Work Text:
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October 12, 2011, Boston, MA, a hotel, post the Boston Raiders vs. Montreal Metros for their first game of the season
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November 15, 2011, Boston, MA, a hotel
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November 24th, 2011, Boston played in Ottawa and won, Montreal did not play
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December 19th, 2011, Montreal, QC, after a Boston win against Montreal
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January 23, 2012, Boston, MA, a hotel, after a Montreal win against Boston
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A few minutes later
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Shane is pacing. He’s so stupid. He’s so stupid. What had he been thinking? A life of calculated apprehension, careful planning, no unnecessary risks, and now look where he is?
Of course he’d figured it out. The coincidences were too obvious. They were in the same town only on the nights Montreal played Boston. From there, it wasn’t hard to figure it out. He had ‘Russian’ in his damn screen name. Plus, those abs. Shane had only seen them once, two years ago, in the showers. He can’t say he’d recognized them on their own, but with the context clues?
He should have deleted his account the moment he realized it was Ilya Rozanov on the other side. Ilya Rozanov, the man that made up one half of the most famous rivalry in all of the MLH. Ilya Rozanov, the man he despised, the man who was Shane’s match, the one he’d spoken nothing but sharp quips after games for the last few years.
He hadn’t, though. Because he was stupid.
Not only that, but the universe hates him. When had he even dropped his wallet? Probably after the game, heading back up to his hotel room. Stupid, stupid.
And then Rozanov has the audacity to message him on Grindr, because he still hasn’t figured it out. Shane hadn’t been as obvious. Shane doesn’t have a gold cross we wears on his chest. Shane isn’t Russian. Shane is in the clear.
Shane wants Ilya Rozanov to take him in his hotel room, hard and fast.
Two knocks come at his door.
It strikes him, that in the course of his pacing, he’s tidied up and fixed his hair and put on nice pants and a grey shirt, and maybe he’s brushed his teeth, and maybe he’s also put on a little cologne.
He opens the door, only a few inches, and looks at Rozanov standing there, grinning brightly.
“Well?” Shane asks.
Rozanov frowns. “You are very ungrateful, you know. It is lucky it’s me who found it, and not some deranged fan of yours, hm?”
Shane sighs. “Can I just have it?”
Rozanov takes the hand he’s held behind his back out, and for one delusional moment, Shane thinks it might actually be his wallet.
No such luck. It’s a bottle of vodka. “Company?” Rozanov asks.
“It’s late,” Shane answers.
“Loosen up. One drink, and I give you back your wallet. It’s good vodka. Very nice stuff,” he says, swirling the bottle around.
“Fuck,” Shane whispers, but he steps away from the door, and storms over to the arm chair, leaving Rozanov to shut the door and follow.
He takes two glasses from the bar by the windows of the large room and pours some vodka in each, quiet, then brings Shane a glass. He holds it out, but just as Shane reaches for it, he jerks it back a bit.
“You played well tonight,” he says.
“Thanks?”
Rozanov hands the glass to Shane for real this time, but he almost seems deliberate with the way he glides his thumb over Shane’s knuckles. A flash of a memory from some two years ago washes over him; the time Rozanov had handed his water bottle to Shane in the hotel gym.
“Thank you,” Shane says, and watches as Rozanov takes his own glass and sits on the bed. He kicks his shoes off and scooches up it, resting his back on the headboard.
“Sure, yeah. Make yourself at home,” Shane says sarcastically.
“We are in Boston. This is my home,” he says.
“I didn’t mean- never mind,” he says.
Rozanov takes his phone out, and it’s then that Shane has the genius idea to silence his own. Just in case. He doesn’t need a notification sound coming through if russianstallion decides to send hollabackgirl a message on Grindr.
Rozanov sets his phone back down on the bed. “Do you ever go out? Celebrate?”
“Sometimes,” Shane answers, too quickly.
Rozanov nods once. “Not tonight?”
Shane shakes his head. “Tired.”
Rozanov nods at the untouched glass in Shane’s hand. “You do not have to drink it.”
“I know,” Shane says, but he brings the glass to his lips and takes a sip. It tastes like any other vodka he’s ever had.
Rozanov is smiling triumphantly, which just tells Shane he’s done exactly what he wanted him to. Duh. Tell him he doesn’t have to drink it so he drinks it. Christ. Shane’s got to get it together if simple reverse psychology is working on him.
“I’ll leave soon,” he says then, quieter. “Got… hm. Lonely,” Rozanov says, like it’s a question, like he’s surprised he even said it.
Shane frowns. He shouldn’t care. It’s just, when he looks at Rozanov’s face, slightly illuminated by the dim lights around the base of the room, and the city lights shining in through the window, Shane thinks maybe he looks sad.
“It’s fine,” Shane says softly. “Why didn’t you go out?”
“Hm. Thought maybe I would have a visitor, but I don’t tonight,” he says with a shrug.
Shane nods and takes another sip of the vodka. He wishes he had cranberry juice, but he also doesn’t need Rozanov teasing him for not liking the taste of straight liquor.
Rozanov is quiet for a minute, but then he downs the rest of his glass and sets it on the nightstand before standing. He reaches into his pocket and takes out Shane’s wallet, setting it next to the glass.
“I should go,” he says.
You don’t have to, Shane thinks.
“Okay,” he says instead.
Rozanov puts his shoes back on and stops briefly when he gets to the door. “You are my favorite person to lose to,” he says, and slips out the door before Shane can even reply.
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An hour after Ilya leaves
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January 28th, 2012, different cities
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February 22, 2012, different cities, two days before their next game in Montreal
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Right before the game in Montreal
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Right after the game
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Shane makes his way up to Rozanov’s room. He showered quickly after the game and he’s in athletic wear; a compression top and some track pants. Really, he wants to go home and take a longer shower, a long, hot shower to decompress after the game, and then an early night. His hair is still damp as he knocks on the door.
It opens immediately, as if Rozanov had been standing right behind it, waiting.
He steps back, making room for Shane, so he steps into the room. He stills when Rozanov steps close, reaching past him to shut the door.
He smells nice.
In Shane’s arms are a signed puck, a signed head shot, and a signed jersey. He wasn’t sure what size, but he did one that could fit an older kid, so he could grow into it.
“Hi,” Rozanov says softly, stepping back.
“Hey. Here’s some stuff for the kid,” Shane says, holding it out.
Rozanov looks it over. “That is very nice of you.”
Shane shrugs.
“Come in. You can set it here,” he says, nodding to a table. He takes a few steps further and sits down onto an armchair.
Shane obeys, settling the carefully folded jersey down, and placing the puck and photo on top.
“Okay. Uh. I should probably head home,” he says.
“Montreal doesn’t have a game tomorrow,” Rozanov says.
“No. It doesn’t.”
“So you don’t have an early flight,” he continues.
