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Ilya had been in Montreal for forty-nine hours, and the city was trying to murder him with politeness in its quiet streets and courteous strangers who smiled too easily, leaving him feeling isolated in a way that gnawed at his edges.
He had smiled for cameras at Shane’s charity thing the night before, forcing a grin that felt like a mask as he stood two feet away while Shane charmed sponsors in perfect French, his words flowing smoothly like the wine being poured, while mothers pinched Shane’s cheeks with affectionate familiarity and told Ilya, in English, how nice it was that the boys were such good rivals, their words a reminder of the public facade they maintained despite the private truths between them.
He had drunk three vodkas in the corner, the sharp burn of the alcohol doing little to ease the tension coiling in his gut, and pretended he didn’t want to put his fist through the wall every time someone called Shane our golden boy, the phrase echoing in his mind like a taunt that highlighted his own outsider status in this foreign place.
Then, this morning, the call from Moscow arrived unexpectedly, pulling him back into a family history filled with shadows and unspoken regrets that he had long tried to outrun but could never fully escape.
His father had sounded small, almost fragile in a way that made Ilya’s heart ache with a mix of pity and frustration, like a child lost in a train station, his voice trembling through the phone line with an uncertainty that stripped away the image of the strong man Ilya had once idolized.
“Ilya? Is that you, my boy?”
“Yes, Papa. It’s me.”
“You sound far away.”
“I am in Canada.”
A long pause followed, heavy and filled with unspoken confusion that hung in the air like a fog, making Ilya grip the phone tighter as he waited for what would come next. “Did you win the Cup again?”
“Two months ago, Papa. I brought it home. You held it.”
Another pause lingered, stretching out like an endless void that allowed Ilya’s mind to race with worries about his father’s declining health. “Your mother wants to talk to you.”
Ilya’s stomach had dropped so hard that he’d had to sit on the hotel carpet, the plush fabric beneath him doing nothing to cushion the emotional blow that left him breathless and disoriented, his mind reeling from the implication of those words that dragged up old grief from the depths where he had buried it.
“Mama is dead, Papa. Twenty-one years.”
Silence enveloped the line, thick and suffocating, wrapping around Ilya like a cold embrace that chilled him to the bone. Then, confused, his father replied, “Are you sure?”
He had ended the call abruptly, thrown his phone against the mirror with a force born of frustration and despair, creating a spider-web crack across the glass that mirrored the fractures in his own heart and the fragmented memories of his family, and then sat on the floor for forty minutes staring at nothing until his legs went numb, the numbness spreading from his limbs into his very soul as memories flooded his mind unbidden, images of his mother’s face, his father’s once-strong hands, now weakened by time and illness.
It was now past eleven on the second night after the call, and Ilya was sprawled on Shane’s couch in nothing but low-slung sweatpants that hung loosely on his hips, revealing the sharp lines of his abdomen honed from years of training, hair loose and wild like an untamed mane framing his face with curls that fell into his eyes, one foot on the floor grounding him to reality amid the emotional storm, the other leg over the back of the couch like he was trying to take up every inch of space so the quiet couldn’t get in and suffocate him further with its relentless presence that amplified every troubling thought.
Shane came through the door still in his suit from whatever donor dinner he’d been at, the navy fabric perfectly fitted to his athletic frame that moved with a grace born of confidence, tie loosened around his neck in a way that hinted at the long evening behind him and the fatigue setting in, top two buttons undone to reveal a glimpse of skin that drew Ilya’s gaze despite everything swirling in his mind. He looked like a cologne ad, polished and composed on the surface with his hair neatly styled and his posture straight, but exhausted under it, with faint shadows under his eyes that spoke of the toll the night had taken on him, the lines of weariness etched around his mouth.
He dropped his keys in the bowl with a soft clink that echoed in the quiet apartment, kicked the door shut behind him with a decisive thud, and stared at Ilya for a moment as if assessing the storm brewing beneath his casual posture, his eyes searching for clues in Ilya’s expression.
“You’re still awake.”
“Could not sleep,” Ilya said. His voice sounded like gravel dragged over broken glass, rough and edged with the weariness that had settled deep in his chest from the sleepless hours and emotional weight. “Your city is too fucking polite. Makes me want to scream with its endless calm and lack of edge.”
