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On the drive back to the cottage, the air in the car is undeniably lighter.
Ilya would not say Shane is relaxed. Not completely. But the frenetic energy that can swirl around him, causing his eyes to dart around, his fingers to tap at anything in sight – that same energy that snapped like a rubber band earlier today in the aftermath of Shane’s dad walking in on them – has settled somewhat. Yuna and David may have been surprised, shocked even (though more so at Ilya being a part of the equation, he thinks, than at Shane being gay). But ultimately were accepting, loving, and supportive – just as Ilya thought they would be.
He expected no less from those who raised such a kindhearted son.
The sun sinks slowly on the horizon, filling the sky with light oranges, pinks, and purples. The car’s engine hums, and the wind softly gusts in through the windows in the silence between them. Shane reaches across the console, and Ilya eagerly takes his hand, running his other up and down Shane’s solid forearm. He wants to keep Shane present – in his body. Usually Ilya is good at this, knowing exactly what Hollander needs to get out of his head. But doing so clothed, in the sunlight, outside of the bedroom is something new. For both of them.
Shane steals a look at him, then brings his eyes back to the road. Does it again.
And then again.
“So," Shane finally says. There’s the hint of a playful smile on the corner of his lips. “Boyfriend…”
The word hangs between them, softly and within reach. Ilya tamps down a clipped reply of is not a big deal, Hollander. Because maybe it is.
“Mmmm,” he replies instead, squeezing his fingers where they’re intertwined. He smiles a little when Shane squeezes back.
A car on the other side of the road whooshes past.
“Were you wanting to take me to prom?” Shane says through a half smirk.
Ilya knows he deserves it – this gentle retaliation for the way he taunts Shane. He likes that, since they got to the cottage, Shane has finally seemed comfortable enough to tease Ilya back.
“Ah no,” he replies, fighting his own smile. “But I think that maybe you will wear my jersey.”
Shane scoffs.
“What? Black is your colour,” Ilya continues. “Brings out your freckles. Makes you look very pretty.”
“Shut up.”
Ilya brings his hand to the back of Shane’s neck and gently kneads the taut muscles there, watching Shane’s honey-sweet, rosey grin, one that matches the dusk in the sky out the windows.
Even though Ilya would change nothing about this moment, a part of his heart still aches – just a little. Because he does want them to have that… Shane being able to wear his jersey with the same ease with which Svetlana draped it on as a surprise or Rose fucking Landry wore Shane’s own to the Metros game. He wants not just that, of course. He wants the simplicity of holding Shane’s hand or kissing him public or just fucking being together without all the secrets and fear.
“Is ok?”
The question bubbles up without warning from Ilya’s lips. It feels more vulnerable than it ever has, even though it’s usually asked when they are both flushed, naked in bed, with Ilya deep inside him, placing Shane into a new position or finding a new angle for them both.
“To say boyfriend?” Ilya clarifies. He lets his thumb tentatively trace circles at the base of Shane’s neck.
Shane looks straight ahead as another car passes by them in the other direction. Ilya wishes he had the reassurance of his telltale eyes on him again. For a moment, Ilya irrationally worries that, despite everything that they had confessed to each other, saying that in front of Yuna and David was a step too far.
Shane’s chest rises and falls with a deep inhale.
“I think… I’ve wanted that for a long time,” he says, then adds more softly, “... with you.”
There’s no teasing to his tone when he says it. Just the honesty he promised Ilya – and asked of him – at the start of their vacation together. A warmth builds inside Ilya at the words, eventually creeping up his neck and into his cheeks (though Russians do not blush).
“Me too,” Ilya replies sincerely. Because god, has he ever wanted it for such a long time. Longer than Hollander. Longer than he was willing to admit to himself.
The closed-lip smile on Shane’s face crinkles the edge of his eyes, making his freckles, which have only gotten more pronounced in the sun since they arrived, stand out so beautifully against his brow.
The tires crunch as they turn onto the dirt road leading to Shane’s cottage. The sun is now set behind the trees that protect this quiet acre of peace, and the sky is mostly all indigos now.
Despite his teasing about how boring it is, despite the birds that howl like wolves, Ilya loves it here. Watching it on TV all those months ago made him burn with resentment, and at the time he couldn’t admit why. Now he knows what he wanted was not just to see Hollander’s favourite place on earth, but to be allowed in his world, his solitude – his home.
Shane parks the car and they exit their respective sides. As they head up the driveway towards the door, Ilya re-takes Shane's hand in his own – relishing in the ease with which they slot together.
By the time they get indoors and remove their shoes, the exhaustion in Shane’s eyes and carried on his shoulders is obvious – the long day wearing itself so plainly on his body. Normally, Shane likes order, predictability, straight lines, precision. It’s what makes him such a sharp player on the ice – the way he maps out plays in his mind, and 2-3 back-up plays, to get the team’s advantage. It’s also what made today difficult for him, Ilya knows. Because even though David and Yuna were the parents anyone would wish to have in that moment, it was not something Shane planned to divulge to them.
Ilya knows it’s a lot – this slow unravelling outward of this thing that was just theirs for the better part of a decade.
It’s not bedtime, not yet, and Ilya suggests a movie. Shane nods with a bit of a faraway look in his eye. Ilya picks up Jurassic World, something benign enough to not require much thought, popping it into the DVD player and sinking onto the couch, next to Shane. He puts his arm around him and draws him gently into his chest.
As the opening credits roll, Ilya deepens his inhales, running the back of his fingers up and down Shane’s muscular, smooth arms. He presses soft kisses to the crown of his head every now and then, massages his scalp, trying to bring him down from the height of the day. Slowly, eventually, Shane’s body loosens and melts, alongside his small sighs and hums. When Shane begins dozing with the blue light of the TV flickering against his skin, Ilya smiles and moves carefully to turn down the volume, not wanting to disturb him. He closes his own eyes and lets himself sink into the plush cushions and into his own contented relief of, after so many years, being able to be here, holding his boyfriend, like this.
*******
If meeting both of Shane’s parents after his dad caught them on the patio and while Shane had to come out to them was not a disaster, having Yuna and David over for dinner should be simple – by comparison.
Shane, though, is still nervous. He paces the kitchen, double-checks the propane for the barbeque, flutters around like a little humming bird, texts his parents back and forth all day. At first Ilya just watches, half-smitten, half-concerned. When the averages start pulling more into the concerned column – which only happens once Shane goes out to check the propane a third time – Ilya gently blocks his path to the door, placing his hands on Shane’s shoulders.
“Hey… “ he says. “Deep breaths.” Shane closes his eyes, nodding and letting out a low blow of air from his lips. “Hard part is over,” Ilya continues. The tension loosens a bit from Shane’s shoulders. “And I will be on best behaviour.”
Shane smiles slightly, but it’s still strained.
“No referring to us as lovers again,” he mumbles, his eyes low.
“Oh and this is such a bad word?” Ilya moves his hands to Shane’s waist, running his thumbs along the elastic band of his shorts. “I think I have said much worse than this to you before in bed.”
That makes Shane smile more brightly. It pleases Ilya when he does.
The ringing of the doorbell interrupts them. Shane sighs, but seems more grounded. Ilya gives him a quick kiss.
“I’ll explain the subtleties of English later,” Shane adds, heading to the door.
“Maybe with glasses on,” Ilya says, as he follows. Shane fires him a warning look over his shoulder, and Ilya raises his hands in mock defense.
Yuna and David are true to their word, bringing marinated chicken and beer and a salad. Shane lights the barbecue and the three of them work to set the table. It’s pleasant, but a bit stilted still. Yuna and Shane keep the chatter going with predictions of the draft and possible trades and if Scott Hunter is heading into his last season now that the Admirals have the cup.
When the food is ready, they all sit down at the outdoor table. The temperature has dropped a bit. August, Shane said earlier. Gets colder quicker at night. It reminds Ilya of the short summers back home. He places his hand on Shane’s knee, as they settle into their chairs. Shane looks down at it, then up at Ilya – a cautious smile on his face.
They all dig into their food.
“So, Ilya,” David starts after a few bites, clearing his throat from across the table. “Did you grow up spending a lot of time in nature? I hear there are some great nature reserves north of Moscow.”
Shane shoots his dad an alarmed look at the question, mid-chew, but David waves it off. And suddenly, it clicks for Ilya… what all the texts were from earlier.
Shane – beautiful, anxious, caring Shane – warning his parents not to ask Ilya too many questions about Russia or his family tonight.
It makes Ilya’s heart both full and heavy – at the same time.
“Mmm yes,” he finally replies with half a mouthful of grilled chicken. “Hunting with my father – sometimes, in the winter mainly,” he swallows. “But my mother’s favourite spot was Svirsk Gorge. Is just outside Sochi. Big ah….” He searches for the word in English. “Falling waters?”
“Waterfalls,” Shane helpfully provides.
“Yes, this” he says, gently squeezing Shane’s thigh.
Ilya’s mother found solace in the water. She was always going to the mineral baths in Moscow when she could, taking Ilya on occasion too. When his dad would drag her along on the hunting trips, she’d perch herself at whatever lake’s edge they’d find, breathing deeply, serenely, and a little sadly, Ilya remembers. He much preferred their trips to Svirsk Gorge every spring – just the two of them, Alexei being older and too preoccupied with his loser gang of friends to join. It felt magical, every time, walking through the caverns and caves and moss and mist.
“There’s some great ones nearby,” David adds. “Chutes Dorwin isn’t far,” he adds.
Ilya looks at Shane and sees him stiffen. They can’t go, at least not together. Probably not for a long while.
“Maybe next time,” Ilya offers up with a small smile.
