Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov Character Study, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Takes Care of Ilya Rozanov, Blow Jobs, Rimming, Anal Fingering, Biting, Strength Kink, Consent King Ilya Rozanov, Barebacking, POV Ilya Rozanov, Soft Shane Hollander, Good Friend Cliff Marlow

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-13 Words: 12,884 Chapters: 1/1

I Wouldn't Ask You

Summary

Ilya Rozanov is stupid into Shane Hollander.

It's the scariest thing he's ever experienced in his life.

Notes

Didn't mean to get into my own feelings about Ilya, but hey, have 12k words of character study anyway, I guess.
No beta, we die like Ilya's dad, thank god.

Title from I Wouldn’t Ask You by Clairo

Ilya really enjoys fucking men.

He doesn’t do it often because beautiful women are available and so much easier to take home, and his increased fame makes it increasingly difficult to manage it discreetly, but he enjoys it. He doesn’t tend to think about it much, is pragmatically hedonistic like that, but he has always enjoyed the physicality of being with another man, the power and strength in bigger bodies, the unapologetic way men seek and claim their pleasure. He’s self-aware enough to label himself as bisexual if asked, but figures he’s more likely pansexual, not that anyone seems to understand the difference. He likes people, is attracted to people for who they are in the moment and not inherently based on what genitalia he would be interacting with.

And that was why Shane Hollander was so incredibly intriguing.

Ilya watches as Shane tidies up the hotel room from his vantage point lying on the recently-dishevelled bed, admiring the unselfconscious grace he carries himself with. The room’s dim lamplight does beautiful things for the musculature of his back, and Ilya wants to lick a stripe from the crack of his ass to the nape of his neck just to taste the salt there. It’s taken a long time for Ilya to convince Shane that his nudity is not only acceptable but preferential, and that in saying as much he’s not lying or pandering at all. It thrills him to no end when Shane shyly flaunts what he has, flirts with Ilya by wandering around any given hotel room naked, or mostly so. It’s fascinating to Ilya that Shane isn’t ashamed to display his body, but that he has to work to overcome the mental hurdle of acknowledging that it’s Ilya looking at it. Ilya is firmly of the opinion that Shane should be naked, always, but only ever for him to see.

“Come here,” he calls out, deliberately pitching his voice low. As expected, Shane’s head jerks around, his expression as mutedly surprised as always by Ilya’s ongoing interest in him. But he sets the glass he’s about to rinse off down and comes, almost hesitant, to stand beside the bed on Ilya’s side, close enough to touch. “I want to put my mouth on you.” Shane’s blush is pretty, so so pretty and Ilya wants.

“You do?”

“Always,” Ilya says, disguising his unexpected honesty with the expected smirk. “Should I tell you where?”

Shane nods, lets Ilya take his hand to pull him down onto the bed, manhandling him until he’s face down. It’s an effort because Shane isn’t a small man and isn’t quite sure what Ilya wants from him. Ilya enjoys keeping him off-balance. Once he’s situated Ilya crawls over until his own body is bracketing Shane’s, just barely big enough to do so. He presses a kiss to the back of Shane’s neck, lingering and soft, then shuffles down enough to rest the majority of his weight on one elbow so he can touch Shane, addicted to the feeling of smooth, perfect skin beneath his fingertips.

“I want to taste you here,” he says, touching the tips of his index and middle fingers to the bump of vertebrae at the base of his neck. He follows the touch with a delicate flick of his tongue, rewarded with the flavour of warm, clean skin. “And here,” he says, dragging the same two fingers so slowly and carefully downwards, cataloguing every bump on the way to just beneath his shoulder blades. He follows the path his fingers had taken with his tongue, fascinated by the change in texture when goosebumps begin to rise on Shane’s back. “And here.” A kiss to the left scapula, then the right, tongue and lips caressing skin immediately after. The way firm muscle rises on either side of his spine is delicious, and Ilya is more than happy to indulge. He scrapes his teeth along the lower trapezius on the left, sucking hard on the right and shifting so he can sink his fingertips into the rectus femoris muscle in the front of his thigh. He presses hard enough to make Shane suck in a surprised breath, the muscle tensing and flexing beneath his covetous hand.

“I want to taste all of you,” Ilya promises, digging his thumb in where ass meets thigh just to watch that flexion as well. He sets his teeth into the thick muscle there, just a hint, a threat, enough to make it jump beneath his mouth. “Want to take you apart with my hands, my teeth, my tongue.”

“Jesus,” Shane slurs, sounding drugged out.

“You’re so strong, so beautiful,” Ilya murmurs in Russian, running his cheek over the small of Shane’s back, certain that his stubble will make Shane even more sensitive than he’s already feeling. He watches, delighted, as Shane squirms, the shadowy play of glowing planes and hidden valleys mouthwateringly enticing. “Raise your arms,” he instructs softly. “Fold them, head on hands.” Shane is almost sedated by pleasure, and Ilya enjoys smoothing his hands over the firm muscle of his arms and shoulders to position him, the increased definition in the muscles of his upper back enough to make his mouth dry. “When do you train next?” he asks, sliding his hand up to Shane’s waist and squeezing for the simple pleasure of feeling his body’s inherent resistance.

“Hmm?”

“Focus, Hollander,” Ilya grins. “When do you train next?”

“Uh, maybe in two days? No, wait, three. Why?”

The last is sighed out, and Ilya feels something dangerous quiver through him. “I want to leave marks on you,” he confesses. “Want to leave the shape of my mouth across your skin.”

“Yes, please, I want-” Shane starts, but stops when Ilya surges up to kiss him, a little awkward with the way Shane’s face is turned but still, always, enough to send a jolt of lust through him.

“I know what you want,” Ilya chuckles, warm and low, “but if I start I won’t stop, and it would not be good, I think, for your team to see.”

“I’m finding it very difficult to care right now,” Shane gasps out, arching his back a little to grind against Ilya’s very interested cock.

“Perhaps I leave mark… inside,” Ilya says, trailing his hand down and over Shane’s ass. They don’t do that, have never done it, but Shane is so lost in pleasure he doesn’t seem to care.

“I want,” he says again, rough and broken. “Please, Rozy, let me have it, give it to me.”

Ilya can’t help himself. He shimmies low enough to get a good grip on Shane’s ass with both hands, thumbs digging in to spread him wide so he can feast, licking Shane from taint to tailbone just to hear the shocked cry it tears from him. The previous post-coital lassitude that has kept Shane loose and pliant on the bed disappears in an instant, his hips jerking up, lower back curving deliciously and his hand flying back to grab a hold of Ilya’s hair and instinctively drag his face in closer. It’s a wordless plea for more, always more, always so willing to take whatever Ilya gives him.

Ilya has always loved eating out, especially loves shocking Shane with this most intimate of acts, making the process as debauched and sloppy as he can. He’s allowed this treat so infrequently, Shane usually too self conscious to let him, too unable to get out of his own head to truly enjoy it as much as Ilya enjoys giving it to him, so he isn’t about to squander the opportunity. He buries his face deep, riding the desperate roll of Shane’s hips as Shane tries to get more, greedy little slut that he is, letting all the saliva that he can muster paint the desperate hole he dedicatedly begins to fuck his tongue into. Shane is already soft and pliant here from Ilya fucking him less than an hour ago, still slick and warm with lube and Ilya knows his face will be glossed in it by the time he’s done. He leans his weight on his arm across the small of Shane’s back and rolls to catch a leg beneath himself, trusting Shane to say if he isn’t comfortable, just pins him down and makes him take it, take all of it, everything Ilya wants him to have. He makes an absolute production of it, too, because he knows it will make Shane’s face glow hot, the wet sound of his mouth on delicate skin making for the sloppiest, loudest tongue-fucking he’s ever managed in his life. There’s a performative element to it, but no less sincerely intended for all that, and the constant near-pained whimper Shane is making sounds like he’s moments away from passing out.

