Work Text:
Lily: on the way back
Lily: there in 15
Jane: OK great.
Lily: don’t freak out hollander
Lily: she won’t bite
Shane rolled his eyes and set his phone down. Ilya was just – as per usual – trying to wind him up, but truth be told, he was indeed slightly freaking out. He’d got used to being at Ilya’s house, got more comfortable with it than he’d ever thought possible. But while he now knew how to use Ilya’s coffee machine and knew where he kept his trophies and where he kept the condoms, this was different. This was him, at Ilya’s, by himself, waiting for Ilya to come back from picking up Svetlana.
Svetlana. It had sounded appealing when Ilya had first said, in the too-casual tone he adopted when he wanted something very, very much, You should meet Svetlana. I think you will like her.
Getting to see more of Ilya’s life, more of Ilya’s past, more of Ilya – this was something Shane would never turn down. And of course he’d always loved to give Ilya what he wanted, right from the first. So he’d said, Sure, that sounds like fun, and Ilya had beamed and kissed him all over his face.
Easy to say. But they were fifteen minutes away – less – and he would finally meet Svetlana. Who had known Ilya longer than him, fucked Ilya before him, who Ilya had once said he could marry. And if she didn’t like him? If she thought he stole Ilya from her? If she thought he was too boring to deserve Ilya? If, if, if?
He put his palms flat on the cool marble top of Ilya’s breakfast bar. Closed his eyes and took a breath. Told himself, be calm, be normal. It’s okay.
The sound of keys in the door made him jump, and he turned around to see Ilya holding the front door open for an extremely beautiful woman.
“Hi,” Shane said, all the nerves returning at once. Rose was beautiful, but hers was the sort of girl-next-door beauty that set you immediately at ease, for all that she was a movie star. This woman – Svetlana – exuded the kind of glamour that had always intimidated him.
She was wrapped in a mink coat and a figure-hugging silky black dress. He’d always pictured an ice-blonde from central casting, but here she was, unblemished light brown skin, glittering green eyes, a halo of dark curls framing her exquisite face.
Ilya took her mink coat, a rare display of gentlemanly behaviour that Shane mentally filed away for shit-talking purposes, even as he was struck by just how good they looked together. Ilya in one of his ridiculously deep-necked white shirts, his hair glinting gold in the afternoon light, Svetlana tall and elegant at his side. They could have stepped straight out of the pages of a magazine.
It wasn’t that Shane was insecure about his looks. He knew he was good-looking. He had several million dollars’ worth of brand ambassadorships on account of being good-looking. He just felt, in some inner part of himself, that he would never make as perfect a picture as that, even with Ilya.
Oblivious to his thoughts, Ilya was kicking off his shoes, hanging up Svetlana’s coat. “Sorry we are late, fucking Boston drivers,” he called out, and then, house sliders on, walked over to put an arm around Shane and press a brief kiss to his temple. “This is Svetlana. Sveta, this is Shane.”
Svetlana stepped out of her high heels with a little oof of relief. As she walked towards them, she broke out in a grin that lit up her face. Suddenly she wasn’t the unapproachable fashion plate, but Ilya’s hockey-mad friend. “Aha, the famous Jane! I’ve waited so long to meet you!”
He couldn’t help but laugh. When he extended a hand to shake, she took it and then leaned in to kiss him lightly on both cheeks. “Really?”
“Sveta,” Ilya hissed. “You said you wouldn’t –”
Ignoring him totally, she held on to Shane’s hand with both of hers, and said, still grinning, “It’s not so easy to make our Ilya lovesick. You’re very talented, not just at hockey.”
“Sveta,” Ilya said again, this time in his very annoying, very endearing whine. The tips of his ears were going pink.
Shane ignored him too. “Lovesick, really?”
Svetlana laughed, said warmly, “Oh yes, every phone call for months has been Shane this, Shane that. Look, he even lets you wear outdoor shoes in his house!”
“Shut up, Sveta,” Ilya said, pulling her hands off Shane’s. “You promised to be nice to him!” He tried to push her back towards the door as Shane looked down at his Reebok-clad feet, and then at Ilya in his sliders and Svetlana, barefoot on the tiles.
“Should I take my shoes off? Ilya, I can take my shoes off –”
“Is fine, is fine, leave them on!” Ilya waved a hand at him, the other pushing at a giggling Svetlana. “This was a mistake – Svetlana, you are leaving –”
“Oh, nonsense, Ilyusha, calm down.” Svetlana shook her head and reached into the pocket of her mink coat to produce a set of car keys. “I arranged you a test drive with Aston Martin, remember? So you are going to go out for a nice drive, while we talk alllllll about you. Yes?”
