i have not read the long game! this takes the centaurs' team name but otherwise extrapolates out from show canon only.

thanks to gdgdbaby for looking this over!

The Metros had just finished four games away and would be home for a glorious week; the Centaurs’ west coast road trip started in three days. It had been nearly a month since Shane was last in Ottawa. Ilya had met him at the door, kissed him all the way to the couch that Shane had helped pick out. Shane had been hard since Ilya touched him, two fingers on his jaw drawing him in. Ilya wasn't hard at all.

“Hey, is this okay?” Shane said, pulling back. “Are you—I mean, we don't have to—”

“It's fine,” Ilya said. He was unbuttoning Shane’s pants with the same focus he usually reserved for a power play. He found Shane’s dick, slid his underwear down further so he could tug at Shane’s balls. Shane hissed, trapped a fuck behind his teeth, and tried to recover.

“Ilya.”

Ilya exhaled. “It's fine,” he said again. “Medication. I want to finger you.”

“What medication? Did you get injured? You're not on IR, I’d have heard.”

At this point Shane’s dick was nearly soft again. Ilya appeared to accept this with ill-grace, withdrawing his hand with an exaggerated sigh. “It is—for mood. Can lower sex drive, the doctor said.” He shrugged. “It's not a big deal. I fuck you some other way.”

“What, like an antidepressant?” Shane got up off Ilya’s lap. There was an uncomfortable prickle in his chest. “When did you start that?”

“I don’t know, maybe a few weeks ago. Why does it matter?”

“A few weeks?” The Metros had been in Chicago last week. Only an hour’s time difference, and Ilya slept later than Shane, anyway. They’d called after the game. Shane had had the buzz of a goal and two assists under his skin, and Ilya had told him exactly how to touch himself: where, how fast, how slow. “Did you—when we called, after Chicago—”

“What do you want me to say?” Ilya said. His voice was getting clipped, the way it did when Shane was pushing too hard. “You had good goal. I got you off. I like making my boyfriend come. No problems, yes?”

“Of course it’s a problem!” Shane said, too high, too loud. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because it’s not important! I don’t fuck anyone else, yes? And you, you are easy for me, I can make you come with just my mouth. So it doesn’t matter if my dick doesn’t work.” Ilya exhaled, noisy. His fly was still open where Shane had been touching him through his boxers. “Fuck, I need a cigarette.”

“Ilya—”

“Not in the house,” Ilya said, and got to his feet. “I know.” He walked out of the living room. A moment later, there was the sound of the door.

Shane breathed in, slow. Held it. Out through the mouth. He did it twice more, then tugged his briefs back up. Zipped up his pants.

Two hours, if there wasn’t traffic. Before Shane’s roadie it had been Ilya making the drive. In three weeks Montreal would host Ottawa, second time this season. It was more time than they’d ever had. They’d been making it work.

Shane sat on the couch. When they’d bought it Ilya had made noises the whole time about whether it was the right height. After delivery he’d fucked Shane bent over the back of it, just to satisfy himself it was. He’d made Shane come then without a hand on his dick, only his weight pressing Shane heavy into the sofa and the slow thrust of his hips, then fucked him through the oversensitivity until he could wring a second orgasm out of him. Shane had been boneless by the end of it, no way to hold himself up, and his mouth had left wet spots on the leather where his head had been.

Eventually, Ilya came back inside. The cigarette smell lingered, but that wasn’t worse than not having Ilya near. “Come here,” Shane said, hand on the spot beside him, and Ilya came stiffly, slowly, like an injured animal. Sat, tentative and straight-backed, waiting.

“Are you sad?”

Ilya looked at him. “We had argument,” he said. “Now we will talk about it. Nothing to be sad about.”

“No, I mean— you said your mother was sad.”

Ilya went still. Before the foundation had launched, he’d practiced his speech for weeks, picked apart the English words and worried at his vowels. For all that he had not said very much about Irina, only that the foundation was dedicated to her memory. Shane thought then that perhaps Ilya was out of practice—that he had not had many chances to talk about his mother, after she’d died.

