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David notices it first.
He's always let Yuna do the talking; she's far better at it anyway. So that leaves him to mostly people- watch. And tonight, he has been watching their son slowly close in on himself. David can tell that Shane is on the verge of something imploding, probably very quietly, but profoundly.
He's been dissociating most of the evening, holding a champagne flute to his chest without sipping it and staring into the middle distance. People come up and draw him into conversation he clearly doesnt want, clap him on the back, snap photos in his face, ask him to join in…. David can see the physical breath Shane takes every time one of them turns away to find someone else. He's checked his phone no less than twenty times, and sat through the first half of the award show with that same flat expression, clapping like an animatronic when the crowd does and otherwise sitting as stiff as a board.
Shane and Rozanov are up for the same award over highest scoring in the regular season, as usual. David quietly expects it to go to Rozanov this year because of the Cup run that Boston had, getting almost to the finals. In the second round, fourth game, Rozanov had gotten clotheslined on the ice and Boston had lost in overtime with their second string fighting like hell.
Again, at intermission, too many people keep approaching, making Shane look at them, touching his arm or shoulder or thumping him on the back. These awards usually have dim lighting and a nice music in the background; it's gala- like and classy. This year, perhaps because it's in Vegas, or perhaps because the MLH is experiencing a surge in young viewers and these new things called influencers are in attendance, the music is loud, the drinks are heavily poured, and the audience is particularly parasocial.
People keep asking for selfies, giving Shane drinks he doesn't want, asking him to dance, to come with them and mingle, to — well. The fact is they're approaching, and he is getting increasingly uncomfortable. His smile gets more brittle with each interaction. He keeps meeting the eyeline of someone on the floor who makes the tightness around his eyes and shoulders soften just a tiny increment, but David never catches who in time. Someone drops a tray of flutes and Shane nearly comes out of his skin at the sound. David pats his shoulder, feels the flinch, and drops his hand back to his side with an empathetic smile when Shane glances at him apologetically.
After the intermission cocktail hour, the show continues. Shane is once again sat rigidly in the sea of tables, seats packed, beside his parents, watching two awkward rookies on stage present the best sportsmanship award. It goes to a veteran player on the newly- reformed Utah team for having a team made primarily of rookies and fresh trades who still managed to whip the team into good shape for their first season. There had been some truly embarrassing losses he'd taken on the chin.
Shane claps mechanically, eyeing the door. Yuna pats his knee and Shane stiffens, his shoulders hitting his ears. David resist the urge to put an arm around him, shield him from the sensory nightmare his son seems to be having. One more touch might make him combust.
Shane swallows and steps out with a muttered sorry before they present the scoring award. David watches Rozanov, who is further toward the end of their row of tables, flick his eyes all over Shane as he approaches. At first David mistakes the look for smug glee, but it turns very quickly into pleased anticipation. He thinks Shane is coming to him. And then when Shane passes with his head down, Rozanov's face morphs into a careful, assessing glint, and then worry. David doesnt think he's ever seen that look on Rozanov before.
He watches Rozanov murmur something quietly, barely lifting his fingers from where his arm is rogueishly draped over the back of his chair, reaching out furtively to brush Shane's sleeve as he passes. Shane doesn't stop. He shakes his head tightly, says something without moving his lips, and walks straight out the door. David sees Rozanov watch the door for several seconds, frowning, and then straighten in his seat and pull out his phone. He doesnt unlock it, just holds it in his huge paw, eyes flicking to the door a few more times.
Shane is gone long enough that Yuna says she is going to look for him. The award announcement will be any moment. David nods and gets up with her. More hands make less work, and though he adores his wife, he knows that she will try to urge Shane back in here when he clearly needs a minute.
He will do what he can to mitigate that side of his wife.
He nods at Rozanov as they pass, a simple tip of the chin. The boy still looks disturbed, his brow tight with concern. He frowns at them with that same dark, watchful expression in his eyes that had closed over his face when Shane passed until the door to the auditorium closes behind their shoulders.