But his movements stay strong; he’s practically riding Ilya’s face and it’s hot, it’s so stupidly, insanely hot that Ilya can’t help the abortive stutter of his own hips, his cock pressed against the inside of Shane’s captured leg, dragging against the coarse hair of his calf and making him moan into Shane’s asshole. The verbal feedback from Shane is such good fucking motivation to do better that he gets his hand under the back of Shane’s left thigh and shoves his leg out and up, opening him enough that Ilya can get even deeper, shoving his chin forward to corkscrew his tongue side to side hard and deep enough to make Shane sob out a run of breaths, Ilya’s name in pieces within them, and the shiver that sends down Ilya’s spine is new.

Certain that Shane will stay right where he’s been positioned, Ilya gets two fingers good and wet by licking them over as he rests them against Shane’s hole, sucking hard on his rim for a moment before sliding them in nice and deep, as far as he can, his knuckles pressed hard to hot, wet skin. He twists his hand enough to feel for the place that lights Shane up from the inside, making him keen softly, wounded and sweet, and it’s all Ilya can do to keep from grinding his hips against Shane, into the bed, working his cock against his own belly, but he knows Shane, and knows where this will end, and he can wait. He thrusts his fingers in harder, hard enough to make Shane buck, and it’s probably woefully impolite to laugh into someone’s asshole, but Ilya knows what it will do to Shane, so he doesn’t hold back.

Shane’s fingers in his hair clench tight to the point of pain, the two of them creating the most intensely erotic soundtrack in the otherwise quiet hotel room, and Ilya’s eyes slam closed. It’s everything he could ever want and he thinks wildly that he could die here, like this, in this moment and be content to go. He adds another finger, and Shane makes this noise, sounds like he’s had the breath punched out of him, and Ilya groans, pulls back and bites his ass hard, wanting to tear out a chunk of muscle and swallow it so he has a piece of Shane inside him forever,

“Rozanov, what the fuck?” Shane yelps, but it’s fucked out and hazy, like he knows he should protest, but isn’t sure he wants to.

“I will fuck you now, okay?” Ilya tells him, and his answer is Shane almost tipping himself off the bed in his rush to get up on his hands and knees, shaky and discoordinated. “So eager,” he murmurs, somehow managing to keep his fingers inside him, and Shane glares back over his shoulder at Ilya, his face red and eyes glittering, and Ilya knows he must be an absolute sight himself, mouth swollen and red, face shiny and slick, his own eyes probably predatory and intense. He can feel his pulse in his cock thumping heavy and fast, and knows his chest is heaving with the intensity of his own breathing, but he’s not sure what it is that makes Shane freeze, eyes wide, and stare at him for a long moment. Then somehow, suddenly, all in a single smooth move Shane has him on his back, takes his cock inside himself and is shoving his hips back and forth while grinding down so hard Ilya thinks they will both be purple and blue come morning. Shane’s nails are digging into his chest and his ribs, and he hopes they leave marks, fingerprint-shaped bruises and quarter-moon weals that he will press his own fingers into days from now for the flare of remembered pain and pleasure it will bring. Shane is crazed above him, his movements frenetic and wild, eyes black and burning burning burning through Ilya, his hands digging in harder until it feels like he’s going to drag Ilya’s heart out from behind his sternum with his bare hands. If it means Shane will continue to look at him like he is, Ilya thinks that might be okay,

“Give it to me,” Shane demands, desperate and unyielding. “You said I could have it, and I want it.”

“What is it you want?” Ilya asks, and it’s maybe the hardest thing he’s ever done in his life to keep his voice even, to act unaffected like seeing Shane take his pleasure so selfishly isn’t the most holy, erotic, glorious thing Ilya has ever seen.

“You know,” Shane pants desperately.

“I might not,” Ilya argues.

Shane’s eyebrows come up and together, desperate and begging. “You said,” he grits out accusatorily. “You said! You said you’d leave a mark, inside. I. Want. It.”

It hits Ilya like a sledgehammer, like two hundred pounds of defender driving a shoulder into him at speed, the sudden realisation that he’s bare inside of Shane, and he can barely breathe enough to gasp out a tortured “oh my god, Hollander,” before he’s coming, his cock practically spasming as he surges up, hooks his arms under Shane’s and up over his shoulders to pull his big body down as his own hips jolt up, leaving his mark, staining Shane indelibly from the inside, claiming him in a way he knows with absolute certainty he’s never allowed anyone else to ever do before.

Shane begins to laugh, wild and unhinged and clenching around Ilya, then lurches forward and sinks his teeth in where Ilya’s neck meets his shoulder, clamping down hard and it fucking hurts, makes Ilya’s balls burn as he comes again, maybe, half-dry and shocking, and Shane sucks like he needs Ilya’s blood to live as he comes too, hot and wet between them. They stare at each other with wide eyes, Shane’s ass still pulsing around Ilya’s (bare, uncovered) cock, both of them heaving for breath but otherwise frozen. It’s the best sex Ilya’s ever had, ever, and as the first slip of his own come running back down his balls from inside of Shane is any indication, he’s given Shane all that he promised, and then some.

They’re so fucking stupid.

His neck hurts.

“Will it ever not be like this?” Shane eventually whispers, broken and soft in the sanctity of the room’s sudden and profound silence now the soundtrack of their unhinged fucking has subsided.

I don’t think so, Ilya thinks. I hope not, he wishes, but he says nothing, shoves down the sense of having crossed a line they shouldn’t have even been anywhere close to, and just kisses Shane until he forgets he asked the question.

*

Shane is seriously fucking strong, and it makes Ilya wild to see that strength in action.

He’s a little tipsy after commiseratory drinks with the Bears, but not too much because he and Shane have plans. Boston lost, and on home ice no less, which is embarrassing. But he had known they would, had felt it as soon as he’d stepped onto the ice, although that disappointment is tempered by the promise of seeing Shane. He sends a message on his way up and hears nothing back, but maybe he’s asleep; it’s one in the morning, after all, late even for them, but Shane has an afternoon flight, so that’s okay. There’s no answer when he knocks, though, which is odd, but he’s pleasantly buzzed and he doesn’t live in the perpetual stress of Shane’s brain, so he’s not assuming the worst. It takes less than a moment to decide where to try next and sure enough, in the surprisingly good gym of their hotel, he finds him. Ilya spots his phone, water bottle and swipe card on top of a set of small cubbies as he comes in. He catches movement and steps fully in, catching the door and easing it shut before it can drop closed and give him away, and he leans back against it to admire the smorgasbord of exceptional masculinity on display for his visual consumption.

Shane is laid out doing benchpresses and to Ilya’s utter delight he’s fucking shirtless, the way he never is in public, not if he can help it. He’s gotten sun recently, lightly golden and smooth without a tan line to be seen, and Ilya’s tongue had stuck to the roof of his mouth at the faceoff upon discovering that his ridiculous freckles had somehow managed to multiply, a lighter second constellation extending further along his cheekbones and properly decorating the bridge of his nose. He wonders how and where, because the weather in Boston has been shit, the entire Eastern seaboard hammered by storms, and wonders if Shane would think it strange if he asked.

He’s glowy, looks like he’s been misted in water like for a photo shoot, sweat gleaming beneath the harsh overhead lighting but even that’s not enough to detract from how ridiculously gorgeous he looks. The smooth up-down repetition of his exercise makes his abs tense, sharpens the definition of his pecs, the tendons cording on either side of his neck. With every up-down movement his biceps lengthen and bulge, lengthen and bulge, and Ilya’s always been appreciative of definition in a person’s arms, but this is something else. Shane’s pressing what looks like sixty kilograms, not foolish enough to do more without a spot, but sixty is still impressive, and he’s making it look easy. Ilya feels more drunk watching this than he did with a skinful of vodka. He’s never wanted to touch another person in his life as much as he wants to lay hands on Shane right now.

