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The next time they see each other it’s been three months. They’re at a Nike group photoshoot for rising star athletes, young professionals who’ve left an “indelible mark” on their sport. Shane can almost hear Ilya’s voice: “Rising? I’m top of game, nothing rising about me in hockey.” But he’s here anyway, so someone must’ve convinced him.
Shane can’t help but feel indignant, but not shocked, at the way Ilya seems to make friends immediately with the other athletes. He watches as the blonde makes a joke about soccer versus football, accent catching on the r, and the guy who’s probably going to be the youngest drafted in US and Canada men’s soccer history laughs until he’s crying. Ilya is tall and proud, handsome as ever, and something twists in Shane’s chest.
It was never that easy for him to make friends within hockey once he was actually serious about it. He was always the youngest, the fastest, the sharpest—it didn’t earn him a lot of friends. That’s why he wanted, emphasis on the past tense, to like Ilya. As cliche and narcissistic as it sounded, it was lonely at the top.
Here in this room full of other young stars, Shane thought for the first time he might feel less alone. Instead, he’s standing, alone, sweating lightly in his suit, watching Ilya ham it up with the others.
As if sensing that Shane is there, thinking about him, Ilya turns his head to make eye contact. Nothing about him has gotten less intense since the night they hadn’t kissed. Shane looks away quickly, knowing his ears are aflame.
“Shane, right?” A voice comes from his left. He turns to find a woman smiling at him.
She’s slight but clearly muscular, her arms bare in a black floorlength dress. She holds out her hand for him to shake, “Alyssa. I’m one of the gymnasts.”
“Alyssa, hi, yeah—sorry my hand’s wet, holding this water bottle—nice to meet you, Shane, hockey,” He feels so fucking awkward and unsociable but she just smiles and shakes his hand anyways. She already knew his name, there was no need to reintroduce himself.
“You ever been to one of these before? My dad said I had to go–quote, good for the brand. Might help me score a sponsorship for the Olympics.” There’s an eye roll at the end, like a sponsorship and the shoot is almost beneath her. “I don’t really care about anything but Olympic gold at this point, y’know? Who gives a rat's ass what I’m wearing?”
Shane likes her immediately. The sponsorships and the free stuff is always cool, but at any moment in time, Shane wants to be playing hockey. He wants to be thinking about hockey, talking about hockey, practicing so he can truly be at the top of his game.
“I, uh, yeah, had something like this a while back. A lot of hurry-up-and-waiting.” It was that photoshoot with Ilya, the one he’d asked for Shane to be involved in, but he doesn’t mention that. Alyssa grins, as if what he said really was that funny. “I’d rather be playing hockey, too.”
“Y’know, I read a crazy article about you when I found out you were going to be here, something about–”
She’s interrupted by Ilya, who’d sauntered over as if beckoned by Shane interacting with someone that isn’t him. He looks good, too good, shoulders filling out the suit he’s in. It’s starting to piss Shane off.
“Hollander, I see you’re making friends, да?” He tilts his head, evaluating Shane next to Alyssa. Shane wonders what he sees.
Alyssa turns toward Ilya, expression open but body language guarded. She must feel some of the tension radiating off Shane because she doesn’t extend her hand, just keeps her arms crossed, one hand clutching a Coke like it might be a weapon if she needs one. Shane likes her even more.
Ilya doesn’t extend a hand, just leans into one hip and tucks his hands into his pockets. It makes his shoulders bulge in the jacket. “I’m Ilya, I play hockey.”
“Like Shane? You as good as him?” She’s unimpressed. Shane has to hold back the smile that threatens to break out, turning his face into his shoulder slightly. He feels the way Ilya watches the movement.
Ilya grins, a glint in his eye that sends a spark down Shane’s spine. “Better than him on worst day. Ask him about my Stanley Cup.”
Alyssa shoots a sidelong glance at Shane, her face twisting into a smirk. It doesn’t surprise him she’s amused by the chirping.
Shane tries at casual annoyance as he tries to keep from grinding his teeth together. “That’s all your team, Rozanov, let me know when you catch up to my goal count.”
