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ONE
The first time it happened was an accident—not that the rest of the night hadn’t been. He’d managed to work himself into a near fit by the time he heard the knock at the door, half wishing he’d stuck with his first idea of a suit just to have his tie to tangle between his fingers.
The thread of tension pulled taut the closer Rozanov stepped. He watched him circle around like Shane was nothing more than prey, eyes tracing down his form and hearing aimless words fall from his own lips that he couldn’t begin to stop until Rozanov’s low tone interrupted him, settling deep in his stomach where his aching cock sat begging for attention. Heart pounding in his ears and breath coming fast in the way it only did after a satisfying workout, only missing the dull ache of muscles that, if he had to guess, wouldn’t be absent for long.
But the incessant buzzing in his head meant that he couldn’t enjoy any of it.
The weight of hands against his hips pushed him backwards until his back hit the wall. Then further, until he could feel the cold buttons of Rozanov’s jacket pressing through the thin material of his tshirt, bodies pressed firmly together from their chests to the floor. Their hearts fell into sync before either one realized. The other man’s face just inches away, Shane instantly felt like a sharp wind had swept away the buzzing fog that had been clouding his brain.
“This is such a bad idea.” The realization hit him full force. It was almost enough for him to call the whole thing off and send Rozanov away like nothing had happened. And he supposed at this point nothing had, but the way their bodies were pressed together had managed to bypass the anxiety he would have usually called common sense. Except it wasn’t just the anxiety. Suddenly there was no trace of the tension he’d held from trying and failing to maintain his composure during the shoot and the hours of anticipation since.
“What is?” Rozanov’s hand reached up to grasp his jaw when he took a moment too long to answer, briefly grieving the loss of the contact before their lips collided and their bodies were once again pressed together against the wall. His hand on the back of Shane’s head was perfection, enough that he couldn’t stifle the moan that seemed to encourage him further. Layers and reservations began to shed until their lips moved in perfect time with one another. He couldn’t keep his eyes from tracing every curve and muscle of the shirtless form before him, until they involuntarily fluttered closed as Rozanov’s thumb dipped into his mouth. Then Shane dropped to his knees, back still against the wall as his head bobbed along as much of Rozanov as he could, not yet willing to acknowledge why the firmness behind him felt like a lifeline as the salty sweet taste in his mouth began to deepen and he was pulled to his feet with repeated pleas to stop.
“Was that… bad?” Relief flooded him when Rozanov confirmed it had been the opposite, Shane finding his hands grasping uselessly to pull him closer as they kept talking, already feeling the soft buzzing begin to build between his ears along with the tempo of his heart. He hoped the breathiness of his voice would be interpreted as something much more sensual than it was. He hadn’t known so much small talk would be involved in the evening, but for the first time he couldn’t say that he minded.
“Curious. And you make me curious.” The wind of relief swept over him again as Rozanov’s hand squeezed down his arm, enough relief for him to shift his gaze to momentarily take in the stunning—and hungry—eyes just a few inches away from him. Until they dipped down along with Rozanov’s face to whisper and kiss against the sensitive skin of his neck. “Do I make you curious?”
“Obviously.”
“Did you like sucking my cock?” And suddenly it was no longer any hassle to find the words he needed to respond, not just questions, not just a single word, but something that almost qualified as a chirp—at least by Shane’s standards.
“Yes?”
“Yes.” Shane confirmed breathlessly.
By the time they’d both stripped and laid on the bed side by side, the elastic of his socks the only pressure against his exposed skin, Shane could feel the shiver of doubt working its way up to cloud his brain again. “So, what do you want to do?”
“I don’t know.” he smiled, but his eyes flicked across the plaster of the ceiling, visually tracing a long split in an effort to ground himself. Whether it was his rapid breaths or hands pressing down on his stomach, Rozanov seemed to have an educated guess at what Shane couldn’t express and rolled towards him.
“Is this OK?” Shane just nodded. And while the practiced motions of Rozanov’s hand stroking him and the series of kisses teasing him with the touch he needed nearly had him falling apart already, it wasn’t enough to keep his mind quiet, and he hated to leave a task unfinished. Without any more hesitation he rolled them over, wasting no time in sinking down between Rozanov’s thighs as deep as he could, soothed further by the pair of hands guiding his head. Appreciative of his surprising gentleness, Shane couldn’t find the words to tell him that he wouldn’t have minded him pressing harder. Even if he had been able to speak around the weight that was pressing as far down his throat as he could take it. Instead, soft whines escaped his lips as he pushed himself deeper, one hand running along what he couldn’t reach while the other wrapped around his thigh and pulled it in closer.
