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When Ilya walks into the airport terminal, they’ve already kissed goodbye.
Though his ribs aren’t entirely better, Shane allowed him to carry his suitcase onto the pavement by the suv trunk, raising the handle to roll it. He has the sunglasses on again, the dark ones he was wearing when Shane picked him up from this airport, so seeing Ilya’s eyes is more difficult now.
Shane has gotten out of the driver’s side under some semblance of helping, but what he really wants is one last goodbye. They had it at the cottage, thorough kisses and a calm morning and tender sex in the bed they’ve shared for the past two weeks. It will feel odd, Shane thinks, to sleep there tonight without him near.
There’s other cars around as they drop off passengers and say goodbyes. No one is looking at them but Shane feels tense regardless, to be in public, to say goodbye. What if the bubble bursts and Ilya changes his mind? Goes back to fucking women and wanting things casual?
He must see the look on Shane’s face, “Don’t look so pouty, you will see me in ten days, yes?” There’s a desperate edge to it, like Ilya needs to remind himself, to get the same reassurance that everything is good between the two of them. The first game of Boston against Montreal is the second of the season. Lucky really, but going back to normal after the fantasy of a life Shane has lived for the past two weeks does not sound at all appealing.
Shane nods, small pressure behind his eyes.
Ilya steps forward to hug him, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders. Funny how this closeness always makes Shane feel whole again. Hands on his back, this could be read as a ‘bro’ hug to any onlooker that happens to glance over. But next to his ear, Ilya whispers fiercely, “Ya lyublyu tebya Shane, I cannot help it.”
He nods again, and Ilya squeezes once before letting him go.
The foot of space between them stretches like a mental chasm.
“You’ll call when you land?” Shane questions, his voice thick.
Ilya gazes back at him with endearment, an affection so blatant that Shane knows, at least for now, Ilya is very serious about seeing this through, “I will not ghost my boyfriend.” It’s quietly spoken, because there’s still people near, but somehow exactly what Shane needs to hear.
“I miss you.” Shane says, because he already does, even when Ilya is standing right here.
Ilya’s eyes are unreadable then in the glasses, “You will miss me less focusing on packing. Is not easy being so pretty, lots of lotions and soap, yes?”
Shane finds himself smiling, “Yeah. I have a lot to organize.”
“Please don’t stop, is so boring, I am going to cum.” Ilya chirps sardonically, pushing a curl from his face behind his ear with a flippant wave of his hand.
Shane laughs, just a little, “Call me later, you asshole.”
Some emotion passes over Ilya’s face, hesitation, distress maybe? They are both going to miss each other too much. But this is what they will hold close to be together. It will just have to be enough.
The first few hours without Ilya are clear and cold, as though the sunlight of the cottage has been soaked up by wispy clouds. The space feels vacant and quiet, so Shane is grateful when his mom comes over to help him pack his bags and clean the cottage to be empty for a while.
Shane’s dad makes dinner, grilled chicken and potatoes, and sits with Shane by the fire in the dusk light while his mom has taken it upon herself to reorganize the dish cabinet. His own drive back to Montreal will be early in the morning. Back to reality, back to hiding.
His father sips beer in the crackling dimness, quiet and contemplative. It is something Shane enjoys about his dad, never feeling the pressure to say something or fill the silence.
“So do you think Ilya will like to play for Ottawa next year?” He asks.
Shane takes a breath, relaxing in the patio furniture, “He might enjoy it a lot actually. Ottawa is not very good, don’t tell mom—“ His father smiles, “And Ilya likes to beat odds. He’s a good captain, the Boston players have always spoken really highly of him.”
David hums, “You don’t think it might bother him to not be winning as much?”
That gives him pause, “Maybe. But it also might push him to be more competitive.”
“You boys are both very competitive.” Shane blushes despite himself, as if this hasn’t been said by every sports network since he was seventeen, “That All-Star game . . .” He murmurs, then shakes his head and takes another drink.
“What about it?” Shane asks sheepishly, feeling judgement incoming.
“I’m not sure how to say it,” His dad says, eyebrows furrowed, “I think you two have been pitted against each other from the very beginning, but at the All-Star game, it was interesting to see how in sync you both were. Sharp and strong.” He looks over at Shane with gentleness, “All I could ever want for my son is to have love that meets him where he is, that matches all of his intensity.”
Shane swallows, silent, his throat thick with unnamable emotions. All of the weight of expectations seemed so heavy sometimes, but knowing that his own parents have their backs feels like finally gasping for air.
“I’m excited to cheer for Boston now.” He says. Shane hears it for what it is, a seal of approval, and that means everything.
Two weeks ago, Boston and Ilya Rozanov would’ve been at the top of the Hollander shit list, but all it took was one admission for his parents to treat Ilya like their own, to trust his judgement, to love Shane despite disappointing them in this way.
Shane leans into him, arms out, to lay his head on his gentle father’s shoulder. The armrest of the lawn chair digs into his ribs but he doesn’t care.
David rubs his back, “Always so proud of you kid.”
Shane’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he knows who must be calling. Leaning up and sniffing, he hovers his thumb over the answer button, not wanting to interrupt a nice moment with his dad, but the man just gives him a smile, “Tell him I said hello.”
For now, it’s more than enough.
Ten days is a long time, as it turns out. They call each night and have phone sex maybe half the time, but still. Not the same as having Ilya with him in bed, warm and secure, sweet and teasing. Cleaning him up, touching him gently in the afterglow.
Now it’s just Shane’s responsibility to clean himself up, it feels suddenly awkward how desperate he’s been, like he’s just jerked off to porn and is having some post nut clarity. Ilya doesn’t always help very much with the feeling, because as usual he loves to take note of how fast Shane comes and how needy he gets.
On the eighth day, Shane gets irritated by it, “Alright asshole, I get it, I’m so boring, I’m so needy, just knock it off.”
It’s quite the picture, Ilya nearly naked, camera aimed at his face and cum covered chest, making a face, “Wow, you did not cum hard enough to be nice to me Hollander? Maybe I should make you do it again.”
Hollander. Oh fuck off. Shane hits the phone so it’s suddenly aimed at the ceiling, so Ilya can’t watch his blushing, angry face.
Ilya is silent for a moment, then tilts his head, “Why do you hide from me looking at you? I already saw that you came a lot.”
Shane huffs, “Jesus. Just . . .” He feels that stupid, humiliatingly familiar pressure behind his eyes, “Just chill out, okay?”
Ilya is silent again, his face twisted in confusion on the phone screen, then quietly, “Shane. I made you stressed, why?”
Shane puts his palms to his eyes. He’s so tired, and dirty, and very very stupid. It shouldn’t matter how needy he is, but Ilya doesn’t need him, not like Shane does anyway. This reality just makes him feel a bit panicked, waiting for the pin to drop, waiting for Ilya to want a more straightforward relationship that doesn’t involve scandal and lying and so much prep for anal.
“Shane, moya lyubov, if you are having panic attack I have to see your face.”
He raises the phone back up to his shoulders, letting Ilya see him, “I’m not panicking.”
Ilya squints at him analytically, “Panicking little bit.”
Fuck. Shane sighs and covers his eyes. It feels so lonely in this place now.
“Why do I bother you now? I say something bad?” Ilya questions, and Shane doesn’t miss that his English stumbles a bit when he’s overwhelmed or worried. The energy it takes to translate one’s thoughts mid conversation sound incredibly burdensome to Shane, not for the first time, he thinks of the mediocre Russian streak on his Duolingo app. He started after the phone calls when Ilya was in Russia, felt a little pathetic for it then, but has a renewed commitment for it now. Since they’re not doing the stupid dance around their feelings anymore.
“It’s fine, I’m just . . .” Shane winces, “Sensitive. Because I haven’t seen you.”
Ilya frowns, “You see me now? And I know your dick is sensitive. Mm, efficient, yes?” He looks pleased with himself for the word choice.
Shane stares at the hotel sheets. They are a polyester that he doesn’t like the feeling of, “I mean, I don’t know, I feel sensitive emotionally not physically.”
“And when I say that you are so needy, this is bad?” Ilya asks.
Shane sighs, “I think so. Because I miss you. Telling me I’m needy just reminds me of how much I miss you.”
The comprehension is visible on Ilya’s face, rapidly realizing his error, “I understand, because when I am near you is okay to be needy, but now you are alone?”
Shane nods. The emptiness in his chest lessens at being understood, but he knows it won’t go away until they can touch again.
“Shane.” Ilya sounds actually devastated, as devastated than he sounded on the phone after his father died, “Your dick is needy but my need is . . .” He holds a hand to his heart, next to his golden crucifix, “Here.”
It still takes Shane quite off guard at being the subject of such affection from Ilya, so stoic and casual, bearing his heart like a man who cannot help himself. I love you, words that Shane did not think Rozanov even bothered to learn in English.
“Mine’s there too, idiot.” Shane says, helplessly charmed.
But Ilya’s not done, “When I watch you come, I imagine that after I can hold you close to me. My head is dumb all day thinking of you in cottage, how you hum while cleaning dishes, how all movies on the shelf are . . .”
“Alphabetized.” Shane supplies.
“Yes, alphabetized order. So boring, so sexy.”
Shane laughs, shaking his head and grabbing a tissue from his bedside table, “That’s not sexy Ilya.”
“Is to me! My boy has a perfect body and perfect hole and perfect alphabetized shelf, I think if I want you more then I do not play hockey and I follow you around like a dog. Is very tempting but I think if you have no one beat you, you will be sad.” Ilya is smiling openly now, satisfied to be cheering him up.
“You’re not beating me on Thursday.” Shane quips back, after wiping himself clean and trying not to grimace.
Ilya hums in false agreement, “Maybe. But your hole is perfect, I insist.”
