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Shane woke up feeling weird.
Not groggy, not tired, just wrong.
This definitely was not a hangover. Because golden boy Shane Hollander was just too good to buy a proper drink to celebrate last night's win, a spectacular win against the Metros nonetheless. Thankfully he didn’t have to worry because his husband drank enough for both of them.
His body felt heavier, somehow, his legs stretching farther than they should when he swung them over the side of the bed. The sheets seemed tighter, the pillow higher, the floor farther away. Something about the way his chest rose and fell with more difficulty than normally just didn’t feel like him.
He rubbed his eyes, blinked against the sunlight spilling across the bedroom, and tried to sit up. The movement was clumsy. His arms felt strange, too long, too strong, too… wrong. He swayed, gripping the edge of the mattress for balance.
Except he wasn´t sitting on his side of the bed anymore, the door all the way on the other side of the room, which was strange because Shane had, for as long as he could remember, insisted on sleeping closer to the door.
Okay. Okay. Okay, brain’s asleep. Body’s asleep. Nothing’s broken. Totally normal.
His feet hit the floor, and every step toward the bathroom made him feel heavier, slower, like he was learning to walk all over again. He reached his hand up to scratch at his stomach absentmindedly, reaching under his shirt, only to find none.
Which was, very strange to say the least. Because unlike his husband, he wasn't a lunatic who slept in barely any clothing.
He muttered nonsense to himself as he shuffled along.
Just morning weirdness. Totally fine. Nothing unusual. Everything’s fine. His voice coming out wrong, rougher, raspier.
The en suite door swung open. Shane flicked the light on, squinting at the reflection in the mirror. His hands hovered over the sink. He blinked. And froze.
The face staring back wasn’t his.
It was Ilya’s. Every curve, every mole, every subtle shadow under the eyes. His eyes, his lips, his jawline, all the little things Shane had memorized, were now on him. On his body.
He had seen this body countless times, knowing it inside and out. But not like this.
Shane’s stomach flipped, his chest tightening. He dropped his hands, but the panic didn’t stop.
“…Oh no.” His voice—Ilya’s voice—sounded entirely wrong coming out of his mouth. “…Oh no no no no no no…”
From the bedroom, a groggy voice called “Shane?”
Shane whipped around. And there was Ilya? Sitting up on the wrong side of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck. Shanes own face, his own body staring back at him. Messy hair sticking up, the way Shane had seen it in the reflection thousands of times, only now he was seeing it from a completely different angle.
Shane staggered toward the wall for support, hands pressed against it like it would somehow make reality make sense.
“I-Ilya?” Shane called out, the name sounding strange coming out, Ilya’s thick accent mixing with Shane’s.
Ilya, Shane’s body, stretched like he’d been sleeping normally.
“Good morning moya lyubov.” he said, voice low, a little softer than usual, but the Russian accent still present nonetheless.
No, no. This is not happening.
Shane ran back to the bathroom, locking it behind him. He couldn’ t bear to look Ilya, to look himself in the eyes.
Shane stood there for a second longer, breathing unevenly, before the reality of the situation crashed back over him like a wave.
He stared at the mirror again, like it might suddenly fix itself if he looked hard enough.
It didn’t.
Ilya’s face stared back at him, his husband’s face, except wrong somehow because Shane knew exactly how that face was supposed to look when it was Ilya making it. The expression was all off. The eyebrows were pulled too high, the mouth trembling in a way Ilya’s never did unless he was trying very hard not to laugh.
Shane pressed both hands to the sink.
They were Ilya’s hands.
Longer fingers. A faint scar across the knuckle from a stupid fight years ago. Lighter hair along the wrists.
“No.” Shane whispered, breath coming too fast. “No no no no—”
His chest felt tight. Too tight. The air scraped on the way in, rough in lungs that were not the ones he had spent his entire life learning how to breathe with.
Behind the door, there was a knock.
Soft. Careful.
“Shane?” Ilya’s voice, except not. It was Shane’s voice now, warm and familiar and completely wrong coming from the other side of the door.
Shane squeezed his eyes shut.
“Ilya?” he said again, voice cracking badly. “Ilya something is wrong something is very wrong I—”
Shane stared at the door, a terrified sob tearing through him.
Another knock.
“Can you open the door, solnyshko?”
“No!” Shane blurted immediately.
The word came out sharp and panicked and far too loud in the small bathroom. His breathing sped up even more, chest rising and falling in short bursts that felt like they weren’t actually giving him oxygen.
Everything was wrong.
The room was wrong.
His body was wrong.
His voice was wrong.
Even the heartbeat felt wrong, slower, heavier, like it belonged to someone who smoked too much and didn’t drink enough water and refused to stretch properly before practice.
“Oh god,” Shane gasped. “Oh god oh god—”
“Shane.” Ilya’s voice, Shane’s voice, came from behind the door again, lower this time. Steadier.
