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December, 2016
Ilya’s favorite shirt is the ugliest one he owns.
It—quite literally—falls into his lap at an art festival in downtown Boston right around Christmas of 2016. Cliff is—for some reason—still not convinced that Ilya isn’t planning on flinging himself into oncoming traffic over the loss of his mystery Montreal girl, which means that Cliff and his fiancee Beryl drag Ilya to every event that might appear on a “Top Ten Things to Do in Boston This Month” article in the world’s most boring travel magazine.
How is this supposed to make me less suicidal? Ilya thinks as he watches Beryl rub Cliff’s back in the drink line, as he watches Cliff kiss the top of Beryl’s head in an art vendor’s station. When Beryl points to the two hugging marshmallows on the side of a truck selling fancy hot cocoa and tells Cliff that it’s them, Ilya contemplates finding the nearest deep fryer and dunking his head inside.
But besides Svetlana, Cliff is Ilya’s closest friend in Boston— hell, one of his closest friends anywhere. Ilya might not have much in common with Beryl, but she’s sweet and enthusiastic and looks at Cliff like he hung the moon.
So Ilya plays along. He tries to have a good time. He gamely offers to carry the bags of artwork that Cliff buys Beryl, politely lets Beryl pass along her friend’s phone number.
“She’s a Pilates instructor!” Beryl gushes. “And she just loves Gemini men!”
Whatever that means.
Eventually, Ilya finds himself blissfully, finally, semi-alone. It’s early evening, and the crowds have thinned. Cliff and Beryl are using the bathroom, and Ilya’s just standing around in front of the few remaining food trucks, thinking about the hot shower he’s going to take and the bowl he’s going to smoke and the pizza he’s going to order the moment he gets home.
Ilya is not thinking about Shane Hollander. He’s not thinking about how he’s probably laid up with that actress right now, not thinking about how she’s probably kissing all his freckles right now, kissing down his belly, kissing that little ticklish spot in the crease of thigh that Ilya used to delude himself into believing that only he knew about. He’s not thinking about them dancing, not thinking about them holding hands at some boring Christmas party in Montreal, not thinking about Shane giving her little sips of his drink or kissing her neck or—
“Yo! Ilya Rozanov!”
Ilya’s so deep in thought that he almost drops Beryl’s bags.
There’s a pimply guy in his late teens hanging out the window of the nearest food truck a couple yards away. The poorly-designed sign on the food truck—Ilya thinks that’s supposed to be a chicken—reads Cluck N Moo.
“Sorry man! Didn’t mean to startle you. Just wanted to wish you good luck before playoff season.”
The guy’s face lights up like he’s just had the best idea in history. He ducks out of view and pops back up with a bundle of black cloth.
“Here! On the house!”
The guy hurls it with surprising accuracy, and Ilya catches it with his free hand before he can even guess at what it is. He opens his mouth to say something (Thank you? No thank you? What the hell did you just throw at me?) but the guy in the food truck is already helping a customer, Ilya completely forgotten.
Ilya just sighs and keeps walking.
Eventually, he finds an empty park bench. Ilya carefully sets down Beryl’s art and lays the crumpled black cloth over the back of the bench.
It’s a t-shirt. An ugly, filthy, wrinkly t-shirt that smells like it’s been rolled in cooking oil and left to bake in the sun. It’s covered in dust, and there’s a faint, grimy outline of a shoeprint near the bottom.
It’s got Cluck N Moo’s logo on the front. It’s the same one emblazoned on the side of the food truck: a poorly-drawn cartoon chicken holding a burger, a poorly-drawn cow holding a chicken wing, and a slightly less poorly drawn guy in a chef hat and apron standing beside them.
Ilya suspects the guy in the food truck might be a Pittsburgh fan.
He’s looking around for a trash can when his eyes land on the little chef on the shirt. Ilya holds the shirt up, narrowing his eyes. It’s not a particular detailed drawing, or particularly impressive, but it’s not without its charms. There’s something kind of sweet about it, kind of—
Ilya feels a cold pit form in his stomach.
Under different circumstances, the fact that the chef has black hair poking out from underneath his hat wouldn’t have bothered him, or the fact that he has brown eyes.
It’s the fact that whoever drew the logo had the bright idea to draw him with black hair, brown eyes, and just a smattering of freckles on his round cheeks.
Alright. Now Ilya really needs to find a trash can.
