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⋆☀︎｡ Daylight ⋆☀︎｡
Shane takes his time to make the perfect sandwiches. All of the necessary ingredients displayed in front of him on the kitchen counter.
But his eyes couldn’t stop flickering to the dock visibly from where he was standing.
Mayo.
Ilya’s feet dangling right above the water, stretching them so that his toes could shyly come in contact with the lake.
Bacon.
Head and shoulders lowered, uninhibited. The usual stiffness present on Ilya’s taut demeanor, missing in action.
Cottage’s natural effect. He had first hand experience with it.
Lettuce.
A lazy drag of the cigarette between his fingers instead of the quick, stressed puffs the man generally took. The wood ashtray he bought for him on the side where he flicked the damned thing, but Shane was happy that he was at least using it. The smoke was enough pollution.
If they were going to be honest with each other, just as he intended to, he knew Ilya would need it. No point in ignoring the — accurate — suspicion that there would be several packs in his suitcase.
Tomato.
Once they were done and arranged on a tray, he judges it is a pretty neat and put together pile, considering how distracted he had been in between layers.
Shane released a final encouraging exhale, fist clenched on both handles. Lungs and heart heavy on his chest, weakly fighting against the intrusive feeling threatening to nest on his bones: how natural all of this felt in just a matter of hours.
Embracing the, although still wary, feeling of how much he wanted for this to be their new normalcy, a healthier version of their usual routine. Struck by how maybe, maybe he could lower the methodical wall he had built so many years ago, necessarily becoming accustomed to not expect anything beyond what was granted by Ilya.
Trying, secretly and deep within him, to just wait until this thing would go away.
At least for two weeks, he, sigh, reminded himself. Fooling his thoughts that it could be enough. Had to be enough. It was enough.
Ilya lifted his head at the sound of the floor-to-ceiling window sliding, welcoming him with a small smile. Just as loose as his movements have been since their orgasm on the couch.
Shane placed the tray in between them before mirroring Ilya’s position, grabbing a sandwich and silently offering it to him, placing it on the man’s open hand. Then taking another one for himself.
The silence dragged until they were finished.
“You should try Salo. Russian bacon.” Ilya suggested, head facing the lake.
He nodded enthusiastically while swallowing the last bite, mentally taking note of it.
“Next time.” It slipped out of his lips, as natural as the atmosphere felt.
He turned his head to his right, not entirely, but just in time to catch Ilya's smile before watching him jump into the lake.
˚⋆˚࿔˚⋆˚Firelight ˚⋆˚࿔˚⋆˚
Shane asked for honesty, and honesty he received.
Carefully inquiring about Ilya’s family had felt like what he had to do after their lunch earlier that day. Maybe even owed to him, to reciprocate the questioning, especially after feeling so guilty from the defensiveness in his answers — and given that the request of transparency had come from him.
He truly wanted to know Ilya more, that wasn’t surprising; he had been wanting it for some time now. To know more than the little grasps he had throughout all these years. To know more than the surface of his skin, and his bad habits.
He honestly hadn’t known how to react, that part was genuine too. He would be lying if he said he had experience or close friends — Rose, Hayden and some work-related relationships on a very surface level — carrying that kind of burden or trauma.
He liked to believe he tried his best.
With Ilya’s face laid on his lap, he stared at the darkness of the trees surrounding them, intertwining their fingers. Wishing that Ilya had had a different story, a different path.
Backtracking for a second and wondering if, perhaps, they wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for it.
Too many thoughts.
“Let’s go inside.” Ilya proposed, tiredly.
He stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror a while later, watching himself brush his teeth, mind looping back to the silence that had followed Ilya’s confession.
As he looked at himself, he knew he should do something. He just didn’t know what.
The sluggish steps approaching the room took him out of his trance. He turned his head to the door, watching Ilya walk in and taking the place at his side, starting to copy.
Shane surveyed him, analyzing any change in his silent stance. Returning to the same thought: what he could do.
Ilya answered it for him.
Once their faces were washed, he slowly walked to the space behind Shane and wrapped his arms around his stomach, gently bringing him closer. Skin on skin, heat radiating from Ilya’s chest to his back, a reminiscence of the bonfire. He hid his face on his neck, barely brushing his lips against it.
