Chapter Text
There’s a creaking somewhere in the darkness of the room. The corners are lit dimly, warm light flooding the bed on either side of it where half-sphered lamps sit on the nightstands. The bed is made neatly - pressed navy blue sheets and a soft, plush duvet pulled taut at the corners. The array of perfectly fluffed pillows scatter when a body lands on the bed, bouncing just once before the weight of it settles into the mattress.
Hands are on him, rough in the way that sends chills down his spine. They grab at him, at his clothes fresh off the hanger from Hollister, and tug. Chests press together, thick fingers locked into the fabric threatening to tear beneath his grip. Knees press into the mattress on either side of his hips, caging him in like prey. Teeth clack, lips nip and bite, noses drag against each other.
The angled tip of his nose fits perfectly in the crevice of the dramatic bow of the slavic man’s top lip. The gesture is gentle - nosing gently at the plump tissue wet with the string of saliva connecting them. He pants for air in this quiet moment, hands still gripping at each other desperately, pushing and shoving and rolling hips pressing together. A leg slots between his and he grinds against it, head lolling back as his neck gives way. The pillow beneath his head gives him rest and lets him relax as the front of his shorts tighten impossibly more, cock hard and straining behind his zipper.
“Are you Ilya?”
Shane shifted nervously on his feet, hands stuffed in his pockets. He thought twice in the moment that pale gaze shifted to him - analyzed him from toe to head. He freed his hands, instead letting them fall limply at his sides as if it was any more welcoming in terms of body language. He cleared his throat, tip of his tongue darting out of his mouth to wet his plump bottom lip. Teal irises follow the action, pupils narrowing.
Finally, after what seemed like ages, the man extended a hand to Shane from where he sat on the barstool, feet propped up on the support bar at the base of it. Releasing the breath of air he hadn’t realized he was holding, Shane let the corner of his lips quirk upwards into something of a half-smile. He slid his hand - smooth despite the grip on his hockey stick punishing enough most days to leave callouses - into the other’s. In that moment, Ilya stood from the barstool, an inch or two at most taller than Shane. They shake.
“Rozanov.”
A smile finally pulls at the perfectly bowed lips, stunning pearly teeth sharp at the incisors.
“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane moans out, the gold cross round the Russian’s neck grazing his cheekbone as the man reached over him into the bedside drawer to search.
Rozanov casts a smile down at Shane, genuine and stunning like in the bar. He leans down, balanced on one strong arm scattered in a litany of beauty marks. Their lips graze, Shane’s eyes are wide and glassy with want - need.
“You are beautiful, Shane,” he whispers, accent thick and sending a jolt of electricity through the brown-eyed man’s body, making a stop at each knob of his spine.
His cheeks heat, he shakes his head with a soft, shy smile. Ilya raises an eyebrow, setting the retrieved lubricant and condoms from the drawer beside the pillow and instead putting his hand to use by gripping Shane’s jaw in a careful grip. His thumb presses into soft, freckled muscle. The shudder possesses Shane, his cock twitches in his pants and Ilya feels it pressed against him through the denim of his own black joggers.
Ilya kisses him, open-mouthed and filthy despite the torturously slow movement of his jaw. Shane whines, chasing the taste each time Ilya pulls back to tease him. He still can’t figure out what to do with his hands - same as in the bar.
Their shoulders brushed together as Shane took the bar stool beside Ilya. Shoulders squared, this feeling so foreign. He’d hidden for so long, a gay man in a locker room - a snake in the grass. While it felt freeing - like a car engine lifted off of his slowly caving in chest - he wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to feeling so seen. The eyes were already on him most places he went before, as the case tends to be when a hockey prodigy gets the number one draft pick and his overzealous mother immediately books any and every brand deal for him. The eyes felt beadier now - harsher, more cruel.
They were everywhere.
“Where are you, Shane Hollander?”
He perked up at the question that pulled him from his spiraling thoughts. He shook off the eyes as best as he could and offered the man a nervous smile. He owed him a chance at least, after bringing him all the way out here. Shane was tired of hiding, even though the cloak of the night had at least provided him an excuse to not be around people. He never was very good with social interaction.
“Sorry,” he said earnestly, shifting in his seat. “It’s my first time out since…yeah.”
“Since coming out, yes, I read about it on the internet.”
Shane nods.
“Sorry to put that on you.”
“Put what?”
“Being my first date out.”
Ilya pondered for a moment, raising his glass to his lips. The contents were well-enjoyed, nearing the halfway mark of the glass. The man’s lips were shiny, slick with the liquid. Shane tried not to stare, then remembered that he could now.
“I do not mind. I like being first.”
Shane snorted a laugh, nodding to the bartender when she neared them. He ordered a ginger ale vodka, ignoring the pinched look in Ilya’s face at the choice.
