Chapter Text
December 17th
If someone told Ilya that a little over a month into being shipped off to Ottawa by his former team, he’d be standing in the doorway of the most beautiful man he’s ever met, holding two bouquets of flowers on the occasion of meeting said beautiful man’s best friend, he would have laughed in their face.
And yet.
“You bought flowers for Rose?” Shane asks, clearly stunned by the gesture in a way that Ilya can’t quite read.
“Ah, yes? Is this okay? I don’t know, she is important to you, so this feels important.” Ilya shuffles awkwardly on his feet as Shane just gazes at him adoringly for a moment—eyes flickering between Ilya, the two similar but unique bouquets, and back.
“You’re so fucking sweet,” Shane coos. He takes both bouquets and sets them on the small entryway table before wrapping his arms around Ilya in a crushing hug.
“Thank you,” Shane presses the words into Ilya’s cheek with a kiss.
Ilay ducks his head, frightfully unfamiliar with this magnitude of tender words and treatment. It’s vaguely reminiscent of early years with his mother—when they would be alone.
Despite being the one to show up here with gifts, Ilya feels taken care of, seen, in a way that he didn’t know he was capable of earning.
It feels all the more overwhelming with the way he’s been feeling this week and last.
Ilya’s been taking his medication for two weeks now, and it’s been nothing if not a rollercoaster of emotions. Feeling lighter and nearly free from the depths of his miserable thoughts, only for them to crash back over him when he least expects it. It became clear, almost instantly, that masking himself for the sake of anyone who isn’t Shane or his therapist was going to be a Herculean feat while he adjusts to the dosage.
December 6th
On day three, Ilya wakes up angry. Angry at his father for the way he treated Ilya growing up, and even more intensely, for the way he treated Ilya’s mother. The raging thoughts sprout from seemingly nowhere, prickling at Ilya’s sweat-slicked skin the moment he wakes from what he had felt to be a peaceful sleep.
He calls Shane—after twenty minutes of shaking under the weight of his self-destructive thoughts and trying to convince himself that he doesn’t deserve to take Shane up on his thankless offer of being just a text or call away, no matter what time it is.
___
Before Ilya had taken his first pill, Shane had comforted him with a story of his journey in finding the right anxiety medication for himself. He didn’t sugar-coat it, knowing all too well that it would do Ilya no good. Then, he’d held Ilya and let him cry in his arms as he swallowed the weight of taking that first, tiny little capsule.
___
“Ilya?” Shane answers the call on the first ring. He sounds groggy, but not quite enough so that Ilya worries he’s woken him up.
He honestly sounds adorable, and Ilya finds his rancid mind wandering to more pleasant spaces already—spaces where he gets to wake up next to Shane and witness his dazed, sleep-filled eyes and raspy morning voice.
“I do not feel good,” Ilya says helplessly. He’s sitting against his headboard with his knees tucked against his chest because that feels like the only way to keep himself in one piece.
“What kind of not good?” Shane asks softly.
Ilya can hear him shifting around, likely still in bed. He’s really fighting not to let the idea that he’s ruining Shane’s morning get the best of him.
“Angry,” Ilya whispers—his voice laced with shame and what he knows are threads of the temper that he can’t escape, even with Shane on the other end of the line.
“Okay,” Shane responds calmly. “That’s okay, baby. You’re allowed to feel angry. I know it doesn’t feel good, but you have a lot of feelings trying to get out right now, the meds are just helping with that, yeah?”
“Okay,” Ilya says feebly. It doesn’t feel like he’s allowed, but the one thing he does know for certain is that he can trust Shane. If Shane says it’s okay, then it has to be.
“Ilya, do you think you should take the day off? I don’t know if pushing yourself to train and lead a practice today will be good for you.”
“I can’t do that,” Ilya says on instinct.
Can’t because that would be weak. Breaks, especially those taken because of feelings, are for someone weak. Ilya’s already on thin ice with himself from asking for help at all; calling in sick for practice would surely sink him.
“You can. You are allowed to, Ilya. You don’t have to tell anyone why, you can take a sick day. It doesn’t make you weak, baby.”
Shane is, of course, already ten steps ahead of Ilya, knowing exactly the critiques that would be tormenting him.
“I feel weak already,” Ilya sighs.
“I know you do, but those feelings aren’t the truth, yeah? That’s your brain being mean to you.” Shane’s voice is sure and sweet. There is just enough edge to it for Ilya to know that Shane isn’t going to give up his stance.
“What if it is right? It is my brain, shouldn’t it know?”
“It does know, deep down. Right now, it’s throwing whatever it can at you to see what sticks, it’s calling you weak because it knows how hard it is to try, it wants you to think that giving in is easier.”
“Isn’t it?” Ilya huffs out a sad laugh.
He’s being stubborn, which he briefly considers Shane not deserving in the slightest, but his devilish mind can’t help itself.
“Yes,” Shane answers quietly. “It is. But you’re strong, Ilya. And trying isn’t going to feel impossible forever, I promise.”
“Shane,” Ilya nearly whimpers. The voices are so fucking loud.
“Baby, listen to me,” Shane states clearly. “Are you listening?”
Ilya nods, forgetting that Shane can’t see him. “Da,” he mutters weakly.
“You’re going to take the day off, okay? I will let Troy know, so that you don’t have to. I won’t tell him why, though, okay? I promise I won’t tell anyone anything you don’t want me to.”
Ilya wants to fight. Or, his stubborn brain does, anyway. He finds the will to agree, though, and the near instant he does, there is a slight reprieve at the knowledge that he doesn’t have to get out of bed.
