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When Ilya’s phone rang, when whichever name popped up on the screen and made him immediately tense, when he got up to take the call in the other room for privacy’s sake, Ilya handed Shane the TV remote.
It didn’t mean anything. It probably didn’t mean anything. It didn’t have to mean anything but it very much felt like it meant something.
It very much felt like Ilya was telling Shane to stay.
Shane was a lot of things mostly quiet and more often than he’d like to admit awkward and possibly a hint unsocial, but he was also unfailingly distressingly polite and the polite thing to do when his sort of friend with very sparsely scheduled benefits had to take an important phone call was to put an end to their already unsettingly different hook up hang out and leave.
And Shane was gonna leave. He was. The house was stunning, the sex had been mindblowing, shared food and shared conversation had been a newly comfortable addition to their dynamic, but then the phone rang and offered a perfectly valid reason– a perfectly reasonable excuse– for Shane to politely and quietly excuse himself gone.
So Shane was gonna leave. He was. He’d stayed for a nap when Ilya asked, he’d stayed for food when Ilya offered, the phone rang and was the perfect chance to end the uh– the encounter before anything got awkward, but then Ilya handed him the remote and maybe it didn’t mean anything but it sorta kind felt like it meant something.
Sorta kinda felt like Ilya was telling Shane to stay. To keep staying. To stay still.
Shane stayed. The game wasn’t interesting enough to pay any attention to, but he kept his eyes on the TV and turned the volume up a few courteous notches so Ilya’s rapid fire Russian and rapidly getting louder kitchen conversation wouldn’t be the only sound in the huge house.
And damn the house was huge. Everything about it. Huge windows illuminating the huge living room, a huge couch stretched out beneath the huge artwork, noise in the kitchen echoed around the dozen unneeded seats at the bar, the bed was big and the bedroom mostly unused space, Shane had seen locker rooms smaller than the master bathroom, the place was downright gargantuan.
It was also downright empty. Too big for one person, too much for someone who was on the road more often than they were in the city, too empty for someone as vibrantly extra as Ilya to call home.
Shane turned the TV up again when Ilya exploded sounding furious in the kitchen and wondered if Ilya felt cozy and safe enough in the huge place to call it home.
He crumpled the hem of the shirt Ilya had given him to wear between his fingers, black and simple and reeking of Ilya’s cologne, Ilya had tossed it at him and Shane put it on without thinking, was lounging in it without thinking, comfortable in it without thinking and Shane wondered–
–fuck, he shook his head and wondered if Ilya felt cozy and safe and home when Shane was on his too huge couch under that too huge art eating his food and wearing his shirt.
Fuck. Wondering shit like that was exactly why it hadn’t been a good idea to stay. Not for the nap, not for the food, not for Ilya’s shirt and the remote to Ilya’s TV. Any time Shane let himself stay, he ended up letting himself wonder, and every time he started to wonder, he ended up starting to wish and that never did any good for anyone.
...Shane never managed to convince himself to stop wishing, though.
In the kitchen, Ilya slammed his phone down on the counter once. Slammed it down twice. He shoved his fingers into his hair and pulled pulled pulled until he could blame the tremble in his hands on the pain in his head and not the fear and uncertainty and panic clawing its way up the back of his throat.
Fuck. Fuck Polina for being a useless wife and fuck Alexei for being a useless brother and son and fuck fuck his father for being so goddamn terrifying every day of Ilya’s life until now when he was falling to pieces, forgetting all his pieces and somehow Ilya was the only person who seemed to notice or care or worry.
And Shane. Fuck. Ilya clutched at his necklace and told himself to breathe. He screwed his eyes shut and told himself to calm. The day was going good, Shane was willing to stay, all Ilya had to do was get it together, keep it together, lock in and fake it so Shane wouldn’t get freaked out and leave.
Get it together. He clutched at his necklace until the cross cut into his palm. Keep it together. He counted to ten in English, in Russian, in English again, forcing a dry whisper past his closed up throat. He had to lock in and fake it but not like in Vegas when he’d been upset about going home and made Shane angry, not like at the Olympics when he’d been terrified and stressed about being home pushed Shane away.
Not like that. He couldn’t fake it like that, Ilya had to fake it like-
“You still hungry?” Every strung tight nerve in Ilya’s body wanted him to fucking flee. Too much on his mind, too much in his heart, Ilya was vibrating tense as he walked back into the living room and he grit his teeth, set his shoulders and tried to be nonchalant, “How is tuna melt?”
