how are your lungs? are they in pain? || read on ao3
Ilya Rozanov smelled sweet.
Shane had expected Ilya to smell like Axe body spray or Old Spice Mountain something or Paco Rabanne whatever the fuck. But no. Underneath the tobacco smoke and the salt of his sweat, he smelled like freshly cut grass and lavender and lilies. It wasn't the oily and a little stale scent of a perfume, it was fresh - inhaling near Rozanov's neck was like smelling a garden. Shane found it puzzling and weirdly endearing.
illicit affairs and clandestine meetings and longing stares || read on ao3
The staff was discreet, guests registered under fake names, the luxurious rooms were paid for in cash.
"What's the name on the reservation?" Ilya's voice through the phone was a little deeper and soothing.
"Holden."
Or Ilya and Shane meet halfway between Boston and Montreal with the explicit purpose of fucking. And roleplay a bit - for enrichment.
(now under the cut because ao3 is fighting for her life)
The staff was discreet, guests registered under fake names, the luxurious rooms were paid for in cash. Still, their first time going to the hotel, Shane was terrified.
"I already made the reservation but it's not too late to back out," he said, rubbing his forehead anxiously.
"Shane, there's politicians cheating on their wives, famous actors having orgies. We're least interesting people there," Ilya appeased him, his voice through the phone a little deeper and soothing. "We're okay?"
"Yeah, okay," Shane exhaled.
"You're sure?" he softened his tone even more in a way that reminded Shane of their first time fucking. 'You still want?' Giving him an out, silently letting him know that he was in charge.
"Yes," Shane said, steadier this time. He really wanted to see Ilya more often and if this was the way to do it then yes, he would drive to the middle of buttfuck nowhere to meet him in a dubious, uber expensive hotel. "Yes, I'm sure."
"Okay. What's the name on reservation?"
"Holden."
He could almost hear Ilya raising his eyebrows, teasing. "Not so different from your real last name. You know purpose of fake names, yes?"
Shane squeezed his eyes shut in embarrassment. "I panicked, okay? I started saying my actual last name and-"
"And what is my name?" Ilya asked. It sounded like he was enjoying the prospect of playing pretend way more than Shane.
"Holden?" Shane scrunched his face in confusion. "You said people pretended to be married."
"So I took your last name?" Ilya's obnoxious grin was audible.
"I'm hanging up on you, for the record," Shane feigned annoyance and hung up, knowing well Ilya was chuckling fondly in his home in Boston.
~
"Mr Holden," the manager at the front desk greeted Ilya with a soft smile. "So glad to see you again."
"You too," Ilya replied.
The manager offered him a key card. "Let us know if you need anything. Room service, fresh towels..."
"Will let you know. Thank you."
The decor was old money neoclassical, catering to their White House clientele, no doubt. His first time there, Ilya had grimaced at the way the molding reminded him of his father's house. Now, it felt safe - not like Shane's cottage or his apartment but nice, familiar.
He opened the door and found Shane, sat on the armchair, watching some tennis match intently, his posture tense.
"Shane?"
"Hey," he said absently.
"You okay?" Ilya asked.
"Mmm."
He was upset and shutting him out. It wasn't the first time it happened but it caught Ilya off guard.
"Okay. I'm taking bath. We can talk after," Ilya said a little curtly and walked inside the bathroom, taking his silk shirt off as he went, leaving the door open. He waited idly for the tub to fill.
Without warning, Shane burst inside. He grabbed Ilya by the waist and held him from behind.
"What-?"
Shane pressed his face to Ilya's nape, breathing him in, messy kisses on his neck and shoulders, hands possessive on his hips. Ilya leaned into it, letting himself be guided until he was flush against the wall, his cheek pressing on the cold tiles. The feeling of Shane's body caging him was unfamiliar but thrilling, his breath was uneven against Ilya's neck, making him shiver.
Shane flipped Ilya again to face him, knocking the wind out of him in his urgency. He rushed to unbutton his trousers, doing just enough to free his cock.
"What-?" Ilya was interrupted by his own moan when Shane dropped to his knees and took him in his mouth, sucking his cock eagerly. "Shane. Fuck-" he dragged the vowels - he sounded wrecked.