“Insist.” Shane repeats fondly.
Ilya gazes at him, eyes dark and focused, “Lay down, turn the lights off.”
He would really feel better after changing these uncomfortable sheets but nothing got on them and he is pretty exhausted so he can let it go this time. Shane turns off the light and curls up on his side, leaning against a pillow. He turns his phone brightness down so it won’t sting his eyes, his face barely illuminated for Ilya to see in the darkness.
Ilya doesn’t cut off his own lights, just hums appreciatively into the phone, “Is nice, I see your freckles this way.”
“You won’t have time to see them on Thursday because I’ll be skating too fast for you to catch up.”
Ilya smiles, “So mean to me, I tell you you are beautiful and you tell me to die.”
Shane huffs but he’s smiling too, even as Ilya groans from his place on the bed and gets up, carrying the phone into the bathroom. He hears the shower water pour like white noise through his phone speakers. “Don’t act like me being better than you doesn’t make you horny.” It’s a strong assumption, and Shane really considers them equals more than anything, but the playful back and forth is making him loose at the mouth.
Ilya barks out a sharp, echoing laugh, “Where is Canadian Shane Hollander, hm? Replaced with this very mean boy.” His bare chest is visible in the warm bathroom light as he angles the phone up on what Shane assumes is the sink. It looks like a nice room, with a shower behind him.
The sight of Ilya’s chest, his pecs, his hair, his necklace, his skin . . . Shane from a year ago would’ve been drunk at the view, but now he only feels a pang of longing shoot through his ribs into his heart. His horniness sated, all he can find is overwhelming fondness and the desire to touch.
“I agree that if you were better that would make me horny. Hm, guess we will never know.” Ilya reaches a hand in the shower to check the temperature, then sheds his shorts, his shoulders and back flexing as he stretches down.
Shane pouts, “Don’t show me your ass, I’m trying to sleep.”
“Is not on purpose Shane,” Ilya replies. (Shane is very quickly finding out that Ilya can say Shane in just as teasing of a tilt as he can say Hollander. It’s been destroying his life) “I want to shower and this way, you are with me.” Shane can see him from head to toe from this angle, even through the steam and spray, looking god-like and perfect and warm and so so lovable. “Close your eyes, moya lyubov. I will wash you then carry you to bed.”
Shane knows, rationally, that they are thousands of miles away from each other. That Ilya is not accessible to him right now, not capable of doing the things that he is suggesting. That this is bait to make him sleepy and relaxed. But fuck, it’s like the last wound up knot in his spine unravels at this man’s command.
Ilya Rozanov, who checks players twice his size, who talks out of his ass, who has a collection of wild foreign cars, he can be tender and gentle. Sweet and so devout. Shane saw it in his eyes, the devotion, when Ilya confessed his love in their bed.
Shane has always known that Ilya has the capacity for sweetness, for a tampered sort of gentle care that is brought out by kids jumping up and down when Rozanov signs their jersey. Ilya knows reporters not only by name, but genuine friendliness. The bars and clubs in all major hockey cities love him because he tips like crazy on the tabs for the whole team.
This is different.
It’s like the clouds have parted and his glasses removed to stare directly into the sun, blinding and disorienting. You know it was there, you tell yourself, the sun was always this bright, I just wasn’t looking, but every time you get a glimpse of the power of it, it will knock you on your ass.
Shane suddenly feels like he could cry, not from jumbled up shame and distress, but from authentic relief. He would say damning things now, all the damning things he has narrowly avoided addressing, I need you, be mine forever, marry me not someone else, but the lump in his throat prevents it.
He is so exhausted, relaxing and thinking and watching, he wants to say more. Something about how he sees Ilya as good and kind and perfect, how he is so magnetically drawn into his warm, teasing beauty. His eyes burn from sleepiness, he’s not sure what he says. Focusing on the steady stream of water, the intervals of it hitting the tile as Ilya cleans, Shane falls asleep.
Ten days ends up being eleven, because Ilya’s flight from Boston is delayed into the evening. Shane has been checking on the airline updates to see how much, and the plane ends up landing past midnight. Three and a half hours late.
Lily: finally here now what is your room
Shane hesitates. Ilya will still have to go through customs and catch a thirty minute uber to the hotels near the arena. They both have morning practice at seven.
Shane: Maybe it’s better to wait.
Ilya types then stops then types.
Lily: you have morning practice?
Shane: Yeah at 7 :/
Lily: you do not want me to come anyway?
Shane sighs, rolls over in the bed sheets.
Shane: I miss you, but I don’t want you to make yourself exhausted.
Lily: hollander is fine im tough
Lily: i sleep on plane
Lily: miss you
They were already pushing it with the flight before it even got delayed. Shane feels anxious at the thought of missing a practice or being up too late before a big game. He doesn’t want that for Ilya either, who has already had a more stressful day than him. They’re both a bit pent up, and Shane knows what kind of sex that leads to, marathon hot and heavy fucking. Which he wants. Just not when he’s half asleep already.
Shane: It’ll be better tomorrow, without rushing.
Lily: okay.
Lily: show me dick imprint ?
Shane scoffs.
Shane: You’ll see the real thing tomorrow freak.
Lily: </3
Shane: [image]
Lily: <3
At practice in the morning, Shane feels on top of the world. Montreal versus Boston always makes him feel like this, focused, driven, a little horny. After general warm ups, the Boston team starts to get out on the ice too. Shane can hear Ilya’s bolsterous voice talking shit to Cliff Marlow, another player on his team. It sounds like Ilya is arguing over whether Marlow’s girlfriend should break up with him or not, and is leaning towards yes.
“You do not know how to make women cum Marly.” Ilya is saying loudly, as they stretch languidly by the boards, “Is so sad.”
“That’s not true Roz.” He says back, in a long suffering sort of tone.
“So sad for all girls. Pathetic. Clit is right there, did you know?”
Marlow starts shoving him, attempting to smush his face into the glass by the head, messing up Ilya’s unhelmeted curls. He doesn’t look angry though, just playful, given the context.
“Yo, Hollander!” Oh fuck.
Shane was expecting some bullshit like this, “What Rozanov?” He says back, steely as he can.
Ilya, of course, skates over and sheds snow on Shane’s boots as he stops next to him. It’s a halfway respectful distance, clearly further than any other player would venture into the Shane personal bubble, but this is Rozanov. Ilya is grinning, eyes twinkling, the little shit, “What’s your record for most female orgasms in a row?”
Shane glares at him. Historically, completely zero. Not from lack of practical effort, probably from lack of genuine enthusiasm.
“You know all the English vocabulary for sex, huh?” Shane says back.
Ilya waves his hand, “Yes, yes, obviously. Language of sex is way easier than stupid English. How many times you do it?”
Marlow is laughing a few feet away, “Stop antagonizing the only person who can put you in your place today Roz!”
“Ba!” Ilya yells back, waving his hand to shoo the other player away, sliding a few inches closer, “Is talk for winners Marly. I’m sure Hollander will tell me eight times and then tonight I will do nine. Just like goals in game.” His smirking doesn’t end, eyebrows twitching like he wants to see how Shane will respond. Jesus, nine? Was Ilya talking about goals or orgasms?
Shane stares him down. His face feels warm but he ignores it, raising one eyebrow back at his stupid idiot boyfriend.
“Maybe you should start focusing on making those goals then.” Then to be an ass back, “Seems like a lot of talk and no action. You know I beat you in goals and assists last season right?”
The brightness in Ilya’s eyes only burns fonder, “I know allllllll about action Hollander, you will see.” Then he laughs, big and loud, and skates off back to his own team. Jackass.
They don’t get to talk again before the game ends, not really. They face off in the second half, each sweaty and worn down, and Shane hisses, “Nine?” At him through his mouth guard. Ilya smirks around his own. They fight for the puck.
When it’s all over, Montreal has won 5-4 against Boston. Though Ilya scored a hat trick, which Shane knows will be part of his gloating later.
When he gets to the lockers, he sheds his gear and reaches for his phone.
Lily: fuck. are you hard
Shane takes a long, stilted breath, already smiling.
Shane: You are genuinely never touching me again.
Lily: im gonna be so good to you tonight
Shane: Why? You lost.
Lily: fuuuccckk
He tries to shower and clear out without grinning openly, passing as his teammates suggest celebratory drinking. He usually passes, they already know he will most likely say no. When he gets back to his hotel, he showers more thoroughly than at the arena, taking his time to get clean and moisturized after.
Shane steps out of the bathroom to Ilya calling him on FaceTime. He accepts, aiming the camera up high as he wraps a towel around himself.
“You are torturing me Hollander, you do not answer my text.” Ilya greets him. He’s got a cute little frown on his face and his jacket is already on.
Shane laughs lightly, glancing at the messages he received that are all some variation of tell me room number now please, “Sorry, I was showering.”
“Getting pretty for me? I am less mad.” Ilya replies.
Shane rolls his eyes, “It’s 834, you pervert.”
Ilya actually groans, dark and guttural, “I’m boyfriend, not pervert. Okay, bye.”
When Ilya arrives at his door, he sheds his jacket immediately onto the floor and kisses Shane like they’ve been rolling around in bed all day. There’s a calmness to it that Shane didn’t expect in the slightest. He figured this would be sort of frantic, their feelings out in the open, the opportunity to actually touch again. All the roughness from the game earlier seems to be drained and replaced by . . . indulgence. That’s what it seems like Ilya is doing as he backs Shane to the closest wall and licks in his mouth, indulging.
Shane feels lightheaded from it, he thought that the cottage was an exception, all slow and sweet when they have always been too intense with each other. But clearly, Ilya is kissing and humming into his mouth like Shane is the man he loves, not some convenient fuck buddy.
