Work Text:
If someone had told Ilya Rozanov this time last year that he would be spending Labor Day weekend with his boyfriend in Boston, he would have definitely laughed in their face from the absurdity.
And then, he would have probably broken down angrily and privately about it sometime later, because even then it was fast becoming the only thing he could think about.
To be honest, it's still the only thing he's thinking about even now, one year later and leaning against the wall watching Shane Hollander pace in front of his living room TV. His boyfriend. In his home for a whole weekend. A visit made purely for Ilya, no pretense of a game or other commitment.
No, Shane has disrupted his usual routine, gotten on a plane, and flown to Boston during their precious little time off simply because he wants to see Ilya. Because they are in a committed relationship. Because he missed him. Godspodi.
It doesn't seem real that Ilya gets to have this. It's surely too good a dream.
Five weeks ago, Shane had dropped him off at the Ottawa airport. Six weeks ago, Ilya had moved his flight out by a yet another week and tackled a laughing Shane onto the cottage sofa. Seven weeks ago, Ilya had sat out by the fire pit and listened to David Hollander talk about an article in The New Yorker, heart full as Shane curled against his side. Eight weeks ago, Ilya had stumbled into a house by a lake and somehow found everything he ever wanted waiting there.
Eight weeks ago, Ilya had stuttered out a love confession and somehow found it miraculously matched.
Now this miracle of a person is standing in Ilya's living room, on the phone with someone—Ilya honestly can't remember who—in what he promised would be a quick chat; sock-clad feet wearing a path back and forth on the sunlit hardwood, an easy smile on his lips at whatever is happening on the other end of the line. Ilya could watch him forever.
God, Ilya has missed him so much it's insane.
They've talked almost daily in the weeks since they parted. Ilya's days have been filled with the usual routine of pre-season training camps, workouts, and obligations, but they've also been filled with this new, tentative steadiness of texts and check-ins and phone calls just to say hello. It's shocking how easily he's become addicted to it, this new rhythm.
To commitment and Shane and feeling like his heart lives outside of his chest.
Shane laughs at whatever is being said, snapping Ilya from his overly sentimental thoughts to watch the way his partner's cheeks squish the freckles scattered across them adorably when he smiles. Shane is beautiful in the mid-morning sunlight, dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully in concentration, and Ilya feels his heart beat rapidly at the sight of him. At the easy, relaxed stance of his athletic build; at his still-tousled hair from where Ilya's hands had been prior to this phone call; at the way he's so comfortable here in Ilya's house, with Ilya, just like he is in his own home. And okay, so maybe Ilya's heart hasn't lived beneath his own ribs for far longer than the span of this summer. It didn't matter really.
He didn't plan on ever asking for it back.
"—um, yeah that's fine, one second," Shane is pausing mid-stride to bend and search for something in his backpack by the sofa's edge. Lazily, Ilya follows the motion, eyes tracking the way his boyfriend's khaki shorts stretch tantalizingly against his muscular thighs and sculpted ass. A longing pulse skitters down his spine, and his dick gives a half-interested twitch at the sight.
Blyat. Ilya really needs this phone call to wrap up quickly so he can fuck his boyfriend again. Shane arrived twelve hours ago, and yet still, the frantic current between them has barely abated long enough for them to shower, sleep, and eat breakfast, both of them reaching for each other again almost immediately after any activity that separates them.
(Otherwise known as how things have felt between them since 2010.)
Shane straightens once more, and Ilya briefly mourns the change in view before becoming entranced by Shane's hands working to untangle the headphone cord now held in them. Strong, lean fingers that had slid so expertly over Ilya's cock in the early morning light as they had brought each other off sleepily; smooth, round nails that had dug red lines into Ilya's shoulders last night when Ilya had finally pressed into him after far too many weeks apart. Hands that Ilya is half-hard again from itching to feel between his own and—
Hands that are now plugging the headphone cord into his iPhone and placing the earbuds into his ears instead of hitting end call. What the fuck?
Ilya barely suppresses a frustrated whine. Shane sends him an apologetic look as he replies, "Okay, I'm back." His voice is calm and professional, perfect brand ambassador Hollander. Ilya needs to it to be desperate and wrecked. An annoyed huff escapes his lips before he can stop it.
Shane's eyebrow arches in response, eyes snapping up to find Ilya's again from where his gaze had drifted back toward the phone. He fixes Ilya with a stern reproach that has the unfortunate effect of sending a jolt of heat straight to Ilya's dick, causing his pulse to jump sharply and necessitating an adjustment to his stance.
Fuck. Ilya wants to push him onto the sofa and grind against him until that frown goes slack from pleasure. Ilya should probably go back to the kitchen before he pounces on his boyfriend and gives them both away to whoever is on the call's other end.
Shane's eyes drop to the now full erection tenting Ilya's pants, and Ilya watches as his eyes darken and lips part. Godspodi. "Sorry what?" Shane asks, distracted, dragging a heated look up Ilya's body; Ilya's heartbeat gives another dangerous skip.
"Oh yeah, I can hold," his partner's voice is much less collected now, pupils wide even as he gives Ilya an incredulous but firm shake of his head.