Usually, Shane would look up, his brown eyes pleading for Ilya's approval. Now, his eyes were shut, his head moving as if possessed by something feral, knowing Ilya was losing his mind by the tremor of his thighs. When Ilya tried to cup his head, Shane grabbed his wrists and pushed them out of the way. Ilya resorted to bracing against the wall as his knees buckled.
"Shane. Let go. I'm gonna-" he managed.
Shane let go of his cock just in time to have Ilya come on his face, his brown eyes hazy and his fingers grabbing hard onto Ilya's thighs.
"Fuck."
They were both breathing hard, and stayed frozen in place until the droplets of cum on Shane's face started falling to the floor. He squeezed Ilya's thighs one last time and got up to get cleaned up at the sink. He washed his face methodically, looking in the mirror and avoiding Ilya's glance.
"Shane?"
He was drying his face with a luscious, monogrammed towel and hid his face there.
"Mmm?"
"Bad day?"
"What makes you say that?" Shane asked, his voice shaky and muffled.
"You're angry," Ilya stated.
Finally, finally, Shane looked up. "I'm not-" his knuckles were white with how forcefully he was squeezing the towel. "Okay, yes, I had a bad day."
"Tell me," Ilya sat on the edge of the bathtub, scalding hot and nearly full now.
"The rookies, they were talking shit about Scott at the end of practice."
"Hunter?" Ilya confirmed.
Shane nodded. "The fucking shit they said, Ilya..." his brow was furrowed and he looked a little pale. Ilya reached out for his hand and squeezed it. "It made me so mad. So fucking mad. And I told them off. And I told them they couldn't say shit like that again, ever."
"But?" Ilya prompted.
"I also wanted to hit them. I wanted to break their noses. Really make them scared to say anything like that again," Shane confessed flatly.
"I could do that for you," Ilya offered. "When is next game between us?"
Shane shook his head. "It's okay," he lied. "Take your bath. I'll try to, uh, go back to normal in the meantime."
He let go of Ilya's hand and walked back, the TV humming indistinctly.
~
Ilya got out of the bathroom just as the bellboy was placing their dinner on the table.
"Steak. Medium rare with salad for you and rare with fries for Mr Holden. Right?"
"Yes. Did you remember-?"
"Cold ginger ale and Coke," the bellboy said.
Shane smiled. "Exactly," he glanced at the TV and let out a disappointed sound that caught the bellboy's attention.
"You got a favorite?" he asked amicably.
"Federer," Shane said automatically. "You?"
"Nadal, I think. He's younger, stronger."
"But not as fast," Shane contradicted. "Especially on grass."
The bellboy hummed in agreement, clearly not as invested as Shane was with the match. "How's Mr Holden's sister?"
"Better," Shane mumbled. "She's starting physical therapy in a week. My husband's still helping out, taking care of her kids."
Ilya stayed out of sight, smiling wide at the sound of Shane calling him his husband, even if it was in between all those lies.
"I hope she gets better soon," the bellboy offered kindly. "Let me know if you need anything at all, Mr Holden."
"Thank you," Shane said earnestly and handed him a generous tip, like he always did.
When the door closed, Ilya walked towards Shane, a mischievous smile warming up his face.
"How is my sister?"
"She broke her back months ago, remember? Slow recovery but she's feeling a little better."
Shane sat to eat, stealing a single French fry from Ilya's plate.
"Right, right," Ilya played along, sitting in front of Shane. "And she's widowed-?"
"Divorced. Very ugly business. She got sole custody of the kids, obviously."
"Obviously," repeated Ilya. "And there's three so-"
"Four, if I remember correctly."
"Four kids, fuck, okay. She needs all help she can get," Ilya said, cutting his steak.
"And you're great with kids, Mr Holden," Shane nodded. "So we meet halfway until you can come back home."
"While you are away busy with-"
"My real estate business," Shane said. "In Canada. Someone has to pay the bills."
"I think the words you used were ‘trophy husband,’" Shane teased. "You used to be an underwear model."
