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Ilya is fine. His body feels cold and his limbs are heavy, but that’s just physical, he can push through the physical. His head is empty, blissfully full of cotton or white noise or something else. His breathing is a little fast, but it’s fine, he can slow that down. He can slow it down. It’ll slow down. Eventually. His chest is tight, restricted in a way that’s never fully manageable, it happens every so often, but he’s fine. It’s fine.
He decides not to think, easy. He stands, also easy. Ilya takes the plates from the coffee table and brings them to the kitchen, carefully pushes the remains of their sandwiches, their sandwiches, his food into the small compost bin under the sink. He rinses the plates, puts them carefully into the dishwasher.
Ilya returns to the living room and turns off the nonsense commentary of whatever assholes are critiquing the form of players they could never match. The noise is grating. Their chirps aren’t the best, could use a little work. He tidies up the napkins and cans - still half empty - and brings them to the kitchen. He drains the coke into his mouth and stares at the ginger ale can.
He drains that too. It tastes like -
Ilya rinses the cans out and puts them into the recycling bin. The napkins go in the bin. He grabs the cleaning products and a cloth and returns to the living room to diligently clean the coffee table. He brushes the crumbs into his hand, brings them to the garbage can. Then he drops to his knees and gets down to work. He needs to have it back to normal, back to how it was earlier. Before. Something for the stains, something for the bacteria, something to make it shine.
Ilya cleans it off as he was taught, to Papa’s standard. He can’t make Papa mad, it wouldn’t be worth the reaction, the punishment, he couldn’t let Mama down. By the time he’s done, the table shines. It’s gleaming. Not a trace left of anything. It’s clean. Something in him eases.
He’s fine.
He puts the cleaning products back into their place. Ilya takes a deep, steadying breath, pushing everything out of his brain before it can take root. He can do that, push everything away, keep the bad thoughts from swirling. He’s had plenty of practice. Just like on the ice, shove it down into the recesses and not let it come up. He pulls on rubber gloves and opens the refrigerator door. It yawns open at him like something menacing, the tupperware taunting him in its neat stack. He pulls them out, leaves them in their tower beside the sink and pulls out the - the six-pack of ginger ale that is now five. That’s missing one. It’s missing. It misses -
He puts that beside the tupperware and dutifully empties all cans, knowing he and no normal person would drink them. Only one. The waft of ginger makes his stomach clench, but he ploughs through, he has things to do. He scoops the remains of the tuna melt ingredients into the compost bin, covering the remains of the sandwiches he made not even an hour ago.
Something hot like shame, embarrassment fills his body like it’s been injected into his bloodstream. His chest and arms and face are firey hot and it makes him attempt a deeper breath, having only noticed how shallow it’s been. He thinks he has indigestion, a pain in his throat, behind his ribs, deep in his gut. The waft of tuna makes him feel ill as he empties the container. He rinses those too, puts them in the dishwasher. It’s barely quarter-full, but he turns it on, needs the smell of tuna gone. Needs to get rid of it. Wash away whatever today was.
Ilya wipes down the bar, the smell of bleach does something to calm his nerves. He is calm, he was calm, but it calms him even further. He pulls off the rubber gloves and washes them too, there’s nothing on them but he feels better. He doesn’t want any remnants left. It needs to be clean, everything needs to be clean.
He makes his way to the bathroom, grabs Tums from under the sink; he pops two and gets his toothbrush out. He needs to brush his teeth, get the taste of tuna out of his mouth. He’s methodical. Two minutes with his electric brush, it beeps every thirty seconds and he moves onto the next quadrant of his teeth.
When he’s finished, he pulls the head off his toothbrush and throws it in the bin. Nothing from today should be left, not a memory or a feeling or a toothbrush head. That is something he can’t recycle. It looks lonely in the small plastic bag in the bathroom bin. It’s lonely there.
He lets the lid slam shut with a bang. Mouthwash is next and the mint is cleansing, sharp and sweet in all the right ways. He gargles it, wouldn’t dare drink it even if he is desperate to do so. Wants the clean feeling to run down his oesophagus, calm the clenching in his gut. Mama said peppermint is good for nausea.
Ilya can still taste the tuna. He is sure it’s a phantom taste, but it makes the nausea rise again. He pushes it down. It’s just physical.
His fingers tingle where he clenches them on the bathroom counter. He stares at the faucet. It takes him a while before he can lift his head and stare at his own reflection.
He looks the same. Ilya knows that. You can’t look different in a matter of hours. But he looks worse somehow; uglier, all the sharp, broken parts of him so clear that Ilya wonders how anyone could ignore them. How he ever thought someone could ignore them, that Sh -
Ilya pushes away. He’s hot again, but it’s fine. He kicks off his sweats and throws them into the laundry basket.
There’s something buzzing under his skin, like bees have burrowed into his body and nestled into his marrow. Normally he’d go to run extra drills, but he can’t now, had blocked off the day for -
He can’t, they wouldn’t expect him at the gym today when he had already joked and winked about it. Just because you fuckers can’t keep a girl satisfied. The team knew he had a hot date. A date. Something organised, planned, something he had bought ginger ale for.
They didn’t know about the ginger ale.
Ilya gets into the shower and turns it on, the initial freezing water shocks him into something like consciousness. He leaves it on the coldest setting and lets it trail icy shards over his hair, his face, his body. He scrubs the cum from his stomach, his hands, doing a cursory job at cleanliness. He swipes across his body with some shower gel and rinses off, turning it off immediately.
His legs are stiff and heavy as he goes into the bedroom, grabbing a towel on the way and drying himself off before pulling on fresh sweats. He can take a proper shower later, later when he’s feeling less nauseous, more together. He’s just tired, just needs to work off the buzzing that’s still under his skin. He thought the chill would kill the feeling in his bones. It was a temporary reprieve, hitting him with a sudden jerk to his body.
The buzzing under his skin is only matched by a buzzing from somewhere else in the house. His bedroom. He goes to the side of the bed and picks up his phone thinking it might be Jane.
Alexei.
Ilya doesn’t want to read it, but after the call earlier, he decides it’s for the best.
You think you can talk to me like that you whiny little fag
The f-word, as always, kickstarts a pain in Ilya’s chest before another buzz lights up his phone.
Ill fucking kill you
It’s only when he hears the crash and sees the remnants of his phone on the floor that he realises he smashed it against the wall. Again.
Ilya stumbles out of the bedroom and walks purposely towards the gym, through the immaculately tidy kitchen with the scent of bleach and tuna lingering underneath. The gym is almost as big as his bedroom, kitted out with everything he needs. One of everything. Because he lives alone, he’s alone.
He doesn’t bother with music. He faces up to the punching bag and hits. The boxing gloves on the shelf behind him stare on in judgment. He doesn’t mean to punch as hard as he does the first time, but there’s something satisfying about how the leather smacks beneath his skin, how his bones crunch with every hit, the vibrations run from his knuckles to his shoulders, reverberating. It settles the buzz in his bones.
Ilya doesn’t picture anything in particular. He just punches, hits, maims the bag in front of him, his skin slipping the more he hits. He doesn’t picture rejected kisses or a confused face or sweet freckles or a secret little smile just for him. He doesn’t. Ilya just pictures the black leather in front of him. The sweat builds on his body, he feels animalistic as he punches, something feral and brutal in his blood and he can ignore the tears in his eyes if he tries hard enough.
He’s out of breath, has lost track of time. He won’t look at his state in the wall-length mirror; in his sweats, body wet with sweat. The bag is darker in places - he glances down and sees that his knuckles are split, the skin spreading when he makes a fist. There’s something satisfying in the way the cuts tear further, how the blood shines and settles bright and real on his skin. The pain is real, physical, it makes him a little floaty. Something to replace the internal whatever he’s feeling.
Ilya looks at his other hand, the knuckles are equally torn. Something has settled, the fuzzy calm he felt earlier has returned. His mind blissfully blank, just the sound of his own breathing in his ears and the pain in his muscles and the rawness in his hands.
The doorbell rings.
Ilya jerks. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Made sure to clear his calendar, Alexandra won’t be here to clean for another few days. She has a key anyway. So does Sveta.
He decides to ignore it.
It rings again. Something angry and scared rises in him, his hair stands on end. He punches the bag one more time before going to the door. They want him so much, whoever this fucker is, someone selling insurance door-to-door, well they can see him shirtless and bloodied, with sweat running off his body.
He pulls open the door.
Shane. Hollander.
Ilya’s stomach cramps up like he’s going to be sick.
Shane looks like a ghost, his face pale, frame curled in, making him look smaller when he’s almost as big and broad as Ilya is. Ilya can’t speak past the nausea. His head is empty; his brain firing so fast he can’t catch the words that he should be saying. His whole body flushes hot with something close to fury. He doesn’t want Shane here, doesn’t want this man in his house. Not when he said he would stay and he didn’t. Fucking liar.
Shane can’t even look him in the eye.
“I forgot my clothes.”
Ilya lets out a pathetic breath of a laugh at that, seeing the black t-shirt, black sweatpants, there might even be a spot of cum on the leg. He has the outrageous urge to cry. He turns away from the door, leaving it open. It’s as much of a welcome as he can muster. Ilya goes straight back to the gym and punches with more power than he had before. His knuckles sting, burn, his bones shuddering with every punch. His muscles scream, his back cramping with the force. He’ll punch and fucking burst this bag before the day is out. There’s something wholly satisfying about his plan; if he manages to burst open the bag with the sheer force of his rage, he can watch its insides pour out at his feet. He pictures it so perfectly that he thinks it’ll happen.