It was nothing more but the need for closeness, Shane could tell. One that they could irrevocably feel starting to surface.
A new portrait stared back at them.
Ilya placed his chin on his shoulder and they locked eyes on the mirror, absorbing what it reflected back.
Two nervous men, finally giving in.
˗ˏˋ ✸ ˎˊ˗ Sunshine ˗ˏˋ ✸ ˎˊ˗
“Sun looks great on you.”
Shane was face down on the bed; sprawled, naked and spent. Eyelids closed and about to start drooling on the pillow. Ilya took advantage of it, idly dragging his fingertips across his exposed back. Ghostly caresses just above his skin that went back and forth, side to side, making him squirm in tandem at the tickling sensation.
“Mmmmhh.” He groaned.
“I can properly admire these lovely freckles,” added Ilya in a low timbre, his accent stronger. Shane shuddered aggressively, feeling the trail of goosebumps blooming below Ilya’s fingers.
“Ok, enough.” He slurred and rose, placing his shoulders on the mattress. Movements lethargic, brain all mushy.
“You look just like the sky at night, pretty boy.”
“Fuck off.” Although his breath shook and his belly swooped.
⊹ ࣪ ﹏﹏☼﹏﹏⊹ Sunset ⊹ ࣪ ﹏﹏☼﹏﹏⊹
The cottage shone bright and alive under the last hour of sun in Ontario. The air inside basking under a soft crimson coat, accentuating their shared scent present on every debauched surface. Either by kisses, clenched fists and tight grips, or the imprint of Shane’s skin.
Shane pondered between airing the cottage, or to keep relishing on this unknown blend.
In the end, he stood still right outside the door, failing to close it back. His previous thoughts long forgotten, astonished by the view.
Ilya’s back was facing the house, sitting on the rock that he had chosen as his smoking place of preference. Surrounded by an intense orange halo, the sun deciding to grant him its last rays before disappearing.
I love you so much, he thought for the umpteenth time.
Freely this time, his tongue familiar with the words now.
Carrying a folded blanket and the need to hug him, he hesitated in approaching the man like he initially planned.
But Ilya decided at that moment to move his head and flick his cigarette on the ashtray, catching him from the corner of his eyes in doing so. He turned half of his body around, a serendipitous exhibition of his toned naked back, and patted the small space left on the rock beside him, inviting him with a lazy smile. His curls fell over his face at the tilt, almost covering those inviting eyes, but he got rid of them with a toss.
Shane admired him for a few more seconds, and then jumped into the path leading towards the man awaiting for him.
“Shane Hollander,” Ilya greeted, slowly enunciating each word.
“Ilya Rozanov,” he replied back.
A brief pause.
“Are you coming?” Ilya asked with a raised brow before facing the lake again. He then said, followed by a drag of his cigarette which concealed his smile. “Or are you tired of coming?”
Shane tsked with a roll of his eyes, and put his sore legs to work.
They stayed until the sun said goodbye, chatting and laughing about everything and nothing under the warm cocoon they were wrapped in.
Because it didn’t matter who made the most goals during the upcoming season, what brands approached them, who was a better kisser, or what they were going to have for dinner in a couple of minutes.
Not when Ilya’s kept grabbing the side of his face, running his thumb over his freckles, their eyes soaking up the sight of one another beneath the hues shading the day’s end.
Not when Ilya’s lips kept pressing against his.
𓂃⋆ ⁺₊ ☼ ₊⁺ ⋆𓂃 Sunrise𓂃⋆ ⁺₊ ☼ ₊⁺ ⋆𓂃
The sweat only made the slide of their bodies smoother, flustered skin glistening below the sunrays lighting the whole bedroom, all the way down to their intertwined legs.
One.
Shane’s back was glued to Ilya’s torso, when suddenly he stopped feeling the breaths on his neck.
Ilya’s thrusts momentarily faltered as he grabbed Shane’s left arm, returning to the previous pace once he had it placed on his curls, to then drag his nose across his now uncovered armpit, looking at him straight in the eyes. A delicious shade of pink covering his whole face.
