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“Shane.”
Ilya speaks without turning from the kitchen sink. His husband sits on a breakfast stool at the island in the centre of the room, swirling his smoothie with a straw but not taking a sip.
“I can hear your brain,” Ilya sighs dramatically, turning to look at him.
Shane has been quiet all morning. He doesn’t seem sad, and Ilya is fairly certain he hasn't done anything wrong because he doesn't seem annoyed, either. Instead he seems almost contemplative, which is even more unnerving. The problem for Ilya is that he can never really be sure what is bothering Shane until he opens his mouth. And apparently he doesn’t feel like doing that today.
“You are playing with your smoothie instead of drinking it. You admitting it’s gross?” When Shane doesn’t respond he adds, “You are not telling me off for not being ready for practice. We leave in thirty minutes. So something is wrong.”
“Nothing is wrong,” Shane finally responds, but his eyes widen when he glances at his watch, giving away how lost in thought he had been.
Ilya raises an eyebrow.
“Obviously,” he says sarcastically. “Please tell me. Otherwise I will have to guess. And that is long and boring and we don't have time, probably. So. What is happening?”
It remains quiet for a beat, just the sound of Shane’s straw tapping against the sides of his glass. Ilya twists the wash cloth between his hands, waiting.
Ilya never forces him to share anything before he is ready, but the silence always sets him on edge. It reminds him of the calm before a storm he never saw coming.
“Don't be weird about this,” Shane says finally. There’s a quiet seriousness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.
Ilya studies him for a moment, trying to figure out what has made him so riled up on a random Tuesday morning. He drops the dishcloth down onto the counter and shrugs lightly. “Of course not.”
“I just–” Shane cuts himself off, wringing his hands together. “Remember that night in the club? In Montreal? I was with Rose, and–”
“Yes,” Ilya interrupts, “was worst night of my life. What about it?”
Shane rolls his eyes, missing the sincerity in Ilya's statement.
“Well,” he says, biting his lip, “I've just always wondered what it would have been like to be her, you know?”
Ilya frowns. “Who?”
“That girl. The one you went home with that night. Or any of them, really.” The words start tripping over each other, tumbling out like they do when Shane gets nervous. Ilya doesn't think to correct him. He doesn’t say that he went back to the hotel alone that night, and every night after, until he and Shane fixed things.
“Shane,” Ilya says evenly, “I need you to tell me what you want.”
Shane swallows and looks at the countertop. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.
“I want to know what it would be like. To be–” he hesitates, thinking about his words carefully.
Ilya waits, deliberately patient, across from him.
“Pursued by you, I guess,” Shane finishes.
Ilya’s eyes widen, amused.
“All those years were not enough pursuing for you, Hollander?”
“Ilya.”
“Okay, okay.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “Not trying to be an asshole. I do not know what you're saying.”
Shane exhales sharply and pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s cute, Ilya thinks, the way Shane works himself up when he talks about sex. It’s not like he is going to say no to him, or that anything he asks for is particularly outlandish. And he doesn’t mean to make him feel awkward – he just doesn’t want to make any assumptions.
Ilya gestures his hand slightly between them. “Help me out here, Shane.”
Shane looks up at him, briefly, before fixing his gaze to the window just to the left of Ilya instead. He picks at an imaginary thread on his sweater and says, “I want you to approach me like you don’t know me. Like I was one of those girls.”
“You want me to hit on you in a club?” Ilya asks.
Shane brings his focus back to him again and gives a small nod.
“I want to have a one night stand with you.”
For a second Ilya almost laughs at the phrasing. Sure, that had been the plan once, technically. Now they're married. But Shane is looking at him with nervous eyes and being earnest in his request.
Ilya’s expression softens.
“Okay,” he says simply. “We play in Boston in a couple of weeks. We have a free night. I’m going to see Sveta, so.” He shrugs like the plan has written itself. “I could meet you after.”
“Yeah?” Shane asks, relief flickering across his face.
Ilya nods.
“Yes, lapochka.” He leans over the counter and kisses him on the forehead. “You can meet Boston Lily.”
————————
The whole team is on a high following their game, the way they always are when the schedule allows for more than a few hours in a city and there’s no rush to the airport. The win helped, too.
The tension between Shane and Ilya had followed them onto the ice like it had during their early seasons. Both of them were skating faster, passing sharper, and scoring like it meant something more. It was the kind of competition that used to signal a frantic night to follow.
The energy is buzzing in the locker room, everyone talking over each other with one suggestion or another about where they should head next.
“What do you think, Cap?” Troy shouts, “You’re the expert here.”
“Doesn’t matter to me,” Ilya calls back, “I have dinner.”
“Dinner? Special treatment for a certain teammate again, is it?”
Ilya shrugs. “Not this time. With Sveta.”
Exaggerated groans and boos come from the rest of the team.
Bood claps Shane on the shoulder. “You gonna stand for this, Hollzy?”
Ilya laughs, “You will all survive without me for two hours, yes? Just tell me where you end up.”
Shane keeps his head down as he pulls his hoodie on, a small smile playing at his lips as he feels Ilya’s eyes lingering on him.
————————
The room is hit with a plume of steam from the shower as Ilya steps out of the en-suite. His hair is damp and slicked back away from his face, except for a few stray curls beside his ears.