Shane snorted, a short, amused sound that broke the tension slightly as he crossed the room with purposeful strides across the polished floor, stood over the couch, and looked down at Ilya like he was trying to solve a puzzle that had been eluding him all day, his head tilted slightly in curiosity. “You want a drink to take the edge off?”
“No.” Ilya’s eyes flicked over him, tracing the line of his collarbone where the shirt parted to show smooth skin, the strong column of his throat that bobbed slightly with his swallow under Ilya’s scrutiny, the curve of his mouth that held so many unspoken words and promises. “I want you to take your clothes off.”
Shane’s eyebrows went up in surprise, but the corner of his mouth curled in that familiar, challenging way that always sent a spark through Ilya, igniting something deep within him. “Bossy tonight, more than usual.”
Ilya sat up slowly, the motion deliberate as he fought against the dizziness that came from barley eating since yesterday, the room tilting briefly before it righted itself and he could focus again on Shane’s face. He met Shane’s eyes directly, holding his gaze with an intensity that left no room for misinterpretation or evasion.
“Tonight,” he said, voice low and laced with a need he couldn’t quite hide behind his usual bravado, “you are going to fuck me, Hollander.”
The air went out of the room in a rush, leaving a vacuum that pressed in on them both and heightened the tension crackling between them like electricity.
Shane’s mouth actually opened in shock, no sound coming out for a heartbeat or two as he processed the words. For once, Shane Hollander, king of trash talk and the fastest mouth in the league with his quick retorts on the ice, was speechless, his usual quick wit failing him in the face of Ilya’s blunt demand that hung in the air like a challenge.
Ilya leaned back against the cushions, spread his arms along the back of the couch like he was relaxing at a beach resort under a warm sun rather than in this tense apartment filled with unspoken emotions, his posture a deliberate mask of nonchalance that belied the turmoil churning inside him like a storm ready to break. “Yes? Or do I need to call someone who is not afraid to step in and give me what I need?”
“Don’t,” Shane snapped, so fast it cracked like a slap across the silence, his eyes flashing with a mix of possessiveness and anger that thrilled Ilya in a dark, twisted way he couldn’t deny. “Don’t you fucking dare think about anyone else.”
Ilya’s lips curved, slow and mean, a smirk that hid the desperation bubbling beneath the surface like a pot about to boil over. “Then get the lube, Hollander, and show me you mean it.”
Shane moved like someone had lit him on fire, his body springing into action with a urgency that matched the heat building between them and the fire in his eyes.
He grabbed Ilya by the wrist with a firm grip that sent a jolt through him like electricity, hauled him off the couch in one swift pull that made Ilya stumble slightly into him, and they stumbled down the hallway together, their bodies colliding in a tangle of limbs and heated breaths that quickened with each step, kissing hard enough that teeth clicked and the metallic taste of blood bloomed on Ilya’s tongue once more from the force of it, a sharp reminder of the passion driving them.
Shane shoved him against the wall outside the bedroom, the impact jarring but welcome as it grounded Ilya in the physicality of the moment, ground against him with hips that pressed insistently and sent waves of desire through him, hands already yanking at Ilya’s sweatpants in a frenzy to remove the barrier between them and feel skin on skin.
Ilya laughed into his mouth, breathless and mean, the sound rough around the edges from his raw throat and the emotions bubbling up. “Slow down. You think this is Christmas, some gift you’re unwrapping with your impatient hands?”
Shane bit his bottom lip hard in response, the sting sharp and immediate, drawing a hiss from Ilya that mingled with a moan. “You’ve never let me before, never given me this.”
“I know what I have never,” Ilya interrupted, his words clipped as he fisted Shane’s hair in his hand with a tight grip, yanked his head back so their eyes locked in a stare that was as much a challenge as it was a plea for understanding. “So you will not fuck it up, not with this trust I’m giving you.”
Shane’s pupils were blown huge, swallowing the warm brown of his eyes and turning them into dark pools that reflected Ilya’s own desperation back at him like a mirror to his soul. “Tell me if it becomes too much.”
“I will tell you if I want you to stop,” Ilya cut in again, his voice shredded from the emotions clawing at him and the anticipation building. “Until then, you do not stop. Da? You keep going no matter what.”