He’s steady as a metronome, not so much as a wobble to indicate fatigue, but Ilya thinks he’s been there for a while, sees some free weights left out, and stacked plates he’s seen Shane use to get a deeper squat. He knows squats are his favourites, always leaves them for the end of his workouts, and Ilya can’t wait. He slides down to sit on the floor, dialled in in the way his father could only have dreamed of when Ilya was in school, everything in his periphery fading away until his tunnel vision is simply Shane: up and down, lengthen and bulge.

Then the metallic clatter of the barbell being racked helps to knock him a little more firmly into the present, but does nothing for the avid fixation he watches Shane with as he lies on the bench and takes deep, controlled breaths, eyes closed, earbuds in, left wrist clamped in right hand and lifted together to drape across his forehead. The dark hair beneath his arms is fucking sexy, that overtly masculine indicator just casually on display for Ilya’s covetous eyes. His foot shifts, knee begins bouncing, and Ilya feels a smile curve his lips as he recognises Shane’s oh-so-familiar antsiness. But he does nothing yet, just admires the newly-revealed definition in Shane’s calf as he raises that restless foot up onto its toe, and watches a moment later as he completes another set of fifteen reps, dick starting to pay special attention as he does.

When Shane’s done he stays lying on his back but spreads his arms out wide and lets them slowly drop down until his beautiful hands hover just above the floor. He sighs at the deep stretch and Ilya’s mouth waters a little at the way the individual muscles of his chest move beneath his skin, more evident than usual, both from the position he’s in as well as their recent activation. Ilya promises himself he’ll have mapped every ridge with his tongue by the time Shane checks out in the morning, and will spend the rest of the night doing so if he can get away with it. He can’t help the suggestive leer he knows he’s wearing when Shane eventually rolls up to sitting on the end of the bench and finally sees him, sprawled out with his back to the wall, and startles badly as the heel of his hand jumps up to press to his sternum.

“Fucking christ, Rozanov,” he curses, but he’s smiling before he finishes the epithet, and he looks edible. Over his startlement, Shane pulls his earbuds out and leans forward, elbows on knees, hands dangling loose in between, veins standing in relief on the backs of them and all the way up his arms. “Good game tonight,” he said, grinning because it most certainly wasn’t, a 1-0 win that Ilya had made him work for.

“Can’t have been that good if you’re working through some shit in hotel gym at fuck-off thirty,” Ilya tells him mildly, obsessed with the way the skin on his lean, flat belly creases with his curled posture.

Shane shrugs, a tidy, rolling movement that Ilya’s eyes follow greedily. “I had some extra energy, and no real outlet for it,” he says with his customary disarming honesty. “Thought I’d make something productive of it.”

He’s such a curious outlier, Ilya has always thought, of how masculinity is traditionally- societally- described. He epitomises the physical aspects of manliness: tall and broad, cultivated and practiced strength, disciplined and virile. To look at him, all chiseled jaw and serious expressions, wide hands and solid, confident stance, one would absolutely be forgiven for presuming things about Shane Hollander. Ilya has, does, and is always appreciative of said things. But beyond that, beyond the aesthetic and superficial, he’s not at all what Ilya had ever expected. The sweet honesty is particularly unusual, at least in Ilya’s experience.

“Extra energy, hm?” He shifts slightly so his legs spread a little wider, reminiscent of the first gym they’d spent time in together years ago, except this time Ilya knows how Shane’s mouth tastes, and knows he’s a sure thing. As sure a thing as Ilya himself is, these days.

The answering grin is slow and hot and oh, Ilya likes this, likes so much that he gets to see Shane like this, suggestive and inviting. “And no outlet.”

Ilya reaches down and adjusts himself, tipping his chin up to expose his throat because he knows Shane will appreciate it, then climbs gracefully to his feet. “Well,” he says, keeping his tone suggestive as he lets his gaze drag slowly over every single exposed inch of Shane that he can see, “I guess it’s time for squats, then.” He watches closely, sees the moment Shane understands the game, accepts his unspoken offer to play like this, chooses to engage in kind.

“I guess it is.” Shane stands as well, wanders past Ilya close enough to touch but far enough away he won’t accidentally, snaps his earbuds back into their case and takes a long, overly exaggerated drink from his water bottle before offering it to Ilya. Ilya takes it, of course, dragging his fingers over the back of Shane’s hand in a blatant replay of years ago, but this time his tongue touches the bottle a moment before the rest of his mouth closes over it, and god knows Ilya’s mouth has explored things of Shane’s far more intimately than this, but Shane’s eyes still turn molten, gleaming almost purple beneath the harsh fluorescents that simply cannot diminish his attractiveness.

Shane takes it back when Ilya passes it to him and takes one more sip to taste Ilya from the plastic, then puts the bottle back and turns away. “Spot me?” he tosses back over his shoulder, and Ilya’s head fucking spins. As expected, Shane racks up a conservative weight, ignoring Ilya’s condescending expression, sets his heels on the plates on the floor, gets into position and waits for Ilya to get close behind him, still not touching. Ilya feels like he’s starving as all the muscles in Shane’s back flex and he performs ten perfect deadlifts, no hesitation.

Once he’s done he steps over the bar to recover, and Ilya fetches more weight, setting up the bar as Shane paces, shaking out his arms.

He steps back into position, Ilya mirrors him again, and ten more.

Shane stretches and recovers, Ilya adds plates.

The walls are mirrored, but Shane isn’t watching his own form when he gets back into position again, he’s watching Ilya. Ilya is looking at Shane’s thighs, the way the vastus lateralis muscles vee down the outer aspect of his thighs and nip in before his knees. Ilya has never been particularly religious, but right in this moment he finds himself worshipful.

Shane sets up, ass back, back hinged forward from the hips, shoulders steady and loose. He still doesn’t need assistance with this weight, so Ilya remains standing straight upright behind him, looking down to watch Shane move, and in the mirror their positions are suggestive and borderline obscene. Shane’s cheeks turn pink as he pretends not to notice. Ilya wants to ruin him.

Ten more reps.

Stretch and recover.

Ilya’s losing patience. He glances up at Shane, eyebrows raised in question, and Shane nods.

Ilya doubles the amount of weight he adds this time, switching out the plates efficiently.

They set up again, and this time Ilya is ready. Shane gets into position and when he drops his hips down, Ilya crouches with him. Shane breathes steadily through his reps, eight this time, and the skin across his shoulders begins to pinken with exertion. Ilya catalogues their differences in the mirror: dark and fair, inches in height, the differences in their builds and distributions of weight. But their expressions match, anticipatory and focused, and they’ve always been alike that way, even if it manifests differently.

Again. Shane watches as Ilya adds more weight, and this time when he gets into position he pulls up the sides of his already-short gym shorts as though making himself more comfortable for the lifts. But he blushes prettily as he does it, and Ilya doesn’t bother to hide his grin as he watches. This time, he lets the backs of his fingers skim the underside of Shane’s forearms, hands extending out with palms up directly beneath Shane’s hands where they’re wrapped around the bar, close enough to share warmth without actually touching. He gets in close behind Shane, and they move together, form steady and neat. Six reps this time, a sharp exhale from Shane with each lockout, the weights clunking onto the floor when he’s done.

Ilya waits for him, pleased and unsurprised when he nods for more weight again. They’re probably getting to the point they should quit, both of them having played hard, but Shane’s showing off and proving something, and Ilya’s enjoying watching him do it, so he just adds more plates and waits. But his buzz is fading now, replaced by something more base, something deeper and needier, so this time when Shane sets up Ilya is there, and this time he can’t help but touch. He pretends he’s being helpful by steadying him with hands on his hips, but his fingertips are too low, and beneath the waistband of his shorts besides, so he’s fooling no one. He presses a soft kiss to the back of Shane’s neck before he sets up to make him shiver. When Shane leans down to grab the bar Ilya palms the outside of his thighs just to feel the tension in the muscle there, then slides his hands up over hips, waist and ribs, along his arms until he’s got his fingertips on the bar. Shane’s posture changes, about to quit in favour of activity more fun with two, but Ilya makes a soft sound of dissent and Shane focuses again. There’s a buck eighty-five on the bar, and Ilya wants to see him do it.