“Ilya,” was his shriek in response. The same one that escaped from his mouth every time he saw Rozanov engulf himself in his smell.
Shane’s thighs couldn’t stop quivering at the relentless stimulation on his prostate. The curvature of Ilya’s dick hitting right in that spot with each shove.
This might be his new favourite position.
Endless waves of pleasure spread across the entirety of his crotch, moans ripped out from deep within him without permission. The Russian nodded at each one of it, with wild, wide opened eyes. Jaw slack, cherishing every noise punched out of him.
Ilya’s demand to lock their eyes as his groin slapped against the red, sensitive skin of his butt had every erogenous part of Shane’s body on edge. Overstimulated by those calloused hands playing him like a cello.
It drove Shane mad, the ease with which Ilya manhandled him.
He had watched him spat on his left hand, the one that had been spreading his legs, and shifted the grip by placing Shane’s thigh above his forearm. Sneaking his wet hand to his groin, and starting to delicately massage his balls.
But he wanted more. He needed more. Always more.
“Touch my cock, please. I-” he was interrupted by his own cries at the new incessant rhythm Ilya had switched to, now in tempo with the jerk of his hand around his member. He was leaking so badly that his dick was almost sliding on its own inside Ilya’s clutch, facilitating the much desired stimulus.
“C’mon. Give it to me. Yeah, yeah,” Ilya frantically encouraged, his crazy eyes still absorbing him. He pushed Shane’s body back with the hand around his cock, knowing he would start involuntarily arching. Not allowing even an inch of space in between them.
To be known.
“I fucking love you, Shane Hollander.” Were the last breathless words Shane heard slurred around his nipple.
And the world vanished behind his eyelids.
Falling deep into the realm of this newfound ecstasis at every rope of cum painting Ilya’s hand, the sheets, and his stomach.
His only tether to earth was his iron grip on the hand Ilya had managed to sneak below his head, who lunged forward to trap his mouth into a messy kiss, never sealed from their frantic gasps.
The next morning, when Ilya tried to tower him, Shane pushed him back into the bed.
“No, no, no.” His breath was already laboured, arousal from their prior foreplay mixed with the embarrassment of what he was about to tell out loud. Asking for sexual favors still wasn't his thing.
“Fuck me like yesterday.” He begged either way, clenching around nothing at the memory of Ilya’s cock buried in him. “Please.”
Ilya’s devilish smile had been worth it.
⭒˚.⋆ ࣪⏾.⋆˚.⋆Moonlight⭒˚.⋆ ࣪⏾.⋆˚.⋆
Shane's last glass had been an hour ago, having given up on the Vodka since Ilya forbade him from tainting his sacred scowl-inducing beverage with juice.
Not even after riding his brain off as a payoff of the blowie.
“Flavoured vodka exists for a reason,” He shouted while watching Ilya walk inside.
“Stupid Americans.” Ilya yelled his default response, and closed the door.
The Russian had been right. Alcohol was what he needed after the complete revelation of his secrets.
The times Shane allowed himself to reach this point of tipsiness had been mostly a consequence from the imperative need to make things right. Of trying to fit in a world he never felt part of.
Enhanced by the high level of alcohol in his blood, the soft breeze brushing against his skin felt like an echo of the touches his face had been receiving, rather than just an act of nature.
Today was different.
As he took in the fresh clean air of Ontario’s night and the moist grass below his hands, his mind inevitably went back to the man inside the house.
In hindsight, Ilya had always been there. Would always end up associated with his name. An imminent opponent if he made it big, an inevitable clash after they met.
It was a given. The conversations about their rivalry were pushed into the media even before they arrived at the MHL.
But it had been in secluded spaces — whether be his mind or hotel hallways and elevators — where he faced the real truth of their relatedness. From realizing he was very gay to realizing he was very gay and very in love with Ilya.
That had been his.
Perhaps Ilya hadn’t been at every single stage of this journey. Distance forever present, emotionally and literally. Shane’s need to isolate and gather his thoughts moments after he reached his own room, apartment, or whatever option they had available during that encounter played a role too.
It had been a lot. It was still a lot. Hiding felt as innate as his puck possession at this point. Something perfected with time.