Any.
Fucking.
Minute.
Now.
“I… should go.”
Shane’s voice is small, barely audible over the sound of Ilya’s punches. Ilya glances into the mirror and sees Shane standing behind him, the brown leather jacket pulled across his shoulders once again. Shane doesn’t see the way Ilya stares at him, the way he can see Shane’s face watching him. How his eyebrows crease in the middle, how his eyes trail across Ilya’s back and flinch with every hit. Good.
“You’re hurt.”
Ilya wants to laugh, fucking cackle out loud, but his body won’t allow the action to evolve. He scoffs out a breath and turns around. Ilya turns to look at Shane, who’s looking anywhere but into Ilya’s eyes.
“What makes you think that?”
Shane gestures to Ilya’s bloodied hands.
“You’re bleeding.”
Ilya looks down at his hands and clenches his fists, the tears split further. He sees Shane wince in his peripheral vision. Good.
“Do you have a first aid kit?”
Ilya does, of course, he’s a professional hockey player.
“No.”
Shane frowns, eyes still focused on Ilya’s hands, flinching when Ilya punches the bag absently once more.
“Bathroom?” Shane asks softly and, fuck it, if Shane wants to be useful before he leaves then fine. Ilya isn’t desperate to get that attention and focus and those talented hands back on him for the last time.
“Under the sink.”
Shane disappears then and Ilya makes his way back to the couch, flopping down into the cushions where he had been before. He rests his bloody hands on his thighs and stares at the shining coffee table.
Shane returns from the direction of the bathroom, stepping delicately over Ilya’s spread legs. He sits closer but not close enough to misconstrue his intentions. Ilya wants to smear his blood into Shane’s perfectly white shirt, grab him, shake him, ask him why.
Shane opens the box with the concentration of a medical doctor, a crease between his eyebrows like it’s all he’s focusing on. Like he can ignore the crumpled man beside him. Maybe he can. Maybe Shane can ignore way Ilya is staring at his face, attempting to read his pale skin and the freckles he’s become so accustomed to.
Shane tears the antiseptic wipe open with practiced ease, leaving the empty packet on a paper towel left readily on the coffee table. So fucking perfect.
Shane whispers into his chest, “this might hurt.”
Ilya wants to say, ‘it already hurts.’ But he doesn’t, of course, he just allows Shane to take his hand into his lap and start cleaning the cuts. It does sting, but it’s the bright, clean kind of pain that brings him back online.
Shane’s hands are strong but gentle, skin warm and soft, his thumb running gently over the undamaged skin of Ilya’s index finger. He throws the wipe onto the paper towel and takes another wipe to make sure it’s fully clean, hunched over Ilya’s hand like he’s trying to save a fragile thing, a bird with a broken wing.
He takes the Neosporin and dabs a pea-sized amount on the affected skin. Shane’s fingers smooth the cream over Ilya’s wounds and Ilya is brought back to another time, another place; his mother’s gentle touch and gentler words, how she fussed over his scraped knees and iced the bruises from hockey games and, when she could stomach it, his father. Ilya lets his head fall back against the couch, shutting his eyes so they won’t give away the wetness that has sprung up.
Ilya can hear a scissors snipping, quiet and rhythmic in the silence of the room. Then gauze is taped gently in place.
Shane stands then and Ilya tries to allow his face to relax so it won’t show any kind of reaction. But, instead of leaving, Shane sits to Ilya’s other side and repeats the motions on his other hand. Just as delicate, just as warm. Just as devastating.
Ilya rolls his head to the side and looks at Shane’s face, watches him tape up his knuckles like he’s precious. He wants to fucking scream.
Shane closes up the first aid kit and stands, gathering the used items on the coffee table and stepping back over Ilya’s legs. He carries the items back into the house; Ilya hears the faucet going and knows Shane is thoroughly washing his hands like he’s just performed surgery.
When he returns, Ilya watches Shane’s face on the blank television screen. His features are fuzzy in the black mirror, Ilya can’t see the constipated fucking face he makes when he’s trying to ruin Ilya’s life.
“I… I should go now.”
Shane turns on his heel and walks back towards the front door.
Ilya pictures it. Shane Hollander leaving again. He deserves an explanation. He deserves to know.
His legs carry him quickly to the door before he realises.
Shane has just reached the front door when Ilya wraps a hand around his bicep and tugs, just enough to throw him off balance. Shane spins in place, almost stumbling into Ilya’s body.
He doesn’t deserve an explanation, not really, Ilya doesn’t deserve anything but he wants it. He needs it. Ilya has never been so fucking angry in his life. It springs forth in his body like acid, like toxic waste, like a gas-fuelled wild-fire. Even the soft, wet look in Shane’s eyes doesn’t stop the venom coursing through him.
“No.”
Shane reacts immediately, trying to pull out of Ilya’s grasp, his free hand coming up to push at Ilya’s arm. Tell me why you ran, tell me what I did, what I did wrong, tell me why you left when it’s the first time I asked you to stay.
“Tell me why!”
Ilya feels the words tear out of his mouth, he feels like he’s suffocating on his own breath, can feel the snarl in his mouth.
Fear flashes across Shane’s face and only then does Ilya release him, pulls away, breath shuddering out of him like a wounded thing.
He doesn’t want fear fuck never wanted… never meant to scare Shane. The anger in his veins feels too much like his father and he turns around, his back to Shane. Fuck. The one person. He can’t be that one fucking person. Maybe cruelty is genetic. Maybe he is no better than the fucking monsters that haunted his home.
Ilya presses his palms into his eyes, pushing deep to feel something other than this all-encompassing rage and shame and embarrassment and fucking loneliness that presses against his organs and makes his body feel fit to burst. Like if he could just cut a big gaping hole in his chest, it would all pour out and he could feel blissfully empty.
Shane is going to leave again, and it’ll be for the best. Ilya needs to be alone. Ilya can push, can use that cruelty to push so it won’t feel like Shane went of his own volition.
“Get out of my house.”
His voice is quieter now, dangerous even to his own ears, where he’s still trying to catch his breath. He just needs 24 hours before he can be a functioning human again.
“You just sai -”
Ilya spins around, stalks passed Shane, who flinches fucking flinches and pulls open the front door.
“Get out,” it’s a growl this time and he knows if he has to say anything else, it’ll burst out of him.
“Ilya - I -”
Do not say my fucking name.
“GET OUT OF MY FUCKING HOUSE!”
Ilya’s voice clashes around the house, hits off every wall and chair and window, it clatters around them like a cacophony. Shane’s hands jump to his ears, his shoulders crumbling inwards like he’s trying to make himself smaller, his head dipped to his chest. Ilya watches him. Sees the agonised look on his face; watches how Shane slowly walks around Ilya, as far away as he can, shuffling close to the wall.
Ilya’s anger is suddenly gone, vanished quicker than he could register. His whole body sags like it was only anger that was keeping him upright. He’s so tired. Empty.
This isn’t what he wanted. He never wanted this. He never wanted to make Shane look like that, out of everyone. Ilya just wanted him to stay.
Ilya never wants Shane to be afraid of him, wants the exact opposite, yearns for it.
He keeps his voice low when he says, “I’m sorry I shouted.”
Ilya can’t see Shane’s face with the way he’s hunched over but he does hear the soft, “I’m sorry, too.”
Ilya’s a masochist. Or maybe a sadist.
“What are you sorry for, Hollander?”
Shane is at the precipice, his toes almost touching the edge of the entryway, one step and he would be outside, gone, and wouldn’t have to deal with this. With Ilya.
“Th-that I made you angry.”
Ilya tries to swallow down the lump in his throat. Because he’s not angry, not really. It would be easier if he was. He doesn’t want Shane to apologise for his anger, he wants to know if he’s sorry about before, about when he left, how he left. With a blank face and no explanation.
Shane still has his back to Ilya, but he isn’t covering his ears anymore and Ilya takes that as something like redemption. Ilya feels on edge, frayed and broken, but he can swallow back the burning behind his eyes.
“I’m not angry.”
Shane turns then, his face red and blotchy with tears clumped on his lashes.
“You shouted.”
Ilya stares the ceiling, unable to look at Shane’s pathetic face anymore. The pitiful look he put there. He closes his eyes.
He breathes out, “I wanted answer.”
He lets his head drop back down so he’s looking at Shane. But Shane is staring at the floor, his face blank like he’s somewhere else entirely. When Ilya looks down at his hands, he sees Shane pressing his left thumbnail into the soft part of his right wrist.
“Hollander.”
Shane looks up then, but the nail stays firmling lodged in his skin.
The words come out like they’re a struggle, “I don’t know what you want from me.”
Shane doesn’t know that Ilya wants? Is he fucking serious? Ilya had put it out plain as fucking day. All he wanted was for Shane to stay.
Ilya wants to fucking scream but there’s an emptiness in Shane’s eyes that he isn’t sure what to do with. Something he’s never really seen up close. He approaches slowly, but Shane doesn’t even seem to notice. He pulls Shane’s punishing thumb away from his other hand and uses it to steer him away from the door, he closes it behind them.