Shane’s shoulders visibly relax.
“Well,” Yuna says. “Maybe after dinner we could play a card game?” She uses chatter the same way Shane does, Ilya notes. To buffer silences, to move things along. He finds it endearing. “Do you still have Loup-Garou here, Shane?”
“Uh yeah, I think so,” Shane says, nodding and taking a sip of his beer.
“What is these words?” Ilya asks.
“It’s French,” David interjects. He takes a sip of his own beer before continuing. “It means werewolf.”
Ilya’s eyes snap to Shane’s, and Shane bursts out laughing.
“What?” Yuna asks through a confused smile.
“Canadians and stupid wolf obsession,” Ilya mutters. But seeing Shane laugh – seeing him relax in this way and let go of his worry, his fear, his hypervigilance – is worth every embarrassing scare at a bird Ilya has had during this visit.
Ilya smiles, despite himself.
*******
The game isn’t half bad. Ilya’s never played a card or board game in his life, aside from poker with Sasha and his coked-up friends. This is much more wholesome – and frustrating at first as Ilya tries to catch on to the rules and the French names (salvateur, bouc émissiare). Yuna and Shane have a competitive streak, and Ilya finds himself mostly just along for the ride with David as the mother-son duo take the game.
The more Ilya observes, the more he starts to think he understands what normal feels like. It’s not boring (ok, well, maybe a little). But it’s calmness, stillness, laughter in a home filled with love and care.
It’s what his mother was searching for in the water all those years ago.
He’s alone with Yuna in the kitchen after. Shane and his dad are outside, cleaning the grill in the last flicker of light while he and Yuna load the dishwasher together. Her mannerisms – her slight smiles and hand gestures – are so familiar to Ilya, ones he’s seen echoed in her son a million times over. It makes him do a double take every now and then as he clocks them. It is strange but wonderful to see where Shane not only gets his looks and his boring from – but also his confidence, his perfect French, his soft touches and kindness, his courage to invite Ilya here – to share his home with him.
Ilya tries to think about what he got – if anything – from his family. His curls and height were all his mother. It is why his brother hates him, why his dad was so hard on him. Not just because of the resemblance, but because they didn’t want Ilya to end up like her.
“It’s nice to get to know you,” Yuna says, interrupting his thoughts as she hands him a rinsed plate. “Off the ice, that is,”
Ilya nods, staking it in the rack.
“Yes,” he says. “Me too. With you.”
Yuna pauses, looking out lovingly at Shane and David for a moment on the deck.
“We heard you visited Shane in the hospital, after his concussion.”
Ilya holds back a grimace at the words. It was a reckless thing to do, he knows. At least he was the captain of the opposing team, which was the only reason the nurses even gave him Shane’s room number, thinking he was there under the guise of sportsmanship.
“We were so worried about him,” Yuna continues. “David and I drove down from Ottawa immediately.” She looks at him, a sad smile on her face, and takes a deep breath. “I’m just now putting together that that must have been a terrible night for you too. Finishing the game like that?” She shivers slightly. “I don’t know how you did it.”
Ilya doesn’t even remember, to be honest. Boston lost. Everyone on the ice was tense and timid after Shane went down. The energy in the stands was off too. No one, not even the fans, were out for blood after it was actually drawn. Ilya still feels immensely guilty about it all, that Shane didn’t see the hit coming because he took a split second to look back at Ilya and smile.
What Ilya does distinctly remember of that night is not sleeping and refreshing SportsNet obsessively on his phone in the dim light of his hotel room, desperate for updates… going out of his mind that this was the only way to get them. The fear churning relentlessly in his stomach even eventually compelled him to take a cab to Shane’s apartment – hoping, praying that maybe the lights would be on, that maybe it hadn’t been that serious and he was already at home. Of course the windows had been pitch black, which only fed his panic.
He never said it aloud, but seeing Shane on the ice, knocked out cold, his body unmoving – it was too familiar to another scene, years ago, at his home in Moscow, when he found his mother.
He couldn’t lose Shane too.
Ilya swallows.
“It was… not good night,” he mumbles.
Yuna's eyes get soft. Tentatively, her hand comes to rest on Ilya’s back, warm and comforting.
She leans in close to Ilya’s shoulder.
“You do a good job looking after him.” She says it like it’s a secret between the two of them. “I saw that yesterday too.” Ilya looks down at his feet, sniffs his nose quickly. “So thank you,” she adds.
Tears prickle the corner of his eyes – again. It feels like they’ve been here ever since he arrived, ready to spill out, to overflow. Maybe this is what happens when he relaxes. He wants to tell Yuna that it is in fact Shane doing most of the looking after, most of the holding of his fragile heart in his hands, most of the making him remember what it is to be loved.
But instead he nods, and they take a small pause before Yuna returns to the dishes. She rinses a glass and hands it to him. Ilya’s thankful for something to focus on. Shane and his dad look nearly done with the grill clean-up outside, and the sun has set, turning the sky to that indigo colour that Ilya’s come to love.
“Don’t tell him I asked you,” Yuna finally says. She’s speaking quietly again, and Ilya feels it is something she wants to say before Shane returns. “I think he wanted to be the one to do so. But… we’d, uh, love to have you back at Christmas. If you want.”
It is so genuine an ask, just like Shane’s from that damn hospital bed.
Ilya does want. He wants more than anything to not go back to Russia in December when there’s nothing to do, never really being there for Russian Christmas anyways, what with the MLH schedule.
But more than that, Ilya wants to be back here.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” Yuna says, perhaps taking his silence as uncertainty rather than shock. She smiles again, and Ilya sees Shane’s own in it. “But think on it.”
He thanks her for the invite, just in time for Shane and David to enter the house. Yuna gives him a wink, and it is nice, Ilya thinks. To have something just between them.
*******
After Shane’s parents leave, Ilya uses the excuse of a cigarette to go outside alone. The crickets and frogs are out again – and the damn howling loons. Ilya wraps the blanket from the couch around him and feels a little bad about doing so, even though Shane brought it out for him that other morning. It will smell like smoke.
Dinner was nice, he thinks.
Shane’s parents are nice.
And they love Shane – so fiercely.
He takes a long last drag of his cigarette before putting it out on the rock face, the last tendrils of smoke escaping from his lips as he does. The door opens behind him, and he can feel Shane’s presence – his concern, his thoughtful eyes, his care – all around him. Ilya’s always felt it, ever since that night at Shane’s apartment, after their first time, when Shane delicately kissed Ilya’s forehead, hand resting on his chest, gently thumbing his mother’s necklace.
It used to scare the shit out of him.
When Shane sits down next to him, Ilya opens the blanket so that it envelops both of them.
“Told you,” Ilya says as Shane leans into his shoulder.
“What?”
“Best behaviour,” Ilya says. Shane gives him a closed lipped smile and sinks closer to Ilya. They breathe together for a moment, looking out over the darkened lake.
“How are you feeling?” Shane then asks quietly. And he knows. Of course Shane knows. Shane has known since Florida.
That as nice as the evening was, it still was hard.
“I am okay,” he replies.
Shane kisses his neck softly and then presses his lips to the gold of the chain laying there, pausing. He takes a pensive breath.
“I never asked you,” he says timidly, “about your necklace.” Ilya can hear the subtext in the words and his tone. That he never felt comfortable asking about it before. That he knew it was something precious – and private. “It’s a… cross?”
“Yes. Russian Orthodox,” he says. He takes a deep inhale of fresh air himself. “My mother’s.”
Shane meets his gaze and there’s an unspoken question between them. Ilya nods as Shane picks up the pendant, holding it between his fingers. It reflects a bit of the moonlight above them. When Shane brings his lips to it, reverently, and then places it back on Ilya’s chest, Ilya feels like his heart might burst open even more than it already has.
He feels his mother here, in this place, in Shane, in his family – more than he has in a long time. Even just being able to speak about her, something his father and brother refused to do after her death, feels like a profound breath of air after being submerged under water too long.
Later, when they finally climb into bed, Ilya lays in the crook of Shane’s shoulder, his arm splayed across his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat underneath Ilya’s hand.
It’s only been a week, but Ilya can’t imagine falling asleep any other way now.
He knows he can’t stay, even though Shane asked if he wanted to (and he very much does). His flight to Moscow was merely postponed, not canceled, and he needs to re-enter the country for visa purposes during the off season. But as they drift to sleep, Ilya half-thinks, half-dreams of the next time he’ll be able to be here – where it’s starting to feel more like home than home itself.
*******
The air feels cooler than it did the other day, and the sky is a swirl of white and grey clouds. It’s not a day for swimming. Growing up in a similar climate to Canada’s, Ilya knows this. The best days are the sweltering hot ones – when the lake provides relief from it all. As he sulks down to the shore, Ilya also knows he’s being ridiculous.
And not just about swimming.
Back in the winter – before Florida, before coming to the cottage – the images wouldn’t stop replaying in his mind. Shane holding her hand. Shane eating cake with her at some fancy Montreal restaurant. Shane laughing with her. Shane on the ice, all crouched in a position Ilya usually loved to have him in in the bedroom, waving at her as she showed off his jersey. Shane dancing with her at that fucking club with her hands underneath his shirt, touching his bare chest.
He thought he had moved on from it all. And he had.
Mostly.
But then this morning, Shane received a text from Rose stating that her reshoots had wrapped and wouldn’t she just love to come to the cottage after all on Labour Day weekend.
Here.
Long after Ilya has left for Moscow.
When Shane had gently broken the news to him, something in Ilya’s chest immediately hardened to stone.
