Archive of Our Own

The rush of playing against Boston never gets old. Shane thought that it would fade with the years, that the novelty of it would lose its spark. He was wrong.
If anything, the thrill is amplified when he catches Rozanov's eyes across the ice. They share secret looks as their teams warm up.

It bubbles in Shane's chest, all the way up to his face. His lips twitch and spread in a smile he can't contain, so he has to duck his head to hide it.

He knows they are playing a dangerous game. Shane puts it all on the line just to get a glimpse of him, all cocky as he skates in quick laps around a teammate. Still, he can't keep his eyes to himself.

He tries not to think about the text message he left unread on his phone, just a few minutes ago. His treacherous mind, though, can't help circling back to it.

Rozanov sent him four numbers—his hotel room. Just four numbers, but they hold the promise of relief. It's been three months since they last were in the same city.

It's eating Shane alive, the craving for him. He doesn't know what it feels like to be high and go through the withdrawals, but he is pretty sure it must be something like this. Having Rozanov for a few hours and then going without him for months on end.

When the game is about to start, he registers Rozanov skating up to centre ice for the face-off. Shane follows. He bends at the waist, biting down on the inside of his cheek.

It's so ridiculous, being this giddy over Ilya Rozanov of all people. He still meets Rozanov's eyes smiling. His mind goes haywire when he finds Rozanov already smirking.

"Fancy meeting you here," Rozanov drawls. There's a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"I could say the same to you," Shane chirps back. "Considering how lame your game has been lately."

It's weak, it's easy. But it's not meant to get under Rozanov's skin. It would've been, years ago. They would push and push, they'd try to be as hurtful and venomous as they could.

Now it's just an excuse to talk in front of everyone. It's their way of being a little rebellious.

Rozanov chuckles and shakes his head. With mild horror, Shane thinks that he would say all kinds of stupid things just to make him laugh.

"When I win, I'll make you get on your knees and kiss the cup," Rozanov says.

Shane chokes on his own saliva just as the puck drops. Rozanov does win the face-off, but Shane is hot on his heels, chasing after him.

The game is quick and harsh from the start. The stakes are so high for both teams that they can't afford coddling. It's the first time in a decade that Montreal and Boston play the final. Whoever wins gets the glory.

And Shane needs to win so he can rub it in Rozanov's face until at least next season.

By the time the third period rolls around, Montreal is losing two to three and Shane is fuming. Boston is playing dirty and aggressively. Their defence line slams Montreal players against the boards whenever they get the chance, and Shane can tell it is getting to his team.

It is making them sloppy. It shows when Shane receives the puck and Rozanov is right there, stealing it from him so easily that Shane could scream.

Instead, he bites down on his mouth guard hard and dashes after him. He is approaching Montreal's goalie too fast. Shane keeps his eyes on the puck, can't lose sight of it, or it will be over.

Shane gets ready to shove Rozanov and retrieve the puck. He can see it play out in his head: it's risky and with not nearly enough margin. But Shane can. He absolutely can and he just has to wait half a second more and–

A Montreal player crashes into Rozanov's side and they collide against the wall. Shane watches as Rozanov's head flies back and his helmet hits the glass. His body crumples underneath the other player's weight. They both go down in a leap of limbs and gear.

Shane reacts a second too late and trips over them. He stops the fall and saves his face from cracking on the ice.

He is breathing heavily as he turns around. Number 14 from Montreal rolls away from Rozanov and Shane wants to go at him, curse him and bench him, though Rozanov can damn well defend himself.

Shane waits for him to spit on the space between him and 14, get up like a beast and launch himself at him. He waits to see him throw his gloves away and unclasp his helmet.

But Rozanov doesn't move. Shane keeps on waiting, but Rozanov lies, unmoving, on the ice.

14 skates slightly away, but Shane stays where he is, on his hands and knees, just a couple of feet away from Rozanov's body.

The referee arrives then, but Shane barely registers it. Number 14 is ushered away. Then come the medics with the stretcher.

Shane crawls forward with his heart in his throat. If Rozanov doesn't fucking move, Shane might throw up.

Is he even breathing? As Shane gets closer, he sees that the side of Rozanov's helmet is cracked.

Shane is going to be sick. And everyone will see and they will know. They will know what Rozanov is to him before Shane gets the chance to tell him.

"Hollander, are you hurt?" He hears a voice above him. He looks up to a medic, but he is too dazed to formulate an answer. "Hollander, did you get hurt?"

He manages to nod, barely.

"Il- Rozanov," he breathes out. "Is he okay."

All the noise has been blocked out. Shane is underwater and he can't hear, he can't see and he needs to see.

He is too close and someone tries to push him away. Shane thinks he whimpers in protest.

"Shane."

The medics are putting Rozanov on a cervical collar and Shane fucking knows that is a bad sign. The worst sign.

"Is he alright?" He begs again.

"Hollander, you need to step back."

But I'm dying, Shane thinks.

"Shane, c'mon." Someone wraps their arms around Shane and helps him up. Hayden. He tries to take Shane away, but Shane resists. "Buddy, let's go win this fucking cup."

The world rushes back in. It feels like a slap across the face. Shane gulps for air.

He doesn't know how long it's been. Logically, it must have been two minutes, but it feels like time stretched like bubblegum.

Hayden pulls and Shane goes, but he glances at Rozanov one last time. The medics are loading him onto the stretcher.

The rest of the third period passes in a haze. Montreal wins, not thanks to Shane, and it tastes bitter in his mouth.

*

Ilya blinks awake and is blinded by white light, too harsh.. He squints his eyes and tries again.

He is in a hospital room. His pulse is beeping steadily on the machine beside his bed. He scans the room and finds it empty.

Ilya looks down at his own body. His right shoulder is bandaged. He tries to move his arm, but it is strapped tightly to his side.

Fuck.

A nurse comes and tells him he is severely concussed and has dislocated his right shoulder in a clash during the game. They'll keep him under observation tonight and, if everything is normal, he will be discharged in the morning.

The last thing he remembers is giving a speech in the locker room before the final.

Ilya lets his head fall back against the pillow. His whole skull shakes with it. It feels like his head is shattering from the inside.

He lets out a pitiful groan.

Ilya counts the minutes by his heartbeat. He tries not to think too much about the game he doesn't remember, about how he let some Montreal asshole knock him out.

About how much of a failure he feels.

He needs a distraction. A nice nurse who can shove more drugs in his IV or a cigarette. Fucking something.

The something comes 313 heartbeats later in the shape of Shane Hollander.

He slips into the room, glancing over his shoulder, and closes the door with infuriating gentleness.

He seems surprised to find Ilya awake, but he smiles quickly.

"Hey," he says. Ilya stares. He can't quite believe that Shane Hollander in the flesh is here.

"Hollander," he says in the end. He is assessing. "What are you doing here?"

Shane presses his lips together, as if thinking the answer.

"I just came to say that I was right." He stays there, polite and proper, with his hands behind his back. Ilya arches an eyebrow. "About Boston not taking the Stanley Cup home." Then his face splits in a shit-eating grin and Ilya is so furious. At himself, mostly, because he is so endeared by this fucking boy that he can do nothing but smile.

"You are an asshole," he chuckles. He doesn't mean it, not at all. He is just so glad that Shane is here.

"How are you feeling?"

"I have concussion and dislocated shoulder," he tells Shane. He shrugs and winces in pain.

Shane is still by the door. Ilya wants to tell him, "Come here, be close to me, touch me", but he doesn't know how to ask for that. He doesn't even know if he is allowed to want things like those.

"Shouldn't you be celebrating, then?" He asks when the silence becomes too much. "Montreal didn't have a cup in like a million years. Big night for you." Montreal won two years ago. Figures.

Shane rolls his eyes.

"Fuck you."

"I get it," Ilya admits. He rubs his chin with his left hand, feigning deep thought. "I don't want to party with Pike. Too boring."

"I had to see you were okay," Shane says then. It's too earnest. It makes Ilya think he might feel the same. Hope is such a treacherous thing.

"Of course I am okay." It comes out a bit too harsh.

"You were so still," Shane whispers. "I thought–"

"No." Ilya doesn't want to hear it. He also doesn't want to see tears glinting in Shane's eyes, but he does. He turns his face away and blinks too many times.

"Okay," Shane breathes out. "What did the doctors tell you?"

"They were sad Boston didn't win."

Shane blinks at him, incredibly unimpressed.

"We're in Ottawa."

"I noticed. And?"

"Nobody's sad Boston didn't win." He sounds so serious. Ilya smiles despite himself.

They stay quiet for too long. Ilya doesn't know what he could even say to fill the silence. He picks at the lining of the coarse bedsheet, just so he has something to do other than give Shane heart eyes.

"How long do you have to wear the sling?" Shane asks after a while.

"Three weeks." Ilya hears Shane move, so he looks up. Shane walks tentatively up to the foot of the bed.

"Is someone helping you out?" His fingers tap on the frame of the bed.

"No." Ilya frowns. He knows Shane is trying to get somewhere, but he can't figure out what he actually wants to say.

"Oh," Shane murmurs. He sounds a little sad and Ilya hates it. He doesn't want anyone's pity. "Well, I was thinking that the season is over."

Ilya's fist closes around a bunch of fabric.

"You could stay with me until you get better," Shane says so quickly that Ilya doesn't understand at first. He has to close his eyes for a second and give the words time to make sense.

"I had injuries before," he starts. Shane nods. "I was alone, too."

The pained expression on Shane's face makes him bristle. He knows what this is, and he won't accept it.

"I know–"

"I am fine on my own," Ilya says firmly. He hopes that settles it, but then he can see the cogs turning in Shane's head.

"I know you are. Just– You don't have to. Be on your own."

Ilya stares. He looks gorgeous and tired and so concerned. It's almost sickening how much Ilya wants him.

He probably came straight from the game because he was worried. He looked really fucking worried when he got here.

He also looks hopeful. Ilya hates that he is going to crush it like a fragile butterfly under his shoe.

"Hollander, I don't–"

"Just think about it," Shane cuts in. Ilya wants to refuse, he really does. It's the wise thing to do and Ilya can't allow himself to have. Then, "Please."

Ilya looks away. His chest hurts and it has nothing to do with the stupid concussion. He goes to rub a hand over the heartache, but stops short of it. He can't just prove to Shane how much he makes Ilya feel.

"Okay," he concedes in the end. "I think about it."

Shane's grin is brighter than the sun.

He sits on the chair that the family should sit on and plays with his fingers. Ilya watches for a beat, just to drink him in.

His hair is spiky in places, like it is after a hockey game or particularly messy sex. He is wearing a faded hoodie and sweatpants.

He really came straight from the rink, Ilya realises. It does something to him that he is too scared to name.

"Show me highlights from today," Ilya demands after too many minutes in silence. He doesn't know how to do this. All he knows is flames, quick and hidden. He can handle sex, not this intermission that leads to nowhere.

Shane seems to light up at that. He fishes his phone from his pocket and scoots closer to the bed.

Ilya shit-talks most of the time. He pokes fun at Shane and Hayden Pike and praises his own game just to piss Shane off.

The third period highlights don't get a chance to even start. Shane turns the screen off and puts it away.

Ilya protests, but Shane interrupts.

"We're not watching that," he states. His face is set tight, leaving no room for discussion. Still, Ilya presses.

"I want to," he whines.

"I don't," Shane snaps.

And Ilya understands. He just doesn't know how to reconcile with this enormous thing he feels.

"It's, huh. It's getting late," Shane states. He starts to get up and saves Ilya from having to fill the silence again. "I have to get home."

"Past your bedtime already?" Ilya teases. This he can do. Shane scoffs.

"I'll come by in the morning," he tells Ilya when he reaches the door. "I'll take you wherever you decide to go. My place or your hotel or– yeah."

Ilya nods. Then Shane is gone.