Shane is in a dim, abandoned room, sitting on the low rise of a small dais for musicians, or perhaps an announcer. There is a mounted TV in the hall outaide the door playing live footage that he can hear, echoing around the room. Its the quietest place he could find; no caterers, no lights, no music or TVs or people he doesnt know fucking touching him, dragging smiles out of him, or eye contact, or pushing food into his hand when he's a split second from wanting to tear his flesh off. His head is down nearly to his knees, unable to quite get there because of the stupid fucking tux he's wrapped in.
He flinches when the door opens.
"David," Yuna calls, and David follows her. He had been looking in the men's room two doors down.
"Shane, sweetheart. What's going on tonight?" Yuna tries, her voice gentle and concerned. Shane still cringes at the sound of it, slides his hands up over his ears. David puts a hand on her and a finger to his lips when she turns to look at him.
"It's loud," he whispers. "Overstimulating."
Yuna purses her lips and nods. She squats next to Shane and reaches for a hand, intending silent comfort. He yanks back as her fingertips brush his skin, bleating a wet dont touch me as he tucks his hands under his armpits, wrapping himself up tightly.
Yuna's eyes widen. She glances up at David, who shakes his head. "Just let him be, for now. Let him calm down."
They can hear the TV echo along when Rozanov wins the scoring award. They can see a sliver of the TV in the hall from here, and watch as he makes a short, curt speech. Rozanov exits the stage quickly, which makes Yuna roll her eyes.
"He barely thanked anyone, or said anything," she grouses, half under her breath, forever at odds with the boy. David nods, watching Shane, who is now balancing his elbows on his knees, hands in his hair, clutching at it. He can see the glint of tears dropping down between his shoes, but Shane won't let them approach. David isnt sure he's ever seen him this bad.
"Shane," he tries, a whisper, and earns a shaky exhale, the shake of his dark head. Not yet.
There are clipped steps in the hallway; someone's expensive loafers walking quickly, checking doors. Yuna stands, as if to fend off someone coming in, seeing their son like this. She steps between Shane and the door when it pushes open.
Rozanov glances at them, his face drawn and almost frightened. David isnt sure he's ever seen that look on the kid's face, in all the years they've seen him pitted against Shane at every opportunity.
Rozanov neatly steps around Yuna, ignoring her trying to block him. His eyes are riveted on Shane. He peels his tux jacket off and tosses it onto the stage, along with his trophy, uncaring as they land in a heap. He kneels between Shane's feet and wraps his fingers around the backs of Shane's wrists.
"Shane," he says quietly, dipping his chin to try and catch his eye. Shane turns minutely toward him, sniffs wetly, and shakes his head. Rozanov sweeps a hand up under one arm and plants it over the entirely of the back of Shane's neck, and squeezes, tipping their foreheads together. "Pozhaluysta vernis', zaychek. Pochti zakonchilsya."
"Rozanov," Yuna hisses, reaching for him, as if to pull him away. How dare Shane's rival see him like this? To impose himself on a moment of weakness and exploit it? What could he possibly want?
Except then, something happens that freezes both parents in an instant.
Shane leans into Rozanov's touch on the backs of his hands, urging them away from his hair. He glances up, which he hasn't done at all since they found him. He meets Rozanov's eyes for a blink, then away; nods numbly at some silent question, asked between them.
Rozanov reaches up, gently unties Shane's bow tie, slips it free. He pops the top two buttons of Shane's shirt, slides his jacket off his arms. He folds it neatly in half and lays it on top of his own crumpled one. He cups Shane's face in his huge palms and thumbs his tears away, murmuring a litany of Russian at him that has Shane's eyes sliding closed and his shoulders loosening. Shane folds into his shoulder at the slightest prompting, planting his forehead at the curve of Rozanov's neck and letting the boy squeeze him closer, until Shane is nearly tugged off the stage rise and into his lap. His arms come around Rozanov's shoulders and clamp together, knuckles white and dangling behind his neck.
