Archive of Our Own

It starts, like many things do when it comes to Shane and Ilya, with something that probably isn’t meant to be important at all – something tossed out into the quiet like it doesn’t have the weight to change anything, to change everything.

“We should just tell people,” Ilya says one night, almost absently, like he’s talking about the weather or telling Shane to pick up treats for Anya next time he goes grocery shopping. His voice is soft with the edges of sleep, the words half-muffled as he tugs off his shirt and, to Shane’s dismay, lets it fall somewhere on the floor, already halfway to the bed.

Shane is brushing his teeth in their en-suite bathroom, but Ilya’s words cause him to pause. He looks at his boyfriend through the open door, foam at the corner of his mouth, as his brows furrow, confusion settling in slowly.

“Tell people about what?” he asks after spitting out the last of the toothpaste, voice laced with confusion as he turns around to fully face Ilya, leaning his hip against the cold marble counter.

Ilya, on the other hand, is already under the covers by then, sprawled out on the bed like he owns the space – which, to be fair, he kind of does. He glances up at Shane with an emotion dancing in his eyes that Shane can’t quite place. Ilya looks at Shane like the answer to his question is obvious, like it should be.

“About us,” he says then, his voice still soft. “There is no reason anymore why we shouldn’t.”

And that’s the thing, Shane thinks – Ilya’s right. Shane knows he’s right in that immediate, uncomfortable way where the truth lands before you’re ready to deal with it. There isn’t a reason anymore. Not a real one. Not one that isn’t just fear.

Because it’s not like Shane hasn’t already done the hard part – he’d done that last season. Coming out to his old team, the Montreal Metros, hadn’t been some grand, cinematic moment. No big speech, no quiet, heartfelt acceptance. It had been clumsy and tense and over too quickly – almost like ripping off a band-aid only to realize that the wound underneath was still oozing blood.

The locker room had shifted almost instantly after that. It was subtle changes at first. The way conversations hushed or stopped completely when he walked in, the way his teammates avoided his gaze instead of eagerly meeting it.

Then it got worse. It started off with “jokes” – sharp words that lingered just long enough to make it clear they weren’t really jokes at all. Comments muttered under breaths, quiet enough not to seem intentional but just loud enough to still be heard by their intended target. Slurs were thrown around the locker room casually, like the team was testing how much he’d tolerate. And maybe the worst part of it all, if you asked Shane about it now? No one shut it down. Not upper management or the coaching staff, not even the PR team. At first, Hayden and JJ tried, but it was futile. 

The locker room had gone from loud and easy to something colder, sharper at the edges. Conversations he used to be a part of now happened around him instead of with him. Guys who used to clap him on the back after a game well played stopped touching him altogether, like even a touch as simple as that had become uncomfortable. Looking back at it now, Shane could say that it hadn’t been one big moment that had pushed him out – it was a hundred small ones, stacking up until there was nothing left for him there.

By the time he asked for the trade, it didn’t even feel dramatic. It just felt inevitable.

Ottawa had been the only place that made sense. Not because of the hockey, not really. If he’d wanted to play for a team as good as the Metros again, the Centaurs would’ve been at the bottom of his list. But Ottawa had been the only place that made sense. Because of Ilya. Because Shane knew that the Centaurs wouldn’t meet him with sharp words and cold shoulders – that much was proven when Ilya came out to them around the same time Shane came out to the Metros.

Ilya’s experience in coming out to his team had been… different. Where Shane’s admission seemed to have fractured something within the team, Ilya’s had somehow reinforced it. His teammates didn’t pull away – they closed ranks. There had been confusion at first, sure, and questions, but underneath all of that was something solid. Support given easily and irrevocably. The kind of support that doesn’t just show up in words, but in the easy, unchanged way they treated Ilya after. No one stopped joking with him. No one stopped passing to him during practice scrimmages. No one made him feel like he’d become something else overnight – something repulsive. The Centaurs told Ilya, plainly, that nothing about him changed what he meant to the team – to them. And they’d meant it.