But he didn’t care to look for a pattern. All he knew was that he felt the best he had in a while— maybe ever—pressed tightly between Rozanov’s thighs.
TWO
Shane Hollander would have described himself as an anxious person. Or more accurately as a very anxious person. But not when he played hockey. At least not usually.
He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. And maybe the lack of explanation for the buzzing under his skin was part of the problem. The meeting with Reebok this morning hadn’t gone badly, nor had practice, or his lunch with his parents. The restaurant had swapped his brown rice for white, but that was a stupid reason to feel like his heart was about to beat out of his mouth. Right? He supposed he was a bit nervous for tonight, the anticipation had certainly been built up.
“Y’alright bud?” The clap to his shoulder snapped him out of his stupor, head turning to see Hayden looking expectantly at him. He realized his leg had been bouncing since the moment he skated onto the bench, his stick clattering against his shin guards.
“Yeah. Great.”
“Okay” Hayden drew out the last syllable, not buying it for a second. “You know you couldn’t have stopped that goal if you were out there.”
“I know.” He appreciated his coach giving him a moment to rest up before the third period, but it hadn’t helped his anxiousness to watch the admittedly beautiful goal from Rozanov right after he’d skated off. His second of the night. Shane hadn’t scored any. Fortunately, Hayden knew him well enough not to press any further.
He glanced up at the scoreboard as if he hadn’t been keeping track of every goal, shot, and player the whole night. 3-1 Raiders. It wasn’t that he was playing badly. In fact, anyone would have said he was playing very well—or they would have if he wasn’t Shane Hollander.
By the time he was on the ice after the break, the buzzing had begun to spread to his shoulders and neck, audible at the edge of his mind. For the first time since he played U7, when his parents refused to cheer for fear of overwhelming him, the blaring lights and raucous crowds felt like they were pressing in on him from every angle. Either someone had replaced his sticks and skates with lead, or he was about to pass out.
The heavy breath he took was too cold to be relaxing, stinging its way down his throat. His knuckles were nearly white around his stick, skating forward on muscle memory alone, his eyes open just a sliver until he came to a stop at the face off spot, hands restlessly shifting along his stick.
"Что не так, Hollander? You are in a rush? Big plans tonight?” (What’s wrong Hollander? You are in a rush? Big plans tonight?)" He could just barely make out the sardonic smirk on Rozanov’s at the top of his vision. He couldn’t look him in the eyes, especially not when he was certain the vibrating in his limbs must have been visible to the back of the stands and a fraction of eye contact would have sent him over the edge—especially if it was Rozanov. The chirp was innocent enough on the surface, but given their most recent text exchange, he knew exactly what Shane’s plans for the night were.
“Asshole.” It was pathetic. A weak chirp to begin with, but the tremble in his voice and volume just above a whisper only served to undermine its impact more. Rozanov made a sound somewhere between satisfaction and pity and finally the puck dropped.
At least Shane won the face off.
Swallowing hard, his legs pumped to stay ahead. The puck stayed easily within his control, even as he skated past the defenseman, who barely made as much of an impact on his trajectory as a stiff breeze. Maybe he could get his shit together after all. The tempest underneath his skin however begged to differ. He skated around the back of the goal and, spotting an opening, shot the puck towards the far side of the goal. Except that, in his jumpiness, he sent it way too early, the goalie not even caring to make an effort to touch it before Rozanov intercepted it on the opposite side.
“Goal is there,” he gestured with his head, pouting his lip. “maybe wipe the tears from your eyes, makes it easier to play hockey.” Satisfied with humiliating Shane, he carried the puck back out of the Bears’ defensive zone.
“Fuck off Rozanov.” He heard him gasp facetiously as he followed on his heels.
“Who would have thought Canada’s golden boy had such a dirty mouth. You are supposed to be example for the children.” His tone turned chiding at the end, but Shane didn’t miss the innuendo that punctuated the phrase before it. He couldn’t well acknowledge it though, so he met Rozanov’s smirk with a pointed glare and a clean shoulder check. Maybe he didn’t have plans tonight after all.
