Chapter Text
One
Fall of 2013
Ilya stoops at the bottom step of the stairs to do up the laces of his boots. They’re the sturdy sort that don’t slip or slide in the snow. Shane wants to know why Ilya had decided to wear them tonight, when there’s no snow to speak of. That, in itself, is a bit unusual.
November in Montreal. They must have a high of 10°C today, though it's much lower now that the sun is long down. The entrance to the stairwell is icy cold, an unheated column of the building where they can have as much privacy as they want.
Ilya’s coat is warm where Shane holds it against himself, to his chest and draped between his legs.
“Obviously, we won’t see each other during the Olympics. Right?” Shane asks, just to have something to say, just so he can get Ilya talking again. He wants to hear him, have his voice soothe him through these last vestiges of calm.
His afterglow is still heavy on him, a sated feeling deep in his body. But nervous energy is already trying to worm its way to the forefront again. He wants to stave it off, savor each moment he can, interacting with the one person who knows him— in this one particular way, at least. Who's now seen him at his most vulnerable.
He’d almost thought things would be different, lying in bed after getting himself fucked for the first time. Ilya had held him, stayed inside for a bit after the fact, hands massaging his haunches, kissing his skin absently.
Shane had thought this might be new ground for them. He hadn't been sure how to feel about it.
When Ilya had gone to shower, Shane had lain there and gone back over the memory of what they’d just done. From hesitancy to bliss, and Ilya in his ear the entire way, soothing him through it.
Not much had been said, but the pathway between them had felt wide open.
Ilya treats him distantly as they talk on the stairs, now. That doesn’t faze Shane at all, though. He’s come to expect it. As they converse about the Olympics and their families, Shane pressing and Ilya evading, Shane can see the walls coming back up behind the other's gaze.
"I've been dreaming of it my whole life."
“Dreaming of what? Bronze metal?” Ilya snarks at him, and Shane bites down on a grin.
“You fuckin’ wish.”
And then Ilya closes in, foot up a step higher, leaning over him. Shane feels like they're right back in bed for a split second. “Remember when I made you come hands-free?”
Shane’s pulse stutters in his throat. He can smell Ilya’s detergent, his cologne. His skin. Shane huffs a laugh. “Go fuck yourself, Rozanov.”
He barely hears the other murmur to him as he leans in, such a good trick, and Shane stares at his mouth as he points out that Ilya’s cab is likely waiting for him out there.
And then his mind quiets, stills.
A parting kiss, slow and syrupy sweet, and for seemingly no other reason than just to kiss.
“Bye.”
Shane watches him go. The door squeals open, and Ilya takes a cursory glance around as he steps out. As the door shuts, a cold gust blows what looks to be a few stray snowflakes into the stairwell. They land on the concrete floor and sit for a few long seconds before slowly melting into dark spots.
Shane lets his eyes shut, wraps his arms over his chest to keep warm the parts of him that had been covered by Ilya’s coat.
Ilya must’ve known it would snow. Maybe he’d guessed. Shane hadn’t even looked at the weather report that morning.
As a rule, Shane tries not to ruminate on the impossible things he wants. Things he wishes.
He knows what this is. Rush of emotions after an intense round of sex. He’s read about it. That doesn’t stop him from feeling it full force. And even though it’s only hormones, dopamine and oxytocin, and whatever other cocktail of neurotransmitters is sparking together in his brain, it doesn’t stop him from wanting.
Wanting Ilya to come back. Come back so they can do it all over again. Come back so they can lie together in Shane’s bed, after the fact.
He sits in the cold stairwell and lets himself want, just for a bit longer.
*
Ilya sits in the darkened cab and stares at his text chain with Shane. He scrolls upward, past the text with the apartment address to Shane's lame attempts at sexting. He feels fond.
Then he pockets his phone and stares outward at the snow beginning to come down in flurries. A thin line of it has begun to accumulate against the curb.
He thinks about how Shane had looked in the low light of his room, head pressed against his pillow, and Ilya over him, covering him, pulling all those sweet sounds from his mouth. Later on, Shane propped against the same pillow and waiting for him to be done showering. It had been a delightful sight, and also something he never wished to see again. A scene only crafted to make him think about things he can't have.
A kiss to Ilya's lips, to his forehead, and Ilya knew he had to go.
He hadn’t expected Shane to follow him down the stairs.
Hadn’t expected the other to start conversing with him. Though, maybe he should have by now.
They’d told him, when he first came to join the North American leagues, that Shane Hollander was laser-focused and unsociable.
That had gone against Ilya’s first impression of the other, though, Shane seeking him out in a back alley to shake his hand and tell him not to smoke. To tell him that he liked watching Ilya play, or that’s how Ilya had heard it, anyway, how he chose to remember it. He'd already known who Shane was, too, and though he'd never say it, he liked watching the other play just as much.
He hadn't heard him speak until that moment, though.
His unassuming candor and upturned corners of his lips had caught Ilya by surprise. His freckled cheeks... Maybe that was when Ilya knew. Had an inkling of the danger he might be in.
Staring at his cute little ass as he’d turned to go, Ilya couldn’t help but get one last word in. Ever the tease. Ilya should’ve known it’d get too far out of hand right from that moment.
