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I believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in singing, especially when singing is not necessarily prescribed.

As for the body, it is solid  and strong and curious
and full of detail; it wants to polish itself; it
wants to love another body; it is the only vessel in
the world that can hold, in a mix of power and
sweetness; words, song, gesture, passion, ideas,
ingenuity, devotion, merriment, vanity, and virtue.

Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.

- “Evidence” [excerpt], Mary Oliver

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience, 
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

- “To Be of Use” [excerpt], Marge Piercy

“Dear Forgiveness, you know that recently

                     we have had our difficulties and there are many things

                                                                                                  I want to ask you.

I tried that one time, high school, second lunch, and then again,

             years later, in the chlorinated pool.

                                      I am still talking to you about help. I still do not have

             these luxuries.

I have told you where I’m coming from, so put it together.

                                                            We clutch our bellies and roll on the floor . . .

             When I say this, it should mean laughter,

not poison.

                  I want more applesauce. I want more seats reserved for heroes.

Dear Forgiveness, I saved a plate for you.

                                                  Quit milling around the yard and come inside.”

- “Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed Out” [excerpt], by Richard Siken

"I would say [fan fic writers] they’re not freaky enough. And you got to fucking scare me. If you want to get me. So bring the fucking heat…Don’t be nice to me. Spit in my mouth."

- Hudson Williams (and I took that as a personal challenge).

January 2017 - Tampa Bay

Shane is going to fucking die. 

Or - perhaps he’s already ceased existing on this earthly plane - because there is no fucking way that the virulent electric current suffusing every inch of his body is something any human can actually hope to have survived.

“Still okay?” Ilya purrs into his ear, the heat of his breath against Shane’s neck sending another jolt of galvanic charge down his external jugular vein. His brain registers the question belatedly.

“Okay is an understatement,” he babbles, lungs fighting for blessed gulps of air and dick pulsing like a goddamned homing beacon from its cocoon of - Ilya. Because Shane is literally fucking encased in him, like Shane’s cock is the sword and Ilya’s is the proverbial sheath.

Docking is fun.

“Fucking great,” Shane follows up, just in case his whimpering gasps didn’t fully convey his present physical, mental, emotional, whatever-the-hell-else he is currently - state. “Fanfuckingtastic,” he adds, as every synapse of his lights up on goddamned fire like the roof of the Griswold house in Christmas Vacation. He finally lands on the most apropos words for this particular experience:

“So good I think I’m gonna die.” 

May already be dead, his brain supplies.

At least if he really is dead, heaven must exist and Shane’s had the good fortune to pass through the pearly gates. Every vein of his is combusting from pleasure, like bliss-fueled pop rocks dropped in refreshing, ice-cold ginger ale. He takes a breath, feeling himself teetering on the edge, laces his fingers with Ilya’s and - 

…jolts awake - twisted and tangled in his goddamned Florida hotel room shitty thread-count sheets. He’s - fuck -  rock hard, leaking, and bleary-eyed, having fallen into bed only a mere hour before - after Ilya’s alarm rudely informed them both it was time for Shane-derella to graciously depart from the ball they’d been having in room 1217, and turn back into a pumpkin. 

So now he finds himself in room 801 until checkout - horny, pajama-clad and utterly Rozanov-less.

“Shane?”

Well, not entirely Rozanov-less, because that’s Ilya’s fucking voice?!

Shane’s gaze darts around the room, wondering - oddly not for the first time this weekend - if Ilya’s managed to add ‘crawling inside Hollander’s walls’ to his storied list of highly specific talents.

Said list now inclusive of wrapping Shane’s cock in his foreskin like a goddamned present and - 

“Fuck,” Shane says loudly as his dick twitches in reminder that - the dream he just had wasn’t as wet as Shane would like it to be, and what Shane’s not going to repeat this weekend? An extended-stay in the hotel, motel, Holiday Inn - of freaking blue balls, thank you very much.

“Da, Hollander. We did that earlier,” Ilya’s voice drawls out near Shane’s ear, and he must be - fucking hallucinating. Or perhaps Shane really did die in room 1217 and now he’s gone to a version of his personal hell where his balls are desperately begging for release while the sexy, velvety voice of a demon cosplaying Ilya Rozanov tickles every single one of Shane’s vibrating strings from the brimstone smoking beneath them for eternity.

“Where the fuck are you?” he breathes, eyes darting around the room like Rozanov’s crawling on the ceiling or hiding under the damn mattress, or something. The sheet covering Shane’s prone body brushes the erection straining against his pajama bottoms, and he stifles a sharp inhale.

“I am in my room?” Ilya says, voice puzzled. “Hollander, did you hit your head on something when you left? You are not making much sense.”

Suddenly Shane realizes that he is not alone in this bed. 

An interloper seems to have joined him, in the night - one that’s usually perched neatly on his nightstand like a very good boy, quiet and perfectly plugged.

He raises his cell phone to his ear. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Ilya says. “I think maybe you fuck-dialed me.”

What.

“Um, I think you mean butt,” Shane chokes out. “That’s the phrase. Butt-dial.”

“I think it is same difference,” Ilya says, because he actually is a demon in real fucking life. Shane can hear the smirk in his voice. “At least when it is you.”

“Wait,” Shane says, with growing horror. “When exactly did I, uh - fuck-dial - butt-dial you?”

“Mmm,” Ilya hums knowingly and oh, oh, oh, no - if Shane wasn’t still semi-convinced he was already dead, he would be Googling ways to end it all right about fucking now.

“You must have had very good dream,” Ilya says with a slam of the proverbial coffin lid. He tosses in two handfuls of graveyard dirt when he adds, “I heard many interesting noises.” 

And then he cements the stone marker over Shane’s body by wrapping this little reveal up with: 

“Including my name. Five times. I counted.”

Fuckinghellgoddammitsonofabitchmotherfuckingshit.

Well, it’s not like Shane’s been able to keep it cool, calm, or collected for much of this weekend. So - this is par for more of that course. 

Honestly, Shane’s never been able to keep it cool, calm, or collected when it comes to Ilya.

Maybe he should just - lean into this. He’s already told the man he likes him, as if he’s a teenage girl passing notes in Language Arts, or something. 

And somehow, in some way, that slightly uncool, maniacal, and reckless choice seems to have worked out for the best.

Perhaps this is a sign that Shane should be - radically authentic, or whatever it is his yoga teacher is always proselytizing while Shane has his forehead to the ground in a downward dog, too focused on blinking the sweat out of his eyes to listen to her meditation prompts attentively.

Which is why when Ilya says, “Thinking of me, Hollander?” in that gravelly, seductive, sensual murmur?

Shane decides to simply eke out a - “yeah.”

Of course Ilya, being Ilya - can’t just accept the goddamned compliment being handed to him on what is essentially a proffered silver platter. Nope, he has to rub more salt in Shane’s wounds in retort - or, expressly in respect to this instance - agitate the state of his very eager boner.

“I did not hear you come, though.”

“Jesus Christ,” Shane bites out, face immediately flushing. 

“You did say that. But not like you do when you come,” Ilya says pensively. “More like when you’re just about to come, but you need me to help - a little bit.” He pauses, and Shane can practically see Ilya’s eyebrows nudging together impishly as he formulates his next words.

“Maybe you need me to help a little bit - now?”

This is one of those moments when Shane wishes Ilya wasn’t so…perceptive.

Though - okay. Shane’s leaning in! It’s a new year, after all. Maybe 2017 can be Shane’s personal…’Year of Yes.’

He’s pretty sure his yoga teacher has also explained this particular concept during a session, but it was the day they were doing inversions, and Shane couldn’t focus past the memory of the last time he was in this specific position (right before Ilya folded him in half, twisted him like a Keebler pretzel and railed him ass-deep into the mattress). 

Well, now Shane’s distracted again (and so is his dick). Where was he?

Year of Yes. Right - it’s still January! Sure, the last day of January. But still! Absolutely not too late to start this new resolution.

“Yes,” Shane says by way of reply to Ilya’s wicked question about his present physical needs. That was simple.

“Yes, what?” Ilya intones slyly, in a way that indicates he knows exactly what Shane’s affirming. That fucking devil incarnate just wants to hear him say it out loud.

“YesIneedyoutohelpmealittlebit,” Shane’s words cascade out like a shower of pebbles, and he tries not to cringe. This kind of thing is easier when Ilya is physically in the room, so Shane can divert his focus to the chiseled line of Ilya’s pecs, the pout of his lips, the deep v of his oblique muscles - instead of the sound of his own needy, hoarse, and desperate voice.

Ilya seems to realize Shane’s having - some problems, and of course the motherfucker gleefully decides to exploit that for his own personal gain.

“How can I help you, Hollander?”

“Dick,” Shane says - referring to the man on the other end of the phone, not the erect body part under the sheet covering him, in desperate need of his touch. 

“Mmm, Big Roz is here for you,” Ilya says. “Just like he was last night.” He pauses, and Shane takes that moment to wriggle out of his fucking pants, any sand on the sheets be damned at this point. His dick bobs in greeting as Shane flops his head back on top of his pillows. 

Ilya’s voice continues its intonations.

“Was that what you and Hollander Junior dreamed of? What we did last night?” 

Once again Shane has the opportunity to practice his newfound affirmative approach of walking through life in open invitation to new experiences, the path he has chosen to adopt because he is grounded, motivated, and primed for success - and absolutely not because his dick is dripping precome like a damn firehose and he is horny as hell - so horny he doesn't even snark back at Ilya's nickname for Shane's pecker.

“Yes.”

“Very good, Shane.” Ilya says appreciatively - and yup, this slightly impromptu little plan of Shane’s is brilliant. He is a genius. A champion. A fucking beautician.

And also, to his absolute delight - apparently, according to Ilya Rozanov - a very good boy.

Which could be one of the best compliments Shane’s ever received.

His dick agrees, and Shane takes it in hand celebratorily.

The contact immediately loosens a moan, because - yeah, this dream wound Shane up more than he’d realized. His cock is practically vibrating under his fingers.

“So, what part of ‘last night’ were we repeating, in your dream?” Ilya asks, tone low and hitched, just slightly, because - oh, is he -

“Are you touching yourself?” Shane ekes out, his dick actually fucking trembling in anticipation of that answer.

“Maybe,” Ilya replies, and jesusfuckingchrist that sends Hollander Junior (goddammit, no - Shane’s dick) to demonstrate enough wriggling and twitching that he could tap out perfect time in a line dance set to Mambo Number Five.

“Stop changing the subject,” Ilya adds sternly. “What part? In the dream?” He pauses only for a brief moment before adding, “Was it - how did you say - when your cock was inside of mine?”

Yes, okay, that seals it. Shane is dead and buried, in fucking hell - and Ilya Rozanov was Satan roaming the earth and leading Shane into temptation this entire goddamned time.

He remembers his resolve, and with an inhale of oxygen, responds with:

“Yes.”

Firmly. Assertively. Like he fucking means it!

Apparently that’s a - thing, or something - for Ilya, because his breath hitches again, and Shane only just catches the word he slides underneath the cover of that exhale, carefully, like he’s trying to get it out without Shane actually noticing.

“Fu-uck.”

Clocking that little slip feels akin to winning a face-off, actually.

And now Shane’s found the motivation to put his entire bussy into this dalliance. 

Wait, or is it - boy-pussy? He can’t quite recall the appropriate slang for this term that he recently discovered while scrolling around on urban dictionary dot com for um, his own self-edification (by ‘edification,’ Shane means research for ‘Speaking Sexy,’ a discarded step of the Shane Hollander Tampa Bay Weekend Beat Sheet, a Surefire Way to Bag Ilya Rozanov in 15 Easy Steps).

Anyway, Shane decides to rephrase, just in case.

So now he’s determined to put his entire Hollander into this little dalliance.

No Junior.

“I was dreaming about being inside of your dick,” he says bravely - and the reward is immediate, Ilya’s groan reverberating through the tunnel of Shane’s inner ear and ricocheting deliciously off of his eardrum. “And I woke up soaking wet,” Shane adds, which doesn’t even feel like dirty talk. It’s a mere observation. Perhaps even an innate and cardinal truth.

Ilya’s dick - exists; ergo, Shane Hollander - wet.

“Fucking, hell, Hollander.” Ilya’s syllables are quite literally unraveling, one by one, the final ‘r’ of Shane’s last name dangling like the end of a string from his tongue. 

Though Ilya seemingly manages to pick up the various remnants of his discarded composure from where they’re lying on his hotel room floor, because he adds:

“We are doing that again, right away, when I see you next.”

“Yes,” is Shane’s response. He’s getting so good at this mantra.

“And then I am going to - lick every part of you.” Ilya says. 

This statement is - slightly distracting on multiple levels (including the one where Shane’s hamster gremlin brain is trying to decide if it's hot or gross to be picturing Ilya licking the tip of Shane’s elbow. Or maybe - his toes? Shane’s not sure if he wants that. But perhaps he should be willing to try anything once, in this new Year of Yes.)

Thankfully, Ilya resets Shane’s expectations regarding his potential future stint as an anatomically diverse human popsicle by adding:

“I’m going to suck your cock, your balls, your hole. Is that okay?” 

“F-fuck, fuck, yes, that’s okay,” Shane manages, his hand remembering it has - fucking work - to do, and his thoughts go blessedly blank.

“And then you are going to come for me,” Ilya’s voice wraps a bow on this gift, and Shane does - exactly that.

“Y-y-y-es,” he draws out his new go-to word as he fills his own fist, stomach, and belly button with a lot more come than there should be, considering this is now his third time achieving this specific state in the space of twenty-four hours.

Based on the breathy sounds emanating from the other end of the line, Ilya’s not far behind him. 

Shane’s phone dings, and he has to fight the urge to slam it on the bed when he looks at the screen - because somehow between getting both of them off, Ilya’s also managed to snap a photo of the mess painting the ridges of his abs. 

And now that picture is hanging out in Lily and Jane’s text message chain like a prized Monet on the walls of the fucking Louvre.

Not to be outdone, Shane snaps a photo of his own - body of work (covering a private chuckle at the mental turn of phrase). He allows himself a brief moment to admire the captures side by side, like they are a perfectly painted pair - one completing the other.

Then, he quickly says into the phone:

“Don’t forget to delete that. After.”

“I know,” Ilya says. His voice sounds - a little bit sad.

Shane catches the tonal shift and leans back against his pillow, dragging a hand through his hair - because that slight bite of melancholy coloring Ilya’s syllables mirrors the ache in his chest at the imminent separation already sharpening the blurred lines of their Florida existence.

It’s going to feel weird, walking out of his hotel room door tomorrow in Columbus and knowing Ilya won’t be in the same vicinity. 

The blood appears to have redistributed from Shane’s groin to his brain, because he suddenly says into the phone:

“I have an idea.”

“Of course you do,” Ilya says with a small chuckle - though the laugh is a little quieter, a little heavier than the bright ones that Shane’s had the privilege to witness bubbling from Ilya’s lips all weekend.

“We should um, do this. The phone things and - uh, stuff. Maybe even - video stuff?” Shane can feel his neck flushing, all the way to the tips of his ears, but he presses forward with the thought. “Over the next two months, until Montreal plays Boston.”

“Hm,” Ilya draws out. “Could be fun. And text things and stuff?”

Shit. Shane’s not - that good at the text stuff, honestly. Clearly, based on what happened just now, he’s a quick study with the phone. He’s also pretty sure the video version of what they were doing will be even easier (like watching porn, but the porn is - Ilya. Pretty much the dream, honestly). But something about actually typing out the ‘sexy words’ presents a Shane-specific hurdle - hell, he has a hard enough time writing and then not deleting non sexy messages, as it is. Shane’s definitely not sure how that slightly weird bit of his brain is going to deal with writing and not deleting the explicit variety.

