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Shane is, on occasion, hesitant. His fingers linger on the latch of the hotel room’s lock. He is slow to take his shoes off: unlace the knots, peel the socks, massage the ankles for no reason other than to dawdle.
Ilya says nothing. He waits: remains standing over Shane’s kneeling form, answering Shane’s silent uncertainty with silent certainty. A promise, from Ilya to Shane. Ilya waits. Ilya, Shane has learned, is more patient than expected. Ilya is always willing to wait, until: Shane rises again, Shane takes the first step forward, Shane shucks his shirt, Shane lies with his back flat against cold linen and his legs dangling, from the knees down, off the end of the bed.
All this before Ilya’s even touched him. When Ilya does, stepping forward and in between Shane’s parted legs, Shane’s breath hitches. Ilya hums. Ilya drags his hand over Shane’s stomach, tickling the hairs and toying with the waistband of Shane’s jeans. It’s good. It feels good, it feels something close to routine. Routine-ish; only one of them played tonight and it was not Ilya.
Ilya, who is: still humming, his head tilted to the side. Shane takes it as his cue to lift his hips and work his jeans off; when Ilya makes the smallest of nods in approval, Shane’s shoulders relax. Just a bit. His wrists ache with the movement and his ankles ache worse as he kicks off his jeans. Everything aches more when Ilya leans over him.
You’re such a girl about this, Ilya tells him, his thumb swiped slowly against Shane’s dick. First down and then back up, sliding up until bellybutton. Such a girl about this, Ilya says. Won’t come unless I make you, huh? Can’t?
He feels sick. He, Shane: sick enough that the mouthful of saliva nearly chokes him going down. Sick, sick, sick. Yet he doesn’t do more besides swallow. He doesn’t even do that when Ilya slopes down: presses his mouth against neck. Warm, wet pressure against the bump. Ilya says, and if I tell you no? Hollander?
His neck isn’t his, his bellybutton isn’t his, his dick—ha. He is loosely-stitched, hardly a collective thing to call a body. Parts to shave and keep: legs to skate, hands to score, lips to recite, nothing of his own. All theirs. Theirs, being, well. To list: mother team audience Ilya Ilya IlyaIlyaIlya. Swallow again then stop before the action begins: Ilya’s mouth is still on the Adam’s apple. Can’t swallow yet. Can’t.
Ilya angles his hand so his palm rests heavy against stomach. Ilya says, not yet. Voice a sharp buzz and far too loud. Ilya says, I want to see how long you last. Ilya amends, maybe tomorrow you can come, instead. Hm?
Shane breathes in gasps through a mouth that does not feel his own. Is not his own. Ilya’s fingers twitch, momentarily pinching downwards against taut skin, and Shane rasps out, “Please.”
“Please?” Ilya wants him to beg. Shane trembles. “Please what?”
He may as well still be on the ice: his shivering, sweat-damp body and bloodied knuckles, ears buzzing, the loss of the game not at all registering. Sick. Sick, sick, sick.
Ilya is speaking. Ilya wants him to beg and is baiting him, telling him to say it, please what, please what, Hollander? But Ilya sounds: kind. Patient, still. Soft, even. Gentle the way he only gets when Shane loses to someone that isn’t Ilya. Shane twists and Ilya, tightening his grip, says again, please what, Shane? Shane?
It comes out of Shane too fast, too snappish: “Just fuck me, just—” Undo the flimsy stitching connecting limb to limb. Go back and restitch it all with stronger thread and a deft hand. Get the bitterness out of him, all that bothersome regret swirling green and slimelike within him, or at least convert it to something more productive. Something more useful and less of a toothache. “Ilya—”
Ilya hums. Ilya’s head tilts, shifts, until: a kiss to the underside of Shane’s jaw, tender but firm, enough to make Shane still. It’s a promising start.