Archive of Our Own

Fuck. Shane’s body is aching, especially his quads. It's the last game of the season, Boston against Montreal. Hollander against Rozanov. Their favourite games usually, but something is off today. Their wingers don't really attack, the speed is mediocre, and they just can't stay on the puck. Except for Shane, of course: His eyes are always on the puck, he scored a hat trick in the second period, the only three goals they can offer currently, same for Boston, luckily. No one was better than the other; it was basically a battle between Rozanov and Hollander.

It's not that the other players are bad; it's just that everyone feels it when there's a loss in the air. The Raiders/Metros games are always heated, and today isn’t different. It’s not the lack of skill - it’s the exhaustion at the end of the season, the expectation of the fans, and in Hollanders case, the unbearable pressure he puts on his shoulders when he’s facing his biggest opponent. Perhaps it is the looks that Ilya shoots at him throughout the whole game.

Shane gets slammed against the boards shamelessly, multiple times successively and picks up his throbbing body again and again, piece by piece.

Hollander is a flawless player; he doesn’t glide on the ice, he almost levitates. It's like he doesn’t control his skates, but the lines he carves in the ice are laid out for him, evidently being followed, guaranteed to land him a goal. Today is no different, except that he's more aggressive, eager to make up for the goals his teammates aren't scoring, driven but exhausted by the amount of hits he's endured tonight. It's normal for Shane to feel like he has something to prove, to the coach, to his fans, and teammates. To himself. He knows he's one of the best - if not the best. Yet somehow, being the best still isn't fulfilling him. There's always room to be better than the last time. In the end, he's his own biggest rival, not the Raiders, not Rozanov.

Hollander's pushing harder every minute, so Rozanov's got something to look at on the ice or from the penalty box. He feels a desperate need to show himself off. Or to show off for him?

Ilya is rotting in the penalty box for the second time.

The first time, he was holding Pike back, and this time, he was roughing a left-wing player. There's a stupid, crooked grin on his face as his eyes follow Hollander like Hollander follows the puck. Fuck his beautiful face. Get off the puck. Good. Stay on the puck. Score a goal. Please don't score. Fuck you. Look at me.-

The buzzer interrupts his thoughts.

The game goes into overtime. Every player on the ice hates their fucking life right now. Rozanov is still wearing a smug smile on his face, eyes locking with Hollander every second he's not skating after the puck or slamming someone against the boards, the weight of his whole body supporting the hit. At this point in the game, everyone is out of it, which is unusual but true.

Shane's mind drifts to a place where he's wondering if he's going to see Rozanov after the game. They hadn't seen each other for weeks, and Shane had been wondering if Rozanov had spent any thought on him at all - Shane has. Last time they met, it was in Boston, in Ilya's hotel room; it was different from the times before. Shane's head spun even more than usual after their stolen hours. Isn’t that normal? Clearly aftershocks. After he returned to his own room, he just sat on the unbelievably uncomfortable hotel chair for forty minutes, not moving a single muscle, his ears ringing. Still, he couldn’t pinpoint the feeling except that maybe he could, but didn’t allow himself to admit it. Confess.

"Was fun, Hollander. Can't wait for next time." That's what Ilya said with a wink when he closed the door behind him, and it wasn’t even what he said; it was how he said it. His tone was so excited and soft, like he really couldn’t wait for next time. Shane could feel the shift between them somehow, like the wall they both held up with everything they had slowly started to fall, brick by brick. It was stupid. There were a few texts since then, nothing more than his usual flirts, followed by ‘you see me win today? ;)’. It made Shane's toes curl. He needed next time to be now. He fucking missed him.

The sharp sound of a whistle hits him like someone shoved a bucket of ice-cold water into his face.

Hollander shifts his thoughts back to the game and quickly realises why the referee intervened. Oh god. Ilya.

"You don't touch fucking goalie, asshole!"

Rozanov's gloves were down on the ground, throwing punches at one of his teammates. Nothing he hadn’t seen before. Apparently, a right-wing player of the Metro's couldn’t hold it together anymore after his twenty-first shot at the Boston goal failed miserably. Not very noble, but they're all having a rough time.

Ilya was, of course, the first one to defend their goalie and didn't shy away from violence. The ref pulls Rozanov off the guy he has it out for, and receives his third penalty. Hollander glances over to the penalty box and shakes his head as he smiles. That fucking bitch. Rozanov shrugs, holding his head with both hands and grinning innocently. From across the ice, Hollander can see blood below his nose; he’s drenched in sweat, and other injuries are yet to be perceived as soon as he takes the damn helmet off. Not a look the whole league hasn’t seen before, however, Shane promptly observes that there's more. Rozanov looks spent, worn out like he's been trying to escape a chase.

