Work Text:
I wanna tell the truth to you
I wanna talk about my days as a youth to you,
Exposing you to all my demons and the reasons I'm this way
She's Mine Pt.1: J. Cole
-
Coffee?
Cliff had texted Ilya bright and early in the morning. Ilya had been awake of course, shrouded in the dark like some fucking vampire swallowing down three cigarettes for breakfast. His heart had flipped a little, hoping the contact name would say Jane, but it was simply Marleau, not completely disappointing but enough to have him grumbling.
With a sigh Ilya made himself look presentable to quickly walk to their favorite (and quite private) cafe they normally met up at to discuss mostly hockey-related things. Though sometimes, they would find themselves there after a hangover, chatting quietly about their lives. Ilya never shared more than what was on his Wikipedia but he knew enough about Cliff to consider him a close friend.
He finds Cliff already there looking haggard.
“What is going on?” Ilya says in lieu of greeting and sits down.
“I think,” Cliff says gravelly, pushing a cup of coffee towards Ilya, “I am getting old.”
Ilya leans back surprised at this, mind racing, Cliff can’t be talking about hockey—this was different, this was personal, this was… “Erectile Dysfunction?”
“Worse.” Cliff lets out a deep sigh, eyes downcast, “I think. I’m in love.”
Ilya snorts immediately, disbelieving. They still had so much clubbing to do, so many cups to celebrate in the club, so many joint hotel rooms to utilize, so many Eiffel towers to build. He pictures Cliff wearing a baby carrier and shudders, could he ever be a family man at this age? Could this perverted freak ever propose to a nice and young and unsuspecting woman? No.
“No. This cannot be. You are joking. You are pulling my leg.”
Cliff takes a sip of his drink, “Well. I don’t know if it’s love. I just can’t get her out of my head man, it's driving me crazy. She’s so beautiful…it’s all I can think about.” He looks at Ilya like he’s embarrassed to be admitting this outloud, “Have you ever…felt that? Like someone is so sexy it makes you hard just thinking about it?”
Ilya, for a brief moment, pictures beautiful Svetlana, in her cute lacey matching sets he’s always loved taking off of her. Now that was sexy, he supposed. Though, his mind immediately erases that picture and replaces it with something—somebody, much more masculine. The image of Shane’s delicate freckles being painted with his cum after he had pulled off of Ilya’s cock, lips spit slicked, gasping for air, flashes in front of his eyes. He suddenly thinks of Shane in lace too. Ilya frowns and shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
“Like how strong is this feeling?” Ilya decides he needs to clarify, Shane Hollander can not be the epitome of sexy, to him. Ilya has been with too many beautiful, hot, hot women to have that prying man plaguing his thoughts so easily. Cliff puts a hand on his chin to think, gazing out the window suddenly serious.
“It’s all you can think about when you jack off.” Cliff sounds oddly grim about this, voice low and inquisitive, “No porn works the same, everything is unsatisfying until you think of that one chick and blow your load so hard you’re seeing stars man.”
Ilya mimics Cliff's stance, also gazing out the window to reflect. He and Shane (wow, he’s still thinking about him) rarely see each other outside of their regular routine. Vegas was a disaster in and of itself, that vulnerability was too dangerous and frankly, Ilya has no time to be considering what those fluttery feelings in his stomach could mean. He has a cup to win, a father who was actively decaying in front of his eyes, a brother who won’t leave him the fuck alone and more women to fuck (even if he can’t seem to find himself looking for anything other than Jane these days.)
Yet when he considers Cliff’s question, who the fuck is he kidding? What’s that one saying he hears all the time on TV? Don't play dumb? Don’t be coy Ilya, don’t be a fucking liar.
