Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

Shane Hollander Was Never a Professional Hockey Player, hear me out, Reunions, Getting to Know Each Other, Fast Burn, soulmate behaviour, discussion of:, Major Character Injury, Career Ending Injuries, Drunk Driving, Injury Recovery, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Intimacy, Body Worship, Kissing, Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, Spit Kink, Frottage, Shane Hollander is Obsessed With Ilya Rozanov, Disabled Shane Hollander, Artist Shane Hollander, Hopeless Romantic Ilya Rozanov, Art, art by author

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-10-13 Words: 21,913 Chapters: 1/1

former prodigy

Summary

"I'm okay. I'm right here."

"You have not been. You have not been okay, and you have not been right here, and I did not know—"

"Nobody knew. I disappeared, Ilya, I wanted to. I needed to."

---

it's been years since ilya saw shane hollander. he's different now.

Notes

cws: reference/implication of self harm is very brief and not discussed; drug addiction is discussed in passing but it is not graphic or very detailed-- it rly just goes into how the addiction started

Ilya is more sober than he should be.

He should be fucking wasted, drunk out of his mind, maybe a little high on something— weed, pills, powders. He sees it all getting passed around, plastic baggies flashing in the pulsing lights as they're passed between hands, tucked into palms and up sleeves like they think they're being subtle. Like everyone here isn't on something.

Almost everyone.

Ilya is sober, mostly. He's had drinks, a few that don't linger in his blood the way they seem to for his teammates. He blames his Russian genes instead of his abundance of alcohol at too young an age. He's three shots in, and he barely even feels buzzed, which he thinks could say something about the quality of vodka in this place.

He thinks he's bored, even with the lingering buzz of adrenaline under his skin, even with the excitement and echoes of cheering and yelling, even with the weird sense that there are still a bunch of microphones shoved in his face.

He pauses, leaning against the table that he can't even sit at with the lack of stools, watching his teammates and maybe friends dancing and laughing, and he takes stock of what he feels. Pride, definitely, in himself and in his teammates— they've worked so hard this year. Satisfaction, maybe, because they fucking did it, again. Exhaustion, obviously. Fatigue. Something worse, vaguely critical that they could have gotten four points instead of three, that Montreal shouldn't have gotten their one goal at all. It was bare minimum, wasn't it? Getting his team all the way to the end, getting them out on top? He's their captain, and anything less than the best would have been… inadequate.

He needs a drink.

The bar is noisy, crowded and bustling with people dancing and drinking and laughing, and Ilya feels, not for the first time, out of place. He's usually at home in this kind of environment, he knows— he's associated with it all, with parties and alcohol and drugs and sex and and and and and.

But sometimes he just. Doesn't want it. Sometimes he wants something softer. Quieter. He wonders, sometimes, if he's meant to have that— something peaceful and domestic. And then he gets a little drunk and remembers how much he loves the lights and the noise and the fun of it all.

He's laughing as he wanders into the kitchen, shaking his head as somebody dances into his body, stumbling and tripping over his feet, apologising with a bright, tipsy smile as her hands land on his chest with a weak, uncoordinated pat. He gestures some kind of no big deal, laughing, and he passes her by, nudging her gently toward her cackling friend, a smile lingering on his face.

The bartender is busy, and Ilya pauses, leaning against the bar just to watch him for a moment. He's rushing back and forth, looking at customers with wide eyes, his eyebrows raised, listening intently even as he makes a drink like it's all pure muscle memory, like his body knows what he's doing better than what his brain does. He nods, passing a card reader toward someone as his other hand pours something into a cup. Ilya wonders how bad his hearing must be by now.

He wants something to drink, something strong and stupid, but he's content here for a moment, to just watch. He scans them, the people, and he's not even on anything, but he thinks there's something fantastic about it, about all of them here, together, inebriated and happy. Joyful, most of them. Some of them, maybe distraught. The music is loud, the bass pulsing in a way that Ilya can feel through the countertop of the bar, through the floor and the walls and in the lights that are shining and flashing around like they're something solid, like he can feel the warmth of the sun as every beam of light flashes over his face.

He feels like this a lot when he goes to these things, to bars and clubs and house parties, like he's at church. Like he knows what church is supposed to feel like. And he knows it's somehow blasphemous, to compare church to something so depraved, to compare communion to alcohol and inebriation, to feel something sacred in all of this.

It's so human, he thinks, which maybe is why he loves it. It's ridiculous, and bizarre, and it all feels raw. The dancing and tears coexisting under the same roof. The celebration and the anguish. The joy and the pain.

Ilya sighs, letting his head tilt up, and he closes his eyes. The lights wash over him, flickering through the red of his eyelids, filtering through his skin. It's euphoric, he thinks.

When he opens his eyes, the bartender is closer to him, but he isn't looking at him. He's looking at somebody else, with that intent, listening expression and those absent, instinctive motions. Ilya watches fondly, and then he scans the crowd again, and his eyes catch on someone sitting at the bar, tilted away from somebody that's leaning to yell a drink at the bartender. His head is down, dark silky-looking hair shining blue and red in the lights, holding a cup on front of himself like he's hiding it from everyone around him. He's rocking back and forth slowly, Ilya notices after a moment, tilting his head curiously.

The guy looks around, his head tilting back, leaning out of the way for someone to grab some napkins from the bar next to him. Ilya hesitates, watching for another moment, searching the people around the man, but none of them seem to interact with him, or acknowledge him, or notice him at all. It's odd, Ilya thinks, watching him look up at the ceiling like he's watching the lights. He barely seems to be there at all, like he's a ghost or something.

Maybe Ilya has had more to drink than he thought he has.

He gets up after a few moments, stumbling a little on the bottom on the stool he's been sitting on, and his feet are sticking a little to the ground in a way that would make him grimace if he wasn't focused very intently on navigating the space that seems to be moving with him. (Alcohol doesn't do that— not his alcohol at least. Everyone else is drunker than he is, and he could swear they're all dancing to some choreography that he doesn't know. He's swimming upstream.)

"You look bored," Ilya says when he's close enough, and it startles him. He jumps, looking up at Ilya with wide eyes, his shoulders hunched, and Ilya reaches for him but holds back from touching. "Sorry, sorry, I did not mean to scare you."

"No, it's fine," the guy says with a light laugh, his shoulders falling. His eyes flicker across Ilya's face briefly, and then he looks away, and Ilya tilts his head at him, lowering into the stool next to him. "I'm not bored. I like people-watching."

"You are here with anybody?" Ilya asks, leaning closer so he can be heard, almost yelling.

"Uh, yeah, they're…"

He gestures, pointing with a tilt of his chin toward some guys that are dancing, laughing. One of them is twerking, grinding up against somebody that's cackling, his head thrown back. They're having fun, in their own little world.

Ilya looks back at the guy, who's smiling fondly, his lips tilted crookedly. The lights are flickering over them, flashing across his face, and Ilya can't get a clear look at him, but he thinks he's pretty— Asian, strong and sculpted. The bridge of his nose is straight until he laughs, scrunching his nose up and furrowing his eyebrows. His lips are plush and shining, and Ilya thinks he might be obsessed with him. He stares, catching what he can every time the lights pass over them.

It takes a moment for the guy to realize that Ilya is watching him.

"What?" he says when he notices Ilya staring, and Ilya hesitates, leaning in as the guy tilts his head so Ilya can reach his ear.

"Why aren't you twerking with them?"

A laugh escapes him, and Ilya grins proudly.

"I don't dance," he says, shaking his head. Ilya makes a face, furrowing his eyebrows.

"Boring."

The guy shrugs exaggeratedly, lifting his hands like he's being humble, and Ilya laughs brightly, leaning against the bar.

"My name is Ilya," he says, reaching a hand out. It's taken easily, their fingers sliding along one another's until their palms are pressed.

"I know."

Ilya blinks, his hand freezing mid-shake, and he tilts his head. The guy is smiling like he's mischievous, his eyes shining brightly.

"You are hockey fan," Ilya says, letting their hands fall to hang in the space between them, still linked.

"Yeah."

Ilya stares, lifting his eyebrows in a way he seems to find amusing.

"You are… my fan," Ilya says after a moment, lifting his free hand to point to himself, but the guy looks away, making a face, grimacing like he feels bad. "Wo-o-ow."

"You are objectively—"

Ilya interrupts with a loud laugh, and the guy tugs at his hand a little, leaning closer.

"You are objectively a good player," he says, starting over. "You are objectively the best, probably—"

Ilya tilts his head, nodding, letting out an Ah…

"—but," he continues, "I am partial to Ottawa."

"Ottawa?" Ilya exclaims like he's startled by it, watching with simultaneous horror and awe as the guy laughs, nodding, his eyes squeezing shut. "Why?"

"It's my hometown," he defends, squeezing Ilya's hand almost absently. "They suck, I know, but that's my team, you know?"

Ilya grimaces and looks away like he's searching for somebody else that might be listening, someone that might have heard this beautiful man say that his team is Ottawa. The guy tugs at Ilya's hand clumsily with a bright laugh that Ilya can hear over the pulsating music.

"Don't make that face," he says through his laughter. Ilya can't help but laugh with him, tugging his hand right back, leaning toward him absently.

"Okay," he says lightly, loud enough that he can be heard over the music. "I can respect the… the loyalty."

The man nods, smiling like he's satisfied, like he's content, and Ilya admires him. He's so lovely.

"Do you want to go outside?" he asks, leaning in a the man tilts toward him, his hair falling across his face. "Is quieter."

He feels almost shy in a stupid way. He's never shy, that's not who he is. He's bold, and he's loud, and he's fucking shameless about everything, especially something like this, like being into somebody, like finding somebody attractive. He wouldn't usually do this in public, in a club so crowded, on a night so dedicated to him, but he can't seem to help himself. Their hands are still laced, and the man's eyes are poring into Ilya's like he's searching for something, like he's trying to use fucking telepathy or something.

Ilya sees him say Yeah with a nod, and his stomach flutters. As they stand, Ilya watches as he reaches for a cane that's leaning against the bar.

They go outside. Their fingers remain linked in a way Ilya would worry about if it was less crowded in here, if it couldn't easily be written off as a way for them to not lose one another in the mass of bodies. Ilya sees it all over the places, hands clasped, arms enveloping shoulders, fingers tangled in belt loops and fabric of shirts and dresses. This is fine. It's normal.

There are fewer people outside. It's cold, but it's almost welcome after everything inside, the chill refreshing on Ilya's skin. Their hands fall when they aren't swerving between people, when Ilya isn't bumping into dancing strangers, and his hand feels like it freezes. He pushes his hands into his pockets.

"God, my ears are ringing."

Ilya turns to look at him, and fuck, he's even prettier up close, in light that's mostly steady instead of flashing and flickering. He's got his head tilted down when Ilya looks at him, his palms pressing over his ears like he's trying to pop them. Ilya stares at him for a moment, at the slope of his shoulders, at the shape of him. He's wearing shorts, and Ilya thinks maybe he believes in blessings, because he can see the contours of the man's muscles and a glimpse of a tattoo sneaking out from the hem.

They sit side-by-side, the cane resting between the guy's legs. The music is pulsing inside, the noise of it all leaking out to them, and Ilya closes his eyes for a moment, listening to it. His hearing is muffled, but he doesn't mind it. He can still hear the guy next to him sigh.

"What a fuckin' day," Ilya says toward the sky. It's too bright around here to see the stars.

"Yeah, totally."

"Did you have an exciting day?" Ilya asks, letting his head rest against the wall behind them and roll so he can look at him. "As exciting as mine?"

"Oh, definitely not," he says with a laugh. "I don't have that kind of adrenaline anywhere in my life. "

Ilya is itching for a cigarette.

He can smell the faint scene of smoke somewhere nearby, like he's a fucking shark smelling blood, and this is the perfect spot for it— there's a bin nearby with smouldering butts, and there's barely any wind at all, and the breezes that are present would blow the smoke away from them. But he didn't bring any cigarettes with him, much less cigs and a lighter, so he instead picks at the hem of his shorts.

"What is your name?" he finally asks, skimming the man's forearms.

He's quiet for a moment.

"…Shane."

Ilya really wishes he had a cigarette.

He hums softly, nodding, looking back up at the sky.

"That is a good name," he says quietly.

Shane hums back.

Ilya knows he's been drinking. He's never really been a lightweight, but maybe as he gets older alcohol affects him more, because he has an odd sense of deja vu that he doesn't think he's ever felt before. It's bizarre, and he doesn't think he likes it, but he settles into it, briefly letting himself think about it, about somebody he once knew, before he dismisses the thoughts with a shake of his head. He's here now, isn't he? Outside a stupid club with a handsome guy that has no business talking to someone like Ilya.

So he has the same name. Oh well. It's a common enough name.

"So what do you do?" Ilya asks, looking at him, eyeing the way his hair falls over the back of his neck. "For adrenaline?"

"I'm good on adrenaline," Shane says with a light laugh. "I don't really need it. I don't do much."

"Boring."

"I know," Shane says lightly, like he's fond.

"Do you skate?"

Shane falls quiet, and Ilya looks at him. He's looking up at the sky like he's mirroring Ilya, like they're stargazing together. Ilya can't see any stars.

"No," Shane says. "I haven't skated in a long time."

"So you don't play hockey."

A scoff.

"No, I don't play hockey anymore."

Ilya blinks.

"Anymore?" he repeats, raising an eyebrow at him even though he isn't looking. His face is mostly covered by his hair, and if Ilya knew him better, if they were good friends or something more than strangers, he would reach out and brush it out of the way. He lets him hide instead. "You were not very good, huh."

Shane lets out a laugh like he's startled, and it makes Ilya grin. He has a good laugh.

"No, I was good," Shane says. Ilya's stomach hurts. "I was the best, probably."

"Oh…" Ilya coos teasingly. "Okay, cocky. Why did you stop, then?"

