Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Cliff Marlow

Additional Tags:

Stalking, Possessive Ilya Rozanov, Dom Ilya Rozanov, Sub Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander's Freckles, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Good Boy Shane Hollander, Obedient Shane Hollander, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Miscommunication, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Cuddling, Arguing, Yearning, Sweat, Eroticism, Confrontations, kinda gross, Drunk Sex, drunk makeout, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Fluff and Angst, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Fighting, Blood and Violence

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-01 Completed: 2026-02-17 Words: 38,077 Chapters: 15/15

turn around and look at me.

Summary

“I’m bad at keeping my emotions bubbled. You’re good at being perfect. We’re good at being troubled.” - IFHY by Tyler, The Creator

 

OR; Ilya is completely obsessed with Shane and stalks him.

Notes

this is my first fic so go easy on me !!! this is still unfinished, im not sure how many chapters there will be. tags will update as i write more! hope you enjoy :))
i also know nothing about hockey im sure that's obvious but feel free to correct my inaccuracies!

Chapter 1: Chapter One

    December 15, 2011

It had been two weeks since Shane and Ilya last saw each other, two weeks that Ilya Rozanov spent losing his mind. Two weeks he spent obsessively checking his phone every five minutes, thinking maybe he could will a text from Shane if he stared at his screen long and hard enough. Two weeks he spent in a complete and utter mind-fuck, hopelessly wondering if Shane was thinking this hard about him too.

The only thing taking up space in his brain was Shane. Not hockey. Not his dysfunctional family in Russia. Not even himself. Just Shane. Only ever Shane.

Ilya was being driven to madness. They had spent far more time apart than two weeks on several occasions, Ilya had to remind himself to keep his sanity intact. But the last time they were together, something was just different. He could smell it in the air. Different in the way that Shane lifted his gaze and Ilya was met with his big brown eyes. Those big brown doe eyes, Ilya felt like Shane could swallow him whole just by looking at him, and he wouldn't mind. Different in the way they gazed desperately into each other's eyes for just a second too long. Different in the way Ilya’s stomach ached the entire drive home, feeling like his heart had just been ripped out of his chest. At this stage in their “relationship”, both Ilya and Shane knew that whatever was going on between them was more than just fucking, but this time it felt like they had both silently acknowledged it infront of each other instead of hiding it away. Pushing it down so far there's no way it could ever come back up. Ilya paces back and forth in his living room, brushing a hand over his eyes, squeezing them shut. The TV on, playing some random hockey game on mute. He had put it on as a distraction, a distraction that clearly wasn’t serving its purpose. He picks his phone up off the table, his eyes darting to the top of the screen, taking note of the time. 3:34 pm. 3:34 pm and no text from Shane. Complete radio silence. This wasn’t like him. Usually it was Ilya drawing out the conversation. Taking hours, sometimes even days to respond to a single text from Shane. Not because he didn’t want to talk to him, quite the opposite actually. He wanted to talk to Shane too much. So much it made his heart ache and his knees weak. In Ilya’s mind, a lengthy response time would give off the impression that he wasn't as into Shane as he really was. If he was nonchalant enough, Shane would have no reason to suspect that Ilya was pacing back and forth in his Boston home, going completely and utterly insane over Shane fucking Hollander.

Somewhere hidden in the depths of his chest, Ilya was terrified Shane didn't feel the same.

Chapter 2: Chapter Two

    December 18, 2011

3 more days had passed. Ilya was really starting to get worked up, a feeling he didn’t even recognize in himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he let another person crawl under his skin like this, the way Shane had.
It was game night. Montreal vs Boston.
Ilya knew exactly what this meant. If he couldn’t get a response out of Shane over text, he definitely could on the ice. They are rivals, after all.

5 minutes until game time. Ilya was wrapping up his team speech, yelling gutturally about ripping Montreal a new one. He put his helmet on, not bothering to do it up, and led his team out to the ice. His skates hit the ground, feeling the familiar cool rush of the air hitting his face, taking a big, deep breath in.
After spending a few seconds scanning the ice, he sees him. Shane. Standing right next to none other than Hayden Pike, of fucking course. Ilya didn’t hate Hayden, just the way he looked at Shane. And talked to Shane. And touched Shane, but that doesn’t mean he hated the guy.

8 minutes into the first period, Ilya slams Shane into the boards, so hard his ears ring. A sure fire way to get his attention, he thinks to himself. Shane shoves Ilya off of him, Ilya meets his eyes and offers up a wink.

“Fuck off, Rozanov.”

Usually Ilya would’ve already had a snarky come back at the ready, but upon hearing Shane's voice after all this time, he felt like he could just melt into him, right there on the ice, in front of everyone. He skates off before doing something he’ll regret.
First period ends and Ilya and Shane both head to their team benches, heavily dropping into their seats, taking out their mouth guards.

“Montreal looking a bit sloppy tonight huh, Hollander?”

“Shut up, Rozanov, you fucking wish.” Shane scoffs.

Ilya can't help but smile at Shane’s retaliation, giving up trying to chirp at him any longer. He knew his team was losing, not terribly, but losing nonetheless. He didn’t care, just wanted to see Shane’s face light up the way it does whenever Ilya chirps at him. Shane smiles shyly before quickly turning his head to keep his gaze fixed on the ice, remembering it's not just the two of them here, even though he wishes it was.

After a close game, Montreal wins 3-2. The Metros roar, throwing off gloves, tossing sticks and helmets like they mean nothing, crowding around their captain, Shane Hollander.
There's no denying Ilya feels like shit, losing never feels good, but seeing the bright smile on Shane’s face does, and maybe that's all that matters to Ilya right now.
The warm feeling twirling around in his stomach lasts all of about 5 seconds. There he is. Hayden fucking Pike. Arm wrapped around Shane, pulling him close before planting a celebratory kiss on his temple. Ilya knew Shane and Hayden were best friends, but that didn’t make his jealousy any less intense. In fact, it made it worse.
Ilya feels his fists clench in his gloves. He has to get out of here, he can’t bear to look at this for one second longer, he feels like eyes might actually just pop out of his head with rage.
He makes it home, carelessly dropping his bags at the front door, taking off his shoes and walking straight to the kitchen. He pours himself a short glass of vodka and takes it to the couch. He drops down on the couch with a sigh, slowly sipping his vodka. He feels a buzz on his thigh. His heart sinks to the bottom of his stomach, feeling a bead of sweat forming on his forehead, quickly wiping it away before it can slither down his cheek. He digs his phone out of his pocket, the blue glow lighting up his face.

Jane
Good game tonight. Sorry for kicking your ass.

Lily
Is fine. I’ll make sure I get you back for this.

Jane
You fucking wish.
You coming to the club tonight? JJ and Hayden are practically begging me to go.

Lily
I don’t know. Think I’m going to stay in tonight.

Jane
Ilya Rozanov staying in? Unheard of.

Ilya scoffs and sets his phone down back on the table, letting out a sigh of relief. He gets up off the couch and heads to the front door, slipping into his shoes and jacket, grabbing his keys and heading out.

He’s gotten used to following Shane around everywhere. At first it scared him. It scared him that he could be so obsessed with Shane to the point of stalking him, unnerved by the depth of his own feelings. Now it feels like a game. Quietly lurking behind Shane, following him home from games, standing across the street while Shane went to the gym, watching him wipe the sweat off his face with a towel. It was thrilling. He loved knowing he had this power and control over Shane, even if Shane himself had no idea.
He sat down in his car, typing the address of the club into his GPS. With his black hoodie up and sunglasses on, he parked on the street opposite of the club, ensuring no one would see him, considering he was supposed to be staying in tonight.

10 minutes pass and then he sees him. Shane. Wearing a black sweater and pants, Ilya mindlessly bites his lip at the sight of him, already starting to lose control.
He spots Hayden and JJ too, but that's not what he cares about right now. His eyes are only on Shane. He watches as the three men disappear into the club, his pulse racing thinking about what they could possibly get into once inside.

Another 10 minutes pass and his stomach is spinning in circles, worrying himself sick over every single scenario that could be happening inside that club. After anxiously fidgeting with the steering wheel, he decides he can't stay in the car any longer. He mutters under his breath in Russian as his fights with the seatbelt to get him out of this fucking car.
He puts his hood up, fists tightly clenched inside his coat pockets, grinding his teeth.
He finds a seat at the end of the bar, close enough to the exit, and close enough to watch Shane Hollander’s every move. He scans the room for a few short minutes before his eyes finally land on his target. He sees Shane, the blue and purple spotlights reflecting off of his black hair, making his skin sparkle and his eyes glow. Ilya thinks to himself how fucking good Shane looks like this. How badly he wants to pull him by the arm out of this club, take him home and show him Ilya is the only man he will ever need. He shakes the thought out of his head.
After the longest 30 minutes of his life, he watches as Shane finally leaves the club, alone (thank God). Now he can go home.

Chapter 3: Chapter Three

    December 21, 2011
The warm orange glow of the sun poured into Ilya’s room, drenching his walls in tones of yellow and red. He blinks his eyes open before rubbing them with the backs of his fists, digging in his knuckles ever so slightly. He rolls over and grabs his phone from the nightstand, pulling the charger out of it with his teeth. He sees a message notification. His heart skips a beat.

Jane
Wanna meet up later since we have a day off?

His stomach turns. Three fucking weeks he’s been waiting for this text. But Shane can’t know that. He has to play it cool. Dont fuck this up he thinks to himself.

Lily
You miss me that bad, Hollander?

Jane
Nevermind, asshole.

Lily
I’ll have to see if I can fit that in my schedule.
I am very busy man, Hollander.

Jane
Shut up, Rozanov. You know you wanna come over.

Lily
Fine. I’ll be there in 20.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, feeling warm streams flow through his body, twirling around his heart and dipping down into his stomach . He packs his duffle bag as he always does, gets in the car and drives over.

He approaches Shane’s hotel room, and briefly considers knocking before remembering Shane probably left it unlocked for him. He tugs on the door handle and it opens, just like he knew it would.
And there he is, Shane, laying lazily back on the bed, the TV remote resting on his chest, his eyes darting to Ilya the second he walks in.

“Hi.” Shane says awkwardly, like he says most things.

“Hey.” Ilya purrs, dropping his bag and slowly stepping towards Shane.

Shane lifts himself off the bed by his arms, now standing face-to-face with Ilya. They're standing so close Ilya can feel Shane’s short and fast breaths on his cheeks. He’s nervous. Ilya extends an arm, wrapping his hand around Shane’s elbow, drawing him in closer. Shane’s entire body softens at the touch, whatever nerves he was holding onto simply floating away the second Ilya touches him. Ilya takes Shane’s jaw in between his fingers, forcing him to lift his head and meet Ilya’s gaze. He pulls his face in closer and their mouths crash together. Slow. Deep. Passionate. Saying everything and nothing all at once. This wasn’t their usual kiss. There was something deeper stewing under the surface, spilling out of their mouths into each other. Ilya pulls back.

“On your knees, Hollander.” he mutters, his voice low and gravelly.
Without missing a beat, Shane lowers himself down onto the ground. Shane loves doing what Ilya tells him to do, and Ilya loves telling Shane what to do. He loves watching Shane’s eyes gloss over whenever he offers his praise, stroking Shane’s hair, calling him his good boy.
Shane looks up at Ilya from the ground, before reaching his hands up to undo his belt buckle. Ilya swats his hand away and undoes his belt, pulling it completely out of his jeans and tossing it on the floor somewhere behind him.

“Fuck, Hollander,” He breathes, “always such a good boy for me, hm?”

He watches as Shane cracks a smile upon hearing that, a smile he seemingly cannot control, not that he can control much at this point in time. His brain slowly turning to mush every time Ilya barks a command at him.
Shane tugs Ilya’s boxers down before closing his mouth around him.

“Da, like that, Hollander. Such a good boy for me, hm?”

Shane looks up, nodding with his mouth still wrapped around Ilya.
Ilya buries his hand in Shane's hair, before using it to pull him up, grabbing his face and pulling him into a deep kiss, tasting himself on Shane’s tongue.

“You want me to fuck you now, Hollander?” he coos.

“Fuck, yes.”

“I think you’re forgetting something.” Ilya says, voice taunting.

“Please. Yes, please.” Shane says, completely breathless already.

“That's my good boy, now take off your clothes.”

Shane nods, immediately doing as he’s told, he only wants to be good for Ilya. Wants to show him how good he can be. Ilya takes off his clothes, or what's left of them anyway.
He crawls onto the bed, lowering himself over Shane, their breath brushing each other's cheeks.

“You’re so perfect.” Ilya mutters, watching as Shane’s cheeks flush a deep, berry pink. The flush lighting up the freckles on his cheeks, scattered across his face like stars in a galaxy. Ilya had always loved Shane’s freckles, since the day they met. It was the first thing he ever noticed about him. He brushes a thumb over them before leaning down to kiss Shane. The kiss is deep. Hard. Hungry. The type of hunger you feel after starving for months. Ilya felt like a predator finally catching his prey, and Shane was perfectly content being Ilya’s prey.
Ilya pulls away and uses his hands to push Shane’s thighs apart, slowly pressing himself into him.

“Fuck, Rozanov.” Shane whimpers.

“Did you miss me, my pretty boy?” Ilya asks.

Shane looks up at him and nods, fast and continuously. His eyes are red and glossed over, the dim light of the hotel lamp reflecting off them, making them sparkle. Ilya thinks to himself how beautiful Shane looks like this, underneath him, a complete mess, coming apart at Ilya’s touch.

“Use your words.” Ilya softly demands.

“I-fuck. I missed you.” Shane says, tripping over his words, completely lost in pleasure.

Ilya growls, picking up his pace, slamming into Shane faster and harder. Their skin slams together, a sharp, stinging, searing hot pain each time Ilya’s hips meet the backs of Shane’s thighs, but Shane doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind the pain as long as Ilyas the one inflicting it. He wouldn’t mind if it left a mark, he thinks to himself.
Ilya lifts up his head, grabbing Shane’s jaw in his hand, fingers digging into his cheeks.

“Fuck, Hollander. Are you?” Ilya can’t finish his sentence before Shane answers.

“Mhm. Fuck, yes.”

“That's my good boy.”

Shane releases with a breathless moan, his legs wrapping around Ilya’s hips, squeezing tightly.

“Trying to baby-trap me, Hollander?” Ilya teases.

“Fuck you, Rozanov.” Shane chuckles.

After what felt like hours of them laying together on the bed, skin on skin, sweat gliding off of them and soaking into the sheets, Ilya plants a kiss on Shane's pink, swollen lips, and stands up. 

“Where are you going?” Shane asks, voice barely above a whisper, desperation lurking in his tone. Ilya chuckles. 

“I have to go, Hollander,” he says, a smile creeping up on his mouth, “you have early game tomorrow, remember?” Shane blinks. 

“Wait, how do you know that?” he asks. 

