Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Grigori Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Coming Out, mentions of depression, mentions of dementia, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Cuddling & Snuggling, Intimacy, previous shane hollander/rose landry, Oral Sex, Come play, Come Swallowing, Come Shot, Come Marking, Dirty Talk, Making Out, jerking off, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, mentions of 2006 movie flushed away (fuck matty healy), the intimacy of saying each other's names, post tuna-melt incident, Literal Sleeping Together, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Blow Jobs, Flirting

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of cjo + hr

Collections:

hollanov for the heart <3, *Heated rivalry melts my heart*

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-13 Words: 6,484 Chapters: 1/1

i’ve got one foot in the golden life, one foot in the gutter

Summary

“You broke up with her,” Ilya says, arms loosening against his chest.

“No, she, uh—” Shane ducks his head, avoiding Ilya’s eyes. “We slept together. And she kind of … she didn’t confront me, I guess. But she talked to me. Kind of hinted that she thought I might not be…”

“Into girls?” Ilya finishes for him.

“Something like that.”

“You denied it?” 

“No, I— I told her. About me. About—us,” Shane’s head snaps up, a hand lifted in Ilya’s direction. “Not about us, us. That I’d been sleeping with someone. Another player. I didn’t tell her about you.”

OR: Shane comes out to Rose and runs toward the safest pair of arms he knows: Ilya’s. 

Notes

bad news guys… the rainforest-themed airbnb was infested with mould and cat hair… probable lesbian almost went into anaphylactic shock and known gay man’s eyes were irritated thoroughly. we have now relocated to a bicurious man’s basement. australia fucking rules. 

anyway we are RUSHING because we're on our way to a drag show!!

enjoy!

The last thing Ilya had been expecting to wake up to was a text message from Shane Hollander. 

They haven’t spoken in months, not since Hollander made his societal debut with Rose Landry, beloved movie star and Hollywood personality. No texts, no meeting after games, no friendly ribbing that used to feel more like foreplay than taunting on the ice. 

And now, after months of radio silence, a text. 

JANE: Hey

Ilya’s not sure what to make of it. He knows what he wants it to be, what he pretends he doesn’t need it to be, but he never knows with Hollander. He feels, acutely, like he both knows Hollander better than anyone, and doesn’t know him at all. 

Huffing, he drops his phone on the kitchen counter, slamming the dishwasher shut. He stares at it, biting the inside of his cheek, before he picks his phone back up. 

LILY: What do you want? 

“Jane’s” reply is instant. 

JANE: Can I come over?
Tonight after the game? 
Sent: 09.11 
Lily?
Read: 09.12  

A childish, petulant part of him wants to ignore him. Though to do that, he would have to admit that his feelings are hurt in the first place enough for him to feel scorned. Feelings he doesn’t have. Can’t have. 

What he can have is Hollander in his house, in his lap, on his couch, moaning his name. He wonders if Hollander ever moans Rose Landry’s name like he used to do Ilya’s. If he can even come when he fucks her. Ilya doubts it.

LILY: Fine. 

It’s just before noon. With only a few hours left before he has to leave the house, he’s trying to busy himself to avoid lingering on the anxious thoughts about what the after will bring. His phone gets abandoned on the kitchen counter as he takes a quick shower after working out. When he returns to collect it, there are four missed calls from his father on the screen.

Dread sinks in his gut like a boulder through water, slow and heavy and impossible to stomach. His feet are moving before he even notices they are, each step almost in tune with every ring as he waits for his father to answer the returning call.

“Yes?” 

“Father?” Ilya stops his pacing, eyes unfocusing as he listens to the muffled shuffling on the other line, the quiet curse. “Are you there?” 

“Ilya?” his father says, gruff the way he always is. “Why are you not home yet? Your mother’s been gone an hour. She is looking for you.” 

Ilya’s chest tightens, eyes fluttering shut as he exhales quietly. Gently, he says, “I’m in Boston. America, father.” 

“What?” Grigori makes a noise of affront. “Why is that? Are you playing hooky? Is Svetlana with you?” 

“I am not playing hooky,” Ilya says. “I am playing hockey. For the Boston Bears. You know this.” He hesitates, clenching his fist, knocking his knuckles against his thigh before asking, “Is Alexei there?” 

“Pah!” Grigori exclaims. “Alexei is just a boy. He is with your mother.” 

“Alexei is not there?” Ilya stresses. 

“He is at school.” 

School. Right. Alexei, who is – apparently – the one playing hooky, probably out with his buddies drinking, when he should be with their father. Which Ilya pays him to do. 

