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There’s a small feather stuck to Shane’s eyelashes, and Ilya has been watching it for several minutes. It flutters as Shane’s closed eyes move rapidly while he dreams. Ilya wants to reach out and brush it away, but he doesn’t want to interrupt Shane’s peaceful slumber.
He exhales softly, stretching his legs and feeling his joints crack. He should feel uncomfortable from the ache of sleeping too long, the heat shared between their bodies, and the sweat fusing them together. But he’s so content and serene that none of it matters. He would likely drift off to sleep if he closed his eyes again.
It’s getting late, though. Light flickers through Ilya’s bedroom curtains, and he figures it’s close to noon by now. Ilya smiles at the fact that they missed breakfast - a rare experience for two professional athletes. They stayed up until the sun threatened to rise, fooling around like horny teenagers and laughing into each other’s mouths until sleep took over.
Ilya feels it from head to toe; the mixture of exhaustion and elation is so foreign to him. He is cozy and sated yet hyperaware of every breath Shane takes and the details of his freckles this close up.
Shane shudders suddenly and twitches in his sleep, the line of his mouth tightening for a long moment. Ilya reacts before he can second-guess himself, an instinct that stems from his own familiarity with unpleasant dreams. He carefully cups Shane’s neck and jaw, shaking him firmly but gently.
“Hollander,” he murmurs, clearing his throat when his voice sounds just a little too quiet and fond.
Shane grunts softly and blinks slowly, looking briefly disoriented by his surroundings, then sighs with relief when he sees Ilya. He reaches up to take Ilya’s hand in his own. Ilya leans forward and kisses him chastely, barely brushing their lips together.
“You have nightmare?” Ilya asks.
Shane hums and pulls away to stretch and yawn, and Ilya resists the urge to murmur moy kotenok. He doesn’t know if comparing Shane to a cat will be well-received, so he files it away for later. Shane makes a tired sound and moves closer, curling up against Ilya.
“You have cold feet,” he mumbles into Ilya’s neck. Ilya laughs and shrugs one shoulder.
“Sorry,” he says, fitting his arm over Shane’s bare back.
“Hmmph,” Shane grunts, but he doesn’t seem all that grumpy as he presses closer to Ilya while rubbing his own socked feet over Ilya’s chilly toes. He runs a hand up Ilya’s thigh and squeezes his hip, nudging his nose on Ilya’s chin.
“Were you watching me sleep?” Shane asks teasingly, his smirk pressed to Ilya’s skin. Ilya isn’t sure if he’s willing to confess to doing something like that just yet. He doesn’t know if one night together is enough to break the boundaries they’ve built for years.
“Never,” he replies, ducking down and readjusting so that their eyes are level. “Well, maybe little bit. You are very funny-looking when you sleep. Is hard to look away.”
“Asshole,” Shane grunts, biting playfully at Ilya’s chin. Ilya yelps and laughs, pulling away and blowing a raspberry in response.
Shane is quiet for just a moment too long, and Ilya is about to question it, but Shane leans forward and suddenly kisses him. It is tender and careful, not like the eager and heated way it was the night before. Ilya leans forward, gently pressing his lips against Shane’s and tracing one hand up his back.
The slow pace is odd yet enjoyable, though entirely unfamiliar. Most of their kisses are frantic and hungry, both of them trying to devour the other in the brief moments they share. They usually kiss as a prelude to something more, or in between the bitemarks they leave on each other’s bodies. There’s this frenetic energy they share that never allows them to stop and slow down.
This is so different. Ilya kisses back at a leisurely pace, opening Shane’s mouth gently with his tongue. There’s no clashing teeth or fight for dominance, just a warm, wet press of lips and tongues until Shane eventually pulls back, breathing heavily.
He cups Ilya’s face in his hands, pressing their foreheads together as they lock eyes.
“Hi,” Shane says simply. Ilya pulls him closer and hopes Shane doesn’t feel the way his heartbeat has picked up.
“Hi,” he replies with a crooked smile. “You are warm.”
“You made me warm,” Shane responds, quickly blushing and looking embarrassed by the cheesy remark.
Ilya would likely roll his eyes if the words came from anyone else. He kisses Shane’s nose and grips his waist. He thinks about saying something funny or biting to deflect, and before last night, he definitely would have. Instead, he says, “You make me warm, too.”
