Work Text:
The first time Oliver had sex, his papa was downstairs in the living room.
This had not been intentional.
Both his parents were supposed to be at some hockey event until late that evening, and the house was empty when Ollie came home from school.
He led Isaac, his best friend, down the empty driveway. Ilya’s car was gone, the flashy one he insisted they take to events.
They kicked their shoes off at the door and lined them up neatly on the shoe rack. Ollie looked at the four sneakers touching each other, and it felt different. Even though Isaac had been here so many times, even though he’d taken his shoes off from the very first day he’d come over when Ollie had explained that his dad was “a bit of a neat freak”, even though Ollie knew every pair of Isaac’s shoes off by heart. It felt new.
“Do you want something to eat?” he asked, glancing at Isaac over his shoulder, and it was such a simple question, but he felt himself blush. Usually, he wouldn’t even ask - Isaac would just go to the pantry and bring them back chips from Ilya’s shelf, or fruit and yoghurt if Shane was there.
“I’m good,” Isaac said, smiling at him in the easy, comfortable way he always smiled at Ollie.
Ollie felt his shoulders loosen slightly. His brain, which had been running a million miles an hour, slowed down for a moment and he was able to notice the house around him again.
There was a stray toy of Anya’s by the front door, an old Centaurs sweatshirt his dads shared custody of hanging from the banister, the photos of Yuna and David in the entryway, the stain of red marker on the bottom corner of the wall left over from one of the foster kid’s toddler graffiti.
He was in his home, and Isaac was his best friend. He was good here.
“Upstairs,” he said, and let himself look Isaac in the eye. Isaac had brown eyes that turned to honey in the sun, messy red hair, and so many freckles. Ilya always joked that he felt left out when the four of them were together.
“Yeah,” Isaac said, smile widening, and he grabbed Ollie’s hand as he followed him up.
Ollie closed his bedroom door behind them, even though the house was empty, and before it had even clicked shut Isaac was on him.
Ollie laughed into his mouth, a little breathless, and pushed his hands into Isaac’s hair, grazing his scalp in the way he knew elicited moans and soft noises of pleasure that Ollie wanted to swallow and keep forever, just for him.
They kept kissing, Isaac’s hands finding their way under Ollie’s shirt, sweeping up his back and down to grip his hips, pulling Ollie flush against him. When Ollie pulled his hair experimentally Isaac groaned loudly, and Ollie was so turned on it was a little ridiculous.
He found the confidence to walk them backward to his bed, sitting down and immediately having his lap taken over by his best friend.
“Can I take this off?” Isaac asked between kisses, holding the hem of Ollie’s shirt without lifting it at all, waiting.
“Yes,” Ollie said. “Can I-“
“Yes,” Isaac laughed against his lips and then they were both shirtless, and Ollie had to stop to look at him.
Isaac had freckles everywhere, covering his shoulders and arms, scattered across his chest and down to the soft pouch of his stomach, disappearing under his waistband. Ollie wanted to see every single one, and he realised with a thrill that today he would get to. If Isaac wanted that, too.
Before he could ask, Isaac said, “Do you still want to have sex?”
Ollie knew he went bright red at that, or as red as he could with his olive skin, and he knew Ilya would make fun of him when he coaxed out the details later. They were half naked and making out and Ollie was embarrassed by the word sex. But sometimes his dad still blushed when Ilya whispered things Ollie definitely didn’t want to hear in his ear at dinner, so maybe it was just something you did when you loved someone.
“I want to,” he said, fighting his shyness, and kissed Isaac again.
They lay down together, lips never separating for more than a second to check in, to say, “Is this okay?” and “You like that?” and “In my bedside drawer,” and “I can’t believe this is happening.”
It was slow, and a bit messy, and Isaac couldn’t help laughing at some of the expressions on Ollie’s face. But it was Isaac and Oliver, so it was good, and besides, they could practice as much as they wanted.