Shane clocked it, of course, giving him those damn careful, concerned eyes, reaching for his hand in the kitchen. But Ilya just backed off and said he was going for a swim – alone.
Even on his bare feet the shallow water is chilly, but Ilya stubbornly sloshes through to his knees, his hips, his waist, each step more frigid than the last. Eventually, he turns around, outstretches his arms, and falls backwards, submerging himself. The stinging shock of it all takes the air from his lungs and, at least for a moment, the unwanted images from his mind. A light wave laps and rolls over his body and into his ears – and he lets himself float alongside it, trying to adjust to the temperature. He looks up at the sky, watches as a flock of birds fly overhead, then closes his eyes and lets himself drift.
He sighs, more of a tremble through the cold.
Ilya knows he’s being hypocritical. He was with plenty of women after he and Shane first met. Hell, he had even found a random one to make out with in front of Shane at the club, just to try and make him feel a fraction of the hurt Ilya felt in that moment.
But it wasn’t about who Shane was with during that time (though the fact that it was a gorgeous movie star certainly didn’t help).
It was about how he was with her. How – after Ilya had pleaded with Shane to stay at his house, after they had woken up all warm and entangled, after he had made sure Shane had his stupid, boring ginger ale and fed him, after he had said he would be too lazy to find anyone else… that he liked him, and right after he had so disastrously moaned out his name as he came, that then – Shane chose to run away.
Straight into the arms of Rose.
At the time, Ilya had been sure that was it. After the better part of a decade, Shane was gone.
It doesn’t take long for a numbness to reach Ilya’s fingers and toes. He tries to stave it off with a few rounds of backstroke, but in the end the cold is too much for his muscles to function. He sloshes back out of the lake, wraps his dripping shoulders in the towel he’s glad he had the foresight to bring, and heads up the short hill to the cottage, shivering as he does. Once inside, he quickly makes his way to the bedroom, needing to get his pebbled skin into some dry clothes. He finds a black t-shirt and shorts and tries to dry his dripping wet hair as much as he can with the damp towel, slicking it back with his hands after.
When he emerges, Shane is on the couch, in his glasses, reading – some boring book about the physics of ice that Ilya teased him about earlier. Shane Hollander: always trying to better himself. Ilya sinks down on the far cushions. Shane lets the book fall flat on his chest, but keeps the glasses on, looking over the rims at him.
“Are you done being a petulant child about this?”
And okay, it is kinda hot, him scolding with the glasses on.
Ilya shrugs and looks the other way. He can hear Shane’s frustrated sigh and, out of the corner of his eye, see him placing the glasses and the book on the side table. Slowly, he crawls across the cushions towards Ilya, eventually climbing into Ilya’s lap – a leg on either side of Ilya’s hips, so they face each other.
Shane’s warm and solid, and Ilya’s limbs thaw a little despite himself – especially when Shane cups his neck with his hand and caresses his thumb back and forth against Ilya’s tense jaw bone, half-smiling as he does.
“You’re cute when you’re jealous.”
“Hmmm,” is all Ilya can muster in reply.
Shane brings his forehead to rest on Ilya’s. His nose is warm as he playfully nudges it against Ilya’s, but Ilya remains stiff and doesn’t budge. He doesn’t want to. He can’t. Yet.
Shane lets out another defeated sigh and closes his eyes.
“I know I said no details but…” He pinches his eyes shut even tighter, and his smile turns more bashful than teasing. There’s a long pause – so long, Ilya is not sure he’ll finish the train of thought.
“I had to… think of you,” Shane says.
At first, Ilya doesn’t quite follow.
“That night after the club,” Shane continues, heat flaring from his cheeks. He smiles so adorably and then mumbles the next bit. “To, uh… try to get through it.”
It’s silent for a moment as the words and their meaning wash over Ilya.
Shane thought of him.
While fucking Rose Landry.
A wide, boyish grin slowly blooms across Ilya’s entire face.
It’s stupid. It’s so stupid. It should not make him feel this way. But it does. Ilya wants more of it, wants to know everything to reframe every thought he’s had about that night, every feeling he had over those horrible months.
He wants to consume every detail about Shane needing him to get off.
His body flares to life, arms floating around Shane’s waist and low back, hands and fingers grazing the soft, bare skin beneath his shirt and then gripping him tightly, trying to pull him closer and closer still.
“And what exactly did you think of, hmmm?” he murmurs through his grin.
He doesn’t expect an answer, beyond maybe a fuck off, Rozanov. But Shane buries his warm face into Ilya’s neck… and surprises him.
Ilya loves Shane’s surprises.
“The last time,” Shane murmurs back, pressing a wet kiss against Ilya’s neck with his soft, supple lips. It sends a shockwave of heat down Ilya’s spine. “At your place.” He presses another at his pulse point. It makes Ilya’s cock twitch.
“In your bed.”
Ilya’s throat closes off in a groan that he doesn’t let escape. He digs his fingers into Hollander’s thighs so much that he’s sure it’s nearly painful.
That time was different, despite Ilya denying so initially in Florida. So many things about it were different. And there was one thing different that Shane apparently really liked.
Fuck, he’s getting so hard at thought.
“Ah…. “ he murmurs hotly against Shane’s cheek. “So you liked being face to face whole time?”
Shane pulls back and looks right at him with those damn honest brown eyes and a soft smile.
“I mean, I like all our positions.” Ilya’s grin deepens, and Shane rolls his eyes and whispers a small shut up. “But yeah, sometimes, I like… seeing your face when we’re….”
“Fucking.”
“I like knowing it’s you,” Shane adds sincerely, his thumb still caressing Ilya’s jawbone. And fuck. It's so sweet and so hot at the same time that Ilya can’t stand it. He tilts his neck upward because he needs Shane’s lips on his, needs to feel Shane here, with him, everywhere.
But Shane draws back at the last second, thwarting the kiss.
Ilya furrows his brow in a questioning look.
“Rose is my friend,” Shane says. There’s a light sternness to his tone, and Ilya kinda likes it. Would be better with glasses, he thinks. “She was there for me when I really needed someone. She’s not going anywhere, and I,” he sighs, “I need you to, if not be ok with it, then at least tolerate it.” Shane looks down between them, his tone softening. “She’s the person that helped me realize… things.”
Ilya gently brings his hand to hold Shane’s chin, making their eyes meet.
“What things?” he asks. Because he needs to know. He needs to know all of it.
Shane smiles, that flush from earlier coming back to his cheeks.
“That it was… better. With you. That I wanted to be with you.”
The tremor in his heart at the words is overwhelming, like the other night when Shane said he wanted to be together so much it scares him. It scares Ilya too. Shane has shared so much with him. His home. His honesty. His family. His love. And now this.
His reassurance.
Ilya tilts his neck up again, needing to feel Shane’s lips against his to contain it all or maybe to let it surge and spark between them.
But Shane frustratingly pulls back at the last second again – then nudges his nose.
Ilya sighs.
“Is okay. I will be okay about it.”
Shane looks skeptically at him.
“And I will stop being an asshole.”
“A jealous asshole.”
“Fine, yes. This.”
Shane smiles.
“Now,” Ilya continues. He straightens his back and slides Hollander hard and flush against him. “I would like very much to fuck you,” he murmurs, his lips a hairsbreath away from Shane’s.
He leaves the rest of the gap up to Shane.
It’s a soft press at first, through Shane’s self-satisfied smile, before he slowly deepens everything… his tongue slipping into Ilya’s mouth and his hands twisting and turning roughly in Ilya’s curls… muffled hums and groans teased out between them. When they break, breathless and wanting, Ilya can feel Shane’s hard erection through his shorts against his own.
“Like last time in Boston, yes?” Ilya breathes out between them.
Shane nods with those eager bedroom eyes that make Ilya want to drown in them.
He pushes them abruptly up off the couch and backwards, with t-shirts and shorts discarded as they tumble into the bedroom and onto the bed. For a while, it’s all hot gasps and sloppy kisses and hardness and wandering hands against bare skin and tongues and fingers between them…
… and then a deliciously loud moan from Shane when Ilya finally enters him – their foreheads touching.
Shane eventually flips them, so he is on top – and Ilya can’t take his eyes off him… his strong arm clutching the headboard, the other greedily massaging Ilya’s pec… his chest slick with sweat and rising and falling with each ragged breath. He pulls Shane down by his neck and seals their lips together, thrusting and jerking upward into him.
This is what Shane wanted, he thinks. All those months. The whole fucking time.
Shane comes quickly, with the help of his hand, and the feel of it, of Shane gasping and trembling around him, of the hot spurts on his stomach, tips Ilya over the edge. He comes himself with a harsh, final, purposeful deep thrust.
It’s messy and sticky and sweaty when Shane collapses bonelessly onto Ilya’s chest, but Ilya snakes his arms around his torso, holding him there, revelling in Shane’s contented sighs on his neck.
When Shane pants out a holy shit, I love you, Ilya smiles, whispering it back.
It’s quiet, save for their breaths slowly stabilizing, but a small thought creeps up, niggling at the edges of Ilya’s contentment.
Perhaps, he thinks, it’s the urge to be reassuring back.
“I thought of you too,” Ilya murmurs, breaking their silence. “That night,” Shane’s frame stiffens against him, and Ilya immediately clarifies. “Alone,” he admits, pressing a wet kiss to his slightly rigid shoulder. “At hotel.”
He feels the tension melt from Shane’s muscles as he lifts his head to meet Ilya’s eyes.
“Really?” Shane asks through an insufferable but beaming smile.
“Mmmm.”
“So love-sick, even then, eh?” he teases.
Ilya wasn’t over-exaggerating the other night when he said that he was always wishing these other women were Shane.
