Chapter Text
There is a banging, and a quick shout that wakes him. Ilya breathes to life, a slow stretch rolling through his tired muscles.
Why the fuck am I so worn out?
Oh. Hollander came over last night, he remembers. Sucked my soul out through my dick after I fucked him til he came twice.
He smiles into the dim room. Shane hums to his right, curved against his whole front.
Oops. Well. Shit.
"Hollander," Ilya purrs, slapping his side. Shane hums and rolls against him. "Shane. Wake up. You stayed the whole night."
He feels Shane stiffen against him seconds before he bolts upright.
"Oh, fuck!"
Ilya grabs his shoulder and drags him back down, rolling on top of Shane. "Get off me, asshole, I have to go!" Shane hisses, shoving at Ilya's dead weight.
"No. No morning practice, the game isnt til two. Calm down," he says sleepily, refusing to move.
Shane slowly unclenches his whole body beneath him.
"I'm supposed to be clean across town, Rozanov."
"Duh," he says, meaning da and not quite nailing it, the way his mouth is seeking warm skin. He kisses the curve of a well-built throat under his nose and exhales into Shane's hairline.
"So I cant fucking linger til noon. Who was knocking?"
"Probably Marly, wanting breakfast."
As if on cue, there is another, louder knock.
"Roz! You up?"
Ilya sighs and picks his head up from the pillows, feeling Shane tense again. "Go in the bathroom. Turn on the shower. Don't lock the door," he says, and presses up to search for his boxers.
Shane darts into the bathroom and does what he's told, leaving Ilya to deal with the mess of their clothes, and his teammate.
He cant bring himself to get in the shower, though. His whole body is on fire with nerves. He listens, silent and alight as Ilya calmly answers the door. Shane can picture him, the image of ease and cocksure, half hard and annoyed to have his lazy morning with whoever he pulled interrupted.
"What you want, Marly? I'm busy."
Shane hears Marlow scoff and clenches his teeth. They are right outside the bathroom door, in the entrance to the room. He's scared to even breathe.
"Everyone's downstairs eating, sent me to get the stragglers. I figured you were with someone, y'fuckin' beauty. Come eat when you're done with her, yeah?"
"Maybe," Ilya says. Shane smirks despite himself at the tone. Ilya isnt going to go eat, certainly not anytime soon. "I dont know if I'll be done before checkout time." Shane hears the wood of the door creak, and imagines Ilya is leaning on it, acting far more casual than he probably is.
Marlow laughs aloud. He tempers his voice, but because Shane isnt in the shower he can hear it. "Is Jane here?" He laughs again, and Shane's blood runs cold.
"You and your Montreal girl, Roz. I know, you're a wreck for her. Have been for years. Bring that energy to the game, yeah? Let's send Hollander home crying."
The door closes. Shane feels like he's been punched in the chest. What the fuck.
He strips off his boxers and jumps under the spray, suddenly not wanting Ilya to catch him eavesdropping.
Outside the door, Ilya is panicking a bit. He runs his fingers through his hair and straightens his necklace.
Fuck.
Why the fuck did Marlow have to run his goddamn mouth? Isn't it bad enough that Shane actually stayed, last night?!
He takes a steadying breath, flicks the stress away by shaking his arms out. Shane probably heard all of that. He braces himself, for what, he can hardly imagine. Anger, relief…
God I hope it's relief. Ilya is so tired of pretending to hate him.
Ilya opens the door, and steps into the steamy bathroom. Shane is under the spray, washing his hair. He jumps and looks back, relaxing when their eyes meet.
"Everything okay?" He asks. Ilya nods and pushes his shorts off. He hangs a piss and tries to order his thoughts.
"They like to tease me about whoever I text so much, especially when we play you. Marly is the worst."
Shane pauses, then takes the offering. "Yeah. Hayden ribs me about Boston Lily like, all the time. Shit, I probably have a dozen texts asking where I am," he realizes, thunking his head into the tiles.
Ilya steps into the shower stall behind him, running a calming hand up Shane's back to his nape, then down over his flank, and around, back up his front, finally pulling him backward into his chest.
"It will be fine. I am going to suck you, and put my fingers inside. And then fuck you against this wall until you lose yourself all over it. And then while you get dressed, I will have room service deliver two plates of food."
Shane starts to interrupt him and Ilya bites his shoulder. "Hush. I will get your gross stuff. And actual food for me, so I have the energy to kick your ass after I fuck it."
He grins against the skin in his teeth when Shane laughs. The hand not holding Shane to him trails down, tickling the furrow of hip, the crease of thigh. He finally wraps a hand around the root of him, squeezing. He kneels, trying to find an angle in the spray so he doesnt drown, and licks over Shane's weeping tip.