Ilya wants nothing more than to drop to his knees in front of him and do something about the thick, electric spark that seems to have filled the air between them in the last few minutes.
But Shane would definitely kill him if he did; he would definitely—
A different thought interrupts his attempts at reigning himself in, a new wave of desire rushing over him at the memory of another phone call just weeks ago. Ilya feels his self-control run thin, his mind replaying a compelling counter-argument of feverish evidence and half-bitten moans.
Evidence that suggests perhaps they both would like it if Ilya tried to hold himself back just a little less.
He's moving from the wall before he fully realizes it, distractedly noting Shane's eyes go wide and his thumb move to mute the phone as he does so, and then Ilya is pressing his body along his boyfriend's back with a low moan. His lips find the soft skin of Shane's neck, hands squeezing possessively at his hips.
"Ilya," Shane's voice is breathy but serious, "I'm on hold with the contractor."
Ah, that was it. Shane was having some sort of work done to his Montreal flat.
"Mhmm," Ilya acknowledges around a sucking kiss to Shane's skin before pulling back to tease, "Just trying to keep my real estate mogul entertained while he waits."
Shane lets out a surprised laugh, "Mogul, really?"
Ilya decides to forgo words in favor of a more physical response, tugging Shane's ass back against his rigid dick in a slow, lewd roll that draws barely restrained groans from them both.
"Jesus Christ,"Shane pants softly, yet he doesn't move away. Ilya takes that as permission to press them together in another dirty grind, mouth tracing a line up Shane's neck in tandem. "Ilya—,"his name is a wanton moan as Shane's head falls back against his shoulder, "—they'll be back any minute." The protest comes out more whine than the rebuke he imagines Shane had intended, and Ilya smirks.
His lips close around the fleshy lobe of Shane's ear—teeth nibbling and tongue soothing another low moan from his partner—before he leans back to whisper, "You can tell me to stop anytime lyubimyy." Ilya gives into the urge to slide his hands forward and under Shane's t-shirt, trailing his fingertips along the firm plane of his boyfriend's stomach to toy with the waistband of his shorts while continuing, "and yet—"
With a strangled noise, Shane spins abruptly in Ilya's arms and cuts him off with a bruising kiss. Ilya hums in triumph against his lips.
Fucking finally.
Pulling their bodies flush, he kisses Shane back, coaxing his boyfriend's mouth open to swirl a heated tongue around Shane's until he whimpers. Shane's hands are everywhere, grasping first at Ilya's shoulders, then burning a desperate path up his neck and along his jaw to tangle in his hair with a sharp tug that sends a shock blazing through him. Dimly, Ilya wonders what became of the phone Shane had clutched in his hand prior to this.
A train of thought that is then promptly disintegrated by the drag of Shane's teeth along his bottom lip.
They stumble blindly toward the sofa: Shane directing them in a hungry press of hands on Ilya's chest and neck, Ilya scrambling for purchase along Shane's back and the firm muscle of his ass in order to tug them along together. Neither one of them willing to break apart for longer than a quick gasp of air.
The backs of Ilya's legs hit the edge of the sofa before either of them is prepared for it, and he falls backwards into the cushions with a surprised grunt that makes both of them laugh. Shifting into a more upright position, he looks up to find Shane standing over him, pupils lust-blown, lips kiss-swollen and parted in shallow pants. The increasingly smaller portion of Ilya's mind still capable of rational thought notes that somehow the earbuds have managed to stay in Shane's ears and are still attached to a phone that appears to be in Shane's short's pocket. Then Ilya's eyes catch on his boyfriend's erection straining against those same shorts, and that small sliver of rationality perishes in a flash of urgency.
Fuck, Ilya needs them both to be wearing far less clothing.
Fumbling for the hem of his shirt, he pulls the fabric over his head and tosses it to the side. Shane's stare turns molten in return, dragging up Ilya's now exposed chest in a hungry flick that makes Ilya's mouth dry and his pulse pound. With a groan, he leans forward, reaching to tug Shane into his lap.
Only Shane makes an abrupt, alarmed sound in place of anything he expected, and instead, Ilya finds himself being pressed sharply back into the couch by a heel against his sternum.
He stares down at Shane's foot dumbly for a brief moment, confusion mixing dizzyingly with the liquid heat coursing through him, before managing to pull his gaze upwards. Above him, Shane fumbles to pull the phone from his pocket and press the unmute button, and Ilya's confusion morphs into a hastily stifled groan at the realization that they are somehow still on hold.
"Yeah, no worries, still here," Shane answers, voice shaky and a bit too high, and Ilya fails at holding back a quiet burst of laughter—half-delirious, half-cocky—at the sound. Shane's head whips up, eyebrow arching in a firm look, and he presses down lightly with the foot resting on Ilya's chest. And fuck, Ilya doesn't expect the fevered wave that slams into him at the action. A small groan escapes his lips before he can't stop it.
Shane sends him a strained but reproachful glance in response while he continues, "Yes, that's the correct account." Ilya volleys back an arched brow look of his own and gestures at the socked foot still restraining him against the sofa in a silent reply of you started this.
