Chapter Text
Summer 2014
Even though Shane is alone in the cottage, he puts the blinds down and locks his bedroom door. Only then, does he feel secure enough to call Ilya.
“Hey,” Shane says quietly, as the video loads and he sees Ilya’s face in fits and starts of lagging screen. “It’s good to see you.”
The screen settles, and Ilya is sitting on his couch in Moscow. He wears one of his too-tight black tanktops, and even though the resolution isn’t great, Shane can see the curve of his muscle, a faint glimmer that might be sweat.
“Good to see you, he says,” Ilya mocks. “So boring, you do not tell me I look hot?” He raises an arm to flex, kissing a bicep, and Shane bites down on his smile. Then he remembers he doesn’t have to do that anymore, and lets it spread across his face. When Ilya turns back to his screen, Shane almost thinks the phone lags again from the way he freezes. But then Ilya’s shoulders slump just a little, and his smirk morphs into a smile. “Hello, Shane.”
They’ve never called each other before. A strange thing to realize, now that they’ve decided to try to make this thing something real, official. Shane wonders if he should feel nervous about it, uncomfortable. After all, this will be how they go about this thing they’re calling a relationship. Long distance, miles and continents between them, short and desperate meetings that they’ll have to live off of for years.
But Shane remembers how it feels to fall asleep in Ilya’s arms. To be kissed by him, sour morning breath and all, to be held like he is something precious. He remembers not even a week ago, knocking on Ilya’s door in Vegas. How his heart had raced, tripped, stumbled, right up until Ilya wrapped him in an embrace.
Shane knows what it is to have a home. He always has, between his parents, his team, the buildings he’s bought and constructed. But there’s only one place he’s ever felt so at peace, so still. And if he has to look across 7 hours of time zones and a video call to grasp at even a hint of that again, he’ll do it.
“Psh, you look… sentimental'no. I do not know word in English. Too much emotions. Stop it.”
Shane flushes, but that doesn’t make the smile go away. “It’s your fault, asshole. I can be as sappy as I want.”
“Sappy,” Ilya draws out the word. Like he’s tasting it on his tongue. “Is word for tree? Are you telling me you are tree? I think Canada broke brain. No good at hockey anymore.”
“Fuck you,” Shane says, laughing. He rolls to the side and props his phone up against a pillow. It means he can curl his fingers in his sleeves. Which helps him smother the urge to reach out and try to touch Ilya through the screen. “Did you make it to Moscow okay?”
Ilya spreads his arms, looking around himself. “Yes, I think so.” He leans closer to his phone. Shane imagines the sparkle in his eyes, the way Ilya looks right through him. “But where– where are you? Does not look like apartment.”
Shane sits up, bringing the phone with him. “No, I actually had this built.”
Ilya laughs. “Mr. Real Estate. Show me around?”
Shane swallows. He’s not sure what he’s nervous about. His parents are busy today, and no one else even knows that this cottage exists, never mind where to find it. But it feels… vulnerable, to step out of this room.
Maybe he hadn’t thought all of the massive glass windows through.
It’s… fine. Probably.
He stands up, flips the camera to show the dimmed room. “Well, uh, this is the master bedroom. En-suite bathroom, and–”
“That is good bed,” Ilya interrupts. “I will like to see you on this later, yes?”
“Shut up,” Shane snaps. But he can already feel some of the tension in his spine unwinding. “The blinds are on a switch but–” He takes a deep breath and keeps the camera focused toward the lake as the view reveals itself.
At least like this, Shane can watch Ilya’s expression without being observed. It’s strangely comforting, to hide while he bares this part of himself.
Ilya does not disappoint. His eyes go wide, his mouth opening just slightly. “Damn, Hollander.” He’s silent for a long moment. Shane wonders what he’s thinking. “You are… exhibitionist then?”
He should’ve fucking known better than to wonder. “What? No!” He flips the camera so that Ilya can get the full force of his scowl. “I own all the land surrounding this too, it’s super private and isolated, I just wanted a view! Not– Not to–”
Ilya hums. His expression is hungry, a mirror to his usual look when he pins Shane to the bed with a hand on his chest. “Oh? You do not want to be fucked up against the glass? So that whole world can see face you make when you come? It is good face.”