Shane does. Every muscle Ilya can see is in sharp relief, and intellectually he knows Shane is at the top of his game, is in absolute peak physical condition, but watching the cut of every fucking muscle the man has practically pop out with the effort he has to exert is like waving a red flag before the bull that is Ilya’s arousal. He lets Shane do two reps before gently tapping the undersides of his wrists, and the weights have barely thumped to the floor before Shane has twisted in his arms and Ilya’s have come up around him and they’re kissing, hard and wild, hands everywhere and Ilya is so fucking turned on he thinks he could go blind with it. It’s the most public place they’ve ever done this, though given the room they’re in there’s a fair amount of plausible deniability in their flushed cheeks and sweaty, half-naked bodies. Well, Shane’s half naked body, but he’s working on that, about a second off tearing Ilya’s shirt right down the front to get it off that much faster.

Ilya laughs, low and pleased, but Shane’s mouth on his and the solid wall of heat he presents as plastered all along Ilya’s front steal his breath from him. That and the hand Shane sticks down the front of his pants, that is. His grip is unusually rough from the barbell and Ilya groans as that roughness drags on delicate skin, uncomfortably good. Shane tears his mouth from Ilya’s and drops his forehead to Ilya’s clavicle with a dull thunk Ilya feels more than hears, to watch his own hand move suggestively, hidden beneath dark fabric. He says something that Ilya misses, and he enjoys gripping Shane’s jaw with one hand and dragging his face up to make him repeat it.

“I said ‘thank god we don’t play for the same team’,” Shane spits, his hand giving a particularly vicious little twist. “If we had to train together we’d be booted from the league.”

He’s wrong. “I think opposite,” Ilya grunts, hips flexing forward and hands wrapped around Shane’s elbows. “I think you would be very popular for beautiful mouth and big doe eyes.” He’s dropping articles like they’re optional in the English language, in a way he hasn’t done in years, but it’s like his brain regresses to its minimum operating requirements anytime Shane is in the same room. It’s so worth it for the way Shane finally registers his words, and when he blushes it looks like a scald.

“Yeah, well, we both know you don’t share,” he counters.

“Yeah, well, we both know you love that,” Ilya fires back, missing ‘mocking’ by a mile; instead, it’s too fucking honest, too close to the something they don’t acknowledge or talk about, ever, and his slow hindbrain starts making noises of alarm that he silences by licking into Shane’s mouth. God, they know better than to do this here, but it’s late and they’re tired, adrenalised and horny, so Ilya allows himself to be walked backwards until his back is against the gym door. He lets Shane enjoy thinking he has the upper hand for a few moments, uses his hold on Shane’s hips to ostensibly pull him in even closer, but before he can press him down to his knees Shane just drops like his strings have been cut, Ilya’s cock halfway down his throat before he even registers that Shane’s gotten his pants undone.

This is the other thing that fascinates Ilya to no end. Sucking cock, especially the way Shane does it, flies in the face of the traditional masculine ideal. For someone as messed up with internalised homophobia as Shane is, he has no hesitation- nor has he ever- fucking his throat with Ilya’s dick. He likes it, maybe even loves it, lets the act take him away somewhere from which he returns all floaty and languid. It should be borderline emasculating, at least from a no-homo perspective, being on your knees before another man. Ilya doesn’t know why Shane is like this. Doesn’t know why kneeling makes him stronger instead of smaller, why surrender only seems to sharpen him. Has he just missed that particular hangup, figured that it costs him the same amount of social energy to pretend he doesn’t want it as it does conversing with strangers, or does he just not experience it strongly as an emotional thing because he already feels so separate from the social norm? Perhaps he simply is, conversely, so unconsciously confident in his own masculinity that it doesn’t even occur to him that a dick in his mouth is anything other than one in an extensive list of sexual acts Ilya has enjoyed introducing him to. He suspects it’s the latter, that in this matter they are remarkably aligned, because Ilya has always prioritised pleasure over pride in the bedroom but enjoys the responsibility of his partner’s pleasure, whomever they may be.

It seems Shane does too, and he devotes himself wholly to the cause. He makes it ridiculously easy to fuck his throat, stays soft and open, hasn’t gagged in recent memory, and doesn’t try to hide the fact that he loves every second of doing it, not that he ever really has. He allows Ilya to slide both hands into his hair and use his grip there to position him where he wants, allows him to go as deep as he wants, as fast and as hard, at any angle. So Ilya does, without thinking, without needing to check in with anything more than a thumb pressed to the hinge of his wide-open jaw to make sure Shane is okay with Ilya taking. His juxtaposed submissiveness and utter lack of passivity is so strange to Ilya, so not in keeping with his experiences with ‘straight’ or closeted men who have exhausted themselves with their efforts to perform the ways they think they should, and it fascinates him, that this big capable man will make himself so soft, so compliant, and yet surrender none of his strength entirely because Ilya’s pleasure when he does so pleases him, too.

He drags his thumb down and presses the pad of it to the underside of Shane’s jaw, idly cataloguing the hard band of bone beneath stubble-rough skin and protecting the softer weakness of his throat, and smiles at the groan the pressure of his touch drags from Shane. “You are so good,” he whispers, watching carefully for the way Shane’s eyelids flutter, the way his shoulders drop even more, slow and lax. For the trust Shane shows him when they are like this, for the way he allows himself to simply be for Ilya’s pleasure, for this Ilya will be sweet the way he can tell Shane likes. “So pretty, so gentle,” he continues, feeling his orgasm build, coiling hot and slow low down in his pelvis. “You are so good at taking care of me like this, and you do it without thinking, don’t you, sweetheart?” The endearment slides from his tongue and down Shane’s spine, making him shiver, eyes still closed. “On ice you are like me- powerful, strong, deadly. Intimidating, yes? But here? Like this? You are strong and powerful in different way.”

He knows he should stop talking, but Shane somehow manages to swallow him even deeper, arms coming up to wrap around Ilya’s thighs, fingertips digging into the small of his back and the top of his ass, hopefully leaving more evidence of himself on Ilya’s skin. “You are so much stronger from inside than I am,” he admits, the hand cradling the back of Shane’s head and guiding his movements shifting, fingers pressing delicately into the divot where Shane’s skull meets his spine, that shockingly dangerous place that lacks even basic physiological protections, and with all the self-preservation of a newborn kitten Shane lets his head drop back a little, pressing into the threat of Ilya’s fingers there. “I want to ruin you,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on Shane’s face, studying the sudden gleam of tears captured in long, straight lashes with confused fascination. He frowns, frustrated as always by the limitations of English to convey the intent behind the words he is forced to use, and switches to Russian. “I want to destroy you,” he admits, his tongue meeting his teeth differently, the tension in his mouth relaxing into his mother’s language, beautiful in a way it can’t be when accenting fumbling English. “I want to break you down to atoms and rebuild you so you know nothing but my hands, so that when other people look at you you see only me, so the very air you breathe is as though from my lungs.”

He’s fucking Shane’s face slow and deep now, rhythmic and steady, and he’s only doing it because if he changed anything he would come, and this is the sweetest way he knows to edge them both. He’s rambling and probably insane with lust, has to be to be saying all the things pouring, unbidden, from his clumsy mouth, but Shane has admitted to liking hearing Russian from him, and there’s no fear of how own fatal weakness being understood here in this liminal, generic commercial space, so he continues. “I want to make you love me,” he says, breath catching roughly when Shane’s eyes flicker open hazily and stare up at him, pupils like bullet holes, diamonds strung along his lower lash line, shadows inked into the hollows of his cheeks, “because what I feel for you is too big for my heart alone to hold,” he grits out, and comes, Shane’s eyes fluttering closed as he swallows Ilya’s spend, his admission, his secrets, his heart. It’s effortless, his consumption, and it devastates Ilya.