The responding laugh is loud and unashamed, “He is like angry kitten, как это сказать, hissing?”
At least Alyssa covers her mouth with her free hand when she begins to giggle softly, and Shane forces himself to exhale slightly. “You’re funny, I’ll give you that, but I’m sure Shane’s a better hockey player than you.”
Shane misses what Ilya replies, but he can hear the tenor of it as Ilya takes the comment on the chin, his baritone rumbling in response. Alyssa’s response sounds equally underwater as the two go back and forth, settling into an easy rhythm.
“I need to go to the bathroom.” He announces loudly, breaking whatever conversational cadence had built.
To her credit, Alyssa doesn’t blink, just gestures off to her left, “Had to use it earlier, it’s a couple flights up but there’s an elevator if you don’t want to totally sweat out of your makeup.”
“Thanks. Be right back.” The last part he says just to Alyssa as he brushes between her and Ilya.
He doesn’t mean to get that close, but maybe it wasn’t his fault they touched. If Shane had a clearer head, he’d have noticed the way Ilya shifted forward almost imperceptibly to let his hand brush Shane’s as he moved. It’s barely more than the side of Ilya’s thumb grazing the back of Shane’s hand, but it feels like an iron brand.
By the time he’s made it to the elevator, Shane thinks he might be having a panic attack. He gets himself to the hallway outside the bathroom, approximately twenty signs printed with bright red text and arrows indicating where the men’s room is.
He needs a fucking moment. Just a moment. Without watching Ilya rib Alyssa, who’d aligned herself with Shane without a moment of hesitation, but still clearly found Ilya as amusing and charming as everyone else seemed to. Without being in that room full of other people so much like him, eager to get back to their training instead of being there, and wanting to not feel so alone.
But of course, Ilya finds him. Probably managed to find a polite way to foist Alyssa off on another athlete so he could come and bother Shane.
The footsteps come first, then the tips of Ilya’s dress shoes in the periphery of his vision. Shane refuses to look at him, just keeps staring at the scuff that runs from the middle of the floor to the wall. He wonders what made it, sharp and distinct in the way it drags from the center of the tiles up past the baseboards. He wonders the last time these floors were cleaned.
Ilya comes to stand in front of him, ducking down slightly so he can get himself into Shane’s line of vision. “Hiding here, Hollander? Party is downstairs.”
Shane wants to shove him, wants to hit Ilya the way he’s seen him hit other players, no wide arm swing but precise, pointed aggression. Thinks about the way he’d feel the bones in his nose snap under the impact of his fist, blood wetting his knuckles and the bottom half of Ilya’s face, dripping into his mouth–
Drawing himself to his full height and putting on his angriest expression, Shane spits back, “What the actual fuck is your problem, Rozanov?”
Ilya just laughs. “You’re not so happy to see me, Hollander?” There’s that rolled r again, and Shane catches himself watching the way Ilya’s tongue moves in his mouth as he says his name. “Thought you might miss me. Was nice thought.”
A nice thought? Ilya ghosts him, then fucks him without kissing him, and now Shane’s supposed to miss him? Sure, they’d texted sort-of-usually after that night. It was mostly Ilya texting him pejorative play-by-play commentary of his games, Shane sending back middle fingers, but missing him? Well, maybe, if he was honest, he’d admit that he misses Ilya like he breathes. But that’s never been their thing.
Then, with a shrug, all casual nonchalance, as if it takes him absolutely nothing to admit it, Ilya says, “I missed you. Maybe you don’t feel same.”
“Oh fuck you, Rozanov. In your dreams.” It might be too volatile for what is arguably a rare display of vulnerability, but he can’t bring himself to meet Ilya half way. Shane still hasn’t moved from where Ilya found him, back against the wall in the too-narrow hallway between the bathroom and the elevator back up to the others, to safety.
Wrong wording. Ilya’s smile sharpens, taking on a mean edge that sends something liquid hot down into Shane’s gut. “Yes, fuck me. I can show you what happened in dreams, we are in same hotel.”
Shane sputters as Ilya takes a step toward him. They’re not touching, but they might as well be.
“My mom is in the room next to me, no fucking way I’m doing that, Rozanov.”