Shane Hollander exudes sex. Everyone else is too blind to see that Mr. Goodey-Two-Shoes with a perfect life and perfect parents wants to be fucked so bad he’ll break his own stupid boundaries for it. No one else but Ilya knows what it’s like to hear those breathy whines, to see those muscled thighs flex and abs clench as he twitches around his cock. Only Ilya can squish at those perky pecs, roll those nipples in between his fingers and elicit drawn out sighs of pleasure, trail his hands down Shane’s stomach and have him nearly crying as he strokes him, fingers him, grabs at that unfairly fat ass.
Ilya shifts in his chair again, pants getting a little tight, eyes finally turning back to Cliff. “We have to go out to fix this.”
Cliffs mouth drops open in disbelief, “Fuck man. You think so? I’m too young to settle down. I still have so much bachelor cum in me.” Ilya snorts at that but Cliff is gripping at his hair, completely distraught, “All I can think about is her. I don’t even have to be horny anymore. I was walking by that shop the other day—by our rink, the flower one—“
“Ah,” Ilya had felt extra pathetic once, on his mothers death anniversary. He had gone in there to pretend he could buy her a beautiful bouquet before dawning his best suit and seeing her gravestone, it seems like that was all he could do these days. Pretend. Though the old man behind the counter had taken one look at him and addressed him in Russian, humoring his fantasy, turning away politely when Ilya dried his eyes with the back of his sleeve.
Thank you for giving me a piece of her, Ilya had said before he left, buying a premade bouquet and leaving a generous tip. I fucking hate it there but you—people like you make me remember how beautiful she made Russia.
“How’s Maurice? Nice man, good flowers.”
“He’s doing great. He sends his Hellos—hopes you're doing okay,” Cliff nods kindly but doesn’t pry further, Ilya feels relieved at this. “But I went in there and imagined buying her flowers. Flowers. Like daises ‘n shit. What the fuck? We’ve hooked up maybe twice. I don’t know why I’m saying maybe, it was twice. It’s all I can fucking replay in my head. She fucking rocked my world and made me laugh.”
Ilya pictures himself knocking on Shane’s door—a different door, at his real place, at his lonesome mysterious cottage maybe. Shane would open the door and flush pretty pink, his freckles standing out even more and Ilya would surprise him with the flowers behind his back.
For me? Shane would softly laugh, tugging on Ilya’s sweater to come inside.
For you, my love, Ilya would say stepping inside and pressing his lips to Shane’s, devouring his mouth like a man starved. Shane would laugh again, unabashedly against his lips, and whisper his name shyly, Ilya, you didn’t have to.
Ilya inhales sharply, “What the fuck.”
Cliff lifts his head, “We have to do something. We both can’t be like this. Ilya you have to continue our legacy. Remember Paris?”
Ilya places a hand on his chest, “How could I ever forget?” They were both drunk off of their asses and ended up having a little too much fun that day, crossing lines they’ve never even toed before. But really, that’s what Ilya likes about Cliff, he’s so relaxed, so unbelievably unbothered by most things, he doesn’t have a single curious bone in his body. It’s nice to have someone casual like this, they’re teammates yes, but they’re low maintenance friends that can count on each other. Which is why Ilya is just as alarmed as Cliff. In love? Has Ilya ever been in love?
(Rozanov, Shane said once, Do you like it there?
No Hollander, he had thought about saying, There is nothing for me there. You are here.)
Cliff laughs a little, bringing Ilya’s attention back to the present. His expression terms grim quickly, “But when I try to remember Paris it just feels…wrong. I keep picturing her in my head touching other guys like that, kissing another guy and it bothers me to know we aren’t exclusive. What fucking asshole could give her more than me?”
Ilya considers this for a moment and feels nauseous. He runs through blurry faces in his mind, countless mindless hookups he had gone through when cheap thrills were the only thing keeping him sane. He thinks about Svetlana and her gorgeous laughter and endless knowledge about hockey and finds that her past boyfriends not only never once stopped him from touching her, but never really bothered him. Eventually, he settles on the inevitable again: Shane, finding a boring, nice young woman, holding her hand, kissing her, getting down on one knee, having a nice boring family.