Yuna watches with her eyes widened in shock. This kid, who has always been the biggest asshole on the ice as long as they've known him, has just barreled in and comforted their son with no warning or preamble. He knew exactly what to do. And Shane responded like they've been doing this forever.
Have they?!
Yuna looks at David, who is having a similar crisis. Don't they hate each other? Their shared look says.
David can do nothing but offer a shrug. Yuna turns back to the young men on the floor, her expression both relieved that Shane is finally calming, and endlessly searching for the reason. David realizes after a stretching moment of silence that Rozanov's breathing is exaggerated and deep, and Shane is matching it. His shaky, tight breaths have petered out into box breathing.
Rozanov's hand is still over the back of Shane's neck, a soothing weight. His other hand is over Shane's opposite hip, keeping him close. He says something low, directly into Shane's ear, that doesn't have him flinching away. In fact, he drives his forehead deeper into Rozanov's neck and tries to yank him closer.
"Nyet, yeshche ne moy zaychik. Your parents are here. You need to show sign of life or you mum is going to bash my head in with my stupid new trophy."
Shane stills then, becoming aware in stages. His breath deepens, his face turns outward toward Rozanov's shoulder to wipe at his eyes surreptitiously.
"Sorry," he says after a long moment, his voice cracking. Rozanov shakes his head, puts his knuckles under Shane's chin, and lifts his gaze. His other hand closes over Shane's wrist and slides up, driving the pad of his thumb into the center of Shane's palm.
"No. You dont apologize for being upset. You texted me, told me where you are, I come. I help. That is good. I don't like you being this upset. But I can't help if you don't tell me. Da?" His voice is still moderated and low and firm, only for them, but Yuna and David can't help but hear. They watch as Rozanov thumbs another tear away and settles back on his heels.
"Um," Shane says, glancing at his parents' shoes, only a few feet away. He looks back at Ilya, somewhat desperately, suddenly frightened. Rozanov shrugs. "Uh. Mom, dad. This is Ilya. Rozanov. But, you knew that. We're um."
Rozanov sits on the stair rise beside him with a grunt.
Shane closes his eyes. "No, fuck. Fuck this." He buries his face back into his hands. "I dont think I can do this right now, I'm— sorry. I'll. I'll call, or come over, and we can talk, okay? I can't, right now."
Rozanov's face is carefully schooled into a blank, Slavic mask of disinterest. He is watching them very closely, protectively, as if he expects pushback. Shane shrinks against him, half his chest tucking behind the spread of Rozanov's hulking shoulders.
"Okay," David says simply, and puts a hand on Yuna's arm to try to convey enough for tonight. He looks back at Rozanov, whose puffed up chest, dutifully blocking their son from them like a wall, seems to deflate just a fraction.
Shane nods against his knees, still feeling somewhere three feet left of his body and yet chained to it. He wants very badly to go to his room, to take Ilya with him and try to come back into his skin the right way, one toe at a time, and doesnt know how to broach that desire with his parents right fucking there.
"I'm um. I think I'm done for the night. I'm gonna go to my room," he glances somewhere around his parents' knees, and then up at the side of Ilya's face before settling on his hands, hanging over his knees.
As if hearing a silent command, Rozanov nods once and stands, pulling Shane to his feet. He drapes both of their jackets over his arm, puts his trophy in that hand, and plants the other on Shane's lower back. They all file out to find the elevators. Once they cross into the hall, Ilya drops his hand but remains standing very close.
His parents get off on the fourth floor with a quiet goodnight to them both. Rozanov still watches them with the air of a bodyguard who isn't afraid to stand up to somwonw who may have a deeper claim on Shane than he does.
For his part, Shane stays leaning against Ilya in the corner, half- squashed into the paneling by his weight, his eyes closed and face drawn with exhaustion. His knees start to go, and Ilya presses him more firmly into the wall and clicks his tongue at him.
"Ah-ah, zaychik. You can hit your knees behind closed doors, not on public elevator with cameras. Up."