He finally, mercifully finds one nears the rest rooms and all but sprints to it. He’s going to throw this…biohazard….into the garbage, wash his hands three times with a full quart of soap, and then call a priest to make sure the shirt wasn’t some kind of cursed object sent by Sidney Crosby to throw him off his game ahead of playoffs.
But when as Ilya gets closer, he can’t stop thinking about the shirt rotting in a landfill somewhere, can’t stop thinking about mice and ants and roaches crawling over the little chef’s face, can’t stop thinking about his freckles and smile decaying under mountains of trash.
By the time Ilya reaches the garbage can, he knows he can’t throw it away.
Ilya sighs and looks up at the murky sky.
He used to tease Svetlana when they were kids for assigning all her stuffed animals personalities, for bringing them all to bed with her so their feelings wouldn’t be hurt. But she’d been roughly nine years old. Ilya will be twenty-six next year. What’s his fucking excuse? What could have possibly gotten into him to make him this weak? This soft and stupid and sentimental?
Ilya knows. Of course he does. He’s known ever since the first night he slept with Shane Hollander, when Shane had kissed his face afterwards, soft and kind and gentle, like they’d been together for years, like Ilya was something precious. That night, and every night after, Ilya finally understood how medieval peasants blamed everything from failed crops to plague to unwanted lust on witchcraft. Because whenever Ilya wakes up from dreams of broad shoulders and thick thighs and soft brown eyes, he has to fight the urge to call Shane and yell “what the fuck did you do to me?” into the phone.
Because Shane Hollander is a witch. Clearly. Underneath his wholesome Canadian exterior, he’s some kind of powerful sorcerer in league with the devil, and he’s successfully placed a curse on Ilya. That’s why Ilya feels like he’s dying. That’s why his skin hurts whenever he hears the stupid pop song that played in the cab after their first time. That’s why he feels vaguely nauseous now whenever women run their fingers along his arms in clubs. That’s why he can’t look at dumb, freckled cartoon characters on t-shirts without wanting to cry.
Ilya Rozanov is cursed. He tells himself that in the mirror every morning, every night. Curses wear off, or they’re broken, and one day he’ll be free. One day.
It’s a million times easier for Ilya to tell himself that than to accept the fact that he’s in love with someone who could never love him, someone who Ilya could never have even…even if….
Ilya stares at the little chef. The little chef stares back.
“Fuck my life,” Ilya mutters.
He shakes the shirt out, a cloud of food truck dust billowing out from the fabric. Then he wads it up and stuffs it in his coat pocket before stalking off to go find Cliff.
~
It takes three cycles in the wash to get the stench of grease out of the shirt. When it finally, finally comes out smelling like nothing but detergent, Ilya dries it and tries it on, looking at himself from different angles in his bathroom mirror.
It fits well, shockingly. The guy in the food truck might have bad taste in merchandise, but he guessed Ilya’s size accurately. It hugs his muscular shoulders nicely, but it’s loose enough to wear to bed. The cotton is soft, comfortable.
The little chef is on the left side of Ilya’s chest.
Right over his heart.
Ilya stares at his reflection for a minute, then shakes his head.
“What an idiot you are, Ilya Rozanov,” he mutters in Russian.
Then he shuts the lights off and climbs into bed.
And if his hand curls inward towards the left side of his chest in the dark, if his thumb strokes absently over the little chef’s face in the soft, guiltless moments before sleep takes him…
Well. That’s no one’s business but his own.
~~~~~~~~
September, 2017
There was a time in Ilya’s life where he thought that maybe Shane Hollander had him under some kind of spell. It’s silly to think about now, downright laughable.
Because now Ilya knows beyond shadow of a doubt that Shane absolutely has him under a spell. There’s no cure for it, unfortunately. It’s chronic, permanent, something Ilya’s going to be stuck with for the rest of his life.
Fortunately, Ilya has absolutely no interest in being saved.
Fortunately, Ilya is the happiest he’s ever been in his entire life.
Fortunately, Ilya is in love with someone who loves him back, someone who woke him out of a dead sleep roughly two months ago with a plan to spend the rest of their lives together.
After the better part of a decade, Shane Hollander is finally, finally his.
It’s just that being Shane’s boyfriend (god, his boyfriend) doesn’t make the distance any easier. Ever since the cottage, Ilya’s felt like a werewolf. A happy, besotted werewolf, but a werewolf nonetheless. The hungry, ravenous thing inside him that scratches at the walls and demands to sink its teeth into Shane and Shane alone hasn’t been tamed a bit by them being together. The late-night phone calls, the “I love you” texts, the sleepy, bedhead selfies Shane sends him? They make Ilya’s day, but they only make him crazier.