Breathless, Shane sinks to his knees and Ilya grabs him by the shoulder, eyes blown dark, “Not tonight, sweetheart.”
He whines and presses his face into the bulge of Ilya’s track pants, the athletic fabric allows him more feeling, his nose against the shaft of Ilya’s dick. He breathes in deep, eyes closed.
Ilya mutters something in Russian that sounds like a curse, “Stand up Shane.”
He makes a face of discontent but Shane leans on him to stand again.
Ilya cradles his chin, index finger on his cheek, “Last time, you tell me that you feel too needy.”
Shane frowns and closes his eyes. He doesn’t care right now, that was alone, Ilya is here so of course he can’t feel lonely now.
Ilya kisses him again, sweet and wet, voice so deep and low, “Now I will show you how I need you so you do not think anything different.”
“Ilya—,” Shane starts, but keens when the man kisses his neck and backs him gently to the bed.
“So mean to me Shane, you tell me I can’t come to cuddle with you last night, you beat my team and then you want to suck my cock for forgiveness?” His hands are running on Shane’s shoulders and back after removing his shirt, sparks left in the wake of his fingertips, “No, I need more. I need to fuck you, wear you out.”
Shane scrambles back on the sheets, against the pillows, shedding his shorts and folding them. Ilya takes the shorts gently when he does, sets them on the dresser in a neat pile. Then Ilya lifts Shane’s shirt from the floor and folds that too.
Shane moans, loud. Jesus fuck. His hand goes to his dick automatically.
Ilya crawls over him, his bottom lip jutting out, “Don’t touch. I need to be the reason you feel good.”
Shane takes a deep breath and pulls his hand away, “Please just—,” Ilya interrupts him with a filthy kiss and a firm caress down his chest.
“No please for you.” His eyes are dark in the lamplight, wide open and hazy simultaneously, “Tonight I tell you please because I need your hole.”
Shane’s lip trembles, his thighs clench, but he nods.
Ilya turns him over and eats him out like it’s his last meal, sloppy and wet like he kisses. He runs his hand down Shane’s back and ass and spreads him open with an eagerness Shane hasn’t seen before from him. He moans breathlessly when Shane reaches back to bury his hand in Ilya’s curls. His fingers are next, along with his tongue, so gentle but so deep too fast. But Ilya makes a noise like relief so Shane doesn’t stop him.
The pleasure-pain of wetness and ache are soothed by the way Ilya moans, “Spasibo lyubimyy.” Thank you darling.
Shane writhes, overwhelmed. Usually if Ilya is pushing his limits, it’s to rail him up or tease, but right now, Ilya sounds grateful.
After the soreness dissipates, Ilya leans over him, to his ear. His chest is so warm on Shane’s back, “You are perfect, fuck.” His dick is grinding up against the wet spot on Shane’s ass, and Shane’s heart is hammering in his ribs, “I want you so badly.”
Shane squirms more, leaking and hot all over, “Just—“
Ilya presses the head of his dick up, holds it steady as it twitches on his rim, “You will let me baby?” He asks.
He can only moan back, nodding into the pillows and arching his hips.
Ilya groans, “Fuck. On your back please?”
Shane is trembling a bit as he tries, and Ilya’s molten stare only makes him feel more desperate. He raises his knees, pins them up with his arms towards his chest.
Ilya looks drunk, flushed red and sweating, eyes tracking his face like a man hypnotized. Shane doesn’t know how many years their sex has made Ilya look so fucked out, but every time in his recent memory that Shane has been able to see his face, this is what he sees. Love drunk, needy, devoted Ilya Rozanov.
Who whines as he enters him and fucks him deep in a steady pace that has them both on the edge for longer than they have to be. No fast fucking, no grip on his hips. His hand on the curve of Shane’s thigh, the underside, where his stretch marks are, squeezing him indulgently. Ilya leans over him, calves on his shoulders, and forces his hips down with his weight only. He kisses Shane, breathes into his mouth, until they both come white hot against each other’s skin.
On the come down, Ilya kisses his sweaty thighs, his neck, and murmurs in breathless Russian words of affection. Shane feels boneless and warm all over, he kisses Ilya’s shoulders, his sweaty hair, his perfect cheekbones. What a good thing they have now, sweet and tender, safe and adoring.
Shane touches his face, caressing along his jaw, “That was amazing.”
Ilya smiles triumphantly, “Pretty good, yes?”
Shane nods, other hand reaching for his side, “How’s your ribs?”
He shrugs, “Is nothing, I am okay.”
“No excuse for your loss then, huh?”
Ilya narrows his eyes at Shane’s tired, smug smile, “We talk game to be sexy, you hurt my feelings if you say more.”
Shane laughs, completely content in a way he hasn’t felt since that last morning together in the cottage. He brings Ilya’s frowning face down to his chest, toys with his curls.
Ilya pouts against his skin, “Besides I score three, you score two so really you don’t win.”
“It’s a team sport, Ilya.”
The man hums, brings his hand across Shane’s ribs in a gentle, warm caress, “When we play, moya lyubov, there is no one but you.”
The thing is, unfortunately, that without the sunny oasis of the cottage, Ilya is feeling apprehensive. Distressed.
He knows that he was confusing to Shane for those years, that his signals were mixed because he was afraid, unconscious. He would talk about fucking other people flippantly, claim things were simple and straightforward, shut Shane down when he intitated unsexual connection. It got more complicated the longer their secret meetings went on, the longer his heart strained in his ribs, the more of a mess he became, saying all the wrong things.
Ilya knows there will be consequences for these mistakes, he doesn’t expect to have Shane’s complete trust just because they are boyfriends now. He knows he will have to be a better version of himself than he has ever been to earn this. And yet, well, he figured that with everything out in the open, Shane would want his attention and closeness as desperately as Ilya craves his.
Shane correcting him about the comments on his neediness changes some things, Ilya didn’t realize that Shane had anything to feel self conscious about. He knows that Shane is capable and smart and has a lovely family; a pleasant mostly put together life. Ilya thought that after all these years of stumbling through lackluster sexual experiences, Shane would feel relieved at the sentiment of you need me in this way, and I will give you whatever you need always. Reaffirming his position as a committed sexual partner and a generous lover. Shane had only seen it as a spotlight on his inexperience and a reminder of all the ways they couldn’t be together as they wanted to. Or, at least, as Ilya wanted.
It surprised him sometimes still, when Shane saw him beyond his practical purpose. Ilya didn’t mind being used for sexual gratification, clearly. This entire arrangement would’ve proved devastating if Ilya didn’t genuinely get off on Shane’s pleasure, being needed and wanted for one thing that only he could properly provide. It went right to Ilya’s head, if he was being completely honest with himself, it felt good to be the center of Shane’s sexual desires.
Obviously Shane was the center of his too, perfect from head to toe, made like a marble statue depicting a god to bring the sun across the sky. He was impossible not to think of, his flushed face, his lovely mouth, his dark, honest eyes. But Ilya found himself fantasizing about this man in a new way, head filled with useless nonsense, sweet and captivating little memories of simple moments. He remembered the softness to Shane’s voice in the nighttime, breathing on his shoulder about the plans for their shared mental health foundation. The blurriness to his eyes in the sunny morning, gentle as the sun that rose up over the water through the windows. Ilya longed to be playing games again on the couch, to be swimming in the cool lake, to be laughing in the grass, in his bed.
To name his love was not difficult, to assign it an objective truth was subconscious and natural. To feel the evolution of that love in his affection, to be suddenly aware of the intensity to all his fondness, turned out to be quite distressing. Because unfortunately, this fondness in his ribs was only held by one person before, and she chose to disappear rather than to suffer at his side.
So when they’re laying in Ilya’s bed, with a movie from the eighties playing on the TV, Ilya asks, “Should I suck you off?”
Shane is cocooned in the blankets next to him, shoulders tense. Montreal lost to Boston 5-1 today at an away game. Usually that means Ilya fucks him rough enough to get Shane blissed out and forgiving, which they’ve already done, but with every moment, Shane gets more tense next to him. The bliss from before dissipated, Ilya thinks maybe they should try for round two. He doesn’t want Shane feeling stressed, and if multiple orgasms will help him relax, then Ilya is happy to provide.
Shane turns to glare at him at the question, then doesn’t answer.
Ilya hums. He loves seeing passion in Shane’s eyes, even if it’s passionate annoyance, “Or I can fuck you again, if you think your hole can handle it.”
His teeth clench, glaring still, “My hole is fine.”
“Something I must confirm myself.” Ilya teases, then trails his fingers over Shane’s lower back, down and down. Until Shane jerks away like he’s been electrocuted. Ilya stills immediately, frowning. Is he not offering to calm Shane down from a loss? Make him forget?
Shane is glaring pointedly at the wall now, chewing on his lip with force. It’s going to bleed, if he continues, “Sorry. Just . . .”
Ilya waits. He debates on where he should put his hand now. He pulls the one he moved down Shane’s back away, lays it across his own stomach. The other is still touching Shane’s side, but it would be more noticeable to remove it with how close they are together, “You are nervous. Why?”
Shane looks at Ilya’s bedroom wall still, clearly thinking.
“Is losing? You get me next time I think.”
“What? No.” Shane is turning to look at him again, dark eyes looking clouded, “Not about the game.” He admits quietly.
Ilya frowns, “Okay. With you, is usually about game.” He resists massaging at Shane’s shoulder, since he jerked at the touch before, “So you are nervous because why?”
Shane bites his lip a second more before asking in a rush, “Doyouthinkwehavesextoomuch.”
Ilya blinks at him, taken off guard, “Too much?” It’s been two months since the season started. They call nearly every day. Each day they can spend together, they do, close in their apartment beds, getting each other off and cuddling. They have the rest of tomorrow before their flights to different cities, a rare stroke of luck.