Shane's room is on the tenth floor. Ilya's is on the twelfth. They stare at the lit buttons as the lift ascends.
"Which room?" Ilya asks, and Shane wordlessly ignores the doors as they open on 10, and pushes at him when the doors open on 12.
Shane's skin feels entirely too tight. Everything is grating at him, except, notably, Ilya's warmth and pressure, against him. His shirt is stiff and scratchy in the worst places. Why the fuck are starched collars and cuffs even a thing when your throat and wrists are so goddamn sensitive? He picks at his wrists in the elevator until the buttons come free. Ilya is still carrying both their jackets, Shane's bowtie. He shifts his weight and smushes Shane a bit more into the mirrored elevator wall, taking one of his hands so he's stop picking at a busted knuckle from a game two days ago. Shane winces at the florescents and keeps his forehead on Ilya's shoulder cap.
The elevator dings, making him flinch at the sharp stab in his ears. Ilya casts him an apologetic look and fishes the keycard out of his pocket, hooking Shane's fingers there before he retracts his touch. They trail down the blessedly empty, silent hall. At his room door, Ilya puts a hand over Shane's ear and pushes his other ear into his chest before he swipes the keycard. The door beeps and unlocks with a grating hash of metal, the noise smothered by Ilya's skin. He shoves the door open wide and nudges Shane inside. Behind them, the door clicks shut and is locked. The Do Not Disturb sign sways back and forth on the knob, facing the hall.
"Moy Shanya, come here," Ilya says as he throws their jackets over the chair by the window. Shane blinks at him owlishly and obeys. Ilya cups his face again, angling him up slightly. Not all the way; careful. Measured. "You will go take a hot shower, and you will put on the clothes I give you, and I will order food, and you will eat it. You will eat all your food, and not complain, and I will put on stupid real estate porn show for you, and you will let me take care of this," he taps Shane's forehead with two fingertips. "No more thinking, just do what I say, tonight. Yes?"
Shane glances at the bathroom and nods. "Okay."
Ilya nods once, tipping Shane's chin up. Shane struggles to meet him but does, just a flash of watery brown meeting clear blue, a reassurance. "Okei." Ilya drops a kiss on his mouth and slaps his ass, nudging him toward the bathroom.
He listens for the water to start and then turns to dig in his suitcase, finding old, soft sweats and his plushest knit socks from back home, and his favorite, oldest Bears hoodie that's fraying at the cuffs and waist. He pairs it with a white undershirt and black boxer briefs and leaves the folded pile on the bathroom sink. He watches Shane for a moment, his strong back to the door and dark head under the spray, half- drowning and turning pink.
Room service is called. Food is ordered. Ilya changes out of his tux and sits on the edge of the bed in joggers and a tee shirt, barefoot, facing the bathroom. Shane is scrubbing at himself harshly, turning his skin bright pink and sore in the too-hot hotel water. He turns the water off and dries himself, pointedly not looking at Ilya but not trying to hide, either. As he is dressing, there is a knock on the door. Ilya retrieves the food, thanks the attendant with a tip, and locks the door behind him.
Ilya sets the tray on the table and separates the orders out, lines up the forks and drinks. A can each of coke and ginger ale, dewy with condensation, standing beside a plate of butterless, tasteless bird food and a plate of carbonara. Shane clears his throat quietly behind him and Ilya turns, smiling softly. Shane is dressed head to toe in his clothes, looking adorably rumpled, damp fringe hanging over his forehead.
"Good. Good boy, Shanya. Come here. Eat." Shane flushes but comes, drops into the chair and eyes the plate.
Cedar-plank grilled salmon, no garlic- creole butter, on a bed of wild rice, with steamed broccoli, a little salad to the side with tiny cruets of oil and vinegar, and the can of ice cold ginger ale. His stomach turns at the sight of it, and not from the nausea that has been assailing him all night. Something more like gratitude at being so seen zings through his gut. He takes a bite, and then another, feeling Ilya's eyes but not his judgment. Just watching.