“I don’t.”
“So you can stay.”
“I thought you were going out?” Shane asks, and fuck. It’s a mistake. His first one, really. One tiny slip, and it's confirmed Rozanov's suspicions and given Shane away entirely.
Rozanov breaks into a smile so wide, he looks like a different person. He looks younger, lighter, happy.
“Please,” he says, still smiling. “I wanted it to be you so much. I wanted it to be you.”
Shane’s eyes drop to the floor. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
“We can’t.”
“I can,” Rozanov says, a slight smirk forming on his lips, and then he spreads his legs so they’re open and wide in the chair.
Shane’s eyes flick between them briefly before he looks back down. “Why did you have to push?”
Rozanov clicks his tongue. “Because I want more. So do you. You’re going to survive on sexting for the rest of your life, Hollander? Mediocre sex with women you don’t want, and sexting with men because you are afraid?”
“Hey, fuck you,” Shane snaps, louder than he’s been so far.
It only makes Rozanov grin more. “We could have so much fun together.”
“I have to go,” Shane huffs, spinning on his heel.
“Thank you for the autographs,” Rozanov calls after him, seconds before he slams the door shut behind himself.
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Twenty Minutes Later
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February 28, 2012, After Montreal plays San Fransisco
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March 2, 2012, different cities
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The next day
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March 9, 2012 - A picture of Shane with Rose gets posted online, and tabloids start reporting on their relationship
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The last week of the regular season. Neither Boston nor Montreal make it to the playoffs
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May 10, 2012, different cities, post season
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June 12, 2012
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August 2, 2012
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August 14, 2012
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September 18, 2012
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They do see each other. Not just on the ice, where Montreal wins their first pre-season game against Boston. They see each other after, at a bar. Shane is with Rose, because over the last month of summer, she had realized something about him, but they’ve also become friends. She was happy to get a few days away from her busy schedule and go out with him in Boston. Ilya is there too, with the woman from the picture. Svetlana.
They don’t talk. They don’t interact. Shane dances with Rose and laughs with his teammates and nurses a beer. Ilya dances with Svetlana, a bit more filthily than Shane had danced with Rose. They keep looking at each other, though. Prolonged eye contact, even as Ilya’s hand slides up Svetlana’s side, even as his tongue does far more than it needs to as he brings a drink to his mouth.
Eventually Shane leaves, heading back to his place with Rose, because he’s hosting her for the weekend, because they’re friends now. It’s much better this way. He doesn’t see Ilya as he leaves.
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October 16, 2012, Boston, MA, after their first game of the regular season, with Boston winning
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Shane Ubers to the building, sending a single ‘here’ text when he arrives. He watches as Ilya opens the door to it. He knows he wouldn’t have been followed, but still, he looks over his shoulders before he jogs up the steps to the entrance.
“Hi,” Ilya says, grinning.
Shane doesn’t answer until the door is shut, and they’re at the elevator. “Hey,” he says quietly.
“Relax. No one will see us here,” Ilya says.
“I know,” Shane bites back, too quickly. Fuck. He needs to relax. They step into the elevator, and he leans on the back wall of it, the furthest from Ilya as he swipes a keycard and presses the button for the penthouse.
He turns around then, his eyes raking over Shane. “You act like I am wild animal. I am going to pounce on you in the elevator,” he says.
“Would you?”
Ilya laughs a little at that. “Maybe. I would like to. But I won’t.”
Shane nods, and he can’t say if he’s disappointed by the answer or not. The elevator brings them to the top floor, and Ilya leads the way inside.
It’s nice. Of course it is. There are large windows, dim lights, marble counters, a large leather couch.
“Can I get you a drink?” Ilya asks.
Shane can’t help but notice the way he keeps his distance, like he doesn’t want to spook Shane. He supposes he’s to blame for that.
“Uh, no. I’m okay.”
“Okay. You tell me if you change your mind.”
“Sure,” Shane says.
“Do you want to… hang out?”
Shane lifts an eyebrow.
“Okay, okay,” Ilya says, putting his hands up in mock surrender. “I don’t know. I spend so much time wanting this to happen. I don’t want to freak you out if I rush into it,” he explains.
Shane almost feels guilty. “No, uh. It’s okay. Bedroom?”
Ilya does smile at that. “Yes.”
He leads them down a hallway to a large bedroom. There’s a king bed in the middle, with a fluffy looking duvet, and more tall windows with lush looking velvet curtains.
“It’s nice,” Shane says.
“Yes. How do you like blowjobs? Do you want me on my knees? Do you want to lay on the bed?” Ilya asks.
Shane runs a hand over his face. “Jesus, man. I don’t…” He doesn’t know how to say it. If Ilya thinks he’s only here to get his dick sucked and leave, because that’s what Shane’s agreed to, he feels bad. He’s not an asshole. He does want his dick sucked, but he doesn’t want it to be a whole thing where he’s just using Ilya, and Ilya accepts it because it’s all he can get. “The bed,” he says finally, because that’s easier than explaining.
Shane starts to undress then, pulling his sweatshirt over his head. He folds it before setting it on an arm chair. Ilya watches.
“You can undress too,” Shane says.
“Right. Yes. Usually I am more… confident,” he says, chuckling a little.
Shane takes his pants off next, folding them and setting them on his sweater, and when he looks up, Ilya is naked. Fully. And he’s hard. Shane has to force himself not to stare.
Right. Shane slips out of his briefs last, and climbs into the bed, laying in the middle of it. Ilya steps up to the edge of the bed and looks him over.
“You are so beautiful,” Ilya says softly.
Shane is hard too, and he watches Ilya as his eyes trace over Shane’s chest, down his abs, and land on where his cock is already leaking below his belly button.
Ilya climbs onto the bed, on his hands and knees, until he’s over Shane, his entire body caging Shane in, his hands on the pillows on either side of Shane’s head, his knees on either side of Shane’s hips. He leans in slowly, slow enough that Shane could stop it, could pull away. He doesn’t.
Ilya’s lips are so soft on him, slightly parted, a little wet. They slot together so easily with his own, and he kisses Shane gently, like he’s waiting to see his reaction. Shane needs more. He kisses back, leaning up to chase it, and he can feel when Ilya smiles against his mouth, happy and triumphant. It doesn’t matter. It feels too nice. He rests his head back on the pillow, because it’s clear now that Ilya knows Shane wants it, he isn’t holding back. He kisses him more deeply, his tongue slipping between Shane’s lips, then licking over his bottom lip, then going back into his mouth and sliding against his own tongue.
It’s incredible. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever done. Without realizing he’s done it, his ankle is hooked around the back of Ilya’s thigh, and he tries to tug him in closer.
“Mm-fuck,” Ilya groans into Shane’s mouth. “You are so eager,” he murmurs, using the word Shane had taught him last year.