Shane is flushing under his freckles, “Do you?”
Ilya mutes the TV and readjusts in the bed to lay on his side, able to look at Shane more directly now. The colorful light of the movie splashes on his cheek and chin, reds and blues, and Ilya is enamored. Momentarily destroyed by the soft hesitation in his boyfriend’s face. It shoots through him like a blade would gut a fish.
Ilya’s voice drops between them, whispering, “Shane. Am I . . .” He winces for the right word, “Pressuring?”
Shane’s big eyes go soft, his hands reach out for Ilya’s chest, his shoulders and neck, “No. God, of course you aren’t. I think I just feel . . .” Like this isn’t working, like I preferred what we had before, like I don’t need you anymore. “Like I miss you, even when you’re right here.”
Ilya’s chest feels tight and his jaw is tense, “Yes, I miss you like that. Is too much? The sex? The missing?”
Shane shakes his head. His hands are gentle on Ilya’s collarbones, “I don’t want to be like before.”
Before. Before loving? It couldn’t be, there’s too much difference in the anatomy of his heart now, broken down and built up into a Shane Hollander sized piece.
“I think we both made each other feel used sometimes,” Shane continues, thumbs caressing by his necklace, “I think you deserve better than me treating you like a sex toy.”
Ilya huffs, unexplainably anxious. Why is it a problem if Shane needs him, wouldn’t that make him want to stay? “Is not a problem, I have cock, is simple formula.”
Shane smiles, gentle and so so sweet, “Formula. You sound so smart.”
His heart melts, stress subsides, at the look on his face, this man he loves so deeply, “Am smart in Russian.”
The man hums contently, then brushes his thumb over Ilya’s cheek, “I’ve just been thinking that I want to be with you, not just getting each other off like before. I want to love you and know you in equal measure. I want to be less intentional about sex and more intentional about a real relationship.” Shane glances away, “I’ve been reading on Reddit about relationships and they say that it’s pretty abnormal the amount of sex we have, and people say that they want to connect with their partner in other ways too for the relationship to be satisfactory. I just thought . . . Maybe that wouldn’t be okay with you. I know you have,” Shane is definitely blushing now, “High libido or whatever so I don’t really know how to compromise.”
He is touched, at the research and effort Shane has gone to, but is also confused, “Libido?”
Shane burns, “Ah, sorry, means like, sex drive.”
“And you are saying I have a lot of this?”
Shane narrows his eyes, “Don’t be an asshole.”
Ilya starts to laugh, and grins harder when Shane pulls away to pout, shifting to stare up at the ceiling. Ilya tries to scoot closer but Shane twists further away, “Shane. Shaaaneee. C’mon, I like sex yes, but you see me at addiction, am not like that normally.”
“Shudup.” Shane mumbles into the blankets. Ilya kisses his shoulder blades, his spine.
He’s still smiling, sticking his head by Shane’s, “Moya lyubov, I am sorry to laugh, it is just because you have a lot of libido too.”
Half a second. “No I don’t.” Shane says back in a tone that Ilya is familiar with. The voice he gets when he knows Ilya is right but isn’t ready to concede yet.
Ilya murmurs in Russian at him about being silly, pressing more kisses against his neck and shoulder, “You have a plan, yes? Tell me.”
Shane twists around at this, still pouting but turning in his hold, letting Ilya continue to lean over his chest, “We’re going to plan dates and talk. I want to know more about your friends and your teammates, not just stats. You have to try to be open and I’ll do the same. We can pick a lot of things to do as dates over the phone, apparently the internet has a lot of tips for long distance couples so we can do some things from those lists.” Ilya’s heart is warm, nodding along to these things until Shane says, “And we’re going to pick days for no sex allowed.”
Ilya squints, “You think this is good idea?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
Ilya can think of like twenty. Reminding you why you like me, is probably number one. “Hollander, these people on the internet have less sex because they aren’t hot like you and me.”
“Whatever.” Shane acquiesces, “Still, it would be nice to not have the goal be sex, just being together.”
Ilya agrees, he wants Shane’s company more than the other things, his presence like a warm blanket. But . . , “What happens when you do not like me?” It’s flat, half stilted and drops low partially through the question.
Shane blinks at him in the dimness, then his dark eyes glisten with reflecting light, “I like you.” He whispers, his hand caressing Ilya’s face again.
His throat feels tight. No sex isn’t the end of the world for him, but his trust with Shane is entirely built on it. The only way he knows how to meet Shane’s expectations is through pleasing him, if he doesn’t have a clear path that way, Ilya just flounders when it comes to being a good boyfriend. He wants to, obviously, more than he’s probably ever wanted a trophy or award, but he’s . . . “Hollander, is version of me you know, very confident and good. I am not that all the time.”
Shane shakes his head gently, “I know that. I love you. I would like to love every part of you.”
Ilya trembles and releases a shaky sigh. That is so like Shane, to be unafraid about something so nebulous and unknown. He has watched time and time again Shane face his fears like a face off for the puck, steady and sure, with the kind of assertion and dominance that cannot be taught. Shane wears his own mask, this fearlessness drains him sometimes, but his natural instinct to fight has always been admirable to Ilya, who has gotten used to fleeing.
“I did not think it mattered so much, to . . . Hang out.” Ilya says.
Shane smiles. His tenderness could melt snow, could make figs and pears bloom in the winter, could send Ilya’s heart to an early grave. His short dark eyelashes are the stitches between his torn apart insides, restoration comes from his freckles and his cute nose. Fuck. Fuck.
“Don’t look so terrified.” Shane whispers, fond and exasperated and quiet, “It’s just me.”
Ilya swallows, takes Shane’s other hand and holds it to his heartbeat, “Yes. You don’t know power you have over me.”
Shane caresses his skin, thumb against his pec, he waits before asking quietly, “Would it really be so bad, to not have sex so much?”
He closes his eyes, tries to focus on saying the right words, “I understand why you suggest this, I will be happy to do whatever you want. I thought . . . I thought that to fuck makes you feel good, like relaxed no stress, so I am scared because I think I will not do a good job of relaxing you, making you feel good.”
Shane waits again, longer, lets the moment sit, patient and sincere, then tilts his chin up, “Ilya.” He says. It’s fucking undoing, it’s too much, it’s not enough. His eyes are so tender, “Why do you look so afraid?”
He forgets sometimes that things that are straightforward to him internally are not obvious to Shane. Shane needs to fuck as release, Ilya needs Shane. It feels very simple and crushing all at once.
“I think—,” Ilya starts, his lip trembling, “Sorry. Is my bullshit. We will do whatever you want.”
“Ilya.” His tone is a warning now, “I want us to be close. That is what I want. I feel calm just by being with you.”
Ilya frowns, “I make you anxious sometimes, happy sometimes, is too . . . Hot and cold. In-Inc—.”
“Inconsistent.”
“Yes, I make your feelings inconsistent. You hurt because of my stupid mouth, I say things not thinking. I tell myself is okay because we always have . . . We know sex, I feel dirty to say this but it makes things better, I make you happy. Consistent. I show you I care when we fuck. I’m—,” Ilya breathes deep, as Shane’s thumbs still cradle and caress his skin, grounding, “I’m not boyfriend, I am good fuck, yes? Is okay. I think that I will try to be good boyfriend by being good fuck and-“ He swallows, “Now I have to learn more, I already am stupid at boyfriend.”
Shane smiles, so sweet, “I don’t think you’re stupid Ilya. You are doing just fine at being my boyfriend.” His hands move to cradle Ilya’s face, forcing them to stare at each other. He whispers, “See? Look at me, I’m comforted, nothing is wrong with you and you don’t have to . . . fuck me good to earn it. I’m telling you that I see you as more than that.” His teeth show, his freckles crinkle as he grins now, “God I am so tortured by my handsome boyfriend caring about my needs being met, this is just so unfortunate.”
Ilya sighs, insides untangling. “Of course I care. Even when I was not your boyfriend, I care.”
Shane hums, leans forward, kisses his forehead between his eyes, “I care too. That’s what I’ve been telling you Rozanov, if you’d listen for once.”
He feels his mouth twitching in a smile, so he tames it by pouting, “I listen.”
Shane lets out a muffled, breathless laugh, pressed against his forehead still, “We can table the no sex conversation. I’m not eager for it either but I think it might be good for us, you know?”
Ilya nods, then shuffles the last few inches forward to breathe against Shane’s collarbone, his trapezoid, his chest. He feels better like this, better overall, “I know why you suggest it. So you can feel extra bad and sexy when you break a rule.”
Shane tugs at the curls on the nape of his neck, “You are so perverse, I swear to god.” But his tone sounds so fond it can’t even be passed as frustration. It sounds more like wow I love you.
So he bites teasingly at Shane’s neck, nothing to leave a mark, just to make a point. Yes, I am needy.
He wants to say something profound about what this does for him, to be together like this. To be wrapped up in each other with bad tv and the radiator as background noise. To be sharing secrets face to face, eye to eye, skin to skin. But English is hard, and he’s already had to focus hard to make it through this conversation without saying the wrong thing.
Shane hums, his voice a little sleepier than it was a few moments prior, “Whas’ the matter baby.” It’s slurred together and quiet, but Ilya’s heart fucking aches. Has Shane ever called him something so sweet before? With Ilya’s head on his bare chest, hearing his heart beat.
“Mne kazhetsya, inogda ya slishkom slab dlya tebya,” Ilya says, “Ya khochu zasluzhit' tu dobrotu, kotoruyu ty mne okazyvayesh'.”
Shane hums again, appreciatively, like he enjoys being told truths he can’t understand.
