumstance.

“Remember, this way we cannot lose any money.” An oblivious Ilya starts toying with one of the chip stacks.

“Other than what you already spent on this room, sure.” Shane reminds flatly. “You’re aware that we’ll be sharing a bank account soon, right?”

“This was cheap for me, even in 2014!”

“Yes, yes, you’re the King of Frugality, Mr. Sports Cars.”

“This is Vegas, Mr. Landlord. Never regrets.”

The adamant phrase opens an interesting path, its direction designated by that mysterious compass.

Now or never, Shane. No regrets.

With a careful exhale, he decides to embark upon it.

“What if…I want to make a different kind of wager?”

Ilya flips a chip into multiple somersaults between his fingers, showing off the same prowess and dexterity he has on ice. “Go. Make it.”

Ignoring the hint of intimidation, Shane clears his throat and emulates Ilya’s lean from the opposite side. He decides then that he will fully depend upon fate, no matter what acknowledgements or friction may result. Under average circumstances, he couldn’t possibly win against his fiancé in any card game, but if destinies align, he will no longer refrain from unearthing the hardest of truths.

“If I win a hand, I get to ask you a question about anything from when we were 23.” He locks their stares in challenge. “And…vice versa?”

Ilya’s brows furrow in confusion. “Isn’t this how we roleplay our conversations already?” 

“Yes, but the stake today is how much you or I get to ask.” Despite its imminent irrelevance in their game, Shane also starts toying with a chip stack while he clarifies. “If you keep winning…you won’t have to answer a thing.”

“Ah, so we’ll be rivals battling to win…honesty.”

“Yes, honesty. Very simple.” Shane affirms, knowing all too well that rivalry is the one concept neither of them can ever resist.

“Fine.” His new opponent accepts as easily as expected. “Let us play.”

Via smooth, experienced slides of Ilya’s dealing hand, a 10 of diamonds and 5 of hearts flow from the card shoe into Shane’s position. The 9 of spades lands ahead of Ilya himself, atop the fourth unseen card.

“Ugh, basically the worst start.” Shane groans.

“Your move.”

“Hit me, I guess.”

3 of spades; 18

“Oh, alright.” Shane motions to stay put. He hadn’t expected decent luck on the first round, but he also isn’t certain if he’s ready to pose a question yet.

Ilya reveals his second card. 4 of clubs; 13.

Another. 3 of hearts; 16.

He obtains a fourth as the moment of truth. 4 of spades; 19.

“Sorrrry.” Ilya offers faux sympathy.

“I can’t believe you didn’t bust there.”

“You play conservative. But no surprise.”

“Standing on 18 is not conservative.” Shane rolls his eyes. “Well, ask away.”

Pushing the first cards aside, Ilya contemplates for a short while.

“Okay. How the fuck did you get past that Columbus defender to clinch the playoffs?” He interrogates with a squint. “I replayed that highlight a hundred times.”

Surprised by a completely hockey-related question, Shane quickly digs into his postseason memories. “Believe it or not, I think…I slipped. Which must’ve caught that guy off-guard.”

“You? Slipping on ice?”

“That’s why it confused him!” Shane claps back at the quip. “I’m not perfect.”

“Mmm I think Canadian media would disagree…well, before the two of us came out, maybe. Sorry, wrong year.”

“Just deal already.”

Shane: 6 of hearts, 8 of spades

Ilya: Ace of diamonds, ?

Shane: 6 of hearts, 8 of spades, King of spades

“Fuck.” Shane flicks his busted trio away in frustration as Ilya laughs heartily. “You’re rigging this, I know it.”

The accusation goes ignored. “So, how did you really feel when I won the Cup?”

“Didn’t even watch.”

“Liar. Now you have to answer another: How jealous were you?”

Shane pauses himself to appreciate Ilya’s gleeful expression. He remembers that same massive joy on the flatscreen like it was yesterday - and how it had impacted him hundredfold, perhaps thousandfold, more than he ever anticipated.

“I was…very emotional. Sad for myself but…happy enough for you that it even shocked me.” He recalls with sincerity, and watches glee soften into fondness with every proceeding word. “The truth is: I almost cried watching you lift the Cup on Hayden’s TV.”

Any fondness immediately shifts negative.

“That was going so well until the end.”

“It was a team watch party at his place, okay?”

Ilya grabs for an unused deck, seemingly ignoring the explanation.

“Wish I could’ve seen your face.” He mutters as he begins a mundane shuffle, glaring downward at the shifting cards instead of at Shane. “I was always curious.”

“Well, at least now you can imagin–”

“I really wanted to see that myself.” The faintly morose tone stuns Shane more than the abrupt cut-off. In that moment, it was like he could hear Ilya’s thoughts loud and clear, trumpeting his personal measure of regrets from that day.

What if - you could’ve been in the arena to cheer me on?

The notion stirs Shane from deep within, but it also heightens his interest in what answers he could receive in return. Rather than tapping into Ilya’s psyche further, however, he pushes his own agendas forth.

“Let’s keep going.”

==

Four more face-offs pass, with no signs of Shane ever being close to victory. Ilya, on the other hand, has resorted to asking innocuous questions like where Shane now keeps his Olympic Canada team fleece from Sochi, having seemingly run out of better ideas after each win. To Shane’s slight disappointment, there appears zero interest in the momentous night in Montreal, much less all their interactions later that year in Vegas. On his end, he slowly accepts that he may fail to win a single round, and mentally prepares for the fusion of bitterness and relief. His competitive side wishes to earn those answers, while the increasingly skittish side wishes fate could keep steering him away from the possibility.

Right then, as if summoned to be contrarian, fate intervenes.

Shane: 9 of hearts, 9 of clubs

Ilya: 5 of diamonds

“Split please.” Shane requests, heartbeat increasing at the random stroke of luck.

Shane: 9 of hearts, 10 of hearts; 9 of clubs, Ace of spades

“Well shit.” Ilya reacts at the tough-to-beat display as he begins to reveal his cards. Shane’s attention follows each movement keenly, though his mind races towards the words he may finally have to prepare.

Ilya: 5 of diamonds, 9 of diamonds…

10 of clubs

“Ah, you’re saved from losing streak.” Ilya collects and tosses away his first bust. “Go ahead. I’m open book.”

At last, the opportunity. A chance to settle preserved turmoils. Confronted with this moment that by now he only half-wishes for, Shane searches for the best possible approach, but comes up short.

What exactly were we back then? Was it only fucking to you? Why did you–

“Why did you ghost me this year, Rozanov?” He resorts to something much less complex - redundant, even. “Not a single text for six months, and right after everything that happened between us in Montreal.”

Though his voice holds steady, his hands tremble, and Shane forces them into a joint fist before looking straight at the recipient of this loaded question. The shell-shocked expression that faces him is expected, especially in light of how much Ilya had lowered his guard. Shane can detect his attempts to make sense of the query, and his sudden realization of how it had never been properly answered in that bathroom.

A swallow drifts down Ilya’s throat before he croaks out a response.

“My father’s illness, and also doing so terrible at Olympics.” He speaks with a level of vulnerability rarely displayed. “Those things…took over my head.”

“I’m sorry.” Contrary to earlier self-assurances, Shane submits to immediate regret. “I could’ve guessed, but I just wanted to be sure.”

“Hollander.” Ilya suddenly interrupts. “I swear, I never stopped thinking about you all those months.”

Shane can’t help but be surprised at the admission, voiced like a desperate plea for his understanding. He almost admits to sharing the same agony - All I thought about was you. Only you - but waits for more to be divulged instead.

“After we fuc–slept together, when you kissed my forehead…when we kissed in your fire escape…everything felt confusing, scary. I thought it was line I shouldn’t cross.”

Though he had not posed his intended question, these revelations are still more than Shane ever asked for. Ilya had at least cared, perhaps even more than cared. His actions had not exactly matched his plane text claims, but as with Shane in those days, there probably existed - and still exists - a much deeper struggle of the self.

“Was it a line you shouldn’t cross for me? Or for you?” He tries to tap into that topic with prudence, but voices it much less charitably than he intends.

Ilya’s lips harden into a line.

“You may have to win again for me to answer that.” His voice veers stern throughout. “Even if…I don’t know if that’s what you really wish to ask me.”

The accurate assertion triggers the same ominous shudder from earlier, and despite the detailed confessions, Shane feels a growing coldness between them, ironically akin to their penthouse dynamic. Perhaps he had pushed too hard, too fast, but just as the power plays on that 2014 night had commenced, he now believes he must push further to preserve himself.

As Ilya deals the next cards, Shane’s gripped hands lose their cohesion, and miniscule trembles grow into visible shakes.

“It fucked me up, you know.”

Ilya freezes.

“I gave myself to you in Montreal and you just…stopped answering.” He scoffs in an incredulous way. “It fucked me up. I felt so damn stupid.”

Ilya’s hand reaches for him. “I never meant to–”

Shane snaps backward abruptly, dodging the contact. “I understand your reasons. I do. But you should also understand…”

A quiver sets off from his lips, while shivers threaten to overwhelm his body. Conflicting emotions of yesteryear rush in every which direction, before amassing as liquid in his eyes.

“...I love you.”

It’s a devotion they’ve uttered to each other countless times since the cottage, and when Shane sees Ilya burdened by confusion, he sheds further light.

“I mean - I loved you, by then.” He rewards a jackpot he doesn’t know if younger Ilya ever wished to win.

Across the way, the bestowed winner places deathgrips along the table’s edge.

“We had sparks at 18, sure, but at 23, after Montreal or maybe even long before…I knew I loved you already.” Breaking free of inhibitions, Shane releases every thought and doubt. “I was so damn scared, but I couldn’t deny it. It just felt so, so fucked up to love you that much, when I couldn’t tell if you even cared.”

“Shane–”

“Excuse me.” He cuts off Ilya a second instance within the same minute, and bids his feet to designate fate’s next direction, to drag his existence away from this unrest. Having confessed and emptied himself, that years-old fear once again engulfs, driving Shane from any remnant desire for another’s truth. 

Long strides aim for the elevator door, each step bigger and faster than the previous.

“Shane!”

As the scramble of additional steps sound behind him, Shane presses the button towards escape almost frantically. But the distance separating them proves too short, and though the doors open upon command - it had never left their floor to begin with - Ilya dashes in behind him with much time to spare.

The small space soon boxes them in, forcing the conversation to go on. Between heavy breaths, Shane watches as Ilya’s forearms lift to flank his head, gently trapping him along the wall but mindful to not suffocate. Worried eyes survey him with the same care as that day in the hospital, two orbs of hazel flickering with every emotion known to man.

“So everything I did to you that year in Vegas…after awards, in penthouse…they became bad memories? Is that…why you act so strange today?”

Some solace surfaces at the fact that Ilya had understood the implications of their exchange. Perhaps at 30, they have managed to quash at least some old stupidities, or at least now know how to reassess forgotten repercussions.

Shane nods, blinking back most tears but missing one drop that cascades down his cheek. Ilya promptly halts its path with a finger, and takes the chance to caress freckled skin. Leaning into the touch by sheer habit, Shane sighs, and starts to break his silence.

“When your plane almost crashed, you texted that you may have loved me since you first saw me, yet…no, never mind.”

“Tell me.” Ilya encourages despite the emerging tremors in his voice. “You want honesty for us, so please - tell.”

Through drenched eyes, Shane takes in the stillness enveloping them as memories replay a penthouse echo. Tell me. You. I need you. Like that night, in front of him is his purest Ilya from past to present - a beautiful, wild blur: blurring between reality and fiction, between right and wrong, between healing and heartbreak.

“We didn’t even kiss.” And thus, Shane finally addresses the greatest heartbreak of his lifetime.

“What?” Ilya gasps in genuine shock, his pale skin blanching further.

“You kissed me so much, our first few times together.” Training his sight to their mirrored feet, Shane chokes out all that had lingered over the years. “But that night…right here in Vegas…not even once.”

The silence that ensues are from two crestfallen souls, stunned and stunted by long-held agonies. An elevator turns confessional, holding two sinners of Sin City high, high above ground, yet far from enough to reach absolution.

“So what I really wish to ask is - did you ever know, Ilya? How much I loved you then?” 

Their game has concluded, but Shane stakes everything on one last wager.

“And did you truly love me back?”

Ilya’s arms drop to his sides, rendering the heavy rises and falls of his chest perceptible. Wordless, he turns in place to press a number on the panel, as if seeking his own escape. Shane waits as they descend, watches as his beloved fails to face him, relents that maybe there had never been ideal answers at all.

But as the “ding” of floor 25 sounds, fate’s compass uncovers renewed purpose through the gradually opening path. A hand stretches backward to grip his, and Shane finds himself heaved through the doors, not leading like in Boston but being led towards the unknown. In the scrambled dash, he observes Ilya fumbling for his keycard, and wonders whether this ultimate gamble would result in reward or debt.

As soon as they enter the massive suite said keycard unlocks, Ilya seals their bodies, wasting no seconds for verbal answers or hesitant touches. Hands that had dealt destinies mere moments ago now tug away Shane’s blazer, then tear at his shirt, losing all decorum required by their previous game. No, this game is the one they were meant to play - have always played with their entire stakes. The rules of a dating scheme need not apply, for the shuffles of fabric and bets on ecstasy also have no dealer but themselves.