Ilya sighs and waits a minute, two, until he is sure Shane is not coming back.

Only then does he allow himself to panic.

*

Shane is so fucking stupid. That's what he thinks as he gets in his car and drives back home.

He just stood there and talked utter nonsense. He basically begged Rozanov to come to his house so Shane could take care of him. What was Shane even thinking, for fuck's sake.

It's so pathetic that he almost starts crying when he gets home. He closes the door behind him and falls against it.

He is tired from the game and the adrenaline, from the embarrassment of what he didn't say out loud but was written on his face. He didn't eat anything after, just rushed to the hospital like a man possessed.

He broke his routine just so he could... what? Check Rozanov's vitals like a neurotic moron?

When he finally gets home, he barely has time to close the door. His hands have been shaking since before he left the hospital room. He was about to have a major freak-out, but he couldn't embarrass himself further.

He is good at holding it in until it's safe to melt down.

*
Shane feels so dumb, so pathetic, that he might burst into tears.

He is sitting in his car, in the dark parking lot beneath the hospital. It's 7.45 am.

He barely slept last night, thinking about how much of a fool he made of himself. Approaching Rozanov's teammates to ask where he'd been sent had been humiliating enough. Actually coming to see him and begging him to stay with Shane was another thing entirely.

Never before had he made himself so vulnerable. Especially not for Rozanov to see.

He felt like crawling out of his skin.

And that feeling didn't go away. If anything, he feels more like a lapdog than ever.

He knows damn well that doctors start making their rounds at nine. Rozanov won't be the first patient they check on. It might be hours.

Still, here he is, at 7.45 in the morning after winning his third Stanley Cup. Just so he can pick up Ilya Rozanov, his lifelong nemesis. With a bag full of his own clothes, Rozanov has something nice and clean to wear.

Rozanov is asleep when Shane gets to his room. There is a little crease between his eyebrows that Shane wants to smooth out. Shane doesn't know if it's pain or if Ilya never rests completely.

Ilya looks younger. He reminds Shane of the first time they met. They were seventeen. Strangers. Everything was so easy, back then. It feels like another life.

Shane never gets to see Ilya sleep. When they meet, it's always on stolen and burrowed time. They never get to linger, to stay for the aftermath. They make it quick. Shane hates it. He wants more, always more. More time, more kissing, more holding. He is so greedy when it comes to Ilya.

Shane moves quietly across the room. He stops at the foot of the bed and watches. Ilya's hair is a mess, curling in awkward shapes and plastered to his head with unwashed sweat. Shane feels the urge to run his fingers through it. He stops himself; he doesn't want to wake Ilya.

He sets his duffel bag on the floor and sits. The polyester squeals faintly under his weight. Shane scrunches up his face and freezes. It's no use. He glances at Ilya and finds him blinking blearyly.

"Shane?" His voice is rough, probably from sleep and disuse. His own name from Ilya's lips sends Shane's blood into a frenzy. Ilya must be incredibly high on painkillers, or he wouldn't be speaking Shane's name, not after the debacle that was the first and only time.

"Hey." Shane waits until Ilya's eyes click into focus.

"What time is it?" He asks, rubbing his eyes with his free hand.

"Early. You can sleep some more.”

Ilya tilts his head back.

"Was worst sleep of my life," he protests. "Why are you early?"

Because I was driving myself crazy. Because I couldn't think of anything but you here, hurting and alone. Because I missed you.

He can't say any of that.

"I didn't want you to escape at the first chance you got," he tries to joke. It sounds too earnest for any of them to laugh.

Ilya looks at him like that idea actually crossed his mind. Then he nods and closes his eyes.

They don't talk. At some point, Shane even thinks that Ilya has dozed off.

The doctor comes much earlier than Shane expected. All the tests they ran on Ilya last night came out perfect, so Ilya is free to go home.

A nurse comes a little later to take out Ilya's IV and give him papers with prescriptions and instructions to take care of his concussion and his shoulder.

Ilya sits on the edge of the bed in a hospital gown that's a little too small for him. He eyes the bag with his dirty gear with poorly concealed disgust.

"I brought you clean clothes," Shane blurts. He hands Ilya the duffel bag. He feels so transparent that he almost starts ranting like an idiot.

Ilya takes the bag and stands. It takes him a moment to find his balance.

"You're so kind, Hollander," he teases.

"Fuck off," Shane fires back. He is smiling, though, relieved by the light banter.

Ilya stumbles into the bathroom and emerges ten minutes later. Shane picked his biggest zip-up hoodie and sweatpants, but they're a bit tight around Ilya's biceps and thighs. He still looks good, because of course he does. But it's the fact that the clothes are Shane's. It does something to Shane, makes him lightheaded and possessive.

"Okay," he starts, completely unaware of Shane frothing at the mouth. "Take me out of this horrible place."

Shane helps him get his arm into the sling and grabs all their stuff before Ilya can even think about it.

"I can carry my things," he calls after him. Shane ignores him and goes to check the hallway. Before leaving the room, he slips on a baseball cap.

He is trusting, although reluctantly, that every nurse and doctor who saw him here will keep their HIPAA. He can't, however, trust patients.

"Very good costume," Ilya tells him in the elevator. "Impossible to know it's you."

Shane rolls his eyes. He was reckless last night. He only thought of getting to Ilya as soon as possible. It was a kind of frenzy he'd never felt before. He didn't care that someone could recognise him, Shane Hollander, captain of the Montreal Voyagers, visiting Ilya Rozanov. His sworn enemy.

That could've passed for sportsmanship. A nice guy doing a nice thing.

Their leaving the hospital together would be much harder to explain.

Once they are in the car, Shane sighs in relief. He buckles Ilya's seat belt for him and then. Then.

"So." Shane pretends to be busy adjusting the rear-view mirror. "Where am I taking you?"

Ilya is facing away from him and he stays silent long enough to make Shane self-conscious.

"Is your offer still there?"

Shane stares at the back of his head as a smile creeps up his face.

"Yeah. Of course." Ilya nods.

"Then to yours." He turns and looks into Shane's eyes. Shane is beaming at him and Ilya smiles a small, tender smile.

Shane starts the car. The drive is almost completely silent, but Shane is giddy. It should be scary. It's too much all at once, but Shane doesn't have it in him to care.

*

For the first time since they met eight years ago, Ilya Rozanov is standing in Shane's home.

Ilya slept in irregular bouts through the two-hour drive. On the way, Shane got him to call his hotel and have his things delivered here.

He could've taken him to his apartment in Montreal, but that would mean not setting foot outside in three weeks. Knowing Ilya, he would've climbed the walls in two days.

Shane has pep-talked himself in the car. Having Ilya here isn't that big of a deal. It absolutely isn't. It's fine. It's Shane helping out a friend. Casual. Temporary, although he doesn’t want to think about it. At all.

He watches Ilya as he takes the first steps into the house.

"I can give you a tour," Shane offers. He is mentally checking that he didn't leave anything out of place the last time he was here.

Ilya turns. He is smirking and Shane hates that he looks so fucking handsome.

"Is nice place, Mr Real Estate," he comments, gazing at the high beams on the ceiling. "Very nice. But I need shower."

"Oh. Oh, right. Of course. I'm sorry, I didn't even think about that." He settles everything right there, on the floor. He knows he is blushing, which is embarrassing in itself.

Ilya chuckles. "Is okay. Just show me bathroom."

Shane spends a ridiculous amount of time explaining how the shower works and pointing out where towels and toiletries are. Ilya stays quiet through it, watching.

"Right," Shane mumbles. "I think that's all. I'll leave you to it." He flees the bathroom before he can say something embarrassing, like: "I can help you undress".

He takes Ilya's things to a guest bedroom. He plugs in Ilya's phone and lingers by the bathroom door. The water isn't running yet.

He gets started on lunch, listening intently in case Ilya calls for him. He is stressing over nothing; he is well aware, but he can't help it. He needs things to be easy and comfortable for Ilya. He needs everything to be perfect, so Ilya doesn't regret coming.

Ilya appears in the kitchen twenty minutes later. His t-shirt is askew, the sleeve caught on his shoulder. Shane walks up to him and fixes it. He even smooths the fabric down for good measure.

"Do you want something to drink? I only have ginger ale and the beer my dad likes. But you can’t drink alcohol, so absolutely no beer. Also, the water here is really good. I have my own well," he says once he is facing away from Ilya.

“Water is fine,” Ilya says, chuckling. Shane gets him a glass and watches as Ilya downs it in one greedy go. He refills it for him just in case. "How can I help?"

"Don't even worry. It's almost done. Go sit." Shane waves in the direction of the living room.

Ilya takes a deep breath. He looks like he wants to protest, but in the end, he doesn't. He takes his glass and leaves. A while later, Shane hears him on the phone, talking in Russian.

His voice sounds so nice. Shane knows that Ilya still struggles with English. He is a million times better than when they first met; he is fluent now. Still, it's almost soothing to hear him use his mother tongue, no hesitation in his sentences. Shane tries to decipher something based on Ilya's tone, but it's of no use. And eavesdropping is wrong, even in a language Shane knows nothing about.

He waits until Ilya finishes the call and plates their lunch. He sets the plates on the dining table. Ilya is texting on his phone, frowning.

"Everything alright?" He asks. He is curious, sue him, and he will take anything Ilya is willing to share.

"Yes. Was only Svetlana. She called a million times." Ilya keeps typing.

Shane bristles. Svetlana. Shane doesn't even know what she looks like, but Shane is sure she is gorgeous. Even if she wasn't, she actually is Ilya's friend. She knew Ilya when she was a child. They grew up together. They've shared much more than Shane will ever share with Ilya. Ilya trusts her.

Shane tells himself he isn't jealous. Shane tells himself that it has nothing to do with the fact that, on top of that, they fuck regularly.

"Oh. That's nice." Shane tries to sound neutral and not sick with envy. Judging by the way Ilya looks up at him, he fails.

Shane pretends to be busy setting the table, but he feels the heat of Ilya's gaze on him.

"She is my friend," Ilya says. "She was worried about me."

"I'm sure she was," Shane grits through his teeth.

"What?"

"Do you fuck all your friends?" Shane bites. He didn't mean to say it, but now it's out there and Shane can't take it back.

"No." Ilya twists on the couch so he can fully see Shane. He tilts his head, assessing Shane.

"So just her." Shane tries to hold eye contact, but Ilya's eyes are so avid. It's like he can read everything just by looking. And he notices Shane is green with jealousy. A wolfish smirk spreads on his lips.

"Sometimes," he admits. He is so nonchalant about it that Shane wants to hit him. He scoffs and shakes his head so he doesn't have to keep looking at him.

Maybe this was a bad idea, after all. Shane should've known this could only end badly. There is a reason they just fuck and never talk, and this might be it.

"Shane," Ilya calls. It's like an electric shock to his system.

Shane hates him. For using his first name now, of all times. For not knowing Shane would rather die than imagine him with someone else.

Ilya meets his eyes and it's like it pins him into place.

"She is just a friend. We fucked before, but not for a long time. And it was nothing more than that." He sounds earnest, like he really wants Shane to believe him.

Shane scrambles for something to say. He should say something, but he can't find the words. He doesn't know if Ilya wants him to read between the lines.

"It's been a long time since there was someone else. And it never means anything to me. Do you understand?"

Shane is so ahead of himself that he is dizzy. He thinks he understands the implication, and it's such a fucking rush.

They stare at each other with an intensity borderline unbearable.

Ilya raises his eyebrows, a silent question.

Shane gives him a jerky nod. There is pressure behind his eyes from tears he refuses to cry.

"Okay. Can we eat now?" Ilya asks. He is back to teasing, but his tone is gentle. He is an expert at changing the topic and, for once, Shane is grateful.

*
Things are fine for three days.

Shane thinks they are settling into some kind of routine. Shane wakes before Ilya and goes for a run, then does a set of yoga and showers before breakfast. Ilya joins him in the kitchen, coaxed out of sleep by the smell of bacon.

