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It’s the first day Ilya’s back from the hospital. Shane has invited himself to stay after Boston gets eliminated in the second round.
Montreal’s directly responsible for that.
Shane’s not sorry.
He does feel bad for Ilya’s injuries, though.
“I am, how to say…” Ilya trails off. His eyes clears when he finds the word: “Attention seeker.” When Shane doesn’t say anything—hasn’t managed to, alright—he repeats with more conviction, “I think I am attention seeker.”
“Attention seeker,” Shane echoes back.
He hears the term thrown around sometimes, mostly not associated with a smile as bright as Ilya’s right now. Then again, Ilya has been quite smiley the past few days with stronger pain meds for what his gear failed to prevent.
Shane knows how it feels. He has been injured before.
It did come with the attention: from his parents, his teammates, his friends, his—Ilya. He liked it when the people he liked showed him attention.
Does that make him an attention seeker too?
“Why do you think that?” Shane asks, fingers running through Ilya’s hair.
A hum. In the brief seconds of silence, curled up together on the sofa, Shane decides he would love it, even if Ilya were one.
There’s nothing wrong with being one, either. And if Ilya’s an attention seeker, Shane’s gonna be the giver.
“I don’t know,” Ilya mumbles, cheek resting on Shane’s thigh. They watch replays on the TV together. “My father said that.”
Shane doesn’t answer. Mainly he doesn’t have anything nice to say, but also Ilya’s train of thought doesn't seem complete.
“And I can see that.” Ilya chuckles, which must hurt his ribs. “He said… when I was young, I liked to get hurt.”
Subconsciously, or not, he wraps an arm across his own torso. His fingers dips into his side on the right.
Shane watches the fingers do more than just massage a sore spot. He vividly remembers crimson burning under the soft cotton tank in the hospital. Ilya’s muscles tense as he digs into himself. A sigh quakes from his lips, raising goosebumps over Shane’s thigh.
“When I got hurt, I did not have to go to school,” Ilya continues, eyes on the TV. “My mother was so worried. Let mama kiss your little hands.” His voice drips with fondness as he coos to himself. “We get candy. Let’s watch cartoon. Alexei sweep floor.”
It’s cut off with Ilya’s own hiss, head tilted back by Shane’s fingers that snagged his blood-matted hair.
“Oh, shit,” Shane blurts. “Oh my god, I’m sorry, fuck, gimme a sec—”
Ilya takes joy in his panic, wincing and laughing, inevitably making his hair twist tighter around Shane’s fingers.
“Mm, Mr Hardcore,” Ilya drawls.
“Shut up, we need scissors—”
“Don’t you dare, Hollander!” Ilya lets out a blood-curdling scream, which is also what untangles them, by cosmic force. “Don’t you dare defame me!”
“Defame?” Shane chokes on a laugh.
“Hunter said that,” Ilya huffs.
“Wait. And what did you say to Hunter?”
“Nothing!” Ilya’s eyes widen in innocence when Shane squints. His functional arm dances around the air. “You think I’m liar? No, no. Hollander. Shane. Please trust me. You should trust your boyfriend, yes?”
Yes. He trusts Ilya.
So fucking much. So, so much.
He is armed with the strength to break him, vice versa. Shane has given him many a chance, even more foolishly when they were younger. Similarly foolishly, Ilya passed on those.
They have both been so careless about themselves with each other, it’s a miracle they hadn’t got hurt more than they already did. It’s the way Ilya holds him precious, like a puck to be guarded, that keeps him safe.
(Except in real life, Shane takes that puck from right under his nose more often than not.)
(Shane’s not sorry. Not one bit.)
It makes sense that he has given Ilya and only Ilya the permission to hurt him. It should be the same the other way round, right?
He remembers seeing it from the other end of the rink, Ilya strewn across scored ice after a crash. He saw red despite Boston’s blue jersey. He spat red into the sink that night and found his tongue bitten raw. His bloodshot eyes were red, red, red in the bathroom mirror in the hotel.
He would’ve lost it if he didn’t have to keep up an appearance, sharing a room with Hayden.
The rational side of him tries to frame it nicely: professional players don’t do it intentionally, it comes with playing a contact sport, everybody gets their bell rung. Et cetera, et cetera.
Is it weird that he maybe, maybe, regrets not putting those marks on him?
Shane takes a deep breath.
He does not want Ilya hurt.
He does not want to hurt Ilya.
“Let’s go,” Ilya pats his back and makes for the door.
“Go where?”
“Rink.”
“It’s midnight.”
Ilya blows a raspberry at the ceiling. “Yes. And it’s been entire week.”
“Your team banned you from the ice for four weeks.”