Shane had to smile at the way Ilya hesitated, his eyes flicking between Shane and Svetlana, obviously torn between his love of a sports car and wanting to cut off any exchanges of embarrassing Ilya Rozanov stories. Ilya’s face seemed to change with the tides: sometimes the picture of inscrutability and sometimes Shane could read him like a book.
Svetlana jangled the keys at him temptingly and Ilya snatched them off her. “Alright, I will do your test drive. But you two – no – no – ” He pointed accusingly between them, struggling for a word. “No conspiring.”
“Goodbye, Ilyusha,” Svetlana said sweetly as Shane just laughed. When Ilya slammed the front door behind him, she turned back to Shane, and hopped up onto one of the breakfast bar chairs.
“I wish I was that good at annoying him on the ice,” Shane said, shaking his head.
“Well, it’s harder for you. Like I said, he is lovesick for you, Jane,” Svetlana said, her voice teasing but full of fondness.
The word lovesick again. It made something in Shane’s stomach do a little flip. For distraction, he said, “Shall I make us a coffee?”
“Espresso, thank you.”
He walked over to the counter, got out two mugs from the cupboards, started up Ilya’s coffee machine. The familiarity of the motions was soothing. “I didn’t know you knew about Jane?”
“I noticed he texted Jane a lot, that he kept texting Jane, for years. Ilyusha never did that with anyone else. I knew she was special.” Shane could feel his cheeks heating. He looked back at Svetlana, and she was smiling at him, an expression of such gentleness that it took him aback a little. “He wouldn’t tell me anything, but sometimes he is very obvious. I’m sure you know. Anyway, I couldn’t figure it out. Eventually I thought maybe Jane was a man who wanted to be a secret, and this was why he never told me.”
“Well, you were dead right,” Shane said. It was an uneasy feeling, that Svetlana could come so close to the truth with such little information.
“Mm. I wasn’t sure. I thought that this was the point of leaving Russia, that men would not have to be so secret, even from me. Then I thought maybe a teammate, maybe another player. But I didn’t know for sure until he told me about you, and I understood it all.”
The espresso was ready. Shane picked up the two little mugs, turned back to put one in front of Svetlana, then sat down across the breakfast bar from her. He turned his drink around, feeling the warmth radiating through the cup. He wasn’t sure what to say. He knew Ilya trusted this woman, knew they were important to each other, but – still. The idea of anyone knowing about this, seeing his and Ilya’s hidden little world, it still gave him vertigo. Hearing Svetlana say these things was like staring over a precipice.
“Hey. Hey.” Her hands were on his. He couldn’t quite meet her eyes, just looked at her long slender fingers, the nails short and painted a deep glossy red. “Shane. It’s okay. I would never tell anyone. I understand.”
He swallowed, and looked up at her. Her face still had that look of exquisite gentleness. “Thank you. I’m sorry – it’s not – I didn’t actually think – I mean, it’s just still weird anyone knows, you know?”
“I know.” She squeezed his hand, then sat back and took a sip of espresso. “Ilyusha and I have been keeping each other’s secrets a long time. You know how things are in Russia. And so – ” he put her mug down, shook out her glorious hair. “And so, I don’t tell anyone about Ilyusha and men, and he doesn’t tell anyone about me and women.”
“Svetlana – ”
“Sveta.”
“Sveta, thank you.” Shane didn’t quite know what to say. He didn’t have much practice with the whole gay thing – not sex, but – having friends who talked to you about being gay, being queer. About how hearing those words from Sveta made the weight he carried in his heart, the weight he was so used to he barely thought about it, ever-so-slightly lighter. “Thank you for telling me. And I won’t tell anyone either.”
“Well, you can tell hot girls,” Sveta said with a wink, and they both laughed. “I need a better wingman, Ilyusha has been terrible at it lately.”
“He has?” Shane didn’t have any concrete idea what being a good wingman involved. He didn’t have much experience in this realm, besides deflecting well-meaning attempts to set him up with girls his friends knew.
“Yeah.” She gave him a sly sideways look. “Sulking at his phone when Jane didn’t text him back fast enough, making gooey eyes at his phone when she did – it’s not good wingman behaviour. Very inconvenient for me.”
That made Shane feel – like he wanted to cry, or squeeze Ilya so tight he cracked his ribs. Or something. All those months, checking his texts, and checking them, and checking them, grinning like a fool at each notification and feeling like a fool for all of it. How sure he’d been that Ilya had been so unaffected, so above it all. “Sorry about that,” he said, and couldn’t have kept himself from smiling if he’d wanted to.
“I’ll forgive you,” Svetlana said, smiling back, and then: “As long as you are good to him.”
She was still smiling but her voice was serious. Shane swallowed. “I wouldn’t – I would never want to hurt him.”
