Work Text:
December 2018
“I feel like an idiot,” Shane muttered into his phone, turning this way and that in front of the floor-length mirror in Ilya’s bedroom and frowning.
“I mean…most of what we do for love is idiotic, isn’t it?” Rose replied through the tinny phone speaker, a knowing grin in her voice. “That’s why it’s romantic.”
“I…don’t know about that,” he murmured distractedly, thinking of all of the utterly stupid things he’d done in the past, all with Ilya on his mind. “D’you think I should have just bought a new jersey? This one one is so old–”
“No. Something tells me Rozanov likes authenticity,” Rose laughed. “It still fits, right?”
“Yeah.” His old red-and-black Canada jersey from the Prospect Cup was faded, sure, even after spending ten years tucked away safely, but it still fit well enough and had been simple to take out of a cabinet in his trophy room. It was Ilya’s version that Shane had had to put a lot more effort into. Of course Ilya had lost his long ago, not bothering to keep it even though his team had won that day. So Shane had resorted to paying someone on Etsy to transform a random white jersey into an exact replica. He’d been careful–used a prepaid card, sent it to Rose’s house, used a fake name, all of that…That was why she knew about this stupid plan. It’d been expensive, and ridiculously mortifying…but it would hopefully be worth it.
“He’s going to go insane. You left his at the door for him?”
“With a cigarette and note to put the jersey on and meet me in the bedroom,” Shane confirmed, grinning shyly. He knew that the jerseys rather than the sweatshirts and toques they’d worn on their actual first meeting ruined a bit of the authenticity of the whole thing, but jerseys were so much sexier…plus, they were easier to move in. “Can you believe it’s been ten years since he and I met?”
“Crazy. Imagine if you two had actually communicated like grown-ups that whole time?” she teased.
“Then we’d never have become friends so shut up,” he said, rolling his eyes and feeling himself blush.
“Ugh, fair. Still, it’s hilarious that it took you guys over eight years to–” Rose continued to laugh, obviously amused at Shane and Ilya’s inability to share their feelings.
But a noise at Ilya’s front door distracted Shane from her teasing. “Wait!” he cut her off. “I think he’s here, I have to go! Talk later!”
“Ooooo, have fun! Hope you can’t walk after!”
Unable to fight down his grin as he blushed, Shane double-checked that he’d hung up before he threw the phone aside and hopped onto the bed, only having a few seconds to arrange himself, legs wide, in what he hoped was a sexy manner before Ilya walked through the door, eyes wide.
“Hollander, what is this?” he asked, confusion in his eyes but a smile on his face.
Shane grinned. God, Ilya looked just like he hoped he would in that damn Team Russia jersey–an older version of the asshole boy he’d met so long ago.
And God, it had been so long ago. They’d gone from terrified, confused, angry, horny teenagers to actual adults, so unbearably in love that Shane couldn’t even handle it sometimes. They’d navigated clandestine meetings, awkwardly hot firsts, hidden arguments, nerve-wracking press conferences, terrifying injuries, Stanley Cup wins, unbearable jealousy, the All Star Games, Ilya’s father’s death, Scott Hunter’s ridiculously public coming out, sharing their emotions, saying ‘I love you,’ Shane’s parents, Ilya signing with Ottawa, Shane coming out to his team, Hayden finding out…the past ten years had been the best of Shane’s life. The scariest, sure, but also…he’d never been more thankful to be where he was today.
And when he looked at his perfect boyfriend, standing there in the entrance of his bedroom, wearing the jersey he’d worn in their first game against each other, the game that had made them rivals…fuck, he couldn’t decide if he wanted to cry or jump on top of him.
He hoped Ilya, who was grinning at him with a smile so joyful and boyish and free and unguarded that it should have been a painting in the Louvre, was travelling back through the same memories.
Slowly, Shane smirked, knowing he was about to wreck Ilya with his next words. “Ilya Rozanov?” he asked, slowly sitting up, scooting to the end of the bed and standing before he offered his hand. “Shane Hollander, I wanted to introduce myself.”
Beaming, but still somehow looking at Shane like he wanted to eat him alive, Ilya shook his hand, tongue tracing slowly over his bottom lip as he took in Shane’s appearance.
“I’m not sure you’re s’posed to smoke here,” Shane went on with a smirk, gesturing to the unlit cigarette in Ilya’s hand.
Ilya’s eyes flashed with unadulterated heat. Obediently, he threw his unlit cigarette to the floor and murmured in an unfairly husky voice, “Okay.”
Fuck. He remembers, too, Shane thought deliriously as he gazed up at the taller man. He’d wondered, as he’d planned this, if Ilya remembered that day as clearly as he did. If he remembered their exact words, their exact outfits–the exact moment their lives had been changed forever. “You’re an awesome player to watch,” he whispered coyly, meaning it just as much now as he had ten years ago. But now–fuck, now–it was so much more than that. Ilya wasn’t just an awesome player…he was everything. Shane had a feeling that no matter where Ilya was in a room, his eyes would find him.
Still, Ilya shifted his weight to one side just a little, grin turning cocky and eyes shining bright as he replied just as confidently as he had in Saskatchewan, “Yes.”
