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It’s been six weeks since Hollander left Ilya breathless and bereft on his stupid couch, and Ilya has never played hockey so badly in his life.
It’s humiliating.
If anything, he thinks, this should’ve invigorated him. The man he’s been fucking for seven years suddenly “can’t” anymore - so what? Ilya should thrash him and his horrible team on the ice; even more than normal, just to prove a point. Fuck you, watch me. Watch this. Iебать. Eat shit.
Instead, Ilya’s going home alone and waking up alone and constantly zoning out, on and off the ice. He keeps remembering the hitch in Hollander’s voice, Hollander saying “Ilya” against his lips, the way he’d ridden Ilya the night before, how he’d looked so small in Ilya’s shirt and how he’d fallen so easily into Ilya’s side against the sofa.
He’s clubbing with Svetlana and he’s remembering having his hand in Hollander’s hair. He’s on the ice and finds himself entirely uninterested in the other team, because the one player in the league that he actually wants to see apparently doesn’t want him back anymore. He has a dream one night that Hollander’s warm and sleeping in his arms, and he wakes up rock hard with his face pressed into his pillow.
He’s kissing a girl at a club in Montreal and he’s only doing it so Hollander can watch him, fuck you, watch this, watch me, want me again. пожалуйста. Please. The girl is blonde and dancing and grinds against him, but Ilya goes home alone, his mind replaying the moment he watched Hollander’s moviestar girlfriend put her hands under Hollander’s shirt in the club. Ilya knows exactly what she was feeling, wonders if she’s tasted the sweat off Hollander’s chest yet or if she knows he likes to have his pecs groped while he’s getting head.
Fucking humiliating.
Six weeks without hearing from Hollander and Ilya vividly remembers 2014, two and a half years ago. Las Vegas and the bathroom where Ilya realised he’d driven Hollander to tears just by putting his phone on mute for six months. It was the first time he’d realised that the power he held over Hollander maybe extended outside the bedroom, and it was the first time he’d realised he could do some real harm with it, entirely without meaning to.
If this is how he feels after six weeks, full of spite and bitter hurt, Ilya wishes he’d been kinder that night, less wrapped up on what was happening back home. He wishes he’d taken Hollander apart a second time on that big bed. Ilya in 2014 had no idea his time with Hollander was so limited — something that the Ilya of 2016 knows all too well.
The Ilya of 2016 is also playing hockey like shit. The version of himself on the television misses an easy shot - his first fumble of the season - and the commentators tear him apart for it. Ilya, watching from his bed, is inclined to agree with them. His father’s decline is almost a blessing this month, when his usual level of vitriol would be for once so entirely deserved.
Ilya is humiliating, on and off the rink. неловкий. Embarrassing.
He’s thinking about all of this, beer in hand, rarely having felt less at ease in his own home, when there’s a knock on his door. Ilya frowns and disregards it. Nobody knows where he lives, so this isn’t someone he knows. Svetlana has a spare key, so it can’t be her, and there’s no world in which Ilya feels like entertaining girl scouts or Jehovah’s Witnesses.
The knocking doesn’t stop. If anything, it gets louder.
Ilya mutters a few curses and throws his covers aside to stomp out of his bedroom and towards the entryway, still swearing. Чего ты, блять, хочешь, о боже мой. Russian vulgarity always reminds him of Alexei. Alexei speaks like an idiot, or a drunk. Ilya sends him thousands of dollars and what does he do with them?
At the front door, Ilya further curses his lack of a peephole, and flings the door open - “What?” His tone is rude, brusque. Americans don’t like that much, he’s found. It’s the easiest way to get them to leave him alone. Easiest way to start a fight, too, but that’s fun in its own way.
The person at the door isn’t a girl scout, though. Nor are they a Jehovah’s Witness.
“Hollander,” Ilya greets, wary. His mind is reeling. It’s late, but it’s not midnight yet - and Hollander has not been a midnight guest of his for six weeks, anyway.
“Rozanov,” Hollander says back, his jaw square.