“Fuck off,” Shane spits. But it’s breathy, and his traitorous dick hardens just at the thought.
Ilya smiles. “Maybe someday, I visit mansion. We give lake a show.” And god, does Shane want that. Wants Ilya here, in this space he created out of one of his fantasies. Because now, all of his best fantasies include Ilya too. From the way he’d look sprawled on the dock outside, to the way it would feel to hold the Cup with one hand and kiss Ilya with the other, to faceless, giggling children hiding behind Shane while Ilya lumbers after them with a mock roar.
Shane’s head is so full. There’s only ever been room for hockey and his parents and now Ilya has laid claim to all the open property. Stuck his flag in places that had been abandoned before, and made his home alongside all of the other things Shane lo–
Well.
“You’re ridiculous. It’s a cottage,” Shane deflects. “But maybe we– make it happen, somehow.”
“Somehow,” Ilya echoes. His expression shifts rapidly from hungry to soft and back again. “For now, get on bed.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” Ilya says. He leans away from the camera and in one smooth motion pulls off his shirt. “Get on bed. Take off your clothes.”
“You’re insane.” But as he tugs at his shirt, he’s already thinking of the new fantasies spooling out from this moment that will keep him warm and happy for months.
~
In Vegas, after they’d said everything right up to the edge of I love you, Shane and Ilya came up with a plan. It was long term, with many, many steps. There might be a spreadsheet somewhere that Shane won’t admit to.
But it’s a plan, nonetheless. Over the summer of 2014, they tweak it and add things important to the both of them. There are even many, extensive, contingency plans.
The plan looks like this:
Step 1: Figure Out Long Distance
Step 2: The Friendship Agenda
Step 3: The Cottage
Step 4: Beards
Step 5: Assembling Allies
Step 6: Free Agency for Ilya
Step 7: Free Agency for Shane
Step 8: Retire
Step 9: Come Out?
Step 10: Profit
Shane is pretty positive nothing can go wrong. It might take a while to get there, but Shane thinks long term about the things that matter. And Ilya? He matters.
~
Step 1: Figure Out Long Distance
~
Late Summer 2014
“Uncle Ilya, more presents?” Alisochka tugs at his pant leg. It feels like just yesterday that Ilya met her for the first time, Alexei for once not glaring at him, too entranced by the squishy red alien that shared his blood. His brother is nowhere to be found now, which is probably for the best. Alisa’s mother hands Ilya a hastily packed bag. Designer, cute and pink, filled with clothes and toys that Ilya purchased for his niece and had delivered from America.
Ekaterina doesn’t look at him, hardly acknowledges him. She is not a bad woman, as far as Ilya knows, but he doesn’t know what Alexei has said about him. Whatever it is, it ensures she looks at him with nothing but disdain. “Be good for your uncle,” she says, patting Alisa on the head and jogging out the door.
This leaves him with his niece, who continues to look up at him expectantly.
Here, perhaps, is the one thing left in Russia that makes him smile. Little Alisochka, with her light hair and button nose, who is loud and playful and stubborn. Ilya looks at her and sees himself, and—in the right light—his mother on the rare days she was happy.
“Presents?” He teases. Ilya scoops his hands under her armpits. She is as light as a feather when he tosses her into the air. She shrieks and grabs at his hair with a surprisingly strong grip. “Is that all that I am to you? Maybe I should keep all of your presents for myself. No more presents for Alisochka.”
“No! Presents please!” she screeches, before dissolving into a squirming, giggling mass that Ilya struggles to hold onto.
He relents, of course, and finds deep, indescribable joy in the way she tears into the packages, pulling out dolls and a tea party set. His niece is adorable. With a pang, Ilya wonders how long she will be allowed to adore him, before his brother’s poison seeps into her mind.
“Play, uncle,” she demands. So Ilya folds himself to the ground and allows himself to be ordered around by a toddler.
What follows is a complex sequence of tea party etiquette that appears to have more rules and regulations that hockey. In a moment of sentimentality that he intends to hide forever, he wishes Shane was here with a spreadsheet. Ilya would even resist the urge to make fun of him. Not completely, but at least a little, if it meant he could keep track of what was going on.
Ilya has just been allowed to sip from the empty cup, when his phone rings.
Alisochka pouts and crosses her arms. But she doesn’t whine when Ilya raises a finger and slips his phone from his pocket.
