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Shane feels the sting on his eyes the moment the door closes behind Rose.
He can hear her footsteps echoing faintly down the hallway, the soft rustles of her jeans, and the distant hum of traffic outside his window. They slowly fade into white noise in his head, his vision swirling and blurring, ghosts of memories slipping through the cracks of his thoughts. Rose is supposed to be perfect, and she is perfect, because she has offered him exactly what he thought he wanted.
Instead, Shane spent the entire evening thinking about someone else while holding her.
He thought of hard muscles when Rose’s soft skin and the plush swell of her breasts pressed against him, thought of cigarettes when Rose’s mouth tasted like wine on his lips, and thought of strong arms wrapping around him when he embraced Rose in his own.
God knows he has tried. He has tried so hard, so desperately, to convince himself that Rose is the one—only for that choice to trap him in a stone prison of guilt and shame. He has wanted it to work with Rose, truly. He has wanted her gentleness and certainty to replace years of turbulence and uncertainty, her kindness to heal whatever is left gaping inside him, and her steady presence to silence the constant ache of absence and distance that he receives from Ilya.
Shane has wanted to love Rose Landry so badly that he has mistaken simple wanting for reality—the reality that distorted around him at the sight of Ilya with that woman, neon lights pulsing and spilling over them in blinding waves. Ilya kissed and touched her in a way that felt too easy, too natural, too similar—because Shane had once known how it was like. He knew how it felt to lean against Ilya like there is nowhere else he would rather be, to have Ilya’s hot lips and hands embracing him like molten lava on his equally heated skin, to have Ilya’s smoldering eyes raking over him like he is something desirable and even precious.
Shane had felt so small then, so insignificant. He had wanted to abandon the club—abandon Rose—to run away, to hide somewhere dark and quiet enough to let himself fall apart, somewhere nobody could see how pathetic he was for still yearning for a man who no longer belonged to him, had never belonged to him. Instead, he swallowed it all, every jagged piece of it, forcing himself to take Rose home and putting on a performance that was absolutely laughable.
There was a part of him—a petty, ugly, desperate part—that convinced itself that Ilya was doing it on purpose. He had to be, the way he looked at Shane while his hands roamed all over that woman, something akin to a challenge in his gleaming eyes.
Look at how easy it is for me to replace you.
The rational part in Shane knew he was probably imagining it, and how much of a hypocrite he was. After all, hasn’t he done the exact same thing? He was the one to run out of Ilya’s house, to take Ilya’s tenderness and turn away from it because he was so afraid and confused. Ilya has always made it so clear, that whatever they have between them is casual—no expectations, no promises, no strings attached and no futures hanging over their heads. Their rulebook has been written since day one, and yet Ilya made him food, asked him to stay, called his name, and opened up the endless chasm of watching something slip through his fingers the moment he thought he understood it.
Shane was the one to run away, not because he ever stops wanting Ilya, but because he cannot bear wanting Ilya and wanting more. He is afraid of wanting too much, of needing someone that deeply, no matter how much he tells himself that he is not supposed to. The guilt of that alone is enough to make him sick, because no matter how vehemently he despises his own inability to move forward, he can still recognize the unfairness of it all—buried beneath years of excuses and carefully constructed boundaries that are designed to keep his feelings manageable.
A sob escapes his throat as the turmoil in him finally overflows, spilling down the edges of its fragile container and drowning him. The truth is cruel and brutal, and there is no way for him to hide from it nor to soften its edges. Shane can try all he wants, and it will never be enough to blur the thoughts of Ilya, as every corner of his being has been consumed by Ilya so deeply that the traces left behind refuse to fade, no matter how many years have passed over them.
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He wants Ilya, Shane realizes, when he sits numbly on the bed, long after his tears have dried, his eyes sore and swollen, his body boneless and whatever once held together in his mind has dissolved into mud.