Shane eats everything except the rice. He pushes it around until Ilya is done. He holds his hand out, and Shane takes it, and they go to the bed.
"Lay down, I will be right back," Ilya tells him, and goes back to the table to clean up their plates, place them neatly on the tray, and place it outside the door for pickup. He feels Shane's dark eyes watching him like prickling on the back of his neck the entire time.
"Come here, zaychik. Right here," Ilya pats his own chest as he spreads out on his back. Shane shimmies closer and plants his face into it readily, nuzzling into his armpit and the side of his pec while Ilya arranges their limbs into a comfortable tangle. It's warm and soft and quiet, pillowed on Ilya's giant stupid bicep with his face mushed into the side of his meaty pec and his scent from his deodorant and whatever he sprayed on before the awards show filling Shane's lungs with a pleasant, delicious woody spice. Ilya turns Property Brothers on and lowers the volume to a dull murmur, easily ignored.
Every now and then he makes a disgusted noise, asks what the fuck is that, or sighs with heavy judgment. Every time, Shane softens further until he feels like butter in a sunny window. He smiles against Ilya's skin and turns his head, peeking at the part of the TV he can see under Ilya's chin to watch a young couple wanting to hang designer wallpaper and close off the fireplaces in their new house on the northeastern coast of the US. He snorts derisively and Ilya looks down at him, smiling.
"Oh? Hello."
Shane flushes, despite his calming nerves. "Hi." Ilya pets a thumb over his eyebrow and scoots down to lay beside him, turning to face him on the same pillow.
"You feel better?"
"Hmm. Bet-ter." Shane stares at his mouth. At the bend of his ridiculous cupid's bow.
"But not good, yet? Not… right?"
Hearing the thread of concern, Shane manages to flick his eyes up, meeting sea-blue before drifting back to his mouth. Shane licks his bottom lip and shakes his head.
"Not yet."
Ilya's lips purse briefly before he seems to make a decision. "You know what will help? Tell me."
Shane scowls at him, and then huffs when Ilya's mouth quirks in a cheeky grin. "Tell me what you need, zaychik, or I will decide to be safe, and we will just go to sleep."
"I want… you. Want you to tell me what to do. I don't wanna think."
Ilya hums at him, considering. "Do you want to sleep?" Shane shakes his head. "Okei. Here is what we do," he cups Shane's whole jaw in the spread between his thumb and forefinger, tipping his glassy- eyed stare up. Shane's lips push out in a pout; he doesnt resist being moved at all, like his strings are cut and the ends are safely in Ilya's hands.
Ilya presses the pad of his thumb to the seam of Shane's lips, adding pressure until it slips past his teeth, settling on his tongue. Shane sucks at it automatically, blinking back at him.
"Hm. I think maybe you need something simple to do, yes? Something for your pretty, overwhelmed head to do without thinking? To make the noise go away, make your head all empty and dumb? I dont have a rink here for you to skate and shoot until your body collapses like you want. I do, however, have your second- favorite thing. Luckily it is attached, so," Ilya teases, his voice measured and a little degrading and hypnotically deep.
Shane swallows around his thumb and lets his eyes slide down Ilya's front to the dormant bulge in his joggers.
"Yes, you're already thinking about it, hm? My pretty little cocksucker. You just need a big dick in your mouth and your overwired brain goes—poof." His free hand mimes an explosion next to his temple. Shane wrinkles his nose at him, but doesn't pull away. Ilya swirls the thumb on his tongue around, tickling his tastebuds, before tugging downward, thumb hooked behind his teeth to guide Shane down the bed.
He goes easy, crawling, shimmying, until the thumb slips out of his mouth and his nose nuzzles into the warm, clothed space between the side of Ilya's plumping dick and the furrow of his hip. Ilya watches, brows threaded, as Shane sighs against him, burying his face, and then stays there for a long moment, just breathing him in.