Finally, he managed to wrest the puck back and sprayed snow over Rozanov’s skates as he whipped around to take another shot at a goal. He gritted his teeth and desperately tried to clear his vision. Just as he was lining up to take the shot, he was slammed into from behind by 200 some pounds of Rozanov. A check that straddled the line for a penalty, was made worse by him refusing to let up, practically dragging Shane along the boards, barely even pretending to fight him for the puck.
“I will have enough of this view later. I want to see your face.” Not even Rozanov was about to risk being overheard, words barely above a whisper. Shane wanted to be furious, except it felt like the check hit the hard reset in his brain. The longer he spent pressed up against the boards—against Rozanov—the more he felt the tension melting out of his shoulders. His vision snapped into focus and it felt like watching his tapes back, knowing exactly where he would next move and the exact angle he was about to shoot from.
He couldn’t explain it, but he was sure as hell going to take advantage of it.
A hard stop that Rozanov couldn’t react to fast enough, and he managed to break away. Puck still cradled in his stick, he spotted the ref’s arm shoot up from the corner of his eye. But just as Rozanov was about to skate into the penalty box, he spotted an opening and sent it sailing just under the goalkeeper's glove into the back of the net.
“Let’s go!” The celebration was filled with more relief than anything. He felt Hayden clamp onto his shoulders from behind and shake furiously, turning his head and matching the ear to ear grin on his best friend’s face.
“Atta boy Hollzy!”
As he skated back to center ice for the faceoff, his eyes squeezed shut momentarily, running a mental once over to screen for remaining buzzing. But it was gone.
“Power play goals barely count, maybe you will have another chance.” He finally returned Rozanov’s smirk, but still didn't take his eyes off the puck. Blink and he would have missed it, but Shane’s intent flashed bright across his gaze. He was about to make sure he had a lot more than another chance.
That night he went to bed—eventually—with a soft smile on his face. Satisfied with Metros’ comeback win and his hat trick.
THREE
“Your phone’s ringing again.”
“I’m busy, ignore it.” He lifted his head for just a moment before returning to kissing the freckles along Shane’s cheeks.
“Who’s calling you at midnight?” He really was trying to ignore it, but it was at least the fourth time it had rang, and for someone to call so late at night, he figured it had to be important. He almost spoke up to say so, but it seemed like Ilya had read his mind.
“I don’t know, fucking read it Hollander.”
He shifted up to his elbows to turn the phone screen towards him, giving his best shot at reading the cyrillic text. “Anekcen? Someone Po-three-ahob?” Ilya took a moment to translate Shane’s attempt before rolling his eyes.
"Блять. (Fuck.)" He groaned and held out his hand, but Shane didn’t move to hand the phone over. “Give.”
“I thought you were ignoring it.”
“Hollander. Phone.” He gestured again for him to hand it over, more insistent this time. Seeming surprised at Shane’s sudden stubbornness, unaware that Shane was equally as much so.
“No.” He was well aware he sounded like a petulant child, but selfishly he wanted a little more time living in the stupid bubble that let them ignore the demands of the world. The raise of Ilya’s eyebrow told him he understood the feeling perfectly, but still he watched him rise to his knees, flopping unceremoniously across his chest. It knocked the wind out of him for a moment, but it was warm, and nice, and honestly comforting. He went to protest nonetheless.
“Do not speak.” He pressed a finger to Shane’s lips, met with a kiss in the split second before Ilya hit the button to answer the call. "Да мудак? Что ты хочешь? Я занят. (Yes shithead? what do you want? I am busy.)"
He expected Ilya to move off of him as soon as he grabbed the phone, but he stayed, chests pressed together breathing in time with one another. Insisting he get off would most definitely violate the instruction not to speak, and so would telling him he actually didn’t mind it. So instead he dropped his head back on the pillow, the shift in angle causing Ilya’s weight to fall further onto him.
Shane could faintly hear a voice through the phone, Russian of course, which didn’t help him follow the conversation any better. He hadn’t had much chance to hear Ilya speak in Russian, though he couldn’t lie and say he didn’t enjoy every time he did. But even with limited exposure, he could tell that Ilya was working very hard to sound calm. His consonants a little sharper and tone a little more forceful than Shane was used to hearing even in his most pointed chirps.
