Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Baseball, Ilya Rozanov is a Tits Man, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time, First Meetings, Author Loves an Em Dash but is not AI, Anxious Shane Hollander, Autistic Shane Hollander, Internalized Homophobia, Canon-Typical, Shane POV, at least for now, Anal Fingering, Ilya Rozanov is a Consent King, Explicit Consent, Light Dom/sub, Subspace, Shane Hollander Has an Oral Fixation, Rimming, Coitus Interruptus, Phone Sex, Anal Sex, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, canon-typical exhibition/voyeurism, Anxiety Attacks, Under-negotiated Kink, more like unnegotiated kink, Dom/sub is more explicit now, Shane's canon-typical bad coping mechanisms, cowboy shane, Safer Sex, Body Worship, Rose Landry is a Good Friend, Hayden Pike is a good friend, Heterosexual Sex, Blood and Injury, Hospitals, Semi-Public Sex

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-19 Completed: 2026-03-14 Words: 52,494 Chapters: 8/8

Great Catch

Summary

The Hollanov Baseball AU no one asked for but my brain supplied because I'm more of a baseball nerd than a hockey nerd.

Shane Hollander (pitcher) and Ilya Rozanov (catcher) are both drafted straight out of the High School League into the MLB. What bits of their story are different, and what bits are eternal?

This fic is complete and binge safe!

Notes

Some of the baseball stuff is totally made up because I wanted it to be that way and some of it is meticulously researched, and you don't get to know which is which. :shrug:

Chapter 1: Rookies pt. 1: Up to Spring Training

July, 2009: MLB Draft

Commentator #1: Welcome back to our coverage of the 2009 MLB draft. Teams have not started picking their prospects yet, but festivities are underway, and all eyes are on the unlikely high school pair at top of everyone’s minds: Shane Hollander, a rightie hailing from Ottawa, Canada, known for his wicked fastball, tremendous endurance - he frequently plays through nine innings for his team - and having maybe the highest baseball IQ we’ve seen in recent rookies. Our other main prospect is Ilya Rozanov of Russia. The buzz already is: is Rozanov the next big slugger? Not typical for a catcher, but neither are Russian baseball players. 

Commentator #2: Yeah, what’s the story there?

Commentator #1: Apparently he started baseball in the summer as cross-training for hockey, can you believe it? He’s been in the country for two years, living with a foster family, the Vetrovas, and playing ball in the High School League for Monteith High in upstate New York. He helped lead his team to a second place finish against Hollander's team last year in the High School League Championship Tournament. 

Commentator #2: Hey, maybe he and the Canadian have something in common after all: they’re both used to horrible winters.

Commentator #1: You’re right that they couldn’t be more different, Tom. Hollander made waves in the high school leagues for his calm, cool, and collected approach to the mound. Meanwhile, Rozanov is well-known for incidents that tend to go viral of him pulling his mask off and arguing with the home plate ump over a call in vibrant Russian. Whoever picks him up will have to get him some decorum training. 

Commentator #2: Whatever happens, it’s certain to be interesting!

Second. Second. Second. Second. Second.

The number repeats over and over in Shane’s head as he slides on his royal blue Toronto Blue Jays cap and poses for publicity shots. 

“Can we get a smile, number two?”

Number two, number two, number two- Rozanov nudges him with his elbow, and belatedly, Shane gives his best photography smile and holds up his fingers in a bastardization of the V for victory. Some fucking victory. 

It makes sense, okay, it makes sense. The rational, baseball IQ part of Shane’s brain is completely calm. Boston needs a new catcher in the system with Stevens surely retiring soon. And if you’re going to need a catcher, you might as well claim the one that’s also the second-coming of Babe Ruth, according to some news outlets. Meanwhile, Toronto picking up the most prominent Canadian in the draft and shoring up its weak pitching roster also makes absolute sense. 

That doesn’t help the feeling in his chest when he looks over at Ilya Rozanov in his dark-blue Boston cap, his curls sticking a little wildly out the sides, holding up one finger. Fuck. Bitter disappointment in himself, in letting down his mom, in everything, swells within Shane. Shane is the best, has always been the best, and now he is most decidedly not the best, but the second best, and it’s fuck devastating.

The fact that Rozanov looks so fucking elated doesn’t really help matters. 

11 months ago, August, 2008: High School League Championship Tournament

Shane’s palms are sweating, not unlike when it’s the bottom of the ninth and he’s three outs from surviving to pitch the entire game. It’s stupid that they’re sweating, this is not a high pressure situation. All he’s trying to do is introduce himself to another player, because he admires that player. 

‘Admires.’ Ha. The truth was, he’d watched Rozanov’s last game here at the High School League Championships in Nashville, and he’d been absolutely intrigued, both by how the catcher had called the game, had handled his pitchers, but also by his performance at the plate, on base. Because yeah, most of the time, Rozanov ended up on base. He’s a switch hitter, an absolute pitcher’s nightmare, those sharp blue eyes picking up every move, every signal. He’s currently leading the tournament in stolen bases. 

Shane’s Baseball Brain is telling him that he’s watching Rozanov so intently because their teams are playing against each other for a three game semi-finals series starting tomorrow. The other parts of his brain that Shane mostly tries to ignore catch the way Rozanov’s curls tuck under his catcher’s mask, the stretch of his glutes in the tight uniform pants, the sharp blue eyes watching the opposing pitcher even as he takes a lead off of second base in a bid to steal third- yep, he got it, the opposing catcher’s throw being seconds behind. Shane winces for Chandler Franklin of Indiana as Rozanov slides into third with zero outs in the inning. Not a good place for his fellow pitcher to be. 

Those thoughts, those other thoughts, he tries to banish them. He always tries to. He knows to keep his eyes down in locker rooms and other places. He knows the other boys find that at best, weird. Staring is rude. He’d learned that lesson years ago. 

But his curiosity about the catcher from Russia, the phenom, new on the High School League scene, it’s too much to overcome. 

So he stands there outside the stadium, his palms sweating along with everything else in the heat of a Nashville summer night, and watches the young man attempt to light a cigarette directly underneath a no-smoking sign. 

“Ilya Rozanov?” he offers, holding out his hand despite its sweatiness. “Shane Hollander, I play for the Mustangs.” 

The boy finally gets his cigarette lit, then slips his lighter in his pocket and reluctantly, slowly takes his hand and shakes it. “You are starting tomorrow.” His voice is flat, accent thick. It curls through the air like the smoke from his cigarette. 

“Yeah, I am. I, uh, just wanted to introduce myself before we play, and you know-” Shane cuts himself off, frowning when Rozanov’s gaze continues to bore into him, unchanging. “Your coach lets you smoke?”

“Lets?”

Shane hums. “Anyway, uh. I should go, uh-”

“You will not be so nice when we win series, and title.”

This makes Shane laugh, just a little, because really? This is why he doesn’t talk to people. “Yeah, okay. Nice to meet you.” 

He walks away, willing himself not to turn back, or think about how hot Ilya Rozanov looked with a cigarette hanging off his perfect cupid’s bow lips. 

March, 2010: Rookies Media Event, pre-Spring training, Florida 

Shane is used to the soft, boring white walls of a hotel room; he’d traveled plenty for the High School League and Little League before that. He’s also used to this restless feeling building up inside him, the kind he gets before a high-pressure start. And there’s nothing in this fucking room that is going to help him with this feeling, he knows that, too. 

With a groan, he throws the covers off and starts pulling off his sleeping clothes and digging in his luggage for workout gear. Tomorrow is just a media day, though his mom - his manager - had warned him that they’d likely ask for pictures of the rookies in their various roles, which likely meant that he and Rozanov would be paired up to show off their skills. It’s going to be a light day, still, and so he can afford to tire himself out in the hotel’s pitiful gym tonight. 

The room is blessedly empty even though there’s a TV blaring some type of late-night talk show in the corner. Shane ignores it in favor of popping in his own headphones and hitting play on his iPod, the techno he prefers to work out to blasting into his ears and making it impossible for him to think about anything but his body working. There’s not much choice for cardio for his warm-up, so he goes with the treadmill, starting off with a nice jogging pace as he stares into the mid-distance and wills his anxiety about the press day to melt away. 

He’s twenty or so minutes into his workout when he almost falls off the treadmill at the sight of Ilya Rozanov climbing onto the treadmill next to him. He’d been spacing out enough with his pace and his music that he hadn’t even noticed Rozanov walk in. He recovers, giving Rozanov the gym-bro single nod before staring resolutely back ahead again. 

At least until he notices that Rozanov is jogging several speeds higher than him. With those fucking lungs as a smoker? Please. Shane can win this game any day. He bumps his speed up several past Rozanov’s. 

Rozanov grins, a sign he knows exactly what Shane is doing, and hits the speed button on his machine, his feet pounding against the tread. 

Shane refuses to stoop to this level and attempts to go for longevity, but it’s been ten minutes at this pace, with sweat streaming down his face, and Rozanov still hasn’t given up. Shane grunts and hits the speed again. Rozanov matches him, again. This goes back and forth several more times until Shane finally has to quit, practically falling off the machine, his legs absolute jello. 

Rozanov joins him on the floor with a laugh, laying down on the mat while Shane leans against the child wall and shivers when it touches the sweaty surface of his back. Ilya’s still laughing, actually, and coughing, and breathing hard, and it makes Shane laugh too, surprisingly. Somehow, seeing Rozanov laugh like this reminds Shane that they’re both still just 18. God. 

“You always go so hard on cardio?” Rozanov asks when his breathing is finally under control. 

Shane shrugs. “I don’t have to run the bases, sure, but it’s good for endurance.” 

Rozanov takes a long drink out of his white water bottle, and Shane absolutely does not watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, his skin slick with sweat. He doesn’t watch, and Rozanov doesn’t notice him watching, and other lies we tell ourselves at 11. 

Rozanov shakes the bottle, offering it to Shane, who declines politely. “Drink,” he insists again, and this time Shane acquiesces, and their fingers meet. Rozanov is warm, his hands rough in the way Shane’s are, too, callused and used to the work they do. 

Shane drinks gratefully, just now cluing into his body cues that he’s thirsty, and fucking tired, and worn out, and that last edge of anxiety has seemed to quiet after the laughing fit with Rozanov. When he brings his head back down, Rozanov’s eyes are on his body, and he tries not to notice that, either. 

“Ready for tomorrow?” 

“Sure,” Shane murmurs, handing back the bottle. “You? Do you, uh, use a translator?”

Rozanov shakes his head, his wet curls losing little droplets of sweat with the movement. They land on his shoulders and slide down into the black tank top he’s wearing, and Shane also definitely does not notice that. “I do in English, but-” Rozanov lifts a hand, shaking it in an ‘eh’ gesture, “Works. Is good enough. Hard, though.” 

“I bet. Sometimes I have to do interviews with the French press in Canada and it’s hard. I’ve been studying it for ages but I still make mistakes.” 

“You, Shane Hollander? You make mistakes?” Rozanov grins at him. “I do not make mistakes.”

“Oh, right, of course, I forgot.” 

They laugh again, and share the water again, and share the companionable quiet of the workout room, too. 

“I should, uh, go to bed, I guess. Try to get some sleep. My mom’ll kill me if I look tired tomorrow.” Shane pushes himself up, and thank god his legs have recovered enough that he doesn’t just fall right down again in front of Rozanov. He turns and leans over, offering his hand, a natural move that brings Rozanov to his feet. For some reason, Shane hadn’t calculated how close this would bring Rozanov to him, though. Now they’re sharing basically the same space, and Shane can smell the spiciness of his deodorant or cologne, the musk of his sweat. 

“Get your beauty sleep, Hollander,” Rozanov teases, smacking him on the ass the way countless catchers, teammates, pitching coaches and managers have over the years at a mound visit. Something about it feels significantly less collegial when Ilya does it, though. 

With a nod, Shane races out of the gym and back to his room, taking the stairs up two at a time rather than risk getting caught in the elevator with Ily- Rozanov. With Rozanov. 

“Question for Shane.”

Shane nods at the the reporter in the front row and tries not to swipe reflexively. This is it, the first question aimed directly at him, after several rounds of introductions and generalized questions for the whole panel - about 8 of them - to ease them in.

“Sam Mitchell with the official MLB podcast. Baseball isn’t the most popular sport in Canada. How’d you get roped in?” 

Shane gives the obligatory smile as the room laughs. “I had a lot of excess energy as a kid, so my parents put me in every sport. Baseball was the one that clicked. I like the numbers, the stats.” Shane shrugs. 

Next to him, Ilya Rozanov looks painfully bored by his answer, and Shane wants to wince internally. In the light of day, he imagines he’s much less fascinating to the Russian than he had been in the hotel gym. 

“Ilya, same question.” 

There’s a mild look of panic in Rozanov’s eyes for a split second before it’s hidden, but Shane catches it. He slides his foot closer to Rozanov’s under the table, nudging him just a little, trying to be a comfort and not a distraction. Ilya looks at him, and they exchange barely perceptible nods. “Is same. Baseball, uh, ‘clicked.’ I like very much making entire stadium scream, too.” 

More laughs from the crowd, and Ilya’s shoulders come slightly away from his ears, more in his element now with the ice broken. Shane’s not sure if he would call the look Ilya shoots him ‘grateful,’ but it’s not bored anymore, at least. 

“They’re playing up the rivalry aspect,” his mom murmurs while she types rapidly on her Blackberry as Shane gets his makeup for the photoshoot touched up. “Pitcher versus catcher, Canada versus Russia, Toronto versus Boston. So most of your shoot is going to be with Rozanov, unfortunately.” 

“Sure,” Shane murmurs, watching himself in the mirror. He doesn’t feel like he looks that different. “Do I need more stuff?” He gestures vaguely to his face. 

“Oh no, honey, I’m not covering up those gorgeous freckles. Just doing some accentuating,” the make-up artist answers with a tut of his tongue. 

The compliment, coming from a man no less, makes his heart feel funny, and he tries to suppress the feeling like he always does while the make-up artist finishes. He slips into his brand new Buffalo Bisons uniform, complete with HOLLANDER and 24 emblazoned on the back. It’s not the first time he’s worn it, but it’s his first time wearing it at AAA Spring Training. It feels all too real. 

“You are pretty,” Rozanov says when he sees him out on the baseball diamond, already in his own gear, his mask pushed back up on his head while he tosses a ball continually into his catcher’s mitt. 

“Shut up. You’re wearing make-up, too.” 

“Still, pretty.” 

“Okay, Shane, Ilya, we’re going to get some shots here from both POVs, and take some B-roll for Spring Training coverage intros and outros. Think slow-mo, hero shots, that kind of thing. Let’s start on the mound, so Shane, I need your best form here. Make it hot,” the director says with a grin. 

Shane blushes, but takes the mound. “Can you handle a fastball?” he calls down to Ilya, getting his feet in position and looking down the plate. 

Rozanov grins. “I can handle everything, Hollander.” He pulls his mask down and crouches behind the plate, holding up his glove in perfect strike position, all faith in Shane’s pitch. 

With a nod, Shane goes through his own little pitching ritual, adjusting his back foot in the dirt, spinning the ball one-and-a-half times by the seams in his hand, winding up, and then throwing a stinger with a satisfying smack into Ilya’s glove. It’s a fucking beauty of a pitch and everyone knows it: Rozanov hadn’t even had to move his glove. 

“Beautiful, beautiful. Reset, everyone, let’s do it again.” 

Ilya tosses the ball back to him with a huge grin on his face, Shane catches it easily, and they reset, all while Shane attempts to ignore how much his body is absolutely singing at the great pitch and response from Ilya. 

Their photo shoot goes longer than all the other rookies for the event, as the director keeps dragging them around to different parts of the stadium and having them pose in various positions or take different action shots. He’s had to do publicity before, but something about having Rozanov there almost makes it fun instead of excruciating. Still, he’s fucking done when the director finally calls it and sends them off to the showers. 

Shane starts with luke-warm water on his shoulder like he always does after pitching, letting the muscles cool down as he sticks his head under the water and thinks about the day, about the shoot. He'd already run through his post-pitching stretching routine, and he doesn't want to fuck up his first day of Spring Training tomorrow, and whatever Coach wants or needs him do. There’s this..energy zinging through his body still that he can’t explain, and he tries not to think about it in this very public locker room. 

Especially when he hears footsteps, and opens his eyes to see Rozanov cranking up the hot water on a shower two spaces away. He’s facing partially away from Shane, which means Shane has full view of that ass, sculpted over years of the catcher’s squat, perfectly round and more than enough for Shane to take in two handfuls and- oh fuck, he’s getting hard. He turns away from Ilya quickly, drowning his face in the water and surreptitiously - hopefully - turning the water colder to bring down the flush in his cheeks, among other things. 

When he opens his eyes again, he can’t help but glance in Rozanov’s direction, mostly to make sure he wasn’t caught earlier, and instead he meets Rozanov’s blue eyes as he spreads soap over his chest then down, down to his cock, which is also - Shane’s stomach flips even as he meets Ilya’s eyes again - oh god, the catcher is also hard. 

Rozanov looks at him, then down at Shane's hard on, his eyes glittering when he raises his eyebrows in mock-shock.

And then he strokes himself, casually, with his soapy hand. 

Something in Shane’s brain short circuits and he gives that gym-bro nod, shutting off the water and racing away, pretending he doesn’t feel Ilya’s eyes burning into him the entire retreat. He barely manages a “Not here” tossed over his shoulder. 

He races through drying himself and putting his clothes on, even though that means his clothes are now sticking to him in the Florida humidity, a feeling he absolutely hates but supposes he better get used to since he’s likely to spend every spring in Florida for however long his career lasts. The irritating feeling makes him slow down, blow out a breath, take in another while doing a count to four. He realizes, mid-breath, that he’s going to have to wait for Rozanov, to make sure they don’t have any misunderstandings about what just happened there. To make sure Ilya isn’t about to go tell everyone that Shane Hollander gets hard with other players in the locker room, aka, career fucking suicide. 

He pulls his socks and shoes on slowly, and he’s halfway through tying his sneaker when Ilya pads into the locker room, his towel slung low around his waist, his abs and pecs and the V of his torso on full display. Shane blinks at him, fumbling his shoe to the ground. 

Blushing, he reaches to pick it up. “Uh. What happened in there, I’m sorry. It was- we can just forget it, right?”

Ilya pulls open a locker, but doesn’t pull anything out. “Is what you want?” 

“Yeah, of course.” Shane finally manages to pick up his shoe and starts getting it tied, so he’s looking down when Ilya laughs at him, making him look sharply up. 

“You are a really bad liar,” Rozanov says to his locker, rolling his eyes. 

It’s on the tip of his tongue to protest, but then Rozanov is walking toward him, that beautiful body sliding into his space, and Shane absolutely cannot make his mouth work. It’s suddenly as dry as the Sahara. 

“What is your room number?” 

Shane looks up at him, then down, his eyes dropping to Ilya’s towel. God, he’s just in line to- “1410,” he replies, not entirely of his own volition. Someone else seems to be driving his mouth. 

Ilya grins, his crucifix glinting gold in his chest hair. “And if I come to 1410 tonight at 9…”

“I might open,” Shane lets out on a whoosh of breath.

“I might knock.” 

Holy fucking shit holy fucking shit holy fucking shit holy fucking shit. Shane manages a nod, and then escapes as soon as he can before he does something that would be the worst fucking idea known to man. 

Waiting for 9 is interminable, and by 8:50, Shane has taken to pacing by the door. At 9:00, when there’s no knock, he’s sure this is a prank, sure Rozanov is out there right now telling everyone his secret and ruining his life-

Knock knock knock. 

Shane has never opened a door so quickly in his life. He steps back, letting Rozanov come in, bringing that spicy Rozanov scent with him. Shane’s heart is beating rapidly in his chest, the anxiety all morphing to excitement and, yeah, okay, still lots of anxiety left to spare. 

“I thought you would chicken out.” 

“Fuck you, I’m not a chicken,” Shane manages, trying not to categorize how much he fucking loves it already when Ilya teases him like that. Like there’s already a subsection of his brain that’s set aside for Rozanov teasing. 

Ilya shrugs out of his leather jacket and tosses it onto the entrance table, then steps into Shane’s space, his hands ghosting over his hips. He raises an eyebrow, asking for Shane’s permission, and Shane stutters out a nod, tripping over the motion to get it out faster. Rozanov’s hands are warm against his hips, sliding up his torso as he backs Shane against the wall. Shane feels trapped, but it’s not a bad thing, not at all. More like the same feeling he gets from his weighted blanket at home. 

“Should we talk?” He doesn’t want to talk. He wants this so badly he could scream. 

Rozanov shakes his head, thank god, his thumb brushing over one of Shane’s nipples and cupping his pec. “Your first time with a man?” 

“Yes,” Shane offers on a bit-out sigh when Rozanov continues to abuse his nipple. First time with a man, first time with anyone, but Shane’s not going to offer up that embarrassing information if Ilya’s not going to ask for it. He’s not some prude Rozanov is corrupting, he’s just, he’s just new. “You?”

“No.

That pulls Shane up short. He blinks at Ilya. “Really? Who? Another player?” 

“My coach’s son, back in Russia. A few hookups here in America.” Rozanov shrugs, grinning down at him and leaning in close. “I like trouble.” 

With that, he captures Shane’s mouth, and Shane’s brain short-circuits. Rozanov’s hand is blazing hot on his jaw, and his tongue demands immediate access, which Shane is only so happy to give. Shane melts against the door, his hands coming to Ilya’s waistband to anchor himself to something, to anything. 

Ilya pulls back, his eyes half-lidded as he looks down at Shane. His thumb presses against Shane’s lower lip, and then Shane is sucking his thumb into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the skin. 

“Fuck, Hollander, you love it so much,” Ilya murmurs, grinning at him.

Shane’s not really in a space to argue, but he offers a half-hearted, “Fuck you,” around Ilya’s thumb anyway. He’s got some type of dignity to maintain, right? 

Ilya’s hips press forward, which lets Shane feel how big and hard Rozanov is for him, and he groans, his hands flying to Ilya’s waistband again, fumbling with his button and zipper, attempting to get to the prize. He’s never wanted like this in his life, and now that he has the chance, he’s fully in. He wants this, totally and completely. 

Ilya chuckles, pulling off his shirt, then Shane’s, wrestling Shane’s insistent hands at his waist, before Shane finally drops to his knees and faces his cock. The first cock Shane has ever seen this way, besides his own, he supposes. It’s fucking glorious, long and uncut and standing proud. Any question in his brain left from years of curiosity have left the building: he likes cock. He licks his lips, spares a glance up at Ilya’s face to see only encouragement there, and then takes that cock in his mouth. 

He’s tentative at first, only because it’s all so new, but he quickly discovers he fucking loves the feel of Ilya’s cock on his tongue, the heavy weight there, pressing into him, the heat, the taste. Fuck. He grabs Ilya’s thighs with his hands, drawing himself closer and bobbing his head. This is fucking dangerous, how much he likes being on his knees for a man. Dangerous for his career, dangerous for his life, dangerous for his heart, though he swiftly disregards that. This is a hookup to blow off steam, nothing more. 

Ilya’s hands bury themselves in his hair, guiding him in his bobbing, and then Shane learns a new favorite: the sound of Ilya’s accent when he’s pleasure-drunk. “Fuck, Hollander.” He lets out a satisfied breath, flexing his hips a little until his cock is hitting the back of Shane’s throat. 

Shane gags at the unexpected move, then throws himself back in, determined to overcome any type of physical limitation he may have here. Mind over fucking matter. But he’s pulled off before he can do any more. “Wha-” he coughs, his voice all fucked up as he looks up at Ilya. 

He’s also not sure when he became Ilya in his mind. 

“Not good?” he manages, shame bringing a blush to his cheeks. 

Ilya pulls him up and kisses him soundly. “Too good, too fast. I want to last, дорогой.” 

Shane nods even though he doesn’t know what the Russian word means, then pulls Ilya in again for another kiss. Ilya immediately deepens in, sucking the taste of his own cock out of Shane’s mouth, and it’s enough to make Shane’s knees go weak. He throws his arms around Ilya’s waist to anchor himself. “What do you want to do?” he asks when they break apart for breath. 

“You like sucking my cock and you do it very well. We could go to bed, and I let you suck it some more.”

“Oh, let?” Shane says with a laugh, even as Ilya is pulling him - somehow gracefully even with his pants and boxers around his knees - toward the bed. 

He flops himself down, working on his clothes, even while he looks pointedly up at Shane. “Feels a little unfair,” he says, gesturing to Shane’s pants. 

“You saw me in the shower.” 

“Yes, but I want to see again. You are very hot, Hollander, did you not know? I mean, not as hot as me, but-”

“You’re such an asshole.” Shane laughs, his hands going to his fly. He takes his pants off efficiently, folding them up and putting them on top of his luggage, then does the same with his boxer-briefs. He does this automatically and doesn’t think anything of it until he catches Ilya’s smile from where he’s lounging like some Roman emperor on the bed, waiting for Shane to come feed him grapes or something. He almost caves to self-consciousness, but the look of appreciation on Ilya’s face makes that part of his brain go quiet. He walks as confidently as possible to the bed, then slides in beside Ilya, their bare hips touching. 

Shane’s not sure what to do now; the momentum from earlier is gone, and all of a sudden he’s feeling awkward again, but then Ilya’s fingers trail up his thigh, over his stomach, and up to his chest where he cups one of Shane’s pecs. “You like that,” Shane blurts out, still trying to get over the hump of awkwardness.

Ilya’s eyes twinkle. “I am…how you say. A tit man. And yours are magnificent.”

“Magnificent, that’s a big word-” Shane’s tease is cut off when Ilya leans over and sucks his nipple into his mouth at the same time as he starts jacking Shane’s cock. “Oh, oh god, Rozy-”

Ilya chuckles? Growls? Purrs against his chest, looking up and meeting Shane’s eyes. “And you are sensitive here, so? Win-win.” 

Shane nods frantically, his cock leaking precum all over Ilya’s hand and helping the slide. He’s fucking close, and he doesn’t want that, so he reverses their positions, pushing Ilya back to the bed and kissing down his torso before finding his cock with his mouth again. It’s good like this too, though he thinks he likes it better on his knees, with Ilya’s hand buried in his hair. Still, this second try at sucking dick definitely cements it for Shane, as if it hadn’t before: he likes this. He loves this. He’s not sure how he’s going to leave this room tomorrow morning and not have this. 

“Hollander, fuck, so good, so good for me, just like that,” Ilya groans, his hips shifting as Shane bobs his head. “Fuck- fuck, Hollander, I-” He pulls Shane’s head back and strokes himself. 

Confused, Shane nuzzles back in. “Want it, want to try,” he whines against Ilya’s hand, trying to move it out of the way. 

Ilya lets out a string of what can only be Russian curses as Shane’s lips close over the head of his cock again, and he almost immediately comes. The cum is…interesting, and Shane waits for his mind to reject it, but he’s so worked up, he’s so fucking close himself, he just…accepts it. So now that’s a thing. 

“Fuck, Hollander, fuck, you are- fuck-” Ilya groans, pushing him back and kissing him again, then straddling Shane and grinding against his hard cock. “You are…good for newbie. Good job.” 

“Okay, fuck you,” Shane says, then Ilya grins so he knows Ilya is teasing, again. 

“Well, I should go-” Ilya murmurs casually even as he grinds against Shane’s cock again. 

“What- no-” 

And then Ilya grins again and Shane doesn’t know if he’s ever met someone that so easily gets under all of his masks and defenses and does it so fucking charmingly. 

“You’re such an asshole.” 

“Mmm, yes, but I would not leave you like this. Let me show you how expert does it.” 

“Oh, a few random hookups make you an exp- oh god, Rozanov-” 

Ilya’s mouth is hot and wet and the way he uses his tongue- Shane can’t process it all, can barely process anything beyond yes yes yes yes yes this yes. He groans, approaching the edge much faster than he ever has just getting himself off. “Rozy, I’m gonna-” 

But Ilya ignores his warning, apparently totally okay with swallowing, too. At least they both got tested three days ago for their Spring Training medicals. 

His orgasm hits like lightning, sending euphoria through his limbs as he groans and holds Ilya’s head in place. Ilya takes it all, watching Shane come with hooded eyes. 

After, he kisses his way up Shane’s body, stopping at his ever favorite ‘tits’ before pressing kisses up Shane’s neck and ear, then taking his mouth once again. His hand finds Shane’s jaw, and they stay like that for long minutes, long enough that Shane wonders if they could just do it forever. 

Eventually, though, Ilya pulls back, rubbing his thumb over Shane’s cheek and looking into his eyes. “I really should go. Early practice tomorrow, new team, all of that.” 

Shane nods in understanding, letting Ilya slide out of his arms and start to find all the pieces of the clothes he’d thrown everywhere. He gets up himself, pulling on his boxer briefs because it feels like a way less vulnerable way to have the post-hookup conversation. He watches Ilya scootch into his way-too-tight jeans (not that Shane’s complaining, they make his ass look even more amazing than it does in his uniform). “You’re, uh, not going to tell anyone about us, right?” 

Ilya pauses with his jeans halfway up, that look of disdain Shane remembers from outside the stadium at their first meeting all over his face once again. “Yes, Hollander, I tell everyone. Fuck both our careers. Very smart.” He taps his brain sarcastically. 

“Okay, well, I just-” 

“I will not tell, Hollander, and neither will you. For same reason Sasha never tell on me. We have same secret.” He finds his black tank top and pulls it over his head, and god, the way it frames his shoulders-

Shane has to shake himself back to the present. “Right. Yeah. Well, um. Have a good training season, I guess?” 

Ilya looks at him. “You have phone? Give.” 

“What?”

Ilya holds out his hand expectantly, and Shane goes to find his phone in his pants pocket. “Uh, what do you-”

Ilya takes it and is already typing something in. “You and I share secret, yes? But we are also in Florida for next three weeks.” 

“I- we’re going to be busy, though, trying to prove ourselves, get out of the minor leagues-”

“Sounds like good reason to blow off steam together, да?” Ilya hands back his phone, then pulls his own out of his jeans pocket and starts typing rapidly. 

“But we play you next week.” A text message makes his phone chime, but he doesn’t look down at it yet. 

“Yes, and my team will crush yours, and then you will suck my dick so pretty, and, what did I say earlier? Win-win.” 

“Oh my god, you’re such an asshole.” Shane hooks his finger in one of Ilya’s belt loops and pulls him forward for a lingering kiss. 

He checks the phone when he pulls back and sees he has a message from someone named “Lily.” 

Lily: see u soon 😉

“So what’s my name on your phone?” 

“Jane,” Ilya replies with a grin.

“Ironclad,” Shane replies seriously, only to see Ilya turn his head slightly in the way when he doesn’t understand the translation of something, which is, apparently, a thing Shane has already clocked in Ilya’s behavior. “Like, that’s sure to work, but I’m being sarcastic.” 

“Oh, he has jokes. I had no idea. This is new. Whole new thoughts in my brain about Shane Hollander.” 

“Oh, shut the fuck up. Good night, Lily.” 

“Good night, Jane.” With a cheeky smile, Ilya shrugs into his coat, and then he’s out the door. 

“Holy shit,” Shane murmurs to his empty room, sinking onto the messed up bed. “Holy shit, that just happened.”

Chapter 2: Rookies, pt. 2: Spring Training

Chapter Summary

The boys continue to meet up during Spring Training.

Added Tags: Anal fingering, Ilya Rozanov is a Consent King, Explicit Consent, Light Dom/sub, Subspace, Shane Hollander has an Oral Fixation, Rimming, Coitus Interruptus

Chapter Notes

Among other fantasy things in this world, Shane has the ability to choose which room he wants to be booked in for his illicit hookups. Don’t worry about it lol

A bit of inside baseball (lol) about minor and major league baseball: it's not uncommon for draftees to start in the minor leagues unless there's a role that needs filling on the major league team. Triple-A is one step down from Major League Baseball, but there are other levels below that, which I believe also happens in hockey. I liked the element of them both starting Triple-A especially since I kept with them being right out of high school, and that really doesn't happen a whole lot, people being drafted straight from high school into the Major Leagues.

The Triple A team for the Toronto Blue Jays is the Buffalo Bisons, and for the Boston Red Sox, it's the Worcester Red Sox, also known as the WooSox because Worcester is pronounced "Wooster" and so as not to get them confused with the Boston Red Sox.

Also, a note I forgot from last chapter: Svetlana is 10000% the person who taught Ilya the phrase "You have magnificent breasts."

March, 2010: Spring training, Florida

Commentator #1: Say what you will about the minor leagues, Ricky, but spring training always brings a, uh, palpable energy. 

Commentator #2: You’re so right, you’re so right. Welcome back to the ESPN 4 coverage of Triple-A spring training. The guys have been back in town for a week, but we’re just getting started on these games. And Tom’s right. We have a mix of veteran players, rookies, and a few Major-Leaguers in recovery from injuries last season. And they’re all here to prove one thing: they’re ready for the Big Show. 

Commentator #1: That call up has to be the life-changing moment for these men. They may just be getting warmed up, but the managers are watching. We’ll see some roster changes before the end of the night, I’d guess. 

Commentator #2: Absolutely. And one to watch is our starting pitcher for the Buffalo Bisons tonight, Shane Hollander. Rightie out of Ottawa with a beautiful fastball but truly an arsenal of pitches that would make any pitching coach cry. He’s going to have to put in his time, but I doubt we see Hollander at this level for long. 

Commentator #1: And Hollander’s Bisons are up against the Charlotte Knights, with Hudson Sinclair on the mound. Should be a good match up. 

Shane is halfway through his pre-game ritual when his phone buzzes. Normally he would ignore it, continue, but he sees Lily flash by on the screen, and he picks it up before any of his teammates can see. 

They haven’t texted each other since that night. Shane assumes Rozanov has been doing the exact same thing he’s been doing: attempting to get to know his teammates, proving himself on the field, and going to bed every night absolutely exhausted - maybe after a quick handie thinking of him. 

Well, actually, that’s probably not what Rozanov has been doing. Shane has received more than one invite from teammates to go out to a club or bar after practice, but he’s declined so far. He imagines Ilya hasn’t. And he imagines Ilya hasn’t been getting off with just his own hand. 