Fuck. Ilya’s brain scrambles, desperately searching for a response that won't say ‘Oh nothing I just stalk your every move and know every game you’re playing at all times!’ He decides to take advantage of Shane’s half-asleep state of mind.

“You told me, Hollander. What, you don’t remember? Did I fuck you that hard?” 

“Hmph.” Shane responds, his eyes closed and head buried in the pillow, not at all realizing that this conversation Ilya speaks of never happened, but he was too tired and too happy to care. 

Chapter 4: Chapter Four

    December 22, 2011 

Ilya woke up alone, in his own bed, gently caressing the empty spot next to him, wishing Shane were here to fill it. He opens his eyes only to immediately squeeze them shut, the radiant sun beaming into his room, slipping through the cracks of the blinds, and blinding Ilya in the process. He rubs a hand over his face, his eyes finally adjusting to the light. He twists his body and grabs his phone off the nightstand, glancing at the date. December 22, game day. 

For Shane, of course, not Ilya. For Ilya, today's a day off. A day off he’ll spend sneaking around, following Shane, quietly trailing behind him in the shadows, watching his every move, dying just to hear whispers of his voice floating through the air. 

He arrives at the arena a few minutes earlier than he needs to, knowing Shane will of course be there early too. 

Shane arrives, right on time. He watches as he unloads his gear out of the car, slinging his gear bag over his shoulder. Ilya thinks to himself he wishes he could run over and help Shane carry all his shit, he shouldn’t have to handle it all by himself. Shane slowly disappears into the area, the clear glass doors closing behind him, and Ilya not far off. 

He puts up his hood and slides on his sunglasses, sneaking around the arena, looking back behind his shoulder to make sure no one knows he's here. He makes his way up to the seats, sitting down as far away as possible from the rink, surely no one would see him up here. He digs his phone out of his pocket and checks the time. The game should be starting any minute now. 

He silently observes as the Metros pour out onto the ice, one after another. And then, there he is. Number 24, Shane Hollander, with the brightest smile known to man strung across his face. His cheeks are already pink, illuminating his freckles, Ilya could spot those freckles from miles away. He feels his stomach turn upside down just at the sight of Shane, his face growing hot, his ears burning. 

The game is boring, but the Metros are winning and Shane has his game face on. Cold, stoic, completely unreadable. Ilya always loved the way Shane looked when he was completely locked into hockey, nothing else in the world mattering to him in the moment. 

The buzzer blares and the game is over, Montreal taking the win. Again. Ilya watches as Shane’s entire face lights up, his eyes glowing, his smile reaching all the way up to his ears. He looks so beautiful, here, in his element. Ilya wishes he could grab him and kiss him in front of all these people, right there on the ice. Show everyone how well taken care of Shane Hollander is. How well Ilya takes care of Shane. Ilya shakes his head, brushing away the thought. Once Shane is no longer on the ice, he decides he can leave. 

Once at home, Ilya turns the TV on and slumps down on the couch. To his surprise, his phone buzzes. He blinks, pausing before reaching into the pocket of his black sweatpants to pull it out. He holds it up in front of his face and sees one new message notification. 

Jane

Were you at the game today?

His heart is racing. Fuck. How did he see? Ilya was so careful, there was no way Shane, or anyone else for that matter, saw him. He fiddles with his thumbs as he tries to think up a response that wont completely blow his cover. 

Lily

You think I want to spend my day off watching Metros lose? 

Jane

Fuck off, Rozanov. 

We won actually, asshole. 

Lily

Oh did you? 

Maybe I should reward you for your big win, Hollander. 

Ilya watches his screen as the three dots appear and reappear several times before Shane settles on a response. 

Jane

I have a free day tomorrow, wanna meet up tonight?

Lily

Of course I do. 

The response was vulnerable. Heavy. Usually, he would have something sarcastic to say that would still tell Shane he did in fact want to meet up tonight without having to actually say it, but this was all he could muster. He was feeling flustered after almost being found out, he needed to divert the attention onto something else, which he feels he did rather successfully. He gets up off the couch and cleans up a little. If Shane wasn’t coming over, Ilya would feel absolutely no need to clean. But with Shane being the uptight neat freak he is, Ilya likes to do it. For him. For Shane. Anything to make him feel just a little more at ease. 

The high pitched ring of the doorbell echoes throughout the house. Shane’s here. He should know by now he doesn’t need to knock or ring the doorbell, but he does anyway, careful and polite as always. 

Ilya scurries to the door, opening it to see Shane’s soft, warm face, a faint smile beginning to grow the moment he meets Ilya’s gaze. 

“Its so clean in here,” Shane says, stepping inside, scanning the house. “Did you… did you clean for me, Rozanov?”

“Of course not.” Ilya says, expression unreadable, looking down at his feet. 

“Right, of course.” Shane chuckles. 

Ilya walks up behind Shane, pressing a soft kiss to the back of his head before leading him to the bedroom by his arm. He loves to lead Shane around, knowing Shane would follow him to the end of the earth, but for now, he’ll lead him around the house. 

Ilya walks in first, situating himself at the end of bed while Shane stands awkwardly in the doorway, like he always does. 

“You played very well today, Hollander.” Ilya says, breaking the silence. 

He didn’t mean to say it. It just slipped out. The words fell out of his mouth like it was just another praise, intended to make Shane soften, to make him abandon any tension or worry he had been storing in his body. Ilya starts to panic, thinking there's no way he can come back from this one, no way he can charm his way out of this. He waits. 

“So you WERE there. I knew you were!” Shane says through a smile. 

“Okay. Maybe I was. I didn’t want anyone to recognize me.”

“Did you come to watch me, Rozanov?” Shane asks, trying to pry Ilya open with his words. 

“No. Maybe.” 

Shane raises an eyebrow, he knows Ilya is lying through his teeth right now. He laughs softly. 

“You totally did. I can always tell when you’re lying.” 

“Okay fine, I did. I was… bored. Day off. Nothing to do. Figured it would be funny to watch you lose.” Ilya finally admits, staring at the floor, internally too embarrassed to lift his gaze to meet Shane’s. 

“Except we won.” Shane responds. Ilya scoffs and rolls his eyes. 

“Get over here.” Ilya softly demands, finally lifting his head up to look at Shane, ready to be done with this conversation.

Shane obeys, takes his jacket off, and carefully folds it and sets it down on the chair before stepping towards Ilya on the bed. Ilya reaches his hands out, planting them firmly on Shane’s hips, anchoring him. Shane’s head falls backwards at the touch, his eyes softly closing before letting out a sigh of relief. He lets his hands fall onto Ilya’s shoulders. Ilya pulls Shane closer. Shane takes the hint and sits on his lap, straddling him. Ilya removes one hand from Shane’s waist to grab his jaw, pulling their faces closer together until their foreheads meet. He pulls Shane into a kiss. Soft. Slow. Deep. Shane presses his face in deeper, getting so close Ilya doesn't know where he ends and Shane begins. They melt into each other. Ilya slowly reclines until he is laying on the bed. Never letting go of Shane, keeping him steady overtop of him. 

“Please touch me, Rozanov.” Shane whispers, voice laced with desperation. 

Ilya’s brows furrow, a look of almost despair on his face, his eyelids heavy. He hums. 

“Such a good boy asking for what you want, Hollander. I give you whatever you want, my sweet boy.” He mutters into Shane’s ear, fingers running through his hair, tugging a little. Shane whimpers at the pull on his scalp. 

Shane lifts himself off of Ilya, laying back on the bed, Ilya now being the one on top of him. He watches as Ilya runs his hands all over him, wherever he wants, before he reaches for the button on Shane’s jeans, looking up at Shane with an expression that says ‘Can i?’ Shane nods. Ilya lowers his gaze back to the shiny silver button, tenderly undoing them. He takes Shane’s pants off with one swift tug and tosses them on the floor, somewhere. Shane lets his hand wander until it finds Ilya’s head, planting his fingers in his soft blonde curls. Ilya palms Shane through his boxers for just a few seconds before he's interrupted by the familiar sound of Shane’s whimper. 

“Can you put your mouth on it? Please?” Shane asks, brows furrowed, eyes glossy and dark, tears pooling at the edges, threatening to spill out at any moment. 

Ilya grins. His eyes dark and menacing. 

“Anything for you, baby.” Ilya coos. 

He wastes no time, planting a kiss just above the waist of Shane’s boxers before tugging them off, Shane’s hips wiggling out of them. Shane hides his face under his arms, already overwhelmed at the mere thought of Ilya’s mouth on him. Ilya breathes on Shane for a moment before taking all of him in his mouth, sucking slowly. Gently. Tenderly and lovingly. Shane arches his back before letting out a soft, quiet, desperate moan. 

“Holy shit, Rozanov. That's so good. Please don't stop.” He manages to say, voice barely coming out. 

Ilya doesn’t stop. Sucking faster now, taking every inch of Shane. He reaches an arm up, wrapping his hand around Shane’s right hip, gripping hard. Hard enough to bruise. He hopes to himself that it does. Ilya always loved the thought of leaving marks all over Shane. Showing everyone that Shane belongs to him. To Ilya. Shane’s hips raise high up in the air, shoving himself deeper into Ilya’s mouth. Ilya knows he's close, and that makes him throb, drooling all over Shane. 

“Fuck g- get off, Rozanov I- I- I’m gonna-” 

But Ilya doesn’t budge. He doesn’t care. He wants Shane to come in his mouth. Wants to swallow every last drop of him. Wants to have Shane crawling around inside his body, twisting around his insides. Shane grips tighter onto Ilya’s curls, emptying into his mouth, his hips finally relaxing, lowering back down on the bed. Ilya slaps the outside of Shane’s thigh twice, leaving a tender, light pink mark. He smiles at the sight of it, biting his lip. He feels himself grow harder. 

“Why did you?” Shane asks, eyes still not open, his breath hitched. 

“I wanted to. You taste so good, baby.” Ilya purrs, running the back of his hand along Shane’s cheek. Along his freckles, sitting brightly against his flushed pink cheeks. Ilya gently pulls Shane’s lips into his, kissing him stupid. Shane pulls back first, their eyes meet. Ilya stares into his glossy, sparkling eyes. Not saying anything, taking full advantage of the moment. His heart aches. He wants to swim in the golden pools of Shane’s eyes. Fuck, he wouldn’t mind drowning in them. Shane breaks the silence first. 

“I want you inside me, Rozanov. P-please.” he finally says, his face hot, his eyes barely open. 

Ilya’s eyes widen. He’s never heard Shane sound this desperate before. He feels himself falling apart over the sound of his voice.   

“Good boy, asking so nicely,” he says, voice low and dark. “Get on your stomach, Hollander.”

Shane does as he's told. He rolls over onto his stomach, running his fingers through the sheets, his brain already slipping out of his head upon hearing Ilya’s praise. Ilya hums at the sight of Shane, face down, laying in the wrinkled sheets of his bed. He looks like a painting, Ilya thinks to himself. He mentally takes a picture, not wanting to ever forget this moment. Shane looks his most beautiful when he's doing what Ilya says. 

Ilya gently plants his hand on the back of Shane’s shoulder, lazily sliding it down his back, squeezing at his hips once he reaches them. 

He kneels at Shane, sliding on a condom before bracing himself on him, using Shane’s hip to hold himself up.  

“Ready?” Ilya asks, checking in like he always does, making sure Shane stays comfortable and safe. 

“Yes. Put it in, Rozanov. Please.” Shane says, breathless. 

“Okay, baby.” 

Upon hearing the confirmation he needed, Ilya slides himself into Shane. Slow and throbbing. He starts with slow, gentle thrusts, pushing in all the way, and pulling all the way out. He keeps this rhythm. 

“Holy shit, Rozy.” Shane cries out. 

“You feel so good, my perfect boy.” Ilya growls, picking up the pace now. 

Shane buries his face into the bed, his knuckles white as he grips the sheets between his fingers, needing something to ground him in this moment. Ilya reaches both arms forward, grabbing at Shane’s wrists. He uses all his strength to pull Shane up by his wrists, his back now flat against Ilya’s chest. He wraps one arm around his torso, keeping him close, as his other hand finds its way to Shane’s throat, gently grazing over it. 

Shane places his hand over Ilya’s, squeezing Ilya’s hand over his throat. Ilya understands and squeezes, not too hard, not too soft either. Just enough pressure to make Shane’s brain go all soft and mushy. Shane surrenders to the touch and lets his eyes fall shut. 

“Thats it. Doing so good for me, Hollander.” 

“Fuck, Rozanov. You feel so good.” Shane whimpers. 

Shane’s entire body goes soft against Ilya’s. 

“I-I can't hold myself up. Don't let go of me, Ilya.” 

There it was. Ilya. They had been doing this for a few years. They were comfortable with each other, knew the ins and outs of each other's bodies, but not once did they ever use first names. It was too intimate. They both knew that. Ilya’s head falls forward, resting in the crook of Shane’s shoulder. He feels his stomach flutter. This must be what butterflies feel like, he thinks to himself. 

“I won't let you go, baby. I’ve got you, Shane.” 

“Fuck.” Shane cries. His head falling forward, eyes remaining closed. 

Ilya places a hand on the small of Shane’s back, gently guiding him back down to the bed, letting him rest there. He pumps faster now. Skin slapping against skin. Their sweat mixing together. 

“Fuck, Rozy I-I think I’m gonna-” 

“Fuck, yes. Come for me baby, I’ve got you.” 

Shane clenches his fist, coming undone around Ilya. Ilya slows down, thrusting into Shane gently a few more times before pulling out. Shane moans and fully sinks into the mattress, Ilya grabs his face, forcing Shane to look up at him. 

“You did so good, Shane.” 

It was a risk, calling Shane by his first name again, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted to be intimate. Personal. Close. He wanted Shane to know he sees him. 

Shane lifts his chin, his lips meeting Ilya’s pulling him into a deep kiss. Shane and Ilya were both awful at verbally communicating their feelings. Sex was their way of talking, kissing was a language. Shane kissing Ilya in this moment is his way of saying ‘Hey, it's okay. I liked it. Keep doing it.’ 

Ilya lets himself get lost in the kiss, he understands exactly what Shane is telling him. He wraps a hand around the back of Shane’s head, pulling him impossibly close. He just wants to live in his skin. 

Shane pulls away, adjusting himself so he can rest his head on Ilya’s soft and tender chest. Ilya rests his hand on Shane’s head, gently running his fingers through his hair. 

“C-can I ask you something?” Shane asks, lifting his head up to look Ilya in the eyes, his expression uneasy. 

“Of course.” Ilya replies. 

“Why did you really come to my game?” 

Ilya looks up at the ceiling, unsure of how to respond. 

“I like to follow you around.” He says matter of factly. 

“Fuck off, Rozanov. I'm being serious.” Shane chuckles.

“I am too, Hollander. I like to follow you.” 

“Are you serious?” Shane asks, not believing what he’s hearing. 

