Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Anya | Ilya Rozanov's Dog

Additional Tags:

Sickfic, Angst, Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Established Relationship, Internalized Homophobia, masculinity issues, letting go of control, Emotional Vulnerability, Healing Through Intimacy, They’re Still Themselves I Swear, Autistic Shane Hollander, Russian Cultural Context, Married Shane & Ilya, I PROMISE IT ENDS HAPPY I SWEAR TO GOD, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Masturbation, Self-Worth Issues, Ilya Rozanov has self-worth issues, Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Blindfolds, thigh fucking, Top Shane Hollander, Bottom Ilya Rozanov, FUCKING HEAR ME OUT BEFORE YOU MOVE ON BECAUSE OF THOSE TAGS, I HAVE A VERY GOOD ARGUMENT FOR THIS IN MY OPENING NOTE, pls, if you don't like this fic please just close it instead of leaving me mean comments

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-24 Completed: 2026-03-15 Words: 36,373 Chapters: 16/16

Reversal

Summary

Russians do not blush. Russians do not get sick. Ilya gets concussions. He gets stitches. He skates on cracked ribs and calls it fine. He does not get sick. Which is why, when he wakes up at three in the morning in the middle of June, shaking so hard his teeth knock together, his first instinct is irritation.

Notes

UPDATE: Reversal is currently being translated into Russian, which is just… incredibly surreal and flattering.
Read the Russian translation here

Shane is going to top. In fact he needs to top. Here is my argument as to why before you click out of this fic.
First: yes, the bubble butt attached to that Russian man is significant. We will not pretend otherwise. That mf was built like a Renaissance sculpture and I refuse to ignore canon. However…this fic isn’t just about anatomy. It’s about power, identity, and what masculinity has done to Ilya his entire life.
Secondly: This brings us to the real point. In conservative Russian spaces, being gay isn’t framed primarily as a sin the way it often is in Western evangelical rhetoric. It’s framed as weakness. As failure. As feminization. As not being a “real man.” This is the homophobia Ilya has grown up with.
And in a system where masculinity equals status, dominance, physical strength, emotional stoicism…the worst thing you can be is positioned as subordinate. There’s also a cultural logic around sexual roles. In some traditional attitudes, the insertive partner can still cling to masculinity. The receptive partner is seen as degraded, feminized, “treated like a woman.”
It’s not just about orientation. It’s about hierarchy…So if Ilya has internalized even fragments of that framework, consciously or not, then of course he gravitates toward control.
And now we look at his life. He is constantly taking care of everyone.
His father. His brother. His team. Shane. Even strangers, sometimes. So like what happens when the person who has built his entire identity around being the strong one… has to let himself be held?
What happens when he has to receive?
That’s the story….Reversing the dynamic isn’t about undoing bottom!Shane. It’s about expanding both of them. Shane often feels safer when he doesn’t have to define or perform his sexuality loudly. There’s comfort in not making the decisions. There’s comfort in not being the assertive one. But post–Book 2? Divas it character growth time. They’re older. They’ve fought through a LOT of their shit. It might be time for Shane to step forward…not just physically, but in confidence. In claiming space. In saying, “I want you. Let me.”
And Ms. RACHEL REID—you teased us with the possibility of this for like Several ENTIRE PAGES in Book Two. The tension? Exquisite. The setup? Immaculate. AWARD WINNING. The promise that maybe, maybe, we were about to see Ilya finally let go? AND GIRL JUST Fingers. Just fingers. A cinematic zoom-in on vulnerability and then—AHHHHh i NEED more diva. And even then, even in that almost-moment, Ilya still would not let himself be fully taken care of. He was there, but he wasn’t surrendered. He was allowing, but not yielding. And I cannot stand for this narrative edging of his emotional growth. If the man cannot unclench long enough to be held without trying to manage the situation, then what are we even doing. I need the follow-through. I need the release—not just physically, but psychologically. Let him rest. Let him be wanted. Let him be undone.
….And yes.
If we’re being completely honest.
did you seen Connor next to Hudson at the Golden Globes? Come on…

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE: 

Russians do not blush. Russians do not get sick. 

Ilya gets concussions. He gets stitches. He skates on cracked ribs and calls it fine.

He does not get sick.

Which is why, when he wakes up at three in the morning in the middle of June, shaking so hard his teeth knock together, his first instinct is irritation. The cottage is quiet. The lake black through the windows. His skin feels wrong—too tight, too hot, like he’s been left out in the sun too long.

He swings his legs off the bed.

The room tilts.

He waits it out. Breathes through it. This is Jet lag. Bad takeout. He does not wake Shane for something stupid.

By the time he makes it to the bathroom, he’s sweating through his t-shirt. He grips the counter. Watches his own face in the mirror. His eyes look too bright. His mouth too pale.

“Idiot,” he mutters in Russian.

He makes it through exactly one dry heave before the light snaps on behind him. Shane stands in the doorway, hair a mess, eyes already sharp.

“What’s wrong.”

“Nothing,” Ilya says, because that is the reflex. “Go back to bed.”

Shane steps closer. Presses a hand to his forehead. The pause that follows is small. Measured.

“You’re burning up.”

“I am Russian. This is normal temperature.”

His husband doesn’t laugh. 

“I’m fine,” Ilya tries again. He shrugs off Shane’s hand and grips the counter instead. “Stop hovering. I am not dying.” And this time it comes out like a warning

Shane studies him for half a second, then turns and walks out.

“I do not need—” Ilya starts, but his voice falters when the bathroom light flares too bright. He swallows it down. Shane comes back with the thermometer from the kitchen drawer. He doesn’t announce it. Just shakes it once and steps in close. Ilya catches his wrist.

“This is stupid.”

“Open.”

It’s automatic. Ilya obeys before he can decide not to. He glares at Shane over the plastic stem, jaw tight, daring him to make something of this. The beep slices through the quiet. Shane looks at the screen.

He goes still.

His expression changes. 

Ilya sticks out his hand. “Give,” he demands.

Shane doesn’t answer. He just holds the thermometer where Ilya can see it. Ilya squints. The numbers smear. He blinks once, hard, like that will fix it. It doesn’t. The screen swims. He shifts his weight to get closer.

The floor tilts again.

He grips the counter.

Misses.

His knees don’t quite lock in time.

Shane moves before he hits the tile. An arm around his waist, solid, bracing. The contact is humiliating. Ilya’s body folds into it without permission, weight tipping, balance gone. He feels the catch in Shane’s breath and wants to crawl out of his own skin. He is six-three. He has skated through broken bones. And now he is being held upright in his own bathroom like something fragile. He tries to straighten immediately, to peel Shane’s arm off, but his legs don’t cooperate. That’s worse.

“Ilya.”

He hates that tone.

“I am fine,” he says, but it comes out thinner than he meant. Shane pulls him upright. Too easy. That’s the first real problem.

“We’re going to urgent care.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“It is a fever. I have had fevers.”

“Not like this.”

Ilya tries to push away. His hand lands somewhere near Shane’s shoulder and slides. His legs feel unreliable. Soft. He doesn’t like that word.

“This is dramatic,” he snaps. “You are being dramatic.”

Shane doesn’t rise to it. He’s already moving, already thinking three steps ahead. “Can you walk?”

“I can do anything.”

“Walk.”

Ilya takes one step and the world thins to a tunnel. The air won’t settle in his chest. He reaches for the wall and closes his hand on Shane instead. The steadiness there is immediate. Unavoidable. Shane’s arm comes around him again, firmer, anchoring. It makes something sharp rise in Ilya’s throat. Fury at his own body. At the betrayal of it. 

“We’re going,” Shane says. Not loud. Not negotiable.

“I don’t need—”

“You can argue with me in the car.”

The hallway feels longer than it should. Ilya hates that Shane keeps a hand at his back. Outside, the night air hits his skin. Too cold. He shivers hard enough it rattles through him. Shane opens the passenger door.

I can sit in the back,” Ilya mutters, hand still on the door frame because letting go feels like a risk.

Shane freezes on the other side of the car. “Why would you sit in the back?”

“In case I throw up.”

“In case you pass out,” Shane says, and there’s no bite to it. Just strain. “I need to see you.”

“I am not going to—”

“You don’t know that.”

The words land wrong. Too honest.

Ilya straightens on instinct. “I’m fine.”

Shane steps closer, already crowding him toward the passenger seat. “You almost hit the floor like five minutes ago.”

“That was the tile being slippery.”

Shane exhales, sharp and frayed. “Please just get in the car.”

Ilya lowers himself into the seat. The movement costs more than it should. Shane closes the door with care that feels worse than if he’d slammed it.

The drive is quiet for exactly thirty seconds.

“This is unnecessary,” Ilya says, staring out at the black road. “You are overreacting.”

“You almost collapsed.”

“I slipped.”

“You couldn’t read the thermometer.”

“I did not have my glasses.”

“You don’t wear glasses Ilya.”

Ilya closes his eyes. The car's motion makes his stomach roll. That, more than anything, makes Ilya turn his head.

Shane looks different. Scared. It’s clean on his face. Ilya looks away first.

“This is stupid,” he mutters.

Shane doesn’t say anything. The rest of the drive passes in clipped arguments and shallow breaths. Ilya keeps talking because as long as he’s talking, he’s upright. Because if he stops, he might feel how bad this actually is.

When the urgent care sign comes into view, too bright against the dark, Ilya swallows.

“I can walk,” he says again.

Shane parks.

“We’ll see.”

The waiting room smells like disinfectant and old coffee. A television murmurs in the corner. Ilya focuses on that. Something ordinary. Shane checks him in. Gives his name. Gives his birthday. Answers questions Ilya should be answering.

“Symptoms?”

“High fever. Dizzy. Nearly fainted.”

“I did not faint,” Ilya mutters.

The receptionist looks up. Shane doesn’t correct himself. They sit. Or rather, Shane lowers him into a chair and stays standing for a moment, like he’s not sure the floor won’t drop out again.

“I can fill out my own forms,” Ilya says.

“You’re shaking.”

“I am cold.”

“You’re burning.”

Ilya reaches for the clipboard anyway. The pen feels heavier than it should. The letters come out wrong. Slanted. He presses harder, as if force will fix it. The page shifts under his hand, the lines refusing to stay straight. His name looks unfamiliar. He scratches it out and writes it again, jaw tight. The tremor in his fingers worsens the more he tries to control it. He can feel Shane watching, which makes it worse. Heat crawls up his neck—anger, not fever, he tells himself. He is not incompetent. He is not weak. He presses the pen down hard enough that the tip tears through the paper.

Shane crouches in front of him.

“Give it to me.”

“I can—”

“Rozanov.”

That stops him. Ilya releases the clipboard. Shane takes it without triumph. Starts filling in the blanks. It shouldn’t feel like this. It’s just a form. But as Shane bends over the clipboard, calm and efficient, something in Ilya gives way. The room is too bright. The chair too small. His skin buzzes like it doesn’t fit. 

He can feel himself slipping further inside his own body—strength draining, edges blurring—and with it goes the last illusion that he is managing this. Shane’s handwriting moves steadily across the page, and Ilya hates how steady it is. 

The weakness in his limbs spreads inward, turns molten in his chest. His throat tightens without warning. It’s not pain. Not exactly. It’s the humiliation of being seen like this. The fear that he cannot muscle his way out of it. He stares at the floor and swallows hard, furious that his eyes burn for reasons that have nothing to do with fever.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO: 

A nurse calls his name.

Shane is on his feet before Ilya registers it.

They move down the hallway. The fluorescent lights feel surgical. Too white. The exam room is small. Paper on the table. A blood pressure cuff is already waiting.

“Vitals first,” the nurse says. The cuff squeezes tight around Ilya’s arm. Too tight. He stares at the wall instead of Shane.

“Temp is still high,” she says. “One-oh-three point eight.”

Shane goes very still beside him. Blood pressure runs low. Pulse too fast.

“You feeling pain anywhere?”

“No.”

Shane looks at him, eyebrows furrowing. The door opens a few minutes later. A man in navy scrubs steps inside, sleeves rolled, stethoscope already looped around his neck. Dark hair, blue eyes.  He closes the door behind him before speaking.

“I’m Dr. Novak,” he says, voice low and gravely.  “Mr. Rozanov,” he continues. “I hear you’re trying to intimidate our thermometer.”

“I am succeeding,” Ilya replies.

Dr. Novak lets out a small laugh. He steps closer, checks his pupils, listens to his lungs, and presses fingers along his abdomen. When he reaches Ilya’s lower back and applies pressure, Ilya inhales sharply before he can stop it.

There it is. Dr. Novak glances at Shane.

“How long has he been running a fever?”

“Since at least tonight. He didn’t wake me earlier.”

“I did not need to wake you.”

When Novak presses again, firmer this time, Ilya’s breath leaves him in a tight hiss. 

Dr. Novak straightens. “That hurt.”

“It was unexpected.”

“That hurt,” the doctor repeats. Shane doesn’t look away from Ilya.

“How long has your back been bothering you?”

“It isn’t.”

Novak studies him. “Any pain when you pee?”

Silence. 

Shane’s eyes flick toward him.

“Ilya.”

“It is nothing.”

“How long,” Novak asks again, quieter now, “have you felt off?”

Ilya hesitates. That’s enough. Novak nods once, already shifting gears. “We’re going to run labs. Urine sample. Blood work. I want IV fluids started now.”

“For a fever?” Ilya says.

“For a kidney infection,” Novak replies.

After the IV is attached, Novak leaves quickly, the door closing quietly behind him.

For a second, the room is quiet except for the faint drip from the IV line.

Ilya opens his mouth to say something dismissive. It doesn’t come out right. The word sticks somewhere behind his teeth. The heat in his body spikes. Not gradual. Immediate. His vision pulls tight at the edges. Shane notices before he speaks.

“Hey.” 

Ilya’s fingers curl against the paper on the exam table. The crinkle is too loud.

“m fine,” he says, but his jaw is starting to chatter. Shane steps closer. Close enough that his knees brush the side of the table.

“You’re not.”

“I am sitting.”

“That’s not the bar.”

The room feels smaller. The fluorescent light presses down. The IV line tugs when he shifts, and the movement sends a wave of nausea through him. He swallows it back. Bad idea. His stomach lurches anyway. Shane’s hand lands at his knee, steady. Warm.

“Okay,” Shane says, already moving. “Okay.”

He tries to straighten. The effort costs him. His shoulders sag before he can stop them. The shaking starts again. Not violent. Just enough that he can’t hide it. 

Shane’s frustration surfaces in a sharp exhale. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“There was nothing to tell.”

“You don’t hit one-oh-three out of nowhere.”

Ilya doesn’t answer. The truth is somewhere between pride and stupidity. The nausea passes. The weakness doesn’t. He sways. Shane doesn’t hesitate this time. He steps in and pulls him forward, one arm firm around his back, the other bracing his shoulder. 

The contact is immediate. Solid. Ilya’s body reacts before his mind does. His forehead drops against Shane’s chest. His hands clutch fabric. He exhales. It feels so good. The warmth of Shane’s body seeps through the fever. The shaking eases a fraction. His spine unknots. He leans into it without thinking. Shane’s hand moves up, steady at the back of his neck.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

Ilya’s eyes close. For a moment, he lets it happen. Then awareness floods back in. The position. The grip. The way he’s folded into him. He stiffens.

“I can sit on my own,” he says, pulling back too fast. The movement makes his vision flare white.

Shane tightens his hold instead of letting go.

“Stop.”

“I am not—”

“You’re shaking.”

“I am not fragile.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

Shane doesn’t release him. Ilya feels the tremor still running through his own body, feels how easily he fits there, how naturally his weight settles. That’s what burns. Not the contact—the evidence of it. The way his strength has drained out of him so completely that he can’t even hold himself upright. He knows Shane can feel it in the way he’s shaking, in the way he’s leaning. Ilya’s jaw tightens. He tries to pull back, not because he doesn’t want the hold, but because he hates what it says about him.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. 

He remembers Shane’s hand at the back of his neck. The steady pressure there. The sound of his own breathing, too loud in his ears.

After that, nothing. 

When he opens his eyes again, the ceiling is gone. Dark instead. The low hum of an engine. Streetlights moving in measured intervals across the windshield.

He’s in the passenger seat.

Seatbelt across his chest. The IV gone. No paper crinkling under him. No fluorescent lights. The car smells faintly like lake water and Shane’s cologne. For a second, he doesn’t understand. Then he turns his head. Shane is driving. Both hands on the wheel. Knuckles pale. His jaw is set too tight. His eyes are red.

Not irritated red.

Wet.

Ilya blinks. His tongue feels thick.

“What—” It scrapes out of him. He clears his throat. “What happened.”

“You have a kidney infection,” Shane sniffs. He swipes at his face with the heel of his hand like it’s nothing. “They gave you fluids. IV antibiotics. Your pressure came up.”

“They wanted to keep you overnight.” Shane’s voice is even. Too even. “I told them that I’d sign whatever I had to sign as long as you could come home.”

“I am fine.”

Shane lets out a breath that isn’t a laugh. “You were at one-oh-three point eight. You nearly fainted twice. You don’t get to call that fine.”

The car passes under a streetlight. It washes over Shane’s face and catches on the wetness he hasn’t wiped away.

“You really scared me,” he says. Ilya looks at the window. Dark lake beyond it. He doesn’t know what to do with that sentence. “They said it’s acute pyelonephritis,” Shane continues. “You’ll be on antibiotics for fourteen days. Strict rest. No training. No lifting. No pretending you’re good because you can stand up.”

“I can stand.”

“You have to drink constantly. If your fever spikes again, we go back. If you get confused, if you get worse, if you feel pain, you tell me.” Shane’s grip tightens on the wheel. “Not days later. Not when you’re about to pass out. When it starts.”

“There was nothing to tell.”

“There was.” Shane’s voice cracks on the word. He swallows and keeps going. “You’ve felt off for days. I should have known when you didn’t let me go down on you. You don’t hit one-oh-three out of nowhere.”

Ilya doesn’t answer. Another tear slips down Shane’s cheek. 

“They said it could’ve gone septic,” Shane says quietly. “Do you understand that?”

The word hangs in the car.

Ilya’s chest tightens, but he keeps his tone steady. “It did not.”

“That’s not the point Ilya.”

Silence stretches between them. When Shane speaks again, it’s different. Not angry. Not sharp. Just tired.

“I need you to let me take care of you.”

Ilya turns his head slowly.

 “I have done playoffs with bruised ribs.”

The cottage driveway appears ahead. Shane pulls in, cuts the engine, and just sits there for a second.

“You don’t get to do that,” he says. It’s quiet at first. Controlled.

“Do what.”

“Decide you’re fine and just… power through it.”

Ilya stiffens. “That is not—”

“Yes, it is.” Shane turns toward him now. There’s no polish left. He’s angrier than Ilya has heard in a long time. “You don’t tell me you’ve been feeling like shit for days. You don’t wake me up. You almost hit the floor and you’re still arguing with and lying to the doctor. Do you know what that fucking felt like? Watching you not be able to stand?”

The words land clean. Ilya opens his mouth. Nothing useful comes out. Shane scrubs a hand over his face, breath shuddering out of him. The anger burns off almost as quickly as it flared.

“I’m sorry,” he says, softer now. Immediate. “I shouldn’t— I’m not mad at you. I’m just—”

He shakes his head once.

“Let’s just get you inside. Okay? Let’s try to get some rest.”

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE: 

Morning comes in thin gold lines through the cottage windows. Ilya wakes to the quiet drag of fingers through his hair. Shane is propped on one elbow beside him, careful, like he’s handling something breakable. The touch is absent-minded. Repetitive. It makes Ilya’s chest ache in a way the fever didn’t.

At the foot of the bed, Anya lifts her head, ears pricked, watching the exchange with solemn concentration before letting out a small huff and resting her chin back on her paws.

“m sorry,” he murmurs. His voice is rough from sleep and whatever’s still burning through his blood.

Shane leans down immediately. “No. No, it’s okay.” He presses a kiss to Ilya’s temple, then another to his mouth, soft and unhurried.

Ilya nods like he believes that. He doesn’t. The apology isn’t about the fever. It’s about the look on Shane’s face in the car. The fear. The anger.

He knows that posture. Knows the refusal to admit weakness, the instinct to power through, to belittle pain until it behaves. He learned it from a father who would rather die than be seen faltering. And here he is, doing the same thing to the person he loves most.

The humiliation lingers, sour and stubborn. Not just the sickness, but the need as well. It makes him feel smaller than the fever ever could. Smaller than the depression already makes him feel, on bad days, useless, heavy, like something Shane has to manage instead of love. He stares at the ceiling and lets Shane keep stroking his hair anyway.

The fever has broken, but it hasn’t left him untouched. His skin feels overused, tender from the inside out, like every nerve has been sanded down. There’s a dull, stubborn ache in his lower back that pulses when he shifts, and his muscles hang loose on his bones, unreliable. Even lifting his arm costs something. His mouth tastes metallic. His head is clear in a way that’s almost worse—no delirium to hide behind now, just the honest weight of exhaustion pressing him into the mattress. He feels wrung out. Stripped down to whatever is left when strength isn’t available on command.

Shane bends to kiss him again, slower this time. “I’m going to make breakfast,” he says quietly. “Something easy.” Ilya nods and pushes his palm into the mattress, already shifting to sit up. The room tilts in warning. His vision narrows, a hot wave climbing his spine. Shane’s hand is there immediately, firm on his shoulder. “Hey. No. It’s okay. Please just stay here.”

Ilya swallows and eases back down. This time, he doesn’t argue. He doesn’t reach for pride like a weapon. He just nods again. “Okay,” he says, because Shane’s eyes still look tired, and he doesn’t want to be the reason for that.

The bedroom door clicks shut a minute later. The quiet settles in. Ilya stares at the ceiling and feels something inside him give way. The tears come without drama. Just a steady spill into the pillow. He presses his forearm over his eyes like he can stop it, but it keeps going. He isn’t sure what he’s crying for. It feels disproportionate. Embarrassing. Weak. He doesn’t have a clean reason to point to, and that makes it worse.

Shane stands in the kitchen staring at a loaf of bread like it’s a problem he can solve if he just thinks hard enough. Toast feels safe. Dry. Bland. But Ilya hates plain toast. Oatmeal would be better for hydration. Eggs would give him protein. But eggs might be too heavy. He opens the fridge, closes it, and opens it again. He needs something gentle. Something that won’t make Ilya’s stomach turn.

His hands move automatically—kettle on—but his brain won’t stay in the kitchen.

It keeps dragging him back to the hospital room. The way Ilya had sagged forward, all heat, forehead pressing into Shane’s chest like that was just where he belonged. At first Shane had thought he was just resting. Then he’d realized the weight had shifted. Gone slack. Too slack.

“Ilya.”

Nothing.

He can still feel the panic spiking through him, sharp and electric. The way he’d said his name again, louder. The way he’d felt for a pulse even though he knew there was one. The nurse button. The door swinging open. “He just—he just went out,” Shane had said, already moving, already bracing Ilya upright as if he could physically keep him here by refusing to let him fall.

He carried him out to the car when they were discharged.

It wasn’t graceful. Ilya is bigger—long legs, broad chest, he was heavy—but Shane got him up. One arm under his knees. The other braced across his back. He adjusted once, hitched him higher.

The weight wasn’t what made it hard.

It was the crying.

Halfway across the parking lot, the pavement blurred. He blinked until it steadied. His jaw ached from how tight he was holding it. Ilya’s forehead rested against his collarbone, breath hot through his shirt, fingers barely hooked in the fabric. Shane tightened his hold and kept moving.

At the car, he shifted Ilya against the door and leaned in, forehead to forehead. Just for a second.

“I’ve got you,” he said, though Ilya wasn’t answering.

The carrying he could do.

The not knowing was the part that split him open.

Why didn’t you tell me.

That’s the part that won’t leave him. The fact that Ilya had been in pain long enough for an infection to climb into his kidneys, long enough for a fever to spike that high, and still decided it wasn’t worth mentioning.

The kettle screams. Shane startles.

He presses his palms flat on the counter and breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth. Ilya is upstairs. Awake. Fever down-ish. On antibiotics. Not septic.. Shane picks up a bowl and starts measuring oats with careful precision, like if he gets this right, the rest of it will settle too.

Upstairs, the sheets are still warm from Shane’s body. Anya has jumped up at some point, a quiet shadow against the duvet, and she noses cautiously at Ilya’s hand before settling beside his hip, solid and watchful.

Ilya stares at the ceiling until the lines blur again. Not from fever. From the ache behind his ribs that has nothing to do with infection. He rolls carefully onto his side. The movement costs him. His lower back pulses in quiet protest. He breathes through it. Counts it down like a shift.

The crying embarrasses him most. He feels exposed. 

He has always understood his mother. The softness. The way feeling too much could hollow a person out. He recognized that in himself early. His father had been different.

Rigid. Unbending. Angry.

