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By the time Shane emerges from the hospital, his head only ringing slightly and his collarbone less tender, Boston is brimming with holiday cheer.
And cold. Everything is so fucking cold. The black pavement has whitened into bleached bone with the frost. The wind wriggles its way into his sweatpants, chills his arm in the cast. At least, on his way to his friend’s house, coils of conifer branches and twinkling golden lights greet him with holiday cheer. As much as missing the rest of the season and possible playoffs has been depressing him, he can’t help but feel his spirits lifting with every light-limned doorway and the fragrant wreaths of pine on the brownstone doors.
Shane curls up on the couch immediately when he gets back. Boston is playing at home, and while he would have liked to watch the game in person, his brain still feels raw around the edges, and he’s not sure the shouting and the lights would have been good post-injury protocol.
Still, he can’t resist checking the score obsessively on his phone, closing his eyes in between refreshes of the Google scorecard. Because he knows that if he pulls up a livestream, he’ll focus on the little glowing brick for too long, eyes roving across the rink, hungering for a glimpse of number 83. As much as he yearns for it, he wants his eyes not to burn like hellfire tomorrow.
He must have fallen asleep, because when he wakes it’s almost midnight and the game is long over. Google tells him that the Raiders won, with a natural hat trick from Rozanov, of course.
Shane blinks and props himself up on one elbow, swiping to his chat with Ilya.
He’s picking his way across the blurry keyboard, halfway through “congratulations,” when the chat buzzes.
Lily: what are you doing tomorrow?
Against his own will, Shane grins down at his screen in the dark, flopping over onto his stomach to text more comfortably. If he kicks his feet a little as he rolls, that’s between him and God.
Jane: not much. i was discharged this morning, but i’m just crashing at a friend’s for a couple nights before i brave the flight up to montreal.
Ilya’s typing dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. Shane suddenly wonders whether he should have called Ilya to see if he could stay over, a pit growing in his stomach. But in his mind at least, that’s not what they are. They’re more than fuckbuddies, sure, but they're not yet in staying-over territory, and Shane doesn’t want to rock that boat before they’ve even made it to solid ground.
Shane nearly jumps out of bed when his phone comes alive in his hands, vibrating with a call from Lily.
“Hi. If you are free tomorrow, I would like a, um. over-do?” Ilya’s rough, deep voice, ragged after a hard game, pulls an undercurrent of heat from Shane’s stomach that he does not want to examine this fresh out of the hospital.
“Huh?” Shane turns to his side with the phone pressed to his ear. “You mean a do-over?”
“Yes. Of the last time you were here in Boston.”
Something twists painfully in Shane, like a toe ground through broken glass. He feels that kissing Ilya’s cheeks until they blush with the faintest dusting of peach is the only remedy. “But you weren’t the problem last time, in Boston,” he says, stomach sinking. “It was me walking out and being a weirdo, remember?”
“Yes.” Ilya shuffles on the other end. “And you are my weirdo. And we will go to see Boston sights together.”
Shane laughs, trying to brush off Ilya’s my as it needles like a chip of warmth between his ribs. “That’s your do-over? Sightseeing in Boston in the freezing cold? Are we gonna do a Freedom Trail tour? Dress up as lobsters and try to attract as much attention as possible?”
He can almost hear Ilya's irritated smirk. “No. You are unoriginal, Hollander. We will go to Christmas market. Holiday cheer. And hanging out.”
“Oh.” Shane swallows. “Um, that sounds fun, but don’t you think people will see us?”
Ilya is silent for a bit. “That's a sight in and of itself,” Shane adds, shooting for levity and coming up short.
“Yes.” Ilya says. “Is problem?”
Shane sighs. “Of course it is, we’re rivals-“
“Who played on same team a month ago. It is not unreasonable for us to have working relationship. Besides, you are out after your injury, yes?”
Shane opens his mouth to say that a Christmas market is less working and more relationship, and closes it again.
“Fine. We will go to this market as professionals. Friends who are witnessing all the Boston cold has to offer.”