“Yes. very. I just like to know what you are doing, okay? God.” Ilya says, rolling his eyes, saying it like it's truly no big deal that he's literally stalking Shane. There's a few moments of silence, and Ilya’s heart begins to race, unable to read what's going through Shane’s head. 

“Wow, okay… that's kinda hot, actually.” Shane says, a smile tugging at the corner of his lip. 

“Oh yeah?” Ilya purrs. He's already hard again. 

“Yeah. Almost as hot as hearing you say my name.” Shane says, not sounding sure of himself, but putting himself out there regardless. 

“I like hearing you say my name, too, Shane.” Now he’s doing it on purpose, knowing it works him up. 

He tilts his chin down and kisses Shane tenderly on the forehead. His stomach finally unclenching, his gaze softening. Shane hums against his touch, nuzzling himself even closer to Ilya. 

“I will shower now, okay? You stay here baby.” Ilya says, pulling his arm out from underneath Shane’s neck. 

“Mhm.” Shane hums, completely unable to suppress his smile. He lay there, in pure bliss, in Ilya’s bed. He can't think of anywhere in the world he’d rather be right now.

He lets himself drift away, the sound of the shower lulling him to sleep. 

Inside the bathroom, Ilya stands under the spray of the water, hot enough to make his skin blister. He shutters. That was really fucking intimate, he thinks. As Shane lay in his bed, falling asleep without a care in the world, Ilya stands still in the shower, mentally unravelling over what just happened. Was that too much? Did I scare him away? What do we do now? All he can do is think. One thought after the other, each one louder and more aggressive than the last. 

After a few minutes, he turns off the water and steps out. He grabs his towel and haphazardly wraps it around himself. He approaches the counter and stares at himself in the mirror, zoning out, his eyes not necessarily focusing on anything. His mind goes completely blank, for once. He snaps himself out of it, remember Shane fucking Hollander is laying in his bed right now. He promptly leaves the bathroom and steps back out into the cool bedroom. 

His eyes find Shane, eyes shut, a faint smile on his face even while he’s sleeping. The sight of it alone is enough to untie the knots formed in Ilya’s stomach. Maybe everything will be okay afterall. He plops down on the bed next to Shane, running his thumb over his cheeks, brushing past his freckles. 

“Hey, Shane. Are you okay?” He asks, voice barely above a whisper, his tone tender and gentle. He lays a kiss on Shane’s forehead, waking him out of his sleep. 

“I’m okay, Ilya. Just tired. I should probably head back to the hotel, right?” 

Ilya’s heart sinks. He doesn’t want Shane to go, but he doesn’t want him to think he's crazy and clingy either. He swallows. 

“Yes, right.” He says, forcing a smile, making sure Shane still feels safe. 

Shane lifts his head up and kisses Ilya, his hands finding their way to Ilya’s jaw, gripping firmly, keeping him there. He pulls away and gets up out of bed, collecting his clothes from around the room and dressing himself. Ilya gets up and leads Shane to the front door, his heart is weeping. They stare at each other for a moment there, at the door, making it silently known neither of them want to leave one another. Ilya leans in and kisses Shane on the forehead. 

“Goodnight, Shane.” He lets out. 

“Goodnight, Ilya.” Shane smiles, turning around and walking out the door, Ilya softly shutting it behind him, barely making a noise. 

Chapter 5: Chapter Five

Chapter Summary

i played around with the pov a little in this one, idk if it works or not lmfao

December 29, 2011.

Ilya and the rest of his team had flown out to Montreal the night of the 28th. When Ilya checked into the hotel, he was delighted to find out he wouldn’t have to share a room with any of his teammates, which sparked an idea or two in his mind. 

Tonight Boston will play against Montreal. Shane Hollander versus Ilya Rozanov. Ilya was nervous, which was completely unlike him. He spent the morning pacing around his hotel room, walking back and forth in the kitchenette, pouring himself a glass of water every 5 minutes and downing it in 5 seconds, attempting to take his mind off the impending game. 

It had been a week since he and Shane last saw each other, they hadn’t talked since then, either. Shane did text Ilya, but Ilya wasn’t responding. He was scared. His own feelings freaked him out and now he didn’t have a clue what he was supposed to do next. The last time they saw each other, they reached a level of intimacy neither of them dared to play with before. But now their relationship was different. They were closer, even though Ilya was pushing himself further and further away. He was terrified.

Did he show Shane too much of himself? He had never shown that side of him to anyone before. He felt sick at the thought that Shane wouldn’t like this side of Ilya. The soft side. The gentle, tender, loving side. He was supposed to be strong. Intense. Intimidating. And he let it slip in front of Shane. He didn’t mean to. What was he supposed to do now?

With none of his distractions working, he decides to get in the shower, despite the fact that he was about to get all sweaty and gross, and would have to shower again. He just needed to move, needed to do something that wasn’t just pacing around thinking about Shane. Thinking about if he fucked everything up, if Shane even wanted anything to do with Ilya anymore. He stands under the freezing water, one hand on the wall, keeping himself grounded. The water is so cold it feels like millions of tiny needles driving themselves into his skin, but at least he wasn't thinking about Shane anymore. 

After about 20 minutes of idly standing under the stream, he shuts the water off and steps out, coming back to reality. He walks out of the bathroom and drops onto the bed, burying his face in his hands. He could try to shove Shane out of his mind all he wanted here, alone, in his hotel room, but it's no use, as just a few hours from now he would be sharing the ice with him. Forced to look at him. To communicate without using words. Forced to face whatever fear was growing bigger in his stomach, creeping up into his chest, rendering him breathless. 

To prepare himself for the game tonight, for having to see Shane tonight, he decides to do the most logical thing he can think of. He’s gonna watch Shane practice. Because that makes sense. 

He quickly gets dressed, throwing on whatever clothes he threw on the floor the night before, and heads out the door. 

Once inside the arena, he heads for the seats, choosing one in the highest row where Shane wouldn’t see him, and even if he did, wouldn’t know it was Ilya. 

Ilya loved to watch Shane. Loved to watch him especially when he didn’t know he was being watched. He loved seeing how Shane acted when he wasn’t performing, when he was just being Shane, that's when Ilya admired him the most. He liked to keep tabs on him. When he couldn’t be with Shane, he was still with him. Sometimes he followed him to afterparties, watching him dance awkwardly under pink and blue strobe lights. Sometimes he followed him home after games, making sure he was alone, and not bringing anyone back to his house. Ilya wanted to be the only one lucky enough to get inside Shane Hollander’s house, and as far as he’s concerned, he is. Shane is a good boy, Ilya has learned over months of watching him. He really has no reason to stalk him anymore, he knows how boring Shane is, he's not bringing anyone back home or to his hotel rooms, unless it's Ilya. But, regardless, he still wanted to. Wanted to be able to catch a glimpse of Shane’s face whenever he pleased, even if from behind a street lamp on a dark night. 

There he sat, watching Shane practice. It didn’t settle anything in his stomach. In fact, it was making his stomach burn, but he didn’t care. He just needed to see Shane, his face glistening with sweat, beads dripping down his soft pink cheeks. Ilya felt himself start to smile. God, he couldn’t fucking stand it. He didn’t understand any of these feelings, couldn’t grasp why Shane was making him feel this way; sad, happy, anxious, worried, sick, confused, angry. That was all he could handle of the practice, deciding its time to head back to his hotel room and prepare for his own fucking hockey game, he stands up and walks away. 

Shane sees something moving in his peripherals. He glances up to get a better look, and sees him. Ilya. Hood up, hands in his coat pockets, walking away from the seats. He might not be able to see his face, but he knows it's Ilya. His heart aches a little at the sight of him. He could sit there and watch his practice but not answer a single text? Shane didn’t understand, he feels his eyes begin to burn, his vision getting blurry with tears. He snaps himself out of it, returning to the practice. 

Back at the hotel, Ilya slumps down on the bed. He grabs the remote and turns on the TV, he needs to hear something that isn't the dull hum of the AC, it was beginning to drive him even more insane. He looks around the room, rubbing his forehead with his palm. He has no idea what to do with himself. No idea where to put his hands. No idea where to rest his gaze. He slaps himself on the cheek. He’s about to have his own practice, too. His entire team is depending on him, he can’t fall short because Shane Hollander is completely fucking him up. Focus, he thinks to himself. 

He heads out for Boston’s practice. In the change room, he’s completely silent. Which is totally out of character, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. Marlow walks up to him and pats him on the shoulder. 

“Real quiet today, Roz.” He says, the slightest hint of concern in his voice. 

“Just focused.” Ilya responds, which is not entirely a lie. He was focused. On Shane fucking Hollander. Marlow takes the hint and walks off, not bothering to pry any further, after all the captain of the team should be focused, shouldn't he? Internally, Ilya decided he has to use these emotions for something good, the first logical thought he’s had in the last seven days. He laces his skates tight, takes a deep breath in, and walks out onto the ice, his team following not far behind. 

During practice, Ilya is on fire. His skating is fast. His passes sharp and clean. He even scored a few goals. His whole team is hyping him up, and for the first time in a week, he feels like he can breathe. If Boston can win tonight, everything will be fine, he thinks.

The team heads back into the change room after practice. Everyone is patting Ilya on the back, congratulating him on his fantastic performance. 

“That focus really paid off, huh, Rozanov?” Marlow shouts from across the room.  

“Just you wait for tonight.” Ilya responds, grinning, his pupils so huge his eyes look black. 

Ilya heads back to his hotel room, getting himself in the zone before the game. He knows his entire team is counting on him, he’ll have to forget about Shane for tonight, even though he would be face to face with him on the ice. He can't handle any more distractions right now. He needs to win. 

The game is starting, Ilya and his team begin to roll out onto the ice, the sound of fans roaring and cheering all around him. He grinds his teeth. Not long after, the Metros fill in the empty space on the ice. Ilya looks down at the ground. Usually he’d be scanning the rink, desperate to find Shane, desperate to meet his eyes. But tonight was different. He can't afford to fail, he won’t let Shane distract him. 

The game is close. So close. Fans in the seats are watching the game from behind their hands, hearts racing to see who’s gonna take the win. Ilya’s skating around players like he's the only one on the ice, and in his mind, he is. Marlow passes him the puck, with only a few seconds left in the final period, he takes his chance. He shoots. The buzzer blares. 

Boston wins 2-1. Ilya roars. He throws his gloves and stick on the ground, paying no mind to where they land. His team huddles around him, arms flying, muffled voices and cheers coming from every direction. He relishes in the moment. In his success. 

Shane watches from afar, his lip quivering. Not because he lost, but because Ilya won. He was so happy for him, despite the fact that Ilya didn’t look at him even once during the entire game. His stomach clenches upon remembering this, the colour completely draining from his face. Hayden skates up behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder. 

“You okay, man? You don’t look so good.” he asks. 

“Yeah, fine.” Shane says, voice flat and defeated. 

“It’s alright, man. We’ll get ‘em next time.” Hayden says reassuringly before skating off. Shane follows not far behind. Desperate to get off the ice. 

Ilya finishes changing out of his gear, packing it away into his duffle bag, slipping silently out of the change room before anyone could notice. He was really happy his team won, but he just wanted to get back to his room, lay down, let himself be. Let himself think. 

He presses his keycard to the door. The door opens with a beep, he closes it behind him and throws his bag onto the ground. He slips his shoes off and heads right for his bed, dropping down dramatically with a heavy sigh. He lay face down on the bed for a few moments, almost falling asleep. Almost. He feels his phone buzz against his hip. He pulls it out from his coat pocket. He sees another message from Shane. 

Jane

Great game tonight. You played really well. 

He stares at the text for a few seconds, unsure what to say, or if he should even say anything at all. His brain is scrambling. He literally can't think of anything to say. His fingers start moving before his brain does. 

Lily

Come over. 1421. 

He presses send. Reading the text back. He shuts his phone off and throws it on the bed before walking to the kitchenette, pouring himself a glass of water. His hands are shaking, his palms sweaty and sliding against the cool glass. He downs the whole glass in just a few seconds. He reaches for the water jug to pour himself another one when he hears 3 slow, firm knocks. Shane, he thinks to himself. He almost forgot Shane was even coming, too caught up in his own anxiety. He walks over to the door and tugs at the handle, opening it. Shane stands in the doorway, arms dangling at his side, his eyes already glossed over. He looks like he’s been crying. 

“Hey.” Shane says, smiling awkwardly. 

“Hey, come in.” Ilya says flatly. 

Shane walks in slowly, like he's afraid something might jump out at him from around a corner. 

“Why do you look so scared?” Ilya asks, raising a brow at him. 

“I don’t know. Maybe cause you haven’t spoken to me in a week and then you just come sit at my practice and watch me like it’s totally normal and everything's fine.” Shane says, his tone firm, serious. 

“Oh, you saw that?” Ilya asks, embarrassed. Shane wasn’t supposed to see him. He’s never supposed to see him. 

“Yeah, I fucking saw that. What is going on with you?” Shane responds, stepping closer to Ilya, closing the gap a little more. 

Ilya mutters something under his breath in Russian, something Shane can hear but not understand. 

“What was that?” Shane asks, accusingly. 

“Nothing! I don’t know, Shane. I…” Ilya stops himself from going any further. 

“You what?” 

Ilya sits down on the bed and sighs, defeated. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know what's going on with me, Hollander. You make me feel things I’ve never felt before.” He says. That's not what he meant to say, but now it was out there, hanging in the room between them. 

Shane scoffs. 

“What?” He finally says. He stands for a few moments more before deciding to sit with Ilya on the bed, closing the space between them completely now. 

“Is this why you’ve been ignoring me? Is it because of…” Shane stops, not knowing how to say much of anything right now. 

Ilya stares at the floor, he feels like all the words have been ripped out from his mouth, he has nothing to say. Nothing. 

“Listen if you don’t wanna talk that's fine, I-I can leave.” Shane says, finally breaking the silence looming between them. He starts to stand when Ilya plants his hand on his thigh. 

“Please don’t go, Shane.” His voice shaky and desperate, even surprising himself upon hearing the words. 

Shane was stunned hearing the words spilling from Ilya’s mouth. Please? Ilya Rozanov said please? He runs his hands through his hair, in complete disbelief. He glances over to see Ilya’s head turned away from him, a single tear streaming down his cheek. Shane grabs his jaw, tilting Ilya’s face towards him until their eyes meet again. He wipes away the tear with his thumb. 

“Hey. I won't leave. I’m not going anywhere, Ilya.” He finally says, his thumb gently swaying across Ilya’s cheekbone. Ilya nods and lets his head fall into Shane’s lap, a barely audible “Ok” slipping from between his lips. Shane lifts his arms up to let him in, not completely sure what to do with the tender, sensitive Ilya Rozanov in his lap. This was not the Ilya he was used to. He was used to Ilya’s crushing intensity. He loved it. He loved to be ordered around by him, he was content to do whatever Ilya wanted him to do, whenever he wanted him to, he liked feeling like Ilya had some kind of ownership over him. He longed for that sense of belonging to someone. But now, here he is, Ilya's heavy head resting in his lap, not telling him what to do, just resting there. He needs a command, needs an ounce of direction. He knew that wasn’t happening, he knew that in this moment, in his hotel room, he needed to take care of Ilya, not the other way around. 