His hands are hidden in his jacket pockets. It’s a new jacket, because Ilya still has Hollander’s last one shoved into the back of one of his closets. When Hollander had ran out on him, leaving like his ass was on fire, he took Ilya’s shirt with him. He left all his shit and never asked for it back, but Ilya hadn’t yet been able to convince himself to throw it all out. It’s the opposite of a trophy - a sign of shame. You tried, Ilya, and look what happened. идиот. Idiot. Useless.
Ilya blinks at Hollander. He refuses to smile, refuses to lean up against the doorway and make himself alluring and seductive in the way he knows gets Hollander’s knees weak.
“What are you doing here.” He would've known if Hollander had texted. He’s had Jane as his pinned contact for years, sitting at the top of his messages.
“Can I come in?”
Ilya narrows his eyes. Is this a setup? A trick? An episode for that American show, Pranked or Punked or something? “No.”
Hollander takes a big, deep breath. His shoulders are trembling, so finely that no one but Ilya would even know it - but Ilya knows where Hollander carries his stress.
“Please,” he asks, and fuck, fuck. Ilya is in uncharted waters. Ilya is drowning in the sea. Ilya wants to put Hollander on the counter and eat him, wants to make sure Hollander never leaves again, even if that means he never says the word Shane again.
“Is very rude to show up uninvited,” Ilya tells Hollander. He’s careful to keep his tone unaffected and unfriendly. He opens the door anyway. “Fine.”
Hollander steps inside with a little exhale of relief, and hesitates at the doorway like he’s facing a firing squad.
Ilya rolls his eyes and closes the door, brushing past Hollander and into the kitchen. “Leave your shoes on. I don’t care.” He takes another beer out of the fridge, just for something to do, and then leans against the cool metal and lets it ground his beating heart.
“What do you want, Hollander? I thought you could not be here.” He can’t help himself, and makes himself leer a little when he says, “Does your Rose know where you are? Or are you homewrecker, now? Sneaking into closet to get your dick sucked by a man? So stereotypical, Hollander. Boringgg.”
Ilya would still have him like that, if it was on offer. Of course he would. He has never pretended to be better than what he is; he’d willingly be Hollander’s affair, his other woman. It’s not so different from what they were before, is it?
He can picture it now, taking Hollander apart on his bed, keeping away from his lips, only using his hands to say missed you and stay, reading yet another magazine cover about Rose Landry and her hockey player boyfriend the next morning.
“No,” Hollander tells him firmly. His hands are still in his pockets; Ilya wonders why. His shoulders are so stiff that they’re shaking, now. “I just want to talk to you.”
Ilya rolls his eyes, throws his head back to drain his beer can. “Boringgg. We do not do this, Hollander. We are not friends.”
“I’m serious.”
“Yes, me also,” Ilya tells him flatly. “You want to talk? Suck my dick. Maybe then I will listen, if you do a good job.”
Hollander’s eyes are growing slightly red-rimmed. Ilya’s making him cry. Maybe he already was. Maybe he cried on his way here.
“Fine,” he says. “Then I’ll talk. You’ll listen.” Ilya quirks an amused eyebrow at this show of defiance.
“Mm.” He reaches for another beer.
“You’re an asshole,” Hollander tells him. “You know that?” Suddenly, he doesn’t look so put together. His hands emerge from his pockets to brush through his hair, and Ilya can see that they’re shaking. Smart, to try and hide that weakness from Ilya. Hollander is Ilya’s fiercest rival and the best hockey player in a decade but he is a soft man. Ilya’s father would rake him over hot coals just to watch him cry.
“Wow,” Ilya says, dragging the word out. Wowww. “Good talk, Hollander. Inspiring.” He takes a sip of his beer, just to be a dick. He’s already hard. He’ll do anything to get Hollander into his bed except beg. Historically, that’s been Hollander’s role.
“I’m not finished,” Hollander snaps. “You are. An asshole, I mean. You kissed that girl in the club, right in front of me, just to be mean. It was mean, Rozanov.”
Ilya narrows his eyes. “Ah, you mean the club you were at with your girlfriend, yes?”