“Well, then you’re gonna love this next part.”
Ilya hummed a reply, sipping at his drink until just a drop was left. Shane tapped his fingers against the bar top, chewing at his lip.
“What is next part? You did not finish saying.”
Shane laughed, eyes sparkling the second they landed on the foreign man.
“I’ve never, ah…” he gestured vaguely with his hand, casting his eyes down to focus on the scratches in the aged wood beneath him.
Ilya turned towards the man fully, eyes widening. He set his empty glass down and dove his head down just barely to capture Shane's attention again where his gaze was averted.
“With a man?”
Shane shook his head, lips quivering into a nervous smile. Ilya’s eardrums thrummed, blood thickening in his veins. The bartender sat the drink down and left the two to their silence.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to put any like - like pressure on you, or-”
“You talk so much Hollander,” Ilya interrupted.
Shane watched him lift the drink - fizzy, nearly clear, and garnished with a leaf of some kind, not unlike a mohito. He took a sip, pink lips curling around the edge of the glass and intense stare locked on Shane. His face contorted unpleasantly and he handed the drink over, making a show of his disdain for the flavor.
“And you drink awful liquor.”
“Shut up,” Shane muttered, sipping the spot blessed by Ilya’s indirect kiss.
The air hits the warm, sinewy expanse of his chest as his shirt is all but ripped off by Ilya. Hands are all over him - shoving the sleeves off of his shoulders, pinching at the hardened brown nubs atop his pecs, planes of his palms sweeping over the soft layer of fat atop his abs. It’s all so reverent whereas moments ago it was feverish - needy.
He feels worshipped. Seen.
“I never do this,” Shane breathes out as Ilya peels his own shirt off.
His hands fall to Hollander’s shorts, unbuttoning and unzipping the crotch until the bulge between his legs pops through. He tugs the shorts down thick, tanned thighs and tosses them in some dim corner of the bedroom.
“Do what? Fuck on first date? Yes, I figure because you are virgin.”
Shane laughs, chest stuttering with the action. Ilya kisses down between his pecs, wet kisses trailing down his navel and hovering above the waistband of his boxers.
“No, no. I never…bring people home, any of this,” he mumbles.
Ilya looks up at him, lips still pursed in a shape ready to kiss at the thin patch of hair peeking out from his boxers.
“So I am special?” he teases, lips tugging into that cocky smirk when Shane tosses his head back in a weak attempt to hide his fond smile.
“Yeah, you’re special, asshole.”
Ilya watches dark eyelashes flutter up at the ceiling from his angle. The walls of the room tighten. The droning - always there in the quietest parts of the brain - builds. His eyelids drop just slightly, chest thrumming alive - iron filling his mouth. Shane’s chest stutters - it stills for a quick moment and Ilya’s breath catches. He glances at his own hands, placed firmly on the outer sides of the man’s thighs where he has dipped down between the two brawny pillars of strength. His fingertips dig in the flesh. His right eye twitches, vision blurring just slightly as Shane’s figure fades out of focus.
Something twists in the deepest pit of him - his abdomen coils uncomfortably. The urge eats at him, lights framing both sides of the bed dimming as his vision tunnels. Shane is at the center of it - perfect smile, boyish freckles, caring doe-like eyes. The perfect visage, the perfect physique, the perfect boy. Shane Hollander is perfect in every sense of the word.
“You are special too, Shane,” he murmurs finally, tilting his head to the side and letting his blond curls - just barely damp with sweat - tickle at the other’s inner thighs.
Shane shudders, finally propping himself up on his elbows to find Ilya dipped down between his legs.
“Please fuck me,” he whispers, honest eyes holding nothing but adoration.
Adoration for him? Ilya wonders.
What is there to adore?
He nods, letting his lips dip down to kiss over Shane's clothed cock. It twitches into the moist heat. He pushes himself up to his knees, eyes still low and glowering at the trembling boy at his complete mercy.
“Since you ask so nicely,” he taunts, peeling the last bit of fabric on both of them off and discarding the garments somewhere in the dark of the room.
He admires the naked form of the all-star athlete before him - sprawled out for him like a feast. Shane’s skin is a warm beige, save for the tan lines and stretch marks in his most intimate places being a stark pale in comparison. Even in all his scarring - even in his imperfections, he was perfect. Ilya is falling.
He uncaps the lube, dumps a generous - overbearing - amount onto three fingers and uses the flat plane of his other hand once the bottle is discarded beside them to drag across the pale stripes on Shane’s hips. He tilts his head back, chin high and proud as he watches Shane squirm with one finger sinking into him.
“Do you touch yourself like this?” he asks, baby blue locked onto deep brown.