“Please,” Shane gasps. “I need,” he says, not finishing his sentence. He just needs.
“Yes. You will get,” Ilya answers, and then he pulls back, moving down the bed. He kisses Shane’s neck, then down to his chest. He sucks on one of his nipples, then gives it a wet, open mouthed kiss before moving down further. He kisses over Shane’s ribs, even as Shane’s body jerks from sensitivity, and then he moves down more. He licks his abs, and Shane props his head up with a pillow so he can watch as Ilya sinks lower. He bypasses his cock for a devastating moment to kiss his inner thighs, and by this point, Shane is desperate. His cock is hard and leaking and bobbing against nothing.
“You want this, yes?” Ilya asks.
“Yes. Fuck. Yes,” Shane manages to get out.
“Can I touch myself while I do it?” Ilya asks, looking up at Shane with slightly pleading eyes.
What? Oh. Because Shane had agreed to come over under the condition of getting his cock sucked and not having to do it back.
“No,” Shane says.
Ilya’s face falls.
“No, just…” Shane huffs. He’s so horny it’s hard to get words out. “I’ll do you after. Okay?”
Ilya looks like he’s won the lottery. “Really?”
“Yes. Yeah. Whatever you want. Please, just…” he looks down at his neglected cock.
“Yes,” Ilya nods, and then his mouth is on Shane. Holy shit. His mouth is hot and wet and he suctions it, pulling Shane into it, engulfing him. There are slick, wet sounds of slurping and kissing as he starts to move up and down, his head bobbing on Shane’s cock. Shane can only gasp, and then that turns into a slightly pathetic whimper which he can’t be bothered to care about.
“Oh, fuck,” Shane moans. “Rozanov, fuck.” There’s no way he’s going to last any respectable amount of time. It feels so good, so right, and Ilya is talented. He moves up and his tongue swirls around the head, then he moves down and he hollows out his cheeks and sucks. It’s so much. It’s too much. Ilya glances up, his pretty eyes, his perfect face. Shane brings a hand up to Ilya’s hair. “Hey, hey, wait. I’m gonna cum, I’m-” he tries to warn him, but it slams into him then. He’s cumming, spurting into Ilya’s mouth as his head falls back and he can’t do anything but ride it out, pleasure pulsing through his body as he cums. It feels like it goes on so long, and still, Ilya doesn’t pull off, sucking him until he’s swallowed every drop.
Only then does he pull off. Shane opens one eye to look at him. Fuck. He’s grinning.
“Sorry,” Shane says quietly.
“What? Why sorry?”
“I… Tried to warn you,” he says.
Ilya laughs, a lighter sound than normal. “Don’t be sorry. I wanted it. Fuck, you are fun. Knew you would make pretty sounds for me,” he says.
“Fuck,” Shane says, because he feels fucked out.
“You don’t have to, but, ah… I am very hard. Horny. I can go jerk off…” Ilya starts.
“No. I want to.”
“Okay,” he says, and then nudges Shane over slightly to lay beside him. Shane looks down at where Ilya’s cock is hard and flushed on his abs. He’s not cut, and he’s huge. It’s intimidating.
Ilya reaches down and gives himself a few loose strokes, sighing, and then Shane can’t wait any longer.
“If I’m bad-” he starts, but Ilya clicks his tongue.
“Trust me, I will like it,” he says.
Shane nods, and he moves down the bed, crawling between Ilya’s legs. He braces himself on one hand, and brings the other up, giving him a few strokes as well, just to get a feel for it, before he leans in. He licks it first, a long swipe of his tongue from the base up to the head, and he laps up the slightly salty pre-cum.
Ilya shivers beneath him, and when Shane looks to his face, he looks entranced. His pupils are blown, his lips parted and wet, and he gives a single nod.
Alright. Shane opens his mouth and takes Ilya’s cock into it, shutting his eyes. Fuck. He likes it instantly. It feels so firm and heavy in his mouth, and he has to stretch his jaw to accommodate it. He moves down, but the head of it hits the roof of his mouth, so he adjusts his angle to take it further in his throat until he feels like he might gag on it. That has to be good enough. It’s all he can manage.
He tries to remember what Ilya had done, and he bobs his head, mindful of his teeth, and he sucks a bit as he moves, keeping his lips tight.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya moans above him. “Yes, that is so good. You are quick learner,” he praises.
It only encourages Shane as he picks up the pace, bobbing his head up and down, letting his tongue lick over the shaft as he goes.
“Yes, just like that,” Ilya praises.
He only goes a few more seconds before Ilya is gently pulling him off, and Shane watches with interest as Ilya takes no more than a few seconds to jerk himself off to completion. He groans, deep and low as he cums, his abs tensing, his cock pulsing in his hand as he spills all over it and onto his abs.
“Wow,” Shane whispers.
“Unmph-” Ilya groans. “Come here, please. Kiss me,” he says, his voice sounding so wrecked and desperate that Shane can’t imagine not listening to it. He leans in and kisses Ilya, and this time is sloppier than before, both of them a little dazed, tongues loose and wet, before it finally breaks.
“Fuck. Was good for you?” Ilya asks.
“Yeah,” Shane answers breathlessly. “You?”
“Oh, yes. So good. Lay down. I will go wash up and come back with water, okay?” He asks.
Shane nods. He feels a little exposed now, and the slight sheen of sweat on him is drying which makes him cold, but he doesn’t want to give the wrong impression by getting under the blankets. He doesn’t want Ilya to think he’s assuming he can stay. So he pulls his knees to his chest and waits for Ilya to return, which he does, a few minutes later, with two glasses of water. He hands one to Shane and gets onto the bed next to him, throwing an arm around his shoulder.
“I think this was a bad idea,” he says.
Shane’s stomach plummets. “What? You’re the one who’s been asking!”
“Noooo,” Ilya says, the word drawn out. “No, not like that. Because now I am addicted. It was so good. Now I will want you all the time. I’ll drive you crazy, Hollander.”
Shane laughs then, though it takes his heart a few more seconds to catch up after the slight panic. “Oh. You already do that.”
“Mm,” Ilya agrees. He sips his water before setting it on the night stand, and then he kisses Shane’s shoulder, cold and wet from the water. “Don’t go.”
“I have to. Early flight.”
Ilya nods. “Okay. I’m happy you came over.”
“Yeah,” Shane agrees, getting up. “Me too.” He puts on his clothes as Ilya watches, and then he pauses awkwardly at the bedroom door. “See you around.”
“Yes,” Ilya agrees.