It’s not the first time Ilya thinks that Shane’s strength is directly connected to Ilya’s own weakness, and it’s close, but he thinks he might hate his own weakness in these moments almost more than he loves Shane.

*

He manages a smile when he arrives at Shane’s the night before they’re due to play Montreal, but figures he must look even worse than he feels when Shane’s welcoming smile falters when he sees Ilya in the doorway.

“Jesus, are you dying?” Shane asks, but still reaches out unhesitatingly to take his hand and his bag, dragging him into the loft. The bag gets dropped as Ilya toes off his Adidas, and when he looks up, the backs of his eyes burning and somehow moving too slowly in his head, Shane’s there, cool palms pressed to Ilya’s cheeks and fuck it feels good. “You have a fever. Are you sure-?”

Ilya glares at him, because he would have to have both legs and an arm amputated before he’d consider not playing, and Shane knows it, is exactly the same.

“Right,” Shane says with a smirk because he’s an asshole, and Ilya has missed him so much he aches with it. Well, with that and this fucking headcold that made flying in from Boston an exercise in torture for his congested sinuses. “Come on,” he says, taking Ilya’s hand again and leading him to the sofa, pressing him down into his customary spot. Ilya sneezes, the pressure behind his face almost unbearable, and Shane disappears as Ilya slumps back into the comfortable leather, head tipped back. God, he feels atrocious, but still somehow better for simply being in Shane’s orbit. He tries not to think about it. Then Shane is back, two bottles of the orange Gatorade Ilya prefers in one hand, and some kind of device in the other. He passes the drinks to Ilya who opens and sculls one in a few long pulls, then plugs in the device and fusses with it for a moment before letting it sit and dropping into place at Ilya’s left shoulder.

Shane doesn’t say anything, often doesn’t, but this silence isn’t loud like some of them can be. They’re sharing space, and even with a head full of god knows what and feeling as rotten as he does, he feels like he can actually breathe here. But he’s sick, so what would he know? The tv is playing game highlights, volume down low, and the fast-moving graphics are too much for his aching eyes so he closes them, the micromovements of Shane breathing at his side like a balm. He shifts, just a little, but then those cool, cool fingers return and carefully lift his curls off his forehead, smooth his hair back, and it’s such an innocent touch that Ilya has to turn his head a little towards Shane, open his eyes to see what his face is doing.

Shane’s hand moves with him, and when Ilya’s hot, blurry vision clears enough he’s not even looking at Ilya, he’s looking up at the tv, blue light flashing across the defined planes of his face, eyes impossibly dark. His brows are pulled together in the way they do when Shane is concentrating, but his fingers never stop moving, eventually wandering down the side of his face to trace slowly over the shell of his ear, just unconsciously touching for the sake of it, apparently, and Ilya is too fucked up with fatigue to try and parse it. He does make a small, wordless sound of protest when Shane moves, but he returns as quickly with the thing he had plugged in that is now smoking.

“Here,” Shane says quietly, moving slowly and pressing the clear part that looks like an oxygen mask with holes in it to Ilya’s face over his mouth and nose. The pressure beneath his eyes is almost intolerable but Shane is so gentle, so careful with him, and Ilya trusts him, and it’s fucking awful. “Breathe in through your nose as much as you can,” he says, and Ilya is helpless to do anything but obey. Some kind of mentholated eucalyptus poison burns up his nose and into his sinuses to make him cough, but Shane just smooths a big hand up and down his back as he does, steady and calm and there. He’s both surprised and not when the poison steam works, his previously-blocked nose suddenly running like he's leaking his entire brain out of his face, but rather than be grossed out by it like Ilya is Shane just provides tissues and a cool washer for his face, hand careful on the back of his neck as he lifts the device to encourage Ilya to keep using it.

With the pressure easing and the ability to breathe through his nose returning, Ilya drinks half of the other Gatorade and drags his aching body a little more upright. He pretends he doesn’t miss Shane’s touch.

“When did you last eat?”

Ilya has no idea, just shrugs, and is unsurprised when Shane pulls out his phone and begins mumbling something about ordering in. “I don’t-”

“I know, but I don’t feel like cooking,” Shane cuts across him smoothly, not even looking up, and Ilya kind of hates that he’s getting so good at lying. Wonders if it’s life that’s taught him this, or the mountain of secrets they have between them that’s ground him down enough to learn. He knows arguing would be pointless and doesn’t want to besides, because he is hungry, and he’s not hating the luxury of just hanging out with Shane like this, even if he’s sick.

Some of the potency of the steam thing fades and Ilya sets it back on the coffee table, collapses back into the cushions. Shane’s there immediately, arm behind him and palm fitted to the ball of his shoulder. He’s not applying pressure or anything, not shifting or changing his own body’s orientation, but the invitation is there and Ilya is unwell and tired and weak, always weak where Shane is concerned so he curls himself up a little, rests his head on Shane’s shoulder and breathes in the familiar clean scent of him, his eyes closing involuntarily as Shane alternates his attention between the tv and his phone, thumb slowly stroking over and over and over.

He must drift off, because he loses time until Shane disturbs him, murmuring wordless reassurances as he gets up, guiding Ilya down to lie on his side with a cushion beneath his head that smells like Shane, and it’s warm and comfortable, but after the comfort of Shane’s body against him it’s not enough for him to drift back off so he just lies there, listens to Shane’s voice in the distance somewhere, the familiar warmth faded into the public voice he uses with people who aren’t Ilya. He hears the door close, tracks his movement through the apartment by the way he displaces air, hears plates and cutlery being taken out and fuzzily connects the dots that their dinner order has arrived. He sighs and pushes himself up to sitting, checking in with his body and taking stock. The congestion is much eased, and though he still feels stuffy through the nose he doesn’t feel like the space beneath his eyes is going to explode anymore. His throat isn’t aching anymore, just tender, but his headache is a little worse. The rest of him aches, but it’s a combination of training, travel and general fatigue as well as his cold, so he forces himself to his feet and uses the bathroom, splashing water on his face to avoid looking at his pallid reflection, the circles beneath his eyes as dark as he’s ever seen them.

When he comes back out it’s to deep bowls of something steaming hot, a mug of tea, and a handful of pill bottles. “Paracetamol, ibuprofen, multivitamin,” Shane tells him, scrolling through channels and blowing on his spoonful of food, but as Ilya rejoins him the scent of onion, peppercorn and bay hits him and he freezes, staring in disbelief at the bowl. “Oh yeah, Sokolov recommended this place that does good Russian food,” Shane says, glancing over at him when he notices Ilya’s reaction. “Pelmeni soup. There’s sour cream, dill and vinegar there, too,” he gestures.

Sokolov, Ilya thinks dully. This year’s first draft pick for the Voyageurs, nineteen and about as tall as Marley if Ilya remembers correctly. A fresh import from Russia. Giving Shane advice on places to eat in Montreal. Something ugly twists through him that he has no right to feel and he leans forward to inhale deeply, the familiar scents of home a one-two punch of memory so strong his eyes burn.

Shane goes dead still. “Do you not- should I not have-?”

“Is good,” Ilya tells him, voice rough, and thank god he’s sick. “Thank you.” Shane subsides, but he’s watchful now, waits as Ilya burns his mouth on a savoury dumpling, sucking a breath in through his teeth as he adds all the extras to his bowl, and laughs. The thanks is automatic, but Ilya means it more and more with every bite. The soup tastes exactly the way he remembers from his childhood, and when he catches sight of the lemon wedge floating in his mug he can’t wait to taste that too, certain he can taste the metal of the samovar it was brewed in when he takes a sip of the strong black tea. It’s a balm to his throat and his heart and his eyes drop closed in pleasure. 