“I’m so bored. And you are so boring,” Ilya whines. “Please, please, you can’t trap me here. My legs are fine! I can just skate. I won’t work hard.”
Shane watches him for a few more seconds. Ilya not-hardworking Rozanov can’t fool him.
But the pleas keep on coming, and he’s not immune to them.
So he drives them to the rink in Ilya’s sportscar. The parking lot is empty, thank fuck. It would be comical to see archrivals Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov visiting Boston Raider’s practice rink in the middle of the night.
“This is abuse of power, you know.”
A crooked grin. “I win back enough to make up for this.”
The rink glows bluish under overhead lights in a halo of empty seats. Ilya can’t even do the laces on his own skates, so Shane is doing them for him.
On his knees before Ilya who’s seated on a bench, somehow he feels more exposed than when he sucked his dick, which is weird.
“Thank you,” Ilya says in Russian.
“You’re welcome,” Shane says back in Russian. He gets a kiss on his cheek before helping Ilya up.
They’ve been practising this.
His face burns.
After sending Ilya on his merry way around in laps, Shane finds a pair of busted up skates lying around and puts them on. He steps onto unfamiliar ice.
It’s just the two of them circling each other, blades leaving scratches that parallel, diverge, and converge again.
Since they were rookies, Ilya loved skating around him. An orbiting moon, or actually like a meteor, more than occasionally crashing and having it dished back to him.
With Ilya’s injuries, Shane skates slower so they don’t collide.
“Imagine what your teammates would say if they saw us,” Shane slides up to Ilya, hands in hoodie pockets.
“I will tell them to go fuck themselves.” Ilya skates backwards, balance just the slightest bit off with his right arm in an immobilizer. He reaches out with his left hand to take Shane’s. “I’m captain. You all are my bitches.”
Shane laughs, shaking his head. He lets Ilya lead him around the ice, one boat towing another in shallow waters.
It’s nice. It’s quiet. The bruises and cuts on Ilya’s face make a stark contrast against the ice around them.
He is beautiful in those colors. This would look like a Pollock painting.
“I haven’t done this before,” Shane says.
“Do what?”
“Like, a skating date.”
Ilya grins. The split on his lip stretches apart. A bead of blood starts to surface. “So this is a date, yes?”
Shane stares at his mouth, at the tongue that wipes away what must taste metallic. He gets a hold of himself a few seconds too late. “Oh, fuck you.”
He has to skate away.
“No,” Ilya whines, trailing after him. “Don’t go.”
Shane spins around and skates backwards. He needs to pretend he doesn’t enjoy Ilya chasing him.
Whatever.
He slows down enough so he’s within arm’s distance. As soon as Ilya reaches out, he speeds up again. The confused look on Ilya’s face is better than any trophy he got his hands on. It reminds him of a confused puppy, smelling a treat but closing its teeth around nothing.
“You gotta try harder than that,” Shane singsongs.
“Not fair,” Ilya huffs. After the fourth try and nearly toppling over after a narrow dodge, he throws an arm up and skates to the edge. “This is not fun anymore.”
Breaking news: Ilya Rozanov is sulking.
Shane laughs.
“Aw.” He coos. No response. It’s more serious than he thought. This is not his intention in the middle of a night during playoff season. They should be recovering. So he gets closer, stopping near Ilya, who’s busy arranging shaved ice into the shape of a heart. “Ilya.”
Ilya refuses to look at him. “You made me nearly fall.”
“Ilya,” Shane tries. He brings his knuckles against the bruises on Ilya’s face, brushing over them. The pout is persistent, though Ilya can’t seem to help but lean into the touch. Shane tries again, softer this time, “Ilyusha.”
Ilya glares. Fucking finally.
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” Shane says. He tries not to kiss Ilya. Not when he apologizes, at least. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
Ilya holds his gaze. The icy blue in his eyes melts, one layer at a time.
“No, you shouldn't." Ilya sniffles. The heart on ice is lopsided. “You are bully.”
Shane stares at their feet on the ice. He helps with shaving more ice to make the heart.
“Yep.” He nods, and looks back up. “I’ve gone too far. I’m sorry.”
Ilya stares at him for a few seconds more. A switch seems to flip, and he buries his face in Shane’s shoulder.
“You are mean,” he says, voice muffled by fabric. His warm breath seeps through. “You are ableist.”
It takes Shane by surprise. His bark of laughter bounces off panels, the loudest thing in this ghostly, empty rink.
“Wow,” Shane tries to look at him. He repeats, impressed, “Ableist.”
“Yes.” Ilya straightens up, nipping the apple of Shane’s cheek. His stubble tickles. “Hunter said that.”
