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Shane is drunk.
Not tipsy, not even slightly drunk. He’s wasted, really. He’s drunk off his ass because the Centaurs have just won their first Cup, and he’s in a gay bar celebrating their win sitting on his husband’s lap like there’s no tomorrow and nothing in the world matters but this feeling.
“Oh come on,” Bood says, and it’s a little slurred, too. “Shane totally wears the pants in that relationship.”
Behind Shane, Ilya snorts inelegantly.
He’s drunk too, just a little less than Shane. He holds his liquor better, is the thing. He always gets a little cuddly when his belly is filled with alcohol and his lips a little more loose—not that Ilya Rozanov would ever need to get drunk to run his mouth, especially when it comes to Shane Hollander.
Somewhere during the night, the conversation turned to Shane and Ilya’s relationship, as it so often does. It’s so different from the way Shane’s old teammates ever came around to talk about them, and sometimes, the latter still needs to adjust to it. It’s so easy to let his spine straighten when someone brings up their PDAs or makes a joke about them sharing a bed, but Shane is getting better at letting people in. He knows the team is good, and every single one of them supports his and Ilya’s marriage. Hard habits and fears are so incredibly difficult to shake, still.
“Nobody wears pants in this relationship,” Ilya says, somehow serious. “I prefer Shane naked.”
“We did not need to know that,” Coach Wiebe sighs. There’s a smile at the corner of his lips, still.
Luka Haas laughs. “As if you didn’t know much more than that when it comes to these two.”
Heat comes up to Shane’s cheeks.
He’s not ashamed of his sex life, really. He loves sex, and he loves sex with Ilya, most of all. He’s learned so much about himself through their sexual life, even when they were not yet officially together. And he has also learned to make peace with the inner shame he felt every single time their relationship was criticized on social media by people who would never know a thing or two about them.
He vividly remembers a whole podcast dedicated to finding out who ‘the man of the relationship’ was between he and Ilya, and how much the idea of unknown people discussing his sex life made him uneasy. These are things he’s gotten better at, nowadays. He doesn’t shy away from Ilya pressing a kiss against his brow before training, or making a lewd joke when they’re out of the showers and there’s only a handful of their teammates left in the locker room.
They’re not flashing their relationship around, exactly. But they’ve been reprimanded for a few PDAs here and there, occasionally. Shane feels no shame about it, not anymore. Life is good, and his husband is hot. Sue him.
“It’s fascinating to me,” Chouinard pipes in, “how different you two are in hockey and within your relationship.”
Shane frowns. Tries not to take offense to that. “What do you mean?”
“Well. You’re both really good at hockey, and you’ve got this sort of rivalry going even playing in the same team. But it’s different to see you outside of hockey, you know? It’s not softer, not really. But it’s certainly different.”
“We are soft,” Ilya says, and he’s definitely drunk, because his hand flexes possessively around Shane’s hip. Shane’s skin tingles at the touch. “But we are also very hot, so not always. Shane is very into me not being soft.”
“Ilya,” Shane warns, then in Russian, “Behave.”
“That’s what I mean!” Chouinard says. “Ilya Rozanov, told off by his husband. It’s not what I imagined, that's all. Not what we get in the locker rooms, either.”
On the other side of the table, Troy hums his agreement. His eyes flicker between them, his arm thrown around Harris’s shoulders, who’s himself nursing another beer. Shane loves that they all feel comfortable being each other around other people, even outside of their locker rooms and training sessions. It feels good, and it feels like things are slowly changing.
“I knew you had a soft side, Rozy. I just didn’t imagine you being so docile when it comes to Shane Hollander. It’s surprising, but also not at all.”
“Ah, my husband gives me very good reward if I’m a good boy,” Ilya says with a dopey smile.
Shane’s face burns. He takes another sip of his beer, the bubbles doing little to nothing to ease his flaming hot cheeks.
“I just don’t understand how it works,” Dillon interrupts suddenly. “Do gay guys just decide what kind of dynamic they like, or are roles predefined?”
Harris raises a questioning eyebrow. “Predefined?”
“Like, you know. Are smaller guys bottoms? Or is it because Ilya’s abrasive that he’s a top?”
“Oh my God,” Shane mumbles, at the same time as Ilya barks out a laugh.
“See, Shane? Someone else who thinks I’m a good top.”
“I am begging you to shut up.”
Troy hides his own laugh behind his glass.
“Rozy is not a top because he’s abrasive,” he says. “Although I understand how you would think that. It’s all about preferences, like everything else. It’s not much different from liking something with girls, I assume. You’ve got dynamics you engage with or not, in every sexual relationship.”
“Except if you hate giving head. You should always eat your girl well,” Ilya says solemnly, and Shane sort of loves that he knows his husband to be entirely serious. Because this is the man he married, and he’s all his now. “Always go down on your girl, Dillon. Otherwise I will tell her to go fuck someone else, Captain’s orders.”
Dillon barks out a laugh at that, and Shane feels envious of how easy it is for him to talk about sex. He’s gotten better at it, sure, but not to the point of discussing all of this with his teammates without alcohol and a whole lot of bravery.