His boyfriend rolls his eyes at him, but then pushes the ball of his foot a little firmer against Ilya before easing up to his previous pressure, a pleased smirk twisting at the corner of his mouth when Ilya releases a low whine.
"Yeah hoping to schedule the work for sometime next month," Shane says casually, eyes sparkling in a wordless dare. A familiar rush of competitive current skates along Ilya's spine. God, Ilya loves this side of him.
It's one of the first pieces of Shane Ilya had ever fallen in love with: seventeen, score tied, puck ready to drop again. Shane Hollander staring back at him across the ice, stunning and fierce.
(An even match Ilya will spend nearly a decade vying for first place against and falling irrevocably for)
Ilya grins back at him now, slow and wide, allowing his gaze to flit downwards and drag back up the long line of Shane's body brazenly. Drinks in the resulting blush spread across Shane's cheeks. Brings his hands up, sliding them over the top of his partner's exposed shin to squeeze at the firm muscle of his calf. Watches Shane's eyes flutter closed in response. Challenge accepted and met.
"Uh…yes," Shane clears his throat, eyelids flitting back open as he attempts to focus on whatever is being said. Ilya bites back a smug laugh and slides a hand higher to scratch his nails along Shane's inner thigh.
"Fuck." The word is little more than a whisper, too silent for anyone on the phone line to really hear, but Ilya watches it form on Shane's lips, mesmerized and half-drunk off the possibility of a winning play. He doesn't bother to hold in the cheeky laugh this time and slaps lightly at his boyfriend's leg just to see Shane's breath catch. Shane's knuckles turn white where they grip the edges of the phone, his lips moving as he says something else; Ilya finds it difficult to hear over the way his pulse is currently pounding in his ears, victory over Shane Hollander's resolve always intoxicating. Hopefully it's something to end this ridiculous call so Ilya can finally touch him properly.
Shane is tapping the screen now and re-pocketing his phone, removing his foot as he goes, and Ilya allows himself an internal cheer, reaching forward to grab at his partner's hips once more.
But before he can execute the play, Ilya is being pressed into the backrest once again. Only this time, it's Shane's hands yanking his away from their intended goal and pinning them into the sofa above his head, his partner sinking onto his lap in a quick, fluid motion that makes Ilya's head spin with how fast any remaining blood rushes to his already painfully hard dick. Christ. He hears a loud moan reverb through the room, belatedly registering it as his own. Atop him, Shane's face flies through a myriad of tiny expressions as he takes in Ilya's reaction and settles on the cocky smirk of a well-played feint.
Brat. Ilya will have to take him apart for this slowly. Just as soon as he can feel his fucking legs. For now, he settles for lifting his head and capturing Shane's mouth in a filthy open-mouthed press of lips and tongue.
"Ilya—" Shane pulls back on a breathy reprimand, "I've been trying to schedule this work for weeks."
"I think you like it," Ilya chirps, eyes flicking down to Shane's tented pants where a small wet spot has already darkened the khaki fabric. He sends Shane a knowing, sideways grin.
Shane flushes and ducks his head, but doesn't loosen his grip. There is a determined set to his features when he raises back up, eyes turning intense and calculated, roaming over Ilya's straining body beneath him with the same assessing manner Ilya is used to seeing across from him on the ice. Ilya's hips give an reflexive twitch at the scrutiny.
"I think you like it too," Shane states pointedly, voice low, hands squeezing Ilya's wrists. Another twist of heat curls at the base of Ilya's spine, and he swallows hard. Blyat. This is new.
Sometimes Ilya forgets that even though they've been fucking each other for years, they've had remarkably little time to try new things together.
Shane moves to hold Ilya's wrists in one hand, and Ilya does not expect the strength and ease with which he does that to register like wildfire burning through his veins. A punched out moan slips out before he can contain it, and Shane stares at his open mouth in wonder. Tentatively, his free hand trails along Ilya's cheek, thumb tracing gently at his bottom lip, before gaining confidence and sliding down the front of Ilya's throat to rest between his pecs, sparks dancing along Ilya's skin in his wake. Ilya feels his eyes flutter shut of their own accord and lets his head drop heavily against the couch back with another soft moan.
Sometimes Ilya forgets that despite all of the people he's slept with, there are still some things he's never been expected to want.
It's too complicated of a thought to hold onto though, when in a bewildering next move, Shane's hand is gone from Ilya's skin, and Ilya is gritting his teeth against a whine at the loss; eyes blinking open to find Shane pulling the phone from his pocket and hitting the unmute button once more before laying it on the sofa next to them.
"Yeah still here," he answers, hand returning to Ilya's chest with a firm press, brown eyes studious as they hold Ilya's own. Ilya wants to scream. How in the world are they still on this phone call?
Shane seems to note the frustrated set of his jaw, beginning a placating trail of fingertips up and down Ilya's skin while continuing far too calmly, "Yeah the work order should be for some bathroom retiling and fixture updates." His thumb grazes Ilya's nipple on the next pass of his hand, and Ilya let's out an involuntary yelp at the unexpected shock that races through him.