Ilya pulls Shane into the living room and pushes him to sit where he had previously. Shane doesn’t seem to even notice when his body gives out and he perches stiffly on the edge of the cushion. Ilya stands there and just looks at him. He wishes he had kept the ginger ale.
Shane looks like he’s staring at nothing in particular, staring into space, face blank, eyes unblinking.
Ilya gets water for them both - keeps an ear out to make sure Shane doesn’t leave yet, again - and produces coasters for their glasses. Can’t make a ring, Papa would be very mad.
Shane is where Ilya left him, pulling at the eyelashes on his left eye like he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. Ilya isn’t sure what to say.
“Shane.”
Shane blinks and slowly turns to look at Ilya, eyes filling with tears again.
“I’m sorry.”
He’s sorry, yeah, Ilya’s gathered that. But he doesn’t know what Shane is sorry for, what he thinks he should be apologising for. Is he apologising just because Ilya is angry? Or was angry? Ilya just wants any kind of answer at this point.
When he said that he didn’t know what Ilya wanted from him… He didn’t want anything. Just a day, an evening, food, and a game and more mind-blowing sex. Ilya didn’t think it was that big of a deal. It’s not a big deal. He didn’t want more, really. Ilya just wanted to know what Shane’s… status was, where his interests were. If he was into women too, or if it was just Ilya he had this with. He needed to know beyond the flirty texts and the months between hotel rooms if Shane had something else, someone else. Ilya does, so he’s not jealous, not exactly, just wants to know; wants to know if he’ll be blindsided by some TMZ article of Shane with a model or an actress or…
Ilya takes a breath.
“You said you didn’t know what I wanted from you.”
Ilya does think Shane hears him until he starts slowly nodding his head. Jesus Christ, he hasn’t ever had to pull conversation out of Shane like this before. It’s like talking to a mute.
“I don’t want anything from you, Hollander.”
Shane’s face scrunches up like he’s trying to gather his thoughts, like the words hurt.
“You had ginger ale.”
Ilya doesn’t understand how this is the thing that makes Shane look nauseous.
“I’m a good host.”
Shane nods again, eyes unseeing, like he’s taking in the words that Ilya says, is trying to process them, but it’s taking too long, like he’s on dial-up internet.
“I didn’t even know you - that you knew… that I liked it.”
Ilya is trying, he’s really trying to make this easy, trying to understand. He remembered the ginger ale from the first time in Montreal. Grabbing water from the fridge and seeing a neat row of Canada Dry and nothing else and assuming that was what Shane liked, remembered how he smiled at the sight. Perfect Canadian boy and his perfect Canadian drink.
“So you ran because I had ginger ale?”
Ilya knows he didn’t, knows he ran because Ilya spilled Shane’s name across his lips as he came. He revealed too much too soon - if eight years is too soon - and revealed parts of himself that he didn’t want to reveal. The soft, tender parts of him that have been used as a weapon his entire life.
Shane’s thumbnail goes back into the reddish spot over his hand, the soft spot between his hand and wrist. He shakes his head.
Silence stretches between them and Ilya is tired, he is so fucking tired and he can’t spend his evening pulling words from a near-catatonic man.
“Look, Hollander -”
“You made a - a tuna melt… I know it was going to just be for you but, but I didn’t expect you to make one for me too.”
Ilya is an asshole but he’s not a dick. He was going to make it for himself, sure, but he had purposely bought enough for two. The makings of the sandwich sitting in the shopping basket beside the Canada Dry. He spent the morning prepping the ingredients and separating them into tupperware so it would be easier, so he wouldn’t have to do too much prep when Shane was here.
“Still good hosting, Holla -”
Shane’s face starts to look a little green, eyes in the distance like he’s flashing back to something traumatic.
“We napped together…”
Ilya swallows, yeah, they had napped. Shane had ridden him like his life depended on it and they were wrung dry and they had the whole evening ahead of them so yeah they napped and… it wasn’t something they had ever done before. And maybe Ilya had wrapped himself around Shane so he could feel the line of his soft skin where it met Ilya’s, where Ilya could feign sleep with the smell of Shane’s shampoo in his nose. And maybe Ilya didn’t sleep because he didn’t want to miss a moment of Shane’s soft breathing.
“It’s things I didn’t let myself want.”
The words land in Ilya’s chest like a grenade. Shane doesn’t even seem to react, like he doesn’t even know what he’s said.
“Hollander, I don’t think -”
Shane begins talking like he doesn’t even realise Ilya is in the room. His eyes dart around the ceiling, back and forth, never once settling on Ilya’s face. His thumbnail is still stuck in his skin and Ilya wants to pull it out, doesn’t want to see him hurt himself in such a direct way. His voice is monotone, like he’s reading a grocery list.
“I thought it was just fun… at first, y'know? Rivals and sneaking around and, and you got me out of my head and I hadn’t met someone like you before,” the words rush out of Shane, his body coiled tight on the edge of the couch, but his voice is blank, “I had wanted and I didn’t know how to… to do that and you just made it happen”
Shane’s lip quivers and Ilya feels the nausea rise again.
“Then you asked for my number and… and I knew it was just sex, but then we texted and it was nice? It was like we were… friends?”
Ilya remembers; Scott Hunter cockblocking them; Shane cockblocking them but he couldn’t really blame him. The invention of Lily and Jane, Shane’s pleased little smile. How fucking pissed off Ilya was when the snow get in the way of their plans and then… texting, sexting, teasing, taunting. How Ilya texted Shane and was desperate to see his facial reactions when he sent him dick pics and innuendos and how Shane is the worst fucking sexter on the planet. He would push away the giddy feeling in his chest when he received a response and ignore the disappointment when he was left on read.
“And I had seen things, read things, about how bad your first time could be…”
Ilya stills as he stares at Shane’s blank face, fear in his chest.
“But it was good… perfect even.”
Perfect. It was perfect. Ilya knew it was Shane’s first time with a man, knew he wanted it to be special, wanted to show Shane what it could be like, better than his own first time. Wanted to make sure that he wanted every part of it, wanted to, to just -
Maybe a mean little part of Ilya wanted Shane to never have that with anyone else, to ruin him for everyone else. The realisation hits like a dart; sharp and pointed and needlessly painful.
“And then you left. Which - which I knew, I knew you had to and it was fine but - but it felt like something different to before. I… I knew it wasn’t, not for you, but I, I think… I mean, I thought it was special. To me at least.”
Ilya’s clenches his fists, digging his nails into the palms of his hands. He wants to scream it. It was special and I was fucking terrified.
Shane leaves his wrist alone and reaches up to tug at his lashes again. His eyes are down, staring blankly at the shining coffee table.
“Then Sochi….”
The breath whooshes out of Ilya’s chest on a wave. Sochi. Where Ilya got the entirety of Russia’s ire because his team was fucking shit and Ilya can’t play all positions at once. Sochi, where he had to look over his shoulder, keep his guard up against the confused old man his once-powerful Papa was becoming, or the loansharks Alexei had banging at his door, or the fans spitting at his feet as he walked by.
“I didn’t expect you to - to text me or anything, but I wanted to see if you were okay. Just, like, um captain to captain? I thought… I knew how I’d feel if it was me and, and then Vaughny said Russia isn’t safe for-for gay people and, and I was afraid that you -”
Ilya remembers Shane finding him in the rafters. Ilya felt trapped. Trapped in Russia, in the arena, watching the ice he craved as blades cut into it for some figure skater. Then Shane was nearby and looking soft and sweet in his fuzzy team jacket, making his skin look bright, with the pink flush on his cheeks from the chill. A sweet innocence to his face that Ilya doesn’t think he ever had; untarnished and brand new, in stark contrast to the horrible, withered things that clung to Ilya’s limbs in an attempt to pull him straight to hell.
Ilya wanted to throw caution to the wind and grab Shane and wrap him up in his arms and kiss him and take solace in him and press his face to Shane’s neck and block out the world. He didn’t, of course, he couldn’t, so he made sure to destroy what little semblance of a relationship they had. Ilya wanted to ruin the hope in Shane’s face like his hope had been ruined. He wanted to kill what they had and burn the carcass.
“You were so mad at me and I… I didn’t know what I did and I thought we were friends - kinda… kinda friends?” Shane’s voice falters and Ilya can hear him attempt to swallow around the tears in his throat. “I… I thought, after our - um- my first time that… yknow, maybe it was too much or bad and, and you didn’t want to again…”
Ilya feels the tears building in his own eyes, so he scrubs them harshly with the heel of his palms and opens them again. Studies how Shane’s eyes dart around again.
“You said we aren’t anything and - so I came home and I had to, um, decide that… that I couldn’t think about you anymore.” Ilya tries not to feel the sting of guilt, ”I couldn’t want anything anymore. You… that you didn’t want - that anymore. The first time was… it.”
Ilya wants to grab him, hold him, tell Shane that he was perfect, he was too perfect for Ilya to have destroyed that night between them; that Ilya still thinks of it, thought of it in the lonely nights between.
“I knew you wouldn’t care as much as I did… it was first for me but, but not for you and I put too much thought into it, I think. I know sex is just normal for you, for most people, and I thought… maybe I could be like that too.”
Ilya feels something liquid and harsh pour through his chest.
“I tried with other people,” Ilya’s heart clenches, “I just wanted to move on.”
Ilya wanted more than he could ever verbalise at the time. He feels sick at the thought of Shane with other people, searching for the devotion that already existed in Ilya’s fingertips, in how he swallowed Shane’s cum like ambrosia.