Shane is almost vibrating in place, his lips pressed into a thin line of rage. “No,” he tells Ilya. “We broke up. I ended things the next morning. I don’t like her like that, okay? I tried, but I lied to you last time, when I said I’ve been with lots of women or whatever. I don’t even…”
For the first time tonight, Ilya can feel his core soften in pity. He shouldn’t, but he says, “Is fine, Hollander. You do not need to explain.”
Hollander looks even angrier, at that. Spitting mad, Ilya thinks, one English expression he has always liked.
“I want to. This is called communicating, Rozanov. This is what adults do! We talk!” With that word, talk, he’s coming undone, dragging his hands over his face, pacing in a semicircle. Ilya watches him shake apart at the seams and feels his brow furrow, his face wrinkling. He does not want to be responsible for this.
He has never wanted to be responsible for Shane Hollander falling apart this way. In bed, it’s good, it’s different. Outside of bed, it feels horrible.
Hollander whirls back to face him, points at him like an angry schoolteacher. “You - were mean to me, Rozanov. You fucking were. Bringing me here, asking me to stay overnight? You - fucking - fed me, Rozanov, and then you tell me about your girlfriend? Svetlana? Fuck you!”
Ilya stares. “She is not my girlfriend. I tell you this already.”
“Fuck you! You treat me like that, you touch me like you care, or something, and then you tell me about all the women you see on the side? You tell me I’m nothing but a mouth for you to use? Fuck you! I can’t do that anymore, Rozanov. Your fucking mind games, playing with me like some, some, asshole. I can’t.” Hollander’s hands are shaking violently, his shoulders so high and tense that they’re nearly up to his ears as he shouts.
“You say we’re nothing, just fucking, and then you break all our rules, and pretend you’re not, like it’s no big deal? I don’t care if it’s no big deal for you, okay? It - fucking - hurts.” He pauses for a wobbly breath, his chest heaving, and his eyes are glossy with tears he’s managing not to shed from sheer force of will alone. Ilya cannot stomach it.
He feels himself step forward, feels the semi-frantic pace he’s setting, but his head feels floaty with panic and it keeps his emotions distant. “Hollander,” he says, low and firm, putting his hands on Hollander’s waist, palms flat against Hollander’s abs, sliding his fingers under the new leather jacket. “Stop. You are having panic attack.”
Hollander scoffs, turning his head away, pushing Ilya away first and then angrily brushing the back of his hand over his cheeks to swipe at the tears rolling down his cheeks. He turns his head when he does so, trying to hide the fact that he’s crying.
His freckles are glistening. It is terrible. Ilya feels physically sick.
Hollander has always been an easier crier. He has such big, expressive eyes. Long lashes. A sweet face. Ilya likes to kiss under his jaw when they fuck in missionary, just to watch the way Hollander always tilts his head back, his lashes fluttering, gasping in ecstasy. красивый. The most beautiful thing Ilya has seen in his life.
“Panic attack,” Hollander mocks, butchering his impression of a Russian accent. Banyc-atak, like one word. “No, no, Rozanov. You know what gave me a fucking panic attack? Yeah? Do you? You did, when you called me Shane, after you’d just told me that I’m nothing but a set of… fucking…. holes, or whatever. What the actual fuck is wrong with you, huh?”
Ilya thinks, this is horrible. I am horrible.
There’s a noise he’s making, entirely by accident. It’s a whine of sorts, an instinctive noise of disagreement. It sounds a bit like heartbreak, maybe.
“Hollander,” Ilya says again, pressing back into Hollander’s space, ignoring the way he’s pushed at, ignoring the hand that comes flying at his face, pushing his jaw away, slamming into his chest. He doesn’t recognise his own voice, gentle and coaxing like he’s trying to settle a bucking horse.
“Is okay, Hollander. Calm down, please. Please. Is okay.” Maybe Ilya can beg, after all.
He’d do anything, to get Hollander back under control - hates seeing him like this, strung out and miserable, just like Ilya’s been feeling.
It feels like shit.
Ilya brings his hands up, cradles Hollander’s face in his palms. He taps their foreheads together, slow and careful. Can’t help himself, and leans in further to brush their noses together. “You’re okay,” he tells Hollander, low and sweet. “Take deep breath.”
Hollander takes a deep breath.