“No,” Ilya said. He was staring out into the room, and his voice was formal, careful. “Not in the same way. She was very lonely. My father sent me away to school, for hockey, and then she was in the big house by herself. She always cried when I came back.”

“And you're not? Lonely.”

Ilya sighed. “I have,” he said, “a team who cannot score any goals, and a scary woman who wants me to pose on beautiful cars for lots of money, and a boyfriend who never stops asking questions.”

“Should I stop?”

Ilya turned. Stroked a knuckle over Shane’s cheek. “No,” he said. “It’s good for me, I think, to be asked questions. Even if I do not like the answers.” His face was contemplative, a little fragile. Shane had missed him. He was always missing him: some ache in his chest, deeper than a bruise.

Ilya’s curled finger drifted lower. Shane turned so the tip of it hit the corner of his mouth. His eyes were closing. “Will you tell me?”

A slow sweep along the line of Shane’s bottom lip, then Ilya’s finger was in Shane’s mouth. Shane bit at it, then licked over the bite, held it warm and steady.

“I can get—blank,” Ilya said. “It’s not sad. It’s not anything. Just empty. Maybe a little like being tired.” Another finger, pressing inside where Shane’s lips were rounded. Heavier on the tongue now. Saliva was pooling in Shane's mouth. “Before, I would go to a club, and drink, and find someone to fuck. But now?” Ilya shrugged. The movement traveled down his shoulder and through his hand, a kick in Shane’s throat. “Team says, this sounds like problem, go talk to person. I talk. I get prescribed little pills. I take them, you know, I am obedient hockey player, model patient—stop laughing.”

“Sorry,” Shane said around Ilya’s fingers. The grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, letting spit slide out. He bit down again, harder, the ridges of his molars digging into the pads of Ilya’s fingertips. “A model patient. Go on.”

“Yes, exactly,” Ilya said. “So now I am not so blank, but there is new problem. Can’t fuck my boyfriend with my big cock. My boyfriend, who drove two hours to see me, and who has such a pretty mouth, and who just loves—getting—fucked.” Ilya pushed his fingers in deeper. His knuckles bumped against Shane's teeth; his palm was wet with spit where it lay against Shane’s chin. Ilya’s other hand slid back into Shane’s pants, squeezed possessively at Shane’s aching dick. “What should I do about that, hmm?”

“Please,” Shane said, shapeless. Still a shock, after all this time, how Ilya could reduce him to this hungry wanting thing. When he swallowed his tongue curled around the underside of Ilya’s fingers, the warmth and weight of them, and god, wasn't this what he’d wanted, Ilya filling his mouth up, making him choke. “Touch me.”

“Come here, then,” Ilya said, turning Shane with a hand on his hip so he could sit back while Shane climbed onto his thighs. Ilya was fumbling at Shane’s fly with his left hand, because his right was still in Shane’s mouth. Shane undid the rest for him, rising up to slide the pants and briefs down his hips. Hissed at the air hitting his dick, flushed and dripping into Ilya’s lap.

All shame had been stripped out of him. Now there was only desire, strong enough to make his hands shake. “Ilya,” he said, and Ilya pulled his fingers free—the movement tugged at the inside of Shane’s cheek—wrapped his slick wet hand around Shane’s cock. “Fuck.”

“Close now, yes? I think you will come for me soon.” Shane’s awareness had narrowed to the places Ilya was touching him: the friction of his fingers sliding along his cock, the hand curled around his hip and squeezing. “Yes, soon, all over yourself and my nice pants and this very expensive couch.” He pulled his hand off—Shane made an animal noise—and tapped at Shane’s chin. “Spit.”

It was like Shane had been lit up from the inside. For a moment he couldn't make his muscles move. His mouth was so fucking wet, and he was acutely aware of his tongue, every single one of his teeth. The side of Ilya’s palm was tucked up beneath Shane’s lower lip, patient.