Shane promises to come over as soon as he finishes at the arena today and assures Ilya once again that he can text or call him at any time.
December 7th
Day four is better. It’s not good, but Ilya goes to training, and he laughs with his teammates and tries his best to be a good captain.
A hard night shadows the passable day, because Ilya is terrified of waking up the next day—a game day—feeling like he did on day three.
December 8th
When Ilya does wake up on that fifth day, he feels on edge. There is an uneasy weight on his shoulders when he thinks about captaining his team on the ice tonight. It’s a distinct sort of imposter syndrome, feeling not as if he is incapable of being a leader while feeling this way, but maybe that his leadership is somehow fraudulent if he’s withholding the truth from his team about why he’s been off lately.
Ilya isn’t naive. He knows that with each week he’s spent in Ottawa, he’s lost a small piece of his mask every day in the locker room. It hasn’t been enough for anyone to say anything to him, but Ilya believes it would be hypocritical of him to let it get to that point after the statement he’d made about trust on his first day.
It’s not that he believes his depression and his medication to be information he owes anyone, but the reason behind not having the bandwidth to give one hundred percent to his team as their leader, is. Those two things just happen to be the same.
The decision to open up to his team is one that Ilya spends many hours thinking about that night before the game when he should be asleep.
He calls Shane again, despite feeling a little pathetic and a lot guilty when he knows Shane should be sleeping as well.
Shane has all the answers, of course, because it seems like that’s just who he is.
“I think if ever there was an NHL team you could feel safe sharing this with, it’s this one.” Shane offers simply. His voice is adorably sleepy, and Ilya’s guilt is swept away almost entirely at the sweet cadence of Shane’s reassurance.
“I do believe that. I think saying it out loud to anyone who is not you right now is just… It makes it feel more real. Real when I do not want it to be.”
And maybe a small part of Ilya, a stubborn and self-destructive piece of his mind that he’s fighting to keep at bay, is offering himself up like this because it thinks sharing it all will get him exiled from the team.
“I can be in the room, if you want? Even if I’m just like, making myself busy around the corner.” Shane offers gently.
Ilya almost has to laugh. As if he could get through this today without being able to rest his eyes on the safety net of Shane.
“You are part of the team, you will be there. I will make sure Harris is as well.”
Having this talk with the team on the day of a game is probably an added layer of necessary risk, but Ilya will chicken out if he doesn’t do it on the same day he woke up with that gut feeling that it needed to happen.
There have only been a handful of days in his near decade-long professional career which have impacted Ilya’s performance during a game. There has never been a time, however, when he tries addressing that thing prior to the game—maybe that will turn out to be the secret ingredient.
“Okay,” Ilya claps his hands together. The entire team, as well as a handful of team employees who frequent the space and interact with Ilya on the daily, are packed into the locker room.
“On my first day here I talked about trust, you all promised to come to me if there is an issue with my leadership. To be honest, you all lose one gold star for not coming to me with what I know has been an issue.”
The entire team looks confused, clearly oblivious to what Ilya’s referring to.
“It is me, I am the issue.” Ilya eyes Shane and sees his eyebrows raise in a warning, looking like he’s going to scold Ilya if he turns this conversation too heavily towards self-deprecation.
“I have not been my best for you all since I came to Ottawa, but especially so this past couple of weeks. I am telling you this because I think it is important, as your captain, to be honest when something is keeping me from giving my all here. I know this is not normal, and you are all probably as uncomfortable with it as I am, but that is the reason I think it is so important. I will spare you my childhood woes, but the moral of my story is that I struggle with depression. I have probably my whole life, but what happened in Boston that resulted in my move here, it… It messed with the balance that I have spent my life using to avoid all of the bad. This week, as I know you have noticed because you all are a little bit smarter than most of the fools in this league, has been especially hard for me. I began speaking to a psychologist for the first time… I also started medication to help treat the depression. Adjusting to that has been difficult, which has made it very difficult to put my mask on every day and pretend to all of you. I do not want to pretend anymore.” Ilya clears his throat.
He really does not want to cry, that wasn’t part of the plan.
“Most of all, I do not want any of you to feel that you need to pretend either. I do not need anyone who is or has been struggling to speak up in solidarity, but what I do want—what I need from you all—is to know that you can come to me, especially if you do not have anyone else. I know that it is not easy, not as a man, not as an athlete, but I will not let anyone on this team feel weak or feel less than, for struggling. Understood?”
The room is quiet for a minute as everyone lets Ilya’s words sink in.
He keeps his eyes on Shane for the most part, grounding himself in his presence. Shane looks like he’s fighting against his instinct to cross the room and wrap his arms around Ilya like he would if they were alone. There’s a soft smile on his face that Ilya thinks carries a touch of pride—the idea of it is absolutely mad, but it warms his heart nonetheless.
Ilya feels the ghost of Shane’s hug anyway; he can conjure the sweet pressure of Shane’s body pressed against his, holding him through the discomfort of this moment.
Boodram is the first to move; he takes a few steps towards Ilya from where he’d been seated and claps him on the shoulder before pulling Ilya into an unexpected hug.
“Thank you, cap.”
“Ah, yes, well…”
Zane holds the hug for longer than expected. Realistically, it's only a few seconds, but Ilya hadn’t been prepared for the possibility of physical affection following his speech.
He’s stiff as a board, but his resistance does nothing to ward off his teammate.
“Okay, this is enough.” Ilya shrugs out of the hug, shoving Bood away playfully with a roll of his eyes.
