Archive of Our Own

It’s Shane’s fault. Nobody had told him to order a beer when he’d arrived at the club with his team. He’s the one who goes up to the bartender and asks nicely for it, knowing he hadn’t earned the liberty through effort, but self-pity. A needling voice in his head tells him to order something stronger. It’s a mistake to engage; he’s usually so in control. But he’s tired, the air’s hot, and he needs a break. 

Next to the bar, warm floodlights scatter on his skin like the rain of late summer. Shane bounces his leg where he sits besides Ilya on a set of sofas, fighting the exhaustion in his back to keep his neck straight. He’d missed too many goals earlier at practice, been careless with his passes. He’d even tripped, at the end, as if that embarrassment had begged for a repeat.

Ilya reminds him that the Centaurs aren’t the Metros. No punishments for falling flat on the ice. But the remark stings more than it soothes; Shane’s head is overbooked enough as it is. With his cheapest and most vulnerable rooms turned out for viewing, he doesn’t need the memory of his former teammates to break in without payment. It’d send him into debt, he knows, that extra splash damage—but Shane doesn’t have the heart in him to stomp on Ilya’s attempt at comfort, so he nods and says nothing.

“You are sure you are okay?”  

“Yes,” Shane says, and nothing more. 

Ilya drops the subject. Shane lets his mind wander. He thinks about the way his mom had scolded Ilya, once, for betraying the team that’d drafted him first. Shane wonders if it counts as betrayal if he’s now leaving a team that calls him a fag and a slut every time they witness him breathing. In two weeks, he’ll be playing against Montreal for the second time; he’d break every bank in his body before he deigns to concede. He’d give up kindness. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to preserve his dignity. Who cares what his fans might think about that. 

Shane might’ve owned more wherewithal for mistakes if he’d sucked up to grace when Montreal had swept the floor with Ottawa last time. But no—he’d stormed up to his old teammates as they’d jeered cheerily at him. He’d sworn on his last breath to take them down in their next game. Tugging at his sleeves and gritting his teeth. He’d told them that if three Stanley cups and a decade of friendship wasn’t enough to pay for all the apologies he owed them, then he didn’t know what else he could drain from his body to earn an amendment. 

Looking back, he must’ve drugged himself on a hefty dose of naivety. Hockey players are hockey players first, victory second, clemency and faithless sentiment last. It’d been cute for Shane to think he could bring an exception. Wilson had laughed. Schneider had thought it wise to make a bet on Shane’s claim to victory, so he’d done.  

Shane should’ve walked away. But he’d thought that there was still a river left inside him to make evidence from; he’d never squander his ego for a brief illusion of comfort. He’d flirted all his life with the intimate relish of pain, so shouldn’t he have been immune when the rest of the team had joined in to heighten the stakes? Somehow, a ten dollar bill had multiplied into two; whoever would lose must fund the whole pool. A rookie made a joke about how if Shane was gay as he claimed he always was, he should kneel in front of the team and suck everyone’s dicks if he wound up losing. It was only fair, they said. Forgiveness was on the table if he could prove he hadn’t only gone rogue for Ilya. 

Shane didn’t know why he’d even listened to that. Maybe it was because Montreal said they’d apologize ten times if Shane ended up winning—the image had made him burn sick with want. He remembered sweating in his sticky Ottawa jersey, feeling like his heart had swapped seats with a child’s fist. J.J. had avoided his gaze. Hayden had tried to say something to him, but Shane’d blocked his voice out. He’d only felt rationality fall back into his body when Ilya had passed by their group and dragged him away from the nonsense. Schneider had ended the day with a black eye, Wilson with a bad leg, and Shane with a bruise in his throat from how hard Ilya had fucked an apology out of him for agreeing so rashly. But the damage had been done. 

Shane doesn’t tell anyone he’s sick. He doesn’t tell anyone there are spikes in his bed or bullet-breaths in his chest, or that there’s a scab on his leg that wouldn’t fucking heal because he can’t stop picking at it whenever he’s nervous. He doesn’t tell anyone because he is Shane Hollander, star hockey player, thrice MVP and the league’s best center. When he counts from one to twelve and then twelve down to one, he fools everyone into thinking he has his act together. 

He’s going to win. He has to. 

Presently, Wyatt yells something at the team. It snaps Shane out of his reverie, but he tunes the noise out. Thinking about winning is both an optimism and a risk—Shane doesn’t know when he’d be able to stamp his madness down. If he weren’t such a coward, he’d get on one of Ilya’s cigarettes and find out what it is about smoking that relieves people’s stress. Maybe he should just suck it up and roll with the program. He should get Ilya to give him a distraction, fold him like laundry and put a halt to his thoughts. Or maybe Shane just needs an early night. Who knows.

Shane takes a deep breath, and smiles. Laughs. Drinks a little. Chatter is bearable for about fifteen minutes, then he heads to the bathroom and bends over the sink. The world’s a heavy stone on his eyelids, his pupils red-rimmed in the mirror. Ilya doesn’t follow, a momentary respite. 

Here’s a secret. Shane tries to be divine before he’s even a person; he wants the inertia of diamond but he’s barely solid. Rose tells him he’s already enough—that he’s just crazy determined, crazy like cool, he hopes—but she says it like he’s breaking her heart. Shane doesn’t want to know why she bothers to worry, so he doesn’t ask, and she doesn’t press. Either way, he’s a fraudulent mime of perfection—the fact Ilya thinks he’s terrible at lying only proves he’s extraordinary at it. 

But that’s the problem. If Ilya were here to witness Shane’s stupidity, maybe he’d finally do something about it. 