It's the wrong thing to say. Ilya knows it the moment it escapes his mouth, and he regrets it before the sentence is even over, wincing as he looks over at Shane. He wants to apologise or something, to say Sorry, you don't have to tell me, because he knows how fucked up career-ending injuries are. He knows how devastating they can be, the torn ACLs or concussions or back injuries or or or or or

Shane sniffs and jerks his head a little, tossing his hair out of his face, and it finally falls aside, exposing his profile. Ilya stares at him, at the firm set of his eyebrows and the bridge of his nose.

"I got hit by a car."

Ilya blinks again, and he stares at him intently, analysing the side of his face. Shane's lips purse like he's suppressing a smile or a laugh, and Ilya squints at him, inspecting him.

His jaw is stronger than Ilya remember, firmer, harder, and his hair is longer than Ilya would have imagined, long enough to tuck behind his ears, but Ilya looks closely, leaning toward him, grabbing Shane's face and pulling so he's facing him.

He looks at him clearly for the first time, unmoving, in steady light, and there are freckles scattered across his face, dotted like the stars Ilya can't find in the sky— they were right in front of him, weren't they? This whole fucking time?

Ilya smacks him. It lands on his face, but it makes Shane laugh, snorting as he ducks away from Ilya's hand that's already swinging again, and it's childish, and stupid, and familiar.

"You asshole," Ilya says loudly, leaning to follow him, to hit him over and over. They're light hits, like he's using a napkin or something to swat at him. Shane laughs. "Fucking— Oh my god."

Shane lets out a cackle, his head falling back. It's beautiful. Ilya fights a smile back.

"How long were you going to wait for me to realise?" he asks, his voice shaking a little with a suppressed laugh.

"As long as it took, really," Shane says brightly. "You're fun to mess with. I wanted to see how many little things I could drop before you connected the dots."

"You are an asshole," Ilya says again. "I cannot believe this."

Shane laughs, giggles, and Ilya watches him. He's laughing too, like he's a child, like they're seventeen all over again, but mostly, he's just looking at him. Watching. Staring. Taking him in.

He's practically glowing, Ilya thinks, like all the stars he can't see are inside Shane, like they're making him gleam from the inside out. His smile is beautiful, squishing his face up and making him squeeze his eyes shut. And there's something about him, some kind of air about him, some kind of aura, that's different from what Ilya used to know.

He'd been so shy when Ilya knew him, so perfectly polite and sweet and respectful. He was so well-spoken it sounded almost absurd, like every word out of his mouth was scripted. He'd been perfect— prim and proper with cropped hair and stiff shoulders even when there were no cameras on them. His smiles were tight, like they were rehearsed.

This is different.

His hair is longer, falling over the back of his neck, and it looks kind of unkempt. He's wearing shorts, and a button-down that's loose and a little wrinkled, falling open to reveal a dark tank top, the sleeves rolled up his forearms unevenly and carelessly. He's wearing sneakers and mismatched socks that reach his shins, and he has a tattoo on his thigh. He's holding a cane between his legs, his hands stacked and balanced on the handle of it.

Ilya doesn't realises he's just looking at him now, not even smiling or laughing, until Shane matches him, his eyes— his eyes— meeting Ilya's patiently. He doesn't look unsettled by it, by Ilya's curiosity, a smile lingering on his face.

"Shane Hollander," Ilya says softly. Shane's smile widens, and tilts his head, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his legs.

"Hi, Rozanov."

Ilya exhales slowly, tearing his eyes away and looking up at the sky.

"Fuck, I have been wondering about you," he says with a weak laugh.

"Wondering what?"

"Where you have been," Ilya says lightly, letting himself roll his head to look at Shane. He's looking back already, smiling a little, his expression soft. "How you are."

"I'm good," Shane says quietly. "I've been… I've been around."

Ilya supposes this isn't the place for them to talk about it all.

He remembers it clearly, of course he does. He'd heard about it from Marleau.

Marleau had already known that Ilya liked Shane, even back then. Ilya doesn't think Marleau had thought about it in a gay way, doesn't think Marleau knew, but he knew enough to pull Ilya aside after the news broke.

Ilya had turned his notifications off in the midst of an episode by his brother, desperate to be free of the onslaught of messages harassing and hassling him. He hadn't seen that Hollander's name was trending on Twitter, hadn't heard from his agent or seen the messages from his teammates.

Are you alright? Marleau had asked.

Yes, of course, Ilya had said. Why wouldn't I be?

He hadn't been able to read Marleau's expression, but it was something wrong, something that made Ilya's stomach twist and turn, and then Marleau said his name, said You haven't heard about Hollander.

God, it almost made him sick, how quickly his stomach sank, how quickly his blood ran cold. He felt nauseated, trembling in an instant and reaching to grab Marleau's phone when it emerged from his pocket, already open to an article.

'Prodigy' NHL Prospect Hospitalised After Hit-and-Run by Intoxicated Driver

Ilya had scrolled, skimmed, trembling and breathing hard, and Marleau— the darling man— had shifted to hide Ilya from the others' views. He waited patiently, watching Ilya carefully as he read the article as best he could— the words were swimming, letters shifting and swirling as he tried to blink tears back, and he couldn't find what he was looking for. He could find Shane Hollander, 18, and unresponsive but breathing and potential internal injuries and driver is now in custody, but he couldn't find—

He will be okay? he'd asked Marleau, like Marleau was there, like he wrote the damn article.

They don't know, he'd said. I read a few more articles, but the family hasn't said anything yet. I don't know.

Ilya had ached. It was in his entire body, sore as he handed Marleau his phone back. He started breathing hard, and he nodded absently, looking at the ground. He could kind of hear Marleau's voice muttering something to him, something quiet and soft, but he didn't hear it. Nothing registered.

Marleau made him go home. He wouldn't have been able to skate like that, even if he'd argued. So he'd gone home. He missed practice, missed everything, but nobody said anything, not even their coach. Ilya still doesn't know what Marleau said to them all, but he doesn't care to find out.

He'd gone home. He sat in one place, still in his Under Armour clothes and exercise shoes, and he read article after article after article after article, searching Shane's name on every search engine and social media platform he could, refreshing and refreshing and refreshing like he was in a trance. He spent a whole day like that, waiting for news that he didn't get.

And then Hollander was gone. Gone from the public eye, gone from Ilya's eye. He didn't see him for years and years, didn't see even a glimpse of who he is or where he is or what he looks like or what he's doing, or anything at all. He's spent years with the memory of Shane Hollander, 18, prodigy prospect. Number 24. Soft-faced and shiny-eyed, shy and hopeful and fucking incredible. Generational. He lived with the memory of Shane across from him on the ice, head ducked down to look at the ice between them, jaw tight as he bite down on his mouth guard.

He doesn't say any of this.

"Have you been wondering about me too?" he asks instead, raising his eyebrows at Shane, who rolls his eyes, smiling.

"I haven't had to."

Ilya tilts his head at him, lighting up.

"Ah, you are my stalker?" he says brightly. Shane looks away, scoffing. "You are following me?"

"Your career," Shane corrects, leaning to elbow Ilya. It lights Ilya up inside like they weren't just holding hands.

"So you are my fan."

Shane lets out a laugh, and he looks at Ilya. Their eyes meet, and Ilya stares at him, searching his face, scanning his freckles. Shane is smiling a little, his lips curved softly, and Ilya only realizes he's staring at his mouth when Shane's tongue slips out over his lower lip.

Ilya tears his eyes away, rolling his head so he's facing away from Shane.

"God, Hollander."

"What?" Shane laughs.

"Nothing," Ilya says. "Nothing."

He shakes his head, and suddenly, his throat is tight and his eyes sting a little, and it's bizarre to feel something like this after such an emotional day. He's been feeling things all day, his entire body a mess of adrenaline and anxiety and exhilaration and pride. It's all been intense, almost overwhelming, but it doesn't compare to this, he thinks. He feels full of it, like he's breathing it in like smoke, like it might knock him unconscious.

It's squeezing around him, tightening around his ribcage so he can hardly inhale, and he forces himself to swallow the lump in his throat. He turns his head away as tears threaten to fall even though he doesn't really have anything to cry over. It's not like he thought about Shane Hollander at all today— not when he made a crazy fucking goal that only Hollander could have matched, not when he lifted the cup over his head and felt eyes and camera lenses on him. He certainly didn't wonder if Shane Hollander saw any of it. He certainly didn't miss him.

"Hey," Shane says softly.

Ilya shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to forced his tears back, reaching up to rub his ear, and then Shane is touching him again, reaching for his arm and tugging at it a little.

Ilya looks at it, at where their skin meets.

Hollander has big hands. His fingers are tangled on the bunched-up sleeve of Ilya's shirt, gripping it so loosely it's like he can't decide if he wants to pull at him or not. There's a tattoo on the knuckle of his index finger, some kind of flower in loose, lazy lines that Ilya can't help but touch. Shane's fingers lift to meet Ilya's, letting them tangle and curl together absently.

Ilya lifts his eyes. Shane is looking at him intently, his gaze steady, eyes travelling across Ilya's face and between his eyes like he's looking for something. Something flickers across his face, something brief and encompassing. Ilya's breath shudders out of him.

"Do you wanna go to my place?" Shane asks quietly, whispering. "You can ask me all the questions you want."

Ilya is nodding before he can tell himself to, before he even hears the second sentence.

"Yes," he whispers. "Yes."

Shane Hollander drives a 2009 Toyota Camry. It's red, and a little roughed-up. There's a slight scrape along the passenger door that Ilya looks at as he's getting in, and then he's sitting in Shane Hollander's car, looking at Shane Hollander's things. It's a little messy, enough so that Shane mutters an absent Sorry 'bout the mess, but it's not bad. Some crumpled receipts on the ground, a gum wrapper or two in the cup holder. A crinkled water bottle. His cane slides into its place next to Ilya, leaning against the centre console.

Nothing comes on when the car stirs to life— no music, or podcast, or audiobook, because Shane seems like he'd be the type. It's quiet, and Ilya thinks he should say something, but he doesn't. He waits. He watches Montreal go by and he listens to Shane Hollander's fingers tapping the steering wheel rhythmically. He looks around a few more times even though there's nothing really of note, scanning the spotless dashboard. All he really notices is a sticker above the radio controls— a foam sticker, bright pink and sparkly. It makes Ilya curious, and he decides that he wants to know everything there is to know about Shane Hollander. He takes note of everything he notices, everything he knows.

Shane Hollander lives in an apartment building, on the sixth floor, above a mostly-quiet street, and Shane Hollander takes his shoes off when he steps through the door with the number 1410 on it. Shane Hollander hangs his keys by the door on a hook screwed into the wall, and he holds the door open for Ilya to step inside, and he nudges the door shut when it stops just before closing, unsticking it with his toes. Shane Hollander has a mat in front of the door that reads thank you for coming, please leave by 9 pm. It makes Ilya laugh as he takes off his shoes and nudges them to line up with Shane's.

"My parents got it when I moved in here," Shane says when he follows Ilya's gaze to the mat. "I think it was a joke, but I never got a different one."

Shane Hollander has a good relationship with his parents. Probably. Shane Hollander is economical, probably.

Shane Hollander lives in a modest apartment. There are a few framed photos on the walls, a few pretty paper lamps and art pieces of fish and birds and landscapes and flowers that are all distinctly Japanese. There's a piece of split fabric hanging in the entryway to the living room, adorned with what looks like leaves of bamboo and bird in flight. The space is dim, but Ilya can tell that it doesn't look like it's made of concrete like the fancy mansions he's seen online, soulless and painted white. It's lived-in. The door to the laundry room is open, and Ilya spots clothes hanging on clips and draping over the side of the laundry machine. There are towels and oven mitts hanging from cabinets in the kitchen, and there are dishes on the counter by the sink, and there's a shelf lined with pottery that looks hand-made. There are magnets on the fridge, and a colourful, messy drawing of a stick figure that was obviously done by a child. Ilya blinks at it, scanning the scribbled smile and the letters that read SHANE in crude, spaced-out handwriting.

There are blankets all over the living room, folded and tossed over the backs of the sofa and armchairs, and there are pillows tucked into the corners of the sofa. There's an incense tray on the coffee table, covered in ash like he hasn't been bothered to clean it up for a while.

"Balcony?" Shane asks. It startles Ilya, who blinks out of his trance and turns to find that he's been wandering through the apartment like he's inspecting it and Shane has been following him, his hands tucked into his pockets. Ilya looks at him, taking him in. He can see clearly in the steady, warm glow of the living room light that Shane's flicked on.

Fuck, he looks good. Soft and big and easy, like he's comfortable here, like there are no cameras on him. He's leaning on his cane. There's a scar on his leg, stretching over the curve of his knee and up to his thigh. His shirt falls over his chest and his hair falls over his face, and Ilya wants to touch him. He wants to be fucking weird about it, wants to touch him all over. He wants to know what his skin feels like, and what his hair smells like, and he wants to feel the flutter of his eyelashes and the soft beating of his pulse.

He refrains.

"Balcony?" he repeats softly, finally registering the word. Shane smiles like he knows, like he can read Ilya's mind, and he beckons with a tilt of his chin. Ilya follows him.

There are three chairs outside, wire-framed with plushy cushions, and there's a tiny table between two of them that's holding an ashtray that Ilya stares at as he's sitting before he looks up at Shane. He sits heavily, like he's releasing weight on his legs, and he leans back, flicking open a pack of cigarettes.

"What?" Ilya says a little too loud, staring wide-eyed.

"What, what?" Shane says like it's not a revelation that he smokes as he stick a cigarette between his pretty lips. "I know for a fact that you smoke, don't start."