Ilya presses his fingers to his eyes until his vision dances with spots. “Okay. Okay. Have you eaten?” 

“You are avoiding my questions.” 

“What questions?” 

“You are with that Sasha boy. You are being lazy. How will you bring victory to Russia with friends like this?” 

“Father–” 

“These people are bad, Ilya. Undisciplined. They make you lazy. They make you a very lazy player.” 

“Father,” Ilya says again, but he can’t find the words. Can’t find a way to fix this from Boston. No solution he’s put in place has worked so far. Alexei can’t be trusted; his father’s wife is not any better. 

“Your mother will be home soon,” Grigori says. “Make yourself useful and pick up eggs after practice. And do not ignore my calls in the future. It is unbecoming. Cowardly. No son of mine can be a lazy coward.”  

The line goes dead. Ilya holds the phone to his ear, forehead pressed to the cold wall. He wants to sleep for eight hours. He wants to play the best game of his life to prove his father wrong. He wants to turn his phone off and disappear. 

But he needs to call Alexei. He needs to prepare for the game tonight. 

He’s lucky, he reminds himself, to have gotten as far as he has. Even if there’s nobody in the world who is proud of him. 

Pushing himself off and away from the wall, Ilya makes his way down the hall toward the bathroom, wondering if he looks as ghost-like as he feels.

Ilya does not play the best game of his life, but he scores two goals and the Bears take the win in the end, so he cannot be particularly upset about it. Even as he makes his way home, though, he feels off-balance, unsteady. 

The strange unevenness humming beneath his skin cannot be blamed on the post-game adrenaline, but he is neither willing to think enough about his father to admit it is that, nor willing to admit that he is nervous to see Hollander. 

They have not been alone properly since Hollander tore himself from Ilya’s lap, breath heaving and panic flaring, like he was in a war zone rather than Ilya’s house. 

So, he has decided nothing is to blame for how unmoored he feels, and that even as he drifts in the endless, liminal space of ocean in his mind, it is nothing, and will go away on its own.

Later, once home, Ilya settles against the couch, stripped down to only his sweatpants, lost, staring at the blank wall ahead, waiting. A lot of the time, he’s just waiting. 

Time passes, and he pays it no mind. He only startles back into motion when the doorbell rings, followed by three quick knocks. 

Shane. 

He doesn’t make him wait, hurrying into the living room and down the hall to swing the door open. 

“Hey,” Hollander says, standing in the doorway, lingering like he had the first time he’d visited. He’s wearing a hoodie, one that looks soft and worn in, the light of Ilya’s home reflecting against the blue of it and setting his face aglow with the colour. “Can I come in?”

It’s only as he asks that Ilya realises he’s standing directly in the way, unmoving and unspeaking. Ilya makes a humming affirmative noise, stepping aside and gesturing vaguely for him to enter. Hollander steps in, toeing his shoes off even though it’s not something Ilya cares about in the slightest. 

He watches fondly, unable to stop himself, even now, from being charmed by Hollander’s habits. 

“You do not need to take shoes off,” Ilya tells him.

Hollander knocks the left shoe closer to the right, lining them up. “No, I know. I just—”

Ilya fights a smile. “Is fine. Come in.” He doesn’t wait for a response, just begins walking toward the kitchen, hands tucked into the pockets of his joggers. 

He doesn’t wait for Hollander to follow him. He knows he will. And he does, jogging after Ilya toward the kitchen, footsteps softened by his socks. 

Ilya rests his back against the kitchen counter and glances at Hollander, who lingers a little awkwardly by one of the large windows, his hands hanging limply by his side. There is a nervous energy to him, one he has not seen since they first began hooking up, all those years ago.

Ilya’s arms cross over his chest, head tilted as he studies Hollander’s posture.  

“I am surprised you are here and not back at hotel calling your movie star girlfriend," Ilya says mildly. "She was not at game. Did not get to see you lose.”

He watches as Hollander attempts to casually lean against the window behind him. It does not look particularly casual, not when he adjusts himself twice before making proper eye contact with Ilya. 

“Well, uh… ex-girlfriend,” he corrects.

Ilya’s stomach flips. 

He supposes he should not feel happy that they have broken up, because perhaps Hollander is sad about it—but he, beneath all the layers of complex emotion and hurt, is thrilled at the news. This is likely better for everyone, Rose included, because it became pretty apparent to Ilya over time that Shane’s interest did not lie with the opposite gender.