Shane grabs his jaw and holds him still. His fingers land dangerously close to a bruise.
“Again, what did you say to him?”
“Nothing!” Ilya waves his good arm around. His voice echoes in the emptiness. “I said nothing! My god, why does it sound like you care about him more—”
Shane can’t stand his stupid mouth, so he kisses it shut. The complaining is replaced by a groan, then the wet noises of their tongues sliding, of their lips closing and opening, of their spit being gulped down.
There’s also this taste of metal. Ilya’s mouth is bleeding now, he knows, and he finds the swollen spot on Ilya’s bottom lip and sucks.
“Fuck,” Ilya mumbles into his mouth. He takes in a deep breath, then wraps an arm around Shane’s waist, pulling their bodies flush. “You make me so hard, Hollander.”
Anyone would’ve heard them the moment they step foot into this rink. Shane should be worried, but kissing Ilya and his sore spot is too good to miss.
“Wait,” Shane says. They have to go before this escalates. He pushes Ilya—
“Ah.” Ilya frowns.
Shane looks down. His hand. Ilya’s shoulder. The immobilizer.
“Fuck!” Shane jerks his hand away. That’s the fucking side in the immobilizer. “I’m so sorry, oh my god—”
“No, no.” Ilya grabs his hand. “Is okay.”
“No, it’s not!” Shane wants to hurl himself into the fucking glass. Ilya might be his rival, but this is unsportsmanlike behavior. “Jesus. Do we go to the hospital? Does it hurt? Fuck, we should definitely go to the hospital. You went to Boston General, right?”
“Shane.”
“Let’s go. Let’s—”
“Shane. Hollander!” Ilya manages to back Shane into a corner—the penalty box, fuck—so he could sit Shane down. With his good hand, he holds Shane’s face so he finally looks at him. “I’m fine. Look, here.”
Shane stares into Ilya’s eyes, then nods. He must look unconvinced, because Ilya starts doing a whole fucking set of physiotherapy in the penalty box, just to show him he’s fine.
“Oh my fucking god.” Shane presses palms into his eyes. He lets out a helpless laugh. It would make news if Shane Hollander sent Ilya Rozanov to the ER in the middle of the night.
Ilya’s counting to himself as he repeats the second set of his exercise.
“Hollander,” Ilya says, with an exaggerated Russian accent. “Up. No time for sulking. Exercise with me.”
Shane laughs some more, then gets up. He follows Ilya, mirroring his movements, doing the repetitions that supposedly strengthens the rotator cuff.
The hem of Ilya’s tank rides up. A trail of hair leads from his bellybutton down to his—
Fuck.
“Better?” Ilya asks. They have finished the third set.
Shane smiles back. He hopes he doesn’t look as shaken as he feels.
“Yeah,” he manages out. He wants to step out of the box, but Ilya’s here. “Yeah. Better.”
“Good.” Ilya rubs his nose. The neon clock above the rink glows 01:53. For once, he made a sensible suggestion. “We should head back.”
The red reflection on ice changes shape.
01:54.
Shane nods. He stares at his skates on rubber, the dull blade against softness. He is sensible, so he should agree with Ilya Rozanov’s rare, sensible suggestion.
“We should.”
They make no move. Shane lifts his eyes from the floor, only to find Ilya already looking at him.
For how long?
“Come here.”
Shane gets up. He gets the last word in. “No, you come here.”
Ilya complies. Too easily. He takes a step forward, meeting Shane halfway across the box. Their bodies collide, again, without gear, and it must’ve hurt as Shane steadies himself with arms around Ilya’s middle.
It does not deter Ilya from propositioning, “I want you.” He clarifies, “Now.”
Shane nearly loses his footing. This is embarrassing. He is a good skater.
“What?” He pulls away enough to look at Ilya’s face. No hint of a joke. “Like, here?”
“No.” Ilya deadpans, managing with his voice only. His eyes show something different, which Shane notices are full of reflections of himself, wide-eyed and stupidly dishevelled. He loses sight of them as Ilya mumbles into his ear, “In Russia.”
Shane breathes in a shuddering breath. “We should, uh.” He can’t even find a good retort. “Go to the lockers.”
Ilya kisses up his throat. His stubble rakes shivers down his spine. “We should?”
“We’re not—fucking in a penalty box,” Shane forces out, clinging onto Ilya’s shoulders as he’s bent backwards to expose more of himself, his throat open for marring.
“Oh.” Ilya sucks under the hinge of his jaw, then releases it with a pop. It burns. “We’re fucking?”
“Fuck you,” because this is all Shane can manage as he pulls Ilya off the rink.