He takes a deep breath in and sighs it out heavily. He lets his hand rest in Ilya’s messy curls, the other hand finding its way to his hip, gently staying there, offering support. Anchoring him. He sits there, fingers lightly massaging Ilya’s scalp, not even sure if he’s awake or not. Shane knows he feels like he could be in a dream. After a few moments of silence, Ilya sits himself up, turning around to fully face Shane. Eye to eye. 

As Ilya feels himself getting lost in Shane’s deep, glossy eyes, he searches through his brain, looking for the right words to say.  

“I’m sorry I ignored you.” He settles on. It's honest. It's sincere. It's the truth. 

Shane’s face seems to soften when he hears those words, I’m sorry, coming from Ilya. He puts his hand on Ilya’s knee, rubbing softly against the fabric of his sweatpants. 

“Why were you at my practice, Ilya?” He asks, his tone is soft, not accusatory. 

“Just needed to see your face. Needed to see your cute freckles to calm me down.” Ilya says  blankly, not breaking eye contact. Shane smiles, bearing his teeth at Ilya. 

“Needed to calm down from what exactly?” 

Ilya pauses. His eyes darting back and forth, unsure if this is the right time to be honest, to be vulnerable with Shane. He bites at the inside of his cheek for a moment before opening his mouth to speak. 

“You.” 

“Me?” Shane asks, confusion visible on his face. 

“Yes, Shane. You.” Ilya says, placing his hand on Shane’s bicep, squeezing lightly. They always had to be touching in one way or another. 

“What the fuck did I do?” 

“God, you have so many questions.” Ilya says, looking away for a brief moment before returning his gaze to Shane. 

“Can you blame me? You haven’t spoken to me in a week, you show up to watch me at my practice, and now we’re here. Sorry for being a little confused, Ilya.” Shane says, his tone more serious now, but still gentle, not wanting to startle Ilya. 

“You’re right, I’m sorry. After last time I just, I…” 

“You just what?” Shane asks, leaning in a little closer. 

“I don’t know. I got scared. Scared of myself, I think.” Ilya says, he drops his head, his gaze fixed on the bedsheets. Shane tilts his head, he’s not understanding what Ilya is trying to say.  

Ilya gives up, he can’t find the right words to say, and he’s not convinced Shane will understand what he’s trying to tell him anyway. He picks his head up, leaning into Shane slowly. He cups his hand around the side of Shane’s face, pulling him in. He kisses him slowly. Ilya fucks his tongue into Shane's mouth, letting it explore, grazing over Shane's sharp teeth. This feels good. This feels right. Words are too hard for them, but this? This is easy. This is natural. This is all they’ve ever known. Shane lets himself climb onto Ilya’s lap, legs wrapping around his waist, gripping tightly like he’s terrified of letting go. Ilya’s arms automatically slither around to Shane’s waist, wrapping tightly. Holding him there. They stay there for a long time, just kissing, just holding each other, gently rocking back and forth. Soothing each other. Ilya manages to pull his face off of Shane, he opens his mouth but the words are hesitant to come out. 

“I really like you, Shane.” He says. 

“I really like you too.” Shane says smiling, eyes glowing. 

“Uhh you are forgetting something?” Ilya replies, his brow raised. 

“Ilya… I really like you too, Ilya.” Shane’s voice quiet and gentle, the words washing over Ilya, making the hair on his arms stand straight up. He hums. 

“Yes, much better.” He says with his eyes closed, rubbing his hand along Shane’s thigh. 

They sit and stare at each other for a few moments. Shane’s smile slowly fades, a look of realization scattered across his face. He glances down at his watch. 

“Uhh it’s getting pretty late, I should probably head back to my room. Haydens waiting on me.” He says, his eyes darting around the room, not fixated on Ilya’s any longer. 

Ilya pouts, he looks up at Shane through glossy wet eyes.

“... Or you could stay the night.” He says, his voice extremely soft, the softest Shane’s ever heard. Ilya watches Shane’s face twitch, his overthinking showing up clear as day on his face. Ilya runs his arm up Shane’s, squeezing tenderly at his shoulder. 

“You are thinking. Stop.” 

“I wish I could, b-but Hayden-” Ilya cuts him off. 

“Fuck Hayden. Stay here,” He whispers. “you can leave early tomorrow. Or you can stay late. Whatever is fine with me.” 

Shane nods slowly. 

“Okay.” He says, his lips curving into a barely-there smile, but a smile nonetheless. 

“Okay?” 

“Yes. Okay.”

Ilya wraps his arms around him and tackles him down onto the bed so they’re both laying down. He reaches over to the nightstand and shuts the lamp off, the only light in the room coming from the pale blue glow of the TV, illuminating Shane’s face. He looks unreal. Like an angel fallen right into Ilya’s arms. Shane nuzzles his head into Ilya’s chest. They fall asleep like that. 

Chapter 6: Chapter Six

    December 30, 2011

Ilya wakes up to dishes rattling in the kitchenette, the sounds of ceramic clinking ringing in his ears. Before he registers what's going on, he rubs his palm on the empty, warm spot of the bed next to him. Wait. 

Panicked, he immediately sits up and opens his eyes, only to see Shane, in the kitchenette, making them coffee. 

“Hey, you alright? Why’d you sit up so fast?” Shane asks, genuine concern in his voice. He’s wearing nothing but dirty white socks and a pair of Ilya’s boxers. Why he couldn’t put his own boxers back on is a mystery to the both of them. 

Ilya’s entire body softens once he realizes that Shane’s still here, that he didn’t get up and leave in the early hours of the morning, leaving Ilya asleep all by himself. 

“Nothing, just…” He pauses. Shane tilts his head and raises his brow, his face growing more uneasy. 

“Just a bad dream.” Ilya decided on, giving Shane a tender smile, blinking slowly.

Ilya shuffles out of the blankets, getting out of bed and walking over to Shane. He wraps his arms around his waist, resting his head on Shane’s shoulder. His skin is still warm and flushed, he hasn’t been out of bed for very long. Shane’s body melts backwards against Ilya’s tepid chest.  

“Sorry if I woke you up, I wanted to bring you coffee in bed.” Shane says. Ilya can’t really see his face, but he watches as Shane’s eyes squint, and he knows he’s smiling. 

“No no, is okay.” Ilya says, breathing into Shane’s shoulder, sliding his hand up to squeeze his pec. 

Their morning is slow and lazy. Spent laying in bed, not bothering to dress themselves, drinking their coffee together, ordering room service, watching whatever game is playing on TV. Ilya feels himself settle into his body; his stomach unclenches, his shoulders drop from his ears, his jaw relaxes, he relaxes. Finally. He thinks to himself that he had nothing to be worried about, that he got himself all worked up over nothing. Right here, right now, with Shane sprawled lethargically across his bed, everything is okay. His heart thumps heavily from behind his chest. 

After a few hours and several “Where the fuck are you?” texts from Hayden, Shane decides he really should head back now, and Ilya is okay with that. He got what he wanted, he’ll be fine. Ilya watches from the bed as Shane gets himself dressed, picking clothes from the neatly folded pile on the chair. Ilya giggles watching him. He loved this about Shane. He loved all his quirks, he loved everything that was perfectly unique to Shane. He loved what made Shane, Shane. 

“Alright, well. I’ll text you later, okay?” Shane says, his hand resting on the handle of the door, not really wanting to leave, but knowing this morning has to end at some point. 

“Okay, goodbye Shane.” Ilya says, his voice raising when he gets to Shane’s name. 

Shane lets a breathy laugh out through his nose. 

“Goodbye, Ilya.” The door latches softly behind him, and the room is quiet again, Shane’s absence becoming louder with each second that he’s gone. Ilya’s heart aches a little looking around his empty hotel room, the right side of his bed still imprinted with the shape of Shane’s body. He rubs his ear between his pointer finger and thumb, letting out a heavy sigh. He lets himself collapse back on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. Although he feels empty without Shane, his heart feels completely full of him, at least he has this. 

There was no game that day, but there would be a party held for both teams in the dining area of the hotel later that night. As usual, Ilya had no idea what to do with himself until then. He thinks about going for a walk, going to the gym, even hanging out with a few teammates, but none of it sounds appealing in the moment. Shane is the only thing he wants to do right now. 

He remembers he knows which room Shane's staying in, because of course he does. The wheels start to turn in his head, suddenly he knows exactly what he’ll be doing today. He slinks out of bed and slides on his black sweatpants and matching black hoodie, because of course Ilya Rozanov owns an all black tracksuit. He opens the door, looking to his left, then right. Seeing that the coast is clear, he makes his way to the elevator. 1301 he thinks to himself. Shane’s room number. He repeats it over and over in his mind as he gets in the elevator, making damn sure he won’t forget it. The elevator door opens and he steps out, starting down the hall. He doesn’t have to walk very far before he sees it; 1301. He carefully approaches the room and presses an ear to the door, gently, as to not make a single sound. All he can really hear is muffled chatter, and a distinct voice that sends shivers down his spine. Hayden Pike. He can’t make out any words, but he knows that voice, and he hates it. He hates it so fucking much. He stands listening for a few moments before he hears Shane’s voice, quiet at first, then gradually getting louder. 

“Alright, I’ll be back in a little bit, Hayd.” He hears, his eyes widening. He quickly backs off of the door, walking backwards, ducking around the corner before Shane could catch him. Oh god. What would he think if he saw Ilya, standing there, ear pressed against his hotel door like some fucking creep? Ilya shakes his head. He doesn’t want to find out. He watches Shane close the door behind him, heading towards the elevator. He’s wearing charcoal grey sweatpants and a black dri-fit long sleeve, so tight Ilya can see the shape and curve of every single muscle, the shirt contouring around his abs. Jesus Christ he thinks to himself. He's getting hard just looking at Shane, thank God for oversized sweatpants. He hears the elevator doors close and figures its safe to move out from around the corner so he can stop looking like a fucking creep. He stands in front of the elevator and waits for the doors to open, welcoming him inside. 

He steps inside, looking back at himself in the mirror. He notices the flush of his cheeks. Oh my god. Was he fucking blushing? Blushing because of Shane Hollander? He wipes his face and turns around. He doesn’t need to see that right now. The doors open and he walks out, catching a glimpse of Shane walking down the hall, headphones in, water bottle in hand. He knows he's going to the gym. Shane wore the same thing every single time he went to the gym, making it especially easy for Ilya to guess where he was off to. 

He silently follows behind Shane, only a few steps away at all times. He pauses as Shane opens the hotel’s gym doors, walking in as they gently close behind him. The walls of the gym are entirely glass, thank God, so Ilya has a perfect view of his prey no matter where he is. He watches Shane like a hawk as he heads towards the stationary bikes, Ilya thinks back to the time they were in a hotel gym using the stationary bikes. It was the first time they ever really spoke to each other, the first time Ilya told Shane what to do, and the first time Shane obeyed. 

He squints his eyes, peering through the glass, trying to get the best view of Shane possible. He stares as Shane pedals faster, his face red as a strawberry, ready to be picked and eaten. Ilya wants to eat him right now. He sees beads of sweat drip down off of Shane’s pitch black hair, he removes a hand off the bike to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand. Ilya can see how heavy he’s breathing, oh my god, he’s breathing so hard. He watches his chest rise and fall, his hips gently swaying back and forth with every pedal. 

After about 20 minutes on the bike, he stands up, bunching the end of his shirt in his hands, wringing the sweat out. Holy fuck. Ilya briefly thinks about going in the gym after Shane has left, getting on his knees and licking all his sweat off the floor, he just wants to taste him. Shane pulls a white towel out from the pocket of his sweatpants, a towel that he so clearly stole from the hotel’s bathroom. He carefully unfolds it and wipes his face, his jaw agape, he's panting. His shirt is slick with sweat, making it cling onto his shape even tighter. Ilya didn’t know Shane could get any sexier, but there he was, standing alone, in the gym, sweat dripping off his face, shirt hugging his biceps tight. He sees Shane start walking towards the door, promptly picking his jaw up off the floor and turning around to walk away before Shane catches him.

He’s halfway down the hall when he hears a familiar, soft voice, calling out after him. 

“Rozanov?” Shane shouts from down the hall. 

The sound of his own name stops Ilya in his tracks. What the fuck was he supposed to do now? Should he keep walking and pretend like he didn’t hear it? What now? He rolls his shoulders once and turns around, facing Shane. 

“Oh.. uh.. hi.” He says, forcing an awkward smirk. 

“What are you uh… what are you doing here?” Shane asks, visibly puzzled. 

“We are staying at same hotel, Hollander. What are you doing here?” He points to Shane. 

“I was just working out,” He takes a long pause, his mouth open, breathing hard and heavy. “Were you, um… were you watching me? In there? In the gym?” He asks, gesturing behind himself. Ilya’s face goes blank, he can feel his cheeks getting warm. 

“Ummm no. No I wasn’t. I was just, um… taking a walk. Needed to get some air.”

 He doesn’t sound convincing at all. Ilya has never been good at lying to Shane. It was like he was under some sort of spell that forced him to only ever tell Shane the truth. 

Silence hangs in the air between them for a few moments before Shane starts walking closer to Ilya, closing the gap little by little. He looks over his right shoulder, then his left. 

“Ilya,” He says, his tone quiet and tender. “Were you watching me workout? I know you like following me. You were following me weren't you!”

 His eyes light up once the realization sets in. The thought of Ilya following him around scares him, but it also excites him a little, more than he’s willing to admit. 

“Woah, calm down, Hollander. You look like you are going to cum your pants.” Ilya says, reaching an arm out, placing it over Shane’s forearm. 

“Fuck off, Rozanov. Go back to your room already, creep.” Shane says, slapping Ilya’s hand off of him. He tries to hide his smile behind his water bottle. He’s failing miserably. 

“See you tonight, Hollander.” Ilyas full on grinning now. He winks at Shane before turning around and walking to the elevator. 

Ilya wanders back to his hotel room, walking to the kitchenette to pour himself a glass of water. He raises the glass to his mouth with shaking hands, leftover adrenaline coursing through his body. His phone vibrates against his thigh. He swallows the water sitting in his mouth before fishing it out of his pocket. 

Jane

Are you busy right now?

Lily

Yes. very. 

Jane

Doing what?

Lily

I’m having a glass of water, Hollander. 

Jane

Fuck off. 

I’m coming over

Lily

Missing me already?

Ilya tosses his phone onto the bed, quickly scanning the room, looking for a mess to clean up before Shane comes here. He fixes the sheets, picks up a few pieces of clothes off the floor, and runs his fingers through his tangled blond curls. 