Ilya spent years defining himself in opposition to that. But lying here, drained and overheated and weak enough that sitting up requires calculation, something shifts.

His father must have felt this, too.

His sickness was so different, much more serious. But the humiliation of it was the same. The indignity of needing help. Of having someone see you falter. Of feeling your body refuse command. Ilya presses his thumb hard into the mattress, testing the strength still there. At the time, Ilya called it cruelty. Now he sees something else inside it. Embarrassment.

He was made from both of them after all. 

Ilya exhales through his nose, running his hand across Anya’s head.

Shane’s frustration in the car replays cleanly. He understands that, too. The terror of watching someone you love slip. But beneath that, there’s something else. The insult of being shut out. Of being deemed unnecessary.

Fuck. 

The room tilts. He waits. Counts to five. Swings his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor is cool under his feet. That helps. Standing is an effort. He braces a hand on the dresser until the wave passes, then moves toward the three steps. Each step down is deliberate. His body feels like it belongs to someone else—lighter in some places, heavier in others. The railing is steady beneath his palm.

Anya appears at the top of the stairs, whining softly, then follows one step behind him like she’s spotting him through a drill.

Shane looks up the moment he reaches the bottom.

He doesn’t let him finish. He crosses the remaining distance in several uneven steps and wraps his arms around him. Shane’s body goes rigid for half a second—surprise—then softens immediately, arms coming up around his back, firm and sure. Ilya presses his face into Shane’s shoulder. Breathes him in. Soap. Oats. Lake air through open windows.

Anya circles once at their feet, tail low but wagging, then sits, leaning her weight gently against Ilya’s calf like she’s adding her own steadying force.

“I am sorry,” he says again, but this time it’s muffled into cotton.

Shane’s hand slides up his spine, steady. “You already said that.”

“I know.”

He tightens his hold anyway. Shane exhales against his hair. The sound isn’t frustrated now. It’s something else. Relief, maybe. He cups the back of Ilya’s head and holds him there, no hesitation. For a moment, it works.

Then the floor shifts.

It’s subtle at first. A hollowing in his ears. The light bending at the edges. He ignores it. Shane’s heartbeat is under his cheek. Slow. Even. The hollowing deepens.

“Ilya,” Shane says quietly. “You’re swaying.”

“I’m not.”

The words come thinner than he intends. His grip tightens, not in reassurance—need. His fingers clutch at the fabric of Shane’s shirt. The room tips again, sharper this time. His stomach drops with it.

Shane’s arms adjust instantly, one sliding lower around his waist.

“Hey,” he says, closer now. Alert. “Sit. We need to sit.”

“I am fine,” Ilya insists, but the kitchen is too bright. The sunlight on the counter fractures into something hard to look at.

His knees soften. Ilya hates the way his body listens to that more than it listens to him. He tries to straighten. The effort backfires. The world narrows to a thin vertical line. His hand slips against Shane’s back.

“Shit,” Shane breathes, and then he’s moving—pivoting, bracing, guiding them both down instead of letting Ilya fold. The chair scrapes across the floor. Ilya barely registers being lowered into it. His hands are still fisted in Shane’s shirt. His head is light, too light. He blinks hard. The kitchen swims, then snaps back into place in pieces.

hands press against his face. Shane crouches in front of him now, lowering one hand to his knee, the other to his waist, as if he doesn’t trust gravity not to intervene again.

“Look at me.”

Ilya does.

The dizziness recedes in slow increments. Sound returns first. The hum of the fridge. A bird outside. Then freckles. The full shape of Shane’s face etched with concern.

“Okay,” Shane says when Ilya’s eyes steady. “Okay.”

Anger flickers hot and quick. He jerks his knee away from Shane’s hand.

“I am fine.”

The sharpness in his own voice surprises him. It lands wrong in the room. Too loud against the quiet hum of the fridge. 

Shane straightens slowly from him. 

“What’s going on,” he asks.

Ilya pushes back from the chair as if he’s about to stand again, then thinks better of it when the floor shifts in warning. He grips the edge instead.

“I hate that my body does not cooperate. I hate that you have to—” He gestures vaguely between them, frustrated by the lack of a clean word. “—do this.”

The words rip out of him before he can filter them.

Shane’s jaw tightens, but his voice stays steady. “Ilya. I am your husband. I will take care of you. That’s part of it.” 

“I don’t want you to,” Ilya shoots back, too fast.

The words land hard. He feels it immediately. The shape of them. Wrong. Not what he meant. Shane stills. It’s subtle—the way his shoulders drop a fraction, the way something shutters behind his eyes—but it’s there.

Hurt.

Ilya’s stomach drops. He opens his mouth.

“I—”

Too late. Shane doesn’t argue. Doesn’t snap back. He turns instead. Picks up the bowl from the counter with more force than necessary and shoves it into Ilya’s hands. The porcelain thuds against his palms. Not enough to bruise. Enough to register. Ilya grips it automatically. He should fix it. 

“I didn’t mean—” he starts again.

Shane grabs his own mug, doesn’t look at him, and walks out of the kitchen without another word. The back door opens. Shuts. The screen door rattles once in the frame.

The cottage goes quiet.

Ilya stares at the oatmeal.

The anger drains out of him as fast as it came, leaving something sour in its place.

Fuck.

He stares down at the bowl in his hands.

No spoon.

He sets it on the table and braces his palms against the arms of his chair to stand. The kitchen blurs immediately, sunlight smearing across the floor. His knees lock too late. He catches himself on the chair instead of the counter, and the effort steals what little air he has. 

He should have said he hates needing it. That he hates the way his body folds without permission. Instead, he said he didn’t want Shane to take care of him at all. His father’s voice, not his own.

He tries again. Pushes up harder.

The room tilts to the side, windows dissolving into pale blocks of light. His knees unlock without warning. There’s no time to correct it. He slides down the side of the kitchen island instead of falling, shoulder catching first, then his back, until he’s on the floor with a dull thud. Not dramatic. Just gravity winning.

Anya’s nails click sharply against the hardwood. She’s there almost instantly, nose nudging at his cheek, a soft, anxious whine building in her throat.

For a second, he stays there, breath coming too fast. The cool wood presses against his shoulder blades. The tile seeps through his sweatpants. He tips his head back against the cabinet and closes his eyes.

Just a moment, he tells himself.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR: 

Shane sits on the back porch with his elbows on his knees and his hands locked together like that’s going to keep him from doing something stupid. The lake is calm. The morning is bright in that gentle cottage way. It should feel like relief. It doesn’t. He’s angry. He can admit that.

He could list the reasons. 

He does list the reasons. 

Ilya didn’t wake him up.

Ilya didn’t tell him he was suffering. 

Ilya lied to him and to the doctor. 

Ilya could have gone septic.

Shane’s jaw tightens hard enough to ache.

The porch boards are warm under his bare feet. He presses his toes into the wood, grounding himself. He’s learned to do that.  He rubs his palms over his eyes. When he drops his hands, the lake is still there, indifferent.

Why does he have to fight Shane like this?

A memory rises, unwanted.

Ilya was in their bed a month ago, the room dark except for the moonlight leaking through the curtains. They had come home from a charity gala Shane had agreed to too quickly—too many hands and too many cameras, the smell of cologne layered over cologne permiated until the air felt chewable. By the time they were alone, his skin buzzed. Every sound was too sharp. Even the hum of the fridge downstairs made him upset.

He’d tried to play it off. Showered. Folded his suit too precisely. Lined his shoes up against the wall like that might put the rest of the night back in order. Ilya had watched for a minute. Said nothing. Then he’d stepped in close and slid a hand to the back of Shane’s neck. Not grabbing. Just there. He’d drawn him in without asking questions, one arm firm around his waist, pressing him into the mattress like gravity belonged to him. His mouth at Shane’s throat. Warm and certain. 

“You’re okay,” Ilya had murmured, thumb tracing the same small circle just under Shane’s hairline. Again and again. The room dimmed. Shane’s breath fell into time with Ilya’s. The noise in his head thinned out. He hadn’t had to explain it. Hadn’t had to label it.

Later, when the buzz had faded to something manageable, they stayed tangled in the dark.

Ilya had fucked him slow. Not urgent. Just close. He kissed along Shane’s cheekbone first, then the other side, small presses of his mouth like he was mapping him by touch. 

“You are so good,” Ilya had murmured against his skin. “So wonderful. You know that?”

Shane hadn’t answered. He’d just wrapped his arms around him and held on. Fingers hooked into Ilya’s back like he needed the contact to stay calibrated. The room felt quiet in a way that didn’t hurt. Ilya kept kissing him—cheek, temple, the corner of his mouth—saying it again in different words. 

He swallows.

Because the obvious flipside is sitting right here on the porch. Shane does things. Shane shows up. Shane designs houses. Shane makes the dentist and doctors apointments. Shane organizes the calendar. Shane loves like it’s a discipline, a practice, something you commit to daily. But there’s a difference between giving and surrendering.

Shane breathes in. The air smells like pine and water.

The anger is still there. It hasn’t evaporated. It sits under his ribs like a live wire. 

I don’t want you to.

It replays cleanly. Ilya’s voice, fast and defensive, like Shane had asked for something unreasonable. Shane presses his thumbs against his knuckles until they ache.

Because he knows that tone. He’s used it himself. When reporters get too close. When a teammate pushes. When someone assumes access to something he isn’t ready to give. He can be cutting.

Storming out over a sentence thrown in fever and frustration is dramatic, even for him. Ilya is running on antibiotics and sheer stubbornness. Of course, he’s crabby. Of course, he’s defensive. Shane knows what it feels like to be cornered inside your own body. He exhales, some of the heat draining out of him. They don’t need a standoff. They need to talk. And beneath the hurt, beneath the pride, there’s that steadier pull—the part of him that wants to walk back inside, sit down in front of his husband, and take care of him without turning it into a war.

The screen door opens with a soft snap.

Shane steps inside.

The chair is empty.

The bowl sits on the table. Untouched. Cooling.

The room feels wrong immediately. Too still.

Anya is standing rigid near the island, whining low in her throat, tail stiff instead of wagging. She looks up at Shane once, then back down at the floor like she’s guarding something.

“Ilya?”

No answer.

Shane moves around the island.

And there—

On the floor.

Folded awkwardly against the island like he meant to sit down and missed the mark. One arm bent under him. Head tipped to the side. Eyes closed.

For half a second, Shane doesn’t move.

His body does something ugly and electric. A full-system jolt.

“Ilya.”

Shane drops so hard that his knees crack against the tile. His hands are on Ilya’s shoulders before he can think better of it, shaking once, too hard.

“Ilya. Hey. Hey.”

Ilya’s head lolls with the movement. His lashes flutter. For one breathless second, his eyes are unfocused, wide and glassy, like he doesn’t know where he is. Ilya inhales sharply, blinking up at him. There’s fear there. 

He tries to push himself up and fails halfway. Shane swears under his breath and pulls him upright, gathering him in without finesse, one hand leaning him back against the island, the other cradling the back of his head.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says into his hair. The words spill out hot and frantic. “I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have walked out. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Ilya’s hand fumbles against his chest, weak but insistent. “Not your fault,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I was big asshole.”

Shane tightens his hold like that might anchor both of them. His heart is hammering. He can feel it where Ilya’s cheek presses against him.

“You scared me,” Shane says, and it’s not anger now. It’s naked. “I walked out and you—”

“No no. My fault I tried to stand for spoon,” Ilya admits quietly. 

“Oh my god,” Shane whispers.

His grip loosens for a second, not because he wants to let go, but because the guilt hits him in the sternum.

“I didn’t— I didn’t give you a spoon,” he says, incredulous, like saying it out loud might undo it. “Fuck. Ilya, I’m so sorry.”

Ilya’s brow creases. He tries to lift his head, to meet Shane’s eyes, like he’s about to argue the point, even now. “Is nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Shane says, too fast. His voice cracks. “You shouldn’t have been on your feet for that. You shouldn’t have had to—Why did you even come down stairs—Ilya—” He swallows hard.

Ilya’s hand pats Shane’s chest once, clumsy comfort. “Shane.”

Shane sees it then. Even fever-wrecked, even half-collapsed on the kitchen floor, Ilya is recalibrating. Turning himself toward Shane’s distress like that’s the more urgent problem. He’s comforting him.

Something twists hard in Shane’s chest.

The effort in it is what breaks Shane.

A sound escapes him before he can swallow it back. Not loud. Just raw. His shoulders hitch once, and he hates that it happens in Ilya’s arms of all places. He pulls back slightly, but not far enough to leave.

“I’m supposed to be taking care of you,” he says, and his voice fractures completely. “You’re sick. You can barely stand. And you’re still—” He gestures uselessly between them. “—doing this.”

Ilya’s thumb drags clumsily along his collarbone. A familiar repetitive motion. The same small rhythm he uses when Shane’s overstimulated.

“Hey,” Ilya murmurs, though his own breathing is uneven. “Is okay.”

It’s upside down. It’s wrong. Shane feels it like a weight pressing down on him—the fact that Ilya is the one expending energy to soothe him. That he’s using what little strength he has to manage Shane’s feelings. Shane grips his wrists gently, not to stop him, just to still him.

“No,” he says, quieter now. “You don’t have to be strong for me. Not like this.”

Ilya looks at him, really looks at him. There’s fear still lingering there. And something else. Shame.

“I don’t like you crying,” he admits.

“I know.”

“I break something.”

“You didn’t break anything.”

“The doctor said stress makes it worse, you need to be resting,” Shane says, words coming clipped

“I am resting,” he says. It’s thin, but steady. “Right now.”

Shane shakes his head. “No, I mean actually fucking resting Ilya. Not passing out. Maybe we should go back to the hospital. Maybe we shouldn’t have left.”

Ilya’s brow furrows. “Shane.”

“I’m serious.” He’s already scanning him again—skin color, pupils, breathing. “You were unconscious. That’s not small.”

“I was tired, I close my eyes on purpose,” Ilya insists. “I stood up too fast. I am on antibiotics. Is ok Shane.” 

“You need to rest,” he says finally, voice tight with restraint. “Like actually rest. No stairs. No standing unless I’m there. Fluids. Food. Sleep. The doctor was clear.”

Ilya nods once against his shoulder.

“I know.”

Shane studies him another second, still visibly on edge, adrenaline nowhere near burned off.

“We go back if anything feels off,” he says. Not a question.

“Okay.”

Shane doesn’t look convinced.

But he holds him tighter anyway.

Ilya’s arms try again, stubborn. He presses his face into Shane’s shoulder, as if proximity alone will solve it. Shane feels the heat of him. The tremor still threaded through his muscles.

Shane exhales against his temple, steadier now.

“You don’t have to take care of me right now,” he says. “Let me do it.”

Ilya wants to reject it on instinct, to twist out of the hold and force himself upright just to prove he can—but the look on Shane’s face stops him.  The kind of devastation that bleeds through everything. Red eyes. Mouth pressed thin like he’s physically holding himself together. The fight drains out of him.

Ilya had despised that stubbornness. Now he feels the echo of it in his own chest and hates that more. Shane’s arms are still around him, firm and unembarrassed, holding him like this is ordinary, like there is nothing inside it. The warmth seeps through the fever-chilled places. It feels good. Too good. 

His muscles loosen despite himself, weight settling fully into Shane’s body, forehead falling to press against his shoulder. Guilt flares sharp—he should be the strong one—but the relief is immediate and undeniable, a quiet unraveling under careful hands. He lets out a slow breath and, for once, does not try to pull it back.

Shane shifts, and before Ilya can find a grip on his own pride, he’s being dead lifted—an arm under his knees, the other braced behind his back—clean, decisive strength that makes heat rush up Ilya’s neck because it shouldn’t be this easy. 

“No,” he starts, uselessly, a reflex more than a protest, but Shane doesn’t even flinch; he just carries him past the table, past the abandoned bowl.

The couch catches him, cushions swallowing him down. Shane follows—crowding close and pulling Ilya back into him until Ilya’s spine is flush against his chest and his head tucks beneath Shane’s chin. Shane’s legs bracket his shorter frame, fitting along him without apology; his feet press against the outside of Ilya’s shins. 

It’s too much. Ilya tenses to push away, to reassert something, anything, and then he feels it: the wet track of a tear still cooling against his hairline, and the frantic thud of his heart under Ilya. The urge to stop it dies in his throat. He goes still. Shane’s arms tighten, not possessive, just terrified, and Ilya lets himself be held anyway—for Shane.

Anya jumps up without invitation, circles once, then folds herself over Ilya’s feet.

Ilya swallows.

“If I go to sleep,” he says carefully, voice rough against Shane’s forearm, “it is on purpose still. Okay.”

Shane’s hold tightens once, almost imperceptibly. Then he shifts, one hand sliding up to cup Ilya’s jaw. He tilts his face back, gentle but firm, until their eyes meet.

There’s still dampness on Shane’s lashes.

He kisses him. Slow. His mouth warm and steady against Ilya’s.

“Okay,” Shane says quietly when he pulls back. His thumb brushes once along Ilya’s cheekbone.

Ilya nods.

He lets his eyes close.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE: 

Shane stays awake.

Ilya is heavy against him. Too warm. Heat seeps through the thin cotton of his T-shirt and settles into his chest like a warning light that won’t turn off.

He presses his lips briefly into Ilya’s hair. Still damp at the temples. He didn’t eat. Shane knows by now the oatmeal is congealing on the table.

Shane swallows and keeps his breathing even. He’s cried enough. His eyes feel scraped raw from it. Two days and he’s coming completely apart.

Anya lifts her head from Ilya’s feet and stares at him.

“I know,” he whispers.

Her ears twitch. She settles again but doesn’t relax.

Shane adjusts his grip. One arm under Ilya’s ribs. The other laid firm across his stomach. Not pinning. Just there. Ilya’s back is flush to his chest, head tucked beneath his chin, heat pouring off him.

He’s never held him like this for long.

They rotate, usually. Drift in and out of each other during the night. Shane is almost always the one folding in first—face in Ilya’s shoulder, knee nudged between his thighs, hand slipping under his shirt. Even on the couch, even mid-episode, he ends up half-curled into him. Smaller body seeking larger one automatically.

He doesn’t usually stay on this side of it.

Part of it is physics. Ilya is broader. Longer. Built to anchor. Shane fits against him cleanly. It makes sense that way.

This—this is different. Ilya’s weight rests fully back into him. Not braced. Not half-ready to roll away. Just there. Shane tightens his hold by a fraction, testing it.

Ilya doesn’t stir. He fits here. Not awkwardly. Not precariously.

Solid. Heavy and real.

Shane lowers his chin slightly, feeling the crown of Ilya’s head settle more firmly beneath it. His forearm rises and falls with each breath.

He’s never been the one staying awake like this. Never been the frame, truly, instead of the one held inside it.

Shane presses his cheek lightly to the top of his head and closes his eyes. They stay like that for a while Shane drifting in and out of sleep himself. He is pulled from his own sleepy haze when Ilya shifts. It starts small. A restless exhale. His shoulder nudging back. Shane stills instinctively, expecting him to roll away.

He doesn’t.

Instead, Ilya turns inward.

Slowly, blindly, his body pivots until his back leaves Shane’s chest and his front finds it instead. Anya lifts her head with a soft huff as Ilya’s legs drag across her. She circles once, annoyed but loyal, and resettles closer to the couch arm.

Ilya’s forehead presses briefly into Shane’s collarbone as he completes the turn. Then his cheek finds Shane’s chest. One arm slides between them. The other hooks loosely at Shane’s side. 

His stomach rests fully against Shane’s. Shane’s hands hover for half a second, unsure where to land.

Then they do.

One slides up between Ilya’s shoulder blades. The other curves around his waist. Enclosing him against his own body. His palm spreads across the span of his back and feels the rise and fall of breath there.

Ilya exhales, deeper this time.

His weight sinks.

Shane adjusts without thinking, widening his stance slightly on the couch so Ilya can fit more cleanly between his thighs. His chin rests naturally in Ilya’s hair. His forearm firms along his spine.

He becomes the wall.

Ilya makes a small, unconscious sound. Not distressed. Just content. His knee drifts higher along Shane’s hip.

Anya sighs again, resigned.

Shane feels something shift inside his chest again.

He kind of fucking likes this.

Not the fever. That part is awful. 

But this. Holding him. Being the structure. Ilya’s weight is real against him. Warm and sleepy. Shane shifts his grip slightly, palm flattening more firmly between his shoulder blades. He feels the muscle there. Dense even now. Solid under his hand. 

He maybe really liked picking him up. The weight surprised him for half a second—not because it was too much, but because it wasn’t. He was strong. Across tile. Across a parking lot. The first time had been panic, adrenaline, necessity; he hadn’t thought, just moved. But carrying him to the couch—Shane had felt the choice in it. 

Ilya’s heat settled after his brief protest against his chest. Shane could have just guided him. Could have braced him upright. Instead, he’d lifted him clean off the ground. And some quiet, reckless part of him had wanted to do it again.

Ilya had flushed when he did it.

Shane hadn’t missed that. He lets the thought expand. His grip tightens unconsciously around his sleeping husband.

He is just as strong.

Shorter. Yes. But strong. He trains just as hard. Well, Ilya does more squats, but Shane can lift just as much. His center of gravity is lower. He could get Ilya up onto a counter without struggle if he wanted to.

What would happen then? 

He imagines the surprise first. The split second where Ilya’s eyebrows jump before pride catches up. The automatic protest—“Shane”

When Ilya lifts him, Shane melts. It’s automatic. The startled breath, the small broken whine that slips into Ilya’s mouth before he can contain it. He hates how needy it sounds; Ilya loves it. Loves the way Shane reacts without calculation, the way his body answers first, and his pride catches up later.

Shane wonders—quietly, privately—if Ilya would ever make a sound like that.

Not from pain. Not from being sick. From him. For him. If Shane’s hands were firm enough at his waist, if he lifted without warning and pressed him back against something solid, would Ilya’s control crack for half a second? Would something low and unguarded slip out before he could swallow it down? 

Ilya stirs. It’s subtle at first. A shift of weight. His brow pulling faintly together. Then his lashes lift. Sleep clings to him. His eyes are darker like this. Unshielded.

He blinks up at Shane, slowly.

“My lyubimyy,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, lips brushing Shane’s shirt as he speaks. “Something is poking me.”

Shane freezes.

Heat floods his face instantly. He goes still in a way that is absolutely not subtle.

Shit.

Shane clears his throat. It comes out strangled.

“I—” He stops. Tries again. “You’re just… very close.”

Ilya’s eyes sharpen a fraction. Awareness slides in. He feels it then. The unmistakable firmness pressed against his lower stomach.

There’s a beat.

“I can help with that,” Ilya murmurs.

His hand shifts lazily against Shane’s side. Shane catches his wrist immediately.

“No.”

Ilya blinks at him. Offended.

“No?” he repeats.

“Go back to sleep.”

Ilya’s brows draw together. “I am awake now.”

“You are sick.”

“I can do what is word multiple task.”

Shane tries not to laugh. It comes out strangled anyway.

“You almost passed out on the kitchen floor.”

Ilya studies him. Then he shifts closer on purpose, thigh pressing more firmly between Shane’s legs.

“Is because you like holding my muscles,” he says softly. Accusing. Pleased.

Shane flushes harder.

“That’s not—”

“It is,” Ilya insists. He looks smug despite the fever flush still staining his cheekbones. “You are enjoying this.”

Shane exhales sharply through his nose and carefully extracts himself from under him, rolling Ilya gently onto his back.

Ilya makes a soft sound of protest when the warmth disappears.

“Shane.”

“No.”

Ilya actually looks wounded now. “I am offering solution.”

“You’re sick.”

“My hands and mouth are not sick.”

“You are banned from exertion.”

Ilya’s mouth tightens. Shane leans down once, presses a quick, firm kiss to his forehead.

“You go two full days,” he says evenly, “without passing out, without scaring me, without pretending you’re fine—”

Ilya’s eyes narrow.

“And then,” Shane continues, heat crawling up his neck anyway, “I will put on a show for you.”

Silence. Ilya blinks. The disappointment fades. Something sharper replaces it.

“A show,” he repeats. Shane regrets phrasing immediately.

“Yes.”

“What kind of show.”

“You’ll see.”

Ilya studies him for another long second. Then, slowly, he settles back into the cushions.

“Fine,” he says. Suspiciously calm. “I will recover very impressively.”

Shane points at him.

“You rest.”

“I am resting.”

“Actual resting.”

“Yes, doctor.”

Shane ignores that and stands, moving toward the hallway before the situation worsens.

Behind him:

“Moy lyubimyy?”

He stops. Doesn’t turn.

“Yes.”

“Tell me part of show.”

Shane closes his eyes briefly.

“Go to sleep, Ilya.”

A satisfied huff follows him down the hall. He makes it to the bathroom, shuts the door, and leans both hands on the sink.

“What the fuck,” he breathes.

His reflection looks flushed. Guilty. Like he’s sixteen again and not a grown man with a mortgage and several Stanley Cup wins.