They stumble as quickly as they can through the halls. An unceremonious crash echoes in the empty locker room when Shane throws Ilya against one without something placed on top.
Well. He shouldn’t have done that to the injured, but Ilya’s grunt shoots right to his dick as he roughs him up against the metal doors.
“God, Hollander,” Ilya mutters, reaching down with his good hand to tug down Shane’s tracks. He fumbles with his own. “Help me.”
Shane knocks their foreheads together. He digs out Ilya’s cock and lines them up before stroking them hard and fast. Embarrassingly, his cock leaks precome already, and the touch turns slick and wet.
“Have you ever—done this?” Shane asks, watching their cocks in his hand. Ilya’s left scrambling for his ass, squeezing and rutting as he takes whatever Shane gives him.
“No,” Ilya grits out. His brows furrow as his head rolls back, thumping against the locker door. “Only you.”
“Oh,” Shane gasps. He shouldn’t be as affected, but Ilya has this effect on him, both on and off the ice. His voice shakes. “Fuck, Rozanov, I’m close, I’m gonna—”
“In my mouth.” Ilya pushes him towards a bench, and Shane goes. His bare ass touches the hardwood plank as Ilya sinks onto the floor with a loud knock.
Shane remembers Ilya’s gnarly bruise from blocking a puck with his knee, which is an irresponsible thing to do as a center. “Wait, your knee—”
Ilya cuts him off by swallowing his cock down to the base. He gags once Shane hits the back of his throat.
“Shit.” Shane grips Ilya’s hair, then grabs his face. He doesn’t dictate the pace, since it’s already set for him with the way Ilya bobs his head along his length. He just needs to ground himself, and Ilya’s the only one. “Fuck, fuck—Ilya, I’m coming.”
Ilya looks up, lashes wet and the rim of his eyes red. With cock in his mouth, he nuzzles Shane’s hand cupping his face, leaning into the side of his bruises. He moans, a low vibration pressing snug through his tongue to the underside of Shane’s cock.
Shane empties himself into the back of Ilya’s throat.
“Sorry,” he moans out, still grabbing Ilya’s face. His hips kick a few times, regrettably, making Ilya gag again. He can’t control himself. “‘m sorry, Ilya, fuck—”
Ilya does nothing to stop him. Doesn’t seem to mind, even, with tears sliding down his cheeks, his bruises. It does look like the salt would sting as it touches his split lip stretched wide around Shane’s cock. He reaches down with his left hand to palm his own erection, stroke it in a way Shane can only describe as clumsy.
“Let go.” Shane pulls his soft cock out and tucks it into his pants. “Get up.”
Ilya wipes his mouth, leaning back on his haunches. He grins, mouth tinged pink with spit and… blood. “You are bossy.”
“Yeah, well. If you want me to suck your dick,” Shane begins. He gathers Ilya up from the floor, wincing at the click from Ilya’s knee.
He bodily rearranges them, and Ilya lets him sit him on the bench. He hisses through his teeth as Shane fits his lips around his cockhead.
“Fuck,” Ilya sighs. “Shane.”
His name sounds achingly soft in his voice. Shane’s cock begins to harden again.
He steadies himself with a hand on Ilya’s knee. It’s met with a grunt, which alarms Shane to pull away and realize he’s digging into a bruise, again.
“Fuck, sorry,” Shane blurts out the cock in his mouth. He lifts his hand off—
“No.” Ilya clasps a hand over Shane’s, on his knee. A few fragile seconds stretch into silence, with Ilya’s dick out in front of Shane’s face, and this strangely intimate hand-holding over Ilya’s injured knee. There seem to be a million words running through his head, though only one manages to make the cut, “Stay.”
Shane’s fingers twitch under Ilya’s hand. The bony part of Ilya’s knee grows damp under his sweaty palm.
“Okay.” He noses Ilya’s erection, feeling the heat against the cool tip of his nose. With his other hand, he strokes him, pulling his foreskin down. He breathes over the exposed head, “Okay.”
He licks just under the cockhead, sucking the frenulum, and Ilya curses.
He did some research. He knows what he’s doing.
Frenulum is the center of sensation and can be stimulated for peri-ejaculatory response, or whatever.
Shane wonders if his own circumcision made him less sensitive.
He wonders if Ilya feels it more intensely than he does.
“Fuck,” Ilya mutters. And so it sounds like it. His fingers comb through Shane’s hair, careful and light. It almost makes Shane feel bad for gripping Ilya’s hurt knee, if not for the request that keeps him there. “Don’t stop—”
Shane looks up. He lets his cheek jut out while keeping eye contact, then goes back to sucking the tip. One hand on Ilya’s knee, he strokes the remaining length with his other hand.