And he’s jealous. God, Ilya’s never been more jealous in his life.
He’s jealous of the Montreal sunshine that gets to touch Shane’s face in the morning. Jealous of his teammates that get to spar with him during off-season workouts and laugh with him afterwards. Jealous of that ankle biter Hayden Pike for getting to be there for Shane twenty-four seven. Jealous of anyone that gets to hold a piece of Shane every day when Ilya has to wait to gorge himself.
The only thing that makes it all bearable are times like this.
It’s September, the last week before the start of pre-seasons, and Ilya’s on the way to pick Shane up from the airport.
They’ve planned this for weeks. They’ve seen each other twice since the cottage: Ilya’s been up to Montreal for a single weekend, and they saw each other briefly in New York while shooting a promo for the 2017 season.
This is the first time since the previous season that Shane’s been to Ilya’s place. This time, they get five days together. This time, Shane will get to meet Svetlana. They’ll get to go out to dinner on Friday, just the three of them. Their rivalry in the public eye is, if not dead, then old news, and it’ll make their eventual story about the Irina Foundation growing out of an unlikely friendship more believable if they’re actually seen in public being friendly with a beautiful woman.
And the for the last bright, sweet days of summer, Ilya will have Shane to himself. He’ll get a taste of what life will be like after retirement, of what waits for them if they make it.
And they will make it, Ilya thinks to himself as he merges onto the highway, as he rolls the window down and lets the wind lift the curls off the back of his neck. They’ve only been together—really together—since July, and there’s no way of knowing what challenges they’re going to face over the next decade, no way of knowing just how hard things will be once the season starts.
But they’ll make it. Ilya just knows it. He’ll bend and shape the universe with his bare hands to make it so. Ilya’s fought and bled and worked himself to the bone for things that mattered so much less than the honor of loving Shane Hollander.
~~~~~
Ilya know’s he’s fucked the moment he pulls up to the terminal and sees Shane holding his duffel bag.
On paper, Shane’s dressed like any other twenty-six-year-old man during a Boston summer. Outside of his brand deals, he’s not a man who particularly cares about wearing his wealth on his back. He’s dressed in a plain green t-shirt, his old man loafers, and a pair of cargo shorts that could’ve come from any Target in the western hemisphere.
Ilya has seen Shane Hollander naked. Ilya has been inside Shane. Ilya has folded Shane into shapes that could probably get him guaranteed employment at his favorite pretzel shop downtown if the whole hockey thing doesn’t work out. There’s no reason he should be affected by Shane wearing Old Navy’s finest.
But when Shane slides into his car, he twists at the waist, hoisting his suitcase into the back seat, and Ilya catches a sliver of Shane’s lower belly as his shirt lifts just the tiniest bit. Shane’s shorts are a just a hair shorter than any of the ones Ilya’s seen him in, and he can see where the deep, burnished tan of his powerful legs fades towards his upper thighs, where the skin is softer, paler, begging to be kissed.
His world suddenly narrows down to two crucial, all-consuming goals: get home without ambushing Shane in broad daylight, and call Yuna to discuss getting Shane a sponsorship with the Russian Orthodox church. Something where he has to contractually wear the long, flowing robes that the bishops wear anytime he’s not in hockey gear, instead of this…this…lingerie.
Ilya white-knuckles the steering wheel all the way home, eyes glued to the highway as he asks Shane a thousand banal questions about his flight (Was there turbulence? Did you get something to eat? Anyone recognize you?), and he thinks he’s doing a pretty good job of keeping it together until he feels Shane’s big, warm hand on his bicep.
“Hey,” Shane says softly.
Ilya looks at him dead on for the first time time since he got in the car.
“Relax, Ilya,” Shane says with a broad smile. “It’s just me, you know.”
To someone less attuned to the many smiles of one Shane Hollander, it would probably seem like a sweet, comforting gesture, and it is.
But Ilya sees the way Shane’s smile stretches just a little too wide, the way his eyes are a little too bright, sees the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the flush on his neck.
Shane’s just as hungry as Ilya.
The air in the car immediately thickens. If this was a nature documentary, there’d be loud, suspenseful drums in the background, the scores they use when two rhinos stamp the ground and prepare to charge at each other, or when an orca circles a great white shark (Ilya watches a lot of wildlife videos while he smokes).
