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Shane hated when things went to waste. So later, when Rozanov did the unthinkable, Shane justified it by that logic. Rozanov was just being…environmentally conscious. Resourceful. Kind. Shane went through a lot of words to try and make sense of it, to try and run away from the scary precipice that awaited him if he chose to confront the truth. But that was for later.
Earlier that day
Rozanov had been right.
When the buzzer went off, loud and blaring, Shane felt it ring in his head. His veins, all of a sudden, were too small for his blood, which pumped fast and hot, searing his insides. He pulled off his helmet. The score shone out in bright red numbers above him, inescapable.
4-3.
The other side of the rink erupted into cheers, throngs of black and yellow jerseys piling onto each other. Fuck. Like clockwork, the loss hit him with the sharpness of a snake’s fang. The effects of it, the venom of loss, were instantaneous. It made his body too aware, like everything that touched him was scraping his very insides.
There was so much going on, his teammates skating by with disappointment strewn across their faces, cheers from the Raiders and their fans, that it all seemed to be happening too far away but simultaneously too close. The cold air wafting off the ice didn’t do anything to cool the emotions pooling him–anger, frustration, embarrassment, and a small kernel of happiness.
It had been Rozanov who’d scored the winning goal, his stick a mere blur in the air as it sliced across the ice, sending the puck into the back of net. As the Raiders all piled on him, shouting, “Roz! Roz” Shane willed his face into submission and ignored the pride that bloomed involuntarily in him at the sight of Ilya’s smile, unabashed, blue eyes gleaming under the rink lights. Shane ignored the thought that he wished that smile could be directed towards him.
The visiting team locker room was silent. No shouts of joy, no celebratory music blaring from speakers. Just the unzipping of equipment bags, the sticky peel of Underarmour from sweaty skin, and the rush of the showers. Under the water, Shane tried and failed to wash away the disappointment with soap. As he ran shampoo through his hair, he closed his eyes, and the game replayed on the back of his eyelids: his teeth rattling in his skull after Marleau slammed him against the boards, stealing the puck off Price’s stick so fast that nobody had been able to tell until he’d scored, his hat trick that was forgotten because of Rozanov’s buzzer beater.
He opened his eyes under the water, let the shampoo sting his eyes. The pain felt good.
He never felt truly clean when he showered in the locker rooms, but it would have to do for now. He tied his towel around his waist and made his way back to the silence. Heads were down, faces drawn. Coach gave a speech, something about capitalizing off of their mistakes from this game and improvement. Shane nodded along, added encouraging words of his own. They didn’t make him feel any better, but that wasn’t the point. There were very few things that could stop him from drowning in himself after a loss.
Shane reached into his bag. He told himself he wasn’t hoping for a specific notification. He told himself that his stomach didn’t swoop at the sight of said specific notification. He told himself he didn’t care.
His fingers flew over the keyboard anyways.
Shane’s face burned red. He told himself it was just because the locker room was hot. He also told himself that seeing those words, that being told to ‘be ready,’ didn’t release a trickle of wetness below his waistband, that the back of his neck didn’t feel on fire from imagining where Rozanov would soon be.
“You good, buddy?”
Shane whipped his head up. “Uh…” He slipped his phone into his pocket quickly.
Hayden was looking at him expectantly, brows raised.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m good. Sorry, it’s just…” Shane fumbled for an excuse. “The game really fucked with my head, you know.”
Hayden’s face settled, and Shane let out an internal sigh. “Fucking tell me about it, dude. But don’t beat yourself up over it. You fucking killed out there.”
Shane shook his head before he could stop himself. “I should’ve capitalized off that turnover in the second period. And if I’d been able to stop Carmichael from cutting towards the center, then–”
“Dude.” Hayden clapped him on the shoulder, green eyes squinted with concern. “You had a hat trick. Whether or not we lost doesn’t change that.”
Shane moved his mouth into what he hoped was a convincing-enough smile. His phone was hot in his pocket, branding Rozanov’s promises on his thigh through the fabric of his pants. “Thanks, Hayd. You know me, I just…get in my head sometimes.”
Shane’s response, thankfully, seemed convincing enough. Hayden’s concern melted away, and he clapped him on the shoulder again with a squeeze. “I get it. You gotta give yourself a break, though. They’re always gonna be losses.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
In the Uber, Shane’s knee bounced. Nerves sparked through his veins, wires haywire. Rozanov. Ilya. Rozanov. Ilyailyailya. The thought of him– his lips shaped like a symmetrical mountain range, his angel kiss of a mole on his cheek, his kaleidoscope blue eyes–was like tylenol for the pain of the loss.
It had been months since they’d seen each other. Shane could try to block it out all he wanted, but the truth was, he went to sleep with Rozanov’s name on his lips more often than not, fingers cramped and slick with wetness, chest heaving with staccato breaths.
His phone buzzed.
Shane wasn’t one for rollercoasters. This, however, felt like falling from the highest peak, a guttural drop, a rushing in his ears. 1410. How could he–would he–not recognize the number? The number of the hotel room they’d first hooked up in. What the hell? Why had he changed the code? Shane’s fingers hesitated over the keyboard. Would it be weird to ask why? What did it mean? Or maybe it was a strange coincidence, and if Shane brought it up, he would look like an insane person?
Shane’s head spun. He was still hesitating over sending a text, typing and then deleting words, when the Uber driver coughed. “Hey. We’re here.”
“Oh. Sorry. Thanks.” Shane had put in an address around the corner from Rozanov’s house. He grabbed his bags from the trunk and tapped 30% tip on the Uber screen. He waited until the car peeled off into the night before rounding the corner and walking towards the correct address.
The house came into view, illuminated gently by a few outdoor lights. Shane swallowed at the sight of the keypad. It’s just a coincidence, he told himself. 1410. Random numbers. It didn’t stop his hand from slightly trembling, though, when he reached out to punch in the code.