“But she is not next to me.” As he speaks, Ilya reaches for Shane’s face, cupping his cheek and stroking a thumb over the arch of his cheek, “Давай, не спорь со мной.”
Then, because he’s been saving it for the right moment, and he needs something to give him the upper hand, Shane looks Ilya directly in the eye and spits, “Иди к черту.” Go to hell.
His accent is probably shit, and if nothing else it tells Ilya that he’s been thinking about how to best get under his skin, probably pacing around his apartment and in hotel rooms listening to Google Translate chatter at him. And yet, the effect is immediate and for a moment, just a brief moment, Shane thinks he understands what Ilya feels when he eggs him on. His expression is alight with equal amounts of shock and glee, a smile threatening to split his face in half.
“Good boy Shane Hollander только что сказал мне идти к черту?” Then he’s crowding Shane up against the wall, one palm flat against the wall by his head, the hand that was gently cupping his face now grabbing his chin, fingers digging into his cheeks ever so slightly. “Hollander, your accent is shit.”
Shane presses himself back into the wall despite every fibre of his body screaming at him to lean into the heat radiating from Ilya. He has half a mind to spit in Ilya’s face, but he thinks better of it. That would probably start something neither of them really want to finish here in this back hallway of the Nike regional offices.
“But is okay,” Ilya croons, letting his body follow Shane’s so he’s plastered up against the other man, so his suit creaks from where it’s tailored around his shoulders as his muscles strain against the fabric, “I teach you and reward you when you get right. Скажи: Илья, пожалуйста дай мне свой–”
“Fuck you, Rozanov.” But it’s nothing more than a whisper, a puff of breath against Ilya’s lips from between Shane’s.
“Is like I said, Hollander, I fuck you.”
He could kiss him, could peel his hands away from their faithful place on the wall behind him and grab the lapels of Ilya’s suit jacket and haul him forward until he can taste whatever Ilya was drinking earlier. The way Ilya’s fingers dig into his skin, he thinks he might be considering it.
Somewhere, distantly, a door slams.
Shane startles, shoving at Ilya, who goes easily. Shane glares at him as he shakes out his suit, brushing off nonexistent dust and tugging at the fabric to try and erase any wrinkles. He already misses the heat of his body, the way the hand on his face felt more right than almost anything else he’d ever felt. Ilya looks unimpressed and unaffected, but something glints in his eye as he watches Shane try and reset himself.
“I see you later.” It should be a question, but it doesn’t have to be.
Shane looks away, can’t bring himself to look at Ilya as he acquiesces, easy as ever. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you later.”
-
This time Ilya doesn’t make him wait in the hallway. Shane’s barely knocked once when the door swings open, revealing a shirtless Ilya, his curls still wet.
Shane shoulders past him, ignoring how he can feel the heat of Ilya through the fabric of his sweatshirt where they make contact.
“I didn’t make you wait in hallway this time.” Ilya nearly crows, closing the door behind Shane and striding after the other man as he makes his way further into the suite. How the fuck is he always staying in these nice ass hotel rooms?
Easy as ever, Shane takes the bait, because of course he does, as he whirls around once he feels like he’s made his way deep enough into the room to be away from the door, “What, you want a prize? Ilya Rozanov didn’t leave me in the hallway, I can’t believe how thoughtful he is.”
As he chatters, gesturing angrily with his hands, Ilya stalks closer. The look on his face resembles a panther that’s spotted its prey, and Shane gulps as Ilya backs him up against the wall. He makes no attempt at resisting when those hands finally reach up and one goes into his hair, the other making itself at home around his neck. Not squeezing, just holding, owning.
“Hollander, блять, shut the hell up.”
And Ilya’s lips are on his, soft but insistent. Shane sighs, opening his mouth so Ilya can lick into his mouth. He shudders as he gets his hands on Ilya’s chest, all smooth skin and hard earned muscle.
This is exactly what he’s been thinking about since that night, since he typed and deleted that stupid fucking text what felt like a hundred times. Ilya’s mouth on his, Ilya pressed up against him, Ilya turning his head to one side so he can press open mouthed, sloppy kisses up to Shane’s ear and then down his neck.