“Sveta is taking me to get small plates. America has changed her.” He makes his way across the room, a towel slung low around his hips as he drops onto the bed dramatically.
Shane laughs, but doesn’t turn to look at him. He’s half dressed, his left hand clutching the shoulder of a shirt in the closet like he is deciding whether to commit to it.
“I’m sure you can get McDonalds after,” comes his reply, a slight wrinkle to his nose. His focus remains on the clothing in front of him.
“Probably.” Ilya picks up his phone, firing a quick message to Svetlana, but his focus remains on Shane in his peripheral vision.
Eventually, Shane pulls the soft blue shirt he had been hovering over off the hanger, and dresses without comment. He buttons it just over halfway, leaving the collar open. Then he rolls the sleeves once. Twice. Adjusts his watch.
He looks at himself in the mirror as he pulls on a black jacket, reaching up to smooth his hair down. He’s putting an effort in, more than a usual team night, but not enough to raise suspicions.
Ilya pretends not to notice.
There’s a quiet energy in the room. It’s not uncomfortable, but neither of them know whether to break it or not.
Shane begins to pull on his shoes, and Ilya clears his throat.
“Shane.”
He finishes tying his laces, and stands up to look at Ilya as he crosses the room towards him.
Ilya’s expression looks softer than usual. Careful.
“You’re still good with this?”
Shane swallows, drinking in the sight of Ilya now that he’s let himself look.
“Yeah.”
“If you are not,” Ilya continues, stepping closer, “you tell me. We stop. I come drink with the team and pretend like I want to be there.”
“I want this,” Shane says evenly, “I want you to.”
Ilya smiles, closing the gap between them.
“Then this,” Ilya murmurs against his mouth, “is the last kiss you're getting from me as your husband tonight, yes?”
He nods, catching Ilya's lips again. It's soft and tender, and they linger against one another for a moment longer than necessary.
Ilya pulls back, brushing his thumb along Shane’s jaw as he looks at him.
“Love you,” he says with a playful glint in his eye, “Have fun. Be safe. Don’t let strange men buy you any drinks.”
Shane laughs, swatting at the hand now coming down trying to straighten out his collar.
“Go,” Ilya says softly.
————————
After dinner, the team ends up at a spot Harris had found on Instagram. He suggested it in the team chat and Ilya had responded with a thumbs up, which everyone took as approval.
It’s not a club, exactly, but the music is loud enough to lean into. There’s an undercurrent of bass running through each conversation, but not so much that it smothers everything else around it. The room feels intimate despite being a large basement, the warm lighting hanging over each of the tables bathing the space in an amber glow. The air has a faint smell of beer and cologne.
The Centaurs have taken up a large table near the back, directly opposite the bar. They’re throwing toasts around easily, everyone cheering and applauding each other obnoxiously. Dykstra is halfway through a story that keeps getting interrupted. Haas crowns Shane the best of the Hollander-Rozanovs, and starts an ‘Ilya is a traitor’ chant to the delight of the rest of the team.
Shane laughs along. Sips his beer. Nods in the right places.
So no one notices that he keeps checking the door.
He tells himself to stop it. But he can’t help it; every time the door opens and an unfamiliar group of faces slips in, his stomach tightens.
He’s pulled back into the conversation by Troy asking his opinion on something or other.
The door opens again.
And there he is.
Ilya pauses as he gets inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. He looks relaxed, tucking his wallet back into his jean pocket.
Shane recognises the outfit immediately. The neckline of his black t-shirt sits low on his chest, the chain resting against his bare skin catching the light as he moves. The sleeves of his light blazer are pushed up just enough to show his forearms, deliberate but casual-looking.
Shane’s breath catches in his chest. For a split second he wonders if it’s a coincidence.
Ilya lifts his gaze, and their eyes meet across the room.
He doesn’t smile properly, just the corner of his mouth tilting upward as he lifts his eyebrows slightly.
No one else at the table has recognised his arrival, so he doesn’t draw attention to himself. Instead, he turns towards the bar and makes small talk with the bartender. He orders a bottled beer, nodding along with whatever he’s being told. Charming as always. He pauses for a moment, gripping his bottle before he turns and leans his back casually against the bar.
His eyes lock back onto Shane’s and he brings the bottle to his lips. He takes a long, slow drink without breaking eye contact, and Shane feels his heart pound in his chest. Ilya must notice, because he fires him a quick wink.
Someone at the table nudges him, repeating something he hadn’t caught. He answers them quickly, nodding, forcing himself to look away.
When he glances back, Ilya is still watching. He shifts his weight back against the bar and lets the bottle hang between his fingers, his elbow loosely thrown over the edge. Without looking away from Shane, he tilts his head once, small and almost undetectable.
Shane feels the heat crawl up his neck. He doesn’t move right away, his eyes flicking from Ilya to the chaos at the table and back again.
Ilya takes another drink and raises his eyebrow. Another invitation. A challenge.
“I’m just gonna–” Shane mutters in the general direction of the rest of his group, lifting up his empty bottle before settling it back onto the table. They’re all too busy trying to teach Bood to flip beer mats to notice as he slips away.