Shane dies on the inside. How does Ilya make him feel this way, even though he just threw punches thirty seconds ago? At. His. Teammate. The thing is, Ilya's violence is never unjustified. Sure, he spits chirps all the fucking time, but the physicalities are never unfair. He just swings at players who are being idiots; he defends his teammates and himself; he strikes for justice. He'll let you have it if you're being a bitch. Shane fucking loves that about him. Most people think he's just an asshole, a muscular sack of lean meat out for blood, but Shane knows him better than that.

He shakes off the unholy thoughts since he still has a game to win.

So he does.

With Ilya fucking Rozanov still lingering in his mind, he lands the winning goal. It's a little embarrassing for him to know that every single goal on the scoreboard tonight was his; in some weird way, shame crawls up his spine. Why? He gave everything he could. The Metros won the game. Hayden and JJ are already on their way over to him, followed by the rest of the team.

"Hollander, you are the fucking man!" JJ blurts in his ear, throwing his body and arms at him.

"You're crazy, Shane. I'm a little embarrassed for all of us, feels like we did nothing," Hayden adds calmly, through the crowd of turbulent, sweaty men holding onto Shane from all angles.

"Don’t be humble, Hayd, I wouldn’t have scored a single goal if you guys weren’t passing that biscuit to me in fortunate moments."

"Sure, Captain," Pike mocks.

Everyone is undressing rapidly in the locker room, keen on getting shit-faced at the very latest of twenty minutes from now on, unlike their captain. Shane figures he has to get out of here in approximately five minutes before everyone will witness his downfall. Building waves of hotness creeping up from the depths of his lungs, fight, or flight is no question in the rancid-smelling room of guys. It's always a flight. Go home as quickly as possible, disregard clothes, put body in shower. At home shower. Lights at a third of their full power max. Put on something cashmere. Routine.

This happens every once in a while. Overload. Overstimulation.

"Buddy, Shane… you look pale, dude, are you okay?" Hayden tried to connect with Shane, gently placing his hand on his shoulder. "Do you want to come over for a late dinner? Jackie has been asking about you."

Fuck. Answers. Give answers.

Shane manages to speak, "Thanks, Hayden. Tell Jackie it's nice of her. Maybe another time, the game really fucked me up. I- I really need to get out of here… just, I'm fine." he manages a small smile to make his lie more believable.

Hayden always accepts his decisions, whether it's his diet- fuck. Food. When did I have some?

Yanking his bag along his mind off the ground, Shane stumbles through the locker room.

"Thanks, guys, I'm off - you all played amazing tonight"

Surprisingly, he somehow manages to mumble out those words, practically out the door already, muffled voices getting quieter with every inch of distance to the locker room.

Striding down the hallway with squinting eyes, he eventually reaches the door to the private underground parking. Every player had their designated spot with their number. Another set of blinding artificial lights hit him, but he hastily pushes through, makes it to his SUV, and steps into the sedative environment of the car.

Okay.

"I'm fine. I- I'm fine…"

Why now. Why do I feel like this? Nothing happened. Is Rozanov hurt? He's fine. He is probably drowning his devastation in liquor after losing.

Shane sits in the car for what feels like an hour. It was probably fifteen minutes. He's dizzy and exhausted and so fucking tired that his head tilts in every direction if he doesn’t focus. He knows what to do in those moments. Wait and calm down. Obviously, he's not going to drive as long as he is feeling so on edge, but fortunately, his vehicle is really soundproof, with slightly tinted windows that shield him from the dreadful lights and surroundings. Eventually, he calms himself enough to drive home safely.

After he pulled up the driveway, he quickly checked his phone before facing the cold.

2 unread messages

Hayden Pike: Jackie asks about dinner next week?

Lily: Miss me? ;)

God.

He ignores Hayden for now and texts back Lily.

Jane: Fuck off.

Jane: I do.

Lily typing…

Shane tucks the phone in his pocket, gathers all the bags and makes his way up to the apartment, feeling a sense of relief already, face flushed as a result of rushing through the cold and perhaps the messages on his phone- the phone that has been vibrating three times while he slouched up the stairs.

The lock clicks loudly, and Shane steps through the threshold, dropping his bags, but still neatly placing his shoes and jacket on the rack before he wobbles to the couch.