Ilya’s so fucking nice to Shane about everything that it makes Shane’s head ache. Every night, Shane’s body gets home earlier than he does, but Ilya hugs it anyway and ruffles its hair, which brings nails to Shane’s conscience and partitions new chambers for shame. Ilya doesn’t kick him when he breaks down and crouches on the floor to embrace Ilya’s calves. He doesn’t get mad when Shane plays worse than usual, hunting down his lost skill like a child chasing kites.

It’s not fair. 

Shane goes back to his seat. He doesn’t eat any of his fries. He fails to dance with his team. When Ilya reaches for his hand and paints soft rings on his palm, Shane gets the idea to crawl under the table and sit between Ilya’s legs. He wants to bury his head into Ilya’s knees. He stays put—he isn’t that suicidal—and walks up to the bartender to order a second beer. Ilya drapes a proprietary arm over his waist when Shane downs the drink in one go. He’s there to make sure Shane doesn’t quit his career—or climb into strangers’ laps—if he ends up tipsy, and Shane’s thankful for it.

That sliver of comfort isn’t enough to stop his head from falling through his net of restraint. 

Ilya hasn’t fucked him in days. Or he has, and Shane doesn’t remember. Someone’s told him that he has bad object permanence. He hasn’t cared enough to Google what that means. All he knows is that he almost cries when they get home, because Ilya had told him, once they’re both through the door, that they aren’t going to fuck tonight either. It’s Shane’s fault again for telling Ilya that he needs it—he’d do anything at all to extinguish the white noise in his head. 

Ilya stares at him. “You are sure?” 

Shane nods. 

“Okay.” Ilya rolls up his sleeves. His posture is thunderous even as he leans against the leeward wall of their living room. “I need words.” 

“Yes, I—” Shane wrings his hands together. “Yes. Show me.” 

“Show you what?” 

Shane hesitates. “I don’t know. You—” Shane doesn’t know if Ilya wants him to read his mind. “You haven’t told me.” You haven’t told me what to do. 

“I don’t think I need to,“ Ilya says.

“Sorry,” says Shane, on instinct. His hands are birds on his wrists; his brow furrows. “I don’t, I don’t know—” 

Ilya cuts him off. His eyes dim. “You missed three goals today, yes?” 

Shane’s nose goes sour. He nods twice. “Yes.” 

“You cannot stop thinking about it?”

Shane shakes his head. 

“You think you will stop thinking about it if I do something about it?” 

“I—” Shane looks at his feet. “I know I will.”  

“What do you think I am going to do about it?”

Shane’s breath skips. He takes a step back. He imagines Ilya mocking him for sending the puck awry, berating him for his bad passes, his awful assists—he imagines Ilya slapping him to clear the fog in his head. 

He knows Ilya isn’t beneath that. He hasn’t heard Ilya sound this intimidating in weeks, but he’s always known Ilya owns a beauty in anger. When provoked, he darkens like wood in the rain, and dims every fire around him. There’s a reason why Shane’s been prey to his orbit for over ten years. 

Ilya continues, “You think I am going to be mad at you?” 

“No,” Shane rushes to say. “I only—” 

“But I told you earlier that you played fine today.” Ilya steps forward, taking Shane’s chin into his hand. His touch is hot, a shorted switch in a circuit. “Is it not rude, now, for you to ignore that?” 

It is rude.

“I’m sorry. I just—” Hysteria propels into Shane’s throat. Why should he be apologizing for refusing to internalize what they both know is a lie? His voice hardens into a snap. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t have said that. If I were anyone else, you would’ve said something mean for once instead of coddling me like a child.” 

He regrets the words the moment they tumble out of his mouth. He thinks of a way to explain, but Ilya interrupts.

“You are Shane Hollander,” he says, with a wry snort. “You think I can’t be mean to Shane Hollander?” 

Shane bites his lip. “Can’t you? I thought you—” 

“Yes, yes, you think,” says Ilya, dismissively. “And you would be right. I have never once treated you like anyone else. And so?”

Shane feels his eyes flash. “You’re too nice to me.” 

Ilya laughs. “You are the one I target the most in the rinks. You are the one I check the most into the boards.” His teeth are lazy, backlit with a glint of amusement. “You are Shane Hollander, the best of the best. Which means,” he tilts Shane’s chin to the side and examines his cheeks closely, “I should be disappointed when you aren’t scoring like you should, yes?” 

“You shouldn’t—” Shane blinks. “What?” 

“Three missed goals,” Ilya says slowly. He drags a thumb across Shane’s lower lip, pressing lightly on the tip of Shane’s tongue. “How do you want to pay for it?” 

Shane’s breath is helium-hot in his throat. It comes out high-pitched.

“Pay?” 

Ilya shrugs. “You want me to make you touch yourself until you come,” he tilts Shane’s head to one side, “or you want me to bring you to the edge three times before I fuck you?”

Shane’s knees go weak. “Ilya.” 

“I can even use you until you come three more times after the first,” Ilya continues. “You wouldn’t want to be anything but a fleshlight for my cock. You wouldn’t even be able to say a word.” 

“That doesn’t sound like—” 

“Like punishment?” Ilya says coolly. “No, I guess it does not. Well, I can tie you up. I can even slap you. I know you like that.” 

Shane goes very still. It’s been weeks since they’d last indulged in a game like this—they haven’t had the time, their schedules are so packed—but Shane can’t pretend it doesn’t make his head light to think of Ilya shoving his ego around. He burns neon-bright. He knows how much fear Ilya could inspire in a man when he puts his mind to it. He’s bone-deep aware of how excellently he can play victim if he shuts up and accepts his defeat. 

He whispers, “Please.”

Ilya looks unimpressed. He drops his hand. “What?” 

Shane’s heart plummets. “What?” 

