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“I can’t, I can’t do this.” Shane looks down at his feet, panting, looking so fucking beautiful and Ilya aches. Shane is ripping his heart out, gripping it tight in his hand how he is Ilya’s t-shirt.
“Hollander,” Ilya says, and it’s a plea. It’s I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I shouldn’t have said it, come back.
“I’m sorry,” Shane breathes, his eyes screwed shut like if he looks at Ilya, he’ll break. Will come running back to the couch. But he doesn’t want that, doesn’t want Ilya, so he turns and leaves and Ilya is alone.
The door slams and Ilya flinches. Their cum is still drying on his stomach.
What the fuck was he thinking? They’ve never used first names before.
But Shane had said it. Had whispered “Ilya,” back to him in that deep, fucked out voice and Ilya’s heart had soared. He had pressed kisses all over Shane’s face, felt so light and airy. And then Shane had pulled back and ripped him back down to earth. Had lied about missing a team meeting, stammering and still flushed from sex and Ilya’s soul had started cracking in two.
He doesn’t blame Hollander. Knows it’s his own fault. Shane is so easily scared, so easily overwhelmed. Ilya usually lets him make the first move, lets him kiss first, suck first, beg for it. He never wants to freak him out, push him in any way. So why did he this time?
Because he’d needed to. Shane had been so sweet on top of him, jerking their leaking cocks together so perfectly, whimpering and kissing his face and Ilya had felt so wanted, so needed. He just wanted to say it. Wanted Shane to know that he was happy it was him. Not his rival, not Hollander, but Shane. Wanted him to stay, not just tonight, but forever.
But Shane had left, and that was that. And now he has a mess to clean up, himself, the dishes, his life.
He has to force himself off the couch, staring down at their two plates. At the last bite of tuna melt that Shane left on his because he never finishes the last bite of anything. Ilya had come to the conclusion that Shane is scared of the last bite. Thinks its unsafe, especially if he’s eaten something with his hands. It was endearing, but now its just painful. Ilya feels like that last bite, left behind, dangerous, forgotten.
He has to resist the urge to throw the plate against the wall, a surge of sudden anger rising to his throat.
He knows Shane wants him, even loves him, maybe. But it’s not enough. He doesn’t know if it ever will be for Shane. Shane will probably always choose hockey. Ilya doesn’t think there’s anything he would choose over Shane. Anything.
He grips the plates so hard his knuckles turn white and carries them to the kitchen. He can still see Shane, sitting at the bar, in Ilya’s fucking clothes, looking so precious and nervous. He drops the plates a bit too roughly into the sink and one cracks. Fitting, he thinks, that it was his. Cracking like he is, a fissure forming inside of him, painful and jagged.
He decides he’ll wash them later, when he feels less raw, less split open. If he ever does.
The dried cum on his stomach is starting to itch, pulling uncomfortably at the hair on his navel. He wants to shower, wants to wash the stain of them from his body, but he also doesn’t.
Today had been so good, before he shattered it all. Shane had ridden him in his bed, breathing each other’s air, getting as close as they could. It had felt so fucking good holding Shane in his arms, gripping the skin of his sides, covered in those stretch marks that Ilya fucking loves.
And then they had napped. Together. In Ilya’s bed. He had wrapped himself as tightly as possible around Shane, worried that if he left any space, Shane would somehow disappear. Leave. He would, of course, but Ilya didn’t know that then.
He knows when he goes to sleep tonight he will smell Shane there. In his bed. The clean laundry and eucalyptus scent of him will permeate the sheets and Ilya will probably cry. Will probably have to get up, go to the guest room. Anywhere but the bed they shared.
He makes his way to the shower, determined to clean himself, start the process of removing this fucking day from his brain.
He washes quickly, his hands are shaking, he ignores it.
When he’s finished, wrapped tightly in a towel, he goes to the living room and pours himself a large helping of vodka from the cart in the corner. Downs it in one go. Decides that maybe he’ll drink today away, maybe won’t even remember it tomorrow when he wakes up. Knows he will. Knows he won’t ever fucking forget it.
