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Ilya was checking his phone again.

There were no new messages to report, same as two minutes ago. Save for another incoming call from Marly that he let go to voicemail. A number of half read emails from his agent, who was most likely panicking. More texts from the team. Ilya ignored all of them. He plugged his phone into his living room wall charger and walked away, vowing he would stop fixating on the little screen; it was giving him a headache. And after all, he wasn’t chained to the thing. He could restrain himself. He could do literally anything else instead. Maybe he would get a work out in, or order something for delivery. It was a Friday night in Boston and he had all the money in the world. He could go anywhere he liked.

Ilya caved five minutes later, checked again for messages from Shane.

Still nothing.

Dammit.

He wished it was still summer. He’d barely looked at his phone at the lakeside. He had not needed to then, filling his days with sun and sex and Shane. It had been over far too soon, snatched away when real life kicked. Ilya had dreaded saying goodbye to Shane at the airport. Despite all they had gained and all they promised, he’d been afraid. The pair of them had stood off a ways, a painfully safe distance apart while other couples waved farewell and hugged hello. They hadn’t risk a single touch. “We’ll see each other soon,” he remembered Shane promised quietly when he was triple checking Ilya’s boarding pass. “Our first game is against each other and… we’ll talk every day until then… and October will be here before we know it.” He said it for his own sake as much as Ilya’s. Because even from behind the sunglasses Shane wore, he could tell he was feeling crushed. He had not wanted Ilya to go anymore than Ilya wanted to leave.

Ilya remembered smiling despite how it had taken everything in him to walk away. “Yes. Soon. In October.”

Before, Ilya had been sure all he needed was to be patient. But the promise of October came and went, right along with November. Now it was the dead of December, well into Ilya’s last season with the Raiders and he had not laid eyes on Shane in weeks. And God, if he’d known they’d be apart this long he would have never left the cottage.

Ilya’s phone let out a beep. He leapt up to look at the screen. It was a message from whats-his-name, the assistant director of hockey operations. Another reminder for Ilya not to speak to the press. As if he would bother. There was only one person he wanted to talk to.

Sullen and sighing, Ilya reminded himself there was a larger plan. A good plan with simple steps. One final season as rivals, one session of friendly but staged outings during All-Star Weekend, one move to Ottawa, one press conference announcing their charity, and, well, something, something, then only ten years until a surprise double retirement-slash-coming-out party. On paper, it was an easy. Foolproof, as Shane’s mother had called it (though Ilya had needed to double check that word). So straightforward all they needed to do was play their parts and nothing could go wrong. Except, as Ilya had since realized, for one teensy, tiny, pesky problem; they were still on step one and Ilya wasn’t going to make it. Not to step two, not to next January, and definitely not ten years.

Because Ilya couldn’t come.

Nothing got him off anymore. At least not when he set about the task on his own. It was a fun little discovery he made those first few nights without Shane. He tried everything to fix it. More lube and then less, toys, booze, porn, pictures of Shane, the works. Nothing got him over the finish line. It was exhausting and embarrassing and he hadn’t yet mentioned it to Shane. He wasn’t sure what he could say that wouldn’t sound like a complaint; ‘hello, yes, I love you and did you know that your skin and your hands and every hole your body possesses is ruining my fucking life?’

And oh-kay. Ilya hung his head in his hands, feeling more than a little appalled at his own thoughts. He’d been getting worse for weeks. His stifled needs were beginning eat at him in whole new ways. He was irritable, distracted, getting shit sleep. All his hunger and humor had evaporated. He pushed himself too hard at practice, spent half his games in the penalty box, then shirked all team duties that weren’t absolutely mandatory. He couldn’t even pretend to care anymore. He wasn’t built for this sort of deprivation.

And Ilya would very much like to point out that nothing in the fine print of step one had included going without Shane for this long.

It was too many missed games, too many missed connections. All of it down to bad luck and shitty coincidences. Starting with when Shane pulled his hamstring back in the September pre-season. He was out for ages. Fans sent well-wishes and pundits lamented what his healing schedule may look like, but no one was more disappointed than Ilya that the injured Montreal Captain wouldn’t travel for away games. But had Ilya adjusted his hopes a month later once Shane’s official return to the ice was announced. It was scheduled for that very night, just in time for the Metros v Raiders rematch. The fans were buzzing. Ticket sales were up. ESPN had been rolling a celebratory commercial block for days, anticipating a ratings spike. Ilya himself had gotten in on the fanfare, tweeting at Shane’s verified account that it would be a shame to beat him when his health was so delicate.