“You didn’t even answer my question. Please to what?” 

“I don’t know,” Shane says. “You know better than I do.” 

“So you would let me do anything?” 

All of Shane’s vocabulary leaves him. He nods. 

Ilya whistles. “But you dislike surprises.” 

Shane does. “No, I like them.” 

Ilya pinches his ear. “Don’t lie.” 

“I’m not lying,” Shane says. “I don’t—I don’t hate them.” His voice trembles. Ilya pinches him harder, making him gasp. He bites down a second apology. “Maybe I do, but—I like hating it. Or, at least—when it’s you, I—“

“You like it when I make you guess, don’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

Ilya lets go. He folds his arms insouciantly across his chest, and leans back against the wall behind him. “Ask me.”  

Shane squeezes his eyes shut. “I—I want—” 

“Ask me like you mean it.” 

“Please,“ Shane tries again. He forces himself to meet Ilya’s stare. He feels a tremble nestle into his every breath. “Please—” He leans forward to speak into Ilya’s shoulder, “Please give me what you think I deserve.”

Doesn’t Ilya know he’s the only person who can? Abjection pools in Shane’s stomach and waits for Ilya to dangle the bait. The only way for Shane to feel right, at any moment in time, is to know his scales are balanced with correct weights of reward and transgression. If the flush on his cheeks isn’t evidence enough—

Ilya doesn’t reply. There’s a long pause, then he pushes Shane away, before finally saying, in a voice full of ice, “Strip.” 

Shane looks around. All of a sudden, the room is awfully vacant. Their penthouse is mounted high like an island in the sky, glistening lonesomely amid the canvas of stars as the city sprawls out beneath them. But tall windows surround them, and Shane’s had enough of being seen—being torn into and split open like a museum for public viewing—even if it’s all in his mind. “What?”

“I said strip,” Ilya repeats. 

“Now?” 

Ilya looks at him. Says nothing.

They both know the silence is answer enough. Shane shuffles to obey, tries to remain calm through the bullet-breathing heart in his chest. “Okay,” he says. He repeats the word to himself under his breath. Okay, okay. He doesn’t know how to feel about the fact he’s going to be the only one naked between them. He knows Ilya wouldn’t grant him the charity, but he tries. “Are you also going to…?” 

“Am I going to take off my very comfortable shirt?” Ilya laughs. “So cute, Hollander. Do you think you have earned that?” 

Shane tries not to wince. His stomach coils tight as he shrugs off his shirt. Frost nips at his skin. “I’m sorry.” 

Ilya flicks him a look. “Hurry up.” 

Shane flushes, then goes to undo his belt. His pants come off awkwardly given the shake of his hands; he folds them and sets them neatly down on the sofa. He feels pathetic for being hard already—Ilya hasn’t even touched him yet. He tries not to glance down at his cock.

Ilya doesn’t spare him the same mercy. He levers off the wall, encroaching, and looks his fill. Shane’s flush deepens. Ilya lifts a hand to twist one of Shane’s nipples. Wreaths of flame burst through his skin. Shane whimpers. 

“If all you wanted today is for me to be mean to you,” says Ilya, his breath hot on Shane’s skin, “you could have just asked earlier.” 

“I didn’t know,” Shane says.

Ilya scoffs. “Didn’t know you’d want it?” 

“Didn’t know you wanted to do this today.” 

Ilya snorts. “Knees under you.” 

When Shane doesn’t move, Ilya kicks Shane’s calves. 

Shane does as he’s told. The floor is icy and solid under him. He can feel Ilya’s gaze bear down on him like the shadow of a sundial, dead-set and inevitable. There’s no fanfare, no gentle kisses. 

“Hands behind your back,” Ilya says.

Shane crosses his hands behind him. 

Ilya grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks at it. “You know what I am going to do to you?” 

Shane shakes his head.

“Do you want to know?” 

Shane nods. 

“But why? Why should I let you know?” Ilya circles around him once like a vulture, straightens his shoulders with an iron-hand and corrects the angle of his head. “You said you wanted this. Are you scared?” 

“I’m not scared,” Shane shoots back. 

Ilya studies him for a long moment, judging. He pushes two fingers into Shane’s mouth, smiles meanly when Shane parts pliantly around him. “You are shaking.” 

Shane shakes his head. “’m—” 

He is scared, isn’t he? Ilya sees right through him. He knows Shane hates the uncertainty, like being thrown into sea, with no ledge to hold onto. He is an open sail, graceless and unvarnished as he fights to crane his neck up, to keep his spine from shattering along with the water. He doesn’t know whether Ilya’s going to fuck him, how much he is or isn’t going to make it hurt; he can’t even tell if Ilya’s planning on leaving him hanging, kneeling all alone in the living room like a child in detention.

“Why?” Ilya presses. Shane makes a muffled sound around his fingers, so he pulls them out. “Answer me. Do you think I am going to murder you?” 

“No,” Shane says. “I think you are going to make me cry.” 

Ilya laughs. “And that is a bad thing?” 

Shane nods, then shakes his head. Ilya always fucks him hardest when he cries. 

“Well, I say it’s not,” Ilya says, without mirth. “You cry so easily. Like a kid.” 

Shane shakes his head, frantic. “I’m not—”

The first slap arrives quickly. The pain blossoms over his cheek, a radial fracture in glass. It costs Shane all the concentration in his body not to let the threat of a whine slip.

“You are not what?” 

“Nothing,” Shane tries to say, voice wet. “I’m not—”

Ilya slaps him again. “Do not worry,” he says. “I’m not going to laugh at you when you cry.” 

