hello this started out as a short thing on ilya wearing shane's jersey ;) but accidentally ballooned into like, a meditation on sex and commitment set after s1 LOL
this is technically part 1 in a two-part series but tbh both works will be pretty standalone so this is def a completed work should you choose to see it as such
enjoy!!

Even though Rozanov has been his boyfriend for almost a year, Shane can't help but feel unbelievably smug when he beats him one last time on the Boston Raiders. 

It's a brutal game. The Raiders are fighting like hell. Their fearless captain is leaving this season, and they want to give him a win. Not just any win—they want to take back the damn cup. 

Standing in their way is Montreal in the playoffs.

The determined set of their heads, the fire in their eyes. Shane finds the display almost sweet. The Raiders really love Rozanov, and they want to win for him. 

Too bad for the Raiders, this season, Shane Hollander has a full bill of health. With him at the helm, The Metros aren't settling for anything less than total victory. 

It ends, as many Montreal vs. Boston games do, with thirty seconds left in the period. Rozanov literally crushing Shane against the backboards, in an attempt to wrench him away from the puck—

—and Shane, too used to this dance already, finally shoving the puck free at just the last second. 

They are both out of breath. Rozanov looks at him, for just a moment too long. Both his hands are fisted against the plexiglass next to Shane's head. 

Shane shoots him a dark, triumphant smile. 

Rozanov's moment of weakness is all Shane needs to finally, finally outskate him for the puck. 

He shoves him away with his entire strength, and starts charging like a madman across the ice. Rozanov follows close behind, the clock counting down every last second as Shane skids, effortlessly into position. Ice flies everywhere and he doesn't give himself even a beat to hesitate. There is no time. If he doesn't shoot literally right now, Rozanov will take him out before the game is called. His defenseman will pile on next. 

The game will stay tied, and Shane knows, the way any good captain knows, that if this goes to overtime his team will get slaughtered. 

Shane slams his club into the puck, powerful and controlled.

And before the goalie can even try to stop it, Shane smiles, wild and victorious. 

Because he knows he's won. 

The shot hits the net a second after. The buzzer rings, just a couple milliseconds before Rozanov crashes into Shane, and the entire stadium explodes. 

Boston fans scream like they've been shot. Montreal fans pound the stands, euphoric. Row after row, bleachers and box seats packed to the brim, everyone down to the nose bleeds had been itching for any kind of release. So when the game finally ends, a sold-out stadium shrieks as loud as they possibly can, thundering above Shane in a wave of hysteria. 

In a too-slow attempt to shove Shane away from the puck, Rozanov had crashed into him, falling on top of him on the ice. So now Shane's panting, hard, and he's on his back, the rink refreshingly cool as it soaks through his jersey. Shane watches, above him, as Rozanov's breath escapes in thick clouds, his blue eyes unfocused in their exhaustion. 

The arena lights, the pandemonium around them, dulls to a quiet echo. All Shane can see is Ilya. 

Sweat drips down his boyfriend's forehead, one drop trailing down his cheek, his lips, like a kiss. 

Ilya's face, slowly, slowly, melts into a smile. 

"Lucky shot," Ilya finally says, and with his eyes twinkling, all charming and handsome, all Shane can think about is how much he wants him. 

As people are still distracted by the commotion, Shane takes the seconds-long opportunity to stay flat on his back for Ilya, letting his sweat-soaked skin be cooled by licks of ice. Shane's only got a couple more moments before he will be dragged up by his teammates, before he will be rushed, like a helpless fish, by the waves of press and industry that will crash down his door. This rare moment Shane steals, right under everyone's noses, with Ilya panting on top of him on the rink, makes Shane feel invincible. 

Lying here, staring up at Ilya, Shane can't help but feel like something between them has come to an end.

Even though they will be going to the same hotel room later this evening—

Even though Shane will play against Ilya when he trades over to Ottawa next season—

Their rivalry, as history has written it, has finally come to an end. 

"I won," Shane breathes, and the smile, the smile that's been plastered on his face since he scored, grows wider. 

He doesn't care how close he is to Ilya on the ice right now. He doesn't care that people might see and think he looks gay. He lifts one hand, still shaky with adrenaline, and claps it onto Ilya's helmet, dragging their faces together. Ilya starts, and in his surprise, lets himself get pulled forward. 

He wants Ilya to hear him say these next words. 

"I beat you," he whispers, awed. 

Since he was seventeen, all Shane Hollander has done is chase after Ilya Rozanov. 

He's chased after him on the ice. He's chased him in the rankings, in cup victories. 

He's chased after Ilya into hotel rooms, into stolen moments on gala balconies and gym staircases. 

It's true. Ilya ruined him. 

Shane's grip on Ilya's helmet tightens. 

And now, Shane's finally beaten him. 

Ilya stills, only for a moment, before his smile returns. 

"Do not worry, Hollander," Ilya leans in close, too close, arguably, for plausible deniability. But Shane can't even stop him, even if he tries. Shane is completely helpless, to the intensity of his gaze, to the possessive lilt to his lips. 

Ilya hisses this next part, just for Shane to hear. "I am not that easy." 

Before Shane can respond, Ilya pushes off the ice. His boyfriend must've pulled himself up and skated off, because the blinding arena lights suddenly come back into view. 

Everything floods back the instant Ilya leaves: the stadium, the screaming, the pounding. The thundering of his teammates, yelling and celebrating on the ice, all screeches back in like a re-tuned frequency. 

"Oh captain my captain!" J.J. sings. Shane feels himself get picked up, hoisted onto a Metros' shoulders. He laughs, as his teammates start chanting his name: "Hollander!" "Hollander!" "Hollander!" 

When he turns, he sees Ilya. Ilya hasn't moved to reunite with his teammates yet, and he's taken his helmet off, the gear tucked underneath his left arm. He watches, expressionless, as Shane's teammates carry him away, farther and farther from where he's standing on the ice.

****

Shane forgets, all the time, that this person he's tamed is literally Ilya Rozanov. 

Ilya makes it easy to forget, especially with how sweet he is to Shane now since they started dating. He craves Shane's every touch, ducking and reverent whenever Shane strokes his cheek, pets his hair, or kisses his temples. It's a head rush, even more powerful than the one he gets on the ice sometimes. 

It's a far cry from the person Ilya showed Shane, almost eight years ago now. The womanizing rockstar, who took Shane's virginity and left Shane overcome and gasping.

When they were kids, Ilya dominated him on the ice. He dominated him in bed. 

But the power Ilya lets Shane have over him now, it makes Shane feel drunk on the best of days.

Shane comes back from celebrating with The Metros. He had nursed a can of ginger ale the entire night, while his teammates got progressively more and more drunk. He had to put in the face time though, because he wanted to reward his teammates. The Metros were back in business. No concussion was going to stand in their way this time. This season, their captain and center Shane Hollander is playing the best he's ever played, and he's bringing his teammates right up to the top with him. 

When Shane gets back to the hotel, and turns the light on, he actually jumps out of his skin.

Ilya must have let himself in with the extra keycard Shane gave him, because Ilya is sat, with his long legs crossed in front of him at the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but a pair of Calvin Klein boxers—

And Shane's jersey. 

Ilya looks very smug. He's leaning back on his hands, making sure everything is on display. "Did the winner have fun tonight?"

Shane drops his jacket to the floor. He doesn't pick it up. Ilya notices this and seems perturbed by out-of-character behavior, but not enough to drop his dumb fucking smirk, as he sprawls across the hotel bed. 

Shane stays rooted in place. 

"Thought it would be hot." Ilya drawls. He's trying to provoke a reaction out of Shane. Maybe he's more upset about the loss than he's letting on. "Especially after today's game, " he narrows his eyes. "Maybe I make you suck my dick. Maybe I get you on your knees, so all you can look at is me, wearing your number," he purrs, "Your name." 

"Why would I suck your dick?" Shane says, far away from himself. "You lost." 

Ilya smiles. "Winners should get to do what they love most, yes? And we both know how much Shane Hollander loves sucking my cock." 

"Take it off," Shane snaps. 

"No," Ilya insists. His eyes flash dangerously. It makes Shane's palms itch. Even after all these years, Ilya still wants to be in charge of the fantasy. "I want to fuck you, on your back, so your number on my body is the only thing you see when you cum." 

"I said take it off," Shane repeats. He's still standing by the hotel doorway.

Ilya smiles wider, mean. "No." 

Shane warned him. He takes one, two, three steps forward. He gets up in Ilya's space, close, like they were when they were fighting for the puck between the boards. Ilya's eyes widen when Shane then grabs the collar of the jersey, and uses his strength to yank Ilya up. 

Ilya tries to hide it from Shane, but Shane sees it in his eyes. He's surprised. 

Ever since they were kids, it's been exactly one way: Ilya, knowing exactly what Shane wants, and driving Shane crazy giving it to him.

But they are dating now. Last summer, Shane slept next to Ilya every night. He cooked him burgers. He met Shane's parents. The two of them made love underneath a starry night, Shane gasping promises of forever against Ilya's lips.

In the off-season, they'll do the exact same thing. Ilya has already coordinated everything so that after the season's done, they can spend another eternal summer together.

When Shane had no idea what he wanted, or who he was, he loved it when Ilya would fuck him stupid. He came to Rozanov, shy, scared, and clueless, and it felt so fucking good when Rozanov told him with his lips, his dick, his hands, that the person Shane is, is someone desperate for his fucking cock.

The problem is now that Shane knows what he wants. He wants Ilya. 

He knows who he is now too. He is gay. He is the Metros' team captain. He is Ilya Rozanov's boyfriend. 

So he keeps Ilya there, pulled up so he's right up close to his face. Ilya tries to maintain an air of casual nonchalance, but this close Shane can see he's breathing heavier, his lips parted in confused excitement. 

"Take it off," Shane murmurs.

"Make me," Ilya fires back, instantly. 

Shane's fist tightens. He doesn't make Ilya do anything. "I want you to take it off," he says, softly, "because the first time you wear my jersey, I want to be riding your dick," Ilya's pupils grow big and dark, "I want to dig my nails into your back, while you're wearing my name," he continues, tightening his hold on his jersey, "I want you to fuck me while you wear my number…" 

Shane grins now, wild, "The night you watch me win the Stanley Cup." 

