Chapter Text
Shane left the university building alongside Kip and Hayden, his backpack slung over one shoulder, his head still half-stuck in developmental theories that made far too much sense on paper and far too little in real life.
The next class wouldn’t start for another forty minutes.
Forty minutes was far too long to pretend anyone was going to study.
“Bleachers?” Hayden suggested, already changing direction.
It was more of a statement than a question.
They dropped onto the steps, the cold biting through their coats. Shane stretched his legs out, let his weight fall back, and pulled out his phone out of pure habit.
A message from Ilya blinked on the screen, sent in the middle of class- probably while Shane had been pretending to follow the lecture.
He replied without thinking, his fingers moving too fast.
“Okay,” Kip said a few seconds later, turning his body to face Shane. “Can we talk about your marriage now?”
Shane took a slow breath.
Kip had asked about it last week. And the week before, and the one before that.
Shane had dodged it every single time.
“You’re married,” Kip continued, pointing at him with his chin. “It’s been a while, and nobody knows how that happened.”
Hayden frowned, thoughtful.
“Like… literally nobody. And you’re only twenty-two. People don’t get married that young.”
Shane let his head fall back, staring up at the gray sky. It might snow tonight.
“It wasn’t anything serious,” he said quickly. “Not planned.”
Kip smiled immediately.
Shane closed his eyes for a moment. Flashing lights, full glasses, unspoken promises - everything came rushing back at once.
💍
Ilya was sitting on the living room floor of their Montreal apartment, his back against the couch, his laptop balanced on his legs, his phone tossed aside and forgotten.
Shane was in the kitchen, far too focused on something that was technically supposed to turn into pasta - though, judging by the smell, it was dangerously close to turning into glue - when he felt it.
It wasn’t a shout.
It wasn’t a curse in Russian.
It was silence.
The wrong kind of silence. Too dense for someone waiting on an answer that could change everything.
“Ilya?” Shane called, turning off the stove and appearing in the doorway. “Did it not work out?”
Ilya lifted his head slowly.
His blue eyes were wide, shining in a way that was almost frightening, fixed on Shane like he needed confirmation that this was really happening.
“I got it.”
Shane blinked.
“You got it like… got it?”
“Like Boston Bruins,” Ilya said, his voice still too low for the weight of the words. “Entry-level contract, rookie season.” He took a breath, like it was only now sinking in. “My agent’s calling again in two days, press next week. Then medicals, lawyers… all of it.”
It took Shane’s brain exactly three seconds to catch up.
He crossed the room too fast, nearly slipped on the rug, dropped the spoon somewhere completely irrelevant, and launched himself onto Ilya without a single plan. Ilya fell back laughing, saving the laptop by pure instinct.
“You did it,” Shane kept repeating, his voice muffled against Ilya’s neck, his arms wrapped too tight to be polite. “You did it, you did it-“
“I told you I would.”
“You did,” Shane agreed, lifting his head just enough to smile, his eyes bright. “But I also said it was statistically unlikely and could take another year.”
“You’re terrible at celebrating,” Ilya complained, before pulling him into a quick, clumsy kiss.
“I’m a psychology student at McGill and you’re a rookie hockey player for the Boston Bruins,” Shane said, half-dazed against Ilya’s mouth. “Holy shit.”
Ilya slipped an arm around him, almost absentmindedly, his thumb tracing slow circles into Shane’s back.
“Do you like the idea?”
“I do,” Shane answered without hesitation.
Then he laughed, like saying it out loud made it more real than he’d planned.
He turned his face just enough to look at Ilya properly.
“So… do you want to do something?” he asked. “Like, actually celebrate?”
Ilya frowned, concentrating.
“Like dinner?”
“It’s Tuesday,” Shane said. “We eat dinner every day.”
“A party?”
“We don’t know enough people for that.”
Ilya thought for a moment longer. The corner of his mouth lifted slowly - that specific smile that never meant anything good.
“Sex.”
“Ilya!”
“What? It’s a very good option.”
Shane gave him a light smack on the chest.
“I’m being serious.”
“Okay, okay,” Ilya relented. “What about a trip?”
Shane lifted his head.
“A trip where?”
Ilya shrugged, far too casual.