Shane has to usher him out of the kitchen every time, because Ilya is hellbent on helping.

Ilya's frown grows deeper and he always looks like he wants to say something. He never does, but his mood sours steadily. He is chatty on the first day and hovers around Shane like an overexcited puppy, even when Shane insists he sits and reads something. The second day, he actually listens. Mostly. He binge-watches a season of The Great British Bake Off. Shane tells him he absolutely shouldn't, given his severe concussion, but Ilya scowls at him and keeps watching stubbornly.

He gets a terrible headache because of it. Shane leaves a box of Tylenol for him on the coffee table. When Ilya takes one pill, Shane watches smugly and almost wants to tease him. I told you you shouldn’t watch TV, he sing-songs in his mind. He feels bad immediately after, because Ilya looks miserable.

Ilya spends the third day sitting on the couch, curtains drawn, glaring at the ceiling. He complains that his head still hurts, but takes his medication when Shane hands it to him. Shane could purr in satisfaction. Taking care of Ilya, even in this small way, is deeply satisfying. This could be them, he thinks. If they were together, really together as partners, Shane knows it would be like this. It’s like getting a glimpse of an ideal future, where Shane insists and Ilya moans about it.

He barely looks at Shane when they sit down to have dinner. He waits until Shane finishes his food and announces he is going to bed. Shane doesn't even have time to swallow the last bite and say goodnight.

Ilya disappears down the hallway and closes his door. Shane stares at his empty chair long after he's gone.

So, Shane barely sleeps. He is doing something wrong, something that clearly upsets Ilya, but he doesn't know what. He goes over what little conversation they've had since they got here, because maybe he said something that he shouldn't have. He can't think of anything, but he keeps tossing and turning just in case.

Ilya wakes later than usual the next morning. From the first glimpse of him, Shane knows he is pissy. His whole body is tense: his eyebrows, his jaw, his shoulders.

Shane watches him warily.

"Do you want breakfast?" He offers.

"I can make my own breakfast, Hollander," Ilya snips. Shane inhales sharply.

His accent is thick, which Shane knows happens when he is overflowing with emotions. His last name on Ilya's tongue sounds hostile, like a slap.

With dread, Shane realises that he never asked Ilya what he wanted to eat. He just assumed and went with it.

With the season over, Shane's diet is much less restrictive. He still eats healthy and clean, so he doesn't keep snacks or– He doesn't even know what Ilya likes, so maybe he's been eating food he hates just because Shane didn't think to ask. He thought it would be fine, but even he can admit that not many people would stand his regime. So maybe Ilya really is sick of vegetables and whole grains and just wants a normal sandwich. Maybe he thinks Shane is rude for not asking.

In haste, Shane opens his groceries app and fills his cart with normal things: white bread and mayonnaise, pasta, tomato sauce, butter, Doritos and Cokes. He adds everything he wouldn't even look at on a normal day, things he knows Ilya might like from what he has picked up over the years. He pays the extra twelve dollars to have it delivered before lunch.

Ilya is making too much noise in the kitchen, but Shane refrains from going and checking on him. He has the feeling that Ilya doesn't really want to see him.

Ilya trudges into the living room and plops down onto the couch. He brought a plate with him.

Shane never told him anything about eating on the couch, and he won't right now, but he hates it. He hopes Ilya is careful and doesn't drop anything.

Once Ilya is done, he sets the plate on the coffee table and sinks back into the cushions with a sigh.

Shane has been watching him the whole time, although he can only see the side of his face from here.

An hour later, Ilya has his head tilted up and his eyes closed. The groceries arrive and Shane puts them all away. He makes spaghetti for lunch. He doesn't even remember the last time he made ordinary pasta.

He feels like crying when he brings the pot to the table. He fills Ilya's bowl to the brim and his own to the half.

He is aware of Ilya eyeing him and the spaghetti; he can almost hear the cogs turning in his brain. He stops and hawks at him every time Shane lifts the fork to his mouth.

Shane forces himself to chew and swallow and not think of the calory count or the extra thirty minutes he’ll spend on the treadmill to make up for it.

Late in the afternoon, Shane is reading while Ilya naps. His body is stretched across the couch like an oversized cat soaking up the sun. He has an arm thrown over his face.

He makes little noises. They sound like whines, sad and uncomfortable. It must be a nightmare, but Shane doesn't know if he should wake him up. He doesn't know if Ilya even wants Shane to touch him, if he'd think Shane was overstepping.

So he stays where he is, a finger between the pages. Ilya twitches in his sleep.

Shane is overcome with the need for him. He needs Ilya to be fine, always fine. He needs Ilya to look at him and say what he's thinking. He needs Ilya to cling to him as much as Shane wants to latch on to him and never let go.

Ilya startles awake and Shane snaps his eyes away. He sits up and stays, not saying a word.

Shane risks a glance. Ilya is stoic again, his face set into a grimace.

Shane decides to be brave for once. Their time here, although far more extended than usual, is still limited. And Shane doesn’t want to waste that time being angry and wary around Ilya.

He gets up and pads to the couch. He sits on the edge, as far as possible from Ilya.

"You're upset," he says after a minute in silence. Ilya is staring intently at the coffee table.

"You think?" He says sardonically.

"Okay. Can you tell me why?" He expects Ilya to look at him, but he doesn't. He keeps looking straight ahead and says nothing. "Please?"

Shane watches his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath.

"You treat me like child," Ilya grits out. "I'm not useless. I can do things."

"Yeah? Like what?" Shane chuckles, humourless.

"I can help set table. I can help do dinner."

"You can't even jerk off," Shane says. He means it as a joke, but as soon as the words reach Ilya, he knows he made a mistake.

Ilya glares at him. A muscle in his jaw ticks with how hard he is clenching it.

"I get it," Shane admits after a sigh. He does, really. If he were in Ilya's place, god knows he'd be climbing the walls. "It's frustrating, but it's only for three weeks. And I'm just trying to help."

Ilya shakes his head and mutters something that Shane doesn't catch. Maybe it's Russian, or maybe it's too hushed for Shane to hear.

"What was that?"

"I didn't ask for your help." Shane flinches at the harshness of his words. Their sharp edges aim straight at Shane's chest.

Ilya looks like he does on the ice. Ready to pounce and roar, snarling like a feral beast. All the softness of the first days has vanished. In its place is this man, with rough and jagged edges.

"You didn't have to," Shane says in a last attempt to be placating. He tries not to let hurt bleed into his words, but his voice wavers anyway. "You could've said no."

He waits for Ilya to deny it, reassure him, apologise.

"I should have," he says instead. It hits like a slap right on the face.

Shane inhales sharply as his lower lip wobbles. He swallows through the lump in his throat, hoping it will take away every ugly emotion displayed on his face.

"You know what? You're right." His fingers tighten into fists. He is about to start shaking from all this pain and frustration. "But I'm not keeping you here. Just say the word and I'll drive you wherever you like. I'll take you to fucking Boston if you want."

Ilya dips his head, chin to chest. Shane stares at the curve of his slumped shoulders.

"I did not say that."

"Then what the fuck are you saying?" Shane demands. Ilya folds further into himself, so Shane can't see any of his face. Shane wants to scream at him because he doesn't understand. "Ilya?"

"Why did you ask me to come?" It's so abrupt that Shane gapes at him. Usually, Ilya is swift at changing topics. Shane scoffs. Ilya looks at him with eyes as hard as steel.

"Because I want you here." It's too honest, but he realises it too late.

Ilya scrunches up his face and leans back into the couch.

"I think...you feel sorry for me. You knew I was alone and you felt bad."

"Well, of course I hated the idea of you being hurt and alone. Obviously. But I don't pity you."

"Don't you?" Ilya taunts. Shane doesn't take the bait.

"No. I've told you, I want you here. I wanted to make sure you were taken care of. That you took your meds and had good meals." I couldn't stand the thought of you suffering, Shane doesn't say. And I couldn't stand that it wasn't me beside you.

Ilya looks away again. Shane hates it when he does that. Ilya can push and prod all he wants, but he closes off as soon as Shane tries to do the same. It isn't fair.

"You won't believe I care for you even if I tell you, so what's the point?" Shane is trying for irony, but it sounds flat to his own ears.

Shane doesn't know much about Ilya. He just has a few scattered pieces, collected through the years. But he knows enough to be almost completely sure that Ilya wasn't taken care of. Not properly.

It's heartbreaking that he is a grown adult now and he can't even fathom that someone could care for him.

"You know nothing about me," Ilya bites. His voice is low and calculated, and it is, somehow, even worse than if he were yelling.

Shane nods, even if Ilya isn't looking, and gets to his feet.

"I need some air." He doesn't wait for an answer. He crosses the living room and steps outside.

The crisp breeze stings on Shane's cheeks and eyes. He lifts his hands to his face. It's hot to the touch, so he must be red all over.

It's chilly for Shane to stay here in just a thin sweatshirt, but he is not going back inside. He is suffocating.

He sits on the L-shaped lounge so his back is to the house. He looks out at the glinting surface of the lake and thinks about how wrong he was about everything.

*

Ilya's chest caves in when Shane leaves. Somehow, he managed to fuck up. Again. It's like that's the only thing he knows to do around Shane.

He was unfair. He can admit that to himself. Shane doesn't deserve his cruelty. Shane doesn't deserve any of the bad things Ilya is made of.

That's why he should've refused. If he lets Shane get any closer, he will ruin him.

The sun is setting and it should be the last time Ilya allows himself to watch. He should book a flight to Boston and have Shane drive him to the airport first thing in the morning.

But Svetlana's words still rattle inside his skull. "You deserve to have someone who takes care of you", she said on the phone. Ilya wants to believe her. He wants, above everything, to believe Shane when he says he cares. That he wants Ilya here. Always.

But Ilya isn't built like that. The shadow of his father trails behind him. Sometimes, Ilya can hear his voice. Soft, he'd say. Ilya is too soft.

Ilya thinks about his mother. She was soft and when she said it about Ilya, it didn't sound like a sin.

She'd like to know Ilya has someone who cares, that he isn't alone like she was. She'd want that. And Ilya does, too.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, he can see Shane.

For years, Ilya wondered what he'd be like in his own space. How would it feel if they weren't hiding and could take their time? He assumed that he'd never get that. It was never in the cards for him.

But now he has the chance. He could learn how Shane looks when he's just woken up, how he smells fresh out of his shower. What he likes to have for lunch and the taste of his skin after the whole day under the summer sun.

Ilya isn't used to apologising. But he wasn't used to English, either, and now he is mostly okay at it. He can learn.

He gets up. He feels dumb with his arm strapped to his body. He takes a deep breath, then another for good measure.

It's cold outside, and almost dark.

He sits close to Shane, enough for their thighs to brush. He couldn't bear the distance between them before. As angry and scared as he was, still is, all he wanted was to feel Shane's warmth.

"I'm sorry," he says, looking at the side of Shane's head. His voice is too rough; he knows he'll end this conversation crying.

Shane doesn't even blink. Ilya wants to reach out and touch him, but he doesn't know if he's allowed to.

"Shane," he urges. He might die if Shane doesn't say anything. "Can you look at me? Please?"

Shane makes him wait another agonising second. When he finally faces him, his eyes are glazed over with tears. Fuck. Ilya hates that he did this to him.

"I'm sorry," he repeats.

"For what?" Shane asks. His voice wavers.

"Everything," Ilya says too quickly. "I was terrible. And what I said. I didn't mean it."

"Yes, you did," Shane snarls.

"No. You were right. I am upset." He looks down at his lap. Talking about his feelings is hard, even more so in English. There is so much he wants to say, but he doesn't have the words to make Shane truly understand.

"Tell me about it," Shane pleads. His eyes are earnest embers and he ducks lower so he can meet Ilya's gaze.

