Chapter Text
ILYA
September 2014- Boston
Ilya had not expected Hollander to buy a house. At first Ilya had been somewhat… Peeved. It had been his idea first and he’d been excited to show his little Canadian the pretty house he was going to buy for them.
Trust Shane fucking Hollander to one up him and turn up with a brutalist masterpiece.
Ilya was a little in love with Hollander’s house.
With the smooth concrete floors, the textured stone walls, the quiet. With the picture of their CCM photoshoot resting on Shane’s bedside table. With the myriad of bits and pieces of Shane’s life he’d been allowed to see and touch as they unpacked the last of those smaller boxes in the boot of Shane’s SUV, what Ilya had later realised were the last of Shane’s personal effects before the other man formally moved out of his apartment.
Apparently it didn’t always look like a mausoleum.
He’d asked, as they’d wrestled a vintage Japanese wedding chest up the stairs into the spare bedroom, if Shane’s team had helped him with the move and received a short ‘no’ before Hollander was asking him if he wanted lunch, turning his back in Ilya’s focused gaze and retreating to the kitchen.
Ilya had suspected it, for some time, that perhaps all of Shane’s talk of his best friend, his close knit, perfect team, was not as it seemed. It had Ilya worrying. He was an asshole, but in this instance he wasn’t overly happy to be right.
He’d followed Shane into the kitchen and settled in one of the stools opposite the cooking area, watching as Hollander flit around like a hummingbird pulling out bits and pieces and spices and vegetables and Ilya prayed to any God listening that he was not making a smoothie. Hollander was many things. 2nd best hockey player. Vampire. Emotional mess. Best at blowjobs. Worst cook Ilya had ever come across. But he adored him anyway. “Not even Pike? You say you are with him always at his house. He has not been here?”
Shane shook his head silently. “No… Hayden’s a good guy but he can’t keep a secret to save his life. He and Jackie share a single brain cell, no filter between the two, and if Jackie knows so do the WAGs.” He glanced over his shoulder at Ilya. “I doubt Lily is interested in being invited to wine night.”
Lily couldn’t think of anything worse than being forced to interact with a woman who had married Pike. Or for that matter any other member of a team that cared to little about their Captain that they hadn’t noticed him packing his life into boxes.
Ilya sat and googled ‘single brain cell’ as Shane prepared a salad, little rabbit that he was, though Ilya smiled when Shane added a large portion of cheese to Ilya’s. Smart man. Avoiding arguments.
They were the best boyfriends.
Ilya had chosen to be the bigger man and left the issue alone. They’d spent the rest of the afternoon curled up together on the couch with a calendar open in front of them, trying to eke out a minute here and there to see each other. It had been a depressing realisation, that it would be near a full month before they were in the same city, but it had made Ilya all the more excited to see Shane’s SUV parking in his driveway, visiting his house for the first time.
Ilya had never had a house before. Always apartments. Always someone above and below and side to side and yelling when he fucked too loudly.
A house was imperative. Hollander was wonderfully loud. Three noise complaints already. His neighbours had looked relieved when his entire team had turned up to empty his apartment, loud and boisterous and more than happy to mock his collection of vintage shirts, massive DVD collection, and a truly ridiculous collection of heavy blankets.
Yes, Hollander, they are ‘weighted’.
Ilya didn’t care.
The doorbell rang and Ilya hopped up from the couch, mocking himself internally as he stood up straight, smoothing his hair back, shifting his shoulders to put his pecs on best display. Pulling the waistband of his fancy joggers down until the V of his hips was visible. He was not wearing underwear.
He opened the door and melted a little. He couldn’t stop the stupid, broad grin that he directed at the smaller man.
His boyfriend was here. In Boston. In his house. For the entire weekend.
His boyfriend, in his cute reebok sneakers, dark jeans that hugged his powerful thighs, and one of Ilya’s t-shirts- slightly loose in the shoulder but tight around his chest. Perfect.
He stepped back, unable to muster words just yet, but Hollander just stood there. Staring.
Just staring.
Ilya felt the nerves return and he frowned. “Hollander? Is alright?”
Shane cleared his throat. “Yeah.” But he was still staring.