There was a thump against the door as Ilya apparently leaned his forehead against it.
“Why are you locked in bathroom anyway ?” he added. “And why do you sound like you swallowed gravel?”
Shane opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“Ilya.”
“Yes, dorogoy.”
Something about hearing that in his own voice made Shane feel like his brain was trying to reboot.
“I need you to do something.”
“Is it quiet?” Ilya mumbled, “Because my head feels like someone is using jackhammer inside it.”
“It’s important.”
“…Is it coffee important or life threatening important.”
“Life threatening!”
That seemed to get through the hangover fog a little.
“…Okay.” Ilya said cautiously.
Shane paced the small bathroom again, running a hand through hair that was still too short, too unfamiliar.
“Take your phone.” he said.
“…My phone?”
“Yes.”
“Why.”
“Just do it!”
There was a rustling noise from the bedroom.
A drawer opening, something falling.
“Found it.” Ilya muttered.
“Good.”
“Now what.”
“Open the camera.”
“…Why.”
“Ilya.”
“I am doing it.” he grumbled.
Shane held his breath.
Outside the door there was silence for a moment.
Then—
“…Why am I pointing camera at wall.”
“Turn it around.”
“What.”
“Flip it. Front camera.”
More fumbling.
Another long pause.
“…Huh.”
Shane squeezed his eyes shut.
“…What do you mean huh?”
“I look terrible.” Ilya said thoughtfully. “Like I died and someone resurrected me with worse hair.”
“That’s not the problem!”
Another pause.
Then Ilya’s voice changed slightly. Less groggy.
“…Wait.”
Shane pressed his forehead to the door.
“Yeah.”
“…Why do I look like you.”
“Yes.”
The silence on the other side stretched longer this time.
Shane could practically hear the gears in Ilya’s brain trying to turn through the hangover.
“…Shane.”
“Yes.”
“Why do I look like you.”
“Because you’re in my body!”
Another long pause.
“…That seems unlikely.”
Shane made a strangled noise.
“LOOK AT YOURSELF!”
“I am looking!”
“Move your arm!”
There was a small rustle.
“…It moved.”
“Yes!”
“Shane.” Ilya said carefully, “This is usually how mirrors work.”
“It’s not a mirror it’s your phone camera!”
“Oh.”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
“…Oh.”
Shane heard the mattress creak as Ilya sat down heavily.
“Interesting.” Ilya murmured.
“You’re not reacting enough!”
“My head hurts too much for big reactions.”
Shane let out a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“Ilya I’m having a meltdown!”
“I can hear that.”
“I woke up in your body!”
“Yes.”
“I have your lungs!”
“…My condolences.”
“And your stupid long legs!”
“They are elegant.”
“And you’re not even freaking out!”
Another pause.
Then Ilya spoke again, quieter now.
“…Shane.”
“Yes?”
“You are in bathroom, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And I am outside.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“…Why is that good?”
“Because if you were standing in front of me right now.” Ilya said, voice still calm despite everything, “I think seeing my own face panicking would make my hangover significantly worse.”
Despite himself, Shane let out a shaky laugh.
Outside the door, Ilya sighed and rubbed his face, Shane’s face.
“…Okay.” he said after a moment. “We have a problem.”
“That’s an understatement!”
“Yes.” Ilya agreed.
A beat passed, and then.
“Also… Shane?”
“…What.”
“Your body is very sore.”
“That’s because I stretch before practice and you don’t!”
“Ah.” Ilya said thoughtfully.
“That explains everything.”
Silence stretched between them, until it was broken by that strange bizarre Canadian-Russian voice coming from the bedroom.
“This is weird.”
“Yes I know!” he snapped, pacing the tiny bathroom in jerky circles. “I noticed! I noticed the second I saw your stupid face in the mirror—your face—my face—your—”
He grabbed his hair.
Which was also wrong. Shorter. Slightly rougher.
“I can’t—this is not—this is not okay.” he said, voice breaking.
On the other side of the door, Ilya was quiet for a moment.
“Shane.”
The tone was very specific, sounding strange that it was not Ilya’s voice using that tone.
Shane froze automatically.
“Are you breathing properly?”
“…No.”
“Okay.” Calm. Measured. “That we can fix.”
Shane slid down the wall until he was sitting on the cold tile floor, knees pulled up awkwardly. The movement felt clumsy in a body that wasn’t calibrated to him.
“I don’t like this.” he said, voice wobbling badly. “Everything feels wrong. My arms are wrong. My chest feels wrong. Your lungs are bad, Ilya. I hate your lungs.”
There was a quiet huff of laughter from outside.
“Rude.”
“I’m serious!” Shane snapped.
“I know.”
Another knock, softer this time. His—Shane’s—hand probably resting against the door.
“Listen to me, okay?”
Shane pressed his forehead to his knees.
“…Okay.”