Click. The door unlocked softly. He let himself in. It smelled like Rozanov. That was the first thought Shane had. Even though he wasn’t there, Shane felt surrounded by him, something woody and warm, a dash of cigarettes and a hint of soap. The moment it hit his nose, Shane could practically feel some of the disappointment of tonight’s loss dissolve from his muscles. A loosening in his shoulders; a dissipating of tension in his hands.
Fuck.
The realization that Rozanov’s mere scent could unravel him in this way brought the tension right back. You’re just hooking up. He’s just a hookup, Shane repeated to himself as he toed off his shoes, placing them next to the shoe rack in Rozanov’s foyer, where a jumble of colorful sneakers, shiny dress shoes, and flip flops are stacked. For a brief moment, Shane saw a flash of his own shoes from home mixed in, his Birkenstocks arranged neatly next to Rozanov’s.
Fuck.
Tension built. You’re just here to fuck, he reminded himself. He set his bag down on the small bench in the foyer and walked in. It was pitch black inside, but the floor to ceiling windows let in squares of silvery moonlight that illuminated the hardwood floors. It was enough for Shane to find the light switch on the wall, and with a soft flicker and hum, soft orange orbs from the overhead lamps joined the moonlight. He let out a small internal sigh of relief. No cool tone or fluorescent lighting. Thank God.
He’d only been to Rozanov’s house a handful of times, but he’d visited it enough in memories and dreams to have remembered the layout, the long hallway spilling into the open floorplan of the living room and kitchen. As Shane walked in, his lips quirked up in a smile before he could stop himself. As much as he hated mess, the little lived-in signs filled his chest with a terrifying warmth.
Empty glass on a coaster on the coffee table; rumpled blanket on the end of the couch, as if Rozanov had tossed it off only minutes ago; receipt for takeout on the counter. Shane never had time to really observe Rozanov’s house. In all the times before, as soon as he’d stepped in through the door, Rozanov crowded him against the wall in the entryway, and the effect was instantaneous, leaving Shane so breathless he got dizzy. He hated it, how quickly Rozanov made his world turn on its axis. A graze of his fingertips on Shane’s forearm, and he felt in his gut, a tugging, an unspooling, a heat, a lurching emptiness. A whisper of a kiss on his neck, and Shane had to force his knees not to buckle, to keep his brain from being reduced to static, to hold back whimpers, to ignore wetness leaking from his pussy.
He hated it. He loved it. He hated that he loved it. Being gay was one thing. In another life, if being gay was all there was to it, he could’ve dealt with it. He would’ve come out to his parents eventually, then to Hayden. He would’ve found someone, settled down, maybe built a family. Being in the MHL complicated it–tremendeously–but it would’ve been fine.
But he wasn’t just gay. He was…it was…fuck. It was Rozanov. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya, with his gilded curls and sapphire eyes and marble-sculpted body and Cupid’s bow lips and mole-covered skin and calloused hands and warm accent and…and…he…it…
How could someone be so all-consuming? Ily–Rozanov wasn’t even here, and Shane felt like he was being devoured by him, by their memories, by every stupid detail in his house that warmed Shane’s heart and pushed him horrifyingly close to a precipice that he was terrified to look down over. Anxiety thumped against his ribcage like a second heartbeat. Oh God. It sucked all of the moisture from his mouth. His tongue felt thick, heavy, dry. Shane clenched and unclenched his fists, palms now clammy. Water. He needed water.
He made his way back over to the foyer, where he’d left his bags. His water bottle was secured at the side of his backpack, but it was empty. Fuck. He turned back around, towards the kitchen and living room. Rozanov wouldn’t…mind if Shane had a glass of water. Right? This was normal. He was thirsty. This was just a physiological, biological need. Rozanov wouldn’t even need to know he’d had any. He’d use a cup that was already in the drying rack, so in case he didn’t dry off all the water, it would look normal, like nothing had been disturbed at all. But all the steps, drinking a glass of water, washing it in the sink, using Rozanov’s sponge, setting the cup to dry, felt so daunting, so intimate.
What dish soap did Rozanov use? What sort of sponges did he like? Did he have different types of cups, or a bunch of the same kind? Or what if he–horrifyingly–just used mugs? (The possibility was so Rozanov, so Ilya, that Shane smiled briefly before returning to the task at hand.
He went to grab a glass from the drying rack–a normal-sized glass cup–and swung open the fridge to find water. He blinked. Sitting on the middle shelf, next to red and white Chinese takeout boxes and a half-eaten store-bought cake, was a can of Canada Dry.
Rozanov didn’t drink ginger ale. Shane knew this for a fact. If he could get past the fact that the only reason he did know was because he’d spent an ungodly amount of time on Rozanov’s social media, the point stood. In fact, now that Shane thought of it, it was probably illegal for Rozanov to drink Canada Dry. He’d done a commercial with Coca-Cola that had gone viral last year.
(Shane had watched the ad more times than he’d ever admit).
Rozanov had also, just last week, done another sponsorship with Gatorade, which was marked by the five rows of the sports drink that lined the left side of the fridge. Shane knew, from the years of his mother’s berating and the mindnumbing sponsorship contracts, that being photographed with or anywhere near a competitor’s brand during an active contract, was breaking pages of rules. So why would Rozanov have ginger ale?
For you, you stupid fucking idiot, a tiny voice in his head supplied.
He shook his head. No. We’re just hooking up. He wouldn’t do that. But it was too late. The image of Rozanov walking into the grocery store and picking out a can of Canada Dry just for him, sent him dangerously close to that precipice. He cracked open the drink, let the fizz and pop soothe him. The bubbles sang over his tongue. The familiarity of the drink calmed him enough to let him back away from the precipice a little. He drained the can, threw it away, and set the glass back in the drying rack.
With an exhale, he turned. Towards what, he wasn’t exactly sure, but the vibration of his phone in his pocket interrupted him.