“Oh…” Ilya was getting worried. “Do you- Will you- My house? Do you want to see?” He choked out as Hollander slowly stepped through the front door, his bag dropping on the ground, keys dropping beside his shoes and Shane stepped closer until they were almost touching.
“Can we do it later?” Ilya cocked his head to the side in questioning. “The… tour. Can we do it later?” Hollander sounded slightly breathless and Ilya watched carefully for the signs Pike had carefully written out, a list that Ilya had in his phone.
“But… Will ruin- what is word- theatre.”
“Theatrics.” Shane murmured fondly, pretty bedroom eyes roaming over Ilya’s features.
“Yes! Theeaterics. I wish to show you my home, Hollander.”
“Can we do it later?” Shane breathed out, all shy and adorable and his freckles were showing under his blush because it was summer and summer was kind because more freckles and Ilya was an idiot.
Because Shane had placed a hand on his chest and was pushing him against the nearby kitchen counter, white marble and sturdy.
He was moving slowly, fingers tracing each of Ilya’s abs as he was pressed into place. Shane’s eyes were focused, gaze unwavering as he sunk to his knees.
Ilya breathed out slowly, hands shifting to soft hair as Shane leaned forward and slowly, still so slowly placed his teeth around the drawstring of his joggers, pausing to nuzzle. Inhale.
Ilya was fucking rock hard.
If he was honest with himself he’d been hard since he’d heard the SUV pull up.
Leaking precome down his thigh.
Hollander said nothing as he leaned back, eyes still locked on Ilya’s as he pulled the bow loose, leaning in, teeth grazing at Ilya’s contracting abs as he got his jaw around the waistband, the stance of his hips widening, back arching under his clothes as he dragged Ilya’s joggers around his thighs, careful not to entrap Ilya’s cock where it hung, heavy and throbbing between them.
“Hollander.” He whispered as Shane opened his mouth, teeth grazing at the head before slipping forward, mouth already full of saliva to ease the way as he sunk down Ilya’s length.
Slowly. Gently. Ruthlessly.
Never stopping. Never pulling back until his nose grazed Ilya’s skin, tickling at the short, well-maintained hairs Shane had insisted upon. Because his boy was fussy.
His eyes were wide, gaze hazy and tears slipping down his cheeks. He swallowed and Ilya groaned loudly, throwing his head back as he gripped at the counter, struggling to stay upright.
At the sound Shane pulled back slowly, licking at the saliva dripping down his chin and Ilya felt like he’d been gut punched, making a similar sound.
Shane’s voice was hoarse, a choke more than words. “Fuck me.”
“Fuck.” He hauled Hollander, who was laughing delightedly, over his shoulders and quickly pointed out salient features as he hurried them towards the bedroom, throwing the smaller man onto the bed where he bounced, ripping his clothes off as Hollander threw his own clothes onto the ground- folding was for idiots who had time to waste and people to impress- before grabbing his hips and flipping him onto all fours, forcing him to arch his back and stick out his ass and then.
So fucking hot.
Ilya dove in and licked a broad stripe from perineum to asshole and Shane screamed, arms collapsing and face burying into the pillow as Ilya. Went. To. Town.
A very, very small portion of his brain thanked Marlow for the expression.
The rest of him was focused on the divine sounds Shane Hollander made as Ilya ate him out, broad, long stripes and short kitten licks, hands locked into perfectly round cheeks and pulling them apart as he stabbed inside his wonderful boyfriend who just moaned, and whimpered, and cursed, pushing his ass into Ilya’s face until he was suffocating.
The perfect way to die.
It took him what seemed like an age to hear past the blood rushing in hears ears, to hear the constant stream of filth running from Shane’s mouth, the way he gasped out Ilya’s name in the most perfect of ways over and over again, shaking and shuddering as Ilya pulled back and shoved two fingers straight into his hole, shoving them down against his prostate as he shouted in pleasure, hips undulating between humping mindlessly against the bed and the sharp pleasure of Ilya’s fingers as he twisted his wrist, adding a third finger and- “Hollander… You came prepared.” He chuckled deep in his chest, smug beyond all measure of reason. “Did you drive all the way here thinking of me fucking you as soon as you opened the door?” He shoved a fourth finger through that pliant rim, Shane’s voice rising in pitch as he gasped for breath. “Did you lube yourself up before you got out of the floor?”