“I did not,” Ilya starts to say in between licking and biting at Shane’s neck, his hands going to his waist so he can shove Shane’s shirt over his head, “I did not do this last time.”
“Huh?” Shane can’t think straight, not when he’s barely standing, the only thing keeping him upright is the weight of Ilya’s body against his. His hands are helpless as they tangle in Ilya’s hair, scratch at his naked shoulders.
“I did not,” He starts again, his lips right up against Shane’s so the words are mumbled, “I did not kiss you.”
It hits like a lightning bolt. Shane whines, high in the back of his throat at the words, something breaking open in his chest. Ilya noticed, Ilya remembered, Ilya thought about it. All those months Shane spent–
“You didn’t,” He gasps wetly, squirming as Ilya works one hand under the waistband of his sweatpants. And then, because Ilya has a hand around his dick and is dragging his teeth against Shane’s jaw, “I missed it.”
“Fuck,” He says it in English, not Russian (this one Shane learned), and it’s far more seductive than it has any right to be, “You did miss me.”
Before Shane can respond, Ilya kneels slightly so he can get his hands under Shane’s thighs and lift. He keeps his hands tangled in Ilya’s curls as he walks them over to the bed and sets Shane down on his back. It’s gentler than Shane imagined it most times, something tender in the way he doesn’t let Shane bounce off the mattress but instead leans his weight into him so the next breath he takes is against the weight of Ilya.
There’s a moment where they’re scrambling to take each other’s clothes the rest of the way off, and Ilya laughs when Shane’s foot gets stuck in the ankle of his sweatpants. The sound is full of joy, and Shane pants as he watches Ilya strip himself efficiently, tossing his own clothing over his shoulder to be rediscovered later. With Shane though, he pulls the fabric off gently, stepping away briefly so he can fold the item in half and drape it over the back of a nearby chair.
He drinks in Ilya’s naked form greedily, reaching down to squeeze at the base of his cock to stave off some of the feeling crawling up his spine.
Turning around to face Shane on the bed with one hip to the side and naked as the day he was born, cock proudly bobbing between his legs, Ilya wears the smirk on his face like a thousand dollar suit, “Is to your satisfaction?”
And even though there’s no heat to the barb, Shane can’t help himself. “You’re such an asshole, Rozanov.”
As always, it’s an empty insult, because Shane pants unabashedly as Ilya stalks towards the bed. There’s something about the way he feels trapped in place by Ilya’s gaze, the way he can feel sweat prickling at his lower back and on his chest. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
Then he’s kneeling on the bed, leaning forward on his hands so that his arms flex enticingly, crawling up toward Shane. When he gets a hand around Shane’s ankle, he thinks Ilya might eat him alive. The weight of it is a brand, and he can do nothing but drop back on to his elbows then his back.
“You are such brat, Shane, hm? You fight me, but once I get my cock in your ass–”
Ilya’s last word is drowned out by the way a moan tears itself from Shane’s chest at how Ilya’s cross drags up his erection, the metal shockingly cold in the way it scrapes against the heat of his skin. It should be defiling, but instead there’s a twinkle in Ilya’s eye as he plants his hands by Shane’s head. He lowers his chest so Shane’s cock is trapped between their bodies, next to Ilya’s own.
He doesn’t care if it’s desperate, if he’ll mock him for it later, Shane ducks his head so he can nip at Ilya’s collarbone and murmur, “Fuck me, please. I want it.”
“Oh Shane, is good when you ask for what you want.” Then, because he can’t be fucking nice about anything, “You want me to call you ‘good boy’ again?”
“Fuck y–oh,” His insult is interrupted by the way Ilya grinds his hips down into Shane, the deliciously wet slide of Ilya’s cock against his.
Ilya leans over Shane so he can rummage in the nightstand, somehow still maintaining a rhythm with his hips. Shane can’t help the way he grinds up, this time more into one of Ilya’s thighs, arms wrapping around his waist so he can dig his nails into the muscles of Ilya’s back.
As he settles his weight back over Shane, Ilya drags the tip of his nose over Shane’s cheek, “Stop fighting, любовь, I take care of you.”
