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In six days, Ilya is going to play the Voyageurs on their ice. These things used to be able to creep up on him, but he'd fucked up somewhere along the way, and now there was a running countdown until the next time Ilya might get two hours to fuck Shane Hollander, toss him in the shower and ideally fuck him a second time to start the shower cycle over, turning two hours into four in the process.
Two or four hours in a space Shane only ever used to see Ilya should be enough. It used to give him a little thrill, thinking about the lengths he had gone to see him but now it just made him grit his teeth. Sure, he'd been in a bed but it wasn't really Shane's bed, and he'd been in a shower and it might even be filled with products Shane liked and used but it wasn't Shane's shower.
Which was a stupid thing to get mental about, objectively, but Ilya wasn't in the business of being normal about Shane Hollander anymore, as much as he wished he could be.
*
Ilya woke up to light on his face, which meant he was not where he should be.
He thought about the previous night, a home game against the Chupacabras and the bus ride home. He'd definitely fallen asleep in his own bed, with his own blackout curtains, which should be protecting him from the hell of the light and heat pressing on his eyelids. He didn't remember going out, and he certainly didn't remember drinking enough to be confused about his whereabouts.
Ilya tried not to open his eyes. This is why he has blackout curtains. "Good morning," he said, in a low sultry voice to test out the waters of whoever he was with, whoever's bed he was in. Ilya's forehead wrinkled. Frowning, he tried again, "good morning?"
His voice sounded so wrong. A familiar sound, but certainly not his voice. Finally, Ilya opened his eyes.
He didn't recognize the bedroom he'd woken up in, and he was certainly alone. There was an open door to an en-suite bathroom but Ilya didn't hear a shower running, or any of the rustling that he was used to from a girl at the counter fussing with her hair and makeup to start the day.
Ilya rolled out of bed and immediately felt off balance. "What the fuck," he muttered. He'd been humiliated by the loss, but there's no way he'd drank enough to black out, wake up in a strange apartment and still be off-balance the next day. There was no Russian explanation for that.
He trudged into the ensuite and was immediately both shocked and relieved to find Shane Hollander was in the bathroom. "Ah, Hollander," he said, and then jolted adrenaline as Hollander made the exact same intonation. Because it wasn't Shane Hollander, but Ilya's reflection.
"What the fuck," he said. Shane said. Ilya moved Shane's body in the mirror for several minutes, filled with a surreal sense that he was dreaming, or dying, or had inexplicably said yes to Marleau's psychedelics. He kept calling them "all natural" but Ilya kept saying no to because so was hemlock.
He didn't think he had done any of that, because his thoughts were holding together in a way they usually didn't during his nighttime adventures. He had vivid dreams, but he felt confident that his thoughts were too coherent now.
Ilya shook himself, realizing he was wasting time. If there's any possibility that his — soul? did he even believe in souls? — had wandered into Shane's body in the night, he could jolt back to his own any time. If that was the case, and he was really in Shane Hollander's home, not a rented mixed use residential building, Ilya needed to see everything.
Ilya gave himself one last glance in the mirror. Shane was wearing pajama pants and a dark gray long sleeve top. He might as well have been holding a candle and wearing a sleep cap. Ilya was equal parts fond and annoyed.
Ilya left the mirror behind, after giving himself one last lingering look. He liked looking at Hollander, and it was so strange to realize that he was him, right now. Ilya wore his face differently than Hollander did, and as attractive as he found him, it also gave him a little bit of the heebie jeebies to see a face he knew well in an uncanny posture.
It was time to explore.
Ilya had been hungry for the details of this place for years, and he wasted no time. He looking in Shane's closet, trailing his hand down the lengths of soft athletic fabrics. Shane had a little bookshelf in his bedroom, and Ilya looked at the spines. Mostly, there were books about hockey, but also there were books with one word titles with single objects on the cover: a paperclip, a chair, an apple with an orange inside. Ilya hesitated when he got to the bedside drawer, feeling almost guilty, but then steeled himself.
Ilya was mature, and also a very good person. Or at least, he was confident that if there was something extremely weird or embarrassing in this drawer, that he could have a private laugh and not use it to mortify Shane. At least not right away.
Ilya was getting a reward for having lived a just and pious life, surely, because he opens the drawer and there it is, Shane's dildo. Of course, he can't see it immediately, but he can see the charcoal almost-black velvet drawstring bag that absolutely could not contain anything but a sex toy. There is also, for context, a bottle of lube in this drawer. Ilya spends a minute basking, knowing these will be the last few moments of his life that he won't know what Shane's dildo looks like.