Ilya decides to drive the knife deeper and thinks about a man, pining him down the way he knows Shane likes to be, fucking—No. Making love to him all deep and slow until Shane shudders and moans a name that isn’t his. This man would have a stupid name, like Shawn. Shawn would get to touch Shane’s freckles every night before bed and reward him for bringing home the cup and—
“Rozy,” Cliff says and Ilya realizes he had been gripping the cup of coffee so hard the container was crinkling. “How’d you keep it casual with your Montreal girl?”
God, it’s like Cliff had read his fucking mind. “I do not have a Montreal girl.”
Cliff snorts, “She’s like the only you’ve seen consistently. Help me out here please, I still have so much left in me I can’t let this chick tie me down. I’m serious look—“ He shows Ilya their message thread. She’s beautiful, he notes, the polite cleavage in the selfie Cliff absolutely does not deserve is a plus and her cute, how are you today <3? Fills Ilya’s heart with pity, “We’ve been texting too.”
Ilya would normally, in his performance based asshole ways of existing around the Raiders, would say something like ignore her. Make her beg for it. Though he can’t bring himself to tune into that mindset today, (for some unknown reason that has absolutely nothing to do with wishing that was Jane in his phone).
“If you think you are more famous than me, the captain and star of this fucking team of donkeys, that you can’t date this woman for two weeks to see if you actually like her—you are an idiot Marleau.”
Cliff lets out a startled laugh and kicks him underneath the table, “You fucking asshole. Okay. I’ll. I’ll ask her out tonight I think. I need to get this out of my system.” And Cliff looks shy, it’s almost cute to Ilya who feels slightly proud, he wants Cliff to be happy and—
“But you have to do me a favor. Just for a confidence boost.”
Ilya actually wishes the fancy light bulb above Cliff’s head would fall straight onto that big ass skull of his. “How are you a grown man with no self confidence?”
“Ask out your Montreal girl. Please, it’ll be a win-win for the both of us.”
No, never. Even if the world was burning up into flames and Ilya was being dragged into the pits of hell would he ever open a message thread with Shane and ask him out like some pre-teen idiot. Shane is already the most paranoid person in the world, maybe another obvious reason: they’re both fucking rival hockey players and that absolutely goes against them ever being together. And, of course, Ilya is in no way shape or form in love, or infatuated or whatever—with Shane.
Cliff clasps his hands together as if praying, “I’ll pay for your plane ticket.”
-
Ilya lands in Montreal with absolutely no sense of direction, his hoodie drawn up, sunglasses and a mask on.
(You can not say I never did anything for you Marleau. The entire team is doing fucking bag skates for weeks.
Cliff had bowed his head in such gratitude Ilya almost took it back, And we will do them. We will be good boys.)
He opens the dry text thread with Shane, their last few messages trickling down into nothing and tries to type something. Ilya had already, stupidly sat his ass down on the plane and traveled so far he might as well try and if it doesn’t work he’ll go…sightseeing? Fuck, he should be home watching his highlights, working out, having hot steamy sex, focusing on winning the cup not indulging Cliff of all people in stupid shit. Yet here he is, and the prospect of seeing Shane is well, enticing. His stomach flutters dumbly as he types and then erases and then types again.
A pretty girl is in Montreal for meeting, wyd. He decides on saying. Though he realizes he had come here with no hotel booked, no plan if Shane just so happened to not be boring for once and busy or decided to ignore Ilya completely. The airport announcements echo in rapid French above his head and outside the sliding doors Montreal looks gray and miserable, wind whipping at people’s coats.
Ilya briefly wonders if Cliff had somehow drugged him.
He nearly drops his phone when it starts vibrating, Shane was calling him. They’ve never called, ever, not even once—
“Are you being traded?”
Ilya's knees threaten to buckle when he hears that fastidious tone curling around his ears so beautifully.