Lily: Will you reward me if I win?

Shane: Shouldn’t you be getting ready?

Lily: Need to know this important answer first

Shane: You want to meet up tonight?

Lily: Feel like staying in, yes

That confirms what Shane figured, about Ilya going out. Since he hasn’t, he’s been thinking about exactly this thing for the whole week, so he knows how he wants to answer. 

Shane: What floors are baseball players on in your hotel? I’ll get a room in the same place, but not that floor. Less chance of us getting caught. 

Lily: Mr. Man with the Plan

Lily: I like 

Lily: Avoid floors 2-5

Lily: Everything else good

Lily: Good luck, don’t throw like shit

Shane: Thanks. 

He swipes over to the hotel’s website and sets it up, then turns everything off and gets his head back in the game. 

His first fucking Minor League game and he’s more anxious about meeting up with Rozanov afterwards than throwing the first pitch. It makes him laugh, which earns him a weird look from his fellow pitchers. 

“Sorry, I just thought of this thing I saw on YouTube earlier. This rabbit and this coyote were being friends, and-” he trails off when he realizes no one cares, which is about par for the course with Shane trying to get along with teammates. It always takes him a really long time to break the ice, if ever. He grabs his cap and his glove, closing his locker with a sense of finality. He has a fucking game to win. 

On the mound, he faces off against Misael Herrera for the Knights, a leftie known for getting on base. His catcher, Doug Jackson, taps one finger against the inside of his thigh. Fastball. Show him what you’re made of. 

Shane gives a nod, adjusts his hat against the Florida sun, presses his foot into the dirt and spins the ball one and a half times in his hand, finding the seams. The windup, the throw, and the ball zings into Jackson’s mitt. Herrera doesn’t even swing, his eyes big with surprise. The ump throws up his signal for a strike, and Shane automatically checks the speed on the pitch tracker scoreboard.

98 fucking miles per hour. 

Fuck yes. 

He keeps his celebration internal, his face stoic as he turns back to Herrera and Jackson, plants his foot, and spins the ball one and a half times around in his fingers again. 

“There we fucking go! That’s how you do it!” Jackson crows when they get to the locker room nine shut-out innings later. They’d had an awesome fifth inning, and the final score posts as 5-0, Buffalo. 

Shane’s already through most of his post-pitching routine, having been pulled in the bottom of the seventh mostly to give their relief pitchers some practice. This is spring training after all. He grins at Jackson, accepting his bro-hug and slap of congratulations on his ass. 

It feels entirely different than when Ilya had done it. Normally Shane wouldn’t let his thoughts linger there, but since he’s going to be seeing Rozanov in a matter of hours, maybe minutes…

There’s no media demanding interviews at this level, even for the first game, even for a shut-out. Shane pulls his phone out from his locker and checks the score on the WooSox game. Christ, 8-4, Worcester. His pitcher heart winces even as he scrolls through the stats to find Rozanov- yeah, fuck yeah, he went 3 for 5, two singles and a triple, batted in twice…a fucking awesome game for him. There’s no way Boston isn’t going to call him up soon, no way. 

Shane: Nice game.

Shane: Room 1221. I’ll be there in about 40.

Lily: I expect rewards

Lily: Also nice game you as well

A blush rises on Shane’s cheeks that has him turning toward his locker and sprinting through the rest of his cool down routine. 

Ilya knocks about five minutes after Shane gets to the hotel room, which is also about ten minutes earlier than he’d said in his text. It makes Shane think, briefly, that he’s not the only one eager to do this, even though he knows Ilya must be out there getting all the Florida tail. 

Spring training has brought out the bronze in Ilya’s skin, as patchy as his tan is because of the gear they wear. It’s not as patchy as it could be, which leads to Shane thinking about how maybe Ilya lays out in the sun with a lot less on than all his catching gear, which has him pulling Ilya in by the belt loops and kissing the hell out of him. 

Unlike their first night, where Shane felt all tentative and new, now he wants to show Ilya that he can lead, too. And yeah, maybe he also wants to give Ilya that reward. They’re making out against the wall, Ilya’s hands on his chest - fucking Tits Man Rozanov - and Shane’s cupping Ilya’s face, their tongues battling for supremacy in that way where everyone wins. 

“Suck my cock,” Ilya demands when they pull apart, and maybe Shane should protest at the directness of it, but fuck-

He immediately drops to his knees. So much for showing a little leadership, but he can’t help but fold at the rough desire in Ilya’s voice.

There’s work to do, here, unzipping Ilya and pulling him out - fuck, he’s going commando tonight - and running his hand up and down Ilya’s cock with a reverence he feels in his bones. He licks his lips and finally mouths over the head, running his tongue under the foreskin. Ilya tastes like locker room water and cheap soap and man. This is the moment Shane has been getting off to in his own hotel room for the last week, the weight of Ilya’s cock on his tongue, the way Ilya fills him up completely, the feeling of Ilya’s fingers buried in his hair, the sound of Ilya’s gasps and breathy, “Fuck, Hollander-”

Once again, Rozanov pulls him off and up to smash their lips together, panting about how good Shane is against his mouth. He boosts Shane up by his thighs and starts carrying him toward the bed, pants around his knees be damned. The whole thing is so damn hot, Shane can barely think straight, bouncing down on the bed and looking up at Ilya like he’ll find his salvation there. 

“Strip, off, now,” Rozanov orders even as he hops from one foot to the other getting his own pants and socks off. 

Shane scrambles to comply, pulling off his clothes while trying to keep an eye on Ilya, or more importantly, Ilya’s body. Ilya helps him shimmy out of the pants, and he tosses them over his shoulder, making Shane wince a little internally. Really, if he’s going to have a fucking secret affair like this, he should probably get used to clothes getting tossed about, but there’s something in him that is unsettled-

Until Ilya leans over, picks up his pants and shirt, and folds them in a little pile on the nightstand. 

“You didn’t have to-” 

“You should be thinking only of me, not where your clothes end up. Now, you think only about me. Is good.” Ilya grins, pushing Shane down onto the bed and leaning over to latch onto one of Shane’s nipples. 

Shane groans, his hands coming up to bury themselves in Ilya’s curls. Ilya presses kisses across Shane’s chest until he can abuse the other nipple, too, before moving up Shane’s neck and finally taking his mouth again. Shane melts into it, melts into the bed. As they make out, Ilya’s hand starts traveling down Shane’s torso, tweaking his nipples, tickling at his stomach, brushing over his cock. He gives Shane a couple of hard strokes that have Shane moaning into Ilya’s mouth, but then his fingers continue to travel. Squeezing Shane’s balls, delicately, pressing on his perineum, and then- then circling his hole. 

He gasps, pulling back a little to find Ilya watching him intently. 

“Have you ever touched yourself here?” 

“I, uh-” Shane goes bright red, he knows it, can feel the heat radiating from his cheeks. 

“What,” Ilya teases. “You think touching here makes you gay? Because I have news, Hollander. Sucking my cock also makes you gay.” 

“Fuck you. Yes, okay? Yes, I’ve touched myself there.” 

Ilya’s fingers continue to tease the skin around his hole, which is incredibly distracting from their whole conversation. “And did you like?”

Shane shrugs, which is an honest answer. “I get the idea but I felt like I wasn’t reaching it properly with my own fingers, so I was going to order a thing.” 

“A thing?” 

“A dildo, okay? I was going to order a dildo. When I’m in Buffalo and can do it discreetly.” 

Ilya grins down at him, and Shane squirms, attempting to get away from the catcher making fun of him. “Nooo, Hollander, come back, I want to fuuuuck you,” he sing-songs, pressing a kiss to Shane’s neck. 

Shane pauses, looking up at him, then letting himself relax and laugh a little, too. “Not here. Not when I have to play you in a few days. I have to be able to walk, you know, and that thing is…”

“It will fit, I promise. But yes, this is good idea, wait. Waiting is good, makes it…sweeter when it happens.” Ilya kisses his cheek, and it’s almost tender, despite that they’re both still naked and hard. “But, also-” Ilya raises his hand and wiggles his fingers. “My fingers maybe reach what you could not? If you want me to try.” 

It’s so fucking hard to resist the twinkling in Ilya’s eyes, and yet Shane knows that if he said ‘no’ right now, Ilya would respect his decision without any further cajoling. Maybe that knowledge is what presses Shane forward. “Yeah, okay. Just fingers. If you want to try. It’s okay, though, if you don’t want to bother.” 

Ilya suddenly looks very serious, and cups Shane’s cheek, looking into his eyes. “Hollander, is okay to ask for your pleasure. You know this, yes? Is what lover is for. Mutual, uh, satisfaction, not one-sided, yes?” 

Shane blinks up at him, then gives a slow nod, completely nonplussed by Ilya’s insistence. “Yeah.”

“Good. Make sure you tell this to anyone else you take to bed, yes? Insist on it.” 

“Okay, Rozanov. Got it.” 

“Okay. Good.” Ilya looks down at him, gives a final nod, then turns away. “I brought something to help.” 

Shane watches as he searches for his jeans, then uncovers a small tube of lube with a grin and a ‘ta da!’ He crawls back on the bed, coming up between Shane’s legs so that Shane is forced to part them and feel totally exposed. 

“Mmm, yes. Very pretty here, too, as I suspected.” His fingers ghost over Shane’s hole again, but he looks up one more time. “Yes? Is okay to go forward?” 

“Yeah, it’s okay, it’s- yes, I want this.” Shane gives a nod for good measure. God, his dick is leaking against his stomach with how much he wants this. 

Ilya pops open the lube, squirting some out onto his fingers and rubbing them together to slick it all up. He braces his clean hand on Shane’s right thigh, and goes in, pressing against Shane’s hole, circling the rim. Shane gasps a little at the coldness of the lube, but it quickly warms with their body temperatures. Ilya splits his gaze between Shane’s face, gauging his reactions, and his hole, where it’s obvious he’s enjoying watching Shane take him. He presses in just the tip of his index finger, and Shane’s hole swallows it greedily. Shane groans, throwing his head back. 

“Relax, дорогой. Just feel. Close eyes and feel, yes?” 

“Yes, Rozy, god-” Shane follows the instruction, falling back into the pillows and letting his legs spread wider. He closes his eyes, shutting off the sense of vision so that he can concentrate better on feeling. 

Ilya’s finger circles his rim, getting the entire thing slick before he starts to pull, just a little, tugging and stretching. “Shhh, да, just like that,” he murmurs as Shane relaxes into it, lets Ilya in. 

One finger becomes two, making Shane gasp at first, before he quiets under Ilya’s gentle commands and touch. It’s such an alien feeling, the other man’s fingers inside him, but he can’t deny that he loves it nearly as much as he loves sucking Ilya’s cock. Maybe he’ll take that lesson to heart, about asking for your own pleasure, too. 

Ilya’s fingers reach deeper, probing for something that Shane has never been able to find on his own. He crooks them forward, pressing against Shane’s walls, and then- then-

“Oh my fuck-” Shane’s eyes fly open. 

Ilya is grinning down at him as he continues to slide over his prostate. “Continue, yes?” 

“Yes, yes, yes, oh fuck, Rozy- Jesus fucking Christ is it supposed to feel this good?” Shane lets out, immediately feeling stupid and pulling his arm over his face to hide in embarrassment. 

“No, hey, hey, Hollander, is okay. Is okay.” Ilya’s fingers stop, pulling out and away from him while his clean hand comes up to cup Shane’s face. “Shhhh, shhhh,” he soothes. “No one cares. Just you and me, yes? Just you and me here, enjoying ourselves, and no one cares what you have done before. Or not.” 

He leans in, his lips hovering near Shane’s, but he doesn’t kiss him until Shane gives a small nod. The kiss is tender, reassuring, and slowly the embarrassment fades away. 

“Can- can you do it again?” Shane asks when Ilya pulls away. “Please?” 

“Such a polite Canadian boy.” Instead of answering, Ilya just thrusts his fingers inside Shane again, immediately finding his prostate and making Shane groan and buck his hips. “There you go. Fuck my fingers.” 

With a strangled moan, Shane follows the direction, chasing Ilya’s fingers as Ilya thrusts them over his prostate again and again. “I’m gonna- I need- fuck,” Shane reaches down to stroke his dick in time with Ilya’s fingers. 

“Come for me, Hollander,” Ilya growls in his ear. 

“Ah!” White-hot pleasure rushes through Shane as he spills over his hand and on his stomach. Ilya withdraws his fingers, which Shane is grateful for because he’s rapidly becoming over sensitive. He breathes hard, collapsed against the pillows, blinking up at Ilya’s grinning face. 

With a grunt, Ilya takes his own cock in his lubed hand and starts jerking it over Shane’s body. 

“Fuck, yeah, Rozy, get yourself off,” Shane encourages, reaching down to join Ilya’s hand on his dick. “On me, on me, on me,” he chants. 

“Fuck, Hollander, fuck-” Ilya groans, his cum joining Shane’s over his abs. The look of bliss on Ilya’s face is truly a wonder of the world, and Shane wants to put it there again and again and again. He’s not going to be satisfied with just two hookups. Though Ilya had mentioned another time to fuck him, right? So maybe he’s not looking to end this right away either. 

They lay there for a moment in a collapsed heap of sweat and pleasure, before the icky sensations start to overwhelm everything for Shane. “The shower is big enough for both of us, if you wanted to, before we leave?” 

Ilya looks over at him, then shoots him a lazy grin. “Oh, I want.”

Shane yelps when Ilya pulls him up off the bed in a fireman’s carry and takes him to the bathroom. 

Commentator #1: Welcome back to ESPN 4. If you’re just tuning in, we’re watching the Buffalo Bisons take on the Worcester Red Sox. It’s the bottom of the third, and so far, draft pick number two Shane Hollander has kept the WooSox off base. That includes an incredible-to-watch at bat against draft pick number one, Ilya Rozanov, all the way back in the first inning. Rozanov worked up Hollander’s pitch count with a series of fouls, but ultimately came away with a strike out. 

Commentator #2: One that he did not look happy about, but he must have been getting some of that decorum training behind the scenes because we didn’t see a blow up at the ump. 

Commentator #1: Not yet, anyway. Homeplate ump Rick Watkins has definitely been favoring a larger strike zone and both teams are trying to figure out how to work around that.

Commentator #2: Which leaves our score sitting at 0-0 for the next Rozanov-Hollander matchup. Now, what are you thinking are the odds that the next time these two see each other, it’ll be as a Blue Jay and a Boston Red Sock? I don’t see them staying here for long. 

Commentator #1: You’re absolutely right. With the reports coming out of the Blue Jay spring camp, I think they’re going to want Hollander in their lineup sooner rather than later. 

Lily: How many times can you cum in an hour?

Shane blinks down at his phone before turning toward the safety of his locker to block any prying eyes. 

Shane: Idk, like twice?

Lily: You are horrible at sexting

Shane: Who taught you that word?

Lily: I propose bet

Lily: If I win, you give me orgasm for each hit I get

Shane: And if I win?

Lily: Will not happen

Shane: Yeah, sure 🙄

Lily: Fine, fine

Lily: If you win, I give you orgasm for every strikeout you get

Lily: More than fair

Shane: I got 6 Ks last time

Lily: you doubt my skills?

Lily: after you nearly cum hands free last time

Shane: fuck you and shut up and go get ready, asshole.

Lily: I believe it is I who will fuck you, actually

Shane shakes out his arm and waits for Ilya to go through his little at-bat routine. He scuffs his feet into the ground, un-velcroes and re-velcroes his left batting glove, and assumes batting position, his eyes staring down Shane, his curls tucked under his batting helmet. Shane blows out a breath as Jackson flashes a two against his thigh. Changeup. 

It makes sense. The count sits at 2-2, and he’s just served two fastballs that Ilya has taken a slice of each, fouling both off into the stands to be caught by fans. Ilya obviously isn’t phased by his 98, 99 mile-an-hour fastballs. 

He gives the short nod, plants his front foot, and spins the ball one and a half times around in his hand to find the right placement for the seams. 

He feels it as soon as it leaves his hand, is the thing. A changeup is supposed to start fast and then slow down, forcing the batter to swing too early. His doesn’t have enough spin, so it doesn’t slow down the way it should, giving Ilya a nice medium-speed target right across the fucking middle of the plate. 

The crack of Ilya’s bat sounds off through the diamond, and Shane - and Ilya, and Jackson, and everyone else - can already tell it’s gone. Home-fucking-run. Great, Ilya’s going to be insufferable tonight.

Ilya hands off his batting helmet to the first base coach and continues his run of the bases. Halfway between third and home, he turns slightly and fucking winks at Shane. Goddammit. 

Jackson comes out for a mound visit, using his catcher’s mitt to cover up his mouth so the other team can’t see what he’s saying. “Don’t sweat it. Your control tonight is great, and it was just one bad pitch. You’ll get the next two out, easy.” 

Shane nods, then accepts the ass slap Jackson gives him on the way back to home plate. He resets himself, does a short breathing exercise, and gets ready to face the next WooSox hitter. 

Shane pulls Ilya into ‘their’ room by grabbing a fistful of his tank top. “You can’t fucking sext me before a game.” 

“Why not? Were you hard entire time?”

“Fuck off, I’m serious.” 

“Mmm, yes, you look very serious. Very much like upset kitten right now. Do you know you are very pretty when you pitch? So serious, so steady.” 

“Shut up,” Shane growls, pushing Ilya back against the wall and smashing their lips together. The kiss is nowhere near as graceful as some of their others, but Shane’s blood is positively boiling with the thought of getting Ilya naked and on top of him. 

“Hollander,” Ilya groans, rubbing his hand over Shane’s already rock-hard cock. He kisses down Shane’s neck, then helps Shane pull his shirt off. “You owe me two orgasms, yes?” 

Besides the home run, Ilya had gotten a double against one of the Bisons’ relief pitchers in the bottom of the 8th, bringing the game up to 4-0 WooSox and leading to a very somber Bisons locker room that Shane had raced away from to get here. 

“Guess I do, though I don’t think I ever agreed to those terms. If I get you off now, will you still be able to fuck me later?” 

Ilya just grins and switches their positions, then pushes down on Shane’s shoulders. 

It’s been four days since the last time they hooked up, as per Shane’s self-imposed rules about not meeting up before they’re playing against each other, and Shane would be lying to himself and everyone else if he said he hadn’t been thinking about exactly this moment for most of those four days. Thoughts of dropping to his knees in front of Ilya have plagued him during practice, in the shower, in his bed…

“You’re already so gone,” Ilya murmurs above him, and Shane doesn’t really know what that means, but he feels it in his soul anyway. He licks his lips, grips Ilya’s thighs, and lowers his mouth over Ilya’s dripping cock. 

Time slows down, he thinks. He stops registering the passage of it beyond his breaths against Ilya’s dick and the way his heart is beating in his ears. Ilya’s fingers are buried in his hair, guiding him. He closes his eyes and lets Ilya take over. 

He has no idea how long Ilya uses him before he’s pulling Shane back and asking if he wants to swallow or not. Shane blinks blearily and nods, opening his mouth again for Ilya’s cock. Ilya groans, shoves his dick deep in Shane’s mouth, and fills it. 

“Very, very good, дорогой. Now my turn.” Ilya kicks his pants the rest of the way off and helps Shane up off his knees, pulling him in for a deep enough kiss for Shane to share the taste of him. They get Shane naked, too, and fall into bed together, tangled all up in each other. Shane feels like he’s coming to the surface a bit more as they lay there, lazily making out and rubbing over each other’s bodies.

Eventually, Ilya grabs the lube and strip of condoms Shane had put on the bedside table in preparation - only a semi-embarrassing trip to the drug store yesterday after practice. 

“You think is enough?” Ilya laughs as he pulls up the entire strip - five condoms. 

“Shut up-” Shane gets halfway through saying before Ilya is pressing a kiss to his lips to cut him off. 

“Is maybe for the string of men you have coming to fuck you after I am done?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “God, Rozanov, fuck you.” 

Ilya’s smiling when they kiss again. He runs a hand down Shane’s torso and eases Shane’s legs apart, then climbs between his outstretched thighs. He kisses down, down, down, skipping around Shane’s cock and pressing a kiss right over his hole. 

“Oh, fuck-” Shane hisses, arching into Ilya’s mouth. 

The sounds coming from between his legs are indecent, the way Ilya’s lips cover him, the way his tongue licks inside. Shane pulls his legs up, holding them open behind the knees so that Ilya has the best access. “Rozy, god-” 

Ilya chuckles against his hole, the vibration sending shock waves through his system. 

“Fuck, yeah-”

The sudden, sharp sound of Shane’s ringtone jolts both of them apart. His phone is still in his pants, folded up on the desk. 

“Shit, sorry, I thought I turned that off.” 

“Is not bother,” Ilya murmurs, looking like he’s going to dive in once again. 

Shane drops his legs and starts to move away. “No, let me just go turn it off. Sorry.” 

Ilya rolls his eyes, but lets him up with a shooing gesture. 

He feels through his pockets for the phone, feeling more than slightly ridiculous at the fact that his cock is currently rock hard and bobbing against his stomach. He finally finds it, then almost drops it again when he sees who's calling. “Shit. Uh. Hi, Coach Helm.” 

Coach Helm, the head coach for the Buffalo Bisons. 

“That was a helluva game you threw tonight, kid.”

Shane sits gingerly down on the desk chair, completely aware of nakedness even as he raises his eyebrows at Ilya, who raises his eyebrows back. “Thank you, sir. Not a win.”

“No, but that’s partially up to your relief team. Just that misstep in the third, really.” 

“Yes, sir. I’ll be working on the changeup with Coach Vicenzo, we already talked about it earlier.” 

“Actually, you’ll be working on the changeup with Coach Owens.” 

“Co- Coach Owens, sir?” Coach Owens is the pitching coach for Toronto.

“They’re calling you up. Pack your bags, they want you ready for the next game in the Grapefruit League tomorrow. You won’t be starting, but they want you to get settled in.”

“Right, yes, of course, sir.” 

“The Blue Jays front office will be contacting your manager soon to iron out all the details, but I wanted to deliver the news myself. Congratulations, Hollander.” 

“Thanks, Coach. Thanks for everything.” 

“Good luck, son.” 

“Good night.” Shane hits the End Call button and sinks back into the office chair. “Holy shit.” 

He looks over to the bed to see Ilya lounging back against the pillows, his arms behind his head and his beautiful body on display. He quirks an eyebrow at Shane. 

“I’m getting called up.”

“This was doubt in your mind?”

Shane stands up and immediately starts pacing, completely forgetting that he’s entirely naked. “I need to get packed, and call my parents and my agent and fuck, I, no, Ilya, I wasn’t expecting this. I was going to probably spend a few months in Buffalo. I'm going to have to get a place in Toronto. This wasn't how I thought it was going to go.”

Suddenly Ilya is in front of him, blocking his path and taking him by the shoulders. “Hollander, you are having panic attack. Breathe with me.” He takes an obvious breath in and then blows it out. “Good, good job. And again.”

They breathe like that for a minute or so, before Shane finally meets Ilya's eyes. “I’m going to the Major Leagues.” 

“You are going to Major Leagues. I am surprised they took this long to call you up, honestly.”

“Holy shit, Ilya.”

Ilya grins at him, then reaches around and hands him his pants and underwear. “Get dressed and go do what you need to do.”

“Oh, but we were going to-" Shane says, a blush reddening his cheeks. “Uh.”

“How you say? No worries. You are not exactly up for it anymore,” Ilya replies with an arch look at his now flaccid cock. 

Shane winces. “I’m sor-“

Ilya cuts him off with a shake of his head. “No, you do not apologize for this, ever. Lowest standard for anyone you sleep with to meet.”

“Right.” Shane nods, but he’s still standing there with his clothes bundled against his chest. 

“Go, Shane, and be star.”

Shane’s heart finally seems to start beating again. “Hey, you too, yeah? I’ll see you in Boston.”

“Not if I see you in Toronto first,” Ilya responds with a wink. He pulls Shane in for the gentlest kiss they’ve shared all night, then reaches down to slap him on the ass. “Get going, Mr. Big Shot.”

“Right. Going. On it. Holy shit.” 

He joins Ilya in laughing at himself as he pulls on his underwear.

Chapter End Notes

Yes, they've said first names, but they also didn't notice, yet. Shane was a little distracted. We'll see if he freaks out about that later!

Chapter 3: Rookies, pt 3: The Major Leagues

Chapter Summary

yall, it is SO hard for me to write a slow burn. People who know me also know this, lol. It was SO HARD to write this chapter knowing where they end up by the end of year one. But anyway, here's the rest of their rookie year, with lots of time jumps. Time jumps will normally be introduced by Commentators or Twitter/media posts to give context.

Added tags: Phone sex, Anal sex,

Chapter Notes

I had to make up a whole team to eventually be the Ottawa Centaurs of this universe, and that’s the Mississauga Wolverines. It makes absolutely no sense that a second MLB would be right next door in Canada but oh well.
Baseball terms you might not know: ERA: Earned Run Average, or the amount of runs a pitcher has let in. Pitchers want this number to be low.

Paracetemol/tylenol: парацетамол

Commentator #1: Can you smell that? 

Commentator #2: Oh yes, I can, Greg. It’s that combo of fresh cut grass, hot dogs, and thousands of people congregating together under the roof here at Rogers Centre for the opening day of baseball, 2010. 

Commentator #1: Welcome to the home opener here in Toronto. Your Blue Jays are playing current World Series defending champs, the New York Yankees. It should be a heck of a show, tonight. 

Commentator #2: ‘There are only two seasons,’ Greg, ‘Winter and baseball.’ Well, it may still look like winter outside the stadium today, but by god, it’s baseball in here. I’m glad to be back, and we’re glad you’re here. Let’s take a look at the starting lineup for both teams…

Shane still can’t quite believe this is his life as he stands in a line with his fellow Blue Jays, cap over his heart to listen to O Canada and The Star Spangled Banner performed live, as thousands of fans perform the ritual with them, as cameras zoom in dozens of directions to see every angle, as the huge screen above center field displays the stats for the game and welcomes fans to the field. It’s overstimulating in the best possible way. He’s not sure he’ll sleep, tonight, but he’s not pitching tonight or starting tomorrow, they brought him up to shore up their mid-to-late series lineup, so that's okay. 

He likely won’t get to pitch until the next series against the Mississauga Wolverines, who finished last in their division last year. They’re a relatively new team, started from a splintering of Canadian fans who wanted to see another Canadian team in the MLB after the Expos moved. The fact that they’re right in Toronto’s back yard has been a source of sour grapes for over a decade; it’d be more bitter if Mississauga weren’t perpetually fighting for a win average above 500. 

Shane’s not about to underestimate them, though, not on his first MLB outing. He’s on a strict practice regime, can’t tire the arm out before the big day. He likes Coach Owens, a straight-forward man who has already taught him a thing or two while praising Shane for his control. 

He likes his normal catcher, Hayden Pike, even more. It’s hard for Shane to click immediately with people, but Hayden hadn’t seemed to take that sitting down. He’d glommed right onto Shane from the moment Shane showed up at the Blue Jays Spring Camp, gave him the lay of the land, showed him around and introduced him to everyone. Shane’s never been adopted by someone before, but it certainly feels like that, like he’s the introvert to Hayden’s extrovert. 

The first day in Toronto after spring training, Hayden had brought Shane home to meet his wife Jackie and their twin daughters. He’d even helped Shane and his parents move Shane into an apartment in downtown Toronto. 

When he throws with Hayden, it clicks. 

Hayden stands at his elbow now, looking up at the flags flying high above the stadium as the last notes of the anthems fade. He tucks his cap back on, then winks at Shane. “Let’s play some fucking ball.” 

Even relegated to just watching, there’s nothing like being in the dugout with the guys. The guys. He has seen some of these guys on TV since he was a kid, but he tries not to mention that. Jantzen is always complaining that the rookies make him feel too old already without Shane adding to the trauma. 

He keeps a surreptitious eye on the WooSox game tonight as well, though he has to do that on his phone; the big board isn’t showing AAA stuff. Ilya’s the starting catcher as well as lead-off hitter for the WooSox on their own opening night, but the game doesn’t start for another couple of hours because he’s off in Reno playing the Aces. 

When he pulls up the stats for the game, though, he frowns: Rozanov is no longer on the roster. Quickly, Shane flips back over to ESPN to search the news for his name because what the fuck? His heart pounds hard in his chest for a moment. 

It’s up at the top of the latest news: Stevens set to retire; #1 draft pick Ilya Rozanov called up to Big Show.

Holy shit. 

Shane: Congratulations!

He spends a lot of typing, untyping, and retyping that exclamation point before finally going with it. 

Ilya’s response is almost immediate. 

Lily: Thank you

Lily: I see we play Toronto in three weeks

Shane glances over to the year schedule that’s posted on the dugout wall toward the hallway down to the locker rooms and sees that Ilya is correct. 

Shane: Want to get together?

Lily: Want to fuck you if you also want

Shane nearly drops his phone. He’s been thinking about it ever since the amazing orgasm Ilya gave him with just his fingers, but he still hasn’t gotten around to getting a dildo yet, and he’s been unsuccessful getting off on his own fingers. 

Shane: I want.

Shane: I have to go, coach is glaring at me for not paying attention.

Lily: Go be good boy Hollander

Shane knows it’s a tease, but it still makes his heart all fluttery. 

Lily: What is Toronto address

Shane’s in the middle of a pre-bed stretching routine - he’d gone out for a little bit with the boys to celebrate their win on opening night, because it seemed like the thing to do. He’d mostly felt awkward the whole time, nursing a singular beer (he thinks he drank about a quarter of it) and smiling when he thinks he was supposed to smile. Those types of nights always leave him unsettled, so he’s stretching before bed rather than laying there catastrophizing every single comment he made with his new teammates. 

Shane: are you in Toronto???

Lily: No, am in Boston hotel

Lily: looking at places this weekend

Lily: am lonely and was thinking about you

Lily: especially how I am going to get to fuck you soon

Lily: and I want to send you present for that

Lily has sent a link. 

Shane should probably know better than to click on random links, but he thumbs over it anyway, then nearly drops his phone as a bright purple dildo splashes across the screen. 

Lily: this one has good reviews

Lily: also, is almost my size

Lily: or did you buy one already?

Lily has sent a picture. 

Shane’s eyebrows raise nearly to his hairline at the dick pic Ilya sends him next. He’s right, the dildo is a pretty good facsimile, and oh my god Shane has a dick pic on his phone now. 

He hits the call button before he can think better of it. 

“Hello, Hollander.”

God, his voice is already smoky and soft and turned on. 

“Hello, Rozanov. Did you want something?” 

“What are you wearing?” 

Shane looks down at himself. He’s still on the floor, his legs stretched out to the sides because he’d been doing a split stretch. “Uh. One of my compression shirts and some leggings, I guess.” 

Ilya’s chuckle spills softly over the phone. “So you are terrible sexter and terrible at phone sex, I understand.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” Shane squeaks. 

“Was hoping, yes.”

“Sorry.” 

“You could make it up to me. Can I tell you what I’m wearing?” 

There’s a slick sound in the background that is unmistakable.

“Can I guess, ‘nothing?’” As much as Shane is teasing, he’s also getting hard, and he shifts, sitting back against the bed and rubbing himself through his workout gear. It’s too tight to be able to maneuver much, so he’s going to have to pull it off in a second, but he doesn’t mind right now, listening to Ilya’s quickening breaths and other sounds in his ear. 

“Mm, still wearing my tank top actually. Fuck-” 

“Love hearing you touch yourself for me. You’re so gone already.” It’s a replication of something Ilya said to Shane before, but it seems right here. 

“And you, too?” 

“Yeah, yeah, Rozanov, I’m touching myself.” 

“Show me?”

“Video or photo?”

“Video, please.” 

Shane pulls back his phone and switches it to FaceTime. When it goes through, Ilya’s face is sweaty already, his eyes black in the low light of the hotel room. 

“Show me,” Ilya demands this time. 

Shane turns the phone around and rubs a hand over his captured cock. 

“Fuck, your leggings are so tight. Bet you look fucking hot in them.” 

“They’re- ah, yeah - they’re the best for stretching. I don’t like excess fabric getting in the way. They’re not super helpful right now though,” Shane complains, setting down the phone and hooking his thumbs under the waistband, then pulling them down. He slides his hand around his dick and positions the phone again. 

“You are beautiful, yes, just like that. Stroke yourself for me.” 

“You, too,” Shane pleads, watching Ilya’s hand speed up on his own cock. God, he wants it in his mouth, craves that feeling again. 

Ilya’s breath is coming in pants now as he strokes his cock. “Fuck, Hollander. Fuck-“

It’s over quickly for both of them, Shane hitting his peak watching Ilya shoot cum all over his stomach. 

In the aftermath, there’s just their shared ragged breathing, though Shane eventually shifts to grab tissues from his night stand to clean himself up. 

“Do you start tomorrow?”

“Reserve. If they need pinch hitter. Will be starting on Thursday, though. Stevens’ knees apparently much worse than they’ve been letting on. Don’t tell anyone that, please.”

Shane holds up two fingers even though he’d never been a Boy Scout. “Promise. Everything that happens between us is a secret, right? Even the secrets of our teams.” 

Ilya replicates his finger salute. “Promise.”

“Good luck Thursday, then.”

“Spasibo. Send me address so I can send you pretty purple dildo that is almost as big as me.”

“I don’t-“

“And when it comes, you will call me, and I will talk you through using it first time.”

Shane’s mouth is suddenly as dry as the Sahara.

“I’ll send you my address,” he chokes out. 

“Good boy.”

The anthems feel different tonight. Somewhere in the stands (well, in a box Toronto reserves for family), his parents are standing and listening, too. Jackson, his catcher on the Bisons, told him he’s watching as much as he can around their own game tonight in South Carolina. Hayden is standing at his elbow and giving him a grin that makes him look about fourteen years old. 

The top of the first is a disappointing three up, three down for Toronto, and then Shane is stepping out of the dugout and making his way to the mound. He and Hayden toss the ball back and forth while they wait for the commercial break to finish, but shortly he’s facing down his first ever Major League opponent. 