“It’s um– it’s good.” Shane was still there. Still sitting. The steel bands suffocating at Ilya’s chest eased just a bit when Shane gave him one of those little half smiles. “How’s your father?”
Snap, the steel bands tightened again. Ilya couldn’t breathe. “Ah. You uh–” his knees gave out like his strings had been cut. Ilya dropped onto the couch with a thud and hoped it looked casual. He grabbed at his hair to stop the urge to gag and hoped the motion seemed like an afterthought. The words dried up and he knew he was staring, eyes darting all over Shane’s face searching for judgement, for pity, for comprehension.
“You.” he croaked out uncertainly. “Speak Russian now?”
“I mean.” Another one of those tiny, half smile. “I know the word for father.”
“Right.” Breathe. Shane hadn’t taken the chance to sneak out while he was on the phone, Shane hadn’t understood the frantic, frenetic conversation, it was okay, it was gonna be okay. “Sure.”
“So is everything…” Shane was coaxing, prompting, suggesting. It was nothing more than a tilt of his head, a slight hunch of his shoulders, but Ilya heard the offer loud and clear. Same as Vegas, same as Sochi, same as every time Ilya was shutting down and Shane was willing to give him space to open up.
Bozhe moy, Ilya didn’t deserve him. Shane with his no pressure offer for communication, the unspoken promise that it would stay between them, that Ilya could relax and be honest. Every single time Shane had offered, Ilya had rebuffed him, rebuked him, rejected him with a flippant comment or hard stare or cold shoulder.
Ilya didn’t deserve him, but just then– again and again for the tenth, dozenth, hundredth time, Ilya thought he loved him.
“Rozanov.” Shane knocked their knees together lightly. “Where’d you go?” Ilya had been quiet for a long time. Disconcertingly quiet. He kept tugging and twisting and twirling at his hair, then at his ear lobe, his knee was jumping, foot tip-tap-tapping in the soft soled slides and his eyes darting all over Shane’s face, side to side then down to his mouth and up again as if trying to dissect and decipher— what? Shane wasn’t hiding anything, Ilya was the one who took a super tense call and now was acting weird, why was he staring at Shane like that?
“Hm. Come here.” Ilya leaned back into the couch and brought Shane with him, his hand at Shane’s waist, fist clenched into his shirt– Shane was wearing his shirt– for a briefly possessive few seconds before he ran his fingers along Shane’s arm and into his hair to guide Shane’s head onto his shoulder.
And instantly, it was better. It was better. Ilya quit yanking at his own hair and buried his fingers into Shane’s hair, petting and combing through the glossy black strands. He stopped tugging at his own earlobe and traced the whorl and curl of Shane’s ear instead. The anxious, unconscious bounce of his leg stopped when Shane’s frame settled against his side and everything was instantly better.
Better… but not enough. Shane was laying at an odd angle and the lights were bright, the TV loud and the silence of their non conversation labored in every breath. Ilya could feel the nauseating weight of a frustrated scream deep in his lungs, he’d wasted time answering the phone and now was wasting time worrying about the call when their time was always limited, he didn’t know how to talk to Shane about the situation or talk to Shane about their situation so no, semi-stiff cuddling wasn’t enough.
But it was better.
So it was fine. Ilya would fake it and pretend like everything was fine. He was happy to settle for better because he knew not to hope for perfect, it was fine.
Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave. Ilya pushed his nose into Shane’s hair and closed his eyes. Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave, I’m fine, it’s fine, we’re fine.
It wasn’t fine. Shane sat there half turned into Ilya’s body, angled uncomfortable on the huge couch and uncertain with the shift in Ilya’s behavior and wondered what the hell was wrong.
Cuddling wasn’t a new thing for them, but cuddling on the couch with clothes on sure was. And Ilya was tense beneath him, his broad chest rising and falling uncomfortably fast with each harsh breath. Usually Shane melted into an embarrassed pile of horny whenever Ilya played with his hair, but right then Ilya’s motions were too fast, the obsessive way he traced over Shane’s earlove distracting rather than relaxing. His leg quit bouncing when Shane leaned into him but Ilya’s body was still thrumming with tension, his heart racing under Shane’s ear, the kiss he left on Shane’s head pressed hard like Ilya was right on the verge of breaking.
