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“That was good, yes?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”
“Good.” Ilya nods and pulls Shane’s hand up to his lips.
“I wish it hadn’t happened like that. With my dad… you know. I wanted to introduce you to them properly.”
Ilya shrugs. “Maybe it is better this way. Like… ripping bandaid?”
“Maybe. I’m really happy that you met them,” Shane admits. “I’ve thought about it a lot.”
“Have you?”
“They’re important to me. And, you know, so are you, so I just—” he shrugs. “I want them to know you.”
Ilya kisses his hand again. Traces small circles on his skin with the pad of his thumb. “I almost met your mom once before.”
“What, like at one of the MLH events or something?”
“Mm, no, in Toronto hotel elevator when I was coming to your room.”
Shane nearly swerves out of his lane as he whips his head toward Ilya. “What?”
“She did not know I was going to your room,” Ilya says with a shrug. “And probably she does not remember — it has been long time. Anyway, the door closed before she could introduce herself to me.”
“Oh my god.” Shane groans, knocking his head back against the headrest.
“Is not a big deal. Your parents know about us now.”
“Still,” Shane says with a grimace. “They don’t need to know details.”
“Seeing me in the elevator is not details,” Ilya reasons. “Is not like I told her ‘elevator is going up, but I am going down on your son’.”
“I’m gonna need you to get less comfortable talking about my parents and sex in the same conversation.”
The cottage is bathed in golden light by the time they get back. The sun won’t set for a few more hours, but Shane feels like the day is done. He stops in the front hall and sighs deeply. “I think I might go to sleep.”
“Okay.” Ilya takes his hand and nods toward the bedroom. “Let’s go to sleep.”
“You don’t have to.”
Ilya shrugs. “I like to fall asleep with you.”
Shane leans forward, presses a kiss to Ilya’s shoulder and nuzzles his face into the warm cotton of his t-shirt. “Me, too.”
He doesn’t wind up sleeping so much as laying in bed, half sprawled over Ilya’s chest and replaying the day’s events in his head. Something is niggling at his brain and he can’t quite nail it down. Every now and then, the gentle scratch of Ilya’s nails on his scalp will lull him into a sort of half-doze, but then the nagging feeling comes back. His father asking when this happened, his mother asking if they’d been in love since the beginning. The thought finally crystallizes in his mind and the words spill out before he can think too much about them.
“When did it change?” Shane asks. “For you?”
“When did what change?”
“This. Us.” He swallows. “When did you—” he shrugs a shoulder. “Feel different, I guess?”
Ilya hums softly. Traces his fingers up and down Shane’s back. “Toronto, I think.”
“But,” Shane props himself up on his elbow and stares down at him. “You said earlier—”
“I know, but,” Ilya shrugs. “You were so…” his brow creases in frustration. “I do not know the word for it. Affectionate? No, is not right.”
“Endearing?”
“What is endearing?”
“Like… if you felt affection for me, or…” Shane wrinkles his nose, cringing at the idea of putting words about himself in Ilya’s mouth. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
Ilya leans toward the nightstand and grabs his phone. “I will look it up.”
“You don’t have to,” Shane says. “I was just curious.”
“I want to know this word, endearing.” Ilya shrugs, already tapping his thumb over his screen. He pauses for a moment, then taps a few more times and huffs quietly. “Yes, this is it,” he says, amusement lacing his voice. He sets his phone back on the nightstand, then rolls over on top of Shane, cups both sides of his face and smiles down at him. “You were endearing, like lovable kitten.”
“Come on, that’s not what it says.” Shane can feel his cheeks burning against Ilya’s palms. He rolls his eyes and tries to turn his head away.
“Yes, it is,” Ilya says, punctuating each word with a kiss. “And it’s true, you were like lovable kitten when you folded your clothes.”
Shane snorts. “Really? That’s what did it for you?”
“Still does it for me. Is very cute.” Ilya smiles against Shane’s chin, dips his head and opens his lips at the curve of his neck. “So endearing, moy kotik,” he murmurs. “I think maybe even before that. Maybe the first time we met and you lecture me about smoking.”
“I didn’t lecture you,” Shane grumbles. “It was a No Smoking area! There was a sign!”
Ilya lifts his head and gazes down at him again. There’s a familiar softness in his eyes as he brushes his thumbs over Shane’s cheeks. “It has been a long time for me,” he says, slowly. Quietly. “That is the answer.”
Shane swallows thickly and nods. “Me, too.”
--------------------
“Here.”
Ilya frowns and reaches back to take whatever Shane is tapping against his shoulder. He looks at the tube and sets it down on the towel beside him. “I don’t need it.”
“Oh.” Shane settles down next to him as he massages sunscreen into his shoulder. “Did you use some already? I can do your back.”
“No, I don’t use it,” Ilya says. He should have known it wasn’t a good answer. He can feel the way Shane goes still beside him, and sure enough, when he turns to look, Shane’s eyes are darting between Ilya’s bare shoulders and the tube of SPF50 sunscreen. “I am going in lake, it will just wash off.”
“It’s water resistant for—” Shane looks at the tube. “80 minutes,” he says, turning the label toward Ilya.
“And then?”
“And then you reapply it! You have at least a hundred moles on your back alone and you don’t use sunscreen?” Shane’s expression is an adorable combination of outrage and confusion. Ilya loves it.