Jane flashes across the screen, a FaceTime request. Ilya curses under his breath, in English for the sake of his niece’s ears. When Alexei texted him yesterday to babysit, he’d entirely forgotten to reschedule his call with Shane.
Ilya could ignore it, send him to voicemail, but…
It’s hard enough being apart from Shane. In Vegas, Ilya split open his chest in a bathroom and let Shane choose whether to stomp on it. Because Shane was brave, he’d cradled it instead, clung to Ilya and curled against him in bed. Let Ilya love him, even if Ilya had not found those specific words yet.
Ilya wants to be around him all the time. Wants to love Shane loudly, everywhere. Wants to put a claim on him for the world to see.
But Ilya’s father is sick.
Ilya’s father is sick, and they are only starting their fourth season, and Shane hasn’t won a Cup yet—
He cannot love Shane loudly, not without ruining him.
But Ilya can love him like this, in stolen moments after games, on phone calls that have steadily increased to daily, in the texts that he sends almost automatically. And this is enough. Ilya’s feelings for Shane grow so exponentially that they bridge the distance between them, a link that connects them, cities and continents apart.
Ilya takes the call.
“Hi,” Shane says. He looks sleep-rumpled, pillow creases striping his cheek. Ilya kissed those lines, one of the times they fell asleep together. Traced their bumps with his lips. “Where are you?”
“I’m with–” Ilya starts in Russian. He shakes his head. The beauty of this man jumbles his languages, sometimes. “I’m with my niece. Alexei and his girlfriend are out, they asked me to babysit Alisa.”
At her name, Alisa sits up, suddenly interested in the tangle of words she doesn’t understand.
Shane’s eyes widen and he sits up immediately, scooting back against his headboard. Ilya feels mildly disappointed that he’s wearing a shirt. “What? You’re with your family and you picked up?” he hisses. Ilya can imagine the way he’s fidgeting, restless with panic. He wants to hold Shane’s hand, press him to the bed with his weight until he calms.
Instead, he flips the camera. The angle catches an impatient and nosey Alisa, who is leaning forward imperiously over the coffee table and looking adorable. There is a tutu involved.
Shane coos automatically. He has good taste.
“You can see, she is no rat. Will not be telling the press.”
“You’re so annoying,” Shane complains, but he looks less tense already.
“Alisochka, would you like to say hi to my friend?” Ilya asks.
“Da!” Alisa scrambles to Ilya’s side of the table. She climbs him like furniture. “Who?”
Ilya flips the camera back, and watches Shane straighten, like he is terrified of making a bad impression on a toddler. With a smirk, he says, “Her name is Jane.”
Shane’s eyes narrow. “Ilya–”
“She is girl?” Alisa asks. She furrows her brow. “Ch- Shane?”
Silently, Ilya curses himself. Somehow, he’d forgotten the lack of a native J sound in Russian. So much for ensuring Alisa could not accidentally overshare. If she calls Shane a she it will help obscure the truth and also be deeply funny, but using his actual name defeats the purpose.
“No, no,” Ilya shakes her playfully. “Copy Uncle Ilya. It is like ‘ch’ sound, but more ‘juh’. Try again. Jane.”
“Chane.”
“Jane. Juh- ane. You have your tongue in the right place, but it is louder, with your throat and chest.”
Alisa looks at him like he is insane. Ilya doesn’t know a better way to describe it, and he’s not sure how much of that she can even understand with her tiny little brain. She tries again though, a stubborn Rozanova to the core. “Chane. Chuh-ane. Chuh. Ch…Juh? Juh-ane? Juh-ane!”
If looks could kill, Ilya would be a pile of ashes on the ground. Shane’s glare is fierce enough that it burns through the screen.
“Excellent, you little genius!” Ilya smacks a kiss to the top of her head. “Now say hello to Jane.”
“Privet, Juh-ane!” Alisa waves her little hand close to the camera.
With the little girl looking at him, Shane softens. “Hi, Alisa. Privet.” He repeats her carefully, the Russian less awkward on his tongue than Ilya expects. And then he meets Ilya’s eyes and, expression pleasantly cheerful, demands, “Ilya, what the fuck are you doing?”