"Иди на хуй, не твое дело. (Fuck off, none of your business.)" Ilya’s breath against his chest grew shallower, and Shane could just make out the voice on the other end of the phone. It sounded mocking, though Shane still had no idea what he was saying. He would have offered to leave if he’d been allowed to talk, or move for that matter. Instead, he simply did his best to lay still under Ilya’s weight, bringing one hand up to rest on his lower back and trying to guess his way through his eavesdropping.
"Ты с отец? He paused for an answer to whatever question he’d asked, “Тогда да, я отправлю тебе деньги. Сколько?” A deep sigh at whatever the answer to that question was. “Хорошо, я отправлю это утром.” He was clearly far from pleased with the concession, but it wasn’t until whatever the person said next that genuine anger made his way into his tone. “Потому что сейчас середина ночи, и я сказал тебе, что занят. до свидания. (You're with dad?" He paused for an answer to whatever question he’d asked, “Then yes, I will send the money. How much?” A deep sigh at whatever the answer to that question was. “Fine, I will send it in the morning” He was clearly far from pleased with the concession, but it wasn’t until whatever the person said next that genuine anger made his way into his tone. “Because it is the middle of the night and I told you I was busy. Goodbye.)" With that, he ended the call without giving the other person a chance to respond.
“He sounded angry.” It was all that Shane could muster up, words coming out strained from the pressure on his lungs.
"Да, he is always angry. (Yes, he is always angry.)" Ilya flopped backwards so they were side by side again, making Shane realize he missed the contact.
“I should probably get going.”
“Yes, you have early flight.” He laid his head on Shane’s chest, not exactly making it easier for him to leave. He shifted to try and get up, Ilya using the opportunity to find an even more comfortable position on his chest.
“Rozanov, come on. I have to be on the plane in six hours.” There was no force behind the words. Clearly they were in agreement about wanting to prolong the moment as long as they could.
“Where do you play next?”
Had he looked to see his face, it would have been obvious that Ilya knew the answer, but Shane tended to assume other people weren’t as obsessive at memorizing the entire MLH schedule as he was. “Toronto.”
“Ugh, they are assholes. Please beat them.”
“We always do.” He stalled a little longer before he finally insisted on leaving, not admitting how much he didn’t want to nor how devastatingly relaxed he felt lying beside Ilya.
FOUR
It felt like electricity was coursing through Shane’s veins. The incessant bouncing of his leg all day had done little in way of relief, nor had the trouncing of the Raiders a few hours ago. The feeling was so intense that even sex couldn’t seem to put a damper on it. But that had never stopped them from trying.
Breathless, Shane laid back with his eyes shut, leaning into the kiss to his forehead. It had been a grueling day, but that was nothing new. Even though he’d barely had to tolerate it for an hour, he was almost certain it had been the postgame celebrations that had sent him over the edge. He could still hear the pounding of the bass ringing in his ears, colored lights dancing behind his eyelids, the memory of radiating body heat from every direction and seemingly endless strangers who wanted to shout their recognition at him and insisted on a photo. The fact that there were probably fifteen blurry photos of him squinting and looking miserable that would make it to every corner of the internet by tomorrow afternoon only made him feel worse.
He felt Ilya’s arm move to stretch across his chest, turning to deflect it with his shoulder. He would get up to shower in a moment, but he wasn’t sure his legs could hold his weight just yet.
“Don’t. I’m a mess.” Not even sure what combination of their cum was cooling across his torso, half lucid at most. Ilya sat up on his elbow, face halfheartedly indignant.
“Oh you are a mess?” The light hit the sticky sheen of Ilya’s stomach at the same moment as the mischievous glint in his eye. But it was too late to stop him by then.
“Roz- ugh” He wheezed as the man dropped his weight onto him, fixating on the tacky sensation of their skin meeting in the split second before he landed fully. It staggered him for a moment but was quickly replaced with silence.