“Is not a hundred.” Ilya waves the tube away again when Shane shoves it at him. “Is maybe 30.”
“It’s 73, and they need sunscreen,” Shane says, quickly looking away when Ilya’s eyes slant toward him.
“Hollander,” he starts. He can’t help but laugh when he sees the tell-tale blush spread over Shane’s cheeks. “Did you count them?”
“No.”
“Did you count them all, or just the back?”
“Fuck off.”
Ilya tips onto his side, stretching his legs out and propping his elbow at the edge of Shane’s towel. “Did you give each one a number?”
“You’re such an asshole.”
“Do you have a favorite?” Ilya can’t stop smiling.
“Will you please put the sunscreen on?” Shane holds the tube out to him again.
Ilya scoots closer. “Only if you tell me which one is your favorite.”
Shane rolls his eyes and nudges at Ilya’s shoulder. “Turn around,” he says, already squeezing sunscreen into his palm.
Ilya shifts until he’s sitting cross-legged in front of Shane and glances over his shoulder. “Team doctor checks them,” he says, because he doesn’t actually want Shane to worry. “He would tell me if something was wrong.”
“He’s not a specialist,” Shane mutters. His hands move methodically over Ilya’s back, leaving not an inch of skin vulnerable to the sun.
“Yes, but if I needed to see one, he would tell me.”
“And you’d go?”
“Of course.”
Shane finishes with his back and moves on to his shoulders, then knee-walks around to Ilya’s front and makes his way over his chest and belly. Ilya’s content to watch. He can’t remember the last time someone cared this much about his health without being paid to do so. It makes his heart do something weird and fluttery that Shane would also probably want him to see a doctor about.
“I like these.” Shane’s finger traces over a scattering of moles on Ilya's stomach. He lifts his hand and presses one finger to a spot behind Ilya’s left ear. “And this one. I think this one is my favorite.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s—” Shane swallows as his cheeks flush again. It’s a beautiful shade of pink. Definitely Ilya’s favorite color. Shane circles the tip of his finger around a mole Ilya doesn’t think he’s ever seen. “It’s mine.”
Ilya chuckles softly. “I am pretty sure it’s mine.”
Shane shrugs and leans in to press a kiss behind Ilya’s ear. Whispers, “Yeah, but you can’t see it.” He pulls back and smiles. “Nobody can, really.”
“Except you.”
“Except me.”
“Okay, maybe that one is just for you. I will tell the doctor this.” Ilya nods towards his belly. “And what about these?”
“It’s dumb.”
“Tell me.”
Shane shakes his head and huffs out a laugh as he lowers his hand back to Ilya’s stomach. “They remind me of constellations,” he admits.
Ilya feels his eyes prickle as he watches the slow trail of Shane’s index finger connecting the dots on his skin. He swallows and bites his lip.
“I told you it’s dumb.”
“It’s not.” Ilya tips his head back, closing his eyes against the sun. “You are not the first person to tell me this.”
“Oh.”
Ilya squints one eye open. It amazes him how much Shane can give away with a single syllable. He snorts and shakes his head. “I am talking about my mother, Hollander.” He watches Shane’s face cycle through a complicated series of emotions and takes pity on him, kissing the tip of his nose.
“Oh,” Shane says again, quieter this time.
Ilya leans back, planting his hands behind him. “My brother used to make fun of me. Say I was covered in dirt or shit or whatever.”
“That’s…” Shane makes a pained face and shakes his head. “Were things always bad between you two?”
“Yes.” Ilya shrugs. Maybe someday, he’ll tell Shane about his relationship with his brother. How badly he wished for it to be different. How hard he tried and constantly failed. How devastating it is for him, still, after all these years. Someday, but not right now. He’d rather give Shane something more precious. “My mother had them, too. Not so many, like me, but like…” he touches a finger to his forehead, his cheek, the side of his chin. Remembers his mother’s soft hands on his face.
Shane leans forward to press a kiss to Ilya’s shoulder. “Do you have any pictures of her?”
“Yes, at my house. I will show you next time.”
“I’d like that.”
“Are you satisfied with this yet? I am sure you have used the whole bottle, I have second skin now.”
“I still need to get your face.”
“It’s been hours,” Ilya complains. He tips his face toward Shane and pouts. “We might as well go inside and go to sleep.”
“You’re such a baby.” Shane squirts more sunscreen into his palm, rubs his hands together and smooths them over Ilya’s cheeks, his forehead. Across his chin. Makes gentle circles around his eyes and a quick swipe down the slope of his nose. “Okay.” Shane sits back and looks him over as he snaps the lid closed on the sunscreen. “You’re safe from the sun for the next 80 minutes.”
“And you will want to do this again in 80 minutes?”
“Yeah.” Shane settles beside him, wiping excess sunscreen off his palms onto his own knees. “I’ll wanna do it whenever you need it.”
And there’s that fluttering feeling in Ilya’s chest again. Maybe he should have it looked into, after all. He nods mutely and tries not to fly apart at the seams.
Shane looks up and catches his eyes. “What?”
Ilya shakes his head and reaches for Shane’s hand. Kisses his palm and doesn’t care that his skin tastes like sunscreen.
