Chapter Text
Shane and J.J.'s flight back to Montreal isn't until 10 that morning, they had both known that it would be tight, that they would be praying to the hockey gods that there wouldn't be any traffic keeping them from arriving at the arena in time for an afternoon skate and team meeting before their game against Tampa Bay that night. But Shane wanted to spend as much time as possible with Cliff. He'd told J.J. that he didn't have to wait for Shane, that he could take an early fight and not have to race the clock, but J.J. had insisted on flying back with Shane since they had flown in together.
When Shane had booked his flight home, he had imagined sleeping in and a lazy breakfast in the Boston Commons. He had foolishly let himself get swept up in a fantasy and had ignored the very real possibility that their morning together would be like this. He hadn't anticipated them waking up before the sun had even risen over the harbor, or he and Cliff sitting silently on opposite sides of his massive dining room table while they sipped at their cups of coffee—black for Shane, a couple of pumps of tiramisu flavored syrup and a splash of heavy cream for Cliff. As much as Shane doesn't want them to be sitting here in uncomfortable silence, he knows they need to have this conversation. Shane can't return to Montreal with a mûmak-sized elephant lingering between them.
He knows that Cliff had said that they were okay, but he's still anxious as hell that having this conversation will change his mind. He loves Cliff, he wants to be with Cliff, and he doesn't want Cliff to hate him.
Neither of them says anything for a long time. They sit quietly, watching the sun break over the harbor, painting the sky and the water in washes of pinks and oranges as they sip their coffee in uncomfortable silence.
He thinks that Cliff must be as terrified to start this conversation as Shane himself is. But one of them needs to start this conversation, and he knows that it has to be him, he knows he probably should have started it long ago, so Shane sets down his cup and tugs the sleeves of his hoodie down so that they cover his hands before clearing his throat.
"So I'm assuming you have a lot of questions," he said softly, avoiding Cliff's gaze.
"Yeah, a few," Cliff replied equally soft, tearing his eyes away from watching the sunrise so that he was looking at Shane. He swallowed thickly before taking a deep breath and replying,
"You can ask me anything. I'll be completely honest." Cliff nodded, twisting the cup he was holding in his hand, biting his lip nervously. He doesn't say anything for a while, and Shane doesn't push him to say anything. He doesn't know where to start, and he doesn't want to risk answering questions that his boyfriend doesn't want the answers to.
"You told me that you and your ex first started hooking up right before the start of your rookie season," Cliff finally replied, breaking eye contact with Shane, staring down into his coffee cup as he tried to find the right words. Shane nodded, verifying that everything he'd told Cliff back in July when they'd been curled up on opposite ends of his couch. It had been late, the moon reflecting off the lake while they'd read in the soft golden cottage light. The windows had been left open, letting in the soundtrack of Lanaudière's wild life. They'd wound up talking about their past relationships that night. He'd told Cliff that he'd only ever been with one other man after Cliff had confessed that Shane was the only person he'd been in an honest-to-god relationship with. He'd been as honest as he could be. He told Cliff as much as he possibly could about his relationship with Ilya in vague details, making sure to omit his name and any identifying details.
"And you said that your ex—Rozy, ghosted you in January." Shane nodded again.
"Yeah," he whispered softly. Cliff scrubbed a hand over his stubble-covered jaw, exhaling softly.
"Have you talked to him since then?" Cliff asked, glancing up at Shane momentarily before looking back down into his cup as he could divine the story of Shane and Ilya's history from the milky brown liquid like tea leaves. He took a deep breath, fidgeting in his chair before nodding uselessly. It's not like Cliff was able to see the nod.
"Once," he murmured, making Cliff look back up suddenly. He feels like he is playing the most tragic game of hockey he's ever played, with how he is able to telegraph the question Cliff is about to ask before he even opens his mouth. "He sent me flowers the night I flew home from Boston for Training Camp—"
"Yeah, I knew about that," Cliff interrupted him bitterly. Shane raised an eyebrow inquisitively, going silent, waiting for Cliff to expand upon that, but Cliff just shook his head, waving his hand in a way that would be dismissive if Cliff were anyone else. "Later," Cliff said before taking his own deep breath. "So you talked to Roz the night you got home?" Shane shook his head.
"No!" Shane shouted without meaning to, he took another deep breath to calm his racing heart before his anxiety could turn into a full-on panic attack, and he ruined his relationship. "No," he says more calmly this time, taking another deep breath. "The next day, after you told him about our relationship. He called me about five minutes after you got off the phone to try and get some sleep." Cliff nods, but he doesn't respond right away, and Shane gives him as much time as possible to process that information.
