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Shane Hollander doesn’t do casual.
That’s something he’s realized about himself recently. He wanted to be able to, so, so badly, because this thing with Rozanov was obviously just that: casual. It’s just a hookup, it’s always been a hookup, and this time is no different. Rozanov is only in it for the great sex, and Shane can’t even blame him—the sex is fantastic. The way their bodies seem to be drawn to each other like two opposing magnets, slotting together as if made for one another—Shane wouldn’t want to give that up, either.
It shouldn’t be Rozanov’s problem that Shane gets so desperately attached.
So they didn’t kiss tonight, so what? Why should that affect Shane so much? They’re not dating, they’re not together, they’re not anything, and Rozanov doesn’t owe him some kind of married-couple-goodnight-smooch. A wave of shame washes over him.
Ever since Sochi, it’s been radio silence on Rozanov’s end. Shane isn’t mad about that, not anymore, not since he’d seen that worn-out look on the man’s face when he’d tried approaching him in the stadium.
Frankly, Shane can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to live in Russia, not to be allowed to be yourself, not by your government and not by your family, probably. So, earlier tonight, he tried to give Rozanov an in, an opening to talk about it, if he wanted to, but Rozanov slammed that door shut so hard that it still reverberates in Shane’s head as he stands outside the penthouse door.
He let himself be used; he even enjoyed it. And now, like a loser, he feels fucking sad and hollow.
His thumb hovers over the send button. He shouldn’t. It’s needy and dramatic, and he doesn’t care about Rozanov. Shouldn’t care about Rozanov.
He presses the hall call button for the elevator.
God, get a fucking grip, Hollander.
He sends the text and instantly wishes he could unsend it.
The elevator doors slide open excruciatingly slow, and Shane presses his floor button. He looks to the ceiling for refuge and to stop the tears threatening to fall from his eyes. Embarrassed as hell, he waits patiently to get to his room so he can scrub off the unease in the shower.
As soon as Shane closes the door behind himself, he collapses on his still-made bed. He’s kind of glad Hayden didn’t come with him to Vegas—he’d never be able to convince the guy that nothing’s going on if he saw Shane enter their room like this: completely fucked out, tuxedo disheveled, and eyes red-rimmed from keeping his crying at bay.
He’ll get up in a second for his shower, he just wants to–
There’s a loud, impatient pounding on the door, except it feels less like a knock and more like a strike to his chest, knocking him breathless. A frantic pulse shoots through his veins.
“Hollander, I know you are here,” Rozanov’s voice sounds breathy and muffled through the thick wood of the hotel door. “Open.”
He’s frozen in place, staring at the door like it’s a ticking time bomb about to explode. God, Shane just wants to crawl under the bed and stay there until checkout in the morning.
He made it weird. Why did he have to send that fucking text? It’s basically a big, neon sign pointing directly to his feelings, a humiliating violation of their unwritten keep it casual rules. Admitting to missing a kiss is admitting he keeps count, admitting he cares.
And now Rozanov wants to talk. Or maybe he doesn’t, and sending him that text just made him feel like he had to follow Shane and comfort him, or something. That was probably the case, if the way he’d basically kicked Shane out earlier was any indication.
“Hollander, I will keep knocking until I break door.”
“I’m coming,” Shane yells, because he knows first-hand that if Rozanov sets his heart to something, there is nothing on this earth that can stop him. He hopes his voice doesn’t come out as weak as he feels.
He swings the door open, and Rozanov, still mid-knock, nearly punches him in the face.
“Ah, sorry,” he says weakly as he drops his hands to his sides. His shirt is inside out, the tag sticking out on the side, and his sweatpants sit dangerously low on his hips. Rozanov has always been a bit of a slob, but this isn’t that—this is an unmistakable sign of putting on whatever was closest, as fast as he could.
“Did you run around the block before you came here?” Shane asks. “You’re all out of breath.”
“No, I saw your floor number on elevator screen thing, and then I took the stairs. Saw you go in this door.”
