Archive of Our Own

If you've ever wondered why

Disney's tales all end in lies

Here's what happened after all their dreams came true— 

Wait. No. Fuck, scratch that. That's not how that stupid Disney song goes. Years ago, Ilya watched this funny, but in that dark, woke-humour-type way, parody series where this dude sings about the grim reality of Disney princesses after their movies end.

He can't help it; the way his brain immediately moves to belt that song whenever he’s watching movies with Pike’s children and the classic Disney castle intro starts to play. He has no business thinking about oil spills when Ruby insists on putting on The Little Mermaid, or bestiality when it's Jade’s turn to pick and she wants to watch Beauty and the Beast.

If your heart is in your dream

No request is too extreme

When you wish upon a star

As dreamers do

Ilya didn’t wish upon a star; there was no deity he prayed to every day. Not because he didn't believe in one. He did. Believed in a God, in something, because maybe blind faith was easier to grasp onto than trying to figure out the matrix of the universe’s history. Maybe it was easier to blame something, someone, or an external force for when he lost control of the things in his life. 

He and Mama used to gaze upon the stars, more of a game, really, to see if they could spot one amongst the haze of urban light. His Mama perched on a bench behind him in a tight scarf, while Ilya would be bundled up in coats and mitts she rangled him in, starfished across a bank of snow, limbs moving and flying in excitement or cold; Ilya doesn't remember.

He hasn't burdened a star with his wishes in a long time. A child's dream. An adult's delusion.  

But he does remember his Mama every day, sees her every day, in the curls of his own hair, in the taste when he tries to replicate her cooking poorly, when the gold chain of Christ presses warm against his chest as Shane leans against him—

Shane. The love of his life. An unreasonable request.

He remembers his Mama every day. He prays to her, calls to her. Maybe she was the star he started burdening with his wishes. 

But maybe the request wasn't so unreasonable; maybe his Mama made some sort of plea or deal with God (and of course he listened to her; she wanted so badly to go to Him). Because somehow, today, he was able to stand in front of that very God, his closest family and friends, under the sun in burgundy and grey, and marry the love of his life.

He wonders if “love of his life” is enough to explain the depth of what he feels. Or if that phrasing somehow implies there were many loves and Shane happens to be The One, like a once-in-a-century hero from a dystopian movie.

Shane is the only love of his life, the first person he ever loved, and the only person he will ever love. No one before him, and Ilya can’t imagine anyone after him. Because who would ever understand Ilya the way Shane does?

Sometimes Ilya feels like there is simply too much of him. A mismatch of his mother’s ability to love and his father’s will to hate. A diversity of elements, all clashing together and forming the hurricane that is Ilya Rozanov. Parts that he likes about himself, and more often than not, parts where hate is not a strong enough word to describe how viscerally he feels about them. 

But then there are moments when being with Shane makes him feel like a singularity. Inevitable and irreplaceable. Like Shane sees him as a whole despite the parts he wants to cut out of himself. Like he isn't weighing in on whether the good in Ilya outweighs the bad. Like, Ilya never has to utter the words “take it or leave it” because Shane’s already taken him. All of him.

Shane Hollander. Not much of an unreasonable request maybe, to live the rest of his life with someone as determined, and kind and beautiful and—

“I’m sorry Mom brought up the prenup. I mean, it's a little weird for her to talk about it during a wedding, right?”

Ilya exhales softly and doesn't even fight the way his mouth moves into a smile. 

Love of his life, everyone.

Shane is standing in front of the windows near the front gate, peeking out and waving awkwardly as the last of the guests leave their driveway. Ilya hasn't stopped staring at Shane all day, not one moment when Ilya's gaze hadn't sought out his husband—and wow, what a treat that is to say, to think. 

Husband. Husband. His husband. My husband.

There was not a moment today when Ilya’s eyes weren't automatically seeking out Shane across the yard and over the chatter of guests, only to find him, his husband, already staring back at him. Russians do not blush, but they clearly still get butterflies in their stomach. 

Caught in his trap since Day 1. Ilya didn't stand a chance at the tender age of seventeen. He was just an innocent boy (he was!).  Shane lectured him about his smoking thirty seconds after he jumbled out an—albeit genuine—but awkward introduction, and, like the absolute loser Ilya was, he was smitten. Charmed. Stupid freckles.