“Liar,” Shane bites out, weak. This earns him three blows—one to his left cheek, one to his right, and one that lands right across his open mouth. He wobbles, falls back onto his heels. He shivers, feeling his erection throb. “You always find it funny.” 

“Do I?” Ilya kicks him. “Kneel properly.” 

Shane does. “Yes.” 

Ilya presses a chaste kiss to the top of Shane’s skull, threads his fingers through his hair. When he pulls back, there are pockets of sugar behind his vicious white smile. “Then you can only blame yourself for looking so pretty,” he murmurs. “It’s hard to look away.” 

Shane makes a soft sound. The praise weaves around him, a bright fragile net. He focuses on a painting behind Ilya’s head—a piece he’d commissioned, once, wanting to hold onto Ilya’s side profile even before they’d gotten together. He’d thought, back then, that he’d need a permanent reminder of his mistakes in case Ilya would ever want to discard him like a used toy. Shane had messaged the artist and paid for it through a burner account, pretending to be one of Ilya’s deranged fans; he’d then kept it hidden deep in his attic back in Montreal, but he should’ve known Ilya would find it when he’d made Shane play hide and seek in his apartment as some sick form of foreplay.

Shane still remembers shaking violently when Ilya had made him admit to touching himself next to it. Called him a puck bunny and a dirty slut. What he hadn’t expected was for Ilya to keep it for so many years and enshrine it in their new home like it’s a trophy to flaunt. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Ilya coos. “Are you crying? Already?” 

“I’m not—” Shane brings up a hand and tries to wipe his eyes. His fingers are damp.

Ilya’s gaze hardens. He tugs at Shane’s hair; a patchwork of pinprick pains burst over Shane’s scalp. “Did I say you could move your arms?” 

“I’m sorry,” Shane splutters. He shakes his head, tries to speak through his ragged breaths, even as Ilya slaps him twice more before maneuvering his arms back in place. He’s burning all over; his cock drips under him. “No, I’m—You’re just an asshole,” he manages. “You like hurting me.” 

“I would not call me that if I were you,” Ilya warns. 

“Sure you wouldn’t,” Shane mutters. “You love yourself too much.” 

Ilya peers at him. He curls his fingers around Shane’s tender cheek, feathery like a kiss. Then Ilya strikes him. Shane has always been cognizant of Ilya’s strength—feels the power that lights filaments in his skin when they deck it out on the ice. It’s intrinsic to him, not a mere product of his bloodthirst in a game: he lives it, breathes through it, the way he breathes air. He could say light, and then there would be. His fans would flock over with torches and Shane would be standing at the very top of the bleachers, lit up on fire.

“Not as much as you love this,” Ilya says. He twists both of Shane’s nipples, making him whine. “Isn’t there something you should be telling me?” 

Shane shakes his head. Then he blurts, foolishly, “Are you going to let me come after this, at least?” 

The question brings a predatory gleam to Ilya’s eyes. “That is not the kind of telling I meant.” 

Shane swallows. It’s futile to hope for an extension of mercy. But there’s nothing Shane can do about it—he has to make peace with that, somehow, the way he’s had to accept that some people’s glory is just inherent to them. The same way he knows he can’t choke out his madness. 

He glares at Ilya. “What?” 

“What?” Ilya mimics. He presses the pad of his thumb into Shane’s nipple again, pinches it, digs his nails into the flesh. Then he lifts his foot, digs his heel into Shane’s leaking cock. “I was hoping for a thanks, Shane. Looks like you want to beg for something else.” 

“Fuck off,” Shane snaps. “I swear to god, you’re a menace—” His voice tapers into a loud moan when Ilya presses down on his length with greater pressure. He feels his hips tip forward in disregard of control, rocking inelegantly against Ilya’s foot. “Fuck, what the fuck are you doing—”

“Think twice before insulting me next time,” Ilya says. “You want to get off?” 

“No, I just—” 

Ilya kicks him. The force of it makes Shane’s cock slap against his stomach. “The truth, Shane.” 

Shane’s breath dies. He feels his desperation like a boulder of lead in his throat, tied to his teeth by a fraying shoestring. The weight of it makes him tilt his head back. “Yes,” he grinds out, staring at the hooked angles of Ilya’s shoulders. “Yes, I want—I want to—”

“Want what?”  

“I want to come.”  

Ilya flicks a finger against his cheek. “You know that was not part of the agreement. You are the one who said you needed a penalty for not being good, no?” 

Shane tries not to flinch. “I know,” he whimpers. “I know, but, please.” 

“Hmm.” Ilya gives Shane a long, oblique stare. ”You can try to convince me. What would you do in order for me to say yes?” 

Shane blinks up at him. “Anything.” He surprises himself with how quickly the response leaps to his mouth. “Anything, Ilya, please.” 

Ilya’s eyes fall shut. He mutters something to himself in Russian, too fast for Shane to catch. Something breathless burns bright in his gaze, a wildfire at midnight. He sucks in an unusually long breath. 

“Go inside,” he commands. He flicks his head towards the hallway. “And get on the bed.“

Shane exhales. He obeys, and tries to ignore the clench of his gut when Ilya doesn’t immediately follow. 

Their bedroom is spacious, minimal in decor. Designing it had been a nightmare; Ilya had forbidden Shane from deferring to a professional even after they’d spent months arguing over the right wallpaper to use. That’s a cop-out, he’d said. It’s—what is word. Inauthentic. Shane had been convinced he’d just been trying to piss Shane off. They’re both men too proud for their own good, too used to claiming the last word in every contention. Even when they’d been off the ice, they’d burrowed tunnels through mud to chase each other’s tails, like they hadn’t already spent a decade trying not to pant from the shame of exhaustion.