Before long, Ilya tows them both into the bedroom, leaving the last of their clothing strewn behind in a chaotic trail. Shane finds his body maneuvered by the same swerve that had seized prey on the Boston rink, landing them both unceremoniously on the soft duvet.

Ilya climbs over him at an instant, hands bracing against pillows to form a makeshift cage. And as Shane gazes for the thousandth time at the familiar dangle of cross and ring, another long-standing silence breaks.

“I planned something different tonight - for me to win every Blackjack hand, and for me to be satisfied by you first.” While he speaks, Ilya slowly lowers his forehead until both theirs meet. “But…bad plans must change.”

Without pause, lips capture Shane’s in absolute hunger - erotic in their lust but consuming in their affection. The connection deepens, lengthens, nearly eliminating any need for air as it hypnotizes away the mind’s demand for even a single breath. Shane only remembers to gasp when Ilya migrates downward, outlining his jawline and neck with the same fervor.

“I’m sorry, Shane.” Whispers follow each kiss, imprinting delayed apologies. “Sorry, my love. I never knew.”

Relief supercedes passion then, freeing a scarred heart of some of its burdens. This truly is his Ilya, his blurry first for almost - no, first for everything. Shane doesn’t remember, doesn’t care who came before or in-between. The first, the last, the best - he knows, has memorized the incomparable euphoria those lips have delivered him for more than a decade. But even so, tonight proves different as didn’t even becomes neverending. Somehow, he’s being devoured from the inside out, blood and soul dragged from him by a vampiric mouth.

“Not just media.” Ilya’s route deviates towards bicep and chest in the midst of mumbles. “You were always so perfect. Perfect to me.”

No, right now Shane’s being worshipped like a saint, showered in utter reverence as a plea for utter forgiveness. High above the depravities of a city and the past wrongs of a rival is his apparent sanctity, invisible to Shane himself but praised by the only one who matters.

“Too scared. Nervous. Terrified. Of losing you…never knew if I truly had you.”

Praised, yet feared.

“Ilya…you always, always had me…ah!”

Mid-assurance, Shane moans as his nipple succumbs to the ministrations of a tongue. Even without a single, direct touch, he cock throbs from the sweeping pleasure. Sounds never before heard on earth escape his throat, and he grabs for Ilya’s curls, urging, imploring for delights he can’t describe.

But Ilya proves stronger, and slips free to dote on each swell of Shane’s washboard stomach. The wet smacks that follow are almost playful, in total contrast to the seductions from prior seconds. Throughout this blithe pause of sorts, each sigh Shane releases fills with enough contentment to allow a muted exchange - an exhale dipping muscle, and thus forcing the briefest chase for skin.

Mischiefs cease, however, as Ilya moves on to trace a tedious path along a hip bone, pressing kisses towards the inside of Shane’s upper thigh. They seem to land everywhere other than the one place most desired, but each fresh contact carries intensity so stimulating, it is as if those same lips were actually grazing his length - even wrapped fully around it. Shane resists every temptation to reach down and morph vision to reality, for he also understands what Ilya seeks to prove: that love, not lust, had been at the core of it all; that Shane was always missed, and should’ve always, always been kissed.

“I needed you. I still need you.” Mutual thoughts become verbalized as devout blessings travel up Shane’s other hip. “Yes, from first time I ever saw you, Shane. Needed. And loved. Always loved.”

The consolations register right as Ilya returns to lock their lips together again. That fervent tongue entangles with his, eager to electrify every nerve and exhilarate every dormant neuron. Shane returns the yearning in kind, fingers digging deep into Ilya’s nape to seal what little remains broken, and avow what little remains unsaid.

Sparks at 18, love at 23, forever at 30. Here in the land of wagers, he let fate take the reign and won his answer; he bet on Ilya and won his atonement.

Right then, everything slows to a pace of tenderness. And while their tongues continue to probe each other, they also engage in silent conversation, rewriting history sans ink. 

What if - we did kiss? Again and again?

Memories of a depressive elevator ride now overridden. Unsent texts now read in full to balm the pains that had been. Rather than taking him roughly from behind, Ilya rises to regard Shane from above, all flawless muscle and faultless love. Heart on his sleeve, Vegas lights in his eyes.

“Fuck, Shane…so beautiful…”

Praise uttered, he leans down, and graces a last bestowment upon an innocent forehead.

The adoring kiss snaps the tense knot in Shane’s belly, triggering a most impassioned release. It’s as if every single sensation from hundreds previous had culminated into an explosive force, sending him into a completely unique rapture only a healed spirit could relish. Seconds later, he faintly hears Ilya surrendering just the same, and feels the endless streaks of their joint, untouched climax paint his bare torso.

“Ilya…I lov…love you…” He musters up strength within numbed muscle, and clutches his beloved within an ardent embrace.

As their breaths slow in tandem, Ilya grants hushed response through one last journey down Shane’s body. This time, his kisses lap up every wet spot like they were nectar, cleansing skin with what had caused such mayhem in the first place. Shane finds himself falling unconscious, exhausted from the sheer amount of adoration both given and received. In his stupor, he realizes that there may be endless bruises throughout his body at the night’s conclusion. And yet, he now accepts that this has always been Las Vegas in a nutshell: sin, sin and scars, but all beautiful - and mendable.

==

The room is still dark when Shane blinks awake, but the warmth of Ilya’s arm around his waist is a familiar comfort, and the faint lamplight exposes tender, restless eyes that had likely watched him for a long while.

“Hey.” He greets with a concerned voice. “Can’t sleep?”

“I hurt you, back then.”

“It’s okay.” Heart gently stung, Shane lifts a knuckle to brush along a sharp cheekbone. “I forgive you, Ilya.”

“Loving you that much at young age also fucked me up, scared me…to the point of hurting you.”

The words sound ashamed, too unaccepting of his full pardon. If trust and courage had grown their devotion two days ago, then fate and love should’ve sealed it in permanence after tonight. Or so Shane had hoped.

“I get it. It’s like you said at the cottage - we used to be stupid and irresponsible.” He tries his best to assure. “But, what happened in Vegas can stay in Vegas now.”

“Not this, Shane.” Ilya reaches out, tracing two fingertips along Shane’s well-kissed lips.  “Everything tonight needs to leave with us.”

Though his tone is sanguine, a tinge of sorrow shadows Ilya, creating an unexpected reflection of the penthouse years ago. To Shane, it’s eerily reminiscent of that distant stare, and when failures in communication had left them both in torment in the first place.

For now, however, he can only avoid the urge to overthink. So instead, he lets newfound optimism take hold, and formulates staunch resolution to tie up other loose ends. Indeed, there is one more place of hurt that beckons for their confrontation - though in a much different manner.

Beneath the covers, Shane seeks out Ilya’s hand, and grasps it with tenacity.

“Then let’s take everything back to my old home.” He shuts both eyes briefly before full disclosure. “To Montreal.”

Chapter End Notes

Orgasms from a forehead kiss? Very Hollanov of them, methinks.

I also want to say that Episode 2's Vegas Penthouse sequence opened my third, fourth, and fifth eyes. I was truly a transformed person after the first viewing (God bless Jacob and co.). It’s such a pivotal scene in understanding the unspoken yearning and pain both Shane and Ilya felt at the time, and I always wanted to give them a chance to revisit this moment in particular.

Thank you as always for taking time out of your day to read my silly words! Kudos and comments appreciated.

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Chapter 4: La Ville aux Saints

Chapter Summary

“I shouldn’t have agreed to these stupid dates.” Heavy sobs quake against Shane’s shoulder. “Fuck.”

Upon return to Shane’s City of Saints, he and Ilya confront their greatest demons.

Chapter Notes

Apologies for the delay on this! Work entered a busy period, and I was somewhat distracted by some very cosmic moments in my own life lol.

Not saying much about this chapter other than that it does involve a lot more details currently only within The Long Game (And a couple only within the Heated Rivalry novel, not TV series). But even if you didn’t read the books, hopefully the context clues are enough!

Enjoy!

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Two days later (Reprise)

Washed of Nevada transgressions, Shane finds new respite amongst saints.

He lounges on a bench that overlooks one such entity, a riverfront not unlike that in Boston, but far holier in name. Once upon a career it had been his choice spot of leisure, once upon a life a landmark to highlight in conversations about his beloved home. But today, he is another mere visitor from afar, traversing uncharted waters to chase life’s unanswered questions.

I’m back, St. Lawrence.

This part of Montreal’s Old Port is as vivacious as ever, all noise and energy vibrating against a tranquil liquid surface that mirrors the night sky. In the main area he had passed through earlier, a festival of unknown themes adds even more attractions around the high ropes of Voiles en Voiles, prompting families to extend their children’s bedtimes even later to catch the bonus amusements.

In the much less populated section where he lies, Shane lets his eardrums collect the faraway medley of noise, while focusing his attention to the constellations above. Tonight, he thinks that the sky resembles an inverse of Ilya’s torso, all scattered moles forming the glittering starmap of Shane’s most beloved dwelling.

As if summoned, a grin rivaling any star takes over his line of sight, though it is swiftly followed by the giant screen of a smartphone.

“Look what pet hotel just sent me.”

Still lying down, Shane drinks in Ilya’s t-shirt and jeans getup before squinting at the pixelated, prerecorded footage upon glass. Even this close up, he barely makes out the pitter-patter motions of furry paws running about. At last, they are not too distant from their beloved Anya now, yet not nearly close enough to enjoy the delights of her company.

Shane propels himself to a sitting position before grabbing the entire phone for better inspection. With natural ease, Ilya crams next to him, balancing himself on the very edge of the narrow bench.

“Do you think she’s wondering where we are?” Lips forming a sad pout, Shane almost caresses the two-dimensional Anya through the screen. “We’ve both been away for more than a week.”

“She seems…very happy, very energetic.” Though Ilya’s answer rings positive, he doesn’t hide consternation that their dog is faring perfectly fine without them. When Shane smiles at him, that pair of annoyed eyes soften until they become almost avoidant. Rather than sharing in this moment of relief, Ilya looks out across the water, as if entranced by the lit Biosphere peeking out from treetops an island away.

“Ilya?”

The lilt in an accented voice shifts remorseful. “Two weeks…fuck, how did we ever do it? Not see each other for weeks, months…”

“I don’t know, either.” Shane responds with cautious concern. “But part of it might be that…we were also very focused on hockey?”

Silence drifts between them, deeming it unknown whether Ilya is in agreement. A full minute passes before inexplicable questions are replaced with a much simpler query.

“Montreal is only team you knew before this year. You will miss it here?” Ilya’s murmur references where they settle now, yet it also echoes the loss of different roots, a full hemisphere away.

Leaning forward, Shane rests his chin on Ilya’s shoulder, matching his gaze towards the glowing Biosphere. Like much else around them, it’s one of many symbols of his long-time abode, full of possibility and promise once upon a time. But while the iconic structure remains permanently anchored to this land, he, on the other hand, must endure betrayal and instability from his own foundations. Within this City of Saints is where he had hoped to anoint his jersey, not where he must wrestle demons instead.

“I guess…that’s part of what I’m trying to sort out, too.” He murmurs back, wishing to clear his head of painful acknowledgements. “No regrets leaving, though. The team was no longer right for me, and being with you is more important.”

Indeed, moving forward officially ends their years of dancing around each other along the east coast. In many ways, Montreal will always be special for all they experienced together here, starting from that turning point in 2013. But perhaps, they were always meant to converge in the middle, back at Shane’s childhood home a few hours away. Just as Ilya had sacrificed Boston to be closer to him, he is now determined to do the same.

As Shane mulls on this segue from past to future, he feels his hand being gently grasped, lifted, and kissed.

“I think we’ve talked through most past problems.” Ilya places their joined fingers against his warm cheek. “So maybe, time to sort out a recent one.”

“Maybe.” Somewhat relieved by the affection shown, Shane returns it by nuzzling his nose into Ilya’s neck. “But first…come with me. We still have a date.”

With that, Ilya finally returns his earlier smile. At the nod that follows, Shane maneuvers their already linked hands to bring them into a joint stance, before drawing Ilya in the direction of the thriving summer festival. The bright lights of Old Port give even more radiance to all that lies ahead, creating a scene that contrasts the dark waters that had just dominated their view. Even from up front, Shane can feel both their footsteps getting brisker by the second, and both their hearts becoming less weighed by burdens.

They soon blend into the swarm of people upon the boardwalk, seeking something authentic from this quintessential Montreal “family experience” that’s a far cry from the adult-oriented attractions of their previous escapade. From every which direction, Shane detects clear recognition of them from festival goers, many of whom pause a conversation or the lick of an ice cream just to get a second glimpse. But to his surprise, no one dares to approach, and the swarm almost parts time and again for their convenience. He presumes it’s out of decorum or respect for his space, but Shane knows it can also be the utter disbelief that he was still, somehow, amongst them after such a public separation - and worse, how a main reason for the schism is following him close behind. He can’t help but wonder if anyone resents him for leaving, or hates them both for what had transpired due to their relationship. As unfounded as such blames are, it’s also outside of his current capacity to gauge the popularity of gossip.

Taking advantage of the masses’ inaction, Shane guides them both quickly to the one carnival game he had spied during his earlier personal tour, and an ideal revenge for all those lost hands of Blackjack. As they approach the row of three basketball hoops and stuffed toys arranged all around the stall’s frame, he throws a glance backward, and is met by Ilya’s skeptical look.