He wants to, though. Because he’s tired of pretending, and he’s tired of the world thinking he’s not one of the sluttiest hockey players that’s ever graced this Earth. And sure, sober Shane might regret this come morning, but it’s a problem for future Shane to deal with.
“Ilya is very good at giving head,” he hears himself say.
Silence falls on the table. Then Ilya laughs, loud and unashamed.
“I am,” he nods. “Shane likes me on my knees.”
“Oh my God,” Bood says somewhere to Shane’s right.
Shane sighs. “Only because you’re only good at doing what you’re told when you’re horny.”
“This is the best day ever,” Troy fake whispers. “We need to get Hollzy drunk more often.”
“But I just don’t get the appeal,” Dillon confesses. “Not in an homophobic way, of course. I love you guys and all that. I just can’t imagine anyone sticking things up my butt, you know? It’s so… messy, too.”
This time, Harris groans in defeat. “I would like to point out before it goes any further that this conversation is not PR approved. Not that any of you assholes are going to listen to me.”
“You should always trim your butt,” Shane replies with a frown, ignoring his friend. “Even if you’re not engaging in anal sex. Which, by the way, is a shame if you’re not. Straight men really do miss out on a lot of things, in my opinion.”
At this point, there’s no stopping the words coming out of his mouth. Ilya is stifling his laughter against the back of his neck, and Shane loves the feeling of it too much to be mad.
“Your prostate is here for a reason, you know. I promise your entire world view will be changed.”
Dillon makes a face. “But doesn’t it hurt?”
Shane sighs dramatically.
“Sometimes, I pity the girls some of you guys go to bed with.” A wave of splutters mixed with laughter rises around the table, “Like everything else, prep is essential. Do you just go to town when you have sex with women?”
This time, it’s Dillon’s cheeks that turn a deep shape of red. “Of course not. But foreplay helps, you know. With women, at least Men don’t do,” he gestures awkwardly, “that.”
“And there’s this wonderful thing called lube that you might have heard of.”
Ilya lightly bites at Shane’s shoulder. “I love snarky Shane,” he says in Russian. Shane ignores him in favour of concentrating on the conversation at hand, now entirely engrossed in teaching his teammates about the wonderful virtues of anal sex.
“Prep depends on the person,” he emphasises, “not everyone’s gonna like the same thing. But as long as you and your partner are having a good time and checking in with each other, there is no reason why it should hurt.”
“Except if you want it to a little bit,” Troy mumbles. “I mean, I’m not judging, some people like the stretch, sometimes.”
Harris looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here. Shane smirks at him, all knowing. Troy is a big guy, and he certainly understands the appeal—in a very neutral way, of course.
“It’s a lot of dedication is what I’m hearing,” Bood says, “I gotta give it to you guys.”
Shane shrugs. “Sex is great. It’s not that much of a dedication when you’re set on getting railed.”
Coach Wiebe spits the mouthful of beer he was about to swallow. Ilya lets out a roar of laughter, his hand gripping Shane’s thigh possessively.
“Only thing my husband likes just as much as hockey is getting fucked. I am a very lucky man.”
Across from them, Dillon seemingly still has a hard time wrapping his head around the whole ordeal.
“But isn’t it sore?” He insists. “Especially if you play hockey the next day.”
“Your asshole is like any muscle, Tanner,” Troy snickers. “It can be relaxed, and it can be tense. Sometimes, you will feel a little sore, but it’s the good kind of sore. Ask your girlfriend how it feels, sometimes. You’ll probably get it, then.”
“Or ask her to peg you,” Ilya supplies. “Is very good, girls are good at giving it. Very strong leg muscles.”
“I thought you were a top?” Dillon questions. “Have you ever…?”
“Ah, I have tried both of course. I like giving better, especially when being with someone who likes receiving it best. Your partner’s pleasure is the most important,” Ilya says with a soft smile, pressing a kiss against the skin at the edge of Shane’s hoodie. “But I am curious. Made sense to try it all.”
“Some people like to switch, too,” Harris says. “nothing is set in stone.”
“Oh, like Kip,” Shane supplies in what he hopes is a helpful manner. He and Kip have started speaking a few weeks ago, and it turns out he’s got a lot in common with the man.
A chorus of groans follow his declaration.
“I did not need to know about Scott Hunter’s sexual preferences,” Bood says with a mournful expression on his face.
“Ah, he is so old he will be in a nursing home soon anyway.” Ilya says, waving his concerns away. “Senior citizens do not fuck.”
Shane is pretty sure he hears Harris whisper, “that’s not what Kip said,” but he lets it die. Adding fuel to the fire would only spur Ilya on. Instead, he leans back into Ilya, letting the smell of his cologne lure him closer.
“I feel like I’ve learned much more about you two in a night than I did in two years,” Dykstra pipes in, for the first time in the evening. He was content to just sit down and enjoy so far, Shane notes.
“What, that we are awesome and very sexy?” Ilya teases.