Ilya pulls back to nod approvingly. Good job, sweetheart, good. Keep going. “Another one,” Ilya instructs. “Good.”
He presses a kiss to Hollander’s forehead, almost without thinking, and Hollander bursts into tears.
For the first time tonight, Ilya feels real panic in his chest. It fits right beside the grief and the heartache and the space that Hollander has quietly occupied for a while now. “Fuck, fuck, no, I’m sorry. Hey, hey, Hollander? Hollander.”
Hollander keeps crying. Big sobs, like a little child. His face is crumpled in on itself, and Ilya pulls him in to his chest, nestles Hollander’s face right against his neck, feels Hollander’s hands come up under his arms to fist in the back of Ilya’s shirt.
Ilya sways them in place for a few moments, making soothing noises in his throat, trying not to freak the absolute fuck out. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He is so terrible at this; he is terrible.
Hollander should run away now, and never come back - Ilya is bad for him, he can see that clearer than ever. Ilya is bad for everyone.
“You’re okay,” he tells Hollander despite all that. “Hey. Heyyy. You are okay, yes? Is all okay.”
“It’s really not,” Hollander snaps into the cloth of Ilya’s shirt, wet and angry like a kitten. “Nothing is okay. I’m gay, Rozanov, okay? Rose is - great -” Ilya’s arms around Hollander tighten by accident, and he readjusts, cursing himself in silence. “But I don’t want her. I don’t want anyone, Rozanov. I just want you.”
The world has gone quiet, Ilya notices. There’s no background noise, no TV to distract him, no phonecall from Russia appearing to ruin his week.
It’s just Hollander, in Ilya’s arms, covering his shirt in snot and tears.
“Oh,” Ilya says, quiet. Oh.
Shane wants him, after all. Shane wants him.
“It’s not okay,” Hollander continues, still just as distressed. “I don’t want other men, okay? I only want you, and you don’t want me. I can’t keep doing what we’ve been doing, not when… no, okay, it is not fucking okay.”
Ilya’s heart has slowed down. He feels calm, and steady, and feels strangely like he used to when he was a very small child and his mother would wipe his tears off his cheeks and make everything alright again.
“Hollander.” He turns his head, presses a kiss into Hollander’s bedraggled hair. Another kiss to the skin of his neck, and then the shell of his ear.
“I want you too, Hollander, always. I wanted you to stay, last time. I was - scared. I am not so good at talking to you. I am not good at talking to anyone.” Hollander has gone entirely still against Ilya’s chest, barely even breathing. Ilya needs to fuck all of this tension out of him, like, right now. He takes a breath and does the brave thing. “I was not - last time, I was not telling you about Sveta to make you upset. I was trying to ask you if you are seeing anyone else, yes? Or if you are wanting to be seeing someone else, or what. I just fuck it up.”
Hollander makes an angry, disgruntled noise, and refuses to lift his head.
“I do not want anyone else,” Ilya tells him. “I fucked it all up, but I was trying to tell you. I don’t want anyone else. Just you. I was not trying to, ah. Fuck with your head. No. Never, Hollander. I would not do that to you.”
Hollander pulls back, finally, and he is a mess. His face is flushed red, his eyes puffy and damp. There are tear streaks all over his cheeks. He is beautiful, like always. мой, Ilya lets himself think, for the first time. Mine. He could be mine.
“But you did.”
“I am sorry,” Ilya tells him, entirely honest and so open that he feel like he’s been flayed and left to bleed out. “I am sorry, Hollander. Truly.” Watch me, he wants to say. You tell me to talk, so I talk. We can be adults, yes? We can communicate for you. Watch me. Want me. Please.
“Tell me,” Hollander demands. “Properly, Rozanov.”
Ilya smiles at him; can’t help it. He knows this game of theirs, even if the language is new. He lowers himself down onto the ground, onto one knee and then both. Kneeling, he looks up at Hollander and takes one of Hollander’s hands, presses it against Ilya’s cheek. The other hand grips onto Hollander’s and links their fingers like a chain.
Ilya turns his cheek into Hollander’s palm, presses a few kisses to the callouses there, and does the brave thing again. “Shane,” he says. “Shane. I need you. I want you.”