“They don’t have hockey version of this?”

“We should try other sports, too.” Shane tugs him forward until they’re both up against the front barricade. “Just treat it like sewer ball or something.”

At the right side of the booth, a young woman bearing the name tag of “Carly” stands stiff in her employee uniform. A pair of bright eyes darts back-and-forth at them, skittish above the rest of her aghast expression. It’s not until Shane gives a little wave out of genuine concern, that she finally snaps back to the present.

“Sorry, but do you happen to be Shane Hollander…” She gulps between two fateful encounters. “...and Ilya Rozanov?”

Ilya pipes up first with an expected jest. “If we say yes, do we get your prizes for free–”

Shane smacks him lightly on the torso as necessary interruption, before retrieving a few bills from his pocket. “Yes, we are. Can we…still play your game?”

“Oh, of–of course!” Accepting the money, Carly scrambles to grab a few basketballs from behind a second barrier. As she distributes three each into the slots in front of them, she takes extra seconds to settle herself before sharing more words. “My family and I loved everything you did for Montreal, Mr. Hollander…and your story as a couple even more. You may not play for the Metros again, but we’ll always support you guys - and the foundation, too.”

The sincerity strikes Shane hard. Despite both existing and impending drama around his departure, moments like this embody the Montreal he remembers, fond relics of a place he had fought extremely hard for. Few will ever have the experience of breaking up with an entire city, especially under such unpleasant terms. But he has at least left his mark here, and he may always find remnants of himself in the oral histories and memories of its people. In this moment, Carly no longer feels like a random meeting, but someone sent to inspire some forgiveness.

Down below, Ilya gives their conjoined hands a squeeze.

“Thank you so much, Carly. Truly.” Awakened by both conviction and touch, Shane smiles, placing his other palm over a warmed heart.

“Of course! Also, that video you posted about your upcoming marriage was super sweet.”

“Ah, you like?” Ilya responds this time, flashing Shane a wink. “It was first take, too.”

Together, the three of them share a heartfelt laugh. Carly the loudest before she lays down ground rules.

“You might be the most famous people in the whole port tonight, but you still have to earn these prizes. At least 8 shots in a minute for a small reward, and 12 gets you a Grand Prize. No favors for anyone!”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Instructions digested, Shane grabs for one of his basketballs. 

As Ilya copies his action, he sends both a reminder and a mellow declaration of war.

“Since we will play on same team soon, this is one of few ways we can still compete.”

Never one to back down from a challenge, much less from his greatest opponent, Shane spins rubber effortlessly between both hands.

“You’re on.”

At the timer’s bidding, a heated rivalry reignites in the form of a children’s contest, though this time, any advantage proves quite one-sided. Against the zany music box soundtrack, Ilya’s choice of speedy yet rampant tosses fail miserably against Shane’s methodical, well-trained shots. As balls bounce off rim on one side and slip into net on the other, Ilya’s frustrated yelps sound in juxtaposition to Carly’s cheers - she is, in the end, still a Shane Hollander fan above all else.

As the buzzer goes off at one minute, Shane finally looks at the glowing red numbers upon the scoreboard. On reflex, he blurts out his habitual “Let’s go!” at the giant “9” that’s attributed to himself, and stifles a chuckle at the “4” on Ilya’s side.

“Fuuuuck. My basket must be rigged, Carly!” As expected, the defeated does not take his loss in stride.

“Don’t mind him. Always a sore loser.” Shane teases before gesturing towards the plush creatures ripe for his picking. “Which one do you want, Ilya?” 

“I get it?” A signature frown untwists into something giddy. “Okay…the fire-breathing dragon.”

“How did I guess?”

Carly quickly snatches one of the choice prizes, tossing it in their direction. Once Ilya captures it, he mouths a love you to Shane before puppeting a wave with its tiny paw. Shane, meanwhile, tries his utmost to not feel as endeared as he does.

“One more time?” He proposes, now secretly wanting a plush of his own to wave back with. “It was sort of close, I guess.”

“Fuck you.” Ilya shoves the dragon into Shane’s face this time, engaging in retaliation by fabric fire. “But yes. Again please.”

Ignoring his assailant, Shane stretches to hand in more payment. Carly resets the balls in front of them, and as the same background tune blasts, another round of rhetorical results ensues.

Or so Shane thinks, because Ilya, the fast physical learner and adapter he is, switches up tactics to chase his score with valiant effort. In this new round, the amount of swooshes entering both nets are far more identical, and Shane even wonders if he may have been surpassed by the conclusion.

But alas, 8-7 edges a second win in his favor upon the minute’s end.

“Fuuuck! I don’t even get another prize!” Ilya curses aloud, tossing one last ball that makes it through the hoop barely three seconds late. “Forget it. I need nets that stand at ground level.”

“Maybe we should try soccer next time.” Shane mocks openly whilst secretly breathes a huge sigh of relief. “I’ll take the bear wearing the maple leaf t-shirt, Carly.”

“Of course you’d pick that.” Ilya retorts. “At least mine will always win over any bear.”

His prize in hand, Shane pushes it playfully forward to confront its winged nemesis. But just as conflict threatens to start, he turns his bear to the side and plants a kiss on the dragon’s cheek instead.

“Okayyyy. I’m dead. I surrender.” Ilya joins the charade by faking his creature’s demise. But Shane continues to attack with affection, bombarding bear kiss after bear kiss along an exposed head. The blitz continues, relentless, until they both dissolve into fits of laughter.

“Thanks, Carly!” Gasping from the bursts of elation, they bid a joint farewell to their temporary overseer.

Unfortunately, the return journey proves different than its predecessor. Unbeknownst to them, a small crowd of around six had formed a short distance behind in wait, seeking a rare moment with professional hockey’s headlining duo. Shane knows their basketball contest is likely already in someone’s camera roll, even published to at least two social media platforms by now. While the fans have enough courtesy to not shove phones in their faces, the selfie requests appear imminent, and so he loops an arm around Ilya’s to pull him close for a well-rehearsed request.

“We’ll take one picture with all of you in it, but please try not to post anything until tomorrow?” He scans the small cohort of hopeful fans. “Help keep our location private?”

The group gives an excited cheer as agreement. Almost immediately, bodies encircle, arms extend, and a designated phone snaps away to commemorate this gathering, carnival toy cameos and all. To Shane’s relief, everyone remains as respectful as can be, and the impromptu meet-and-greet finishes with unique efficiency, only lasting a minute before the barrage of photo airdropping gives enough opening for them to move on.

They walk briskly away from the area, dodging any further recognitions or asks. Once freed, Ilya is the first to tease.

“Mr. Popular.”

Shane scoffs at his latest nickname. “If we had gone somewhere more crowded back in Boston, it would’ve been the same for you. But yes, the fans have always been great here.”

“Ottawa fans are great, too.” Ilya acknowledges in conjunction. “And I guess we’ve been lucky, not having most of our dates interrupted like that.”

“Anonymity is nice.” Shane sighs. “I miss it sometimes.”

Ilya bends his elbow then, further tightening the coupling of their arms.

“Same. But you know what Carly and those fans reminded me of?”

“What?”

“That we were wrong. There are many who actually prefer us together, instead of as lifetime rivals.”

Shane thinks back to the years of built-up tensions on ice, the media narratives they gave zero permission for anyone to spin, the fanwars they never had a semblance of control over. But most of all, he remembers the high proportion of support on that first Instagram post he had shared of them. Even if he hadn’t believed himself for so long, he knows there is no more denying such a fact.

Slowing their walk, he lifts his bear to plant another kiss to the side of the dragon’s head. This time, however, his own lips play mimic, gracing Ilya’s cheek softly with the same gesture.

“Conflict makes for good plotlines or headlines, but love and reconciliation…is still how everyone wants a story to end.” The words are murmured as his personal break to the tension, a takeback of their true narrative, a reclaim of lost control.

A visible redness overcomes Ilya’s face, though he makes an effort to keep his composure. “Wow. Looks like I have competition for Mr. Poetry.”

“I’ll let you take back the title, if you can guess what’s next on the agenda.”

“Mm…something boring and predictable.” Ilya fakes irritation with a severe eyeroll, only to realign his stare directly at the correct answer. “So…that thing?”

“Shut up.” Shane gives his insufferably clever date another smack. “Come on.”

They turn left, face-to-face with the imposing height of La Grande Roue de Montréal - the famed ferris wheel - which dwarfs every other structure in the vicinity. Certainly, it is an expected stop for a romantic night out in this city, but Shane had at least hoped that he could somehow surprise with a view of grandeur.

Right then, a potential savior appears near an upcoming intersection, in the form of an unoccupied kiosk. As soon as Shane recognizes its purpose, he drags them that way, determined to at have least one more unprecedented experience.

“Hold on. I actually think we should do this first.”

Legitimate shock enters Ilya’s voice as he allows himself to be led. “Shane Hollander? Straying from his own plans?”

“This will be well worth the detour.”

When they reach the obnoxiously decorated photobooth, standard fare for any festival of this ilk, it takes Ilya a few extra seconds to identify what lies beyond the black curtains.

“More pictures?”

“Yes, but this time, exclusively for ourselves.”

Without hesitation, Shane steps in and gets situated for their impromptu session, fingers tapping away at the touchscreen to initiate and select. Ilya enters right behind, though he surveys the hot pink interior with judgment before squeezing into the seat.

“Look, a hockey-themed frame!” Shane pauses scrolling through the many trimming options when it lands on the cartoonish sticks and puck.

“Maybe…too much.” Ilya extends his finger to continue the browsing, which proves fruitless for many seconds - until a rather bold “Just Married!” banner appears right below their heads, floral graphics and all.

“And this isn’t too much?”

“What? It’s truth! Well, almost.”

“Fine. We’ll go with this one.”

As the instructions order them to prepare for a trio of shots, they engage in their typical, unintentional synchronization: lifting their prizes while baring silly expressions for the first snap, flashing twinning wide smiles cheek-to-cheek for the second, and concluding with a kiss between both plushes and themselves. For a few precious seconds, they time travel far beyond any original intent - all the way back to those wonder years, as starry-eyed teenagers simply basking in each other’s presence. What has been recaptured is not only young love, but first love, blossomed from what very well might have been love at first sight. 

The column of stills remain on screen for a few seconds before taking physical form, and as Shane retrieves the printed film, Ilya slants his head more severely than usual to get a closer look.

“With the crazy filter and the stuffed animals, I honestly can’t tell if we’re 16 or 30 here.” Shane muses.

Ilya only gives a short grunt in response, seemingly riveted by the embellished results. Only when Shane slips the strips into his front pocket does Ilya finally get up to exit.

Though Shane falls right in step upon departing himself, the rest of their walk to the ferris wheel feels quieter than before. There is only the mix of childlike melodies from the nearby gaming booths, overlaid by Ilya’s quiet, offtune attempts to hum along. On instinct, Shane detects his attempt to conceal particular thoughts, though he can’t put a finger on what.

Upon arrival at the ticket stand, Shane notes that the price for three times around midair proves more expensive than anticipated, but the amount is still peanuts compared to renting out a rink or a private gambling den. Surprisingly, Ilya makes zero comments about the stark difference. Instead, as soon as Shane’s credit card clears, he enters the queue for their skybound ride without objection or complaint.

As Shane settles next to him in line, Ilya points at that occupied shirt pocket.

“Let me see our pictures again.”

The request gives Shane pause, but he obliges. For the next few minutes, he resorts to staring at Ilya stare downward at themselves, expression unreadable.

“We look 16. So young.” A verdict eventually sounds.

“Yeah, guess…we kinda do.” Shane tries to chuckle in levity, but apprehension is what ends up exhibited.

Even as they get to the front of the queue, Ilya continues to clutch the photos in his hand, and Shane resists any impulse to ask for their return.

When their assigned pod arrives, they usher themselves into its confined space. To Shane’s slight surprise, Ilya opts for the spot opposite him rather than adjacent, placing the dragon as his seatmate instead. Despite temptation, Shane isn’t sure what questions to pose, much less how to pose them.

And thus, they take off into the night sky in silence, a well-lit Old Port below them and the vastness of Montreal filling their vantage. Ilya gapes into the distance rather than back at him, and Shane finds himself gripping his bear with one palm and a knee with the other, eager but failing to find the proper conversation starter.

In the end, it’s Ilya who solves his conundrum.

“Never knew how pretty this part was.” The words emerge right as they enter the second quarter of their initial orbit. “Even though I’ve been here more than dozen times, I was too lazy to explore much.”

Shane doesn’t point out that naturally, the real reason had been that they spent more exploring each other’s bodies than each other’s cities. Instead, to absolve any awkward tension from the previous minutes, he answers with the one phrase that possesses nostalgic meaning.

“I don’t know that side of you at all, Ilya.”

To his slight relief, Ilya finally looks at him, sufficient reminisce in his pupils. With one mention, they’re suddenly 25, harkening to a previous exchange upon a Boston couch. 

“It took eight years for you to call me that.” The reminder carries a wistful tune, but it’s paired with a tiny smile. “My given name.”

“You even said mine first, if I remember right.”

“Yes, I think so.” Ilya peers downward, enforcing a pause before reuniting their eyes again. “I actually thought about saying it for months, even sneaking it in at a random moment. But ‘Shane’ felt too…dangerous. ‘Hollander’ was always safe. Far enough from familiar, or danger.”