Just as an experiment, he tightens his grip on the bruise.
Ilya’s voice breaks into a low whine. Shane closes his eyes and sinks down, tasting bitter as the dick twitches in his mouth.
Little has happened after their adventure in the locker room. He expected more to happen, some of which Ilya’s previous suggestions—fuck him in the showers, or car sex, or work him up for a good ol’ anal on the bed in Ilya’s apartment—but there’s not a meep this time.
“Are you okay?” Shane asks as he starts the shower.
He remains fully dressed after helping Ilya out of his immobilizer and clothes.
Ilya blinks. “Yes,” he answers, then rubs his nose. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
Right. Why does he?
Shane shrugs, leaning back against the bathroom countertop. He takes in Ilya’s bare form, the color snaking up the side of his body, like it’s not obvious.
His dick, though, is not so sympathetic. He shifts his stance so the tightness in his pants gets some relief.
“Just wanna make sure.” He waves in the general direction of bruises. “Your shoulder. Or your ribs. Or your knee.”
“They are fine.” Ilya opens the glass door and steps into the shower. After a few seconds, he pokes his head out, confused. “You need shower too, yes?”
Shane’s mind races. He can step into the shower and probably get teased about his semi, with or without a blowjob to come.
Or he can make up something. Something, like he wants to poop before a shower.
Ew.
That effectively extinguishes his boner. Now he has no worries.
“Yeah, sure,” he decides at last.
He undresses himself, piece after piece folded nearly by the sink. By the time he steps into the shower, Ilya’s hair is damp.
They find each other under the overhead shower.
“Hi,” Ilya says, pulling him closer in the stream of water. The corners of his eyes crinkle around a smile. Droplets trail down the slope of his nose.
Shane finds his throat clogged.
“Hi,” he says back with unwarranted difficulty.
So he doesn’t try to talk more and busies his hands instead. He washes Ilya’s hair, so he doesn't have to raise his arms; he towels it dry and runs the hairdryer; he dresses the wounds on his face.
Ilya lets it happen without resistance. He seems to preen under the attention, even.
It’s a good look on him.
As they settle down for bed, Ilya kisses his cheek. The next words sound foreign on Ilya’s tongue. “You spoil me.”
Impressive. Shane hums.
He wonders if Ilya has ever been doted on.
“No problem.” He kisses back blindly in the dark, reaching some part of Ilya. “I wanted to.”
Shane goes back to Montreal. There’s only so much time he can take before the Eastern finals against New York.
Just before the start of a game, he learns that Ilya’s free from his immobilizer and can jerk off with his right hand again.
They lost 3-2 against the Admirals.
“Home ice not as good as Boston’s?” Hunter says as they shake hands.
To Shane’s horror, he doesn’t manage to chirp back.
He wonders if Hunter has the same problem with… sexting.
Then again, Kip sounds like a reasonable human being who would support his boyfriend and his career.
Unlike someone, who's in constant need of jeopardizing his focus.
Ilya learns about it in an angered video call that night.
“You didn’t answer his question.” Ilya wipes away tears of laughter from his eyes.
“Boston was good, because we beat your ass.”
Ilya shrugs. It’s inevitable. They’re in the same division. He should be seasoned enough to take losses in a stride.
“Is the only reason?” Ilya rests his chin in a hand. He places his phone just so it captures the entirety of his torso, bare against the navy sheets in his place in Boston.
“Wouldn’t be the crowd,” Shane mutters. He saw videos of his picture being burnt outside the arena.
Ilya snickers, tinny and deep in his earphones. The empty sheets by his side take up a huge chunk of the screen. He runs a flat palm across the space. “I would buy life-size Hollander from that fan.”
“Oh yeah?” Shane huffs out a laugh. “While I'm right here? For what?”
Ilya hums. A few seconds of static runs by.
“For keeping.”
Shane squeezes his eyes shut. The flutter in his chest verges on an adrenaline rush. He treads a fine line between being in love and a panic attack.
The empty space in his bed makes either unfulfilled to the point of hopeless.
“Shane?”
He opens his eyes and sees Ilya’s concerned expression on the phone screen.
“You have a life-size Hollander,” he says. He hopes the wetness in his voice doesn’t transmit through. “Don’t buy it.”
Ilya looks into the camera, and has the wherewithal to make pixels soften.
“Okay.”
Montreal gets eliminated after losing the fourth playoff against New York, in New York.
They played well, but the Admirals are on fire.
“Good game.” Hunter shakes his hand. He leans in and pats his back. “See you and Rozanov next season.”
Shane nods dumbly.