Ilya looks struck. Shane watches as he swallows. Ilya's hands, once behind him on the bed, reach up with a start, desperately grabbing onto Shane's wrist—seeking any form of contact. Shane lets him wrap them around his arm. 

"And tonight?" Ilya whispers, voice hoarse. His eyes are stilled into compliance. 

Shane smirks. "As I said, you'll need to take my jersey off first to find out." 

Ilya shrugs the jersey off. He does it slowly, so Shane gets to watch as the planes of his chest, his perfect fucking body, reveal themselves to him, like a trophy. But then, instead of just tossing the shirt to the side, Ilya straightens Shane's jersey out. He folds it, in halves, then in quarters. Almost reverent with how he handles it. Unlike his other clothes, which have been shoved haphazardly into a barely closing suitcase, he gets up, tucks the jersey neatly into a compartment in the bottom half of the trunk. 

When he climbs back onto the bed, he looks up.

Shane kisses him a second after. 

Somewhere along the way, it seems like what the two of them had in mind for tonight included Ilya, on his back, with Shane, riding his face as Ilya fucks his hole with his tongue. 

Shane has one hand braced against Ilya's chest, the other alternating between reaching back to hold onto the hotel headboard or burying his fist into Ilya's curls. Ilya has one hand wrapped around his thigh, another palming the curve where Shane's hip meets his ass so he can shove Shane further onto his tongue while still supporting his back. 

Shane loves it when Ilya eats him out. Shane cannot get enough of it—probably a vestigial instinct from when he was a teenager, where all he wants is to stuff Ilya's mouth shut. 

Ilya starts thrusting his tongue deeper into Shane, and Shane thinks he can start to feel the rough drag against his hole—he moans, loud, tipping his head back helplessly, which makes Ilya hum, lightly smacking Shane's ass and jostling him in deeper. 

"Fuck, Ilya," Shane gasps. He grasps desperately at Ilya's chest, as Ilya smacks his ass again, "Fuck that feels so fucking good." 

Ilya pulls Shane up a little so he can start making out with Shane's hole, thumbs nudging his ass apart, fingers digging into his stretch marks. Shane whines—he's so sensitive, and Ilya knows it, which is why he's been doing this for the last thirty minutes—fucking him relentlessly with his tongue like he's trying to wring every last drop of pleasure from him, before backing off, calming Shane with sloppy kisses to his hole.

Shane's not in a huge rush to come, though. He glances down, and he sees that Ilya is starting to leak in his boxers. Since they've started kissing, Shane hasn't touched him once. Maybe it's because on top of the many other things Ilya has revealed to Shane about himself, Ilya is now bringing out the sadist he didn't know existed in him too. Maybe it's because, unlike Ilya, Shane can never be normal about winning. 

"I love you," the words tumble out of Shane's mouth. His right hand leaves the headboard, and they bury themselves back into Ilya's hair. He pulls on the curls a little, and Shane thinks he hears Ilya groan. The sound sends overwhelming vibrations through his tongue, and he gasps. "I love you," Shane repeats, because fuck, Ilya makes him feel so fucking good, "I love you, I love you, I love you—" he says, each iteration getting more desperate than the last. He kind of wants Ilya to fuck him now, to flip him over and pound him into the mattress, now that he's gotten him so open.

"I love you so much, fuck you make me feel so fucking good," Shane yells, and he tries to look down, or at least look behind him, to tell Ilya he's ready. He wants to get fucked, and he wants to get fucked hard. "Fuck I need you to just fuck me like this forever—" he swallows, to catch his breath, only for Ilya to redouble his efforts, making him feel like his eyes are about to roll into the back of his head. 

But when he looks down, he gasps. His pleasure shocks itself to stillness, recalibrating itself. 

Because when he sees the wetness of Ilya's boxer shorts, he realizes that Ilya came already. 

"Stop—" Shane gasps, breathless, "Ilya stop stop—" 

He climbs off, and turns around. Ilya's eyes are lidded, his mouth and face covered in Shane's wetness, lips parted in desire, or embarrassment, Shane's not entirely sure. Shane is overwhelmed. Ilya's never come this early before. Ilya's never come like this, period. 

"Ilya—" Shane just keeps staring at him. 

Ilya swallows, and clears his throat. "Come on," Ilya starts, voice rough. He's putting on an act. Shane's seen it a million times before—he's pretending like everything is so fucking casual. How can he still do that? Shane can't help but think. After everything they've been through? "Is not a big deal. I was just going to keep on going until you finished." 

It's a huge deal. Shane feels insane. He feels like he's been handed the nuclear codes. He feels like his dick is going to explode if he doesn't come within the next five minutes. "Ilya—" 

Without another word, Ilya flips Shane over, so he's on his back. Shane gasps, and Ilya buries his face into his crotch, opening his mouth and taking Shane's dick in with a practiced motion. He hoists Shane's legs up onto his shoulders, practically bending him in half, as with his right hand, he takes two fingers, then very quickly three fingers, and starts fucking Shane's hole as he sucks his dick.

Ilya finds his prostate with precision. He deepthroats him, dragging his tongue over his cock, as he fucks his fingers in and out. Shane feels assaulted with pleasure. Everytime he tries to squirm away from Ilya's fingers, he just thrusts himself deeper into Ilya's mouth. He feels fucked out, and he can't stop thinking about Ilya, coming untouched, as Shane rides his face. It only takes a few more thrusts before Shane climaxes, hard, down Ilya's throat, Ilya taking in as much as he can before he has to stop. Shane keeps coming, across his face, across his chest. 

Ilya collapses on top of Shane soon after, and even though it's gross, the two of them lay there, trying to catch their breaths. Shane stares at the ceiling, his mind still restless with adrenaline, even as he feels Ilya's heartbeat slow against where Ilya is resting on Shane's chest.

Shane stays like that until he just can't anymore. 

"I want to try something," Shane says. Ilya mumbles almost sleepily, but Shane nudges him onto his back anyway. Ilya, pliant from sex, lets Shane roll him over. 

Shane lowers himself down Ilya's torso, heart thundering in his ears, until he's face to face with Ilya's crotch. 

He starts by putting his boyfriend's soft cock onto his mouth. He just stays there at first, head resting against Ilya's muscular thigh, letting his tongue gently lap at the slit until he can feel Ilya's dick harden in his mouth again. 

"Shane," Ilya gasps. When Shane looks up Ilya's eyes are wild. He looks delirious. He says something unintelligible in Russian, as Shane goes from warming his boyfriend's cock with his tongue, to sucking his dick, fast and desperate, letting Ilya fuck his mouth, grab his hair, swearing as he comes for the second time tonight. 

When he finishes, Shane pillows his face on Ilya's thigh. The two of them lay there in shocked silence, panting heavily in recovery. Shane feels unmoored. Usually sex with Ilya leaves him wiped clean. But tonight he actually can't stop his brain from thinking. Ilya leaves his hand in Shane's hair, stroking it idly, at least lulling Shane into some semblance of calm. Shane replicates the comfort by tracing small circles on the outside of his boyfriend's calves.

"That was, uh," Shane says, in a small voice. He still keeps his face buried in Ilya's thigh, for some reason not quite ready to make eye contact, "that was kind of intense." 

"Are you okay?" Ilya asks. He brings his hand down from Shane's hair, and onto his cheek, tilting it up so Shane can look at him. His eyes are gentle, but guarded. 

"Yeah, I'm okay," Shane says shakily. But he isn't thinking about himself. "Are you okay?" Shane asks, a little panicked. 

At this, Shane feels Ilya tense up. 

"Was just sex," Ilya says, easily. "We've had sex before." 

Shane feels dismissed, and he doesn't like that. So, in retaliation, Shane nips the meat of Ilya's inner thigh, making Ilya hiss slightly in pain. "Don't say that," Shane reprimands, "Nothing we ever did together felt like 'just sex' to me." 

Ilya blinks, cowed. "Of course," Ilya sighs. "But I am not wrong, yes? Sex with the two of us… is always intense." 

Shane shakes his head. "This," Shane says, trembling, "did not feel like any kind of sex we've had before." 

You came, untouched, in your pants, just by eating me out. You wore my jersey. You made me act insane. Like I needed to…have you. Like I wanted to dominate you. The reminder makes Shane feel like he's on fire. 

Ilya stares at Shane for a very long time, without saying anything. He just lets Shane's comment flop, in between the two of them, like a dead fish. Finally, he nudges Shane with his leg, and Shane, still a bit in a state of shock, frees him, letting him roll off the bed. 

"I want to smoke," Ilya declares, as he stands up. He stretches his body, cracking his neck once, twice, "Let us shower so I can go do that." 

Shane frowns. "If you are going to shower, do it after you smoke," Shane wrinkles his nose. "I don't want you getting all clean and then ruining it with the smell." 

Ilya snorts, derisively, "I am not going to smoke with cum all over my face." 

Shane blushes. He made a mess of Ilya. "I don't want you reeking of smoke when you come back to bed," he insists, again. 

Ilya stares at Shane in disbelief before running his hands through his hair in frustration, "Fine," Ilya grits out. "You win," he says this in a particularly biting tone. "I will shower twice. Would my boyfriend like to join me?" 

His boyfriend would. 

With the two of them standing in the relaxing spray of the shower, Shane wants very badly to be kind to Ilya. He massages shampoo into Ilya's head, letting Ilya bury his face into the crook of Shane's shoulder as he did. And when Ilya glances up at him, he looks so sweet. He looks innocent, like a child that Shane just wants to take care of. 

It takes Shane's breath away. Ilya, blinking up at Shane, desperate for his touch, for his affection. 

Shane washes the shampoo out of his hair. When he finishes, he moves to try and soap up his boyfriend's body next, but this for some reason makes Ilya tense up and move away. 

Shane blinks, unable to keep the hurt out of his eyes. But Ilya just waves a dismissive hand at him. 

"Is nothing to do with you. I want to do it myself," Ilya says. So he soaps himself up, washing everything off his body, while Shane just stands in the corner, staring at him. 

He decides to bring it up again, now that emotions maybe aren't running so high. "Are you embarrassed?" Shane asks, "About what happened? Is that why you don't want to talk about it?" 

Ilya whips around at Shane, eyes narrowed. "What?" 

"You know," Shane says, trailing off a little. There's too much Shane wants to address, so he picks the most obvious thing. "You never come that early." 

Ilya curses in Russian, frustrated. "Why do you care so much?" Ilya says, tense. "Is it because this was your first time in charge?" 