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November 12, 2012, different cities
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November 15, 2012, different cities
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November 21, 2012, one day before their game
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November 22, 2012, Montreal, QC, right before their game
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Right after the game, Montreal won
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Shane is waiting at the side door before he gets the ‘here’ text. He cracks the heavy metal door open enough to see Ilya walking up. He must’ve been dropped off at the front and walked to the side, which sort of defeats the purpose of Shane’s calculated conspicuousness for suggesting the side door, but no one is around, so he lets it go. That, and the fact that this isn’t his home. It’s the building he bought, the one that’s still being renovated, but the bedroom is done enough, and that’s what counts.
“Hey,” Shane says quickly, his breath visible in the air for the brief moment it’s outside, before Ilya steps inside.
“Hollander,” Ilya breathes out. “Hi.”
He has him pinned against the wall before Shane can react, kissing him breathless before Shane remembers they aren’t even inside his unit yet. It doesn’t matter that he owns the building.
“Woah,” Shane says, pushing him off. “Can you at least wait until we’re in my condo?” He asks.
“Mm. No,” Ilya says, before leaning in again to kiss Shane’s neck like it’s his life source. He sucks on it, needy and desperate, before Shane lifts his knee and presses into Ilya’s crotch. He lets out half a moan before it’s cut off when Shane adds pressure and pushes him off.
“Fuck’s sake,” Shane breathes. “Come on.” Ilya steps away, grinning, but he follows Shane to the elevator. Once they're inside, he leans on the wall and Shane’s eyes follow his hand as it moves down his chest, over his abs, and cups his bulge, squeezing it. Fuck. His eyes roll back and he groans, wanton and sinful.
“This elevator could have cameras,” Shane says sharply.
“Ah. Then we win lawsuit when they leak the video,” Ilya says, but he dutifully places his hands at his sides.
The elevator brings them to the top floor and Shane leads them inside. There are ladders and paint buckets, exposed pipes, but it shouldn’t matter, right? Not when the bedroom is done.
Ilya stops in the doorway. “You live here? Is construction zone,” he says.
Shane laughs. “I’m renovating. I live nearby. Just bought this place as an investment.”
Ilya frowns. “Ah.”
“What?” Shane asks, toeing his shoes off at the door.
“You did not want me to see where you live,” Ilya says flatly.
Oh. Shane hadn’t necessarily thought about how this might come off.
“I understand,” Ilya starts, not moving from where he’s standing in the entryway with his shoes on, “That we need to be secret. I understand that people cannot know. You think maybe I don’t know this, that I am… too risky. I don’t take it seriously.”
Shane doesn’t answer.
“I’m right, yes?”
“Yes,” Shane agrees, because it’s true. He does think Ilya is a little too nonchalant with it all.
“Do you know what would happen, if people knew? Do you think I could go back to Russia?” He asks.
Shane doesn’t answer. No. He doesn’t know.
“No. I understand what is at risk. For us both, yes? In hockey. So maybe, we would lose sponsorships. Maybe we would lose hockey. And then what? You could go home to your perfect family, Hollander. I would not be able to go home,” he says, his voice cracking at the end.
Shane swallows, feeling deeply embarrassed.
“So, yes. I understand we can’t be seen. But you don’t even trust me to see your own home. You bring me to this,” he flourishes his hand, “with paint and wires. Do you think I don’t have feelings?”
“Ilya,” Shane says, speaking the man’s first name out loud for the first time.
“I think I should go,” Ilya says.
“Please,” Shane says, his voice cracking on the word. He hadn’t even considered… he’d let his own paranoia, his pathological need for control, all of it, come before the feelings of a person he cared about, despite how much he tried to deny it.
“It was nice to see you,” Ilya says.
“Don’t go,” Shane says. “Don’t go.”
Ilya’s lip twitches, and for a horrifying second, Shane thinks he might cry.
“Goodnight, Hollander. Good game,” Ilya says, and then he’s leaving, the door latching beside him.
Shane feels frozen, his brain telling him to chase him, but his feet stay planted. He cries on the couch. He doesn’t deserve the finished bedroom. He deserves the smell of paint and sealant.
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An hour later
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December 6, 2012, different cities
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December 28th, 2012, after their game in Boston where Ilya and Shane did not meet after. Montreal won.
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January 14th, 2013, right before their game in Montreal
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Boston wins, and the truth is, Shane is happy. It doesn’t mean he didn’t play his best, it’s just… well. He’s excited to see Ilya after a win. Seeing him smile with his team… it felt good. Almost as good as if he’d won.
His place is homey right now; lived in. There’s actually food in the fridge, drinks, a candle is lit. He got a plant. Sure, it will probably die the next time he goes on the road, or he’ll ask his housekeeper to water it, but it’s something. It’s okay to have a home, and it’s okay to let Ilya into it, he tells himself. Maybe he’s been compartmentalizing in more ways than he can keep track of, and maybe it’s okay to blur some of those lines.
He doesn’t tell Ilya to go to the side of the building. He waits until he gets the ‘here’ text, and then he heads down. He doesn’t need to be waiting outside the door to snatch him inside like he’s some secret. Shane gets down the elevator and opens the front door, letting Ilya in.
“I missed you,” he says immediately, because he can’t help himself. He feels like a fucking dog who’s been waiting at the door for its owner. He’s awkward with his hands, bringing them to clutch at Ilya’s biceps.
Ilya gives him a questioning look. “Did you hit your head?” He asks.
Okay. So. It’s possible Shane has spent the past two months 1. Wallowing in misery over his own stupidity and 2. Thinking about Ilya constantly to the point he’s maybe built up more feelings for him, when really, this is their second hookup ever.
Get it together, for fuck’s sake.
“No,” Shane says quickly, dropping his arms. “I just missed you. Sorry. I think I still feel bad about last time.”
Ilya waves his hand in the air dismissively. “Is fine. In the past,” he says. Shane doesn’t know if it’s a defense or not, because it had seemed important at the time, but he isn’t going to blow this by questioning it.
“Okay. Uh,” he says, and leads them to the elevator. He takes them to the top floor. It’s less showy than Ilya’s, a little smaller, wood instead of marble, but there’s no doubt that it’s a luxury apartment.
Ilya looks around as Shane takes his shoes off. Ilya kicks his own off too, then, which is a step further than last time. “Is nice,” he says, appraising.
“Thanks. Um. Do you want a drink?”
Ilya thinks for a moment. “Yes.”
“I got the vodka you like. Imported it,” he says.
Ilya laughs at that. “Wow,” he says, his mouth moving exaggeratedly around the word. “You really are trying to make up for it, huh? Should be mad at you more often.”
Shane huffs. “Do you want it?”
Ilya tilts his head. “Yes. I do. Hard to resist,” he says.
Shane is just happy to do something for him. He takes out a glass and adds a large square ice cube before pouring a decent amount in it, and hands it to Ilya.
“You are not having?”
“Oh,” Shane says, because he’d sort of forgotten about himself. He doesn’t particularly like it, but… well. He pours himself a glass too.
“Bedroom?” Ilya asks.
