Chapter Text
Shane had lied when he said he liked hot places. At least, he hated LA. Still, they occasionally had to play there and Ilya thrived in the sun. He spent as much time in the pool as he could, allowing Shane to slather his fair skin in the highest factor sunscreen he could find and goofing around happily. At times like this he could imagine how they would be when they retired. It would be fun to travel only when and where they wanted, fun to enjoy long days by the pool or beach, fun to have cocktails at midday and sex in the afternoon because they felt like it. It might even be fun to have a couple of kids of their own. Ilya daydreamed that he would play with them in the pool while Shane fretted about sunscreen and keeping everyone hydrated, caring for their little family with all his sweet, anxious heart.
Only after raising the cup a few more times, Ilya promised himself. Three wins to match Shane’s three cups with Montreal, to prove to those losers what they had lost when they made Shane leave. And to prove to everyone else that he, Ilya Fucking Rozonov, could turn the worst team in the league into the best.
That afternoon’s game was a wash. LA fought like demons for every point, and the game ended in nail-biting penalty shootouts that finally went to the home team. Ilya and Shane dragged their bruised bodies back to the hotel room, Shane bitching every step of the way. He had to go out that evening to Rose’s birthday party, and he was dreading going alone. Nonetheless he dutifully ordered up bags of ice and made Ilya sit in a freezing bath to soothe his sore shoulder and multiple bruises, and pressed gentle kisses to Ilya’s blooming black eye. It was not the first time Ilya had several fights during a game and it would not be the last. Shane too had bruising across his ribs from a high stick and a few contusions on his inner thighs. Ilya pouted. Shane should only have bruises on his thighs from Ilya himself, but it would be a few days before either of them were able to stand that kind of activity.
He gingerly wrapped himself in a bathrobe and made Shane model several outfits, finally letting him leave in clothes he deemed fashionable enough. Rose had chosen a small, quiet restaurant but many of her X-Force co-stars would be there and Ilya guessed it would get rowdy. Sure enough, within a couple of hours he woke to his phone buzzing. Photos had started appearing on socials and Ilya idly flicked through them on his burner accounts. Most of them focused on the famous superhero movie stars enjoying a night out together, with Rose cuddling up to Miles and another actor who Ilya knew to be closeted because both had hit on Shane at different times. Miles had even offered himself as a third, to Ilya’s enduring annoyance.
Ilya giggled to himself. His husband was perched at the periphery of most of the pictures, near Rose but also clearly not part of the movie star pack with their coke-bright eyes, heavy makeup and eerily white teeth. Shane was so pretty and wholesome in comparison. Ilya knew that Shane was missing his two front teeth and although his implants were perfect, and Ilya himself had lost a third of his teeth, he was still self-conscious about it. Shane offered his usual cautious, close-mouthed smile to the camera. Then the pictures changed to a club where everyone was doing shots. Ilya grinned at a video of Shane throwing back a shot and making a face like a disgruntled kitten. By now commenters had understood that Shane Hollander, Rose Landry’s ex-boyfriend, was with her. They were pictured together dancing, Rose’s arms tangled around his neck. More shots. Rose draping herself over Shane’s broad shoulders from one side and Miles on the other. More shots. Shane grinning goofily at someone past the camera, shot glass in hand, one muscled arm flung over Rose’s slim frame. Next to him was an actor whose character shot laser beams from his eyes. The actor’s own eyes seemed perfectly fine and were glued to where Shane’s shirt was riding up to flash his impressive abs. That photo was very popular across every platform.
How many gay actors were there, anyway? Ilya groused to himself and turned off his phone. Maybe he should have gone out with Shane. Certainly he could have dealt with his injuries the way he had done when he was young – a handful of painkillers and enough vodka to kill a horse. Fucking and fighting the pain away had worked the entire time he played for Boston. But now he was a married man, and Shane would not have allowed it. Ilya took vitamins now. He ate vegetables. He went to therapy regularly because Shane had built his own life around the heretofore novel concept that Ilya Rozanov would live past his thirties, and Ilya couldn't bear to let him down. Other players sometimes teased Ilya for being whipped but the fact was, his husband’s fussing felt like care to a man who had grown up with none. He would never do anything to jeopardise Shane loving on him in that very Hollander way of his. Besides, Ilya could guess that his husband was probably only thirty minutes away from making an Irish exit from Rose's party.
Sure enough, an hour later Ilya woke from a light nap to the sound of someone sloppily trying to break into his hotel room. He shuffled out of bed carefully to let Shane in. The other man staggered into the room looking far worse than Ilya felt. Despite his protests to the contrary, Shane was an absolute lightweight. Ilya grinned as the hotel keycard was flung to the floor followed by Shane’s jacket, his shoes, his shirt, his phone, and one sock. During his wobbly striptease, Shane kept up a steady stream of complaints about the LA traffic, the food at the restaurant, the noisy music at the club, the vapid actors he had met, the horrible shots, the lack of ginger ale, and the traffic again. He told Ilya everything he already knew because apparently Shane had forgotten he was famous. His words were slurring and his eyes were bloodshot, and when he cut himself off mid-sentence with a confused expression, Ilya stepped smartly to the side so his husband could run into the bathroom.
To the sound of Shane emptying his stomach, Ilya called room service for ice, soda water, and pain killers. He winced as he went in – Shane had slightly missed the toilet – but the good news was this was a hotel. Ilya wouldn’t have to clean up as Shane had done many times for him at home. Getting older was no joke and it had taken Ilya a little while to get his drinking under control enough not to put his husband through that particular situation. It was definitely Ilya’s turn, he reminded himself as he gently pushed back Shane’s hair. The other man whined pathetically, heaving a couple more times before struggling up to wash his face. Shane hated throwing up, and brushed his teeth as if they had personally insulted him. There was sick on his jeans but his disgruntled pout was so pretty that Ilya could have taken him right there if Shane wasn’t still horribly drunk.
Ilya managed to strip and bundle his husband into bed, laughing along as Shane switched to verbally eviscerating every player on the LA team with drunken, bitchy accuracy. Hockey fans were everywhere so Ilya took care to generously tip room service and the cleaner who came and went discreetly. He normally tipped $81 but made an exception for the cleaner, who smiled happily as she left with $810. After a couple more visits to the bathroom and a very grumpy wash up under a cold shower, Shane finally wore himself out.
Ilya sighed fondly as he settled down next to his snoring husband to get some sleep. His ribs were sore and his eye hurt like a bitch, but not so much that he couldn’t appreciate the view. Even now Shane looked gorgeous, limbs loose and hair fanned over the pillow. Tomorrow Ilya would get an earful from Coach Weibe about letting Shane set such a bad example. The flight home was going to be horrible. The paps would probably be waiting for them in Ottawa to capture them in all their beaten up glory. The team would tease Shane mercilessly, which would make him even shittier. Shane hated losing and he hated being hungover. And the boys still hadn’t learned that it was all fun and games till Shane made them do bag skates till they puked. They would secretly complain to their captain to control his man, and Ilya would point out that he himself was not exempt from the punishment so maybe everyone should learn to shut the fuck up. Bood and Barrett would chirp that they weren't going to be told to shut up by Ilya Fucking Rozanov, and then they would all drag their asses back to whatever horrible conditioning exercise Shane had devised.
Ilya would also make some discreet enquiries about the lasers-for-eyes guy, make sure Rose let him know the score. Shane was a pain in the ass like this, but he was Ilya’s pain in the ass.