Shane let out an explosion of laughter. “No.” He grunted out as Ilya removed his fingers, shoving his pants around his thighs.
“I took out the plug.”
Ilya came.
Untouched.
Choking on his own saliva.
Collapsing at the waist and onto Shane’s back as his come dripped over Shane’s gaping hole, staring at the sheer eroticism of it.
It took a few moments for his head to clear and he pushed himself up on weak arms, glaring down at his boyfriend who was struggling to breathe through his laughter. “That was mean.”
“Oh my god, oh my god you-” He wheezed out, rolling over onto his back, cock already soft against his thigh, belly covered in come. “Fuck, that was amazing.”
Ilya smacked his thigh, leaning over to lick at the sticky white fluid on Shane’s abs. “You are sadist, Hollander. Sadist.” Shane just chuckled in the back of his throat as Ilya caught his lips in his own. “You laugh, but you came just as fast.” He murmured against his lips.
Shane wrapped his legs around Ilya’s hips, pulling him to rest along the length of his body. “I always come fast, you think it’s hot and I get twice as many orgasms as you do.” Ilya nodded in smug agreement. He was very good at wringing his boyfriend dry now that they weren’t running out of each other’s hotel rooms. “So sue me if I wanted to see if I could get you to do the same.”
“Is humiliating.” He kissed along Hollander’s collarbone, leaving little red marks along the length as payback. “I had plans, Hollander.”
“You wanted to show me your house.”
Ilya groaned in humiliated. “Shut up.”
“Three times, Ilya.”
“Shaaaaaane!” He whined.
“I asked you three times and had to get on my knees before you realised I wanted you to fuck me.” Shane sounded ridiculously smug for someone who hadn’t gotten fucked. “Three times.”
Ilya shoved himself onto his elbows. “I miss when you were all shy and needy. Now just needy.”
Shane smiled tenderly up at him, the muscles around his eyes relaxed and fond, adoring, indulgent, all words Ilya had been learning to describe the way his Hollander looked at him. “You like me needy.”
He couldn’t be bothered to deny it. He couldn’t be bothered to deny a lot of things these days, not now that he was so fucking happy. “I do, Hollander. I do.” He sat up. “Now, come and see my house. I want to fuck you on rug in front of fireplace.”
PAGE BREAK
Hours later, once his boyfriend was well fed and well fucked Ilya returned to the living room on shaky legs, naked as the day he was born and not worried about flaunting it. In his absence his lovely boyfriend had rolled over onto his side and was staring lazily over the floor in front of him.
Ilya frowned. “Shane? He paused, damp towel in hand as Shane’s sun-dappled muscles shifted under that smooth, unblemished skin, arm reaching out to pet Ilya’s rug. Ilya crossed the rest of the distance, entranced by the way his leg shifted, opening up and causing him to rest half on his side, chest arching down into the floor.
His eyes locked on his ass, the way Ilya’s come trickled over down onto his thigh, the usually obsessive man unaware and uncaring of the mess.
His cock twitched. Which was ridiculous. It had been five minutes. He was two orgasms in. Hollander was a witch.
Shane’s eyes were rich and bright, blinking slowly, contentedly, lazily, like a cat in the sun as he rubbed his cheek against the thick weave. He let out a quiet moan as he arched his back further, and Ilya’s abs clenched as a bolt of arousal hit him like lightning.
He had never seen anything so beautiful.
“Ilya?” His tone was soft and gentle, fond, loving, and Ilya sucked in a shuddering breath, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. He didn’t reply, just knelt to wipe the remnants of their coupling from that perfect skin, shuddering at each shift, sigh and arch into his touch.
He threw the towel to the side and blanketed Shane with his body, rubbing his slightly stubbled cheek against his shoulders, exacerbating the red stubble burn he’d previously left. “You are so… krasivvy.”
Shane moaned loudly, the sound reverberating through Ilya’s chest. “Krasivvy. Beautiful.” He gasped out as he writhed under Ilya, hands kneading into the thick, soft fibres of the rug as he did, as if he was trying to bury himself in both the rug and Ilya’s body.