Silence and darkness - good, better.

He didn’t bother to turn on the light.

A few moments go by, and he checks his phone again.

3 unread messages

Lily: Got company?

Lily: Want me?

Lily: I'm at apartment.

Jane typing…

Jane: I'm beat. I think I can’t make it to your apartment. Sorry.

Fucking hell. Shane wants to make it to the fucking apartment. He also needs to be alone, but he hasn’t seen Ilya in so long that his body feels like it's missing a part.

1 unread message

Lily: no, at your apartment

Shane's heart skips a fucking beat, no, three beats. The dizziness from before vanishes for a second, only to come back a thousand times more substantial.

Ilya can't see him like that; he's a wreck. He's weak and stripped naked—his routine.

Ilya is probably just playing him.

There's no way Shane didn’t notice him when he pulled up the driveway.

Just as he reaches for his phone again, there's the knock on the door. The knock that gets Shane excited every time they arranged to meet, except this time, there was no arrangement. Ilya is just here now.

Therefore, Shane lifts himself off the couch clumsily and makes his way to the door again, sudden, sharp waves of pain shooting down his legs. Hold up the mask, dude.

He tries to relax his face and opens the door and fuck.

"Hollander… you, eh. Look terrible. Not bad, but terrible."

"Il- Rozanov, you're here", Shane breathes.

Why do I feel so fucking relieved and stressed at the same time?

And God, Ilya looks wrecked, too. His face has tiny and bigger cuts, blood on some spots, though it looks like he mostly cleaned it up in the shower. There’s a notable chip over his lip. Shane wants to taste it.

"No, I'm hallucination. Yes. I'm here. Good game tonight. Do you want me to leave?"

Rozanov already steps into the apartment, and Shane doesn’t answer his questions; he just lets him pass by him, their shoulders touching briefly. I'm so happy you're here.

"Oh my god, Hollander. Is someone here?", Rozanov asks flatly, raising an eyebrow.

Shane eventually pulls himself together, "What? No, there's no one here, I just… uhm. I don't know. I didn’t expect you to come."

”Yes, no shit. 'twas going to be surprise,” Ilya says smugly.

Shane's legs feel like jelly, and the weight of his body shifts from one foot to the other, evidently looking, as Ilya put it, terrible.

"Fuck…Hollander?"

For a millisecond, Shane's vision goes dark, and he stumbles forward, "Uh, sorry. I don't-"

Ilya steadies him and walks them both to the couch. He sits Hollander down beside him and lets him lean against his shoulder. He had studied this man for roughly nine years and had never seen him this wrecked. Is he sick?

"Is okay, you're pale. Do you feel sick?"

“No, not sick. I'm just exhausted. The game… it was- sorry about the game." Shane mutters.

Ilya puts his hand on Hollander’s forehead, "No sorry. We lost, is fine. That's hockey. One team wins - the other one…not. You feel very cold, Hollander. Sit. I will bring blanket."

It was not the first time Ilya had been in Shane's apartment, but it was far from frequent. He knows where the bathroom and bedroom are, so he takes a blanket from the bed and brings it back to the living area, gently covering Shane's body.

Ilya is watching Shane curling up in the soft material, closing his eyes unwillingly, his face looks like he’s in pain. Ilya’s heart aches - he traced Hollander on the ice fiercely, the weary expression he carried didn’t go unnoticed. Ilya would notice if a freckle on his face had gone missing. As soon as the game had ended, Ilya rushed from the lockers to his rental car, driving like a lunatic. He arrived way before Shane and watched him pull up.

A few quiet moments pass as Ilya analyses Shane's pained face. Gently, he reaches for it and drags his thumb against Shane’s cheek a few times before he gets up again. In the kitchen, he spotted a fully stocked glass jar with protein bars earlier, he takes two and tiptoes back to the couch.

“…Shane?”, Ilya asks almost shyly, quietly.

“Mh? I’m awake.”

“Open your eyes, I have this for you,” he offers Shane the retrieved snack. “Will make you feel better. I can make some food for you, but you eat like hamster, and it will take too long.”

“Thank you, Ilya.”

Wait… Ilya?

Shane's fingers brush over Ilya’s as he takes the berry-flavoured bars. It doesn’t take him long to devour them, and he definitely feels less like collapsing now.

“Mh, Rozanov?”

“Hollander, yes?” Rozanov. A shot to the chest would hurt less.