Shane nods, arms twitching - unsure of where to lay or how to rest. He seems to find solace in catching the back of his knees with his hands, skin pressed into by the pads of his fingers. Digits turn white at the pressure, legs folded and knees casted skyward. Ilya regards this openness - this vulnerability. One long, thick finger is pressed into Shane all the way to his knuckle. He curls it curtly, earning a sharp moan pulled from the other unexpectedly. Ilya grins.
His canines glisten in the dim light. Shane shudders.
It doesn’t take long to add another. The stretch is more significant now - Hollander can feel the slight burn as two fingers pull and drag and catch on the ring of muscle. He typically uses two before switching to his toy, but it had been a while since he pleased himself this way - having been so busy with hockey and the media fallout of his oh so brave decision. For months now he had used just his hand fisted over his cock to get off. He knew this encounter would leave him aching - he figures it worth it as he watches blue eyes regard him, clouded with their own lust. Ilya leans down, his shoulder blades protrude at the angle like angel wings. He purses his lips, spitting at the part of Shane’s body that his fingers disappear into.
The action is crude - Shane’s cock twitches at the animalistic sight of Ilya bent over him and staring into his eyes.
He didn’t think that his first time would be during a first date - or that it would be this intense.
He wasn’t complaining.
“More, please,” he begs, throat rippling as he swallows.
The response is preceded by a barely-there nod, blond curls bouncing atop the Russian’s head. He presses the tip of one more rough finger to Shane’s hole, reveling in the way the other squirms in anticipation, expectant of the touch. He thinks to himself how sweet, how trusting Shane is. Montreal Metros’ star player, writhing and moaning on his back while begging Ilya to use him in his own bed. The paler man pushes a third finger into the heat at his knuckles and watches a twinge of pain flash over Shane’s features. He almost pulls them free again - because he should, because that is to be expected when there is even the slightest hint of pain on a face as beautiful as this - but he stalls instead. Tests the waters.
Hollander breathes out through gritted teeth, lips shiny with spit and quivering where he struggles to hold his head up from the bed to watch Ilya between his spread legs. Here in the dim light, with the strained look on his face and the vein that pops slightly on the left side of his forehead hidden beneath a shroud of coarse black hair, Hollander really does look perfect. The warm glow of the lamps to hide sides illuminate the sharp angle of his nose, casting a shadow of the shape on soft cheeks. Ilya presses his fingers in until his knuckles are flush against sinew. Hollander, notably, does not stop him.
“Shane Hollander,” he drawls out, warm breath fanning over the wet tip of the man’s cock.
Shane squirms, seemingly the slightest bit thrown off by the moniker.
“How many times will you cum for me tonight, милый мальчик? Hm?”
The language, laced with his thick accent, must strike a chord within the pooling heat in the athlete’s stomach - he collapses back onto the bed and covers his head with both arms, nose pressed into the crook of one elbow.
“Whatever you want,” he breathes out, thighs trembling slightly. “Wanna cum for you…”
Ilya nods, watches the visage before him disappear behind arms thick with muscle. He’s freed from its pull, spell broken. He takes the time to finally tilt his head down and set his forehead against Shane’s stomach as he fingered him in ernest. His free hand comes to hold the man’s hips down to the bed, pinning him in place and effectively while his curls tickle. Hollander reacts to the adjustment with a whine, struggling to keep his composure as the digits inside of him pump and curl at a punishing pace. It burns just slightly; he preens under the stretch.
It’s only when he feels mouthing at his cock that he insists on progressing before he cums all over himself.
“Please, please, fuck-” he whimpers, hips fucking down against the abuse of their own accord.
“You want me to stop? Hm? Want me to fuck you instead?” Ilya taunts, looking up at him with that predatory gaze again, dipped between thick, trembling thighs.
Shane nods. Ilya’s fingers keep their pace.
“You beg for me,” he presses a feather-light kiss to the skin within his grasp. “Beg me to fuck you, be good boy.”
The darker-haired of the two swallows another whine in his throat, eyes blown wide and filled with a pathetic need to be stuffed with thick Russian cock yesterday.
“Please, Ilya,” he begs, trying and failing to keep his voice even as the man grinds the rough pads of his fingers right into his prostate. “P-please fuck me, fu - oh, my god, fuck me, fuck me, please.”
Ilya feels his resolve cracking, chipping away and dissolving into the muddied pool of the whimpering mess at his mercy. He decides he can’t take another second without Shane sheathed on his cock and pulls his fingers free with an obscene sound. He leans over Shane, rifling around in the bedside drawer for a condom when he feels a gentle finger hook the cross pendant dangling from his neck. He looks down, clutching a condom as he cages Shane's head with both palms pressed into the mattress. Brown eyes look up at him, shy and yet still so needy and wanton.
“Sorry,” he mutters, letting the chain go.
