Work Text:
Ilya had been acting strange over the phone.
It was the beginning of summer, the time of year Shane looked forward to the most, but they'd been kept apart for over a week: Shane stayed in Ottawa to fulfill sponsorship obligations, while Ilya was down in New York to supervise the opening of the newest hockey camp under the Irina Foundation umbrella. Being thrown around from one photoshoot to the next, Shane felt the absence of his husband tugging at his heart more than he had in years. After a season of such hard work, losing to Montreal in the final game had left a sour taste in his mouth, and built a great amount of frustration in his gut. He was so excited to just chill at the cottage, sunglasses on and nothing else, tanning and swimming and working out with the man he loved the most, laughing and not thinking about work for a good month at least.
But unfortunately for both of them, work never stopped and Shane's campaigns for CCM, Reebok, Rolex and Canada Dry afforded them a very comfortable lifestyle, even after the considerable pay cut since trading for the Centaurs. Surprisingly enough, Calvin Klein got in touch at the end of the season, wanting to feature him as a model for their new underwear collection. Shane felt wary about the offer: this was more Ilya's type of gig. Shane's temples had quickly begun to grey after he hit thirty-five, expression lines framing his face in a way he didn't enjoy. He did not appreciate the fact that he was getting older, that rookies ten years his junior had won the cup over him and Ilya, that his career may be nearing its end, and this had been weighing on his mind more and more with each passing season. Bouncing back from injuries wasn't as easy anymore; bruises lasted longer, his hips were giving him trouble enough to need physical therapy, his reaction times maybe weren't as sharp as they used to be.
"Do you want to dye it?" Ilya had asked point blank one evening in that no-bullshit way of his, noticing Shane's distant expression and the way his hands kept smoothing his hair back.
"No. Feels silly," Shane replied with a grimace. "I just didn't expect it to happen so suddenly. The bum hip I can deal with, but this is very, um. Visible. I can't get used to it."
Ilya's expression had softened then. Approaching him from behind, he gently nosed the short sides of his haircut, wrapping his big arms around Shane's waist. "Looks so sexy, though. I'm a big fan." One hand traveled slowly down Shane's stomach to reach the trimmed pubes at the base of his cock, which had also started to lighten at his age. "Look at you. So strong and handsome. You're the sexiest you've ever been, moy lyubimyy."
He had to admit that his bulk had increased as he got older. An entire career of intense workouts and very strict dieting had given Shane a solid foundation of muscle which only grew stronger year after year. While in his twenties he looked boyish with his smooth skin and slender build, in his thirties Shane had become considerably stronger, the muscles on his torso and thighs more evidently cut. His abs were particularly interesting to Ilya; they'd always been there, but now they looked more comparable to his husband's, very deep grooves that made Ilya stare with that dark hunger that never seemed to leave his eyes, ever since they were teenagers.
Perhaps Ilya's Instagram posts had something to do with the sudden interest on Calvin Klein's part. Ilya's reputation as a playboy truly preceded him, and his slutty tendencies never stopped, only changed as they transitioned into a public relationship. Ilya was quite good at being online. His feed was sexy in an artistic kind of way: black and white pictures of himself wearing designer tuxedos, his large hands weaving through the crystal clear waters of the lake by the cottage, one picture of him shirtless smoking a cigarette—that one had gotten so many likes and comments that Shane couldn't help but feel a bit jealous.
Almost every post had to include at least one candid picture of Shane, either with Ilya or by himself. His latest post had Shane as the very first picture: lounging in bed reading a book, with the early morning sunlight painting stripes across his upper body, just the slightest hint of a hipbone peeking out from under the covers. Ilya always asked permission to post these racier shots—checking in as he'd always done—but he did a great job of convincing Shane he had absolutely nothing to be insecure about. A week and a few hundred thousand likes later, the people at Calvin Klein sent their publicist an email.
Embarassment was a constant in Shane's life, however, and being alone for that entire day of shooting made him feel itchy and gross, uncomfortable in his own skin. The photographer put him in just about every pose on what seemed like a dozen different sets. He was photographed in denim, tight white T-shirts, and lastly in a pair of boxers that didn't leave much to the imagination. He had to stretch, jump, run, spin, feeling insanely silly throughout the whole thing. The crew commanding him to "look sexier" certainly hadn't helped. He hoped that the final pictures would hide the deep red flush covering his face and chest. Shane refused to look at them, praying that they looked good enough to be on every major fashion and sports magazine by the end of the month.