Basking over, he tips the bag into his own hands and holds it. It's a demure item in navy blue — curved, but gently so and on the smaller side; phallic but not a penis. It has the prescription flared base. Ilya is almost charmed by the most understated sex toy owned by someone who was such an immediate and consummate bottom that it had taken three years before Shane had asked if Ilya thought he was selfish that he had never offered to return the favor.
He stares at it hard for ten seconds, memorizing the heft of it in his hand, and then puts it back in the nightstand before going to look at the wall-mounted TV and playstation in Shane's room, the games he has, noting his playstation ID.
Ilya looks through his kitchen, drinking a Muscle Milk from the fridge while he pokes around. Shane seems to have an abundance of frozen meals from a brand Ilya doesn't recognize, with vegetable substitutions for noodles and cheese alternatives. Ilya makes a face and puts them all back in the freezer. Going to throw the his empty bottle away, he can't find Shane's trash can. It must be tucked away under on of his kitchen drawers, but he gives up after opening about half of them. "Sorry Shane," he mutters, leaving it on the counter. At this point, it occurs to him he's spent about an hour wasting time looking in his fridge when he could have been looking in Shane's brain.
He needs to find Shane's phone.
Backtracking to the bedroom, Ilya doesn't find it in the bed or even in reach of it. When he finally finds it, plugged in on a shelf, there are many missed calls from Lily.
His fingerprint unlocks the phone and Shane's background is a solid color. Ilya rolls his eyes but then goes into texts. He doesn't immediately find anything interesting. His mother is saved in his contacts with her full name, his team group chat is set to hide alerts, and texts from Ilya are not.
Before he goes to call his own phone, he gets sidetracked by photos, knowing he won't find anything as risque as a thirst trap but hoping for something like a tame gym selfie, the kind of thing that might wind up on his public Instagram with a bland caption.
Being god's least favorite bisexual, there is nothing for him, so he dials his own number.
"Where the fuck have you been?" the voice — presumably Shane wearing Ilya's accent — on the other end of the line. "I've been calling for like an hour."
"Sleeping," Ilya lies, opening up Shane's texts with his mother, scrolling up to look for anything interesting, photos or links or embarrassing pet names without really stopping to read.
"Oh. Um. Are you in my house? Are you — this is going to sound crazy… but are you…" Shane falters.
Ilya lights up with amusement. "Oh. I'm not sure. Who is this? I'm not sure where I am. I have never been here before. I think maybe I've had a stroke. I looked in the mirror and it was some freckled guy?"
"Oh my God," Shane says, and Ilya can tell he's immediately thrown him into panic.
"Relax," Ilya says. "It's me. I'm you."
"You weren't sleeping," Shane accuses.
Ilya looks at the window, which is basically a magnifying glass pointed right at the bed. Real hostile architecture for night owls. "No, I wasn't. I have already been up long enough to do the Shane Hollander morning routine."
"Is there no end to the lies?" Shane laments.
"I could make it not lie. Tell me about the morning routine," Ilya says. He's not going to do it, but if the universe is going to let him have all the details his greedy heart desires — well, what's a man to do?
Shane sounds doubtful but he outlines his routine. It's changed a little from his HGTV special era, or else he didn't tell them the truth. Ilya likes the thought of that.
"Sounds reasonable," Ilya says, after Shane has listed off many items that Ilya absolutely isn't doing.
"You're not going to do any of that," Shane says.
"Sorry," Ilya says. "I wake up on the wrong body. It seems there may be bigger issues."
"Right," Shane says. "Oh my god. This isn't happening."
While Shane spirals, Ilya opens Shane's web browser, where he has zero incognito tabs open. He was right: he is god's least favorite bisexual. Meanwhile, Shane is in his life and body with all of Ilya's badly kept secrets and no curiosity about them, because he's not like Ilya — a desperate backyard hound, hungry and lonely and howling.
"I have a game tonight." Shane says. "I mean. You have a game tonight."
"You know how to play center," Ilya says, and then at Shane's affronted noise, suggests: "perhaps you are ill."
"I'm not," Shane says. "At 10 PM I went to bed in mint condition and woke up hungover with no alarm set." Ilya rolls his eyes. Shane is very uppity for someone he just offered to let pretend to be sick to avoid the responsibilities of Ilya's life.