In the end Shane had spat into Ilya’s face, told him he could try to complete the entire plan without help, and without turning their new home into a pigsty. Later he’d dragged the guilt like lotus roots from his chest and blurted a thick apology with his hands shaking like leaves. But Ilya had done a more glorious job than Shane could’ve hoped—aside from a few details he’d corrected and tweaked, he’d loved the result. As much as Shane must humble himself to admit, Ilya always knows precisely what he needs without asking.

The lights are adjustable. The bed’s simple. There’s a mountain of pillows for when Shane can’t sleep without hugging something in his hands, even though Ilya tends to serve that purpose himself. There’s a potted plant in the corner that smiles innocuously at him. A row of succulents on the windowsill that claim to be daring and self-sufficient and autonomous in their own right, thriving least when they’re overwatered and laden with care. Ilya says they’re funny. Pretending to be strong when they still need a hand to keep them away from the rain.

Shane spreads himself wide on the mattress and tries to make himself look as inviting as he can. He knows how he must appear, cheeks ruddy and bruised, salt prickling at the backs of his eyes. Open and agreeable, his lips bitten red. He’s earned catcalls on the streets for less than a flush, been called baby and sweetheart and cute Asian whore. And though the media no longer labels him the league’s hottest face after he’d come out, a different set of forums online have latched onto his innocent face and claimed, garlanded with various degrees of indecency, that it’d take a great deal of nobility to resist bending him over and having their way with him.  

But Ilya always waits. He resists until Shane’s crying and begging and all ready for him. Judging by the way he behaves on the ice, Shane would’ve been convinced Ilya’s allergic to patience—if not for how much restraint he knows it costs to wait, ruthlessly, until all of Shane’s walls have been smoked into ash. 

He wonders what’s making Ilya take his sweet time outside. Through the buzz in his ears, he thinks he can hear Ilya rummage through their tall cupboards. For what? Shane hates not knowing what to expect. Anxiety pinches on his skin like a handful of clothespegs, making his flesh bundle up and cinch in at his spine. He counts from one to twelve, and then twelve to one.

He graduates to enumerating the lights on the ceiling. It grounds him to think, meticulously, about how much each bulb’s supposed to dim at the right setting. How little of a shadow it makes his body cast when his mind’s reeling into basements. And it makes his chest ache to know exactly who’d fashioned them that way—who exactly had made sure he wouldn’t have to look at his skin on days he can’t bear the scars. 

He’s counting his way through his third round when the door cracks open, and Ilya walks in. His shirt’s now unbuttoned, showing off his pecs and his chiseled abs. Moonlight sifts through the window like a ghost, flirts fiercely with his hair and kisses his collarbones until Shane’s jealous of it. His breath rots in his mouth. 

Ilya climbs onto the bed, cages Shane in with his knees. That’s when Shane notices what he’s holding in his right hand. 

Shane’s mouth falls open. Frost lances through his spine. “What’s that for?” 

An airsoft pistol. Asphalt-black. Sleek, one of the smaller models, with a round muzzle and a trigger that looks like a tooth. Fitted with plastic bullets. Shane knows because he’s the one who’d bought it in delirium, once, needing something to excite his mind with when he nods off midday. Pinching his skin with pegs is inconvenient when he needs to be agile, and snapping rubber bands on his wrist has become so habitual it’s lacklustre. He’d spend hours online comparing barrel radii and length, imagining the calming way a pistol would sink like a pendant watch in his pockets and make a homey nest in his hand. He’d imagined Ilya holding it too, his fingers loosely eclipsing its grip; Shane had never been an aesthete, but he’d imagined it fitting naturally into Ilya’s flash-flood cigarettes and his exhibition of race cars. 

But Shane had hidden the gun the moment he’d received it in the mail. He hadn’t told anyone what he keeps locked in dark drawers. It’s a wonder how Ilya has managed to find it. 

Ilya smiles at him. He raises the gun to the side of Shane’s temple, then frowns, as if he hasn’t hit the right spot, and pulls back. He waves it before Shane’s face like a flag. “What do you think it is for?” 

“Is it,” Shane’s lip wobbles. “Is it loaded?” 

Ilya’s smile widens. “Does it matter?” He pries Shane’s mouth open with his fingers, aims the barrel into his throat. He rests a leisurely finger on the trigger and makes a motion of pulling it back—Shane shuts his eyes and braces for impact—only for Ilya to retract his hand yet again. “It is a toy, Shane. I am going to kill you with a toy?” 

Shane blinks mutely at him. He runs his lip between his teeth. “You said you wouldn’t murder me.” 

“I will not,” Ilya murmurs. He traces the line of Shane’s jaw. Cradles his chin, leans in to press his mouth against Shane’s helpless lips—his first offering that night. His hands form mountains on the tips of Shane’s shoulders, snaking low to map the planes of his chest. “You are still so scared of me. It’s cute.” 

Shane squirms under him. Another apology condenses on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he says, “I never stopped being scared.” 

Ilya hums appreciatively. “I am not going to shoot you.” He spins the gun around in his hand. “But I need something to do with this. What do you think would be good?” 

Shane twists his head to the side. “I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know?” Ilya says. “But you always have ideas.” He drums his fingers on the side of Shane’s head. “In here. I like them very much.” 

“I’m stupider than you think,” Shane tries. “I’m not always, like, bursting full of thoughts for you to use like they’re drugs—” 

Ilya sighs. Eyes narrowing, he turns to the side and shoots at the floor. The bullet clatters on wood with a deafening spark. Shane stares at it and wonders how it’d feel to slide that into his ribs, tucked into the cavity like a second heart. It’d fit right in. He’s always felt more mineral than flesh; searing together expectations, dissections, eviscerations, reorganizations. He doesn’t think there are cases of people-alloys in history—he’d be the first. 