"I'm just–" Ilya starts. "I'm really bad at this." He lets out a self-deprecating laugh. Shane answers it with the softest smile he's ever seen.

"At what?"

"At help," Ilya mumbles. "Asking for help. Accepting help." He is blushing.

"Everyone needs help at some point," Shane states. It's such a stark contrast. Shane needs help and he doesn't even second-guess it; he just asks for it. He knows he has people he can always count on.

Ilya grew up fending for himself. Showing the tiniest bit of struggle meant weakness. Weakness was intolerable in his father's house.

"I know." He does know that normal people with normal families are used to that. "It's not... huh, common for me. I don't know how to do it."

Shane's eyes flit over Ilya's face. Ilya feels exposed, as if Shane can read everything Ilya can't say on his expression.

Discomfort prickles the back of his neck, but he stays still and lets Shane study him.

"Okay," Shane whispers in the end. Ilya blinks at him.

"Okay?" He asks in disbelief. What does it even mean?

"Yeah. Okay." Shane scoots closer until they are properly touching. Ilya's breath hitches. He could cry in relief. "I just want you to be honest with me."

Ilya nods.

"Let's make a deal." Shane goes into captain mode, focused and serious. "From now on, we say what we really feel and think."

Shane doesn't know what he is asking for. If Ilya kept that promise, he'd have to tell Shane he is in love with him. Has been for a really long time. Along with other, equally monumental, things.

But Shane's face, though. There is such hope in his eyes that Ilya wouldn't dare crush it.

"I will try." It's what he settles for. It isn't the full commitment Shane was expecting, but it's all Ilya can offer.

And it seems to be enough for Shane. He smiles so wide that his eyes crinkle at the corners.

Ilya could reach the fucking roof. Shane was teary-eyed and forlorn just two minutes ago, but now he is smiling like this. Ilya fixed it. Ilya fixed what he broke and the reward is that Shane looks happy.

Ilya wants to spend the rest of his life making Shane smile like this.

"Thank you. For telling me and for trying."

Ilya loves him so much. So much that it is spilling from his eyes.

"Hey," Shane whispers. Ilya turns away, but Shane holds his jaw and forces Ilya to look at him. "It's okay. With me, it's okay."

Shane wipes the tears away with gentle thumbs, then kisses him. It's the first time in months. Ilya thought they'd jump straight to bed like they always do, but he's been too busy pushing Shane away and wasting the little time they have before the illusion bursts.

Shane's mouth is warm and solid and so, so soft. He doesn't urge him, doesn't rush. It's just the grounding, soothing press of his lips to Ilya's. It doesn't pursue any goal, but to let Ilya know that he is here. Despite everything, despite Ilya, Shane is choosing to stay.

Ilya gasps through his nose. He needs so much of Shane that it scares him. He paws at his shoulders like an abandoned mutt, like he'd die if he doesn't get any closer.

He makes a little, pathetic noise when Shane pulls away. He strokes Ilya's face, wet because he's still crying.

Shane's hands brush down the sides of his neck and smooth over his shoulders. His warm palms leave a trail of pebbled skin in their wake.

"Let's go inside," he says when Ilya shivers. Shane takes his hand and leads him into the house.

Ilya stumbles over his own feet when Shane doesn't pause in the living room or Ilya's room, but pulls him further down the hallway, through his room and into the en suite.

He gets the water running and soon the space starts filling with steam.

Ilya stares at him, dazed.

Shane steps up to him and reaches for Ilya's sling.

He waits, quiet and gazing up at Ilya, until Ilya understands and nods. Shane's deft fingers undo every clasp. He slides his fingertips under the hem of his t-shirt and shucks it off.

Shane undresses him like he is precious cargo, meeting his eyes a million times to check on him.

When he has Ilya naked, he pushes him into the shower and Ilya goes like a docile pet.

Shane is much faster at shedding his own clothes.

Ilya doesn't even know what to do. He stands in the middle of Shane's huge shower, waiting for any kind of instruction.

"Turn around," Shane orders gently. Ilya obeys. "And tilt your head back."

Shane shields Ilya's eyes with a hand cupped over his forehead. When he starts pouring hot water on him, Ilya groans at how good it feels. He hadn't even noticed how cold he was.

Then Shane digs his fingers into Ilya's scalp. It sends ripples of pleasure down his spine. His shoulders drop and his body goes pliant. Right now, Shane could do anything to him and Ilya would bend and follow.

Shane keeps a firm pressure; his blunt nails scrape deliciously against his damp, foamy hair.

Shane pulls away and Ilya whips around, ready to beg. He needs Shane to never stop touching him.

Shane is shampooing his own hair now, so Ilya can watch the muscles in his arms and shoulders tensing under his skin.

Ilya never has enough time or space to stare, to just appreciate how beautiful Shane is, how good everything about him looks.

Ilya wishes he knew how to paint or sculpt. Anything that allows him to capture the curve of his bicep, the round shape of his shoulder, the taut planes of his back.

Shane catches him staring and Ilya can only feel mildly embarrassed. Anyone in his place would do the same. Shane is magnificent.

Shane twists his index finger in the air with a little teasing smile. Ilya turns, tips his head back, and lets Shane rinse his hair.

He is so gentle, even more than he remembers his mum when he was a kid.

His chest is too small for his heart. The size of it and the violence with which it is beating are going to crush Ilya. He'll turn into a puddle of love sickness and he'll go down the drain. There will be nothing left of him.

"Do you want conditioner?" Shane asks. Ilya spins again and watches Shane reach for a fancy bottle. He offers it up to Ilya. He pretends to read the label, although he doesn't understand a word. He doesn't care. He will take anything if it means smelling more like Shane. Like they always share shower products, like he has somewhere he belongs. Someone he belongs to.

"Does it smell nice?" He says instead. Shane raises his eyebrows at him.

"I mean, yeah? I think so."

"Then yes."

Shane uncaps the bottle and a dollop falls on his fingers. He rubs it between both hands and runs them through the ends of Ilya's hair.

"Your hair is getting long," he says absentmindedly. He is focused on twirling a curl around his fingertip.

The hint of a smile on Ilya's lips falls away. He recalls his father saying something similar with open disgust.

He knows Shane is nothing like that man. Shane is kind. Shane isn't cruel. So, because of that, maybe this is his way of telling Ilya he needs a haircut.

"I will cut it soon," he says cautiously. It wasn't in his plans at all, but he'll do what it takes to keep Shane satisfied.

"Oh." He knits his eyebrows. "I mean, you can do what you want. Obviously. But I... I like it like this."

A puff of air leaves Ilya's chest. He didn't even know he was holding it, too focused on gauging Shane's reaction and bracing for impact.

"Okay."

Shane nods, as if he just took care of important business.

"Okay," he repeats.

He squirts expensive shower gel on his hands and sets them on Ilya's shoulders. He skates them over the skin, rubbing softly.

Ilya swallows and chokes on air. He wants to tell Shane to stop, that he doesn't have to do this.

He feels fragile and splintered and transparent, like a glass pane. This is so foreign that Ilya doesn't even know how to breathe.

Shane's fingers skim over his bruised shoulder, the pads barely brush him.

All of Ilya is pulled taut and stretched thin. He doesn't fit in his own body. He opens his mouth to stop Shane, but Shane is observing him.

"Let me take care of you," he whispers into the space between them. He slides his wide palms down Ilya's chest, then around his sides. Further, across his hips, then he is kneeling and stroking Ilya's thighs.

It's the first time since they met that having Shane on his knees for him doesn't get him hard. He is unmoored, looking down at Shane with wide eyes.

They've never touched just to touch. It was always a means to an end; it led somewhere specific. It was pressing buttons to make the other arch or moan.

Ilya is no stranger to being naked together. Ilya knows where to bite and where to suck. He knows that a kiss to Shane's inner thigh makes him squirm and that licking below his bellybutton leaves him breathless.

Everything he's ever done to Shane, or Shane to him, seems futile next to this. It's the most intimate, delicate experience of his life.

It's terrifying and monumental. And it makes sense. If he was ever going to feel something like this, it was always going to be with Shane. There is no one else in the world, just Shane and his devoted hands.

Shane gets back up and Ilya can't even stand to look at him. But he can't tear his eyes away, either. Shane, with his constellation of freckles and his pink lips and his glittering dark eyes. This face that Ilya is in love with.

Ilya grabs at his waist and pulls until their slick bodies are pressed together. He hides his face against Shane's neck and keeps him there with a hand between his shoulder blades.

Ilya shakes with a sob. He hadn't noticed he was crying. Shane hugs him tighter, fingers fisted in Ilya's hair.

"It's okay," Shane mumbles over and over, to the point that Ilya believes him.

A minute later, Shane turns the water off and guides Ilya out of the shower. He stands where Shane puts him while Shane retrieves a towel. He dries Ilya up with aching tenderness.

Ilya is overly aware of his heavy breathing and that he hasn't said a word in too long.

Shane wraps the towel around Ilya.

"Just a second," he mumbles. He dries off quickly and leaves the bathroom.

Ilya stares, hair dripping. He keeps the towel closed on his chest with one hand.

He feels like a little kid. It's oddly comforting, as much as it is rattling.

Shane returns wearing white boxer briefs. He takes the towel from Ilya and kneels at his feet again. He rubs Ilya's legs with the towel and kisses an old, almost faded bruise on the side of his knee, then he taps Ilya's ankle.

Ilya looks down and finds him holding a pair of black boxers. Ilya braces himself with a hand on Shane's shoulder and steps into the underwear.

Shane stands to his full height and kisses Ilya's mouth.

"I'll clean up here. Go wait for me." He pushes Ilya softly towards the bedroom.

Ilya sits on the edge of Shane's bed. Through the gap of the door, he watches Shane pick up their clothes and stuff them into a hamper.

He steps into the room and Ilya is as nervous as a virgin. Fuck, he wasn't this nervous when he had sex for the first time. But here he is, actually blushing when Shane looks at him. He is squirming; he can't stay still.

"Why are you sitting there?" Shane asks, amused. Ilya misses the time when he was the one to make Shane flush. He could make him speechless with just a wink.

Answering Shane is a problem. He doesn't want to offer his heart on a platter more than he already has. He also wants to be honest with Shane, for a change. It's the least he owes him.

"I, uh. I didn't know if you meant my bed or...here." He hates how hesitant he sounds, how he can't look at Shane and instead fixes on a mole on his thigh.

"Well, I meant here. But you can go to your room if you want."

"No," he blurts. It's breathy and whiny and nothing like Ilya.

"Get under the covers, then." Shane's expression is...fond. He looks fond.

Ilya lies on his back under the duvet. A second later, Shane joins him. Ilya wants to see him, but he is terrified. He stays still and stiff, gazing at the ceiling, as Shane gets comfortable and turns off the light.

He breathes shallowly. There isn't enough air in the world to fill his lungs, so he inhales like he just finished a particularly intense game.

"Get on your side," Shane breaks the silence. Ilya's brain is so into overdrive that he can't make sense of the words.

"What?"

"On your side," Shane repeats. He rolls so he is facing Ilya. Ilya can't sleep on his right side because of his shoulder, so he'd have to get on his left. With his back to Shane. "C'mon."

Ilya looks at the dark shape of him for a beat, then does as told.

Shane settles a hand on his waist and drags it lower slowly, until it drapes over his hip. Ilya holds his breath. Shane scoots closer, until his chest presses against Ilya's back. His body slots behind Ilya's like it's meant to be.

Ilya tenses and blinks in the dark. His mouth is so dry.

Shane pulls him impossibly closer. He slides his arm over Ilya's middle and spreads his hand over Ilya's stomach.

Ilya's never done this. Not with Shane, not with anyone.

He is hyperaware of every inch of his skin touching Shane's. It fires off sparks in him, the brush of Shane's breath on the back of his neck, their thighs flush together.