They stand there for a moment, just looking at one another, neither wanting to be the first to talk. Rozanov briefly looks Shane up and down, and something flickers across his face when his eyes meet Shane’s own for just a second.
He exhales through his nose, and he tears his gaze away from Shane. His jaw tightens a little when he clearly does everything in his power to look anywhere except for Shane. A million and one emotions cross his face, and Shane can’t make sense of any of them.
“Can we not do this in hallway?” Rozanov asks, his voice steady and unwavering.
“Sorry,” Shane mutters as he steps aside to let the man into his hotel room. All the lights are off, and only the fireplace lights up the room. It’s nearly as big as Rozanov’s penthouse. There’s a king-size bed, but Shane hasn’t put in the effort of taking off the decorative pillows yet. There’s a massive walk-in closet, but all of Shane’s clothes are still folded neatly in his suitcase.
Now that Rozanov walks into the room, it all feels like a loud, stupid metaphor for Shane’s life: keeping his belongings clutched tightly to his chest, scared to unpack, and always ready to get up and leave as soon as possible.
“So,” Rozanov starts.
“So.”
“Got your text.”
“Yeah, well,” Shane starts, but doesn’t really know how to finish the sentence. He doesn’t want to double down, but he’s also too proud to apologize for the message. Fuck, this is awkward.
Rozanov shifts his weight. “Was it…” he hesitates. “Was it not okay?”
“Was what not okay?” Shane asks, utterly confused.
“Sex. I do not want you to ever feel unsafe with me. I am sorry if I was too… harsh.”
“No, the sex was good, I enjoyed it,” Shane says in earnest. “But you were so… distant, after. I think I would have liked for you to kiss me, or something.”
Shane Hollander, twenty-three years of age, has a breakdown over missing a kiss. How embarrassing.
“I’m sorry,” Rozanov repeats. There’s a genuine remorse in his eyes that Shane doesn’t think he’s ever seen there before.
“It’s fine,” Shane mumbles, and the more this insanely uncomfortable conversation progresses, the more pathetic he feels for having sent the text in the first place.
“I wanted you to be mean,” Rozanov blurts out suddenly, clearly frustrated. Shane recoils at the sudden loudness in the space between them.
“What?”
“I lit cigarette, in the bed,” he says slowly, “blew smoke all over the bed and in your face, because I wanted you to tell me it is bad for health, that it is gross. I wanted you to talk to me.”
Shane sighs and sits down on the edge of his bed. “That is a terrible method to get someone to talk to you, Rozanov. Besides, I did try to talk to you, and you basically booted me out of your room immediately. You could’ve at least walked me to the door,” he adds, far sharper than he intended to sound.
“I did not want to watch you leave,” Rozanov admits, and it sounds like it’s physically painful for him to do so.
Shane feels rage bubble up in his stomach. “Oh, poor you,” he bites sarcastically. “Did you even think about me? What I wanted? What I needed?”
Shane looks up at Rozanov, who is still standing in the middle of the room and doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself. His arms hang somewhat defeated alongside his torso, eyes fixed on the orange flames licking at the firewood.
“Yeah, I thought so,” Shane sneers. He knows he shouldn’t, he knows it’s not worth the energy, but he adds, “You know, you are so fucking selfish, Rozanov.”
“I know!” Rozanov shouts, but there’s little anger in his tone. “I fucking know, okay?”
Shane has always been rather bad at reading people. Bad at connecting with others because he didn’t get the tone quite right in a conversation, or didn’t reply to a question with the answer someone was anticipating. He’d be sitting at home hours after a hangout, and only then would he realize that his friends hadn’t laughed at the joke Shane had made, but at him.
Over the years, Shane has curated a mental logbook of words that often mean the opposite, facial expressions that translate into specific emotions, and tones that indicate sadness, anger, joy, anything. He’s learned how to play along, how to slot in without making too much of a fool of himself all the time.
That’s one of the things he loves about hockey: it’s pure passion, skill, speed, and very little reading between the lines. At a young age, he figured that if he just got really good at the sport, his life would automatically begin to make a little more sense.