It nearly had tonight.
He’d wanted to stay, overwhelmed with what they'd done, what Shane had let him do. That’s exactly when he knew he should leave.
He still feels it, though. His pulse flutters just at the memory.
When he arrives at the hotel, he slips through a side door with a swipe of his keycard. Elevator up to the second floor, and then to his and Marleau’s room. The light is off, and Marleau is slumped on his side, in the bed closest to the window.
Ilya removes his coat and boots, but doesn't bother removing anything else. Eases down onto the bed to stretch out. He knows he won’t be getting much sleep, anyway. He props his arms behind his head.
Marleau turns over, and Ilya can see the whites of his eyes in the dark. “You go see your Montreal sweetie?” He’s teasing, but Ilya scoffs harshly.
“Was at club.”
“Sure you were.” Marleau rolls onto his back. “You don’t come back till later when you’re clubbing. ‘Sides, you were texting her before the game. Wet your wick, huh?”
These English turns of phrase become more ridiculous by the day.
Ilya doesn’t answer, only throws an arm over his eyes and tries to shut his mind off. All he sees when he does, though, is a picture of Shane below him, head nestled in a pillow, flushed and freckled and dewy.
It’ll be a long fucking night.
“Is… it snowing?” Marleau asks sleepily into the quiet room.
*
The next morning, everything is dampened in a thick blanket of white.
Ilya sits in the airport with the rest of his team at a gate destined for Dallas and looks out at the tarmac being scraped by multiple plows racing back and forth in long stretches. The snow isn’t the biggest issue. The early morning had turned bitingly cold, and it's clear that the tarmac is icing up faster than they can clear it. The plows and trucks slide on their U-turns.
The wind has only picked up since the daylight broke. Flurries of frozen snow flick against the airport windows in sweeping gusts.
Ilya’s phone buzzes in his hand.
Jane - 9:42 a.m.- Did your plane leave already?
Lily - 9:42 a.m.- Delayed. For over an hour.
Shane doesn’t immediately respond, and Ilya looks at Marleau a seat away. The other meets his gaze with raised brows and blows a long breath out through puffed cheeks.
“Not lookin’ good," he mutters.
“How can Montreal be snowed in?” Ilya asks, the r's rolling off his tongue with extra flair for his aggravation. “They are not ready for winter?”
“It’s Montreal, man,” Marleau snickers, like that's an explanation.
Ilya doesn’t know what that means. He’s played in North America for four years now, and he’s never seen it such a mess out there. Then again, maybe he’s just never had the pleasure of being caught up in a Canadian blizzard.
Still nothing compared to a bad winter in Moscow.
His phone buzzes.
Jane- 9:44 a.m.- Look on the bright side. If you’re stuck another day, you can come back here.
Shane doesn’t mean it that way, Ilya’s sure. It’s only another invitation to fuck, not a sleepover.
Despite all of his instincts to shy away from such a topic of conversation after feeling all he felt the night before... Ilya grins down at the phone and taps a message back before he can help it.
Lily - 9:44 a.m.- Better for you if it is not delayed.
Jane - 9:45 a.m.- Why?
Lily - 9:45 a.m.- Should I tell you everything I would do? To you?
“Jesus,” Marleau huffs. “You already making plans for tonight? They haven’t even called it yet.”
“Shut up,” Ilya says. He pushes his phone into his pocket, not waiting for Shane’s reply. He feels he ought to save some face, at least now when he’s feeling so exposed. Which is ridiculous. Marleau wouldn’t even know what any of his expressions really mean, who they're aimed toward. And it's not a crime to be excited to see a girl.
They sit and continue to watch the snow plows begin to fail more miserably at their jobs when, fifteen minutes later, an airline representative stands on a fold-down seat to get all of their attention.
“The flight to Dallas has been called off,” he announces. This is met by a series of groans all around. “Actually, all outbound and inbound flights have been canceled or diverted. We’re very sorry. The storm is predicted to carry on for a while. It’s very unexpected.” The man wipes at his brow, and Ilya grins at his nervousness, addressing a gate full of mostly Bostonian hockey players. “It’s possible we may resume operations by tonight.”
Their coach steps in at that point to put the poor fellow out of his nervous misery. “Keep your cell phones on.” He gives a few of them pointed looks. “I want you all within a ten-minute walk of this gate.”
He looks at Marleau, who gives a halfhearted shrug.
Ilya can’t help himself and pulls his phone back out. There’s a message waiting for him.
Jane - 9:47 a.m.- Yes.
Ilya takes a slow breath. Flash of Shane’s pretty bottom lip in his head. Now is not the time to be turned on, focus.
Lily - 10:02 a.m.- The flight is canceled. Maybe another tonight. Grounded here.
Jane - 10:03 a.m.- Shit really?
Three dots bounce below that message for a long moment. Ilya waits, slipping his necklace into his mouth for something to do, a nervous habit.
Jane - 10:04 a.m.- This is weird weather. It came on so suddenly.