My god, he thinks. They’re going to eat each other alive. In a week, Shane’s parents will file a missing person’s report, and Boston PD will barge into Ilya’s empty apartment and find nothing but two wet spots and a pair of ugly loafers.
If Ilya had even a little more presence of mind, he’d crack a joke. But his brain’s donated most of its blood to his poor neglected dick, and he wants Shane so badly he’s almost nauseous.
So Ilya takes Shane’s hand, laces their fingers together, and—after a quick side-to-side glance to make sure there aren’t any cars beside them—kisses Shane’s knuckles.
“Not just you, Shane Hollander,” Ilya says quietly. “Never just you.”
~~~~
They barely make it into the foyer.
Ilya insists on carrying Shane’s gigantic duffle bag to the front door for him like a gracious host, then realizes his keys are in his left pocket, currently pinned down by the bag’s bulk. Shane tries to tug it off his shoulder with one hand while he rubs Ilya’s lower back with the other, even as he nervously checks to make sure no one’s watching them from the road.
“Stop breathing so heavy,” Ilya mutters, finally getting the keys out and frantically trying to jam them into the lock, fumbling like a girl in a horror movie.
“Then hurry up,” Shane hisses. “Feel like I’m gonna die if I don’t get my hands on—“
The door finally unlocks, swings open, and a force like a bullet train shoves Ilya inside.
Ilya doesn’t even remember he has a physical body—doesn’t even remember his own name—until Shane’s had his tongue down Ilya’s throat and Ilya’s had his hand down the front of Shane’s pants for god knows how long. They’re careening all over the foyer, a tangle of limbs and teeth, both of them trying to shove the other against a wall but both of them being too strong—too lovesick, too desperate to crawl into each other’s skin—to fully yield.
Ilya doesn’t even remember that he’s still got Shane’s duffle bag slung over his shoulder until he trips.
Ilya’s not sure how it happens—maybe he tripped over Shane’s foot, maybe Shane started falling first and dragged Ilya down with him—but one second he’s upright, the next minute they’re both sprawled on a heap on top of Shane’s duffle bag.
“Fuck!” Ilya instinctively reaches for Shane, untangling his arm from the bag’s straps. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Shane hops to his feet and extends a hand to Ilya, yanking him up too. “You good?”
“Think I cut my lip.” Ilya puckers up. “You’ll have to make it—“
Horror suddenly shoots across Shane’s face.
“Fuck, the wine!”
Shane drops to his knees and frantically unzips his bag, considerably flattened from two two-hundred pound men falling on it. Ilya kneels beside him.
“The wine?”
“Yeah.” Shane opens the tops flap and pushes aside the top layer of clothes. “My mom was telling me about this red wine she and my dad had at their anniversary dinner and I wanted to bring you—ah!”
Shane victoriously lifts up the unbroken, sturdily padded bottle with a grin just as Ilya notices the pale, creamy liquid smeared on some of Shane’s packed clothes. Shane notices it almost immediately after, and his face falls.
“Ah, shit,” Shane reaches in and pulls out a half-empty bottle with a cracked cap.
Shane’s always had dry, easily-irritated skin that gets painfully chapped in the cold months. He’s mostly managed it his whole life through a no-frills routine of sunscreen, the same cleanser his mom uses, and a healthy layer of Aquaphor. The one fussy product he really uses is this shower lotion from some ludicrously expensive hot spring spa in Iceland.
Without a word, Ilya scoops the suitcase up, places it on his hip, grabs the leaking bottle from Shane and heads off to the laundry room.
“Wait, Ilya?” Shan following him down the the hallway, right on his heels. “What are you—“
Ilya drops the lotion into the trash. Then, as swiftly and efficiently as a factory machine, he scoops up handful after handful of Shane’s clothes, examines the material—all colors, low-maintenance fabrics, nothing that requires special care like silk or wool, some of the pieces smeared with lotion, but not all—and drops them all into the washer. When Shane sees Ilya unzip the suitcase’s side pocket and dump even the decidedly unscathed socks and underwear into the drum, he lets out an indignant squawk.
“What the hell, Ilya? Those didn’t have lotion on them—“
“They were all contaminated,” Ilya says mildly as he pours detergent into the machine and starts the wash. “They all stank like the airport.” Ilya leans into the side of Shane’s neck, inhales dramatically, then clucks his tongue.
“You smell like Boston Logan, too,” Ilya says, smiling with all of his teeth. “Go take a shower. You can wear something of mine for tonight, and your clothes will be clean and dry by the time we finish dinner.”