And now here he was, anxiously awaiting for his husband's arrival, which wouldn't happen for a few hours still. He curled up in bed, feeling too vulnerable and lonely to go through with his morning routine just yet, missing Ilya something fierce after what seemed like such a long time apart. Ever since they'd started living together and playing on the same team, Shane had begun to take their proximity for granted, relishing the domesticity they'd denied themselves for over a decade. It was so nice to just exist together, bumping shoulders in the kitchen, napping on the couch, talking for hours about nothing at all. Shane checked his phone, where a single message by Ilya awaited him:
You're on Vogue. Bought a copy. Will be home by 11.
Shane wasn't sure how to interpret this. Ilya hadn't had the time to talk to him much apart from a phone call every couple of days, and the tone of his voice seemed much more serious than usual. They'd talked about business, mostly, which left Shane feeling even more distant than the thousands of miles that separated them. Had he been missing Shane as much, as ardently as he missed him? Did he wake up instinctively reaching for a warm body on the other side of the bed like Shane did? Did something happen that made him close up like he used to, not communicating his anxieties to Shane? Was it something with his brother?
This paranoia was all too familiar, reminiscent of a past he'd rather not reflect much on. He decided to power through his morning workout, opening all the windows to their indoor gym to let a bit of fresh air come in and soothe the tightness he felt all over. He did a load of laundry, ate a salad, took a long cold shower, and by the time 11 a.m. came around, he was sitting on the couch in silence, tapping his phone on his knee and trying not to think about how eerily intimate he was with this feeling, the insecurity he'd felt at the very beginning when they were getting to know one another and his emotions already felt too big for his body.
The deep rumbling engine of Ilya's Audi entering the garage pulled him from his reverie. Shane anxiously tugged at the sides of his hair, trying to tame it into something respectable, uselessly wishing he could feed the black back into his greys. This kind of behavior was not befitting of a man in his late thirties.
The front door burst open and there he was, seeming to bring a wave of light and warmth along with his golden shoulders and long curls. Shane smiled despite himself. Ilya, however, looked determined, brows heavy over his blue eyes, a hard set to his jaw. As soon as he made eye contact with Shane, butterflies went crazy in his belly. His husband could be very unpredictable, and this look usually meant trouble.
Without uttering a single word, Ilya made his way over to the couch, towering over Shane and giving him a slow look from head to toe. He threw his bag with a bit more force than necessary. Only then did Shane notice the Vogue issue he was holding.
"I saw something very interesting here," Ilya said by way of greeting, opening the magazine in the middle to reveal a full spread of his CK ad. In the picture, Shane was lying down, fully black background starkly outlining his body. It was one of the boxer briefs pictures: Shane's face turned to the side, thick arms supporting his weight, legs spread and abs flexed. The high contrast and low exposure gave the picture a moody appeal, unexpectedly very fitting given the melancholy of these last few days without Ilya.
"That whole day was so awkward," Shane confessed, finally relieved to talk about this with the person who understood him the best. "It doesn't come naturally to me like it does to you. I felt so strange. Their models are usually, like. Young pop stars and such. I don't know." He avoided Ilya's gaze, trying to escape this burning sensation of being ineffective, insufficient, not enough.
A long beat of silence followed. Then, Ilya said, "awkward, huh. Imagine how awkward it was for me. Seeing my husband naked on Twitter, on television, on fucking Times Square. The most gorgeous body on the planet, for everyone to see but me."
Shane's breath stuttered, and how amazing was it, that after all these years, his reactions were still the same. A single compliment from Ilya could make him weak in the knees, make him fall in love all over again. He forced himself to look up into Ilya's eyes despite his embarassment. The look on his husband's face was intimidating and reverent all at once. Shane's mind spun, and he could feel himself entering that headspace he knew so well, the one that only Ilya could provide.
"Not naked," Shane whispered back, weakly.
"Might as well be," Ilya shot back, tapping at the picture. "I can see your cock through these boxers." Crouching down to be at eye level with Shane, he continued, "do you have any idea what you did to me, Hollander? I could not escape you. Everywhere I looked, there you were. Hot as fuck, offering yourself to the world like a slut." He smacked the magazine on the coffee table, grabbed Shane's chin and whispered into his lips, "I missed you so fucking much. Do you want to see what you did to me?"
"Yes, please," Shane caved, easy as anything, like he always was with Ilya.
