Chapter Text
When they first arrived at the cottage, months out from their last hookup and antsy to rip their clothes off, Ilya kicked his shoes in the general vicinity of the door without much thought. Shane was already petrified of absolutely anything ruining his next two precious weeks with Ilya; the last thing he would do is say, “Hey, before you rip my clothes off, would you please line up your shoes the way I like them for no reason?”
They stumbled onto the couch and eventually made their way into his bedroom to blow each other, thankfully erasing any thoughts about Ilya’s out-of-place shoes from Shane’s mind. After they finished, Shane stumbled back into the common area with Ilya close behind him, who was giggling that it “might be a waste of time to clean me out of your mouth.” Shane told him with no bite to fuck off, as usual, as he uncapped and took a swig from the mouthwash he kept at the kitchen island. Ilya stuck his head in the sink to gulp some water directly from the faucet. He began to walk away as he swallowed the final mouthful of water, but stopped when his eyes suddenly locked onto Shane.
“You have mouthwash in your kitchen?”
Shane took Ilya’s spot at the sink, swished the mouthwash around in his mouth one more time, then spat it out and turned the faucet on to ensure none of it stuck.
“Uh, yeah.” He answered without looking up, as casually as possible, moving the neck of the faucet around to rinse all the mouthwash down the drain. “I– uh, wanted to be prepared for this trip.”
I knew we would be fucking on every surface in this house, and I refuse to walk around with cum in my mouth.
He braced himself for a chirp from Ilya at his expense, disappointed how quickly he made himself look like a dork in front of the man he was hoping to woo. Ilya looked him up and down; it was obvious that jokes were generating in his head like the numbers on a slot machine. But a grin crept onto his face, a goofy grin, like Shane’s kitchen mouthwash was the most wonderful thing he had ever heard. Ilya nodded without a word, still smiling and nodding as he turned away, giving the creak of Shane turning the sink off the last word of their short exchange.
Shane tried, quite unsuccessfully, to suppress his smile, somehow smitten that Ilya was so endeared by his kitchen mouthwash. They had just been sucking each other off not five minutes ago, but that was what had Shane feeling butterflies.
Ilya had only taken a few steps before he looked back at the shoes he had thrown on the floor earlier. He stared at them, glanced over to the plastic mat where Shane had all of his shoes lined up neatly, then back at his own. He bent down, picked up both of his slides with one hand, and placed them neatly aligned on the mat with the rest of Shane’s shoes. Ilya stood up with a huff, giving another look at the shoes as if checking his work, then casually walked past Shane.
“Can you show me outside now?”
Shane took an unusually long time to even realize that Ilya had spoken. He was still staring at Ilya’s shoes. Had he misjudged how strong his contempt for shoes being thrown on the floor was? Were his habits and neuroses so all consuming he unconsciously telekinetically communicated to Ilya to pick up his fucking shoes?
He snapped out of his own head, realizing Ilya had asked him a question and was watching him zone out, expecting an answer.
“Oh– yeah, totally. Yeah, come on.”
–
Since he met Shane Hollander, Ilya had been telling a little white lie.
Shane was not boring.
He never actually thought Shane was boring. He was uptight and high-strung, sure, but he wasn’t boring. Really, he was endlessly amusing.
Ever since he had approached Ilya outside at the International Prospect Cup, something about Shane always captivated him. He was your stereotypical all-Canadian boy, so perfect and well-behaved, a little awkward off the ice, but charmingly so. The media gushed about how adorable and talented Shane Hollander was, and Ilya definitely got his appeal. But because Ilya couldn't help causing trouble, he defiled that perfect all-Canadian boy as soon as he got the chance. And that’s all it had been at first. Shane was hot, Ilya was hot, why not have some fun?
Hollander was literally buzzing. Probably some mix of arousal and fear, Ilya imagines, but still, buzzing so hard during their first hookup that his hands were literally shaking. It was cute, but it was what Ilya craved: the knowledge he was the one fucking the bright-eyed fellow rookie he knocked down to second place in the draft a few years prior. Ilya had only noticed Hollander’s shaking hands after he stripped on his command, when instead of immediately sucking Ilya off like he was practically begging for, he began to pick up his strewn-about clothes, shake them off, and fold them.