Shane walks across to the bar, weaving through the groups of people mingling between the tables and swaying on the dancefloor. He slips into the empty space next to Ilya, eyes trained forwards towards the rows of liquor bottles. They stand shoulder to shoulder, a polite but barely there gap between them. He catches the scent of oud and wood, instantly recognisable as Ilya's expensive cologne, and feels his stomach flip.
Ilya keeps his back to the bar for a moment longer. Eventually his gaze drifts towards the man beside him, casual and detached, settling on his profile.
“Your friends seem very excited,” he says in lieu of a greeting.
Shane nods, his eyes briefly glancing over his right shoulder to look at Ilya before looking back along the bar.
“Yeah, they get that like that sometimes,” Shane says.
Ilya hums, looking between the group and Shane for a moment. “What about you? You sort of look like you want to be somewhere else.”
Shane wrinkles his brow for a moment, looking away to wave over the bartender.
“Yeah, no. We're celebrating.”
The bartender slides up as Shane responds.
“A celebration?” His smile is bright, his head tilting as he looks at Shane. “Can I get you something stronger than a beer?”
“Depends.” Shane leans forward slightly on the bar, a small playful smile forming. “What would you recommend?”
Ilya stills beside him, now fully watching Shane.
The bartender's smile widens, pleased that he has taken the bait. He grabs for a bottle on the shelf behind him, the liquid catching in the amber glow of the lights.
“Something special,” he says, setting another beer down in front of Shane with a soft thud. He then places a shot glass beside it, filling it with a flourish. “On the house.”
Ilya's shoulders tense.
They're close enough that Shane can feel the warmth of him through his shirt. As he glances across at him again, he catches the way Ilya shifts his body to drop his eyes to the spot where the bartender's hand lingers on the counter before he looks back up at Shane.
The bartender flashes him a final easy grin before moving along to the next customer.
Neither of them speak for a moment.
“Well.” Ilya clears his throat. “I don't want to interrupt your evening.” His jaw is tight, his voice even and measured.
Shane turns fully, studying Ilya properly with a hint of self-satisfaction.
He reaches for the shot first. Ilya tracks the movement of his hand with bemusement. For a second he lingers there as though he is going to drink it. Instead, he slides it across the bar, the glass tapping softly against Ilya's fingers.
“Don't you?” Shane says.
Ilya looks between Shane and the shot. The tension leaves him as he picks it up, keeping his eyes fixed on Shane.
He tips the drink back in one smooth swallow and Shane follows the motion, lingering on the curve of his throat.
Shane finally lifts the beer, pushing off from the bar and turning back towards the table. His mouth curves slightly as he feels Ilya watching him walk away.
“Shane will agree with me,” Evan shouts over the rest of the group as Shane slumps back into the seat. He’s refusing to let himself turn back towards the bar.
“Oh my god, Dixie, no one cares,” Tanner groans, “can we please talk about something which isn’t playoffs.”
“Fuck you, it’s our job,” Evan counters, looking at Shane for support.
Tanner rolls his eyes, “Exactly, and I’m not at work anymore. Rozy would agree with me. Shane, where is he?”
“Yeah, where the fuck is he?” Troy cuts in, “We gotta go soon. Harris has scored us this table at–”
He’s cut off by Bood, laughing loudly at the group. Their attention falls on him.
“Wait, you guys are serious?” He stops himself, watching the blank faces staring back at him, “Wow. I see why we keep losing the puck.”
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Evan shouts back.
“You’re all blind. Rozy’s been here for the last, like, forty-five minutes. Just eye-fucking Shane from the bar.”
Collectively everyone turns. Shane brings his hand up to rub his neck awkwardly. “Yeah, he’s, uh,” he settles at directing his response to Bood, who looks thrilled.
“No, no, don’t worry Hollzy.” He holds his hands up. “If you two wanted alone time, you just had to say.”
“It’s not–” Shane pauses, because, well, it is.
“Alone time is important,” Harris says earnestly. “We get it.”
“Right,” Bood says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s leave them to it. New bar. Let’s go.”
A chorus of laughter and you-got-it’s follow, the team clambering up and grabbing for their jackets.
Bood hovers next to Shane. “We won’t wait up.”
“Fuck you,” Shane says, but he let’s himself smile at Bood gratefully anyway.
Troy cackles, bumping Shane’s shoulder lightly as he leaves.
The team make their way to the exit, wobbling slightly as they laugh and jostle each other. Ilya’s attention flicks to them as they walk past. Bood steps out of the group briefly, saying something that makes him chuckle. It’s short and sharp, and even though Shane can’t hear it it makes his heart flop in his chest. Ilya drops his head, shaking it at whatever Bood has just said, then lifts one hand up to bump their fists together. His other hand raises in a small wave to the rest of the group shuffling past, still laughing.
As the last of their team slips out of the door, the room suddenly feels smaller.
Ilya finishes his drink and turns to set it down on the bar.
For a moment he stays where he is, fingers resting on the wooden bartop. He brings his hands up to smooth his hair at the nape of his neck. As he turns back around, his eyes drift to Shane. He starts to make his way across the room.
He stops beside the table.
“Your friends have left you,” he says simply, his hand coming to rest on the back of a chair next to Shane’s. “Can I?”
“Depends,” he says, tilting his head to look at him, the corner of his mouth lifting, “does that usually work for you?”