His partner stares down at him with a twin expression of Ilya's own surprise for several prolonged seconds before recovering with a small jerk. "Uh..sorry," he sputters, "I'm…uh…watching a friend's dog." Ilya snorts loudly. Shane's eyes darken to a glare, and he pinches at Ilya's pec in admonishment. Which does nothing but punch another quiet moan from Ilya's lungs before he can stop it.
Shane's face is incredulous. Ilya manages to twist his features into a look that he hopes conveys Shane is entirely at fault for this before squeezing his eyes shut and trying desperately to regroup.
"Yeah, holding again is fine," Shane's voice is thin but somehow still polite, and then his forehead is landing heavily against Ilya's shoulder with a low groan.
"Holy shit, Ilya."
Ilya opens his mouth to reply and loses whatever words his lust-drunk mind intended to string together to a quiet whine when Shane's thumb strokes absentmindedly over the sensitive, hardened bud of skin once more. Shane shifts back from him at the sound, and Ilya forces his eyes open to track the movement. A sudden need to check-in cutting through his scattered thoughts: to make sure this wasn't something that was becoming too much for either of them.
Shane is pensive and rapt from his position in Ilya's lap, sunlight catching on flecks of honey brown gold in his searching eyes as they scan Ilya's features in return for the same discomfort. Warm, soft fondness threatens to crack through Ilya's ribs and steal his breath.
Sometimes Ilya forgets he's found safety once again. Maybe for the first time.
A reassuring smile spreads easily across his face. He watches Shane's shoulders drop, uncertainty fleeing, lips twisting into a crooked answering smile of his own. He's gorgeous; Ilya has no idea how he got this lucky. Had no idea he could be this happy.
And he's not religious, but still he prays to keep it forever. This unexpected joy.
Then Shane's hand gives a light squeeze to his still-held wrists, and Ilya feels the voracious current between them surge back when Shane slides his other hand up weave through Ilya's curls and tug him up into a rough, greedy kiss, making Ilya groan against his lips. His boyfriend pulls back with a low chuckle; Ilya tries to chase the sound, but finds himself held in place by another firm grasp to his hair that has him barely holding back a whimper. Godspodi.
"Hmmm, I don't think you can be quiet enough for this," Shane muses, face alight, a now confident edge to his mouth like he's just stolen possession of the puck and sees a clear line past the defenders. Another sharp tug to the hair at the nape of Ilya's neck sends a live shock of current along his back, dragging another groan from his lungs. Shane's eyes blaze as they track the heave of Ilya's chest before he leans forward to suck determinedly at Ilya's exposed throat and racing pulse-point.
And Ilya is so unbelievably fucked. Far too late, he considers that he really should have taken his own advice earlier and gone to the kitchen. He should have known better than to challenge Shane Hollander to anything that could be turned into a competition.
Especially when that face-off was for a win over said man's barely explored tendency for voyeurism.
"Shane, malysh—" Ilya begins and then promptly cuts off when Shane moves to bite at the thick tendon of his neck and grind down against his neglected cock. "—Fuck—," the word spills rough and ruined between them in response, and this was not at all what Ilya had expected. He's not sure what to do with how fast this is undoing him, heat pooling low and tight in his gut as Shane rolls them together once more.
In a half-desperate play for both more friction and to perhaps regain some semblance of a chance at control, Ilya plants his feet against the floor and pushes his hips upwards sharply, hoping to knock Shane off balance and flip them. A time-tested stratagem. Slam your opponent into the boards. Rozanov to retake possession.
Ilya knows how to win against his rival.
But Shane sees the maneuver coming and counters with only a small grunt of annoyance, leaning back to settle his weight more firmly on top of Ilya, legs sliding under Ilya's knees, and feet wrapping around the inside of Ilya's calves to render Ilya's own legs almost immobile underneath them. Ilya finds himself letting out a breathy whine. Shane's answering grin is practically feral, gaze liquid and triumphant. Ilya has lost this sprint. Goal to Hollander.
Ilya can barely register the sting of the loss over the blinding heat that shudders through him.
Slowly, Shane leans forward again, expression predatory, "I have to finish this call, Ilya." He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the thin skin beneath Ilya's ear, and Ilya has the wild thought that perhaps he never wanted to win this round in the first place.
"Be quiet." The command is controlled, precise, and accompanied by a tight squeeze of Shane's left hand to Ilya's wrists. Ilya feels his dick throb in response, a pulse of pre-cum joining the steadily increasing mess he's making of his boxers. Blyat.
Maybe he should reconsider his definition of winning.
A garbled voice bleeds through the headphones, interrupting the previous background drone of tropical hold music that Ilya had barely noticed; Shane's voice is perfectly measured in Ilya's ear as he answers, "Yeah still here."
Ilya fights the almost manic urge to laugh. Surely this is some type of record for world's longest phone call. Although to be fair, his grasp on reality felt tenuous at best at the moment so who knew. Shane makes an affirmative hum in response to something on the other end of the line, moving his hand from Ilya's hair to trace a burning path down Ilya's side, and Ilya loses that already shaky grasp entirely when Shane's fingers dip beneath the waistband of his joggers to cup him.
It takes nearly everything in him to hold back a moan at the sensation, eyes slamming shut and head pressing violently into the fabric behind him.
