Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Texting, Sexting, Dirty Talk, Phone Sex, Happy Ending, Getting Together, POV Alternating, Rivals With Benefits, Rivals to Lovers, Panic Attacks, Light Angst, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Fluff and Smut, Idiots in Love, Webcam/Video Chat Sex, Soft Shane Hollander, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Sex, Fast Burn

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-11 Completed: 2026-05-02 Words: 47,304 Chapters: 11/11

Select All

Summary

Anyway, Shane didn't remember exactly what was in the folder ... But he knew they were all good shots of him.

He hastily clicked open the folder, his eyes barely glancing through the dozen or so shots there, vaguely registering a picture with a sunset background from his condo balcony, something of him laughing, a picture of him working at his laptop with his glasses on...

The director called him again, and he shook his head, the photos blurring. Whatever. It would have to do.

He clicked "select all," then the messages icon, then Rozanov's name. Hit send.

----

Or: When never-hooked-up Shane and Ilya have to collaborate on a league charity project, Shane accidentally sends Ilya a nude.

Notes

This takes place probably around 2015, but in this AU Shane and Ilya never hooked up at the CCM shoot or anywhere subsequent. I don't have a beta reader so I'm happy to be informed about typos, otherwise please be kind, I did not mean to write this, it just happened and gripped me with a feverish hold until I complied.

NO AI was involved in this fic, fuck AI entirely, but me and my em dashes were here first and I'm not surrendering them.

Chapter 1

Shane Hollander was running full-tilt on the treadmill in the gym at his cottage at nearly midnight when he received the shirtless picture of Ilya Rozanov. He almost fell off the treadmill.

Shane was not normally running full-tilt on a treadmill at nearly midnight. He had a strict routine, optimized for performance, and even in the off-season it called for getting a full night's sleep that was scheduled to start well before midnight on all but the most exceptional of occasions. But tonight, he hadn't been able to sleep no matter how many meditative tactics he'd tried to employ. He was out of sorts, frustrated, keyed up.

Maybe a little lonely. Maybe a little... horny.

The shirtless picture of Ilya Rozanov was not helping.

He managed to find his balance enough to jump to the sides of the treadmill, slapping distractedly at the stop button as he stared at the photo that had appeared from out of nowhere on his phone. For several long moments, punctuated only by the sound of his own ragged breathing echoing in the silence of his home gym, he could not take his eyes from the image, could not even prod his overtired brain into examining the question of why this photo had suddenly materialized on his phone, like the answer to a never-openly-expressed wish.

The primary thought in his mind at the moment was, Fuck, why does he have to be so hot?

It was not, in all honesty, his first encounter with a shirtless picture of Ilya Rozanov. It was just that generally, the sight of a shirtless Ilya Rozanov was relegated to those moments of weakness when Shane gave in to the impulse to browse through Rozanov's Instagram, where the Russian narcissist was prone to posting thirst trap gym selfies on a regular basis. Not that Shane looked on a regular basis. He didn't even follow Rozanov on Instagram, or participate in social media very often in general. It was just, sometimes, hard to resist a brief perusal.

It wasn't a new problem. It had persisted since that cursed CCM commercial shoot years ago, back before their rookie season, where Rozanov had chirped him about being pretty and Shane had gotten a look at him in the showers after. It had only been a brief glance -- all Shane had allowed himself before he'd fled the shower and then the locker room in a near panic -- but the memory lingered stubbornly.

His eyes roamed over the photo, tracing Rozanov's enormous, rounded pecs, his insanely defined abs, the sharp V of muscles pointing like an arrow straight down to...

Fuck.

The feeling of his own hand creeping into the waistband of his gym shorts kicked him out of the daze he'd been in.

What the fuck was he doing? What the fuck was this photo? Who had even sent him this... and why?

His brain sharpening suddenly with anxious concern, he clicked backward out of the photo, which he'd unwittingly tapped to enlarge, and checked the text chain it had appeared in. The name at the top read: 😡Rozanov

What the hell? Rozanov had sent this?

He'd only just saved Rozanov's contact into his phone a few days ago, because of some dumb league charity project they were being forced to collaborate on. He and Rozanov were not in the habit of texting each other, and definitely not sending each other sexy selfies. Was this... did Rozanov somehow know something? Had he heard something?

Shane stepped off the treadmill and sat down heavily on the nearby weight bench, trying to calm his heartbeat that was suddenly racing for reasons not involving the shirtless picture of Ilya Rozanov. Or, not entirely involving that.

But there was no way. He and Adam had been so careful. Careful enough that Adam had dumped him over it, he thought with a slightly bitter twist of his lips. His overcautious paranoia had driven his... boyfriend? sort of? ex-boyfriend now, anyway, whatever -- to distraction, and then right out the door, even though Shane had tried explaining, so many times, how impossible it was for him to... be out or whatever.

His mind clicked back over the stages of their brief, three-month relationship, or fling, or secret string of hook-ups, whatever you could call it. They'd met at a sponsorship photoshoot where Adam had been hired as a stylist. He'd been flirtatiously open in his admiration while dressing Shane in a series of outfits for the shoot, skirting just along the line of professionalism, but Shane didn't think anyone else had really picked up on it. He knew he'd barely picked up on it until the end, when Adam had pressed his business card into Shane's hand with a low murmur about how he'd love to see more of Shane sometime. His personal phone number had been scrawled on the back with a winky-face smiley and the words CALL ME underlined twice. But Shane was sure that no one had observed that interaction.

Nor did anyone know that Shane, after sweating and stewing for a full two weeks of fearful but powerful pent-up sexual frustration, had texted Adam's personal line asking about a possible in-home consultation about his wardrobe. Adam had made it easy after that, arriving at his home and seducing Shane without pretense from almost the moment he'd walked in the door, which Shane had easily, gratefully gone along with. It had been an... eventful few months after that, with Adam coming over nearly every time Shane had a free evening not on the road and swiftly, almost gleefully introducing Shane to everything he'd ever wondered about in the realm of, well... sex. Sex with a man. Gay sex.

Even now, thinking the words made Shane's stomach tighten with a heave of anxiety, but he forced himself to breathe through it. It was okay. He was gay, and that was okay. He couldn't say it, but he could think it, in the privacy of his own brain. He could accept it about himself even if he never told another person. Well, besides Adam, who was gone, who was done with being understanding about Shane's circumstances, but who would still never tell. Shane knew that with a calming certainty. He trusted Adam, even now, which was the main reason he regretted their... thing ending. He didn't miss Adam, exactly -- they hadn't really clicked that well, hadn't had much of anything in common, had never had much to say to each other -- but he did miss reliable sex with someone who would keep his secrets, and Adam had very much been that.

So he was fine, it was fine, there was no way anyone knew. Certainly not Rozanov, of all people, who might have been the object of Shane's occasionally horny Instagram perusals but was otherwise a distant (but annoyingly constant) presence in his life, coming into full focus only when they faced each other on the ice or when they neared or surpassed each other in a season's scoring race. They didn't know each other, their social circles didn't overlap, they didn't even live in the same country. There was no way Rozanov had heard anything.

Just to be sure, Shane did a quick Google search on his own name. He wasn't brave enough to search "Shane Hollander gay" because he didn't even want to give Google the idea, but he figured if any rumors were out there widely enough to reach Rozanov, they would come up at the top of the search just on his name alone.

But there was nothing. Hockey stats, sports news articles, sponsorship photos. Nothing out of the ordinary. So this was... nothing. Probably just Rozanov being a dick, trying to get under his skin. Which... had worked. But there was no way Shane would ever let on about that.

But he couldn't just leave it unaddressed. That would look like... acquiescing, or something. Like he'd just accepted the photo. Like maybe he'd liked it.

So he opened the text chain again.

Shane: What the fuck is this, Rozanov?

The reply came almost immediately, like Rozanov had been waiting.

😡Rozanov: picture for you 😅 👅💦
you like? 😉

Shane's heart started thudding again. Why the fuck would he say that?

He remembered the jolt he'd felt when he'd first seen the picture, how he'd nearly tumbled off the treadmill. Oh god, he hadn't accidentally clicked a heart react on the photo, had he?

Hands shaking a bit, he scrolled back up to look at the picture, only getting briefly distracted by the sight of those pecs again. But no, there was no heart or any other reaction. Thank fuck.

Shane: Why the hell would I like this?

That was the real question, right? Why would Rozanov even think --

😡Rozanov: is sexy 💪 🥵
who would not like?

Okay, that was fine. That sounded like Rozanov's usual brand of self-obsessed vanity. Probably safe. Still, best to put a stop to this kind of thing entirely.

Shane: Don't send me inappropriate shit. I will block you.

😡Rozanov: 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄
oh my god Hollander, you are no fun
so boring. so serious.
can picture your angry kitten face right now 😂

What the fuck? He didn't look like a kitten. Shane glanced up at the mirror on his gym wall, frowning, only to note... a certain resemblance, maybe, to the cat picture Rozanov had sent. He frowned harder and typed again.

Shane: Please go bother someone else.

😡Rozanov: so polite. "please"
I like it when you say please, Hollander 😉

God, he was fucking unbelievable. Shane shifted on the bench, firmly ignoring the twitch of interest his dick had decided to register at Rozanov's words.

Shane: Blocking you now.

But he hesitated a moment, something making his fingers reluctant to move.

😡Rozanov: relax Hollander 🙄🙄🙄🙄
is for charity project
you need picture of me for reference, yes?
make me look good
will be on display, many people will see it
must be sexy picture

Shane groaned, letting his head drop as the pieces clicked into place. Right, the stupid charity thing.

It was honestly the most ridiculous league initiative he'd been roped into yet, and he'd been involved in a lot of them thanks to his reputation as a good sport and his tendency to be agreeable. He'd said yes to this one without really registering the particulars, and now he didn't see a way to get out of it.

The league was doing a fundraiser for arts programs for kids -- a thematic mismatch if he'd ever seen one -- and someone in the league offices had come up with the bright idea to have players pair up and paint each other. Kind of like those videos you'd see sometimes of a couple painting each other on a date night, usually with hilariously disastrous results. In this case, there was no date involved -- players were being matched up for painting across teams, cities, and countries, so they were supposed to paint their assigned partners from photos, or even from memory. It didn't matter. The paintings were supposed to be comically bad, everyone rightly assuming that most hockey players were not going to be artistically gifted. They were going to auction off all the bad paintings at a big gala in the fall.

And, of course, the league being the way it always was, they'd jumped at the chance to pair Shane with his biggest rival.

Why Rozanov had agreed was a mystery. He wasn't nearly as prone to being guilted into stupid shit like this as Shane was, from what Shane could tell from Rozanov's pointed absence at most of the functions and events Shane had endured.

Shane: I'm not painting you sexy.

😡Rozanov: you will
I am so sexy you will not be able to help it

Shane: 🙄 Then I guess you have nothing to worry about

😡Rozanov: I notice you did not deny it, Hollander...

Well, there was no good answer for that. If he denied it now, he'd look flustered and defensive. If he didn't deny it...

Fuck this. Shane went to take a shower so he could finally get some sleep. He left his phone face-down in the other room, and he did his best to get through the shower without thinking about those texts.

The picture. The part about saying "please." The needling way Rozanov prodded at him.

He was not very successful at not thinking about it. But at least, after breathlessly watching his own spend swirling down the shower drain, he was finally able to sleep.

-----------

Over the next few days, Rozanov continued to torment Shane by sending pictures of himself at irregular intervals.

Many of them, predictably, were of the sexy variety. Rozanov at the gym, sweaty and muscles pumped, in a tight tank top. Rozanov at some nightclub, curls artfully arranged, shirt mostly unbuttoned. Rozanov in a pool, wet hair slicked back, water droplets glistening on bare skin.

Some were different. There was one of Rozanov at a park, fully clothed and laughing, pointing to a signpost that read, once Shane carefully used a translation tool to convert the Russian to English, "Pickup Area." Another of him making a silly face, with a cigarette poking out from pursed lips. (He was still shirtless in that one, though.) There was one where he was crouched down to pet a dog, with a huge, delighted smile on his face.

Shane maybe looked at that one a little too long.

For a while it seemed the best strategy would be not responding at all. Rozanov hadn't included any messages with the photos, so there was nothing Shane really needed to reply to, and he felt that surely, if he just ignored the photos, Rozanov would soon get tired of whatever bit he was doing and stop.

But when the seventh photo came in -- Rozanov in a tuxedo, on a rooftop, city lights glittering below -- Shane lost his patience with it. He was on a short break during a photoshoot where he'd already spent more than an hour being posed and prodded at, and he still had at least another hour to go. He was overstimulated and irritable already, and further stressed by trying to hide his bad mood from the shoot crew and remain in his pleasant and professional mask. He was also worried that, because he couldn't have his phone on him while shooting, someone would see it and notice random sexy pictures of Rozanov popping up.

Plus, he was just done with this. This was too much Rozanov. He felt a little crazy with it.

He needed to stop thinking about him for a good, long stretch, get him out of his mind entirely. It was summer, the off-season, for fuck's sake. He wasn't mentally prepared to deal with his needling rival popping up in his life all the time. And he was jerking off so much he was worried he was developing a problem. So he finally wrote back.

Shane: That's enough pictures.

That felt right. Firm, but not rude. Not that he cared about being rude to Rozanov, really, but he just didn't see a reason to be rude to anyone if he could help it.

Rozanov wrote back immediately. He must be on his phone all the time.

😡Rozanov: I want you to have choices
is important project, Hollander

Shane: That's plenty of choices. You can stop.

😡Rozanov: hmmm maybe
but now I need photos of you
to make my painting

Shane rolled his eyes. The shoot director was waving him over. He didn't have time for this, and he needed it to stop.

Shane: Just use my hockey card or something.

😡Rozanov: uuuugggghhh
Hollander, no
you will not taint me with your boring by association
ruin my painting

Shane huffed an impatient breath, giving the director a "one minute" signal as he hastily typed back.

Shane: Fine, just browse the internet. Plenty of choices.

😡Rozanov: ☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️
no one wants painting of Rolex ad, Hollander
plus I may get sued for copyrights
send pictures

Shane: I'm not sending you pictures. You'll just have to figure it out.

😡Rozanov: oh, so Shane Hollander does not care about charity?
no concern for little children who need paint sets and easels?
I did not know you were biggest asshole in league

The director was looking more put out by the minute, but something in Shane resisted just setting his phone down and leaving Rozanov on read. If he didn't settle this now, he knew Rozanov would not let up, and the whole thing would keep taking up space in his brain. He needed to end it, and if sending Rozanov a couple of photos would shut him up, better to just do it now and get it over with.

Except... he didn't have time to go through his camera roll and select which photos to send, and some stupid pride or vanity inside him didn't want to send unflattering shots. Not that he cared, but just... all of Rozanov's pictures had been so obviously curated to be attractive. He didn't want to send something where he looked like a doofus -- and then have Rozanov gleefully immortalize it in a painting that would be auctioned to the public -- but he didn't have time to carefully comb through and consider what to send.

Then he remembered -- the Adam folder.

Adam had always wanted to take photos of him, but Shane had been hesitant to let him, feeling it might be incriminating somehow. They'd settled on a sort of compromise -- Adam could take pictures, but only with Shane's phone, to be kept tucked away in a folder there so he knew they wouldn't ever show up on Adam's screen where someone might see them and get the wrong idea. Or, well, the right idea.

Anyway, Shane didn't remember exactly what was in the folder -- he hadn't felt up to looking at it since the break-up a few months ago. But he knew they were all good shots of him. Adam was an exacting photographer, fussy about angles, retaking shots until they met his satisfaction, and he'd picked out the clothes Shane was wearing for almost all of them, so any of those should work.

He hastily clicked open the folder, his eyes barely glancing through the dozen or so shots there, vaguely registering a picture with a sunset background from his condo balcony, something of him laughing, a picture of him working at his laptop with his glasses on...

The director called him again, and he shook his head, the photos blurring. Whatever. It would have to do.

He clicked "select all," then the messages icon, then Rozanov's name. Hit send.

Shane: Jesus, here. Now stop bothering me.

He locked his phone, turned it face-down on a small table nearby, and hoped that was the last he'd hear from Rozanov.

But a couple of hours later, when he was finally done with the shoot and able to look at his phone again, there was another message. A vaguely ominous one.

😡Rozanov: Hollander... I do not think is what you want

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

This is going to be very embarrassing for Shane, and very delightful for Ilya.

Ilya was bored to distraction when he sent the first photo to Hollander.

Back in Russia for the summer, he was checking in on his father and avoiding his brother whenever possible, doing the usual rounds of nightlife and hookups in the evenings. It was fine, nothing unusual, but he felt something itchy and dissatisfied under his skin that wouldn't let him settle.

He'd woken up too early, the sun barely up, and lay there staring at the ceiling, smoking and trying to work out why he was bothered and how he could get it to stop. No ideas presented themselves immediately, so he sighed and turned to his phone. When he saw the email from the league's charity project coordinator, reminding participants that their paintings should be completed within the next two months and encouraging them all to "have fun with it!," he'd promptly decided that the best way to have fun with it would be to annoy Shane Hollander.

He wasn't surprised they'd been paired up for the project. In fact, it was the only reason he'd agreed to participate in the waste of time league charity initiative. He wasn't going to take time out of his schedule to do a kindergarten painting of ancient fossil Scott Hunter or Hayden fucking Pike, but when they'd dangled the idea of Hollander...

Well, he always appreciated an opportunity to get in Hollander's face, try to ruffle his feathers, bring out that pinched-up angry expression he made on the ice whenever Ilya won a face-off or scored a goal. If he could ruin Hollander's off-season, too, keep him bothered and irritated when he was supposed to be enjoying virtuous visits with his perfect fucking family and wholesomely canoeing at his stupid cottage, excellent result.

He scrolled through his photos until he found one suitably scandalous for Hollander's probably virginal eyes. He never heard about Hollander going out, picking up. Never saw him photographed with women, never heard reports of him linked to a girlfriend. He must live like a monk, obsessively focused only on hockey, a sad sports robot. So boring.

A little tragic, too. That pretty face wasted. That pouting mouth used on nobody. That rounded ass...

He'd seen it in the flesh only once, years ago, and it had been clenched at the time and hustling its way out of a rink shower like Ilya was a wild animal liable to pounce... but he remembered. An ass like that should not be used only for sitting in canoes. Ilya had many ideas for better things to do with it. Not that Hollander, world's most uptight hockey player, would care to hear them.

Anyway. This would shock him a bit. Make him annoyed. Especially at... he checked the time difference... about midnight in Canada. Maybe it would wake Hollander up from his early-to-bed good boy slumber, and then he would be extra irritable.

He sent it, tossed his phone onto the bed next to him, and waited.

A slow grin spread across his face when his phone buzzed a few minutes later, when he read Hollander's predictably angry response. Ilya had absolutely no desire to back away now, not when he'd already gotten Hollander so riled up with only a single photo. Instead, he flirted as aggressively as he dared, walking the line of scaring Hollander off entirely. It was better to play with him than to be blocked, so he had to tread carefully.

But once he mentioned the charity project, that seemed to remind Hollander that he was obligated to work with Ilya and couldn't block him, which meant he could push a little further.

Until Hollander stopped replying. Probably went to bed. Annoying.

Still, worth it to imagine his interrupted evening.

And his angry kitten face.

------------

Hollander was boring, but Ilya could admit that sending him more pictures over the next few days was pretty fun. It added a little extra flavor to everything he did.

Would Hollander like this outfit? What would he think of this sexy gym selfie? Would he enjoy this cute dog?

Hollander, predictably, boringly, did not respond, but still, Ilya surprisingly liked the feeling of keeping him apprised of his whereabouts, what he was doing and seeing. Almost like he was not as... on his own, sometimes.

Not that he was on his own, really. He spent time with Svetlana, he saw other friends. He slept with three different women over the course of the few days he was sending pictures to Hollander. He wasn't alone. He was just...

Still with that itchy feeling, the not-quite-right aggravation he couldn't pin down. Somehow, it lifted a little when he was bothering Hollander.

It was nearly a week later, getting close to 11 p.m., when Hollander finally messaged him back.

Ilya hadn't taken a new photo that day, but he found one to send anyway, from a few weeks ago, not really expecting any reply. So it was a welcome surprise when Hollander's message appeared.

💤Hollander:That's enough pictures.

Ilya snorted, pleased with this sign of annoyance, satisfied that he'd finally goaded Hollander into responding.

He was home, or whatever his Moscow apartment was to him, having left the nightclub he'd spent some hours at earlier without finding anyone who interested him. It was feeling a little harder, just lately, to be interested. There were beautiful women everywhere, sexy and fun women offering all the things he usually wanted, so he wasn't sure why they did not much to lift the uneasy, unsettled feeling inside him.

But here, at least, was the fun of riling Hollander.

And it suddenly occurred to him that this game of pictures should work both ways. He was, after all, supposed to make a painting of Hollander -- and he fully intended to use the opportunity to make his rival look as silly as possible.

But also, it was a reason for Hollander to send him some pictures back, and he found himself quite... interested in that, just now.

What kind of pictures would Hollander send? What kind of pictures did he have on his camera roll? Boring ones, certainly. Hollander in a canoe, probably, looking nobly off into the distance. Hollander drinking milk, maybe. Visiting a grandmother.

Still, he would like to look at these boring photos. To laugh at them, certainly. To get a closer look at just how dull Hollander's life really was. To examine the spray of freckles across Hollander's nose and cheeks, maybe.

So, he persisted. Pushed. He could sense Hollander's annoyance in his clipped replies as they texted back and forth, tried different tactics to poke at him to get what he wanted.

Finally...

💤Hollander: Jesus, here. Now stop bothering me.

And then, delightfully, a whole fan of photos loaded in a cluster in the text thread. Ilya inexplicably felt his whole chest tighten in anticipation.

He stood up from where he'd been sprawled on the couch, shucking off his tight jeans and peeling his shirt off over his head as he moved to his bed. He wanted to be comfortable, wanted to settle in and take his time to examine each photo.

The first one was, indeed, boring. Just Hollander standing on a balcony somewhere, a blazing sunset visible behind him. Nothing much there, you could barely even see his face with the pink and orange light all behind him. Although the silhouette of his body was... a little interesting. His thighs looked... large. Meaty and substantial. Ilya zoomed in, trying to peer through the darkness of the photo to snatch up more detail.

With a grunt, he moved to the next photo. There was Hollander laughing, his eyes squeezed, his freckles a little scrunched on his cheeks. Kind of... cute. Ilya stared for a long moment, zooming in on the freckles, wondering what had made Hollander laugh like that. These photos should come with explanatory captions.

He felt a small, a very small jolt when he swiped to the next picture.

Hollander wore glasses?

There he was, sitting on a couch with a laptop open on a coffee table in front of him, looking up wryly at whoever was taking the photo... with black-framed glasses on.

Fuck. Why was that... a little bit hot?

Ilya shifted on the bed, his hand wandering to rest on his stomach, staring at the glasses.

Nerd. What a boring nerd.

Still, Ilya could not fail to notice a definite stirring of his cock.

He frowned, still looking at the photo. Maybe this was... not such a good idea, looking at these pictures. Maybe he was starting to have some... small feelings that were maybe not so smart, when they involved someone he had to play hockey against several times a season. Hollander was already a challenge to defeat on the ice -- not that Ilya would ever say so aloud, but it was true. If there were, say, minor but complicated feelings about surprisingly sexy glasses happening, what would that mean?

Despite this misgiving, he knew he was not going to stop looking at the photos. He swiped slowly through the stack. There was Hollander lifting up a can of ginger ale as if toasting. Hollander leaning forward on the same couch again, watching something intently (probably a hockey game on TV, what else would it be?) with that serious, focused expression he got on the ice. Hollander holding a bowl of fruit, looking mildly annoyed -- an expression very familiar to Ilya. Hollander wearing a stupid bucket hat. Hollander stirring something at the stove. Hollander--

Holy fuck!

Ilya nearly fumbled his phone, he was so startled by what his eyes registered next.

He sat all the way up in bed, steadied his phone, and stared.

Hollander, naked, lying on his stomach on a bed. His face was half-buried in one of his muscular arms, just the top of his head and one twinkling eye peeking out, looking back almost mischievously at the camera. His entire long, sculpted, naked body was stretched out on the bed, deliciously rounded ass slightly raised in subtle invitation.

Ilya's heart felt like it had stopped beating, and then it abruptly resumed, pounding frenetically.

Hollander had sent him a nude??

He could not move, felt rooted to the spot, eyes riveted to this miraculous photo he could not quite believe he was seeing. Hollander, taking nude photos? No -- someone taking a nude photo of Hollander. Which implied someone was out there seeing Hollander nude, presumably touching his smooth, gorgeously sculpted body, and doing things to it. Doing things with it.

And... fuck, fuck, oh fuck, was that? Ilya's eyes caught something, and he zoomed in frantically, expanding the area that offered a tiny glimpse of the cleft between Hollander's ass cheeks.

A plug. There was a fucking plug in Hollander's beautiful, perfect ass.

All the breath left Ilya's lungs.

Hollander was about to get fucked in this photo, either by a man, or maybe by an adventurous woman with a strap. Either way, the implications were too dizzying to catalogue. Ilya felt like the world had shifted under his feet, all his assumptions about boring, monk-like Hollander suddenly called into startling question. All he knew for certain was that his dick was very, very hard, and that he needed to know much, much more about how likely it was that he would get to put it inside Hollander.

Had Hollander sent this on purpose?

Finally able to squeeze a few shallow breaths back into his body, Ilya sat back slowly against the headboard, mind reeling, one hand absently gripping his dick through his underwear. With his other hand, he thumbed quickly through the remaining photos in the cluster Hollander had sent -- were there more like this?? -- but the last two or three shots were back to everyday, mundane moments. He hastily scrolled back to the photo, then quickly saved it to his phone. Maybe it was wrong to do, if this had been an accident, but he didn't want to risk losing it, to take the chance that it might disappear and he would have to lose his mind wondering if he had ever really seen it.

He opened it up again, stared at it, enlarging every area, poring over each detail. Fuck, Hollander was perfect.

He zoomed in on his twinkling eye, the eyebrow tilted in challenge, just a hint of his freckles visible above the curve of his biceps. He studied the angle of Hollander's hips, the lift of his ass, the naughty invitation of it. Without any further hesitation, he pulled his dick out and began to stroke it, eyes locked on the picture, flickering between Hollander's ass, the -- fuck -- dimpled indentations above his ass, the long, toned muscles of his back, that one playful eye peeking out.

He came in record time, a surge of wild, pulsing pleasure, groaning, muscles clenching and flexing all over his body.

He sat panting afterward, still unable to look at anything but the picture for a long time.

He thought for a good while about what he wanted to do next.

If Hollander had sent him this picture purposefully, coyly tucked in amid a group of innocuous shots, what had he been hoping Ilya would do, and how could Ilya do it as soon as possible?

If it had been accidental...

Ilya could hardly credit the idea of careful, disciplined Hollander making such a mistake, but still it seemed even less likely that he had intended to send his biggest rival a very very naughty picture of himself -- a photo that might very well include a clue about Hollander that he would prefer to keep out of the public eye.

In any case, the picture was in Ilya's hands now, and he could not -- and had no wish to -- unsee what he had seen, or unknow what he now knew. And no matter how it had happened, Ilya had no intention of missing out on the opportunity it had created.

He typed another message to Hollander, a delighted grin spreading across his face.

Now this was going to be fun.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Shane reaps the whirlwind! I really thought this whole thing was going to be a very light and fun (*cough* and smutty) fic (and I hope it is), but our boy Shane is gonna Shane, so there's a bit of a darker moment this chapter. He's really going through it but it all works out.

Also, I know that unsending messages was not really a thing in 2015, but I'm a fanfic writer, not a historian; I do what I want. :)

Shane sat on the back deck of his cottage, trying to enjoy the breeze and the afternoon view of the lake. Trying to soak in the relaxation of summer, the soothing peace and quiet of his private retreat.

Trying to ignore the buzzing of his phone.

After that one message right after Shane had sent the photos, he'd expected to get a lot more, since clearly Rozanov hadn't felt obliged to honor his request to leave him alone. He had braced himself for teasing about the pictures, even though he remained confident in Adam's photography skills. But Rozanov had gone silent for a while after that.