Shane spat. Ilya’s hand was back on him the next moment, smearing wetness down the shaft. “Good,” he said, “you are so good, Shane.” His other hand swept over Shane’s trembling back, firm broad strokes. “Give it to me.”

Ten years they’d been doing this, and it turned out Ilya could still pull sensations out of Shane’s body he hadn't known it was capable of. He came in a long gasping rush, lit up from throat to tailbone, swearing, “Fuck, fuck, oh my god,” and every time he thought he was done Ilya tugged at his twitching cock, running his thumb along the ridge of the head, coaxed another spasm out of him until there was nothing left for Shane to give, absolutely nothing at all.

“Jesus,” he said, collapsed on top of Ilya, trying to catch his breath. “That was so hot, what the fuck.”

“Like I said.” Shane couldn't see Ilya’s face, but he knew the expression he’d be making: eyes crinkled, mouth soft, the kind of pleased that meant he thought he was getting away with something. “You are easy, Shane Hollander.”

“Just for you,” Shane said into Ilya’s shoulder. His heart rate was settling into something steadier, warm. He pressed his thigh experimentally into Ilya’s crotch. “Um, I could still—?”

“Shane,” Ilya said, and tugged his head up by his hair. Kissed him, long and sure. “It’s okay. Stop trying to suck my dick.”

“Fuck you,” Shane said, laughing. “I’m trying to be nice.”

“Mm, you are very nice,” Ilya said. “Nice weight. Nice shape.” He smeared his hand along the side of Shane’s neck, wet and sticky. “Nice mess.”

“You’re so gross,” Shane said, and pushed himself up. “Ugh. Shower.” There was come in his briefs, uncomfortably tacky. There was come on his shirt—on Ilya’s shirt, blotchy streaks down the front. “And laundry. Definitely laundry.”

“Yes, shower,” Ilya agreed. “Then I will have to dress you in my clothes—”

“—I have clothes here, actually—”

“—and who knows, maybe I do not have any that fit you, so I will have to keep you naked. Then you complain about the cold, so—”

“You’re always talking such shit, you know that? We’re literally the same size.” He held a hand out to Ilya. “Come on.”

Ilya took it and got up, though that didn't stop him talking. “I have jersey, you know, nice colors, has good number on it—”

“I’m not wearing your jersey!”

“Not even if I ask nicely? I would wear your number.” Ilya looked gleeful at the thought. “#24. Hollander on the back. You would find this hot, yes? I think you would.”

Shane imagined Ilya’s shoulders in blue and red and flushed so violently he could feel his ears heat up. “You’re unbelievable,” he said. “Maybe I’ll shower by myself, actually.”

Ilya made a betrayed noise. “It’s my fucking shower.”

“Then hurry up!” Shirt, pants, briefs. Pause to slide off his socks. Shane knew this house, had walked through it naked half a dozen times. His clothes and Ilya’s both, mingling in the basket. The top left-hand drawer with Shane’s underwear tucked inside.

Two hours to Montreal. Ilya’s car, flashy and loud. He’d sold the others when he moved to Ottawa, but he’d kept this one. Good in the snow, he’d said. It occurred to Shane that this house was not like the one in Boston, which Ilya had lived in for years before he’d invited Shane inside. Here, he’d made space for Shane from the start.

The shower was large enough for two. The tile underfoot was non-slip, because hockey was already enough of a concussion risk. Shane turned the water on, breathed in the steam filling the space. Here was Ilya, relaxed and bare, scratching at his belly. Shane knew every line of him, from the slope of his forehead to the tender arch of his feet.

“I thought you wanted to get clean,” Ilya said. “You're just staring.”

“You're staring,” Shane said. His bright eyes and pink mouth. “Kiss me?”

The water beat down on them, hot across Shane’s shoulders and his back. Ilya’s hands were on Shane’s waist; his mouth was on Shane’s, sloppy and wet. His tongue licked at his lips, insistent, demanding.

Ten years too late to fight it. Shane opened his mouth and let Ilya in.