Ilya shrugs. He’s not sure why he wants Shane to meet Alisa so bad, why it makes something happy and content curl in his chest to know that two of the people who matter most in the world to him are meeting, but… Maybe he wants Shane to know all the parts of himself that he can give. If Shane is to be his home, Ilya wants to move in all of his things. They might not be together often, but he can share this.
He doesn’t tell Shane this, because finding the English words is too hard, and this is too new to lay that burden on. Instead, he says, “I tell her you are girl named Jane. No one will know different. And you can use big brain to help me understand rules of tea party.”
“Wait, girl? You fucking asshole.”
“Is good cover. I promise I remember you are man. Very much man,” Ilya says, purposefully glancing at the bottom of the screen. He winks.
“I hate you,” Shane grumbles. But Ilya can see the little smile curling his lips. “Put me down somewhere for the tea party. I hope you’re ready to translate.”
Ilya grins. “Go to kitchen and get tea cup. My niece is smart, she will want real thing.”
~
Late Summer 2014
Shane drops his head back onto his pillow, panting and sticky.
“Krasivyy,” Ilya murmurs. His voice crackles over the connection. Shane’s pretty sure that one means beautiful. He’ll look it up later. Ilya better not be insulting him after he just made him come.
“I wish you were here,” Shane says, rolling his head to the side to see the camera. Ilya’s chest rises and falls rapidly. He looks sleepy and sated. Shane would do anything to kiss him, rest his head against his chest, feel the tight band of Ilya’s arm holding him close.
Ilya smiles, closes his eyes. Shane watches the glint of his crucifix, wonders if Ilya’s lungs hurt like this too, like he can’t get a full breath unless they’re together. “I miss your mouth,” Ilya says. He opens his eyes to wink and closes them again.
Shane snorts. But it does make him think. They’d discussed what to do about the distance, in June. After all, they go months without seeing each other during the season. For Shane, that’s not a big deal. He misses Ilya, of course, but he rarely slept with other people between their hookups anyway. For Ilya…
They’d gone back and forth. Ilya insisted it would be fine, that he was more concerned with making sure Shane was happy and that their relationship was good. Shane loved that Ilya cared that much, but he also nurtured the deep and unabiding fear that Ilya would grow to resent him. Maybe it was a stupid anxiety, but Shane worried about Ilya going from sleeping with at least a few women a month to no one at all for long stretches.
He didn’t tell Ilya about his worries, exactly, but he did mention that Ilya had managed all this time to not feel anything about anyone else. At the root of it, Shane wanted Ilya’s… care. His attention and affection. To be the one that Ilya thought about before he fell asleep, the one he got excited to text over little things, the one he wanted to come home to. And before Vegas, before they had the needed conversation… Shane became that anyway. He could trust Ilya, be fine with opening their relationship, as long as he was the only one in Ilya’s heart.
Ilya relented eventually, but Shane still isn’t sure if it was genuine agreement or a desire to move onto a different topic.
He thinks about it now, and tentatively asks, “Have you gone clubbing at all and… you know?”
Ilya opens his eyes. Shane can’t read all of his expressions yet. This one is… unclear. Maybe he’s considering. “Do you really want to know?” Ilya asks.
Shane’s shoulders tense. He releases them with a slow, careful breath. “I– Yes?” He only realizes when he says it that he’s actually not sure.
“Hm.” Ilya props himself up on an elbow. He uses his other hand to trace slow, absentminded shapes on his chest. Shane’s eyes stick there without permission. “You really want to know? To hear about how I go to club, how I have drinks, how pretty women surround me. To hear how I take them back to my apartment, unzip their dress, play with their tits.” Ilya leans closer to the camera, his face blocking out the teasing path of his fingers. “Shane Hollander wants to know how I eat pussy and fuck them until they scream?”
Shane swallows. He can picture it, is the thing. And… well, it doesn’t do anything for him. He was hoping, maybe, that it would be hot. This could be a thing. Ilya could sleep with beautiful women and they could jerk off about it together.
Except, every time Shane tries to think about the woman there, tries to imagine Ilya fucking her… It’s like he can’t focus on her. He knows what Ilya looks like as he fucks, knows the sounds he makes, the way his muscles flex. And Shane has fucked women, even if he’s always, kind of, waiting for it to end.