Ilya shrugs, “Usually, yes.”
Shane nudges the chair out with his foot.
“Confident,” he says.
Ilya trails his eyes over him deliberately, leaning against the table close to him instead of taking a seat.
“Only because I’m right.”
Shane huffs out a quiet laugh, and glimpses towards the floor where the crowd is moving to the music.
“Okay then,” he responds. “Let’s see if you’re right.”
The chair scrapes against the floor as Shane pushes himself up. For a moment he thinks Ilya might stay at the table, or make him ask, but as Shane heads towards the dancefloor he feels Ilya following close behind him. By the time they reach the edge of the crowd, they’re standing shoulder to shoulder again, the air between them feeling charged.
“This is the test?” Ilya asks, his voice low.
Shane looks across at him, the corner of his mouth lifting to match Ilya’s amusement.
“I thought you said you were right?”
Shane’s never really been one for dancing, and he isn’t sure what’s taken over his usual self-consciousness. He looks back at Ilya as he steps forward into the crowd, feeling emboldened by this faux-anonymity they’ve created between them and the hunger Ilya’s watched him with all night.
Falling into step with him, Ilya’s eyes meet Shane’s, a small teasing curl at the corner of his mouth. Without saying anything he steps in closer and slides his hand onto Shane’s hip. Shane loosens under his touch, letting himself be pulled in closer and caught in the rhythm that Ilya sets. He moves instinctively, mirroring Ilya, so close to one another that Shane swears he can feel Ilya’s heart beating under his skin.
Everything seems to shrink around them; the music gets quieter, the people around them fade to a blur. Ilya’s hand travels under Shane’s shirt, his thumb smoothing circles against his hip bone. He slides his hand around, reaching his lower back. The motion is measured, delicate and teasing.
“I’ve been waiting to get my hands on you all night.” Ilya’s voice is even, and Shane shivers where his fingertips brush against his skin. “You have been waiting for it too, yes?”
“Maybe,” Shane replies, his voice softer than he meant it to be.
Ilya’s lips twitch in response. “Maybe?”
Shane pulls back slightly, bowing his head and looking back up at Ilya through his eyelashes.
“Maybe,” he says again, stronger this time.
The song changes, and Shane lets himself respond instinctively. Almost without thinking he pivots, turning so that his back brushes against Ilya’s chest.
Ilya doesn’t hesitate. His hands settle lightly on his hips, brushing along the strip of skin exposed between his shirt and his jeans. Shane settles back against him at the touch, a soft exhale escaping his lips.
“This is what you want?” Ilya’s breath is warm against Shane’s cheek as he leans in closer to him. Shane nods in response, and Ilya hums his approval. “See,” he adds, “I was right.”
Ilya dips his head down, his lips barely touching the soft skin of Shane’s neck. He nudges Shane’s jaw softly with his nose, and he responds by tilting his head slightly to one side. Ilya smiles, satisfied, and trails his lips upwards on his skin, resisting the urge to place delicate kisses. Instead, his mouth finds Shane’s earlobe, and he places his lips around it. His teeth graze against it, before biting softly and lapping his tongue back over the spot making Shane groan softly.
“Not so confident now, hm?” Ilya breathes.
Shane arches his back in response, pushing himself closer to Ilya’s body and feeling smug as he feels his cock twitch even between their jeans.
Ilya chuckles despite himself, his thumb pressing into Shane’s skin as he steps back. His grip remains firm and Shane lets him maneuver him so that they’re face to face again.
Ilya studies his face intently, searching for something. Whatever it is, he finds it, and Ilya begins to lightly nudge him backwards, walking him slowly towards the edge of the dancefloor. Shane feels his back press against the wall. Ilya places one of his hands on Shane’s waist, the other wrapped around his wrist, his thumb pressing into the pulse point. Shane’s breath catches as he watches Ilya stand over him, his pupils dilating. Ilya removes the hand from his wrist and brings it up to Shane’s jaw, tilting his head and brushing their lips together. Shane melts into the touch, the kiss deepening quickly, and their mouths land hard against one another, hungry and reckless. Shane’s hands grip at Ilya’s shirt anywhere he can, and he shifts his body weight forward, his knee sliding between Ilya’s legs as he presses closer. Ilya makes a low sound against his mouth, catching Shane’s bottom lip between his teeth before pulling back, a little breathless.
“So,” he leans back in so closely that his lips graze Shane’s ear as he murmurs, “your place or mine?”
————————
The ride back to the hotel is quiet. They sit beside one another in the back seat, their knees almost brushing as the driver takes a sharp turn, but neither of them speaks. Ilya stares out of the window, forcing himself to focus on the city rushing past in blurred streams of light instead of the reflection of Shane’s face watching him. He cracks his knuckles, busying his hands so that he doesn’t reach over and stroke Shane’s thigh like he usually would.
By the time the taxi pulls up outside their hotel, Ilya's skin is crawling with the effort to restrain himself.
The car stops and he climbs out first, circling it without thinking and pulling Shane's door open, resting his hand on the frame as Shane steps out. It's familiar and automatic. Shane looks up at him as he straightens, a faint smile tugging at his lips, warm and lopsided like he is holding back a comment.