“I know you wouldn’t. I don’t think people hurt each other because they want to, usually. I’m just saying …” She trailed off, paused for a moment in thought. “I’m just saying, he is very precious to me, and you are very precious to him, and things have been very hard for him. And I think the world will still make things hard for you both. So be good to him. Be as good as you can be, to each other. Take care of each other.”
It felt like there was something caught in his throat, in his chest. He didn’t know what to say. He laced his fingers together on the countertop. It was true, wasn’t it – he and Ilya had hurt each other before, had done it without wanting to, out of fear and shame and anger at being hemmed in all sides by the world and its expectations of them. And wasn’t that the scariest thing? “I’ll – I’ll try. I’ll do my best. I will. He’s – he’s very precious to me, too.”
Sveta smiled gently, nodded. “I can tell.”
He felt himself flush again. “That was good advice. Thank you, Sveta.”
Her eyes glittered, and she gave him a little wink. “My advice is always good. Remember this.”
For a few moments they just sat, sipping coffee in companionable silence. Then Shane said, “Ilya told me your father was a goalie for the USSR?”
“Sergei Vetrov, yes. And my mother is American. She was a sports doctor, big scandal at the time, everyone lost their minds.” She put her hands to her face in mock horror, then rolled her eyes and grinned. “So you see, I have a soft spot for forbidden love.”
“Wow. That’s incredible.” No wonder her accent was so much softer than Ilya’s, barely-there really. He had a thousand questions, but he was starting to feel there would be all the time in the world to ask them all. “But you grew up in Moscow, right? Were kids, like, accepting, or -?”
“Yeah, in Moscow mostly.” She sipped at her espresso. “Are kids accepting anywhere? When we were young it was quite bad, Ilyusha got into many fistfights. I went to college in New York, it was better then, but still. In Russia, I am American. In America, Russian.” She flashed him a look, hazel-green eyes glinting. “You understand.”
“Yeah. Guess I do.” He’d never gotten into a fistfight about it, even as a kid, but maybe he had wanted to. On impulse he touched Sveta’s hand. “I’m glad Ilya was there for you.”
Sveta grinned, lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Well, he loves a fight, so.”
And that was so like Ilya, the jokes that cover any tender spot. Childhood friends indeed. “Sveta, I was gonna ask earlier – you call him Ilyusha? That’s like a nickname for him?”
“It’s the diminutive,” she said, and when this obviously didn’t mean anything to him, she went on: “In Russian the normal first name is a bit formal, for teachers and strangers, you know? So all the names have a diminutive. Like, we are friends, you call me Sveta. And for Ilya the diminutive is Ilyusha. For me, saying Ilya feels, I don’t know. It’s just too formal.” She shrugged. “Like calling him by his last name, maybe.”
Oh God. “We called each other by our last names for, like, six years,” Shane confessed, and then managed to stop himself going on to say, and I had a panic attack and broke up with him the first time he called me Shane.
Sveta laughed out loud, not unkindly, and shook her head. “Boys,” she said with affection. “Boys. I’m sure you’re smart, Shane, but you are also both very stupid.”
“Yeah. Fair.” He ducked his head on a rueful smile and a blush. “But should I – is it weird not to call him that?”
She shrugged, and tipped her head back to neck the last of her coffee. “English-speakers don’t know the diminutives, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
That made sense, and yet, he’d been thinking, thinking things he couldn’t fully articulate even to himself. About himself and his mother, about Ilya and Sveta. About Canada and Japan, about Russia and America. About belonging, somewhere and nowhere. About picking up his Japanese again, seriously this time, about learning Russian. And he said, “But would it be nice? I mean, if I spoke Russian, I’d call him Ilyusha, right?”
“Hm.” Sveta gave him a mischievous little smirk. “Sure, unless it took you another six years to reach diminutives.”
“God, you are both such assholes –”
“No, no – ” They were both laughing. “I’ll tell you what, there’s cutesy diminutives too, like baby names. If you want to really annoy him on the ice, you can call him Ilyushenka.”
“What, like – sorry you won’t be going to the playoffs, Ilyushenka?”
“He’s going to kill me for this,” Sveta said, wiping at her eyes. “Also, your chirping is terrible.”
“Weakest part of my game.” Shane finished his espresso, sat back in his chair. “So, you go to a lot of his games?” He didn’t think he’d seen her, but then, you couldn’t focus on the crowd when you were playing, especially not when you were playing against Ilya.
“I used to. It was tricky.” Sveta made a face. “Last time I went to a home game, this random Boston girl tried to fight me because I was screaming at Ilyusha so much she wanted to defend him.”
That image made Shane grin. It seemed so unlike the woman who had walked in the door, all fur coat and black silk and stiletto heels. “What were you screaming at him about?”