“I would like to be friends with you as my profession.”
Shane huffs at his earnestness, but there’s something pained in Ilya's voice. It could be one of two very valid reasons, but he chooses the easier thing to ask about. “Your ribs still killing you?”
Ilya groans, a gratuitously drawn-out sound. Shane's ears warm. “Yes,” he drawls, “So very painful. There is only one remedy.”
Shane sits up. “What is it?”
“You must help me out.”
“Okay. Okay. Come on, what?”
“Come over and kiss them better.”
Shane can’t even resist the relief that washes over him. “No way. It’s so late. You’ll have to settle for texting me a time and location for tomorrow.”
Ilya laughs a bit, and Shane hates how he wants to live in that sound forever. “Deal.”
When Shane catches sight of Ilya's overgrown mop of curls standing outside of Snowport, he inexplicably wants to weep in relief. Sure, they just saw each other barely a week ago in the hospital, but he was totally out of it! He vaguely remembers the press of Ilya's hand into his, every nerve alight with the leathery, sweet smell of him! He's allowed to be irrationally excited about seeing his situationship again after a separation of like, five days!
“Hi, Rozanov,” Shane says, jogging up.
Ilya turns. His face is mostly obscured by a thick black scarf, but his eyes twinkle above the knit border. “Hello, Shane,” he says, pulling the scarf under his chin.
“So.” Shane realizes they've never actually hung out, outside of the odd hour or so in Tampa a month ago. Doing the things that normal friends do. He feels awkward, like a puzzle piece that doesn't quite fit the space it should. He's not sure where to put his limbs, how to act, what to say. He's not even sure if he should think of this as a date, or if that's too much to ask for.
Ilya cuts off his overthinking and throws him a lifeline. “Have you been to holiday market in Boston before?”
“Ah, no. I've never been here long enough. If I'm home around the holidays, I'll normally try to go to the Montreal one with my parents.”
“I see. This is also my first time. But I am excited." Ilya gestures to a few people lingering outside the festive perimeters with them. "I'm sorry, there is bit of line. We will have to wait.”
Shane snorts. “It's fine. But you're not gonna use your ‘Raiders player’ card?”
"No.” Ilya looks serious. “We are two people from entrance and I do not want to make scene.”
“Whatever you say, captain.”
Shane hovers into Ilya’s warmth, leaning into his shoulder, a little closer than the line demands as they take in the sights. A huge fir tree peeks above the festive stalls, a star twinkling at its tip. Christmas jazz floats softly through the market. Couples and friend groups duck in and out of stationery stalls, chocolate shops, and clothing stores, their laughter echoing through the corridors.
Ilya is stoically silent beside him. Shane can't stop the anxiety bubbling in his stomach—what if Ilya regrets inviting him? What if this is too much, what if Shane smells, or is too much for Ilya and they're going to break whatever brittle truce they've forged—
Ilya snakes a hand around Shane’s waist and pulls him closer as a couple barely brushes past them, on their way to some fancy dinner by the bay.
“No spatial awareness, Hollander.” Ilya tsks next to him. “Is your head alright?”
“Fine, thanks.” Shane rights himself and tries to ignore the heat in his cheeks at stumbling into Ilya's chest. “I'm really fine, don't worry. I just can't be chronically online and watch the Boston games on my phone anymore.”
The tension seems to drain a bit from Ilya's shoulders. “I'm glad.”
The line starts to move, and Ilya ushers him forward with a firm hand on the small of his back. “Now let me find you the most embarrassing holiday gift possible.”
Instead, Shane rushes into the first hat store they find and forces Ilya to wear a bear hat with ear flaps and protruding round little brown ears. He tries his best to look super displeased about it, but Shane can’t believe him as he tugs the knit fabric over Ilya's soft curls with glee. Ilya visibly suppresses a shiver as Shane's warm fingers brush the chilly tops of his ears. Shane files that away for later.