He picks his phone back up to look at the time, noting that it will only take Shane a few minutes to get from his room to Ilya’s, seeing as they're only one floor apart. Before he can set his phone back down, he hears a knock on the door. He pushes himself up off the bed and walks to the door, tugging on the handle, opening to see Shane’s luminescent, dewy, sweaty face. It’s the first thing Ilya notices, the sweat. Shane didn’t even shower before coming over, which was entirely out of character. 

“You didn’t shower?” Ilya inquires. 

“Uh, no I-I didn’t, um. I just really wanted to… come see you, I guess.” It sounded almost painful for Shane to say it. 

“Hollander, I saw you 10 minutes ago. Are you okay?” Ilya looks Shane up and down. He’s literally drenched in sweat, and out of breath, like he sprinted to Ilya’s room. Ilya bites his lip at the sight of a sweaty Shane Hollander. He opens his mouth again before Shane has the opportunity to answer.

“Come here.” He says, firmly. 

“Ilya I’m all gross and sweaty.” He says, chuckling, not taking Ilya seriously. 

“I know. I said come here.” Ilya replies, his voice deeper this time, his words rough like concrete. It catches Shane off guard. He didn’t think he was desirable like this, he didn’t feel desirable like this. He’s sweaty, his hair tousled and messy, his clothes damp and tacky. How could anyone want him like this? How could Ilya want him like this? 

Ilya senses the overthinking starting to take over Shane’s brain. Once he realizes Shane isn’t gonna be the one to take another step forward, Ilya knows what he has to do. He wastes no time walking up to Shane, gently pressing his back against the door, one hand on the wall in front of him. He takes Shane’s jaw in his free hand, tilting it to the left, giving him complete access to his neck. He kisses at Shane’s collarbone before letting his tongue fall out of his mouth onto Shane’s sticky, salty skin. He licks from his clavicle all the way up to his jaw, humming under his breath. Shane lets out a quiet moan, whether he meant to or not. He can't help it when Ilya’s tongue is all over him. 

“Oh my god, Ilya, that’s so gross.” He says breathily. 

Ilya pulls Shane’s jaw so his mouth is fixed at Shane’s ear, he leans in. 

“I like gross.” He whispers, kissing down his neck, pulling down the collar of his shirt to give him access to his bare chest. 

“Fuck.” Shane whimpers.

 His heart flutters at Ilya’s confession. He likes gross? 

Shane was used to being perfect. Perfect hygiene, perfect hair, perfect routine, the perfect player, the perfect lover. He was the golden boy, nothing less. He always felt like he needed to be perfect for Ilya, too, thinking if he was any less than, Ilya wouldn’t want him anymore, he’d find someone else, someone better. But now, Ilya was challenging the idea. Here he stood, holding Shane against the door of his hotel room, whispering filthy things into his ear, worshipping him in all of his disgustingness. His unwashed hair, his sweaty skin, his dirty, lived-in clothes. Shane learned in that very moment that he could be perfect like this too. 

Ilya’s hands travel around Shane’s torso, tugging at the bottom of his shirt, his hands slipping up and under, his palm now resting against Shane’s bare stomach. He lets his fingers trail over his abs, feeling the curves of each muscle. 

He kneels down on the floor, digging his fingers in the waistband of Shane’s sweatpants to keep himself stable. 

“Can I take these off?” He asks. Shane can feel Ilya’s breath against his pelvis. 

“Yes. Y-yes please, take them off.” 

Ilya nods, mouthing a soft “yeah” even he can barely hear. He slowly drags Shane’s pants down, pulling his boxers down with them, leaving Shane completely exposed, flushed and pink and throbbing.

“Fuck,” He breathes, “you’re so hard. Have you been this hard the whole time?” 

“Fuck, sh-shut up, Rozanov.” He says, his left arm covering his face. 

Ilya does as he’s told, taking Shane into his mouth. He lets his tongue wander all over Shane, taking note of what makes him twitch, what makes his hips jerk, what makes him yelp like a lost puppy. 

“J-jesus Christ.” Shane moans, sounding like he's running out of oxygen. 

Ilya climbs his right hand up Shane’s torso, to his chest, letting his hand find Shane’s pec, squeezing tightly and he sucks him harder. Shane holds Ilya’s hand there, his other hand nuzzled tight in Ilya’s hair, pulling a little, absentmindedly. 

Ilya tightens his mouth around Shane, his cheeks completely hollowed, this made Shane lose it. 

“Fuck, Ilya. Holy shit.” 

Ilya nods his head, telling Shane it's okay to cum without using his words. Shane’s legs start shaking, he plants both hands on either side of Ilya’s head to hold himself up, his stomach clenches and his grip on Ilya’s head tightens. 

He cums with a shaking, broken breath, like he just learned how to breathe for the first time, like Ilya was the one to give him oxygen again. Ilya takes every last drop of Shane before standing up, one hand on Shane’s hip, the other resting firmly on his jaw. 

“Open your mouth.” He demands. 

Shane obeys, opening his mouth with no hesitation, with no fear. Ilya tilts Shane’s head back, giving him full access to the inside of his mouth. He spits. A long, white, glistening stream. He fucks his tongue into Shane’s mouth, kissing him hard and deep and filthy. He pulls back, watching Shane’s Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows. Ilya slaps him gently on the cheek. 

“Good boy.” He says, grinning ear to ear, completely unable to contain his admiration. He’s also partially shocked that Shane actually did it, no questions asked, no fuss, no fight. He just did it. He did it because Ilya told him to. 

“Jesus Christ, Rozanov. That was-” 

“The best head you’ve ever had?” Ilya jokes, cutting him off. 

“Fuck you.” Shane chuckles. 

They stand and stare at each other for a few moments, Ilya feels full. There is nothing more he could want out of this moment, except for maybe Shane never leaving, but he knows that’s not happening right now. 

“Okay, now I really have to go, asshole.” Shane says, breaking the silence. Ilya nods in agreement. 

“Yes, yes. Big party we have to get ready for. I can't wait to see you in a suit, fuck.” Ilya purrs. The thought of Shane in a tuxedo is enough to drive him mad, he’s worried for what will happen when he actually does. 

“You better behave, Rozanov.” Shane says, placing his hand on Ilya’s chest. 

“That wouldn’t be very much fun, would it?” 

“I'm serious, Ilya. We have to act normal in front of our teams. No one can find out about... this” Shane says, waving his hand around in the space between him and Ilya. His tone is gentle, but firm. 

“Okay, okay. Whatever you say my sweet boy.” Ilya says, he can’t bother to argue with Shane, he gives up so easily. 

“I’ll see you tonight, asshole.” Shane says before leaving a tender kiss on Ilya’s lips, turning around and walking out the door, disappearing down the hallway. 

Ilya closes the door behind him and leans against the wall. He feels himself smiling like a fucking idiot, but he doesn’t care. 

Chapter 7: The Party

Chapter Summary

i know this chapter is a little short, but there will be two parts !!

December 30, 2011 - The Party

Ilya had spent the rest of his afternoon lazing about in his hotel room. He ordered room service he didn’t finish, rented shitty movies on the TV, cackling loudly and carelessly, and scrolled aimlessly on his phone, not really registering anything he was seeing. 

At around 6pm, he decides enough is enough, he needs to start getting ready for the party. He wanted to look extra good for Shane, even though they would be forced to keep their distance, maintaining their rival reputation. 

His suit is already neatly laid out on the chair next to the bed, the chair Ilya refers to as “The cuck chair”. He walks into the bathroom and turns the shower on, wanting to rinse off before putting his clean, expensive, tailored suit on. The water is searing hot, the steam fills the bathroom, fogging up the mirror. When he gets out of the shower he leans one hand on the cold marble counter and draws a dick in the fog settled on the mirror. He chuckles to himself. He ties a complimentary hotel towel around his hips and runs his fingers through his hair, smoothing out the kinks. He stands in front of the chair staring at the suit; a silky, deep midnight blue standing out brightly against the stark black bowtie. Ilya looked dashing in blue, it made his hair glow a certain shade of gold, like stardust was seeping out of his scalp. 

He pulls the towel off from around his waist and dresses himself, groaning and huffing and puffing between each step. Once he’s fully dressed he walks over to the mirror and checks himself out. Looking at his hair, then his face, then down to his shoulders, chest, torso, legs, and finally his feet. His bare feet. Shoes! He thinks to himself, he forgot his fucking shoes. He walks back over to the chair and puts his shoes on, now he’s ready. He thinks he cleans up quite nicely, hoping Shane will think the same. 

He picks his phone up off the bed and checks the time. 6:32. He should probably start heading down to the dining hall. The party had already started at 6:10, but he liked to be fashionably late. He knew Shane would already be there, waiting for him to show up. 

He looks in the mirror one more time, running his hands through his hair and making sure there's nothing on his face. All clear. He tugs on the door and starts walking down the hall to the elevator. 

He walks into the full dining hall, people scattered throughout in long gowns, tight black suits, a glass of champagne sparking in everyone’s hands. He scans the room for a few moments before committing to walking in. He spots Marlow and a few other teammates and heads over. 

“Heyyy, look who it is guys!” Marlow shouts, already a little tipsy. 

Ilya pats Marlow’s shoulder firmly, shaking him back and forth a little. 

“Drunk already, Marlow?” He asks, judgment hidden under the question, judgment Marlow is surely not picking up on right now. 

“It's a party, is it not, Roz?” He says, losing his balance a little. Ilya figures he’s right, it is a party, so why is he the only one sober? 

He realizes he’s gonna need a few to be able to tolerate everyone tonight, so he walks away in pursuit of a glass or two, or three, or four, of champagne. As he wanders through the dining hall, weaving in and out of groups of other players, parents, and friends, he sees him standing there. Shane. Fuck, he really did look good in a suit, better than Ilya could have ever imagined. He looks beautiful. He’s wearing a deep, bruised-blue suit, a black tie, and chocolate brown suede shoes. He’s standing with Hayden and JJ, and a few other teammates Ilya doesn’t give a shit about. As he looks at Shane, it feels like they’re the only two people in the room. The only two people in the universe. He feels his chest tighten, his eyes burning from the lack of blinking as he stares at Shane, hypnotized. He watches Shane stare at the floor, then the wall, then up at Hayden, and back to the floor again, nodding along to whatever his friends are saying, a nearly empty glass of champagne resting in the palm of his hand. For a second Ilya forgets why he even came over here. Champagne, right! He spots a long rectangular table dressed with a white satin tablecloth, full of glasses. He grabs one, takes a sip, and then takes one more glass before walking back over to his teammates. 

He stands there and talks for about 20 minutes before walking off to circulate around the room, mostly needing a break from hearing Marlow talk. He flows from person to person, downing a few more glasses along the way, making small talk here and there, breaking eye contact every few seconds to search the room for Shane. He just wanted to keep an eye on him. 

He talks to a woman with long golden hair, wearing a dramatic plum purple dress, adorned with beads and jewels and diamonds. They talk for a few moments while Ilya’s eyes helplessly dance around the room. He pauses once he sees him. Shane. He’s standing only a few feet away, holding a freshly filled glass of champagne, talking to a few men Ilya didn’t recognize. He stares and stares and stares, hoping Shane will feel the heat radiating from his gaze. To Ilya’s surprise, he does. Shane curves his head to the right, eyes fixing on Ilya. His smile drops the moment he sees Ilya, the shock of actually seeing him evident on his face. Ilya lets his gaze linger a little longer than he should, completely tuning out the woman he’s supposed to be listening to, unaware of how many seconds or minutes or hours have passed. His sense of time has abandoned him entirely. Ilya twitches his head, pointing it in the direction of the bathroom, he prays Shane understands him. Shane nods back at him, once, twice, before looking away, back down at the ground. 

“You will have to excuse me, I’m just going to use the bathroom.” Ilya says to the woman, flashing her a disingenuous smile. He turns around and starts walking to the bathroom, Shane following not far behind him, but far enough that no one will suspect anything. Everyone’s too drunk to notice, anyway. 

Ilya pushes on the door with his forearm, stepping inside. The bathroom is dimly lit, the warm orange light flickering above his head, he can hear it buzzing. 

He braces himself on the counter, heart beating so hard he’s afraid it might jump out of his chest and crash onto the floor in front of his feet. 

He hears footsteps approaching the door, quickly checking his expression in the mirror before turning around to see the door cracking open, and in walks Shane. His eyes are glossy and he has a weird, crooked smirk stretched across his mouth. He giggles a little as he walks closer to Ilya, his hands latching onto Ilya’s bicep like he’s seconds away from falling over. 

“Oh my god, Hollander, you are drunk.” He says, a little shocked. He’s never seen Shane like this before. Loose and giddy, his demeanor soft and careless. For once not worried about anything. 

“I am not.” Shane says, straightening himself up as if he’s been drinking only water the entire night. 

Ilya realizes how drunk he is when he hears Shane talk. He felt mostly fine up until this point. Sure his vision was a little fuzzy, he was laughing a little harder at jokes that weren’t that funny, but he didn’t think he was this drunk. How many drinks did I have?  He looks into Shane’s eyes and starts giggling uncontrollably, his smile wide and bright and loud. 

“We are so drunk, Shane.” 

He manages to say through his laughter. He closes his eyes and lets his head collapse on Shane’s shoulder. He feels Shane’s chest rise as fall as he starts laughing, too. They were standing in this bathroom, under flickering orange lights, laughing like idiots. It occurs to Ilya for a moment that if anyone were to walk in right now they would rightfully lose their mind. Then it occurs to him that he actually doesn’t fucking care. All he cares about in this moment is Shane. He feels Shane’s warm palm make contact with the side of his face, gently lifting his head up, now staring eye to eye. 

He can tell by the way Shane’s eyes wont stay still that he can’t really see straight, but neither could Ilya. They were a total mess, but they were a total mess together. 

Suddenly Shane’s smile drops, he looks oddly serious. 

“I need you right now, Ilya.” He says, his stern demeanor quickly fading as he is overtaken by laughter again, he just can’t help but laugh. He is so happy. 

Ilya runs his hands up the sides of Shane’s torso before cupping them around his face, squeezing his cheeks a little. He looks like a fish. Ilya wishes to take a bite right out of him.

“How badly? Tell me. Use your words.” He says, his eyes move down to Shane’s lips, then back up to his glossy red eyes. Under this light they really sparkle, Shane looking especially beautiful right now. 

“So bad. So fucking bad, Ilya.” Shane says, brows furrowed, eyes teary. 

Ilya looks at Shane, his puffy swollen lips, his smooth, soft skin, his big brown eyes. He looks like a baby lamb, and Ilya feels like a fucking wolf. He needs Shane just as badly. 

“Tell you what. We’ll go back out there, say our goodbyes, and we’ll leave. You’ll go first, I will watch.” Ilya says, firm, confident, sure of himself. Shane breathes heavily and nods in agreement, prepared to do whatever Ilya tells him. 

“And then what?” Shane asks, his voice is so soft. Ilya starts seeing stars hearing Shane talk to him like that, he won’t be able to stay quiet in this bathroom for much longer. He pulls Shane in and kisses him. It’s sloppy and wet and messy. He closes his eyes and feels like the world is spinning all around him, his hands completely melting into Shane’s face, their lips sticking together like glue. He pulls back. 