And yet, he pictures Ilya taking a woman home, and inevitably she transforms somewhere between unzipping her dress into… him. All Shane can do is picture himself there, picture Ilya sucking his dick, fucking him until he screams.
That’s hot to think about, but the woman is… just not there.
Oh.
Holy fuck.
Is Shane… gay?
“Shane?” Ilya’s expression morphs from the hungry one he wears when he wants to take Shane apart to one of concern. “Sorry, is not good?”
Shane shakes his head. Hopes it resettles his brain somewhere else, until he can have a sexuality crisis in private. “Shit, sorry. No it’s… fine.”
“Shane,” Ilya says, voice serious. “I do not have to tell you about it. I want you to be happy.” He sounds so earnest, too.
Shane smiles at him, even if in the background his stomach is busy turning somersaults while his brain connects dots he hadn’t realized were there. “You make me happy,” Shane says.
Ilya studies him, eyes darting back and forth across his face like he can somehow read the truth out of him through the screen. For once, Shane is grateful for the distance between them. “Okay. You tell me if that changes, yes?”
And even though his head is spinning, Shane is utterly certain when he replies, “It won’t.”
~
Fall 2014
Ilya isn’t sure he has ever been so excited for the hockey season to start. Ilya likes hockey, even loves it sometimes, but he is not obsessive like Shane is. This year, he feels like he could vibrate out of his skin. It makes him more aggressive on the ice, faster on his skates and on the puck.
The day of their first game. Cliff knocks their shoulders together. “You keep playing like you have been in pre-season Rozy, we could be taking the Cup home again this year.”
Ilya stretches his arms above his head. His spine pops, a satisfying series of clicks. “What is this could? Sorry, my English bad, but I think it is will.” He exaggerates his accent.
Cliff barks a laugh and ruffles Ilya’s hair, darting out of reach when he makes to swipe at the other man.
And Ilya does play well. Boston wins their first game, and then their second, and then it is three games in a row. When he calls Shane after each game, Ilya gets the impression that his playing is doing something for him. Shane seems hornier. More desperate. Which in turn makes Ilya play harder.
It is written in his hockey DNA, Ilya thinks. To play his best when it is against Shane or for Shane. He wants Shane to see him, to watch him, to be impressed. When Shane gets worked up, Ilya gets worked up. They burn off the energy together, usually. Ilya goes out with the team still, and Shane tells him again and again that it’s okay to find a beautiful woman and Ilya thinks about it.
But he doesn’t look for one.
Sometime, in the past three years, Shane Hollander has ruined him for anyone else. The women are beautiful, Svetlana is beautiful, but after they fuck and recline together on his bed, Ilya is not sated. The only thing that fills the hole inside his chest is Shane. He is ruined, utterly.
Ilya will bring it up, the next time they see each other. Shane wants him to be happy, and Ilya will just have to show him that he finds happiness only in Shane now.
Montreal is the fourth game of the season. An away game, and Ilya’s team doesn’t leave until midafternoon the next day. It’s perfect. A whole night where he can make Shane come, again and again, and hold him in his arms and kiss him. Ilya survived his whole summer thinking, dreaming of this reunion.
He almost forgets that they have to play hockey first.
At the center of the ice, Ilya drops into position. Shane mirrors him. For a moment, they are 18, in a dim rink with cameras flashing. Ilya, then, already knows that he has to have him, knows that he will proposition him in the shower, that he will do anything he can to bite those distracting freckles.
Ilya, now, can’t help his smile. “Hollander. I hope you remember how to play hockey.”
Maybe Shane is thinking about the same thing, because his return smile is giddy. “Fuck off, Rozanov.”
The puck drops. Shane wins the face-off.
Ilya’s hockey streak continues here, too. He plays hard and fast and aggressive. He fights for every minute, every second on the ice. He chirps Shane, Pike, the rest of the Metros. With those warm brown eyes staring him down, challenging him, Ilya plays some of the best goddamn hockey of his life.
Shane plays better.
Ilya will not, cannot tell him this. But tonight, Shane Hollander plays hockey like a fucking god. His passes are precise, he moves faster than he ever has, his checks make Ilya’s teeth vibrate. Ilya watches Shane’s games, of course he does. Shane has had a good season so far, won both games, but this is something else.
It’s hot as hell.