He wants Ilya, when Rose looks at him with a painful understanding that only makes the guilt twist deeper inside his chest, when she gently coaxes him toward admitting the truth that he has spent so long running from—that perhaps things are better with a man. Rose deserves so much better than him, someone whose heart doesn’t stop at the sight of another, someone who will not compare her laugh and smile and touch to another. He was a coward who could not look at his failure in the face and admit it, but she has been nothing but kind and patient with the broken pieces he keeps trying to hide.
He needs Ilya, when he spends an embarrassing amount of time standing in front of his mirror, putting on the clothes his stylist picks out for him, fixing his hair and applying cologne with trembling hands. He needs Ilya, when they sit next to each other and engage in small talk that feels simultaneously effortless and impossibly difficult, savoring every second of Ilya’s attention on him.
He needs Ilya, when they fit together perfectly on the same team, their thoughts moving along the same path, the way they seem to know what the other is trying to do even before the stick even connects with the puck. Their coordination on the ice unfolds too naturally, too comfortably, to the point of being dangerous. He needs Ilya, when Ilya presses a loud kiss to his helmet in front of the entire world, the sound of it reverberating in his ears and making his mind replaying the moment over and over.
He likes Ilya, perhaps too much for his own good, when they sit together on the beach and watch the tide roll lazily across the shore, while the afternoon sun sinks lower toward the ember horizon. He likes Ilya, when silence settles comfortably between them as the barest edges of their fingertips brush against one another, and neither of them moves to pull away. The contact is almost laughably insignificant, considering they have been fucking for years now and Ilya has physically reached the deepest parts inside his body. And yet, Shane is acutely aware of it, aware of the warmth radiating from Ilya’s skin, aware of the steady rhythms of his own heartbeats, and aware of how badly he wants to turn his hand and close the distance completely.
He thinks whatever feelings he has for Ilya are more than want, than need, than like—he realizes when he sits in Ilya’s dimly lit hotel room, searching desperately for the right words to say. They remain frustratingly out of reach, caught somewhere between his heart and his throat, too large and complicated to be expressed honestly and too important to reduce into something smaller. Ilya’s flippant and unhelpful attitude frankly does get on his nerves, but Shane is not running away again and he is not letting Ilya run away either.
And so, he offers fragmented but carefully measured half-truths, all the while watching every expression and pause and flicker of emotions on Ilya’s face. He knows he is not good at it, but he is trying, because he doesn’t want to keep being stuck as a victim of his own wishful thinking just because he doesn't know how to read between the lines.
Ilya doesn't tell Shane if he feels it too, but he has agreed that whatever they had before was nice, and that’s all Shane needs for this moment.
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“I think I like you maybe a little too much.”
The echoes of Shane’s confession linger in his own mind, long after the words themselves have faded. Ilya’s tears soak through the fabric of his shirt, warm and startlingly real. They rock together gently, their bodies pressing so close that it feels like Ilya’s heat is permeating into every part of his being, while Ilya’s arms lock almost painfully around his waist as though Shane may disappear the moment he loosens his grip.
Something twists and lurches in Shane’s chest. Ilya is often the one to retreat behind walls when their conversations become too vulnerable, to slam the door in Shane’s face when he tries to ask questions that brush so close to honesty that they are frightening. Time and time again, Shane has found himself wondering what he did wrong for Ilya to be so determined in keeping him out.
And yet now, Ilya is burying his face in Shane’s chest as his carefully constructed defense lies in pieces around them.
Somewhere along the way, Ilya has come to trust him enough to show him this messy and terrified version, and the profoundly intimate knowledge of it leaves Shane strangely lightheaded. For so long, he has yearned for Ilya’s willingness to stay instead of running, to come to Shane rather than away from him.
I think I don’t just like you.
Shane breathes in the scent of Ilya like a man starved, the gentle lavender in his hair, a hint of mint from his aftershave, and something underneath it that is just so warm and intoxicating and unmistakably Ilya. He thread one hand through golden silk, untangling soft strands as the other smooths slow circles into Ilya’s shoulders, feeling the tension gathered there like tight wires beneath his palms.