"бедный холландер. моя грязный мальчик. Так скучно. Все, о чем он думает после того, как я его трахнул, — это не натворить беспорядка. Не хочет, чтобы к нему прикасались, на случай, если я уроню что-нибудь на кровать. Возможно, если ты он не приходил так быстро, он не был ты таким грязным. (Poor Hollander. My filthy boy. So boring. All he thinks about after I fuck him is don’t make a mess. Doesn’t want to be touched in case I get some on the bed. Maybe if he didn't come so fast he wouldn't be so filthy.)" Like he often did when he presumably didn’t want him to understand, Ilya mumbled under his breath in Russian. Shane could make out his surname but not much else, especially the longer Ilya continued to kiss along his jaw and at the nape of his neck, world growing fuzzy as he drew shallow breaths. He vaguely heard a satisfied whine fall from his lips as the last of his air exhaled. Head falling back and, as a result, away from the onslaught of increasingly breathy kisses. He felt Ilya suddenly push up off of him, using his shoulders as leverage.
“You are hurt?” He just shook his head, Ilya’s eyes narrowing. He mimicked the sound that Shane had just made, cocking an eyebrow, clearly expecting an explanation. Admittedly, it sounded more like a moan when Ilya did it. Enough that it almost stirred something in Shane, despite having barely recovered from their first round.
“Just go shower you pervert.” He didn’t know how to begin explaining, and at the moment he didn’t have the strength to push Ilya off to emphasize the command, limbs feeling like his bones had been surgically removed. He didn’t even notice the way that his words slurred at the edges, but it may have been just subtle enough to blame it on his being out of breath. With a chuckle, Ilya obliged, slowly standing to his feet, but only after placing one last kiss to the nape of Shane’s neck. None of his kisses had been hard enough to leave a mark, but Shane was seeing stars nonetheless. And now with his eyes closed, he didn’t even have the chance to admire as Ilya walked away while running a hand over the curls at the back of his head in an effort to smooth them to something resembling order.
Typically, Shane would change the sheets while he was gone, but the idea of moving at all right now nearly brought him to tears. Since the only thing he did in the apartment was Ilya, it wouldn’t be too big a deal to wait until later to change them. Maybe he could even convince Ilya to help him. Had his mind been any semblance of rational, he would have recognized how ridiculous the thought was. But he was way too far gone. Mess be damned, he turned face down on the mattress and sighed deeply into the pillow.
Ilya found him just like that twenty minutes later, fast asleep. If not for the large puddle of drool and soft snoring, he might have assumed he was dead. He pressed a soft kiss to Shane's temple that he knew he wouldn’t remember in the morning.
When he next opened his eyes, Shane expected to be greeted by Ilya mocking him, fresh out of the shower as he laid in his own mess. But before he even did, he registered the unfamiliar sensation of the sheets against the skin of his back. He must have rolled over in the few minutes he was asleep. But the rising sun streaming through his windows told him he was wrong about much more than that. He had no clue what time it even was. He blinked the bleariness out of his eyes in a hurry, taking in the decor of his guest bedroom with no recollection of how he’d gotten there, nor how the blankets had been pulled up to his waist over the loose fitting sweatpants he definitely did not remember putting on.
Walking into his bedroom, wanting to change the sheets before he jumped in the shower, he found that they already had been. And more surprising was that it was almost up to his standards. Had he woken up and changed them without remembering?
He’d been persuaded into having a drink last night during the postgame celebration, despite it being still midseason. But even he wasn’t that much of a lightweight. And he didn’t feel hungover. Plus, he remembered every moment that he’d spent with Ilya afterwards. The way he’d held him, kissed him, felt the heat of his skin along every inch of him. An unnamed warmth spread across his chest and cheeks at the thought. The last thing he remembered was watching Ilya leave for the shower and turning over. Then the memory returned in full, along with a flood of disgust. What had he been thinking?
He placed a hand to his chest and didn't find any of the expected mess dried there, nonetheless he doubled his pace towards the shower, trying not to think too hard about how he’d come to wake up in his guest bedroom in clothes he didn’t fall asleep in.
FIVE
He’d been so stupid. How had he let Ilya talk him into going out together? And on Valentine’s Day of all days? He’d always been hopeless at saying no to Ilya, maybe even more so when he knew it was a terrible idea.
It had been fine at first. Great even. Per their request, they’d been seated at the very back of the restaurant, in a dark corner where Shane had hoped beyond hope that they would be hidden from prying eyes. He’d barely touched his meal, but what Ilya had persuaded him to try had been heavenly. He’d even let himself have a glass of wine, though it was only to toast with. Before he knew it he was actually smiling, shoulders starting to relax and eyes shimmering with awe as he listened to Ilya chatter all about the Centaurs’ practice this morning. Except that it turned into not thinking when Ilya reached his arm across the table, into pressing a kiss to his knuckles before grasping it and pulling it up towards his face. And out of the corner of his eye a flash of light. A split second and he couldn’t think of anything but cameras, and that was more than enough to send him spiraling.