“Slow breath in.” Ilya said.
Shane tried.
It came out shaky.
“Slower.” Ilya corrected gently. “Your body—my body—is used to slower breathing. Try again.”
Shane inhaled again, forcing the air down into lungs that felt too big and too rough.
“Good.” Ilya murmured. “Now out.”
Shane exhaled.
His hands were still shaking.
“Again.” Ilya said.
They did it three more times.
The panic didn’t disappear, but it stopped climbing quite so violently.
“I hate this.” Shane muttered.
“I also hate this.”
Another pause.
Then, carefully. “Shane, milyy… can you unlock the door?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because then I have to look at you.”
“That seems unfair. I must look at you.”
“That’s different!”
“How?”
“Because you look normal!”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Ilya snorted.
“I promise you, I absolutely do not.”
Shane made a small distressed noise.
“Ilya I can’t—your body is wrong and my brain hates it and I feel like my bones are in the wrong places and—”
“I know.”
The answer was immediate. Soft.
“I know, lyubov.”
Shane swallowed hard.
Outside, Ilya shifted closer to the door.
“You don’t have to look at me right away,” he said. “Just open the door. We can sit on floor and panic together.”
Shane let out a shaky breath.
“…You won’t laugh?”
“Shane.”
“…You laugh at everything.”
“Yes,” Ilya admitted. “But not when you are scared.”
That quiet certainty in Shane’s own voice did something strange to his chest.
“…Okay.” he whispered.
Slowly, carefully, he stood up.
His legs still felt like someone else’s.
He walked to the door like it might explode.
Unlocked it.
The door creaked open.
And there he was.
Shane.
Except it wasn’t.
It was Ilya standing in Shane’s body, hair messy, eyes soft and concerned in a face Shane had only ever seen in mirrors.
For a long moment they just stared at each other.
Then Shane’s lip wobbled again.
“I hate this so much.”
Ilya immediately opened his arms.
“Come here.”
Shane stepped forward automatically—and then froze halfway.
“…This is weird.”
“Yes.” Ilya agreed.
A beat.
“…But you are still my husband.”
Shane sniffed.
“…Okay.”
Then he stepped forward and buried his face into his own shoulder.
Which was the strangest thing that had ever happened to either of them.
A few hours later, the world had not ended.
Which was surprising, honestly.
The house was quiet in the kind of way it only got on rare mornings when neither of them had practice, travel, or media obligations breathing down their necks.
Except today they definitely did have media obligations.
Or they had.
The phone call to Harris had been… memorable.
Shane had insisted on making it because, in his words, “You sound suspicious when you lie.”
Ilya had disagreed with that strongly.
Unfortunately, the moment Shane started speaking in Ilya’s accent from Ilya’s phone while Harris was expecting Shane Hollander, things had spiraled very quickly.
They’d eventually settled on the extremely professional explanation of: “We both woke up extremely sick.”
Harris had sighed the long, suffering sigh of a man who managed professional hockey players for a living.
“You two live together. How did you both get sick?”
“Contagious.” Shane had said firmly.
“Highly contagious.” Ilya had added.
Harris had muttered something about “unbelievable” and rescheduled the interview.
Which was how they’d ended up here.
The apartment looked slightly haunted.
Nearly every reflective surface had something thrown over it.
A towel over the hallway mirror.
A hoodie draped across the big living room one.
The bathroom mirror was still hidden under two bath towels and a t-shirt because Shane had refused to step foot in there otherwise.
And in the middle of it all—
Domestic chaos.
Anya, blissfully unaware of the metaphysical horror unfolding in her home, trotted happily across the living room.
Her tail wagged the moment she spotted Ilya.
Or—well.
Ilya’s body.
“Hi baby.” Shane said automatically.
Anya launched herself at him like she’d been waiting all morning.
Ilya looked up from the couch.
“…Traitor.”
Shane laughed as the dog climbed halfway into his lap, licking enthusiastically at his face.
“She loves me.”
“She loves me.” Ilya corrected.
“Not anymore.”
Shane scratched behind Anya’s ears, grinning in a way that looked very strange on Ilya’s face.
“Look at this. I’m finally the favorite.”
“You were always the favorite.” Ilya muttered.
“Not according to her.”
As if on cue, Anya happily flopped across Shane’s lap and settled there like she had always belonged there.
Ilya stared.
“Unbelievable.”
Shane beamed.
Across the couch, Ilya was sprawled sideways with Shane’s reading glasses perched on his nose.
That part had been a discovery.
Apparently Shane’s eyes were terrible.
“Your prescription is aggressive.” Ilya complained.
“You’re the one who stares at your phone in the dark.”
“Because my eyes are strong.”
“They clearly aren’t!”
“I refuse to believe this.”
Shane snorted softly and flipped a page in his book.
That had been another unexpected benefit.
“I can’t believe this.” he murmured.