He holds Ilya until the worst of it passes, until sobs turn into quiet huffs of breath, until the trembles that seized his entire body gradually soften. Even then, Ilya never once falters his grip around Shane, and Shane is sure he also doesn’t want Ilya to. Perhaps this is what Shane has wanted all along, not perfect certainty, but simply for Ilya to stop running long enough to let Shane hold him and hold all the parts of him that are hurting.
Ilya nuzzles against his chest and neck in search of comfort, then eventually pulls back for Shane to see his face, exhausted and raw, his eyes shining like pieces of heaven, still red-rimmed and slightly puffy. Shane gently traces the lingering dampness there, losing himself in the cacophony of thoughts crashing against his skull.
Do you know what this is?
Do you feel the same way?
Where does this leave us?
Ilya looks so open that it almost hurts, and Shane doesn’t miss how Ilya’s glance flickers at his mouth before returning to his eyes. He closes the distance, brushing their lips together, soft and gentle at first, feeling Ilya go completely still beneath his hands. Then he turns his head and deepens the kiss, sucking on Ilya’s tongue and only breaking apart when his lungs scream at him for air, their hot breaths mingling with each other.
I think I…
Shane is dizzy from how long they have been kissing, and his tongue and jaw are starting to ache in the most pleasant way. He shudders when Ilya sneaks a heated hand under his shirt, pressing against his stomach before moving up and squeezing at his chest.
Yes, Shane has wanted this, wanted the way their bodies are naturally drawn together, like a familiar melody finds its harmony and a river finds its flow out to the sea.
He reaches down to unbutton his shirt with fumbling fingers, pushing them down his shoulders, the cool air stands in contrast against his exposed skin and makes him slightly shiver. He pulls at Ilya’s tank top, then they both tug down shorts and pants and underwear next before dropping them all into a bundled heap on the floor, and Shane cannot find it in himself to care about the mess one bit.
Shane pounces upon Ilya, clashing their mouths together again and shivering at the feeling of their bared skins against each other, as they stumble backward on the bed with a heavy thud.
“Lie down,” Shane licks his lips, feeling drunk on the sight of Ilya in front of him, knowing that Ilya is like this because of him. Ilya’s mouth hangs open, his eyes glazed over, his pupils blown so wide that his eyes look almost black rather than blue, and a lovely flush is spreading from his face down to his shoulders. “Let me take care of you.”
Ilya seems like he wants to protest, but at the insistent push of Shane’s hand on his chest, he relents and relaxes onto the pile of pillows, his hands resting comfortably on the curves of Shane’s hips. Shane leans down to kiss and lick at where Ilya’s neck meets his jawline, then the small batch of moles on the right side of Ilya’s neck near his shoulder, feeling Ilya’s pulse jump and tremble against his lips.
He continues to place kisses on as many moles as he can, paying close attention to his favorite ones not too far under the left side of Ilya’s sternum, before sucking on a hard nipple and feeling goosebumps break on Ilya’s skin. One of Shane’s hands roams across the smooth expansion of Ilya’s chest and finds the other nipple, fondling and pinching it between attentive fingers. At the same time, his other hand slides lower, dragging through the lines of Ilya’s abs, the deep V at his hips, the dark trail leading to his cock, keeping his touches tantalizingly close but not actually reaching the base.
Each of Ilya’s moans sends a jolt straight to Shane’s dick, echoing in the quiet room and hanging thick in the air around him. Shane bites gently on the nub in his mouth, seeing Ilya throw his head back in a low hiss, while his hand gives the other a final, fond squeeze. He returns to mapping out the trail of moles like constellations on Ilya’s stomach, running over it with wet kisses, tasting the salty skin there with his coveting tongue and greedy teeth.
“Shane, oh my God…” Shane’s heart does a little flip at how Ilya is utterly losing himself in pleasure, his glorious body gradually sinking more and more into Shane’s touch, shifting closer almost unconsciously every now and then. The heady scent of Ilya’s arousal fills his mind and lungs, and even though Shane would like to prolong and savor the moment for as long as possible, he thinks he will also go crazy if he doesn’t get to have Ilya’s dick right fucking now.