Shane just stares at Ilya‘s smug, beaming face for a second before sighing, somewhere between exasperated and amused.
“If you just wanted me to wear your clothes tonight, all you had to do was ask, pervert.” He lifts a chin towards the trash can, big arms folded over his chest. “Wished you hadn’t thrown that out. There was still some left. That’s the only—“
“The only lotion that helps your poor dry skin without making you feel greasy all day? Yes, I know.” Ilya leans back against the washer, his shit-eating grin even bigger now. “I have a couple bottles of it in the bathroom now. You can keep one here for next time and take the other one home.”
Besides a near truckload of ginger ale, it was one of the first things Ilya stocked up on after the cabin.
Ilya expects Shane to laugh and roll his eyes. Instead, Shane blinks for a second and blushes bright red.
His smile is soft, fond.
“That’s really sweet of you.” Shane walks over and wraps his arms around Ilya, kissing his cheek.
“Mmm.” Ilya bends and kisses the side of Shane’s neck. “No need to thank me. I know how to take care of old men. I have a very cruel, ancient boyfriend who forces me to cook for him and do his laundry and rub cream on his wrinkly skin.”
Shane—who is exactly five weeks older than Ilya—groans and makes a half-hearted attempt to push Ilya off, but Ilya just tightens his arms and nips at the soft skin of Shane’s throat. Shane shudders and melts against Ilya.
“And this boyfriend, you see, is a very mean man.” Ilya presses sloppy kisses against the place where Shane’s shoulder meets his neck, and he snakes a hand underneath Shane’s shirt, lays a hand flat against his belly, feels the rapid rise and fall of his breath. “After I have cleaned the house from top to bottom, he drags me to his bedroom and forces me to satisfy every—“
Shane gives Ilya’s ass a sharp, swift pinch, and Ilya yelps. Shane backs away, grinning smugly.
“Very funny,” Shane says, “but you said I smell like the Boston Logan airport. So…”
Shane leans against the doorframe, adjusting his shirt from where Ilya pulled it up.
“I’m gonna go take a shower, and maybe after dinner I’ll let you kiss my feet or something.”
Ilya slumps dramatically onto the washer and groans.
“I bet Scott Hunter doesn’t treat his child bride this badly.”
Shane just laughs and heads upstairs.
~
As Ilya finishes tossing a quick salad together in the kitchen, he hears the running water shut off upstairs, and a maniac’s smile spreads across his face. He can’t help it.
He can see it in his mind’s eye: Shane padding in from the shower to Ilya’s bedroom, running one of Ilya’s dark green towels over his neck and back and shoulders, shaking his head like a dog to dry his hair a little bit. He can see Shane’s tan lines, the wet little clumps of hair at the nape of his neck, the way the light catches on the stray water droplets still clinging to his skin, the way he chews at his bottom lip as he looks for the drawer Ilya keeps his sweats in.
Ilya feels ravenous. He’d felt almost evil the first time he’d dressed Shane in his clothes last year, the first time he’d cooked for him, like some horrible spider wrapping up a butterfly in silk, fattening it for the kill. He knew he didn’t deserve Shane, knew if he held him too close or wanted too much he’d just infect him with the rot that lived beneath Ilya’s skin, knew it was only a matter of time before Shane realized what Ilya was and ran.
And he’d been right. Shane had run that afternoon, eyes cold and dark and scared, and the single, sick source of pleasure in all of Ilya’s heartache had been that Shane had left wearing Ilya’s clothes. He’d probably tossed them in the trash or burned them or cut them up the moment he’d gotten home, but he’d left with a piece of him. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.
There’s no guilt in Ilya’s heart tonight, no shame or grief.
But there’s greed. Ilya’s always had eyes too big for his stomach in basically every aspect of life, but not when it comes to Shane.
Yes, Ilya thinks to himself as he hears Shane’s footsteps upstairs. Wear my clothes and eat the food I make for you and shower with my soap and brush your teeth with my toothpaste, let me take care of you, let me taste and see and feel and smell that you belong to me.
Okay, he should probably calm himself down before he turns the stove on.
Shane insisted on helping Ilya with the carbonara tonight (probably so he could make sure Ilya really did use the protein-enriched spaghetti noodles) so Ilya just putters around the kitchen while he waits: gets some of the the dry ingredients out, sets Shane’s wine out, pokes his head in the fridge to check on the tiramisu that’s been chilling since the previous night. He’s setting the table when he hears Shane’s footsteps approaching the kitchen.