"And then after we have eaten, I will sneak you down the stairs into a cab, and you will go back to your apartment that I am not allowed at. Even though I give you so many sweet kisses, and fuck you so good," he presses a bite into Shane's thigh as he pulls Shane's knee over his shoulder. He gives him another love bite when that chirp earns a chuckle. "And I will crush you on the ice, later."
By the end, Shane is fully laughing into the steam swirling aroudn them. Ilya smiles against his thigh again, pressing kisses to the indents from his teeth. "You're such a dick. We're going to demolish you."
"Hmm. You can try. I will leave you with weak knees." He slides the hand on Shane's hips forward and between his legs, running his fingers down his crack and over his hole, through the water sluicing down his spine. "Turn," he prompts, and Shane does, leaning forward into the wall.
"Weak-kneed," Shane corrects, his breath catching in his chest. "Leave me- hah… weak-kneed."
"Yes," Ilya says, pressing his fingertip inside. "That."
"The lube is on the bed," Shane sighs, a moment later.
"Fuck."
"Well, not without that," he chuckles.
Ilya stands and sucks a kiss over the side of Shane's neck, murmuring, "Dont move," as he rushes out to retrieve it. He returns to find Shane hasn't moved a muscle, both forearms and his forehead still leaning against the tiles under the spray, his feet wider than his shoulders and hips angled up. His obedience always sets Ilya's entire nervous system on fire.
Fuck.
"Come back here," he says when he steps behind Shane, wrapping an arm around his neck and hauling him back for a kiss. "I need a picture of you being so good for me."
Shane baulks at the idea. "Like, on your phone?"
"Yes," he reaches down and fluffs him, tugging sweetly and then glides lower, wrapping a gentle fist around the root of his balls, giving them a healthy, firm squeeze as he pulls them down. "You can make locked albums. I would have a thousand pictures of you in there, a million, if you let me." Shane moans into his mouth and drops his head back, letting Ilya manhandle him.
"Wwwhy?" He asks, voice wavering under Ilya's attentive touch.
Ilya hums, shrugs one shoulder. "To keep me warm on cold nights away," he bites Shane's earlobe, flicking it with his tongue and then soothing the bite with his wet lips. Shane shudders against him, baring his throat, nails scrabbling a bit at the tiles. "To keep my thoughts on you, what you do to me."
As if you're not all I can ever fucking think about.
The fingers are quick and easy; Shane is ready for it and pushing back, wanting to be stuffed again, feeling greedy, even after the thorough railing last night that left both of them too fucked out to apparently get Shane back home.
"You are so easy for me, Hollander. So good. Come here," Ilya pulls Shane's leg up and plants his foot on the shower bench, a hand sliding up his spine to grip his nape. "You want it hard? Or sweet."
"Ah," Shane gasps, pushing back and taking Ilya's dick all the way on the first push. "You can do both. Give it to me."
Fuck. He's so gone over this man. Ilya presses fervent kisses to his shoulders and pulls his hips back.
"So you're going to fold in the last period, yes?"
"The fuck we will, Rozanov," Shane laughs, his hood up and blocking half his face. They're in the bottom of the stairwell closest to the parking lot, waiting on Shane's cab, sharing a stair rise shoulder- to- shoulder.
Ilya glances down. Shane, in a rare moment of bravery, has twisted their fingers together and pushed the bundle of them into his hoodie pouch. His shoe is also starting to come untied. Ilya resists the urge to kneel at his feet and tie it for him.
Shane drops his head on his shoulder.
"Hey," Ilya says, needing to diffuse the absolutely suffocating emotions in his chest that are pishing his heart up into his throat. "I make you a deal. Is christmas break next week. We both have all week off. I am not going to Russia. Whoever wins tonight, the other has to go to them."
Shane leans back against the railing and looks at him. "You wanna meet my parents?" He says too slowly, unsure. He had been shooting for teasing and absolutely fell flat. It sounds more like an actual, timid question. Ilya's breath catches in his throat; he supresses a cough.
Shane can visualize it. And it scares the hell out of him. His parents won't mind him coming out; he doesnt expect they will be upset. It's Ilya they will be upset about. And he's not sure at all he's ready for that.
Ilya has seen Shane's parents, of course. They are usually at games. He's seen them around for years. He wonders, not for the first time, if they would be okay with it.
"Maybe not. One night?"
Shane exhales sharply. "Yeah. Or two. I could fly out tomorrow, come to yours, after?"
"So you admit you will lose tonight. I accept this deal."
Shane laughs again, brightening. "Fuck you."
Ilya hums. "Maybe tomorrow. You will be sore. I was too hard."