Ilya remembers those six months. Six months of anger and rage and a hunger to prove that he was good, he was the best and no one could beat him. He remembers glancing at their text thread every so often, waiting to see who would break the stalemate first. Ilya figured Shane would, assumed Shane would say something about play-offs or the cup.
A smaller, secret part of Ilya knew it should’ve been him; he had ruined whatever tentative connection they had, had seen the shock on Shane’s face when he dismissed him. Ilya wouldn’t have texted him either if he had been Shane.
“I wanted to text you when you won the cup but - but I was afraid you wouldn’t respond… that I’d look desperate or, or that you’d make fun of me maybe? I was happy for you.” Shane’s lip quivers. “Was proud of you.”
Proud. It’s such a loaded word in Ilya’s life; only used when his father could weaponise it.
Ilya wants to stand up, wants to walk around, needs to burn off this feeling in his chest, in his arms, his legs. This fight or flight response. His face tingles with shame.
“But still… there was nothing. And, and the more I stayed away, the more I could put it in the past, pretend we weren’t anything. I wasn’t - I mean,” Shane catches himself like he wasn’t meant to say that, “put it, put it in a box. Move on.”
Ilya wants to stop the words that are scattering from his mouth like thorns. He wants to kiss Shane, tell him he does mean something. That he has always meant something.
“Um, uh…” Shane hiccups a breath. “Then Vegas…”
Ilya remembers. Remembers how fucking stressed and panicked he was at the prospect of seeing Shane again. Seeing him and interacting with him in front of hundreds of people and trying to be normal.
Ilya wasn’t expecting Shane’s sadness or anger or frustration but, god, he looked so good. The perfectly tailored tuxedo, those glossy lips and wet eyes. Ilya wanted to fucking own him. If he could bring Shane back to his brink, back from the ledge Ilya had pushed him to, he could feel something, anything but the coursing fear in his limbs. And he melted so beautifully under Ilya’s hand, his eyes shining like god took the stars from the sky and placed them there.
“We didn’t even kiss.”
They didn’t kiss. Regret settles as a lump in his throat.
“It was… hot, I mean, I enjoyed it at the time. But you seemed mad? At me, still? But you still wanted me so, so I thought I’d take it… just take what you would give me.”
Shane frowns, his body folding tighter than before; like thinking about Vegas makes him want to shrink away.
Ilya remembers the control, how Shane could react so sweetly to Ilya telling him what to do; how he put on a performance, displayed himself, spread his legs and prepared himself for Ilya. He was beautiful.
They didn’t kiss. Because the last time they fucked - or the first time really - Ilya kissed Shane within an inch of his life. When it was over, Shane pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, and Ilya froze. It was different, he knew this was different. It wouldn’t be the same again. Fear wrapped around his veins like barbed wire and he knew he had to get away. Fucking is one thing, feelings are something else entirely. So yeah, Ilya didn’t kiss Shane, but he didn’t think it would’ve been that big a deal. It wasn’t a big deal to Ilya, not at all.
With Russia breathing down his neck and waiting to pull him into its clutches a few days later.
Not a big deal.
Shane stares into the distance, like he can't see the walls around them.
“I decided that night that if I couldn’t stay away… if I wanted to keep doing this, this thing with you, that I had to just not get my hopes up, not expect anything, just close off the part of me that wanted anything… anything more with you. Just sex. Just hockey. That’s it. It had worked before, it could work again. I had to stop caring. I - I was doing so well.”
There’s a break in the stream of thoughts, Shane looks exhausted, his nail worrying the blooming bruise on his wrist. Ilya fights not to look at it.
Shane frowns like he’s just now thinking about the words he should say, like everything else had flooded out of him without thought.
“So… so when I came here… today, it was like, like you changed the rules and,” he licks his lips, “and I don’t know what the new rules are.”
Shane’s body folds forward, his shoulders curling to his chest. His forehead is creased like he’s confused, like he’s trying to work out a complex maths problem.
“I - I’m not good with changes like… I have to, I need to know. I need to know why.”
Ilya waits, waits for Shane to continue, but he doesn’t say anything more. He looks like he’s cut himself open and bled all over the floor, his face white and drawn, his teeth tearing at the delicate skin on his lips.
Ilya didn’t expect it, there’s a lot of words to take in and even more emotions. Ilya isn’t really sure what to say or think or do in this situation. He didn’t realise the parametres Shane had put on… whatever this thing is between them. It’s clear he’s been thinking, over-thinking, about their situation with the same intensity that Ilya has tried to ignore for years.
He’s ignored the butterflies and the jealousy and the need. Ilya’s ignored everything because it’s safe, it’s safer to stay away, but he couldn’t do that. The next best thing was to treat Shane like a semi-regular hook-up, with their lives and livelihoods and careers and families on the line. Some problems more stark than others. Russia will always loom like a swollen black cloud over Ilya’s head.
But he also knows that hockey is everything to Shane. There isn’t a time or place where Ilya could be enough - he ignores the voice that tells him he wouldn’t be enough for anyone - so he let Shane have hockey and let himself have a taste of Shane a few times a year. Just scratching an itch that never fully goes away.
This thing between them is impossible. It’ll never work, no matter how much Ilya wants.
Shane stands then, quickly, shocking Ilya out of his stupor.
“I should really go.”
Shane strides quickly by, but Ilya catches his arm again, gentler than before, his fingers wrapped around Shane’s bruised wrist. Shane flinches and stops, his body stiff and trembling with anxiety.
“I can’t… do this.”
The words hit Ilya like they did earlier, but for a completely different reason.
“I want to leave.”
Shane’s whole body is stiff and coiled, like it’s waiting for an attack.
“Shane,” Ilya whispers then, a soft attempt to stop.
“Don’t,” Shane whispers, his voice broken like he’s broken, “don’t let me down gently. Just -”
“Please, Shane.”
Ilya pulls Shane down by his wrist, his legs buckle and he plants himself beside Ilya on the couch, their bodies meeting side by side in a warm line.
Ilya studies Shane’s profile, looking like he’s bottled up every feeling he’s ever had and it’s choking him, making it difficult to swallow.
Ilya doesn’t know what to say so he lands on, “that was a lot.”
Shane gives a humourless little huff of a breath.
“Yeah,” Shane is nodding slowly, “I don’t, I don’t blame you. For… for not liking me as a person.”
When the words register, Ilya’s heart drops.
“That was - that was a joke.”
Shane’s nodding again and Ilya really wishes he would stop doing that, like he’s slowly trying to convince himself of the words.
“Shane, it was joke!”
Shane’s lips tremble, Ilya brings a hand up to run gently down his back and Shane lets out a pained gasp. Ilya wraps his arm around Shane’s back and pulls him into his chest, breathing a little easier when Shane’s arms circle his waist.
“Don’t, please, I - I’m boring. I know you’ll be able to find someone else - a, a woman and it’s fine but I can’t… I can’t do this anymore. I have to leave.”
Ilya runs his fingers through Shane’s hair and stares over the top of his head. He recalls the things he said, about being lazy, about Svetlana, hot women and LA and Shane’s mouth. He just wanted to know. He wanted to know what Shane wanted, if he had women fawning over him the way he should; if he was collecting beautiful women and discreet men the way Ilya does.
Not that any of them compare.
If he’s honest, maybe some element of it was self-preservation. Maybe if he dismissed it, if Shane said the same, then they could just accept this for what it was; a tryst, a friends with benefits situation, though maybe after so many years that would be an impossible feat.
Ilya lost his heart around the back of a rink in Saskatchewan and never managed to claw it back.
Shane tries to move, reluctantly easing his arms from Ilya’s waist, his head pointed down. Ilya puts his fingers under Shane’s chin to tip it up, but his dark eyes stay trained on their laps.
“Shane, please, can you look at me?”
Shane just shakes his head, just leans forward to press his forehead to Ilya’s sternum.
“No.”
Ilya feels soft, warmth and fear and sadness building up where Shane’s pressed against him.
“I think,” Ilya starts, rubbing his cheek into Shane’s hair, “I need to be better with my words. Like you, yes?”
Shane shudders, “I’m, I’m not -”
“Shh, you are. You’re brave. What you said, it was brave.”
“I’m not brave. I’m not…”
Ilya tips his head up, rolls his eyes to dry his eyes again; a trick he learned as a child and had never failed him. His broken voice hits Ilya in the solar plexus, he sounds exhausted, empty. Maybe he is. He kisses Shane’s hair.
“I’m going to say some things, and then you can go if you want, okay? You can go back to hotel and rest, yes?”
Shane nods once, his fingers coming up to fist tightly in Ilya’s sweats.
“I asked about women,” Shane tenses against him, Ilya holds him tighter, “because I wanted to check? I didn’t… know if,” how the fuck did Shane do this “if you were… seeing people, seeing someone. Someone else.”
Shane shakes his head and Ilya nods in return.
“Okay, okay… I, um, I do like you, okay?” Shane tightens his fingers, his sudden huff of breath making a hot, wet mark against Ilya’s skin. “I wanted to have you here, today, where we could know each other. Get to know each other.”
Shane collapses against Ilya, and he has to hold both of their weight up so he doesn’t slump backwards.
Ilya can tell Shane things, can reward his vulnerability with some of his own. He can do this, he has to do this. If he doesn’t want to lose Shane. Not like this. Not because he’s a scared, weak little fa -
“I got ginger ale and wanted to make you food and have you on my couch and in my bed.”