Besides it being his Major League debut, there’s no added pressure on the game. They’ve already won the series and a win tonight means a sweep against their joke of a rival, the Mississauga Wolverines. Maybe it’s because it’s easy and everyone expects the win that Shane is so nervous. 

He plants his foot, gives Hayden a nod at his call for a fastball, spins the ball one and a half times in his hand, and follows through. 

The ball ends in Hayden’s glove, Raman Pierre, the Wolverines’ third-baseman, is caught looking, and elation fills Shane. He glances up at the pitch info screen to see 100 mph flash in a flame of digital fire. 

Let’s fucking go.

Shane is a little tipsy when he enters his Toronto apartment and throws his keys down on the entrance table. He slips his shoes off and lines them up properly in their spot against the wall, and maybe he stumbles into the wall when he does so.

Hayden had insisted he come out and celebrate his first Major League win and fucking 0.0 ERA because he’d held the Wolverines to zero runs and since he’s probably pitching next against the White Sox in Chicago, it’s likely not going to stay that way. 

But for now, he gets to join the two other pitchers in the entire league who’re sitting up at the top with him, too. 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket as he moves through the house, removing clothing as he goes and folding it neatly when he reaches his bedroom. 

“Hollander.”

Oops, apparently he FaceTimed. And also oops, it looks like he may have woken Ilya up.

“Rozy.”

Ilya’s tired eyes grow lighter as he takes in everything on his small screen. “You are drunk. This is good, teammates treated you, yes?”

“Tipsy,” Shane corrects, feeling a little dizzy as he falls into bed naked. He knows his face is flushed, probably outlining his freckles, but he’s not feeling very self-conscious right now. 

“And you couldn’t find a pretty girl to get your dick wet in all of Toronto? I find hard to believe.” 

Shane pushes out his lower lip in a pout. “Don’t wanna get my dick wet, wanna get fucked,” he whines. 

The small face of Ilya on his phone is hard to interpret, but Shane thinks he looks amused. “Did my package arrive?”

Shane nods until he has to stop abruptly because it makes the dizziness worse. “Need you to tell me how to use it, right?” 

“I think maybe is not good idea. You are drunk.” 

“Tipsy.”

“Fine, you are tipsy, but I would not fuck you in this state.”

“We call them provinces up here.” 

“Oh my god, he has jokes.” Ilya smiles even as he rolls his eyes. “Дорогой, have you gotten yourself any water? Maybe some, um, I forget in English. Парацетамол. Pills to make head feel better.” 

“My head feels fine. My hole’s fucking empty though, Rozy,” Shane whines again. 

“Shane. Get up and get yourself glass of water. Drink half of it, then we will talk again maybe about fucking.” 

Something zips down Shane’s spine at the command, but he grumbles anyway, just for show. He rolls off of the bed, carrying his phone with him but not really aware of where it’s pointing until Ilya gives a little groan of desire at seeing his naked body, his dick half-hard. 

Shane pads into the bathroom and finds his small cup he uses for after teeth-brushing. Because it’s tiny, he decides to be a very good boy and fill and drink the whole thing. He gives a satisfied ‘ah’ sound for effect, and to make Ilya smile again, before showing off the empty glass. 

“Very good, дорогой. Fill it up again and leave it by your bed for later. Did you find the pills, the ones for pain?”

Shane fumbles through his drawers until he finds a bottle of Tylenol and holds it up triumphantly for Ilya. 

“Good, good boy. Take two out and leave them by the water, for later.” 

“You know what else I found in my drawer?” Shane holds up the shiny new purple dildo. He’s already washed it with the special soap he’d found online, so it’s clean and ready to go. Somehow, the dildo fumbles out of his hand and onto his bed. “Oops.” 

Ilya scrubs a hand over his face. “Good, I’m glad you found that too. Your team is heading out tomorrow for road trip, yes? Have you set alarm to not miss flight?” 

Shane blurrily double checks. Ugh, 6 am, gross. “It’s set. You’re going to teach me how to fuck myself, right?”

“Yes, I am. I’m going to teach you how to give yourself so much pleasure, Shane. But I need you to be comfortable first. Is good for first time, yes, to be very comfortable.” 

“That makes sense. What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to pull back your covers and snuggle into bed. Make sure you have your dildo and lube. You don’t want to have to reach out into cold night air to get them.”

“Yeah, yeah, gotcha.” Shane slides in between the covers, groaning at how nice his sheets feel against his naked skin. He rubs his legs together like a cricket and pulls the covers up. 

“So good for me. Okay, now I need you to close your eyes. Breathe in and out for me, very slowly, very relaxed. Let’s count some breaths here for me, okay?” 

Ilya’s voice has never sounded so soft, and Shane can’t help but obey. He rubs his hands over his stomach to feel it rise and fall as Ilya does box breathing counts with him. 

Sometime between an in and an out, he drifts into sleep. 

Commentator #1: It’s a beautiful day for baseball here in Toronto. We’re finally getting some of that spring sun and there are trees blossoming in the parks, and your own Blue Jays are going up against the Boston Red Sox for the first time this season. Both teams coming in with wonderful starts to the year. 

Commentator #2: I’ll say, Greg. Winning records for both so far, but of course all the buzz tonight is the match up between the number one and two draft picks last year. We rarely see this sort of match up in their rookie seasons, but both Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are now starting regulars on their teams after that announcement about Stevens’ knee surgery. 

Commentator #1: What a legend for the Red Sox. We wish you a happy early retirement, Alden. 

Commentator #2: And since taking his spot in the regular line up, Rozanov is batting a .342 and already with five home runs.

Commentator #1: Did you see what he said at press last night after his walk-off home run against the Mariners? 

Commentator #2: I sure did, but in case you didn’t, let’s watch it now:

A clip of Ilya Rozanov, post-game on the field as his Boston teammates scream behind him. One of the MLB Network correspondents has a mic thrust toward him. 

‘You’ve said you’re going to get forty home runs this season. That’s very ambitious. How does tonight feed into that prediction?’ she asks. 

A look of confusion crosses the Russian’s face, and the correspondent looks like she’s about to clarify her words into something easier to understand when he opens his mouth. “Is lie. Liar told you that.”

He looks directly into the camera. “I said 50.” 

He winks.

An enormous Gatorade container of red liquid and ice pours down on him a moment later.

Commentator #1: Well, he certainly has enough ego to fill Fenway. 

Commentator #2: Doesn’t seem like his teammates mind.

Commentator #1: He hit a home run off of Hollander back in spring training, so there’s a history there. I’m sure Hollander is hoping to hold him from that home run record today. He’s still sitting tight at a 1.15 ERA after that small Northeast road trip Toronto did. 3-0 win count. Absolutely wonderful start to the season for this young rookie, and we’re seeing today what we saw last time Hollander started in Toronto: the Canadian already has a rabid fan base. Lots of fans out there today are wearing Hollander jerseys. 

Commentator #2: I spoke with a young fan earlier today on my way in, and she told me, quote, ‘it’s cool to see someone who looks like me be so popular.’ 

Commentator #1: Man, I love baseball. 

A gentle rain set in while Shane is waiting for Ilya in the back alley behind his apartment, which doesn’t really do anything to dampen Shane’s excitement. Finally, finally a discreet black car pulls up and drops Ilya off; he’s wearing a pair of shades and a ball cap - black, not for Boston, thank God, as he hesitantly walks into the alley. 

“Over here, get in,” Shane gestures, pulling the back door open wide. 

Ilya pauses, still looking dubious. “You will murder me.” 

“Maybe. Get in!”

Ilya’s too good looking for his own good; he definitely would be noticed walking through Shane’s front lobby, even if his mom already made the doorman sign an NDA when he moved in. 

Somehow, this is enticing enough for Ilya to hurry towards the door, and when Shane has him inside, he brushes the rain drops off of Shane’s gray hoodie, then pulls him in for a kiss. “Hello.” 

“Hey,” Shane whispers against Ilya’s lips. 

“You missed me.” 

“Fuck off. Still kicked your ass.”

“Still hit a home run off of you.” 

“Shut up.” Shane turns to take the stairs two at a time, only to find Ilya pacing him all the way up. 

By the time they push into Shane’s apartment, they’re breathless from both three flights of stairs and laughter at their stupid competition, and they stand there for a moment, just looking at each other, their chests heaving. 

They move together after a beat, their arms coming around each other, their mouths meeting as if they’ve been doing this for years instead of a few random hookups back in Florida. Ilya’s hands explore, first cupping one of his pecs, then dipping under the waistband of his sweatpants to tease over his ass. Shane moans, his knees going swoopy, so he decides to take that initiative anyway and drops before Ilya. 

He makes quick work of Ilya’s fly and takes Ilya’s cock out, stroking it twice before wrapping his lips around the head and licking across his seam. Ilya’s hands immediately come to his hair, guiding him, fucking into his mouth with short thrusts so as not to overwhelm Shane right away. 

With a groan, Ilya pulls Shane back, his hand gripping into Shane’s hair to keep him from sinking right back onto his cock. “I want to fuck you.” 

On his knees, Shane looks up at Ilya through his lashes and nods ever so sweetly. “I want that too.” 

“Here? Couch? Bed? Where, Hollander?” The desperation in Ilya’s tone would normally make Shane laugh, but he’s feeling it just as much. 

“My bedroom is this way, come on.” Shane hops to his feet, then starts pulling Ilya along down the hallway. 

“Enough pillows, you think?” Ilya murmurs when they finally make it to the bedroom. 

“Fuck off. I hired someone.” Shane moves over to the bed to start throwing the decorative pillows onto the armchair he keeps near the bed for the express purpose of throwing decorative pillows on when he wants to sleep…yeah, maybe the decorator had a fetish for decorative pillows. Still, he normally likes the effect, when they’re not what’s standing between him and getting Ilya Rozanov naked in his bed. 

When he turns around, speaking of, Ilya’s half-undressed already, shoes, socks, and shirt all discarded, his fly still open and his dick poking out. It’s fucking hot, and Shane can’t help but step toward him. Then they’re kissing again, and Ilya is working his hoodie over his head, and Shane’s hand wraps around Ilya’s cock. 

“Fuck, Hollander, get on the bed,” Ilya orders, emphasizing it with a push. 

Shane complies, falling into bed and letting Ilya pull his pants and underwear off. Ilya kicks his jeans off, then goes to the bedside table and raises an eyebrow at Shane, asking for his permission to find what he needs even as he folds Shane's clothes neatly for him. 

“Yeah,” Shane replies, breathless, pushing up to his elbows to watch Ilya’s beautiful naked body. It’s quite a show. 

Ilya grabs lube and rips off one of the condoms from the strip, then kneels on the bed. “This feels, uh, how to say? The same thing has happened before.” 

“Déjà vous,” Shane supplies. He spreads his legs for Ilya to settle between. “My phone is off this time, I promise.” 

Ilya grins at him, then pulls one of the non-decorative pillows down and adjusts things until it’s propping up Shane’s hips. “This will be more comfortable.” 

“I seem to remember that last time you asked me to get comfortable, it was actually to put me to sleep.”

“I promise, is not my intention this time.” Ilya’s eyes burn into his even as he smiles, making the upturned lips almost look feral. 

He smooths his hands over Shane’s outstretched thighs, squeezing them appreciatively even as he pushes them wider apart. “But if you want to close your eyes for this part, you can. Sometimes, helps to relax.” 

Shane throws his arm over his forehead, but he keeps his eyes on Ilya. “I want to watch.” 

Ilya gives a shrug, but he smiles again as he pops the lube open and squeezes some onto his fingers. It’s cold, again, when Ilya first presses in, but Shane doesn’t care. He almost revels in the feeling against his hole, any sensation there sending him higher. He lets out a breath as Ilya works one finger inside, then a second. 

“Good, yes, breathe.” Ilya twists his fingers in Shane’s hole even as he keeps a steadying hand on his thigh. 

Unlike last time, Ilya avoids his prostate, instead aiming at opening him up enough to take his cock. Shane appreciates it, honestly; he already feels close to exploding and they haven’t even really done anything yet. His cock weeps precum pitifully against his stomach. 

A new sensation: a third finger joining. “Oh,” Shane mutters, shifting his hips to take Ilya deeper. 

“Is okay?” 

“Yes, it’s okay. Feels good. Different.” 

Ilya leans over, kissing Shane’s chest over his thundering heart, even as his fingers continue to scissor inside and tug on his rim to get it to stretch. 

The first time Shane gasps, it’s with the fourth finger. He feels impossibly wide, and looks down at Ilya, who’s splitting his attention between Shane’s face and his fingers disappearing into Shane’s body. “Is still okay?” 

“Yes. Oh, fuck, Rozy-” 

“I think you are ready for me, if you want, still.” 

“Fucking get in me, Rozanov, or I am going to murder you.”

Ilya chuckles, pulling his fingers out slowly and slapping Shane lightly on his hole in a slight reprimand. “Patience.” 

He wrestles with the condom wrapper with slick fingers, but finally gets it open and over his cock, lubing himself up, and then Shane can feel his head notched against his hole and Ilya’s looking at him for consent to move on and oh my god this is going to wreck Shane in the best possible way. He nods. 

Ilya’s smile is tight now, his body a mask of control as he slowly lowers himself into Shane. Shane’s grateful for it. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to remember to breathe, but Ilya feels fucking huge inside him, nothing like the dildo even though he’d said they’re similar sizes. There’s something about the fact that Ilya’s white-hot and hard, but with some give, and-

Ilya thrusts the rest of the way in, his balls resting against Shane’s ass in true proof of how close they are. Shane’s eyes pop open and meet Ilya’s, and he’s speechless, he’s absolutely speechless at this feeling of fullness inside him.

Ilya’s arms are shaking where they hold himself up, but still, he’s giving Shane these moments to adjust. Shane shifts, his leg coming up to wrap around Ilya’s hip, and that slides Ilya even deeper, and they both groan. They meet eyes, and nod, and that’s it: no holds barred. 

Shane’s entire world feels rocked. He’s not sure anything else could ever feel this good. God, guys who think taking it up the ass makes them gay are totally fucking missing out. This is amazing. Ilya’s cock is so fucking deep, and sliding over his prostate every time he thrusts, and the sounds Ilya is letting out are going to be burned into Shane’s brain for eternity. He reaches up, tugging on Ilya’s shoulders until the man is blanketed over him, still thrusting as they kiss endlessly. 

“‘M close, Hollander, are you-” Ilya murmurs against his lips, before maneuvering enough to reach in between their bodies and stroke Shane’s cock. 

Shane comes almost immediately with a cry against Ilya’s neck. Ilya shouts something in Russian near his ear before stiffening inside him. Pleasure is white hot inside him, enough that he almost wants to cry. 

Ilya eases away, making Shane wince in oversensitivity. “Shhh, is okay.” He pets over Shane’s hole, soothing the empty feeling away before dropping to his back in Shane’s bed. “Am dead. You killed me, Hollander.” 

Shane lets out a little snort and slaps Ilya on the stomach; the move makes a satisfying sound even as Ilya yelps and tackles Shane to the bed for another kiss. When he pulls back, Ilya’s eyes are soft on his. “I’m wanting shower, yes? You come too, so I can help clean you up?”

With a nod, Shane lets himself be led to his bathroom on the shakiest legs he’s ever experienced. 

Red_Sox_Fan_2004: If Ilya Rozanov doesn’t win Rookie of the Year at the #MLBawards this year, there is no justice in the world. 51 homers? Red Sox making it to the World Series? Plus all the games he called brilliantly for his pitchers. C’mon. 

Jay_Blue_74: @Red_Sox_Fan_2004 C’mon yourself. Hollander is setting the record for best ERA in a rookie year since the 1881. TWO no hitters. 

Red_Sox_Fan_2004: @Jay_Blue_74 Didn’t get the Blue Jays into October ball but okay

Jay_Blue_74: Last time I looked there was a whole offensive side to the game but okay

Red_Sox_Fan_2004: Exactly, and Rozanov performed brilliantly on both offense AND defense

Shane finds Ilya on the roof terrace all alone, looking out on the Las Vegas skyline, nursing a glass of some type of alcohol and smoking a cigarette as if it’s offended him. 

“There you are.”

“Here am I.” Ilya doesn’t look over his shoulder at Shane, which for some reason just pisses Shane off further. He's not sure what he came out here for, but he'd like at least a little acknowledgement, dammit. 

“What, you don’t win one thing, so you can’t show your face at the after party? I didn’t realize you were such a sore loser.” 

When Ilya doesn’t respond, Shane stalks over to the railing and joins him in looking over the city. 

“I’m serious, man. Your team made it to the playoffs. You broke the record for Red Sox rookie year home runs. You’re going home a hero. Why can’t you be happy that I just- I just finally won something?”

Ilya scoffs. “Not everything is about you, Hollander,” he spits out, his voice sounding rough and hard and entirely foreign to how Shane is used to him sounding. 

“Fine, whatever. See you next season.”

He turns to walk away, only to be pressed against the cement wall of the building, Ilya’s mouth on his. He tastes of alcohol and cigarettes and something quintessentially Ilya that Shane can never resist. He groans, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s waist and pulling him in tighter. 

A car honks on the street below, and Shane jolts, pulling away. “Not here.” 

Ilya looks sulky, but he responds, “I know.” 

“We can’t-”

“I know, Hollander. See you next season.” With that final word, Ilya pushes away, tossing back the rest of his vodka and flouncing inside. 

Fuck me, Shane thinks, wondering if that’s it. If that means Ilya’s done with him. He should be happy this thing is done. It’s messy, and complicated, and if they get caught-

But as he thinks back over the last few months, the hook ups whenever he was in Boston or Ilya was in Toronto, fuck. Fuck, he’s going to be sad if he has to go all next year without it. 

Maybe he needs to take Hayden up on that blind date recommendation.

Chapter End Notes

Rozanov is so *fucking* gone for Shane, omg.

Chapter 4: Year 2

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya in year 2 of their careers.

Tags added: Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Dom/sub is more explicit now, Unnegotiated Kink, Anxiety Attack, Shane's canon-typical bad coping mechanisms

Chapter Notes

This was such a tough chapter to write! I'm glad I have it done because I'm actually really excited for the next chapter.

Newscaster #1: In international sports news, the US Softball team announced today that they will not be fielding a team in the 2012 Women’s Softball World Cup in Moscow. In a letter the organization released on Twitter, the US team cited concerns for player safety. 

Shane looks over from chopping an onion in his parents’ cottage kitchen, to catch the tail end of the sports news droning on ESPN. “What did they say?”

His mom doesn’t look up from the pan she’s stirring. “Hmm?”

“They said something about Moscow being unsafe?”

“I wasn’t paying attention, sorry,” David replies, continuing to knead dough for the bread they’ll have with tomorrow’s Christmas dinner. 

“Was it about the softball team?” 

Shane looks over at his mom. “Did you hear about that already?”

“I’ve met a few of the ladies on the Canada team this last year working with you at the national level, and they were all sharing it around Twitter today. There’s a married couple on the American team,” she says, as if that explains it all. As if that explains anything. 

“How is there a guy on the softball team?”

Both of his parents stare at him, but his mom finally answers, “Well, they’re lesbians, Shane. It’s two women. And they just don’t feel like Moscow will be safe with the anti-LGBT legislation that’s been passed there.” 

Shane feels a blush rise on his cheeks at his parents’ continued incredulous stares. Suddenly, he feels like he’s being judged. It’s not like he’s homophobic. “No, right, of course. That’s- that’s a good decision. I wouldn’t want anyone to be hurt.” 

The tension in the room seems to relax as his parents go back to their tasks, but Shane’s hands are too shaky to continue cutting the onion. “Uh, I’ll be right back,” he mutters, speeding straight for the downstairs bathroom. 

He leans against the counter, his hands flat as he looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes look a little glossy, but that could be excused away as the onions. His cheeks are red and his breath is coming quickly and he’s definitely edging around a panic attack. He turns on the cold water and splashes his face with it, and the temperature reset does help bring down the anxiety a bit. 

He pulls out his phone and types, deletes, and retypes a message to Ilya, his first since the explosive scene in Las Vegas two months ago. 

Shane: Are you okay?

It’s stupid. Of course Ilya is fine. He’s discreet. He keeps secrets. He’s not out as whatever he is, and there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that he’s straight considering the amount of women he’s been linked with. 

His message goes to read, but then…nothing. 

Shane is cleaning February frost from his SUV and dreaming about spring training in Florida in a matter of weeks when Ilya finally texts back. Well, ‘back’ might be gilding the lily a little. 

Lily: You are still mad from Las Vegas?

Shane frowns when he checks the text from the warmth of his car. He pulls off his glove with his teeth and starts hastily stabbing at letters. 

Shane: I’m not mad about Las Vegas. 

Lily: ok

Shane frowns, if possible, harder. That ‘ok’ could be interpreted in at least a dozen different ways and honestly Shane’s post-holidays, tired of the dark, seasonally-depressed ass is annoyed at even trying to interpret it. Luckily, Ilya’s already typing.

Lily: We will be training in same town again

Shane: yeah

Lily: are you bringing your dildo to camp?

Shane: Absolutely not.

Lily: ah

Lily: will need replacement then, yes?

Lily: I can do this for you

Lily: free of charge

Lily: well

Lily: I may request payment of pretty mouth

Shane: You’re such a pervert.

There’s a moment before Ilya responds. 

Lily: I must look up this word, is not nice word, but probably correct, yes 😈

Shane laughs, the sound louder in the car than he’d meant. He presses his hand over his mouth and rolls his eyes at himself. 

Shane: See you in Florida, Rozy.

“Fuck, Hollander, you are so beautiful like this.” 

Shane whines, burying his face in the pillow as Ilya pounds into him from behind. Ilya’s weight drapes over him, and then he feels Ilya’s fingers sliding through the sweat at his nape and pulling him by his hair so that his face isn’t buried. 

“No, I want to hear you.” 

The next noise Shane makes strangles in his throat but Ilya praises him for it anyway. The praise goes straight to his head, making his toes curl into the mattress. Ilya’s cock is pressing against his prostate in the most delicious way. 

“Rozy, god-”

“Mmm, yes, this is accurate,” Ilya puffs out, his fingers bruising into Shane’s hips. 

“What?” Shane mumbles, far past understanding anything. Ilya might as well be speaking Russian.

“Am god of fucking you, yes.”

It makes Shane laugh, then sob when Ilya fucks him impossibly harder. “Such an asshole.” 

“Mmm, yes, also accurate.” 

“That your new favorite English word?”

“Was taught to me by very boring baseball player. Accuracy very important to him. So yes. Are you close?”

Shane groans and nods, rolling his hips to try and get Ilya impossibly closer. His fingers grip into the mattress. He’s not even going to need-

He shatters as Ilya jackhammers over his prostate, his orgasm filling him with euphoria that rushes through his limbs and tingles up his spine. He arches, and Ilya curses in Russian, and then he’s filling the condom as he grips Shane’s hips tightly. 

“Hollllee shit, Hollander,” Ilya slurs, removing his grip to give Shane a companionable slap on the ass before falling to the side and throwing his arm over his hot face. 

With a little giggle that Shane will definitely deny later, he rolls away from the wet spot - at least they’d thought to put down a towel - and watches the pleasure pass over Ilya’s beautiful features. 

“You came without-“ Ilya holds up a hand and looks at Shane with wonder. 

“Hands-free, yeah. Fuck. That was so fucking hot.”

Ilya’s grin borders on evil. “I made you come hands-free.”

“Don’t get a big head about it.”

Ilya rolls toward him, taking his chin and angling Shane’s head toward him for a lingering kiss. “I think you like my big head.”

Shane groans and pushes Ilya away. “You’re the worst, go take your shower.”

Ilya’s eyes sparkle. “Or we take together?”

The shower mostly passes in companionable silence, shared kisses, and handing each other tiny bottles of shampoo and body wash. Shane had rented out a room for them again, their second week of spring training, in a hotel none of the other baseball players are staying in. It feels relatively safe, even though they’ll both wear caps and sunglasses and leave separately. 

“How was Russia?” Shane asks as he’s toweling himself off after. 

“Is cold in winter. Much prefer Florida.”

“Yeah, Toronto is cold, too. But, uh, you had a nice time visiting your parents? Your family?” He’s not really sure why he’s taking the conversation this way, when they’d had a nice night, but being here with Ilya, like this, his mind can’t help think back to the US softball team. 

“Is cold,” Ilya repeats, and his own voice has gone as cold as winter, a clear indication that even Shane gets: shut up.

Shut up, Shane.

“Right, yeah. Do, um. Does your family ever come watch you here? I think they’d have to lock my mom up to keep her from her season ticket seats at Rogers.” 

“Hollander, you ask such boring questions.” Suddenly, Ilya is completely dressed. He pulls Shane in for a quick kiss, just a casual brush of lips. In less than ten seconds, while Shane is still standing there naked, Ilya’s already out the door. 

No ‘see you next time’ or ‘play well’ or even a chirp about being a pitcher and therefore not needing to do any batting practice or anything. 

Shane’s stomach turns over uncomfortably. 

Commentator #1: Welcome back to the 2012 All-Star Game in Kansas City, where all eyes are on the American League pitcher Shane Hollander. Shane just missed the vote-in last year despite a wonderful season, but the Rookie of the Year will not be missing this time. 

Commentator #2: But up first we have the Home Run Derby. The favorite to win tonight is Jaime Alonzo who is quite used to the stadium and has home field advantage, but Scott Hunter has been having an exceptional hitting season as well, and of course you can’t count out Ilya Rozanov in his debut as an All-Star.

There are bright lights flashing at Kaufmann Stadium. Of course there are, Shane chastises himself. This is a fucking baseball stadium on the biggest night in baseball except for the World Series, maybe. Of course the lights are flashing. They’re just…they’re flashing in a different way than the lights at Rogers Stadium do and they keep catching Shane off guard and sending little frissons of adrenaline through his already over-wrought system. 

If Hayden were here, he’d probably be able to pull Shane out of it. He knows his parents are up in the stands somewhere, but he doesn’t really know anyone else on the team - Toronto isn’t having the best season, so it’s just Shane and JJ here at the All-Stars. 

It doesn’t help that Ilya’s somewhere in the dugout, too. They haven’t talked in four months, since Shane stupidly brought up Russia and then ignored Ilya’s obvious shutting down of the topic. That hasn’t stopped Shane from opening their text message thread every day and rereading the last conversation - just a simple back and forth confirmation of the hotel and room number Shane booked in Florida. 

There’s not much for him to do tonight; it’s the Home Run Derby, which fans love, but Shane hasn’t been chosen as a pitcher. He has the control for it, probably, but batters have their preferences and Shane’s not JJ’s - he’s using their batting coach from Toronto actually. 

“I’ll be right back,” he mutters to absolutely no one as he walks away from the American League dugout, down the hallway, and tries to find a bathroom where no one will miss him for a bit. He leans over the counter, staring up at his own reflection; he seems pale even to his own eyes, except for flags of color on his cheeks, a telltale sign he’s having an anxiety attack. Sometimes he wishes his face didn’t give every single little detail about his emotions away. 

He’s working his way through a breathing exercise when the bathroom door opens, making him flinch. He feels another surge of adrenaline shoot through his veins when he realizes it’s Rozanov. He pulls away from the counter, turning away to surreptitiously wipe a tear off his cheek. 

Ilya leans against the door, both blocking Shane’s way and looking at him expectantly. 

“What do you want, Rozanov?”

He has that fucking smirk Shane can’t help but fall for every time. “I want you to suck my cock.”

Indignant rage replaces some of the anxiety in Shane’s body. “Fuck you. You know what? Fuck you. You ignore me for four months, don’t text me-”

“Your texts were boring.”

“Fuck. You,” Shane bites out through gritted teeth. “You know what? No. You suck my cock.” 

The way Ilya walks toward him reminds Shane of a stalking panther, and he fucking hates feeling like the prey. “Ask nicely.”

“What?”

“You want me to get down on this filthy bathroom floor and suck your cock, you ask nicely. With best Canadian manners.”

Shane sways toward Ilya before he even realizes he’s doing it, but thank God Ilya’s there to catch him. The anxiety has left his body, and most of the anger, too. “Please,” he whispers against Ilya’s jersey collar. 

Ilya’s fingers thread through the hair at the nape of his neck, gripping him in a way that grounds Shane back into his body. “Nicely.”

Shane whimpers just a little, and stares at Ilya’s lips instead of his eyes. “Please, Rozy, will you get down on this filthy bathroom floor and suck my cock.” 

Ilya takes his mouth in a strong kiss, and the last of the anxiety and anger leaves him. He feels drained, but weirdly, good. When he pulls back, he’s actually able to meet Ilya’s eyes. “No.”

“What?” Shane lets out on a disbelieving laugh. “Fuck you.” 

“Must go beat dinosaur Scott Hunter in Home Run Derby. So no, not now. But after, after you sit and watch me win, and we attend boring after party, after you will come to my suite, and I will maybe, maybe suck your cock. Though you should be the one serving me.”

Shane suddenly wants nothing more than to drop to his knees for this man right now, but he can’t let himself do that. “And if you don’t win?”

Ilya just smirks once again. 

“Your English is getting pretty good, you know,” Shane says, pressing his forehead against Ilya’s and sighing. 

“I have been reading New Yorker.”

Shane’s eyes pop open - he hadn’t even realized he’d closed them. “What, really?” 

“No, New Yorker is boring.”

“My dad reads the New Yorker.”

“Ah, so the boring is genetic.”

And sure, it’s an insult, but he’s feeling so much calmer, and weirdly floaty, that he just smiles. “Wow, genetic.”

Above them, the entire stadium cheers, and they flinch apart. “I need to-” Ilya starts.

“Yeah, go, go. I’ll be there in a second. To watch you lose. I think it’s Hunter’s year.”

Ilya’s eyes flash in a way that tells Shane he’s going to be paying for that comment later, and then he’s kissing Shane enough to take his breath away before sweeping out the door. 

Shane turns back to the mirror, and his cheeks are still flags of red, but it’s for a different reason now. He feels…strangely better, more grounded after that encounter, and he wonders, for a moment, if that had been Ilya’s intention the whole time. Or if he’s just an asshole. 

Hard to say, really. 

Shane wipes a stray tear away and then heads back out to watch the Derby. 

Shane licks his lips and wipes his sweaty hands on his slacks before using the card Ilya had slipped him to let himself into Suite #2. 

Ilya’s by the large windows overlooking the Kansas City skyline, half out of his outfit from the after party - some vaguely see through button up hanging off his shoulders, his tight black jeans already unbuttoned and showing his happy trail leading down to skin not covered by underwear. He looks devastating, and Shane can’t help but swallow at the sight. 

The trophy, two golden bats leaning toward each other, is sitting on the coffee table. Shane had seen Ilya at the after party earlier, and he knows Ilya could have had any number of willing women up here - and probably some of the men, too - with him to celebrate not only his win, but setting the record for home runs at the Derby, but instead, Shane’s the chosen one. He tries not to feel anxious about that, tries to feel special instead. 

Ilya holds his arms out to his sides in a gesture Shane interprets as, ‘I fucking did it.’

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Ilya takes a sip of something - probably vodka - from a crystal cut glass, then eyes Shane up and down. “Now take off your clothes.” 

“You’re such an asshole.” Despite his words, the command hits in Shane’s gut, and he nods, his hands shaking as he goes to start unbuttoning his simple white top. He does it carefully, folding the sleeves in together so nothing will wrinkle before hanging it over the back of one of the chairs in the living room of the pent house. 

Ilya’s eyes are on his body the whole time, and Shane would feel self-conscious if he couldn’t see the pure desire in them. Ilya’s in a mood of some kind, and Shane wants to match it, wants to know how to match it, how to be so effortlessly sexy like that. Wants Ilya to want Shane the way Shane wants him. The look in his eyes gets Shane partway there, at least. 

He takes off his shoes, socks, and slacks with the same care, taking time to put them neatly on the chair while Ilya watches and sips at his vodka. Finally, finally Shane is standing before Ilya in just his black boxer-briefs, feeling shy all of a sudden. 

“What?” Ilya asks, apparently already clocking his hesitation. 

“Windows,” Shane manages. “There are lots of, uh, windows.” I feel exposed, Shane is trying to say, and can’t find the words. 

Ilya hums, quirking an eyebrow and padding barefoot to one of the living room chairs. Before Shane can question him, he mutters, “Come,, follow,” and drags the chair across the marble floor to the bedroom. 

Shoulders hunched against the exposure, the difference in their state of undress, Shane follows, unsure of what Ilya’s intending with the chair until he drags it to face the foot of the bed and slides himself into it, once again like a panther stalking his prey. 

“Get on the bed.” Ilya eyes him over the glass, his eyes warming when Shane complies, sitting back against the headboard and feeling awkward. 

“Touch yourself.”

“What?”

“I want to watch you pleasure yourself, Hollander. Show me how you make yourself come.” 

“You don’t- I mean. I’ve never-”

“Oh, really?” Ilya replies sarcastically.

“Oh shut up, you asshole. At least give me some of the vodka.” Shane’s throat is suddenly parched, and while intellectually he knows that alcohol won’t actually help hydrate him, he has a sudden need to blur the edges a little bit. 

He should’ve known Ilya would shake his head at that, though, given Ilya’s past refusal to sext while Shane was drunk. “Vodka is for winners. Is my special day, I get vodka, I get Shane Hollander in my bed making himself so pretty as he comes, yes?”

Shane swallows, then nods, trying to relax. He leans back more against the headboard and lets his legs fall apart on the mattress. He doesn’t really know how to start, but Ilya’s eyes bore into his body, looking like Shane is setting him aflame just by laying there, so he can’t really do anything too stupid, right?

He cups his neck, squeezing a little where Ilya had squeezed him earlier before letting his hand drift down over his pec. He’s not as obsessed with his ‘tits’ as Ilya is, doesn’t normally stimulate his nipples to get off, but he knows his audience, and pays special attention there, bringing them to pebbled peaks that has Ilya biting his lip. He continues down his stomach, and rubs over his hard, leaking cock trapped in his boxer briefs. He’s encouraged by the absolute desire in Ilya’s eyes; Ilya is watching his every move and biting down on his lip slightly in between sips of vodka. 