He opens his mouth, maybe to apologize, maybe to argue again, but Ilya has the tip of his thumb prodding at Shane’s bottom lip and it’s pure instinct, the way he draws it into his mouth and sucks. Something unfurls at it all, pinned under the weight of Ilya, his thumb in Shane’s mouth, the way he has just enough room to squirm under him and seek some sort of relief for himself.
Shane would think Ilya was unaffected, borderline stoic, if he didn’t feel so in tune to the other man. His breath hitches its rhythm when he feels the way Shane scrapes his teeth across the knuckle in his mouth. His eyes darken as he shifts his hand and lets Shane suck on his pointer and middle fingers instead. His hips jerk at the way Shane whines as he sucks dutifully, enthusiastically.
All of a sudden, he feels untethered. He tries to communicate it with his eyes, the way he digs his fingernails into Ilya’s back harder. He needs Ilya inside of him, to be closer than anyone else has ever been.
And because he knows Shane, Ilya withdraws his fingers from his mouth, shushing the responding whine, and drags his wet fingers down Shane’s chest.
“Where you want me, Shane? Here?” The fingers circle one of Shane’s nipples, taking a moment to roll it between the pads, pinching.
He tries to twist away from the sensation, back arching and head flinging back, “F-fuck, Ilya, no, I need–”
“You say Ilya like this, I think you mean yes,” It should be teasing, instead it comes out in pants, and Shane trembles at the tone.
He’s bordering on nonsensical, the stream of words endless, all trying desperately to convey the same thing, “No, in me, please, Ilya, I need it,”
And the fingers resume their torturous drag down the length of his body as Ilya bullies his way between Shane’s legs. He sits back, kneeling, and grabs under Shane’s thigh forcefully, leaning his weight forward so Shane feels it in his hamstring.
He watches Ilya watch him, hands fisted in the sheets as Ilya makes a slight detour to get a hand around Shane’s erection and twist up. Shane bows forward with a shout, eyes screwing shut as he tries to fight the onslaught. He thinks he might be begging Ilya to let go, but before he can open his eyes to really beg, he’s being pushed back toward the mattress, a finger circling his asshole.
“So sensitive,” Ilya grinds out, increasing the pressure against Shane’s hole.
It’s not enough lubrication as it is, but distantly he thinks it’s not about that. It’s about the way Ilya’s manhandling him, throwing his weight around. He can’t help but stare at Ilya’s face, trying to memorize the way he stares at his hands on Shane. It makes the edges of everything fuzzy, makes his chest rise and fall that much faster.
Taking a brief pause, Ilya makes quick work of drizzling lube on his fingers, settling himself back between Shane’s legs. The hand on the back of Shane’s thigh starts to massage some indistinct pattern into the muscle, less shoving it against Shane’s chest and more holding him open.
The first slide of Ilya’s finger into Shane is mind melting, and for a moment he tries to escape the feeling. He grabs the back of Ilya’s neck to yank at the curls there, to pull the other man’s mouth to his. Ilya goes easily, meeting Shane’s lips halfway with his own. The kiss is sloppy as Shane pants in tandem with the way Ilya works a finger in and out of him.
It’s not enough for him. An entirely irrational thought flits by, that he wants Ilya to just fuck him now, to abandon all pretense and push his cock into Shane til he’s crying for it, “More, more, Ilya, fuck, Rozanov–!”
Indulging Shane as he ever does, Ilya works a second finger in. Then, searching, reaching and he’s doing nothing short of bullying Shane’s prostate with his fingers. He cries out with every pass, feeling the way he’s downright leaking all over his own stomach. If he were to tear his eyes away from Ilya’s face, he’d see the way it’s affecting him too, precome painting his abs.
“I didn’t, fuck, get to put my mouth, ah, on you,” Shane gasps out as Ilya works two fingers in and out, twisting his wrist. The sounds are pornographic, slick and wet, but Shane can barely hear anything over the pounding of his own heart and the endless stream of murmuring in Russian pouring from Ilya’s mouth.