Possibly sleeping. Shane had Googled the time difference and seen that Moscow was seven hours ahead, so that made sense. And he'd thought maybe it was possible Rozanov really was going to leave him alone. But then, today, right after Shane had woken early for his morning run on the wooded trails surrounding the cottage, he'd gotten another message.

😡Rozanov: amaaaaazing photos, Hollander
thank you verrrrrrry much 🙌 🙏

Shane had to work a little to resist the ingrained urge to respond to a "thank you" with a "you're welcome," but he successfully conquered the impulse. He was not going to reply.

A while later:

😡Rozanov: I have a favorite ❤️❤️❤️❤️
can you guess 😉

Which was almost... flirtatious. Was Rozanov drunk? That one had come in at about 10 a.m., or 5 p.m. in Moscow, so... not impossible. Shane ignored it.

Then, at around noon.

😡Rozanov: I feel like I have gotten to know you so much better
through these pictures
Shane Hollander contains multitudes

That was a bit weird. It had almost made Shane give in to the urge to look back through the photos in the folder, just to see if there was anything unexpected in there beyond what he'd glanced through yesterday. But then his lunch had finished warming up in the oven, so he'd decided to focus on that. He wasn't replying, and he wasn't spending time trying to figure out whatever the hell was going on in Rozanov's head.

Now it was a couple of hours later, and his phone was buzzing again, interrupting his peaceful... and maybe slightly boring... relaxation time on the deck. He picked up his phone.

😡Rozanov: I might even say these pictures are
revealing
whole new sides of you

That... was almost concerning. Shane felt a trickle of anxiety in his gut. Maybe he should have taken the time to look more carefully at those photos before rashly sending them out, but he was sure... He trusted Adam... He was still confident...

Fuck it, he was looking at the folder.

His eyes flicked over the thumbnails, going quickly, not wanting to get bogged down in any memories of Adam, just checking to...

Oh, holy fuck.

He shot up out of his deck chair, his heart lurching, his hands already trembling so badly he almost couldn't work his phone. He tapped frantically at the unexpected thumbnail, hoping desperately the image wouldn't actually be what his eyes thought they were seeing.

The photo opened. Shane stared at it.

Oh no. Oh god. Oh fuck.

This picture. This picture... existed?

And he had sent it to Rozanov. He had sent it to Rozanov.

For a moment, he was frozen in horror, his entire body tight and flashing hot and cold, his stomach clenching with nausea and dread and hot, awful shame. Then he felt himself drop into a crouch, eyes still fastened to the phone. His chest began to pinch as his breathing got... stuck. Tiny, shallow sips of air, not enough, he couldn't breathe, this couldn't be happening, this could not have happened.

He felt dizzy, fell backward to sit down with a thump on the deck. He had to think, he had to... had to do... something...

Frantic, sick, he made his trembling hands navigate to the text chain with Rozanov, click on the group of photos there. It was confusing, he'd never tried to delete a bunch of photos in a text before, and his brain wasn't... oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, think think. He finally managed to pull up the first photo, find the "unsend" command. The photo disappeared from the text chain with a small animated implosion.

Unfortunately -- fuck -- it wasn't even the right photo. It was the photo of him with the sunset. Clenching his jaw tightly to keep himself marginally under control, he forced his way through the process, tapping and unsending each photo until they were all gone. Erased from the text thread, as if he'd never sent them.

It didn't help. He knew, he knew very well that it was too late. It was way too late.

He huddled on the deck, frozen again, trying to get air into his lungs, trying to think.

Another message appeared on his screen.

😡Rozanov: ah. so you have realized

Rozanov. Rozanov had seen that photo. Maybe saved it.

That thought jarred him into action again. He fumbled to type and send.

Shane: Delet eit
Delete
please
fck

A weird howl escaped him then, and he dropped his phone, tipped over to lie on his side, still panting for breath. What was the point? It was too late to... to contain this. It was over. Rozanov had that picture -- why the fuck had he sent that fucking picture? Why hadn't he been more careful? And why had Adam even taken it? When? Shane didn't remember it, didn't even know... except, maybe, that night Adam had convinced him to try edibles? Had he been that out of it that he didn't even remember... he was sure he would've said no to a photo like that, even on his own phone, even hidden inside a folder, because you never knew, phones got hacked or stolen, he never would've...

Rozanov's phone could get hacked or stolen, he realized with a fresh jolt of terror. And even if not, it didn't... it didn't even need to get hacked or stolen, because Rozanov was his enemy, he would love this opportunity to ruin Shane, he would tell everyone. Everyone would know, everyone would see -- his teammates, his parents, god, fuck, no no no

His phone was buzzing with more messages, but he couldn't move, couldn't stand even the thought of looking at them. Could not handle whatever Rozanov was saying, mocking him, knowing this about him. Shane was cold but sweaty all over, shaking so badly the line where the lake met the sky was vibrating in his vision, panting tiny helpless breaths, throat choking tight.

Then his phone rang.

For a moment, he saw black spots in front of his eyes. This was it. A reporter calling, maybe. Or his coach. Maybe his mom. The photo was out there. They all knew.

He thought he might die right then.

He moved his hand to where his phone was lying on the deck next to him, fumbling for the button that would make the ringing stop, not even able to look. Whatever he pressed made the noise go away, but it didn't hang up the call, because a moment later, he heard a voice.

That voice, that Russian accent that chirped him on the ice and taunted him in interviews, escaping small and tinny from his phone. He could barely hear it over his own short, gasping breaths.

"Hollander, I deleted it. It's gone."

A pause, more of his own panting breaths.

"Hollander, it's gone. I deleted it. You can hear me?"

He could hear, vaguely. He could not make the words make sense.

"You are having panic attack, Hollander. Breathe, listen. The photo is gone. I have deleted. I will not tell anyone. Okay? You hear me? Take big breaths."

Rozanov... why was Rozanov talking to him? Was Rozanov... comforting him?

The voice on the phone suddenly dropped lower, deeper, almost commanding even through the tinny relay of the phone without the speaker on.

"Hollander, big breath in. Now."

Shane felt his lungs expanding. He didn't know why, or how he was doing it when he hadn't been able to a moment ago, but suddenly he was pulling in air, his chest opening up.

"Yes, good, now out. Blow it all out. Go."

He did, shakily, no other thought in his head but the words buzzing upward from his phone.

"Again, deep breath in again now."

He didn't have any concept of how long this went on. He felt utterly unmoored from time and place, even from himself. He was nothing but his lungs expanding and contracting at the command of that voice, familiar in accent but unfamiliar in tone, in... in patience. In steadiness.

It steadied him. Eventually.

He blinked rapidly as his head began to clear. Managed to sit up. Rozanov's voice on the phone was still going, still carrying on in that calm, low tone, telling him when to breathe in and out. Shane was doing it, could breathe now. Couldn't reconcile that voice with the one he knew from the ice, from the media.

"I'm good," he managed to say. It came out a little whispery, so he cleared his throat and said it again, firmer. "I'm good now."

A pause from the phone. Then, "You are okay?"

Was he okay? He wasn't still feeling like he was about to die, at least. He was... or, he registered that he should have been embarrassed. This whole thing was such a fucking mess, he had exposed himself -- literally and otherwise -- to the last person he would ever have chosen, not just with the photo but then also with an entire fucking meltdown. But at the moment, what he mostly felt was a little bit numb. Emptied out. Kind of hazy.

"You deleted it?" he managed to ask, his voice soft.

"Yes," Rozanov said immediately. "Deleted. Gone. Never happened."

Shane rubbed a hand through his hair, scooted back on the deck a little so he was leaning against the legs of the chair he'd been sitting in before.

"It did, though," he said. No point in running from that truth.

Another pause, then kind of a humming sound from Rozanov. "It did, but... we can pretend. If that is what you want."

Was that what he wanted? Which would be worse, the next time he had to face Rozanov on the ice? Having it out there, or having it buried? Did it even make a difference? Either way, he'd have to meet Rozanov's eyes knowing that he knew.

Although, how much he knew was still a question. What would he have interpreted from that picture?

Feeling up to it now, barely, Shane reached for his phone, tapped the speaker button so he could hear more clearly, then switched over to his photos. He took a long, slow breath and opened the picture again.

Yeah, it was there, it was visible. If you looked closely. Fuck.

He closed out of the picture, set the phone down on the deck again, and buried his face in both hands. He had to know, had no idea how to ask, didn't want to ask in case Rozanov hadn't noticed and asking might give him the idea to look more carefully.

But he said he'd deleted the photo, and if Shane could take him at his word... and for some reason, he believed he could... Anyway, he had to know.

"Did you..." He lifted his head from his hands, took a quick breath, and forced the question out. "Did you look at it?"

For the first time, he heard Rozanov laugh a little. But not a mocking laugh, not the hurtful kind of thing his panic-stricken brain might have imagined. More a helpless little explosion of air.

"Yes, Hollander, I looked. It was... I looked before I even knew, but then... yes, I looked again. Maybe was wrong, but, I am not -- what is expression? -- I am not made out of rocks. You send very sexy photo, you cannot expect that I would..."

He trailed off, his voice having sounded more... flustered? maybe? than Shane had ever heard it.

Wait.

Shane's heart sped up a little. Was Rozanov saying... did he mean...?

A number of things began to crash around in Shane's hollowed-out brain then. Rozanov's flirtatious comment from this morning. I have a favorite. His flirtatious comments the whole time, actually. I like it when you say please, Hollander. And just now: You send very sexy photo.

If he was not just teasing, not just needling, not just trying for a reaction. If he meant it...

Shane's heart thump thump thumped in his chest, and not because he was panicking again. He felt very out of his head, outside of reality, but very in his body. He felt... like he had to know. Like he wanted to know.

He stared at the phone, at Rozanov's name at the top of the call screen, as if it would tell him something. But it wouldn't. If he wanted to know, he would have to ask.

"You liked... looking at it?" he heard himself say.

When he answered, Rozanov's voice had dropped again, not with command this time but with something like a purr. "Mmmm. Yes, Hollander. I liked it."

Shane took a breath. Asked the next question. "You like... men?"

"Not all of them," Rozanov said, and Shane could almost hear the sly smile in his voice. "I like... pretty people. Pretty women. Pretty men."

Shane's mind shot back to that CCM commercial shoot, to Rozanov calling him pretty. Before he could linger too long on that memory, or settle on a definite conclusion from it, Rozanov spoke again.

"And you, Hollander?"

Shane felt the air leave his lungs in a gust. Oh god. Was he really about to say this, out loud, to Ilya fucking Rozanov of all people? Had he completely lost his mind?

But Rozanov had already said... and this moment felt so unreal... and he'd already embarrassed himself in just about every way possible in front of Rozanov, so really, what fucking difference did it make?

"Men," he forced out, his voice a little croaky. "Just... just men."

"Ah," Rozanov said, lightly. "How convenient for me. So then, you liked my photos, too."

It wasn't a question -- that was the level of self-confidence Rozanov had, apparently, that he didn't have to ask. A dozen different possible answers crowded into Shane's head at once. He could call out the arrogance. Deny it. Tell him to fuck off.

But he didn't really want to say any of those things, did he?

"Yeah. I liked them."

A pause, drawing out long. Then,

"Did you touch yourself, Hollander? Looking at my pictures?"

Jesus Christ. This should have been excruciating. But somehow he felt beyond humiliation. Somehow he wanted to touch himself now, even though that was crazy, he'd just had a fucking freak-out where he'd thought he might die, and now he was -- what? Turned on and about to talk on the phone about it?

Apparently... yes.

"Yeah, I did."

He could hear rustling from the other end of the phone, and it made him wonder where Rozanov was. If he was in bed -- probably not, it wouldn't even be 10 at night there yet, he figured. Was he even at home? Was he on a couch? Wearing... what?

Rozanov's voice cut through his thoughts. "Yes, same for me. Your picture was very beautiful, Hollander."

Shane felt himself flush all over, chest expanding at the unexpected praise, that confirmation that Rozanov thought... that he had...

He swallowed. "Uh... thanks?"

"You are welcome," Rozanov said, then continued, lightly, as if it were a normal, everyday kind of conversation, "And if I told you to take your cock out now, and stroke it?"

Oh fuck. The words, the thought of being told to do it, send a bolt of arousal straight to his dick. He did move his hand there, pressing down through his shorts. But...

"I'm... I'm outside."

A pause from Rozanov's end of the call. "Outside? Are you alone? Can anyone see you?"

Shane, stupidly, looked around, although he knew very well his cottage was about the most private place on the planet. There were no neighboring houses within view, no one lingering in the woods, not even any boats visible on the lake.

"No, it's just the lake, but..."

"So, what? You are worried about local ducks seeing your dick?"

Shane laughed, just a little. "We don't really have ducks, exactly. It's more... loons."

"Loons?" Rozanov sounded incredulous. "What the fuck is a fucking loon?"

"It's a bird, like, a water bird. Kind of like a duck, actually."

"Oh, I see. Like a duck. So you are wasting time telling me bird taxonomy."

"Wow," Shane said, surprised by the complicated English term. "Taxonomy. Big word."

"Yes, I am very impressive. Are you going to take your cock out now or not?"

He wanted to. He still felt... hesitant. "Are... are you?"

Rozanov was all impatience. "Yes, Hollander, I have been touching my dick for many minutes now, and you are, what is term, leaving me hanging?"

Shane felt almost giddy, delirious. He thought about getting up, going inside to his bedroom, but somehow the idea of moving felt like it would break whatever spell he was under in this incredibly unlikely moment.

Plus, the thought of doing this outside, even where no one could see, felt sort of... interesting.

Slowly, he opened the button on his shorts, slid down the zipper. Reached down under the hem of his briefs and pulled his dick into the afternoon sunlight. He shuddered when his hand wrapped around it, already rigid and leaking from the tip.

"Okay," he breathed. "It's... I did it."

"Very good, Hollander. Finally. Now, do you want me to tell you what I would do if you were not one million kilometers away in fucking Canada right now?"

Shane squeezed himself, moved his hand to rub over the sensitive head, gathering moisture to slide down his length.

"Yes," he said. Then, "Please," he added, because he thought Rozanov would like it.

(What was he even doing, how was this happening, why was he like this?) He pushed the thoughts away.

Rozanov made a noise in response, a long, low groan, and a vivid-bright picture bloomed in Shane's mind of Rozanov with his own hand touching himself. His dick jolted in his hand.

"I have had many thoughts about your mouth, Hollander. I would want that first, I think. Put you on your knees, watch you take me in your mouth."

"Holy shit," Shane breathed, stroking himself faster.

"Yes," Rozanov said, "you would like that. Would be greedy for it, I think. Swallow me down, hold on to me, desperate for my come down your throat, yes?"

Shane's eyes fluttered shut, his focus keenly centered on Rozanov's disembodied voice from the phone, drifting over him like the man himself was hovering nearby, almost touching.

"Yes, I want it," he said, moaning a little as his cock pulsed in his stroking hand.

"Ah, but I will not let you have it. Not in your mouth. I want more. Do you know what I would do next?"

"Tell me," Shane said, his voice ragged, desperate now, his hand sliding squeezing, hips lifting off the deck as his back arched.

"Ask me nicely," Rozanov said, in that low voice of command.

"Fuck. Yes. Please, please tell me what you would do." He was close already, very close, and the gathering up of pleasure was achingly delicious, and he wanted to come but he also didn't want it to be over.

"I would bend you over. Bed, chair, kitchen counter, whatever was closest. Open you with my fingers, stretch you, listen to you moan and cry until you were begging me to fill you up."

"God, fuck, fuck." His hand was frantic now, barely able to keep any kind of rhythm, chest heaving, everything tightening clenching so close...

"And then I would hold you down, pin you, take that perfect ass, fuck you until you were sobbing from it..."

There was more, maybe, but Shane's senses whited out in a blood-rushing spasm of overwhelming ecstasy. It jolted through him, kept going, pulse after pulse. He didn't know what sounds were coming out of him, could only dimly hear Rozanov's voice gritting out something in Russian, everything in him concentrated down to the hot consuming grip of hammering release.

He came back to awareness squeezing the head of his dick, panting, and absolutely covered in come. He wished he'd had the presence of mind to at least lift up his shirt or something, because it was soaked now. He felt like he might have some come up by his eyebrow.

Fuck. He dropped his dick and sagged back against the deck chair, trying to catch his breath. Rozanov muttered some vehement words in Russian, and Shane couldn't understand any of it, but he felt like he agreed with the sentiment

"You came, Hollander?" Rozanov asked, a little breathless.

"Fuck, yes," Shane said. "It's kind of... everywhere."

Rozanov groaned. There was a pause, then with that sly grin back in his voice, he said, "Send me a picture?"

Unbelievably, Shane laughed. "Fuck off, Rozanov. I'm never sending anyone a picture ever again."

Rozanov was laughing, too, but after a moment he went a little serious again.

"I am glad you sent it. Not happy you felt bad, that you panicked. But... happy for this."

Shane stilled, the words dragging him back to reality a bit.

Was he happy about this? It was hard to regret the mind-blowing orgasm, that was for sure. But had it been a good idea, doing this? Had he just made a very weird and awkward situation with his biggest rival even worse?

Probably, yes. Logically, for sure. But in the flood of post-orgasm chemicals swamping his brain, he was finding it a little difficult to care.

"Yeah. It was good," he said, feeling that, no matter what else was going on, he could say that much with confidence.

Rozanov snorted. "'It was good,' he says. Making noises like cat in heat. Covered in his own come."

"Shut up," Shane said, but there was no anger behind it. "I gotta go... clean up."

"Hmm, yes. Same."

There was a moment then, when it felt like they should... say something. Like, was this going to be a thing? Was it just a weird one-off that they were never going to talk about again? Should they... decide on something?

But Shane didn't know what to decide on, had no idea what to make of the chaotic jumble of thoughts and feelings swirling around inside him. He wondered if Rozanov had any idea.

But when Rozanov spoke again, all he said was, "Goodnight, Hollander."

It wasn't night where Shane was -- the sun was still shining brightly, glittering across the lake. But all he said was, "Yep, yeah. Goodnight, Rozanov."

Then he went to throw all of his clothes into the laundry.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

This was fun to write, hope you enjoy! I eat nice comments for breakfast, lunch, and dinner :)

Ilya stood in his kitchen the next morning, drinking strong black tea and wishing he still had the picture of Hollander.

He felt bad about wishing it, knew it was right that he had deleted it. Still wanted it back.

He could imagine it, still, could see it when he closed his eyes. Could let the memories flood back from the night before: Hollander moaning and mewling, coming all over himself to the sound of Ilya's voice, to his words alone. Ilya was half-hard again just at the thought of it. But it was not enough.

He'd felt crazy, last night; even right in the moments after getting off, his body and his brain had roared for more. He'd wanted to drive to the airport, take the next flight to Canada, sprint through the fucking woods until he found Hollander so he could actually touch him, fuck him, hold him. He'd felt ravenous with it. Had to force himself to silence to stop himself from saying crazy, begging things: Let me fuck you for real, please, Hollander, when can I? Like he would starve without it.

The feeling was... not entirely gone now.

It scared him, a little bit. Made that itchy, unsettled feeling he'd been swallowed in for weeks feel worse, sharper. He didn't know what he was supposed to do about it all.

He cursed, set his tea on the counter with a thunk, liquid splashing out over the rim of the cup. Back to normal, back to routine. He had plenty of things to do, other people he could fuck if he wanted. The feeling would pass. Or it wouldn't, maybe, but he could ignore it. He had a lot of practice with that kind of thing.

Hours later, though, at a cafe with Sveta, he saw someone pass by walking a cat on a little pink leash, and he felt the urge to pull out his phone, take a picture, send it to Hollander like he'd been doing.

He wasn't going to, though. Not now. It would feel too... reaching, somehow. And maybe... overstepping. He had no idea what Hollander was feeling now, but based on his overwhelmed reaction to realizing he'd sent that photo, Ilya could imagine Hollander might be freaking out a little bit again about what they'd done.

He didn't like the thought. Had hated the chill he'd gotten when he'd realized Hollander was panicking last night, those broken texts turning what Ilya had thought of as a naughty little game into... something bad. Something he didn't want at all. His heart had been clutching in his chest, texting Hollander, getting no response, and when he'd called and heard those tight, gasping breaths...

He felt shitty about it, how he'd handled it, despite the unexpectedly hot way it had all turned out. He should not have teased Hollander. Should have deleted the photo straightaway, given Hollander some kind of discreet warning to check his pictures. Maybe it still would have sent him into a panic, but at least Ilya wouldn't have felt so fucking responsible for it.

"I know you love dogs, Ilyusha, but does that mean you hate cats now?"

Ilya looked up from where he'd been inadvertently glaring at the little cat on a leash, registering the cafe around him and Sveta in front of him with mild surprise. He'd been lost in his thoughts.

He shook his head, smiling a little to reassure her. "Just thinking."

"Well, whoever you were thinking of, I can kill them for you," Sveta said, with a little quirk of her lips.

He smiled again, declining to mention that the throat she would need to slit would be his own.

His phone buzzed then, and he pulled it out, felt a little jolt inside at seeing Hollander's name on the screen.

💤Hollander: Hey.

Ilya had no idea what to do with that. "Hey" could mean anything from "hello again, person I am feeling warmly toward" to "hey asshole, fuck you." And the period after the word. That seemed ominous.

He settled on an equally unreadable reply.

Ilya: hello

He saw typing dots pop up below his response, and his stomach churned a little. He braced for recrimination, for Hollander to point out, rightly, that Ilya had caused him pain and distress. Or maybe the message wouldn't be that at all. Maybe it would be a polite brush-off. Something like, "Whatever that was, it can't happen again."

It would make sense. Hollander seemed nothing if not practical, logical. After sleeping on it, he'd probably come to the sensible conclusion that this thing that had happened between them was best put behind them permanently. Ilya could understand that. He would not be surprised. It was, frankly, several layers of unlikely verging on miraculous that it had happened at all.

He did not like it, he could admit that to himself. But he could understand. He was prepared.

Hollander's message popped up at last.

💤Hollander: I realized I didn't thank you for what you did yesterday. That doesn't seem right. So, I just wanted to say it. Thank you.

Ilya frowned at his phone, confused.

Ilya: very polite, but
you do not need to thank me for orgasm, Hollander
was, ah

He had to click out of the text chain to look up a translation, then click back in again.

Ilya: mutually beneficial

Hollander's response was swift, and perhaps predictably, a bit salty.

💤Hollander: Not for that, asshole.
Although

Ilya felt his eyebrows lift, his heart speed up a little.

💤Hollander: What I meant was, for helping me calm down or whatever. I don't know why that worked, but I was having a hard time and you were very helpful. And patient. And also for being cool about deleting the picture and all. And not telling anyone about it.

Ilya read through this astonishing group of sentences several times. Hollander was... thanking him? For trying to help with the panic attack. Rather than blaming him for causing it.

Had Hollander hit his head?

💤Hollander: You're not going to tell anyone, right?

This made Ilya roll his eyes.

Ilya: no, Hollander
I will not tell anyone about your photo
who would even believe me?

💤Hollander: I guess that's true.
And I guess, about... the other stuff. We sort of have the same secret.
Right?

Ilya had to look up another phrase translation.

Ilya: yes
mutually assured destruction

💤Hollander: Right, that.
So... we're cool?

Ilya's mouth tightened. Whatever he was feeling about Hollander, the feelings were not cool. They felt irritatingly hot under his skin. But he did not need to share that truth.

Ilya: yes
very cool

He put his phone down then, annoyed without reason, looking up to see Sveta watching him sharply.

"This is the person I need to assassinate?" she asked lightly, sipping her coffee and looking at him over the rim of her cup.

"No no," he argued, taking a drink of his own. "Everything is very cool. So cool. We are all cool here, Sveta."

Unsurprisingly, she looked supremely unconvinced.

His phone buzzed again, and he picked it up with a huff, ready to offer more reassurances to Hollander about his silence, his discretion, his terrible, faulty memory for things that shouldn't have happened, his ultimate coolness toward people who didn't want to have anything more to do with him.

💤Hollander: Would you ever want to do that again?

He stared at the message, once again floored and disoriented by another completely unpredictable Shane Hollander move. Was he saying... did he mean...? Ilya felt the urge to open the translator again, run the words through it to be sure he understood, even though he knew the meaning of every one of them.

💤Hollander: I know you have plenty of options.
Like, in real life.
But I'm sort of... out in the Canadian wilderness.
Haha.
So if you ever wanted to.
I mean, I would.
But it's cool if not.
Obviously.

A smile was spreading over Ilya's face. He could feel it stretching his mouth, squeezing his cheeks. Some ridiculous feeling was floating up and swelling in his chest, watching Hollander's messages roll in, watching him making this extraordinary offer and then spiraling out about it, trying to backpedal on his own desire.

Oh, Hollander.

Ilya: ah I see
you want me too much
cannot be satisfied with just once

💤Hollander: Fuck off.
Never mind.

Ilya: no no, I could not leave you like this
alone in the woods
horny and desperate
would be too cruel

💤Hollander: You're an asshole.

Ilya felt a little nervy, just then. It was delicious, to play with Hollander this way, but he didn't want to play too much, risk losing what he very badly wanted. He suspected, though, that Hollander liked it, despite his combative words. He remembered the way Hollander had been last night, moaning every time Ilya gave him a command. So responsive, so quick to obey, once he got past his own embarrassment. The thought of it sent a wave of hot desire rolling through Ilya's whole body.

Ilya: I think you like it

He waited, fascinated, barely breathing, for Hollander to reply.

💤Hollander: So do you want to or not?

Ilya clicked his tongue. Stubborn Hollander. No matter, he would get him to admit it. He would --

Svetlana cleared her throat sharply, and Ilya glanced up quickly, having completely forgotten her again.

"Shall I get you a room nearby?" she asked.

He tilted his head in apology, tried to file away his hot thoughts for a more convenient time and place.

Ilya: I want to, yes
later? now is bad time

💤Hollander: Oh, okay. Yeah, sure. I've gotta go do my run anyway.

Ah, so Hollander had messaged him first thing in the morning. So impatient. He was smiling wide again as he sent Hollander a last message.

Ilya: you do that, Hollander
I will message you later

Then he put his phone away and faced Sveta, who had her eyebrows up.

"I guess I don't need to murder anyone after all," she said.

-------------

Shane's mom was at his cottage when Rozanov texted him next, about eight hours after their last messages.

😡Rozanov: I am free now, Hollander
you still want? 🍆🍑💦

Fuck. Shane clicked the lock button, nearly fumbling it, shoved his phone deep into the pocket of his shorts.

He hadn't been expecting his mom, but since his parents were only a few minutes away at their own cottage, an unexpected drop-by was not at all unprecedented. He probably should have remembered that yesterday when he'd had his dick out in broad daylight on the back deck.

Today, she'd popped in to drop off some fruit she'd picked up at a farmer's market, then stayed to chat, and Shane hadn't had any reason to hurry her off. Rozanov's last message had been so vague that Shane hadn't been sure if he should expect a text sometime today or maybe a week from now. But now that it had arrived, he felt suddenly hot and flustered, and anxious to get her out of the house.

He'd been kind of surprised that Rozanov had agreed to do this again. He hadn't been kidding when he'd said he knew Rozanov had plenty of options, and the idea of phone sex must seem pretty tame to him, given what Shane had heard about his many conquests, the string of women (and apparently, sometimes men??) who were always in and out of his bed. Shane didn't know exactly what he had to offer that could compete with that, but evidently Rozanov was game, and Shane wasn't going to question it when his own options were thin on the ground.

Maybe Rozanov got off on the forbidden idea of it, two professional rivals secretly hooking up? He supposed that might seem kind of hot, even if it just sort of made his own stomach hurt when he thought too hard about it, which he was trying not to do.

In any case, after a long day and night of debating it in his head, he had given up trying to make sense of it, or make a sensible decision about it. He just wanted it, and if Rozanov did too, he didn't want to risk missing out. Which meant his mom really needed to go.

"You need to get that?" she asked from where she was cutting up a kiwi at the kitchen counter, nodding toward the phone in his pocket. "You know I don't mind if you chat with your friends. Is it Hayden?"