"What happened when he called you?" Cliff murmured, still avoiding Shane's gaze.
Shane really doesn't want to answer that question. He doesn't want to think about the things Ilya said to him, what he had called him. It still makes his stomach twist painfully and bile crawl up the back of his throat when he thinks of the way Ilya had called him his sloppy seconds. It still fucking hurts. He doesn't want to tell Cliff, he doesn't want to do further damage to their relationship. He's done enough as is—but he'd promised Cliff complete and total honesty. They'd agreed that they were going to get through this and come out the other side without any more secrets between them. This time, it is Shane averting his gaze when he replies,
"We fought," Shane murmured, chewing on his lip, trying to think of how to answer without doing more damage to Cliff and Ilya's friendship. "He, umm, he insulted me in Russian. I'm not sure what it was he called me, and um—" Shane shifted in his chair, keeping his eyes in his lap as he blinked back his tears. He doesn't want Cliff to see how deeply those words hurt him. "Hecalledmehissloppyseconds," Shane whispered in a rush, his words blending together before taking a breath. "Andhetriedtoforcemeintooutinghimtoyou," Shane risked glancing up at Cliff, who was frowning at him, his brows knitted in confusion, trying to translate those rushed words, but Shane didn't give him a chance to ask him to repeat himself and pushed forward. "And I told him that I love you," Shane whispered into his lap.
"Tabarnak," Cliff muttered, slipping into French before switching back to English. "Ilya called you sloppy seconds?" He asked, pausing for a moment. Shane nodded, both men remaining quiet while Cliff continued to process what Shane had said. "He tried to force you to out him to me?" Shane nodded again.
"Esti de crosseur!" Cliff shouted, making Shane jump. "M'a le fucking tuer!" Cliff jolted up from his seat, stalking towards the door, looking murderous. Shane had never seen Cliff look so angry. He scrambled up from the table, chasing after his boyfriend.
"Cliff! Stop!" Shane yelled, grabbing Cliff's hand, yanking him to a stop before he could storm out of the apartment to go hit Ilya again—or, if Cliff is to be believed, kill him. "It's fine," he lied, wanting to avoid anymore scraps.
"No, it's not!" Cliff yelled back furiously, turning sharply on his heel to face Shane.
"It's fine, really, it's not a—"
"Don't you dare tell me it's not a big deal," Cliff snapped, "Because it is, you don't talk to the people you love like that!"
Shane groaned, releasing his grip on Cliff's hand to run his own hands through his hair. His entire body had gone tense like it does in those brief moments between the dropping of gloves and throwing a punch.
"Well, Ilya was never in love with me. I told you, I was the dumb ass who caught feelings and wanted more than being a number on his roster."
"Really, cause according to Roz, he's in love with you, and he wants you back, and he isn't going to give up until he wins you back," Cliff snapped, his chest heaving.
"He has a funny way of showing it," Shane replied bitterly, before stepping forward, closing the gap between the couple, reaching up to cup Cliff's face between his palms, forcing his boyfriend to look him in the eye before speaking again. "Cliff, I need you to listen to me when I say this," he said firmly, feeling more confident than he had since they had woken up with the sunrise to have this conversation. "I love you, I am with you. If for some ungodly reason I had a career-ending injury tomorrow, I would happily move my ass down here to be your WAG." Shane wrinkled his nose. Cliff was right, they needed a better acronym for being a husband or boyfriend of a professional athlete. The complicated cocktail of fear, anxiety, and frustration that Shane has been feeling since last night finally drains from his stomach when, for the first time since yesterday, Cliff laughs. Shane can't tell if he is laughing because he accidentally said something funny, because he couldn't hide his distaste at being called a WAG, or because he's just happy.
Shane is just glad that Cliff is laughing, and his eyes are sparkling happily.
"I love you too," Cliff replied, reaching out, pulling Shane in for a slow and tender kiss that tastes an awful lot like forgiveness. It's tempting to give in to the kiss, to let it distract them from finishing this much-needed and long-overdue conversation. Shane wants to give in, he wants to have a lazy morning with Cliff, trading coffee-flavored kisses until he has to return to Montreal—but they have to finish what they started. They can't ignore it or put it off until it festers between them, making their relationship turn septic. Because more than Shane wants the relaxed early morning and the kisses, he wants to make their relationship work.
"We need to finish our talk," Shane murmured, pulling back from the kiss, but not from Cliff, letting their foreheads rest against each other.
"I know," Cliff murmured, nodding slightly as if trying to avoid separating all the places they are fused together, before taking a deep breath. "Okay, I'm calm now. Let's go back to the table and finish this talk."
"Okay."