Ilya glanced over.
“What.”
“I can read without glasses.”
“…You’re welcome.”
Shane lowered the book and squinted experimentally across the room.
The letters on the far-away TV remote were still perfectly clear.
“This is incredible.”
“I am glad my superior genetics are useful.”
“You smoke.”
“That is unrelated.”
Shane hummed skeptically but went back to reading.
For a little while, the apartment fell into an almost peaceful silence.
Anya snored softly. Pages turned. Ilya scrolled.
Every so often he adjusted Shane’s glasses with mild annoyance.
“Reddit says we might be cursed.” he said eventually.
Shane didn’t even look up.
“Reddit also thinks the moon landing was fake.”
“There is surprising amount of body swap discussion.”
“That’s worse.”
Ilya kept scrolling.
“Okay, here is one suggestion.”
Shane sighed.
“What.”
“Lightning strike.”
“…No.”
“Electromagnetic anomaly.”
“No.”
“Quantum entanglement.”
“Stop.”
“Spiritual awakening.”
Shane lowered the book slowly.
“Ilya.”
“Yes?”
“If you drag me outside during a thunderstorm I will divorce you.”
“You cannot divorce me,” Ilya pointed out calmly. “Legally we are currently each other.”
Shane blinked.
“…Oh my god.”
“Yes.”
“That’s horrifying.”
“I know.”
They both sat there with that thought for a moment.
Then Anya shifted in Shane’s lap and let out a very content sigh.
Shane absently scratched her stomach.
“She really does like you better.” Ilya said bitterly.
Shane grinned again.
“It’s the vibes.”
“It’s betrayal.”
“It’s justice.”
“You stole my dog.”
“First of all she’s our dog, and second of all she came willingly.”
Ilya leaned back against the couch cushions with a long sigh, rubbing his temples.
“…My head still hurts.”
“That’s because you drank half a bar.”
“You said I should celebrate.”
“I said have a drink.”
“I had many drinks.”
Shane watched him fondly for a moment.
Even with his own face, he could still see Ilya in the little things.
The slouch.
The dramatic sighing.
The way he scrolled with one thumb like the phone had personally offended him.
“Hey.” Shane said softly.
Ilya looked over.
“…What.”
Shane hesitated.
Then shrugged slightly.
“…Thanks for earlier.”
“For what.”
“Helping when I was freaking out.”
Ilya blinked at him.
Then shrugged.
“You panic. I manage crisis.”
“You also made an ass joke.”
“That was important research.”
Shane rolled his eyes.
A comfortable silence settled again.
Then—
“…Shane.”
“Yeah.”
“…Your body itches.”
Shane frowned.
“What does that mean.”
“I think you are allergic to my shampoo.”
“…Why would I be allergic to your shampoo.”
“I do not know. Your skin is delicate.”
“My skin is not delicate!”
Ilya scratched his arm.
“…Your skin is delicate.”
Shane groaned and dropped his head back against the couch.
“This is the worst day of my life.”
Across from him, Ilya snorted.
“Relax.”
Shane looked over.
“How are you so calm about this?”
Ilya shrugged lazily.
“I woke up hungover and now I am handsome Canadian hockey star.”
Shane threw a pillow at him.
“YOU WERE ALREADY A HOCKEY STAR.”
“Yes but now I have your jawline. And your perfect ass.”
“That’s my face!” Shane barked, then added. “And ass.”
“And it is excellent.”
Shane groaned again.
Anya lifted her head sleepily, then immediately curled back into Shane’s lap.
Ilya watched that happen with deep suspicion.
“…She never cuddles me like that.”
Shane grinned smugly.
“Skill issue.”
“Give me my dog back.”
“Make me.”
Ilya squinted at him.
“…You realize if we stay like this long enough I could ruin your reputation.”
Shane raised an eyebrow.
“How.”
“I could go to practice and start fights with everyone.”
“You already do that.”
“…True.”
They stared at each other for a moment.
Then both started laughing.
The situation was still insane.
Their bodies were still wrong.
Nothing made sense.
For a while they just sat there laughing.
It was the slightly hysterical kind, the kind that came after too much stress and not enough sleep and the realization that the universe had apparently decided to play a cosmic prank on them.
Eventually it faded into quieter chuckles.
Anya snored.
The book rested open on Shane’s chest.
Ilya’s phone slipped a little in his hand as he leaned back into the couch cushions.
“…You know.” Ilya said eventually.
Shane looked up from the page.
“That sentence has never led anywhere good.”
“We should take a shower.”
Shane blinked.
“…A what.”
“A shower.”
“I know what a shower is, Ilya.”
“Good.”
“Why.”
Ilya gestured vaguely at both of them.
“Because today has been terrible, I am still hungover, and I feel like I got hit by truck.”
“That’s because you drank like a college freshman.”
“That is slander.”
“And?”