Hollander blinks down at him, looking like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. His eyes have gone glossy again, and his bottom lip is twitching. “You have to mean it,” he says quietly.
It is unspoken, but Ilya can hear the threat. We cannot do this again. We cannot keep hurting each other and ourselves like this, over and over again.
Ilya closes his eyes and turns his face into Hollander’s palm. He takes a breath and inhales the smell of sweat, Hollander’s hands still clammy from anxiety. Ilya leans forward and rests his head against Hollander’s jeans. “I mean it,” says Ilya. “I’m sorry, that I was not honest. I want you, Hollander. Promise.”
Hollander makes a little noise of dissent, and Ilya tries again — “Shane.”
Hollander’s — Shane’s — breath noticeably catches in his chest. “Kiss me, please,” he says, still quiet, and Ilya shoots up obediently to his feet in a heartbeat, cupping Shane’s face in his hands, walking them backwards until they're pressed up against the kitchen counters.
“Tell me,” Ilya demands. “Say it, Shane. I need to hear it too.”
Shane’s hands come up to grab at Ilya’s wrists, keeping him close. “Ilya,” and his name sounds so good, coming from Shane’s mouth — certain, this time, and confident, finally. He makes Ilya’s name sound warm. To Ilya, Shane’s voice sounds like coming home. “Ilya, please. I want you. I always have.”
Ilya’s surging forward before the words are even fully formed, slamming his mouth into Shane’s, tilting his jaw up for easier access. Their tongues meet and Shane submits easily to Ilya’s passionate kissing, the open-mouthed kisses he bestows to Shane’s cheeks and the line of his jaw. He licks the tears off of Shane’s cheeks, which makes Shane giggle and then, inexplicably, cry some more.
“Shh,” Ilya tells him, his heart swollen in his chest, almost bursting out from between his ribs. It feels like a dream, to have Shane back in his arms, so desperate, so willing, so needy. His brave boy, who broke Ilya’s heart and then came right back to fix it. All his. He kisses Shane’s tears off his freckles and rubs their noses together. “Shh. любимый, Малыш.Baby*.* I have you. I have you, yes?”
“Yes,” Shane gasps, his hands pulling at the hair resting on Ilya’s neck. Ilya presses him further into the counter, and then hoists him up on top of it - Shane goes easily, wrapping his legs around Ilya’s waist. “Yes, Ilya. Yours. You have me.”
“Умница,” Ilya tells him, and then in English, so Shane can understand it, “Good boy.” Like always, praise makes Shane turn into a puddle, and he writhes under Ilya’s hands, whimpering as Ilya peppers hot kisses down his neck, tugging his jacket off his arms, pulling at the collar of Shane’s shirt.
He sticks a hand under Shane’s shirt, tweaking his nipples, using the other hand to press in on the divot at the bottom of Shane’s spine, one of his favourite places - he wants to see the muscles of Shane’s back contract as he takes Ilya’s cock, almost but not quite as much as he wants to see Shane’s face under Ilya’s as Ilya takes him apart, bit by bit, until he’s mumbling nonsense with dewdrop tears on his lashes.
“I have you,” Ilya affirms, just to remind himself. “I have you, Shane.” Shane rushes forward to meet him in a kiss, hot and needy, grabbing at Ilya’s shirt until Ilya raises his arms so Shane can tug it off entirely and throw it behind himself.
The action makes Ilya laugh. “I missed you,” he says, and doesn’t even feel horrible and small for the vulnerability. Shane wants him too, he just showed Ilya how much.
“I missed you, Малыш. Baby. I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry I hurt you.” It’s a little bit too much, right now. It’s a little too heavy. The anxious miserable puddle makes a reappearance in Ilya’s gut, reminds him that Shane left him last time Ilya tried at something vaguely serious, reminds him that they’ve been fucking for seven years and they’ve never quite managed to stay on the same page.
Shane shoves his hand into Ilya’s pants and squeezes at his cock. “Show me,” he demands. “Show me, Ilya. Make me feel better.”