“Can you believe Brooklyn?” Shane asks eventually, and from there they’re back to their regularly scheduled programming, discussing the league, recent games, players and stats, everything but anything of consequence. Ilya relaxes into the familiarity of it, the safety hockey provides them when they’re together, the cadence of Shane’s speech, the familiar jingles at the start of some of the news segments, the familiar body pressed against his, seemingly uncaring of the risk Ilya’s illness poses.

“It’s going around,” Shane shrugs when Ilya brings it up, collecting the detritus of their meal and looking pleased at Ilya having eaten almost all of his. “A couple of the Voyageurs have already had it, it’s no big deal.” He nudges the bottles with the backs of his fingers and passes Ilya his own mug to take the pills with the last of his tea. Ilya does as silently instructed while Shane loads the dishwasher and tidies up. He sets the ridiculous robot vacuum thing to start and turns off the lights as he returns to the couch. “Shower?” he asks, not a hint of suggestion in the question, but Ilya can work with that, can make Shane’s care of him worth it.

“Definitely,” he says, allows Shane to pull him to his feet, but when he sways in closer to Shane, hands slipping to his waist, Shane just smiles, kisses him softly once, mouth closed, and collects the pills to take with him. Ilya frowns and follows, off balance in a way that has nothing to do with his partially-blocked ear. His bag has somehow made its way into the bedroom, resting on the end of the bed, open, toiletry kit and some clothes missing from it, presumably already in the bathroom. Shane heads into the ensuite and sets the shower to running, and Ilya watches from where he’s left standing in the middle of the room as Shane pulls up a sleeve and tests the temperature of the water, turning and shaking off his now-wet hand, smiling when he finds Ilya staring. He comes back into the bedroom and unzips Ilya’s hoodie, his hands gentle and soft when they push it over his shoulders, tug the hem of his shirt up until Ilya crooks a smile and lifts his arms for Shane to pull it up and over his head, muttering something uncomplimentary about his height that makes him laugh outright, only to dissolve into a sneezy coughing fit and Shane somehow has tissues again, pressing them into Ilya’s hand as he goes right back to untying the drawstring on Ilya’s joggers, crouching down to pull off his socks and then drag his pants and underwear down until Ilya’s naked, oddly exposed and self-conscious with Shane’s eyes on him for the first time since… since ever.

As though sensing as much Shane also strips with an economy of movement, collecting their clothes and tossing them in the hamper when he leads Ilya into the shower. He checks the water again, then positions them so Ilya’s back is to the spray, letting the heat soak into aching muscles, sluice fever sweat from his oversensitive skin. His groan is pornographic, not entirely by design, and Shane just laughs and steps in close again, arm around his waist and encourages his head down to rest on his shoulder, to just stand and be cared for. It makes Ilya’s skin prickle uncomfortably, wondering absently how he’s going to repay Shane for this, what he’s going to want in return. What it’s going to cost him. Because Ilya knows that the world doesn’t work by giving him something for nothing, and the things he’s gotten without earning them fairly have always cost him more than he’s ever been willing to pay.

He stays there with Shane for longer than he normally would, then presses a kiss to the skin of his neck. Shane shivers but doesn’t say anything, and Ilya feels some balance returning. Familiarity. He can do this, wants to do this; sex with Shane is never anything less than phenomenal, and Ilya has never not been down for whatever where Shane is concerned, but as he trails kisses up his neck to his jaw and corner of his mouth Shane cups his face in his hand and stops him, thumb dragging across his lower lip, and Ilya doesn’t understand, because Shane is staring at his mouth like he wants to fuck it, and his hands are possessive the way they are when he’s pulling Ilya onto and into him, demanding more, always more. Instead, Shane kisses him again, soft like before, and takes advantage of Ilya’s confusion to turn him and wash his fucking hair.

It’s good; Ilya’s not about to lie and say it’s not, but no one’s ever done this for him before- which, that’s not entirely true. Ilya’s never allowed anyone to do this, to get close enough for this before, and he feels sick. He’s not supposed to want this, doesn’t need to feel any more weak or fucked up over their god damn situationship, thank you Twitter, than he already does, but in that magical Hollander way he’s making Ilya feel like he’s doing Shane a favour, which is the most ridiculous thing and he hates it. It’s like sand shifting beneath his feet, he can’t catch his balance, and he hates it. Hates Shane a little for making him feel that way, except for how he doesn’t, because Shane is the best thing he’s ever not-had.

Hair washing turns into the soft spongy things Shane uses to scrub himself clean trailing over every inch of Ilya’s body with nothing more than care and attention, which then turns into Shane putting his considerable strength to use to work the muscles of Ilya’s shoulders and back to gelatinous heaven, only stopping when Ilya gets dozy enough beneath the water for one of his knees to wobble. Shane is immediately there at his back, arm wrapped securely around his waist to help him out of the shower, to get dry, to get into bed, naked and safe. He’s fucked, he thinks to himself as he goes boneless, immediately comforted by the familiarity of this bed, these sheets, this place, this man. Shane is fucking around elsewhere in the apartment doing god knows what, but then he’s there, letting Ilya pull him in close until they’re pressed together, neither of them hard for the first time in living fucking memory. He lets Ilya try and position them for several moments before sighing and doing something that ends up with Ilya’s head on his chest, their legs entangled, and Shane’s arms around him to card softly through the damp hair at the nape of his neck, and it’s the best he’s felt in days since this fucking sickness got him. Weeks, actually, because the season’s been hard, plagued by team injuries. Months, probably, since his father died, and Ilya had no one but Sveta to talk to about it. Years, in fact, maybe not since he was twelve and suddenly discovered the ache that could be caused by being alone in a room full of people.

He’s sick, it can be the only explanation for the direction his thoughts have taken, so he can be excused for burrowing further into Shane, for shifting restlessly when he can’t get close enough, for abruptly dragging Shane on top of himself so his familiar weight can pin Ilya down and keep him flying off a planet that keeps spinning, spinning, spinning and threatening to hurl him into space.

“Ilya,” Shane murmurs, nudging his head beneath Ilya’s chin. “I’m here.” His hand comes to rest on Ilya’s chest, and it’s only then that Ilya realises his heart is racing, that he feels lost and out of control, and then Shane’s taking his hand and pressing it against his own chest, his heartbeat calm and steady, constant, and Ilya inhales, deep and cold, and just breathes.

*

Shane is already up when Ilya wakes, still not feeling a hundred percent, but also not actively praying for death. He can breathe, mostly, he doesn’t feel disgusting like he’s been sweating half the night, and while he’s fucking exhausted he’s functional. More than he could have said for himself last night, but he’s choosing for now to believe that it was all just a fever dream. He stares at the glass of water on his bedside table just starting to sweat, feels some complicated feelings about Shane moving around silently to not disturb his sleep but to still care for him. He takes more pills, drinks every drop of the water, gets up and starts the day. Shane is nowhere to be found, but there’s fresh coffee ready to be poured and there’s an appliance running somewhere that hints of an impending return. He drags the curtains open to reveal a predictably cold and miserable day, stares out at the city and pictures Shane doing the same every morning, alone. Ilya wonders if he ever thinks of him when the day is still new and half-formed like this, the way Ilya sometimes does. He admits for the first time, even if it’s only to himself, that he hopes Shane does.

He watches a man and small child, well insulated against the cold in a bright blue parka and matching toque, walking a big shaggy dog down the opposite side of the street, and watches as they round the corner at the same Shane passes them on his way back, his own dark green toque and dark sunglass on, heavy black coat flaring open as he walks. He looks fantastic, loose-limbed and confident, and Ilya wishes they could be walking back from somewhere together, side-by-side, hands brushing casually in the way he knows would make Shane blush.