“‘Rozanov’ was what everyone expected me to call you, probably for my whole career.” Shane echoes the sentiment. “And I always conformed, for the sake of the rivalry image and the team.”

“The team that eventually fucked you over anyway.” The scorn from across him comes swift.

“Yeah, they kinda did.” Even alluded to me cheating for your benefit.

“So fuck them for how they treated you.” Even without hearing the worst of accusations, Ilya does not afford an ounce of civility. “If I was there…”

“All hell would’ve broken loose, I know.” Shane interrupts before frustration mounts too high. “They’re probably lucky you were never allowed in our locker room.”

Ilya grunts before looking away again, and Shane knows he’s likely imagining the punches that could’ve been thrown. There are layers to the Metros’ betrayal that he may never unwind fully, and a trauma that may never heal. But returning here for something beyond hockey and receiving fan support firsthand are both at least soothing balms, opening beliefs and dialogues for reconciliation. Having Ilya at his side also adds a comforting balance - one he had always underestimated, or perhaps never dared to manifest too hard.

“Kind of funny, in retrospect.” He tries to redirect.

“What is?”

“Around 25 was when I started imagining us as teammates in Montreal…maybe way too often.” He divulges some such dreams, the what-ifs that had been the hardest to voice aloud. “Once I realized how deep my feelings for you were, I couldn’t help but wonder how our public relationship might’ve been different from the start.”

Ilya’s fingers noticeably tighten around their photo strip, but what he says is more subdued humor than emotional.

“I would’ve stolen your captain spot...oh wait, that actually is about to happen, isn’t it?”

“Asshole. I would’ve refused to ever pass you the puck if you tried that on purpose.”

“Not best behavior towards your captain.” Ilya shakes his head in faux disappointment. “But maybe I never become captain, because if I had to see you daily from rookie season on, I would’ve been very distracted every practice, every game.”

“I would’ve moved my locker next to yours to distract you more.”

“And sabotage your own team?” Ilya pins him with a customary brow arch. “Doesn’t sound very Shane Hollander to me.”

“You would’ve begged them to move me next to you, anyway.”

“Maybe. But I would’ve moved in smarter ways, like…bought a place in the same condo building as you.”

Shane flushes at the suggestion, but does not yield in banter. “Then I would’ve come over most nights, to make sure you were thoroughly distracted.”

“...in that case, on top of fuck Crowell and fuck Metros: fuck the draft, and fuck the MLH salary cap.”

They scoff at the league forces that had initially kept them apart, though Shane knows deep down those couldn’t be helped.

“On the other hand, we both would’ve scored way less goals, since we need to share the load and glory every season.”

There is a strange pause before Ilya responds, his tone veering serious.

“Yes, but we could’ve won at least…eight? Ten Cups together?”

“We still can, Ilya.”

Despite Shane’s profound optimism, Ilya’s shrinking smile fully fades into the night, as if suddenly haunted by the same demons that had loomed over Shane earlier. This latest whiplash, however, feels like a point of no return, as what Ilya voices next triggers a deluge of that constant, unspoken question - but reinterpreted from his long-hidden perspective.

“...can we really, Shane? After losing this much time?”

What if. What if. What if?

What if - always perceived by Shane as memories reparable, but clearly by his counterpart as chances squandered.

“Ilya?” He gasps at the ruthless implication, one perhaps only confessable within the City of Saints.

For a second, there is a vague threat of the same deflection Ilya had mastered in his younger years, all cigarette puffs and changed subjects for total avoidance. But what Shane witnesses is current day Ilya fully ashamed, fresh tears reflecting the Montreal skyline seeping down both cheeks. Immediately, their game of pretend runs off-kilter, while the hands on their roleplay clock rotates reckless, backwards and forwards until they become permanently rooted in the present. This very minute, this very second - the reality of now unleashes brutal honesty that has troubled them both for the past few days, and the past many, far too many years. 

Ilya chokes out a sob.

“This week made me remember how much I always wanted you.” His voice quivers throughout, without any semblance of control. “How I wanted so much fucking time with you.”

Once more, he glances down at the photos that serve as both memento and provocation. The weeps that follow nearly collapse Shane from the inside out.

“I only have two real pictures of us together in all those years, from that one MLH awards.” The certainty, rife with the bitterness of Ilya’s guilt, compound their shared devastation. “Feels like I wasted a whole damn decade…”

Shane’s heart, body, and soul move in conjunction, diving forward into Ilya’s dejected form - into a future he is desperate to protect and preserve. With trembling arms, he collects everything broken into his embrace, but wonders if he could mend anything at all.

“Ilya...”

“I shouldn’t have agreed to these stupid dates.” Heavy sobs quake against Shane’s shoulder. “Fuck.”

It dawns on Shane at last, the reasons for Ilya’s subtle despair in those previous cities down their memory lane. These revisits were supposed to resolve complexities, transform what-ifs - not abandon either of them into further sorrow. While Shane had found gradual remedy from place to place, Ilya had been tormented by the blatant absences in their history, worsening the depression he had courageously sought treatment for. As always, and likely for Shane’s sake, he had restrained his honesty at far more moments than necessary. Now, it’s Shane who must acknowledge the grace he failed to grant him, and the misery he failed to identify.

“I was too selfish.” He lowers into a slight kneel between Ilya’s legs, a posture reflective of shortcomings old and new. “I think I may have been…for months. Maybe longer.”

“No.” A forearm wraps against his spine. “It’s me. My problems.”

“No. I’m sorry. I should’ve realized that these dates aren’t the perfect solution for both of us.”

“They really made me want. Regret.” Ilya swallows hard as his cries begin to subside. “I was stupid for not committing harder, earlier to you, Shane.”

“Don’t ever, ever say that.”

Shane draws back, staying just close enough to keep their foreheads in contact. Outside, the scenery continues to shift in what remains of a circular route, but it seems so miniscule compared to their roundabout journey over games and rooms and cities and years.

“Like you pointed out before, I should’ve believed that people would support us.” He locks onto Ilya’s reddened eyes, hoping to bestow solace despite his mortality. “I let way too much scare me.”

“You were still first to ask me long ago: ‘haven’t you ever wanted more time?’” Between sniffles, Ilya recollects. “I was also scared to give you answers then. And now…I only really want all that time…to be returned to us.”

The very same human desire floods Shane’s mind, but somewhere in the midst of his personal restoration, there now exists enough will to confront whatever had impeded them, to reject the downfalls of youth. In particular, his forgiveness for this city begets forgiveness for themselves. So here, uplifted into a divine metropolis’ stratosphere, he assembles the scripture that could free them both, once and for all.

“No matter how much time passes, I’ll always remember you with clarity, Ilya. All of you. Every year, everywhere. You’ve been a part of me since 18…since long before 18. I barely remember any days without your voice in my head, without your touch on my skin. Yes, we lost some years, but we still have forever. Forever and a day, forever and a lifetime. That’s how we exist now, okay? Forever. Together. No more what-ifs, no more regrets. Just us, us. No longer hiding, no longer lost from each other…never ever lost again.”

Ilya falls speechless from the monologue, an echo of another era and language. But no barriers exist tonight in mutual understanding, and only moments pass before Shane receives his rightful interpretation.

“You found me, lost in Regina.” Beneath new tears, a hopeful smile surfaces. “You shook my hand.”

Heartened by that first of firsts, Shane erupts into his own tearful joy.

“Yes, I found you.” Between rapid nods, his neck extends for a brief but fervent kiss. “I’ll always find you…no matter the city, no matter our age. Even if what we remember about any place is imperfect, even if we hold shame or guilt - it’s still perfect because you were there.”

“And you were with me, Shane. It’s always you.”

“Always, you and me.” Shane reaches down, enfolding Ilya’s hand that continues to grip their recent photos. “So we don’t need more pictures, Ilya. You’ve been my picture-perfect memory. The most beautiful memory I’ve held onto for twelve years–”

He barely finishes before Ilya kisses him long and hard, like a healed soul seeking eternity beyond twelve.

And when they part, right at the apex of their final ascension, Ilya makes a vigorous declaration between heaven and earth.

“I spoke wrong.” A retraction comes first, followed by redemption anew. “These dates…not stupid. I want many more beautiful memories that we can treasure. But is tough, because a part of me also never wants to erase the past. All we fought through and what brought us here, they have meaning. I was never enough for family, media, or even hockey. But I always fought hard for you - always felt I could be enough for you.”

“You were always enough. More than enough.” Shane cups Ilya’s jaw with the utmost affection. “And my love for you, Ilya…maybe it seems like I forget your sacrifices or want to completely rewrite our struggles, but know my love for you, my struggle for you is forever a core memory. My most important one.”

“Same.” Ilya assures. “Whatever ‘core memory’ means. Same.”

A cornucopia of raw emotions culminates into familiar laughter, and in the process of getting back up, Shane graces one more kiss onto Ilya’s forehead. Contrary to what he had received in Las Vegas, this one is without a chase of lust - it simply exists as a padlock of pure endearment, permanently placed upon their stubbornly-linked souls.

“Ten more Cups?” Shane wipes at Ilya’s swollen face as they rise together.

Ilya shakes his head, denying any previous doubts. “Fifteen.”

“Fifteen it is.” Shane concurs without paying reality or math any mind. “But before we aim for the inaugural one…come to my room?”

“Yes. Okay.”

For the first time on all their dates, it is a proper invitation extended and accepted, rather than limbs pulled into unknown territories. Time had been their tragedy once, and their adversary on countless occasions, but tonight is when everything truly slows to a pace they dictate, at a place where rectified hearts find sanctity.

==

In this hotel elevator, they defy every previous ride. Lips lock against necks as they travel past one level, and steal away breaths by the next. Shane bears total apathy for any cameras present or persons who could enter along the way, as all his emotion and passion have concentrated on a singular focal point.

He barely registers their arrival on his floor, succumbing fully to Ilya kissing him through a chaotic exit, and even deeper while they stumble down the hall. They follow what is, thankfully, the only direction leading to every room, but both access and entry end up as total blurs within a frenzied voyage.

Cognizance only returns when they close in on the bed, and Shane notices two plushes still tightly clutched within their hands.

“Heh, they somehow survived all that just now.”

“You won this for me. I’m never letting go.”

“Might have to, if we want to keep going with this.”

“Fine, fine.” Ilya surrenders to priorities and collects both their prizes to place on the nightstand. On his end, Shane waits until the inevitable discovery of the other object already set upon there, and he soon meets Ilya’s surprised eyes with a degree of mischief.

“Lube? You were prepared.”

Shane shrugs. “Just in case.”

“This okay? For a fourth date?”

“As long as it’s you. It’s okay, and perfect.”

Expression content, Ilya returns to him, kisses even more feverish than before. Via similarly adept hands, clothes unpeel from summer-heated skin, layer by layer until they strip each other down to their barest selves.

Shane lets his partner’s weight nudge him backward, a gentle descent until he’s pressed between hard muscle and malleable foam. Subtly, he relinquishes cherished control as amends for more selfish days, ready for any detours ahead. Just as an unscripted photobooth visit had brought them through much-needed pain and solace, he trusts that the hands caressing him now would never lead them astray.

Ilya woos, overwhelms as he drafts the latest version of Shane’s picture-perfect memories. On top of the same kisses that had galvanized them both in Vegas, he grants endless friction from head to toe, and Shane responds in kind - chest rubbing generously against chest, legs entangled into practical knots, growing arousals grazing at every tilt of rutting hips. Varying from all their recent trysts, tonight becomes a sheer enjoyment of each other, indulgence spreading everywhere until not a single patch of skin on either of them is left untouched. It’s a mutual form of worship suitable for this City of Saints, where once broken spirits heal through testimony and affinity.

Ages pass before Ilya lifts his torso the slightest, and a faint chill finally interrupts their endless sharing of warmth.

“Look at me, Shane.”

“...yes?” Shane obliges through hooded eyes, though in his stupor, he barely manages a whisper.

“Always, you and me. That’s actually all I want to show you tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Because you’re right: we have much time. All the time in the world.”

It’s a new, acceptable reality, and Shane feels his heartbeat slow to a peaceful tempo - possibly his most peaceful since their very beginnings.

“Show me, then. Show me us.”

Without breaking eye contact, Ilya stretches his arm towards the idle bottle on the nightstand. He collects an ample amount of its contents before reaching beneath his torso, right where both their most sensitive, impatient parts lie in wait.

Shane’s breaths grow heavy as he watches Ilya coat himself first, until patterns of tiny, protruding veins and a reddened tip all glisten even under the dimmest light. As the same treatment is afforded to him, both his eyes and senses squeeze shut, almost unable to reckon with the gentle, yet somehow explosive pleasure.

When that deft hand soon grips both their cocks together, treating them to a sensual, masterful stroke, Shane nearly levitates off the bed.

“Oh fuck…so good…”

Each proceeding moment only compounds the injection of bliss into his veins - an overdose behind every motion, a mind blown after every clench. When Shane’s cries heighten beyond sanity, he finds himself silenced by Ilya’s mouth, the pace of that tongue’s assertive probes matching their joint rhythm. 

For Shane, these are not only sensations that compensate for lost time, but also what extends missed seconds into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into the forever they had promised each other and will soon vow again.