So now he was sitting in the car, alone, having all but run out the door and left Ilya to settle the bill for the food they’d barely had a chance to eat. He wasn’t crying, he would have told anyone as much. But his knees were pulled up to his chin and he couldn’t seem to stop sniffling or see quite right. And there was no denying he was shaking.
The car door clicked open and he finally looked up. “I am so sorry.” Ilya’s voice was raw, like he’d used the last of his charms to escape the restaurant as quickly as he could. “I thought we would be okay.”
Shane didn’t blame him, he’d honestly been surprised that Ilya had managed to find a restaurant on Valentine’s day that wasn’t packed full and actually had food he could eat. He just wasn’t sure why he thought that would be enough. They were the most famous hockey players in the country, it didn’t matter that they’d driven forty minutes outside of Montreal, there was no world in which he could be confident no one would recognize them in public.
“Can we go home?” He wanted to tell him it was okay, that he loved being able to celebrate them, that they’d fought so hard for long and they deserved to be able to enjoy a fucking dinner together. But none of those words were in his vocabulary while his brain was on fire.
Ilya nodded silently, waiting until they pulled out onto the main road before he reached his hand over to wrap around the back of Shane’s neck. His touch was warm, soothing as his fingers ran through the hair at the back of his head. If not for the prickling sensation over every inch of his skin, he may not have noticed the trembling of Ilya’s hands.
His breath was hot against the palms of his hands, which were covering his face completely, pressed tightly together over his face to block the surrounding light.
The posture held him together until they pulled into Shane's garage, waiting for the sound of the garage door closing so he knew the overhead light would be off before he stepped out of the car. His breathing had leveled out significantly, and he’d even been able to maintain some conversation the last few minutes of the drive. But he still felt the telltale prickling along his skin and the chill of every breath that entered his lungs.
Luckily, he had a boyfriend who loved him very much, and who had spent a lot of time with Shane’s mother. “Come here.”
He held his arms out until Shane stepped into them, kissing the top of his head when he did. Ilya offered his seventh apology of the night, stepping back from the embrace, keeping a hand on each of his shoulders. “I think it was not a camera.” Shane had come to the same realization about halfway home, but he was too far gone by then to calm himself down. But he at least was able to shake his head.
Ilya began to squeeze rhythmically down his arms, keeping his breathing deep and controlled, matching the rhythm of the pressure to give Shane a chance to copy him. It felt like the tension was slowly being squeezed down his arms and out of his fingertips, breathing in time with Ilya growing easier with every moment that passed. Just like it did when his mom would do it when he was growing up.
Yuna Hollander was a very wise woman, and though no one quite knew how, she had always been able to pull Shane out of a spiral without so much as a word. A magic that she had now thankfully passed on to Ilya.
“I’m sorry I ruined our night.” He finally managed, eyes wet with unshed tears.
"No no солнышко, you did not ruin anything. It was a stupid idea. (No no sunshine, you did not ruin anything. It was a stupid idea.)"
“It wasn’t.” He interrupted, making eye contact for the first time since he’d run off to hide.
"Милый you don’t have to- (Sweetheart you don't have to-)" He tried unsuccessfully to hide his dejectedness. Shane silenced him with a kiss.
“It was perfect.” His tone was somehow simultaneously hesitant and firm. “I want to try again next year.” He wasn’t even sure he believed himself, but Ilya smiled and wrapped him back up in his arms. “Now come on! Nights not over. I know you’ve got more planned than that.”
His ribbing was met with a grin before he was scooped up as if he weighed nothing and carried straight upstairs.
PLUS ONE
The two hour drive between them had never felt so long. Every moment wishing for once that his tears would fucking fall and wash away the echo of his teammates’—his friends’—words.
Was it a joke? Fucking benched. Go home. Fucking liar. Fuck off and go home.
What did it matter that Ilya had barely gotten home from the airport, that it had been mere hours since they’d seen each other. Shane didn’t know where else to go.