In retaliation, Ilya insists on getting him a little red panda chopstick rest at a kitchenware store. The panda has a furrowed brow, serious eyes, and little nubs for feet.
“It looks just like you,” he says, holding it next to Shane's head, face alight with glee.
Shane also insists he hates it—the panda’s expression is grumpy, so why would he then be exposing his soft dark belly for chopsticks to rest on?—but he tucks it in his pocket and rubs his thumb against the smooth glaze.
As they wander the mazelike market stalls, the wind picks up and wet snowflakes begin to barrel towards them. At some point, between a fourth jewelry shop and a puzzle stand, he finds Ilya's scarf wound around his neck. Shane buries his face into the scarf so that only his eyes peek out and tries really hard to be subtle as he takes deep breaths of the smoky-caramel scent of Ilya's neck.
“Excuse me?”
The two whirl around. A girl in pink earmuffs holds out a phone with a cherry case. Shane's heart leaps into his throat.
“You’re Ilya Rozanov, right? Could I get a quick picture with you? Totally okay if not, I hope I'm not being rude.”
“Um,” Ilya says eloquently.
The girl rambles about only getting into hockey a bit this month, after moving to Boston. She’s only been to one of the Raiders games with a friend, but definitely recognizes Ilya and wants to show her friend. Shane can feel his heartbeat down to his fingers, hammering away beneath his skin.
To his credit, Ilya takes it as politely as possible, stepping away, grimacing quickly through the photo, then handing the phone back.
“Thank you so much! Oh, wait,” the girl says, “Sorry, one last question.”
Shane braces himself for it, teeth chattering—are you dating? Why are you with your biggest rival? I actually work for the Boston Globe, and can I get it on the record one more time that you’re both queer—
“What’s your glute routine?” She’s staring at Ilya again with wide eyes.
“Four hours of hockey practice a day. And Romanian deadlifts.” Ilya says with great gravitas.
“Oh, sick.” She grins widely. “Thanks! Enjoy the market!”
Ilya is by his side again in a heartbeat. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Shane blurts, and it sounds almost as watery as he feels.
“I’m sorry, Hollander. It is incredibly rude of her to ignore you like this.” Ilya’s face is dark, almost comically so. “To ignore the best player in the league, right next to me—“
“No.” Shane says firmly. He loosens the scarf, then places his hand against Ilya’s upper arm, stroking his thumb against his jacket. “Ilya, it’s fine. Seriously. I had a scarf over my whole face, and I also didn't want her to recognize me. Genuinely.” he breathes in shakily. “I'd really like to be invisible today. Just like any other person at this market. Maybe…just not to you.”
Ilya nods, his face softening with relief. Shane wants to kiss away the little furrow that lingers between his brows.
“I see you just fine, Hollander. But maybe we ought to get you matching animal hat for good measure. I vote for mouse.” Ilya plucks the hat from his head and reaches for Shane's head, laughing as Shane bats him away with his free hand.
They stop by a hot chocolate stand, because neither of them have paid eight dollars for a drink before and it's on Shane's bucket list of inexplicable things he must experience. Getting to watch Ilya swipe away the leftover whipped cream from Shane's top lip and licking his thumb, all while maintaining eye contact, is just an extra plus.
And when a hot sauce stand catches Shane's eye, he also gets to discover that Ilya has a piss-poor spice tolerance.
They taste the various sauces on paper spoons, and Ilya coughs and splutters his way through a polite dime-sized coin of pumpkin hot sauce. Shane watches the pale plains of his face turn cherry-red under the warming lamp.
“That's our lowest spice level sauce. I'd rate it a 2/10 spice,” the man behind the counter says helpfully. Shane can't help but laugh as Ilya glowers behind his eyebrows, kitten-licking a tiny dollop of fiddlehead fern sauce and stifling another cough.
“That one's about a 2/10 as well,” the man adds.
Shane buys a bottle of curry hot sauce for his mom while Ilya wanders off in search of milk to cool the spice with. Shane finds him a few stalls over, pondering a chalk wall. What do you wish for? it asks in large script letters.
