Chapter Text
Shane woke slowly, the way you did when there was nowhere you had to be.
That realization came before consciousness fully did - a soft, boneless awareness that no alarm was going to go off, no schedule pressing against his ribs. His body registered warmth first. Not just blankets. Heat. Solid, steady, alive.
Ilya.
He was everywhere. Curled around Shane from behind, chest broad and warm, thigh slotted between Shane’s legs like he’d arranged them sometime in the night and never reconsidered. One arm was draped low across Shane’s stomach, hand relaxed, fingers slack with sleep.
Shane lay still for a moment, cataloguing the details the way he always did when he woke like this - the slow rise and fall of Ilya’s breathing, the faint scrape of stubble against the back of his shoulder, the weight of him. Grounding. Real.
Last night flickered through him in flashes, not linear, just sensation-heavy: Ilya’s laugh, breathless and sharp, against his mouth; the way he’d pressed Shane into the mattress like he needed to feel every inch of him there; the headboard knocking softly, rhythmically, until Ilya had muttered something like “Is fine, house strong,” and then very deliberately made it less fine.
Shane swallowed, warmth pooling low in his stomach.
He shifted just slightly - not enough to break the hold, just enough to remind Ilya that he was awake.
A low sound rumbled behind him. Not words yet. Just a hum, half-asleep and instinctive.
“Morning,” Shane murmured, voice still rough.
Ilya’s arm tightened immediately, like his body had been waiting for permission. He pressed closer, chest firm against Shane’s back.
“Is morning?” Ilya asked, voice thick, accent heavier with sleep.
“Yes.”
A pause. Then, quieter, almost offended, “Bad timing. I was winning dream.”
“You always say that.”
“Yes,” Ilya said, resolute. “Because is true.”
Ilya shifted, nose brushing Shane’s neck, lips warm where they pressed briefly against his skin. Shane smiled, eyes closing again for a second.
“You still sore?” Ilya asked.
Shane let out a soft laugh. “You’re asking like you don’t know.”
“Just checking my work.”
Shane rolled slightly, turning enough to face him. Ilya’s hair was flattened on one side, curls escaping in odd directions. His eyes were half-open but sharp, already assessing, already present. He looked younger like this. Softer. Still dangerous.
Shane reached up, thumb brushing along Ilya’s jaw. “You sleep okay?”
Ilya shrugged. “Better when you not steal blanket.”
“I didn’t steal it.”
“You did,” Ilya said. “You always steal.”
He leaned in, kissed Shane - slow, familiar, unhurried. No rush. No hunger this time. Just confirmation.
They stayed tangled for a while after that, trading lazy touches and quiet murmurs, Shane’s leg hooked over Ilya’s hip, Ilya’s hand tracing absent patterns over Shane’s side like he was mapping something he already knew by heart.
This - this was the part Shane never took for granted. Not the sex. The stillness afterward. The fact that they could exist together without needing to perform or hide or explain.
They didn’t get many mornings like this.
Eventually, Ilya sighed, long and theatrical, and rolled onto his back.
“I make coffee,” he announced, like it was a duty he’d been assigned.
Shane smiled. “Hero.”
“Yes,” Ilya agreed, already swinging his legs off the bed. “I know.”
Shane watched him go, bare feet padding down the hall, utterly unbothered by the cold floor. The quiet of the house settled in behind him - not empty, just calm. Lived in.
When Shane followed a few minutes later, pulling on sweatpants and a hoodie, the kitchen was already warm with the smell of coffee.
Ilya stood at the counter, mug in hand, wearing low-slung sweatpants and nothing else. His back was relaxed, shoulders loose. At home.
“You sleep like rock,” Ilya said without turning. “Very heavy. I could rob you.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“No,” Ilya agreed. “I need you alive.”
He handed Shane a mug without ceremony. Shane took it, fingers brushing Ilya’s for a fraction of a second - a touch so familiar it barely registered consciously, but his body responded anyway.
Coffee. Normal. Safe.
They leaned against the counter side by side, shoulders brushing. Outside, the world was quiet - Ottawa muted under winter light. Inside, everything felt suspended.
Shane sipped his coffee, eyes drifting around the kitchen. The magnet crooked on the fridge. The faint scratch on the table from where Ilya had dropped his keys too hard once. Proof that this space existed even when Shane wasn’t in it.
Ilya noticed him looking.
“You doing nostalgia already?” he asked.
Shane smiled. “Just… nice here.”
Ilya’s mouth twitched. “Yes. I know.”
Another quiet stretch.
Then Ilya cleared his throat.
“So,” he said, tone casual - too casual. “I was thinking.”
Shane’s stomach tightened. Not fear. Awareness.
“That’s always dangerous.”
“Yes,” Ilya said seriously. “Many people say this.”
He took a sip of coffee, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.