"I'm going to show you how you make me feel. How gorgeous you are. What I did every night, looking at these pictures, thinking of you." Ilya was unbuttoning his pants, already visibly half-hard. "Take off your fucking clothes, right fucking now."
Shane obeyed as if hit by a spell, wanting nothing more than to be touched, to be loved, to be freed from this weight on his chest. Once Ilya was naked, he straddled Shane, his eyes burning embers into his skin.
"I don't think you realize," Ilya said, stroking himself, fully hard now, "how lucky I am. Look at what I have. This is all mine. This," he grabbed Shane's pec, thumbing at the nipple and eliciting a gasp from the man under him. "This," Ilya whispered, moving his hand to comb through Shane's hair, bringing him closer still, so that his hot breath could graze the curls on his chest. "And this," Ilya finally croaked, scratching his nails down Shane's abs, hand moving quickly over the length of his cock. Shane was powerless to do anything; he didn't need to. Just the desperation on Ilya's demeanor alone was enough to take him over the moon, make him dazed, high on his own desire.
"Every night at the hotel, Shane," Ilya gasped, losing control, "I edged myself to your fucking pictures. I thought about your pretty cock wet on your belly. Like it always gets. Like is right now."
Shane couldn't look away from his husband's eyes. Ilya grabbed his face and in one rough, quick motion, made him look down, rubbing the head of his own dick against the puddle of precome on Shane's navel, giving it a heavy tap for good measure. Shane twitched, overcome with the need to touch himself. But he also knew that if he waited long enough, Ilya would take care of him. He always did.
"I remember every fucking detail of your body. Since I was eighteen, all I do is think about you and your sexy fucking body. At the gym that day, fuck. I can't stand it, Hollander. Look what you've done to me," Ilya groaned, in that desperate way he does when he's about to come, frowning and stroking furiously, eyes never closing for a second. "How many people wish they were me, hm? Do you see, my love? Do you see how beautiful? Do you see how excited I am to come home to you?"
Shane nodded, hypnotized by Ilya's expression, feeling himself tear up despite his arousal. Only Ilya would ever see him like this, wide open with absolutely nothing to hide. He trusted his husband more than anything. "Please, Ilya," he asked, not knowing what, but needing him so much he couldn't articulate it any better.
"I saved myself for you. I'm gonna fucking mark you, Hollander, I'm gonna come all over your sexy fucking body, because only I get to do this. And then I'm gonna fuck you all night. I'm gonna fuck you until you understand. Are you listening?"
"Yes, yes, yes." A single tear fell down Shane's face, and his hand grabbing Ilya's hair was all it took for him to crash, rope after rope painting Shane's stomach and groin, coming as hard and as much as he'd ever seen him do. Ilya then wiped his hand down, using his own spend to jerk Shane's cock in the exact way he needed, with just the right amount of pressure. It didn't take more than a minute for him to follow.
Ilya kissed him deeply for a long time, humming like he was still coming, talking whenever they stopped to take a breath. "I love you so much, Shane. You're perfect to me. You're everything I want. You're the most gorgeous man I've ever seen. I love you so much."
"I get it," Shane breathed, "I get it, Ilya."
"I don't think you do. I'm angry, Shane."
"Angry?" Shane giggled, sated and so happy he could fly.
"Yes. I want to get stupid idea about aging out of your head. I feel like is my fault. I didn't know what else to do." Whenever Ilya's mouth ran faster than his brain and he dropped his articles, Shane knew he was being dead serious. "I will want you even when we are old in the retirement home. I will want you after we are dead. In another life, I will want you."
Shane flew up and hugged him so tight he couldn't breathe, nearly lifting Ilya off the couch. His smile tucked into the groove of his husband's neck, just like it was supposed to.
"It's not your fault, I swear. It just snuck up on me. I can't keep doing this for much longer, Ilya. I feel so tired during the season, my body hurts."
"So fucking what? Hockey is not everything, Shane." Ilya pulled back to look at him, that magnetic gaze so convincing every time. Shane nodded. "We will retire together. We will spend every day just like this. We don't fucking need hockey. We have everything we need already. Da?"
"Yes. Yes. I love you."
"Hmm. Love you," Ilya mumbled into his lips. "Shower, then food, then I make you come some more."
Shane scoffed, shoving his husband off his lap and catching another glimpse of the magazine as he stood up, still opened on the same dog-eared page. Maybe aging wasn't so bad after all.