"I only have afternoon skate," Ilya says dismissively. "I can trust me to get up by 2 pm."
"And the hangover?"
Ilya thinks about it. "You are not hungover, Hollander, you need a cigarette. Maybe a 7-11 taquito."
"Absolutely not," Shane says.
"If you do not at least smoke, you will be a bitch to my friends," Ilya warns.
"Oh my god," Shane groans, and Ilya can feel a spiral coming. If he had Shane here, he could suck his dick to get him out of his head for a minute.
"Hollander," Ilya says, voice sharp for the first time in this conversation. "You are having panic attack. And you know what my body needs? A cigarette. If you don't go smoke at least one, it's going to get worse. Go get one. There are packs… everywhere, probably, but I know I had one by my bedroom window last night."
Shane doesn't call him an asshole, which he finds he misses, but he hears him rustle around, so in theory he's obeying. Ilya talks him through it, and Shane goes quiet. Ilya can hear him inhaling when he directs him, and it does something to him. "Okay. We play each other in five days. Maybe when I fuck you, this will all go back to normal."
Shane splutters. "Ilya that is so crass."
Good to know he can still scandalize Shane from Shane. Ilya laughs.
"And anyways. Does your body even … like that?"
Ilya stops laughing.
"This isn't happening," Shane croaks.
Ilya can hear the rising tide of panic again, which is insane in his accent. He hopes to never hear himself like this again. "Hollander, have one more cigarette for me. I'm sorry about it, but I promise it is going to help, and then I'm going to tell you what you need to know for skate."
After the game, Ilya goes to jerk off.
The game went fine, a win in overtime when Ilya would have preferred regulation, but Shane's body is a well maintained machine in peak hockey condition, but still a slightly different machine than he is used to driving. There were some adjustments to make. He even thinks he did well enough being Shane — exchanging weak little friendly chirps with Hayden Pike, and not flipping off the ref after a bullshit call like he might have in his own barn.
Anyways, Ilya has his hand moving on Shane's cock, which is something he objectively loves to do, but Shane's cock is not cooperating. If Ilya had struggled this much to get off in his own body, he would have gone to the hospital.
Well. He wouldn't have, actually, but he would have let himself have an insanely high budget to find a discreet professional to come to his home and consult about his dick. Point is, he would have considered it an emergency of the upmost importance and possibly a harbinger of his death.
He thumbed to the thread that had been his lifeline all day, asking Shane for clarity about a reference a player had made, passing along news about Shane's schedule from his mom, telling Shane how to interact with the Bears' coach. Before assuming that Shane's body was experiencing organ failure, he might as well consult the expert.
It was humiliating to type: Been touching my dick for one hundred years… nothing is happening. Before he hit send, he thought of Shane's shrill voice climbing to yell at him and deleted the message. He wrote instead: I have question. Private.
Hollander got his message immediately, and Ilya saw dots appear and disappear for a long while before he finally replied Cliff Marleau invited himself to your house tonight and I haven't been able to get rid of him. I'd call you if I could.
Ilya groaned. You say get the fuck out. What is problem?
That's rude, Ilya, and he kind of implied he was going to sleep in your guest room. Shane responded immediately. Just tell me.
Dick is broken, Ilya said.
Excuse me?
Your dick. I am touching for ages and it is not working.
It is only a few minutes later that Ilya's phone rings in his hand. "What happened to Marleau?"
Shane clears his throat. "Well," he says, awkward, "you, uh, freaked me out a little bit. The fact that I was texting before I told him I forgot about an appointment I have… he started smirking, so… sorry about that."
"He will think I have been summoned for sex. Do not be sorry."
"Okay. Okay. Tell me about my dick."
"I am jerking off and it is not cooperating," Ilya says. Shane does not sound adequately surprised.
"Well. That happens. Do you have the big light on?" Shane asks, like this is something reasonable to ask.
Ilya cuts his eyes to the ceiling light. "Yes."
"Well. That could be part of it. Go kill that and tell me how you feel."
Ilya goes to flip the switch. As soon as it's off, he realizes that it was also making some kind of barely-audible noise that had nevertheless put his skin on edge.
"Okay," Shane goes on. "What else is happening? Are you listening to anything?"
"What? Hollander what are you talking about?"
"I have a white noise app. I think sometimes it helps."