“What?”
“You’re in Montreal for a meeting? In the middle of the fucking season? I overheard them talking about last minute meetings about trades in the front offices in Montreal—god, Rozanov you can’t—“
“Hollander,” Ilya says, trying to shush him, feeling warmth spread across his chest for being fussed at in ways Shane had never done before. What would it be like? To have Shane’s voice go high with worry everyday? To spend his nights next to someone who fussed over him and cared about what he did, if he had eaten, if he was sleeping okay.
“It’s stupid. You’re throwing away a contract that’s still good for another what? Three years? You’re a captain. You can’t—“ Shane says again desperately, there’s rustling on the other end, “You asshole—“
“Hollander. I am not being traded.”
Shane stops abruptly, and lets out a soft, “Oh.”
That gentle sound has Ilya walking, suddenly determined to make the most of his time there. It didn’t matter if Shane was busy, he was going to see him. He was going to get his hands on him.
“Text me your address,” Ilya says and then hangs up.
-
Ilya manages to acquire a car and immediately begins endangering himself and several innocent civilians by speeding toward the incredibly unfamiliar address Shane had texted him. He nearly hits three cars before slamming on the brakes and craning his neck at a flower shop beautifully illuminated on the corner. A stupid idea crosses his mind.
Which, unfortunately, is still an idea.
He parks and gets out and regrets his decision the second the bell of the shop's door rings above him.
“Hello!”
Ilya swallows and looks at the florist hoping that his poor attempt at hiding his face is working. He’s risking being seen in Montreal of all places for Cliff.
“Hi.”
They stare at each other expectantly for a few moments before Ilya ducks his head to inspect the row of premade bouquets lining the front counter. He hums appreciatively, so many pretty flowers. It reminds him of his mother where on his lucky days, when she hadn’t locked herself in the bathroom for hours on end, he could see her long, beautiful blond hair splayed across her pillow. Sometimes she would be curled into a fetal position, goosebumps prominent across her arms.
He always had the same thought: she needs a better blanket.
And every time, as if she could read his mind, as if sensing his presence by the care he was sure to give, she would turn towards him, posture blooming like a perfect flower.
“Ilyusha,” she would say and reach for him, “Come here.” Ilya would go, he’d have his curls brushed, his cheeks stroked—he would be loved, he would drain his mother of all it until she had nothing left for herself. A selfish thing he was, knowing his father had just finished tearing her into two, hearing the yells that would echo across the house. He would find the safety of her arms and take and take and take until she had nothing left.
(It’s a cruel thing, really, to be a child, needy and naive, unable to grasp the true severity of situations until it’s too late.)
Ilya clears his throat, urging the memory away. “There is this girl I want to impress,” he starts gruffly, hoping this stranger wouldn’t care enough to note the accent and say ah Ilya Rozanov was standing in their shop. “I want to get her a bouquet so I can see her blush prettily.”
The florist coos hands snapping into action, “She sounds very sweet.”
Ilya shakes his head. He would like to believe Shane is delicate like his pretty face, all soft edges and a perfectly slopped nose worth marveling at. A man definitely made with the utmost love and care, he muses, (probably conceived on Valentine’s Day). But, Shane is headstrong, he’s a hockey player, he takes Ilya’s shoulder checks and slams against the board with a hidden grin, he does a pre and post yoga workout routine Ilya would rather die than ever do—he’s perfectly sturdy even as he threatens to crumble under the weight of his own mind. And, of course, he's an asshole just like Ilya, those shy eyes are the only thing that are saving him from as much reprimands as Ilya gets on the ice.
“No,” he settles on saying. He's wasting time by thinking, “No, she’s very mean to me. Nags me all the time about smoking, calls me to yell at me over the phone, tells me I am an asshole.” He lifts his shoulders in a small shrug as if saying this out loud doesn’t make him so unbelievably giddy.
