Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais

Additional Tags:

POV Ilya Rozanov, Autistic Shane Hollander, Anxious Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Takes Care of Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Takes Care of Ilya Rozanov, they are learning to take care of each other your honour, Hurt/Comfort, and as a treat some, Comfort No Hurt, Communication, Mild Sexual Content, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Aftercare, it doesn't have to be kinky and you don't have to be in love to want/provide aftercare, Developing Relationship, Getting Together, Canon Divergence, Fix-It of Sorts, 2014 MLH Awards in Las Vegas (Game Changers), Post-Scene: Ilya Rozanov Makes Tuna Melts in Episode: s01e04 Rose, 2017 MLH All-Star Weekend in Tampa Bay (Game Changers), Hurt Shane Hollander, Missing Scene, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Good Friend Hayden Pike, Decent Friend JJ Dagenais, before S02 can hurt me, FUCK AI you can pry my beloved em dashes from my cold dead hands

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of tell me what you need

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-23 Completed: 2026-04-07 Words: 29,873 Chapters: 7/7

tell me (what you need)

Summary

Ilya’s still learning what Shane likes and needs, observing him quietly because Shane’s not so forthcoming with what he wants unless he’s certain it’s what he’s supposed to want. But it’s not until Shane reaches back and grabs Ilya’s hip to pull him closer, pressing their bodies together and taking some of Ilya’s weight, that he realises Shane’s been studying Ilya the same way.

“I’m trying to take care of you.”
“Why?” Ilya says, instead of something safer.
Shane twists over his shoulder to frown at him. “Because I want to? Because you’re tired and sad and not feeling well?”
“Oh.” Ilya pulls his bottom lip through his teeth. “But I…”
“I think maybe we both fucked up tonight?” Shane says tentatively.
“No, is not your fault.” Ilya rubs a hand over Shane’s shoulder and then kisses it, wet and soft. “You’re good.”
Shane hums like he’s not convinced. He turns and drapes his arms over Ilya’s shoulders, still pressed close. “After this, will you…”
“Yes,” Ilya says, his mind sharpening attentively, “Tell me what you need.”

---

Or: They communicate just a little bit better and let themselves be just a little more vulnerable, both with each other and their people.

Notes

Mostly follows the canon timeline of major events of S01, just slightly to the left and through communication-coloured glasses. And they start telling people because the whole doomed secret relationship / getting outed / homophobia thing is really not what I want in my queer media. I don’t care about realism or hockey culture or period-typical attitudes, I just want queer stories that don’t tell us we have to hide, be miserable and/or just accept homophobia as the status quo.

Chapter 1

OCT 2013

Ilya: You are still alive after best sex of your life last night?

Ilya: Don’t miss me too much Jane xo

Jane: don’t worry I won’t

Ilya: You are still terrible liar even over text

Ilya: This is why you didn’t try to deny it was best sex of your life

Jane: fuck you

Ilya: 😈

DEC 2013

Ilya: You think we can do better than best sex of your life after I beat you tonight?

Jane: sorry can’t hear you over montreal’s victory cry

Jane: (cry as in shout, not tears)

Ilya: Wow you are so boring you can’t even trash talk without vocab lesson

Jane: sorry for trying to be considerate

Ilya: Considerate would be you naked in my bed right now

Jane: maybe next time when I don’t have a 6am flight

Ilya: Send sexy picture instead?

Jane: no!!!!

Ilya: Please?

Jane: maybe.

JAN 2014

Jane: scott hunter knows about us

Ilya: What did he say to you? Is that why you fight him?

Ilya: Are you okay?

[MISSED OUTGOING CALL]

Ilya: Jane. Call me

[INCOMING CALL 42:18]

Jane: good luck in sochi asshole

Ilya: Don’t need it 😘

Jane: hey, I’m gonna be in ottawa next weekend when you play there if you wanna meet?

Jane: lily?

FEB 2014

Jane: hey, you doing ok?

Jane: we’re watching the women’s figure skating tomorrow if you want to come with me hunter and vaughn

Jane: that’s what I was trying to say before you decided to be an even bigger asshole than usual

Jane: let me know when you want to stop pretending that’s who you are

Ilya: I’m sorry.

From where Ilya’s busy panicking backstage, he can see Shane pacing and trying to calm himself in the wing, and Ilya is reminded again just how new they still are to each other in a lot of ways.

Shane’s proximity would probably both help Ilya’s nerves and light him on fire, and he craves the closeness more than anything. But he can’t make himself go to Shane, not when he doesn’t know how to help, not in this way, and he’s not sure his presence wouldn’t hurt more than help after the way he’s treated Shane recently.

One of the stagehands gives Ilya an impatient look, and he finally makes himself join Shane.

“Hollander,” he murmurs. And, drawn there by his own assessing gaze, Ilya’s hand touches Shane’s back, gently enough not to startle him but not too lightly either—because Ilya knows by now that anything but firm, intentional touches make him squirm, and not in a fun way.

“Breathe,” Ilya says, “Hate me later. Curse at me later. For now, breathe.”

Shane gives a jerky nod and inhales, slow and shaky.

Those twenty-five seconds pass all too quickly, and Ilya fixes his face into something that looks cocky and confident while Shane puts on his practiced press smile, and they walk out onto the stage.

Ilya talks carefully, makes the stupid joke he’s supposed to, and lets his hand slide down Shane’s back and linger there, and not nearly soon enough, they’re both fleeing the stage. Shane strides away with purpose, so obviously still wound up and shaky, so Ilya grabs a bottle of water and follows him when he disappears into the bathroom.

He passes the water to Shane without a word, and they both pretend he didn’t, ignoring that it’s the kindest thing he’s done for Shane in months.

“What do you want, Rozanov?”

“I know, I know, I’m an asshole. Breathe, Hollander.”

Shane glances toward the door, unfocused. “We have to—You need to go back. You’re up for—”

“I don’t care about that. Tell me what you need.”

Shane’s eyes are wet, and he looks confused and sad and so fragile, but when he speaks, he goes in the opposite direction. “What? What the fuck do you want, Rozanov?”

Ilya realises he’s miscalculated by not considering that he had any power to really hurt Shane’s feelings, so he lets Shane yell at him and knows he deserves it, and when there’s an opening, he does the only thing he knows how to get Shane out of his head.

He teases, he pushes, and he gets a hand under Shane’s jaw and presses the other to his shuddering chest. Shane leans into his touch, eyes wide and glassy, and he brings his hands to Ilya’s waist despite seeming unsure whether to shove him away or curl into him.

He gets Shane smiling again despite his wet eyes, and Shane pushes back, quipping back at the same time that he praises Ilya’s English—because as much as they don’t talk about it and don’t think about it, they are getting to know each other. And Shane knows, for all Ilya’s cocky bravado, that he still struggles with English, especially with so much attention on him.

What Shane doesn’t know is that he’s the only one who Ilya doesn’t have to be so on guard with; he’s patient while Ilya searches for words, he readily explains words and phrases Ilya’s not familiar with, and he understands that sometimes it’s easier for him to communicate without words.

So when Shane looks so heartbreakingly nervous at the prospect of Ilya winning MVP and getting what he wants later, Ilya kisses him, long and intense and promising, and he leaves Shane with a soft smile that Ilya hopes will last.

Shane seems more settled when he arrives in the penthouse, and as Ilya watches him undress, he searches him for tells of anxiety or lingering unease. Only when he’s sure Shane’s reduced to the feel-good, sexy kind of shy does he set the tone for the night.

He’d never told Shane that if Ilya won, the prize was the same: anything and everything Shane wants.

Ilya teases him and makes sure he’s smiling, gives him praise at every opportunity, checks in often and probably more than he normally does, touches him firmly, lets Shane lead with what he wants in a way that doesn’t let Shane know he’s doing it.

Ilya makes sure to show Shane how much he wants him, because he can’t say it, but he needs to erase the image Shane must have of him after the last six months, replacing it with something at least a little closer to the truth—that Ilya wants him all too much.

Ilya’s exhausted after. It’s mostly in a good way, but he’d been exhausted before—in a way that’s bone-deep and dragging. And, like always, he remembers all too soon that he can’t have more than this.

He cleans Shane up on auto-pilot but is far too tired for his own post-sex shower, so he lights a cigarette and enjoys the quiet between them even if he’d accidentally sat in bed too far from Shane to touch him.

And then Shane asks about Russia. Ilya follows the script in his head and calls it home out of habit, pretends not to know what Shane’s getting at, pretends it doesn’t matter. He can tell he’s only widening the chasm between them and missing an opportunity, and he knows that Shane’s getting frustrated—and definitely not in a fun way, not this time.

“I need to sleep,” Ilya says, not looking at Shane. He hopes, futilely, that Shane might want to stay, despite Ilya absolutely not wanting to give any more of himself away, but they don’t do that, and Shane is respectful of his nudge out the door.

Ilya hears a shaky sigh from the other room, and a whispered fuck, and it pulls him straight out of his own clouded head enough to realise he’s fucked up somewhere. He’s missed something. Had he not taken care of Shane the way he should’ve, the way Shane deserves? He’d tried to give Shane what he wanted, tried to take care of him before, during and after, but maybe…

But they hadn’t held each other after. They hadn’t—fuck, Ilya hadn’t even kissed him.

Ilya stumbles out of bed and edges around the corner into the living room. Shane’s standing stiffly across the room, half-dressed with his hands shaking as they clumsily work on his first shirt button, and his breath is coming in shallow and hard like it had at the Awards.

“Hollander?”

Shane shakes his head and turns his body away, shoulders tense. “I’m going,” he says sharply.

“If you don’t breathe, you will pass out,” Ilya says, “and how will I explain that I didn’t kill second best hockey player Shane Hollander in my hotel room?”

Shane’s whole body seems to loosen. He’s still tense, still facing away from Ilya, but his shoulders do finally rise with a much deeper breath. “Fuck off,” he says weakly.

“I should have…” Ilya shakes his head, reaches out and beckons Shane over. “Come here. Please.”

“No.”

“Then can I come there?”

Shane sucks in a breath and nods once, just a tiny jerky movement. Ilya moves toward him, close enough to slide a hand across Shane’s shoulders and turn him around. He’s not sure exactly what’s gone wrong for Shane, but Ilya starts with the last thing he’s hating himself for: ever letting Shane leave.

“I’m sorry. I do not want to talk about Russia. It makes me…” sad. “…mean. But I should have said that instead of…”

“Shutting me out?” Shane says bitterly, “What else is fucking new?”

“I am sorry for Sochi. For after. I am trying,” Ilya says quietly, “I am sorry is not good enough.”

Shane sighs. “I know you are,” he says. “I know. Me too. That’s not even—” He presses his lips together, his gaze going distant, looking blankly at Ilya’s bare chest as his own heaves with his breath.

“I never want you to leave feeling like this.” Ilya swallows. “I never want you to feel anything but good.” He frowns, eyes flickering over Shane’s face, and he checks, “Was good, yes?”

Shane’s mouth twitches into the smallest, quickest smile. “Yeah. You always take care of me.”

“Is what good boys deserve, no?” Ilya says, more serious than the gentle tease he’d meant. “And you are always good.” Not good for me or good in bed or anything else. Just… good. Always so good.

“Fuck off,” Shane says, but he’s grinning, bright-eyed and playful instead blushing and shy like Ilya had expected, and somehow that’s even better.

“You are,” Ilya says firmly. He frowns and adds grudgingly, “Even when you don’t tell me you are not okay. But you should. I want to know.”

“I thought I was okay.” Shane breathes deeply and says, “I was okay. Annoyed that you were smoking right next to me, maybe, but…” His gaze darts away before he adds, more uncertainly, “I could tell I fucked up talking to you even if I didn’t know why. And…”

Shane’s making the same face Ilya has seen him make when he’s trying to figure out exactly what led to a game or interview going wrong, like he’s making a list of all the things that went slightly differently this time.

“I didn’t kiss you,” Ilya offers, because he’s not sure he wants to hear Shane’s list of his failures tonight. “I don’t know how that happened. I’m sorry. I know you like when I kiss you.”

“You like it too,” Shane snaps, sharp and defensive.

“Yes.”

Shane’s unfocused gaze drifts to Ilya again. “And then I put the tux back on and everything from earlier came back,” he says a little distantly, tugging at the open collar of his shirt.

“Okay,” Ilya says decisively, “So you borrow some clothes. You want to take shower with me?” Maybe Ilya can manage it if he’s doing it for Shane.

Shane shakes his head. “You said you needed to sleep. You do look…”

Ilya pouts, and Shane cracks a smile. “Today was long,” Ilya says, “And I am… sad, about end of season.” About the phone calls he’s ignoring, about going back to Russia, about not seeing Shane for too many months, about that look on Shane’s face and the feeling in Ilya’s chest. “I will miss beating you.”

“All right, asshole.” He searches Ilya’s face. “You’re tired,” he says, and Ilya shrugs and looks away. “Too tired to shower after the way you like to.”

“Mm.”

“But you’ll shower with me,” he asks.

“I just… want to make sure you are okay.”

He can tell Shane has something to say about Ilya taking care of himself, but they don’t do that. They don’t say things like that out loud. They’re already pushing it. Instead, Shane starts carefully undressing again.

He takes Ilya’s hand and tows him to the bathroom, where Ilya lets Shane fiddle with the shower taps until the temperature is to his liking, water falling in a perfectly moderate cascade, cooler than Ilya would normally have it. He crowds up against Shane’s back to make up for it.

He closes his eyes, hands smoothing up and down Shane’s sides, from his armpits to the tops of his thighs.

Ilya’s still learning what Shane likes and needs, observing him quietly because Shane’s not so forthcoming with what he wants unless he’s certain it’s what he’s supposed to want. But it’s not until Shane reaches back and grabs Ilya’s hip to pull him closer, pressing their bodies together and taking some of Ilya’s weight, that he realises Shane’s been studying Ilya the same way.

Craving familiarity, Ilya presses his hand to Shane’s belly by his hardening dick. “You want?”

“Perv,” Shane murmurs, shaking his head. “I’m trying to take care of you.”

“Why?” Ilya says, instead of something safe like, You’re the one who’s getting hard, pervert.

Shane twists over his shoulder to frown at him. “Because I want to? Because you’re tired and sad and not feeling well?”

“Oh.” Ilya pulls his bottom lip through his teeth. “But I…”

“I think maybe we both fucked up tonight?” Shane says tentatively.

“No, is not your fault.” Ilya rubs a hand over Shane’s shoulder and then kisses it, wet and soft. “You’re good.”

Shane hums like he’s not convinced. He turns and drapes his arms over Ilya’s shoulders, still pressed close. “After this, will you…”

“Yes,” Ilya says, his mind sharpening attentively, “Tell me what you need.”

Shane’s eyes meet Ilya’s, then drop to his mouth. But what he asks for, chin raised like it’s a challenge, is, “I wanna cuddle.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Yes, Hollander, we can cuddle.”

Shane kisses him. Finally. Ilya hadn’t known how much he needed it until he realised they’d somehow gone without it. Shane pulls back too soon, and Ilya chases him with a petulant whine.

“No,” Shane says softly, pushing on his chest. “You taste like cigarettes.”

“Oh.” He looks down and sniffs, ashamed. “Sorry.”

Gentle fingers cradle Ilya’s face and lift his head until he looks up at Shane.

“Go brush your teeth and I might kiss you some more.”

“Oh?”

Shane rolls his eyes and turns his back to wash up properly, and Ilya gives himself a quick perfunctory once-over, kisses Shane’s shoulder again, and steps out of the shower.

He dries off and then watches Shane in the mirror while he brushes his teeth, and when he tracks Shane wrapping a hand around his dick, Ilya flicks his eyes up in surprise and realises he’s being watched right back.

Shane’s satisfied little grin is worth being caught out, but when he makes grabby hands for a towel, Ilya still tosses it in his face instead. He’s still a little shit at heart, after all. And he knew Shane would catch it anyway.

Shane trails after him into the bedroom and he watches unashamedly as Ilya pulls on some boxers and bends over to dig through his bag.

Ilya tosses some clothes up onto the bed, trying to give Shane options with what limited clean or mostly-clean things he has left. “You said once you, uh, like clothes certain way?” he says when Shane just blinks at him. “You can choose.”

He gets them some water while Shane examines his choices, and when he returns, Shane’s wearing all black—socks, boxers and a hoodie that’s oversized even on Ilya’s slightly broader shoulders. He’s holding the other sweatshirt Ilya had laid out and is turning it over in his hands.

“This is mine.”

“Hmm?” Ilya asks mildly.

“I accidentally poked a hole in it when I unstitched the tag and there’s—”

“Okay. Is yours. You left it in my hotel room after, uh…” He tries to think of whatever hockey event it was that they’d hooked up after that time.

“All-Stars 2011? You kept it?” He tilts his head at Ilya. “You… brought it here with you. But you weren’t gonna give it back?”

“Is comfortable.” He shrugs one shoulder, faux-casual in a way Shane probably sees right through. “Mine now.”

Shane looks down at his own chest and back up to Ilya. “Well, I guess this one is mine, then.”

Ilya smirks. “Make sure you think of me when you wear it,” he says, “Naked and—”

Shane rolls his eyes and throws the stolen hoodie at Ilya’s chest. “Get in the bed, asshole.”

“Bossy.”

Ilya sits up against the headboard with Shane tucked into his side, his strong arm thrown across Ilya’s waist. This is what they should have done in the first place, like they had the last time.

“This okay?”

Shane hums happily. “You’re an asshole.”

Ilya sighs. “I know.”

Shane’s brow crinkles and he twists and sits up a bit so he can reach up and pet Ilya’s hair the way he’s already figured out Ilya loves—though Ilya would never admit to it. It dampens about seventy percent of the remaining unease in Ilya’s chest, and the rest unfurls when Shane tightens his grip and pulls him into a kiss.

Ilya hums against his mouth, kissing him until it’s clumsy and sloppy enough that Shane laughs softly at him and pulls away.

“Lay down,” Shane says, pushing at Ilya’s shoulder, and then Ilya’s lying with his head in Shane’s lap before he can pretend to resist. “Go to sleep. I’ll stay for a bit.”

Ilya turns to look up at him. “You are okay now?”

“Yeah.” He pets Ilya’s hair and brushes a thumb across his cheek, cradling him in both of his soft, strong hands. “I’m good.”

“Good.” Ilya yawns against Shane’s thigh and shifts out of his lap so he can slip away later. “Goodnight. I will answer texts this time,” he says, sleepy and hopeful and trying not to be either. The soft look on Shane’s face tells him he’s caught.  

“Goodnight, Rozanov.”

Ilya wakes to a text informing him that he snores, and he absolutely does not smile into the blankets about it.

Chapter 2

Ilya has been balancing his plan to nudge them a few tiny but vulnerable steps forward with careful distance, their same usual teasing, and the familiar comforts of sex and hockey as background noise; and he carefully backtracks and bulldozes over anything too real with something terrible or flirty or careless—or suddenly something even worse and entirely too emotional.

And Shane panics.

“I’m sorry. This… I can’t—”

“Hollander…” Ilya says—pleads. He’s vulnerable and soft post-sex, and from the afternoon they’ve had together, and he feels numb with Shane suddenly so far away, talking about leaving.