Ilya hadn’t worried about how they would play against each other now. It hadn’t occurred to him to worry. Their entire careers they have been something and it has never affected their playing. But this…
Stupidly, during one of Ilya’s chances to catch his breath on the bench, he thinks that if Shane knew dating would improve his game this much, they would’ve been officially together since their rookie season.
Apparently, dating his rival brings Shane Hollander one step closer to becoming a hockey legend.
In between periods, Ilya rallies the team, tells them to get out there and fight. They roar with approval. And Ilya does fight, fights for every goddamn second.
Shane scores one goal, two, a hat trick.
And when the buzzer rings out a 4-2 Montreal victory, Ilya knows in his bones that Shane Hollander will end this year with a Stanley Cup. Ilya will fight him every step of the way, but he knows down to his fucking bones.
Ilya showers off the game day sweat quickly. Instead of exhausted from the pace of play, he finds the fading adrenaline only adds to his jitters. He waits for the rest of the team to file out to the bus. He’s not sure he’s ever seen adult men drag their feet like this.
“Come on,” he complains. “You move this slow, is why we lose the game.” That gets him some boos, but it also gets them going.
He’s rooming with Cliff, his usual partner on the road. As soon as they get their keys and unlock the room, Ilya claps his hands together. “Well, enjoy room to yourself.” He orders a taxi on his phone.
“You going somewhere?” Cliff asks. Then raises an eyebrow. “Not your Montreal girl, is it?”
Ilya grins. “Da, yes. Montreal girl. Sorry, she does not have friends. Bye for now.”
Cliff’s laughter follows him out into the hallway.
Ilya bounces his knee the entire drive to Shane’s murder building. At the door, he punches in the code and practically bounds up the stairs. For the best that Shane did not meet him at the door, he thinks. Or else Ilya might have had to fuck him in the stairwell and Shane deserves nicer things than that.
He pounds on the door.
“Christ,” Shane complains. “You’re lucky I don’t have neighbors. What’s the–”
And there Shane is. Framed in the warm yellow light of his apartment. An angel. He wears a gray spandex shirt that clings to his chest, shorts that let Ilya admire the strength of his calves, and those fucking freckles.
Shane’s beautiful fucking freckles are runway lights guiding Ilya to a safe landing.
He lunges.
They stumble back through the door. Ilya drops his bag. Shane grabs hold of his hips to steady them both. There is nowhere to go but the floor.
Shane lets out a startled gasp as they fall, but Ilya swallows it with a kiss. He makes sure to protect Shane’s precious skull, though he is more focused on petting him. Yes, even after four months, Shane’s hair is soft, glossy. He tastes the same, like minty toothpaste and spit. And the sounds he makes.
“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane groans. Ilya trails his lips across Shane’s jaw, down his throat. He scrapes his teeth over Shane’s collar bone, feels himself grow impossibly harder at the moan Shane can’t muffle.
Ilya rucks up Shane’s shirt to his armpits, but gets distracted before he can pull it off entirely. His chest is a thing of beauty. Ilya wants to leave teeth marks on that perfect skin, wants the entire Metro’s locker room to know Shane is his.
“Off, off,” Shane demands. Ilya freezes, until he realizes Shane has stripped his own shirt and is busy tugging at Ilya’s. Obligingly, he lifts his arms and lets Shane lift himself into a crunch to pull it over his head.
“Krasivyy, okhuyenno krasivyy,” Ilya says. He has no control over what his mouth is doing. Before he damns himself, he puts his energy into kissing Shane senseless.
They fumble with each other’s pants like teenagers. Ilya can’t bring himself to pull away enough to make it easier. He wants to crawl inside Shane’s skin. Live inside him, so that they can never be separated again.
“Lube?” Ilya rasps.
Shane shakes his head. “Too far, I left it upstairs. Give me your hand.”
Obediently, Ilya does. And almost blacks out when Shane spits in it.
There, on the floor of Shane’s apartment, it’s messy and embarrassingly quick for the both of them. Enough to take the edge off, Ilya thinks hazily, as they both stare up at the rafters and gasp for air. Ilya will fuck him, make him scream, but later.
“I–” Shane huffs, and then rolls so his head is on Ilya’s chest. Ilya’s love for this man is a living thing that threatens to strangle him at every opportunity. “I wanted to talk before we fucked, you know.” Ilya thinks it’s cute that he’s trying to sound put out. Like Shane hadn’t left scratches down his back and nearly concussed them both in his eagerness.