Then Shane's hand is retreating while he replies, "Yes that sounds correct," and Ilya is redirecting a considerable amount of willpower to suppress a whimper at the sudden loss instead.
Trying for a steadying breath through his nose, he opens his eyes to watch his boyfriend reach over to grab his phone, movements sure, thumb tapping almost nonchalantly at something on the screen.
Which seems completely unacceptable in comparison to the almost frenetic need Ilya is barely surviving.
His pride cuts through his stoned thoughts and demands a more even match, and Ilya rolls his hips up into Shane's to be rewarded with the sight of his boyfriend freezing mid-action: knuckles blanching around the phone's edges, head tilting back, a small gasp escaping him.
"I—" Shane's voice wavers; satisfaction roars in Ilya's chest. Shane recovers quickly, head snapping back down to fix Ilya with a fierce stare that only furthers that heady feeling of a evening scoreboard. Ilya nudges his erection along Shane's again just to revel in the way his gaze sparks further and his jaw clenches. Match reset, a chance to tie the points in sight.
"Uh..I can't do the 16th. I have a game," Shane grits out on a sharp exhale, expression furious, before he clears his throat and continues, "How about the following Friday?" The hand around Ilya's tightens in warning, and Shane pins Ilya with an arched look before grinding his hips down against Ilya in an obscene response that forces the air from Ilya's lungs in a strangled gasp. Shane smirks and repeats the motion; Ilya hates him.
Ilya is so fucking turned on.
"Great!" Shane is tossing the phone gently back onto the couch and bringing his hand to rest on Ilya's shoulder. "Yeah, let's schedule it," he continues, tone bright and even. But his eyes glimmer dangerously at Ilya, never leaving Ilya's face as he moves once more against him, indecent and slow. Ilya bites his lip so hard he's not entirely sure he doesn't break skin, losing what little ground he'd gained to the ravenous electricity that shoots through his chest and ricochets down his spine to send his hips jerking upwards in a frantic search for more.
Shane tracks the motion with the same knowing expression he's worn in every winning overtime shoot-out replay Ilya's ever seen. Blood in the water. Goalie following the feint left, too slow to see the puck flying right.
Godspodi. Ilya is not going to survive this.
Shane's hips roll downwards in a lethal rhythm, the hard length of his clothed cock sliding along Ilya's with each pass. It's an exacting precision, just short of enough, the type of calculation performed by someone who knew exactly how to make Ilya come undone and had held the motion back by a fraction. A play perfected, studied, and ruthlessly unleashed. Any comebacks Ilya may have attempted thwarted by the feverish swell of need that pulls him under, thoughts scattering in time with Shane's movements. Game-winning goal. Ilya accepts the defeat and grinds his teeth fiercely in an effort to stay silent.
His only consolation is that Shane seems to be falling apart in the victory along with him, eyes glazed over and cheeks flushed beautifully as he confirms the date and time of the appointment. Ilya thrusts up along with Shane to correct the imbalance in friction, and Shane drops his head to Ilya's shoulder with a shaky exhale while he says something else.
Ilya ignores the details and concentrates instead on repeating the roll of his hips in order to ensure Shane is hurtling toward edge along with him. The hand on Ilya's shoulder digs deliciously into his skin in response. Heat builds and tightens low in his gut. A choked-back moan is muffled into Ilya's skin, and then—
"—Oh yeah, right. We should confirm the work details, too," a disappointed sigh. The body above him stops mid-motion.
Ilya whines loudly at the cut-off pressure, back arching and hands twisting in Shane's grasp to clench at the backrest. Shane jolts back to regard him in panic, hand slapping over Ilya's mouth. Ilya bucks up into Shane in a barely coherent retaliation, mind hazy and body desperate.
Shane groans softly, "Jesus—I mean sorry." Ilya can hardly remember why Shane is talking in the first place as his boyfriend further explains, "The dog is really very loud and needy." A flash of annoyance grounds Ilya's strung out mind. Ilya needs Shane to fucking move.
"Yes, walk me through the itemized list," Shane says next, and fuck, no. Ilya can't do this. He's going to go insane. With a low growl, he forcefully pushes up against the man in his lap, straining against his weight. Shane deflects the attempt easily, shifting his hips back and fully off Ilya's to better counterbalance. The hand over his mouth squeezes and forces Ilya's head back to meet Shane's imperious glare; a shocked desire at the demonstration of strength pulses through Ilya to mix sinfully with his warring wish to regain dominance.
Shane's gaze turns inquisitive as he continues, "Yeah it's white subway tiles for shower." Ilya could recoup any power he wants here with just shake of his head.
A not insignificant part of Ilya wants force Shane off this ridiculous call, pin him down, and fuck him until he begs. A newer, raw part of Ilya though is currently reeling from the reminder that Shane can just as easily hold him in place, and that maybe Ilya needed this far more than he ever thought. It's fucking terrifying.
It's also so fucking hot, he decides.
Shane squeezes meaningfully at Ilya's wrists. Are you okay? Brow furrowed, eyes soft and scanning Ilya for any sign he wants this to stop. Ilya meets the silent question between them with a clear nod, eyebrow once more raised back in challenge. Shane's countenance clears from worry to determined focus.