“Ugh. Just every tiny mistake. I can’t not see them. When he is playing beautifully and then he does something stupid and gets a penalty.” She mimed shaking her fists, eyes wild. “Why are you like this, you stupid bastard! Always the same, since he was a baby. Anyway. So the Boston fans think I’m a hater. And when I went to see him in New York, some girl kept saying bad things about him, so I fought her.”
That was – that was very sweet. “Yeah, I don’t think you can fight every New Yorker that thinks Ilya Rozanov is an asshole.”
“No, she said bad things about him. Not about him playing dirty and getting stupid penalties. That’s just the truth. But I can’t listen to people saying bad things, really bad things about him.” She made a face.
Shane had had a lifetime of hearing the things hockey crowds and hockey locker rooms said, and of not listening to them. Letting them wash over him without affecting him. Things about him, things about his teammates, things about Ilya. He felt obscurely glad that Ilya had Sveta, not to mention random Boston girls, to fight people who said bad things about him. “I’m sorry. Fans cross the line sometimes.”
“Yes, well, Ilyusha didn’t like me coming to the games anyway. He doesn’t like getting a numbered list of all his mistakes afterwards. So ungrateful.”
“I’d like that,” Shane said, truthfully. He’d always been hungry for feedback, for anything that helped him root out the weaknesses in his game. It had been easier to get that when he was younger: coaches focused, rightfully, on the rookies, the up-and-comers. But he still loved nothing more than a list of actionable critiques.
“Hm. I’m thinking.” Sveta leaned forwards, propped her chin in her hand. “Tell me – the sex is best when you win, or when he wins?”
He felt himself blushing. He wasn’t used to talking about this stuff with anyone that wasn’t Ilya, and maybe Rose, a little. But something about Sveta and her matter-of-fact-ness made it feel okay for him to say, “I mean, it’s always good, but, yeah, when I win and he’s pissed off about it. That’s the best.”
When Ilya had won, he was smug, bossy, and frequently in a mood to tease and to toy with Shane. All of which certainly had its upsides. But when Ilya had lost –
The last time they played, in Montreal, Shane had scored a hat-trick and two assists and trounced Boston. After, Ilya had seemed to burn with fury, with lust. He’d fucked Shane’s mouth savagely, fist clenched in his hair, riding the border of pleasure and pain. When he pulled away, Shane had looked up at him from his knees and said shame you couldn’t bring that energy to the ice. Ilya had seized him and thrown him bodily onto the bed, shoved his legs apart and taken him like Ilya’s life depended on it. Taken him with an unbridled strength and ferocity that left Shane no thoughts, no words, nothing but that moment and the feeling of being consumed in the furnace that was Ilya and his desire.
They had come with Ilya’s hand around Shane’s throat, Shane’s legs locked tight around Ilya’s waist. Ilya had collapsed down on top of him then, breaths coming wet and heavy and ragged, and Shane had stroked his sweat-damp curls, whispered you did good, Ilya, you did so good, while Ilya mouthed gently and wordlessly at his neck.
He’d gotten distracted. Focus, Hollander, focus.
“I see,” Sveta said, with the slightest of eyerolls. “Well then, I’ll come to the games and give you a list of mistakes and you’ll get better and keep beating him. Sounds good?”
“Sounds great.”
Sveta snapped her fingers. “Even better, I can get your jersey. He will hate this.”
“Just don’t get into any more fights.”
They were both laughing now. Sveta’s eyes gleaming with mischief and affection. “Now I have to defend Shane Hollander’s honour too? What have I let myself in for?”
Ilya drove back from the dealership with music blaring and the windows rolled down. He wanted to feel the early-autumn chill of the wind on his skin, hear a techno beat echo double-time in his ears, know that if Shane Hollander could see him he would pout and call him a fucking douchebag.
The feeling of a sports car engine turning over beneath him was one of those things that made him come alive. Made his blood burn and his nerves sing and his mind go quiet. Like dancing, like hockey, like fighting, like sex. These things, to him, were pure. And, ideally, led one to another.
The thrill of it carried him all the way back home, and it wasn’t until he stepped out of the Mercedes that he remembered to be nervous about whatever the fuck Sveta was saying to Shane. Whatever the fuck Shane was saying to Sveta.
He’d thought it was ever so simple, that the two people whose company he enjoyed the most in the world should meet and enjoy each other’s company. Right up until he realised they were the two people who knew the most about him in the world, and he had put them together. And that there were reasons he kept the different parts of himself separate. And also that Svetlana Sergeevna Vetrova lived to piss him off.
He paused at the front door and peered briefly through the side window, one hand cupped against the glass. It was a shit vantage point really, only giving him sight of the hallway and the end of the breakfast bar, but he couldn’t see any immediate evidence of – of whatever he thought there might be evidence of. This was ridiculous. You are fucking cracking up, Rozanov. Get it together.