“Come. Come here?” Shane stammered, eyes fluttering open and closed. “I want you closer.”

Fuck. Ilya doesn’t know how long he can keep pretending he’s casual. What’s going on inside of him is anything but casual.

Ilya smoothly slips behind Shane on the couch. He takes the invitation seriously - the position he chooses now is crucial, ensuring he can touch Shane everywhere - he settles himself.

A relaxed exhale escapes Shane’s lips, and Ilya’s head goes feral with all kinds of emotions.

“Are you okay, Ilya? Looks like you caught some fists. I mean- I- I saw.” Shane turns his head back to look at the cuts. Ilya. His heart aches.

“You saw?” Ilya asks in a husky voice, sounding pleased. “Good. Then you saw me win.”

“I asked if you’re okay.”

“Course I’m okay, face is no problem, ribs hurt a bit.” Ilya’s voice is muffled, his nose digging into Shane's neck, placing soft, scattered kisses all over.

“Oh, but then you shouldn’t be-“

“Oh my god, Hollander. Yes, I should definitely be holding you. Is only thing that will heal me”, he squishes Shane gently, which forces a small laugh out of his chest.

Holding each other isn’t entirely new to them; usually, it just happens after they fuck each other’s brains out after a game. Without the sex part, it feels different - not like the usual routine they both enjoyed way too much. Shane sinks to his knees about the second Ilya is in sight, after sloppy, hungry kissing, Shane's face is pushed deeply into the mattress before he even knows it, both trying to ignore their twisting stomachs from wanting more.

"Rozanov," Shane says breathlessly. "I… I'm - I don't know if I want to have sex today."

Ilya lets out a sigh, not from disappointment though: "Hollander, is okay. Do not worry," he slides his hand up and down Shane's chest softly.

Shane sits himself up to give Ilya some space to shift away from under him.

"Where you going?" Ilya asks, his hands vaguely gesturing around.

"I- I'm assuming you wanna leave? I actually thought you were out drinking, maybe you would rather-”

“Hollander, you think I only came over to get my dick sucked? You think I am asshole?” There’s a small frown on Ilya’s face, but his tone is slightly mocking.

Shane is facing him now, their bodies are still close, and he can feel the warmth of Ilya. Did he really think Ilya would just storm off now, just because he doesn't want sex? Because that's what this is, right? Right? They meet up for sex. Clearly, it hasn't been like this for Shane for quite a stretch of time now. He’s so tired of floating in this hole of not knowing. Not knowing what they are or what could be. All he wants is for Ilya to hold him tight and drown in him. He wants to be with him, but knows it is impossible. Because Russia. Shane’s thoughts are tormenting him, and his vision begins to blur slightly.

“I know you’re an asshole”, Shane chuckles hesitantly, “but when you’re with me, you’re a different kind of asshole. You never seem like you want to hurt me. I don't think you want to hurt anyone…”

Fuck. Shane feels the mask slipping.

“It always feels so good when you touch me,” he tries to finish what he started.

Ilya’s lips curl up only on one side, and he positions a delicate hand on Shane’s cheek. Shane’s eyes close, and his head rubs against the mellow touch.

“Like that?”, Ilya whispers and pulls Shane on his chest again, one hand still on his cheek, the other one back to stroking over his upper body in steady movements.

“Mhm…”

Being held like this makes Shane feel peaceful. The dim light Ilya turned on in the kitchen before is just enough to catch a glimpse of his face.

“Do you mind if we stay like this a little longer?” Shane’s voice breaks a bit on the last syllable.

“I will stay for as long as you want, Lyubimiy.” I will do anything for you. Ilya doesn't say, “I am still allowed to kiss you, yes?”

“Please.” Shane breathes and already turns his head back as far as he can. They kiss tenderly, Ilya alternating between his lips, cheeks and neck. Shane’s hand wanders to grab onto Ilya’s curls, twisting them in his fingers and scratching his head. He loves this.

“Da, Hollander. Feels so good,” Ilya purred, “I do not want to do anything you do not want, okay? Tell me if I am too much.”

“I- yes, I will tell you. Just no sex, everything else is good. I want you to touch me, I’m just- I don’t feel so good. My mind is miserable today, but it doesn't really matter; I shouldn't complain anyway. We won the game, it’s selfish. Look at your face. I should be taking care of you, Ilya.”

Ilya.

It feels so good every time Shane uses his first name. That, almost, is confession enough for Ilya. At least that’s what he interprets it as.