Selfishly, predictably, he is glad that Shane broke up with her– and instead of moping, he’s here. In Ilya’s home. Likely for sex, but Ilya will take what he can get.

He has missed their time together. He has missed the sex. The intimacy. The touching.

His mind flashes back to when they last spent any meaningful time together, Shane by his side as Ilya admitted that while he does like girls, he likes Shane too. 

And he does. He likes Shane. He likes that he is boring, and easy to piss off, and a little unhinged. And beautiful. And talented. And, occasionally, at times, funny. 

He likes Shane. And Shane is here, looking at Ilya like he has more to spill.

“You broke up with her,” Ilya says, arms loosening against his chest.

“No, she, uh—” Shane ducks his head, avoiding Ilya’s eyes. “We slept together. And she kind of … she didn’t confront me, I guess. But she talked to me. Kind of hinted that she thought I might not be…”

“Into girls?” Ilya finishes for him.

“Something like that.”

“You denied it?” 

“No, I— I told her. About me. About—us,” Shane’s head snaps up, a hand lifted in Ilya’s direction. “Not about us, us. That I’d been sleeping with someone. Another player. I didn’t tell her about you.”

Ilya tries to imagine how he’d feel if Shane had. He feels like he is supposed to be angry at the thought of Shane telling someone about him, but instead, after a long, exhausting fucking day and months of feeling like shit, he thinks he would be elated to hear that Shane had uttered his name even mildly fondly toward another person.

Even if it is Rose. 

Still, though. This is something. It’s progress. More than anything that has existed before, even when Ilya had tried to will it into existence, well aware that things like that aren’t in the cards for him. At least not with someone like Shane Hollander.

“You told her I fuck you into mattress.”

Shane huffs. “I didn’t give specifics. Asshole.”

“That is why you asked to come here?” Ilya asks, stepping right into Shane’s space. “You miss sleeping with me, Hollander? You miss my dick?”

Shane looks at him for a long second, mouth dropping open like he wants to say something true, something honest, and Ilya wants to beg to hear it, but then it snaps shut again. Ilya has the core-deep urge to prod until Shane says it anyway, but he too swallows the truth down, scared to tip whatever this is into something too serious and heavy, sending Shane out the door. 

Shane pushes himself up onto the tips of his toes, his nose pressing into Ilya’s cheek as he brushes their mouths together. “Kinda,” he breathes. “Yeah. I thought you might want to—”

Ilya Rozanov, any other day, would snap up the chance to reclaim what had once been his, and his alone, to kiss, and fuck, and hold. Or– well, Ilya assumes that is the case. Hollander is so private, but there are never any whispers about him spending the night with strangers, other than his ex-girlfriend, so Ilya assumes he is the only one, or at least one of the very few. 

He wants to. He does. He wants to press Shane over the kitchen counter and fuck him here, now, hands digging harshly into the softness of his hips, bruising over the white lightning stretch marks that spread across the side of his hips around to his cheeks. 

But the idea of going through with it almost feels— impossible. The weight of his family's burdens is heavy on his mind, the distance between them the last few months still an elephant in the room. 

He thinks instead of dragging Shane to bed, pulling back the covers and moulding himself against his back, nose pressed into his hair and an arm around Shane’s middle. He does not even care if they do not sleep, if Hollander even stays the night; it would just be nice to hold someone for a while. To touch, and to feel seen and felt. 

He cannot ask for this, though. That is not what this is. That is not something they can be.

So, he kisses him, just a peck before drifting lower to nose along his cheek, kissing his jaw. “Of course I want.”

He drags him down the hall and into the sparsely decorated bedroom– a place that now more than ever feels like a hotel rather than a safe, homely place to land when he’s not in Russia. Shane pushes him up against a wall, both of them breathing into each other’s mouths while Shane squeezes Ilya’s waist. 

Shane leans back to pull his own hoodie off, revealing the black tank top beneath it, and despite the fuzziness in his head, Ilya finds himself appreciating the swell of Shane’s biceps. He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Shane huffs a laugh before folding the hoodie, putting it down on the dresser. 

He goes willingly when Ilya guides him into the bedroom and pushes him onto the bed, Ilya landing on top of him when Shane’s head finds the pillow. He smears a kiss over Shane's temple and regrets having done so when the intimacy of the act catches up to him. To cover for himself, he huffs an impatient noise and captures Shane’s mouth with his own in a searing kiss. 

For the first time, Ilya feels wrong, kissing Shane. Like a spectator, a soul that’s come unattached. He is not in his body as he spreads his legs, manoeuvring Shane to fit between them, arching into his touch more out of habit than desire. 