The bashful action has Ilya lowering himself in a half-push up to kiss him. He drags his lips against Hollander’s slowly, pulling away to dodge each time the man tries to press up into the taste. His lips stretch into a devious smile, tip of his nose nudging Shane’s.
“Is my mother’s. Was.”
“I’m sorry.”
Ilya shakes his head, smile pained but genuine - vulnerable. He pats Shane’s thigh, denying him a full kiss in order to drive him that much more mad, then sits up to tear open the shimmering package. He rolls the condom on his cock, stroking languidly as the boy beneath him is sprawled out on the bed. He yanks the spare pillow to the left of them and nudges Hollander’s hips up to slide the mound beneath them, hoisting him up higher. Once situated, he runs his hand up the tan expanse of thigh muscle, feeling goosebumps prickle in his path.
Before Shane can make another indignant sound at having been made to wait, Ilya presses the head of his cock to the slick ring of muscle and wets his bottom lip with his tongue as he slowly pushes his way in. The grip is vice-like, searing hot almost. He makes it about an inch in before pushing at the back of Shane’s knees to fold him further. The movement earns an aborted squeak from the base of Shane’s throat, blush rising at the escaped sound. Ilya grins at him, determined to keep that crimson flush where it belongs over freckle-dusted cheeks.
“Xороший мальчик,” he nods, eyes locked on doe-like brown ones.
“What does - fuck - what does that m-mean?”
Ilya presses in another inch, nails digging into the soft flesh in his grip.
“Good boy,” he whispers, watching the way Shane’s body trembles, betrays him. “You like when I talk to you in Russian?”
It’s a statement more than a question; it needs no answer.
Still, Hollander nods.
“Hmmm. Большой сильный хоккеист,” he starts, eyelids falling halfway as he locks his gaze on Shane and speaks in a sickenly-sweet voice, teetering on mocking in nature. “Трахни себя на мой член, как грязная дешевая шлюха.”
He watches the expression grow slack on Shane’s face as more of Ilya fills him. There’s no pause until their hips are seated together, warm skin damp and pressed together at the hips. He soothes the marks his nails leave with a kiss, dipping his head down to reach.
“Я с нетерпением жду, когда ты ляжешь лицом вниз, будешь плакать и кончишь на себя, пока я тебя трахаю,” he draws out, voice dripping sweet like sugar water at the end.
He reaches out and brushes a thumb over Shane’s cheek. The other preens - dark eyelashes flutter closed at the gentleness.
He pulls his hips back and drives them forward again unexpectedly, punching out a moan from the man beneath him. Hands grapple for purchase in the sheets, mouth falling open to grace the room with a whiny moan.
“Yes, нойте об этом. You like having cock in your ass, Hollander, hm?”
Shane nods, mouth gaping when Ilya repeats the action. A silent plea leaves his lips.
“Hm? I cannot hear, Shane,” Ilya teases, leaning over him and rolling his hips forward in languid, but constant, circles. “Tell me how much you like.”
“I like it, I like it,” Shane rushes out, squeezing his eyes shut as Ilya’s cock brushes against the sensitive spot within him.
He already feels heat coiling in his groin.
“Hm, not good enough. Do better and I fuck you harder.”
Ilya grasps at Shane’s jaw, cheeks squished between strong fingers, and shakes him a little. It jolts those big brown eyes open. The Russian flicks the tip of his tongue against Shane’s already wet lips.
“I love it,” gasps the boy beneath his punishing grip. “Please, I love - I love getting fucked.”
Ilya nods, egging him on, not yet satiated.
“And?”
“And…and I love your cock, please, please Ilya.”
“And you love big cock in your tight little virgin ass, yes?”
He nods Shane’s head for him, grip bruising on the freckled man’s jaw. Shane lets himself be manhandled, breath quickening into little pants. The stars in his eyes aimed up at the blond man currently fucking him into the mattress twinkle as his orgasm nears him.
“Say.”
Shane doesn’t even think to do anything other than obey; to obey just feels right.
“I…I love your big cock in my tight…tight li-ittle virgin…ass,” he mumbles, stuttering his way through it with eyes locked on him and Ilya’s cock sheathed inside him.
Ilya grins at him - all teeth. He releases his hold, returning to the gentle caress over the sore spots of Shane’s cheeks.
“Xороший мальчик,” he coos, like one would to a puppy. “Good boy. Мой маленький питомец.”
“What does-”
Shane’s question is cut short when Ilya pulls out of him and uses a hand under the bend of the athlete’s knee to flip him over onto his front effortlessly. His mind reels and he has no time to even register the change fully before he’s filled again. Ilya slides into him much easier now, thumbs digging into the thick portions of his ass to hold him still. The pillow cants his hips up and presents them to the blond. Hollander balances himself on his elbows, knees digging into the mattress to ground himself in place as Ilya leans over him.