But all their planning was derailed when Ilya was told last minute he would be benched for the next three games. He wouldn’t play against the Metros. He wouldn’t see Shane. They wouldn’t even let him fly out with the team. He stayed grounded in Boston.

It was how Ilya ended up like this, feeling trapped in his own home. Or rather, in his own house. (Because home wasn’t here anymore. Home was the cottage. Home was Shane.) And fuck, he should have just bought tickets to Montreal anyway. He wasn’t under house arrest. The Raiders had no say what he did in his unwilling downtime. If Ilya hadn’t let his anger at his suspension get the better of him, he might have thought of that before it was too late.

The so-called explanations behind his ineligibility to play were bullshit. So naturally it went undisclosed to the media so the directors could save face. This part, aside from his sore dick, was the biggest headache. The cagey answers fanned rumors and the podcasters picked it up. Talk of his supposedly questionable conduct turned into an entirely fabricated story of how he came to blows with a line-mate, in some versions Marly, or worse, his own coach. Both stories were more exciting then the actual truth; Ilya had pissed off the front office. Apparently refusing to apologize to the Raiders’ owner after telling him where to stick it was a bad idea. Who knew?

So Ilya didn’t fly out to Montreal. He didn’t get to watch from the sidelines as the Metros slammed through the Raider’s defenses time and again. But worst of it all he couldn’t fulfill his promise of fucking Shane senseless after the final run of post-game interviews.

It all felt so pointless.

The season was already half over and he and Shane had little to show for it on the scoreboards or elsewhere. Just months of scattered texts piling up. Brief, pent-up phone midnight calls. Illicitly swapped pics that were becoming frightfully more frequent. And god, Ilya’s hand hadn’t ached like this since he was teenager just learning how his dick worked.

Not playing with his team was enough of an insult. But his inability to get off properly? That was the real injury.

Ilya was reduced to pacing the length of his house, no better than a unfixed dog. Nothing in the kitchen stirred his appetite. His phone bored him. Time on the treadmill got him nowhere literally and figuratively. By the time the sun went down he was tossing and turning in his too empty bed. He told himself he wasn’t reaching for Shane across the sheets with his eyes closed. Two goddamn weeks at the cottage had spoiled him. No, it had ruined him.

At least before Ilya had the dignity of denial. Yes, he had been living in cowardice and constant fear that Shane would never love him back. But as it turned out knowing that Shane did in fact love him wasn’t a cure for this. Now he had to face the absence and call the ache by its name:

He missed his fucking boyfriend.

Fuming and indignant, Ilya got up again to try in vain under the shower to get himself anywhere near completion. He just needed to take the edge off somehow. The problem was not that he couldn’t get it up. Normally it felt good for the first few listless tugs. But there was no mistaking his fist for the feel of Shane. His mind and his body never let him forget it. But he tried letting the steam cloud his senses. Tried drifting on the memory of Shane’s mouth. Remembering the rustle of those legs locking around his waist. The thrill of the sharp pull at his scalp from Shane’s hands in his hair.

It was more than enough to get him hard.

But not enough to get him there.

“да ну нафиг,” Ilya groaned, turning off the water.

More or less admitting defeat, he threw himself onto the living room couch cushions, hair still dripping wet. He typed out a brief message, hitting send: when i get my hands on you, hollander…

He saw the notification that Shane read the message, but no reply came.

He knew Shane most likely had his reasons for leaving him on read. Right about then he was probably surrounded by teammates and fans and industry people. But Ilya was stretched to thin for the comfort of being rational.

Going without the slightest hint from Shane made him needier, half feral. This shit was beyond infuriating. At the start of the season, despite knowing he would miss Shane, Ilya had been happier than he had even been in his life. Even if only in secret, he was loved. He was wanted. And strangest of all, he was somehow understood. Things he never let himself dream of. And Ilya should be endlessly grateful. He should be staring wide-eyed and awed into his future with the man he cherished more than anything.

But the truth is he wanted nothing more than to set something on fire.

It was more than restlessness or impatience or wayward dreams of arson. Ilya had always been one to go after what he wanted. He had always despised having to wait. Chalk it up to his innate weakness or greed or his untempered natured that his father always warned him about. He feared whether he liked it or not, this ingratitude might be the thing that ruled him until he had Shane underneath him again.

Aimlessly flipping through the channels, there was nothing at all to watch, save for a rerun of a rerun of the Metro’s home-run press roundup. Shane was speaking.