He turns the shower on hotter than necessary and waits for the pipes to answer, steam climbing fast, loud enough to blur everything outside the door. Loud enough to hide what he is about to do.

He braces his hands on the counter for a second, jaw tight, then lets one slide lower, beneath cotton, beneath control. Hands wrapping around his half-hard cock.

He tries to summon the usual images—Ilya’s voice at his ear, low and filthy, Russian threaded through praise, hands firm at his waist whispering filthy Russian in his ear. But the image won’t stay obedient.

It keeps shifting.

To Ilya against the wall instead, breath caught, eyes bright with that startled flash of confusion that only lasts a second before it burns into something else. Shane’s hand picks up its pace in the steam-thick bathroom, pulse jumping with it. He bites his lip to keep a groan from coming out while he works his cock. 

In his head, he steps closer, crowding him, forearm braced beside Ilya’s shoulder, mouth at his ear while French spills low and deliberate—words Ilya doesn’t understand but feels in the vibration of Shane’s chest, in the heat of his breath. 

“Shane,” fantasy Ilya says breathy and needy, pride scraping the edges of it, and then again—softer, rougher—when Shane’s palm pins him there and his weight claims the space between them. Shane’s stomach tightens hard, at the image of Ilya not just taking what he’s given and asking for more in broken Russian and breath, the way Shane does when he’s the one undone.

Another image surges in before he can stop it.

Ilya beneath him this time.

Flushed. Breath knocked uneven. That massive body stretched long under Shane’s weight, hair mussed, mouth parted in something dangerously close to surrender. Shane’s hands span his hips—his ass—thumbs digging just enough to feel muscle shift under his grip. Ilya’s head tips back against the mattress, throat exposed, and there’s that split second of disbelief again. Of recalibration.

Shane imagines pressing him down harder. Letting his weight speak.

“Please,” Ilya says in Russian. 

Shane’s stomach tightens violently at that.

Heat spikes low and sharp. His grip tightens around himself in the steam-filled bathroom, and then he is cumming, breath hitching. The fantasy fracturing at the edges, too intense to hold steady, and he finishes with a rough exhale.

The shower keeps running.

For a long second he just stands there, pulse hammering in his ears.

“What the hell,” he mutters, breathless.

This is new.

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Ilya just had to be good for two days.

Two days was nothing. Two days in bed was insultingly manageable.

When Shane insisted the first morning—Stay upstairs. No stairs. No kitchen. I will bring you everything—Ilya said fine.

He meant it. He stayed in bed. He played video games until his thumbs went numb and his lower back pulsed in that deep, internal way that reminded him the antibiotics were doing the heavy lifting, not him. He ate the bowls of soup Shane brought up—chicken, then miso, then something green and aggressively disgusting. He drank the water. He swallowed the pills exactly on schedule. He even said thank you once, which felt theatrical.

He let Shane tuck the blankets around him. That part stuck. The smoothing of the duvet over his hips. The small, unnecessary adjustment at his shoulder like he might slide off the mattress if not secured. Ilya held himself very still while it happened, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere over Shane’s head.

He told himself this was strategic. This was repayment. Shane needed to hover; Ilya could tolerate it. But something in him resisted the softness of it. Being the strong one had never been a performance. Lying there while Shane pressed a glass of water into his hand, waiting to make sure he swallowed, scraped at something he couldn’t name. He didn’t know why. He just knew he wanted to sit up, to stand, to prove his body still answered to him. And he didn’t. He stayed horizontal. For Shane.

I will put on a show for you.

Ilya really really wanted a show much more than he wanted to sit up.  Two days. That was the price. He could endure two days of horizontal obedience if the reward was Shane. This was strategic.

 

By the afternoon of day one, the fever was gone. What remained was weakness. A strange hollowness behind his knees. The ache in his lower back lingered like a bruise pressed from the inside.

Shane sat on the edge of the bed that evening with his laptop open, answering emails, ankle hooked casually over Ilya’s calf.

‘Casually.’

As if he hadn’t positioned himself there to monitor.

Ilya didn’t comment. He didn’t move. He let the invisible contact stay. Two days. He would be good. Not because he needed to be taken care of.

On top of that, Shane had been acting very odd. It started small.

After Ilya finished the green soup—Shane had taken the bowl from his hands, and then… paused.

He set the bowl down and stepped back in. Tilted Ilya’s chin up with one finger. And then he kissed him. Not a quick, careful kiss. Deep. Immediate.

Ilya closed his eyes by habit, the second Shane’s mouth met his. He kissed back without thinking, let Shane’s tongue slide against his like it had a right to be there. Ilya’s fingers twitched but didn’t lift; he didn’t have time to recalibrate before it was happening.

When Shane pulled away, Ilya blinked up at him—slow at first, then sharper, like he’d just surfaced. He hadn’t expected that. His hands were still resting uselessly at his sides. Shane was close enough that their breaths hadn’t separated yet. And that was when Ilya saw it—the shift. Shane’s eyes darkened. 

There was a look on Shane’s face Ilya knew.

Arousal.

By evening, Shane had shut all the blinds, as if it were winter and not June. The cottage smelled faintly like lemon cleaner and wet dog. Anya trailed him from room to room like a supervisor. Ilya watched from the bed while Shane disappeared into the bathroom and turned all the taps on. Water runs. Steam crept under the door.

“You are doing what,” Ilya calls.

“A bath.”

“I can shower.”

“You’re having a bath.”

Ilya pushes himself upright on instinct, then remembers the rule and pauses, as if the mattress might report him. His back complains anyway. He ignores it. 

Shane reappears in the doorway with that same careful look he’s had all day—practiced calm over something humming underneath.

“I can wash myself,” Ilya says.

“I know.”

“Then why—”

“Because I don’t want you standing in there if you faint.”

Ilya’s jaw tightens. He feels the stupid sentence rising—I don’t need you there. He tastes it. It would cut clean. He swallows it down. Instead, he drags a hand over his mouth and says, “Will you get in with me.”

Shane stills. For a second, Ilya thinks he might have just not heard him. Then Shane’s eyes flick to his throat. To his mouth. Back up.

“No,” Shane says.

What?

Ilya blinks. “No?”

Shane steps closer. His voice stays even, but his ears are pink.

“I want to just see you naked.”

Ilya stares at him. That’s not an answer to the question. It’s… something else.

“You are being,” Ilya says carefully, “very strange.”

Shane’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile and losing.

“Come on, up,” he says.

Ilya swings his legs over the side of the bed. The room sways lightly. He waits it out. Shane watches without moving in, which is its own kind of restraint. When Ilya stands, Shane’s hand hovers near his elbow.

“Don’t,” Ilya warns automatically.

Shane drops his hand. “Fine.”

Ilya takes one step. Then another. His body feels much steadier than yesterday, but not trustworthy. He hates the gap between those two things. Shane walks beside him anyway. Not touching. Close. They reach the bathroom. Steam fogs the mirror. The tub is full, water turning opaque with bubbles. A towel is folded with stupid precision on the counter.

Ilya looks at the bath.

He looks at Shane.

“What is this,” he asks. “Spa day.”

Shane crosses the tile and kisses him. “It’s nice,” he says against Ilya’s mouth, and his thumb lingers at Ilya’s jaw. “Because I love you. And you’re sick. Now take off your clothes.” Ilya exhales through his nose, eyes tipping skyward in pure theatrical disgust, but his hands go to the hem of his shirt anyway, peeling it up and over his head, then shucking off the rest with the resigned efficiency of a man cooperating under protest. 

Ilya hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and pushes them down, slow only because he’s still a little unsteady, and Shane’s brain fully betrays him. Half of him is tracking the way Ilya shifts his weight so he doesn’t tip, cataloging color in his cheeks, the steadiness of his knees, and whether this is too much exertion. 

The other half is staring. 

At the curve of his ass, the flex of muscle under his briefs, the way he bends just slightly to step out of the fabric. 

What is wrong with him? 

He should be thinking about hydration levels right now. He is. But he is also thinking about leverage. About hands at his hips. It’s obscene. He drags his gaze up before Ilya can catch him.

Ilya catches it anyway.

He always does.

His mouth curves. “You are staring.”

“I’m assessing,” Shane replies immediately. Too fast.

“Assessing what.”

“Balance.”

“Mm.” Ilya steps out of his underwear and straightens, naked and unapologetic. Steam curls around his shoulders. “And what is your professional opinion.”

Shane’s throat works once.

He is absolutely, catastrophically staring at Ilya’s ass.

“You look steady,” Shane says.

It’s true.

It’s also not what he means.

Ilya studies him for a second longer, then turns and lowers himself carefully into the bath. The water laps up over his thighs, his stomach. He inhales when the heat hits his lower back, eyes closing briefly.

“Okay,” he admits. “This is good.”

Shane exhales.

Ilya opens one eye.

“You are going to just… watch.”

“Yes.”

“That is unsettling.”

Shane shrugs. “You told me not to hover.”

“This is worse.”

“Probably.”

Ilya shifts, sliding down until the water reaches his chest. His hair darkens at the temples where steam catches it. The bubbles cling along the lines of his shoulders, dissolving slowly.

Shane tracks the movement automatically.

“How’s your head,” he asks.

“Clear.”

“Dizzy?”

“No.”

“Pain?”

“Only that you are interrogating me in bathtub.”

Shane’s mouth twitches. “Good.”

Charged Silence settles between them. Ilya drags a wet hand down his own chest absently, wiping away foam. Shane’s gaze drops before he can stop it.

This is a problem.

He should not be this aware of the way water beads along Ilya’s stomach. Of the way heat has flushed his skin from collarbone to hip. Of the way his thighs shift when he adjusts his footing under the surface.

He is supposed to be supervising.

Ilya slides lower in the water until only his shoulders and the slope of his chest break the surface.

Ilya shifts.

It’s subtle at first. A drag of his knee under the water. A slow rotation of his hips.

Then he turns fully.

He faces Shane and plants his elbows on the rim of the tub, stretching forward slightly, chin settling over his folded arms.

His back arches without effort. Water slides down the length of his spine. His shoulders broaden as he settles.The curve of his lower back deepens just slightly from the stretch. It’s not even posed.

That’s the problem.

It’s comfortable.

Absent-minded even.

Shane doesn’t register that he’s stepped closer until he’s already there—until his knees brush the porcelain and his shadow falls over Ilya’s face.

Ilya tilts his head back to look at him.

Wet lashes.

Heat-softened skin.

“What,” Ilya says.

 Shane swallows.

“You look…” He clears his throat. “Relaxed.”

He rolls his eyes, “I am not relaxed. I am being observed like zoo animal.”

Shane’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t step back. Ilya’s eyes narrow faintly, tracking him.

“I’m not.”

“Mm.” Ilya shifts his chin slightly on his arms. The movement draws water down the lines of his forearms. “Then why are you staring Mr. Zoo Keeper.”

Shane could lie.

He doesn’t.

“Because I want to.”

The air tightens.

Ilya blinks up at him. Slow.

That look again. That flicker.

“You are very strange today,” he says softly.

Ilya’s eyes suddenly fill with concern.

“Is it because you are still mad about yesterday?”

Shane’s hand pauses.

“About what.”

“I was asshole.”

The admission is blunt. Steam curls between them. Shane shakes his head once.

“I’m not mad.”

“You walked out.”

“I came back.”

Ilya watches him closely. Too closely.

“You are acting like this is…” He searches for it. “Punishment.”

Shane actually laughs.

“Giving you a bath is punishment?”

“You not getting in with me.” He gestures vaguely at the empty space behind him in the tub. “That is punishment. You fill bath. You stare at me like pervert. And then you stand there fully clothed.” His mouth tightens. “Very mean.”

Shane stares at him.

“Cruel,” Ilya adds.

“Yes.”

There’s a beat.

Then—heavens above—Ilya pouts. His lower lip pushes forward just slightly. His brows draw together. His chin tips down, lashes lifting through steam like he’s been personally betrayed by the concept of fairness.

Shane’s brain blanks. He cant help himself, he reaches forward before he overthinks it and brushes damp hair back from Ilya’s forehead. His fingers linger at his temple.

“I can wash your hair,” he says.

Ilya should say no. No, I’m fine. No, I can do it. No, don’t fuss. He has lived inside those words so long they feel like skin.

Shane’s fingers are still in his hair. Combing damp strands back from his forehead like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t mean anything, like it isn’t undoing him in small, humiliating increments.

It feels…nice. Which is its own problem.

Ilya opens his mouth to say no anyway. To put the line back where it belongs. To restore the rules.

Then his husband pulls his shirt over his head.

Ilya stares.

He forgets, for a beat, what he was supposed to say as Shane’s hands go to his waistband.

“I—” Ilya starts, then stops. Because if he opens his mouth now, something stupid will come out, and then Shane might stop taking off his clothes.

Shane steps out of his sweatpants. Folding them and placing them on his shirt. He’s careful with his footing on the tile. His boxer briefs follow. Pulled off, then folded. He doesn’t look down. He doesn’t look away either.

He looks at Ilya.

As if to check.

As if to ask without asking.

Ilya’s throat tightens.

He should say no.

He should say you don’t have to do this.

He should say I can wash my own hair.

He should say suck my cock with those pretty lips that will make me feel better.

Instead, he says nothing, sitting up straight.

His eyes instead track the line of Shane’s shoulders first—broad but not imposing, dusted in freckles that steam darkens into constellations. There’s a faint flush high on his cheekbones. Ilya’s gaze drifts without permission, over the slope of his stomach, the subtle definition there, his hip bones. His gaze drops lower and lingers. He takes in the shape of him. Shane’s cock is smaller than his, yes. That’s just fact. But his is much prettier. 

Ilya’s mind betrays him with a memory—the way Shane’s back arches when Ilya is so deep inside him, the way his pretty cock pulses when he comes, the vein on the front standing out stark against flushed skin. 

Shane turns and steps into the tub.

The water rises. The bubbles shift and cling, then dissolve. Shane inhales quietly as the heat hits his legs, his hips. He braces one hand on the rim and lowers himself with a careful steadiness that makes Ilya’s mouth go dry.

And then—wrong and unfamiliar—Shane sits behind him.

Ilya’s spine goes rigid on instinct.

This is not how it goes.

He turns his head, trying to look over his shoulder.

Shane’s hand lands at his jaw. Gentle. Firm enough to stop the twist.

“Face forward,” Shane says softly.

Ilya’s brows snap together. “Why.”

“Because I am washing your hair Ilya.”

The answer is simple. Ilya opens his mouth to argue. To demand to see him. To touch. To regain something.

Before he can, Shane reaches around him and picks up the shampoo.

“Shane,” he says, warning threaded through it.

“Mm.”

Shane flips the cap with his thumb and pours a small amount into his palm. Rubs his hands together. The sound is quiet in the steam. 

Ilya’s shoulders stay high. He can feel the tension sitting there like armor he forgot how to take off. Shane’s knees bracket his hips behind him, water curling around them both. The position is wrong. Not bad. Wrong in the way a door is wrong when it opens inward instead of out.

He tries to glance back again.

Shane’s fingers return to his jaw, steering him forward with almost no pressure. Just inevitability.

“I can do it,” Ilya says.

“I know.”

Shane’s hands slide into his hair. The first press of fingers against his scalp isn’t gentle in any performative way. It’s thorough. Practical, very shane. He works the shampoo in with steady circles, thumbs pressing at the base of Ilya’s skull, fingertips dragging through curls that have gone soft with steam.

The sensation lands. Heat blooms behind Ilya’s eyes. His neck loosens without permission. He hates that his body responds like this. He hates that it feels like relief instead of indignity.

He wants to turn. To pull Shane in. To hook an arm around him, to reclaim the rules. To put his hands where they belong—on Shane’s thighs, on his ass, on the smooth line of his back.

Shane’s hand slides higher, fingers combing and pressing. 

Ilya’s throat tightens. Shane’s palms cradle his head for a second, tilting it subtly. Exposing the angle of his neck. Shampoo drips down the side of his ear and disappears into the bathwater.

Ilya swallows hard.

“Shane,” he says again, smaller.

“Sit still.”

Shane drags his thumbs along the tendon at the back of Ilya’s neck up to his scalp, then back down again. The pressure is perfect. It needles into the places Ilya holds his tension and pulls, slowly, like untying knots from the inside.

His fingers shift higher. One thumb anchors at the base of Ilya’s skull while his forefinger glides along the back curve of Ilya’s ear—light, almost absent-minded, tracing the delicate ridge where damp hair thins into skin. It hits like a live wire. A sharp streak of sensation that snaps down his spine and blooms low in his stomach before he can brace for it. 

A sound slips out of Ilya. Breath first. Then a soft, embarrassing little moan—thin and high, not meant for anyone’s ears.

Shane’s hands freeze.

Everything freezes.

Even the water feels like it pauses.

Ilya’s face floods hot. He goes rigid, jaw clenching so hard it aches. Shame hits him sharp and immediate, like being caught doing something childish. Weak. Like his body just betrayed him in a language he didn’t consent to speak.

He waits for it—the shift. The disgust.

He doesn’t get any of it.

Instead, Shane leans forward and kisses the back of his neck.

Ilya’s eyes sting. He can’t move.

Shane resumes the small circles, firmer now. His thumbs press at the base of Ilya’s skull again, and the sensation punches clean through him.

Ilya’s breath hitches. Ilya clamps down on the sound like it’s a thing he can physically shove back into his body. He stares at the tiled wall in front of him. The grout lines are suddenly fascinating. His ears burn. His shoulders lift again, armor snapping back into place.

“Tilt your head back a bit.”

Ilya almost says no. 

They’re not facing the faucet. Shane shifts first—one knee pressing more firmly against Ilya’s hip, his torso angling so he can reach past him. His hand slides to the crown of Ilya’s head, steady and sure, guiding him sideways.

“Turn,” Shane murmurs.

Ilya rotates reluctantly, water sloshing against the porcelain. Shane reaches behind him and pulls the handheld sprayer from its cradle.

Warm water arcs down.

It hits the back of Ilya’s head first, then sheets forward through his hair. Suds loosen and slip along his temples, tracing the line of his jaw before disappearing into the bathwater.

Shane moves the spray methodically, fingers combing through thick curls to make sure nothing clings. Water runs clean.

“So,” Ilyan says. “Now. The show.”

Shane’s mouth curls. Amused.

“Tomorrow evening will be two days.” he points out. 

Shane reaches for the conditioner. The bottle makes a soft plastic click in his hand. He flips it open with his thumb and squeezes a slow ribbon into his palm. White against flushed skin.

Ilya watches the movement.

“I can do that,” he says immediately.

“I know.”

“You do not have to—”

“I want to.”

Shane rubs his hands together again. The sound is softer this time. Slower.

Ilya shifts in the water, turning halfway toward him despite the earlier instruction. His knee bumps Shane’s thigh under the surface, not accidental—seeking. Steam clings to his skin but there’s nothing languid in him now. His shoulders are tight. 

“I would rather you in my lap,” Ilya says, voice lower—but it isn’t smooth. There’s something strained under it. “So I can touch you.”

His fingers twitch against the water, restless, searching for somewhere to anchor. If Shane is in his lap, then the shape makes sense again. If he’s the one holding, the one grounding, then he doesn’t have to sit here being tended to like something delicate. He doesn’t have to confront the quieter fear underneath it—that he hasn’t earned this kind of softness. That he doesn’t deserve to be handled gently, to be cared for without proving he’s useful first.

His jaw tightens.

Shane doesn’t look up.

“It’s already in my hands,” he says. “Turn around.”

“You are impossible today,” Ilya mutters, but he rotates anyway, presenting his back again.

Shane slides his fingers into Ilya’s hair again. Part of him really does want to wash it. That part is simple. Practical. Ilya is sick. Recovering, but sick. His scalp runs hot under Shane’s hands, curls softened by steam. Conditioner makes everything glide. Shane works it through with careful attention, separating thick strands and smoothing them down to the ends.

His husband’s shoulders tense again.

“You are quiet,” he says, accent thick.

“I’m concentrating.”

“On what.”

“Your hair.”

“Is not a complicated task.”

No. It isn’t. The complicated part is that Shane can still hear that sound. That thin, helpless sound Ilya hadn’t meant to make when his finger glided across his ear.

Shane’s body answers before his brain can shut it down. Heat low in his stomach. A pulse he has to ignore.

“Why are you acting like this,” Ilya says finally.

“Like what.”

“Like you are planning murder.”

Shane huffs under his breath. If only he knew.

“I’m washing your hair.”

It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth. The whole truth is that Ilya has been good. He stayed in bed. He swallowed the pills. He didn’t argue every instruction. And now he’s sitting here, back exposed, neck open, trusting him to touch him without turning it into something else.

Shane’s mind keeps turning it into something else.

Something else, like sliding his hands from Ilya’s hair to his hips.

Something else, like if he tightened his grip and lifted—just enough to feel the weight shift, to hear that startled inhale again. What if he turned him, bent him forward over the rim of the tub, water spilling over porcelain, steam rising between them. What if he pressed him there, palm flat between his shoulder blades, the other hand sliding lower opening him up with fingers slick with conditioner—

Ilya starts to look back again. Shane’s palm slides to his jaw, steadying him forward.

“I said turn around.”

The firmness surprises even him.

Ilya goes still.

Shane feels the shift in his body. The way his pulse jumps under damp skin. The way he holds himself like he’s deciding whether to push back or lean in.

God.

Shane drags his fingers down the back of Ilya’s neck, gathering his hair, squeezing excess water out. His knuckles brush the top of his spine. Muscle there. Dense even now.

He shouldn’t be thinking about leverage.

He shifts closer without meaning to, knees bracketing Ilya’s hips more firmly. The inside of his thighs press in just enough to register.

He’s aware—acutely—of his own body. The heat continues to build. 

Shane shouldn’t.

He knows he shouldn’t.

This is supposed to be about rinsing conditioner out of his sick husband’s hair. Instead, he keeps thinking about that sound. He wants to hear it again.

Wants to feel it under his hands and know he caused it.

So he invents a reason.

“Hold on,” he says, voice deliberately neutral. “There’s extra behind your ear.”

There isn’t. 

Shane lets his thumb drag lightly through damp curls first. Plausible. Practical. Then his fingertip slides behind Ilya’s ear. Slow and light.

Ilya jolts.

Shane pretends he doesn’t notice. That’s the lie inside the lie.

“Still there,” he murmurs, as if he’s wiping something away. As if he isn’t tracing the same strip of skin again because he wants to see what it does.

Ilya’s breath catches. His shoulders pull tight, then soften a fraction, the way they did with the shampoo.

There it is.

Shane’s pulse jumps, ridiculous and immediate. He keeps his hand steady anyway, calm like he’s doing a task. He touches the spot again, a little slower, a little more deliberate, then drags the pad of his finger along the edge where ear meets hairline.

Ilya shudders, sharper this time. And then he makes another sound—small, involuntary—and then goes rigid.

Shane’s mouth goes dry.

He shouldn’t be satisfied by that.

He is.

“Sensitive?” Shane asks, quiet.

Ilya’s ears go pink. The color spreads quickly, reaching his shoulders.

“No.”

Shane hums like he doesn’t believe him. 

Ilya tries to scoff. It turns into a thin exhale.

The back of his husband’s ears are sensitive. 

Chapter 7: Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

The rest of the evening settles into something almost clinical after that. Shane checks Ilya’s temperature twice—once with a thermometer, once with the back of his hand pressed to his forehead like he trusts instinct more than numbers. He times the antibiotics, sets a glass of water into Ilya’s palm, watches until he swallows. He changes the sheets because they’re damp from steam and sweat.

He pretends not to notice the way Ilya avoids looking at him directly, the faint flush that hasn’t faded from his ears. Ilya pretends the weakness in his limbs is the only reason he’s quiet. He answers questions in short, steady sentences. No dizziness. No nausea. Yes, he’s drinking enough. His voice stays even. His eyes do not.

Shane moves through the cottage with trying to be calm, every gesture measured, practical, almost rehearsed. He knows Ilya can feel it. Shane doesn’t look at his mouth, doesn’t let his hands linger longer than necessary when he checks his pulse, fingers cool and precise against his wrist like this is routine, like he isn’t wound tight under the surface.

His voice stays even, but there’s a thinness to it, a restraint that doesn’t belong in their bedroom. Shane can tell something is off—can feel Ilya bracing, withdrawing—but he doesn’t know why, and not knowing makes him anxious.

Ilya holds still and lets him count. The air between them hums—low, charged, waiting—while Shane clicks off the lamp and tells him to sleep, and Ilya rolls onto his side, eyes open in the dark. Shane shifts behind him. The mattress dips, then steadies. 

An arm slides around Ilya’s waist and pulls him back until Shane’s chest is flush to his spine. His knees find the backs of Ilya’s knees. The contact is full-body. Warm. Too much in the dark, too much after the bath. 