In the end, it’s about as much of a fairytale response as a person could dream of. The responses are all positive, appreciative, and overall empathetic. The only other person with the balls to try to hug Ilya is Harris, who whispers that he’s so proud of Ilya.
If Russians could blush, Ilya’s entire body would be beet-red at the affectionate attention. Ilya has to force himself to believe that Russians can’t cry either, because the disbelief in being so warmly respected by his team is welling up in his eyes with hot pools of tears with nowhere else to go but out.
When the rest of the team has filed out to the ice for their morning skate, Shane is still lingering, tilting his head so his gaze can follow the last player around the corner before quickly making his way across the room and throwing himself at Ilya.
Ilya grunts at the impact, almost tipping backwards on his half-laced skates.
“You’re amazing,” Shane mumbles into the fabric of Ilya’s practice jersey.
Ilya can’t deny the obvious flush of his cheeks when it comes to Shane.
He doesn’t feel amazing. He feels tired, the vulnerability still weighing heavily on his chest despite the overwhelmingly positive reactions. He’s still glad to have done it, but that doesn’t make the weight of it any easier to bear.
“I am glad you are here,” Ilya replies instead, closing his eyes as he rests his cheek on the top of Shane’s head and breathes in the sweet scent of his hair.
The sound of skates thudding against rubber pulls the two men apart, and their heads both snap up to find Luca Haas rounding the corner into the locker room.
He looks anxious, even more so as he eyes the proximity of Shane and Ilya.
“Sorry,” Haas quickly averts his eyes. “This can wait, I uh, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You are not,” Ilya reassures. He gives Shane a soft smile and they both nod at one another, silently acknowledging that they’ll talk more later.
“What can I do for you, Haas?”
The rookie looks a bit like a deer in headlights. Ilya half expects him to turn and run back down the tunnel.
“I… I wanted to thank you. For what you told us.”
“Was the right thing to do,” Ilya shrugs. Saying you’re welcome feels a bit too pretentious for him at a time like this.
“I didn’t think a team like this existed in hockey,” Luca continues quietly. He still hasn’t looked Ilya in the eye, which tells him that he hasn’t actually gotten to his point yet.
“Neither did I,” Ilya agrees. He takes a seat, hoping that the casualty of leaving his skates will offer Haas some reprieve from the anxiety of whatever he came to say.
“I take medication for anxiety.” Luca says after a while. “Only the team doctor knows. I have taken it since I was fourteen. My biggest fear was always my teammates finding out.”
Ilya’s hands stall with his laces looped around his fingers.
This is why he did it.
For the first time since arriving in Ottawa, Ilya feels like he’s done something right as captain of this team. For the first time, he feels like a good captain here.
Ilya looks up at Luca, who is still burning a hole in the ground with his gaze narrowed between his skates.
Ilya drops his half-tied laces and pushes himself back up off the bench in front of his locker.
“Do not tell Boodram I did this,” Ilya mumbles before tugging Luca into a hug.
It doesn’t last more than a few seconds, but Haas’ shoulders drop the moment the two of them make contact, breathing a deep sigh of relief that Ilya knows he’s been holding this entire time—probably since the moment Ilya started his own speech in front of the team.
“Thank you for telling me,” Ilya says when he pulls back. “You have helped me, too.”
That statement rings true in more ways than one by the end of the night.
Ilya plays what is undoubtedly his best game yet as a Centaur. He scores a hat trick and assists a goal from Haas to shut out San Jose four to zero.
He’s not foolish enough to think that his honesty has cured his depression or even the side effects of his medication, but he does feel proud of himself for the first time in a long time.
He feels hopeful, which isn’t something he’d thought himself capable of as early as that very morning.
December 10th
“Those are some big things you’ve done for yourself this past week, Ilya.” Dr. Galina Says. It’s not praise, just a general response to Ilya’s update.
She wants him to praise himself, probably. She does that a lot.
“I guess so,” Ilya shrugs.
Dr. Galina lifts a brow, she’s not going to say anything further on it because it is his opportunity for a moment of self-pride.
Ilya sighs, shrinking in on himself a bit in the chair. “I know that they are good in the long-term.” Is what Ilya settles on. Acknowledgment that in theory, good work has been done without explicitly granting himself the esteem of having done those things.
“What allowed you the courage to do those things even through that emotionally and physically taxing week?”
Shane. Is the first and only explanation that comes to the forefront of Ilya’s mind in response to the question. It feels like an answer that will come with a myriad of follow-ups that he isn’t sure he has the energy for.
“There is no wrong answer,” Dr. Galina interjects like she has a screen projecting the closed-captions of Ilya’s internal monologue on the wall behind him. “Not everything we do in life is going to be achieved through the most ideal of circumstances, what matters most is picking up those tools along the way.”
God she’s good. Ilya looks around the room, letting his eyes dance anywhere but Dr. Galina’s gaze.
“Shane is the biggest reason, I think.” Ilya says honestly. There is no point in lying here, facing his fears is kind of the entire point behind this.
“What about him has been helpful for you?” Dr. Galina asks.
Everything, even on the worst days, feels like Shane takes my life into his hands. I feel selfish and guilty for asking so much of him even though I never had to ask at all. He’s just there.
“He is good at reminding me of why I am doing this and keeping me focused on the light at the end when I cannot see it.”
“Those are great things. I’m glad you have that kind of support, Ilya. I can see how much it pains you to accept it, but you’re doing it anyway which I’d say is one of the bravest parts of this.”
“Do you think that I am relying too much on him, though?”