Shane swallowed visibly, the movement drawing Ilya’s attention to the line of his throat that he wanted to trace with his tongue, and then nodded once, a single, resolute gesture that sealed their agreement and set the path for the night ahead.
They crashed into the bedroom like a storm breaking over the horizon, the door banging open as they entered with a force that rattled the frame. Clothes came off in frantic handfuls, Shane’s jacket hit the floor with a soft thud that was lost in the chaos, shirt buttons scattered across the hardwood like tiny projectiles rolling under the furniture, Ilya’s sweatpants kicked somewhere toward the dresser in a careless heap that landed with a whisper of fabric.
Shane pushed him down onto the bed with a force that made the mattress dip under their weight and bounce slightly, and crawled over him immediately, kissing him like he was trying to crawl inside Ilya’s skin and claim residence there for good, their bodies aligning in a way that sent heat pooling low in Ilya’s belly and made his breath catch.
Ilya let him for ten seconds, savoring the dominance and the way Shane’s weight pressed him down, before his instincts kicked in and he decided to turn the tables. Then he hooked a leg around Shane’s waist with practiced ease and flipped them, sudden and brutal in the movement, so he was on top, straddling Shane’s hips in a position of temporary power that allowed him to control the pace for a moment. Shane’s cock slid hot along the groove of Ilya’s ass and they both groaned at the contact, the sound mingling in the air between them like a shared secret.
Ilya leaned down until their foreheads touched, the intimacy of the gesture contrasting with the raw need driving them both toward the inevitable. “You want to fuck me, Hollander?” His voice was barely a whisper now, raw with emotion and desire that he could no longer contain. “Then fuck me like you hate me, like every thrust is a punishment for all the times we’ve circled each other on the ice and off, for the rivalry that hides what we really feel.”
Something feral flashed across Shane’s face, a wildness that made Ilya’s pulse race even faster and his skin flush with anticipation. He surged up, kissing Ilya deep and filthy, tongue fucking his mouth like a promise of what was to come, exploring every corner with an intensity that left Ilya breathless and wanting more.
Then he manhandled Ilya onto his stomach like he weighed nothing, his strength a reminder of the athlete beneath the suit and the power he held, positioning him with hands that were firm but not unkind yet, guiding him into place with a determination that sent a thrill through Ilya.
Yes, Ilya thought, the word echoing in his mind like a mantra as he surrendered to the moment and the relief it promised.
Shane shoved two pillows under Ilya’s hips to angle him just right for what was to come, spread him open with rough hands that trembled slightly from the anticipation and the weight of the trust placed in him, exposing him completely in a way that made vulnerability crash over Ilya like a wave breaking on the shore.
Ilya buried his face in the sheets, the fabric cool against his heated skin and slightly rough from recent washing, and breathed through his mouth, waiting for the inevitable, his heart pounding in his ears like a drum beating a rhythm of urgency.
The first finger came with cold lube and blunt pressure that made him hiss, the burn immediate and sharp as it invaded him with a sensation that was both unwelcome and necessary. It had been fourteen years since anything like this, some drunk night in Moscow when he was nineteen and stupid, experimenting in the shadows of his youth with someone whose name he couldn’t even recall now, a fleeting encounter that paled in comparison to this moment with Shane, who knew him in ways no one else did or ever could.
Shane worked him open slowly, too slowly for Ilya’s liking as the pace allowed too much time for thoughts to intrude, the crooked finger searching inside him with a gentleness that contrasted the earlier frenzy and made Ilya impatient for more, gentle circles that made Ilya want to scream in frustration at the teasing pace that delayed the intensity he craved.
“More,” Ilya growled into the mattress, his voice muffled but insistent, demanding what he needed to push past the edge and into the oblivion he sought.
Shane added a second finger, and Ilya’s back arched hard, spine bowing off the bed in a reflexive response to the intrusion that stretched him further than he was ready for. The stretch was fire, bright and vicious, sending tendrils of pain and heat radiating through him from his core to his fingertips. His cock leaked against the pillow, untouched and aching with neglect, each drop a testament to the conflicting sensations coursing through his body and building toward something explosive.