"Well," Shane mumbles, feeling very shy. "Yes, actually—" 

"We had weird sex," Ilya says, simply. "You beat me today. Everyone was very excited. We got very excited, and sex happened," Ilya nods to himself, as he says this out loud. "Is nothing to talk about." 

Shane feels his stomach fall. For some reason, an almost overpowering amount of guilt starts flowing through him, and he hasn't felt guilty after sex in… a very long time. Since they started dating. Since even as far back as the All-Star game, when every touch from Ilya started to feel like something deeper. Like something he wanted forever. 

"Did…" Shane says, looking at the shower floor now. He focuses on the swirling, granite pattern, letting the sensation of his eyes following the design distract him from the upset that was threatening to overtake him. "Did you not like it?" he murmurs, to the ground, "Did I make you uncomfortable?" 

This was finally enough for the defensive posturing to drop off Ilya's face. "Hey," Ilya says, gently now. He takes two fingers, and cups Shane's chin, tilting his face back up so he looks him in the eye. "I came early because you were really fucking hot, okay?" he says. He considers Shane now, smile finally twisting up his handsome features, settling Shane's nerves like a cold drink of water after a game. "You played good hockey and you came back home to me all fucking sexy. Is natural reaction." Ilya strokes the side of Shane's chin with his thumb, and Shane can tell by his eyes that he likes that Shane is calming down, coming back to himself because of his touch. 

"No more worrying about this now, okay?" Ilya says, soft. "Let us shower and I want my smoke." 

Shane can only nod. "I love you." Shane says, because he wants Ilya to hear it. 

Ilya smiles back. "I love you too," he says, as easy as anything. 

****

The problem is Shane's brain doesn't work that way. Of course he doesn't stop worrying about it. Instead, he kind of does the opposite. It doesn't help that Shane has to leave Ilya behind in Boston, so he can take his team to playoffs. 

It doesn't help that his brain and dick, in a very, very uncharacteristic partnership, are teaming up to make him feel as crazy as possible. 

Montreal knocked Boston out of the cup playoffs, so Ilya spends the last couple weeks packing up his apartment. The news of his move to Ottawa goes public three days later. The response is at best, absolute bemusement, and at worst, complete confusion, anger, and vitriol. Shane doesn't know how Ilya can stand it. He doesn't know how Ilya is still willing to go through it. All of this trouble, all this humiliation, just so he could be with Shane? It still feels impossible. It feels ready to break.

But every time Shane calls him, Ilya is as unaffected as he is by everything. He just waves his hand dismissively and says something dumb, masculine, and Russian like "real men do not bother themselves with the tantrums of children," which is the most poetic and over-the-top way Shane has heard anyone respond to online hate. 

Then, Ilya would hang up after a rousing bout of phone sex. They would say their good nights and I love you's to each other. 

Then, Shane would lie there, trying to go to sleep, and like clockwork— 

His brain feeds him the fantasy. 

Ilya, on his back, whimpering. Shane pulling on his hair, with Ilya beneath him, begging Shane to let him come. His boyfriend pleads, with every breath, and his eyes are wide and full of tears. Except Shane keeps him pinned in place, riding his dick, feeding Ilya his pleasure little by little, too slow for Ilya to stand. His lips are bitten red, and his blue eyes betray his helplessness, his climax completely at Shane's mercy— 

When this happens, Shane would shove his hands down his pants in a panic, jacking himself off punishingly fast—confused, wildly turned on, and so hard he feels ready to burst—and it only takes a couple strokes before he comes, all over himself.

His sexual frustration makes his game impeccable. The Metros are actually destroying the competition. It's clear to anyone with eyes that Montreal is the frontrunner for the cup this year, only further supported by almost idolatrous commentary for Shane from sports pundits. 

Every time Shane finishes a game, he hungers for Ilya. Sometimes in his dreams, Shane hurts him, and Ilya goes wild for it. 

Shane has his third dream in a row where checking Ilya on the ice ends with Ilya, bruised and bleeding, incapacitated and completely stripped naked on the rink, whimpering for release while Shane is fully clothed in his hockey gear, sucking his dick. He wakes up rock hard and gasping—

Which is when Shane finally decides he needs help. He tries to do his own research at first, googling I have intense sexual daydreams where I hurt my boyfriend, but the internet is decidedly not being helpful. In fact, the results he gets just make him feel like some kind of sick perv.

He FaceTimes Rose. 

"Oh, that's totally normal," Rose says, nonplussed. She doesn't even look up from where she's painting her nails. Her old acrylics lie in a mangled corner just barely on screen. 

Shane balks at her. Shane does not feel "normal" about these thoughts. "Are you sure?" Shane asks. "Because I feel like some kind of… sicko." 

"Dude, you went from what can only be described as a decade-long situationship where nothing was defined and nothing was promised to an exclusive, monogamous, life-long commitment," Rose whistles, "The sex is going to be a little different." 

"But like…" Shane tries to figure out what he wants to say, "Doesn't commitment usually make the sex… sweeter? Or kinder? Because right now, all I want to do is like…" Shane gets kind of embarrassed, but it's Rose, so he tells her like it is, "Eat him alive? Like I keep having these dreams where I get off on destroying him, or like tearing him apart and it's making me think I like treating him badly? Which is not true, at all," Shane pauses for emphasis, to make sure this point is very clear. "I want to be a good boyfriend to him. I want him to know that he's safe with me. I want to take care of him." 

Rose nods, understanding. "Do you remember Justine? The teenager who played my sister in my James Bond movie?" 

"Yeah. I can't believe you got to have fake sex with Daniel Craig," Shane says, sighing dreamily. 

"More like Daniel Craig got to have hot, fake sex with Rose Landry, but whatever, it's fine," Rose says. As she dries her nails, with her free hand she digs around in her hoodie, and pulls out a Mango Elf Bar. She lets vapor pour out from her nose as she talks. "Anyway, Justine had this situationship with this guy she met on Raya, and it was very, very casual. Like, to them, it was like 'we are just two people, both here on the apps, trying things out, so don't expect too much from me,' you know? The thing is, then their sex too, had to take on that pretense. It's not a bad thing, necessarily, right? Because if it's just casual, then there's nothing wrong with putting on a fucking show, right? Impress them a little? You know, if you are one of many, make sure they at least don't forget you?"

Rose takes another hit of her vape. "Anyway, I'm getting sidetracked. So after eight fucking months, he finally tied her down. Made the whole thing official. But then, things got weird. The sex changed. Because it wasn't this performance anymore. He's her boyfriend. So every time they have sex, it's about that connection, instead of that performance, you know what I mean? Like, when they fuck you, it's just you, you know?"

Shane watched as her vape smoke slowly dissipated in the camera. "... So making the relationship official revealed that I want to make my boyfriend bleed?" Shane blinks, baffled. "Why would you tell me this story? Didn't Justine and the boyfriend break up? What lesson am I supposed to get from this?" 

Rose hits her Elf Bar. "No bro. I'm just saying you probably want to have this weird possessive sex with your boyfriend because you think its hot as fuck you get to own him now." 

Shane stills. Own him? The thought, without his permission, sets him on fire. "Isn't that like a fucked up thing to want though?" Shane swallows. "Owning someone? That's not like, healthy right?"

Rose snorts. "What? It's the hottest, most natural feeling in the world. Knowing that someone's yours? That's the stuff they write movies about, baby." 

Shane likes talking about sex with Rose. She's a lot smarter about it than the other people in Shane's life. Maybe it's because she works in Hollywood. "You are like," Shane says, thoughtfully, "the only person I can talk about this kind of stuff with."  

Rose starts painting her other hand. "It's because I'm the only person you know who hangs out with other gay people." 

"Well. I have to stay connected to the community somehow." 

"Just talk to him," Rose says, finally. "Trust me, you're not a freak, or a pervert, or whatever it is you think you are. Sex and feelings get tied up together all the time. Doesn't mean you are a bad person, or anything like that. Just, like, have fun and make your boundaries clear and everyone gets to have a good time."

"Thank Rose." Shane means it. Talking to her always just… makes things clearer for him. 

"Of course. Good luck with playoffs. I'm really rooting for you guys," Rose says. "Metros are going to get the stupid fucking cup this year, got it?"

"Fuck yeah." Shane says, completely serious.

"Fuck yeah." And then at this, she hangs up. 

**** 

"I will be in Colorado early."

Shane blinks. On Shane's FaceTime, Ilya is cooking shirtless and has his phone angled against an old mug so he wouldn't need to use his hands to talk. "What?"

"To watch you beat Denver for the cup," Ilya says, lightly. "You will get there early too, yes? We can be with each other a couple days before the game." When Shane doesn't respond, Ilya stops, hands braced against the kitchen counter. He frowns, suddenly unable to look Shane in the eyes. "Unless you do not want me there," he says, to the kitchen sink. 

Shane's heart, on the other hand, is actually doing joy somersaults in his chest. "I get to see you sooner than I thought?" Shane says, high on happiness. 

Ilya's shoulders relax. He turns to smile at him now. "Surprise," Ilya tries to smirk, but instead he just accidentally mirrors Shane's happiness, eyes twinkling. It's a good look on him. 

Shane points a stern finger at his boyfriend. "One thing," Shane demands. "No… crazy butt stuff before the match, okay?" Ilya's eyebrows shoot up his forehead. "Everything…" he blushes now, hard. "Everything else is fair game."

Ilya blinks for a second, before bursting into laughter. Once he's recovered enough, he pretends to draw an imaginary sword, and pierces his chest in a fit of dramatic flair. "Oh, someone save me," Ilya begs to the ceiling, "my super hot boyfriend will not let me play with his butt."

"Seriously!" Shane's laughing now. "Don't like, fuck me until I can't walk or whatever. I need to destroy this game."

The promise Shane made to Ilya, the night he beat him, echoes between the two of them wordlessly. Shane's laughter quiets as he imagines Ilya waiting for him in his hotel room after his cup win, wearing his jersey. Ilya's eyes lower, and he licks his lips. 

"How about I fuck you first day I am there," Ilya murmurs, "Give you second day before the game to recover."

Shane thinks this over. His dick confers diligently. "Deal," Shane says.  

"Great," Ilya says, smiling back at him. 