“You won game, by yourself, and it looks like you didn't eat enough today. I should have been here sooner, make you eat more. I feel good. Exhausted. But good.”

“You’re stupid. You never let me take care of you.”

Is that what we’re doing now? Taking care of each other?

Shane turns around clumsily, trying to sit on Ilya’s lap. After a few attempts, he manages.

“Ilya.”

“Shane.”

They entered another dimension.

Both of Shane’s hands come to hold Ilya’s face delicately. Leaning forward, he places soft kisses all over his scuffed face. Their foreheads resting together, breathing in sync. Away from Ilya's face, Shane's hands are resting on Ilya's chest now; he can't help but slip them both under his shirt, exposing his chest.

“Fuck. Your ribs, they're bruised." There was an obvious concern in his voice.

"Mhh, it's okay", Ilya doesn’t care about anything other than Shane's freckled face right now. Holding him by his hips, gazing up at him, not a single thought in his mind. Not a single thought about anything outside of this room, at least. Ilya feels Shane's soft touch on his bruised skin, followed by kisses and nibbles getting lower and lower.

Ilya's dick twitches.

"Mhh, Shane… you're gonna-"

"What? Make you hard?" Shane hinted. “I’m just being nice."

He certainly feels Ilya growing half-hard under him, as he mumbles something in Russian.

The truth is, Ilya wants to crawl into Shane, get comfortable and just die there. Nothing in this world seems to make him feel like this. Stable. Relaxed. Happy. There are days where nothing is left of him, only the feeling of emptiness. Practice gets skipped, meals are limited to one per day or just coffee, and his nicotine intake increases. Not now, though - now his head feels floaty, and sounds are more muted.

Shane bows down to place kisses on his throat, mind spinning.

“I wish we could be like this more often, you know?” Shane mumbles against Ilya’s throat.

“I know, baby. I wish that too.”

Baby? Am I imagining things?

“Baby?”

“Yes, my baby. I hope you don’t mind.” Ilya purrs and pushes himself up, holding onto Shane’s waist. Their faces were only inches from each other. Shane kissed him forcefully, holding his head tightly, and Ilya could feel the last of his thoughts drain out of his head.

“I don't mind,” Shane gasped, breaking the kiss for only a second, “more”. His eyes are glistening, cheeks flushed pink.

Ilya grins into the kiss and holds Shane’s face steadily, not breaking eye contact.

“My pretty boy, so good for me.”

“Fuck, Ilya.”

“What did I do to deserve you, my sweetheart, my love. Мой.” Ilya chimes, pressing a kiss to a different part of Shane’s face with every word.

Shane crumbles in Ilya’s grip, losing himself in the soothing sound of his voice; his face almost looks hurt.

“Ilya, I- don't know what to say,” he tries to keep his eyes open, “fuck, what are you doing to me?”

“Nothing, moy lyubimiy. What you asked me. I’ve been waiting to call you those names.”

“Why didn't you?” Shane twinkled his eyes at him.

“Shane, we called each other Hollander and Rozanov up until last hour.”

“I’m sorry, I - I’ve wanted to call you Ilya for a long time, I was just- I don’t know, scared? I didn't want to make it personal.”

“And now? You want it to be personal?” Ilya asks flatly, looking Shane straight in the eye.

I need to know. How do you fucking feel about me?

“I don't know if I ever - fuck - not wanted it to be personal.”

Their masks are crumbling.

Ilya’s pupils dilate, and one of his hands is clenching Shane’s shirt, staying quiet.

“I’m sorry, Ilya. I shouldn't have made it more complicated than it already is, I just- It’s hard always pretend-”

“Shane,” Ilya interrupts shakily. His eyes slowly become bloodshot, accompanied by a slight tremble on his lips. Shit. “I don’t want to make you feel like you said something wrong. I’m sorry I’m like this.”

A tear he was trying really hard not to shed escapes Ilya’s eye.

“Hey, it’s okay, you’re not… like this,” Shane says intently, gesturing his hands in front of him. “You’re okay, Ilya, look at me. I get it, you don't need to explain.”

So they look at each other; both want to say numerous things, yet neither dares.

Arms are tangled in ways that don’t even make sense. Ilya tugs on Shane’s hand and lifts it to his lips. First, he kisses the palm, then the back, every single fingertip, and finally buries his face in it.

It was unusual, of course, to see him like this; it was heart-wrenching but beautiful. Shane never felt closer to him before, and the fact that he’s being so vulnerable makes Shane’s heart pound out of his chest.