“No,” Ilya says, sharper than he means. It comes out almost panicked. He twists immediately, trying to roll, to flip them, to restore the order of things—Shane in front, tucked under his chin, contained. Safe.

Shane’s arm tightens once, not trapping him, just stopping the rotation. “Am I not allowed to hold you?” Shane asks, the grumpiness there but edged mostly with confusion.

Ilya’s pulse spikes. He doesn’t know why. It’s just an arm. Just contact. But something in his chest is climbing, hot and irrational. He feels pinned even though he isn’t. Exposed even though the room is dark.

“No, I just—” He tries again, breath shallow. The words won’t line up. His skin feels too tight. “Is my job,” he says finally, forcing it out like it will stabilize him. Like it explains the spike of adrenaline in his ribs.

Shane exhales against his shoulder blade, annoyed now. “Why,” he murmurs, “can’t I also hold you to go to sleep?”

Ilya stares into the dark. His mouth opens. Closes. His heart is beating too fast for something this small. He doesn’t understand why the position feels wrong, why his body is reacting like there’s danger when there isn’t any. He just knows he needs to move. To fix it. To not be here.

“I don’t—” he starts, and stops. The panic is disproportionate. He can feel that. Which makes it worse.

Ilya swallows.

“It is just—” He stops. Starts again. Words feel clumsy in his mouth. “If I am the one being held, then what am I for.”

Ilya turns abruptly in Shane’s arms.

The movement is clumsy—too fast for how weak he still is—but he manages it, ends up chest to chest with him, knees bumping awkwardly between Shane’s thighs. The shift steals his breath. He takes another anyway. 

“I think,” he says, forcing himself to hold Shane’s eyes in the dark, “it is why I was big asshole.”

Shane’s irritation drains instantly. His face changes. Worry first. Then something softer. Sadder.

“What?” he asks quietly.

Ilya swallows. His fingers bunch in the fabric of Shane’s T-shirt, not pulling, just grounding.

“It makes me feel bad,” he admits.

Shane’s brow furrows. He reaches up without thinking, brushing his thumb along Ilya’s cheekbone like he’s checking for fever again.

“Did me holding you make you feel bad?” he asks carefully.

Ilya nods his head once. Small.

Shane hesitates. Then, softer, almost bracing for it: “Did me washing your hair make you feel bad?”

The question lands gently.

Ilya’s throat tightens.

He nods again.

There’s no accusation in Shane’s face. Just hurt. 

“Oh,” Shane breathes.

The room tilts. Not dramatically. Not enough to fall. Just enough that the edges blur and Shane’s face feels a fraction too far away.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “You okay?”

“Mm.” Ilya nods automatically.

It’s a lie. His pulse is still racing. Too much adrenaline for a body that’s supposed to be recovering. His skin feels thin again, like it did in the kitchen. He keeps eye contact anyway. He refuses to close this. 

“But you take care of me,” Shane says carefully. Trying to understand. “You take care of the team. You take care of Anya. You take care of Hayden’s kids when they’re gross and loud and climbing on you like you’re a jungle gym.”

Ilya exhales faintly through his nose.

“You love it,” Shane continues. “You like being the one everyone leans on.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. So why is it bad when someone does it for you?”

The question lands clean.

“It is different,” he says.

“How.”

Ilya opens his mouth.

Nothing coherent comes out.

His brain is scrambling, searching for language that doesn’t sound insane.

“V Rossii tak govoryat… ‘Muzhchina dolzhen byt’ oporoy.’”
(In Russia they say… ‘A man must be the support.’)

Shane’s eyebrows pull together.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “We’re both men.” 

Ilya exhales sharply.

“That is not—” He drags a hand through his hair, already irritated. “You are doing thing.”

“What thing.”

“The literal thing.” His accent thickens when he’s frustrated. “You take words and you hold them like puzzle pieces and you try to make them fit exactly.”

Shane blinks at him. “I’m trying to understand.”

“I know.” Ilya’s voice rises anyway. “But you are making it… white and black.”

“Ilya I am trying to understand.”

“I am not saying you are woman,” Ilya snaps. “I am not saying you are not man. That is not what this is.”

“Then what is it.”

Ilya makes a helpless sound. He sits up too fast, the mattress shifting under him. His head swims briefly, but he ignores it.

“It is feeling,” he says, pressing a hand to his own chest like that will make it clearer. “It is—when I am the support, I feel good and strong. I feel… useful.”

Shane stares at him.

“Ilya,” he says slowly, trying to stay level, “I washed your hair.” Ilya flinches at the emphasis.

“I held you for, what, an hour?” Shane continues. “These aren’t big things.”

“It felt big,” Ilya snaps.

Shane sits up fully now, frustration pushing through despite himself. “You’re having a full spiral because I—what—checked your temperature and touched your head?”

Ilya’s jaw locks. “I am not spiraling.”

“You kind of are.”

The room goes tight.

“I don’t need these things,” Ilya shoots back, the words fast and sharp. 

“No one needs them,” he says. “That’s the point. It’s not about need. It’s about taking care of each other.”

“It is too much,” Ilya insists. His voice cracks on the last word and he hates that it does.

“Too much?” Shane repeats, incredulous. “I touched your hair.”

“It is too much,” Ilya says again, louder. His head throbs suddenly, a hot spike behind his eyes. He presses his fingers briefly to his temple and keeps going. “It makes me feel—”

“Like what?” Shane demands.

“Small.”

Shane throws his hands up. “That’s ridiculous.”

he word lands like a slap.

Ilya goes very still.

Something in his chest gives way.

“You think how i feel is ridiculous,” he says quietly.

“I think you’re being cruel to yourself,” Shane fires back. “You’re acting like I committed some huge violation by caring about you.”

The headache sharpens. The room edges blur again. Ilya sways where he’s sitting and braces a hand on the mattress.

“Ilya.”

“My father—” He stops. Swallows. His head pounds harder now, pulse thudding behind his eyes. “When he was sick, he hated it. Hated needing help. He said it made him less. I thought he was wrong. I thought I would not be like that.”

His vision swims. He leans back without meaning to, palm sliding behind him for support.

“And now I am,” he finishes hoarsely. “I am lying in bed while you do everything. I am making you anxious. I am making you cry. And you wash my hair—” His voice fractures. “It makes me feel like crying.”

Shane moves closer instantly.

“Ilya, stop.”

“I just don’t deserve it,” Ilya snaps anger rising to cover the fracture underneath.

Shane recoils like he’s been struck.

“Don’t,” he says immediately. It comes out low and shaking.

“Do not say that.”

Ilya’s chest is heaving now, the headache pulsing harder with every beat of his heart. He tries to push upright again, tries to hold eye contact like that will steady him, but the room slides a fraction to the left.

The fight drains out of Shane’s face mid-breath. It just… collapses. His shoulders drop. The frustration thins into something rawer. He reaches up and cups Ilya’s cheeks, both hands warm and steady, thumbs braced just under his ears.

“This is too much stress for you,” Shane says quietly.

The gentleness of it hits harder than the anger did. Ilya’s stomach drops. Embarrassment floods him, hot and immediate. He hates the implication. His cheeks burn under Shane’s palms.

“I am not—” he starts.

“Please, Baby.” Shane interrupts thumbs brushing along Ilya’s cheekbones. The way he says it pulls something tight in Ilya’s chest. “Let me take care of you,” Shane says.

The word lands like a physical thing. Shane does not use pet names. That has always been Ilya’s domain—sweetheart, solnyshko, my love whispered into Shane’s skin. Shane doesn’t do that. Shane is reserved.

Ilya can feel the heat climb from his collarbone to his ears. His breath stutters. The panic that had been climbing a second ago dissolves into something else entirely.

Shane leans forward and presses a kiss to his cheek. Then the other one. 

“Please,” he murmurs again, mouth brushing along Ilya’s jaw.

Another kiss. The corner of his mouth. His temple. 

“Let me take care of you. I want to.”

Ilya’s fingers, which had been fisted in the sheets, loosen without his permission. Shane’s lips trail down the side of his neck, warm and steady, nothing hurried in the touch. Just closeness. Just insistence.

“You don’t have to earn it,” Shane says softly against his skin. “You don’t have to be strong every second.”

Another kiss, just under his jaw.

“Let me.”

Ilya swallows. His eyes sting, and he hates that too. 

His hands come up slowly, uncertain, and settle at Shane’s waist. Not to move him. He leans in and kisses Shane. He grips the back of Shane’s neck and pulls him close, mouth warm and deep and deliberate.  It’s a surrender that tastes like pride swallowed and offered anyway. Shane makes a soft sound against his lips—surprised, pleased—and kisses him back just as firmly.

When Ilya pulls away, his breath is uneven.

“Okay, while I am sick.” he says.

Shane smiles. And the sight of it does something unexpected inside Ilya’s heart. Something warm. he’s done something right. Like he’s given Shane something good just by saying yes.

“Okay,” Shane repeats quietly.

When they lay back down Shane settles behind him again.

This time Ilya doesn’t fight it.

Shane’s arm wraps around his waist. His chest fits to his back. Knees slide into place behind his knees, familiar and firm. The position that had sparked panic minutes ago now just feels… solid.

Shane exhales against his shoulder.

Then—careful—he presses a kiss between Ilya’s shoulder blades.

Light. Almost absent.

Ilya’s breath catches anyway.

Another one. Slightly higher.

The base of his neck.

Warm lips. Unrushed. No demand behind them.

Ilya’s fingers tighten slightly where they rest over Shane’s forearm. Shane’s mouth lingers there for a second, then drifts higher. The back of his neck. The curve where muscle meets skin.

And then—The back of his ear.

Heat shoots straight down Ilya’s spine. It’s immediate. Uncontrolled. His hips twitch faintly against the mattress before he can stop them. A small sound slips out of him—breathier than he intends. Embarrassingly soft.

Ilya’s face burns in the dark. He doesn’t move away. He tries not to tense.

Shane’s teeth close gently at the edge of Ilya’s ear.

Ilya inhales sharply and slaps a hand over his own mouth, trapping the sound before it can fully form. His body arches without permission, hips shifting forward into nothing. Heat floods him, fast and humiliating.

Shanes hand tightens at Ilya’s waist for half a second—instinct—before it slides lower. Slow. Intentional. Down the flat of his stomach. Over the thin cotton of his sleep shirt. Lower still. His palm brushes the front of Ilya’s pajama pants.

Ilya makes another small, strangled sound behind his hand.

Shane’s mouth hovers at his ear now, breath warm against the damp skin he just marked.

“You are sensitive here” he murmurs quietly.

Ilya shakes his head automatically, which is ridiculous. His thighs tense. His stomach tightens under Shane’s palm. He can feel his own body responding, traitorous and obvious, beneath the soft fabric.

Shane doesn’t stop.

“Let me take care of you, baby,” he murmurs again, softer this time, the words pressed directly into the shell of Ilya’s ear. His mouth follows them. A slow kiss along the curve. Then the faint scrape of teeth. Then warmth again, lips mouthing gently at the soft rim like he’s savoring it.

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut It’s unbearable like this—being held, being kissed, not directing any of it. His breath stutters behind his palm. His body keeps feels like its on fire, helpless and immediate. 

His hand, still resting low on Ilya’s stomach, drifts again. Lower. The pad of his palm brushing deliberately over the front of his pajama pants now. Testing. Feeling the heat there through thin cotton.

Ilya makes a small sound and clamps harder over his mouth.

Shane’s other hand leaves his waist.

It slides up, gentle but certain, and curls around Ilya’s wrist. He tugs—not rough, just enough—until Ilya’s hand lowers from his mouth. Shane keeps it there, pinned lightly between his own palm and Ilya’s chest.

Shane kisses his ear again. Slower. His tongue tracing the edge before his teeth close once more, firmer this time.

Ilya gasps.

There’s no covering it now.

Shane exhales, satisfied, and lets his hand press more fully against the front of Ilya’s pants. Not rushing. Just cupping him through the fabric, feeling the shape of him hardening there.

“You think you don’t deserve it,” Shane says quietly, mouth brushing along the sensitive curve again. “Let me show you how much you do.”

Chapter 8: Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

I knew going into this that it probably wouldn’t pull the same numbers as some of my other stories. That’s okay. I’m not writing this one for reach. I’m writing it because I need to. What I didn’t expect was how thoughtful and intelligent the response would be from the people who did stay. The comments on this story have genuinely surprised me—not just with kindness, but with insight. The way some of you engage with the themes, the character psychology, the subtext—it means more than I can really articulate.

Thank you for reading. Truly.

CHAPTER EIGHT

His fingers move—not inside, not yet—just stroking through cotton, deliberate and unhurried. Every pass is measured. Every touch chosen.

Ilya reaches back anyway. Fingers groping for Shane, to feel him fall apart against him as well. Shane intercepts it. He shifts his weight, pins Ilya’s wrist against the mattress with his forearm, and his chest. Close enough that Ilya can feel the heat of him through cotton.

“No,” Shane says, rougher now.

Ilya’s breath stutters. The instinctive flare hits first—annoyance and pride—and then it turns, skids into something else entirely. 

“I want to do this for you,” Shane murmurs, mouth brushing the hinge of his jaw. “I want you to let me.”

The sentence doesn’t sound like a command. Ilya goes hot all at once, humiliation and want braided so tight he can’t separate them. His wrist stays trapped. His body stays open. His throat works around nothing.

“Shane,” he whispers, and hates the way it comes out—thin, unguarded.

“Yeah,” Shane breathes. His hand stays where it is, steady and possessive in a quiet way that makes Ilya’s mind go blank around the edges. “Good. Just… stay.”

“Let me take care of you,” Shane whispers again.

Cotton shifts. Warm skin replaces fabric. His hand slides around Ilyas's cock unhurried and deliberate. Just heat and certainty.

Ilya arches back into him before he can think better of it, pressing flush against Shane’s body—and there’s no mistaking it now, the solid heat of him, hard and unmistakable against the curve of Ilya’s ass. 

The realization of what was happening slams into Shane like a second pulse. He never thought—after all the imagining—getting this.

His breath goes thin.  Shane’s brain is barely keeping up with his body. His hand tightens as he pumps faster. Ilya makes a sound.

“Fuck,” Shane whispers.

He can feel the vibration of that sound still echoing in Ilya’s back where they’re pressed together. Feel the way Ilya’s body arches again, unguarded this time. The heat of him. The weight of him leaning back without calculation.

That does it.

Shane buries his face between Ilya’s shoulder blades. He presses his mouth there, teeth grazing lightly over muscle just to feel something solid under him. His nose drags along warm skin.

“Sh—” Ilya starts, and it breaks into another breath instead.

Shane shifts behind him. A testing roll of his hips forward, slow and deliberate, pressing into Ilya while his hand keeps moving in the same measured rhythm. The contact is feels so good. 

Ilya makes a wrecked sound at the back of his throat.

“Let go,” Shane murmurs against his skin, voice low and steady in a way that doesn’t often belong to him. 

Ilya doesn’t know where to put his hands.

One wrist is still pinned. The other curls uselessly in the sheets. His body feels too big for his own skin, every nerve lit and sparking. Shane’s hand moves with a certainty that makes thinking impossible.

He tries to breathe.

He tries to stay still.

It feels so fucking good.

The pleasure is different from what he’s used to.

Shane’s hips roll again behind him, pressing hard heat into the curve of his ass. The friction drags through cotton and skin and muscle and lands low; it feels electric.

Ilya’s mouth falls open.

Jesus Christ.

His embarrassment is still there—sharp and hot. He can feel how open he is. How reactive. The sounds coming out of him are not measured. They slip free before he can decide if they should exist.

Is this how Shane feels?

The way his spine arches without permission when Shane’s hand tightens just slightly. The way his hips chase the rhythm even as his pride screams at him to stop.

His throat works.

He’s not directing anything. He’s not choosing the angle, the pressure, the speed. He’s just… receiving it.

And it feels—

His body jerks when Shane’s mouth drags lower, teeth grazing muscle, breath hot against sweat-warmed skin. The combination makes his knees weaken even though he’s already horizontal.

Shane’s mouth returns to his ear.

Close. So close Ilya can feel the shape of his lips before the words even land.

A quiet, almost disbelieving “Fuck, Ilya.” slips from Shane’s lips.

And then—

Then Shane’s teeth close down on his ear. Ilya’s body reacts before his brain can catch up. The bite sends a clean shock down his spine—heat and pressure and something dangerously close to surrender snapping tight all at once. 

His hips jerk forward hard into Shane’s hand. A broken sound tears out of him, unfiltered and loud, and he doesn’t even have time to be embarrassed before it’s overtaken. The control he’s been clinging to all night just… drops. Ilya comes hard, body bowing off the mattress despite being pinned, breath punching out of him in a wrecked gasp. His vision whites at the edges. The sensation floods through him fast and overwhelming, bright enough to erase thought. 

Shane’s hand stays firm through it, guiding, holding, not letting him pull away.

There’s a hazy second where he can’t tell where his body ends and Shane’s begins.

Shane doesn’t stop immediately. He slows instead. Lets the wave crest and fall under his palm. His mouth stays at Ilya’s neck, teeth easing into something softer, lips brushing the place he just bit.

Ilya’s muscles go slack.

The adrenaline drains as quickly as it flared. What’s left is heat and heaviness and an almost crushing sleepiness that drops over him without warning. His brain feels cottoned over. Foggy. Safe.

Ilya shifts after a second—instinct more than thought. The fog in his head parts just enough for awareness to return in fragments. Heat still pressed behind him. The solid weight of Shane’s body. The rhythm that had been driving him moments ago now stilled.

“Wait,” Ilya murmurs, voice wrecked and soft. His hand slides back, clumsy in the dark, meaning to find Shane. To return something. To finish him too.

He twists his arm, previously pinned under Shane, reaching lower.

And stops.

Shane’s forehead is still pressed between his shoulder blades, breath still uneven against damp skin. And there’s warmth cooling at the front of Shane’s sweatpants. Faint but unmistakable. The fabric clings slightly where it shouldn’t.

Ilya stills.

Shane already came.

“Oh.”

Shane shifts first.

A quiet, practical exhale. He presses one last, almost shy kiss to Ilya’s shoulder, then carefully untangles himself. The mattress cools where he leaves it. The bathroom light flicks on a moment later.

Water runs.

Ilya hears drawers open. Fabric rustle. The soft, efficient movements of the man he loves restoring order.

Shane comes back with a warm cloth first. Doesn’t make a show of it. Just kneels on the mattress and wipes Ilya down with slow, steady strokes. His hands are warm. Certain. He cleans him like something valued. Like something handled with care.

Ilya doesn’t argue.

He lies there and lets it happen.

Shane disappears again. Comes back in clean boxers. He tosses the damp fabric into the hamper. Clicks off the bathroom light. Returns to bed.

When he slides back in its warm.

Ilya watches him settle. Watches the flush fade slowly from his skin.

And that’s when the embarrassment creeps back in fully.

His body is still loose, heavy against the mattress, but his mind is catching up now—replaying the sounds he made, the way his hips moved without permission, the way he arched like he needed it. He can feel the bite on his ear still burning.

Weak.

The word arrives automatically. He was open. Pinned. Guided. He didn’t direct anything. He didn’t decide anything. He just… took it.

Ilya swallows.

He’d been so easily wrecked. By him.

The realization settles somewhere low and steady.

So he rationalizes it. 

It was a moment.

He is tired. He is still recovering. Raw from the day.

It doesn’t mean anything.

It doesn’t rewrite anything.

Nice to not think. Nice to not manage. Nice to be held down and wanted without having to orchestrate the wanting.

Dangerous, that.

He can’t build a habit out of it.

It won’t happen again.

He shifts slightly, just enough to press his back more fully into Shane’s chest. Not surrender. Just contact.

Shane’s arm tightens reflexively around his waist in his sleep-heavy haze.

Ilya lets his eyes close.

Just tonight.

Just because he’s tired and sick.

It doesn’t change anything.

It was a moment.

He breathes out slowly, feeling the solid heat of his husband behind him, the steady rise and fall of his chest.

It won’t happen again.

And with that lie resting quietly in his ribs, Ilya falls asleep in Shane’s arms.

Chapter 9: Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

Okay, real talk: I’m not in love with this chapter. It feels a little like connective tissue, a little like filler—but I promise it’s necessary groundwork, and things do pick up next chapter. I swear. Also, I finally made a Tumblr because y’all keep leaving incredible questions and prompts in the comments, and I keep missing them, which is tragic. Come find me there (eggbasket2481) so I can actually keep up. And truly, thank you for the support on this fic. The comments have been so thoughtful and insightful; it’s very clear you’re reading closely and bringing your own brains to it. Seeing you engage with the themes and dynamics like that makes me feel like it’s landing the way I hoped, and that means more to me than I can properly articulate.

CHAPTER NINE

Morning comes clean.

No fever-damp sheets. No heat rolling off Ilya’s skin. Shane checks anyway—palm to forehead, then the back of his fingers, quiet and precise. Normal. He lets out a breath.

 In the kitchen, oatmeal simmers low on the stove. He stirs it once, twice, watching the surface thicken, focusing on small things: the steady flame, the measured scoop of salt, the way the spoon scrapes the bottom of the pot.

Ilya’s temperature stayed down all night. He slept straight through. No fever dreams. No shaking. That’s what Shane is paying attention to. 

He doesn’t think about the other heat. 

The sounds Ilya made. The way his body felt against his. Oatmeal thickens. Steam rises soft and harmless. Shane turns the burner off and tells himself this is what he’s paying attention to. Oatmeal. 

He balances the tray carefully. Bowl. Water. Pills. Spoon.

Upstairs, the bedroom is quiet in that late-morning way—light already confident through the curtains. Ilya is on his back, dead asleep. One arm flung out. Mouth parted slightly. His shirt has ridden up, exposing the flat plane of his stomach, the faint line of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his sleep pants. The skin there is pale gold in the sunlight. Warm-looking. 

Shane stops in the doorway.

Jesus.

His first thought is immediate and obscene: wake him up with his mouth. Heat drops low and sharp. He feels himself hardening before he can shut it down. He shakes his head. He came in his pants like a teenager last night for fuck’s sake. His grip tightens on the tray. This is not helpful. This is not productive. Ilya is recovering from a kidney infection. He needs fluids. Calories. Rest.

Not this.

Shane exhales slowly through his nose and steps into the room.

Focus.

Oatmeal. Spoon. Temperature. Not the thin trail of hair leading down. Not the stretch of his stomach when he breathes in. Not the way his large thighs shift faintly under the sheets. Not how pink his nipples had looked in the steam, flushed and soft against overheated skin. Not the distracting, treacherous curiosity about what else might be that same shade.

He sets the tray on the dresser before he does something profoundly unhelpful.

Ilya doesn’t wake. He rolls onto his belly instead. Slow, unconscious. One leg kicks free of the sheets and hooks up, the other stretches long across the mattress. The movement drags his shirt higher. The angle—god.

Shane’s breath stalls.

The line of his waist. The curve of his hip. The full, unselfconscious sprawl of him. It does obscene things to the shape of his ass. Shane’s situation in his pants does not improve.

He loves when Ilya takes control. Loves when he’s the one being pressed down, kissed into silence, brain going fuzzy and obedient under steady hands. But getting that taste of Ilya soft like that—open, reactive, not steering—

It did something.

It pulled something loose.

Shane stands hands in fists and a hard-on he absolutely does not have time for, feeling split down the middle. Part of him wants the familiar gravity of being held down and unraveled. The other part—

The other part wants to cross the room, get both hands on Ilya's hips, and see if Ilya would make that sound again in the daylight.

He exhales slowly.

He should go on a run. So he leaves before he does something reckless.

Shane’s always loved running.

He loves the way it clears his head. The rhythm. The predictability. Left foot. Right foot. Breath in, breath out. There’s a structure to it. A measurable outcome. You push, your body answers. It makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is where all of this is coming from.

The gravel path curves along the lake, sunlight flashing between trees. His stride evens out after the first mile. His lungs settle. His shoulders drop. Running has always been the easiest way to regulate; he runs until the static thins. 

Ilya being sick was a rupture. Losing him is not an abstract fear. It’s concrete and terrifying.  That part makes sense to him, of course. 

What doesn’t make sense is the rest.

The part that woke up when he was holding him. When Ilya made that sound. When he felt him soften. Shane has always loved the steadiness of Ilya—the way he anchors, the way he steps forward without hesitation.

Shane fits into that. Has always fit. And honestly, it was easy to fit there. 

He’s been called pretty his whole life—and not kindly, not the way Ilya says it, warm and deliberate. Teammates use it like a smirk. Opponents use it like a downgrade. Softer. Smaller. Less dangerous. He knows exactly what they mean. He knows what they’re looking at when they say it.

He doesn’t mind being soft for Ilya. In fact, he loves it. He likes melting. Likes the way his body goes loose under steady hands, the way he can let go without it costing him anything.

Because with Ilya, it isn’t that. It’s not something projected onto him before he even opens his mouth. It’s trust. It’s chosen. That’s the difference.