So cut to Colorado, Ilya has Shane on his back, whispering in his ear that he wants to look at Shane when he fucks him. Shane has missed Ilya a lot. So in response, Shane tells his boyfriend that he wants to feel him, and it's okay if they don't use a condom this time. 

So Ilya is already moaning, loudly. His forehead is pressed against Shane's, and he has one hand fisted in the sheets right next to him. "Fuck," Ilya mumbles, "You feel so fucking good," he groans. He fucks Shane deeper and Shane gasps deliriously, clenching tighter around him. "I missed you so fucking much," Ilya groans, "I wanted to fuck you everyday you were gone." 

And that's when Shane does it. He doesn't mean to. But he had been holding onto Ilya's face, cupping his cheeks, so he could keep him close. And how could anyone resist? Ilya just looks so overcome with how good he feels, his lips parted helplessly in pleasure—

So Shane feels, as if compelled, to inch his thumb, little by little, until it nestles into the hook of Ilya's mouth. 

And Shane, as if under a spell, digs in. He pulls. 

Ilya's eyes go hazy and unfocused as Shane forces his mouth open with his thumb, pressing deeper, exploring the contours of his cheeks. Ilya's hips stutter violently. He tries to curse around Shane's finger, but his mouth is stretched too wide, stuffed too full to form any words. Shane watches him, half-lidded as Ilya drools a little on his fingers, letting Shane fuck them deeper into his mouth. Shane feels himself get wetter and wetter the more fingers he adds in, making it easier for Ilya to fuck him harder, to completely bury himself in Shane.

Shane wonders if he presses down on Ilya's lip, sharp enough to bleed, if he would let him. 

Shane fishes just his thumb out of Ilya's mouth. He presses on the soft, meaty part of his bottom lip. He watches Ilya's expression the entire time, gauging how he feels as he digs in harder.

Ilya's only resistance is a soft whimper. Ilya stares down at Shane with big, trusting eyes, and when Shane finally lets go, stopping just before the delicate skin could break, Ilya gasps, desperately. His head jerks forward, as if his lips are still trying to chase Shane's fingers. 

All Shane has to do is loop his arms around Ilya's neck, yanking his head close, so he can whisper in Ilya's ear about how good he makes him feel. How hot his cock is, splitting him open. How beautiful he looks, just like this, fucking him so well, just for Shane. And then Ilya comes, hard, high keening moans climbing in volume as he climaxes. 

Shane moans, as Ilya pulls out. Ilya's forearms tremble next to Shane's head, barely able to keep him upright. Fuck, Shane is so hard, he needs to come. 

Ilya, after taking a beat, sits up. His eyes are determined when he looks down at Shane. He sits back to straddle Shane's legs, and he grips Shane's dick in a firm grasp, and starts jerking him off.

"Oh fuck," Shane gasps, "Fuck I'm not going to last long, I'm so fucking hard." 

"You're going to come on me," Ilya says. Almost matter-of-factly.

"What?" Shane whimpers. But Ilya's jerking him off too fast; he's going to have no choice but to listen to him.

"Like this," Ilya says, and suddenly Shane feels it ripped out of him. He comes in spurts along Ilya's chest, moaning the entire time, and when he finally finishes all he can do is fall onto the bed.

"Fuck," Ilya mumbles. He collapses next to Shane. He turns his face into Shane's neck. "Jesus fucking christ, Hollander." 

They lay there for a while, Ilya, curled against Shane's side, and Shane burying his nose into Ilya's hair, petting his curls back lovingly. Shane wonders if there was a way they could stay like this forever, wrapped up in each other's arms. 

Except he feels Ilya grin against his neck. "What?" Ilya mumbles, into his skin, "No complaining?"

Shane snorts. "You think I am that type of person? Someone who is always complaining all the time after sex?"

"No moaning about how dirty we are? How we need to shower?"

Shane smiles to himself. He combs his fingers through Ilya's hair, untangling a knot he sees at the crown of Ilya's head. "No," Shane whispers. "I just want to be with you."

Ilya has a big dumb smile on his face when he looks up. "Come be with me in the shower," Ilya says. 

So they clean up, together, again. 

It's so intimate every time. Shane loves showering with Ilya. He likes getting him all clean, so he can smell nice when they crawl into bed together. Shane likes that he always lets Shane shampoo his hair. He likes looking at his body relax in the hot water, the muscles rippling down his back. 

They dry off. Shane throws on a pair of shorts and an old T-shirt, and Ilya decides to lounge around in his boxers. They are playing around with Ilya's new MacBook. Ilya tries to regale him with a story about how he was moving a box and actually had to watch as almost 50 kilograms worth of belongings fell out of his hands, and onto the very first Apple product he had bought in America—his ancient 2010 MacBook Pro. 

"My box completely broke my computer in half," he says, with excitement. "Was totally mental."

But he says the interface is really different on the new one, and he got too confused to figure it out without Shane's help. So, Shane is fiddling around on Ilya's new laptop, glasses slapped haphazardly over his face as they cuddle in a hotel bed in Colorado. Shane's almost done backing up all of Ilya's old files when he sees it.

It's Shane's least favorite Apple feature. It's the feature where the laptop displays all of a person's old photos, in some translucent slideshow, right on the homescreen, without the user's explicit permission. 

When Shane finally installs everything, the photos at first display a couple of nice action shots of Ilya and his old Boston team on the ice.

Then, they show the selfies of him and Ilya, all the way back in Las Vegas. They look young, and it gives Shane butterflies to see that Ilya had saved them. Shane shoots Ilya a soft smile, and even though Ilya looks kind of shy, he nudges Shane back, also looking fond at the old memory.

But then the next photo pulls up.

Ilya, with a gorgeous girl. She has dark tan skin, heavy makeup, and wildly curly hair. She can only be Svetlana. They look younger in the photo, maybe about seventeen. 

And then, on their left, also hanging off Ilya's neck, a boy.

A pretty boy. 

With long eyelashes, brown hair, and a devilish smile. 

"Oh," Ilya sneaks a glance over at Shane. From his careful tone, Shane can tell he's experiencing mild panic at Shane seeing this photo. However, he's trying to play it cool. "Svetlana and Sasha. From school days." 

Shane tries to sound very calm when he says what he says next, "Who's Sasha?" 

"He's um." Ilya clears his throat. "He's the coach's son. The one I told you about." 

Be normal about this. Shane reprimands his brain, sternly. Be so normal about this.

Shane's brain flips him the finger. No fucking way bro. I'm going to fucking kill this guy. His brain replies, gleefully. It is unclear if his brain is talking about Sasha, or Ilya. 

"He's pretty," Shane says, voice getting tight. 

The slideshow has now faded slowly away from the offending photo and into a meme Ilya probably saved off the internet. It's an excessively deep-fried JPEG, and the bottom text is written in Cyrillic, so Shane can't understand what the punchline is. 

Ilya decides to quickly lower the lid to his new laptop. 

"Is old school photo," Ilya says, carefully. "Only for memory sake." 

Shane, because he's such a big fucking person, has made his peace with the fact that Ilya is essentially best friends with someone he was once sexually attracted to. Even if that someone is, by most standards, the most beautiful woman anyone has ever seen. A gorgeous woman who is definitely still sexually attracted to Ilya, and whose supple figure always made Shane feel dorky and impotent in comparison. 

But this Sasha. This Shane doesn't have to take laying down. 

"I didn't know he looked like that," Shane says, testy.

"What did you think he would look like?" Ilya says, patiently. 

Shane feels it. Hot, unmistakable jealousy. Ilya is the center of his entire world. No one's ever had him, the way Ilya's had him. 

And… what? Shane just has to be okay with the fact that Ilya has had not one, but two hot exes of different genders, both of whom he probably had mindblowing sex with? Both of whom he knew well enough to have old school photos with?

"Is that your type?" Shane bites out. All rationality has fled his brain. It's an entirely alien feeling. He is completely overpowered by his emotions. His very, very angry emotions. "Like, cute little boys?"

Ilya curses loudly in Russian. He pinches the bridge of his nose, as if trying to rub a headache away, before he looks back up at Shane. "Tell me what I can do to make this end," Ilya says, plainly, "I will do anything, yes? I keep this one photo because I do not have a lot of digital from my days in Russia, so I do not have heart to delete. But if you do not want this on my phone, I will remove from my phone. Okay?" 

If Ilya was attempting to reason with him into letting this blow over, Ilya was sorely mistaken. "The men you've slept with," Shane pushes forward, dangerously, "They usually are what? A little girlier right? Maybe smaller than you?" Shane feels like he's baring his teeth like an animal, "So you can throw them around?" 

Ilya grabs the MacBook between the two of them, and tosses it to the side, a touch aggressive. The suddenness of the movement makes Shane gasp, as Ilya lunges and pins him down, trapping both his wrists above his head under one firm hand. 

Shane's pushed too hard. Ilya's really angry. His nostrils are flared, and he's glaring down at Shane, jaw clenching in fury. But instead of scaring him, it makes Shane's nerves stand on end, hot and alive, like he's staring down an opponent in the middle of a game. Ilya grips Shane's wrists together a little too tightly, and Shane hisses, not breaking eye contact. 

"Yeah," Ilya snarls, "I like pretty boys," When he smiles, it's cruel. "I like throwing them around and making them beg for my cock." 

"Fuck you," Shane spits.

Ilya smirks. His expression is cold. "You want to make me forget all of them?" Shane tries to wriggle out of his grip, but Ilya forces him back down."You want to be the only one?" 

"I'm not a type," Shane insists. 

"Hollander," Ilya laughs, humorlessly, "you are the fucking blueprint." 

He leans down and kisses Shane. 

Shane is mean when they come together. He bites Ilya's lips, hard in retaliation. He's not scared of getting too rough this time. He wants to fucking fight Ilya. Ilya laughs when Shane yanks on Ilya's bottom lip with his teeth. As punishment, Ilya shoves him down, holding his wrists even tighter and higher than before, so Shane's body is forced into an exposing arch. 

"Let go of me," Shane snarls. 

"No," Ilya spits back. "You pissed me off. Lie on your back and take it." 

Shane laughs, mocking, "Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" he smiles, showing all his teeth. "You are going to have to fucking make me." 

Ilya kisses Shane again, rough and intrusive. He fucks his tongue into Shane's mouth, letting his chain swing into Shane's chin, and Shane can tell Ilya is relishing in the image of Shane, helpless beneath him. Too bad for Ilya—it's playoffs. Shane has The Metros training and conditioning like a man on a fucking warpath. 

