Chapter Text
i was a dreamer and a lover and i loved how you tasted
—
Shane Hollander has designed his entire life around his impeccable ability to be in control of all things at all times.
Every success he’s ever had can be traced back to it—this inherent part of him that has come long before anything else. Even before hockey.
He has a very clear memory from twenty-two years ago, when he had just turned five, vacationing on Wasaga beach with his parents. He sat at the edge of their blanket, carefully filling a bucket with sand and building perfectly symmetrical castles in a neat row along the border. When one leaned slightly to the left, or another came out taller than the rest, he would knock it down and start again.
There was another boy there, a little older than him, who wandered over and snatched the bucket straight from his hands.
At five, Shane was as reserved as he is now at twenty-seven, but one look from Yuna Hollander told him exactly what he needed to do.
He climbed to his small feet, eyebrows drawn together, and marched over to the boy. Then he grabbed the bucket, yanked it back with surprising force, and pushed the boy into the sand.
“Mine,” he said.
Today, Shane still likes things his way—he’s not a fan of surprises and has a tendency to view any obstacle (whether it be miniscule or massive) as a problem to be solved immediately on his own rather than accepted.
But the only difference is that at five years old, his problem had been a mean boy and a stolen bucket.
At twenty-seven, his problem comes in the form of a strained hip flexor and an orthopedic specialist who has just informed Shane that he cannot—by any means—skate for the next four weeks.
It hit Shane in the chest the moment the specialist said it, layering fresh frustration over the lingering, leftover frustration that came from Montreal not making it into the playoffs and ending their season early.
“Nothing’s torn. Nothing’s broken. You’re lucky,” he’d told Shane. “But if you don’t take this break now, you’ll turn what could be an eight-week recovery into a six-month problem. Or longer.”
His specialist went on to recommend this very fantastic and wonderful experience called Halcyon Retreat. He handed Shane a pamphlet with the words printed in soft calligraphy and an electric-blue and orange bird staring back at him (with a very, very long beak that left Shane feeling unnerved even though it might have been meant to do the opposite).
“It’s private, not open to the public,” his specialist continued. “A lot of people in the league go. They get a lot of MLB players, too, after injuries take them out for the season. Celebrities and such.”
“I know you like yoga,” he added, when Shane didn’t come off as very impressed. “I saw it on your special on TV.”
But that was three weeks ago. Now, Shane finds himself face-to-face with the same bird on the pamphlet, but much, much larger, beneath a sign that reads welcome to halcyon retreat - leave your armor at the gate, immediately after moving past security and thanking his driver.
The first thing he sees beyond the sign is the lake—Okanagan—calm beneath the warm light coming from the waxing crescent that sits high above it. It’s late—after midnight—and after almost six hours on a plane and another forty minutes in the back of a car, Shane is exhausted.
There are several rows of cabins lined diagonally just a few feet away from the lake itself, some with warm lights glowing from inside, others dimmed nearly black. Through some of the lit windows, Shane catches fragments of movement, giving just the faintest suggestion of life behind the glass, despite the silence that surrounds him.
Shane had spoken to the retreat director earlier in the week, explaining that he probably wouldn’t arrive until very late, likely to miss the full first day. Svetlana—the director—sounded warm and kind over the phone while sharing with him his cabin number and the code he would need to get inside.
“We can’t wait to meet you, Shane Hollander,” she’d said in a very soft Russian accent.
He’d been assigned Cabin 1410—the very last cabin of its row, closest to the edge of the lake. There’s enough distance between each cabin to offer a sense of privacy, tucked apart from one another beneath the trees instead of crowded together. Cabin 1410 is maybe a quarter the size of Shane’s cottage (where he would kind of much rather be for the summer) but it’s nice; cedarwood maybe, Shane thinks, and soft lighting and the kind of quiet simplicity that he might need after months of being between the road and home during the season.
Once inside, he’s hit with the type of silence that only comes from being in nature. The windows of the cabin are cracked slightly open, inviting in the sounds from outside. He hears the rustles of trees moving in the breeze, the way the water from the lake laps quietly against the edge, and crickets humming somewhere beyond it all. The sounds of early summer.
It’s nothing like the noise he’s grown used to in hotel rooms across major cities, in the places where silence like this doesn’t exist, swallowed by traffic and sirens and endless movement—all the things that makes him pretty anxious, yet he has no escape from for more than half of the year.