Ilya's caught, once again, in his beauty. Even from the back, and sure, Shane looks great from all angles. But right now, he’s wearing a crisp white buttoned-down shirt, settling across solid skin, disappearing into a pair of light grey trousers. Lines of material run in parallel, accentuating his legs. The blue tie is loose around his collar, no doubt because of Shane's constant fretting and pulling of it all day. His suit jacket has long since been taken off and draped neatly somewhere across the furniture (they have dry cleaning services for a reason).

Yuna had commented to him that Shane reminded him of Kit Harrington. And Ilya had only nodded along, because for the life of him, he couldn't place a face to that name. Not that Mr. Harrington would ever be as handsome as Shane. And later, when he was able to steal a few minutes with his phone and do a little googling, upon his discovery, he’d thought: oh, the guy from the dragon show. Hmm, still not as good-looking as Shane. I wonder if Rose Landry knows him.

Halfway through the wedding, Shane had also pulled back and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, sun-kissed forearms on display, dusted with body hair, flexing with his every move. Ilya had to fight the urge to not yell “party's over everyone go home so I can bite my husband's arms and ask him to squeeze my head between them” every time he caught a glimpse of them.

Very normal request.

Ilya closes the final distance, draping himself across Shane’s back, head settling over his shoulder. His hands make their way around his waist, fingertips dancing over the smooth expanse of his shirt. Shane lets go, melts embarrassingly fast into his embrace, and Ilya takes the opportunity to press himself closer, inhaling right on the side of his neck, below his ear. 

Shane smells like if a green apple made a wish to be human. Fresh and citrusy, the base notes of rich vanilla and cozy wood from his cologne warmed by the sun. And then the smell of Shane, his natural musk, so familiar and consistent.

He wonders how sharply Shane would elbow him if he started licking his sweat right off him.

Would be worth it.

“Hayden and Jackie didn't do a prenup. Is it weird that we did?” Shane questions, one-track-minded right now.

Ah yes, weird for Yuna to bring up the prenup during their wedding, but not at all weird for Shane Hollander, aka Yuna Jr., to also mention it on their—Ilya glances at his watch—technically still—wedding night.

“It would be weird for Hayden to make Jackie sign a prenup.” Ilya answers. “Hayden doesn't have any money worth stealing.”

That gets a predictable little laugh out of Shane, his lips moving to mutter a quiet asshole under his breath. “Ilya, he’s an athlete in the same class as us; he makes good money—

“Hollander,” Ilya interrupts, “No one makes money like you. Even I don’t make money like you, Mr. Real Estate.”

“Okay, sure, but I’ve seen your investments, a little eccentric but—”

He lets Shane ramble on. What a dork. Ilya’s not an idiot. Sure, his investment portfolio is half input from his financial advisor and half “vibes” and gut feeling, but if things had truly gone to shit and both he and Shane had been kicked out of the NHL and lost all their brand investments, at least their future would have been secured. 

Sad and depressed in a big house with their millions, but at least they would be together, right? 

Happily ever after. That is marriage, no?

Ilya still remembers when Shane had let him glance at his finance portal and spreadsheets and reports and said something about switching to Google Sheets with Google Finance API functions for his own personal tracking. Ilya had told him he had a “guy” too and then watched Shane’s face light up like a Christmas tree. And other parts of him. 

They made out so hard that night.

“It’s okay. Your mother probably doesn’t want her daughter-in-law to steal all of her son’s money. Who is so much older than him, and so much richer as well.” Ilya says wistfully, fingers interlocking in front of him and pulling Shane closer. His eyes flit to the window, at their now empty driveway. It's still outside, the nighttime slowly resting with them as well

Shane huffs and rests his own hands on top of his, their matching rings knocking against each other. “I am not so much older than you—”

Ilya grins, chin hooked over his shoulder. “So much older, so much more money, like a sugar—”

“Don’t say it—”

“Oh? You do not want to be my sugar daddy?” Ilya snickers as Shane gags in front of him.

“Never say that again.”

“Okay, fine, do not be my financial papa”—Shane makes a strangled noise at the back of his throat—“don’t worry, I will not steal your millions.”