Last season, he got the boy. This season, he's getting his fucking trophy. 

Shane shoves his thigh between Ilya's legs, grinding up a little against his crotch, just to be an asshole. Ilya groans into his mouth, kissing him senselessly, chasing his pleasure by unconsciously rubbing against Shane's leg. 

Then, by wrapping both his legs together, Shane uses the strength from his quads to then flip Ilya over, slamming his boyfriend down on his back so Shane can settle his weight against his hips, straddling his waist as he pins both of Ilya's hands to the side of his head. 

They are both breathing so fucking hard. Shane stares down at Ilya for a long, heated moment. Ilya's eyes are wild, unfocused. His dick hardens against the cleft of Shane's ass. Shane catches his breath, trying to calm down, as he lowers his hips, and starts grinding against Ilya's cock. 

"Fuck," Ilya mutters. He tries to fight out of Shane's grip, but all his struggle does is bring them closer together, mash their hips tighter, making both of them harder. A blush, foreign and infrequent, starts crawling its way up Ilya's face, up across his cheeks, as Shane squeezes his thighs tighter around Ilya's waist, incapacitating him into stillness. 

Shane feels like he's dreaming, probably because he's had this dream before. It's exactly as he's afraid of. Ilya, struggling underneath him, blushing. He wonders if Ilya can tell, all those kilometers away from Shane, how much Shane had been thinking about him. 

How much Shane wants to own him. 

This moment of weakness—Shane looking down at Ilya's flushed face, lost in lust, is all Ilya needs to flip them back around. He grabs Shane's hips, and before Shane can protest, he throws them, shoving Shane face-first into the mattress. 

Ilya is significantly more out of breath than when he started. He climbs up on top of Shane, his boner lining up with where Shane has his ass yanked up into the air, entirely exposed to Ilya.  His boyfriend has Shane pinned down into uselessness, with one hand wrapped around the nape of his neck, the other grabbing his arm, trapping it behind his back. 

Shane lies there, defeated. He turns his head, looking up at Ilya, who stares down at him with hooded eyes. Shane's lips are parted as he waits for Ilya to shove his shorts down, take his prize, and fuck Shane into the mattress.

Instead, Ilya leans down. He lays his forehead against the back of Shane's head, burying his nose into Shane's hair. And then he whispers, right into his ear. 

"How do you want me?" he asks. 

Shane's eyes widen in surprise. Ilya just stays there, not moving a muscle, eyes hazy and stupid on exertion. "Let me go," Shane whispers, a little in awe. 

Ilya listens to him. He lets him go. His head is lowered as he scoots to sit up against the headboard. 

Shane sits up, shakily. He turns to look at Ilya, who just sits, waiting for his next instruction. "I'm going to touch myself now," Shane pants. He gets on his knees, slightly raised. He pushes his shorts down, and Ilya huffs when Shane pulls his own dick out. Shane jerks his cock slowly, giving Ilya a show, watching him the entire time. 

"Are you going to let me fuck you?" Ilya says. His voice is different. He's slurring his words. 

"No," Shane whispers. He feels drunk too. His hand around his dick, Ilya's eyes on his body, it makes him feel so fucking powerful. "You are going to sit there and watch," Shane thumbs his slit, and he throws his head back, letting out a keening moan. "Fuck," he closes his eyes for a second, lost in pleasure, but when he opens them, he sees Ilya try to palm his own dick. 

"Don't," Shane says, breathless, "Don't touch yourself. 

"Shane," Ilya grits out. His eyes look dark. 

"I'm serious. Don't come," Shane whines, as he tugs harder on his dick, "Don't come unless I tell you to."

Ilya curses in Russian and slams his hand back onto the bed, his arms straining. "I am not going to be able to stop myself," he snaps. 

Shane glares at him. With hooded eyes, he starts playing with his own nipples, his left thumb gently caressing them to hardness, pinching the fat of his pecs so they bunch together. Ilya watches him as if in a trance. "If you are not good," Shane gasps, "You will not get to finish, and I'm not going to let you watch me come." 

That shuts Ilya up.

So Ilya watches him. He watches Shane open himself up, fucking himself on his fingers. He watches Shane jerk himself off as he splits himself open. Ilya doesn't say a word, just keeps staring at him, hair rumpled, and dick hard and obvious from underneath his briefs. 

"Tell me I'm beautiful," Shane gasps. His eyes don't leave Ilya's. He stares at him, honest and intense. 

"You're beautiful," Ilya says, dumbly. 

"Tell me I'm the only one for you," Shane murmurs. 

"You're the only one for me," Ilya repeats. His pupils are completely blown. 

"Tell me," Shane moans, loud, as his dick starts getting wetter and wetter, "Tell me you want no one else." 

"Shane," Ilya begs. When Shane looks down, a wet spot has grown on Ilya's briefs. The thought of Ilya, coming untouched again, completely at Shane's mercy, sets Shane's blood on fire. 

 "Tell me," Shane demands. His hand on his dick slows, and Shane squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn't whimper at his own act of restriction. Ilya sucks in a hard breath. "Tell me." Shane orders. 

"I want no one else," Ilya says, meaning it with his entire heart. This makes Shane feel incredible. 

"You are being so good," Shane gasps, and Ilya curses violently in Russian. He lurches forward to grab his own dick, to stop himself from coming. Shane starts jerking himself off with a frenzy now, watching Ilya squeeze his eyes shut so he doesn't completely blow his load. "Look at me," Shane insists.

Ilya looks up, overcome. His hand is still clenched around his dick.

"You're going to come like this," Shane says. He's getting close. "You're going to come in your boxers, watching me touch myself. Do you understand me?" he pants.

Ilya shakes his head. "Shane, I can't," he begs, "I need you. Fuck, I'll do anything. I'll fuck anything. I just need you so fucking bad." 

Shane smiles. He expected a lot more resistance. Instead, Ilya just sits there, as Shane gasps, coming all over the sheets. Ilya stares at him with his mouth open, his dick unbelievably hard in his boxers, as Shane falls forward, holding himself up with his right hand.

He stays there, trying to catch his breath. Ilya is ridiculously turned on and impatient. "Shane," Ilya warns. "Tell me what to do in next three seconds or I am going to grab you and flip you over." 

Shane closes his eyes again. He feels like he's underwater.

"No," Shane whispers, at first to himself. His voice regains its strength. "You want something to fuck?" he asks, breathing heavily, "I'll give it to you." 

So he crawls over to Ilya, on hands and knees. He leans down, nuzzling the fabric of Ilya's crotch. 

"Shane," Ilya moans. "Shane, Jesus fuck, I need you to let me come." 

"Then come," Shane says, softly. He buries his face deeper, inhaling Ilya's scent, mouthing the length trapped in his boxers. Ilya moans in desperation. 

"You're going to fucking kill me," Ilya mumbles, panicked, "Holy fuck you are going to kill me." 

Ilya thrusts helplessly against Shane's face, the underwear his dick is trapped in getting wetter and wetter as Shane parts his lips, mouthing the length through the fabric. Then, after only a minute, Ilya finally comes, loud. His boxers are soaked when he's finished, so Shane pulls away, in a daze. 

They lie in bed, side by side, staring up at the ceiling in shocked silence... again. Shane does not miss that this is the third time in a row the sex has left the two of them speechless. Once again, Shane doesn't feel sated. His body wants him to do that again, and again, like some kind of restless, ravenous animal. But Shane stays silent, trying to calm his nerves, while Ilya, after a while, yanks his underwear off in disgust, flinging it onto the floor. He flops back onto the bed, completely naked, panting. 

Shane looks over, hesitantly. Ilya has an arm thrown over his eyes, as his chest heaves, up and down, as if pushed to exertion. "Was that okay?" Shane asks. He nudges himself onto Ilya's chest. Ilya doesn't make any effort to push him away, but he isn't wrapping his arms around him, bringing Shane in closer. 

Ilya barks out a laugh. "Oh, so now he is all shy," he snarks. He still has his eyes covered. 

"Can you answer my question?" Shane insists, into his chest. 

Jesus fuck, what just happened? The entire point of the last two weeks was to get Shane's weird, intrusive fantasies of dominating Ilya under control. This feels like the opposite of control. It feels like Shane, with the power of his own brain, completely inventing an entirely new way for the sex between him and Ilya to feel absolutely insane. 

"Is okay," Ilya's still laughing. It's a touch hysterical. "I get it. You are acting crazy because of the cup." 

Shane blanches. "That's not true," he insists. 

"No, I am correct," Ilya says. His breath is slowly evening back out. "Is my fault. I wear your jersey," he lets his arm fall around Shane now, yanking him in around the shoulders, "I let you beat me. Canada's Golden Boy goes on a fucking power trip." 

Shane's getting annoyed. "You didn't let me win," he narrows his eyes. He wants to set the record straight. "I beat you." 

Ilya huffs. "Fine," his eyes are more serious when he looks down. "You beat me, Hollander." 

"And this is not a power trip," Shane says, letting the words fall out of his mouth. Shane readies himself for the real confession. "I like making you feel like this," he admits, albeit very shakily. 

Shane isn't used to this, at all. Ilya, as the more sexually experienced partner, usually dictated the rules around what they did and didn't try. Shane usually didn't ask for anything. He didn't know how to declare what he wanted, that boldly. 

Ilya's eyes lose their mirth. He considers what Shane is saying. "Like what, Shane?" Ilya asks, softly. 

"Like…" Fuck, now he has to put what he's been feeling for the past couple of weeks into words. Is there anything worse than having to articulate sexual desire? Shane didn't think so. He would much rather shove Ilya on his back again and make him come in his pants another five times, than figure out how to intelligently explain how he's been feeling. 

"I like reminding you that you're all mine," Shane says, trembling. He feels like the words are being dug out of his chest. Ilya stares at him, not saying a word. "I like it when I tell you what to do, and you listen," Shane laughs at this, at his ridiculousness. 

"Because it makes me feel like if, in the future, I tell you to stay, if I tell you not to leave," his voice trails off a little, and Shane thinks he feels heat prickle at the back of his throat, "You'll listen." 

"Fuck," Ilya whispers. He keeps looking at him, and Shane feels split open because of it. "Is that what you think?" Ilya says, bewildered. "That I will leave you?"