“Somewhere excessive,” he said, like it was a small thing. “Just the two of us, before everything starts.”
Shane didn’t answer right away. He watched Ilya’s face, the excitement, the way the sentence carried more than it said.
Boston. Distance. Change. All of it compressed into that moment.
He sighed, already knowing he’d lost.
“Fine,” he said at last. “How excessive?”
Ilya didn’t even pretend to think. He already had his phone out, unlocking it.
“Las Vegas.”
Shane laughed out loud, tipping his head back.
“My mom is going to lose her mind.”
Ilya made a sympathetic face.
“Yuna’s going to lose it either way,” he said. “Especially when she finds out I already proposed.”
Shane rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.
“But we agreed,” he reminded him. “We’d only get married after I finish college.”
“Yes, boss,” Ilya muttered, leaning in to steal another quick kiss. “Relax. It’s just a trip.”
Shane raised an eyebrow.
“Just a trip,” he repeated.
“Drinking,” Ilya started, counting on his fingers. “Celebrating, dancing, sex.”
Shane arched a brow.
“You’re conveniently ignoring the fact that we’re not exactly good at most of that.”
Ilya smiled slowly, confidently.
“At one of those,” he said, stepping just a little too close, “we’ve never had any trouble.”
Shane should have been suspicious.
Should have remembered every single time Ilya had said something like that.
But instead, he smiled, his heart far too light to be cautious.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go to Vegas.”
They bought the tickets that same night.
💍
The problem officially began when Shane accepted the second glass of wine on the plane.
The flight wasn’t long enough to justify it. Montreal to Las Vegas didn’t exactly qualify as deserves alcohol, but the glass was there, cool in his hand, and Ilya had said “just to celebrate” with that smile that always made Shane drop his guard.
And Shane had said yes.
Because that day felt built around it: saying yes to Ilya Rozanov.
The first glass went down far too easily. The second even more so.
Ilya leaned his shoulder against Shane’s, casual, intimate.
“Are you happy?” Ilya asked quietly, close enough to matter.
Shane turned his head slowly, still feeling the gentle hum of the plane in his bones.
“You got into the Boston Bruins,” he said simply. “I’d be psychologically wrong not to be happy.”
When the plane touched down, Shane only realized how light he felt when he stood up too fast and nearly lost his balance in the aisle.
“Easy,” Ilya murmured, gripping his elbow. “We’ve got time.”
Shane frowned.
“We do?”
“Two days,” Ilya said casually. “All of them.”
It was still sinking in when Shane followed him through the jet bridge.
Las Vegas was already waiting on the other side of the airport doors - an ongoing excess of light, color, and sound, everything flashing at once. When they stepped outside, the heat hit them dry and immediate, clinging to their skin like the city had been turned up to maximum just for them.
“So,” Shane said as they headed toward the exit. “Where are we staying?”
Ilya didn’t answer. He just lifted a hand and called a car.
The drive was a blur of blinking signs, music spilling out onto the street, buildings glowing like it was always night. Shane rested his forehead against the window for a moment, watching the city grow, with the growing sense that things were about to spiral out of control.
When the car stopped, he understood.
The hotel rose up too tall, too bright, impossible to ignore. Shane let out a quiet laugh and looked back at Ilya.
“Okay,” he said, glancing at the glowing façade again. “This is definitely beyond excessive. When did you have time to plan all this?”
Ilya paid the driver and grabbed the suitcase, shrugging.
“You sleep more than you think.”
The lobby swallowed them whole - overlapping voices, loud laughter, the constant sound of machines, music Shane felt like he recognized.
It was late afternoon, but Las Vegas clearly wasn’t interested in slowing down.
The receptionist smiled, asked for documents, typed something in, checked the name once. Then again.
“All set, Mr. Rozanov,” he said at last. “Penthouse. Elevators to the right.”
Shane froze for half a second.
“Penthouse,” he repeated slowly, testing the word. He turned to Ilya. “Like… top floor?”
“Yes.”
Shane ran a hand through his hair, letting out a short, humorless laugh.
“You’re insane, Ilya.”
“My father’s inheritance is being used responsibly,” Ilya said, far too serious for someone clearly enjoying this.
“My anxiety is vibrating,” Shane muttered.