"You are tugging on my leg," Ilya says. "Hollander, this does not happen when we fuck. Your dick works."
"Yeah," Shane says. He sounds amused. What a bastard. "That's why we keep fucking."
Which. Okay. Ilya has to admit, he's a little bit into that, the thought that Shane's recalcitrant body works like a well oiled machine under Ilya's touch. Oh. Of course that's what Shane's body needs.
"This is stupid. Bring my body to me."
"Ilya, that's ridiculous. We'll see each other in a few days. And besides…" Shane trails off.
Ilya makes a questioning noise, and Shane finishes in a rush: "I don't know how to drive a manual transmission."
"Oh my god, Hollander. I am coming to you. Don't go anywhere."
Ilya gets into Shane's boring car. Ilya had noticed his duffel earlier, neatly packed with athleisure and his passport in the side pocket, and he takes it with him. Ilya wasted only a little time to look fondly at Shane's passport photo, somehow both unphotogenic and devastating, because at some point in 2010 or so Ilya had acquired fucking brain damage, and Ilya wishes he had his own phone to take a picture of it. He bets if he stole it, Shane's team could get him a new passport so fast, Ilya wouldn't even inconvenience him.
It's just after 4 AM when he gets into Boston, thankful that Shane has such a nondescript car when he uses his apartment's parking garage code and parking in one of his spaces. He's made good time — he'd thought it would be harder at the border but Shane's unobjectionable Canadian face and Shane's passport and Shane's voice with Ilya's lying mouth gets him right through with no problem and then Ilya's lead foot gets him the rest of the way. Shane has a hoodie in his bag that he puts on in the car before Ilya lets himself in.
Shane is — Ilya stops dead in his tracks when he sees Shane. He thought he was prepared, but he fucking wasn't.
That's Shane, but that's Ilya's body on the couch. Ilya is going to be sick with vertigo or deja vu, whatever the fuck he's feeling, there may not be a word for the absolute dizzying sensation of seeing your own body as piloted by someone else. Ilya may be having a unique experience.
"Ilya," Ilya's body says, and Ilya has to close his eyes.
"Shane," Ilya says, from the safety of his closed eyelids, and then he feels himself being hauled in and has a moment where he almost flinches away. It's been a long time — years — since he has been alone in a room with Shane and not immediately kissed him, but these are extenuating circumstances, and apparently he's been holding in a lot of tension for twenty four hours.
Shane is — hugging him, Ilya things. Ilya lets himself be hugged. It goes on too long, and his face is pressed to his own chest.
"This is so fucked," Shane says.
Ilya laughs, and it sounds wet. "Sorry, I just —" Ilya doesn't know how to end that sentence.
"It's a long drive," Shane says, and Ilya finally opens his eyes. His face looks different, and he peers into it, looking for Shane.
It was gracious excuse, and Ilya takes it. "Yes," he agrees. It was a long drive. Ilya wants to piss and to sleep and to have twenty five cigarettes, all in a row, which he promises himself he's going to do right after he gets back into his own body. Unless this goes on longer than he anticipates and he runs out of self control and gives Shane a smoking habit, in which case he might as well smoke himself to death all in one sitting, because Shane is going to kill him anyways.
And, huh. Maybe he just postponed his own panic spiral by getting through the game, and then the drive, countable tasks.
"Sorry," he says. Pressing on his own eyeballs, when he finally gets himself composed. "I promise I wasn't a freak at your game."
"I know," Shane says, and bundles him onto to couch. It feels so nice to be on his own couch, with Shane leaning against him, even if he's not right. "I watched. That was a bullshit call on JJ." Ilya points at Shane, feeling triumphant.
"I didn't even ask — how was practice?"
Shane shrugs. Ilya notices that his curls are frizzy and poorly defined, like Shane has been touching it too much. "I think it went okay. I did — my best."
Ilya can finally feel some adrenaline leaching out of him. Shane is warm against his side, and Ilya wants to touch him again, so he does. He puts his thumb against his ear, the way he does to himself when he's safe and sound in his own body, and not having what feels like a bad trip. Shane looks up at him in an expression that Ilya would recognize if Shane had swapped bodies with a goose.
"Tell me about your dick," Ilya says, unable to resist. "And why it only works with me."
"It doesn't only work with you," Shane says.
Ilya raises one eyebrow.
"I literally described for you how you could help it along."