It’s been exactly twice that they’ve ever gone without at least a cuddle and some lazy kisses after sex, and not since the time years ago when Ilya had panicked and nudged Shane on his way while they were still coming down, both fragile from more than just the sex. And that time, they’d managed to rectify it.

“Hollander.”

“I just… I can’t—I can’t do this.”

Ilya feels his chest go cold and his arms rush with fearful pins and needles. He starts to draw his own walls back up to match Shane’s clumsy attempt at the same, and he does his best to harden his expression and clear himself of emotion before he all too quickly crumples again.

He sits forward and drops his head in his hands. He doesn’t want Shane to see how close he is to crying. And he can’t watch Shane leave, not like this.

“Ro—Rozanov?”

Ilya doesn’t stop himself in time, helpless to Shane’s small, concerned voice. He looks up at Shane, lets him take in the state Ilya is in: confused and hurt, still sweaty and sticky, and completely devastated.

Shane does that cute thing he does with his mouth when he’s thinking, and then he looks away from Ilya and instead down at the t-shirt in his hands. He hesitates. He takes a slow breath. And then he carefully folds Ilya’s t-shirt and leaves it on the couch before he turns and walks away.

Ilya shuts his eyes and listens to Shane’s soft footsteps, willing them to stop, to return to him.

They don’t.

But it’s not the front door that opens and closes, it’s the fridge. Ilya’s eyes flutter open. Something clinks, a few cupboard doors close gently, the tap runs, and then the footsteps come back.

Shane looks the most unsure of himself that Ilya has ever seen. He presses a glass of cold water into Ilya’s hand and sits beside him, and he carefully wipes up the mess on Ilya’s stomach with a dishtowel dampened with warm water.

“What.”

Shane folds the towel and sets it on the coffee table, and he drags his gaze up to Ilya’s shoulder. “I’m not going to leave you like this. Taking care of each other after is important, even if—You’ve always been really good at that.” His eyes drop again, down to his lap. “You wouldn’t—You’ve never done that to me, even when I pissed you off.”

“Oh.” Ilya scowls at the glass in his hand. He takes a long gulp to stall before he has to ask, “But you want to leave.”

“I—Yeah. I’m freaking out, okay? I’m—”

Ilya scoffs.

“Shut up. Stop. You’re so fucking contradictory—” He stops, glances at Ilya to make sure he understands, which he unfortunately does. Fuck, Ilya even agrees. “It’s exhausting trying to figure out what’s real and what’s not.” He huffs and shakes his head, looking down at nothing, breathing slowly and very intentionally.

Ilya grimaces as he remembers his desperate attempts at distancing himself from his gestures of love care that he’d worried were way too fucking obvious. He knows that Shane isn’t always able to see through Ilya’s bullshit when he’s being an asshole or stuck in his head or trying not to be so obviously gone for this man, but… it wasn’t any of that that prompted Shane’s fight or flight—it was when Ilya got too honest.

“So don’t act like that—Don’t pretend like I’m fucking overreacting. This isn’t what we do,” Shane says, and then, heavy with realisation, “This… this was a date.” His face scrunches with something a little sad. “Or as close to one as we can get.”

That wasn’t Ilya’s intention, not really, but Shane’s right that it’s close enough even if it wasn’t entirely on purpose.

“You didn’t like it,” Ilya says, and he’s not sure whether he means it as a question or not because he’s not sure he wants to know the answer, but he does know that his tone sure as hell gives away how raw he’s feeling.

“No, I—It was nice. I just need a minute to fucking process it, okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya echoes quietly.

Shane frowns at him.

“You still want to leave,” he says, “Sounds to me like you need more than a minute.”

“Do you want me to go?”

Ilya thinks asking him to stay and then pleading with him not go to says more than enough—both more than Ilya had wanted to say and yet still not nearly enough. But what’s a little more honesty if everything is fucked anyway?

He shakes his head.

“Then I can postpone my freakout until you don’t look like I…”

Hurt my stupid heart? Ilya thinks, Couldn’t just let me quietly love you?

Shane’s looking at him like he might be figuring out something close enough to what Ilya’s thinking, so he cuts his eyes away and rubs a hand over his face.

“What do you need?” Shane asks.

“Come here,” Ilya says, twisting his torso but leaving his feet on the floor like it’ll make it less intimate, “Let me hold you.”

He’s been shirtless all day in hopes of having Shane’s eyes and hands on his bare skin as much as possible, but now he’s not sure whether to be pleased or devastated by the familiar warmth of Shane’s naked back pressed against his chest.

Ilya doesn’t know what he’s allowed to do with his hands, but Shane finds them and brings them around his waist, holding them under his own.

“You’re shaking,” Ilya murmurs, “Are you okay?”

Shane startles a little. “Yeah. Or… I will be.”

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says quietly.

“Don’t—don’t apologise. We just… I didn’t know…” He huffs. “I’m not good with change.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

There are a few ways Ilya has seen this over the years, but the most fun answer is… “When you have… bad or busy day, you like to have sex same as first two times. Is like… comfort?”

“What? What the fuck?” Shane twists in his arms to glance back at him, and when he looks forward again, he’s smiling a little. Embarrassed and surprised, but smiling.

“Is true.” Ilya squeezes him. “I didn’t notice right away,” he offers like a consolation. “But is what you want even if you don’t want to ask for it. We kiss a lot. You get on your knees, I touch you a little to get you out of your pretty head, you suck my dick, I suck yours. You like me to tease you but, uh… gentle, not too bossy.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yes, you say that too.”

Shane fidgets, and Ilya waits, enjoying the closeness even as he’s already preparing to mourn it. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to bring up how well he knows Shane for something that was never supposed to be what it’s become for Ilya, but he’d thought it was the safest answer; he’s allowed to notice Shane when it’s about sex, he’s just not supposed to care beyond that.

When Shane sits up and moves away so he’s very carefully sitting within the borders of the next cushion over, Ilya goes cold with hurt and confusion all over again until Shane drags the heavy throw blanket off the back of the couch to drape over him.

“What…” Ilya mutters, frowning down at his lap.

“Just… trust me,” Shane says, eyes on Ilya’s hands but sliding out of focus, “Give it a minute.”

Ilya sighs dramatically but does what he’s told. He sinks back into the couch but doesn’t dare close his eyes, and finally, he settles again. “Should I be getting you blankets after sex?” he asks, because it really is kind of nice.

“You usually kind of lie on top of me after,” Shane says, “It’s basically the same thing. It’s something about the pressure.”

But Shane was lying on top of Ilya, until something made him squirm away again, and that had felt much, much nicer than the blanket. But if Shane needs space from him again…

“What is it?”

“Is it okay if I tell Hayden about us?”

Ilya looks up sharply. Shane wants to…

“I think I need to talk to somebody else about all of this. About me… but about us, too. I think maybe you should as well.”

There’s an us? “Who would I tell? I don’t—You want to tell people?”

“Not people,” Shane says, and Ilya frowns at him until he sighs and says, “I don’t think I can think about telling anybody else right now without freaking out even more.”

“Okay,” Ilya says carefully. “But you want to tell Hayden?”

“He’s my best friend. And he’s not weird about… gay people,” he says, “He doesn’t like you but he’d never, like… use it against you or anything.”

“Hm.”

“If you don’t want me to tell him about you, I think I still want to tell him that my Boston girl is actually my Boston boy. He would never guess it’s you, so if you don’t want…”

He’s Shane’s Boston girl. Just like Shane is Ilya’s Montreal girl, at least according to Marleau and Svetlana.

“Can I tell two people? Marly and Sveta? I trust them not to tell.”

“Cliff Marleau?”

“Mm. He already knows I like men. He is good person. And good friend.”

“Oh.”

“You are surprised?”

Shane shrugs, frowning and twisting his hands in his lap. “I mean, I’m glad. I’m just kind of… really bad at letting people get close to me?” he says, “I couldn’t share this—you, us—so I just… didn’t share at all. I guess I got so used to that that I didn’t realise you had people who knew that about you.”

“Is not many. Marly and Connors and Boston coach. And Sveta.”

“Your coach?”

“Long fucking story,” he says, waving it off. He twists his lip. “And fucking Scott Hunter, blegh.”

Shane ducks his head and scowls. “No one’s fucking Scott Hunter.”

“No? Are you jealous?” He’s teasing, but Shane latches onto this and seems to actually think about it.

“I know you sleep with other people.”

Ilya hums. “Not as many as you probably think.” And, he muses, over the last year, it’s been less and less, the more he’d rather text with Shane from across the continent or across an ocean.

“I don’t care how many it is. We’re not exclusive and you like sex. That’s not—I’m not jealous.” He huffs and gives a jerky shake of his head, frowning at Ilya like this is obvious.

And fuck, Ilya finally understands his initial misstep and Shane’s reaction to it. Fucking Hollander and his rules—and his habit of sorting each aspect of his life into perfect, separate little boxes—making him immune to Ilya’s efforts and, apparently, immune to jealousy.

If only Ilya could reason his own way out of having all these too-big emotions.

“Do you… want me to be jealous?”

Oh. Oh, no.

“We are… off topic.”

“You want me to be jealous,” Shane mutters, gaze drifting away again. And, more quietly, he repeats, “This was a date.”

“I think you should not tell Pike about me to start,” Ilya says, desperate to distract him, “You can if you want to, but he probably will not be happy about that part, no? He might be… not so thoughtful, maybe, about the gay part.” He reaches out toward Shane but lets his hand fall back into his lap without touching him. “You don’t want misunderstandings about this.”

Shane slowly nods. “That’s smart.”

“Mm. I am very smart.”

“I know.”

Ilya blinks. “You should go now,” he says, peeling the blanket off his lap and sitting forward. “I need to shower and sleep.”

“We just woke up.”

“And you have meeting you forgot, yes?”

“Oh. Oh, you want to be alone now. You could’ve just—”

Ilya grimaces, and Shane sighs in resignation as he gets to his feet. He hesitates, though, and stops to fold the blanket and drape it over the back of the couch, his movements clunky like he knows he’s being watched but is determined to complete the task nonetheless.

He glances up at Ilya, twisting his hands in front of him. “I’m sorry I lied and almost… left like that.”

“But you didn’t,” Ilya says softly. “Thank you for staying.”

Shane gives an awkward, stiff nod. “Of course.”

“Will you let me know you are okay after you tell Pike?” Ilya asks, hesitating before adding quietly, “I will worry.”

“I’m not gonna do it right now, but when I do,” Shane says, and he pulls the abandoned t-shirt on over his head, finally not so embarrassed to have Ilya watching him get dressed after sex. “And I’ll obviously give you a heads up when I tell him about you.”

When, not if. Maybe there’s a little hope after all, if Shane’s open to not keeping it a secret from everyone forever.

“You are going to leave in my clothes? Mama Hayden will not find that suspicious?”

Shane looks down at himself. “Oh.” He rubs the hem of the shirt between his fingers and sighs. “Maybe I will tell him now.”

Ilya’s had enough emotional whiplash for today. “Your jacket,” he says, already standing and moving toward the bedroom. “You will be cold.” He ducks into his room and grabs Shane’s jacket and shoes, ignoring the rest. Sue him if he wants to burn Shane’s t-shirt tonight. Or maybe sleep in it.

At the front door, Shane turns to look at him. “Um. Kiss?”

Ilya hesitates. He shouldn’t, not when he doesn’t know where they stand. But if he’s going to be thinking of their last kiss for the foreseeable future like he always does, he doesn’t want it to be the one right before he fucked everything up. He nods and lets Shane come to him, and then grasps his hips and takes all he can get.

Chapter 3

When Connors and Marleau show him the photos of Shane Hollander and Rose Landry Rumoured to be Dating, Ilya goes numb.

The pair haven’t commented, which means while they haven’t confirmed the rumours, they certainly haven’t fucking denied them. And Ilya hasn’t heard from Shane since he’d texted to let him know that Pike was very supportive of him being probably gay or bi or something.

Ilya’s been giving him space—he knew Shane would need more than the minute he’d asked for, but he hadn’t expected it to be weeks, and then this.

So Ilya is in a shit mood and plays so terribly that he finally admits to Marleau that he’s on the outs with the guy he’s always texting. Maybe the worst part is that Ilya hadn’t thought they’d left things that badly—Shane had stayed long enough to take care of him and talk a little about them and about telling people about them, and he’d wanted a kiss goodbye—until Shane went out and maybe entered the most public relationship possible.

“Montreal girl’s a guy?” Marleau asks quietly. “Damn, that’s…” He winces and lets out a whooshing breath. “Is that why you never talk to anybody about it? ’Cause…” He throws out his arms and gestures to himself.

What a fucking sweetheart.

Ilya shakes his head. “Nobody knows about us. I… It’s complicated.”

“Fuck, brother.”

“Fuck,” Ilya agrees quietly, and he wishes he’d done this while they were still in their gear so that the jostling one-armed hug Marleau pulls him into wouldn’t make him feel so raw.

When they next play in Montreal a week later, Ilya does anything he can to get Shane’s attention and get under his skin. It means he plays terribly again, and the only consolation is that Shane meets him where he’s at: they face off in awkward silence, check each other hard, lose the puck too easily, get in the way of their own players, and are just generally kind of useless.

After an unexpectedly brutal hit from Shane, Ilya is reminded, mournfully, that these inevitable bruises are the only way they can leave marks on each other. And he wonders if maybe Shane is a little possessive after all.

Montreal wins 1-0, but Ilya barely feels the sting.

It’s not so uncharacteristic of Ilya to demand a night out that anyone but Marleau raises an eyebrow, and that’s only because he knows more than he’s supposed to. They don’t talk about it, but Ilya can feel Marleau keeping an eye on him, for which he’s equal parts grateful and exceedingly irritated.

He’s at the bar apologising for the band of hockey idiots that he’s inflicted on the staff when he sees one of Rose Landry’s co-stars, and he just knows even before he looks around that he’s not going to like what he finds. But he looks anyway. He has to. Maybe seeing them together in real life will force him to accept it enough to consider moving on.

Sure fucking enough, there’s Shane. Beautiful, shy Shane is in a club with Rose Landry trying to get him to dance, touching him and flirting and laughing with him—and so publicly, the way Ilya desperately wants with Shane but can’t have.

Ilya hurries the bartender and tips heavily because he’s not a complete asshole, and then he knocks back his drink and leaves as soon as he can catch Marleau’s eye.

Of course, he doesn’t get away that easily.

“Rozanov, hey,” Shane says, following him out onto the street, and Ilya stops automatically before cursing himself for it. Shane looks around to make sure they’re alone like it’s a habit and not the first time they would ever be caught together and then says, “You, uh… you want to come over?”

Ilya can’t help making a face. “Shouldn’t you be saying that to your girlfriend?”

Shane’s lips part in surprise. Ilya wants to kiss them. “Oh, shit. Fuck, I should’ve texted or something. We’re not—There’s nothing like that going on with Rose. I thought you knew I…” He shakes his head. “Come back to mine? We can talk?”

Ilya takes a deep breath and forces himself to say, “No.”

Shane presses his lips together and nods. “Okay. Um. Me and Rose, we’re just friends. I’m not… I’m not interested in dating her.”

“Does she know that?” Ilya asks, unable to stop picturing her in Shane’s jersey. “You tell her you’re—” He glances around them for Shane’s peace of mind and mouths, gay?

Shane’s gaze carefully slides from left to right behind Ilya. “I… No, not yet. I don’t know if I am fully gay. I told her…”

“What.”

“I told her I had someone I was… sort of seeing.”

Ilya is exhausted from not knowing what the fuck this is, so he just says, “But you let media—” and me “—and everybody think you are together.”

“I’m sorry I let you think that,” Shane says, “I thought you’d know it wasn’t true. And you know it’s better to never comment on that shit. It’ll die down.”

Ilya scoffs. “Not if you keep going out and getting your picture taken together.”

Shane gives him an exhausted look. “Rose is living out of a hotel and wants to see the city,” he says frustratedly, “And I didn’t wanna have her over where…”

“Where what?”

“Where I’ve only ever really brought you. Nobody comes to my place. It’s safe. For us.”

Fuck. Ilya nods absently and pretends to check his phone. “I need to go.”

Shane huffs. “Fine. Fuck,” he says tiredly, “Look, I’ll see you at All-Stars? Will you stop being an asshole and talk to me then?”

Ilya makes a noncommittal noise, and then feels slightly bad about the kicked-puppy look on Shane’s face. “Okay,” Ilya makes himself say, “Okay, fine, we will talk.”

The next day, in the airport at fuck o’clock in the morning, waiting to fly to fuck knows where, Marleau passes a cup of coffee over Ilya’s shoulder, and he knows immediately that he’s not going to like what’s coming next.

“So. Hollander, huh?”

“I hate you,” Ilya tells him, angling away from him when he drops into the next seat over.

“Guess that means I’m right,” Marleau says, unrepentant. “How long?”

“You can’t ask a girl how long she is, Marly, that’s just—”

“Roz.”

He sighs. “Too fucking long.”

Ilya quietly tells him the shortest, least pathetic version possible, and Marleau even looks sympathetic until Ilya admits to refusing to talk to Shane last night, and then he just looks at him like he thinks Ilya’s being obtuse on purpose. And, sure, at any other time it would be a very real possibility—not that Marleau falls for his shit very often these days.

But not this time. Not after that haunted look on Shane’s face the last time they were together, and not when Ilya can see zero positive trajectories for how this plays out, especially in the long-term. Horny 19-year-old Ilya wasn’t thinking about the long-term, but horny and lovesick 25-year-old Ilya has to at least try.

“What the fuck am I supposed to say,” he moans, “We can’t—”

Ilya’s phone buzzes, and Marleau wastes no time laughing at him for how fast he scrambles to check it.

UNKNOWN: are you familiar with the term shovel talk

“Oh, fuck.”

“What?” Marleau says urgently, all humour lost, “What’s wrong?”

Ilya groans and folds over to hang his head between his knees.

Marleau wrestles the phone out of his hand. And promptly has a real good fucking laugh at Ilya’s expense.

“Marly, you must murder me.” He sits up and grabs Marleau by the shoulders to shake him. “Please.”

Marleau shoves him away, still laughing. “Isn’t this good? He’s telling people? Who is this? Pike?”

Ilya nods miserably.

“Rozy, brother, you’re the most dramatic asshole I’ve ever met,” he says. He shakes his head with a shit-eating but fond smile, nudges Ilya with a sharp elbow and adds, “And you sure as hell could take Pike in a fight.”

“But I don’t want to,” Ilya moans, “He is best friend, I need him to like me.”

“Well,” Marleau says uselessly. “Guess you’ve gotta stop being a baby and talk to your boy.”

Shane is flirting with him. In public.

He’s dressed in new clothes that make Ilya want to unwrap him like a gift, and he keeps looking at Ilya’s mouth like he wants to kiss him right there at the bar.

“And this has nothing to do with Rose Landry?”

“No. I told you—” He makes a frustrated little face and then clears his expression. “I mean, sure, she helped me find—But no. You…” He ducks his head and mutters, “You looked really good. At the club last time. And, y’know, always, I guess.”

“This is for me?”

Shane flushes a little but he shakes his head and says, “It’s for me.”

Ilya’s so proud he almost says so. “Good for you,” he murmurs instead.