"Yes, I smoke," Ilya says firmly, gesturing to himself. "Me, strong Russian. You are— You…"

Shane lifts an eyebrow at him, cupping his hand around the lighter as he flicks it. Ilya watches, mesmerized by the light that dances across Shane's face, golden and warm and inviting. The light disappears, and Shane drops his hands, taking a drag from the cigarette as he sets the lighter aside and looking at Ilya expectantly.

"You are boring," Ilya says finally. "You are boring Canadian. You drive a Toyota and you are sensible, no? You are— You are tidy and polite and—"

"And I'm not a professional athlete," Shane interrupts. "I'm allowed to smoke."

"Oh, am I not allowed?"

"Pretty sure your team medic and your trainers would say no," Shane says dryly, and Ilya shrugs. "But I won't tell if you want one."

He reaches to nudge the pack over to him. Ilya watches him exhale smoke before he takes it.

Shane Hollander smokes menthol cigarettes, and when he laughs, he scrunches his nose up in a way that makes Ilya want to bite him. They sit in silence for a few moments as Ilya leans back, taking a slow drag from the cigarette— it burns differently from his own, but he thinks he doesn't mind it. He looks out at the city. They're facing the street, but it's quiet. Something in Ilya instinctively wants to hide, like this is too public, like somebody is going to catch him, but they're high up enough that he relaxes. There isn't much to take in from the street, so he turns to Shane.

He's already looking at him. He's smiling a little.

"Go ahead," he says when Ilya stares back at him. "Ask away."

Ilya lifts his cigarette to his lips and moves to turn his chair toward Shane, who laughs lightly, watching like he's fond. The chair scrapes noisily on the ground, and Ilya winces, glancing up at Shane before he settles, facing Shane entirely.

"How are you?" he asks when he takes the cigarette from his mouth.

Shane blinks, his smile faltering.

He's quiet for a moment, eyes flickering as he watches Ilya blow smoke into the air between them.

"I'm okay," he says finally, his voice soft.

"Are you?"

Another blink, followed by a tilt of Shane's head like he's curious.

"I am," he says softly. "Now I am."

Ilya stares at him intently, watching him take a slow drag from his cigarette, his cheeks hallowing a little before he sighs the smoke out. It's unfairly attractive, he thinks, but he doesn't say that.

"How have you been?" he rephrases. "Since last time I saw you."

Shane lets out a laugh, dropping his head, and it wasn't really intended to be funny, but Ilya just can't help it, it seems. He cracks a smile, watching Shane fondly as he lifts his head, still laughing. His eyes are squinting, but Ilya can still see them shine.

"Bad," Shane says finally. "I've been bad. But lately, in— in the past year or so. Better."

"Yeah?" Ilya whispers.

Shane hums with a nod, lifting his cigarette to his mouth before he speaks again, faux-casual.

"For someone whose life was ruined by drugs, I've… sure done a lot of them."

Ilya's stomach falls, and he searches Shane's face, his pretty face, but there's nothing to be found. Shane just looks back, exhaling smoke from his nose, his smile shifting into something sad.

"I'm a year and a half clean," he says lightly, leaning to prop his elbow on his knee and his hand on his chin. "I go to NA meetings sometimes. When I need them. But for the most part, I'm better."

Ilya nods absently, watching Shane's eyes. A car drives by below them, and there's a siren somewhere far away, and suddenly, Ilya's eyes are burning. He looks away with another nod, lifting his cigarette with a trembling hand.

"Hey."

Shane's chair scrapes across the ground, and Ilya turns to find him moving closer, reaching for Ilya's arm. His hand is gentle, and warm, gripping the fabric of Ilya's shirt loosely.

"Hi," Ilya whispers.

Shane smiles, tilting his head up at him.

"I'm okay," he says softly. "I'm right here."

"You have not been," Ilya says before he can stop himself. His voice wavers. "You have not been okay, and you have not been right here, and I did not know—"

"Nobody knew," Shane interrupts. "I disappeared, Ilya, I wanted to. I needed to."

Ilya looks at him. He wants to ask why, but he knows it's a stupid question. Shane seems to get it.

He sighs, leaning back and taking one more drag from his cigarette before he stubs it out in the ashtray, reaching across himself so he doesn't pull his hand away from Ilya's arm.

"It was a bad recovery," Shane says, looking down at his hand on Ilya. He reaches his other hand for him too, holding onto Ilya's forearm like he needs it. "I had, uhm. Both legs broken, broken back, grade three concussion. A lot of fractures and bruises and scrapes and…"

He exhales shakily, but there's still that vaguely amused look in his eye that Ilya can't quite read. He waits, reaching to put out his own cigarette— he doesn't care for menthol anyway— and hold Shane's hand in place.

"It was ugly," Shane says firmly, ignoring the way Ilya shakes his head and mutters his name. "It was. It was ugly, and gross, and infuriating. I was… I couldn't move. I was in the hospital for a while, and then I was home with my parents for a while, and I needed sponge baths and a bedpan, and I— I couldn't do anything but sleep, and wait."

Ilya shifts his arm so his hand is turned toward Shane's, and their palms slide like it's normal, like they do this all the time. Like this isn't the first time Ilya's seen him in what feels like a lifetime.

Shane watches their hands, watches their fingers twist and tangle, and his lips purse into a little frown as he thinks. Ilya squeezes his hand, running his thumb over his knuckles.

"I don't… I haven't told anyone this except my doctor and— and some people at NA meetings," Shane says slowly. Ilya shifts closer, attentive, watching Shane's face. "But I was awake. After the car hit me. I blacked out for a minute, and then I came to, and I was just… laying there in the street. Conscious."

Ilya's stomach hurts.

"I couldn't… I couldn't move," Shane continues softly, fingers fidgeting with Ilya's. "Or say anything. My ears were ringing, but I could heard, like, yelling. But I could just…"

He trails off, and then he lifts his head with a light laugh.

"My first thought," he says, meeting Ilya's eyes, "when I was laying there, was— Well. Ow."

Ilya snorts, and Shane brightens, tilting his head like a curious puppy.

"And then I thought, Fuck, I just got hit by a car."

"As you would," Ilya interjects. Shane gestures vaguely to him.

"My third thought was… I'm never gonna play hockey again."

Silence.

Ilya looks at him, clutching his hands, taking in the lingering menthol smoke and the chill from the night that soothes his throat. He watches as Shane's mouth opens for a moment to speak again before he decides better of it, closing his mouth and looking at Ilya with a light smile.

"And your fourth?" Ilya prompts quietly.

Shane looks at the ground, and then back into Ilya's eyes, hesitating.

"…Why am I alive?"

His voice wavers, and Ilya's chest clenches. His heart breaks, and he can't help but tighten his grip on Shane's hand. Shane lets him, smiling a little, turning his hand so he can rub his thumb over Ilya's skin firmly.

"It was scary," Shane says quietly. "Laying there, waiting. It felt like it took fucking forever for the ambulance to show up, but I think it was, like, a few minutes. But I swear it was years, just… staring at the sky. Hurting."

Ilya squeezes again, tugging Shane a little bit. Shane lets him, smiling, shifting closer.

"They didn't know if I would make it," Shane says after a moment. "The trial was held off until I was stable because they weren't sure what to charge him with. It could have been, uhm, vehicular manslaughter."

"Fuck," Ilya breathes.

His chest hurts. Everything hurts, actually, he thinks as he processes it.

If he would make it, Shane said. If he would survive past that fucking nightmare, past staring at the sky and wondering.

"I was so broken," Shane says softly, almost whispering. "Every part of me. I was in so much pain, and the morphine was never enough, and I— I couldn't talk." He pauses, clearing his throat before he lifts one of his hands away from Ilya's, gesturing to the line of his jaw. "My jaw was fractured, right along here, it broke some teeth, and my concussion was… bad. I was…"

His voice cuts off, and he glances away, his eyes glistening suddenly. Ilya moves closer, letting their knees bump clumsily, clinging to him.

"I was so scared," Shane says. "And— and devastated, and I couldn't even tell anyone." He shakes his head a little, his eyebrows furrowing, his lips turning into a frown. "I couldn't be seen like that, you know? I couldn't— I…"

Ilya nods, turning Shane's hand over in his own to rub his palm, smoothing his thumbs along the meat of it firmly. Shane lets him, smiling as he watches.

"And it was— it was all of that, you know, the healing and physical therapy and everything, I just… I felt so helpless. I couldn't even walk. I couldn't talk. I needed help to use the bathroom or to drink water or to…" He shakes his head. "But it was also just…"

Ilya watches him. His throat bobs as he swallows, and his eyes flutter as he blinks repeatedly. He's shaking a little, his fingers trembling so slightly Ilya doesn't even notice it at first. He squeezes his hand tighter.

"Everything I cared about," Shane whispers. "Everything I ever wanted, everything I worked for, everything I— I needed. It was all just… gone. I was never going to skate again, and I didn't…" He pauses, sighing like he's thinking it through, how to say it. "I didn't know what do with myself. I didn't know what to think about."

Ilya resists the urge to touch his face, to brush his hair back. It's so much longer than Ilya had ever seen— it was always cropped neatly when they were younger, trimmed to perfection, but it's falling over his face and his neck now, almost brushing his shoulders. It looks lazy in a way that Ilya really loves.

"It was fucking miserable," Shane says lightly, laughing a little. "Laying in bed. All I could do was sleep. And get high."

Ilya swallows the lump in his throat.

"What did you do?" he asks, squeezing Shane's hands absently. "What do you do? Now?"

Shane looks at their hands, running his thumb along Ilya's knuckles, and then his eyes flick up to Ilya's, shining brightly as he suppresses a smile.

"You're gonna laugh."

"No," Ilya says too quickly, shaking his head as Shane snorts. "I will not laugh at you."

"Whatever."

"Tell me," Ilya pleads, jostling Shane's hands. "What do you do?"

"I'm an artist."

Ilya blinks. His hands still on Shane's, freezing enough that he can feel Shane's fingers trembling a little, like he's nervous, like he's scared. Ilya searches his face, eyes flickering across his eyes and his freckles and his nose and mouth, and he thinks it makes sense.

"An artist," he repeats softly. Shane nods. "How did that happen?"

Shane smiles, his head dropping like he's bashful.

"I, uhm." He pauses, clearing his throat. "I had a notebook, at first. To talk to my parents, before my jaw healed, and before I… before I could talk again. My parents had to go back to work eventually, so I just had this notebook and— and nothing else, and one day I just…" He lets go of Ilya's hand to gesture, drawing his hand back and forth almost aggressively. "Scribbled. I was angry, and frustrated, and tired, and I couldn't do anything about it but…"

He exhales shakily, reaching for Ilya's hand again like it's natural, like he doesn't even notice himself doing it. Ilya lets him, of course he does, lacing their fingers and squeezing.

"And then I was tired of being angry, so the scribbling turned into, like, doodling. And then doodling turned into drawing, and I was so fucking bored that I actually made an effort to get better." He shrugs, looking down at their hands and shifting so he's holds Ilya's fingers, playing with them. "So I just… kept doing that. Trying things, fucking around. I do it for a living now, kind of. I have a day job, too, but I do a lot of commissions and— and exhibitions, sometimes."

"You are so amazing," Ilya says. Shane scoffs, his eyes bright as they meet Ilya's. "I'm serious. You will show me later, yes? Your art?"

"If you want," Shane says. "Sure."

"I want, yes."

Shane smiles, tilting his head. His hair falls across his face in a way that Ilya loves, and he can't help but reach to brush it out of the way as gently as he can. His fingertips grace over Shane's skin, and it feels like a revelation.

"You have friends?" Ilya asks softly, taking his hand away from Shane's face reluctantly. He takes Shane's hands in both of his own again, clutching at them.

"Yeah," Shane says lightly. "I'm not really, like, a social butterfly, but I have some friends. I was with a few of them tonight."

"Will they be worried that you disappeared?"

"No," Shane says with a light laugh. "I have a tendency to disappear when I go out with them. They won't be surprised."

"Do they know you?"

Shane falls quiet, and Ilya lets him, watching their fingers dance. He runs the pad of his thumb over the edges of Shane's nails— they're even and smooth, cared for.

"Kind of," Shane says quietly, his fingers curling into Ilya's. "They know… a version of me, I guess. They know I'm disabled. They know I'm sober. They don't know about… me and hockey."

"Why?"

Shane takes a slow breath, exhaling shakily. Ilya tightens his grip on his fingers.

"I don't really know," he says quietly. "I think I've just… I try to keep my distance. I'm not really online, I don't have social media, I only really stay in touch with one person I used to play with."

"Who?" Ilya says, unable to keep the jealousy from his voice as his eyebrows furrow. It makes Shane giggle, tugging at Ilya's hands.

"Hayden."

"Hayden," Ilya repeats, pausing. "…Pike?"

"That's the one."

Ilya stares at him, wrinkling his nose. Shane laughs again, reaching to poke at Ilya's stomach.

"Don't be an asshole."

"Is my natural state. Why only him?"

"He was my best friend before the accident," Shane says with a shrug. "He stuck around even though he didn't have to. He came by while I was recovering and didn't care that I was angry all the time. He… He stayed even when I was using. He didn't give up, I guess."

Ilya takes it in. He supposes he likes Hayden Pike, actually. He doesn't know much about him other than what's public— he's a forward, he's married, and he has a hundred children, which Ilya remembers suddenly as he thinks of the sparkly sticker in Shane's car and the drawing on his fridge. He smiles, nodding.

"He is a good friend," he says softly.

"Yeah."

They fall quiet again, and Ilya wants to ask more questions. Of course he does. He wants to know everything there is to know about this man, but he's quiet, watching their fingers. Shane's hands are fucking big, big enough that Ilya feels the urge to wrap his fingers around two of Shane's own like he's a child, holding on weakly. His eyes close, and he falls forward a little. Their knees knock together, and he can hear Shane breathing, soft and steady before he takes a breath to speak.

"What about you?"