And it was hard work, but he had been right. That was, until Rozanov entered the picture like a fucking ten-ton wrecking ball to the life he’d so meticulously built up from the ground.
Being with Rozanov was like hockey at first: all physical, a stress relief—albeit an incredibly irresponsible and stupid one. Shane didn’t need to be able to read Rozanov’s tone; the consent between them was straightforward and explicit, and they didn’t really talk about anything other than where they’d meet up and how they’d make each other come. Once upon a time, it was simple.
But it hasn’t been simple for a long time now.
And Shane has no clue what that unreadable, tense scowl on Rozanov’s face means.
“Did I do something wrong?” Shane asks, his voice cracking on the last word. He detests being vulnerable and asking for reassurance, even from people he’s comfortable with. And he would probably describe this situation as literally anything but comfortable.
He bites his lip and hopes the blood he draws will distract him from the stinging in his eyes.
“No, Hollander,” Rozanov answers. “It was not you.”
“Okay, well, if it’s not me, will you at least look at me?” Shane snaps. “You don’t kiss me all night, except for that one time in that disgusting fucking bathroom, you don’t want to talk to me in bed, and now you won’t even look at me anymore. How am I supposed to think that that’s not about me? Do I really mean that fucking little to you?”
Rozanov shifts. “No.”
Shane waits a few seconds, maybe expecting something more. But there’s nothing, and Rozanov’s eyes are still fixed on something far into the room.
“No? That’s all? You are fucking unbelievable, Rozanov.”
“Fuck, of course I wanted to kiss you,” Rozanov shouts, finally meeting Shane’s eye again. There’s such turmoil in the ring of blue of his irises that even in the low light, Shane can easily see it. “I always want to kiss you.”
Shane sucks in a breath. “So, why didn’t you?”
“I can’t do this,” Rozanov mutters, shaking his head, about to turn around and head back out the door.
“No, fuck you, I deserve an explanation,” Shane insists. He doesn’t care if he’s pushing it. “If you didn’t want to talk, you should’ve stayed in your fancy fucking penthouse with your fancy fucking disgusting vodka instead of following me down here. Why didn’t you kiss me, Rozanov?”
He spits the words out, ridden with hurt. Shane despises it when he gets like this—it’s ugly and humiliating, and he can feel his composure crumble with every syllable that falls from his lips.
Rozanov's shoulders tense up, freezing in place as Shane’s words hit him.
It’d have been better if Shane had just left Rozanov’s penthouse and hadn’t sent that godforsaken text. They would’ve gone back to normal over time, he believes, and they could’ve kept up the age-old charade that neither of them feels what they really feel. It would be easy—at least, easier than whatever this is that they’re facing.
But there’s no going back now. Tonight may very well be the last time he sees Rozanov like this, the last time he gets to have him like this.
Shane shakes his head to remind himself that there was never anything between the two of them for him to mourn.
Rozanov turns and walks over to Shane. He carefully sits down next to him, leaving plenty of space between the two of them. The air is suddenly fragile and vulnerable, a world of difference from just two seconds ago.
“I need you,” he says so softly it’s almost inaudible. “I need you so fucking much, Hollander, you do not understand. I want to kiss you now, I want to kiss you whole night until we sleep, and then some more tomorrow morning when we wake up together. In same bed.”
The words hit Shane square in the stomach. He might be sick. “You could’ve asked me to stay,” he whispers.
“No, I couldn’t have,” Rozanov states, jaw clenched and eyes steely. “I cannot have you the way I need you, the way I want you, Shane.”
Shane.
There’s a good reason they don’t call each other by their first names, similar to why Shane still has his bed made and his suitcases packed. It keeps them from getting too close, it keeps things from being too real, too permanent, too intertwined.
Shane realizes now, though, that whatever damage has been done over the last four years is already way beyond repair; that no last names or hotel rooms could ever have protected them from this all-consuming feeling.
“But would you want to?” Shane tries. “If you could have me?”