“So… about Rose.”

Ilya groans, pouts in the most adorably pathetic way he can, and then drops his head into his arms on the bar when it doesn’t deter Shane.

He gently pulls on the back of Ilya’s shirt until he straightens up, still pouting. Shane glances around them quickly before saying, “You were jealous.”

Ilya rolls his eyes, then does it again when he sees the look on Shane’s face—so disbelieving it almost tips into annoyed. “Fine, a little. After last time, I didn’t know—” He flounders for the only slightly less pitiful phrases Marleau had used to describe Ilya’s uncertainty, but only manages to come up with, “—if you were finished with me.” When Shane winces, Ilya quickly continues, “But, also… Did you see same pictures I saw?”

Shane blessedly reads the look on Ilya’s face and sidesteps the embarrassing display of feelings. “Not really,” he says slowly, “Why?”

Ilya swallows and shakes his head, looking away. “You looked… sad? No. Uncomfortable. You were wearing your press smile.”

“There were cameras.”

Ilya huffs a laugh. “Yes.”

“Is it bad?”

“Is not real. I know your real smile.” He’s kissed that smile, coaxed it out of him, fallen asleep thinking about it for far too many years.

“I was uncomfortable,” Shane agrees. “Because the paps were speculating—guessing, assuming—that we were dating just because we spent some time together. And they’re not nice to Rose. They think she’s fucking every guy she’s seen with.”

“Oh.” Ilya hadn’t actually read any of the articles, but he knows the kind of shit the paps and gossip rags think is okay say about women. “Is she okay?”

Shane laughs disbelievingly. “You are so—” He shakes his head and his smile gains a bitter edge. “Unfortunately, she’s used to it,” he says. “And I was sad because I was thinking about you, asshole, and that I can’t even be seen in public with you, let alone let everyone think we’re…”

“Hm? What do you want everyone to think about us, Hollander?”

Shane hesitates, and fuck if Carter Vaughn isn’t both a godsend and a drunk fucking asshole for breaking that awful silence just before Ilya’s caves in.

While he waits for Shane to come to his hotel room after one of the most exhilarating games of his career, Ilya tries to remind himself of all the reasons this is going to destroy him—all the reasons they should just end this now before it inevitably manages to get even more complicated, before the potential for hurt only compounds.

But then Shane’s being brave, and apologising, and opening up to him, wanting him, holding him, and Ilya decides that if Shane believes they can make it work, then Ilya can try to believe it too. Whatever it is.

Ilya pushes at Shane’s shirt. “I need to feel you.”

Shane’s skin is warm and his body is solid and steady on top of Ilya, bracketing his thighs, and under his hands, and Ilya needs more. Shane undoes the top two buttons of his shirt and pulls it over his head—and then freezes.

Ilya’s already got his face pressed into Shane’s bare shoulder, and he tilts his head down and tries uselessly to hide his teary laughter in Shane’s armpit, but his body gives him away by shaking with quiet snickers. He tightens his arms around Shane’s waist in case he gets the wrong idea, but Shane just grumbles at him to shut up and uses the opportunity to fold his shirt behind Ilya’s head and lay it on the corner of the bed.

I adore you, Ilya thinks.

He smooches Shane’s pec and tips his head back for a proper kiss, and Shane gives it to him, soft and slow but no less eager for it. Ilya’s nose is stuffy from the stupid tears, though, and when he pulls back to breathe, Shane tugs at his shirt until Ilya reluctantly takes his hands off him so they can get it over his head.

But they have to move for Ilya to continue with his plan, so he gets his hands under Shane’s thighs, stands up holding him in his arms, and turns to lay him down on the bed.

Shane drops something off to the side, and Ilya looks over to see that Shane’s folded Ilya’s tank top and placed it neatly on top of his own shirt. Ilya presses his lips together to suppress his smile.

I love you, he thinks.

Shane pouts at him and kicks him in the thigh anyway, so Ilya grabs his ankle and yanks him down the bed, revelling in Shane’s laughing yelp and breathless “Oh my god.”

Ilya leans over him to kiss his smile.

Shane pushes up on his elbows to chase him when he pulls away, but Ilya just dips over to press a wet kiss to his cheek and straightens up. He shimmies out of his sweatpants and looks right at Shane—at his freckles, because Shane hates eye contact and Ilya loves those freckles—as he very carefully folds them.

“Sexy,” Shane says, sounding sarcastic but looking just as enthralled as the time he won a real striptease from Ilya in one of their bets.

“Everything I do is sexy, Hollander,” Ilya says, fitting himself back in between Shane’s knees, “You know this.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, you’re right,” he says flatly, “The way you tripped up those stairs today, oof.” He blows out a breath and shakes his head, eyes glinting with laughter, and he continues, deadpan, “Baby, I could hardly keep my hands off you.”

Ilya pouts. “You hate me? You want me to cry some more? You—”

Shane sits up and pulls him into a kiss.

“Okay, I forgive you,” Ilya murmurs, and kisses him again. Then he plants a hand on Shane’s chest and shoves him back down onto the bed.

He peels Shane’s shorts down his gorgeously muscled thighs, folds them, and adds them to the neat little pile, which he picks up and moves to the desk so it doesn’t all end up on the floor. They learned their lesson, eventually, about leaving anything on the bed with their hockey-player bodies during their often very athletic sex, after losing lube and clothes and phones in the sheets or down the sides of beds about eight too many times.

Shane has moved back up the bed when Ilya returns to him, but he’s still watching like all of this is the sexiest thing Ilya could be doing.

Ilya plants his hands either side of Shane’s legs and crawls up his body until they’re face-to-face. “Hi,” he murmurs, and then he drops his weight, letting their bodies slot together very nicely.

Shane mutters a little oof and laughs, and Ilya’s too busy marvelling at his beautiful smile to resist when Shane swiftly flips them so he’s straddling Ilya’s thighs. “Hi,” he says back.

“Cheater,” Ilya declares.

“Sore loser,” is Shane’s soft rebuttal. He leans down for a kiss, leading shyly but surely, and gaining confidence and a little curiosity the longer he meets no challenge for control.

Ilya gets his arms around Shane’s back and tips them so they’re on their sides, and then he stops Shane’s hand just as his fingers dip into Ilya’s boxers.

And Shane looks so helplessly confused that Ilya’s chest aches.

But they’ve never just spent the night together without having sex—they’ve never spent any time together without having sex. Even the one time they’d napped and eaten together had been bookended by sex and followed by Shane fleeing for weeks to process it.

And sure, they both more than love the sex, but Ilya can’t pretend that that’s all this is anymore, and he needs this reassurance that it’s the same way for Shane, especially after the last time.

Ilya brushes a hand up Shane’s jaw and follows it with his lips so he doesn’t have to look at Shane when he says quietly, “I just want to hold you.”

“Oh,” Shane says, and he leans back enough that Ilya can see his smile tentatively returning. “Okay, yeah.”

“Yeah?”

Shane nods, looking shy and maybe a little uncertain, and his fingers twitch where they’d jumped safely to Ilya’s shoulders.

“You don’t seem sure,” Ilya says, trying not to let himself go tense under Shane’s hands, because Shane looks like he’s about one wrong turn from fleeing again. Ilya’s arms tighten reflexively around his back.

Shane blinks, and his eyes meet Ilya’s. “It’s just… new,” he says slowly, and his gaze slides away again. “But… we’re okay, right? We’re good?”

“We’re good,” Ilya promises. “You’re good. No sex is not…” He winces, but for lack of a better word, finishes, “…punishment. Is just… I need this. Us without sex, for tonight.”

Shane’s eyes clear a little, and this time when he says, “Okay,” Ilya believes he means it. “Can I still kiss you?”

Ilya grins, and Shane immediately looks like he regrets asking.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Ilya teases, already leaning in so it’s against Shane’s lips that he murmurs uselessly, “Come here.”

Shane has Ilya’s face cradled securely in his hands, so he can’t even look away when Shane murmurs, “You’re so pretty.” He brushes a thumb across Ilya’s cheek, and when Ilya tries to suck it into his mouth to distract him, Shane squishes his face between both hands like a reprimand. “That was the first thing I thought about you when we met, you know? That you were even prettier in person and I didn’t stand a fucking chance.”

Ilya’s lucky he’s had so many years of practice pretending that Shane always being so helplessly earnest doesn’t affect him, or else he would be saying something helplessly earnest like You stole those words right out of my fucking head. You are the pretty one. It was always you. From that day, I was always going to fall in love with you. I probably was falling already.

“You mean when you lost to me right after? My pretty face distracted whole team so bad you lost?”

“Fuck off. I’m—”

“Mm, no. I think you like me right here.” Ilya presses his smirk to Shane’s mouth and when Shane’s kisses stray down Ilya’s jaw, he tilts his head back and asks, “What was second thing?”

“What?”

“If my pretty face was first thing you noticed, what was second?”

Shane squirms a little, until Ilya tips his face up with a gentle hand under his jaw and he relaxes, leaning in for a kiss. “You challenged me,” he says. “I liked it.”

“Yeah, liked it so much you lost.”

“Oh, jesus christ, I’m going back to my—”

Ilya tightens his grip around Shane’s waist and rolls on top of him, trapping him under most of his weight. “I once missed goal because I noticed you watching me and fucking slipped,” he says, too fast like it might disguise the embarrassing truth. “You remember sneaking into Russian practice at Prospect Cup?”

“Yeah,” Shane says slowly. “What, really? You slipped? You?”

“Was just in practice,” Ilya reiterates, because Shane’s smile looks like trouble. “I made sure it didn’t happen again, but it was even harder once I learned what you look like when you—”

Shane makes a startled noise and kisses Ilya to shut him up, and Ilya thinks it’s more than worth it.

“You challenge me too,” Ilya says once Shane releases him—tentatively like he thinks Ilya’s going to finish the sentence anyway, as if Ilya even remembers what it was after that kiss. “I didn’t know hockey could be so fun as playing against you.” He thinks back to their game today. “Or with you. That was…”

“Magic?”

Ilya presses his lips together, but his chest shakes with laughter and gives him away.

“Asshole. You know what I mean.”

It was beautiful fucking hockey, Ilya thinks, It was like finding home.

“I kissed you,” he says instead, giddy at just the memory.

Shane raises his eyebrows. “I noticed. Bold.”

“Eh, plenty of guys do that. Probably I could put my tongue in your mouth and half of audience would say oh that’s just Roz being Roz. For league so homophobic, it’s really fucking gay.” He looks at Shane. “You never been kissed by teammate?”

“Sure I have,” Shane says, frowning. “And straight guys can kiss their friends on the cheek or whatever.”

“I know that. And you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, okay. So, you weren’t, uh… staking a claim?” he teases.

Ilya pretends not to know what this means. And then he settles in with his body pressing Shane into the mattress, arms caging him in, thighs trapping one of his, and he puts his face in Shane’s armpit and kisses the sweat there. He wonders, if Ilya asked very nicely, if Shane would let him bite.

Jane: you still snore <3

Jane: see you in two weeks

Chapter 4

The next time he has Shane in his bed, Ilya loses his happy post-sex haze all too quickly when his phone rings, and Shane has questions, and Ilya had just wanted to pretend, for just a little longer, that they could just fucking have this—them.

Ilya lays a hand on Shane’s thigh and says gently, “Enough, okay?”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” Shane says, earnest and a little sad—for Ilya now, not because of him.

Ilya pets his leg and turns to look at him. “It’s okay,” he says, meaning thank you.

“I wasn’t clear,” Shane says, his casually teasing tone shooting a thrill through Ilya, “I’m sorry in advance for tonight’s game. We’re gonna destroy you guys.”

“Oh. So you are the asshole,” Ilya says, meaning I love you, and he rolls on top of Shane and kisses him into the pillows while Shane laughs into his mouth.

And then Ilya’s father is dead, and Ilya tells Shane he loves him from across an ocean, in a language he doesn’t understand, and with so, so much uncertainty still between them.

Ilya’s first game back is in Montreal. He’s feeling particularly ruthless and ready to win after the emotional rollercoaster he’s been on the last few weeks, and he’s got plans with a beautiful man tonight, so of course Hayden Pike has to ruin it by skating over right after Shane checks in, so close yet still out of reach.

“Pretend I’m offering condolences.”

Ilya makes a face.

“Yeah, that tracks,” Pike says, rolling his eyes. “My wife’s gonna want to have you over for dinner when Shane gets around to telling her about you,” he says like a threat.

“Oh, is she here?” Ilya asks blandly, looking out into the crowd, “Should I wave to Mrs. Hayden Pike and twelve babies?” He blows a kiss to no one in particular, and then to Shane too, because he wants to and because he can get away with it.

Pike’s looking at him thoughtfully when Ilya faces him again. It makes him want to bare his teeth and find something soft to rip into, but he thinks this might be Pike giving him a chance he wasn’t sure he’d get—to prove himself as Ilya and not as Boston’s Rozanov. Even so, Ilya’s about to start chirping just for some fucking familiar ground when Pike finally starts skating backwards away from him.

“You look like shit, man,” Pike says, a baffling mix of insulting and… concerned? And then he continues, grinning, “You might wanna fix your constipated face before your date tonight.”

Marleau skates up to him next, and Ilya almost rolls his eyes before he catches sight of one of the friendlier refs halfway across the ice abruptly aborting his trajectory toward Ilya. Fuck is he grateful for Marleau and Shane and even fucking Pike for not treating him like he’s suddenly not Ilya fucking Rozanov, at least on the ice.

“What was that about?” Marleau says, both protective and unashamedly eager for gossip.

Ilya turns and knocks their shoulders together. “Does shovel talk usually involve dinner invitation?”

Marleau snorts. “Maybe he’s gonna poison you,” he offers, “Or fatten you up and kill your hockey career instead.”

He scoffs. “He can try, but I will be skating circles around you and Hayden Pike until day I die—long after you are both taken out by old-man knees and being so stupid you don’t notice your captain fucking rival captain for years.”

Marleau grins and baps a gloved fist into Ilya’s helmet. “You gonna tell me how many years yet?”

“Maybe if you score hat trick tonight, huh? Good deal?”

“Oh, fuck off, Rozy. You gotta tell me someday!”

“Maybe at wedding, huh?” Ilya quips, and he ducks away laughing before Marleau can get him in a headlock.

Shane’s not moving.

Pike starts throwing punches, leaving Shane alone and leaving Ilya to drop to his knees and hover anxiously. Shane’s still not moving. Medics trickle onto the ice, and JJ Dagenais grabs Ilya’s jersey, hauls him to his feet, and pushes.

“Rozanov, fix your fucking face,” he hisses, shaking him a little. Ilya struggles against him on autopilot until he realises distantly that Dagenais isn’t even fighting him, just holding onto his jersey and keeping him still—keeping him close to Shane. But they safely look just like any other pair on the ice: brawling or buddied up to keep each other out of the brawl, not falling to their knees at their rival’s side.

“Fuck,” Ilya mutters, glancing at Dagenais’s wide-eyed expression before looking desperately back at Shane. “Is he okay? Fucking tell me!”

Nobody tells him anything, except Dagenais, who mutters in relief, “His eyes are open.” It’s likely more to himself more than to Ilya, but it lets Ilya catch a fleeting glimpse of Shane’s expression, pinched in pain but no longer slack and lifeless, before he gets taken off the ice. Both teams drift apart, and Dagenais shoves Ilya toward his bench when he doesn’t move on his own.

Over by the Montreal bench, he sees Dagenais look disbelievingly from Ilya to Pike and back a few times, and then Pike gives Ilya a very slightly apologetic look. Dagenais knows.

It’s Hayden Pike who texts Ilya updates as they come in—relayed from his wife who went with Shane in the ambulance—while they both rush mindlessly through changing and getting out of the stadium. And it’s Hayden Pike who drives Ilya to the hospital and gets him into Shane’s darkened hospital room.

Ilya hates that he’s starting to like the man.

Jackie Pike pretends not to see Ilya slip into the room as she steps out to talk to her husband, and so he has some privacy when he hesitates stiffly at the foot of the hospital bed.

Shane’s unconscious, but his chest rises and falls with steady breaths, his eyelids flutter, and the silenced monitor next to the bed promises a strong heartbeat.

Ilya slumps with relief, exhausted from holding so much tension through the rest of the game and all the other meaningless bullshit that kept him from being by Shane’s side. He’s glad that Shane wasn’t alone, at least, that he has someone like Jackie who cares enough to be here—who could be here when no one else was.

He makes himself move, feeling like a cliché as he takes Shane’s limp hand and bends to press a trembling kiss to his knuckles.

When the Pikes join Ilya a few minutes later, with them is Dagenais, who puts his back to the window in the door after it closes, dropping Shane’s bag at his feet.

“He’ll be okay,” Jackie tells Ilya, joining him by the bed and patting Shane’s shin. “Fractured collarbone and a concussion. He’s been drugged up and sleeping for a bit, but he’s okay.”

Ilya blinks back overwhelmed tears and makes himself nod and thank her. “His parents?” he asks before anyone can start in on the thousand questions they surely have for him.

“It’s a two-hour drive,” Hayden says, dropping into a chair on the other side of the bed. “They’re just getting on their way now.”

“I will stay,” Ilya says. “If you need to be with your thirteen children…”

“Asshole,” Hayden mutters, but Jackie snickers. The two share a long look, and then Jackie pats Ilya’s shoulder and then Dagenais’s, kisses Hayden’s cheek, and leaves with a quiet promise to keep Shane and Ilya’s secret.

Hayden looks down at his own hands twisting in his lap, and then over at where Ilya’s holding Shane’s hand at the edge of the bed. “Will you… tell me about him? How he is with you? I’m kinda bummed that it feels like you know him better than we do.”

Ilya smiles despite himself. “We have known each other for a long time.” He feels his expression turn sad, a little bitter. “I know he wears socks to sleep like maniac, but not what kind of tea he likes when he’s sick. You know his parents, you take care of him more than only a few times a year, you… you have pictures with him, you—” are allowed to love him. “Only things I know that you don’t is what he likes in bed, and I don’t think you want to know about that.”

“Hey, no, man, I’m sure that’s not all—” Hayden starts sympathetically, and then he looks horrified—whether at himself for trying to reassure Ilya Rozanov or at Ilya for bringing up their sex life, Ilya’s not sure. Hayden sighs.

“I know he loves you,” Ilya tells him, “He was doing best he could, same as you. I didn’t realise until he told you about us, about him… how much it was hurting him to keep this secret from you. He wanted to tell you, probably the whole time.”

Hayden sits with that for long enough that Ilya almost thinks he’s not going to say anything. “He says more with his face than he thinks he does, right?” he says eventually. “He doesn’t tell me things, even things that don’t matter. I have to figure it out and hope I’m right.”

And this, too, is Ilya’s fault. Shane had said as much. If Ilya hadn’t come onto him all those years ago, Shane wouldn’t have started his career with a secret large enough to suffocate the rest of his life.

“I’ve known about Lily for years,” Hayden continues. “He didn’t talk about it, but I could tell from the look on his face that it was good for him. I was just glad he had someone that… Well, he was always happier after he snuck away to see Lily, always smiling at his phone…” He shakes his head and looks from Shane to Ilya. “Always played better against Boston, though fuck if I understand the line between your weird rivalry and whatever this is.”