For some reason, the wild idea of what it would sound like if he told her the truth popped into his mind. No, mom, it's actually Ilya Rozanov, the Boston Raiders player, the Russian menace who makes my life hell on the ice, and we're about to have hot gay phone sex, so would you mind clearing out, please?

He felt slightly hysterical.

But he did need to get her to leave. Somehow.

"Uh, no. It was actually, uh, a reminder. I have a video appointment coming up in a few minutes."

She looked up, curious. "A video appointment? I don't have anything on my calendar. It's not Reebok, is it? Because that got moved to next week."

"No, it's not a sponsorship thing. It's uh..." Think, think. "Just a check-in with the team trainer. You know I had that hip pain at the end of the season, so he, uh, just wanted to check in. Maybe recommend some stretches."

She didn't seem skeptical, although she did look a little dubious. "Hmm. Seems like the kind of thing that could be an email. But oh well. I'll clear out, let you have some privacy."

She finished cutting the kiwi and wiped her hands on a kitchen towel, came over to give him a hug. He did his best to make it a normal hug, although he was very aware of his phone still buzzing in his pocket. Rozanov was apparently impatient.

She noticed. "That's a lot of reminders. I guess they really want you on that call."

He tried to laugh. "Yeah, guess so. Anyway, thanks for the fruit."

"Sure, honey. You're coming by for dinner tomorrow still, right?"

"Yep, I'll be there." He led the way to the door, hovered by it trying not to look like he was dying of impatience as she gathered her bag, looked around for her sunglasses.

He stood on the front step waving as she pulled out onto the private road, and then the second her car was out of sight, he hurried inside and yanked his phone out of his pocket. There was a string of messages from Rozanov.

😡Rozanov: oh, now you are too busy to respond?
did your canoe tip over?
many important wildlife creatures visiting?
some loon-related emergency happening?

Christ, he was such a baby.

Shane: Jesus, give me a second, calm down.
My mom was here.

😡Rozanov: oh well, if you have better things to do
fine by me

Shane couldn't decide if the message made him more annoyed or fearful about losing this opportunity.

Shane: I said WAS here. She's gone. I am free now.

😡Rozanov: finally

Shane: Are you going to complain some more, or are you going to call me?

A pause, during which Shane tried not to worry that he'd abruptly lost Rozanov's attention to a better offer. Then...

😡Rozanov: we can do video call?

Oh. Shane hadn't thought of that. He wasn't sure he was mentally prepared for a video call. He automatically moved to the mirror in the front hall, checking his hair.

The idea of it made him nervous, especially after the whole photo fiasco. But he supposed it was safe enough, if they both agreed not to record. It just seemed like an escalation, kind of a whole new thing where he'd have to worry about what he looked like, what his face was doing, the position of his body. What if it made him so stressed out he wasn't even able to... enjoy things?

On the other hand, he would get to see Rozanov. Like, all of Rozanov. The parts he hadn't seen since that brief shower glimpse all those years ago. And Rozanov would be... doing stuff. That he would be able to see.

Shane: Okay, yeah. Give me a minute to set up.

😡Rozanov: 🙄🙄🙄🙄
hurry up, Hollander

He made sure the front door was locked, then made sure the door to the back deck was locked. He went into his bedroom and locked that door, too. He closed the blinds, then turned on some lights so it wouldn't be so dim. He opened his phone camera to check angles and tried positioning it on his nightstand, then on his dresser, had a brief moment of wondering if he should... tape it to the wall somehow? Went back to place it on the dresser.

Christ, he was sweating now.

Before he could get comfortable with anything, the phone rang, a video call coming from Rozanov. He pulled in a deep breath, felt his hand shake a little as he went to answer it.

"Has been more than a minute, Hollander. You want me to die of old age?"

Shane sat down on the foot of his bed, just holding the phone for now.

"You are the most impatient person I've ever met," he said, feeling a little cranky about it.

Then his eyes really focused on the screen, and he... kind of forgot about being annoyed. There was Rozanov, head and shoulders in view, shirtless, with a pouty scowl on his face. God, he was... Somehow Shane had kind of forgotten for a second how fucking gorgeous he was.

Rozanov was looking back at him, and for a moment they just stayed like that, looking at each other. It kind of felt real, in a way it hadn't, quite, on the phone call, even if the whole thing was so crazy there was some part of Shane that still felt like it couldn't be real.

"Well," Shane said finally, "I guess now I know for sure I'm not being catfished."

Rozanov gave a little eye roll. "If someone catfishing gave you best orgasm of your life, you should just say thank you."

Shane huffed. "Who says it was the best orgasm of my life?"

"Hmm, I say," Rozanov said with a little shrug. "Now, why are you still wearing all of your clothes? Shirt off. I want to see you."

Swallowing hard, Shane set the phone back on the dresser, propped it carefully against a vase his decorator had put there and Shane had never bothered to use. He pulled his T-shirt over his head, sat back down on the end of the bed.

He felt like he was waiting for instructions, probably because that was kind of the way it'd been with Adam. Shane had been so inexperienced, and Adam had seemed to like explaining things, introducing new ideas, taking it as a given that Shane would want to try them. He'd gone along with most of it because he had wanted to try things, had wanted to shed his own ignorance, his fumbling lack of sophistication. He'd wanted to get good at it all, to put in the work and master sex the way he did with other subjects he cared about.

And he had gotten good, he was pretty sure, based on Adam's reaction, especially near the end of their relationship. Not that it had stopped Adam from dumping him anyway.

He didn't want to think about Adam right now. The point was, he didn't know how things would go with someone else. Was he supposed to start? Suggest things? Because he wasn't sure he was ready for that. He wasn't even sure he knew exactly what he wanted, only that he'd liked all of the things Rozanov had suggested over the phone before.

Fuck, this was awkward. Maybe it had been a mistake.

He focused on the phone again, looking at Rozanov, who had positioned his phone somewhere, maybe on a nightstand, and was stretched out on his side, leaning on one elbow. His arms looked huge, his shoulders bulky and rounded, the curves of muscle on his chest pronounced. Shane felt his jaw loosen, forgetting about himself a little as he looked at the screen. Rozanov was just so... so big, so masculine. Adam had been attractive, but in a lithe and wiry way. What would it be like to touch those vast, solid planes of muscle, to feel them under his hands?

"Very pretty, Hollander," Rozanov said, and it made Shane flush, made him remember that Rozanov was looking at him as closely as he was looking at Rozanov. "Are you going to show me more?" Rozanov asked.

It felt like a lot, and he wanted... he needed...

"What about you?" he asked, a little challenge in his tone. "Why don't you show me more?"

Rozanov clicked his tongue. "You cannot wait, Hollander? So thirsty for it." But he did lean forward and adjust the angle of his phone, then rolled back, stretched out, gesturing one hand down his body. "Happy now?"

Fuck. He was already nude. Shane sat forward, closer to the phone, barely able to take it all in. Rozanov's carved abs, lean hips, powerful thighs, his cock, fuck, huge and thick and very hard.

"You are staring, Hollander. And I still do not have what I want."

Shane shook himself a bit. "Yeah, yep, right." He stood up, unfastened his shorts, let them drop. He felt the impulse to pick them up, fold them, put them neatly on the dresser so they wouldn't get crumpled, but he knew from Adam that it wouldn't be a very sexy thing to do in the moment, so he left them where they'd fallen. It might bother him a little the whole time, but he could put up with it.

Then, with a deep breath, he slid his briefs down as well, wrangling them over his already straining, weeping dick, and stepped out of them. Stood there not sure what to do with his hands.

But Rozanov had rolled forward like he wanted to get closer to his screen, too, and his eyes were everywhere, roving over Shane's body, sharp with hunger. It gave him a little bit more confidence, that maybe Rozanov wanted as much as Shane did.

He sat down on the bed again, then leaned back on his elbows, spreading his legs a little. It made him feel vulnerable, but also sort of... brazen. He wanted Rozanov to look at him, to be affected, to want him.

Rozanov muttered something low in Russian, almost like a snarl. He was gripping his dick now, just holding it, but the sight of his big hand on it made Shane shudder a little, made his own dick spurt a little trail of precome.

Rozanov noticed, his jaw clenching. "You are dripping for me, Hollander."

Shane felt defensive, suddenly, exposed. He felt words crowding his mouth, something like, It's not you, it just does that, but he held them back. They weren't true.

"Yeah," he said instead, flushing a little when the word came out breathy and hushed.

Rozanov groaned, stroked himself slowly a few times as Shane watched, mesmerized. Then,

"I want to see your ass. Turn over on the bed, like in the photo."

Now his face was really burning, but he didn't hesitate to comply, turning over and crawling higher on the bed, very aware of his bare ass exposed to the camera, to Rozanov's gaze. He settled down, unable to resist rubbing himself against the bed a little, already making a wet spot on the blanket. He thought dazedly that he should have put a towel down or something.

"Touch your ass, hold it open for me, let me see."

Fuck. Shane could hardly name or recognize the flood of sensation those words sent through him -- some overpowering mix of embarrassment, lust, excitement, too much to process -- but he did it, burying his face in his arm as he reached back with the other hand to grip one cheek and pull it to the side, hold it there. Knowing Rozanov was looking.

"No plug for me, I see," Rozanov said, his tone flat, unimpressed.

Shane lifted his head. "I didn't know when you were going to call! You can't just expect me to be ready at a moment's notice."

"Oh yes, I can," Rozanov argued. "If I had you here, I would keep you in a plug all the time, always ready to open for me. Take you whenever I wanted."

Oh fuck fuck. Shane had to rut against the bed a little to deal with that. He didn't think... he wasn't even sure that would be, like, medically advisable, but the words, the idea of it made him want to leap through the phone and beg for Rozanov's dick.

Fuck, this was intense.

"Touch your hole, put your fingers in, open it for me," Rozanov said. "I want to watch you."

"Jesus Christ," Shane muttered against his arm. He wanted to, honestly wanted to do anything Rozanov told him to do right now, and the feeling of being ordered around by a disembodied voice was doing it for him, just like on the phone yesterday. But he also felt like he was missing out.

"I can't even see you, it's not fair," he said, embarrassed that it came out a little whining.

Rozanov did that tongue click again, but when he spoke, he sounded a little softly pleased. "Needy Hollander. You have to look at me to get off?"

"No," Shane said, sulky. "I just want to."

That made Rozanov blow out a long breath. "Yes, okay, turn over, prop yourself up, look at me."

Shane rolled over, pulling a few pillows into a stack so that he could lay back but still be able to see the screen. Rozanov was peering at him as he got things arranged.

"Why do you have so many pillows, Hollander? Is ridiculous. Could prop yourself up to standing position."

"Shut up," Shane said, but he did, privately, agree that the decorator had gone overboard with all the pillows. He'd never been able to figure out what they were all supposed to be for, and he ended up stacking most of them next to the bed every night before he went to sleep, but he still felt compelled to replace them all every morning when he made the bed. At least they were coming in handy now.

Before he settled back down again, he leaned over to reach into his nightstand drawer, stretching his hand all the way to the back for the discreet box where he kept lube and... things. His eyes flicked a little nervously to the phone as he pulled out the lube, weirdly embarrassed for Rozanov to see his... private collection, even though he was about to do something much more private.

Rozanov noticed everything, though, his sharp, glittering gaze honing in on Shane's every movement.

"You have lube," he observed. "So maybe you were ready for me."

"No," Shane argued. "I just... keep it here."

"In case local bear wanders in from woods and wants to fuck you," Rozanov said flatly.

"Fuck off. It's just for jerking off, mostly."

"Ah, so for when you look at pictures of me," Rozanov said smugly, and then he seemed to register the last part of Shane's sentence, his voice dropping lower as he backtracked. "Wait, mostly? Hollander... you have toys in that box?"

God, why did this seem so embarrassing when he was literally about to open his hole in front of Rozanov?

"Yes," he muttered, unable to look at the camera.

Rozanov groaned, and a quick glance showed Shane that he was rolling onto his back, a hand over his eyes, pumping his dick a few times with his other hand. Shane's dick gave another involuntary spurt.

"Show me," Rozanov said roughly, rolling back to face his phone.

Sighing, Shane opened the box lid more fully and tipped it toward the screen to show the contents.

"Closer, bring it closer," Rozanov said, beckoning with a hand. "I will choose for you."

Okay, fuck, that was very hot. Shane scrambled off the bed and brought the box close to the phone, watching as Rozanov's eyes roamed over the small but varied collection.

"I am impressed, Hollander," Rozanov said, his eyes blazing bright. "I have... too many ideas now, but... the biggest one. Take that out."

Shane knew which one he meant, of course, flushing as he pulled out the longest, widest dildo, a vaguely pinkish one, and dropped the rest of the box on the dresser. He brought the dildo and the lube back to the bed, heart pounding as he settled back against the pillows, knees bent and legs parted. His dick was still madly straining upward, waving between his legs and leaking steadily.

"Now, show me," Rozanov said, almost a growl. "Open yourself up, get yourself ready for it. I will tell you when to use it."

Shane moaned a little, unable to resist giving his dick a quick squeeze and tug, feeling like it would burst if he didn't touch it at least a little. But, mindful of Rozanov's direction, he got the lube bottle open and coated his fingers, reached down between his legs to stroke over his hole. He had to close his eyes for this part, even though he'd made a fuss about wanting to see Rozanov. He did want to, but he couldn't bring himself to meet those hungry, all-observing eyes at this moment.

Rozanov was mostly silent, just his rapid breathing evident as Shane slid one finger inside, making an involuntary, embarrassing "aahhhhaha" noise as he did it.

"Yes, more," Rozanov gritted out. "Two fingers now."

Shane pulled back and then worked two fingers in, the stretch burning in that pain/pleasure way that lit up all his nerve endings, the anticipation of more and the keen awareness of Rozanov's eyes on him making him clench and throb.

He worked diligently, adding a third finger at Rozanov's direction, scissoring his fingers inside, gasping and moaning through it.

"You are ready for it?" Rozanov was almost panting now, and when Shane looked up at the phone at last, splayed out with three fingers inside himself, he saw Rozanov stroking himself rapidly, his eyes half-lidded and glittering.

"Yes, yes, I'm ready, I want it," he said.

"Do it now, put it in, take it," Rozanov said, and Shane groaned and pulled out his fingers, shakily picked up the dildo and hurriedly coated it in lube.

The stretch felt incredible when he pressed it to his entrance, still so much larger than his hand, but he wanted it, wanted to take it, wanted Rozanov to see it. God, he felt like he was on fire, his skin burning, his entire body focused down on the pressing splitting filling feeling as he worked it slowly inside.

"You are so good, so good for me, Hollander," Rozanov was almost crooning. "Look at you taking it, like you would take my cock if I were there. I would fill you so full, you would be so tight for me, fuck, Hollander."

He switched to Russian then, a long string of words Shane couldn't understand, then half-broken phrases spilling out. Then, as the dildo finally sank in, fully seated, and Shane gave a long, low moan of pleasure, his hips bucking as the toy inside him pressed tight on his prostate, Rozanov sounded almost desperate.

"Stroke yourself, Hollander, do it now."

Shane grabbed his dick and stroked, hips rolling over the dildo inside him as he struggled to sit up, to see. Rozanov was curled forward toward the camera, face pulled into a grimace as he came. Shane watched wide-eyed as Rozanov's cock spurted again and again over his chest and stomach, striping those carved, flexing muscles, and then Shane came with a wail, hand flying over his dick, the dildo pressing pressing pressing inside him.

He felt himself trembling, moaning, gasping as it went on, his thoughts blanking, nothing but the afterimage of Rozanov's shooting cock burning on the inside of his eyelids. Fuck fuck fuck, he felt like he'd never come so hard or so long in his life.

He couldn't move, after. He lay sprawled on his back, all the pillows slipped out from beneath him, arms and legs dropped like heavy weights, breath heaving in his chest. After a few long moments, he lifted his head, neck straining, to look at Rozanov, who was collapsed back against the headboard of his bed, watching Shane with half-closed eyes.

As Shane watched him, Rozanov trailed his fingers through the mess of come on his abs, lifting some up for Shane to see.

"If you were here, I would give you this," he said, his voice a low rasp. "Would put it in your mouth, push it onto your tongue. Would you take it?"

"Yes, god, fuck," Shane said, head falling back, his dick giving a struggling twitch at the idea even though it was utterly spent. He managed to drag one pillow over to prop up his head.

Rozanov was scrubbing his other hand over his face, muttering in Russian. Then, "You make me feel insane, Hollander."

Shane breathed, considering that. He supposed it was crazy, what they were doing, had just done. It didn't make him feel insane, though. If anything, his mind felt blissfully calm and simple right now, like a cool gray space where nothing lived but the thump of his slowly steadying heartbeat. But he didn't know how to say you make me feel nothing in a way that Rozanov would know what he meant, would understand the relief of it, the elated freedom of it.

So he just said, "Yeah, me too."

"You are okay?" Rozanov said, voice low. "That was... maybe a lot."

"It was perfect," Shane breathed, too fucked-out and loose to even think about guarding his words.

Rozanov had a hand over his mouth, but his eyes looked sharp now. Shane wished he were closer to the phone so he could see that expression better, try to understand it, but his limbs were too weighty to move, his brain too light and clear to have more than the most basic impulses.

"I should go," Rozanov said after a long beat of silence. "Let you get cleaned up."

"Yeah, right," Shane said, nodding against the pillow.

"I will... message you later," Rozanov murmured, and then he ended the call.

Shane was content to lie there for a while, eyes closed, listening to the silence ringing gently in his ears, lightly marveling that this thing with Rozanov had happened, mostly feeling glad that it had. That it was?

Anyway, that it had.

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

Putting notes at the bottom this time to avoid tiny chapter spoilers. :)

Ilya bought a tablet device, and a little tripod to hold it.

He had a very fancy tablet already, but he'd left it back in Boston because he rarely bothered to use it. But it was suddenly absolutely necessary that he have one here. His phone screen was way too small.

Back at his apartment, he was working through the setup for the device and thinking about when he might get to use it, trying to solve the complicated math problem of how often was too often to virtually fuck Hollander. They'd had two nights in a row, but he knew that did not count as precedent. They could not just keep doing it every night, stacking up encounters one after another without some distance between them. It would be too much, would make things seem... something they were not.

He had loose rules around this kind of thing in his normal, actual life. He wasn't prone to repeat hook-ups, but if he did they were spaced well apart, partly for the joy of variety and partly so that no one had misunderstandings about how things stood. Easier to keep things light and fun that way, and there were always new options available.

The problem was that no other options seemed appealing at the moment.

The problem was that he didn't want to wait where Hollander was concerned.

He would, because he was not an impulsive, incautious child, but any time his thoughts even edged toward the memory of Hollander laid out across his bed, face flushed and fingers sunk deep, a delicious stream of moans and gasping breaths coming from that plush mouth... Fuck. It was hard to think of anything else.

But it had happened again the second time, afterward. The urge to say things, to ask for things, so nearly overpowering he'd had to hold his own mouth shut until he could cool his heated mind. That was dangerous, felt just a bit beyond his control, and he didn't quite understand it.

He thought it must be the distance. If he could just once actually touch Hollander's skin, feel those hot, pink flushes under his fingertips, hear those provocative sounds without electronic filters, get himself actually inside, feel the tight, thrilling heat of Hollander taking him for real...

He paused, swallowed, remembered where he was, what he was supposed to be doing. Frowned down at the device's setup screen.

Well, then it might be enough, that was all. Then he could possibly put this out of his mind. As it was, no matter what he got from the deliciously pliant, willing Hollander on the other side of a screen, no matter how hot and intoxicating the climax, it still felt a little like a tease. Not enough, not enough at all.

At least three days, he thought. That was enough of a wait, he felt reasonably sure. Would keep it casual, and sharpen Hollander's anticipation in the meantime. Not that he didn't seem to be already dying for it every time Ilya got him out of his clothes, which was... well, part of the fucking problem.

Anyway. Meanwhile Ilya would not contact Hollander at all. Would not think of him. Would do other things, fuck other people, put him out of his mind entirely.

💤Hollander: This is a loon, FYI.

The message popped up on the tablet as it simultaneously buzzed on Ilya's phone.

Ilya clicked it, studied the picture of the weird, red-eyed bird/duck thing. He felt himself smiling at Hollander's stiff, formal message. "FYI," like he was a businessman in an office cubicle.

But Hollander had thought to text him at what was, again, early in the morning for him, and Ilya... did not mind that.

Ilya: woke up thinking of me, Hollander?
I was in all your dreams?

💤Hollander: Fuck off. I was just out for my run and saw this. Figured you needed help with your taxonomy.

Ilya: thank you for bird picture
would rather have another picture of you 🥵😉

💤Hollander: Yeah, not falling for that again.

Ilya snorted. As if he had tricked Hollander into sending his naughty photo somehow.

He might have tried it, he reflected, if he'd ever imagined there was such a possibility.

Ilya: but you did take away all photos
nothing for me to paint now ☹️🎨

He did a little bit want those photos back. Not the naked one -- well, yes, the naked one, but he didn't want Hollander to panic again. But the others, he had liked those, too, and Hollander had unsent all of them in the text thread.

💤Hollander: Like I said, no more sending photos for me.
Back to the hockey card, I guess.

Ilya: 🙄🙄🙄
you could send ONE photo
not that one 🙄
just be fucking careful this time

There was no reply for a while, which made Ilya annoyed. He had the urge to pester Hollander with more texts until he gave in -- he had a pretty good idea now of his own ability to convince Hollander to do things.

But hadn't he just told himself he was not going to contact Hollander for three days? He'd already made a mess of that resolution, he wasn't going to make it worse now by doing more. So, no more for three days, starting now.

💤Hollander: If I sent one, which one would you want?
Not that one.

Ilya: glasses one

💤Hollander: ?
Really?

Ilya: 🤓🤓🤓🤓🤓🤓🤓

💤Hollander: Oh, right. Because I look like a nerd. Of course you want to paint that one.

Ilya sighed. He should just leave it there -- mostly because he was not supposed to be texting Hollander for three days, resolution failed again -- but also because there was no reason for him to reveal his complicated glasses feelings to Hollander.

But it just seemed... wrong, somehow. That Hollander did not know his glasses were sexy. That he would think Ilya was wanting to make fun of him. Which... Ilya did want to make fun of him. For FYI and for canoeing and for generally being very boring, except when he was naked. But not for sexy glasses.

Ilya: no, Hollander
because your glasses are sexy

💤Hollander: Are you being sincere right now?
It's very hard to tell with you.

Ilya: sincere, yes
I would not lie about sexiness

💤Hollander: If you say so.

He sent the picture. Ilya saved it into his photos so he would not lose this one, spent... a little time looking at it again.

Then he left his apartment to find things to do to fill three long days.

--------

A few hours later, Hollander texted him again, this time with a link to a news story about a veteran player on the San Francisco hockey team announcing his retirement.

💤Hollander: Did you see this? Peterson out at last? Kinda thought he would be playing forever.

Ilya grunted, rolled his eyes. Boring. No need to respond to this one. He could easily keep to his resolution.

But his phone felt heavy in his pocket over the next hour, like it was nagging at him. Maybe it was a little rude to not reply. He was trying to keep his distance from Hollander, not act like an asshole to him. And, anyway, what he'd decided was not to contact Hollander, but this wasn't making contact, this was simply replying to contact. Different thing.

Blowing out a breath, he pulled out his phone and texted back. Briefly.

Ilya: should have retired back in 1800s
so old and slow

Hollander's reply came back right away.

💤Hollander: I know it's bad to say, but...
Right?
SO slow. Like he's skating in molasses.

Ilya snorted at that. Surprisingly bitchy, for Hollander, even though it was as weak and corny as most of his sad attempts at chirping on the ice.

Predictably, Hollander felt bad about it a moment later.

💤Hollander: But he was a great player for a long time.
Sorry to see him go.

Ilya: no you are not
slow players clutter up ice
let him go fishing with other grandpas

💤Hollander: Hey, I like fishing!

Ilya rolled his eyes again. Of course Hollander liked fishing, world's most boring activity.

💤Hollander: But yeah, it's probably time.
Although who's really old is Nash in Dallas.
I swear he puts Metamucil in his water bottle during games.

A noise escaped Ilya before he could stop it. Almost, horrifyingly, like a giggle. It was not deserved. Hollander was so bad at chirping, like an elementary school child. Still, Ilya liked seeing this mildly impolite side of him. Hollander would probably never say rude things about anyone in a normal context, but he was so unwaveringly committed to excellent hockey that it probably did truly annoy him when players were bad.

Ilya: yes, his bones rattle like haunted skeleton when I check him
but at least he is not scoreless disaster like Maki

💤Hollander: Oh my god, right?
How does he miss so often?
Hand-eye coordination of a newborn baby.

They ended up texting for nearly an hour, bitching back and forth about less talented hockey players. Surprisingly enjoyable. Ilya only remembered he'd been planning to go get food when his stomach rumbled angrily at him.

He locked his phone, went to eat. Wondered if he had to start the three-day clock over again or not.

------------

Ilya was half-heartedly flirting with a very stunning woman in a nightclub when Hollander texted again, in the evening of that same day. Ilya felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and felt sure it was him, stood looking at the woman while she talked without really seeing her as he debated whether to check the message.

He should ignore it, he knew. He was failing so badly at the three days of distance that he almost felt embarrassed about it. It wasn't like him, and it seemed like something of a problem.

But the other problem was that there was no part of him that really wanted to ignore the message, and Ilya was a little too used to getting what he wanted when it came to people he wanted to fuck.

He managed to wait until the woman in front of him had finished speaking, then he said, "One moment," to her and pulled out his phone. Just as he was doing it, it buzzed again, but when he looked at his notifications, there was nothing. Puzzled, he opened the text chain with Hollander.

--💤Hollander unsent a message--

Oh, no. That would not do at all. Now he was suddenly on fire to know what Hollander had texted and then reconsidered. He turned away from the woman and moved toward the entrance of the club, so busy with his phone he forgot to say anything to her.

Ilya: what was that?
what did you unsend?

💤Hollander: Oh. You can see that?

Ilya: yes Hollander
you do not know how texting works?
what did you send

💤Hollander: Oh nothing.
Don't worry, haha. Not another picture.
Never mind.

Ilya: Hollander tell me

There was a long pause, which grated on Ilya's nerves. He had to restrain himself with difficulty from sending a dozen more demands. Then,

💤Hollander: Ask nicely. 😉

Ilya felt like his eyes might burst out of his face. Hollander, being a brat? What was happening in the universe?

The tingling-hot feeling of Hollander that seemed to live under his skin flared like fire, and he stood there in the middle of the club, staring at his phone and trying to compose a reply while his brain felt like it was malfunctioning.

💤Hollander: Sorry, that was just a joke.
Anyway, it's no big deal.
I was just checking in.
But then I thought, probably I had bothered you enough for one day, so.

Leaving aside the fact that Hollander's texts had never bothered him yet, which was a little concerning on its own and which he was not going to say, Ilya wasn't quite sure what to make of this. Checking in was what people did when they were worried for you, like if you got an injury on the ice. He didn't think that was what Hollander meant, but he wanted to be sure exactly.

Ilya: why checking in?
what do you mean

Again, there was a too-long pause, and Ilya's impatience filled up his whole chest.

💤Hollander: Like... to see if you wanted to.
Today. Or not.
But I'm sure you're probably busy.
Which is fine.
I can entertain myself, haha.

Ilya had to hold his face in his hand for a moment to try to cope with this. Was Hollander always this fucking hot for it, or was he doing this to make Ilya crazy? "Checking in" because he couldn't even go a day without it, fuck. Threatening to "entertain" himself with his hidden little box of sex toys, and not letting Ilya see?

He typed furiously at his phone.

Ilya: everyone thinks you live like a monk
is all I hear about you
Hollander never goes out, never has girlfriend
only cares about hockey
how are you hiding it so well??

💤Hollander: Hiding what?
I don't go out much, and I don't have a girlfriend.
Do you mean hiding that I'm... you know

Ilya blew out a frustrated breath.

Ilya: no, not that
hiding that you are a thirsty little slut
dying for dick all the time

💤Hollander: That was uncalled for.
Have a good night.

Ilya: no, no Hollander
was not insult
was compliment

💤Hollander: That was a compliment?
Sure.