He pours himself another glass and makes his way to the bedroom to get dressed. When he enters, he sees a pile of clothes on the floor. Shane’s clothes. They had been making out aggressively and Ilya had stripped him as they went, throwing his clothes into a haphazard pile on the floor, not at all what Shane would have wanted if he hadn’t been too drunk on Ilya to notice.
Ilya bends down and picks up the pile, that blue button down Shane loves so much, because he says it just feels right. Doesn’t itch or pull or bother him. Ilya folds it, ignoring the lump in his throat. And then he folds Shane’s shorts, his underwear, remembers that Shane left here in Ilya’s sweatpants and t-shirt and fuck. Now they both have pieces of each other.
For what?
To look at and ache and remember?
Fuck that. He unfolds the pile and throws it in the back of his closet, vows to forget it’s there unless Shane asks for them back. Refuses to think of today as anything other than a fucking mistake.
Chooses to be angry, pissed at Shane for giving up, for getting scared. At himself for being stupid enough to say his name first. Angry is better than sad. Better than weak.
He will not sit here and cry and fold Shane’s clothes and think about him. He fucking won’t. He will drink, and watch whatever hockey game he flips to first on the tv, and he will be angry. Angry is safe.
Ilya just wants to feel safe.
~~~~
Shane
Fuck, fuck, fuck. What the fuck has he done?
Shane is standing shirtless on Rozanov’s porch. He’s trembling and panting and panicking.
Why did he do that? Get up and walk out, Ilya still sitting on the couch covered in cum. How could he do that?
He freaked. There’s no other word for it. He absolutely 100% freaked the fuck out. His name on Ilya’s lips had been a confession. A love confession, an “I want you always” confession. He may not be the best at picking up signals, at deciphering the meaning behind words, but he understood that. Knew exactly what Ilya was telling him by moaning his name so sweetly as he came.
Even worse, Ilya’s name out of his own mouth had been a response to that confession. An “I love you, I want you, I need you,” and he had absolutely panicked. They couldn’t do this. They can’t have this. It’s not fucking allowed. It could end everything. Their hockey careers, friendships, everything.
But then, he’d have Ilya. Wouldn’t he? And isn’t that enough?
He doesn’t know.
Doesn’t know how to conjure up a world where Shane fucking Hollander doesn’t play hockey.
What the fuck else would he do? He’s been obsessed since he was three years old and first stepped foot on the ice. He poured everything he had into hockey, failing classes in school, and struggling with friendships, relationships. It has always been hockey.
Only hockey.
But now? It’s hockey and…Ilya. Rozanov. His fucking rival.
Shane thinks he might think of Ilya more than he thinks of hockey nowadays. And that’s crazy. That’s not him. It’s not who he is.
Who is he?
He doesn’t fucking know.
Shane is ripped from his spiraling thoughts by a car horn blaring. He’s been walking aimlessly for…how long? Who knows. But he’s freezing. Ilya’s black t-shirt still clutched tightly in his hand.
Jesus, he’s been walking shirtless in Ilya’s fucking neighborhood, in the middle of a Boston fall, freezing his ass off.
He pulls the shirt on over his head, the overwhelming smell of Ilya still soaking the fabric. Ilya always smells like warm spices and leather, a little bit of vanilla. It’s fucking intoxicating. Shane suddenly, desperately wants to cry.
What the fuck is he doing? He can’t keep walking. Doesn’t even know where the fuck he is. He opens his phone and orders an Uber.
He sits his ass on the curb, knee bouncing uncontrollably and holds back his tears. The only thought on repeat in his mind is what the fuck has he done.
He saw Ilya’s face as he stood up, as he made up some lame fucking excuse to leave. The heartbreak written there will never leave Shane’s head. Ever.
Whatever the fuck just happened back there, it’s destroyed everything. Their relationship (if that’s what you wanna fucking call it) is wrecked, broken into tiny little pieces. Shane doesn’t know how to put it back together again. Isn’t even sure if he should. Is it worth trying? When they can’t truly ever be anything?
He’s pulling on his hair now. Trying to physically rip the bad thoughts from his brain, rocking back and forth in an effort to soothe himself.
He’s not sure how long he sits there, but eventually the Uber pulls up and he climbs in.