“And it’s son-in-law, Ilya; you are my husband.” Shane's voice goes soft at the end of his sentence.

“You are blushing.” Ilya points out, angling his face to kiss the flush on his cheeks, even as he feels his own face heat up. Husband, yes. 

“You're blushing.” Shane mocks back before a smile breaks through on his face anyway. 

Still so bad at comebacks. 

“And it doesn’t matter, you know? The prenup. I can understand why Yuna… recommended we do it.”

“Should I have put up more of a fight? You know I trust you, right, Ilya? Mom does, too, obviously she's just—” Shane squirms in his hold till Ilya loosens his grip and he's turning around to face Ilya and oh—there they are, the galaxies in Shane’s eyes and the stars bruised across his cheeks. Shane’s mouth is tugged into a little frown, and Ilya can't help but press his own lips against it, till the rigidness yields.

“I know, solnyshkosunshine,” Ilya says, pulling back. His head tilts back so Shane can sneak his fingers up and play around with the buttons of Ilya’s dress shirt, half of them open enough that his gold chain peeks through. His own tie is missing; Ilya doesn't even know where it is by now. The last time he saw it, it was wrapped around Luca’s forehead like a bandana. “It doesn’t matter; I would sign anything. We will never get divorced anyway, so.” Ilya shrugs noncommittally. I would never divorce you.

Shane’s hands pause in their ministrations, and his head moves up till he’s looking into Ilya’s eyes. “Is that a promise?” he asks, one eyebrow dancing up, the corner of his lips turning. 

“It is a threat,” Ilya replies, very seriously, eyebrows raised back in challenge. 

“Wow, threat,” Shane whispers, his eyes crinkling in fondness. “Do you think everyone had fun? I haven’t been to many backyard weddings. I think we did everything we were supposed to do?”

“Mmm, I think so.” A moment passes as Ilya ponders over something. ”But Sveta did have a complaint. She was not happy because we had no chairs. She danced a lot, and her heels were very big. She said she was going to steal my shoes in revenge.”

“Is this why I saw her sneaking out with your Pumas?”

Ilya lets out a comical gasp. “The Hello Kitty ones?” 

“Um, I think so?”

Ilya groans and tips his head back. “Those are my favourites. My most valuable.”

“They were sent for free.”

“So?”

Shane rolls his eyes and then brings the back of his hand up to stifle his yawn. “Should we”—he blinks his eyes rapidly— “Should we, you know, get on with the wedding night?” he continues, voice going low and pressing closer, fingers making their way down and playing with the band of Ilya’s trousers suggestively.

So romantic. So sexy. Ilya loves him so much.

“Hollander, you are falling asleep.” Ilya teases. 

“No, I’m not.” Shane retorts, and Ilya sends him an unimpressed look when he once again tries to stifle his yawn.

Ilya moves back and tries not to laugh at the scathing look Shane sends his way, as if the distance between them were a crime. He interweaves both of their hands and tugs him towards the staircase, moving past their living room, which now (plus the past couple of weeks) has finally become home to any and all pictures Shane and Ilya have of themselves together. There aren't many right now, but Ilya won’t stop till there's a photo of them in every corner of their house.

“You are still a very bad liar. Come on, it has been a very long day.”

“Yeah, but it's our wedding night; we need to do… wedding night stuff,” Shane states, very matter of factly, moving along with him.

Technically, they did wedding-night stuff this morning after they woke up. And sure, if Ilya fully lets himself think about the fact that going forward, he will be having sex with his husband, Shane Hollander, he’s gonna last even less than Shane did when Ilya blew him the very first time. But today really has been a day, as happy as it was, and if Ilya is seriously choosing sleep over sex, then tired is an understatement. 

“Shane, I think this might be something they only do in movies. I can’t feel my feet. How am I supposed to make love to you?” And it would definitely make it to the list of “times we had sex and it was just okay”, which Ilya is going to pretend doesn't exist and will never exist, not even one entry.

Shane lets out an affronted noise, “Jesus, gross. Don’t say it like that!”

“Then how should I say it? Have sexual intercourse? Ah… fornicate? Go all the way? Procreate—”

“We can’t procreate, Ilya; neither of us has the biology for that.”