Shane starts to nuzzle against Ilya’s hardening length, as Ilya threads a big hand through his hair and gives him circular massages in encouragement. No matter how many times Shane has seen it or taken it, he is always fascinated by Ilya’s cock. It’s beautiful, like the rest of Ilya, long and thick and girthy and feels so right in his hands, his mouth, inside his body.
There are exactly three moles on the right side, one catching on the folds of skin where the tip meets the base, and Shane loves mapping it out with his tongue or caressing it with his fingers. He hasn’t finished counting all the moles on Ilya’s body yet—he will get that task done soon enough—but these little ones he has known by heart, their shapes and colors coming to his imagination vividly and naturally every time he closes his eyes.
He places sloppy, open-mouthed kisses all over Ilya’s cock, then moves to the head and swirls his tongue around the slit to gather up the dripping pre-come there, before pressing and dipping hard inside. Ilya keens as his entire body jerks forward, his grip in Shane’s hair twisting almost painfully. Shane does it again—this time, he pushes one hand on Ilya’s pelvis to keep him still while squeezing tight around the base with the other, and relishes in the trembling “fuuuuck, Shane—” falling from Ilya’s lips.
Shane pulls back for a moment to admire his handiwork, the way Ilya’s fully erect cock is glistening and dripping fat droplets onto his hand. He dives back in, bobbing his head up and down, hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard while diligently stroking where he cannot reach. Fuck, everything feels perfect. Ilya is so big and heavy in his mouth, making his jaw throb pleasantly and his mind deliciously blank.
“Wait, stop—stop,” Ilya yanks hard on his head and Shane rolls his eyes in annoyance, but he lets go anyway. His mouth comes off with a wet ‘pop’, spit drooling down his chin as he glares at Ilya for an explanation. “I want to fuck you, I’m gonna come if you keep it up.”
Well, of course Shane knows that already, but too fucking bad, because that’s exactly what he wants. He feigns innocence, moving towards to whisper against Ilya’s mouth in a mockingly chaste kiss, their breath so damp and hot he can almost see it. “I want you to first come down my throat, and then in my ass,” Shane gives Ilya another soft kiss, biting gently on his lower lip when they pull apart. “Can you do that for me, Rozanov?”
Ilya can only nod, surprise and wonder plain on his face, his jaw hung slack as though every coherent thought has abandoned him.
Shane smiles to himself, a rush of power and thrilling possessiveness burning through his core as he watches mesmerising blue eyes fixated on him with unwavering attention. He loves this, loves seeing Ilya all ruffled up for him, the way nobody else has ever been before.
Shane hums in satisfaction, kissing Ilya once more on his perfect Cupid's bow before scooting back down to the real feast. He opens his mouth as wide as he can, flattens his tongue and relaxes his throat to take Ilya in, lowering slowly until his nose is buried in coarse hair and his vision blurs a little. He closes his eyes and swallows around Ilya’s cock, feeling it throb and pulsate continuously in his throat, while his fingers trace and press into the delicate skin under Ilya’s balls—the touch persistent and shocking enough to have Ilya’s legs kick out in surprise the first time he does it.
It’s not long before Ilya’s hips start to buck wildly, once, twice—before his come gushes like torrents inside Shane, hot and thick and making his own neglected cock twitch uncomfortably. Shane continues to swallow as he lets Ilya ride out his orgasm, breathing steadily through his nose and taking in every last drop of Ilya like a personal reward.
Shane finally pulls off with a loud squelch, a happy sigh leaving him. He presses another open-mouthed kiss to the glans, before crawling up and bracing himself on both knees to straddle Ilya’s wide thighs, hovering carefully to avoid putting weight on Ilya’s still-sensitive cock.
“Was it good?” Shane beams at Ilya, though his voice is kinda raspy and the act makes his mouth hurt a little.
“Good? Do you even need to ask?” Ilya wheezes in short, uneven huffs, his mouth hung open as his ribs flare with each breath. “You nearly sucked my soul out of my dick.”