“Hey.” Shane adjusted so he wasn’t laying against the hard line of Ilya’s collarbone, turned in a little more so he could set his hand high on Ilya’s leg and knead his knuckles into the heavy muscle. “You okay?”
“Yes. Of course.” Ilya cringed when his answer blatantly sounded like the lie it definitely was. “Yes, I–” he tightened his grip in Shane’s hair and nodded, “Yes. Fine.”
“Kay.” The lie was loud. Shane could have let it go the same way he’d let Ilya’s lies about being fine, about being busy, about being nonchalant go all the other times.
He didn’t let it go. “You sure?”
“Hollander.” Tense. Terse. Ilya screwed his eyes shut and mentally cursed himself for being so bad at faking it. Tonight of all nights he didn’t want to drive Shane away, he had to get it together. “I said I was fine, so–”
The featherlight pass of lips at his bare chest abruptly, effectively derailed Ilya’s spiraling thoughts and clumsy attempts at self regulating.
Then a second kiss lower along his sternum, there and gone with nothing more than a hint of heat, the smallest dot of wet from the very tip of Shane’s tongue.
A third, lower still and Ilya tightened his grip on Shane’s hair when Shane nosed along the dip of his waist , exhaling a puff of warm air until goosebumps prickled up across Ilya’s stomach, through the scattering of moles flecked across his abdomen.
“H-Hollander.” Ilya croaked when Shane’s fingers hooked into the waistband of his sweats. “What--“
The attempted segue to sex was normal. Would have been fine any other time. Sex instead of talking, blow jobs instead of being honest, anything other time it would have been fine and Ilya would have welcomed it.
But. "Hollander, I am-- I'm--" Ilya didn’t want to admit he wasn’t hard or anything even close to it. Usually all he had to do was think about Shane, get that certain look from Shane, half the time just a text from Shane had him chubbing up in his pants but with his father's voice still ringing in his ear and the anger towards Alexei still curdling acidic in his gut, Ilya couldn’t even manage a twitch of interest.
Inability to perform because of stress at the ripe old age of nowhere near thirty with a gorgeous, eager man in his lap was devastating and frustrating and humiliating and Ilya tried not to panic at his fucking failure as he pushed his free hand down the back of Shane’s shirt his shirt and rubbed at Shane’s shoulder. “Come here. Up here and I will—“
“Can I try something?” Shane didn’t stop rubbing his cheek at Ilya’s stomach, close enough for his lashes to brush fluttery at Ilya’s skin every time he blinked. “To help you.”
“I do not need help.” Ilya denied stiffly, automatically, pozhaluysta bozhe please god do not let Shane realize he was soft and think there was a problem, or think that he was the problem and use it as a reason to leave.
“Right no, you never need help. God forbid.” Shane rolled his eyes then squeezed Ilya’s thigh pointedly. “I just mean, you obviously got alot on your mind and I thought it might help if—“
“No no no.” Ilya cut in anxiously. He lifted his leg into Shane’s hand again, using the motion to try and jostle Shane up and away from his crotch, up and away from Ilya’s stuck in his head problem. “It is fine. I am fine, told you—“
“Let me try something.” Shane curled his other hand around Ilya’s hip, his nails digging semicircles into his waist. “Um. Please?”
“Oh he says please like a good boy.” Ilya’s stomach swooped when Shane didn’t react to the attempt at teasing, and all at once the moment and Shane’s still unspoken request felt very serious. “What— what do you want to try?”
“I read about this thing.” Shane started slowly, carefully, hiding his face in Ilya’s lap as he tried to articulate just what he wanted. “Or not read. I mean, it was an online article so yeah I read it, but it had uh– illustrations.”
A blush burned up his neck, flooding into his face and Ilya stared at the back of Shane’s head utterly transfixed as the red flush reached the very tip of Shane’s ears. “I wanted to try it at some point. With you. And right now seems like a good– you know maybe right now when you’re stressed out is the time to–“
He stopped, frustrated, clenching the soft material of Ilya’s sweatpants between his fingers nervously. Usually when it came time to talk about this sorta stuff, Ilya was the one who started the conversation, directed the conversation and got Shane comfortable enough or maybe desperate enough to blurt out what he needed and who he wanted and how good it all felt.