“Look at you,” Ilya turns back to say. He wraps his free hand around the base of Shane’s cock and gives it a rough stroke. “Paying a fake bullet so much attention. You can keep lying; we can stay here forever. I can watch you fuck yourself until you tell me what you want.” 

“No, please.” Shane’s eyes throb. “I want—” When Ilya sneers at him, he snaps his mouth shut. “Fuck you.” 

“Fuck me?” Ilya laughs. He lifts up the gun. “You want me to gag you with this?” 

Shane freezes. He had thought of that. It’d hurt his jaw. He shakes his head again. 

“Pity,” Ilya says. He pumps the hand that’s on Shane’s erection again, making Shane buck up into him. “Well, at least I’d still get to hear your voice. But what else?” 

“I don’t know,” Shane repeats. “You could—you could hit me with it.” 

Ilya’s touch leaves him. “Don’t be boring, Hollander. We’ve done that already.” 

“You’re impossible,” Shane hisses. With Ilya’s hand gone, he feels inordinately bereft. “What do you want me to say? You just shot at the floor. God knows how many more shots are left in that thing. I—” 

“Still so stubborn,” Ilya says, then kisses him again. A hot, painful glide. He bites on Shane’s lip. There’s a moon behind his teeth, shining and ghastly. The wet gush of light pours into Shane’s mouth. “Will you tell me what you need?” 

“I need you to fuck off, that’s what,” Shane tries. He claws at Ilya’s shoulders, tries to tug at the sleeves of his shirt. He wishes he had a mouthguard to chew on right now. A hand. One of those gauzes that doctors shove into your mouth when you’re in pain. Anything at all. “Stop trying to drag things that don’t exist out of me.” 

“Oh, I will stop,” Ilya says. “I have a better idea.” He runs the mouth of the pistol down the length of Shane’s stomach—the cold sears through his skin—and pauses when he reaches the strip of hair just above Shane’s cock. The trigger clicks. “I could fuck you with this.” 

The world falls back. Like it’s been fitted with a silencer. Shane’s heart drops. “What?” 

“I think it is what you want, yes? Is that not why you look so nervous? Don’t worry.” Ilya taps the tip of the muzzle. “Will just be this part.” 

“No, I’m—I—” Shane shakes his head wildly. “I don’t think—” 

But he had been thinking of it, hadn’t he? He wouldn’t have been so focused on the size of the muzzle otherwise. He wouldn’t have been running a list of the objects he’d tried to hurt himself with in the past. Measuring, calculating, scrutinizing the diameter. He’d taken Ilya’s fist. It’s not like the gun’s any bigger. It’s that—

“You’re going to hurt me.” Shane fails to conceal the tremble in his voice. “It’s not a good idea. It’s going to—” 

“Is that not the point?” Ilya digs a nail into the tip of Shane’s cock, as if proving a point. “To be hurt? Is that not what you came for?” 

Shane shakes his head again. “Not like this. Not like—oh my god, you’re embarrassing me.”

Ilya presses two fingers to Shane’s entrance and spreads it experimentally. Then he replaces his fingers with the pistol. “Tell me.” 

Shane’s voice dies. He can see the reflection of himself in Ilya’s pupils, his eyes wide with fear. “Don’t, please—”

Ilya applies a little pressure. Hard, freezing metal sinks into Shane’s hole.  

It’s barely anything. Just the tip—the tiny bump that sticks out at the front of the gun. Nothing further than that. But it’s the implication that counts; the friction hurts. 

“Fuck!” Shane gasps, eyes snapping up. “I’m—I’m—” Blood soars to his cheeks, a hot current inside him. It’s pathetic how much his nerves like to misfire—and how Ilya knows the only way to render them docile. His knuckles are white as he fists at the sheets. “Ilya, I—”

Ilya doesn’t relent. He nudges the gun a little and wiggles it slightly, smiles when Shane moans. “I need an answer.” 

Shane’s head falls back into the pillows. “Stop,” he splutters. Whimpers tumble out of his lips. “Please don’t. You’re going to hurt me, please, Ilya, don’t, please—What are you—I didn’t ask—It’s so big. It’s too big. I’m not—” He can hardly hold his lonely forts together as is; how is he to endure a war? “I can’t take it.” 

“Really, Shane?” Ilya cuts in. “It cannot be the size you are worried about. Your dildo’s twice that. I’m worse. Are you—” 

It’s like he’s read Shane’s mind. “Shut up,” Shane aims for fierce, but his attempt falls flat. “You’re—There are bullets in that. How many? I’m—It’s going to hurt, it’s going to burn, and fuck, you’re scaring me.”

But he dreams of it. It’s his final secret. Shane’s thinking of the way the metal would feel deep in his flesh, the sensation needling into the darkest parts of him and unravelling like a warm piece of cloth, smothering his underskin and coating his veins. He’s been turning himself inside-out all his life, hoping and waiting for something to see his core for the lucid nightmare it is. To touch it where it lies raw and conscious in the depths of his body and not discard him for it. Would Ilya fire inside him? Shane inhales wonderingly. Even his breaths have turned into gunshots in his chest. 

Ilya’s empty hand returns to Shane’s cock. He twists it, then slaps it twice. His voice harbours no passion. “You said I could do anything I thought you deserved, didn’t you?” 

“Ilya—” 

Ilya slaps him again. 

“Please.” Ice spears through Shane’s head when he realizes he’s fucked himself down into the gun. His words slur together when they topple out. “Please. Please. I need it. I need you. Please.” 