Ilya: you just make me crazy
can't say it right

💤Hollander: I think you could've done better than that.

Oh, fuck. Now Hollander was making the angry kitten face, and it was Ilya's fault. He was making a mess of this because his thoughts were so disordered he couldn't make the words right, especially in English.

The thumping music and jostling crowd in the club were not helping. He pushed his way outside onto the street, tearing his eyes from his phone for long enough to locate a cab and flag it down. He climbed in, gave the driver his address, and frantically began to pour words into his phone, as fast as he could think of them.

Ilya: no, listen
wait
it is so hot
you are so hot Hollander
and everyone thinks you are like
untouched or don't care
but you are wanting it yesterday, day before, today
is so so hot
no one knows this about you
but now I know
and it makes my head feel like
explosions

He couldn't think of anything else to write. His brain felt feverish. He sat back against the seat of the cab, breath coming too fast, waiting for Hollander's reply. He felt like he waited a long time.

💤Hollander: Well, I don't think that's exactly fair.
I was just checking because I have dinner with my parents later.
So I have a limited window today.
And we didn't set any parameters or whatever, I don't know.
But I don't think checking for clarity makes me... what you called me.

Ilya thunked his head back against the seat. Fuck, this was the problem. Hollander didn't even know he was such a thirsty slut, couldn't even type the words, thought they were too scandalous to mention.

Ilya: no you are right
my fault, I use wrong words
sorry
I meant as good thing
is so sexy Hollander

💤Hollander: I guess. Still feels kind of like you're messing with me.

Ilya: I am not
I am being sincere

The cab had reached his building, so Ilya paid and got out, watching his phone as he made his way up to his apartment.

💤Hollander: Okay. Fine.

He still seemed mad, those one-word emphatic sentences clipped off with periods. But Ilya felt it was salvaged enough that he could push forward.

Ilya: I am home now
we can video call?

He was already looking around for his tablet, unfolding the little tripod, when Hollander's reply came through.

💤Hollander: I don't know.
Now it's almost time for me to start getting ready to go.

The relief Ilya had been starting to feel abruptly fell away as a new surge of concern shot through him.

Ilya: we have time
can be so quick

💤Hollander: Wow, you really know how to make it sound appealing.

Now Ilya was starting to circle around to being annoyed.

Ilya: I could make you come in under one minute, Hollander
if I could get my hands on you
my mouth on you
and you would not be complaining

No smart-ass reply from Hollander to that. Which meant he was already thinking about it, picturing it. Ilya pushed a little more.

Ilya: if I took that dripping cock of yours into my mouth
swallowed you down
put my fingers in you
you would be moaning in seconds
begging for me to get you off

He waited, eyes narrowed, watching the phone.

💤Hollander: Okay, yeah. Call me.
Please.

He probably could have made Hollander come in seconds even over video, but he didn't make it that easy. He brought Hollander three times so close to the edge and made him stop, hissing and complaining, before he let him finish himself off. The sight of him -- so much better, closer on the tablet screen -- jolting and twitching and crying out as he came, pushed Ilya over the edge not long after.

After, when Hollander was panting on his bed with the five hundred pillows, come-streaked abs and chest heaving, Ilya watched him with shrewd calculation despite his own racing heart and rapid breathing.

"You love it, Hollander. You want it so bad, and you love it when you get it," he observed, putting just enough of an edge in his voice to light Hollander up.

In his spent, lax state, Hollander was in no condition to deny it. "Yeah," he breathed, and Ilya nodded.

"And do you know why?"

Hollander lifted his head a little to peer at Ilya in hazy confusion. "What? Why?"

Ilya popped his eyebrows. "Because you are a thirsty little slut."

"Fuck," Hollander said, dropping his head back. Then after a moment. "Okay, fine, I get it."

Ilya smiled wide in triumph, delighted.

But when they ended the call and Ilya was alone in his bed, he started to think. To realize.

He had left a club where he could've fucked someone for real, raced home, felt frantic, poured out feelings to cajole Hollander, forgot entirely about the three-day rule... all so he could get off to a twenty minute video call.

And he had no regrets. Knew that if he could make the decision again, he would not change it.

Fuck. He might be a little bit fucked.

Chapter End Notes

Hey, here I am at the bottom! (Shane-coded lol)

First, just want to say that Ilya's three-day rule is like me holding back on posting chapters. I like to stay a few ahead so there's never a long gap, but I waaaaaant to post as soon as I write them. I am working on chapter 9 right now and... I think you will like it.

Second, I don't know any hockey players, so sorry if I named a real one accidentally. No shade to any actual Nash or Maki, if they exist.

Third, I am a thirsty little slut for comments, so thanks to all who take the time to send them. :))))

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

uh oh, these boys are having feelings...

Shane had a video call with Rozanov every day for the next seven days. They ran through all of the toys in Shane's hidden box, and he nervously went online to buy some more, worried Rozanov would lose interest.

He was half-convinced that every time would be the last. He didn't believe Rozanov would want to keep doing this indefinitely; at some point whatever was keeping him coming back -- novelty, maybe? -- was going to wear off, and Rozanov would go back to actually having sex with real people, in person.

Or actually, probably, Rozanov was already also having sex with real people, in person, all the time. Which was fine. Expected. Shane didn't have any particular feelings about that. It was just normal.

Anyway. Shane told himself that it was all fine -- he would enjoy it for as long as he could have it, and then he'd be okay without it again. He had gone months and years without regular access to any kind of sex with another person in the past. He didn't really want that, but he could cope with it.

Even if, sometimes, if he thought Rozanov wanted to skip a day, Shane kind of felt like kicking things, or like he might lose his mind or something. That was just... he wasn't... it didn't mean he couldn't...

Fuck. Maybe he really was a thirsty little slut.

He had to admit he'd been having some mildly concerning thoughts lately about whether there was any way to make things happen in person somehow. Just stupid thoughts, really. Maybe idly checking about flights to Moscow, which was really dumb, idiotically dumb, he knew, because wasn't it like, illegal to be gay in Russia in the first place? And he could just imagine Rozanov's reaction to Shane showing up unexpectedly in Russia, for fuck's sake. Hollander, you are crazy person? You thought I wanted you here?

Plus, there was no way he could casually explain a trip to Russia to his parents, or if any of his teammates found out, not to mention the fucking media if they caught wind of it. No, no no. It was just a stupid thought, he wasn't thinking seriously about that, he was going to put that right out of his mind, because it wasn't like he was going to die if he didn't get to touch Rozanov for real.

If anything, maybe he could just wait for the season to start? Maybe when their teams played in the fall, there would be some way they could arrange to secretly meet up?

That did seem like a really long way off, though. Shane was always impatient for the season to start, but this felt somehow more unendurable than waiting to get back on the ice.

A couple of hours later, he wasn't thinking about any of that anymore because he couldn't think at all with the white-hot sensations running through his entire body, balls tight, spine arching, hand frantically stroking his dick, crazy-making pulsing of the vibrating dildo in his ass, and Rozanov's rough voice in his ears telling him to come now.

He did, overwhelmed as always by how intense and breathtaking and prolonged it was. So good it took over his whole body, filled him with hot pulsing pleasure that seemed to go all the way to the insides of his cells. It was like Rozanov had invented a new and improved kind of orgasm and gifted it to him.

Rozanov didn't end the call right away, and after Shane had been floating and breathing for some undetermined amount of time, he came back to awareness enough to notice how quiet Rozanov had gotten on the other side of the screen. Shane had switched to his tablet for these calls after the first time, and as he sat up -- wincing a little as he carefully pulled the dildo out and tossed it onto a towel he'd left on the floor -- he could see Rozanov's expression more clearly.

Shane wasn't the best at interpreting expressions, honestly, but he was familiar enough with Rozanov's by now to know that something was different today. Usually, at the end part of a call, if Rozanov stayed on the line instead of getting up pretty quickly to end it, he was teasing or provocative, laughingly chirping about how much Shane had loved it, or idly making plans for what he was going to make him do the next time.

This time he was just sitting still, propped against his headboard and smoking a cigarette, eyes occasionally flicking toward Shane on the screen.

He looked kind of... sad.

Shane sat a little closer to the tablet so he wasn't as exposed, just his head and shoulders in the shot. It just felt weird to ask someone about their feelings when you had your dick out.

"You... okay?" he asked.

Rozanov looked at him sharply then, in a way that Shane thought was sort of curious, but also maybe a little annoyed.

"Yes. Of course. Why?"

Shane shrugged. "I don't know. I just thought you seemed... kind of off today, or something."

Now Rozanov definitely looked annoyed. "Oh, I am 'off' today? I did not hear you complaining that I was 'off' when you were telling me how much you wanted my dick inside you five minutes ago."

"Jesus," Shane said, blinking a little bit as he shook his head. "I didn't mean that. I wasn't complaining. I liked... all of that. Obviously."

"Yes, obviously," Rozanov snapped back. "You said 'thank you' three times at the end."

Shit, had he? He didn't remember that, always got a little out of his head at the end. Kind of embarrassing. But whatever.

"Okay, fuck. I'm not talking about that. I'm just saying you look like... maybe something's wrong."

"Nothing is wrong," Rozanov said, looking away, scowling.

"Okay, well, that wasn't super convincing, but... I mean, obviously you don't have to tell me anything. But if you did want to talk or whatever. I mean. We could. We can."

Rozanov looked at him sharply again. "Oh. Is that what we're doing here? Therapy session?"

Shane rolled his eyes, even though... it did kind of feel like it was therapy for him, or better than therapy sometimes. His head never felt lighter or clearer than after this.

Rozanov obviously didn't agree. He was leaning forward now, eyes tightening.

"Or we are best friends, braiding each other's hair and telling each other secrets?"

"Jesus, fine. I get it. Never mind. Sorry I asked."

Rozanov went silent again, looking away, rolling his jaw a little. He still looked annoyed or... something. Shane couldn't quite read the expression.

Maybe he should just end the call now. He didn't want Rozanov to think he was, like, trying to make this something it wasn't. Clearly Rozanov did not want to extend whatever they were doing to the level of friendship, so it wasn't--

"Sorry," Rozanov muttered abruptly. "I didn't... I am, maybe..." He shook his head, blew out a breath. "Is just family problems. My father is... not well." He waved a hand, dismissing it.

Shane felt a surge of sympathy. He loved his own dad so much he couldn't imagine how he'd feel if he wasn't okay.

"Oh, I'm sorry. He's sick?"

Rozanov was still not looking at him. He took a drag on his cigarette. Shane wasn't sure he was going to answer.

"He is old," he said at last. "And losing his mind. Dementia."

"Oh, fuck," Shane breathed. "That's terrible."

"Yes. I saw him today. I am trying to figure out what to do for him, but. Is complicated. And my brother is no fucking help."

"What... about your mom?" Shane asked softly.

Rozanov's eyes flicked to him for a flash of a second. "She is... dead. Long time ago."

Something welled in Shane's chest at that. He was overwhelmed by the idea of not having your mom in your life. His mom was still such a big part of his. And Rozanov was his age -- his mom must have died when he was just a kid.

"Fuck, Rozanov. I don't know what to say. That's awful."

Rozanov kind of smiled, a little. It was tight and didn't reach his eyes. "Is okay, there is nothing to say." He sniffed, stubbed out his cigarette. "I should go."

"Okay," Shane said, a little reluctantly. He wanted to ask more, or say something else, but he couldn't think of anything. Selfishly, he also wanted to ask if they were going to do this again tomorrow, but it didn't seem like the right time.

After Rozanov ended the call, Shane sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, thinking. He was thinking all through his shower, and while he ate his warmed-up dinner of salmon and vegetables.

He kind of couldn't believe Rozanov was dealing with all that, and apparently had been for a long time. It made Shane feel a little bit like a dick, because he'd... he'd had this idea of Rozanov in his head this whole time, for years, actually, without really realizing that he had created it himself. He'd thought he knew what Rozanov was like, who he was.

"Effortless" was the word that came to mind. Rozanov, so talented on the ice, but so... fucking nonchalant about it. Like it came so easily, no sign of the discipline and regimented routine and effort Shane was always pouring in to be the best. No matter how hard Shane worked, Rozanov was always right there with him, surpassing him half the time, even while he wasn't taking it fucking seriously.

The way it had looked to Shane was that Rozanov had it so much easier, didn't have to try so hard or care so much, could just drink and party and fuck everyone within arm's reach, and Shane didn't even want those things, but he'd also always believed he couldn't have had them anyway because hockey. Hockey was the priority and hockey meant sacrifice and work, not good times and fun, not for him, not the way Rozanov got to have it.

Easy. He'd thought things were easy for Rozanov, and he'd been mad about it and envious.

And now, to find out that this whole time, Rozanov had been carrying all of this, his mother dead since he was a kid, his dad old and sick, and Rozanov stuck with figuring out what to do about it. Meanwhile Shane had both his parents and hardly anything he had to worry about in his life except for hockey, so little that wasn't handled and managed for him.

He felt, weirdly, a little sick about it, the abrupt realization that he had been unfair and wrong. He didn't know what to do with the feeling.

He kind of felt like apologizing to Rozanov, but that was a nonstarter. What good was an apology when it would need to be prefaced by telling someone all the shitty things you'd thought about them that they didn't even know about, would never have known about if you just didn't say anything. Hey I kind of thought you were an asshole all this time, but it turns out maybe the asshole is me. What good would that do anyone?

He thought about how Rozanov had helped him, that day out on the deck, talking to him slow and patient and probably for ages, cracking through his panic and making it better. The memory made his insides twist harder with self-recrimination.

Feeling suddenly determined to do... something, he pulled his laptop over from the kitchen counter to the table, cracked it open. He took a deep breath, and started searching.

----------

Ilya woke up the next morning with a headache and a sense that yesterday had caused it, the foulness of the day still lingering.

It pressed on his eyes as soon as he opened them, the dreadful pervasive I don't want this weight of the responsibilities he would need to handle.

His father was getting worse every time Ilya could bring himself to check on him, and no one else seemed poised to do anything about it, so. There it was.

He would figure it out.

He went to the kitchen for tea and thought about calls he should start making, but when he opened his phone, what caught his eye was a text notification. He thought: Hollander, and something lifted inside him, and that was a problem.

But he went to look at the message anyway. Maybe Hollander had sent him more boring hockey news, or another stupid loon picture. The thought came with a soft but definite feeling of fondness, and that was a problem.

What registered first was that Hollander's message was a huge block of text, a crowded rectangle of words that filled the whole screen and left more to scroll. What registered next was the first line.

💤Hollander: Hey. This is weird and I'm sorry

Ilya slapped his phone face-down on the kitchen counter and sucked in a breath, feeling like he'd been high-sticked in the face.

Fuck.

Okay. Okay. He gripped the edge of the counter with both hands and worked to swallow down whatever stupid feeling was swelling up inside him. Hollander was ending it, fine. It had gotten weird, Hollander was sorry, Ilya knew what the message would say. Didn't need to read a fucking novel-length apology about it.

He had the urge to send a message back without even looking at the giant block of whatever Hollander had spent so long composing. Fine. Whatever. You think I care?

Fuck.

He shouldn't have said all of that yesterday, fuck. Why had he let Hollander prod him into saying things, talking about his family like a whiny schoolchild? He'd fucked up, forgotten about maintaining distance, had been obliterating the three days rule so badly he hadn't even managed one day in a week, and then he'd said things he rarely told anyone.

Now he felt exposed, stupid. And it had obviously been too much for Hollander, too personal. It was not what they did. And Hollander was the one who had asked, but clearly now he regretted it.

And the worst part was that Ilya would never have let any of that slip out if he hadn't been so distracted working not to say other things, the things that always pressed on him when he saw Hollander fucking losing his mind with pleasure, that hungry-desperate need to really touch Hollander that made crazy impulses seem reasonable, like what if he just went to fucking Canada, there were flights and planes for that and he had money for it, why not, why not, even though the reasons why not were thousand-fold and he knew them very well.

Fuck.

And it was eight in the fucking morning, so he couldn't even go out, go to a club, get drunk, pick up someone to fuck, all the impulses thrumming through him were fucking inconveniently timed. He just had to sit with this whatever fucking feeling in the hard glare of morning sunlight and manage it.

Okay. He shook himself out. Steeled himself. Read the fucking message.

💤Hollander: Hey. This is weird and I'm sorry if I'm overstepping by sending this. I don't want to imply that you don't know this stuff or that you're not already doing a good job taking care of your dad, I'm sure you are. I just looked up some stuff and thought I would send it in case there's anything useful that you don't already know. And then when I got it all together I realized it was really long and a lot, so sorry about that too. It's too long for a text, I realize that, but I don't have your email. So I put most of the stuff together in a folder that I'm sharing a link to below. The first part is sort of a summary I made of the most useful things I found, at least I think so. Mostly resources for, like, in-home nursing and specialized dementia care available in Moscow. I probably misunderstood some of it because I was translating with one of those apps that I'm sure is not very accurate, so I'm sure I got stuff wrong, and sorry about that. Wish I could read Russian haha. There are things in English too, mostly just tips for caregivers and like supplements that may be effective. I take a lot of supplements myself so I guess I'm a believer. I know that probably won't help much but I thought just in case. Anyway this is probably the most boring message you've ever gotten from me haha, so I'll just put the link in and leave it there. But again, I hope this isn't too weird or doesn't offend you or anything. I just wanted to try to help, I guess. Sorry.
Resource Packet Link

Ilya put the phone down, leaned over the kitchen counter to put his head down on his folded arms. He stayed like that for long moments, just breathing and trying very hard not to do anything else with his face or his eyes.

Fucking Hollander. Deked him again with an impossible-to-predict move. What the fuck was Ilya supposed to do now?

When he felt a little more under control, he clicked on the link, pressing his lips together hard as he scrolled through Hollander's compact, bullet-pointed summary listing caregivers, specialty areas, ratings and recommendations, phone numbers, all of it local to Ilya and in Russian which Hollander couldn't even read without painstakingly running every word through some app he'd had to specifically download. There was more, so much more, pages of information and links to websites with explanations of what they offered and all of it like miraculous answers to questions Ilya hadn't even thought of yet.

He dropped his phone on the counter and walked to his bedroom, fell down on the bed and pressed his face into his pillow. Broken thoughts drifted through his brain. Conscientious, meticulous fucking Hollander. Must have spent hours. Translating the fucking words. Making bullet points. One thousand apologies in that text for the most thoughtful fucking thing anyone...

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

After a while, he rolled over and stared at the ceiling, kind of gasping with it a little. Finally, he got up and went back to the kitchen to get his phone again. He wanted, he needed to say something back, but everything he thought to say was way too intense and crazy. Finally, he settled on:

Ilya: that is very kind
thank you

Then, because he wanted to make sure Hollander knew he meant it, he sent another message.

Ilya: I am being sincere

It was way too early for Hollander to see the texts -- the middle of the night in Canada. Ilya tried to put it all out of his mind -- not easy, as he spent the morning using Hollander's resources to make calls and set up appointments. It was a little after one o'clock when Hollander messaged back.

💤Hollander: You're welcome.

Then, a few moments later:

💤Hollander: Would it be weird if I called you Ilya?
Feels kind of
I don't know
to keep saying Rozanov all the time.

Ilya felt a spear through his chest that made it a little hard to breathe for a second. This was going to fucking kill him. He ran a hand into his hair and pulled a bit to steady himself. Typed out his response slowly and carefully.

Ilya: ok Shane

💤Hollander: Haha look at us.
So friendly.
Who would've thought.
You want to braid my hair next? 😄

Ilya laughed softly, tried to pull himself together enough to respond in the light, joking way Shane was doing, instead of blurting out all the stabbing scary feelings and thoughts inside him.

Ilya: no but
I would suck your cock
that's pretty friendly, yes?

💤Hollander: 🙄 That's one word for it I guess.

Ilya: video call later?
will tell you other words about your cock

💤Hollander: Jesus.
Yes.

Ilya: good
put a plug in now so you'll be ready

💤Hollander: Wait, now?

💤Hollander: Ready for when?

💤Hollander: What time are you going to call?

💤Hollander: Ilya

💤Hollander: Ilya!

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

I doubt the last chapter left anyone in suspense about what Shane would do, but... now you know. ;)

Thank you to everyone who reads and everyone who has ever or will ever leave a comment; y'all don't even know how happy it all makes me.

Shane was spitting mad by the time Ilya video called him several hours later. Mad, frustrated, and so squirmingly turned on he could hardly think straight.

Because of course he'd done it, he was so weak whenever Ilya told him to do something that he always gave in. Now he'd had a plug in his ass for hours, had had to go about his day feeling it and knowing it was there and knowing why it was there and thinking about what was going to happen, and it was not okay and he had never been so frantic to come in his life.

"What the fuck?" he said as he answered the video call. Ilya was already grinning like a shark as he appeared on the screen, but he started laughing as soon as he saw Shane's face.

"You were a good boy and did what I said?" he asked, although he obviously already knew the truth.

"Fuck you, that was not cool," Shane said. "I had, like, stuff to do today, and it was really weird and awkward."

Ilya's eyes got a hungry glint, and he settled back against his headboard, distractingly shirtless, still smiling. "Hmm... tell me everything you did. But first -- which one did you pick?"

Okay, that was a little embarrassing. But he felt pinned to the spot by Ilya's sharp gaze, and anyway Ilya would know soon enough anyway.

He rolled his eyes. "The... blue one."

Ilya's eyebrows went up. "Oh, you mean the big one."

"Well, they're all pretty big, it's not like there's much of a choice," Shane argued.

"Hmm, yes, and you bought them all, so what does that tell you?" Ilya said.

"Shut up," Shane said, impatient. "Can we, like, get on with it now?"

"Yes, we can get on with you telling me all the things you did today with your biggest, very favorite plug in your ass."

Shane huffed. "Well, I had to have a call with my agent -- that was fun. I had to walk around the whole time because there was no comfortable sitting position."

Ilya cracked up again, and Shane was mad about it, but also... it was crazy how seeing Ilya's face like that, all lit up and happy, made a different kind of sensation sweep through Shane's body.

"And I had a workout planned," he went on, maybe leaning in to the comedy a bit to see if he could make Ilya laugh again. "I was supposed to do shoulders but there's too much sitting in that, so I switched to legs and that was not a good decision."

Ilya was howling, leaning over like it was too funny to stay upright, and Shane could feel himself kind of smiling, even though he was still frustrated about it.

"Ah," Ilya sighed happily. "I did not know you were so funny, Hollander, you kill me."

Shane noticed the use of his last name, and he wasn't sure what it meant. He wasn't even sure why he'd made such a point of asking about using first names, why it seemed important. It was just something about how he'd kind of reassessed his ideas about Rozanov... about Ilya. Like it deserved some marker or recognition, and the first name thing had felt right. Like, he didn't go around calling Hayden "Pike," so if he and Ilya were getting to be... friendlier, why wouldn't they use first names? He'd even spent some time considering changing the name in his phone contacts, but then he'd worried about someone borrowing his phone and noticing it, and that had felt a little risky. In the end, he'd settled for just removing the mad-face emoji from the name, which had been a little childish anyway.

Anyway, it was fine if Ilya didn't want to call him Shane, or maybe was just too used to saying Hollander that he hadn't thought about it. Shane wasn't thinking about it, either, not that much. It was fine.

"Well, I didn't know comedy was what turned you on," he said, kind of grumpy. "Maybe we should just watch a fucking Marx Brothers movie or something and call it a day."

Ilya, still smiling, regarded him through the screen, shaking his head in mock sadness. He looked almost fond. "Why are your references from olden times, Hollander? You are a grandpa -- you love to go fishing, you watch black-and-white films, you wear your little glasses."

"Shut up." He frowned at Ilya. "You said you liked the glasses."

"Oh, I do," Ilya assured him immediately. He shrugged, grinning. "Maybe I have a thing for grandpas."

"Right," Shane said, still feeling a little annoyed. "So this was the point of the whole thing -- just to laugh at me?"

Ilya's smile faded, and he shook his head again, eyes glittering. "No. Point was that you would think about me alllll day long. Wondering when, wondering what we would do. Never forgetting about it, even for a moment. And always ready for me."

Fuck. Shane felt a little shudder run through him. Why was that so hot?

"Well, it worked," he muttered, still a little salty.

"Glad to hear it," Ilya said. "Now, show me that you were good for me. Clothes off, hands and knees on the bed."

Shane swallowed, felt the familiar prickle of embarrassment that was far outweighed by the fact that he'd been fucking dying for this for hours. He got undressed and got himself up on the bed, face burning hot, whole body tingling with anticipation and arousal.

"Show me more, spread open for me," Ilya said, and Shane let his flushed face drop to the bed, reached back with both hands to display himself, his rigid dick throbbing harder at the feeling of being exposed, of willingly exposing himself like this to Ilya's eyes.

"Yes, good. Take it out now. Slow, Hollander. Let me see."

He gripped the base of the plug and tugged, twisting his face into the bed at the intensity of it rubbing inside him, the stretch as the flared end of it breached backward. Already, moans he couldn't control were spilling out of him, already he was getting lost in the feeling of it, like he was all body no brain, only existing as the pulsing current of need and want and sensation swamping him.

Then it was out, and he could feel himself loose and open, achingly empty. Ilya breathed soft Russian words, then, in English:

"Fuck, Hollander, I need to fuck you," he said, almost sounding pained with it.

"Yes, yes, please, Ilya," Shane heard himself moan, almost whining with it, the want surging through him. How much longer could he go without it, without really feeling Ilya inside him, against him, on top of him, pinning him? This was so good but it was so far, it made him ache crazily, the almost-there of it.

He could hear Ilya groan, his breathing rough, some muttered curse. "Get the big dildo out now, get it ready."

Shane scrambled up to reach into the drawer, taking the opportunity to look at Ilya on the screen, to watch him stroking and pulling that beautiful thick cock, so fucking huge and hard. Shane could almost imagine what it would feel like, the real thing, pushing inside him, and he felt almost sick with envy of everyone Ilya had ever fucked, was maybe still fucking, that they got to have it and he only got to look.

He had the dildo instead, and it would have to do, and he was not thinking the words for now out loud in his head, but they were there. He got it coated with lube, hurriedly, the day-long anticipation making his hands shake.

"Face me, on your knees," Ilya directed. "Hold it under you, sink down."

Shane moaned again at the idea of it, got himself arranged, listened keenly to Ilya's constant stream of soft encouragement as he lined himself up and began to lower himself onto it. Yes, like that, you can take it, more, more, all the way now, yes, yes, you are perfect Shane, just like that.

He caught the use of his name and it sent a shudder through him, made his hips buck, made him slide all the way down, legs folded tight, filled up and still hungry.

It was good and it wasn't enough and he didn't know what to do about that, but Ilya was telling him things, how to move and how to touch himself and he let himself drop into that and focus on the pleasure he had instead of the ache of the more he wanted, and it worked, it still worked, he still wanted this if this was all he could have, sweet and sharp enough to send him hurtling into a long, pounding release that left him shivering with aftershocks of pleasure.

He pulled himself up and off the dildo, pitched forward collapsing onto his stomach to pant and ride the long, slow, quiet waves of after. He could still hear Ilya breathing through the screen, wondered loosely what they would do if they were really together right now. Would Ilya hold him still and heavy for this part, anchoring him with weighty limbs tossed over him? Would he watch him from the other side of the bed, the way he was watching now, half-lidded eyes fixed and constant? Would he get up right away, get dressed and leave, go off to who knew where, maybe to fuck someone else? Would he do that tonight, go looking for a real, present warm body to do what Shane couldn't? Shane had no idea what he did when they ended the calls.

He lifted his head to look at Ilya, who was stretched on his back, his long, perfectly formed body glistening a little in the lamplight of his faraway room, and all he could hear inside his head was more more more.

"Do you ever go out? Like, after?" he heard himself say.

Ilya's eyes on him sharpened. "What do you mean? Go out where?"

"Like, to..." He stopped, shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know what I meant. Never mind."

He didn't want to know, really, didn't think he'd like the answer, and it wasn't really his business anyway, he guessed.

Ilya made a low, humming sound. Then, like he suspected Shane's question anyway, "I am not in habit of leaping up after coming my brains out with one person to find someone else, if that is what you think. I like to fuck, but I am not insatiable sex demon."