Wait, what?
He whips his head around to catch Hunter already stepping off the ice, welcomed by media and fans in victory.
Ilya would’ve made a smart comeback. Something like…
“Holl-lander!” JJ yells at him from afar. “Why the fuck are you still there?”
“Just socializing!” He yells back, which is a blatant lie because there’s no one, not even a ghost, in twenty feet radius.
He’d usually fly back with the team the next morning.
Boston Lily:
>> I let myself in through the front door.
>> Hope you don’t mind.
>> *wink*
Jane:
>> Just landed.
Jane:
>> Just got on cab.
There’s a pretty important reason that he flies back that night, and the reason is cooking him his go-to non-performance meal on his stovetop.
“Welcome back,” Ilya puts down the cooking chopsticks. He wipes his hands on comfy looking sweatpants. Instead of an immobilizer, his right shoulder is in some sort of harness—a brace, right—that stays in place with straps across his back and chest. “I could not find the chicken breast.”
Ilya looks like he belongs here.
Fuck. Shane loves that look on him.
He winds past the kitchen island and crashes into Ilya. A hint of soy sauce makes its way into their kiss, and Shane can’t help but smile.
He finds that he really, really enjoys the idea of Ilya tasting and mixing ingredients in his kitchen.
“Woah, woah.” Ilya pulls back. His hair is a mess after Shane grabbed it many different ways. “I know you’re passionate about soba, but… ” He looks down at their crotches and raises an eyebrow.
“Fuck you.” Shane shoves him up the fridge door for good measure.
“Owie.” Ilya makes a show out of it. He rubs his sides, curling up on himself as he laughs. “Is how you guys say it, yes?”
Shane rolls his eyes. He pins Ilya against the fridge by hands around his middle. “How do Russians say it, then?”
“Mm.” Ilya gives him a thoughtful look. “I forgot.”
“Oh yeah?” He tightens his grip. Ilya takes in a deep breath, ribcage expanding under his fingers.
“Maybe I’ll remember,” Ilya says. “If you make me.”
Shane stares at his mouth, at the spot where his bottom lip was split weeks ago. There’s a faint pinkness around the skin that has since healed over.
On cue, Ilya’s teeth dig into the spot, followed by a soothing lick.
It’s so tempting to just give into whatever Ilya suggests.
“How long are you staying?” Shane asks instead.
Ilya blinks, like he’s taken aback. He answers, “Whole day tomorrow.” Then, “I fly back early day after.”
“Then you’re mine.” Shane releases Ilya. He pays overdue attention to his soba noodles, which must’ve turned soggy from their neglect. “Whole day, tomorrow.”
Ilya chuckles on his way from the fridge. He drapes himself over Shane, nosing a spot behind his ear.
“I’m yours,” he promises. “All day. Anytime.”
Shane’s pretty beat after the soba. He gets shooed off to shower after Ilya promises to do the dishes, which is unfair, because Ilya already cooked, as a guest, and it would be Shane’s failure as a host if he had to do the dishes as well.
To his surprise, he wakes up on his stomach with something warm touching his balls.
“Oh,” he wonders out loud. He gets even louder when the tongue decides to trail upwards, digging deeper.
“Good morning, my dear,” are the muffled Russian words on his skin.
“Did I fall asleep after the, ah, shower?” Shane hiccups on a particularly deep shove.
“Yes,” is spoken against his ass.
Shane buries his face in the pillow for a few seconds. He reaches behind himself and finds Ilya’s hair to grab onto.
“Why—ngh, didn’t you wake me up?” He glares back. “You did the cooking, the cleaning—”
Ilya lifts off with a grin, licking his lips. “And the eating.”
“Oh, god.” Shane drops his head as soon as a finger sinks in. He wants more, immediately. “What time is it?”
“Dunno,” Ilya mumbles around the finger.
The sky’s still dark outside. Shane figures they still have most of the day to themselves, and Ilya can take his sweet time doing whatever he wants.
Sometimes Shane prefers his impatience, and now is the time. He prefers the unbridled strength in a hurried fuck.
Or maybe that’s just the only thing he knows most of the time.
“When I’m in Ottawa,” Ilya says into his skin. “Will have more time.”
“And?” Shane wiggles his ass, too done with talking. Ilya adds another finger to placate him.
“Will have more time.” Ilya kisses the bottom of his spine. “To make love.”
Shane laughs, unsuccessfully. He moans his voice hoarse as two fingers rub against his prostate. Ilya slips his tongue between the scissoring fingers, in and out, a shadow of what he promised.
“We’re in Montreal,” Shane reminds him. He grips Ilya’s hair tighter, until he crawls up the bed, face to face. “So fuck me. Now. Okay?”