“Well, you better get it back up soon, hmm?” Shane snickers and reaches for a package of lube that Ilya leaves on the drawer, tearing into it and rubbing it between his palms to warm it up. He has prepared himself thoroughly before coming here, so his hole is still quite loose and wet, allowing two fingers to slip in easily. He scissors the digits before adding another, a hint of pain crossing his face and stuttering his breath as the stretch burns and dashes throughout his body like lighting. Yet he doesn’t stop, his hand keeps a slow but steady pace at first, then speeding up with particularly hard thrusts, his hips bucking inadvertently to lean into the movements.
Ilya’s hungry gaze follows his every reaction, eyes darting from his face to how his hand presses and pulls between his cheeks, like he is unsure which is better to look at. Shane leans back to sit fully on Ilya’s laps, bracing one hand behind himself and spreading his legs wider to give Ilya a perfect view of everything, dizziness rushing over him and his heart leaping like a flame finding fresh air at his own sudden boldness.
And, because Shane cannot help himself, “I thought you said you wanted to fuck me? Are you planning to do that with a soft dick?”
The lust and restraint in Ilya’s eyes are intensely dark, but there is a light hint of amusement beneath them. His slow, wicked grin even manages to look almost offended. “Watch your pretty mouth, Hollander. Maybe you should do something else with it instead of talking, da?”
To prove his words, Ilya pushes two fingers into Shane’s mouth, pressing deep enough into the back of his throat to make him tear up. Shane sucks on them instinctively, swirling and lapping his tongue around them like a decadent indulgence, as their eyes lock together in a shared thrill of challenges and promises.
Shane’s whole body convulses, a shattered cry tearing out of him when Ilya’s spit-coated fingers suddenly leave his mouth to plunge deep into his hole, down to the knuckles and right next to his own three fingers, pulling relentlessly at his rim. The sensation is unlike anything Shane has felt before, making his legs clamp shut on instinct and his arms wobble with the effort of holding himself up, until Ilya rests one firm hand at the small of his back to anchor him in place and rubs slow circles into his skin. The soothing gesture helps to ease the sharp edges of the surprise, and Shane gradually composes himself enough to part his knees again, but not before throwing a glare at Ilya’s unapologetic face.
“You’re such an asshole.” Shane murmurs into the small space between them, though there is no real heat behind his words.
Ilya only crooks his fingers up further, rubbing directly at Shane’s prostate and wrenching another shout from him. “I know you like it,” He leans forward to nibble at Shane’s chin, his hand never stopping its rapid, merciless rhythm against the sensitive spot and leaving Shane no room to even breathe.
“Look at how hard you’re clenching down on me,” a hard press, “trying to cut off my fingers,” a pull to the side to stretch his entrance impossibly wider, “so I will become a cripple and you can finally beat me at hockey—”
“Oh my God, shut the fuck up.” Shane snaps, his voice cracking higher than he’d like, but he holds himself open for Ilya to continue fucking in and out of his hole, the repeated wet smacks almost obscene in his ears. He can feel a grin dragging along his neck as Ilya moves forward, his cock already fully hard again, pulsing hot and heavy against Shane’s own.
“Ok, enough. I will fuck you now—” As soon as he notices Ilya trying to move him, Shane immediately uses his entire body weight to shove Ilya back, wincing a little at the sudden emptiness inside him.
“Not yet, Ilya,” He pushes both his hands on Ilya’s chest and grinds down. “Stay still.”
Ilya lets out an exasperated groan, and Shane tries his best not to laugh at the endearing impatience. “Fuck! Hollander, you're fucking killing me here…” Ilya makes a show of sulking, but he slumps back onto the bed, his hands fisting into the sheets so hard that his knuckles turn white. His face is flushed a deep red, and Shane can see the veins along his temples bulging with barely constrained irritation.
In all fairness, Shane feels like he’s dying too. He rolls the condom onto Ilya’s length, stroking it a few more times for good measure, before positioning himself and sinking down fully in one smooth plunge.