“I think you feel worried about that because the concept of relying on anyone at any capacity is uncomfortable for you, which is why I would say that no, I am not concerned about that. If as you improve, you continue to rely on others to that same capacity, that is when I’d look at seeking to increase your independence. Something tells me that you’re still doing a lot yourself though, even if Shane is the reason behind feeling like you can right now.”
Ilya lets that sit with him throughout the rest of the session. The guilt and shame over needing support really has been worse than the roots of his issues coming to the surface, so any reassurance that he isn’t going backwards by having a support system helps, even marginally.
December 12th
she will not hate me, right?
Shane: Why would she hate you??
i don’t know
you have no siblings
maybe she thinks is her duty to scare me or something
Shane: I mean, in a way, yes?
Shane: But she knows how happy I am. She’s not going to be mean to you unless you do something to warrant it first.
Shane: Which you haven’t.
okay😬
Shane: It’s really cute that you’re nervous.
Shane: “I am not nervous, Russians do not do this.”
Shane: 😉
…
wow
wooooow
Shane: 😘😘😘
right sure
Shane: Oh okay, I can take those back?
Shane: *deleted a message*
WHAT
GIVE THOSE BACK THEY ARE MINE
SHANE HOLLANDER
Shane: 😂😂😂
Shane: 😘😘😘
Shane: Happy?
yes thank you
would be happier if you were here to give them in person
Shane: Me too. But I’ll see you tomorrow morning🥰
not soon enough😵💫
Shane: Wanna FaceTime to fall asleep?
i love your ideas
big beautiful brain
Shane: *Incoming FaceTime Video Call*
December 17th
“Rose!”
Ilya watches fondly as Shane throws himself at his friend, hugging her tightly as they both ramble on about missing one another before eventually pulling apart and turning to Ilya.
“Rosie, this is Ilya.” Shane introduces with a wide smile.
“It’s so nice to meet you. I’m a huge fan, more so now, for obvious reasons.” Rose winks, she steps towards Ilya with her arms out, pulling him into a hug before he can even respond.
“Ilya brought you flowers,” Shane preens. “I put them in water for you.”
The attention causes Ilya cheeks to heat up as Rose pulls away from the hug and eyes him up with a smirk.
“I love a man who’s not afraid to suck up a little!”
Brunch with Rose goes a lot better than Ilya expected. Not that he’d assumed it would be bad, but he had been marginally worried about a potential interrogation or simply feeling inadequate as, well, whatever he is to Shane right now.
When Rose leaves and the door clicks shut, Ilya watches Shane take a deep breath before turning back to face Ilya a few steps behind him.
“Should I head home now as well?” Ilya asks politely. He stays leaning against the wall in Shane’s entryway as Shane takes a few, slow steps forward to close the distance between them.
“You could…” Shane mutters, shrugging his shoulders as he reaches Ilya and loops his arms around his waist. “Or, you could stay?” Shane tucks his face into the crook of Ilya’s neck as he poses the question, like he’s nervous. As if there is any world where staying isn’t music to Ilya’s ears.
“Stay? Here, tonight?” Ilya clarifies. He runs his hands up Shane’s back, beneath the hem of his shirt, fingers trailing along the smooth skin.
Despite claiming to run cold, Shane’s skin is always warm to the touch beneath Ilya’s fingers. Maybe that’s just in his head, though. Maybe Shane is just warm to him.
“Mhmm,” Shane confirms. He nods his head, nose brushing along the column of Ilya’s throat.
“Is not like you to make a last-minute plan, what have you done with my Shane?” Ilya teases. He drags his hands down and lightly massages the muscles that brackets Shane’s spine, delighting in the gentle hum that slips through Shane’s lips.
Ilya can feel some of the tension in Shane’s body drain downwards with the press of his hands. Knowing he’s capable of something like that is an indescribable joy; anything Ilya can do to ease any sort of tension or pain from Shane’s mind or body is his favourite act.
“Shut up,” Shane huffs, no honest shred of annoyance in his voice. Shane’s nose shoves at the neck of Ilya’s shirt, pushing it to the side until he can playfully bite at the muscle of Ilya’s shoulder.
It isn’t hard, and there’s nothing overtly sexual about the action, but something in it gives Ilya the impression that Shane's asking him to stay holds a bit of a double meaning.
“Rose really likes you,” Shane whispers against Ilya’s skin before Ilya can think too hard about the invite.
Shane is leaning almost his full body weight against Ilya, letting himself be held up by Ilya’s larger frame and his hands on Shane’s bare back.
“I am glad. I like her too, even now that I know she kissed you before I did.”
“It didn’t do anything for either of us,” Shane grumbles, nuzzling even further into Ilya’s neck, acting like he’s trying to burrow inside of Ilya’s skin.
Ilya would let him, if he could. It’s a thought that should probably terrify him, send him running for the hills and never look back. Instead, Ilya leans into it, letting his body make space for Shane in whatever ways it physically can.
“It means a lot to me that she likes you.” Shane continues. “I don’t really… I’ve always kind of relied on her as a second line of defense for knowing when someone or something is good for me. She’s better at reading me than I am sometimes.” Shane’s voice tilts quieter, like he’s ashamed by the reassurance he received from his friend.
“So, I get a sleepover because Rose Landry likes me?” Ilya teases lightheartedly.
He knows that Shane is aware of it being in jest because he nips at Ilya’s shoulder again, shaking his head with an impatient huff.
“No,” Shane whispers. He kisses Ilya’s neck this time—with more intent than just the natural brush of his lips as he speaks.
Ilya’s breath hitches when Shane’s tongue brushes over his pulse.
