My first Hollanov!! I am. Nervous. Luckily, this benefited from the amazing beta talents of my lovely friend @elskanellis. Written for @basicallyahedgehog, who always makes me feel like a winner. It'll go on AO3 later, but for now, enjoy!! cw: hurt/comfort, mention of homophobia
“I can hear you thinking, you know.”
Ilya snickers when he sees Shane startle out of his skin, eyes now wide open in the pitch-dark hotel room. He watches Shane turn from lying on his back to his side, facing Ilya. “I thought you were asleep.”
Ilya sighs dramatically, shakes his head. “No. I am awake. Your thoughts are so loud I think the neighbors can hear."
"Shut up," Shane mumbles, turning over onto his other side away from him.
"Nooo, come back," Ilya whines. The sheets shift as he moves forward and holds Shane so his back is against Ilya's chest. "There. Better. Now, talk to me, moy lyubov."
"Is not stupid if it is worrying you this much." Ilya's hand comes up to pet Shane's hair. "I know we can beat Montreal with our eyes closed, but we should get some sleep."
"But that's the thing. What if...what if we don't?"
"Don't what? Don't sleep?"
"Don't win." Shane's voice is quiet, nearly a whisper.
Ilya sucks in a breath and then sits up, supporting himself on his forearm to look at Shane beneath him. "What?"
"What if we lose, Ilya?" Shane looks up at him, eyes shining. "What if we have a bad night? I love our team, but the chemistry is still adjusting since I joined. What if we're not ready? And—I played on the Metros for a decade! I thought I'd retire with them, and now I have to play against them for the first time. I know they'll be aggressive and horrible. And homophobic. Hayden and J.J. can only do so much. The rest of them will be out for blood, and they'll probably target you and me the most. As much as that worries me, I know you can handle it. I can take it, too—the chirps and the hard checks and the booing fans—all of it, but only if we win." Shane closes his eyes, lets the tears fall. "I-I need to win."
Ilya's heart cracks open. "Shane, moy solnyshko." Ilya's at a loss for words. He's seen Shane in distress before; seen him sad, anxious, angry, disappointed. And he's seen him nervous before games, but he's never seen him like this: never seen him in tears about the idea of losing a regular season game.
Ilya bends down, kisses the tears from Shane's cheeks while he searches for the English words he needs. He runs his lips across Shane's face: under his eyes, the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth, the middle of his chin. Shane lets him, tries to even out his own breathing.
Finally, Ilya gently cups his cheek, silently encouraging him to open his eyes. Shane does, and Ilya swallows against the lump in his throat at the pain he sees there.
"Shane, first of all, we will not lose."
"No. Listen to me. We. Will. Not. Lose."
Shane frowns. "You can't know that."
"Yes, I can. Look at the stats. You and I are the two best players in the league. Is there a single player on the Metros who holds a candle to either of us?"
"And how have the Metros been playing since they shit the bed and let you go?"
Shane cracks a small smile. "Not well."
"Wrong. The word you are looking for is dogshit. They have been playing like dogshit. So dogshit I almost feel bad for Pike."
"But nothing. Shane, you have spent every moment since Yuna laced up your first pair of skates obsessing over hockey. You know the game better than anyone. I don't need to tell you that the odds are overwhelmingly in our favor. Only worry I have about tomorrow is whether the team will mind if I suck you off in the showers after."
Predictably, Shane cringes at the thought. "Ilya—"
"I'd tell you just be quiet, but I know how loud you get when I—"
Ilya chuckles. "Shane. Malysh. They do not stand a single chance. We are going to destroy them. Send them home crying. But do you want to know a secret?"
"If, by some extremely ridiculous chance, they somehow, someway, got bit by radioactive spiders, or switched bodies with us overnight, or—"
"You've been watching too many movies."
"Or they get three wishes from a genie. And if we lose. It won't matter. Not at all. You know why?"
Ilya bends down further. He holds his upper body so that Shane can feel the edge of the ring strung on the chain around Ilya's neck.
"Because we've already won," Ilya says, low and warm in the space between them. "You and I. Win or lose, we will go back to the locker room, together, with a team that supports us—loves us, like we love them. And at the end of the night, you and I will go home together. To a house and a dog that we have together. To a life that we made together. That we earned together."
Shane sniffles, and then he leans up, captures Ilya's lips in a gentle but firm kiss that sends tingles down Ilya's spine. When they break apart, Shane says, "You're right. They can't win. I already did, when you married me." And Ilya has no choice but to kiss him again after that.
Several kisses later, Ilya lies back down behind Shane and wraps his arms around his torso. "Go to sleep now. Dream of me hoisting Montreal's heads on a spike."
"First, ew. Second, not—"
"Yes, yes, fine, except Pike and Boiziau. They can live. But we will murder the rest of them tomorrow, and then we will come back to our room and have hot victory sex all night."
Shane, feeling his body finally relax, settles further into Ilya's arms. "Sounds good, baby,"
"Ya tebya lyublyu," Ilya whispers, pressing a kiss to the back of Shane's neck.
"I love you too," Shane whispers, smiling, cheeks warm with victory.
