Chapter Text
pretty boy, fairy, princess...Shane had heard it all growing up. At first it bothered him. It bothered him enough to come home crying one too many times after junior practices. Eventually, though, those insults started to affect him less and less. Sure, he still heard it all on the ice, but it didn't cut as deep as it once did. It helped that Shane was incredibly talented, and continued to out perform even his most closest competitors.
Over the years, pretty boy and princess started to take on a whole new meaning. Ilya had always called Shane beautiful, and gorgeous, and...pretty. Words that were typically used to compliment and describe women, not 200 pound athletic jocks. Shane had always left it untouched, thinking Ilya was just giving him shit like everyone else always had. Shane could admit it hurt a little bit more, though, when Ilya said those things to him or about him. Shane could also admit he left it alone for other reasons...sometimes hearing those words made Shane's stomach tighten up just a little bit. They made him feel weird inside, sometimes, and Shane didn't really want to examine that much further than he already had.
It had taken a few years, a few discreet hotel meetups, for Shane to finally bring it up. "You know...I always thought you were just a tiny bit better than the other guys on the league...slurs are low hanging fruit, Rozanov. I thought you were more creative than that." It didn't bother Shane. Not really. He was just sick of it, and, after losing to Boston, he wasn't in the mood to be called anything remotely effeminate.
"Slurs?" Ilya questioned, making the ugly world lilt at the end. "What slurs?" They had just finished eating, fucking, and showering. In that order. Maybe that was why Shane was being so candid. Feeling loose in more ways than one.
They were sprawled out on Rozanov's massive cal-king bed, crisp gray top sheet draped over their waists haphazardly. Rozanov turned slightly, body facing Shane. Curved back facing the door. "Come on..." Shane huffed out in exasperation towards the ceiling, refusing to turn into Rozanov's space. "I know you like to pretend you don't know English well, especially to reporters, but I know you Rozanov. Cut the shit...please. At least for tonight." Shane wished he could take that 'please' back. He always got this way after they had sex. Emotional. It made him feel weak, especially since Rozanov was so much better at shoring up his defenses than Shane apparently was.
Rozanov looked so incredibly confused. It would be funny if not for the tone of the conversation they were about to have. "I know what slurs are, Hollander. Like bad words for gay people. I don't use slurs. Opponents use them? Sure. They just maybe get checked into boards too hard if I hear them." Rozanov's face crinkled into a tiny, mutinous grin. He always was a little bit blood thirsty. Shane couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Are you being serious right now? You have been calling me slurs on and off for years! Years, Rozanov. What the fuck?" Shane was getting annoyed now. It was one thing to be ignorant about it all, but Rozanov was flat out lying to him and it made Shane want to punch something. Or punch Rozanov, more accurately.
"Shane..." Shane's eyes met Rozanov's instantly. They rarely, if ever, used each other's first names. And they definitely didn't use the tone of voice Rozanov was currently using in conjunction with their first names. No. It was more like "fuck yes, Ilya, you feel so good" and not "holy shit, Shane...I think I fucked up." Which is what Ilya's voice currently sounded like.
"Shane..." Ilya continued. "I don't use slur...never, and definitely not to you. What slur? What slur am I using?" Ilya sounded absolutely wrecked. Rough fingers already slotting in his hair. His eyes bouncing back and forth, unfocused, looking like he was going through every past interaction they had ever had. Trying to find anything that could explain this. He was getting increasingly agitated, Shane could tell, from his lack of understanding of the English language. "I use maybe weak backhand?? But your backhand is weak, Shane, yes? We know this already." Shane couldn't help the huff that left his mouth. Of course, Rozanov would find a way to get that insult in there, but Ilya looked serious. Not joking. Shane couldn't remember a time where Ilya looked so panicked, so grief-stricken.
"Look..." Shane mumbled. Rubbing loose fists over his eyes, wishing he could stop himself from making this into a thing. But he was Shane Hollander, Yuna Hollander's son, and he was about to make this a thing, unfortunately, for everybody involved. "It's not really a big deal. I know you're bigger than me, and look about 10 years more developed than me, but I'm really sick of the guys calling me a pretty boy. Princess. It gets tiresome, Ilya. I can't help what I look like. I would really appreciate it if you would just stop. I can't take it coming from you, not that way...not right now..." Shane trailed off. Ilya was looking at him with a mix of confusion, and something softer. Adoration, maybe?