“We will fuck tomorrow. And the day after. And every day on our honeymoon.”

“Are you scheduling our sex life now?”

“You don’t find it hot? 7 AM, tomorrow, wake Shane up by sucking his dick? I will put it in my Google Calendar.” he glances over at Shane, and the latter only mutters a quick shut up before glancing away, pretending like the idea doesn't absolutely turn him on.

Ilya snickers and then abruptly stops in front of the staircase. If you look hard enough, you can probably see a bulb lighting up on top of his head. “Wait, Hollander, we can at least do one wedding night tradition: the groom carrying the bride to the bedroom.”

Shane’s eyebrows scrunch together at the suggestion. “We are both grooms. So who carries who?”

“We both carry each other,” Ilya offers.

Shane blinks at him. “Like, you want to carry me upstairs, then we walk back downstairs, and I carry you upstairs?”

“Yes.” Ilya nods.

“We’re not even going to have sex—what is the point of doing this?”

“Hollander, how horny are you? You cannot keep your hands to yourself for one night? Your poor husband is tired—”

“Oh please, we’ve had marathon sex after 8-hour flights. Just admit you’re getting old.”

Ilya knocks his shoulder into him and points an accusatory finger. “You are the older one. You are the sugar daddy—”

“Oh my god—”

“You’re just afraid of carrying me. Will probably drop me halfway up.” Ilya eggs him on, waits for him to take the bait.

Shane scoffs and shoves him back. “Fuck off, I’m strong. Here, let me show you.”

But Ilya stops him from getting into position. “No, me first,” he tells him as he bends his knees and extends his arms in invitation. “How do you want to ride me?” Ilya asks, very innocently.

Shane stares at him for a beat and then lets out a sigh. “Let me get behind you.”

“That is something I don't hear often.”

“Oh my god, you’re so annoying,” Shane says in a voice so genuinely enamoured, like he wants nothing more than for Ilya to keep bothering him.

Ilya bends down further, and Shane hops on his back, both of them laughing and staggering cause they’re both still tipsy (and sleepy). Maybe they shouldn't be doing this? 

Shane, if possible, drops his entire weight on him, hands draping over his shoulder. His legs wrap around, and Ilya locks his grip at the back of his muscled thighs and hoists him up. 

“Please don’t drop me,” Shane warns, half laughing into his neck.

“Never,” Ilya promises, and then he’s lurching forward, legs steady enough to hike up the stairs as if he’s wearing a backpack and not piggybacking a 200-pound man. Every few steps, Ilya pretends to sway just so he can feel Shane tighten his death-grip on him and yell at him to be careful through snickers.

He gets Shane to the top of their Everest without breaking a sweat, and then they both immediately race downstairs, absolutely cheating and trying to make the other person trip. Ah, super, very romantic.

“Alright, come on, hop on,” Shane says, letting out a breath and getting into formation.

“Oh, so you will choose the easier way to carry me?” Ilya says. “You won't bridal-carry me upstairs?”

Shane gives him a deadpan expression. “Ilya, you are not my bride. You are my husband; you were my groom—”

“You will not groom-carry me upstairs? When I just complained to you about my body being tired and then I had to carry my very strong husband upstairs—”

“Oh my god,” Shane groans, shoulders vibrating as he laughs, and he doesn't even wait for Ilya. He marches over and gets behind him, legs bending, one hand slipping beneath his knees and the other supporting his lower back. Ilya’s stomach swoops (Russian stomachs usually don’t do this) as he loses his gravity and Shane takes charge of his weight. With a little grunt, Shane starts his ascent up the stairs, exactly as Ilya had done two minutes ago. Ilya will not kick and swing his legs back and forth, even though he is very tempted.

“I’ve carried you before to bed so many times. You fall asleep on the couch a lot. I don't know why you think you’re too big for me to do this.”

“Would you still love me if I was too big?” Ilya asks, his hands wrapping around Shane’s neck, head leaning back to admire the view. The view being Shane’s face, because who else would he dare look at? His husband, Shane, is a possessive man.

“Is this a trick question?” Shane asks, glancing down at him. “Like when you asked me if I would still love you if you were a worm?”

“You took too long to answer that question, too, by the way.” Ilya reminds him.