But he is Shane Hollander, and he is not backing down from a challenge. Also, telling Ilya anything other than ‘yes’ would be to go against Shane’s new mantra, as he is now locked in, clocked in, and ready to execute this Year of Yes thing with flawless precision, for the remainder of the year. Twenty-four-seven-three-six-five, as Hayden would say.

So he responds in the affirmative and tries to feel confident about his future being rife with - sexy text missives. Barbs of verbal virility. Erogenous electronic notifications.

There’s a knock on the door. What the fuck?

“I’ll be right back,” Shane says into the phone, scrambling for a towel to wipe himself off.

Fucking shit. Was Shane too loud? These hotel walls are probably tissue-paper thin. It’s possible he and Ilya accidentally added a three-way caller to their little tryst. Shane frantically tries to remember what teammates were supposedly staying on this floor as his brain starts to send out panic alarms. Mayday, mayday. Noise violation of the sexy variety and the punishment? 

A buzz of anxiety intertwined with the heavy anvil of shame, the combination making it difficult for Shane’s lungs to fully inflate.

He throws on a white cotton t-shirt and pulls his pajama pants back up mid-stride as he bolts towards the door, tugging the handle open with a gulp to reveal -

The Russian devil incarnate himself, leaning in Shane’s doorway with a smirk on his face.

The sight of him is another masterpiece for the consideration of those imaginary art museum curators currently adjusting the frames of Shane and Ilya's bespoke post-orgasm selfies on the fake Louvre's nonexistent walls.

Ilya is dressed in a black sleeveless hoodie, biceps on prominent muscled display. A black backwards baseball cap covers his bevy of curls, though a few stray ones escape at the sides, their soft curves breaking up the rigidity of Ilya’s frame. His hand rests on the handle of a black rolling carry-on bag at his side and one finger of the other is pressed to the furl of his lips in a ‘shh’ gesture.

Shane’s never been so jealous of a single, solitary digit. 

“Hollander, you left your wallet at the pool. I am bringing it back to you before your flight - so you can actually get on your flight,” he says loudly, as two strangers pass behind him in the hallway. “You should not be so careless, da?”

Shane glowers at him, but then the people are out of sight - and Ilya slides past the door, closing it quickly behind them before planting his lips on Shane’s and immediately kissing him breathless - and fucking hell, Shane missed this, already.

“You didn’t have to make me look like the irresponsible one,” Shane mutters against his lips finally, as he feels Ilya ending the kiss. Suddenly Shane doesn’t want him to pull away, and he wraps his hands around the back of Ilya’s head, keeping Ilya’s mouth pressed against his for one more, just one more, and maybe another, another, and another.

Ilya is smiling when they finally break apart. “True. I am the irresponsible one, clearly.” He gestures to their current surroundings. “I - uh,” the small flicker of earnestness in Ilya’s eyes hammers at Shane’s heart, cracking it just a smidge. “Missed your - good mouth.” His grayish-green gaze darts down to the tops of his shoes as he adds, quietly: 

“So I am here to say goodbye to it, one more time.”

Shane fucking gives him that ‘good mouth’ again immediately, kissing Ilya even hungrier, deeper, more desperate. Like he doesn’t want to let him go.

Because he doesn’t. He drops his arms from the jut of Ilya’s jaw to his waist, circling it and then pulling him in closer, cradling his body against his own in a tentative hug. Ilya’s arms hesitate for only a brief moment before they close around him, tightening. He exhales softly into Shane’s shoulder.

Shane absolutely doesn’t fucking sniffle. The room must be - dusty. Sandy. Whatever.

“Hey,” Ilya says quietly. “Hey, hey. Shane. Two months will be quick.” He tilts Shane’s chin up with the point of his finger, and Shane sees the quiet sadness he feels reflected in the glimmers of light shining at the epicenter of Ilya’s pupils - and just - fuck. 

How is this so much harder than it used to be?

Before, at least Shane could - convince himself. That he wouldn’t miss Ilya. He’d throw himself into working out, residing at the gym and occupying his brain with the rigidity of weekly meal planning - content to be satiated by the occasional text or glimpse of press streaming on YouTube after a Raiders game.

Now? Shane’s starting to miss him already, and Ilya’s still standing in front of him while gazing intently at Shane’s face, like he’s counting Shane’s freckles with his eyes. Shane raises a hand to his jaw, tracing the sharp jut of bone with his thumb, and Ilya’s expression goes dreamy. 

And fucking hell, Shane just wants him to stay.

As if he can yet again read Shane’s thoughts through the windows of his gaze, Ilya says - apologetically: 

“My flight leaves in an hour,” - words that immediately make Shane’s chest seize up, and not only because they are a portent of their imminent separation.

“Jesus fucking Christ, go get in your cab!” he yips, now practically pushing Ilya towards the door despite every cell in his body screaming in protest against his physical departure. 

No matter how intimately Shane knows Ilya’s form, mannerisms, and quirks, after all of these years - the one thing that remains a full-on mystery and always will - is the concept of Ilya Rozanov’s fucking airport habits. “They don’t even let you check a bag if you get there less than 45 minutes before boarding!” Shane chides, shuddering at the very idea of arriving any later than his firmly delineated two-to-two-and-a-half hours before.

Ilya directs his gaze at his carry-on with a glimmer of amusement lining his features. “I am not checking a bag.” He pauses, running his hands down Shane’s arms, softly - and then brushes a thumb across Shane’s jaw. “But it is nice that you worry.” His eyes are possibly glistening.

Then, with that unexpected tender admission, one final kiss on the mouth, and a murmur of “sext me later,” into the curve of Shane’s ear - Ilya Rozanov slides out the door of room 801, leaving Shane to pack up his things with blossoming warmth in his chest and the cut of a sharply aching heart.

Lily: Shane Hat Trick Hollander. not bad.
Jane: Thanks. Two goals is almost as good ;) 
Lily: see it is you that is asshole. I tell everyone this all the time.
Jane: So you like talking about me?
Lily: 🙄
Lily: are you in your hotel?
Jane: Yeah, just got ready for bed
Lily: 🙃
Jane: You're insufferable
Lily: I do not know that word. But I am another one like it. Suffering? Big Roz is lonely 🙁
Jane: I can call you?
Lily: ugh no Marley is passed out on my floor
Lily: he went out and came in here to tell me about his boring night
Lily: then he fucking fell asleep like an idiot. now i am stuck with him here
Lily. But you can send me a sext
Jane: Ilya, wtf
Jane: I can’t sext you while Marlow’s on your FLOOR? 
Jane: That’s like voyeurism or something.
Lily: I do not know this word either. One moment please
Lily: okay that is not voyeurism. Also, voyeurism is actually a thing that you like 
Jane: If you elaborate on that goddamned sentence I am blocking your number.
Lily: 😓
Jane: Just go to bed. You’re tired. We didn’t get a lot of sleep. 
Lily: hmmm i think you are scared to sext me tonight because you think you are bad at it
Jane: i am not scared or fucking bad at it!
Lily: I did not say you are bad at it. i said you think so
Jane: I’ll sext you tomorrow ok????
Lily: okay. Goodnight 
Jane: Goodnight
Lily: if you end up fuck-dialing me i would not be upset
Jane: holy fucking shit go the fuck to bed ‘Lily’

February 2017 - Columbus Airport

Shane stares at the screen of his phone with a frown, glaring at the text message app that now has somehow become more of an archrival to him than Ilya Rozanov has ever fucking been.

Jane: Do you want to see my dick? [unsent]

He sighs, deleting this now third iteration of the promised sexy message to Ilya he’d been trying to send all morning, ever since he got up at the ass crack of dawn to catch his flight back to Montreal. Unfortunately the discarded ‘Sexy Speak’ spreadsheet that was cut from Shane’s Tampa Bay Beat Sheet 15-point plan has now failed him a second time (with cruel and portentous reminder of why he had jettisoned that particular step in the first place).

The written word simply is not Shane Hollander’s medium, it appears.

Maybe he could - find some examples on the internet to copy paste into his texts. 

(Shamefully, when it comes to impressing Ilya with his sexting prowess, it appears Shane’s not really above a little dabbling in casual plagiarism.) 

He tries to think about where sexy things ‘live’ online, and suddenly remembers a conversation he had with Rose the other day about some fans doing something called ‘shipping’ with her X Games character, and writing - sexy stories about them? On some mysterious website the name of which Shane can’t currently recall.

Shane: Hey, can you remind me of that website where they were doing sexy stuff with your character? 
Rose: …..Only Fans? Cameo?
Shane: Your CHARACTER, Rose. Not you. 
Shane: Wait since when do you have an Only Fans?!
Rose: It’s not me, it’s a drag impersonator. 
Shane: it’s a what
Rose: It’s so fucking hot I’m a card carrying subscriber. Like it’s me, but BETTER. My dopplebanger. You should check her out! I’ll send you a -
Shane: Rose. Focus? Website. Stories. Sexy stories. The written kind.
Rose: Ohhhhhh hahahahah ShANEY you should have said sexy STORIES. Goof.
Rose: It’s called archive of our own. ao3. Oh! Wait they have some of you on there. Ill send you links
Shane: What. what do you mean they have some of me on there?
Rose: hockey rpf!
Shane: sorry are those letters supposed to be a sneeze? A fart?
Rose: oh my god Shane. What am I going to do with you? RPF = real people fiction. So stories shipping people WITH you
Rose: maybe i shouldnt send those to you actually. You will probably have a panic attack
Shane: Rosaline Victoria Landry. 
Rose: ew not my full government name. ugh ok fine hold on. Let me find one that wont freak you out
Shane: there are ones out there that would freak me out?!?!?!
Rose: Shane. Jesus Christ you panic more than a field mouse running from a chicken hawk
Shane: That was highly specific.
Rose: ….it was maybe in a fic i read earlier
Shane: who was the chicken hawk in this scenario
Rose: um
Rose: no one you know! Definitely not! Just like. An original scary looking dark-blond-feathered bird character with a super hot accent who likes to chirp everyone on the other team! 
Rose: I mean the other flock! And he’s in love with the anxious field mouse and wants to take him back to his nest and devour him. Carnally. It’s like uhhhh a story of, you know, unlikely animals being friends. And like, eating each other. But it’s sexy. You know?
Shane: I do not believe I know, no.
Rose: Anyway here’s one with more fluff. And less vore
[link]

Shane: what in the fuck is vore
Rose: uhhhh never mind. Just don’t search that tag!
Shane: Rose. this link. why is this. This says um. What 
Rose: uh oh, i think i broke ya. It’s hot, Shane! Give it a chance!
Jane: ROSE WHAT IS A SHAYDEN
Rose: shhhhh dont worry about that part. 
Rose: Alright fine fine fine i will send you another just dont read too much into it okay? People are obsessed with the two of you because you’re both hot and you know, often televised together, and it means nothing. It’s just a story.
[link]

Shane sighs, and gives the first link a chance like Rose asked - because Year of Yes is an equal opportunity initiative, and this includes reading new ‘sexy stories.’ He reads a few paragraphs, immediately slightly confused on how - all of this is supposed to work.

It would be helpful to have a glossary defining some of these dynamics. But hell, what does Shane know? Maybe the lack of knowledge going in is what makes this so hot. 

He keeps reading.

Okay, this is so not hot?! 

Well, to be honest, even from the jump - and despite Shane’s lack of foundation - the writing is - pretty hot. Shane mostly can’t find the first story fully sexy because for some reason the author has partnered Shane with - his actual, very much platonically so, best friend. As much as he loves Hayden Pike, he is definitely not trying to fuck him. Like, ever. So the sex scenes are - a little hard to picture. He’s not judging! It’s just not his flavor. He decides not to finish it, and closes out the tab. 

He pulls up the second story which features…

Shane getting knocked up by none other than Ilya Rozanov.

Okay. Well. It still feels a little - different than what Shane would um, consider to be ‘hot.’

But maybe this one he will read. For Science.

It actually is pretty hot. Shane’s pants are feeling slightly uncomfortable towards the end, even. Because he absolutely sort of devours the entire thing.

Carnally. Like that chicken hawk Rose mentioned.

So perhaps this is a trend he wasn’t aware of and - hell, if it’s considered hot, Ilya certainly knows about it. Ilya knows everything ‘hot.’ So - Shane decides to just - say ‘Yes’ - not only to leaving a little heart that is very adorably called ‘kudos’ on the sexy story, but also to the text he drafts, one which he quickly sends while trying not to overthink things too much.

Jane: get me pregnant
Lily: what?

Despite Ilya’s response being practically immediate - that - did not seem to jog any recollection whatsoever of the sexy thing Shane is attempting to reference. He clearly needs to commit to this more. Be - direct! He chews on his lip and tries again.

Jane: fuck me using my slick
Jane: im just happy to be under the alpha getting railed like the omega

The little dots on his phone skitter for a moment, looking entirely confused.

Lily: Hollander
Lily: Are you feeling okay?

Shit okay, maybe Ilya - is not familiar with the fucking omegaverse. Danger, Shane Hollander. Reroute.

Jane: oh hahahah jesus i’m sorry
Jane: left my phone at TSA someone was probably messing around with it
Lily: You left your phone at TSA? Unlocked? You??
Jane: Yup! Boarding now gotta go!

This is a lie - Shane still has at least an hour before boarding (because he arrived at the airport two-point-five hours before that time, per his typical regimen).

So, now he’s back to square one in the process, relegated once more to the use of a Google search bar in hopes he can come up with a combination of key words that will unlock this magical secret to the art of the sext.

Perhaps Canada Actor Man is a good resource.

This is a great idea, actually! Canada Actor Man carried Shane through this entire past weekend, like his own special pocket life-sherpa-slash-yoda aspirational kind of guy.

So maybe he - or, more accurately - his content (Shane’s not parasocial enough to think he can just - slide into the dude’s DMs and get a response, of course) will have some examples of sexy things to text Ilya.

Shane opens his web browser and goes down the proverbial rabbit hole.

What he finds are…well, there are some useful phrases. Others are - potentially borderline unhinged? Though kind of in a good way, and a small part of Shane feels a modicum of genuine pride seeing a man who looks like him grab life by the horns with zest, courage, and radical authenticity.

If anyone would support Shane’s Yes Year? It would absolutely be Canada Actor Man.

Shane also feels very compelled to revamp his entire skin care routine (which currently consists of water on his face and some Jergens body lotion (also on his face if needed)), because one of the resources he comes across is Canada Actor Man’s highly rated ‘five minute’ skin regimen (despite the actual demonstrative video being 19 minutes and 39 seconds in length). 

Shane does love a good step-by-step plan. And whatever Canada Actor Man’s doing must work, because he does have great skin.

What Shane doesn’t have? The time to watch this nearly twenty-minute long video, so he adds the tab and moves on. The next YouTube clip informs him that Canada Actor Man may also be familiar with the omegaverse. Or, at least he ‘likes the animal thing, when you’re acting to use the animal stuff’ and pretending to be a ‘little scrappy coyote that just wanted to hump.’

Shane knew that shit was sexy. Look at that, he’s even more advanced than Ilya in the realm of sexy things. Take that, Rozanov!  

He pastes a few choice ‘hot’ statements that appear to be pertinent into his notes app and opens up his messages, deciding he’s just - going to copy paste everything like an avalanche, line by line - hitting Ilya with all of it to see what sticks. 