“I go to arena today,” Ilya continued. “Practice.”
Shane nodded. “Yeah.”
Another beat.
“You… maybe come with me.”
The words landed softly and heavily at the same time.
Shane didn’t answer right away. His brain kicked into motion automatically - rival captain, same division, random Tuesday, Ottawa practice. Christmas flickered sharp and bright in his memory: Ilya asking him to come to Bood’s like it was nothing, Shane spiraling so hard he’d nearly combusted under the weight of being seen.
He set his mug down carefully.
“Ilya-”
“I know,” Ilya said quickly. “Is stupid. You don’t have to.”
Shane looked at him then - really looked. The way Ilya pretended not to care. The way he absolutely did.
“Why?” Shane asked.
Ilya shrugged, one shoulder lifting. “I want normal. I want go somewhere with you and not think.”
Shane swallowed.
Ilya added, lighter, “Also, Haas backhand is terrible. I cannot fix. Maybe almighty hockey brain help.”
Shane snorted. “You’ve been telling me my backhand is weak for a decade.”
“Yes,” Ilya said. “And look. You still alive.”
Shane laughed - and then went quiet again.
Inside, the familiar internal battle flared. Not about Ilya. Never about Ilya. About eyes. About whispers. About the outside world pressing in.
They’d been doing this too long. Sneaking. Loving anyway. Only Hayden had ever truly seen them - and even then, only because he’d loved Ilya enough to look properly.
Shane met Ilya’s gaze.
“I can come,” he said slowly. “If we’re careful.”
Ilya’s grin was immediate. Bright. Unapologetic.
“We are always careful.”
Shane raised an eyebrow. “You say that like Hayden doesn’t exist.”
Ilya waved a hand. “Hayden is different. Hayden sees everything. Is rude.”
Shane smiled. “Okay. But we keep it normal.”
“Yes,” Ilya said solemnly. “Very boring. Just hockey.”
They held the look a moment longer than necessary.
Then Ilya leaned in and kissed him - slow, grounding, affectionate.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
Shane kissed him back. “You’re welcome.”
They didn’t move right away.
That was the danger of mornings like this - the way time felt negotiable, like it might stretch if they ignored it long enough.
Ilya was the one who finally broke it, draining the last of his coffee and setting the mug in the sink with a soft clink.
“Okay,” he said. “If we don’t leave now, we never leave.”
Shane smiled faintly. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Yes,” Ilya replied immediately. “Because I have practice. And you will start kissing me again.”
Shane raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like a threat.”
“It is,” Ilya said, stepping into Shane’s space anyway.
He reached up, fingers brushing at the collar of Shane’s hoodie, straightening it without thinking. The gesture was automatic - intimate in the quiet, unselfconscious way of people who had shared a space for a long time.
Shane’s hands settled at Ilya’s waist, thumbs hooking briefly into the waistband of his sweatpants. Not pulling. Just there.
“You sure about this?” Shane asked softly.
Ilya tilted his head. “You already said yes.”
“I know. I’m just-”
“Thinking,” Ilya finished. “Yes. I know.”
He leaned in, forehead resting against Shane’s for a second. Not a kiss. Just contact.
“We go,” Ilya said. “We are boring. We leave if you want. No drama.”
Shane nodded. “Okay.”
They moved around each other easily after that, a practiced choreography. Shane grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and shrugged into it. Ilya disappeared down the hall and came back tugging on a sweater, hair still wild, phone already in his hand as he checked messages without really reading them.
Keys.
Wallet.
Phone.
Ilya tossed his keys into the small bowl by the door, then immediately picked them back up again like he’d forgotten he’d done it.
“You lose them already?” Shane asked.
“No,” Ilya said. “I put them safe place.”
“That was two seconds ago.”
“Yes,” Ilya replied. “Long time.”
Shane laughed under his breath and stepped closer, tugging the hem of Ilya’s sweater straight. There was a faint mark at the base of Ilya’s neck - not dark enough to be obvious, but close.
Shane hesitated, then brushed his thumb over it lightly.
Ilya smirked. “You proud?”
“I’m aware,” Shane said dryly.
“Good,” Ilya replied. “Because I am.”
He bent to grab his jacket, then paused, glancing back at Shane. “You warm enough?”
Shane blinked. “You’re asking me?”
“Yes. Is cold.”
“I’ll survive.”
“Hm,” Ilya said, unconvinced. He stepped closer and zipped Shane’s coat another inch higher himself. “Try harder.”
The door opened with a soft rush of cold air. Winter hit them immediately - sharp, clean, unavoidable. Shane inhaled deeply, breath fogging as they stepped out onto the porch.
Snow crunched underfoot.
The world felt louder out here. Brighter. Less forgiving.
Ilya locked the door, tugged once on the handle to make sure, then turned back to Shane.