Once they are both settled into their respective places on opposite sides of the kitchen, they remain quiet for a few minutes, watching the boats coming in the harbor as the sky turns blue while Cliff gathers his thoughts.
"Why did you agree to dance with me and ask me to leave with you the night we met?" Cliff finally asks, sounding small as he stares out the window, avoiding Shane's eyes. He swallows thickly, diverting his own gaze. Shane has never seen Cliff look so small or hunched in on himself. It's a fair question, an important question, one Shane needs to answer.
His memories are still fuzzy from that night—he'd been really fucking drunk. But he remembers enough now that he knows that he'd been thinking, even if the details are out of focus, he's still able to see the larger picture.
Even though Shane had known this question was coming, it doesn't make it any easier to answer, but he does his best because he owes Cliff that much, even if the answer changes the way Cliff feels about him and winds up being a deal breaker. They both avoid looking at each other as Shane recounts his memories of the night. The drunken text messages he'd sent to Ilya that had gone unanswered, that he hadn't recognized Cliff at first, but had thought he was attractive. How he was drunk and mad at Ilya, how he was feeling petty. Shane admits that he'd woken up the next morning, not remembering those drunk texts or their failed attempt at a hook-up. That he didn't remember much until after he found the water and ginger ale and the note with Cliff's phone number that he'd left behind.
"I almost didn't text you," Shane admitted in a quiet tone, swallowing thickly as his stomach clenched painfully at the memory. Even if this conversation marks the end of their relationship, even if it changes how Cliff feels about him and their relationship, Shane can't bring himself to regret texting Cliff that morning in June.
"What made you decide to?" Cliff asked, finally looking back at Shane.
"I remembered you refusing to have sex with me when I was that drunk, and how you were so sweet to me." He took a long drink of coffee, trying to find the right words to express everything he felt that morning. "I was excited by the possibility of being able to have something that I didn't have to hide," Shane paused, grinning at Cliff. "Plus, you are, like, really fucking hot." That startled a laugh out of Cliff, making Shane laugh along with him.
"I am sorry," Shane said somberly after their laughter subsided, fiddling with his almost empty cup of coffee,
"For what, baby?" Cliff asked, his brows knitting together tightly as he leaned forward in his chair, resting his arms on the dark wood kitchen table.
"For not telling you the complete truth about who my ex is, for letting you walk into all of this blindsided." Cliff reached across the table, resting his hand on top of Shane's, giving it a quick, reassuring squeeze that made Shane look back up at him.
"I'm glad you didn't tell me," Cliff replied, doing his best to reassure Shane, not that it alleviated his guilt or his anxiety. "I told you I didn't want to know, and you were as honest with me as you could be without outing Roz." Cliff paused, his eyes looking up at the ceiling like he was mulling over what he wanted to say next. Knowing Cliff, he probably was. "I wouldn't have been able to respect you if you had, and I can't be with someone callous enough to out someone who isn't ready. I want to be with you, and even though all of this is complicated and kind of a mess, I still want to be with you."
"You do?" he asked nervously in disbelief. Cliff nodded firmly, giving Shane's hand another gentle squeeze.
"Yeah, baby, I do. I told you, we're good. I'm not going anywhere," he promised, not breaking eye contact, until Shane nodded.
"I'm not going anywhere either." A wide smile spread across Cliff's face, his boyfriend standing up from the table, draining his cup of coffee.
"Okay, good, now that all that is settled, what do you want for breakfast?" he asked, making Shane laugh, standing up as well.
"Wait, hold on!" Shane exclaimed as he followed his boyfriend into the kitchen, making Cliff look back over his shoulder with raised eyebrows. "Can I ask a question?" He asked, feeling nervous all over again, as he fidgeted with his fingers in the pouch of the hoodie that he'd tucked his hands into.
"Yeah, of course, anything you want, babe," Cliff replied, turning around to give Shane his full attention as he leaned backwards against the kitchen counter.
"Um, I was just wondering why you uh—why you approached me in the club." Cliff grinned flirtatiously, pushing off the counter, sauntering forward until they were so close that their chests pressed together, wrapping his hands around Shane's waste pulling him impossibly closer.
"Because," Cliff said, his voice going all low and gravely in the way that sends shivers down Shane's spine. "You are very hot, and as we previously established, your boyfriend used to be a free-wheeling man whore. And I was drunk." The last part catches Shane off guard, making him laugh unexpectedly as he wraps his arms around Cliff's neck.
"You're ridiculous," he told his boyfriend, fondness coloring his tone.
"Yeah, probably runs in the family," Cliff replied through a soft laugh while smiling broadly, making Shane snort. "Now gimme kiss."