Moonlight colored Rozanov’s bedroom silver, and with the navy blue bedsheets, the room looked similar to the night sky. Shane found the lightswitch, and again, soft warm lighting pooled on the floor. The bed was made, pillows arranged neatly. A dresser with a mirror stacked on top stood across from it. The little lived-in details jumped out again to Shane, flicking the corners of his lips upwards. Brown slippers at the side of the bed; a remote to the tv on the bedside table; a jar of Vaseline next to a dog-eared copy of…Shane laughed into the silence. Harry Potter. Another takeout receipt held the place of a bookmark, and once again, Shane was pushed back towards the precipice.
He imagined Ilya, hair damp from a shower, sweatpants slung low, crawling into bed. Cracking open the book, rubbing the corners of the pages between his thumb and pointer finger, reading until his face got soft with tiredness. The shimmering mirage of the image sent a pang through Shane’s heart.
Suddenly, he got the urge to crawl into that same space. The bedsheets would smell like Rozanov, the mattress would curve around him, welcoming his body like it did to Rozanov’s every night. Shower first, Shane resolved to himself. Even though he’d showered after the game, there was still a layer of grime from the locker room itself, and then the Uber. The loss of the game was there too, still suctioned to him like a second skin.
He undressed quickly, folding his clothes and placing them neatly at the bench at the foot of the bed. It was both strange and comforting to wash his hair with Rozanov’s shampoo and scrub at his body with his soap, the smell that he’d come to love over the years now pressed into his skin. He also couldn’t deny the Pavlovian response. Squeezing the gel into his palms and over his body released that sandalwoody scent, sudsing the shampoo over his scalp that brought back memories of burrowing his face in Ilya’s hair, heat bloomed in the pit of his stomach. His breath caught. Jesus Christ. He’s not even here yet, and you’re already turned on. Get a grip. Steeling himself, Shane watched the suds swirl towards the drain, and he imagined the bright red score 4-3 going along with it, the heavy disappointment rinsed away.
Shane was distinctly aware of how intimate everything was, drying off with Rozanov’s towel, opening his cabinets to get lotion, rummaging through his drawers to find floss. There was something so personal about this, seeing which brands of mouthwash and toothpaste he used, what color his toothbrush was (green), and the jars and containers of curl products lining the shelves. He ignored the flash of a daydream of combing one of those products through Ilya’s hair, twisting a gilded ringlet around his finger.
Shane stepped out into the bedroom, the towel knotted at his hips. Would it be weird to be naked when he got back? He surveyed the room, gaze landing on his folded clothes, and he shivered. There was no way he was going to put his clothes back on. That would defeat the purpose of the shower. He walked over to the dresser, feet skimming over hardwood and a blue-patterned rug.
Rozanov wouldn’t mind if he just borrowed something…right? He rifled through the drawers carefully. Everything was folded (not as neatly as Shane would've folded them, but satisfactory) and organized by clothing type. He found sweatshirts and sweatpants at the bottom, his eyes snagging on ones that he’d seen Rozanov wear before. Slipping them on, Shane felt encased in him. The fabric was perfectly soft, not too rough, hints of clean detergent and that familiar Rozanov scent floating up to his nose.
Shane exhaled. Reaching for his phone, he checked the time again. 1:20 am. Rozanov had said he’d be here in an hour about 45 minutes ago. 15 minutes. Anticipation made Shane’s hands tremble, his stomach bubble, and his face flush. Despite it all, though, there was a calm settling into his bones, eating away at frustration and disappointment lingering from tonight’s game. He was comfortable and clean and…fucking exhausted.
Hockey was Shane’s first everything. First love, first heartbreak, first true commitment. He knew hockey better than he knew anything else, even his own parents. He loved how he could lose himself in all aspects of the game. The analytics weren’t mindnumbing to him; they were exciting. The drills, the workouts, the scrimmages weren’t repetitive to him; they were exhilarating. He loved the feeling of adrenaline pumping through his veins, narrowing his world down to just that small black puck, tensing his muscles, slicing his feet over the ice. He’d spent more time in a rink than anywhere else in the world, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
It also meant, though, that losses were so guttural that he felt like a shell of a human afterwards. It wasn’t something he ever admitted to people because it was just a game. At least, that’s what people would say. Had said. They didn’t get it, and Shane knew it wasn’t worth trying to explain to them that while they were right–hockey was a game–they were also wrong. Hockey had organized Shane’s life since before he could walk. It told him how to eat, when to eat. It made his sleep schedule, arranged his recovery days. It designated family vacations, friend groups, extracurriculars. Without a win, without hockey, Shane couldn’t make sense of himself. He saw himself like a car without gasoline, a firepit with no wood, a boat but no motor. What was the point? If Shane lost, if Shane couldn’t do the one thing he’d been doing, then who was he?
Most days, it all existed in the background, a consistent hum of a generator. He was used to this. This was his life. And it was easy enough to coexist with it when the Voyageurs won, which, if Shane could be a little less humble for a brief moment, he would acknowledge that he oftentimes was the reason for them. It was the losses that made his brain feel like it was too large for his skull, like he had been sewed together but now was unraveling at the seams. It was exhausting to have to pretend like he wasn’t seconds away from breaking down. He was forced to smile in post-game interviews, be cordial and shake hands with people.
It was practically painful on a physical level, not even counting the bruises and cuts he collected during the game. And now, here he was, in Rozanov’s room, finally clean and comfortable and the exhaustion of it all hit him at once. He’d just close his eyes, he reasoned to himself, lifting up the covers to slip underneath. He’d hear the door open when Rozanov came back. It’d just be fifteen minutes.
***
Ilya. Shane knew it was him before he was awake. It was the specific pressure of the kisses, the brush of curls against his cheek, the familiar commingling scents of his shampoo, cologne, and pheromones. Ilya.
Even with his eyes closed, Shane’s lips curved in a smile. “Mm,” he hummed.
“I am back,” Rozanov said against his neck, where he was kissing right under his earlobe, in the spot he knew Shane loved.