“—I just hope whatever the hold up in Boston is, that it gets cleared sooner before later,” Shane recites with his pitch perfect, media trained inflection. “As much pride as I take in my team, today’s win wasn’t down to the Metros playing their best. It was down to the Raider’s handicap.”

Ilya rolled his eyes uncharitably. Always so fucking humble. Even when he didn’t need to be. One player absence wasn’t an excuse for the Raiders to hand over a win. But an approving hum of chatter rolled in from the press, ever delighted and in awe of Shane Hollander, the perfect sportsman. Shane Hollander, the hero of professional hockey. Shane Hollander, the saving grace of the Eastern division. Urgh. If Ilya wasn’t so damn close to throwing himself through the television screen for a bit of relief, he’d be nursing that old familiar flame of jealousy.

It had been like this for years. Shane garnering nothing but accolades and good will as a media darling, whereas Ilya had made a career out of playing the heel. (A heel, it turned out, was one of the many wrestling terms Shane believed was essential to Ilya understanding Western culture.) Ilya wished he could say the roles were forced upon them the same way the closet was, but it wasn’t entirely true. In so many ways their opposing masks felt like a natural progression for both of them. Shane was too polite, too earnest, too rehearsed to slip into anything but a heroic caricature. And well, Ilya’s skills had always laid in improvisation and evisceration.

Of course the press ate it up. They were sharks swimming to the scent of bad blood on the water. Whatever got them headlines or a few more clicks. It was half their problem to begin with. They were too marketable as enemies. It was why Ilya needed out of Boston so badly.

Two hours, he reminded himself. The drive from the property he was eyeing in Ottawa to Shane’s apartment complex in Montreal was two hours and twenty-two minutes. Ilya looked up the exact GPS estimates three times in the past hour. Next year they would be closer. Next year Shane wouldn’t be a world away.

But that would be then. This was now, still stuck on stupid fucking step one.

On the high-resolution screen, Ilya can count each of Shane’s freckles. He’s still talking, answering inane questions.

“—I don’t like to speculate on rumors. But I think I speak for all Metros fans when I say I don’t want easy wins. Where is the fun in that?”

I’d make it hard for you, Ilya caught himself thinking absurdly in a heated muddle of Russian and English. He exhaled hard, deciding why the hell not? He propped his legs on the coffee table, slipped his hand past the waistband of his sweatpants. Chances were slim he’d get anywhere, but watching Shane putting on a show was the one thing he hadn’t tried.

And it was all a show. All interviews were, obviously. But the one thing the constantly applauding idiots behind the cameras didn’t know was how practiced of a disguise Shane wore. No different than paint would be on his face, or an elastic banded mask snapped tight behind his ears. Not a single one of them had ever seen the real Shane Hollander, not like Ilya had.

They had no idea about Shane’s awkward pauses or his nervous laugh. How adorable he got stumbling over conversations he didn’t think to practice. His penchant of getting defensive over the most ridiculous things. Like that stupid car and his weird diet and his shelf of only hockey books and his cinnamon flavored toothpaste that apparently he had been using religiously since he was a child and never bothered to change — and no it didn’t make any sense because mint, Hollander! all toothpaste should taste like mint!

(And why the hell did thinking of how ridiculous Shane was make his dick jump like that? Jesus. Ilya was doomed. His dick was doomed. All of him doomed for the rest of his life.)

“It’s an honor to have played any role in rejuvenating the Metros standing in the league. It’s never anything less than a privilege to call this game my profession. But at this level of my career, maintaining the trajectory of the team is my biggest priority — and no, I don’t use the word dynasty—”

Ilya was too bound up tight to decipher half the words Shane was saying. His jaw ached from grinding his teeth. His wrist ached too, but for very different reasons. He spit in his palm for a little extra glide, but it was no real help. He needed a warm body beside him, beneath him. He needed the friction of skin flush to skin. A tight, hot fit around him. Dark eyes, dark hair, dark full-throated pleas begging him more, more, god, please more. And god, they were still asking him stupid questions, weren’t they?

“At the end of the day, all we want is to be able to say we left it all out on the ice. For ourselves and for Montreal. And as nice as it is talking to you guys—” the junket chuckled predictably, “the conference room isn’t where we show you who we are as players—”

Ilya’s eyes slipped shut. He tried forcing himself to relax. He sidled deeper into the couch, stroking his shaft harder. Because if they wanted to see who Shane truly was, Ilya could think up a few ways make that happen.