Ilya raises the second eyebrow. Hopefully Shane explains soon, because Ilya is out of eyebrows and Shane's face is not meant to emote like this. Shane slugs Ilya on the shoulder. "Okay jackass. I don't know. You take me out of my head."
Ilya hums, satisfied. He takes Shane Hollander out of his head. "I'm better at getting you off than you are," he says.
Shane rolls his eyes, but he's flushing high on his cheekbones. Ilya presses his thumb to his face. "Stop this," Ilya chides. "You are blushing. Russians do not do this."
"I hate to break it to you," Shane says, "but you totally do. I have seen it many times."
Ilya frowns at him. "Liar," he says, and he's gotten close without meaning to. His thumb on his own face.
"Do you want to —" Shane asks, eyes big. Ilya takes his face in hand. It gives him a moment of hesitation. Does he want to? That's his face, but… that's also his Shane in there. The answer is always yes.
He blurs his lips against Shane's in a hesitant kiss, letting his eyes fall closed and reminding himself that he's kissed Shane a hundred times. He just happens to be doing it from a different point of view. He's basically playing Chel.
His heart spikes as Shane hauls him in with a gentle grip on his hips, right at his waistband, his thumbs in the right place to span the skin of his stomach, right there. He kisses Shane, long and languid, ending up on his back on the couch with Shane on top of him, erection pressing into him. He wonders briefly — would he like getting fucked in Shane's body? The thought makes him shudder, but not in a good way. He might be in Shane's body but at least some of his hang ups are his own.
"You can't," Ilya says, panic rising in his chest, which is stupid. So fucking stupid. "I'm — god, I'm so sorry."
Shane brushes his hand across his forehead, before leaning down to kiss him there. He shushes Ilya, who is acting like a fucking child.
"I'm so sorry. I hope. God, I just need to figure out how to get back in my body, and things can go back to normal."
Shane lets out a long, gusty breath. "I don't think we should, actually. Go back to normal."
Ilya's heart sinks, and he briefly goes deaf, like in an action movie after the explosion, when there is only numb chaos.
But — of course. Of course he doesn't. While Ilya was having a field trip, greedy for every inane detail of Shane's life, smelling his laundry detergent and making mental notes about his friends, of course Shane was wincing at Ilya's life.
"Oh," Ilya says, trying to squirm out from under Shane before he — fuck, shit, of fucking course — before he fucking cries. Shane doesn't move to let him up. Ilya's chest is going to cave in, and he squirms harder, trying to buck him off.
"Ilya," Shane says, louder than Ilya's ever heard him, besides that time he yelled at him in Vegas. At least Ilya had deserved that one.
Ilya goes limp. "Hollander," he says, defeated, humiliation scraping his throat raw. Now that he thinks of it, where is he going to go? He's in his own house but in Shane's body. He doesn't have it in him to drive back to Shane's house tonight and Voys Top Center Checks Into a Boston Hotel at Three AM, Crying Like A Bitch would be a terrible headline, and not even Shane who is breaking up with him while wearing Ilya's face deserves that kind of chaos.
Shane brings his face down and kisses Ilya again, just off center of his mouth. "Listen."
Ilya is listening. He brings his hand up to cover his eyes, though, because there's only so much a man can take.
"I know we can't really be … together. But I can't be nothing to you."
That was not what Ilya expected. "You're not nothing to me," Ilya croaks.
"Yeah," Shane says. Ilya can hear the little smirk in his voice, "I kind of figured that out when I realized you'd never deleted a single text I've ever sent you and that you have a whole second instagram that follows me and one Russian girl. And uh, Marlow was here when you text and he had a lot of opinions when I told him I needed him to leave."
Ilya feels nauseous and dizzy, every private humiliation has been laid on the table for Shane's perusal, apparently. His head is spinning when he opens his eyes, and Shane is smirking —
Shane is smirking, from his own lips and his own freckles and his own eyebrows that he can't seem to raise separately but Ilya knows now that it can be done. Shane pinned below him where Ilya had just been, which had felt so right in Shane's body.
Ilya almost starts to relax. "So… we will not be nothing… to each other," he says carefully.
"I'm hoping not nothing is putting it mildly," Shane says. "I. Um. I like you. A lot. And I think there are a lot of things that were hard to see from far away that seem clear now. But you have to tell me if I've got it all wrong."