“And then you will walk your drunk ass to my hotel room, yes?” Ilya says through a smile. 

“Okay.” Shane says, voice breaking, putting every ounce of trust he has left in Ilya, not that he has much right now. 

Ilya is crumbling internally hearing Shane talk to him like this. He turns Shane around and slaps him on the ass, sending him out of the bathroom back out to the dining hall. He counts to 10 in his head, then walks out of the bathroom. 

He watches Shane say goodbye to his teammates, shake a few hands, then walk out. After Shane has disappeared around the corner, Ilya leaves not far behind him. When he walks out of the dining hall, he can see Shane walking away, his coat draped over his forearm. When did he take his coat off? 

Ilya walks a little faster now, trying to catch up. He shouts out in a half-whisper half-yell, trying to be discreet but failing miserably. 

“Hollander! Wait!” Ilya shouts, out of breath, doubling over and panting. 

Shane turns around to see Ilya bent over breathing fast and hard. He smiles and giggles when he remembers he needs Ilya to be able to get into Ilya’s hotel room. He pauses and lets Ilya catch up to him so they can walk together. 

“God, Hollander, you walk fast when you are drunk.” Ilya says, still trying to slow his breathing down to a normal pace. They walk beside each other, arms brushing every few seconds, fingers tangling together, desperate to hold one another’s hand. 

They make it to the elevator and Ilya reaches his arm out, indicating for Shane to go in first. 

“Ladies first.” He jokes. 

“Fuck off, Rozanov.” Shane chuckles, watching Ilya follow him into the elevator. His eyes trail down to Ilya’s ass, flustering himself before picking his gaze back up. 

Chapter 8: The Afterparty

They stare into each other's eyes as Ilya presses the button for his floor, never taking his eyes off Shane for even a second. His pupils are shot, spreading deep black over his ice cold blue eyes. He looks hungry. He steps in a little closer, cornering Shane, reaching his hand out and placing it on the wall in front of him. At the same second, they both reach out to grab each other’s face, kissing deep and hard, fast and messy, wet and sloppy and filthy. 

They make out the entire ride up to Ilya’s floor, hands wandering all over, pulling and pushing, squeezing and grabbing. The elevator ride to Ilya’s floor really only takes about 3 minutes, but lost in the haze of lust and love, Ilya feels like they’ve been in here for 3 hours. The elevator comes to an abrupt stop, shaking them out of the kiss. Ilya pops his head out, looking left then right, signalling to Shane no one’s here, it’s safe to walk out together. Ilya fumbles trying to pull his keycard out of his back pocket, licking his lip with focus as his fingers search for it, Shane wrapped around his arm. 

“Got it!” He rejoices. He presses it to the door and steps aside to let Shane walk in first. Shane steps inside, looking around the room as if it's the first time he’s ever been here. He’s so drunk it kind of feels like it is. He throws his coat down on the chair, turning around to face Ilya. 

“You look… so fucking good in that suit, Rozanov.” He says, biting at his lip, tucking his hands in his pockets. 

“Blues your colour.” He adds. His attitude was strangely confident, he stood tall like he was sure of himself. Ilya had never seen this side of Shane, and it was driving him up the fucking wall. 

Ilya hums and licks his lips. He needs Shane and he needs him now. He wants to devour him. 

He doesn’t need to say anything, just looks at Shane, then down at the ground and points, a gesture that says ‘you, here, on the floor, now.’ 

Shane needs no verbal confirmation, he knows exactly what's being asked of him, and he does as he’s told. He kneels down on the ground, crawling to Ilya, looking up into his eyes from the floor. Ilya breathes. Shane fucking Hollander just crawled to him on a filthy hotel room floor. 

“Jesus, Hollander.” His face is red hot, he feels like his soul is about to float up out of his body through the top of his head, and he hasn’t even touched Shane yet. 

Shane gets closer until his kneecaps are resting against the end of Ilya’s dress shoes. He plants each hand on the outside of Ilya’s thighs to keep himself up, rubbing his face all over Ilya through his pants.

 Ilya runs his fingers through Shane’s hair, gently massaging his scalp, pulling just a little when Shane’s face hits him at the right angle. Ilya pulls Shane’s head back just a little, just far enough away for him to reach a hand down and unbutton his pants so Shane can see him. All of him. 

He lets Shane take them off all the way while he peels off his suit jacket, carelessly tossing it on the ground somewhere behind him. As Shane closes his mouth around him, Ilya thinks to himself that this may be the closest to Heaven he’ll ever get. Heaven is Shane Hollander on his knees in front of him, looking up at him from in between his legs like Ilya is the center of his entire universe. 

Shane moves his head down, pulling away to slowly lick from the base all the way to the tip, holding Ilya steady with his other hand. Ilya swoons. 

“Fuck, Hollander.” He hisses. 

Shane starts sucking Ilya off faster, drool pooling at the corners of his mouth, spit dripping down his neck and falling onto his chest. Ilya extends his hand down and wipes the corner of Shane’s mouth with his thumb, bringing it up to his own mouth and sucking off the spit. Shane grabs the back of Ilya’s thighs and pulls Ilya closer into him, now fully in his mouth. Every. Single. Inch. Ilya’s head falls backwards, he’s going to cum any second. He inhales sharp through clenched teeth. 

“Fuck okay okay okay.” He grabs Shane’s head and uses his hair to pull him up. Shane winces a little at the pull, he likes it. Ilya grabs his face and fucks his tongue into Shane’s mouth, licking every corner, brushing the roof of his mouth, sucking on his tongue a little before pulling away. 

“On the bed.” He barks. 

“Okay.” Shane nods his head, letting Ilya walk him into the bed. 

He doesn’t take his eyes off Ilya, continuing to walk backwards until he feels his calves slap against the wooden bedframe. Ilya puts a hand on Shane’s chest, pressing firm, guiding him down til he’s sitting on the bed. 

“Clothes off.” He says, looking Shane up and down. 

He watches as Shane sheds layers of clothes; suit jacket, pants, dress shirt, white tanktop, socks, shoes. He does the same, even though there isn’t much left for him to take off. He climbs over top of Shane, letting his hands wander wherever they please. Ilya stares into his eyes, reflections of light dancing off the layer of tears settled on the surface. He looks like an angel, Ilya feels like he’s in Heaven again. He feels his own eyes begin to well up, he leans down to kiss Shane before he can notice. 

I’m just drunk. 

Their kiss is deep and unbreakable, Ilya trying to swallow him whole. He wouldn’t mind having Shane live inside of him, tucked safely under his ribs, keeping his heart warm and full. 

“What do you want, baby?” He asks, losing the authoritative tone his voice had only moments before. 

“You.” Shane says. He’s looking at Ilya like he’s God. “I want you, Ilya.” 

“That’s my good boy, using your words for me.” Ilya says, cradling Shane’s jaw between his fingers, furrowing his brows. 

Ilya gently guides Shane to lay on his side, using his hand to bend his leg, giving him better access. 

He holds a finger out to Shane’s mouth, lifting his brows. Shane knows what to do. He gathers as much saliva in his mouth as he can before bending his head down and letting his spit cover Ilya’s fingers. 

“That's it baby.” Ilya whispers, getting increasingly, painfully harder every time Shane does what he says, or what he doesn’t say. He moves his fingers down, Shane watching them disappear behind his meaty, muscular thighs. 

“Ready?” Ilya asks. Shane nods. Ilya hums as he works his pointer finger into Shane, sliding gently in and out. Shane gasps, his head falling back down onto the mattress, squeezing his eyes shut. He liked to watch Ilya fuck him, but it was too much right now. Too many sensations, too many different feelings, making it impossible to hold his own head up. 

He uses all his strength to lift his head back up to Ilya, mouthing “another” at him. 

“Yeah?” Ilya whispers. Shane nods, and Ilya slowly presses another finger in, taking the breath out of Shane entirely. 

“Jesus Christ.” Shane breathes, covering his face with his hands, digging into his eyes until he sees splotches of dancing colours and stars. Without being able to see Ilya, all he can do is feel him. Observing the way he carefully pumps his fingers in and out, keeping one hand steady on Shane’s thigh, caressing softly, reminding him he’s here and he’s safe. He feels pins and needles settling in his feet before climbing up his legs, moving to his stomach, dancing around before disappearing. 

Ilya notices Shane’s face buried in his hands, he reaches over with his free hand and pulls Shane’s hands off of himself. 

“Keep your eyes on me, I want to see your beautiful face.” Ilya purrs. 

Shane takes the command, not letting his eyes leave Ilya’s. He feels completely at peace when Ilyas telling him what to do. Like he can completely shut his brain off and just melt. In his day to day life, he’s a total control freak, everything has to be under control at all times. Every second of every day. Everything has to be under his control, done the way he wants it to be done. But here, alone, with Ilya, he can let that all slip away, like sand falling through the cracks of his fingers. He can just let himself be. Plus, he thought Ilya was really sexy when he was controlling and a little mean. 

After Ilya works him open, he reaches over to the nightstand drawer, tugging it open. There's not much inside besides a blank notebook, a pen, a few stray coins, and a bottle of lube. A bottle Ilya put there, of course. 

“Woah, they give out complimentary lube now?” Shane asks. He’s dead serious. 

“It’s mine, idiot. I put it there.” Ilya says through a chuckle. He fumbles with the lube for a little bit before finally freeing it from the drawer, still feeling every bit of that champagne, and by the look on Shane’s face, he is too. He’s laying there just staring at Ilya, smiling stupidly. 

“On your stomach.” Ilya says, slapping Shane’s torso. He uses his strong arms to help him turn over. Shane didn’t need any help, but Ilya just wanted an excuse to touch him again. 

He flicks open the cap of the lube before squeezing some out into his hand. He wraps his hand around himself, stroking soft and slow, one hand holding tight onto Shane’s hip, rubbing his thumb back and forth over his warm pink skin. 

He lowers himself down to hover over Shane, pressing himself inside painfully slow. Shane takes a deep breath in. Ilya plants one hand on the mattress next to Shane’s torso, the other on his face, pressing him hard into the mattress. 

The room is quiet, save for the sounds of gasping and skin slapping against skin, the wooden bedframe scraping against the wall. 

“Jesus-Fuck, Ilya.” Shane cries out, his eyes closed again, feeling the deep pressure of Ilya’s hand pressing against his rosy flushed cheek. 

“Open your eyes, baby, look at me.” Ilya breaths. Shane obeys, opening his eyes as much as he possibly can, looking up to see Ilya overtop of him, his golden crucifix swinging against his chest, catching the light making it sparkle. Ilya looks impossibly beautiful. His face is red and dewy, his eyes misty and glossed over, the veins in his neck swelling with every thrust into Shane. 

“Oh fuck, Ilya.” He whimpers, trying as hard as he can to keep his eyes open, he wants to see as much of Ilya as possible. 

“Thats it, good boy. Don’t close your eyes, focus on me.” Ilya says, a sad, pouty look on his face. He leans down to kiss Shane before coming back up and fucking him even harder. 

Talk to me baby.” He demands. 

“F-fuck, Rozanov, it’s so good. You feel… so good.” He manages, breathing deep between every word spoken. 

“Good boy.” Ilya growls. He takes his hand off Shane’s face, now grabbing at his hips with both hands, lifting them higher up into the air. Shane whimpers at the change in angle. 

“I-I’m close, Ilya. I’m so close.” He cries. 

“Fuck, yes that’s it.” Ilya says, his head falling backwards. 

He knows Shane's cumming by the goosebumps beginning to form on his back, crawling up his spine, dancing on his neck. He shivers. He lets himself go with Shane still wrapped tightly around him. He pulls out so slow. It makes Shane shutter. He uses his grip on Shane’s hips to turn him around, now laying with his back against the bed, face to face with Ilya. His entire face lights up seeing Ilya above him, the smile on his face growing wider and wider until it reaches his ears, his pearly teeth sparkling at Ilya. 

“Pretty boy.” Ilya says, voice just barely audible, but Shane hears it, and it makes his heart weep. 

He opens his arm letting Shane crawl in and rest his head on Ilya’s chest. Their skin is warm, sticky, and pink. Shane looks up at Ilya and wipes the sweat off his forehead. 

They lay there. Speaking to each other using their eyes, using their body language. Talking with their lips pressed against each other and not with their words. They kiss until their lips are bruised and purple, swollen and tender. 

The fog settled over Shane’s brain begins to lift. 

“What time is it?” He asks Ilya. 

“I have no idea, Shane.” 

Shane feels himself start to panic, already beginning to feel out of control again. Ilya can smell it oozing out of his skin. The fear. The panic. 

“Hey, hey. It’s okay, you don’t have anywhere to be. You’re okay here.” He reassures, brushing his thumb over Shane’s freckles, watching as his face softens under the touch. 

“I should probably text Hayden and tell him not to wait up for me.” Shane says, voice low and raspy. Ilya’s stomach flutters, his eyes light up, a barely-there smile starting to grow on his face. 

“What?” Shane asks. 

“Nothing, nothing. Go text Hayden.” He says, doing his absolute best to keep his cool. Shane smiles and kisses him before getting up out of bed to grab his phone. Ilya watches him get up, grinning like an idiot, but he can’t help it. 

As he lay there in the messy, warm, tangled sheets, he feels like a gust of warm golden sunlight is wrapping around his body, twisting through his insides, filling his heart with heat. A heat so warm and comforting it makes him forget he ever felt cold. 

Chapter 9: Chapter Nine

    December 31, 2011

Ilya woke up first. His arm wrapped tightly around Shane’s stomach, fingers squeezing tight at his hips. He feels the heat radiating off of Shane through the palm of his hand. He gently rubs him a few times before placing a lazy kiss on the back of his head and getting up out of bed. 

He walks into the bathroom half-asleep and turns the shower on, the dial balancing perfectly between hot and cold. Blue and red. He gets in and lets the water spill over him, warm crystal clear beads of water splashing against the top of his head, bouncing off his curls before disappearing into the tile below him. As he’s squeezing some of the hotel shampoo into the palm of his hands, he hears rustling coming from the bedroom. He left the door open a crack on purpose so Shane would know where he was once he did finally wake up. He turns his head over his shoulder to see the crack in the door widening, the personification of the sun walking into his bathroom, shedding light onto every unseen surface, showering Ilya in warm golden rays. He feels his cheeks getting warm.

Shane rubs his eyes with his knuckles for a few seconds before grabbing the handle of the shower door, pulling it open and stepping inside, grabbing Ilya’s arm out of instinct. 

Ilya welcomes him in with open arms, wrapping tightly around Shane, showering the top of his head with kisses. He lets go of the embrace and turns Shane around so he’s facing the water, lathering the shampoo in his hand that was meant for him, but now he would wash Shane’s hair instead. He massages slowly into Shane’s scalp with the pads of his fingers, pressing in delicately, kissing at his cheeks. They haven’t said a word to each other. Not out loud, at least, but they didn’t need words to talk, they just understood each other. Through the movements of their eyes, through body language, through the pressure of their kiss. Ilya stands behind Shane, continuing to bathe him, Shane lets his arms crawl backwards to find Ilya’s hips, holding him there. Holding him close. As close as possible.