He’s been wishing that for years.
He pulls Shane back to his chest, tighter than before, despite the mess.
“For a long time, yes,” he finally says.
As he runs his hands up and down Shane’s spine, he smiles, with a wonderful relief, when he hears Shane whisper me too.
*******
The sun is barely a sliver of a glow on the horizon when Ilya wakes to it. Maybe one day they’ll remember to lower the mechanical blinds. But for now, Ilya kinda likes it, the lightness of the outside world allowed into theirs at all hours, at all times.
The only thing that would make it better would be Shane, warm and curled up next to him. But the bed is suspiciously empty. Ilya listens closely and can hear long inhales and dulled, purposeful footsteps on… something… almost in a rhythm of sorts.
He smiles.
Climbing out of bed – quietly – he throws on some loose cotton pants and tiptoes to the doorframe where he pauses and smiles even brighter in pure delight. It is just as he suspected. But the sight of it – in person – is so much more vivid than the flat screens on which he watched it on repeat for months.
Because there, in the living room, is Shane… with his beautifully sculpted, tanned shoulders and biceps, his taut calves… all lengthening and bending and twisting and breathing heavily into demanding poses (ones Ilya would love to have him in). There’s a look of pure focus and concentration on his brow, and a soft glisten of sweat everywhere.
Svetlana was more than right – it is very hot.
It is also very soothing, in a way. His deep breaths, his steady frame. Watching him now, Ilya can see why he does it, why that nervous energy Shane can sometimes have needs to be lulled, why this in particular helps him.
Ilya folds his arms in front of his bare chest, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, and the movement causes the floor board to creek, just a smidge. He silently curses. Shane looks back, mid-warrior pose, and freezes – like a deer in headlamps.
“No no no. Keep going, please,” Ilya says. It comes out all low and gravely, because he hasn’t spoken yet today.
“I thought you were sleeping,” Shane replies, looking at him dead on.
“I was,” Ilya steps closer, “But now I see I was missing out.” He waltzes over to sit down on the couch, sinking into the cushions and facing Shane’s yoga mat.
Shane gets out of the pose, standing upright, but otherwise remains unmoving.
“I said to keep going.”
Shane scoffs.
“I don’t do this for an audience.”
“Ah, unless it is documentary crew?”
“And just how many times did you watch it?” Shane counters, folding his arms in front of him as he does.
Dozens. Probably hundreds. Not that he’ll ever admit it.
“Doesn’t matter. I want to see real thing,” he leans back on the couch. Shane is silent and still, forcing a stand off between them.
“I do not want to ask again,” he adds for good measure.
Eventually, Shane inhales and mumbles out a fine through a hint of a smile.
Ilya loves it when Shane complies.
He loves it even more when Shane tries to hide the fact that he likes being told what to do.
Shane takes his place at the top of the mat, meeting Ilya’s gaze for a second but then shaking his head and looking straight ahead at the wall instead. And fuck, he’s really going to do it – all serious and focused – because of course he is. He’s Shane Hollander.
Ilya watches his chest rise with a deep inhale, his strong arms floating and reaching to the ceiling, his stomach peeking out from under his tank as he does. He folds in half to the floor, then raises his back flat, halfway, in his tight little shorts, and fuck it is so hot. Ilya was half hard when he woke but this takes him fully there. Shane keeps going though, planting his hands on the mat, jumping his feet back behind him into a strong plank, holding himself there for a few seconds, releasing a deep breath, and then arching his back in a way Ilya has seen dozens of times on the bed before he takes Ilya’s cock deep in his mouth.
“Fuck…” Ilya lets out, long and low.
The word breaks the spell, just a little. Shane's lip twitches upward but he still doesn’t look at him. Letting out another deep breath he pushes forward so that he is on his hands and feet, ass in the air, and eventually jumps forward to the front of the mat, sweeping his arms overhead with a deep breath and bringing them down to his sides.
Finally, as though he’s returned to the room from elsewhere, Shane glares at Ilya.
“Satisfied?”
“Oh I think you know I am very much not.”
Shane softly grins through a knowing look. He steps off the mat and walks confidently towards Ilya on the couch. He’s about to get on his knees, Ilya can see it in his eyes, his face, the way he licks his lips. And fuck, Ilya wants it.
Just before he places one knee on the ground though, Ilya stops him.
“Ah no.” Shane looks at him confused. “That move with the back…” Ilya continues, “do that first.”
Shane shakes his head through an incredulous smile, but of course he does it instantly… drops into a plank pose on the wooden floor and then slowly arches, arches, arches until his beautiful face is right in Ilya’s crotch on the edge of the couch – like he’s dutifully waiting for it.
Ilya can’t get his dick out fast enough.
Shane falls back onto his knees and toes and god he sucks him, long and slow, like he’s been waiting for it all morning. Putting his hands gently in his hair, Ilya helps him bob. The sun is higher on the horizon now, dancing on the freckles on Shane’s cheeks through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
God he looks so beautiful like this.
Every time Ilya tries to hurry him up Shane pulls back before taking him deep and slow again. He’s gotten good at this over the years. Too good. The sound of it – all muffled gasps and gags and gurgles – is obscene against the silence of the morning… and fuck Ilya wants to come in his perfect little mouth….
“Fuck, Shane, fuuuuuck…” he chokes out the third time, his breath ragged as the rhythm reaches a fever pitch again. “Let me come this time…. Fuuuuuck….”
And watch as he does. Hot and spurting.
Ilya loves coming in Shane’s mouth.
Blissed out, Ilya leans back on the couch, an arm overtop of his eyes, trying to catch his breath. Shane’s gently kissing his knees, his thighs, his stomach, moving slowly upwards to lean next to him back on the cushions, smiling proudly. Ilya pulls Shane’s mouth towards his own, pressing their lips together wetly, humming and tasting himself there on Shane’s lips and tongue – and fuck, it is so hot.
But when he reaches for Shane’s cock, Shane quickly swats him away, climbs on top of Ilya, and pins his hands back on either side of the cushions. The move at first surprises Ilya, then delights him again, but ultimately leaves him a little confused. Shane holds him still for a long moment before chastely kissing Ilya on the lips, once.
“I am going to go finish my routine that you so rudely interrupted.” There’s such an adorable smile on his face.
“Oh… rudely?” Ilya grins.
“Yes, rudely,” Shane says, putting more pressure on his wrists before hovering over his lips and kissing him briefly again. “And you are going to go make us coffee.”
Ilya smiles. He loves Shane like this.
“And maybe later,” he kisses Ilya’s cheek, “if you’re lucky,” then the other side, “I’ll let you return the favour.”
He pushes off Ilya and stands, barefoot in his shorts and tank, hair ruffled from Ilya’s hands, the sun silhouetting him, and Ilya looks at him all dopey-eyed and doesn’t care how stupid he must seem as he does it.
Shane returns to the mat and this time, folds his arms and stares until Ilya gets off the couch and heads into the kitchen. He ruffles Shane’s hair a bit more on the way.
The Italian stovetop press is a bit loud. It muffles Shane’s rhythmic breathing, but Ilya can still hear it every now and then as he looks out from the kitchen over the lake. When the press is done, he turns off the element and takes two ceramic mugs out of the cupboard, dividing the espresso in each. As he’s adding a splash of almond milk from the fridge to Shane’s, a pair of warm, lightly sweaty arms encircle his waist, and gentle lips brush the back of his neck. He hands Shane his cup and they head out to the deck. The sun is mostly up now, but Ilya likes this tradition they seem to have carved out – coffee outside in the morning, looking out at light sun glinting on the water, peaceful, tranquil, bright and full. He can’t believe he almost missed it, almost kept all of this at a distance because he was what? Too proud. Too insecure. Too scared.
Shane takes his hand and squeezes. Ilya leans in for a quick coffee-flavoured kiss.
It’s perfect.
Shane tucks his hair further under his baseball cap and adjusts his sunglasses. He expects Ilya to laugh at him for it, but instead, he only places a hand on his shoulder and smiles, kneading the knots and tight muscles there for a moment.
Shane’s still not quite used to Ilya like this, soft and supportive. But he loves it all the same.
What he doesn’t love is the activity Ilya is insisting they do.
When Ilya saw that what was under the tarps at the dock was in fact, canoes, he was adamant they take one out on the lake. Normally, Shane loves an early morning paddle. The crispness of the air, the birds taking flight, the calmness of the water.
But it’s not a private lake. Not beyond his small bay anyways.
And Shane’s nervous.
“Hey…” Ilya says, taking in the frown Shane knows he’s doing a bad job hiding. He turns Shane to face toward him, away from the shore, and places a hand on each of his shoulders, meeting his worried gaze.
“We do not have to,” he states.
Shane takes a shallow breath.
“I want to.”
“You are sure?”
“Yes.”
Ilya nods. He gives him a quick reassuring kiss, before putting on his own cap. “Ok then. Let’s get it in the water then, yes?”
With a one-two-three heave the canoe gets into the shallow edge of the shore. Shane tosses Ilya a bright red life jacket as he buckles up his own, and Ilya sports the same sort of patronizing smile he gets whenever Shane folds his clothes after taking them off.
“Have you been in a canoe before?” Shane asks as he steps in carefully, balancing the paddle on either side.
“Mmmm, I think so? Maybe not quite the same shape in Russia.”
“You know to distribute your weight evenly, stay low to the floor, not get up too fast—”
“Yes, yes yes,” he says a bit exasperated. “Is not rocket science.”
“Okay then.”
To his credit, Ilya enters the boat carefully and sits behind Shane without teetering them too much.