“Do you want to know how it feels?” Ilya purrs as Shane continues to stroke himself. 

Yes, anything. Uh- “What?”

“To hit ball out of park. To score runs for your team.”

“Oh fuck you, my average in National league games last year was decent.” Shane laughs, hooking his thumbs under his waistband and pulling his boxer-briefs off, throwing them at Ilya’s face. Ilya looks affronted, but then he picks up the underwear and, with his eyes boring into Shane’s, sniffs them before tossing them aside. 

“Not decent enough for Home Run Derby.”

“Just a bunch of roid-heads showing off,” Shane teases.

“My record will be going in the book without an asterisk, thank you very much.” Ilya polishes off the rest of his vodka and sets it aside, leaning forward on his knees. “Continue. I want show.”

Shane’s heart stutters even as he strokes himself for Ilya’s pleasure. He’s leaking now, enough that the glide up and down his shaft is slick. He gathers some of it on his fingers and reaches below, angling his hips up to start brushing over his hole. 

“Do you still use dildo I bought you?”

Shane nods as he pushes the tip of his finger inside himself. He’d gotten off with it the night before heading to the All Star game. Ilya doesn’t need to know he’d screamed his name into his pillow in his empty apartment. 

“Fuck, Hollander, you are so pretty.” Ilya shrugs out of his clubbing shirt and tosses it carelessly aside. 

At the sight of Ilya’s gorgeous pecs out and proud, Shane groans, pulling up two fingers to get them wet with his saliva before pushing inside himself again. His other hand strokes his cock, and his head falls back against the headboard. “Are you going to fuck me?” 

“We will see,” Ilya answers, infuriatingly nonchalant. “Can you come this way?”

The thing is, Shane probably could, but he doesn’t want to. He’s here at the All Stars, too. Isn’t this also his night? “Not this way. I need-”

Ilya’s eyes move from where his fingers are disappearing into his hole, up to his eyes. “What do you need?”

“You,” Shane admits. He knows what he wants, but fuck if it isn’t hard to admit out loud. “I need you.”

Like a wildcat, Ilya leaves the chair and stalks toward the bed, and Shane crawls to meet him, his back arching as he goes for Ilya’s fly. It takes nothing to release Ilya’s cock, and Shane immediately swallows it down. He missed this, so much, missed the weight of Ilya’s cock on his tongue, the feeling of pleasing him, the absolute weightlessness it makes Shane’s soul feel. 

“Yes, Hollander, just like that,” Ilya growls, his hand coming down to guide Shane. He’s a little rough, but Shane likes it, likes the uncomfort of Ilya’s cock spearing down his throat a little faster than he would have done it. Likes Ilya using him for pleasure. He moans around Ilya’s dick and loses himself to the blowjob. 

Roughly, Ilya pulls him off, and Shane blinks up at him, his saliva still connecting his mouth to Ilya’s dick. His throat is rough and he’s breathing hard. 

“Around. On your knees.” Ilya doesn’t wait for him to follow the command, pushing him into the correct position, shoving his face down into the sheets. He moves away for a moment, obviously gathering supplies, as Shane breathes hard, his heart pounding in his throat. 

Ilya gives a perfunctory few swipes with his fingers, lubing Shane’s hole and stretching him a little, but probably not enough. Shane doesn’t fucking care, he needs Ilya in him yesterday. He can’t really communicate that beyond a whine, though, his ability to speak completely stolen by this feeling in the air around them. He turns his head and watches Ilya slide the condom on, slicking some lube over his cock before slotting in behind Shane and pushing roughly inside. 

It stings, but not in a bad way. Instead it feels like Ilya is sliding into the place he fits inside Shane, exactly where he’s supposed to be. Shane groans and grips the pillows, taking the rough thrusts from Ilya like he was born for it, for this moment. Fuck baseball, fuck everything else, this is Shane’s purpose. 

He feels so good, so wanted, so- so not like himself, here. Or rather, the most like himself, the most himself because that’s all Ilya requires of him, is to be himself here in this moment. He’s not the outer world, with too-bright lights and too-loud sounds and too-much too-much too-much. Ilya is just the right amount of much for Shane. 

Their bodies are slick with sweat, and Ilya’s cock is pounding over his prostate with every thrust, but it’s not going to be enough, it’s not- Shane reaches down, stroking his cock in time with Ilya’s thrusts. A second later, his hand is slapped away and Ilya replaces it with his own, leaning over Shane’s body, fucking him so deeply and stroking his cock at the same time. Shane turns, watching Ilya’s biceps and delts heave with the movement. He’s fucking gorgeous, and right now, his attention is all centered on Shane, and Shane can’t breathe with the lust of it all. 

He chokes on a shout, coming into Ilya’s fist and clenching down around his cock. Ilya doesn’t hold back his own shout, which echoes through the penthouse as he stills above Shane and fills the condom. 

Shane collapses onto the bed, and Ilya on top of him, and for a moment it feels kind of like Shane’s weighted blanket he uses when his anxiety gets really bad, he relishes the weight of Ilya on top of him. 

But too soon, Ilya pulls out and away, leaving Shane feeling empty. The emptiness leads to him noticing that the hotel room air conditioning is making the sweat on his skin - and other substances - stand out and be cold, too. He pushes himself up as he hears Ilya pad around the room. A moment later, as he’s settling himself back against the headboard, Ilya basically shoves a glass of vodka in his hand. He takes it, and watches Ilya pick his pants up off the ground to search for something- ah. His cigarettes. 

He’s on the tip of asking Ilya not to smoke here, but the atmosphere has changed and suddenly Shane doesn’t feel like he has the right. It’s Ilya’s hotel room, Ilya’s bill if he gets charged, Ilya’s bed that will smell faintly of smoke and Shane. With a slightly shaky hand, Shane grabs the glass and takes a sip of the vodka. 

It burns, and he does his best not to make a face as Ilya collapses into the bed beside him and lights his cigarette. For a moment, Shane wishes he didn’t find the smell, the taste of them so distasteful, because fuck if Rozanov doesn’t look hot smoking, still naked in the white sheets, his body still covered in a light sheen of sweat. 

Shane looks away, busying himself taking another sip. It’s honestly gross, and Shane doesn’t want to finish, but he also doesn’t want to turn down Ilya’s hospitality. 

“If you hadn’t been coming here, would you have gone home for the All-Star break?” Shane asks to try and break the weird post-coital tension. Some ball players go on vacation, some go home. It’s a nice little week off in the middle of a grueling season. 

“Home?”

“To Russia.”

Ilya doesn’t quite meet his eyes, taking another drag of his cigarette and shrugging as if this had been a stupid question. “Yes, of course.”

Shane takes another fortifying sip of gross vodka and nods. “Is it- would you be- is it safe?”

Ilya looks at him sharply. “What do you mean, safe?”

Shane thinks of lesbians playing softball and winces, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know. I mean, do you even like it there?”

“What difference does it make?”

“A pretty big one, I’d think.”

Ilya shakes his head, pulling hard on his cigarette, then flicking ash off in his used vodka glass. “I need to sleep.” 

“Oh, right.” Shane winces. Normally he can get the cues of when people don’t want him around anymore, before they ask him nicely to leave. He’ll chalk it up to the panic attack earlier and the weird feeling all night. “Yeah, me too. Big day tomorrow. Maybe they’ll pair us together, huh?” 

“Maybe.”

Taking the hint for what it is, Shane slips out of bed, abandoning the vodka on the bedside table. He visits the bathroom quickly to wipe himself off, trying not to think about how normally Ilya cleans him up himself, or invites him to a shower. He knows he’s limping a little, and he hopes he won’t regret that too much tomorrow. 

He doesn’t think that’s likely, though, as regret seems to be filling in the gaping holes of his chest right now. 

“I’m, uh, heading out.” 

No response. 

Trying not to cry, and angry at himself for even tearing up, Shane leaves the key card behind and stalks toward the elevator. 

“Hollander, get warmed up, you’re going in next inning.”

“Yes coach.” Shane grabs his glove and his cap and heads over to the practice mound in the bullpen. The American League is up 5-3, Ilya having batted in a couple of those in the third. All Star game coaches tend to call pitchers in for only a single inning, so Shane’s going to be looking for an easy three up, three down here, to be able to go home without embarrassing himself. 

He warms up with some pitching coach he has probably been introduced to, then pauses when a bunch of cheers come from the stadium. He looks up to see Ilya waving to the crowd as he walks off the field, being replaced by some player from the Mariners to run the bases. Shane frowns at the decision; Ilya’s one of the fastest runners in the league; he’s leading stolen bases for the second year in a row. There’s no good reason Shane can think of to pull him right now. 

The pitching coach comes up to Shane and gives him a quick butt pat. “The show runners like to make sure all the teams get a chance to show off their heroes, so you won’t be pitching to Rozanov tonight. Probably a relief, huh?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you guys like, enemies or something? I swear I heard the hype last season about that.” 

“Oh, yeah. He’s an asshole,” Shane mutters. His body feels like it did last night, after. All weird and not here and disappointed in himself. 

He bites his lip on the inside, hard enough that he can taste copper, and straightens his shoulders. He can do this. 

Commentator #1: Well, looks like Colby is headed out to the mound to pull Hollander.

Commentator #2: Probably the right call. His control just has not been there tonight. 

Commentator #1: Hasn’t really been there since the All Star break, if we’re being honest. A Toronto pitcher hasn’t had this fast of an upswing on their ERA since the 1970s, and that’s not the kind of record you want associated with your name. 

Commentator #2: Yep, there’s the call to the bullpen. Ouch, Hollander isn’t even acknowledging the crowd on the way out.

Commentator #1: Oof. You know, we haven’t seen any scouting reports, but it makes me wonder if there’s some injury Hollander is trying to play through. 

Commentator #2: Hate to see it in a young player like that. Could just be the pressure after being Rookie of the Year, too. 

Commentator #1: Well, looks like Colby is calling Mattias out to try and wrestle a save from here, which means we’re headed to a commercial break. 

Shane flinches as a locker clangs shut somewhere near him. He’s almost done studiously cleaning up his stuff and packing his bag to go home. The locker room has that post-loss energy. Mattias had gotten out of the sticky situation Shane had put them in, but the offense had never been able to dig themselves out of the three-run hole Shane dug. He’s avoiding everyone’s eyes, shame riding high on his cheeks, his shoulders hunched. It had been a day game, so he can stay after, maybe do some extra work in the gym to help him be better next time.

“Shane.” 

Shane blinks at the sound of Hayden’s voice. He’s got that tone like he’s been trying to get Shane’s attention for a little while. 

“Yeah, sorry, uh. Yeah?”

Hayden crosses his arms over his chest and looks at him. “Come home with me tonight. Jackie makes this great salmon bake, I know it fits your macros. Don’t be alone tonight.” 

“I was going to-”

“Stay here and punish yourself? That’s not what your arm needs, man. Come home with me.”

Shane blinks at him, and Hayden gives him his most winning smile. He feels himself fold.

“Okay. I’ll follow you.”

Hayden pulls him into a hug and ruffles his hair in a semi-noogie, making Shane laugh. And honestly, the hug and the laugh, they make him feel better than he has in weeks.

He feels even better when he’s sitting on the Pikes’ back porch, enjoying the breeze on a nice Toronto summer night, with a glass of ice-cold ginger ale in front of him and Hayden playing with his twin girls nearby. The sound of their laughter makes something lighten in Shane’s chest that has been stuck since Kansas City. 

“Salmon bake with kale. I think I’ve really nailed the seasoning this time, but please be honest with what you think,” Jackie says, holding a casserole dish with two oven mitts over her heavily pregnant belly. 

Shane jumps up. “Oh my god, let me, like- I can take that if it’s too heavy-”

“You’re adorable.” Jackie finishes setting down the casserole dish on the back table. “I’ve got this, but I will let you go grab the plates and the mac and cheese for the girls, they still won’t eat fish.”

“On it.” He feels flustered in a way that he knows Ilya would tease him for as being overly Canadian. Inside the kitchen, he grabs a stack of plates from the cupboard, and finds the mac and cheese - the KD style with the bright orange cheese - on the stove. He juggles everything into one trip and bring it back outside in time to see Hayden helping Jackie down into one of the comfy chairs. 

“Girls, time for food,” Hayden calls out, and the twins whine over abandoning their play time for sustenance in a way that reminds Shane of himself when he was little and he didn’t want to come inside to eat when he’d been playing catch with his dad. 

“So, you think Boston has it in the bag for the World Series this year?” Hayden asks as he settles the girls into seats as well and starts serving them up mac and cheese. 

“Ugh, I thought we agreed on no baseball talk at the dinner table this trimester,” Jackie groans, winking at Shane. She rubs over her belly, then accepts a plate of salmon bake from Hayden. 

“I’m just wondering if Boston Lily is happy that her hometown team is so far ahead in the ranking.” 

Shane drops the serving spoon back down into the casserole dish, causing a loud clatter. “How do you know that name?”

“I told you to be subtle, Hayds. You’re spooking him. Shane, honey, it’s fine. You don’t have to tell us about your girlfriend.” 

“We’re not- uh. I mean.” Shane collapses into his chair, any ability to eat salmon bake completely gone. “It’s not that serious.” 

Jackie raises her hands in a ‘backing off’ motion. “Got it. I’d say ‘we were all young once’ but I locked down Hayden in elementary school, so.” She grins, then softens when Hayden leans over to brush a quick kiss over her lips. 

“We just…wanted you to know that we’re chill. With her, or whatever. You don’t have to keep secrets around us,” Hayden adds.

“Is this that thing where married couples won’t stop until everyone around them is in love?”

Jackie and Hayden share a look, then both burst into separate denials. 

“Of course not-”

“Shane, honey, no-”

Then they look at each other again and laugh. 

“Okay, it totally is. We’ll back off, sorry,” Hayden apologizes, reaching over for a friendly clap on Shane’s shoulder. 

“Thank you, I think,” Shane manages, flaking off a piece of salmon just to give him somewhere else to look. He takes a bite, and can actually be truthful when he gives Jackie a thumbs up on the taste. 

Hours later, Hayden walks Shane to the car, giving him first a hip bump and then circling an arm around his shoulders. “Listen, Hollzy, pitchers have ups and downs. You have the stuff. This is a little slump in the long scheme of a fucking brilliant career, okay? Don’t give tonight’s loss another thought beyond how to attack the next game. You’re going to kick ass.” 

“Okay,” Shane tries to respond with authority, but when Hayden wraps him into another hug, he melts into it. 

“You got this,” Hayden whispers, giving him a final squeeze before backing off and throwing a jaunty salute into the mix. 

“Okay,” Shane repeats, though with more enthusiasm this time. He pulls his car door open, then looks back at Hayden. “Hey, Hayds, thank you. For tonight.” 

“Always, Shane.”

Shane: We’re at Boston next week. Want to meet up?

Lily: yes

Lily: glad you finally remembered how to throw ball

Shane: shut the fuck up

Lily: too bad rest of team not as good as you

Shane: oh my god, you’re such an asshole

Lily: I think you like it

Lily: also i am serious

Lily: one pitcher having slump should not put Blue Jays at middle of pack for wild card race

Lily: there are other people on your team

Shane sits with that for a moment. He’s glad his last couple of games have been going way better, but it’s true, things aren’t looking great for October baseball for the Blue Jays. He chews his lip, then replies. 

Shane: Thanks 🙂

Chapter End Notes

The news story about softball and Russia was completely made up, because baseball and softball are not part of the summer Olympics but I needed Shane to have That realization.

Liked the idea of Hayden and Jackie giving Shane some platonic aftercare after dropping with Ilya. I hope Ilya doesn't come off as too much of a jerk; he's still dealing with all of his same stuff in the background but we just haven't seen it from his POV. He's not intentionally trying to drop Shane or anything like that. He's just...also got a lot of shit to deal with. <3 <3

Chapter 5: Shane's Game

Chapter Summary

Over the course of one game, we flash back to fill in the last few years with Shane and Ilya.

Or: TLib sat down and wrote pretty much 15k in one day (like, maybe 11k of it today actually, yay cold)

Or: Episodes 4-5 stuff, so CW for hetero sex, as I get explicit with what Rose and Shane do (once).

Tags: Cowboy Shane; Safer Sex, Body Worship, Heterosexual Sex, Rose Landry is a Good Friend, Hayden Pike is a Good Friend (should've added last time)

Edit: if you read before I clarified that Ryan got traded at the all star break, no you didn’t! 😂

Chapter Notes

Inside baseball:
In the National League, pitchers also bat in the offensive part of the inning. In the American League, which Boston and Toronto are both part of, the pitcher does not have to hit. Instead, they have a DH, or designated hitter who does not play in the defensive part of the inning.

“Top of the inning” refers to when the Away team is batting (offense) and the Home team is on the field/pitching (defense); “bottom of the inning’ is when the Home team is on offense and the Away team is on defense. If the home team is ahead in the 9th inning, the game can end at the break between top and bottom because there is no need for the Home team to play the rest of the inning to win the game.

I’ve used “walk off” a couple of times - a walk off hit (homer/single/double etc) means the Home team is down or tied in the bottom of the 9th, and they score a run with the homer/single/double hit. The player who drives the run in gets the “walk off.” It’s a really fun and exciting way for a baseball game to end.

August 21st, 2016, top of the 1st inning, 0-0:

Commentator #1: Welcome back to the MLB network and thank you for joining us on this gorgeous summer day.

Commentator #2: Those thunderclouds from yesterday have all cleared up and we’re going open roof here this afternoon. We have a sold out crowd tonight to watch our Blue Jays take on the Boston Red Sox in game 2 of this series. Toronto took home the win last night with a walk off double from Santiago to bring the score to 4-3. We’re looking to maybe have a bit of a pitcher’s battle tonight between Toronto’s Shane Hollander and Boston’s Diego Núñez. Both men are having outstanding seasons, with Hollander at a 2.3 ERA after 18 starts, and taking away wins on 12 of those. 

Commentator #1: And Núñez might have a higher ERA, but he’s pitched against Toronto twice already this year and came out with wins both times. Also, keep in mind that in the last five years, these teams have won the World Series three times. 

Commentator #2: I heard scalpers were selling tickets for a thousand dollars outside.

Commentator #1: Don’t get scammed, folks. It’s late August baseball and both of these teams are in contention for post-season games. We’ll be back after the break with your starting line up. 

Shane loves a day game. Sure, there’s something about a crisp night with cooler air and maybe a spectacular sunset and fireworks. But he always feels more energized waking up to prep for a game that’s only a handful of hours away rather than the whole day.

That he’ll have extended hours with Ilya after because they’ll be done by early evening is another bonus. 

He’s already warmed up in the bullpen with the pitching coaches, but he tosses the ball in an easy game of catch between him, Hayden, and JJ on third base while they wait for the game to start. The stadium is packed and loud already, but not in a too-loud way. The excitement is there, palpable. 

He’d deflected Ilya’s advances last night; he still prefers not to meet up before they’re playing a game, if only to give himself something to be excited for later. 

Ilya will be up third tonight; he’s been batting mid-order all season, a change that cements his slugger status as much as his home run records do. So it’s Hanson, the Boston first baseman, that Shane meets first tonight. 

He’s a leftie, which will make it harder for Shane to get in his strike zone, but he’s also been batting for shit lately. Hayden flashes the sign for a fastball, and Shane nods. It’s muscle memory at this point, almost an automatic motion. Plant your foot. Find the seams and spin one and a half times. 

Zing.

“Strrrike,” the home plate ump calls, pointing to the side.

The next pitch, Hanson wings it up for a high pop up that the left fielder Darrenson easily catches. 

One down. 

Marleau’s up second, the veteran designated hitter eliciting a cheer of both boos and delight in the Toronto crowd. He’s Quebecois, so he always gets a little bit of a welcome here at Rogers. 

Three organ hypes later, he catches Marleau swinging for his first strikeout and second out. Shane’s body feels loose, his mind clear even as Ilya takes the plate. 

In Boston, Ilya normally walks out to a Britney song. He’s especially partial to Baby One More Time, but he’s also requested Oops I Did It Again whenever he hits a home run at Fenway. 

Here on foreign turf, he doesn’t get any sort of a welcome song, and there’s definitely a few jeers coming from the crowd that Shane picks up, but Ilya swaggers to the plate like it’s water off a duck’s back. 

Shane pulls his glove up to his face, mostly to mask the little smile he can’t help but give at the sight of Ilya. He’s such an arrogant bastard, and god Shane loves that about him. 

Hayden signals for a splitter. A good idea to change his first ball after using a fastball on the last two hitters. Ilya’s been watching. He’ll know he’s got a fastball coming his way. 

Shane positions the ball correctly in his fingers, winds up, and watches with satisfaction as the ball lands smack in Hayden’s glove and the ump calls another strike. Keeping his grin to himself, he leaves the mound for a moment, picking up the chalk bag and re-drying his hands. He comes back before the pitch clock can penalize him. 

Fastball, right on the outside edge. A less generous ump would have probably called it a ball, and Ilya doesn’t look especially happy with the call either. But they have five years in the major leagues under their belts now, and he doesn’t rise to the bait like he might’ve years ago. 

Sorry, Rozy. I probably owe you one for that.

Shane shakes his shoulders out and tests out that expanded strike box, only to be reprimanded by the ump calling the ball. 

He tries not to think about how Ilya’s thighs flex when he goes into batting position. 

Thwap. A third strike hits Hayden’s glove, the inning is over, and Ilya just shakes his head at the missed pitch, grinning. 

2013 Spring Training

Lily: do you even need to train 

Lily: we’re just going to win the series again this year

Shane: fuck off.

Lily: 😈

Shane remembers the win, of course, and watching it at JJ’s because Hayden and Jackie were still protective of new baby time. Amber is…adorable in that newborn human way. 

Ilya has this habit, as a catcher, that some of the old guard have commented on. On a particularly big win, or sometimes even after a tough night, when his pitcher throws the final pitch, he runs out to the mound and bear hugs him in celebration. Shane has heard some commentators call it out as soft behavior, which is absolute bullshit. 

Shane just doesn’t like to think about how much he wants that celebration to include him, since it would be absolutely impossible except maybe at an All Stars game. 

Lily: fuck on perhaps? What hotel are you at

Shane hesitates over the keys. 

Shane: actually uh

Shane: I bought a place down here. I do short term rentals most of the year through a property manager, but yeah, no hotel for me this year

Lily: ooo Mr. Real Estate

Lily: maybe I should come inspect new place

Lily: make sure it is 

A pause in the conversation.

Lily: structurally sound

Shane: you googled that didn’t you 

Shane: 2378 Palm Way

“So, uh. This is the place.” Shane feels awkward letting Ilya in, even though he has no real reason to. It’s the first time they’ve seen each other like this since Kansas City, and though they’ve been chatting a lot, just a stupid back and forth about workouts and upcoming rookies and other MLB gossip, they haven’t talked about that night since. 

Ilya doesn’t seem to find the air awkward, though, smiling at Shane and then immediately walking him back against the entranceway wall, crowding him in the best way and pressing his lips against Shane’s exposed neck. 

“Mmm, hello, Hollander.”

“Hey.” Wow, how is he already feeling breathless?

Ilya pulls back with a smirk that says he’s totally clocked how excited Shane is for this. “How do you keep team from crashing your place?”

“Told them I do silent meditation nights, and I think they believed me because, you know, pitchers.”

“Mhmm, yes, you are all weird.”

“Shut up.” Shane pushes on Ilya’s hips, but then softens the motion by taking one of Ilya’s hands and leading him away. “So, uh, yeah, the place. There’s, uh, beach access off the back porch, but a privacy fence too, so, you know.”

“There is only one place I want to be shown, Hollander,” Ilya replies with a smile, squeezing his hand and lifting his eyebrows suggestively.

Shane rolls his own eyes, but tugs Ilya up the stairs and toward his bedroom. 

“Oh, dear, we’re having a miscommunication. I needed to use the restroom, sorry,” Ilya teases even as he pulls his shirt off and tosses it on top of the dresser. 

“Well, I do have one of those, too.” Shane pulls open the door to the ensuite and gestures inside. 

Ilya sidles up to him and pulls him forward by the belt loops. “I know why I am here.” He leans down, capturing Shane in another mind-melting kiss. “You need a good fucking.” 

“More like you need a good fucking.” 

“Mmm, you know? You are right.” Ilya backs away, shedding the rest of his clothes before crawling onto Shane’s bed like he owns it. He tsks when he sees Shane is still fully dressed and just standing there. “Come on. I am too tired to do the fucking, you are right. You are going to have to do all the work.” 

Shane’s fingers hover at the hem of his shirt, hesitating. “Wait, you mean like, you want me to top?”

Ilya shakes his head, then raises his hand and tips it back and forth in a ‘comme-ci comme-ça’ gesture. “Maybe yes, someday, if you are very good. Maybe as reward when my team beats you in our division again? But no, I was thinking more like, you on top tonight. Riding me. Showing off those thick thighs.” 

“You’re the catcher, asshole,” Shane says with a smile as he peels off his clothing and folds it. 

“Yes, so is expected, no? You are pitcher in American League. You have no reason to have thick thighs and juicy ass and yet.”

“And yet,” Shane repeats, laughing now. He sits down on the bed by Ilya to open the bedside drawer and finds the lube and a condom. He pauses when he feels Ilya trace over his exposed thighs. Over where he knows he has stretch marks etched into his skin. 

He holds himself back from slapping Ilya’s hand away, but just by a hair. “Don’t, those are gross.” He’s being trying all kinds of foreign skin care routines to reduce the look of them after they’d popped up with his new squats routine. 

Ilya pulls his hand away, but looks highly offended. “Дорогой, no they are not.”

Despite his earlier words about being tired and wanting Shane to do the work, Ilya presses Shane back to the bed and straddles him, kissing him on the lips, then sliding over to his cheek, his neck. “You are beautiful, Hollander. Every piece of you.” He swipes his hand over Shane’s shoulder, fingers playing over the scar there from an ice skating incident when he was ten years old. “This is beautiful.” He traces down the exaggerated vein in Shane’s throwing arm, because sometimes pitchers’ bodies get weird. “This is beautiful.” His fingers slide over the stretch marks again, near where he’s straddling Shane now. “And these are beautiful, yes?”

Completely undone, Shane can do nothing but nod and blink up at Ilya. Luckily, Ilya looks satisfied with that. He moves on, pressing kisses all over Shane’s body, then sliding off and lubing up his fingers to prep Shane. 

Three fingers later, Shane has his hands thrown over his head, gripping the bars of the headboard - of a bed that maybe he specifically bought for this purpose - as he arches against Ilya’s hands and lets out garbled moans. 

Suddenly, it all stops, and Ilya rolls to his back, ripping open the condom and sliding it over his hard, hot cock. 

“Wha-?” Shane mumbles, blinking again. 

Ilya reaches over and slaps Shane’s thigh playfully. “You are riding me, remember? I am all done with work.” He puts his hands behind his head and raises an eyebrow first at Shane and then pointedly down at his erect, latex-covered cock. 

“Such a dick,” Shane groans, but he’s almost happy to leave the weird headspace he’d been in when Ilya had been kissing all over him behind. It reminds him a little too much of Kansas City, and Kansas City hadn’t ended well for him. 

He shifts, straddling Ilya in a kneel and using his hand to steady Ilya’s cock and guide it to the right place. Oh, fuck, it’s the right place, the thick head of it pressing against Shane’s hole for a moment before he relaxes and it gives, and then gravity is sliding Ilya inside and Shane down, down, down until he’s full, full to brimming. He steadies his hands on Ilya’s gorgeous abs, his fingers idly tracing over the grooves as he works through the adjustment period. From the mattress, Ilya is looking up at him with nearly black eyes, his hands moving now to dig into Shane’s hips. 

“Ride, дорогой.” 

Someday, when his ass isn’t full of the most amazing dick in the universe, Shane is going to figure out what that Russian word means. For now, he groans, pushing himself back to sit fully up on Ilya’s cock and roll his hips. His hands come to his own thighs, rubbing over the fine hairs there as a grounding mechanism because Ilya’s cock is pressing right on his prostate all the fucking time and he’s not sure how long he’s going to last like this. 

He sets a rhythm, his eyes closing to the sensations flooding his body. When he manages to open them again, as he’s bouncing on Ilya’s cock, he sees Ilya is no longer looking at his face but fascinated, apparently, with the sight of his cock disappearing inside Shane’s hole. His mouth is making an O, his breath coming out in short pants. Shane’s not sure this is going to last long for either of them. 

All of a sudden, their positions are reversed, Ilya finally taking control and fucking into Shane hard. He’d been right, before, of course. This is exactly what Shane needs, a good hard fucking. He moans and pants, his fingers scrabbling at the sheets and then at Ilya’s back. Nothing ever feels as good as this, as this moment when they’re both chasing their peak together, perfectly in sync. It could be bottled and sold as the world’s most expensive drug, and it’s all Shane’s. Shane’s and Ilya’s.

Ilya groans, burying his face in Shane’s throat as he shudders and comes, and that’s what sends Shane over. He cries out, koalaing his limbs around Ilya, then collapsing to the bed, utterly spent. After a few moments, Ilya’s mouth nuzzles against his throat, pressing kisses, but his body is making a move away.

“No,” Shane mumbles, holding on more tightly. 

“I need, дорогой, the condom-”

“No,” Shane repeats, wrapping his arms around Ilya and holding him in place. Ilya could definitely break free, Shane feels as weak as a kitten, but he doesn’t, he just settles on top of Shane like the world’s best weighted blanket. 

Later, after, when they’re cleaning up side-by-side in the bathroom, Shane has the grace to be embarrassed. He rubs over his neck as he watches Ilya in the shower, the view obscured by the glass but still tantalizing. 

“Uh, sorry about that. After. Being, uh, clingy.”

The water shuts off and Ilya steps out in all his naked, clean glory in a way that makes Shane want to fall right back into bed again. “I do not mind, Hollander.” He gives a casual shrug, then takes the towel that Shane offers and starts drying himself. 

“I just- I know you don’t like that, after. So, uh, we don’t have to.” God, Shane wants to be having anything but this conversation, but it feels like it can’t be held inside his body anymore, his hands are shaking with it. He looks down at them, then wrings them, shakes them to try and get them to stop.

Ilya ties the towel around his waist, then comes and takes Shane’s shaking hands himself. His hands are warm from the shower, and still a little damp, but not unpleasant. Besides, everything is a little damp here in the humidity of Florida. “What do you mean, ‘I don’t like that’?”

“I just mean, in Kansas City, it was clear that you wanted me gone, after, and I’m sorry, I guess I just, I guess I just need a little time after so if that’s a dealbreaker-”

“Дорогой, no. Have you been worrying about this since Kansas City?” Ilya’s hands are on his face now, cradling his cheeks, but not forcing him to make eye contact, which Shane is distinctly grateful for.

He nods. 

“Блядь. I am- Hollander, I am so sorry. I was…I should not have treated you the way that I did that night.” 

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay, дорогой.” 

“What does that word mean?” Shane finally works up the courage to look into Ilya’s eyes. 

He’s surprised to see a blush slip across Ilya’s cheeks. “Oh, um. I don’t know exact translation. But is, uh, pretty word. Nice word, for lover.”

Now Shane is blushing, too. “Oh. I guess that’s what we are, huh?”

Ilya lets out a little laugh, then leans in to brush their lips together sweetly. “Yes. And I will not let you leave again without time for your cuddles, okay?”

“Okay.”

There’s a small silence where Ilya is still holding him, but it’s not awkward. It’s actually perfect. 

Then Ilya stiffens and pulls back. “Oh, fuck, your slump.”

“What?”

“Last season, when you throw so bad. Was after Kansas City.” 

Annnnd just like that, Shane’s back to blushing again. “That wasn’t because of that. Pitchers have slumps. Hitters get the yips. It happens to all of us.” He pulls away, moving to the bathroom counter and pulling out all the pieces of his night time skin care routine. “Don’t be so arrogant to think that you caused it.” 

He meets Ilya’s eyes in the mirror, and at first, they’re devastated, but then something slides over them, and he gives a short nod. “Of course.” He pads up behind Shane, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Still, best to cuddle after, to make sure nothing like that ever happens again, yes?”

Shane can’t help but sway back into his body, still warm and damp from the shower. He closes his eyes when Ilya’s arms wrap around him. “Yes,” he whispers.

They breathe like that for a moment, and then Shane is the one to break the embrace. “You have to leave soon, right?”

“Yes, practice in the morning, and drive ahead of me tonight.” Ilya presses more kisses to his neck before pulling away and tugging the towel off, tossing it into the hamper. “I can let myself out.”

“Okay,” Shane breathes out, then turns, pulling a naked Ilya back into his arms for a more thorough kiss. “Okay, now you can let yourself out. Drive safely, please.”

Ilya just gives him a smile and a jaunty salute before heading back into the bedroom.

August 21st, 2016, top of the 2nd inning, 0-0:

Commentator #1: We’re all tied up here at Rogers Centre. Both Hollander and Núñez have been putting on a show of control and power. 

Commentator #2: We already saw one of Hollander’s patented 100mph+ fastballs, will we see another this inning?

Facing the meat of the Red Sox’s lineup should be intimidating, but for whatever reason, it’s not. Shane can feel it: he’s in the groove this afternoon. Stabler’s having just as good a season as Ilya, but he’s down after a ball and three strikes. Caught looking as a 101 mph heater slides over the plate right by him. 

Martinez, Boston’s right fielder, makes him work a little harder, going to a full count and hitting three fouls. Hayden runs to the mound mostly to give Shane a wink and a butt pat, then calls for a curveball. Martinez swings big once again, but misses the ball completely. 

Reyes pops up on his first pitch, and Hayden pulls off his mask and scrambles away from home plate and over to the wall to catch it to retire the side. Shane walks off the field with a smile and a few nods of acknowledgement at the wild cheering in Rogers Centre. 

No one says anything about Shane’s current, 6 up, 6 down record, and Shane does his hardest not to think about it. 