“I see…I’m sorry?”
“No,” Ilya’s heart pounds in his chest as he finds himself confessing a secret to this stranger, “No she’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“Well,” They say slowly, turning toward the buckets of flowers, “She sounds…spirited!
“That is a polite word for it,” Ilya mutters.
They crouch down and begin sorting through stems with quick, practiced hands. “Someone who nags you that much probably deserves something gentle,” They say, pulling out a cluster of pale pink blooms. The petals fold tightly inward, dozens of soft layers tucked into themselves, it’s so hypnotizing Ilya briefly considers a career change.
“These are ranunculus.” Ilya leans slightly closer despite himself as they look absurdly delicate, like they might bruise if he breathed too hard. Shanya, Ilya would whisper in his daydream, I brought you flowers.
“What do they mean?” he asks.
“Charm and attraction, it’s a little cheesy.” The florist replies, examining the stems before setting them aside. “Though I’ve found that people give them to someone they find irresistible.”
Irresistible. Shane is blinking at him in his memory, big brown watery doe eyes and a mouth drawn into a pout ready to beg, to bark, to moan, if Ilya jostled him the right way.
They reach again into another bucket and pull out a few white flowers with thin petals and dark, inky centers. “These are anemones. They mean protection, fragility, but they are sincere if they are given by the right person.”
“Protection from what?” Ilya asks.
The florist glances up at him, lips twitching in amusement. “Usually from the person buying them. From what you said I assume you cause her a lot of worry.”
Ilya huffs quietly through his nose and he watches as they begin arranging the flowers together with easy efficiency, adding a few soft purple stems that curl delicately around the others.
“Does she like flowers?” The florist asks, finishing up the bouquet by wrapping it in newspaper, white tulle and then adding a beautiful white silk bow.
“Mm. No,” Ilya says, nearly laughing at the idea, “I love making her angry though. Is my favorite thing.”
Ilya accepts the beautiful finished bouquet and doesn’t blink twice at the price instead paying almost double and thanking the florist for their hard work. Montreal is still gray and windy when he steps outside, the air sharp enough to sting his throat. He cradles the flowers against his chest as they tremble slightly in the breeze when he crosses the street back to the car. He places them carefully on the passenger seat. Then immediately regrets everything about his life and decides to kill Cliff in his sleep when he gets back.
“What the fuck am I doing,” He mutters.
He starts the car.
-
Ilya is nearly trembling by the time he rushes inside Shane’s building. He already thinks of the reprimands he’ll get when Shane opens the door, I don’t even know why I gave you my address, Shane would say, This is so fucking risky. Did anyone see you? Rozanov. He shivers in something like excitement.
Ilya is extra cautious to keep his head down and hidden in his hoodie, not feeling all too inconspicuous with the biggest fucking bouquet in one hand and a duffle bag on one shoulder. He finds the door eventually and knocks. It whips open underneath his lifted knuckles and Shane is a blur of movement as he yanks Ilya inside by the arm and slams the door behind him.
“Rozanov—” Shane starts, voice already low with irritation, “You—” He’s wearing glasses. Shane Hollander is wearing glasses in front of him, framing his face so beautifully Ilya pays no mind to the duffle bag clumsily sliding down his shoulder. Shane blinks attractively at the flowers, then at Ilya, his glasses sliding slightly down his nose. “What the fuck?” Shane says incredulously and all Ilya can do is watch his lips curl over the words.
Ilya puts his bag down, gently places the bouquet on the entryway table and slips off his shoes. Then—he lunges at Shane, gripping the back of his head and pulling him into a bruising kiss. Shane’s glasses let out a small thwack! At being impacted so hard and it only takes one second for Shane to relax against him, hands curling up into Ilya’s hair gently scratching at his skull. He exhales into the kiss, nudging Shane’s hips so he can cutely wrap his legs around Ilya’s waist. Shane moans, a sound that caresses Ilya's cock somehow and their noses are smashed together with how he’s still trying to bring him closer.