Ilya gasps at the sensation of Shane’s fingers, moaning into Shane’s neck. “да. да, baby, okay.” He fits his hands under Shane’s ass and hoists him back up off the counter, Shane’s legs tightening around his waist. Kissing as they walk, Ilya brings them towards his room - he stops to press Shane up against a wall and lick at his throat, and nearly stumbles a few minutes later when Shane breaks their kiss to do the same, nipping at Ilya’s adam’s apple, sharp teeth digging at him, his strong hands tugging fiercely at Ilya’s hair.
Ilya thanks his past self for leaving the bedroom door open on his stomp to the front door, and instead of throwing Shane down onto the bed, he’s careful, lowers him down inch by inch, keeping his own body draped entirely over Shane’s as he does so. He keeps Shane down with he weight of his hips, pinning his wrists for a couple minutes just so he can stick his head under Shane’s shirt and mouth at his happy trail, licking over his abs.
Mine, thinks Ilya, delighted. мой.
He goes lower, biting at the waistband of Shane’s jeans, tugging them down along with his briefs, over his hips and his knees with ease that comes from seven years of practice, Shane lifting himself up on his elbows to speed up the process until his cock springs free and Ilya can drape his arms over Shane’s hips and kiss at the creases of his thighs.
“Stop teasing,” Shane gasps, “Ilya, please.”
“No,” Ilya tells him. He uses one hand to keep Shane’s thighs pried open, and with the other, plucks at Shane’s shirt, trying to tug it upwards. “Off, off, now.”
Shane obliges, always Ilya’s good boy, his perfect baby, his, all Ilya’s. Ilya grins against the skin of Shane’s thighs, presses a kiss there, then a bite to make Shane squeak, then a kiss to apologise for the bite. “Умница,” he says again. “Good boy, Shane. So good for me, always.”
Shane, finally without any clothes on, puts his hands over his face. “Fuckkk,” Ilya hears him say, right before his focus narrows down to Shane’s cock as he closes his mouth over the tip and sinks his mouth down.
Shane’s entire body jolts up - “Fuck!” - and Ilya shoots his free hand up to press down on Shane’s chest, shoving him back down and keeping him there.
“Stay,” he tells Shane when he comes up for air, gasping a bit, so hard it hurts. “Stay down, Shane. Be good for me, sweetheart.”
The pet name makes Shane whine quietly, covering his face with his hands again, and Ilya grins in delight at the sight. “Oh, you like that,” he observes, dragging out the words, liiiike thaaaat.
Shane shakes his head, silent, and Ilya laughs, can’t help it. “You do! My good boy, so good for me,” and he kisses again at Shane’s abs, his bellybutton, the very tip of his leaking cock. “You want to be good for me, baby? Shane?”
Shane sobs wetly from behind his hands, and Ilya frowns, abandons Shane’s cock to hover over Shane’s chest and pry his hands away. “You okay?”
Shane nods frantically, his cheeks wet again. His brown eyes are gleaming. He is so, so beautiful. “Yes, I want to be good for you, yes, yes. Fuck me, Ilya, please,” he says, and Ilya smiles in relief, leans down to press a kiss to Shane’s lips. He meant it to be a quick check-in kiss, but he gets distracted by the delicious warmth of Shane’s mouth and loses himself for a few minutes in the push and pull of their lips, the way Shane goes so pliant against him, the feeling of Shane’s fingers back in his hair where they belong.
“Be patient,” Ilya chides, and Shane slaps at his chest.
“Do not tell me to be patient right now. And take off your fucking clothes.”
Ilya laughs again, his joy a physical thing that bubbles up all the way from his toes to his cheeks. “Bossy,” he says, but obliges, rolling off Shane to kick off his jeans and underwear and then jumping right back to where he was.
“Fuck me,” Shane insists, and Ilya shoves his face into Shane’s neck, lavishing his collarbones with kisses, dragging his mouth over Shane’s skin, circling Shane’s moles with his tongue. He raises a hand to Shane’s face as he does, rests a finger on Shane’s lip until Shane greedily sucks it into his mouth.
“Fuuuck, baby,” Ilya groans at the soft wet heat of Shane’s tongue against his finger. He slips in a second finger. “Good fucking boy,” he tells Shane, breathless despite how many times he’s had Shane in his bed over the years. Every time, he is breathless.
