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"What the fuck are those?"
"What the fuck is what?" Shane asks as Ilya prowls around him, wearing only boxers. "My shirt stays?"
"Where did this come from?" Ilya demands.
"I don't know," Shane says. "I think my grandpa sent it. My dad's dad. He's kind of old-fashioned sometimes."
"Why the fuck is your grandpa sending you lingerie?" Ilya asks.
"It's not lingerie!" Shane says. "God. They're shirt stays. They clip onto my shirt and keep it from pulling out of my pants. Stays. Because it stays."
"No, they're not," Ilya says, still circling him. "They're fucking...whatever they are. подвязки. What is the word?"
"Garters?" Shane suggests. "Like women wear with stockings?"
Ilya snaps his fingers. "Garters. Okay. Yes." He looks again. "But upside-down."
"I told you," Shane explains patiently. "They're supposed to hold my shirt down. Not keep anything up."
"Oh, something is coming up," Ilya says. He traces the edge of the thigh band with his fingertip and Shane will admit, to himself if not to Ilya, that maybe Ilya has a point about the stays being sexy. At least in certain contexts.
"They're not sexy," Shane argues, knowing he's going to lose. "Old people wear them."
"Old people can be sexy," Ilya says. "For instance, me, when I am old. I will be sexy."
"I'm sure you will," Shane says.
Ilya spreads his fingers and rubs them over the straps that connect the thigh band to the hem of Shane's dress shirt, the one he wears with his tuxedo. They have little metal clips at the end. They're like alligators, biting the smooth fabric of his dress shirt. "Why have I never seen these before?"
"I forgot I had them," Shane says. "Like I said, they're old-fashioned. But my pants are a little loose and I can't wear a belt or anything with them, so shirt stays it is."
"All night I will know you are wearing this," Ilya says. "Shane. It will make me crazy."
"You're already crazy," Shane tells him.
"Okay, crazier." Ilya spreads his hands like he can't believe Shane would wear shirt stays at him. "What will I do?"
"I guess not pull my shirt out of my pants in the middle of the awards," Shane says. "Because the stays will keep it where it's supposed to be."
Ilya mutters to himself in Russian. Shane catches the words "stupid" and "sexy".
"Guess I shouldn't tell you about sock garters," Shane says. "You might lose your mind."
"Tell me," Ilya says immediately.
Shane sets his foot on the hotel chair. "They go here," he says, indicating on his calf. And they hold your socks up. Like regular garters."
"Wow, wow, wow," Ilya mutters. "And you have these, yes?"
"Somewhere," Shane says. "Not here. At home in my dresser, probably. I don't usually have a problem with my socks staying up."
"All this time you had grandpa lingerie and you didn't tell me." Ilya pushes Shane's foot away and slumps into the chair.
"Please don't call it grandpa lingerie." Shane puts his foot on Ilya's leg, just because he can, and because it draws Ilya's eye back to Shane's thighs. He splays his fingers over the straps again, stroking Shane's thigh, and well, something is coming up. Two somethings. They don't have time for this.
"If I meet your grandpa, I shouldn't call him Grandpa Lingerie either?" Ilya jokes.
"Please, God, no." Shane can't help imagining the horror on his grandpa's face as Ilya greets him. His grandpa is a nice guy. He doesn't deserve to face a deadly onslaught of Russian innuendo. On the other hand, this mental picture might solve Shane's problem. He's certainly less interested in sex if thoughts of his grandpa are anywhere in his mind. He moves his foot off Ilya's thigh, or tries to, but Ilya hooks his finger into the thigh band of the stays and holds Shane where he is. Shane's problem returns, twice as obvious as before.
"Ah," Ilya says with satisfaction. "Come here."
"We have to get ready," Shane protests, but he's already shifting to stand between Ilya's knees. Ilya scoots to the front of the chair and unbuttons Shane's shirt. He pushes the edges into Shane's hands.
"Hold," he says imperiously, and Shane does, trying not to wrinkle his shirt. He definitely doesn't have time to iron anything. He still has to put his pants and shoes and accessories on and do his hair, but Ilya is pulling down Shane's trunks and Shane's dick clearly has other opinions about the best way to spend the half hour until they need to be in their seats. Before Shane can say anything, Ilya's mouth is on him. Shane can't put his hands in Ilya's hair, he absolutely can't. Ilya's hair will be an unmistakably sexy disaster and everyone will know what they were doing before the show. He pinches his dress shirt between his fingers instead, even though he wants to clench the fabric in his fists.