“Don’t fucking do that, Hollander.” Back to Hollander, then. Fuck. “This is hard enough.”
There’s a silence.
“I shouldn’t have brought up Russia,” Shane says then. “Earlier, I mean.”
There’s a flash of hurt on Rozanov’s face. “It’s okay, Hollander, you mean well. It’s just… hard for me to think about.”
“Is your family okay?”
Rozanov huffs out a humorless laugh. “No. Never.”
Shane thinks for a second and then says, “Are you?”
“Probably not.”
“Ilya,” Shane tries, the name still a little foreign. “I’m here if you want to talk, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”
He carefully places his hand on Ilya’s knee, who shivers at the sudden contact. He feels how Ilya subtly shifts his knee upwards, accepting the comfort of Shane’s hand. He even goes as far as placing his own hand next to Shane’s and gently touching just the sides of their fingertips. It’s barely anything, but it’s something to Shane.
“Fuck you, Shane, why are you so goddamn perfect?” Ilya asks quietly, but he’s not really asking. “I fucking hate you. How am I ever supposed to ever move on from you?”
Shane throws all care out the window when he replies, “Don’t.”
“Shane–”
“Don’t move on,” he repeats, “because I don’t think I can, either.”
Ilya doesn’t move; he just looks at Shane with that pained expression of his, a shifting of parts that don’t add up to a clear label. His forehead is bunched up the way it does when he’s in the middle of a game: angry, raging. But his mouth is soft, one corner downturned in a kind of sadness that Shane has never seen on him. The two cancel each other out, leaving nothing but a visual static he can’t cut through.
“If you really don’t want this anymore, you can leave. I’ll understand,” Shane says curtly, even though he doesn’t fucking understand. “But please, Ilya, will you at least kiss me before you go?”
Shane turns over the hand still resting on Ilya’s knee, inviting him to take it.
He’s not really sure what he’s even asking for.
Something breaks in Ilya’s self-possession, and he mumbles a few words in Russian that Shane doesn’t know before he leans in and presses their lips together. It’s featherlight and gentle, and Shane thinks he might just be imagining it.
He feels Ilya’s hand on his own, fingers lacing together as their lips slowly move together. It’s so hesitant, so fragile, and Shane completely unravels. The tears he’s been holding in finally roll down his cheeks in thick droplets, creeping over his cupid’s bow and blooming salt on his tongue.
He moves his free hand to the back of Ilya’s head, buries it in the sandy curls as he grips tightly at the roots. Ilya’s lips are soft, as they usually are. His breath tastes of cigarettes and vodka, as it usually does. Shane hates that he notices these things, and he hates even more that this is the last time he can notice these things.
He pulls on Ilya’s hair a little to tip his head back and deepens the kiss by sliding his tongue in Ilya’s mouth. A low moan falls from the man’s lips; Shane could drown in the sound.
He doesn’t want it to end. It can’t end. But it will, Shane knows, and when it does, Ilya will walk out of that hotel door, and it will never open again.
When their lips part for a breath, Shane moves instinctively, untangling both of his hands and shifting onto Ilya’s lap. Ilya grips his waist immediately, and Shane lets his palms rest on Ilya’s shoulders as he kisses him again, feverish, rushed, impatient. The slide of tongues is electrifying—Shane’s head spins with want and with the blinding fear of ever losing this.
His hands wander down Ilya’s chest, seeking support for when he rolls his hips forward. He keeps his lips on Ilya’s, kisses getting wetter and messier with the way he’s moving his body back and forth. He bites down on Ilya’s lower lip as he grinds down again, needing more friction, needing more of Ilya, needing to shut the whole damn world out.
So long as they’re still touching, things will be okay.
Ilya lets out a shaky breath as Shane moves down Ilya’s neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin, teeth grazing over his pulse point.
“Mmh, Shane, stop.” Ilya presses a flat, strong hand against Shane’s chest, forcing Shane to sit back. The man underneath him looks downright ruined, with lips swollen and glistening, hair tousled, and pupils blown to all hell.