*
Ilya meanders through the airport with Marleau and a handful of other guys for the first few hours. They get a meal, and then a drink. Ilya lounges across a bench seat he finds around the corner from their gate and holds his phone over his head to watch clips of the game they’d played against Montreal the night before.
He sends one of them to Shane, a pass he’d stolen right out from under the other’s nose.
Jane - 12:34 p.m.- Very impressive.
Ilya can practically see Shane’s entirely unimpressed face. He grins to himself, taps out a message.
Lily - 12:35 p.m.- What are you doing?
Jane - 12:35 p.m.- Watching a movie.
Lily - 12:35 p.m.- What movie?
Jane - 12:35 p.m.- Princess Bride.
Lily - 12:35 p.m.- Kids movie. Lame.
Jane - 12:36 p.m.- Asshole. It’s good. And it’s what’s on. You’ve seen it?
Lily - 12:36 p.m.- Yes. Both actors are hot.
Jane - 12:36 p.m.- Degenerate.
Lily - 12:37 p.m.- Oh big word. Describe him to me.
Jane - 12:37 p.m.- Who?
Lily - 12:37 p.m.- The man actor. Tell me what you like about him.
Jane - 12:38 p.m.- Not the girl?
Lily - 12:38 p.m.- No. The man.
*
Ilya is bored out of his mind, and bothering Shane only does so much to help him relax.
In fact, maybe Shane’s making it worse. Ilya is beginning to realize that he’s pent up. Which is ridiculous, considering what he’d gotten up to with Shane the night before. A night like that was sure to satiate any man for a few days, at least.
All he can think about is Shane, though, and the prospect, no matter how thin, of getting a repeat of the night before.
*
4:30 p.m. rolls around, and there is still no sign of the storm letting up. The last vestiges of sunlight show that the tarmac is still being plowed, trying to keep up with the work.
It’s an unprecedented level of snow, the news station in the corner tells them all. Ilya doesn’t know what 'unprecedented' means, but he imagines that it means that there’s a shit-ton of snow on the ground that no one knows what to do with.
By 6:00 pm, the coach gathers them all up at the gate again. This time, he’s the one to stand on a chair.
“The snow isn’t letting up. And you all need proper sleep.” He looks around at their weary faces, and Ilya can tell that he isn’t sure what tomorrow will hold, either. “We’ve booked at two hotels nearby, whatever they had left, nothing fancy. Split off accordingly. Keep your cells on. We’ll contact you in the morning to let you know if there’s a flight out.”
“Cutting it close, aren’t we?” Connors mutters somewhere down the line of seats. Ilya feels for them all. No one wants to fly into Dallas and play a game on the same day, even if they get lucky with a non-stop flight in the early morning. They'll still have slept like shit the night before, muscles aching from spending the day at the airport.
He’s buzzing next to Marleau as they walk back out of the airport through a private exit. The other looks at him warily, eyes shifting from him to the phone in his hand. Ilya makes sure it is turned away from him so that he cannot see any incoming texts.
Lily - 6:20 p.m.- You were serious about invitation? No flights tonight.
“Let me guess,” Marleau says when they’re standing apart from the rest of the team. Snow is getting into the tops of Ilya’s boots, soaking into his socks, but he doesn’t care a bit right now. “You’ve got accommodations set up.”
“You will cover for me,” Ilya tells more than he asks, brows raised.
“I will?”
“I cover for you,” Ilya reminds him. Marleau rolls his eyes but nods. He folds his arms over his chest to block the cold.
“Shit. Just— keep your phone handy. Wherever this chick lives, it’d better be nearby.”
“Is fine,” Ilya says, then smirks. “See you later tonight.”
Ilya pulls his phone. Three dots hover beneath his text to Shane, the other typing back.
Earlier in the day, he hadn’t been sure going back to Shane’s would be a good idea. But now that he’s waiting with bated breath for the other’s reply, anything less than an invitation would be intolerable. He’s been thinking about Shane’s freckles, and he’d very much like to see them again before he leaves Montreal.
Jane - 6:22 p.m.- Shit really?
Jane - 6:22 p.m.- If you want to come back here, you can, I guess.
Ilya scowls at the phone.
Lily - 6:23 p.m.- Guess? You don’t want?
Lily - 6:23 p.m.- You wanted earlier. Quite a bit.
Ilya is only mildly annoyed. He thinks he knows by now when Shane is playing coy. Still, he wants to be sure. He doesn't know if he could handle showing up and realizing Shane doesn’t actually want to see him so soon. More than just his pride would be wounded.
Jane - 6:24 p.m.- Alright yes. I want you to. Jesus.
Lily - 6:24 p.m.- ?
Jane - 6:24 p.m.- Please.
Despite his empty promises to himself of reestablishing that careful boundary between Shane and him, the idea of seeing the other again makes his groin twinge… and his chest squeeze. But lust can do that too, can’t it?
Ilya sits with his overnight bag over his lap in the back of a taxi.
He’s on his own, separate from Marleau or any of his other teammates. When they get to the first stoplight on the road out, he gives the taxi directions to Shane’s apartment block, and they break away from the long line of cars leaving the airport. His taxi is one of dozens here, and their coach will never even notice him slipping away.
Lily - 6:36 p.m.- On my way.