“I just wanted to know the specifics.” Shane defends himself.

“Specifics didn't matter. Was a yes-or-no question, Hollander.”

“I can’t just love a random worm. What if I didn't know it was you?”

“You're a worm.”

“I thought I was a bug?” They’ve made their way fully upstairs, but Shane doesn't stop to put him down; he just continues to move toward their bedroom. His husband: so sexy, so strong.

“Yes, but now I know Rose Landry calls you Shanebug, so I can’t use that nickname,” Ilya says, rolling his eyes with an exaggerated sigh.

“When will you stop saying her full name every time you talk about her? What if I did that with Svetlana?” Shane questions as they cross the threshold of their bedroom.

“You would have to fix your Russian pronunciation to do that.” 

Ilya laugh-shouts as Shane unceremoniously drops him on the bed, his frame bouncing with the mattress.

“Asshole,” Shane mutters. “I’m getting better!” he adds, turning away and walking towards the dresser as he unbuttons his shirt. Ilya hops off the bed and chases after him. He gets into Shane’s personal space, hands shooing his away and taking over.

“Let me,” Ilya tells him softly, before Shane can even ask what he’s doing. And he lets him, giving him a curious little look first. The air goes quiet around them as Ilya tugs his shirt out of his waistband and loosens his tie enough to slip it over his head, Shane’s hair falling into his eyes from the tousling. Ilya leans down, pressing a chaste kiss over the junction of his eyebrows, right over his messy strands of hair. Shane’s eyes flutter shut, and he exhales softly in content. He angles his face in want, in offering, and Ilya blesses the other side with the same affection. His fingers do their dance, sweeping his bangs away and over his ears, so his gaze can catch him again.

He helps Shane out of his shirt, but not before Shane returns the favour. “Let me,” he echoes his earlier words as he tugs Ilya’s jacket off his broad frame, the cufflinks and dress shirt next. And instead of his face, Ilya's gifted love in the form of a kiss right in the center of his sternum.

You want to live there, too? Ilya wants to ask, shielded by my Mama’s cross?

Their belts and pants are next, calloused and warm hands mapping a familiar pattern across his skin, leaving goosebumps all over. Shane folds all their clothes very neatly and, at Ilya’s insistence, lets his jacket drape messily across the chair in the corner to deal with tomorrow.

If Ilya wasn't so bone-tired, physically and mentally, watching Shane fold clothes would have turned him feral. Is it possible for too much happiness to exhaust you? Is this the kind of life Ilya will live now?

Can you overdose on oxytocin? 

There is nothing left to do in the house. Their house, Shane reminds himself. Everything's been put away and tidied up. Nancy (their Justice of the Peace) had talked them through the next steps of officially registering their marriage, which is mostly work on her side. Their Record of Solemnization of Marriage, although a keepsake, has been safely filed away. The guests are gone, Mom and Dad took Anya for the night, and he and Ilya are in their bedroom now. Their clothes are folded neatly (for the most part), and all that is left to do is to get in bed, forgive himself for not having the energy to shower, and sleep for a reasonable number of hours. 

More than usual. Shane thinks he deserves that on the day of his wedding. A calm surrender to the rush of their day.

They look a little odd, standing in the corner of their room in just their underwear, holding and staring at each other. This is the first time he’s been in this position with Ilya, and it hasn't led to… nefarious activities. 

Wow, marriage does change a person.

“Beautiful,” Ilya mutters, watching him adoringly, and Shane can only huff, a little disbelieving, but that's how he usually feels when Ilya showers him with compliments. He’s just biased when it comes to me, Shane thinks helplessly. The best thing he never knew he needed.

He lets his fingers trace over Ilya’s wedding band for a second longer before he escapes from his hold, footsteps taking him towards their washroom, as Ilya continues to call out, undeterred, “Handsome? Pretty?”

Shane snorts. “Okay, Ilya.” God, if anything, Ilya looked magnificent today, striking, radiant as he always manages to look, enough to make the sun jealous. Can the sun get jealous?

“Flawless? Gorgeous. Dapper! Ah—debonair!”