Ilya looked a little too pleased at that thought. "Who came up with this backstory?"
"You did, Mr Holden," Shane chuckled. He was being completely honest too. Every time they visited the hotel Ilya came up with some outlandish detail to add to it while making small talk with the staff. "I just keep track of it. Someone has to."
Ilya reached out for Shane's hand and rubbed his knuckles. "How did I get so lucky? Best husband," he said, saccharine sweet and a little mischievous. Shane looked at him lovingly. It was endearing, how much fun Ilya had at playing house with him... "Best sugar daddy."
"You're an asshole," Shane reprimanded lightly.
"You love it."
Ilya savored his dinner and the soft bathrobe he was wearing. Meeting in this hotel was an indulgence but worth every penny in his mind. He liked seeing Shane be spoiled every so often. They ate mostly in silence, Shane sometimes turned to see the match and mumble encouragement.
"Come on!" Shane said under his breath after a particularly contentious point.
"Didn't realize you were still so fond of tennis," Ilya prompted.
"Mmm? Still?"
"You played at boarding school, yes? Tragically weak backhand," Ilya said just to ruffle Shane's feathers.
"Fuck you," Shane replied automatically.
"Not that it matters now. You were injured and now only watch. See other players winning trophies."
Shane faced him, annoyance painted all over his features. "You're trying to make me mad again or something?"
Ilya shrugged. "It was fun. Angry Shane is a good fuck. I liked you pushing me around and being a little mean while you sucked my cock."
Despite his worries at the beginning, Shane realized he liked dressing up for these meetings with Ilya, playing his role, carefully folding his businessman costume before being fucked into the mattress by the only man he had ever loved. And now, the easy way Ilya was talking about what they had done, made Shane feel asphyxiated under the starched collar of his shirt.
"Really?"
He met Ilya's gaze, finding even more hunger, and maybe pride that Shane could still surprise him.
"Yes. Not for every time, of course," Ilya took a swig of his Coke and moved to sit right beside Shane. "Just to spice up marriage, you know? We are boring married couple."
"Not that boring," Shane challenged, his hand going up Ilya's thigh, under his robe and tracing the line of muscle from his knee up his hip and stopping there, listening to his breath halt.
Ilya left his Coke on the table slowly, then started tugging at the buttons of Shane's shirt, the hand on his inner thigh edging forward.
~
Shane's forehead was pressed against the duvet as Ilya thrust inside him at a steady pace, making him moan over and over, dragging out his pleasure, making him wait for it.
"Jesus Christ..." he muffled a groan into the pillow. He could hear his own heartbeat, feel it thrumming on his skin. Beads of sweat fell from Ilya's face on his lower back and he could picture him so clearly: face red, veins bulging, hair an absolute mess, lips pursed as he delayed his own orgasm just to hear Shane beg. And he was finally ready to give him what he wanted: "Ilya, please..."
"Fuck," his rhythm faltered and Shane wanted to scream.
"Pleasepleaseplease..." he sounded pathetic, he knew, maybe that was part of it, knowing Ilya could pull out and leave him wanting but he would never. "Holy shit. Please!"
"I got you, I got you," Ilya reassured him, finally moving faster. Shane clenched around him, feeling like he was melting from pleasure alone. Ilya squeezed Shane's hips forcefully, maybe hard enough to bruise - and that was an arousing thought. "Shane... Are you-?"
"I'm close, I'm so fucking close," he whimpered. Ilya pulled on Shane's hair sharply, a surprised moan bursting from his mouth as he immediately came, shaking with pleasure, pulsing around Ilya's cock.
"Fuck..." he managed to say as he collapsed on top of Shane, shaking and panting, humming with absolute satisfaction.
"Give me a second," he whispered, exhaling then inhaling once again, his entire weight on Shane. Not for the first time Shane wondered if that wasn't where he was always supposed to be, completely enveloped in Ilya Rozanov, safe under his body.
Ilya kissed his shoulder and rolled them to their side, his chest to Shane's back. Shane kissed Ilya's palm and fingers gently. At some point they fell asleep, breaths even and skin dewy. The feeling of stickiness woke Shane up, and he disentangled from Ilya's embrace to take a quick shower. He returned to find Ilya lounging on the bed, talking on the phone.