With a paddle in each of their arms, rowing on the opposite sides, they’re quickly off. Shane steers them close to shore around the bay, where it’s shaded but then eventually out – into the bright sun and the lake proper. It’s dead quiet, save for a few geese.
Which isn’t too surprising, given it’s 7am.
They settle into a decent rhythm together, Shane on port, Ilya on starboard. Shane has to admit, the fresh breeze off the water feels nice. It’s also nice to do something that doesn’t make them feel chained to the cottage.
Eventually, Ilya breaks the silence of their flow.
“Your president, he is known for canoeing, yes?”
“Prime Minister,” Shane replies.
“Whoa sorry. Big difference.”
Shane rolls his eyes, even though Ilya can’t see them.
“He is hot too,” Ilya adds.
Shane shakes his head with a light laugh.
“What? Whole world thinks so.”
“He’s married,” Shane replies, without looking back. “And very straight.”
Ilya hums in reply. They continue their paddling in sync. The waves are just slightly choppier than in the bay and they sway the boat back and forth every now and then.
“And what about you?”
“Well, I’m not married. And I think you clearly know I’m gay,” Shane replies.
“I mean with boats. You spent summers canoeing here too?”
They pull another row each and then drift a bit with the breeze, the soft drips from paddle landing on the water. It’s another thing Shane’s not quite used to. Personal questions. He spent so many years trying to get Ilya to open up to him… to talk about anything other than hockey or fucking… and now that it’s finally happened, it’s… not unwanted. But it still feels a bit off kilter for him. To go from a few hook ups a year to Ilya in a group chat with his parents in the span of one week is… a lot.
“Sometimes,” Shane replies. “When I wasn’t at hockey camp.”
“Ah yes. David and Yuna had picture of this on the wall. Many children with you, but it was easy to pick you out. You were very cute looking.”
Shane smiles and looks down at the paddle across his lap. Because in a way, despite everything of the past week and a half, he can’t believe Rozanov just said those complete sentences.
He wants to ask about Ilya’s childhood photos but knows he probably shouldn’t. At least, not now. Not when he can’t press his lips to Ilya’s or entwine their fingers together in case the answer is there are none.
They take a close-to-shore, half loop of the lake, and have to paddle much harder – against the breeze – when they cut across to get back to the side where Shane’s cottage is. He can see his parents’ dock and a bit of the roof of their house peeking out from the trees. Sometimes, in the off-season on mornings like this, he paddles over, unannounced, for breakfast, his dad making blueberry pancakes when he does.
Maybe one day, when it all feels more steady… he and Ilya can continue the tradition together.
On their way back, Shane points out a lone, quiet loon, and Ilya refuses to believe this tiny creature is the one that howls every night. When they return to the bay, sans incident, Shane feels that much lighter, feels like maybe they can do this – carefully. Maybe it doesn’t have to be all shadows and secrets and closed doors and unspoken pieces of their lives. After they pull the canoe to shore, ditch their life jackets and hats, Ilya steps forward before they head up the steps and slowly pulls Shane in for a long, quiet hug, with no preamble or context. As Ilya’s fingertips run softly up and down his spine, Shane melts into the feel of it all, despite being curious what it’s for. He puts his arms around Ilya’s waist in kind and just breathes there for a moment.
“Thank you,” he says eventually into Shane’s ear. “For being brave again.”
Shane smiles into his shoulder and holds him tighter.
*******
“Vy vyuchili vsyu p'yesu! Vy — muzykal'nyy vunderkind. Znayet li o vas Filarmonicheskiy orkestr?”
The words continue to be unintelligible to Shane, no matter how much he focuses.
But the way Ilya is saying them is so different than usual. Not the sharp abruptness Shane is used to overhearing when he speaks with his brother. Or the sombre, dark tones when they spoke after his father’s funeral.
This is melodic. Gentle. Full of pride. And love.
He adjusts his reading glasses and tries to focus. It’s almost getting too dark to read anyways.
“Stoit li mne im pozvonit'?” Ilya continues playfully.
Ilya’s been on the call for a while now with Katya – his 10 year old niece. Shane tries to ignore how it's making him feel. He can’t close his ears off to the sound, the words drifting out from the living room to the patio where Shane sits with his book that he’s now completely given up concentrating on. It reminds him loosely of the time in Florida at the All Star Game, when Ilya held the rapt attention of every player’s kid in the pool, raced them, purposefully lost, tuckering them all out only to rev them all back up with candy bars from the vending machines. The kids loved Ilya. And he was such a natural with all of them. Shane can’t wait to see what he’ll be like with the hockey school. Probably pure chaos – but in a good way.
Shane’s happy that Ilya seems to have a good relationship with his niece, and maybe it seems, his sister-in-law too. He hopes it doesn’t sour. Looking back on all the times he inquired about Ilya’s family, when he cluelessly went on about his parents wanting to come to all his games, makes Shane feel guilty in hindsight, even though he knows it’s not his fault. Even later, when he knew things were bad, he still tried desperately to get Ilya to talk about it. Shane’s inquiries were, not malicious, but selfish, in a way. He wanted Ilya to open up to him about what was going on, wanted to see this piece of him that for so long had been locked away.
His heart broke for him in Florida. And here too – when he told Shane about his mother.
A few minutes more and Shane hears the call coming to an end. The tozhe tebya lyublyu at the end causes a smile to creep over his face because that is one phrase, or at least part of a phrase that Shane now understands.
Ilya has a small bounce to his step as he comes out the door and joins Shane on the sofa lounger overlooking the lake. The book falls easily onto Shane’s chest and his feet into Ilya’s lap. Ilya’s head rests on the back of the cushions.
“Good chat?”
“Mmm yes,” Ilya replies. “Katya is excited about her piano lessons. Learning Rachmaninoff at that age. It is impressive.” The love and pride from his voice earlier is now written all over the smile on his face.
“I’d like to meet her.”
Shane blurts it out and then instantly feels self-conscious having done so. Ilya looks right at him, eyebrows raised. “I mean, I know not… not now or anything. And I know you wouldn’t be able to… introduce me… properly…”
“As boyfriend,” Ilya finishes.
“Yeah, but uh…” His throat closes up, trying to find the words. You’ve been to my world, met the people most important to me. I want to see yours. I want to know you. I want to know everything. “It’d be nice. To meet your family. The ones you like, anyways.”
Ilya takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips. He puts his hands on Shane’s legs – still in his lap – and gently caresses his calves. It’s a big ask, Shane knows. Too big, probably. Ilya met Shane’s parents by accident, not because he asked to. It’s so much more complicated for Ilya too – at the very least, until he gets citizenship somewhere that’s not Russia.
“Mne by eto tozhe ponravilos',” he finally says, eyes still closed, head still partially in Russian from the phone call.
Shane swallows.
“What does that mean?”
Ilya looks over to him, “I would like that too.”
A pensive silence falls between them. The crickets are starting to trill in that low light just before the sun fully disappears, and the breeze is cool off the lake.
“Olympics are in Korea next year,” Ilya says. “I doubt Alexei will come, but Katya and her mom, they might. If I invite them.” Shane holds his breath. “It will be… complicated. But if we have charity by then, maybe…”
Maybe there’d be a reason to be introduced.
Shane nods. For some reason, at that moment, an ache wells up in his chest. The feeling of it is unexpected, and the more Shane tries to push it back down, the stronger it becomes. He can feel his eyes prickling and turns them to the lake to avoid Ilya’s.
He just needs a minute, he thinks, to regain some composure.
Ilya, of course though, notices, and – in a heartbeat – is scooting closer to Shane.
“Hey…” he murmurs quietly. He runs the back of his hand up and down Shane’s arm.
Shane pinches his eyes shut.
“What’s wrong?”
The thing is, Shane doesn’t know what’s wrong. Not really. It’s too murky and deep – not something that’s meant to be dredged up between them. Not now. Or maybe Shane doesn’t actually want to remember it… the last time he had naively hoped to see a bit more of Ilya’s world…
We are not anything.
Go away, Hollander.
… and instead was completely shut out.
For months.
A loon whistles in the distance. It’s the first time Ilya hasn’t jumped at the sound. His eyes stay on Shane, questioning, curious, concerned – like he won’t let it go.
Shane takes a steadying breath.
“It’s stupid,” he finally mumbles.
Ilya’s thumb and forefinger come gently to Shane’s chin, lifting it towards him. He waits patiently until Shane reluctantly meets his eyes.
‘Why don’t you tell me anyways, hmmm?” he says softly.
Shane can feel his resolve crumbling, the way it often does when Ilya asks for something.
He swallows around the thickening lump in his throat.
“I don’t… I don’t want it to be like last time,” he finally breathes out.
“Last time like how?” Ilya asks, his thumb now gently stroking Shane’s chin.
“Sochi.”
Ilya freezes.
The word hangs harshly between them against the soft quiet of the early dusk.
“You don’t have to… I don’t need… ” Shane starts, then stops. “I know you had a lot going on then.” God, he feels like an idiot bringing this up. “And it was a long time ago,” he adds quietly.
Ilya takes a sharp breath in through his nose. He looks briefly to the now indigo sky, and a whispered curse in Russian escapes his lips. For a split second, Shane irrationally worries that Ilya's angry at him bringing it up. But Ilya’s eyes instantly soften into a pained expression, then close, and he every-so-slowly brings his forehead to rest on Shane’s.
And Shane quickly realizes that he’s not the one Ilya is angry with.
“I was terrible person then,” he says, strained. His forehead lolls back and forth against Shane’s. “That whole year. At Sochi. At MLH Awards.” The remorse is thick and raw in his tone. It makes his accent heavier.