Shane breathed a little laugh at that, feeling lighter. "I don't know, I've heard rumors."

Ilya was still watching him. "What do you do, after? Because I know it's not fucking someone else, unless you are into woodland creatures."

"Fuck off," Shane said, but he was laughing again. "I don't know, just cottage stuff. Maybe I'll go fishing," he said, since Ilya liked to tease him about his grandpa activities.

But Ilya was looking at him more seriously now. "Why do you stay at cottage, if you are... lonely there?"

"I'm not lonely," Shane said automatically, defensively.

But something about the question stopped him, made him register... some kind of feeling.

He'd always thought of the cottage as a refuge, where he could be alone and out of the harsh spotlight of constant scrutiny and attention. Peaceful, where he could let his guard down because there was no one to see what was behind it. Relaxing, because he could just be and not perform anything for anyone, not pretend to be anything he wasn't.

And that was still true, but also... something had felt kind of... off, this summer. Even before the whole thing with Ilya, he'd felt restless, keyed up, a little bored. Maybe, actually... a little lonely.

What had changed? Was it the thing with Adam? Had it woken up his inner thirsty slut so much that he couldn't deal without sex now that he'd had a real taste of what it was like? Or had it just... cracked something a little open inside him, to have something he'd wanted and the world hadn't fallen apart just because he'd surrendered to his own real desire?

Was it possible that getting to be himself only in one place, and only alone, and only for a few weeks a year just... wasn't enough anymore?

"You are thinking very loud, Shane," Ilya said softly, eyes on him through the screen.

Shane stared back at him, mind churning.

With Ilya, maybe because of the horrifically embarrassing way things had started, maybe because he just wanted Ilya so bad it was very difficult to pretend he didn't, he hadn't really been able to hide. He felt like he had just fallen in to some kind of way of exposing himself to Ilya, in all kinds of ways, really, that just felt... easy. Natural. Good.

And wouldn't it be good... wouldn't it be better, if he could just be and not perform, but also not be... alone?

He wasn't sure, it was hard to think objectively about it because the truth running alongside the rest of it was that he was aching to touch Ilya and be with him not just on a screen, to know if the way they could connect across distance would be the same -- or would be even more -- if they were close together. And he wasn't sure how to think about that, because he didn't really see a way for it to happen, and he didn't even know if Ilya wanted that. And he didn't know how to ask, wasn't sure he could risk asking that. Wasn't sure what he'd do if the answer was no.

"Yeah, sorry," he said at last, feeling like he needed to give some kind of real answer to Ilya's question, even if he couldn't find a way to say the whole truth.

"I guess..." he started, hesitant. "I always liked this place because it's... just for me, you know? Like, if no one else is here, it's just easier that way, because... well, I can be kind of awkward around people, I don't know if you've ever noticed. Haha."

Ilya was looking at him again in that way that looked almost fond. "Yes," he said simply, with a little smile.

"So I guess it's just been easier, nice, to have a place where I can just be by myself, and I don't have to worry about that. Nobody around who, like, needs anything from me, or needs me to be a certain way. It's just relaxing that way, I guess."

Now something was different in Ilya's face, but Shane couldn't quite read the expression. "You prefer that, to be alone," Ilya said then, his voice low.

And that was true, or usually true, but it was hard for Shane to think about that because he was trying so hard to interpret the face Ilya was making. "Yeah, I guess," he said just to answer, so he wouldn't be his awkward self overthinking the question as usual.

Ilya was nodding, still with that weirdly kind of... shuttered expression. He seemed suddenly a little more distant, colder, when a moment ago Shane had thought...

"I should go," Ilya said suddenly, sitting up on his bed. "Need to sleep. You have exhausted me, Hollander."

It stung a little, this abrupt retreat, when they'd been lying there kind of cozily, and Ilya had been speaking to him softly and calling him Shane, and now it was back to Hollander and Ilya was going to go.

Was that an answer to the question Shane couldn't bring himself to ask? Did that mean this was all Ilya wanted from him, these weirdly intimate but ultimately remote and limited moments that would always end with a hasty goodbye and a dark screen?

They hung up. Shane didn't go fishing. He thought about it all for the rest of the day and night, mind turning it over, heart feeling clutched and nervy in his chest.

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Here is where we earn our "light angst" tag, friends, because, well, Ilya.

Ilya didn't sleep. Not right away, not for a long time.

He hadn't lied about being exhausted, but it wasn't the kind of exhaustion that sleeping would fix. He felt... emptied out of reasons, excuses, pretenses. Like he had used up his lifetime supply of acting like he didn't give a shit.

But, how else was he supposed to go about things? He had little experience with being... he swallowed, thought of Shane's word... sincere. It was too risky, to show the world, to show anyone, what you felt, what you wanted... that you wanted anything at all that wasn't easily available, yours for the taking. Hook-ups, parties, nice cars, good clothes. He could reach those things with charm and cockiness and money, could make them fall into his hands so that no one would see the effort or the longing behind why he was reaching in the first place.

Shane wasn't that. He wasn't anyone's for the taking, certainly not Ilya's. For all that he seemed to lose himself during sex, in reality Shane was self-contained, in control of himself in a way that felt foreign to Ilya's messy internal state. Shane preferred to be alone, didn't want to be needed, and Ilya felt that he was nothing but need where Shane was concerned. Like Shane existing, just being how he was, made Ilya need things he hadn't even thought were real or possible just a couple of weeks ago.

He went to the kitchen, pulled vodka from his freezer, poured a healthy portion into a glass. Stood looking at it, feeling his chest pulling sore and tight. It was time for hard truths. He was used to those, knew how to face them, knew that he had to face them when they arrived, whatever his aching rebellious heart might prefer.

When his mother had died, when Ilya had found her, he hadn't believed it at first. He had been already too old and too experienced with the blunt brutality of his father to believe in stupid childish things like wishes or fairy tales or magical solutions to unfixable tragedies, so he knew, he knew. But he hadn't been able to really really believe it, even after the funeral. Some tiny thread of useless hope had persisted for days, weeks even. That it would turn out to have been a mistake, that she could return somehow, that he wasn't really faced with the prospect of living all his whole long life on his own without her.

When the days and weeks stretched to months, he had felt that absurd hope slowly crumble to nothing, and it had made him furious at himself for ever having it. He would not do that again, would not try to fool himself. Hard truths, that was the answer. She was gone, really gone forever, and hoping it wasn't true had only prolonged the pain.

And Shane was a fantasy. Shane liked the sex, even limited as it was by distance. Might even be persuaded to remove that distance somehow for the sake of more of it, if Ilya could think of a way for them to meet. But that did not mean he liked Ilya, or wanted anything more with Ilya than the brief and fleeting contact of bodies.

But Ilya wanted more. His pretenses were too withered now to stand. He wanted Shane's body and he wanted his goodness, he wanted his careful attention and his care and his effort, he wanted all the things Shane had shown Ilya in these strange, precious days they had spent drifting closer even when they were leagues apart.

And Shane wanted to be alone. The hard truth that had to be faced. And if Ilya didn't face it now, he would only drag himself further through the mud and thorns of foolishly wanting impossible things.

He drank the vodka. Maybe wallowed in his feelings a bit. He knew what he had to do, that ending things now was the only answer, but he would take the time to properly feel what he was losing before he pushed it away with both hands.

So he took out his phone and scrolled back through their texts, back to the beginning. The pictures he had sent, Shane's irritated replies and then his silence, even when, as Ilya now knew, he had liked those photos, liked the way Ilya looked, liked the sexy feelings Ilya had stirred. The empty space where the sheaf of photos that Shane had sent and then deleted had once existed. All of Ilya's teasing comments afterward, which stirred up a complicated mix of feelings -- his own shock and delight at discovering that hidden side of Shane, his regret now that he hadn't anticipated how panicked Shane would be. Those mistyped, fragmented pleas to delete the photo, making his heart ache now.

Then, the next day, Shane's earnest texts somehow unbelievably thanking Ilya, another surprise, followed by the genuine shock of his offer: Would you ever want to do that again? Ilya felt a pang, remembering how it had made him smile that day, how it had made him feel almost floating upward with unexpected possibility.

The loon picture, a silly little gift sent unasked. The hockey news. The checking in. All of which had really meant, I am thinking of you.

Then, of course, the biggest surprise of all -- Ilya anticipating Shane's rejection, Shane instead delivering incredible kindness, his diligently arranged packet of helpful resources. Then asking to use first names, god, it was too much. Ilya couldn't look at it anymore.

He pushed his phone away, buried his face in his hands, scrubbing at his eyes like he could rub away the pain and tightness there, like he could wipe out the sight of those messages that delighted him and damaged him in equal measure. So much of it along the same theme: Shane surprising him, flooring him. Shane reaching out, offering more, again and again; every time Ilya expected him to pull back and close off, he had opened up instead... he had...

Ilya took in a quick, sharp breath, his whole body straightening.

Every time. Shane deking him, shocking him, surprising him. When Ilya thought he knew exactly what to expect.

Fuck. Wait.

He was doing the same thing now, wasn't he? Assuming he knew what Shane felt, what he would do. What he wanted.

But Shane had surprised him every time.

Perhaps... Ilya was an idiot.

He could ask. He could try. It was risky, yes, but if he didn't, wasn't he risking missing out?

He got up off his couch, went to the kitchen for more vodka because he needed bravery, came back to the living room and stood there, drinking and staring at nothing as his mind turned and turned.

He needed a plan. He felt like Shane would like a plan, and Ilya wasn't good at them but he could try. If he could prepare something, make a case for it, show Shane that he'd thought about it and he wanted it and it could work, maybe... maybe Shane would be willing to try, too.

He wouldn't know unless he did it, pushed through the sharp chilling fear of exposure to be sincere and ask for what he wanted.

What did he want? A chance. Some time. To be alone with Shane somewhere no one would bother them, or notice them, or recognize what a scandal it was for them to be somewhere together.

He could maybe just offer to come to Shane's cottage; it certainly seemed remote, from the things Shane had said about his isolation there. But Shane had also mentioned dinner with his parents, that his mother had been visiting. That might not be private enough for Shane to be comfortable, with his family so close by. Ilya didn't want to step too closely to Shane's real life if it would make him nervous.

They could go somewhere, meet somewhere, maybe. He pressed his lips together, thinking, then went and got the tablet he'd bought for sex and sat down on the couch with it, opened a browser. Googled "halfway between Ottawa and Moscow."

What came up was a fishing village in fucking Iceland.

It made him laugh a little at first, thinking of Shane and his grandpa-style fishing. But then he read a little more about it, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, the tablet clutched in both hands. Patreksfjörður was picturesque, apparently. It had fishing, yes, and a waterfall, and a beach, and something called a bird cliff, although Ilya wasn't clear on what that was.

It was in fucking Iceland, where as far as Ilya knew, there were barely any people and probably none of them cared about hockey at all. They most likely wouldn't be recognized, and even if they were, they could say... that they were there for fishing. Ilya knew some hockey players who were insane about fishing, who would travel the world to visit supposedly famous fishing spots, sometimes with a teammate, even, if they had one who was similarly weirdly obsessed with fishing.

He and Shane weren't teammates, obviously, but maybe they could say...

The charity project. It was known in the league that they'd been paired up for it. If they could say they'd started talking because of it, realized they both loved fishing...

Fuck. He blew out a breath, put down the tablet. Was he being crazy, wanting this so bad he was making up a terrible, laughable plan?

Maybe. He didn't want to give up, though. He went back to the tablet, did more research, thought and searched and tried to plan until his eyes were aching and bleary and he had to sleep. In the morning, he started again, working until his pitch for going to fucking Iceland was the best he could make it. Shane might still find it laughable, might reject the whole idea, might tell him, in his earnest, careful way, that he didn't feel like that or want any of the things Ilya wanted.

But he had to try. He couldn't face a hard truth if he didn't know for sure that it was true.

He waited, filled with dread and hope, until it was late enough for Shane to reasonably be awake. His hands felt shaky as he sent a text.

Ilya: you are awake?

💤Hollander: Hmm, yeah. Barely.
Stayed up too late last night.

What had Shane stayed up late doing without him? And was he still in bed right now? Ilya tried not to picture it, to let the image of a sleepy, warm Shane distract him. He had a plan to pitch.

Ilya: I have an idea

💤Hollander: No.
I'm not wearing a plug all day again.
Forget it.

Ilya: no, is bigger than that

💤Hollander: That was the biggest one.

Ilya: no, it is not that
just wait, listen please
let me say this

He sucked in a slow breath, trying to think how to start, how to word it. He should have included this in the planning, but he'd been too busy looking up the fucking weather in Iceland and how long the flights would be.

Maybe he should be doing this on a call instead of by text. Or maybe that would be worse, harder, and he would fumble his words and his face would do embarrassing things. Anyway, he'd already started this way, so he would just keep going.

Ilya: I have a little time before development training starts
you do too?

💤Hollander: Yes? Couple of weeks.

Okay. Okay. He was just going to fucking do it.

Ilya: I don't want to keep doing this on phone and video

Shane sent back a message while he was still typing the next part, and he had to pause to read it.

💤Hollander: Oh. Shit. Ok, I guess I understand.

Fuck. He backspaced what he'd been typing and started again, trying to ignore the chill he got from Ok, I understand, that easy acceptance. He didn't know until he asked.

Ilya: Shane, stop typing
just listen, please, wait

Ilya: I don't want phone calls and video because I want more
I want to see you
be in person
I don't know if you want that
but if you do, or could
I have a place we could go

He had to pause to shake out his hands. His breathing was going crazy, he felt gasping with it, his heart thumping too fast in his chest.

💤Hollander: Ilya

Ilya: I made a plan
you don't have to say yes
but maybe consider
I found a place, halfway between us
is remote, in fucking Iceland
I think no one would know us
we can say we are there for fishing
is big fishing spot
I will even really fish if you want

💤Hollander: Wait, are you serious?

Ilya: I looked at flights
places to stay
things to do if you want
there is a waterfall
weather will be good

His brain felt ragged, he couldn't remember all the things he'd meant to say, all the points he'd tried to lay out.

💤Hollander: This is fucking crazy.

That gave him a pain like his chest was splitting, but he couldn't stop.

Ilya: I know, it is crazy
I feel crazy
like I have to see you
I want to be with you
and not just for sex but
more

💤Hollander: I seriously can't believe this.

Ugh, that was not good. He felt like lying down, like crying maybe, but he also felt frozen in place, his thumbs attached to his phone, to this thin link to Shane, like if he just kept typing it wouldn't be over and decided.

Ilya: sorry if it is too much
I know you didn't ask for this
is just how I feel
and I had to say it
but if you don't want it
I understand

💤Hollander: No, Ilya. Look.

Here it was. Now he would start the apology, the explanation, list the many very sensible and probably very correct reasons why it couldn't be and wouldn't work, or maybe just why he didn't want it to, and it would --

💤Hollander: Patreksfjörður Packet Link

Ilya froze. Stared at the message. Couldn't breathe.

💤Hollander: I think I found the same place.
I stayed up so late looking up all this stuff.
Did you Google halfway between Moscow and Ottawa?
That's what I did.
This is what came up.

He felt... he couldn't... this wasn't...

💤Hollander: I put all this together.
But then I was scared to send it.
I thought you'd think I was... I don't know.
But that's what I want too.

Fuck, Shane. Ilya had to put his phone down for a minute and bury his face in his hands. Maybe he cried a little. He couldn't believe it. Hollander had gotten him again.

He'd never been so happy to be wrong in his life.

Ilya: you want to really?

💤Hollander: Yeah, Ilya. I really do.

He tried to contain his elation for a minute, think clearly. It wasn't really possible.

Ilya: is probably a bad idea
but I don't care

💤Hollander: Yeah. Me neither.

Ilya: when would we go?

💤Hollander: ?? As soon as possible?

They were going to Iceland. They were going as soon as possible.

Chapter End Notes

We're coming to the Icelandic fishing village, y'all! 🐟

The observant may note that the final chapter count is posted now. It may not look like many more chapters, but they do get longer as we go, so we'll be hitting around 43K when it's all wrapped up. That is (to me) a shocking amount for me to have written in basically two weeks, RIP to my responsibilities but I'M HAVING SO MUCH FUN! Thanks to all who are on this ride with me; your comments and kudos mean a lot to me!

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

It may be cold in Iceland, but fans are hoping for something hot in the guesthouse where Shane and Ilya are staying!
(jk it's not that cold there, it's summer, average temperature 50F, I googled so much about Iceland y'all.)

Also, some of you know ~way~ more about Iceland than I expected, so now I'm nervous! I'm just an idiot with an idea who has never been to Iceland and did a lot of googling instead! Sorry for things I got wrong or if I did not include something you got excited about. (Special shoutout to 3vali for the hilarious Luca Haas idea, but sadly I did not do that.) I love you all and I do not want to disappoint, but I wrote all this before you even knew Iceland was happening, and I'm too lazy to go back and mess with it now. :)

Shane bought a plane ticket. He spent hours making a packing list and stressing about whether it would be possible to buy lube in Iceland, because he did not want to pack any in case his bag got rifled through at security, but he also did not want to risk being without it because... well.

He made up a lie for his parents, saying a "bunch of guys" from various teams that he'd met at All-Stars games were going on a big group fishing trip, and that he had declined at first but now had spontaneously decided to go after all, citing boredom.

He closed up the cottage for a week's absence, double-checking all the door and window locks, clearing out the fridge, and unplugging appliances.

He drove two hours to Ottawa, got on a short flight to Toronto. He flew five and a half hours to Reykjavík, where he rented a car. He drove another five hours on highways and narrow coastal roads and gravel-pebbled paths, passing through remote, alien landscapes that were beautiful in their bleakness.

Through all of it, his thoughts circled in a never-ending loop.

This is crazy. Am I crazy? Yes, probably. Am I turning back? Nope.

Whenever he leaned too hard into the "this is crazy" part, he remembered the texts from Ilya, remembered his face on their calls in the handful of nights since. They hadn't talked about it much beyond texting to coordinate details -- and, well, beyond Ilya describing in great detail what he planned to do to Shane when they were together, which was motivation on its own. It mostly felt too big to discuss. But he could see it in Ilya's face, could read him enough to know that he was in. And if Ilya was in, Shane was in.

And there was that one part of Ilya's texts that burned in Shane's mind like a brand, that he held on to whenever he began to doubt: not just for sex but more.

He didn't know what it meant, exactly. He didn't even know what "more" could possibly include in their situation. But he knew he wanted to find out. And he wanted the chance to show Ilya he wanted it too, whatever it was. That he wanted more. He hadn't really been able to say it back, exactly, but he could show it without words, he thought. That it wasn't only about the sex, for him. That they could spend time together in other ways, too.

Which felt a little crazy. Fuck, this whole thing was crazy. But he wasn't turning back.

Still, he was doing some centering breathwork as he pulled into the tiny town of Patreksfjörður at last, taking in the awe-inspiring sweep of the mountains down to the coast and the ocean, the scattering of neat, cheerfully painted buildings clinging to land at the edge of the sea.

He found the guesthouse Ilya had rented with a little bit of trial and error, used the code to get into the lockbox with the key, made it inside. Thanks to flight times, he was getting there a few hours before Ilya, which he appreciated because he needed a minute to get himself oriented. He walked the whole house -- it wasn't large, but it was comfortable and clean and uncluttered, which he liked. He poked his head into every closet, familiarized himself with the kitchen layout, spent some time figuring out the thermostat, stared at the king-sized bed in the main bedroom for a little while.

He was going to sleep with Ilya Rozanov in that bed. Sleep with -- like, have sex with, god yes, please, soon -- but also, probably, sleep with? Lie next to each other, or tangled up together, and spend the whole night breathing and dreaming together, and what the fuck was that going to be like?

Crazy. This was crazy. He wasn't turning back.

He went out again to find the small grocery store he'd researched online, navigated with some difficulty through unfamiliar aisles and Icelandic signs, realized he had no idea what Ilya liked to eat, bought everything he could think of or recognize, and some things he didn't. He found lube, thank god, but then had to bury it among other purchases at the checkout and avoid meeting the clerk's eyes. It was a good thing he'd bought a lot of groceries, because he didn't think he could ever go back there.

By the time he got everything selected, purchased, back to the guesthouse, and put away, he'd missed a series of texts from Ilya.

Rozanov: plane landed
you are here?

Rozanov: got rental car
are you still driving?

Rozanov: one hour driving done
did your plane crash?
did you run off road into fjord?
did I fly to fucking Iceland by myself?

Shane: Sorry, sorry!
I'm here, at the guesthouse.
It's nice.
I got groceries.
Hope you like kókómjólk and hangikjöt.

Rozanov: what are those
if you bought all healthy things I will go to store myself
I saw one with big round pig for logo, cannot be healthy
I will go there

Shane: It's chocolate milk. And I think lamb? Slices?
I bought a lot, so don't stop at a store.
Just hurry up.
But drive carefully.

Rozanov: so impatient
so needy for me

Shane: Don't start that.
You shouldn't be texting and driving anyway.

Rozanov: relax, is voice to text
can dirty talk to you for whole drive

Shane: Well, don't.

Rozanov: do not pretend you do not like it

Shane: Yes, I like it.
Too much, ok?
I don't want to get all worked up before you're even here.

Rozanov: oh
yes you are right
I almost forget you are thirsty little slut
do not jerk off without me

Shane: Fuck off. Focus on the road, please.

Rozanov: hmm please

Shane: Ilya.

Rozanov: ok ok
driving only now
see you soon

Shane: See you soon.

As maddening as Ilya was, texting with him like he was used to doing settled Shane's nerves a bit. Unfortunately, it did also get him a little stirred up, and as he took a shower and unpacked his bag and thought about Ilya getting closer and closer, it only got worse. He tried to distract himself by thinking about something mundane, resorted to reciting hockey stats in his head, but then he started thinking about Ilya's stats and that did not help.

There was definitely a part of him that was anxious, wondering how it was going to be in real life after all these days of virtual contact. But that was mostly drowned out by the rising tide of want inside him that had been building for so long, maybe since all the way back to that moment in the showers at the CCM shoot. He had rarely let himself think about it, but the truth was that Ilya had been under his skin all this time, something he'd wanted and knew he'd never get to have.

And now he was going to have it -- to have Ilya. At least for a week. And it was going to start soon.

When he calculated that Ilya was probably about twenty minutes out, he gave up all pretense of distracting himself or doing anything else, and just went to stand at the window by the front door, staring out at the quiet road and going flushed and tingling every time a car approached. He was shaking a little, the nervy anticipation and the hot ache thumping through him making him literally tremble like he was coming down with the flu.

Then a car slowed, and he could see a shadow of broad shoulders and soft curls through the windshield. His thoughts jumbled into some tumble of fuck there he is this is happening, and he managed to hold himself back only until the car came to a stop in the short drive in front of the house.

He let himself loose, could not wait another moment, threw open the door and ran down the steps and crashed into Ilya as he was rounding the front of the car.

Ilya said something like "What--oh" and caught Shane with his hands as he came careening into him, and Shane grabbed Ilya's face in both hands and pressed his mouth into him like he wouldn't live another second if he didn't.

Ilya kissed him back immediately, groaning, lips parting, tongue sliding, and the delirious, delicious heat of it made everything more frantic. Shane slid his hands up, into those curls, gripping into them like Ilya might escape, pressed his whole body into Ilya's until he was nearly crushing him into the grille of the car. Ilya's hands were on him everywhere, sliding around his waist, up his back, down to his ass groping and squeezing and pulling him even harder against him, and Shane thought he might explode, pass out, burst into flames, the wanting and the having almost too much to cope with.

Ilya pulled his mouth away with another groan, moved to kiss and suck at Shane's neck, but he was trying to talk in between.

"Shane... inside... we have to... go in."

Shane's brain wasn't functioning right, all he could think was no, like Ilya would disappear if he let him go even for a second now that he finally had him, and he pulled Ilya's head up to kiss him again, but he let him push him backward as he did, kissing madly, hands grabbing, stumbling up the stairs and to the door he'd left wide open.

Ilya dragged him inside, got the door closed behind them and shoved Shane against it, crowding in close, sliding his hands under Shane's shirt, sucking on his lower lip, biting at his neck. Shane was touching everywhere he could reach, grasping at Ilya's arms, his shoulders, his chest, wanting everything at once, unable to stay still or settle on any one place. Then he slid his hands down into the waistband of Ilya's track pants, grabbed at them, shoving them down, and then he knew with piercing clarity exactly what he wanted most.

He pushed Ilya back a step with a flat hand on his chest, sank to his knees, and yanked and tugged at Ilya's briefs until his stiff, straining cock was freed. Shane stared at it for a second, dazed and hungry, like it was a prize he'd finally earned for... for patience, for waiting so achingly long, and then he couldn't wait at all anymore, and he swallowed it into his mouth, Ilya clutching at his hair and breathing, "Fuck, Shane, Shane."

It felt so good in his mouth he made a noise almost like a sob, did not care, lost himself in sucking and stroking with his tongue, learning the delicious shape of it, tasting the earthy tang of it, feeling Ilya shuddering with it, those hands in his hair pulling, broken Russian words spilling out. He sharpened his focus, took it deeper, wanted all of it, all of Ilya, everything, and Ilya yanking at his hair and muttering, "Shane, fuck fuck, I can't, I will come" only made him go harder because he wanted that, too.

Ilya made a wild noise like a shout and thrust forward, and Shane could feel the throb and pulse of it happening, and the relief and satisfaction of it made him giddy, triumphant as he swallowed and swallowed.

It was barely done before Ilya shoved his hands into Shane's armpits and hauled him up, his face fierce and hungry, kissing and licking into Shane's mouth, pushing him back against the door again as his hands worked into his shorts, which had a fucking button and a zipper, terrible lack of foresight on Shane's part, but he stopped thinking about that when Ilya's hand closed around his dick. He held it there for a moment, pulled his mouth from Shane's to lick broadly across his other hand, then pushed that into Shane's shorts and stroked wet and warm and tight down the length of his dick.

Shane threw his head back, banging it against the door with a thump, body arching into Ilya's hand, his whole existence centered on the ache of his swollen cock and the glorious slick slide of Ilya's hand. It was too perfect, too much everything he'd been wanting, Ilya's hands on him, mouth on his neck sucking, body pressed in close, and he came with a noise ripping out of him like a wail.

Ilya kept going, pulling and stroking until it was done and then just held his hand there, warm and still, crowded himself up against Shane's body like he was the only thing holding Shane upright, and maybe he was, murmuring into Shane's neck I have you, I have you, I have you.

I have you was all Shane could think, panting and sagging against the door, dropping his head onto Ilya's shoulder. I have you... at least for a week.

It took him a while to remember he'd planned to show Ilya this wasn't all about sex for him.

Oh well. They had a week. He could start now.

------------

Well. Ilya supposed that answered the question of whether Shane Hollander was going to be as hot for it in person as he was on a phone.

He felt shaky and a little overwhelmed, still reeling from the ravenous way Shane had crashed into him, half-dazed from the fucking excellent blowjob -- and where the fuck had Hollander learned to do that so well?

But he was determined not to show the full extent of his yawning, aching want. He wasn't going to spend the whole week selfishly pressing his own hungry neediness into Shane, taking up all his space and his air. He would give him room. Alone time if he wanted. He could hold himself back, for Shane.

All of these noble intentions were, perhaps, a little undercut by the way he couldn't, just now, stop touching Shane, still pressing him against the door, one hand down his pants gently clutching his soft cock, the other smoothing against his back under his shirt. He was rubbing his lips against Shane's neck, his ear, the side of his face, everywhere he could reach. He couldn't resist, found it too delicious.

But he reached for something to lighten the moment, create the little space his body wasn't quite willing to give yet.

"Couldn't even let me get in the door, Hollander?" he teased in a murmur.

He thought Shane might shove at him a bit, tell him to shut up or fuck off. But Shane was still in his hazy, pliant after mode, pressing his forehead to Ilya's shoulder, arms slung forward to drape over Ilya's hips.

"Nope," he said easily.

Ilya shivered a little, tried to cover it by shifting his weight against Shane's body.

But then Shane seemed to come back to himself a little, lifting his head and blinking.

"Yeah, sorry," he said, with a strained little laugh. "It was just a lot of waiting."

