Summary:

Ilya’s spent his whole life hiding. Now he wants to go to Pride — their first as a married couple, in their new city, with their new team. Shane’s spent his whole career being careful, being quiet, being private about everything that matters. But maybe it’s time to stop being so fucking careful. (or the one where Ilya buys too many flags, the team shows up in matching shirts, and Shane learns what it feels like to be proud.) The humidity hits Shane the moment he steps out onto the back deck, coffee mug warm in his hand despite the August heat. Inside, Ilya is singing along to something in Russian — badly, enthusiastically, the way he does everything these days. The way he’s been doing everything since they got married, since Shane signed with Ottawa, since their whole fucking lives became this impossible thing Shane still can’t quite believe is real. “You are going to burn,” Ilya calls from inside, not even looking. Somehow he always knows when Shane’s outside without sunscreen. “It’s eight in the morning.” “Sun does not care about time.” The screen door slides open and Ilya emerges, shirtless, holding his own coffee and what Shane now recognizes as the industrial-sized bottle of sunscreen they bought at Costco last week. “Also, we have practice in two hours and I am not listening to you complain about sunburn through bag skate.” Shane takes the sunscreen because arguing is pointless. Ilya’s already rubbing it into his shoulders before Shane can even open the cap himself. “You’re very nurturing this morning,” Shane says. “I am keeping my husband alive. Is different.” But Ilya’s hands are gentle, thorough, spreading sunscreen across Shane’s neck, behind his ears, down his arms. “Also, I need to ask you something.” “That sounds ominous.” “Is not ominous.” Ilya moves around to face him, blocking out the sun. His eyes are very blue this morning, the way they get when he’s scheming. “Is fun thing. You like fun.” “I’m immediately suspicious.” “Shane.” Ilya’s hands land on his hips, thumbs hooking into the waistband of Shane’s shorts. “Capital Pride is next weekend.” Shane’s stomach does something complicated. “Okay.” “I want us to go.” The deck is suddenly very quiet except for the sound of someone’s lawn mower three houses down. Shane takes a sip of coffee, buying time. “To Pride.” “Yes, to Pride. In Ottawa. Our city now.” Ilya’s face is open, hopeful, and fuck, Shane knows where this is going. “I have never been to Pride. Not as myself. Not as-” He gestures between them. “As this.” Shane’s chest tightens. “I know.” “In Russia, I could not even-” Ilya stops, swallows. “I could not even think about it, you know? Not just illegal, but dangerous. And then in Boston, I was not ready. Was not out. Was hiding everything.” His hands squeeze Shane’s hips. “But now I am here. With you. And I am married to you. And I can—I want to be there. I want to see it.” “Ilya-” “You do not want to go.” It’s not a question. Ilya’s face does something complicated, shuttering slightly. “That’s not what I said.” “But is what you think.” Shane sets his coffee down on the deck railing, carefully. “I just—it’s going to be a lot. Media will be there. Everyone will-” “Everyone already knows we are married,” Ilya interrupts. “We did not hide this. You signed with Ottawa, everyone knows why. Is not secret.” “I know it’s not a secret.” Shane runs a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself, with how he can’t seem to just be as brave as Ilya makes it look. “I’m just—I’m not good at this stuff. The public thing. The-” “The being proud of us thing?” “That’s not fair.” Ilya’s expression softens. He steps closer, cups Shane’s face in both hands. “Moya lyubov. I am not trying to be unfair. I am trying to-” He pauses, searching for words. “I spent my whole life being afraid. Hiding. Pretending. And now I do not want to do this anymore. I want to go to Pride with my husband. I want to hold your hand in public and not be scared. I want to-” His voice cracks slightly. “I want to exist, okay? As myself. As bisexual man. As married man. As Ilya Rozanov who loves Shane Hollander more than anything.” Shane’s throat is tight. “Fuck.” “Is good fuck or bad fuck?” “Good fuck.” Shane pulls Ilya closer, wraps his arms around him. “Always good fuck when you do the romantic speech thing.” Ilya laughs against his shoulder. “So you will come?” “Of course I’ll come, you manipulative asshole.” “I am not manipulative. I am persuasive. Is different.” “You’re both.”