So as Ilya steers them both into that beautiful eternity, Shane’s mind envisions paradise in full, and embraces everything their together, forever embodies.

“Fuck, Ilya, I—”

“Come for me, Shane.” A command on the surface, but in actuality a plea. “Find me.”

Regina. Toronto. Los Angeles. Nashville. Las Vegas. Boston. Montreal. Boston. Montreal.

Ilya. Everywhere Shane is. Everywhere Shane wants to be. Everything Shane wants.

Fulfilled, he chokes out sounds between moans and gasps as climax seizes his entire being. Through the pinnacle, that zealous hand continues relentless, wrenching every last drop out of his satisfied body. It isn’t until a second spray of liquid lands, with Ilya burying groans into Shane’s neck, when all diligence eases.

They retreat into one another’s arms, basking in the aftermath of a ritual that has exorcised both their worst demons and pacified all their regrets. Just as Shane finds himself in Montreal’s everlasting memories, they also find each other as pledged, a hemisphere or a handshake apart.

And thus, two breaths diminish into true tranquility, marking the beginning of time’s restoration, as well as a journey’s end.

“Let’s go home, Ilya.”

“Yes, let’s.”

Chapter End Notes

Ever since the ideation of this fic, I just always wanted to give Shane and Ilya their time back, and also tell them nothing can be lost, as long as they remember :)

Thank you for your time. One more chapter to go <3

Kudos/comments always appreciated!

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Chapter 5: The Capital (Homecoming)

Chapter Summary

The impulse to kiss Ilya appears again, spectators be damned, but by Shane’s estimate, the table proves too wide for the necessary lean. Instead - and much against all his hygiene habits - it’s his fork that lifts, extending across the air between them with the next cut of halibut at its tip. For a few harrowing seconds, he watches Ilya gape at the unusual offer, but that familiar mouth gently opens to accept, and closes to indulge.

Shane’s cheeks heat up as he watches the scene unfold, though he finds relief in how Ilya’s face has also visibly transformed in shade.

“Your version…of my water bottle seduction?” The joke comes right after the swallow.

Thirteen years since their first meeting, Shane and Ilya go on their first date.

**FIC NOW COMPLETE!**

Chapter Notes

Not going to say much to avoid spoilers, other than this is almost 10K of fluff (And smut). Enjoy, and my greatest thanks for giving your time to this fic!

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The Next Evening

Shane brakes in front of the garage door, formally concluding their travels across time and memory. Behind their mansion, the sun had already begun its contact with the horizon, bathing the landscape of the front yard in serene shades of orange. Next to him in the passenger seat, Ilya reflects the same serenity, two shuttered eyes and one resting soul denoting the final seconds of their fateful odyssey.

“Hey.” Shane gently smoothes the tiny curls within emerging sideburns. “We’re home.”

Ilya’s fatigued lids reluctantly blink awake, before limbs also recover their range of motion. An elongated, full-body stretch between seatbelt and cushion ensues, evoking a rejuvenated creature ready to escape its confines.

“Mmm…I was having a good dream.”

Shane lets out a soft laugh. “About me?”

A second, more moderate stretch twists Ilya’s neck to face him.

“No, about me scoring the goal that ends the Metros’ playoff chances next season.” He sticks out a playful tongue. “But I guess…you were on the ice with me, too.”

“Yeah? How did I look?”

Ilya reaches over to grip Shane’s cheek, squeezing the pliant flesh twice. “I made you very happy, I think.”

Shane blushes, unable to deny that he would be more than satisfied with such a development. Whatever redness Ilya’s touch had left must now appear twice as rich in color, but he hopes that the hues of dusk could conceal it all. 

“You make me happy regardless.” He confesses willingly before opening both the trunk and the garage. “Come on. Let’s bring all our stuff in before we pick up Anya and drop off this car.”

As he departs for the rear of their rental vehicle, Shane overhears Ilya’s seatbelt unbuckle. Their paths mirror one another’s from opposite sides, before reuniting next to neatly stacked luggage awaiting further orders. Together, a wordless series of tows and hauls begin to clear out the load. Between the capture and release of weights, their movements are more cooperative than ever, as if a permanent, invisible tether is directing their bodies to operate without conflict. Where one shifts, the other makes room; where one lifts, the other supports. In front of their home, a new physical kinship captures plentiful emotional resonance - the kind only a deeply bonded pair could possess.

When he eventually slams the trunk shut, Shane can’t help but take mental note of their subtle growth. And as he watches Ilya pull their belongings towards the entrance, he wonders whether this revelation is mutual.

To his slight disappointment, his partner only lets out a few endearing yawns as they enter the house, where he murmurs a commanding “gimme” and gestures for Shane to hand everything over to his care. One by one, the luggages progress forward between them, until Ilya effortlessly drags a bunch altogether up the stairs.

Shane knows that Ilya must’ve taken the many hours of driving into consideration, and how those surface demands mask a caring intention beneath. So even if he shares little notice towards their strengthened connection, perhaps it’s business as usual, with Ilya communicating and acknowledging in his own fashion.

For now, Shane wanders by the rear windows looking out towards the Ottawa river. The sun has sunken further, turning his usual view of nature into obscure, but familiar silhouettes. The gradual transformation couples with a dose of comfort, one he had failed to obtain from the St. Lawrence’s flow. It hasn’t been long since his sight last fell on these woods, but after revisits to cities large and small, remedies in places near and far - what heals the most remains homecoming, to the acres enriched by their presence, to the rooms imbued with his utmost belonging.

Immersed in reverie, he doesn’t detect heavy footsteps descend or approach, until stout arms wrap around him from behind.

“Oh. Hey.” He barely feels startled, as Ilya is simply another comfort of home.

A pointed nose buries itself into Shane’s neck. “Look down.”

It’s only then that Shane feels the dig of a cylindrical object against his stomach. One cautious glance, and astonishment heightens at the sight of a white water bottle from once upon a hotel gym.

“No fucking way.” On reflex, he adds his own grip around it, claiming ownership to a recovered treasure as he turns to face its finder. “You really kept it all these years?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Ilya smirks back, mischief apparent across his features. “It’s basically our first kiss, no?”

The tease hits Shane’s exact vulnerability, and he kisses that smirk as if actually commanded. While Ilya responds with enthusiasm, their fingers rub together against the bottle’s pebbled texture, reviving flashes of the initiation to their complicated relationship. In Shane’s faint recollection, that hypnotizing flavor of his rival’s mouth upon the spout is identical to what he generously savors now. But the trepidation that had encumbered his teenage self to never, ever imagine beyond the spout exists no more.

Once they retreat for breath, Ilya hums.

“Mm…maybe ‘basically’ was not real enough back then.”

“The real version definitely tastes much better.” Shane goads back, lips smacking as he recalls another relevant part of their shared nostalgia. “But in case you’re wondering. I uh, don’t have that dildo anymore.”

“Is okay.” Ilya shrugs before pulling their bodies flush, his hips rolling sensually to escalate what a mere water bottle offers. “The real version definitely feels much better, anyway, right?”

Shane groans, half annoyed at the joke but half turned on by the sensation. Despite urges to do the opposite, he shoves them apart in favor of unfinished tasks. “Alwa…always better, but not now. We still have a dog to pick up, remember?”

“Fine, fine.” The rolls transpose to Ilya’s eyes before he places the bottle on a nearby table. “Even if our little girl doesn’t miss us at all…”

Forcing stubborn arms aside to ensure his escape, Shane proceeds to pull Ilya back towards the garage. “As soon as she comes home, she’ll remember how much better this house is than any hotel.”

“True. I feel the same.”

“But follow me with your SUV to the car rental drop-off first, okay?”

Ilya grunts in agreement behind him, moving along the designated path without complaint. But once they reach the garage, even Shane’s sharp hockey instincts fail to prevent the giant stride Ilya uses to overtake him. Before any ability to react triggers, he finds himself gently trapped against the door of Ilya’s Mercedes.

That devious smirk returns. “Before we go, I have a true surprise for you.”

“What…is it?” The switchboard of Shane’s mind shifts between inquisitive and concerned.

In one smooth motion, Ilya retrieves his phone from a back pocket. A single finger renders it unlocked, and another tap opens the topmost email of his inbox.

Shane glimpses at the screen, digesting every word on display.

“Reservation for two at…Beckta?” The name brings instant recognition, for its reputation as one of Ottawa’s most romantic restaurants is well-known. Of course, whether during his youth or his brief returns to the city, Shane had never had sufficient reason to patronize the place.

“Yes. Tomorrow night.”

Discerning this as yet another caring intention, Shane barely restrains excitement. “Are you…asking me out on a date, Ilya Rozanov?”

“Yes, a proper one. Here in the city, out in public…but not too exposed.” Ilya declares, sounding quite proud of his idea. “Time for us to do more couple things around home, no? Make new ‘core memories?’”

A threat of heartfelt tears looms, but a doting smile is what ultimately breaks out across Shane’s face. They had accepted a dinner gifted by the Centaur owners a while ago, but this would be their first self-planned outing - and no doubt the most appropriate follow-up to the recent two weeks. Ilya had never been the most patient, but after four of the most pivotal days in his entire life, Shane shares the desire to not waste another.

First proper date with my fiancé.

It’s a hilarious, paradoxical thought, but a moving one nonetheless.

“Well? Will you come to dinner with me, Shane Hollander?”

Rather than agreeing straightaway, Shane lifts a finger, adding one condition he deems quite necessary due to precedence. “Only if you promise to not overspend on anything past the food.”

The look Ilya shoots back is amused yet fond.

“Not this time. I promise.”

The answer sounds only half-honest, but Shane accepts anyway.

==

24 hours pass like a flash, especially when anticipation permeates every minute.

Shane fixes all his cufflinks before a final once-over in the mirror by the front door. Though far from a tuxedo, this tailored navy suit is the most formal he has dressed for any date with Ilya so far. Still, his reflection is no longer of a nerve-wracked teenager throwing an outfit together in room 1410, without the slightest clue on what a first experience with another boy would be like. Instead, well-ironed fabrics rest comfortably against his skin, like the tranquil resolution of an unpredictable journey from Regina to Toronto to this house. The Shane in this room knows to expect nothing less than elation for the next few hours, knows the person he will spend those hours with inside and out: how to make him laugh, how to provoke him, how to love him well - and vice versa.

From around the corner, he overhears the faint instructions Ilya is giving to their dogsitter on Anya’s dry food. The one about to be left behind, however, is perched next to Shane’s oxfords, tail wagging as she looks up at him adoringly.

“Sorry about leaving you again. But it’s just for a short while, okay?” He smoothes her mane and tickles a floppy ear.

Anya seems to accept the advanced apology, though Shane’s sure she’s carefree enough to not need one at all.

Ilya’s voice suddenly loudens from the other room, his words now directed at him. “Will you go start my car first, Shane?”

“Will do.”

He grabs the key fob for Ilya’s Mercedes on the way, not thinking much of the request. With the press of a button, he activates the engine prior to opening the garage door. But just before he heads to the passenger side, there’s a tap at his back.

Shane turns to get a face full of colorful cellophane, clearly concealing a bouquet within. He tries to move the countless layers out of his view, but the obstruction suddenly swings to the right, revealing Ilya’s rather jovial expression above his dark grey suit.

“For you.”

Shane folds his lips tight, as it’s the only way to suppress the gigantic grin desperate to make an appearance.

Ilya frowns. “What’s so funny?”

“How did you hide these from me?”

“We have a big house! Lots of hiding places.” Ilya insists, almost incredulous. “Now take them.”

Shane accepts with pleasure, using both hands to grip the bottom half of bunched stems. “This…almost feels like you’re roleplaying what an average date involves.”

“Is a bad thing?” Ilya folds his arms. “You’re the one who wanted to do all that roleplay to start. And my dates will never ever be average, thank you.”

“No, I meant…never mind.” Shane forfeits clarification and peers within the wrapping instead. His movements halt, however, once he beholds the arrangement of white and pink star-shaped petals.

“Oh! These are…”

“Yes. Lilies. Lots and lots of…me.”

Shane inhales the soothing scent, recalling long-term pseudonyms created in Nashville. So silly they had been, faking feminine names while still texting nonstop about - and even showcasing - their dicks. In retrospect, no one who actually checked the conversation history could’ve been fooled.

“You smell slightly better, but I love them. Thank you.” He leans over the flowers, reciprocating with a peck on the lips for his most beloved “Lily.”

Upon parting, a familiar smile plasters Ilya’s face, its crooked shape chock full of pride. Without another word, he walks past Shane to open the passenger door, gesturing in invitation.

Though tempted to rib at this excessive courtship again, Shane obliges without commentary, entering the vehicle as requested and carefully maneuvering both posture and seatbelt around the large bouquet. As Ilya settles ahead of the steering wheel minutes later, in preparation to put them in reverse, Shane can’t help but pose a curiosity.

“If we went out to dinner like this years ago. Would you have gotten me flowers, too?”

“Probably not.” Ilya answers with immediate certainty, though he quickly drags Shane’s right hand over the console to plant a kiss upon its knuckle. “But we’re pretty different people now, yes?”

Shane browses Ilya’s face, drinks in the matured features and more prominent lines that now appear whenever he blossoms into exaggeration or exhilaration. Those imperfections will always hint at the times they had lost, but from flowers never given to dinner dates never had, they’ve at least managed to manifest days like this, where every missed moment can now be regained tenfold.