Ilya wants to live inside of him, to melt into their tongues sliding against each other forever until it’s all he knows how to do. Shane tugs on his head to pull him back but Ilya can’t stop relishing in the feeling of Shane’s lips, he can’t stop kissing him.
“Roz—“ Shane is muffled against his insistent lips, “Rozanov.”
“What?” He says annoyed at the fact they’ve stopped kissing, he tries to lean back in but Shane catches his face, holding his chin.
“Why are you here?” Shane sounds breathless but his eyebrow is furrowed, his mouth is downcast in that specific way, Ilya has found, is Shane thinking. He’s actively assuming, working out every possibility that could have brought Ilya to his home. His Montreal home where he settles exhausted after practice and cozies himself on his couch and—Ilya glances around still trapped in Shane’s hands, taking in the decor and layout that’s so Shane. It’s so beautiful to behold him in his personal space with his softest hoodie on and a pair of athletic shorts that show off the enticing expanse of his legs.
Ilya exhales shakily, his hands are gripping Shane’s legs so hard it must be painful but Shane doesn’t say anything. He simply waits with those perfect eyes wide, for an explanation.
He decides to play fair as Shane’s pretty eyes bore into his: “Cliff bought me a ticket.”
Shane blinks, “Cliff Marleau? Your forward?”
“He is in love with this girl and he said, Ilya since you are so handsome and the number one ladies man—“
“Be serious,” Shane says as he shoves him a little in annoyance and Ilya can’t bite back the grin that spreads across his face.
“He wanted confidence boost,” Ilya shrugs, “He is asking out this girl so he tells me to see my girl in Montreal—“
“I said be serious,” Shane says flatly, nose scrunching. Shane shoves at Ilya’s shoulder again and untangles himself from him. “You risk being seen in Montreal for what? To get your dick wet?”
Shane isn’t joking, he’s using that same tone he only brings out when he’s ready to tear a new one into Ilya. Ah—Now this is a pressing issue that has Ilya scratching his head. “This was the stupidest idea you’ve ever had. We’re in the middle of the season, how do you have time to waste?”
Ilya grits his teeth at this implication, “What? You prefer to get a quick fuck in a hotel room instead after I wipe the floor with your team? Or am I only good to you as a loser?”
He’s not entirely sure what possessed him to say this. Shane was paranoid about them being seen together in a window, in a penthouse suite practically millions of floors above the ground. He's not even sure if he prefers Ilya at all or if Shane, with his particular set habits, only agrees to see him because he’s got a great dick. And really, if anything it was Ilya persistently messaging Jane, in hopes she hadn’t forgotten about how well their bodies mold together and how good Lily could make her feel.
“Shut up you dickhead!” Shane smacks him once which has him flaying his arms up to defend himself then twice, where it lands straight on his shoulder, then Shane is full on shoving him away. “Shut up! Have you ever thought about the fact that I like playing against you? Hockey is what fucking—brought us together like this in the first place. You’re an amazing player, I’ve always admired you for that. For winning, you fucking asshole. Don’t come in here and imply it's something so unimportant—”
“Of course it is fucking important to me,” Ilya hisses out offended, it takes Shane by surprise and he stumbles back. “What do you think brings in all the fucking money? I am not Mr. Sponsorships like you, I do not have Mommy and Daddy following me around—”
“Oh fuck you, that’s not what I meant and you know it—” Shane scoffs out, head whipping around to an imaginary audience like the decorative pillows Ilya can see on the couch would come alive and help him.
“I have to be good. I am worth nothing in Russia without hockey.”