“There you are,” Ilya says, setting out the last of the silverware as he turns around. “I was just—“
The words die in Ilya’s throat the moment he lays eyes on Shane.
Shane’s barefoot, his hair still damp from his shower, cheeks still rosy. He’s wearing soft, worn cut-off sweats, the ones that are too comfortable for Ilya to consider throwing away despite the fact that he owns other sweatpants that cost as much as most people’s car payments.
Shane’s wearing the Cluck N Moo shirt, the little chef’s freckled face proudly emblazoned on his left pectoral.
For a second, Ilya just stares at Shane, dumbstruck. Shane’s eyebrows furrow.
“Ilya, are you okay?” Shane takes a careful step forward. “You look kind of…”
Ilya’s mouth works soundlessly around empty air. No words come, so he just reaches out, beckoning Shane forward.
Shane goes to him immediately. The moment he’s in reach, Ilya’s slips one hand underneath the hem the shirt, resting it on Shane’s hip. The other hand rests on his bicep, pinches the sleeve between his thumb and forefinger.
If he weren’t touching Shane right now, Ilya’s not sure he’d believe that he’s real.
They’re almost the same height and weight, with slightly different builds. Shane’s a little bigger, beefier than usual: he likes to bulk up a bit during the off season, packing on muscle before leaning out at the start of fall. It makes Ilya’s mouth water to see how the material stretches over Shane’s shoulders and chest, makes him relieved to see how strong and healthy and good Shane looks after his injury the previous winter.
Unfortunately, seeing Shane in this ugly, worn-out shirt also makes Ilya want to cry. He can’t help it.
Shane’s hands go up to cup Ilya’s face.
“Hey,” he says softly, brown eyes wide with concern. “Ilya, what’s wrong?”
Nothing’s wrong. It’s just that Shane Hollander’s standing here in his kitchen, barefoot and dressed in Ilya’s softest, ugliest clothes, ready to help him cook dinner. It’s just that, after nearly a decade, after so much pain and heartache and distance, Shane Hollander is here in Ilya’s kitchen, looking at him with such obvious love and care and worry. It’s just that, after everything Ilya’s done over the years to deter Shane from loving him, Shane’s stubbornly, doggedly refused to stop.
It’s just that Ilya kept that stupid, ugly t-shirt—wore it by himself in his big empty house, wore it smoking on his balcony, wore it to sleep, packed it with him when he went back to Russia for his father’s funeral—because he thought that little chef might be the only bit of Shane he ever got to keep.
And he was wrong. God, he’s never been more grateful to be wrong in his life.
“Nothing’s wrong.” Ilya’s voice is thick and rough, choked with emotion. “That’s just the ugliest shirt I’ve ever seen.”
Shane’s mouth drops open, and then he laughs incredulously.
“It’s your shirt, asshole.” He gives Ilya a playful shove. “What the fuck was it doing in your drawer if you hate it so much?”
“I don’t hate it. It’s my favorite shirt.”
Shane just blinks at him for a second, then arches a brow, waiting for Ilya to explain.
After a beat of silence, Ilya laughs softly, ruefully, shaking his head.
Ah, well. What’s the point of being in love if you can’t embarrass yourself in front of your boyfriend every now and then?
“I got it last December,” Ilya explains. “Weird teenager in a food truck threw it at me. I was going to throw it away, but…”
Ilya taps the little chef’s face.
“The chef looks like you, so I kept it to wear around the house.”
“What?” Shane tugs the fabric away from his body so he can get a closer look. “It doesn’t look like—“
Shane cocks his head, chewing on his lower lip.
“Well, maybe a little bit.”
Then Shane’s head snaps up.
“Wait!” Shane’s grinning now. “Last December…you mean while I was—“
Ilya groans and wraps his arms around Shane in a vice grip, pulling them flush. He buries his face in Shane’s shoulder.
“Yes, Hollander, while you were with Rose Landry. I missed you and cried into my pillow all day long like a little girl. Is that what you want to hear?” Ilya peppers kisses all along Shane’s shoulder, then he puckers his lips and tries to plant a big, smacking kiss to Shane’s mouth, but Shane just laughs and jerks his chin away.
“Yes, go ahead and laugh.” Ilya can’t keep the grin off his face as Shane wriggles in his arms. “Laugh at your poor, handsome boyfriend for missing you. Very embarrassing, I know.”