Shane’s free hand stroked his back like he was a spooked horse needing calming, the touch soothing in a way that Ilya both craved and resented in that moment as it reminded him of his vulnerability. “You’re so fucking tight,” Shane murmured, his voice low and filled with awe mixed with concern that Ilya could hear even through the haze.
Ilya laughed, breathless and cracked, the sound bubbling up from deep within him despite the discomfort and the way it jarred his body. “You think I do this every weekend?”
Shane twisted his fingers in response, the motion deliberate and punishing, sending a fresh wave of sensation through Ilya, and Ilya’s laugh turned into a punched-out sound that echoed in the room like a gasp for air. He shoved back against the hand, taking them deeper, sweat already dripping down his temples and tracing paths along his skin, cooling in the air-conditioned room and raising goosebumps on his arms.
“Three,” he rasped, the word escaping him like a command born from necessity. “Now, before I take matters into my own hands.”
Shane hesitated for a fraction of a second, a pause that spoke volumes about his worry and the care he tried to maintain even in this heated moment.
Ilya reached back, grabbed Shane’s wrist with a grip born of impatience and determination, and forced a third finger inside himself, the action bold and unyielding as he pushed past the resistance. The burn flared white-hot behind his eyes, blinding in its intensity and making him gasp. He saw stars dancing in his vision, his toes curled so hard they cramped, muscles protesting the sudden strain that radiated up his legs.
“Fuck,” Shane choked out, his voice thick with a mix of shock and arousal that made Ilya’s heart race faster.
Ilya’s whole body shook with the effort to hold still, the tremors running through him like aftershocks from an earthquake. It hurt. It really fucking hurt. Not the good hurt that melted into pleasure, this was raw, borderline too much, like Shane was splitting him open with a dull blade that tore at his edges without mercy, exposing nerves and vulnerabilities he usually kept hidden. But the pain was loud and real and it drowned out everything else, Moscow’s cold streets, his father’s voice asking questions that pierced his heart like knives, the cracked phone screen that symbolized his fractured life and the way it had shattered his composure, the terrifying hollow place that lived under Ilya’s ribs and threatened to consume him if he let it expand.
He needed the pain to be louder than the quiet that had settled over him like a shroud since that morning call, a silence that amplified every doubt and memory.
He needed Shane to be the only thing in his head, the anchor in the storm of emotions swirling inside him, the one person who could see through his walls and still stand by him.
“Move,” he snarled, voice breaking on the word as he fought to keep control amid the overwhelming sensations. “Fuck, Hollander, move now before I lose my mind completely and this all falls apart.”
Shane started thrusting his fingers, slow at first to test the waters and ensure he wasn’t pushing too far too soon, then harder as he gained confidence and read Ilya’s responses, scissoring them to stretch Ilya further, the motions deliberate and increasing in intensity with each pass. Ilya’s breath hitched on every stroke, short gasps that filled the room with the sound of his need, his cock so hard it hurt, trapped against the pillow, precome smearing everywhere in sticky trails that cooled on his skin and added to the sensory overload.
Shane leaned over him, his chest pressing warmly against Ilya’s back in a way that provided a comforting weight, mouth against Ilya’s ear in an intimate whisper that sent shivers down his spine and made his skin tingle. “You’re shaking like you’re about to come apart at the seams, like the tension is too much to hold in.”
“Because you are terrible at this,” Ilya managed to reply, the words coming out thin and strained, his attempt at humor falling flat in the face of the overwhelming sensations that threatened to overwhelm him.
Shane bit his shoulder hard in retaliation, the pain sharp and grounding as it cut through the haze, and added a fourth finger without warning, pushing past the resistance with a determination that matched Ilya’s own and sent a fresh wave of fire through him.
Ilya screamed into the sheets, the sound muffled but raw, his whole body locking up in response to the intrusion that filled him beyond what he thought possible. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, real ones that blurred his vision and spilled over, the stretch was brutal now, obscene in its demand on his body and his limits. He felt flayed open, turned inside out, every nerve ending exposed and screaming for relief or more, he couldn’t decide.
“Stop?” Shane whispered, his voice trembling with concern and the weight of what they were doing, the responsibility he felt for Ilya’s well-being.
Ilya shook his head frantically, the motion desperate as he clung to the need driving him. “No. Do not, do not stop,” his voice cracked completely on the words that came out as a plea. “Please, do not stop, I need this more than I can explain right now.”