There is something that lodges in his throat when he says this, like the fast paced, go go go, life that he had been living during the season had finally caught up to him. Ilya is enveloped in a sense of dread because the looming despair he’s been trying to outrun by letting phone calls run to voicemail and chasing thrills good enough to get him high—hits him. He covers his face with one hand, right there in the middle of Shane’s entryway and clenches his jaw so hard to stop the watery junk from escaping his eyelids. There is a soft rustle of sound and Shane is suddenly in front of him, trying to move his hand away from his face.
“Rozanov,” Shane says softly in question, pushing into his space and gripping his biceps to get him to look at him. And, Ilya turns his head away, trying to hide his face, he can’t bear to hear his voice be so tender.
He can’t bear to hurt him again to protect himself.
-
“She was my fucking mother too,” Alexei says once.
Ilya knows this, as it can be very hard to forget that someone so beautiful could create something so disgusting. For every hand she used to mend his scraped knees and soothe his broken fingers, Alexei had experienced that privilege too. He sided with their father most of the time too attached to the responsibility, the money, the sick pleasure from power, but Ilya would still find them curled together in the corner of Alexei’s bedroom, a book thrown aside in anger. A vase full of flowers smashed and abandoned near the door.
(His brother, four years his elder, was stupid in Ilya’s simplest definition. He knew this, his mother knew this, even his father knew this. And, it curled on the tip of his tongue every time Alexei thought he had some form of superiority over him.
I can read better than you, Ilya would think, fists clenching and unclenching—weighing the consequences of breaking his brother’s jaw. I can play better than you. I can do everything better than you, you fucking imbecile.)
Yet his mother would seek Alexei out no matter how many times he sent her away, and she would try. Ilya remembered wishing then, that he could be a woman and a mother, just to know what it was like to try to love someone who came out of your womb already rotted.
“Malysh,” his mothers quiet voice would ring out, melodic and sad, “Why won’t you let me help you?”
“I’m a man,” Alexei says back sniffling, “I don’t need a woman to uplift me. It’s my job too—“
“But I am not just a woman,” his mother said, her hand stroking his ugly hair gently before picking up the discarded book with her bleeding hand, “I am your mama.”
Mama.
Sometimes, when the color in her skin would come back and her smile would be especially soft, her gentle hands would guide his finger to the stem of a flower. “Careful, see? There are thorns,” she would say, “You are too precious to be hurt.”
It should’ve just been us.
-
Ilya doesn’t cry, but he does press his face to Shane’s neck, rubbing the soft skin there and inhaling his scent. What would it be like to come home from practice and see this everyday? To feel so utterly consumed by someone who holds him and gently strokes the back of his neck like he’s something precious to behold. He inhales shakily and speaks quietly into Shane’s skin.
“A selfish part of me wanted to see you. I could have told Cliff no. I could have pretended to be busy. I am busy. I am captain and my team are shitbrains without me. But you,” He pauses to swallow as Shane’s hand squeezes the back of his neck, “You make it so difficult to leave you, Shane Hollander.”
“What does that mean?” Shane says gently, trying to get Ilya to look at him.
“I brought you flowers,” He breathes out instead of answering the question, taking the moment of peace to slide his hands underneath Shane’s hoodie and feel the warm perfect skin there. “You are right this was a stupid idea.”
“Would you look at me?” Shane murmurs. He takes Ilya’s face in those perfect hands and holds him there. It’s funny to think that Shane is the one seeking eye-contact when his own eyes are fixated on Ilya’s lips. But his eyebrows are furrowed like he’s focused so Ilya keeps this thought to himself.
“I thought this was something casual. But then I realized I would think about you more than I should. I still do.” Shane sighs, and those pretty eyes finally land on Ilya’s, they sit there for a moment, just looking at each other before: “Why did you buy those flowers?”
“I wanted to see you blush,” Ilya rasps out.
Shane looks away flustered, his lips quivering, “Rozanov—Ilya, can you tell me…how do you feel about this?”