“It’s not embarrassing!” Shane finally frees his arms and grabs Ilya’s face in his hands, smushing Ilya’s cheeks. “It’s the greatest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Ilya just wrinkles his nose and sticks his tongue out.
“It’s a little embarrassing, I think.”
“Oh my god, Ilya,” Shane rolls his eyes. “It’s not any more embarrassing than me keeping your clothes from the first time I came here.”
Ilya’s heart skips a beat.
“Wait, you kept my clothes? You never told me this?” Ilya releases Shane. “I didn’t see you wear them when I came to Montreal last month?”
“Yeah, well…” Shane’s hands slide around to Ilya’s ass, patting it like a melon at the grocery store. “Neither of us wore that many clothes that weekend until we had to go visit my parents. Don’t know if you remember.”
Well, Ilya can’t argue with that.
“And you wore my clothes a lot?” Ilya sticks his hand up the back of Shane’s shirt, lightly scratching up the notches of his spine the way he knows Shane likes. “Wore them to Rose Landry’s house, maybe?”
“Don’t be weird,” Shane chides, but there’s no heat to it. “But yeah, I wore them around the house a lot. I made sure I kept them clean and everything. I thought…I thought maybe you’d want them back one day, and we…”
Shane trails off, shrugging, but Ilya reads everything unsaid in those dark eyes.
And we could see each other again.
And there’s that lump in Ilya’s throat again.
Ilya touches his forehead to Shane’s, rubs the tips of their noses together.
“I love you,” Ilya says softly. “Thank you for keeping them.”
Thank you for keeping me, Ilya means. Thank you for believing we would have another chance at this.
“I love you too,” Shane replies, and oh, there’s that little shake in his sweet voice. “I…I missed you so fucking much, Ilya.”
And, of course, Ilya knows Shane’s not just talking about this summer.
Ilya kisses Shane’s forehead, breathes in the sweet, clean scent of his hair, and just holds him for a little while. They stand together, safe in each other’s arms, safe in Ilya’s warm, bright kitchen.
Ilya knows it’s this moment he’ll return to in the thick of the season, on the dark nights when he stares at the ceiling in his bedroom, wishing with all his heart that he could teleport to Montreal and fall asleep with Shane’s head on his chest.
“Just so you know,” Ilya finally murmurs. “I never would have made it easy for you to return my clothes.”
“No?”
“Never.” Ilya says softly, stroking the curve of Shane’s jaw. “I would have claimed you tried to give me the wrong clothes back, and then I would have dragged you to small claims court so you would have to deal with me for months.”
Shane snorts and opens his mouth to say something, but Ilya seizes his chance and surges forward, kissing Shane with all his might.
It’s slower than the frantic grappling from the foyer, deeper. It doesn’t feel like the first, frenzied drink at the oasis after wandering in the desert anymore.
No, for the next few days, Ilya gets the oasis all to himself, and he plans on enjoying every single second.
Starting now.
Shane sighs and slips his tongue into Ilya’s mouth, gripping Ilya’s ass and slowly, firmly rolling his pelvis against Ilya’s front. He’s hard already, getting harder by the second, and it makes the hungry, howling thing inside Ilya gnash its teeth.
“Ilya,” Shane whispers against Ilya’s mouth, his voice broken and strained as he fumbles with the button on Ilya’s shorts. “Sweetheart, touch me—“
And then Ilya’s scooping Shane up, hands cradling his thighs, and carrying him to the living room, still kissing him, still tilting his head at just the right angle to lick deep into Shane’s mouth.
Fuck, it’s such a rush to be able to do this, to be strong enough to carry the greatest hockey player in history in his arms, to know that Shane trusts him enough to never let him fall.
“Dessert before dinner, I think?” Ilya murmurs against the hinge of Shane’s jaw as they reach the couch.
“Fuck, yes,” Shane breathes. “Need your mouth on me. God, it’s been so long—“
Ilya drops Shane onto the couch and kneels between his spread legs. Shane immediately grabs the neck of his borrowed shirt and makes to pull it up over his head, but Ilya reaches up, bats his hands away.
“No,” Ilya says. “Let me just—“
He pushes the hem of the shirt up, up, then pulls the neck up over Shane’s head. Ilya tucks the entire thing behind Shane’s neck, leaving Shane’s arms still in the sleeves. It looks almost like a makeshift harness, the black fabric framing Shane’s shoulders and his full pecs, the flush climbing his throat, the freckles dotting his chest and collarbones like stars.