“Yeah,” Shane agrees. He leads them to his room. It’s simple, boring, clean. Ilya’s had been more ornate, but this is fine for Shane. He sets his glass on the nightstand, and watches as Ilya takes a long sip.
“Mm. Very nice. You are nice to get this for me,” he says.
“It’s no problem. I think, uh. You got me soda once.”
Ilya laughs, low and sexy. “Yes.”
“Do you want to…” he trails off.
“You are cute when you’re trying to be in control,” Ilya says, setting his own glass down. “Come here.”
Shane does. He crosses the room and stands in front of Ilya, looking up at him.
“You know I missed you too, yes? So much. Shane,” he says, breathing out his name, just above a whisper. “I missed you,” he repeats, moving one hand to Shane’s lower back, the other to his throat, gently holding it.
“Please kiss me,” Shane whispers.
Ilya doesn’t make him wait a second longer. His mouth crashes into Shane’s, firm and needy, fervent kisses that are fast but deep, his tongue plunging into Shane’s mouth. Shane does his best to respond, moaning into the kiss. It feels like Ilya needs this, like the two months have been just as hard on him as he swallows every moan.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya gasps, pulling away. He pulls Shane’s shirt over his head before taking his own off, and then he’s frantic as his hands tug at Shane’s pants. Shane gets the memo and undoes them, and then they’re both stripping, pulling their pants and briefs down. Shane doesn’t even fold his.
Ilya places a firm hand on Shane’s chest and pushes him back onto the bed before he climbs on top of him, pinning him down with his hips. More kisses come, to Shane’s face, his neck, his chest, and Ilya positions them so that Shane is splayed out in the middle of the bed.
“Can I fuck you?” He asks. It’s so simple, said so softly, the gentlest ask, his eyes vulnerable and pleading.
“Yes,” Shane says easily.
“Thank God,” Ilya says.
Shane leans over, shifting beneath Ilya to get to the bedside drawer. He retrieves a sleeve of condoms and a bottle of lube, and sets them on the bed beside his hip.
Ilya nods at them, and he moves down on the bed, lower. At first, Shane thinks he’s going to suck his cock first, but he moves even lower, his hands going to rest on Shane’s hips. “Roll over. Is better angle for what I want,” he says.
Shane obeys, rolling over onto his stomach. He shivers when he feels Ilya’s warm breath on him, on his ass, and then those large hands go to cup it, spreading him open.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” Ilya murmurs, and then Shane feels the warm, wet glide of Ilya’s tongue between his cheeks, right over his hole.
His mouth falls open onto the pillow and he whines. “Oh, fuck, Rozanov.”
He swears he can feel Ilya smirk against him, and then the motion is repeated, another firm lick, before his tongue points and circles Shane’s hole, teasing.
He wants to beg, but he doesn’t even know what for. It’s so good. It’s so different, so vulnerable. He can feel himself leaking onto the bed as Ilya continues. His tongue presses then, pushing past the tight opening, and holy fuck, Ilya Rozanov’s tongue inside his ass. He feels him move, his tongue thrusting inside, licking and exploring him.
Ilya moans, deep and low, and Shane can feel it vibrate against him as he keeps going. Shane’s hands are clutching the duvet, grappling for some kind of hold on something. It is too much, but he never wants it to stop. He feels exposed and consumed, and he can’t do anything but moan and whine and bite down on the pillow.
Eventually Ilya pulls off. “Fuck,” he gasp. “I could do it for hours.” Instead though, Shane hears him uncap the lube, and then it’s a finger going to his ass, circling it slowly like his tongue had. “Is it okay?”
“Yes,” Shane says desperately. Embarrassing. Whatever.
Ilya’s first knuckle pushes in, and he’s so slow, so gentle with it. It’s not an entirely unfamiliar feeling, because Shane has done this to himself before, but it’s also so new. Ilya’s finger pushes in deeper, and then he fucks it in and out of Shane, his other hand gripping his hip.
“You are so tight,” Ilya breathes. “Fuck, I can’t wait to be inside you.”
“Please,” Shane gasps.
“You beg so pretty,” Ilya says, and then a second finger is pushing in with the first. Once they’re settled, stretching him, Ilya moves, curls his fingers, and fuck. Shane’s entire body jolts as Ilya massages him from the inside, his fingers pressing right on the spot that makes Shane’s vision white, makes his cock spurt pre-cum onto the bed.
“Oh, fuck. Please. You need to fuck me, please. Want to cum from your cock, not gonna last,” Shane babbles.
Ilya chuckles behind him, the fucking asshole, and he pulls his fingers out. “So impatient, Hollander. I knew you would be slut for it,” and Shane can’t even deny it. Not when he hears the condom wrapper open and his back arches, as he pushes his ass up.
“Yes, like that,” Ilya says. Another moment goes by, and then Shane feels the blunt head of Ilya’s cock rub against his hole. Ilya rolls his hips, letting his cock glide between Shane’s cheeks before he lines up and presses in.
It’s so much. Shane feels like he’s being split open, like there’s no way he can take this, but he does. Ilya slowly pushes inside him, a hand splayed out on Shane’s lower back. “You’re okay?” He asks.
“Yes, fuck,” Shane gasps.
“You are doing so well,” Ilya praises, and then finally he settles, seated all the way inside of Shane. “Look at that,” Ilya says reverently. “First cock to take this ass, yes?”
It’s fucking filthy. It’s so hot. He feels claimed and taken and owned as he answers, “yes.”
“Good,” is all Ilya says before he starts to move. He pulls back and rolls forward, slow, even movements that aren’t quite thrusts yet. He’s easing Shane into it.
Right when it gets to the point Shane thinks he’ll go insane if Ilya doesn’t give him more, he does. This time after he pulls back, he snaps his hips forward, pushing Shane up the bed.
A moan is punched out of him.
He does it again, once, then again, until the individual movements blend together and he’s fucking Shane, thrusting into him fast and hard, each movement causing the sound of skin slapping to echo in the room.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya moans. His hands are now gripping Shane’s hips to hold him up because otherwise he’d be collapsed onto the bed. He feels used and taken, as Ilya fucks him hard, takes his hole, drills into him. He’s so strong, Shane thinks, his thighs carrying him forward as he fucks Shane.
“Fuck,” Shane gasps, because pleasure is building in him, the way Ilya’s cock keeps hitting the right spot. He feels his balls tighten and his cock twitch. “You’re gonna make me cum.”
“Yeah?” Ilya asks, his voice reverent. “Without touching it? Fuck, yes. I want you to cum for me, Hollander. Cum from just my cock, yes,” he says, the words coming out between gasps and thrusts and groan.
“Fuck, fuck, I’m cumming,” Shane gasps out, his untouched cock spilling out over the bed, rope after rope of cum fucked out of him as Ilya keeps thrusting, fucking him through his orgasm.