They both moan at the sudden contact, the friction so unyielding and intense that it has Shane black out for a split moment, his own untouched cock jumping and squirting a stream of pre-come onto his stomach. Heat sparks up his spine, spreading through him like wildfire. Fuck, it hurts—but it also feels so good. Shane focuses on his breathing, letting his body adjust through the initial stretch. It’s probably somewhat painful for Ilya too, considering the way his nose scrunches up, his brows furrow together and his whole body pulls taunt for a moment.
“Shane, fuck, that was—Are you ok?”
Shane nods, letting his head droop forward a bit. Of course Ilya notices, he always does, as his hands move up and down Shane’s side to soothe the discomfort away. Although, he still flinches when Ilya makes a particularly mean and sudden pinch to the sensitive flesh on his waist. “Words, Hollander.”
“Yes!” Shane cries out, punching slightly at Ilya’s stomach. “It’s good, just—just give me a moment…”
The searing sting begins to fade after a minute or so, dulling into a familiar and pleasant rightness of being full. Shane sighs at the sensation, utterly loving the way his body opens and accepts Ilya in.
Shane starts to move up and down, leisurely and methodically, grinding his hips in slow and steady circles every time he sits fully back down to the base of Ilya’s cock. He leans forward to suck on Ilya’s nipples, licking with a fervent tongue and alternating between hard and teasingly light bites with his teeth, humming when he feels Ilya jerk and throb inside him.
As the itch inside him builds up, Shane grips onto Ilya’s coiled shoulders for balance and sets a more brutal pace, their moans overlapping and ringing in his ears. Satisfaction blooms deep behind Shane’s ribs at the way Ilya’s hisses and grunts, Russian pouring out of him in waves, probably some profanities from the guttural sounds of them—as though every instinct is screaming at him to fuck up into Shane and only a monumental effort of restraint and self-control is holding him back.
Shane slams home one more time, letting out a wail that sounds foreign to his own ears when Ilya’s cock hits his prostate and rends him apart with an overwhelming combination of pain and pleasure. His thighs and arms are shaking, and Shane holds the position for a few more breaths before letting his body go lax and nodding at Ilya.
“Y-You can move now—oh my God, fuck!”
The words have just barely left Shane’s mouth when Ilya’s hips bolt upward, sending another blast of toe-curling ecstasy into the pit of his stomach. Ilya thrusts up again almost immediately, the force of it finally makes Shane’s thighs give out from under him. He collapses forward, catching himself on his elbows on either side of Ilya’s face and letting Ilya fuck into him in earnest, calloused fingers digging into his ass and waist ruthlessly to haul him up and down.
Shane gasps and keens with every drag of Ilya’s cock against his walls, unable to tell whether he is breathing too fast or not enough. Pre-come clings hot and sticky to his skin, his untouched but too-sensitive cock pulsing in time with his heartbeat. The world beyond feels so distant and muffled, his brain completely fogging up save only for the warmth of Ilya’s body against his.
He turns to kiss Ilya everywhere he can reach, his lips, his nose, his cheeks, the lovely mole on the side of his face, his lips again—feeling Ilya’s damp and shaky breaths against his equally heated skin.
“Shane, can I—”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Shane interrupts him immediately, whining against the temporary loss of Ilya’s lips and pulling Ilya’s head back. He doesn’t even care what Ilya is about to ask, his answer is always yes. “Whatever you want, yes.” He pulls apart quickly to gasp for breath, his voice slurring, before diving in for another kiss.
In a heartbeat, Ilya flips them over, so skillfully and accurately that they never break their kiss nor the delicious fit of Ilya cock inside him. He hooks both hands under Shane’s knees, his fingers delving almost painfully into the diamond-shaped shallows there, spreading Shane wider before moving back and snapping his hips just so. Shane throws his head back in a low cry, arching his back when the head of Ilya’s cock stabs at his prostate.
Ilya does it again, again, and again—the wet, echoing slaps of his heavy balls against Shane’s ass filthy and sinful as they bounce off the hotel’s walls.
“Oh fuck—Shane, you feel so good, always so good, so perfect for me.”