Ilya pulls back a bit and opens his eyes, looking right at Shane, bare and honest and tender. Such a bright contrast from the vacantness of that time. He takes a shuddering breath.
“And I am sorry.”
The words both sting and salve Shane’s heart at the same time. Mostly because he needed to hear them then – and not necessarily now. It was a long time ago. Ilya had been a different person then – hard, standoffish… but most of all hurting. Shane knows that now. And maybe Shane was a different person too.
Ilya's eyes start to turn uncertain, his fear lingering in the silence between them. A soft, half-smile forms on Shane’s lips.
He’s taken too long to respond.
Shane cradles his cheek – and decides to ask for what he should have in that hotel room… what he knows now that Ilya probably needed to hear then too.
“Please kiss me,” he murmurs into the small crevice remaining between their lips.
Ilya hums in relief and when he presses their lips together, it’s wet and soft and sweet, lingering between them like it did the other night when Ilya said he loved him. It feels like they're swimming in it, all these emotions Shane’s still not used to letting surface between them.
Eventually, Ilya breaks from his lips to trail smaller, even sweeter kisses on Shane’s jawbone. Shane looks up, the world titling a little as he does, and sees the nearly full moon rising against the backdrop of the cottage. It has a reddish-orange hue. He remembers from Scouts that August is the sturgeon moon because the large fish are easier to catch this time of year, emerging from the muddy depths of the Great Lakes.
“Ya pozabochus' o tebe,” Ilya murmurs against his jaw.
Shane smiles.
“What does that mean?” Shane asks.
“Mmmm… hard to translate,” he says through a small smile. “Means I will be better with you. Especially at next Olympics.”
He leans into his ear, “And win gold this time.”
Shane huffs out of laugh and digs his hands into Ilya’s curls, pulling him back to his face.
“Not a chance,” he replies before bringing Ilya’s lips dreamily to his own.
*******
“So what have you been up to anyways?” Rose says from the speaker of Shane’s phone.
He called her this morning, while Ilya’s out in his favourite spot, having a cigarette and coffee. It’s not a secret, but still, Shane’s trying to be sensitive about it.
“It’s an awfully long time to be by your lonesome at the lake, Shane Hollander.”
Shane smiles, watching Ilya take another drag of his cigarette.
“I uh… I’m actually not alone.”
“I knew it. Tell me everything. Who is he? It’s not Miles is it?” Her enthusiasm makes him chuckle.
Of course he wants to tell her. He wants to get Rose’s insight on everything and watch her eyes light up in surprise. But mostly, he wants to tell the one person who he won’t also have to come out to at the same time.
But he can’t do that. Not to Ilya. Not without asking first.
“It’s not Miles,” he says, chewing the inside of his cheek. “It’s… not someone I can say – yet.”
“He’s famous,” Rose astutely observes. “God Hollander, you really know how to pick ‘em high profile.”
Understatement of the century.
“Let me talk to him first,” Shane reasons. “See if he’s alright with me telling you.”
“He’s not going to be there when I arrive, is he?” She asks delightedly hopeful, like she wants it to be the case.
“No. Uh no. Definitely not. He’s heading back to R-.... home.”
“Bummer. I want to meet this mystery man that’s captured your heart.”
“How do you know it’s that serious?” Shane says, amused.
“Women’s intuition. I can hear it your voice,” she pauses. “You sound smitten.”
“I do not,” he counters, but feels warmth creep up his neck as he does.
“And now you’re definitely blushing.”
“Shut up.”
“Well Shane Hollander, we’ll have a lot of ground to cover next week. Names or not.”
The glass door opens and in pops Ilya. He juts out his chin as a greeting.
“I’m looking forward to it. See you then.”
“Byeeee!” she says.
Shane hangs up the call and puts his phone on the kitchen island. Ilya looks at him with an annoyed, half-knowing, half-questioning look.
“Rose,” Shane says.
“Mmmm,” Ilya replies through a frown, looking elsewhere, holding back, just as he promised. Firmly tolerating it, but not exactly accepting it.
God he’s so cute when he’s jealous like this. Shane almost wants to keep it going. And ok yeah, it’s also a bit of an ego boost, especially after years of having to listen to Ilya talk about the girls he was fucking or liked or wanted to pick up from the bar at the different cities the Raiders played in.
But they’re not in that place anymore. They’ve veered so far from it, Shane can’t even see it anymore and doesn’t want to even look for it, doesn’t want to end up back there. He wants to keep moving forward.
He takes one last inhale, selfishly cherishing the grumpy look on Ilya’s face he’s trying so hard to hide – taking it in one last time.
“I uh, told her,” Shane says bluntly.
That gets his attention. Ilya’s eyes snap to his.
“Not about you, specifically,” Shane continues. “I mean, I didn’t use names or anything to protect your privacy. But I told her that I uh, have a… boyfriend.”
The word is still insecure in his mouth and on his tongue, causing his voice to pitch up at the end.
Ilya’s back straightens and a smirk glimmers on his face and suddenly he’s Rozanov all over again, striding towards Shane with the cocky confidence that Shane both loves and hates.
Or loves to hate. He’s not sure which.
“Oh yeah?” Ilya says, raising an eyebrow. He backs Shane up against the counter, their hips flush against each other. “So she knows you are taken man now?”
Shane huffs a small laugh out his nose.
“Yes,” he says. And Ilya grins.
“Good,” he murmurs close to Shane’s lips before pressing them together in a hot, opened mouth kiss that is far too short. Ilya buries his face in Shane’s neck, sliding his lips once, twice, near his throat and then just behind his earlobe in the spot that Ilya now knows always makes him squirm.
And Shane could so easily let himself be carried away so easily into this, but he pulls himself back.
He wants to make sure to get this out.
“Can I tell her–”
“Tell her what,” Ilya murmurs in his ear. “How much you like sucking your boyfriend’s dick?" He presses another kiss to Shane’s neck.
“Shut up.” He playfully shoves Ilya off him, before gently bringing his hand to the side of Ilya’s face. He brushes his thumb against the light brown stubble there and takes a centering inhale.
“I want to tell her that it’s you. I mean, your name.” An unreadable expression forms on Ilya’s face. “Rose is trustworthy. I… I won’t. If you don’t want me to, but–"
“You can tell her,” Ilya says sincerely with a light nod.
“Really?”
“Really,” he says through a gritted teeth smile. He plants both his hands on either side of Shane’s hips and pulls him abruptly closer, bumping their noses together. “I want everyone to know you’re mine.”
Shane smiles. He wants that too. He’s jealous, but in a much different way, of Scott and his courage to do what he did, coming out to the world so publicly, on the ice, and kissing his boyfriend right there, cameras and team and all. And sure he’d just won the cup, accomplishing what he needed to. But Shane and Ilya have three cups between them – and still so many more walls between them and the rest of world.
Still, Shane knows the reality of them – of him and Ilya – is slowly creeping outwards. It will become more difficult to fully contain – soon.
Ilya rests his forehead against Shane’s, bringing him back to the present.
“Everyone, eh?” Shane asks through a smile.
Ilya answers not with his words but with another open-mouthed kiss, this one deeper… but sweeter… and a little possessive as Ilya’s tongue slips into Shane’s mouth and his arm sneaks around the back of his shoulders, pulling Shane tighter. It fills Shane with desire, as it always does when he kisses Ilya. But also a little bit of sadness too – as he knows they can’t yet have their own moment, on the ice or elsewhere, to kiss like this.
“Yes everyone,” Ilya finally says when they break, breathless. He leans in close to Shane’s ear, murmuring, “But especially Rose Landry.”
Shane laughs and playfully shoves Ilya backwards.
*******
It’s stupid, Shane knows. Way too cheesy. Tacky even.
He’ll decide later whether to give it to Ilya, he thinks, as he puts all the bags in the trunk of the car.
Shane went into town this morning. Ilya had a Skype call with a couple of the Raiders’ teammates. Strategy planning for next year. Shane knew he could stay in another room, put on headphones and not listen, and Ilya would be fine with it. But he also doesn’t want any illusion of them having an advantage over one another on the ice and doesn’t want to accidentally hear something he wasn’t supposed to.
They were out of a few staples anyways – namely ginger ale, which Shane hadn’t realized Ilya had been sneaking cans of behind his back. He’d teased him about it mercilessly when he found Ilya sipping one, until Ilya finally pinned him down on the couch to make him stop – and then sweetly admitted that it was Shane’s fault anyways, that the taste reminds Ilya of Shane.
Shane hasn’t stopped smiling about it since.
He wanted to stop at the patisserie too anyways and grab two of their famous, buttery croissants, the ones that fill Shane with a nostalgia for summers on the lake when he was a kid and his mom would always have a constant rotation of them in the kitchen. He wants to share this with Ilya.
He wants to share everything with Ilya.
It was a new store that caught Shane’s eye, just down the block from the patisserie. One of those year-round Christmas stores. Super touristy, but makes sense for the Laurentians where people come from all over to ski from basically October to May. He saw it in the window on the way by and something possessed him to go in and buy it, and god, it’s too stupid, he thinks now as he climbs behind the wheel to return to the cottage.
He hasn’t even asked Ilya if he wants to come back for Christmas yet. But he wants to.
A part of him, however, is a little scared of Ilya’s answer.
Shane’s a planner, like his mom, and he’s already played it through in his head… getting a tree, decorating it together, maybe having his parents over Christmas Day so his mom can have a break from cooking (even though she’ll wind up bringing most of everything), getting a gift for Ilya (though Shane has no idea what – aside from the horribly tacky thing he just bought) – and if the lake’s frozen enough, maybe they could go for a skate or play a few rounds for fun.