“Fuck,” Ilya gasps above him, and he leans down, his arms wrapping around Shane’s chest and pulling him up so that Ilya’s entire chest is pressed to Shane’s back. He bites Shane’s shoulder, and it does a poor job of muffling the groan that comes out of him as his hips stutter and slow into short rolls forward as he spills inside of Shane.
He licks over the bite softly before collapsing on top of Shane, dropping his entire body weight onto him. Ugh. Shane tries to ignore that the entire front of him is pressed into his own cum.
“Lyubimyy,” Ilya breathes out, still inside of Shane.
“Mm?” Shane asks, because he doesn’t know what it means.
“You did so well,” Ilya says instead. “Worth the wait?”
“Yeah,” Shane nods. “Uh,” he says, shifting a bit.
“Mmph,” Ilya grunts, petulantly. “Noooo. I want to stay here. I want to live here,” he says, rolling his hips forward, his softened cock pressing slowly into Shane’s sore, overstimulated hole.
“I’m laying in my own cum,” Shane says.
“Ugh. Fine,” Ilya huffs, and he pulls out, rolling over onto the bed. “Go shower, yeah?”
Shane nods, standing. He’ll deal with the mess on his sheets after.
He washes himself thoroughly, fingers pressing to his hole, sensitive and used. When he comes back out with just a towel around his waist, he finds his sheets in a hamper, and Ilya just finishing putting new ones on.
“Oh. Thank you,” he says, surprised.
“Sure. Mind if I wash up?”
“Go ahead,” Shane nods.
Ilya walks past him, but stops and spins on his feet, pulling Shane in for another kiss. It’s gentle, brief, and then he disappears to the bathroom before Shane can react.
Ilya steps out a while later in just a towel. Shane has changed into sweatpants and is lounging on the bed.
“Wow,” Ilya says simply, which makes Shane laugh.
“Do you have food?” Ilya asks.
“Yeah. Uh,” he does, but he doubts Ilya will like any of it. “There’s um… overnight oats, chicken and broccoli…”
Ilya rolls his eyes. “Okay. Do you have peanut butter?”
“Almond butter okay?”
“Christ,” Ilya says, running a hand over his face. “Yes, Hollander. Overnight oats with almond butter is what I want after fucking you.”
“Shut up,” Shane laughs.
“It’s okay. I should go anyway.”
“Because I don’t have peanut butter?” Shane says, pouting a little.
“Because I have early flight. And because almond butter is disgusting,” Ilya says, but he steps over to Shane and kisses him softly, and that makes up for it.
He changes then, and Shane watches, his eyes running over the muscles in Ilya’s back and thighs as he pulls his clothes back on.
“I’ll see you next time,” Ilya says softly.
“What did it mean? The Russian word?”
Ilya’s lips quirk. “Mm. Like darling. Favorite,” he says.
“Say it again?”
Ilya leans in right to Shane’s ear and speaks the word so softly. “Lyubimyy.”
“See you,” Shane says, and then Ilya walks out of the room. Shane doesn’t breathe until he hears his front door latch.
---
January 20, 2013, different cities
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January 29th, 2013, different cities
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February 2, 2013, different cities
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February 16, 2013, Boston, MA, Ilya's apartment after the game
---
Ilya is thrusting deep inside of Shane, punching gasps out of him each time. They’re facing each other this time, Shane’s legs propped up on Ilya’s shoulders. It’s so good. He’s leaking onto his abs, panting, and he can’t stop looking at Ilya. His eyes are so intense, locked onto Shane, his lips parted.
Shane reaches for the hand that’s grabbing his chest and Ilya squeezes it. It’s not what he wants, though. He takes the hand and glides it up, watching as Ilya’s thrusts slow and his eyes follow their hands until Shane sets it over his throat and lets it go.
“Yes? This is what you want?” Ilya asks, wrapping his hand around Shane’s neck.
“Yes,” Shane breathes out.
“Okay. Fuck. You tap me if it’s too much, yes?”
“Yes. I’ll tap you,” Shane agrees.
“Shit,” Ilya gasps, and then he tightens his hand on the sides of Shane’s throat, holding his neck.
It’s everything. It’s dizzying and it makes Shane’s head buzz, it makes his nerves feel alive. He feels helpless and for once, it’s not bringing him into a panic. He swallows and feels his throat bob against Ilya’s hand.
Ilya. Ilya looks at him like he’s the world. It’s disarming and encompassing. His thrusts pick up again, and he fucks Shane hard, his hand pressing firmly as he goes. A bead of sweat drips from his forehead onto Shane’s chest.
“Fuck, I’m close,” Ilya gasps. “Touch yourself.”
Shane obeys instantly, his hand going to wrap around his cock, and it takes no time at all before he’s cumming, his eyes squeezing shut, his body pulsing with pleasure.
“Fuck, I can feel you cum,” Ilya moans out, before he too is spilling inside of Shane, fucking him through his orgasm.
He lets go of Shane’s neck then, and rolls onto the bed beside him, plastering kisses all over him, his cheeks, his chin, his hair, his neck where Shane can still feel the imprint of his fingers.
“Holy shit,” Shane exhales.
“Was good?”
“So good. I loved it,” Shane says, still feeling a little out of his own body.
“You are perfect,” Ilya murmurs. “You’re okay here? Lay down and I’ll get towels to clean up.”
“Yeah,” Shane nods, letting his eyes shut. He only opens them again when a warm, wet washcloth is wiping over his chest, cleaning the cum from him. Ilya moves it down then, and drags it over Shane’s hole, gentle and caring, despite how vulnerable and intimate it feels as he wipes up any excess lube.
“Good boy,” Ilya says softly. “You want to rest while I make us food?”
Shane shakes his head. “Wanna be near you.”
“Okay. You can rest on couch, then. You can see me cook this way,” he says. He goes to a drawer and pulls out sweatpants that will be too big on Shane, but it doesn’t matter. He hands them to him, and takes his hand, guiding him out of bed so he can change.
A few minutes later, Shane is curled up on the couch with a blanket, in Ilya’s sweatpants, and Ilya is cooking on the kitchen island in eyesight.
Shane lets himself relax as he listens to the sound of chopping and cooking. Sometimes Ilya hums to himself a little. He’s not sure how much time goes by, thirty or forty minutes, and then Ilya is bringing two bowls over to the sofa, setting them on the coffee table.
“It smells good,” Shane says, sitting up.
“Is very healthy for you,” Ilya says.
Shane looks at the bowl. It’s a clear broth with carrots and leeks, pieces of flaky fish, and fresh herbs.
“Ukha,” Ilya says. “Traditional Russian soup. My mother would make when I was little. Is not,” he gestures his hand dismissively, “fancy. But is very good. I hated it when I was little. Now I like it,” Ilya says.