When he’s back at the hotel, he stumbles to his and Hayden’s room in a daze. He feels like he’s floating outside of his body. Like if he acknowledges what’s happened, something inside of him will break irreparably. He goes straight to bed, doesn’t even remove his shoes, lays down, and falls asleep.
It could be hours later when he’s woken by Hayden, slamming the door on his way into the room.
“Oh shit, sorry man! I thought you were at Lily’s. Did I wake you?” Hayden asks, embarrassment written on his face.
Shane runs his hands down his cheeks, willing his face into some semblance of normalcy. He feels the stains of dried tears. He sits up against the headboard and kicks his shoes off, letting them fall recklessly onto the floor. Hayden watches him, worry staining his expression.
“Nah, dude. You’re good,” Shane says. His voice sounds weak, even to him.
Hayden silently picks up Shane’s shoes and carries them to the door where he lines them up side by side, just how Shane would. If it was a normal day. If he felt normal at all. The gesture makes Shane’s heart squeeze and fresh tears pop to his eyes.
Hayden comes and sits at the foot of Shane’s bed, reaching out to gently pat Shane’s socked ankle.
“What’s wrong, Hollander?” he asks, gently.
Shane can feel his bottom lip tremble. “Nothing, man. I’m fine.”
Hayden scoffs. “A Shane Hollander who’s fine would never wear shoes in the bed,” he jokes. “You know you can talk to me, Shane. About anything. I’m your best friend.”
Shane sighs deeply, rolls over and buries his face in the pillow. Tries not to cry any harder.
“Girl drama,” he says, voice muffled by the bed.
“Boston Lily break up with you?” Hayden asks.
Shane nods. “Something like that.”
“You must really love this girl, if it’s got you this torn up. I’ve only ever seen you like this after a bad playoff loss.”
Shane flinches. He does love this girl, he thinks. Except it’s not a girl. It’s Ilya fucking Rozanov and we can never be together! He wants to scream, wants to come out to Hayden right there. But it’s not just his secret. He can’t just tell whoever he wants. So he doesn’t.
“Yeah, I do,” he mutters. “That’s the problem.”
“How is loving someone a problem, Shane?”
“Because. We can never be together,” he admits. Doesn’t know what story he’s about to make up, but knows he has to tell Hayden something.
“She’s just…not allowed,” he finishes.
“What, she married or something?” Hayden teases and Shane rolls his eyes.
“No, of course not. I would never. It’s hard to explain, Hayd. I don’t know.”
“Hey man, you don’t owe me an explanation. All I know is if you love this girl this much, you can’t just let her go. Especially if you think she loves you back. Does she?” he asks and Shane hides his face again.
Yes, he thinks. Yeah. He does. But he shouldn’t. He can’t.
He just nods.
“Then go for it, man. Do whatever you gotta do to fix it. She could be the one, Shane. You can’t just let her go.”
It’s so much more complicated than that, Shane thinks. But Hayden is right. He doesn’t know if he can let Ilya go. Doesn’t know if he can live without him. He’s so far off the deep end, it scares him. So in love. Fuck.
“Thanks, Hayd. I’ll try.” Hayden pats him on the calf and gets up, laying in his own bed and scrolling on his phone.
Shane lays there, thinking to himself, and knows he has to do something. Can’t let Ilya think he’s done, think he wants this thing they have to end. He doesn’t. No matter the consequences.
The next day is their game against Boston. Shane pulls each piece of his uniform on slowly, weighed down by dread. He has to see Ilya tonight. Has to stand across from him in the face-off and ignore his feelings and play fucking hockey. Has to win. And then he can ask Ilya to meet. Beg him to.
The game is fucking awful. Ilya won’t look at him and checks him roughly into the boards more than once, baring his teeth at Shane and making him feel so fucking small. So fucking awful. God, he may have fucked this up beyond repair.
Somehow, the Metros manage to pull out a goal. 1-0. No thanks to him. He’s too wrapped up in his own head to do much of anything. Gets chewed out by his coach during both intermissions. Ilya’s not much better. None of his passes to his teammates connect and he’s so angry and gets in so many fights that he spends more time in the penalty box than on the ice. Shane has a pit in his stomach as they line up for the final face-off of the game. Before the puck drops, he whispers.
“Meet me behind the rink. After everyone leaves. Please. I need to talk to you.”