--------------------
Shane wakes to the muffled sound of voices. He grunts, rolling out of bed and quickly tugging on the first pair of sweatpants he sees — Ilya’s, by the feel of them. They really need to do laundry. He shrugs into a hoodie and fumbles with the zipper for a few seconds before giving up and opening the bedroom door.
In the kitchen, Ilya and Shane’s dad are standing shoulder to shoulder, hunched over the stove.
“That is enough,” Ilya says quietly as Dad nods and drops a ladle into the large bowl beside him.
Shane watches them for a few seconds before his brain comes back online. “Dad?”
Dad looks over his shoulder. “Oh, hey, Shane,”
Beside him, Ilya is gently poking a spatula into a skillet. He glances up at Shane, eyes flitting toward Dad and back with a quick smile. “Did we wake you?”
“Yes. No. I’m—” Shane shakes his head as he pads into the kitchen. “Dad, what are you doing here?”
“Ilya is showing me how to make—” Dad frowns and turns toward Ilya. “How do you say it again?”
“Blini,” Ilya tells him as he nods toward the skillet. “We flip it now.” He hands off the spatula, watches Dad carefully flip the thin pancake over and turns toward Shane. “Your dad is very good cook.”
Shane looks between them, confused. “I know, but—”
“You should ask him to teach you how to cut a recipe in half.”
“Shut up. I was just—” Shane rubs his hands over his face. “Dad, I thought you were gonna text before you come over.”
“I did,” his dad says with a shrug.
“He texted me,” Ilya confirms. “I told him you were still sleeping, but is okay to come over.”
“When did you exchange numbers?”
“Ilya asked me for my pasta sauce recipe last night after dinner,” Dad explains. “I offered to text it to him.”
“I will try it in a few days,” Ilya nods. “We have too many leftovers already.” He lifts the skillet and flips the blini out onto the plate in front of Dad. “You can try this one. It is very hot, but better that way.”
“Do I put anything on it?”
“Try with the sugar. We can do something else when Yuna brings the berries and other stuff.”
“Mom’s coming?” Shane asks as he watches his dad gamely roll the sugar laced blini into a tube and bite into it.
“Of course. We are having breakfast,” Ilya says, shrugging as though this happens every day. “It tastes okay?”
Dad gives him a powdered sugar coated thumbs up as he takes another big bite, finishing off the blini and rubbing his hands together.
Ilya looks up at Shane with a bright, sweet smile and Shane feels like his heart might burst from his chest for how happy he is.
“I think you can do next one on your own,” Ilya says. He pats Dad on the shoulder and nods toward the bowl and ladle. “I will finish slicing strawberries.”
“Can I help?” Shane asks. He can’t stop smiling. He wants to fling himself into Ilya’s arms and kiss him all over, but maybe not in front of his father. Or while Ilya’s holding a knife.
“Mm, yes.” Ilya looks up and winks at him as if he’s read Shane’s mind. “You can set the table.”
Shane moves around the counter and into the kitchen. He stops behind Ilya and slips an arm around his waist. “I love you,” he murmurs, lips pressed to the back of Ilya’s shoulder.
Mom arrives a short time later, bursting into the house with grocery totes hanging from both arms. Ilya beats Shane to the door, quickly relieving her of the bags and hefting them all onto the kitchen island. It’s hectic, all four of them moving around the kitchen, passing things back and forth as they chop, stir, mix, flip. Shane isn’t used to it, and part of him wants to usher his parents out of the house just to make things quiet down. But Mom is patting Ilya’s shoulder and Dad is joking with him about an oversized pancake, and Shane wouldn’t trade the look on Ilya’s face for anything.
“Ilya, this was fantastic. I’m stuffed.” Mom sets down her fork and leans back in her chair. “You have to send me the recipe.”
“Hey, I helped,” Dad teases. “I can give you the recipe.”
Ilya nods. “Is true. Very big help.” He smiles at Mom. “I will text you if David cannot remember.”
Shane looks between his mother and Ilya. “Wait, you guys are texting, too?”
“We have group chat,” Ilya says with a slight shrug. He plucks a blueberry from Shane’s plate, pops it into his mouth, and winks.
“Oh my god,” Shane mutters and drags his hands over his face.
“Relax, Shane,” Mom chuckles, “We don’t talk about you.”
Ilya scrunches his nose and pinches his thumb and index finger together. “Little bit,” he says.
“A little bit,” Mom concedes.
Later, when his parents have gone home (with plenty of leftovers and a very detailed recipe, meticulously discussed and transcribed into Dad’s Notes app), Shane watches Ilya pull bright yellow dishwashing gloves onto his hands and smiles.
He’s both surprised and relieved by the speed at which his parents seem to have accepted Ilya into their small family. Objectively, Shane knows they’re taking a pretty big leap of faith after nearly a decade of hating Ilya on his behalf, and he’s incredibly grateful for it. He’s been trying to figure out a way to tell them how much it means to him, but the words haven’t come yet. He’ll get there eventually.
“Hollander, you are staring,” Ilya says. He smirks as he wags his gloved fingers in the air. “Is this fetish I don’t know about?”
Shane rolls his eyes. “Definitely not.” He stacks the dirty dishes neatly and brings them over to the counter, nudging Ilya’s shoulder as he puts them into the sink. They’ve done this throughout the week — Shane clearing the table and sorting the leftovers while Ilya rinses dishes and loads them into the dishwasher. It’s nice. Domestic in a way Shane’s used to seeing between his parents or Hayden and Jackie, but not something he’d ever thought about having for himself. He’s smiling again as he brings the empty glasses over to the sink and sets them down, leaning his hip against the counter.