Spaghetti thrown at a wall, if anyone wants food-friendlier metaphors for this haphazard plan.

Jane: Hi it’s me
Lily: Hi, I know. How was boarding?
Jane: Oh false alarm! It was the gate next door. Just got paranoid!
Lily: You almost boarded the wrong plane? You??
Jane: Yeah I must be having an off day. But listen
Jane: What about this back being fucking broken
Lily: What the fuck
Jane: Yeah, some asssssisting. What about some kitchen sex. Let’s just bring some props in.
Lily: Hollander, is your phone still “with TSA”
Jane: My god is this hole getting fucked up
Lily: Shane. 
Lily: Wait, what hole? Getting fucked up by who?
Jane: Spit in my mouth.

Lily is typing…..

Lily: ok well. Maybe. But also what the fuck is this? Are you kidnapped? Blink twice
Jane: sexy, horny, jizzy

Suddenly Shane’s phone starts to ring, the name ‘Lily’ appearing on the screen.

Fuck. 

Shane sighs and hits the green button to answer the call.

“Shane,” Ilya says into his ear, his voice feeling like an actual goddamned balm. “Or - stranger who has stolen Shane’s phone? Please confess to your crime if you did so.”

Goddammit.

“No, it’s me,” Shane says grumpily. He considers whether he can blame this entire unfortunate situation on autocorrect. 

Probably not.

“I was just um, trying out - some new material.”

There’s a small pause on the other end of the line. “Like, sexy material?” Ilya says, and Shane can hear him doing his best to keep the laugh out of his voice.

“Fuck you,” he says miserably.

“I think maybe you are just - trying too hard,” Ilya says, tone more careful. “This ‘material’ does not sound like you.”

“I was just throwing spaghetti, you know - seeing what stuck,” Shane tries to explain, and fucking hell - even that doesn’t make any goddamn sense.

Ilya is quiet for a moment. “Okay, well - thank you for pasta.” He says, voice tenderly teasing. “You know that you can just text me like yourself. With the thoughts in your own head. Not those you find on Google.”

Which is - entirely an accurate callout, but honestly also really fucking sweet. Cute, even. Making Shane feel a little gooey inside.

Until Ilya absofuckinglutely ruins it by adding cheerfully:

“But it is nice to know I am better at sexting than you.”

“Says fucking who?” Shane barks out immediately, competitive nature triggered and ready to roar.

“Says my text messages? The ones I just got?” Ilya says with a little laugh. 

“Oh, fuck off Rozanov. Think you can do better?” 

“Oh - I know so,” Ilya retorts firmly.

“Fucking prove it then,” Shane says - and then he hangs up the phone.

He immediately feels bad for doing that and picks it up to call Ilya back, but then dots start skittering across the screen, in a somehow - more sinuous, more twisty, more sensual dance. 

What the fuck?

Lily: I want my dick down your throat.

Shane immediately flips the phone screen face down on his leg, blushing furiously.

It buzzes again. Then again, and again - a total of five more separate times before it finally stops. Shane takes a chokey little breath before glancing around to make sure no one is within reading distance - and flips the screen back over.

Lily: You suck my cock so fucking good
Lily: Are you thinking about it? My hand on the back of your neck
Lily: How my balls feel slapping your chin
Lily: I'm thinking about you saying my name with my dick in your mouth now. I like that, too. I can feel it on me, all over 
Lily: fuck, just thinking about that has me wanting to come

And now Shane is also wanting to come, and - goddammit to all fucking hell.

He glances at the remaining items in his notes app - and - with all due respect to Canada Actor Man, while ‘Call an orthodontist. Someone’s teeth about to be rocked out of their skull’ and ‘clean that chute’ may actually work for this particular sexting scenario, Shane does not think they’re going to top whatever else Ilya’s got up his sleeve. 

Because while sexting is more foreign to Shane than even Russian, Rozanov is clearly a native speaker in both. Fluent.

No accent.

Something primordial curls within the center of Shane’s gut in response to that thought, arising from his very bones like a warrior readying for battle. 

No. This is not happening. Shane is absolutely not losing to Ilya in a fucking - sexting competition. He will - take a class or something. Surely there are resources for this? Like Duolingo, but filthier?

(***author’s note: Duolingo After Dark is actually a great business idea. Please leave a comment if you would like to invest. Carrying on-)

Jane: Fuck you, Rozanov.
Lily: Mmm, later. If you want, we can video. ;)
Lily: Though I did just come thinking about your mouth.
[IMG_1719]

Godfuckingmotherfuckerdammit.

Shane rolls his eyes as if he’s not absolutely going to Face Time Ilya the moment he gets to his Montreal apartment door. 

He maybe also decides not to delete this photo of Ilya’s perfect abs drizzled in come to the point that they’re dripping like the ridges of a fresh-from-the-oven cinnamon roll - quite as soon as he should.

For Science.

Then he opens his browser and types in the words ‘sexting coaching’ into the Google search bar.

The first few hits are blurred out video reels Shane’s too terrified to open in public at the airport.

But finally he sees something promising on Craigslist.com.

Johnny Big Bravo, Professor of Sextuality. Virtual coaching for reasonable fee. Serious inquiries only - email [email protected] with a summary of your sexting needs and I will send you a quote

Normally Shane wouldn’t do something this reckless, stupid, and impulsive.

But this is the Year of Yes. 

And also the year Shane takes the concept of sexting and Hollanders the fuck out of that shit. He’s going to become an expert.

A sextpert, even. A sext champion. Point is, he’s going to kick Rozanov’s ass.

He opens up his email and begins to type.

February 2017 - Montreal

“Shane, are you sure this is safe?” Rose frowns from her perch on Shane’s couch, her fresh manicure circling the glass bottle of Michelob Ultra she’s sipping through the grimace of clear distaste on her face at its contents.

 “You know I have regular beer,” Shane says with an eyeroll. 

“I can’t have that. Also why do you have beer, regular or otherwise?” 

Shane blushes. “For that um, guy I hang out with,” he mumbles, gaze suddenly very pointed at the screen of his laptop, where a countdown clock informs him that his first meeting with Johnny Big Bravo, PHD will begin in five minutes and forty-nine seconds.

He hasn’t told Rose about Ilya directly, but he had made her aware there was - someone, when he’d finally caved and called her to ask for direct moral support on this ‘sextcapade’ (Rose’s word for it, not Shane’s).

Of course, Rose had insisted on providing that support in person, flying into Montreal that morning. 

She's more than supportive right now - in fact, she’s practically squee-ing. “You’re keeping drinks at your place for him?! Oh this is serious, serious.”

“Shut up,” Shane mutters. “It is fucking not. I just figured sometimes he may want something not Coke,” he pauses and quickly clarifies, “Coke, like the drink.”

“You also keep Coke here for him?” Rose’s ‘squee’ doubles in volume. “And duh, Shane, I know he doesn’t do drugs. You would only date a nice boy.”

“We’re not dating,” Shane mumbles, trying not to smile discreetly while thinking about the not-so-nice things Ilya had whispered in his ear over the phone just the evening before, reducing Shane to a whimpering puddle both literally and figuratively, hence why his sheets are currently still in the washing machine upstairs.  

“Whatever. If you aren’t officially dating, you’re like - one half-step away from it, obviously.” Rose is frowning again, this time her disgruntled expression directed at Shane’s laptop. “That’s why I still think all of this is silly. I’m sure this mystery man would be happy with any “sext” you send.” She uses actual, physical finger quotes to punctuate exactly how ridiculous she considers this entire situation to be.

“I already told you - in a very vulnerable moment - about the prior conversation I had with him, one that I’d like for you to please stop making memes about - that proves this theory very wrong,” Shane retorts. He fiddles with the coaster on the coffee table nervously.

There’s a little thunk as Rose sets down her beer and slides in next to him, patting his back. “Okay, okay. I just made those as a reminder that you shouldn’t take yourself - or this - so seriously. Sexting should be fun! Also you like each other, right? Any sext from someone you like is a turn-on.” She pokes her finger into Shane’s side, making him yip a little. “Well, if you send them as yourself, not as ‘omega Shane’ or that hot actor dude you have a weird parasocial hyperfixation with.”

“It’s a totally normal parasocial hyperfixation,” Shane retorts (though come to think of it, he did wake up yesterday morning to a delivery of four print magazines he absolutely does not recall ordering, all with Canada Actor Man gracing the cover).

“Mhhmmm,” Rose murmurs, her opalescent fingernail nonchalantly tapping the cover of one of those very magazines, that - fuck, Shane must have forgotten to slide that into the kitchen drawer where the rest currently reside. Rose’s expression softens slightly. “He is handsome. And talented. And I’m sure it’s nice, having someone like yourself in that same public eye.” She brightens. “Oh, you guys should do like - a charity thing together! I bet my agent could reach out and-”

“Oh Jesus god, no,” Shane shakes his head firmly, cheeks flushing just a tiny bit. “Please don’t do that. I’m good. It’s good. All good.”

Just the mere idea of meeting Canada Actor Man in person actually has Shane’s pulse ratcheting to a fritz, which is not something he needs right before this introductory session with the coach who is absolutely going to transform Shane’s sad little sexting life into one of a champion, thank you very much.

Rose holds up both palms in defeat while muttering, “Right. Totally not weird parasocial hyperfixation. Got it.”

Thankfully (or not so thankfully?) for Shane, the computer screen chimes like a doorbell at that very moment, filling up with a still image of a very attractive man with feathered light brown locks and piercing blue eyes.

“Patrick Swayze?!” Rose says incredulously. “What the fuck is this?”

The lilting opening notes of (I’ve Had) The Time of My Life drift from the audio speakers, and suddenly an ‘i-message request’ pops up over Swayze’s 2-D cerulean gaze.

“Shane, do not open that,” Rose says. “Considering you found this - Johnny Big Bravo on Craigslist and now he’s not even showing you a real face? And using instant messenger? This is absolutely a scam.”

She’s probably right. This looks - shady as shit, and Shane should not be participating in it. He’s about to close his laptop when his phone buzzes from its spot on the couch next to Shane’s right thigh.

Lily: Sext me later? I’ll be waiting.
Lily: And naked.

Fucking hell.

Shane opens the message request as Rose drags a hand over her face with a stifled groan.

“Tell me you at least used a fake name,” she mutters.

“He signed an NDA! It’s part of his - onboarding procedures,” Shane bites out, focusing his eyes on the screen - because no, he was so eager to get this sexting advice from this faceless man on the internet, that he stupidly, very stupidly, did not use a fake name.

Well, maybe this ‘doctor’ didn’t look at the paperwork too closely. He’ll probably call Shane - patient number 67, or something.

bigJBB69: Shane Hollander

Fucking hell. “There’s an NDA,” Shane repeats - not sure if he’s doing it for Rose’s benefit or for his own. He takes a breath, thinking Year of Yes to his already panicking brain.

ShaneHollz24: Yes, that’s me. Dr. Bravo?
bigJBB69: Please, just Dr. JB is fine. I hope this format is okay. It is my preferred medium of communication and also a Scientifically Proven way to get you more comfortable using the written word. Please confirm you are comfortable.
ShaneHollz24: Um yeah. Totally comfortable

What Shane actually is - is a total fucking liar.

bigJBB69: You sound like it for sure! Are you ready to have the time of your life, Shane Hollander?

Rose has both her hands over her face and is rocking on the couch tersely, muttering something about how all men are absolute idiots.

ShaneHollz24: Yup. Sure thing.
bigJBB69: Very good, Shane Hollander! And just so you know I take privacy very seriously. All that we say is just between you and me. On top of the legal papers we also have the doctor-patient privilege. But I am sure your lawyers explained this to you.

Yes, the lawyers Shane never even consulted with, absolutely - explained that to him.

Fuck. Shane’s starting to realize that when it comes to anything even remotely Ilya-adjacent he is possibly growing a little more reckless than he has ever been before.

Still, Dr. JB’s words feel a little bit comforting, at least.

ShaneHollz24: I understand. Thank you for confirming all of that.
bigJBB69: Wonderful! It is best if you feel open to sharing with me, otherwise things tend to get - complicated. Shall we begin?
ShaneHollz24: Sure. Sounds good.
bigJBB69: Fantastic! So the very first key to sexting is you must draw from within.
ShaneHollz24: Within? 
bigJBB69: Yes. From within yourself.

Well fuck. 

ShaneHollz24: yeah so that’s the part im not very good at
bigJBB69: This surprises me. I have seen many pictures of yours and you are very sexy.

“Jesus Christ, Shane. Close your computer, this guy is absolutely on some type of list, or like - feeding information to the paparazzi," Rose exclaims, crossing her arms.

“There. Is. An NDA, Rose,” Shane mutters.

bigJBB69: I mean that in an objective way. I am straight. Love women. But of course, I am also a fierce friend to the gays, too.
ShaneHollz24: An ally, you mean?
bigJBB69: Yes, exactly, an ally. I have helped many different types of people achieve their sexting dreams. Like my favorite actor says, I am here for “the fellas, and the girl fellas, and all the other kinds of fellas.”

There’s only one actor who has made a statement like this, and Shane knows this because he has - kind of, maybe, definitely - consumed his entire body of work, be it short student films or interview clips on YouTube.

ShaneHollz24: Oh, he’s my favorite actor, too!

Rose is pacing behind the couch, furiously typing something on her phone. Shane looks up at her in warning. “I am just reminding you that you said you would be supportive.”

She rolls her eyes. “I am being supportive! I’m just sharing my location with Miles so he knows to alert the cops if it changes without warning, because what you are doing is absolutely the cold open to a kidnapping plot. Trust me, I’d know.”

bigJBB69: Yes, he is very handsome and talented. But let’s talk about someone who I am sure is even more handsome, or perhaps - pretty - the person you are wanting to sext? 

Shit. Shane hadn’t thought this far out, because obviously - NDA or not, he can’t tell this actual stranger that the person (who is both handsome and pretty, somehow) he is wanting to sext is a Russian hockey player named Ilya Rozanov. Or even - a man, period, considering this ‘Dr. JB’ has ‘seen many pictures’ of Shane’s and clearly knows who he is.

His gaze goes back to the name still lighting up his phone.

ShaneHollz24: Um yeah. Her name is Lily. 
bigJBB69: Oh that is a very nice name. 
bigJBB69: Tell me more about this Lily so I can better help you sweep her off of her feet and into the bedroom.
ShaneHollz24: She’s pretty. Handsome, too. Kind of both? Very athletic, not a girly girl.
bigJBB69: What does she like?

Shane’s about to type 'hockey' when he realizes he - shouldn’t do that, probably. 

What does Ilya like? Riding Shane’s dick. Eating out Shane’s hole. Teasing Shane until he’s hard, and leaking, and ready to jump Ilya’s bones.

None of these seem…appropriate to be sharing with Dr. JB, or at the very least not fodder for an initial coaching session. 

First impressions are important.

Shane frowns, feeling kind of - bad that he doesn’t know more about Ilya’s proclivities outside of the bedroom and the hockey rink.

Suddenly two very contrasting things come to mind.

ShaneHollz24: Lily likes holding hands. And muscle cars.
bigJBB69: Well, that is a very well rounded sounding woman ;) Lucky you.
ShaneHollz24: The luckiest :) 

He typed and sent that without thinking, but seeing the admission written out in front of him makes Shane realize it’s actually very true. He does feel…pretty lucky, most of the time - despite the distance, and the hiding, and the still-slightly-nebulous nature of what he and Ilya have going on these days.