Shan’s strangled “Ilya” comes out like a croak.
Ilya shushes him, tries to ignore the harsh thumping of his heart.
“I wanted you to stay.”
Shane whispers, “I wanted to.”
Ilya closes his eyes, kisses Shane’s hair again and lets out a heavy, stuttered breath.
“S’hard for me, saying what I want, yes? I,” here it goes, “I wanted more. It was different, it is different. With you.”
When Shane tries to move his head, Ilya doesn’t let him, keeps his face planted in Ilya’s chest.
“But it’s hard, difficult. I am… scared.”
Shane doesn’t say anything, but Ilya feels his fingers come up to pet gently at his ribs. It distracts him from the pain in his throat. Ilya tries to speak more, but the words get caught somewhere behind his grinding teeth.
“I didn’t think you were scared of anything,” Shane’s words are so soft, he barely hears them. When they reach his ears, Ilya scoffs quietly.
“I’m afraid of a lot of things. Including you.”
When Shane tries to pull away again, Ilya lets him, but he keeps his eyes trained on the window over Shane’s shoulder. He feels like he’s in a daze.
“I have been afraid of you from the beginning, I think…”
Ilya thinks of Saskatchewan and that goddamn water bottle and insisting to his agent that Hollander should be at the CCM commercial for the rivalry.
“I… I didn’t treat you well.”
Shane makes a little sound of protest but Ilya shushes him.
“I’m sorry I made you think it was your fault… the first time, your first time,” Ilya feels Shane’s eyes on his face but he can’t turn to look,, “it was, it was perfect and, and I was afraid of… feelings, my feelings. That we weren’t simple anymore. I’m sorry that I made you think I didn’t care.”
Silence lingers, heavy and loaded, before Ilya finally turns to look at Shane’s face. His eyes look wet and sad, biting the inside of his lip.
“Really?” Shane attempts numerous times to make eye contact, but it seems beyond him, so he stares at Ilya’s mouth instead, like he’s waiting to see the words that come from his lips. It’s Ilya’s turn to nod.
“I thought you - we - would be better off not - being in contact? It got so big so fast.”
His feelings got too big too fast, having never felt a pull to someone like that before. Thinking Shane could never afford to feel for the horrible, broken things Ilya is made of. The tapestry to grief and torment and abuse and an all-consuming darkness that he can’t always push away.
“I’m afraid of people finding out… of Russia, of Boston, of losing our jobs and - and losing work visa and going back there to - to be put in prison. Or worse.”
Ilya can see it, the laws that came in not long ago. How thrilled Alexei had been for the fags to be afraid. Even before the laws and the riots and the tear gas and the imprisoned community, his father and brother would relish the bruises on their knuckles when they caught someone like that. Like him.
“I do care,” Ilya tries to not let the words strangle him, “I always cared.”
Ilya feels Shane’s hand run down his arm until it finds his wrist, tightening like support. He turns and sees Shane’s face creased with sorrow.
“I - I didn’t think.”
Ilya uses his free hand to thumb away a tear and smiles sadly at Shane’s reaction.
“I know.”
Silence settles between them, heavy and unguarded, broken only by Shane’s sniffles and Ilya’s thumping heart.
Shane speaks up again, always so brave.
“I… I forgive you…” His dark eyes are steady on Ilya’s, “can - can you forgive me? For before?”
Calm settles over Ilya like a warm blanket, his heart rate dropping and the fear twisting his gut easing. He was so angry, so hurt, but he never expected the easy forgiveness and the determined apology.
Ilya holds Shane’s jaw in his hand.
“I forgive you.”
Shane’s eyes close gently, rubbing his jaw into Ilya’s palm. Ilya almost feels drowsy with the contentment of having Shane’s skin against him.
“So… if we can’t - um - do anything more than this, then…” Shane pulls away to stare into Ilya’s eyes with an intensity only he possesses, “I’m still not sure what we can be.”
Ilya thinks he can read further between the lines now, understanding a little where the lines are drawn. The frown between Shane’s eyebrows, the downturn of his lips, the nail in his wrist. Ilya grabs his hand again, tugging it away from Shane’s body.
“Don’t, you hurt yourself.”
Shane looks up then, meets Ilya’s eyes with a confused gaze. He looks back at the bruise on his wrist.
“Sorry,” he tugs on his eyelashes, “I don’t realise sometimes.”
“S’okay,” Ilya whispers, pulling Shane to rest against his chest, where he belongs. Ilya inhales his scent, the sweet shampoo and Shane of it all.
“I don’t have answers… but I, I’d like, um,” Ilya swallows like there’s something stuck in his throat, “I want only us - no one else -”
“Exclusive?” Shane whispers, his voice high and strangled.
“Exclusive, da. I know we cannot be public but -”
Shane leans up and licks desperately into Ilya’s mouth, he still tastes vaguely of tuna but it doesn’t make Ilya nauseous. Ilya grabs Shane’s wrists in his hands and pushes him away slightly so he can look at Shane’s face, the desperate little frown as he stares at Ilya’s lips.
Their breathing is heavy and Ilya sees Shane’s lip quiver with emotion. Fuck, he’s going to make Ilya cry. He cannot fucking cry.
“You want that? With me?”
Shane looks up then, eyes dancing over Ilya’s face, like he’s trying to read the truth on his skin.
“I do.”
The frown remains for an undetermined amount of time before Shane’s shy little smile breaks open like sunrise.
“I can’t believe this,” Shane’s eyes finally meet Ilya’s, and the smile slips slowly, “that you want me.”
Ilya hopes he never meets the person or people that made Shane fucking Hollander believe he wasn’t good enough for anyone.
Ilya tugs Shane’s arms, dragging him into his lap. Ilya’s hands sink into Shane’s silky hair, pulling his mouth to down to meet his tongue.
Ilya whispers gently, like the words will cut him open, “I want you. Always.”
Shane presses his face into Ilya’s neck, wrapping his strong arms around him.
“I’m so sorry I left. I… I was afr - I didn’t know -”
Ilya’s heart stumbles over the words, his lungs tight in his chest and his body full.
“S’okay, it’s okay now.”
Shane shakes his head, pressing a soft kiss to Ilya’s skin.
“I’m sorry if I don’t get things right away. I - if I do anything,” he leans back and looks into Ilya’s eyes. Shane’s face is clear and worried, “if I don’t understand… can you tell me?”
Ilya’s body flushes warm. He can’t believe this gorgeous man in his lap, how beautiful and thoughtful and wonderful he is. How Ilya will tell him anything he fucking wants.
“I think you’re doing okay on your own.”
Shane’s frowns, eyes going to Ilya’s clavicle.
“Please? Promise me?” His fingers touch Ilya’s cross.
Ilya isn’t totally sure why Shane finds it hard to understand but Ilya knows he still finds it difficult to translate his thoughts sometimes, especially when he’s tired or confused. Wonders if Shane’s brain works a little like his.
“Promise, malish.”
Shane bites his lips, his lips turning upwards.
“What does that mean?”
Ilya feels his mouth pull up into a smile. He still has some secrets, but maybe not that one.
“Baby.”
Shane lets out a loud groan and collapses into Ilya’s chest.
“You,” he mutters into Ilya’s skin, “you can’t just say that.”
Ilya finds this far too endearing and wonders how his day turned around so quickly.
“You asked!”
Shane is resigned then, a heavy sigh, making Ilya chuckle, “I did.”
Ilya pulls Shane away and holds his head in his hands, studying Shane’s face, his pink cheeks and freckled cheeks and the eyes that will look anywhere but into his eyes. He’s so beautiful, Ilya can barely contain himself. But he knows it’s not enough, the platitudes and the laughs and the sweet words.
“You want to try this? With me?”
Shane meets his eyes then, deep and sparkling and still unsure. He bites the inside of his lips, lips moving with anxiety.
“You’re sure?”
Ilya pulls Shane closer, lets their foreheads meet gently. He wraps his arms around Shane’s back.
“I want to be your boyfriend.”
Shane’s face flames red and his hands come up to meet his face. Ilya can’t allow that, pulling them away.
“Shane.”
Shane’s breathing has grown a little more erratic.
Ilya’s heart breaks when he struggles around the words, “we don’t hav -”
But Shane’s lips are in his again and his desperate murmuring, “yes, I want - I want that. My boyfriend,” his grin makes it difficult to kiss, “want you to be my boyfriend.”
He’s warm and soft and sweet in his kissing, his mouth pliant and open and beautiful.
Ilya’s hands come up around Shane’s back, his fingers teasing and tantalising and that stupid fucking jacket getting in the way. Ilya wants to mark him, wants to fuck him, wants to get his teeth deep in his neck and own him. Ilya owns him. Always has.
Shane owns Ilya too. Probably before he could ever comprehend. Since the very first time time his eyes landed on that expectant face.
Ilya remembers back to the gym and the bikes and the water, fighting it out with the golden boy and how easily he surrendered to Ilya’s commands.
“Fuck, Shane, need you.”
Shane gasps and immediately settles deeper, heavier into Ilya’s lap. He throws off his jacket without his usual care and finesse. It falls into a clump beside Ilya’s feet. Ilya rips Shane’s t-shirt off almost as quick and runs his hands up Shane’s smooth skin like he’s praying to a god that would never accept him. But how could he not? When Shane looks like molten gold and his eyes open and face broken apart.