When Ilya looks up, he’s smiling, too. “What?” He asks, reaching for a glass with sudsy fingers.
“Nothing.” Shane shakes his head and presses a kiss to Ilya’s shoulder. “That was really good.”
Ilya nods. “I am glad you liked it.”
“I didn’t know you liked to cook.”
“We have been cooking all week,” Ilya says, a small crease between his brows.
“Sure, but just like burgers and hot dogs. I dunno, stuff we throw on the grill.” Shane goes back to the table to collect the utensils. “This was more… involved, I guess?”
“A little, yes, but is still very simple.” Ilya shrugs as he rinses a bowl and puts it into the dishwasher. “Is relaxing for me,” he adds, picking up another dish.
“Did… did your mother teach you?” Shane asks, quietly. He sets the bundle of utensils down in the sink and leans against the counter again.
“Mmhm,” Ilya nods. “Some things, like blini, she taught me when I was very young. We cooked together if my dad was not around. No boys in the kitchen.” His smile is tight, but relaxes a little when Shane rests a hand at the small of his back. “I have not made them in a long time. Was glad I remembered how.”
“We could do it again,” Shane suggests. “Or maybe try some other recipes.”
Ilya grins. “You want to learn Russian specialties? I do not think you will like them.”
“No, I- I mean, sure, if you want, but I just meant we could like, cook together or—” Shane trails off and shrugs.
“Okay,” Ilya says with a definitive nod. “We will make the pasta recipe from your dad and they can come for dinner again.”
“Quit trying to impress my parents.” Shane grins, swatting Ilya’s ass as he heads back to the table. “They already like you.”
Ilya tilts his head, lips twisting up at one side. “Your dad, maybe. Your mom, I think still needs work.”
Shane deposits the last of the dishes on the counter and wraps his arms around Ilya’s waist, mouth pressed to the back of his neck. “They both like you. Trust me.”
--------------------
Ilya’s lounging on the sofa, scrolling on his phone when he hears Shane’s feet padding across the floor. He drops onto the other end of the sofa, arranges the pillows against the armrest, and swings his legs up onto the cushion. When his toes press gently against the balls of Ilya’s feet, Ilya smiles and sets his phone down.
It’s been raining on and off all day, so they haven’t done much more than swap bed for sofa and back again. It’s weird how their days blend into one another like this. Quiet and lazy. Easy. Ilya doesn’t think he’s ever experienced anything like it before. Just existing in a space with another person and not having to do anything. He wonders how Shane does this alone every summer. He’s not sure he’d be able to stand it by himself for more than a day or two. But it’s nice, being together and not having to worry about being seen. Reaching out to touch or kiss whenever they want. And, while he’s on that thought…
Shane’s face is partially hidden behind a book, but Ilya can see the slight furrow of concentration between his brows, the frames of his glasses, his eyes scanning over the page he’s reading. Ilya watches him quietly for a few minutes, tries to name the growing ache in his chest, but all the words that come to him feel too small. His fingers itch with the need to touch, so he sits up, grabs both of Shane’s ankles, and pulls.
“Hey!” Shane laughs, only a little startled. He doesn’t drop his book.
Ilya pulls until Shane’s almost flat on his back, then crawls over him and settles between his thighs.
“Hey.” Shane’s voice is softer this time, one hand curling into Ilya’s hair.
Ilya sighs contentedly and rests his head on Shane’s chest. “Read to me,” he says.
“What?”
“Read to me from your boring hockey book.”
“If you think it’s boring, then why do you want me to read it to you?”
“It will help me fall asleep.” Ilya props himself up on his forearms, ready to tease that beloved, long-suffering look onto Shane’s face, but his words die on his lips when notices the shirt Shane is wearing.
“Shut up,” Shane warns, clocking Ilya’s delighted expression before he can say anything. “We need to do laundry.”
“Mm, and this shirt that I wore the other day, that has not been washed, this is the only thing you could find.”
“No. I just grabbed the first thing I saw.” Shane folds his lips in, fighting back a smile. “Shut up.”
“Why? Is cute.” Ilya grins and leans in to brush their noses together. Kisses him sweetly. Once, twice, then a third time, less sweetly.
“I thought you wanted me to read you to sleep,” Shane murmurs against his lips.
“Yes,” Ilya kisses him again then quickly pulls away, pushing himself up onto his knees and digging his phone out from between the sofa cushions. “But first, I need to take a picture of Metros Captain Shane Hollander wearing Boston Raiders t-shirt.”
“Fuck off.”
Ilya easily dodges the pillow Shane swings at his head, but it does make him drop his phone back into the mess of blankets on the sofa. He laughs and crawls forward again, kissing a trail up Shane’s torso as he does. He shifts slightly, settling half on top of him, slotting his thigh between Shane’s legs and pressing it tight to his crotch. “Read to me.”
Shane grunts softly when Ilya presses against him. “I don’t think I’ll be able to concentrate like this.”
Ilya hums, rests his cheek on Shane’s chest and looks up at him as he dips his fingers beneath the hem of his shirt. “I am barely touching you.”
“You’re literally on top of me and very distracting,” Shane laughs, pressing his thigh against the hard line of Ilya’s cock.