Shane shivered. “I can tell.” His voice was still gravely from sleep, but he was starting to come online. One of Rozanov’s hands were planted next to Shane’s head on the pillow, the other running up and down Shane’s torso. His touch was gasoline to flame, lighting little fires everywhere. Under the covers, Shane’s toes started wiggling. His heart began to beat a little faster. His breath was quickening in his chest.
“Are you ready?”
“Hm?” Rozanov was still kissing Shane’s neck, but he’d moved onto the other side, hands pushing the covers down. Suddenly he stopped, and Shane’s eyes shot open for the first time. In the moonlight shining through the gauzey-curtained windows, Rozanov’s curls looked like spun gold. Shane squeezed his hands into fists to stop them from twitching towards him, from running through the soft locks. Panic began clawing up Shane’s throat. Had he done something wrong? What–
“You are wearing my sweatshirt.” Rozanov shoved the covers down further to reveal his own sweatpants double-knotted around Shane’s waist. “And my sweatpants. And you smell like me.”
Even in the dark, Shane knew his face was shining a bright red. “I…I took another shower. I hope it’s okay. I just still felt dirty. You know how the locker rooms are. I always take a second shower when I get back, but then I realized I didn’t have an extra change of clothes, so I borrowed some. I-I can take them off if you want. I didn’t know if–”
A bright smile bloomed on Rozanov’s face. He cut Shane off with a kiss that made him sink back into the bed. His hands finally came up to hold that spun gold, and yes, it was just as beautiful, soft, and precious as he remembered. The kiss was soft, but the edges were painted with something else, something possessive. Rozanov’s lips turned Shane’s brain into liquid, his tongue hot against his, teeth coming to bite Shane’s bottom lip. Shane groaned into his mouth.
How was he so. fucking. hot?
“Do not worry. These will definitely be coming off. Maybe I should punish you, though, for stealing. Could report you, you know. What would they say? Imagine headlines– ‘Canada’s Golden Boy Shane Hollander Caught Stealing Clothes From His Sexy Perfect Rival Ilya Rozanov’s House.’ Would be very entertaining.”
“Fuck off,” Shane said, but the words died in his mouth because Rozanov had returned to kissing his neck, his tongue licking hot stripes against his skin, and this time, his right hand came under the sweatshirt to roll his nipple between his thumb and pointer finger.
Shane groaned again, arching into Rozanov’s touch. Rozanov laughed into his neck. “Ah. You like this?”
“Fuck off.” He did. He definitely liked it. He…loved it. He loved everything that Rozanov did to him, how he seemed attuned to everything that Shane wanted and needed at any given moment. He knew every spot that made Shane’s legs turn to jelly, when to go harder, faster, slower, softer.
“I know you like it. You know how I know?” Rozanov murmured, leaning back to look down at Shane. He looked like a god like this, Shane thought, blue eyes shining, a halo of golden curls, body carved from marble, Cupid’s bow lips, veins like lightning down his arms.
Shane shook his head.
“Your body tells me. Look.” Rozanov pressed two fingers against Shane’s throat, right beneath his jaw. “Feel how fast your heartbeat is.” He ran his hands down to the hem of the sweatshirt and gestured for Shane to sit up, pulling it off of him in one swift motion. He tossed it to the side and brought his hands back down to Shane’s torso. “Now see. You are trembling. Your back is already arched towards me.” He leaned down, bringing his lips to Shane’s ear. “And I bet you’re already soaking wet.”
A whimper fell from Shane’s lips. At the sound, Rozanov drew Shane’s earlobe into his mouth, running his tongue over it then biting down. The sensation was hot lava that slid down Shane’s body, right down to his core, right below the waistband of his sweatpants where he knew Rozanov would be proven correct. He could feel dampness already collecting there, sticking to inner thighs.
“Am I right?” Rozanov grinded his hips down. Shane couldn’t help that he came up to meet Ilya. The brush of Rozanov’s clothed erection against Shane’s pussy dragged another whimper from his mouth. He chased the feeling, hips bucking up against the hot pulse of Rozanov’s erection.
“Please,” he breathed out.
“Please what?” Rozanov leaned down, sucking lightly on Shane’s neck. “I will give you what you want if you answer my question.”
Shane’s mind was turning deliciously blank, his body taking over. All that existed right now was Rozanov. Ilya. Ilyailyailya. The hot brand of his lips, the tight, possessive grip of his hand on his waist, the roll of his cock against Shane. “What question?” he managed between pants. He ran his fingers through Ilya’s hair, fisting some of the strands and holding his hand there.
“You forget? Barely touched you and you’re already cock-drunk?”
Shane couldn’t respond, not when Ilya was correct and…now he was sucking on his nipple and playing with the other.
“Fuck.” The word fell from his mouth before he could stop himself. “I-”
“Answer me.” Ilya’s voice was hard around his nipple. “Answer me or I stop.”
“I…” Shane could barely formulate words, his brain replaced by tv static. “I…forget…the question.”
“I–” Ilya bit down on Shane’s nipple. Shane moaned. “Said.” Another bite. Shane tugged on his hair again. “‘Am I right?’”
“Right about what?”
Ilya’s tongue made swirls around the bitten nipple, now red and peaked between his teeth. He pressed kisses across Shane’s chest and switched to the other one. Trailing a hand down, over Shane’s abs that were glazed with a thin sheen of sweat, his fingers made lazy loops at the smooth V of skin above the waistband of the sweatpants. “That you’re already soaking wet.”
Shane clenched around nothing, wetness trickling from his hole. The emptiness was so tangible that Shane could feel it everywhere, the absence of Ilya inside him. Of course he was wet. Anybody would be crazy not to. From the moment Ilya first kissed him in 1410, Shane had been ruined. Nobody else would–or had–ever make him feel this way.
Despite his body aching for Rozanov so badly he was almost salivating for it, his fingers and legs twitching towards him, it felt embarrassing to admit. He didn’t want Ilya to think this was just the way he was. No. The truth of it was, Shane was like this for him. It was Rozanov–Ilya–that made him feel this way, that made his brain melt into a puddle of hot butter, that made him malleable and obedient in his hands.