For starters, he could make himself at home under the table Shane was sitting in front of. Keep the cameras rolling while Shane gasped, his head thrown back, legs shaking as Ilya worked him down his throat. (Maybe this time Pike would even catch on to what was happening.)

Or perhaps it would be Ilya sitting right next to him under the glare of LED bulbs and journalists shouting. Shane could still be the center of attention while Ilya’s hands found their way under his shirt. He could try and fail to drone on about plays that were over and done with while Ilya’s fingers pulled and pinched at his chest. He’d squirm in his seat, flustered as Ilya pawed at him, holding him by the handfuls like a prize he refused to share. And only after he’d taken his time working Shane into a frenzy, he’d lift his hem up past his armpit so the crowd could see Ilya take one of those perfect brown nipples between his teeth.

Or they could go the more direct route. Put it all out there, live and uncut. See just how many boring questions Shane could field while bent over in front of the microphone. Ilya would be stood behind his spread legs, holding him chest down by the scruff of his blue jersey, the blunt head of his cock pressing in, in, in. Shane always tensed up so pretty and pained when Ilya took him like this; teeth gritted, back arched, toes curled in his shoes. And the mic would pick up every hitch in Shane’s breath and each halt in his voice as he scrambled to keep his composure. All the crowd would hear would be his ragged, wounded noises and the frantic slick sound of Shane’s body pulling Ilya in. But who knows? Maybe if Ilya was feeling generous he’d ease up the pace with shallower thrusts, just enough for Shane to lazily grind back onto him and tremor out a soundbite about the importance of sportsmanship.

And this time when the press marveled at Shane, it will be for the right reasons. How well he takes it. How wet he gets when his cock is ignored. How good he looks with his brows creased with sweat and his lips flushed open and that perfect way he clenches down. (And if between the cameras flashing and the microphone feedback someone asked Ilya to weigh-in on Shane’s performance, he’d have to reply no comment. Because keeping Shane right on the cusp of praise always made him tighter.)

“Like I always say,” the real, sadly un-fucked Shane was saying, snapping Ilya back to reality, “I want to play the game the right way.”

One of Ilya’s eyes crack open. The Shane on the screen looks amused, half smiling to himself rather than to the audience. As though he already knows Ilya is watching, or that he would be. He can’t prove it but he knows. And it’s irrational but it burns him up thinking how it’s so damn unfair that Shane can be perfect and poised without him. That Ilya’s the one left a keening, helpless mess with a broken dick that can’t do its fucking job unless it’s inside the most boring, beautiful man alive.

“I want what every other player wants,” Shane shrugs as the interview presses on. “I want to be challenged to push harder.”

In his mind’s eye the fantasy of Shane took this literally. The Metro’s captain is sobbing into the mic with both arms splayed out, hanging onto the edge of the table for dear life. One of his legs lifts up, hoisted onto the table, knocking over tented name cards and sports drinks with utter abandon. Nothing matters to him if it gets in the way of Ilya getting his weight on him. He’d do anything to make sure Ilya could keep burying himself deeper inside him.

“I want to have to work for it,” Shane grinned. “Not naming names or anything, but I want somebody on the ice to make me work for it.”

“Fucking Christ, Hollander,” Ilya snarled at the screen. He can’t believe a damn thing he’s hearing over the pounding of blood in his ear drums. The joints in his arm are threatening to lock up as he chased the friction. And it hurt. He’s never been so fucking hard in his life. He could cut glass. Could catch sparks striking the rock-solid flint of his cock and maybe set that fire he was only half joking about. He needed to burn this city down on his way out. He needed to never look back. He needed to be outside the next Metros game, pinning Shane to the nearest surface, sinking into him until he made those soft fucking whines that kept Ilya up at night. Fuck. When Ilya was done with him the press wouldn’t recognize the mess he’d made out of their golden boy.

“Okay, fine, fine. Everyone is thinking it, so I’ll just come out and say it,” Ilya risked one final glance at the television. He feared and hoped it will be his undoing. He was so, so, so close this time. He could taste it. The furious stroke of his wrist was almost getting him there. He just needed something to crest him over the edge. That something happened onscreen when Shane, his beautiful, breathtaking boyfriend leaned closer to the mic like he’s sharing a smug secret he needs the whole world to know.

“I want to play Ilya Rozanov.”