“Is okay,” Ilya murmurs. “I will not interrupt you.” His fingers trace a soft pattern over Shane’s belly. He watches the bob of Shane’s throat as he swallows and lifts his book, holding it open just above Ilya’s head as he starts to read.
It is a very boring story, but that’s fine, because Shane’s voice catches when Ilya drags a thumb over his nipple, and that more than makes up for what the story is lacking. “You are very good at this, Hollander,” he murmurs, pushing Shane’s t-shirt up until it’s bunched beneath his armpits. “You should do audiobooks.”
“Nobody wants to hear that,” Shane breathes.
“I do.” Ilya presses a wet kiss to his sternum. “Keep going.”
Shane clears his throat and starts again. His breath stuttering over and over as Ilya drops a trail of kisses down to his bellybutton. Ilya smiles at the tremble of his muscles and the goosebumps that rise across his skin. At the tight roll of Shane’s hips beneath him. He’ll be begging soon, but Ilya’s not in a hurry. He hooks his fingers beneath the elastic of Shane’s sweatpants and underwear and tugs them down just enough to press his mouth to the base of Shane’s cock.
Shane’s voice breaks on a soft gasp, his left hand coming down to curl into Ilya’s hair.
“Why did you stop?” Ilya murmurs. He tugs Shane’s pants down lower, sucking wet kisses along his length.
“Ilya,” Shane mutters. “I can’t while you’re—”
“Okay then. I will stop.” Ilya tips his head, resting his cheek against Shane’s thigh. “Better?” He grins at the frustrated sound Shane makes as his fist tightens at the back of Ilya’s head, nudging him towards his dick.
“I won’t stop if you don’t,” Shane says, low and determined. Just the way Ilya likes. He takes a deep breath, exhaling it slowly before he starts to read. “It has been a short, restless night…”
Ilya takes his time mouthing along Shane’s length. The head is still tucked beneath his briefs, a small, damp spot forming where it’s straining against the cotton. Ilya circles his thumb over that spot, feels Shane twitch against him and does it again. Shane’s voice wavers, but doesn’t break. He reads on, slow and monotone, with the occasional soft gasp or whispered swear. His breathing changes when Ilya finally drags his pants the rest of the way down, his cock springing free to slap wetly against his belly. Ilya flattens his tongue, licks a stripe from root to tip, and wraps his lips around the flushed head. He looks up and finds Shane staring back at him, eyes glazed and teeth cutting into his plush lower lip. The book lays open on his chest and Ilya can’t help himself. He swirls his tongue and stills. Flicks his gaze from Shane’s eyes to the book and back again. Waits. Shane makes a frustrated noise as he picks up the book.
Satisfied, Ilya hums and braces his forearm over Shane’s hips, pinning him as he takes him all the way down.
“The light changes andthecarstartsupFUCK—” Shane groans, his back arching off the sofa as the book falls to the floor.
A small part of Ilya wants to stop again. Wants to tease until Shane is a begging, sweaty mess. He loves this. The twist and pull of Shane’s fingers in his hair, nails digging into his shoulder. The desperate roll of his hips and tremble in his thighs. Ilya draws back and lets Shane slip from his mouth. He looks up and grins, strokes him once with a loose fist and lets the sticky head slap his cheek. “I hope you didn’t lose your place.”
Shane tilts his head up, staring intently as Ilya sucks wet kisses down the length of him and back up again. Stopping just below the head and fastening his lips there. Ilya feels the hot pulse of the vein against his tongue and then Shane is clutching at his hair as he spills over Ilya’s cheek. Ilya strokes him through it, both of them watching Shane’s dick twitch as he makes a mess of Ilya’s face. Ilya pokes his tongue out, licks come from the corner of his mouth, and grins at Shane’s helpless groan.
“Stop, stop,” Shane whispers, batting clumsily at Ilya’s hand.
Ilya watches the rise and fall of Shane’s chest as he presses soft kisses along the insides of his thighs. He’s filthy and hard, but figures both of those things can wait while Shane catches his breath. He’s about to say as much, when Shane heaves himself up, pushing Ilya back against the sofa and climbing into his lap. His glasses are crooked, slanting up to one side and Ilya has a few seconds to appreciate how adorable that is before Shane reaches into his pants and curls a sweaty palm around his dick. Ilya groans, grabbing at Shane’s hips as he thrusts up into his fist. Shane sits back and watches, his eyes heavy lidded but laser focused in a way that makes Ilya feel hot all over. His free hand is pressed flat to Ilya’s chest, holding him in place as he brings him off with ruthless efficiency.
The second Ilya starts to come, Shane is scrambling off of his lap, sinking to his knees and taking him down to the hilt. His eyes flit up, meeting Ilya’s gaze as he swallows and, oh, Ilya loves this view. Reduced to breathless moaning, he bites down hard on his lip and cradles Shane’s head, thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth as he empties himself.
Shane tucks Ilya neatly back into his pants, drags his hand across his mouth and climbs up onto the sofa. “We should do laundry,” he announces.
Ilya rolls his head to the side and finds Shane looking at him, brows raised hopefully. Like doing the laundry together might be the highlight of their day after giving each other mutually fantastic head. Ilya loves him so much.
“You just sucked my brain from my dick,” Ilya manages, still panting slightly. “I need some time to get hard again.”