Rose has sat back down next to Shane, and he looks over to see her reading the screen with a small smile, her eyes looking just a tiny bit teary. She takes another sip of her Michelob Ultra before giving the top of his hand a quick squeeze.

“Happy for you, Shane-o.”

Shane nudges her with an elbow. “Thanks for being here. Even with the risk of kidnapping.” 

bigJBB69: Shane Hollander, I have brilliantly synergized your very first assignment. Your first step to the next chapter of the time of your life is about to begin! 
ShaneHollz24: Okay
bigJBB69: When you sext your lovely lady this evening, or night, or morning tomorrow, or all three if you really are feeling frisky ;) 
bigJBB69: I want you to sext her not speaking about body parts. You will use what is called a metaphor. Okay?
ShaneHollz24: Okay
bigJBB69: Very good, Shane! And the metaphor is going to be something she likes. Cars. What kind of car would you be if you were a car, Shane Hollander?

Shane glances at Rose with a what the fuck kind of look. She shrugs. “Listen, you either want me on board unconditionally or you want the voice of reason. I’m not doing both.” He sighs.

ShaneHollz24: Maybe a Honda Accord?
bigJBB69: No way! Think SEXY. Think fun! 
ShaneHollz24: Honda Accords are very practical! Great gas mileage.
bigJBB69: Does your girlfriend drive a Honda Accord?

Shane’s about to tell Dr. JB that ‘Lily’ isn’t his girlfriend, but then he realizes that clarification isn’t really - needed. And would probably draw some suspicion, because why wouldn’t ‘she’ be?

And maybe Shane also kind of likes the idea of pretending that Lily is his - girlfriend. Boyfriend. Whatever.

For all of the reasons above, he chooses not to correct the nomenclature.

ShaneHollz24: No, she likes sports cars. Fast ones. Flashy. She owns a few of them.
bigJBB69: A woman of taste! Okay, so I will rephrase my question. If you could be one of the cars your girlfriend drives, which one would you be?

Shane runs through the mental catalog of cars he knows are sitting in Ilya’s Boston garage as they speak. It’s not easy, but his mind finally pinpoints one that doesn’t feel too out of place to represent him.

ShaneHollz24: A Corvette, maybe? She has a red one.
bigJBB69: Perrrrrrfecto! Okay, so tonight when you text your girlfriend Lily, you will not use body parts. Instead you will use the metaphor of this little red Corvette. You will become the red Corvette, Shane Hollander. She can be the garage. She can be the driver. Whichever you prefer.
ShaneHollz24: Oh. Okay. I think I’d prefer the driver, not the garage.

“I am so stealing that analogy for my next boyfriend, who will inevitably leave me for a man,” Rose mutters from the couch, and suddenly Shane’s chest tightens, because fuck did he just - out himself to Dr. JB without meaning to?!

bigJBB69: Kinky! I’m certain that can be arranged in many ways ;) especially if you have toys at home you can use while you are sexting her

Whew. Thank God.

bigJBB69: Shane Hollander! Are! You! Ready!
ShaneHollz24: I think so
bigJBB69: No! More enthusiasm please! We do not go into the time of our life on the back of a small weenie whimper (unless it is one in the bedroom, of course ;)). We go kicking our feet and screaming our intentions! We rise up and we beat on our chests like King Kong and we say I AM GOING TO HAVE THE TIME OF MY LIFE!

Shane blinks at his screen. Rose is badly covering a snort-laugh.

bigJBB69: Are you doing it Shane Hollander? Are you screaming your intentions?
ShaneHollz24: um, yeah
bigJBB69: I do not think you are being honest with me, Shane Hollander. I am going to ask you again and you are going to tell me the truth. I will give you one minute first to do exactly what I described.

Rose is full-on cackling now as she rises to her feet. Shane gives her a puzzled glance. 

“Well, come on. He’s your coach now. Would you ignore your coach on the ice?”

“N-no,” Shane stammers. 

“Then you can’t ignore this one. I’ll do it with you. Because, supportive.” She boops Shane on the nose before pulling him upright.

Then they both beat on their chests like King Kong, screaming at the top of their lungs, “I AM GOING TO HAVE THE TIME OF MY LIFE!” - and collapse in a heap on the couch laughing so hysterically that Shane has to catch his breath before turning back to the screen.

bigJBB69: So Shane Hollander. I will ask you again. Are! You! Ready!
ShaneHollz24: I AM GOING TO HAVE THE TIME OF MY LIFE!
bigJBB69: So good. Perfectly done. I am proud of you. Now go forth! Report back to me in one week of your progress, and then I will have more homework to give you.

Shane drops Rose off at her hotel with promises of updates over brunch the following morning, his cell phone and Ilya’s still-unanswered text feeling like a burning ember in his pocket. He goes up to the bedroom when he gets home, but then realizes that just getting in bed - maybe feels a little? weird? - for 8 p.m. on a Saturday.

So then he decides to draw a bath. 

He texts Ilya back while the water fills up the tub.

Jane: vroom vroom

Oh god this is so fucking stupid.

Lily: Are you speaking car
Lily: My favorite language ;)

Okay. Well, maybe it’s not as stupid as Shane was thinking it would be.

Jane: Maybe I want you to ride me

Jesus. Shane feels his cheeks flush with heat. This is fine. Be the car. He’s not Shane, he’s - a Corvette. A sexy, shiny, red Corvette. And Ilya is - the driver.

Shane thinks about what they did in Tampa and decides perhaps there is also one singular scenario where he also wouldn’t mind Ilya being the garage.  

Lily: You know riding is one of my favorite things to do to you. 
Lily: Tell me more about it. How are your seats?

Ilya is absolutely fine being the driver tonight, apparently. Seats. Think ‘seats,’ Hollander.

Shane slides himself into the tub.

Jane: They’re warm. Supple. 
Lily: Leather? I like leather ;)
Jane: Yeah, leather. 

Shane takes a breath, half squinting his eyes at his screen as he tries not to think about the words he’s typing out as fast as a heart attack - hitting ‘send’ before he chucks his phone in the bathwater out of sheer embarrassment of actually sitting here and writing shit like this down.

Jane: You can stroke the leather if you want
Lily: Fuck yeah I want, I’m stroking it now. It’s so soft
Jane: It’s hard actually. Now

Because it is, Shane’s cock bopping up pertly in greeting under the water. He adjusts his body so he can text one-handed, arm resting on the edge of the tub, and grasps his dick with his free palm.

Lily: Fuck
Lily: me too. So hard. Are you stroking your seats now?
Jane: yeah
Jane: wish you were stroking them with me
Jane: are you
Jane: pressing my gas pedal?
Lily: fucking hell yes I can press your gas pedal
Jane: press it harder
Lily: i’m pressing it as hard as i can. Double the speed limit
Lily: fuck this is hot Shane

Holyfuckingshit this is working. This is actually working! Shane is going to have to send Dr. JB a singing telegram, or something. He searches his brain for more - vehicularly related sexy words.

Jane: My jets are so wet
Lily: Dripping with fuel
Jane: They would be dripping but I’m in the

He’s about to type ‘tub’ but remembers that he is the car.

Jane: I’m in the float chamber
Lily: So you are naked and COVERED in fuel?
Jane: that’s right
Lily: Fuck fuck fuck I need to see you

Shane wants to hit Face Time right then and there but the entire point of this homework is to keep it strictly sexty - and Shane is a man who follows the instructions as given.

He snaps a picture instead, angling it so Ilya can see Shane reclined in the tub, his hand on his dick under the clear, calm water.

Jane:
[IMG_240]
Lily: Holy fucking shit 
Lily: Fuck keep texting me I’m so close
Jane: Can you push the gas pedal harder
Lily: Fuck
Jane: Harder than that. Ride me off the road
Lily: I’m riding you into the goddamned mattress with my hand on your ass

And, okay, that’s a little bit outside of the metaphorical box - or automobile, in this instance - but Shane will allow it because his dick is twitching under the water like some sort of electric eel, and he can feel his balls drawing up, close to the brink.

Jane: My carburetor’s about to fucking spray
Lily: Fucking HELL Shane
Lily: Fuck. Im coming

And that, along with the glory of victory, has Shane diving over the edge of the tub, dick pulsing into the towel he folded up on the bathroom floor expressly for this purpose.

He sinks himself back into the water as his phone starts to ring.

“Fuck, Hollander.” Ilya’s voice is raspy. “Not bad, for first time.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Shane snaps out, but he’s smiling when he says it. 

“No, no, I am very impressed,” Ilya notes breathily. “Very good trick, pretending to be a car for me. What kind of car were you?”

“One of yours,” Shane says, and somehow it  no longer feels stupid, role playing as this inanimate object - because he can absolutely tell that Ilya’s still coming down from the high of his orgasm, which means - Shane did a pretty damn stellar job.

“Oh? I am surprised you didn’t pick something more ‘practical.’ Like maybe a Jeep.”

Shane abruptly wishes Ilya was sitting on the other side of the tub, specifically so he could splash the fucking menace in the face. 

And - okay, maybe for other, ehrm. Vehicular or non-vehicular reasons.

“I was a Corvette.”

“Ah. The red one. Sexy.” The purr on the other line sounds pleased. “You know what I like.”

Shane remembers his prior regret regarding this particular topic from the conversation he had with Dr. JB. “What do you like, actually? Other than cars.”

“Mmm. You. I like you,” Ilya says, and fuck Shane’s not going to cry - because Ilya hadn’t said that back to him, when Shane had let it drop like a grenade in Tampa. And now he’s saying it first.

“I like you, too,” he replies quietly, voice a little choked despite his best efforts.

“Good,” Ilya says. “What else do I like, hmm…dogs.”

A horrifying image of Dr. JB ordering Shane to get on all fours and text ‘Lily’ ‘woof, woof, biatch’ with his nose arises in Shane’s mind. Maybe he won’t - share this particular interest of Ilya’s at next week’s lesson. 

He refocuses on the current conversation. “Did you have a dog? When you were young?”

“Nyet,” Shane can hear the rustle of sheets as Ilya settles down, getting comfortable in his bed. “But there were many in my neighborhood. I will tell you story?”

“I’d like that,” Shane says softly. He leans back against the side of the tub, closing his eyes and letting the sound of Ilya’s voice envelop him, like they’re in the same room instead of apart with an entire country dividing them.

“When I was small, my best friend was a dog,” Ilya begins, his voice changing into that magical, lilting quality that flavors it whenever he talks about his memories.

The water is practically ice cold by the time the conversation ends and Shane heads to bed.

bigJBB69: Shane Hollander, your next sexy mission (and you will decide to accept it! Because I say so and I am your coach!) HAS ARRIVED!
ShaneHollz24: Okay
bigJBB69: Ahem. MORE ENTHUSIASM, PLEASE!
ShaneHollz24: I AM READY FOR MY ASSIGNMENT
ShaneHollz24: was that okay?
bigJBB69: Perfect, Shane Hollander. You are perfect. 
bigJBB69: OKAY! I want you to infuse your verbal communications with a little - visual touch. 
ShaneHollz24: Okay 
ShaneHollz24: I mean OKAY! LETS GO! 
bigJBB69: You are going to sext your girlfriend Lily a thirst trap. Get ready for your close-up.

February, 2017 - Dallas

Shane is committed to getting a gold star on his sext coaching homework (sentences he would not have pictured himself thinking a few months ago, by the way) - so when he spots a local photography store down the street from the team’s Dallas hotel, he pops in and buys a professional tripod for his phone camera immediately. He’s probably going to have to ship it home from Texas but fuck it - it’s worth it if it lands him a win.

They have pre-game practice in a few hours, but the particular bit of light shining through Shane’s hotel room window looks positively perfect for capturing a sexy little selfie - so he decides to get the ball rolling on this next step of his Plan to Become Sext-Master Supreme, God of the Key-boner. 

Fuck off, it’s a working title.

This is also perfect timing - because while Shane’s sharing a room with Hayden this weekend, the Pikes have second - or third? - cousins in Dallas, so Hayden flew down Jackie and his gaggle of Pike-lings who are understandably keeping him occupied and away from the room until after the game.

Shane adjusts the metal limbs of the tripod slightly, sets his phone in the cradle, and heads to the bathroom for what his ‘Director Shane’ brain is now calling ‘last looks.’

What? Shane’s been on enough commercial shoot sets. He knows the lingo, and he’s - as Ilya would say - ‘getting into the spirit,’ or whatever.

That ‘spirit’ currently being - location specific, Shane supposes - because what he is wearing for this sexy little selfie just happens to be a gallon-sized black cowboy hat he picked up at the Dallas airport gift shop. The only other thing Shane has on is a pair of briefs. 

Or - well, he should probably be calling them ‘panties,’ because they were purchased (discreetly!)  from the women’s section of HotTopic.com.

They’re not like - lacy or anything, they’re just smaller and higher cut than Shane’s general go-to collection of boxer briefs in various blah monochromatic shades that Ilya may have once jokingly referred to as ‘boring-gerie.’

These? These are more fun than a summer in Ottawa. They’re a bold red color and come equipped with a fun educational side perk - when Shane is wearing them, his ass cheerfully informs anyone privy to the view that today happens to be ‘Tuesday.’

It’s not Shane’s fault they don’t make ‘day of the week’ underwear for men, okay?

Just because some capitalist asshole decided that access to calendar-adjacent undergarments needs to be gendered does not mean that bone-headed move should create a hurdle for Shane owning a pair. Or a set, even. The entire week laid out in underwear form.

He also never forgets what day it is when he’s walking around with it printed on his butt, so really the cotton bits of cloth also exist for the purpose of keeping him aligned with his schedule.

Multitudes! These panties have everything.

Anyway, today they are also serving in a seriously solid side capacity of completing Shane’s sexty little thirst-trap photo shoot ‘lewk’ (as the youths say).

He adjusts the brim of his hat in the mirror before adding the final Texan touch - a soft black leather belt wrapped around the waistband of his underwear, over which he clips a square red enameled belt buckle proudly bearing the gleaming white silhouette of a rooster.

A ‘cock’ of a different nature, if you will. Because hiring a stylist has now taught Shane how to be even more secretly funny by way of accessorizing.

The fact that he’s also sporting Ottawa colors doesn’t escape him but hell, who is he at all if he isn’t proud to represent the city that boasts being ‘the birthplace of Shane Hollander’ on their social media pages because they love him so much?

“Let’s fucking go,” he says to his reflection, and walks out to bend and snap his way into giving Ilya a boner.

Wait, no. ‘Bend and snap’ isn’t right - hmm…pop, lock and drop it? Shake that ass, but watch yourself? Shane needs a little Rozanov by his side, a little bit of Ilya in his life (Jesus fucking Christ not another Mambo Number 5 reference, Hollander. What Shane actually needs to get that song surgically removed from his brain matter).

The bit of brain matter currently moonlighting as ’Director Shane’ reminds him of the style of his hat and the nature of his present location.

Right.

Time to saddle up and ride this horse down the old town road to Rozanov’s cock, balls, and taint.

Wait is it called a taint? When there's a dick? Or does...Ilya have - a daint? A caint?  A danus?

God. Okay, Shane really needs to get a goddamned freaking grip, here.

He makes sure his phone is sitting at the perfect camera angle, turns on the self-timer feature and then - kind of…stands there with his hands by his sides because he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be doing with them.

Director Shane suggests a little music to liven up the ambience. Though now that his phone is set up, Shane doesn’t really want to fuck around with it in case it messes up the settings. He glances around the room until his eyes land on a small black box sitting on the nightstand of the hotel room that plays the role of both radio and alarm clock. He switches it to ‘on,’ flipping the dial until he finds something non-staticky.