But Ilya didn’t know what Shane was about to ask for, and hell, Shane barely knew what he was about to ask for and oh god what if he looked up and Ilya was laughing at him, maybe Shane had misread the situation and Ilya wasn’t as strung tight stressed out as Shane thought, maybe this wasn’t the right time, maybe maybe maybe.
He was acting crazy. For fuck’s sake, Shane hadn’t even been looking for anything specific when he’d fallen down that particular online rabbit hole. He’d just been browsing for some porn, but since all his fantasies lately looked-sounded-fucked like Ilya, first Shane had looked up blond athletic types and then with a self conscious glance around his bedroom like anyone had been there to judge, he’d searched for bossy blond athletic types. Bossy had led him to Dominant, Dominant had led to things about kneeling, kneeling had linked to submission and then–
Well. That particular rabbit hole had left Shane forgetting all about jerking off. He’d ended up sitting dazed on the bed just scrolling through photo after gif after short video, his entire mental process slowed down and hazy cottony at the edges thinking about kneeling, about serving, about-- about holding.
“Hollander.” Ilya murmured when Shane went very still against him. “Where are you?”
“I’m here.” Shane tugged at Ilya’s waistband once, twice, and turned his head enough to mouth a hopeful, begging kiss to Ilya’s navel. “I want to try something. Will you uh– will you tell me if you don’t like it?”
“I like everything you do.” Ilya tried to get his hand on Shane’s chin, tried to nudge him up to meet his eyes. “Hollander, everything you do is good. So good. Just say it. What do you want to try?”
“Can— can I hold you?” Shane asked haltingly and Ilya blinked, “You want to… hold me.”
Yes, of course the answer was yes. If Shane just wanted to cuddle then Ilya wouldn’t have to admit he couldn’t stop stressing enough to get it up, they could move to the bed and try another nap and start the whole evening over.
Ilya opened his mouth to say yes because of course the answer was yes, but then Shane--
“Yeah, like this.” Shane bent nearly double on the couch to nuzzle further down into Ilya’s lap, pushing his face into Ilya’s crotch and nosing at the bump of his cock, squeezing at Ilya’s thigh before he gathered all his courage and slid off the couch and right onto the floor. Right onto his knees.
“Like this.” Shane pulled Ilya’s sweats down slowly, licking his lips and exhaling audibly shaky when he saw Ilya’s cock thick but soft laying against his thigh. He scooted in closer between Ilya’s spread legs and tapped his finger against his bottom lip, against the tip of his tongue so he could ask, invite, beg, “Right um– right here?”
“Fffffuck.” Ilya’s eyes went wide, his heart suddenly racing. “Yes.”
“If you don’t like it,” Shane reassured him nervously, but Ilya cut him off with a breathless, “Hollander.” and a hoarse, “Fuck.” and whispered from some soul deep place of disbelief and longing and a crippling, choking need, “Hold me.”
“Yeah okay.” Shane nodded jerkily, “Okay. I’ll just–” he took a deep breath and leaned in to flatten his tongue to the tip of the blunt head. Ilya jerked underneath him at that first, tentative lick, biting into his knuckles to muffle a rough curse and the intense reaction felt like approval, blanketed at Shane’s shoulders warm like praise. He settled into it, sinking further onto his knees and running both hands up the inside of Ilya’s legs, grounding himself with the scratch of hair and the reflexive, unconscious nudge of Ilya’s knees at his shoulders caging him in.
“Hollander…” Ilya murmured something shocked in Russian and Shane took it as permission. He licked his way over Ilya’s cock, suckling at the tip and letting his mouth fill with saliva to spill sloppy wet into each open mouthed kiss along the shaft. It was a novel experience to have Ilya soft, Shane had only ever gone down on him when Ilya was hard enough to gag him and Shane was surprised by how heavy Ilya still was on his tongue, how wide his lips still had to stretch to hold him. He closed his eyes and hummed trying to take more of Ilya into his mouth, but went too far and gagged, had to pull off with a cough and watery eyes, “S-sorry–”
“No no no, fuck.” Ilya automatically grabbed for Shane’s chin, running his thumb in firm circles over Shane’s jaw and hooking at the side of his mouth. “Fuck, that is so good. Wow. Is that– are you okay there? Is good for you? Or–”
“Good for me, yeah.” Shane dotted a kiss into Ilya’s palm then shook his hand off so he could take his cock again, dropping his jaw and flattening his tongue so there was more room, focusing and breathing so the bump of the blunt head at the back of his throat wouldn’t make him gag a second time.