He opened the door, kicked off his outdoor shoes and threw off his coat as quickly as possible, and half-ran down the hall in his bare feet. The TV was on, he could hear the ambient noise of voices in English, what sounded like commentary. “I am back,” he called out, and heard Shane call back something vague, distracted.
Around the corner, and there they were, side-by-side on the sofa. Sveta was curled up, legs tucked under her in that catlike way of hers. Next to her Shane was stretched out, one arm extended along the back of the sofa, the other holding the remote, gesturing at the TV. They had the hockey highlights on, because neither of them were capable of ever giving it a fucking rest.
For barely a heartbeat, Ilya paused to just look at them. To drink in the sight of the two of them. At the golden hour light catching in their hair, turning Sveta’s curls into a halo, glinting in Shane’s eyelashes and the fine stray hairs that fell over his forehead. At the ease and the relaxation and the contentment written all over the both of them. His two people. Together.
He wished he could sear this moment into his mind forever. Trap them in amber.
He wished also that he could seal them off from the outside world. That no-one else could ever see or touch or know them. Those were the two halves of his life sitting right there on his sofa. Like looking at his own ribs cracked open to expose his heart.
For barely a heartbeat he paused.
Then he threw himself down on the sofa in between them, with enough gusto they both yelled at him, startled.
“You asshole –”
“ – give me a heart attack –”
Ilya grinned, gave a kiss on the cheek to Shane on his right and Sveta on his left, getting shoved by both of them for his trouble. “You missed me very much, didn’t you?”
Shane mumbled something to himself that Ilya couldn’t catch the words of, but he caught the tone. He caught the tone alright. The signature Hollander blend of aggravation and reluctant amusement that meant Ilya was shortly going to get very, very lucky. His skin was taut with anticipation.
“So how was Aston Martin?” Beside him, Sveta had uncurled herself to sit up straight.
“Yes, yes, car was very nice.” She held out a hand for the keys, which he tossed to her, and added, “Very sexy,” because he knew it would annoy Shane, who did not understand how a car could be sexy. Sure enough, he let out an exasperated little snort, a sound that Ilya knew, knew, was accompanied by a crinkled nose and a roll of the eyes. He let a hand fall to rest on Shane’s knee. Soon, soon.
“But?” Sveta, never one to miss anything, raised an eyebrow at him. “I know there’s a but coming.”
For some reason speaking to Sveta in English was harder than speaking to anyone else. It was like with every word he had to force his brain and his mouth not to default right back to Russian. “But, guy at dealership, he wants to fuck you.”
She lifted one shoulder negligently. “Of course.”
“Of course, but he was very rude to me, because in his mind, I am fucking you and he is not.” Ilya wasn’t looking at him but he was positive Shane had rolled his eyes again. “So, Aston Martin yes, this dealership guy, no.”
“You don’t need an Aston Martin,” Shane said in his prissiest little voice. Ilya squeezed his knee because he simply had never been able to resist rewarding that tone. It was like being scolded by a kitten.
Sveta laughed. “Don’t tell him that, I get paid commission on his stupid decisions.” She stood up from the sofa, smoothing down the black silk of her dress. “Alright, boys, I’m gonna call a cab. Ilyusha, thank you for this, I’ll text you about the car. Shane, I will see you for our date –”
“What date?” He narrowed his eyes, looked from Sveta to Shane and back again. “What date? I said no conspiring, what date?”
“Montreal versus New York,” Shane said, smug.
“Since you don’t want my personal coaching, Shane can have it instead,” Sveta said, also smug. A pair of cats that got the cream. God he loved them both.
“Where is the loyalty,” Ilya protested, as Sveta leant down to kiss first Shane and then himself chastely on the lips. “Where is the loyalty? Unbelievable.”
“Goodbye, boys,” Sveta said, ignoring him, and padded off to retrieve her heels and mink coat.
The moment he heard the front door shut behind her, all his attention was on Shane. On the heat of his body next to Ilya’s, on the firm muscle of his leg beneath Ilya’s hand, on the freckled skin that seemed to glow in the softly fading sunlight. On just the thought of him, spread out beneath Ilya’s touch. Driving fast cars, playing Shane Hollander at hockey, fucking Shane Hollander senseless: the most thrilling things he knew of.
He turned his face up to Shane’s, wanting to catch his lips in the first kiss of many, but Shane put a hand on his chest to stop him. There was a little frown line between his perfect eyebrows. “What?”
“You shouldn’t say that to her,” Shane told him, disapproving.
“Say what to who? What?” Ilya blinked, caught off guard. They should be kissing by now. Ideally, he should have his hands up Shane’s shirt or down his pants or both by now.