Ilya rolls his eyes. “Fuck off, Hollander.” But there’s a flicker there. Hope, maybe? Shane thinks he’ll come. Hopes so.
Neither team scores again and the timer runs out with the final score remaining 1-0, Montreal. Boston fans moan and groan as they make their way out of the stadium and the Metros hardly celebrate at all after such a shitty win. They get a rough talking to from coach in the locker room and then start to clear out, heading back to the bus to ride to the hotel. Shane tells Hayden and their coach that he’s going to stay late, work on his shots, says he’ll Uber back later. They tell him not to overwork himself and to remember they have an early flight back to Montreal tomorrow.
Shane showers, sits down on his bench, and waits. Waits for the stadium to clear, for the locker room to empty, and then he makes his way to the alley where he knows Ilya used to go to smoke his cigarettes after games.
He feels sick. Will Ilya come? Did he already leave, heading back to his house, forgetting about Shane entirely? Shane crouches and pulls at his hair. It’s freezing outside and his breath is clouding the air in front of him and he watches as it fades and rekindles with each rise and fall of his lungs.
Eventually, the loud metal door clangs open and Ilya steps out into the alley. His body language is harsh and closed off, hands shoved into his pockets, beanie pulled low on his head as he leans against the wall. It reminds Shane so much of their first meeting, outside the arena in Saskatchewan. He half expects to see Ilya pull out a lighter and oh-
Ilya pulls out a cigarette and lights it quickly, glancing away from Shane.
“Do not fucking say anything, Hollander. I am stressed. Allowed to smoke.”
Shane puts his hands up. He stands from his crouch.
“Wasn’t going to, I swear.”
Smoking is an awful habit, Shane knows. But god, Ilya looks so fucking good doing it. The way his lips purse around the cigarette, his wet mouth leaving a mark on it when he pulls it away, the way the embers light up his face just slightly in the dark, casting him in a warm, comforting glow. Shane can see an angry bruise starting at the top of Ilya’s cheek, probably from one of the many scrums he was in during the game.
Shane realizes he is staring, the silence growing stale and awkward. Ilya rolls his eyes.
“Why did you make me come out here, Hollander? Is fucking freezing. Get on with it.”
“I-I’m sorry, Ilya. So fucking sorry,” he blurts.
~~~~
Ilya
Sorry? Ilya thinks. Shane is fucking sorry? For running away, for ruining such a beautiful fucking day, for being a fucking coward?
Ilya is unfairly angry, he knows. He knows at least part of this is his fault. For pushing Shane too far too fast. But he’s just lost a horrific hockey game, gotten chewed out within an inch of his life by his coach and team, and he’s fucking angry. His heart hurts and he’s angry and he can’t fucking help it.
Fuck Shane Hollander for calling him out here, into the cold. For looking so fucking adorable with his red little nose and his hair all over the place. Ilya knows he’s probably been pulling at it. Does that when he’s nervous.
He takes a long drag of the cigarette, calming himself before he answers.
“For what, Hollander? For running away?” he snaps. Okay, maybe he’s not so calm.
He sees the way his words hit Shane like a slap. Sees him flinch. Tries so hard not to feel guilty about it. Fails.
“Yeah,” Shane whispers. “I’m so fucking sorry for running. I didn’t mean it. I panicked. It got so intimate, I didn’ t know what to do.”
“What? I say your name and you freak out? My dick has been inside of you. That’s more intimate than saying a fucking name, I think.” Ilya knows he’s being unfair. Knows that’s not what Shane means. He needs to calm the fuck down. Shane is here, he’s trying. Ilya can at least try, too.
He sighs. “It hurt, Hollander. It hurt so fucking bad.”
“I know, fuck. I’m sorry. “ Shane is staring at the floor, picking at the skin around his thumbnail. It’s already red and peeling. He must have been doing this since yesterday. Ilya reaches out and gently pulls his hands apart.
“Stop hurting yourself. Please,” he whispers.
Shane lets out a pitiful little whimper and the walls Ilya has been building around his heart for the last twenty-four hours (for his entire life, maybe) crumble entirely. The anger melts away, leaving exhaustion and sadness and wanting in its wake. He can’t resist pulling Shane into a hug, burying his nose in his hair, smelling the cheap soap from the locker room and the scent of the cigarette, forgotten on the concrete, and the underlying scent of pure fucking Shane.