He feels his body is too big for this bed; he is taking up too much space. He wishes, in this moment, that he were smaller, tiny, so he wouldn't be such an obvious disturbance. He'd be just a pea on the mattress, something Shane could ignore easily enough. He wouldn't suck in all the air of the room and make it feel like the walls are closing in on them.

Shane rubs his thumb on Ilya's solar plexus. It almost immediately soothes Ilya. His eyelids flutter shut and his muscles loosen.

"Comfy?" Shane asks. His voice ghosts over Ilya's skin and he almost arches into him.

"Yes," he whispers back. And it's true. He hadn't even imagined something like this could happen. He feels safe and cherished in Shane's arms. They are sharing a bed just to sleep tangled together. Ilya is being held by someone he loves.

It's dizzying.

For the first time, Ilya falls asleep content and close to someone else.

*
Shane wakes to Ilya twitching in his sleep. The room is struck by slivers of soft light, spilling across the walls and the sheets.

They haven't moved all night. Ilya is still nestled into Shane, warm and breathing steadily. Shane presses even closer to him and inhales his clean scent. He nuzzles his neck and smiles like a fool.

This scenario was so unlikely just a few hours ago. He is spooning Ilya Rozanov. Shane feels delirious and overheated. He could melt into him, fuse their skins until they can no longer be separated.

Shane needs him. Wants him. Loves him. The sheer size of his feelings threatens to overthrow him.

Ilya huffs. The hand he has around Shane's forearm tightens. He burrows back. His ass rubs against Shane's dick. He is hard already, but the sudden pressure has him gasping for air.

Ilya hums. It sounds loopy, so Shane knows he can't be completely awake.

He breathes through his mouth. He is too warm for comfort, but he doesn't want to move. He wants to stay in this moment forever.

Ilya presses back again and, this time, Shane moans.

"Ilya," he pleads. He feels feral already, too much and not remotely enough.

He paws at Ilya's middle to try to turn him around. He needs– he doesn't even know. Anything. Anything will do.

Ilya grabs his hand and guides it to his own throbbing cock.

"Like this," he drawls. His accent is thick, clouded with arousal and sleep.

His body keeps shifting in tiny increments. He thrusts forward into Shane's palm and back into Shane's crotch.

None of them has ever voiced wanting to change their roles. Shane hasn't even thought about topping and Ilya seemed more than okay with that.

Right now, if Ilya asked, Shane would. Shane would do anything to him, for him. He needs to please him, to be everything he could ever want.

Shane slips his hand into Ilya's underwear. He finds his cock, hot and hard, and wraps his fingers around it. Ilya whines. He's never made a sound like this before and it's so incredibly beautiful.

Shane jerks him slowly, keeps his fist tight and the upstrokes lazy. He rubs his thumb over the head and spreads the slickness.

Ilya digs his fingers into Shane's arm and arches into him. He is so pliant against Shane and so responsive. Ilya feels almost delicate in his embrace.

None of this is usual. Ilya sounds desperate and fucked out and Shane has barely touched him.

Shane's hips twitch forward, searching for friction. He mouths at Ilya's nape, bites the junction of his neck and shoulder. He wonders if Ilya would want Shane to leave a mark. They've always been cautious about that, but now they have three weeks. He could bruise; have Ilya bruise him in return.

He can picture Ilya fucking him and pressing into the red bites, making it hurt a little.

"Shane," Ilya moans. He is thrusting up, out of his mind. Shane was so lost in thought that he stopped moving his hand.

He starts up again. Ilya groans and gasps. Shane would die to see his face, but having him like this is almost better.

He has to make him come. He twists his wrist and speeds up. Ilya's body locks up.

"So good," he mumbles. The praise zips down Shane's spine. He starts blabbering in Russian. Shane loves that he can make him lose control like this, quickly and honestly.

"Come for me," Shane speaks into his neck. He bites lightly on the side, feels the tendon tense under his tongue. "Ilya, come for me."

And Ilya does, almost on command. He goes rigid in Shane's arms and moans, high-pitched. He comes in hot streaks over Shane's fingers.

They are both panting. Shane is still painfully hard, borderline crazy with it. He keeps stroking Ilya through his orgasm, until he goes lax against him.

Ilya writhes and lies on his back. Shane climbs into his lap and humps him. Ilya's face is open and relaxed. A lazy smile dances on his lips. He looks up at Shane through heavy-lidded eyes and Shane feels so desired.

He tugs his boxers down enough to free his cock. It is drooling and it adds to the come smeared near Ilya's hip. He jerks himself quickly, desperate.

He holds Ilya's gaze and thinks he might burst aflame. Ilya's pupils are blown wide, his mouth parted, and he is staring at Shane's face like missing any tiny detail would cost him his life.

Shane wants Ilya to talk. He wants him to say something filthy, something sweet, something devastatingly honest.

But Ilya doesn't. He keeps looking and places his good hand on Shane's thigh.

Shane's eyes flit between his hand, flying over his cock, and Ilya's drawn face. His eyebrows are scrunched up, like Shane's pleasure is his own.

It undoes Shane. He shudders as he comes, a broken moan rips from his throat. His come splatters up Ilya's stomach. Shane has the wild urge to lick it up, but he stays perched on Ilya's lap.

A laugh bubbles out of him. He looks down at the mess on Ilya's skin and giggles. Ilya chuckles too and, soon, they are hysterical with it, effervescent.

It's so good. The relief comes like a gentle tidal wave. They hadn't touched in so long, and they are laughing together when they were just panting. It's new and it's easy. Shane is so light that he could float up to the sun.

Shane folds down and braces himself with a hand next to Ilya's head.

Ilya's eyes are gleaming. The curve of his smiling mouth is gorgeous and bright like a lighthouse and Shane can't hold himself back. He has no reason to. He kisses him, though it's all teeth with their lips stretched. He peppers his whole face with little pecks and Ilya laughs through it.

This happiness is so overwhelming that Shane has to hide in Ilya's neck. Ilya runs his palm up and down his spine and Shane sighs in bliss.

They breathe in sync, chest to chest, until they stop panting.

Shane's heart is thumping against his sternum, against Ilya's heart. And Shane loves him.

He sits back up and watches him. He is so beautiful like this, tousled and open. He is still smiling, though much smaller now, like it's only meant for himself.

Shane thinks of what he told him. That they'd be honest. He's going to break his own promise because he can't possibly tell Ilya he is in love with him. Not now, at least. He needs more time.

He settles for something lighter.

"I really like you." It sounds so dumb. It feels dumb, now he's said it.

Ilya's eyes bounce over his face. He looks at Shane like he knows the real meaning behind his words. Shane holds his breath with his heart throbbing in his throat.

"I really like you, too," he says then.

Shane nods because he doesn't know what to add. It's like a weight has been lifted, even though it's juvenile. After years of fucking in secret, liking each other shouldn't be such a revelation.

Ilya's stomach growls. Shane laughs again. It's the only thing he wants to do: laugh to give all his happiness an outlet.

"Okay," Shane chuckles. "Shower and then breakfast?"

Clean and dry, they trail into the kitchen.

Ilya stays by the entrance, hesitating.

"Come on, get started with coffee." Ilya's answering smile is blinding.

Shane assigns him little tasks he can do one-handed: set the table, blend Shane's smoothie, stir the scrambled eggs. He absolutely bans him from chopping.

They take their plates and glasses outside. It's sunny and cloudless, and Shane is dying to see Ilya tan.

The light suits him, too. He looks like he belongs right here, broad and bright like the summer.

Later, Shane lends him a pair of swimming trunks and leads him to the lake.

Shane sits on the dock and glances up at him. Ilya grins like a lunatic and cannonballs into the water. It splashes all over Shane. He is about to protest, but Ilya's head breaks the surface and he is cackling, wild and carefree. Shane swallows his complaint.

He reads for a bit while Ilya floats on his back. He kicks his feet here and there to reposition, but otherwise follows Shane's order not to swim.

Shane lies down on his towel when his eyes get tired of reading. He tries to stay attuned to Ilya's faint splashing, but he grows drowsy under the gentle heat.

Something blocks the sun. He opens his eyes and finds Ilya's head hovering above him. His hair drips onto Shane's face.

Ilya leans down to kiss the tip of his nose.

"Swim with me," he says. He is asking, but he sounds a little commanding. Shane's stomach flutters.

"You can't swim."

Ilya sighs and rolls his eyes fondly.

"Okay. Get in water with me."

"It's cold," he whines. He was done for when Ilya kissed his nose, but he likes playing hard to get just to see Ilya grow needy.

"Mmm. A bit. But you want to make me happy."

Yeah, Shane thinks. I want to see you like this every day for the rest of our lives.

"And my swimming would make you happy?" He counters.

"The happiest," Ilya answers. He is so brutally honest sometimes that it knocks Shane off his feet.

"Okay," Shane sighs. He rolls on his stomach, then stands on his knees. Ilya is holding himself up with his good arm on the dock. Shane tries not to stare too much at his bulging bicep, his straining forearm.

Shane smiles at him, hoping it looks sultry and sexy, as he inches closer. He cups Ilya's cheek, strokes his cheekbone. Ilya stares with doe eyes.

Then Shane pushes him, hard and fast, and Ilya falls back into the water with a yelp.

He resurfaces spitting water. He swipes his hair back and gapes at Shane, bewildered.

"Wow, Hollander. You are so mean." Shane's delighted smile slips off his face. "Being cruel to a poor, injured man." His mouth curves down into a pout, then breaks into a grin.

Shane laughs in relief. For a moment, he really thought Ilya was annoyed.

"You have to make it up to me."

"Oh, yeah? What do you have in mind?" Shane fires back.

"A nice blowjob." Ilya paddles close, pouting theatrically. Shane was planning on sucking him off, anyway.

"Nothing else? You seemed very offended." Shane rests his hands on his knees and leans in.

"Join me. I'm hurt and drowning. Alone."

"You're so dramatic." But he is swinging his legs over the edge. Ilya slides between them and kisses the side of his knee.

"You like me," he sing-songs.

"Not anymore."

"Shane," he cries out, pressing his forehead to Shane's shin. "Stop being mean."

He shoots Shane a look from beneath his eyelashes. He looks mischievous and boyish. Shane could never deny him anything.

Shane slides off the dock. He hisses at the stark cold.

"Happy?" He grits out.

"Yes." He kisses Shane's mouth and threads their fingers together.

It reminds Shane of sea otters, and he tells Ilya. Instead of laughing, Ilya looks at him for a beat too long. He brings Shane's hand up to his mouth and presses a kiss to his knuckles.

"We can be cute sea mouse together."

*

Back on the dock, and with their fingertips crinkled, Shane wraps Ilya in a pool towel and drags him back inside.

Ilya is mesmerised by the muscles of his back, shifting with every step he takes. His skin looks slightly darker from the sun.

"What do you want for lunch?" But Ilya barely hears him, entranced by his ass in his little trunks, his supple thighs. "Ilya?"

They've reached the French doors by the kitchen.

Ilya's eyes snap up as Shane turns on his heels.

"Later. Lunch can wait." He drops the towel on the hardwood. He pushes Shane against the glass door and kneels.

Shane gasps.

Ilya waits, looking at Shane's face. He is a little dazed already, lips wet and parted and eyes wide.

"Tell me what to do," Ilya whispers. It was meant to be teasing and commanding, but it comes out vulnerable, pleading. He finds that he really wants Shane to guide him, to take from him. To use him.

He wants to be perfect for him.

Shane blinks and looks down. He's flushed a lovely shade of red.

"Ta-take it out," Shane breathes out. Ilya smiles a bit, but it is short-lived. Shane pulls Ilya's hair, tilts his head back and stares him down. "Take it out and suck." Ilya's dick starts leaking.

He rushes to obey. He shoves Shane's trunks down. His cock bobs, red and drooling. Ilya's mouth waters.