“Yes, and no.” He weaves their fingers into a resolute grip. “But no matter who we’ve become…happy true first date, Ilyushka.”

Ilya doesn’t speak further as their departure begins, his response to the endearment obvious enough from the grin that spreads chiseled cheeks and the faint glimmers in both eyes. For the entire rest of the drive, signs of contentment etch almost permanently onto them, while the hands that had joined together never disconnect.

==

“Ready?”

Shane breathes, taming the slight unease that lingers. “Let’s do it.”

Their exits from the SUV are in sync, two door slams combining into a single clamor. At an instant, Ilya extends a hand, and Shane captures it with both of his in earnest, having been freed from the bouquet left back in his seat. It’s only a short trek from the underground parking garage to the streets above, but on a busy Friday night in downtown Ottawa, encounters with the public along the way are unavoidable. So even as they speedwalk towards the elevators, not paying their surroundings any mind, Shane is certain he overhears at least one phone camera go off.

Despite the unwanted attention, each footstep feels momentous, moving them forth with neither past burdens nor fears. The freedom to map out a future now thoroughly exists off-the-ice, one night rather than one goal at a time. This inaugural destination is a place that Shane had never dared to consider, but here he is - here they are - finally confident enough to enjoy what countless couples before them have.

It takes a simple ascension for Beckta’s brick facade to come into view, its appearance a jarring 19th-century mirage against an array of modern skyscrapers. A short trek later, they start to climb the stoop hand-in-hand, and Shane has to suppress all urges to race his date up to the landing.

Ilya does beat him in the unspoken contest, but he holds the door open in exchange. Beyond the cherrywood is a homey foyer, housing a maitre’d who immediately springs to attention upon Shane’s entrance. Though she maintains her professionalism at the start, the mask of composure slips when Ilya also emerges at Shane’s side.

“Hello. We are early. I am–” 

“No introductions necessary! I believe we’ve had your table ready for a short while, Mr. Rozanov. Follow me.”

Shane glances over to see Ilya mouth I love VIP treatment with delight. He withholds his own sheepish laugh, before heading in first.

They’re guided through the main dining room, passing tables mostly filled with other well-dressed couples. From the edge of his senses, Shane detects some excited whispers and dropped jaws, but he keeps forward at a polite pace. He is certain, however, that right behind him, Ilya is greeting the masses with something akin to princess waves.

Whichever scene manifests behind him, they are led to an elegant, windowside table, where an idyllic Ottawa streetview rests between gathered curtain drapes.

Whispering thanks to their guide, they settle in across from each other. The positioning proves strange for Shane - they’re always adjacent when eating at home these days - but Ilya relieves any discomfort by immediately stretching his legs, ensuring at least their ankles and shoes touch in that consolation long specific to them.

Below soft chandelier lights, they fall silent as they exchange stares rather than words. And as he had experienced for years, Shane loses himself a bit in Ilya’s gaze. While desire is ever-present within, what surfaces from across the table is emotion contrary to the mischief of Boston, the challenge of Las Vegas, or the tragedy of Montreal. Tonight, gleams, kaleidoscopic gleams of joy reflect back at him via ocean eyes, capturing every precious second they’ve earned for themselves.

Time, at last. Shane marvels. A time for us.

The night is young, as are they still, but this new him declines to pass on any chance to reveal what’s tried and true.

“I’m really happy, Ilya.” He blurts out what his own eyes cannot possibly display with the same clarity. “So happy to be here with you.”

Dual kaleidoscopes turn even more vivid at his words.

“Me, too.”

Right then, as if on cue for transitions into the next scene, a shadow partially envelopes their table.

“Mr. Hollander, Mr. Rozanov!” A besuited man, likely the head sommelier, delivers a polite greeting. “It’s an absolute honor to have you dining with us. I understand that this is a special occasion?”

Ilya’s eyes fade to normalcy as he looks up. “Yes. We are…celebrating our engagement.”

Hearing the last word spoken to a complete stranger in public feels profound, but Shane controls any awe to add his preferred disclaimer. “No need to do anything different - we just want to have a normal dinner.”

“Splendid! I speak for our whole establishment when I say we’re so thrilled for you both. In any case, would you like to start with something from our wine list?”

Nodding his thanks, Ilya grabs for the drink menu and flips it open. “Uh, usually I would have vod–”

On instinct, Shane sends a gentle no hard liquor kick beneath the table.

“--vodka, but since you are wine bar, then–”

“May I?”

The choice to interrupt comes via that recognition of their shared status, now fully public in both lifestyle and routine. At the brink of marriage, Shane proposes the challenge to not only date, but also commit far more to each other.

To his relief, Ilya accepts.

“I will…let my fiancé choose for me.”

Suppressing a gratified smile, Shane peruses the endless options. “I think I have to be the designated driver later, so only ginger ale for me. But my fiancé should probably start with…a glass of the Cabernet Franc Picone, 2010.”

“Wonderful selection. Will return with it.”

As the man saunters away, Ilya sinks somewhat into his seat, in obvious disappointment of his vodka-less evening. Shane chuckles, endeared.

“You’ll like it. Trust me.”

“I’ll always trust you for hockey, but never alcohol.”

“Dad’s favorite, though I like it once in a blue moon.” With a determined reach, Shane links their hands together again windowside. “Either way, consider this a test - since we’ll have to trust each other on every little thing pretty soon.”

Reminded of the mutual nature of their relationship, Ilya appraises their renewed physical connection, not hiding the twitch at the corner of his lips.

“I’ll try.”

Their thumbs brush back and forth, communicating through quiet, delicate frictions only known to them. Even when the sommelier returns, fancy bottle in tow, the touches don’t cease.

Upon confirmation, a light helping of burgundy liquid enters one glass. Shortly after, Shane watches as Ilya tips the rim to his lips, downing what he remembers as a rich, fermented taste with the unexpected dashes of plum and tobacco.

Eyebrows arch as Ilya passes initial judgement - first hesitant, then accepting.

“Is…pretty good.” He toys with his grasp of the stem, swirling what’s leftover. “I will take a full glass.”

Shane smiles as wide as he has ever smiled, and even wider when Ilya acknowledges his victory with a stupefied look.

“Tell us more about the food menu, please?” He requests giddily, dwelling in success.

Right away, detailed descriptives about the night’s specials commence, but most words enter one ear and exit the other as Shane feels the two of them retreat into their own world. Since the gifting of lilies at the start of the night, they’ve barely stopped indulging in miniature doses of happiness. But there’s something about how pleased Ilya looks right now, free hand cupping his mouth to hide his satisfaction with what Shane had chosen for him, that drives Shane to absolute glee.

“...so what would you like, Mr. Hollander?”

“Uh, the Waldorf salad and…the fish dish you mentioned.” Unable to take any attention off of Ilya, Shane answers in full distraction.

“And you?”

“I…order for me, Shane?” Clearly having heard nothing from the menu himself, Ilya acts deferential once more.

“He’ll have a small serving of cacio de pepe to start, and then the steak, rare.” Knowing Ilya’s favorites backwards and forwards, Shane obeys with minimal effort. “And I assume…he’ll keep the same wine?”

“Yes. More of this for me later.”

“Very well!” The sommelier collects their menus. “Coming right up.”

As soon as they’re left alone, they lift their glasses, raising wine to soda.

“Told you to trust me on it.”

“I thought you only understood ginger ale flavors.”

“Fuc—” Shane bites back the habitual curse, considering the environment. “I mean. Shut up.”

Ilya declares a minor victory. “You love hearing me tease you.”

Though his eyes threaten to roll, Shane knows better than to deny the obvious truth. Instead, he initiates bringing their glasses closer, until an inevitable clink sounds above the table’s center.

“As you said.” Ilya recalls as they draw back. “Happy true first date to us.”

“To us.”

With that, they take generous sips together without breaking eye or hand contact. Amongst all the looks and gestures, even the smallest compromise of wine feels like a momentous step. For two weeks, they had wholly trusted each other’s elaborate, even outlandish plans, and now, even more complex layers of confidence await their build.

As glasses contact the tabletop again, it’s Ilya who lays down the foundational brick.

“Tell me more about growing up in Ottawa.”

“Besides the intense youth hockey schedule, it was pretty normal.” Shane shrugs. “Well, maybe other than all the visits to my dad’s office. I was in government buildings a lot more than the average Canadian kid.”

A snicker sounds. “Meeting important people like Canadian Prime Minister every other day? No wonder you’re always so proper…well, other than the cursing.”

“Makes me a little less boring, at least.”

Ilya gives their ongoing grip a gentle squeeze. “I like your boring. Always did.”

“I realize that now.” Shane directs a meaningful look back. “Turns out you always missed ‘boring,’ wanted to kiss ‘boring’...”

“Always needed more time with ‘boring,’ yes. Better yet, a whole lifetime with ‘boring.’”

As he speaks, Ilya’s index finger begins to travel Shane’s palm, tracing hypnotic circles over uneven skin. The combined stimulation from both words and touch shifts Shane’s face as red as can be, though he’s unsure how much the restaurant’s dimmer lighting will actually reveal. What he does know is that “lifetime” remains a word needing digestion, for enjoying togetherness daily still resembles mirage more than reality, much less until their hairs grey and bruised bones grow brittle. For too long, they could only afford to anticipate weeks, months at best, fielding a tumultuous relationship classified by cities often chosen on their behalf. But now that they’ve taken control of intent, chosen each city on their own accord, they may finally live out the difference between a date and a love: one night, versus one lifetime. 

As their appetizers are served, Ilya places a mark at the current point of their joint existence.

“Did you ever think you would already be back in Ottawa at 30?”

Shane fiddles with his salad, mulling on many inaccurate predictions from the past.

“I always thought it would happen after I retired, when I’d want to be closer to my parents again.” He lifts a forkful of grapes and celery. “So no, never imagined it would be this early, and never ever that a main reason would be a…Russian husband.”

“Never thought I would end up here either, out of all the cities in the world.” Ilya echoes as he collects twirls of spaghetti. “But getting myself a beautiful Canadian husband, on top of being worshiped for hockey is…pretty good life, I think.”

The comment adds a fresh dose of saccharine to Shane’s taste buds, and the extra kick induces a brief visual of their upcoming nuptials. Husband. Husbands. For the duration of the dates, he had tried to clear his mind of their imminent status as a couple as to avoid distraction, but having completed all adventures, he can devote full energy to it again.

“You know, they actually hold wedding ceremonies in this restaurant.” For whatever reason, he nearly whispers the open secret. “And the reception right after, too. Very convenient.”

Ilya imitates with a hushed voice. “Oh? Want a change of plans for us next month?”

“No, that’d be too much too soon. Having it at the house is…perfect.”

“I agree.” Ilya gives a once-over to the rest of the dining area. “But, maybe in the future? Renew vows…where we had our first official date?”

Shane pauses, finding himself almost too enamored by the concept.

“Not a bad idea.” Somehow, he conceals the swell of longing, and archives the thought for decades from this night.

They fall quiet again for the rest of the course, pondering over what Shane imagines is foresight of what thirty, forty, fifty years together means. Even when plates empty, his thoughts remain full - no longer of what-ifs in past tense, but of the most daring, optimistic outlooks of their future.

What if - we do win fifteen more Cups?

What if - we inspire many others with our story?

What if - we’re madly happy for the rest of our lives?

The sheer magnitude of possibility overwhelms him, and Shane restrains his visions from straying too far - not out of fear towards unknowns that could transpire, but a need to protect good fortunes he doesn’t dare to jinx. And as main courses arrive, forcing their hands separate to manage multiple utensils, he tries to ground himself more in the present.

“So which city was your favorite?” He asks before even glancing at his own food.

“You mean before?” Ilya pauses the first dig into his steak, returning with full attention. “Or this time?”

“Mm. Both?”

“Well, Montreal back then, because of you.” The serrated knife returns to work. “Just don’t ever tell Raiders fans that.”

“I was better than home?”

Ilya throws back the most vexed look of looks. “You were home, Shane. For me.”

The words are said with such ease that they inspire a surge of timidity, prompting Shane to finally lower both eyes to his plate. For a second, he wonders why every component upon the china appears blurry, but realizes why right away.

“And now? Even if this date is not over yet, I still say Ottawa. Our home.” Ilya continues to speak between chews, as if holding the most nonchalant conversation and not stirring Shane’s heart to the utmost.

Shane turns quickly to the side to blink away liquid emotion, swiping a customary finger across eyelashes to remove the small pools that had collected. Had it not been for the humor of Ilya’s distorted, mouthful-of-food voice, he’s certain he would’ve been unable to halt the deluge.

“...Shane? What about you?”

“I’ll…also say Montreal for before.” He turns back with a controlled tone, hoping that the light outpour had gone unnoticed. “Even last week it would’ve been hard to admit this, but I think I’ve managed to silo any resentment for the team. Whatever negative feelings will no longer apply to the city itself, even if…they boo me in future games or something.”

Ilya waves his fork, seemingly oblivious to Shane’s moment of weakness. “Good. Because I’ll need your full commitment to beat the Metros’ asses together.”

“You have it.” With that, Shane proceeds to slice his fish. “And for my favorite of this trip…I’ll say…Vegas.”

“Needed my redemption kiss there that bad?” Ilya feigns a smooch.