Of course it’s fucking Mambo Number 5. Because the universe is nothing if not a comedian.

We’re losing the light! Director Shane barks out sternly, and fine, okay, Shane will deal with striking sexy poses to the instructional dance stylings of one-hit wonder, Lou Bega.

He’s got this.

Lou Bega instructs Shane to ‘jump up and down and move it all around,’ so he sort of - wriggles his butt at the camera while twirling an invisible lasso with his hand.

Maybe that’s a bit too on the nose.

Shane puts down the nonexistent corded rope, and tries for an over the shoulder glance, tipping his hat with a finger and hmmm, maybe - flexing his ass and back muscles. That feels - okay? 

And if it looks like this, then you are doing it right, the voice on the radio croons.

Who knew Lou Bega was this affirming?

Feeling more confident, Shane swivels his hips along to the beat, turning himself so he’s fully facing the camera. His dick’s pretty - prominent in the thin cotton undies, and he decides to maybe center - not-Hollander-Junior-why-did-Shane-almost-call-him-that-fucking-fuck-you-Ilya. 

He cups his nameless dick in the palm of one hand and kind of - squeezes.

Trumpet, the trumpet - Lou Bega cautions from the radio.

Okay, maybe squeezing isn’t the right maneuver. Shane’s going for - sexy in an artistic way, not straight up pornographic. He lets his fingers relax, just slightly, and then trails a soft hand over his nipple, posing a few times while his fingertips continue that journey until they reach his navel.

He rests a hand lightly on the belt buckle and then does that ab-flexy thing Rose taught him, topping it off with a slightly bitchy pout, deciding that should give him enough camera roll footage to select his player(s).

A little bit of you makes me your man, Lou Bega sings supportively - and actually this song isn’t really that bad. Catchy, even. Shane lets Mr. Bega wrap it up before he turns the radio off and starts scrolling through the pictures.

There are a few that are understandably relatively unusable - but a great many more are surprisingly - not that bad! Perhaps Shane’s brand-endorsement side hustle has taught him a few new useful skills after all.

He should probably text Yuna and thank her -

Actually, ew, no. He absolutely should not. What’s Shane going to say? ‘Hi mom, I just wanted to tell you that I appreciate you getting me all of those deals. They really honed my posing skills. Because of that, and you - I now have forty-five photos in my camera roll of different angles of my ass. Oh, and I’m sending some of those to Ilya Rozanov. In a sexy way.’ 

Just - dude, where is this going? Back on task with you, chop-chop! (Thank you, Director Shane!)

Shane ends up selecting three pictures - the one with his butt showing and the over-the-shoulder hat tip, the one of his hand loosely cupping his cock under the belt buckle, and finally the ab-flexy thing with the pout (which he’s also absolutely sending to Rose accompanied by a text that says “The student has become the master!”).

Now he just has to figure out what sexts are accompanying the photos he’s directing at Ilya’s inbox.

The butt one sort of speaks for itself, so he opens with that, Director Shane astutely noting that it will ground Ilya in the setting and scene. 

Jane: Just a Tuesday.
[IMG_1122]

Boston must be finished with morning practice, because ‘Lily’ starts typing immediately.

Lily: Holy fucking what the fuck?
Lily: is this because of new stylist i am going to send him a thank you note
Lily: wait. Are you wearing this in PUBLIC
Jane: oh god no no 
Jane: this is just for you

That - came out a little less sexy and a little more ‘painfully earnest’ than Shane intended it to.

Jane: for your hot cock i mean
Jane: and aching balls

Jesus, what the fuck is Shane doing.

Lily: well they are aching now. Damn

Whew, at least the picture seems to be making up for whatever struggle it is that Shane’s brain continues to have with typing out actual ‘hot’ words for Very Serious Vernacular Purposes of getting Ilya hard as a rock. He tries to channel his inner Dr. JB, muttering to himself, “I am going to have the time of my life,” while he loads up the next picture. 

His hand is on his literal dick in this one, so Shane decides to go with the obvious.

Jane: Some meat for you to rock
[IMG_842]

Lily: I am uh
Lily: Jesus Hollander
Lily: You are not at loss for words today but I may be
Jane: Well you don’t need to be talking
Jane: Bc you will need that mouth for other things ;)

Okay, now we’re cooking with gas. 

Lily: Trust me English is hard right now
Jane: Is anything else also hard?

Dr. JB is going to be so fucking proud of Shane. He’s this close to giving his own Tuesday-clad ass a congratulatory slap.

Lily: Fuck Hollander I am in fucking public

The idea of Ilya springing a boner while out and about - is both satisfying and incredibly hot, actually.

Jane: So you are hard
Lily: What the fuck do you think
Lily: Do you see what you just texted me?
Lily: of course i’m fucking hard Hollander
Lily: at fucking HOME DEPOT

Shane stifles a laugh with his palm.

Jane: Why the fuck are you at Home Depot
Lily: Getting a fucking house plant, what do you think????
Lily: Marley and Connors wanted to get some bullshit plywood for a beer pong table they’re building so I met them here to help load it up
Lily: Now thanks to you I am the one getting wood and needing help with a load. 
Lily: Hold on im gonna go to my fucking car

And because Shane can be a menace too, he does not hold on, instead hitting send on the third photo, where he’s flexing his abs and pouting as the light reflects off of his belt buckle perfectly.

Jane: Want to take this belt buckle off with your mouth?
[IMG_1221]

Lily: WHAT THE FUCK HOLLANDER
Lily: you will kill me??????
Lily: fuck. Ok i am in my car
Jane: you got there fast. Did you run
Lily: you are a fucking asshole
Lily: and yes
Lily: jesus fucking christ i need to get my dick out of my pants

If this was a competition, Shane would consider this an absolute win - because now his phone is ringing and it’s a Face Time request from ‘Lily.’ He considers not answering it but his own erection reminds him that this would probably be akin to biting his nose off to spite his face.

Also, he’d rather be doing a whole lot of a different kind of biting right now, because another face is filling up the screen of Shane's phone, and Ilya is definitely flushed, heated, and bothered - and that is absolutely doing things to the rigidity of Shane’s cock.

Things that are making said body part - even more hard, to be clear.

“Hi,” Shane says, trying to fight the stupid grin that’s spreading over his features while he watches Ilya pant, just a bit. “You seem out of breath.”

“Da I am fucking out of breath, Hollander,” Ilya spits out. Shane can see his arm moving, clearly stroking his dick in a Home Depot parking lot - which - well, Shane wouldn’t be Shane if he didn’t say what he says next:

“I feel like this might be illegal.”

“I feel like you might be illegal,” Ilya retorts. Then he adds, reassuringly, “I drove across the street and parked behind a dumpster. Also I have blackout windows, Shane. No one can see us.” He’s peering at the screen at Shane more intently now, the flush in his cheeks rising higher.

“What the fuck are those underwear?”

“They’re - day of the week,” Shane replies, suddenly feeling a little shy. 

“And you just wear them - under your pants and shit? All the time?” Ilya’s voice catches on his words, stumbling over them clumsily, and Shane’s hand drops to his own dick because what’s all this work without some manner of reward, after all?

“Sometimes,” he says. “Usually when I’m home and there’s no game, not like - in the locker room. I wear them all the time at my cottage.”

“I am going to have to visit that cottage,” Ilya says, leaning his head against his car’s headrest with an exhale, his arm movements growing slightly more erratic. “I would like to see the other days of the week. All of them.”

And - that’s a compelling thought, actually. Ilya usually goes to Russia in the summer when Shane’s at the cottage, but - why couldn’t he come with Shane, instead? The idea of getting Ilya all to himself in the safe space of his off-season home actually has Shane harder than the sight of Ilya stroking himself in the car.

Shane’s feeling so ridiculously turned on by that he momentarily loses his actual mind and starts extending a very serious invitation, right then and there:

“You could come-” 

Blessedly for Future Shane's constitution, Ilya interrupts him by saying, slack jawed and electrified:

 “Fuck - Shane, I - am doing just that.”

Which has the immediate effect of Shane yanking down the waistband of his undies and coming all over the fabric as well as his bare thighs.

Tuesday’s gone with the wind, or however that Lynyrd Skynyrd song goes.

Ilya’s face is calmer now, watching Shane through the screen. “How was that?”

“G-good,” Shane gasps out, still holding his deflating dick. Ilya’s lip twists for a minute, his eyes going somewhere distant. They refocus as he takes a small breath and says, quietly:

“I wish I could help you clean up.”

Fuck. Now there’s a pang in Shane’s chest he wasn’t planning on dealing with today. “Me too,” he says. Then he tries to brighten the suddenly downward-trending mood by adding:

“At least I’m better at sexting than you thought.”

Ilya rolls his eyes, but the expression on his face grows marginally lighter. “Like I said before. It is you who thought you were bad.”

Shane bites his lip, assessing the past few minutes of his performance. “I am good at thirst traps,” he determines, maybe a little proudly.

A full-on bubble of laughter erupts from his phone’s speaker. “You are,” Ilya says. His gaze grows sharp. “But I think that I am better.”

Shane sticks his tongue out at the screen, wishing he was sticking it down Ilya’s throat - or maybe around his dick - instead. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am,” Ilya says in a taunting, sing-songy way. “I will prove it.”

“Okay,” Shane says. “And if you’re wrong? What do I get?”

Ilya’s smile grows slightly leery. “Maybe I will buy you a present.”

This reply is - surprising. Shane was expecting something along the lines of ‘my cock down your throat next month in Boston’ or ‘me touching myself for five minutes flat in 4K HD on your Google drive’ or - some other, similar filth that tends to drop from Ilya’s mouth when they have conversations like these.

“You want to buy me a present?”

Ilya shrugs, both corners of his lips quirking slyly up to the ceiling. “Maybe.” He blows Shane a kiss. “I have to go, Marley is calling. Bye-bye, Hollander.” Then he pauses like he’s waiting for Shane to hang up the phone. When he doesn’t, Ilya adds:

“Drink some water, okay? After you clean up.”

“Okay,” Shane says - but he still can’t make his finger hit the red button that would end the call.

Ilya’s face goes a little wry. “Hang up,” he says, eyes glinting.

Shane shakes his head slowly. “No, you hang up.”

“Gospodi,” Ilya says, though he still doesn’t end the call. He sits there quietly, just staring at Shane through the screen with this soft, delicate look - an expression Shane’s not sure he’s ever seen on Ilya’s features before. “I really have to go,” Ilya says quietly. 

“I know. Me too.” Shane replies. 

They stay on the phone in silence for another full minute before Shane relents - mainly because the drying come on his legs is getting a little uncomfy, and Ilya’s right about Shane needing to drink some water, too - especially before the game.

“Goodbye, Ilya,” he says - and fuck why does Shane’s own voice sound so sad.

Ilya reaches out his hand, as if he’s brushing Shane’s face on his screen with a thumb. “Goodbye, Shane.” He pauses, then winks. “I’ll sext you later.”

The screen goes dark.

Shane puts the tripod away in its little felt case and hangs up his hat and belt, tucking the underwear in a plastic bag to be zippered into a hidden compartment of his suitcase for later laundering. He takes a longer shower than usual in hopes that the warmth of the steam and the sound of the water will soothe that small ache behind his sternum. 

The tiny, but pervasive prickle of wishing Ilya was here.

The shower doesn’t do much.

But when Shane towels off and takes his phone from the charger by the bed, he’s met with an image that smacks any sad thoughts right out of his skull like a snap shot on the ice.

Lily: Our media manager convinced me to do photo shoot last month for some boring magazine
Lily: Just got proofs back
Lily: Game on ;)
[IMG_801]

The photo is in black and white. Ilya is standing with his arms crossed just underneath his chest. He’s dressed in a tank top - which is what he tends to be dressed in, off the ice - so it shouldn’t be making Shane’s eyes literally bug out of his head. Except this tank top is - some sort of shiny material that curves around Ilya’s pecs, accentuating their ridges and dips like a glistening second skin that drapes all the way down past his hips. Another piece of jewelry joins his gold chain and cross - a curving silver ring around the tank top’s left strap, its two points engraved like the tip and the flocked feathers of an arrow, respectively. Ilya’s signature stone-cold gaze is dead on into the camera, sharp contrast to the halo of curls framing his chiseled cheekbones. 

Apologies all, Shane’s fritzed-out mind practically blacked out and only mentioned Ilya’s arms in passing - which is certainly a misstep. Let’s reconvene.

Ilya’s arms are crossed over his torso, yes, but he is somehow also flexing them which shouldn’t even be physically possible (Shane is presently trying to recreate this pose himself to confirm, and yeah - how the fuck is he doing that?). Every sculpted muscle is present and accounted for in this convocation of Ilya’s body parts - and the visible veins in his forearms have Shane’s dick rearing and ready to go in what must be record-breaking time between orgasms. 

At least he can thank Ilya for shortening his refractory period, he supposes.

Also, fuck. Shane may not be able to top this.

And as if Ilya’s back in his proverbial walls, ‘Lily’ starts typing.

Lily: Top that, Hollander.
Lily: Also think about that topping you ;)
Lily: Kiss kiss, have a good game! 

Shane does have a good game, shockingly so - because most of his thoughts are hyperfocused not only on how many visible moles he counted on Ilya’s exposed skin in that thirst trap of a photo, but also concocting a frenzied and furious counterattack of his own.

He checks his phone after the game with agitation.

Thankfully, Stanley Meridian, Stylist To The Stars (of Miami Vice) And To Shane Hollander - does not disappoint him.

Mr. Meridian: Hi Shane! Not sure why you need an assortment of coats delivered to Dallas, Texas in the middle of February, but it’s not my job to ask questions! They are at your hotel, along with a few other things I picked out. Stay sexy and have so much fun!.

Step one of Shane’s Plan to Sext and Slam Rozanov Into Boners (Not Boards) is complete.

Again, working title. Leave Shane alone.

Now Shane needs an unwitting accomplice. Which - he is sort of feeling guilty about. 

Not guilty enough though, because he’s already approaching one of the official rink employees, a nice looking young lady in a bright orange shirt that says EVENT STAFF on the back. 

“Hi -” Shane glances down at her nametag, “Agnes? My name is Shane Hollander.” He holds out his hand. 

Agnes stares down at his proffered palm, turning a furious shade of pink almost instantly. “I know who you are! I’m a huge freaking fan, oh my god.”

Shane is aware of this, because in formulating his plan, he spotted Agnes’ gaze following his form across the ice the entirety of the game.

Even when he was sitting on the bench.

“It’s nice to meet you, Agnes,” Shane says easily. “I was wondering if you could do me a small favor? My mom’s got this branding pitch she wants me to put together, and I really need to get her some pictures on the rink for it. Of - just me.”

He’s got a signed rookie card in his pocket (Ilya’s going to yell at him later for stealing his move), which Agnes willingly accepts for agreeing to keep the door to the rink unlocked just a little bit longer after everyone’s left for the night. She also offers Shane the Zamboni key. And then throws in that she’s a bona-fide night school photography student, and she has a nice camera, and that she is maybe, probably, definitely free - tonight, if he is - in need of assistance.

Which is how Shane winds up bare-chested in the center of the ice, wearing various combinations of designer coats, expensive jeans, and a hockey glove or two he may or may not be removing with his teeth as Agnes cheerily snaps away with her Leica Q3.

“Oh, this is so powerful,” she chirps gleefully as Shane leans over the top of the Zamboni, trying to figure out exactly how to ‘work’ this particularly cumbersome prop. 