Debonair, Shane mouths to himself, bemused, and he turns around, already asking, “Debonair? Who taught you that word—” he cuts himself off when he notices the space in front of him, where a 6-foot Russian should be standing, is empty. He blinks, and his gaze drops down to Ilya kneeling on the floor, a hesitant smile on his face. 

“Ilya.” Shane's heart thuds, confused. “What are you doing on the floor?” You have no pants on, and this is hardwood, he thinks, you will hurt your knees.

“Shane,” Ilya replies, his eyebrows jumping so far up that they almost disappear behind his curls. 

“Rozanov,” Shane says a little more seriously. 

“Hollander,” Ilya says just as seriously, and Shane is all but ready to haul him back up before—

”I think it is a little unfair that you plagiarized my idea.” Ilya starts.

Shane can feel his gears grinding to a halt in real time. “What?” he says, oh-so-eloquently.

“The proposal? Candles everywhere, big speech. You colonized my idea.” Ilya tells him, matter-of-factly.

Did he drop Ilya on the head while carrying him upstairs?

“I had one dream ever since I was a little boy in Russia. That when I got older, I will propose—”

Shane lowers his head and pinches the bridge of his nose with his right hand. Jesus Christ.

“—very beautifully, to the girl of my dreams.”

Shane drops his hand and narrows his eyes at him. 

“—or boy! Man! The man of my dreams. Person of my dreams, I am bisexual, Hollander,” he says, both hands up in offering.

Shane sighs and fights the twitch of his mouth. God, it’s pathetic how much he loves him. “I am well aware you are bisexual, Rozanov.”

Ilya continues as if he didn't hear him. “I had big dreams, for an amazing proposal with candles, and music and violins and rose petals—”

“I think only half of that sentence is true—”

“But then this Canadian man comes, and he steals my plans. He breaks—no, he shatters my dreams.”

“Uh-huh, so sorry to hear that,” Shane mutters, playing along.

“Yes, it’s very tragic. But it is okay; this man steals my plans, but at least he proposes to me.”

Shane regards him flatly. “Who else would I propose to, Ilya?”

“So it is okay. Because this man is the biggest asshole I know.” Ilya says, his eyes sparkling with mischief. 

Shane’s mouth falls open, indignant, as if he didn't call Ilya an asshole, too, 10 minutes ago. “What the fuck—”

“And he is so competitive. And always trying to show me up.” Ilya complains.

“So are you!” Shane argues, crossing his arms.

“And he talks to me about hockey like I am not the best hockey player myself. And he will not have sex with me until Property Brothers is finished because he is obsessed with houses and buildings—”

“Oh my god—”

“He emotionally blackmails me about my smoking, and he makes disgusting protein smoothies for me because he might be trying to poison me slowly—”

Shane is going to kill him. “You said you liked the new kiwi recipe—”

“He reads The New Yorker because he is very boring, and he folds even his socks when he puts them away because he has OCD—”

“I do not have OCD—”

“And he is, maybe, more kind to me than he is to himself,” Ilya tells him, his voice going hushed. 

Shane’s heart skips a beat, and his mouth immediately clicks shut. What?

“He loves me very much, more than I deserve, despite everything.” Ilya continues, his smile shaky, hazel-blue eyes gleaming, and how familiar that gleam is, the same look he gave Shane during their ceremony. Ilya looks as if he can’t believe his own words. Like, he still hasn't wrapped his head around Shane’s never-ending barrel of love for him.

“Ilya…” Shane chokes out, his protest at the tip of his tongue. Not despite everything, but because of everything.

“It is scary; sometimes, it feels like he knows me more than I know myself. But it's okay, I trust him more than anyone in the world. And he makes me feel like I am the thing he cares most about in the world.”

“You are,” Shane tells him, his voice wavering. Blood rushes to his ears as he steps forward and reaches out, hands interlocking tightly with Ilya’s, their black wedding rings, a match, shining in the ambient light of their room. “More than anything, Ilya, I—ya tebya lyublyuI love you.” Shane finishes, mouth moving around the pronunciation despite how badly his voice is wobbling.

“Ya tebya lyublyuI love you,” Ilya replies gently, the corner of his eye filling with tears. “Will you do me the honour, Hollander, and marry me?” Ilya asks, sending him a charming little smile, and somehow, a hint of nervousness beneath him. And Shane kind of wants to bonk him in the head for it because—

“We’re already married, Ilya; it happened just a few hours ago. Did you forget?” He lets out a watery chuckle.