Unhurried, watchful, Ilya pets his hair and lets Shane take all the time he needs. He slips a hand under the neckline of the hoodie to smooth between his shoulders, loosening tense muscles as he goes.
Eventually, Shane tips his head and works his mouth over the ridge of him, seeking the shape of his cock, breathing hot over his balls through the fabric. He finds the tip aimed down, trapped against Ilya's thigh, and suckles at it, soaking the cotton.
"Fuck, Hollander, you're desperate for it, hm? You want to take those off?"
Shane hums an affirmative and tugs at Ilya's waistband, shucking the joggers when he lifts his hips to assist. Ilya pulls his shirt off too, dropping it over the edge of the bed, and resumes his petting as Shane wriggles between his legs on his belly.
"Mm, no hands, lyubimyy. Take what you need, but only with your mouth."
Obediently, Shane catches the sticky tip in his mouth, tucks his hands under Ilya's thighs, and meets Ilya's eye as he begins bobbing his head slowly.
"Fuuuck, Hollander," Ilya sighs, combing his fingers over Shane's ear, biting his lip when Shane's eyes slide closed as he gets deep enough to press his cock into his throat.
Shane pulls back, lets free a breathy, eager sound Ilya would do very ill- advised things to hear for the rest of his life, and slowly shakes his head side to side to work Ilya deeper still.
"Moy Shanya, shit— you love it, hm?"
Shane opens his eyes and nods, his lips pretty and pink and stretched around the girth on his tongue. He hums into his task, sinking into the warm silence and comfort of a simple task. Something to please Ilya, that also pleases him.
"Such a pretty boy, yes? You like being told what to do, by the right people. Me the most, yes?" Shane gives him another slow blink, his eyes shiny and distant, slipping further into that sweet liminal space where he will whine and beg and spread his legs so coyly, and Ilya will wring orgasms out of him until his big beautiful brain turns off.
So Ilya gives him another push.
"Are you so empty, dorogoy? Need me to fill you up?"
Shane moans around him, bobs his head in a nod. He pulls back, enough to let a yes escape the side of his mouth before he sucks downward again.
Ilya pulls himself away, tugging on Shane's hair to lift his head enough that he can lever his cock out and get his knees under him. He kneels right in front of Shane and tugs lightly at his hair, urging him to the side.
"Roll over, zolotse. On your back, right here," he encourages, until Shane (his face scrunched in a pissy glower) rolls obediently to his back. Ilya slides a hand down his front, teasing his nipples until they pebble up, making Shane squirm. His head is between Ilya's knees, and he does a slow scoot until he can tip his chin up and mouthe over Ilya's balls.
"You are being very brave tonight," Ilya coos, pinching his hardened nipples and making him gasp. Shane's dick throbs and pulses out another blurt of precum to pool in his bellybutton.
"Want your dick," Shane murmurs, trying to reach without using his hands. Theyre splayed out wide to his sides, just like his dropped- open legs. Ilya looks down at him hungrily and pushes his cock down, letting Shane have the salty tip.
Ilya's hand settles low on his belly, under the bob of his hard, leaky cock, and pats him like a prize pig. "Is this where you're so empty, hm? Need to feel something in there, aaalllll the way to here?" He circles Shane's navel with a fingertip and jumps when Shane bites his inner thigh.
"Ah-ah, bratty." But he sees Shane's eyes well up, not harden, and changes tactic. "Don't worry, malysh; moy lunnyy svet; moy ideal'nyy, sladkiy mal'chik," he coos down at him, petting up his belly, kneading his firm pecs, thumbing his wet bottom lip, making Shane melt despite not understanding a word beyond baby.
"I'll give you what you want, hm? Fill you up. Here, keep your needy mouth busy while I get your pretty hole ready for me, yes?" He levers his cock down again, letting Shane have the whole of it while he gets lube on his fingers.
Shane opens beautifully for him, his thighs dropped open on the mattress and his muscles bearing down, helping the press of fingers. Ilya toys briefly with his prostate, lighting him up just to see his cock blurt another dollop of precum.