They take turns washing and rinsing under the water, kissing with wet lips and hugging and laughing between each step. 

Ilya turns the water off and steps out first, before covering himself, he grabs a warm towel from the rack for Shane, wrapping it loosely around his hips. Once Shane is clean and dry and content, he grabs one for himself. Ilya leads him out of the bathroom by his hand. 

“Coffee?” Shane asks, walking in the direction of the kitchenette, his eyes already on the coffee maker. 

“Yes. I’ll make. You sit and look pretty.” Ilya says, kissing him deeply on the temple. Shane nods and does as he’s told, letting himself collapse on the bed, the leftover heat from their bodies still clinging onto linen sheets. He sniffs Ilya’s pillow and sighs. 

Ilya’s quiet as he grabs two mugs and prepares the coffee. Shane notices.

“You’re quiet.” He says blanky. 

“Just tired. You wore me out last night, Hollander.” He says, not looking up from the mugs on the counter in front of him, his reflection staring back at him from the polished white ceramic. Cold and unchanging, despair leaking out of his eyes, rolling down his cheeks, landing softly against his top lip. He licks it away. 

“No… it’s not that. I know it’s not just that.” Shane replies, digging deeper into him. Ilya stops what he’s doing and braces himself on the counter, letting his head fall forward to his chest, sighing deeply through his nose. 

“It’s not important.” He says, still not looking up from the counter underneath his palms, shaking his head from left to right. 

“It is to me.” Shane says, voice soft, gentle, quiet, like he’s inviting Ilya in with his tone. A few moments of silence goes by, usually this would make Shane wildly uncomfortable, but right now, he wants to give Ilya space to breathe, to think before he speaks, to be open and honest with him. For now, he’s okay with the silence, even if it is crushing him. 

Ilya finally speaks. 

“I’m flying home tomorrow.” He says, picking his head up to look Shane in the eyes. 

“Boston?” Shane asks, confused as to why this seems so serious and solemn to Ilya.

Ilya shakes his head again. 

“Russia.” He says, looking at the ground for a fraction of a second before looking back up at Shane, watching the realization settle on his face. 

“Oh. Oh.” He finally grasps the weight of the situation. “I’m so sorry, Ilya.” 

“Is okay. Won't be there for very long, at least. Going to miss your beautiful face, though.” He says, smiling warmly now, despite the knots in his stomach growing tighter with every thought of leaving Shane and returning home. Home that didn’t really feel like home anymore. 

“I’m gonna miss you too.” Shane says, now sitting up, getting out of bed to be closer to Ilya. 

He pauses just before he reaches him, his eyes lighting up, his eyebrows raised. He gasps. 

“We can facetime!” He says excitedly before closing the gap between him and Ilya completely, wrapping his arms tight around his waist. 

“Whatever you want, Shane.” Ilya says warmly. “Coffee is ready.” He says, reaching behind him to hand Shane his mug. 

They sit back against the headboard, sipping their coffee slowly, flipping through channels on the TV. Ilya looks over at Shane and places a hand on his shoulder, rubbing his thumb across the muscle.

“Breakfast?” He asks. “I order room service?” He adds, hand tighter around Shane. 

“Yeah.” Shane smiles. “Breakfast would be great.” He leans over and kisses Ilya, coffee breath and all. Neither of them care. 

Ilya orders enough food to feed a family of six. He knows there's no way he and Shane would finish all this, but he wanted the morning to feel special. He wanted the memory of this moment to keep his heart warm when he started to freeze back in Russia. When his father’s cold gaze sent shivers down his spine, the memory of Shane’s golden glowing face would bring him back down to earth again. He never wanted to forget this. For the rest of his life. 

“Ilya, how are we going to eat all of this? There’s only two of us!” Shane asks, chuckling. 

“I don’t know. I just ordered whatever sounded fancy.” Ilya says, shrugging his shoulders. 

He and Shane eat as much as their stomachs can handle before tapping out. They spend the rest of the morning laying in bed, staring at the TV, into each other’s eyes, hands wandering under sheets, up a thigh, over a hip, around an arm. They didn’t bother to get dressed after their shower, both sitting under the blankets with towels still wrapped around them, now fully dry.

Hours pass, towels coming undone, mouths pressing together, tongues sliding across clean warm skin, scented like fancy hotel body wash. 

They fuck slowly in the disheveled warm bed, the sunlight pouring in through the crack in the curtains, showering them in golden rays of warmth and love, illuminating Shane’s once deep brown eyes, now glowing like honey, Ilya forms a lump in his throat just looking at him. He swallows it down, unsuccessfully. 

Shane notices the single tear crawling down Ilya’s cheek. He doesn’t say anything, just wipes it away gently with his thumb before pulling Ilya in closer, kissing him deeply until his face feels wet with Ilya’s tears. 

A few more hours pass as the morning and afternoon escape them. The sun glows a little deeper now, transitioning from a golden, sparkling yellow to a deep, scorching orange. They look at each other. 

“Guess I should… head back now… right?” Shane asks, head tucked into Ilya’s chest. 

“I guess so.” Ilya says, voice low and broken, he swallows the tears beginning to creep up his throat. “Even though I don't want you to.” He pokes him in the stomach. 

“I know.” Shane says. “I don’t want to either.” Shane lifts his head up to look at Ilya. They kiss forever, Ilya holding onto Shane’s face like he might cease to exist if he puts his hands anywhere else. 

Ilya watches from the bed as Shane collects his things and dresses himself, checking his phone before tucking it in his back pocket. He gets up and presses Shane’s back softly into the door with a hand on his chest. He kisses him. Really kisses him. He tugs on his bottom lip with his teeth like he’s trying to take a piece of Shane with him. He pulls away and kisses him once more on the forehead, letting his lips linger against his skin. 

He watches Shane walk down the hallway before disappearing into the elevator, completely out of view. Gone. Ilya walks back into his room and shuts the door behind him. He slides his back down the door, collapsing on the ground beneath him and burying his face in his palms, soaking them in tears. He can’t help it. Hot tears gush out of his eyes and there is nothing he can do to stop it, although he is trying desperately to turn them off, and this is the one time he can't. His stomach hurts. His heart aches. He weeps. Images of Shane flash rapidly in his mind, making him sob harder with every memory, he feels like someone stole all the oxygen out of his lungs. 

He brushes his forearm across his eyes, wiping away the tears and standing up. He walks over to the mirror and stares for a little while. Face blank, head empty, heart completely shattered into millions of tiny, sharp pieces. 

He glances at the clock on the wall, noting that his flight would be leaving in 12 hours. His heart thumps a little harder at the realization. He looks at his empty suitcase on the ground and starts throwing all his things inside, not bothering to roll or fold anything, just wanting to zip it up and forget all about it. Pretend like it's not happening until it is. 

Once his suitcase is full and the evidence that he and Shane were ever sharing this space together is gone, he shuts off all the lights, and attempts to sleep. He tosses and turns all night. His entire body aches and his brain feels numb. He falls asleep once more. He dreams about Shane. He dreams of the way his eyes look when the sun catches them at just the right time, making them glow. He dreams of his freckles and the way his cheeks grow warm and pink at the sound of Ilya’s voice. He dreams of the way his hair feels between his fingers, and the sound that comes out of his mouth when he pulls just a little. He dreams of the way Shane looks at him like he’s the only man in the world even in a room full of people. 

He wakes up one more time after about 20 minutes, he picks his phone up and checks the time, accidentally blinding himself with the light coming off the screen. 3:00 am. He gives up on sleeping seeing as he would need to leave for the airport soon anyway. He peels off his clothes, throws them in his suit case and gets changed into his black tracksuit, black baseball cap on and hood up. 

He closes the door behind him and gets in the elevator, his stomach twisting as it reaches the 13th floor. He’s reminded of Shane. He puffs up his cheeks and sighs heavily, tears hiding underneath his breath begging to be let out. 

Chapter 10: Chapter Ten

    January 8, 2012

Seven days had come and gone in the grey bleak world Ilya was meant to call home. Seven days he spent taking each and every carefully selected word of criticism from his father, letting it stab into his chest with each syllable, only ever apologizing for the blood spilling from his skin onto the carpet. 

“Your play was sloppy.” 

“You call yourself the captain? You don't look like a captain.”

“Your team is falling apart, Ilya.”

“You are worthless. You are nothing.” 

“You are just like your Mother. Selfish and weak.” 

He took every bit of it on the chin and answered with “Yes, sir.” through the red hot steam building up behind his eyes, blinding him with rage. He thought about taking him right there. His father. Charging at him and knocking him down to the floor, his breath spilling out of him. His fist connecting with his father’s cheekbone, feeling bones shattering and skin breaking beneath his knuckles after he’d punched them raw.

 He wouldn’t, though. He knew he wouldn’t and he knew he couldn’t. But he wants to, so bad. He thinks of Shane’s lips and his teeth and his smile and sighs out heavily, rolling his shoulders back, shaking out the tension. 

Earlier, he had smoked 6 cigarettes one after another, taking a drag with a trembling hand, picturing Shane’s face each time the smoke escaped from between his parted lips. He thought about what Shane might say to him if he were here right now. Probably something along the lines of “You shouldn’t be smoking, Ilya.” or “Smoking is bad for you, you should really quit.” Oh how he’d kill to hear that right now. How he’d kill to roll his eyes and blow the smoke at Shane, watching him waft the smoke away with his arm. He wiped his mouth once he had realized he’d begun to smile. 

He sits back on his bed, lights off, a few candles lit glowing warm and red in his bedroom.  He lay there, eyes on the ceiling, head flat against the mattress, his vision turning blurry and darkening around the edges. For a while, he thinks of nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not Shane, not hockey, not his father. Nothing. He feels numb. Disconnected from his body. Like his soul is floating above him watching him from the ceiling. He wiggles his toes and clenches his fists, the sensation of nails piercing delicate flesh bringing him back into reality. He digs his phone out of his pocket. 

Lily

What are you doing right now? Something boring? 

Jane

I’m reading, asshole.

You should try it sometime.

Lily

Oh my god, Hollander. 

You are actually so boring. 

Jane

Why are you texting me then?

His thumbs hover over the keyboard, swaying between letters, racking his brain to come up with something to say that isn’t completely pathetic. Pathetic to him, anyway. 

Lily

Maybe I miss you.

And your boring. 

There it was. It was still pathetic, he thought, but it was honest, and it was true. He did miss Shane and he did miss his boring. In fact, he craved boring right now. Life in Russia for Ilya was messy and chaotic and draining. It took everything out of him.. It took and took and took until he had nothing left to take. He would kill someone to sit and soak up Shane’s boring-ness right now. 

Jane

I miss you too. Maybe.

His heart sinks down into his stomach with relief. His text may have been pitiful, but so was Shane’s. It made him smile for the first time since landing in Russia. A smile so big and so wide his cheeks ached for hours after. He taps his pointer finger against the side of his phone, sinking his teeth into the fleshy, tender part of his cheek. 

Lily

Can I call you? 

Jane

Yeah of course. 

He sits up in bed and props himself up on a pillow.  He smoothes out the sides of his hair with his palms and wipes his eyes with his knuckles, then he presses the call button. It rings once, twice, then he’s greeted by Shane's quiet, tender voice. So soft and gentle like Ilya was an injured animal he’d found on the side of the road, trying to earn his trust with an open palm and a warm voice. 

“Hey, is everything all right?” He asks the second he answers. 

“Everything all right. Just wanted to hear your pretty voice.” Ilya says, voice tired and broken, looking up at the ceiling once again, forcing the tears welling in his eyes to go back inside. 

“How are you? How have you been? How is it there?” 

Ilya sighs out long and heavy. “Is fine. Same as always. Lot’s of fighting and arguing. But I’m used to it.” 

“Oh,” Shane says “Do you- do you wanna talk about it?” He asks, hesitantly.

“No no, is okay. I want to hear you talk now. Tell me something.” 

“Like what?”

“Anything.” He says, letting himself soften for the first time in a week. 

Shane laughs out his nose. “Okay.” 

Ilya listens to Shane talk for what feels like hours, the sound of his voice like flowering blooming in his stomach. Lilacs, tulips, orchids, and daisies. He sounds like the way the sun settles over the ocean in the late afternoon, making it sparkle and dance with each wave that crests and crashes. He feels his heart thump heavy behind his ears. He puts his hand over his chest, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb back and forth, picturing Shane’s cheek underneath his hand instead.  

“Okay, Ilya, it’s getting pretty late here. I think I’m gonna go to bed now.” 

“Okay, Shane.” Ilya says, thinking he can probably hear the pain beginning to settle on his face, his forehead creasing. 

“Goodnight.” Shane says, full of warmth, like he’s reaching his hand through the phone to brush Ilya’s curls out of his eyes and wipe his tears away. 

“Goodnight.” Ilya responds, hanging up and resting his phone in the crook of his neck, like he doesn’t want to let go of the sound of Shane’s voice. 

    January 12, 2012

Ilya arose to the cold chill creeping in through his window biting at the uncovered skin of his neck. He pulls the blankets up closer, wrapping them around his throat, closing in on himself, making himself as small as possible. 

That’s how he had been feeling since he came home. Small. Insignificant. Invisible. A failure. A complete and utter waste of a son. A waste of space, maybe. 

He rolls over onto his back and throws the covers off himself, blinking his eyes open. He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes for a moment, feeling the pressure on his head. His head, which has been aching and throbbing since he arrived. 

He stares blankly at nothing in particular, the words of his father echoing in his head. He begins to wonder if he really is like his mother afterall, except he didn’t see that as a flaw. Not the way his father did, at least. 

He shakes his head, letting the thoughts fade. He’s been through enough mental torture the last eleven days. Eleven days. Only three more and he could go home. Say his goodbyes even though there wasn’t an ounce of sincerity behind the words. 

Technically, he was home, but it didn’t feel that way anymore. Ilya felt like going home was a chore. Something he had to do, not something he wanted to do. His mother’s warm smile wasn’t waiting on the end of a long flight anymore, her embrace not there to welcome him home, so really, what was the point? What he did want to do, however, was go home. For real. To Shane. To Ilya, home was the stolen moments in dimly lit hotel rooms, stealing kisses from inside the elevator where they could get each other alone. Home was purposely slamming into Shane on the ice just so he could watch him blush and get all flustered and shy. Home was Shane. Home is Shane. But he would never tell him that.

The day had played out the same each day before this one had. Arguments, drowning in vodka, a lot of cigarettes, and a lot of bitter, cold, heavy despair. A crushing amount, in fact. Ilya could feel his knees beginning to buckle under the weight of the anguish. The dark black pit in his stomach deepening with each inhale. Nothing could fill it. Nothing except, maybe Shane. Maybe just for a moment. He felt like a ghost haunting his own home, invisible to everyone, yet somehow still being the cause of everybody’s misery. Three more days, he told himself. Three more days and he could leave this all behind. Until he would inevitably have to come back, of course. 