“Svetlana. Saying all that about the guy at the dealership. You shouldn’t talk like that to her.”
“What are you talking about? What is this conversation? Come here and kiss me.”
“It’s –” Shane still had the hand on his chest, keeping him at bay. He took a deep breath and said with great earnestness, “It’s rude. It’s – it’s disrespectful to women.”
They stared at each other for a moment while Ilya mentally re-ran his translation of that, because it made no sense. Then he looked again at Shane’s little frown and had a sudden certainty that this was Captain Shane Hollander taking very seriously a talk that his mother had given him about Not Standing For Locker-Room Talk. Ilya was hit with a wave of amusement and affection, and cracked up into laughter as he wrestled Shane into a hug. “If I am disrespecting Sveta, she will let me know, you have no idea – oh come here, you silly, silly – ”
“Such an asshole –” Shane hissed, but it was breathy, and he slid his hands over Ilya’s back, up his neck to scratch at his scalp, back down to his hips when Ilya straddled him. As they kissed, he bit down on Ilya’s bottom lip, as if to say, I’m not letting you off that easy, and Ilya grinned into it. Arousal hummed in his brain like static.
He bent to kiss at Shane’s neck, and in response he tilted his head back, exposing the whole long perfect line of his throat. He could see the flickering of Shane’s pulse where the jugular vein came close to the skin. Something about that – the vulnerability of it – the trust – made him feel a little insane.
“Let’s do it in the garage,” he breathed in Shane’s ear, and sank his teeth into the side of his neck. “Over the Ferrari –”
“Let’s not,” Shane gasped out, “you fucking pervert, absolutely not.” His severe tone was undermined by the hot, soft little sounds he was letting out, and his hands clutching at Ilya’s hair, his shoulders.
Fucking Shane over the Ferrari was one of Ilya’s most deeply cherished fantasies. On the other hand, perhaps being told off by Shane about it was even better.
“Fine,” Ilya said, and kissed his neck again. “I let you off. We can fuck in bed, because you are boring.” He slid a hand up the front of Shane’s shirt to squeeze at his pec, flick teasingly at his nipple. That elicited both a groan low down in Shane’s throat, rumbling against Ilya’s lips, and a roll of his hips.
“Then you’d better get up,” Shane said, and gave his shoulders a little shove. At which Ilya, not needing telling twice, hopped up off the sofa, grabbing Shane’s wrists to haul him up after. With perhaps just a little too much force, so they teetered against each other, held on to steady each other.
He let Shane walk them towards the bedroom, Ilya going backwards, hands at the curve of Shane’s waist, the nape of his neck where his hair was silkiest. Luxuriating in the feeling of them pressed together, the warmth and the strength of Shane’s body against his.
They got their feet tangled trying to manoeuvre around the corner, falling a little against the wall. It was pure instinct at that point for Ilya to push Shane into the wall, use it as leverage to grind their hips together, go back in for another bite at the side of his throat. Shane let out a gorgeous little moan at that, one that made Ilya’s hands fly straight for his belt buckle. To hell with the bed. Ilya had fucked a girl against this wall before, sometime during the week-long bender after he won the cup back in 2014, held her up with her legs around his waist, Christ it had been so hot, and Shane weighed probably twice what she did, but he could do it. He was positive he could do anything as long as Shane kept making those noises in his ear.
He was working on Shane’s belt buckle – a difficult operation when he didn’t want to move his own hips away for even a moment, even an inch – when Shane grabbed a fistful of Ilya’s hair and yanked his head up off Shane’s neck. “Ilya. Ilya. The bedroom.”
“The wall,” Ilya said, and he deserved a medal for his English at this moment. “Will be so fucking good, I promise.”
“We have,” Shane told him, with a glare that really, really, was not helping Ilya’s urge to fuck his brains out there and then, “a game tomorrow, and I’m not sitting out injured because you dropped me on my ass.”
“I am not gonna –”
“Ilya,” Shane said in the way that meant shut up. Ilya shut up. Shane let go of his hair, slid his hand down to Ilya’s cheek, kissed him hard and sweet. “I want you.” Another kiss. “To fuck me.” Another kiss. “In your bed.” Another kiss. Shane pulled back and looked at him for a moment, cheeks flushed, lips red, eyes gleaming infinitely dark. So beautiful. “That’s what I want. Ilyusha.”
The sound of the endearment on Shane’s lips hit him like a wave that crashed over his head and left him floating. He wanted to wrap his arms around Shane and bury his face in his neck and never, never let him go. He wanted to put his head in his lap and weep and be told he was good. He wanted to crawl on the floor to him and kiss his non-existent boots. Which. Were things he didn’t even know he was capable of wanting.