Shane feeds him his cock. He starts thrusting almost timidly, but Ilya moans around him and Shane picks up his pace. He keeps his grip on Ilya’s hair tight and moves his head how he wants it.

Shane takes his cock almost all the way out. Ilya laves his tongue around the tip.

"Fuck," Shane moans brokenly. "I'm gonna– Ilya."

Ilya sucks harder, hollowing his cheeks. Shane grabs his head with both hands and holds him in place. He cries out as he comes.

Ilya scrambles to yank his trunks down his thighs and jerk himself off. It’s clumsy with his left hand, but he is so close already. He stares up at Shane and Shane returns his gaze with hooded eyes. Ilya gasps, pants, and spills over his fist.

Shane paws at him to help him up, then pulls Ilya into him. He kisses him with a hunger that Ilya feels he won’t ever quench. He digs his fingers into Shane’s shoulders, holds onto him like he’ll drift away if he doesn’t. He needs so much of him, with such intensity.

It used to be terrifying. This need isn’t foreign to Ilya; it was there almost from the very beginning. But now, it doesn’t feel like a death sentence anymore. It feels like Shane might reciprocate, like he might want this just as much.

Sometimes, Ilya catches him looking and Ilya sees his love reflected, staring back at him.

He thinks that Shane could say it back. It’s a daydream, but he thinks about it all the time. He has pictured it in a million different scenarios. He gets short of breath every time.

But he wants it. He wants to know what hearing those words for the first time feels like. And, just for once, he thinks he is allowed to want that.

He doesn’t want to let himself dream. Shane promised him three weeks. At the end of that time, Ilya will return to Boston and Shane will stay here until the season starts again.

*

Ilya could never have imagined how much he’d like domesticity. He loves learning Shane’s little quirks about cleaning, how he doesn’t go to bed unless the living room is picture perfect.

Every night, he helps Shane wipe the coffee table and fold the throw blankets.

He always thought routine would kill him. But this is grounding. He teases Shane and tells him it’s boring, but what he really means is reliable. Shane is steady and predictable. For the first time in his life, Ilya doesn’t have to be ten steps ahead. He can let his guard down and not worry about what’s next.

He likes that Shane is disciplined, and it is fascinating to watch. Off-season, Ilya still works out, though he doesn’t adhere to the brutally strict plans his trainer sends him. He allows himself to skip a day and eats like a raccoon.

Shane runs through his drills like he is training for war. He keeps count of his carb intake.

By sheer willpower, Shane wakes early every morning to go on a run or do a gruelling session in his gym. He drags Ilya on hikes through long trails in the woods.

Ilya used to wonder what he did, exactly, to have such insane stats. It’s not only that his body is literally god-like, but the speeds he reaches without even losing breath.

Now he understands.

Ilya wishes he were more like him. He is a professional athlete, but he has never been as thorough as Shane.

At night, he watches Shane go through his skincare routine. He sits on the closed lid of the toilet while Shane washes his face twice and applies a million things on his face, on his chest, further below. Shane narrates it to him a couple of times, but Ilya can only focus on his fingers working, gliding over smooth skin.

Shane mistakes his desire for interest. He turns to him with a little tube of moisturiser.

He looks perfect, unblemished and lean, almost edible. Ilya feels gangly and uncoordinated in that moment. He is confident in his body, but Shane takes such meticulous care of it that Ilya feels inadequate.

“Want some?” He asks. He is already stepping between Ilya’s knees. He holds Ilya’s chin and tilts his head up. He pushes Ilya’s hair out of his face and dabs cream on his forehead and cheeks. He uses his thumbs to spread it evenly. “I think niacinamide would do you good,” he comments.

Ilya hums. He doesn’t even know that word, but yes, okay. He agrees. If Shane thinks so, Ilya will use weird products on his face.

Shane swipes his fingers all over Ilya’s face. Ilya closes his eyes as Shane strokes over the curve of his browbone. He puts gentle pressure on Ilya’s temples.

“You’re all set,” he says, patting Ilya’s cheek.

“Okay. Thank you.” His voice wavers. Moisturiser shouldn’t make him emotional, not at all.

“Of course.” He says it like it’s something obvious. Like Ilya can take for granted that Shane will always take care of him.

After that, Ilya lingers in the bathroom every night. He waits for Shane to ask him again and he always does. He coerces Ilya into putting on face masks and they laugh for an eternity at how ridiculous they look.

Ilya’s cheeks hurt from smiling too widely, from being too happy. He feels full all the time, like a neglected house plant being watered and placed in a sunny window. He is blooming under Shane’s doting, spreading roots into Shane’s home.

If he were brave, this could be his life. Forever.

*

"I was thinking scrambled eggs and toast," Shane offers. "What do you want?"

"You," Ilya simply says. It knocks the wind out of him.

Shane ducks his head, blushing.

"Stop," he protests weakly.

Ilya steps up to him and wraps an arm around his middle.

"You say I have to be honest. Is what I'm doing." He kisses the side of his head. "Eggs and toast is boring."

Shane side-eyes him.

"Fuck you. What do you want?"

Ilya manhandles him so they are face-to-face.

"I want boring."

They share a charged look. Shane is so close to spilling out. It's flowing out of him, slipping between his fingers. He has to tell him. Soon.

"Help me, then."

They cook in silence, brushing skin and stealing little kisses. Shane includes Ilya in as many tasks as he can. He leaves him in charge of the toast and making coffee while he cracks eggs open.

They take their plates outside. It's sunny and warm and Shane is dying to see Ilya tan.

They sit on the same side of the terrace table because, apparently, Ilya found the distance aggravating.

"Shane," Ilya says once their food is gone. He sounds serious suddenly. Ilya turns a bit in his chair. "You did weird shopping yesterday."

Oh. He wasn't expecting Ilya to notice, much less bring it up.

"It's not weird," he replies too sharply. Ilya studies him and shoots him a look that says you're not fooling anyone.

"Is weird for you. And you didn't eat spaghetti." Fuck. "So. Why?"

"I, huh. I wanted you to have things you like." It's true, but only partially.

"Okay. But you don't like."

Shane turns his face away and Ilya lets him for a second. Then he reaches out and makes Shane face him.

"You said we are honest. So be honest."

He closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at Ilya.

"I just thought I was doing something wrong. You were mad and I thought maybe it was because I hadn't asked what you wanted to eat. I know I'm weird about food, but that doesn't mean you have to put up with it." He doesn't even pause to take a breath.

"Look at me."

Shane shakes his head. Tears are burning beneath his eyelids.

"Please." And fuck him for being so gentle and having so much power over Shane. Shane opens his eyes. Ilya looks concerned, almost pained. "Good. Now listen. I was never mad at you. And you don't have to do things you don't want for me."

"It's not that I don't want to, I just–"

"You didn't want spaghetti. And is okay. I don't need spaghetti. I want to eat your boring food with you."

Shane sobs.

"You're so perfect."

"I know," Ilya says. He is smirking. He is so ridiculous and so lovely. Shane laughs, watery and weak. "So today, you make boring food for us and I help. Okay?"

"Okay," Shane agrees.

*

Ilya jolts awake. He gasps for air and shoves the sheets off his body. His skin is tacky with sweat and mottled with goosebumps. His heart is beating so hard that he fears it will wake Shane.

He is sleeping on his side, facing Ilya. He is breathing steadily, beautiful and unaware.

It was just a bad dream, he tells himself. He reaches for the crucifix around his neck out of habit.

In for four, hold for four, out for four.

After a minute, his breathing is almost back to normal.

He stares at the ceiling, willing Shane's soft snores to lull him to sleep. But he can't stop thinking about it.

He gets up and searches for his cigarettes in the dark, then pads outside. It rained the whole day, but now the sky is clear.

The wooden floor of the porch is wet, but he steps out barefoot anyway. The rain has left behind quite the chill. Ilya shivers. He is not going back in for clothes, so he stands just in his boxers with his skin covered in goosebumps.

The first drag of the cigarette actually slows his frantic heart rate.

He closes his eyes, exhales the smoke and listens to the night. He can hear the water lapping at the lake shore, the faint chit-chat of nocturnal animals. A loon, in the distance. It doesn't scare him anymore, now that he knows it's just a bird.

Shane laughed so hard the first time, when Ilya thought it was a wolf. He had never heard Shane laugh like that, so open and unbridled.

He looks up at the sky. He's lived in Boston for all his adult life. Moscow wasn't much different. Just a big city. Here, in the middle of nowhere, he can see a million stars, glinting like little jewels.

He hopes the story was true. When his grandmother died, his mother used to say she had become a star. She told Ilya to look for the brightest star and he'd find her, no matter where he was.

He looked for Irina when she died. In the first months, he believed he was looking at her in the night sky, that she was there watching over him. It's been so long since he took the time to look.

He finds the North star and pictures her face, her soft eyes and gentle smile.

It's stupid, he knows, but he fists the necklace and thinks: "You would like him, Mama. He is good. To me, to everyone around him. I'm better with him. And I need him too much, as I needed you".

A hot tear lands on his chest. This is the most ridiculous he's ever been, he thinks bitterly. Crying in the dark and talking to his dead mother. If his father could see him now, he'd laugh. No. He'd slap him and grunt at him to get it together, to not embarrass him.

"Fuck," he hisses. "Fuck me."

He smokes the rest of his cigarette and waits until he stops crying. It takes far longer than he'd like. By the time he returns to the bedroom, he is shaking like a leaf.

Shane has moved to Ilya's side of the bed. Ilya slides under the covers and Shane is on him not a second after, pulling him close and wrapping his arms around Ilya.

"You're cold," he protests, not fully awake. He rubs his hands on Ilya, wherever he can reach to warm him up. "Where did you go?"

"Outside," Ilya says. Shane hums and burrows closer. Ilya's face is pressed against his chest. He can barely breathe, but he presses closer.

"Why," Shane mumbles.

"Woke up and couldn't sleep." He kisses the middle of Shane's chest. If only all he is feeling could be spilt from his mouth and straight into Shane's heart. He wouldn't have to say anything and Shane would understand; he'd keep Ilya's words safe inside of him.

Shane nuzzles the top of Ilya's head.

"Did you smoke?"

Ilya closes his eyes and sighs through his nose. Of course Shane picked that up.

"Only one. And I don't smoke anymore during the season." Because of you, he doesn't say. "I really needed one."

"It's okay," Shane says, muffled against Ilya's hair. "Do you... wanna talk about it?"

No. No, he doesn't. He doesn't want to burden Shane with his derailment. Above everything, he doesn't want Shane to see how much of a fucking mess he is.

Then he thinks that his mum would want him to say it. The words he's been keeping inside for months, years. The words that have choked him, held him down, pierced his flesh.

"I'm scared," he admits. His voice is barely above a whisper. It still wobbles and cracks. He hates how thick his accent is, how it sounds like he is chewing on the confession.

"Of what?"

Ilya is incredibly thankful that it's dark and his face is hidden. This way, Shane can't see his eyes brim with tears and his red cheeks.

"Of me. Of you." He draws in a shuddering breath. "Us."

Shane starts pulling away, but Ilya holds him tightly in place.

"Ilya, I... I think I don't understand."

Ilya neither. He wants to make sense of it, but his thoughts are jumbled and winding past him.

He opens his mouth and squeezes his eyes when nothing comes out. He claws at the stone in his throat until it dislodges.

"I wanted this for so long. But I knew I couldn't have it. I made peace. And now I feel like maybe I can." His fingers are tight on Shane's waist. Shane stays quiet, allowing Ilya time and space. "I am scared to break this. I don't know how to do it."

He is crying again, smearing his tears on Shane's skin.

"Oh, Ilya." Shane grabs his hair and holds him, tighter than anyone in his life. "We'll figure it out, okay? We can learn together."

A sob rips out of Ilya. It wracks his whole body and shakes Shane with it. He has never cried like this, for another person to see and soak in it.