The noise Ilya made is pathetic. A wild deflated sob that could not decide if it was a wail or a whimper. But either way it wasn’t the sound of release. He pumped his fist harder and harder but it was no use. He was still trapped on the other side of his release, locked out of that final rush of pleasure. He groaned bitterly. His lungs were on the verge of collapse. His eyes were wet and stinging and his face burned with exertion. He dragged his sweatpants back up and tucked away his uselessly hard dick, then felt around blindly until he found the remote to pause the broadcast. It was time to give in. Because it was pointless to keep trying. If Shane saying that didn’t do it for him, then nothing would.

Nothing except the real thing.

Ilya laid back but unsurprisingly could not get comfortable. He didn’t expect to. His muscles were screaming and he’d earned himself a neck cramp. He felt like he’d been circling a drain for hours, or stood up on the edge of his cavernous need for so long that all he can feel anymore was vertigo. Impotently, he punched a pillow. Then he dropped his forearm over his face to hide from no one in particular how hollow he felt.

He’d been right before. The cottage had ruined him. Love had ruined him. And he should have seen it coming. He’d always been an all or nothing man.

“Fuck you, Hollander,” Ilya cursed to the still image on the screen. This was his fault after all. Because he made Ilya love him. And because it should be impossible to crave anything this much. Like some kind of addiction rewriting his nervous system so he couldn’t function. That it left him crumbling. Unable to think or care about anything else. Choking on his own needs with no end in sight.

A million cynical thoughts warred in his mind on how he could have prevented this; he should have stayed the hell away from the cottage, he should have picked a different sport, he should have never left Russia, he should have kept to himself that day when a beautiful boy wanted to shake his hand in the frigid Saskatchewan cold.

He could have done any of that. But he didn’t and there was no going back. And for one agonizing moment, he resented Shane as much as he loved him. And of course he hated himself for it. Because that showed just how badly he’d let himself come apart at the seams, didn’t it?

On the coffee table, his phone vibrated. Ilya would have ignored it, but he found himself weakly reaching for it anyway.

It was from Shane. Finally. His heart twisted around in his chest. But the text it was short and nonsensical, simply reading; ding, dong!

“What?” Ilya squinted at his phone. He did not think he knew these words. They didn’t sound real. He wracked his tired brain for a useful translation but he came up empty. “What the fuck is ding dong?”

His doorbell rang . Ilya didn’t put it together. He came close to ignoring the knocking that followed. But the visitor was persistent. Ilya slumped forward as he stamped towards to the door, shirtless and sweaty, cock mostly half mast in his sweats by that point. Not entirely unnoticeable but if his late night guest objected, maybe they should try knocking on doors before midnight.

The bell rang again before Ilya turned the knob. “Fucking wait— what do you want!” he yelled as the door swings open. And there was Shane standing in the doorway, bundled up thickly in a winter coat and a long scarf Ilya knew his mother had made him. He looked radiant and unreal under the soft porch-light in the rolling drift of free falling snow. Ilya’s eyes flicker back and forth, processing his own senses poorly. He might be dreaming. He must be.

The vision of Shane beamed at him, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I caught a red eye,” he proudly announced.

“That is… good for you? No?” Nothing about that sentence computed to Ilya. “What is red-eye? How do you catch it?”

Shane’s pink-cheeked exuberance dampened slightly.

“It’s a— it’s a plane,” he explained. “The kind of plane that boards really late and no one likes them because you land in the middle of night and everything is closed and, and when you can’t sleep on the plane your eyes get red and it’s a whole thing—”

“Right, right, как скажешь.” Ilya waved him off. He sucked in as much of the cold air as his chest would hold. “So you bought ticket in Montreal for red-eye plane?”

Shane nodded excitedly. “Yes.”

“To come to Boston?”

“Yes.”

“To see me?”

“Obviously.”

“And you are here now?”

“Y- yeah?”

“And you are real?”

Shane laughed. But Ilya didn’t join him. He kept perfectly still in the freezing draft waiting for an answer.

“Of course I’m— Ilya… Are you, are you okay?”

“нет. No. How could I be okay? I am going crazy in the brain.” He jammed a finger to his temple. A scream was building in his throat, not to yell at Shane, but at himself. He had to— he needed to grab onto Shane. Touch him, hold him, kiss him, breathe him in. So why hadn’t he? Why the fuck couldn’t Ilya move? His voice wavered. “Do you have any idea of what you have done to me?”

“I— uh, no?”

“You broke my fucking dick, Hollander!”

Shane never looked so lost. “You sure? Because your dick looks fine to me.” He pointed down at Ilya’s tented crotch. “And if you’re done being mad at me for my very romantic gesture, maybe you could invite me in and I’ll help you out with that?”