He feels the cold graze of the gold cross on his back, between his flexed shoulder blades.
There's a gentle kiss placed there, then at the back of his head, then Ilya is snapping his hips forward.
“Oh f-” he groans, head pointed forward and eyes finding the headboard a few inches away. “Oh my god, fuck, fuck!”
Ilya is fucking him harder now, a steady and punishing rhythm driving Shane’s hips further downwards into the pillow propping him up. He fists the sheets, dragging the cover down each time he tries to press his forearm beneath himself for support. The pressure is building inside of him, shooting pleasure throughout his groin each time their hips meet with a smack. Hands slide to his hips and yank them back up, forcing the base of his spine to curve slightly. There’s a large, warm hand flat on his back, pressing his chest into the mattress. He lets it happen - instantly feels the new angle send his legs shaking uncontrollably.
He turns his head, pressing his cheek into the sheets and giving up on trying to support himself in this position. Ilya has him in a modified sort of prone position, caging his toned body in and using his ass like it was all Shane was born for. The man’s hand threads through his hair, combing the short strands before pressing over his ear and locking his face in place on the sheets. The thrusts speed, paired with Ilya’s rough panting for air and curses.
“Fawk, Hollander,” he groans through gritted teeth, enveloped in the warmth of his unused ass. “Моя маленькая питомица, я трахну твою пизду.”
He spits out these curses that Shane can’t understand, reveling in the way the man moans beneath him at them without even comprehending their depravity. He almost wants to switch to English, just to see how Shane would take them - how he would react to being called a pet with a fuckable little cunt.
One day, he decides.
For now, he keeps these phrases to himself. For now, he snaps his hips into the wrecked ass of the virgin beneath him and watches him squirm and moan at the abuse. He holds himself back from spitting onto the patch of freckles tinted blush red, to claim him.
“Harder, please, please! Fuck me harder Rozanov, god, fu-uck me. I have to - need to cum. Please let me, let me, let me cum.”
Ilya grits his teeth and lets a groan slip through, fingers gripping the patch of hair beneath his palm that sits behind Shane’s ear. He uses his free hand to fully pull the other’s hips up from the pillow, suspending them in the air with a thick arm slung around them. Shane’s poor, flushed cock leaks against his forearm. He fucks him like a man gone mad, watching the crinkles form in the corners of Shane’s eyes as he squeezes them shut. An endless string of moans and whimpers and pathetic sounding whines fall from his lips in a litany. Ilya doesn't realize the man is cumming until he feels the splash of cum on his forearm, warm and viscous.
“Fawk, good boy, good boy,” he pants, pressing open-mouthed kisses to Hollander’s neck and shoulder. “Such a good boy, asking to cum, begging.”
He feels the half-hearted, listless bucks of Shane fucking himself back to meet Ilya’s thrusts and curses to himself. His breath fans hot and wet over Shane’s neck and he stills only after another moment, the grip around his cock spasming and milking him for every drop he’s worth until the condom sits heavy with it. Their breathing syncs on and off with the struggle to find a steady pattern of it. Ilya slides out of the other slowly, ties the condom off and discards of it, then leans over Hollander’s back. He presses wet kisses to the salty sheen of sweat coated skin until he’s kissing at the man’s soft neck.
“So whiny,” he taunts, flicking the spent man’s ear.
It earns him a mumble into the pillow where Shane’s face is hidden. He combs his fingers through the wiry strands, chewing the inside of his cheek as he regards the situation. The romantic low lighting, the freshly de-flowered man in his arms, the clench in his chest. He presses his nose into onyx hair, inhaling the clean, fragrant scents masked with musk.
“Did you enjoy?” he finds himself asking.
Shane nods, turning his head so that his face - still flushed, lips still bitten pink - is no longer hidden. He smiles lazily, enjoying the comforting press of Ilya’s body weight on top of him.
“-Lay on my back,” he mumbles.
Ilya obliges, pressing himself up into half a push up as Shane shifts to lay on his back. Ilya rests against him again, one leg threading between his, and pulls the blanket up on their waists. His lips are stretched into a faint, fond smirk as he looks down at the fucked out athlete.
“I liked that.”
It’s such a simple, matter-of-fact statement accompanied by a blissful smile that Ilya finds himself chuckling.
“Yes?”
“Yeah.”
They giggle. Ilya Rozanov finds himself giggling in bed with someone he’d just taken the virginity of on the first date and it felt right. He leans down and kisses Shane slow, actually pressing their lips together this time rather than just teasing - making Shane antsy for more. He kisses him fully, feels the man’s hand come to cup his jaw. He leans into it, the tender gesture sending warmth throughout his body.