Ilya interrupts himself, “I am blessed you are so greedy, Hollander,” And he’s dragging the tip of his ring finger next to where his middle fingers are deep inside Shane, responding to every gasp and whine.
“I’m not greedy, ah, fuck you,” The arguing is instinctual, but Ilya lets it slide, choosing instead to lick a stripe up Shane’s neck as he pulls his fingers out then drives three into Shane with abandon.
“Is not something to be ashamed of, Shane,” He barely hears Ilya’s response over his own moaning, despite the way it’s breathed into his ear.
He might be crying, he can’t tell at this point. He has one knee digging into Ilya’s side, clawing at his back, hips meeting every thrust of Ilya’s fingers. Everything between them is a wet, slick, slide, but there’s no purchase for Shane to grind up into, Ilya holding himself just out of reach. It’s pissing Shane off.
“Enough, enough, fuck, just fuck me, Rozanov, or I’ll go–” He’s interrupted by his own shout when Ilya sinks his teeth into his peck.
“Даже не думай сказать это.” And Ilya’s finally, finally pulling away just long enough to tear a condom open with his teeth, one hand still in Shane, hissing as he rolls it down on himself.
Then he’s crowding back into Shane’s space, bending himself down to one forearm by Shane’s head, using the other to line his cock up with Shane’s ass. The first push is even better than he remembered. He never got the way Ilya moans right, low in his chest, one hand going to Shane’s hip as he shifts forward.
With every inch, Ilya brushes his lips over a new part of Shane’s face. It’s dizzying, the contrast of being split open while Ilya presses kisses to his cheeks, his forehead, nips at his nose.
When Ilya’s hips meet his, Shane whines again, high and loud in a way that echoes around the room, “Okay? Скажи мне, моя любовь,”
“Yes, fuck, yes,” It’s barely coherent, but Shane manages to nod and then to emphasize it, clenches down on Ilya inside him.
The responding moan makes him clench down again, “Fu–uck, Shane,” and Ilya finally gives him what he wants.
The pace Ilya sets is borderline brutal, but it’s nothing short of what he wanted. He digs his nails into Ilya’s back, wraps his legs around his waist to try and hold on, licking and sucking at whatever skin and muscle he can get his mouth on. Ilya is all he can see, taste, hear, feel.
The hand on his hip tilts him upwards so Ilya’s cock hits his prostate on every thrust. Sparks bloom in every part of Shane, and he feels pinned in place, unable to do much more than just take it.
Then, “I missed you, Shane,” Ilya breathes, and the tears aren’t because of the overwhelming physical pleasure.
“Ilya,” Shane manages to choke out his name before they’re kissing again.
He feels suspended in time, unable to think about anything but the way Ilya is fucking him, the way the fingers on his face are so tender in their touch. He’s making little hiccuping sounds every time Ilya thrusts into him, tripping over his own breath.
He wishes he spoke Russian, wishes he could understand what Ilya is saying under his breath. And because his brain never fails to play dirty, it reminds him he wishes he could do this without having to sneak around, too. At that, he sobs a moan, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s neck so he can haul him impossibly closer.
The proximity means that Shane’s cock is trapped between him and Ilya, his precome easing the slide.
Shane goes to get a hand between them, to try and get himself the rest of the way there but Ilya catches his wrist and pins it to the bed, “No, like this, come like this, be good boy for me.”
He tries to protest, tries to form words, but nothing coherent comes out in response.
“You want to be good boy for me, yes?”
Shane can only nod before Ilya is kissing him again, sliding his tongue against Shane’s, licking into his mouth in a way that should be disgusting but instead makes that telltale warmth spark in his stomach. He angles his hips so he can meet every one of Ilya’s thrusts.
It’s the way Ilya bites his lower lip that sends Shane over the edge. He comes with a shout, almost thrashing below Ilya, who somehow maintains the rhythm of the way he’s fucking Shane. There’s an incredible mess between them, and Shane thinks he blacks out for a second as he keeps coming.
Ilya’s lips are at his ear, murmuring quiet platitudes, Russian accent curling around every word. It’s too tender for the way he fucks Shane through the aftershocks. The moans turn to whimpers as he gets oversensitive, but he keeps letting Ilya fuck him, going pliant in his hold.