Ilya takes a deep breath. His wide eyes dart between Shane’s eyes and mouth.
“Yes.” He obeys, reaching for the lube. “Okay.”
On his back, Shane finally gets a chance to take in the entirety of Ilya. He opens his legs wider, just to fuck with Ilya, whose veiny forearm shakes with tension as he slicks his cock up.
Fuck Cosmopolitan for ranking him #5. Shane’s willing to bet his hockey career that Ilya Rozanov is the hottest man in the whole world.
Not that he’s willing to share this view with the readers. No fucking way.
“You’re—” Ilya gasps as he sinks in. The long column of his neck betrays his racing pulse. “Unbelievable.”
Shane grips the pillow under his head. He burns with a need for more, but he dreads the moment when it’ll come.
The heat is too much, too intense.
He’s bound to be a wreck.
“Fuck, Ilya,” he moans out, aimlessly. He circles his arms around Ilya’s shoulders, the brace, the straps that cross his chest and back.
“Yes.” Ilya kisses his open mouth. He touches their sweaty foreheads together. “I’m here.”
They watch their bodies join. Ilya’s abs flex as he buries himself deeper, the golden crucifix dangling from his neck between their chests.
Shane would’ve been more humbled by the human body if those nine inches didn’t knock his senses out.
Ilya starts to pull out, and Shane clamps his thighs around him.
“Ah.” Ilya’s hips stutter when he pushes in again. He starts a rhythm, slowly pumping his cock in and out. The arm he plants next to Shane’s head starts to shake.
“Does it hurt?” Shane asks, squeezing his thighs together, firm muscle against ribs.
Ilya winces. He looks past his sweaty bangs into Shane’s eyes.
“Yes.” He straightens up and hugs Shane’s legs around himself, leaving no room for misunderstanding. “Stay.”
The thrusts begin anew, digging into his prostate with a different angle. Shane has no choice but to steady himself with a hand on the headboard, which is slamming louder than an electric coffee grinder first thing in the morning.
“Oh, fuck—” Shane bites his lip. His cock leaks all over his stomach, and it’s way too soon. “Ilya, Ilya, wait—”
He wraps his legs tight around Ilya. It earns him a sharp yelp—so this is how Russians say it—and Ilya catches himself on shaking arms as they halt to a stop.
“You devil,” Ilya groans, hips twitching as they stay still. “You almost made me come.”
Shane laughs, still catching his breath. Sex should be a competitive sport, given how physically taxing it is.
“Too fast.” Shane combs Ilya’s hair back. He kisses his forehead, then his eyebrow where it was slit, then the bridge of his nose. He looks up at Ilya, almost wrecked and mostly gone above him. “Lie down.”
Ilya raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t protest when Shane flips them over.
He sure as hell doesn’t seem to mind when Shane rides him, higher and higher each time until the head of his cock remains inside him.
“Fuck, Hollander.” Ilya grips his ass with both hands. He’s left helplessly kneading as nothing else can be done apart from fucking taking it. “Mmh, fuck, Shane—where did you learn that?”
Shane smiles, however shaky it may be. He plants a hand on Ilya’s knee. To be specific, the right knee that was busted by a flying puck two weeks ago.
Ilya bucks up into him when he rides down next. It results in a slew of cursewords Shane barely recognizes.
“I study your games,” Shane answers. He saw the way Ilya threw himself into those unofficial 3-on-3 games. He squeezes Ilya’s right knee harder, a warning. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
Ilya watches him with dazed eyes. He squeezes them shut when Shane balances himself with a hand on his ribs. “Okay,” he chokes out.
“I fucking, ah, hate it,” Shane continues. He rocks down harder, so as to rid of the image. “When you get hurt.”
Ilya grabs his face into a messy kiss. He keeps him near with a hand around his jaw, thumb dipping in and out between wet lips.
“By others only, yes?” He smiles, lovedrunk. “You don’t have problem, ah, slamming me into boards?”
“God, no.” Shane laughs in his face. He nibbles the knuckle in his mouth and mutters, “You fucking wish, dude.”
Ilya nods, sweaty hair falling over his face. His fingers dig into Shane’s thighs. “Harder.” He then grips Shane’s hand over his ribs. “Here.”
Shane complies. He adjusts his kneel so more of his weight rests on that hand, and Ilya groans out something deep and animal from his chest. It reverberates through the touch, alongside each beat of his heart.
“Come for me,” Shane breathes out. “Please?”
“Make me,” Ilya grits out. He purses his lips, the way he does when he’s close. “Fuck, Shane. Fuck, harder—”
Shane comes first, shuddering and spurting come over Ilya’s chest. He keels over and catches his own weight on the hand over Ilya’s ribs.