"Baby," Shane coos. He sounds pained, like this hurts him as much as Ilya.

"Ya tebya lyublyu," he says in the minimal space between them. The words are foreign even in his mother tongue, but he needs to know he is capable of saying them. He repeats it, just for good measure.

Then he pulls away enough to look up at Shane. He can't make out his face completely in the dark, but he can see the moonlight shining off his eyes.

He knows he is going to say it. He is certain. Even if he tried to hold it back, it's already spilling out of him.

Ilya takes what feels like his last breath. He can only hear the blood roaring in his ears.

"I love you." It steals all the oxygen from him. He waits for a few seconds, suspended in time. Shane is completely still. His trepidation dies quickly. For an instant, he thinks this is it. This is how it ends. The first time he allows himself to love someone, the first time he says it out loud, it ruins everything.

He has an excuse, a joke, an explanation, on the tip of his tongue.

"Fuck," Shane gasps. "I love you so fucking much."

Ilya sags like a puppet with no strings. He sobs.

Shane crushes him between his arms. Ilya's shoulder hurts, but he doesn't move. He never wants to leave this moment.

He loves Shane and, somehow, Shane loves him back. Perhaps he is dreaming.

"I love you," Shane repeats. "Ilya."

He cries until he can't anymore, until his body gives out and he falls asleep.

*
Ilya wakes to Shane's fingertips skating along his hairline. Shane is smiling at him, brighter than the sun. He cradles Ilya's cheek with a warm palm and Ilya leans into it like a cat. He presses a kiss to the base of Shane's thumb.

Ilya bites his lip as he looks up at Shane. He needs so much of him, but he doesn't know how to ask him.

Shane brushes his finger over Ilya's bottom lip, pulling it free. Holding Shane's gaze, Ilya sucks Shane's thumb into his mouth.

Shane's smile dissolves and he gasps. Ilya lets his finger rest on his tongue, but his eyelids flutter at the onslaught of heat crashing over his body.

Shane fucks the digit into Ilya's mouth. His eyes zero in on the movement, pupils black and wild. Ilya moans and sucks harder, swirls his tongue around it. He slides it out and smears drool over Ilya's chin.

"Shane," he whines. He scoots closer, grabs Shane's waist and pulls him towards him. "I need you."

Shane sits up on his knees and pushes Ilya so that he is on his back. He straddles Ilya's lap and grinds down once, making Ilya arch into him.

"You're so hard already," Shane breathes out. He throws his head back as he thrusts his hips, rubbing Ilya's cock.

"Yes," Ilya supplies uselessly. He is panting just from this; he feels drunk and raw.

"What do you want?"

I want you to devour me, Ilya thinks. He needs Shane to just take from him, take and take and take until there is nothing left of him. He wants Shane to consume him down to his bones, to be torn apart by his hand, his mouth. Take him, all his flesh and blood and the ugly parts of him. Take everything, so he takes his damaged heart, too, all the devotion Ilya has for him.

He shakes his head, overwhelmed.

"Anything– anything you want. Just–" He whimpers at a particularly hard grind of Shane's hips. "Take control. Use me."

Shane's eyes snap open and fix on him. Somehow, this feels bigger and more vulnerable than admitting he loves him.

"You–" Shane frowns, as if trying to make sense of Ilya.

"Please," Ilya adds. Shane looks at him for too long. Ilya doesn't have any more secrets for him. Still, Shane is staring into the deepest part of his being. Ilya is stripped bare.

Shane reaches for the bedside and produces lube and a condom from the drawer.

"Can I tell you what I want?" Shane whispers. He sounds almost evil and so, so hot. "I want to ruin you."

Ilya jerks his head. Yes. Yes, ravage him, leave nothing in his wake.

Shane pours lube into his fingers and splays a hand on Ilya's chest. With the other, he starts fingering himself open. His face contorts in pleasure and he makes tiny sounds.

Ilya can do nothing but gape up at him. Any other time, he would ask– no. He would bat Shane's hand away and do it himself. He'd chastise Shane for thinking he could take over and he'd torture him until he was begging for Ilya.

He doesn't even want to beg today. He just wants Shane to do whatever he wants with him, to him.

He doesn't try to rush him, doesn't say anything at all.

Shane rips the condom open with his teeth. Ilya almost asks him not to. He knows he is clean and he wants to be as close to Shane as humanly possible. But he knows Shane, and he knows he'll want to make sure. This isn't something he can just spring on him.

So he shuts his mouth and whimpers when Shane rolls the condom down his aching cock. He is languid, like he isn't as desperate as Ilya. It's unfair and infuriating.

Shane lines Ilya up and sinks with a fluid, sudden motion. He throws his head back, mouth open.

Ilya watches Shane's belly, taut and smooth. It protrudes slightly with the arch of his back. Shane grinds on him, so his cock rubs on Ilya's stomach.

He wants to grab him, guide his movements, feel him. But Shane hasn't told him he can. He doesn't know when he started caring about what Shane tells him he can or can't do. He doesn't know when he agreed to submit to him, but he is more than happy.

He feels drunk, like seeing and hearing everything through a thick glass. Shane starts bouncing slightly and Ilya knows he is moaning too loudly. He should be embarrassed, but it coaxes Shane to ride him faster.

Shane looks so good. Ilya loves him on top, writhing. He is mesmerised by the twisting of his waist, how the muscles on his stomach ripple under his smooth skin.

The hand he has splayed on Ilya's chest slips up until it's resting by the base of his neck. He knows Shane doesn't mean to, but the idea sparks up in his mind and it leaves him breathless. He looks down at it, at his strong fingers and his toned forearm, his bulging bicep.

Shane is strong. Ilya, too, but right now he is boneless and defenceless. If he wanted, Shane could choke him to death. He could control when and how Ilya takes his next breath, and Ilya finds that he wants that. He likes the idea far more than he should.

He doesn't know how to voice that, so he grabs Shane's wrist. Shane looks down at him. It takes him a few seconds to blink away the haze and understand what Ilya wants.

"Are you sure?" He breathes out.

"Please," he whimpers. He sounds fucked out and pathetic and he doesn't care.

Shane stops fucking himself on Ilya's cock and watches his face. Then he slides his hand up and around Ilya's throat. He squeezes slightly, so softly that it is barely there.

Ilya feels his dick twitch.

"Harder," he begs. He even pushes up into Shane's hand. Shane's fingers dig into the sides of his neck. Breathing gets harder and his eyes roll back into his head.

Shane resumes a lazy swivel of his hips.

"I love you," Ilya drawls.

Shane lets out a broken moan.

"Love you," he gasps. "Ilya."

Maybe this is why it's worth it, why people lose their minds, why Ilya risked it all. Just so he can hear Shane say it again and again, moan it, whisper it.

He is going to come so fast. He is close already, muscles locked tight.

Shane grows desperate. He babbles nonsense as he rides at a brutal pace.

Ilya is lightheaded. The lack of air, the vastness of his feelings, the vision that is Shane. It's a heady drug.

He moans Shane's name with unfocused eyes.

"Gonna come for me?" Shane grits out. The muscles in his neck are straining and his skin is covered in glistening sweat.

"Yes. Shane, need you." He feels hazy and burning, like his veins are filled with molten gold.

"You feel so good," Shane moans. Nothing else matters, just that he is good, he is making Shane feel good. He is useful for this.

Shane lets go of his neck and adjusts his position. Ilya fills his lungs. He can barely keep his eyes open, but he doesn't want to miss a second of Shane bouncing on him.

He pinches his own nipples and kneads his pecs just like Ilya would. Ilya watches, transfixed.

The hot ball of pleasure in his stomach grows, making him buzz.

Shane looks down at him with hooded eyes and his mouth is parted. He is a vision, demanding and in control, more beautiful than he's ever been. Sweat slides down his temples, sticking his hair to his skin. He is tanned and broad and gorgeous. Ilya's head is devoid of all thoughts but how breathtakingly stunning he is.

Shane's fingers return to Ilya's neck. He almost thanks him. He wraps his other hand around his flushed, hard cock and starts stroking like a man possessed. He is loud and unabashed.

Ilya thinks of all the hotel rooms where Shane had to bite his fist or a pillow to keep quiet and how he thought that was hot. The secrecy, the darkness, the thrill of getting away with doing something he shouldn't.

He was stupid. None of that can compare to Shane screaming for him in the daylight, sun-drenched and golden.

Shane gyrates his hips in a tantalising, mystifying rhythm. He sounds and looks so good, like everything Ilya's ever wanted. He doesn't need anything else, ever. Just Shane making him feel like this.

"Please," he sobs. He thinks he is crying, but he doesn't care.

Shane lets his head hang between his shoulders. He is flushed red down to his chest. His whole body is tight with tension, lean and beautiful.

"Yeah?" Shane taunts. Ilya wishes he were more in control of his own body, so he could make this last longer.

"Yes, yes. Shane, please," he babbles. He is incoherent and lightheaded. He has no brainpower left; he is completely boneless.

He fights to stave off his orgasm, squeezing his eyes and clenching all his muscles.

"Look at me," Shane commands. It's the first time Shane uses that tone in bed, so unexpected that Ilya gasps. His eyes fly open and fix on Shane's face. He smirks, self-satisfied. He looks drunk on power and it's amazing on him. "You like that? Me telling you what to do?" He asks, meaner. His voice takes an almost cruel edge.

It's so hot. Ilya never allows himself to be bossed around, but he finds that he craves this. He loves what it does to him, how much he wants to bend to Shane's will.

He nods, hypnotised.

Shane stares at him. His mouth twists into a sympathetic smile. Ilya must look a mess, because Shane's eyes soften.

"You are," Shane says, breathless. "You're so good for me."

Ilya freezes as he comes. A weak moan punches out of his chest. His body locks so tightly that he might snap in half.

Shane releases his throat and he gasps for air. It amplifies his orgasm tenfold; it ripples through him in endless bursts. His vision goes white.

He can't know for how long he floats, untethered and drifting. He comes back to Shane's fingers on his hair, swiping the sweat off his forehead.

Ilya blinks drowsily up at him, then down to where Shane's cock is trapped between their stomachs, flushed and drooling.

He hasn't come yet.

"Keep going," he urges him. He feels filled with lead, limbs heavy.

Shane studies his face. "Are you sure?"

"Please, I want–" he pleads. He stops short because everything is too much. Because this isn't about what Ilya wants, it's about Shane. Just Shane.

"Tell me," Shane says softly.

"Want to see you come. Need. On me." He knows he must be impossible to comprehend, but he trusts Shane to understand.

Shane starts bouncing again, slow and measured. Ilya flinches in oversensitivity. He wraps his fingers around Shane's cock and strokes him. Shane sinks his nails into Ilya's chest.

The slight shock of pain fires off in every nerve ending.

"Want me to come on you? Mark you up?"

"Yes, ah. Please. 'M yours," he slurs. It's starting to hurt, but he won't ask Shane to stop.

"Yeah," Shane smiles. "Yeah, you are."

Shane's face scrunches up in pleasure. He scratches at Ilya's pecs.

"Fuck, fuck, Ilya." He spurts straight onto Ilya's stomach, warm and sticky and claiming. He topples forward and presses his open mouth to Ilya's. They half-kiss, half-breathe into each other. "I love you."

Shane licks into his mouth and Ilya lets him.

Ilya holds him with his good arm, even when Shane insists on getting up and taking a shower. Ilya needs him. He's just had him and still needs him, so much that it hurts.

After a few minutes, Shane rolls off of him.

"Was that okay?" He asks. How can he even doubt it?

"Thank you," Ilya says. "I didn't know–"

He looks away from Shane. Crying after mind-blowing sex might be the most embarrassing thing. Everything is so new, so unexpected. Ilya is out of his depth.