Ilya slid an arm around his shoulders, steady and grounding.
“I can offer drinks as compensation.”
“How many?”
“Enough that you stop expecting someone to show up and tell us this was all a mistake.”
The elevator arrived, they stepped inside, the doors closing, and suddenly the noise of the lobby fell away, like someone had muted the entire world.
“You planned all of this without telling me,” Shane accused, though his voice was too soft to sound like a complaint.
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Well,” Shane said, “you succeeded. I’m… very surprised.”
Ilya’s gaze lingered on him for a second longer, slow and deliberate. One corner of his mouth lifted.
“So it worked, future Mr. Rozanov?”
Shane didn’t answer right away. He stepped closer. Then closer. Until there was barely any space left, just breath and warmth. His forehead nearly touched Ilya’s, his smile fading into something quieter, more focused.
“It worked,” he admitted softly.
Ilya tilted his head just slightly, close enough that their lips almost brushed.
The elevator dinged.
The doors opened on the eighth floor, the hallway unnervingly quiet. Ilya blinked, like he was coming back into his body, grabbed the bags, and found room 8124. The door opened with a soft beep, and they stepped inside.
The room was excessive on purpose. Massive bed. Low lighting. Huge glass windows.
Shane took two steps toward the bed and almost let himself fall onto it - almost.
He stopped short, like he’d remembered something serious.
The plane.
The clothes.
Everything.
He backed away slowly and made a face.
Ilya watched him for a moment, setting the bags down.
“…problem?”
“Airport clothes,” Shane said solemnly. “I’m covered in germs.”
“Fair.” Ilya tilted his head. “Rest, or straight to the casino?”
Shane considered it for half a second.
“Casino.”
Ilya laughed, loud and incredulous.
“The Shane from five hours ago would never have said that.”
“That was you.”
“The wine,” Ilya corrected, stepping closer. “I told you it was just to celebrate.”
“And it worked.”
“Five minutes,” Ilya decided. “Change your clothes , water-”
Shane didn’t wait for the rest.
He grabbed Ilya by the collar and kissed him.
Mouth to mouth, hot, rushed.
Ilya responded instantly. One firm hand at Shane’s waist, his body pressed back against the wall by the door in a movement too precise to be accidental. The cold mirror at his back clashed with the heat building between them.
Shane breathed out against Ilya’s mouth, his fingers gripping fabric. He bit Ilya’s lower lip without thinking, drawing a low sound from him.
“Maybe… ten minutes,” Shane murmured, his voice just barely unsteady.
Ilya smiled, their foreheads touching.
“I knew it,” he said quietly. “Las Vegas would corrupt you.”
💍
The casino was everything Shane expected - and worse. Flashing lights with no coordination, machines screaming for attention, people celebrating things he didn’t understand, and drinks appearing in their hands far too quickly.
Shane was shy for exactly twenty minutes.
After the second - or maybe third - drink, something blue and sour, he leaned against a machine and started laughing. At how intensely focused Ilya was, like it was a training session. At the people screaming two meters to the left over five dollars.
At the sheer fact of being there, in Las Vegas, with his fiancé who had just made it into the NHL.
“You realize,” Shane said, his shoulder against the machine, his drink sloshing slightly, “that this is completely insane?”
Ilya turned to him slowly. His eyes were bright.
Shane was still taking that in when a man walked past and winked at him without the slightest hint of shame.
Too blatant to pretend it was an accident.
Shane winked back automatically, only realizing what he’d done a second later, and laughing, loose enough not to care.
Ilya didn’t laugh.
He stepped closer, wrapped an arm around Shane’s waist with practiced ease, and pulled him in, resting his chin lightly on top of Shane’s head.
“Problem?” he asked the air, his Russian accent slipping through, his eyes locked on the man.
The man assessed the situation and decided there was absolutely no problem at all, then kept walking.
Shane tipped his head up, amused.
“Were you jealous?”
“I was,” Ilya said without hesitation. “You’re drunk, attractive, and in a foreign country.”
Shane laughed loudly, nearly spilling his drink.
“That was an excellent line.”
It was right there - between flashing lights and too much alcohol - that Shane stopped counting how many bad decisions he was making that night.
And started realizing that none of them felt exactly wrong.
At least not in Las Vegas.