And he tries to kiss back, when Shane’s lips graze the corner of his mouth. Tries to fall into it like he has so many times before. He wants to get lost in him, in the way Hollander sounds and breathes and smells and feels. 

He just can’t. 

Shane is– Shane. Ilya’s Shane, the best damn hockey player the world has ever seen. The man with the secretive smile and soft hands, who gets sleepy if he showers after sex and comes out of the bathroom rosy-cheeked and relaxed. 

Pressing a half-focused kiss to Shane’s mouth, Ilya wraps his fingers around Shane’s wrist, guiding his hand between them, resting it atop Ilya’s half-hard dick. Shane squeezes lightly, turning his face to exhale shakily, warm breath ghosting Ilya’s cheek. 

Absurdly, Ilya’s vision blurs, eyes burning with tears. 

And, of course, Shane notices. 

At once, he stops moving. His hand retreats from Ilya’s dick, landing instead on his waist. 

“What’s going on?” Shane asks, eyes flickering between Ilya’s. Awfully, tenderly, his thumb rubs a soothing circle into Ilya’s arm. “You’re never like this.” 

“Is fine,” Ilya says, voice wavering. He tries to pull Shane closer to him, but Shane resists. “Is fine,” he insists. “I am good, Hollander. You are good.” 

Shane doesn’t move, regarding him with an unreadable expression on his face. Ilya’s heart starts racing, pounding against his ribcage like it wants out. 

And then Shane extracts himself from llya’s embrace, scooting back until he’s sitting awkwardly on the end of the bed, legs splayed in front of him. He looks, suddenly, like a very stubborn bulldog. “If you’re not into this, we’re not doing it,” Shane says firmly. 

“You do not think I want to?” Ilya asks, eyes flickering to his own hard-on before looking back up at Shane’s face, raising his eyebrows. 

“I don’t,” Shane confirms, unmoved by Ilya’s childish display. He looks away before nodding to himself, turning to slide off the bed. 

Panic settles heavily in Ilya’s gut, turning his stomach. He blurts, “Where are you going?” 

Shane grabs his t-shirt off the bedside table where he’d left it, neat and folded. “Home.” 

Ilya’s hands twitch with the urge to reach out for him. “Why?” 

“Because we shouldn’t have sex,” Shane says. “Not if you’re not sure you want it. And– and I don’t think you’re sure.” 

“Hollander.” 

“Rozanov.” 

Pathetically, hopelessly, Ilya says, “You can stay. You should stay.” 

Please, Ilya thinks, I want you to stay.

Shane sighs, expelling the air in a world-weary fashion. It reminds Ilya of Hayden Pike, the way he acts when he overhears Ilya’s posturing. Like Ilya is something to put up with, something to react to rather than interact with. 

“Look. Coming here was a bad idea. I guess I just got it in my head that, that maybe things could go back to normal. Or as normal as things get between us. But we– I don’t think we should. Not when so much—” 

“Stop,” Ilya says, and he hates how meek he sounds. How small. Like he’s begging, rather than asking, for Shane to stay. 

It’s embarrassing. Humiliation settles over Ilya like a blanket, his skin buzzing with it. He can’t look at Shane, can’t bear witness to Shane seeing him like this, so he presses his hands to his face and sucks in a sharp breath, ignoring the burning lump in his throat. 

No footsteps sound. No door closes. Shane doesn’t leave. 

Still, Ilya does not drop his hands. He just wants to hide. 

“Rozanov,” Shane says, voice softer than it’s ever been while directed at Ilya. 

Ilya swallows convulsively, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.” 

The bed rustles, mattress dipping. Voice closer now, Shane asks, “Why are you sorry?” 

Again, Ilya shakes his head. He doesn’t know how to explain. Doesn’t know how to look Shane in the eye and tell him he’s aching with want– just not for sex. Not this time.

Ilya wants to be held. He wants Shane to play with his hair. He wants Shane to kiss him without it being a precursor to sex. 

He aches with it, and he can’t explain why. It’s not even entirely a language barrier, but translating his feelings is never particularly easy. 

It’s just something that feels like it can’t be spoken into existence, not when just breathing Shane’s name into his mouth sent him running out the door and into the arms of someone else, someone easier to be with. 

Ilya holds his breath as Shane shuffles, listening to him scoot up the bed until his back’s against the headboard. And then, slow and tentative like he’s not sure he’s allowed to, his hand finds Ilya’s shoulder, pulling gently at him until Ilya’s body tips into Shane’s side. His arm slides around Ilya’s shoulders, his palm a tiny bit sweaty when it lands on Ilya’s bicep. 