“Do you need anything?” Ilya sank his hand into Shane’s thick hair, tugging helpless and tight, stunned speechless by just how willing Shane was to kneel, how soft and settled and content he looked with Ilya in his mouth. “Hollander. I– I–”
Shane lay his cheek on Ilya’s leg as best he could without disrupting anything and spread his knees wider to sink lower into kneeling, shifting a bit until he found just the right position, just the right tilt to his head so he could stay on his knees, stay close, without any uncomfortable pressure on his neck.
This close, Ilya smelled like body wash and sex, like sweat and musk and them and the mix of it all was heady. Shane focused on his breathing, inhaling the dizzying scent and blanking out fuzzier around the edges with every single exhale. His whole world dialed down to Ilya, zeroed in to Ilya, to each focused breath and the heat of Ilya’s skin, the flex of fingers in his hair and every minute twitch of Ilya’s cock against his tongue.
His heart beat first loud in his ears, then slower in his chest, quieter fading into the background of the moment and finally nothing more than a vague pulse in his subconscious and his breathing slowed with it until Shane thought he might almost be asleep. Half asleep, maybe. Half dreaming, maybe. From some far away distance, Shane thought he heard Ilya’s deep voice rumble something that sounded like thank you.
From some far away distance caught between kneeling at Ilya’s feet and floating somewhere just above his body, Shane thought maybe he should be the one saying thank you. His mouth was full though, his jaw lax and tongue working absentmindedly around Ilya’s cock and words wouldn’t work, so Shane blindly felt up Ilya’s body until he found his hand and wound their fingers together, pressing hard, checking in.
“Here. I’m here.” Ilya squeezed back, then put their clasped hands down where he could brush his fingers along Shane’s cheek without dislodging their hold on one another. “And you– you’re here too, then. You’re here.”
Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave. Shane sighed around him, throat convulsing just enough to tighten barely there at the tip of Ilya’s cock and his eyes slammed shut, his head dropping back onto the couch and free hand clapped over his mouth so he wouldn’t curse or– or pray or sob.
“F-fuck.” Quiet, and quieter, “Sweetheart, please…”
Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave.
****
Once upon a time, Grigori Rozanov had been a mountain of a man. He’d commanded every room he walked into, struck terror into his son’s heart with nothing more than a look and the weight of his disapproval, of his disappointment had hurt worse than a slap.
But that had been before. The man who had called Ilya earlier was not that man. That man, that Grigori had stuttered and stammered confused about the day, the date, the time. Which wife he was married to, which son was meant to be home, Grigori’s memories scattered every night when he closed his eyes to sleep, sometimes they failed him from one moment to the next.
With one breath, Ilya mourned the loss of his Father but with the next breath, Ilya couldn’t help but be relieved that the strictly physically stern patriarch would no longer be looming over him casting darkness onto the light of Ilya’s new life and the whiplash of grief and guilt made him nauseous. It wasn’t fair Ilya had to handle it all, but perhaps he was failing as a son to be in Boston when his father needed him home every day. It shouldn’t be Ilya’s job as the youngest son, but without his father pushing him, maybe he never would have worked so hard and been given the opportunity to play in the states so maybe he owed everything to Grigori no matter how the echo of his father’s fury and fists was loud in his nightmares.
–Shane moaned around him, his tongue fluttering along Ilya’s cock and Ilya combed both hands into Shane’s hair to whisper grateful quiet praise for the unexpected intimacy–
His brother was worthless. Alexei was worthless. He had a family and no way to support them, had never cared about Mama and was all too happy to take Ilya’s money and fail to care about their father. Every time Ilya talked to him lately, he thought maybe he hated him.
And what sort of man hated their brother? What sort of man resented having enough money to send home to Russia and solve so many familial problems? Some days Ilya thought he must be the worst sort of person to carry so much resentment to the only family he had left. How could he feel sorry for himself being lonely in Boston but then he was angry every time his family called to talk?
–Shane hollowed his cheeks suckling lightly on him, his mouth wet and warm and so distractingly soft Ilya could scarcely believe it. He brushed his knuckles at Shane’s cheek and lolled his head back on the cushions trying not to think about–
He’d been nervous to have Shane over. Pathetically, exhilaratingly, nervous. Home was different than a hotel, different than the neutral space condo Shane had bought, different even than the penthouse apartment Ilya still owned in the city.