Something squeezes in Ilya’s chest before he can stop it. He huffs softly, the tips of his ears tinged red as he catches himself. He drops his hand away and steps back, recreating the distance that there had been throughout the journey as they head towards the entrance.
The warmth of the lobby hits them as they walk in, their footsteps echoing faintly as they cross over to the elevators. The only other person there is a bored-looking receptionist watching a video on her phone. Shane walks half a step ahead of Ilya, who hangs back with his hands in his pockets and fights against falling into step with him.
As they reach the elevators, Ilya leans around Shane to press the button. He's close enough that his shoulder brushes Shane’s chest before he steps back again. Shane rocks back on his heels and glances sideways at him, his breath hitching slightly, the look on his face tightening for a moment before he steadies it.
The elevator breaks the silence, announcing its arrival with a quiet chime. The doors slide open and they step inside, the space feeling so small that it’s almost suffocating. Shane leans casually against the wall, arms loose at his sides as Ilya presses the button for their floor. The elevator rumbles into action, and for a moment there is nothing but the low hum of it travelling upwards.
Shane shifts slightly, and Ilya becomes acutely aware of how close they are standing to one another again. He looks across at Shane, his cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the collar of his shirt slightly skewed from where Ilya had pulled on it earlier. Shane catches him looking, and steps in like he has been waiting for an excuse to touch him again. One hand latches on to Ilya’s jacket lightly, the other settling onto his hip. He leans into Ilya, placing a rough kiss on his mouth, the momentum making it a little careless like he hadn’t thought his movements through. Ilya leans into it for half a second, before bringing one hand up to nudge Shane’s chest lightly.
“Not here,” Ilya says, quiet but firm, his other hand catching Shane’s wrist at his hip like he had anticipated his movements.
Shane blinks at him.
Ilya’s gaze drops to Shane’s crotch briefly before he brings it back up, eyebrow raised.
“You cannot wait?”
Ilya lets go of his wrist and turns away, looking back at the numbers flashing above the door, exhaling slowly.
Shane lets out a small laugh.
“What?” Ilya asks, glancing back over at him despite himself.
Shane shakes his head.
“Nothing.”
The elevator slows with another soft chime signalling they’ve reached their floor.
The doors slide open.
Ilya steps out first, Shane trailing half a beat behind him.
Ilya stops outside of the room and swipes the keycard, the light flashing green. He pushes it open, stepping inside and propping it open for Shane with his elbow as he moves into the dim space, lit only by city lights through the half drawn curtains and the bedside lamps.
Ilya leans back against the desk as the door clicks shut behind Shane, folding his arms loosely across his chest as he looks at Shane still standing just inside the room.
“What, you want a tour?”
Shane scans the room once before looking back at him.
“No,” he says. “Don’t think I'll need one.”
Ilya lifts his eyebrows as his eyes drift down Shane’s body and back up again, slow and deliberate.
Shane hesitates, just long enough to catch the look, before crossing the room.
Ilya doesn’t move from the desk. He watches him come closer, arms still folded, a quiet triumph creeping across his face as Shane follows his silent command.
Shane stops close – close enough that Ilya can smell the unfamiliar beer on his breath – before he leans in, his mouth brushing Ilya’s.
Ilya returns it languidly at first, then deeper, shifting forward so Shane has to step into him. He sucks Shane’s bottom lip into his mouth, tugging it between his teeth and swallowing a soft groan from Shane.
His hand slides up to the back of Shane’s neck, holding him there as the kiss breaks.
Ilya studies him, barely inches between them, his mouth grazing Shane’s reddened lips as he speaks.
“Better.”
His tone is low and teasing. Shane responds immediately, dragging his mouth down from Ilya’s lips to the curve of his jaw. Ilya’s hand stays in place, nudging Shane’s head to one side with his thumb.
Shane’s mouth reaches his neck and Ilya exhales softly as he tips his head back to accommodate the movement, tightening his grip so that he can’t pull back. Shane moves lower, working kisses into his skin as he travels down towards his throat. He pauses, taking the skin softly between his teeth and pulling before kissing back over the spot.
“You want to taste me?” Ilya asks, dropping his hand from Shane’s neck. He doesn’t give Shane time to answer. “Get on your knees.”
Shane lifts his head, looking up at Ilya for a moment as something shifts in his expression.
“Are you always this bossy?” Shane mutters, but he steps back anyway.
He lowers himself, slow but not hesitant, without breaking eye contact.
Ilya watches him the entire time, eyes dark and expression carefully steady. The familiar readiness in Shane’s movements makes his chest tighten; the way he offers himself, so eager to please like he was in those early hookups. But the quiet confidence that he carries now keeps Ilya hovering at the edge of the fantasy. He pushes the thought aside, staying in the moment Shane wants, even as the juxtaposition between then and now pulses under his skin.
As Shane settles, Ilya makes a show of undoing his belt and zipper.
“Yes,” Ilya responds, cockiness threading through his voice, “but you don’t seem to mind it.”
He places one hand on the back of Shane’s head, his fingers running loosely between his hair as he gently directs Shane forward. The other settles loosely on the edge of the desk, grounding himself.
“That’s more like it,” he mutters, watching Shane shift on his heels, letting himself be led closer in.