He cups Ilya’s cheek and tries to lock eyes with him, pressing a hard kiss to his lips - Ilya gives in instantaneously.

Quickly, the kiss escalates into something hungry, small noises escaping from both their throats. The air is thick with words left unsaid. Both their legs are intertwined, their bodies so close that not even a sheet of paper could fit between them. Shane’s chin is wet with spit, and he feels the kiss tingling in his whole body. There’s no way for them to be closer together, yet they are pulling each other in by the hips, waists, shoulders, and necks, chasing the thrill of their lips.

Air is getting thin, so Ilya shifts to kissing Shane’s cheek, down to his throat; fingers grasping his hair tightly, afraid that he might slip away from him if he breaks contact.

“Don’t stop, I- Ilya.”

Jesus.

Shane crumbles onto the couch, and Ilya follows his every movement. Sharp, shaky hands slide under Shane’s shirt. Oh. For a second, Ilya forgets about it; if Shane doesn't want sex, he might not want to be exposed quite like that -he decides it’s better to keep his hands to himself but doesn't stop kissing Shane’s throat.

“It’s okay Ilya, I don't mind,” Shane declared as his trembling hands tugged at his shirt.

“You’re shaking, are you sure you want this?” Ilya hesitates.

“So are you.”

“No. Yes. Okay maybe. But only because you make me crazy, Hollander… Shane.”

“We have been doing more than this.” Shane flicks his hand between them, acting like he’s not completely aware of the fact that this is not what they have been doing.

“You think I’m pervert? I’m not talking crazy because of my hard dick. It’s because this is new for us. Being like this, you know?” Ilya tries to make himself appear small, hoping Shane wouldn't notice how vulnerable he feels.

“I know,” Shane curdles Ilya’s face with both hands and kisses just past his lips, “now take off my shirt and kiss me again.”

Of course, Ilya does exactly what he’s instructed and whips Shane’s shirt off in one swift motion; a tiny humming sound flights his lips.

For a few moments, he can’t help but gaze at him. Every curve of Shane’s body is so familiar to him, though right now it feels like he sees him for the first time. Ilya always admired how tremendous he looks, but in this moment, his skin shining in the warm, dim light, everything feels unhurried, like Shane was only his alone.

“You’re so beautiful. My beautiful boy, Shane. My Shane” Ilyas voice was so quiet, it was almost just a breath. Almost just a thought.

“Fuck, I- Ilya. I’m your Shane? Are you my Ilya?”

I will be yours forever if you want me to. I’ll be yours, and you’ll be mine. You just have to ask,and I will be everything you want me to be.

“Yes. I’m your Ilya.” he whispers with the softest smile.

Shane squeezed his eyes shut. The words echoing in his head. your Ilya your Ilya your Ilya

He’s gonna cry if he opens his eyes again; they’re stinging and forming tears already until a single tear finally drops through his lashes.

“I don't know what’s wrong with me, Jesus-” Shane mumbles, trying to dry his face with his hands.

“It’s okay. I’m here, I have you.” Ilya clings to Shane’s chest, holding his head with one hand, rubbing his cheek with the other, “I’m not leaving you.”

“Good. I really need you to stay.”

There are muffled sniffles in the air, but for a few moments, they’re just appreciating the familiarity of each other until Ilya speaks again. “When you left last time”, he pulls away just a pinch so he can look at Shane. “I felt so… what is word… pointless? I was just sitting, for long time, imagining your face with beautiful freckles. I was just staring at wall, so silly. But I can never get you out of my head, you know?”

Oh, Shane knows.

“I know, Ilya. There wasn't a day I didn't think about you, either, since we first met in Saskatchewan. Some days I was mad at you, but-” Shane’s finger glides over Ilya’s eyebrow, then his temple, avoiding the cuts. “but you were always on my mind. Every game I’ve played, every fucking time I’m in the gym. The second I go to sleep, and as soon as I wake up, I feel stupid sometimes. I- ahh…,” he feels like he should stop talking now, but he’s tired of lying, “I felt like to you I was just one of many hookups, but to me… fuck Ilya, to me you’re everything so much more.”

The embarrassment he feels actually makes him want to melt into the sofa.

Ilya’s guts twist inside him from the wave of guilt as soon as he realises, “I’m so sorry I made you feel so unimportant. Is my fault.”

He grips Shane’s shoulders tightly.

“It’s not your fault.”