“You thought we could talk before I touched your dick?”
“We’re both adults.”
Ilya nods and presses a kiss to the top of Shane’s head. “Adults, yes. Adults that like to touch each other’s dicks.”
“Fuck off,” Shane says. “I do want to talk to you about something though.”
Ilya sighs. This man. Shane cannot even let them bask in the afterglow for fives minutes without his brain running laps.
“Yes, fine. I wanted to talk too.”
Shane stiffens immediately. Ilya rubs the nape of his neck, but the tranquility is well and truly gone. “You do? Is something wrong? Did I–”
“Hush,” Ilya says. “Is not bad. You go first.” Shane loosens a little at his words, but not enough.
“I think I’m too nervous about what you need to tell me now. You go.”
Ilya sighs. He can’t be too annoyed, because most times he finds Shane’s overthinking as endearing as it is infuriating. “Fine.” Ilya sits them both up. It would be better to see Shane’s face for this. “I do not want to sleep with women anymore.”
Shane blinks at him. “Then with other men–”
Ilya covers his mouth with a hand. “No, not men either. I do not want to sleep with anyone but you, Hollander.” Under the palm of his hand, Shane tries to open his mouth. “No, be quiet. Listen. I tried. Slept with beautiful women. Slept with Svetlana, who is goddess. I do not want them. Whole time, I think of boring Canadian hockey player. I wish they are all you. Our calls are enough. I only need you.”
Feeling that he’s spoken his piece, the English practiced, Ilya removes his hand. Shane doesn’t say anything immediately. Then, instead of the push back Ilya is half-expecting, Shane says, “That’s perfect, because I think I’m gay.”
Ilya stares. “What?”
Shane grabs both of his hands. Squeezes, like he thinks he’s delivering serious news. “I– thinking about you sleeping with those women. It made me realize, I think I’m gay.”
“I am confused,” Ilya says. “You realize you are not one sleeping with beautiful women, yes?”
Shane huffs, looking frustrated. “Fine, ignore that part. Ilya, I’m trying to tell you I’m gay.”
It’s the utter seriousness of Shane’s delivery. The way he continues to hold Ilya’s hands like he’s delivering life-altering news. As if he, Shane Hollander, who loves being fucked and sucking dick like no one else Ilya has ever met, who talks about his past girlfriends like unfortunate chores, is telling Ilya something so groundbreaking that he needs to be sitting down.
Ilya can’t help himself. He snorts. Nearly loses control completely enough that he starts laughing and has to look away.
“Ilya!” Shane sounds honestly offended. “I’m being serious!”
Ilya bites the inside of his cheek. Takes a deep breath and then forces himself to look Shane in the eye. “Your lover, who regularly fucks you up the ass, is also being serious. Very serious. So, uh, what makes you think that?”
Shane gapes. Then he scowls. “You’re not gay. Also lover sounds so gross.”
Ilya tilts his head. “No, I am bisexual, you know this. And word lover is too gross when you spit on my dick twenty minutes ago?”
“Listen, this was kind of a big deal to me,” Shane complains.
“Okay, okay,” Ilya sighs. He frees his hands and pulls Shane into a hug. It’s beyond nice to hold him in his arms again. To feel him close and safe. “Your boyfriend is very happy you are gay. Is good thing. If you are straight, maybe we have problem.”
Shane sighs dramatically. “Yeah, okay, maybe it was a little obvious.” He snuggles closer, presses a warm kiss against Ilya’s shoulder.
“Only a little,” Ilya says. “But is okay. You can tell me many obvious things. Like you are gay. I am hot. You are second-best hockey player. I–”
“How about: you’re a fucking asshole.” Shane pulls out of his embrace just to bite at his lips.
Ilya gets lost in it, the gravity that pulls them into orbit, whirling around each other. “Hm, yes,” Ilya says. “I think we go upstairs now.”
“What?” Shane is soft as putty in his hands, eyes dazed from the kisses.
“Up, up.” Ilya bullies them both to their feet, muscles stiff from sitting on the floor. “Some boring man does not keep lube in living room.”
Shane snorts and doesn’t let go of his hand the entire trip up the stairs.
~