“Shane,” Ilya whispers, “sweetheart.”
“Ilya, please,” Shane whimpers like a prayer, his pouty lips sweet like strawberries in front of a starving man. Ilya hasn’t heard such conviction in Shane’s words. How his tongue rolls around Ilya’s name like it belongs behind his teeth.
Ilya grabs Shane’s neck and pulls him close, hoping his fingers leave bruises in his skin.
“Need you,” Ilya murmurs, his lips trailing like a chastened thing, “need to fuck you.”
Ilya lunges up, their meeting somewhere between necessity and desperation, he nudges upwards, his hips meeting soft flesh.
“Fuck Shane.”
Shane’s nodding, his searching hands scratching fingernails into Ilya’s skin.
“Fuck me, Ilya - f-fuck me.”
As much as Ilya wants to fuck Shane hard across the couch, he knows everything they need is in the bedroom.
“Up, up -” his voice like gravel, “bedroom.”
Shane stumbles off his lap, grabbing Ilya’s hand and tugging desperately. The gauze catches on Ilya’s injured hand he hisses through his teeth. Only then does Shane seem to realise and he stops, cradling Ilya’s hand between both of his.
“Sorry, sorry,” Shane whispers, kissing his hand like it’ll make it better. Ilya gets to his feet and pulls Shane closer.
“S’okay, malish.”
Ilya grins when Shane groans, delighted to pull the reaction from him once again.
Shane wraps his whole fist around Ilya’s index finger and pulls him towards the bedroom, his legs heavy and a little bit of a stumble. Fuck Ilya loves him.
But that’s probably a conversation for another day.
When they reach the bedroom, Shane turns to face Ilya, a sweet little smile on his face. He pulls Ilya close and Ilya can’t help it. He grasps his jaw tight and pulls Shane in, pushing his searching tongue into his waiting mouth.
Ilya pushes Shane onto the bed and follows closely after, his hands wander desperately, trying to trace every part of Shane’s body at the same time. He unbuttons Shane’s jeans and tugs them off, revealing all that smooth skin. Ilya wants to eat him.
He pulls Shane’s legs onto his shoulders, kissing a path from his ankles to his calves, scooching forward to nibble at the crease of his knees, sucking gently at the delicate skin of his inner thighs. When he glances up, Shane’s chest is heaving like he’s just run off the ice.
Shane whispers a broken little “please.”
Ilya wrenches the waist of his sweatpants down and kicks it off as he moves up Shane’s body. He lies down on Shane’s chest, pulling Shane’s legs up around his hips. Shane hooks his feet at Ilya’s lower back like that’s where they were always supposed to be. He kisses everything into Shane’s mouth, meets his tongue with reverence, clenching his hands into Shane’s hair.
Ilya trails wet, open mouth kisses across Shane’s jaw and the strong length of his neck, across his collarbone. He sucks one nipple into his mouth and hears a soft cry from above, Shane’s hands coming to his hair, fingers tight against his scalp. He thumbs at Shane’s other nipple, pulling it to a small peak.
“P-please, need… need you.”
Ilya grins, it feels wolfish to his own mind.
“You have me.”
Shane shudders, tugging at his hair. Ilya carries on in his path between his ribs, suckling at his bellybutton.
“So beautiful…”
Shane groans, pulling his hands out of Ilya’s hair and covering his face, his stomach clenching. Ilya feels how Shane’s legs tremble against his body.
Ilya kneels back and pulls Shane’s legs up to push them to his chest, to reveal Shane’s hole. He keeps Shane’s thighs in his hands and presses his face between Shane’s cheeks, licking hungrily, desperately, fuck he is starving. Shane’s hole is still a little relaxed from earlier and it makes something primal rear its head, Ilya did that. Ilya made Shane's body open up and stay open, waiting for him to settle back inside.
Shane cries out, his voice cracking like he’s been broken open.
“Oh, oh, oh god -”
Ilya licks deeper, wants to pull all of those pained little noises out of him, wants to make Shane lose himself in the feeling. Ilya wants to prove himself, prove to Shane how good he can be, how he can give Shane everything he needs, anything he wants. Ilya pushes the point of his tongue inside, feeling the give, Shane's choked off cries like music to his ears.
“St-stop,” Shane garbles, his voice crackling.
Ilya looks up and sees Shane pinching the base of his cock, his whole body flushed from groin to hair. Ilya climbs up Shane’s body and presses the taste of his hole into his mouth.
“Want to give you everything.”
It’s a little too much like a confession, breathed against Shane’s lips. Shane’s eyes slide open and he stares at Ilya’s face, his hands on Ilya’s cheeks.
“Just want you.”
Something in Ilya cracks and tears spring to his eyes, he tries to move away, but Shane holds him close.
“You don’t - you don’t have to give me anything… I just want you.”
Ilya kisses him like it’s the first time, his tears salty between their lips.
“Ilya…” Shane whispers like it’s tattooed on his breath.
“Say it again. My name,” Ilya murmurs, “say it again.”
“Ilya, Ilya, Ilya -”
Ilya wants to take Shane wholly, own him, make him his. He kneels back, running his warm palms across the slick insides of Shane’s thighs. Ilya leans across and grabs the lube from the drawer, feels Shane’s eyes tracking his movement, sees his hand reach out to stroke at Ilya’s shoulder.
When Ilya looks back, Shane’s face is serene, and he gives a little smile at Ilya’s attention, before whispering softly.
“Ilya… need you.”
Shane Hollander might be the death of him. Ilya leans close and finds Shane’s pliant mouth, open and ready, his tongue searching for Ilya. Ilya wraps his fingers around the back of Shane’s neck, holding him close, before reaching down with slippery fingers to press two immediately inside Shane’s body. His back bows off the bed.
Ilya trails his lips down Shane’s neck, licking a stripe across his shining skin; tasting Shane, Shane, Shane on his tongue.
“Fuck, Ilya s’good.”
Ilya fucks Shane with his fingers, feels Shane’s fist in his hair, tight and unwavering. When he crooks his fingers, Shane keens, his voice high and broken, his fist tightens. Ilya massages the nerve in a slow, strong circle, pulling a treasure trove of sounds that Ilya hoards away like a dragon.
Ilya keeps his eyes trained on Shane’s face, waiting for a reaction, waiting for him to say something, to ask Ilya to do something; just before that time comes, when his lips begin to move, Ilya pushes a third finger in. The reaction is immediate.
Shane’s hips pop off the mattress, but Ilya’s fingers follow him, staying firmly lodged inside. Shane reaches up to rip the pillow between his hands. Ilya brings his free hand up to push Shane’s hips back to the mattress.
“Ilya, please, please -”
Now the dam has burst it seems like Shane can’t keep Ilya’s name out of his mouth, his pretty lips and tongue wrapping around the letters like fine wine. Ilya sucks a kiss into his hip.
“Shh, malish, I’ll give you what you need.”
Shane groans out a gravelly noise in response to the nickname and Ilya can’t stop the grin that spreads across his face. He kneels up and grabs a condom, ripping it open and rolling it along his sensitive cock, his touch almost too much to bear. Ilya pulls his fingers out and leans up, hoisting Shane’s knees over his legs. God, that yoga really benefits the both of them.
“Look at me, Shane.”
Shane struggles to open his eyes, but once they’re open, they are laser-focused on Ilya’s own. Ilya catches his cock on Shane’s hole and pushes in at a glacial pace. Shane fights to keep his eyes open, grasping Ilya’s neck between both hands, pulling him down so their foreheads are flush. Shane keeps his eyes wide open until Ilya’s hips meet his own.
Then he’s kissing Ilya like he’s starving for it, his hole clenching desperately around Ilya’s thick, heavy cock. Shane reaches between them to spread his fingers around where Ilya is settled inside, crying out a soft noise when he breaks away to look down and see them joined together. See where Ilya is pushed all the way inside him.
Ilya needs to fuck him like his life depends on it. He pushes up on his palms and starts a brutal pace that makes Shane’s eyes roll back in his head. His hands come up to grab desperately at Ilya’s arms, holding on for dear life, fingernails digging into his flesh.
He watches Shane’s face, the high red blush on his cheekbones, the sweat on his hairline. Ilya fucks him like he wants to break him open. He leans back slightly and Shane keens, and Ilya’s found it. He pistons his hips directly into Shane’s prostate, wants to inhale those broken fucked-out sounds from his mouth.
Ilya can’t get enough, can’t begin to believe how he deserves this, Shane’s trust and earnestness; his tight body and the sweet little sounds he makes just for Ilya. Only for Ilya, from now on. Shane’s sweaty legs begin to slide down, Ilya brings them right back up.
Ilya kneels back, holding the creases of Shane’s knees in his hands and pushing his legs together. He brings both of Shane’s legs over one shoulder and leans back before he begins to fuck him like he’s on a mission. Shane whines, tighter like this, his hole sweet and greedy. He's so fucking tight, clenching with every thrust, his back arching in an attempt to get closer.
“I-Ilya, right there. N-not gonna last…”
It’s music to Ilya’s ears, the combination of their scent and the smacking sounds of Ilya’s hips against Shane’s, the sweat making him glow.
“Cum, Shane, cum for me. Want to feel you pull the cum out of me.”
Shane throws his head back, pressing his hands to the headboard, fingers scrambling to push himself back.