Okay, Director Shane chimes in. What are we selling? What is the product?

Sex, Shane supposes. The product is - sex.

So, he does his best to essentially - ooze with it.

This seems to be working just fine, because despite the chill in the air at the rink - Agnes appears to be fairly hot and bothered. She’s fanning herself by the time they wrap for the night.

Agnes emails the photos to Shane from the office computer, asking very politely if she can keep just a few for herself. “I promise I won’t send them to a single soul, Mr. Hollander,” she babbles, bright-eyed and a little bit dazed.

Shane should just ask her to delete them but - what’s the fucking harm? 

“Sure, Agnes,” he says. “Just um, keep them close to your chest.”

And oops, that was - not the right thing to say connotation-wise, because Agnes swoons, practically keeling over in response.

Shane thumbs through the pictures in his cab home, the assortment of outerwear bundled up in the seat next to him to drop at the front desk so they can mail them back to Stanley Meridian. 

He decides to send Ilya one photo where he’s not wearing a shirt or a coat, the ridges of his abs practically reflecting in the ice underneath his feet as he yanks a leather glove off his hand with his incisors. Then, he selects another in which he is sporting a full-on parka in front of the net, doing a variation of the ab-flexy thing (because he is Shane Hollander, Master of Modeling) and looking up at the ceiling with an expression slightly akin to that of a sexy lost forest creature. 

And for some reason he can’t adequately explain, he also chooses a third picture that - isn’t sexy at all, really - a close-up of Shane with the hood of the parka lightly draped over the top of head, his hair curving in wisps underneath. One of Shane's hands is lightly pulling the fabric of the hood to the side. He’s looking somewhere off-camera with a soft, bright smile on his face.

He remembers the exact moment Agnes snapped the shot.

Shane had been thinking of Ilya. 

He fires off all three pictures  without any accompanying words, because his brain is feeling - a little sad and sort of sucked-dry, if Shane’s being honest.

Jane:
[IMG_1410]
[IMG_1217]
[IMG_1919]]

Lily: Look at you
Lily: Mr. Model. Mr. Ice Rink Employee. 
Lily: Mr. Renaissance Man.

A small pink heart appears above the third photo, the one of Shane’s smiling face, and now Shane feels like his own small pink heart might fucking burst.

He suddenly, desperately, helplessly - wants to send Ilya a very different type of text - one having much more to do with the feelings in Shane’s chest rather than the space behind his balls. His thumbs hover over the screen, hesitating.

The phrases currently demanding release from Shane’s mind are a far cry from the ones he’s been using throughout this sexting journey.

I miss you. I wish you were here. Come to my cottage this summer. Come to my house tomorrow, get on the first flight out of Boston, I don’t care if you have a game, just come to where I am. Or let me go to you, just say the word and I’ll get out of this cab and start walking now. 

Absence may make the heart grow fonder but this separation between them may be making Shane’s a little bit mad (as in crazy-making, not anger-inducing). 

Before he can unleash an entire spaghetti pot of feelings at Ilya’s proverbial walls ‘to see which ones stick’ - his phone pings with a subsequent message from ‘Lily.’

It’s another picture.

And Shane is going to lose this thirst trap competition. He is going to lose it thoroughly, definitely, and entirely. Because the photo lighting up the screen of his phone has him practically panting, instantly iron-hard, and lit up as brightly as the filaments inside an LED lightbulb.

Lily: Just got another of those boring magazine pictures, look how adorable ;) 💖
[IMG_6969]

Ilya is wearing a denim shirt that’s open across his (washboard-abbed, fucking perfect, marble-statued-Greek-god-looking) stupid idiot chest and stomach, which are two of Shane’s favorite places to come on his body. Which Ilya fucking knows, and the sensual smirk in the pupils of his eyes tells Shane that this picture, this particular picture? Had to have been taken expressly for him.

The jean shirt is tucked in at the sides, so tightly that the outfit may as well be one piece of denim instead of two. Ilya’s hands are grasping the edges, almost like he’s baring himself to Shane, like a fucking offering or something. The cross of his necklace glints across his collarbone, reminding Shane of the sound it makes when Ilya’s railing him ragged.

Jane: Wow, adorable.
Jane: i fucking hate you
Lily: No you don’t
Jane: No I don’t
Lily: you’re harddddddd aren’t you
Lily: revenge is fun!
Jane: I’ll call you when i get back to the fucking hotel
Lily: make sure you’re naked
Lily: so, taking the loss? Admitting defeat? Rozanov is number one again, yes?
Jane: no way dude
Jane: i don’t give up that easy
Lily: but you do give IT up ;)
Lily: to me anyway
Jane: yeah i do
Jane: only to you

bigJBB69: I am so proud of you Shane Hollander! I am giving you a firm handshake if there is consent. Maybe the student has become the master
ShaneHolzz24: I still need to return Lily’s last shot
bigJBB69: Hmm do you? Maybe let her win BECAUSE that is also sexy!
ShaneHolzz24: Ha
ShaneHolzz24: That’s a pretty funny joke
bigJBB69: Doctor Johnny Big Bravo PHD does not joke about sexy things
ShaneHolzz24: I almost invited her to come to my cottage this summer
bigJBB69: Oh HO HO, and is your cottage lubed and ready!
ShaneHolzz24: Ew, no. What
bigJBB69: I am sorry I thought we were discussing the topic of ass play. You did say you preferred your girlfriend Lily to be the driver
ShaneHolzz24: Oh god my digital footprint is gonna need to be bleached
bigJBB69: If you would like to obtain services for bleaching your ‘footprint’ I can provide you with links as part of my role!
ShaneHolzz24: Jesus fucking Christ Dr. JBB CAN WE PLEASE STOP DISCUSSING THE TOPIC OF ASSPLAY
bigJBB69: Certainly. Okay.
ShaneHolzz24: Okay so can I ask you a question that's kind of. Outside the scope of our professional relationship
bigJBB69: I thought you said you did not want to talk about assplay, Shane Hollander
ShaneHolzz24: OH my god. I don’t. This is about 
ShaneHolzz24: You don’t think you could teach me to text someone about feelings
ShaneHolzz24: Like. I dunno. Kind of big feelings? The most I have said is “I like you too much” and, yeah. It feels like. More than that. I think.
bigJBB69: Ah. Unfortunately Shane Hollander that is outside the scope of my expertise. Also I need to go. I have another patient. I wish you best of luck with your feelings.

*bigJBB69* has exited the chat

February 2017 - Montreal

If Shane thought the Google search bar was his holy grail - well, he underestimated the power of the reverse image search feature.

Because that little tool is in part responsible for Shane feeling practically giddy to set up his tripod to create what his final photographic volley that will cement his win over Ilya in this, their little game of outwit, outplay, and out-thirst.

It doesn’t even bother Shane that it took him a couple of weeks to track the stuff down (God bless Stanley Meridian and Rose for the help without asking pesky questions). It’s absolutely worth the wait - because instead of just obtaining the exact same brand of denim shirt and pair of jeans from Ilya’s sexy little magazine spread...

...Shane’s managed to get the actual ones Ilya was wearing on his physical person.

There’s something - hot? - about that. As if they’re almost sharing clothes in some way, even though the dry-cleaned denim isn’t as comforting a soft black t-shirt that still smells like Ilya’s signature mix of leather, a touch of tobacco, and a tiny hint of something floral 

Lilies, Shane’s olfactory memory supplies. A part of Shane wonders if Ilya does that on purpose when picking out his cologne, always finding something with a nod to the pseudonym he wears as disguise in the annals of Shane’s telephone contacts. 

That’s probably - too sentimental for Rozanov, and it’s certainly too sentimental for Shane to be pondering presently, when he needs to focus on putting together a thirst trap guaranteed to blow both Ilya’s goddamned mind and his literal load. (Thank you again, Director Shane!)

Ilya was standing up in the picture Shane’s trying to recreate, but he decides to do a - variation (because, repeat after him - Model Master!) and so he chooses to lie down on his back. He adds a belt to the jeans (because - accessorizing!), but leaves it unbuckled and the fly open and unzipped, with the pants slightly scooched below the jut of his hipbone so a tiny hint of Shane’s ass can be seen on his left side (because Shane’s upping the ante by removing the underwear from the equation this time - and he wants Ilya to know it). 

As for the denim shirt - he mirrors Ilya’s photo by keeping the front unbuttoned. But he chooses to contrast the tight tuck of the open sides by leaving his shirt loose and draped across the bedsheet, and similarly juxtaposes his arms differently from Ilya's, draping them over his forehead instead of grasping the material firmly. He lets the timer do its thing and after a few shots, picks up the phone to review.

It’s - pretty good, actually. Director Shane would be proud of this take on Ilya’s original magnum opus of Greek Marble Sex God (In Jeans).

(So would Lou Bega.)

Shane is soft in these pictures in the places that Ilya is rigid, the Hollander version - ironically less structured and a little more open, in photographic relief. If Ilya’s expression could be called - domineering, one could certainly say Shane’s is a bit more - submissive.

Like the yin to Ilya’s yang. 

He chooses the best photo, adjusts the lighting and exposure slightly, and hits ‘send.’

Jane:
[IMG_143]

Lily: are you kidding me
Lily: wait are those
Lily: are those my fucking clothes from that shoot
Lily: what the fuck. How did you get those. I am so fucking turned on?
Jane: ;)
Lily: Fucking well done Hollander
Lily: That is new way to get in my pants
Lily: Also I am in the fucking library and now I am hard in the stacks
Jane: The library?
Lily: Yes, doing important research. My internet went out earlier.
Jane: Research? You??
Lily: Well you have derailed that now
Lily: Speaking of railing
Lily: Check your doorstep I think you have special delivery
Lily: And I am heading home to take off my pants. 
Lily: You should take my pants off too ;)

Special delivery? Shane frowns, padding down his staircase still attired in Ilya’s ‘Canadian tuxedo.’

Ilya is correct, there’s a - very discreet, unmarked package right outside the door. The box is nondescript cardboard, but Shane’s name and apartment number are on the label. There’s no return address.

He takes it upstairs and opens it.

Then nearly drops the contents on the fucking tile floor of his kitchen.

What the fucking fuck?

He picks up his phone.

Jane: Ilya. What the fuck is a LEMON RIMMER 1000
Lily: oh good it arrived safely 
Lily: you are welcome, Hollander!
Lily: told you i was getting you a present
Jane: WHAT is this
Lily: it’s a Thing. To keep your other Thing company.
Lily: a buddy. A pal. A nice happy friend
Lily: also you can suction it to the wall
Jane: Why the fuck would I suction it to the
Jane: oh
Lily: see very useful for your sexting journey ;)
Lily: now that you are Mr. Mastersexturbator. Pew, pew!
Jane: Ilya. That’s definitely gross
Lily: its working title
Jane: Wait does that mean I won????
Lily: yup
Jane: Hold on. I just sent that picture today. You had to have ordered this earlier?
Lily: I knew you were going to send something
Lily: Like you said you don’t give up easy
Jane: Are you letting me win right now because that is not acceptable
Lily: Shane. You had me jerking off in a parking lot. I have come four days in a row staring at you driving Zamboni.
Lily: I am right FUCKING now at my house with my pants down at 3 p.m. on a Wednesday. 
Lily: You are sexy. And fun. And your sexting is good. Yes, you win. 
Lily: And no not because I am LETTING you
Lily: I am mature enough to accept defeat ONE time
Lily: okay?
Jane: okay
Lily: good. I am happy to be model loser. Good citizen of the world.
Lily: now set up that Thing and take off your clothes

Usually Shane would read over the instructions at least thrice before installing any manner of - well, anything, sex toys included. 

With the Lemon Rimmer 1000, and the idea of Ilya waiting to - watch Shane use it - for him, on the other side of the country? He kind of - raw dogs that shit. It’s pretty self-explanatory, however, and Shane has it attached to the wall in no time. 

He picks a certain wall in his bedroom specifically, because he has - an idea (no one is shocked).

It’s a dastardly, devious, and devilish idea, and Shane is actually surprised Rozanov hasn’t suggested it himself. Because there’s a manner of photo Shane hasn’t sent yet, on this sexting and also now - thirst trap competition of what is becoming a very x-rated Year of (fuck) Yes.

That perennial favorite of drunk college girls in bathrooms and of hot men that enjoy throwing peace signs in their filtered Instagram photos - the legendary and highly esteemed mirror selfie.

And Shane is totally about to take one in the full-length mirror that hangs opposite from where he’s currently standing, while he - um, takes on? takes - down? - well, if Shane's being direct - while he kisses his bedroom wall with his ass, courtesy of the Lemon Rimmer 1000.

He locates the lube and gets down to business. The angle is - a little different from the one that Shane is accustomed to with his - ‘OG’ Thing, but he gets used to it pretty fast. The stretch and the burn of the toy is the same, so once he’s past that familiar first entry - well yeah, okay. Shane needs to maybe send Ilya a thank you card for this gift because he is - feeling pretty good.

His pants are pooling over his ankles and he kicks them to the side, tugging off the designer denim shirt so he doesn’t wreck it with the lube and - the inevitable mess that is very quickly going to come next, based on how Shane’s dick is currently dripping on his fucking bedroom floor, and - ah, he really should have put down a towel. 

He looks up at the mirror for the first time since positioning himself and - okay, fuck yes, okay - he is taking a picture right fucking now because Ilya may very well decease on the spot upon receipt.

Shane’s face is flushed and his eyes blown wide, looking - finally - ‘a little bit wild,’ his hair an absolute tangled nest, and his cock so hard it’s straining against his actual abs, pressing against the ridges of muscle there like he’s - rubbing a banana on a washboard, or something.

Shane’s brain is a little muddled at the present moment, excuse him.

He snaps a few shots and sends them to ‘Lily,’ and victory is absolutely his once more, because the phone immediately goes off like a rocket with a Face Time request from the ‘model loser’ himself. 

“Gospodi pomiluiy menya?!” Ilya’s voice is gritty gravel and sharp-edged rock. He’s shirtless, and Shane can see the pillows of his bed behind his back. “Hollander, I did not realize you had access to nuclear codes.”

If Shane was sexting with Ilya right now, he’d say something along the lines ‘yeah, I do, and they’re about to go off on your face,’ - or something, but this is Face Time and the way Ilya’s lip is already looking like it’s about to detach from his mouth, eyes glazing over - so close to the edge so quickly, just from a handful of dirty photos and the idea of Shane fucking himself on the wall -

Well, all Shane can manage is “vroom, vroom.”

Which is - firstly, very fucking stupid.

And secondly, apparently absolutely what Ilya needs to hear, because his head hits the headboard of his bed and just like that he’s coming - a mere three minutes after Shane sent the pictures, gasping for air with Shane’s name on his lips. 

Shane’s close behind, the orgasm wringing through him like a tightly twisted handful of sheets.

“That was-” Shane pants, sliding himself off of the toy with a small wince and immediately wiping it down - because hygiene. He leaves it suctioned to the wall, for now.

“Da, that - was.” Ilya replies. He chuckles a little. “Mmm. You like it - my present?”

“I like it, your present,” Shane says, walking towards the bathroom. He feels - fucking perfect, actually, his limbs all liquid and wobbly, with Ilya’s face - beaming? dare Shane call it beaming? - at him from the screen, and - Shane realizes he doesn’t want to hang up the phone just yet. 

“I’m going to clean up, but um, can we still stay on? Doesn’t have to be Face Time, I just um -”

Want to hear your voice. Shane chokes the words back down into the base of his throat. Thankfully Ilya doesn’t force him to finish the sentence. 