Shane brings his lips to the black cotton of Ilya’s boxers, parting them slightly and mouthing at his half-hard cock. His breath is warm through the thin material, making Ilya twitch against his lips. Shane looks up at him, his expression asking a silent question. Ilya’s throat bobs as he swallows before he answers with the faintest jut of his chin.
Shane hooks his fingers into Ilya’s waistband, tugging at Ilya’s clothes as he lifts his hips from the desk. He pulls them down low enough that he can wrap his hand around Ilya’s cock, pulling it free from his boxers. His other hand flexes on Ilya’s thigh, gripping him tightly.
Ilya inhales a sharp breath as Shane leans in, flattening his tongue and licking a broad stroke from base to tip. He tightens his grip around the base of Ilya’s cock, spitting on the shaft before finally wrapping his lips around the head.
“Sh–” The syllable barely forms before Ilya catches himself, breathing out a quiet shit instead, vaguely grateful for the old reflex to swallow Shane’s name.
He rocks his hips forward, urging Shane to take more of him in. Shane hums around him and sinks his mouth further to meet his fist, hollowing his cheeks as he bobs his head.
“So fucking good,” Ilya groans, “you must get a lot of practice. You always letting people take you home like this?”
Shane’s eyes meet his, glinting with amusement. He responds by relaxing his jaw as he removes his hand from Ilya’s cock, sliding his fingers up beneath his t-shirt and splaying them against Ilya’s skin as he slips into his throat.
Ilya’s gaze lingers on Shane’s face, and something about it lands too squarely in his chest. Ilya drops his head back, slipping his eyes shut.
“Chert voz’mi,” Ilya mutters to himself, raking his fingers through Shane’s hair at the base of his neck and pressing his fingertips in lightly.
Shane groans below him, and he forces his eyes back open and looks down at him. Shane has moved the hand from Ilya’s thigh and has started to palm himself softly through his jeans.
“You tried playing hard to get, but you wanted this, didn’t you? I bet you’ve been hard since the moment you thought I was watching you.”
The words come out more breathless than he intends, swallowing a moan as Shane continues to take him in his mouth, swirling his tongue around his head.
“I was watching you,” he continues, “thinking about how pretty you would be, on your knees for me like this.”
Shane whimpers around his cock. Ilya moves his hand around to Shane's jaw, his thumb rubbing at the corner of his mouth.
“Get up.”
Shane stills, his laboured breathing covered briefly with an almost obscene slurp as he pulls away unquestioningly. He lets Ilya guide him back to standing with just the light pressure of his fingers along his jaw. They stand face to face as Ilya swipes his thumb along Shane’s mouth before pushing it between his lips. Shane makes a soft sound around it, sending a shiver through Ilya as they lock eyes. Shane looks at him like he is pleading, needing him to take notice of him, to take control.
Ilya keeps his hand steady, his thumb pressing gently against Shane's tongue. Shane leans into the contact.
“I want to fuck you,” Ilya says, his voice low.
Shane nods, even though it wasn’t a question.
“Hm,” Ilya tilts his head, pressing the tip of his tongue lightly against the front of his teeth. His eyes narrow just a fraction, watching the way Shane reacts as he removes the thumb from his mouth. “Take off your clothes and get on the bed.”
Shane swallows, pulling away from Ilya with a slight hesitation before moving towards the bed. Ilya pulls his own boxers and jeans back up, letting the belt hang loose. He watches silently from across the room as Shane unbuttons and removes his shirt slowly, eyes flicking across to Ilya as if seeking approval as his hands move to his trousers.
Ilya pushes away from the desk, and turns his back on Shane to pour himself a slug of vodka from the mini fridge. He tilts the glass against the light before taking a mouthful, feeling the cheap liquor burn as it slides down his throat.
He turns back to the bed. Shane has settled against the mattress, propping himself up on his elbows. He watches Ilya as he walks towards him, a mixture of curiosity and something teasing.
“Good,” Ilya says, his voice approving as Shane shifts under his gaze.
Ilya gives himself a moment to just look at Shane, lingering where Shane’s hard and flushed against his own stomach.
“Your friends didn’t seem worried about leaving you behind,” Ilya comments, remaining standing at the edge of the bed as he speaks. “You disappear on them like this a lot?”
Ilya raises the glass to his lips again, cocking an eyebrow at Shane expectantly.
“It doesn’t happen often,” Shane admits, keeping his tone light. “I guess I was just tempted tonight.”
Ilya drains the liquid from the glass before setting it down on the nightstand. He brings his hands to his hips, sliding his jeans down and stepping out of them. He peels his t-shirt off next, shrugging his shoulders as he lifts it off.
“Ah.” Ilya watches as Shane's eyes roam over him. “Celebrating, yes?”
Shane licks his lips, bringing his attention back to Ilya’s face as he nods.
“You picked a good way to celebrate,” Ilya responds, his eyes sharp.
He steps closer, letting the weight of his words settle. “Turn over. On your knees.”
Ilya watches as Shane turns his body. Normally he would want to see his face, read every flicker of his expression, every reaction he already knows by heart. But not tonight. It would be too tempting to lean in and kiss him, too hard to pretend that this was something new.
It feels easier to maintain, somehow, with Shane on all fours in front of him.
Shane looks back at him over his shoulder as Ilya climbs onto the mattress behind him, his expression curious even if a little exposed, like he is wondering what Ilya might do next.