“You get a sleepover because I want you to fuck me,” Shane finishes. His voice is low and laced with want—the anxiety that Ilya’s come to learn as part of Shane’s reaction to physical intimacy is nowhere to be found.
“Shane…” Ilya whispers hoarsely. He tips Shane’s head back with a hand on his jaw, searching his eyes for any sign of uncertainty.
“Take me to bed?” Shane asks sweetly, confirming Ilya’s findings as he bites down on his plump bottom lip and gives Ilya a look that could kill.
“Fuck.” Ilya dips his knees, hooking his hands behind Shane’s thighs and lifting him up smoothly. Shane’s legs wrap around Ilya’s hips, and he begins kissing Ilya’s neck with more determination, sucking slow, intentional marks into the pale skin of his throat. Meanwhile, Ilya takes large, hurried paces towards Shane’s room.
Ilya feels out of his body with a kind of want that feels entirely uncharted.
Years of emotionless sex as a tool for distraction haven’t prepared him in the slightest for this unique sort of desire coursing through his veins.
He feels out of his element. The motions are familiar—carrying Shane to his room, kissing wildly and a little depraved against Shane’s bedroom door before they make it to the bed—but it’s Ilya’s mind that’s full of a myriad of new. New emotions, new sensations heightened by everything he’s feeling for Shane that he doesn’t know what to do with.
The thought of wanting to care for the man in his arms, to not just bring him pleasure but to make him happy. To prove to Shane that he can trust Ilya with his heart and body and let himself be loved without fear.
Ilya lets himself be led more than he usually would; he needs Shane to know he has control here, that Ilya will follow his lead on whatever is and isn’t on the table tonight.
When Ilya sets Shane back on his feet, Shane walks him back until the backs of his knees bump Shane’s mattress, and he tips over pliantly, shuffling back on the bed until his back is against the headboard and Shane is crawling into his lap.
They kiss like that for a while, a languid and intentional dance of tongues and a slow, methodical grind of Shane’s hips down against Ilya’s cock straining in his jeans. He’s been hard since the moment Shane told Ilya to carry him to bed—he’d stay like this for the rest of his life if it means letting Shane find his confidence, his pleasure, on Ilya’s lap as he sucks on Ilya’s tongue like he’s trying to swallow it whole.
Ilya grounds himself with his hands on Shane’s thighs, squeezing at the thick muscle hidden beneath his pants. He’s a bit of a slut for Shane’s thighs, and the kicker is he’s never seen them bare. Having met in the early stages of winter, Shane’s never not been wearing pants around Ilya. Somehow, the glorious thickness of his upper legs is constantly teasing Ilya with the way they fill out whatever pants Shane is wearing.
Shane’s own hands slip beneath the waist of Ilya’s t-shirt, sliding up his torso and palming at his abs. Shane shoves fervently at the fabric until it’s bunching up beneath Ilya’s armpits and he reluctantly releases his grip on Shane’s thighs to allow his shirt to be tugged away.
Shane has, on numerous occasions, seen Ilya in various states of undress through the course of knowing one another. It’s clear almost immediately that he’s still taken aback by the sight of Ilya’s bare chest under these new circumstances. Now that he’s somewhere he’s really allowed to look.
Shane’s hands wander freely, clearly not feeling restricted by the same concerned hesitancy as Ilya—which is good. Ilya doesn’t want Shane to hesitate, he wants Shane to take him and use him—or ask to be used, in whatever way he wants and needs.
Shane’s fingers tangle in Ilya’s curls, holding firmly in his hair as he dips away from their kiss to mouth at Ilya’s chest. Shane kisses the gold cross resting between Ilya’s pecs.
“It’s been a long time,” Shane admits quietly. He lifts his head to meet Ilya’s eyes, replacing his hungry mouth with his hands as he runs them up Ilya’s stomach to his chest, sighing as he kneads the dense muscle beneath his fingers.
“We can do whatever you want,” Ilya reassures. His voice cracks when Shane’s thumbs swipe over his perked nipples.
Ilya briefly wonders if Shane understands the full weight of the effect he’s having on Ilya. That thought goes out the window with a particularly slow, filthy grind of Shane’s hips on Ilya’s cock throbbing in his pants. “Whatever you are comfortable with.” Ilya offers further, not caring in the slightest how ruined he sounds.
Ilya doesn’t think that Shane can possibly understand just how much he means that either. It can’t really be put into words how just having Shane perched in his lap like this, fully clothed and just looking at Ilya this way, is well more than fulfilling enough.
“I want everything,” Shane admits quietly. His voice doesn’t waver with any doubt; it gives Ilya no reason to believe he doesn’t mean it entirely. “I don’t want you to take my nerves as me not being certain. I want you, Ilya.”
Ilya swallows thickly, letting the words coat his flaming skin.
“Is there anything you need from me? Things to avoid? Words, or…”
Ilya is all too aware of what it means for Shane to be this vulnerable with another man, and while he can’t possibly understand the specifics of what that’s like for Shane, he can at least recognize how much of an honour it is to be someone that Shane is allowing in like this.
Ilya watches for an answer that comes in the form of Shane’s wobbling bottom lip and slow shake of his head. There are tears pooling in the corners of Shane’s wide eyes and even though he knows they aren’t sad tears, Ilya’s still struck by an overwhelming and insatiable need to help.
Shane must sense that though, and before Ilya can bring a hand up to swipe at his tear stained cheeks, Shane shakes his head again, bringing his own hand up to cup Ilya’s cheek and brushing his thumb over Ilya’s bottom lip.