Shane can take his cock to the root this direction, and does, repeatedly. Enough that Ilya has to pull away briefly to tease him. He redirects, turning their bodies the same direction and reaching for a condom.
"How do you want me, lyubimyy? You want on your knees, nice and deep? Or maybe on your back, so I can press you down, so heavy? Hm?" He asks, reading Shane like a book as he rolls the condom on, slicks himself up. It makes Shane feel incredibly seen, and he has a flash of embarrassment before Ilya leans down and kisses it off his face.
"Okei, we start like this, hm? Like our first time, dorogoy. When you were so brave, and so perfect, and let me take such good care of you." He drops several kisses along Shane's cheeks, across the starfield of his freckles, as he presses inward with one long, smooth push.
Shane's head pushes back into the pillows when he's fully seated, a wordless groan of pleasure pressing up out of his lungs. He scratches at Ilya's back, wanting him impossibly closer, still.
"Please," he begs, and Ilya immediately complies with the plea. He grabs each wrist, wraps his long fingers around them and presses them above Shane's head, then follows his body down and lays flat on him, pressing Shane down into the mattress with his full weight. The only part of him left unweighted are his legs wrapped tightly around Ilya's hips.
"Is better, lyubimyy? Hm?"
And god, yes. He's stuffed full, and so warm, surrounded by soft and pleasant smells and low lights and Ilya's specific scent and voice in his ear, and it's like every bad thing is being pressed out of him all at once. He only wishes his mouth was full, that Ilya would move, and that they never had to leave this bed or this room again.
"Ah- ah, Shane. Back to me— there he is. Good boy; so good for me. I'm going to move now, keep your hands loose, right there," he presses Shane's wrists down, a command that might as well be cuffs for how still Shane keeps them. Fingers trace his lips a second later, seeking entrance. Shane parts them, lets Ilya swirl his fingertips over his flattened tongue where it lays in his mouth, and then accepts a kiss when Ilya licks into him, grasping at his chin as he begins moving for them.
"Moy Shanya. Tak khorosho, tak tesno, zharko i poslushno dlya menya," Ilya babbles, his forehead in the pillow beside Shane's ear, three fingers in his mouth and cock balls deep in his ass. Shane's powerful legs are wrapped around him like a vice. Ilya never wants to leave. If he had nothing else in this world except this, Shane, he would be just fine.
Shane whines around his fingers, sucking at them, rolling his hips up to rut into Ilya's stomach, seeking friction. His hands curl into fists above them, his thighs tighten enough to make Ilya question his next breath. In response, he moves faster, snaps his hips harder, slamming little grunts up and out of Shane's throat with every sharpened thrust.
Shane keeps around his fingers, the rough-wet slide of his own cock through Ilya's soaked happy trail is nearly enough to send him into orbit. "Ilyaaaaa," he whines around his fingers, barely grimacing when Ilya slides them out and down over his wet chin to grab his jaw, angle his face up for a filthy kiss.
"I am going to say when, moy Shanya. And you are going to come on my cock, hard. You push down until you are empty, yes? Tell me."
"I— yes. Yes, please—" he begs, already flexing his hips, already focusing on the warmth spreading in his pelvis, wanting exactly that. Ilya sees the red slash of his open mouth, his seeking tongue, and slips his fingers back in, stealing over his tongue, pressing at the back and— ah, there he is. Shane's eyes roll back and his arms go limp and his legs squeeze impossibly tighter- hard enough that Ilya can barely thrust. Instead he buries deep and grinds.
"With me, moy lyubov. Come, now—" Ilya squeezes his chin, a quick press over his throat, presses fingers and cock into Shane as deep as he can, and growls his release against his skin as Shane does exactly as he was told. His strong legs cinch them together, his hole pushing and clenching as he rides out a release that seems to take his entire nervous system with it.
Ilya holds still, kisses his throat and chin, lets Shane quiver around his body, use it as he needs to wring his nerves out, leave him empty and clean and whole again.