“Need me to do what?” Ilya cranes his head to the side. “You are crying now,” he says casually. He brushes the thumb of his free hand across Shane’s undereye. Shane can see the spectral gleam in his eyes, the sodium flicker of it. He presses his thumb into Shane’s mouth—it tastes like tears. “For real. See?” 

“I need—” Shane sniffs. He is crying, isn’t he? Funny how Shane pretends his tears don’t exist unless they prove their score on his cheeks. But here he is. Perfect, uptight, bossy Shane Hollander’s crying in Ilya Rozanov’s bed like a wet messy slut, and he’s begging to have a weapon sheathed inside him. His sobs rack through his chest and Ilya holds him through it. “I want—Fuck me with the gun. Please.” He can feel his heart well up inside him, tear right through his mouth. “I want it. Please.” 

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya says. His brows are knitted together and his stare’s made of stone, but his face is flushed dark and his voice short of breath. He relieves Shane momentarily to reach over to the nightstand, returning with the familiar bottle of lube. He drizzles it over his hand and then over the pistol, the squelch slick and obscene. 

The first breach of his fingers is blazing hot. He doesn’t waste time splitting Shane’s body open around him; starting with two and then grazing his prostate with three. Shane whines desperately under him, arches his back and throws his head back. Ilya mauls his neck with hard kisses, tugs at his skin with his teeth and leaves lasting bruises. He tongues over Shane’s nipples until they’re red and aching. And then, when he deems Shane ready enough, he hooks Shane’s legs over his shoulders and aligns the tip of the pistol with Shane’s clenching hole. Shane’s breath hitches.

“Who else could know what you need when you make a mistake?” Ilya murmurs. “Who else knows exactly what you deserve?” 

“Nobody,” Shane whispers. The fact of it echoes through his head like a hymn. Tears trickle down his cheeks when Ilya presses the first inch of the pistol inside him. “Oh, god.” He’s thinking about the sound it had made when Ilya had fired it earlier again, that saccharine crack in the air. He clings onto Ilya’s arms. “Please.” 

“You are good for me only, yes? Don’t bend over for Montreal. You think they are going to see your mistakes and treat you this kindly?” 

“No.” The muzzle sinks into Shane, stretches him wide. “No, just you, please, please, I need—” It’s not enough. He wants more. He’s never kept so tight of a rein on his greed. “Deeper, please.” 

“Just me,” Ilya says, the word a gash on his tongue. “You’re lucky that I’m the one who saw you messing up earlier today.” 

“I am,” Shane mumbles. 

“How adorable,” Ilya says. “Not everyone is as generous as me, hm?” 

Shane blinks, dazed. “Generous,” he echoes.  

“Generous,” Ilya confirms. “Not everyone will know what kind of punishment gets you off the most.” His teeth are as blinding as sunlight on snow. Shane catches it like a prism and bursts into flame. “Not everyone will watch you beg to fucked with a pistol and really run ahead with the deal.”  

Shane nods desperately. Reality smolders; he can’t even tell Ilya that he’s gotten it backwards. He can pretend all he likes that he thinks Ilya’s crazy for coming up with the idea, but Shane knows he’d been the one who’d taken out that gun a few days ago, twirled it in his hand and compared its size with his fist as he’d sat cross-legged on the bed. He’d thought he’d been alone; Ilya had supposed to be off running errands.

“You aren’t—going to shoot me when that’s…” Shane turns to the wall. “You aren’t going to shoot me. Are you?” 

“When that’s what?” 

Shane blinks rapidly. Looks anywhere but Ilya’s eyes. 

“When you fuck me with it.” 

Ilya snorts. “You have so little faith in me, Shane. It’s almost hot.” 

Shane shivers. The accusation sways, a pendulum tied to his throat. For a second, he wants to protest. But he hears the engine’s whir in himself and smells its grime and gasoline, feels the heat in his breath like ignition keys in the air—there’s so much that he wants.

He wants to be free. He wants to be lawless, and he wants to have faith; he wants to be blemished and yet unimpeachable for his faults. He wants to be blameless but he isn’t and he wants to throw himself into knives and come out unscathed but he can’t. He wants a danger that wouldn’t punish him for being brave. He wants to trust Ilya the way he wants to trust himself to make that choice—but he doesn’t. 

Shane had survived as a stranger to desire before all of this. He’d been larger than flesh, larger than needs. He’d deprived his whole life of a body but then Ilya had stormed in, and now all his fever craves is a skin to sweat through. 

“I do trust you,” he says, brokenly. 

“Still so bad at lying,” Ilya says. The gun’s all the way in now. He keeps his first finger on the trigger when he pistons it into Shane’s prostate. “You really think I am going to fire?” 

Shane deflects. “How many bullets are left inside that?” 

“That’s the third time you’ve mentioned the bullets,” Ilya pulls the gun out and slams it back in. It stings beautifully. “You really want to know, don’t you? Why?” 

“I—” Shane tries to gather some of his wit. “It’s a bit hard not to care when I might end up with a giant wound in my ass.” 

“Hmm.” Ilya shoves the gun into Shane’s hole ruthlessly, then starts fucking him in earnest. “I don’t think that’s why you care.” 

“Wh—What?” 

“I think the thought of me shooting you bothers you because you are turned on by it.” 

Shane’s cheeks burn hot. He wails. “I am not.” 

“But you are.” Ilya presses a finger into Shane along with the pistol and stretches him further. “I know it. Always such a good whore for me.” 

“I’m not—” 

“What is it that gets you? The idea of not knowing what I want to do with you, or the knowledge that you’ve walked into this situation yourself?” 