"Shane...you are pretty, da? Like grass is green. Sky is blue. Shane Hollander is pretty. How you say...take my breath away, hm?" Ilya's right hand slowly made it's way to Shane's cheek, thumb extended out, slowly erasing the tightness Shane had caused by roughly scrubbing his eyes. Shane couldn't help but turn into the casual touch. They'd always been like magnets with each other. Seeking each other out even when it was bumpy between them. "You are very pretty, Shane. And I have thought that since we first met in Seskatchewan. And maybe along the way...you became my pretty boy, da? Like cute, wonderful doll." Ilya was looking at him with such softness, Shane couldn't breathe properly. Ilya sometimes referred to him as a doll. Especially pretty like doll, he remembered hearing in Ottawa during their first official brand shoot together. Shane had always thought Ilya was slightly chirping him.
"You thought I was chirping this whole time...saying slur to hurt your feelings? Why didn't you tell..." Ilya's accent had deepened during the tenure of, what Shane was beginning to realize was, this wildly blown out of proportion conversation. Ilya's eyes kept searching Shane's face. Trying to find...something. Shane was still confused. "But you called me princess during our face off tonight? You always call me girlie terms whenever you see me on the ice..." Shane was sure he wasn't making this up. Ilya had 100% called Shane 'princess' during one of many of their face offs tonight. It's why Shane kept losing them to Boston. Losing them to Ilya, specifically.
"Shane..." Ilya gently grasped Shane's chin and turned him to fully face him. They were both facing each other from head to toe. "I call you princess on ice, because you blush so prettily for me. Makes your freckles pop out like...um, how you say stars? Constellations?...and the tip of your ears turn very bright red. Makes me want to take a bite out of them right there at face off circle." Ilya had the dopiest smile Shane had ever seen on his face. Shane couldn't help but copy him. "I call you many things...not because they are 'girlie'," Ilya made a grimace that told Shane Ilya wasn't exactly a fan of that misogynistic viewpoint, "but because you are pretty, beautiful...do you want me to stop calling you my pretty boy? Moy printsessa? because I can...don't want you to think I'm calling you slurs..." Ilya made that same twisted- up, lemon face. It was kind of adorable now that Shane knew what he knew.
"Ummm..." Shane was blushing now. Probably a brighter red than what he blushed on the ice. "No, I like uh being those things...being those things for you." Ilya's face broke out into a huge grin. "What things, Hollander?" Ilya waggled his eyebrows at Shane. "You know what things, you literally just said them to me!" Shane could feel his blush roasting his cheekbones. "But I want to be super sure I don't hurt your feelings, daragoy..." Shane had to give it to Ilya, he actually did look contrite. 95% contrite, 5% a menace. "Please tell me the things, Hollander." The puppy dog eyes Ilya was aiming at Shane should be illegal.
"I..." Shane started, tremulously. Ilya licked his lips and leaned forward just a tiny bit. "I like being your...pretty boy, your printsessa..." Shane couldn't help but whisper that last part. God it was so embarrassing. "Mmmm. Good. Because I love calling you them...but maybe not on ice, da? Do not want you melting the ice with that pretty blush, hm? We need to be able to skate on it!" Shane grabbed one of the pillows behind his head, and threw it at Rozanov's head. "Ilya!" Shane could hear Ilya's muffled laughter, a delightful sound that came from deep within his chest, behind the pillow.
"Jesus Christ...yes, please, no princess on the ice. I don't need an even harder time with the other guys, ok? I can't even imagine what would happen if anybody heard you calling me that." Shane bit his lip, trying to keep the grin from spreading across his face. He needed to be stern, and he needed to make sure Ilya didn't continue to laugh at him. He was mostly successful.
Ilya used his downward moment to tug Shane into his arms as Ilya's back hit the mattress. Shane's head found a home in the juncture between Ilya's jaw and shoulder. Shane had to inhale just a tiny bit. Mmmmm. That had to be one of his favorite smells. A happy, cozy Ilya. "So, you sniff me and mmmm me, maybe now I call you good boy? Like puppy?" Shane could feel Ilya's happy fingers walking down the slope of Shane's upper back, down to the crease where his lower body hit the top of his butt cheeks. He tried to contain his shivers.
Shane huffed. He had to fight it at least just a tiny bit. He couldn't be easy. He'd never hear the end of it from Ilya. "Fine..."
Ilya snorted. "No need to play coy with me, Hollander. I know you love being good for me. And you are...so verryyy good" Ilya nuzzled the top of Shane's head, and made deliciously wonderful cuteness aggression noises.