Chapter Text
Ilya's POV. Age; 16 years old.
Ottawa. 2007.
Ilya couldn't believe his luck.
That was the only thought running through his head as he pressed Shane against the front door of his house, their mouths slotting together in a kiss that had started gentle and quickly turned into something else.
Something hungrier.
Something that made his stomach flip and his hands tighten on Shane's waist.
Shane's fingers were tangled in Ilya's hair, pulling him closer, and Ilya went willingly, eagerly, because this was his Shane and he would follow Shane anywhere.
They had spent the past year and a half learning how to do this.
How to kiss.
The first time, at almost fourteen, had been awkward—noses bumping, timing off, neither of them quite sure where to put their hands.
But they had practiced, because that's what his Shane did with everything.
He treated kissing like a skill to be mastered, and Ilya had been a more than willing participant in the research.
Now, at freshly turned sixteen, they were perfect at kissing for each other.
Ilya knew exactly how Shane liked to be kissed—slow at first, building gradually, with a hand cupping the back of his neck.
Shane knew exactly how Ilya liked to be kissed—firm and sure, with occasional teasing bites to his lower lip that made him shiver.
They had studied each other the way Shane studied hockey opponents, cataloging every response, every preference, every tiny sound.
The result was moments like this: pressed together against a door, the world reduced to the warmth of Shane's mouth and the solid strength of his body and the quiet, desperate sounds he made when Ilya did something right.
The engraved ring were in Ilya's pocket from when he had picked them up earlier.
Small silver band, simple and perfect, bought with almost two years of their shared saved allowance between them and Shane's birthday money form extended family and the occasional cash gift from Ilya's relatives who didn't quite understand what the money was for.
They had spent the whole afternoon at a local jewelry store downtown Ottawa a few weeks ago, Shane methodically comparing every option, asking questions about metal durability and resizing policies and whether the bands would hold up to years of hockey as well as different typography for engraving the rings.
Something within their limited budget as they were buying for the other.
The saleswoman had been charmed.
Ilya had been charmed.
He was always charmed by Shane, by the way his brain worked, by the absolute certainty with which he approached everything.
These are for our engagement rings fund, Shane had said when they first started saving.
Not promise rings like their parents suggested, much to Shane's annoyance and Ilya's amusement.
Engagement rings.
Because they were engaged, had been engaged since Shane announced it at thirteen, and Ilya had laughed then but he wasn't laughing now.
Now he was kissing his hysterically underaged fiancé against his mother's front door, and the rings were in his back pocket, and everything felt absolutely perfect.
Shane made a small sound against his mouth—breathless, wanting and Ilya felt it everywhere.
Shane was always too shy to initiate, always a little awkward about asking for what he wanted.
But once they started, once Ilya gave him permission, Shane kissed like he did everything else: with complete focus, with hunger, with the desperate need to be the best.
It was intoxicating.
Being wanted like that.
Being claimed like that.
Ilya had never doubted his place in Shane's life.
There was no room for insecurity with Shane—not when Shane announced their engagement to anyone who would listen, not when he kissed Ilya's cheek between classes in front of the whole school, not when he explained to their teammates with absolute seriousness that yes, they were getting married when they were grown adults, yes, it was already planned, yes, Ilya was the perfect husband for him, yes, this was not a joke.
Shane was awkward about a lot of things.
Social cues. Small talk. Not understand some jokes.
The million tiny courtesies that made up everyday interaction.
But he was never awkward about loving Ilya.
He was vocal, certain, absolutely unwavering with affirming Ilya's place in his life.
Not that it mattered because Ilya had enough personality for them both and his chirping skills growing better the more his English improved.
He was the loud one, the emotional one, the one who wore his heart on his sleeve.
But Shane's quiet, ferocious certainty was its own kind of declaration.
It said: You are mine. I chose you. I will always choose you.
And Ilya? Ilya loved it. Loved him.
Shane's teeth grazed his lower lip, and Ilya's knees actually went weak.