He banishes the thought, sits at the end of the dining table closest to the windows, facing the door. He nurses his coffee and waits for the soft click of the door unlocking, watches as Shane lets himself in as quietly as possible, reusable bag hanging in the crook of his elbow and sunglasses pushed up into his hair. His expression when he sees Ilya is as immediately pleased as it had been the night before, and stays that way, so he must be looking better. Shane says as much, coming over and letting his frozen fingers trail over Ilya’s cheek as though checking for a temperature, or maybe just for affection. Ilya captures it in both of his hands, turns it over and presses a kiss to the palm, soft and chaste, but its still enough to send more colour to Shane’s wind-pinkened cheeks.

“Feeling better?” he asks, stopping in place instead of continuing on past like Ilya thought he had planned to.

“Much,” he smiles back, and it’s not a lie. Another kiss to the stick-roughened palm before he gets up to pour Shane a coffee, the two of them moving around the kitchen together with a familiarity they haven’t really earned. They’ve never really done this before, shared space outside of a bedroom or hotel room, and it should be weird. It is weird, but only in the way it’s not. Ilya’s choosing not to think too hard about this, too. He helps toast bagels and grips Shane’s chin between his finger and thumb to kiss him a thank you when he discovers the half-dozen glazed donuts from Bernie Beigne that Shane has somehow remembered he went mad for years ago on a visit.

Shane laughs and proceeds to blow his fucking mind. “I’ve been trying to get these for you for so long,” he says, either unaware or uncaring of just how much he’s revealing, “but they’re only open from ten, so we’re both always gone by then. Luckily, the staff happen to be big Voyageurs fans and were kind enough to put aside an early order for me.”

“You.” Ilya swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “You got special order donuts? For me?”

Shane’s shoulders do the same tensing thing they’d done the night before with the soup. “Bernie’s is just around the corner from the bagel place, no big deal,” he shrugs, flicking a smile at Ilya but not quite meeting his eyes. But it is, they both know it is, and Ilya feels so lost. He wants there to be a reason for this, needs Shane to want something from him in return for all this bullshit Canadian niceness, but he’s starting to realise it’s got less to do with Shane’s Canadian-ness and more to do with his… to do with Ilya.

“You should take pictures for Instagram,” he eventually says after a long moment of watching the back of Shane’s neck as he pretends he’s not ignoring Ilya’s scrutiny. “The publicity would be good thanks.”

“Yeah, that’s a great idea,” he says, and Ilya takes some for him, donuts set on the table with a new cup of coffee, steam rising, an out-of-focus skyline view in the background. He sends them to Shane, then takes a photo just for himself of Shane leaning one hip against the bench as he gets the messages, a tiny half-smile on his face as he absently holds a knife with cream cheese on it. His eyes flick up to Ilya and he smiles shyly, does an awkward little waggle of his phone in acknowledgement before returning to making their breakfast.

When it’s time for Ilya to leave to at least try and pretend he’s not fucked curfew, Shane carries his bag downstairs for him. “Everything’s in there,” he says, holding it out by the strap as though for Ilya to check, but he knows- this is Shane, after all- that everything will be in there, probably more organised than when he’d packed it in Boston. Ilya just takes the bag, drops it on the ground and draws Shane in to kiss him slow and deep, tries to show how grateful he is for… for everything Shane does, everything he is. He thinks Shane might get it, if the way he gentles the kiss and shoves his hands into Ilya’s hair to keep him close for an extra minute is any indication.

“Rest as much as you can today, okay?” he says breathlessly when Ilya is finally (not, not ever, not ever again) ready to let him go. “Hydrate. Regular paracetamol.”

“I will,” Ilya promises, and he means it. “Thank you for breakfast.” And dinner, he doesn’t say, and for caring, and being, and staying. For who you are, and who you let me be.

“Anytime,” Shane says, startlingly sincere, almost insistent, and Ilya hears it, doesn’t pretend he doesn’t, this time. He kisses Shane again and then leaves before he decides he can’t ever leave Shane again.

It hurts.

*

He does as Shane instructs, manages two hours of extra sleep before they have to get up to get game ready. He desperately needs to brush his teeth and unzips his bag to find it, only to pull up short when he sees inside. His clothes from the night before are freshly laundered and folded, his toiletry bag tucked to one side, and another new clear zip-up bag lying on top. In it he can see extra pain killers, decongestants, electrolyte sachets, lip balm, throat lozenges, a travel pack of tissues, hand sanitizer and some little bullet-shaped things with the same branding on them as the menthol poison steam thing Shane had made him use the night before. And, because he is an asshole, he’s also included a Voyageurs souvenir pin in the mix.

“That from your girl?” Marlow asks, coming out of the bathroom, voice still hoarse from his own head cold. “Cute.”

Ilya stares at the bag, eyes hot again in a way he knows has nothing to do with being sick. “Boy,” he said, reaching out to touch a finger to the pin.

“Huh?”

“From my boy,” Ilya says, swallowing hard before lifting his chin belligerently to stare at Marlow. He can see the moment the admission lands.

“Oh. Shit. Alright man. Cool.” Marlow frowns. “Wait, what happened to Montreal Jane?”

He almost doesn’t dare trust it, but this is Marly, the first person on the Bears to not treat him like an actual alien after he was drafted. “Is code. Has always been my boy.” He pauses when he hears it, scrunches up his nose. “Boyfr- I…” He shakes his head, sighs. “Is complicated.”

Marly nods slowly. “Sounds it.” He looks at the bedside clock. “I mean, we gotta go, but maybe later, after, you can… tell me? About him? Your not-boyfriend.”

It’s a tease, Ilya realises, a nice one between friends, the same way Shane teases him. To show affection, camaraderie, to accept this admission as a secret entrusted. Ilya takes out the ibuprofen and tosses one back, swallowing it dry. “It is very complicated. Will need drinks. I buy.”

Marly smiles, scruffy and bright, and Ilya loves him a little bit. “You’re on, Rozy, but I am not a cheap date.”

“You’re a liar, is what you are,” Ilya snorts, but the strength of his chirp is somewhat diminished by the two sneezes that follow, and Marly just laughs at him again, slings an arm around his shoulder and knuckles the top of his head for a beat.

By the time the game starts Ilya realises that the next two and a half hours are going to be an absolute slog. He can feel his reaction time’s not what he wants it to be and the lights are making his head pound, but he’ll make do. And for the first time, he’s not looking forward to playing Shane. The best part of their competition is the fact that that’s what Shane is: he’s competition, the best in the league, Ilya’s only real equal. He knows there’s vanity in thinking so, but he also knows he’s right. No one comes close to the way they play against each other, the way they push each other, better each other, enjoy each other on the ice. Ilya feels like today, given the state he’s in, he’s going to let down their side of the rivalry, and he hates that. He catches Shane’s steadily assessing gaze as their teams get ready for the game to start, Shane starting on the ice but Ilya remaining on the bench for now so he can rest as long as possible before he has to go on, and nods once, barely, to indicate he’s okay. Shane doesn’t look convinced but he trusts Ilya to know his limits, and after one more moment he faces forward, ready to play.

Given that half of them have the plague to some degree or another, Ilya is not unhappy with the Bears’ play. They’re clearly tired and not at 100%, but they punish an early mistake by Johnsson with a goal in the first period, and Cadyn manages to block two attempts by Shane to get in the top right and five hole. Energy’s low in the locker room during the first intermission, and in spite of not having had a minute of ice time yet, Ilya wants nothing more than to crawl back into Shane’s bed. Still, he’s captain, and this is his job and he fucking loves it, so he musters up some ferocity from parts unknown, has his boys cheering as they pile back out into the tunnel, and skates out to meet Shane on the ice. Shane’s doing that thing where he smiles with his eyes while the rest of his face remains impassive and Ilya’s sick, and tired, but he’s not dead, so he can’t help but notice it, can’t help but think of the little care pack, the donuts, the gentle shower, the hand over his racing heart. Christ, he’s losing his mind.