Ilya doesn’t open his eyes, even as he twists a little to press his face to Shane’s neck, nose pressed to his pulse point. He’s wearing cologne, he registers distantly. Underneath the cologne, though, he smells like Shane: a soft musk, undefinable and comforting. 

Slowly, his shoulders droop. The embarrassment fades with every second that passes, lingering like an unpleasant – but easily ignored – aftertaste on the back of his tongue. And then, like a wave breaking on soft sand, a flood of relief washes over him. 

“You wanna watch something?” Shane asks, voice quiet and private. The domesticity of it is so tender that it makes Ilya’s teeth ache. His eyes burn, but no tears come. He doesn’t bother blinking an eye open, just nuzzles against the side of his throat, feeling loose-limbed and relaxed in a way he hasn’t in months.

“Da,” Ilya murmurs, mouth twitching. “Flushed Away.” 

“What?” Shane asks, sounding like his brow is all scrunched up, bewilderment etched into his features. He is cute when he makes that stupid expression. It is one of Ilya’s favourites of his.

“Is movie about rat in sewer. Big brown eyes. Like you. You would like it.”

“You think I look like a rat?”

“No, I think you have big brown eyes. You are not cool enough to be Roddy St. James.”

A stunned silence. Then, “Is that the rat’s name?” 

“Yes.” 

“You—why do you know this movie so well?”

“I am film buff, Shane Hollander. There are many things you don’t know about me.” It’s a blatant lie—Ilya enjoys watching a movie to pass the time, but it’s not something he even particularly regularly seeks out. It is just fine to make Hollander perplexed and, eventually, a little bit annoyed. He is hot when he is annoyed.

“You’re telling me you’re secretly a cinephile.” 

Ilya, despite being so unbelievably comfortable he never wants to move again, lifts his head, eyebrows climbing as his eyes find Shane’s amused face. 

“Why would you call me this?” 

“A cinephile?” 

“Yes,” Ilya stresses. “I am not a phile-anything. I am a movie-guy. If anything, I am a movie-phile.” 

“That’s basically what cinephile means.” 

Ilya blinks at him. “English is stupid.” 

He doesn’t wait for a response, simply tucks his face back against the warmth of Shane’s throat before he dares to shift from his spot. He feels Shane shake his head a little, like he does when he’s amused but doesn’t want to admit it. “Yeah, kinda. Do you actually wanna watch Flushed Away?”

“Yes, sure. Freak.” 

“I’m—dude. I’m not a freak. You’re the guy who wants to watch Flushed Away while we cuddle,” Shane flounders. Ilya gracefully doesn’t comment on the fact that Shane just acknowledged that they’re cuddling, focusing instead on how cute Shane is when he gets annoyed. 

“Is good movie,” Ilya says simply.

“Okay, sure. Flushed away,” Shane acquiesces.

Much to Ilya’s dismay, Shane shifts out from beneath him, sliding off the side of the bed. Ilya knows that he must be reaching for the remote or adjusting, but a childish, terrified part of him feels like he’s about to watch Shane exit. It’s made clear, though, when Shane collects the controller from atop one of Ilya’s shelves. Relief sags Ilya’s shoulders as he relaxes into the pillows, watching Shane like he’s his favourite show.

Shane tosses the remote onto the bed, undoing his belt and placing it neatly on the bed. His jeans go next, unbuttoned, unzipped and shoved down before he steps out of them. He collects them from the floor, folding them neatly before placing them on the side table, his belt wrapped up neatly and placed on top. 

Ilya enjoys watching him strip—not simply for the action of skin being revealed, but because Hollander is always so … him about it. He is neurotic and precise, and Ilya could watch him fold clothes for the rest of his life. Shane is left in just a tank top and black boxer briefs, and Ilya takes a moment to let his eyes dance over Shane’s strong, pretty thighs. The ogling doesn’t last long, Shane pulls the duvet cover back and slides in properly before looking at Ilya expectantly.

Ilya sighs dramatically, rolling off the bed before tucking himself under the covers too, head tucked against Shane’s shoulder once more. An arm wraps around him, settling against the top of his back before it drifts up and into his hair, carding through the curls.

They make it through thirty minutes of the movie before Ilya catches on to the sound of Shane’s soft snoring. Ilya tilts his head up to look at Shane’s sleeping face, heart flipping in his chest. He wonders what life would be like if things were like this all the time. If he could have Shane all the time. 