“That Shane has more merits than I thought he had, putting up with you at work, being the best player of the team and finding time to go through whole diet restrictions and prep for your sorry ass.”
It’s a good comeback. Shane is impressed, and a little touched. He puts his hand above his heart, letting out a ‘aww’ that sounds too sweet to his own ears.
“They recognise the effort,” he says to Ilya.
“Acting like you’re not the one begging for it most of the time. Very bold, Hollander.”
In any other circumstances, Shane would have blushed all the way down to his toes. Tonight, however, he feels free. He feels the shame that has been laced with every interaction they have had with their teammates go, enhanced by the support and overall lovely response he’s getting tonight.
“Careful Cap,” Bood says, “I wouldn’t play too much. The last thing we want is for you to get to practice grumpy because you’re sleeping on the couch.”
Ilya opens his mouth in shock.
“Traitors, all of you,” he says, waving his finger around, and Shane bursts into laughter. “What was that about wearing the pants in this relationship?”
“Yeah,” Troy enunciates slowly, clearly fighting a smile, “We put two and two together quite fast. Hallzy is walking you like a dog.”
A laugh bubbles out of Ilya. “That is very true. I am very proud of my collar.”
He plays with the ring on his necklace, and Shane blushes a little at that. It always gets him all hot and bothered to see Ilya wave his ring around—he feels owned, in the best of ways.
“You’re so whipped.”
Ilya frowns, “Like the cream?”
“Yeah, Ilya. Like the cream,” Shane says, his smile so big it almost hurts.
Dillon looks like he’s still processing things, in his little corner of the booth, staring very hard into his beer. Ilya laughs, prompting everyone to turn towards him.
“Are you okay, Tanner?” Harris asks. “It feels like you’re questioning your entire existence.”
“Ah, fuck you,” Dillon says without heat.
“I mean, we’ve been over this. Been there, done that, and all.”
There is no stopping the laughter that shakes the table again. Ilya’s hand is firm on Shane’s hip now, occasionally squeezing and grabbing in a way that gets the latter all hot and bothered. He knows he won’t be able to hold his head high enough to do more than suck his dick when they go home, but Shane doesn’t care. Sex is not meant to be perfect, and for once in his life, he has let himself get drunk and relax with his teammates.
Sure, he’s probably going to be a bitch about not being able to bottom for the next twenty four hours, until his stomach has settled and his insides feel a little more alive again. But it’s worth it, even just for the smile on Ilya’s face, and the comfortable way they’re wrapped around one another with their friends present.
“Being fucked is a revelation,” Shane says, thinking about the way Ilya holds him down and fucks into him when he asks, drooling into the pillow with every thrusts. He should probably switch to water now. “You can’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”
“Doesn’t it feel... degrading?” Dillon asks, and Shane knows there’s no judgment in his tone, just pure pre-conceived ideas and a whole lot of alcohol.
It’s a shame, really, how little straight men know about their own bodies because society has taught them not to let go and have fun.
Ilya snorts. “If you think Shane Hollander is not in charge of every inch of his life even when he’s getting fucked, you’re wrong.”
“That,” Shane says with a firm nod, “and also, you need to let go of the preconceived ideas that have been drilled into your brain since you were a child. Being on the receiving end of sexual acts does not mean being submissive, or the other way around. Sex is meant to be fun, isn’t it?”
A handful of guys around the table nod firmly.
“If you can’t take your girlfriend exploring your asshole because you’re too afraid of appearing submissive or weak, then maybe you should rethink your vision of sex and the entire dynamic of your relationship.”
Harris cheers loudly. “Amen to that.”
It gets quieter after that. Dillon still has that look in his eyes—the one that tells Shane he’s deep in thoughts, but he couldn’t care much about it. Underneath his (sore) thighs, Ilya is there, warm and grounding and Shane gets lost in the buzz of alcohol and the thought of them going home together; The feeling is soft and round around the edges, like the knowledge that nothing will get in the way of them again.
The hockey world can speak all it wants. At the end of the day, Shane will always have this.
“Alright, alright,” Ilya says eventually, when Shane has lost all pretense to follow anything happening outside of the bubble he’s locked himself in, “I will take my husband home, now.”
Because through it all, Ila knows him best. And Shane cannot find the strength to be ashamed of that.
Later that night, when they stumble home and Shane finds it hard to keep his eyes open as Ilya takes off their clothes and pushes them into the shower, he lets himself drift, thinking about the past, present and future. What once felt unattainable is at arm’s reach—their team loving them for who they are, their relationship being out there in the open, and them winning the cup.
It feels good.
Perfect, even.
Shane wakes up the next day with his mouth feeling disgusting and a pounding headache creeping behind his eyelids. It takes him about twenty minutes to roll out of bed and find his husband in the kitchen, cooking something that makes his stomach roll and his disgusting mouth water despite everything.
“Did I really tell the entire team to take care of their assholes?” he asks the moment Ilya looks up, hating how unsure he sounds.
Ilya, the bastard, just throws his head back and laughs.