But this is, Shane thinks, similar to his cottage. At least a little.
After settling his bags down beside the bed, he feels suddenly awake, a strange rush washing over him as he allows himself a moment to accept that he decided to do this, to give up thirty days of his summer to…leave his armor at the gate? To be face-to-face with an unsettling bird? He looks at the bed and shakes his head, pulls a sweatshirt over his head, and slips out of his cabin, deciding that sleep is very likely not on the agenda.
Because it’s so late, there is a darkness that swallows much of the area around his cabin. Still, he finds himself walking along the edge of the lake, watching his feet as they follow the shoreline.
The sound of movement, suddenly, catches his attention.
He slows to a stop, glances up, and notices a gazebo not far away from where he’s standing. It sits slightly elevated above the ground with warm fairy lights (the type one might expect to find at a yoga and mindfulness retreat) wrapped around the beams overhead and the columns supporting it. Against the darkness of the late night, it glows, like a small pocket of light tucked beside the dark lake.
But it isn’t the warmth or glow that holds his attention.
It’s what Shane sees in the center of the gazebo.
He has to blink twice, squinting into the darkness, because he’s almost certain there is an upside down man. Taking another quiet step forward, he confirms that the man is, in fact, balancing on his head.
His forearms brace against the deep gray mat beneath him, golden curls spilled around like a resting halo. His body forms one long, powerful line, toes pointed toward the top of the gazebo. He is impossibly still. Steady as stone. Strong.
Then, to Shane’s amazement, the man moves.
It’s not abrupt. It’s not with any noticeable effort. No—instead, he unfolds like water, arching backward until his toes find the ground behind him. A breath later, he presses up onto his hands, lifting from his forearms with ease that seems fucking impossible, and suddenly he is a bridge—body curved between earth and sky and illuminated by the most breathtaking strands of golden light. Shane thinks the sun might be coming out, for only a moment.
It steals the breath from Shane’s lungs.
The thing is, Shane knows yoga.
He knows the stretches trainers have him do after practices. He knows the slow and familiar flows meant to loosen his tight hips and aching muscles. He knows downward dogs and warriors and folds and such.
But he doesn’t really know this.
He genuinely doesn’t know how someone can move like their body just absolutely belongs to water instead of earth.
As though the man made of water can sense that he is being watched, he effortlessly lifts himself back onto his feet, upright, and Shane can finally see his face clearly.
And all of the things—upside down, bridge, water—it’s all dismantled in front of Shane until he is left in nothing but awe.
Having been caught, Shane closes the small space between himself and the gazebo, nervous hands reaching out to hold onto one of the columns.
“Sorry,” is the first word to leave his lips, “I don’t mean to interrupt.”
Shane is grateful to have something supporting his body, because he kind of feels his knees buckle when the man makes eye contact with him for the first time.
Because Shane has spent years surrounded by beautiful people—professional athletes, models, actors, men and women who sometimes seem genetically engineered to stop strangers in their tracks. But—
But Shane is certain, sure, absolutely fucking positive that none of them have ever looked like this.
This, Shane thinks, is why writers spend entire lifetimes trying to describe beauty and never quite succeed.
“You do not need to be sorry,” the man returns gently.
His accent, thick Russian—like Svetlana, from the phone call, but deeper—touches the space between them. It sends shivers down Shane’s spine.
He steps closer to where Shane is standing, just on the outside of the gazebo, and he smiles. It’s soft, gentle, like the most delicate and beautiful thing that Shane maybe has ever seen. He is drawn immediately to the dip on his upper lip, incredulous to the thought that he is standing before a real life, human person.
As though waking from a trance, Shane shakes himself slightly and looks back at the man, still watching him, lips still pulled up in a small, soft smile.
“You are okay?”
The question kind of shakes something inside of Shane, in a way unexplainable. It’s simple. Polite, even. But for one fleeting moment, he suddenly has the urge to say no, not really, there’s too much happening inside of my brain at all times and I have no way to put it into words and no one to really say them to, anyway, and now I’m here, somewhere I don’t know, and I’m not entirely sure what to do, but he swallows it all down quickly.
“Yes, I—” Shane pauses. Breathes. “That was impressive.”
The man is smiling again, this time more intentional. Vibrant.
“Ah,” he leans against the column now, hip dangerously close to where Shane’s fingers rest. “Thank you.”