The please slipped out before he could catch it, a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show, and he felt Shane freeze behind him, the hesitation palpable in the way his body tensed.
Shane’s fingers stilled inside him for a moment, the lack of movement a torture in itself. “Ilya…”
“Keep going,” Ilya snarled, shoving back hard enough that Shane’s knuckles slammed against his rim with a force that sent another wave of pain through him like a shockwave. “I said do not stop, so you do not fucking stop.”
Shane pulled his fingers out slow and torturous, each inch a drag that made Ilya whimper, actually whimper at the loss, the emptiness sudden and aching in a way that left him yearning for more. Then the blunt head of Shane’s cock pressed against him, bare for one terrifying second that made Ilya’s heart race with the risk and the intimacy it implied, before Shane swore under his breath in frustration, rolled on a condom with shaking hands that fumbled slightly in the haste of the moment, slicked himself again with more lube to ease the way and reduce the friction.
He pushed in.
One slow, relentless slide, no pause, no mercy, until his hips were flush against Ilya’s ass and Ilya was sobbing into the mattress, tears and sweat and snot mixing on his face in a messy display of emotion, fingers clawing at the sheets in a desperate bid for something to hold onto amid the onslaught.
It hurt so much he couldn’t breathe, the fullness overwhelming, pressing against places inside him that hadn’t been touched in years, stirring a mix of pain and something deeper that he wasn’t ready to name or examine too closely.
Shane blanketed him, his chest heaving with exertion as he adjusted to the tightness, mouth against the back of Ilya’s neck in a hot breath that sent goosebumps across his skin and made him shiver. “Breathe, baby,” he murmured, the endearment slipping out like a lifeline thrown in the midst of a storm.
The word cracked something open in Ilya’s chest, a vulnerability he hadn’t anticipated in this moment of raw need, and he turned his face to the side, gasping for air that filled his lungs in short bursts. “Move. Please, move now before I shatter completely and lose myself in this.”
Shane pulled out and slammed back in so hard the headboard cracked against the wall with a resounding thud that reverberated through the room. Ilya screamed, raw and broken, the pain flaring brighter, hotter, perfect in its intensity, a blaze that consumed all other thoughts and left only the present moment.
Shane set a brutal rhythm, no warm-up, no gentleness to soften the edges, hips snapping forward with force that made Ilya’s body jolt, balls slapping against Ilya’s skin in a rhythmic sound that filled the room like a heartbeat. Every thrust punched the air from Ilya’s lungs, sent sparks exploding behind his eyes like fireworks in the night sky bursting in brilliant colors. Sweat dripped from Shane’s hair onto Ilya’s back, slid down his sides in rivulets that tickled and cooled his heated skin, adding another layer to the sensory overload.
Ilya’s cock was trapped against the pillow, untouched but leaking steadily, the friction almost painful as it rubbed against the fabric with each movement, building a pressure that begged for release. He reached underneath himself to jerk off, seeking some relief from the building tension that coiled tight in his belly, and Shane slapped his hand away with a sharp sting that echoed the bite earlier, pinned both wrists to the small of Ilya’s back with one hand and fucked him harder, the restraint adding another layer to the sensations overwhelming him and heightening the feeling of surrender.
“You don’t get to touch,” Shane growled, his voice low and commanding, laced with the authority that came from knowing Ilya trusted him. “Not until I say, not until you’ve taken everything I have to give.”
Ilya laughed, shattered and delirious, the sound bubbling up despite the discomfort and the way it jarred his body further. “Make me come like this then, mudak, or are you not capable of driving me over the edge without my help?”
Shane shifted his angle in response, nailed Ilya’s prostate so perfectly the world whited out in a blaze of sensation that erased everything else. Ilya’s back bowed, a strangled sound ripping from his throat like a cry from the depths of his soul, raw and unfiltered.
“There,” Shane panted, relentless in his pursuit, thrusting with precision that hit the spot every time. “There it is. Gonna make you cry on my cock, Rozanov, until you’re begging for mercy or more.”
Ilya was crying already, silent, furious tears that soaked the sheets beneath him and mixed with the sweat on his face. Because it hurt and it was perfect and Shane was everywhere, inside him with each thrust, around him with his body heat, breaking him open in ways that had nothing to do with sex but everything to do with the emotional barriers he had built over years of guarding his heart.