Ilya's eyes flutter open. Shane is looking at him, his expression soft.

"What about me?"

"I've been… I've been following your career, but what about you? Off of the ice?"

Ilya suppresses a smile, eyes flickering over Shane's face, pleased with the thought of him following Ilya's career for so long. He wants to ask about that too— Shane said he couldn't watch hockey after the accident, didn't he? When did he start watching it again? Why? Why Ilya?

"You are my fan," Ilya teases, grinning as Shane rolls his eyes. "My little stalker."

"Shut up."

"Nothing happens with me outside of hockey," Ilya says. "I play for Boston, I spent my summers in Russia, mostly, but... Anyway. We won a Cup tonight."

"Oh, did you?"

Ilya snorts, reaching to smack him playfully, and it makes him giggle.

"Nothing else." He pauses, his smile faltering. "My father died."

Shane's smile fades too, and he nods, hand falling from where it's been swatting at Ilya's.

"I heard about that," he says. "You missed a game to go to the funeral, right?"

"Yes," Ilya says with a nod. "I went back to Russia for the funeral and the— the will reading." He shrugs nonchalantly, but Shane stares at him.

"How are you doing with it?" he asks quietly.

"Fine."

"Ilya."

"No, I am— Really," Ilya says, shaking his head. "I am fine. He was terrible. I do not miss him." He hesitates, looking down at their linked fingers. "I, uhm. I got on plane back to Boston after everything, and I thought… I felt like I could breathe. And I realised it was— it was like my father was what was, uhm, suffocating me."

Shane nods when Ilya looks up at him, and Ilya smiles softly.

"It is easier to live without him," he says.

"That sucks too."

"Yes," Ilya says with a shrug. "Is life, no?"

"I guess. Have you been back to Russia since?"

"No. I do not have anything to go back to," Ilya says truthfully. "I have not spoken to my brother. I do not speak much with my sister-in-law. I do not… I do not like Russia. I do not want to be there."

"Don't you miss anything?" Shane asks curiously, and Ilya smiles, looking at his pretty face. He had been so inquisitive before everything, Ilya remembers, always with the follow-up questions. "You— You grew up there, didn't you? There isn't anything you'd want again?"

Ilya's instinct is a resounding no, but Shane looks so expectant, almost hopeful, that it makes Ilya pause and think. He holds Shane's hands in his, and he runs a fingertip over the ridges of Shane's knuckles lightly, committing the rise and fall to his memory.

"Pirozhki," he says finally, pausing for a response from Shane.

"What's that?"

Ilya grins.

"Is, uhm, a pastry, like a pie," he says, gesturing vaguely. "Small, you can hold it. It is savoury sometimes, beef and onion and eggs and— and potatoes, you know, but my favourite was, uhm… Cherry. It was very sweet. My father hated it."

He says it with a light scoff, and Shane smiles, but it looks sad.

"And my niece," Ilya adds. "She is, uhm, maybe three now? I do not know. I don't think I ever knew when her birthday was."

He pauses again, goes quiet as Shane turns their hands over to trace his knuckles the way Ilya had his. It's soft, and slow, and it feels tender in a way Ilya isn't used to. He isn't meant to be touched like this, like he's delicate.

"My mother's grave," he says quietly. "I have not visited it in a long time. Sometimes I feel bad about it, but I… I think she would understand, you know?"

"I think she would," Shane whispers. Ilya looks up at him and gazes, eyes flickering across his face. He looks so sweet.

"Fuck, I missed you, Hollander," Ilya says breathlessly. Shane laughs quietly, squeezing Ilya's hand and drawing it closer like he wants to bring it to his chest.

"We weren't even friends," Shane says like it's crazy. "Before everything. I hardly knew you. It's fucking bizarre that I missed you so fucking much."

Ilya nods, squeezing his eyes shut, leaning toward Shane, who lets him. Their shoulders bump and Ilya falls into him, tilting his head to tuck his face into the side of Shane's neck. He's warm here, and soft, and Ilya can't help but breathe him in— he smells like the club, like liquor and smoke and stale sweat, but there's a lingering scent of cologne, something warm and vaguely woody. Ilya wants to consume it, wants to consume him.

He swears under his breath, forcing his head up and away.

"We have always been different, no?" he says roughly, squeezing Shane's hands. "We were…"

He trails off, shaking his head absently, his eyes meeting Shane's, and Shane nods with a soft sniffle. His eyes are glistening, shining brightly in the dim light emanating from the apartment, and Ilya's chest clenches tightly, aching.

"Yeah," Shane says softly even though Ilya doesn't finish the sentence. "We were."

Ilya doesn't know what they were. They were different, of course, but they were more than whatever they were meant to be. They were rivals, but they were equals— it was never the same after Shane left hockey. Ilya hadn't realised it under after the accident, but it was fucking fun to play against Shane, to have that competition between them even though they never talked about it. Ilya had spent nights thinking and thinking and thinking about the way Shane's hand would squeeze his during line-ups, the way their eyes would linger for just a moment too long, and he would think and think and think about all the looks and touches he could have had.

Shane's eyes linger on Ilya's face, scanning down and then back up, and then he tears them away, taking a breath as he looks out at the sky. Ilya watches him, the bob of his throat as he swallows, the flutter of his eyelashes.

"Can I see your art?" he asks, tugging at Shane's hand. "Please?"

Shane looks at Ilya like he's charming.

He goes inside to get his laptop, leaving Ilya on the balcony alone. He takes the air with him when he goes, and Ilya looks out at the sky while he waits, his hands cold without Shane's to hold. After a moment he reaches for the cigarette he'd stubbed out, and he relights it, holding onto the lighter for a few moments longer than necessary just because Shane had held it earlier, just because it's Shane's. There are stickers on it, a sparkly star and a small red heart that's fading around the edges, and even though Ilya has only just met him again tonight, it all feels very Shane.

Shane opens his laptop to his website, and Ilya scans the screen as it's placed into his lap.

"What is the R for?" Ilya asks softly, shifting to hold the laptop flat on his thighs. There are more stickers on the keyboard— a fairy with ornate wings, a cartoonish illustration of iced coffee, and three different birds. Ilya runs his thumb over one of them, some kind of songbird, feeling the edge of it against his skin.

"Oh, my middle name," Shane says, head ducked. "Ryosuke. I was named after a friend of mom's."

"Ryosuke," Ilya repeats, the name fumbling clumsily around his accent. It makes Shane smile. "I did not know you had a middle name."

"I avoided it," Shane says quietly. "When I was doing hockey. I was already the token Asian kid— I didn't need to give the other guys more reasons to be an asshole to me. I started using it more when I was living with my grandparents."

Ilya looks at him, his chest aching. Shane looks so fine about it, almost nonchalant, like it doesn't matter at all, and it breaks his heart a little. Ilya remembers seeing that, the stupid fucking prejudice and the subtle and not-so-subtle comments people would make, the implications that people like him didn't belong in hockey.

"The art world tends to be more comfortable for me than the hockey world," Shane says. "I don't feel like as much of an outsider. And there isn't as much pressure to be, like, the best, because good art is so relative, you know?"

"No," Ilya says lightly. It makes Shane laugh brightly, and Ilya loves the sound of it. It loosens something in him. "I do not need to, I think."

"No, you don't," Shane agrees. "It's not for everyone."

Ilya looks back at the screen, lifting the cigarette to his lips, and he thinks he could come around to menthol.

"You are amazing."

Shane scoffs, his head ducking as Ilya looks over the laptop screen at him. Ilya can see the way his cheeks are flushed again in the dim light.

"I am serious," Ilya says, almost breathless as he scrolls back up in search of blue. "Fuck, Hollander."

"I wasn't sure you'd like it," Shane says softly like he's shy.

"I like it," Ilya says firmly, nodding, finally finding what he's looking for. Soft blues smudged and blurred with white, speckled a little around the edges with red that feels so out of place it makes Ilya's stomach twist. He stares, his eyebrows drawing together absently.

"What is it?" Shane asks, tilting his head in Ilya's peripheral vision. He can't see what Ilya can, the screen facing away from him. Ilya glances at him and then back at the screen.

"I'm on my way home," he reads aloud, eyes scanning the text, "I'll be there soon."

He looks up to see Shane's smile falter and fade, to see him become something softer, sombre.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "That was, uhm. The last text I sent my mom, right before I got hit."

Ilya looks at the image again, scanning the slight, subtle sharper white lines.

"It's the sky," he thinks out loud. "You saw this? When you were hit?"

"Yeah," Shane says, quiet for another moment before he speaks again, his nose wrinkling. "I hate sunny days."

And Ilya kind of wants to ask about it, to ask if the sun on Shane's skin takes him back to it all, if a certain warmth on his face brings him back to the middle of the street. He wonders if he hates the shade of red that Ilya can only see when the sun is shining through his eyelids. He wonders if Shane gets scared of crossing the street now. He wonders if he keeps the windows drawn when the sun is too bright.

"I like rain," he says instead. It makes Shane smile.

Shane waits patiently, quietly, as Ilya scrolls back through the images, eyes scanning the text, lingering on the pieces that hurt his heart.

"Do you have more?" he asks without looking up from the screen, lingering on a vertebrae.

Shane is quiet for a moment, and Ilya can feel him looking at him, but he doesn't mind it.

"Yeah," he says.

Ilya's eyes snap up to Shane's, and he's smiling like he's amused by it, by how easily excited he is. He beckons with a tilt of his head, eyes shining.

"Come on," he says, reaching to take the laptop and snapping it shut. Ilya stubs his cigarette out once more and follows him inside, careful to not kick his cane.

"I have a home studio," Shane says as Ilya follows him through the living room and down a short hallway. He drops his laptop on the sofa casually, like he does it all the time. "I don't usually show anybody, but… I don't know. You already know my soul."

He goes to push a door open, but Ilya's hand reaches out and grabs him, snatching his arm clumsily and tugging so Shane turns toward him. Shane's eyes meet his.

"I…"

He searches Shane's face, searching for something to say, but he can't get anything out. His lips move wordlessly, helplessly, but Shane just smiles at him again, head tilting like Ilya is cute or something.

"I know," Shane says softly, whispering. "Come on."

He tugs at Ilya by his arm, and he pushes the door open. Ilya's hand slides down Shane's arm to his hand, and their fingers like like it's natural as Ilya follows him in.

Ilya isn't sure what exactly he'd expected from the words home studio, but he supposes it was something like easels and a desk, rows of paint tubes and stacked canvases. It's not what he finds. Shane flicks on a light, but the overhead light doesn't even seem to have a lightbulb in— there's a tall lamp in the corner of the room that comes to life, golden and warm. There's another light that remains off, the stem of it bend and hinged, and it makes Ilya think of the light a dentist would use, malleable and convenient.

It's a small room, but Ilya still moves to the center of it, releasing Shane's hand and turning in a slow circle to look around intently. It's cluttered, more cluttered than the rest of the apartment, like it's somewhere else entirely, like it's not even the same home. There's a small table in the middle of the floor, low to the floor and surrounded by cushions, littered with pages of sketches and what looks like notes. Shane Hollander writes in cursive.

The desk is cluttered, covered in paper and pens and pastels and books and an empty space that Ilya assumes the laptop fits right into. There are photos and postcards on the wall above the desk that Ilya lingers on, scanning the faces of all the people Shane must love so dearly— he recognizes Hayden Pike, and then he recognizes Pike's features in the small children he finds in a photo booth strip with Shane. They're laughing, their faces squished up against Shane's, gap-toothed and brilliant. Ilya vaguely recognizes Shane's parents— he'd met them once a long time ago, but they look older in this picture, smiling softly, leaning into each other. There are other people Ilya doesn't recognize, people he wishes he did. He wishes he knew them just so he could understand Shane a little more, wishes he could see why he likes them. He wonders about them, how they met Shane, how they got to know him, what they do with him when they hang out.

Ilya tears his eyes away from the photos and steps away from the desk, meandering around the desk chair to linger by the windowsill, where there's more incense ash lined up in a tray and scattered around it. In a corner by the window, there's a crowded bookshelf and an armchair, plush and cosy-looking.

There's art everywhere. Sketches and completed drawings, paintings and post-it notes, postcards and stickers and unframed prints. It's cluttered, and messy, and lived-in.

"You like this room," Ilya says, turning toward Shane, who's leaning against the desk now, his hands holding the edge of it. One leg is relaxed, his foot resting lightly on the floor, and Ilya pauses to gaze at him.

"Yeah," Shane says lightly with a shrug. "'S my favourite place. It's, like…"

"A sanctuary," Ilya provides. Shane blinks, a smile spreading across his face.

"Yeah. That's a good word."

"Eh," Ilya says with a faux-humble wave of his hand. "I am fluent. Very good English."

"Oh, I know," Shane says, head tilting. "You used the word discombobulated in an interview a while ago. That's a good one."

Ilya grins slyly, moving closer to Shane's body, reaching for his hand. Shane lets him take it easily, letting his cane rest against the desk.

"My little stalker," he says happily.

"Shut up," Shane huffs, but he's smiling. "I'm a fan."

Ilya hums, pretending it doesn't make his chest feel warm. Their hands swing in the air between them, fingers linked. Ilya watches their hands, sighing.

"What is it?" Shane asks quietly.

Ilya shakes his head, taking a slow breath, pausing to try to find the words for it all, for the weird warmth that he feels surrounded by, for his slow sort of sleepiness. He squeezes Shane's hand, draws it toward himself to hold it between both of his hands, rubbing his knuckles.

"I feel like I'm in your chest."

Shane doesn't respond, but he doesn't need to. Ilya knows that Shane feels the same thing. He looks down at Shane's hand, rubbing his knuckles, shifting so he can run a thumb over the tattoo on his index finger. It's a little blurry, faded the slightest bit.

"Do you do your own tattoos?" he asks quietly.