Shane glances down to that space—where hip almost meets fingertips—and has to swallow down many unholy thoughts. The skin of the man’s hip is exposed because of the top he wears—this washed blue-gray cross between a sweatshirt and a muscle tee—has a subtly cropped hem that draws attention to the narrow line of his waist.
Shane nods once, a small smile in return and a dry mouth. “I’m sorry, I’ll—I’ll let you get back to it.”
As he makes his first move to slip away, the man reaches out, fingertips grazing against Shane’s. “I did not see you today.”
Shane takes a breath and ignores the way his heart jumps beneath the skin on his chest.
“Traveling here was a little crazy,” he says. “I just got here maybe twenty minutes ago.”
“Ah,” the man says. “I would be polite, ask your name, but I do already know you, Shane Hollander.”
It surprises him more than it should, probably. Standing before this golden man, who seems to glow and shine from the elevated gazebo above him, makes him forget that he is anything special at that moment. He almost, for a moment, wants to ask him, how do you know me? from another life? was I golden there, like you, too?
But instead, he shifts on his feet and asks, “Fan of the Metros?”
Something moves over the man’s eyes—something Shane can’t quite name—and he smiles again, eyes traveling over his face carefully.
“I can be honest or I can be kind. You choose.”
Shane grins. “Can you be both?”
The man smiles again. “I can try. But not after midnight. Never after midnight.”
Shane breathes out a laugh. “Fair.”
He knows he should walk away now, return the golden man to his serenity of flowing in the light made by fairies and a waxing crescent, but feels as though he’s superglued to the ground beneath his feet, preventing him from moving away, from doing anything that isn’t standing right here, looking at this man some more.
The man looks at him for a long moment, brows pulling together neatly. His gaze catches on Shane’s lips for a fraction of a second before lifting again, and for some reason Shane feels it all the way down his spine.
Then, the man asks, “Why Halcyon?”
“My hip,” Shane says. “I fucked it up at the end of the season. My specialist recommended this place. Maybe for healing, but I think more as a distraction so that I don’t go against his rules.”
The man nods toward the bottom half of Shane’s body. “Which hip?”
“Right side,” Shane says, hand drifting absentmindedly to the most tender spot.
The man’s gaze follows the movement.
Shane doesn’t even have time to register what’s happening before the man is hopping off the gazebo so that he is standing just before Shane. He is even more gorgeous up close, Shane thinks, and before he can think much else like oh, those lips, the curve of that jaw, the warmth of soft skin, the man is reaching out and then, to Shane’s dismay, pauses.
“Can I?”
Shane, because he is at a loss for words and because he suddenly realizes he would probably let this man do anything, only nods.
The man’s hand settles over his hip, replacing Shane’s own. His palm is warm through the thin fabric of his sweatshirt, fingers spread carefully over the spot that hurt the most. He presses lightly.
“Here?”
Shane sucks in a breath. “Yes.”
The man hums, like music, and moves his fingers to try another spot. “Here?”
Shane shakes his head. “Not so bad.”
He shifts again and meets his eyes when Shane breathes in an even deeper breath. Fuck.
“There it is,” the man says.
Shane is unsure what to do with all of the different things flowing within him and throughout him—the dull ache in his hip collides strangely with the warmth of the stranger’s hand, creating a feeling he can’t quite name. It settles somewhere. Deep and unfamiliar.
He wants to reach for the man from the moment he pulls his hand away, but grounds himself and shifts on his feet instead.
“I can’t skate for another month,” Shane says. “Or do any real training or movement that I need.”
“And you hate that,” the man says, like he knows, like he can see inside of Shane.
“Yes,” Shane breathes out a laugh. “I really fucking hate it.”
“This will be a good place for you, Shane Hollander.”
It already is, I’ve decided, Shane wants to say. But instead he just allows the moment to soften.
“I tell you what to do,” the man continues. “Tomorrow morning, you will sign up for morning restorative session. No power. No vinyasa or ashtanga. You will sign up for massage therapy after lunch.”
Shane’s brain immediately recognizes this as a command. It isn’t a tone of suggestion and holds no opening for negotiation, no polite ambiguity to slip through. It’s certain.
And even worse—there is this deep, buried part of Shane that responds to that certainty before he can even stop it. Before he can even be mad at it.
Then, of course, because he is in control of all things, the instinct to push back settles over him, to reassert autonomy, or correct the imbalance, to say I know my body, I know my plan, I know my limits—
But the words don’t come. Not in that way.