“Thank you for making it.”
Ilya purses his lips together for a brief moment. “Of course. Eat,” he says.
Shane picks the bowl up and tries a bite. “Oh my god,” he says. “It’s so good.” It really is. The fish is cooked well, and it’s herby and warming, and kind of exactly what he had wanted.
“Good,” Ilya smiles, picking up his own bowl. Ilya turns the TV on to a sports recap show, and they eat their soup in comfortable silence. When they’re finished, Ilya takes the bowls to the kitchen.
“It’s very late,” he says, leaning on the counter.
“Oh,” Shane stands suddenly. “Right, yeah. I can head out.”
Ilya looks toward the bedroom. “Just stay. Leave in the morning. Doesn’t make sense to go out this late, hm? When is your flight?”
Shane’s heart skips a beat. “Not until ten.”
Ilya nods. “You’ll stay here, then,” he says decisively.
“Okay,” Shane agrees. Only when his cheeks hurt does he realize how hard he’s smiling.
---
February 19, 2013, different cities, late at night for Ilya who played in Philly while Shane played in LA
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The next morning
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February 24th, 2013
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February 25, 2013, after the two mentioned games
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February 26th, 2013, different cities
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February 27th, 2013
---
Shane pulls up to the arrivals line at the Montreal airport a little after two. He waits, anxiously looking to the doors until he spots him. He’s not easy to miss. He’s huge and he towers above people. Ilya is in a hoodie and track pants, a baseball cap obscuring his face, but Shane would recognize him anywhere. He’s got a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, and Shane watches as he scans the cars. He rolls down his windows and yells out, “Roz,” watching as Ilya’s head snaps in the direction of the sound, and when he breaks into a grin.
He jogs over, letting himself into Shane’s car. “This is what you drive?”
“Shut up,” Shane says, but he’s smiling a little manically. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Come here,” Ilya says, pulling Shane in for a kiss. Shane pulls away, afraid of being spotted, at the same time a car behind him honks at him to pull up, so Ilya huffs and leans back into his seat dramatically.
“I fly all the way and you don’t want to kiss me,” he grumbles.
“I do,” Shane says, pulling into an exit lane. “Trust me, I do.”
Shane navigates out of the airport and to his condo. He’s quiet, and Ilya fiddles with the radio, finally landing on some pop station.
Shane can feel Ilya looking at him, analyzing him. He’s not sure why. He doesn’t even know why he’s being quiet and weird. Ilya is here. Ilya flew out to see him. Maybe it’s just knowing that in a few hours, it’s gonna be even harder.
A new song comes on the radio, and Ilya lifts his fist up to his mouth, as if he’s holding a microphone. “I threw a wish in the well,” Ilya sings along, overly theatrical, looking at Shane. “Don’t ask me, I’ll never tell.”
“Stop,” Shane says, looking at the road. Ilya’s being silly and distracting him, and all he can think about is how in four hours, he’ll be driving the reverse route to take Ilya back to the airport.
“I looked to you as I fell,” Ilya continues, the song sounding ridiculous with his deep voice, “and now you’re in my way.” This time he moves his other hand, the one not holding the imaginary microphone to Shane’s leg, “I trade my soul for a wish, pennies and dimes for a kiss, I wasn’t looking for this, but now you’re in my way.”
It’s possible Shane has started smiling. He tries to fight it, it’s just… Fuck. He loves Ilya. And Ilya is in his car, in his city, singing fucking Call Me Maybe, just to get Shane to relax.
“Your stare was holding, ripped jeans, skin was showing, Hollander you better sing the fucking chorus with me,” Ilya sings along, singing his own lyrics to the tune of the song.
Fuck it.
“Hey I just met you,” Shane sings along with Ilya, and he’s laughing now, glancing over to Ilya who looks absolutely elated that he’s managed to crack Shane’s stoic mood. “And this is crazy,” they half sing, half yell together, “but here’s my number, so call me maybe.”
That’s as far as they get before the two of them are laughing, Ilya throwing his arm around Shane’s shoulders as he drives.
“See?” Ilya says once they recover. “Is not so bad. I am here. We are laughing. We are very good hockey players and very bad singers. Things are okay, yes?”
“Yeah,” Shane nods. “Thank you.”
It’s so stupid. They’ve just sung a stupid pop song together, and everything seems a little better. Ilya knows what Shane needs, knows how to cheer him up.
It’s gonna fucking hurt when he leaves.
They fuck. It’s the first thing they do the moment they get through the door. Ilya is on him, kissing his neck, pulling his clothes off, sucking and licking every inch of skin he can reach as Shane moans and tries his best to grind against Ilya’s thigh.
Ilya steps away briefly to take his own clothes off, and then he’s spinning Shane around, until they’re at the kitchen island. He bends Shane over it. “I want to be inside you,” he growls in Shane’s ear.
“Go get lube,” Shane gasps.
“Yes. I will,” he says, before biting Shane’s ear, which makes him shiver beneath Ilya. “I don’t want to use a condom,” Ilya whispers.
“Oh.”
“I’ve been tested.”
“Me too,” Shane says. He has, not that he’s ever been with anyone without using a condom.
“Can I?”
“Fuck. Yes,” Shane says.
“God. Thank you,” Ilya purrs, kissing his neck once more before he disappears briefly and returns with lube from Shane’s night stand.
He fucks him against the counter, his hand splayed between Shane’s shoulders as he thrusts into deeply, long, firm strokes that make Shane gasp and whine.
Ilya comes first, maybe for the first time since they’ve started doing this, which makes sense, given it’s his first time with nothing between them.
It’s that thought that makes Shane cum immediately after, shooting ropes of cum all over the cabinet. Ilya’s cum is in him, nothing separating them, fucked deep inside of him.
“Fuck,” Shane groan, nearly collapsing against the counter after.
They shower together, kissing each other throughout it. They order food, delivery from a sandwich and salad place. They eat, they cuddle, they watch TV.
Ilya blows him, and Shane returns the favor.
When there’s only a half hour left of their time together, Ilya takes Shane’s hand.
“Hi,” he says softly.
“Hi.”
“Can I just say it? Please?” Ilya asks, his expression soft and vulnerable, making him look years younger.
Shane can’t speak, so he just nods.
“I love you,” Ilya says softly.
Shane isn’t sure how he gets his mouth to work, but he does. “I love you too.”
Neither of them cry on the drive to the airport, but Shane has to pull into the parking lot to sob once he drops Ilya off.
---
Later that evening
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March 1, 2013, Montreal's next home game. Shane suffers a hit and is taken off the ice on a stretcher.
---
---
Hours later, around one in the morning
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The next morning
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---
Later that afternoon
---
They video chat, which mostly entails Shane using the new vibrating, thrusting dildo Ilya had sent him, moaning and gasping and cumming all over himself while Ilya watches and strokes his cock until he brings himself over the edge.