He grabbed Shane's hips harder, pulling him closer, pressing him into the door—
The door opened suddenly.
Ilya stumbled forward, catching himself against Shane before tightening himself and holding him snugly in his warm embrace.
They both turned to find Irina standing in the doorway with her arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.
His mother looked amused.
Deeply, thoroughly amused.
"Well," she said. "This is a great welcome home."
Ilya's face went red.
Shane's did not—Shane's face rarely did anything—but his ears were definitely pink.
"Mama," Ilya started. "We were just—"
"I know what you were just..." Irina's smile widened. "Da? I have eyes. I also have door. Come inside. Both of you."
The amused woman stepped back, holding the door open, and Ilya and Shane exchanged a glance before shuffling inside like guilty puppies.
******
The living room looked different now than it had seven years ago.
When they first moved in, it had been bare walls and unpacked boxes and the hollow echo of a space that wasn't yet a home.
Now it was warm, lived-in, full of Irina's touches—the embroidered pillows from her mother, the family photos on the walls, the collection of hockey trophies on the shelf that Ilya pretended to be embarrassed about but secretly loved.
Plants lined the windowsills, thriving under Irina's careful attention.
The couch had been replaced twice, upgraded as their finances improved.
A small altar in the corner held photos of relatives still in Moscow, candles burning softly beneath them.
It was a home. Their home.
Irina gestured to the couch. "Sit."
They sat.
Ilya's heart was pounding.
Not because he thought he was in trouble—his mother had never been anything but supportive of them—but because the look on her face was the same one she got when she was about to have A Conversation.
The same look she'd worn when she explained why they had to leave Moscow.
The same look she'd worn when she told him it was safe to be who he was.
Irina sat in the armchair across from them. She smoothed her skirt, crossed her legs, placed her hands on her knees. She looked, Ilya thought, like a teacher about to deliver an important lesson.
"Ilya," she said. "Shane. I have question."
Ilya swallowed. "Yes, Mama?"
Irina looked at Shane just then. "Yuna. Your mother. Has she given you sex education?"
The question landed like a bomb in the middle of the living room.
Ilya's brain short-circuited.
His face went from pink to red to something approaching purple.
He opened his mouth to say something—he wasn't sure what, maybe Mama please stop—but Shane was already nodding.
"Yes," Shane said calmly. "Absolutely. She gave me books when I was twelve. And again when I was fourteen. She said knowledge is power and power is control and I should have as much information as possible."
Irina blinked.
Clearly this was not the response she had expected.
"Books...?" she repeated.
"Yes. Multiple. With diagrams." Shane paused. "Also websites. She made me a list. We reviewed them together and discussed any questions I had."
Irina's mouth twitched. "Good. Good mother." She turned to Ilya. "And you? Did I give you sex education?"
Ilya's voice came out strangled. "Mama, we are not—we only—we just kiss—"
"Yes, yes." Irina waved a hand dismissively. "Now. But you are boys. Boys in puberty. Soon you will want more than kissing. This is normal. This is healthy."
"Mama—"
"I am not judging, Ilyusha." Irina's voice was firm. "I am preparing. You are my son. Shane is like son to me. I want you safe." She reached behind the chair and produced a stack of papers, neatly printed, stapled in the corner. She held them out to Ilya.
Ilya stared at them.
The cover page read: Sex Education for Gay Partners: A Guide to Health and Safety.
His brain officially stopped working.
"I printed from internet," Irina explained. "I read it. Very informative. Talks about—" She paused, searching for words. "—protection. Consent. Communication. All important. Also talks about—" She glanced at the ceiling, clearly searching for the right English term. "—things that are different for boys. Anatomically. You understand."
"Mama." Ilya's voice was barely a whisper. "Please."
Irina looked at him.
Her expression softened into something gentler.
"Ilya, malyish." She reached out and touched his knee. "I know this is embarrassing. I know you want to hide under couch. But I am your mother. My job is to keep you safe. Even from—" She smiled. "—even from yourselves."