He had to fight back the urge to cry as those perfect lips slipped around Ilya’s native tongue, accent flawless, every word he spoke learned straight from Ilya’s mouth. “Yes, Hollander. You are beautiful.” Shane keened under him as Ilya gave in to the temptation of that perfect ass pressing up against him, bucking his hips until his head caught, slipping into his lover once again to the sound of Shane’s long, continuous whine, his come easing the way but it was tight. So tight. Even now that they were having far more regular sex Shane’s muscles never ceased to grip him tight and raise him from perdition.
He came to rest, fully ensheathed in warmth, pelvis resting against Shane’s heated skin, feeling the minute shudders as his beautiful boyfriend slipped into pliancy, letting Ilya manipulate his limbs until he was fully resting on the rug, face down, legs spread, arms pinned over his head as Ilya rose up on his knees to snap his hips down forcefully, aim as perfect as it ever was.
Shane shuddered. Gasped. His eyes widened in shock.
And then he screamed. High pitched and painful and for a second Ilya’s heart stopped in panic- “Oh fuck, Ilya- Ilya-” And Ilya was coming- again? God damned Hollander- sudden and painful and his mind was blank and he collapsed, face first into the rug beside the man who was moaning softly, breath hitching as he dug his hips into the rug below him in pleasure, eyes watery and unfocused, the arm closest to Ilya scrabbling at his chest, red nail marks appearing on his skin, drooling.
“Ty ubil menya.” Ilya forced out between heaving gasps for breath, trying to still his body, legs twitching, hand locking around Shane’s bicep and squeezing involuntarily as he came down from his high. “I am dead, Hollander. Cannot move. We will starve here.”
Shane took a few moments to get his eyes to focus, licking at his wet, reddened, bitten lips before he spoke in a croak. “I think… I really like this rug.”
Ilya took that in for a moment. Translated it for a second time. And then laughed. Deep and hard and from his belly, flopping over onto his back, eyes locked on Hollander’s perfect blush, reaching over to brush his fingers against his freckles. “You leave me for carpet, yes?”
Shane giggled, breaking eye contact to rub his cheek over the dark blue spirals. “Can’t I have you both?” His voice was muffled by the silk strands but his eyes were glued to Ilya’s features, darting this way and that as if he couldn’t decide here to land. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything so soft.”
Something pinged in the back of Ilya’s mind, something from Pike’s message about textures. Ilya hadn’t paid attention back them, having better things to do than google unknown words but after spending several hours in a little dingy Russian-run rug store deep in Boston’s seedier side he knew what texture was. And apparently this was a very good texture. “I will find you more rugs.” He said softly, rolling over to place a kiss against Shane’s shoulder. “I will send you one, da? Imported from Russia. Very expensive. Hard to find.” Very expensive was an understatement but Ilya was very rich and had nothing to spend his money on aside from cars and what Marlow had called a ‘love nest’ when he’d helped Ilya assemble his new bed frame. And his boyfriend.
Marlow as good friend.
Voyagers were cunts.
Ilya’s new favourite curse word. The Australians were excellent at swearing. And hunting crocodiles. He had been very sad when he had discovered that Steve Irwin was dead.
Yes. He would buy enough rugs to cover every bit of tile and wood in the house, especially if it meant Hollander would let him fuck him in the kitchen. The laundry. The spare bedroom. The hallway- oh, Ilya had plans for the hallway. At the end there was an antique stained glass window that threw reds and golds and purples over the floor and he had imagined fucking Hollander at three o’clock on the dot the instant he’d seen the mosaic on the dark wooden floorboards, the best time, when everything was muted and warm.
He reached over Shane’s prone form and grabbed the towel, giving them a perfunctory wipe down before rolling Shane’s limp form out of the wet spot, rubbing out the stain before it set. Not that he really cared. The rug should be honoured to have Shane Hollander’s come all over it. Ilya knew he was.
“Up, up, Hollander, shower then I will make you a tuna melt.” Shane gave him his ‘unimpressed’ eyebrow. “Why you look at me like you want to murder? I will let you have sex with rug later.” He reached down and grabbed Shane’s hands, pulling the pile of mush upright and letting him collapse against him, lifting him up with hands on his arse as Shane’s legs rose to clamp around his sides, the smaller man humming happily as Ilya carried him into the bathroom. “I have movie to show you. Is favourite.”