“That’s all I ever need. You care, you… fuck, Ilya.” Shane laughs weakly. “This is real, right? We’re real? We’re together and we’re… it’s just us, for you?”
Ilya almost laughs at the absurdity of the suggestion that there is anyone or anything else that exists for him outside of this, right here. Outside of this man who has unintentionally saved Ilya from himself without even knowing it.
“Shane… There has been nothing else for me since the first night I saw you. I swear to you, I would not take this moment from you if there was anything else. You’re mine, дорогой.”
For a brief moment, Ilya’s concerned that it’s too much, the possession of calling Shane his when they technically have still yet to talk about what they are. That fear is wiped clear away when Shane loops a hand around the back of Ilya’s neck and pulls him up into a passionate kiss.
+++
They kiss until Shane’s lips feel raw—no doubt red and swollen from Ilya’s needy mouth licking and biting and sucking at the flesh of his lips like he’ll never get another chance.
He always kisses like this, like Shane is this new, undiscovered meal that Ilya doesn’t know how he’s ever lived without.
Every single time it takes Shane’s breath away.
Shane leans back and marvels at the image beneath him. Ilya looks drunk on their kiss, his eyes are glassy and his skin is flushed red—he looks a little crazed in a way that only serves to spur Shane on even further.
Shane hopes he looks the same to Ilya right now—it’s exactly how he feels. Intoxicated by Ilya’s touch and taste, the smell of him everywhere around Shane.
Shane ducks his head into Ilya’s neck, taking in a long, deep breath with his eyes pinched shut before he leans back.
Shane lifts his arms, silently asking Ilya to help him shed the armour of his top. Ilya understands the message clearly, pulling Shane’s shirt up and over his head. It’s the first time Ilya’s seen his chest since that fateful day in the locker room, a fact Shane knows isn’t lost on Ilya either.
Ilya lets out a laboured breath that almost sounds relieved—like seeing Shane is saving him from something in the same way that being seen by Ilya is saving Shane. He considers that this likely feels as much of a redo of that moment for Ilya as it does for him—a chance for Ilya to express to Shane, with his eyes and with touch, that he doesn’t need to feel afraid of being seen by him.
Ilya’s eyes darken with a palpable desire as they rake over Shane’s chest.
It takes far less effort than Shane had expected to trust the look in Ilya’s eyes—it’s so obscenely desirous that there is really no other way to take it than exactly what it is.
Ilya wants Shane, exactly how he is.
Ilya’s hands come up to trace the same path as his eyes; they’re warm and strong, and they feel fucking huge when they squeeze at the muscle around his pecs.
Ilya brushes a thumb over one of Shane’s nipples, and Shane tilts his head back as he sighs at the sensation. He’s wildly grateful in this moment to have regained some of the sensation in his nipples after top-surgery because fuck if the thought of Ilya wrapping his lips around the sensitive, brown buds and sucking on them doesn’t sound like the best thing that will ever happen to him.
Ilya, because he’s apparently cut from some unique cloth just for Shane, pauses to confirm Shane’s unvoiced desire.
“This feels good for you?” Ilya asks, swiping his thumb over Shane’s nipple again to clarify the question.
“Yes,” Shane responds. His voice is breathy and ragged from nothing but some filthy kissing and taking his shirt off. He tugs on Ilya’s curls, following up his assurance by directing Ilya’s mouth down to his chest.
Ilya goes pliantly, sighing as he sucks one of Shane’s nipples into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and sucking experimentally as he gauges Shane’s reactions.
Ilya’s efforts are quickly validated by Shane enthusiastically pulling his face into his chest with his fingers wrapped tightly in Ilya’s blonde curls. He seems more than content to have his air supply cut off as Shane holds him securely against his pecs and keeps him hostage for his own pleasure.
It’s not long, though, before Shane needs more.
He doesn’t really know how to voice that, and so, he pulls Ilya up into a kiss and tries his best to get his message across with a grind of his hips down against Ilya’s erection.
The message is received hastily and eagerly, before Shane can even think, Ilya flips them on the bed and is kissing down Shane’s chest and stomach towards the waistband of his pants.
When he gets there, Ilya’s lips pause where Shane’s pants meet the bare skin of his lower stomach, looking up through his lashes to meet Shane’s eyes as he checks in again.
“Okay?” Ilya whispers.
Shane surprises himself with how little he feels the need to really think about the question.
It is okay. He is okay and has never been more okay with the thought of someone seeing him completely bare.
This is typically the moment where everything sets in for Shane and becomes a thing. It becomes a painstaking, relentless need to be on the lookout for that switch. The look in a man’s eyes where, in at least some capacity, they lose the ability to view Shane as a man.
For the first time, Shane feels like he can shut off his mind and shirk the responsibility to look for the signs.
When Ilya hooks his fingers around the bands of Shane’s sweatpants and briefs and begins to pull them down, the only clear thought in Shane’s mind is that Ilya needs to move faster. Shane lifts his hips, helping Ilya to tug the fabric over the swell of his ass until he can easily slide them the rest of the way off.
Really, what is there for Shane to worry about when Ilya is dropping his face into the space where Shane’s thigh meets his groin and is breathing in his scent so deeply he’s lucky not to choke on it.
Shane’s fingers tangle in Ilya’s curls again, tugging harshly but pushing him down and closer at the same time.
“Want you closer.” Shane moans, his nails slipping from Ilya’s hair and scratching down the back of his neck. He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for; any closer and Ilya would be sinking into Shane’s bones.