He puts the thought out of his head and snuggles closer, letting his eyes flutter shut as he focuses on the rise and fall of Shane’s chest. As subtly as he can, he fits his leg between Shane’s, pausing only for a second when Shane’s snores halt. Once they’ve resumed, he lets himself deflate, melting into Shane’s embrace. 

He’s asleep within minutes. This time, there are no nightmares.

Ilya wakes up feeling warmer than he has in months. His head is pillowed atop a warm chest, leg still between Shane’s. Somehow, the two of them are in the exact same position as last night. 

They hadn’t drawn the curtains last night, and Ilya peered sleepily through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the early-dawn light just soft enough to look at without squinting. The soft morning sun cascades through the room, strips of it painting Shane in a golden, holy light. 

Maybe he should extract himself. Move to his side of the bed. But– well. Both sides of the bed are technically his. Shane is a guest here. 

He’s still debating whether to move or not when Shane’s chest rumbles with a soft groan, followed by a yawn. Ilya valiantly beats the butterflies in his chest away and instead looks back up at Shane’s face. 

Shane blinks down at him blearily, a sleepy smile on his face. The sight is enough to kill a god, Ilya is sure of it.

Wetting his lips, Ilya flexes his leg a little, the soft skin of his inner thigh pressed to Shane’s crotch. Shane breathes in, long and slow, before his hips shift minutely, and Ilya presses down more firmly to give him something to rut a little against. Shane, like always, melts into it, hips moving in small circles. 

Making a small, pleased noise, Ilya grazes Shane’s nipple with his thumbnail, watching as it perks up. Subtly, Shane’s breathing picks up, mouth parting. His stomach tenses, and Ilya represses the urge to lean down and bite him. 

Ilya slips his hand down Shane’s stomach, walking his fingers down to his boxers. He cups Shane’s dick loosely, looking up at him through his eyelashes. Shane exhales before tipping his head down, looking at Ilya. 

“Are you sure?” Shane asks, eyes alert as they flicker between Ilya’s. 

Ilya smiles, pressing his hand more firmly to Shane’s half-hard dick. Shane’s breath stutters as Ilya squeezes him.  “I am feeling… free. Less… cloudy,” he tells him.

Shane searches his face, but only for a second, before nodding and dragging his nose against Ilya’s cheek, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Okay. I– let me suck your dick.” 

A soft hum vibrates from Ilya’s throat, thumb pressing just under the head of Shane’s dick, smiling as he feels it harden more in his hand. “I do you first?” 

“No.” Shane shakes his head, rolling until he’s between Ilya’s legs, Ilya’s hand easily dislodged. He drifts downward, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone. “You first.” 

“Really missed dick in your mouth, hm?” He slides his fingers into the short hairs at the back of Shane’s head, keeping it there even as Hollander descends down his body, stopping to brush his mouth across a sensitive nipple, then Ilya’s rib cage, then the skin beside his navel before finally pressing his face against Ilya’s hardening dick through his sweatpants, nosing at the length as it fattens up with arousal.

He mouths at the fabric of it, inhaling deeply. Ilya just watches him, breath caught in his throat. “Missed your dick,” Shane admits, quietly, the words murmured against the soft cotton of his pants.

“Then take it out, Hollander,” Ilya says, tugging lightly at the strands of his hair. 

Hollander moves quickly after that, pulling Ilya’s pants and underwear down together, easing them off his feet before laying them out neatly beside them. He moves so swift that it almost seems like it taking too long is unbearable to Shane—like he has to get his mouth on Ilya soon, each inch of distance creating a hungry ache in him.

Or maybe Ilya is imagining it. Maybe it is only Ilya who feels a thin, red string tied around his and Shane’s hearts, tugged at and pulled taut every time they’re anything but pressed flush.

It doesn’t matter. The thoughts of it escape him as soon as Hollander wraps a hand around his cock, pulling his foreskin back a little before sealing his mouth over the tip, tongue swirling around the wet, pink head.

Ilya sighs softly, tilting his head back against the pillows, fighting the urge to use the leverage of his hand to feed his cock deep into Shane’s mouth. He just lets Shane work at his own pace, the experience of watching Hollander caressing his tip with his tongue dizzying. He moves down, taking more of Ilya inside him with slow, practised motion, proof that he’s done this so many times before. 

He feels his cock throb as the head of his dick knocks gently against the soft palate of the opening of Shane’s throat. Blissed out and seemingly enjoying himself, Shane’s eyes flutter closed, his mouth sliding down further till his lips meet his fingers where they’re wrapped around Ilya’s base. 