2014 All-Star Break, July 13-15, Minneapolis

Lily: Coach says we will be together tomorrow

Lily: I will be catching for you finally

Shane: you’ve caught for me before

Lily: was for media, does not count

Lily: I think this year, I edge you for every strikeout you throw

Lily: since it will be very easy for me to keep track

Shane: Jesus, Roz, we’re in the same locker room.

Lily: Yes but I cannot say aloud to you, yes? 

Lily: And also cannot see your blush if I wait until you are not in locker room

Shane: don’t you want to win?

Lily: of course we will win

Shane: not if you’re incentivizing me to not throw strikes.

Lily: oh, you will throw strikes

Lily: you like to win just as much as I do, Mr. World Series Winner

“Ah, Rozy, fuck-” Shane pants when Ilya stops stroking him and circles his fingers at the bottom of his cock to stop his orgasm again.

“That is two. I owe you one more.” Ilya’s smile is the wickedest thing Shane has ever seen. “So many foolish hitters attempting to hit your pitches out of the park. Trying to be big man, hit homerun, win game. Looking stupid when your fastball slides right past them and into my glove.”

The wild look in Ilya’s eyes confirms what Shane had been thinking even back in the game, in his one inning of pitching: this is foreplay. Ilya gets off on Shane’s competence, and Shane isn’t any better. Throwing pitches for Ilya’s glove felt just as amazing as when they did it all those years ago for the footage. 

“Rozy, I swear to fuck-” Shane’s protest is completely cut off when Ilya spreads his thighs wide and latches over his hole like a man on a fucking mission. Never let it be said that Ilya Rozanov isn’t the best at going down. 

Shane lets out a strangled cry, his fingers coming to Ilya’s curls, burying themselves there and pressing Ilya’s mouth to him. Ilya’s spiking his tongue in and out of his hole, fucking him with his tongue, and it feels amazing, feels like winning. 

His thighs quake against Ilya’s head and his cock is leaking helplessly against his chest. His abs are covered in precum from the two previous times Ilya has brought him to the edge - first with a blow job and then with his fingers in Shane’s hole and his mouth suckling Shane’s balls. 

Their Minneapolis hotel room is discreet and nondescript and now, absolutely a mess of tangled piles of clothes and half-finished glasses of vodka. The American League win earlier had only edged them on. 

“Roz, baby, I’m going to come again, I’m going to come, god, please let me commmmmmme,” Shane whines, his fingers tugging at Ilya’s curls. 

“On my cock or not at all,” Ilya growls, pulling back and swiping his hand over his mouth. He grabs the condom and lube and makes quick work of it, because Shane is still whining at the emptiness. 

It feels like mere seconds before Ilya is thrusting into him with a shout, and all of Shane lights up and bows toward him. He’s going to come, God, he’s going to come and Ilya hasn’t even, he just got in, that’s so embarrassing-

“Come, дорогой.” The command is dark in his ear, in between Ilya’s pants, and he’s loathe to ignore it. 

He cries out and comes untouched, collapsing into the mattress with euphoria spreading through his entire body. Dimly, he’s aware that Ilya has pulled out - probably trying to save Shane from oversensitivity, bless him. He watches as Ilya rips the condom off and jacks himself over Shane’s body. 

“Fuck, that’s so hot. Come on me, come on me,” Shane begs, gripping Ilya’s hip in encouragement. 

With a grunt, Ilya’s cum splatters all over Shane’s stomach, joining the mess he’d made of himself already. 

“Holy fuck,” Shane whispers before pulling Ilya down into a hug to cuddle. 

August 21st, 2016, top of the 3rd inning, 2-0 Blue Jays:

Commentator #1: Welcome back, and if you’re just joining us, we finally saw some action in the second. Pike led a rally last inning with a tweener single. 

Commentator #2: It was some good old fashioned baseball to be sure. String enough hits together, you get some runs. Blue Jays are now sitting at 2 batted in. Meanwhile Shane Hollander has yet to let anyone on base. 

Commentator #1: Quite a game for Hollander so far. 

Shane gives out some high-fives as he leaves the dugout and they prep for the bottom of the third. He’s proud of his team, and a little bit of the pressure is off now that it’s no longer 0-0. 

A little bit of the pressure, but not all of it. 

The thing about a no-hitter, or, heaven help Shane, a perfect game, is that you’re not supposed to talk about it while it’s happening. 

That doesn’t stop anxiety and stress and excitement from making a massive fist in Shane’s chest where his heart should be. 

It’s too early to be thinking about it, anyway. It’s only the third inning. He’s only sent six batters back to the dugout with their tails between their legs. Sure, he’s facing the late batters with the worst averages, but even Ryan Price, traded to the Red Sox at the All-Star break, has a few home runs under his belt by late August. 

All it takes is one bad pitch and then he no longer has to be worried about it anymore. 

Shane doesn’t throw one bad pitch. Taylor, Mendoza, and yes, even Price all go down swinging. He’s up to seven strikeouts - someone is tracking them, taping K posters along the right field line. He gives them a bit of a nod as he walks back to the dugout to cheers. 

June 4th, 2016; Toronto @ Boston

Lily: Come over

Shane: What, no, I can’t, we have a game

Lily: not until tomorrow. You have rest day, yes?

Lily: Come over and rest with me 😈

Shane looks up from his phone to see Hayden unpacking his bag. “I, uh-”

“Heading over to Lily’s?”

Shane blushes. “It’s not like that.” 

“Sure. Whatever. I truly don’t care, my friend. You’re always more relaxed after you see her. Go, have a good time.” 

“I’ll be back tonight.”

“Shane, I literally don’t care if you come back tonight. Go. Have. A. Good. Time. Show me you’re capable of it, dude.”

“Well now it sounds like you’re just trying to get rid of me.”

“Of course I’m trying to get rid of you. Get a whole hotel room to myself? I’m definitely going to practice some self-care, if you know what I mean.” 

Shane wrinkles his nose. Listen, he knows his best friend has 4 kids but he doesn’t have to know how. “Ew.” 

“Go. Have fun. The world will not end.” For good measure, Hayden grabs Shane’s leather jacket from the hook on the wall and tosses it to him. “Use protection.” 

“Oh my god,” Shane groans, even as he takes the coat and checks for his phone before heading out. 

Despite how long they’ve been getting together, he’s never been to Ilya’s place in Boston. He normally gets a hotel room somewhere near, but not in the same hotel that the team is staying in, and he makes sure to hit curfew. Heading up to the home with its nice modern architecture in the full daylight has Shane feeling a little exposed. Do the people on his street know who Ilya is? Do they know they’re living with a baseball player? And do they know who Shane is? He rings the doorbell and ducks his head away from the street. 

Ilya greets him looking entirely too good, no shirt, black sweats, hair perfect, bare feet. He takes Shane’s hand immediately to lead him inside, giving Shane mere moments to take in the beautiful home before he’s being pushed against a counter by Ilya and kissed within an inch of his life. 

“Did you want to talk?” he murmurs against Ilya’s lips.

“After,” Ilya whispers back before diving into another kiss. 

He sees some more of the home on their journey to the bedroom, but most of the journey is taken up by Ilya pushing him up against various surfaces of his home and kissing the hell out of him. He’s almost dizzy with it by the time they make it to the glorious king sized bed and Ilya tumbles them in. 

In the daylight, everything feels slow and syrupy instead of frantic like their normal hookups can get. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss without doing anything but holding each other. They work their clothes off slowly, and kiss, and squeeze hips, and kiss, and press their naked cocks against each other, and kiss. 

At some point, Ilya fingers him open, and at some point, Ilya slides inside, but they’re still kissing. They’re still kissing when their hips roll together, and they’re still kissing when they both fall over the edge. 

After, as Ilya holds him, and pets through his hair and over his back and in general helps him center himself again, they kiss. Ilya places kisses to his forehead, his cheek, his lips. Shane’s not sure he’s ever kissed so much in one day in his life, and he’s also not sure if he’s ever felt this relaxed. 

Eventually, he shrugs out of the sheets. “I should take a shower and get going.” 

Ilya’s hand squeezes down a little on his thigh. “Or you…could stay.”

“Stay?”

“Is rest day for both of us. Afternoon game tomorrow, so no early practice. I’m not done with you yet.” 

The sentiment flutters through Shane’s belly, akin to anxiety but with a sweeter tinge. I’m not done with you yet. He relaxes back into the covers, lets Ilya spoon up next to him. “Okay.” 

“Rest, now.”

“Okay.” 

Waking up in Ilya’s arms is a new sensation, but Shane finds it entirely welcome. He blinks against the light spilling in the big bedroom windows, then snuggles back into Ilya’s embrace. 

“Mmm, hello,” Ilya murmurs into the skin on his shoulder. 

“Hey,” Shane replies, voice rough with sleep. He can feel the edge of panic coming on as he attempts to figure out what to do next, when Ilya pats his hip. 

“Come, I am hungry.”

“For what?”

“For food, pervert.”

Shane looks at Ilya, who looks so proud to use the word Shane taught him years ago. Shane just rolls his eyes, then catches the sweats Ilya throws at him. 

The clothes are big and comfy, and something swoops in his stomach again at the thought of wearing Ilya’s clothing as he pads into the kitchen to find Ilya pulling stuff out of the fridge. 

“I am making tuna melts.” 

“You don’t have to do that, it’s okay.” 

“Is not hard. I am making one, easy to make two. You will eat.” 

“Okay,” Shane relents with a small laugh, sitting down gingerly in one of the kitchen stools and watching Ilya work. 

Ilya pulls a green can out of the fridge and slides it toward Shane. Canada Dry. Shane swallows against the sudden feeling in his gut again. 

“You like, yes?”

“Yes, it’s great. Thank you.” Shane pops the tab and takes a sip if only to give himself something to do. The ginger ale is cool and refreshing in his suddenly overheating system. 

Watching Ilya work in the kitchen is no hardship, even for something as simple as a tuna melt. The way Ilya’s bicep flexes when he mixes up the tuna, mayo, and mustard mix, or how nimble his fingers are when he dices up an apple to add texture and flavor, or that he hums to himself when he’s not chatting directly at Shane. It’s all so endearing to watch, and Shane finds himself relaxing into the stool and sipping slowly on his ginger ale. 

“They must bake. I have last night's Dodgers’ game on my TV if you want to watch while we wait?” 

The Dodgers are having a runaway season. It’s the early days of June yet, the season not even half over, but they’ve been the talk of baseball. “That sounds good.” 

Ilya has a huge black couch taking up most of his living room space, and they sit at opposite ends as if they have not been fucking for years now, but having baseball on the TV makes Shane relax, anyway. The Dodgers are playing Detroit in LA, and apparently it’s Pride Night. 

Toronto doesn’t have one of those, yet, anyway, but there’s been talks. A famous third baseman from the Dodgers 1980s team comes out to throw the first pitch, chosen because apparently he’s been out and working with the LA LGBT community since he retired. Shane frowns, wondering why he has to be so in-everyone’s-face about it. What does it even matter?

“I know someone on the Tigers. Ryan Price. We overlapped a little on the WooSox,” Ilya says, interrupting Shane’s spiraling thoughts. 

“Oh yeah. He gets traded a lot, doesn’t he?”

“Yes. Very quiet man. Hard for him to make friends, I think.”

“Would be hard if you’re always being traded, I’d think. Probably wants to be traded this year.”

“Mmm, yes, Detroit sucks.”

“And so does the team,” Shane jokes, happy when Ilya laughs. 

“And they say you are not funny.” 

“They do?” Shane tries not to sound offended. 

“Mhmm, and boring. They say you are boring.”

Shane is definitely offended now. “Who says that?”

“I do.” Ilya winks at him, and it takes everything in Shane not to hit him in the face with one of his own pillows. 

He ends up just rolling his eyes. “What’s your favorite city to play away in?”

Ilya gives a little shrug, sliding further down on the couch and sticking his hand under his sweatpants in a way that is utterly distracting. “New York, because, is New York. They hate me there.” 

“They hate you everywhere.”

“Not Florida!” Ilya defends with a smile. “Many Boston fans in Florida. Retire there, you know.”

“Oh, I know.”

“How about you?” 

“Mm. Seattle, it’s like playing at home because all the Vancouverites come down to support us. Minneapolis, Denver even though the air is fucked there. What?” he asks at Ilya’s exasperated look. “Are those boring answers?” 

“Yes, obviously. Very boring.”

“I like going to the hot places, too.”

Ilya hums doubtfully. 

“Hot like, weather hot.” 

“Yeah, okay.” Ilya purses his lips. “LA is hot. Hot women.”

Something turns over in Shane’s stomach - probably the hunger. “Yeah sure. I mean, there are hot women everywhere.” 

“There is a girl I like here very much. Svetlana. She is daughter of my foster family, the Vetrovas? I knew them back in Russia, too. Sergei played and coached. When I, hmm, I am scouted, have prospects, yes? My family sends me with Vetrovas to live so I can play here. Easier to play here. Svetlana came with, kept me company. She knows everything about baseball. I like her very much.” 

“Oh. Um, cool,” Shane manages, faintly, unsure why his stomach is twisting up on itself. He knows what they are, what this is, what it has to be. 

“She likes you very much, too.” 

“Oh. That’s nice. So, uh, she’s like, your girlfriend?” 

“No, no, not like that. She’s old friend, sometimes we fuck.” Ilya is rubbing his own ear, and it distracts Shane somewhat before he has to look away again. “She is busy these days, new business selling fancy cars.” 

“Oh, is that where you get them?”

Ilya laughs. “Yes, some of them. Is nice to have regular woman around, even if it is nothing more than that. She is old friend,” he repeats with a shrug. 

“She can’t be the only woman in Boston who’d sleep with you,” Shane offers, because it has to be objectively true. Who would turn down Ilya Rozanov.

“Mmm, yes. I will probably find someone else.” Ilya shrugs again, then looks over at Shane. “But, you know, I am lazy.” 

Shane nearly scoffs before he sees Ilya is being serious. “I don’t know that side of you at all.”

Ilya smiles at him, like he hadn’t been expecting the boost, but the moment is broken by the kitchen timer. Shane moves to get off the couch, but Ilya settles him back down with a hand. “No, stay, stay, I bring.” 

The tuna melt is actually really good, and Shane and Ilya eat in a companionable silence, sipping Coke and ginger ale in between, watching an inning of the Dodgers-Tigers game go by. 

“You like them?” Ilya asks.

Shane looks down at his half-eaten melt still in his hand and nods vigorously, his Canadian sensibilities telling him he can’t let his host think he’s disappointed. He’s not, anyway, even if it’s not on his macros. “Yeah, it’s great.” 

Ilya laughs. “No, girls. You like girls?”

The bite of tuna he’d just taken seems to turn to chalk in his mouth, and he struggles with chewing and swallowing, before he can finally say, “Yeah, of course.” 

Of course he likes girls. 

On the screen, Dodgers fans wearing rainbow makeup scream for their team. 

“I never hear about you with girls.” 

Shane takes a swig of ginger ale to clear the dust from his mouth. “Well, it’s private.” 

“Right, private.”

“I keep a lot of things private,” Shane mutters, looking over at Ilya and then looking away. “Obviously.” 

“I like girls,” Ilya replies, holding his hand out as if it’s obvious. 

“Yeah, no shit.” Shane isn’t sure he could feel more uncomfortable in this conversation.

“But I also like you.” 

“Lucky me.”

“Not as person, of course,” Ilya jokes, and the mood lightens infinitesimally. 

“Of course not, I’m boring.” 

“But you have a good mouth.” 

Shane swallows, because. Because yeah, that’s what they are, right?

And then Ilya’s phone starts vibrating on the couch in between them. Shane jumps a little, then looks down, catching only Cyrillic letters before Ilya snatches it up and makes an excuse to answer it. “Oтец.”

He walks away, speaking in rapid Russian that seems to raise in both volume and intensity the farther he gets away. Shane blinks down at his empty plate, his half-full ginger ale, then up at the screen, still showing various rainbow flag decorations around the Dodgers stadium. His hands are shaky again. He has to wring them out or he’s going to explode, he thinks. 

In the next room, Ilya has gone silent, and then it seems he’s started another phone call. This one sounds even angrier, but is over just as quickly. After a few more moments, Ilya comes back out with what even Shane can tell is a fake smile plastered over his face. 

“You are done? Good, yes?” Ilya says immediately, busying himself with the plates. 

When he comes back, he’s still sitting closer, like when they’d been eating, and Shane decides to risk scooting even a little closer. “Is your dad okay?”

Ilya looks over at him sharply. “You speak Russian now?”

He’s been looking up some words, but Ilya doesn’t need to know details. “I know the Russian word for ‘father,’” he replies with a shrug. 

Ilya looks incredulous now, and he shakes his head in disbelief. “Come here.” 

They arrange themselves so Shane is leaning on Ilya’s shoulder. He feels Ilya brush a kiss in his hair, then play with it with his fingers as they turn the volume up on the game again. He blinks up at the screen. Watching baseball is normally relaxing, but not like this. Not with Ilya’s fingers in his hair and rainbow flags flying on the screen. He closes his eyes, then sinks lower, pressing his mouth onto Ilya’s bare skin, chasing his arm hair down, down, down…

You have a good mouth.

He does. He does have that. Ilya groans a little and parts his legs when Shane goes seeking his cock. Pulling it out, getting it in his mouth settles that weird feeling that has been in his stomach all afternoon. He can’t think when he has the weight of Ilya’s cock in mouth. Or maybe - he doesn’t have to think. Ilya groans again, and curses in Russian, and pulls him up and off. 

He straddles Ilya, leaning in to kiss him like they kissed early, except it’s less slow now and more desperate. He pulls off the big black t-shirt Ilya had leant him, and pulls down his sweatpants just enough to get access to his own cock. 

They groan and breathe into each other as their cocks slide against each other. Shane holds out his hand, and Ilya spits in it, and that helps, that helps the glide of their cocks in Shane’s hand. Shane leans his forehead against Ilya’s and pants, then kisses him again. It’s going to be fast, he’s so close already, he wants it so badly. 

“You going to fucking come for me, Rozy?”

“Fucking make me, Shane,” Ilya groans against his lips. He’s close too, Shane can tell from his features. He knows that now, knows what Ilya Rozanov looks like when he gets close. 

“Ilya,” he echoes, his hand working them together, faster. 

They come nearly simultaneously, Ilya shuddering below him, Shane shaking above. 

You have a good mouth.

I like girls.

I like you.

I never hear about you with girls.

Shane.

Shane pulls back, sees the Dodgers game still playing, and stumbles out of Ilya’s lap. Ilya goes from looking like the most relaxed he has since they woke up, to utterly confused. 

“I, uh. I just remembered. I have to go.” Shane pulls on the black t-shirt, then remembers that it’s not his and pulls it off again. “We have a team meeting tomorrow. Early. You know.” 

“You forgot team meeting.” Ilya is still laid out on the couch, though at least he’s tucked his dick back away, but Christ, their cum is still pooling in his abs. 

“Yeah, uh. So, so I have to go.” 

“Hollander.” Ilya definitely doesn’t believe them. 

“I- I can’t do this. I have to go.” And with that, Shane flees. 

August 21st, 2016, top of the 4th inning, 3-0 Blue Jays:

Commentator #1: Top of the order coming up for Hollander here. So far, none of the Red Sox have been able to make it past his strong defense. 

Hayden gives him a steadying butt-pat as they head out to the field. He spent the bottom of the third in his warm-up jacket, pacing back and forth in the hallway down to the locker rooms, which is actually, honestly, a fairly normal occurrence for him. They all know what he needs to do to keep his anxiety at bay on a regular night. This is not shaping up to be a regular night. 

Hanson digs his cleats into the dirt at home base, making himself room before he sets himself up into ready position. Hayden calls for a fastball, a test to see if Shane still has the juice. His pitch count is nearing thirty: he should still have the juice. 

Zing.

He does, apparently, still have the juice. The pitch screen shows 99mph, the ump calls the strike, and Hanson literally blinks at him. 

Shane pulls up his glove, ostensibly to scratch his nose, but allows himself a small smile behind it. When it comes back down, his face is stoic again. 

Hanson falls to a strikeout, Marleau pops one up to Darrenson over in left field - almost a home run, but not enough distance - and then it’s Ilya, again. 

He thinks, across the near sixty feet to home plate, that he can see the ghost of a smile on Ilya’s lips as he pulls his batting helmet down and goes through his little plate ritual. 

Hayden calls for another fastball, and Shane shakes his head. He has the juice, but Ilya’s expecting it, and Ilya is fucking fast, Shane knows he is. He knows exactly what those blue eyes pick up. Hayden nods, then calls for a change-up, and Shane nods back. 

It’s a perfect pitch: Ilya swings a full two seconds early before the ball hits Hayden’s glove and is called a strike by the ump. 

This time, he knows Ilya is grinning, enjoying this cat-and-mouse. Their fucking foreplay, of course. He’s going to hear about this later. 

He throws another change up just to see if he can fool Ilya again, but this time Ilya’s ready for it, at least partially. His bat catches an edge of it, a little blooper that wings right at Shane who catches it automatically for the out, for the inning. 

The Blue Jays fans’ screams fill the stadium as he walks off. 

June 10th, 2016, Toronto

“Are we waiting on anyone else?” the waiter asks as his parents sit down; he beat them to the restaurant, but only just barely. 

“No, thank you, this is it.” 

“Can I get you started with some drinks?” 

His dad glances up from the wine menu. “We’ll have this Chablis, please.”

“Of course. Three glasses?”

“Just two,” Shane cuts in. “Do you have ginger ale?”

“I’m sorry, we don’t. I could get you a sparkling water?”

It makes Shane grumpy. “Um. Sure. Thanks,” he adds reflexively, even though he’s not feeling very grateful for stupid sparkling water with a lemon wedge or some shit. 

“You could have a glass of wine with dinner, Shane,” his mom murmurs as she eyes him over her open menu. 

“It’s the middle of the season. I don’t drink in the middle of the season.” He knows he’s being short with his mom, but he’s fucking annoyed, dammit. They’ve had this conversation before. Doesn’t she know how much discipline he has to have? 

“Of course, we understand, Shane,” his dad murmurs, ever the peacemaker. 

“Under Armour confirmed for the 20th. It’ll be a quick shoot, you’ll be able to be done before afternoon practice that day. Also, I just wanted you to know that we’re in talks with Toyota, so you might be getting something to test drive in the next few weeks.”

Shane nods. Business as usual, at least. “Sounds good. The UA shoot is on my calendar, right?”

“Yes, everything is updated.”

“Thanks, mom.”

“Anything new with you, Shane?” David asks as the waiter appears at his elbow and starts pouring wine. 

“Nothing much. Just tired. Thinking about asking Farrah to get me out of any All-Star responsibilities. I know she can’t do anything if I’m one of the people’s votes, but otherwise, it’d be nice to have a little break.”

His dad nods, looking a little concerned, but his mom perks up. “Did you know that the Wimbledon finals are almost always the week of All-Stars? Rolex has been inviting you for years, but of course I’ve said no because All-Stars is such a big and fun opportunity for you, but think about it! A week in London, seeing the sites, watching a different sport. Do you want me to change your RSVP?” 

It takes everything in Shane not to shudder at her suggestion. He knows his mom means well, but- that actually sounds like a nightmare. “No, I don’t think so-”

Yuna’s already got her readers on, looking down at her phone. “Here’s the email, actually. They’re hoping to make their box a little ‘less tennis’ this year.”

“Does that mean ‘less white’?”

“Oh, and there’s going to be royalty in the box, too! A Swedish princess! How exciting. I think we should say yes, don’t you?”

“I was thinking of going to my cottage, actually. But you two should totally go to London.”

“Well, you’re the star, honey, we can’t go without you.”

“Well, then, tell them I’m coming, and then tell them I’m sick or something.”

She looks up from her phone, finally, to meet eyes first with her husband, then Shane. “We can’t lie, Shane.” 

I never hear about you with girls.

“Everything okay, son? You seem…tense.”

Shane steadies himself with a sip of sparkling water - nowhere near as satisfying as a ginger ale would be - then nods. “Yeah, fine. Um, don’t say anything until I check with Farrah about if I can actually get out of All-Stars. I don’t want to risk a fine for planning something that gets me paid when I’m supposed to be there. It’s not a great look. Um. I need to go to the bathroom, I’ll be right back.” 

He pushes away from the table and escapes, again. 

August 21st, 2016, top of the 5th inning, 3-0 Blue Jays:

Theoretically, it’s only bad luck to talk to a pitcher when he’s throwing a no-hitter, about the no-hitter. You can still talk to them about whatever else in the game or otherwise. 

The Blue Jays have decided to go full-superstition, though. Shane’s getting lots of smiles, nods, and butt-pats, but no one has said a word to him since he came off the field after the top of the fourth. He’d say it’s lonely, but it’s not, not really, not when he’s all up in his own head about it. 

The Blue Jays’ mascot, the Ace, is up on top of the dugout hyping up the crowd in one of the commercial break entertainment spots. This time, he and a girl who looks to be about ten are having a dance-off, and like always, the kid is winning. It makes Shane smile to watch, the innocence of enjoying a baseball game. 

His first pitch to Stabler is a strike, right down the middle. 

His second catches Stabler’s bat in a way that makes Shane’s stomach clench - it sounds like a good, solid hit and it goes flying up the third-base line. JJ proves how he earned a Golden Glove last season by fielding it and throwing it to first base for Comeau to scoop up and tag Stabler out. 

The first pitch to Martinez is a ball, the first time all afternoon Shane has started down in the pitch count. Anxiety spikes around his heart, so he walks off the mound, gives himself a second with the excuse of picking up the chalk bag and chalking the sweat off of his hands before walking back again. Hayden calls for a curveball, one of Shane’s go-tos when he’s getting tired, and Shane nods. If this is going to last, he wants to save some juice for fastballs for later. 

The curveball swings wider, but Martinez swings wider, bringing the count to 1 and 1. 

Shane’s stomach resteadies itself. 

Martinez and Reyes both go to pop-outs. No new Ks added to right field, but three more outs recorded. 

June 11th, 2016, Toronto

“Hollanderrr, mon beau, what are you doing tonight?”

As always, JJ’s voice is a little too loud for Shane, even over the phone. “Uh.” He looks around his house blankly. “Making dinner and watching some ball?”

“Nooooo, fuck that, come out with us! You remember my buddy Francois, the chef? They’re doing a tasting menu tonight at his new place, and guess who’s going to be there?”

“Uh.” Shane once again looks around his house like it will give him clues. “You?”

“The entire cast of the new X-Squad movie they’re filming in town is here. You have to get the fuck down here, man. Rose Landry is coming. Rose Landry.”

The name is familiar. He thinks he went to see her last movie with his parents over the winter. “Uh, yeah, okay. Text me the address.” 

“Fuck yes!”

“Do, um. Do you have any ginger ale?” Shane leans against the bar. It seemed like the best place to start. JJ’s off with a group that includes a couple of other Blue Jays and a whole bunch of women and men he doesn’t recognize. It’s…a little intimidating to join them. 

“Sorry, man. Just the standard mixers tonight.”

“Right. Uh. I guess I’ll have a beer?”

“Which one?” The bartender almost looks annoyed as he points up to a chalkboard menu of over a dozen beers on tap. 

Shit. He scans the menu for the one with the lowest ABV. “Uh, the wheat. Thanks.” He sets a bill down on the bar and takes the beer, wishing he liked the taste of cranberry juice. 

JJ’s still in with a huge crowd, but there are a couple of other tables with smaller groups. He starts to walk towards one when he hears a voice. “Are you going to help me eat these fries?”

Shane looks around.

“I was talking to you, yes. Please tell me you’re here to help eat these fries. They’re so good and I also have a fitting in the morning and the costumer will kill me if the suit doesn’t fit.” A young woman with red hair - Rose Landry, he thinks - is beckoning him to one of the darker side tables. She’s sitting all alone. 

I never hear about you with girls.

Alone is doable, even if it’s a movie star. Shane sets his beer down on the table and slides into the booth. “Hey. Uh. Yeah, I can help, maybe. I also have to watch myself, I play-”

“You’re Shane Hollander, you play baseball for the Blue Jays, and your current ERA is making most players - especially the ones batting against you - weep. Hi. Rose Landry.” She holds out her hand, her voice and demeanor boldly American in a very endearing way. 

It’s somehow a relief that this celebrity knows who he is. “Hi. I, uh, I saw Bloodborne IV in theaters actually.” 

“Oh my god,” she laughs while cringing and hiding her face. “Don’t tell me that, that movie was awful! I did it purely for my mortgage!”

He laughs, then reaches in for a potato covered in cheese and some type of black flecks. Turns out to be truffle. “Oh, wow. Yum,” he mutters, almost annoyed. 

“Right? They have no right being that tasty.”

“Wait, so how do you know about me?” Shane asks, taking another one, then a sip of the beer to chase the saltiness down. 

“Oh, I have four older brothers, and one of them is currently playing in the minors. He’s out in Reno, so that’s cool. Semi-close to LA. Close enough that I can go up and watch him play a game or two each season, make a weekend of it. When I set up shop here for X-Squad, he sent me a full scouting report on the Blue Jays. I went to a game last week, even! You were pitching, so I looked you up.” 

“Oh, wow. Yeah, last week, that was a good game.” 

“You won, so it had to be, right?” 

There’s a lot wrong with that statement, but a lifetime of learning has taught Shane that no one really wants to hear him talk about it. No one except maybe Roz- nope. Not going there. 

She grins at him. “I just said something dumb, didn’t I?”

“What? No, of course not.” 

“Stop being politely Canadian and tell me what I said.” Her eyes glitter in the dim lighting of the restaurant. 

“Well, it’s just. Even wins can be bad games. Just like, even if you play your best, sometimes you lose. And I’d rather play my best? Than play like crap and still manage to win somehow. Like, if I get pulled in the fourth because I have no control, it doesn’t go in the record book as a win for me, more than likely.” 

“That is…oddly noble, and I like it,” Rose says decisively. “You’re adorable. Tell me all about the ethics of baseball wins, Shane Hollander.” 

Shane laughs along with her, and takes another drink and potato without even noticing. 

August 21st, 2016, top of the 6th inning, 3-0 Blue Jays:

Commentator #2: We’re seeing some special ball here tonight, Jim. 

Commentator #1: We certainly are. Welcome back to the ball game. Your Blue Jays are in the lead, 3 and 0, and Shane Hollander is showing some mighty fine control. 

Commentator #2: He’s certainly known for it. The Blue Jays manager is regularly able to get at least seven innings out of him a game. 

Commentator #1: Let’s see how far he gets tonight. 

The sixth inning break is when the ground crew cleans up the inner diamond and then breaks out into a dance halfway through the commercials. Shane watches them while leaning up against the fence of the dugout, his head on his arms, his warm-up jacket keeping his muscles warm. Somewhere along the way, the anxiety quieted. 

It comes back a little as he steps out into the sun to take the mound. It’s a beautiful late summer day, and the smell of the stadium is that perfect ratio of grilling meat, sticky spilled beer, and grass. His team is battling it out in the late season for a slot in the playoffs. This, this is baseball. 

His fastball catches the Red Sox short stop, Taylor, looking. 99 mph on the screen. He’s still got the juice. Fuck yes. 

July 1st, 2016, Boston at Toronto:

Rose: Happy Canada Day, my favorite Canuck

Rose: 🍁♥️🍁

Shane smiles down at his phone before tucking it in his locker, but he’s already been caught, Comeau gives him a hip check. 

“That your girlfriend, Hollander?”

“Shut up.” 

“How the fuck you managed to bag the finest piece of ass America has to offer, I will never understand,” Comeau continues, turning Shane’s stomach. 

“It’s not- please don’t talk about her like that.” 

Hayden slings an arm over Shane’s shoulders. “I’m backing you up on this one, Shane. Comeau, don’t be a sexist asshat, or I’m telling Jackie to tell Carla what you say behind her back.” 

“Boooo, bro foul!” Comeau calls, but at least Hayden’s backup kills the conversation. 

Rose: We should go out tonight after the game. Dance, drink, find a place to watch fireworks?

The message comes in during the 7th inning stretch well after Shane has been replaced by late-game relief, when Shane had opened, for the thousandth time in the last month, his dormant thread with Ilya. He winces and clicks over to Rose’s message instead. 

Shane: Yeah, let’s do that. You pick the place and I’ll meet you there. 

Rose: You cool if Miles comes too? He’s giving me a lonely puppy dog face. 

Shane: Of course.

He puts the phone away in his locker and heads back up to the field. 

Rose looks beautiful. She’s wearing a slinky, sparkly silver number and her hair is falling in effortless curls - that Shane is sure actually take a lot of effort, actually - around her face. Moreover, she’s not blue anywhere, which is her chief complaint these days, the makeup for her X-Squad character. She and Miles have snagged a booth, and he slides in to give Rose a side-hug and kiss on the cheek. 

“Good game!” she says.

“Eh. I threw like shit but-”

“You won.”

“We won,” Shane says with a shared smile, happy that she knows exactly why he’s feeling weird about the win. 

“I watched some over Rose’s shoulder, but it was all a sweaty blur,” Miles calls over the music. “Do you want something to drink?” 

“Uh-”

“Oh my god, I love this song, Shane, we have to dance! Miles, can you get us some champagne? We’re celebrating Canada!”

Shane doesn’t recognize the song Rose pulls him out onto the dance floor for, but he goes willingly. He gets that this is part of the boyfriend equation, if that’s what they are. They haven’t really had the definition talk yet, though they had had a more serious talk about seeing each other more regularly after they’d been papped at a dinner the other night. The entire internet apparently already thinks they’re dating, so he’s leaning in.

Rose is dancing against him, clearly having the time of her life, and it makes Shane smile. He still sucks at dancing, but he thinks he can do this, hold Rose’s hips and let her sway him, and keep her safe from the general crowd with his big athlete boyfriend vibes. Miles comes back halfway through the song, pressing glasses of champagne into their hands, and then he slides up behind Shane, which Shane had really not been expecting. It reminds him of- nope, not going there. He’s here with Rose, dammit. 