“Can I taste you, малыш? Need you in my mouth,” Ilya groans, his voice muffled by Shane’s skin as he spreads Shane’s legs and pushes up against the back of his thighs so that he can settle himself in between.
The choice of words, whether intentional or not, touches something unmapped in Shane’s chest.
“Fuck, please, you can do anything.”
The fact that Shane truly means that only serves to heighten the burning want engulfing his body, rippling through the blood in his veins as Ilya kisses inward on his thighs.
He takes his sweet time there, seemingly lost in himself as he sucks tender, red marks into the skin. Ilya’s teeth sink in, licking over the pale lines of stretch marks—kissing, suckling, inhaling the very essence of Shane.
Despite the heat already burning between his thighs, Shane shudders at the warmth of Ilya’s tongue licking through his folds for the first time. Ilya spreads Shane open with a firm stroke of his tongue from his entrance up to his cock, and when he wraps his lips around Shane, suckling on his swollen length, Shane can’t stop his hips from rucking up, pushing himself impossibly closer into Ilya’s mouth.
It‘s so foreign to Shane to be more focused on the actions of the other person, the pleasure of the moment they’re in, than on the details of his body.
He doesn’t wonder what Ilya’s thinking at the sight of him, doesn’t have to wonder if Shane’s bottom growth is anything to bat an eye at because all Shane can feel are the insistent, needy strokes of Ilya’s tongue as his head bobs between Shane’s legs, lapping and sucking at the wetness like he’s starving for it.
Shane’s breath hitches when Ilya easily slips two fingers inside him. He’d been so caught up in Ilya’s skilled tongue at work and the wanton, entrancing moans slipping through his lips that he hadn’t even noticed Ilya bring his hand down.
Shane watches, vision glazed over as Ilya fucks his fingers inside, dragging them against the slick heat of Shane’s walls each time he pulls out.
If it were anyone else, Shane would be embarrassed by how quickly he feels himself approaching an orgasm. But with Ilya, every touch is heightened—by his obvious skill, sure, but mostly, it’s the reverence with which Ilya is taking him apart.
“‘m-close,” Shane groans, tipping his head back and throwing an arm over his eyes as the feeling builds in his stomach.
Ilya hooks his fingers and thumbs at Shane’s swollen cock as he lifts his eyes to watch Shane tip over the edge.
“Fuck,” Ilya moans, mouth agape as he watches pleasure contort Shane’s face. He eases the thrust of his fingers, continuing to pump them in and out as Shane rides through his orgasm. “That’s it, baby, so fucking good for me.”
Ilya pulls out his fingers, and Shane watches in awe as he slips them between his lips and sucks every last drop of Shane off. Ilya moans around his digits, and that mixed with the wet sound of his tongue sucking lewdly around his own fingers makes Shane’s stomach turn.
Shane rips Ilya’s hand away, twisting it towards himself and sucking Ilya’s two fingers into his own mouth, groaning as he tastes Ilya’s spit mixed with his own release.
“Shit,” Ilya hisses. He just watches, eyes dark as Shane sucks his fingers raw with an enthusiasm that makes his hip jerk.
“Need you in me, please,” Shane begs the moment he lets Ilya’s fingers free with a filthy, wet pop.
Ilya groans. He drops his face down to Shane’s chest and bites one of his nipples sharply between his teeth.
“You’re fucking perfect,” Ilya coos. “You want me to fuck you now, baby?”
Shane nods with a whine, tugging on Ilya’s hair to meet his gaze again.
“Can I be on top?” Shane asks, a little worried that he’ll disappoint Ilya with the request.
He shouldn’t have been, clearly, because Ilya just swears under his breath before letting himself be rolled onto his back with Shane straddling his hips once again.
Shane pushes up on his knees, taking Ilya’s hard cock in his hand and guiding it to his entrance. He rubs the tip through his folds, coating it in the slick wetness between his legs before sinking down on Ilya in a single motion.
“Oh my-fuck,” Shane groans as he leans forward, his lips parted and letting out shaky little breaths as he adjusts to the feeling of Ilya inside of him.
Ilya’s hands are gripping his hips with a desperate strength, not making any effort to get Shane moving and clearly just as content to bask in the feeling of Shane’s warm walls around his cock.
With his hands on Ilya’s shoulders, Shane starts up a slow roll of his hips, just grinding his ass over Ilya and enjoying the stretch of his cock filling him up so delectably. Shane’s own cock rubs against Ilya’s groin as he rocks his hips, before starting to drag himself up and down on Ilya’s cock, riding him and feeling a delicious burn build up in his thighs.
The grip of Ilya’s fingers turns bruising as he starts to rut his hips up in time with Shane’s own movements. Ilya’s deep, breathy groans quickly become addicting to Shane and only serve to add to the wild, addicting possession Shane is feeling for the man beneath him.
“So good,” Ilya huffs, his brow pinched as he watches Shane bounce on his cock, taking him all in like it’s nothing. “Fucking perfect, Shane, look at you.”
The words settle deep in Shane’s stomach, fluttering as he leans forward and pulls Ilya into a messy kiss—all teeth and tongue and no rhyme to it, just pure desperation to taste any part of Ilya he can get his mouth on.
Ilya begins to take over control of their movements when Shane gets lost in the kiss and struggles to keep up with any sort of rhythm to the grind of his hips. Ilya pulls Shane’s hips down and thrusts up into him until he finds the perfect beat.
Shane can feel himself getting close again, and the desperate, frantic look in Ilya’s eyes lets him know that Ilya isn’t far off either.