Afterwards, they sat propped against the headboard, Isaac’s arm draped loosely over Ollie’s shoulder. Ollie pressed a kiss to Isaac’s temple every few minutes, because after the first one Isaac had smiled so adorably he couldn’t stop himself from doing it again and again.
Eventually, the fact they hadn’t eaten since lunch caught up to them and they pulled on sweatpants and hoodies from Ollie’s chest of drawers. Isaac wearing his clothes wasn’t new; they often shared clothes at sleepovers or if it was cold and one of them had forgotten a sweater, but Ollie was very aware that Isaac was naked under his sweatpants, and it flared a heat in him that he didn’t know was possible so soon after what they’d already done.
They raced each other downstairs and into the kitchen, Ollie reaching for Isaac’s arm as soon as he could because he didn’t want to stop touching him.
Isaac tugged him in for a kiss, and just when Ollie was thinking maybe he wasn’t that hungry after all, they both heard the distinctive sound of a large, Russian man clearing his throat.
Ollie stood, holding the hand of the boy he had just slept with for the first time, still flushed and wobbly from sex, and made eye contact with his father.
Ilya was in the adjoining living room wearing his husband’s noise cancelling headphones and a shit-eating grin.
“Hi, Ollie,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “Hi, Isaac.”
Isaac, in a testament to how long he’d suffered Ilya’s antics, didn’t even drop Ollie’s hand, just gave it a squeeze and leant back against the kitchen bench to watch the scene unfold.
“Were you here the whole time?” Ollie demanded.
Ilya took the headphones off and carefully placed them on the coffee table behind him.
“The whole time of what?” he asked innocently, but his eyes were sparkling.
“You know what I mean,” Ollie said impatiently, and couldn’t help glancing at Isaac, who had taken an apple from the fruit bowl and was rubbing it on his (Ollie’s) hoodie.
Ilya came around from behind the couch and sat on the dining table opposite Ollie and Isaac, swinging his legs.
“I come home. I see your shoes by the door. I go upstairs to say hello but your door is closed.” He shrugged.
“So you just sat on the couch and waited?” Isaac said around his mouthful of apple, far less concerned about this than Ollie thought he ought to be.
“No, no. I took Anya for a walk. We got back fifteen minutes ago. I heard… noises, so I put headphones on. They are very good, Shane should have been more appreciative when I got them for him.”
“I thought you were supposed to be out late! You said you’d be out when I got home from school,” Ollie said.
“We left the gala early, it was lunch thing, remember? We got home sooner than we planned. You did not tell us you were having a boy over.” He winked at Isaac, who had the decency to blush this time.
“Obviously I did not know it was a lunch thing,” Ollie gritted out.
He glared at his papa, who was still grinning. Then sighed. It had been a long day; the anticipation of bringing Isaac home, sneaking behind his parents’ backs (though he knew they wouldn’t mind), and then of course the sex. Ollie was tired, mostly in a good way, partly in an overwhelmed way, and he kind of just wanted to hug his papa.
Before he could come to a conclusion on whether it was acceptable to hug your father minutes after having sex, the front door opened and Shane came in with an armful of groceries.
“Shanya!” Ilya exclaimed, and ran to help his husband.
“I can’t believe you made me shop alone,” Shane grumbled, grudgingly accepting a kiss from Ilya. “Anya would have been fine to wait another hour for her walk.”
“But she was alone all day, and it is already dark,” Ilya pouted. “Forgive me, malysh, I’ll come next time.”
Shane rolled his eyes and bent down to greet an excited Anya.
He straightened up and saw Ollie and Isaac.
“Hi, boys,” he said, walking past them to start stacking the fridge. “Isaac, you’re staying for dinner?”
If he noticed their intertwined hands he didn’t say anything. (There was a high chance he hadn’t noticed; he was Shane Hollander after all).
“If that’s alright,” Isaac said, looking at Ollie as he said it.
Ollie smiled and leant in to kiss his cheek while Shane’s head was still in the fridge.
“Please stay,” he said quietly.