“Fuuuuck,” Ilya grinds out, body aglow with pleasure and pulsing arousal as he watches with uncontainable affection as Shane sucks him off. He fights the urge to rock his hips, instead moving his hand to the hair at the top of Shane’s head, running his fingers through the dark, longer hair there. “You are so pretty like this. Sometimes I jerk off thinking about your perfect mouth, Hollander. Cannot help myself. Is made to take my dick.”

Shane moans like he’s the one being sucked off, the noise vibrating through the core of Ilya. Ilya grins, tugging once at his hair. “Yes. You like this. Thinking of me stroking my dick, alone in my shower, thinking about fucking your throat.”

He thinks he sees Shane nod, but it’s hard to tell with Shane’s mouth stuffed so full as he bobs his head shallowly, keeping Ilya’s cock buried deep in his mouth. The feeling is intoxicating, Ilya’s brain swimming as he watches Shane guide it into his throat, out, then back again, the muscles of it fluttering around his length.

Minutes pass. Ilya is left gasping and moaning, his free hand clutching the sheets, fingers twisted into the Egyptian cotton. Shane is focusing on the head now, cheeks hollowed out as he works his tongue, lips and spit over the sensitive tip. The repeated motion of it is overwhelming, a gasp escaping him as he feels his cock harden somehow even more inside Shane’s mouth, his balls drawing up, now cupped within Shane’s hands, his deft fingers massaging them.

“Hollander, fuck, stop, stop,” He huffs, breathless. “Too good. Want to fuck you before you have to go.”

The bobbing motion of Shane’s head slows, but doesn’t stop. He gazes up at Ilya, his eyes glistening and wet, a flush high on his cheeks. He looks obscene like this, his pretty pink mouth spit-slick and stretched around Ilya’s dick, so obscene that Ilya almost misses him, raising an eyebrow at him.

He feels as if Hollander does not understand the urgency of the request, his dick twitching and leaking heavily over Shane’s tongue, his orgasm barely a moment away if Shane continues steadily dragging his mouth over Ilya’s tip.

Ilya huffs, pushing himself up onto an elbow, not understanding. “What? You do not want me to fuck you?”

Shane rolls his eyes, almost as if he’s annoyed he has to pry himself from his task. He presses a messy, open-mouthed kiss to the tip, almost sending Ilya over the edge, before he lifts his head off properly. “It’s not about me. I wanna make you come.” 

Panting, Ilya tugs gently at his hair, fighting the urge to drag Shane up by it to press a kiss to his wrecked mouth. His eyes focus on it for a beat, tracing over his cupid's bow, then across the glistening plushness of his bottom lip. He wants to taste himself on Shane’s mouth, wants to press his tongue in and taste every inch of it.

Shane looks determined, though, his hand pumping lazily over Ilya’s dick. 

“You want my come like this?”  Ilya checks.

Shane smiles, almost wryly. “I think you want to come all over my face.” 

Immediately, Ilya’s dick twitches, gut pooling with arousal. Shane smirks, sinking back down on his cock. 

“Fuck,” Ilya breathes. “Okay, Hollander. I will come on your pretty face.” He flops back down against the pillows, eyes fluttering closed as Shane flattens his tongue, as he squeezes his cock with his hand. He speeds up, head bobbing almost desperately as he sucks, and Ilya’s done for. 

“Shane,” Ilya gasps, and Shane pulls back just in time for the first spurt of come to hit his cheek. Ilya moans, wrecked and loud, as he watches it happen, Shane’s eyelids fluttering shut as Ilya paints his face. 

Shane’s tongue darts out to taste it, and Ilya’s cock flexes, another spurt of come hitting Shane’s chin. It’s almost painful, like Ilya’s dick is trying to wring itself dry to do Shane’s mouth justice. His blowjob prowess is just that impressive. Not that Ilya would ever tell him that. Not in so many words. 

When Shane finally releases Ilya’s dick, he wipes the come from his eyes but leaves the rest where it is. It’s such a hot look on him; proper, clean Shane, who folds his clothes before having sex– wearing Ilya’s come on his face because he knows Ilya likes it.

“You killed me,” Ilya pants, and Shane’s breath stutters through a grin. Ilya grins right back. “You want to come?” 

Shane nods quickly, desperation coming off him in waves. 

“Get up here,” Ilya says. “Look at me, and touch yourself.” 