“We challenge each other. He makes me better.” Ilya shrugs, smiles wryly. “In more ways than just hockey. He is so… good.”

“He is.” Hayden studies Ilya, and as much as he wants to fix his face or maybe growl a little, he just lets Hayden see whatever he’s going to see. “But I think you make him better too.”

“Oh. I… Thank you. For saying that,” Ilya says quietly, not as reluctantly as he would’ve thought. Maybe hospitals really are some sort of weird purgatory. “I’m sure that was very hard for you,” he adds, smirking when Hayden rolls his eyes. And then, finally over the oppressive weight of Dagenais’s eyes on him, Ilya turns to him. “You have been quiet,” he says, “You did not know about me and Shane before tonight. You have nothing to say?”

“I am still… processing,” Dagenais says carefully.

Ilya rolls his eyes.

“I don’t have a problem with him being gay, but he only told me last week, and now—” He gestures broadly at Ilya, and then he winces but continues, “He was worried I would be…” He glances quickly at Hayden, who looks unsympathetic to Dagenais’s struggle. “I used to say things, in the locker room, that made it hard for him.”

Ilya knows this. He’d said the same things on the ice, although it has tempered over the years. Shane didn’t think he was homophobic, just insensitive and influenced by hockey culture.

“But I care about him,” Dagenais continues, “And if he cares for you and you care about him…” He shrugs. “Hayden is right. I do not think this is a bad thing.”

Hayden’s phone buzzes, and he updates them on the Hollanders’ ETA.

“His parents do not know?”

Ilya shakes his head. “No. Was only recently that he came out to them too. And this is not time for them to find out about me,” he says. He does not mention that he’s still not sure they’ll ever find out about Ilya, even if they’re… almost too cool with Shane being gay.

“Yeah, no fucking kidding,” Dagenais says.

“I’m sorry that you found out this way,” Ilya tells him, only because Shane wouldn’t want him to antagonise someone who’s already struggling to wholeheartedly accept this, someone who Shane didn’t even get to tell on his own terms, thanks to Ilya. “Shane will be sorry too. He was going to tell you soon.”

“Does anyone else know?” Hayden asks, “On your side of things? Your… family?”

Ilya scoffs. “No. No family. A few friends know I am bisexual, but…” He wishes he’d told Svetlana—he wanted to just as much as he was terrified to, for years—but even after Shane said he could, he just… hasn’t yet. “Only Marleau knows about Shane. But he did not—He would never hurt anyone on purpose. Especially not Shane, and not for this.”

Hayden’s jaw clenches but he nods tiredly. “It was an accident,” he says, “We know that.”

It was my fault, Ilya thinks bitterly, but he knows saying so right now would likely get him punched.

“I know this is… difficult to—”

Hayden shakes his head, and Ilya shuts his mouth. “Difficult was knowing my best friend didn’t feel like he could tell me things,” Hayden says, “This? This is easy. I can make nice with someone who clearly cares a lot about Shane, even if I don’t fucking understand it at all.” He makes a face. “I’ll probably be less nice once he’s awake.”

Ilya snorts. “Yes, me too.”

“So, while we’re here,” Hayden continues uncomfortably, “Shane said he didn’t understand at first how bad this could be for you, with Russia. I won’t pretend to understand either, but… Thank you for trusting us. We’ve got your back just the same as we’ve got Shane’s.”

Ilya ducks his head so he can regain control of his face and emotions. “Thank you. You are good friend. Mediocre hockey player, but very good friend.” He glances at Dagenais and adds, “You are trying. That is what will matter to Shane.”

All too soon, Hayden checks his phone and looks apologetically at Ilya. “They’re almost here.”

Ilya takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay.” He stands up to lean over Shane, brushing a hand over his hair and pressing a long kiss to his temple. “Ya tebya lyublyu,” he murmurs, “You must heal so I can keep beating you, hm?”

When he straightens up, Hayden and Dagenais are politely pretending not to be paying attention.

“When’s your flight out?” Hayden asks.

“Bus leaves midday tomorrow. I… If I can, I would like to…” He looks back at Shane.

“I’ll be back in the morning to make sure David and Yuna eat and get some sleep. I’ll text you a good time to come by.”

“Thank you.”

Hayden takes a deep breath and nods, and he extends a hand that Ilya shakes on autopilot.

“We are not there yet,” Dagenais says, “But I can drive you to your hotel?”

“Oh.” Ilya hadn’t thought ahead that far—or at all—when he’d gotten into Hayden’s car earlier. “Uh.”

“You don’t have a hotel room, do you,” Hayden says.

“I was going to stay with Shane. He gave me door code before game.” He sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “But Marleau has my things at hotel.”

“You stay at his place?” Dagenais asks, eyes wide. “His parents don’t even stay there when they visit. He doesn’t have anyone over, like, ever.”

“That is because of me, I think,” Ilya says hesitantly, “He wanted safe place for us. Less chance of getting found out, and means we can see each other a little more often, for a little longer. But I have not slept over before. That is new. I’m not so sure he would want me there without him.”

Hayden sighs. “He would.”

Ilya hesitates. He’s not sure how much Hayden knows about all the ups and downs of their… thing. “You are sure?”

“Something changed recently, didn’t it?” he says, not really a question. “He told me something that makes me sure.”

Dagenais drives Ilya to the hotel and even offers to wait and take him to Shane’s after he grabs his bags, and Ilya hates that he’s starting to forgive him. He clearly cares a lot about Shane even if he’s struggling with some parts of this whole thing—and maybe that makes it even kinder that he’s willing to show up for them like this.

But Ilya wants to go up and talk to Marleau and make sure he knows that Shane will be okay. Marleau’s a sweetheart, even if he’s an unfortunate wall of muscle that Ilya wishes he could hate right now.

Ilya hoped it would be a comfort, but Shane’s bed feels too empty even with all of its too many pillows, and he sleeps so restlessly it’s like not sleeping at all. He gives up at some awful time in the morning, praying that Shane has good coffee. And he does—the same brand that Ilya has in his own kitchen, even though Shane drinks a different kind.

He packs a few things Shane might want, including one of the hoodies that Shane has stolen from Ilya over the years that can’t be identified as his, and as soon as Hayden texts, Ilya’s on his way to the hospital.

Hayden and JJ are both there already, and Ilya wonders briefly if this is normal for them after someone gets injured, or if they’re trying to make up for the distance that’s been between them.

“Ilyaaaa!”

JJ lets out a surprised laugh that makes Shane pout, and Hayden elbows him even though he’s very obviously holding back baffled laughter of his own.

“Hi,” Ilya says, frozen awkwardly by the door with his gaze stuck on beautiful, alive, conscious Shane, who’s smiling at him like Ilya is someone deserving of him, of his sunshine, of any of the love filling up the room. “Somebody is on some good drugs, I see.”

“Hey,” Shane says, reaching for him, “Hey, come heeeere.”

Ilya glances at Hayden. “How long do I have?”

“A few hours,” Hayden tells him, “His parents are gonna eat, shower and nap, and they’ll text me before they come back.”

Ilya nods and draws in a deep breath before he crosses the room and takes Shane’s hand. “Hi,” he says, “Are you… How do you feel?”

“Better now. Hi,” Shane says. He tilts his head adorably. “You’re all… frowny.”

“I… You scared me.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Ilya huffs out a dry laugh. “No, no, it’s okay. Not your fault. But, uh. I am sorry. JJ and Jackie…”

“It’s okay,” Shane says quickly, blinking blearily like he’s trying to clear the fog that’s surely clouding his head. “It’s okay. I wanted to tell them anyway. I’m glad you were here.”

“You were… sleeping. You didn’t even…”

“The first thing he did when he woke up,” Hayden says, “was make sure that you were all right and that you knew he was all right.”

Ilya tuts at Shane. “You need to worry more for yourself.”

“In Hollander’s defence,” JJ chimes in, “The second thing he said was fucking ouch.”

“Of course it was. You—” Ilya sniffs and clears his throat. “It was a very hard hit. Marleau feels terrible.”

“I know. S’okay,” Shane says dismissively. “Hey, can I meet him? Is he still in town?”

“You want to meet Marly? Now?”

Shane nods against his pillow and then winces. “We’ve never been able to meet each other’s friends,” he says sadly. “But you got to meet Hayd and Jackie and JJ, soooo…”

“Oh. I can…” Ilya tries to fight his surprised smile and fails. He sighs, long-suffering but pleased all the same. Marleau will probably be delighted and equally insufferable, especially since he’s yet to say I told you so now that Ilya and Shane have finally started to get their shit together. “I can ask. He has been waiting for another update on you.”

“Tha’s nice.” Shane slowly lifts their joined hands and snuffles his face into Ilya’s sleeve. “You smell good.”

“I smell like you,” Ilya mumbles distractedly, typing carefully with just his left hand.

Marleau is delighted at the invite, and when Ilya goes to fetch him from outside, he starts in immediately on being insufferable. Ilya decides not to warn him about Shane’s bodyguards being in the room, and he’s avenged when Marleau shrinks under the matching glares of Pike and Dagenais.

“Marly!”

“Hollander.” Marleau blinks in surprise and then shakes himself a little and shuffles over to stand at the end of the bed. “Didn’t think you’d be too keen to see me. I’m sorry, man.”

“Issss fine,” Shane says earnestly. He squints at Marleau. “Did Hayden punch you for me?”

Marleau snorts. “Course he did.” He looks around the room again before his eyes land on Ilya and somehow get kinder. “I’m glad you two have your people protecting you and… whatever this is between you.” He pulls Ilya into a choking, one-armed hug, then turns them both to face Shane, who’s grinning and looking like he’s very determinedly trying to commit this moment to memory. “I’m happy to be one of ’em.”

“You are going to make Hollander cry,” Ilya says wetly, shoving Marleau away so he can swipe at his eyes.

“Aww,” Shane coos at Ilya, then he whisper-shouts, “Everybody’s gonna learn your secret.”

“I think it’s a bit late for that, buddy,” Hayden tells him.

“Noooo, the other secret.”

“Shh, no, there is no other secret. Hollander is just loopy and saying loopy-people things.”

“Well, now we gotta hear this, Rozy,” Marleau says, all innocent and earnest and serious, as if his shit-eating grin doesn’t give him away.

“No—”

Shane clumsily pets Ilya’s belly. “You pretend to be so… tough and mean, but you’re secretly a huge, mushy softie,” he says seriously, nodding heavily for emphasis on every other word, “My sweet… baby… Ilyyaa…”

Ilya drops his head into his hands. Marleau may or may not already know this about him, but that doesn’t mean it needs to be said, especially not in the presence of Pike and Dagenais, who both look equally surprised, disbelieving, and delighted.

“Oh, I know,” Marleau says, the traitor, “I get to see him blushing at his phone every time he gets a text from Jane.”

“Lily and Jane?” Hayden says dryly, “Subtle, guys.”

“It was Ilya’s idea,” Shane says proudly, “His brain is so… brainy.”

“It maybe was not most creative,” Ilya mutters, “I was a little distracted, if you remember.”

Shane rolls his head to look at Ilya with a dopey smile. “I remember. You thought you were so funny. You had the cutest smile.”

“Had?”

“Have,” Shane corrects immediately. “Wanna kiss it all the time. C’mere.”

Ilya glances at their audience, and all three of them roll their eyes but pretend to give them some privacy so Ilya can kiss Shane breathless. It doesn’t take much, so Ilya kisses him some more because he can.

“Mm. Better,” Shane says, and Ilya kisses his cute little smile once more.

“Thanks for making sure Roz didn’t go insane last night,” Marleau’s saying now, barely lowering his voice, and when Ilya turns to glare at him, he’s completely unrepentant. Asshole. “And, Roz, you’re gonna give me your boy’s number in case anything like this ever happens the other way around. Knock on wood.”

“Yessss,” Shane says and then, too seriously for all the drugs he’s supposed to be on, says, “He’s so bad at telling me when he’s hurting, esssspecially when it’s his brain being mean.”

Ilya can’t bring himself to object, even though he absolutely does not need Shane and Marleau teaming up against him when his brain—or, more recently, his stupid heart—is being mean. He ignores the curious looks Hayden and JJ throw his way, and Marleau, bless him, reads Ilya’s mind yet again.

“All right. I’ve got a flight to catch,” Marleau says apologetically, as if Ilya isn’t supposed to be on the same plane. “I know you guys don’t get a lot of time together but I really hope I’m able to get to know Roz’s boy sometime.”

Shane smiles dopily and murmurs under his breath, “Roz’s boy.”

Marleau makes fun of the very non-existent flush to Ilya’s cheeks as he walks him out, and then he draws him into the kind of hug that Ilya thinks big brothers are supposed to give. “Fuckin’ insane, bro,” he says, “but I’m happy for you. I hope he gets better soon.”

“You are lucky he told me not to break your face,” Ilya says, squeezing him back. “Thank you.”

When Ilya slips back into the room, Hayden’s holding his phone up, screen angled away from Shane, so they can listen to a gaggle of voices telling Uncle Shane to feel better soon. Shane looks happy but tired, and Ilya thinks he’s almost ready to admit that the drugs are wearing off.

“Who is this?” Ilya asks, returning to Shane’s side, “The better Pike and fourteen children?”

Shane reaches up to flick Ilya’s cheek. “You know it’s three and a half.”

“I do?” Ilya says, at the same time that Hayden and JJ both ask, “He does?”

“Yep,” Shane says, suddenly bright-eyed and lit up with mischief, “He wanted to learn their names and ages and everything.”

Ilya sniffs and looks right at Hayden as he says, “Had to know what size to get tiny Rozanov jerseys at Christmas.”

“Fuck no.” Hayden says, and he and JJ both make vaguely disgusted noises. “Absolutely fucking not.”

Shane’s eyes have gone wide. “I say your name wrong?”

Ilya shrugs. Shane’s pronunciation is better than some.

“I’ve been saying your name wrong for ten years?” Shane repeats incredulously. “How have I never heard you say your own name before? I’ve said your name wrong in—”

“Okay, ew,” Hayden interrupts.

“Oh my god,” Shane says, hiding his face in his hand. He peeks up at Ilya.

“I like how you say my name in bed.”

“Oh my god,” Shane moans, and Ilya winks at him.

“What the fuck,” JJ says delightedly, grinning, “You guys are fuckin’ weird.”

“Too weird for me,” Hayden says, and he stands and starts shooing JJ out of the room ahead of him. “We’ll… give you guys a minute.”

“Ten?” Shane says, at the same time that Ilya suggests, “Maybe twenty.”

Hayden and JJ both roll their eyes, but they shuffle out and stand guard at the door.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me I say your name wrong,” Shane says morosely, “I’ve known you longer than literally anyone else in my life and—Dude, I’ve said your name wrong in bed.”

“Without me?”

Shane scowls. “Won’t be anymore, asshole. Man—” His gaze turns determined in a way that Ilya finds very hot. “Teach me how to say it properly. You love telling me what to do.”

Ilya sighs and dutifully recites his name, trying not to smile too sappily.

“I say your first name wrong too? What the fuck, dude,” Shane mutters grumpily. “Ill-ya,” he tries, “and how do you say it again? Ro-ZAH-nov?”

“Good,” Ilya murmurs, impressed. “And you will practice moaning this in bed, no?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Ilya smirks. “Mm.”

Shane sleeps some more, despite valiant attempts to fight it, and just as Ilya’s starting to worry that he won’t get to see Shane’s beautiful eyes and kiss him again before he has to leave, Shane finally stirs.

“Hey,” he rasps, looking tired but much more lucid than he’d been so far. “You’re still here.”

“I changed my flight,” Ilya admits, “Will have to go soon, though. I have stupid responsibilities and your parents are coming back soon.”

Shane’s face falls a little. “I’m sorry.”

Ilya shakes his head. “No. No, it’s okay. You deserve to tell them when you are not dying in hospital bed, yes?”

“I’m not dying.”

“Good,” Ilya says shortly. “Because I’m not done with you.”

Shane’s chest rises with a deeper breath than the ones he’s been taking. “You…’ve said that before,” he says. His eyes dart to Ilya and then over to stare blankly at the wall like he’s trying to remember. “Is that what you meant? That time at your house? That you wanted…”

Ilya sniffs and nods. “More time with you. Not just to fuck again—although that was nice too. I always want more time with you.” He hadn’t wanted to insinuate it was only for more sex that time, but as it was he wasn’t sure that Shane was ready for all that to happen, much less for them to put words to it. “I wasn’t sure you would want to hear that.” He cocks his head and teases, “I didn’t think you would run away, but…”

“Oh,” Shane says, in the same flat way he does when someone has noticed something they weren’t supposed to. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s…” He shakes his head and squeezes Shane’s hand. “We are past this, yes? We’re okay.”

“Okay,” Shane says, voice small but like he’s trying to believe it. Ilya leans over to kiss his pout and when he leans back, Shane’s smiling again. “I always want more time with you too.”

“You did stay,” Ilya gives him, “For a little.” He runs his eyes across Shane’s face, relieved to see that he doesn’t look panicked or too guilty—just mostly thoughtful. “Until you freaked out.”

Shane lets go of Ilya’s hand to very weakly whack him in the chest. “Shut up,” he says, “I stayed after that too.” He takes Ilya’s hand again and clings tightly. “And now you have to go again.”

“Mm.” Ilya sighs, dramatic and long-suffering. “Maybe we both should just quit hockey and move to woods so we can fuck under stars every night like nature fucking intended, huh?”

“You love hockey,” Shane says, like that’s the only problem he has with this plan.

“Not as much as you, probably,” Ilya says, and Shane stares at him blearily like he’s lost in the ambiguity: Not as much as you love hockey or not as much as I love you, or both of the above? “But I would miss Dunks, I think.”

Shane nods absently, and Ilya knows he’s retreating into his head a little. “Hayden and JJ go?”

Ilya gladly grasps at the new topic. “Yes. Pike went home to take care of fifteen children, but he said Jackie will come later with dinner you will actually eat.”

Shane’s eyes drop to his lap. “Oh.”

Ilya doesn’t think this is the time to ask about that, so instead he says, “I like them. Jackie and Hayden. They are good to you.”

Shane’s face crinkles with a shy little smile. “Yeah. Jackie likes you too. Hayden…”

“Almost tolerates me?”

“He… Yeah,” he says, “I think… I think it was actually a good thing, that you met like this and he got to see you worried for me instead of…” He gives Ilya a look and gestures to him as a whole, which is probably fair.

“Yes, we were on truce last night,” Ilya agrees, “But don’t worry, we promised to be less nice to each other once your bruises are gone from your pretty face.”

Shane’s hand slips from Ilya’s and moves up to cover his face. He groans. “You can’t just get along like normal people?” he asks, not even trying for hopeful.

“I think maybe we… understand each other, if not like. Maybe that’s even better, no? We both—We care for you, so we put rest aside. For you.”

He sighs. “Good enough,” he says, and then adds, like a threat, “For now.” He tips his head back against the pillows, closes his eyes, and asks quietly, “What about JJ?”

Ilya makes a face. “He was okay with you this morning?”

Shane shrugs his good shoulder and nods. “Quiet, I guess, but not like he was thinking about punching me or outing us as soon as I’m out of a hospital bed.”