"Yes, it was," Ilya said, and he wanted to say more, but he was stuck on that "sorry." Was that just terminally Canadian politeness, or was Shane--

Before he could ask or figure it out, Shane was straightening up, pulling back, gently extricating himself from Ilya's hands. Ilya let go immediately, backed up to give him space, ignoring the cold little shudder of loss he felt.

But Shane smiled at him, leaned in for one moment to kiss him quickly on the mouth. "Why don't you go get settled in? You can take a shower if you want. I'll get cleaned up and bring your bag in, and then I thought I'd make us something to eat."

Ilya absorbed this string of information and instructions with a slight shake of his head. "I can get my own bag," was what came out of his mouth when he spoke.

"I know," Shane said, still smiling. "And I'm sure you would've if I'd given you a chance. Just go relax, let me take care of it."

Ilya didn't know how to interpret that. He wasn't used to having someone look after his needs if it wasn't their job to do so. And he still felt something strange about that "sorry," but he didn't know what to say about it.

Was this Shane wanting space? A moment alone, to go to the car while Ilya went to the shower?

"Okay," he said finally. "I will shower."

Shane went into the bathroom off the front hall, and Ilya wandered uncertainly further into the house, passed through the living room and down a short hallway to the other bathroom, this one directly across the hall from two side-by-side bedrooms. Ilya peeked into them as he passed by; one was a primary bedroom with a king-sized bed, the other a little smaller, with a double bed, like he'd seen in the listing photos when he'd booked the place.

He realized he'd been assuming the sleeping arrangements, but now he wasn't sure. What if Shane was the kind of person who needed silence and solitude to get a good night's rest? Ilya a little bit hated the idea of sleeping on his own when Shane was right there, but. If that was what Shane needed.

When he came out of the shower and looked into the hall, his bag was there. Stood up in the hall, positioned against the small stretch of wall right between the two bedroom doorways.

So that answered nothing.

Ilya opened the bag right there in the hall, got dressed in the bathroom, feeling uncertain about claiming either of the bedrooms. Then he went to the kitchen, where Shane was standing at the stove poking at something in a skillet. Ilya felt the urge to come up behind him, crowd into him, press kisses to the back of his neck. But he thought: give him space. Stopped in the doorway.

Shane looked up, smiling. "Hi," he said, looking so happy that Ilya almost did come over to kiss him, but then Shane nodded at the table.

"Have a seat, this is almost done."

Ilya sat as directed, watching Shane move around the kitchen. He'd changed into a T-shirt and track pants, and they looked like they would be soft under Ilya's fingers and very easy to slide off. Ilya stayed in his seat.

"What are you making?" he asked to distract himself.

"Oh, they had a lot of fish at the store -- which I guess makes sense for a fishing village."

Ilya groaned, leaned into the performance of it so he could tease Shane. "Is off-season, Shane. You do not need to follow performance diet all year round."

"I'm not!" Shane protested, flashing him a smile over his shoulder. "It just looked good. And I know how to make it already. It'll be good, I'm frying it. Although I did use olive oil instead of butter, but it'll still be good. And there's rice," he added, pointing to a pot on the stove.

Then he turned, suddenly looking worried. "Is that okay? I didn't really know what kinds of things you like to eat."

Ilya smiled, Shane's careful concern making fondness and something more bloom inside his chest. "Is fine," he said. "Thank you for making it."

It was fine, once they'd worked together to get everything on plates, sat down on opposite sides of the table to eat. Ilya was hungry, and he ate everything on his plate, and he looked across at Shane and wondered when it would be enough space and they could be touching again.

"So, is there anything you wanted to do today?" Shane asked. "I was reading about that waterfall -- it's like an hour away. I know it's pretty late in the day, but since it doesn't really get dark here at this time of year, we could probably still make it, if you wanted to."

If he wanted to? The only thing Ilya wanted to do, at this moment, was shove Shane into a mattress and fuck him until he was sobbing with pleasure. He felt a little disoriented that Shane didn't want that, too, since he always seemed so hungry for it, and Ilya felt sure that he could persuade him into it with a moment's effort.

But... maybe it was too much, too soon for him? They'd already gotten off in the front hallway; maybe he wanted to put a little more space between then and the next time? Ilya didn't know, couldn't read what Shane wanted, decided to err on the side of not being too much for him.

They went to the waterfall. It took an hour to drive there, through beautiful scenery in the late afternoon light, and Ilya wanted to reach for Shane's hand, but he knew Shane cared about cautious driving, so he didn't. When they got there, it was a hike up a path that passed several smaller waterfalls until they reached the big, thundering one at the top of the path. It was majestic and beautiful, and Ilya thought about what Shane would look like naked under the spray of it, and he kept that thought to himself. They talked and pointed out things and chirped each other and laughed, and it was nice but Ilya felt like he was dying and could only wonder if Shane was feeling anything like the same.

But apparently not, because after they hiked down and drove the hour back and made it to the guesthouse, Shane went to the kitchen to cut up fruit and pull out some cookies he'd bought, and Ilya felt appreciative and tended to and also losing his mind with wanting and wondering and waiting.

By then it was late enough, a legitimate bedtime, anyone would agree, even though the sky was still twilight-bright outside because that was what summer was apparently like in fucking Iceland. Shane was doing something at the sink, fussing with dishes, but Ilya couldn't wait anymore, told himself to get it over with and ask.

"I can sleep in other bedroom, if you want," he said, his voice coming out low and a little croaky.

Shane turned sharply from the sink. He looked a little stricken. "What? Is that... That's what you want?"

Ilya lifted his hands. "I will do, for you."

Shane stared at him. "Wait, for me? What do you mean?"

"To give you space, or... alone time."

"What are you talking about?" Shane said, shaking his head. "Why would I want that?"

Ilya felt his hopes rise even as his confusion increased. "You said, when we talked about the cottage -- you said you like to be alone, to have space with no one else. And, today, you have been -- so much wanting to do other things, I thought... I don't want you to feel pressure."

Shane rubbed both hands over his face. "Oh my fucking god. Are you kidding me? Ilya, I've been doing that stuff because you said -- in the texts, you said 'not just for sex,' so I was trying to say, trying to show you..." He dropped his hands, shook his head. "I don't want space from you."

The way he said it, emphasizing that word, made Ilya's throat tighten and his chest expand. Like it was a special "you," like Ilya was an exception.

"So you... want to?" he asked carefully.

"Of course I fucking want to," Shane said. "I just felt bad about attacking you at the door so I was trying to... but I've been dying all day, so can we please fuck now?"

Ilya launched himself across the kitchen and grabbed Shane's hips with both hands. "My thirsty little slut," he said, and it came out half a sob, he was so happy and so overcome.

"Shut up, oh my god," Shane said, and then they were kissing, at last, Shane's hands in his hair, Ilya pulling him in tight, hands already sliding under Shane's shirt to get at his warm, smooth skin. They stayed there for long moments, mouths hungry, tongues sliding deliciously, Shane already moaning a little with it, until he tore his mouth away and shoved at Ilya's chest.

"I don't want to do this standing up again," he said, and he grinned and grabbed Ilya's hand and yanked him toward the bedroom. Ilya followed behind, close, reaching to grope Shane's ass because he could and he wanted to. As soon as they got through the door, Shane turned and went to fall back onto the bed, hands reaching for Ilya to drag him down, too, but Ilya looped an arm quickly around his waist and held him up.

"Clothes off first, don't waste time," he said taking the opportunity to lean down and suck at Shane's neck for a moment.

"Right, yeah," Shane said, and grabbed at the hem of his T-shirt, pulled it over his head, while Ilya did the same with his own. Shane shook out his shirt and folded it in half, then stopped, almost freezing in place, and then awkwardly balled the shirt up and threw it onto the ground.

It was weird. Ilya didn't want to stop for anything, but he had to know.

"What was that?"

Shane looked at him questioningly, already sliding his pants down. "What?"

"Why did you throw your shirt like that?"

"Like what?" Shane said, stepping out of his pants and leaving them in a heap on the floor. "I just... dropped it, that's all."

He was just in his briefs now, and the sight of all that bare skin, real and warm and right in front of him, nearly made Ilya forget the whole thing, but there was something in Shane's face, some little discomfort that was bothering Ilya.

"You started to fold it, and then you didn't fold it. What is that?"

Shane flushed red, hesitated, then sighed. "I just... I just like to fold things so they don't get all wrinkled. But then..." he trailed off, shook his head.

"But then what? You want to fold them, but you don't?"

He wasn't quite meeting Ilya's eyes. "It's just that Adam said... that it kind of killed the moment or whatever, and I didn't want to kill the moment with you."

Ilya felt a wave of incandescent fury toward a person he had never heard of before this moment. "Who the fuck is Adam? Why does he get to decide?"

"He's just a guy I used to hook up with, it's no big deal."

"Oh, used to? So not anymore, yes? So this Adam, who thinks you should not fold clothes, he got to fuck you but now doesn't get to anymore? So he is idiot? Massive fucking loser, yes? Why do you care what he thinks?"

Shane smiled a little, put his hands on Ilya's chest, looked down shyly. "I don't know, it's stupid, I just..."

Ilya slid closer, grabbed at Shane's waist, shook him a little. "Fold your clothes, Shane. If you are the one doing it, it is sexy, I promise. And you know I do not lie about sexiness."

Shane looked at him then, his dark eyes pleased and shining softly, leaned in to kiss him, slid his hands over Ilya's shoulders and squeezed.

Then he broke away. "I just really do want to fold them," he said, and let go to pick up the pants and shirt off the floor.

Ilya had to laugh a little, but he waited patiently, sliding off his own pants. "You want to do mine, too? This is fun for you?"

"If it'll be extra-sexy for you," Shane said, twinkling a little, and Ilya's heart felt swollen in his chest as he watched Shane fold his pants and place them right next to his own on the dresser.

Then Ilya shoved him backwards on to the bed and crawled on top of him. Shane was laughing but Ilya was too busy for that, pressing kisses to his face right where his freckles were thickest, biting at his lower lip, licking at his jaw, running his hands over Shane's chest, down his sides, touching all of that bare, warm skin he'd been aching for. He kissed his way down Shane's chest, slicked his tongue over a nipple, rubbed his whole face against the hard ridges of his abs as he dragged Shane's briefs down and off so he could go lower.

Shane was already panting, body twisting a little in anticipation, lifting his head to watch as Ilya nuzzled into the crease of his thigh, biting and licking there.

"Oh please, fuck," Shane said, and Ilya looked up.

"Yes, we will," he said, "But first..."

And then he took Shane into his mouth, sliding down, tongue curling and cheeks hollowing, listening greedily to Shane's broken moans, feeling Shane's body hitching and bucking under him. Ilya bracketed his hands on Shane's hips and pushed him down hard, held him, sucking slow and deliberate but relentless until Shane was gasping, crying out.

"Fuck, Ilya, you gotta stop, you gotta stop."

Ilya was enjoying it too much, drinking up Shane's hectic sounds and struggling twitches under his weight. But Shane yanked hard at his hair and said, "Wait, don't, I want to come on your cock," and Ilya pulled off with a sharp pop and buried his face in Shane's abs, groaning desperately.

"Yes, you are right, we will do that," he half-moaned into Shane's skin, then sat up to look wildly around for what he needed. He'd brought lube and condoms but they were still in his bag out in the fucking hallway.

Shane was struggling to sit up underneath him. "Here, let me, or -- in the nightstand," he got out.

Of course, Shane had already unpacked. Ilya vaulted upward to kiss him quickly, then leaned over to the nightstand, wrenched open the drawer, found a lube bottle and a lot of condoms, which might have made him laugh except he had every intention of using them all before the week was done.

It was a new bottle of lube, and for a moment Ilya was worried it would still be sealed with one of those annoying foil covers that took aggravating time to peel off, but when he popped the lid and squeezed, he saw that careful, thoughtful Shane had already done it. He couldn't stop himself from leaning down again to kiss him as he blindly coated his fingers, tossed the bottle onto the bed nearby, reached down between Shane's legs to smooth his slick fingers over his hole.

It made Shane jerk and moan into Ilya's mouth, but when Ilya stilled and pulled back, Shane looked at him like he was crazy.

"Don't stop," he said, complaining, and Ilya laughed and felt like weeping and kissed him again, stroking his fingers over him again until he could slide one inside.

He'd watched Shane do this enough by now to know how he liked it, tried to remember every detail, which was not difficult because the images of it felt burned into his brain. He kissed him and kissed him, working his fingers in and stretching, taking his time while his cock throbbed too hot and heavy between his legs. He searched with his fingertips, pressing and rubbing when he found the prostate, Shane jolting so hard their teeth crashed together, moaning into Ilya's mouth like he was going to die, his cock weeping against Ilya's stomach.

Then Shane was pushing at his shoulders, pulling his mouth free. "That's enough, Ilya, it's enough, please do it, get in me, I want it." And Ilya dropped his head to Shane's shoulder and bit at it, blood pounding in his head, his cock twitching and pulsing.

"Yes, yes," he panted, fitting on a condom and reaching for the lube again, getting himself ready, pushing Shane's legs up with shaking hands, lining himself up. "Tell me if it is too much, I will stop."

"No, don't," Shane said, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut. "I need it, please."

Fuck, fuck. Ilya tried to hang on to his control, took a big breath, pushed in slowly.

Oh god, it was too good, so tight, so hot, beautiful Shane beneath him writhing for it. It was all he could do to take it slowly, inching his way in, with Shane squirming and saying "more, more, more" like a chant in a ritual. Once he was finally all the way in he felt frantic to move, and Shane was bucking and twisting, but he waited just to be sure, wanting so much for this to be everything good for Shane because it was already so good for Ilya he could hardly bear it.

"Is okay?" he managed to say. "I can do more?"

Shane was reduced to just murmuring please please please and Ilya took that as a yes and began to move, pulling out and sliding back in, the tight fiery stroke of it shearing off every thought in his brain that wasn't this hot grip of his cock and Shane's hitching cries beneath him. He wanted to live there, stay in this moment forever, where everything was simplified and they were as much together as they could be after all their moments so far away, but he was also desperate to come in the building frictional slide of hot pleasure, desperate to make Shane come wailing and sobbing on his dick, in his arms.

He went faster, harder, the feeling increasing incredibly, reached between them to get his still half-slick hand on Shane's cock, gripping and sliding over the head, and he knew he was close so he gritted out, "Come for me, now, Hollander," and it made Shane's whole body flex and clench, and he made a high keening noise and his cock began to pulse and spurt in Ilya's hand, and Ilya let himself go, coming and coming, pumping into Shane's body until he wrung himself out entirely.

Shane was saying, "Oh my fucking god, oh fuck," and Ilya could only collapse then, pulling himself out carefully, groaning, pushing Shane's legs down and settling between them, lying flat on top of Shane, crushing him, heedless of the sticky mess of Shane's come between them, loving it because it sealed them together. He pushed his face into Shane's chest and held it there, breathing hard and feeling every part of his body heavy and tingling.

He had thought, once, that if he could have this with Hollander, get to really touch him and hold him and be inside him, that it would be enough.

Now, he knew. It was so far past enough he couldn't contain the feeling of it. And, also... it might never be enough.

They had a week. And then what the fuck was he going to do after that?

Chapter End Notes

Sorry I dragged this out a little bit, it just really made me laugh to watch these sweet idiots cockblocking themselves with their good intentions, I love them so much.

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

Y'all. The comments. You are so funny and so sweet to me. I will perish from kindness.

But uh, don't stop lol. My fevered little ego is FEASTING.

Enjoy Iceland, part 2, the longest chapter of this whole fic!

Shane was used to sleeping alone. It wasn't something he thought about much. Sleep, like food or workouts, was not something he usually considered in terms of being enjoyable or not enjoyable; it was a commodity he needed to acquire to be at his best. He had a routine for it, even in hotels when he traveled for games, was accustomed to the feeling of snapping awake at the sound of his alarm, his to-do list already loading in the front of his brain.

He did not have a routine for waking up slow and soft in Iceland, naked in a bed with Ilya Rozanov, weighted down with heavy limbs thrown over him.

His brain did not load the to-do list. He didn't have one, not this week, and his brain didn't seem capable of doing anything but registering a sensation he could've loosely described as: Wow.

Like he could stay there forever, warm and anchored and flush with the sweetest sort of contentment. Like he could leap up and run for miles without breaking a sweat.

That was... new.

After a few moments, though, his brain did start to click to life, reminding him that there were things he should be worrying about. For example: What was today going to be like? Yesterday had been great, sure, amazing and... and beyond anything he'd hoped for, really. But what if everything suddenly changed today? What if it was too intense, waking up so together this way, and Ilya felt weird about it, realized he'd traveled to fucking Iceland on an impulse and now regretted it?

He'd said "but more" in the texts, Shane reminded himself.

But what was "more" and how much more was it supposed to be? What if, now that they'd actually been together in person for a day, that was all the "more" Ilya needed, it was out of his system now, and he wanted to leave but felt trapped there--

"Your thinking is waking me up," Ilya mumbled behind him. His face was pressed against the back of Shane's neck, and Shane could feel his breath stirring there as he spoke. It was... distracting.

"I'm not thinking," Shane said reflexively, a dumb thing to say, of course he was thinking, that was a normal thing people did.

"You are all tense," Ilya said, a little clearer like he was more awake. He moved his arm from where it had been flung over Shane's waist, brought his hand up to Shane's chest and shook him him a little. "Too early to be so tense."

It was never too early to be tense, in Shane's experience, but he tried to take a deep breath, willing himself to relax.

"Sorry, I was just... thinking." Fuck, which he'd just said he wasn't doing. God, why was he like this?

"I can help," Ilya said, voice low and gravelly, his hand sliding down over Shane's abs, fingertips dragging.

Shane's whole body lit up, soft sleepy contentment and mounting anxious tension both burning away in an instant, replaced with keen awareness of his own body pressed right into Ilya's, of Ilya's hand moving lower.

Actually, that... really was helping.

"Fuck, okay," he said, shifting to turn over, but Ilya's hand pressed into his belly, holding him in place.

"Stay like that," Ilya said, mouth pressing into Shane's neck. "Give me lube."

Shane felt dizzy, a hot shiver racing over his body as he stretched a hand over to the nightstand, passed the bottle backward to Ilya while his mind spun with possibilities.

A breathless moment later, he felt Ilya's slick hand sliding between his legs, but not... where he'd half-expected. Instead, Ilya's fingers pressed lower, between his thighs, rubbing to spread the lube around, positioning Shane's legs with slight touches, while Shane tried to keep himself from whimpering at the ideas now clarifying in his mind.

He heard the thunk of the lube bottle as Ilya tossed it away, and then Ilya was sliding forward, pressing his stiff cock into the slicked-up gap between Shane's thighs, reaching at the same time to slide his coated fingers down Shane's belly and onto his already straining dick.

Shane felt all the air leave his lungs like he'd been checked into the boards.

"Oh fuck," he managed to say before he lost all words completely to the mind-blanking grip of searing pleasure, Ilya's hand on him dragging and twisting, Ilya's thick cock pumping between his legs, nothing for Shane to do except feel it all, his body given over to sensation and heat and rocketing ecstasy. It built so quickly he was shocked, gasping, felt barely hanging on as it just all happened, and then he was coming before he could form a single solid thought, embarrassingly fast except he didn't care, didn't have room for anything but the consuming rush and spill of it, tearing through him like fire.

Dimly over the rush of blood in his ears, he could hear Ilya groaning behind him, saying "so fucking hot for it, fuck fuck," and Ilya's body going tense and straining behind him, slammed into him, hot between his thighs, and without a thought in his mind except want, Shane dropped his hand down to catch Ilya's come spilling out, collected it in his palm and over his fingers. He half-twisted toward Ilya, his body burning, mind consumed, and licked at his hand, sucked his fingers into his mouth. Ilya made a sound like he was dying, rutted against Shane, buried his face in Shane's shoulder and bit down like an animal.

So... that was a new way to wake up.

-------------

Day 2, midmorning, on a run through the streets of Patreksfjörður

"You're not going to beat me," Shane said, keeping pace with Ilya, not even out of breath. "I run every day. And you smoke."

Ilya flashed a look at him, unimpressed. "I run every day, and I barely smoke. And my stride is longer. You will go down."

It seemed to register a moment later, what he'd said, and he smirked at Shane. "But we already knew that."

Shane snorted and shoved at him, using the motion to get a step ahead. "You are a child," he called over his shoulder, and Ilya grinned at him manically and caught up again.

"Okay, whoever gets to ocean first can push the other one in," Ilya decided.

Shane's next step stuttered. "What? Fuck no, that water is freezing."

"Better not lose then," Ilya said, and took off.

They raced down the street at a breakneck pace, grabbing and shoving at each other, dodging pedestrians, laughing like fools.

Ilya didn't push Shane in the water, but Shane still called him a cheater the whole way back.

-------------

Day 2, midday, in the kitchen

Shane's hair was still half-wet from the shower when he came into the kitchen to find Ilya. Ilya was at the stove, making scrambled eggs, in his track pants from the run but barefoot and shirtless and still kind of sweaty. Shane's first thought was that it was probably breaking some kind of health code for Ilya to be cooking half-naked and sweaty.

His second thought was: half-naked and sweaty.

His brain wasn't really working properly after that, and he felt like he was in a trance as he walked up behind Ilya and licked a long stripe along his shoulder blade.

Ilya whipped around and stared at him. "Did you just lick me?"

Shane blinked. "Yeah."

"Fucking freak," Ilya breathed, almost reverently, and he dropped the spatula and shoved Shane against the counter and kissed him hungrily.

"You're all sweaty," Shane complained, squirming a little in Ilya's arms.

"Shut the fuck up," Ilya said, and Shane did, happily, until a few minutes later when he said, "Weren't you making eggs?" and Ilya said "Fuck!" and went to throw the half-burnt eggs away.

-------------

Day 2, evening, in the living room

Ilya was on the couch with Shane half-sprawled over him, his head resting on Ilya's shoulder, one leg tossed over Ilya's knee.

Shane was bitching about the TV remote, wearing his glasses so he could read the buttons on it even though they were probably in Icelandic or something, Ilya hadn't checked.

Ilya didn't really care about the remote, or the TV, or whatever might be on the TV. He picked up Shane's free hand and pressed it, almost experimentally, into Ilya's crotch.

Shane activated like a sleeper agent, drawing in a breath, head lifting. He tossed the remote control onto the coffee table and climbed over to straddle Ilya's lap. Along with a rush of heat, Ilya felt a swell of... of fondness, maybe, something. Shane leaned in to kiss him, reaching to take his glasses off, but Ilya grabbed his hand.

"Glasses on," he said, and Shane, bemused, left them on.

-------------

Day 2, night, in the bedroom

"What does that word mean, that you keep saying?" Shane asked. He had his head on Ilya's chest, his body lax and spent and sort of glowing with good feelings.

"What word?" Ilya asked, and Shane could feel the rumble of his voice under his ear.

"It's like crass-ee... something."

Ilya didn't answer right away. He brought his hand to Shane's face, stroked his thumb along Shane's jaw.

"Means beautiful," he said finally, his voice low.

Shane lifted his head, turned it to look at Ilya with some skepticism. "Really?"

Ilya looked back at him in that flat way he had sometimes when he was maybe a little uncomfortable. "Yes."

Shane could feel himself smiling, let his head drop onto Ilya's chest again. "Wow, fuck. That's really nice. I thought you were going to say it meant, like, 'slut' or something."

"Can teach you word for 'slut,'" Ilya offered. "Is a compliment, just like 'beautiful.' I keep telling you this."

Shane laughed a little. "Okay, tell me. But I want to know how to call you an asshole, too."

Ilya refused to teach him that, but Shane did learn the proper terms for "please" and "harder" and "thank you."

-------------

Day 3, midday, Latrabjarg Bird Cliffs

Shane insisted that they visit the bird cliffs, because he hadn't abandoned his not-just-for-sex principles about the week together even if there was a lot of sex. They could still find a little bit of time to do things where they kept their clothes on, he reasoned.

He had considered fishing, of course, especially because if he came back with pictures of him holding up some freshly caught fish, it would support his "big group fishing trip" lie. But on the other hand, they'd probably need to book a boat and maybe a guide to do it, and that would make an official record somewhere that the "big group" was actually just him and Ilya. So the bird cliffs seemed safer, just a place you could walk up to without signing any forms.

It turned out to be a beautiful seaside hike, and there were indeed birds, mostly puffins that were so cartoonishly cute and so unafraid of humans that they could get within a few feet of them without scaring them off.

Ilya, who had flatly said "Who cares about birds?" when Shane proposed the outing, was grinning like a fool and assigning personalities to various puffins. That one is a baby, he fell over. This one is laughing, she is life of the party. That one is so serious, look at him, he is the Shane of birds.

It was... kind of insanely cute. The birds, sure, but mostly Ilya. It reminded Shane of the picture Ilya had sent way back at the beginning, where he was petting the dog and smiling so big. Shane wondered how many people got to see this happy, artless side of Ilya, so different from his cocky chirping on the ice or his nonchalant disregard after losing a game.

"I will adopt some and take them home," Ilya declared.

"No, Ilya, they want to stay here, they like it here," Shane said.

"They will love my house," Ilya insisted. "I will buy bird treats for them."

It was a fun outing, and a successful one in that Shane learned the Russian word for "bird," and they left without Ilya kidnapping any puffins.

-------------

Day 3, evening, in the bedroom

"Tell me what you want," Ilya said. He was on knees and elbows on top of Shane, who was stretched out on the bed beneath him.

"You, just you," Shane said, already breathless.

Ilya felt it like a torch burning in his chest, but he still bit at Shane's neck a little impatiently. "Thank you, but. Specifically, what?"

Shane was gasping, throwing his head back to give Ilya better access to his neck. "Anything, whatever you want."

Fuck, that made Ilya dizzy, made it hard to think. He took a breath, moved to nip at Shane's earlobe a little sharply, making him jolt.

"I am asking what you want. Tell me," he said.

"I don't know," Shane said, eyes closed, thrashing a little under his hands. "Just... whatever, the usual, I don't know."

Ilya drew back. The fuck? "The usual," he said flatly. "What, you are bored now? This is dull routine for you?"

Shane opened his eyes, and there was already worry in them. "What? No, I didn't mean it like that."

Ilya looked down at him crossly, and Shane reached up with both hands to cup the sides of his face. "I didn't mean it like that," he said again. "I just, I like everything you do. Everything we've done, all of it. Anything with you, it's always so good. Just... come here."

He pulled Ilya's face down to his, kissed him, and Ilya let himself be pulled, let himself be appeased, lost himself in kissing and touching.

Still, he was a bit put out that Shane wouldn't reveal a secret sex fantasy. He wanted to know. He would be following up.

-------------

Day 4, midday, Örlygshöfn Beach

"You did not do that," Shane said, looking at Ilya kind of aghast.

"Yes, I did," Ilya said, shrugging. "Was fun."

They were walking along a gorgeous sweep of golden sand in a cove tucked into a curve of cliffsides, the luminous blue-green sea stretching out ahead of them, talking about other places they'd traveled. Ilya had just revealed that he'd spent time the previous summer walking a slackline 400 feet above a fucking canyon.

"Fuck, Ilya, that's so dangerous," Shane said.

"Was not dangerous," Ilya scoffed. "There are ropes and harnesses, safety guides, they don't want anyone plunging to death."

"It still sounds fucking crazy," Shane said.

"Why, where did you go on last vacation?" Ilya said, looking at him like he was ready to tease him about whatever Shane said.

"Mostly I just go to the cottage. I went to Martha's Vineyard with my parents a couple years ago."

Ilya groaned. "Ugh, what did you do there, ride a cute bike and look at a lighthouse?"

That was... kind of exactly what they'd done. "It was fun," Shane insisted. "And anyway, I'm not going to do some stupid daredevil shit where I could get hurt. What if you'd gotten injured and couldn't play?"

Ilya looked at him darkly. "Not everything in life is about hockey, Shane."

Shane thought... it kind of was. Maybe not this, right now, walking on a fucking beach in Iceland with Ilya, but even that was all tangled up with hockey, too.

Wasn't that how his life was supposed to be? Everything giving way to hockey, everything sacrificed if it would serve the goal of being the best at hockey?