"Correct, silver fixtures for the faucets," he responds to the contractor's next question, holding Ilya's gaze as he tightens his grip around Ilya's wrists and pulls to straighten his arms above them from where they've become slack. Ilya stifles a groan against Shane's palm, hips jerking up into nothing, but otherwise manages to remain silent. Shane's features turn warm and proud.
God, Ilya wants him to always look at Ilya with that expression.
Then, Shane lowers his head to Ilya's chest and puts that obedient resolve to an immediate test by latching onto a nipple in a lewd swirl of tongue before pulling back to answer, "Yeah that's the right brand." His breath is hot over the damp skin, and Ilya makes a wrecked noise in the back of his throat he's not sure he's ever made before and submits himself to the blistering inferno that rekindles within him.
Shane blazes a steady path up his chest with his mouth—silent but greedy nips of teeth and presses of lips that are definitely going to leave marks— pausing every few moments to confirm or correct some inane detail about the renovation he's scheduling. Heat sparks and scatters along Ilya's skin at every new kiss; coils and tightens at the base of his aching length with every pause, sending his hips bucking up to search for even the smallest amount of relief against the fabric of his pants.
Meanwhile, Shane, for his part, has regained his previously flimsy composure with an ease that would have Ilya itching to break it, if he wasn't so far gone and muddled from just trying to behave and not give them both away.
Teeth graze along the column of Ilya's throat as his boyfriend calmly verifies something about an overhead light, and Ilya sluggishly considers that he's probably going to develop some sort of home renovation kink from all of this. Shane sucks a bruising kiss at the junction of his jaw and neck, and that same concern evaporates in a shock of frenzied current that races down his spine and curls his toes. A quiet, fucked-out sound whines forth from him, and Ilya feels Shane smirk against his skin. Between them, Ilya's ignored cock throbs and leaks steadily.
Christ. At this rate, Ilya is never going to be able to listen to a phone call period.
"Um, no," Shane is saying, nose trailing along the sensitive under-side of Ilya's bicep and causing Ilya to moan softly while his partner continues, irritatingly composed, "it should be two double vanities." He follows with a silent bite at the vulnerable joint of Ilya's elbow, and Ilya's hips jerk violently in their quest for friction; Shane's hand slips against Ilya's face.
Without thinking, Ilya's lips part, taking two of the digits into his mouth and sucking hard.
"Oh shit," Shane pants quietly, head dropping heavily onto Ilya's arm. An unexpected thrill rolls through Ilya at the prospect of a late win against Shane's control. He hollows his mouth around Shane's fingers once more and earns himself a low whimpered crack in his boyfriend's resolve.
"Yeah..uh," Shane gasps, voice thin, "that's all." Ilya runs his tongue along the bottom of the two fingers in a crude stroke and feels Shane press his forehead harder against Ilya's skin.
"Yep, great. Okay," the words come out in forced, staccato bursts on Ilya's upper arm. Ilya moans, pleased, and bites down gently on the intruding flesh. Shane whimpers and jerks against him, and Ilya's pulse roars in his ears while the hand at Ilya's wrists clenches painfully tight and Shane grits out something Ilya fails to hear over the rush.
Suddenly, Shane is lurching upright, hand slipping from Ilya's mouth, and Ilya has just enough prescience over his lust-addled brain to hold in a relieved sob as he watches Shane lean over to finally tap at the phone next to them.
The screen goes dark as the call ends. Shane wrenches the earbuds away from his ears with a desperate whine. They clatter onto the floor somewhere beside them—Ilya can't be bothered to care where exactly—as Shane moves to grasp Ilya's chin firmly, tilting Ilya's face up and reclaiming his mouth in an urgent kiss. Ilya groans in white-hot relief and does his best to follow the movement.
Then between one demanding press of lips and the next, Shane rolls his hips, grinding his cock along Ilya's again with a renewed purpose—nothing withheld this time—and Ilya loses the ability to do more than pant against Shane's mouth and fuck gratefully up into the glorious friction.
"Shane—" his vision blurs at the edges. Shane hums and sucks at Ilya's bottom lip in reply.
"—Fuck—" the heat building at the base of Ilya's spine ratchets up a scalding series of degrees when his partner tightens his grip on Ilya's wrists and presses down into him in a particularly obscene twist. "Blyat, lyubimyy—" the words cut out on a loud, begging moan that tears from Ilya's chest.
Shane groans and pulls back, using his grip on Ilya's jaw to hold him in place against the sofa, hips easing to a slow rhythm and pulling another whine from Ilya. Ilya is so close it's blinding; Shane is the whole world above him, gaze searing, lips slick and parted.
Ilya's eyes flutter closed as another steady slide of Shane's cock flings him even closer to the edge.
"Didn't think you had this in you," Shane's voice is low, slightly ragged from this insanity between them but still far more controlled than Ilya knows how to handle.
Ilya's half-gone brain scrambles for some type of response, "Wh—" He's cut off by his own desperate groan when Shane chooses that moment to press a soft line of kisses along Ilya's jaw, hand moving to fist in Ilya's curls. The few seconds after that are lost to the frenetic tension coiling within him, reality going stretched and taut.