Another hum.
“I think you will like. Or will fall asleep. Your taste in movies is… What is word for surprise?”
“Unpredictable?” Shane closed his eyes and sat back on the stone bench that ran along the side of the shower, letting the hot water run over his face as he breathed quietly.
Ilya nodded, stepping up to rub shampoo into Shane’s hair. “Da. Close eyes please.” If Shane smiled when he smelled his own shampoo, neither of them mentioned it. “Is good movie. Many strong, sexy men.”
Shane’s eye squinted open. “We’re not watching porn together.”
“You are no fun. But no, is not porn. Close eyes, you will be cranky if soap gets in.” Shane hummed in agreement and leaned forward, resting his head against Ilya’s stomach and going limp. “No, Hollander, no sleeping in shower. Will become raisin.”
“Prune.”
“Always obsessed with fruit, Hollander. Eat a candy.”
“I don’t like candies. They feel weird against my teeth.” Shane nipped at his hipbone, causing him to drop the bottle of conditioner. “I like chocolate, though. The really creamy ones. Sometimes.” He said it quietly, even for him, as if he was worried Ilya would disapprove.
As if Ilya had ever denied himself anything that made him feel good. If he had his way, Shane would learn- he wasn’t naïve, he knew that Hollander, Golden Hockey Boy, would never be one for shoving his face full of bacon burgers until he was too fat to move, but all in moderation.
Ilya was very good at moderation. Just look at how well behaved he was being, with Hollander’s mouth right there.
Focus.
“Is four hours long.”
Shane went stiff. Slowly, his gaze rose and his eyes narrowed.
“Ilya.”
“Yes, malen’kaya cherepakha?”
“I don’t know that one. Are we watching the Lord of the Rings?”
“Yes.”
“Extended editions?”
“Yes.”
“That’s twelve hours.”
“Fifteen. For sex breaks.”
Shane seemed to contemplate that. He sat back. Raised a hand and three fingers. “Fuck me during Arwen rescuing Frodo, the battle of Helms Deep, and the Paths of the Dead. I have issues with those. We can eat between.”
Ilya truly, truly, had the best boyfriend. “You will suck me off at Parth Galen. Viggo is very sexy then.”
“You want to come when Boromir’s dying?”
Ilya shut off the water. “Of course. Need to be happy to survive emotional death of son of Gondor.”
Shane stood, accepting the fluffy towel Ilya handed him. “Done.”
SHANE
October 2014- Montreal
Shane sat in his old apartment, on the couch he hated, staring at the blank wall behind his mother’s head as she spoke. His feet were bare, curling into the dark grey, nondescript rug that had replaced his previous one, the feeling of the silk strands between his toes and the comforting buzz of his phone under his thigh the only things stopping from him completely disassociating from the conversation.
The rug had arrived a week or so ago, delivered by a shifty courier who had taken one look at Shane’s apartment, then the rug, and nodded. As if understanding why such a sedate rug had been chosen. Shane had accepted the delivery and then spent the entire afternoon on his back, in the middle of his living room, table pushed back as Ilya explained exactly how he wanted Shane to fuck himself.
It hadn’t been a particularly productive afternoon but Shane counted it as a win for his shoulder flexibility.
Regular sex was really helping his backhand.
“Shane? Are you paying attention?” He nodded, saying something that had sounded vaguely intelligent that had his mother smiling, father laughing from the professionally stocked kitchen, and gone back to staring at the wall. He’d kept the apartment for times like this- the business meetings, because this sure as hell wasn’t a family dinner, those nights after home games and long practices when he couldn’t be bothered to drive out of the city, times when he couldn’t come up with an excuse and half of the team ended up sprawled out over his couches, the floor, the table, watching games and playing games and telling him all about the women they’d been sleeping with, the wives they were ignoring, Hayden’s stories about Ruby and Jade, Sergei’s rants in Russian that Shane could, by now, understand every fifth word or so of.
The rampart homophobia was new. Except that it wasn’t. He’d spent years ignoring it, wilfully, convinced that if he said something then that weird brand of fear would be turned on him, even if it hadn’t been true at the time.