"No," Shane says. "I design them, but I don't do them on myself. That one— The— The flower, my mom drew it. When I was in the hospital, she would get really bored just waiting for me, so she would draw on the forms the doctors and nurses would bring her. "

"I like it," Ilya says, and he can't help but draw Shane's hand up, up, up, until Ilya can press a soft kiss to the flower. Shane watches him, quiet. "Can I see the others?"

He meets Shane's eyes. He's smiling a little, his eyes shining, and Ilya feels fucking stupid. He feels like he could burst into tears, and he feels like he would do literally anything Shane tells him to, and he feels like he's falling in love.

Shane pulls his hand from Ilya's, and Ilya doesn't pout. He tries not to, anyway, but he thinks he might be, because Shane is smiling like he's amused as he touches Ilya's shoulders and pushes him gently, guiding him back back back until the backs of his knees hit the armchair, and he falls. He looks up at Shane in awe as he steps back, his lips parted.

Shane is still looking at him, smiling a little, and he reaches for the front of his shirt, undoing the buttons one by one by one until the shirt falls open to reveal his undershirt. He pulls the undone shirt off of his shoulders slowly, and then he tosses it at Ilya, who catches it against his chest with a laugh, like this is a very bizarre, slow strip-tease. Shane's smile brightens even more as he watches Ilya draw the shirt to his face.

He seems to hesitate for a moment before he reaches for the collar of his t-shirt and tugs it over his head and off. He holds it to himself before he looks away, down at the fabric, which he folds neatly with a soft exhale, like he's settling himself. He sets it on the desk chair, turning away a little before he returns.

Ilya's eyes linger on Shane's face, flushed pink and glowing, and then he lowers his eyes, finding the bold ink on his chest.

It's symmetrical, perfectly so, placed just over his heart. A skull that Ilya doesn't recognize, some kind of animal, framed by a set of insect wings. Ilya stares at it, his hand lowering absently, holding the fabric of the shirt in his lap.

Shane stays and lets him look his fill before he turns around, pulling his hair out of the way. It's long enough that it brushes over the top of the tattoo gracing his upper back. It stretches across his shoulders, shifting with the movement of his muscles under his stained skin. It's a butterfly, a monarch, but its wings are broken, torn and ripped and shattered.

Ilya exhales shakily, eyes lingering on the tattoo for a while before they lower slowly, taking in the sloping scar along Shane's spine, the curve of his waist, the softness of his hips above the waistband of his shorts. There are dimples on his lower back that Ilya wants to touch, wants to dig his thumbs into.

When Shane turns around again, his eyes are drifted shut, his gaze soft, and he looks sleepy. He looks like Ilya feels, like he can feel Ilya's gaze caressing him.

He exhales slowly, his eyes closing calmly as he reaches for the waistband of his shorts. Ilya's lips part in awe, and he watches as Shane slides them down over his legs, tugging sharply when they get caught, tight on the swell of his thighs. Ilya's breath catches in his throat as Shane reaches down to pick them up, folding them neatly and setting them on top of the folded shirt. He's wearing briefs that cling to him, dark blue and fitted, cradling every curve on him. He looks shy, his head ducked, shoulders raised a little bit, and he tugs the hem of the briefs down over both his legs before he seems to remember why he's stripping in front of Ilya. He exhales, pulling fabric up over his left thigh to show him the tattoo.

It's a bird, laying on its back, its legs raised and curled and lifeless. There's something sprouting from its chest, something decorative but adjacent to a kind of plant, and a dark circle that encompasses it all, fading out as it spreads across Shane's skin, a blank edge surrounding the bird so it isn't swallowed by the darkness. Ilya stares at it, and before he can really think about any of it, he's reaching for him.

Shane comes closer. He lets Ilya touch him, lets him reach for his leg and run his hand over the tattoo delicately, like he might break skin. Ilya exhales shakily, tracing the unmoving wing.

"You hate them," Shane says quietly.

"I don't."

"You hate them."

"I don't," Ilya repeats, shaking his head, shifting so his hand is resting on the side of Shane's thigh, thumb moving to caress his skin. "I just…"

He shakes his head. His eyes are stinging suddenly, his throat tight, and he tries to ignore it, but he knows he can't help it. His face contorts into something pained, grimaced.

"They are so sad," he says quietly, attempting to keep his voice steady. "I hate to think about you being so sad inside that you make it your outside."

Shane hums softly, and Ilya looks up at him. He's so much closer now, of course he is, and Ilya feels tiny like this, like Shane could crush him. He's so beautiful— he always has been, Ilya knows that. He's always found him gorgeous, always found himself so drawn toward him, so attached to him. But he's so different now— scarred and ink-stained and soft. Ilya gazes at him. There are stretch marks on his chest and his hips and his arms, and there are scars scattered everywhere, scars from the accident, from stitches and surgery, and scars from something else. Healed track marks in his elbows, healed cuts, thin and straight along his wrists and upper arms.

Ilya exhales shakily, and Shane must see it on his face, because he reaches for him, his hands big and warm and gentle on Ilya's cheeks.

"Hey," he whispers. "Ilya."

Ilya sniffles, nodding, blinking his eyes and looking up at him. He's smiling a little.

"I'm okay," he says softly. "I'm right here."

"I know," Ilya chokes.

Shane smiles, tilting his head like he's fond of him, and Ilya squeezes his eyes shut, lowering his chin so he's tucked between Shane's palms. He pulls Shane a little closer, hands gripping his hips weakly. The fabric of his underwear is soft.

When he opens his eyes, he lowers them to the tattoo on Shane's leg again, shaking his head gently out of Shane's hands. He leans down, leans close, until he's pressing his forehead to the tattoo. His eyes flutter shut, and he tilts his head to rub his nose against Shane's skin, breathing him in. Shane exhales shakily above him, and a hand buries itself in Ilya's hair.

"Fuck," Shane breathes.

Ilya exhales, nodding, shivering as Shane's fingers curl into his hair, tugging absently. His gut swirls, and he can't help but tug Shane closer, tilting his head to press his mouth to the tattoo. It's barely even a kiss, more a needy slide, but Shane's hand tightens on his hair anyway, like it feels good.

It's insane. He mouths at the tattoo on Shane's leg, and Shane lets him, sliding his free hand over the back of his neck, pushing down under the fabric of his shirt, and he's not close enough. Ilya takes deep breaths against his skin, searching, rubbing his face against him desperately, and Shane lets him, and lets him, and lets him. The fabric of Shane's underwear is soft against his skin, and he bites his lip, stifling a groan, before he lets out a choked whine, letting his lips fall open to mouth at Shane over his underwear.

He's so warm here, hot and hard and twitching under Ilya's tongue. Ilya groans, one of his hands tracing the hem of the underwear that's been drawn up out of the way, tucking his fingers under it to the soft skin over Shane's hipbone.

Shane's hand tightens in Ilya's hair, and it aches, but Ilya loves it. He's always loved getting his hair played with, but something about this, about Shane Hollander doing it, pulling his hair and hurting him just a little— it's different. Ilya shifts in his seat, moving closer, shaking his head to nuzzle into him. Shane's breath catches, and he hisses between his teeth.

Ilya's fingers push farther up the fabric of Shane's underwear, and Shane's hand emerges from under Ilya's shirt before he pulls at it, letting go of Ilya's hair to tug the shirt up until Ilya has to lean back to let him pull it off. He's breathless, shaking his hair out as Shane tosses his shirt aside absently before he leans back in, pressing his face into Shane's groin, nuzzling against him, tilting his head to mouth at the curve of his hipbone, at his tattoo, savouring the slight salt of his skin.

"Fuck, Ilya," Shane breathes.

"Mm."

Ilya has been to the therapy. It was Marly's idea, something he brought up in a way that was clearly meant to be gentle and sensitive, but was as blunt and brash as everything he ever says anyway, prompted by a slight breakdown on the tenth anniversary of Ilya's mother's death. He'd gone a few times consistently, but he found that he didn't really like the therapist he'd been seeing. He hadn't done anything wrong, really— they just hadn't clicked the way Ilya had hoped. He's gone to a few appointments with different therapists here and there over the years, some in person, some online, but the only person he's seen consistently, regularly, is his psychiatrist. He takes his medication, he loves his medication even if sometimes he hates actually swallowing the pills.

Ilya knows the gist of it all. He's heard things like mindfulness and presence and he knows not to let the bad things consume him, to be grateful for what he has and to focus on the good things. It's hard some days, but he knows how blessed he is. He's on a fantastic team, and he's a good captain in his own opinion, and he had friends, good friends, that he loves so much.

It's something he started doing after the first few sessions— lists. He goes through his good things list sometimes on bad days, and sometimes on good days. He thinks of all the good he has, the big things that make up his entire life and the small things that don't really matter at all. He thinks about Svetlana and about his medicine and he thinks about the Russian grocery store that's just a few minutes away from Ilya's home, about the owner that always insists on Ilya leaning down so she can see his face properly. He thinks about the kids that go to his games wearing tiny ROZANOV sweaters, their tiny hands grasping at the air for pucks to land in. He thinks about fresh coffee and lemonade and the muffins that Connors's sister brings to practice sometimes.

And now he'll think about this. Shane Hollander above him, his skin soft and smooth and sweat-salty. The smell of him, the sound of him. The feeling of his hands in Ilya's hair and sliding over his neck and back, nails scratching at his skin.

He longs for it even as Shane lets him have it, breathing hard against his hip, the fabric of Shane's underwear growing damp with his breath. Shane is breathing hard too, hands scratching at Ilya's hair and skin like he wants to cling to him, like he wants to claw him open. He lets out a soft groan as his hands finally pull away from Ilya, and Ilya frowns, leaning back a little to look up at him, but he's reaching absently for the waistband of his underwear, pushing it down slowly. Ilya looks up at him, lifting his hands out of the way for the fabric to slide down, down, down, before he slides his hands over Shane's hips uninterrupted. He's so soft.

Shane kicks the underwear away silently, reaching for Ilya again, his hands sliding smoothly over Ilya's shoulders and up his neck. Ilya lifts his head to look at him, to take him in, all of him— he's fucking gorgeous. Of course. His cock is hard, the hair around it trim and neat and so Shane that it makes Ilya smile.

Shane's hands circle Ilya's neck, fingers pressed up under his ears, thumbs rubbing gently on his throat. It makes Ilya's eyes roll back briefly, the feeling of Shane holding him like this, like he's something for the taking, like he belongs to him. He thinks maybe he does belong to him. He thinks maybe he always has.

He looks up at Shane, submitting to his hands around his neck, tugging weakly at his hips until Shane comes closer, closer, closer, pushing Ilya back into the armchair and climbing into his lap. Ilya gasps, his arms flying to wrap around Shane's bare waist. The slide of their skin is smooth and soft and fucking delicious.

"Fuck," he breathes, closing his eyes again.

Shane presses their foreheads together, and he squeezes Ilya's throat gently.

"I have one more," he whispers.

"Hm?"

"I have another tattoo," Shane says lightly, like he's amused.

Ilya forces his eyes open to look at him. He's smiling.

"Show me," Ilya breathes. "Please."

Shane's eyes flicker over Ilya's face, lingering on his mouth.

"You're so sweet."

"I want to see," Ilya pleads, leaning into Shane's palms. "Can I see, please?"

Shane leans back, teasing, and he lifts a hand from Ilya's neck to his own mouth, tugging his lower lip down to expose the inside of it.

LUCKY

Ilya stares at it, at the glistening text, and Shane fights a smile off.

"You are so fucking hot."

Shane lets out a beautiful giggle, settling on Ilya's lap, relaxing against him. Ilya swears again, reaching up and touching Shane's face, sliding his thumb over his lower lip and pulling it down to look at the tattoo. Shane closes his eyes, jaw falling lax, and Ilya needs him. He needs him.

He pulls at his lip and slides his thumb over the inside of it, smooth and slick. Shane exhales sharply, his jaw falling open a little more, his tongue flickering at Ilya's thumb.

"Fuck, Hollander."

Shane bobs his head, leaning to take Ilya's thumb into his mouth, and Ilya hisses, watching his lips close around it. He's so warm.

Shane's hand reaches down to his own dick, gripping it tightly, and Ilya watches, glancing down. He's shining with precum, flushed red.

"Fuck."

Shane hums around Ilya's thumb, his hips shifting. He looks holy like this, pliant and soft and bathed in golden light.

When Shane finally releases his thumb, Ilya drags it down over his lower lip, catching a look at the tattoo again before he draws his thumb to his own mouth, sucking Shane's spit off of it. Shane groans, watching with dark, shining eyes.

He leans close, their noses bumping, still far enough to look into Ilya's eyes as his hand twists, turns to cup Ilya's dick over his pants. Ilya's eyes roll back.

"God, Ilya."

Ilya nods with a breathless Yeah, shifting into Shane's hand.

"Yeah?" Shane whispers, leaning close, nudging their noses together before he tilts his head to mouth at Ilya's ear. Ilya tilts his head, sliding his hands up Shane's chest. "Tell me what you want."

"Fuck, Shane."

"Tell me," Shane demands softly, nosing along Ilya's hairline. "Use your words for me, come on."

"You," Ilya chokes, tears suddenly breaking free. "Fuck, I just want you, Shane, I've always wanted you—"

Shane's hand closes around Ilya's neck, fingers tight around his throat, and Ilya keens, head tilting back, and then Shane is kissing him.

Ilya gasps, his mouth falling open, and he clings to him, fingers curling into and grappling at Shane's skin like he's trying to hold onto a shirt. Shane exhales slowly, fingers tightening around Ilya's throat. Ilya lets out a weak groan, his arms finally wrapping around Shane's waist tightly.

When they part, they're both breathing hard, still pressed close enough that their noses are crushed together, close enough that they're sharing air. Ilya's eyes burn even though they're closed, and he squeezes them tightly, his breath catching in his throat.