“Don’t cry, Hollander. Fuck.” He’s never seen Shane cry like this before. Never heard him gasp for breath and sob. He remembers years ago, in that bathroom in Vegas, when Shane’s eyes had filled with tears after Ilya had teased him. Ilya had ignored it then, determined to distance himself from his feelings, convince himself this thing between them was nothing but sex. He can’t do that now. Can’t pretend he is anything less than ridiculously in love with this man.
“Say my name again. Please,” Shane hiccups against Ilya’s chest. Ilya freezes.
“I-I don’t know,” he says. He’s terrified. Shane could hurt him so badly right now.
“Please, Ilya. Say it. I won’t run.”
It’s his own name falling from that perfect mouth that breaks the last of his determination to stay strong.
“Shane,” he whispers into his hair. “Fuck, Shane. Fuck.” He’s crying too, now. Silent tears falling down onto the top of Shane’s head. Shane hugs him impossibly tighter, like he might mold their two bodies together into one. Like he might make himself a home here, in Ilya’s chest, in this freezing cold Boston parking lot.
“Ilya, Ilya, Ilya,” Shane whispers, like a prayer. Reverent and broken by his little sobs, and god, Ilya loves him so fucking much. Wants to tell him so badly. Can’t scare him away again.
They stand there, hugging, swaying back and forth and whispering each other’s names. At some point, Shane shivers and Ilya remembers where they are.
He pulls back, cradles Shane’s beautiful face in his hands, rubs a thumb over his freckles.
“We should go, Shane.” He adds his name, because he can. Might never stop saying it now. “We are in public. It’s freezing and your nose is so red.”
Shane shoves him playfully but then his face turns solemn.
“I don’t want to go back to my hotel,” he confesses. “Don’t want to leave you.”
Ilya’s heart clenches. “What time is your flight?”
“Early.”
Fuck. Ilya was stupid, thinking they would have more time, thinking he could bring Shane home, fuck him until the memories of yesterday are gone from both their minds and-
“I’m not going to go,” Shane interrupts his thoughts.
“What?”
“I won’t go. I’ll tell Coach and Hayden that I’m staying in Boston with my girl,” he smirks. “I’ll fly home the day after tomorrow. We don’t have a game until this weekend. It should be fine. ” He gets nervous, looks away from Ilya. “If you would want that, of course. I understand if you don’t.”
Ilya pulls him in for a long kiss, licks into his mouth. “Fuck yes, I want that,” he pants when they pull apart. “I want that so badly, Shane.”
The smile Shane gives him nearly brings him to his knees.
“Okay,” he breathes and looks down at his phone, quickly typing out the message to his coach and Hayden.
He looks back up at Ilya when he’s finished. “Lead the way.”
Oh, right. He’s supposed to take Shane home with him. Fuck. This is not how he expected tonight to go. He thought he’d go home, get absolutely fucking wasted, and fall asleep cuddled around his pillow. This is so much better.
The car ride over to Ilya’s is silent, but not suffocating. Shane keeps sending him sweet little smiles from the passenger seat and Ilya feels a physical itch begin, his body begging him to get inside of this man. He wants him so badly it’s becoming blinding.
“I don’t have any clothes,” Shane says, suddenly. “Or a toothbrush. Fuck.”
Ilya chuckles. He’s thinking about putting Shane through the mattress and Shane is worried about logistics. Shocker.
“I have extra, Hollander. Clothes and toothbrush. Do not worry.”
Shane nods.
Ilya lowers his voice. “I will take care of you,” he states, sending a heated glance Shane’s way. It has the intended effect. Shane starts squirming in his seat, balls his fists up in his sweatshirt, bites his lip.
Ilya reaches over and grips high on Shane’s thigh. Drops his voice to a whisper. “Gonna take such good fucking care of you.”
Shane lets out a whimper and Ilya speeds up. Has to get them home and get inside of him. As soon as fucking possible.