And maybe that’s why this new pull feels so sharp.

Shane doesn’t want dominance for the sake of it. He just wants the reverse of that trust. He wants Ilya to go soft in his hands. To lean back without calculating the angle. To be held without bracing for impact. And yesterday, for a second, he did.

Shane inhales sharply and pushes harder up the incline.

He slows near the bend in the path, heart thudding, and that’s when he sees it—caught low in a scrubby bush by the waterline.

A ribbon.

It's thick and long, bright against the muted greens and browns.

He stops running.

For a second he just stands, hands on his hips, breath evening out. The ribbon flutters faintly in the breeze, snagged on a branch. Satin, maybe. Or something close to it.

He steps off the path and reaches for it.

The fabric slides free with almost no resistance. It pools in his hand, shockingly smooth.

He runs his thumb over it once.

Silk-soft. Cool from the air.

He goes still.

Huh. 

By the time Ilya blinks awake, the room is empty. Sunlight is fuller now, warm across the sheets. His head feels clear. No pounding. No cotton behind his eyes. He lies still for a second, taking inventory. Body heavy but functional. No dizziness when he pushes up onto his elbows. That’s good. 

The floor stays where it is.

A tray waits on the dresser. Oatmeal. Water. Pills. Spoon placed exactly parallel to the bowl. Ilya stares at it for a moment. So careful. Sos sweet. He picks it up himself. He eats standing by the window.

Last night sits under his skin like a bruise he keeps pressing just to see if it still hurts. He swallows hard and takes another bite.

It was a moment. He was tired. Raw. Off balance.

Today he isn’t. He finishes the oatmeal, takes the pills, drinks the water. Sets the tray down neatly. Breathes.

He has his show.

And he knows exactly how it’s going to start.

Hands firm at Shane’s shoulders. A decisive push.

Mattress.

Weight.

Control restored.

He feels better already.

He rolls his shoulders once, testing the strength there.

Yes.

Today, he turns it back.

Shane comes back flushed and damp, shirt clinging to his spine, hair darker at the temples. The door snaps shut behind him. Ilya is already at the bottom of the stairs.

“You should be in bed,” Shane says immediately, breath still uneven.

“I feel better.” Ilya steps in anyway. Close. Close enough to feel the heat still coming off him. He slides his hands up Shane’s ribs and pulls him in, mouth landing firm and sure. Shane kisses him back for half a second—warm, automatic—then breaks it.

“I have to wash something,” he says, too quick.

Ilya blinks. “What.”

Shane’s eyes flick past him toward the hallway. “Just—laundry. I’m gross.”

“You are always gross after run.” Ilya tries again, slower this time. His hand drops, squeezes Shane’s ass through damp fabric, playful and claiming. “I do not mind.”

Shane huffs a breath that isn’t quite a laugh. His hands hover at Ilya’s waist but don’t settle. “I mind. I need a shower.” He steps back a fraction, and that fraction is wrong. His fingers dip into his pocket, adjusting something inside. He does it again.

Ilya’s gaze drops to his mouth. Still pink from the run. Still a little swollen from the kiss he cut short.

“What about my show,” he asks, voice lower now. 

Shane’s ears go red almost instantly. “That’s tonight,” he says, trying for firm and landing somewhere breathless. “If you’re good.”

“I am good.”

“You’re out of bed,” Shane shoots back. “That’s not good.”

“I feel fine.”

“That’s not the same thing.” Shane shifts again, fingers brushing his pocket like he forgot they were doing that. “You get the show tonight. If you rest. Which means not prowling around ambushing me.”

“I am not prowling,” Ilya says, already stepping back in. His hands find Shane’s hips again, firmer this time. “I am appreciating.”

Shane inhales sharply when Ilya pulls him close. Sweat-damp shirt, flushed skin, heartbeat still elevated from the run. Ilya presses his mouth to the side of his neck, slow, deliberate. Tests.

“Upstairs,” Ilya murmurs against his skin. “Five minutes.”

Shane’s hands land on his shoulders to steady him—not pushing away, just holding him in place. “Ilya.”

“Shane.”

Ilya lifts his head, eyes dark and intent. He slides a hand down Shane’s back, fingers curling at his waistband like he’s about to drag him toward the stairs anyway.

Shane swallows.

“Tonight,” he says, and this time there’s something steady under it. He steps forward instead of back, closing the space Ilya just tried to claim. “If you’re good.”

His hand comes up to cup Ilya’s jaw—firm, not tentative. He leans in and kisses him. Slow enough to make a point of it. His mouth is warm and deliberate against Ilya’s, lingering just long enough that Ilya’s grip tightens reflexively at his waist.

Shane pulls back a fraction, close enough that their foreheads almost touch.

 

Chapter 10: Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

So Ilya is good all day.

He drinks the green sludge soup without complaint. Nods when Shane explains the benefits like he’s being briefed before a playoff series. Carrot-ginger-kale-something. Lentil Something else. A soup that tastes like regret and boiled air. He eats it.

Ilya even does yoga with Shane in the afternoon. On the mat. Quiet lake outside the windows, light sliding over the water in long silver streaks. Anya pads in halfway through, nails ticking softly on the hardwood before she decides the middle of Shane’s mat is the exact place she needs to be. She flops down with a dramatic sigh, chin on her paws, watching them like this is deeply disappointing.

Shane folds forward anyway, long and precise, palms flat, spine straight. He bends around the dog without complaint. Ilya pretends to mirror him while mostly watching the line of Shane’s back, the curve beneath the waistband of his shorts.

“Stop staring,” Shane says, still bent in half.

“I am not staring. I am appreciating.”

Anya lifts her head and thumps her tail once, like she agrees.

Shane gives him a look and then rolls onto his back, nudging Anya gently aside with his foot. She immediately decides this is play and crawls onto his stomach instead. Shane exhales through his nose but doesn’t break form. He lifts one leg straight toward the ceiling, the other extended long along the mat. He threads a strap over the raised foot, ankle flexed, hamstring taut as wire. Then, without strain, he guides that lifted leg slowly out to the side. Open. Controlled. It hovers there suspende

Ilya mirrors him. Or thinks he does. He grabs for his own foot, drags the leg up, feels the pull, and assumes that’s the point. 

Shane’s head tilts. “You’re not stacked.”

“I am very stacked.”

“You’re not.” Shane pushes up onto his elbows and looks at him properly. “Your hip’s rolling.”

Shane doesn’t hesitate. He shifts forward and settles between Ilya’s legs instead, knees braced on either side of his hips. Close enough that Ilya feels the heat of him through thin fabric.

“You’re tilting,” Shane says.

“I am not.”

Shane leans over him to check, and this time his hand comes down low—lower than necessary—palm pressing into the inside of Ilya’s hip, thumb settling in that sensitive crease where thigh meets pelvis. He pins him there before lifting Ilya’s ankle higher, guiding the leg straighter, then easing it outward again.

The correction sharpens everything. The stretch turns clean and brutal, pulling deep through the groin and hamstring. Shane’s grip tightens as if to keep him from shifting, fingers spread, steady.

“Keep this grounded,” he murmurs, leaning in close enough that his breath brushes Ilya’s stomach.

Ilya’s cheeks heat despite himself, jaw tight, breath uneven.

What the hell.

By dinner, he’s vibrating.

His husband was in those little workout shorts Ilya loves so much. Theyre indecent. Soft grey, cut high on the thigh, fabric clinging just enough. And one of Ilya’s sweaters—oversized, collar slipping off one shoulder so that smooth skin shows, golden and freckled in the kitchen light. He’s focused stirring something at the stove, posture easy. Steam curls up around him. Ilya leans against the wall and stares openly now. There's no hiding it. The line of his legs. The round, unfair shape of his ass beneath thin fabric. The way the sweater hem barely covers anything when he shifts his weight.

Ilyas's back doesn’t ache anymore. His head is clear. There’s no fog, no restraint, just heat crawling under his skin.

He moves without announcing it. Crosses the kitchen in three steps and crowds in close behind him, chest to back, hands landing full and unapologetic on Shane’s ass. He gives it a firm squeeze. A low breath leaves him before he can stop it. He dips his head, mouth finding the long column of Shane’s throat where the sweater hangs loose, pressing slow kisses up toward his jaw. Teeth grazing once, not hard. Just enough.

“Ilya,” Shane says, but it isn’t a warning.

Ilya hums against his skin and keeps going. Kisses turn slower, wetter. He drags his mouth up Shane’s throat, across the hinge of his jaw, back down again like he’s mapping it. One hand stays firm on his ass. The other slides around his hip, fingers slipping under the waistband of those stupid little shorts, knuckles brushing warm skin as he pushes for more.

Shane catches his wrist.

Not rough. Just decisive.

“You have to wait,” he says, voice already thinner than he wants it to be. “After dinner.”

Ilya stills behind him. Pressed close. Breathing hot against Shane’s ear. “Ili my seychas trahemsya,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of Shane’s ear, “a potom ya poluchu svoyo shou posle uzhina.” (Or we fuck now, and then I get my show after dinner.)

His teeth graze lightly. His hand flexes once against Shane’s hip, still caught but not retreating.

And then Shane moves. He turns inside Ilya’s grip, fast and clean, and before Ilya can recalibrate, Shane’s hands slide under his thighs. A sharp lift. Effortless. Shane pivots and sets him back onto the kitchen island behind them, legs spreading on instinct as his balance shifts.

What—

Shane steps in close, up on his toes to reach him, and kisses him hard. Mouth firm and claiming, stealing the breath right out of him. Ilya goes still under it, stunned, then melts into it a second too late. By the time he catches up, Shane is already pulling away. Turns back to the stove. Picks up the spoon.

Without looking over his shoulder, calm as ever, he says in Russian:

“Ty podozhdyosh.”

You will wait.

No. No, he would not. 

Ilya gets off the counter like it's on fire and reaches past Shane and twists the burner off. The click is sharp. Final. Before Shane can react, Ilya’s hands are on him—one at his waist, one under his thigh—and then he’s lifted clean off the floor. A startled breath leaves him, more surprised than protesting. Ilya doesn’t slow down. He turns, carries him the few steps to the couch, and drops him onto the cushions with enough force to make the sweater slip lower off Shane’s shoulder.

Shane lands on his back and immediately pushes up onto his elbows, legs falling open from the momentum. The shorts ride higher. Indecent. He doesn’t scramble. Doesn’t fix them.

“no,” Ilya tells him, voice rough now, standing over him, broad and certain. “Ya ne budu zhdat’.” (I will not wait.)

Shane doesn’t move. Just stretches out on the couch like he belongs there. One knee bends, slow, heel digging into the cushion. The sweater slips further, baring that sharp shoulder. He looks up at Ilya from under his lashes, maddeningly composed.

“Do you want something fun after dinner,” he asks evenly, “or not?”

Ilya laughs once. Sharp and full of disbelief. He steps in closer instead of backing off, hands braced on either side of Shane’s hips, caging him in. “I want you now,” he says. No joke in it. He’s flushed and wrecked and not hiding it. “I do not care about soup. I do not care about show. I want you.”

Shane’s mouth twitches. “Then you should probably behave.”

That does it.

Ilya leans down, close enough that their noses almost brush, eyes bright and a little wild. “You think I cannot take what I want?” he murmurs, daring him. But he doesn’t move to prove it. He just stays there, breathing hard, hands flexing against the couch. 

Shane doesn’t flinch. He just watches him. Breath steadying on purpose.

“And what do you want?” he asks quietly.

Ilya’s jaw tightens. His hands slide from the couch to Shane’s hips, fingers spreading, thumbs pressing into the dip just above the waistband. He leans closer, voice dropping rough and unfiltered.

“I am going to bend you over arm of this couch,” he says, gaze flicking briefly to the edge of the couch and back. “I am going to hold you there. My hands right here.” His grip firms, not hurting, but claiming. “And I will eat you out until you’re begging for my cock.”

Shane feels it. Every word. The image alone makes heat coil low in his stomach, sharp and immediate. 

God. That sounds nice. 

For a second, he almost says yes. But that isn’t all that Shane wants right now. 

He reaches up instead. Slides his hands from Ilya’s wrists to his forearms, steadying him there between his legs. Close. Warm. Breathing hard. Ilya looks wrecked. Flushed across the cheekbones. Pupils blown. Shane swallows once.

“Can I go first?” he asks quietly.

The words shift the air. Not defiant. Not coy. Just clear.

Ilya blinks. It’s subtle, but Shane catches it. The recalculation. The instinct to push back.

Before he can, Shane eases one hand down, slipping it into the pocket of the oversized sweater. The ribbon freshly washed and ironed. He feels the satin between his fingers before he pulls it free.

He holds it up between them. Not dangling it like a threat. Not waving it. Just there. A question.

Shane’s eyes lift to Ilya’s face.

“Can I?”

Ilya quirks a brow at the ribbon between Shane’s fingers. A slow smile follows.

“Those are for your wrists?” he asks. 

Shane’s mouth tilts. He smooths the satin once between his thumb and forefinger, considering him.

“Not exactly,” he says. His gaze drops deliberately to Ilya’s eyes, then back up again. “I was thinking they could be for your eyes.”

Ilya’s smile lingers, crooked and sharp. “I want to watch my show,” he says lightly, but his eyes don’t leave the ribbon. “I waited all day. I behaved. I suffered your green soup.”

Shane shifts beneath him, unhurried. One hand still wrapped around Ilya’s forearm. The other trails up. “I don’t want you to see it,” he says honestly. His thumb presses once, grounding. “I mostly want you to feel it.”

Ilya huffs a laugh. “I can feel just fine with my eyes open.”

“Not like this.” Shane’s voice drops. He leans up just enough that their mouths almost touch, breath shared. “You think too much.” His hand slides higher, guiding without looking like it. 

“That’s you who does that,” Ilya mutters, distracted now. Shane’s fingers at his hip have tightened. Subtle pressure. Steering. Ilya adjusts to stay over him, bracing one hand on the back of the couch for balance.

Shane follows that movement. Turns into it. His grip changes from resting to directing. A small pull at Ilya’s arm. A shift of his own torso. He uses Ilya’s momentum against him, rolling slightly, guiding him down the length of the couch instead of up. It feels like closeness. It feels like kissing.

It isn’t.

Ilya’s back meets the armrest before he clocks what’s happened. Shane above him now, one knee between his thighs, sweater falling loose at the collar.

Ilya blinks up at him.

Shane’s pulse is loud in his ears. Heat sitting low and insistent. He shifts his knee slightly between Ilya’s thighs and feels the response immediately. God.

The ribbon rests loose in his hand. He doesn’t lift it yet.

“I need you to tell me yes or no,” Shane says. No edge. His free hand slides up Ilya’s chest, slow enough to feel the rise and fall beneath his palm. Ilya looks away first. It’s subtle, but it’s there. His jaw tightens. The bravado drains off his mouth like it was never real. He swallows once, eyes flicking to the side instead of holding Shane’s.

Pink creeps up his throat. Across his cheekbones. He closes his eyes, head turning away from Shane.

Then he nods.

Holy shit.

Something in Shane’s chest snaps tight and bright. Shane lifts the ribbon. The satin brushes Ilya’s temple first, cool from the air. Ilya’s breath stutters, but he doesn’t pull away. Shane slides it across gently, aligning it over the curve of his brow, the bridge of his nose. He ties it behind his head, firm enough to stay, not tight enough to bite.

Shane looks down at him—broad shoulders pinned to the couch, hands flexing once against the cushions, blindfold stark against his flushed skin—and feels his brain tilt sideways.

“Okay,” Shane murmurs, more to himself than anything.

He leans down and lets his mouth hover first, close enough that Ilya can feel the warmth without the touch. A breath. Another. Then his lips find Ilya’s—soft and careful at first. Shane kisses him again and again. Ilya answers on instinct, mouth opening, breath catching. Without his sight, he’s all reaction. All heat and pulse and the drag of Shane’s lower lip between his teeth.

Shane really likes that. Likes how Ilya melts a fraction too late, how he chases the kiss instead of controlling it. He shifts his knee higher between Ilya’s thighs and feels the sharp inhale that follows. His hand slides up to Ilya’s jaw, thumb brushing the edge of his mouth before dipping back in. Kiss after kiss, unhurried, mapping him by touch instead of sight. The ribbon makes Ilya’s face look softer.

“I’m right here,” Shane murmurs against his mouth. Ilya exhales. His fingers curl into the couch beneath him, knuckles whitening, and he tips his chin up blindly, offering more.

Shane takes it. Ilya’s breathing has changed. Not frantic. Not panicked. Just heavier. Open. 

A crooked smile pulls at his mouth.

“So,” he says, voice rough but trying for flippant, “are you going to put my dick in your mouth any time soon?”

Shane stills above him.

Then he leans in close. Not to his mouth. Not yet.

His lips brush the shell of Ilya’s ear.

“No,” he whispers.

The word is soft. Certain.

Ilya’s fingers twitch against the couch.

“Not exactly.”

Shane moves before Ilya can brace for it. A hand at his hip, the other guiding his shoulder, and suddenly the world tilts. The couch shifts under him, breath knocked from his lungs as he’s turned and pressed forward over the armrest. The position is unmistakable.

“Shane—?” It slips out of Ilya,

Shane’s hand stays firm at the center of his back. Grounding. “this okay?” he asks quietly.

Ilya is hard. Painfully. The blindfold makes everything louder—the press of fabric, the warmth at his spine, the air against the back of his thighs. He doesn’t trust his voice. So he nods again. Small. just once. Heat climbs his throat, settles high in his cheeks. He can feel it spreading. He knows exactly what he looks like right now—bent over the arm of the couch, blindfolded, flushed, already wrecked—and the knowledge only makes it worse.

A slow exhale behind him. Shane somehow gets closer. Fingers hook into the waistband of Ilya’s shorts and ease them down just enough. 

Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

I watched that scene where Ilya apologizes for crying in the hotel room like… twelve times before writing this. The fact that it was probably the first time in a LONG TIME he ever opened like that and THEN he FUCKING apologized for it—genuinely haunts me. Like sir??? That man needed to be held immediately. *CRACKS KNUCKLES* 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

There’s the brush of breath first.

Warm. Close.

Then—

Tongue.

Pressing, slow and deliberate, against his hole. Ilya jerks before he can stop himself. A sharp inhale rips out of him, fingers digging hard into the couch. The sensation is nothing like he imagined. It isn’t rough. It isn’t what he would’ve done. It’s measured. Curious. A slow glide that lingers just long enough to make his stomach drop.

“Oh—” The sound escapes him, wrecked and startled.

Another pass. Firmer this time. The warmth of it, the wet pressure against him and Ilya’s knees nearly buckle. He presses down harder into the armrest instead, forehead grazing the fabric as his hips twitch forward on instinct. Mortifying. He can’t see anything. He doesn’t know where Shane’s hands are until one settles at his ass the other at his hip, steadying him, thumb pressing into the dip of his waist.

The blindfold turns everything into pulse and heat. Every drag of that tongue feels magnified. 

He’s sensitive. Too sensitive. The contact shifts slightly—angle changing, mouth opening more fully against him—and it feels like his nerves have been rewired. His breath goes uneven. He hates the sound of it. His thighs tense, then tremble.

“Shane—” It comes out half warning, half plea.

Another slow press. A flick. A deeper glide that makes his head drop forward completely.

It feels—Fuck.

It feels so good he can’t even form the thought properly.

Embarrassment crawls up his spine, mixes with the heat pooling low in his stomach. He knows how exposed he is. Knows Shane can see everything—the way his back arches without permission, the way he pushes back into it instead of away.

He bites down on his own knuckle to keep from making another sound.

It doesn’t help.

The next stroke goes inside. 

“Oh—fuck.”

It isn’t what he expected. It isn’t careful in the way he would’ve been careful. It’s assured; Shane knows how this feels. The sensation changes—broad, warm pressure turning into something that presses inward, not just against, and the shock of it knocks the air clean out of him.

“Shane—”

His name breaks.

There’s a moment, half a second, where his brain tries to catch up. How did he get here? Blindfolded. Bent over the arm of his own couch. Letting this happen. Letting Shane—

Another slow, insistent movement of mouth and tongue goes in deeper, and whatever thought he had dissolves completely.

It hits somewhere that feels electric. A place he’d only ever mapped on Shane—charted, memorized, mastered. He never considered the same wiring might exist in him. That something buried that deep could spark like that.

It snaps through him and his back arches before he can stop it, helpless and unguarded.

A sound comes out of him.

Not a groan. Not a curse. Something higher. Breathier and wrong.

“oh—” He can’t even finish it.

Shane shifts slightly. Changes the angle. And then he finds it again.

That spot. That exact, devastating place inside of him that is making Ilya’s thighs shake and his vision flare white behind the blindfold.

His knees nearly give out.

“Oh—oh—”

He’s never made this much noise before. It spills out of him without permission, desperate and thin. His fingers claw at the couch, knuckles aching. His hips jerk back instead of away, chasing the pressure like his body has already decided this is the only thing that matters.

What is wrong with him?

Another slow, deliberate press of tongue against that same place, and his head drops forward with a broken sound.

Fuck it.

It feels too good right now to care. 

He pushes back again, shameless now, breath wrecked, chest heaving. “D-don’t—don’t stop,” he hears himself say, voice rough and unsteady and nothing like the cool, arrogant thing he usually is.

And somewhere under the embarrassment and disbelief—

He wants more.

Ilya’s breath is wrecked. His hips push back again, chasing the warmth from Shane’s tongue, desperate for that same angle, that same devastating press.

“Shane,” he grits out. “More.”

The movement behind him stills. A beat of nothing. No mouth. No pressure. Just air cooling damp skin.

Ilya makes a frustrated sound low in his throat. A hand slides up his spine instead. Slow. Centered. Shane’s thumb presses between his shoulder blades, grounding him there over the armrest.

“Tell me what you need, baby.”

The word lands like a strike to the ribs. Ilya’s face burns hotter. He can’t see him. That makes it worse. He can feel the way he’s open. The way he’s shaking. 

“You know what,” he snaps, but it comes out thinner than he wants.

Silence. Then the slow brush of lips against the back of his thigh instead. Not where he needs it. Not even close. Deliberate.

Ilya’s hips twitch uselessly.

“Use your words,” Shane murmurs.

Another soft drag of mouth, higher this time, teasing the inside of his thigh instead of returning to his hole. Ilya’s breathing turns sharp and uneven.

“This is stupid,” he mutters.

“Maybe.” Shane’s fingers flex lightly at his hip. 

Ilya swallows. His pride fights it. He doesn’t beg. He wouldn’t.

Another slow, deliberate press of lips—closer now, but still not there.

“Shane—”

“Tell me.”

Ilya’s fingers curl hard into the couch. He drops his forehead to the upholstery again, shoulders tense.

“fingers,” he says finally, strained. 

A pause Shane dosen’t move.

Fuck. 

“Please.”

It’s quiet. Almost swallowed.

But it’s there.

The reward is immediate.

His mouth returns, firmer now, deeper against him and Ilya’s whole body jolts. The angle sharpens. That same sweet, blinding pressure hits again and he gasps, completely undone.

“Ah—”

He doesn’t get time to recover.

There’s a new sensation—cool air for half a breath—then the slow, deliberate press of slicked fingers at his hole. Testing. Not pushing yet.

Ilya freezes.

“Okay?” Shane asks softly.

Ilya nods too fast. “Da.”

The first slow entry is careful. Measured. A stretch that makes him suck in air through his teeth. Without being able to see hes so aware of it. Of how open he is…of just how much he wants it.

The finger presses deeper. The mouth doesn’t stop. The combination fractures him. A second finger brushes at the edge of his prostate.

Ilya makes another sound he doesn’t recognize. 

Shane doesn’t rush at first. The fingers inside him move with slow purpose. Curling. Exploring. He knows where to aim. Ilya can feel that knowledge in every measured stroke. Then the pace changes. His hand stays at his hip, thumb digging in to keep him steady. While the fingers inside him go deeper. Faster.

Ilya gasps hard, forehead grinding into the couch as his body reacts before his mind can catch up. He’s not used to this. Not used to being the one opened up and worked apart. He’s had fingers before—brief, controlled, part of something else.

This is different. 

It’s overwhelming. Too much and not enough at the same time. He might cum from this alone.

“Sha—” His voice breaks outright now.

The rhythm doesn’t slow. It builds. Shane’s thumb presses at the base of his spine, holding him in place while his other hand works with growing confidence. The pace sharpens. Fingers curling with precision that feels almost unfair. 

Of course, Shane knows what he's doing.

Ilya’s breath turns ragged. His hips try to move with it, then against it, then give up entirely. His thighs won’t stop trembling. His cock aches, untouched and desperate, but the attention does not shifts.

 He makes a sound he would deny later. High. Strained. A whine. 

There.

That spot again.

The fingers press, curl, withdraw, return—relentless. A steady claiming rhythm that leaves no room for him to recover. His body tightens around it instinctively, and that only seems to encourage the pace.