“You don’t need to be hard to do laundry.”
“I do,” Ilya insists, nodding solemnly. “Is very important for when you’re folding clothes.”
Shane huffs quietly and shakes his head. “Lucky for you, that part doesn’t come for at least another half an hour, so you don’t have to either.”
Ilya grins. “That was very funny.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard I do that sometimes.” Shane pushes himself up off the sofa with a slap to Ilya’s knee. “You wanna shower?”
Ilya takes a deep breath and stretches his arms over his head. “Yes, in a minute.”
“Okay,” Shane nods. “I’ll meet you in there.” He peels the Raiders t-shirt off and tosses it at Ilya’s head as he walks away.
--------------------
Shane’s never been a particularly observant person. It’s not that he’s not paying attention — he is, almost always, to everything. To exhaustion, sometimes. But he doesn’t always pick up on cues or know how to process what he’s seen in a way that makes sense to him. Most of the time, he wants (needs) to be told things plainly.
He’s trying to work on that where he can. And Ilya feels like the best place to start.
Shane has learned a lot about Ilya in the time they’ve spent at the cottage: How he takes his coffee (with cream and sugar), that he snores sometimes (Is not true, Hollander, I have never snored a day in my life), that he watches sitcoms (Helps with my English) and all kinds of cooking shows (Is relaxing) and loud action movies (For the plot). That he’s not fussy about food, like Shane is, but does have some quirks about it: He loves green grapes but not red ones (The skins are different!), he prefers pears to apples, he hates cauliflower (Smells like hot garbage), and thinks cilantro tastes like soap. He can eat a quart of ice cream in one sitting.
Shane treasures every new discovery like precious gold. Secrets that have been locked away from him for so long, now overflowing into this space they share. He mentally files each thing into his growing encyclopedia of Ilya Rozanov. A book he’s learning back and forth, and will keep reading for the rest of his life.
Most of these things are easy to learn, though. They’re things they talk about, things Ilya has told him directly. It’s the in between stuff that Shane’s trying to get better at. The things he learns in the quiet moments, like: Ilya can fall asleep anywhere and easily, conking out on the sofa during movies or outside on a lounge chair with a book on his chest. Sprawled out on the lawn without even a towel beneath him.
He burns hot, like a furnace, when he’s sleeping. Sometimes, they wake up sweat slick and stuck together. Sweat pooling in the small of Shane’s back and dip of Ilya’s belly button. It’s disgusting and Shane fucking loves it. He can’t understand why. He should be crawling out of his skin, itching to get into the shower, but instead he’s always hitting an imaginary snooze button to have five more minutes. Ten more minutes of Ilya’s burning skin against his.
He’s very much a city person, not used to the outdoorsy experience of a place like the cottage, but he gamely follows Shane on nature trails, sizing up plants and insects with equal distrust. He loves to read almost anything, absorbing knowledge like a sponge and doling out random facts when Shane least expects them.
Shane’s favorite discovery, so far, is how much Ilya likes to touch and be touched. Obviously, he knew this already — they’ve spent nearly a decade doing nothing but touching one another — but this is different. It’s not the sexually charged, feverish grasping that’s been the hallmark of their relationship up until now. This is simpler, softer, and without intent. It’s their feet pressed together when they’re at opposite ends of the sofa. It’s kisses, dropped in passing, on shoulders, necks, cheeks. It’s their hands linked against the warm plain of Ilya’s belly while they’re waiting for the coffee to brew. It’s Ilya pulling Shane’s feet into his lap, thumb circling over the ball of his ankle while they watch TV. It’s waking up skin to skin, Ilya’s face tucked into the curve of his neck, sleep warm and content to stay that way.
It’s the way Ilya seems to unfurl, like a plant reaching for the sun, whenever Shane’s hand finds his.
There was a time when Shane would have shied away from this kind of casual intimacy. In fact, if it were anyone else, he still might, but with Ilya, he can’t seem to stop himself. Always wanting, reaching. Seeking more, more, more of him. Shane doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough and doesn’t know what he’ll do without it when they’re apart. He’s trying not to dwell on it.
“What are you reading?” They’re lounging out by the lake and Shane’s long since abandoned his book in favor of watching Ilya.
“Hm?” Ilya’s brows lift, but he doesn’t look away from his Kindle. “Is poetry,” he mumbles. “Russian.”
“Read me some.”
Ilya’s eyes slant toward him then. “Is not like your hockey book,” he says, smirking. “You will not understand it.”
Shane shrugs, turning onto his side and propping up on his elbow. “You could translate it.”
“Yes, but,” Ilya lays the Kindle down on his stomach. “It would not be the same. Some things cannot be translated. Would only make sense in Russian.”
“So read it in Russian,” Shane says. He reaches out and drags two fingers along Ilya’s jaw. “I just like listening to your voice.”
Ilya grins. “You are obsessed with me.”
“Fuck off,” Shane mutters, fond as always.
Later, he scours reviews and articles for the best language learning app. He downloads four of them to his phone, does a test lesson on each, and deletes two right away. The other two, he keeps and starts doing lessons quietly until the time he forgets to silence his phone.
“Hollander.” Ilya is looking at him over the top of the Northern Hideaways coffee table book he’s been reading. Shane’s looking forward to hearing about Canadian Cottage culture from him tomorrow.