“You want me to fuck you, sweetheart? Yes?”
Shane nods, still suckling on Ilya’s fingers. Ilya moves his hand deeper in, makes Shane gag a bit, his eyes rolling back in his head. Ilya gasps, the sight pornographic. “Fuuuuck, Shane.” Shane’s jaw is caught on Ilya’s thumb and his pointer and index finger scrape lightly against the roof of Shane’s mouth. The moment extends, Ilya propping his chin up on Shane’s chest to watch him, then rolling off of Shane’s body and coming up onto one elbow for a better angle.
Shane watches him, his eyes glassy with tears, his lips obscenely wet and plump around Ilya’s fingers.
Ilya breathes in, and even to himself it sounds shaky. “I’m going to make you feel so good,” he tells Shane. “Fuck, Shane.”
Shane’s eyelashes flutter, and he keeps his eyes closed and he works his mouth around Ilya’s fingers. Ilya throws his head back for a second, stares at the ceiling, so aroused he can hardly think.
Ilya licks his hand that’s not currently being gagged on, and moves it down to Shane’s cock, working his palm up and down Shane’s slick foreskin. He leans in close and kisses Shane’s jaw, licking hard at the soft skin on his neck, moving one leg over Shane’s hip to keep him pressed down on the bed. Shane whines, his mouth filled with Ilya’s fingers, his cock leaking onto Ilya’s hand, his leg jerking under Ilya’s thigh.
“My good boy,” Ilya mumbles into Shane’s hair, nosing at his ear. “All mine, Shane. Come on, come for me.”
It doesn’t take much more than that - Shane’s body quakes and he throws his head back onto the pillows as he comes, spurting over his own stomach and Ilya’s knuckles. Ilya pulls his fingers out of Shane’s mouth as Shane trembles, kissing his cheek, nudging at his nose. He’d wipe off the drool from his fingers if he didn’t know how much Shane secretly likes making a mess - he smears Shane’s spit over his freckles, instead, which makes Shane moan desperately, and then he leans down and uses his tongue to scrape it all off.
“Fuck,” Shane whines. “Fuck, Ilya. Please.”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
Shane shakes his head, hair flopping around. He pushes himself into Ilya’s body despite the brattiness, and Ilya obliges happily, wraps his arms around Shane, kisses him properly, gently. The misery of the past six weeks is gone, now. All that matters is the man in his bed, and how good Ilya can make him feel.
He works Shane’s hole open after that, kissing down his asscheeks first, eating him out on his stomach, making him moan and shake, fists clenching and unclenching in the sheets beside Ilya’s head until Ilya flips Shane’s body over and moves his hand manually into his curls.
“You can pull,” he tells Shane, who does so eagerly, twisting and tugging at Ilya’s hair as Ilya props Shane’s legs over his shoulders, slipping a pillow under Shane’s hips as he devotes his attention to getting Shane warm and wet and ready for him.
“Please, Ilya,” Shane starts gasping, “please, please, I need you. Come on. Fuck, please. Fuck, fuck.” Ilya looks up at him from behind Shane’s re-erect cock, mouth busy with his tongue swirling over Shane’s hole, dipping inside, and Shane comes all over himself with a broken shout.
Ilya pulls back, smiles, presses sloppy kisses into the creases of Shane’s bent knees. “Good boy,” he tells Shane, thumbs stroking Shane’s legs. “So good for me, Солнышко.”
Shane gasps, his head tossing, his softening cock still leaking onto his stomach, sunshine incarnate. “What - what does that one mean?”
Ilya hums. “Mm, I tell you later. Busy.” He slips a finger inside Shane, making the other man twitch and moan, and scissors him open achingly slow, waiting for Shane’s exhausted cock to fill up again before he, finally, finally, slides himself inside Shane’s warm body.
“Fuck,” they say in unison, Shane nearly screaming, Ilya whispering.
Ilya shudders - “Fuuuuuck, Shane. Baby, baby, come here -” drops his head down to kiss Shane messily, heated and full of tongue, thrusting into Shane with sharp snaps, grinding his pelvis against Shane’s ass and swallowing Shane’s moans of ecstasy.