Shane couldn’t help but snort at his boyfriend’s attitude. God, Ilya was just so...Ilya. “Well,” he sighed, shifting his weight and feigning defeat. “I should go. See you–”
But in that moment, Ilya pounced, pinning Shane to the bed. For a split second, Shane was almost upset. He almost complained to Ilya about him interrupting Shane’s line, about ruining their little game. Until Ilya’s lips, which had quickly found their home at Shane’s neck, moved to his ear.
“Will you be this nice when I fuck you?” Ilya whispered gruffly, the warmth of his breath on Shane’s skin making him shiver.
And Shane melted. “Fuck,” he moaned, instantly relaxing into the mattress, allowing Ilya to press his wrists to the sheets and straddle his waist before attacking his neck. “No marks!” But he said it weakly because God, someday, he’d love for Ilya to do nothing more than leave his neck covered in bruises.
“Blyat, Shane, milyy, this is not fair,” Ilya groaned, pulling him into filthy kisses that left him breathless, shifting his weight so their clothed cocks dragged deliciously against each other and made Shane whimper with the zings of pleasure that rocketed up his spine. “Is–is fucking cruel. To dress like this, like a dream. You–you have no idea–”
And, oh, he’d figured Ilya would like this, but this man on top of him, absolutely feral and trembling with need, was otherworldly. It made Shane feel powerful. Canting his hips just a bit, he groaned with Ilya as they both felt the wave of electric heat, both of their cocks dragging together. “Fuck me,” he whispered, leaning up to lick over Ilya’s open, stunned mouth. “Please.”
In the past, in hotel rooms and second apartments, they’d undressed quickly. It had been necessary, simply something to save time and prolong pleasure. But now Ilya was ravenous as he stepped back and tore off his pants and underwear, yanking Shane’s briefs off as well. Of course, he left on the jerseys. Of course.
And when Shane shifted back to lay himself out on the bed, spreading his legs in invitation, Ilya looked quite like he’d seen God. The taller man seemed, for the first time in his life, speechless. Standing at the end of the bed in utter awe, jersey poking out oddly as his rock-hard cock caused it to tent out from his torso, he simply gazed at Shane with reverence for a minute, looking like he didn’t know what to do with him.
It was kind of jarring, and Shane quite wanted to get a move on, to be honest.
“Ilya,” he whispered, both horny and uncomfortable.
Ilya jumped, seemingly jarred from thoughts. “Fuck, sorry, sorry,” he muttered, climbing only the bed and settling himself between Shane’s legs quickly. “I was just…thinking.”
“About?”
“Hmm,” Ilya hummed, eyes flashing with mischief as he began to trail both of his hands over Shane’s thighs, squeezing lightly and making him shiver. “Your last game. I think you could have gotten another goal in second period, you kno–?”
“Fuck you, Rozanov,” Shane said in a huff of laughter, knowing Ilya was joking.
“Yes,” Ilya agreed, beaming. “That is the plan.”
But as his fingers trailed around Shane’s ass to trace to his hole as he murmured praise to Shane, who’d obediently spread his legs wider, he abruptly stopped again, his groan filling the room. “Hollander, you slut.” He spoke with complete delight, making Shane grin.
“I got sick of waiting for you,” Shane replied in a tone that he’d meant to be bratty but really came out as breathless, shifting a bit to try to use Ilya’s still fingers to press the plug in his ass deeper. “Waited for you for a long time, Rozanov.”
It was part-truth, part-confession, and though he tried to hide it with a light, impatient tone, they both knew he wasn’t just talking about waiting for Ilya to come home that night. They’d both waited so long to get to this point, and the truth of it shone from Ilya’s wide-eyed, amazed, unguarded gaze.
“Shit,” he replied in a wrecked voice, fingers slipping a bit as he eased the plug from Shane’s body, “fuck, malysh. Me, too. You know this. My Shane.”
When two of Ilya’s fingers fucked into him, Shane almost forgot his plan. It just felt so overwhelmingly good to have Ilya like this. Sure, he adored the other types of sex they indulged in–quick fucks on the road and sex fueled by competitive anger. Sex ruled mostly by lust and the way their bodies craved each other. But this…this type of sex, where both of them somehow managed to let their walls crumble at the same time…it was overwhelming. Even just his fingers made Shane’s eyes roll back, his hips twitch, his toes curl, his cock hard enough to cut glass. He needed more, he needed Ilya deeper, he needed everything.
So, sweat already pouring down his face, mind already hazy, balls already aching, he dragged himself up to one elbow and looked Ilya in the eye. “Please, Ilya. Need your cock. Now, or I–or I–”
But luckily, Ilya didn’t seem to be in the mood to tease him. He seemed to be just as frantic as Shane was, as close to exploding with uncontrolled, raw emotion as he felt. So he quickly eased his fingers out and lined his dick up with Shane’s entrance, looking him dead in the eye as he entered him with one smooth thrust.