Yes, Shane Hollander knows his body. And right now, it’s maybe as though there is a language on his tongue which he is not fluent in.
The man continues to watch him with that same steady expression, as though he has already accounted for and prepared for any possible objection Shane might breathe out and has found them all easily.
“You are very intense, I think,” the man says. “Your nervous system must be losing it’s fucking mind, yes?”
It’s not a judgment, Shane thinks, maybe not even as analysis. It comes across as more of a careful observation.
“I can choose my own sessions,” he says, trying for that autonomy.
The man nods and Shane doesn’t—can’t—miss the tiny tug of his pink lips. He’s amused.
“Of course,” he says. “And you will.”
There is a quiet beat, before the man says:
“After you try it my way.”
And because Shane seems to be a different version of himself tonight, he nods.
“I will flow some more,” he says then, like music. “Goodnight, Shane Hollander.”
Shane watches as the man hops back onto the gazebo. His long body finds its home back on the mat at the center of the space. He rolls his neck once, slow and deliberate. Golden curls move with him and Shane’s gaze catches on the movement. He looks at his skin, exposed in a way that feels unexpectedly and suddenly intimate. The line of his neck, the slight shift of tendon under skin as he moves. Shane notices that this man has a body that moves without bracing for what comes next.
It’s unfamiliar to him.
Shane begins to move slowly from the gazebo, feeling the loss of the moment as soon as he shifts on his feet. He is only one step away from the space before he turns around again.
The man is already looking at him.
“I never got your name,” Shane says softly.
“Ilya,” the man says. “Ilya Rozanov.”
Something inside of Shane lights up—fairy lights or alarm bells, he can’t tell which.
But perhaps it doesn’t matter, here at Halcyon, where Shane Hollander is meant to leave his armor at the gate.
“Goodnight,” he says.
Perhaps it doesn’t matter.
—
Shane does what he is told—because he is a man of his word, because he wants to, because, yes, he is still in control.
Early in the morning, he finds himself on his mat with about fifteen other people around him, moving slowly and restoratively under the cueing of a beautiful woman who stands at the edge of the lake. The sun rises behind her, and Shane is struck by her knowledge—the way she knows exactly what to say, exactly how to guide their bodies into something that feels good.
He definitely feels the pain in his hip this morning. It is usually worse in the first few hours of the day, after being still through the night. Although, he wasn’t very still. In fact, he struggled deeply to sleep once he slipped away from the stranger—from Ilya—and he tossed and turned for hours, finding the color of Ilya’s eyes every time he closed his own.
Shane finds himself drifting toward sleep again during the final ten minutes of the session, as the beautiful woman’s voice—and then silence—guides them through savasana. But the moment he begins to let go, his thoughts—as they always do—rise to meet him, murmuring against his skill as he tries to settle.
He doesn’t ever settle, not really, and when he hears the echoes of namaste, he peels his eyes open and sees the people around him begin to shift. He follows suit, rolling up his mat, rolling out his neck, breathing out a deep sigh. It felt good. Even his hip feels a little better.
Breakfast isn’t scheduled for another hour, so Shane begins to walk toward his cabin, hoping for a shower and space, but he doesn’t get very far.
“Shane Hollander,” the voice says his name gently.
Shane turns around then, matching the soft voice to the woman who led the practice.
“Hi,” she says. “I’m Lea. I just have to tell you—my husband and son absolutely worship you. Big Metros fans in our house.”
For some reason unknown to Shane, the thought of hockey sends a shiver down his spine. “Oh, thanks,” he responds with a smile.
“I don’t care much about hockey,” she admits. “Can I say that? But I’m happy you’re here. I think this place will be very good for you.”
Shane thinks about how Ilya said something very similar last night—that beautiful, perfect stranger.
“So I’ve been told,” Shane breathes out a laugh.
She smiles. “I look forward to flowing with you some more. Just know, these thirty days go fast.”
“Noted,” Shane smiles. “See you.”
He is stopped a second time on his walk back to his cabin, though this time it isn’t because someone seeks him out. Instead, he comes to a halt at the sound of a familiar voice—thick with that Russian accent, deep enough to move through his blood from twenty feet away.
Ilya stands at the edge of the lake, much like Lea, guiding what has to be fifty people through their movement. Shane doesn’t realize he is unmoving because all that he can focus on are the lines of Ilya’s body as he moves in front of the lake, somehow more fluid and captivating than the sunrise reflected across its surface.