“Oh god, fuck -”
Shane’s hole tightens, throbbing, Ilya can feel the telltale signs, the heat in his thighs and his ass and his cock. Shane finally grabs his wet cock and tugs desperately, his fist tight and punishing.
“Want to fuck it right out of you, malish.”
Shane cries out and cums, quickly and all at once, his cock spurting deliciously over his taut abs. Ilya fucks him through it, feels Shane tighten, squeeze the fucking life out of him. He fucks Shane through the aftershocks before he lets go, pushing his cock as deep as he can, hips slowing as he fills the condom.
Ilya can’t take his eyes off Shane’s face, his arm thrown over his forehead, pulling deep breaths into his struggling lungs. His chest is flushed pink, his nipples stiff with interest. Ilya presses soft, lingering kisses to Shane’s legs before he places them gently on the bed around his hips. He pulls out of Shane slowly, sees him give a little shudder at the emptiness. Ilya pulls off the condom and throws it in the direction of the garbage can, he’ll worry about it later. He smiles because he knows Shane won’t let him ignore it, not that he ever would.
Ilya thinks about going to get a cloth, but Shane’s shivering like he’s cold when his skin is piping hot so Ilya crawls up to his pillow and pulls Shane tight against him. His breath comes out in little strained huffs against Ilya’s neck. He trails soft hands over Shane’s body, playing in his hair, down his neck and across his back, before trailing back up and repeating it. The shivers subside slightly and Shane’s body relaxes like he’s going to sleep.
“That was intense,” Shane murmurs.
Ilya’s chest tightens.
“Intense good?”
Shane huffs, “intense amazing.”
Ilya relaxes, breathes out a laugh and presses a kiss to Shane’s forehead. At the touch, Shane leans up and purses his lips for a kiss. Ilya laughs and gives Shane what he wants, always.
When Shane settles back onto Ilya’s chest, he brings his fingers up to play at Ilya’s cross. A comfortable silence settles between them.
“Shower?” Ilya whispers and Shane groans but nods his head, both men pulling thmselves up and out of bed. They round the bed and suddenly Shane winces.
“Fuck!”
Ilya looks down and sees his broken phone on the ground, where Shane’s foot met the shards of plastic and glass. Everything floods back; his Papa, confused and alone, Shane leaving, Alexei’s text. Shane coming back, his panic attack. The ups and downs and ups and downs making his head throb and his stomach churn. But it’s good now, it’s good now, right? He’s good and Shane is here. For now a mean little voice whispers. Can’t take care of your family, can’t earn love from your own family, why would Shane love you? Like this? He broke his phone, anger making him ugly and dangerous.
Ilya bends down to scoop it up and arrange the pieces on the nearby surface. Careful not to drop it, not to make a mess, can’t let Papa down. He doesn’t look at Shane, just makes his way into the bathroom. His hands are shaking, his skin is shaking, cold settling into his bones like ice and fear. Shane is going to leave, he can’t watch him leave.
“Ilya?”
Ilya shakes his head, his heavy legs thumping across the tiles. He hears Shane shuffle in behind him, but he can’t look, can’t turn around, can’t face Shane’s concern. He grabs the counter and tightens his fingers around the edge of the bathroom counter, keeping his head down, eyes closed, he concentrates on his breathing.
Maybe Papa tried to call him again and his useless fucking phone is broken, useless, he’s fucking useless. His fingers hurt, splits between his knuckles tearing, all of Shane’s hard work for nought.
Useless, fucking pathetic, stupid little fag -
Ilya’s face is wet before he realises he’s crying, his breaths struggling to get out of his chest. He can’t let Shane see him, not like this, to watch the disgusting jumble of horrors that spill out of him. The black puss that poisons him, the horrible broken pieces that will always cut those who get too close.
“Hey, hey, breathe,” Shane’s close but not too close to touch, his gentle voice soft in the echoing silence, “s’okay, you’re okay. You’re okay here, I promise. Just breathe. Breathe with me”
Ilya tries desperately to pull deep breaths into his lungs, listening desperately to Shane’s deep, steady breathing, trying to grasp onto it. Before he leaves. Because they all leave. Ilya will be left alone again.
“That’s it, you’re going so good. Breathe, Ilya. It’s okay. I’m here, okay? I’m here, I’m not leaving.”
Did he say it out loud? Did he say something? Ilya looks up and finds his reflection in the mirror, the sickening sight of him makes his breathing pick up again.
“Shh, shh, close your eyes, it’s okay. We can do this for as long as you need. I’m here, you’re not alone.”
Ilya feels his legs begin to tire, giving out slowly underneath him. He presses his fists into his wet eyes, trying to hold the tears behind the lump in his throat. He can’t fuck, please, he can’t let Shane see this. Please Mama I can’t let him see me like this.
Shane gets to the floor with him, Ilya can hear his soft voice, the deep breathing, words of comfort that can’t push passed the ringing in his ears.
“Ilya, it’s okay, I’m here, okay? Ilya.”
Ilya crawls closer, dragging his bare bones across the floor and throwing himself into Shane’s lap, pushing his head into his stomach. He wraps his arms around Shane’s lower back and releases deep, heaving breaths into Shane’s body.
“Can I touch you?”
Ilya just nods into his neck, desperate for something, for anything, anything but this pain coursing through him. Shane’s fingers find his hair, fingers gentle and sweet against his scalp. He doesn’t deserve it, but god, he wants it so fucking much.
He finally manages to claw his voice out from behind his ribs.
“Sorry…”
“No, no, you have nothing to be sorry for. I just want to be here, want to be with you.”
Silence wraps around them and Shane’s touch begins to relax the tension in his muscles that he hadn’t realised was there. He settles heavily into Shane’s lap, his arms relaxing before he makes a conscious effort to tighten them again.
“You’re doing so good, Ilya, it’s okay. S’okay, you’re safe. I’m here,” Shane continues, his voice a soft gentle caress, matching the ways his fingers card through Ilya’s hair.
Ilya’s breathing has relaxed, and when he realises his lungs are looser than before, he takes in a desperate gasp. His lungs are agreeing with him finally.
It’s only then that his brain comes back online, and he realises how much of a pathetic embarrassment he is, how Shane can’t want him like this, no one could. Ilya slowly extracts himself, keeping his head down, he sits up, curled away from Shane’s sight.
They sit in silence, and Ilya waits for it, waits for Shane to leave, waits for him to get up and realise this is more than he signed up for.
There’s shuffling behind him and Ilya attempts to breathe through it. His heart might break, but he’ll survive Shane leaving again.
“Shower?”
Shane’s voice is soft, a shower or not, Ilya should be able to find a thought in his head, should be able to choose. But that means -
“You will not leave?”
The heat off Shane’s body radiates against Ilya’s back, not touching but there.
“Hey,” Shane leans closer, slowly turning Ilya’s face in his direction, with a hand on his cheek, “I won’t leave again.”
Shane’s face is pulled into a frown, but it’s not disgusted or embarrassed or pitiful, it’s sad.
“You can,” Ilya swallows around the gravel in his throat, “leave, I mean.”
Shane leans closer and glances between Ilya’s eyes and lips, silently asking for permission. When their mouths meet, Ilya feels like he can finally breathe.
Shane is still here. He’s kissing Ilya. He isn’t leaving.
When the kiss ends, their foreheads rest together.
Ilya finally bites out, “I want… shower,” he wants to wash off the shame and the sour fear-sweat clinging to him. Shane reaches down and pulls the gauze off Ilya’s hands, seeing a little blood there but healing having started as quickly as it could.
Shane stands and turns on the shower, checking the temperature with his fingers. It’s on the coldest setting, Ilya suddenly remembers, and watches as Shane changes it to something more comfortable. When steam begins to fill the glass cubicle, Shane turns to him and reaches out to take his hand. He pulls Ilya with almost no help from Ilya himself and guides him into the shower.
Ilya can’t raise his head, eyes closed. He can’t, he can’t face Shane right now. But Shane’s hands just come up to smooth down his arms, soft and gentle.
“Can I help you wash?”
Ilya nods his head, his body leaning forward without any conscious thought on his part. He rests his forehead against Shane’s strong shoulder and nods, whispering, “please.” Ilya feels Shane kiss the side of his neck before pushing him back under the water stream. The water is warmer than Ilya would normally use, but it’s hot and cuts through the chill under his skin.
Ilya cracks open his eyes and sees Shane looking through the bottles lined up against the wall, seeming to find what he’s looking for. When Shane looks up, he catches Ilya’s eyes and gives him a small, cute smile that cuts into Ilya’s chest like a shard.
“Turn around?” Shane asks before continuing, “and lean your head back.” Ilya does as he’s told, something soothing in the absence of making a decision.
Then strong, firm fingers lather shampoo into his hair, finding every spot Shane can, even parts that Ilya might miss himself. It feels like he’s in a salon, it’s thorough in a way Ilya never is. Shane rubs circles into his temples, lightly scratches his fingers over Ilya’s scalp, scrapes at the back of his head. Ilya might actually fall asleep standing up.
With the lather still in his hair, Ilya feels the loofah at his back, Shane methodically covering his back in soapy suds. He starts to move Ilya’s arms, scrubbing every inch, under his armpits and down his back. The loofah travels further down, over his ass and down the backs of his thighs. In any other circumstance, Ilya would take the time to make some kind of joke or innuendo, but he’s so relaxed, content, relishing in being taken care of.