“Ya ne znayu, kak byt' khoroshim,” He confesses, then, “Ya lyublyu tebya.”
“Ya lyublyu tebya, Ilya.” Even sleepy, Shane carries the second syllable of his name high, like his mother tongue.
In the morning, Shane treats him by kissing his face and his shoulders, and cutting little fruits for him to go with breakfast. His warm, dark eyes are so tender and mischievous as he cooks that Ilya drops to his knees before he can even think.
He doesn’t really mean it to be sexual, maybe a little to tease, but Shane is frying eggs on a pan so Ilya wouldn’t try anything that might get him hurt. He just wants to be down here, on the floor, looking up. It’s a nice place, a good angle, objectively. He sets his chin on Shane’s muscular thigh and watches the attention bounce gently from the eggs to Ilya’s face. Ilya isn’t sure what Shane sees, a desperate grown man with a bedhead, hugging his boyfriend’s leg like he was going to fly away any minute, and yet . . . Shane’s eyes are only fond, sweet and wide open, like a dawn sunlit window. He’s humming some silly 60s romance ballad.
“Only me, yes?” Ilya asks. It’s a grand oversimplification of what he means, nonsensical even, but his boyfriend is so handsome that his heart is pounding in his ears.
Shane’s spare hand twines through his curls like he is very cherished, “Yes, only you.”
Ilya has a box of pictures from Russia, hidden away in a big shoebox in his closet in Boston, next to his awards and medals. When he left his father’s funeral, he knew that it would be good to take them in his carry on.
None of them are framed. Ilya tells himself that he will frame them one day, but it has been a full year now and he wouldn’t even know where to hang them if he did. The walls are covered in huge contemporary artwork. The drawer with his trophies feels more sacred.
He has some of them on his phone, pictures of the glossy printed picture, almost all of his mother.
There are no pictures of city streets, the restaurants and stores and houses that are familiar to him, the street lamps and signs and bridges, the trees and smells and air. Russia did not love him, he knows, his family was hell, but the nostalgia for it doesn’t stop. He tells himself this is what everyone feels about memories from childhood and that adult perception will never match a young memory so the melancholy doesn’t turn him inside out.
Ilya is spending Christmas in Ottawa, with Shane’s family. Canada air does love him, the sharp chill of it, the crispness of the morning and evening. Ilya will like living here next season, he thinks.
Shane wants them to look at new houses for Ilya to buy for next year to move from Boston. Nine months ahead, in true Hollander fashion. Ilya genuinely bought his Boston house nine days before coming to the States, so he’s not exactly engaging with the level of urgency everyone around him seems to have.
“Why so much rushing?” He asks. Shane and Yuna whip to look at him with matching horrified expressions. Ilya ducks and looks away.
“Be careful, next they will have you looking at land to build on.” David stage whispers, a mug in front of his mouth to fake hiding, “Which is why you should look at already built houses. Pro tip.”
Ilya tries not to smile and nods somberly accepting his fate.
He really likes being here. Christmas before was nothing very interesting, Russia did not really celebrate the hyper commercial nightmare that was the alleged religious holiday in the States. He would go out a few days after, meet nice women from other towns visiting family, and blow off steam until the new year.
This, a warm and decorative home, is much better in every way. Or most ways. Because despite Shane’s parents giving them a spare room to themselves on the other side of the house from their main bedroom, Shane refused downright to do anything scandalous in this house.
(“Shane. Your parents know that we fuck, I’m sure they give us this room because they do not want to hear, yes?”
Shane was burning red, “Well they won’t hear. I’ll die of embarrassment.”
Ilya snorted fondly, “Yes. Okay, sweetheart.”)
But while being denied sex, Ilya had free reign on any other kind of touching. Which he could handle for four days, while still cooking up the filthiest activities for them when they had days to themselves in the cottage before games started again.
After a day of driving by some potential properties, they cook dinner and Yuna sneaks a big album of photos into Ilya’s lap on the couch while Shane is still helping his dad clean up. His mom sips her wine and smiles when she sees the realization on his face.
“Is this . . ?”
She nods, “After you will show me all of yours on your phone, deal?”
Ilya nods back, “Is not many. Not like this.” The book is heavy in his hands. Records of their son being so cherished and adored.
Yuna waves her hand in dismissal, and leans close when he opens the book in his lap. It crinkles as the plasticy pages turn.
Shane as a baby, eyes closed. Cradled by his parents in the hospital. Ilya always thought Shane took after his mom, but compared to his father at a closer age, the resemblance is uncanny.
“They look so alike, right?” She says, scratching her finger at her husband’s face affectionately, “Shane hit puberty and suddenly everyone thought he looked so much like his dad.” Even here, on the first page, helpless and small and not a world class athlete, Shane was so loved.
The next few pictures are fun, Shane with spaghetti all over his clothes, Shane in a crib, Shane being cooed over by other relatives, Shane with odd looking toys in his mouth, Shane with big round baby eyes.
“So cute.” Ilya murmurs, “Eyes so big.”
Yuna smiles, “Yeah it’s impossible to win an argument with those eyes.”
Ilya sighs contentedly, “Yes, he tells me not to drive fast and I say is Porsche and he looks—,” He touches his index finger to the protective plastic, “—then I say okay no driving fast.”
Shane’s mom laughs beside him, puts an arm around onto his shoulder blade, “Welcome to the club. Imagine seven year old Shane asking for ice cream on the way home. What was I supposed to do with myself?”
Ilya leans closer, nodding seriously, “Get him ice cream, have to.”
“It’s a miracle he turned out so good, we spoiled him so badly.” She admits, “You’ll see when you both have kids, it’s so hard to say no.”
Ilya’s big soft heart soars. This is nearly too much. “I am so bad already, the league kids, I bring them candy and teach curse words.”
She laughs again, then snorts when he turns the next page, four pictures of Shane as a baby naked in the bath. Which is perfect timing for Shane and his dad to walk into the living room.
“Oh my god, mom!” Shane hisses, looking like his soul has exited his body. He shuts the book on Ilya’s lap, “Stop that!”
Ilya is trying to tamper his grin, but David isn’t even trying, “Baby pictures in exchange for?”
“Pictures I have from home.” Ilya admits.
Yuna is giggling as much as a grown woman can over her wine glass.
“Guys! That’s so mean, I’m literally naked in that!” Shane shrills.
There is silence. Ilya purses his lips, “Have we not all seen you naked?”
Shane’s mouth drops open further, bright red, then looks more offended than embarrassed when his dad says, “Excellent point Ilya.” And Yuna reopens the book while nodding.
Shane crumples to his knees dramatically, as if he’s dying, and lays on the carpet face down, motionless to convey his distress while his parents laugh at his pain. He lays there for far too long, until about age ten, when Ilya is looking at action shots of him on the ice and after. Even then, intense and driven, Ilya can see it in his eyes that Shane was a winner.
He pokes his foot out to his boyfriend’s side, prodding him for signs of life, “Moya lyubov, you can get up now I am not looking at your baby dick anymore.”
“Stfhoooopppp.” Shane moans. He makes no effort to move. They move on to middle and high school.
Ilya watches Shane get braces and pimples and too tall too fast. Watches the redness in his face now from taking pictures awkwardly. Watches the respectful hand on his female date to prom while looking generally sweaty and unhappy to be there. Watches his high school graduation and realizes, with a fucking start, that this is the boy who told him to stop smoking. They would meet a few months after this picture, in the summer after Shane graduated.
“Is rookie season.” He notes.
“Mhm.” Yuna hums in agreement.
He doesn’t know how to describe what he feels, looking at a picture from nine years ago, seeing the same freckles that had him in a chokehold from the moment Shane tried to Canadian boss him around when Ilya was fresh off the plane into the States.
“They were already telling me about him then.” Ilya says out loud. He had been hearing about Shane Hollander from every Russian coach’s mouth into his face for about six months before they even met.
“I was already advising Shane about ways to outdo you.” Yuna admits.
“Advising?” David says, “Lecturing. Borderline torturing.”
Shane huffs a muffled laugh from the floor.
“Which is fine,” Yuna emphasizes, “Because he still got rookie of the year.”
Ilya shrugs nonchalantly, “And I am number one draft pick so is even.”
“That’s not equivalent.” Shane says, finally lifting his flushed face off the floor.
“Ah, he lives?”
“Shut up.” Shane says, but he actually gets up from the floor and sits at the other side of his mom with dramatic breath.
The last few pages are more spread out, mostly of the three of them in nice clothes for events in Shane’s rookie season. No hockey, just a forced smile and a nice suit.
“I have another album with all of his hockey pictures. The ads and sports shots and all of that.” Yuna explains, “Show us yours now.”
Ilya is hesitant but opens his phone, clicking on the album of the few pictures he has. There’s five of them.
The first is of himself as a newborn, curled up in his mother’s arms. She is two years younger than he is now, in this photo, taken in the living room that has not changed in twenty-six years. She looks down at him with a gentle smile, measured and small.
“She was so beautiful.” Shane says, voice barely above a whisper.
Ilya nods. His mother has his curls, just lighter blonde, tumbling over her shoulders. Her eyes were green and gray. She had a mole by her lip and one by her eye.
In his childhood days, his mother loved to host gatherings and parties for holidays. She would make Ilya trim papers and slice fruit for garlands. Ilya would lick the orange juice off his fingers and she would tickle him for being indulgent. His father always hated the parties, but suffered through it more when Ilya was younger. The older he got, the more times his papa would yank the decorations down in the morning.
He shows the Hollanders the next three photos, family pictures taken on Easter, in the same living room. The last one is of Ilya only, grinning and missing a front tooth, dressed in the uniform for his very first team at nine years old.
Yuna gasps and fawns over him, “Honey you look so adorable! What a cutie in your gear.”