“Ilya,” Shane breathes, and that’s honestly all he can say. He closes his eyes, not at all ready for what’s coming. If he could stop time and stay right here for the rest of his life, he would in a heartbeat. No, actually, if he had some kind of time-bending powers, he’d go back to 2008 and never introduce himself to Ilya Rozanov, because this is way, way too fucking difficult.
“You are not okay,” Ilya says. It’s not a question, so Shane doesn’t answer.
Firm fingers wrap around his jaw and press down into his cheeks, tilting his face down to meet Ilya’s gaze. “Look at me,” Ilya says sternly. “I do want this anymore.”
Shane’s heart stops. He can’t tell if it’s a language barrier thing or if Ilya is really saying what Shane thinks he’s saying.
“What?”
“I do not know how,” Ilya admits as he presses a kiss to the back of Shane’s hand.
The room is quiet except for the sound of their breathing. Shane’s fingers brush lightly against Ilya’s chest, and he can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat through the fabric. Shane’s eyes trace the shapes of Ilya’s face, memorizing the sharp edges of his cupid’s bow, the way his blonde eyelashes rest on his cheekbones.
This time, it’s Shane’s turn to close the space between them. There’s no uncertainty now, no frenzy, only the moving of lips, steady, exploring this new side of their connection.
Instead of pushing Shane back the way he did before, Shane feels Ilya fall deeper into it. His big hands slide from Shane’s waist to his back, pulling him in, his lips moving against Shane’s own with such tenderness and care that it makes his heart hurt.
Shane’s fingers find their way home in Ilya’s curls, tugging him closer as he deepens the kiss, soft and slow, savoring the taste of his lips. Ilya’s tongue swirls around Shane’s, eager and passionate. There’s a new kind of urgency now, one that’s not about rushing or preserving a moment. This one is slow, tentative, only about wanting.
“I am sorry for ignoring you for so long, солнышко,” Rozanov says when he pulls away from Shane’s lips, their foreheads still touching. “I was so scared of this. I still am.” Shane feels Ilya’s breath against his skin as he talks, sending shivers down his spine.
“I’m also scared, Ilya, I’m fucking terrified,” Shane replies, taking Ilya’s face into his hands and forcing him to look into his eyes. The blue is pooling with tears, threatening to spill over. “But we could’ve figured it out together.”
“I thought maybe I could stop wanting you if I ignored you,” Ilya breathes, “if I pretended you did not exist. I was wrong. I only wanted you more, and I missed you.”
“Well, it fucking sucked. You put me through hell. Don’t do it again, Rozanov,” Shane sighs. “We only have each other in this, so let’s not shut each other out. Please.”
“I am really sorry, Shane.”
“I know.”
They sit like this for a little while, breathing each other in, letting their emotions exist. Shane brushes a curl out of Ilya’s face, and Ilya traces a thumb over Shane’s cheek.
“Do you remember when I fucked you for first time?” he asks.
Shane nods; he doesn’t think he can ever forget about that. He’d been a nervous wreck, but it was also probably the most he’d ever wanted anything in his life. Except for maybe a Stanley Cup.
“You were perfect, Shane. So fucking perfect for me.” Ilya presses a kiss to the corner of Shane’s mouth, and then another to his cheek, under his ear, and down to his nape.
“Prettiest boy with prettiest freckles and prettiest moans in all of Canada,” he continues, and Shane chokes out a nervous chuckle. “You were so beautiful, taking my cock so well, like you were made for it. But it was after, when I asked you if it was worth the wait and you kissed me softly, that I knew that you were going to be big, big problem for me.”
Shane’s breath stutters in his throat. “Since then?”
“No, probably before,” Rozanov says, feigning nonchalance. “Probably first time I saw you’d rather spend time folding your clothes instead of getting in bed with me and sucking my dick.”
Shane’s face flushes in a violent red. “It’s only so it doesn’t wrinkle. It’s practical,” he mutters.