"Ilya," Shane breathes.

"Yes."

"…Kiss me."

Ilya's stomach flips, and he shivers, pressing a hand into the small of Shane's back and pulling so it arches, so Shane presses closer. Ilya can feel him, all of him— his palms, his fingers, his chest and arms and thighs, his cock against Ilya's stomach, the weight of him on Ilya's lap— but he somehow wants him closer, wants to feel more. He reaches up desperately, pushes a hand into Shane's hair and pulls him down so they crash into each other again.

It's clumsy, and messy, and Ilya has never had anything like it. His eyebrows furrow like he's focused, like he's intent, and he tilts his head to kiss him deeper, groaning when Shane's tongue slides against his. They're swaying, bodies pressing into each other, flesh giving under flesh, and Ilya can't get enough. His breath catches, a noise escaping him somewhere between a moan and a sob, and he gasps Shane's name.

"Yeah," Shane chokes, nodding, lips sliding over Ilya's, noses bumping. "Fuck."

His hand slides into Ilya's hair, fingers tangling into the curls and gripping tightly, his other hand holding Ilya's throat like he's trying to keep him in place, like he's trying to control him.

Ilya loves it.

He feels small, absurdly so, in Shane's hands, and he melts into him with a soft noise. It's bizarre, but he thinks he would let Shane do anything to him, would let him do anything with him. He trusts him in a way that feels foreign— he's never felt like this before, not with anyone. He's never felt so pliant, so pitiful, but he doesn't mind it. He would let Shane kiss him like this forever if he wanted. Shane's fingers tighten around his throat, and Ilya groans, mouth falling slack. Shane pulls back and looks at him, but Ilya can barely open his eyes to look back. He feels drunk, feels high, off of Shane.

"Fuck," Shane breathes. "You like that?"

Ilya tries to force his eyes open. Shane is blurry, but Ilya can't tell if he's fucking wasted or if he's just crying. He nods with a soft whine. Shane swears again, leaning down to let their lips brush. He's barely squeezing Ilya's throat, barely forcing or limiting anything, but the weight of it is still there. It's the only comforting threat Ilya's ever felt.

He tilts his chin up to kiss Shane desperately, and Shane lets him. Ilya can feel him smile against his mouth. It feels good.

Ilya shifts forward in the armchair, his arms loosening around Shane's body to slide his hands over his skin, savouring the curve of his waist and the softness of his flesh. He touches him like he's wanted to all night, like he's wanted to since they met— fingers pressing and pushing and pulling, palms sliding. He touches him everywhere, his face and neck and shoulders, arms, chest, stomach, legs. Shane lets him at it all, barely even reacts beyond soft hums and huffs of air when Ilya's fingers touch his face like he's attempting to commit the shape of his nose to memory, when Ilya cups his chest in both his hands and gropes him, when he leans forward, tipping Shane back just so he slides his hand over Shane's ass and thigh and calf and ankle and still-socked foot. He moans when Ilya runs his hand over his head, fingers finding the curve of his ear and rubbing the shell of it. He feels everything, every stretch mark and scar, every dimple and jut of bone.

He lets Ilya lift him up, lets him stand with Shane in his arms, and he lets him turn and lower him into the armchair, turning them around. Ilya lowers to the floor, falls to his knees in front of him between his legs, and Shane reaches for his face, drawing him up into a messy kiss. Ilya groans, head falling back, reaching for Shane's face desperately. He runs his thumb over Shane's freckles blindly, and his throat tightens when he finds that his skin is wet.

"Shane," he gasps, pulling away just enough to glance before Shane is pulling him back in with a stubborn noise.

"Keep—"

Ilya keeps.

He arches up and cradles Shane's weeping face, sucks on his lip and then his tongue, kissing and kissing and kissing him until he can't anymore because he's crying too. The kiss suddenly tastes like salt, and Ilya kind of likes it, actually— he stays, close enough that his tears are indistinguishable from Shane's, lips parted so their tongues are pressed. It's obscene and it's silly and it's gross, but Ilya feels beautiful.

"я тебя люблю," Ilya chokes weakly, lips brushing sticky against Shane's. Shane nods like he understands it, fingers digging into the nape of Ilya's neck hard. "Fuck, Hollander—"

"Fuck, look at me—"

Ilya pulls back and opens his eyes, looking up at him, letting himself melt as Shane's hands cradle his face. Shane's cheeks are glistening in the lamplight, and he looks like he's lined with gold, his eyes shining with tears and his lips with spit.

"God, you're so beautiful," Shane says breathlessly, his voice breaking, his head tilting like he's admiring him. "I missed you so much."

"Shane."

"I missed you so fucking much, oh, my god—"

"I missed you," Ilya chokes, sobbing. He doesn't even know if Shane can understand him, but he can't stop. "I missed you so much, I wanted you back, Shane, fuck—"

"I know," Shane says like he gets it, like he feels the same, like he spent all those years longing for him too, like he's had the same weird void in his chest since they were eighteen. "I know, Ilya."

"It was so different," Ilya says weakly, blinking tears out of his eyes. Shane doesn't wipe them away, letting them fall to his fingers. "When you were gone, it was not the same, Shane, it was not what I liked, I— I did not have fun—"

Shane is nodding, kissing Ilya chastely, nudging their noses together.

"I missed you so fucking much," he whispers, lips sliding over Ilya's. "I swear to God, I thought of you every fucking day, Ilya, I was always thinking of you—"

Ilya nods, kissing him again, rising enough to drape his arm around Shane's freckled shoulders.

"You got me flowers," Shane murmurs when they part again, and a choked laugh escapes Ilya. He nods. Shane is grinning. "I remember them."

"Fuck, Shane."

"I got so many fucking flowers," Shane says, shifting forward to look into Ilya's eyes like they're just talking, like he isn't completely fucking naked. "When I was in the hospital. So fucking many, and they were all, like, white and— and pastels, and they were all so boring, you know, and— and when I was really out of it, they all just blended into my hospital room, but you…"

He leans down and kisses Ilya softly, cradling his face, like he just can't help himself.

"You got me that fucking bouquet, it was fucking gorgeous, Ilya," he says quietly, lips still brushing Ilya's, and Ilya can't pull away even to look at him, can't move when Shane is holding him like this. "So bright. I could see it even when I was fucked up. Even when I was crying."

Ilya's eyes sting just thinking about it. Shane's thumb brushes under his eye.

"It had… peonies. And sunflowers, and chrysanthemums, and lilies and roses and, uhm. Delphinium." Their noses nudge together. "They were all red and pink and orange and blue and it was so beautiful, Ilya, thank you so much—"

His voice goes thin, breaking a little bit, and Ilya nods, kissing him.

"When they— When they started wilting, it broke my fucking heart," Shane chokes, letting their faces press. "I wanted to ask you to send another one."

"I would have," Ilya says, nodding, lifting closer. "I would have sent them if I knew, I would have sent a new one every week, every day—"

Shane lets out a wet laugh, kissing him, and Ilya knows it's ridiculous, but he means it. He would have. He would have done anything.

"I would have done it," he says breathlessly, panting into Shane's mouth. "Sent you so many flowers you couldn't see the boring ones. So many fucking flowers, Shane, all of them in the world."

Shane is giggling, holding Ilya's jaw, holding him close, and it's Ilya's favourite thing ever. He reaches for his face just to feel it, the way his cheeks squish up, the way his eyes squint.

He feels Shane's smile fade after a few moments as the kiss deepens, and he stifles a groan, tilting his head so Shane's tongue can slide across his. Shane hums, and Ilya can feel it in his throat, in his chest, in his teeth. He gasps, moving as close as he can. His chest presses the edge of the armchair, and he can feel Shane's knees against his shoulders. He wants to suffocate here.

Shane buries a hand in Ilya's hair and tugs, jerking his head back a little as his other hand lifts to his throat, fingers gentle but firm as they grip him.

"Take your pants off for me," Shane murmurs, lips sticky against Ilya's. Ilya nods as much as he can, falling into the palm of Shane's hand as he fumbles with his pants, clumsily undoing them and pushing them down his thighs. He has to lift onto his knees one at a time to take them off, and it's kind of awkward, kind of silly, but he can't feel embarrassed or uncomfortable with Shane's mouth on his, with his fingers around his throat. "Fuck, yeah."

Ilya hums weakly, his eyes opening a little as Shane pushes him back by his neck, releasing his hair, and Shane is reaching down, taking Ilya's underwear from his hands and lifting it to his face. His eyes flutter shut as he inhales. There are freckles on his eyelids.

Shane moans, muffled in the fabric, and Ilya's breath catches. He shifts, looking up at Shane longingly.

"Fuck, Shane," Ilya breathes. "Please."

"Please what?"

Ilya lets out a weak noise that sounds horrifically close to a whimper, and he wants to hide, wants to duck his face into Shane's lap so he can't look at him the way he is right now, like he can see into Ilya's skull, into his chest.

"Shane, just…"

Shane lets out a laugh. It feels condescending, like he's amused by Ilya's anguish, but it makes Ilya's stomach feel warm. He gazes up at him helplessly.

Shane gazes back at him. He drops Ilya's underwear aside and cradles his face again, brushing fingertips over Ilya's cheeks, drawing him up and in, looking at him like he's trying to memorise his face. Like he thinks this is temporary.

"I can't believe this is real," he whispers. Ilya nods desperately, reaching to hold onto Shane's wrists, keeping him in place.

"It is," he breathes. "This is real."

Shane draws him into a kiss, and Ilya falls into it, leaning against the edge of the armchair, reaching to run his hands over Shane's soft waist. Shane hums into it, straightening so Ilya's hands can slide over him uninterrupted, fingertips digging into him.

Ilya tilts his head, mouth sliding clumsily over Shane's as he kisses across his face, down his jaw and along the side of his neck. Shane hums again, head tilting back, hand cradling the base of Ilya's head like he's trying to be careful with him, like he thinks his skull is fragile. Ilya lingers under his ear, tentatively scraping his teeth over Shane's soft skin, hesitating, but Shane's fingers curl into his hair and pull him in tighter.

"Yeah," Shane breathes when Ilya bites down softly, reaching up to hold the side of Shane's neck. He can feel his pulse under his skin.

Ilya feels fucking high. He feels sleepy in a weird way, like he's heavy, drifting off in Shane's hands as he licks and sucks and bites at Shane's neck and collarbones. He makes his way down Shane's chest, lowering back onto his heels as he gazes at the tattoo in front of him for a moment before he leans in and kisses it softly. Shane's hand runs over the top of his head fondly.

"You're so beautiful," Ilya whispers, letting his head fall forward to rub his nose against the tattoo. "Fuck, Shane."

"I'm a mess," Shane says, dismissive, absent, like he's not the most beautiful thing Ilya's ever seen in his life. Ilya looks up at him.

"You're beautiful," he says softly, firmly.

Shane just smiles a little, caressing Ilya's cheek, and then he nods with a silent Okay.

Ilya looks back at the tattoo before he closes his eyes and leans in, rubbing his face against it clumsily. He licks at it softly, relishing the way Shane sighs, and he melts into him, hugging his waist and burying his face in Shane's chest, mouthing absently at the softness of his flesh. He lingers at every bite, tugging at his skin a little bit, just enough to make Shane hum, and at his nipples, glancing up when he hears a sharp gasp. He kind of wants to be taking notes on it all, on what makes Shane tick, what he likes— he likes this, Ilya thinks as he flicks his tongue over his nipple, watching the way his eyebrows furrow and his lips part to let out a lovely moan.

Ilya reaches up and touches Shane's face, rubbing his cheek before he slides his thumb over his bottom lip, tugging it down to see the tattoo. Shane smiles, fingers tightening in Ilya's hair, squeezing. Ilya moans, closing his lips around his nipple and sucking.

"Fuck, Ilya, that's…"

He shifts, moving his hips just the slightest bit, and Ilya closes his eyes, sliding his tongue over his nipple one more time before he lifts his head and looks down. Shane's dick is hard and leaking, flushed a pretty shade of red that Ilya is obsessed with, and he can't help but lean down and slide his tongue over it.

"Oh, fuck—"

Ilya closes his eyes, tilting his head to run his lips over the side of it, humming absently, moving his hands to hold Shane's hips, squeezing where they're softest, squishing under his weight against the armchair.

"Fuck, look at me," Shane says, voice soft and rushed. "Open your eyes, baby, let me see—"

Ilya looks up at him, blinking tears from his eyes. Shane exhales slowly, running a hand over Ilya's face, brushing his thumb over Ilya's lips.

"Open," he murmurs.

Ilya opens. He lets his jaw fall slack, lets his tongue fall so Shane can tap his cock against it, his eyes dark and shining. He wants to tell him, wants to choke out how fucking gorgeous Shane is, how fucking hot this is, but he can't as Shane pulls at Ilya's hair, tugging him down onto his dick.

Shane inhales through his teeth, and Ilya melts against him, savouring the taste of him, the weight of him on his tongue, the way he fills his mouth. It feels fucking good— He's always liked using his mouth, always liked oral, eating people out, letting people play with his tongue, but this. Shane. Fuck, it's different. It's better. Shane pulls at his hair, guides his head up and then down slowly like he's being careful, like he isn't sure Ilya can take it. Ilya's eyes roll back, and he lets them close.

"Fuck, you're so pretty," Shane says softly. "Take it so well."

Ilya whines softly, ducking his head, resisting against the grip in his hair, and it hurts but he fucking loves it. He groans, sliding his tongue along the underside of Shane's dick.

"Jesus, Ilya, fuck— Look at me, let me see your eyes."

Ilya looks up at him, blinking blearily. Shane is looks back at him, lips parted as he breathes heavily, and he nods, brushing his thumb over Ilya's cheek.

"Yeah, there you are," he breathes. "Pretty boy."