He needed this, needed Shane to wreck him so completely there was no room left for the sound of his father asking about a dead woman, the confusion in his voice haunting Ilya like a ghost that refused to be exorcised from his mind. Needed the pain to be louder than the terrifying thing clawing at his ribcage that felt suspiciously like love, a feeling he wasn’t ready to confront in the light of day or even in the darkness of this room.
Shane’s rhythm stuttered slightly, a sign he was nearing the edge as his breaths came faster. “Ilya, fuck, I’m close to losing it.”
“No,” Ilya snarled, his voice wrecked but determined to prolong the moment. “Not yet, please, not yet, I need more.”
The second please slipped out, desperate and unfiltered, a word that revealed more than he intended, and Shane made a broken sound behind him, a mix of arousal and concern that tugged at Ilya’s heart.
He let go of Ilya’s wrists, the release a sudden freedom, hauled him up by the chest so Ilya was on his knees, impaled and exposed in a position that left him vulnerable, Shane’s arm banded across his torso like a seatbelt holding him in place amid the turbulence. Shane wrapped a fist around Ilya’s cock and jerked him rough and fast, teeth scraping the back of Ilya’s neck in a way that sent shivers down his spine and made his skin prickle.
“Come for me,” Shane whispered, deadly soft and commanding, the words a trigger. “Want to feel it around my cock, feel you clench and fall apart in my arms.”
Ilya came with a sob he would deny until he died, long, shattering pulses that painted the sheets, his stomach, Shane’s fist in sticky warmth that cooled quickly. His vision blacked out, whole body locking up as Shane fucked him through it, drawing it out until Ilya was shaking, oversensitive to every touch, tears streaming down his face in unrelenting rivers that he couldn’t stop.
Only then did Shane let go, slamming deep one last time and coming with a guttural sound that reverberated through them both like a wave, hips jerking erratically, flooding the condom in pulses Ilya felt even through the latex, the sensation intimate and overwhelming in its completeness.
They collapsed sideways, still joined for a few moments longer, Shane’s weight a grounding anchor that kept Ilya from floating away into the void of exhaustion. Ilya’s legs shook uncontrollably from the strain, his ass throbbed, raw and abused from the intensity that had pushed his body to its limits. He felt flayed open, turned inside out, put back together wrong in a way that somehow felt right, the pieces realigned by the experience and the trust they shared.
Shane eased out carefully, slow and gentle now that it was over, the contrast to the earlier frenzy stark and touching in its care. He tied off the condom, tossed it toward the trash with a careless flick that missed by a few inches and landed on the floor, then he pulled Ilya against his chest, one arm locked around his waist in a protective hold that made Ilya feel safe, lips pressed to the bite marks on Ilya’s shoulder, soft kisses that soothed the sting and brought a sense of peace.
For a long time, neither of them spoke, the room filled only with their heavy breathing that gradually slowed and the distant hum of the city outside the window, a reminder that life continued beyond this moment.
Eventually Shane’s voice broke the silence, small against Ilya’s skin as he nuzzled closer. “Jesus Christ, Ilya. Talk to me, let me know you’re okay after all that.”
Ilya’s throat worked as he swallowed, the motion painful from the rawness left by his screams and sobs. He hurt everywhere, a deep ache that radiated from his core to his fingertips, a reminder of the intensity they had shared. His hole felt swollen shut, torn and hot, a throbbing that pulsed with his heartbeat. Blood and lube and come streaked his thighs in sticky trails that dried slowly, he could feel himself leaking, the sensation both uncomfortable and strangely satisfying as a mark of what they had done.
Shane’s hand slid down, gentle between his legs now, checking with careful touches that avoided pressing too hard. His fingers came away red, stained with blood that spoke of the intensity they had shared and the boundaries they had pushed. “You’re bleeding,” Shane said, his voice laced with concern that made his brows furrow.
Ilya huffed a laugh that sounded more like a sob, the emotion bubbling up unexpectedly from the depths. “Da. You are animal.”
“I hurt you.” Shane’s voice cracked on the words, guilt evident in every syllable as he searched Ilya’s face for reassurance. “I really fucking hurt you.”