“I have slept with many other people before and since then, but I always come back to you and your stupid folding,” Ilya whispers, his face buried in Shane’s neck like he’ll explode if he looks at him. Shane is kind of glad Ilya can’t see just how flustered he’s making him. “I only want you, Shane. It kills me.”
“I only want you, too,” Shane says under his breath.
Ilya looks up at Shane, who is still on his lap, taller than him right now. Shane can’t help but kiss him again. He might very well be addicted. He bites down on Ilya’s lower lip, earning him a low growl.
Ilya flips them over and presses Shane into the mattress, positioning himself over Shane as he licks into his mouth. Ilya fiddles with the buttons on his dress shirt, undoing them with lightning-fast precision. Shane feels drunk with it, his body writhing with want as Ilya kisses his way down his throat, collarbones, far more gentle than he usually is. It’s driving Shane crazy, the way it’s making him feel special, precious, worshipped, even.
Ilya makes his way down to Shane’s waist, dragging one hand up to squeeze his chest, the other undoing his belt. He unzips the slacks and starts to mouth at Shane’s already half-hard cock through his underwear.
“Holy shit,” is all Shane manages to utter, completely entranced by the way Ilya’s piercing blue eyes are still locked onto his own as the man drags his tongue, soaking the dark fabric. It’s obscene, borderline pornographic—Shane cannot get enough of the sight. Ilya presses both hands to the insides of Shane’s thighs to push them apart, and Shane can’t do anything but throw his head back when Ilya puts his mouth to his clothed cock again, thoroughly overwhelming all his senses.
“Fuck, Ilya, please,” he pleads, not exactly sure what he’s even begging for. Ilya seems to know, though, as he pulls down Shane’s pants and underwear in one tug, leaving him exposed and naked, except for the unbuttoned shirt. Ilya is still fully dressed—if you can call gray sweats and an inside-out shirt dressed—and Shane is about to complain when Ilya takes him in his mouth without warning.
“Oh, shit, oh my god,” Shane babbles, beside himself. Ilya hums lowly around Shane’s cock, bobbing his head and slowly lowering himself until his nose is buried in the trimmed hair at the base. Ilya’s mouth is hot and wet, and it’s so blissful that Shane can’t stop himself from thrusting up into the heat of his throat.
It’s harder than he usually does it, and Ilya gags a little around the length, but Shane knows he can take it. He pushes Ilya’s head down and begins to guide him to meet with his thrusts.
He’s spent the better part of this year worried out of his mind and, frankly, fucking devastated, and he knows it’s twisted, but he wants Ilya to feel some of his pain, some of the suffering he inflicted.
“Don’t fucking vanish on me for six months ever–ah–again,” he groans, and Ilya honest-to-god whimpers. His perfect lips wrapped around Shane, two teary eyes looking up at him; everything about it spurs him on even more. He loses himself in ecstasy, sliding his cock in and out of Ilya’s mouth at a torturous pace.
Shane feels himself hit the back of Ilya’s throat, velvety and perfect, and the familiar fire slowly starts rising in his gut. He could easily come down Ilya’s throat like this—he’s already getting close, and it’s certainly tempting—but a tear is falling down Ilya’s face by now, and Shane is not a merciless man.
When he finally pulls Ilya off of him by the hair, Ilya looks absolutely ruined: eyes half-lidded and dazed, lips swollen and parted, face entirely flushed a deep shade of pink.
“Fuck,” he croaks, his voice raw and raspy. “I will not leave again, моя любовь.”
“Good,” Shane grins. “Now come here and kiss me.”
Ilya lets himself be hoisted up, hovering over Shane’s body as Shane presses his lips against Ilya’s again. He grabs the hem of Ilya’s shirt and pulls it over his head in a clumsy motion, the fabric snagging on his elbow. Shane huffs out a laugh against Ilya’s mouth. Ilya smiles—genuinely smiles, not that smug smirk he so loves to pull—and Shane feels like they’re two stupid teenagers again, just like they were that one night, four years ago.