Ilya gazes into his eyes, bobbing his head, lifting his hand to stroke what his mouth can't reach, and Shane groans, wincing, leaning back into the armchair. His hands hover in the air as he watches Ilya, as he lets him, and Ilya reaches for his chest to grope at him and squeeze him. Shane makes such pretty noises.

Ilya would tell him if his mouth wasn't full. He instead just squeezes his pec again, digging his fingertips into his flesh, and Shane seems to get it. He covers Ilya's hand with his own, holding it in place, lacing their fingers.

Shane mumbles something that Ilya can't even understand, squeezing Ilya's hand, and Ilya hums, ducking his head lower, and then lower, and then he takes his hand away to lower his head as far as he can. He suppresses a gag, his shoulders tightening, his eyes squeezing shut.

"Oh my god, fuck," Shane says sharply. "That's it, baby, good boy—"

Ilya can't even groan with his throat filled like this, but his eyes roll back, and he moves closer. He bobs his head up and down just the slightest bit , fucking the head of Shane's cock into his throat. Shane's hand lands in his hair, gripping it tightly, holding him down when Ilya lowers with his nose pressed into the trim hair around Shane's dick.

"Holy shit—"

Ilya lifts his head with a heavy gasp. Spit falls thick and wet over Shane's cock, slick as Ilya strokes it. It's obscene, noisy in a way that makes Ilya shiver like he's cold, like he isn't boiling.

"Fuck, that's so hot," Shane says breathlessly. "Feels so good."

Ilya hums, leaning back down before he can catch his breath. Shane lets out a tight groan. Ilya can feel his thighs shaking, can feel his stomach clenching.

He does it again, relaxing enough to let Shane into his throat, ignoring the way his body tries to reject it, the way his shoulders flex and his stomach tightens. He has to hold his breath when it finally works its way in, and he kind of wants to stay here forever, head ducked into Shane's lap, surrounded by him, filled by him. It's silent except Shane's heavy breathing and the clicking of Ilya's throat, and Ilya slumps into him, hands running over Shane's thighs.

When he finally lifts his head, strings of spit connect him to Shane by his mouth, dripping and clinging, and it's gross, but he loves it. He wipes his mouth clumsily, collecting the spit to rub it into Shane's dick.

"Fuck, baby, wait—"

Ilya stops and looks up at him, lips parting to ask, but Shane is already pushing him back and sliding off the armchair into Ilya's lap. He kisses Ilya clumsily, hugging his neck tightly, straddling his hips, squeezing into the space between Ilya's chest and the armchair, leaning back against it as Ilya leaning into him. Their tongues slide, even wetter than before, and they breathe hard into each other's cheeks, panting.

Shane shifts, straightening his back like something hurts, and Ilya pulls away to look at him.

"Okay?" he asks, catching his breath. His face is cold, wet with cooling spit. Shane's face is glistening too, and Ilya resists the urge to lean in and lick him. "Something hurts?"

"No, just…" He grimaces, adjusting the way he's leaning against the armchair. "My back is weird, hang on."

Ilya nods, leaning back to give him space as he adjusts again, swirling his hips and arching his back, his eyes blinking and unfocused, distracted. He straightens a let out with a slight wince as Ilya runs his hands over his thighs smoothly, gazing at him.

"We can lay down," Ilya says after a moment, absently watching Shane's cock bob with his movements. "Maybe bed?"

"No, I want you here," Shane says firmly, finally wrapping his legs around Ilya's hips, one of them straight out so his heel can rest on the ground. He leans back against the armchair with an exhale. "Fuck, there."

"Okay?"

"Yeah, kiss me, come here—"

Ilya grins, leaning into him with a hand planted at the small of his back, and Shane hugs his neck, mouth opening.

"What do you want?" Shane whispers between messy kisses. "Tell me."

"You," Ilya mumbles. "Anything."

"Fuck, you're so…"

Ilya just hums, tilting his head as Shane mouths over his face and down his neck. He's clumsy about it, lips and tongue wet and sliding over Ilya's skin like he doesn't mind the lingering smoke and sweat from the club, like he's craving whatever he can get from Ilya. Ilya rolls his hips, holding Shane as close to himself as he can, letting their dicks slide against one another.

"God, Ilya."

"Yeah."

"Fuck— Give me more spit."

Ilya nods desperately, already pausing to gather spit under his tongue, but Shane jerks his hair, tugging him down and lifting a hand up to Ilya's mouth. Ilya lets his fingers in easily, groaning weakly, his eyes fluttering shut. He can feel Shane gazing at him, can feel him staring like he's inspecting him.

"God, you're so fucking hot," Shane murmurs, fingers shifting over Ilya's tongue, pressing deeper into his mouth. Ilya moans, leaning into it, letting Shane's fingers into his throat. "Come on, baby."

Ilya dips his head and gags, choking around his fingers. It's a vile noise, ugly and wet, but Shane moans, finally letting his fingers slide out of Ilya's mouth. He holds his hand open, glistening with spit in front of Ilya's mouth, and Ilya spits thickly into his palm, letting it drip from his lips and tongue. Shane watches with dark eyes, his lips parted and kissed red and swollen.

As Shane's hand lowers, Ilya leans in and kisses him hard, grabbing his face firmly. His cheeks squish under Ilya's fingers, and it's so cute that Ilya wants to bite him. Which he can do, he realises as Shane's hand, slick and warm and a little gross, wraps about their cocks.

So he bites him, chomping his cheek gently before he tilts his head to get to his neck. Shane groans, hand sliding up and down and up before he lingers, rubbing the head of his cock just under Ilya's.

"Fuck," he chokes. "Fuck, you're so big."

"Shane, you—"

"God, I want this inside me," Shane says, breathless. "So fucking thick, you're gonna stretch me out so well."

Ilya groans roughly, grabbing at Shane's face to shut him up, but Shane just grins under his palm, his eyebrows quirking. Ilya laughs breathlessly, lowering his hand to crash their mouths together. Shane giggles into his mouth, jerking them clumsily. His hands are big, bigger than Ilya had noticed when they were younger, his fingers wrapping perfectly around them, like they were fucking made for this.

"You're gonna make me come," Ilya chokes into Shane's mouth. "Fuck, Shane, it feels so good."

"I know," Shane moans, nodding, letting their lips slide. "Fuck, I know."

"Shane," Ilya breathes, pushing a hand into Shane's hair, inhaling his breath. "Shane Hollander."

Shane smiles, tilting his head back to look at him.

"Ilya Rozanov," he murmurs. "I fucking love you."

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut, fingers tightening in Shane's hair, and he trembles, his breath catching in his throat.

"Shane—"

"Yeah," Shane gasps, tucking his face against Ilya's, foreheads pressed. "Fucking come for me, baby, come on—"

Ilya groans roughly, eyes squeezed shut so tight it hurts— Shane is moaning, and he's still stroking Ilya's cock against his own so perfectly, and they're sticky with sweat and spit, and Ilya is coming. His breath catches, and he grunts, burying his face in Shane's neck. Shane mutters something Ilya can't decipher, his hand sliding easily as the way is slicked with Ilya's come.

"Fuck, that's it," Shane breathes in Ilya's ear. "Good boy."

Ilya groans again, reaching to knock Shane's hand aside and take over. Shane's dick is slick with Ilya's come, and something about it, about his spend on Shane's skin, makes his stomach swirl.

"Oh, fuck— Ilya—"

"Come for me," Ilya says breathlessly. "Come for me, I want it."

"Oh, my god, Ilya, fuck—"

"Come on, come on, come on—"

He pulls back to look at Shane as Shane clings to him by his hair, his mouth falling open noiselessly, eyes squeezed shut, brows drawn together. It's a fucking vision.

Shane makes a noise in the back of his throat, something high-pitched and needy that makes Ilya want to marry him. He wants to hear that sound every day for the rest of his life.

Ilya kisses him again, sliding his hand up the arch of Shane's spine, savouring every curve of his vertebrae, savouring the way his body shifts as he inhales deeply, slowly, and exhales in a hush.

"Holy fuck."

Ilya laughs.

Shane clings to him, breathing hard, small moans escaping his mouth as he rides it out, shifting against Ilya's body absently. The cushion of the armchair is soft as Ilya pushes his arm between it and Shane's neck, pulling him into some kind of embrace. Shane's leg straightens out, relaxing over Ilya's thigh, and he hugs Ilya's neck, leaning back against his arm, against the armchair, straightening his back and pulling Ilya against his chest.

"God, Ilya," Shane chokes. "I didn't…"

"Didn't what?" Ilya asks, nuzzling into his chest, kissing him absently. He's sweaty.

"…I didn't know it could be like that."

Ilya leaves one more kiss over his tattoo before he looks up at him, resting his chin on his chest. Shane lifts his head, looking down at him, eyes glistening, face soft and tired.

"It's never been like that," Shane says softly, running a hand over Ilya's head, pushing his curls back.

"For me too," Ilya says absently, gazing at him, taking in his freckles. He could swear he dreamed of them. "Is different when you are in love, hm?"

"Must be," Shane breathes, caressing Ilya's cheek. Ilya lets himself be drawn up into a soft kiss, lingering. "…When do you leave Montreal?"

"Flight is tomorrow afternoon," Ilya says quietly, nudging their noses together before he relaxes, kissing Shane's chin clumsily. "But I maybe… can stay one more night."

"That would be nice," Shane whispers. "I wish you could stay longer."

"Me too," Ilya murmurs. He kisses Shane's chin again. "We will not go so many years this time, no?"

"Mm. Never again."

Ilya nods, eyes fluttering as Shane's fingers scratch at his scalp.

"I can come back," Ilya says sleepily.

"I can come down to Boston sometime," Shane says, eyes lifting as he tugs at one of Ilya's curls, watching as it straightens, his expression lightening like he's amused by it. "When I've saved up enough. Maybe in a few months."

"Mm, no," Ilya says shortly, shaking his head. "I will pay. For anything you need."

"You don't have to do that," Shane says lightly.

"Hollander, I am so rich," Ilya complains dramatically, ducking his face against Shane's chest. He can feel it move as he laughs. "I have so much money and nothing to do with it. Let yourself have benefit of having rich boyfriend."

It slips. Part of him wants to take it back, to make it into a joke, but most of him doesn't care. It's fine. Shane just brushes through his hair again.

"Boyfriend?" he murmurs quietly.

"I think so, maybe," Ilya mumbles, his chin squished against Shane's chest. "Probably. Yes."

Shane smiles brightly, scratching Ilya's scalp again.

"Okay," he says, tugging Ilya into another kiss. "Boyfriends."

They go to bed eventually, when Shane's back needs it. It's slow, and sleepy, and neither of them bothers to gather their clothes. They make their way naked, still clinging to each other like a moment apart will break them. Shane talks, and Ilya listens. Shane explains what a vertebroplasty is, which horrifies Ilya, especially when Shane clarifies that what's been injected into his spine is, in fact, a "special kind of cement." He explains his knee implant, and that he doesn't usually use his cane at home, but he's started using it more when he goes out.

"I have a crutch too, but I don't use it as much," he says as they climbing into bed, limbs tangled. "It was kind of hard for me to come around to using mobility aids, but they help."

"Shocking," Ilya says dryly, settling into the bed with an arm outstretched for Shane to settle against. Shane snorts, swatting at him.

"It's embarrassing sometimes," he says, settling and resting his head against Ilya's chest. "I should be… an athlete. I'm young, I'm— I'm fit. It's just… I'm not supposed to have to use things like crutches or canes."

"But they help," Ilya says.

"They help."

"You deserve your life to be easier," Ilya says softly, running a hand over Shane's head, turning to press a kiss to his hair. Shane hums.

"You're sweet."

"Don't tell anyone."

"Oh, they wouldn't believe me anyway."

Ilya lets out a light laugh, wrapping his arms around Shane and squeezing him tightly. Shane groans into it, burying his face in Ilya's chest. They roll together a little, legs tangling, and Ilya runs a hand over Shane's head, letting his fingers drag through his hair.

"I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again," Shane whispers after a moment, lips brushing Ilya's skin before he nuzzles into him, rubbing his face into him. He mouths at him until he finds his nipple, and he sucks at it softly, absently. Ilya exhales roughly, tugging at Shane's hair and closing his eyes.

"You have lived in my head for years," Ilya says, voice muffled in Shane's hair. "I feel like I am going to wake up and you won't be here."

Shane lingers, tongue flicking in a way that makes Ilya hiss before he lifts his head and looks at Ilya. He props his chin on Ilya's chest, gazing at him sleepily, eyes dark.

"Ilya," he says softly. "I'm right here, for real. And you won a Stanley Cup today, and you had sex with me today, and I'm in love with you."

"This is the best day of my life."

Shane laughs brightly, his eyes squeezing shut, his face squishing up, and it's fucking adorable. It's ridiculous.

"I am so serious," Ilya insists, not even bothering to fight the smile that crawls across his face. He rolls them over, forces Shane onto his back, and Shane sighs, stretching out under Ilya's body. "I am so happy."

Shane meets his eyes, reaching up to caress his face, pushing a curl back when it falls into the space between him.

"Maybe more happy than I have ever been," Ilya adds. "Ever in my life."

"Me too," Shane whispers. "I'm so in love with you."

"I want you," Ilya confesses breathlessly, his eyes stinging. "It is not normal, how I want you. I am obsessed with you, Shane, I want everything with you—"

Shane tugs him down into a kiss, silencing him. Ilya relaxes atop him slowly, tentatively, in case his back resists it, in case his body hurts, but he doesn't indicate it at all. Shane's arms wrap around Ilya's neck.

"I want everything with you too," he mumbles into Ilya's mouth. "Wanna wake up with you and have coffee with you, and I wanna date you, and I wanna do stupid shit with you— I wanna get drunk with you just because, and I wanna share cigarettes and I wanna pick you up from practice even though I don't even live in Boston, and I—"

"Yes," Ilya gasps, kissing him again. "Yes, all of it, yes."