He takes a quick drink of his champagne, probably downing too much at once, and when his head comes back down, his eyes land on Cliff Marleau, designated hitter for the Boston Red Sox. He’s chatting up a woman and clinking a glass with his teammate, Julian Mendoza. Which, if he’s here…

Shane downs the rest of his champagne and scans the room, both seeking out and dreading a blond mop of curls on top of an incredibly tight, hot body. 

He finds Ilya dancing near the other Red Sox, his arms fully around a woman in a slinky dress similar to Rose’s. She’s turned around and grinding against him, though, and Ilya looks fucking into it. The way his hips are moving against hers, it almost looks like they’re fucking right there on the dance floor. 

Ilya looks up and they lock eyes, and Shane’s breath nearly gets knocked out of him at all the messages Ilya seems to be trying to communicate. You can’t have this anymore because you fucked up is the main takeaway Shane gets. 

Ilya’s tongue slides over the woman’s earlobe, and then he sucks it in his mouth in an open kiss as a look of pleasure crosses over her face. At the same exact time, Miles’ lips brush over his collar as he dances behind him, both he and Rose still caught up in the song. 

Shane freezes, then steps back, setting the champagne glass down. “Sorry, I have to find the washroom.” 

“That’s so adorably Canadian,” Rose says with a laugh, pressing a kiss to his cheek before letting him escape.

It feels like déjà vous in the bathroom, like a replication of that time in Kansas City when Ilya found him struggling and propped him up. Except this time, the door bangs open and some big beefy guy walks in, giving Shane a weird look as he’s gripping the sink and looking at himself in the mirror. He quickly washes his hands and exits again. When he leaves the bathroom, Ilya and the woman are gone, and Rose has her bag, too. 

She smiles up at him, then circles her arms around his neck and pulls him down for a long kiss. “Miles found someone pretty to take him home. I was thinking, maybe we could go make some fireworks instead?”

Shane blinks. 

I never hear about you with girls.

Rose laughs adorably, pressing her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, that was terrible. But I would really love to take you home, okay?” 

Shane gives a quick nod. “Yeah, okay.” 

He ignores the paparazzi flashes as they grab a cab with their hands threaded together. Rose doesn’t really like PDA beyond that, so they sit apart in the cab, though their hands are still linked, as they make their way to her temporary apartment. It’s actually in the same neighborhood as his own place, so it’s nice to be heading to someplace kind of familiar, because the champagne isn’t settling well in his stomach. 

Rose is quiet, but happy, as she leads him into her building. She plays with the buttons on his shirt while they wait in the elevator, but doesn’t take it farther. In her apartment, she sets her bag down in the kitchen area, then turns to Shane, reaches behind herself, undoes something, and the slinky silver dress slinks right down over her curves. 

Shane’s fairly sure his eyebrows head up into his bangs; she has, apparently, not been wearing a bra all night. She’s also wearing black lace panties that curve up over her hips and accentuate her form. With a smile, she steps out of the puddle her dress makes on the floor, leaving her heels behind too. 

He thinks he’s supposed to have some sort of reaction, but he’s frozen, there in her kitchen, his cheeks entire red flags. 

She moves with the utmost confidence toward him, her fingers coming to play with the buttons of his shirt again, but she doesn’t start to undress him. “You okay, Shane?”

Shane swallows, then nods. “I’m sorry. I don’t have a lot of experience with- you’re beautiful, and I think my brain short-circuited.”

She gives a little laugh, then reaches down for his hand and pulls him up the stairs to her bedroom. “Inexperience is okay. Can I show you what I like?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“I’d love to see you without your clothes on.” 

Now take off your clothes.

Shane’s hands are a little shaky as he carefully unbuttons his top, folds it and sets it aside. At least Rose finds that as amusing as Ily- no, keep him out of here. 

Rose hums, smoothing her hands over Shane’s shoulders. “God, you’re gorgeous.”

“Thanks.” Shane’s not sure if his blush could go any deeper. He takes off his slacks, but leaves his boxer briefs on because it feels safer. 

They sit on the bed together, Rose leaning up and into him so that they can make out. This, the kissing, is familiar territory. Nice, even pleasant. He feels a familiar stirring in his gut. His hand reaches out to brush over Rose’s body, and at first it’s strange, the softness there. He’s used to hard planes, tight places to grip. With Rose, he feels too large, too much, like he’s going to hurt her if he grips her hip when they-

He leans back, his heart jackrabbiting in his throat. “What, uh…what do you like?”

She smiles, sweet, as she lays back with him. They face each other, propping their heads up with their hands. “I like kissing.” 

“I like kissing, too.” 

She scoots closer, lifting her thigh up over his leg to hook around and pull him as close as they can be. Well, not quite as close as they can be. 

They stay like that for a while, kissing, her hips moving the same way she had on the dance floor to rub against him. Shane runs his hand down her side, then pulls back to ask permission as his hand hovers over her underwear. He really has no idea what he’s doing here, but he knows orgasms are good, so if he can give her one of those, maybe he’s not-

“Yeah, please, Shane, go on.” 

That’s all the encouragement he needs before he sweeps his hand inside and over her mound. Back in high school, the first time he’d had a girlfriend, Jessica, he’d done a little research on this, but they’d never gotten that far. In fact, they’d had one abortive blowjob attempt before her dad came home and almost caught them together, and then he went to Tennessee and met a blonde boy with a heavy Russian accent and-

He knows he’s looking for the clitoris, has seen all the memes and heard the locker room talk. He knows it’s somewhere to the north, too, and that if the woman is aroused it shouldn’t really be that hard to find. Rose seems aroused, his fingers are wet and slipping through her folds, so-

She moans against his lips and jerks her hips against his hand. Bingo. He quickly learns the texture of it, the hard little bead that makes Rose’s body jump, and swirls more of her own slick over it. She fucks herself on his fingers, too, slipping them down to find her hole. He spears inside of her and works her clit with his thumb and keeps on kissing her.

“Oh fuck-” Rose moans, stiffening against his hand and then sagging against the bed. “Fuck, that was great. Good job. Lemme just breathe a sec and I can-”

Except they’re both looking down at his boxers, now, and he’s not hard. At all. Oh fucking shit.

He feels the blood drain out of his face. “Uh. I’m- it’s just. Mid-season, you know? And I threw like absolute shit tonight, and I had that drink, so- yeah. It’s not you, I promise. That was fucking hot, and I’m glad it was good.” 

Rose’s eyes are wide, but she quickly schools her face again. She reaches up, pulling him down for a kiss before sitting up. Shane follows her, feeling shame in every limb. “It’s okay, Shane. These things happen all the time. My girls are going to be so jealous when I tell them that you got me off without needing to yourself.” 

“You can’t tell people about that!”

“I was kidding! I’m sorry. I was going for the joke, trying to take the awkward out. Sorry. Truly, I’m sorry, it’s my defense mechanism.” She takes his face in her hands and searches his eyes. “Hey, it’s okay. Let’s grab dinner after the game tomorrow, okay? Just you and me.” 

Shane nods, willing his heart to stop trying to beat out of his chest. 

August 21st, 2016, top of the 7th inning, 6-0 Blue Jays:

Commentator #1: What an inning for the Blue Jays! A homer from Comeau, with Pike and Darrenson on base, brings us up to 6 and 0. 

Commentator #2: And of course, that brings us to the 7th inning with Shane Hollander. You’ve got to wonder what’s going through his brain right now. 

All of the Blue Jays had to sing Take Me Out to the Ball Game at the start of the year for the media team. They learned quickly that the media team spliced all the songs together to create their video for the fans during the 7th inning stretch. Shane is a terrible singer, but the song always features the starting pitcher of the night, so he’s definitely going to be in this one. 

That’s what he’s thinking about. 

Definitely not that, if he sends down batters this inning, it will be the last time he sees them tonight. They’ve made their way through the lineup twice; anyone he retires now, if- if-, anyone he retires now will be done for the night, except for their defensive duties. 

He’s definitely not thinking that as he sends a fastball - only 97mph, but still - whistling by Hanson for the strikeout, and another K gets added to the wall. 

He’s definitely not thinking that when Marleau argues with the homeplate ump over a called strike - that had been, for sure, a strike. And he’s definitely not thinking that when Marleau pops up to right field a minute later. 

He is absolutely not thinking about it when Ilya comes to the plate for the third time that night, looking a little more tired, with a little less swagger, but maybe only Shane can tell. He’s not thinking about it when Ilya finishes his little at-bat ready routine and then turns and winks at him. He’s definitely not thinking about it when Ilya, too, flies out to left-center, and at first Shane’s stomach drops because he swears that ball flew off the bat like it was going to fly out of the field, but instead it lands safely in Darrenson’s glove. 

July 2nd, 2016, Toronto:

“This is nice, I like it,” Rose murmurs as she lets Shane help her into the booth at a little hole-in-the-wall Japanese place that Shane’s family loves. 

“Yeah, I like it, too. They have-”

“Ginger ale, I see,” Rose says with a laugh as she eyes the drink menu. “You know what, I’ll have a ginger ale as well, please,” she asks their waiter.

When they’re alone again, it’s awkward, Shane thinks, though he has a hard time figuring out when other people also think things are awkward. 

“You’re so cute. Have I told you that?” 

Shane smiles at Rose’s forthrightness. He really does love that about her. “Thanks, I think.” 

“Oh no, it’s for sure a compliment. Don’t let anyone tell you ‘cute’ isn’t meant for men, Shane Hollander.” 

“Okay, got it,” Shane replies with a laugh, relaxing a little. 

“Miles is so jealous.”

“Oh, of me?” That makes sense, everyone knows Rose is gorgeous.

“No, of me.”

“Oh.” It takes Shane a second, then: “Oh.” 

Rose looks at him over the menu. “Did you not realize Miles is gay? I mean, a lot of actors are, but they aren’t out, you know.” 

“Right, sure.”

“Are there gay baseball players?”

Shane nearly spits out his ginger ale. 

“Obviously there are, gay people exist everywhere, but I meant, are there any openly gay players?”

Shane coughs, then looks away. “No. None that are out. I’m sure some exist like you said, but. A few have, uh, come out, after retirement, though I’m not really sure why.” 

Rose leans back, looking at him, her bright demeanor faltering a little. “Huh.” 

He can’t shake the feeling that he’s disappointed her in some way. “What?”

“Sorry, I don’t think I’m going about this the right way.”

Now his heart jumps, because he’s sure he’s disappointed her in some way. “Going about what?”

Her lips quirk on her face, and she leans forward, taking his hand. “I really like you, Shane. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so connected with someone so quickly.”

“I like you, too,” he rushes to assure her. 

“But I have a feeling that maybe I’m not…doing it for you?”

I never hear about you with girls.

“What? Of course you are.”

“I know you like talking to me.”

“I love talking to you. You’re really funny, and you’re so…extroverted and out there.”

“But do you like kissing me?”

“Sure,” Shane replies automatically, before realizing how devoid of any feeling it truly was. “Wait, I mean-”

“Wow.”

“Of course I do, sorry-”

“No, please don’t apologize.” Rose squeezes his hand. “I have a feeling, and maybe I’m completely off base here, and you can tell me that, but I just…have a feeling you’d rather be kissing Miles, than me?”

I never hear about you with girls.

Shane can’t respond, because his breath has been stolen. He opens his mouth, but he has no idea what to say, how to respond.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Rose reassures. “It’s really okay.”

“It’s not,” he manages, his heart hammering, and her face falls. “I really do like you. I like talking with you, I like being with you, I like all of it.” She turns her head, clearly calling his bluff. “I know the sex stuff is a problem, but-”

“It’s not a problem, Shane, sweetie. A problem is something you can fix. You’re g- you don’t need fixing, okay? It’s not wrong to love who you love.”

She’s blurry, all of a sudden, because his eyes are tearing up, he realizes belatedly. 

“It’s not a problem,” she repeats. “We’re just…a square peg and a round hole. Ew, no, forget I said that. We’re not…meant to fit, that’s what I mean. And really, it’s fine. I just don’t think we should keep trying to make this relationship something that it’s not.”

There is the oddest sense of relief mixed in with every other emotion stirring in Shane’s chest right now. For some reason, being broken up with is…okay. It’s okay, because it’s Rose. 

“I get it. And, it’s just, uh-” he looks up, away from her face, searching for any kind of explanation besides admitting to something he doesn’t want to admit to.

“Hey, you don’t owe me an explanation. You don’t owe anyone an explanation, Shane. You can just be, okay? You can just be, without justification.”

Emotions keep unlocking and tumbling around his chest, and it’s only her hand on his that’s keeping him from bolting once again, escaping like he’s been doing for the last month instead of facing things head on. 

“Can I ask…if you’ve ever been with another guy?”

Am dead. You killed me, Hollander.

I’m not done with you yet.

Hollander.

Shane.

Shane nods.

She mirrors him, nodding back. “Have you ever told anyone that before?”

Shane shakes his head, a tear slipping down his cheek. He reaches up to swipe it away. 

“Was it different, with a guy?”

Shane nods again. “Yes, of course.”

“Was it better?”

Am god of fucking you, yes.

Fucking make me, Shane.

“Yeah.” He lets out a long breath. “Yeah, it was better. The thing is, I- I think I like being the hole, more than being the peg.” He lets out a little laugh.

Rose’s entire face brightens as she laughs. “Shane Hollander! You-” she whispers the next part, in deference to the rest of the restaurant, “cock slut?”

He laughs again, some weird type of elation at having finally shared this secret filling him, and he nods again, more enthusiastically this time. 

“Wow. That is the best thing any gay boyfriend of mine has ever told me.”

“You’ve had other…”

“I was in theater school. Like 70% of my boyfriends have left me for other guys. How do you think I clocked you?”

The laugh bubbling up inside him escapes louder than he means it too. “God, I’m so sorry.”

She gives a dainty shrug. “I got an orgasm out of it. And I got to touch your really, really excellent body, so. Can we just be best friends instead? I can’t take the thought of being here in Toronto shooting for another six weeks without Shane Hollander by my side.”

“I’d really, really like that.” Shane is pleased to find that it’s not a lie, not at all.

After dinner, after he’s seen Rose into her cab, he walks for a while, then calls Farrah, his agent. “Hey Farrah, sorry to call so late. About the All-Stars…I actually changed my mind, if it’s not too late. If Coach Yost wants me, I’ll be there. Talk to you tomorrow, I’m sure. Thanks.”

August 21st, 2016, top of the 8th inning, 6-0 Blue Jays:

Commentator #1: Well, that’s just a sight you don’t see everyday. 

Description of TV shot: Shane Hollander is standing at the end of the Blue Jays dugout, wrapped up in a royal blue warm-up jacket, his hat off for the moment as he watches the bottom of the 7th play out. Every other player is standing at least five feet away from him, though Hayden Pike is the closest. They’re tossing a ball back and forth to each other, underhand. 

Commentator #2: Superstitious baseball players, it’s true.

Hayden’s eyes are serious on his as Reyes takes the plate. Shane tries to pretend that his heart isn’t pounding against his rib cage and he steps off the mound, once again using the chalk as an excuse. 

Stabler and Martinez had both struck out, bringing the K count in right field to 10. Somewhere, some fan is probably looking up the most strikeouts in a game like this (because he can’t even bring himself to say it in his brain). Shane wonders how close he is to that number. 

Each pitch feels like a chess move. Each curve and rotation and- is that a twitch in his delt? Absolutely not. He can do this. 

Hayden calls for a changeup. Shane nods, rolls the ball one-and-a-half times around in his fingers, finds the seams, and pitches. 

Whoosh. 

Reyes strikes right through it. 

Elation fills Shane down to his toes. He flexes them in his cleats, scuffing dirt off of the mound. 

Fastball, crack of a hit, but it’s a line drive right to fucking JJ down the third base line. Shane shouts and pumps his fist as the music comes on to play out the inning.

July 12th, 2016, All-Stars Game, San Diego:

Shane finds Ilya sitting at the hotel cabana bar, wearing a garish - and yet somehow still devastating on him - red Hawaiian shirt. As Shane walks up, Ilya finish off his Corona, his Adam’s Apple bobbing in his throat. He makes his way over, ordering another Corona as Ilya does. 

“What, no ginger ale for you?”

“Felt like being a little wild.” He lifts his newly-acquired bottle of Corona and Ilya taps his in cheers before they both drink. 

“I did not think you were coming this year. I did not see your name on roster until recently.” 

“Last minute scheduling shift,” Shane offers with a casual shrug of his shoulder. He’s wearing a new suit coat, courtesy of his stylist - a hookup from Rose. 

“Did you bring anyone?” Ilya asks after another sip of beer. 

“Oh, uh. My parents are in England, actually. Going to Wimbledon and seeing the sights and all that, plus they’ve done all this before, so you know, not exciting for them, I guess.” 

“Ah.” Ilya seems guarded in a way that Shane can’t place. 

“Also, I didn’t feel like being managed this week.” Shane has to look away before someone in the bar catches him looking at Ilya, probably. “Did you, uh, bring anyone?”

“Nope,” Ilya says with a small pop of the P. He looks just as devastating drinking his beer as he does doing literally everything else, and it’s making Shane melt in this suit coat. 

When he looks back to Ilya, Ilya is clearly checking him out, so he returns the favor with a small smile. “Nice shirt,” he says as a cover. 

“Thanks. I like to, you know, get into the spirit.”

“You’re pulling it off.”

Ilya grins, then gives him another look up and down. “You’re looking very pretty today.”

“Hmm?” Shane replies around his bottle, blushing.

“Different, maybe. Someone take you shopping?”

He can’t believe he’s already being called out. “Okay, if I tell you something, do you promise not to tell anyone or, uh, make fun of me?”

Ilya raises a skeptical brow and shrugs. “It depends.”

“Come on, I mean it.” 

“Okay, okay.” 

“I hired a stylist.”

The smile is slow to grow on Ilya’s face, but grow it does, until it’s so bright that Shane wonders how he doesn’t go blind at the sight of it. “Fuck you, you promised.”

Ilya’s hand comes up to cover his mouth, but his eyes are still giving full mirth. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am not,” Ilya replies with a nod. “Wow. Of course you did.” 

Something in Shane’s stomach blossoms at the easy banter back and forth, the banter that had been missing from his life since June 4th. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

“No, no, is not embarrassing. You got tired of what, looking like shit?”

“Fuck you, I didn’t look like shit, I just…wore athletic stuff all the time, I guess.” 

“Mmm, yes, and Rose Landry makes a man want to change, hmm?”

“Hmm? Well, she did hook me up with the stylist, but it wasn’t for her. I just. Just wanted to look nice here.”

“You don’t want to look nice for your girlfriend?”

“Oh! No, Rose and I aren’t dating. We, uh…we aren’t compatible.”

Ilya eyes him, then nods, another smile spreading across his face. “Have you seen the pool this place has?”

And just like that, the ice is broken again. 

Red_Sox_Fan_2004: That’s 5 wins in a row for the American league. This team is truly unstoppable. 

Hollzy_girl_24: I love how Rozanov hugged the hell out of Hollander after his inning 

Red_Sox_Fan_2004: girl get out of here with your weird real person shipping

Hollzy_girl_24: I’m not saying their gay i’m saying its cute

The sunset is beautiful, and Shane basks in it, letting the last of the San Diego warmth leach into his body from the sand below him. They won today, and tomorrow they all fly out to take a quick breather and then begin battling each other again, but for now…for now, he rests. Maybe it’s not the cottage, but it’s pretty good. He just feels…especially after seeing Ilya, after playing with Ilya again, he just feels like some part of him is finally at peace. 

“Found you.” Ilya’s voice is soft and easily recognizable as he plops down into the sand next to Shane. 

“So you were looking for me?”

“Of course not.”

They sit together in silence for a moment, their feet idly touching in the sand. 

“Oh I looked up that word, ‘compatible.’”

“What?”

“Compatible. I thought I knew what it meant, but I wanted to be sure.”

“Oh.” 

“So you and Rose Landry are not…”

Shane winces, rolling his head. “Yeah, not…compatible. Not in that way, anyway.”

The waves hit the shore in a way that soothes that anxiety bubbling up inside of him, and Shane struggles to hold onto that peace. “When do you fly out?”

“Early.”

“Same. Seattle.”

“Denver.” 

Across the sand, Ilya’s thumb slides over his, and Shane meets his eyes, sees the wanting there. “What room are you in?” he asks, taking the leap this time. 

Ilya’s lips tip up. 

Shane’s hands are shaking when he knocks on Ilya’s door. He’d gone back to his room, changed three different times after a phone conference with Rose, and now he’s here, wearing a faded Hawaiian shirt in an attempt to match Ilya’s energy. When he walks in, Ilya is frowning, probably at his ridiculous clothing choice. Shane walks over to the bed and sits down on it, running his hands over the hair on his legs. 

“This looks serious,” Ilya says with another frown.

Shit, he’s definitely fucking this up. “It’s not. I mean. I guess it is. I don’t know. Can you, uh, just sit down?”

Ilya gives a little shrug, but leans against the working desk, his shoulders popping out of his tank top in the most beautiful way. 

Shane lets out the breath he’s been holding, leaning over his knees. “It’s not just me, right?”

“Not just you what?” 

“You feel it too, don’t you?”

“Feel what?”

It’s like Ilya is an immovable, unreachable object, refusing to bend even an inch to meet where Shane might be able to meet him. 

“The last time we were together, it was different.”

“What was different, that you run away?”

It stings, but Shane takes it. He deserves it. “I’m sorry I freaked out, okay?”

“Freaked out over nothing, it was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing, don’t act like that. This is hard enough without you being an asshole.”

“What do you want, Hollander?”

Shane looks away, to the ugly curtains of yet another hotel room. He thinks about the pep talk Rose gave him just a half-hour ago when he’d been panicking in his own hotel room. He thinks about the way the last time Ilya melted over the name Shane and now he’s back to being Hollander. He takes a deep breath, holds it, and blows it out. At least Ilya gives him the grace of time. 

“We get together, we fuck, is simple.”

“It’s simple?”

“Is simple for me.”

“Bullshit.” His breath stutters. “I think…I think I’m gay.” 

Ilya laughs. Because of course he does. “Hmm, oh yeah, what makes you think that?” he asks, heavy on the sarcasm. 

“Fuck you, you’re not gay.” 

“No, not completely.”

“Well I think I am, completely.”

Ilya raises his hands in defense. “Okay, okay, so what? You are gay!”

“Well it’s kind of a big deal, to me at least! Sorry if I’m being boring again.”

Ilya leans against his knees and groans like this is all too much for him, but then he comes over, and plops down next to Shane on the bed. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Who else am I going to tell?” Shane answers faintly, dropping his head into his hands. This is definitely not going how Rose said it would. “It’s not just being gay, it’s you, it’s…this. Being gay is one thing, and fucking someone from another team is something else, okay? And last time - and I’m so fucking sorry about last time - I’m sorry I freaked out. But before I fucked it up? It was nice.”

“It was,” Ilya says, after a moment.

“And it felt like we were something.”

“We can’t be something, Hollander.” 

Shane’s heart cracks open, just a little, but he nods. There’s the Russia of it all, isn’t there? “Would you want to be, if we could?”

“We can’t.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“What does it fucking matter?” Ilya’s voice makes Shane flinch.

“I don’t think I can keep pretending I don’t like you anymore.”

“You don’t like me.”

“That’s the problem, Ilya. I do. I really do like you.” 

“Don’t do this, Hollander. I’m not-” Ilya shakes his head. “I wouldn’t be able to go home again.” 

“What would happen to you?”

“I don’t want to find out.” 

“Would your parents…”

“My father is police. My brother is police.”

Shane takes a deep breath. “And your mother?”

“Dead.” Ilya’s voice is flat, but not devoid of emotion. 

“I’m sorry.”

Ilya shakes his head, as if that wipes away Shane’s sorrow. “I was young. My father is very old fashioned. And sick.”

“Sick like crazy?”

“That too, a little bit, but no, sick more like-”

“Oh, like cancer?” The part of Shane’s heart that cracked open is reaching its tendrils out to Ilya, to hold him fast. 

“No, like dementia.” 

“That’s awful.”

Ilya turns away quickly, and Shane follows, slowly realizing that it’s because Ilya is trying to hide the tear running down his cheek. 

“Hey-”

“Sorry,” Ilya whispers, but Shane brushes it off, moving to straddle Ilya on the bed and wipe the tear away with his thumb.

From there, it’s easy to lean down, to cradle Ilya’s face in his and brush their lips sweetly together. It releases something inside Shane, to have this man again, even when it’s like this, even when it must be like this, in anonymous hotel rooms. He leans back, then cradles Ilya against his chest, and rocks him gently as his lover pretends not to cry against his Hawaiian shirt. 

Their lovemaking - Shane can’t think of it as anything less - is quiet, and slow, and consuming, and healing.

August 21st, 2016, top of the 9th inning, 6-0 Blue Jays:

The walk from the dugout to the mound happens in the blink of an eye. Once he’s on the mound, he swears, the stadium goes dead quiet, or maybe it’s the blood rushing into his ears. 

There’s a little boy sitting behind home plate, with his dad, or grandpa, maybe. Shane makes eye contact with him while they wait for the inning to turn over and the commercials to end. 

He doesn’t need to be listening to the commentary up in the box to know that a lot of eyes around the world are probably tuning into this right now. 

The little boy is wearing what looks to be a brand new Blue Jays cap, and it’s still a little too big. He smiles at Shane, showing off a tooth gap. Shane gives him a nod back, and the sound all rushes in again. 

Hayden crouches behind homeplate, and the bottom of the Red Sox order, still a formidable opponent in any normal situation, comes to the plate. Because of Shane, Jim Taylor’s batting average has gone down a whole tenth of a percentage tonight. Because of Shane, Jim Taylor could be the hero in Boston newspapers tomorrow.

Zing, swoosh!

Because of Shane, Jim Taylor is walking out 0 for 3, and another K is added - he’s up to 11, now. 

Julian Mendoza steps up to the plate. The tension feels like something Shane could slice through with one of his fastballs. Mendoza has a little ritual with a crucifix around his neck, and for a moment, it reminds him so much of Ilya that his heart pangs. 

His eyes travel across the field to the away team dugout. The whole team is lined up along the fence and watching, except for the closer they have warming up in the bullpen in case he’s needed. Ilya’s among them, watching him intently, his eyes shaded by his cap. 

Shane’s job is to make sure that closer won’t be needed. 

Mendoza grabs a piece of the curveball Shane wings at him, but it’s an easy, shallow infield pop up for Shane to catch. He tosses the ball to the ump and jogs back to the mound. 

This, this is it. The only thing between him and- and this is Ryan Price.

Ilya has told Shane about Ryan Price, especially since the trade. How he’s trying to befriend him, build up his confidence a bit. Shane has to put it all out of his mind right now. No mercy for Ryan Price. 

Every member of Shane’s team seems poised, waiting on tenterhooks to make sure they’re not the one to fuck this all up for Shane, in case Ryan hits more than a pop-up.

In the end, though, as Shane works Ryan up to 2 balls and 2 strikes, in the end, it’s all Shane. 

Hayden throws a number one against his thigh, and Shane nods. 

Ritual, seams, wind up, pitch.

The 100mph fastball zings right into Hayden’s glove in the middle of the strike zone. The ump calls it, but before he even finishes his call, the players are rushing the field. Hayden reaches him first, almost tackling him with his hug. Somehow, immediately, he’s up on JJ and Hayden’s shoulders as fanfare plays throughout the stadium. A never-used PERFECT GAME graphic is flashing on the big screen. The Red Sox are out of their dug out, cheering loudly. Everyone in the stadium is on their feet. From somewhere, the cheer starts: 

HOL-LAN-DER

HOL-LAN-DER

HOL-LAN-DER

August 21st, 2016, post-game:

Lily: Go celebrate with team and family but do not get too drunk

Lily: I will let myself into your house

Lily: And will wait to give you your real reward there

Lily: 😈

Chapter End Notes

When Ilya says he doesn’t know that “дорогой” means “sweetheart” in English, he is LYING LIAR WHO LIES.
When Shane says he doesn’t remember calling Ilya “baby” in the middle of being edged to an inch of his life, he is LYING LIAR WHO LIES.

I thought it was appropriate that Shane throws a perfect game only after he's come to terms with his sexuality (for the most part).

Chapter 6: Aftermath, Russia, injury

Chapter Summary

In the aftermath of Shane's perfect game, he and Ilya celebrate, until Ilya is called away.

Later, Shane is injured.

(Aka, the rest of episode 5)

Added tags: Blood and Injury, Hospitals

Chapter Notes

Getting out of the party, much less staying sober, takes basically all of Shane’s best persuasion and excuses. It’s only when he tells Hayden that his right delt is twitchy that Hayden gets all protective and ushers him out - drunkenly - to an Uber. God help them all making their nine o’clock practice time tomorrow; his parents had gone back to their house two hours ago, and the party had gotten decidedly more raucous with their exit. And they still have a game against Boston tomorrow night…but the boys have obviously decided to say ‘fuck it.’

His own house is quiet when he enters and takes his shoes off by the door. They settle neatly right next to Ilya’s Nikes, and something in Shane’s heart flutters and settles as well. 

He goes through the house, then finally finds Ilya in his bed, completely naked. He’s gorgeous against Shane’s dark grey sheets, miles of summer-tan skin - still no tan lines, Shane keeps meaning to ask about that - cock erect, and looking like it has been for some time. 

And then Shane looks over to his TV, and sees his own face as he picks up the chalk and dries his hands during the 5th inning. “Were you watching me?”

Ilya continues to stroke himself shamelessly. “You are hot, I am horny. Seemed…like the thing to do.” He offers a shrug and a careless smirk. 

Shane pulls off his gameday suit coat, hanging it up in the closet before crossing the room for the remote on his bedside table. He clicks the TV off to the sound of Ilya’s protest. “C’mon, I’m not that obsessed with watching tape.”

Ilya grins as he pulls Shane down, still mostly clothed, onto his lap. He wraps his arms around Shane’s body, rocking him in a hug and kissing at his exposed throat - Shane lost his tie somewhere at the party, he thinks. “I guess I do not need to watch porn when I have real-life version right here.”

Shane laughs. “That wasn’t porn.”

“Was to me. Whole game was like watching live sex show. I was so hard 9th inning I had to put on my warm-up jacket.”

“You were not.” 

“Da, yes, was too. Cannot prove it to you, but I think you can feel it now, yes?”

“Have you just been touching yourself for hours here, then? Without getting off?”

“Of course not. I also took nap and fed myself. You need more food in your fridge, Shane.” 

“Lay off me, I just got back from a road trip.” 

“I cannot have you wasting away.” Ilya squeezes Shane’s, as he likes to call them, thick thighs.

“No chance of that any time soon.” Shane sighs, letting Ilya’s clever fingers work at his buttons. “When do you have to meet your team tomorrow?”

“We have practice after you, so not until later.” Ilya presses kisses against Shane’s newly exposed skin at his chest, his neck. 

Shane hums. “You should stay. For breakfast. And other stuff.”

Because they can’t, and Shane knows they can’t, and there’s a whole fucking country of reasons why they can’t, the main one being some old man Shane tends to picture looking a little bit like Stalin - no way he’s as handsome as Ilya - wasting away in Moscow somewhere. But that’s not stopping him from asking on this day. This is his day. 

Those clever fingers have worked their way down the back of Shane’s slacks and are currently ghosting over his hole. “Mmm, other stuff? Is this ‘other stuff’?”

“Pretty much.” Shane’s head tips back as Ilya’s lips abuse one of his nipples. 

“I don’t know, I think hotel has better food offerings.”

“I’ll go early and get us some eggs at the store, Jesus, Ilya, fuck me already.”

Ilya laughs against his skin. “You are still half dressed, дорогой. Let’s take care of that first.”

Shane grumbles through the whole process, but eventually he’s just as naked as Ilya, and they’re laying side by side in the bed, facing each other, their fingers lingering together between them on the sheets. 

“How does it feel?”

“My arm is sore as fuck,” Shane admits, and Ilya tsks. 

“You skipped after-game massage to celebrate, hmm?”

“More like I got pulled away for media before I could see Angie, but I have an appointment with her tomorrow morning.”

Ilya rolls out of the bed and holds out his hand. “Come, we can’t have you getting injured right after perfect game.”

Shane complains, but lets Ilya pull him up. In the bathroom, Ilya pushes him against the counter, kissing him thoroughly, before pulling away. “Stay here.”

“No, you stay here,” Shane grumbles, trying to capture Ilya’s waist, but the catcher is too quick for him. 

“You are so bratty tonight. I like, very much. Let me draw you a bath, my brat.”

“I deserve nice things, like kissing nice lips.”

“Mmm, yes, but also, from there you have nice view, yes?” Ilya shakes his ass as he leans over to turn the water on, quickly reading through the items on the counter until he finds the epsom salts that smell like sage and lemon. 

How Ilya instinctually knew exactly what scent he’d been thinking about asking for, Shane will never know. 

His tub is a custom job, deep enough for Shane to be able to submerge his whole arm and shoulder when he needs to, which means it’s definitely big enough for Ilya, too. They settle in together, Ilya taking the cold part against the side of the tub while he kneads the knots from Shane’s shoulders. Shane closes his eyes and stims himself by rubbing over Ilya’s leg hair. It’s a really nice texture under the water. 

“Shane, дорогой, are you with me?” Ilya asks, his lips brushing over Shane’s hair. Shane blinks against the low light of the bathroom and realizes the water is getting cold around them. He’d fallen asleep. 

“Shit, I’m so sorry.”

“I do not mind. You are adorable when you snore.” 

“Shut the fuck up, I don’t snore.”

“Mmm, well, one of us was awake and hearing everything and one of us was snoring, and I think you know who is who. C’mon, любимый, let’s get you into bed.”

“That’s a new one,” Shane murmurs as Ilya helps him out, dries him off with a warm, fluffy towel - which means Ilya discovered the towel warmer. 

“Yes, means ‘tired cranky toddler.’”

“Sure it does. I’m going to start calling you things in French just to fuck with you, you know.” 

“Such threats, and when I’m helping.” Ilya pulls them back into the bedroom and maneuvers Shane facedown on the bed. When Shane waggles his eyebrows, Ilya laughs outright. “Maybe if you are good, but this is massage for therapeutic purposes.”