"I will be back on time tomorrow, Marly. I- Fucking relax, you're not my mother," he said, rubbing his face in annoyance. "Yes, I will tell Montreal girl you said hi. Fuck you. Bye."
To Ilya's absolute mortification, Marleau was the one that came up with it - meeting halfway in a nice hotel.
"I'm gonna say something, okay Roz?" he told Ilya one day after a particularly bad game.
"I'm gonna punch your face, okay Marly?" Ilya parroted back.
"You've been absolutely fucking unbearable for weeks," he said.
"Yes?" Ilya knew he was right, there was no point denying it. "That it?"
"No."
Ilya gestured for him to get on with it.
"I think, correct me if I'm wrong, that you and Montreal girl have gone exclusive?"
Ilya avoided his glance and clenched his jaw. He didn't say anything, he just hummed.
"Happy for you. Really," Marleau said dryly. "But you're a nightmare when you're not getting some."
Ilya inhaled sharply and reminded himself that even though he was seated right now, Marleau was four inches taller than him, had a mean right hook, and was actually his friend.
"Are you done?" Ilya said, clenching his fists. "Was this intervention or just you laughing at me?"
"An intervention. You have a shit ton of cars. Montreal girl can borrow one and you meet twice a month in, I don't know, fucking Vermont?" Marleau offered. "It'll be what? Three hours tops with traffic? You go there, wine her, dine her, fuck her brains out-"
"Marly, shut your fucking-"
"And you come back and win some games."
Ilya pursed his lips. It could work. It could actually work.
He didn't tell Marleau, he couldn't and he wouldn't. But he got better, started scoring and winning again, he wasn't as much of a nightmare. It was embarrassing how much of a guy he was sometimes.
"Hey, Rozanov," Marleau told him a month or two later. "Be careful on the road, okay? I hear the highways to Vermont can be icy this time of year."
"No one fucking asked you, Marly!" Ilya spat.
"You're straight up blushing, bro," he said, patting his shoulder and smiling wide.
Ilya rolled his eyes.
"Marly says hi," Ilya exhaled, grabbing Shane's thigh as soon as he sat beside him on the bed.
"Tell him I said hi back," Shane leaned against the pillows, feeling boneless and exhausted in the best way. "He doesn't suspect anything yet?"
"I think he is happy to feel like fairy godmother and does not care about details," Ilya replied. He squinted with vague interest at the tennis match. "This has gone for too long, yes?" he asked.
"They hold the record for longest tennis final," Shane shrugged. They were in the middle of yet another tie break.
"This is the best part. There's an entire unspoken conversation between them," Shane said softly. "Federer is making him run, see? Tiring him. And Nadal needs to respond quickly, so he doesn't have time to plan."
"But he's stronger," Ilya said.
"A strength he can't always control," as if on cue, the umpire calls an out.
Ilya hummed. "I get that."
"Federer isn't great at serving, I'll give you that. It's either the most amazing ace you've ever seen or-" The umpire called double fault. "That."
"Gets in his head. Obsessed to be perfect, yes?" Ilya said, raising his eyebrows.
"Mhmm."
Shane melted against Ilya, his head on his shoulder. He was so warm.
"Can I ask a question?" Ilya said after a while.
"Sure," Shane closed his eyes contentedly, expecting gentle pillow talk.
"There were boys before me, yes?"
Shane frowned and sat up. "What?"
"Boys you liked, boys you were attracted to. I cannot be first one," Ilya said plainly. "You really married first man you had crush on, Mr Holden?"
"I mean, I guess I liked other guys before," Shane admitted. "But I didn't do anything about it."
"Never?" Ilya tilted his head in disbelief.
"Um, there was this one guy at camp," Shane mumbled. "We were thirteen, I think."
Ilya's face softened at the thought: Shane's face round with baby fat like the old pictures he had seen at his parents' place.
"Was he good hockey player?" Ilya asked gently.
This was the tricky part, Shane thought, because reality always bled in while they were playing pretend.