Shane’s already envisioned so much of it that he knows now he’s going to be disappointed if the answer is no.
It’s preventing him from asking.
Shane’s painfully aware that the main reason Ilya came to the cottage was Scott Hunter at the finals. He wouldn’t have come otherwise – said so himself, even to Shane’s parents. It changed things for me. Shane had waited for an answer to his invite from Ilya for months, not asking him again, not even via text, not wanting to pressure him one way or another – because even though he had been high as a kite at the hospital and it’d all been quite blurry, Shane did remember being pretty needy when he asked – and not taking Ilya’s initial no for answer, instead asking him several times to get him to even say a reluctant maybe.
He pulls up the dirt road and slows the car a bit, not wanting to get too many scratches on the paint or a broken windshield from the loose gravel. Thankfully, it’s a quick distance to the door of the cottage.
The back trunk opens with a pop. Shane grimaces when he sees the box, shoving it into one of the grocery bags, hoping to god that Ilya won’t notice it right away.
The shower is running when he enters the front door. Quickly, Shane places the groceries on the counter and ducks into the bedroom, where he can hear Ilya humming through the water in the ensuite. His eyes dart around the room and land on the nightstand, where he tucks the box in the bottom drawer, underneath a bunch of books, before tiptoeing back to the kitchen.
It’s only a few quick moments later that Ilya steps out of the bedroom, a plush towel wrapped around his waist, his curls dripping water onto his shoulders.
Shane’s always liked how Ilya looks, but he likes the way Ilya looks here even more… in Shane’s home, using Shane’s towels, fresh out of Shane’s well-watered shower.
Ilya grins because he can see Shane checking him out. He twists the towel closer around his waist and walks barefoot into the kitchen.
“Got more ginger ale for you,” Shane says, trying to restore some balance to this interaction. The fridge door clicks when he shuts it. “Since you like the taste so much.”
Ilya’s grin widens, and when he gets close enough, his arms slink around Shane’s torso. He’s wet but very warm, the skin pink on his shoulders from the hot water. Shane can feel the dampness of his towel through the front of his shorts.
“Mmmm… maybe I do not need right now,” he says, voice all gravely and low. He brings his lips to Shane’s neck, then drags his tongue up to Shane’s earlobe, sucking there, sending a tremor down Shane’s spine. “Have real thing to taste right here,” he murmurs.
An embarrassing but quiet moan slips out from Shane’s lips. Slowly, his hands snake into Ilya’s curls, pulling him to his mouth hot and dirty. In a heart beat, Ilya’s lifting his shirt… and Shane’s reaching for the towel and dragging his own lips across the warm firm muscles of Ilya’s chest… and he’s three seconds away from getting on his knees to suck Ilya off right here in the kitchen when Ilya places his palms on Shane’s now bare chest, pushing him back into the island.
“Ah no,” Ilya says. Shane gives him a questioning look. “You said other day I could return favour.” With a wide smirk, Ilya drops to his own knees in front of Shane and starts roughly undoing the button and zipper of his shorts and fuck – Shane can do nothing but grip the edge of the counter. Ilya lingers for a moment, kissing just below the belly-button, causing Shane to buck towards him, before tearing off his pants and boxers, Shane’s painfully hard cock releasing as he does.
“And it’s my turn,” Ilya breathes out. He grips Shane’s cock and strokes up and down his length with his hand, once, twice, while licking his lips and then closing his mouth wholly around him.
Shane can’t breathe with Ilya’s mouth and tongue wetly and deliciously and deeply all around him. He can never breathe when Ilya does this because fuck… Rozanov has always been so fucking good at this.
It’s rare for Ilya to get on his knees for Shane. A few times in the shower. Once or twice after a game where Shane was a little too smug about Montreal winning. It feels – and looks – fucking amazing… but to be perfectly honest, Shane prefers it the other way around. There’s nothing hotter than Ilya sternly telling him to get on his knees, nothing hotter than taking him to the edge with his mouth and tongue before having Ilya roughly drag Shane back up his body when he gets too close.
It makes Shane feel like he’s the one actually in control.
And right now – with Ilya naked on his knees, taking him deep down his throat (deeper than Shane ever can), a bruising grip on one of Shane’s hips and hand roughly massaging his pec as he does – Shane is definitely… definitely… not in control.
“Fuucckkk… Ilya….”
Ilya looks up at him for a moment with an overly confident expression – one that Shane could never pull off in this position – before doubling down and picking up the pace. Shane’s breath becomes even more laboured and his fingers dig into the hard granite countertop.
In the end, it’s not what Ilya does with his mouth (ok, well, it is a lot of what Ilya does with his mouth) that tips Shane over the edge. It’s when Shane opens his eyes between a bunch of whispered fucks and oh my gods… when he sees Ilya silhouetted in the light from the windows at the cottage, wet from his shower, naked, comfortable, at home in Shane’s home… that Shane erupts into his mouth.
Ilya hums contentedly as he does – and it’s so fucking hot.
He slinks up Shane’s body and peppers kisses on Shane’s chest, his collarbone, his neck.
Shane still can’t catch his breath.
“You are very pretty when you come,” Ilya murmurs, his lips still against Shane’s flushed skin.
“Fuck you,” Shane replies. But it comes out quiet, more like a plea than a reproach.
“Even prettier when you suck my dick,” Ilya hums low against his collarbone.
“Shut up.”
“Is true. You get all needy. Look up at me like you can’t get enough.”
Shane ignores how hot the words make his cheeks feel. He clears his throat.
“Sounds like you’re asking for something.”
Ilya’s cock is hard and twitching against his thigh.
“Mmmm… only if you want,” he whispers warmly in Shane’s ear, then kisses him chastely on the neck, a hand softly cupping Shane’s cheek. And fuck does Shane ever want. He pulls Ilya’s mouth hotly to his own. It’s salty and shiny from his own come – and only makes him want it more.
The hardwood floor is cool underneath his knees as he falls to them. Ilya’s soft approval and desire swirls around him – and Shane inhales in his own anticipation before taking Ilya’s solid cock in his mouth. He revels in the low, throaty groan it elicits from Ilya. As Ilya breathes out on a rough oh, he brings his hands gently into Shane’s hair, massaging his scalp a little as he guides him. Shane’s own pleasure pools low in his centre, even though he’s spent. Wrapping his lips tight around him, bobbing back and forth, Shane gazes upward, meeting Ilya’s eyes… looking at him like he wants him to stay here forever.
******
Time has officially run out.
Shane wishes he could stop it somehow – set the clocks backwards, and not just an hour like they do in the fall. He wants two more weeks. And at the end of that two weeks, he’d want two more. He wants the rest of the summer, Labour Day weekend, and the fall, the winter. He wants to be with Ilya. All the time.
Shane wasn’t lying when he said it scares him a little. Not just this neediness for Ilya that aches inside him, but how willing he is to risk it all, to blow up everything he worked for, just to have a bit more of them, together.
A soft, summer rain dances against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the bedroom the morning of their last full day. Shane has laid awake listening to it for a while now, trying not to move, not to fidget. Ilya’s head is nestled warmly in the crook of his shoulder, his arm draped across Shane’s chest, lightly, almost possessively, pinning Shane to the bed. Alongside the sound of the rain is the slow, steady inhales through Ilya’s nose.
It’s calming in a way nothing else is.
Eventually, however, the stiffness of the same position gets to him. When he adjusts a little, Ilya stirs… then presses a lazy kiss to Shane’s chest, once, twice, through a hum.
“It’s raining,” Shane says lamely. Ilya glances bleary-eyed outside the window.
“Mmm… all the more reason to stay in bed,” he says, pulling Shane somehow even closer.
Ilya likes cuddling when he first wakes up. Shane’s learned that these past two weeks. He’s learned a lot about Ilya’s habits. That he likes a cigarette in the morning (not every morning, he insists); that as much as he makes fun of the New Yorker, Ilya likes to read, mostly a sci-fi novel in Russian he brought with him; that he gets grumpy if he doesn’t have a snack in the mid-afternoon; that even though he lives mostly in v-neck t-shirts, he likes stealing and wearing Shane’s button downs.
Shane wants to learn even more about him.
It’s quiet – save for the tiny droplets on the window. Shane lets out a sad sigh. Ilya hums again.
“I wish we had more time,” Shane whispers.
“Mmm. Me too.”
The day is mostly subdued. Coffee and breakfast and reading on the couch. A game of MLH All Stars on the PlayStation. Ilya smug from winning – playing as a Metro – which Shane points out that he should be smug about, not Ilya. Ilya pulling him possessively onto the cushions for a sleepless nap… Shane’s head on his chest, legs intertwined, breaths syncing… Ilya gripping him a little too hard but just in the way he likes it… trailing touches on earlobes, arms, necks, lips… that turn into lazy hand jobs between them.
It’s after dinner, after cleaning up the dishes, after Shane ducks into the shower in anticipation of their last night here, that he can’t quite believe his eyes.
Coming out of the ensuite, towel around his waist, in the glow of the lamp of the side table, he watches as Ilya folds Shane’s plaid button down and places it into his suitcase.
“I didn’t realize that was yours,” Shane says. He can’t help the smile that forms on his face when Ilya startles at his voice and looks at him like a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar.
It takes a beat, but Ilya’s back straightens and he gently closes the top of the suitcase. Striding over to Shane, he bridges the remaining distance between them by putting his hands on Shane’s waist where the towel meets his bare skin.
“Maybe I need something boring to wear,” he quips. He buries his head in the crook of Shane’s neck, pressing a chaste kiss there before quietly admitting, “for when I am missing you this season, hmm?”