He blushes a bit despite himself. The only one who used to call him cute was his own mom. Nowadays, people just call him hot as if it’s an observable fact, “Is my first team, I was the fastest. Skated circles around older boys, they would get so mad.”
Shane smiles, “Not much has changed, huh?”
Ilya smirks, delighted, “Did you guys hear? Shane called me the fastest.”
They share a laugh before Yuna stands to put the album back and David asks, “Do you want to join me for a cigar on the deck Ilya?”
His parents know he smokes, a safe topic of conversation with Shane’s dad, cigars, vodka, weather, their manic lovers, nice cars. David has never been judgemental about any of these vices or habits, and it is safe here anyway, in the well heated house.
Ilya finds himself looking over at Shane regardless, who is staring at the screen of Ilya’s blank phone, where the pictures were. He knows that Ilya smokes too, obviously, but has always had a distaste for it. Shane has been subtly discouraging him from smoking for years now. He has said that the smell or aftertaste annoys him, but has never hesitated to make out with him after, so Ilya knows this can’t be entirely true. Then last year, he started really mentioning lung cancer, reciting statistics and getting that big pleading look in his eyes.
Ilya does not care for cigarettes if his punishment is the sad look in Shane’s eyes. He hasn’t smoked through the last pack he bought the first night back in Boston from their perfect two weeks in the summer cottage. He smoked four in a row to be able to sleep in a bed without Shane, not his proudest moment.
“Shane.” Ilya prompts.
Shane starts a bit, looks up like he had been lost in thought. Ilya can’t tell what he was thinking.
“Is okay? Cigar?”
“No I don’t want one, thank you.” Shane answers absently.
Ilya tries not to give him an exasperated smile, “For me, Shane. You do not mind?”
His mouth drops open, then closes, a flush taking over his cheeks, “Ohmygod, why are you asking me? Do whatever you want.”
David snorts as Ilya smiles too, “The wife said it’s fine.” Ilya teases, and dodges the swat that Shane sends his way as they get up from the couch.
Ilya hasn’t liked many men, that is, older men. Men that are mentors rather than peers. His coach in Boston is alright, accepting of Ilya’s harsh playing style and habits of getting in trouble. He would encourage some of it, even tell Ilya which players were the best on other teams so he could target them specifically. It’s all fair in the game of course, but Ilya decided long ago that violence outside of hockey was not allowed. Those patterns of aggression, his genetics, he doesn’t want to see where it leads him. So the Raiders coach is fine, but not someone he looks up to, or particularly respects, for encouraging that sort of thing.
David Hollander seems like a boring, Shane shaped person upon first glance. Ilya joked about it even, that was who Shane inherited his boring from, but it has been six months now since Ilya met him and he keeps uncovering odd little tidbits of adventure.
It happens over cigars or beers usually, they will talk and David will mention something offhandedly that made Ilya’s perception of him go tilt. Yeah, I went backpacking in Patagonia for two months, almost died. Yeah, I had earring in college, closed up though. Yeah, I had a motorcycle once, crashed it in Vegas.
So they sit in smoky silence for a minute, not too long since it’s bitterly cold out, before Ilya asks, “So you have tattoo also?”
David laughs, big and hearty, since it’s a running joke now for Ilya to be shocked by him doing ‘cool’ things, “I was a stupid kid once too, you know.”
Ilya smiles, puffs out his drag and breathes the chilly air, “This means yes.”
David turns and lifts his coat and flannel, showing the ornate linework flower seemingly on his shoulder, just peaking out.
He laughs in response, “Yes okay. I think Shane is genetic miracle of boring.”
David chuckles, takes a long drag himself, flicking the cigar gently into the fresh snow, “That was actually one of my less brash decisions, got it when my old man passed away.”
Ilya hums, “You were close?”
He shrugs, “Sometimes. As fathers and sons are. I was seventeen when he had a heart attack.”
There it is, maybe not the tattoo this time is surprising, but some other piece of the life of Shane’s father is. “I did not know this.” Ilya does not say sorry or give condolences, “You are a very good parent. Your mom?”
David’s eyes are soft, reminiscent, “Things with my mom were bad for a while, she was totally wrecked from the shock of it all. It was hard to . . .”
“Connect.” Ilya supplies. He knows.
David nods, takes another drag, “I mean I get it, if I . . .” He tilts his head back towards the house and blinks slowly like he can’t fathom losing his own wife or son so suddenly, “But I fucked up a lot after, hung out with a bunch of idiots and did things that hurt more than healed. Eventually I realized that if I wanted to be happy, I had to stop self sabotaging. It was hard but I learned.”
Ilya feels warm inside, the cigar, the apple cider at dinner. Hopeful, maybe.
“My wife put up with a lot in the beginning,” David confesses, “She tells me that’s not true but I still feel guilty for it. When she started making plans for how to get my life back on track, hockey practice schedules, applications for McGill . . . I listened, did everything she told me without a fuss and I’m damn happy I did too.”
Ilya smiles. He has already met with the Ottawa head coach, already planned the first events for the Irina Foundation, already deleted all of his old hookup numbers and already looked at Canada marriage laws.
“Wanna know something funny?” David says, smiling to himself, then glancing inside the patio window, watching whatever he can see inside, “Yuna and I agreed on one kid. I wanted a daughter. Girls are easy for fathers, you spoil them forever. I didn’t think I could . . .” He turns back again, light in his eyes.
Ilya just nods in understanding. It isn’t easy to imagine parenthood when your examples are nonexistent and messy.
His cigar on the last pull, simple and unashamed, “Now I have two sons. Couldn’t be happier.”
They finish their smoke in self made warmth.
They spend New Year’s in the cottage. Which is like a fantasy from Ilya’s wettest, most perfectly boring dreams.
Shane had asked him at the end of November what he usually did for the holidays and Ilya shrugged, “Usually go out with players on New Year’s, nothing else special.”
His boyfriend slouched a bit, suddenly looking small, “Oh. Are they doing that again this year?”
Ilya waved his hand dismissively, “Yes, is yearly thing.”
Shane chewed his lip, “Maybe . . .”
Wow, Ilya thought to himself, he’s really going to ask.
“Maybe you could ask to sit this one out? And stay with me until the third? If you want to. Maybe.”
Ilya knew he was a sick fuck, on several levels. This was not news. After nine years of fucking Shane Hollander, Ilya would think that every depraved thing Shane could bring out in him would be obvious by now. Apparently he was wrong, as he was finding out by his dick getting hard in his sweatpants.
Ilya’s head fell back against the hotel headboard as he tried to contemplate what sort of chemical imbalances had occurred in his brain to get horny for Shane stealing him from his friends.
“Or not!” Shane rushed, completely and entirely misreading Ilya’s movement, “I mean you can leave the thirtieth and still stay with me and my parents so it’s fine.”
“Hollander,” Ilya replied weakly, “You have first pick of my time. You tell me that I’m not allowed and I will say okay.”
Shane’s already flushed face looked absolutely mortified on the video call, jaw dropped open, “Oh my god. Stop, you’re allowed to do whatever you want.”
Tell me no. Tell me I’m not allowed because you said so. Ilya was making himself light headed. “Is fine, I will tell them I will be getting my cock sucked by pretty mouth and pretty mouth says I am busy.”
So now, it’s one hour until the new year, and look at that, Ilya is getting his cock sucked by the prettiest mouth.
Shane always used to suck him down like he was desperate, to prove himself, to make it good, to fulfill the craving. They have been together for seven full days now, Shane is still eager but more indulgent, holding Ilya’s dick in his mouth for the past twenty minutes while the tv plays the celebrations around the world. Pop stars singing and people waving in silly glasses.
Ilya is realizing that Shane really likes this, holding and gently sucking for as long as he can. Sometimes Shane comes up for air and looks mindless, empty and blissed, dark eyes big and unfocused. They didn’t have time for this kind of thing before the cottage, not to this extent anyway, unhurried. Ilya can go a little soft in distraction at the tv, and Shane will hum around him, warm and wet, making sure he twitches back to hardness.
Ilya brushes a hand through his hair, pushing the short bangs at his forehead back.
His face is a little flushed but otherwise relaxed completely, freckles glittering like the neon lights of the tv screen. Shane sighs with contentment, so gentle.
“Don’t fall asleep moya lyubov, you will miss it.” Ilya says, more whispering than anything.
Shane makes another little sound, a more purposeful one, and licks the underside of him before sinking back down. His lips tremble, and he squirms against the couch.
Ilya caresses his stretched cheek, the corner of his closed eyes, “Too much yet?”
He shakes his head, movement small, so Ilya lets him continue. What could be the rush? He has his perfect boyfriend for three more days, to ring in the brand new year. He gets a new year’s kiss that means something other than just fun, something like commitment and togetherness. He is turned on, don’t get him wrong, but being this languid with each other makes him feel so fucking relaxed. His sweetheart, relaxed too, so devoid of the tension usually in his shoulders.
“Moy krasivyy muzhchina,” Ilya murmurs to him, as Shane sighs deeply.
Ilya is very attuned to him, the signs he’s getting overwhelmed, getting horny, needing some kind of ease. Years of practice, years of meeting each other’s needs. Ilya can feel the change in the air, fifteen minutes later when Shane’s eyebrows start to pinch, and his mouth slides a fraction tighter.
He waits five more minutes. Until Shane is lapping at the underside without pulling off, and twisting a hand down under his stomach to his legs on the couch.
Ilya holds his hair, a firm tug, “No touching, you’re missing the celebration.”
He whines but complies, as is usual. Shane Hollander loves to be good. Loves to be exactly what Ilya wants, especially when he’s already so hazy like this.