So he shook his head. “I’m not.” The words came out surprisingly sure, even though Shane was so wet he could feel the soft fabric of the sweatpants damp against his lips, even though Shane’s hips canted upwards ever so slightly at the dizzying circles that Ilya was making with his fingers on Shane’s hip bone.
He smiled around Shane’s nipple. His tongue and fingers were burning Shane’s skin, so warm, so perfect, so deliciously. It was taking everything in him not to arch sharply into Ilya’s touch, to make him touch him more, to make him touch him everywhere. “So,” Ilya murmured, his pointer finger hooking around the elastic of the sweatpants. Shane fought back a shaky exhale. His heartbeat thumped rapidly in his ribs. “If I…check…I will not find anything? That is what you are saying?” He ran his fingers back and forth, inching closer and closer.
Shane turned his face to the side, burrowing his cheek into the pillow to hide the hot red flush that was spreading there. “No. We’ve only been kissing for like five minutes. I’m not…it’s not…”
Rozanov began to move. He kissed down Shane’s chest, tongue etching trails of spit in between the grooves of Shane’s abs. If it was anybody else, Shane would’ve found it disgusting, shuddering at the feeling of hot saliva cooling on his skin. But it wasn’t anybody else. It was Rozanov–Ilya–and that made it hot. So hot. Incredibly hot. Hot enough that even more wetness trickled out of Shane’s pussy and he clenched around nothing once again, his body begging to be filled.
Shane exhaled shakily as Ilya’s mouth got closer and closer. His tongue, warm and hot, made swirls on his hips, decorating his skin with spit. Hooking both of his hands on the sweatpants, he pulled them down in one motion, tossed them over his shoulder, and pushed Shane’s knees open wide. Even in the mostly-dark room, Shane instinctively tried to close his legs. Ilya had seen Shane naked multiple times, but he always had nerves for the first few moments being fully undressed. The air hit his nipples, peaking them further, and then brushed over the hot wetness between his legs.
Shane glanced at Ilya’s face, but he wasn’t looking at him. His gaze was directed right at Shane’s pussy, blue eyes glimmering like a moonlit ocean, a hunger pinching his eyebrows together and hardening his jawline. “Eбать,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Ты просто идеал.” Shane squirmed under his gaze. Ilya grinned. “You know what I said?”
Shane shook his head. Ilya began planting kisses, starting at his knee, working his way upwards. Each press of his lips against his skin made Shane’s hips rock upwards. “You. are. perfect.” Goosebumps erupted on Shane’s thighs at the feeling of Ilya’s breath and words.
“What? No.” He squirmed again. It was becoming harder to concentrate on Ilya’s words. All cognitive function was slowly fading away, being replaced by a chant. Ilyailyailya, his body sang. It thrummed through him, made his pussy clench, wanting, begging, weeping.
“Do not tell me what to think,” Ilya said against his inner thigh. “I say is perfect, then is perfect.” His lips whispered over the crease between hipbone and thigh, and Shane whimpered.
“Fuck. Please…”
“Please what?”
Shane moaned, his hips thrusting upwards. “Please…”
“You want me to touch you?” Shane nodded frantically. “Lick you?” He nodded again. “Fuck you?” Another nod.
“Ah, but I only do this to things that are perfect. So if you say you are not perfect, then I cannot. So…” Ilya raised himself up on his hands to kiss Shane again, tongue sweeping across his lips. “Is your pussy perfect or not? You must tell me, otherwise I will not bother.
“I…” Shane fought against the embarrassment clawing at his throat. “I…” He just wanted to be touched, just wanted Ilya to fuck him. Why couldn’t he just… “I…It’s…”
“And I was right.”
“What?” Shane said breathlessly.
“I was right. Look.” Ilya swiped a finger right on the side of Shane’s pussy, through the dusting of hair on his lips. “So fucking wet for me. This is for me, yes?” He held his hand up to the moonlight, middle finger coated in shiny wetness. With a smirk, he lifted the finger to his mouth and sucked. Impossibly, Shane felt himself get wetter. Ilya had already spent numerous times with his face buried between Shane’s thighs, but something about it like this, the brazen smile on his face as he licked his finger clean, made Shane lose all of the embarrassment that was holding his words back.
“Yes…I just…please. It’s perfect. I just need you to touch me. Please?”
“Ah, so close, mалыш. What is perfect, though? Everything…” Ilya’s face shifted for a second, a flash of something Shane couldn’t decipher in the blur of his arousal. He murmured something in Russian. “В тебе всё идеально…” Then the expression was gone, replaced by that smirk again. “I am confused. Explain to me, please. What is it, again, that is perfect?”
Shane couldn’t do this. He snatched Ilya’s hand and placed it directly on his pussy, sliding it through the wetness. “...My pussy. It’s perfect. Just please. Touch me.”
Ilya grinned. Shane decided, right then and there, that that was his favorite, even better than the cocky smirk that made his skin flush hot. No. This, this smile, like sun rays bursting through storm clouds, unabashed, genuine, happy. This was what was really perfect. Never mind him. It was Ilya.
“Yes,” said Ilya against his skin, working his way back down. “It is perfect. And as my reward for winning, I think I deserve to be in its presence, да?”
Shane shuddered. His hands found their way into Ilya’s curls again, palms sweaty, as Ilya’s nose brushed through the dark patch of hair between his legs. “And you know this is perfect too, да? So sexy.” He swirled his tongue through the hair. Shane groaned. Fuck. Ilya hadn’t even fully done anything yet, and Shane was dangerously close. Everything he did, everything about him was so mind-boggingly sexy. Ilya was licking his fucking pubic hair, and Shane had never been more turned on in his life.