Shane opens his mouth to retort, but then Ilya’s naked body is straddling his, his soft cock nestled against the sway of Shane’s back, his weight pressing Shane down deliciously into the mattress. Ilya leans over, grabbing the lotion Shane keeps on the nightstand, and warms some up in his palms before spreading them down over Shane’s shoulderblades. The touch makes Shane melt, especially because Ilya is murmuring to him in Russian. He really needs to learn more. 

When Ilya is done, Shane feels boneless. It’s not the same as Angie’s massage will be tomorrow, that will be much more about the functionality of his body, but for now, it’s good. Really, really good. Shane’s not even sure he’s all here, brain-wise. 

Still, he manages to turn over on the bed and spread his legs. “If you wanna-” he slurs, already half-asleep.

Ilya chuckles, then pulls the covers up over them and presses in close to his side, his head resting on Shane’s non-throwing shoulder. “Go to sleep, дорогой. We have tomorrow.”

Shane wakes slowly, and is confused at first because it’s still dark outside. His bedside clock says that it’s 3:26am, which he reads just as he clocks that Ilya is sitting on the bed beside him, fully dressed, and running his fingers slowly over Shane’s hair. 

“I am so sorry, Hollander, but I must leave.” Ilya does look genuinely apologetic, which has Shane blinking.

“Huh?”

“I must go back to hotel. I am sorry.”

“I, uh-” Shane struggles to process with his waking brain, and he pushes himself up to Ilya’s eye level. “Uh. This isn’t like me freaking out, is it? You don’t need to freak out. It’s okay.” 

“Is family thing,” Ilya murmurs with a shake of his head.

“Oh.”

Ilya leans in, brushing a gentle kiss over Shane’s lips. “Do not worry about me, дорогой. Get your massage, and rest your arm, and be interviewed by the big names, and enjoy your day.” 

Shane melts, resting his forehead against Ilya’s. “Text me if you need me?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll see you after tonight’s game.” 

Ilya doesn’t answer, just kissing him once more before standing up to leave. Shane lays back in bed and watches him go, feeling melancholy, missing him already. 

“Dude, did you hear Rozanov’s not in the starting lineup their GM posted?”

Shane whips his head around in the workout room - he’s on strict arm rest but that doesn’t stop him from getting some cardio in on one of the recumbent bikes. “What’s that?”

“They didn’t put him on the injuries list, either.”

Speculation runs rampant through the room, none of it particularly kind, so Shane filters it out of his brain. He swipes over to his messages app and finds Lily quickly, nearly at the top of the list, minus his mom who has been texting him about new opportunities, brand deals, and how best to pivot the Perfect Game opportunity for his career. 

Shane: Where are you? Everything okay?

Shane’s text goes unread for the next few hours - every time he looks at it. 

Finally, there’s word through the grapevine - because baseball players are terrible gossips - Ilya left town for family leave, and Boston is asking for his privacy on his behalf at this time. 

Worry burns in Shane’s gut. He checks his phone again, but the text message still just says ‘delivered.’

It’s the bottom of the 8th, Toronto with a sizeable lead at 8-4, when his cell phone buzzes in his pocket. He gives the relief pitcher, Rafael Castro, a nod before finding some privacy in the tunnel to the locker rooms. 

Lily: I am okay. Home.

The full stop periods in Ilya’s text almost do more to worry Shane than his actual answer. 

Shane: Boston?

Lily: Moscow.

Oh. Oh shit. 

Lily: Can I call you?

Shane: Probably in about an hour, is that okay? Not too late?

Lily: already too late here anyway

Lily: Let me know when you are home, I will call you

Shane: I will.

By the time Ilya’s safely - and Shane tries not to spiral about that word - able to call him, he’s in bed, reading a biography of Roberto Clemente. 

“I did not know you wear glasses,” Ilya says by way of greeting. 

“Just for reading,” Shane mutters, taking them off with a blush. 

“No, you should put them back on.” 

Shane shakes his head with a small smile, before schooling it into seriousness again. Even across the ocean, even through the small screen of his iPad, Ilya looks beautiful. 

“Fine. What are they saying about me?”

“That you had a family emergency and you’re requesting privacy at this time. Everyone seems to be respecting it.” 

“Good.” 

“Your father?”

Ilya gives a short nod. “Yes. Dead.”

“Shit, Ilya. I’m so sorry.” 

This has Ilya shaking his head. He doesn’t want to talk about it, clearly. 

Still. “Can I do anything to help?”

“Mm, yes. Put glasses back on.” Suddenly, Ilya is whipping off his shirt. To make himself even clearer, he taps by his eyes and pointedly looks at Shane. 

And, well, Shane can do this, be this for Ilya, definitely. He smiles, and puts his glasses back on. 

A few days later, Ilya calls again.

"How are you?" Shane asks. It's just a voice call this time, Shane tucked up against his headboard, his book set aside. 

"It...is awful. I do not know how to say in English." 

Shane's quiet at that. Then, a thought comes to him. "You could just...you could tell me what you're thinking, in Russian? I wouldn't be able to understand, but I'd listen, anyway. You can tell me whatever you want, I'll listen. Maybe it would help to, uh, get it all off your chest." 

At first, Shane doesn't think Ilya is going to go for it. And then, what happens next is one of the most heart wrenching moments of his life, as Ilya stumbles out a few words, sentences, before it becomes a whole monologue, his voice thick with tears. Alone in his bedroom, Shane doesn't hold back his own tears, letting them wet his cheeks as he provides an ear - a shoulder - for this man. This man he thinks he lo-

"I am done," Ilya says, his voice somehow both stoic and heartbreaking. 

"Does it feel any better?"

"Yes, I don't know. Maybe. Yes." 

Shane lets out a soft chuckle at that. "Well, then I'm glad we did it."

"I am, too." 

"I really should start learning some Russian." 

"I could teach you. Only important phrases, like 'harder,' 'faster,' 'you are sex god, Ilya Rozanov.'"

Now Shane really laughs, wiping his eyes. "How about, I miss you."

"Я скучаю по тебе."

"Ya skuchayu po tebe," Shane repeats back, or at least tries. His accent must be terrible from the way Ilya laughs. 

Science hadn’t been Shane’s strong suit in high school, at least, not until Mme. Bouchard’s year 10 physics class. About a month into class, she’d handed him a hardcover book: The Physics of Baseball. To any other student, it might have been the most boring assignment ever, but Shane absolutely devoured the book. 

That’s why he knows that when he throws the ball, he’s utilizing Magnus force to create spin. That the spin he adds can change how the hitter sees the ball, enough to make him swing in the wrong place. That when he throws a pitch at 103 miles per hour, and a slugger like Cliff Marleau swings at it, it leaves the bat with an exit velocity of something like 110 miles per hour. It’s a simple algebra problem to figure out how long Shane has to react to the line-drive Marly hits. 

It’s not long enough. 

The ball slams into Shane’s skull, only protected by his hat and hair - pitchers don’t wear helmets, only batters, catchers, and umps do. Because they’re the ones in the dangerous positions, not pitchers. 

Shane stumbles off the mound, then falls to the ground, clutching at his head. He hears nothing but the roaring of his heart in his ears, and then he blacks out. 

He revives, a little, when the medics shine a light in his eyes. 

“Hey, Shane, good to see you open your eyes. We’re going to get you stabilized, and then transport you to be checked out. We’re not taking any chances with a head hit like that.” The medic’s voice is soft as she holds a towel to the right side of Shane’s head. 

“Okay,” Shane says, or at least, he thinks he says. He blinks against the stadium lights. 

“Can you tell me where you are?”

“I’m- it hurts a lot.” 

“I’m sure it does. You got hit pretty hard.”

“Physics.”

“Hmm, Shane?” She looks down at him, worried. 

“It’s just a physics problem. Tell him I’m okay.” 

“I will. Keep nice and still for me, okay? We’re about to load you up, okay?” 

There’s a noticeable quiet, or at least, it only becomes noticeable when it goes away, because the Boston fans are clapping, now, as he’s rolled off the field on the stretcher. He tries to wave, to give Ilya, his parents some kind of signal that he’s okay, but his arms are strapped in. With a groan against the stabbing pain in his head, he relents, lets himself drift. 

He’s floating, now. The room he’s in is nice and private, except for the slow and steady beeps of the machinery. His mom and dad had been here for hours after a red-eye flight. It was Hayden who finally convinced them to go back to the hotel room and get some rest, when he’d brought all of Shane’s things before the Blue Jays have to fly out to New York, continuing on their road trip, without him. 

Feels weird, being left behind. 

A shadow at his door draws his attention. Lots of shadows pass by his door, it’s a busy hospital after all, but this one hesitates, for thirty seconds, maybe more, Shane’s internal clock is all fucked right now. 

And then the door opens, to the most glorious sight Shane has ever seen. 

“Ilyaaaaa!” he lets out. His internal ability to regulate his voice volume is also all kinds of fucked right now. 

He holds out his hand, and Ilya, looking stunned, crosses over the interminably long distance of the hospital room floor. “No, shhh, shhh,” Ilya murmurs, reaching out and squeezing his hand in comfort. 

“Ilyaaaa. I’m so glad you’re here. I was looking forward to last night.”

Ilya frowns, sitting down on the edge of Shane’s bed and rubbing his thumb over the webbing of Shane’s hand, being careful not to disturb his IV catheter. “Was two nights ago, любимый, but please don’t worry. Marly feels terrible.”

“Oh yeah, two nights ago.” Shane blinks out at the hospital room. Things kinda run together in here. 

“Are you- uh, I mean. What are your injuries? Your team has not said anything beyond ‘he is resting and expected to make a full recovery.”

“Concussion, so no screens. Sorry I didn’t text last- two nights ago. I had something important to ask you.” 

“Please do not worry about that. Just the concussion? Is good, means quick recovery if you listen to doctors.” Ilya’s thumb comes up to graze over his cheek, and Shane lets his eyes drift closed, sinking into the sensation. It feels good, really good. He’s so floaty. 

“Well, there was also the brain surgery,” he whispers, nearly about to fall asleep again.

“What?!” Ilya asks sharply, waking him up again. 

Shane looks up at him, confused, before smiling again and reaching out. His IV stops him from lifting his hand up to Ilya’s face and he frowns at it.

“Shhh, shhh, Shane, it’s okay, leave your hand here.” Ilya takes it again, twists their fingers together when Shane wants to struggle. 

“It’s just that you’re so pretty, and you have this frowny line right there and I wanted to touch it.”

Ilya’s face softens, and he leans over, pressing a kiss to the top of Shane’s thumb before letting Shane caress his face. 

“Thank you,” Shane whispers, filled with awe. 

“You’re welcome, любимый. You scared me. Brain surgery?”

“I guess my brain was bleeding. A little. Mom says everything went fine. I don’t really remember.”

“Блядь.“ Ilya’s eyes follow the lines of Shane’s face up to where his head is wrapped. Shane is fairly sure they had to shave part of his head for the surgery. His dad’s going to help him shave the rest when it’s safe, so it grows out all the same. He’s going to look ridiculous this summer when Ilya comes to the cottage. 

The thought makes him really sad, and tears start to leak from his eyes. 

“No, no, shhh, Shane, what is it? Are you in pain? I will call doctor.”

Shane shakes his head, then closes his eyes against the dizziness that causes. “No. No pain. I just. I just wanted to look my best, you know.” 

Ilya clicks his tongue. “You are in hospital, Hollander. You do not need to look best.” 

“I meant at the cottage.”

“Cottage?”

Shane opens his eyes again, finding Ilya’s piercing blue gaze looking down at him. You haven’t asked him yet, you idiot. 

“Asked me what?”

Shane works hard to meet Ilya’s eyes because this is important. “Willyoucometomycottagewithme?”

“What?”

“For winter. Don’t go to Russia. Come be with me? It’ll be so quiet, we’ll have privacy. I have a place, on a lake in Ontario. No one for miles. Just you and me, two weeks.” 

“You know we cannot do that, Shane,” Ilya murmurs. 

Shane pouts. He knows things are hard for Ilya right now. Tonight - no, two nights ago, was supposed to be the first time they got together since Ilya got back from Russia, the first time their schedules finally synced. Shane had been looking forward to it; Ilya had been distant via text since Russia, like he always got when he went back in the winter. Shane knows Russia is hard for Ilya, but fuck, he wants Ilya here with him, always. 

“Please?” he asks, trying to make his plea clear with his eyes. 

“Maybe,” Ilya finally relents, brushing his thumb over Shane’s cheek again. “Maybe.”

Shane smiles, feeling triumphant. 

“Ah, солнышко.”

Shane turns into Ilya’s hand and nuzzles it. “What does it mean?”

“Ah, ‘little sun.’ When you smile like that…”

“Hey, I’m not little!”

“To me, you are little.”

“Fuck you.”

Ilya smiles. “Are you staying in Boston? Do you need place to recover?”

“That’s so sweet,” Shane says with a reflexive smile back. “No, my parents are working out my transfer. I think I’m here for a couple more days, and then back to Montreal with Mom and Dad to recover. Probably be really bored with no screens.”

“Mmm, yes, means I cannot text you to entertain you.”

Now Shane really pouts, but this time it’s to make Ilya laugh, and it works. Ilya leans over, pressing a kiss to Shane’s forehead. “Get some rest, дорогой. Red Sox travel on Thursday, but I will try to visit you at least one more time before then.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Recovery is a bitch, filled with headaches and lots of bed rest and mental fog that lingers. It’s also more than a little aggravating to be spending so much time with his parents after living alone all these years. They make him feel juvenile. 

He gets ten minutes of screen time allotted to him a day after the first couple of days, and he uses it mostly to text Ilya, or chat with him. Sometimes he uses it for baseball, but the time is so little, so precious, and Ilya is…

He’s allowed simple exercise, nothing cardio as his brain heals, and none of it is enough to scratch the itch deep inside him that exercise - or being fucked - does. 

The worst of it is, both Boston and Toronto have been playing like shit since Shane’s incident, which worries Shane a little - is he the new version of the Curse of the Bambino??? - so the Yankees take the AL East, and considering the rest of their competition, everyone likes the chances of them taking the pennant. 

Listen, a year Shane doesn’t win the pennant is a sucky year, but a year the Yankees win? Fuck that. 

He watches game 6, Yankees versus Dodgers, anyway, with his parents, because of course he does. He gets way more screen time now, and he and Ilya are planning a phone call later, too. His physical therapist has cleared him for heavier activities, which means he can’t fuck himself on the dildo Ilya bought him, but he can let Ilya talk him through fucking his own fist. 

The Yankees win, of course. The group chat is full of chirps about how boring and predictable it all is. Shane’s watching the celebration on the field and wishing it was him, again, and wishing he didn’t have a shaved head - well, it’s grown back a little now, but he has an ugly scar right along the side of his head - and wishing he could go for a run to get rid of this restless energy, when he notices something on the side of the screen. 

It’s not unusual for family to come down onto the field after the team has won the World Series. 

The way Scott Hunter is making out with the man in his arms, Shane is fairly sure that’s not his family. 

He’s stunned. Beside him, his mom and dad have similar faces. 

His phone starts buzzing in his lap. Lily flashes on the screen. 

“I gotta-” he makes as a shitty excuse. He flees to the hallway, hitting the answer button. 

“What was that-”

“I am coming to the cottage,” Ilya says with a sense of determination.

Chapter End Notes

Things Ilya has called Shane in this fic in Russian: sweetheart, beloved, little sunshine; things he has confessed to calling Shane: little sunshine.

Shane’s injury is based on a real life incident in Seattle that happened to an Angels pitcher. You can learn more here from the pitcher's own account: https://www.theplayerstribune.com/articles/matt-shoemaker-angels-head-injury

Chapter 7: Cottage, pt 1

Chapter Summary

The cottage, part 1: winter cottage style!

I don't think there are any major new tags to add or big baseball notes, as this is all mostly cottage stuff.

Just kidding, added tag: Semi-Public Sex

Chapter Notes

Hi I'm back! I've been working faithfully but slowly on this fic the last three weeks because I got hit by the winter crud. February sucks, but now it's over, yay!

Since he was a boy, Shane and his parents have spent part of winter vacation at a cottage on a lake in Ontario. He fondly remembers building entire snow people villages and ice fishing with his dad and snowshoeing around the nearest town when they’d drive in for supplies. He counts those memories as some of his best, the three of them snuggled up under blankets and watching movies. 

So, it had been a no-brainer for him to spend a chunk of his first contract money building his dream house on his own piece of property on the same lake. Mr. Real Estate, Ilya is always calling him, but it’s truly a side passion. He’d chosen his architect carefully, worked closely with them to create his vision, made countless plans and swatches and marble countertops with the construction and design crew. It had taken the first few years of his career to complete, and now it’s his off-season sanctuary. Close enough to his parents that he doesn’t feel too isolated, but his, all his. 

ESPN 4 had run a puff piece on it a year or so ago in the lead up to last season. He’d enjoyed showing off his place, even if he’d come off all stiff and formal in the video, in his opinion. 

All this is to say that Shane is aware there is a weight to this, to what they are doing. There’s a weight to inviting Ilya into a space he designed from the ground up, all throughout the time when Ilya had been his longest lasting relationship - whatever that relationship is. Because yes, he’d designed this for himself, but there’s a batting cage in the workout building that also houses his throwing area. There’s a batting cage, and room for a real live catcher in his space, should he want to invite one. Plausible deniability says he could invite the Pikes for a vacation to join him sometime, and he and Hayden could use it together. 

But it’s simply the truth: he’d thought of Ilya when he and his designer had made choices. And maybe Ilya hadn’t had a huge overall effect on those choices, but he’s always been here, haunting the bones of Shane’s cottage, because Shane invited him in. Yes, this is his sanctuary, but Ilya’s been a piece of him for long enough that Shane knows he will fit right here, too. 

All bundled up against the Ontario December - Ilya is coming for the dead week between Christmas and New Year’s, plus another week or so into January - Shane barely recognizes Ilya, except for the fact that Ilya looks good in what’s clearly new designer winter wear. Shane wonders if he got a brand deal for it. 

“Hello,” Ilya murmurs as he slides into the passenger seat, looking nervously around him even though they’re parked pretty far away from anyone. Still, Shane gets it. He doesn’t want to be caught either. 

“Hey. Trip was okay?”

Ilya waves off the small talk with a gesture that tells Shane he’s being boring. “What is this car?”

“It’s a Range Rover. Good for the roads out here in the winter. There’s a storm pushing in but I got us food and supplies already, so we should be fine.”

Ilya nods as they work their way out of the airport parking lot. “What did you tell people?”

“That I’m doing two weeks of silence and meditation. Pitcher shit.”

This makes Ilya smile. “Only you would come up with such boring lie that everyone believes.”

Shane grins back, and their hands find each other over the gear shift. “They want me to earn them another Cy Young. They’ll respect my privacy.” 

They’d met up at the MLB awards back in early November, but haven’t seen each other since then, and Shane hadn’t been cleared yet for stuff like aggressive sex with your rival. They’d jerked each other off and then held each other, kissing until they fell asleep. 

Shane hits the garage door opener as they get close to be able to park inside, and Ilya lets out a low whistle, piling out of the car almost as soon as it stops. “Shane, любимый, you’ve been, uh, how to say, ‘holding out on me’?”

He immediately rushes over to Shane’s Skidoo while Shane grabs his bag from the backseat - he’s finally cleared for everything: heavy lifting, throwing practice, and being fucked within an inch of his life, hopefully soon. Shane could almost be jealous of the way Ilya reverently runs a hand over the snowmobile's slick paint job.

“You must let me drive this, yes?”

Shane grins as he shrugs Ilya’s duffel onto his shoulder. “That’s in the plans, yes. There’s a nice little picnic area about an hour from here.”

Ilya’s smile is huge and genuine, until he sees his bag on Shane’s shoulder and it moves to a frown. “No, let me-”

“I got it,” Shane replies easily, a little defensive. “Let me show you my home.”

He holds out his hand, and Ilya takes it, obviously still reluctant to let Shane carry his things. They move inside, and Ilya is mostly silent, but when Shane looks back, he’s smiling, taking in Shane’s inner sanctum. They pause in the entrance way to de-winterize themselves, hanging up coats and toeing off boots. The only piece Shane leaves on is his beanie - his constant companion since his dad had helped him shave his head. His head is all healed, now, but the scar is ugly, and Shane is self-conscious about it. His mom had even wrangled the designer of his awards show suit into making a fancy beanie for him to wear to the show last October. 

And speaking of last October…it’s been a long few months, and Shane is starved. Ilya apparently feels the same way, because he crowds Shane against the wall and kisses the daylights out of him. Shane’s hands roam over him, along the long planes of his chest, reaching back to squeeze into that perfect catcher’s ass. Half-blind because he’s kissing Shane and doesn’t know the house, Ilya still leads them step-by-step, kiss-by-kiss, to the couch, where Shane pushes him down and drops down on top of him. 

Already, Shane feels close to the edge, his cock hard in his slacks and pressing against Ilya in his jeans. “It’s been a while, I’m not going to take long,” he moans against Ilya’s throat. 

“Same,” Ilya replies, attacking a spot under Shane’s ear. 

Shane groans, leaning into it, before freezing as what Ilya said finally sinks in. “Wait, same?”

Ilya looks up at him with exasperation. “Same. Has been long time. I have not been with anyone since I was last with you.”

“Wait- really?” Shane’s heart leaps in his chest. 

“Yes, Shane, really, now-” Ilya makes a motion to capture his lips again, but Shane pulls back, a grin spreading across his face. 

“Me, too,” he whispers, and he sees the moment it finally sinks in for Ilya, what they’re saying to each other. Exclusivity. I only want you.

Overwhelmed, Shane ducks his head and kisses Ilya sweetly, tenderly, his hands cupping Ilya’s face. 

Ilya rolls his hips up, expertly drawing them together again. 

“Wait, wait,” Shane murmurs as he pulls back, breathless, laughing a little at Ilya’s rolled eyes. 

“Shane, months,” Ilya pleads. 

“Okay, yeah, I just…let’s make a promise to each other, okay?”

“What promise?”

“For these two weeks, here, when we’re here together, let’s just…let’s be completely honest with each other.”

Ilya’s hand slides up his back, then cups his cheek, his thumb tenderly rubbing over Shane’s freckles. “Da, yes, okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya confirms again, grinning up at him. 

His face falls, though, when Shane lifts off of him and pulls him up off the couch. “C’mon, let me show you to your room.” 

He tugs Ilya along, both of them ignoring how hard they are in their pants as they walk through the house. 

“I have very specific requirements, you know,” Ilya says behind him. “Have high standards.” 

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhmm. Need king sized bed.”

“Oh, well, they all have king-sized beds.” 

“Good view.”

“Every view is great.” 

“Mmm. And I need a, uh, en-suite bath.”

“Oh, well-” Shane pulls him into his bedroom and grins at him, fully leaning into the teasing nature of their conversation. “I’m afraid there’s only one bedroom that meets your requirements, but it’s not available-”

Ilya tackles him down onto his bed with a laugh, straddling his hips and pinning his hands up by his head. 

“Sir, please, I’m just a bellboy! This is not how staff are to be treated!”

“I think I know, after all these years, how staff like to be treated,” Ilya growls, leaning down and capturing Shane in another kiss. 

After this many years. Shane’s heart threatens to pulse out of his chest as Ilya grinds them together, but he gets distracted by the bright, white light being reflected off of the snow through the big, uncovered windows, and, well, old habits die hard. “One sec-” 

Ilya’s groan is half-frustration, half-sigh, as he leans back on the bed while Shane finds the remote for the curtains. 

“Ah, ah, no,” Ilya protests when he finally clocks what Shane is doing. He takes the remote, hits the stop button, and the curtains stay half-down.

Because yes, here, with no one around to see them, Ilya can have him like this in the open. The realization fully hits Shane, and his knees go weak. It’s okay, though, because Ilya’s there to catch him. He circles his arms around Shane’s waist to support him, and they kiss, again and again, against Shane’s dresser. 

“You’ve waited long enough,” Shane murmurs against Ilya’s lips, and slips down, down to what feels like his proper home with Ilya: on his knees. He works Ilya’s fly quickly, though the stiff, heavy bulge beneath it makes it harder. Soon enough, though, he has Ilya’s cock out and wastes no time engulfing it in his mouth. He groans at the weight on his tongue, the taste. He’s missed every inch of this, every piece, every moment. 

“Shane, can I-” Ilya asks, and Shane looks up with his mouth still full to see Ilya’s hand hesitating over his beanie. And yeah, they should probably talk about that. 

“Can you- don’t take it off, please,” Shane asks, Ilya’s cock bobbing in front of his face while he answers. “But you can touch the left side. The injury is still kind of sensitive.”

“Thank you, любимый. You will tell me if I do anything to make you uncomfortable, yes?” 

Shane smiles, leaning a little into Ilya’s hand as he strokes down Shane’s beanie on the left side. “Of course, mon beau.”

Ilya groans as Shane finally makes good on his French pet name threat and then proceeds to deep-throat his man. Ilya lasts approximately another sixty seconds. 

“Fuck, Shane- fuck-” Ilya groans, unloading in Shane’s mouth. He collapses in front of Shane, gripping Shane’s face and pulling him in for a deep, deep kiss. Shane knows he can taste himself on his tongue now. “Let me- let me, please,” Ilya murmurs in desperation. 

Shane’s never heard him like that, and he nods quickly, letting Ilya push him down to the floor and pull his slacks off. He kisses over Shane’s pelvic bone, then works his way down the crease before suckling at his balls. Shane groans, spreading his legs wide, his cock leaking onto his t-shirt. Ilya’s mouth continues to work its way down until he’s kissing Shane’s hole, making Shane cry out. 

“You are loose,” Ilya says when he pulls back with a pant. 

“Prepped myself a little earlier in the shower,” Shane admits. “Thought of you and made myself not come.” 

Ilya groans, spreading Shane’s legs even wider to settle between them, angling his hips in a way so that he can get fully at Shane’s opening. “Can you come like this now?” His breath, hot on Shane’s hole, is almost enough to send him over the edge, so Shane nods frantically. 

“No hands trick, I think,” Ilya murmurs, then works on eating Shane out like its his fucking job. 

And, well, it’s been months, and he’s fucking horny, and his man is in his bedroom - even if they haven’t managed to make it to the bed yet - and so Shane figures he can’t be blamed for shooting his load - yes, hands free - approximately a minute later with Ilya’s tongue spearing inside of him. 

Ilya pulls himself up to Shane’s side, gathering him in a cuddle and pressing kisses to his cheek, his neck, his slightly exposed collar bone as Shane’s breath heaves. 

“Fuck,” Shane says into the relative silence. 

“Mhmm,” Ilya replies, nuzzling into his neck and then relaxing. 

Shane realizes that Ilya’s about to fall asleep after his day of travel. He turns, kissing Ilya’s nose and running his hand through Ilya’s curls. “Hey, why don’t you take a nap? I’ll take a quick shower, maybe make us some food, if you want to grab, like, an hour?”

Ilya groans. “I don’t want to waste time sleeping when I have you like this.”

“Counter point: you need rest and fuel so you can fuck me out of my fucking head later.”

“Hmm, yes, you make good point.”

“C’mon, the floor is getting cold.” 

“I’m in the kitchen,” Shane calls when he hears Ilya’s footsteps moving about his house. There’s a special little thrill in his heart at hearing those noises. 

The thrill gets stronger when Ilya walks in with bare feet, wearing a pair of baggy sweats and- one of Shane’s Blue Jays hoodies. Shane swallows and turns back to the stir-fry he’d whipped up. “You sure that hoodie isn’t going to make your Boston Red blood boil?”

“I think you will keep me safe, yes?” He slides in behind Shane, pressing a kiss to his neck and wrapping his arms around Shane’s waist. “Are we having visitors for dinner?”

Shane blinks down at his wok, distracted by Ilya’s closeness. “The recipe was for six, so-” 

“So cut it in half? What, you do not know math?”

Shane blushes. It had honestly not even occurred to him to change the recipe. “Leave me alone.” 

“No,” Ilya growls, hugging him and pressing another kiss, this time to his hot cheek. And so Shane spends the rest of cooking with an Ilya-limpet. 

He serves them at the kitchen island, and they sit side by side, Ilya’s foot tangled in his stool legs. The huge wok of stir fry sits on a hot pad between them, still nearly full despite their plates already being served. 

“I guess I did make too much. Normally I’d offer it to my parents, but I guess that would ruin the whole ‘silent retreat’ thing.” 

“Your parents live near here?”

“They have a place near here, yeah,” Shane confirms, partially covering his mouth with his hand politely.

“She is Yuna?”

“Yeah.” 

Ilya smiles, reaching over and rubbing a thumb over his cheek. “Where you get your good looks, hmm?”

“Half of them, anyway,” Shane jokes, blushing and looking down at his food. 

“And your father? Is that where you get your boring from?” 

“Oh, fuck off.” Shane kicks Ilya’s chair playfully. “He’s normal, okay? He works for the Treasury Board of Canada. And he played hockey for McGill.” 

“Oh, McGill?” Ilya replies with mock sincerity. “What the fuck is a McGill?”

“A school. A good one. He was a beast in hockey.”

Ilya smiles at him, pulling him in for a kiss by cupping the back of his head. “You are cute when you are defending your boringness. I cannot resist.”

“Shut up.” To cover his pleased expression, Shane digs back into his stir fry. 

“You have not told them? About you?” Ilya asks it so casually, but the thought of his parents finding out sends a bolt of panic through Shane’s chest. 

He manages to shake his head. “I mean, I’m sure they’d be okay with it, but- it’s different when it’s your own kid, you know? And then there’s you.”

Ilya’s soft expression changes. “I think you can tell them you are gay without giving them list of men you are fucking.”

“What list?” Shane asks faintly. He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t know how to leave you out of it. You’re…there, right at the center, for me.” He dares to look up from his food and meet Ilya’s eyes. 

Ilya is staring back at him, his blue eyes deep, penetrating. “You are my center, too.”

Dinner - what’s left of it - devolves into kissing, then. After they clean up the kitchen, Shane pulls Ilya into the living room, centered not around a TV but a large fireplace. He shoos Ilya to the couch and gets down on his knees to build them a fire. Ilya immediately disobeys and stands over his shoulder, offering his input, but eventually they get the fire built and they sit next to each other on the couch in pleasant silence except for the crackling wood. 

“So this is Canada, hmm?”

Shane snorts as Ilya’s sarcasm bleeds into the silence. “Yep. Let me guess, boring?”

Ilya is silent for a moment. “Yes, but I do not mind.” He leans into Shane’s shoulder, and Shane can’t help wrapping an arm around his body and pressing a kiss to Ilya’s forehead. 

Beside him on the couch, his phone buzzes, and he takes a quick glance at it before smiling. Rose had sent him a funny selfie of herself in her awful blue makeup; they’re shooting pickups in Toronto over the winter. After he types out a one-handed reply - his other arm still wrapped around Ilya - he tosses his phone back down to the couch, then notices a sour look on Ilya’s face. 

“It was just Rose.” 

If anything, Ilya’s face pinches more. 

“You’re not…jealous, are you? Ilya, I’m gay.” 

“Not so gay you can’t fuck Rose Landry,” Ilya grumbles around his heavy frown. 

“That was once, and it was awful.”

“What do you mean?”

Shane blushes, turning away from Ilya a bit to rub his hands over his face. “It’s just- I didn’t even get hard, okay? Do you know how embarrassing that was? I don’t want to talk about it.” 

If anything, though, Ilya looks pleased, which makes Shane want to roll his eyes. “Was really that awful?”

“Stop looking like you’re happy about what an awful time I had, asshole. I’m fucking gay, yes, so gay I couldn’t fuck Rose Landry. Not all of us get the luxury of liking both.” 

Ilya finally seems to clock the genuine ire in Shane’s voice, and he pulls Shane - who goes reluctantly - into a hug. Ilya’s hands run over his shoulders, his back. “I am sorry,” he murmurs. 

“S’okay. I know you- I mean, I know it’s tough for you too, with Russia being how it is, and- it’s not the trauma Olympics, okay?” Shane laughs, wiping a tear off his eyelashes before it can fall to his cheek. 

“It sucks.” Ilya’s voice is still quiet, barely audible above the crackling of the fire. The Russian burr in it kind of reminds Shane of a fire, actually. 

“It does.”

The lapse into a silence, one where Ilya readjusts to lay down on Shane, his head in Shane’s lap. Shane takes advantage, carding his fingers through Ilya’s unruly curls as they watch the fire. Russia’s still on Shane’s mind, though. “Have you talked to your brother lately?”

Ilya’s head shakes in his lap. “Mm, no.” 

“Is that a good thing?” Shane moves from Ilya’s curls to warming his hand over Ilya’s strong shoulder, providing comfort, hopefully. 

“Probably, I don’t know,” Ilya replies after a moment of silence. 

Shane doesn’t have any siblings, and he’s not sure if he would have wanted them. He’s always been, well, the focus of his parents’ attention. What would it have been like to split that focus? Still. “I’m sorry about your family. Even if they suck, you must miss them. Miss Russia.” 

Ilya trembles a little, even though they’re also both sweating with the heat of the fire. “My mother did not suck. She was great.” 

Shane almost holds his breath. In all of the years he’s known Ilya, Ilya has only ever mentioned his mother once. All Shane knows is that she died when Ilya was young. “How did she die?” he asks softly, hoping he’s not pushing too hard. Ilya’s body stays soft in his arms, so hopefully it had been okay to ask. 

“By accident.”

Shane rubs over Ilya’s shoulder again, all set to offer condolences, do the correct social thing-

“She accidentally swallowed a whole bottle of pills.” 

Shane looks down at Ilya in a dawning sort of horror. All he wants is to engulf the man in his arms, promise nothing will ever hurt him like that again. “How old were you?” he manages after a moment, still trying to digest this new information. 

“Twelve. I found her.”

Tears come to Shane’s eyes again as he thinks of it, imagines himself at twelve, finding his mom dead, realizing what she’d done. It takes his breath for a moment, and he can’t go on. 

“I don’t want you to think she was weak.”