Shane’s face scrunches, looking more flushed by the second, probably from the command to wait, while Ilya keeps tugging his hair. His lips are slippery with spit, from being opened so long. The saliva has already dripped down Ilya’s shaft, against his thighs, from his boyfriend’s messy mouth.
Ilya feels that twitch in his spine, the urgency to take, to make Hollander pleased by being used. These days they’ve been having sex a little bit differently than before, since the cottage. Ilya couldn’t name it if he tried what has actually changed, they are just as desperate and depraved as they were since 2008, but it’s different now. Maybe the acknowledgment of their feelings really let the door wide open, making them both a little needy and indulgent.
When Ilya touches him now, Shane’s body aches with relief. Not just the kind that comes from being wound tight and pent up, but actual full body relief. Trust, comfort, it pours out of Shane and curls around his breathless moans to make a home between their skin. He sounds like an angel, or a siren maybe, if sirens called lonely sailors to heaven rather than death.
When Ilya pleases him now, he feels a relief too, like his ribcage has finally let his heart breathe. I’ll be good to you, I swear it. Shane loves to be good, but Ilya loves to make sure he feels it. To treasure him beyond misunderstanding. To anticipate his needs, to know whatever he is too embarrassed to say.
“You want me to fuck your mouth?”
Shane squeezes his already closed eyes, nods, lips still red and shining around his dick. What a beautiful picture. Ilya’s heart beats faster.
“I will do it for you.” Ilya assures, “So beautiful. Ty zastavlyayesh' menya chuvstvovat' sebya korolom.”
Shane whines, his hand on Ilya’s thigh tightening. He shakes, as he bobs slowly up and down now, Ilya’s hand still a weight in his hair. The tv announces three minutes until the new year and Shane’s eyes change, blinking recognition. He tilts back, the string of spit between his mouth and the tip glistening in the blue light.
When Shane speaks, his voice is weak and his eyes burn, “I want you to finish in my mouth one more time this year. And then I want to fuck as the first thing after.”
It’s not sentimental really, but it does feel special to make such a memory. Ilya swallows, tightens his fingers in Shane’s hair, “Yes. Good idea.”
When Shane sinks back down again, it is with all the determination that Ilya has come to expect from him. Ilya’s spine tingles, warmth sweeps through his stomach and thighs. When he groans and spills into his lover’s mouth, the tv people are counting down as Ilya’s heart pounds in his heaving chest.
Shane looks up at him with the question in his eyes, the one Ilya knows well.
“You treat me so good, Shane.” Ilya tells him, breathlessly.
His brown eyes sparkle then, content with this earned praise, and he readjusts on the couch to press them chest to chest, hips connected.
Ilya is gentler with his hair again, combing through the places he pulled, as Shane breathes into his neck. Shane is hard against Ilya’s thigh, which they will get to, but doesn’t seem to be very impatient about it.
Three, two, one . . . Happy new year! The tv announces, confetti and fireworks popping colorful patterns across the screen.
Ilya waits, reaching into the back of Shane’s shirt to access his back. Then he gets impatient.
“Shane.”
“Mmh.”
“Will you kiss me?”
His boyfriend sits up wordlessly, boneless and fucking ethereal, before putting his hand against Ilya’s neck and kissing him, firm and deep. Ilya can taste himself in Shane’s mouth when he licks inside, rewarded with the cute sound he makes in surprise. God, everything about him is perfect. Ilya deepens their kissing further, twisting them to get Shane under him on the couch. They try not to separate their mouths in the movement but it happens anyway, kisses pressed slightly off target, until Shane starts giggling under him.
Ilya rocks their hips together, both in sweatpants, one hand pressing on the small of Shane’s back, then smiles, “What’s funny? I’m trying to fuck you.”
Shane laughs again, “There’s a few things in the way if that’s your goal.”
Ilya grabs a handful of his ass for a better angle, then licks at his neck, where he’s sensitive under his ear, “I haven’t fucked you since last year. This is very difficult time for me.”
He can hear the smile in Shane’s voice still, even as he shivers and arches into the touch, “Oh really?”
“Yes really. Is not a game Hollander, if I don’t have your hole I will die.”
“Hm, well I really don’t want you to die so . . . I’ll think about it.” Shane yelps a few seconds later when Ilya snatches him up from the couch and stalks to the bedroom with Shane hanging off of him like a baby koala, rather than a muscled athlete.
“Don’t drop me.” Shane says, voice high, clinging around his shoulders.
Ilya huffs. How offensive. So offensive, in fact, the he detours and pushes Shane’s back against the hallway, “You forget I fuck you against wall in California for an hour.”
Shane moans as Ilya works his mouth on Shane’s neck again, licking and biting at his pulse, then he sighs out, “I don’t recall.”
He growls, pulls them away from the wall, “Brat.”
Ilya likes this game, especially now, as boyfriends. He likes that Shane acts bratty, particular and indifferent, before he begs. He likes that he gets to chase, gets to tease, gets to talk about all the dirty things he knows Shane wants while his lover acts nonchalant or annoyed. He likes that they always end up the same way, with Shane’s pretty eyes sobbing for dick, voice all high and sweet. Begging to be touched, begging to be close. It’s more fun as boyfriends, just as sexy, but more exciting. Ilya likes knowing that he will reduce him to a mess and piece him back together in the aftermath, trade kisses and fall asleep skin to skin. It’s reliable, predictable and so fucking hot.
When Ilya drops him on the bed, Shane’s thighs are still wrapped around his hips. His cotton shirt has ridden up on his stomach a few inches, showing a stripe of pale, flushed skin. Shane doesn’t have a lot of body hair, his stomach and face are very smooth, even on his thighs, the hair is fine and soft. So pretty when it glistens with wetness.
Ilya grinds his hips, pushing towards the mattress, and pushes the shirt up his man’s chest, “I will remind you of what you do not remember.”
Shane’s eyes are dark, all black in the small light of the bedside lamp, tilted up at him through short, black lashes, coy, “It’s late Ilya.” His name in Shane’s mouth has that upward tilt, the tease of learning to pronounce it right, even in English. Always so determined to be perfect.
His nipple hardens under Ilya’s playful, pointed touch, “My Shane needs to sleep? That is okay, I will fuck you while you rest and make you dream of cock.”
Shane’s eyes squeeze closed, his stomach clenches, and a soft moan dances in the air between them.
They haven’t discussed it in depth, like Ilya has decided they will before doing it, but this, teasing remarks in foreplay, have gotten more frequent. Ideas about Shane being touched and taken and used. Ilya knows Shane has always liked to give up control, but the ways he desires to do so have gotten more intricate. His freaky Hollander, having wild fantasies, reading weird Reddit threads and categorizing wants on excel spreadsheets.
For now, this teasing will do.
Ilya leans down to kiss him, and Shane’s hands immediately sneak under his shirt at the small of his back, breathing unevenly into the kiss. So easy.
“Tell me what you would like, moya lyubov.” Ilya whispers, hushed like a secret, in between stolen sighs on each other’s lips.
Shane squirms, “Mm, nothing, I’m sleepy.” Still being a bit bratty.
Ilya rubs his hand greedily over Shane’s sweatpants, “I think you are awake.” He leans close to his ear, more of his weight against Shane’s chest, even standing, and he asks very gently then, “Do you want to try your little fantasy? Something else? If you want fantasy, we have to talk first.”
His back arches into Ilya then, a deep content sigh carrying through Shane’s body, “No fantasy. Wanna be close.” Then blinking softly, “Don’ wanna think anymore.”
Ilya hums. Such a sweet, easy request. “Wanna cry for it?”
Shane nods, mindless like on the couch, “Love it, Ilya.”
Fuck. How is he supposed to say no to something like that? Ilya couldn’t fathom it. Couldn’t fathom being treated so generously on the couch and not giving his lover everything he desires. Couldn’t fathom saying no to Shane Hollander in general. Especially not this soft, perfect version of him.
Ilya rearranges Shane into the bed, sheds his clothes as gently as possible, folds Shane’s on the dresser and kicks his own off lazily. Maybe Shane will give him a mean and sexy little lecture in the morning about his socks. Reaching for the bedside drawer, he watches Shane’s bare skin rise and fall with each quick breath. He has freckles on his shoulders too, a few on his forearms, so cute and hidden mostly by shirts and gear.
Shane’s closed eyes crinkle and his hand reaches over vaguely, so Ilya gives him his left hand, intertwining their fingers loosely to keep touching. Romantic, is probably the right word for this instinct of Shane’s. To Ilya, it makes him feel turned inside out.
With lube on his other hand, Ilya presses down in between his thighs. Normally, it could be a little easier on Shane’s body to prep him stomach down, but Ilya isn’t really willing to part with watching his face tonight. Shane only sighs contently at the slow pressure so Ilya knows he doesn’t mind.
Ilya has admittedly always liked this part a little more with Shane than others. Something about the tension coming loose in his shoulders, the hesitation fading with every crook of his fingers. Shane Hollander made this part beautiful, vulnerable, gut wrenching almost, when Ilya has been feeling denied. Not now, after a week together, but other times when Ilya is really desperate to feel sure that Shane is his, this does something to him that head and fucking can’t. Ilya’s heart is singing his praises like a church choir, my baby, so good, so pretty, doing perfect, but Shane has to get some kind of godforsaken punishment for his brattiness or he won’t feel comfortable doing it.
“You remember now?” Ilya says gently, twisting two fingers and spreading them enough to make Shane leak and tremble, “What it is like to be mine?”
He whimpers, his body locks up for half of a second before relaxing further, the flush on his face and chest a pretty pink. Then a second later, “More.”
“So greedy,” Ilya notes, leans over him to kiss his pec and his chest rather than satisfy the request.