Now that it was, Shane hated himself for every moment he didn’t say anything.
The casual ‘fag’ and ‘fairy’ and ‘sissy’ that that were thrown around without second thought, directed at each other, the players on the TV screen, each one caused Shane to flinch every time he imagined the slurs being thrown at him instead, imagining the looks of disgust that would accompany them.
And so he stayed silent.
He couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would have done to him if he’d discovered his sexuality and not had Ilya Rozanov to cling to, calling his boyfriend more nights than not, whispered conversations that kept him whole and steady in an NHL that seemed ready to burn them at the stake.
“Shane!” His mother’s tone was heading into one of irritation and Shane sat up in his seat, shrugging sheepishly.
“Sorry, I didn’t sleep well.” The thoughtless lie had his mother’s expression immediately settling into one of pity. “You were talking about the Armani campaign?”
This mother nodded, handing him a tablet with a model on the screen. “They want you to wear them at the next awards…” The rug was so damned soft. He nodded, agreed verbally where appropriate, and wondered if Ilya would like him in the white silk chemise on the screen. It would cinch his waist tight, and even though Shane knew he didn’t have more than the most superficial layer of fat under his skin he knew that Ilya loved to lock his long, dextrous fingers around the narrow point of his waist just under his ribs when he fucked him from behind… Maybe Shane would buy the shirt after he was done with it.
He shifted slightly as his father came to sit beside him, handing him a bowl of food that complied with his diet. He imagined the little cubes of garlic encrusted bread Ilya had snuck onto the top the last time he’d been in Shane’s kitchen, making the whole thing more palatable.
Believe it or not, Shane was aware his diet tasted like nothing. It was why there was now an entire shelf in his fridge dedicated to the odds and ends that kept on turning up in cooler packed parcels- cheeses and calorie dense spreads and weird and wonderful packages with Russian labels that Rozanov would happily throw into pots and pans, sending Shane’s tastebuds into overdrive whilst ensuring his calorie intake remained within range.
He poked at the steamed white meat of some sort, mixed it in with the kale and the spinach and shoved it into his mouth. Delicious. “How’s Hayden coping with Jackie’s pregnancy? Baby number three, right?” His mother asked.
Shane nodded half-consciously. “Yeah. Jackie’s over the morning sickness, and she’s less tired.” Hayden had spent the entirely of their last few runs espousing the joys of marriage, telling Shane just exactly how wonderful his beautiful wife was.
Shane hadn’t said it, but in his opinion? Ilya was prettier.
Not that a single word- especially not pretty- was enough to encompass just what Shane thought each time Ilya appeared in front of him, ranging from an avenging angel in hockey pads to a Russian Sex God, naked and sweating and glowing in the sunlight now that they weren’t limited to the darkness of hotel rooms and-
“You’re not getting any younger, Shane.” His mother’s tone was kind. Sympathetic. Encouraging. A tone he’d heard far more often than he wanted to. He braced himself for the oncoming conversation, readying the same excuses. “Have you considered what we discussed, last time?”
Last time. In a ballroom in Vegas. An hour before he ended up fingering himself open on Ilya Rozanov’s bed, begging to be fucked.
Last time, when his mother had offered to set him up with a friend’s daughter. When his father had mentioned, so casually, a young pretty female colleague who spent the weekend coaching kids on the ice.
Last time, when they’d said they were worried he was too dedicated to hockey, that he should spend time getting a life.
As if Shane hadn’t spent every minute since he’d first stepped onto the ice under his mother’s tutelage erasing everything but hockey from his life at her behest. It wasn’t something that he’d begrudged, at the time or now- he loved almost everything about the life they’d forged together as a family but the fucking hypocrisy? “I don’t know, mom. I was thinking of maybe getting a cat.” The instant it exited his mouth he knew he’d made a mistake.
His parents looked at him with identical expressions, a mixture of pity and ‘oh the poor child just don’t understand how the real world works.’
“Shane…” His mother sighed, putting down her bowl and reaching out to sit a hand on his knee. “Sweetie, it worked when you were younger, still trying to establish yourself. It wasn’t that long since you’d had your last girlfriend and everyone accepted that you were busy but... You’re twenty-three now, honey. And… I hate it, but we’re starting to worry about you. We don’t know if we pushed you too hard.”