Fuck, how is this so good every time? The feel of Ilya's mouth sets Shane on fire. He's standing here in his wide-open dress shirt and his bunched-up trunks and his fancy socks while his brain melts with pleasure. Ilya's head bobs, slowly at first and then faster. His hands are on the thigh bands of Shane's shirt stays, rubbing back and forth. Shane swears and tries not to fall over as his knees go weak. The air conditioner blows cold on his chest and belly and Ilya's mouth is so hot. At least Shane doesn't have to hold back. The faster he comes, the more likely they are to get to the show on time.
After all this time, Ilya knows exactly how to bring Shane off in a hurry. His tongue swirls around the head of Shane's dick, teasing the glans, sliding across the slit. When Shane feels his balls tighten, he doesn't fight it or try to think about something else. He looks down at Ilya, at his own dick sliding in and out of Ilya's slick mouth, and it's so fucking hot. He listens to the way Ilya moans as Shane's dick slides deeper. Neither of them has ever been able to get enough of the other one. They've been together long enough now for Shane to understand how fucking lucky they are.
Ilya takes Shane deeper, his throat working as he swallows, and Shane's gasping, his mouth open and his eyes fluttering half-closed. Pleasure twangs inside him, ringing as sweetly as a goalpost with the game winner.
"Fuck, Ilya, I'm close," he says, and Ilya hums encouragement. And Shane is coming, because he can't help it, and as soon as Ilya has swallowed, he's dropping to his knees and wrestling Ilya's underwear down so he can get Ilya's dick into his mouth. Ilya's big hands cup around Shane's head. He's gentle, trying not to muss Shane's hair too much, but the firmness of his touch is such a fucking turn-on. Shane works Ilya's foreskin back and laps at the sensitive head of Ilya's dick. He's too desperate to be gentle, but Ilya seems happy as Shane wraps his fist around Ilya and pumps Ilya's shaft.
God, he loves the taste of Ilya, the musky scent of him, the feel of him. Ilya's skin is slick under his tongue, velvety against his palm. He can feel Ilya's thighs tensing. Shane wishes he had time to take his time, because he fucking loves sucking Ilya's dick. It feels so good to know he can do this for Ilya, that he can make Ilya feel the same pleasure. Shane could get drunk on Ilya's secondhand enjoyment. When Ilya cums, Shane swallows every drop.
"Fuck," Ilya sighs happily, tucking himself back into his trunks as Shane pushes to his feet and pulls up his underwear.
"We better hurry and get ready," Shane says, trying to check his watch and realizing he hasn't put it on yet. He grabs it from the dresser and straps it to his wrist, then works his cufflinks through the openings in his cuffs.
"You look like a pin-up girl," Ilya says. "I will put a picture of you like this in my stall."
"The hell you will," Shane says, but he likes the compliment. "You're not a World War II pilot or whatever. I don't even know if our countries were on the same side."
"Is fine," Ilya says. "I defected. I am good Canadian citizen now." He pulls his shirt off the hanger and slings it on like he's fucking James Bond or something. God, he makes everything look suave.
Shane catches himself staring and looks back at his own situation. "These stays are working, though. They didn't come unclipped." He buttons up his shirt.
"They are working in many ways," Ilya says with satisfaction. "And just think, now you will be so relaxed during the awards."
"Maybe you should blow me before every awards show," Shane suggests, and he means it as a joke, but he catches Ilya's eye and they both smile.
"Yes, our new tradition," Ilya says. "Next time we can start earlier so you don't worry so much about your clothes." He looks Shane up and down. "But you should still wear those."
"I'm putting my pants on now," Shane says. "Stop thinking about my undergarments."
"You are not the boss of me," Ilya teases, putting on his own pants.
"We'll see who wins tonight," Shane says, just to see the spark in Ilya's eye.
"If I win, you will wear those for me again," Ilya tells him. His voice is low and rumbly and Shane shivers. "And the other ones."
"If I win, you're wearing garters and stockings," Shane counters, tying his shoes. "Lacy ones. And lace panties."
Ilya shrugs. "Why not? Maybe it will be fun."
They fix their hair in the bathroom, crowding each other at the mirror, and fuss with each other's bow ties and jacket lapels, smoothing everything until they look perfect. Ilya applies another spritz of cologne. Shane breathes it in: something woodsy and fresh. It reminds Shane of the cottage somehow, the smell of the trees by the lake in the morning. It's soothing. He feels so much calmer than he usually does before these things. Ilya steadies him.
"Ready?" Ilya says. He holds out his hand.
"Ready," Shane says, and lets his husband lead him out of their hotel room. The door closes softly behind them.