Ilya lets his hand rest soothingly on Shane’s lower back, just for a brief second. He lowers his palms to Shane’s ass, fingertips squeezing hard to chase away the tenderness of his last touch. He spreads Shane’s cheeks apart and leans in, spitting between them.
Shane sighs and dips his head back down as Ilya brings two fingers to collect his spit, rubbing in a circular motion. Shane moans at the sensation and arches his back, pushing against them.
“I bet you would take it like this wouldn’t you? Just my spit?” Ilya asks, fingers still teasing him. “You went out tonight hoping you would find someone to fuck you. And now you’re desperate.”
Shane huffs a response, his head still bowed low.
“Too bad,” Ilya says, retracting his fingers, “you are going to have to be patient.”
Ilya readjusts himself, kneeling higher behind him so he can lean forward. As he reaches across Shane for the lube on the bedside table, his hips shift towards him, the tip of his cock brushing lightly against the curve of Shane’s ass through his boxers. The touch is light, subtle enough to play off as accidental, so Ilya doesn’t rush it. Half teasing, half an excuse to stay close.
He leans back onto his heels, the mattress moving underneath them with him. He pops open the cap, squeezing a little onto his fingers and spreading it between them as he watches the line of Shane’s back. His slick fingers reach between Shane’s legs, stroking against his hole. Shane flinches towards the touch, a frustrated noise falling from his mouth.
“Please.”
Ilya exhales softly through his nose, maintaining composure.
“Very good manners.”
The edge in Shane’s voice means Ilya has to deliberately slow himself down. He knows exactly how wound up Shane is already, but he needs to let it simmer, like he’s trying to suss him out.
Ilya pushes two fingers into him, and Shane feels tense around him, tighter than he expected.
“Relax,” Ilya says quietly, dipping his head down to kiss the small of Shane’s back quickly, and he tries to ignore the immediate effect it has on Shane. “Touch yourself.”
Shane's hand flies to his own cock immediately, and he groans as he squeezes the shaft.
“Good,” Ilya says, feeling him loosen around the fingers that he's working inside of him.
He pushes them back in again, deeper this time, matching the languid pace that Shane is stroking his cock with. Ilya appreciates the self-restraint Shane is showing.
“See,” Ilya murmurs as Shane moans, “it's better to be patient, isn't it?”
He punctuates the point by crooking his fingers. What should have been a scoff gets caught in Shane's throat, turning into a low, guttural sound.
For a few moments Ilya lets the mask slip, safe in the knowledge that Shane can’t see him do so. His eyes linger on each of his vertebrae, watching as his skin gets taut when he arches back to fuck himself on Ilya’s fingers. He allows himself this quiet indulgence, lets his brain remind him that this is his now, and he doesn’t need to commit Shane’s body to memory anymore because he can have it whenever he wants. He smiles to himself, just for a breath, before slipping back into the part he is playing.
“This is good?” Ilya says, his voice quiet and questioning as he scissors his fingers.
“More,” Shane says, barely louder than a breath.
Ilya hums in response, adding a third finger and watching as Shane starts to stroke himself faster.
“You like this, don’t you? Being on your hands and knees, being stretched open.”
It’s not a question, and Shane doesn’t respond. His agreement is shown in the way his breath hitches as Ilya pushes his fingers into him at an almost-teasing pace, and the way the groans slip out a little louder as he curls them.
“So fucking good at taking it. I bet you make a lot of guys feel special, acting like this with them.” He twists his fingers again, feels Shane clench around them. “So fucking good.”
“Stop.”
Ilya’s stomach drops at the word. He freezes, is about to flip Shane over so he can read his face, make sure he is okay. But before he can even retract his fingers, Shane cranes his neck over his shoulder at him again. He looks desperate.
“Just stop talking. And fuck me. Please.”
Ilya’s mouth is dry. He nods.
Shane winces as Ilya removes his fingers, eyes wide as he watches Ilya tug off his boxers and slip the condom on. He can’t see it but Ilya’s fingers are trembling. Ilya has to fight the urge to lean down and kiss him tenderly, to not smooth his hands gently along the planes of his back and tell him how beautiful he looks.
Instead he puts one hand on Shane’s hip and the other on the base of his own cock, guiding himself into Shane slowly. Ilya groans as he buries himself into him, pausing at the hilt to let Shane adjust around him. He shifts forward and brushes his lips against Shane’s shoulder. He hears Shane’s breath hitch and watches as his fingers tighten into the bedsheets briefly – either at the touch or the change in position shifting his hips deeper.
Ilya grips both his hands onto Shane’s hips, feeling the way the bones jut under the skin. He straightens back up and begins rocking his hips, slowly at first, feeling the way Shane shivers at the contact.
“Fuck, yeah,” Shane mumbles, tucking his chin to his chest and breathing deeply.
“Yeah,” Ilya moans, “you feel so fucking good.”
Ilya digs his fingertips into Shane’s skin, hard enough that Shane inhales sharply; hard enough that it’ll leave a mark.
Ilya snaps his hips forward, harder this time, eliciting a high-pitched ah from Shane.
“So fucking good,” Ilya repeats.
Ilya adjusts his grip on Shane’s hips, pulling him back onto his cock as he pounds into him, harder and faster with each thrust.