He swallowed hard. His hands were trembling. Sweaty. “Whatever you want,” he said, and meant it more than he had ever meant anything. “Shane. Shane. Whatever you want, I give you.” He stopped there before he could do anything awful like start crying. Shane would hate that, not in the hot way, in the actually bad way.
He didn’t start crying. Shane kissed him again with so much sweetness, then gave his bottom lip another sharp little nip. “You heard me,” he said, grinning a little, “the bed.”
Right. Right. Ilya stepped back, let Shane away from the wall. He interlinked his fingers behind Shane’s neck, pulled him along the last little way into the bedroom, where he sadly had to let go so they could get undressed. As much as he did love to draw things out to tease Shane at this point, not this time. He had a mission, had a set of instructions, was so focused in on it, on him, there was nothing else. His clothes were off in record time and then he was sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking the backs of his fingers down the curve of Shane’s spine while he folded his clothes. “How – how do you want –”
And Shane turned to face him and he lost his words for a moment. Just the sight of him – the acres of his skin, soft and pale and perfect, the smooth lean lines of his muscles, his lovely cock all hard and eager for Ilya. As beautiful as that first time in the showers. Who could ever blame Ilya for being unable to resist him?
Shane’s fingers ghosted over Ilya’s collarbone, his jawline, his lips. “Want your mouth,” he said, and blushed in that way he always did when he confessed out loud to his desires. And then, when Ilya went to slide off the bed, to get on his knees, he shook his head. Put a hand on Ilya’s shoulder and pushed him gently backwards. Ilya went, laying back, propped up on his elbows, feeling heat wash through his body as Shane – fucking genius that he was – climbed up onto the bed after him, moving forwards so his knees were straddling Ilya, laced his fingers through Ilya’s hair. He paused for a moment, looked down at Ilya, raised his eyebrows in silent question.
“Fucking yes,” Ilya said, feeling that if he had to go one more moment without touching Shane’s cock he would lose his mind. And in answer Shane made a hot little groan and tightened his fingers and pulled him forwards.
The angle was not that great, a strain on his neck, but in some way that made it better. He let his eyes shut halfway and surrendered to the sensation of it, to Shane’s hands and his hips setting the pace and the rhythm, to the taste of him, rich and raw, to his skin silk-soft on Ilya’s tongue. Let his jaw relax and his tongue go to work, all of his world narrowed down to this, to sucking the best cock of his life.
It took him a moment to understand what was going on when Shane pulled back, pulled him off, panting. His cock was so very hard and red and wet with precome and Ilya’s spit, and was right there, but when Ilya moved to take it into his mouth again, Shane shoved him down, laughing at Ilya’s wordless whine of protest.
“Lube,” Shane said, breathless, and, “Condom.”
He gave Ilya’s stomach a light smack of encouragement, a move shamelessly stolen from Ilya himself. It worked though, jolting his brain back into action.
“Yes, yes –” He twisted around to get at the bedside table and nearly fell off the bed. Then nearly dropped the fucking things because his hands were shaking. Wired on adrenaline and lust and love. His heartbeat was so loud in his ears.
It didn’t get any easier, watching Shane work himself open. He got the condom out, gave a little attention to his own cock, but it was half automatic, all his attention lasered in on Shane. On the shapes of him, the little noises he made. The heat in his eyes and the sheen of sweat on his face and the flush spreading out over his cheeks and across his chest. However many years and he still couldn’t believe he got to see this. No dream, no fantasy, nothing he could imagine could ever compare.
And then Shane leaned over and kissed his mouth and then he sank down on to Ilya and they were both groaning with it. Shane’s back arched and Ilya got his feet on the bed and pushed his hips up, heard himself make a noise, straining in his throat. Shane put his palms on Ilya’s chest and used him for leverage, heaving down with all his weight as he started to move. Blunt nails dug into his skin, tiny points of pain that had him transfixed. He bit down hard onto his own lip and focused on that, on drawing himself back from the edge of orgasm.
He reached up to get one hand on Shane’s pec, no teasing this time, squeezing hard and rolling the nipple. With his other hand he stroked at his hip, gasped out, “You need me to –?”
Shane shook his head, dark hair falling in his eyes, sticking to his face. “Gonna – just from –”
“Yes – do it –” He clutched at Shane’s hip, fingers digging in too hard, but he couldn’t help himself. From the very first time, every time they had managed to make Shane come untouched, this had been his favourite thing, his most treasured accomplishment. “Sweetheart,” he said, and he could feel it creeping up on Shane, could feel him start to tremble and up the pace. He grabbed Ilya’s hand on his hip, gripped it like a vice, and Ilya said again, “Sweetheart,” and it was like that was what Shane had been waiting for all along.