“It is. I say I don't like you as person, just your mouth. I say you are boring, well, you are, but I like that about you. I am asshole to you.”

“Ilya,” Shane pulls him into his arms, “I don't mind you calling me boring. I just- I- I know you have an easy time finding someone to have sex with.”

“Is not wrong, but I never had this feeling.” Ilya adds.

“What feeling?”

“The feeling I get when I see everyone touch you, and I only get to do it in hotel room,” Ilya’s voice is weak, accent growing thicker with every word. “like everyone wants to take you away from me and you’re not even mine.”

The walls they held up are almost gone, and the filter blocking out the emotional parts is weak. It’s an exhilarating but scary scenario they’re navigating.

Shane doesn't really know how to respond to all the things Ilya just told him, so he just holds him tightly.

“I could be yours,” he eventually manages to whisper, barely noticeable.

“Fuck, Shane. You’re killing me.” Ilya’s voice is shattering.

He sits in Shane’s lap now, covering his chest in kisses, not even breaking contact with his skin to breathe. The thought of being apart from Shane again tears everything in him into pieces - he can’t waste anything. Not a single second.

Ilya really tries to leave no part of Shane un-kissed, from his neck down to his waist.

“Is this too much?” Ilya likes to make sure.

“Please, d- don’t stop.”

So his lips wander down further to Shane’s hipbone, mouthing affectionately, biting gently, leaving the tiniest mark, where noone but Shane could see.

A few small moans are escaping from Shane’s mouth as Ilya tenderly places short licks to his collarbone, sucking weakly. Shane’s head feels like it’s floating on a cloud. Ilya’s warm mouth is sending shivers down his whole body and makes his ears feel hot, he can’t help pushing his fingertips into his back, dragging up and down. The feeling is so intense that Shane forgets how to keep his body under control and unknowingly leaves red marks all over Ilya’s back.

“Ilya- fuck. Can you take off your shirt?”

No words needed, he yanks the shirt away, and Shane’s hands are back to dragging his fingernails over him, arching his back so he can feel every inch of Ilya over him. Both their bodies are moving together like they want to melt into one another, breathing into each other's mouths from being out of breath, yet their lips never lose touch.

“You’re so beautiful. I’m so mad at Laboucan for messing you up like that.” Shane mouths faintly.

“Oh? So now you don't think I’m beautiful anymore?” Ilya teased, trying to sound offended.

“I - I think you look fucking hot” Shane hates himself - but it’s the truth. He doesn't want Ilya to fight, certainly not to be injured, but the thought that he could just clear everything in his way using his weak hand was certainly attractive. His mental and physical strength.

“My beautiful boy. So into me.” Ilya murmurs, teasing Shane with a kiss just past the lips.

“Just - fucking hell, keep kissing me properly”, Shane pleads, starving for him.

Longingly, they’re taking each other apart.

“You taste so sweet, moy lyubimiy. Your lips. Just perfect. You make me forget we lost tonight.” Ilya mouths seductively.

“You played amazingly. It was hard keeping up with you. I love how you challenge me on the ice. I love your glaring looks. How nothing gets past you.”

“More,” Ilya demands, nibbling on Shane’s ear.

“I- ah, I love how in control you are.” he’s about to lose it, “h-how cocky you smile when you score, god Ilya, I hate it when you fucking score, but I also love it. I love how you baffle me. You confuse me.”

“More?” Ilya grins, trying to test how much he can get out of him; never stopping the starving, almost tormenting touches.

“I love how you never go easy on me. You’re my- my favourite player to watch. On and off ice. I love how your stupid, fucking curls fall over your forehead when they’re wet, I love how you make me feel, and I- I’m, shit, Ilya- I think I’m falling in love with you - no - I mean, I love you.”

Shane can’t believe the words seething out of his mouth, “I love every fucking thing about you - I have for a long time, I just- didn't want it to be true. I can’t run away from it anymore, I tried.”

Ilya's mouth falls open without speaking -there are too many words on his mind and too little English. In fact, too little language at all. Language left Ilya.

Blinking rapidly, Shane stares at him with increasingly wet eyes:

“You don’t have to feel the same way, I don't even know why-”.

“I feel the same way,” is the only thing Ilya manages to say before his body goes limp on Shane’s. The concept of love was nothing Ilya was too familiar with, fuck, being loved was nothing familiar.

Talk, Ilya-fucking talk.

Breath hitching, and with a lump in his throat that’s almost making him gag, he really tries to find words.