Shane groans, rocking back to meet him there, the hand stroking his cock moving with more purpose now Ilya’s inside him.
Ilya can’t take it, even with Shane’s head bowed in front of him.
“Fuck,” he says sharply.
“Harder,” Shane gasps underneath him, “please, fuck me harder.”
Please, like he would deny him of that. Ilya makes a strangled noise in his throat. He does. The room is filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, sharp breaths, and deep moans.
“God.” Ilya is thankful for the first time in years for his mother tongue, that Shane hasn’t yet learnt more than a few select phrases, and lets words spill out he can’t say in English right now. “You are so fucking perfect. You don’t even know how good you look right now.”
Shane lets out a shaky moan, the sound of Ilya speaking making him buck his hips faster.
Ilya reaches one hand around, batting Shane’s fist away from his cock and replacing it with his own. He feels how slick Shane is, the tip shining with precome.
“So fucking perfect,” he says again, grateful for the way the words sound harsher in Russian than in English. “No one else deserves to see you like this, ever. Just me.”
He tightens the hand that’s jerking Shane off, feeling the warm weight of him in his palm and quickening the thrust of his hips to match his hand.
He knows that Shane’s eyelashes will be fanned against his cheeks. He knows the colour will be rising, his freckles paling into the blush. He knows that his lip will be tugged between his teeth, shiny and red, and fuck, Ilya shouldn’t know any of this. He definitely shouldn’t know that Shane is muffling his moans because he usually starts purring his name around now.
“Fuck,” he moans, “my name is Ilya, by the way.”
“Ilya,” Shane breathes his name, like it has been on the tip of his tongue this whole time, and groans.
“Fuck, yeah, say it again,” Ilya is breathless and his rhythm is faltering, feels pathetic at how badly he needs Shane to be his, to say his name, how much he wants him to look at him.
He slides his hand up his back, letting his fingernails scrape across the skin before he threads his fingers through Shane’s hair. He lightly nudges at Shane’s head, urging him to crane his neck to look at him. He does.
“Ilya, fuck,” his eyes look glazed, his teeth clamping onto his bottom lip as he groans at Ilya slamming his hips against his ass. Shane keeps his eyes on Ilya, his head kept in place by the light pressure of Ilya’s fingers twisting his hair.
“Want you to moan for me as I make you come, yes? Say my fucking name.”
He feels stupid, knows he wouldn’t have cared about this if it was really just a hook up – but Shane’s too far gone to consider that at this point, so why shouldn’t he let himself have it?
“Ilya.” Shane’s eyes flutter shut and Ilya tightens his grip around his cock. “Ilya, fuck, I’m gonna come.”
“Yeah?” Ilya looks at Shane, looks at his furrowed brow and his mouth slack with pleasure, and says, “Come for me.”
Shane whimpers and his eyes flutter shut, a babble of Ilya’s name and curse words streaming from his lips over and over again, his arms giving way so that he drops to his elbows. He comes hard, spilling onto Ilya’s fist in warm streaks as his hips buck into it.
Ilya feels Shane’s muscles tightening around him as he keeps thrusting, the pleasure radiating in his stomach and crawling up his spine as his own orgasm builds.
“Oh my God,” Ilya breathes, the words strained and getting caught in his throat.
He untangles his fingers from Shane's hair, dropping his hand to rest on his pec, squeezing lightly as he leans in closer so that his own chest is almost touching Shane's back.
Shane's pupils are blown and he's trembling, but he brings himself back up onto his hands to close the distance between him and Ilya. Shane isn't supposed to know him here – but he does. The angle is awkward and it's clumsy but God, Ilya has to kiss him. Shane twists into him, their lips meeting in a rough clash of teeth and tongues, matching the frantic energy of Ilya's thrusts.
His own orgasm hits him hard, everything in him freezing except the roll of his hips, Shane twitching around his cock and drawing it out of him. He comes with a loud, graceless groan. He can feel his pulse throbbing in his neck. He stays close, resting his forehead against Shane's as they fight to catch their breaths.
“Fuck,” Ilya says eventually, forcing himself to pull back and untangle his limbs from Shane’s.
Shane hisses at the sudden emptiness as Ilya pulls out of him. He drops forward briefly before rolling onto his back across the crumpled sheets, one arm flung over his eyes.
“Yeah, fuck,” Shane replies, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
Ilya laughs as he flops onto his stomach next to Shane, his neck twisted and cheek pressed into the pillow so he can look at him properly.
“This is the part where I tell you to leave, by the way.”
Shane scoffs, dropping the arm from his eyes to hit Ilya's back playfully.
“Yes, fine, I’m kidding. You can stay.”
Ilya shifts closer and nudges his face into the curve of Shane's shoulder, pressing a quick kiss there. And then another. They start forming a scattered trail: his shoulder; his collarbone; his neck; his jaw. He can't help himself now that he's started.
“God, you're insufferable,” Shane says. “Maybe I will leave.”
Ilya pauses and pouts up at him, his chin resting on Shane's chest. Shane laughs at that, and turns into him to kiss him properly.
“So,” Shane says as he pulls back from the kiss, “that's what it was like, then?”
Ilya contemplates it for a moment before shaking his head.
“No, this was better. It was still you.”