Shane is a little breathless after, and Ilya frowns. “You are okay? Was it too much?” He asks, concern lacing his tone.
“I’m okay. I’m good. Fuck, I’m not even gonna need you anymore, not with this toy,” Shane teases.
“Shut up. Toy can’t suck your cock like I can,” Ilya says.
“Hm. I guess you’re right.”
They’re quiet for a moment before Ilya speaks. “So. Maybe after the season ends. After I win the cup. Then…” he trails off.
“Can you stay a few more days before going home? You could come up to my cottage. Meet my parents,” Shane answers, and the words should terrify him, but somehow they don’t.
“Yes,” Ilya answers. “I would love this. Will your parents… Um. What will they think?”
Shane chews his lip for a moment. “I think I’ll come out to them first, you know. So it’s not such a shock. I’m sure they’ll be more surprised by you than by me being gay but… they’re good. They want me to be happy. They’ll like you,” he says.
“You think so?”
Shane laughs a little. “Okay, maybe they’ll be confused at first. But yeah. Once they see us together? They’ll like you.”
Ilya smiles softly. “Okay. Will be hard to go home after that.”
Shane nods. “Maybe this week, uh. We can talk about stuff. Like. Your family. Russia. I don’t know.”
Ilya hesitates. “Is not a nice story.”
“That’s okay. It’s you. I want to know,” he says.
“Then I will tell you.”
---
March 5th, 2013, later that week, after their phone call
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---
April 16th, 2013, the first week of playoffs. Boston made playoffs while Montreal did not
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---
June 13th, 2013, tie breaking Cup game
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---
After Boston wins the Cup
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---
The next day
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---
A few days later
---
It goes well. It goes the way Shane would have expected, that is. He comes out to his parents a few days prior, and he knows that’s the easy part. It’s not easy, of course. It’s terrifying, but his parents are great. That makes the next part easier. The Ilya Rozanov of it all.
His parents are justifiably confused, but they’re able to get past it, once they wrap their heads around it. Ilya is great. He lets Shane take the lead, but he steps in when Shane struggles for words, when he feels overwhelmed. He answers the logistical questions for Shane. They’d decided to leave out the Grindr part, instead saying they connected after Ilya had returned Shane’s phone at the hotel. That seems a little more wholesome. Shane picks at food while Ilya houses a plate of spaghetti, and then they’re alone again, driving back to Shane’s cottage.
“It went well, yes?” Ilya asks once Shane is pulling out of the driveway.
“Yeah. I think so. Right?”
“Yes,” Ilya agrees.
“I’m probably gonna spiral later.”
“I’ll be here,” Ilya says, setting a hand on Shane’s knee.
“I know. But then…” he trails off. Then Ilya won’t be.
“Maybe… this will be the last time I go back. This summer. And then I will stay here, if I can.”
Shane’s head snaps to Ilya. “What?”
“If you want,” Ilya says defensively. “Could spend summers here. Have more time with you.”
“Ilya. Of course I want that. Just… I don’t want you to have to choose me over your family.”
Ilya scoffs. “Would be a very easy choice.”
Shane is quiet after that, driving them back to his cottage. He pulls into the driveway, and Ilya sets his hand firmly on Shane’s knee.
“Stay here. Don’t get up yet.”
“What?” Shane asks, but he listens, his eyes following Ilya as he gets out and walks around the front of the car. He opens Shane’s door, and leans down, scooping him up.
Shane laughs a little incredulously, but he allows it, lets Ilya carry him out of the car bridal style, hearing the sound of him shutting the car door with his hip.
“What are you doing?” Shane laughs into Ilya’s neck, his arms going up to wrap around Ilya’s shoulders for stability.
“What do you mean?” Ilya asks, walking them to the door. “I won the cup, hm? I’m taking my prize home,” he says, rolling his eyes like it's obvious.
That gives Shane shivers up his spine. “Your prize?”
“Mm,” Ilya makes a low, gravelly sound in his throat. “Yes. My prize. Best prize ever. My prize to ravish,” he says, hoisting Shane up a bit, enough to reach in his back pocket for the house keys. “My prize to do whatever I like with,” he purrs, close to Shane’s neck, as he maneuvers Shane like he weighs nothing, unlocking the door and carrying him inside.
“Ilya,” Shane breathes out, as he’s carried through the house. “Hall to the left, last room,” he says.
Ilya follows the directions, leading them down the hall, and finally, he deposits Shane in his bed. Shane looks him over once, propping himself on his elbows.
“Hm?” Ilya asks.
Shane shakes his head. “Nothing, just… can’t believe we’re here. From… you know. Grindr. To my house. Can’t believe you’re here,” he says, feeling warm and giddy and a little untethered to earth.
“I will make you believe it. I will make you believe I am here, so every part of your body is sure of it,” Ilya says, pulling his shirt over his head. “My prize is too covered up.”
Shane undresses, lifting his hips up to pull his pants down, and Ilya helps him halfway, pulling them off. Shane watches then, as Ilya folds them before setting them on the chair. Shane stills, watching him.
Ilya looks at him a little blankly. “Shirt. Off,” he says, waving his hand at Shane. “Hollander. You are staring. Less staring, more undressing,” he says, as his hands go to his own fly and he pulls his pants down.
“You folded my pants,” Shane says softly.
“Oh,” Ilya says, looking from the folded pants to Shane. “Ah, yes. You like them folded.”
Shane smiles, soft and affectionate. He feels seen. He feels known in a way he never had before. “Yeah,” he nods. “Now come fuck me,” he says, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it at Ilya’s face, making him laugh.
Later, when Shane’s thighs feel the burn of riding Ilya hard and fast, when his hips still feel the imprint of Ilya’s fingers, he watches his boyfriend sleep, Ilya’s head resting on Shane’s shoulder.
Shane’s neck is marked up, because Ilya had asked so pleadingly, so needy and loving and like he would die if he couldn’t get every part of Shane he wanted. “Please, Shane. We don’t have games, this one time, let me mark you. I want to see it tomorrow,” he had begged, and Shane had bared his neck, whimpered and writhed as Ilya sucked marks into it.
He reaches his hand up and traces gentle circles into Ilya’s scalp. He watches his face, relaxed and peaceful. In a few hours, they’ll get up. Shane will pack sandwiches, and they’ll eat them outside, overlooking the water. Maybe they’ll have a fire. Maybe he’ll blow Ilya. They’ll say they love each other. Ilya will go back to Russia, in just under forty-eight hours.
But Shane will be his, and he will be Shane’s.
“Mph,” Ilya groans, half asleep. “Come lay on me,” he says sleepily. “Hollabackgirl.”
“Don’t call me that,” Shane says, but he moves, stretching his body out on top of Ilya’s, listening to his heart beat as he dozes off.