"What?" he finally manages grit out, word strained and choked, hips thrusting wildly up into Shane's.
Shane breathes out a moan against Ilya's ear, hand tightening against Ilya's scalp. Ilya is arching beneath him, nothing more than suspended heat and tension before Shane finally decides to answer.
"Being so good." The words are devastating and reverent.
And Ilya never stood a chance.
"Fuck!" Air rips from his lungs in a scream, the tension snaps within him, and he shatters in a relentless release: mind flung out into oblivion and pulse roaring as he spills into the fabric separating them.
Somewhere in the space around him, he vaguely registers the hands restraining him let go to soothe gently along his torso; the sensation on his overwrought skin drawing out the rippling aftershocks of his orgasm, sending his hands clutching for the material of Shane's shirt and pulling small whimpers from Ilya's throat.
"Oh my fucking god—" Ilya returns to himself at the awe-struck moan to find his boyfriend still hard and seated across his thighs. Blinking heavy eyelids open, he sees Shane staring back at him, eyes dazed, expression a ruin of lust and want. Then Shane breaks with a high-pitched noise, forehead dropping to Ilya's with an urgent, "—Ilya."
His voice is desperate, wrecked, everything Ilya has been trying for since Shane answered that damned call. Ilya needs his mouth on him right now or he may never recover.
He surges up to kiss him then, mouth starving, tongue forcing its way past Shane's lips with a possessive lick. Shane kisses him back messily, hands clutching, a fervent whine escaping his lips, nails digging into Ilya's shoulders. Ilya hisses at the sharp pressure and slides his hands pointedly along the outside of Shane's thighs so that that he releases his twisted hold on Ilya's legs. In lieu of praise, Ilya grips Shane's ass and grinds them together until Shane is breaking the kiss on a trembling gasp. Holding him close, Ilya takes advantage of the pause to shift forward and lift them both down to the floor.
Shane registers the change in position with a heady moan, falling back against hardwood and eagerly tugging Ilya back between his thighs.
Ilya follows easily, pulling Shane's legs up to wrap around his waist and bracing on either side of his partner's body so that he can lean down to trail hungry kisses along his jawline.
Strong hands grasp urgently at his waist. Ilya sucks a bruise into his favorite spot on Shane's neck and indulges in the near purr it pulls from his boyfriend's throat before pulling back slightly to look down at him. Shane is a vision beneath him, chest heaving, skin dewy, head tilted back against the flooring. Errant arousal shudders through Ilya at the sight. If he hadn't just come so blindingly hard, Ilya would fuck him right here.
Instead, Ilya saves that idea for later and pushes Shane's shirt up so that he can bite a path down Shane's exposed chest, pausing to suck and nip at a dark nipple in retaliation until Shane is panting above him, thighs a vice around Ilya as he whines and thrusts up mindlessly.
"Shit—Ilya—please." Shane's voice breaks around another moan, and Ilya smirks against his skin, earlier pride redeemed.
"You beg so nicely, kotenok," he murmurs, voice hoarse as he presses a final kiss to Shane's stomach and rises onto his knees. Shane's head lifts up from the floor, eyes flying open to fix Ilya with an intense, glowering response. Ilya raises his brow back and holds Shane's stare while moving his hands to purposefully trail along the edges of his boyfriend's shorts, popping open the button and sliding the zipper down. Shane's lips part on a breathy, "fuck," before he is dropping back onto the flooring with a soft thud. Ilya responds by tugging the material of the shorts and boxers underneath down just enough to free Shane's flushed, leaking dick.
And then he slides back further and rewards them both by taking Shane to the base in one smooth glide of his mouth.
"God, fuck!" Shane keens—a near-scream that echoes through the living room—hands flying to Ilya's hair and twisting so hard that he can't help but groan in response. Shane's hips jolt at the vibration, and Ilya pulls back to avoid choking, tongue lapping at the leaking tip while adjusting his hands to hold Shane still along the floor. Shane whines, abs tight, thighs shaking, already so close. Ilya only has to take Shane deep once, twice more, hollowing his cheeks before Shane is shouting his name and emptying down his throat in heavy spurts, collapsing back against the flooring beneath them after, strings cut.
Ilya pulls off of Shane to rest his forehead against the other man's hip, panting, and for a moment, the only sound in the room is the heavy gasps of air as both of them struggle to catch their breath. Ilya recovers first.
"So—," he begins, mind still not quite able to land on a coherent thought in the aftermath.
"Holy shit that was so fucking hot." Shane's words land between them in a single groaned rush.
Ilya lifts up to find Shane's wide eyes staring down at him. A pause: Shane's mind seems to catch up to his own sentence, Ilya's mouth twitches. And then they both dissolve into a fit of laughter.
He drops to place an affectionate kiss to his boyfriend's skin between laughs, "Hot is an understatement I think, solnyshko." Raising to meet Shane's eyes once more, he sends him a flirty wink, "Although not exactly what I expected when I decide to distract you."
Shane releases another bark of laughter, dragging a hand across his face and replying, "Ha, yeah, well results may vary." The words are said in the tone of a joke, but Shane's following expression becomes pinched and vulnerable in a way that has Ilya trailing calming kisses up Shane's torso and meeting his lips softly before his boyfriend can overthink and spiral.