“Yes, was same with me,” Ilya says. “I think he will, uh, come around. It took you and me a long time to accept it too, no?”

“I guess.” He turns toward Ilya and reaches for his hand again. “You were really brave to face them on your own,” he says, “I’m really glad you were here.”

“Me too,” Ilya murmurs. And just as he’s almost worked up the courage to ask When am I going to see you again? his phone buzzes in his pocket, probably with the message that it’s time to go. He has to be grateful for the timing, though, when it means he’s already slipped his hand from Shane’s just before the door opens and a nurse enters the room.

“Oh, no,” Shane mumbles sadly, and Ilya more than shares the sentiment.

Ilya waits around the corner for the nurse to leave and then sneaks back in for a kiss goodbye.

Chapter 5

When Shane texts him an innocuous question he definitely already knows the answer to, Ilya finds his earphones and settles into the couch with a giddy, adoring smile that he’s very glad nobody is around to see.

Shane answers the call embarrassingly quickly. “You don’t have to call me to answer every text, you know,” he says instead of hello. “It’s been two weeks; I’m allowed to look at screens.”

“Hello, Ilya, how are you, Ilya, nice to talk to you too, Ilya—”

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Shane throws back brightly. More softly, he adds, “Hi, Ilya. It’s nice to hear your voice even if you’re already being an asshole.”

“I’m always an asshole,” Ilya says, “Is why you like me so much.”

Shane sighs, but Ilya can tell that he’s smiling. He’s always smiling when he calls Ilya an asshole. “This is why I texted,” he complains half-heartedly, “You’re always so—”

“Charming?” Ilya suggests, “Sexy?”

He scoffs. “Sure,” he says. “I am glad you called. I just… I know you’re probably tired. You really could’ve just texted.”

As if Ilya would ever pass up an opportunity to hear Shane’s voice.

“But it hurts your head, yes? You are sensitive to light and screens even without concussion.”

There’s a pause. “You noticed that?”

“Why you think I have so many lamps in my house?” Ilya says, fidgeting with the tie of his sweatpants. “All your senses are… sensitive, no?”

“Wha—How do you… What else have you noticed?”

Ilya rolls his lips through his teeth. “You want list?”

“Maybe. Do you have a list?”

“No, not really, but… I notice things.” He sniffs, hating that it was Hayden Pike who had to remind him of this. “About you.”

“Oh,” Shane says, short and flat. “Because it’s weird?”

“Because it’s you, Shane.” Ilya looks up at the ceiling and says, “I have been noticing you for ten years, and I am still learning new things all the time. It is my favourite part of this, maybe.”

“I thought my mouth was your favourite part,” Shane says, only mostly teasing—but also a little like maybe he’s worried that Ilya really feels that way beyond a little sexy teasing.

Ilya hums. “Maybe when you are here for me to kiss,” he says, “Tonight, my favourite thing is that I know what you are wearing right now without even getting to see you.”

Shane snorts. “Oh, really?”

“Really. You want me to prove it?”

“Are you—Yeah, okay, prove it, Rozanov.”

Ilya sinks further into the couch with a frankly lovely picture in his mind. “Your socks are white,” he says, “and they are inside-out because you don’t like feel of the, uh… Fuck, don’t tell me. I fucking googled this.”

“You did?”

“Shh, I’m thinking,” Ilya says. “Yes, I googled because you are beautiful weirdo who wears socks inside-out because—Seams! Fucking seams.”

“Fucking seams,” Shane agrees, laughing. “You’re right.”

“Of course I am.”

“Okay, genius, what else?”

“Sweatpants. They are a little loose, except on your sexy thighs. Boring colour like navy or grey.”

“Grey,” Shane tells him, “The ones that made you drop to your knees and beg before the door even closed behind you.”

“Fuck,” Ilya groans, and he smiles helplessly, closing his eyes to savour the memory. That was a very good night; Ilya had been restless and needy and self-conscious about it until Shane so easily met him where he was and let him take what he needed.

“Keep going.”

“I can hear you smiling,” Ilya accuses, “You enjoy teasing me. Is so mean when you can’t even look at phone to send me picture in your slutty sweatpants.”

“Yep,” Shane says happily. “Keep going, Rozanov.”

Ilya blinks out of the image in his head. “I know you sneaked away to wash cum out of sweatpants when I was in the shower,” he says, “so they are nice and clean and were folded very neatly, and this time you are wearing boring black boxer briefs under, and they are ones that won’t move up your beautiful thighs and annoy you.”

“What’s with you and my thighs tonight?”

“They are so sexy, Hollander,” Ilya whines. “I am right?”

He sighs. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Fuck off,” Shane says, laughing. “Are you done?”

“No,” Ilya says, because Shane regrettably doesn’t just lie around half-naked like Ilya tends to do. “White t-shirt—”

“Nope.”

Ilya pauses, imagining Shane in those fucking sweatpants and no shirt. “Black t-shirt?”

“Continue,” Shane says, sounding like he’s smiling.

“No tag. Fits perfect because you are too boring to show off in too-small shirts like I keep telling you.”

Shane huffs, amused and exasperated, and teases, “What, you wouldn’t be jealous of all the attention I’d get?”

Oh. “Okay, fine. No tiny shirts for you. Even better, you are also wearing too-big hoodie,” he says, waiting for Shane’s hum of agreement. “No tag again. Yes strings, because you like something in your mouth when I am not there for you to suck my dick.”

Shane’s laugh is startled and pretty, and Ilya wants to kiss it out of his mouth. “They call that wishful thinking,” he says, “How could you possibly know that?”

“Am I right?”

“Fuck you,” Shane says, which means yes. “Which hoodie?”

“Is one I have seen before?”

“It is.”

“Is mine?”

“Maybe.”

Ilya blinks up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath. “I miss you too.”

Shane makes a cute little surprised noise.

But Ilya still can’t manage to ask if they’re going to see each other again before the summer, even if he’s running out of excuses to both himself and Svetlana for why he hasn’t booked a flight to Moscow yet—and why he’s secretly, pathetically looking at flights to Canada instead.

“See? I know things,” Ilya says, to himself as much as Shane. “I try to brush my teeth and change my clothes if I smoke before I see you for same reason I know you have used same boring laundry detergent and deodorant at least since I met you, and you don’t like to be touched too light or by accident, and you have your thing with food, and I still maybe think hearing electricity is fake but I will still unplug all the lamps for you because it bothers you.”

“Wow,” Shane murmurs wondrously, “And you pretend you’re not a secret softie inside.”

“That’s only for you,” Ilya says, too quick and too honest. “Do not tell anybody.”

“I’m gonna tell everyone,” Shane teases, “Ilya Rozanov is a total sweetheart to puppies and children, and his rival, Shane Hollander.”

“I’m nice to puppies? Is that a thing?”

“Everything’s a thing, man,” Shane says, like he’s both annoyed and delighted by this, “There are YouTube compilations of everything you do.”

“And you watch them?”

“That’s not the point,” Shane says.

“That means yes,” Ilya says.

Shane takes a deep breath. “It means,” he says carefully, “I’ve been watching you and trying to figure you out for years, but I felt like… you weren’t letting me, at first. So I tried to learn as much as I could even if it was from interviews and fucking YouTube ’cause you were too busy being an asshole to show me yourself.”

Ilya grimaces. “’M sorry,” he says, “It… became habit, I think, before I even met you. But… I try with you. I always did, even when it didn’t seem like it.”

“I know,” Shane says gently. “It just… feels like it takes me so much longer to understand things like that about you. Like how to tell if you’re having a bad day, or what helps. I don’t have a list like yours, about you.”

“No? So why did Hayden Pike know that when I am sad and grumpy, you bribe me with same sugary cereal he uses to bribe his sixteen kids?”

Shane snickers his way through a less than half-hearted apology. “He was—” He pauses to giggle some more, and Ilya finds himself smiling too. “When I told him about us, he asked me what I like about you and—” He must move the phone away from his face because his laughter is slightly muffled now, even if it’s somehow more joyful.

“And that is all you could think of? Ilya Rozanov eats kids’ cereal when he’s sad and sucks my dick really good so you have to be nice to him?”

“I did tell him the sex is really good,” Shane says thoughtfully.

Ilya snorts. He wishes he could have seen Pike’s face. “You did?”

“Mostly to get him to stop asking questions, which he did, but it’s still true.”

“What else did you tell him? He seemed… not like he likes me, but like he… understood, maybe. Like he respects what we have, at least. It surprised me.”

Shane gives a sad little sigh. “He was surprised at first, obviously, but I asked him to recall—to remember a time that I ever said anything mean about you, or that you ever said anything genuinely out of line even on the ice, and he realised he’d just been believing everything the media said about us. And about you.”

“You don’t say mean things about me?”

“Only to your face.”

Ilya pushes his next breath out with a little sigh, relieved in a way he hadn’t known he would be. “Good. Me too.”

“The worst is that I’ll call you an asshole sometimes, but…”

“But this is true.” And Shane says it to Ilya’s face with a smile so often that it’s become affectionate.

“Sometimes,” Shane repeats. “With Hayden, it helped when… after the club in Montreal,” he says carefully, “I texted him your number as some sort of… revenge, maybe, when you shut me out that night. I think he felt better knowing that I still trusted him to protect me or whatever.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “His threat was so boring it was not even threat. It was like he threatened to threaten me,” he says. “Also, Marly says I can take Pike in a fight.”

“You could,” Shane says, “But Hayden would try very hard anyway.” He makes a thoughtful noise and chuckles. “Until I would probably have to step in to save him and fight you myself anyway.”

“Could be hot,” Ilya muses. “But I could also definitely take you in a fight.” He imagines it, although probably not in the way Shane is since Ilya’s version doesn’t involve any clothes, and then he quickly adds, “Not that I want to, of course. Not like that. But I could.”

Shane hums noncommittally, like he’s not convinced. “Maybe,” he says, “We should test that sometime. Just for fun.”

“Uh,” Ilya says, offended, “of course I would win. Did you hit your head so hard you forget I hold you down all the time?”

“Only ’cause I let you.” Shane takes a breath like he’s got more to say, but then he pauses, and Ilya wishes he could see him to know what he’s thinking. “I thought you knew that. Isn’t that… I thought that was part of the appeal.”

“Oh. Uh.” Ilya doesn’t know how he hasn’t actually thought about it until now, and he says as much to Shane.

“Do you… What is it, then? Why do you…?”

Ilya sits up at the sudden wariness in Shane’s voice. “Is not that I want to hold you down and you can’t—I know you don’t like hands pinned for too long and you don’t want to really feel, uh… trapped? I don’t want that too. That’s not what it is.”

“Overpowered,” Shane says, and Ilya now remembers him using that same word when they discussed limits mid-sex the first time Shane asked for Ilya to press him into the mattress.

It’s about the pressure, he said, I want to feel you, but I don’t want to feel overpowered.

“Sorry, I knew you knew that,” Shane says now, “And you never made me feel that way. I always—” He stops like it’s habit to censor himself, and then takes a deep breath. “I’ve always felt safe with you.”

Ilya draws in and releases a relieved breath. “Okay. Okay. Good.” He relaxes into the couch cushions again and says, “Let me think? You still want real answer why I like it?”

“If you have one, sure,” Shane says, sounding much more at ease, “It’s okay if there’s not a specific reason.”

“I like it because you like it,” Ilya says, because he knows that much. “I think… I like that you trust me. Is intense feeling, no? For you too?”

“Yeah. Good intense.”

“Very good intense, yes. It feels good that you trust me to hold you down and tell you what to do and you know that even though I’m stronger than you—”

“Maybe.”

“—even though I’m stronger than you, you trust I wouldn’t hurt you or do something you don’t like, and I’d let you up as soon as you wanted, and I wouldn’t tell you to do something unless we both know you want it. You know I will take care of you and make you feel good.”

“Oh. Okay, that’s… Yeah,” Shane says, “All of that is true. It’s… There’s a lot of trust there, even when things were…”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, “We hurt each other, but we still could trust each other, too.”

They’ve had to, even outside of the actual sex, for the sake of their safety and careers and everything else. It’s always terrified Ilya at the same time that it felt inexplicably like a tiny sliver of freedom and safety, and he thinks it will always be that way—especially now that they’re finally starting to get the hang of actually talking to each other.

“What is it for you? I thought… or I didn’t think, maybe. You don’t have to tell me, but…”

Shane’s quiet for long enough that Ilya doesn’t think he’s going to answer, and then he says carefully, “When you first… Even before the first time we were together, you made me feel…” He stops, hesitates, and then starts again. “I gave up a lot of control, even just to admit to looking at you like that, but definitely to admit to you that I wanted you and wanted to do something about it. And I liked it.” A little laugh bursts out of him. “I felt insane, but I loved it.”

“You’ve thought about this before,” Ilya realises. It surprises him, because despite how much of an overthinker Shane is about most things, he’d also spent six years fucking only men before he let himself think too hard about his sexuality. So, yes, Ilya thinks he’s allowed to be surprised that Shane had put some real thought into why he liked to be held down and bossed around in bed by his rival.

“At first I was thinking about it the other way around,” Shane says.

Ilya frowns up at the ceiling. “Other way? Like how?”

Shane hesitates again before he says, “Like in the ten minutes after sex when you let me take care of you, before your walls go back up. It—”

“My walls?”

“Oh, uh… While you’re all sex-happy and… vulnerable, I guess. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, thank you,” Ilya murmurs, feeling exposed, “Continue.”

“It makes me feel really good when you give up a little bit of your control and let me do that for you,” Shane says, “That’s one of my favourite parts. And then I realised that the sex is like that, for me. You make me feel safe and good enough to give up control and, yeah, trust you to take care of me—even when sometimes I don’t know what I want.”

A memory drifts to the front of Ilya’s mind, of one of the things that had baffled Ilya as much as it had endeared him to Shane so immediately, like the way he’d stopped to carefully fold his clothes even with Ilya waiting naked on the bed.

“Even from first time? I still remember… I asked what you wanted and you said I don’t know like you didn’t just fall to your knees to suck my dick like it was all you ever wanted.” He frowns as he tries to sort through the memory; he remembers that first time in more detail than many of the others, but it was still so many years ago. “I thought you were just nervous, or shy.”

“I mean, I was nervous, but you were really… I wanted it to be good for you so, yeah, I guess I wanted you to tell me what you wanted me to do.”

“And then when you thought I was going to just leave without taking care of you, you were surprised,” Ilya says, only finally putting context to the moment as he says it aloud, “More surprised than I expected for stupid joke. Like… like until then you trusted I would take care of you, even though you thought I was an asshole. You trusted me already with that?”

Shane laughs, a little awkward but not uncomfortable. “I mean, I wasn’t really thinking about it like this back then, but you must’ve already been paying attention to what I wanted or you wouldn’t have fucking jerked off staring at me in the showers, right?”

Ilya snickers. “Your eyes gave you away,” he says, “They still do. Is very cute.”

“Shut up,” Shane says, automatic. “Anyway, I guess it was a safe bet that you’d take good care of me—and you did. I don’t know, dude. Whether or not I already wanted you to tell me what to do isn’t exactly the part of that night that I remember the most clearly.”

Ilya smiles at his own memories of that night. God, they were so young and stupid. They still are. “Which part you remember?” he can’t help but tease, “When you came so quick I barely got to blow you first?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, somehow sounding both completely unashamed and yet still shy about something from so long ago, even after they’ve done that and much more so many times since. “And, god, the way you looked when you came.” He takes a shaky breath, and then a steadier one. “That’s not the point.”

“It could be,” Ilya offers. “Are you hard just thinking about it?”

“No—I mean… yes, but I want to talk about this, if you still want…”

Ilya’s half-hard himself, and has been for most of this conversation, but he’s also more interested in this new kind of intimacy with Shane without it needing to be about getting off.

“Yes, okay. So, you like when I take care of you,” Ilya says, “When I… know what you want and give it to you?”

“Yeah. Like…” Shane snorts out a self-conscious laugh. “When you told me you know exactly how I like to have sex when I’m overwhelmed? I didn’t even know I did that, that I craved routine so badly that you noticed and you just gave it to me without even… You didn’t even need to ask. You just took care of me.”

“I…” Ilya says helplessly, feeling himself flounder. “Of course I did.”

“Of course you did,” Shane agrees softly. “So, it’s not whether you can actually overpower me, which we will see about,” he concludes, “For me, it’s that I can give up a little control and know that you’ll take care of me, and for you, it’s that I trust you enough to let you.”  

“Huh.”

“Softie,” Shane teases quietly.

“I—Shut up.” Ilya sniffs and latches on to the less vulnerable part of this conclusion. “But yes, we will see about testing who is stronger. I am curious now, if you really think it’s you.” He wonders which would be hotter: getting to see another secret side of Shane as a strong, competent fighter; or getting to prove himself right and winning himself a prize. “Once you are all healed so you cannot claim injury when I beat you,” he adds, pouting at the wall. Stupid Marly.

“You are probably stronger,” Shane says, “but that only gets you so far, you know. You’re going down, Rozanov.”

“Uh, no, you are going down,” Ilya says automatically, before adding, “And then maybe I go down on you.”

“That’s the deal? Winner gets to suck the loser’s dick? You sure you won’t be tempted to let me win just to get my mouth on you?”

Ilya considers this. “Okay, maybe we don’t make sexy bet if we want to find out for real.”

Shane snorts. “Oh my god, I was joking. You’d really sacrifice your ego and bragging rights for a blowjob?”

“From you? Probably.”

“Wow,” Shane murmurs. “Well, now I feel bad for saying I wouldn’t be tempted, though, just for the record. I like your mouth but I’m gonna like pinning you to the floor even better.”

“You are confident,” Ilya says, feeling giddy with the anticipation already, the promise of sometime both a comfort and a curse in its ambiguity.

Shane hums thoughtfully, and then says, too sudden and too casual to actually be casual, “Oh, hey, so, I actually have another idea.”

“Oh, no,” Ilya says.

“It’s a good idea!” Shane says. “At least… I mean, at least I think it is.”

“Okay, okay, I’m kidding. Tell me.”

“I was thinking… maybe I could start learning a little Russian?”

“You…” Ilya blinks up at the ceiling, eyes hot and chest warm. “What?”

“You can say no,” Shane says carefully, “but, I don’t know, I want you to be able to talk to me without having to translate everything first, you know? It must be fucking exhausting.”

“It is,” Ilya says quietly, when Shane pointedly leaves space for him to respond.

“Right. And even then, if you don’t know the exact English word you mean, if there even is one, you don’t get to… I know you’re smart and you feel so much, but I don’t always get to hear exactly what you’re thinking in the way you really want to say it. So, it’s a little selfish, but I also want that for you, for you to be able to… express yourself fully with me. But… that’s also why I get if you don’t want me to. If you want to keep some parts for yourself. So, um. What do you think?”

“Hollander…” Ilya says wetly. Two minutes ago, they were talking about wrestling and blowjobs, and now Shane’s crawling his way right into Ilya’s soul like it’s no big deal. He sniffs and clears his throat, and switches tracks. “You are asking permission to learn a language?”

Shane huffs, and Ilya’s mouth twitches into a smile. “It’s just… I sort of got the impression that maybe you like that you can talk to me in Russian without me understanding? Like on the phone when you were in Russia after…”

Oh. That. “I did maybe say some things that I didn’t want you to know yet,” Ilya allows.