He is flexible, Shane notices. His body folds and unfolds with effortless grace, each movement flowing seamlessly into the next. The fifty or so people in front of him follow along, but Shane finds himself watching him alone.
As he moves closer, he catches sight of the sign propped beside the class. Ashtanga, it reads. Right, one of the styles Ilya had specifically instructed him not to sign up for this morning.
Shane watches Ilya move away from the front, weaving between rows of mats and bodies in motion. He pauses beside a few people, offering quiet corrections, a gentle adjustment here and a murmured instruction there, before moving on to the next.
There is something incredibly captivating about watching him at work. And for one fleeting moment, Shane wonders if this is what people see when they watch him on the ice.
In fear of being caught watching this golden man again, Shane slips away quietly and back to his cabin, where he hides away for the rest of the morning.
—
An hour after lunch, Shane finds himself searching for Cabin 1221.
He eventually spots it at the end of the row, closest to the water. Much like his own cabin, it sits a little apart from the others. The sign-up sheet had instructed participants to meet there for the session.
Shane stands in front of the cabin’s door for a moment—awkward, in his nature—before knocking softly twice. When the door opens shortly after, Shane feels the softest of gasps leave his lips when he sees Ilya looking back at him.
“Hi.”
Shane shifts on his feet—once, twice—and clears his throat. “Hi, I—am I in the right place?”
“Yes,” Ilya says. “Do not look so worried.”
Shane’s brows pull in. “I’m not—”
“I am joking,” Ilya breathes out a laugh. “Let me put on something. I will be right out.”
Shane notices, then, that Ilya is shirtless. His sweatpants sit low on his hips, revealing deep and delicious lines leading to an area forbidden. He has an incredible physique, Shane thinks. Like an athlete.
Ilya slips away then and Shane stands frozen, unsure what he is meant to do next. He watches Ilya move through the cabin and vanish into the bedroom. When he returns, he’s wearing a soft gray tank top that sits close to his neck, drawing attention to his strong, tanned shoulders. It’s tight enough that it leaves a line of skin exposed between the hemline and where his sweatpants sit.
It is entirely too much, Shane thinks.
“Come,” Ilya says, closing his cabin door behind him, and leads Shane to the other side.
Shane didn’t notice it before, but beside his cabin is a tent. Not a small, makeshift thing—the kind you’d see on a hiking trip—but something larger, professional.
Ilya pulls open the tent flap, looking back at Shane before nodding him over.
“I will not murder you,” he says with a small smile. “I promise.”
Shane follows behind Ilya, stepping inside of the space. He listens as Ilya closes the flap behind them. Inside, the light is warm and diffused through canvas walls, the outside world suddenly distant and muted, apart from the soft lapping of the lake just a few feet away. There are two massage tables arranged neatly beside one another, each dressed with fresh linens and folded blankets. The space feels tended to, taken care of, as though somebody has already thought through every small detail.
He wonders if that somebody is the man standing before him and gets his answer when Ilya says:
“I will be taking care of you this afternoon.”
The words, though innocent, send a fire through Shane’s body, his heart suddenly bursting at the thought of his hands being on him again, in a way much bolder than last night’s subtle touch against his hip.
“Oh,” Shane breathes out.
Behind where Ilya stands, Shane notices a three-tier bookshelf decorated with hanging plants, a couple of books, and Ilya Rozanov’s name printed on three separate certificates. The first one, on top, is what appears to be a kinesiology degree from UBC. Beneath it, another certified Ilya as a Registered Massage Therapist in British Columbia. And finally, on the bottom tier, the certification of a 500-hour yoga teacher training, which Shane thinks says something about Bali on the bottom of it.
When Shane looks back at Ilya, he’s already grinning at him.
“Yes, I am certified,” Ilya confirms. “Now you will maybe trust me a little bit more.”
“Maybe. I haven’t decided yet.”
Ilya laughs then and—oh, fuck—it is maybe the most beautiful thing that Shane has ever heard.
It’s almost like a familiar song, one he has heard before, from some other time. A sound that invites this strange sense of nostalgia, despite having only met this man fourteen hours ago.
“Okay,” Ilya says, nodding toward Shane’s hip. “With injury like this, there is a lot of compensation. Glutes become overactive because probably you move in a way to avoid pain from hip.”