He looked at Ilya, framed against the golden sand and the blue of the sea, beautiful and bold and warm and alive and so close Shane could touch any part of him anytime he wanted to, and maybe for the first time in his life, he wasn't sure of the answer to that question.

-------------

Day 4, afternoon, in the backyard

Ilya had gone to take a shower, and Shane went to the backyard, thinking about calling his parents. He felt a little guilty for lying to them, wondered if calling to lie some more was better or worse than leaving them in silence. While he was still debating it, his phone buzzed with a text from... Ilya?

Rozanov: need you

Shane: ?? I'm outside, just come here?

Rozanov: need you here
come to bathroom

Shane: Is this a weird sex thing I'm not going to like?

There hadn't been a sex thing he hadn't liked so far with Ilya, but he was a little concerned about the bathroom part.

Rozanov: no I need
help
I am held hostage

What the fuck? Shane felt a dart of alarm, his mind already spinning improbable scenarios of a crazed hockey fan turning up in a tiny village in Iceland and breaking into the house. He went inside, heart thumping a little, but he didn't see any signs of anything that looked like a break-in. He went to the bathroom door, which was closed.

"Ilya? You... okay in there?"

Ilya's voice was muffled. "No, there is an emergency."

There went Shane's heart, thumping again. "What is it? Should I come in? What's going on?"

There was a little stretch of silence, and then, so quietly he almost couldn't hear it, Ilya spoke again.

"There is a spider."

For a moment, Shane almost couldn't make the words compute. Then he started smiling, felt a little laugh break through. "Wait, that's the emergency? There's a spider in there?"

Ilya's voice, louder. "Is a big spider, Shane! Is between me and door, fuck. You have to get it."

Shane's heart felt swollen, impossibly fond. "Ilya, are you scared of spiders?"

"Only of giant fucking spiders keeping me trapped in shower!"

Still laughing a little, Shane pushed the door open and leaned in. Ilya was standing in the shower, holding the glass door mostly closed in front of him.

"Is right there," he said, sticking one hand out to point at the floor in front of the door.

Shane looked. It was, objectively, a tiny spider. He laughed a little more and said "Oh my god," unable to believe his luck. Ilya was always teasing him about everything, and now Shane finally had something to hold over him.

He ducked back out to get a piece of paper to scoop up the spider, and Ilya called after him, "You are leaving me with the spider??"

"You're so scared," Shane called back gleefully. "It's a tiny spider, Ilya."

He came back with the paper, scooted it under the spider while Ilya watched, scowling.

"How do you say 'spider' in Russian?" Shane asked, grinning his head off.

"Get a cup or something," Ilya said fervently, ignoring the question. "It will run off the paper onto your arm, spiders are devious."

"It's not going to do that," Shane said, balancing the spider carefully.

"If it touches your arm, I am not touching your arm for rest of week," Ilya warned darkly, and Shane cracked up again.

"Sure you're not."

He got the spider outside and let it go, still feeling delighted at this turn of events. Ilya came to find him in the living room a little later, dressed, with his hair done, and acting like nothing had happened. He was back to his usual swagger, complaining that he was starving, that Shane was starving him, and Shane opened his mouth to tease him and then...

It struck him, the contrast of this Ilya that he was used to and the one he'd just seen, the one who had asked him for help, who had trusted him about the spider, who had... revealed something to him, a side of him that Shane suspected not many people had seen.

Shane didn't bring up the spider again, held the memory of it inside himself like a little flame in his chest.

-------------

Day 5, morning, in the bathroom

Shane was brushing his teeth, thinking about how it felt a little strange to be standing there by himself. Somehow, he'd already gotten used to having Ilya curled around him at the bathroom sink, in the kitchen, on the couch, everywhere, so much touching, and Shane sometimes, in general, didn't like being touched all that much, but that did not seem to apply to Ilya at all.

But it was early morning, Ilya was still asleep, and Shane was in the bathroom brushing his teeth alone, and he looked down at the little cup on the counter and saw Ilya's toothbrush there, and he started... laughing?

Like he was deranged. It just bubbled up out of him, and then he was chuckling with toothpaste foam in his mouth, even though nothing was funny. He just felt loopy, weird, like a giddy, delirious version of his usual self, like he had been feeling basically every day for the past few days. Like his lungs had expanded their capacity for air and his eyes were seeing colors better and everything he ate tasted like he'd never had food before. What the fuck?

It made him a little worried. Because... whatever this was, it wasn't normal, wasn't his real life, was only for a week, and so many of the days of that week were already gone, and if he felt like this now, what was he going to feel like when he wasn't here anymore?

He rinsed his mouth out, looked at himself in the mirror for a minute. Decided he knew what would help.

He went back to the bedroom, scooted back in next to Ilya, who mumbled something half-asleep and slid an arm over Shane and tucked him in close. Shane felt his mind easing away from his worries, felt his body dropping heavy and relaxed, felt his mouth curving into a smile.

What was the word in Russian for "home," he wondered.

-------------

Day 5, early evening, in the living room

Ilya had never had a week like this time in Iceland. Had never even thought of it.

It amazed him sometimes, even in the middle of it happening around him, that he was there, that he was there with someone. That he was spending essentially every moment of his time for a week with another person.

If someone had asked him a month ago to do such a thing, he would have found the idea of it miserable. Stifling, uncomfortable, like an endless stretch of waiting in line at the motor vehicle department. He liked variety and noise and activity and movement, sought those things out relentlessly, needed them to drown out his thoughts and steady his mood.

But this week, for whatever reason, he liked going for walks and hiking and looking at birds and sitting in the same house and talking to the same person every fucking day. It was what he had wanted, what he had scraped together his unpracticed sincerity to ask for, but that didn't mean he really understood why it was making his body so light and buoyant he felt half-floating every fucking minute.

He didn't spend too much time questioning it, though. Mostly when his mind agitated on a question it was the one about how time was moving so rapidly, how he kept looking up startled at the span of hours that had elapsed while he'd been lost in something, how the days they had left were dwindling, and what was going to happen when they ran out.

He had ideas. He didn't know yet if Shane wanted to hear them.

While that turned over in the back of his mind, he worked on another problem, this one much more fun.

"Nothing comes to mind," he said flatly, repeating what Shane had just told him.

They were on the couch, Ilya sitting back against the arm of it and Shane stretched out on his side between Ilya's legs, head resting against Ilya's chest, one hand slid idly halfway up the leg of Ilya's shorts. Ostensibly, they were watching TV, some tennis match that Ilya couldn't care less about but that Shane was at least pretending to follow. They hadn't made it through more than twenty minutes of television at a stretch for the whole trip, and Ilya didn't think tonight would be the exception.

Shane lifted a shoulder, his eyes on the screen. "I don't know. Maybe I'm just not that creative."

Ilya rolled his eyes, although Shane couldn't see him do it. "Does not need to be creative, it just needs to exist."

"Well, I can't think of anything," Shane said.

Stubborn Hollander. Ilya knew that wasn't true.

"Oh, okay, I see," he said. "You have no secret dirty fantasies at all. You are pure of heart, a saint."

Shane rolled his head to scowl up at him. "You can't tease me for being a saint when your favorite nickname for me is thirsty slut," he pointed out.

Ilya grinned. "Yes, this is my point. So I know you are holding out on me."

Shane just blew out a breath and turned back to the TV, giving him nothing.

"Or," Ilya offered thoughtfully. "Maybe you only ever think of me when you jerk off. Look at my pictures, think about my body." He nudged his hips upward into Shane suggestively.

Shane snorted. "You would love that idea," he said.

But his face had gone a little pink in a way Ilya recognized. Grinning, Ilya traced his fingertips over one warm cheek.

"Ah, you are blushing, so now I know it is true. Is okay, understandable. I have ruined you now for all other sex fantasies. But what did you do before we were talking? You must have had something in your mind, something nice to think of or look at when you were jerking off."

Shane was pointedly ignoring him now, but his blush only deepened, going nearly red, and Ilya had a sudden flash of intuition. He nearly gasped.

"Hollander," he breathed, captivated, almost scandalized. "Were you thinking about me even before?"

Shane rolled again, the other way this time, burying his hot-flushed face in Ilya's chest. After a long moment, he sighed, and then he spoke, voice muffled.

"I... may have looked at your Instagram sometimes."

Ilya thought he might die of delight, did not know how to contain the feeling filling up his body. He started laughing, cackling nearly, so much that it jostled Shane's head against his chest.

"Shut up," Shane said, slapping at his leg. "You post a lot of inappropriate shit on there."

"You're welcome," Ilya said, still grinning wide. "So, I have solved it. I am the only thing that turns you on. You have no sex fantasies, only dirty thoughts about me."

"Fuck off, I have sex fantasies," Shane said grumpily.

Ilya pounced. "Ah, so something has come to mind after all."

Shane groaned and buried his face again. "This is a fun vacation. Nothing like a sex fantasy interrogation to really relax a person."

"Shane," Ilya said, lowering his voice. "You do realize, if you tell me, we can do it."

That seemed to arrest him, his body going still for a moment. But he still kept his face hidden when he spoke. "It's just... this stuff is hard for me to talk about, okay? I'm not like you, all open about it. It's just... it's embarrassing."

Ilya frowned down at him, eyebrows furrowing. "Shane. I made you rescue me from a spider. You think was not embarrassing for me?"

Shane lifted his head at that, a look on his face Ilya couldn't quite interpret. He stared at Ilya for a long moment, clearly thinking.

"You want me to trust you, is that what this is?" he asked at last.

Something tightened in Ilya's chest suddenly. He felt like, under the teasing, the game of it, the fun... maybe that was what it was about. How Shane knew that when it was still half a mystery to Ilya, he had no idea. But... it might be true.

He felt himself shrug a little, a small defense, like the answer didn't matter. "Do you trust me?" he asked.

Shane eyes softened. "I trust you, Ilya," he said in his earnest way. Then he smiled a little. "Of all the people I could've sent an accidental nude to, I think I picked the best one."

It was a joke, not serious, of course, but it still made Ilya's heart swell almost painfully in his chest. He swallowed hard, kept his tone light.

"So you could tell me, then," he said, and when Shane flushed again, he added, "Does not have to be everything. Just... tell me one thing."

Shane took a deep breath.

-------------

Day 5, evening, in the backyard

Ilya shivered, and for once it was not because Shane was naked in his arms. Or... not only because.

"Is fucking cold out here," he said.

Shane, huddled with him between the blanket they'd spread out in the grass and the one they'd draped over themselves, gave him a little shove.

"You can't beg me to tell you a fantasy and then complain about it, asshole."

"Yes I can," Ilya argued. "But, is okay. For you, I will get hypothermia."

"You're not going to get hypothermia, it's summer," Shane pointed out, half-laughing.

"Yes, I know, is why it is bright as daylight out here even at night," Ilya said, stroking a hand down Shane's back, lower to squeeze his ass. "Makes it even hotter, no? Anyone could walk by, peek over fence and see us."

"No one's going to walk by the fence," Shane said, but he was squirming a little now, his face going delightfully pink again at the idea.

Ilya couldn't stop grinning, but he pushed his face into Shane's neck, licking at it. "You will have to be very quiet, I think," he said between sucking kisses at the tender skin of Shane's throat. "All your moaning and gasping will draw a crowd."

"Shut up," Shane said, but it came out strained, and he was already breathing a little faster.

Ilya did shut up, for a while, working hard on making sure Shane forgot about the chill in the air, forgot about any embarrassment, lost himself in the heat their bodies could make. Easy work, of course, his favorite kind, mouthing his way down Shane's chest, hands stroking and pulling at his ass, the backs of his thighs, lightly along the ridge of his rapidly swelling cock, not giving him everything yet, just warming him up.

Shane was already groaning, pressing against him, working his hands into Ilya's hair and pulling him up into a kiss, hot plush lips rubbing against Ilya's, sucking, tongue sliding inside. It was easy to get lost in that, mouths and hands and breath, everything getting hotter, more urgent, but Ilya had ideas, wanted to make this everything Shane had ever imagined.

He pulled back a fraction, nipped at Shane's glistening lower lip. "Are you going to show everyone watching what else that mouth can do?" he asked, dark and low.

Shane shuddered, said "Fuck" in that half-gone way he had, and pushed Ilya over onto his back, throwing off the blanket that was barely covering them anymore anyway. He kissed his way down Ilya's chest, licking at his abs, sliding his body against Ilya's as he moved down, settled between Ilya's legs, stroked a hand under Ilya's balls and lifted them to his mouth, licking and sucking at them in a way that made Ilya's whole body tighten dangerously.

"Fuck, Shane," he breathed, losing his grip a little on remembering the fantasy, getting lost in the reality of Shane's gorgeous mouth on him.

Shane hummed in something like agreement, the feel of it resonating through Ilya like a jolt of electricity. God, how was it so hot every time, Shane so fucking good, so perfect? Ilya held a hand over his eyes so at least he couldn't see it, trying to hold on to some scrap of intention, all his ideas, anything that wasn't just sinking in to the mindless hot pleasure of Shane between his legs.

But then Shane slid his lips over Ilya's cock, sinking down, hot sucking slide of searing pleasure, and it was all Ilya could do not to thrust upward into that wet warm grip of mouth and tongue and cheeks hollowed out for him. Fuck, fuck, he could stay here forever, or anywhere he could have this, have Shane taking him in like he was starving for it, moaning about it like he was the one who loved it most.

Fuck, it was too good, he was getting too close already, and this wasn't all he'd had in mind.

With an agonizing effort, Ilya pushed himself up on his elbows, got wildly derailed by the sight of everything he hadn't let himself look at until then, Shane's blissed-out expression with Ilya's cock deep in his mouth, fuck fuck.

Ilya reached down and grabbed at Shane's hair, yanking upward. "Stop, enough," he said, pulling Shane off with real effort, and Shane looked mad about it, and that nearly made Ilya fold and sink back in, but he held fast to his intentions, held fast to his grip on Shane's hair, keeping him lifted off.

"No, Hollander, you can't have it. I'm going to fuck you out here, where anyone could see it. Could see how good you are at taking my cock."

Shane's whole body seemed to ripple against him, a wave of sensation visibly passing through him.

"Yes, please," he moaned, and when Ilya pushed his head back, he collapsed over onto his back. "Fuck me, Ilya, I want it."

Ilya groaned. Oh god, how did it feel like it would kill him every time? Like he would die if he didn't fuck Shane immediately, like he would die if he did, the consuming pleasure of it taking everything out of him.

"Hands and knees," he growled, heart racing. "Hold yourself open, let everyone see."

Shane moaned, rolling over, rubbing himself helplessly into the blanket a few times before he hauled himself up to hands and knees, reached a hand back to open his cheeks.

Ilya was almost frantic, searching for the lube he'd dropped somewhere into the grass nearby, finding it finally and coating his hand. He came up behind Shane on his knees, shoving himself against him as he slid a hand between them, knocking Shane's hand away so he could get his slick fingers rubbing and pressing at Shane's hole.

"I'm going to fuck you right here, in the open, let everyone see how you take me, a fucking champion at taking my cock. And everyone will wish they could have you, everyone wanting that beautiful ass, but it's only for me."

He was rougher than usual, sliding his fingers in, stretching, and Shane was vibrating about it and pushing back, thrusting his ass onto Ilya's hand.

"It's only for you," Shane was repeating, his voice half-strangled. "Only want you, Ilya, fuck me, please."

Ilya gasped like he might die, cock throbbing and twitching between his legs. He pulled his hand free, snatched at the condom at the edge of the blanket and rolled it on with half-shaking hands, slicked it hurriedly with more lube and lined himself up, holding back for one more moment.

"Tell them you want it," he gritted out. "Everyone is watching, they want to see you take it. Tell them how much you want it, how you're dying for my cock."

Shane made a noise halfway between a whimper and a wail. "Fuck fuck, I want it, I want your cock in me, please, Ilya, fuck me."

"Oh fuck," Ilya said, and he sank in, could not wait another instant, trying to go slowly but Shane bucked back against him and took him all the way to the root at once.

"Fuck, fuck, Shane, you will kill me, I will die," he said, mindless with the hot grip, the exquisite slide, the searing everything of it, his whole existence narrowed to the feeling of his cock buried inside Shane, Shane's hips jerking under his hands, Shane's frantic keening moans and panting breaths.

The feeling didn't stop building, kept going on and up until it seemed impossible, could not exist, he was dreaming, maybe, everything more intense and hotter and sweeter than real life could be. He had things to remember, things to do, he could not lose his mind in this fucking tsunami of bliss, but he felt captured, in thrall to the heat and the need and the want of it.

And then, before he could even gather himself enough to reach for Shane's cock, to take them both to release and relief together, Shane was thrashing below him, gasping and tensing and clenching and fuck, he was coming, untouched, coming from Ilya fucking him, and Ilya thought he would pass out, his vision going white-out blank as he lost himself, frenzied fucking Shane through it, coming and coming, growling and half-shouting about it, until he was hollowed out to nothing.

Holy shit.

He wavered for a moment on his knees, grasping at Shane's hips, head spinning like he had a delirium.

One breath, two, three, he had to let the feeling subside a notch before he could move or think or do anything. Then, finally, he pulled back, groaning as he slid free, shucked off the condom and tossed it into the grass.

Shane was still on hands and knees, breathing ragged like he'd run a marathon in an hour, arms and legs visibly trembling. Ilya shifted him by his hips, tugged him over to the clean side of the blanket, pushed him down and rolled him to his side, then laid down in the grass next to him and gathered him up. He felt overcome, nearly teary in a way he didn't want to look at too much, tucking Shane into his body and dropping kisses all over his dazed face.

"That was so fucking hot, you are incredible," he said, in between kisses, feeling like he was babbling, unable to stop. "How are you so good, every time, everything you do, fuck."

Shane had his eyes closed, but he was smiling, dreamy. "That's what I was going to say to you."

Fuck, that did not help the situation with whatever was happening to Ilya's face and eyes. He clutched Shane tighter, kissed him some more, across his cheeks, over his jaw, only quickly once on his mouth to let him breathe.

They stayed like that for a while, tangled up and breathing, absorbing the aftershocks of whatever the fuck kind of cataclysmic thing that had been, until eventually they got cold again, and Shane was back to himself enough to feel sticky, and Ilya remembered that the prickling grass beneath him might contain hidden spiders. They went inside.

-------------

Day 5, night, in the bedroom

They took a quick shower, cleaning up and warming up, and closed all the blinds in the bedroom so it was dim and close, and fell into the warm bed, gathered up together again.

Ilya thought he had never felt so content in his life, his body wrung out and lax with muscle-deep satisfaction, Shane's forehead resting against his collarbone, limbs tangled together. And, at the same time and not unrelated, he felt almost bursting, like something was alive and moving inside his chest that he was not sure he could keep contained, and he was not sure, not sure what he would do, what he could do.

They lay there for a little while, quiet, breathing. Then Shane, smiling a little, tilted his head up to peer up at Ilya.

"What did you think, when you sent me that first picture?"

Ilya looked down at him, smiled, dropped a kiss into his hair, kept it light. "You mean, did I think I would end up in fucking Iceland having hottest sex of my life with Shane Hollander? No, I am not such an optimist."

Shane lifted his head. "Hottest sex of your life? Really?" He was grinning wide.

Hmm, maybe he had said too much. "Don't get an ego about it," he said quellingly, even though Shane looked like he had stars in his eyes and Ilya... did not mind that.

"But no," Shane said, still smiling, dropping his head down to rest against Ilya again. "I just meant... what did you think would happen? Not this, I know."

Ilya stroked a hand down Shane's back, considering. "I thought... it would annoy you. I was feeling... restless, maybe. I don't know. Something."

"I was, too," Shane murmured. "That's why I was up at midnight, couldn't sleep. Thought maybe I was hallucinating when that picture showed up."

"And I thought it would shock you, that you must be so innocent." He laughed a little darkly, squeezing at Shane's waist, thinking of how wrong he'd had it all. "I had no idea who you were."

"I didn't know you, either," Shane said. "I thought I did, but..." He shook his head, his face rubbing a little against Ilya's chest. "I thought you were..."

He trailed off, maybe not wanting to say, so Ilya supplied the words for him. "An asshole."

Shane did a reluctant little shrug. "But... a hot one."

Ilya smiled at that, sliding his leg between Shane's to nudge a knee at his softened cock. "And you jerked off to all the pictures I sent."

"God, I really did," Shane sighed.

"And then you sent me your special little surprise."

Shane groaned and buried his face in Ilya's chest. Ilya could almost feel the heat of the blush he knew was spreading across Shane's cheeks. "Ugh, let's not talk about that anymore."

"Was bad for you, yes, but... it was what started everything. We would never have talked without it."

"I guess you're right," Shane said, gusting out a sigh that Ilya could feel all down his chest and stomach. "How do you say 'panic attack' in Russian?"

Ilya smiled and told him, let him try out the words a couple of times. He liked this habit Shane had picked up of asking for Russian words, found it achingly sweet.

"I was so nervous to text you the next day," Shane said after a while, his voice a low murmur.

Ilya huffed a little. "I thought you were going to tell me... I don't know. That you were mad. That I made you upset, made you panic."

Shane lifted his head to look into Ilya's eyes, his face concerned. "What? It wasn't your fault."

Ilya shrugged a little, still feeling that it... kind of was. "I shouldn't have teased you. I felt bad for that, later. And for... maybe was wrong to talk you into..." He lifted a hand helplessly. "Getting your dick out when you'd just been so upset. Maybe I took advantage."

Shane snuggled back down into him, made a little contented noise. "I was not mad about that."

Ilya had to grin. "No, you thanked me. So polite."

"Shut up, I didn't thank you for that, asshole," he said, giving Ilya a little shove.

"You said 'although,'" Ilya pointed out. He remembered everything about those texts.

"Yeah, whatever," Shane said, but there was laughter underneath it. After another comfortable little silence, he spoke again, running his fingers lightly through the hair on Ilya's chest. "Did you think it was weird that I asked if you wanted to do it again?"

Ilya stretched lazily, flexing his arms over his head and rolling in even closer. "Weird? No. Is natural to want me."

Shane snorted. "Fucking egomaniac," he said, but it was fond.

Dropping a kiss onto Shane's forehead, Ilya said, "All I thought that day was... that I was very lucky."

"I thought I was the lucky one," Shane countered. "I knew... that you could have anyone. You didn't need me. I figured you were probably sleeping with half of Moscow the whole time anyway."

Ilya could hear the question in it, even though Shane didn't ask it outright. He cupped a hand under Shane's jaw to bring his eyes up, took a little breath to steel himself to be sincere. "You are worried about that? I haven't... I haven't slept with anyone else since you sent me that picture."

Shane's eyes went wide and startled, then slipped rapidly into soft and starry. "Really?"

Ilya felt like squirming under that wide-open gaze, but he held himself still, except for a little shrug he couldn't help. "You ruined me with that picture. Obsessed me. Couldn't think of anyone else."

"Fuck, Ilya. That's so nice. How do you say 'nice' in Russian?" Shane asked, grinning.

Ilya told him, kissed him, lost himself in that for a bit. But there was more he wanted to say, needed to say, something that was feeling pulled out of him, that he wanted Shane to know even if it felt a little impossible to say. In the dark room, blinds drawn against the sustained twilight of the sky outside, in that dim and quiet place, the two of them seemingly alone in the world, he thought he could do it.

"It was not to be nice," he began. "It was..." He hesitated, trying to gather up the right English words, not sure if he could explain it even in Russian. "When things were bad in my life, like, when my mother died..."

He had to pause, and into the little stillness there, Shane whispered, "How did she die?"

This was part of it, what he wanted to say, but still he struggled with the uncomfortable feeling of saying the words out loud. "She was... very unhappy. She... ended it. I was the one who found her."

Shane made a noise like moaning and pushed himself closer, lifted his arms out from under Ilya's so he could wrap them around Ilya's neck, pulled Ilya's head down into him. "Fuck, Ilya."

Ilya found it was easier to talk like this, his face half-buried in Shane's neck. "Yes, was bad. I was only twelve. But I was used to bad things already -- my father was... not kind, before he was... like he is now."

Shane said, "Ilya, no," like he didn't want it to be true, like he would make it not be true if he could.

It helped a little, which was a little bit the point of what Ilya was trying, badly, to say.

He sighed and tried again. "What I mean is, when things were hard, bad, what I thought was that... I should find good things, fun things. Parties and sex and hockey and money. Like, to replace the bad things, like, wipe them out, maybe. But... they didn't. And I was feeling... just before I got your picture, I was feeling like... they weren't working very much anymore."

He breathed in at Shane's neck, pushed his face into his skin, and said the scariest part, the part he felt like he'd been holding in for days and days, that couldn't stay inside him anymore no matter how terrifying it was to say. "But I never thought, that... what I needed, what would help, make me feel happy was... world's most boring hockey player."

He couldn't say any more, couldn't say it any plainer, could only hope Shane would understand.

He felt Shane go still around him, felt his own heart thumping painfully in his chest when Shane drew back slowly to look at him.

Shane's eyes were serious, and Ilya's throat was so tight, waiting for him to say something, wondering if now was the moment when it would all, finally, go wrong, when Shane would surprise him in a bad way instead of the way he always had before.

"You make me really happy, too," Shane said, finally, and Ilya gulped a breath and felt like something heavy was lifting off his chest. He pushed his face into Shane's neck again and breathed for a moment.

"I think..." Shane said slowly. "I think I was unhappy, before, but I didn't even really know it. I always thought hockey was the main thing, and that if I was doing good there, that everything else would just... work out. But the hockey was good, and I... wasn't. I think I was really lonely... like, really alone."

"And you don't want to be alone?" Ilya had to ask, still worried about that a little.

Shane leaned his head down, pressed a kiss into Ilya's curls. "I don't. Not anymore."

They both pulled back then, to look at each other in the dark, eyes serious on each other.

"What are we doing?" Shane asked.

Ilya felt himself shrug a little. "Having bad ideas?"

Shane smiled. "I don't care."

"Me neither," Ilya said.

They stared a moment longer, and then Shane got a crafty little glint in his eyes. "Ilya. How do you say 'I love you' in Russian?"

Ilya could only grin at him, felt like laughing, maybe crying. "Shane. You are trying to trick me into saying it first?"

"Maybe," Shane said, grinning back at him.

"But you already said the words," Ilya pointed out.

He told him the words in Russian, repeated them a few times, listened to Shane saying it back. They said it in English, tried that out a few times too, in between kisses long and slow and soft and intense.

At last, Shane pulled away just far enough to press his cheek against Ilya's. "What are we going to do?" he asked, like maybe the edge of the whole entire world beyond this room had crowded in on him a little, like he'd remembered what they were up against.

But Ilya had been thinking for days about that question, only waiting to know if he was the only one who wanted the answers.

"Don't worry," he said, pulling Shane in closer, as close as they could get. "I have a plan."

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

Okay. Here we go. Last chapter. I hope you like it.

I'm going to miss these boys and all of you so much. 😭😭

The MLH Gala for Children's Arts was held on a cool, clear evening in mid-September at one of New York City's most iconic art museums. In attendance at the glittering event were league executives and sponsors, sports media figures and influencers, high-net-worth donors, and several high-profile hockey players who had contributed (bad) paintings of their league counterparts for the evening's highlight: the charity auction.

Not in attendance -- not yet -- were Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov.

Because Ilya was late.

Shane was standing beneath the awning of a building about a block away from the museum, sweating in his tuxedo and dividing his time between checking the watch on his wrist and the phone in his pocket.

They were supposed to walk in together; it was part of the plan, but Ilya's short flight from Boston had been delayed, and now he was rushing to get dressed and get to the waiting car that would bring him to the museum.

Shane knew it wasn't Ilya's fault that he was running behind. He knew it didn't matter if they arrived a little late. He knew, intellectually, that everything was going to be fine.

He just didn't feel like it was going to be fine, not when he was standing on the street like an idiot, hoping no one noticed him or tried to talk to him or attempted to lure him into the event, because he was waiting for Ilya and they had a plan.

Shane believed in the plan, or... he was trying to. It still scared him, and at the beginning he hadn't been sure about it at all. There was a lot of fishing involved, and Shane had a vague feeling that it was all like a bad echo of the plot of Brokeback Mountain. Plus... he loved Ilya, admired him, respected him, but Ilya was so bold, so confident, and he had spent so much of his life living in the moment that Shane was, sometimes, a little worried about his long-range planning acumen.