Ilya brought his left hand up to rest on Shane’s waist, tongue inching downward, and then finally, finally, he licked over Shane’s clit. “Oh my god,” Shane whimpered, his grip tightening in Ilya’s hair. “...that’s so good.”
Ilya hummed against his clit. “I love it here. Is new favorite place. Could get rid of this house, live here instead.”
Shane was too far gone to be embarrassed about his words now. He rocked his pussy against Ilya’s tongue. “Please.” Ilya’s hand tightened around Shane’s hip at his words and began to move. He lapped at the wetness leaking from Shane, fucking his tongue into his hole, breath hot against his skin. The sensation was so overwhelming that Shane fought to keep his eyelids from fluttering shut. Keeping his eyes open was also a little scary, but not looking would be missing out on Ilya, the bottom half of his face slick, pink lips wet, brow furrowed with concentration, cheeks rosy with contentment. He was moaning into Shane’s pussy, like he was enjoying just as much as Shane was, and the idea that he could be turned on by simply providing Shane’s pleasure made him even more wet.
Ilya sucked Shane’s clit back into his mouth, moving tongue up and down over the small nub. “Fuck,” Shane breathed. “Please keep doing that.” A tightening sensation began to build in Shane’s stomach, then the feeling of energy building somewhere, like lightning sparking in his inner thighs. “Fuck,” he whimpered. He laced his hand with Ilya’s that was still resting on his hip. At that, Ilya raised his head slightly, stared into Shane’s eyes.
“You’re perfect,” he murmured again, lips still suckled around Shane’s clit. Then he slid a finger inside Shane’s pussy, joined by another, and the sensation of finally being filled, of Ilya’s hand in his and tongue swirling on his clit, sent Shane barreling towards his first orgasm.
“Oh my god, oh my god. Don’t stop…please…I’m cumming.” His back arched off the bed, thighs trembling. Flashes of searing heat swam through him, and it felt so good, so good, that he kept chasing the feeling, pushing his pussy even closer to Ilya’s face, who was only too happy to oblige, humming against him.
“Yes,” he groaned, fingers sliding in and out of Shane. The squelching sound filled the room, but Shane’s ears were ringing too hard to truly notice it. He ground down on Ilya’s fingers. “You look so fucking beautiful like this, cumming on my face.”
Somewhere in the haze, Shane heard moans spilling from his mouth, but it didn’t matter, not when Ilya was making him feel this good. His hips were still rocking upwards to meet Ilya’s tongue, but he was slowing down enough that Shane could catch his breath. “T-That was so good,” he managed, pushing his hair, suctioned with sweat, off his forehead.
“You were so good,” Ilya murmured, finally lifting his face. The entire lower half was shiny, lips and cheeks glistening, and he crawled up Shane’s body, leaving trails of kisses before finally reaching his mouth. Shane could taste himself on Ilya’s lips as he licked into his mouth. Hooking his leg around Ilya’s waist, he pulled him closer. The absence of Ilya’s fingers was so tangible that he let out a whine before he could stop himself.
“What is it, mалыш?”
“I need…” Shane fumbled in the near-darkness, using his other hand to pull Ilya even closer, prompting Ilya to press his cock down on his pussy.
Ilya groaned. They both looked down, where Ilya’s erection was straining against his jeans. Shane’s pussy was leaving a dark trail of wetness on the denim. Maybe, at a different time, if he was in a different headspace, Shane would be embarrassed. Embarrassed at how much his body wanted–needed–Ilya, but the haze was too thick for him to care. “Look how hard you make me,” he whispered.
“Let me.” Shane scrambled up and rolled over until Ilya was underneath him. He pulled off his long sleeve and was rewarded by the sight of his body, practically chiseled by the gods, and what Shane (in the small hours of the night, by himself, in the darkness) sometimes dared to hope, were chiseled just for him. A few times over the years, Ilya had commented on Shane’s freckles. “Pretty,” he had murmured a couple of times in their post-sex bubble, thumb coming to stroke his cheeks and sweep over his nose. Shane got the impression that perhaps Ilya was a little more obsessed with them than he let on. He hadn’t exactly understood the fascination; they were just concentrations of clustered melanin. In fact, he’d sort of hated them growing up. It was just more fodder for bullying that kids at school love to weaponize.
It wasn’t until he met Ilya, and saw his moles, that he came to have an appreciation. He liked how they weren’t uniform. Their uniqueness made it feel like Shane was uncovering treasure, each time he found a new one, mapped it with his tongue, committing it to memorization. His favorite, of course, was the one on his cheek. If freckles were sometimes called angel kisses, Ilya’s mole must have been the origin. Shane had to stop himself from kissing it more. He only let himself after they were done having sex, when his brain was still fuzzy enough at the edges where he could get away doing it and Ilya wouldn’t think he was trying to blur the lines.
Still, he couldn’t stop himself now. He planted a kiss on that mole on his cheek, then licked down his neck, tasting the salty sweat that clung to the skin there. Ilya shivered underneath him, hands coming up to Shane’s waist, pressing downwards so he was grinding on his thigh. His hands shook with anticipation as he moved lower and lower, hands skimming the glass-cut grooves of Ilya’s abs. He licked the salt there too. Ilya, it seemed, also wanted Shane to touch him just as much as Shane did. In an almost frantic move, he swatted Shane’s hands away so he could unbutton his jeans and shimmy out of them.
Shane laughed before he could stop himself, and Ilya looked up, a sheepish, boyish grin on his face. “Sorry. Has been…a while, you know? I am…eager.”
Shane smiled. He was so…
The precipice came into view again. Shane swallowed. Smiled. “Me too,” he whispered. He peeled off Ilya’s boxers, and his cock sprung out, his foreskin already slid back in arousal. The tip was red, shining with a bead of precum. Shane’s tongue darted out at the sight, and on instinct, he leaned down to lick it.