Shane shrugs. He buries his face into Ilya's shoulder, so he wouldn't have to look at him. 

"Hey," Ilya demands. He gives Shane a hard nudge, to Shane's grumbling protest. "Shane, look at me." 

"I don't wanna," Shane grumbles, stubborn. 

Ilya nudges him again. Softer this time though, like he just wants Shane to know he's there. "Shane," he says. His voice is raw. "I would never do that." 

"Never?" Shane mumbles into his boyfriend's chest. 

"Is that why the sex is so crazy?" Ilya says, from somewhere above him. He laughs a little to himself, but it's edged with the slightest bit of despair. "You think I will go away?" 

"I don't know," Shane says, because he really doesn't. He doesn't know why he's acting like this. He just wants Ilya all to himself, and feels like he's going to fly apart at any reminder that he can't. "I don't know." Shane finally finds the bravery to look up at Ilya at this part, "I just need you so badly. If I lose you…" something that suspiciously feels like tears spring up to his eyes, but Shane suppresses them back, an easy and practiced motion. He knows how to stop himself from crying. 

But, like with everything, not well enough for Ilya not to notice. "Fuck," Ilya mutters, "Shane…" and he drags Shane up, so he can kiss him. Shane kisses him back eagerly, as the two of them get lost in each other. Another one of their hundreds of eternal nights, spent in each other's arms. Shane breaks away, after a while. Ilya still drags his head forward, following his lips, eyes closed, as if savoring the kiss even as they separate. 

"I just want to make you happy," Shane says, and he is comforted by the absolute truth he finds in the words. 

A complicated expression crosses Ilya's face at this.

Shane wonders, stupidly, if he's being too naive. How can any one person make someone happy? Especially if that person is Shane? Ilya already has to completely start his life over, from scratch, again, for the off chance they can spend a little bit more time together. Even after dating for almost a year, Shane feels like he still has so little to promise Ilya. He feels like one wrong move and his plan for forever will come crashing to the ground. 

Ilya looks down at Shane. "Can I be honest with you?" 

Shane blinks up at him. "Always." 

"I think you will miss playing me in Boston."

Shane doesn't betray his anxiety, even as his heart hammers in double-time. "Why? I'll play you all the time in Ottawa."

Ilya lets out a humorless laugh. "Okay. Fine. I will miss playing you in Boston." 

Shane frowns. "I will miss nothing about how crazy Boston and Montreal fans were about us," Shane looks up at Ilya now. "I thought you felt the same way. I thought that's why you agreed to leave." 

"Can I tell you something," Ilya asks, and the blue in his eyes almost glows in the darkness of the hotel room, "and you do not laugh at me?" 

"I absolutely cannot promise you that," Shane says, immediately. 

Ilya gives Shane's hair a little tug, and Shane yelps at the sensation. "I am being serious." 

"Just tell and let me decide for myself what I want to do about it." 

Ilya rolls his eyes. He mumbles something in Russian, frustrated. "Fine," he says, back in English. "Since Boston game…" Ilya trails off, thinking about how he wants to word what he's going to say. "I have been scared." 

"Scared?" Shane asks. He feels his stomach drop.

Ilya huffs a frustrated noise. "No, not scared. Scared is too sissy. Too submissive. Maybe paranoid." Ilya nods to himself, happy with the word he landed on, "Yes. Paranoid." 

"Okay," Shane says, "Why?" 

"I am paranoid you will not want to fuck me if I do not know how to challenge you on the ice," Ilya says, into the night. 

Shane takes this statement in. He tries very, very hard to consider Ilya's feelings with the seriousness they deserve. His boyfriend is still staring at the ceiling, looking and probably feeling just as split open as Shane does. 

But Shane can't help it. He turns what Ilya said over in his head one last time. He bursts out laughing. 

"Fuck you, Hollander," Ilya snaps. He actually looks hurt. 

"I'm sorry," Shane gasps. Except he realizes, unfortunately, he can't stop. He just keeps laughing. Shane buries his palms into his eye sockets, hoping the colors that explode out from behind his lids will at least encourage him to have an empathetic reaction. It does not work. "I'm sorry, I promise I'm not trying to be a dickhead." 

"And yet," Ilya snaps. 

"Okay." Shane calms down. He turns to Ilya. "I love you no matter what, you know that, right?" 

Ilya stays silent. Shane's eyes widen. "You know that, right?" he asks, this time a lot more serious.

"Would you have even looked at me, if I was not on your level?" Ilya asks instead of answering. 

Shane's answer is instant. It falls out of him, like a reaction. "What? Of course not." 

Ilya's face shutters. "Okay." 

Shane pinches him, "No come on. Would you even be you if you weren't?" Shane asks. 

"Things change," Ilya says, distant. "Ottawa is a terrible team. They are not winners." He looks over at Shane now. "They are not a challenge."  

Shane's heart sinks. His laughter disappears as he is confronted with exactly what he had been worried about, vocalized. " Do…" Shane says, in a small voice, "Do you not want to go?" 

Ilya doesn't answer right away, which only makes the lump in Shane's throat worse: "Do you not want to be with me?" Shane chokes out. 

"Do not be stupid," Ilya says, fiercely. But there's a long enough pause in between Shane's question and Ilya's answer that Shane feels unsettled. Ilya still grabs Shane, manhandles him so his face is buried in Ilya's chest, Ilya's arms wrapped around him tightly. "Of course I want to be with you. I love you. Is not about that." 

"I love you too," Shane returns, "So what is this about then?"

Ilya sighs. "This conversation," he mumbles, "would be much easier over a cigarette." 

"I don't like that you smoke so much," Shane says, again, to what feels like essentially a brick wall. Ilya dismisses him easily. I will never stop smoking Hollander. Ilya had told him once. Yeah, well, we'll see about that, Rozanov. 

But Ilya does not move to get up, or to go outside. He just stays still, hand still stroking Shane's hair. 

"I just want to be someone exciting for you," Ilya says, in an uncharacteristically small voice. "I just want to be someone you will always like." 

Shane loves Ilya so much he feels ruined by it. He'll do whatever it takes to feel like this forever. 

Shane laughs, but maybe Ilya can tell he means nothing by it this time, because he doesn't tense up in hurt. When Shane glances up, Ilya actually just seems lost in love, consumed by the look of Shane in his arms. "I feel the exact same way," Shane says, softer, "I want to be someone who you'll always want around." 

Ilya finally rewards Shane with a smile. "I will always want you around," Ilya smirks, "Even though you like watching me come in my underwear." 

Shane pinches Ilya, hard. "Like you're one to talk. Remember the second time we hooked up, I sucked your dick, and you made me come untouched in my boxers?" 

Ilya's eyes darken in desire at the memory, "We were children back then," Ilya says, voice low. "We knew nothing." 

Shane sighs fondly. "You felt so untouchable to me, back then," Shane admits. In his ripe old age of 27, he's been feeling very nostalgic and reflective. "I was always chasing after you. It felt like trying to hold onto a ghost." 

"Shane," Ilya whispers, startled by his confession. 

Shane looks up, and he cups Ilya's face in between his palms. Ilya's cheeks squish inwards a little when he does, his lips pursing up into a pout. It makes Ilya look really cute, and Shane rewards Ilya's acquiescence with a helpless smile. "I'll love you even if you lose every game for the next five seasons." 

Ilya groans. He tries to wriggle away out of Shane's grip, "Are you crazy? Why would you curse your boyfriend like that?" Ilya says. "Knock on wood right now." 

"I got wood you can knock on," Shane says, salaciously, laughing to himself. But as Ilya tips him over, shoving him towards the dresser, Shane leans over to knock on wood, freeing Ilya from his curse. 

"I will always love you," Shane continues, "Because I know that even if you lost every game for the next five years, you wouldn't fucking stop until you figured out how to get the cup by the sixth season," Shane says, with a fond, lopsided smile. "You're a winner at heart," Shane smiles wider. "Just like me." 

Ilya looks at him, expression inscrutable. Shane realizes that, after reaching over to the dresser to free Ilya of his curse, Shane is currently leaning over his boyfriend, naked, ass in the air, completely exposed and waiting. Ilya starts breathing heavier, as Shane looks up at Ilya through his lashes, lips parted. 

They lunge at each other at the same time. A winner at heart. Shane thinks, as Ilya fucks him with his legs thrown over his shoulders, crucifix swinging just above his face.

****

The Metros win the 2018 Stanley Cup. 

Shane's ribs really hurt. His right shoulder stings. His legs feel like lead. He's a hockey player, so the pain is just the cost of doing business. Except people cannot stop touching him. His teammates grab him as they throw him up into the air. Sportscasters clap him, congratulatory, on the back, with big smiles on their faces. The general manager grabs him by the shoulder and yanks him into a conversation with the commissioner of the league. The commissioner doesn't even wait for Shane to stick out his right hand to introduce himself, he just reaches out and grabs it, yanking Shane toward him, crushing his hand under an authoritative gaze. 

Everyone wants a photo with him, too. He feels like a giant bruise. He's being yanked around by security, shoved by fans. Before he even gets a chance to skate off the ice, cameras flash wildly in his face. Cellphones, DSLRs, amateur, professional, whatever people can get their hands on. Everyone wants a piece of him.

He is not left alone for a second. Reporters chase him down. They ask him about his game. They ask him about the season overall. They ask if he thinks he can beat his new record. They ask how long it'll take him to do it.

They ask him about his dating life. They ask him about being Asian. Shane has a perfect answer for every question. 

He finally gets changed and exits, and he thinks he sees his parents. Without even thinking, he runs toward them, waving and shouting, trying to get their attention. When they turn around, Shane leaps into their arms, wrapping them in a tight hug. His dad has tears in his eyes, and he is clapping Shane hard on the back. He tells Shane he is proud of him. 

His mom can't even talk through sobs. She just holds Shane in her arms, and Shane loses himself in her touch. As Shane hides his face in his mom's hair, cameras, down the walls, down the hallways, down the street, through the window, desperately flash to get a piece of the moment. 

He gets dinner with his parents, and before he even sits down he sees at least three people hide their phone cameras with their menus. That's not even counting the people pretending to take phone calls, with lenses pointed directly at him. 

They start eating. Shane is fucking starving. He orders the most expensive fish off the menu, three appetizers, and two sides and the second it hits the table it's like he's been cut free. He can barely hear anything that isn't his fork hitting the plate, his teeth tearing the food to pieces, flavors exploding on his tongue. He actually moans in pleasure—he can barely stop himself from tipping the plate into his waiting mouth.