All of this to say that, in theory, Shane knows it would probably be okay to tell them about him and Ilya. More than okay, even. He’s seen how the team treats Ilya, has lived in the edges of their acceptance on the few occasions he’s seen them during the summer leading up to his first season playing alongside them. The way Ilya’s teammates, his teammates, interact with both of them is easy. Completely and utterly normal in a way Shane is still learning how to trust.

So, telling them about this – about them – shouldn’t be a risk. If anything, it should logically feel like the next step. Especially because the pretending is getting harder. Being around Ilya all the time now, in a way that isn’t limited to stolen moments in hotel rooms anymore, has shaken something loose in Shane. He doesn’t think he could stand in the same locker room, share the same ice with Ilya, and keep acting like the way he looks at him doesn’t mean anything. Like the love and adoration in his gaze isn’t obvious, or worse, like it’s something to hide.

And it’s not like this would come completely out of nowhere, Shane thinks, still lost in his thoughts. Even to the public, they’ve been friends for a while now, thanks to the creation of the Irina Foundation. Close, sure, but not suspiciously so – never in a way that invites uncomfortable questions. So, there’s a foundation there, something solid that people already understand, even if it has taken them a while to leave their perceived rivalry behind. Maybe their public friendship would soften the edges of the truth when it finally comes out.

They’d never planned for this, though. The plan had always been for later – after their bodies grew tired of this grueling sport. Retirement had always been the set point for honesty, the point where they could finally stop hiding parts of themselves in an effort to make themselves more palatable to their teams, to their sponsors, to the organization as a whole, to the fans.

But that was before everything changed. Before the Montreal Metros turned out to be exactly what Shane had been afraid of, before he’d followed his heart to Ottawa, before hiding stopped feeling like safety and started feeling like a cage.

Now, for the first time in maybe ever, Shane realizes that this plan isn’t set in stone. It never was. They could change it. They could choose something different for themselves.

“Yeah, maybe,” Shane says eventually, a little too late, the sudden realization pulling him back from his spiraling thoughts. His voice is softer now, the confusion has vanished, but it’s still edged with a little uncertainty. “Let’s talk about this more tomorrow,” Shane finally settles on as he slides under the covers next to Ilya.

It’s not a no. It’s not even really hesitation. It’s just… a delay. Room to breathe, to think about the possibility of choosing to change the plan he’s been holding onto ever since that summer at his cottage.

Ilya hums like that’s enough. It always is when it comes to Shane. “Good night, malysh. Ya tebya lyublyu.” He leans in, pressing a featherlight kiss to Shane’s forehead – something unhurried, familiar, grounding – before settling properly under the sheets.

“I love you too,” Shane replies, unable to stop the small, love-drunk smile that spreads across his lips. “Good night.”

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Tomorrow comes, and like most tomorrows when it comes to Shane and Ilya, it’s packed full of things that need to be done. Full enough, apparently, that the conversation Shane promised to have gets lost somewhere between everything else. They’ve agreed to attend a charity game the women’s league is hosting before the official start of their season next month – something centered around queer advocacy and mental health support. It’s the kind of thing neither of them would ever say no to, even if it means rearranging everything else in their schedules to make it work.

The morning, inevitably, is a disaster. It starts with Shane waking up wrong – disoriented, the light in the room too bright to match the time it should be. It takes him a few seconds too long to realize why, and when he finally grabs his phone and sees the time, he jolts up in a panic.

They’re late.

“Ilya–,” Shane starts, already halfway out of bed.

“I know,” Ilya cuts in from somewhere behind him, voice still rough with sleep, lacking any and all urgency. “I forgot to set the alarm.”

Again.

There’s a beat of silence – a very real, very justified moment where Shane considers if he could get away with strangling his boyfriend with the sheets he was still tangled up in.

Ilya, entirely unbothered by this whole situation, rolls out of bed, walks over to Shane, and unceremoniously drops to his knees in front of him. He looks up at Shane with mischief twinkling in his eyes as his hands wander up, up, up the sides of Shane’s legs until they reach the elastic of his underwear, tugging it down gently. The touch is featherlight and teasing, making a shiver of anticipation run down Shane’s spine.

“My deepest apologies,” he says, his expression earnest. But his eyes are alight with sarcasm, immediately betraying his mock seriousness.