He’s losing the shape of himself.

All of it burns away under the steady pressure of Shane’s hand and the heat of his mouth at the back of his neck.

“I—” His voice fractures completely. “Fuck—”

He feels like he is melting. His knees shake. His shoulders strain under Shane’s palm, holding him down. And instead of fighting it—instead of pushing back into control 

He lets it happen.

And God, it feels good.

Ilya is wrecked beneath him.

Shane didn’t know he would look like this.

Broad back bowed over the armrest, muscles shifting under flushed skin. The blindfold stark against the pink heat spreading down his neck. Even his shoulders are blushing. Shane feels powerful. Every sound Ilya makes lands directly towards his own hardening cock.

The broken gasps. The way his voice thins when Shane curls his fingers just right. The helpless arch of his hips when his mouth presses deeper at his entrance. Ilya is trying to hold himself together and failing beautifully.

God.

His ass—Round and flushed and flexing every time Shane’s fingers move inside him. Even the skin there is turning pink. Shane drags his thumb over the curve once, just to feel it tense.

He wants to fuck him.

The thought hits hard and immediate.

He wants to line himself up and push forward and watch Ilya’s composure shatter completely. Wants to feel that strength give way under him. Wants to see how far he can take it.

But—He’s not sure Ilya’s ready for that.

So instead, he leans forward. Presses his mouth to the back of Ilya’s shoulder first. A slow kiss. Then another. His lips trace over the moles scattered across his back. He loves those. He wants to make him cum like this.

He bites lightly at the slope of his shoulder. Ilya jolts with a sound that’s almost a shout.

Shane smiles against his skin. He moves higher, mouth sliding to the curve where neck meets shoulder. Another bite. Firmer. Then he shifts to Ilya’s ear. Just brushes it first.

That’s all it takes.

Ilya’s reaction is instant—a sharp, helpless cry torn straight from his chest. His whole body arches violently, hips jerking back against Shane’s hand.

Oh.

Shane’s pulse jumps.

He presses his mouth closer to Ilya’s ear, breath hot against the shell of it. Teeth grazing gently before he soothes it with his tongue. “So sensitive,” he whispers into it. 

Ilya makes a noise that is dangerously close to a sob. Shane’s grip tightens at his hip. His fingers keep moving inside him. His mouth stays at his ear. He shifts behind him, breath unsteady now. He slides his hand from Ilya’s shoulder down to his waist, guiding his thighs closer together. Pressing them tight. Holding them there.

Ilya makes a confused, breathless sound.

Shane doesn’t explain; he just pulls down his shorts.

He leans down, spits into his palm, the sound obscene in the quiet room, and reaches between them. The contact makes him suck in air through his teeth. He moves once, slow, testing the angle against the press of Ilya’s thighs.

Fuck.

He sets a rhythm.

Not inside. Just between his squeezed thighs. The pressure builds fast, the drag sharp and immediate. Ilya’s body reacts to the movement even though it isn’t for him—hips twitching, muscles clenching around Shane’s fingers that never slow, never lose that precise, devastating curl inside him.

The pace changes.

Faster now. The friction against his thighs, cocks rubbing together it grows slick and urgent. Shane’s forehead drops against Ilya’s spine for a second, breath hot and uneven. He keeps moving his fingers inside him at the same relentless tempo, fingers driving in and out with intention. The dual rhythm makes Ilya’s noises climb higher, unraveling.

Shane bites at his neck again. Harder this time. Then sucks at the skin below his ear until he feels Ilya’s whole body jerk.

“Shane—fuck—please” It’s wrecked. It’s helpless. Shane wants to ruin him. His mouth latches to his ear again, teeth grazing, tongue soothing over the sting. He knows what that does to him. He can feel it in the way Ilya tightens around his fingers. The way his thighs shake when Shane increases the speed just slightly.

He keeps them pressed together. Keeps the friction sharp. Keeps his mouth working over neck, ear and jaw, alternating between soft and punishing. Ilya is shaking now. Fully. His hands claw uselessly at the couch. His hips can’t decide whether to push back into the fingers or away from the overwhelming sensation building low in his body.

“Don’t—” Ilya gasps. “Don’t stop—”

Shane doesn’t.

He can feel himself getting close the friction too good, too constant. His movements turn rougher without meaning to. His fingers inside Ilya lose their teasing patience and drive deeper, hitting that same spot again and again. Each time makes Ilya cry out.

The sound of it snaps something loose in Shane.

He bites down at the curve of Ilya’s shoulder as he thrusts harder against the tight press of his thighs, hand relentless, mouth open against flushed skin.

Ilya’s whole body goes rigid.

A broken shout tears out of him as he cums violently around Shane’s fingers, hips jerking, thighs trembling so hard Shane has to hold them in place. Shane follows a split second later—rhythm faltering, breath punching out of him as he finishes with a low, rough groan against Ilya’s neck.

For a few seconds, there’s nothing but the sound of both of them breathing.

Shane keeps his hand inside him, slowing gradually, easing him down from it instead of pulling away immediately. His mouth softens too—small kisses pressed to the side of Ilya’s neck now instead of bites.

Ilya’s body is still trembling.

Shane presses one last, gentle kiss beneath his ear.

Ilya’s head is cotton. Not fever-fog—something softer. He blinks against the blindfold swallowing air like it has weight. Shane’s hands move with that same steady competence, unhurried now: easing him down, untangling him from the armrest, guiding him onto his side like he’s something precious. The ribbon loosens; light slips in. Ilya squints, lashes wet, mouth parted. He knows that helooks wrecked in a way that makes him angry on reflex, then quiet when Shane’s palm cups his jaw.

“Hey,” Shane says, close. Not teasing. Just there. He presses a kiss to the spot beneath Ilya’s ear—no teeth this time—then another to his temple. A warm cloth appears, a glass of water. Shane has already thought of it. Ilya takes the water because it’s easier than refusing. His fingers shake a little. He hates that, too, but he doesn’t pull his hand away when Shane’s thumb strokes over his knuckles.

Ilya can’t quite meet his eyes. The flush hasn’t faded; it’s worse now in the quiet. His lashes lower, jaw tight like he’s bracing for a joke that never comes. He feels exposed in a way that has nothing to do with skin. The water glass trembles faintly in his grip, and he focuses on that instead of the way Shane is looking at him—soft, almost awed.

Shane doesn’t comment. He just shifts closer, thigh pressing to thigh, and tips Ilya’s chin up gently when he keeps staring at the floor. 

“Hey,” he says again, quieter. 

Ilya’s breathing doesn’t settle—in fact it picks up. It should. He knows it should. His body is loose, spent, tucked warm against Shane’s. Shane’s hand is steady at his back. The room is safe.

But something in his ribs tightens instead. His fingers curl in the fabric of Shane’s shirt. His breath turns shallow. He swallows, and it doesn’t help. Heat drains out of him all at once, replaced by a thin, crawling panic that makes no sense.

Shane feels it immediately. He pulls back just enough to see his face. “Hey—hey. What’s wrong?” His voice changes fast. 

Ilya shakes his head too quickly. “Nothing. I am fine.” He can’t get a full breath.

Shane sits up straighter, hands bracketing Ilya’s face now. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” Immediate. Quickly pulling his face from Shane’s hands. “No, you did nothing wrong.”

Shane searches him, anxiety blooming just as fast. “Did you not like it?”

Ilya lets out a strained laugh that sounds nothing like him. “I liked it.” His hands drag through his own hair. “That is—this is problem.”

Shane goes very still. “What?”

Ilya pushes upright, then immediately regrets it. The room tilts slightly. His heart is racing. 

Shane looks horrified. 

Ilya swallows. His voice drops lower, stripped down. “I was not thinking. I was just—” He makes a small, helpless motion with his hand. “Gone.”

That word sits heavier than the rest.

Shane’s anxiety spikes anyway. “Gone how? Ilya, talk to me.”

“I let you.” It comes out rough. Honest in a way he’s not practiced at. “I let you do whatever—.” His jaw tightens again. “And I wanted.” He looks away when he says it cheeks flushing.

Shane’s shoulders soften a fraction, but his eyes are still wide. “Okay?”

Ilya shakes his head. “No. Not okay. I do not—” He searches for something sharper. “I do not lose like that.”

Shane’s expression shifts, stung. “You didn’t lose.”

Ilya’s laugh is thin. “I was shaking.”

“Because it felt good.” Shane frowns, genuinely thrown. There’s no smugness in it. Just confusion. “That’s… that’s normal.”

 He runs a hand through his hair again. “If I like it, I will want it. If I want it, then—” He stops. The rest won’t form.

Shane’s hand hovers at his thigh, then settles there lightly. Warm. Careful.

“Then what?” he asks.

Ilya stares at the floor. His pulse is still too fast. His skin still feels hot. 

Shane swallows. His own nerves are climbing now. “Did you…” He hesitates, then pushes through it. “Did you want me to fuck you?”

The question lands heavy. Direct especially for him. Ilya’s head snaps up, then immediately drops again. “I don’t know,” he mutters, which is worse than a no. His accent thickens around it. “Maybe. I—” He exhales hard.

Shane’s throat works. He looks just as pink now, tension in his shoulders, fingers flexing slightly against Ilya’s leg. “What if,” he says carefully, “I also wanted to?”

Silence.

Ilya goes very still. That lands somewhere deeper than the act itself. The wanting. Not dominance. Not proving something. Just… wanting him.

His jaw tightens. “That is different.”

“How?” Shane asks, softer now.

Ilya’s cheeks are fully pink now. He hates that Shane can see it. Hates that he can feel how hard he still is, how his body hasn’t caught up to his pride.

“I do not know how to be…” He stops.

lya drags a hand over his face. His pulse is still hammering. He feels stripped down to something ugly and unpracticed.

“Like…” He searches. English deserts him when he needs it most. “Not strong.”

Shane’s head tilts.

“So I’m not strong?” he asks. It isn’t wounded. It’s sharp.

Ilya blinks at him.

“You think I’m weak?” Shane continues, sitting up straighter now. Not angry. “You think because I let you take control that I’m somehow not as strong?”

Ilya opens his mouth. Closes it. Because he knows that’s not true. Shane is the strongest person he knows.

“I know you are strong,” Ilya says, quieter now. “You are very strong.”

Shane holds his gaze. “Then why would you be less?”

Ilya’s brow furrows.

“It is… hard to separate,” he admits.

“I know.” Shane’s voice is steady. “But you don’t get to call yourself weak for something you would never call me.”

That hits. Ilya looks at him. Shane watches him for a long moment. The panic has drained out of Ilya’s face, but the vulnerability hasn’t. It’s still there.

Shane shifts closer, slow enough that Ilya can see every inch of it coming. He doesn’t crowd him this time. He rests a hand lightly on Ilya’s thigh, thumb brushing once, tentative in a way that almost never belongs to him.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

Ilya’s shoulders tense on instinct, then ease. “You are going to anyway.”

A small breath of a smile. Shane nods.

“sometime,” he says carefully, like he’s testing each word before he sets it down, “if you wanted… would it be okay if I—”

He swallows. His blush is back. Visible now.

“If I fucked you?”

Chapter 12: Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

Your comments and feedback are like crack to me

CHAPTER TWELVE

Ilya hadn’t said yes.

He’d said maybe.

Shane, infuriatingly, had gone back to completely normal. He cleaned the kitchen. Kissed Ilya’s shoulder in passing. Laughed at something stupid on his phone. Later, in bed, he curled in close and fell asleep in under ten minutes, breath evening out against Ilya’s ribs like nothing seismic shifted between them.

Ilya stares at the ceiling.

The room is dark except for the lake-glow through the window. Silver light stretches thin across the ceiling. He counts the lines as if they were fractures.

His body isn’t loose per-say. It’s tender. A gentle, low ache still lodged deep in his back. Three days ago, he could barely stand upright. Now there’s a different soreness layered over it—deeper, unfamiliar, threaded through muscle that hasn’t been asked to give like that before. His hips feel worked. His thighs heavy. There’s a faint pull when he shifts, a reminder.

That’s the problem. His body is still recovering, still fragile in places—and still, it responded. Needed.

‘Maybe.’

He rolls the word around in his head. He didn’t say no. He didn’t pull away. He nodded. He begged. He came. He wanted more. He wanted—He presses his forearm over his eyes.

Fuck. 

His husband is unfairly sexy in every configuration. Beneath him—flushed, lashes wet, clinging and wrecked, whispering please over and over. There is no version of Shane Hollander that isn’t devastating. 

When Shane lifted him onto the kitchen island ilya had a flash he didn’t let himself examine. A split-second image of being held there, of Shane stepping closer instead of away, those steady hands claiming instead of teasing…It vanished almost immediately, swallowed by pride….Later, bent over the arm of the couch, Ilya’s breath went thin. The angle, the pressure, the unapologetic weight of him—heat pooled deep in his stomach, low and sharp. He wanted Shane to fuck him. Needed it. 

“Ilya.”

The voice is thick with sleep.

He blinks. The ceiling swims back into focus.

“Why are you awake?” Shane murmurs, barely lifting his head.

Shane’s eyes narrow, already alert in the way he always is when something’s off. He shifts up on one elbow and puts his hand to Ilya’s forehead, palm flat. “Are you feeling feverish again?” he asks, voice rough.

Ilya goes still. Shane leaning over him like this—hair mussed, mouth soft with sleep, hand spread at his hairline—sparks something filthy and immediate. Heat crawls up his neck. He turns his face a fraction into the pillow, hoping the dark hides it.

Shane reads it wrong instantly. His hand slides to the side of Ilya’s head, fingers combing through his hair, checking again. “Okay. Okay,” he murmurs, already tense. “Did you drink water? Any chills? Are you feeling dizzy?”

It makes Ilya’s stomach drop in the best possible way. He swallows hard, and hates himself for how much he wants to say: keep doing that.

Shane is out of bed in seconds, padding to the kitchen and returning with a glass of water and Tylenol like he’s responding to a medical emergency. He sits back down and slides an arm behind Ilya’s shoulders to lift him upright, and Ilya lets himself be guided—selfish enough to sink into it.

Shane’s hand braces warm at the base of his spine while he presses the glass to his mouth. The position is humiliatingly intimate. Ilya’s mind betrays him instantly—imagining that same hand holding him down instead of holding him up, Shane leaning over him with that focused crease between his brows.

Shane misreads his face entirely. “Oh my god,” he mutters, guilt flooding his face. “This is my fault. Was that too much? Did I push you too hard? Your back was already bad—Jesus, Ilya, I should’ve thought about that.”

Ilya really should say something. Anything coherent.

But Shane’s thumb keeps moving—across his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth, back to his temple—like he’s smoothing him back into place. Fingers in his hair, gentle, searching. And Ilya’s brain, traitor that it is, takes every caretaking touch and reroutes it to somewhere it should not go.

“I’m fine,” he forces out, voice rough.

Shane doesn’t buy it for a second. His hand stays on Ilya’s face, steadying. His brows pull together, his eyes filling with unshed tears. “You’re not fine. You’re flushed, you’re breathing weird, you—” He breaks off, exhales hard. “Its my fault,” His fingers tighten lightly in Ilya’s hair. 

“Stop,” Ilya says, sharper than he means. Shane stills, but he doesn’t move away. Ilya closes his eyes for half a beat, then opens them and makes himself hold Shane’s gaze.

“I want it maybe,” he says, voice dropping like it’s been stripped down. 

 He swallows once, throat working. “I want… you.” A pause. His pride fights. Loses. “Maybe is ok if you fuck me.” 

Shane just stares at him. For a second, his brain doesn’t register the words. Then meaning lands all at once, and his stomach drops, hot and dizzying.

Oh my god.

His face burns. His throat closes. And then, without warning, heat floods him so fast it’s almost embarrassing. 

He swallows hard, forces his hands to stay gentle where they’re still holding Ilya upright. “No,” he says, too quickly, because he’s a rational man and Ilya’s back is still healing. “Your back. It’ll hurt.”

Ilya’s eyes flash. “Not now,” he snaps, breath still uneven. “I was just—maybe sometime.”

Shane blinks at him. His pulse is loud in his ears. “So,” he says carefully, trying to keep his voice steady and failing, “you were up thinking about…”

Ilya’s jaw tightens like it’s welded. “Do not say it.”

Shane shuts his mouth. Nods once. “Okay. But he’s still looking at him—wide-eyed, flushed, terrified of spooking him—and he really, really wants to know.

Shane lasts all of three seconds.

“That’s why you were awake,” he says slowly. “Not because you’re sick.”

Ilya makes a strangled sound and drops back against the pillows, dragging both hands over his face. “Oh my god, Hollander. Yes. Please stop talking.”

Shane’s mouth actually falls open a little.

“You were just—” He gestures vaguely at the ceiling. “Lying there. Thinking about—”

“I said do not say it,” Ilya groans from behind his hands. His ears are red. His throat is red. He looks like he might dissolve into the mattress.

Shane swallows. He shouldn’t push. He knows that. Ilya gave him something rare and fragile, and he needs to handle it carefully.

But.

“Can I know,” he asks, softer now, leaning in a fraction, “what you were thinking about?”

Ilya peeks at him through his fingers like Shane has just asked him to confess to a crime.

“No,” he says immediately.

Shane’s brows lift. “No?”

“No.” Ilya drops his hands just long enough to glare at him, mortified. 

Under his arms, Shane notices the color first—high across Ilya’s cheekbones, bleeding down his throat, ears bright red against the dark of his hair. Lying back against the pillows like that, lashes lowered and mouth tight with embarrassment. He suddenly wants to watch that flush deepen, to feel Ilya’s composure unravel under his hands until that tight, embarrassed mouth falls open on something breathless and helpless instead.

“Have you ever…,” Shane starts, Ilya goes even redder, which Shane didn’t think was possible. “No,” he mutters.

Shane blinks. “No?” The word comes out strangled—half disbelief, half something dangerously pleased—as the realization sinks in he would be the first, and the thought does something heady and possessive to his pulse. Ilya was Shane’s first everything, and now the balance tilts, just slightly, in his direction.

“Not even by yourself?” Shane asks before he can stop himself.

Ilya makes a wounded sound and drags the blanket up like it might shield him from the conversation. “Can we please go to bed.”

“No, no—tell me,” Shane insists, half laughing now, half breathless with disbelief. He shifts forward and nudges Ilya flat with easy weight, rolling over him before he can escape, mouth finding the side of his neck.

Ilya hisses as Shane kisses just below his ear, mortified beyond recovery. “Shane,” he warns, but his hands still come up to grip Shane’s waist anyway.

Ilya mutters something into Shane’s collarbone. Low. Fast. Russian, maybe. It’s swallowed by fabric and pride.

Shane stills.

He drags his mouth slowly up the side of Ilya’s neck, unhurried, letting his lips linger just beneath his ear. “I didn’t quite catch that,” he murmurs against warm skin, breath slipping over the shell of it. “Say it again.”

Ilya’s fingers tighten at Shane’s waist.

He looks wrecked. Eyes bright and avoiding. Color burned high across his cheekbones, down his throat, pooling at the hollow between his collarbones. His mouth presses into a thin, stubborn line that does nothing to hide how unsteady his breathing is. There’s something obscene about how embarrassed he is. How big he is under Shane, how strong…and still pink to the ears, still unable to meet his eyes. And it’s hot in a way that makes Shane’s pulse thud slow and heavy.

“Well?” Shane asks softly.

Ilya swallows. Looks at the ceiling. Looks anywhere but at him.

“No,” he says finally, voice rough and mortified. 

Shane doesn’t push. He just pauses, forehead resting lightly against Ilya’s temple.

“Does your back still hurt?” he asks, quiet.

Ilya swallows. “Not worse than during the season.”

A beat.

Shane shifts up just enough to see his face. His eyes are steady, but the flush is back in his ears.

Ilya can’t hold his gaze for long. He stares past Shane’s shoulder instead, at the dim slice of window, at the soft spill of lake-light on the floor. His skin still feels too bright. Like everything in him is too close to the surface. He hates that his body wanted what his mouth couldn’t say without cracking. Hates that he said it anyway. He desperately wants to rewind the last sixty seconds and also wants Shane to keep his hand exactly where it was, thumb brushing his cheek like Ilya might come apart if he stops.

Shane exhales slowly. His fingers sweep once through Ilya’s hairline, then he pulls back enough to give him air.

“Hey—hey,” Shane says quietly. “Not tonight.”

Ilya’s throat works. He gives a stiff nod that means nothing and everything.

Shane’s mouth twitches, not amused, warm. “Do you think,” he asks, voice careful like he’s approaching a wild animal, “you feel well enough for me to take you on a date tomorrow?”

Ilya blinks at him.

“A date,” Shane repeats, as if saying it twice makes it less ridiculous. “Not… anything. Just. me taking you out maybe.” His hand finds Ilya’s wrist, light. “We could do dinner? If you get tired, we leave. If you feel weird, we leave. If you hate it, we leave.”

Ilya stares at him like Shane has offered to move the earth.

“You want to take me,” he says slowly, suspicion fighting with something softer, “on date.”

Shane shrugs, but his ears go faintly pink. “Yeah. I do.” 

Ilya’s jaw tightens. The shame is still there, hot and stupid. But underneath it, something eases—just a fraction—like his ribs can finally expand.

They hadn’t gone on many dates. Not real ones. Years of hiding had made everything careful. And now that they have been out for a while, when they did manage something that resembled a date, it had usually been Ilya planning it. Ilya paying. Shane asking—just asking, like it was simple—lands somewhere strange in his chest.

Ilya clears his throat.

“Okay,” he says.

That’s it.

Shane’s face breaks open into a quiet, pleased smile that softens his whole expression. He leans in without hesitation and presses a warm kiss to Ilya’s mouth.

When he pulls back, he stays close enough that their noses almost brush.

Then, very casually, Shane says, “Did you want to fuck me?”

Ilya blinks.

There’s a beat of silence where the question hangs between them—completely straightforward, completely Shane.

Ilya’s mouth curves slowly. Crooked. Dangerous.

“Yes,” he says.

Then he moves.

One sharp shift of weight and Shane is the one on his back, blankets twisting as Ilya rolls them cleanly over. Shane lets out a startled laugh that dissolves into a breath when Ilya settles over him, broad shoulders blocking out the lake-light.

Ilya looks down at him, grin widening.

Chapter 13: Chapter 13

Chapter Notes

so…i took a sick day off work and drafted the rest of this story in a mildly unhinged, fever-dream state. this is the only chapter i feel fully comfortable posting right now...the last few are fully written, but they need a little more editing before they’re allowed to see the light of day. i promise they’re coming though. everything will be up by the end of the month. ????also??? the fact that some of you are posting my story on threads, twitter, and tiktok??? what the hell. i have absolutely been stalking the comments and reactions over there and just sitting in my feelings about it. it’s surreal and honestly so motivating. knowing that y’all are reading, reacting, screaming—that you actually like what i’m doing—means more than i can explain. thank you. truly. i’m going to try to wrap up the final chapters soon… but fair warning, they are smut-heavy, so i may need to conduct a little field research. ifykyk
love you guys. see you very soon.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Ilya stands in front of the bathroom mirror in a towel, hair still slightly damp from the lake, skin still warm from the sun. The light is soft—early evening, gold spilling through the window—but it doesn’t hide anything. The faint bruises at his hips. The mark near his shoulder where Shane bit.

He touches it once.

Behind him, Anya pads into the bedroom and noses at the shirt Shane left folded on the bed before circling once on the rug and settling with a low huff, like she’s supervising.

He exhales through his nose.

Shane got up early to make reservations. He’d been trying to be subtle about it. Phone angled away at the kitchen counter. When Ilya walked in, Anya had been stretched across Shane’s feet under the stool, thumping her tail once without lifting her head.

Ilya presses his palms to the edge of the sink. The day should have been easy. Lake water cold at first, then perfect. Shane’s laugh carrying across the dock. Gentle kisses in between swims. Nothing urgent. Fingers linking underwater.

Ilya picks up the blue shirt.

He doesn’t put it on yet.

Instead, he sits on the edge of the bed and stares at the floorboards.

There’s a weight in his chest that doesn’t belong. He rolls his shoulders once. The soreness is faint now. His back held up fine today slightly sore mostly after everything yesterday. 

He swam. He lifted Shane clean out of the water at one point just to prove he could. Shane had laughed and wrapped his legs around his waist without hesitation.

Ilya swallows.

He presses his thumb into the inside of his wrist, hard enough to feel it.

Last night should have fixed something. Shane on his back. Flushed. Gripping at his waist. Saying his name over and over. Ilya had moved over him and the world had snapped back into place. He felt strong. 

Shane's begging had for a moment quieted the noise. Mostly. It was simple. Ilya had fucked him into the mattress, but he’d also wanted more, too. Maybe. 

The lake outside flashes silver through the window. Ilya drags a hand down his face. He feels greedy. He stands abruptly and paces once to the window. The water flat and calm. He is not. 

He presses his forehead briefly to the glass.