The last few minutes of the drive are agonizing, but they make it. They are barely through the front door (Shane stops to remove his shoes, placing them neatly by the wall and Ilya groans) before Ilya has Shane pinned against it. He lifts Shane up by his thighs, wraps them around his hips and connects their lips. He fucking devours him. Licks into Shane’s mouth, sucks on his tongue, traces his teeth. Stops to breathe. Switches to his neck, sucks and licks and laves at the soft skin there until Shane is whining.
“Please, Ilya, more.” God, his name in Shane’s mouth is so fucking sweet. He can’t wait to hear him scream it when he comes. Ilya rocks his hips up into Shane, chasing friction against the sweet heat of his ass through his sweatpants.
He pulls Shane off of the wall and carries him, still kissing, to his bed. He’s about to lay Shane down when he stops him.
“No, wait,” Shane says and Ilya pulls back immediately.
“What is it? Did I hurt you?”
“No, no,” Shane reassures. “I just- I want to fix it,” he mumbles.
“Fix it?” Ilya asks. “Fix what?”
Shane stands and grabs Ilya by the hand. “Come with me,” he coaxes.
Ilya follows because of course he does. He would follow Shane anywhere if he asked.
Shane leads them to the living room couch and Ilya stops. His heart seizes inside his chest. “Fix it,” Shane had said. Ilya understands now. He wants to fix what happened on this couch only yesterday (a lifetime ago?) by having sex here. Now. Ilya isn’t sure about it.
“I don’t know, Shane. Bed would be more comfortable anyways, yes?”
Shane steps into his space. Grabs Ilya’s cheeks and presses a sweet kiss to his lips. “Let me make it up to you, Ilya. Please”
And who the fuck is Ilya to deny Shane Hollander anything?
He leans down, kissing Shane again, deeper this time. Slower. Pouring all of the emotions he feels into the other man’s mouth. He starts to pull Shane’s sweatshirt up over his head. Shane moans when his bare chest hits the cool air of the room. Then Ilya moves to his waistband, tucks his fingers into his underwear.
“Is okay?” he asks.
“Fuck, yeah,” Shane breathes.
Ilya pulls Shane’s pants and underwear off in one smooth motion. Shane is standing bare before him and Ilya falls to his knees. Can’t help himself. Shane is so fucking beautiful, with his sweet smile and his freckles, his stretch marks stark against his warm skin. Ilya leans forward and presses a kiss to the soft skin of Shane’s hip.
“ты тукай красивый,” he murmurs. Can’t believe he gets to be here, feels like he is kneeling before a king. Or a god. Shane is the only god Ilya needs, he thinks. The only thing he will ever worship.
“Ilya,” Shane whines. His cock is hard now, weeping right next to Ilya’s face. Ilya smirks up at him.
“What is it, моя любовь?”
“Please,” Shane pants. “Touch me, suck me, something. Anything.”
“And take your fucking clothes off,” he adds after a second.
Ilya chuckles, reaching up to pull his own hoodie off. His pants and underwear quickly follow. When he is naked, he falls back to his knees and licks a hot stripe up the bottom of Shane’s cock without warning. Shane cries out and throws a hand into Ilya’s hair, pulling, bit roughly, but Ilya likes it. Likes knowing the effect he’s having on him.
He sucks Shane into his mouth, his tongue roaming the length of him and pushing into his slit. Shane is babbling above him, praise and pleas falling from his open mouth. Ilya sucks him like it’s the last time because it almost was. Yesterday was almost the last. Now he has a million more chances to make Shane moan. He doesn’t intend to waste any of them.
When he feels Shane’s legs trembling, he knows he’s getting close. Knows the other man’s body like the back of his own hand. He pulls off and stands, dragging Shane into another brutal kiss. Shane can hardly do anything but open his mouth for Ilya, just pants and whimpers against him.
Ilya sits down on the couch and Shane crawls immediately into his lap, mimicking their position from yesterday. Ilya feels a bit of doubt trying to crawl its way back to the forefront of his mind but Shane pushes it away when he leans in to his neck and whispers, “Ilya,” like its a fucking prayer.
Ilya grabs Shane by the hair, pulls him up to connect their mouths again.
“Shane,” he moans.
“Please, fuck me, Ilya. Like this. Want to face you. Want to be as close as possible,” Shane begs.
“Fuck, okay, yes,” Ilya says, nodding. He reaches over to the small end table next to the couch and opens the drawer, pulls out lube and condoms.