It’s ridiculous. Completely and utterly ridiculous. But it works. Shane exhales, tension slowly leaving his body as Ilya’s hands keep wandering – any and all plans of murdering the man in front of him long forgotten. “You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, but there’s no heat behind it.

What follows is rushed in theory, if maybe not in practice. After, they try to make up even more time than they’d already lost before Ilya decided to apologize to Shane by using his mouth in more creative ways than simply voicing an apology. The decision to shower together is, technically, about efficiency. And if they decide to skip breakfast in favor of doing more than just simply shower, then sue them.

By the time they finally leave the house and slip into Shane’s car – hair still slightly damp and clothes thrown on in record time – they’re still late, maybe just slightly less so than before.

Somehow, they still make it. Not perfectly on time, but close enough. They’ve missed a few of the lead-up events – the interviews with the players and the introduction of the charity they’re raising money for today. But Shane and Ilya know the charity already. They’ve even worked on a joint project with them before, so it doesn’t feel like they’ve missed anything essential.

They head for the stands and settle near the back of the section, high enough to have some space around them, where the crowd thins just a little. It’s the best of both worlds: close enough to feel the buzz of the arena, the overlapping conversations and rising anticipation, but far enough to avoid being recognized and crowded by too many people.

It’s louder than a private box would be. Messier. Warmer. It feels nostalgic, reminding them of a life before fame.

Shane sinks into his seat and exhales as he takes it all in, not getting the chance often to be on this side of a hockey game, while Ilya leans back beside him, his knee bumping against Shane’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And this time, Shane doesn’t shift away. Normally, he would’ve adjusted his position just slightly, just enough to create space, to make the touch look accidental instead of intentional. It’s a habit more than anything else now, ingrained and automatic. But right here, right now, he lets it be. Allows Ilya’s touch to stay, like it doesn’t need to be hidden or explained. Like it can just be what it is.

And Ilya takes Shane staying there instead of pulling away, as exactly what it is. An unspoken invitation. They didn’t get around to rehashing the conversation from last night – not in the rushed chaos that had been their morning – but they’ve never really needed words to understand each other.

So, Shane didn’t pull away. And Ilya knows. Knows in the same instinctive way he always does when it comes to Shane. It’s not dramatic or obvious to anyone else, but to Ilya it is. Shane is giving him, giving them, something. A little more space, a little more freedom than they’ve ever allowed themselves in public before – something small and tentative, but real all the same.

During the first period of the game it’s small – innocent, if you don’t look too closely. Their actions can be easily dismissed if you’re not paying attention. Their knees stay pressed together, neither one of them shifting away, even when there’s more than enough room to do so.

Now and then, Ilya leans in close to say something, his shoulder brushing Shane’s in a way that lingers just a second longer than strictly necessary.

At one point, Shane reaches over without asking, aiming to steal a handful of Ilya’s popcorn like he has every right to do so. He doesn’t even look, already halfway through some offhand comment about the goal that was just scored, expecting to get away with his petty theft.

Ilya catches his wrist before he can. It’s quick, almost reflexive, like he’s so attuned to Shane that he can predict any movement he’s about to make. Ilya doesn’t let go immediately, his fingers wrapped loosely around Shane’s wrist, thumb pressing in just slightly like he’s holding him there on purpose. Like he’s considering making a point of it.

“Nyet,” Ilya murmurs, amused, turning his head to look at him properly.

Shane huffs in indignation, tugging once in protest, but there’s no real effort behind it. Not when Ilya’s still holding on to his wrist so gently, like this moment is the most precious thing he’s ever been given.

Later, when they both go to reach for their drinks at the same time – as attuned to each other as ever – their fingers knock together, and instead of both of them pulling back at once like they usually would, there’s a pause. Just a fraction of a second too long. Long enough for Ilya’s hand to warmly settle over Shane’s for the blink of an eye, steadying him, before he pulls away.

It could be nothing. The kind of thing you wouldn’t even notice unless you were looking for it.

Ilya nudges Shane’s shoulder when something happens on the ice, leaning in with a grin that’s just a little too fond for just a teammate, for just a friend. In response, Shane presses his knee a little more firmly against Ilya’s, like he’s anchoring himself there. Like he’s choosing it.