At first, Shane is only peripherally aware of his body. He comes back to it in waves, like the lapping of the shoreline.
A warm cloth is dragged across his flushed skin. He is rolled and propped from behind; something hot and skin- like and smelling like heaven smooths all along his front. His limbs are positioned, his head cradled, and then— nothing, again. Not for a while. Only stillness.
He cracks an eye open, seeing a firm chest directly under his cheek, spanning across his field of vision. His arm is laid along ribs lined thickly with firm muscle, soft at rest. A hand holds a phone up, above his head and slightly out of view. Ilya is reading something, being quiet and attentive, but calm. Their legs are entwined, and Shane becomes aware of leg hair mingling below the protective barrier of a thermal blanket.
He blinks, and the chest below him shifts very slightly, the head above his tilting to glance at his face. Ilya drops his phone to the mattress and whispers the side of his calloused forefinger along Shane's cheek.
"Are you back, moy lunnyy svet? You went away for a moment." Shane peeks up at him and regrets it. Ilya's face is calm, but his eyes are concerned. "Was not too much?"
Shane buries his nose in Ilya's armpit to hide his burning face. "No " he says, and shakes his head once for assurance. "It's wasn't too much. You… aren't."
Ilya stills for a beat, and then wriggles down in the bed beside him. He lets Shane burrow into his chest, wraps both arms around him, and cards a hand through his hair.
"I was worried. At the award show. And your dad looked worried." He pauses. Shane chances a glance, sees the distant look in Ilya's gaze. "I was worried that they wouldn't let me help. Or that I couldn't, anyway."
Shane nods, exhales slowly. He fiddles with the hem of the blanket. "This week has been kind of shit. Too many interviews and three shoots, then-- this. And tonight was just. A lot," he says, unhappily. "People kept touching me, or taking flash photos, or interrupting me. Giving me food I can't eat, or more drinks than I'd have in an entire off- season. And I kept seeing you, but I couldn't… I told myself I could make it to after the show." He grimaces and slams his eyes shut.
Ilya circles in and kisses his forehead. "But you text me, and I came. And you let me help, even though you didnt let your mum or dad help. Do you feel better?"
Shane sighs heavily. He digs a knuckle into his eye and nods. "Yeah. I do."
Ilya shrugs a shoulder. "Then is okay. We talk to them tomorrow, I will come if you want. We can say— whatever. You had a bad night, I helped you calm down, we are friends…." He waves a hand, grasping for words that won't come.
"I'm just going to tell them the truth, I think," Shane says. He glances at Ilya again, and is surprised to find a little smile there.
"Yeah?"
Shane nods. "They won't believe the we're just friends shit. I know my mom. And… I need to tell them anyway. You don't mind?"
Huffing a laugh, Ilya shakes his head once. "I don't mind. Hopefully your mum does not try to kill me."
Shane snorts, nuzzling his face into Ilya's throat. "She won't. They saw us together. They've got to know."
Ilya hums against the top of his head. He drops a kiss there. "Stay, tonight, then. I dont want you to be alone, after this."
Shane tips his head up and kisses his chin. "Okay. I don't want you to be alone, either."
The tiniest frown of confusion threads between Ilya's brows. "I'm allowed to worry about you, too, y'know," Shane clarifies. He stares at Ilya's mouth until he leans down and kisses him.
"Go to sleep," Ilya tucks Shane under his chin and begins scritching gently down his back.
"I need a shower," Shane complains, which earns him a pinched ass cheek. "Hey!"
"Bozhe, Shanya, you are such a brat," Ilya spools off to the side, starfished out on his back, and laughs aloud when Shane thumps him with a pillow. He lays and watches Shane get up and walk across the room, stark naked and unashamed, and smiles far too sappily after him.
"You coming or not?" Shane calls from the bathroom after a moment.
Ilya rolls off the bed and darts across the room, grinning wide. "So what are we telling my in-laws in the morning?"