“Shut up. I really did.” Shane frowns, resisting all urge to meet and silence those snarky lips. “Now one chapter is finally closed, and I’m officially ready for the next.”

“Lots more kissing and dating in those next chapters.” Ilya assures. “I read ahead.”

Shane chuckles before his first bite, and allows the rich flavor of halibut - only now does he recognize exactly what he had ordered - to permeate throughout tongue and senses before a satisfied swallow. The enjoyment is the epitome of gradual, contrary to the rush of their sport and their story, especially as of late.

“Wow, we really speedran twelve years worth of unrealized dates in under two weeks.” He murmurs aloud, rehashing the plethora of memories they created.

“Was fun. And important.” Ilya reminds them both. “But maybe too many plane rides, even for us.”

“Yeah, let’s not do that part again.”

“Still, I’m happy we went everywhere, talked about everything.” A soft smile pairs with Ilya’s reminisce. “Can’t wait for more nights like this with you from now on, without baggage.”

Shane mirrors the expression. “Same.”

The impulse to kiss Ilya appears again, spectators be damned, but by Shane’s estimate, the table proves too wide for the necessary lean. Instead - and much against all his hygiene habits - it’s his fork that lifts, extending across the air between them with the next cut of halibut at its tip. For a few harrowing seconds, he watches Ilya gape at the unusual offer, but that familiar mouth gently opens to accept, and closes to indulge.

Shane’s cheeks heat up as he watches the scene unfold, though he finds relief in how Ilya’s face has also visibly transformed in shade.

“Your version…of my water bottle seduction?” The joke comes right after the swallow.

“Maybe.” Under a sudden spell to counter, Shane retreats, capturing more bits of fish before eating it in an intentionally exaggerated way. “Too bad we can’t take this fork home as a souvenir, though.”

Ilya, now showcasing the deepest red from ear to neck, peers all around them as if on the lookout. 

“Just pretend you lost it.” He hisses. “They’ll never know.”

Shane snorts through his bite of silver prongs, twisting his expression into an uncharacteristically sly one. Ilya watches him only briefly before he responds, placing a carrot into his mouth in an equally provocative manner. Right then, something in the air changes. An imagined utensil heist hits at the core of their rebellious youth, and a wave of lustful impatience pushes them to finish this meal at a much faster pace. Suddenly, the friction from ankles are no longer enough, and even the prolonged contact of hands feels distant from where they wish to make contact.

Even in Shane’s matured mind, they may have spent more than sufficient time bonding via emotions alone. So when the waiter eventually collects their cleaned plates, Ilya instructs quicker than lightning.

“No dessert. Just the check.”

In between their server’s nod and the request’s fulfillment, one last coherent thought strikes Shane. And once the bill arrives, he submits it in the form of his phone.

“Before we go - can you take a photo of us?”

As the camera moves into position, he detects Ilya shifting uneasily across from him, trying to lean closer despite the awkward obstacle in between.

“Wait, Ilya.” He raises a palm. “Let’s just…face each other, not the camera.”

Ilya regards him before grinning, exposed teeth as bright as the bulbs lighting up in both their heads.

So they sit back, drifting in the pleasant warmth derived from each other’s mere presence. For a precious few seconds, Shane reenters that dimension where only they exist - brown to hazel, black to blond, Hollander to Rozanov. They had been opposites and opposition, courageous yet stifled in their pursuit of daunting futures. But nothing proves more powerful than the present: these captivating looks of promise, unspoken words binding them together into subliminal permanence. So perhaps, time is ultimately their catalyst rather than opponent, for it always progresses the culmination of their joint will: erratic to a fault, but unwavering enough to fulfill all the destinies they had dreamed of.

As the faux shutter sounds, it’s indeed time that fully stops for their sake on Elgin Street in Ottawa at 8:47pm, a moment forever captured and - like their rock solid union - never to be lost again.

The phone returns to Shane’s hand, its new contents like a trove awaiting discovery.

“We’re definitely getting one of these printed and framed for the house.” The promise flows from his mouth as soon as the photos appear on screen.

Ilya peeks at the results himself, and tests a wishful theory. “Worthy of…a ‘core memory?’”

With a smile, Shane stores 8:47 within the most revered depths of his existence.

“Yes. For us both.”

Minutes later, they rush out of the restaurant hand-in-hand, random stumbles afoot as they bask in a rediscovered joy. Laughter plays conductor to the chaotic shapes of their shadows - Ilya faintly inebriated from his new favorite wine, and Shane sober but bursting with unbridled happiness.

As they enter the SUV, seating swapped from the initial ride, Ilya quickly scrolls through his phone to temper any missed alerts.

“Ah. Look.”

Shane glances over as he secures his seatbelt. On Ilya’s screen is a social media post they had both been tagged in, featuring a candid taken in this very parking garage from hours before, paired with a succinct, witty caption.

Soon-to-be First Husbands of Hockey on date night in Ottawa?

“Guess we better get used to that.” Shane scoffs, recalling the exact second they must’ve been photographed.

“I don’t mind.” Ilya removes one lily from the bouquet resting between them, affirming aspirations he now refuses to hide. “As long as it’s always my name next to yours.”

Pausing the start of the engine, Shane accepts the flower with a delicate hold, before uttering words that double as a premature vow.

“Yours. Forever.”

==

To Shane’s relief, Anya is already far into dreamland upon their return, making for a quick farewell to the dogsitter and minimal time wasted. He had just placed one of her favorite toys into her bed when Ilya encircles him from behind, delivering a soft kiss to his nape.

Shane leans into the contact, eyes fluttering shut. “Thanks for dinner, ‘soon-to-be First Husband of Hockey.’”

Ilya’s snort is muffled by skin. “You’re very welcome.”

“Okay, I’m going to sleep.” Prying himself out of the backhug, Shane marches towards the stairs with pretend indifference. However, he hardly makes it to two strides before turning around, unable to curb the need to see Ilya’s reaction.

In more than a decade together, only one instance in Boston - also of Shane’s own making - could rival the appalled look on Ilya’s face this very second.

“Thought about it on the way back, and I don’t know if I should put out on the first date.” He tests that ever-fragile boundary, knowing that better rewards may await on the other end.

A few veins protrude upon Ilya’s forehead, visible even from a short distance.

“I’m kidding.” Shane quickly appeases before worse derailments. “Come here.”

Ilya closes the distance between them instantly, reclaiming what had almost escaped.

“I mean, don’t want to act like I deserve anything after a simple date.” He nuzzles their noses while showcasing a rare case of humility. “But you know, we’ve been following pattern…and I still need dessert.”

“The flowers, the dinner, what you look like right now…you think I can resist?” Shane rests his forearms upon those sturdy shoulders, sinking fingers into Ilya’s curls. “I can barely resist you without all of that.”

He catches a tiny glimpse of Ilya’s haughty smile before the usual magnetism seals their lips. The kiss is fiery and uninhibited, designing a wild choreography that both their tongues follow without misstep. Every contact is a harsh but delectable reminder to Shane of what a terrible mistake sleeping early would’ve been, and he already feels impossibly hard after mere seconds. Luckily, Ilya has already started to nudge and navigate them both, tracking a meandering path to the staircase. Contrary to the restaurant, this ascension is tedious and without chase, for neither of them want to risk silly injuries before the wedding or the hockey season. Nonetheless, there are rushes in another, literal, fashion: blazers get abandoned on step three, dress shirt buttons come undone by the landing, and slacks are magically kicked away before they even reach the bedroom.

Angling for their mattress proves a scramble, with Ilya stripping off both their briefs as soon as Shane’s back hits the duvet. Shane’s moan is guttural as his cock springs free, and one sound is trailed by countless others as kisses begin to rain down upon crevices along his body he doesn’t recognize. Come morning, he thinks he may wake up marked in the most scandalous of places, but as with Vegas, he feels more than pleased about becoming another canvas.

Right as Shane imagines what artwork beautiful bruises could form, however, Ilya slows down, electing to climb back over him until they’re perfectly parallel again. Rather than protest any loss, Shane finds himself gazing up at his partner, drunken with confusion and longing. Slowly, his arms regain some sense of mobility, and though he’s tempted to grab at Ilya’s robust chest, currently heaving due to gasping breaths, Shane’s palms lift to cup deeply tinted cheeks instead. Against the room light, Ilya’s fervent expression is a splendor he could never tire of seeing, the desire in those eyes one he could never not reflect in full. Even with the passage of time, never has their need for each other ever waned. These moments of deceleration only amplify it beyond mere lust, allowing the most intricate of emotions to seep into everything they exchange.

“The best things come in threes, you know.” Ilya divulges the true reason for his pause. “So…I have one last surprise.”

He tilts his neck at their right nightstand, and Shane pushes the flexibility of his spine to catch what he’s intended to witness. Under the lamp is a new polaroid camera, innocuous in nature, but suggestive in context.

“I know we have pictures from the Montreal date and tonight, but I do want to remember more of you, in more than memories.” Amidst confession, Ilya leans down for a forehead kiss. “If…you’ll let me.”

Without warning, Shane’s face becomes feverishly hot, conscious of the vast difference between the purity of the photobooth and this scenario. He recalls the age-old saying that taking intimate photos of your significant other can be the most romantic gesture, but he had never expected Ilya to adopt such an idea for them. Certainly, a level of risk exists for those with their high profiles, but the chances of anyone discovering physical pictures is still lower than their phones being hacked and sexts being publicized.

Most importantly, he understands the meaning this holds for Ilya, to recapture some missing pieces from all their years.

“Nothing…below the waist?” Shane hints at agreement, but bearing rightful caution.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Okay. Go ahead, then.”

Ilya leans to snatch the camera immediately, and repositions himself to kneel at the side of Shane’s waist. It’s almost comical to watch both their erections go unattended, and Shane can’t tell whether this will simply be a fun interlude or effective foreplay. He doesn’t even think he looks his most photogenic - skin flushed with different blemishes, long hair sweaty and mussed - but as the lens takes aim, he returns his best attempt at a tender look, figuring that he can at least play along.

After the real shutter sounds, however, Ilya’s next words eliminate any self-doubt.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful, Shane.” The praise is drenched with nothing short of awe. “Your eyes…freckles…out of this world.”

Somehow, being appreciated as a muse jolts Shane’s libido in a wildly different way, sending him headfirst into unexplored territory. As his photographer becomes preoccupied with shaking the initial piece of film, he musters up a blend of audacity and yearning.

“How do you really want me?” He places a hand on Ilya’s thigh, giving it a mild squeeze. “I can tell you want more than just a pose, Ilya.”

There’s an unmistakable twitch at the head of Ilya’s cock, and the flaps of the polaroid cease, leaving only a pair of deep breaths audible. Their eyes lock, four pupils dilating further, wider - until nothing verbal is even necessary.

But of course, Ilya speaks aloud anyway.

“Touch yourself.” The husky request is commanding, though not demanding. “Show me what you look like when you’re desperate for me.”

In that moment, Shane accepts that this is indeed effective foreplay above all else, because the same hand that had just squeezed Ilya’s thigh travels back to his own erection with unrivaled urgency. Deft fingers gather what fluid had already collected on his abdomen, and with an initial, fisted stroke, he reawakens his entire length from its brief neglect.

Brown eyes flutter shut, tuning out the whole universe to hone in on those delectable sensations. Each caress from base to tip inspires a moan, a knit of brows, a gasp - and whatever neurons still function normally hope that his facial expression is adequate for the next snapshot.

“Yes…that’s it…” Ilya’s mystified voice sounds from above. “It’s my hand on you, Shane. My mouth...”

The visual easily replaces reality, and the noises from Shane’s throat increase in both volume and frequency. He’s in the middle of something drawn-out when he feels a few of Ilya’s fingers glide from the top of his mouth, dragging both his bottom lip and jaw down ever-so-daintily. Right then, the polaroid camera also sounds, having found the perfect nanosecond after some patience.

With limited force, Shane pulls his diligent hand aside, not wanting to trigger any premature release. His eyes stay closed for the duration of much-needed recovery, and when they open minutes later, he’s greeted with the partially exposed photo, held almost proudly by its architect.

The close-up portrait of him halfway to climax is wanton, the fingers skimming past his lips an almost obscene addition. But it’s also the most raw, stunning moment between lovebirds, and absolutely breathtaking to behold.

“You like?”

Shane nods. “We look quite beautiful like this.”

“Well, as much as I wish to frame this one for the house, too.” Ilya declares with blatant disappointment. “These must all be kept hidden.”

“To say the least.” Shane chuckles, selfishly enjoying these new secrets only known to them. “Do I get a turn now?”

Ilya hesitates, but relinquishes his role without fanfare.

“How do you really want me?” He echoes as he hands over the camera.

Shane sits up before patting the adjacent space. “Lie down.”

As soon as Ilya lays prone, Shane carefully straddles him across the waist. He takes an extended moment to survey the sculpted muscles below, and realizes how practically every detail upon this body is deserving of an individual portrayal.

“Should I light up a cigarette or something?” His subject questions, clearly confounded by the wait. “Could look sexy.”

Shane playfully bumps the camera to Ilya’s forehead. “You know you’re more than sexy enough.”

Ilya laughs, not making efforts to disagree.

As Shane lifts the viewfinder to his eyes, any attempt at focus is quickly thwarted. Despite his trapped position, Ilya lets his hands roam free between them, engaging in everything silly from squeezing Shane’s pecs to tickling his waist.