“Ilya, come in me, please,” It’s a whisper of a request, but of course Ilya hears him.
It doesn’t take much after that, Ilya’s thrusts speeding up til they’re uneven in their pace and then he’s groaning Shane’s name, hips jerking. For a moment Shane imagines feeling Ilya come in him, the warmth of it, and his cock gives another jerk.
Shane lets himself take Ilya’s weight as he lets himself drop. The room is finally silent, save for their breaths, quick and harsh.
“Shane,” Ilya breathes, and Shane opens his eyes. He hadn’t realized he’d closed them.
The other man is staring at him, and it’s almost too intimate for what they do. He stares at the icy blue of Ilya’s eyes, trying to memorize each shift in color. Photoshoots never manage to capture that with enough specificity for Shane’s taste.
It’s Ilya who initiates the next kiss, devoid of any sexual frustration. The entire purpose is seemingly to taste Shane, to press their lips together over and over. For a few moments, Shane lets himself float in it.
Eventually, though, he’s cold where his sweat is starting to dry and Ilya is a professional hockey player after all, and he’s fucking heavy. As if sensing the moment is over, Ilya begins to peel himself off of Shane. It’s not all business though, his hand lingers on Shane’s hip for a moment, and Shane lets his hand drag down Ilya’s chest.
He elects to watch Ilya walk to the bathroom, his posture lazy and relaxed, hips swaying as he walks. His back is broad, and when he flicks on the light and walks into it, Shane can see the way–
“Oh shit, Rozanov, fuck,” Shane gasps, mortification flooding through him.
Ilya’s responding laugh from the bathroom is raucous and too loud for the hour, for how thin the walls of this hotel room are. The bathroom light shows exactly how enthusiastic Shane was, angry, red scratches forming a hatching pattern across the entire expanse of Ilya’s back.
“Battle scars, Hollander,” The smirk is back as Ilya stalks back towards the bed, towel in hand, “I wear with pride.”
“You’re such an asshole.” His tone is accidentally reverent as Ilya cleans him off.
Every movement is tender, even the way Ilya walks the dirty towel back to the bathroom so he can toss it on the tile floor instead of the carpet is almost too much. Then, he’s throwing himself with abandon onto the mattress, yanking Shane into his arms so he can press a messy kiss to his mouth.
They exhale at the same time, relaxing into each other’s arms. Shane imagines himself staying, imagines going down to the intercontinental breakfast together so he can make fun of Ilya for his terrible choices and defend his appropriate serving of scrambled eggs and bacon.
But he can’t stay. Not this time.
He gathers his courage, lets himself press one more kiss to Ilya’s lips, dig his fingers into his bicep, “I–my mom leaves early tomorrow morning. She said she’d stop by before she does.” It feels too vulnerable to admit as he crawls out of bed, out of Ilya’s warm embrace, to start pulling on his joggers and sweatshirt.
He waits for the mocking mama’s boy, waits for a snide comment about good boy Shane Hollander. Instead, Ilya looks at him as he too stands up and pulls his sweatpants back on, his expression betraying everything in its absolute evenness. Shane lets Ilya follow him to the door.
They pause a few feet from the door, Shane trying not to linger and failing, as Ilya shrugs and says, “Good reason to not stay.”
“What, not going to make fun of me?” He can’t help the instinct to snap back, to expect crooning mockery.
Something flickers across Ilya’s face that Shane doesn’t recognize. Ilya opens the door slightly, and Shane turns to step through it.
Behind him, Ilya’s voice carries softly, “I see you later, Hollander. Спокойной ночи, моя любовь.”
Shane turns to study Ilya, the Russian unfamiliar to his ears. He never tried to learn anything more than how to give Rozanov a taste of his own medicine, so he’s not sure what to make of the last words.
“Yeah, I’ll see you.” Then, because he wants to see what Ilya’s face looks like when he does it, he trips over the Russian too.
It’s clunky in his mouth, vowels shaped wrong and the soft l-sound far from the way it’s supposed to be, but Ilya grins wildly at him anyway.