He pulls back just enough to ask in a whisper: “How many times will you cum for me tonight, hm?”
Shane grins, wets his bottom lip with a flicker of the tip of his tongue - Ilya dives down to catch it in his mouth. He licks into the open cavern, arm winding around Shane's warm, soft waist.
The answer is two; they each cum twice more.
They have the bit of pillowtalk that Shane figures he isn’t any good at.
“Do you like scary movie?” Ilya ends up asking after a moment of laying together on the mess of sheets.
“Some. I hate slashers.”
“Slasher?"
“The ones where the killers wear masks and have corny one-liners, I can’t stand them.”
“Ah. So if I say ‘I can make you scream’, is corny?”
Shane laughs, tosses his head back with it.
“It’s different when you say it.”
Ilya hums, brings his face closer to Shane’s until the tips of their noses touch. For a moment, the brown-eyed boy thinks they’ll kiss. The Russian’s voice drops an octave and he speaks just as Shane moves to close their gap.
“I will make you scream.”
Shane snorts a laugh and shoves at Ilya’s shoulder. The man lets the push drop his back to the bed, grin plastered to his perfectly bowed lips.
Then, Ilya is standing and stretching his arms over his head. Shane watches him, worrying his lip between his teeth while the expanse of skin before him - littered with beauty marks - threatens to be hidden by clothes. He speaks before Ilya has even a moment to dress.
“You don’t…have to go. It’s late.”
Pale eyes find his. Canines glimmer in dim light.
“You want me to stay and fuck you more?”
A blush creeps up his neck. He sits up in the bed and a bashful chuckle leaves him.
“I mean you can stay and we can sleep.”
“And fuck in morning.”
Not a question - a statement. No room to argue - as if Shane would after he’s just had the fucking of his life.
“And fuck in morning,” Shane parrots.
Ilya watches him intently for a moment - some emotion Shane can’t read passes over his face - then flops back down into the bed.
════════════════
The off season is always much less relaxing for Shane as most would believe it to be.
Between the consistency of his gym regimen, meal planning for his diet, modeling contracts, commercial shoots, and training for the inevitable restart of the season, he hardly finds time for himself. But, for the first three weeks of this time lapse, he finds that any moment he does have to himself is spent messaging back and forth with Ilya.
They flirt mostly, talk about the mundane occasionally. They facetimed once - Ilya had caught him when he was reading in bed one night and made fun of his old folk tendencies, then came all over his screen after a heated phone sex session that he’d demanded Shane’s glasses stay on for. The texts slow down by the tail-end of the third week, and there’s a mutual understanding that they’re both adults with their own schedules.
But it does sting a little when Shane reaches out with an offer to spend his first night free that week with Ilya and gets no reply in return.
So, he spends that night instead talking to his parents on the phone - relays the events of the last few weeks with them, save for his extracurriculars with the Russian.
“Have you gone out at all? Anyone nice in your life, honey?” his mother pries in that sweet tone that Shane recognizes as phishy.
He worries his lips between his teeth.
“I went on a date, three weeks ago.”
He can hear his father chirp in the background, supportive. His mother agrees.
“That’s great! How did it go? Was there a second date? Is there?”
He smiles fondly into the bottom receiver of his phone, playing absent-mindedly with the drawstrings of his sweatpants. He sits on his couch, the mildly colorful interior design of his home - courtesy of the designer with the boisterous personality he’d hired - glows in warm light as he watches tv on mute while he speaks on the phone. His feet are kicked up on the coffee table - something his mom would chastise him for doing in her home.
“It was good. I don’t think there will be a second date. He hasn’t replied to my texts in a few days.”
His mother coos on the phone and he cringes at her babying of him.
“It’s fine, I know, I know. Other fish in the sea.”
“Well, yeah!” his father chimes in, sounding far away, like he was coming from another room to sit with his mother.
“I’m sorry honey, he’s missing out. Fuck him,” she asserts.
Shane’s eyebrows bounce up and he stifles a chuckle. If only she knew. As he opens his mouth to speak, there’s a loud rap of knocking at his front door. He jumps slightly, cursing under his breath.
“Shane?”
“Sorry, someone’s at the door, it freaked me out.”
“At eleven pm? Don’t answer that.”
He stands from the couch, phone still pressed to his ear.
“It’s probably just some kids trying to be funny,” he explains, nearing the door.
“Or just ignore me, okay,” she mutters.
He faintly hears his dad chuckle and mention that she is where Shane gets his attitude from. The fond domesticity of their banter swells his heart as he peers through the peephole.
“Yeah, they ran off. Just kids.”
“You need cameras, Shane. I’m serious.”
“I know, I know. I’ll call tomorrow to get an installer,” he relents, latching the deadbolt to his front door before turning the living room tv off and walking down the hall to his bathroom. “I’m gonna head to bed, I’ll let you know about the installers tomorrow."