Ilya turned in his arms, slow and wincing from the movement that pulled at sore muscles and tender skin, faced him directly to show the truth in his eyes. Shane looked wrecked, eyes red from the strain and perhaps unshed tears, mouth swollen from their kisses that had been as much battle as affection, guilt written all over his face like a mask he couldn’t remove no matter how hard he tried.
“You did what I asked,” Ilya said, his voice hoarse and barely there, each word an effort to push past the rawness. “It was what I needed.”
Shane searched his face, eyes scanning for any sign of regret or hidden pain. “Why did you need it like that, so raw and unrelenting in its demand?”
Ilya closed his eyes, exhaustion washing over him like a tide pulling him under. He was so fucking tired, the pain still there as a deep, constant throb that pulsed with his heartbeat and reminded him he was alive, but the noise in his head had finally gone quiet, replaced by a numb peace that allowed him to think clearly for the first time that day.
“My father called,” he said finally, the words heavy on his tongue as he forced them out. “He thought my mother was alive. Asked if I was sure she was dead, as if it were a simple mistake I might have made in my memory.”
Shane went very still, his body tensing beside Ilya as he absorbed the words.
Ilya laughed, wet and broken, the sound echoing in the quiet room with a bitterness that surprised even him. “He asked if I was sure. Like maybe I had forgotten the day she left us, the emptiness that followed her departure, the way it changed everything in our family.”
Shane’s hand came up, cupped Ilya’s cheek with a tenderness that contrasted the earlier roughness and brought a warmth to his skin. “Ilya…”
“I usually top,” Ilya continued, his voice distant as he delved into the confession that he had never fully voiced before, “because when I bottom I have to feel everything, every sensation amplified and unavoidable, every emotion laid bare without the buffer of control. And I do not want to feel everything all the time, I want to be in control, to dictate the pace and the pain, to keep the vulnerabilities at bay. I want to hurt someone else so I do not hurt myself in ways I can’t handle or recover from easily.” He opened his eyes, met Shane’s gaze with a vulnerability he rarely showed to anyone. “Tonight I needed to hurt more than I needed to breathe, to feel a pain so intense it overshadowed the grief and confusion that threatened to drown me. I needed the pain to be bigger than the thing in my head, the memories and the loss that threatened to swallow me whole and leave nothing behind. And you…” His voice cracked again, emotion choking him as he struggled to continue. “You are the only person I trust to give it to me, to push me to that edge and bring me back without judgment or hesitation.”
Shane’s eyes filled with tears, he didn’t blink, just let them fall freely down his cheeks in silent tracks. “I hate that you needed it this bad, that the world has pushed you to this point where pain is the only escape.”
Ilya leaned in, pressed their foreheads together in a gesture of intimacy that grounded them both in the present. “I hate it too, but it’s what keeps me going sometimes, what allows me to face another day.”
They stayed like that until Shane’s breathing evened out, the rhythm steady and reassuring as it synced with Ilya’s own. Then he carefully rolled Ilya onto his stomach with gentle hands that contrasted the earlier force, grabbed a warm cloth from the bathroom sink after running the water to the right temperature, cleaned him with shaking hands that were now tender and careful, gentle between his legs where the skin was most sensitive, wiping away blood and lube and come with slow strokes, pressing soft kisses to every bruise as if to heal them with his lips and erase the marks of their intensity.
Ilya let him, didn’t move, didn’t speak, just surrendered to the aftercare that soothed his battered body and soul, the touches a balm that eased the ache.
When Shane crawled back into bed, he pulled Ilya against his chest, spooning him carefully to avoid aggravating the soreness that radiated from every muscle.
“I’m sorry,” Shane whispered into his hair, the words soft and filled with regret that lingered in the air.
“Do not be.” Ilya’s voice was barely audible, fading as sleep tugged at him like a gentle current. “Just hold me, keep me here in this moment where I can find some rest.”
Shane held him until morning, his arms a safe harbor in the storm that had raged through Ilya, the steady rise and fall of his chest a lullaby that finally allowed sleep to claim him.
And for the first time in weeks, Ilya slept without dreaming, the pain a distant echo as peace finally settled over him like a blanket, wrapping him in its embrace.