“Sure,” Ilya says. “I’ll clean up, too.” He switches the output to ‘audio.’

Neither of them says anything for a moment, though Shane can hear the sound of water in the background of Ilya’s still uneven breathing.

He wrings the damp washcloth out in the sink after wiping himself down, and crawls back into his bed, propping his back up against a few pillows.

Then, he dumbly opens his mouth, and closes it, a few times - because somehow now sexting and actually speaking to Ilya have switched respective roles in Shane’s catalog of capabilities and verbalizing any of the turbulence churning inside his brain matter - is proving a little bit difficult.

Cause you can’t run and you can’t hide
You and me gonna touch the sky

Shane is growing quite fond of Lou Bega, actually. He gathers his courage.

“I’ve been - meaning to ask you something,” he begins. 

Because he can do this. Shane can absolutely do this. He just spent the span of a month sexting Ilya filth and raunchy selfies, with overall relative success. So if he can do that? He can certainly ask Ilya to come to his cottage. Stay for a week. Maybe even two. And then Shane can have Ilya all to himself, no distractions, no hiding, no sneaking around. They can - spend actual time, more time than they spent even in Florida - multiple consecutive days together.

Like (oh god and this is what Shane actually wants) - real boyfriends. In a real- relationship. Fucking hell. 

“Shane. Wait, don’t - don’t ask me anything yet.” Ilya says, interrupting Shane's side spiral - and - uh oh, that edge in his voice feels - serious.

He follows up that ominous sentence with such a loaded exhale of oxygen that it has Shane’s heart hammering against his ribcage like the steel of a drum. “What?”

“Fuck. Okay, so - before I tell you this, just remember how good at sexting you are now. And how - much fun we have had the past month, and -”

“Jesus, Ilya. Can you just - get to the fucking point?” Shane’s voice is going up in pitch, just a little bit, because he is now experiencing a very dizzying feeling of dread.

“Chert vozmi. So when you were - worried about your sexting. After Florida. I kind of - did a thing.”

Lead. Shane’s stomach is lead, and it’s pulling him down like a stone, sinking him in murky, freezing river water.

“What do you mean you ‘did a thing?’” he says, almost positive he doesn’t want the answer to that question.

“I -” Ilya blows out another exhale, and this one’s a full double lungful. Shane can practically picture his face, cheeks fully inflated, and eyes likely turned up towards the ceiling. “I made a post on Craigslist,” Ilya says, dropping the bomb.

Fucking hell. Fucking goddammitalltohell. It’s like Shane cannot ever catch a goddamned break. He pushes past his sudden inability to breathe, his hands curling in fists, nails digging into the palms of his hands until it hurts because - this is a nightmare. A fucking goddamned nightmare, and soon Shane’s gonna wake up.

He has to wake up.

“Shane?” Ilya’s voice is ragged on the edges, like a torn piece of flimsy parchment, and that's when it starts to sink in for Shane that, yeah - unfortunately, this is very, very goddamned real.

Because he is a fucking masochist who needs even more verification of this fucked up situation Ilya’s put them both in, however - 

“I need you to say it,” Shane says flatly.

“I’m um. I’m - fuck. It was me, okay? Doctor Johnny Big Bravo, or JB or whatever. That stupid bullshit was me. But I was only -”

“Don’t fucking call me again,” Shane says - and he hangs up the phone, dropping his head into the palms of his hands.

Lily: Hollander, can we talk about this
Lily: I fucked up. I’m sorry
Lily: I should have told you sooner. And also not done that at all
Lily: Are you just going to ignore me for the rest of your life?
Lily: We play each other next month
Lily: Shane, please
Lily: I can’t do this again 
Lily: Please at least text me back
Lily: Hollander 
Lily: Shane
Lily: 🙁

 March 2017 - Montreal (five days later)

“Yes, he’s texted me. I’m not going to fucking reply,” Shane says into the mic of his AirPods, fiddling with the straw in his untouched morning smoothie, rolling the plastic cylinder around in his fingers to keep them from actually fucking shaking. 

Rose sighs on the other end of the line. “Listen. I am doing my best to not say ‘I told you so’ -”

“This is your best?!” Shane sputters. He pushes the smoothie away, his stomach too knotted to consume it. His phone buzzes again, and Shane knows without looking that it’s a text from ‘Lily.’ The phone joins the smoothie, just out of the reach of Shane’s fingertips.

God bless wireless headphones giving Shane the ability to talk with Rose without having the distraction of Ilya’s texts in the palm of his hand.

“Okay, okay,” Rose says placatingly, “Maybe I implied an ‘I told you so,’ in a way. I am only human. But Shane-o, let’s try to - reframe this. First of all - yes, it is terrible. It fucking sucks. It’s - embarrassing, maybe.”

“This is all really helpful framing, Rose,” Shane groans. “I’m so glad we are friends. Thank you for your continuing support in my difficult time.” His gaze drops to the hockey schedule hanging on his fridge and - shit, fuck, goddammit - immediately lands on the date of Montreal’s game against Boston at the end of the month.

He looks away.

“Shut up, oh my god - I’m getting to it,” Rose retorts. Shane can hear the steps of her feet through the phone, knowing she always paces the room when she’s getting passionately worked up. “It’s terrible - yes, but also like - nice? This boy noticed you were uncomfortable doing something, and he helped you gain confidence about it! In what is - yes, a space he created by lying, but - still technically - a safe space! That is kind of romantic.”

“Ma’am? I don’t think this is what people mean when they say to romanticize your life?! I was basically fucking catfished by the guy I wanted as my boyfriend. I’m not even a Netflix kidnapping documentary - I’m an entire MTV after school special.” Shane throws up his hands in frustration, then drops his forehead to the wood of his kitchen table.

“Shane. He signed an NDA for you. A legal document. That’s practically marriage,” Rose exclaims. “Is he an idiot for not just - telling you what he wants from a sext? Sure! But also, you hired a third party sexting coach. From Craigslist. No one bullied you into that decision.” She clears her throat, and Shane can hear her mutter, slightly under her breath:

“In fact, some of us actively tried bullying you out of it.”

“Really helpful feedback, seriously,” Shane mumbles in response. 

“I’m just saying that maybe one ‘idiot’ act cancels out the other, here. People make mistakes! That’s part of a relationship. It’s messy! But if you like him that much, the reward is greater than the - struggles, you know?”

“You don’t even know the half of it,” Shane mutters. And then something inside him - fucking shatters, and he can’t hold it in any longer. It feels impossible, keeping this secret along with nursing what is indeed a - if not fully broken - definitely bloodied, bruised, and fissure-cracked heart.

“It’s Rozanov, okay.”

“Where?” Rose responds. “Are you fucking watching hockey right now? This is not how we process our problems, Shane! Sport is an escape, not a therapist.” 

Shane sighs. “Fucking hell. The boy. The ‘nice’ boy who I was hanging out with. The reason I keep Cokes and beer at my house? The person I liked, who pretended to be a sext doctor on the internet and fucked all of this up. It’s Ilya Rozanov, okay?”

“Holy shit,” is all Rose is able to manage, on repeat, for approximately the next minute and a half.

Finally, she tightens her grasp on her lexicon. “The man you’re almost-not-dating is Ilya Rozanov. The one who - plays for Boston? Not some other one.”

“Definitely not-dating now," Shane mutters. “No ‘almost.’ And yeah. It’s Ilya.”

Calling Ilya by his first name seems right for this moment, but damn if it doesn’t tear into Shane’s heart even more, hearing it. He hasn’t said it out loud since the last time he spoke with him. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He thunks his forehead on the table a couple of times. “Sorry. This wasn’t how I wanted to tell you.”

“Jesus, Shane. For - freaking - how long!?” The taps of Rose’s feet grow more frenzied.

“Um.” Shane tries to think back on the timeline of their entire - sordid history, or whatever. “Since rookie season?”

“Since rookie season?!” Rose needs to calm down or she may actually pop her own vocal chords, which would not bode well for a smooth and easy professional future in her line of work.

Shane’s brain pings his own timeline reference as potentially inaccurate.

“Actually it may have been - the summer before.”

“You’ve been almost-not-dating Ilya Rozanov since the summer before your rookie season.” Rose says, and incredulous is absolutely an understatement to describe the tone of her voice.

“Well, no. I mean it was - different at first, not like this. Or - like this - was, before it got screwed up. Fuck,” Shane says. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

“So you were - paramours?” Rose asks, because she’s been auditioning for Victorian period pieces and the scripts have obviously crept into her daily vernacular.

“I mean. Sure? I guess. We were um. Hooking up.” Describing what he and Ilya have been doing, all of these years, in such base terms doesn’t feel quite right either, but Shane’s too depleted, too exhausted from crying and not eating enough this past week that his brain shuts down any attempt in uncovering better language to use when it comes to - them.

A ‘them’ that likely no longer fucking exists, if it even ever did.

Instead of words, his brain supplies Shane with a montage of images. 

Ilya’s body yet again framed by a hotel doorway, his face younger, curls slightly longer and halo-like around his head. He’s wearing a denim jacket and a curious, heated expression. The night it all really began, in full. Ilya leading them, kicking this physical thing of theirs off with a single statement, in challenge. Because competing has always been what brings them together, whether it is on or off of the ice.

I thought you might chicken out.

The next memory features a slightly older version of Ilya crouched at the bottom of a stairwell. Shane's stairwell - the one in this very apartment, and Shane’s perched a few steps above him with his sweatshirt hood tucked over his head - much like that third, smiling picture he sent to Ilya from Dallas, the one that still eludes explanation. 

Even back then, when Shane could still convince himself that this was a casual hook-up and nothing more - they were always terrible at this part - the saying ‘goodbye’ of it all.

Hindsight really is twenty-twenty, because it’s so obvious, replaying the memory - how badly neither of them wanted to part. Ilya’s fingers are lingering on his laces with unnecessary slowness - as if he's weaving macrame art instead of tying his shoes, and Shane watches their every move along with the past version of himself on the stairs, hearing his babbling mouth come up with more things to say, more questions to ask Ilya - because it means they could steal one more moment of - this.

Both memories are intertwined with the softness of Ilya’s lips against Shane’s at some point before their inevitable separation. And now Shane's thinking about the feel of Ilya's mouth before they said goodbye in his hotel room in Florida. Another to add to the endless series of farewells coming too soon, with the dual scourge of both distance and time ready and waiting in the wings in order to - well, fuck all of this up.

Don’t fucking call me again.

The final goodbye. 

And they didn’t even kiss.

“Oh, Shane,” Rose says, the dawning of realization present in her tone. “Wait - when I asked you, at the restaurant. If you had been with a man? And you said yes, and that it was better? Was that him?”

Fucking hell.

“Yeah,” Shane responds dully. “That was him. He’s - the only one.”

The only one Shane’s been with as well as the only one he ever wants to be with again, really. And the idea that this may now be out of the realm of possibility, entirely - is once more washing over his psyche like ice cold, piercing rain.

“Fuck,” he says. The word sounds as broken as he feels.

The intercom from downstairs buzzes, announcing that someone is at the door. 

It’s probably Amazon. Or - hell, maybe Shane depression-fugue-ordered more Canada Actor Man merch.

“I gotta go,” he says.

“Okay.” Rose replies softly. Then, before hanging up, she adds:

“If you care about him as much as I think you do - maybe it’s worth it. Hearing him out. For your own good. It isn’t perfect, and maybe - hasn’t ever been, given that it’s - god, I still can’t believe it - Rozanov.”

“Ilya,” Shane corrects her without even thinking about it.

“Ilya.” Rose says. She goes silent for a moment, then adds: 

“I’m just saying - you’re clearly miserable without him, Shane. And - summer before rookie season? That’s a long time, and a lot of effort - for both of you. It’s not - some casual thing that you just throw away, not without a good reason and a heck of a lot of thought. So just -think about talking to him, maybe?”

“Maybe,” Shane mutters, though fully knowing he won’t. Not here, not today.

“Love you, Shane-o.”

“Love you back, Rosaline.”

Shane picks up his phone just to end the call, then tosses it back on the counter with his texts left unopened and unread. He puts on some shoes and trudges down the stairs, feet dragging, and opens the outer door of his building to retrieve whatever parcel awaits him on the welcome mat.

And now for the second time in this Yes Year Of Our Lord, 2017 - Shane is absolutely certain that he is hallucinating. 

Because the body framed by his Montreal apartment building door is none other than Ilya Rozanov’s. 

The scene is a spitting image of the last time Shane was in his physical proximity in Tampa - down to the black backwards hat and carry-on bag.

Well, there is one singular difference - Ilya’s expression, which looks tired and anxious, his arms hanging in front of his body and hands lightly clasped, as if in penance. 

Or like he’s expecting to be punished.

“Hi,” Ilya says forlornly.

“What the fuck, Rozanov?” Shane’s mouth is practically hanging wide open.

Ilya shrugs. “You uh, weren’t texting me back. So, I bought a plane ticket.”

This is - so unbelievably reckless. And stupid. Irresponsible. Borderline idiotic. Shane has a game tomorrow, here in Montreal. Ilya has a game tomorrow. In fucking Boston (because Shane knows his schedule as well as his own). 

Also, Shane fucking hates him right now for what he fucking did. And he has - boundaries! He needed space! Okay - well, he didn’t exactly tell Ilya that he needed space, which - knowing Ilya, is a request Ilya would have probably respected had Shane had delineated his wishes more clearly.

And suddenly Shane’s tossed back to another memory, a highly more painful addition to the montage - Ilya sending him away in Sochi and the subsequent months of waiting for the phone to buzz with a message from ‘Lily’ - biting, dastardly silence greeting Shane each time he picked up his phone.

Fuck. Ilya looks like he’s - hurting.

Surprisingly, that breaks Shane’s heart even more than the situation that created that hurt in the first place.

The fury churning through him when Ilya had confessed his exploits quickly starts to fizzle, replaced by the rise of a slow, begrudging realization that perhaps Shane was incensed with such blazing anger for a highly specific reason.

Because there’s a very distinct feeling that lies just on the other edge of hatred, the ying to its yang - stoking the flames in moments of turbulence, and at times causing humans to naively confuse one for the other. 

That intense, cutting emotion is love.

Fuck. Shane doesn’t just love him. He is in love with him - that’s the description for what Shane is feeling - it’s not just a noun or a verb - but a state of being, Shane’s love for Ilya intertwined into his very self, enmeshed with the expanse of his skin. Flowing through the blood in his veins. 

Soothing him, even right now, because in this very minute, as he realizes this fact- a calm settles over the sternum of Shane’s chest with the knowledge of one personal, innate, single and cardinal truth.

He is in love with Ilya Rozanov.

It’s grounding. Solid. Suddenly, just like that - nothing else matters - yes, every other problem surrounding Shane still exists, but if the rest of his world is a hurricane, Ilya is the eye of the storm. 

Shane has another realization that he is- probably not that mad at this man anymore.

But he has been working on that whole - ‘having a spine’ thing in addition to his Year of Yes. So, he tries to lean into his swiftly dwindling anger despite every molecule of Shane’s body begging for his and Ilya’s lips to be touching, and Rose’s voice gently bullying him to freaking talk to the sad man in the doorway, goddammit, Shane in his ear.

Ilya is still standing in front of him silently and Shane still just - wants to kiss him.

Cool, calm, collected. Ilya fucked up and Shane’s actions should reflect that (Director Shane is back, setting this scene before the next line of dialogue).

Actual Shane goes with a sharp callback to that day in Tampa. “Did you ‘miss my good mouth?’” 