Time stretches, gooey and slow and like they’ve all the time in the world. Then Shane’s voice is close to his ear.
“Turn around?”
Ilya does as requested. He’s mildly aware of his cock, but it’s a background thing, not hard, just responding to Shane’s touch. Shane continues washing Ilya’s front, before dropping to his knees. He washes Ilya’s legs and feet like he’s worshipping him and Ilya hopes the shower washes away his tears. Shane rinses the shampoo out of his hair before lathering up conditioner and giving his hair the same kind of thorough treatment. Ilya can’t help but look at him, the studious frown between his eyebrows and disappears with a smile when he notices Ilya’s open eyes.
“Okay?”
Ilya just nods and lets Shane rinse him off fully. He leans back against the glass and watches Shane wash himself, it’s not as thorough as what he did for Ilya and Ilya wants to do it for him but his arms are like noodles.
When they’re finished, Shane turns off the shower and pulls Ilya out, grabbing a couple of towels and drying Ilya’s body with the same kind of care he used to wash him. He uses a small towel for Ilya’s hair, rubbing gently at the curls, scrunching them so they won’t frizz. The thought Shane puts into everything makes the area around Ilya’s heart heat, like he can feel his love physically, etched right beneath his ribs.
They make their way back into the bedroom and Shane opens the wardrobe, searching for clothes for them both. He finds warm sweats and hoodies, both of which are a little too big. He grabs underwear and helps Ilya dress. Then dresses himself. Ilya didn’t think he could appreciate Shane Hollander getting dressed as much as he does getting undressed, but the sight of Shane in his clothes, in a deep green hoodie and grey sweats, so different to before, makes some feeling come back into his limbs.
Shane guides Ilya into the living room and settles on the couch, before bringing Ilya close and tucking him into his side. Shane wraps a warm arm around Ilya’s shoulders. He feels a little closer to normal, though his body is tired in a more unnatural way. The leftover numbness of tension and anxiety that is much less satisfying than work-worn muscles. Ilya wraps his arms around Shane’s torso and settles deeper.
Shane runs his fingers through Ilya’s damp hair.
“I should put more gauze on your hands.”
Ilya appreciates the sentiment, but he would rather anything than Shane moving right now so he just shakes his head. Shane huffs out a breathy, but there’s a smile there, “okay.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Does he? Ilya isn’t really sure. He knows it’s probably just the tension of the day working it’s way out in the most dramatic and embarrassing way. He isn’t sure where it came from, well maybe he does, but it’s hard to find the justification.
“My father is… sick…” he begins, just about able to push the words out, but Shane’s fingers stay in his hair and their rhythm doesn’t change, “dementia.”
“Ilya, that's awful.”
Shane’s other arm comes up to wrap around Ilya’s shoulders and his hands meet in the middle, holding him so tight it’s like he’s trying to all of Ilya’s broken parts together. Ilya shakes his head and tries to push closer, though there is no room between them.
“My brother is terrible and hates me. I cannot help from here, but, but I pay for everything. If I was there to help, I could not pay. He still hates me, blames me.”
Shane runs his hands up and down Ilya’s back, over his arm, into his hair.
“Your mom?”
The word falls out with a thunk.
“Dead.”
“I’m sorry you’ve had to go through this.”
Shane leans his face into Ilya’s hair, pressing gentle kisses there.
“That was what the calls were about? Earlier?”
Ilya can only nod.
“You were going through that and then I left. I left you alone.”
Ilya’s chest constricts, back there with his heart raw and his dick exposed and Shane leaving, he left, he’ll leave again. He tightens his hold and just nods.
Ilya grunts, “I’m - I’m sor -”
“Stop,” Shane says, firm but not unkind, “stop apologising.” He breathes into Ilya’s hair, “I’m sorry, okay? I really am. That’s a lot to go through. Then I came back and all my stuff…”
Ilya turns his head, his face in the soft material across Shane’s chest.
“I’m glad you came back.”
Shane presses a kiss to the crown of Ilya’s head.
“You need to eat,” he whispers, trying to move from under Ilya’s body. Ilya only tightens his grasp further. Shane laughs lightly, sweet and lovely.
“You’re like a barnacle.”
Ilya reluctantly loosens his grasp and follows Shane to the kitchen.
“Barnacle?”
"A thing that gets stuck to the bottom of ships. They're gross."
"I am not gross."
Shane moves through the kitchen with a confidence he shouldn’t have, but it makes something clench in Ilya’s chest. It looks domestic, normal, like they’ve done this a million times before. Ilya tries to follow him until Shane clucks at him, rushing back to sit him on a stool at the bar. He presses a chaste kiss to Ilya’s lips.
“Sit.”
Ilya finds he likes to do what he’s told when it’s Shane telling him.
Shane opens the cupboards, the fridge, finds soup and the makings of sandwiches - not tuna melts - and begins making them.
He suddenly stops and looks up, eyes focused on Ilya’s.
“Is this okay? Um, sorry I just started and didn’t -”
Ilya smiles, resting his heavy head on his palm.
“Very okay.”
Shane’s eyes search Ilya’s face before his shoulders relax a little and he continues. He fills the actions with soft chatter, talking about the Pike kids and Montreal’s front office issues he hears about in the locker room.
Shane goes to the fridge again and stops, seems to take note of the contents.
“Where’s the tupperware?” He glances back quickly to speak so Ilya can hear him. Ilya would’ve heard it anyway. His stomach drops with an almost audible clang, something crawling up his throat like thick lard.
“Um, I threw them away. The - the sandwich things. There’s other stuff…”
Shane nods slowly before he asks with a cautious voice, “the ginger ale?”
Heat builds behind Ilya’s nose.
“That’s gone too.”
Shane closes the fridge and rounds the bar. Ilya can’t look at him. Shane stands close enough that his hip rests against Ilya’s thigh, he wraps his hand around Ilya’s.
“You threw it all away?”
It’s Ilya’s turn to nod slowly, staring at a gritty spot on the bar. He should clean it, Papa will be so upset with him.
“Can I ask why?”
Ilya brings up his other hand and scratches at the stain on the bar, gathering filth under his nail.
“I didn't think that you... would come back.”
Ilya is so pathetic, so dramatic. A whiny -
“I understand,” Shane whispers, pressing a kiss to the crook of Ilya’s neck. Ilya turns to look at him.
“You do?”
Shane looks guilty, “yeah, I would’ve done the same.” He turns back to the soup, stirring it.
Silence hangs heavy but clearer between them. Ilya thinks that Shane might need more words than he understood before but more words are better, explanations are better. Honesty, as difficult it is for Ilya to find the words. They might be a little more alike than he thought.
When the food is ready, they make their way back into the living room, back to the couch. They eat quietly, Shane making sure that Ilya eats more than he wants, as much as he needs. A movie plays quietly in the background, something stupid that Ilya watched when he first moved to the US.
When the food is finished, Ilya settles back and pulls Shane to him, his body warm and blanket-worthy.
“I’ve never seen this,” Shane murmurs, something reluctant in his voice.
“Because you only watch hockey.”
“I don’t only watch hockey.”
Ilya huffs and kisses Shane’s hair. Shane trails his fingers over Ilya’s chest. The nighttime traffic muffled outside.
After a few minutes, Shane leans up and looks at Ilya.
“I promise I won’t leave again.”
Ilya studies his face, that sweet, pretty face and the wide, worried eyes.
“I promise I will not throw the ginger ale again.”
Shane smiles, nodding, and kisses him, soft and gentle and difficult with the smiles on their faces.
When they gather in bed, skin to skin, sleepy with the events of the day and bellies full, Ilya wraps Shane in his arms.
His heart is doing something unfamiliar, it’s softer than hurt and warmer than lust.
“I like you.”
Ilya feels the curve of Shane's smile against his shoulder.
“I like you too.”
*
Shane is dressed and Ilya is half-dressed, lingering around the inside of the front door. Shane has to leave, his Uber four minutes away.
Shane’s cheeks are pink from their recent activities, his hair damp from yet another necessary shower. Ilya leans against the wall and studies him where he’s checking his phone, before his eyes come up to meet Ilya’s.
“Can we text?”
Ilya can’t help the smile that breaks across his face.
“That’s what boyfriends do, I think.”
The word is worth it for the deepening flush on Shane’s cheeks. His smile is small but pleased and a little embarrassed.
“And call?”
Ilya closes the distance between them, wrapping his arms around Shane’s back and pressing their foreheads together.
“Boyfriends do that too.”
“Stop!” Shane laughs, meeting Ilya’s mouth with his own. Ilya slips tongue because he can never get enough.
“Doing what, malish?”
“Oh my god, you’re impossible!”
Ilya snorts and wraps Shane into a tight hug, feeling Shane’s arms tighten in response.
The Uber is a minute away.
“I should go,” Shane whispers, still not wanting to pull away. Ilya reluctantly pulls back.
“See you on the ice.”
Shane presses one, two, three chaste kisses to Ilya’s mouth and leaves. Ilya watches him go. Shane gets into the car outside and Ilya doesn’t disappear just yet, wondering if Shane will be afraid that he’ll be noticed. But once he’s settled, he turns and looks out the window. Shane grins and gives a little wave before the car pulls away.
Ilya closes the door and breathes, a silly little smile on his face. Ilya is fine, better than fine. He might actually be good. Shane Hollander wouldn’t have a boyfriend that isn’t.