Shane tilts into it, arches his back to fuck minutely onto Ilya’s fingers, “Greedy for you.” He says, voice devoid of tension and indifference now. Only pleasured and breathless. It’s so cute when Shane is talking nonsense at this stage, still half coherent instead of out of his fucking mind.
“I think you are greedy for me because I will make you full as many times as you want.”
Shane moans now, twists and trembles. His cock is leaking against his stomach and flushed red, his thighs are shaking now on certain thrusts of his fingers, “Full.” He repeats, shaky and blissful, then, “‘M ready.”
Ilya’s three fingers are being crushed by his warmth, too tight still but close. He kisses and licks Shane’s neck, “Almost, baby.”
Shane shivers, eyes scrunched, “It’s okay, if it hurts a little bit, feels good.”
Ilya narrows his eyes at Shane, his freckles, his sweat damp hairline, “You think I let you hurt on purpose to be sexy?” He can’t tell if he feels offended by the insinuation or intrigued by whatever wild thing Shane is attempting to convey.
Shane moves his hips, aborted little thrusts that he thinks he can get away with since he isn’t touching his dick, “Feels good, promise.” Then he opens his eyes, dark and honest and never ending, “Promise.” He emphasizes.
Ilya pushes his hips into the mattress, holds him firmly as he twitches under Ilya’s hand, then both hands after Ilya removes his fingers, “Look at me.”
His eyes are wet already, glistening, eyebrows pinched at the loss.
Ilya had some more dirty talk wound up for him when he said to look, but with Shane’s trusting gaze, all that comes out is, “I love you.”
Shane hums, half a groan, pleased, tilting their hips to rub their bodies together in a warm, sensitive slide, “Love you.” Then he smiles, dazed, “Ilya Rozanov.”
Suddenly, Ilya’s hands are shaking. What could he have possibly done to earn this?
He’s tried to be a considerate lover, a nice experience for Shane all those years ago when they were being bad with no idea what they were getting into. Ilya was always very careful then, checked in, pushed then receded like the tide to figure out what the young, talented hockey player wanted. Shy, embarrassed, eager, generous. Some days Ilya still questions if he has manipulated Shane like some kind of mastermind super villain, if Shane latched on to the first decent experience he had. If he craves something else, to explore beyond a few half hookups when things between them were still at arms length. It’s sometimes hard to remember, when Shane gives himself up like this so willingly, that Ilya does not have to earn it, or rather, that he already has.
Need rattles through him, desperate and hungry, to touch and feel, to indulge Shane’s haze, keep him foggy, in the in between.
He leans back to grab the condom on the blanket beside them and Shane full on pouts, big dramatic frown, “Why?”
They’ve talked about it, not using condoms. The teams all regularly get tested and they aren’t sleeping with anyone else now, not for . . . God, since a full year ago? Still, it is part of the routine and Shane likes routine. And less mess. They only did it once that way in the cottage in the summer, before Shane’s parents found out about them. Ilya didn’t push it after, even if Shane seemed to enjoy it, it didn’t seem right to push anything exploratory at the time. During the first half of the season, this fall, they haven’t really had enough free time to themselves to indulge in those kinds of things. Ilya hasn’t pushed, he didn’t necessarily want to try it again without ample time to do the right sorts of aftercare. Which is really debatable if they have it right now, given that it’s the middle of the night.
Ilya kisses his face, kisses the scrunch between his brows, “Don’t want you to feel dirty after sweetheart.”
Shane continues to pout, “Mean. What if I wanna feel dirty?”
Ilya smiles, pecks his lips over and over until Shane’s mouth loses the displeased curl, “I can make you feel dirty in the ways you like.”
“I like it,” Shane insists, eyes getting more focused by the second which is absolutely terrible news, “I don’t know why you’re not doing it anymore, you don’t want to?”
Ilya’s stupid heart is going to fucking burst. And his dick.
“I want to, I’m sorry, I do what you want.” God he is so whipped.
Shane looks satisfied with this response, wiggling his hips a little against Ilya’s hold, “Want you to fuck me.”
Ilya kisses his neck again, moves his hands away to wedge himself under Shane’s hips and bring his legs around him again, one hand holding his cock to press against Shane’s rim. Shane’s ankles on his back are pulling him in, firm and strong and sure. When the head of his dick slides in, they both groan. It feels like relief, like home.
Without a condom, Shane is hot and wet around him, so tight and squirming. Ilya has somewhat forgotten just how sensitive it is without something in between them, and when he bottoms out, he has to stare at the headboard for eight seconds to not come immediately.
Shane’s dick is pressed between their stomachs like this, sliding with every short thrust Ilya gives him. Shane clutches at his shoulders, his hair, moans sounding angelic and relieved. Ilya pants, his own body feeling hot and wrecked, but he pushes through the sensation. Shane needs him now so Ilya will give it to him, since he’s asked so nicely to be fucked and been so honest about what he wants.
Ilya’s thighs clench as he fucks Shane deep and steady, groaning at the feeling of him. The wetness sounds filthy, his hips connecting to Shane’s ass in a soft, patterned smack. He tilts Shane’s hips with a hand on his waist, above his hipbone, and Shane arches like a whore, like someone well fucked and well loved, familiar with how to take cock at the deepest angle. Then he has the fucking nerve to groan like he can’t believe how good it feels.
Ilya’s heart pounds fast, his breath comes quicker. He breathes deep in his nose and tries to maintain.
“Fuck Shane.” Once it’s out of his mouth, everything else comes with it, “I’m addicted to you, how you feel sucking me in. So warm and tight.”
His perfect boy is blinking helplessly, rapid and teary, the rhythmic little uh uh uhs that pour out of his mouth are undoing.
“My fucking slut, need you so bad. Make you so full, just like you want.”
Shane’s throat is exposed as he tilts his head back and moans, loud and wanton.
“I’ll fuck you anytime you need, whenever you want to be full.” He grits his teeth, “Fuck. Fill you up every day Hollander. I love to do this for you. I know you like cock baby, it’s okay.”
Shane’s thighs shake, his body trembles, sparkling tears pour over the corners of his closed eyes, his lip caught between his teeth.
“Look at me.” Ilya begs, voice hoarse. Fucks him steady and good like he deserves.
Shane blinks, eyes opening, shining as pretty tears track down his face.
“Wanna hear how much you like cock, tell me.”
Ilya wonders for a second if trying to get Shane to talk was the wrong thing to do. His eyes well up with more tears, fucking gorgeous like this, so open and honest. His body is singing with pleasure, dick rock hard between them, abdomen shaking.
His voice is gasping, deep and devoted, “I l-love your co-ck Ilya.”
Ilya moans, thrusts turning sloppy, Shane needs to come like now or he won’t be able to stop himself.
Shane’s hand dig into his shoulders, ankles into his ass, his back and chest arched like a perfect impossible curve, his words hazy and mindless, “I love your cock Ilya I love your cock, love your cock, need it, love your cock, Ilya—.”
Ilya comes so hard he blacks out. Which feels like a pretty reasonable reaction given the circumstances.
When he can even fucking think straight again, he sits up from Shane’s chest to find his boyfriend’s come between their chests. Ilya sighs and relaxes back down.
“Holy fuck.” He says out loud.
Shane laughs, a sleepy, tender thing, “I’ve never seen you actually come before me like that.”
“Hollander.” Ilya admonishes, which just makes him giggle again, holy shit, “Is your fault, you asked to cry for it then say no condom.”
Shane runs a hand through his now sweaty curls, “So generous to me.” It sounds teasing, maybe intended as such, but Shane also means it so some of the sarcasm is lost.
Fuck they are so sticky. Everything is wet.
“How should I mark this in my spreadsheet? Rozanov begging kink?”
Ilya cracks up laughing, then tries to school his expression into something serious as he sits up for real, only to have Shane grinning at him all kinds of self satisfied.
“Mr boring spreadsheet.”
“Maybe you’re—,” Shane pokes him in the chest, still grinning, the asshole, “The one who comes fast and you’ve been getting away with not because of condoms.”
That’s . . . Not outside of the realm of possibility.
“Bullshit Hollander. Is lie.”
“Rozanov breeding kink.”
“Stop!” Ilya complains, “You can’t talk to me about this, I will get very sad that I can’t get you pregnant and you will have to let me try my hardest.”
Shane rolls his eyes but keeps smiling, “Let’s clean up.”
“Aha! See? You feel dirty.” Ilya points out, more to take the heat off himself than prove any specific point.
Shane takes his hand and leads him to the shower, stands with him under the spray with a certainly tired smile. It is way past his lover’s bedtime. But Shane stands with him, cleans off in the warm steam and the eucalyptus scented body wash. He rubs his hands on Ilya’s back and knees and shoulders, and hums in contentment when Ilya washes his body in return, being careful with his ass and his back. Ilya doesn’t mean to prod, maybe he does but not in a disrespectful way, at Shane’s hole, but he only holds one cheek to the side and nods like Ilya is free to touch him, even for the purpose of curiosity.
Shane is cuddled against his shoulder in the warm rain, perfectly relaxed and unbothered with Ilya’s prodding. Ilya is very, very gentle when he touches the inside of his cheek, then his rim even more carefully. Shane doesn’t know, but Ilya is assessing the damage of his blackout, of the momentary loss of control over himself. He wonders again, what he did to deserve someone so sweet and boring like Shane Hollander. So trusting and giving and kind.
“I guess I need to get on birth control soon, huh?” Shane says, then grins when Ilya scowls at him and earns a bite on his neck for the trouble.
“Go to bed, you are delusional from no sleep.” Ilya tells him, but feels lighter when Shane laughs breathlessly.
In the bed, warm, safe, and so loved, Shane tells him, a whisper on his shoulder, “Happy new year.”
“Happy new year, moya lyubov.”