They stay in missionary, Shane’s hands coming up to keep Ilya’s mouth attached to his, fingers wrapping once around Ilya’s neck for a moment, gentle against his throat, then finding a home at the back of his head, fingers getting caught in Ilya’s messy curls. Ilya breaks their kiss to press his mouth against Shane’s neck, licking, sucking love bites into his skin.
“Just this time,” he says, gasping, hips stuttering, “You want me to mark you up, baby? You want me to leave you bruised?”
“Fuck, Ilya, please,” Shane answers, his voice wrecked, thoroughly fucked out and desperate. “Please, please, please!”
“Okay baby,” Ilya manages to say, “Fuck, okay, okay, Shane -” His teeth graze Shane’s neck, sucking at a spot behind his ear, leaving a reddening hickey on the hinge of his jaw and neck. “Gonna know you’ve got this on under your uniform,” Ilya gasps, so turned on he can barley see, “So fucking hot, so beautiful, Shane, Shane, fuck -”
“Yes, yes, do it,” Shane babbles, “Come on, come on, Ilya, please, please, baby, fuck.”
They come almost at the same time, Shane whining high in his throat until Ilya swallows the noise up with a kiss, his own hips jolting unevenly into Shane a last time before collapsing bonelessly on top of Shane’s chest.
“Stay,” Shane gasps, “Just - stay inside me for a minute, Ilya, please -”
Ilya reaches up and messily tilts Shane’s down so they can kiss, keeping his softening cock inside Shane as per request. “Okay, okay, sweetheart, not going anywhere.”
Shane’s arms come up eventually to wrap around Ilya’s shoulders, and Ilya presses his face into Shane’s chest, nestled between Shane’s pecs, pressing a few kisses to his nipples.
“You okay, sweetheart?” It’s not such a jump, from Hollander to the pet names. There are so many names that fit Shane. Asshole, jerk, dickhead, baby, sweetheart, sunshine, beloved, angel. Ilya would like to try and find the one that makes Shane blush the reddest. He would like to peek into Shane's heart and learn exactly what makes it tick. He thinks, maybe, that he might have a chance to do just that.
Shane laughs, exhausted and wobbly. “More than,” he says, and twitches his hips so that Ilya knows it’s time to carefully slide himself out, which makes them both hiss. Ilya hoists himself immediately up beside Shane, who’s already reaching for him, readjusting until Ilya’s on his back on top of the pillows and Shane’s nestled snuggly beside him, head pillowed on Ilya’s shoulder, nose tucked into the crook of Ilya’s neck.
“Stay tonight,” Ilya says eventually, placing a kiss in Shane’s hair.
Shane’s arms tighten. He’s smiling, when Ilya risks a careful glance sideways. “Say please.”
Ilya rolls his eyes, but his relief is so fervent that he can almost taste it. “Fuck off, Hollander.”
Shane scrunches his nose up. “Eh, you like it,” he tells Ilya, mocking Ilya’s accent, who can’t fight off the stupidly affectionate smile that takes over his face.
“да,” Ilya answers simply, and leans down to kiss Shane.
Later, he will explain himself better to Shane, make up for the confusion and the heartache that they’ve been inflicting each other with. Shane will explain why he's in Boston (filming a promotional video for a brand deal) and apologise, embarrassed, about the at-home ambush. Ilya will suck him off, for that bit. Shane will also admit to doing three shots of vodka for courage - Ilya blows him for that, too, in acknowledgment of how much Shane must have cared, to break his food regime. He'll give Shane the spare toothbrush he bought two months ago, just for him, and he'll try to play it cool but it'll make Shane glow. Ilya will explain his father’s dementia and his brother’s scruples, and Shane will hold him, stroking his hair, kissing his face gently, saying thank you for telling me, you didn't have to, but I always want to hear, okay?
Later, they’ll talk about what they are and where they’re going.
Right now, Shane tilts his chin up for their lips to meet again, and Ilya is smiling against Shane’s mouth, his arm curled around Shane’s neck, pulling him in close.
He’s home, he thinks. дом. Home.