Shane Hollander, golden boy of the Montreal Metros, hands shaking, standing completely naked and cock achingly hard from some kissing and a few seconds of giving head, took the time to fold his clothes to his liking and place them on the hotel dresser.
It was that moment that turned Shane from just another conquest for Ilya into a blooming curiosity. Ilya is pretty sure he laughed at Hollander then, a pure and childlike laugh, completely caught off guard by such earnest sincerity. Truthfully, he had been scanning Hollander’s toned body like a predator surveying his next meal, thinking about how fucking hot it would be to face Hollander on the ice now, to look at the rest of the Metros and know their perfect star center had dropped to his knees for him. A touch of guilt panged in his chest as Hollander approached the bed. God, he wanted to kiss him again.
Of course, they kept hooking up after that, and Ilya kept discovering those little things about Shane that hung heavy on his heart. So much so that during their long stretches apart, his little moments began to be what dominated Ilya’s image of Shane in his head– well, closely tied with his warm mouth, tight ass, and beautiful freckles. He thought of the way Shane nibbled on his hoodie strings as he tied his shoes, the little cowlick on his scalp that would stick up when Ilya messed up his hair, or how he started bringing an expensive leather toiletries bag with him to their hookups because he couldn’t shower without the same products he's been using since he was a kid. It was scary, the way he caught himself dumbly smiling at those memories.
It was those enchanting parts of Shane that grew that dangerous curiosity in Ilya for more. He tried for years to swallow down Shane’s inescapable magnetism, trying over and over again to punish himself for wanting to explore more than his body. It only resulted in an agony far worse than whatever could be on the other side: being so horribly cruel to Shane, whose only crime was being himself.
At a certain point, the fight left Ilya. Maybe it was after he foolishly let Shane’s first name slip from his lips and nearly lost him because of it, or maybe it was Shane letting him cry in his arms, the first time anyone had seen him cry since his mama died. Either way, the last parts of Ilya desperately fighting the desire to know Shane had been shattered by watching Scott Hunter kiss a man in front of the entire world.
That is what brought him to Shane’s cottage.
When he first walked through the front door, he made some half-hearted quip about Shane’s “real estate fetish,” trying to cut through the tension. What had truly surprised him, though, was the difference between Shane’s apartment in Montreal and the cottage.
Everything in Montreal was perfectly staged, like a real estate listing just waiting to be toured. The entire place felt emotionally sterile, despite its obviously expensive furniture and perpetual mood lighting. The pillows on Shane’s bed were perfectly placed, as if nobody would ever sleep there. There was not a single personal item on either Shane’s nightstand or dresser, except for a glasses case that looked like black leather. Part of Ilya wondered whether he actually even lived there, and seriously considered whether Shane had bought an entire luxury apartment just to bring Ilya there.
He was only convinced Shane really lived there after they had sex, when he went to Shane’s fridge to bring him a drink, and was greeted by a ridiculous amount of sugar-free ginger ale, taken out of their boxes and lined up in perfect rows. The rest of the food and drink was nearly indiscernible, all of it taken out of its original packaging and placed in nondescript clear containers, some of them labelled with a label maker. He smiled to himself as he scanned the contents, holding the refrigerator door open so long his nearly naked body began to feel the chill. He took a ginger ale and a water bottle from the fridge, took a straw from a cup full of reusable straws on the counter, and brought them to Shane.
Shane had smiled at him, a little weak from the multiple orgasms Ilya had pulled from him, but so wonderfully that it made Ilya’s heart swell. He picked up the blanket and got under it alongside Shane, helping him sit up and offering him both drinks.
As Shane reached for the ginger ale, he seemed puzzled by the straw Ilya was holding alongside it. “You brought me a straw?”