There are other moments too – quiet ones. Ilya reaching over without asking to tug Shane’s sleeve down when it rides up, smoothing it back into place the way he knows Shane likes it. Shane passing Ilya something without looking, already knowing where his hand will be, the movement practiced in a way that speaks of something more familiar than a casual friendship.

None of it lingers long enough to be undeniable, not yet. None of it crosses a line that couldn’t still be explained away. But when you add it all together, it paints the picture of… something. Of something more. Something that a certain kind of person might notice.

A young woman in a Centaur’s jersey, sitting a few rows behind them and slightly off to the side, keeps glancing over between plays, her view just angled enough to catch things others might miss. From there, it’s easier to notice the way Ilya leans in just a little too close, the way Shane doesn’t shift away. She frowns faintly, attention snagging again and again on the pair, like there’s something just out of reach there that she can’t quite name.

It’s not obvious. That’s the thing. Nothing about what she’s seeing screams for attention, nothing about it demands to be seen – but once you’ve noticed it, it’s hard to unsee.

The way their knees stay pressed together even when there’s plenty of room. The way Shane lets it happen, like it doesn’t even occur to him to move. The way Ilya turns toward Shane, not toward the game.

The woman hesitates for a moment, then pulls out her phone to snap a quick picture – a slightly angled shot from behind, a little blurry, the two of them half-turned toward each other, closer than they need to be.

She doesn’t take another picture right away, just watches. Then, a few minutes later, her attention snags on something else. A hand gently catching a wrist, lingering for a beat too long before letting go. That’s when she records a short video, barely a few seconds, quick and unsteady, before she drops the phone back down into her lap like it’s nothing.

It probably is nothing, she tells herself. Nothing concrete at least. Nothing that proves anything. But it’s enough. Enough to sit with it, turning it over and watching the pair a few rows in front of her more closely for the rest of the period. Enough to feel a small, persistent certainty that there’s something happening there, even if she couldn’t explain that feeling to anyone else in a way that would hold up. Something small enough to be dismissed. Something just noticeable enough to stick.

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Now, in the second period of the game, it becomes a little… more. It doesn’t happen all at once, but the shift is there – subtle and steady.

Before, the touches had lingered, yes – but they’d always ended eventually. There was always that quiet moment where one of them pulled back, where one of them decided to keep them in the greyish zone of touches that could be explained as friendly affection.

But now, that moment doesn’t really come. Or maybe it does, and they both choose to ignore it. Let it pass them by without acting on it.

The touches still start the same way they did before – casual, easy, something that could be written off without effort – but they don’t fade away into distance after a few seconds now. They just… stay.

Their hands find the shared armrest between their seats at some point, close enough to brush. And instead of pulling away, Ilya’s pinky hooks around Shane’s almost absentmindedly – like it’s something he’s not even thinking about, something so natural that it just happens.

But he is thinking about it. There’s a quiet stillness in him, like Ilya is holding his breath without meaning to. Waiting – giving Shane the space to decide. Waiting to see if this is too much. Waiting to see if Shane will pull away.

But Shane doesn’t. Instead, his hand shifts just slightly, his pinky curling in return, slotting into place so their fingers are properly linked – deliberate. A choice.

The contact settles between them instead of slipping away, their fingers loosely hooked together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And really, Shane thinks, it is. Touching Ilya has always been second nature – something instinctive, something he’s never had to think about when they’re alone. And now, sitting here in the middle of a crowded arena, allowing Ilya’s touch to stay doesn’t feel as daunting as it once would have. It just feels… right.

It’s the same with everything else.

After the missed breakfast finally catches up to Ilya, he disappears briefly and comes back with a hot dog and another drink, settling back into the hard plastic seat with a satisfied sort of hum as he takes his first bite.

Shane glances at him from the corner of his eye, amused at how easily Ilya could be pleased with food. He eats like he’s been starving for days, and it’s almost endearing in a way that makes something warm settle in Shane’s chest.