Ilya takes a step toward him and Shane feels his breath shake. He reaches out and around him, strong hand gently pressing against Shane’s lower back.
“Here,” he continues. “Carrying half the load now because of injury.”
Shane feels his eyes flutter shut as Ilya presses his fingertips a little deeper. He sighs, maybe without meaning to.
“Ah,” Ilya says. “Yes, we will start there.”
Ilya pulls away then, nodding toward Shane’s thighs this time. Oh, you can touch me there, too, Shane thinks, but swallows his words.
“And adductors, there, inside thigh,” Ilya touches his own. It makes Shane shiver. “Probably you know this, but skating makes this, here, work very hard. With hip injury, here we tighten up too much, to try and protect joint.”
Shane nods. “Yeah. I feel that tightness more everywhere else since hurting my hip.”
Ilya hums. “Ah, yes, compensation. Like I say. Come. Quick assessment.”
In the next few minutes, Ilya has Shane walk a few steps across the space of the tent, balance on one leg at a time, squat twice, lift his knee this way and that way, and then rotate his hips inward and outward.
“Okay,” Ilya finally says. “I know what you need. Hip is injured, yes, but today, for first session is not what I am looking at.”
“Then what?”
“Is everything else, that’s trying to help it,” Ilya says.
“Okay,” Shane breathes out.
“Okay,” Ilya echoes, then nods toward one of the beds. “Clothes off, if is okay with you. Underwear is okay.”
Ilya turns away from him then, crossing to a neatly organized table on the far side of the space and beginning to gather his supplies with unhurried precision. He lights a candle, soft eucalyptus moving through the space between them. Shane begins to take his clothes off, heart thumping against his chest as he does so, and folds them neatly when he is left in nothing but his boxer briefs.
When Ilya turns around again, Shane notices the brief halt in his step, fleeting. Ilya looks at him, eyes moving over his body once before he is looking back at his face, a soft smile pulling his lips as he nods toward one of the beds.
“On your stomach.”
That also does something to Shane.
He moves to the bed, laying down, pressing his face comfortably in the hole designed for it. His heart absolutely hammers now, slamming against the sheet beneath his chest, and he tries to relax.
When Ilya’s hands touch his back for the first time, it is gentle and exploratory. No oil, no lotion, just bare, dry palms meeting Shane where he is. He moves them softly and slowly over his muscles, smoothing upward and downward a few times, and Shane is having a hard time catching his breath suddenly.
“You are so tense,” Ilya murmurs against the silence of the space.
Shane doesn’t answer, because he can’t, because he still can’t breathe properly.
“You need to loosen here,” he continues, moving his hands to press against Shane’s shoulder blades.
The next few moments are quiet again, as Ilya works the muscles of Shane’s shoulder blades, gently.
“Breathe,” he whispers.
Shane takes a long, slow breath then.
“Good,” Ilya says.
Shane feels the loss immediately when Ilya pulls his hands away.
He listens as Ilya moves around the space—the quiet rustle of fabric, the click of a bottle opening, the muted sound of something being poured into his palm. Another moment later, the sound of Ilya rubbing his hands together.
The noise sends another shiver down Shane’s spine.
He closes his eyes and hopes Ilya doesn’t notice how affected he is—how easily his body is responding to every touch, every movement, every sound.
Because of his hands.
Because of him.
Ilya starts at his lower back, moving expertly with the oil guiding him effortlessly across Shane’s tight muscles. Shane breathes out another one of those sighs, the ones he has very little control over.
“That feels good,” he whispers.
“Yes,” Ilya returns softly.
More time passes—though Shane has lost the ability to track it—and he melts further into the bed as Ilya continues to work him.
Then, Shane feels Ilya’s fingers grazing the waist band of his briefs, lingering thoughtfully as he slows his movements. He tugs, just a bit.
“Can I?”
The words echo Ilya’s from last night, when he prompted permission to touch his hip. Shane remembers the warmth that flooded through him at that touch alone. Now, Ilya is asking to pull down his briefs, and Shane is back to that not breathing thing that he started the session with.
Get it together, Hollander.
“Yes.”
Ilya carefully pulls his briefs over the swell of his glutes, tucking the band beneath so that the area remains accessible while preserving as much modesty as possible.
But the thing is, Shane feels as far from modest as humanly possible.
He is suddenly hit with thoughts so primal they embarrass him. Touch me, he wants to say, here and there and everywhere.