“Yes, Hollander, I get you a straw. I know you put everything in your mouth, not just my cock,” he responded, meaning to sound teasing, instead coming out sickly sweet. Shane playfully hit his arm, but quickly accepted as Ilya held the straw to his mouth and helped him drink. Ilya mindlessly caressed his chest and arms as he took the soda and sipped it.
Stepping into the cottage, it was nothing close to the sterility of Shane’s apartment in Montreal. Ilya kicked the sandals he was wearing off at the doorway without much thought as he walked through and surveyed the place. It was wall-to-wall windows yet somehow still felt so secretive, exposed only to the dense forest that formed an impenetrable castle wall around Shane’s secluded paradise.
Ilya was hit by an overwhelming aura of Shane; there was no other way to describe it. He was so used to the version of Shane he snuck around with, who hired a stylist to tell him how to dress, whose image was carefully curated for brand image.
Rays of sun shone in like spotlights at the little things scattered around the open area that were so personally Shane’s. There was a painting in the entranceway of a snowy scene with a frozen lake, a pair of skates, and a hockey stick leaning against a wooden fence, asking him to strap them on and foolishly skate on the ice. The rug at his feet was a mismatched shade of blue to the table settings, but both had beautiful floral patterns and looked handmade. As Ilya looked around, he realized nearly everything surrounding him was handmade. The kettle sitting on the counter had imperfections where someone’s finger imprinted into the clay, and the bowl of apples in the middle of the dining table had a shiny ceramic glaze. Shane hadn’t hired a designer to pick these out; nobody was telling him how this home should look. He had found these things himself, maybe at art fairs or at antique shops.
Shane had been mumbling about lunch and the well water. Ilya closed the space and kissed him; he couldn’t take another breath if it wasn't taken with Shane’s air. He cupped his beautiful, smiling face, feeling his nose crinkle against his own. He gripped his wrinkled button-up and guided him to the couch, where they fell onto it, on top of each other, giggling while barely able to tear themselves apart. He began to feel up Shane’s ass, gliding another hand into the small of Shane’s back, where it always fit perfectly.
Unlike Shane’s couch in Montreal, made of cold and professional leather, this one was thick and soft, probably wool. They had sex on that other couch plenty of times, and though it was hot, it practically mandated them to get up and leave immediately after they finished, with no room to hold each other in the afterglow, their slick skin getting stuck to the leather if they even tried. As Ilya’s mouth moved with Shane’s, taking him apart as slowly as possible for the first time, he imagined napping here on this heavenly couch with Shane’s weight on top of him like it was then. He pictured Shane holding onto him, trusting that Ilya would protect him from anything. He would cherish the slow rise and fall of Shane’s chest, or the way his eyelashes would flutter gently every so often.
Shane leaned on his arm, obviously avoiding pressing on Ilya’s sensitive ribs, and held his face, smiling bashfully and hiding his face in Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya held Shane to him with his hand, taking the moment to run his fingers through his perfect coarse hair and glance beside them, to the farthest end of the couch, where he realized there was the noticeable dip of a seat Shane had probably sat in for years. There was a Snoopy stuffed animal sitting there, with black plastic eyes scratched and a body flattened from years of hugs. But he wasn’t just well-loved; he was well taken care of. His fur wasn’t soft and fuzzy anymore; it matted into itself, but was somehow still a brilliant white. He had clearly been washed recently. Next to Shane’s spot on the couch, there was an end table keeping notebooks and journals, pages all yellowed and wrinkled. There was a red mug with the Metros logo on the front, holding pens and pencils, and a vintage, rusty bobblehead of some long-retired hockey player Ilya didn't recognize. The pens all had bite marks on their ends, and, for some reason, so did the bobblehead.
“I have an idea,” Shane suddenly spoke up, looking down at Ilya’s jaw, thumbing the stubble he hadn’t shaved that morning.
Ilya tore his attention away from the image of Shane, sitting there in that dip, journaling, chewing on the tips of his pens, probably wearing his glasses. He sighed dramatically. “What?”