“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane cries out, his head tipping back as he’s consumed by the feeling of Ilya’s thick cock pounding up into him, filling up every inch of Shane like he was made to be there.
One of Ilya’s hands leaves Shane’s hips and slips between their bodies. He starts stroking Shane’s cock the best he can with the angle as their stomachs smack together with every messy thrust of his hips.
When Shane comes, he cries out a blur of Ilya’s name mixed with a broken whimper as the pleasure shoots up his spine.
Ilya takes the full weight of Shane in his arms, flipping them over and losing himself in the hot, tight contractions of Shane’s walls around him as he fucks into him relentlessly until his own release courses through him, hips stuttering as Shane’s fingers dig into his shoulders and drag down his back.
Shane’s legs are locked around Ilya, keeping their bodies together to keep Ilya seated inside him as long as possible and fighting against the emptiness he knows he will feel when Ilya does pull out.
Shane feels like he’s floating, his entire body is warm and sated, covered in the hot, heavy blanket of Ilya’s body as their synced breathing lifts and drops their bodies in time with one another.
“Don’t go,” Shane pleads, deciding he’s not against begging.
“Where would I go?” Ilya asks like the very idea is absurd—like there is anywhere in the world he’d rather be than inside of Shane. He’s still half hard, not moving at all as he just lets Shane cling to him for dear life with his face tucked into his shoulder, breathing Ilya in.
“Ilya,” Shane whispers reverently. Hot tears threaten to spill along his lashes, and he’s overcome with emotion as it settles in how different this was from anything he’s ever experienced.
It really feels like Shane’s first time in a way. It’s his first time being so present for every single moment.
“I’ve never been with someone who I felt like was able to continue seeing me as a man after sex,” Shane whispers, it’s almost entirely to himself, even though he knows Ilya will respond.
“Shane, the only thing that can ever change how I see you, is you telling me that you are someone else, okay?”
Shane nods weakly, tears spilling from the corners of his eyes.
“Fuck,” Shane’s voice cracks.
Shane falls asleep tucked securely into Ilya’s side, feeling safe and more peacefully at home in his own skin than he ever has before. He lets himself drift away, trusting Ilya to keep his promise and carry him to the shower soon so they can clean up.
When he does, Ilya washes every inch of Shane’s body with so much reverence that the spray of the water isn’t quick enough to wash away the heavy flow of Shane’s tears. He hands his body over to Ilya and relents the pristine control he’s held his entire life.
Ilya takes the offering in stride. Takes it so simply, like Shane’s handing him a bouquet of flowers to be set in water and not his entire body and soul.
___
Ilya wakes up on cloud nine.
He’s wrapped around Shane like a full-body shield; the front of his body is sealed tight against the back of Shane’s—their knees bent at the same angle and fused together.
The moment is interrupted when Shane’s phone begins ringing from his bedside table. Shane lurches awake, nearly bashing Ilya’s nose in with the back of his head when the sound startles him.
“Fuck, sorry, sorry.” Shane scrambles, disoriented and still half-asleep as he fumbles with his phone.
The call had ended already and Ilya watches, confused as Shane’s eyes go wide.
“Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.” Shane types away furiously before locking his phone and dropping his head into his hands.
“Shane?”
“My parents are on their way,” Shane speaks into his hands, voice muffled. “We had plans for breakfast here this morning, and I forgot.”
Ilya freezes. Meeting the best friend is one thing, but meeting Shane’s parents is definitely a step he hadn’t prepared for—one he ideally would like to prepare for.
“Right, okay. Ahh…”
Ilya has no idea what Shane is thinking. They haven’t talked about this; hell, they haven’t even talked about what they are.
Shane is just groaning into his hands, and Ilya isn’t sure whether to take that as a you need to get the fuck out of my house right now groan, or an okay, well, I guess you are meeting my parents, groan.
“Do you want me to run?” Ilya asks uncertainly, sort of just throwing anything out there to see if it sticks. “I can run if you want.”
In some vein, it was the right thing to offer, because Shane bursts into laughter. He curls even further into himself, his body shaking with every laugh.
“You can run if you don’t want to do this, but I’m not sending you out my window in your underwear like I’m a teenager that snuck a boy into my room.”
“I want what you want. If that is me running to my car naked, then so be it,” Ilya smirks. He pulls Shane’s body into his, pressing a sweet kiss to his bare shoulder. “They are your parents; if you want me to meet them, I will.”
“It’s not just my choice, Ilya. We haven’t even…” Shane cuts himself off.
“We haven’t what, малыш”
“We haven’t like… Talked about what we are?”
“How long do we have before Yuna Hollander is knocking down your door?”
Shane taps the screen of his phone to check the time. “Less than ten minutes.”
“Okay, let’s talk.”
“Wha-”
“I told you last night that there is nothing else for me, and that you are mine, yes? Do you feel the same?”
“I-yes. Of course I do… I’ve never felt like this before about anyone.”
“Then we are boyfriends now, no?”
Shane’s eyes go wide, like the word boyfriend is any more serious than what Ilya had said just before that.
“Boyfriends,” Shane nods.
“Good. All is settled, I will get dressed and not run away. And then I will meet your parents, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Shane whispers. His eyes look glassy, but as soon as they well up, Shane shakes his head and remembers how little time they have.
He jumps out of bed, practically throwing the blankets on top of Ilya as he rushes to the bathroom to make himself presentable.
Ilya takes a final moment to sit in the stillness, listening to Shane putter around in the en suite and wondering what the hell he did to deserve loving someone like Shane.
It doesn’t shock Ilya to have the thought.
He does love Shane, and he can’t wait to tell him.