Ilya starts moving his hands in that same expert way, this time focusing on Shane’s glutes. He can feel the areas in which Ilya spends more time, can feel the knots in his own muscles as he pushes deeper into it, and it both hurts and feels like he is on the greatest drug known to man.
“Jesus,” Shane breathes out, without meaning to.
Ilya breathes out a small laugh. “Is good?”
“Very.”
Silence, again, and more unidentified time.
Then, to Shane’s dismay, Ilya pulls his briefs up and murmurs, “Okay.”
The disappointment is temporary, because just a moment later, Ilya says, “Turn over now. We work a little more.”
A sharp pulse of anxiety pushes through Shane. He obeys, of course, because he realizes he has not yet said no to this man, and turns onto his back. The position immediately feels far more exposed. Ilya is a professional. Shane knows this now. But the idea that they will be able to look at each other in this position—
Breathe, Hollander.
“You are okay?”
Shane takes a long, deep breath again.
“Yeah. Yes. I’m okay.”
But then, Ilya’s hands are back on Shane. And no, actually, he is not okay. Or—or he’s too okay, which is also a problem, Shane decides. He can’t think straight.
He especially can’t think straight when Ilya’s hands find his inner thighs, fingertips pressing against his skin. He massages into his muscles, dangerously close to a place that, oh, is starting to suddenly recognize what is going on. Beneath his briefs, Shane feels his cock twitch.
He slams his eyes shut.
The sound of Ilya’s breath touches the space between them before he says, “You have to relax.”
Then, the feeling of Ilya’s fingertip touches the knit between Shane’s brows. He presses gently into the crease.
“Even here,” he murmurs. “So tense.”
He’s closer now, Shane can feel. He can feel the heat coming not just off of his hands, but off of his entire body. It is delicious, Shane thinks, but simultaneously very, very fucking dangerous. Because now his cock is not just twitching; but growing, pressing against his briefs, begging for something.
Ilya hums.
Shane refuses to open his eyes.
“It maybe is not part of job for me to say this,” Ilya suddenly murmurs, fingertips pressing against Shane’s forehead now. The sound touches his skin in a way that almost hurts. “But—you maybe have too much going on in here, yes?”
Shane doesn’t respond. Breathes, instead. At least he can do that. If he keeps his eyes closed, he won’t be able to see his cock, the way it’s fully alert now, fully in need.
“You are so famous,” he continues. “A star. But probably you are strict. On yourself. Your body. Is why you are so tense.”
Ilya’s hands move again, down and down, over his lower belly, back to his thighs. He works the same muscles again. There isn’t any way, Shane thinks, that Ilya does not notice his erection. He doesn’t say anything about it, but he continues speaking, reading Shane like a book that he has just dusted off of the shelf behind him.
“Hockey players are too intense. But you are maybe worse. I can see it on your face. But I especially can feel it on your body.”
Shane wants to be offended, but Ilya’s hands travel lower now, close enough to the hem of his briefs that circle his thighs, and it makes his breath catch. Ilya taps the fabric gently.
“Do you ever let yourself feel, Shane Hollander?”
Shane takes in another sharp breath.
“Do you ever let go?”
A deep, heavy silence settles between them.
Then, because he feels as though he has no other choice, Shane pulls his eyes open. Ilya is already looking at him, the deep ocean of his eyes strong and confident and certain. All things, Shane thinks, that he absolutely does not embody right now.
“Session can be over,” Ilya murmurs, fingertips still tracing soft lines on Shane’s thighs.
“Or,” he drawls, eyes flickering to Shane’s cock, pressing desperately against the fabric of his briefs.
“Or?” Shane tries for casual but the word flees his lips breathlessly.
A faint smile touches Ilya’s lips.
“Or,” Ilya echoes. “I can help you feel. I can help you let go. For once.”
The offer lingers between them. Shane stares at him.
For a moment, he’s certain that he’s imagined the entire thing. That this is another fantasy conjured by exhaustion and pain and the strange pull he has felt toward this man that he met fourteen hours ago. It’s the sort of thing that his mind would create during a sleepless night or a long flight home.
But Ilya is there—this gorgeous, mysterious man—and he is waiting. He is waiting and watching with an attention so steady and careful that Shane’s back to not breathing properly again.
And then, for maybe the first time in his entire life, Shane finds himself without a plan, without control, without any idea what he is supposed to do next.