Ilya dragged his body aside to allow Shane to pass through. With Shane safely inside Ilya slammed the door shut behind them. Mostly out of disbelief and eagerness to shut out the world, but the sudden movement was enough to make Shane jump.

“Fuck! Rozanov, are you happy to see me or not?”

Happiness was one word for the searing lightheadedness that Ilya was then experiencing. But he did not know how to put that into words. Arms crossed, Shane was glowering at him in the entry way kicking off his boots, snowmelt in his long dark hair and clinging to his lashes. He was lovelier than Ilya remembered. That didn’t feel possible, but it was true. And it occurred to him then that this was their first reunion as lovers. Or as two people in love, since Shane hated that word.

His first surprise from his boyfriend.

Wires crossed in Ilya’s head that he couldn’t quite uncross. Something had short circuited. He could not go the extra mile of translating thoughts into English.

“снимать одежду,” he commanded.

Shane threw his hands up. “You know I don’t know what that means.”

“Take off your clothes,” Ilya struggled. “Now.”

“Take off your clothes,” Shane mocked in a terrible approximation of Ilya’s accent. “You couldn’t try ‘thank you for coming, Shane.’ Or ‘I’m so glad you’re here, Shane!’ Or even ‘hey, I missed you so much!’” As he ranted, Shane hung up all his winter gear in the coat hanger and lined his shoes by the door. He left a neat pile of folded clothes on the couch armrest. So prim. So polite. Even when he was being a brat. Ilya followed his every move. Savored every detail.

Shane was really here. Ilya was truly home.

And all at once he was in control of his faculties again. He could move. He could speak. He could fucking touch Shane.

He grabbed him by the shoulders, snapping up Shane’s attention. He looked startled enough to yell at him again but Ilya pulled him close. Warm. He was so warm. Haggardly, he whispered into Shane’s ear, “Thank you for coming. I am glad you are here.” He shuddered hard, swaying into the effortless solace. “I missed you like dying.”

“Now that’s more like it,” Shane said before he crashed their mouths together. It was a desperate meeting of their lips, no finesse, no savoring. Ilya’s tongue dove into Shane’s mouth, plundering the taste of him. His sweetness was clean, bright, and burning, and god, Ilya had been so lonesome for it. Letting his mouth be ravished, Shane slid his hands up the muscles of Ilya’s chest, his neck, then clutched fistfuls of his curls. Ilya’s eyes watered from the sting as Shane tugged hard, urging him on, steering him backward. Their blind momentum sent them stumbling but Ilya kept him upright with both arms clamped tightly to Shane’s waist. Some forgotten piece of furniture rattled to the floor in their wake. Ilya didn’t look down, the bauble did not matter; the only thing precious to him was the perfect heat of Shane’s perfect mouth.

They managed to make it to the couch. Ilya landed on top, bracketing Shane’s body between his his legs and braced his shoulders over his chest, pinning him in place. Shane wiggled free enough to move his hand wildly below them, trying to get at Ilya’s pants but fumbling the drawstring. Ilya would have helped if he could think. But as it just so happened Ilya had decided then he was taking a much needed break from oxygen. Because what did he need it for? It only ever got in the way of his plans to never stop kissing Shane.

Shane tipped his head up, laughing. “A little help here?”

“Shut up,” Ilya growled, pulling Shane’s lush bottom lip back into his mouth. He dragged his mouth down his neck next, making Shane’s Adam's apple bob before he trailed bites over his collar bones. He’d missed the way Shane’s chest flushed red and the way his nipples hardened to dark peaks under his tongue. Missed how easy it was to make Shane buck up against him, his rubbing a wet spot to Ilya’s sweats.

Ilya had been so certain that getting off immediately would be his biggest priority the next time he had Shane naked. He’d certainly waited so long Shane wouldn’t have blamed him. But as Ilya lowered his head down to Shane’s torso, past his navel, his hip bones, and lower still, he kept his gaze fixed up at Shane. He whined softly, moaning in short panting bursts as he tossed his head to the side. And yes, that was it. The sound Ilya had been dying for.

“Ilya, Ilya please…”

Inelegantly, he shimmied out of his sweats finally.

“Yes,” Shane hissed, gloating. “Was starting to think you didn’t miss me all that m—”

He did not finish his thought. He was frozen in place with an odd expression. Something that was not Ilya’s body had captured his full attention. He stared off at whatever it was, then slowly turned back to Ilya in disbelief. “Wait, before, when you were—” He motioned toward Ilya’s erection. “Was that because you were watching me on TV?”