Home was huge windows and open space, bright lights and oversized furniture, Ilya had approved every single design choice in the house and some meant nothing at all but others had reminded him of his Mama, of Russia in the summer, of gold medals… the artwork above the couch reminded Ilya of Shane. Their team colors on either side. A face off. The rivalry the media had concocted and the lines drawn between them by their lives, their work, and Ilya’s stupid inability to use his words.
Home was home but it was more home once Shane had arrived. It had been so easy to put him on the counter, easier to carry him to the bed, Shane had held the headboard and held Ilya down like he was claiming a place in the huge house and oh Ilya wanted that, some days he ached with how badly he wanted that.
– Shane nudged in and in, burying his face deeper into the vee of Ilya’s spread legs to take another half inch of Ilya soft across his tongue and to the back of his throat. He made a noise so quietly content that later, later Ilya would call him kotyonek, kitten, and tease him about purring and later, later Ilya would–
–he would–
“Mmmm…” Shane made the same noise again and Ilya didn’t remember what he’d been thinking. Not about Grigori or Alexei or how sick to his stomach he’d been worrying every second all day about whether or not Shane would want to stay. Ilya took a breath and couldn’t find the motivation to form anything mentally coherent. Took a breath and melted back into the couch with his eyes closed and his fingers knotted into Shane’s hair. Took a breath and let himself sink into the sanctuary of quiet where he was warm and taken care of and held.
“Spasibo, lyubimyy.” he whispered near inaudible. “Thank you…”
*****
Arousal came slowly. The warmth of Shane’s mouth around Ilya was soothing and settling and easy until leisurely, eventually, almost unnoticed it was more. It built in tiny increments, little frissons of heat unwinding lazy in Ilya’s core and sparking through his veins, skittering under his skin and hardening into his cock but Ilya was too busy drifting in the newness of being spoiled and Shane was too busy floating to pay any attention right up until he coughed choking on his next breath when Ilya’s hips twitched up unconsciously seeking deeper warmth.
“Sorry.” Ilya tried to apologize right away, but Shane only readjusted and pulled off a little to seal his lips tighter and suck at him harder in obvious permission.
And, “Fuck, is good.” Ilya groaned and Shane groaned a vibrating agreement around his cock. “Is good, but here. Come here.”
Ilya eased out of Shane’s mouth carefully, cradling his jaw in his palm to hold him steady. Shane made a dizzy, plaintive sort of complaining noise and Ilya clicked his tongue, “That is a very sweet noise.” before putting both hands under Shane’s arm pits and bodily hauling him off his knees and up into his lap. He brought Shane in close so they were resting forehead to forehead and decided quietly, “I think I would like you to make it again.”
“You l-like all the noises I make.” Shane’s smile was loopy and a little bit dazed, his speech slow cos he had to focus on each word and that was a lot of work after he’d been able to just focus on Ilya and kneeling and breathing and Ilya for the past… ten minutes? Half an hour? Belatedly, Shane realized his jaw was sore, his tongue tired and the inside of his cheeks felt raw, his legs rubbery and shoulders stiff after kneeling for so long and his loopy smile stretched wider for it.
“You like all the noises I make.” he said again, still quiet and slow but with a confident spark in his eye and tilt to his lips because Ilya looked just as floaty settled soft as Shane felt and that– that was good. “Admit it.”
“I do like all the noises you make.” Ilya didn’t hesitate to agree, breathing the awestruck confession into the scant inch of space between their lips. “But.” he bumped the back of his knuckles gently at Shane’s cheek, his fingertips along the freckles below Shane’s eyes, hooked his thumb at the corner of his mouth to feel the edge of that beautifully dazed little smile. “I liked that one alot.”
“I can tell.” Shane couldn’t stop smiling and he thought maybe he looked goofy, thought maybe he should feel dumb for being so affected by what was maybe the most vanilla of things they’d ever done together, but really he only felt good so he ground down on Ilya’s lap, over the impressively unignorable jut of his cock stiffened up against his ass. “Can I–”
“Hollander.” Ilya started to speak up at the same time, yes thoroughly distracted by Shane wiggling on top of him and no they’d never made it a thing to have heart to heart conversations ever, much less when they were both hard– fuck Ilya was so relieved to be throbbing hard when an hour previous it hadn’t seemed possible.