An image, fleeting, of that halcyon bird suddenly flashes in his mind—and it’s not actually the bird, not really, but instead, the words beneath the bird leave your armor at the gate.
Okay, Shane thinks, I’ll try.
“Okay,” he says aloud. “How?”
If Ilya is surprised, it doesn’t show on his face. Instead, he wears a knowing expression. One that says, I knew, I was just waiting for you to say so.
“Do you think I am attractive, Shane Hollander?”
“Yes,” Shane answers quickly and honestly, surprising himself.
Ilya nods, a small smile still pulling his lips. Fuck, those lips.
“Just Shane,” Shane says, before Ilya can speak again. “You don’t need to call me by my full name.”
“Okay, Just Shane,” Ilya murmurs, fingertips finding the waistband of his briefs again.
He plays with the band, moving his fingertips less than an inch beneath them. Shane feels his cock get harder, somehow, in a way that he wasn’t sure was possible.
“I think you are very attractive,” Ilya tells him. “This is not work. Session is over.”
Shane shivers. “Okay.”
Then, Ilya is taking Shane’s briefs off completely, leaving him completely bare to the space between them. Outside, Shane can hear the lapping of water, and even the voices of people moving around the retreat beyond the tent. It shakes something in Shane.
Ilya’s eyes move slowly over Shane’s body, landing on his hard cock, pressing against his stomach. He is already damp, tiny droplets of pre-come catching the attention of the gorgeous man standing above him.
Finally—fuck, finally—Ilya takes Shane into his hand.
He holds him there for a moment, heavy and hot in his palm, and a deep, primal sound leaves Ilya’s lips before he starts moving.
“This tension,” he whispers, continuing to move at the absolutely perfect fucking rhythm, “is a killer.”
Shane’s eyes slam shut and he presses his head deeper into the bed. His breaths shake as they flee his lips, as though they are being chased out of his mouth.
A few moments later, Ilya pulls his hands away and Shane shivers at the loss. It is short lived, the disappointment, because Shane suddenly feels Ilya’s warm, wet tongue tracing a line up his long and aching length.
“Fuck,” Shane breathes out.
Ilya takes his entire length into his mouth then—deep, immediately, as though opening up for him is the easiest thing he’s ever done, as though he was made for it. Are you, Shane thinks, are you made for me?
He knows his thoughts are irrational—fuck, he can’t even form a single, coherent one before the English language absolutely flees his brain. And it’s worse, more so, when Ilya starts moving along his cock, reaching under with those hands, cupping him from behind as he absolutely swallows him whole.
“Fuck,” Shane says again, because there are no other words in his vocabulary right now.
It doesn’t take Shane long to recognize the tightness that he feels just before he comes. It starts in the deepest part of his stomach, pressing against him as he pulls all of his muscles together. His hip fucking aches in that moment, through the pleasure, and as though Ilya can read his mind, his unoccupied hand reaches out to press against it. His mouth against Shane’s cock is hot and heavy and relentless, but his hand is gentle and tender and soft, and it’s entirely too much for Shane to handle.
“God, I’m going to—”
But Ilya keeps going, taking him deeper, somehow, swallowing every last inch and then, every last drop, and he hums against his cock as though it’s pleasure for him and oh, Shane thinks, I am thoroughly fucked.
Shane throws his forearm over his eyes, breathing heavily as he comes down and Ilya pulls off of his cock with a pop. He’s scared to move his arm, to look at this gorgeous stranger, because now he’s suddenly feeling very insecure.
Ilya’s hands are back then, moving gently across his chest before he’s cupping Shane’s face, beneath his shielding arm, into his palms.
“Shane,” he whispers, tapping three fingers onto the arm that covers his eyes.
Apprehensively, Shane moves his arm away, dropping it beside his body but keeping his eyes shut.
“Shane,” Ilya whispers again. “Look at me.”
Shane peels his eyelids back, chest rising and falling rapidly, and locks onto Ilya’s. He’s already looking back at him, a deepness to his ocean blue that makes Shane shiver again.
“This will be a good place for you, Shane Hollander.”
Shane releases the breath he was holding.
“Just Shane.”
There it is, Shane thinks. That smile again. The one that tugs at Ilya’s beautiful, pink lips and makes Shane’s heart stumble against his ribs, despite the fact that it’s already fighting to stay inside of his chest.
Thoroughly, and utterly, fucked.