Ilya’s face doesn’t just fall at that statement, it fucking crumbles.

“Hollander,” he says, brokenly. “I am so -”

Fuck it. Fuck it all right up the ass.

Just like that, Shane tosses the script, loses the plot, and crosses over the threshold to crash their lips together.

His hand is firmly on the nape of Ilya’s neck because oh my god, he is here. Ilya is here. Shane forgets about both of their games tomorrow, about Ilya’s stupid idea to impersonate a sexting coach, about Shane’s stupid naivete that a sexting coach is something that can even exist, and all of the really fucking dumb shit Shane told Ilya as the sexting coach that -

Actually Shane is definitely not going to think about very specifically that, at all, right now. 

Fuck it all though, even Shane's embarrassing emotional unloading to Dr. JB that he will try to extract and then delete from Ilya's brain later like some sort of lobotomy.

Because Ilya Rozanov is - standing in the doorway of his apartment, firm, and solid and real and Shane is - fucking kissing the lights out of him. 

Still in the doorway.

They should probably - go inside the apartment. (Thank you, Director Shane, yet again).

Shane breaks the kiss, both of them panting, just a bit. “What in the fuck are you doing here,” Shane says, a little bit dreamy.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says - and his voice cracks again, and Shane cannot possibly take any more of this.

“Come in,” He says quietly. And then he grabs Ilya’s hand. 

And damn if the man’s face doesn’t light up like a sunrise.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “But please let me tell you - ”

“It’s okay,” Shane says, pulling him inside and wrapping his arms around him right there, at the bottom of the staircase, possibly in the very spot where Ilya once took entirely too long to tie a pair of shoes.

It is okay. Because he is in love with him and it feels so steady, so sturdy that perhaps that spine Shane was trying to grow is something evolution has deemed beyond the point of requirement for his anatomy. “You’re here. It’s okay.”

“I never meant to hurt you,” Ilya is murmuring into his hair. “I just wanted - uh. For you to understand that you are - good at it.”

“I know,” Shane says - but then he looks up, meeting Ilya's gaze. “Good at it?”

“Sexting,” Ilya says, his hands cradling Shane’s face. “You were always good at it, Shane. You just had to believe that yourself.”

Fuck. Rose was right. About all of it, start to finish - from the ‘Shane don’t answer that i-message’ to the whole ‘hearing him out’ suggestion- and Shane really needs to start listening to her sage advice more often. 

In his own fucked up way, Ilya was trying to - help. 

So maybe they are two idiots after all.

Shane’s definitely the most idiot of the two, because the response that burbles out of his mouth next is:

“I am also pretty good at sex.”

Ilya’s lips twitch. “Mmm. I would say,” his thumb drags down the line of Shane’s jaw, then traces the outline of his lips. “More than just pretty good.” His gaze heats.

“But. Maybe - prove it?”

And that’s all it takes for Shane to drag him up the stairs, two at a time, yank him through the inner door of his apartment unit, and press him into the wall of his bedroom. Their mouths link, and Shane’s hands are practically frantic because - fuck, it’s been weeks - that feel like decades - since he’s felt the touch of Ilya’s skin under his fingers, and Shane's not even sure how he's survived this long, without the feel of him in his hands.

Ilya groans against Shane’s teeth on contact.

Then he breaks the kiss and just - holds Shane for a moment. “Fuck, Hollander.” The voice is a whisper, and - Ilya is? Trembling, maybe just a bit.

“It’s okay,” Shane says again, tangling his fingers in Ilya’s hair, free and curling around his hand because Ilya’s baseball cap flew off at some point in their mad bolt to the bedroom, and they should - probably find that, later. 

“Okay,” Ilya says back. His head shifts and then he emits a low chuckle.

“Oh-ho-ho! I see I am at the scene of the crime.” 

Shane follows Ilya’s gaze and his eyes land on none other than the bright yellow shape of the Lemon Rimmer 1000, still proudly anchored across from the full-length mirror on the other side of the room - because in the hibernation fog of his situational depression, Shane just - forgot and left it there, in all of its citrus-hued resplendence like the decorative touch of some - slightly twisted and rakish - niche interior designer. 

“It is good place for him,” Ilya says. His tone is practically filthy. “But I am surprised you did not discover his other - maybe best - feature.”

“Huh?” Shane says, brow furrowed. He’s still feeling a little dizzy at the fact that Ilya is presently physically here, in his bedroom, when they don’t even play each other tomorrow.

Ilya crosses over to the toy and does some sort of maneuver and then - a tiny part of it - comes easily off, sliding out of the side. He holds it up to show Shane. It looks like a little yellow nib, with a flat handle of sorts. Or bulb.

A tiny lemon, even.  

“Not like you, not reading instructions," Ilya chides teasingly. "I am surprised.”

Shane crosses his arms. “I was - a little distracted that day. As I’m sure you recall.”

“Oh, I recall,” Ilya says, smile toothy and eyes narrowed. He’s back in front of Shane in two full, fluid strides and his thumbs are hooked in the waistband of Shane’s sweats. “Where is that hat that I like so much?” He pauses, eyes dropping to the location of his hands. “Actually, first - hmm, I seem to have forgotten my calendar. Tell me, Hollander’s ass - what day is today?”

Ilya’s definitely some form of demon. Maybe a mind reader. A magician.

Or perhaps simply - very perceptive, especially when it comes to all the things Shane.

Because yes, Shane’s wearing his day of the week underwear. And his ass proudly confirms that it is indeed Thursday as Ilya pulls down his pants.

“Fuck,” Ilya says. “I actually think you should wear these to games. Definitely our game next month.”

“Why? Because you want to lose that one?” Shane says, his voice a challenge - and Ilya’s eyes go fucking dark. 

Maybe Shane’s still not as confident about his own sexting as Ilya seems to be, but one thing he knows is a guaranteed Rozanov turn-on? A little competitive banter.

“Oh, I am going to win,” Ilya growls, his fingers on the hem of Shane’s t-shirt, pulling it over his body, hands dropping to the dots of Shane’s nipples immediately as Shane gasps in response. “And when I do, I am going to bend you over in a pair of these fucking underwear, and I am going to - what is phrase? Seize. The motherfucking. Day.”

The better part of the next couple of hours is - a little bit of a blissed-out blur. Ilya’s hands roam the expanse of Shane’s skin like they’re claiming property, with Ilya’s mouth making good on that promise from Florida - because he does suck Shane’s cock, his balls, and his hole. He also slides the little device he detached from the Lemon Rimmer 1000 inside of said hole, because apparently it is - a butt plug attachment.

And also - oddly, though practically - usable as a USB flash drive?

“To save all of your typed up step-by-step plans, so you can have easy access,” Ilya purrs and - okay, maybe Shane’s never been as turned on as he is now, despite still feeling embarrassed having told Ilya - as ‘Dr. JB’ - about those.

The embarrassment fades quickly into full-blown arousal when Ilya adds. “And so I can have easy access to this,” pushing the plug further inside of Shane - and now both of their dicks are out and Shane immediately reaches for Ilya’s, because there’s another promise Rozanov’s got to make good on tonight.

“You said, next time we saw each other-” Shane begins, trying to be - direct.

“Da, I know what I said,” Ilya replies. He kisses Shane’s lips, one at a time - first the top, then the bottom, sucking each lightly through the edges of his teeth. “And I know what you want.” 

Then, unexpectedly and earnestly, Ilya adds:

“And I will always give that - to you.”

Just like that, the fissures in that bruised and bleeding heart of Shane’s begin to mend - because fucking hell, maybe - just maybe, Shane’s not the only one having those big feelings he wanted Dr. JB’s expert assistance in conveying. And based on Dr. JB’s reaction to - Shane’s big feelings, as well as the look on Ilya’s face right now - Shane’s not the only idiot having trouble expressing them.

Before Shane can put a step-by-step plan into motion to solve this new particular problem - Ilya’s foreskin is once again encasing his cock and he’s back on that floating cloud of heavenly bliss, writhing and whimpering against Ilya’s mouth.

(Which is good, actually - because that USB drive is presently um, otherwise occupied.)

“Vroom, vroom,” Ilya whispers into his ear as they both come, and Shane thinks it’s possibly the sexiest thing he’s ever heard.

Ilya walks out of the shower in his post-coital uniform of damp ringlets and a low-slung towel - except this time the towel is one of Shane’s from Shane’s bathroom closet, that Shane himself picked out at Bed, Bath & Beyond.

And now Shane’s feeling - ridiculously fond - of Ilya, of the fucking towel itself, of Amanda the sales clerk who rung it up three months ago, and this entire domestic situation they’ve got going on all of a sudden.

Fuck his life. 

Ilya flops his shower-steam-warmed body next to Shane on the bed, his head landing squarely on Shane’s chest. 

“You’re all wet,” Shane feigns complaint, but his hand is already in Ilya’s hair, twisting the coils around his fingers like makeshift rings.

“Strange. That is usually you,” Ilya says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Shane pokes a finger into his side and bends down to brush his lips over Ilya’s mouth, and then his forehead. His eyes end up caught in Ilya’s gaze after that and - fuck.

This is too - tender. Shane can feel the vise starting to circle his chest, that feeling of impending panic because this is almost - too much of a good thing, and while Shane wants it, badly - wanting it this badly fucking scares him to death.

Ilya’s hand is stroking his back. 

Shane wants to ask him to come to his cottage (fuck he maybe wants to ask him to never leave Montreal), but for the first time in probably his life he - may be a freaking chicken after all. Or maybe Ilya’s the chicken hawk from that one sexy story, and Shane is that timid little mouse the hawk keeps taking to his nest and devouring. Carnally. Before the mouse can speak a single word about its silly little terror-filled feelings.

Shane may have to get the link from Rose for that story later, after all.

And then Ilya really proves that he is the hawk, because he says:

“So. Uh, you - told Dr. JB -”

Shane frowns. “I think it’s way too soon to discuss a lot of the things I told ‘Dr. JB.,’ dude.” And while Shane does intend to scrape Ilya's brain clean of that knowledge - somehow, some way, later - for now, he chooses simply to ignore it exists.

He laces their fingers and squeezes lightly - to show Ilya that he really, really, really isn’t mad anymore.

Because he really is not. Another tenet of being in love? 

It takes you by the hand and guides you to the meadow of grace, so you’re standing amongst the fresh flowers of forgiveness instead of wallowing in the muddy trenches of blame.

Ilya swallows hard before saying:

“Well, yes, but - can I ask just about one thing you told him?” It’s so plaintive that Shane immediately responds with “Sure.” Then he adds, “Just remember that ‘he’ did sign an NDA.  And I will find a way to make ‘Johnny Big Bravo’ your legal name if ‘he’ breaks it.”

It’s Ilya’s turn to poke Shane in the side. “Ah, so this is how I finally get Canadian passport.”

Huh. Shane wasn’t even aware Ilya wanted something like that. He tables the tidbit of information for future ruminations.

Ilya takes a deep breath. “You called, ah, fuck - this was easier on computer. And with Google translate.” 

Shane rolls his eyes. “Cardinal lesson of internet catfishing. Hiding behind a screen is always easier.” He immediately hopes that wasn’t too harsh, but Ilya’s snark seems to have reestablished itself because he’s giving Shane a pointed stare.

Shane sighs. “Okay, fine. Not easier - if you’re me.” The little flicker of shame tickles his stomach. “I guess that’s just…another one of my weird things.”

“Hey,” Ilya says. “I like all of your weird things.” He pulls their interlaced fingers towards his mouth and kisses the back of Shane’s hand - like he’s - a fucking prince or something.

And okay, maybe Shane - swoons, just a bit, on the inside.

“That is why I did this stupid thing you are mad at me for,” Illya continues.

“I’m not mad,” Shane reasserts. He pauses. “Wait - you were asking me something.”

“Blyat.” Ilya says.” I changed my mind and I was hoping you forgot.” 

Well, now that Ilya doesn't want to ask this question? Now Shane absolutely needs to hear it - and this is a battle he is absolutely not going to lose. “Nope. No chance. This is your penance. Pay the piper.”

The ridges of Ilya’s brows nudge each other across his forehead. “I do not know that word. Or that person.”

“That doesn’t matter?” Shane replies huffily. “Quit stalling, Rozanov.”

“O-kay…” Ilya draws the word out, doing just what he has been asked not to for a second - before saying:

“You said that - Lily - was uh, your - girlfriend.”

Fucking fuck.

Shane pretends to be casual - which is actually really fucking hard because somehow Ilya makes even earnest vulnerability - kind of - fucking sexy.

So Shane’s not feeling very casual on multiple levels right now. “Well,” he says, carefully modulating his tone, “when I thought you were a real, bonafide doctor of sexting, I didn’t think I needed to explain it past that.” He pauses. “God, that sounds ridiculous?”

They both burst out laughing, and the sparkling sound releases any remaining tension that could have possibly remained lingering between them. 

“It is,” Ilya says when the laughter finally fades. “Maybe that is what we are - ridiculous?” He drums his fingertips on the skin of Shane’s thigh, and the touches send sparks shooting directly to the bullseye of Shane’s groin - and yeah, Shane’s refractory period when it comes to Ilya Rozanov is practically non-existent, it seems.

Ilya’s noticing the same, because his eyes are on Shane’s dick and he’s got a saucy expression across his face. “Ridiculous and - compatible,” he surmises with a smile.

That’s perfect, actually, and Shane wants to tell Ilya that he’s perfect, too. Everything Shane’s ever wanted, even.

But as Ilya puts it - right now, English seems to be hard - for Shane, specifically. 

“Anyway,” Ilya takes another breath, and his fingers go from tapping Shane’s leg to grasping it, slightly - like he needs Shane to be the foundation before he says whatever it is he’s been trying to say for the past five minutes or so.

Okay - here, Shane can definitely help. He covers Ilya’s hand and gives it another small squeeze.

“I was just wondering,” Ilya says, darting a look at Shane’s face. “If you meant that. The - girlfriend thing - and stuff,” his lips twitch up as he adds Shane’s phrasing to his own. “Or - boyfriend, I guess.”

Oh.

Oh fucking hell. Shane actually really wishes Ilya hadn’t impersonated Dr. JB now, because he could - absolutely use the good doctor’s advice on how to respond appropriately to the bombshell Ilya’s just dropped on his fucking head. Because this? This is all that Shane’s been wanting, lately. Even longer than ‘lately,’ he realizes abruptly.

Perhaps as far back as rookie season.

Dammit, maybe even - the summer before.

Ilya’s eyes look - hopeful, and a little bit scared, and Shane really, really needs to say something back.

A small chorus of voices that sound oddly like a melding of Canada Actor Man, Dr. JB and Shane’s new best friend Lou Bega whisper gently in Shane's ear that perhaps - as with sexting, the very first key to talking about actual feelings?

Is that Shane must draw from within.

So he asks Ilya the question that’s been weighing on his heart, directly and without hedging or blurring the lines.

“Would you want to be, if we could?”

Ilya kisses him. Then murmurs, into Shane’s neck. “I think so. Yes. Probably.” He keeps his face pressed into Shane’s skin as he asks, rough and quiet:

“Would you?

And in part because it is after all the Year of Yes, but mostly because Shane is a man who is absolutely, totally, completely, head over heels in love with Ilya Rozanov - not despite but because of everything he brings to the table, even his reckless decisions and impulsive, but well-meaning mistakes - Shane simply says:

“Yes.”

March 2017 - Montreal airport

Lily: you know what
Lily: I take it back Hollander
Lily: Maybe I will get you pregnant after all