"Nah." Shane likes feeling it, something he can cling to, after, when they're separated again. He squeezes the fingers in his pocket instead of voicing it, his eyes closed as if completely at ease.
Ilya pulls his phone out and turns the front camera on, snapping a photo of a blissfully fucked out Shane leaning on him in a dreary stairwell.
"Hey," Shane admonishes, picking his head up.
"I told you. A thousand pictures." He shows Shane the folder where he keeps them. There are the selfies they took on stage, ages ago now. Little things here and there; a key card beside a Metros sweater on a tousled bed; a squashed bottle of lube beside a bare thigh, Shane's spent cock just out of frame. There is one that is particularly riveting: a shot of Shane's back, arms outstretched above him, muscles bunched and splattered with stripes of cum, Ilya's hips against his ass, his long wet cock laid up along his crack. Nothing has Shane's face, except the selfies of themselves at 22, but it's a trail of mementos. Ilya adds the new photo to the album and deletes it from his camera roll.
Shane is lost for words. Before he can formulate a question, his phone buzzes in his pocket and he sighs. "I think my cab's here."
Ilya hums and stands, dragging Shane up with him. He nudges him into the wall and kneels, tying Shane's shoe before standing back up. He leans in, slow and close, making Shane pick up his own chin to meet him. "Good luck tonight," he says, supping a sweet kiss off Shane's softly smiling mouth.
Shane cinches his hood around his face, pulls the ball cap on his head down low, and bolts out to the cab.
Ilya watches from the doorway as the cab pull away, until he can't see it anymore, until he can no longer see the fog of it's exhaust hanging in the cold air like a ghost, and then waits another minute. He lets out a long, shaky exhale and turns to find the elevator back up to his floor.
His phone buzzes in his pocket before he even gets to the elevator bay.
Jane: send me that picture, please.
Ilya smiles.
Ilya: Which one? The one of you, spent and covered in cum?
Jane: the selfie, asshole.
Ilya sends it. He watches it disappear from their conversation history when Shane likely saves and then deletes it.
Jane: when is your flight? tomorrow?
Ilya: after the game tonight. 10pm.
Jane: I can get a 7am to Boston. Ok?
He smiles down at his screen, the weight easing back off his chest. Something in him decides to poke the bubble of happiness. Pop it.
Ilya: or I can stay here another night. We can fly out in the morning.
The writing bubbles appear and disappear over and over as he waits for the elevator, and steps in.
Finally, a message.
Jane: Too risky.
Ilya runs his thumb over his eyebrow and nods to himself.
Ilya: Sure. Okay.
I expected that, he thinks. He didn't want to receive that, but he is not surprised. He pockets his phone and goes to his room.
Shane is half dressed, breezers loose around his hips. He is staring down at his phone, willing Ilya to text, to say something shitty or snarky before the game. He feels like he let him down somehow, though what Ilya had suggested was fucking insane. It had been bad enough that he stayed the night in Boston's fucking hotel the night before a game!
"Damn Hollzy, you're covered."
Shane looks up at Hayden in confusion. "What?"
"Your shoulders and chest, man." Hayden pokes at a set of teeth marks and Shane flinches from it.
"Oh, shit." He puts his underarmor on quickly, glancing around.
"Pulled an animal last night, did ya?"
"Uh, sure." He can feel his face heating up. Dammit, Ilya.
"Wait…" Hayden turns and looks again, frowning. "Why would there be bites on your back?"
Shane's blood runs cold. He freezes, aware he's taking too long to answer. "You know I'm not gonna talk about it, Hayd. Shut up."
"Aahhh, lame-ass. Fine."
Shane: you covered me in teeth marks and hickies, asshole. How am I supposed to shower after?!
He watches the text sit there until they get called to queue up. He's dressed and putting his phone in his cubby when it finally vibrates in his hand.
Lily: you are too tasty. Could not help it.
Lily: you marked me up, too. Finger marks on my back and pecs, and a hickey under my jaw. Marly asked.
Shane blushes furiously, immediately conjuring the mental image of the position that caused both of those. He throws his phone in his box and heads out to the ice.
Montreal wins by one point. It's a nasty game.
Ilya, who Shane can count on one hand the number of times he has seen actually fight in ten years, sends Comeau to the ice twice, violently. The first time, he tosses his mitts, grabs Comeau by the pads, and socks him in the nose hard enough to make him hit the ice, and then submarines the hell out of him next period while sinking the puck, after which the refs deem that goal illegal and give him another two minute penalty. Shane scores his third goal for hat trick in overtime, cinching the win.
Ilya breaks a stick heading back into Boston's tunnel.