“Yeah. And before that,” Shane continues, “Since I met you, you sometimes say things in Russian that you obviously don’t expect me to understand. Like when you’re upset, or in bed, or after.”

“Oh,” Ilya says. He didn’t think it was that often, but he shouldn’t be surprised that Shane noticed, even if he never asked what Ilya was saying. “It probably was just…” He presses his lips together. He’s not sure he should admit it yet, but if Shane wants to learn Russian to understand him… “It mostly is cursing and things that were… too much for what we were. Sweet things. I think I… I don’t mind if you understand those things now.”

He can imagine Shane’s slow smile even before he teases, “What kind of sweet things?”

“Mm-mn. You will have to work for it now and figure it out for yourself.”

“Mean.”

“You like me a little mean.”

Shane hums. “So, you don’t mind?”

“No. Is sweet you want to. And good that you tell me first so I don’t say things I maybe don’t want you to know yet, but you didn’t have to ask.”

“Okay. Okay, cool.”

“You are really going to learn Russian?” For me?

“Yeah, why not? I’ve got time, right?”

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says, pouting again.

“Shush,” Shane says, no-nonsense. “But you know what would make me feel better?”

“Mm, what?”

Shane’s breath hitches in a way that worries Ilya until he says, in perfectly practiced Russian, “Take off your clothes.”

Ilya lets out a surprised, delighted laugh. “I thought we agreed you’re not supposed to look at screens.”

“We did,” Shane says, grumpy but not so much that Ilya can’t still hear his smile. “I can still listen, though.”

“Listen to what, hm? My clothes very softly hitting floor? Is that all?”

“You,” Shane says on a gasp, “telling me how you’re gonna—” He lets out a breathless sound the way he does when Ilya gropes his chest, and Ilya realises he’s already fallen behind. “—take care of me, Ilya.”

Chapter 6

When Ilya returns home after losing against fucking Scott Hunter’s Admirals and getting knocked from the playoffs, Shane is sitting at Ilya’s dining table, looking fucking delectable in his glasses and a fucking Raiders sweatshirt.

“You… What?”

Shane laughs at him. “Surprise.”

Ilya stumbles forward, and Shane pushes his chair back and makes it to his feet just in time for Ilya to—carefully and mindful of Shane’s just-healed collarbone—barrel into him and bury his face in Shane’s neck.

He squeezes Shane’s waist between his arms. “Hi.”

Shane laughs, bright and beautiful and here. “Hey,” he murmurs back.

Ilya breathes deeply, focusing on feeling Shane’s hands low on his hips, their bodies pressed against each other, and the soft, lingering kiss Shane presses to his temple.

Slowly, in reluctant increments, Ilya pulls back just far enough to take in Shane’s beautiful face and those fucking glasses. Ilya’s going to devour him. “I can’t believe you’re here,” he says wondrously, “You came for me?”

“Well, I haven’t come yet,” Shane quips shyly, “But maybe later.”

Ilya adores his beautiful, boring, predictable Shane, which makes it even more delightful when Shane manages to surprise him.

“For now, I thought we could, um… First date?”

And surprise him Shane continues to do.

More familiar, though, is the way he begins to fidget when Ilya takes too long to respond.

“Um,” Shane says, dropping his eyes and shifting half a step backwards, “unless…”

“No—Yes,” Ilya scrambles to say, grabbing handfuls of his sweatshirt at Shane’s waist to pull him back in, gratified when it gets Shane to look at him again, shy and hopeful. “Yes,” Ilya says again, and then he grins, softly teasing, and adds, “But you have to ask properly.”

“Rozanov,” Shane complains, gaze darting away.

Ilya is not above pouting adorably. “Please?”

Shane rolls his eyes. But then he looks at Ilya again, with his defiant brand of determination, and he takes off his glasses like he’s preparing for battle, folding them neatly and setting them on the table as far away as he can reach. Ilya mourns the loss until Shane sets his hands on Ilya’s shoulders and asks so very earnestly, “Will you please go on a date with me?”

“Fuck, Hollander, you are going to kill me.”

Shane bites down on his shy, pleased smile. “In a good way?”

“In best way,” Ilya murmurs, “Fucking kiss me already.”

Shane kisses him like he’s just as starved for it, his whole body relaxing when Ilya matches him, both of them leaning into an eager but unhurried kind of desperation that Ilya wants to live in permanently. It’s that slowness, though, that attentiveness, that means Ilya can’t hide the way he winces when Shane pulls at his hips to bring their bodies closer together.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Shane says, turning out of the kiss to rest his temple against Ilya’s. “How are your ribs?”

“Is fine,” Ilya mutters, angling his head to chase Shane’s mouth, “Come back.”

Shane indulges him for barely a few more seconds before pulling back to give him a flat look that says much more than it should be able to. “Try again.”

Ilya groans. “Ugh, fine, they’re fucking killing me.” He shows Shane his sincerest pout. “Probably you should kiss them better, yes?”

“I will. Later,” Shane says, running his hands up and down Ilya’s sides. “Did you take pain relief? Do you need ice?”

“Mm, I want kisses for pain relief, please.”

Shane tilts his head to kiss Ilya’s jaw. “You can have kisses and Tylenol, you know.”

“Kisses first,” Ilya mumbles against Shane’s mouth. “Please, Shane.”

He feels foolish for having even considered the odds that he’d survive not seeing Shane again until after the summer, and he can’t believe he’d ever thought he’d be able to keep his heart out of anything where Shane’s involved.

As he cradles Shane’s head and licks into his mouth, Ilya almost feels like crying from relief.

Shane’s hands eventually slip free from where they’ve been gripping Ilya’s hair, and with a final kiss to the corner of his mouth—and then another—he wraps Ilya in a hug and stays there.

And it’s nice, just as nice as the kisses were, to be held by Shane and to slowly slump into each other, their breaths evening out as Ilya finishes processing the inexplicable truth that Shane travelled all the way to Boston just to see him.

“Are you hungry?” Shane asks once the last of Ilya’s tension has loosened into something warm and gooey.

“For you? Always.”

“For food, asshole,” Shane says, and Ilya grins, risking a little nibble to the slope of Shane’s neck and earning himself a pleased hum as a reward.

“Still always,” Ilya says, “You know this.”

“Yeah, okay. Why don’t you go shower,” he says, making no move to put distance between them, “and I’ll order… What do you want?”

Ilya mouths wet kisses up Shane’s neck and murmurs by his ear, “I want you to join me in the shower so I can suck your dick.”

Shane lets himself be distracted by Ilya’s wandering mouth and hands for a few more minutes before finally pushing him away by his face when his hands start sneaking under clothes. “Later,” he promises.

When Ilya comes back from his shower, Shane’s sitting at the dining table again, socked feet pulled up onto the chair so he’s hugging his knees while he writes on something Ilya can’t see. Ilya shuffles up behind him and drapes his arms over Shane’s shoulders, groping his pec over the Boston Raiders logo he knows is there. Jesus.

And when he looks down at the table, he finds Shane writing carefully in a Russian Cyrillic handwriting workbook, practicing the alphabet over and over with varying degrees of neatness, with two more Russian language learning books sitting innocently off to the side.

“Oh, wow,” Ilya says thickly, “you’re really serious about this.” And, really, he probably should have expected that from Shane, but he hadn’t, and this is…

Shane tips his head back against Ilya’s belly and gives him a look that’s halfway between a pout and a smile. “It’s like kindergarten again, except now my brain’s fully developed and a lot more stubborn.”

“Eh, you’re doing pretty good so far. You want gold star?”

“No, but I’ll take a kiss instead.”

Ilya’s eyes flick to his mouth. He shifts forward automatically, but he doesn’t get far before he freezes, breath catching with the pain, and he sighs. “Stupid ribs,” he mutters, “Hold on.”

The plan is to sit beside him or something, but when Shane stands and turns to lift himself up onto the table instead, that’s even better. Ilya fits himself between Shane’s thighs and gets his hands under his ass to pull him even closer.

“The food will be here soon,” Shane says instead of claiming his kiss.

Ilya takes Shane’s jaw in one hand and kisses him, deep and hungry. “Want to eat you instead.”

Shane hands run up and down Ilya’s back and then cross over his waist to hold him close. “Someone’s needy tonight.”

I missed you, Ilya thinks, I love you.

“I—”

The doorbell rings, and Ilya lets out a breath so full of relief that Shane’s brows pull in and his lips part in surprise. Ilya gives him a weak smile and an awkward pat on the thigh and then goes to answer the door, taking a moment to shake himself out before he returns to the kitchen.

He places the paper takeout bag on the counter with much more care than necessary and glances over at Shane, who’s standing by the table looking like he’s trying to telepathically climb into Ilya’s brain.

“It’s too much?” Ilya asks quietly. I’m too much?

“What?” Shane says, “No.” He crosses the distance between them and slides a hand over the back of Ilya’s neck, his thumb nudging under his jaw to make Ilya look at him—a move he definitely stole from Ilya. Shane’s eyes even meet his briefly before they flutter closed and he leans in for a series of short, soft kisses that don’t give Ilya time to turn it into something that might make him feel less exposed.

Shane laughs when Ilya finally manages to slip him some tongue, and he goes lax and lets Ilya take control for a bit, before gently patting his hip and pulling away with a dazed little smile. “It wasn’t a complaint,” he says, and, like he’s shy to admit it, “I like you like this.”

Before he can talk himself out of it, Ilya asks, “Like what?”

“Like you want me as much as I want you.”

Ilya’s brows scrunch in. He’d thought that was obvious. He’d thought it had been obvious, for longer than Ilya wants to admit—for longer than Shane had wanted to hear.

Shane just wets his lips and presses a quick kiss to the corner of Ilya’s mouth. “Dinner?”

He takes over in the kitchen, and Ilya watches him plate their meals with the same concentration and care as when he prepares his gear for a game, which Ilya finally had the privilege of watching and lusting over at this year’s All-Stars game.

Ilya wonders if Shane will tease him for wanting to make the table pretty and light a few candles. Fuck, he wants to tease himself for that. He doesn’t know how to do this—doesn’t even know what this is, exactly. And then he abruptly wonders if this is how Shane felt when Ilya sprang the sleepover and tuna melts on him.

And then he remembers how he felt that day and he feels like his chest is about to hollow out all over again in a preemptive panic.

“Ilya?”

He feels Shane approach before careful, unsteady hands slide over his shoulders and apply a warm, calming pressure. Ilya takes a deep breath and lifts his head, but he keeps his eyes at the centre of Shane’s chest and no higher.

“You are not going to run away if I am secret romantic and want to make the table pretty for first date?”

“Oh,” Shane says softly, “Ilya, I don’t think that’s a secret anymore.”

Ilya huffs and shakes him off, ducking his head to hide his smile, but Shane catches him by the wrist and pulls him back in.

“I’m staying,” he says, “I want to be here, even if this is new and kind of scary. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Shane does his cute thinking face, and Ilya has to kiss him about it. And then Shane gently pushes him back and says, “You don’t believe me.”

“Not yet,” Ilya admits. “In my heart, yes,” he adds, “but not in my head. But I will try.”

“Good enough,” Shane concedes. He pats Ilya’s hip and steps away. “You set the table and I’ll finish sorting the food.”

“You are bossy tonight.”

“You like it.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, following Shane and pressing up against his back under the guise of reaching past him for glasses. “And I will fuck you about it later and you will like that.”

“We’ll see,” Shane says, his cheeks flushing and his lips twitching up into a smile, “after I check out your ribs.”

“Ugh, so boring, Hollander.”

Shane turns over his shoulder with a pointed look.

“Fine, fine,” Ilya says, and adds under his breath, “I will let you will play sexy nurse if that’s what you want.”

He doesn’t have much in the way of romantic first date supplies, but just a few small, intentional touches make all the difference: a chair moved to the head of the table so they can sit closer together, cloth placemats and napkins, a few tiny unscented candles, glasses for their sodas, and the lights dimmed with the fire going.

Ilya steps back and looks appraisingly at the setup, feeling a little stupid and stupidly happy at the same time.

Shane comes over with their plates and carefully sets them down, looking a touch overwhelmed. “Oh, hey, uh,” he says, “Give me a second.”

He skirts around Ilya and disappears down the hall toward the front of the house, but before Ilya has time to spiral, Shane comes back with a small bouquet of sunflowers—arranged neatly in a beer mug because Ilya doesn’t own a vase.

“I couldn’t be seen buying flowers in Boston, especially not with hockey fans everywhere tonight, but I had these delivered while you were out.” Shane offers him the flowers, watching intently as Ilya’s hands overlap with his—the way Ilya always orchestrates whenever he has an opportunity—as he carefully accepts the mug with both hands. “I know it’s cheesy, but we skipped all that stuff and, well, I have been saying I know you’re secretly all soft and romantic inside.”

“You got me flowers,” Ilya says faintly.

Shane fidgets, his hands twitching like he might snatch them back and pretend they didn’t exist. “Is it dumb?”

“No,” Ilya says, bringing them closer to his chest just in case. “It’s nice. I like them.”

Shane just looks at him, quiet and assessing, until all at once, a beautiful smile brightens his whole face. “Are you going to cry?”

“No,” Ilya says unconvincingly. “Maybe. No. I don’t know.”

Shane grins. “It’s okay if you do,” he says softly. And, like he knows Ilya needs the deflection, he adds, “I’ll even pretend not to see, if you’ll pretend not to laugh when I tell you I was supposed to get here yesterday but all the flights filled up after I panic-cancelled and rebooked three times ’cause I wasn’t sure if you’d want me here.”

Ilya laughs wetly and lets Shane see his tears before he slots their mouths together in a messy kiss. “I always want you here.”

It’s not until they’re cleaning up after dinner that Ilya thinks to ask how the fuck Shane got into his house. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, though, he remembers being all but shoved out of the locker room after the game and he mutters, “Fucking Marleau.”

“Yeah, I texted Cliff,” Shane says as he rearranges Ilya’s entire dishwasher, “He was very happy to help and he’s definitely going to chirp you about—”

“Cliff? You call him Cliff?”

“—finally having your first ever first date.” Shane snickers as Ilya’s mouth falls open. “He told me to call him that,” he admits when it becomes obvious Ilya doesn’t know where to start with getting Shane back for any of this, “He said it’d freak you out.”

“I hate you both,” Ilya grumbles, “Even his mother calls him Marly.”

“Well, I texted Marly and he gave me the door code that—”

“That he made me give him because he is ridiculous mother hen who said I cannot be trusted not to lie about bruised ribs versus broken ones,” he recites grouchily.

“You can’t. You shouldn’t have even been playing tonight.”

Ilya makes a face at him and kicks the dishwasher closed, pulling Shane into his arms. “So, you are the reason Marly told me to go home for nap because I am injured like old man?”

Shane grins. “No, he probably said that ’cause it’s true,” he quips. Then he adopts a far too innocent expression that’s completely overridden by his mischievous eyes and asks, “Why? You don’t like your surprise?”

“I—” love my surprise. “—am very happy to have you here,” Ilya says, reaching down to grab Shane’s ass. He tilts his head. “But what if we won tonight and I had you right here and couldn’t even fuck you until after I won the Cup?”

“You probably can’t fuck me anyway, with your ribs,” Shane says, pressing his hands to Ilya’s sides, well below where it hurts. “But I thought you don’t give up sex for the playoffs.” He makes a thoughtful face and adds, “I guess in that case, though, we’d… cuddle? I liked that. In Tampa? It was nice.”

“Cuddle,” Ilya echoes, following in a hurry when Shane grins and starts walking backwards down the hall, hopefully toward a soft horizontal surface—but, really, Ilya isn’t too picky.

“But now we can fuck and cuddle, I guess.” Shane’s blush ruins his attempt at casual but Ilya doesn’t have time to tease him before he adds pointedly, “But we’re going to be careful of your ribs or else you’re not touching me all week.”

“All week?” Ilya asks, perking up hopefully, “How long can you stay?”

“Unless you have plans, ten days. Until the day after your birthday,” Shane says, “Then I’ve got my last doctor’s appointment and you’re going to Vegas after that anyway, right?”

“Yes, probably,” Ilya says, and then murmurs in quiet disbelief, “Ten whole days?”

“Ten whole days,” Shane confirms. “We’ll talk more later, okay? For now, I just want to—”

“Fuck for ten days straight?” Ilya freezes in the bedroom doorway, accidentally letting Shane slip through his arms. “Did you make my bed?”

Shane sighs, eyes crinkled in amusement. “Do you want to talk about my compulsive neatness and panic-cleaning or do you want me to suck your dick?”

Ilya shrugs. “Can do both at same time,” he says, idly palming his dick through his sweats. Shane’s eyes drop there immediately.

“You’re the worst.”

“And you are too far away,” Ilya says, advancing on him until he hits the bed.

“Wait,” Shane says before Ilya can kiss him, “Let me look at your ribs before you distract me.”

“Oh my god,” Ilya mutters, but he shuts his mouth when a look from Shane reminds him of the threat of no sex.

Shane carefully lifts the hem of Ilya’s muscle tee—the one he’d only put on at all to delay exactly this—and Shane sucks in a sharp breath. He gives up the pretence of casualness, quickly but gently pushing the shirt up and helping Ilya lift it over his head.

“Did you take something for the pain? I should’ve asked again before.”

Ilya kisses him, just a quick, gentle reassurance. “I did. It’s okay. It looks scarier than it feels.”

Shane’s hands hover awkwardly at Ilya’s sides, so Ilya learns forward until cool fingertips graze the bruises and Shane carefully flattens his palms over Ilya’s ribs. “Would you tell me if it was bad? If it gets worse?”

“I, um…” He winces. “Maybe? I don’t know.”

Shane has said that he likes to take care of Ilya and that it makes Shane feel good to do that for him, and while Ilya always wants Shane to feel good, he just… doesn’t know how to do this without the post-sex haze to explain away the vulnerability. Even with that excuse, he barely knows how to let someone take care of him, even when it’s Shane, who has always treated it like a privilege without making it a big deal and without ever making Ilya feel badly for it.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Ilya admits quietly. “I will try, okay?” He waits for Shane’s tentative little nod of agreement and then kisses him, slowly but greedily taking the control that Shane relinquishes to him.

He takes the lead in a way that settles them both, and he knows he’s guessed right about the kind of sex Shane wants tonight when he goes quiet and sinks to his knees the way Ilya has come to expect after Shane’s had an overwhelming day.

Also usual is the way Ilya knows he won’t last long if Shane keeps going like this.

“Come here. Swap,” Ilya urges, pulling Shane to his feet and into a hurried kiss before he starts shoving at both of their clothes. He desperately wants to get his mouth on Shane, but he can’t imagine his ribs allowing him to do it lying on the bed. “If you want my mouth tonight, has to be like this,” he says, kissing his way down Shane’s body as he sinks to his knees.

He looks up at Shane’s flushed face, winks, and takes him in his mouth.

“Fuck, Rozanov.” And wow, he’s definitely been practicing moaning Ilya’s name correctly.  

Ilya knows that as soon as he lies down, his body will betray him and give up on moving for a while, and in the haze of a fast but mind-melting orgasm, that’s exactly what happens.