Now there was someone waiting for him a few steps away instead of a gap. And only ten minutes away, the familiar embrace of his parents without an invisible barrier.
At last.
“Come to bed, Hollander.” Ilya grumbled once he went to their room, and plumbed dramatically into the mattress, adding with exasperation as if it were a sacrifice. “Do I need to fuck you one more time to turn that brain off?”
He answered with a drunk smile.
Ilya was there.
He wouldn’t have it otherwise.
⋆ ࿔˚⊹₊⁺ ⋆˚.˗ˏˋ Shining ˎˊ˗ ⋆ ࿔˚⊹ ࣪ ₊⁺ ⋆
Back then, walking towards the frame of the person who, so far, seemed like a proper equal inside the rink, Shane had felt respect — borderline admiration. Naively wanting to stay away from the corny imposed narrative by taking that first useless step.
Walking away from that underwhelming exchange had just been a blueprint of their dynamic for the following years.
Anecdotic even, these days.
A taste of the many times he was going to be left confused by the Russian.
And unexpectedly soon, curiosity killed Montreal's captain, transforming all these already convoluted feelings into something unspeakable.
Shane Hollander was not one to back down from a challenge.
But most often than not, he felt like he had given Rozanov the upper-hand.
Emotionally defeated.
Reduced to tiptoeing around whatever their thing was called. Apprehensive of disclosing the magnetic attraction he had started to develop. And after everything was cleaned and done, silently walking towards the door or watching Ilya go, in fear of saying the wrong thing and bursting that bubble that was already fragile enough.
He had felt caged, something trapped inside his throat that couldn’t come out. Forced to stay inside. Cornered not only by Ilya’s actions and attitude, but by longed fortuitous hands. By the world that he used to be in control of, always known as his — the people standing around the ring, his team, his parents.
Never on the ice though. Where they were meant to be.
The initial excitement behind that first meeting slowly crawled back into him once he accepted how much of an innate asshole Ilya was. His gloved fingers tightly clenched around his stick from the sheer adrenaline of their face-offs. Learning to see through the bullshiting Ilya spat, trying instead to find what those eyes were telling.
He had felt proud, against his will, while watching Ilya’s smile from the telly. Clapping from his table at the galas, accompanied by the thrill of what awaited them back at their hidden place of choice that night.
And once he finally experienced the warmth of Ilya’s love, he didn’t want to go back to the bad moments. To the loneliness growing in his chest, the dread of enabling his heart being squashed by Ilya’s hand.
In a matter of two weeks, Ilya had found a crack, and slowly dismantled the wall he knew he was somewhat responsible for. Only widening the small crevice he had perceived with held back confessions, and the opportunity of showing how a together was possible after all.
Shane's chest was unlocking a new something that he was able to name later.
It wasn’t followed by a controlled explosion, nor the ruminations that usually haunted him about most things Ilya related. But rather as a peaceful swash that spread all the way down to his extremities, cleansing the hardened crusts on his body from old wounds.
Light and warm, just like the cottage after a full day of intense sunshine. Unfurling through his whole chest and making his arms tingle from the need to have Ilya closer, powerless underneath the glimpse of indulgence at hands reach.
Hugging him tightly without restraint.
Freeing and liberating like the first steps inside the building every summer, the wood cracking under his shoes, welcoming him home.
Is this what peace feels like? Shane wondered, his temples hurting from all his smiling in the last few hours, still big and wide on his face from tenderly watching Ilya be.
Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe they wouldn’t know that word for a long while, not after finding out if their plan actually worked.
It felt really close to it still. Not only a wish in his mind or in the air between them, in shared smiles and silent understanding, but visibly tangible all around him on that night.
In their intertwined hands, after the successful final dinner with his parents before their departure. In the dead serious reassurance both David and June offered, stressing that they had their backs, no matter what.
On the pause he had to take as he tucked a fourth chair in under the table.
Shane could have never imagined he had this overwhelming range of emotions in him. Born out of spectating them both become what they were today.
Heated rivals.
A pain in each other’s ass.
A couple.
He would cherish it.
Enjoy his stay at Ilya’s heart. Revel in the hands enveloping his.
Maybe they deserved it.