“You’re quiet, kid.” His dad murmured softly, and Shane was surprised, given that his father rarely involved himself in these sorts of conversations. Hayden had always said that Shane got his aversion towards talking about anything involving sex from his father and he’d been right. The talk had been the most awkward five minutes of silence Shane had ever experienced before his mother had taken over. “You don’t really go out unless someone’s forcing you to. You don’t really talk to girls-”
“Did Hayden tell you that?” Shane couldn’t help the hostility that entered his voice, eyes narrowing in irritation. “Have you actually been talking to my team about my dating life?” His eyes widened at the guilty looks on his parent’s faces. “Are you serious?” He asked loudly, trying not to yell, knowing it would just make things worse. “It’s bad enough I’m constantly having to fend off women being forced on my by my team every time we go out, but now I’ve got you both invading into my private life?” He stood up, causing both of his parents to flinch back in surprise.
He started to pace along the rug, bowel of boring, bland food forgotten on the table. “I… What do you all want from me?” He asked, genuinely confused. “For years you’ve been telling me to focus, to only think about the hockey, not to worry about anything else and I’ve listened to you! I don’t go out, I barely drink, I don’t smoke, I don’t fuck around- and now you’re telling me I need to go fuck some nameless woman in an anonymous hotel room just so that you can feel better about my life?!”
Now he was yelling.
And if there was a Russian accented voice in the back of his mind cheering him on, so bet it.
“Shane-”
“No.” He cut his mother off angrily, for perhaps only the second time in his life. “No. Did you even think to ask if I’m happy?” He shouted, directing the question at both of his parents. “I’m twenty-three. In any world other than hockey that’s barely an adult. Sure, I’m halfway through my career but it’s not like I’m half-way dead!” He continued to pace, back and forth. “I don’t have a girlfriend but what time is there to have one? Is it so bad that I don’t want random hookups in every city we pass through like JJ, or have kids and a wife I never see?” His mother’s jaw dropped. “I’m not that old, mom. Have you ever thought that maybe I want more than half a relationship?!”
He could picture the exact moment his mother’s heart broke for him.
Truly inspired. Ilya was going to be so proud.
“Oh sweetie. I’m so sorry.” Shane rocked on his heels as his mother threw herself into his arms, wrapping him up into a hug. It was warm and the familiar smell of her perfume, lilies, was comforting, helping him regulate his breathing under her hands where they rubbed across his back. “I didn’t even think… It’s just…” She pulled back, cupping his cheeks with her fingers. “You all move so fast, Shane. It seems like kids these days are married with babies before they’re even out of training skates.”
“Not everyone’s like Hayden, mom.”
That earned him a watery laugh, and he winced as his mother wiped half-spilled tears from the corner of her eyes. “True… But I just… I want you to have what we had. What we have.” She threw a glance over towards Shane’s father and Shane felt like he was intruding as they smiled at each other, the exact same way Ilya smiled at him when he’d done something he called ‘myagkiy.’ He would then proceed to squish Shane into his chest, peppering his face with kisses. ‘Squishable.’ Shane likened it to cuteness aggression.
“Not everyone meets the love of their life in high school, mom.” Shane said softly, stepping out from between his parents, letting his mother sit down next to her husband, taking his hand in her own. “Some of us are okay to wait a little bit longer.”
It wasn’t until they’d left, leaving mountains of prepped meals and far too many cans of ginger ale for him to leave them all here, that he realised what he’d said.
“Oh my God, I’m my parents.” He whispered out loud, determined to never, ever let Ilya know.
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“You should get cat.” Shane paused at the mirror where he was brushing his teeth. He looked down at the screen of his phone, propped up against the toothbrush holder, where his boyfriend was shaving. He stared for a few moments as the straight razor passed over the side of his long neck, bared, and Shane’s teeth itched. The edge of the bite Shane had given him was just visible at the side of the screen and Shane’s eyes were drawn to the ring of silvery scars that lined up perfectly with his top teeth. He then choked on his toothpaste, bending over the sink to spit and rinse. “Sexy, Hollander.”