Shane doesn’t deserve this.  He deserves someone who doesn’t swing between hunger and shame in the same breath. He wants to be that person. He exhales. He feels like he is taking something he hasn’t earned. 

And still—If Shane walked in right now, put his hands on his hips, turned him toward the bed—Ilya’s stomach drops at the thought.

He closes his eyes.

There’s a knock against the doorframe that makes him jump.

“You alive in there?” Shane asks lightly.

Ilya straightens before he answers. Shoulders back. Mask sliding into place like muscle memory.

“Yes,” he calls. Voice even. “I am deciding if blue is too boring.”

A pause. Then Shane, closer now.

“You look good in boring.”

“Very funny.” Ilya pulls the shirt over his head. For a second, the world is cotton and shadow, his arms caught, breath warm against fabric. He lets it fall into place and smooths the hem like that will settle anything.

 “We should leave in fifteen,” Shane says from outside the door.

“Okay.” The word comes out clean. 

He buttons the cuffs with unnecessary focus, eyes on his own fingers. Something sits low in his stomach. Not anger. Not really. Just a thin, needling awareness that he hadn’t held himself as tightly as he should.

Anya stands nails clicking softly against the floor. She pauses in front of him, head tilting, then presses her nose briefly to his bare knee like she’s checking for damage.

Ilya’s mouth softens despite himself. “You are very dramatic,” he murmurs, and bends, scooping her up in one smooth motion. It only hurts his back a little. She wriggles once before settling against his chest, she is warm and solid her tail thumping lazily against his side. He presses his face briefly into the soft fur at her neck and breathes in. She smells like home. 

He rolls his shoulders once, still holding her, testing the fit of the shirt one-handed. The tight metallic feeling in his stomach doesn’t disappear.

The feeling deepens when Shane insists on driving. He’s clearly very excited about it…trying not to show it (and failing). Ilya knows he shouldn’t fight him on something like who is driving. He knows it would dim that bright, careful pride in Shane’s face, but something old and stubborn twists low in his gut anyway. Shane is dressed nicely, too. Dark button-down, long hair pulled half back. His hands grip the wheel at ten and two percisely only breaking to rhythm to drum his fingers in quick, excited taps at red lights.  He looks unfairly handsome in the dashboard glow. The guilt in Ilya’s stomach curdles into something rotten. 

He doesn’t deserve this. He shouldn’t want this.

Shane turns onto a narrower street than Ilya expects.

The storefronts shrink. Neon beer signs. A laundromat with flickering lights. A pawn shop wedged between a nail salon and something that used to be a bakery.

“This is it,” Shane says, trying for casual and missing by a mile.

Ilya glances up. It’s small. Brick front. Windows fogged from inside. A crooked wooden sign hangs above the door. For a second, he doesn’t process it. The letters register as shapes first. Familiar angles. He blinks. Looks again.

Домашний Очаг.

Ilya doesn’t move. Shane is already unbuckling his seatbelt, talking— “It had good reviews. Well…Niche reviews. But strong ones. I checked—” He stops when he realizes Ilya hasn’t opened the door. Ilya stares at the window. Through the fogged glass, he can see lace curtains. Yellow light. A shadow moving behind a counter.

“You—” His voice comes out thinner than intended. He clears it. “You found this restaurant?”

Shane shrugs, suddenly uncertain. “Yeah. I thought… I don’t know—” He huffs a small breath. “If it’s terrible, we can leave.”

Ilya’s throat tightens. He looks back at the sign. Shane is already moving outside the car, circling the hood. He opens Ilya’s door like it’s nothing

“Hey,” he says softly, holding out his hand.

Ilya looks at it.

The offer hangs there between them. His chest tightens. He doesn’t it. Instead, he unbuckles his seatbelt on his own and steps out of the car without touching Shane at all. There’s the smallest pause. Barely visible. Shane’s hand lowers and his mouth tightens.

Inside, the restaurant is nearly empty; only three tables are occupied. The wallpaper is peeling at some of the corners. It smells like dill and butter and slow-cooked cabbage, like warm bread and something stewing.

A small table near the window is set apart from the others—covered in a white cloth, two glasses already poured, candles burning low and steady. Clearly the only one reserved.

Shane notices Ilya looking around. His ears go pink. “Maybe,” he mutters, ducking his head a little, “I didn’t need to call at seven a.m.”

Ilya for a,moment, feels absurdly, dangerously pleased. Guilt follows a half-beat later, cold and ever-present. He keeps his actions measured he fears he might bruise something in Shane if he is not careful. 

A woman barely taller than Ilya’s shoulder appears from behind the counter, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her hair is pinned tight at the nape of her neck, gray threaded through dark gold. She looks them over once—quick, assessing.

“How many?” she asks in thickly accented English.

Shane straightens a fraction. “Oh—two. I made a reservation. Under Hollander.”

Her eyes sharpen with recognition. She nods once, already turning. “Yes. Come.”

She gestures toward the set table by the window.

The menus are thin plastic sleeves, prices scratched out and rewritten to lower ones in pen. Ilya runs his thumb over one of the crossed-out numbers and almost smiles. 

He knows every dish without reading the description. He can taste them already. Shane looks up from the page, earnest. “So—what should we get?” Ilya doesn’t pause. The answers comes easy. 

He leans back, candlelight catching in his eyes, and starts pointing. “We share. Pelmeni first. And black bread. Then you try solyanka—you will pretend you do not like it, but you will. And we get vodka.” For the first time all day, something in his chest eases. Here, he knows exactly what he’s doing. He is able to be useful and give back. 

The pelmeni arrive first, soft dumplings glistening with melted butter, steam rising when Ilya breaks one open with his fork. The smell of meat, pepper, and bay leaf alone is enough to make his throat tighten.

Shane leans in, studying them. “These are like gyoza.”

Ilya looks up sharply. “They are not like gyoza.”

“Well not the fried the steamed,” Shane says, already reaching for one. “You should try gyoza.”

Ilya snorts. “I have tried gyoza. This is better.”

Shane bites into one, chews, and considers. “No way.”

Ilya narrows his eyes. “You are wrong.”

Shane grins, his hand slides briefly over Ilya’s knee under the table—absent, grounding, thumb pressing once. He doesn’t look down when he does it. Just keeps arguing about dumplings, calm and certain. The casual claim of it goes straight to Ilya’s spine.

The black bread lands with a thud against the table, pulling him from his thoughts, the thick-cut and still faintly warm, flour clinging to the crust.

The solyanka smells sharp with brine before it even settles. The broth is dark and crowded, meat tucked beneath the surface, a slice of lemon slipping sideways as the bowl is set down.

Shane watches everything. He tears bread too carefully at first, tastes the soup with suspicion written plainly across his face—then blinks, startled. “Okay,” he admits, pointing his spoon at Ilya. “That’s… really good.” 

Ilya laughs, low and pleased, and nudges the vodka toward him. Shane coughs on the first sip, eyes watering, and Ilya feels something bloom warm and reckless in his chest as he reaches across the table to steal a dumpling off Shane’s plate.

His knee still hums faintly where Shane’s thumb was pressed. Possessive without meaning to be. Ilya’s gaze flicks to Shane’s hand now wrapped around the shot glass and, traitorously, he imagines it sliding back under the table—higher this time.

He really loves the way Shane tries everything. Too small portions, but still. He loves the crease between his brows when he concentrates on a new taste. The happiness is sharp enough to ache. 

It sits right beside the guilt, which remains just as constant. He feels spoiled by it.

At some point, the woman returns to refill their water. She pauses when she hears Ilya mutter something under his breath about the broth in unfiltered Russian. Her head tilts. “You are from where?” she asks, this time in Russian.

Ilya answers without thinking. She studies him for a moment longer, really looking now. Something shifts in her face—softens. “Ah,” she says quietly, reaching out to squeeze his forearm like she’s known him for years. “Daleko.” (Far from home.)

A few minutes later, she returns with a small plate of pickled mushrooms and two extra blini, setting them down with a decisive little cluck of her tongue. She studies Ilya again—really studies him this time—then reaches out and squeezes his forearm, firm as oak beneath her hand.

“Eh,” she says in Russian, eyes softening. “You look tired, malchik.” A pause. Her thumb brushes once over his sleeve. “Eat properly.”

It’s too much. It’s all too much. Ilya doesn’t know why his eyes burn. It happens before he can brace for it. The restaurant blurs at the edges, candlelight smearing gold.

Shane notices immediately. He stills, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Ilya,” he says softly, leaning in. 

“I’m sorry,” Ilya mutters, too quickly, already reaching for his napkin like he can erase it. He keeps his head down.  Shane shakes his head immediately. His voice stays low, steady. He glances toward the counter, then back at Ilya. “No it’s ok—how about I go pay, yeah? We get this boxed up?”

Ilya nods without looking up. The candle flickers at the edge of his vision. His face feels hot, tight. He hates himself for behaving like this. Shane squeezes his knee under the table before he stands. “I’ll be right back,” he says gently,

Ilya stares at the tablecloth and wills his eyes to dry.

The ride home is quiet. Ilya keeps his face turned toward the window. The city thins into trees. The lake reappears in flashes between houses. His throat feels tight and raw the whole time, worse than in the restaurant. He presses his knuckles lightly to his mouth. It doesn’t help. He feels like he ruined the whole evening, the guilt settles heavier with every mile. 

By the time they pull into the driveway, his chest feels hollowed out. Shane cuts the engine but doesn’t move right away. The quiet inside the car presses close.

“Ilya,” he says softly.

“I’m fine,” Ilya answers too quickly.

They walk inside. The door shuts behind them with a muted click. It’s only once they’re over the threshold—shoes taken off—that Shane turns fully toward him.

He steps in close.

“Ilya.” Hands come up without hesitation, cupping his face. Thumbs resting just below his eyes. “What is wrong?”

The question isn’t sharp. It’s careful. Ilya’s breath catches. He shakes his head once, useless. His hands hover at Shane’s wrists, but he can’t bring himself to pull away.

“I don’t know,” he says, voice breaking before he can stop it. “I don’t know.”

Shane goes still.

“Ilya,” Shane says again, quieter now. “Talk to me.”

Ilya laughs once. The sound is thin and ugly.

“There is nothing to say.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

Shane’s hands don’t leave his face. They should. Ilya wants them to. He wants the pressure gone. He wants to stop feeling how warm they are, how steady and nice. 

“What happened in there?” Shane asks. “Was it the woman?” Ilya shuts his eyes. “Was it the food? Did it make you miss home? Did I—” Shane cuts himself off. Swallows. “Did I do something wrong?”

Ilya opens his eyes again. Shane is watching him too closely now, concern sharpening at the edges into self-blame. Shane working backward through the evening, trying to find the exact second he failed.

“No,” Ilya says immediately. Too fast. “No. You did nothing.”

“Then what is it?”

Ilya’s mouth tightens. Shane’s thumbs shift once under his eyes. Ilya hates how close that gets him to breaking. He turns his face out of Shane’s hands at last.

“Ilya.”

“Stop saying my name like that.”

“Like what.”

“Like I am…” He makes a frustrated gesture, sharp and brief. “Fragile.”

Shane frowns. “I didn’t— Ilya what is going on?”

Silence stretches long and heavy between them.

“You were happy,” he says finally.

Shane blinks. “What?”

“In there.” Ilya stares at the black wall instead of him. “You were excited. Proud of yourself.” His mouth twists. “You found Russian restaurant. Made reservation. Woke up at seven.”

Shane frowns slightly. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Ilya echoes.

He scrubs a hand over his mouth.

“You were looking at me like—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “Like I was worth effort.”

Shane goes still. “You are.”

“You think I do not see it?” he says. “How much you try? How much you plan? You wanted it to be good. For me.”

“Yes.”

No hesitation. Ilya laughs under his breath, but there’s no humor in it.

“And what did you get?”

Shane blinks. “What?”

“You get me ruining it.”

“That’s not—”

“It is.” Ilya snaps.  His hands rake back through his hair.  “You give,” Ilya says. “All the time you give. And I take. If I am not strong, if I am not the one taking care of things, then what exactly am I offering?” He gestures between them. “Good sex? Occasional jokes? That is not enough.”

Shane’s jaw tightens now. “Ilya we talked about this that is not what you are.”

“I think I am. I feel like I take up too much space.” It sounds smaller than he wants. He really hates that. Shane holds his face again, and leans in pressing his forehead briefly to Ilya’s. Then his mouth finds him—slow and soft, nothing demanding in it. Shane kisses him again. Steady and warm.

Ilya lets it happen. Wants it to happen. That’s the problem. The gentleness crawls under his skin. It makes his eyes burn. He should pull back. He doesn’t. Can’t.

“Is my job. If I cannot give to you,” he says against Shane’s mouth, voice rough, “if I am not the one, fixing—then what am I?” The words hang there, stripped clean.

Shane doesn’t hesitate. “You are my husband.”

Shane’s hands slide from his face to his waist, guiding without force. Two slow steps, and Ilya’s back meets the wall. The contact is solid. Grounding. Shane follows him in, close enough that there’s no space left.

“Let me show you” Shane says quietly.

The words land low. Ilya’s jaw tightens. He should say no. He can feel it forming. Don’t need. Don’t give. Don’t—

Shane’s mouth shifts to his neck.  Ilya exhales through his teeth.

“Shane—”

It’s meant to be a warning, but it dissolves halfway out. Another kiss. Higher. Teeth grazing just enough to make his pulse jump. Shane’s hand spreads at his hip.

“Let me,” Shane murmurs against his skin. Quieter now. “Let me take care of you, baby.”

Ilya’s fingers knot in the fabric of Shane’s shirt. His jaw locks. He shakes his head once—small, reflexive. It doesn’t hold.

Shane pulls back just enough to look at him. “Please.”

Ilya swallows. His throat works around something stubborn and hot. He can’t quite meet his eyes.  “Okay,” he says, barely audible.

“Okay.”

Chapter 14: Chapter 14

Chapter Notes

I got some really thoughtful private feedback on Tumblr that I genuinely genuinely genuinely loved. Someone shared how much they’re enjoying the story, but said it feels a little off to see Shane written as this steady, dominant, caretaking force, given his anxiety and being on the spectrum. And I wanted to talk about that for a second. As someone who also has a spectrum disorder with chronic anxiety, I think there’s a misconception that it automatically cancels out the ability to be decisive, protective, or even dominant. Often, what we cling to most is routine. Shane very clearly loves routine…you see it in the books and in the show. 

But when something disrupts that routine… e.g., a plane crash -> proposal in this case, Ilya getting very sick -> topping …

Hyperfixation can be incredibly powerful. When Shane’s brain locks onto something …especially something emotionally charged, it doesn’t sit halfway at all It narrows. Focus sharpens. Thats what IMO makes him so good at hockey. In this case, what hooks him isn’t just sex. It’s the caretaking. You can see the switch flip back on the couch in like either chapter fiver or six…And once Shane latches onto an idea…well— the fallout is this whole fanfic.

 In my own life, I’ve experienced that shift in intimate relationships…where something changes, and suddenly I want to try something new. (i think this is something that can happen to anyone, honestly.) It’s not about becoming a different person. It’s about the same wiring redirecting itself. I didn’t make this the central theme of the story because it’s primarily Ilya-centered. But I do think it’s important when we talk about spectrum disorders, not to flatten characters into one presentation….I should also disclose that this chapter is titled Shane Develops a Man Boob Hyperfixation. In my Google Doc

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Shane had wanted to test it all day. Taking care of him.

At the restaurant, Ilya had been bright—laughing loudly, arguing about dumplings, vodka heat climbing high across his cheekbones. He was so beautiful. Alive. And still. There’d been something caught behind it. A tightness at the corners of his eyes. The way his smile faded a second too fast when he thought no one was looking. 

Shane had seen it this whole week. He saw it in the kitchen then again on the couch, he saw it when the woman touched his arm. He saw it minutes ago in the car, reflected faint in the window glass. Heard it in his words. Shane didn’t know the shape of it, but he now knew the pattern. 

Ilya disappears inward and starts measuring himself. Shane wanted him out of there. Out of that quiet, punishing spiral. Not by arguing with it…this was not something words alone could fix. He had to show him. He would show him by pulling him somewhere his body would drown it out. Somewhere, he would have to feel instead of think.

Ilya’s back is against the wall. Breath a little uneven. Shane steps in before the silence can rebuild between them.

The air is still thick from it—Ilyas sharp words. His jaw is tight, shoulders braced like he’s waiting for a blow that isn’t coming. He hasn’t fully come back into the room yet. He’s still half inside whatever dark corner he’d folded himself into.

Shane doesn’t give him space to retreat there again. He closes the distance until there’s no air left between their bodies. His hands slide from Ilya’s waist, slower this time. He pushes under the hem of the blue shirt and flattens his palms against bare skin.

Ilya’s chest rises sharply under his hands. Firm muscle, yes—but softer than people would expect. Shane spreads his fingers, feeling the shape of him properly, thumbs brushing over one nipple before he can stop himself.

He squeezes.

Ilya makes a small sound. It slips out before he can swallow it back. The tension in his shoulders spikes. But his mouth parts despite himself.

Shane does it again. Slower. Not just his thumbs this time. His whole hands. He shifts his grip so his palms cup the full weight of Ilya’s chest. He presses inward, testing the give of muscle, the density of him. He kneads the flesh slow and firm. His thumbs drag over his nipples.

Ilya’s breath changes. It’s subtle at first. His shoulders are still tight, jaw set, pride sitting high in his throat. But the rigid line of him softens by degrees under warm hands. 

Shane watches the reaction travel through him. 

“You like that?” Shane murmurs.

Ilya’s hands catch at Shane’s hips as if he needs something steady to hold onto. His lashes lower. Shane drags his thumbs slowly over his chest again, firmer now. Palms still full. 

He’d thought—briefly—that he might try to be in control the way Ilya does. Tease him. Draw it out. Stay quiet and let Ilya unravel first. But he isn’t built that way. 

“You do like it,” he says honestly.

He shifts his hands and presses Ilya’s chest inward, pushing the muscle together between his palms just to see what happens. The reaction is immediate. Ilya’s breath stutters. His shoulders jerk. His face turns even further away, embarrassed. His mouth opens on another helpless sound before he clamps it shut again.

Shane exhales through his nose. He really fucking likes this. His thumbs brush again, slower, deliberate now. His hands leave him just long enough to reach for the buttons. One by one. The blue shirt parts under his fingers. Fabric falls open inch by inch until it slips off Ilya’s shoulders entirely. Shane forgets to breathe for a second.

“There you are,” he murmurs, low and steady.

The flush doesn’t stop at his throat. It spills down, bright and unguarded, across his chest. Over muscle. Over the broad plane of him. His nipples were pink and raised, almost startling against the heat of his skin.

Nothing like Shane’s.

Shane’s mouth goes dry.

“You’re so—” He doesn’t finish it.

His hands come back immediately. Greedy now. He cups his chest again, thumbs dragging slow circles, pressing inward, mesmerised by how the muscle shifts and tightens under his palms. Ilya’s head tips back against the wall with a small, wrecked sound he clearly didn’t mean to make.

Shane leans in.

His mouth finds the side of Ilya’s neck first. He kisses there once warm and open. Then again. Teeth grazing just enough to feel the pulse jump under his lips. He keeps fondling him while he does it. 

Squeezing. Thumbing. Flicking. Rubbing. 

Watching every reaction closely. Ilya is starting to unravel. Good. 

His grip at Shane’s hips turns needy. Every time Shane presses his thumbs over those stiff pink peaks, Ilya’s chest jerks subtly into his hands, breath becoming ragged. Shane presses his pecks together again for good measure, slow and deliberate.

“God,” he mutters against his skin.

He knows he should move lower. But he can’t stop touching him here. He’s so focused now—palms mapping the weight of him, thumbs pressing just to watch the reaction ripple outward. He’s spent years dropping to his knees without thinking, burying his face between Ilya’s thighs like it’s instinct.

This feels new.

The muscle shifts under his hands. The heat climbs because of him. And watching that flush spread locks his focus so completely he barely registers how far Ilya’s composure has slipped. He’s too absorbed in the cause to notice the effect. That is, until Ilya makes a strained noise, half swallowed. His hips shift forward without permission. He’s so hard—Shane can feel it even through denim. 

Shane kisses lower. Down the line of his throat. Back up again. One hand sliding lower now, over his stomach, stopping just short of where he knows he wants it to be. He waits. He can feel Ilya trying not to say it. Another slow squeeze. Another brush of teeth at his neck.

Ilya breaks.

“Shane,” he breathes, wrecked. Then, softer—rougher— “Please.”

Shane doesn’t make him ask twice. He hooks his hands behind Ilya’s thighs and lifts.

Ilya makes a startled sound as his back leaves the wall, hands flying up to grab at Shane’s shoulders on instinct. He’s solid in Shane’s arms. Heavy in the best way. The weight of him makes something hot bloom low in Shane’s stomach. He carries him down the hall, but Ilya doesn’t hold his gaze. He folds in. Burrows forward instead, face pressing into the crook of Shane’s neck. Like he doesn’t want to be seen right now.

Shane pushes the bedroom door open with his foot and crosses the room in three strides.

He tosses him onto the bed. The mattress dips hard under Ilya’s weight, springs protesting softly. He lands on his back, broad shoulders sinking into the sheets, hair fanning light across the pillow. His chest is flushed, rising and falling heavy.

Shane follows without hesitation.

He climbs over him, smaller but certain, one knee pressing between Ilya’s thighs, the other planted firm against the mattress for balance. His hands brace on either side of Ilya, fingers splaying over warm skin. The shift of weight is deliberate—enough to be felt. Enough to pin. He leans down and kisses him firmly without warning. Ilya answers like he’s starving.

Shane loves this. Loves how big Ilya is—broad shoulders filling the bed, thick arms flexing when he pulls Shane closer. Shane drags his mouth down his jaw, over his throat, teeth catching lightly at the place he marked the day before.

Ilya arches up into it.

Shane smiles against his skin.

“I love how big you are,” he murmurs.

Shane’s hands slide down and grip Ilya’s large thighs, firm and grounding. He spreads them just enough to settle himself fully between them, fingers pressing into warm skin.

“Let me take care of you,” Shane repeats against flushed skin. He bites again, softer this time. 

He drags his mouth lower, over the broad plane of Ilya’s chest, and sucks a hickey—this time just above his collarbone. Then lower. Slow, deliberate red marks blooming under his lips. He sucks at the flushed skin until it deepens, watches the color darken to purple beneath his mouth. 

Ilya makes another helpless sound below him. Shane’s other hand slides down his stomach.

Pauses at the waistband.

Then dips inside.

Ilya’s hips jerk the second Shane wraps his hand around him.

“Sh—Shane—” It breaks apart in his throat.

Shane keeps his mouth on his chest, teeth grazing one pink peak before soothing it with his tongue. He presses another mark just beneath it, then another higher, then one closer to the center.  His mouth works steadily across the broad expanse, leaving darkening blooms in his wake, red deepening to purple under suction. Shane claims it inch by inch. His hand moves, slow at first.

“Let go,” Shane murmurs against his skin again.

He tightens his grip just slightly, thumb dragging once over the head, feeling the slick wetness of precum already there. Shane goes still for half a second. Then, softer—almost awed— 

“You’re already so wet.” His eyes flick up to Ilyas. whose face burns. His jaw tightens like he wants to argue, but the evidence is right there in Shane’s hand. His hips twitch, betraying him completely.

“Don’t,” Ilya mutters, mortified.

Shane’s mouth curves.

“You are,” he says anyway. No teasing edge to it. Just fact. Ilya turns his face away, breath uneven. Shane doesn’t slow down. He starts pumping his hand properly now. Watching the reaction ripple through him. The sharp inhale. The gasp that slips out before Ilya can swallow it.

There it is.

That sound.

Shane wants—no, he needs—more.

He leans down and bites at one of the marks he left earlier, just enough to pull another broken breath from him.

“Turn over,” he says quietly.

The words shift the air. Ilya stills. The flush that had softened into heat sharpens back into something edged. He looks… nervous. Shane brushes his thumb once more, steady.

“Tell me if you don’t want it,” he says, holding his gaze. 

Ilya swallows. He just nods once, small, and rolls onto his stomach. The movement is shy. Ilya’s hips are wide and solid. The curve of his ass fills Shane’s vision in a way that makes his throat go dry. Shane can't help himself; he is just… staring. His hand comes down almost absently, squeezing once through the fabric. His thumb drags over the curve and Ilya makes a muffled sound into the pillow.

“Relax,” Shane murmurs, though his own voice is becoming more and more wrecked.

He reaches to the bedside table without breaking focus and grabs the lube.

Fuck. He is so unbelievably hard. 

He sets the bottle down within reach and looks at him for one more second.

Ilya is face-down in the pillows, arms folded under his head like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Broad back rising and falling. The flush hasn’t faded. It’s spread—down his shoulders, across his back, making his moles stand out, creeping over the tops of his ears.