“I love you, too, Shane. So much. My pretty boy- fuck, my heart-,” Shane reassuringly wipes the tear escaping Ilya’s eyes away, “but you can’t love me. I am so fucking… how do you say… damaged, broken.” he turns away in humiliation, his whole face tinted red.

The look on Ilya breaks Shane, and he takes hold of his face and grasps it as tightly as possible without hurting him.

“Hey, look at me. Listen to me, Ilya. You’re not broken - and even if you are, I’m going to try everything to put you back together.”

Ilya tries to hide his whole face in Shane’s grip; things like this don’t come easy for him. The only person who truly loved him was his mother, and twelve years of being loved unfortunately couldn’t compensate for all the hurt, anger and pain he had to endure. The emotion of love was so closely intertwined with guilt that it became hard to keep them apart.

“You really love me?” Ilya hesitates.

“I really love you, Ilya. I really fucking do, more than I would like to admit.”

“I can’t let you-”

“Shut up, do I need to whisper it in your ear so it goes straight into your brain?" Shane suggests.

Ilya chuckles tightly, “Maybe, …maybe.”

He pulls Ilya close and whispers, “It’s only you, Ilya. Only you I love. I really need you to believe it. Please, for me.”

How could he resist? Ilya would do anything Shane asks of him.

“What did I do to deserve you?” Ilya sniffles as he pulls Shane in weakly.

“You deserve the best.”

“Ah, so you’re saying you’re the best?” Ilya giggled.

“Mhhh… it seems so, yes,” Shane mumbles in return, messing up Ilya’s curls.

For a few moments, neither of them speaks, their breaths getting steadier and finally syncing. Both of them feel like a weight has been lifted, and everything seems to be moving in slow motion around them. Not a thought is spent on hockey, or on what they would do or how they would move on from what just happened - it’s just them for now.

“Sooo…” Ilya lets out a long puff, “So, you’re mine now, yes?”

Shane beams, “I would have been yours a long time ago, but-”

“But what?”

“But you never asked, you know?” Shane adds shyly.

“You would have said yes?”

“I would have said yes.”

“So say it now,” Ilya states.

“Yes, Ilya. I will be yours.” Shane whispers against his lips deliberately.

Ilya’s expression becomes liquid, and he kisses Shane languidly, touching everywhere they can.

Shane breaks the kiss with a glimmer of concern in his eyes, „I- um, I may have messed up“ he quickly checks his hands - as he expected, there are slight traces of blood under his fingernails.

„What?“

„Turn around, show me your back.“ Shane falters.

Catching a look at Ilya's back, his fear is confirmed: it's covered in lines and curves of scratches, some of them bloody. „Oh, shit“

„What is it?“ Ilya‘s brows furrow slightly.

„I messed up. Go look in the mirror.“

Swiftly, he jumps up, walks to the mirror in the bathroom, and turns his back to it. „Oh my god,“ his face is beaming.

„I‘m sorry, Ilya, I really didn‘t mean to- but… You made me feel insane.“ Shane yelled from the living room.

„Are you fucking kidding? I fucking love it!“ Ilya celebrates unbothered; in fact, he is ecstatic as he strides back to the couch, scooping Shane up like he‘s a feather and spinning him cheerfully. This man is a myth.

„But people are gonna talk, aren’t they?“ Shane worries.

„Then I‘m just gonna tell them it‘s from my Montreal girl.“ Ilya winks playfully.

Shane lets his head fall back and groans. Being carried like this literally makes him feel like Ilya's Montreal girl.

„I‘m still sorry, you are hurt already, and it feels like I made it worse. I shouldn’t have lost control like that. You‘re always so careful with me.“

„I don‘t want you to be careful with me. I can take it.“ Ilya proclaims.

„I know you can take it, but-„

„No but- I need you to wreck me, Hollander. Like you already do by only looking at me, fuck, I am wreck everytime I look at you, like I‘m-„ he waves his hand sporadically, „struck by lightning or whatever you say.“

„You‘re unbelievable,“ Shane groans.

„You know, you could have put ‚Jane‘ on my back.“

„You know, I can still do that if you ask nicely…“ Shane taunts.

„Please, Jane, be a good girl for me and make sure everyone knows I‘m yours only.“ Ilya‘s voice nothing more than a rasp.

Shane jumps out of Ilya‘s grip, turning him around, pushing him down to the couch by his shoulders.

„Sit still, and never call me good girl again.“

„My perfect boy, Shane. Only mine now -

Forever. “