Shane shifts a little on the sofa, trying and failing to keep his face hidden behind his phone. “Hmm?” In his periphery, he sees Ilya set the book aside and sit up.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” Shane mumbles. He lifts one shoulder, not daring to look up from his screen. “Just this app I downloaded.”
“Your app speaks to you in Russian?”
Shane sighs and sets his phone on the coffee table. “I thought maybe I could try to learn.”
Ilya’s amused expression morphs into something soft. The small, close-lipped smile that Shane likes to think of as only for him.
“I meant it when I said you could teach me.” Shane shrugs again. “I know I won’t be fluent or anything, but maybe if I could understand it a little, then you could say things and they wouldn’t be lost in translation.”
“Okay. You do not need app for this,” Ilya reasons. “I will teach you.”
Shane rolls his eyes and folds his arms across his chest. “But only useful phrases, right?”
Ilya laughs and crawls over him. “Da. Yes, very useful.”
“Da.” Shane repeats, smiling as he pushes his fingers into Ilya’s hair. “Yes?”
“Yes,” Ilya nods. “Khorosho. Tell me what else your app has taught you.”
Shane mentally sweeps through the limited vocabulary he’s learned so far. “Hah-rah-sho,” he sounds each part out slowly. “I haven’t learned that one, yet.”
Ilya reaches up, curling his hand around Shane’s neck, just below his jaw and pushing beneath his chin. “Sound is from here.” He squeezes gently and Shane swallows against the pressure. “Not so soft, but not hard either. Khorosho. Try it.”
“Khorosho.” Shane mimics Ilya’s pronunciation as best he can.
“Good.”
“But what does it mean?”
“That is what it means.” Ilya leans in for a kiss. “Good.”
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“It is very beautiful here,” Ilya murmurs. “I wish I didn’t have to go.”
“You don’t,” Shane starts slowly, then in a rush of breath, “I know we’ll have to leave eventually, but we can stay here at least until training starts up again. I mean… if you want to. I know that’s longer than you planned—”
“I would stay longer than that,” Ilya says, easily. His eyes are closed against the warm, orange glow of the sunset. Outside on the lawn with his head in Shane’s lap and Shane’s fingers combing through his hair, he’s so utterly content he could stay here forever. “I will retire right now and become happy house husband. Make sure you have warm dinner and warm bed ready when you come home to me.”
Shane’s hand goes still. “Husband?”
Ilya blinks his eyes open, panicking for a moment as he realizes what he’s said. It’s not untrue, though, and he’s done with hiding these things. He would. He wants. Maybe not right now but… “Someday, yes. I will marry you.”
“Oh, you will?” Shane smiles down at him. “I don’t get a say?”
“Mm, yes, of course.” Ilya rolls up and pushes Shane onto his back at the same time, settling over him. He’s beautiful like this. He’s beautiful always, but like this, right now — relaxed and happy. Glowing gold in the last light of the day. Ilya never wants to stop looking at him. “I will make a very romantic proposal. Candles, flowers. Boring dinner with no flavors. Hockey game on the TV. All your favorite things. You will not be able to say no to me.”
“Deep fried is not a flavor,” Shane huffs and cups Ilya’s cheek, pulls him down for a kiss and presses their foreheads together. “You’re my favorite thing,” he whispers.
Ilya sighs dramatically. “We are not even married yet and already I am just a thing to you.”
“Shut up,” Shane laughs.
Ilya kisses him again, pushes up onto his forearms and resists the urge to propose right here and now. Shane’s hands have found their way beneath his shirt, resting warm on his side and lower back. Ilya loves that they can touch each other this way now. Loves the feeling of Shane’s unhurried fingers on his skin, in his hair. The other night, they held hands while watching a movie and fell asleep slumped against one another on the sofa, one of Shane’s legs thrown over his knees. They’d woken up at 4am, stiff and cramped, and Ilya was so fucking happy he almost cried. He’s already extended his stay twice. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do during the season with weeks stretching out between them.
“It’s been over a month already,” Ilya says. “You are sure you want me here for so long? You don’t need some time alone to… I don’t know, organize your towels or something?”
“Fuck off,” Shane laughs. “They’re already organized.”
“Yes, I know.” Ilya nods, tracing his thumb over the patch of freckles beneath Shane’s left eye. “I am being serious.”
“I want you here,” Shane insists, pulling Ilya down for another kiss. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep without you now.”
“Yes, same,” Ilya admits, quietly. “I know a great video you can watch for help with this. Has hot guy doing yoga, but it is very boring.”
Shane pushes his face away with a laugh. “You’re an asshole,” he says. “But… you’ll stay?”
“Yes. I will change my flight, but I have a problem.” Ilya scrunches his nose. “I did not bring enough clothes for all this time. I will have to go without.”
Shane snorts and rolls his eyes. “There’s a washer and dryer downstairs. You literally watched me do laundry the other day.”
“Mm, yes that was very sexy,” Ilya says, waggling his eyebrows and enjoying the way Shane squirms beneath him. “But then we had to wash it all over again. This is a waste of water.”
“We could just not have sex on top of a clean pile of laundry.”
“Maybe, but I think we will do it again if you will not let me fold.”
“You don’t know how to fold.”
“There is not a correct way to fold underwear, Hollander.”
“There is, and if you’d let me show you how—”
“If you try that again, we will only ruin the laundry. It is… how do you call? A furious circle.”