No, they didn’t have heart to heart relationship type conversations but this time when Shane had stayed and held him, this time Ilya thought he really fucking needed to say something, even if he didn’t really know what it would be yet. He cleared his throat and cast about for the right words, the right way to suggest a conversation without ruining the moment or breaking Shane out of his sweetly loopy smiling daze. “Hollander, should we… talk?”
“Mmmm after.” Shane parroted Ilya’s earlier words back at him while palming over Ilya’s bare cock. “Yeah?”
“Fuck.” Ilya’s hips jerked up in immediate response, any and all thoughts of conversation abruptly banished by the heat in Shane’s dark eyes and the temptation in the curve of his gorgeous mouth. “Yes. Okay.”
“Yeah, there you are.” Shane settled firmer onto Ilya’s lap, fitting his hand at the base of the thick cock and immediately pulling over him with short, fast strokes. He caught Ilya’s mouth in a kiss, drawn out and sucking and slow, dragging his teeth at Ilya’s bottom lip before urging in a greedy whisper, “You gonna cum for me Rozanov? Gonna cum real fast for me?”
“Fucking make me.” Ilya whispered right back, and it was challenge, but it sounded like a prayer and when he demanded, “Give hand here.” it sound like he was begging instead of ordering Shane to hold up his hand so Ilya could spit into his palm and use it as lube. “There.”
“Yeah, that’s better.” Shane’s grin went a little wild when Ilya started yanking at his pants. He sat up on his knees enough to wiggle his sweats down around his thighs then hunched close to line up against Ilya and thrust himself right up alongside Ilya’s cock into his own hand.
“Fuck!” Ilya bit out a desperate, “Fuck.” and Shane nodded into a messy, frantic kiss as he pushed into Ilya, rubbing and frotting against him, stretching his fingers wide enough to try and stroke both of them together at the same.
“Oh my god.” Ilya tipped his chin up straining trying to reach Shane’s mouth, his hands at Shane’s ass, his waist, scratching up his back to bury into his hair and drag him down so Ilya could swallow down every harsh breath and squeaky little noise and hungry moan from Shane’s lips. The kisses weren’t near long enough, they were panting too hard, shifting too much on the couch, rocking into one another too hard to do much more than gasp and groan and share air from spit slicked lips but Ilya kept trying, clutching Shane tight and lifting up to meet him again and again, “D-don’t stop. Don’t stop.”
“No no I got it, got us, I got—” Shane was half delirious, swept away in that same dizzy headspace where nothing mattered except getting the sound of Ilya’s voice and the toe curling intensity of their cocks slotting together with every rough motion. He thought maybe Ilya was begging him, pleading for a kiss, for more, for anything and everything and it was the most powerful, addictive thing to know being his knees had taken Ilya apart, kneeling or straddling Ilya’s lap, it didn’t matter, Shane had taken Ilya from shut off and stressed out to begging and pleading and saying his name, Ilya kept saying…his…name…
Oh, everything fuzzy in Shane’s head sharpened into vivid, graphic clarity when he realized Ilya kept saying his name.
“Shane.” Ilya came groaning loud for Shane, head back and the tendons in his neck straining, his cock throbbing as he spilled into Shane’s fist, flooding a mess down himself and all over Shane, matting into the hair on his stomach.
And Shane, “...Ilya…” was too stunned to do much more than press close and close his eyes shaking through his own orgasm as Ilya dragged him into a tight hug and crushed a kiss that tasted like adoration onto his mouth.
*****
“Stay.” After they'd caught their breath and the mess was starting to dry tacky on their skin, Ilya tangled his fingers in the ends of Shane’s hair and pushed their foreheads together. “Shane. Stay with me tonight. All night.”
“Okay.” Shane nodded against him and for once didn't hesitate. For once let himself wonder and wish and accept. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll stay.”
“Good.” Ilya closed his eyes and let himself breathe. Closed his eyes and for the first time since that very first time he’d met Shane Hollander so many years before, didn’t shy away scared of the tentative tender thing in his heart that dug deeper roots into his soul every time Shane smiled his way.
“Thank you.” he said softly, and settled in content to be held.
“Thank you.” Shane returned in the same soft voice, and settled in content to stay.