“Shut up!” He shot back, scrubbing at his mouth as he started pulling out the various creams, serums and other potions his sponsors had slowly been forcing him to add to his nighttime routine. It wasn’t something he complained about often, it was a soothing process, even when he was dead tired and wanted nothing more than to ignore the world and just fall into bed.
And Ilya liked his soft his skin was.
His boyfriend was moving through his house, shutting curtains and bolting doors before barricading himself in his bedroom, the soft light of the bedside lamps running along those high cheekbones Shane loved to trace along when Ilya was sleeping beside him.
He was allowed to do that now. Sure it may be creepy that sometimes he’d just lie there in the moonlight and stare at his boyfriend but Shane was taking a page out of the Russian’s book and refusing to shame himself for enjoying those innocent pleasures. He was sure Ilya did the same.
He finished his last step before replying to Ilya’s earlier statement. “I can’t get a cat. I’m never home.”
Ilya shrugged, settling down under the sheets shirtless, propping his phone up against a pillow as he lay on his side. “Cat is independent. Would not need you all the time. But would be good to snuggle when I am not there.” He ran a rang through his mussed-up curls, soft and chaotic, biceps contracting with the moment and causing Shane’s mouth to water.
He swallowed. What the fuck was wrong with him. He blamed Rozanov for the fact that his previously non-existent sex drive was now constantly in gear.
Maybe it was the regular orgasms.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Ilya asked softly, eyes appearing dark and bottomless in the quiet of the Boston night.
Shane walked into his wardrobe, discarding sleep shirts until he found what he was looking for, slipping the massive jersey over his frame and slipping under the covers, the bears logo prominent over his chest. “About what?” He said, propping his phone up to mirror Ilya’s.
It took Rozanov a few moments to tear his gaze from the jersey- his jersey. A spare Ilya had lost a few weeks ago. Shane had smuggled it out of Ilya’s away bag before leaving Boston the last time he’d visited and had lied through his teeth as his boyfriend had torn the place apart trying to find it on the other end of a video call. “You will not distract me, moya koshmar, you lied to your parents. You do not like to do this.”
Shane instantly felt defensive. “No.”
“Hollander-”
“No, it’s not your problem-”
“Shane!” Ilya called loudly, and Shane’s thoughts shuddered to a halt. “Moya prekrasnaya, v panike Canadian. Everything about you is my problem.” He smiled happily. "Is best problem."
… He was right. “Oh.”
“Yes.” Ilya snuggled down further into his pillows. “Now. You will tell me why you are scared to tell parents truth. They love you, da? They are not like my family.”
Shane shook his head slowly, remembering the night Ilya had arrived on his doorstep straight from Moscow, quiet and hunted in a way he’d never seen. If they hadn’t been together then, Shane doubted he would have been able to hold out after seeing Ilya like that. “They love me. I know that. And I think if I came out… I think they’d be shocked. Maybe. But I know they’d be disappointed. In me. For not trying harder. For not thinking about my career.” He felt like he should feel worse, voicing the fears he’d held in since he’d watched Ilya sitting on the gym floor in ‘09.
“I think… I think they’d be angry that I didn’t tell them. That they’d make it about how I didn’t trust them. How it made them feel.” He finished softly, hating himself for feeling that way about his parents. “They love me more than anything, Ilya, what does it say about me that I can’t trust them to love me after?”
Ilya reached out and Shane pictured him stroking the screen of his phone. “Nyet, lyubov, is not your fault. This is cruel world, da? World has made us scared. Even with those who love us.”
Shane felt tears start to run down his cheeks, sniffing as he reached for the box of tissues by his bed. “Doesn’t make it any easier.”
“I know. But is no rush.” Shane nodded, settling back down. “One day you will be happy and safe. And maybe will not matter so much when you tell them. Maybe will be so happy you will not care what they think.”
“Maybe.” Shane yawned, exhausted. He was tired of being an emotional wreck. “I wish you were here.” He said, looking around the giant bedroom, with the dark blue walls, bamboo sheets Ilya had insisted on, the silk cases on the pillows his boyfriend had express shipped from turkey. The rustle of the wind through the trees outside the window that Ilya had spent an entire morning watching, telling Shane he’d always hated the bleak grey cement that seemed to encompass Russian architecture after the Cold War.
“Me too.”