“Oh?” Shane replies with a grin. “I was worried I’d worn you out too much last night.”
“Never,” Ilya quips. “Is not possible, Hollander.”
Shane rolls his eyes then quickly flips their bodies over and straddles Ilya’s hips. He grinds down slowly with a smirk, and Ilya gasps before firmly gripping Shane’s ass.
“Dirty move, Rozanov,” Shane manages to say, but his breathless tone betrays him, along with the way his cock starts to quickly fill up.
Ilya looks up at Shane and grins fondly, always amazed at the way Shane’s body responds to his touch. He rolls his hips and cants them up a bit, his erection pinned between his stomach and Shane’s firm thigh. Shane bends lower and braces himself on his arms, placing his hands on Ilya’s shoulders before rocking down. His lips are slightly parted, and his pupils are already blown.
Ilya wants to say something taunting about how easy Shane is, but it feels like his brain is melting out of his ears as Shane shifts, allowing Ilya’s cock to slide between his ass cheeks.
Ilya squeezes him again, digging his fingers into Shane and causing him to moan and rut desperately. Shane quickly finds a steady yet sloppy rhythm as he hovers over Ilya, his brows furrowed in concentration. His breathing grows erratic, and Ilya parts his legs, digging his heels into the mattress for leverage and rocking up to meet Shane halfway.
“Ilya,” Shane whimpers before pressing their mouths together. The sound of his name falling from Shane’s lips once again sparks heat deep in Ilya’s core.
Shane reaches behind himself with one hand, tugging at Ilya’s wrist until Ilya wraps his hand around Shane’s cock. The head of it is slick with precome, and Ilya curls his fingers around it and strokes to match Shane’s pace, letting him rock into his closed fist.
Their kisses grow messy and unfocused as Ilya loses himself in the sensation of his cock rubbing between Shane’s cheeks. He’s consumed with the way Shane is moaning and pushing back onto it as he thrusts into Ilya’s hand, his movements growing frantic.
Ilya feels like a live wire, tiny electric shivers run along every inch of his body. He can feel Shane’s cock grow harder in his hand, leaking and dribbling over his fingers. He wants to lick it up greedily but can’t bring himself to let go of Shane, eager to make him come before giving in to his own pleasure.
Ilya groans loudly, and his thighs shake, and Shane hisses and chants yes, yes, yes as his nails bruise Ilya’s shoulders. His body stutters and shivers as he comes, spilling over Ilya’s fingers while continuing to move against his aching cock. Ilya’s eyes roll back, and he’s flooded with heat as his own orgasm consumes him. He eventually goes numb, mouth slack, and mind blank as he pants against Shane’s mouth. When his head clears, his body feels heavy from release and the weight of Shane above him.
Ilya kisses him again, and Shane sighs softly, moving and lying down on top of Ilya. His head rests on Ilya’s shoulder, his smooth chest pressed firmly on him.
They’re going to feel sticky and dirty soon, Ilya thinks, so he should probably get up and start the shower. Instead, Ilya shifts and tangles his legs with Shane’s, burying his nose in his hair and inhaling his familiar scent.
“Can’t believe I slept so late,” Shane says, breathing warm against Ilya’s neck. “I never do.” He sounds a bit surprised but not unhappy with this revelation. Ilya strokes his shoulder with his thumb, unable to string together a coherent reply, drunk on post-sex bliss and the feelings he’s finally letting himself acknowledge.
“There was feather,” he says nonsensically.
“What?” Shane asks, tilting his head to look at him curiously.
“There was feather on your eyelashes. Did not move it. Was scared to wake you up,” Ilya explains.
He closes his eyes and tries to calm his frantic heartbeat. It’s so fast and hard that he’s sure Shane must be able to feel it and hear it. He’s a bit scared, but he reminds himself of the progress they’ve made in the last twenty-four hours. He’s tired of holding back when it comes to Shane.
“I like watching you sleep,” he murmurs.
Shane hums, a low and content sound. When Ilya releases the breath he’s been holding, he glances down to see Shane smiling at him. He presses a kiss to his forehead and thinks about how he’d like to have this - have Shane - every morning.
Maybe that thought should scare him, but all Ilya feels right now is a budding sense of hope.