Ilya blinked. He realized the television was still on. Shane’s face watched them from a meter away, caught mid-word on the screen.

“Seriously, Ilya? I sent you pics. Like a million of them!”

He shrugged, confused at what the confusion was. “Is not enough.”

“Really? How many more embarrassing angles do you need of my—?”

“Not embarrassing. Beautiful,” Ilya corrected him. He clambered back up the couch and kissed him again and again and again. “So fucking beautiful.” Slowly, he sunk his hands between their bodies, worked Shane’s dick against his with a languid pump of his fist. It was everything he prayed for, all that his drowned days of misery have been gasping for. The relief was so great he could not collect a single thought in his head, let alone muster the sense the censor himself. “I needed you so fucking badly,” he near sobbed. “Every fucking night, I tried, I tried so hard and I could not, could not get—”

“Ilya—” Shane shivered. He pulled at Ilya’s shoulders, trying to reach him, to hold him. He looked so sorry. But Ilya was far too gone to feel guilt. “Ilya, just let me, let me—”

“You fucking broke me, Hollander.” Ilya’s fist worked faster, angrier. “Do you understand that? Nothing works anymore. Not without you. And the pictures, the calls, the messages; its not enough. I need you all the fucking time—” Shane arched into him, came dangerously close to tilting them off the couch. But Ilya would not let him go so easily. He held him down with his free arm and knocked their noses together aiming for one more blistering kiss. “And I told you — I told you, you were problem that was not supposed to go away. And then what do you do? You went away…”

Shane’s shook his head furiously, his mouth slack. He didn’t have the breath to defend himself.

“So yes, I watch you on TV. I watch your games, the commercials, all your interviews. And I had a thought about it, see?” Ilya gave one long, brutally slow tug along Shane’s length. He stopped at the tip, plying the leaking slit with gentle circular pressure that made Shane tremble. “A very good thought. For your next interview, everyone should know how good you are for me. I thought about how we could show them.”

“Fucking christ, Ilya.”

“It would be sportsmanlike, yes? Helpful, if I sucked your dick when they ask stupid questions. Or I am thinking maybe I bend you in half?” Shane whimpered, nodding his head until he was dizzy. Ilya knew he was imagining it. Knew that just taking private pictures of himself Shane nervous, so the thought of himself exposed in front of a crowded room while Ilya toyed with him would drive him crazy.

“Who knows,” Ilya murmured, dragging a thumb over Shane’s sweat damp cheek. “Maybe calling my name over and over might make your answers not-so-boring.”

“Fuck you,” Shane bleated, his face helplessly ruddy and his wet, welcoming mouth suckled Ilya’s thumb. He was so close Ilya could taste it. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuh-uck—” He jolted up into Ilya’s palm, sliding deliciously against him. Ilya’s own gut was tightening, his thighs tensing. He could hear nothing but static, his heart racing so fast it did not seem to beat at all. Shane scrabbled back against the cushions but there was nothing steady enough for him to take hold of. Nothing except for Ilya.

Shane pitched forward as his climax took hold, face buried in the crook of Ilya’s neck. His sweetly broken cry tore down every wall Ilya had been starving behind. The dam inside him washed away, the roaring torrent taking the long-held tension coiled base of his spine with it. He came so hard it hurt, his release running out of him in long, inelegant arcs that landed across Shane’s chest, his collar bones, his chin.

“Jesus christ,” Shane’s mumbling, panting, looking impressed and appalled. Maybe it was really dawning on him then that Ilya really had been waiting for him for all that time. The evidence dripping down his chest was compelling.

And Ilya felt—

Well.

Bliss wasn’t a strong enough word. He felt high on the heat of Shane. Drunk on his scent, his sound. Felt like might never get sober. Like he might never recover from the way every inch of him was too raw, oversensitive. His legs shook and his hands were unsteady, but he managed to swipe at a box of tissues on autopilot. Even at his most post-coital and boneless, he knew Shane refused to be dirty for long. Which was a pity, considering how good he looked marked-up and sticky. Still, Ilya dutifully cleaned him off, tossing the tissues aside, all before his strength left him and he collapsed right on top of Shane.

Ilya was worthless for what felt like a long, long while after.

“Uh… hey, um… Ilya?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re squishing me.”