“Stop distracting me.” Shane admonishes. “You’re going to come out all blurry.”

“Maybe it will look more ‘artistic.’”

“I’d rather you give me one of your modelesque faces, or something.”

Like a robot under instruction, Ilya bends his neck to showcase a specific angle of his jawline, leaving his prominent mole front-and-center. That enticing mouth drops partially open, while eyelids fall hooded - but the piercing gaze that sneaks through pins Shane into a momentary suspension.

“Fuck.” He nearly drops the camera. “You’re too damn good. Like you are at everything else.”

The corner of Ilya’s mouth twitches, but he maintains intensity and poise. Only when Shane finally takes the picture, sending a new polaroid shooting out of the slot, does he break character. A bold roll from his hips, and Shane has to muzzle a yelp, having sensed that familiar girth rub up against himself.

“You seem incredibly turned on by this.” He states the obvious, trying to concentrate on shaking the film.

“Can you blame me?” This time, it’s Ilya who begins to massage both of Shane’s thighs. “The most beautiful man in the world is making special memories with me. Of me.”

“Mm, from the way this picture looks, though - you’re coming after my title.”

“I do not think I win this contest, ever.”

Though he gives a rare yield by speech, Ilya’s next actions say otherwise. With one swift motion, those grips on Shane’s thighs tighten, and the mix of momentum and strength rolls both of them over, returning Shane to his back with a resounding plop.

Shane fields the whiplash and shock, barely keeping the camera in his hold. But such security proves unnecessary, as Ilya reaches for it as soon as he regains balance up top.

“Gimme.”

Shane lets go, voicing zero objection as he wonders how he will be captured next. Any question is answered quickly by the way Ilya’s mouth dives for his torso again. At first, Shane’s brain fails to keep track of all the places receiving attention, but when that wicked tongue zeroes in on both his nipples, he can’t hold back the cry that escapes. Every lick and suckle stirs his entire body, causing fingertips to tremble and hips to rut. Even when Ilya stops latching on, echoes of sensation continue to bounce throughout Shane’s nerves, mimicking continuous touch in dozens of phantom spots. Within the blurred vision of his stupor, he sees Ilya elevate himself slightly, before grabbing a shot of everywhere he had just paid carnal tribute to.

The polaroid develops on its own, slowly but surely. Beige emulsion evolves into the debauched pinkness of Shane’s pleasured flesh, framed from his chin to the middle of his abs.

Seeming assured that Shane is watching the process, Ilya moves to kiss the image, giving the torso shown within even more thorough appreciation.

“Holy shit.” Shane groans at the erotic sight, almost irate. “Will you fucking kiss me already?”

Ilya smirks, clearly aware of the many minutes they’ve gone without doing so. Instead of prolonging tension, he tosses the photo aside before sealing their lips with an intensity reserved for their most impassioned nights. This meeting is so fervent, its entanglement so electric that Shane begins to comprehend the appeal of a muse worshipped by their artist. Any daring bites are quickly soothed by a loving tongue, which then spurs on its own exploration, as if the map of Shane’s mouth is constantly in flux, requiring new adventures each go-around.

Somewhere around a dozen voyages, the journey finally breaks. Shane is still recovering from dizziness when he senses another picture taken, as if Ilya’s trying to make faster work of the remaining film. But minutes later, when he is shown the exquisite close-up of swollen, well-kissed lips, he thinks that perhaps Ilya simply never overlooks inspiration.

“...quite an artwork from you.” Groggily, he gives sincere approval, despite the bizarre notion of complimenting his own bodypart. “Both the subject matter…and the photo itself.”

Aloft, Ilya swipes his mouth with an exposed tongue, like the cleansing of a paintbrush. “Like you said: I’m good at everything.”

Shane can’t help but blush from head to toe, somehow stimulated by that maddening arrogance. But he only said it earlier because it’s true. Hell, even Shane himself had learned much from Ilya over years in hotel rooms and bedrooms, mastering each lascivious act in his personal pursuits of perfection. Each date from their recent travels had been an ongoing reflection of past guidance, practice - and tonight, at last, they return to a consummation they had remained so patient for.

“I think you should remind me what ‘everything’ entails.”

Ilya’s brows lift in amusement, before he lowers his head to the mattress. Against Shane’s earlobe, a hoarse whisper sounds.

“Tell me what you want, then, moya lyubov.”

The foreign words inspire a shudder, but once it recedes, Shane doesn’t hesitate to voice his hunger.

“Just fuck me, Ilya.” He pleads, more unabashed and direct than ever. “I’ve been dying for two weeks.”

A burst of laughter quakes against Shane’s neck. “If you’ve been dying, imagine me.”

“And you still,” Shane grabs two of the polaroids to put on display, “convinced us to edge each other even longer with these.”

“You know they were worth it.” Ilya stretches until he opens their bedside drawer, dropping off the camera before snagging a bottle that hadn’t seen light in days. “But yes, no longer. Yesterday we were both too tired, but if we don’t fuck every night up to the wedding, and every night after…I’ll believe we went on all those dates for nothing.”

“Fucking every night is certainly one way to ‘make up for lost time.’”

Ilya starts to coat his fingers with lube, but multitasks with a peck to Shane’s mouth. “Exactly.”

The photo sessions had ironically distracted Shane from acute awareness of their mutual nudity, but he’s given a brazen awakening when Ilya uses a forearm to shove at his left thigh. On instinct, Shane bends both knees towards his chest, exposing his ass for whatever plans may be on the table.

With no seconds wasted, any coolness of the room’s air is hastily replaced by the warm substance surrounding Ilya’s index finger. Despite familiar territory, it prods slowly, gingerly, digging into Shane by the tiniest of distances each time. Whenever mews from his throat start to become moans, the finger delves deeper, all the way until penetration of that tough ring of muscle.

“Mmph—” Shane unleashes a soft whine, but is silenced right away by what feels like the thousandth kiss between them in the last hour. His hands fly to the sides of Ilya’s neck, pulling him close as Shane himself is pulled apart. Wider and vaster he succumbs, taking in digit after digit as he becomes entirely open again - emotionally first, physically second - to his beloved. An alluring pressure builds from where fingertips crook within him at just the right angles, but it’s tempered throughout, never reaching critical mass.

After an eternity, their lips disconnect, while any intrusions vacate at a languid pace, leaving Shane barren, wanting. Similar to his daze before nearly every photo taken, he only has vague notice of Ilya shifting position over him. A single convulsion triggers when firm abs graze his length, and it splinters into countless tremors when he feels the tip of Ilya’s cock, also lubricated at some unknown point, begin to find its way home.

Shane squeezes his eyes shut, contesting the dueling sensations of relief and resistance. It’s almost nostalgic, to have Ilya again like this after a self-imposed hiatus. But from now on, they’ll never have to be dictated by diverging schedules, cities, or doubts.

When Ilya pushes about halfway, Shane receives that customary tease next to his right ear.

“Still better than any dildo, right?”

“Always want you…” He answers in kind. “The real thing…”

Ilya releases something between a laugh and a groan, and Shane feels him withdraw before pressing forward again. Mind and body counteract right then, the former wishing for total surrender, the latter contracting as a final shield.

In an unprecedented fashion, Ilya nearly collapses onto him. “Oh fuck, Shane. You’re so, so tight…”

Shane stays silent, relishing his partner’s rare setback while attempting to relax every nerve. Ilya’s head nestles beneath his chin, cheek against clavicle, and Shane starts to caress his scalp, hoping to transmit some calm through the roots of each curl.

At last, utter alleviation hits - and felt by them in sync.

“Okay? Can I keep going?”

“Yes, go. Please.” Shane isn’t sure who sounds more impatient.

And so Ilya goes, ruts forward until Shane takes in nearly all of him. Their satisfied exhales hardly finish before the first retreat, and then, a reburial - of sensitive flesh where they most desire, of any lingering apprehension that they always belonged right here, loving one another exactly like this.

That decade-long rhythm revives to its intended pace, and the last hints of discomfort disappear from Shane’s enraptured mind. No matter how sober, this relentless side of Ilya is his neverending liquor, numbing whatever inconsequential. And thus, he lets the same addiction overwrite all logic, lets the flex of his spine spring skyhigh as he fields every thrust.

Like the fresh ease of performing mundane tasks together, there’s the same newfound resonance in their most intimate act. Where one enters, the other welcomes; where one arches, the other meets with the perfect, countering bend. Upon their future marital bed, Shane unearths balance and reciprocation - upon these canvas-like sheets, for a lifetime, they shall be each other’s artist, their bodies each other’s muse.

“Ilya. Ilya…” He gasps out the only word that takes shape in his throat.

The pressure that had already compiled multiple times inches towards a breaking point, winding Shane up in more knots than calculable. He wishes to tediously untie them one by one, neat and tidy, but he knows this may very well be his small compromise.

“Come, Shane.” Ilya beseeches him, and then - surprises.

“Come home.”

Home.

Montreal? No. Ottawa? No.

You found me, lost in Regina. You shook my hand.

Regina? No.

Then where, Ilya?

Yes.

Ilya?

Yes.

Ilya.

Yes.

The only word that takes shape. The only date that has ever mattered.

And the only one he needs every night, no matter where they end up.

So Shane gasps that name aloud one last time, and unwinds every modicum of himself into those treasured syllables. Atop, an enduring embrace locks them in tandem as they ride through the frenzied ecstasy, while beneath, separate bursts of climax first coat him with an exquisite glaze, then fill him to the brink.

Ilya moans a babble of languages and broken phrases into Shane’s jaw, though the only sign of completion disseminates something entirely different. After his hips reduce from erratic pumps to stillness, he caves to a fatigued buckle, and Shane intuitively maneuvers him aside, though keeping much of their bodies in contact.

They share a sleepy, enchanted gaze, saying nothing their lovemaking has not already expressed. The past has gone by, learned and resolved. It’s them now on these dates, in these photos; and them in the future, pursuing all the most important what-ifs.

When legs regain enough function, they wander into the shower, cleansing each other with a combination of water, hands, and mouths. Upon return to the bed, Ilya quickly collects the polaroids - somehow still intact - into a single stack, allowing Shane strip and replace the sheets thereafter.

Once refreshed, they sit against the headboard side-by-side, hairs damp and waists wrapped in towels as they browse through their very personal gallery, full of very unique memories to be savored for years to come.

“You think we should buy an album, to put these with the ones from Montreal?” Ilya proposes, then squints at the photo of Shane’s torso. “Well, have to clean the cum stains off a few. You went a bit crazy there.”

Shane smacks his fiancé's bicep, head shaking while still answering seriously. “Tonight’s are not really…the same theme?”

“Of course they are!” Ilya retorts, rubbing at his fresh, minor wound. “Both times we were having fun, enjoying ourselves…”

Shane smacks him even harder, and they dissolve into uproarious laughter, drawing from that bottomless blend of post-date joy and post-coital bliss. The album debate may have to be settled later, but for now, Shane allows himself to be collected into Ilya’s arms, rejoicing at being home within his home.

“Mmm…I think I’ve enjoyed all this very much. Dating.” Seconds into their cuddle, Ilya reveals what appears to be his ultimate conclusion.

“Even if some of it was cheap or boring?”

“If it’s with you, nothing else matters.”

Shane snuggles closer, then raises his head for a bold nomination. 

“Well…I know an outdoor art fair is happening near Centretown next week. The house could use some new decor, and we can bring Anya with us, too.”

Ilya’s eyes widen in pretend awe, though not pretend delight. “Wow. You asking me out on another date already, Hollander?”

“What can I say? I really enjoyed all five of our firsts.” Shane shrugs through his clever response. “So…you gonna say yes, Rozanov?”

The one he challenges rolls over a little, gently pinning Shane against his side of the bed. Two fingers tip his chin upward, until lips reunite for the briefest brush.

“Yes to the cheapest ones. Yes to the most boring ones. And especially yes to ones that end like this.” Ilya punctuates each affirmation with an additional kiss. “Let’s do them all.”

Shane receives each pledge in kind, heartened by the boundless liberty to forge memories old and new, to deepen a love that’ll be their first and last. Whether a serene seclusion, or a whimsical unfolding, he knows there isn’t a single date for the next fifty years that won’t bear significance. Together, they’ve earned someone designated to them by fate, received the affections they both deserve.

And time, finally on their side.

[Fin]

Chapter End Notes

Whew, thank you for reading all the way to the end, especially for those of you who have been patient with me since the beginning of these chapters! Hollanov has been such a delight to explore, and even though the third book next year may render a lot of this fic non-canon, I’m still so excited to see Shane and Ilya spend actual couples time together out in the open within the bookverse. When I started writing, the announcement for Unrivaled hadn’t even been made, so I was really fulfilling some personal wishes for them. But now Rachel will likely fulfill even more (Yay!)...bless.

This final chapter is structured differently in tone, and is a bit of an homage to the genius of Jacob Tierney with S1’s cottage finale: Shane and Ilya slowing back down, just enjoying the time they’re afforded. I also sprinkled in a bunch of other callbacks (Some obvious, others not) to the HR book/TV show, from scenes to lines to other minor details. Did you catch ones like the below?

1) Suited Shane
2) Lilies

(And quite a few more)

Feel free to comment with anything else you think you found, haha.

As always, kudos/reviews appreciated. Thank you SO much for coming on all these dates!

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