His parents talk the entire time. His dad is really happy, but his mom is relentless. Because of Shane Hollander's legendary performance on the ice tonight, because the Metros fucking won, the brands want Shane with a ferocity he hadn't seen since he first turned eighteen. Shane, in his frenzy to clear everything off his plate, still manages to mentally make a note to himself. To tell his mom he doesn't want to do any of them. He wants to focus on the Irina Foundation this summer. 

He wants to do something good, be someone good, with Ilya. 

Shane blinks, and without realizing he's finished his fish. There's still sauce on the plate. Shane doesn't even hesitate, he uses his fork and picks the plate up, scraping as much as possible into his mouth. He's socially allowed to eat the appetizers with his hands, so he grabs fistfuls of the food and smears them across the plate to clean it off.

The dinner ends. His mom settles the bill, without Shane even getting a second to glance at it. Shane stands up. He hugs his parents again. They tell him to have fun tonight. 

Even though he really doesn't want to, he celebrates his cup win with his teammates. 

The energy is high, so his teammates get drunk very quickly. Shane laughs at all the right moments. Everyone wants to toast in his honor. Even Denver fans. Montreal die-hards who traveled for the game treat him like the second coming of Christ. No one notices Shane's careful misdirections, as he subtly loses drink after drink that gets offered to him. Shane crushes ten glasses of ginger ale on the rocks, the fizziness lighting his neurons with energy every time he finishes a new one. 

At around an hour and a half, Shane decides he's done. He's been so good all day. He deserves to be rewarded. So he says goodbye to Hayden and J.J., who both wrap him into a drunken three-way hug, and Shane slips out the door. 

He wanders in a daze to his hotel room. He opens the lights. 

Ilya is there, waiting for him. 

Perched on the edge of the bed, legs crossed out in front of him. Wearing Shane's jersey. 

"Welcome back," Ilya says, smiling. "Mr. Champion." 

Shane hangs up his jacket. He turns back to look at Ilya. 

His hair is messy, like maybe he woke up from a nap. Shane wonders if he's ever slept in Shane's jersey. 

He wants to bury his nose into his neck, to see if he can find out. 

Shane walks over to Ilya and, without saying a word, crawls into his lap. 

Before Ilya can make another wisecrack, Shane does exactly what he wanted. He digs his face into Ilya's neck, using his nose to find where the soft material of the jersey's neckline begins, and where his skin ends. As he inhales, Shane's hands grab desperately at whatever's close, bunching the fabric into his eager fists. 

"Shane," Ilya mumbles, a little taken aback. Maybe he expected more celebration. Maybe even a little chirping. 

Shane ignores him. Fuck he smells so good. He definitely slept in the jersey. When Ilya first bought it, it still smelled like it had been shipped right from the merch store. Now it smells like Ilya. 

Shane kisses his neck. Ilya hums. Shane pulls the neckline aside and kisses him again. Ilya gasps this time. Shane shifts a little, cupping the side of Ilya's face, thumb tracing his lips, so he can kiss his jaw. Shane feels Ilya grow harder as he does. 

"Shane," Ilya repeats, a little more urgent this time. 

Shane starts to move down Ilya's body. He bunches up the jersey as he does, pulling and pushing it up as he kisses Ilya's nipple, kisses his stomach, peeling him out of his boxers so he can kiss the dip of his hips. 

"Are you going to make me wait for it this time?" Ilya asks. He sounds confident enough, except for how hard he's breathing, jumbling all his words up. His hands stay flat on the mattress behind him. 

"No," Shane mumbles, as he kisses Ilya's thigh. Shane sees Ilya's cock jump as he does. "You get to do whatever you want to me." 

He kisses the tip of Ilya's dick. Ilya gasps something in Russian. Shane looks up at his boyfriend when he does. Ilya looks drunk. His face is flushed, his eyes are dark, and he's worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. 

He takes the rest of Ilya's length into his mouth, a well-loved, practiced motion. 

Shane actually moans when he gets it all in. Fuck, Ilya's right. He loves sucking his boyfriend's cock. It feels really good to be made for something. After almost eight years, it feels like Shane's mouth, his throat, was made to be fucked by Ilya Rozanov. 

"Shane," Ilya gasps. He's still sitting up, but he's struggling to hold himself upright. So he grabs a fistful of Shane's hair to balance himself, and Shane suspects, shove him deeper onto his cock. 

Shane doesn't break eye contact the entire time. Ilya looks down at him, half-lidded and hazy with desire. Shane is gentle at first, slow. He never loses his eagerness, because it turns Ilya on so much. But he builds up in rhythm, increasing the pace in which he pulls unintelligibly wanton noises from Ilya's mouth.

"Shane," Ilya begs. 

His hand leaves Shane's hair. Ilya scrambles to seek purchase on something harder. More muscular. His hand lands on Shane's shoulder, and he squeezes. 

Shane winces, choking a little on Ilya's dick, body freezing up in pain. 

Ilya stops immediately. Shane watches as his eyes refocus the instant he feels Shane tensing up against his touch. He's frowning, and he's looking at Shane with open concern. 

Shane's really turned on right now. He really wants Ilya to fuck him, but more importantly, he wants to keep sucking his boyfriend's dick. He tries to redouble his efforts, before they were interrupted, except Ilya stops him with a firm hand in his hair. 

"Take your shirt off." Ilya orders. Shane's mouth is still stuffed with Ilya's cock, so he can't answer. He moans in protest. Ilya swears when Shane does. He gasps, as he tries to get himself to calm down. 

When he finally succeeds, he curses again in Russian, and with an insistent yank he pulls Shane off his dick, which Shane acquiesces with a pout. 

"I said take your shirt off," Ilya repeats, firm. 

"If you baby me," Shane demands, "the sex will stop immediately." Right now, the last thing Shane's boner needs is a mood repeat of last year. Shane, unconscious, injured. Ilya, screaming, terrified. Begging, in a stadium full of people, for him to wake up. 

Ilya clicks his teeth together in irritation. "I am a fucking hockey player, Hollander. Do not hide from me. Take your shirt off." 

Shane huffs. He glares at Ilya. He stands up, so he towers over Ilya a little, as his boyfriend stays lounging on the bed, jersey hanging off his shoulder. Shane unbuttons his white collared shirt, the nice one he wears when he knows he has to be on camera a lot. Ilya follows the proceedings with open interest. 

He moves to undo his belt, but Ilya stops him with a firm hand. "Leave something for me," Ilya drawls. "I told you to just take your shirt off." 

Alright. Fine. Moment of truth. He shrugs his shirt off.

Ilya tries to act as aloof and nonchalant as he promised he would, but when he sees Shane's ribs, his shoulder, his eyes widen. Jesus fuck, he looks concerned. He's looking at Shane just like he did last year, like he was something fragile. 

Shane needs to get this night back on track. 

Shane didn't realize it at first, but the curtains were barely closed. It's something he's gotten more and more careless about lately. But in Denver, the night after the cup, with so many people of industry swarming around? The oversight is obscene in its overindulgence. 

Shane can see the distant lights of the city, the imposing visage of the Rocky Mountains, through the hotel windows. 

Reflected in them, almost as clear as a mirror—

Ilya Rozanov, facing away from the outside world, with Hollander, 24, printed on his back. 

Shane watches his boyfriend's back in the window's reflection, watching his muscles ripple underneath his name, his number. He realizes that, at least in this moment, Ilya has no idea what he looks like. He has no idea what Shane is looking at.

So Shane crawls back into Ilya's lap. He stares at the reflection of his boyfriend's back as he does. He feels hot and possessive, so he does what he promised he would, and he grips his fingers into his name.

When Shane faces Ilya, they are barely a breath apart. Ilya looks up at him, expectant, as Shane presses their foreheads together. 

"Give me your hand," Shane mumbles against Ilya's lips. 

Ilya obediently raises his hand, and Shane links it into his. Surely, he drags Ilya's hand up. Up his abs, his nipple, then right on his shoulder, where the pain flares the angriest. 

"Press down," Shane orders. Ilya blinks and doesn't move. His frown deepens even further, like he might get upset.

"Shane," Ilya warns. But Shane's fingers tighten around Ilya's. 

"I said," Shane hisses, firm, "Press down." 

Ilya doesn't protest any further. His eyes flash, dangerously, and Shane sees his back muscles flutter underneath Shane's jersey, as he presses his fingers as hard as he possibly can in the worst of Shane's pain.

Shane almost whites out with how hot it feels. A wobbly, full-throated moan falls out of his mouth as he curls into Ilya. 

"Harder," Shane gasps. His dick stands to full attention. It's trapped behind tailored pants, which Shane grinds impatiently against Ilya's crotch. 

Before he does what he is told, Ilya, panting hard, all but rips Shane's pants off his body, fumbling madly at Shane's zipper. Shane helps him, standing back up so he can shove the clothes off, kicking everything free with one decisive movement. 

"Fuck, Shane," Ilya mumbles. 

Shane falls into Ilya's lap again, using his right hand to stroke Ilya a couple times. He lines up, breathing frantically, as he sinks onto his boyfriend's dick. 

Ilya moans. Without Shane even telling him to, he reflexively clenches down on Shane's shoulder, as he struggles for purchase against the pleasure of Shane squeezing around his dick. 

Shane whimpers. "Harder," Shane gasps. Fuck, Ilya's dick feels really good. As Shane starts to build up momentum, bouncing on Ilya's cock, he finds he can't tear his eyes away from the reflection of Ilya, his head bent, the Hollander name and number labeling him as Shane's wrapped tightly around him.

Ilya grits his teeth. He snakes a hand around Shane's thigh. As Shane grinds down on his boyfriend's dick, Shane's quads burn in protest. But Shane never let pain stop him in training, so he's sure as shit not going to let that stop him now. 

Ilya traces the muscle line of his thighs, thumb stroking him possessively. Before Shane can say anything, Ilya does it again. He looks Shane right in the eye, and he presses down hard, right on his leg, where everything hurts the most. 

"Fuck! Ilya!" Shane yells. Instead of throwing his head back, Shane wraps himself tighter around him. He didn't think he'd be the type of person who'd get off on looking at himself during sex, but he actually can't tear his eyes away. How tightly Shane's wrapped around Ilya, his boyfriend's strong arms holding him in place, making him fucking hurt. 