Shane helps Ilya to his feet and gets him laid out and propped up on pillows, and then he straddles Ilya’s thighs, searching his face as he slowly rests more of his weight on him, not fully relaxing until Ilya grips his hips and makes him.

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane huffs, bracing a hand on the headboard. “You’re okay?”

“Hollander,” Ilya warns. And then, softer, he says, “Shane. Please. I trust you to tell me if something doesn’t feel good, and I need you to trust me too.” He presses his fingers into Shane’s hips, firm but not bruising. “Okay? If you ask me one more time if I’m okay, I am going to go jerk off in the shower by myself.”

Shane whines and leans down to kiss him like it’s an apology. And Ilya doesn’t think he could come again just yet, but he’s not about to complain when Shane moves down the bed until he’s nestled between Ilya’s thighs.

There’s a few chaste kisses pressed across the cut of Ilya’s hip, and then Shane just… looks at him, his gaze fluttering over Ilya’s chest and down to his hips and the tops of his thighs and then back up again. And Ilya knows Shane likes to look at him beyond a general appreciation, that something about the actual looking and the familiarity of Ilya’s body calms him, but this is…

“If there is a spider, you have to tell me.”

Shane startles. “What? Where?” He shakes his head. “No, I just…”

“Okay,” Ilya says softly, “You know I don’t mind that you like to look. Take your time.” He splays his hand over Shane’s where he’s been idly palming Ilya’s pec and waits, watching as Shane thinks and then comes to a decision with the same intensity he brings to face-offs.

“I’ve never given anyone a hickey before,” he says.

Ilya freezes as he processes this, and then he feels his face light up in a delighted, ridiculously sappy grin. “I knew you were a possessive little minx,” he teases victoriously, even if that was a bet he’d only made in his own head. He stretches out and puts his hands behind his head, watching gleefully as the movement draws Shane’s eyes to his biceps. “Please, practice on me all you like.”

“Okay, who the fuck taught you that word,” Shane says, face scrunching unhappily.

“Hm? What word?”

“You know what word, asshole.”

“What, minx? I learned it just for you.”

“Well, unlearn it unless you want to never fuck me again.”

“What, you can learn Russian but I can’t learn new English words to describe—”

Shane presses two fingers between Ilya’s lips, and Ilya sucks them in greedily, pleased by Shane’s boldness and the knowledge that Shane can see in Ilya’s eyes that he’s still smiling. Shane’s mouth twitches into his own helpless, exasperated smile, and he just shakes his head and turns his attention to sucking hickeys all across Ilya’s hips, chest, and inner thighs.

Ilya, sprawled out under Shane and exhausted in all the best ways, lifts his head just enough to lick the drop of sweat sliding down Shane’s armpit.

“You’re so gross,” Shane says, but he’s laughing and angling in for a kiss anyway, still pliant and soft and looking at Ilya like he’s something special.

“You love it,” Ilya says against his mouth, and Shane hums happily into the kiss.

Eventually, Shane flops onto the bed beside him in a motion so controlled that Ilya isn’t jostled at all, which is much more coordination than he normally has so soon after an orgasm—and a second one at that. “I really wouldn’t have minded just kissing and sleeping next to you,” Shane says, breathless and sleepy, “but I am suddenly very glad that you got knocked from the playoffs tonight.”

“Hey, rude,” Ilya complains, swatting Shane’s flank.

“So, wait, did you actually give up sex? We’ve met up during the playoffs before, right?”

“I did this season,” Ilya tells him, “but it was… not really on purpose.”

“Oh?”

Ilya turns to look at him. “I thought I wasn’t going to see you.”

Shane’s face scrunches like Ilya’s turned his whole worldview on its head. “But you… We’re not… What?”

Ilya presses his lips together and takes a deep breath that Shane follows down Ilya’s chest with his eyes.

“Sorry,” Shane says quickly, “You don’t have to, like, explain yourself, or anything.”

“I haven’t been with anyone else since the summer,” Ilya says.

“The summer,” Shane repeats. “As in last summer? Almost a year ago?”

“Mm.”

Shane’s face is showing something like quiet astonishment at the same time that he looks ridiculously smug. “Really?”

Ilya shrugs one shoulder. “I only want you,” he says quietly.

Shane’s eyes go soft and glassy. He wets his lips, clears his throat and deflects thickly, “Okay, suddenly I’m really fucking annoyed that you’re injured and can’t fuck me like you mean it.”

Ilya snorts. “What, you weren’t annoyed already? You don’t care I’m hurt?” he teases, “Wow, you really know how to make a guy feel special.” He laughs to himself and says, still grinning, “You sure were really annoying about being so careful with me.”

“The sooner you recover,” Shane says grudgingly, “the sooner we can have that ten-day sex marathon you were talking about.”

“Fuck, come here.”

After a sleepy shower together, Shane makes Ilya tell him where the fresh sheets are kept and kicks him out of the bedroom because There’s no way you’re touching a fitted sheet after playing a game and then having sex with bruised fucking ribs, Rozanov.

So Ilya stands in the doorway and watches Shane—in just his underwear and one of Ilya’s t-shirts—start making the bed like it’s theirs and they’re…

“You want ice cream?”

“What?”

“I want ice cream in bed after good sex,” Ilya says, bundling up the dirty sheets to take to the laundry while he’s at it. “You want rocky road or mint chip or vanilla?”

“Why do you have so much ice cream?” Shane mutters, and he straightens up and looks dejectedly down at the clean sheets. “In bed?”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “I will be careful. You want?”

Shane hesitates but ultimately shakes his head. It’s a little disheartening, but tonight was probably already enough of a deviation from Shane’s routine, so Ilya doesn’t push it.

Still, he chooses vanilla and piles a bit more into his bowl than he usually would, just in case. If Shane really doesn’t want any, Ilya will happily eat it all.

He turns off the lights along the way before doubling back to grab an ice pack because he wants Shane to be proud of him for taking care of himself, and then he eases himself into bed, sitting up against the pillows Shane’s thoughtfully arranged for him.

He puts the cold bowl on Shane’s stomach where his shirt has ridden up just to be an asshole.

“Hey,” Shane complains, squirming away sleepily.

“Ah, don’t make a mess, Hollander,” Ilya scolds teasingly, rescuing his ice cream before the bowl topples over.

Shane still curls into Ilya’s side, and when Ilya offers him the spoon, he hesitates but takes it and scoops up a small spoonful for himself.

Ilya can’t help the way his brows lift in surprise, but he quickly fixes his face when Shane shoots him a pleading look that says something akin to don’t touch me don’t talk to me don’t look at me.

And then Shane makes quick work of distracting him by licking the spoon clean while looking right into his eyes.

“Hollander,” Ilya says weakly.

“Hm?” He glances down the length of Ilya’s body. “Really? Just from that?”

“You are in my bed half-naked, in my shirt, and doing sexy things with your tongue,” Ilya says, “I think you can forgive my dick for being interested, no?”

Shane grins and hands the spoon back, and he lets Ilya nudge him into accepting a few more spoonfuls between Ilya’s before he wriggles further down the bed and closes his eyes.

But when Ilya sets the empty bowl aside and tries to cuddle up to him and maybe warm up his cold tongue in Shane’s mouth, Shane pushes him away.

“You have to rinse your bowl.”

“What?”

“If you don’t rinse your bowl, I’ll be thinking about it all night and I won’t be able to sleep.”

“Oh my god,” Ilya murmurs wondrously, adoringly, “Why are you like this.”

“Ask my mother,” Shane mumbles into the sheets, “She’s even worse than me.”

Ilya gets distracted thinking about ever being allowed to meet Shane’s mother, and when he finally refocuses with the intention of bartering for a reward, he realises Shane’s already drifted off without even a goodnight kiss.

(He still gets up and rinses his bowl, because Shane asked him to.)

Chapter 7

Ilya is awoken early by a renewed pain in his ribs and an accompanying ache through his muscles that hadn’t been there last night. His breath catches as he manoeuvres awkwardly until he’s mostly upright against the headboard, and he concedes that maybe Shane was right about taking it easy.

“Ilya?”

“No, you are dreaming,” he whispers, reaching over to pet Shane’s hair reassuringly, “Is okay. Go back to boring dreams about real estate and losing at hockey.”

Shane’s eyes flutter open and he grumbles, “How are you still an asshole at—fuck, what time is it, even?”

“Is a talent,” Ilya informs him flippantly, “You would not understand.”

Shane tsks and bats weakly at Ilya’s arm, leaning over to see when Ilya checks his phone for the time. Shane blinks hard a few times. “I slept in,” he says blankly.  

Ilya turns to him incredulously. “It’s fucking six a.m., you crazy person.”

Shane looks up at him, seeming a little lost and a lot overwhelmed.

Ilya softens and he returns his hand to the back of Shane’s head, hoping the firm, familiar touch will help ground him. “I am only up to get pills and ice pack, and then I am coming back to lay on top of you and sleep for a few more hours. Yes?”

Shane hesitates.

So Ilya leans down and kisses him, confident and insistent and a little like he’s trying to crawl into Shane’s mouth because maybe he is. It’s deep and messy and so comfortable, so familiar, that Ilya suddenly feels like crying.

He nips at Shane’s bottom lip before pulling away with a firm pat to Shane’s chest. “Okay,” he says decisively, “You stay here.”

“You can’t just—”

Ilya gives him another smooch, less sexy and more obnoxious. “Yes I can.”

Shane sits up and swings a leg over Ilya’s lap to sit delicately on his thighs, looking far too awake and alert despite still being so soft with sleep. “Tell me why I’m not allowed out of bed.”

“I…” He hangs his head and idly smooths his hands up Shane’s thighs and around his hips. Ilya’s half-asleep still, and hurting, and holding Shane in his arms, and he doesn’t think he can make a joke here or make it about sex like he normally would; he’s just… “I am so tired of being apart from you.”

Warm, steady hands come up to cradle Ilya’s face and guide him to look at Shane, but it’s too much for him, too vulnerable, and he drops his forehead onto Shane’s shoulder to hide.

Shane lets him, hands falling to grasp gently at Ilya’s hair instead. “Me too,” he says, and he holds Ilya for a little longer, warm and solid and safe.

“If you want to get up now, I will stay up with you,” Ilya says eventually. He tilts his head and mouths at Shane’s nipple through his shirt just because it’s right there. “Maybe we can nap together later?”

“That sounds nice,” Shane says, “Even if you still snore.”

Ilya tuts petulantly, lifting his head to make sure Shane sees his pout. “You are so mean to me.”

“Uh-huh,” Shane murmurs, leaning down to slot their mouths together.

It’s a good kiss, all lazy desire and affection. And if Ilya wasn’t hurt—and if Shane wasn’t pretending not to have taken his sling off a week early—he’d be flipping them over and pressing Shane into the mattress. But as it is, his ribs are twinging and becoming very hard to ignore, even with the dizzying distraction of Shane in his lap.

Ilya snickers against Shane’s mouth and murmurs, “Your breath is so bad.”

“Ugh,” Shane says, pulling away to hide his face in his hands, ignoring Ilya’s dismayed whine. “Don’t fucking remind me. I didn’t even brush my teeth last night ’cause you made me eat ice cream in bed.”

Ilya laughs softly and teases, “Yes, and then you fell asleep like little baby in middle of conversation.”

Shane peeks up at him, looking devastated. “Did I really?”

Ilya shakes his head, smiling softly, and says, “Only a little. It’s okay.” He presses his hands up and down Shane’s back and sneaks another quick kiss. “I know you had big day with airport and flight and then first date with sexy man and good sex with sexy man and—”

“Go fuck yourself, Rozanov.”

Ilya smirks and rolls his hips up, but he immediately regrets it. “Ow,” he complains weakly, “Fuck.”

“Ilya, fuck—Be careful, you asshole.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, trying to decide whether it’s better to breathe through the pain or stop breathing so the movement can’t twinge his ribs.

“Are you okay?”

He groans and tips his head back against the headboard. “I think it would hurt less if we cut open my chest and just took my fucking ribs out.”

“If they’re just bruised, it’s not your actual ribs that are the problem,” Shane tells him. “Are you sure they’re not broken?”

Ilya cracks his eyes open and admits, “I know. I’m just being dramatic. Sorry.”

“Oh.” Shane deflates a little, and he rolls his eyes even as his mouth curves into a reluctant smile. “God, you’re so annoying. Last night you were insisting you were fine and now you’re freaking me out on purpose.”

“Made you smile, though,” Ilya tries sheepishly. “It’s okay. I’m okay. You know ribs sometimes get worse before they get better.”

Shane takes a slow, intentional breath and releases it. “Okay. You’re gonna stay right here,” he decides, “and I’m gonna get you meds and an ice pack, and then we’ll make out until the meds kick in and we’ll go from there, okay?”

“You are so sexy when you have a plan,” Ilya growls.

Shane tilts his head. “Only when I have a plan?”

“Oh, but you always have a plan, no?” Ilya lifts his chin and leans in a bit, and Shane meets him a kiss so automatically that Ilya ends up ruining it by smiling widely into Shane’s mouth.

Shane ducks his head and grins as he takes the opportunity to climb off Ilya’s lap, careful and steady, and Ilya closes his eyes to mitigate the loss—until Shane scares the shit out of him by pressing an ice pack to his ribs when he comes back.

He snickers and dodges when Ilya makes a grab for him, but he returns soon enough, frowning at the Tylenol in his hand as he crosses back from the bathroom. “Did they give you anything stronger than this?”

Ilya shakes his head. “No, I don’t like them,” he says shortly, and when Shane goes still for a second, Ilya knows he’s received the wordless plea not to push. “I’ll be okay. I have sexy nurse to keep me in bed and make sure I ice them and do stupid breathing exercises.”

Shane sits carefully by Ilya’s hip and hands him the pills, and, instead of rising to any of that bait, he says, “Thank you for telling me that you’re hurting and letting me help.”

“Ugh,” Ilya whines, “Don’t point it out.”

“What, you don’t like being good for me?”

Ilya’s eyes widen. Good for him, he repeats in his head. “I am good for you?”

Shane’s smile turns a little sad. “Always,” he says, before he makes good on his promise and kisses Ilya into the pillows.

But when the meds start to kick in, Ilya’s attempts at getting handsy are met with Shane pulling away. Ilya’s face must do something pathetic, because Shane presses a sweet, reassuring kiss to his cheekbone.

“My routine’s already a mess,” Shane explains ruefully. “Can I use your gym?”

Ilya raises his eyebrows. “You want to work out now? At six a.m. on off day in house of sexy man who you would much rather kiss all day?”

“I think it’s closer to seven now,” Shane muses. He grins and offers, “I’ll let you watch.”

Ilya considers this. “No shirt?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “How about I let you peel me out of my sweaty clothes after?”

“Okay, yes please, right now,” Ilya says, pushing at Shane’s shoulders until he laughs and gets to his feet.

Right now, though, they’re leaning against opposite counters in the kitchen while Shane drinks his protein shake and Ilya waits impatiently for the coffee to brew.

Ilya stretches his leg out to poke Shane’s shin with his toes. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Shane says warily.

“You don’t have to ask to use my gym, or use my protein powder, or wear my clothes, or anything. Okay?”

“Oh. Okay,” Shane says, wide-eyed and awed, as if he didn’t invite himself to stay in Ilya’s house for a week, and as if Ilya would ever not want him to feel completely at home here. “Sorry.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Shut up,” he says fondly, and he crosses the space between them to box Shane in between his arms.

Shane sinks down against the counter a little further and looks up through his lashes. “Are you gonna make me?”

“You are doing this on purpose,” Ilya accuses.

His mouth twitches even as he says flatly, “Oh no, you caught me.” He tips his chin up like it’s a challenge. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Ilya leans in, but just before their lips meet, he instead turns to nose against Shane’s jaw and up to his ear to murmur, “Make you wait.”

Shane hums noncommittally, and he tilts his head to make room for Ilya’s teasing exploration.

And he waits, grinning like he knows Ilya won’t be able to help himself for long. Shane’s always been the better of the two of them at denying himself what he wants, and they’ve learned that he is not above using that sad fact to his advantage against Ilya.

Eventually—far sooner than he will ever admit—Ilya caves and kisses him, because he wants to and because he finally can, without it needing to be a precursor to sex or a goodbye.

Shane’s quiet little moan gets swallowed up greedily, and just as Ilya’s debating the pros and cons of sinking to his knees right here on the kitchen tiles, Shane smiles into the kiss, slips out from the cage of Ilya’s arms, and goes to rinse his glass like he wasn’t just putty in Ilya’s hands half a second ago.

At least Ilya gets to check out his ass while he bends to fuss with the dishwasher.

On the counter, Ilya’s phone buzzes with a text he’s been waiting for, and when he sighs and looks away from Shane to check it, there are also far too many messages from Svetlana and Marleau and a few of the Raiders for seven in the morning.

“Ugh,” Ilya says when Shane asks what his frown is for, “I need to tell Marly and Sveta I am still alive and make sure I have no plans that involve clothes or other people this week.” He presses a wet smooch to the corner of Shane’s mouth. “Go start your boring workout. I will come in a minute.”

“Wow, that’s fast, even for you,” Shane says absently, smiling proudly when Ilya snorts. He looks down at the sweatpants Ilya’s wearing like it proves a counterargument he hasn’t made yet, except his eyes snag on the hickeys he left all across Ilya’s hips. Shane flushes and licks his lips. “I can wait for you,” he offers.

“No, it’s okay. Go, go, I want to watch your ass while you walk away.”

He watches intently while Shane indulgently rolls his eyes and walks away, and then he quickly replies to his texts, downs his first coffee and refills his mug, and follows Shane to the home gym.

He stops in the doorway and stares.

Shane has changed into tiny shorts that show off his thighs, which is an extra glorious sight given that he’s been focusing more on lower body workouts while his collarbone heals. He is, regrettably, wearing a shirt, but it’s at least a muscle tee that shows off his biceps. His cute little concentrating face as he carefully stretches his shoulders is a very lovely bonus.

“You are so beautiful,” Ilya murmurs before he can talk himself out of it.

Shane looks over in surprise, his nose scrunching.

Ilya shushes him before he can even try to deny it or deflect. “Ignore me,” he says, pushing off the doorframe with a quiet grunt, “I am just here for the show.” He sets his coffee down on the edge of the gym mat, ignoring Shane’s disapproving look, and eases himself down onto the floor.

He half-heartedly does his own light stretches just to warm up and loosen his muscles, but mostly he watches Shane stretch and work out, enjoying the exasperated, flustered looks Shane throws him every time he looks over and finds Ilya still looking—as if Ilya would be doing anything else.

When Shane turns his attention to the dumbbells, Ilya reclines against the plyo box behind him and settles in for the real show until Shane’s cute thinking face turns into a frown.

“Please don’t make your angry kitten face at me for saying this, but there are smaller weights in the garage,” he says, and he grins when Shane turns to scowl at him. “Fucking adorable,” Ilya says reverently, “Thank you.”

“Fuck you.”

“You are still healing, yes? I cannot even get out of bed without groaning like old man; I think your pride can handle me drooling over you lifting teeny tiny weights instead of whatever you normally lift.”

Shane shoots him a half-hearted glare. “Is this supposed to be encouraging?”