Shane loves when Ilya gets a little rough with him, when he pins his wrists to the headboard just slightly too hard, when he bites the skin of Shane’s shoulder, making him scream in pleasure.
It’s always fucking incredible, and he wouldn’t change it for the world, but with each kiss Ilya places on his cheeks, it begins to dawn on Shane that this—this is what he missed. The way Ilya can make him feel warm and giggly and entirely at ease in one moment, and so keyed up he can’t form a proper thought in the next.
Shane hooks his thumbs around the waistband of Ilya’s sweatpants. Ilya, seemingly getting the hint, pulls them off and kicks them somewhere on the floor behind him. In his hurry to get to Shane’s room, he probably didn’t bother to find any underwear. Shane represses a snort at the fact that Ilya’d been going commando throughout their entire talk.
Ilya’s hands slide down Shane’s thighs before he pushes his knees up, and oh, there are those nervous butterflies again, fluttering around in his stomach.
“Wait, Ilya, I don’t think I can uh…” his voice trails off. “I’m still kind of– kind of sore from earlier.”
“I got you,” Ilya chuckles before pressing his lips to Shane's glabella. “Do not worry, солнышко.”
An involuntary sigh escapes his mouth when Ilya lowers himself, his body entirely flush with Shane’s. Shane feels Ilya everywhere, and it’s so much that he can’t do anything except link his ankles behind Ilya’s waist and kiss him again. Shane’s cock is still slick with spit from before—his eyes roll to the back of his head at the sensation when Ilya drags his dick along Shane’s own.
Ilya combs his fingers through Shane’s hair and looks at him with such adoration that his heart wobbles. He presses a kiss to Shane’s chin, his nose, both his cheeks—left, then right—and his lips. Shane brings his hands up to frame Ilya’s face, his thumb brushing lightly over the moles scattered across his jaw.
Ilya rocks his hips forward again, setting up a slow, intoxicating pace. His lips are slightly parted, as if in absolute disbelief, and his eyes are fiercely locked onto Shane’s. He looks completely and utterly gone.
“God, Shane,” he whispers, the name a prayer on his tongue. He drops his lips back onto Shane’s, kissing him over and over like an apology, like a declaration of something bigger.
Shane is leaking at this point, spilling precum from his cock and down onto his own stomach. Ilya wraps a hand around both of them, slicking them up and stroking them together in rapid tugs. The added lubrication sends a jolt of pleasure through Shane, and he arches his back off the bed.
“Fuck, fuck, Ilya, I’m– close,” Shane moans while he grips tightly at Ilya’s hair. Ilya seems to be right there with him, muttering something in Russian and knitting his eyebrows together in that specific way that Shane recognizes all too well.
“I– oh god, Shane,” Ilya all but screams, releasing all over Shane’s abdomen and chest. Shane expects Ilya to stop stroking them together after his orgasm, but Ilya’s movements do not falter one bit. His mouth drops open at the overstimulation, but his eyes remain wild and determined.
Shane is so, so close, so when Ilya drops his head down and bites down on Shane’s shoulder hard, he comes with a violent cry, body shuddering at the intensity of it all.
He’s still coming down from his high when Ilya drops his full weight on Shane, knocking the air from his lungs.
“Oh, my god, you’re so fucking heavy,” Shane complains, but Ilya doesn’t budge.
“Shh,” he shushes, burying his face in Shane’s nape. Shane wraps his arms around Ilya’s broad back and draws little shapes along the skin with his middle finger. They stay like this for a bit, eyes closed, just breathing together, feeling each other’s heartbeats.
After a while, though, the cum drying between their chests starts to get uncomfortable, and Ilya seems to agree, as he gets up and retrieves a washcloth and a glass of water from the ensuite.
After he’s cleaned them up, he crawls underneath the covers and snuggles up behind Shane, back to chest. He wraps an arm around Shane’s waist and peppers little pecks along the back of his neck.
“I will stay,” Ilya states. He’s not asking; it isn’t a point of discussion anymore.
Shane can’t help but smile at the thought as he drifts off to sleep in Ilya’s embrace.