“And,” Ilya continued patiently, “Hot shower fixes many problems.”
Shane considered that.
He shifted slightly under the weight of Anya.
“…Okay but.”
“But what.”
“You’re suggesting we shower.”
“Yes.”
“Together.”
“Yes.”
“In each other’s bodies.”
Ilya tilted his head.
“…When you say it like that it sounds strange.”
“IT IS STRANGE.”
Ilya shrugged.
“We are married.”
“That’s not the point!”
“It is at least partially the point.”
Shane rubbed a hand over his face—Ilya’s face—and sighed.
“I don’t know if my brain can handle that right now.”
“It is just a shower.”
“You’re a liar.”
Ilya smiled faintly.
“I am a little bit liar.”
Shane narrowed his eyes at him.
“Ilya.”
“Yes.”
“If you make this weird—”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
“I am deeply offended.”
Shane stared at him.
“…You’re literally smirking.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
Ilya pushed himself up off the couch.
Shane’s body stretched automatically in a way that made Shane blink.
“…Huh.” Ilya murmured.
“What.”
“Your back cracks less than mine.”
“That’s because I take care of my body.”
“Boring.”
Shane rolled his eyes but closed the book and set it on the coffee table.
Anya whined when he shifted.
“Sorry baby.” Shane murmured, scratching her head.
She accepted this and flopped sideways.
Ilya disappeared briefly down the hallway.
A moment later his voice echoed back.
“…Shane.”
“What.”
“You covered mirror in bathroom.”
“Yes.”
“Why.”
“Because I don’t want to see you when I’m naked.”
“You have seen me naked many times.”
“That’s different!”
“How.”
“Because normally I’m not also there!”
Ilya laughed under his breath.
A minute later Shane joined him in the bathroom doorway, arms crossed.
The mirror was indeed still buried under towels.
The shower curtain hung half open.
Steam hadn’t started yet.
Shane hesitated.
“This is weird.” he muttered again.
Ilya leaned casually against the counter.
“Yes.”
“And confusing.”
“Yes.”
“And if you make a single inappropriate comment—”
“I would never.”
“You already did earlier!”
“That was science.”
Shane sighed.
“Fine.”
They stepped into the bathroom together.
It felt surreal in a thousand tiny ways.
Ilya reached over and turned the water on, testing the temperature automatically.
Shane leaned against the counter, watching.
It was deeply unsettling watching his own body move around the room like that.
“You always make it too hot.” Shane said.
“No I don’t.”
“Yes you do.”
“It builds character.”
“It builds third-degree burns.”
The water started steaming.
Ilya stepped back.
“Your turn.”
Shane hesitated for half a second before pulling off Ilya’s shirt.
He paused.
“…This is extremely strange.”
“Take your time.” Ilya said mildly.
Shane glanced at him suspiciously.
“…Why are you smiling.”
“I am not smiling.”
“You are absolutely smiling.”
“I am appreciating situation.”
“ILYA.”
“What?”
Shane shook his head and stepped into the shower first.
The hot water hit his shoulders.
“…Okay that’s actually nice.” he admitted.
“Of course it is.” Ilya said, stepping in after him.
The shower wasn’t huge.
Which meant they were standing fairly close.
Steam slowly filled the space.
For a moment it was quiet.
Just water.
Breathing.
The strange novelty of being here like this.
Then Ilya spoke.
“…You know.”
Shane didn’t like that tone.
“What.”
“I know this body very well.”
Shane turned slowly.
“…Ilya.”
“What.”
“That sentence is dangerous.”
Ilya tilted his head slightly, studying him with a thoughtful expression.
“I mean it is technically my body.”
“Yes.”
“So I know exactly what feels good.”
Shane stared at him.
“Oh my god.”
“I am simply saying.”
“You are unbelievable.”
Ilya grinned.
“You married me.”
Shane groaned and covered his face with both hands.
“That was a mistake.”
“I disagree.”
“Of course you do.”
Ilya leaned a little closer, voice dropping into something teasing.
“Also… interesting perspective.”
Shane peeked through his fingers.
“…What.”
Ilya gestured vaguely.
“You are currently discovering what it is like to be married to extremely attractive man.”
Shane stared at him.
Then snorted.
“You’re insufferable.”
“Yes.” Ilya agreed cheerfully.
“But you still love me.”
Shane sighed.
“…Unfortunately.”
Ilya nuzzled Shane’s neck, resting his chin in his shoulder as he reached over to take the shampoo on the shelf.
“You are not putting your disgusting 3in1 in my—your—hair..” Shane said, gripping the curls, he now had on his head, tight.
“Is literally my hair…”
“It’s always so rough after, at least use mine.”
Ilya obediently set the bottle of Shane’s shampoo in his hand with a quiet little hum, like he’d been planning to do that all along.
Shane still eyed him suspiciously.
“I’m watching you.”