"Do you remember Boston, after our rookie year?" Ilya pants, right into Shane's ear. He digs his fingers into Shane's shoulder, and Shane jolts in pain, moaning, shoving himself deeper onto Ilya's cock as he does. "How hard I fucking checked you? Did I ever hurt you this bad?" 

"Yes," Shane groans. All the fucking time. "God, I was so shy back then," Shane feels split open on Ilya's cock, "I'd be so fucking horny after you hurt me on the ice, but I never wanted you to see it."

"Thought I would like it too much?" Ilya laughs, even though it breaks off quickly into a helpless gasp. 

"No," Shane moans, "Me. I always like everything you do to me too much."

"Fuck, Shane, I don't," Ilya looks at Shane, completely overwhelmed by pleasure. The look makes Shane want to claim ownership, so his fingernails dig into Ilya's back, crushing his name under his fist, "I don't know how much longer I can last." 

"I want you to come in me," Shane gasps, "Please Ilya I want you to fill me up with your fucking come—"

Ilya grabs Shane suddenly, fingers buried in his hair, buried into the sensitive divot of Shane's waist. Shane finds himself suddenly forced in place, as Ilya jackhammers into him, one, two, three thrusts before he's coming, his teeth sinking into the knotted pain in Shane's shoulder. Shane screams as he does, as he hangs on for just long enough for Ilya to finish, before Shane does something a little uncharacteristic. 

The second Ilya climaxes, head lolling on Shane's shoulder, spent, Shane pushes Ilya down, so he's face-first onto the mattress, his back to Shane. Laying Ilya out like this, Shane sees his name, his number, marking Ilya as his. Shane can't help but laugh a little, a touch crazed. Did he always look this vulnerable when Ilya did this to him? Shove him down, ass in the air, making him beg for his dick? 

Ilya's ass isn't necessarily up in the air, but it is still exposed. It's an absurdly nice butt. Ilya looks over his shoulder, eyes spent and face flushed with pleasure.  

Even after Shane rode his brains out, he still has it in him to shoot him a shaky smirk. 

"Enjoying the view, Hollander?" he mumbles. He's drunk from his orgasm. 

The jersey is riding up his midriff. Ilya is looking over his shoulder, like he's giving Shane permission to do whatever he wants with him.  

Shane palms Ilya's butt with his left hand. He jerks himself off with his right. Ilya watches him the entire time, lips parted, eyes unfocused, as Shane comes all over Ilya's back, all over his jersey. 

Shane thinks. Just this one thing. For me. 

Shane collapses by Ilya's side. He has Ilya's come dripping down his leg. Ilya has Shane's come all over his back. The two of them lay there, panting. Shane is staring up at the ceiling, letting the darkness of the room calm him into stillness. He deeply suspects Ilya is staring at him. 

They lay like that for a really long time before Ilya and then Shane burst out laughing. 

"You came on your jersey," Ilya says, laughing.

"You bought that shirt online," Shane snipes back. "I would never do that on my actual jersey." 

Ilya looks unbelievably smug, "Your signed jerseys fetch thousands of dollars. I wonder how much Hollander coming on his name and number would cost me?" 

Ilya deserves to be hit for that stupid comment, so Shane turns around and slaps him playfully on the ass. Ilya gasps, pupils darkening, and now Shane's smirking too. 

Ilya stares at Shane's body, but his gaze is soft, and lacks any real heat. Shane's face falls. He's probably looking at Shane's injuries. Shane, with his defenses up, prepares to lob a comment at Ilya, something hurtful maybe, to get him to look away. 

But Ilya traces a gentle finger on Shane's shoulder. It's too soft and affectionate to want to destroy. 

"I have mustard." 

Shane blinks. "What?"

"Is a bag of mustard. Russian athletes in the league use all the time." 

"I don't know what you want me to do with this information," Shane says, plainly. 

"Come on," Ilya replies, rolling his eyes. "Is like hot pack? Maybe? You definitely use something similar."

Ilya wants to take care of him. He wants to make his pain better. This, out of everything, for some reason makes Shane's hackles rise. "Oh, Ilya," Shane says, frowning, "You don't need to take care of me like that." I've seen you play through way worse. Shane thinks. 

Ilya's face shutters. He looks kind of pissed. "I do not 'have to' do anything," he snaps. 

Shane doesn't want to fight with his boyfriend, especially after a night like tonight, so Shane just smiles. 

He sits up, pets Ilya's hair until his frown disappears. He throws in a soft head scratch for good measure, which makes Ilya hum. When Ilya relaxes, Shane decides to slide off the bed. 

"Rub mustard all over my body after we shower," Shane says, over his shoulder. Ilya jumps up to follow. 

****

'Mustard in a bag' turns out to be some Russian version of a hot pack, except it's twenty times stronger, smells fifty times more medicinal, and has Cyrillic on the front. Shane has one pack on his shoulder, one on his back, and another on his right thigh. 

He also has a glass of expensive vodka in his right hand. He's kind of drunk, and he's laughing his ass off, as Ilya has spent the past hour Airplaying his MacBook (with the photo slideshow feature miraculously turned off) onto the hotel TV so they can watch old music videos Ilya liked when he was a kid. 

Ilya also has a glass of Russia's finest in his hand. He's changed out of Shane's jersey, and is just topless, wearing nothing but his boxers. 

He is gesturing wildly. He's not sober either. He had just finished a moving rendition of 'Believe,' all while telling Shane very seriously that the song was the one and only time Russia ever won Eurovision—"which is bullshit, by the way," Ilya demands, getting genuinely quite worked up. 

"Wait," Ilya catches himself. He polishes off the rest of the vodka. Shane watches his Adam's Apple bob appreciatively. "I show you every song I love and hate since I was nine. I told you about Lady Gaga and Madonna. I told you about emo rock phase. I told you about Drake. You have not shown me a single thing." 

"Come on man, you know this about me," Shane says, giggling, "I don't listen to music." 

If Shane did tell Ilya, once upon a time, maybe Ilya did not remember it. It's only reasonable. They've known each other for so long, and have told each other so much. Because Ilya's eyes actually bulge out of his head. 

"I do not believe you." Ilya says, flatly. 

"I do not listen to music. It's just kind of distracting," Shane shakes his head, pretending to be contrite. "Sorry?"

"Is literally impossible to not like music. Is music," Ilya insists. 

"Do you want me to top you off?" Shane asks, wagging his eyebrows as he shakes the vodka bottle in Ilya's direction. 

Ilya looks down at his empty glass and huffs. "This is how you treat victors where I am from," Ilya says. He walks over to Shane. "They come home—you welcome them with good vodka, good company, and good music."

He scoops the bottle from Shane's grip. He sets his glass down temporarily. Instead, he pours another finger into Shane's glass, looking up from his eyelashes as he does. Shane watches him, impressed at his control, as, without spilling a drop, Ilya brings the vodka back to himself. 

Of course, Ilya pours his own haphazardly, not really giving a shit where the liquid goes, or how much he pours in, before fiddling with his laptop on the bed, trying to find something else to play on the TV. 

Shane watches Ilya fondly for one too many seconds before he finally relents. "Fine," Shane says, "Fine. I have a song I want to play." 

Ilya's eyes light up when he meets Shane's. "I knew it. Tell me. I will pull her up." 

"Don't laugh at me," Shane says, defensively, "It's super corny." 

"I cannot promise you that," Ilya says, immediately. Shane's smile only grows at his answer.

"It's Harvest Moon," Shane says, quickly. "Neil Young."

Shane prepares himself for Ilya to start laughing, to call him a total square or whatever for liking dad rock. Instead, Ilya turns around and instead blinks at him blankly.

"Oh wow," Shane says, "I guess you don't know who he is?"

Ilya quickly searches up the song, and he pulls up a lyric video. The song begins, and with just the first two notes, yearning and tender, Shane's heart, the muscle that it is, recalls a happiness like an old instrument. 

"Oh man," Shane says, wistfully. The song, and probably the vodka, push him to stand up. All the heat packs slide off his body. He offers Ilya a hand, and Ilya, a little drunk, lets Shane pull him up, the two of them stumbling into each other. 

Shane is still laughing, so he decides to put the two of them out of their misery by taking charge. He loops his arms around Ilya's neck, the cold vodka glass still in his other hand. Ilya hesitates for a moment. He's no longer laughing. As he stares into Shane's eyes, everything appears to have become quite serious to him as Shane pulls them into a loose waltz. 

Neil Young starts crooning. 

Come a little bit closer

Here what I have to say

Just like children sleepin'

We could dream the night away

"Come on," Shane nudges. "Hands around my waist." 

Ilya follows his instructions. He sets his glass down, and he wraps his hands around Shane's hips. His right hand is cold.

Shane keeps staring into Ilya's eyes, as he sways, roughly, in time to the music, "My parents used to listen to this song all the time," he murmurs, smiling at the memory, "They'd slow dance together like this…" Ilya's hands tighten around Shane's hips as Shane steps a little closer to Ilya. "Right in the kitchen, when they thought I went to sleep." 

Ilya swallows. He can't look away from Shane, and he can't stop tracing slow circles against Shane's hip with his thumb, "That is beautiful," he whispers.

"Right?" Shane sways Ilya around, and he suddenly feels very grown-up. Maybe this is all music is. Just memories you can live in. 

He indulges in a fantasy. "We will have a house together someday," Shane says confidently. "Where we can do corny stuff like that. Dance in the kitchen." 

Shane is so close to Ilya. So he sees it all, how his boyfriend looks shattered to pieces at this revelation. "Shane," Ilya says urgently. His eyes are brimming with an emotion Shane can't read. "I need you to kiss me."

Shane does. 

When they break apart, Shane lays his head on his boyfriend's shoulder. He closes his eyes. He lets the song wash over him. He lets being here with Ilya, moon high in the sky, visible from their open window, wash over him. 

Because I'm still in love with you

I want to see you dance again

Because I'm still in love with you

on this harvest moon 

When we were strangers

I watched you from afar

When we were lovers

I loved you with all my heart

It's another perfect night, in a string of perfect nights already behind them. 

ilya POV one year later on the ottawa centaurs for part 2 coming up next! mostly done with that but still picking at it a little bit.
edit: now as promised!!! ilya pov in ottawa now up!
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