“Good.” Ilya moved only enough to kiss his jaw, then stretched, made himself more comfortable. He was starting to feel a little less lightheaded, but that meant the old stubborn feelings came trudging back. “This way you can’t go anywhere now.”

Shane shoved at him, playful but protesting. “Hold on, you can’t blame me for how long its been—”

“Oh, I can blame you,” Ilya said seriously. “And I do.

“What? I’m the one who flew out to see you. Not the other way around. And I sat in a aisle seat, by the way — between crying kids.”

“Real sad story,” Ilya said with a mocking frown. “Sounds like torture. But you know what else is torture? Not getting off for weeks, Hollander!”

“It was three months,” Shane clarified, as if that was any better. “And I got injured. You got suspended!”

“For bullshit reason,” Ilya locked his arms tighter around Shane, defensive. “I fucking told them I was done with Boston and then they benched me.”

“What?” Shane shook his head, horrified. “They can’t do that. Its against the rules!”

“Oh really? Is against the rules?” Ilya rumbled out a laugh. Because god, he loved this man; naivety and all. “I will be sure to let them know.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane muttered. But he smiled when he said it, and Ilya knew all of him was loved just as much in return. “I’m just saying. They can’t punish you for wanting to be a free agent.”

“But they can try to make it hard for me. And they can get away with it. They know it looks bad for me to be benched this long. It pisses off fans. Makes other teams think twice about me. And they know I hate sitting around, doing nothing. So they think it will make me want to sign again with the Raiders. They think they can scare me into… what’s the word? Reconsidering.”

“And would you?” Shane whispered a moment later. “Reconsider?”

He wouldn’t look at Ilya when he asked it.

“Ottawa isn’t Boston,” Shane continued. From the tone of his voice Ilya could tell this wasn’t the first time this thought had darkened his mind. “I know its the plan but we didn’t really talk about how different it would be and… and I’d get it if, if you had second thoughts or whatever.”

Or whatever?

“Hollander—”

“If you changed your mind about what you wanted… because maybe it felt like a good idea back at the cottage… but that was then, and this is, this is the real world, right? And I get you love me but, but maybe you don’t still want to… I mean, no one could blame you and… I’d hate it but… but I’d understand.”

“Shane.”

Ilya took his face in his hands, tipped Shane’s face to meet his, and made sure those beautiful shimmering eyes saw he meant every word he said next: “Nothing is going to keep me away from Ottawa. I don’t care what it takes. This team or that one, my future isn’t hockey. It’s you.”

Shane melted against him. This time there were no complaints about Ilya’s weight on top of him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry… I just…” He sniffled. “Fuck. I thought maybe you’d—”

“How long?” Ilya interrupted, brow raised.

“How long what?”

“How long have you been thinking crazy thoughts?”

“I don’t know! A while? Since November? And its not crazy to think that this plan is nuts. Or that you might not—”

“We’re sticking to the plan,” Ilya delcared as if it were obvious. As if he would ever fucking let Shane go. As if he would ever subject himself to even more time without him. It had only been a few minutes since they last had sex and that was already too long. “So no crying. You will not ever be rid of me.”

“I’m not crying,” Shane lied, rubbing his face. “And its been a pretty shit plan so far.”

Ilya nodded. “Yes. The worst.”

“But you know, right? You know that I missed you, too? This whole thing has been unbearable. My whole team is sick of me. Hayden thinks I’ve lost my mind. And I nearly lost it when they told me you weren’t coming to Montreal. I was booking the ticket here while I was still doing the post-game presser.”

Ilya shivered, remembering his words: I want to play Ilya Rozanov.

“Did you know I would be watching you?”

“No. But I hoped. Okay, I more than hoped. Though I did not expect you to try and jack off to it—”

“Desperate times,” he reminded him.

“Yeah, no, I could tell. Especially because your little fantasy… well, let’s just it could use some work.”

“Oh?” Ilya raised his brows, a competitive smirk forming, “you think I need pointers on how to fuck you?”

“Yeah Rozanov, its this thing called constructive feedback, you might have heard of it.” Shane yelped when Ilya pinched his ass. “Hey! Just saying, hypothetically, if I’m going to fuck you on camera, why not give them the money shot? Let me ride you.”

Ilya’s head swam at the thought. It was one of his favorite ways to have him, with gravity and Shane doing all the work. Hmm. So perhaps he was open to pointers after all.

He nipped at Shane’s earlobe, hungry again as if he had never been sated, and he spun them around until Shane was above him, grinning. “Alright, so you ride me… then what?”

fin.