“Fuck,” Ilya groaned. He tipped his head back, hands coming up to tangle in Shane’s hair. He’d missed this, Shane realized. More than he’d even realized he could. The weight of Ilya’s cock on his tongue, the thickness of it that stretched his mouth wide, the familiar tang of his precum that danced in the back of his throat. It was bliss. He brought his hand to his mouth and spit in it, slicking it over the base of Ilya’s cock, then lowering his mouth over the tip.
A near whimper fell from Ilya’s mouth. He opened his eyes, eyelashes fluttering, and then chuckled. “You….” He laughed, like he couldn’t believe what was happening. “I don’t know how to say exactly.” His words were shaky, staccatoed as Shane began moving his tongue up and down the underside of Ilya’s cock, hand twisting, head bobbing. “You make me feel like teenager. Like I’ve never gotten my dick sucked. It’s…” He shook his head, smiling again.
It was getting harder to stay away from the precipice. Everything Ilya said, everything he did, only pushed Shane closer and closer. His heart was being squeezed dangerously hard in his chest. His stomach swooped. He turned his attention back to the task at hand, losing himself in the rhythm of sucking Ilya’s dick.
The world zeroed in. All that existed was this, making Ilya feel good, watching to see how his face scrunched in pleasure, feel his hips shift beneath him, see his abs tense. Shane had no idea how much time passed, but it wasn’t enough before Ilya suddenly twitched and then brought his hands to Shane’s shoulders, muttering, “Eбать, eбать, eбать,” under his breath. “I need to be inside you,” he said, breathless. He flipped them so Shane was back underneath him, staring down at him with those sapphire eyes, his cross hanging down between them. “Please. Let me fuck you.”
Shane whimpered. He’d never needed anything more. He slung his arms around Ilya’s neck and brought his face down to his. “Yes please,” he said against his lips.
Ilya let out a sigh of relief, like he’d been scared Shane would say no. As if there was ever a possibility Shane wouldn’t say yes. He leaned over Shane, reaching over for the bedside for a condom. Shane’s hand shot out before he realized what was happening, laying it on his arm. “Wait. I…”
Ilya’s brow furrowed in concern. “What is wrong? Something happened? We do not have to, if you do not want to. We can just–”
“No.” Shane shook his head. “That’s not…I do. I do want to…I just…”
He looked up into Ilya’s eyes. He could lose himself in them, two miniature oceans, two miniature starry skies. Reflective, gleaming, beautiful. He swallowed, suddenly nervous. He hadn’t even realized why he’d stopped Ilya, but now the need gripped him tightly, so much so that his hand shook. “I don’t want you to use a condom,” he said softly, and he brought his hand up to where Ilya’s was resting and laced his fingers through his. “I just want you.”
For a moment, it was as if the world stilled. Ilya hovered above him, unblinking. Fuck. You’ve ruined this. This is too much. You’re too much. You–
Ilya was kissing him. His lips roved over his, plush and wet, tongue tracing his mouth until Shane opened for him. “You are…” Ilya managed, and then he was looking at Shane, looking with something that looked scarily like reverence, and Shane was teetering on the precipice with nothing and no one to save him. Ilya swept a thumb over his cheekbone. Shane blinked. It had almost looked like, for a moment, that there were tears in Ilya’s ears. It must have been the reflection of the moonlight. “Are you sure? We do not…but I am clean. I test. The team, of course.”
“Me too.”
They looked at each other in the silence, brown eyes staring into blue, both desperately trying to hold back. “Okay,” Ilya murmured. “Okay.” Shane pretended not to see his hand tremble as he reached down to grip his cock and guide it inside.
There was no coming back from this, no one trying to stop Shane from the freefall over the precipice. He was distended in time, heart leaping into his throat, eyes blown wide, as Ilya slid home. Why had he been so scared of falling? Why had he been so scared, when this was on the other side? This perfection? This heaven? He could feel the ridge of the tip as Ilya slid his cock further in, even the vein on the underside that he loved to lick. Intelligible noises were falling from his mouth, and unexpectedly, tears welling at his eyelashes. “Ilya…” was all he could manage.
At the sound of his name, Ilya’s face broke open, mouth hanging slightly ajar. He stuttered inside Shane, pausing. Something bloomed in his eyes, something new that Shane hadn’t seen before, or something that Shane had been trying not to see. But there was nothing that could prevent Shane from seeing it, not now. Not in the freefall. “Shane. ты идеален, ты идеален, ты идеален,” Ilya breathed out, and he started moving in time with his words, sliding in and out.
All that fell out of Shane’s mouth were jumbles of words. “Oh my god…yes…so good, Ilya…right there…please don’t stop…oh my god…” Ilya’s breath was hot, brushing over his face, as he hovered above him. His eyes roved over Shane’s face, like he was trying to press it into his memory. Shane was too lost in the haze to comprehend it. All he could focus on was his newfound heaven, of his heart beating in time with Ilya’s wet thrusts.
It was perfect. It was everything. He wanted more. He hitched his leg higher, and Ilya understood, lifting it so it rested on his shoulder. The new angle made him see stars. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he rocked on Ilya’s cock, so his clit grazed it when Ilya bottomed out. “Fuck,” he moaned. “That’s so good.”
“So good, mалыш. So fucking good.” Sweat dripped from Ilya’s furrowed forehead onto Shane’s nose. His cross swung in time with his thrusts, hips slamming into Shane’s then grinding until that lightning started building again. He fought against the heat that was trying to pull his eyes shut because he wanted to look up at Ilya, see how good he was making him feel, see his angel kiss and mouth and eyes. He wanted to drown himself in his starry night, ocean eyes, burrow his face into his neck, breathe in that Ilya, Ilyailyailya scent and never leave.
“I’m gonna…” Shane’s hand was trembling in Ilya’s grip, tight and tense as his second orgasm built, an asteroid speeding through space.
“Yes. I want to see you cum all over this cock.” Ilya’s face twitched, and the next words came out soft, a little more fragile. “Please, Shane. Cum for me.”