"Not really," Shane looked down at his hands. "Uh, he was pretty bad to be honest. But he was sweet and he had this big smile... We were friends, I think. Probably my only friend at camp, actually. And I kind of offered to help him. We stayed after practice and ran drills," he glanced at Ilya, who was listening intently. "We were goofing around mostly, racing each other - I'd sometimes let him win."
Ilya chuckled under his breath. "Oh, you really liked him."
"Yeah," Shane sighed. "It was our last day there and I don't know- Maybe I was staring a lot or I hugged him too long... He got all defensive and said: 'What the fuck is wrong with you, Shane? Are you gay or something?' And I guess I didn't answer fast enough because he didn't speak to me again."
Ilya silently interlaced his fingers with Shane's.
"He didn't tell anybody, which was nice of him, I suppose," Shane rubbed his thumb over Ilya's knuckles. "Um, but he ignored me the next year. It didn't feel like we had argued or like he hated me - it was like I didn't exist, like I had never existed."
"Shane..." Ilya said, trying to comfort that heartbroken thirteen year old kid in some small way.
"I think- I think I would have been fine if he had rejected me but he made sure we couldn't be friends either. That hurt. But I learned to be careful: Don't get too close, don't stare, play it safe, keep your heart out of it," he said resolutely.
"What does that say about us?" Ilya asked after a pause.
"Us?"
"About our marriage," Ilya said.
Shane turned to face him, his fingers fixing a couple of stray curls that had fallen on Ilya's forehead.
"You got close without me noticing, worked your way into my heart. And I couldn't stop it. I wanted you there," maybe it was too earnest a thing to say in between rounds of fucking but he had plausible deniability, he was Shane but he was also Mr Holden. And they both loved Ilya. "And you know I could only marry a man I both love and want."
Ilya looked at him with tenderness.
"Glad you asked me to marry," Ilya said after a moment.
"I think it was you who asked."
"You're right," he conceded, and pushed softly Shane to lie down.
He kissed his way down Shane's body, sucking a hickey on his chest, kneading his sides, nibbling softly here and there... Shane hummed contentedly, massaging Ilya's scalp, slowly but surely losing his mind.
"I love you," Ilya pressed a kiss to his sternum. "I love you," then to his stomach. "I love you," another to his hip.
"I love you too, so much, so fucking much," Shane said, his voice getting high and breathy.
And Ilya kissed down his length, messy, open mouthed, full of spit, groaning when Shane pulled on his hair.
"You went fast before," Ilya said, pumping him once just to see him squirm. "Now I want to go slow..."
"You fucking edged me for fifteen minutes while we were fucking," Shane mumbled, no heat behind his complaining, his heart beating hard in anticipation.
"Wasn't that long. And I want to enjoy this. Enjoy you," Ilya punctuated the sentence by taking the head of Shane's cock in his mouth, swirling his tongue and letting go with a pop. "Can I do that? Mmm?"
Shane nodded. "Yes."
Ilya's tongue traced intricate pictures on Shane's skin, every touch lighting him up yet leaving him wanting. Ilya took him in his mouth, deep, steady, then let him go. Pumped him, almost building a rhythm, then stilled his hand. Over and over. After a while, even his exhale made Shane groan. It was torture, it was divine.
"You're being very good," Ilya praised. It would have had more of an impact if Ilya wasn't grinding against the mattress, so turned on by Shane's undoing that he was on the verge of coming too. But Shane was too gone to tease him about it
"Yeah?" he managed, eyes unfocused, a sedated smile on his face.
"So patient," Ilya said, biting the inside of Shane's thighs, feeling him shiver under his touch. "So good."
"Are you gonna make me come now?" Shane asked in a daze.
"Mhmm," Ilya smiled up, catlike. "I think you deserve it. Earned it, yes?"
And Shane nodded and shivered and wondered if he could come from Ilya telling him he was good and nothing more. He didn't have time to even voice that thought because Ilya took his cock as deep as it could go - throaty, obscene sounds filling the room. He carded his fingers through Ilya's curls, pressing gently, silently begging him for his release. And Ilya moaned around his cock, actively humping the duvet now. Shane was mesmerized by the way Ilya's muscles moved and tensed, how beautiful he looked right now, lost in wanting him, how stunning he probably looked every single time he fucked Shane.