Skin sticky with dried sweat. He prickled with a chill. His collar seemed to have wound itself around every muscle in his neck. The rough edge of the tag he’d missed cutting off was scratching at his ribs. Headlights dim despite the now setting sun. He swore he could feel every seam in his clothing stinging his skin. Knuckles white around the steering wheel when he wasn’t lifting them to tense and release them desperately. He could barely force himself to breathe. Everything was too hot, too tight, too much. Ilya always made fun of how he drove in silence, but this degree would have driven him to insanity, Shane couldn’t even bear to turn on the heater. The usually ignorable clicking of the system worming its way into his ears to add kindling to the existing inferno. The foot that wasn’t on the gas pedal was effectively vibrating with the speed of its bouncing.
The door hadn’t even closed behind him before he collapsed into his fiance’s arms. But it wasn’t enough. As tightly as he could, he squeezed himself against Ilya, rewarded with a choked exhale. But after the hour of brutal drills he’d run himself through to blow off steam before giving up and driving to Ottawa, he didn’t have the strength left. His attempt at a groan ringing in his ears as something much closer to a whine. As he pulled away, he realized all he had succeeded in was squeezing a tear from his eye that left his cheek wet and sticky. Yet another sensation sending him dangerously closer to crumbling. The request caught in his throat, but he just managed to choke it out as he pulled his head away from Ilya’s shoulder.
“I need you to crush me.”
“What?”
“Crush me.” He repeated as if it was obvious, breathless the longer he had to wait.
Fucking benched.
“Like-” Ilya pulled Shane back in, one hand on the back of his head, holding him a little tighter, but still as if he thought he would shatter in his arms. He whined again, longer this time, until he found the words that had yet to fail him.
“Please Ilya.”
"Моя любювь, I want to help, but I do not understand (My love, I want to help, but I do not understand.)" His face scrunched up the way it always did when, even after all these years, he was sure something had been lost in translation.
But Shane knew what he needed, sandwiching his hands, one on top of the other, and squeezing as hard as he could, unable to parse words amidst the storm raging between his ears.
“You want me to lay on top of you?” In any other circumstance, Ilya would have never let him live it down, but even if it came to that, Shane decided he didn’t care.
He nodded frantically, tongue pressed flush against the roof of his mouth like it would prevent his welling tears from falling.
Ilya could be very obedient when it mattered, so it wasn’t long before his hands were grasped around Shane’s hips leading him backwards towards the couch. All too familiar until the moment he felt Ilya sinking onto rather than into him.
“Is okay?” Shane nodded, 200 some pounds of muscle now resting against him. But Ilya was up on his elbows, clearly still convinced that Shane was as fragile physically as he felt emotionally.
Fucking liar.
“More.” Voice cracking with a sob, tears rolled down his cheeks too fast for him to stop. His arms clawed at Ilya’s back trying unsuccessfully to pull him down further.
To his credit, he did as he was told, hands still braced but chest now flush with Shane’s. Cheeks. Chest. Hips. Legs. A massive sigh of air rushed out of him. But as long as oxygen could still reach his brain to feed the fire, it wouldn’t be enough.
Fuck off and go-
"Больше. (More.)" He was shocked he could remember Russian when he wasn’t even sure he could muster up English, but it seemed to do the trick. Slowly, Ilya shifted his legs to straddle Shane’s, straightening his arms down to his sides before his own hands wrapped around his torso and squeezed as hard as he could around him, legs pressed together with equal force. If anyone had walked by, Shane was fairly sure he wouldn’t have been visible between the cushions of the couch and his fiancé.
Home
Ilya lifted his head just enough to see Shane’s eyes flutter open, an almost imperceptible smile at the corner of his mouth. The breath in his lungs was gone, and with it all other sensation and worry. He felt his arm being lifted from beside him before falling bonelessly back to his side.
“I have killed you. You are dead.” He couldn’t help but chuckle a little, Ilya’s eyes betraying his remaining ounce of worry until Shane puckered his lips for a kiss.
“No. ‘s good.” He closed his eyes for just another moment. Ilya’s kisses came softly, first to his eyelids then down his cheeks and eventually his neck and chest.
"Мой блин. (My pancake.)" Ilya’s tone was sickeningly fond, the taps to Shane's cheek a tender contrast to the weight on his chest still keeping him from taking a full breath.
Things were still bad. Maybe the worst they’d ever been. An honest to god nightmare. But Ilya was here and the storm was gone and he could finally think clearly. “What's the Centaurs’ cap for next season?”