“So beautiful,” Ilya murmurs, desire and gratitude and love making his accent heavier. His hands trail from Shane’s face to his chest, squeezing appreciatively before petting over his stomach. “Most beautiful man on earth. All for me…”
Shane surges forward and kisses Ilya, tugging at his curls, and Ilya presses himself against Shane, kisses a trail down his body to the bulge in Shane’s sweatpants. Shane lifts his hips—the sweetest, softest whimper escaping him as he does. Ilya pulls them down, and Shane’s dick springs out, red and hard and weeping, the tip glistening in the low light. Ilya gives Shane a slow, careful stroke, thumb swirling over the slit, before swallowing him down.
It’s quick work from there. Ilya’s more concerned with giving Shane some relief than making it last. That will come later. Tomorrow morning, Ilya will kiss Shane awake and give him four orgasms before they even get out of bed for breakfast. Tomorrow, Ilya will cradle Shane in his arms as the sun peeks in their window and kiss his face and call him lyubimyy, solnyshko, kotik, and a thousand other golden, gentle words he’s never said to anyone else.
But for now, Ilya makes it fast and slick and hungry, hollowing his cheeks and curling his tongue against the underside of Shane’s dick just the way he likes. He reaches up, palms Shane’s left pectoral, thumb worrying at his nipple, and Shane releases his iron grip in Ilya’s hair to cover his hand with his own.
It’s almost no time at all before Shane’s coming down Ilya’s throat, bucking helplessly into Ilya’s mouth, head thrown back over the edge of the sofa as he swears at the ceiling. Ilya swallows all of him and licks him clean, mindlessly kissing Shane’s lower belly and inner thighs and the soft thatch of hair between his legs as he recovers.
And then suddenly Ilya’s being yanked up and pushed back against the couch. Shane crushes their mouths together, licks into Ilya’s mouth before sliding down to plant his knees on the carpet.
And Shane looks…fuck, he looks like an angel, pupils blown wide and lips flushed dark red. Ilya reaches down, gently cupping Shane’s chin and fitting the tip of his pointer finger in the wide valley of Shane’s cupid’s bow, just because he can. Shane immediately parts his lips and sucks Ilya’s thumb into his mouth, looking up at him with dark, starving eyes as he swirls his tongue around it.
Ilya thinks that he’s maybe the luckiest man in human history since the first caveman that found out what to do with his opposable thumbs.
He comes about a minute later, one leg over Shane’s shoulder, one hand in Shane’s silky hair. Ilya shudders through his orgasm, and Shane keeps sucking the head of Ilya’s dick until Ilya yanks Shane up onto the couch with him. Ilya kisses him, and he tastes himself, tastes Shane, tastes home.
They lie together on the couch as the stripes of late afternoon sunlight coming in from between the blinds fades completely, Shane’s head tucked underneath Ilya’s chin.
“We should probably start dinner,” Shane says, pressing his face deeper into Ilya’s neck and making no move to get up.
“Yes, probably,” Ilya agrees, locking his arms around Shane, planting kisses to his mussed hair, “when I’m ready to let you up.”
They do eventually cook dinner, and the protein pasta only makes the carbonara taste sort of weird. The tiramisu is much better, and so is the wine. They wash the dishes, and then they’re back on the couch, Ilya lying on top of Shane this time. Ilya lets Shane choose a movie, and Shane picks The Empire Strikes Back (when called upon to choose a movie, Shane almost always chooses Star Wars, and Ilya has no idea what to make of that), but it’s mostly just background noise. They lie there, Ilya’s head on Shane’s chest, warm and fed and happy, talking about everything: the start of the upcoming season, the home renovation projects David is driving Yuna crazy with, the exciting Swedish rookie that Montreal is onboarding, Svetlana’s new job, the still-nascent plans for the Irina Foundation. Eventually, Shane starts to yawn a little. Beneath Ilya’s cheek, the rise and fall of Shane’s chest starts to slow. Then, shortly after Han Solo gets frozen into a gigantic trophy, Ilya looks up to find Shane fast asleep, the light of the television casting strange colors over that perfect, angelic face.
Ilya knows he should go ahead and wake Shane up so they can move to Ilya’s bed, and he will.
But if Ilya lingers for a few minutes, if he presses his ear to Shane’s chest —right over the little chef on Shane’s borrowed t-shirt—to listen to the heartbeat of the man he loves for just a little while longer?
Well, that’s no one’s business but his own.