Shane pressed a simple kiss to Ilya’s lips, preemptively cushioning his own words. “For the next two weeks, let's just be honest with each other… about what we actually think and… maybe how we really feel?”
Ilya sat for a beat, still fixed on Shane’s lips, slightly glistening with his own saliva.
He managed to meet Shane’s gaze and found himself searching his endlessly brown eyes with a sudden desperation. Maybe if he dug deep enough, fast enough, he would meet the version of Shane Hollander who had been hiding here this whole time, who only allowed himself to be surrounded by the items he cherished during their off-season in a place he created for that exact purpose. The version of Shane Hollander who picked out handmade ceramics and paintings that reminded him of an ice rink; the version of Shane Hollander he had never met before, but was suddenly welcomed to see, who kept his childhood Snoopy plush washed and safe here at his secret cottage two hours removed from the city.
Or had that version of Shane been here, been his, the whole time?
A question was clawing at his throat, begging him to ask what made Shane suddenly entrust someone to come here with him, to occupy a space so authentically, intentionally, and personally made by him, for him alone.
He pressed his lips to Shane’s again, screwing his eyes shut in a silent promise to Shane.
Even though he didn’t know why he had been let into Shane’s world, he would hold that responsibility tightly to his chest and keep it there forever.
“I will try,” he said, simply.
…
“You have mouthwash in your kitchen?”
Shane had already taken his swig and swished the wash around in his mouth, but was now staring at Ilya with cheeks puffed out like a squirrel, like he was caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Ilya was pretty sure the blue travel-sized bottle had been at the sink when he had first come in, but the slight absurdity of mouthwash, alone at the kitchen sink, with no toothbrush or toothpaste, was only hitting him now.
“Uh, yeah,” Shane said, bent over the counter to spit out the mouthwash. He turned on the sink but made sure to spray water around the basin to remove any remaining residue, as if a single leftover mouthwash molecule would corrode the entire appliance and ruin it.
“I– uh, wanted to be prepared for this trip.”
Prepared.
Ilya imagined Shane anxiously shopping for groceries, holding two types of cereal and trying to determine which one Ilya would like best. He pictured Shane walking past the toiletries aisle and spotting those travel-sized mouthwashes. Ilya knew that Shane had, as cool as he could manage, thrown that extra bottle of Listerine in his shopping cart. Shane pictured the countless ways he would take advantage of finally having privacy and time together to fuck him as much as he possibly could in every possible place of the house. Shane had prepared so that he could drop to his knees and suck Ilya’s cock in his kitchen without sacrificing his perfect minty-fresh breath.
Ilya fucking adored him. He couldn’t decide what he adored more: that Shane was fully anticipating sucking his dick so much, that he felt the need to stock up on mouthwash for dick-sucking purposes, or that he would think to prepare to suck his dick so much in the first place.
Shane seemed to have noticed Ilya’s mind racing, because he attempted to conceal his shy smile by pretending to itch his lip. It was not the slightest bit convincing. If they both hadn’t just come a few minutes before, Ilya would’ve kissed Shane stupid until he couldn’t breathe, would have pinned him down on his bed so he could see that gorgeous red flush in all of its glory. Instead, Ilya decided to walk away before he got hard again.
As Ilya took a step, he stepped on the sandals he had kicked off at the door just a little while before. Moreso, he noticed that his shoes were the only ones thrown onto the floor haphazardly. The rest of the shoes, all Shane’s, were arranged in a neat line on their own plastic mat, like they were soldiers at attention waiting for his next command.
This was Shane’s safe place, the only place he felt he could be himself, where his shoes would always be lined up exactly as he needed them to be.
Ilya picked up his sandals and put them at the end of the line, ensuring they were neat enough, then double checked that his shoes hadn’t left behind any dirt on the pristine wooden floor.
Ilya wouldn’t ask Shane why he trusted him to stay here. But he would never take it for granted. Shane would always have extra mouthwash in the kitchen, and he would always have his shoes lined up, just like he liked them.