Shy.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

Ilya doesn’t turn his head. “Is fine,” he mutters into the pillow, accent thickening.

Shane’s mouth softens.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband and tugs the denim down slowly. Not rushed. Not rough. The fabric slides over Ilya’s hips, over the heavy curve of him, inch by inch, until skin is bare to the air. Ilya makes a small sound. Shane pushes the rest down his thighs and off, then pauses.

The sight of him like this—big and strong and utterly exposed—It hits him sharp and steady—mine. He smooths a hand over the back of Ilya’s thigh first. Then higher. Palm warm.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispers again, like if he says it enough times it might finally settle somewhere deep and stay there.

His slick fingers settle at his entrance. Ilya goes rigid. Shane leans down immediately, mouth finding the broad slope of his shoulder. A slow kiss there first. Then another. He keeps his hand steady, thumb brushing once at the base of Ilya’s spine.

“Relax for me,” he murmurs against his skin.

He presses forward. Ilya’s entire body tightens. A muffled sound gets swallowed by the pillow as his teeth sink into it, his shoulders bunching under Shane’s mouth. Shane stays close. Chest to back now. He presses a kiss just below the mark he the night before, then drags his lips up the side of Ilya’s neck.

“That’s it baby,” he whispers.

He presses his finger inside.

Ilya’s fingers claw at fabric. The sound he makes is strained, broken off halfway. He buries his face deeper into the pillow like that will somehow contain it.

Shane’s free hand slides up, threading into his hair, tilting his head just slightly so he can kiss the curve where neck meets shoulder.

“Let go,” he murmurs.

He moves his finger carefully, pressing up inside, watching the way Ilya’s back arches despite himself. Another soft kiss. Teeth grazing lightly.

“Let go for me.”

Ilya shakes his head once, stubborn even now, but the next breath that leaves him is thinner. Less controlled.

“Please,” Shane adds, quieter. “Ilya.” Shane shifts his hand, breath catching as he eases another slick finger in alongside the first. Ilya’s reaction is immediate—tiny, fractured sounds slipping out of him despite the pillow, soft and helpless. The noises go straight through Shane; his control is thinning. 

“That’s it,” Shane murmurs, voice low and unsteady now. He presses closer, chest flush to Ilya’s back, mouth at his shoulder. “That’s it. I’ve got you.”

Ilya tries to swallow the sounds. Fails.

“Shane—” It’s wrecked. Barely formed.

Shane’s pulse is pounding. He keeps the rhythm relentless, watching every ripple across that broad back, every tremor in his thick thighs. He wants to see him completely undone. 

“You’re so good for me,” he says, the praise slipping out without calculation.

Ilya shakes his head once, weakly. Like he wants to argue. Another sharp movement of Shane’s hand steals whatever protest he had. His hips push back instead, chasing it.

Shane breathes against his neck. “Let me hear you.”

Ilya’s shoulders tense, then lose their fight. His breathing turns desperate, each exhale fraying at the edges until finally, “Please”—the word cracks in half.

Shane feels it go through him.

“That’s it baby,” he says, voice low but steady. Ilya’s fingers claw at the sheets. His body tightens around Shane’s hand, shaking. “I want to hear all of it,” Shane says, even closer now. “I want you taking up space. All of it.”

Another broken inhale.

Ilya’s hips jerk helplessly, pride slipping further with every breath. “More,” he gasps.

Shane pulls back just long enough to strip his shirt and jeans off, movements quick, impatient. Fabric hits the floor somewhere behind him. He doesn’t look. He can fold them after. 

Then he grips Ilya’s hips and flips him. Ilya rolls onto his back with a startled breath. The mattress shifts. His thighs fall open on instinct before he seems to realize they have. Big and strong.

Shane settles deeper between them immediately. “I want to see you when I fuck you,” he says.

Ilya’s flush deepens instantly. It spills across his marked chest, up his throat, into the tips of his ears. He tries to look anywhere but at Shane.  He throws an arm over his face as Shane lines himself up at his entrance. 

Chapter 15: Chapter 15

Chapter Notes

Okay. The writer’s curse got me. I was unable to sleep last night because of this horrible illness I have, so instead of being normal about it, I spent the dark hours editing this chapter in a slightly feverish, emotionally compromised state. The good news for you is that insomnia gifted me approximately a million extra hours with this scene, which means its finished much earlier than anticipated. I’m not saying you should put on an irresponsible amount of Hozier while reading this. I’m just saying this chapter was absolutely written to an irresponsible amount of Hozier. As always, thank you for your continued support, the thoughtful comments, the unhinged enthusiasm, and the way you all notice the little things. It means more than I can articulate without getting sentimental about it.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Shane presses in.

Ilya gasps, back arching clean off the mattress. One hand flies to Shane’s shoulder, gripping hard enough to bruise. The other stays thrown over his face like a shield. Shane stills the second he feels the full weight of him take him in. He bottoms out slowly. Fully seated. He doesn’t move.

Ilya’s chest heaves under him. His thighs tremble, small, involuntary jolts that pulse where they bracket Shane’s hips. The longer Shane stays still, the worse it gets. His arm tightens over his eyes.

“Fuck,” Ilya breathes, barely there. 

Shane leans closer. “This okay?”

He waits. 

Beneath the arm covering his face, Ilya gives a small nod. Shane feels it—the resistance slowly loosening in increments. Ilya’s grip on his shoulder shifts, fingers digging in deeper as another shudder runs through his legs, still braced.

“Breathe,” Shane murmurs, softer.

Ilya drags in a shaky inhale. Lets it out slowly. His body begins to settle around the stretch instead of fighting it. Shane presses a slow kiss to the inside of his wrist—the one still half-covering his face.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

He stays exactly where he is. Not moving yet.

“Look at me.”

Then Ilya exhales through his teeth and drags his arm down. The sight of him almost snaps the control Shane has left on the spot.

Ilya’s face is flushed deep red across his cheekbones, down his throat, pooling at the hollow of his collarbones. His lips are parted, wet, breath dragging in uneven pulls that lift his broad chest and let it fall again. He’s massive beneath Shane, arms thick, strength obvious even now.

And still so soft.

His eyes are glassy. They try to focus and slip. When they finally catch on Shane’s face, it’s only for a second before the intensity makes them falter. He can’t hold it. His brows pull together. Another shudder runs through him, starting low and working up his spine, too strong to hide. His throat works like he’s trying to swallow the sounds and failing.

Shane swears softly under his breath.

He has to steady himself. He’s fully seated inside him, and the visual alone—this big, powerful man laid out under him, flushed and shaking and looking like that—is almost too much.

“You—” Ilya’s voice catches. He swallows and tries again, eyes flicking away before forcing themselves back. “You are big.” It comes out like an accusation. 

Shane huffs a breath that’s half laugh, half groan. “You’re one to talk,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along Ilya’s jaw. Ilya’s throat works. His fingers tighten at Shane’s sides.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m—” He breaks off, jaw tightening. 

Shane’s thumb moves presses gently under his chin, tilting his face up. “Like you feel good?” Ilya’s breath stutters. That lands too clean.

“Shut up,” he says, but there’s no heat in it. 

Shane shuts up and moves.

Slow at first. Just enough to shift the pressure.

Ilya’s breath punches out of him like he’s been struck. His fingers clamp down hard on Shane’s shoulder, nails biting through skin. Shane feels it. The exact spot. The way Ilya’s body locks, then arches into it without permission.

There.

He doesn’t look away.

He sets the rhythm around it, driving back to that same place each time. Aiming. The way he does on the ice all control and clean lines. Ilya’s mouth falls open on a raw sound that doesn’t belong to the man he pretends to be. It tears out of him, low at first, then thinner, pulled tight with shock. His head presses hard into the pillow, throat bared, muscles standing out along his neck.

He’s so big under him. His chest continues to rise hard and fast flexed and the deep flush spreads lower with every measured drive.

Another hit.

Ilya’s thighs jump, powerful and useless at the same time. They try to clamp down, to control something, but the tremor running through them gives him away. The sound he makes this time is worse—half curse, half plea—voice breaking in the middle.

“ah—shit—”

His fingers drag down Shane’s back, not pushing him away. Holding him there.

Shane keeps finding it.

“Shane—” It fractures.

Shane watches it happen. Watches the moment pride slips and something brighter takes over.

He hits it again.

“That’s it, baby,” Shane murmurs, voice thickening.

He changes the angle again—deeper. Ilya makes another broken sound his hips lift before he can stop them, chasing it.

“hn—”

He leans down and bites. Right at the exposed column of Ilya’s throat. The reaction is immediate.

A whimper. It freezes Shane for half a second.

He pulls back just enough to look at him. Ilya’s eyes are blown wide, mouth parted on shaking breaths. His throat works on a hard swallow that doesn’t steady him at all.

Shane’s pulse spikes.

“There,” he says quietly, almost to himself.

He rolls his hips again—precise—driving back to that same place inside him. Ilya’s body jolts. Another sound tears loose, lower this time but just as wrecked. He jerks forward instinctively and buries his face in the crook of Shane’s neck.

Hiding.

His mouth presses against Shane’s skin, breath hot and uneven. 

Shane’s control completely and utterly snaps.

“No,” he breathes.

He slides a hand up, cups Ilya’s jaw, and pulls him back. firm.

“Don’t.”

Ilya resists for half a second—mortified—but Shane doesn’t let him fold in on himself. He keeps him there. Holds his face where he can see it. Makes him look.

“Stay.”

Up close, it’s molten. Ilya’s eyes are blown wide and glassy, lashes dark and heavy against flushed skin. His mouth is usually open during sex. When he’s above him it’s pursed and focused. Under Shane, it’s different. It hangs open, slack and dazed. His lips look fuller like this—wet, reddened, pulled apart on rough uneven breaths he isn’t managing anymore.

Shane’s thumb presses once at his jaw, steadying him as he picks up the pace, claiming the space between them.

“Look at how good you’re taking it,” he says, voice wrecked now. “You feel that?”

Ilya nods—too fast. Another thrust steals the breath from him, and a helpless sound slips free before he can swallow it back. He bites his own lip, hard enough to hurt.

Fails.

“mm—Shane—” It fractures in the middle. His fingers dig into Shane’s back. His hips lift again without permission, chasing the pressure like his body’s made the decision for him.

“That’s it,” Shane murmurs, almost reverent. “Don’t hide from me.”

He keeps Ilya’s face tilted up, thumb firm at his jaw. Watches him. 

“Let me hear it,” he says, low.

And this time, Ilya can’t catch it fast enough.

“Please—f—fuck—” he whimpers.

Shane moves somehow deeper. Harder and faster. The shift knocks the air from Ilya’s lungs. At first, it’s just breathless noise, the sounds thin. Fray. His fingers slip against Shane’s back and tighten again to hold on.

“Shane—” It fractures.

His eyes gloss over. Too much sensation layered on top of too much feeling. His body arches higher a clean bow off the mattress, throat exposed and flushed. He feels impossibly full of him, of heat. The stretch, the weight, the steady presence of Shane over him presses him open in ways he doesn’t have language for.

And somewhere through the blur of it, something clears. Not thought exactly. Just recognition.

This is what it feels like to trust the fall.

The realization moves through him slowly, then all at once. Like someone struck a match in the dry field of his belly…heat catching fast, racing outward. The brightness spreads through muscle and bone, through pride and fear, lighting up places he kept boarded shut forever.

To be completely someone else’s in this moment and not disappear.

Tears come without permission.

He can’t fight them. They slip from the corners of his eyes, hot and sudden, sliding into his hairline as his chest heaves.

“Please—” he hiccups, the word breaking open in his mouth.

It feels like too much and not enough at the same time. Every thrust lands deep and bright, a pulse of heat that spreads outward in sharp hot waves, knocking the air from his lungs before he can refill them. Each so clean and devastating, turning his bones to water.

Shane falters for half a beat.

“Ilya—?”

“Don’t stop.” It’s small. Barely there.

Above him, Shane looks almost unrecognizable. His eyes are dark and blown wide, something feral and barely restrained flickering there. Sweat beads along his hairline, dampening the loose strands that have fallen from where he tied it back. His freckles stand out stark against the flush burning high across his cheekbones.

“You’re okay?” Shane demands.

“Uh huh,” Ilya nods too fast. More tears slip free. “Don’t stop please,” he says again. That does it. 

“You feel that?” Shane breathes, wrecked by the sight of him. “You feel how good it is?”

Ilya’s head feels distant from his body. Like it’s drifting somewhere above him, untethered. Everything is sensation. The solid weight of Shane over him, filling him. 

God. Is this how Shane feels every time?

The thought barely forms before it dissolves again. It’s too good to think clearly through. Each movement has been pulling him further out of himself. The rhythm knocks the breath from his lungs, leaving him light and shaking.

He wants this. Needs it in a way that is humiliating and holy at the same time.  Tears keep sliding into his hair. He knows they are. He’s embarassed somewhere far away about it…about how he must look, flushed and crying and wrecked, but he can’t fucking stop. His body won’t let him. Every drive of Shane’s hips sends another wave through him, stealing language, stealing pride.

It feels so fucking good.

His hands drag down Shane’s back, grip hard, desperate to anchor himself to something real.

“Po—pozhaluysta.” It comes out ruined. “Proshu tebya…” He can’t think. All he can do is feel. The pressure deepens again, and his spine bows somehow even more, a helpless, loud sound tearing out of him before he can swallow it down. 

Shane is looking at Ilya like he’s witnessing something rare. Ilya wants to reach up. To pull him down and kiss him hard enough to steady them both. He can barely hold eye contact. Shane leans in first.

He kisses him—deep, mouths sliding together, breath shared and stolen back again. Ilya doesn’t track the shape of it. He just feels it. The steady pressure of Shane’s hand at his jaw keeping him there.

His thoughts don’t line up anymore. They blur at the edges. He makes a soft sound into Shane’s mouth without meaning to.

When Shane pulls back just enough to speak, Ilya barely registers the shift.

The words spill over his lips in a language he can’t grasp. Not English. Not Russian. They are warm and filthy against Ilya’s mouth. 

“Tu es tellement beau quand tu craques comme ça,” Shane breathes against his lips.

Ilya doesn’t understand, but he understands the tone. The way Shane’s voice roughens around it. He knows they are for him.

“Je veux t’entendre.”

His thumb presses a little more firmly at Ilya’s jaw, steadying him again.

“Ne te cache pas,” Shane murmurs, gaze locked on his. “Jouis pour moi.”

Ilya is past pride. There’s no room for it anymore. It’s burned out of him, replaced by something raw and desperate. The words fall out of him. “pozhaluysta—please—fuck—” He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for. Just more. 

The sound of it, the sheer need, feels like a reward to Shane. His mouth finds a new spot on his neck as he cums, teeth sinking in just enough to mark again. His tongue drags over the sting, then higher, to the shell of his ear. The combination is devastating. Ilya cries out, body jolting, tears spilling freely now as everything crests at once.

Shane pulses against him, breath breaking, hips stuttering as he fills him. The intensity crashes through Ilya a half-second later. His whole body locks, arches, shakes violently as his own orgasm tears through him. He clings to Shane like he might drift away otherwise, fingers digging scratches into his back, sobbing breaths caught between pleasure and overwhelm.

It takes long seconds for the tremors to ease.

Shane stays close through it. Forehead pressed to his shoulder. Breathing hard.

When he finally pulls out, the shift leaves Ilya startlingly hollow. The sudden absence makes him gasp softly, hands tightening instinctively, as if he can keep the feeling from slipping away.

Shane doesn’t go far.

He bends immediately, pressing slow, grounding kisses to Ilya’s chest. To his throat. To the tender spot beneath his ear. 

“You did so good,” Shane murmurs against his skin.

Another kiss.

“I’m so proud of you.”

His hand cups Ilya’s jaw, thumb brushing away the last tear with reverence.

Ilya waits for it. The cold ugly snap of weakness he’s braced for his whole life.

It doesn’t come.

His body is heavy, yes. Spent. Shaking in small aftershocks. But underneath that—He feels…fine.

Open in a way that isn’t dangerous. The collapse he expects—the spiral, the self-disgust—it’s just… absent. Maybe it’s delayed. Maybe it’s waiting for the morning. For when his head isn’t this thick and slow and pleasantly unfocused.

Right now, he can’t quite reach it.

Everything feels padded at the edges. Fuzzy. Like his thoughts are moving through warm water. Shane’s weight is still half over him, careful now. One hand smooths through his hair. The other wipes the damp tracks from his temples, from the corners of his eyes.

“You okay?” Shane asks softly.

Ilya searches himself.

His back aches. A low, spreading soreness along his spine where he’d been fragile only days ago. The muscles there throb in a dull reminder of the infection, of how weak he’d felt. 

And still, he feels warm all the way through.

Relaxed.

His arms come up without thinking. They wrap around Shane’s shoulders. Pull him down properly this time. Shane goes easily. Presses his face into the curve of Ilya’s neck. His thumb brushes once more under Ilya’s eye, catching the last tear.

Shane stays where he is for a moment, listening to their breathing even out.

Then, gently, “We are gross we should shower.”

Ilya makes a soft, unimpressed sound into the top of his head.

“My legs,” he says after a second, voice rough and low, “do not work.”

Shane huffs a quiet laugh against his skin. “I’ll carry you to a bath then.”

Ilya narrows his eyes at him. “You keep picking me up,” he mutters. “All the time. I am not house plant.”

Shane grins and presses a kiss to his cheek. Then another to the corner of his mouth. “I really like it.”

“That is not reason.”

“It is for me.”

Ilya tries to sit up, but his back protests immediately. He scowls. “I am heavy.”

“You’re not.”

“I am,” Ilya insists, offended now. “I am made of muscles.”

Shane’s mouth curves. “Yeah” He slides a hand down and squeezes his ass once. 

The contact pulls a sharp breath out of Ilya—and he feels it immediately. A warm, unmistakable slickness leaking from him. Maybe a bath might be necessary.

Ilya makes a scandalized sound. “You drop me and I will be very upset.”

Shane kisses his temple. “I’m not dropping you.”

Ilya exhales, long and dramatic, but his grip tightens just slightly around Shane’s shoulders.

“Okay,” he says again, quieter this time.

Chapter 16: BONUS

Chapter Notes

Thank you so, so much for reading!!!!! and for every comment, message, scream, keyboard smash, and unhinged reaction. I mean it. You have no idea how much it fuels me. I LOVE prompts. Truly. Send them. Complicate my life. Make me emotional. I want all of it. If you want to hang out, yell about chapters, or throw ideas directly at me, come find me on Tumblr: @eggbasket2481

I’m endlessly grateful you’re here. 💛

BONUS— A WEEK LATER —ДОМАШНИЙ ОЧАГ KITCHEN

(understand the whole conversation is in russian, however i will not be abusing google translate for this amount of dialouge) 

Nikola is wiping down the a table when the bell over the door gives a tired little jingle. She doesn’t look up at first. It’s late. Then she hears the accent.

“Dobryy vecher.”

She turns. The tall one from last week stands just inside the door. The Russian man. Broad shoulders filling the frame. Today he looks different. Not so dressed up. A little awkward, almost. He’s holding an envelope in both hands like he doesn’t quite know where to put them.

Her face brightens immediately,

“Ah,” she says warmly. “You come back.” She gestures around the small room. “See? Not so terrible.”

His mouth tilts. Sheepish, yes. 

“It was not terrible,” he says. “It was very very good.”

She waves a hand as if batting the compliment away, but she’s pleased. It’s always something—when someone from home walks through that door. Its even nicer to have a conversation in Russian. Makes her feel like she isn’t just pretending at it. Like she’s actually preserved something.

“You sit,” she says. “Kitchen is still open for a little bit.”

He doesn’t sit. Instead, he steps forward and sets the envelope carefully on the nearest table and rests his palm over it.

“You should put your prices back,” he says.

She blinks. “What?”

“They are crossed out,” he says, gesturing toward a menu stack. “You lowered them. You should not.”

She snorts softly. “People here do not pay for that. They see cabbage, they want it to be cheap.”

“It was worth more,” he says simply.

She studies him. He looks sincere. Almost… nervous.

She tuts. 

He hesitates, then picks up the envelope and holds it out to her.

“Well,” he says. She takes it automatically, frowning. It’s thick. “What is this?” she asks.

He shrugs, one shoulder lifting. “It is for you. You can open it.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Now?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No. Let me order something to go. You will open it when I leave.”

Suspicion flickers. Then curiosity.

“alright,” she says. “What do you want?”

“Pelmeni,” he answers without looking at the menu. “Two orders. And solyanka. Oh—and the black bread.” He pauses, thinking. “Mmm and add vareniki. The potato ones. And Olivier salad.” A beat. “And medovik, if you have.”

Nikola blinks at him. “You’re feeding a family?”

He smiles. “Yes.”

“For how many?” 

“Two,” he says. She huffs and disappears into the kitchen.

He waits by the counter. Hands folded loosely. He doesn’t look around much. Just stands there. When she comes back with the bag, steam curling from the top, he pays without even looking at the price. Nikola studies him while she rings up his card. He’s very handsome. Clean jaw, hazel eyes. About the same age her son would have been now. 

At the door, he pauses. He nods once. The bell jingles again, and he’s gone. The restaurant feels smaller after he leaves.

Nikola stands there for a long moment with the envelope in her hand.

Then she opens it.

The check inside is… absurd.

Her breath leaves her in a thin, stunned sound. She looks at the number again. Then again, like it might rearrange itself into something reasonable. It doesn’t. Her fingers tremble. She presses her free hand to her mouth. The room blurs. She sinks into the nearest chair without meaning to, the paper still clutched tight. Tears well up, spill before she can stop them.

On the table beside her, the menus sit with their scratched-out prices.

She looks at them.

Then at the check.

And for the first time in a long while, she lets herself imagine crossing the numbers back.

 

BONUS— NEXT WINTER —CENTAURS LOCKER ROOM

The locker room is loud after practice. Shitty music thumping from someone’s speaker. Wet gear slapping tile. Shane comes in last, hair damp from the hallway shower, hoodie half-zipped.  He peels the hoodie off as he walks and tosses it toward his stall already reaching for a dry sweater.

There’s a beat. Then another.

“Holy shit,” Dykstra says, delighted.

Troy lowers his water bottle slowly. “Hollander.”

Boodram leans around the divider, eyes narrowing. Then widening. “Oh my god.”

Shane pauses mid-motion. “What?”

He turns just enough and catches his reflection in the locker room mirror. Long red scratches rake down his back, starting high at his shoulder blades and dragging almost to his waist. The room detonates.

“Jesus—”

“No way.”

“Cap went Wolverine on you?”

Wyatt actually claps. “Attaboy, Hollander.”

Shane freezes for half a second. Then he exhales through his nose. “I slipped on the dock.” The silence lasts exactly one heartbeat. Then the laughter is violent.

“On the dock,” Dykstra repeats, wheezing.

“Those must be some aggressive russian docks I’ve been hearing about,” Troy adds.

Across the room, Ilya is unlacing his skates. He doesn’t look up at first. The color is already climbing his neck.

“Yeah,” Wyatt says, wiping at his eyes. “Crazy how docks leave symmetrical finger marks.”

That does it.

Ilya looks up.

His gaze lands on Shane’s back. Tracks the scratches. Lingers half a second too long. Something flickers there before it hardens.

He stands.

“What,” he says evenly, captain voice sliding into place, “is funny?”

The room quiets, but not completely. 

Boodram lifts his hands. “Nothing, Cap. Just impressed.”

“Very impressed,” Troy agrees. 

Wyatt nods solemnly. “Didn’t know you had it in you, Hollander.”

Shane’s ears go pink, but he doesn’t hide. He grabs a towel, drags it once over his hair.  Ilya sits back down, jaw tight, pretending to focus on his laces again. His own flush is worse. It’s creeping down his throat, disappearing under the collar of his practice shirt.

“Explains a lot, though,” Dykstra says.

Shane glances over. “Explains what?”

“Cap was so nice today,” Boodram says, grinning. 

Troy snaps his fingers. “Charatible.”

“Glowing,” Wyatt adds.

Ilya makes a strangled sound that might be a warning.

Shane finally looks at him.

Ilya’s expression is murderous. Mortified. And beneath it sat something else. That flash of heat that hasn’t cooled since last night.

BONUS— FAN ART

Elizabeth made some absolutely stunning fan art of Shane and the ribbon scene and I had to share the love. It’s unreal. If you make art inspired by this story/any of my others!! please reach out to me on Tumblr (@eggbasket2481) . I love sharing and promoting your work. It means so much to see what you create.

Elizabeth is available for hire and so, so talented:
Twitter: @ElizabethR34250
TikTok: elizabeth.rose5319

 

This incredible piece of art was created by SHYOLET. She’s been such a supportive reader of this story, and I feel genuinely so lucky that she made this for me. She’s open to commissions, though she doesn’t have an official art page yet!!!! you can support her and find her work here: xshyoletx