He doesn't know how to put into words what this means. He is comfortable with sex, he loves it. He enjoys the role he assumes, where he takes control and puts his partners where he wants them. He didn't linger on the alternative, on the craving that he got sometimes.

He never felt comfortable enough to even think about it.

"Hey." Shane cups Ilya's face and makes him look at him. "I know, it's okay."

And Ilya believes him. His expression shows that he does understand and he isn't repulsed by it. Quite the opposite.

Shane leans down and kisses Ilya's mouth. It might be the softest kiss they've ever shared. Ilya feels shattered, but then Shane brushes his lips across his cheeks, his forehead, his temples, and it's like being built back up.

"What's wrong, baby?" Shane looks concerned and Ilya realises that he's still crying.

"Nothing," he says, shaking his head. "Not wrong, just– I love you too much."

Shane chuckles. Ilya can't bear to look at him.

"Not too much. It can never be too much." His thumb drags tenderly across Ilya's cheek. He feels so cared for, so loved, and it's so foreign to him.

Ilya thinks he understands why people lose their minds over this. If he had known being loved by Shane could feel like this, he would've confessed years ago.

*

Shane takes a shaky breath. After all these years, he should be better at eye contact with Ilya, but it is even more jarring than at the beginning.

“Do you like it here?”

Ilya stays silent for a beat.

“Is this because I said it is boring?”

“No,” Shane rushes out. “Not exactly. Just– Just answer the question.”

Ilya scoots closer to him.

“I do. Is beautiful. Would be more fun if I didn’t have concussion. I want to try your jet ski.”

Shane smiles a little. When he finally got to give Ilya the tour, he showed him to the indoor ice rink and the jet skis. Ilya was really insistent on trying that.

“Don’t say that just because you think it’s what I want to hear.”

“When do I ever do that?” He bumps his shoulder into Shane’s. “I do like it here.”

“I know it’s nothing exciting,” Shane presses. It’s almost like he wants Ilya to admit it just so he can justify his fear.

“Is exciting because I’m with you,” Ilya says matter-of-factly.

Shane does look at him now. He can’t help it. Ilya is staring back, cataloguing Shane’s every movement.

“Sweetheart,” Ilya begins. Shane thinks he might burst with how much he loves this man. “Why are you asking?”

“I know we said it was only until you got better. I know I said three weeks. But maybe…” He stops, gulps in air. “Maybe you could stay. For the whole summer.”

“Is what you want?” Ilya asks. He sounds hesitant. Shane can’t stand that this powerhouse of a man is doubting this, even for a second.

“So much,” Shane admits. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted. More time with you.”

In the grand scheme of things, this shouldn’t feel so monumental.

“Yes?”

“Yeah,” he breathes out. He reaches for Ilya’s hand, finds it warm and clammy. “I want us to take our time and not have to leave before morning.”

“Good,” Ilya’s voice breaks. “I want that too. So much it kills me.”

“Can you hold me?”

Ilya doesn’t answer. He grabs Shane by the arms and pulls until Shane is on his lap.

“I love you,” Shane says against his cheek.

*

Shane has a plan for them. He wakes Ilya in the middle of the night to tell him. Waiting for daylight was too much of a stretch.

In three days, Shane will drive them back to Ottawa. Ilya will go to his follow-up appointment while Shane gets them some clothes and stuff they might need from his apartment.

Then they’ll return to the cottage and just be. He will tell his parents he needs two more weeks alone. After that, he’ll take Ilya to their cottage and introduce them. He’ll let them figure out what they are. If they guess it right, and he is sure his mom will, he won’t deny it.

When the season starts again, Ilya will be a free agent, so he can be drafted to any Canadian team. They’ll be on the same side of the border all year round.

They’ll start a charity together. They will reshape the narrative until going public is safe.

Ilya listens to him while Shane rants. Maybe it is too much all at once, but Shane is overflowing his own body. He needs this to work. He is going to make it work.

Ilya blinks, clearly confused. Shane repeats the whole speech slower and with easier words. He watches Ilya’s face as he makes sense of it, as the pieces fall slowly into place.

“You think that far ahead?” Ilya asks. His dibelieving tone is both endearing and heartbreaking.

“I do about this.” Shance cups his face and Ilya melts into it. Shane wants to tell him: “You deserve only good things”.

“I want that. Whatever lets me be with you.”

Shane presses closer, until they share the same breath.

*

The plan works. The doctor clears Ilya to watch TV and use his phone. He still tells him to take it easy on his shoulder, which means no jet ski as of yet. Ilya is bummed about it.

They swim idly for long hours and Ilya cooks for them. He is annoyingly good at it.

The two weeks drip by like warm honey.

The plan works until it doesn’t.

Until Ilya has Shane pressed against a window, a hand down his swim trunks and his mouth hot and slick on his. Until Ilya spins Shane around and he sees his dad, frozen in the middle of his kitchen.

Shane loses all tether with reality as David turns around and strides out of the house.

Panic hits him like a tsunami, but Ilya is right behind him to stop the fall. He presses a hand to Shane’s chest and coaxes his breathing back to normal.

“Fuck. There goes my whole plan.”

Ilya rubs his shoulders.

“Not whole plan is ruined. We just have to speed one step.”

We. We as in a team. We as in a partnership. He says it like it is obvious, like no other possibility exists.

“I should…”

“Yes. I go with you.”

They dress quickly and quietly. Shane’s thoughts are all jumbled and too many to count. Ilya keeps looking at him like he is afraid Shane is going to run away.

Shane drives to his parents’ cottage. It barely takes them ten minutes. He kills the engine and they sit in silence.

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t know.” Shane rests his forehead on the steering wheel. He is upset that his thoroughly crafted plan is shattered. He is afraid of their reaction. They’ll be okay with him being gay. He thinks. The Ilya Rozanov thing is completely different.

“Okay,” he says after a minute. “Come on.”

The walk up the driveway feels like a death march. Shane had envisioned how this would go. he had come up with a controlled way to do this. Now he is fraying at the edges.

He opens the door with his key. From the foyer, he can hear his mom going off about lunch.

Ilya takes his hand, squeezes and lets go.

“Hey. It’s Shane.” He steps into the living room with Ilya trailing behind him.

Davis looks at him, then his eyes shift to Ilya.

“I’m sorry. I made chicken parm last night and I thought maybe you’d want some for lunch. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I should’ve told you sooner.”

Yuna stands from the couch. Shane sees the moment she gets her defences up.

“What’s going on?” She narrows her eyes at Ilya.

“Mom,” he says. “This is Ilya. We, huh. We are…” What can he possibly say? Boyfriend seems childish and doesn’t even begin to cover what Ilya is for him.

“Lovers,” Ilya supplies.

“Ilya, no. God.” This is going terribly.

“Why don’t we sit?” His father suggests. Shane takes the brief pause to collect his thoughts.

“Well?” Yuna urges them once they are at the table.

“I’m gay. I was going to tell you soon, I promise. He stares at the whorls on the wooden table, aware that three pairs of eyes are on him.

“And him?” Yuna bites. It’s harsh and mean. Shane flinches on Ilya’s behalf.

“I love Ilya,” he says with a flare of anger. He feels weirdly and fiercely protective of him.

“Since when?”

“Since–” He spares Ilya a glance. “A while.”

He knows he is being judged. His mom is doing the math and going over the last few years, trying to figure it out. His dad, too. He can’t even begin to imagine what is going through Ilya’s mind.

“Summer before our rookie season,” Ilya comments. He seems to have noticed that Yuna, like Shane himself, needs solid facts.

“You’ve been in love for a decade?” Yuna shrieks.

“No! No, no,” Ilya rushes out.

“What, then?” His dad asks. As if it isn’t obvious.

Shane cringes and braces himself for Ilya’s answer. There is no way he is explaining the concept “fuck-buddies” to his father.

“Ah! You know,” Ilya laughs. He is rubbing a finger back and forth over his knuckles. He is nervous. Shane didn’t know Ilya Rozanov could be nervous.

“I don’t,” David stated.

“Just, eh. Casual.”

“Lovers, David.” Yuna rests her hand on David’s forearm. His dad makes a face.

“Stop using that word, please,” Shane groans. He knows he is red all over. This is mortifying.

After a while, Shane can give them a mostly accurate story, vague timeline included.

Yuna stays very quiet through it. It makes Shane itch. Once he is done, Yuna averts her eyes.

“Ilya,” his father calls. “Want to help me with lunch?”

He stands and waits for him, but Ilya is looking at him.

“You are okay?”

He is so sweet. Shane can’t believe the world thinks he is mean and cold.

“Yeah. Go.” He shoots his father a quick smile.

It’s not like the kitchen is far or out of sight, but it feels like Shane is alone with his mom. He knows Ilya is paying attention, even as his dad ropes him into a debate about cheese.

“Mom?” Shane is terrified of silence. He can’t read it. And this might be the most terrifying silence of his life.

“Sorry, I’m just– I’m trying to wrap my head around this.” She sighs. Shane is so scared that he doesn’t know what she means.

“I know it’s fuckep up. Me being gay is bad on its own–”

“Baby, no. No. You being gay is not bad. It changes nothing.” Tears sting in Shane’s eyes, but he doesn’t want to cry. He refuses. “I love you just the same, Shane.”

Shane presses his palms to his eyes until his vision swirls with silver spots.

“I… Shane, did I make you feel like it wasn’t okay to tell me?”

“Mom,” his voice breaks. He can feel panic rising, seizing him. He focuses on the dull chatter coming from the kitchen. “I couldn’t tell anyone. There was nothing to tell for a while and then. I was so scared, Mom. Not of you. Everything was scary.”

Yuna clicks her tongue and reaches for him. She looks at him tenderly and rubs circles on the back of his hand.

“How did it happen? I thought we hated him.”

Shane looks at Ilya. He is standing right beside his father, talking quietly. David throws his head back and laughs. Ilya looks at David with a little proud smile on his beautiful face.

“I never hated him,” he admits softly.

“Why him, though? He’s such an–”

“Mom. You don’t know him.” She snaps her mouth shut.

“Sorry. God, Shane, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I forgive you.”

*

Shane knew Ilya was funny. He chirps like it’s second nature and he comes up with the wildest rebuttals. He memorises facts about every player so he can throw them in their faces. He makes Shane laugh.

What Shane didn’t expect was Ilya getting along with his parents like a house on fire.

Ilya references The New Yorker twice in the conversation and he and his father laugh mischievously. He has known his father for one single hour and they already have inside jokes. He and Yuna talk shit about the same players and trades and strategies.

Shane is completely shocked. He watches as the three people he loves most in the world laugh together. He spent years thinking this would never happen and just dreaming about it. All the hiding and the lying were for nothing because he could have had this all along.

“Shane?”

He blinks and realises he is crying. He wipes the tears away roughly.

“Fuck. Sorry,” he sobs. “I’m–”

His hair screeches as he stands abruptly. Someone calls his name again, but he pushes the porch door open and strides outside.

He gasps for air, but it does nothing to calm him. He pulls his hair until it hurts. The pain gives him something to focus on other than the panic.

“Sweetheart. Can I come closer?”

Shane dry-heaves. His arm shoots out towards the voice, towards Ilya.

Ilya is around him within the next second, talking to him in a low, soothing voice. His hands, strong, rough, capable of violence, rub gently over Shane’s prickly skin.

“You are okay here. Your parents love you. I love you. You are fine.” Slowly, with Ilya’s guidance, his heart rate returns to normal. “Okay?”

Shane nods. Ilya cups his face and forces Shane to look up at him.

“I’m okay,” he breathes out, if only to placate Ilya. His face is marred with concern. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry. You are okay?”

“Yeah.” He burrows into Ilya and Ilya lets him. “I love you.” It feels so good to say it and touch each other and not care who sees.

“I love you,” Ilya replies into Shane’s hair.

Maybe, Shane thinks, they can be okay. Here, for now. At least. And maybe that’s enough.