He preens under Ilya’s praises, pushing his ass back eagerly to meet Ilya’s thrusts, little ‘ah’s and ‘oh’s spilling from his lips like a mantra. His own cock is straining, the tip almost an angry red, bouncing against his abs and leaking all over with the repeated force of Ilya’s body against his.
Shane is close. He can feel the electric current building from deep inside his core, running up his spine and down his limbs as every nerve in his body sings. He clutches at Ilya’s hair and shoulder, crashing their lips together in an almost violent confrontation of teeth and tongue, only breaking apart to draw in a lungful of air before licking into Ilya’s mouth again.
“Ilya, Ilya, please,” Shane mumbles between feverish kisses, lashes fluttering as his heart hammers frantically and threatens to burst from the confines of his ribs. “I lov—”
His mind clears up for one split second, enough for him to catch himself before the words fall past his lips.
Shane turns his head to press them into Ilya’s neck instead, squeezing his eyes shut and swallowing down the restless ache caged in his chest like a stone too large to carry, too large to hide—feeling the familiar burn of tears flaring up as his fingers tremble to maintain their hold on sun-faded curls.
Shane’s orgasm rolls through him in shocks, crashing against one another like waves against shores and making black spots dance against his vision. The pleasure that once felt blissful enough to lift him off the ground has now become crushing and inescapable. His cock spurts hot, thick ropes of white between their pressed stomachs, his body spasming and statics scraping his mind blank until there is room for nothing else but the encompassing presence of Ilya around him.
Shane slumps back into the bed, all senses punched out of him and his chest heaving to draw in air, but Ilya doesn’t stop. Instead, he speeds up his thrusts, his grips on Shane’s knees bruising as he chases after his own pleasure. Shane whines and writhes under the incoming onslaughts, as the pressure on his numbing prostate starts to overflow into stinging pain like a thousand needles and leave his cock frayed open. He doesn’t know if he is trying to get away from the feeling or running after it.
Although, it doesn’t last for too long. Ilya bites on Shane’s ear as he comes, a low growl rumbling deep from his chest, hips stuttering before his burning seeds fill Shane up, noticeable through the thin layer of condom. Shane shivers at the sensation, his body going completely limp as another aftershock of pain and pleasure drapes over him.
He feels like he is floating in and out of his body, content and calm, until the haze clears when Ilya pulls out. A moan leaves him as his inner muscles instinctively clamp down on nothing, but Ilya shushes him with a soft kiss, his hand cradling Shane’s face and tracing the freckles on his cheek, the touch featherlight and almost reverent.
“You feeling ok?” His voice is gentle, almost a whisper, an earnest smile on his face.
Shane can only nod, unable to find his words just yet.
Ilya flops down next to him, and Shane wastes no time in pulling Ilya into his arms, tucking his head into Ilya’s neck and interlocking their legs together. It’s quite strange how Shane is finding all of this comfortable, considering that they are both naked and sweaty and covered in sticky come, and he is already feeling somewhat overheated. Normally, Shane would be grimacing already, thinking about the crumpled and dirty sheets and mentally calculating how soon he can get up for a shower.
But right now, he can’t find himself caring about all that, not one bit, not when the steady rise and fall of Ilya’s chest feels like wonders come true under his palm.
They remain so, sprawled and tangled together in an inelegant heap on the bed, until their breaths even out and the statics in Shane’s head start to subdue.
Eventually, however, Ilya starts to shift and disentangle from him. “Stay here, I will be back.” Ilya says before disappearing behind the bathroom door, but something in Shane’s chest still tightens embarrassingly at the loss of solid warmth. His hand lifts instinctively, reaching after Ilya a fraction too late, while a small sound escapes him, somewhere between a whine and a disappointed huff.
Oh God, this is actually ridiculous. Rationally, Shane knows Ilya is not abandoning him, because Ilya told him that he would come back. Yet, a brief flash of panic still races through him, and Shane sits upright immediately, eyes glowering at the bathroom door as if his glare can physically pull Ilya away from there and back to bed.
Ilya returns a few seconds later, carrying two damp towels, and only then does the tension in Shane begin to loosen, his shoulders sagging as he allows himself to relax back into the bed.