"Oh, fuuuck..."
Shane squeezed his eyes shut. His ears were ringing, his heart was thumping and Ilya's mouth was still sucking his cock, cleaning him up, drowning lewd groans as he finished on his stomach and the Egyptian cotton sheets on the bed.
"Fuck, Shane," he said sternly when he climbed up the bed to settle on the pillow next to his. Stern like he was saying 'look at the needy, pathetic mess you make of me.' But he didn't complain, he extended his arm to caress Shane's hair and look at him adoringly. Shane kissed the inside of his forearm, the closest bit of skin available.
"See? Not boring," Shane said, a satisfied smile lighting up his face.
Ilya chuckled. He moved to bring him in for a kiss but Shane winced in pain.
"Fucking- Ow!"
The watch Ilya was wearing had snagged on Shane's hair and Ilya cursed his commitment to the bit. He didn't wear watches, he had no business wearing a fucking Rolex to bed but it made him feel fancy and spoiled, like Shane had bought him - his Russian underwear model husband - nice things to make up for his long absences. Playing pretend was so fucking fun until shit like this happened.
"It's really stuck," Ilya said, keeping his wrist close to Shane's crown as he tugged to no avail.
"Ow, don't move!" he slapped Ilya's hand. "Maybe they have scissors at the front desk?"
"Yes, let's go downstairs like this," Ilya deadpanned. They were both naked and clearly had just fucked.
"Okay, but we need to cut it with something..." Shane looked around the room, his eyes landing on the table and the steak knives that were still there. "Jesus Christ, okay, this is probably the worst idea I've ever had."
~
Shane was back on the armchair running his fingers over the bit of hair that felt short and choppy, barely paying attention to the agonizing fifth set of the tennis match on TV.
The lock beeped and Ilya walked inside the room, flowy shirt and tailored trousers back on. The damn watch was safely out of reach on the bedside table.
"They had shears at front desk," he announced cheerfully.
"It's a little too late for that," Shane sulked.
"I can make it even," he offered. "If you want."
Shane exhaled. "It can't get worse, I guess."
"Love that you trust me so much, Mr Holden," Ilya said sardonically and set a towel around Shane's neck.
Shane tried to shut his brain off because it was pretty pointless to imagine specific scenarios in which his uneven haircut led to everyone in his team finding out that he regularly fucked the captain of the Boston Raiders.
"It's only hair. No need for panic attack," Ilya said, his fingers were soothing on Shane's scalp but the sound of the shears was jarring. Ilya's hands weren't shaking as he cut, which was a relief in itself. "Can I help?"
"I'm just a little overwhelmed," Shane inhaled deep. "Can you tell me something? Anything."
Ilya hesitated. "Want me to tell you about how I almost became boxer?"
"What?"
"It was summer and my father hated that I was at home being lazy. No hockey practice, so I started boxing lessons. And I was good. Scary good at it."
Shane believed it, he had seen Ilya with his gloves off on the ice, snarling as he landed punch after punch, knuckles bruised but never broken.
"Did you like it?"
"A little," he admitted. "Liked letting everything out. Liked feeling like I could protect myself if anyone found out about me."
"But?" Shane prompted.
"My father loved seeing me win fights. And I could see life where I made him proud and became police like him and Alexei," Ilya cleared his throat. "It was nightmare. And hockey... If I was good enough, I could get out."
"Shit," Shane didn't know what else to say. "What happened? When you quit boxing?"
"He broke my nose. Left hook," Ilya said matter of fact. "And I could fight back now. But I didn't. I took it, like a man."
"But you weren't a man. You were a kid," Shane said, his chest aching for young Ilya. "You must have been so scared."
"Mmm," he didn't go on, or maybe couldn't. But he caressed the length of Shane's hair and kissed the top of his head and maybe that was enough. "There. Beautiful again."
"Thanks," Shane took Ilya's hand and pressed his cheek to it.