Shane, who had been watching the exchange with his usual quiet focus, reached out and took the pamphlet from Ilya's frozen hands.
He flipped through it methodically, scanning pages, his expression unchanged.
"This is very comprehensive," he said. "Good information on STI prevention. And the consent section is well-written. I appreciate that it emphasizes ongoing consent rather than assuming one conversation is enough." He looked up at Irina. "Thank you. We'll read it together. When we're ready for that step."
Irina's face lit up. "Good boy. Smart boy." She beamed at him. "This is why I like you."
Shane nodded seriously. "I like you too. You're a good mother. You take great care of Ilya."
Irina's eyes went suspiciously bright.
She blinked rapidly, waving a hand in front of her face.
"Okay," she said, voice thick. "Okay. Enough. I go make tea." She stood quickly and disappeared into the kitchen.
Ilya buried his face in his hands.
******
The pamphlet sat on the coffee table between them, a silent monument to maternal concern.
Ilya couldn't bring himself to look at it. His face was still burning.
"She means well," Shane said.
"I know." Ilya groaned. "Does not make it less—" He couldn't find the word.
"Mortifying?"
"Yes. That."
Shane was quiet for a moment. Then he reached over and took Ilya's hand. His fingers were warm, familiar, tracing small circles on Ilya's palm.
"I'm not ready," Shane said quietly. "For more than kissing. I want you to know that. I'm not—" He paused, searching for words. "I'm not there yet."
Ilya looked at him.
At this boy—this strange, wonderful, impossible boy who had decided at thirteen that they would get married and had never once wavered.
"Okay," Ilya said simply.
Shane blinked. "Okay?"
"Yes. Okay." Ilya squeezed his hand. "We go at your pace. Always. I told you this, yes?"
"I know. But I wanted to say it again. In case—" Shane paused. "In case you thought the pamphlet meant I was ready."
Ilya shook his head. "I do not think that. I know you. You will tell me when you are ready. Until then—" He lifted Shane's hand and kissed his knuckles. "We kiss. We practice. We wait."
Shane's ears went pink. It was adorable.
"Okay," Shane said. "Good. That's—that's good."
Ilya smiled. "You are cute when you are flustered."
"I'm not flustered. I'm—" Shane stopped. "Okay, I'm a little flustered."
"A little?"
"Okay. More than a little."
Ilya laughed—that warm, surprised sound that Shane had told him once was his favorite thing in the world.
He leaned in and kissed Shane softly, sweetly, the kind of kiss that said I love you without needing words.
When they pulled apart, Shane was smiling. That small, private smile that was just for Ilya.
"I have something," Shane said. "In my pocket. For you."
Ilya's heart skipped. "I also have something. In my pocket. For you."
Shane's eyebrows rose. "Simultaneous gift acquisition. That's efficient."
Ilya snorted. "Only you would call romance efficient."
"Romance can be efficient. Efficiency doesn't preclude emotion."
"Shane."
"Yes?"
"Just—" Ilya pulled out the small box. "Here. You first."
Shane reached into his own pocket and produced an identical box.
They looked at each other, then at the boxes, then back at each other.
"Same plan," Shane said. "We think alike."
"Always have."
They opened the boxes together.
Inside each was a ring.
Simple silver bands, identical in design, sized perfectly for the other's finger. They had spent their sweet time that day at the jewelry store, but neither had known the other was picking it up so soon. For him, Ilya was too impatience and picked up his ring for Shane as soon as he could and assumed Shane shared the same sentiment.
Ilya stared at the ring in his box.
Then at the ring in Shane's box.
Then at Shane.
"You—" he started.
"I wanted us to have them before the International Prospect Cup," Shane said. "It's in ten months. We should go as an engaged couple. Officially." He paused. "I've been planning it for a while."
Ilya thought about the past few months.
Shane's increased interest in their savings account.
The way he'd been researching jewelry stores.
The careful, casual questions about what kind of metal Ilya liked.
"I also planned," Ilya said. "For weeks."