“I’m not—” Shane shudders. “I’m not—that.” He whines, feeling more pre-come trickle out of his cock. “Stop—stop staring at me!” His pride’s all filthy; it brings an earnest sob to his mouth. But Ilya likes to watch. He breathes into Shane’s expressions like air and lights cigarettes up with his flush. “I don’t—want—” 

“Why not?” Ilya tilts his head. “Whore,” he repeats, and smiles when Shane’s cock jumps. “I said don’t lie. Answer the question.” 

“Both,” Shane pleads, voice hollow. “Please, both. Can you—”  

“No.” Ilya doesn’t grant him the honour of a finished sentence. “You take what you are given or nothing at all.” 

Shane doesn’t answer. He whimpers and he cries, language dead in his mouth. The sound of slick metal on skin, the burn and the friction, reverberates through the room. Ilya leans in to kiss him, licks into his mouth, wanders down his chest and sinks his teeth into skin, pinches his thighs, slaps his cock, makes him reiterate his sincerity twice. But his defeat’s easier to accept than he’d feared. Every thrust of the gun turns wires inside him, rearranges his pleasure. Every touch whittles down on his worry until his head’s a quiet, sunless hearth inside him. 

When Shane empties his mouth, he forgets to consult guilt. He pleads and he begs when he nears the edge twice, but every time he does Ilya only pulls back. Tortures him kindly with teeth on his nipples and abandons the weeping line of Shane’s cock. It’s intolerable. He keeps the crest of heat in Shane’s body strained at the peak without offering it a sink into which it could fall.

Finally, finally, when Shane thinks he can’t hold on anymore, Ilya pulls out the pistol and tosses it to the side before undressing himself. He drags Shane down from where his skull had hiked up into the headboard and plants his palms on his hips. Shane stares at Ilya’s cock, the swollen and monstrous curve of it, eyes gaping wide. Heat froths to his skin and carves a mark in his belly. He reaches up and touches Ilya’s brow with gentle, faithless fingers. Sweeps away his sticky fringe and thumbs over the skin above his abandoned eyes. 

Ilya folds Shane in half and presses their bodies flush. Shane’s breath splinters. He doesn’t want to be hopeful; he knows where that leads him. Still, he asks, “Are you going to fuck me?”

Ilya shudders. He rocks forward, cock dragging over Shane’s stomach in a simulated thrust. A groan rips through his mouth, low. “Tell me why you kept the gun outside.” He tightens his grip. “In living room. It was in a box with a padlock. But the key was on top.” 

Shane’s mouth falls open. “I—” 

“Shane.” 

“I didn’t mind if you found it,” Shane whispers. It feels glorious to say. His head’s light, like he’s stripped of a heavy rock and cast it into sea. “It’s—I’ve—I’ve thought of it.” He smiles, like it’s simple. He takes Ilya’s hand and guides it to the juncture between their hips; the hottest, pulsing core of his body. “You making me take it even when I begged and said no.” His eyes flutter shut, and then, “You can do anything you want to me. Please.” 

Ilya doesn’t wait for the drop of that sentence to align their bodies together. He kisses Shane’s collarbones, his clavicles, the tenderest spot of his neck. He utters a string of swears in Russian, voice urgent and rough, and finishes in English, “You drive me crazy.” 

Shane whimpers. Ilya fucks into him, fast and unbridled. His hands are a bright mark on Shane’s throat. Shane cries out when their hips slam together and pours his want into Ilya’s mouth: it hurts, hurts splendorously, and Shane tells Ilya that; he tells Ilya everything. He impoverishes his speech, drains himself of all rational sound. Ilya’s crucifix dangles in front of Shane’s mouth and Shane wants to take it into his teeth, so for a moment, he does. 

Ilya whispers nonsense into his ear. Every word grows a fractal in his spine. What would the public think if they saw Shane Hollander like this? How will they know that the best player in the world wants to be taken apart by one and one man only, a man second to him in every way but desire? Shane has no coherent answer. He says yes and thank you and please. His throat is hoarse from weeping. 

“‘m going to come,” he manages, when he can feel his climax creeping on him, sparking to a peak. Ilya fucks him harder, grabs his hips and rams into him at a punishing rhythm. He looks lost in his head. “I’m going—”

“Yes.” Ilya kisses him. “For me,” he grits out, and Shane is done for. 

He’s been many things in his life. He’s been Hollander, spoken with snark and a little bit awe. He’s been Shane, a salacious mistake in a cold house in Boston and the prequel to a long three months apart. And then he’s been Shane, whispered as reverence into his neck, his eyes, the aching and rippling crook of his knee. Apparently, he’s also now Rozanov’s whore and his slut, his toy and his pretty boy. The names sink into him, safe and enduring. He holds them as close to his skin as a bruise. He doesn’t need much more encouragement to be at peace with his fear—he digs his nails into Ilya’s back, screws his eyes shut, and then, he tips over the edge. 

When Shane comes back to himself, the world is quiet. Ilya flops down beside him, wrung out and panting. 

“Shane Hollander, you are guilty of murder,” he says dramatically. “You have killed me.”

Shane stares at him. “You’re the one who—” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Ilya dismisses him. “But I am dead. Is death by listening to someone beg you for hours a thing? It must be. If you were not so desperate—” 

“You’re impossible!” 

Ilya says nothing. He smiles, then wipes the discarded gun on their sheets. Shane scrunches his nose. “Gross.” 

Ilya pokes his forehead. “This was inside you.” 

Shane flushes. “And that’s not my fault,” he says, petulantly. “Were there bullets inside?” 

Ilya looks at him like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “That’s the fourth time you’ve asked, Shane.” 

Shane huffs. “I deserve to know.” 

Ilya smiles, wide and genuine. “There weren’t.” Tenderly, he tucks a strand of hair behind the shell of Shane’s ear. “The one I fired at the floor was the last one.”