For a second, neither of them moved.
This was the line - the invisible one. Inside had been theirs. Outside required a version of themselves that fit.
Ilya reached out, squeezed Shane’s wrist once. Quick. Grounding.
“Ready?” he asked.
Shane nodded. “Yeah.”
They walked down the steps together, shoulders brushing. Ilya bumped Shane lightly with his hip as they went.
“Stop thinking,” he said. “You think too much.”
“Pot, meet kettle.”
“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “But I am charming about it.”
Shane smiled, tension loosening just a fraction as they reached the car.
Ilya unlocked it and paused, glancing sideways. “You drive.”
Shane blinked. “You sure?”
“Yes. You drive nice. I drive like criminal.”
“That’s not-”
“It is,” Ilya said. “Yesterday you made sound like prayer.”
Shane laughed, genuinely, as he took the keys and slid into the driver’s seat. Ilya climbed in beside him, slamming the door shut against the cold, already reaching for the radio like this was the most natural place in the world for him to be.
The engine turned over.
The house faded behind them.
And just like that, the morning shifted - not broken, not gone - just folded carefully away as they pulled out into the quiet Ottawa street together.
The car pulled out slowly, tires crunching over packed snow.
For the first few minutes, they didn’t talk.
It wasn’t awkward. It never was. Silence with Ilya had always been easy - even back when everything else between them had been sharp and terrifying and impossible to name. Silence now felt earned.
Shane kept his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel. The quiet in his chest from the house lingered, warm and steady - but underneath it, the familiar hum had started up again.
Outside.
Public.
Arena.
Ilya shifted in his seat, then reached over without looking, resting his hand on Shane’s thigh. Not gripping. Just there.
Shane exhaled slowly.
“You okay” Ilya said. Not a question.
“Yeah,” Shane said. “Just… recalibrating.”
Ilya hummed. “You always do this.”
“I do not.”
“You do,” Ilya said. “You think yourself into corner, then act surprised when corner exists.”
Shane snorted. “You make it sound very flattering.”
“Yes. I am very flattering person.”
They stopped at a red light. Shane glanced sideways, catching Ilya watching him with that familiar, unreadable calm.
“What?” Shane asked.
Ilya shrugged. “You are different today.”
“Different how?”
“Quieter,” Ilya said. “Like first year.”
That made Shane laugh, sharp and fond all at once. “I was a mess first year.”
“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “Very dramatic.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“I was honest,” Ilya said. “You were… spiraling.”
Shane shook his head, smiling despite himself. His mind flicked back - hotel hallways, stolen glances, the way they’d both flinched at their own names in each other’s mouths like it meant too much.
“You know,” Shane said, more to himself than anything, “I used to think if anyone ever saw us, it would all explode.”
Ilya shrugged again, casually. “Did not explode yet?”
“Because no one’s seen us.”
“Yes,” Ilya said.
Shane smiled softly at that. “Except Hayden.”
Another light. Another pause.
Ilya tilted his head. “So,” he said lightly, “why you in Ottawa again, Captain?”
Shane shot him a look. “You know why.”
“I want to hear your version.”
Shane considered it for a second, then smiled. “Visiting my parents. Had some papers to give you. Tagged along.”
Ilya nodded. “Ah. Casual espionage.”
“Exactly.”
“Very subtle,” Ilya said. “Come to rival practice. Help fix backhand secretly. Nothing suspicious.”
Shane laughed. “You’re the one who invited me.”
“Yes,” Ilya said. “But if anyone asks, is your fault моя шайба.”
“Of course it is, моя палка”
They turned onto a broader road, the arena still a few minutes away while laughing at Shane's russian accent. Traffic thinned. The city felt quieter here, like it was holding its breath.
Ilya leaned back in his seat, one knee angled toward Shane. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “if someone asks, you can say you here because your parents.”
“They do live here,” Shane said.
“Yes,” Ilya replied. “Very convenient.”
Shane glanced over again. “You’re enjoying this.”
Ilya grinned. “Just a little.”
They drove the rest of the way with music humming low between them. Shane felt the tension ebb and flow - never gone, but manageable. Familiar. Something he’d learned to carry without letting it ruin the moment. Oh how he loved this man...
As Maplewood Arena came into view, Ilya straightened slightly.
“There,” he said. “Last chance to escape.”
Shane slowed the car, then pulled into the lot.
“I’m not running,” he said quietly.
Ilya looked at him then, really looked. Something proud flickered across his face.
“Good,” he said. “Because I would chase. And then it is mess.”
Shane laughed under his breath, cut the engine, and turned to him.
They didn’t kiss. Not here. Not now.
But Ilya reached over, squeezed Shane’s hand once - firm, grounding - before letting go.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go be normal.”
Shane nodded, heart steadying.
Totally normal.