"Weeks?" Shane looked pleased. "Ilya! I've been planning for six months."
"Six months?"
"I wanted it to be perfect. The timing had to be right." Shane paused. "The Prospect Cup is our first international exposure. Scouts from everywhere will be there. I want them to know—" He touched the ring in his box. "I want them to know we're together. That we're a package deal."
Ilya stared at him.
This boy.
This impossible boy who had decided at thirteen that they would get married and had never once questioned it. Who had mapped out their future like a chess game, moving pieces into position years ahead of time.
"You never—" Ilya stopped. Started again. "You never think we are too young to announce this to the world?"
Shane tilted his head. "For what?"
"For this. Engagement. Marriage later. All of it."
Shane considered the question with the same gravity he applied to everything. "No," he said finally. "We've known each other forever many years. We've been together for two of those years. We've planned our future together since. The timeline makes sense." He paused. "Age is just a number. Compatibility is what matters. We can even get married and have that wedding our parents want later in our twenties. Being engaged is enough for me Ilya."
Ilya thought about all the ways Shane could be intense.
The obsessive practice.
The relentless pursuit of improvement.
The way he treated their relationship like another skill to master, another goal to achieve.
Some people might have found it overwhelming. Ilya found it intoxicating.
"Nyet," Ilya said softly. "You are right. Timeline makes sense."
Shane smiled—that rare, real smile. "Good. Now put the ring on me. I want to see how it looks."
Ilya laughed.
He pulled the ring from its box and gently took Shane's hand in his own.
The band slid onto his finger perfectly, a warm weight that belonged there.
Shane did the same for him. His hands were steady, careful, reverent.
They looked at each other.
Two rings. Two hands. One future.
"We're engaged," Shane said. "Officially."
Ilya nodded. His throat was tight. "Officially."
"I love you, Ilya."
"I love you too." Ilya paused. "Vsegda." Always.
Shane leaned in and kissed him.
Soft, sweet, full of young love and certainty and the absolute knowledge that they had done something right.
******
Irina found them like that when she returned with tea. Kissing on the couch, rings gleaming on their fingers.
She stopped in the doorway.
Her face did something complicated—surprise, then joy, then tears.
"Oh," she said softly. "Oh, my boys."
They pulled apart, slightly flushed.
Ilya held up his hand, showing off the ring.
"Mama," he said. "We are engaged. Officially."
Irina set down the tea tray with snacks.
She crossed the room in three steps and pulled them both into a hug, squeezing tight.
"My boys," she repeated, her voice thick. "My good boys. You take care of each other. Yes?"
"Yes," Shane said into her shoulder.
"Yes, Mama," Ilya agreed.
She held them for a long moment.
When she finally pulled back, her green-blue eyes were wet, but she was smiling, that radiant, transforming smile that had become more and more frequent over the years.
"Okay," she said, wiping her eyes. "Okay. Now we celebrate. I make dinner. Special dinner. Shane, you call your mother. She comes too. We celebrate together."
Shane nodded. "I'll call her."
Irina bustled off to the kitchen, already planning, already cooking too much food. The sound of her humming filled the house.
Ilya looked at Shane. Shane looked at him.
"We did it," Ilya said.
"We did." Shane paused. "Step one of the plan is complete."
"Step one?"
"Technically step two since the first was proposing I guess. Engagement. Step three is winning gold. Step four is NHL draft. Step five is house with pond." He ticked them off on his fingers. "Step six is wedding. Step seven is kids."
Ilya laughed. "You have steps."
"I always have steps."
"And what step is—" Ilya gestured vaguely between them. "This. Us. Right now."
Shane considered. "Ongoing maintenance. Relationship health. Quality time."
"Quality time."
"Yes." Shane leaned over and kissed him again—quick, sweet, perfect. "This is quality time."
Ilya smiled against his mouth. "Good. I like quality time."
They kissed until Irina called them for dinner, rings warm on their fingers, futures bright ahead of them.
It was enough.
It was everything.