And because Shane is watching Ilya instead of the game, because his attention is caught there, he notices immediately. The small smear of mustard caught at the corner of Ilya’s mouth.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches for a second longer, something soft flickering across his expression – fondness maybe. Then he huffs quietly, like he’s already resigned to what he’s about to do.

“Hold on,” he murmurs under his breath.

Ilya turns his head slightly, confusion pulling his brows together, attention shifting from the game to Shane.

Shane leans in just a fraction, hand coming up without hesitation, his thumb brushing carefully at the corner of Ilya’s mouth – wiping away the smear of mustard in one slow, deliberate motion. It’s gentle. Familiar. It’s the kind of touch that speaks of a habit, something done a hundred times before behind closed doors.

For a second, Shane’s hand lingers there, just at the edge of Ilya’s lips. And Ilya goes still under his touch, seemingly transfixed by the action. His eyes flick to Shane’s face, searching, catching on something there – some unreadable emotion that holds his attention.

Then, eventually, Shane pulls his hand back. But instead of reaching for the napkin Ilya had deposited on the armrest to wipe off the mustard from his finger, he doesn’t.

Not breaking eye contact, he brings his thumb to his own mouth instead, sliding it past his lips – absentminded in the motion but not in the intent. The tangy flavor coats his tongue, as he sucks away the last lingering remnants of the condiment like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t mean anything.

Except it does. It absolutely does.

There’s something in Shane’s expression when he does it – something almost challenging.

Ilya exhales a quiet, almost disbelieving huff of laughter under his breath, shaking his head slightly.

“Be careful, Shane,” he drawls, voice dropped low.

There’s a warning there, somewhere beneath the amusement. Not a warning to stop, though. A warning to not start something Shane won’t be able to finish – not here, not in the middle of an arena filled with thousands of people. Not without ending up being charged with public indecency.

They hold eye contact for a moment longer – something unspoken passing between them – before turning back towards the game again.

There are other moments too. Ilya’s hand settling at the back of Shane’s neck when he leans in to say something, fingers squeezing gently before sliding down. His arm not dropping completely, instead settling across the back of Shane’s seat. Shane leaning into the touch, his own hand drifting without thought, coming to rest against the side of Ilya’s thigh – the touch light but present. Unapologetic.

So, this little game of theirs has reached a new level. Actions that still aren’t too explicit but would be harder to ignore. Harder to dismiss the pattern of it – the way it keeps happening like it’s less of a coincidence and more of a choice. Harder to explain if someone noticed. And maybe, quietly, they want someone to notice.

And someone does.

The woman behind them notices almost immediately. She’d already been watching them, her focus slipping from the game to the two hockey players in front of her more often than not. She’s also been trying to convince herself that the small things she caught before didn’t mean anything.

But this… this is different. Harder to rationalize, to explain away. It’s not just that these touches are happening anymore – it’s that they’re not ending.

Her eyes catch on their hands first, on the way their pinkies are linked, resting openly on the armrest like they belong there – together.

She blinks once, twice, making sure that she’s not losing her mind. But the hands don’t move, they don’t disappear. They’re still there, pinkies linked together.

“…no, what the fuck?” she mutters under her breath, disbelievingly. Because that’s… that’s new. She shifts slightly in her seat, leaning forward just enough to get a better view. Her focus is completely shot now, the game fades into the background, noise and movement barely registering anymore as she zeroes in on what’s happening a few rows in front of her.

And when she sees Shane lean in, his hand coming up to brush his thumb over the corner of Ilya’s mouth and sucking it into his own, her brain short-circuits. For a brief moment, she’s convinced that all the sleepless nights she’s spent obsessing over Shane and Ilya – spiraling over old clips and interviews and moments that might mean something – have finally caught up to her. Convinced that this is all a dream, it has to be.

She actually pinches herself, hard enough to sting, waiting for the pain to snap her out of whatever psychosis she must’ve just drifted into. But nothing changes. The arena is still loud. The game is still going. And Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are still sitting a few rows in front of her, still staring at each other.

“…okay,” she whispers, a little breathless now.

Because this isn’t a dream, or some fucked-up hallucination of something she’s imagined countless times before. But as hard as she pinches herself, she doesn’t wake up, this isn’t a dream or a hallucination.