Shane smiles up at him. “Vicious cycle.”
Ilya shrugs. “Yes, that.”
He changes his flight while they’re making dinner. Ilya stirring pasta with one hand and scrolling flight options with the other. Shane’s chin on his shoulder as he points out departures that would give them another half day, another 3 hours, fifteen more minutes.
That night, they lay in bed and kiss for hours. Touching and teasing. Laughing quietly and then kissing some more. They fuck slowly, with nothing between them, and it’s a beautiful agony to have Shane beneath him, to be inside him, and to still want more.
In the morning, Ilya’s phone pings with a flight reminder. He swipes it away and tells himself not to start counting down the days.
--------------------
“I just realized that I won’t be able to say goodbye to you the way I want to at the airport.”
“Mm, yes, it will be very difficult to suck my dick in airport parking lot.”
“You’re such an asshole,” Shane says, fond as ever.
Ilya looks over his shoulder with a smirk that drives Shane crazy. “How do you want to say goodbye to me?”
Shane watches him fold his clothes neatly into his bag. He pretends not to notice his own flannel in the pile of Ilya’s shirts, and if Ilya’s realized he’s missing a hoodie, he hasn’t mentioned it. Shane could make a joke. Play things off as sexy, the way Ilya would, but he doesn’t have it in him right now. Instead, he presses himself against Ilya’s back, winds his arms around his chest and kisses the back of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
Ilya’s hands come up to cover Shane’s. “It will be okay.”
Shane nods. “I know.”
“Next time we take my car.” Ilya turns and wraps his arms around Shane’s waist. “Tinted windows.”
“I’m not blowing you in your tiny sportscar,” Shane laughs. He pulls back and smooths Ilya’s curls off his forehead, kisses him softly and sighs. “Three weeks.”
“Mmhm.” Ilya squeezes him tighter, swaying them in place.
“And we’ll look at our schedules and see when we’ll be in cities close enough to drive or—”
“Shane,” Ilya whispers. He leans in to tip their foreheads together.
“This is so—” Shane takes a deep, shuddering breath. “How can I miss you when you’re standing right here?”
Shane’s acutely aware that this is not the end of the world, but that doesn’t explain why he feels like he’s dying. Like there’s a sinking, unfillable hole in his gut that’s dragging him down, down, down. He’ll see Ilya in a few weeks, but after so much time being together all day, every day, a few weeks feels like an eternity. He is truly afraid that he won’t be able to sleep. That he’ll stumble from room to room like a zombie until Boston plays Montreal and he can finally breathe again. It’s ridiculous and an overreaction, and he knows — he knows — that he’ll be fine. That he’ll go home and eat and sleep and train. That he’ll get on the ice and slip easily back into the game. He knows all of this, but it doesn’t change the way he feels.
In the car, Ilya teaches Shane to count in Russian, because they both need something to keep their minds distracted. He’s patient and thorough and manages not to laugh at Shane’s pronunciation at least fifty percent of the time. Once they make it to 20, Ilya starts quizzing him with highway markers and exit signs. Shane recites them all and does his best not to think about how each one he reads is bringing them closer to goodbye.
When they’re ten minutes out from the airport, Shane pulls off the highway and parks at an empty rest area. Ilya turns to him, but before he can say anything, Shane is yanking off his seatbelt and practically launching himself over the center console, kissing Ilya until they’re both breathless and desperately clinging to each other.
“Sorry,” Shane pants. “I just needed to—”
Ilya shakes his head and silences him with another kiss.
At the passenger drop off, Ilya puts on his hat and squeezes Shane’s hand, dips low to kiss his palm, his fingers.
“Fuck, I hate this,” Shane blurts out. “I’m getting my windows tinted.”
“Then you might as well get a better car,” Ilya chuckles and kisses Shane’s hand again. “I will give you one of mine.”
“You can’t give me a—” Shane jolts as a car horn blares from behind them. “Shit.”
“I should go.” Ilya pulls his backpack into his lap and reaches for the doorhandle.
“Wait. Just—” Shane grabs his arm before he can push the door open. Ilya looks at him expectantly, but the car honks again. There’s no more time. “Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane says. Careful, practiced words that still don’t sound right, but the smile on Ilya’s face makes them worth it.
“I love you, too,” Ilya whispers. Then, as he’s getting out of the car, “I will see you soon and when I am kicking your ass, you will forget how much you miss me.”
“Exhibition games don’t count, asshole!” Shane yells after him. “Text me when you’re through security.”
Ilya nods, waving over his shoulder as he walks away. Shane swears when the person behind him leans on their horn. He watches Ilya disappear behind a revolving door and pulls away from the curb.
He tries listening to the radio, but he can’t settle on a station, so he turns the volume down low and practices counting in Russian until his phone rings about halfway through the drive.
“Fucking security took forever,” Ilya says as soon as the line connects. His voice fills the car and something in Shane’s chest loosens.
“Are you at your gate?”
“Yes. Boarding is not for another hour. Where are you?”
Shane sighs. “Still on the highway.”
“How long until you’re home?”
“An hour or so, if I don’t hit any traffic.”
Ilya makes a soft, grumbling sound and Shane pictures him settling deeper into his chair, stretching his legs out. “Okay,” Ilya says quietly. “What number were we up to?”