Shane came with a gasp, crying out nonsensical syllables, head thrown back, came hot and wet all over Ilya’s chest. Ilya just held onto him, drank in the sight of him, bit his lip and tasted blood. So fucking beautiful.
When Shane stopped shaking, when his head dropped back down and his eyes fluttered open again, dazed and dreamy, Ilya wrapped his arms around him and very gently rolled them over. He settled them with Shane on his back and Ilya propped up on his elbows, pushed his fingers through Shane’s sweaty hair, kissed his forehead. He could feel his heart beating in every inch of his body. He was holding himself so tightly in check he felt deranged with it. “More? Another? You want?”
When he had come like this, Shane often had another climax left in him. Ilya wanted to see this, wanted to give him this, even more than he wanted to come himself. Which he did want, which he wanted so much, so much it was almost agony.
“Yeah.” Shane had this lazy smile on his face, his freckles standing out so clearly on his flushed cheeks. He touched Ilya’s lips, the side of his jaw. He was still breathing hard, his breath hot on Ilya’s face. “I want. Go on, Ilya, give it to me.”
That was all Ilya needed to hear. He reared up and reached back to grab Shane’s thighs and push them back towards his chest to deepen the angle, as always thanking God and all the saints for Shane’s yoga instructor. And then – as Shane let out a long and low and lovely sigh of pleasure – he let himself move.
Slowly at first, finding the rhythm and the groove of it, not daring too much too soon because he still had to last, still had to hold on. But when Shane started to toss his head, arch his back, he pushed harder, faster, into the breakneck pace they both loved. It was so good, pure exhilaration, like opening the throttle and feeling the engine roar.
So good – he daredn’t look at Shane’s face or he would lose it. Between them Shane’s hand was moving, working at his cock. His chest was getting red again, rising and falling quickly. He was saying words Ilya couldn’t focus on. In his mind Ilya was naming Moscow Metro stations, his old commute to the rink, his last resort trick when he needed to teeter on the edge but not quite fall – not quite yet –
Shane pushed his other hand up Ilya’s chest, up his neck, hooked his fingers in Ilya’s mouth. The two of them interlinked, Ilya inside Shane and Shane inside Ilya.
Then Shane started to shake apart again, and he said, “Ilya,” and Ilya looked into his face, into his huge dark eyes, and then Shane said, “Ilyusha,” and that was it, that was it. He had been holding it off for what felt like an eternity and then he was there all at once, cresting the wave of an orgasm that seemed to go on and on and on. Rolling thunder that wiped his mind clean, ecstasy searing white-hot through his veins.
An eternal moment of nothingness. And then he felt Shane warm underneath him and around him, and sweat trickling down his sides, and Shane’s hands in his hair and on his back, and heard himself breathing, hard and ragged.
It was by sheer muscle memory that he pulled out and disposed of the condom. Then he let himself sink down onto the bed, down into Shane’s arms, down into sleep.
He rose gently back to the surface, crossing the boundary back into wakefulness almost without noticing. Sunlight was still coming through the windows, low and reddish. His head was on Shane’s chest, Shane’s fingers scratching softly and rhythmically at the nape of his neck. He could hear Shane’s heart beating, slow and steady.
“You awake?”
“Mm. Yes.”
Shane looked down at him with a very self-satisfied little smile. He was so lovely after sex, it made Ilya understand what people meant when they said someone was glowing. His ears were a little pink, and Ilya wanted to pin him down and bite them, which Shane hated. But the last time they had playfought, Ilya had lost decisively on account of Shane discovering his armpits were extremely ticklish, and he felt another wrestling match would be a tactical error. Best to maintain the illusion that when he manhandled Shane in bed it wasn’t entirely Shane letting him.
“That was okay?” Shane asked, and Ilya had to laugh.
“Better than okay, you did not notice me pass out? So inobservant.”
“Not that.” Shane flicked a finger against Ilya’s nose and laughed when he hid his face in Shane’s neck. “You know. Calling you Ilyusha. It was okay? I didn’t, like, get it wrong?”
Maybe one day Shane wouldn’t overthink the smallest things unto death. In the meantime, Ilya got his arms around his waist and squeezed until he let out a little oof. “No, you didn’t get it wrong. Was very nice. But only in private please.” Whatever his face had done when Shane had used the diminutive, he didn’t want other people to see it.
Shane kissed the top of his head. “Of course,” he said with sincerity, and then, with an audible smirk, “So, if I want to get my way in bed, that’s all I’ve gotta say? Please, Ilyusha?”
Now this was dangerous. Ilya propped himself up on one elbow to look Shane in his spoiled, spoiled face. “You get your way enough already,” he said, as stern as he could.
“What? You order me about all the time!”
“Yes,” Ilya said, “Yes, exactly,” and then Shane shoved him and hit him with a pillow and they both laughed and laughed and laughed.