“No condom,” Shane blurts, immediately embarrassed . “I mean, I meant it when I said I wanted as close as possible. But only if you’re comfortable, obviously, I mean-“
“No condom,” Ilya interrupts, as serious as he’s ever been. “I’m clean.”
“Me too,” Shane whispers.
“Fuck,” Ilya breathes and lubes up his fingers.
He presses one to Shane’s hole and Shane moans, loud and open, and god, Ilya fucking loves that sound. He presses the finger in, feels the hot warmth of him stretching around his finger.
“Please, Ilya, more,” Shane cries.
Ilya presses another in, making small scissoring motions, working Shane open. Presses hot, filthy kisses along Shane’s collarbone as he works.
When Shane is taking three of his fingers easily, he lifts him up and lines his cock up with Shane’s hole. He looks up to meet his eyes and the pure, unfiltered adoration there makes a lump rise in his throat.
“Are you ready, Shane?” he asks.
“God, yes.”
Ilya pushes in, Shane squeezes Ilya’s thighs with his own and cries out at each inch, and then Shane is sitting on Ilya’s dick, chest to chest, face to face. Fuck, this is perfect. Ilya has never loved anything like he loves this. Loved anyone like he loves him.
Shane starts to bounce, wraps his arms around Ilya’s body and whimpers into his shoulder. Ilya rubs his hands soothingly up and down the baby soft skin of Shane’s ribs, feels him breathing below his fingers.
It’s slow, and intimate, and everything Ilya wishes yesterday had been. He works Shane up and down on his cock slowly, keeping his body pressed as closed as possible, whispering sweet nothings into his ear in Russian. Shane is crying, he thinks. He feels hot little tears landing gently on his shoulder. He sort of feels like crying too.
This is unlike anything they’ve ever done. This feels important, like a dam breaking in their relationship, flooding over into everything so that they can no longer ignore it. No longer force it away.
Ilya doesn’t want to. Doesn’t think he can anymore.
Shane is gripping him so tightly, the wet heat of his hole absolutely perfect around Ilya’s hard cock. When he picks his head up, he has tears running down his cheeks and his face is flushed a beautiful shade of pink and Ilya cannot fucking take it.
“я тебя люблю,” he breathes, over and over into Shane’s mouth.
“What does that mean?” Shane asks.
Ilya pauses only a second. Only a second before he decides. Fuck it.
“I love you,” he whispers, closes his eyes. “It’s I love you, in Russian. Because I do Shane, so much,” his voice breaks on the last word. He’s so scared in this moment, waiting for Shane’s answer.
“Holy shit,” Shane breathes. “I love you too. I love you so fucking much,” and then he crushes his mouth to Ilya’s.
Ilya whimpers into the kiss, pours all the love he possibly can into it, and then Shane starts to move again and fuck, they’re still fucking and Shane is leaking onto his stomach.
“Oh god, Shane,” Ilya moans.
“Say it again,” Shane begs, really bouncing now, panting into Ilya’s open mouth.
“I love you,” Ilya breathes and Shane cums immediately. Coats them both in his release, tears pouring down his face.
“I-I love you,” he cries. “I love you, Ilya.”. And he’s clamping down on Ilya’s cock and Ilya feels so warm, so wanted, so loved. He cums into Shane with tears forming in his eyes and his arms wrapped around him and it’s perfect. It’s so fucking perfect.
They pant and try to catch their breath and Ilya remains buried inside of him. Can’t bear to be even an inch away from him.
“How did we let this happen?” Shane breathes into his shoulder.
Ilya chuckles and wraps him up tighter. “Because we are both very stupid and irresponsible.”
“This is real though, right?” Shane asks, fear creeping into his voice.
Ilya grabs him by the chin, makes him look at him.
“This is real, Shane. I love you. So fucking much.”
“Say it again in Russian, please?”
Ilya smiles, “я тебя люблю,” he breathes, so happy to be able to tell him. In his native tongue. It means more than Shane could ever know. This feeling he’s had bottled up inside finally escaping. He feels so free.
It won’t be easy, this thing between them, Ilya knows that. But they’ll be okay. As long as they have each other. They’ll be okay.