“About what?” His knees threaten to buckle at hearing his name pronounced so perfectly from the one person he’s been dying to be acknowledged by properly. Ilya, the Shane that came alive would say in his dreams when he felt especially pathetic and lonely. Though now, the real thing is in front of him, maybe wishes do come true. He owes Cliff a blow job. Maybe.
“About us.”
Ilya thinks for a moment and then uses the pad of his thumb to stroke Shane’s pretty lips, “I like you.” Shane’s lips move underneath his hand like he wants to smile but he keeps it down, eyes falling to the floor.
“Don’t be funny. This can’t—we can’t,” Shane says quietly, suddenly frowning. Ilya can hear the thoughts racing around in Shane’s head so he smooths a hand over his hair, trying to shoo the insecurity away.
“No, we can not,” Ilya agrees and Shane flinches a little, “But we can pretend, yes? Just for tonight we can try. We can think about everything else later.” Ilya reluctantly pulls away and grabs the flowers he had abandoned on the entryway table. “These are for you, Shane.”
Shane’s face spreads into a delighted smile and the blush that covers his cheeks is so bright and so much better to witness in person because it’s real, he’s here right in front of Ilya shy and fidgety like he’s already naked.
“Why can’t I be the one giving you the flowers?” Shane asks cutely, fingers brushing Ilya’s as he takes the bouquet and admires it. His fingers gently caress the petals of each flower and Ilya wants to burst into nothing but fucking rainbows and unicorns at this resplendent sight.
“I bought them. Very expensive and troublesome to get.” Ilya has to clear his throat suddenly feeling embarrassed, he steps closer to Shane. “You are my girlfriend in this world.”
Shane lets out an indignant noise and reaches out to hit him for the millionth time that night it seems. He dodges out of the way just as Shane laughs and says, “I’m not sucking your dick if you keep talking like that.”
“Oh?” It’s funny the way Ilya’s ears perk up in excitement like a dog's. He supposed if he had a tail it would definitely be wagging violently, he’d be dry heaving at the thought.
Yes Ilya a treat! You’ve been a good boy!
-
“I am ruining you by being here,” Ilya says later even as he rubs his face on Shane’s chest, laying on top of him, trying to bury himself in the chambers of his heart. “There is so much fucked up shit happening to me. I do not want it to be with you either.”
Shane’s gentle hands find Ilya’s face, thumb caressing his cheeks so tenderly Ilya feels like he might cry. And when Shane speaks, he closes his eyes to stop the emotion from escaping out of his eyes. “But you can be less lonely. We can think about how to do this. You can be here with me or I could be there with you and I know that’s not much—“
“It is much more than what I deserve.” Ilya lifts his head to press a kiss to Shane’s soft lips, murmuring against his mouth, “I would do anything to have this everyday.”
They fall asleep pressed against each other like that. Ilya refuses to move even when Shane complains about being too hot and wriggles around with a smile on his face underneath him. Ilya tries to forget about his evening flight the following day, still curled up in Shane’s bed admiring the flowers on the nightstand that had magically acquired a vase. He tries to come up with an answer for Cliff when he lands back in Boston too.
Ah, my Montreal girl is stubborn, he pictures himself saying, she said she wants commitment for life…like a ring. What do you think, Marleau?
And Cliff would probably say something stupid like, Wow Rozy. You must have the best dick in the world. Don't let her tie you down!
But then again that was before, now (if everything had gone well with this girl Cliff was infatuated with) he would probably say, Gaze with your Cupid’s third eye and Eros soul. Meditate for thirty-five minutes, jack off for thirty-four. No more. No less. If you find her in your heart, she is the one.
“Who the fuck are you thinking about?” Shane grumbles at him, “Why are you smiling?”
“Do you know a Shawn?” Ilya says, kissing Shane’s cheek.
“A Sean?”
“A Shawn?”
Shane thinks for a moment, “Uh. No? I don’t think so.”
“Good,” Ilya says dreamily, “Keep it that way.”
“Could you spell it out loud? I know a Shaun.”
Fuck.