Another precipice; another freefall. The world whited out, hot, searing pleasure radiating from Shane’s pussy into the tips of his fingers. It curled his toes, made his eyes roll back again. He was sweating, shaking, calling out Ilya’s name, squeezing his hand. He’d never felt better, cumming with Ilya’s bare cock inside him, pussy clenching over the entire thick length. Distantly, he felt Ilya trembling above him, still thrusting into him but unsteadily, like he, too, was hurtling towards his own orgasm.
“Fuck, Shane. Fuck. You’re beautiful. You’re perfect. I…fuck, I’m gonna cum. Shane, I’m gonna come.” Ilya reached down, nostrils slightly flared with effort, to withdraw, but Shane stopped him.
“No. Cum inside me, please.”
Ilya’s face cracked open again once more, wonder, reverence, amazement in his starry blue. “Shane…” he groaned, head lolling back. “Fuck.” He thrusted two more times, shallow strokes, before he bottomed out completely, his pelvis flush to Shane’s, and his cock pulsed inside him, once, twice, three times.
“Oh my god,” Shane moaned. He could feel Ilya cumming inside him, twitching inside his pussy. He imagined his insides painted white, and the image was almost enough to make him cum again. Above him, Ilya’s head was tossed back in ecstasy, forearms trembling as he fought to keep himself upright. With a shuddering breath, he sagged into Shane’s arm, nestling his face into the crook of his neck.
Shane couldn’t even find it in himself to be grossed out by the sweat. If there really was a God, he’d have to thank him when he died because this, this, was heaven on earth. Nothing else existed except this, Ilya’s body covering his, pressed to him, their hearts beating in sync. He’d never felt more content. This was where he was meant to be. They lay there for a while, both catching their breath in each other’s neck, fingers still laced together, limbs tangled in sheets. Shane was floating in that blurry, hazy headspace, and he would’ve been perfectly happy to stay there forever, but his body was slowly coming online.
Sweat and spit were drying on his face, and between his legs, something new. Besides for the wetness that was drying on his inner thighs, there was also something else, trickling from the sides of where Ilya was still resting inside but now softening. Before he could even say anything, Ilya raised his head, as if he could tell that Shane was beginning to get restless. He smiled, lips curving up softly, and Shane’s heart squeezed in his chest once more. He was so perfect. An angel on earth.
“We should probably shower,” Shane said, his voice cracking. He looked down in between his legs. “Is it okay if I go first? I just…”
“Yes, yes. Is okay. Let me…” He reached down to pull his cock gently from Shane, and Shane let out a soft groan at the sudden emptiness.
“Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. Is okay.”
Shane swung his legs over the bed, body protesting. Truly, all he wanted to do was lay back down in Ilya’s arms and sway in that headspace. Exhaustion was already settling back into his limbs, but this was a different exhaustion than before. A good, sweet exhaustion. The sooner he got up, though, the sooner he could lay back down. He made to stand up but then yelped and crashed back down.
Ilya cracked open an eye that he’d closed after he’d rolled over. “Something is wrong?”
“No, I just…” Shane looked down. “It’s leaking. I didn’t realize it would…I don’t know. We haven’t done this before, so I didn’t expect…”
Ilya opened both eyes. He was silent for a moment, before Shane could see an idea flare in his eyes. “I can help you.”
“You want to shower together?”
“Well, yes. We can do that, too. But I can help so you do not leak. Come.”
“You have a tissue?”
Ilya chuckled. “So many questions, Shane.” Shane couldn’t ignore the squeeze of his heart again at his name (his real name!) outside of sex. “Come.” Ilya swung around so he was flipped upside down, feet where the pillows were and head at the end of the bed, almost hanging off the edge. He motioned with his hand for Shane to come closer. “Sit.”
“What? Sit where?”
Ilya pointed to his face.
“Wait. What? You just…that’s gross?”
“Ah. You think my cum is gross?”
Shane flushed. “No, that’s not what I meant.”
“Yes, I know you don’t think it’s gross. I think you think the opposite actually. So what is problem?”
“Well, it’s….” There wasn’t anything actually wrong with it. In fact, it was actually incredibly hot, Ilya waiting with his hand extended, like he wanted to do this. Also environmentally conscious technically, too. No wasting tissues, or using water by having to wash a washcloth. “I–”
He didn’t finish his sentence. With a groan of frustration, Ilya grabbed Shane and dragged him over his face until his pussy was positioned right over his mouth. “Look.”
“W-What?”
“Look in the mirror.” Ilya’s words were slightly muffled as he began to move his tongue. Shane trembled. “Watch me eat my cum from your pussy.” Shane whimpered. Ilya swatted gently at his thigh. “Look, or I stop.”
So Shane lifted his eyes to the mirror, where he could see himself seated on Ilya’s face. “Do you see it?” Ilya said, raising Shane up a little so he could see, in the reflection, the trickle of cum from his pussy onto his tongue.
“Fuck,” Shane whimpered. “Yes. I see.” Ilya hummed in contentment, and began to fuck his tongue gently into Shane, lapping at his own cum that was leaking out.
It was too hot for Shane to comprehend. He’d already orgasmed twice, clit twitching in oversensitivity, hole aching sweetly, but Ilya’s tongue sweeping over his pussy, blue eyes gentle and satisfied staring up at him, sent him towards his third. With a soft cry, he rocked against Ilya’s mouth, tangling his hands in Ilya’s curls as he came again. He shuddered, eyes fluttering shut as Ilya laughed against his pussy and rolled them so he was behind Shane. He nuzzled into Shane’s neck, pressing a kiss there, then on his shoulder.
“Ты идеально мне подходила,” he whispered. Shane smiled blearily. He didn’t exactly understand, but he didn’t need to. He’d come to love the rumble of Russian consonants, ear attuned to certain words enough to recognize when they were repeated, though he didn’t know what they always meant. It was enough, though, to just exist, with Ilya cradling him.
It was more than enough. It was perfect. It was heaven. It was life after the freefall. It turned out that something wonderful did, after all, exist over the precipice.