“You are closing your eyes.” Ilya pointed out mildly.
“That’s not the point.”
Shane tilted his head back under the spray anyway, curls already damp and heavy against his forehead. The water ran down the back of his neck, warm and steady.
Ilya poured a little shampoo into his palm.
Then reached up.
He did, in fact, have to reach higher than usual.
“…This is inconvenient.” he muttered.
Shane snorted softly. “Welcome to my world.”
Ilya’s fingers slid into the curls, working the shampoo in slowly. The lather built quickly under his hands, foam catching in the tight spirals.
Shane relaxed despite himself.
“That feels nice.” he admitted.
“Of course it does,” Ilya said, massaging his scalp with practiced ease. “I am very talented.”
“You’re shampooing your hair.”
“I am excellent at shampooing my hair.”
Shane huffed quietly but leaned back into it a little more.
The steam thickened around them.
Ilya’s fingers worked slowly through the curls, careful but deliberate, scratching lightly at the base of Shane’s scalp in the way he knew always made him melt.
Shane made a soft sound before he could stop himself.
“…Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
After a moment, Ilya stepped back slightly.
“Hold still.”
Shane cracked one eye open.
“Why.”
“I forgot conditioner.”
“You forgot conditioner?”
“Yes.”
“It’s right there.”
“No,” Ilya said, gesturing vaguely toward the sink. “The other one.”
Shane sighed but leaned back against the tile, letting the water rinse through his hair.
Behind him, Ilya stepped out of the spray and reached across the counter, opening the small cabinet above the sink.
Something shifted.
A towel slid down quietly.
Ilya paused for half a second.
Then slowly looked at the mirror.
His own body stared back at him.
Standing under the shower, relaxed, eyes closed, water running through dark curls.
Ilya’s mouth curved slightly.
“…Interesting.”
Behind him, Shane called, “Did you find it?”
“Yes.”
Ilya grabbed the conditioner.
And absolutely did not fix the towel.
When he stepped back into the shower, Shane still had his eyes closed, tilting his head back a little as the water rinsed the shampoo out.
“Finally,” Shane muttered. “You’re slow.”
“Patience.” Ilya said lightly.
He reached up again, working the conditioner into Shane’s hair this time, fingers sliding through the curls slowly.
A little slower than necessary.
Shane shifted.
“…You’re doing that on purpose.”
“Doing what.”
“That.”
“I am conditioning your hair.”
“You’re being weird.”
“I am always weird.”
Shane cracked one eye open.
Then narrowed it.
“…Why are you looking at me like that.”
Ilya’s smile was subtle.
“Oh.” he said softly.
“Just appreciating.”
Shane frowned.
“Appreciating what.”
Ilya didn’t answer immediately.
Instead he leaned a little closer, fingers still moving slowly through Shane’s hair.
His gaze flicked briefly past Shane’s shoulder.
To the mirror.
Then back again.
“…Perspective.” he said.
Shane blinked at him, suspicious.
“Ilya.”
“Yes?”
“…You’re being creepy.”
“I prefer the word curious.”
Shane squinted harder.
“…What did you do.”
“Nothing.”
“That tone means you did something.”
Ilya only smiled faintly, hands sliding down from Shane’s hair.
“Relax.” he murmured.
Shane’s eyes narrowed even more.
“I do not trust that sentence.”
“You should.”
“I absolutely should not.”
Ilya tilted his head slightly, that teasing look still sitting in Shane’s face in a way that made it far too obvious he was about to start trouble.
“Oh.” he said lightly.
“You definitely shouldn’t.”
Ilya started sliding his conditioned hands down, down Shane’s—his—body. Caressing each curve and dip with familiarity.
He started at his neck, pressing steamy open mouthed kisses there, at the nape. The coarse curls sticking to his chin. Shane let out a shaky breath from under him, and grabbed the back of Ilya’s thigh for stability.
This game of theirs, the teasing, the slight bickering was all too familiar. The only difference being that Ilya now had way too much power over Shane.
He continued down his body, hands exploring alongside his busy mouth as he licked a stripe from between his shoulder blades up to his earlobe, pulling it between his teeth.
Shane shivered, which was almost impossible in the hot steamy shower, that he was now holding the wall of, with one hand while the other continued to knead Ilya’s thigh. Grinding back against him involuntarily.
For a while Shane was in another world, forgetting all about the predicament they found themselves in just this morning.
But Ilya wanted to hear more, so he slid his fingers around and into Shane’s mouth. Who obediently took them in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the digits.
And he did not stop there, trailing fingers down, along with his mouth licking and making his way further and further down.
A kiss on the shoulder, a broad stripe down his spine, his fingers gripping at his waist and digging his fingers there just how he knows Shane liked.
He leaned over, his mouth now up against Shane’s ear. A string of sweet Russian nothings escaping his lips. Trying his best to not alert Shane to how weird they sounded coming out, to not tear him out of the trance.