The sound Shane let out was guttural. Ripped from his throat and completely animalistic, his groan punched from his very core. But he still heard Ilya, frozen above him, whispering praise in Russian and English. “Shanishka, malysh, so good, ideal’nyy, dorogoy, my love, fuck I love you, ty takoy khoroskiy…”
His whole body was singing with waves of pleasure, of Ilya inside him and on top of him and surrounding him. Ilya’s tongue licking into his mouth, Ilya’s hand tracing sensitive nipples, Ilya cock slowly beginning to drag deep inside him, so far it felt like he was choking on it in the best way, like all of his organs were adjusting to the stretch of the perfect intrusion.
And then he remembered what he was planning on saying this entire time. Fluttering open eyelids that had fallen closed at some point, relaxing his back, which had arched obscenely when Ilya had fucked into him, he gazed up at the most important man in his life and weakly cupped his cheek, making sure Ilya, even in his fucked-out state, was listening before he spoke.
“I–” he swallowed, trying to gain the courage he’d been gathering since he’d come up with this plan. It was slightly easier, he had to admit, with a dick inside him, “You need to know, Ilya. I’ve been yours. All this time. Ever since then. Since you didn’t shake my fucking hand that first day in Saskatchewan, you asshole, since you fucking beat me, since you wouldn’t get out of my head. It was…it was then. I couldn’t help it. I’ve been yours.”
“Mine,” Ilya repeated dumbly, one hand gripping Shane’s hip with such intensity Shane knew, welcomed the idea, that there would be bruises the next day. “Fuck, Hollander.” His voice cracked on the first word, shaking and heavy with fervor and disbelief. Shane swore he saw tears in Ilya’s eyes.
When Ilya started moving–truly moving– he was like ocean waves crashing to shore– incomprehensibly strong, stunningly beautiful, impossible to divert and mesmerizing to watch. Shane was immediately close, shivering with the way Ilya’s cock dragged perfectly inside him, grinding slowly against him, melting him from the inside-out.
“Hollander,” Ilya gasped, rolling his hips with frustrating precision, sending Shane closer and closer to oblivion. “You don’t know. You have no idea.”
Another wave, another thrust, another spark of electricity through Shane’s body and an unstoppable whine that escaped his mouth. God, he needed Ilya more than oxygen. Was it possible to die from needing someone closer? He locked his ankles around Ilya’s lower back, arching, his mind screaming at him to somehow make it so they were closer, so Ilya was deeper. He needed Ilya in his bones.
“You were mine? Fuck, Shane. Is not–” Ilya pistoned in again, maddeningly slow but desperately deep, making Shane sob and shudder, tears collecting at the corners of his own eyes. “I have been yours. Since–since–blyat–”
And another thrust, shoving Shane up the mattress. His cock was dripping, his fingers scraping over Ilya’s back as he leaned close, his mind melting into a simple haze of pleasure and need.
“Since ever. Since always. I—fuck, I tried. I was so–blyat, mne bylo strashno, ya stol'ko raz ubegal, ya byl slab–” his hips moved faster, Shane’s neck arching back, his eyes shut, his whole body giving in to Ilya’s, the heat at the base of his cock reaching an unbearable intensity, his balls tightening, his stomach twisting and goosebumps forming over his whole body as his toes neared the edge of a cliff, “-you walked up to me and were so stupidly cute and told me to stop smoking and you–I was finished. No choice. Yours, Shane, only yours.”
His declaration was fierce, his tone angry, and to someone else, it might’ve sounded like a bad thing. Like Ilya was resentful of the situation. But Shane understood: the first moment, their meeting, their game, their rivalry and chemistry and love…that had not been a choice. That had been…inevitable. But everything else? Being with each other, making this work, coming back to each other each and every time?
That was the choice.
That was the part that took work.
And fuck, Shane would choose it again and again. For the rest of his life, if he was lucky.
“Again,” he groaned, shifting so Ilya slipped even deeper, his orgasm so close he could taste it. “Tell me again.”
“Shane. I am yours,” Ilya gasped, rhythm slipping, hips erratic. “You are mine. Has always been true. Will always be true, moya lyubov, there is no changing this. We try. Others try. It will not happen. We belong to each other.”
“Ilya.”
He spilled, untouched, between them, his body shaking violently as his vision whited out. Ilya’s gasp, the way his whole body tensed, told him that the other man was coming as well. Shane whimpered, completely untethered, as he rode the intense waves, thankful that Ilya stayed close. He rocked their hips together in a slow, sensuous grind, pressing kisses to Shane’s forehead, lips, neck, shoulders, as Shane paid attention to nothing but the intensity of them. The warmth, the familiarity, the heat, the possibilities.
It was only some time later, after Shane’s head grew less fuzzy, Ilya wiped both of them down with a wet cloth, and they laid next to each other grinning like idiots, that Shane remembered:
“Fuck! I was supposed to ride you backwards…so you could see the name!” he lamented, trying not to pout. It had been such a good plan.
But Ilya just laughed, pulling him close and kissing him soundly. “Hollander, if you think this is the only time we will fuck in these jerseys then you are not as kinky as I I thought.”
All Shane could do was join in his laughter. Fuck, he loved this man.