Isaac helped Shane with the rest of the groceries (Ilya never put them away in the right places) and Ollie went to join his papa and Anya on the couch.
Ilya immediately pulled him into a bone crushing hug and only relented when Anya wouldn’t stop licking both their faces.
“It was okay?” Ilya asked, and held Ollie’s face in his hands like he was checking him for injuries.
“Yes, papa, it was okay. It was good.” His eyes flitted to Isaac in the kitchen, diligently following Shane’s instructions for where the different types of pasta went.
It must have been taking him a lot of effort, but Ilya didn’t ask him any more questions, just kept one arm wrapped around him and got Mario Kart up on the TV with his free hand.
“Let me beat you before dinner?” he said.
Ollie rolled his eyes and smiled, snuggling into his papa’s side.
“In your dreams, Rozanov,” he said, and laughed at Ilya’s gasp of betrayal.
***
“Did I miss something?” Shane said later that night as he pulled back the covers and climbed into bed.
Ilya, scrunching his hair dry carefully with one of Shane’s old T-shirts, smiled at him fondly.
“You miss many things, moya lyubov.”
“They had sex, didn’t they?” Shane said in that blunt way of his that Ilya adored.
“When did you realise? Them holding hands in the kitchen? Isaac stealing Ollie’s tomatoes? Ollie practically sitting in his lap on the couch?”
Shane went bright red and muttered, “When they kissed goodnight at the door.”
Ilya laughed loudly and crossed the room to join Shane in bed, dropping the T-shirt carelessly behind him. Shane must have been really embarrassed because he didn’t say anything about it.
“You are my favourite, lyubimyy,” Ilya said, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him close.
“It’s still redundant if you say it in Russian,” Shane said, but he leaned into Ilya’s touch.
“Ah but you like it when I speak Russian, so.” Ilya shrugged.
Shane snuggled into his chest, tucking his head under Ilya’s chin, and Ilya moved a hand to run it through his husband’s soft hair. It was still slightly damp from the shower and curling up a tiny bit on the ends in the way Ilya loved. Shane’s hair was always longer these days; it was almost to his shoulders at the moment, and it still made Ilya swell with happiness on occassion, especially when Shane was skating or running and it flew out behind him. Or when he let their foster kids braid it. His husband had been so carefully composed for so long. He’d had to be. That Shane felt comfortable and brave enough to let his hair down, literally, meant everything.
“I wonder what it would have been like if we’d met at their age,” Shane said thoughtfully, unaware of Ilya staring at him in awe.
“What, one year earlier?” he replied.
“I would take any extra time with you,” Shane said, tracing circles on Ilya’s chest.
Ilya softened.
“Me too, moya lyubov. But, look at us now. We have been together for a million years. We have perfect dog and sex fiend for son. I would not change anything.”
Shane laughed and whacked him.
“Besides,” Ilya continued, catching his hand and kissing his fingers one by one, “we got to sneak around in hotel rooms and chirp each other on the ice. They get to have sex in their parents’ house after school and not even have to hide it. Bor-ing.” Ilya blew a raspberry, earning a gentle slap on the thigh from Shane’s free hand.
Shane yawned and slid to lie down. Ilya copied him and they lay on their sides, facing each other.
“I’m glad Ollie can do it the boring way. And I’m glad you and I get to be boring now. I would choose boring with you over anything with anyone else,” Shane said softly.
Ilya brushed a hand through Shane’s hair, traced the shell of his ear, kissed him long and slow before replying, “Of course you would, boring is your middle name.”
“Ugh, go to sleep,” Shane said, turning away from his husband.
Unperturbed, Ilya shuffled closer to spoon him, pushing one knee between Shane’s legs and sliding his arms under Shane’s to hold him.
“I would choose you every time too, dorogoy,” he said, and kissed the nape of Shane’s neck.
“I know you would, you idiot,” Shane said fondly. He sighed happily and wove his fingers through Ilya’s. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”
“Goodnight, Shanya.”