On the TV, Federer fell to his knees as he won the match, the stoic front he put on the entire time melting a little. He met Nadal at the net, they both were sweaty and exhausted as they hugged.
"It's almost like Nadal is happy for him," Ilya said.
"They play doubles sometimes. They're friends, I think," Shane explained.
"They make each other better," Ilya stated.
"Yeah," Shane smiled. "And Federer's retiring soon, so... I guess it feels like goodbye every time they play against each other."
"That's depressing," Ilya winced and turned off the TV right as Federer started praising Nadal and thanking him for a great match. "He's kind of hot, no?" he added lightly.
Shane rolled his eyes. "You do have a type."
~
While Shane got dressed and ready for the road, Ilya saw that the bellboy took another huge tip for taking away their trays of food.
"Thank you very much, Mr Holden," he said brightly. "You can let us know ahead of time for your next visit. We can chill champagne or bring flowers for the room..."
"That's nice. But not necessary. When you've been married for a while, like we have, it is not priority."
"Everyone likes flowers every now and then," he offered kindly.
Ilya smiled.
"My husband... He takes me seriously. Listens to me. That's more important than flowers or champagne."
"I think I'll write that down."
Shane waited for the door to close, hiding a fond smile as he tied his shoes, the fancy pair he wore only to award shows and these meetings.
"Don't forget your watch," Shane teased.
"I could never. Your gift for our third-"
"Fourth anniversary. Blue topaz," Shane pointed out the embellishments around the clock face as he helped Ilya put it on. "I'll do better this year. It's sapphire, I think," he promised and Ilya couldn't help but bring him in for a long kiss.
"Drive safe."
"You drive safe. I have the sensible, boring car, remember?"
Shane stole another kiss from Ilya and watched him leave. It was his turn to wait twenty minutes to go downstairs and check out. Twenty minutes to wonder how different his life could be if he was free to love Ilya Rozanov in the open, free to buy him flowers and champagne, free to call him his husband and kiss him at center ice after winning a game.
It is highly unlikely that I'll write anything - this is just a random concept that came to me in a daydream. Enjoy some loose thoughts under the cut though.
Donna as a Dance Mom™ would be perfectly in character. She's constantly reviving her glory days as a ballerina on the corps of Chicago ballet. She resents her children for making her give up her career, potentially giving Nat body image and self esteem issues, and pushing Mikey and Carmy past their breaking point… Also her whole aura screams cunty ballet teacher cursing and smoking during class.
Mikey takes over Donna's studio after a career ruining injury (and subsequently gets addicted to painkillers).
Carmy gets a scholarship to study ballet in Europe, then returns to climb the ranks and eventually become a principal dancer in the New York ballet. The plays on his name and the ballet Carmen are fucking exhausting and end in a shouting match more than once.
New York asshole boss is an old school ballet master. I'm picturing Vincent Cassel in The Black Swan, vicious and overbearing, giving Carmy shit for his height, and being a "Sergei Polunin wannabe" with his tattoos and his smoking.
Sydney dances from a young age, inspired by her mom. She gets very badly injured and steps aside for a while. She followed Carmy's career closely and saw him dance on her trip to New York. After a miraculous recovery from her injury, she takes up dance again and joins the studio - Carmy sees her as the only one on his level. Her dream is being a prima ballerina (and dancing a pas de deux with the Carmy Berzatto wouldn't hurt either).
Tina is a self taught dancer and Mikey brings her in to teach beginners classes and ballroom dance.
Richie is just there (canon compliant lmao). He picks up some stuff over the years but not enough to teach. He eventually becomes essential to running the place, booking venues and running social media for the studio as it grows into a high level academy (think Eva Nys on TikTok)
Nat abandoned dance completely right as she could have turned professional (Donna never forgives her) but she returns as a manager for the studio once things start to get serious after Carmy's return.
Hold On To Spinning Around, Confetti Falls To The Ground || AO3
Ice Skating AU: Eddie is an up-and-coming singles skater. Richie skates in pairs with Bev. What are the chances of them meeting in the Denboroughs’ dingy hockey rink?