The towels are cool against Shane’s overheated skin when Ilya carefully wipes away the mess on his face, his chest, his stomach, his thighs—touches especially controlled and unbearably gentle when they reach his still tender cock and swollen hole. Shane leans into Ilya’s hands, allowing his eyes to drift half-shut as his lips curl up in a sated smile.
“I will get you some ginger ale too, ok?”
Shane nods, mouthing a small “okay” back. He watches Ilya move across the room, the light casting a warm glow on his autumn grass curls as he bends down to open the mini-fridge. When Ilya places the familiar green can in his hand, the cold does little to calm the burning heat in his cheeks.
Truly, it’s also absolutely ridiculous how Ilya always knows to keep cold ginger ale ready for him, even though Shane distinctively remembers he has never told Ilya about it.
The thought settles on Shane’s tongue, sweeter and more soothing than any ginger ale can ever be.
---
Reality quietly soaks in, that he cannot stay in Ilya’s bed forever, and they will always have to part ways as they have done so many times before. Still, something in Shane’s chest gives way like a knot coming undone, loose and light behind his ribs.
He leans his whole body forward to press a final kiss into Ilya’s mouth, lingering there as he traces the tip of his tongue over Ilya’s curved lips.
“I have to go. Uhm, see you next game?”
Ilya lets out a low chuckle, hands still resting on Shane’s thighs, forehead nearly bumping against his. “Yes, see you next game.”
Shane pushes himself off the bed with visible reluctance, collecting his clothes from the floor and redressing while sneaking a glance at Ilya every few seconds. Each look is met with Ilya’s lazy grin and twinkling eyes, as he remains shamelessly spread across the messy bed. Honeyed, gooey warmth blooms through Shane as he stands there, unable to take his eyes off Ilya.
He knows he has to go back to his room and sleep before catching an early flight tomorrow, but, if only—if only Shane can slide back to bed, to fall asleep beside Ilya and wake up beside him, to just pretend that the outside world does not exist. Shane would like to learn the shapes of Ilya’s routines, the things that make him laugh when he is tired, the expression he wears first thing in the morning before he remembers to hide himself from the world, yet safe in the knowledge that he doesn’t need to hide it from Shane.
Somehow, without meaning to, his mind has leapt much further than that, to tomorrow, and every tomorrow after tomorrow, all the same with Ilya in his arms. Shane realizes, with a careless certainty like a dream, that he can do this forever.
And oh, isn’t that a terrifying thought? To look at another person and discover that your mind and your heart have begun to create pieces of the future around them without your permission?
Yet, the fear is strangely distant. It feels like time has folded onto itself, and Shane thinks he is nineteen again, kissing Ilya for the first time, and almost immediately deciding that he wants them to belong in each other's lives.
Right, go.
Shane sighs and pushes himself to walk towards the door. He cannot resist looking back, seeing Ilya's intense blue eyes on him with an expression he cannot quite decipher.
“What?”
“Nothing.” A slight pause, then softer. “Goodnight, Shane.”
His name from Ilya’s lips feel strangely inadequate, too small for everything that has passed between them tonight, and yet impossibly significant at the same time. It settles somewhere deep inside him, heavy and warm and all too welcoming.
A slight laugh escapes Shane, leaving him feeling lighter than he has in months, maybe even years. The happiness itself is almost embarrassing in its honesty and intensity, bubbling up inside him as he bites down another chuckle.
“Goodnight, Ilya.”
---
Shane walks down the hallway with a smile he cannot seem to suppress, his cheeks beginning to ache from the effort of it. Somewhere between one step and the next, another realization settles gently into place, like dawn finally breaking over a horizon that he has been staring at for a very long time.
I think I love you.
It should be frightening to even think of that possibility, and yet the truth feels somewhat embarrassing, like it has always been there and patiently waits for him to catch up. There is no overwhelming terror to accompany it, just the strange comfort of a missing puzzle piece finally sliding into place.
I think I really do.
And someday—soon, he hopes—he will find the courage to tell Ilya.