 And he’s so distracted, so caught up in it that it takes him a sec to realise that Stedlund, who Ilya’d goaded into taking the first swing and had subsequently copped five for fighting during the last Voyageurs v Bears game, is mouthing off. Again.

“They keeping you off the ice for a reason, Rozanov?” he calls from behind Shane’s right shoulder. “You sick, or just soft? Fuckin’ pussies the lot of you- with play like that you girls should be figure skating instead-”

Shane’s stick clatters to the ice and he’s in Stedy’s face before the defenseman even registers that he’s moved. “What the fuck did you just say, Stedlund?” Shane demands, and Ilya straightens, shocked. Shane keeps a notoriously tidy house, never dresses down his players on the ice unless they really cross a line. He keeps his shit off the ice because he knows this isn’t what the focus should be. But he’s in Stedy’s face, advancing until the D has to start backing up. Ilya can’t hear all of what Shane’s saying but he catches the words ‘sexist’ and ‘pejorative’, because this is Shane Hollander, after all, and he’s nothing if not thorough with his verbal evisceration. Then he points at Ilya without looking back and Marly skates into Ilya’s shoulder, their bodies bumping gently together. 

“What the fuck’s gotten up Hollzy’s jersey?”

“Stedy doing bad chirping, I think,” Ilya says, eyes trained on the the big white 24 on the back of Shane’s jersey.

“What the fuck did he say for him to go off like that?”

Ilya shakes his head slowly as the other Voyageurs look away from the altercation to cast considering eyes over the Bears. Ilya knows they’re something of a sorry sight tonight, flat and lacking their usual aggressive energy, but he thinks they’re doing well in spite of it. Ilya winks at Pike because he knows it’ll make the guy fume, and sure enough he does, scowling heavily and hand twitching at his side like he’s ready to ignore Shane’s pointed words and toss gloves anyway. But he doesn’t, and Shane finishes, turning to return to his abandoned stick as Stedy gets back into position, looking slightly shellshocked.

“Defending my honour, Hollander?” Ilya asks, and it’s mocking in tone but genuine in query, and Shane rolls his eyes. “I just told him that if he wants to chirp he should be creative and clever enough not to use sexist terms that disrespect a full half of the hockey community, and he probably shouldn’t punch down at a team playing sick, especially given that you all flew up here and are leading the scoring.” He shrugs irritably, as though trying to shake off his tension, and refuses to meet Ilya’s eyes.

It’s maybe the most respectful thing anyone’s said about the Bears since Ilya came to captain them, and he’s shocked at how much it means to him that Shane is the one to have said it. Shane won’t look at him, but Ilya can see the embarrassed flush on Shane’s cheeks, and it’s muscle memory alone that has him even making an attempt for the puck when it’s dropped.

The second period is brutal, no points scored in either direction, and Ilya is tired. He wonders if they should have forfeited as they break for second intermission, Marchand and Bell tapping out for the final period, Bell looking like he’s about to pass out on the bench. But they get back out onto the ice for the final period, and it’s immediately apparent that Stedy and Beauty Beaulier are gunning for him, harassing him tightly as he manages a pass to Marly and swings around the back of the net, able to read from the groans in the audience that their attempt at goal had failed. He curses beneath his breath and doubles back after the puck, Shane zooming in fresh from a fly change to steal the puck from Feller, only for Ilya to steal it back and sprint for the Voyageur’s goal, Shane in immediate pursuit.

The energy that zings through Ilya is what he’s been missing all game. They fight like that for a flat out ninety seconds and then Beauty gets him, bouncing him off the boards with more sound than real force, but it spins him out and off balance, and Stedy checks him hard enough that he goes down, barely managing to keep one knee beneath himself, wincing as it meets ice. Marly’s roaring his displeasure and then it’s a free-for-all. Ilya laughs breathlessly, tossing his head a little to flick sweat from his eyes and suddenly there’s a gloved hand beneath his arm dragging him effortlessly to his feet. 

“Can’t fucking wait for this game to be over,” Shane says, because of course it’s Shane coming to rest at his side, eyes narrowed as he takes in the brawl.

Ilya grins. “Funny, I was just thinking it was getting good.”

 

The crowd is already on its feet when the puck kicks loose at the blue line. Ilya and Shane converge on it like magnets snapping together, the sharp carbon crack of their sticks connecting a beat before their shoulders do, neither of them giving an inch. The puck skitters between their skates. Shane surprises Ilya by digging it out with a vicious toe drag, slipping past Marly on instinct alone. He accelerates, blades biting hard, edges spraying ice in twin white fans. The slot opens for half a heartbeat.

He rips the shot. Glove side. High. Oregan flashes leather and snares it clean, holding it just long enough to make eye contact before tossing it aside like a challenge. Ilya’s laughing, already moving, his blood heating with the competition, with the chase, with the thrill of being the best at this and sharing it with the best. It doesn’t hurt that Shane’s eyes glow with pleasure, gorgeous, like he’s been waiting all night for Ilya to show up so they finally could start playing.

Turnover at center. He strips the puck with a perfectly timed lift, knocks Shane off balance with a legal but punishing shoulder and storms the zone the other way. The building roars louder, half in hope, half in bloodlust. He fakes a slapshot, drags to the backhand, cuts across the crease. In the goal, Drapeau bites, and for a split second it’s open net. Ilya lifts it…

…and it clangs iron. Post. The sound rings through the arena like a gunshot. The puck ricochets straight up, hangs suspended in the lights, then drops harmlessly into the goalie’s chest as bodies crash into the blue paint. The whistle sounds, shrill over the crowd, and then the body he knows better than his own, even through all the protective gear, slams face-first into him, shoving, sticks tangling. They end up nose-to-nose in the crease, breathing hard enough to fog visors, and Ilya thinks this might be the happiest he’s been all night.

“Missed,” Shane says, grinning meanly like he’s been waiting his whole life for that word.

“Saved,” Ilya fires back, jerking his chin toward the earlier glove snag.

They’re separated before it turns into something more, but Shane’s glowing and Ilya can’t look away, and he distantly hopes all the cameras catch is their expected hostility, and not the desire Ilya has to take Shane down onto the ice and kiss him until he can’t speak.

 

The score remains at 1-0 Boston, and Ilya is both surprised and impressed when Voyageurs offer a handful of feel betters and get well soons mixed in with the customary good games as they all disappear to their respective tunnels. Ilya lets his index finger press to Shane’s pulse point when they shake before departing the ice. His dark hair is a sweaty disaster, but he looks so vibrant, so alive, and Ilya thinks that for this, for this man, for the opportunity to be a part of whatever Shane inevitably has planned for them… for this he can be brave.

“Congratulations,” Shane says, face serious but eyes alight.

“Good game,” Ilya says, and he’s going to hurt from this one, probably the second he stops moving. That’s how he knows it’s been good.

Their hands drop and Shane ducks his head as he heads for the home tunnel. Ilya spins slowly around to watch as the crowd continues to disperse, raising a hand in response to a couple of kids who are waving enthusiastically at him, snagging a marker from the bench and signing his stick before skating over to give it to them. He chats with the parents for a bit, the kids a bit longer, then heads into the locker room. Half of his team have left already, not that he can blame them, but he’s not in a hurry tonight. He sits and unlaces his skates, removes all his protective gear before inhaling deeply and grabbing his phone.

Can I come over tonight? he sends to Jane.

The reply is instantaneous. Of course, anytime.

Nerves settle in Ilya’s belly, but he’s deciding to be brave, deciding to take a chance on something he thinks will be worthwhile. I don’t think I’ll be up for much tonight. The three little dots wiggle, but Shane doesn’t make him wait long.

You don’t need to be, the blue message appears, followed by a love heart.

Ilya’s laugh is soft as he lets his head drop back against the cubby. Yeah, he thinks. He’s starting to get that.