“You are so sexy Shane, even like this.” followed by another lick now all the way down to the small of his back.
Shane gasped and moaned around the fingers in his mouth, arching his back and chasing them with his tongue.
Without much fanfare he turned them around, up against the glass of the shower and took Shane’s cock in his hand. All 9 inches that he now possessed, hard and throbbing.
Ilya pumped his hand once, grabbing at the base to steady him.
“I-Ilya—“ Shane gasped, bucking his hips forward on instinct, chasing the sensation.
That was his cue, he retrieved his hand from Shane’s hips, which were now starting to bloom with red and purple finger-shaped marks, and steadied himself on the glass. While the other started sliding around Shane, up and down in a steady, brutal rhythm.
He knew what felt good, and he was going to take full advantage of it.
Picking up the speed, the conditioner helping in the slickness, the sounds echoing through the bathroom with obscene moans accompanying it.
“Holy fuck.” Shane gasped, now fucking himself on Ilya’s hand.
“Just like that solnyshko, so beautiful for me.” Was it a little arrogant that Ilya was basically calling himself beautiful? Maybe, but that wasn’t the focus now.
Ilya's thumb circled the sensitive head of Shane's cock, spreading the precum in a deliberate, torturous motion. Each stroke was measured, purposeful a perfect blend of tenderness and control that had Shane trembling.
His breath hitched, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow gasps as Ilya's other hand slid up Shane's side, fingertips tracing hot paths over slick skin. The slick conditioner made every touch glide smoothly, heightening every nerve ending.
"Don't open your eyes yet," Ilya murmured against Shane's ear, his voice low and thick with promise. "Just feel."
Shane's body arched instinctively, pressing back against the steady rhythm of Ilya's hand. His hips bucked forward, chasing the exquisite friction and heat that was building inside him.
Minutes stretched, the only sounds the sharp intake of Shane's breath and the wet slap of skin on skin. Ilya knew exactly how to push the right buttons, how to tease and please, coaxing moans and gasps that echoed off the tiled walls.
Finally, Ilya slowed, his hand gentle as he cupped the base of Shane's cock for a moment longer before stilling.
"Open your eyes now." he said softly.
Shane hesitated, uncertainty flickering in his gaze. Slowly, reluctantly, he blinked open his eyes and was hit with the disorienting sight of their reflection in the fogged mirror. There was Ilya—his real self—in Shane's body, and his own face mirrored back in Ilya's frame.
Confusion and disbelief tangled in Shane's chest. The image was surreal, almost shocking. But as he took in Ilya's expression, so vulnerable and yet so undeniably his own, something shifted inside him. The sight was strange, yes, but also intensely intimate.
A slow, warm burn of desire spread through Shane, his pulse quickening as he realized how hot it was to see Ilya like this, so exposed, so himself, yet in his own skin.
"Fuck," Shane breathed, a crooked grin pulling at his lips. "This is…”
Ilya stepped closer, placing his hand—Shane's hand—against the glass, leaving a print in the condensation. "Look at you in my body," he whispered, voice husky.
"Look at yourself—at me—at how fucking beautiful you are." Ilya murmured, his voice a low rumble in Shane's throat as he pressed closer. His hands traced the broad planes of Shane's chest, the curve of his waist—now Ilya's to feel and claim.
"Look at yourself," he repeated, voice thick with desire. "Look how beautiful you are in my body."
His possessive fingers gripped Shane's hips, pulling him flush against his own reflection. "Do you see it? Do you see how gorgeous you are, how damn perfect this is?"
Shane's breath hitched, eyes locked on their reflection, the raw vulnerability laid bare in Ilya's gaze, shining through his own face. The weight of the moment pressed down, strange and electrifying.
"Turn for me." Ilya commanded softly, spinning Shane to face away from the mirror. His hands slid down the curve of Shane's back, tracing the muscles and the slick skin, each touch sending a shiver through both of them.
"Feel this body," Ilya whispered against his skin. "It's yours now, but it moves with me, thinks with me. How does that feel? Different? Hot?"
Shane's mind reeled, heart pounding as the realization of their shared, twisted possession deepened. The mirror reflected two bodies entwined, two souls tangled in this freakish intimacy, and Shane found himself burning with a wild kind of hunger he'd never expected.
And Ilya knew just what to do, he turned them back around so they were both looking at themselves in the mirror. Never stopping the now fast and frantic pumping of Shane’s cock. Sliding his fingers over the slit, spreading the bead of pre cum along his whole length.
"Feel how responsive you are," Ilya whispered, his lips brushing against Shane's ear. "It's like your body's been waiting for me to find all its secrets.
"Look at us," Ilya murmured, breath hot and low. "Look at how beautiful we are when we're like this."
Shane could barely focus, the sensations crashing through him like waves, every touch amplified by the surreal connection between them.