“You must write wish for the new year,” Ilya says, handing him a nub of chalk.
Shane takes it and revels in the brush of their fingers. “What did you write?”
“Stanley Cup this year.” Ilya points.
“Yeah, that's more like a pipe dream.” He hesitates, hand hovering over the chalkboard.
그의 손이 내 손 안에, he settles on.
“Ah, in foreign language is good idea. What did you write?”
Shane falters for a second. “It says, I want to eat tteokbokki. Rice cakes with a spicy sauce. Maybe I'll make it for you someday.”
“Ah. A good wish, but no, thank you. I would die. Is that…?” Ilya says, stopping suddenly.
“Is that what? Shane replies.
“Oh. It is. Our old hag.” Ilya says, waving a vague hand.
“What?” Shane follows his gaze and squints across to the small ice skating rink, where Scott Hunter is toddling in a circle on rented skates.
“I knew his skating was bad, but it is far worse than I thought. They should check him for senility ahead of playoffs.” Ilya grins. Thirty feet from them, Scott nearly wipes out on the ice, and a man with laughing eyes and a neat five-o’clock shadow catches his arm.
“Do you know who…” Shane starts, but decides to let it rest. He watches as Scott straightens and smiles at his mystery companion, the other man's touch lingering a bit too long to steady the Admirals captain. They seem to be in their own world—a feeling that Shane is starting to understand himself. Shane looks away, as if to give them privacy in the swarm of the crowd.
“Shameful. They should not let seniors on the ice. They could fall and not be able to get up. It is safety concern” Ilya mutters next to him.
“Be nice to Hunter. These dull rental skates are no joke.” Shane bumps him with his shoulder, laughing.
On the other side, the crowd has gathered, and a TV crew has even set up their cameras, pointed at the tree. Shane checks his phone—10:29pm.
“What is happening?” Ilya wonders out loud.
“Tree-lighting ceremony,” someone says from the crowd.
Suddenly, a hush falls on the crowd. A glowing timer above the tree starts at 60, and begins to count down.
“This is some big fanfare, isn't it?” Shane says, turning to Ilya in excitement.
Ilya’s jaw is set as always, but his eyes tick with a quiet anxiety. “You are enjoying?”
“Of course I am, Rozanov.”
“Good.” Ilya sighs. “I wanted to make sure.” He leans closer to Shane and pitches his voice lower. “Since holidays are for gratitude, I wanted to do something fun with you. To show you that you are important to me. More important than simply rival. Or friend with benefit.” He looks Shane up and down hungrily, as if imagining his body beneath the plush layers of his coat. “Though benefits are good, too.”
“Yeah,” Shane says stupidly, breathlessly.
“I wanted to tell you…” Ilya mumbles something, low, in Russian. Looks out into the pyramid of dormant lights. “It is an honor to be your rival.”
Before them, the tree erupts into light. Red and green baubles glitter with captured gold. The crowd murmurs in awe. But all Shane can see is the way Ilya's face glows beneath this constellation of joy, that jaw he loves, his favorite person in the world.
Shane's mouth feels bone-dry. He feels possible and electric and overcome all at once. He wants to reply, you’re the only one in the world I trust enough for any of this—hot chocolate, hats, holiday markets. I have loved you since we were eighteen. I’d like to use your eyes as my north star every Christmas from now on.
“Hey, don’t butter me up too much. We’re going to beat your ass next year,” He says instead.
Ilya looks down and blinks, something unreadable and vulnerable flitting across his face. Then the roguish bad boy is back, meeting Shane’s eyes, a little too tender to be a true challenge. “Yeah right, invalid. Get well first.”
When Shane returns to his cottage, the first thing he does is ask his mom to make tteokbokki for him for Christmas. It's everything he's craved—spicy and sweet and cheesy, just like he wanted. And as he rests his chopsticks on the little red panda's dark belly and thinks of the promise of Ilya joining him, the world feels like a wish come true.