“Don’t forget about-”
“About Calvin Klein, Friday at ten. I know.”
“Okay, brat, love you.”
“Love you mom, love you dad.”
They hang up and Shane tosses his phone on his bed. He peels his shirt off over his head, pressing the button on the control panel by his bedroom door to close the automatic blinds. Once they’re closed, he undresses the rest of the way and wanders into his connected bathroom, turning the shower on. Steam pillows on the ceiling as hot water warms the room and fogs the mirror. He steps into the spray, sighing heavy while the water runs over his face - blinding him momentarily. He sings to himself quietly, voice echoing off of the tiled walls.
“Piss him off till he hates me,” he whisper-sings, shampoo frothing between his fingers as he rubs it into his hair. “Yeah right, he fuckin’ loves me.”
His back turns to the open door that connects the bathroom to his bedroom. An odd sensation washes over him and he quickly turns, eyeing the threshold. The kids in their prank must have thrown him off, he feels eyes on him.
“Low slung bad bitch, baby come and get you some,” he continues half-heartedly after deciding he’d just continue to psyche himself out the longer he stared at the empty space.
He finishes his shower and rinses off completely, smelling fiercely of pine and honey bodywash. He dries his hair until it sits damp on his forehead, wipes the layer of it on his skin down, then hangs the towel and walks into his bedroom.
“Can you read my mind? I’ve been watching you,” he sings lowly, picking up his phone and checking the few texts from Rose and Hayden.
The absence of a text from Ilya irks him - he bites the inside of his cheek.
“Whatever, fuck.”
He plugs his phone in to charge, pulls on boxers and a soft t-shirt before crawling into bed.
He falls asleep with the image of thick biceps littered in beauty marks caging him in while Russian curses are hurled at him.
════════════════
Friday at ten rolls around and Shane finds that he wasn’t dreading it nearly enough.
He stands in a gang of people - photographers, agents, managers - in just the underwear given to him to model. The pair isn’t unpleasantly tight - though he did have to request a size bigger given the band being tight enough to dig into the soft muscle at the curve of his hips. He hikes the leg holes up just slightly so that the hem of them doesn’t tug at the sparse hair on his thighs. The pair is white, but thankfully not see-through. His mom was here and despite her arrangement of this collaboration - and literal birthing of him - he’d hate to have her see the outline of anything.
Without meaning to, his hands gravitate to cover his groin often. More than once he is reminded to remove them as they move into place for photos. He stands before a white backdrop and he ponders how the white underwear will show up in front of the white behind him - but he doesn’t voice this. He poses obediently, and finally when the series of poses run out, he’s given the green light to go change. He’s led to the small changing room of the studio - a storage room with a creaky door. He closes the door behind him and sighs, taking in the sight of himself in the mirror. He twists and turns slowly, regarding the way the underwear hugs his ass.
The curtain in the corner of the room behind him sways - he sees the movement in the mirror and stills.
“Um, hello? Is someone there?”
He turns, eyes the curtain as it sits frozen, like carved from stone. He watches it for a moment, swallowing thickly. Managing to work up the courage to take a step near it, the rapping at the door startles him and sends him jumping about a foot into the air.
“Yep!” he calls out, grabbing his mound of clothes and quickly peeling off the boxers while keeping his eyes locked on the curtain.
Dread fills his chest cavity slowly and it isn’t until he’s yanking the door open and darting through it fully clothed that he feels it lighten. He crashes into his mother - grasps her shoulders to steady her after being at the mercy of her six foot athlete son.
“God, Shane!”
“Sorry, sorry. The curtain-”
“We’re going to be late to lunch with Rolex, honey, let’s go.”
Shane nods, presses his lips together in a thin line. They walk out of the studio - Shane glances back at the building once more before catching up to his mother.
The restaurant is boisterous when they enter and find their table with the help of the hostess. Shane sits beside his mother, lifts the menu just as she does and mirrors her as they look over their options together. He opens his mouth, almost wants to tell her how paranoid he feels, how paranoid he’s felt these last few days - beginning with the kids knocking at his door late at night. He wants to tell her about the curtain, about the feeling of impending doom he’d felt in the shower the other night.
Then he thinks about the fact that he had completely forgotten to call installers regarding cameras. He decides he’d rather not work her up about not listening to her before this meeting. He closes his mouth, scans the menu and settles on the safest sounding option. His water needs refilling by the time the waiter comes around to introduce himself.