This is real. And it’s not nothing.

And because she is, after all, only human – and maybe just a little incapable of keeping something like this to herself – she opens Twitter again. Like any sane person would.

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The big, undeniable shift comes during the break between the second and third period. The game is tied 2–2, tension sitting thick in the air – the kind that hums beneath everything and burrows under your skin, settling somewhere deep in your chest.

The arena lights dim just slightly – not enough to darken the space, but enough to pull attention away from the now empty ice. The speakers crackle, then swell with upbeat music – keeping the crowd from dipping into that restless lull between periods. Keeping everyone engaged.

And then, inevitably, the kiss cam starts making its rounds.

It sweeps lazily across the crowd at first, almost teasing, pausing on couples who react immediately – laughing, leaning in, kissing like they’ve been waiting for this moment all along. Some kisses are quick, chaste pecks, over in a second. Others are exaggerated, over-the-top displays of affection that make the crowd roar louder, the couples feeding off the attention and leaning into it even more, like performers on a stage.

A pair of strangers gets caught next, both of them startled, looking at each other in confusion before dissolving into laughter. One of them gestures helplessly, palms up, as if to say what are we supposed to do here?  The other just shrugs, grinning, and they settle for an awkward kiss on the cheek that earns them a round of cheers anyway.

Another pair refuses to kiss entirely, one of them pointing empathetically to the person sitting on their other side – a spouse, maybe – and leaning over to kiss them instead, causing people to erupt in surprised laughter.

The crowd eats it up, all of it. Entertained by these easily afforded displays of affection, by the tiny glimpses they offer into other people’s lives.

It’s chaotic in all the best ways. Loud. Bright. Alive.

The kind of moment that pulls everyone in, that makes strangers feel connected for a few fleeting seconds at a time. All of them tied together by something simple, something deeply and entirely human – the desire to love and to be loved, to show it openly, even if just for a moment.

Ilya is completely lost in it.

“Yes!” he cheers along with the crowd at one particularly enthusiastic kiss, clapping like a maniac, grinning wide like he’s personally invested in every single outcome.

Because that’s the thing about Ilya, Shane thinks. He loves love. He gives affection so freely, so easily. And watching Ilya now – so open, so bright – it makes Shane’s heart swell. So much so, that he’s sure it’s going to burst in his chest if he doesn’t pay attention.

Ilya’s energy is infectious, warm in a way that draws people in without trying. And so, Shane’s gaze finds Ilya again – like he’s the sun and Shane is helpless to be pulled in by his gravitational force. He lifts his eyebrows slightly, something a little exasperated but entirely fond settling over his expression.

“Really?” he mutters, quiet amusement lacing through the singular word.

Ilya doesn’t even look at him when he responds, too enraptured by the screen, still smiling. “It is entertaining,” he says, completely unbothered. Then, tilting his head so he can look at Shane, he adds, “Do you hate love, malysh?”

Shane sputters. “I’m not – that’s not… Ilya, what?”

Ilya laughs, bright and unrestrained, clearly pleased with himself, with how easily he could throw Shane off balance.

And Shane? Shane just shakes his head, used to Ilya’s antics, even if they still catch him off guard sometimes. The corner of his mouth ticks up despite it all – because of it all – betraying him.

And then… then it happens. The camera pans away from a couple locked in a dramatic kiss, sweeping across rows of faces – laughing, waving, ducking out of frame – searching. Looking for its next target. Its next victims.

And it lands on them – on Shane and Ilya. They’re mid-conversation, leaning slightly into each other, caught in something quiet, shared between just the two of them. There’s so much tenderness there, in that single moment, a softness that has been building up all game.

It takes a second – a second too long, really – for them to realize.

The crowd’s reaction shifts first – a swell of noise, louder, expectant, laced with anticipation – and that’s what makes Shane look up, what makes Ilya follow his gaze to the screen above them. What makes it click.

Oh.

Oh.

They’re on the screen. On the kiss cam.

The smiles on their faces don’t disappear, but they change – something settling over them, something heavy.

It’s not panic, not fear. It’s something closer to an understanding of what they wanted – needed – to do.

All eyes are on them, but they only have eyes for each other.