"I want you to meet my parents," Shane says like it isn't the craziest thing anyone's ever said to Ilya.

Ilya blinks, skimming Shane's face.

"You think they will like me?" he asks in a small voice.

"Yeah," Shane says firmly. "They'll like you. Because I like you."

Ilya hums, scratching through Shane's hair.

"I like you too."

"I know," Shane whispers softly, lips barely moving. Ilya's eyes flutter shut as Shane kisses him sweetly. They fall quiet when they part, and Shane's eyes are still closed when Ilya's open, so Ilya gets to gaze at him shamelessly— not that he would have shame about it even if Shane were to see him. He trails a hand over Shane's hair, over his cheek, tracing his freckles as lightly as he can, like Shane is sleeping. Shane hums again, expression softening even more as he tilts into the touch with an exhale. Ilya smiles.

"Do you want me to quit?" he says abruptly. Shane's eyes fly open, and his eyebrows furrow. "I will do it. Two Cups is good, I can stay right here forever."

"Don't be stupid."

"But I am so good at that," Ilya whines. Shane laughs again, his nose wrinkling. It anguishes Ilya. "Fuck, I love you so much."

"I know," Shane says lightly. "Still don't want you to fucking quit just 'cause."

"You want me to play for both of us?"

"Yeah, sure. That's romantic." Shane smiles, reaching to trail a finger down the bridge of Ilya's nose. "I'm obsessed with you."

Ilya smiles, eyes fluttering at the tickle of Shane's finger.

"This will still be real when I wake up?" he asks softly.

"Yes," Shane says confidently. "This will still be real when you wake up. And if this does happen to be some weird shared dream of ours, I'll come to you."

"Yes?" Ilya says, eyes stinging once more. "You will come to my next game? Come and find me so I can kiss you?"

"Yes. Win another Cup and I'll let you take me out on the ice. Kiss me in front of the whole world…" he whispers, leaning in to murmur against Ilya's mouth. Ilya likes the sound of it, nodding as he reaches to hold the back of Shane's neck, sliding his hand up over the butterfly tattoo.

He doesn't say anything about the implications of it, of what that would entail, kissing Shane in front of the world. He doesn't mention that it would put Shane back in the spotlight, that his name would become a largely trending topic in hockey-focussed online spaces, or that it would out both of them to the entire planet. He doesn't say that that's kind of his worst nightmare— he would never be able to go back to Russia (not that he really wants to, though, if he's honest), and it would make Ilya a fucking pariah, especially in hockey. He doesn't think Marleau would have a problem with it— the guy's a fucking teddy bear, even if he's built like a tank— but the others are wild cards, Ilya thinks. It scares him to think about sometimes, how they might react or respond to finding out Ilya is bisexual. If they might avoid his gaze, if they might not listen to him anymore. If they wouldn't want him to be their captain anymore. If they wouldn't respect him.

But Shane is kissing him lightly, tenderly, teeth nipping the slightest bit at Ilya's lower lip, breathing slow and steady, nudging their noses against each other, and Ilya thinks it might be worth it, if it comes down to it. Worth it just to have Shane like this, soft and sweet.

"Can you come back?" Shane whispers between kisses. "When you can?"

"Yes, of course," Ilya mumbles, cradling Shane's head. "For you. I'll come back to boring Canada."

"Yes-s-s…" Shane breathes. Ilya snorts, grinning as Shane kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him. Ilya wraps his legs around Shane's hips gently, exhaling as their bodies press and align perfectly. Shane hums, holding himself above Ilya, biting his lip as Ilya reaches down between them, adjusting them so their cocks, still soft and spent, align and their balls press. It feels nice, even without the thought of sex. He's close to him, as close as he can be without being inside him. Ilya melts, sliding his hand back around Shane's body, across the small of his back, reaching for his ass. His mouth opens helplessly, tongue sliding across Shane's lips.

Shane leans back, looking at him with dark eyes, his dick twitching against Ilya's.

"Can you spit in my mouth?" Ilya whispers. Ilya whispers helplessly, eyes skimming Shane's freckles. He wonders how bold they get in the summertime, when Shane has been in the sun. He has more on his shoulders, and on his back, and Ilya wants to memorise them. "Please?"

Shane smiles brightly, head tilting like Ilya's adorable, like he's terribly fond, and then he nods.

Shane smiles, nodding, caressing the side of Ilya's face with his fingers like he's worries about hurting him, and he stays. Ilya opens his mouth patiently, waiting, watching Shane's lips purse as he gathers spit under his tongue, watching them part to let his spit drip into Ilya's mouth. He barely spits at all, passive and almost casual about it.

Ilya lets out a soft groan, eyes fluttering at the warmth of Shane's spit his jaw closing to swallow it. Shane is gazing at him, caressing his face fondly, thumb brushing over Ilya's lower lip. Ilya can feel his eyes before he even opens his own, his cheeks warm like he's basking in the sunlight, and he smiles. Shane kisses him.

"Can I be greedy?" Shane whispers when they part after a small gasp.

"Yes," Ilya hisses, nodding.

"Can I be selfish?"

"Yes," Ilya says again, desperate. "Please."

"I don't want you to fuck anyone else," Shane says quietly, lips brushing Ilya's with every word. Ilya is already nodding his head. "I just want you to be mine, I don't wanna share—"

"Yes, fuck yes," Ilya gasps, nodding again. "Yours."

"Ilya."

"Yours," Ilya repeats, kissing Shane clumsily. "I don't want to fuck anyone else, I don't want anyone else, Shane, just you—"

"Fuck, Ilya."

"None of them were you," Ilya chokes, wrapping his arms around Shane's neck and letting Shane bury his face in Ilya's neck. He tucks himself into Shane's shoulder, sliding his tear-wet cheeks across his freckled skin. "Fuck, Shane, I wanted them to be you, I needed you this whole time, it had to be you—"

"Baby," Shane says in a rushed exhale, pushing shifting to bury a hand in Ilya's hair, their bodies twisting. "You had me this whole time, I was always yours, Ilya."

His mouth tucks close against Ilya's ear, lips brushing sticky with spit, and Ilya almost holds his breath, straining to listen to him mumble nd murmur, head tilted up toward him.

"'S like I was fucking made for you," he whispers. "None of them ever mattered because they weren't me, right? 'Nd I was just out there waiting for you, right, 'cause it was gonna happen eventually—"

"Yes," Ilya gasps, nodding into his neck, squirming against him as he shivers, leaning into the warmth of his breath. "Was going to find you again, like you're my fucking soulmate—"

Shane lets out a laugh, and Ilya grins weakly, mouthing at the side of Shane's neck, taking in the salt of his sweat. He squeezes his eyes shut, pulling Shane in tightly, and he douses himself in darkness, hiding in the shadows under Shane's jaw. Shane lets him, dragging his fingers through his hair, breathing steadily. Ilya can feel his heartbeat against his own chest.

He dozes off at some point, his face smushed up against Shane's shoulder— it's so cozy here, warm and safe, resting amongst the stars.

When he wakes up, he finds Shane across from him, arm tucked under his head, eyes closed. His cheek squishes against his bicep, and it's so cute Ilya feels the inexplicable urge to bite him, but he refrains, too sleepy to make the effort. Their legs are still tangled, and Ilya's arm is tucked between them as Shane's rests draped over Ilya's waist. It makes him feel small in a way he's never felt before.

He sighs softly, shifting closely tiredly.

Shane's eyes flutter before they open, and Ilya can't even fight his smile. Shane hums, eyes closing as his lips tilt.

"What's your favourite colour?" Ilya whispers.

Shane's smile widens, and his eyes open, squinting under a grin.

"Red," he breathes.

"What kind of red?" Ilya presses, nudging his knuckles against Shane's chest.

"Dark. Burgundy. Maroon. What about you?"

Ilya hums for a moment before he reaches up, pressing his thumb just under Shane's eyebrow and lifting it, forcing Shane's eyelid up. Shane's eyebrows furrow as his eyes widen in alarm.

"Mm. Brown. Very pretty brown." He inspects his eye for another moment, his chest warm as Shane starts to laugh, before he lets go. "The best brown. Prettiest colour in the universe. God hand-picked this brown Himself."

Shane is laughing, hand sliding into the small of Ilya's back and tugging him closer.

"Wait, can we start over?" he says finally, patting Ilya's waist. "Ask me again."

"What is your favourite col—"

"Blue."

Ilya snorts, and Shane giggles brightly like an ugly noise from Ilya's chest was his intention. He tugs Ilya closer, pressing their faces together so their foreheads and noses are touching. Ilya sighs, nudging their noses together. He can feel Shane's eyelashes against his own skin.

"I want to know everything about you," he murmurs.

"I'll let you," Shane whispers. "You know the shape of my soul. You can know my favourite colour."

Ilya smiles, brushing their noses back and forth.

"Did you have a… childhood stuffed animal?"

"Mm. A rabbit. Named him Barry."

"You are so cute, I need to bite you."

"Did you have one?" Shane asks, smiling, ignoring it.

"A bear. Boris."

Shane hums again.

"Strong Russian name," he says sleepily in an exaggerated Russian accent that makes Ilya burst into laughter.

"That was not bad," he says through a giggle, his nose wrinkling. Shane snorts, pulling Ilya somehow closer. They fall quiet, sighing against each other's mouths. Ilya's limbs become heavy, but he doesn't want to sleep, doesn't want to lose time. He thinks he never wants to sleep again. Or do anything else, actually— he wants to stay like this forever, until the sun implodes and everything turns to dust.

He feels Shane speak before he hears it.

"I think… I think I've been hiding from the world," he whispers. "My website doesn't even have my full name on it. Just in case."

Ilya opens his eyes and leans back to see him clearly.

"I don't meet my clients in person," he continues. "I'm paranoid of being recognized, because I don't want to be seen like— like this. And I think I'm just… I'm tired of it."

Ilya watches him intently, eyes flickering to his freckles and the softness of his chest.

"I think maybe I don't wanna hide anymore.

Ilya nods after a moment, hesitating, lifting his hand to trace a light line over his neck. Shane lifts his chin to let him, eyes fluttering like he's fighting off sleep.

"So now what?" Ilya asks, whispering. Shane hums softly.

"I think… Maybe I'll put my name on my website. Make it an actual, like, portfolio, you know. And if people wanna look me up or something, then… That's fine."

Ilya nods again, his mouth twisting as he thinks.

"We still talk about you," he says finally. "You know this, yes?"

"I know," Shane whispers. "I still follow hockey, I hear my name sometimes."

"It might be a fast change. Maybe overnight."

"I know," Shane repeats with a nod. "I think… I think that's okay. I just…"

He huffs, shifting closer, moving so he's propped up on his elbows and looking down at Ilya. His hair falls into his face, and it looks almost elegant, even as he jerks his chin, tossing it out of the way. Ilya stares, moving to look up at him.

"I want a life," Shane says intently. "Without having to worry about— about being recognised or asked questions, you know? I'm tired of worrying about it all. I want…"

He hesitates, scanning Ilya's face like it has a script on it.

"I wanna be friends with you," he says finally, his voice small. "I wanna hang out with you and— and go on dates with you without it being the end of the world. And I— I don't want to out us, I don't— You don't need to come out, of course, but if we're friends at least, then we can get coffee or something, and we don't have to—"

Ilya grabs him and flips him onto his back abruptly. It startles him, based on the chirping noise he makes, but he just clings to Ilya, smiling a little.

"I'm being serious," he says.

"Yes, I know," Ilya says smoothly, dropping to kiss him and lingering so their noses nudge. "I am not ready to come out. But I want to be friends with you."

"My friends know I'm gay," Shane says softly. "If they know we're friends, and people find out I'm gay— I don't really hide it— they might talk about you."

"Let them," Ilya breathes. "We cannot stop people talking. I don't care."

"Ilya."

"Let them," Ilya repeats emphatically. "Let them talk and— and make things up, no? I don't care. As long as I have you, I don't care."

"It might impact your career. Being friends with me."

Ilya shakes his head with a soft exhale and a shrug.

"Okay," he whispers. "Oh well. I just want you, Shane. I don't care about the rest of it. I don't care about them, I don't care what they think, or how they feel, and I don't care about hockey. I love you more than any of it."

Shane gazes up at Ilya, his eyes flickering over his face.

"When'd you get so romantic?" he asks softly, reaching for Ilya's face.

"Mm. Two hours ago, maybe."

Shane giggles, his squeezing shut preciously.

"If you don't mind it," Ilya says softly, lowering so their chests press, "the attention, the questions, you should do it. Put your name online. Let them see you like you are instead of just what you used to be."

Shane blinks. His eyes glisten, and Ilya hears his breath stutter in his chest. It makes him ache.

"You are so amazing," he whispers, leaning to rub the end of his nose along the bridge of Shane's. "You deserve to be admired. They should know."

Shane sniffles, burying his fingertips in Ilya's curls, tugging.

"Okay," he breathes, nodding.

"Only if you want. When you want."

"Okay," he says again.

He pulls Ilya into another kiss, cradling his face in a way Ilya's never felt before. It's tender, holding Ilya as close as he possibly can, like he doesn't want Ilya to get away from him. Ilya's chest tightens. His mouth slides from Shane's clumsily as he lets out a weak sob. He hides in the dark of Shane's neck again, shoulders shaking. Shane hugs his head, combing through his curls and pressing a soft kiss to his hair.

"Oh my god, I love you so much," Shane says quietly, his palm pressing to Ilya's head like he's trying to hold him in place. "My sweet boy."

Ilya just whines pitifully, shutting his eyes, nuzzling into Shane's collarbone. It makes him laugh. The sound of it lights Ilya up from the inside out, and he bites him just because. Shane lets him.