"Hollander," Ilya says, surging down to kiss him gracelessly and relentlessly. He kisses him seven or ten times, quick and closed-mouthed, like a boat thumping against the dock in rough water. "I — I have ginger ale in the fridge."
"I found those, too," Shane says. "And apparently your mouth hates them, and I don't blame you."
That's not what Ilya should say. Shane said — Shane can't be the only one that's brave. Ilya is hollowed out, and put his face in the curve of Shane's warm neck, talking there, saying what he's swallowed down for, well, for some time.
"You know," Shane says, after he lets him get it all out, rubbing his back. "Five minutes ago I would have understood that. That was a real trip."
Ilya pulls in a shuddering breath, deciding if he's going to say it in English.
"I think I know what you mean, though," Shane says.
"Give me a minute," Ilya begs.
Shane puts his hand on his face, brushing his thumb down Ilya's ear. "Take your time."
But it's getting close to 5 AM, and Ilya has played a hard game, with a body he's never been in before, with a stick with an unfamiliar curve and teammates he's never passed to before, playing his hardest to keep Shane from thinking that he would ever jeopardize his life if he had the chance, and then a four hour road trip into Boston, and Shane's still touching the shell of his ear like Ilya does himself. Like Ilya's mother did, in another life, not that Shane knows that.
He falls asleep right on him, on a couch big enough for two grown men to get off on, but probably not a comfortable place for both of them to sleep.
He jerks awake a few hours later, blearly and drooling on Shane's shirt.
"Fuck, sorry. I did not mean."
Shane doesn't open his eyes. "Shh. We can sleep one more hour. Then you can tell me you love me or whatever."
Shane's maneuvered him into a better place, he thinks. It's not the most comfortable arrangement, but none of his limbs are experiencing pins and needles, and he's close but not directly on top of Shane, except for his head on his chest, held in place by the circle of Shane's arms. Ilya is not going to go back to sleep. Surely Shane will need to get back to his apartment today. Ilya wasn't even thinking when he'd made the impulsive trip.
"I'm sorry," Ilya croaks, just thinking about the position he's put him in.
"Don't be," Shane mumbles, but then seems to realize that more sleep may not be in the cards. He seems to shake himself to attention. "I'm going to tell coach I'm sick today but that I got a Z-pack and I'll be good for practice tomorrow."
"Oh," Ilya says. Suddenly he can spare an hour. He puts his lips on Shane's jaw, finding invisible stubble there that can't been seen with the naked eye yet, even just inches away.
"And then, I don't know. Maybe you miss curfew in Montreal next week," Shane says, fingers combing through Ilya's hair.
"Does not sound like me," Ilya says, hiding a smile against Shane.
"And stay at my house." Shane says.
"I have already seen your house," Ilya says. "The mystery is gone."
"Oh," Shane says, and he's smiling because he's a total bastard. Unfortunately for Ilya, he loves him. "Okay, that's fine. Warehouse district it is."
"Nooooo, Hollander," Ilya whines. Shane is smiling, and Ilya kisses his cruel mouth. "Do not banish me back to your evil lair."
"My lair," Shane intones, in that way he has when Ilya has filled in places that Shane expects him to have lexical gaps. Which Ilya also loves.
"Okay. So we go to my house. And then what?" Shane asks.
"I have some ideas," Ilya says. He's been beside him on the couch, but he climbs back on top of him to rock down against him.
"Yeah?" he grins, fingers reaching down to skim Ilya's waistband.
"Yes," Ilya nods, grinning because he is also a bastard. "I learned many things yesterday. About you."
Shane's eyes dilate beneath him. He's gorgeous, and Ilya wants to eat him. But first, mayhem. "Yesterday you told me that you can only drive an automatic car. This is such a shame. Canada has failed you."
"Oh my god," Shane yelps. "Asshole!" Shane throws his arm behind him, and if Shane was at his own home, he'd be in luck, because there'd be a throw pillow or ten in reach. But Shane isn't in his own home. He's in Ilya's, so Ilya takes advantage of him groping for nothing, and pins that hand above his head.
He feels the moment get right back on track, Shane gorgeous and sleepy beneath him, a whole day stretched out in front of them, Ilya in his own body, which apparently is the only thing that gets Shane's body off without a hitch. And Shane. Who doesn't want to go back to normal. He wants more. Ilya feels faintly glowy with the miracle of his own life.
Fuck, it feels good to be God's favorite bisexual.