Shane’s insides melt into a puddle at the words. Ilya kisses his neck softly again.
“You know, if you wanted a goodbye present,” he says through a small smile, “all you had to do was ask.”
“Oh really,” Ilya lifts his head, looking down between them, and tugs on the towel, suggestively.
Shane rolls his eyes. “Later,” he says. He moves over to the bedside table and rummages through the drawer, removing the books and papers and digging out the small box. He comes back to the foot of the bed, sinking into the mattress, where Ilya joins him.
“You got me a present,” Ilya says. “A sexy one?” he adds, taking the box from Shane.
“No,” Shane replies stiffly. Ilya starts opening the lid, digging through the tissue paper, and a slight dread bubbles up in Shane’s chest. He starts backtracking, needing to qualify a little.
“It’s… stupid. And cheesy. And to be clear you don’t have to if you can’t or don’t want to… I just wanted to ask if you wanted to, uh…”
Ilya holds the strings of the small ornament in his hand, brow furrowed as he reads the words printed on the orb.
Christmas 2017.
Mandeville, QC.
“I just mean… if you wanted to come back here… for Christmas.”
Ilya’s eyes crinkle in the most delicate smile Shane has ever seen on him. Still, Shane keeps babbling anyways.
“I already checked with my parents and–”
“Oh I know.”
“You… know?”
“Yuna already asked me.”
Shane sighs.
“I told her not to do that.” He wanted to be the one to ask.
“No… is ok. Nice actually. I like that it came from your mom.” He then adds more quietly. “Makes me feel welcome.”
“You’re always welcome here,” Shane says.
Ilya nudges their shoulders together.
“So… we would have a tree to put this on?” Ilya says holding the ornament up to take a better look at it. “And Canadians do… what exactly for Christmas? Read New Yorker?”
“I don’t think it’s that different from anywhere else. Tree. Presents. Too much food.”
Ilya nods.
“But you have whole plan for us already.”
Shane feels his cheeks flush.
“Not really.”
Ilya sports a disbelieving grin and scooches back on the bed, placing the ornament delicately on the side table and patting the mattress next to him, indicating Shane follow. When he does, he pulls Shane into his chest, running fingers through his damp hair. Shane can feel his pulse steadying as the adrenaline spike of the ask slowly melts away.
“Why don’t you tell me what we will be doing for Christmas then?” A soft kiss falls to the top of his head. Ilya breathes the next bit there quietly. “As something to look forward to during these next few months,” he adds a little sadly.
And god does Shane ever know the feeling.
So he tells him. About the lake freezing over. About finding a tree on the property to cut down. About his dad’s homemade eggnog. He talks and talks and Ilya mostly listens, but Shane can feel his smile through it all, and his soft, reassuring touches.
And it’s almost too much. How simple and easy and sweet it all feels.
Eventually words fade, giving way to lingering caresses and heated lips on skin. Ilya presses Shane back into the mattress and Shane clings to his neck, threading his fingers through his curls, as Ilya hovers over him, kissing him so thoroughly Shane feels it in his toes. When Ilya begins opening him delicately, wetly, first with his tongue, then fingers and lube, Shane’s weightless and vibrating, forgetting how to be anywhere but here as he does.
Ilya’s breathing is laboured when he trails up Shane’s body and looks him in the eyes.
“On your hands and knees this time.”
Shane nods as he gets into position – hands flat on the mattress, knees below hips.
Shane wasn’t lying when he said he liked seeing Ilya’s face when they fuck. And yes, he even needed to visualize it during those awkward nights with Rose (which he still feels pretty guilty about). But he prefers this way more – and Ilya knows it. The world’s edges blur when Ilya takes him from behind. It short-circuits his brain in a way nothing else can – so that there’s nothing else requiring his focus except how good and full and right it all makes him feel.
And he needs that tonight.
When Ilya presses his tip at Shane’s entrance, it’s cold from the lube and then gets so very warm as he slides in. Shallow at first. Then deeper. Sliding back out, slick with lube. Sliding in again a little deeper.
On the next thrust, he pushes fully in.
“Jesus Christ,” Shane chokes out.
This time, Ilya fucks Shane slowly, thoughtfully, running his fingers through Shane’s hair, gently pushing his head into the mattress and caressing him over and over again on his head, his neck, his low back. And fuck, it’s like molten lava inside him: slow and hot, and never ending.
But Shane needs more.
Between his half-moans and half-whimpers, he starts arching and pushing back against Ilya.
llya’s arms come on either side of Shane’s, his rhythm still achingly slow, as he sloppily kisses his shoulder blades, his neck, the back of his head. His necklace feathers against Shane’s skin, his chest slick with sweat and his breath hot in Shane’s ears.
“Needy tonight… hmmm?”
Shane can only let out a desperate moan.
“Is because last time for a while. You want to remember it, yes?”
“Yes,” he gulps out.
“Mmmm, me too,” he says deliciously low. He presses another tender, wet kiss between Shane’s shoulder blades. Heat courses through Shane as he does.
“Harder?”
Shane nods.
“Tell me.”
“Fuck. Yes, I want it harder.”
Ilya hums.
He raises himself back on his knees.
The next thrust is so deep, so hard, it hits Shane right where he needs it.
Then again.
And again.
Ilya lets out his own low, breathless moan.
“Do you know how perfect you feel, moy lyubimyy?” The words come out punctuated from Ilya’s mouth. He picks up the pace between them. “Always so perfect, huh?” he purrs.
A wave of gratification washes over Shane. All he can do is let out a muffled hmmppff.
Ilya grips his hips bruisingly, and Shane bucks back into him and gasps into the soft cotton of the pillow over and over again because god this is what he needs and wants all the time. It builds and builds like a fire in his belly until he’s trembling and coming hard into the sheets and Ilya’s groaning and spurting inside him and it’s all so fucking hot.
And still a little sad.
But only because Shane doesn’t want to wait months for it to happen again.
Ilya collapses onto him, chest to back, skin to skin, legs sprawled together, covering him like a heavy blanket. Shane’s breaths are still coming in heaves and so are Ilya’s – but he’s babbling half in Russian, half in English against Shane’s neck between haphazard presses of his lips… ya tebya lyublyu… so perfect… lyubimyy… so good for me…
A warm tingle runs down Shane’s spine at every lilting word.
After several long, protracted moments, after their breathing returns to normal, Ilya eventually slips out of him with one last kiss to the nape of his neck saying he’ll be back soon – and goes to the ensuite to shower.
Whisps of steam and humidity leak out through the crack in the door.
Shane looks up to the ceiling.
It took a while, like a long play on the ice that just won’t connect until it finally does. It’s one of the reasons why he kept asking Ilya to repeat the phrase in Russian.
It sounded familiar.
He wants to ask, but it feels like a line he shouldn’t cross. Ilya needed a safe vessel that night on the phone from Moscow, one where he could store his grief, his anger, his turmoil without judgement – and a deep language barrier between them ensured that.
At the same time, a part of Shane needs to know he wasn’t alone in feeling this way for so long.
Ilya crawls onto the bed and under Shane’s arm, nestling into the crook of his shoulder, and trailing kisses on the side of Shane’s chest. It’s always been one of Ilya’s favourite spots. He’s damp and warm and languid in Shane’s arms.
Shane takes a long inhale.
“You… remember that phone call… from Russia?”
Ilya doesn’t stiffen. In fact, he only relaxes further.
“Mmm,” he replies between another kiss.
“You uh, you don’t have to tell me,” Shane says, “but I’ve been wondering what you said,” he pauses and takes a deep breath before adding, “at the end.”
Ilya looks up at him, a soft glint in his eyes.
“Ah… you think it was about you?”
“No. I was just wondering….”
Ilya kisses his nipple, teasing it with his tongue. It sends a jolt through Shane’s body even though he just came. Shane runs his fingers in Ilya’s hair.
Ilya slinks his way up the rest of Shane’s body so they are face to face on the pillow.
“Not just the word for father anymore that you know, hmm?”
Shane’s cheeks warm and he looks down between them. Ilya brings thumb and forefinger to Shane’s chin, making their eyes meet.
This time, Shane holds his breath.
“Yes. I said it then.” Ilya’s eyes are bare and unguarded with not a hint of a tease.
The overwhelm hits Shane then – seemingly out of nowhere. The air in his lungs tightens.
Hearing it makes it more real – that the feelings were there, buried between them, for much longer than either of them wanted to admit. That they both wanted it – but it took time. That maybe it’s ok that it took something as drastic as Scott Hunter coming out on the ice to the world to push them forward.
Shane can feel his eyes glisten, but he doesn’t look away this time, doesn’t try to choke it down or keep it in check, simmering under the surface, the way he normally does. A lone tear and then another spill out down his cheek. Ilya’s brow softens into a half-smile, almost in relief at seeing them. He catches each tear with his thumb, kissing one cheek and then the other after they fall.
“You will miss me,” Ilya murmurs eventually.
Shane lets out a low laugh, choked by the lump in his throat.
“I’m not the one stealing shirts.”
“I leave replacement. The Raiders one.”
“Fuck off.”
Ilya smiles and nudges his nose and presses their lips together in a long, lingering, soft kiss.
After Shane’s own shower, after his insistence of changing the sheets, they spend the rest of the night willing away the morning as long as possible through gentle touches and half-asleep mumbles of how October isn’t that far away.
The next time the sun rises on them here, Shane thinks, it will be lower on the horizon. Snow will be on the ground and half an MLH season will have passed too.
He wonders what else might change, like it has the past few weeks.
Maybe… hopefully… for the better.