And there’s something in the way Ilya is looking back at him – golden curls slightly mussed, bright-eyed and beaming at him. Like Shane hung the moon. Like he strung the stars across the sky just for him. Like Shane is someone worth looking at, someone worth choosing. Again and again and again.

And maybe now, in this moment, Shane gets to choose.

For a split second, everything else falls away. The crowd. The noise. The weight of other people’s expectations pressing in from all sides. All of it fades in comparison to the person sitting right next to him. His person. His Ilya.

Something in Shane steadies. And then something else, something smaller, breaks. That last thread of hesitation snaps clean through, and everything else unravels. Just like that.

And Ilya sees it – feels it in that instinctive way he always does when it comes to Shane. There’s a subtle shift in his expression, something flickering and then settling, softening his eyes and the set of his mouth. His head tilts just slightly – a quiet question, barely there.

And Shane answers it. A small nod – the movement imperceptible to anyone else. But not to Ilya. Not to the man that’s been reading his body, his emotions, his mind for over a decade.

And just like that, they come to the same conclusion, the same unspoken agreement. The same entirely reckless, incredibly freeing thought.

Fuck it.

The world narrows and expands all at once, collapsing down to the space between them while stretching wide enough to hold everything this moment could become.

It feels like they’re alone. Like the arena has disappeared, like the thousands of people around them don’t exist, entirely inconsequential.

Because they’re not doing this for anyone else. Not for the crowd. Not for the cameras. For themselves. For everything they’ve ever held back, everything they’ve hidden and reshaped into something smaller, something safer. For the freedom they’ve denied themselves for years.

Until now.

And in that moment, Shane knows with a bone-deep certainty that whatever happens after this won’t ever matter as much as this does. Not as much as him.

Ilya is enough. More than enough.

So, Shane leans in. And he kisses him.

It’s not rushed. Not a throwaway peck meant to satisfy the crowd and move on. It’s real. It’s deliberate.

Their lips meet softly at first, familiar, muscle memory taking over where thoughts have fallen away. There’s a brief pause, a heartbeat suspended in time. And then the kiss deepens. Just slightly. Just enough to make it clear that this isn’t accidental, isn’t just for show.

Shane’s hand comes up without thinking, brushing lightly against Ilya’s jaw, feeling the scratch of his stubble and grounding himself in the contact, in the reality of it.

And Shane feels… everything. The rush of it all, the nerves. The sharp edge of a realization – this is happening. But underneath it, stronger than all of it, is something else. Relief. Like exhaling after holding his breath for too long. Like finally stepping into something he should’ve been allowed to have sooner.

And there’s love, too, of course. So much love it feels like it might split him open right here, for everyone to see.

When they pull apart, it’s slow. Reluctant. As though neither of them wants to be the one to end it.

For a split second, there’s silence. Not true silence – the arena is too big for that – but a hush, a collective intake of breath, like the entire crowd is trying to process what they just witnessed.

And in that moment, something tightens low in Shane’s stomach. A flicker of dread, maybe. Of what now?

And then the arena erupts. It’s loud. Louder than it was before. A sudden surge of noise that crashes over them all at once – cheers, whistles, something wild and unrestrained that fills every inch of the space. It’s… celebratory. Overwhelming in the best possible way.

Shane blinks, a little startled by the sheer force of it. His vision becomes a little blurred, tears he hadn’t noticed building threatening to spill over as he laughs softly under his breath.

Tension he didn’t even know he was holding bleeds out of him, replaced by something lighter, something almost giddy.

Beside him, Ilya is already grinning – wide, bright, a little breathless. His hand finds Shane’s again without thought, interlacing their fingers in earnest this time. He squeezes once, twice. The touch firm and grounding. Like he knows Shane needs it. Like he needs it too, maybe. Like he never wants to let go again.

And Shane? Shane lets himself smile too. Really smile. Maybe for the first time like this, out in the open, without holding anything back.

Because sometimes, he thinks, you have to be brave and let go. Let go of the fear and weight of other people’s expectations. But being brave also means holding on. Holding on to what matters. Holding on to love, to Ilya.

So, be brave.

Let go.

And hold on.

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