The Rolex ambassadors are two older men who blabber about how glad they are to have Shane - an Asian-Canadian hockey all-star - represent their luxury brand. Shane tends to tune these sorts of individuals out without meaning to, letting his mom do all the talking. It’s funny how they don’t mention how happy they are that he’s gay - it isn’t the right demographic, maybe. He tries to stay engaged now, not wanting to face her wrath - even as she goes on about his many brand deals in a way that always comes across as boastful. He sips at his water, eyes sliding over the many tables in the restaurant. There is a small bar connected to the restaurant at the edge of the room and Shane’s eyes land on a mop of blond curls.
He swallows his water, sure to not sputter or miss a drop. He sets the glass down, nods a bit to his mother as if he’d been listening at all, but finds his eyes sliding back over to the bar of their own accord. He studies the broad-shouldered figure turned away from him. The man sits alone at one edge of the bar, black t-shirt with the short sleeves digging into his biceps hugging his frame deliciously. He has one simple black jeans to match, one leg kicked up slightly as his heel rested on the barstool’s support bar below.
His mind races.
Two fingers shoved into his mouth as he’s bent over his own kitchen counter with Ilya’s cock driving into him at a punishing pace is supplied to him. He looks down at the table in front of him and bites at his thumbnail, then thinks better of it before his mother could notice and nudge him underneath the table. A second passes and he fights the urge to pull his phone out and open up the dry conversation just to text him again - to ask him if he was sitting at the bar.
“I’m going to use the restroom,” he finds himself saying before he can stop himself.
His mother smiles at him and nods, watches him stand and push his chair in politely before he walks off. Shane walks off, grateful that their table was slightly tucked away so that it would take some looking around by his mother to find the bar. His feet carry him to the bar and he stops a foot behind the man that grabbed his attention. He breathes, pushes his hair back from his head as if it makes him appear any less nervous, then steps into frame a foot or so away. He sets his hands on the bar top, waiting for the bartender chatting up some yoga mom at the other end to notice him. He turns his head - his heart skips a beat upon realizing this man is indeed Ilya.
He considers it almost romantic that they’d run into each other here, unanswered texts be damned.
“Ilya?”
Ilya looks up from where he’s staring down into his drink. Pale eyes meet umber and they don’t look the least bit surprised - let alone excited. Shane deflates, his eagerness and nerves swirling deep in his stomach into something more nauseating.
“Shane.”
Shane shifts on his feet, leans on the bar top slightly and then thinks better of it, straightens himself up.
“How are you?” he finds himself asking.
Ilya regards him with so little warmth in his eyes that Shane wants to shrink in on himself and disappear - he feels that insignificant. The man sitting on this bar stool sipping at some concoction - no doubt based with vodka - and regarding him so coldly is not Ilya. This man is not the same man who fucked Shane so passionately in his bed and cradled him to sleep.
“Fine,” comes the short, curt answer.
Ilya sips at his drink, looks forward again. Shane swallows, shoving his hands into his pockets. He looks down at his shoes, bites at the dry skin on his bottom lip and resist the urge to bite it off completely. When he speaks, his voice wavers.
“I’m free tonight. I don’t know if you saw my text.”
He feels so pathetic. Of course Rozanov saw his text. The situation is so obvious and Shane is standing here willing it to be any different. The true and absolute delusion makes him nauseous.
“I did.”
Shane nods, molars digging into the soft muscle on the inside of his cheek until he’s sure he tastes iron.
“Right.”
He lingers. His jaw opens, closes, then opens again. He looks up, his eyes sting with unshed tears that he has to swallow to keep in check. His throat burns and he clears it before speaking again.
“You could have just told me,” he whispers, voice tight and gaze pointed at the Greek statue-like side profile there. “If that’s all you wanted, you could have told me.”
Ilya’s cold gaze shifts to him again and Shane almost wants to cower in on himself at how dark his irises look. He resists the urge to physically take a step back, instead planting his feet where he stood and challenging the stony gaze.
“Maybe,” Ilya starts, downing the rest of his drink and licking the wetness of it from his lips as he stands to face Shane.
Despite being similar in height, it feels like the Russian towers over him now. The distance between them is slightly smaller as Rozanov drops a bill for the bartender on the bartop. Shane resists the urge to watch the biceps flex and strain against the short black sleeves. Ilya’s voice drops to a whisper and he leans in just slightly, making Shane’s eyes dart around quickly.
“Not everything is fucking about you.”
Then, his eyebrows bounce up once before he walks off. Shane swallows thickly, stays put for a few seconds. His legs wobble and he makes the quick move to dart towards the bathroom as tears well up in his eyes. He rushes into a stall and locks it, taking a deep shuddering breath. He swallows down the thorns coating the inside of his throat, pressing his back to the cold stall wall. He rests his head against the surface and wipes at his eyes - wipes away at the shame and indignity.
He collects himself as best as he can, then quickly rejoins his mother and the ambassadors for lunch. He tries to forget about the cruel pale blue eyes.