"Was still a very good result," he assures when they part, and Ilya can feel the tension ease from Shane's body beneath him, his mouth smiling against Ilya's. Ilya presses another kiss to his lips before pulling back to shoot his boyfriend a cocky half-grin, "We will have to see what other results are possible, yes?"
Shane blushes a pretty shade of red and groans, "Oh my god, you're going to be a menace about this aren't you?"
Ilya just waggles his eyebrows suggestively at him in reply, and Shane releases an indignant huff, pushing half-heartedly at Ilya to roll-off of him. He moves with an easy laugh, stretching onto his back to watch Shane sit up. His partner fixes him with a mock glare, brown eyes sparkling at Ilya under a raised brow, before he chuckles in return and turns away to focus on tucking himself back into his boxers and fixing his clothes.
A little under a year ago, this moment had ended so differently. Shane panicked, Ilya reeling. Both of them drowning in the ocean of everything they refused to acknowledge between them. Bone deep fear keeping them from anything but the most passive attempts at being something more than casual.
Ilya so certain no one could ever want anything more from him. Destruction assured if he tried.
And yet here they are now, Shane standing and turning to him with a soft smile and an outstretched hand. Ilya allows himself to be helped up, and assumes that someday he might get used to the blindsiding feeling of being the person Shane Hollander actively reaches for now.
They pause for a moment upon standing, simply staring at each other and grinning aimlessly in the late morning light; until Ilya gives into the overwhelming fondness that tugs beneath his sternum and demands he lean forward to capture the smile from Shane's lips.
He tastes like sunlight, like home. And actually, Ilya will probably never get used to it: being free to reach for Shane in return. He doesn't want to get used to it. Doesn't want to ever take any of this for granted.
Blyat, he's becoming so incredibly soft.
"You do realize you can't do that," Shane disrupts Ilya's maudlin thoughts, breaking the kiss and gesturing toward the couch, "every time I'm on the phone right?" Shane's face distorts in mild horror, "Like what if that had been a brand, or Farah?" His eyes widen almost comically further, voice elevated as he continues, "Or, oh my god, you absolutely cannot do that when I am on the phone with my parents."
"No?" Ilya manages hold back his laughter at the adorable panic playing out on Shane's features, although he can't resist the urge to at least tease him for it, "They would not like knowing their son is having good sex?"
"Ilya!"
Ilya groans dramatically, "Oh my god Hollander, I am joking. Yes I know." He brings his hands up to jostle Shane's shoulders in an effort to lessen the furrow between his brow, "Don't worry lyubimyy you can make me a calendar or list."
Shane giggles at that, eyes crinkling, and Ilya decides to continue the bit,"Only approved phone calls for my boring boyfriend to get off during."
It works; Shane rolling his eyes with an affectionate, "Asshole," lips twisting into one of Ilya's favorite smiles before his eyes turn distant in thought. Ilya watches a new idea take hold.
A disbelieving chuckle escapes him, "Oh now you are actually thinking to make me a list." Godspodi, this ridiculous, nerd of a man.
Ilya is so ridiculously in love with him.
"I mean it's not the worst idea," Shane reasons, arms raising to rest on Ilya's shoulders as he brings his focus back on Ilya with soft eyes and a tentative shrug. "We could use a shared calendar in general."
Ilya feels the world tilt at the aching pang that reverberates beneath his ribs at the suggestion. No, it's the not the worst idea at all. He blinks against the burning edges of his vision. In fact, it's the very best. Ilya wants everything Shane is willing to share with him: calendars, plans, anniversaries.
A whole lifetime if Shane will have him.
Swallowing thickly at the sudden lump in his throat, he tries to reel in the insane urge to get down on one knee and propose after only eight weeks—dropping his arms to wrap around Shane's waist and settling on a more reasonable response, "Come on moya lyubov, you can plan calendar after I fuck you in the shower."
Shane's answering laughter is bright even as he mutters, "fuck off," and Ilya smirks and distracts his sappy, bleeding heart further by allowing his hands to slip down and squeeze his boyfriend's ass with a cheeky wink.
"Da, shower. Someone made me come in my pants like a teenager."
"Oh just someone?" Shane volleys back, cheeks rosy, eyes alight and playful. Ilya wants to bite him. Ilya wants to marry him. Shane interrupts both thoughts with a hand against his chest, walking him backwards toward the downstairs bathroom while he continues lightly, "Well, we can't have that."
Ilya simply laughs and lets himself be manhandled down the hallway by the person he loves. Lets the insatiable heat build between them again when his boyfriend gets distracted halfway there and presses him into the wall, both of them smiling too wide to really kiss. Lets himself gather more and more moments and pieces of Shane: when he sighs against Ilya's lips in the shower, when he leans into Ilya on the sofa after dinner, when he smiles lovingly up at him as they wake up next to each other the following morning.
Allows himself to file away these little tidbits of evidence that Ilya is wanted and loved, and that despite ridiculous odds they are both right here, right now. That the past eight weeks are not a fluke but a new constant.
And that maybe, just maybe, happiness can be a permanent result.