“I don’t,” Shane reassures quickly, though he’s still processing. 

“She wasn’t. She was so funny, and beautiful. She was so sad. And my dad was so hard on her. And-”

There’s a loud popping crack from one of the pieces of wood in the fireplace that startles them both. “Motherfucker-” Ilya whispers, and Shane has to chuckle a little, before he gives Ilya a hug from behind. 

He’s never wanted to murder a ghost before, but if it was possible, he’d murder Ilya’s dad all over again. 

“Do you want to go to bed?”

Ilya shakes his head, staring at the fireplace. “No. Is good here.”

Later, when they’re getting ready for bed, side by side in Shane’s expansive en-suite, Ilya’s eyes linger on his beanie. 

“You wear to bed, too?”

Shane pauses halfway through his skincare routine and meets Ilya’s eyes in the mirror. “No, normally just when I’m around people. I just- it’s ugly, is all.” 

Ilya steps up behind him, wrapping his arms around Shane’s waist and looking at them both in the mirror. “You could never be ugly, дорогой.”

Shane gives him a small smile in the mirror. “Will you finally tell me what that means? Now that we’re being truthful?”

Ilya’s smile back is crooked, endearing. “It means ‘sweetheart.’ Will you take your hat off for me, дорогой?”

Shane’s heart flutters in his chest. He reaches up, sliding off the beanie. His buzzed hair is a couple of centimeters or so long, sticking straight out in places awkwardly because of the hat. The incision scar isn’t that big, but of course it sticks out, because it’s a bald patch amongst his black hair on the right side of his head.

“May I?” Ilya asks, his fingers hovering over Shane’s scalp. 

Shane nods, closing his eyes when Ilya touches the pink scar. It’s still a little sensitive, but it doesn’t hurt anymore. He’d been cleared from physical therapy for his normal training routine right before Christmas. Ilya’s fingers are gentle, though, tracing over the line - both from the surgery and the hit from the baseball - and coming down to cup Shane’s cheek and pull Shane’s face toward him. Shane opens his eyes, letting out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and lets Ilya capture his lips. 

The kiss deepens, Shane turning to meet Ilya’s body, and Ilya crowding him against the bathroom counter. When Ilya pulls back, they’re both breathing hard, and Ilya’s eyes search his. 

“Will you keep it off, for me? When we are alone, дорогой?”

Shane nods, pulling Ilya into a hug. The Russian folds into him completely, a sweet surrender that comforts Shane from the inside out. 

But because Ilya is Ilya and Shane is Shane, the hug turns into something else, slides sideways into foreplay as Ilya’s hands come down to squeeze Shane’s ass and Shane starts to work Ilya’s pajama bottoms down to free his cock. He goes to kneel and do his favorite thing in the world, aka blow Ilya, when Ilya’s hands stop him. 

“Your mouth is wonderful, but I want your hole,” he murmurs, and he makes the dirty words sound sexy when they should be corny. 

Shane nods, eagerly, and lets himself be led back to the bed. Ilya kicks off his pants, then works on undressing Shane, too, before moving him quickly under the covers before they catch a chill. Shane rolls over, grabbing a condom and lube from his bedside drawer, then jumps a little when Ilya smacks his ass. He turns around to glare. 

Ilya holds up his hands in self-defense. “I am sorry, was just supporting my teammate.”

“I’ll support you-” Shane growls nonsensically, tackling Ilya onto his back. They tussle for a few minutes, their cocks hard and leaking as they press skin to skin, before Shane finally ends up on top again. 

“Are you going to ride me again, дорогой?”

“Fuck yes I am.” Shane tosses the condom at Ilya and then reaches back with a couple of lubed fingers to start stretching himself. He’d fingered himself in the shower this morning, getting ready for Ilya, so it’s not a long process, though he may draw it out a little just because of the look on Ilya’s face. 

After a few minutes, where Ilya encourages him verbally while he strokes his condom-covered dick, Shane is ready. He straddles Ilya’s body and sits back, guiding Ilya’s cock into him. Sitting down on it, being slowly and completely filled, is the best feeling in the entire world. He closes his eyes against coming too soon as he leans back and takes Ilya completely inside himself. 

“Shane, дорогой, you are-” Ilya pants, his fingers squeezing into Shane’s thighs. 

Shane rolls his hips, using his thighs to pick himself up and drop himself on Ilya’s cock again and again. His hands come up to his stomach, rubbing over his skin, groaning. “‘M what?”

“Perfect.” The word punches from Ilya as he digs his heels into the mattress and drives up into Shane in tandem with Shane’s drop. Shane groans again, nodding, encouraging Ilya to continue. 

“You are, too. Your fucking cock-“ Shane arches his back and rides Ilya like he’s meant for it, destined for it. 

Ilya’s face morphs into the one when he’s trying to hold back from coming, his cheeks pulled in, his breath panting out, his lips forming an O. Shane grins, squeezing his muscles and riding Ilya’s dick like a fucking dream. 

“Fuck, Shane, fuck-“

Shane reaches down, stroking his cock in tandem with their movements. Ilya’s cock presses right on his prostate and he comes, white stripes of it landing all over Ilya’s spectacular body. Ilya groans and grips his hips tightly and spills over as well.

Shane collapses onto Ilya’s body, trying to burrow himself under Ilya’s skin in some way to satisfy his need to be close. Ilya’s arms wrap around him, as if they want to help. 

His fingers linger over Shane’s hair, brushing over the scar. “You are magnificent,” he murmurs, and Shane shudders and relaxes even further. “Don’t wear the hat, unless you are cold outside, please?”

“Okay,” Shane whispers against his neck. “Okay.”

Shane wakes up in Ilya’s arms, his head pressed to Ilya’s chest. Ilya’s already awake, blinking blearily down at Shane. “I like you,” he says, his voice rough with sleep.

Shane snuggles in further. “I like you, too.”

It’s so soft, so much softer than the hotel room at All Stars - “I don’t think I can pretend I don’t like you anymore.” 

Ilya’s fingers brush over the nape of his neck, and they rearrange to give each other a morning kiss. When Shane pulls back, he runs his fingers through Ilya’s wild mop of slept-on curls, and smiles. 

“I was thinking we could maybe take the Skidoo out today. Maybe pack some lunch, have a picnic out at one of the cross-country skiing camps?”

“Sounds cold.”

“You’re Russian,” Shane points out, deadpan. 

“Mmm, yes. You will keep me warm,” Ilya declares, sounding a hundred percent sure of himself, or maybe of Shane. “Do I get to drive?”

“How about I drive out since I know where I’m going, and you drive us back?”

“Deal.” Ilya holds out his hand to confirm the agreement, and Shane grins as he shakes it. 

It turns out to be a horrible mistake, letting Ilya ride behind him, his body pressed close to Shane’s back like it has many, many times before. At least they’ve got multiple layers between them to fight off the cold, but it’s not doing much to help stop Shane’s impertinent cock from pressing against his snow pants. By the time the reach the skiers’ rest, Shane feels like he’s going to burst out of his skin. 

He dismounts, taking a quick look around to make sure no one is coming in from the surrounding woods, and drags Ilya off the Skidoo. He pushes him up against a nearby, sturdy tree, takes in Ilya’s little whisper of “oh my god” before he’s pressing his lips against Ilya’s. His arms come around Ilya’s neck, moving under his toque to get at his curls as they continue to kiss. 

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya groans against his lips, wrestling him around to back against the tree and dropping to his knees. He somehow makes efficient work out of fishing Shane’s cock out of all of his layers, and Shane only has a moment to think about the cold air against the skin of his dick before the whole thing is engulfed in Ilya’s mouth. He thinks his head back against the trunk, fingers coming down to scrabble for purchase in Ilya’s hat. 

“Oh, fuck, Ilya, fuck, oh my god-“ 

It’s over with distressing speed, Shane pouring down Ilya’s throat as his orgasm overtakes him. Ilya sits back on his haunches, eyes bright, a satisfied grin on his face as he licks his lips and tucks Shane back away. 

“Give me a sec and-”

In the distance, a loon calls, its sound echoing over the nearby frozen lake. 

Ilya straightens up immediately, putting his body in front of Shane’s and pressing him into the tree. “What the fuck was that?!”

Shane blinks at the sudden change in the Russian’s demeanor. “A…loon?”

“What is loon?” Ilya’s accent is thicker, his practiced English grammar lost to panic. 

“It’s a bird, Ilya. Just a bird.”

“Sounds like wolf,” Ilya mutters, still on high alert in front of him. 

With a small laugh of disbelief, Shane takes off his gloves and raises his hands to his mouth, imitating the loon call like his dad had taught him ages ago. Ilya looks at him sharply, his eyebrow raised. 

“Oh, you speak bird now, too?”

“Yep,” Shane says with another small chuckle, before pulling Ilya in for a kiss. His mouth still tastes faintly of Shane’s spend, and it’s fucking hot. “You want me to-”

Surprisingly, Ilya shakes his head. “I am not in mood now. Stupid Canadian wolf bird.”

“Aww,” Shane pouts, before tugging his gloves back on and going to unload the bags on the Skidoo. “Come on, let’s have lunch.”

Ilya gets a fire going in the pit, and they split the sandwiches Shane had packed, along with some veggie chips. Ilya jumps again at the sound of another loon, closer this time, but he’s interrupted in his panic by having to put on his macho Russian front when a couple of skiers come through and talk with them. That in turn causes Shane to panic, but there’s no recognition on either of their faces - that’s the advantage of baseball not being so popular in Canada, Shane supposes. Or maybe they recognize them but they’re being polite about it - the reason Shane and his parents like coming here is because everyone minds their own business. 

When they’re alone again, Ilya relaxes, cuddling up against Shane even though the fire is keep them plenty warm. “I’m a free agent after this coming season,” he says into the snow-quiet, apropos of nothing. 

“Yeah. You thinking of leaving Boston?” It’s unthinkable to Shane. 

Ilya gives a small shrug. “Is good town, good team, and I love them, but…I would really love not to have Russian passport. If I move to Canadian team…”

“You can start the process. You could in America, too, right?”

“Sure, but. Boston and Toronto are many hours apart. Miss-iss-sauga,” Ilya pronounces carefully, showing he’s done some research beyond what’s necessary for media, “and Toronto are neighbors.” 

“We’d still be rivals. Toronto hates the Wolverines.”

“They are rivals in name only,” Ilya sniffs distastefully. “Team is horrible.” 

“So why would you want to move there?”

Ilya looks over at him, emotion in his eyes, and raises one eyebrow. “Because I like you.” 

Shane accepts it with a nod, but then has to look off into the trees. “They need a star catcher. Hell, they need a star anything.”

Ilya shrugs, before reaching to start cleaning up their supplies and dumping snow on the fire. “Is just idea. I could also marry Svetlana. She would do it, help me get American passport.” 

Shane pauses reloading the Skidoo bags to stare at him. “I thought you weren’t with Svetlana.” 

“I love Svetlana, and she loves me. Would not be so bad. She would not mind us having our thing, too.” 

Shane’s hands suddenly feel stiff, and he fists them to try and bring back any sensation. He’s faintly aware that his heart has kicked up speed, too. “But you like girls. I mean, so you could- you could go find a girl you like, to marry.” And stop this thing with me.

Ilya crosses to him, his gloved hands capturing Shane’s when Shane realizes he’s still shaking them. “I could, yes. But I have this problem.” 

“What problem?”

Ilya looks into his eyes as a snowflake falls on one of his lashes. Shane hadn’t even realized it’s starting to snow again. “I like women, yes, and women like me. Everywhere I go, is very easy to find woman to share night with.”

“What an awful problem.”

Ilya shakes his head. “Is not the problem. The problem is, I don’t want them. Because all I want is stupid, slow, Canadian pitcher with a boring car-”

“It’s a normal car,” Shane protests, but the panic is already subsiding, and he finds he can smile.

“And a weak knuckle ball.”

“Weak knuckle ball? Okay, whatever.” 

Ilya’s hand comes up and brushes a snowflake off Shane’s cheek. “He is liar, too. Such a terrible problem.”

Shane swallows against sudden emotion. “And do you want that problem to go away?”

Both of Ilya’s hands are cupping his face now, forcing Shane to look into Ilya’s eyes. “No. I don’t ever want that problem to ever go away,” he whispers, before pulling him in for a kiss. 

Despite the heat between them, the snow starts to fall harder. Shane pulls back, but leans in again to press a kiss to Ilya’s cheek. “Don’t marry Svetlana. We’ll figure something out.” 

Ilya gives him a short nod, before they break apart to pack up the Skidoo and give Ilya a preliminary lesson in driving it before they take off for the cottage - for home, Shane can’t help but think. 

Shane thinks about Ilya’s problem, their problem, for the whole ride back. He thinks about it as they prep and eat dinner, and though he momentarily stops thinking about it when Ilya fucks him into his couch cushions, he thinks about it again as they get ready for bed. Eventually, Ilya is cuddled up beside him, asleep, but Shane can’t sleep, because he’s still thinking. 

He doesn’t even bother checking the alarm clock’s numbers when he flicks his bedside lamp on and shakes Ilya awake. 

“What, what is wrong? Is loon again?” Ilya mumbles, shielding his eyes from the light adorably. 

“I think I have a plan.”

“Hmm?” Ilya looks like he’s going to turn over and fall right back asleep. 

“We have to shift the narrative, right?” 

“Narra-tive? What, Hollander, is too early-”

“The story, Ilya. We aren’t rivals, but we need everyone else to think that, too. So what if we start a charity together? Something we really care about, like mental health. A baseball camp for kids, so something we’re good at, too. Maybe right before spring training, or after October ball, someplace warmer.”

Ilya blinks up at him. 

“It works whether you’re at Boston, or Mississauga, or fuck, I don’t know, if you end up playing for Tampa Bay or some shit. It still works.” 

“You…were thinking of all this instead of sleeping?”

Shane falters, wondering if his idea is actually horrible. “Well, I- uh. Yeah?”

Suddenly Ilya is moving, straddling him and pressing him against the padded headboard and kissing him senseless. “Fuck, Shane, я тебя люблю, I love you-”

Shane gasps out, “Holy shit,” while searching Ilya’s face for any indication he hadn’t actually meant it, which is a mistake because it gives Ilya a chance to doubt, and Shane never wants him to doubt this: “I love you, too.”

“Really?”

“So fucking much, Ilya, oh my god,” he whispers, pulling a crying Ilya down to his chest to cradle him there, hold him safe. “So much. Is it…does it kill you, too?”

Ilya sniffles against his chest, his body completely melted against Shane’s. “Not anymore.”

Chapter End Notes

I'm not ruling out the Hayden call bj in the second chapter, but I liked the narrative fit of the outdoor bj in this chapter.

Chapter 8: Cottage, pt 2

Chapter Summary

The cottage, pt. 2

I wrote this without reheating, so it's more the vibes of the second half of the cottage rather than a replica.

Chapter Notes

Shane holds Ilya against his chest, cradling him like he might one of Hayden’s kids or an injured animal, as the winter sun slowly rises. The days are getting longer now, he thinks, if only by a handful of seconds this close to the equinox. Soon it will be spring, and summer, and that means baseball. That reminder of the renewal to come fills him with a renewed dedication to figuring out how life with Ilya will work. 

“What was her name? Your mother?” Shane murmurs when he sees Ilya is awake and drawing circles on Shane’s chest. 

“Irina.”

“Beautiful.”

Ilya hums, hugging Shane again. 

“We could name the charity after her. The Irina Foundation. My mom can help set everything up-“ He’s cut off by Ilya’s lips pressing against his. 

Ilya pulls back, and cups Shane’s cheeks. “She would have loved you, like I love you.”

“I love you. Teach me in Russian?”

“я тебя любл,” Ilya says carefully, slowly. 

“Ya…tebya…lyublyu,” Shane repeats back. Ilya’s responding smile makes him melt. “Et…je t’aime, mon adoré.”

“Hot.”

“No, you are.”

“Do you really like when I speak Russian?” Ilya looks self-conscious, which just won’t do. 

Shane brushes Ilya’s curls back from his face, then leans in for a quick kiss. “I do. It’s like…your superpower, having to communicate in English all the time for your job, for me. I know English is fucking awful, and yet you’re so good, Ilya.”

Ilya beams, and Shane makes a mental note to praise him, especially for things outside of baseball, more. 

“And you make it sound so pretty. I could listen to you for hours.”

“Wow, you really are…how does Sveta say it…down bad.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Shane says with a laugh, pushing playfully at Ilya’s shoulder. 

Ilya falls back on the bed, mock-wounded and gasping as he covers the spot Shane touches him. “Man down! Man down!”

“You’re such an idiot, god, I love you so much.” Shane chases him to the bed, pressing into him and kissing him, sweetly at first, until it changes shape, becomes more intense. 

“Fuck me, please,” Shane pleads against Ilya’s lips. 

Ilya’s nod is eager. He reaches over to get the lube and condoms from the drawer, but Shane pauses his hand. 

“I know you said the day we got here that it had been awhile…have you been tested since your last…since the last time you were with someone else?”

“Da, yes, of course. All negatives,” Ilya answers readily, meeting Shane’s eyes. 

“Me, too. I mean I haven’t been with anyone else but you since Rose anyway, and that wasn’t penetrative-“

“Shane, if you are going to ask me to fuck you bare, please don’t bring up Rose Landry.”

Shane grins, reaching an arm up around Ilya’s neck to pull him down for a kiss. “Fuck me, Ilya. Without anything in between us.” He kisses him again, then rolls to his side, turning his back to Ilya. “Like this.”

Ilya growls and grabs the lube, pressing kisses all over Shane’s shoulders and back as he scoots in behind him. He pushes Shane’s left leg over a little, exposing his hole. As he continues to suck marks into Shane’s skin - they’re not going anywhere for at least another week, so fuck it - he opens the lube and slicks his fingers up. Shane gasps in pleasure when he feels Ilya’s first tentative strokes there. He shivers, clutching first at his pillow, then at the sheets, searching for a good anchor. His cock is trapped against the bed and leaking; they’ll definitely be washing the sheets after this bout. 

“Oh fuck, Shane,” Ilya groans as he scissors two fingers inside Shane’s hole. Shane knows he’s sucking Ilya up greedily. 

“‘M ready.”

Ilya tsks, blowing a raspberry against Shane’s neck that sends him into a full body shiver. “I want to take my time. I want to watch you fall the fuck apart.”

That makes Shane moan and bury his face in the pillows. Ilya’s fingers feel so fucking good inside him. “Y’re gonna make me come,” he slurs into the fabric. 

“You would not come without my permission, любимый. I know this of you.” 

Shane’s cry half-strangles in his throat, but he turns and looks at Ilya’s face. “What’s that one? That one was different.” 

Ilya’s eyes, which had been firmly looking down at where he’s fucking Shane open with his fingers, meet his with a small jolt, like he hadn’t even realized. “My…I do not know direct translation, but, my love. My only love. My most important thing.”

“Fuck,” Shane says in wonder, before reaching back to tug on Ilya’s body. “Get fucking inside me, now, mon amour.” 

Ilya lets out a little chuckle, but it sounds desperate, and a moment later, his fingers are replaced with the hot head of his cock. “Fuck, Shane. I have never done this, you know.” 

Ilya feels so different, hotter, more there, as he slides in. “Really?” 

“Yes. Just you. Only you.” 

“Fuck, Ilya, fuck me hard.” 

With a rush of breath, Ilya rolls his hips and seats himself fully inside Shane, and they just bask in the feeling, the intimacy of it, for a moment, before Ilya sets a brutal pace. Shane grips into the sheets and drowns his cries in the pillows as Ilya’s hand roams over his hip, gripping there, before playing over his abs and up to tweak a nipple. He can feel Ilya’s panting breath on his skin, feel their sweat mingling. He looks back again, and Ilya’s face- Ilya’s just gone, his eyes unfocused as he works Shane’s body over and over. His face is red and sweaty and he’s quite possibly the most gorgeous being Shane has ever seen. 

“Just like that, Ilya,” he murmurs, encouraging him, then groaning when Ilya speeds up. He feels so fucking delicious inside Shane, Shane wants to die this way, on this cock. This has to be heaven. 

“Are you close? ‘M so close, Rozy.” 

Ilya groans, reaching down to grip Shane’s cock at the base, keep him from coming too soon. It barely works - the second he lets go, Shane’s cock stiffens and spurts all over the sheets, and euphoria washes through Shane as he collapses to the mattress. A moment later, he feels Ilya pulse inside him. He can’t; feel the come, not yet, but still, it feels blazingly hot inside him. Almost as hot as Ilya, murmuring Russian and pressing kisses all over his sweaty nape.

As they lay there in the aftermath, Shane lets out a whoosh of breath, blinking at the light in the room, the sun reflecting off of the snow that had fallen overnight. 

“How did we let this happen?” he asks, half joking, half serious. 

Ilya seems to pick up the mood. “We were young, and stupid. Now we are old and stupid. I would not have it any other way.” 

Shane grins, flipping a little to kiss Ilya’s lips. That causes Ilya’s spent cock to slide out of him, along with some of his cum, and Shane wrinkles his nose. “I love you, and I love that we just shared that, but I don’t think bareback is my deal, at least most of the time. I need a shower. And we need to change the sheets.” His stomach gurgles audibly and he sighs. “And also I guess we need to make food.”

“Big to-do list, yes. We need to add another thing, though.”

“Hmm?” Shane makes the sound as they kiss again. 

“Go outside, play in snow like children. Make snow people, things like that. I have not seen pretty snow like this in years. Snow in Moscow and Boston goes dirty in minutes.” 

Shane nods, smiling. “It does in Toronto, too.” 

Ilya pulls back, smacking Shane’s bare ass. “Go, take shower, I will get started on remaking the bed. We, uh, might need to do laundry? I do not know how many sets of sheets you have, but we’ve already gone through three…”

“We can deal with that today, too, then,” Shane says as he rolls out of bed. He’s filled with the strangest, most wonderful energy, like he can tackle absolutely anything today, with Ilya by his side. 

“What the fuck are you building?” Shane asks a couple of hours later, when he’s rolled a ball of snow around enough for a head for his very traditional three-ball snowman. He’s finally getting a look at what Ilya has sculpted. 

It’s decidedly not a traditional snowman. The sculpture has a set of ginormous, gravity defying breasts, complete with erect nipples, but also an erect cock and huge balls that would make a porn star blush. Ilya stands beside it, bundled up in snow gear, hands on his hips, absolutely beaming. “Is perfect creature for me! Has everything I enjoy. Good ass, too, come over and see. I modeled it off of yours. What are you building? Looks boring.” 

“Fuck off,” Shane says with an incredulous laugh. He turns around to keep sculpting his snowman, when a snowball hits him right in the back. “Oh, I was fucking waiting for you to start shit.” He pulls two snowballs from the stash he’d made while Ilya had been sculpting away, and rapid fires them in Ilya’s direction. They obviously don’t have the same muscle as a fastball, but he is still an MLB pitcher, a Cy Young award winner, and a perfect-game thrower, so Ilya yelps when they hit him on the hip and the chest. He dives behind his perfect snow-being to take cover, and Shane can see he is rapidly putting together some more ammo. 

The snowball fight is childish, and exhilarating, and ends approximately five minutes later with Ilya tackling Shane into the snow and kissing him soundly. Shane’s so caught up in the kiss that he almost doesn’t hear the crunch of boots in the snow coming around from the front of the house. 

“Oh- uh.”

Shane and Ilya both whip towards his dad’s voice, only to see his father hold up his hands in apology and walk rapidly back the way he’d come. 

“Oh my fuck, oh shit-” Shane nearly pushes Ilya off of him to scramble up from the snow and follow, but by the time they untangle themselves, he can hear his dad’s Skidoo pulling back down the driveway. 

“Oh shit, oh my god, Ilya-”

Ilya captures his shoulders, pulling him in for a hug, then pushing back to see his eyes. “Talk to me.” 

Between them, Shane’s hands are shaking, even inside the gloves he’d been using in the snow. “Oh my god, Ilya, this is my nightmare, this is my actual fucking nightmare. They’re going to be so disappointed in me.” 

Ilya takes his shaking hands and holds them against his chest. “Then maybe it is time to wake up, yes? Maybe you go talk to them.” 

Tears are blurring Shane’s vision, or maybe it’s the panic. “I don’t know if I can do that.” 

“Yes you can. You are brave.”

Shane blinks at Ilya, then pulls him into another hug. “Will you come with me?”

“Yes, of course. If you want me, I will go.”

“Of course I want you there.”

“Then, we go.”

“Right.”

“Should I drive? You are…shaky.” 

Shane shakes his head. He needs something to control right now, or he’ll spiral. He goes through the motions of moving the Skidoo out from the garage, then waits for Ilya to get on behind him. True to his thoughts, the drive to his parents’ house is snowy and complicated enough to keep him from panicking too hard. When their house, his childhood vacation home, pulls into view, though, his hands almost shake off of the handles. 

The front door is open, but he has a key anyway; his parents have a key to his place, too. Simple safety procedures. He and Ilya pause in the entryway and shake themselves off, taking off their outer snow layers. Shane winces when he sees Ilya’s wearing one of his old Boston tees and Ilya makes a face back at him. 

“What, they do not know I play for Boston?” he whispers sarcastically.

“Shane, is that you?” his mom’s voice calls. “Your dad said everything was fine at your place, did you actually need something?”

“No, uh-” he pauses as she pulls into view, looking cozy with her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of something, in a fashionable sweatsuit set. 

“Hi,” Ilya says from behind him. 

His dad pulls up behind Yuna, looking flush with embarrassment and apology. “Sorry, son, I know you said to leave you alone. I should’ve…but you hadn’t texted back this morning after last night’s storm and I just wanted to check on you-”

Yuna looks sharply over her shoulder at David, then back at Shane, and then to Ilya, who has come to stand by Shane’s side and offer support. “What’s going on here?”

“This, um. This is Ilya, but you know that. He’s- we’re-”

“Lovers,” Ilya supplies, when Shane falters. 

“No, ew, Ilya, gross. But…I need to tell you guys…that I’m gay, and this…this is Ilya.” 

“But…” Yuna trails off, cocking her head at the two men in front of her. “But you hate him.” 

“No, actually, I really don’t. Not for a long time now.” 

“A long time?” David asks softly, at the same time that Yuna looks down at her mug and mutters, “I need something stronger.” 

In the next few minutes, they’re all sitting around the Hollander dining table with mugs of Irish coffee. Under the table, Ilya’s calf nudges against his, and his food slides up against Shane’s in a show of support. 

Yuna takes a sip of her now fortified coffee and looks at them. “So, how long has this been going on?”

“A long time,” Shane answers. “For years. Since rookie season.” 

“Since rookie season?” Yuna parrots, her eyes wide. 

“Actually, since the autumn before,” Ilya corrects. 

“So this has been serious for a while.”

Both Shane and Ilya protest, before Shane takes one of Ilya’s hands. “But it’s serious now. We’re serious now. I love him.” 

Ilya squeezes Shane’s hand back. “I love him,” he echoes. “He is first, and only, person I have ever loved like this.” 

Shane melts, looking at the seriousness of Ilya’s expression. “Same. You’re my first, and only.”

“I, um- I’ll be back in a moment.” Yuna pushes up from the table and rushes out of the room. 

David looks at them both, wincing. “I really am sorry about interrupting. And about…forcing this whole situation before you- before you were ready for us to know, Shane. I just hope that you know- I know your mom just asked for some time, but I hope you know we love you, so much.” 

Shane can’t keep his eyes off of where his mom, his manager, one of the most important people of his life, had fled. “I’m going to go check on her.” 

David gives him a nod, before turning to Ilya. Shane catches the sentence before he leaves the room: “Son, I’m making pasta for lunch. Do you want to help me put it together in the kitchen?”

“Da, yes, sure,” he hears Ilya reply. 

He finds his mom in her study, looking up at a giant poster of Shane’s baseball card from his rookie season with Toronto. Various promotional materials litter her office here as well as their Toronto home. The sight of her looking up at the larger-than-life, younger version of him, the version of him that had held so much promise, breaks his heart. 

“I’m sorry,” he manages around a sob, and she looks over at him in shock. “I’m sorry, Mom. I tried, I really tried. I tried to be normal and be a good poster-child for the Japanese-Canadian kids out there and- I tried, Mom, I promise.” 

She’s shaking her head before she even gets to him, cupping his cheeks. She’s so much shorter than him, but she can still do that, still get him to meet her eyes this way. “No, Shane. No. You didn’t- you shouldn’t have needed to try, and I’m so, so sorry I made you feel that you had to. You are my child, and your happiness, your ability to be who you want to be, that- that’s the most important thing. I’m so sorry I failed you.”

Something clicks and releases in Shane, something surrounding his heart. He crumples, pulling his mom into his arms and burying his face in her hair. It smells like the shampoo she’s used for decades; like jasmine and softness and home. She’s sobbing against his chest, and squeezing him tightly back. 

Carefully, she maneuvers them to her office couch - a place David often ends up asleep while she works through vacation - and then pulls him down like he’s a child, letting him lay his head in her lap. She brushes her fingers softly over his shaved head as tears continue to fall, years of tears held back for both of them. 

“I’m so sorry, Shane. And I love you so much. And I’m so, so proud of the man that you are. The man that you’ve made yourself in secret. I still love the hidden parts that have nothing to do with how your father and I raised you. You are such a good, good man. A good son.”

“It’s been so hard,” he whispers against her sweatshirt. 

“I don't doubt that.”

“I love you, mom.”

“Thank you, baby.”

“And I…think I forgive you.”

She’s silent for a moment, enough that he has to look up at her. Her face is crumpling. “I don’t know if I deserve that, yet. I promise, though, that I’m going to earn it.” She gives him a watery smile.

They sit like that for a long time, reminding Shane of a time, long ago, when he’d gotten pneumonia over Christmas Break, and she’d spent nearly all of Christmas Day, holding him just like this. Back when he’d been way smaller and she’d been able to hold him against her chest. 

Eventually, David calls that lunch is ready, and he and his mom help each other off of the couch and back to the table. Ilya greets him with a hug, and he looks emotional, too, like he’s holding back his own tears. But they sit down, like they’re a normal family. 

Next to him, Ilya attacks the pasta, but he can’t make himself take a bite yet. He’s still riding out the edge of the panic attack. 

“I’ll send stuff out for the brands right away. I think Nike has done a pride collection before-“

“Yuna-“ David says, a soft warning. 

Shane holds up his hand. “I’m not sure I want to be out to the league, or in public. I’d be- I mean, sure, Scott was first, but look at the press.”

“Scott doesn’t have me as his manager.”

“Still. It’s complicated. We need time. We have a plan, kind of. I wanted your help with that anyway, actually, but if Ilya gets outed while he’s still a Russian citizen…”

Yuna frowns, though Shane can tell it’s at the world at large, at the idea of homophobia even, and not at him. “So what’s the plan?”

“We want to start a charity. Probably a baseball camp somewhere warm before we have to report for spring training.”

“Mental health is important to us,” Ilya adds before taking another monster bite of spaghetti. 

“And Ilya’s a free agent after this upcoming season. He could transfer to the Wolverines, and we could be together.”

“You’d leave Boston?” Yuna asks sharply.

“Mom, he’d be leaving Boston for me.”

“I know, but loyalty is important, Shane.”

“I don’t doubt his loyalty to me at all.” Shane looks at her until she relents, giving Ilya a nod and a smile. 

“I’d love to sit and chat with you both more about this plan at some point. I’d still like to do a thorough audit of our brand deals, just to make sure we are only working with LGBTQIA+-safe brands. I’ll adjust anything that needs adjusting, of course. And I may try to court some new brands, if you’re okay with it-”

Shane nods, but pushes his chair back, setting his head down on the table, his heart racing. “I just need a sec.”

Across the table, he hears his dad inhale, but the next thing he feels is Ilya’s warm hand on his back, rubbing over his hoodie. “You are okay,” he murmurs as he rubs. “Everything is okay. Your family is here, they love you, your boyfriend is here, I love you, it is okay.”

Shane freezes, then looks over, hiding his face partially from his parents for this conversation. “Boyfriend?” he confirms hopefully. 

Ilya gives a small shrug, but smiles. “I think so, yes. Boyfriend.”

Shane smiles back, leaning over and pressing a quick kiss to Ilya’s lips. The pasta sauce tastes good, actually. He straightens, and picks up his fork. 

Across from them, Yuna gives a shake of her head. “Since rookie season.”

“Fall before,” David corrects, squeezing her thigh under the table. 

His dad gives him a long hug as he and Ilya start to put on all their winter gear again. Shane leans into it, taking a breath even while Yuna and Ilya talk about management and investment in the future - he thinks his mom has actually convinced Ilya that she needs to be in charge of his career, as well. Something in his chest beams brightly at watching his parents essentially adopt Ilya immediately into their lives, just because- just because Shane wants them to. And because they can tell that Ilya deserves it, too. 

“I promise I’ll wait for a text back, next time,” David offers with his signature half-smile. 

“That would be appreciated. But, uh, we should have dinner together again sometime this week.” 

David reaches up to ruffle his hair, when he pauses, probably realizing that A, Shane doesn’t have hair to ruffle right now and B, Shane isn’t wearing his beanie with them for the first time in months. He rubs over Shane’s shaved head a second later anyway, smiling. “Love you, kid.” 

“Love you, too.” 

“I am driving, yes?” Ilya asks, zipping up his snow jacket. 

Shane tosses him the keys to the Skidoo. “All yours.” 

“Yuna, David,” Ilya says as a goodbye, pressing a kiss to Yuna’s cheek and accepting a hug from David. 

The sun is near setting as they head back to their place, that kind of golden winter sunset that paints the snow in light and shadow. With a smile, Shane climbs on behind Ilya, waves at his parents, then buries his face in Ilya’s back. He circles his arms around Ilya’s body, and leans fully against him, letting his boyfriend drive him home. 

Chapter End Notes

And there we are! Done! Will I come back and do the long game in this AU? Maybe! I might see what the show does with it first. But, I also have at least one other fic idea for this fandom so it'll be nice to put some attention elsewhere. I hope you've enjoyed it! Thank you! <3