It had sent Shane down a rabbit hole of making his own plan, in fact. Meticulous long-range planning was much more his thing, after all, and the idea of a complex, layered strategy had seemed comforting. He'd drawn up elaborate blueprints for a business venture they could start together -- a vodka brand, maybe, or a line of protein shakes. He'd made a business plan, created a list of potential corporate partners, mapped out a rough schedule of regular meetings in Montreal and Boston that would provide cover for visits, sketched out press releases they could issue and thought about what a website might look like.

Then... he'd scrapped it all.

Maybe his plan was a good one, but it was a lot -- even he could see that. And he didn't really want to devote his limited free time to promoting some random product he didn't even care about. He kind of hated vodka, actually, though he hadn't mentioned that to Ilya yet, and he was pretty particular about what kind of protein shakes he would drink.

So, they were doing Ilya's plan, or the version of it they had worked on together, and they were keeping it simple, because they really only had one simple goal: To spend as much time together as they possibly could.

They had looked at the barriers to that goal, one by one.

First, they were legendary rivals, to the point that it was flat-out shocking for them to be seen together. Second, they played for different teams and lived in different cities, with complicated schedules and crisscrossing travel itineraries. Third, they were in love in a homophobic league in a still-pretty-intolerant larger culture that definitely didn't want to hear anything about them being together.

Simple. So simple.

Yeah, it was scary, of course it was. Thinking about it for too long made Shane's stomach heave and his heart feel like it was trying to climb out of his chest. It made him think about losing things -- his career, his teammates, his privacy, his peace.

The thing was? Thinking about losing Ilya was worse.

Shane's paranoid secrecy had driven Adam away, and Shane remembered clearly how disappointed and bummed out he'd felt about that -- and Adam had been kind of a jerk, really, who'd only ever been there for the sex, in his own limited definition of what was sexy. But Ilya... well. "A bit bummed out" would not come close to describing what Shane would feel if he pushed Ilya away because he was afraid of what the world might think.

And the other thing was, Shane had already given so much to hockey. He loved it, wanted to keep doing it for years, but after spending basically his whole life sacrificing for it, he wasn't giving it this. Because winning wasn't enough anymore, the Cups weren't enough; they were important but they had never been all he'd needed, no matter how much he'd tried to sell himself on that story.

And another thing: if he'd had peace before, it was only because he'd poured so much effort into pretending, and that didn't feel very peaceful to him anymore.

So, the plan. They'd refined it together, talking for hours on calls or whenever they could snatch time together after Iceland. Then they'd spent a weekend with Shane's parents and gotten their input on the plan, too. Hayden knew about the plan now, and so did Ilya's friend Svetlana. It had been fairly terrifying, of course, telling their people, but they'd done that together, too, and it was easier to be scared with Ilya than to be scared alone. And now everyone in their little circle was, more or less, on board with the plan.

It wasn't a complicated plan, but it had steps, and the first one started tonight. If Ilya ever got here.

Shane: Are you close?

Rozanov: don't send me dirty texts now
I need to focus

Shane: I didn't mean that. 🙄
And what are you even focusing on?
You're supposed to be hurrying.

Rozanov: my hair is doing something weird

Shane: You're still doing your hair??
I thought you'd be on your way by now.

Rozanov: you don't want me to look good?
sexiness is important, I have told you this

Shane: Yeah, well, so is tonight.

Rozanov: I know, Shane
is important to me too
but your hair looks very good tonight
so I must match

That made Shane feel a little swell of warmth. He'd been growing out his hair a bit since Iceland. Ilya seemed to like it longer, and Shane liked that Ilya liked it. But... wait.

Shane: How do you know what my hair looks like?

Rozanov: because I can see you

A black SUV pulled to the curb in front of Shane, and the maddening, mesmerizing Russian who loved to play with Shane's patience -- but never his heart -- stepped out, grinning widely.

"Fuck you," Shane said right away, though he was smiling, too. "Your hair doesn't look weird at all."

"Hmm, correct," Ilya said, nodding. "I am as sexy as ever."

He was, but Shane only huffed. "And as humble."

The urge to lean into Ilya, to grab onto him, to pull him in close and kiss him, was as strong and persuasive as always. It had been a couple of weeks, and it was really, really good to see him in person again. But Shane swallowed and held himself back. They had a plan, and they weren't at that step. Not yet.

"We should get inside," he said instead, leading the way down the street toward the museum entrance. "You feel ready? Did you get a chance to look over the flash cards my dad made?"

Ilya shrugged a little. "Ah, no. But it will be fine."

Shane's heart sped up. "But what if they ask, like, detailed questions? We have to sell that part, or there's going to be other questions we really don't want to answer."

Before they got too close to the entrance, where the lights were bright and plenty of people were coming and going, Ilya pressed his hand briefly to Shane's back. "Breathe, Shane. Will be fine," he said.

He drew his hand away. They were at the door. Shane had no choice -- he had to trust him.

He trusted him. Even if he was very, very nervous.

They walked in together, and it wasn't like they were holding hands or linking arms or even standing very close to each other, but it still drew immediate, shocked attention.

"People are staring," Shane said, voice pitched low for only Ilya to hear.

"And we are smiling," Ilya said, calmly. "This is the plan."

He was right. Shane put on his media smile and surveyed the room and made every effort to seem like he wasn't about to jump out of his skin.

Scott Hunter was the first to approach. "What the hell?" he said cheerfully, reaching to shake Shane's hand and then Ilya's as he spoke. "Did you guys do an Uber Pool together to save money or something? League not paying you enough?"

Carter Vaughn came up to join them. "Wow, Rozanov and Hollander side by side? What's next? Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria?"

And it kind of went on like that.

They stuck together, never too close, but never drifting far apart, smiling and shaking hands, fielding the same "funny" remarks and answering the same questions over and over. Shane's mom had made the flash cards for this, a selection of polished comments they could deliver to set the tone without raising too many eyebrows, although Ilya's responses certainly had his own twist.

Shane said: Believe it or not, we've become friends -- and it's mostly thanks to this charity project. and We had to work together on this thing, and we found out we actually have a lot in common. and Turns out, we're a lot more alike than we thought. It's kind of funny, but we just get along.

Ilya mostly said: Hollander is not actually as boring as everyone thinks.

Shane kind of wanted to tell him to fuck off every time he said it, but he didn't feel like that would help sell the "newfound good friends" story they were spinning.

They posed for countless pictures in front of their paintings, which they had done together over that weekend with Shane's parents. The painting of Ilya, which admittedly looked like it had been created by a fifth grader since that was about the last time Shane had tried his hand at art, depicted him holding up a large silver fish in both hands, giving it a kiss right on its big fishy mouth. Ilya had lobbied hard to be shirtless in the painting, but Shane had absolutely refused, going so far as to paint him with long sleeves, which had made Ilya pout for an hour.

In retaliation, Ilya had painted Shane shirtless for his picture, but then had decided he was too good of an artist and that he didn't want anyone else seeing Shane without his shirt, so he'd added a hockey sweater in the end. In the painting, Shane was showing off a similar large silver fish, dangling it from a line and smiling. For artistic inspiration, they'd used a fish Yuna had bought at the market, and it'd been stiff and cold and unlike Ilya, Shane hadn't really wanted to touch it.

So yeah, the fishing was a big part of it. Shane didn't love that aspect of the plan, because while he'd been fishing plenty of times, he wasn't really a huge enthusiast, and Ilya had never in his life so much as baited a hook. So it was going to involve some potentially complicated lying, and that made Shane apprehensive as hell. Especially because Ilya apparently had not studied the fishing-facts flash cards that David had so carefully prepared.

But he hadn't been able to think of a better excuse for how the charity painting project had gotten them talking enough to become good friends. A shared deep enthusiasm for fishing was a believable, innocuous reason for them to have hit it off. Shane accidentally sending Ilya a nude was... not something he was going to mention. They hadn't told anyone about that; even their inner circle had gotten a modified version of the story.

With all the attention they were getting, Shane hadn't gotten a chance to even grab a drink from the bar when he was approached by a well-dressed man with very white teeth who introduced himself as Brady Gills, the league's communications director, and asked if Shane was ready for the video.

This was another part of the plan, which Yuna had kicked off by reaching out to Gills to pitch the story of the Hollander-Rozanov friendship. As she had predicted, the league was as keen on the story of their unexpected kinship as it had always been about their legendary rivalry, and Gills had asked to film a short interview with the two of them on the night of the event. This was the centerpiece of this first step of the plan, the part that would launch their new story beyond the league insiders in attendance tonight and out to the general public.

It was meant to be a feel-good piece about camaraderie even among rival players, about the power of the league's good deeds to inspire fellowship around a common cause. Shane didn't expect any hardball questions or intense dissection of his relationship with Ilya, and he'd practiced and prepared for the kinds of questions he anticipated. He was ready. He wasn't sure that Ilya was ready, but Ilya was always good in front of a camera, easy and relaxed and charming. It would be fine.

Ilya appeared at his side then, holding a drink he'd apparently fetched from the bar, wordlessly handing Shane a glass as well. Shane took a grateful sip of what turned out to be ginger ale, and he had to stop himself from reaching out and squeezing Ilya's hand in a swell of love and appreciation.

Gills led them to a quieter corner of the museum, where he had a backdrop and some stools set up, showed them where to set their drinks down.

"We'll edit in an intro before we release the video," Gills explained as he fitted them both with lapel microphones. "That'll set up the context, so hopefully I won't have to keep you from the party for long. Just want to get a few questions in, hear from both of you directly. It's such a great story."

They both agreed, flashing each other a quick look, and Gills launched into his questions. They were just what Shane had expected: What did you think of the painting project? Is this cause important to you? How did you feel about being paired up for it?

Then, a pivotal one.

"So what's really surprising here is that it seems you two longtime rivals have actually struck up something of a friendship because of this project. Can you tell us more about how that happened?"

Ilya jumped in to field this one. "We had to exchange pictures for the project, for something to paint," he said, grinning. "And Hollander sent me a very interesting photo."

Shane nearly flinched. He had to work hard to keep his media smile in place.

"I loved this picture," Ilya went on. "I was so excited to see it, you would not believe."

Shane was going to kill him.

"Really," Gills said, with interest. "And why was that?"

He wasn't going to say it. Shane knew he wasn't, but he still felt ready to leap off his stool and slap a hand over Ilya's mouth at a second's notice.

"Because Hollander was holding a fish," Ilya said, calm and smiling. "And I am so into fishing. I never knew we had this in common. Of course I had to ask -- where was this fishing trip, what other fishing places had he been, what was his favorite?" He shrugged. "Maybe we were a little competitive with it at first -- who had caught the most, the biggest. But, it was fun, we kept talking, found out other things we had in common. Now, we are friends. Maybe we will take fishing trips together. Compete in real time."

Shane let out a slow breath. That was all pretty much note-perfect. He wanted to flash another look at Ilya, impressed with his good performance, but the camera was rolling, and anyway Shane was still a little annoyed with the way Ilya had led into the story.

Then Gills said, "It's interesting you say you have a lot in common. Looking at you both from the outside, you certainly seem very different. I mean, Shane seems like such a good guy, while Ilya, you've got the whole party guy, playboy reputation."

Shane bristled at the comparison, the implication that Ilya wasn't a "good guy." Before Ilya could say a word, he jumped in to answer.

"We actually have much more in common than people seem to realize. We've both been playing professionally since we were teenagers, so we both know the kind of pressure and scrutiny that can bring. We understand each other's lives in ways most people wouldn't relate to. And I have to say that as I've gotten to know Ilya off the ice, I've found him to be one of the most decent, thoughtful, generous, and caring people I've ever met."

He said it straight to the camera, serious and earnest, and hoped Gills felt it like a punch to his stupid guts.

Ilya, for his part, was frowning, but his eyes were shining in a way Shane understood. "Hollander, you will ruin my reputation. Make me look soft."

Shane only smiled. He wasn't going to take any of it back, or undercut the truth of it with a joke.

"Well, this is great," Gills said, clearly oblivious to how insulting he'd been. "I know we're all excited to see more of the unexpected Hollander-Rozanov friendship as the season gets started in a few weeks. Before we let you get back to the party, I have to ask -- well, I'm something of a passionate fisherman myself -- an afishionado, you might say." He paused to laugh at his own pun, then added. "Maybe it's the last name -- my destiny. Anyway, Ilya, can you tell us a little more about your own love of fishing? Are you a freshwater or saltwater guy? Bass, walleye, catfish? You prefer baitcasters or spinning reels?"

Oh, fuck. This was exactly what Shane had feared. It had all gone so well up to this point, and now Ilya's in-depth knowledge of fishing -- the lie they'd built everything else on in this interview -- was being put to the test. And Ilya hadn't studied the flash cards.

"That is a lot of questions at once, Gills," Ilya said, his voice low and serious.

Shane was starting to sweat. Should he jump in again, save Ilya from answering? Would that look too obvious? Should he try to cause a distraction, fake an illness or something?

Then, where his foot was resting on a rung of the stool, he felt Ilya's foot slide over an inch to tap very quickly against his.

"But to answer," Ilya said, looking thoughtfully at Gills, "I prefer freshwater, primarily, although I am up for any challenge. For fish, largemouth bass are okay, I prefer hybrid stripers because they put up more of a fight -- is more fun that way. Walleye, they taste good, but they are no challenge to bring in. Catfish -- boring. As for gear, obviously I am all about baitcasting reels -- better accuracy, better distance, and requires more skill, which I have plenty of."

He ended with a smug grin. Gills was blinking. Shane had to fight not to let his jaw drop.

Gills nodded eagerly. "Wow, great, fascinating. Shane, same question?"

Shane was so dazzled by Ilya that he couldn't think of a thing to say; his mind was utterly blank. "Uh... I, uh. I agree with Ilya. What he said."

Gills laughed and wrapped it up then, but they still had to go back to the party, back to socializing and smiling and answering the same questions again and again, when all Shane wanted to do was get out of there and back to his hotel room or Ilya's as soon as possible. The plan was important, yes, but so was the steadily increasing need to kiss Ilya's face off and rip him out of his clothes.

They didn't leave together, because Shane had judged that maybe a little too much for their first public appearance, but as Ilya was leaving, he made a point of addressing Shane loudly in a spot where there were plenty of people around.

"I'm at the Ritz, Hollander, come and hang out later, I will show you that fishing video, yes? I'll text you my room number."

He said it just like that, like there was nothing unusual at all about them hanging out in a hotel room. And judging by the looks on all the unfazed faces around them, it clearly wasn't occurring to anyone else that there could be anything unusual about it. It was like hiding in plain sight, easier than he'd expected.

"Sure," Shane said, trying to keep his tone loose and easy. "Or we could go out if you want, get a late dinner somewhere. Lots of places to go in New York."

They could do this, it was okay. People could know, and no one would immediately jump to the assumption that they were sleeping together.

Maybe... there might be rumors. Maybe people might make remarks. But as long as they didn't actually, like, make out in a public place -- and he was fairly certain they could manage not to do that -- the rumors and remarks would have no teeth behind them.

They could be alone, they could go out in public. Both options were open to them now.

Of course, he knew which option he wanted, and from the quick, glinting look Ilya gave him, he knew what Ilya wanted, too.

But Ilya only shrugged. "Sure, maybe. Just text me."

With that, he left, and Shane didn't make a point of hanging around for much longer. The event was winding down, people had already heard them say they were going to hang out later, he didn't have to hide it.

It wasn't everything, but it was a big step forward.

As for the rest of the obstacles... well, there were more steps in the plan.

----------------

Ilya was mostly out of his tuxedo by the time Shane knocked on the door of his hotel suite, down to just the pants, with the shirt unbuttoned and hanging open. When the knock came, he didn't feel the need to rush to open the door because of any secrecy -- they weren't hiding that Shane was coming to his room tonight.

He rushed anyway. For other reasons.

As soon as the door closed behind Shane, they were kissing. Shane was holding his own suit jacket, but he reached to drape it blindly over the back of a nearby sofa, freeing his hands to slide them inside Ilya's open shirt as they pressed close, mouths locked together.

He pulled away just enough to attack Ilya's neck, murmuring between kisses. "You were so good, Ilya, that was so good."

Ilya hummed, reached down to squeeze Shane's ass, clutch him in tighter. "It went well, yes. Let's talk about it later." Then he reclaimed Shane's mouth and pulled him further into the room, dodging the couch and a lamp that wobbled as they passed, both of them blind to the sparkling view of city lights visible through the wide windows.

They made it to the bedroom, and Shane dragged his mouth across Ilya's jaw. "What do you want tonight? You can have anything, whatever you want."

Ilya groaned at Shane's eagerness, almost felt like laughing at the same time. It wasn't exactly news to him that Shane would do whatever he wanted in bed, even if it was still something of a miracle, given where they'd started.

Thinking about the beginning gave him an idea. Thinking about Shane always gave him so many ideas.

"Get on the bed, put on a show for me, let me watch," he said, nudging Shane toward the bed with his hips. "Will be like before, when we were apart, but then... it won't be."

Shane shuddered in his arms, then broke away to start hastily peeling off his clothes, folding them as he went. "That's so hot. I always used to wish I could jump through the screen and get to you somehow."

Ilya watched him undress, eyes roaming over him hungrily. "Yes, me too. And now here we are, a wish that came true."

Shane stopped, eyes wide and soft. "Ilya, that's so romantic."

"Yes," Ilya said, nodding solemnly. "Now, get on the bed and open your hole for me."

Shane blinked, a laugh startled out of him. "Asshole."

"Yes, that," Ilya clarified, grinning.

Shane gave him a shove, but he did not hesitate to climb onto the bed, while Ilya pulled a chair from the corner of the room to the end of the bed, sat down to watch.

It was like before, his beautiful Shane laid out before him, dark eyes going half-closed as he stroked himself, put himself on display. And yet it was not, because he was right here, the sounds he made were so pressingly close, and his strong, sculpted body was within the reach of Ilya's hands.

Ilya made himself wait. They were waiting for a lot of things now, and they had waited even to get to this moment. It wasn't easy, but it was bearable, knowing they would get there together.

Shane had found the lube Ilya had left on the nightstand, was already rubbing slick fingers over his hole, already pressing inside. His eyes were fixed on Ilya, his breathing speeding up, soft groans spilling from his plush mouth.

"You want me, Rozanov?" he said, sliding his other hand slowly down his cock. "You wish you were here?"

It made Ilya burn, the way Shane was playing this game, the stark reminder of the time when he could only wish for it. "Always," Ilya said, voice low and dark.

Shane pushed another finger in, arching his back, eyes closing for a moment as he felt the stretch, savored it. Then,

"What would you do, if you were here?" Shane said, half-smiling.

"If I were there..." Ilya said slowly, considering, drawing it out. "I would move your hands out my way, use my mouth on you. Open you with my tongue, hold you down while I did it."

"Fuck," Shane said, almost a gasp, his dick giving a little spurt over the hand gripping it. "What else?"

Ilya was leaning forward now, his body fighting to move, to get closer. "I would go on until you were begging me, crying for my cock inside you, and then... I would stop."

Shane blew out a breath, flashed a look at Ilya almost outraged. "Stop?"

"Yes, is good for you to wait. Always so impatient. So I would stop, and I then would sit across your chest and feed you my cock, and you would take it in your mouth for as long as I wanted."

"Oh, fuck, yes, I want it, Ilya." Shane was twisting, almost thrashing on the bed, three fingers inside and his hand stroking slick over his dripping cock, his whole body tight and straining.

"Hollander, stop," Ilya said, low and commanding. "Hands off, now."

Shane did it, groaning agonizingly, but pulling both hands away from his body. He looked at Ilya half-wounded, half-murderous. "What the fuck?"

"Shane, you were about to come. Is like old times, yes, but I do actually want to fuck you. You can wait a minute for the real thing, no?"

"Oh. Right," Shane said, dropping his head back and gusting out a breath, his dick twitching madly in the air. "Sorry."

Ilya smiled. "Is okay. You do not have to apologize for finding me so irresistibly hot."

Shane groaned, didn't deny it. "Maybe that's enough reminiscing," he said, sounding pained.

"Hmm?" Ilya said, pretending ignorance. "What is this word? I do not know it."

"Fuck off," Shane moaned. "Just get over here. Please."

Ilya went, stripping off the rest of his clothes on the way, gave himself -- gave them both -- the deep satisfaction of doing exactly what he'd just described. Until he couldn't stand it any more, the wet plunge into Shane's hot, greedy mouth taking him so close he had to pull back with a deep groan.

Shane, mouth freed again, was murmuring please, Ilya, trembling, grabbing at Ilya's hips and trying to move him down his body. Ilya only had presence of mind to get a condom on, hands shaking, brain and body otherwise roaring for Shane, his Shane, his beautiful, thirsty, perfect Shane. He worked himself inside, holding Shane's straining hips still, gasping at the tight, delicious grip, then leaned down to kiss him, grasping Shane's cock between their bodies, wanting to give him everything, everything he wanted, everything Ilya had.

Shane was out of his mind, eyes rolling back, hips bucking up wildly, beyond words and only wailing, a long, juddering sound that climbed in pitch and volume until he went silent, choked off, cock pulsing in Ilya's tight hand, spilling onto his stomach and chest. It made Ilya wild, ravenous; he leaned down and licked and sucked at Shane's come, and it pushed him over the edge, pounding out release and bliss into the tight clench of Shane's body.

After, when they were cleaned up and breathing normally again and collapsed into each other's arms on the bed, Ilya was idly running a hand down Shane's back, pressing fingers into the beautiful dimples just above his ass that Ilya had first seen in that photo.

"It was good tonight, I think," he said. "At the gala. First steps done."

"Oh, now you want to talk about it," Shane said, his head pressed into Ilya's chest.

"I said later for talking, now is later," Ilya pointed out. "Important things have been accomplished now."

Shane looked up at him, grinning. "You consider your orgasms accomplishments? Figures."

But Ilya shook his head. "No, no. I consider your orgasms my accomplishments." Shane's eyes gleamed softly at him, and Ilya added. "Not difficult accomplishments, but..."

Just as he'd hoped, Shane shoved at him, still grinning. "Asshole." But he settled back down, nestling into Ilya's chest again with a little sigh.

"I think it was good, too," he said. "And I talked to my agent again today. She said the same thing as yours -- once we're free agents, we can look at signing somewhere together. It might not be easy, but it's doable, she thinks. As long as we keep winning. She said we might consider Ottawa."

Ilya grunted. "Ottawa is terrible." At a look from Shane, he lifted a hand. "The team, I meant, not your hometown." He hadn't actually seen enough of the city itself to form much of an opinion, but he was fairly indifferent. Even a boring Canadian city could be his favorite place in the world if he was there with Shane.

"The team wouldn't be terrible if we both went there," Shane pointed out. "Might be kind of fun, building something up from nothing. If we did it together."

Ilya pulled him closer, squeezed his hand along the strong muscles of Shane's back. "Yes. I would like that, with you."

Shane was tracing a slow hand over Ilya's abs, no real intent behind it, just touching to touch. It gave Ilya a happy sort of shiver. "And then, once we're locked in on a team together, we'll just... be open. Start... being out, or whatever. Together. And everyone can just... deal with it."

Ilya had to swallow hard. It was so much future planning, so much... devotion. Shane, with his meticulous, organized brain, helping Ilya plot out these careful steps, bravely pushing past the things that scared him, just for the sake of being with Ilya. It gave him the sweetest, sharpest pain in his chest, to think about being the object of that kind of want, that kind of love, to know it came from the person he wanted and loved more than anyone else in the world.

It was too much to say, he would not get it out without spilling tears, and he didn't want that tonight. It was a good night, for celebrating. Instead, he said, "Yes, that is what we will do. And until then, we are good friends Hollander and Rozanov. Fishing buddies, always hanging out."

"Yeah," Shane agreed. "We're in it now -- you really are going to have to do some fishing at some point. Sorry in advance if it gets boring."

Ilya shook his head, his chin rubbing against the top of Shane's head. "Will not be boring when I am beating you, catching so many more fish than you."

Shane chuckled. "I don't know why you think you're going to be so good at it. I'm the one who's done it before, you know."

"The fish will love me, will throw themselves into my arms."

Shane laughed again, but he said, thoughtfully, "I guess it worked on me."

Ilya hummed. "Yes, you could not resist me. Because I am so -- what did you say to Gills? Honorable, caring, sexy, the best at hockey--"

"That's not what I said," Shane interrupted, slapping at his chest. "But I did mean it, what I said. And Ilya, you were so good at the fishing stuff, I almost forgot. I was freaking out, and then you just... said all that. You did study the flash cards?"

"Ah, no. Flash cards were very good, but I only got them last week, and last week was very busy getting ready for training camp to start. But... I may have watched a few videos these last few weeks. YouTube is very informative about fishing."

Shane lifted his head to look up at him, starry-eyed. "I should have known you'd be putting the work in. I don't know why I was worried." He leaned up, pressed a kiss to Ilya's mouth. "Thanks for doing all that."

Ilya could only shake his head. "Shane, you have done so much for me. Helped with my father, with getting things arranged so I know he is taken care of now, worked on this whole plan for us--"

"It was your plan," Shane argued. "You've done a lot for me, too."

"I would do more," Ilya said, unable to stop his voice from dropping low and earnest. "I would do anything for you, for us."

"I know," Shane said, quiet and serious. "So would I." Then he smiled. "But I still think you deserve some kind of reward for that performance tonight. That was... I never thought fishing talk could be hot, but that was so hot."

Ilya smiled. "Oh, you want to reward me? Well, in that case..."

Shane was getting an anticipatory look in his eyes. "Yeah? You have something in mind?" He pushed his hips in toward Ilya's a little.

"Yes," Ilya said, nodding. "I know what I want."

And he leaned in, pressed kisses to Shane's jaw and cheek, and whispered it in his ear.

-------------------

Two days later, Ilya was back in Boston and running on his treadmill at home when his phone buzzed with a text message.

He immediately stopped the machine and jumped off, eyes lighting and chest tightening with anticipation when he saw that the message was from Shane. If this was what he hoped it was...

It wasn't.

💤Hollander: I am attaching a file that explains in detail the step-by-step process you need to follow to create a secure folder on your phone. Please follow ALL of the steps, most particularly the ones about encrypting the password! This is a critical part of the security protocol and the only way we can be sure the folder cannot be accessed even if your phone is lost, stolen, or hacked. Please confirm you have received the link below and that you will follow the procedures.
Security Packet Link

Ilya sighed, shaking his head a little in disbelief that he was so hopelessly in love with a man who texted like an uptight technology manager at the world's dullest corporation. But he couldn't stop the smile that was spreading across his face.

Ilya: yes, confirmed, received
I will do all steps
do not worry

💤Hollander: You know I'm going to worry.

Ilya: yes I know
but it will be fine

💤Hollander: It better be fine, because if something happens, I will die.

Ilya: then I will die too
we will be ghosts together

💤Hollander: Ilya
Don't be so romantic when you're so far away.

Ilya: ok no more romance
send me hot pictures so I can jerk off 🥵👅💦

💤Hollander: 🙄

But he sent through a stack of photos. New ones, just as Ilya had requested. They were all nudes. They were all for Ilya. And they were not, this time, sent by accident.

Chapter End Notes

That's it, lovely friends.

I won't go on too long here, because you came (lol) for the boys and the fic, not to hear from me, but I just want to say this.

I've been writing for a long time, but this was baby's very first fanfic, and I had no idea what I was getting into. It was such a treat and a JOY to play with these characters (that I am obsessed with) in my own little version of their world. And all of you, reading along, leaving kudos, subscribing for updates, and sending just the loveliest and funniest and most encouraging comments... well that was absolutely thrilling and amazing. In Ilya's words (that I made him say), it makes my head feel like **explosions**!!

Thank you, so much, to everyone who read even a sentence of this fic. Writing is always a magical experience for me, but it is usually a very solitary one. Having y'all on the other end of the screen made everything a million times more gleeful and delightful, and I loved it so, so much. I would send you all nudes of Shane Hollander as a thank-you if I could.

I am on threads sometimes if anyone wants to hang out; @regolithmoon2026. TYSM and love you all ❤️❤️

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