In his high, he faintly registers Ilya’s come spilling inside of him, too warm and too soon after his own orgasm. He hears Ilya’s whimper, the first time he’s ever heard it, and can’t help as his cock twitches to spit a few more drops.
“Fu—uck,” he whines into Ilya’s hair as the last thrusts drive into him, wet and slick with come, before Ilya stills, deeply buried inside.
They catch their ragged breaths.
A full minute passes before either of them speak again, according to the clock on the nightstand.
“Fuck, indeed,” Ilya says first. He presses a kiss to Shane’s temple, then brushes his hair back. “You okay?”
Shane undocks himself and rolls over. He covers his eyes with a forearm and scoffs. “Am I okay?”
Ilya hovers over him, like he’s truly concerned.
“Well, yes.” Matter of fact. “I destroyed your asshole with my big, fat cock.”
He’s fucking spent, alright, but it’s still pretty… strange for Ilya to be the one asking that.
Shane lowers his forearm to glare at Ilya. When he’s met with innocent, wide eyes, he shakes his head.
Unbelievable.
“Let’s talk about this later.” He kisses Ilya’s cheek to let him know he’s not mad. Not at him, at least. “We need a shower first.”
This time, Ilya looks less sure of himself as he joins Shane in the shower. Maybe it’s because he’s in Montreal instead of in Boston. Maybe he’s just really out of it after mindblowing sex.
Under Shane’s hands that rub shampoo over his scalp, he slowly relaxes. He seems to struggle to keep his eyes open once the suds go down the drain.
“I love you,” Ilya mumbles into his neck in Russian. Then, again, “I love you.”
“I love you too,” he says back in Russian.
He shuts off the shower, dries them off, and brings them back to bed.
So they agree the sex was pretty amazing stuff, Shane can gather that. They only made out once in the shower.
While Ilya’s still asleep—in his bed, in Montreal—Shane is unstoppable on his laptop. He goes down rabbit hole after rabbit hole, after rabbit hole, until—
“Getting kinky without me?” Ilya drapes himself over his back, voice scratchy from sleep.
Shane slaps the enter bar. “I’m not.”
Ilya hums. He helps himself to a coke in Shane’s fridge. “If you say so.”
In the late morning sunlight, his skin stretches bare except for his shoulder brace and boxers. Shane can’t help but note the pale yellow bruise that’s just faintly visible on his side, almost fading away.
“So, uh.” Shane shuts the laptop.
He takes off his reading glasses and glances at Ilya, who’s the definition of what he’s not—relaxed. Chill. Cool.
“Maybe you’ve done this before. I dunno.” Shane takes a deep breath. Ilya watches him with interest. “It’s my first time doing this, and I think you liked it. And if you liked it, I think I’d wanna keep doing it, and I wanna do this right—”
Ilya gets over from his side of the kitchen counter. He holds one of his shaking hands.
“Wait,” Ilya says. He rubs over Shane’s knuckles that have turned white under tension. “Can you tell me again? But, more… slowly, please. I just woke up.”
Shane looks up at Ilya, whose eyes are void of judgement, only filled with concern.
He nods, looking back down at their hands, clasped together.
“Did you like it?” Shane asks. “Like, when it hurt. When we had sex.”
Ilya’s finger twitches over his. He taps it a few times before answering.
“Yes.” Ilya shrugs. “It felt good.”
“Okay.” Shane registers it. He can’t relate. “Has it happened before?” He clarifies, “During sex?”
Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure you want to hear about that?”
“Up to you.” It’s Shane’s turn to shrug. He opens his laptop again, finding the list he has prepared in a spreadsheet.
He wants to know, but there are also things he’d rather keep to himself.
“What I wanna say is… what we did back there, I’m definitely up for it, but I’d rather we talked about it first.” When Ilya doesn’t seem to get it, he turns to face him properly. “Like, I know this is boring—stop laughing!—but I need to know what we definitely don’t want.” In a quieter voice, he admits, “I don’t want to hurt you.” He wants to do this right. With Ilya. “I don’t want to hurt—us.”
Ilya’s eyes shine from the natural light spilling in. He nods, planting a kiss in Shane’s hair, a soft “okay” in his warm breath.
Then he’s back to being an asshole.
“Is what you prepared?” Ilya reads off the list on the screen. “To see if I like to be slapped? Or choked?”
Conveniently, Shane clicks open one of the tabs—one where Ilya’s in a headlock in Marleau’s arms.
“Well.” Shane puts on his reading glasses. “We’ll see.”