Ilya’s smile widens for a second before he morphs it into an exaggerated frown. “So you will not? You are rejecting my proposal?”

Shane laughs even harder. “We’re already—oh my god, you don't even have a ring!”

Ilya tugs their intertwined hands, like a little puppy whining for attention. “Yes or no, Hollander?

He is so utterly silly, and Shane is equally smitten with him. “Yes,” he says, voice full of mirth, blinking rapidly to dispel the wetness in his eyes, “Yes, Rozanov, I accept your proposal.”

Ilya whoops to the ceiling in celebration, his voice echoing in the room, and he grins so hard Shane can see all of his teeth shining back at him. He finally gets off the floor, and Shane wastes no time pulling him in for a bruising kiss, laughter and tears pressed between them. 

They pull away, foreheads resting against each other, their breaths mingling. “I do not have a proposal ring,” Ilya whispers, “but I hope you will accept this,” he says. Shane’s eyes fly open, and he watches through blurry vision as Ilya unclasps his Crucifix. 

This time, he knows for sure his heart skipped a beat. He doesn't think this much arrhythmia is good for his health. His eyes must be playing tricks on him. “Ilya?”

Ilya doesn't say anything further, his hands moving with determination as he removes the chain from around his neck and places it around Shane’s instead. His breath catches in his throat, his eyes opening in part alarm, as Ilya moves to lock it behind him. 

The gold settles over his chest, still warm from Ilyas' body heat, and Shane’s hands move of their own accord to press his fingers over its irregular shape, like he needs tangible proof that it's there. His eyes move back and forth between Ilya’s bare chest and then down to his own, now the resident of something he feels entirely too unworthy of. 

“Now she will protect you, just like she's always protected me,” Ilya whispers, fingers tracing the edges Shane is not touching. 

And what is Shane even supposed to say to that? How can he begin to verbalize what he’s feeling right now? How does he tell his husband, in nice terms, that he is insane? That Ilya says Shane loves him too much and cares for him too much, but how can it ever be too much, enough to compete, when Ilya’s love and sacrifice translate into actions that have his heart beating at triple speed, his body melting under the worship, his mind allowed to float in a glow of safety. 

Words fail him. Everything is failing him right now. So instead, he lets himself fall forward into Ilya’s personal space, which he has squatter's rights to: mine, mine, mine. 

You are mine. 

They wrap themselves around each other, pull the other close, arms locked as if daring someone to try to pry them apart. 

For too long, Shane has lived his life missing Ilya at different moments in his life. The art of being casual was lost between them from the get go.  Once upon a time, he missed him and figured the pleasure of sex was all that he was craving. Years into it, when he couldn't run from his feelings anymore but still had no name for it, he pretended it was the intimacy of their connection that he was missing. 

When they finally gave their bond a name, and he didn't have to fake anymore, but still had to hide from everyone else what Ilya meant to him, he missed him then. Between late-night calls and weeks apart, and miles away from each other, he missed him desperately. 

Shane’s an only child; his parents raised a good kid, taught him to work hard, be kind, be good, and be the best of the best. 

He was taught how to share. His toys, his games, his food. He would share his lead pencils when the kid next to him would lose his own for the umpteenth time that week. Even though, secretly, he didn't want to because Shane knew he'd never get it back. When the kids at the park would ask for a turn on the swing after Shane barely got a chance himself, he would still let them because Mom said that was the nice thing to do.

Even his hockey—his life and passion and identity, what he is good at and meant to do, something Shane truly loves—was never fully his. Shared with the whole world, entertainment and representation. 

Ilya, another thing in his life, another love in his life. Completely his, and he is Ilya’s.

Shane knows how to share, in theory. He was taught by his parents. But he never claimed to be good at it. 

He thinks he yearned for Ilya enough, even while being in a relationship with him, and he is so fucking happy that he never has to do that again, not if he can help it. Let the whole world see how bad Shane is at sharing.

“I love you,” Shane mumbles into the heat of his skin, a declaration, a reminder.

“I love you, too,” Ilya says back easily, into the warmth of their embrace, a reply, an acceptance.