Shane scrambles to get to his knees and situates himself by Ilya’s side. Like this, he’s towering over Ilya, eyes half-lidded as they rove over Ilya. Frenzied, he pulls his dick out of his boxers, tucking the waistband behind his balls. His dick, hard and leaking, hangs heavy between his legs, and Ilya groans appreciatively at the sight. 

“Fuck,” Shane breathes, before he swipes his fingers across the side of his own face, covering his hand in come before wrapping it around himself. 

Ilya thinks, for a second, that he’s having a heart attack. 

Shane sets a punishing pace, squeezing himself hard as he jerks himself off over Ilya, the sound wet and loud. 

“Sorry, not gonna last,” Shane gasps as his hand flies over his dick, stomach flexing. “‘M so hard, fuck.” 

“Come on, Hollander,” Ilya murmurs, still panting, eyes glued to Shane’s dick. “Come on me. I want to watch.”

A whine is torn from Shane as his thigh muscles flutter. Ilya settles his hands on them, squeezing once, thumbs pressing in hard to the inner side. “Fuck!” Shane cries out, dropping forward, one hand planted beside Ilya’s head, the other still pumping over his cock. “Ilya, fuck, fuck, fuck, holy shit—”

Ilya, still buzzing from his own orgasm, lifts himself up to taste his name on Shane’s tongue, swallowing the moan that escapes him as his tongue slips into the wet heat of Hollander’s mouth. He loses it then, the kiss breaking as he moans and pants against Ilya’s lips. Hot, wet, white ropes land over Ilya’s stomach and chest, likely spilling over Shane’s own fingers too. Ilya opens his eyes to watch Shane’s face scrunch as he rides it out.

“Holy fuck.” Shane pants heavily, eyes still squeezed closed tightly. “Holy fuck,” He repeats, the last few drops sliding down his slit and over his knuckles. 

Ilya wraps his fingers around Shane’s wrist, catching Shane’s attention. Pretty brown eyes flutter open and find his, confusion tugging at his brows even through the waves of euphoria he’s still wading through. Ilya drags his hand upward, bringing it to his mouth. His tongue lolls out before licking along the side of it, all the way up Shane’s fingers, tasting his mess.

Shane looks like he’s been knocked over the head by a pan, eyes wide and glassy. “Fucking hell, Rozanov.”

Ilya grins, crooked and smug, taking two of Shane’s spend-covered fingers into his mouth before hollowing his cheeks, sucking them clean. Atop his abdomen, he can feel Shane’s hips squirm a little. He smirks around the digits, slowly pulling them out, kissing the tips of them before he lets his hand go.

In response, Shane kisses him, their mouths colliding roughly as Shane chases the taste of himself on Ilya’s tongue. Ilya is more than happy to let him, mouth parted to allow him access as they kiss hungry and messy, Ilya’s hands drifting to grip at Shane’s waist and hips.

After a few moments, the kissing slows to lazy making out, and finally, Shane rolls over and flops against the sheets. 

He knows this is it. He’s indulged enough, has held Shane an entire night, has touched him and been touched in return. Their time is almost up, and Ilya just has to find the strength to accept that. 

He holds his breath, counting down the seconds until Shane inevitably says– 

“I was thinking we could do sushi for lunch.” 

Ilya turns his head to look at Shane, unable to hide his bewilderment. 

“You are staying?” 

Shane shrugs. “My flight’s not until tonight. We could– I could stay.” 

Stay. The word shoots through Ilya’s chest like a bullet, piercing his heart before settling in there. Silently, whistfully, Ilya’s brain offers: Stay forever, even though Ilya knows that he can’t. He would never ask. He couldn’t. 

“Maybe do an early dinner. Before I have to go to the airport, I mean,” Shane adds on.

Ilya stares at him like a moron for a long moment. Shane stays quiet, eyes on the ceiling. 

“We start with breakfast,” Ilya says decisively. 

Shane smiles, eyes falling closed as he rolls onto his side. “Only if you’re cooking.” 

Ilya curls up behind him, an arm tucked around Shane’s middle. “And I am the one they call lazy.”

It does take a long while for them to actually drag themselves out of bed, but eventually, they do. Breakfast comes first, then Shane borrows a set of clothes from Ilya, the shirt hanging loosely over his frame in a way that makes Ilya feel a little insane. Lunch comes later, then eventually dinner, right before Ilya finally convinces Shane to let him drive him to the airport, promising to wear sunglasses and a hat, like Captain America from the movie. 

The day is pretty perfect.

And when Shane leaves his car, he promises to text when he lands, and Ilya, for the first time, doesn’t feel like they’re on different pages.