"Look at how beautiful you are like this," Ilya breathed against Shane's ear. "Your body responding to my touch—to your own touch."
Shane gasped, eyes locked on their reflection, unable to tear his gaze away.
"Do you feel that?" Ilya's voice was a dark promise. "That's your body responding to your own touch. Isn't that fucked up? Isn't that perfect?"
Shane could only nod, trembling as Ilya's skilled hand worked with expert precision, stroking, teasing with an agonizing rhythm that sent electric shocks up his spine.
The pleasure was overwhelming, nerve endings screaming for release, yet Ilya held him on the edge, pushing him to the brink with every calculated stroke.
"I know what you need." Ilya murmured, slowing just enough to let the tension build unbearably before ramping back up, driving Shane wild.
Shane whimpered, caught between desperation and desire, utterly consumed by the intensity of their twisted, intimate dance.
Ilya twisted his grip just slightly, his thumb brushing over the sensitive head with each upstroke, collecting the slick evidence of Shane's arousal and using it to glide more smoothly down the rigid shaft.
The pressure sent tremors rippling through Shane's body, each stroke calibrated to ignite and tease.
"Please—“ Shane moaned, his body arching into Ilya's grip.
"Not yet." Ilya commanded, his thumb circling the slick head of Shane's cock with deliberate precision. Each twist and slide was a slow, torturous tease, designed to keep Shane right on the edge.
Ilya's wrist twisted on the upstroke, his grip tightening just beneath the crown. A bead of moisture formed at the tip, and he used his thumb to spread the wetness down the shaft, his fingers working a steady rhythm that had Shane's legs trembling.
"P-Please!" Shane begged, voice cracking as Ilya's grip tightened, just enough to send a shock of pleasure-pain ricocheting through his groin. The pressure was maddening, pulling him back from the brink only to push him harder seconds later.
"That’s it," Ilya purred, his hand sliding with masterful control. "Feel every inch, every nerve ending burn with need. Let it consume you."
The pace shifted, fingers dragging down the shaft with a confident pull, then twisting to catch the sensitive underside near the base. Each movement was deliberate, exquisite, designed to draw out every shred of pleasure while denying release.
Shane's knees buckled, a strangled cry escaping his lips as the exquisite pressure tore through him. His breath hitched and stuttered, the tension building unbearably.
"Not yet," Ilya whispered, voice thick with control and promise. "Feel how your body responds, how every stroke is pulling you deeper.”
His hand moved with expert precision, squeezing just enough to heighten the sensation without allowing relief. Each glide was a masterclass in edging, the slow build and sudden release of tension driving Shane wild.
"I want you to feel every... single... second," Ilya murmured, his eyes locked on Shane's in the mirror. "Every pulse, every shiver, every desperate gasp. This is how beautiful you are—right here, right now."
Shane whimpered, utterly consumed by the intensity, lost in the maddening pleasure of their intertwined bodies and souls.
"Now," Ilya finally granted, increasing his pace with firm, deliberate strokes. "Let go for me."
The permission broke something inside Shane. His body convulsed as the orgasm crashed through him like a tidal wave, every nerve ignited with relentless fire. His hips bucked wildly, back arching hard against Ilya’s steady grip. Vision blurred behind closed lids as pleasure tore through every fiber of his being, pulsing and crashing in endless waves that left him gasping and trembling.
Shane’s cry echoed off the shower walls, raw and desperate, his muscles spasming uncontrollably. The slick heat of release spread down his legs, coursing through him with both pain and exquisite relief. His breath hitched in ragged bursts, every pulse driving deeper into his core.
When the storm finally began to subside, Shane sagged against Ilya’s chest, utterly spent but still trembling from the aftershocks. He inhaled the warmth of Ilya’s skin, feeling the steady thrum of Ilya’s own breath, rough and ragged.
Slowly, Shane’s eyes drifted down to Ilya’s hand, still wet and slick. A faint flush colored Ilya’s cheeks, and Shane noticed the subtle way his fingers twitched even now.
With a teasing smirk, Shane lifted his head and whispered, "You came hands-free, didn’t you? Just barely touching yourself while watching me."
Ilya’s brow lifted, a slow smile creeping across his face. "Maybe. You were... distracting."
Shane chuckled, brushing a wet finger along Ilya’s jaw. "Distracting enough to lose control, huh? I gotta say, I like that."
Ilya’s grin deepened as his fingers gently moved to trace Shane’s chest, cleaning away the remnants of their shared heat. "You’re lucky I’m forgiving."
The steam curled around them, wrapping their bodies in a quiet intimacy. Their breaths mingled, slow and steady now, grounded in the calm after the storm.
Shane leaned up, capturing Ilya’s lips in a soft, lingering kiss, the playfulness still dancing in his eyes as the water washed away everything but the fierce connection between them.
Needless to say, that kiss was only the third weirdest thing that had happened to them today.