Ilya presses his lips together. “Sorry,” he says, and he reluctantly gestures toward the door. “Do you want me to…”

“No. No. Just… please stop talking for a minute. I’m already frustrated that I can’t—I just feel like—” He shakes his head, takes a deep breath, and says more calmly, “I’m sorry. I’m just frustrated. I want you to stay, and I like when you talk to me. Just… about literally anything else right now.”

Ilya nods, but he falters on what to say that won’t ruin things again. Shane doesn’t seem to mind the quiet, though, as he refocuses and pivots to a bodyweight workout instead. Later, Ilya will move some of the smaller weights inside when Shane’s not looking, and maybe the next time Shane gets up at the crack of dawn to work out, Ilya will stay in bed so Shane can make his frustrated kitten face in peace.

“You know…” Ilya drawls when Shane’s resting between sets of banded squats aimed deliciously in Ilya’s direction. He takes a sip of his coffee, grinning when Shane glares impatiently. “…you blush every time you look at the pretty marks you left all over me.”

Shane blushes. His hands twitch against his thighs, but he doesn’t bother trying to hide his face, probably only because he knows Ilya would just crawl over to him and pin his hands to the mat, ribs be damned. Although, his ribs do feel better now that he’s up, stretched, and medicated. Maybe he could…

“Don’t even think about it.”

Ilya blows a raspberry. “Maybe I was thinking about finally getting to wrestle and see who would win.”

“I think that’s worse,” Shane says flatly, “We can at least have sex without you moving too much, but I am not proving I can fight when you have bruised fucking ribs.”

Ilya perks up and says, “We can fuck? Wow, you changed your mind quick.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Way to miss the point.” He stands up and adjusts his shorts so they ride up a little higher.

“Tease,” Ilya accuses.

“Desperate,” Shane shoots back, turning around and planting his feet.

“Yes,” Ilya says, tracking him keenly.

After he’s watched Shane get himself all nice and sweaty on the stationary bike, Ilya beckons him across the room until Shane’s standing over him, close enough that Ilya can lick the sweat behind Shane’s knee without having to move.

Shane’s face scrunches in equal parts disgust and amusement. “Shower?”

“No, I think I am stuck down here forever.”

“I could help you up,” Shane says, “Might even blow you in the shower.”

Ilya cracks his eyes open, and Shane laughs at him.

“No, you go,” Ilya says regretfully, shifting his hips and watching Shane’s eyes slide down his body. “It doesn’t hurt so much if I stay exactly like this. I am scared to move.”

Shane frowns. “Oh.” He turns on his heel and walks out of the room without a word, and Ilya realises that he might have to talk to him about please not doing that anymore if he doesn’t want Ilya’s heart to break every time. One day. Not today.

Shane comes back, though, as he always has, and he presses an ice pack against Ilya’s ribs and swaps his coffee mug for a glass of water—completely unfair since Ilya can’t even move to defend himself against the theft.

“Hey,” Ilya complains weakly, but he dutifully drains the glass of water before setting the empty glass aside pointedly. His coffee has long gone cold now, but Ilya’s stubborn, and he wants what’s his after doing what Shane wanted without even being asked.

Shane sighs like he knows exactly what Ilya’s thinking, but instead of indulging Ilya’s silent request for his coffee back, he lowers to his knees either side of Ilya’s thighs and kisses him.

And, yeah, this is a much better idea, Ilya decides, and he gets to strip Shane out of his sweaty shirt and feel him up until eventually Ilya is distracted enough to let himself be pulled to his feet and lured into the shower.

After they trade lazy handjobs and get clean, they steal t-shirts and sweatshirts from each other without addressing it beyond giddy smiles and some very enthusiastic kisses, before Shane seems to falter on what comes next.

Ilya nudges him out of the bedroom and toward the couch. “Sit, relax,” he says when Shane continues to hesitate, “You want coffee now?”

“Not the way you drink it.”

“You know how I like my coffee? I told you you are obsessed with me.”

Shane shoots him a look. “Says you.”

“Yes, yes, I am obsessed with you also,” Ilya says, and he crowds into Shane’s space, grabbing his hips to hold him close. “Is how I know you drink your coffee black and boring and sad.”

“It’s not sad! We both buy good coffee,” Shane protests, “That’s how you’re supposed to drink it. You just ruin it with sugar.”

“I will ruin you with sugar,” Ilya says against Shane’s jaw.

“That makes no sense.”

Ilya hums and walks Shane backwards until he rolls his eyes and slumps onto the couch with a pout that Ilya just has to lean over and kiss.

He goes to make more coffee, and when he comes back to the living room, Shane is chewing on his bottom lip and fidgeting with the drawstring of his sweatpants, gaze a little vacant.

Ilya sets their mugs down on the coffee table and sprawls carefully on the couch, laying his head on Shane’s thigh. “There is no food in whole kitchen,” he laments, and he hands his phone up to Shane. “Order breakfast from somewhere you will like; I will eat anything. We write grocery list later.”

Shane tenses a little, but he relaxes when Ilya just turns his face into Shane’s stomach and doesn’t linger on the conversation, falling easily into a light sleep.

“This is weird,” Shane says suddenly.

“Hm?” Ilya’s breath surges as he emerges from his doze, and he nudges his face under Shane’s shirt to kiss the warm skin of his belly. “Yes, a little. And?”

“And I feel like I’m… waiting for something to happen. Like as soon as I relax, everything’s gonna go wrong or I’m gonna freak out again or—or hurt you or—”

Ilya reaches up to grip Shane’s chin, cutting him off and making him look down at Ilya’s face. “Want me to suck your dick for distraction?”

Shane’s torso tightens and he inhales like he’s gearing up to continue, but then his fingers land in Ilya’s hair and his whole body relaxes, and he says, “Yeah, okay.”

Ilya wakes from their afternoon nap alone, and when he manages to drag himself out of bed in search of Shane, he finds him sitting on the floor between the couch and coffee table with his Russian workbooks spread out in front of him.

Shane glances up at him and does a double take. “You look terrible,” he says. “Did you… not sleep okay?”

Ilya’s face scrunches in a petulant frown.

“Okay, why don’t you come sit,” Shane suggests warily, pushing himself to his feet, “Do you need more—”

Ilya shuffles over, nudges Shane down onto the couch and crawls on top of him.

Shane seems thrown by the diversion, but his hands start stroking Ilya’s back like it’s automatic. Ilya thanks him by pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw with a happy little sigh that brushes Shane’s neck and makes him shiver.

“You miss me or something?” Shane murmurs.

Ilya nods against his pec.

“Okay,” he says quietly, and he pushes one hand up into Ilya’s hair. “I got you.” After a little while longer, once Ilya’s feeling settled, Shane tugs gently at Ilya’s hair and asks, “Are you stuck?”

Ilya smiles sheepishly and nods against Shane’s chest again.

It’s awkward as hell and they end up in many fun positions that they don’t do anything about, but they manage to get Ilya flipped over and mostly upright with only a few stray limbs landing in unfortunate places.

“Fuck, you’re heavy,” Shane says, breathing a little harder and patting Ilya’s chest once he’s reclined comfortably against the cushions.

“You like it,” Ilya mumbles, even more out of breath than Shane.

“Yeah. I do,” Shane concedes. “But you’re lucky I decided years ago to set your body weight as most of my weight training goals for a completely normal and innocent reason.”

“You what?”

Shane grins and smacks Ilya’s chest again. “I’ll go make your coffee.”

“You what? Shane—” He groans and drops his head back when Shane dodges out of his reach and heads down the hall without explaining himself.

Ilya doesn’t bother to wonder how Shane knows that he drinks coffee at all hours of the day, just like Shane didn’t ask how Ilya knows that he has exactly one cup of black coffee a day, at no later than nine in the morning.

Shane comes back with two mugs, sits on the couch to kiss Ilya silly, and then slides back onto the floor and goes back to his books.

“Hey, come back here.”

“A good study routine is important,” Shane tells him, “I’ve gotta do fifteen more minutes to make up for this morning.”

Ilya complains about it but joins him on the floor, sitting sideways and bending his legs over Shane’s lap, and he alternates between carefully keeping out of the way and purposely making a minor nuisance of himself. It’s not like Shane is complaining either way; his free hand has even drifted up to play with Ilya’s hair, which feels like a reward more than anything else.

Once Shane’s taken a sip of his tea and proven it to be at a drinkable temperature, Ilya steals the cup, sniffs it, and then takes a cautious sip himself.

Shane makes a face, still looking down at his books, so Ilya leans forward, grabs his chin, and licks into his mouth to remind him that they’ve shared more than a little saliva for years now.

Shane concedes sheepishly before pushing Ilya away by his face and stealing his tea back. “Ten more minutes,” he says, “and then you can have your way with me.”

As he watches Shane practice writing simple Russian words in Cyrillic, Ilya wonders whether knowing a second writing system makes it easier or harder to learn a third. Ilya still sometimes struggles with reading in English, and his handwriting is kind of terrible, but Shane knows at least English and French and he seems to be coping decently with Russian and the Cyrillic alphabet so far.

“Do you know any Japanese?” he asks quietly, and when Shane’s hands both stop moving, Ilya murmurs a quiet apology for interrupting, even if it’s been almost twenty minutes and Ilya is getting needy.

Shane puts his pen down and twists to look at Ilya better. “It’s okay. Um. Not really. Only the most useful stuff,” he says, before adding quickly, “The basics, like food and my name is, not whatever sex-fiend shit you’re thinking of.”

It’s not where Ilya’s mind had gone, but it’s still nice that Shane knows him so well—even if he does turn his head to make sure that Ilya can see him roll his eyes.

“But you want to know more?” Ilya guesses. “You are good with languages. English and French, yes? And I hear you talk hockey, at least, with the Swedish guys on your team, and a little with some other guys in other languages.”

Shane blinks at him like he’s surprised Ilya noticed that, and then he just shrugs one shoulder. “I dunno. I’d never have anyone to practice Japanese with,” he says, “My mom’s lost a lot but she’s still conversational, I guess, and my dad learned a bit to impress my mom but…”

Ilya waits for him to continue, but when his gaze skitters away and he shifts uncomfortably, Ilya gives Shane an out. “Oh, so that’s genetic too? Learning third language to impress pretty people?”

“Shut up. Do you even know what my mom looks like?”

“She’s your mama so she looks like you, no?” He kisses the side of Shane’s face. “Also, you have pictures in your house.”

“You look at those?”

Ilya draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I stayed there when you were in hospital and I couldn’t sleep,” he says, “You are pretty like your mom and you got your cute half-smile from your dad. They look like they love you a lot.” He sniffs. “I also found your notebook full of lists,” he teases, “Boring pros and cons for new vacuum cleaner, and ideas for birthday gifts for all nineteen Pikes, and long list of new sex toys you want, yes?”

“There’s not—” Shane rolls his eyes. He must not have found Ilya’s addition yet. “I didn’t go snooping when I was alone in your house.”

“Yes, because you are nice, boring Canadian, but I want more things to tease you about.” He cuts his eyes away, then looks back at Shane even though it makes him feel wildly exposed. “I want to know everything about you,” he says quietly, and when Shane takes longer than half a second to respond, he rushes to add, “But I didn’t really, uh… go looking too much. Just what was—” He waves a hand at his own impersonal knick-knacks and art.

“In plain sight?” Shane says, and Ilya nods against the hand still in his hair. “Really? ’Cause when I went home, someone had eaten all the good snacks that I hid at the back of the pantry.”

Surely the kitchen doesn’t count as snooping—it’s not like Shane keeps lube and condoms in every room of the house like Ilya has at times, even though Shane has far fewer guests over and could get away with it. The most intimate things he’d found in Shane’s kitchen were the cokes in the fridge and the good Russian vodka in the freezer.

“I was stress-eating,” Ilya mutters petulantly. “You were dying in hospital bed.”

“I wasn’t dying,” Shane says for the nth time. Then he grins. “You’re lucky I bought those for you, asshole.”

“You did?”

“Yeah.” His eyes flick to Ilya’s and away again. “You know, I was gonna ask you something after the game that night.”

“Yes, you still look pretty in hospital gown,” Ilya says dutifully, not even needing to lie.

Shane rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling in that bashful, pleased way of his. “You know I mean before all that,” he says, “I had this whole plan, but then—”

“Yes, I remember,” Ilya says quickly. “You don’t need to remind me.”

Shane’s smile turns a little sad and he tugs at Ilya’s hair reassuringly. “I thought about it a lot when you came to visit me in the hospital, but you were already overwhelmed with me being hurt and meeting our friends, and I didn’t wanna ask like that. So I started planning this trip instead.”

“Oh.” Jesus, he’d been planning this the whole time that Ilya was agonising over whether it was too forward or needy to ask when they were seeing each other again. “Should I be scared?”

“I’m kind of scared,” Shane says quietly, “But I think it’ll be a good thing.”

Ilya searches his face, wary and worried, but he trusts Shane, and he’s not about to stop now.

And Shane, who’s been studying Ilya’s expression in return, must see this, because he too relaxes a little, instead gaining that sexy determined edge that always promises good things. “Would you maybe want… Will you come to my cottage this summer?”

Ilya stares at him, lips parting in surprise.

“It’s super private so we’ll be safe. You could stay for a few weeks, or as long as you want, until training camps start in September. We could just… relax for once, you know? We never get to just… be together.”

“You want to spend whole summer with me?”

He nods, lower lip pulled between his teeth enticingly. “I get if you need to go to Russia, but even just for a week or two? I really… Ilya?”

Ilya draws in a deep, trembling breath. “I’m not crying,” he tries.

Shane snorts, lips pulling up into a smile. “I can pretend to believe that if it makes you feel better.” He meets Ilya’s eyes, so brave and so, so beautiful. “Are you…”

I love you. I love you. “I love you.”

“Holy shit,” Shane says, barely above a stunned whisper, “Fuck you.”

Ilya flinches. “I mean—” He sucks in a sharp breath and turns away. Fuck. He can’t even walk that back, not now that he’s finally said it, and not when he completely and totally means it and wants Shane to know how loved he is.

But Shane takes his face in his hands and forces Ilya to look at him—and it’s only Shane’s cute pouty smile that keeps Ilya from panicking completely. “You asshole,” Shane complains, “I can’t believe you fucking beat me to it. I’ve even been practicing how to say it in Russian.”

Ilya feels his face spread into a slow, relieved smile. “You…”

“I love you too, asshole,” Shane says. He presses a kiss to Ilya’s cheekbone and then lets Ilya lick into his mouth hungrily before Shane pulls back only to murmur, so full of warmth and emotion, “Ya tebya lyublu, Ilya.”

“Fuck, you are so beautiful,” Ilya groans, and he climbs into Shane’s lap with one goal in mind: getting his mouth on Shane anywhere and everywhere he can.

“Hey, wait,” Shane says, laughing a little as he presses a hand flat against Ilya’s chest and forfeits what was going to be a very good kiss. “So you’ll come to the cottage?”

“Fuck, Hollander, yes, okay? Now can I—”

Shane huffs out a happy, breathless laugh, still holding Ilya back. “Wait, you horny asshole. I’ve only asked the first part of my question.”

“You have more questions?” Ilya bemoans, and he tips his head back to groan around his giddy smile. “Fine, fine, but hurry up, please, or your boring questions will put me to sleep before I can suck your dick.”

“I’m pretty sure my boring questions are what’s making you want to suck my dick, asshole.”

“I always want to suck your dick and your asshole, Hollander,” Ilya reminds him, ducking his head to mouth wetly at Shane’s neck. “Ask,” he murmurs, pulling back to give Shane his full attention—with the exception of one hand still idly groping Shane’s pec.

Shane takes a deep breath, nods to himself, and says carefully, “This part… You can say no and I would totally understand, but… when you come to the cottage, my parents will be ten minutes away? And I thought… maybe you could meet them? If you want?”

Ilya stills. “Meet your parents?”

“If you want,” Shane repeats. “I would really like you to, but…”

“I—” Ilya stares at him and forgets to even breathe until Shane frowns and pokes him in the chest. “Um.”

“You can say no,” Shane says gently. “I know it’s… a lot.”

It is a lot and he should say no. “Okay. Yes.”

“Really?” Shane’s smile is fucking beautiful and worth every inevitable awkward and scary moment of this meeting-the-parents thing. “Yeah?”

Ilya thinks about telling Shane he probably shouldn’t give him any more chances to be a coward and change his mind, but instead he tries to borrow some of Shane’s bravery. “Yes,” he says decisively, “Yes, I would like to meet your parents.” Then, a little more meekly, he asks, “Do they know about me?”

Shane shakes his head. “Of course not.”

“No, not that you’re fucking best hockey player Ilya Rozanov, but that you… have someone.”

“Oh. Well, yeah.”

“Yeah?” Ilya feels his whole face light up in a grin. “You tell your parents about me?”

Shane ducks his head and weakly taps his fist against Ilya’s chest. “Shut up. Just ’cause I didn’t tell them who you are, doesn’t mean I didn’t want to talk about you now that I finally can.”

“Aw, so sweet, Hollander, you have a crush on me?”

“Yeah. I do,” Shane says solemnly, “And I had to warn them that… This gorgeous guy I’ve been seeing? He pretends to be all tough and cool but really he’s a secret softie who cries during kids’ movies and blushes when I tell him he’s pretty.”

Ilya’s grin falls into something more pouty and soft. “Lies,” he says on a faux-offended gasp. “Is slander.”

“Oh?” Shane’s eyes are lit up with mischief as he swipes a thumb across Ilya’s warm cheek. Ilya wants to bite him. “So that was someone else’s boyfriend wiping his eyes on my shirt earlier today?”

Ilya thinks his brain stalls. “Boyfriend?”

“Oh. Um. I was sort of hoping… I was gonna ask at the cottage, if you… But I guess now works too.” He looks at Ilya hopefully, shy but already smiling—like his body knows before his brain does that Ilya wants this too.

“You want…”

Shane’s eyes soften even as one corner of his smile quirks up teasingly. “You just agreed to meeting my parents,” he says, “and you’re surprised I want you to be my boyfriend?”

That’s… a fair point. Still… “I’ve never been a boyfriend before,” Ilya admits quietly. “I… I’ll probably be really bad at it.”

Shane tilts his head. “I think you’ve been doing pretty good for a while now.”

“I have?”

“Yeah,” he says, “You have.” He doesn’t elaborate further, but Ilya can pry his colour-coded, bullet-pointed rationale out of him later.

“Well?” Ilya teases, “Aren’t you going to ask?”

Shane rolls his eyes, and then he twists and gently tackles Ilya to the floor, caging him in with his forearms braced either side of Ilya’s head—leaning his weight away from their matching injured sides. “Be my boyfriend.”

Ilya lifts his head to smooch Shane’s bicep. “Mm, ask nicer.”

Shane kisses him, dirty and dizzying, and then demands again, “Be my boyfriend, Rozanov.”

“Yes, okay, whatever you want,” Ilya agrees, leaning up to chase Shane’s mouth.

Shane ducks away and looks down at Ilya with a surprised but self-satisfied smile. “Really? I thought for sure you were gonna make me beg just to be an asshole.”

“You can beg if you like,” Ilya tells him, “but I am already yours, Shane Hollander.”