As he sits alone in his room, he scrolls on his phone, switching back and forth between every social media app, frequently stopping to check his texts to see if there was anything new from Shane. There wasn’t, and it hadn’t yet occurred to Ilya that it was perfectly fine for him to be the one to text  him first. He remembers how he stalked Shane through the hallways of the hotel just a few weeks ago, watching him get all hot and sweaty and flushed from working out, and how Shane caught him, and also how it seemed like he kind of liked it. The one thing Ilya did really miss, aside from Shane himself, was stalking him, something he had no way of doing right now. 

He missed the way it made his blood pump hot and heavy in the space between his ears. The way he would clench his stomach every time Shane almost saw him, the way he would grind his teeth and chew at his lip, something buried deep behind his ribs wishing that maybe Shane would just turn around and look at him. Notice him watching. 

He comes to terms with the fact that there was absolutely no way for him to get to Shane right now, so instead, he does the next best thing. He opens Instagram and scrolls through the hashtag #ShaneHollander, refreshing every few seconds to see the newest possible picture of him. 

He sees a few pictures of Shane at games, clearly taken from the seats, the photo grainy and pixelated. He sees a picture of Shane leaving the gas station, two bottles of blue gatorade between his fingers. That one makes him smile. He sees one that was taken clearly after either a game or practice, Shane wearing his tight black compression longsleeve, hair slick with sweat, gear bag slung over his shoulder. Hayden Pike walks beside him. Ilya hovers his thumb over Hayden, cutting him out of the picture so he can focus on only Shane. The look of him sweaty and flushed and red makes Ilya drool, he feels his mouth fill up with saliva as he plays with the waistband of his sweatpants. He glances to the top of his screen and looks at the time. 3:36 am. That means Shane would definitely still be awake. He licks his lips as he pulls up Shane’s contact card, hitting the call button with the side of his thumb. 

He listens to it ring three times before Shane picks up.

“Hey, Ilya, what’s up?” He asks, a little out of breath. It makes Ilya raise a brow at the sound. He wants to ask Shane who’s making him that out of breath. 

“Why are you panting like a dog?” He asks, palms sweaty, fidgeting with the strings of his hoodie. 

“I just got home from practice.” He says, inhaling and exhaling between each word. It dawns on Ilya that the photo he saw seconds before was just taken. He kind of feels like he really was stalking Shane after all, which makes his face a little hot. He squirms. 

“Ah.” He says, then, voice almost completely undetectable, he mutters “I know.” 

“What?” Shane asks. 

“Nothing, nothing. Wish I was there to lick your sweaty freckles.” 

“You are so gross, Rozanov.” Shane teases. 

“I think you secretly like it.” Ilya purrs, his voice smooth and low. He pauses for a moment, eyes darting back and forth as he thinks. 

“Hollander, are you- are you sweaty, right now? Really sweaty? From practice?” He asks, voice now high with curiosity. 

“Um, yeah, I just got home I haven’t… really had time to shower yet. Why- why are you asking?” 

“Can I see?” Ilya asks, a little bit desperate, a little more demanding. 

He waits for a few seconds until he sees the Facetime request pop up on his screen. He answers immediately. 

When the call connects, he sees Shane, hair messy and damp, beads of sweat starting to dry on his forehead, his face red, and his cheeks even redder. Ilya thinks to himself how bright his freckles look right now. He also thinks about the way he probably smells right now, and the way he tastes. 

“Oh my god, Hollander. You are going to kill me.” He says, slapping the palm of his hand against his forehead, dragging it down until it's covering his mouth. It makes Shane giggle. The sound of his laugh makes Ilya’s stomach tingle. 

“What did I do now?” He asks, maybe a little bit genuine in his question. 

“Nothing. Just like your sweaty red face. Makes you look sexy.” He bites on his lip, hard. He watches Shane get even more red, his cheeks  are practically fucking  glowing, laughing shyly from behind his hand. Ilya opens his mouth before Shane has the chance to speak. 

“Take off your clothes, Hollander.” He says, firm and confident and rough. 

“What?” Shane asks, eyes widening. 

“You heard me. Take off your clothes.” He repeats slowly and drawn out, so Shane really understands. 

Shane pauses for a fraction of a second, unsure if he’s really about to do this. He pulls his shirt off over his head, Ilya can tell he’s folding it out of frame. Ilya pulls his hoodie off over his head, freeing his completely bare chest, a rush of heat escaping. He watches as Shane waits patiently for another order. 

“Good. Touch yourself.” He barks, expression serious and unchanging. 

He watches Shane’s brows furrow, every thought he had earlier leaving, his brain escaping through his ears. He watches his forearm flex underneath himself, he’s hypnotized for a moment before realizing that's all he can see.

“Your camera, move it, I need to see you.” 

“R-right, sorry.” Shane says. He looks so pathetic. 

Ilya watches him fuck with the camera a little bit before he finds the right angle, his face and torso and hand and dick all in one frame for Ilya. Seeing him look so desperate even from four-thousand miles away makes Ilya wince. He lets his fingers crawl under the waistband of his boxers a little more. 

“Fuck, Shane.” He mutters. Shane’s face gets even redder, a shade of red Ilya had never seen until now. A shade of red he felt partly responsible for creating, which drove him insane. The power he knew he had over Shane did his head in. He lets his hand wander a little further, feeling hot skin meet his palm. He twitches. 

“Tell me what to do, Ilya.” Shane blurts out. It catches Ilya by surprise, and by the look on Shane’s face, it surprised him just as much. Ilya growls. 

“Tell me you're a good boy.” He says. 

“I’m a good boy. I’m your good boy, Ilya.” Shane says between whimpers and sharp inhales. 

Ilya knew Shane was going to do what he told him to do no matter what, but he wasn’t ready to hear him say he was his. Ilya’s. The words bounce back and forth in his brain, as he wraps a hand around himself. His throat tightens. 

“That’s it, Shane. You’re doing so good for me.” He coos, stroking himself slowly. 

“I-Ilya I think I’m-” Shane breathes. “I think I’m gonna come.” His head falls forward. “C-can I?” 

Ilya feels his face get hot. It feels like his stomach is trying to swallow itself. Can I? He repeats back to himself internally. Shane fucking Hollander just asked him if he could come over facetime. It made Ilya unbelievably, impossibly hard. 

“Yes, baby. Yes. Come for me, Shane.” He says, his eyes rolling back into his skull, letting his head fall backwards onto the pillow beneath him.

He stares at Shane’s face as he comes undone in front of his eyes, shaking and shuttering and panting like a fucking dog. 

They look at each other from their screens, both flushed and out of breath. Ilya feels himself start to smile. 

“You make me insane, Hollander. Even over phone.” He laughs. 

Shane chuckles, bearing his teeth. “Glad to know I have that kind of power over Ilya Rozanov.”   

“Well I have to go shower now, asshole. You interrupted me.” He adds. 

“Shower can wait. This was more important.” 

“Goodbye, Ilya.” Shane teases. 

“Goodbye, Shane. I’ll see you soon.” Ilya hangs up first. The silence in the room feels deafening without Shane to fill the space. Ilya’s heart weeps a little. 

    January 15, 2012

On the last day of his stay in Russia, Ilya wakes up to an obscure tug in his stomach, pushing and pulling at his intestines, making him fold in half, clutching his abdomen and digging his fingernails into his sides. It sends jolts of electricity down his legs before it fizzles out when it reaches his toes. He sits up and chugs the half-empty glass of water on his nightstand he had been sipping last night before he called Shane. Shane. The sparkle the glass left on the wood reminded Ilya of him, and the tug in his stomach began to pull even harder, knocking the wind out of him.  He’s thinking of Shane, yes, as he has been every second of every day since he got here, but this doesn’t feel the same. This is different. This is painful. It pulls on his hair and punches him in the gut and makes his face hot. He thinks about what Shane is doing at this exact moment. Who he’s with, what he's doing, who’s touching him, who’s telling him jokes, who’s making him feel good while Ilya’s not there. Who’s taking Ilya’s place? The anxiety whirling around in his stomach spreads to his chest, the muscles tightening, the ability to breathe leaving, along with the ability to think logically. He’s never been this worked up over the thought of Shane with anybody else but him, but the forced separation has birthed new insecurities deep inside Ilya he didn’t know how to navigate, and he didn’t want to. He gets up and walks over the window, leaning his forehead against the bitter cold of the glass pane, thinking maybe the shock of the cold would bring him back to his body and take him out of his head. For a moment, it does. He exhales heavily out of his mouth, wiping the side of his nose with his thumb. 

Tonight.

He gets to leave tonight. 

It was the only thing keeping him from losing it all. Tonight, he would go to the airport, board the plane, and fly home. Home to Shane. And everything would feel sort of okay again. Just for a little bit. 

Chapter 11: Chapter Eleven

    January 20, 2012. 

After being home for nearly one full week, Ilya was just now starting to get back into the motions of having an entire house to himself. He was finally used to waking up without a pit in his stomach, penetrating deeper and deeper everyday he woke up still in Russia, finally used to not having to stare into his father’s ice cold gaze, pretending that he didn’t notice the vacancy. The complete lack of feeling. He was finally used to the quiet. The peace and fucking quiet. The stillness of waking up alone in a house that belongs to Ilya and Ilya only. He thinks for a moment that he wouldn’t mind if it belonged to Ilya and Shane. He shakes the feeling away. 

He shuffles around in bed for a little bit, wiping his eyes and rolling his wrists before picking up his phone. He sees a few texts from teammates welcoming him back home and hyping him up for today’s game. He ignores them and instead looks at the one message he has from Shane. 

Jane

Welcome home!

Sorry in advance, we’re going to ruin you guys tonight. 

Lily

I am going to ruin you tonight, Hollander. 

Jane

What’s that supposed to mean? 

Lily

I think you know. ;)

Come over after the game. Take car, is very cold. 

His thumbs pause over the keyboard for a brief second before committing to asking the question he’s been contemplating for the last week. 

Lily

Or you could just come home with me. We take my car. 

Jane

Ilya.

That is a terrible idea. 

Lily

Is it?

Jane

It is. 

How are we going to leave together in the same car without anyone seeing?

Lily

Just trust me, Shane. 

Will be fine, I swear. 

Jane

Not happening! 

I will take a cab, Rozanov. 

Ilya grins and tosses his phone somewhere on the bed. He knows for a fact Shane will be coming home with him. He would sit in the front seat, Ilya would carry his bags for him and turn the seat warmer on in advance so it would already be warm for Shane. He would peel one hand off the steering wheel and let it wander until it found Shane’s thigh. Not moving, just keeping it there. He just needed to go about it the right way and Shane would fall apart like putty in his hands. He runs his fingers up and down his thigh, brushing up and over the golden blond hair as he thinks up a plan. 

The sky darkens as evening rolls around. Ilya loads his gear into the trunk of his car, stretching his arm long to close the door, his triceps pulsing at the movement, and drives to the arena, tapping his pointer finger against the steering wheel nervously the entire drive. Nervous. How could Ilya Rozanov be nervous? How did he even possess the ability to feel such an emotion? As much as he tries—and fails —to convince himself it's just customary pre-game nerves, he knows somewhere deep inside, dark and hidden and covered in cobwebs, that it absolutely is not. These are pre-Shane nerves, and oh does Ilya know them well. 

Inside, the locker room is loud and the air is thick like it always is before games. Thick and hot and humid. Everyone’s energy piles together in the center of the room and it reeks of anticipation, maybe a little fear. But that might’ve just been Ilya. He felt like he couldn’t take in a full breath. He shakes his hands as if to shake off water like he just washed them. 

Ilya presses his skates into the ice and the rest of the Raiders follow his lead. He closes his eyes briefly as a cold gust brushes against his bare skin, biting down just a little, sharp around the edges. He opens his eyes and takes a deep breath in. He skates a few laps around to warm himself up, or to try to physically move the nerves out of his body. Ilya Rozanov didn’t have time for nerves, especially not now. Not when he was minutes away from facing off with Shane Hollander. Shane Hollander who he hoped he could successfully get in his car and into his home and then into his bed. 

First period. Ilya and Shane face off. Shane bends down and taps his stick twice on the ice beneath him. Ilya looks up at him through frost blue eyes and wide dark pupils. He opens his mouth to speak, but as quickly as the words formed in his brain, they had left, his mouth betrayed him. He’s speechless at the sight of Shane. For once, he really, honestly, had nothing to say. It fucks him up and Shane grabs hold of the puck, skating away fast and vicious. Cursing with ice cold breath as he watches him go. 

For the rest of the period, his skating is slow and sloppy, he hasn’t managed to score a single goal, he misses passes he usually would’ve seen coming from six feet away, and he couldn’t stop fucking staring at Shane. The entire period. He was completely captivated by him, and he couldn’t seem to get it the fuck together. He’s not himself and his entire team can see it. He hopes Shane doesn’t. He could deal with the chirping from his team about how poorly he was performing, but his heart broke a little at the thought that Shane could perceive him as anything less than an outstanding player. That was the thing to snap him out of it. Shane, who got him into this mess in the first place, was ironically the only thing to pull him out of it. 

By second period, he’s cleaning himself up. He’s scoring goals, he’s skating so fast the wind bites at his face, his lungs are burning and his heart is thumping hard and heavy behind his chest. He can hear the blood pumping in his ears. He doesn’t let himself look at Shane for the rest of the game, which is incredibly painful, but imperative to his success. He couldn’t afford to keep fucking up. He couldn’t afford to let his team down. 

The Raiders win, scarcely, but a win nonetheless, and it makes Ilya feel good, a warm glow settling in the space between his ribs, filling his stomach. It makes him feel even better when he remembers how he can rub it in Shane’s face later when he’s fucking him into oblivion on his couch. 

The locker room is even louder than earlier, gear flying into the air, cheers and whistles and hollers fill the air, and every few minutes Ilya feels a firm pat on the shoulder from a teammate, not bothering to look up and see from who, however. He wasn’t in the same world as them right now. There he sat on the bench, gear halfway off because he couldn’t be bothered to fully undress himself before he picks up his phone between sweaty palms and texts Shane. 

Lily

What did I tell you?

;) 

Jane

Asshole. 

We’ll get you next time. 

Lily

Is that threat or promise?

Before he can see Shane’s response, he’s pulled back into the locker room with the rest of his team by a sharp slap on the backside of his shoulder. 

He glances up to see Marlow standing tall over him. 

“Got a date tonight, Roz?” He asks, gesturing towards his phone. He turns his phone over in his hands before tucking it under his thigh. He grins wide and nods. 

“With your Mother.” He responds, winking at Marlow before getting back to changing out of his gear. He quickly showers before putting his clothes back on, knowing when he gets back home there will be no time reserved for getting clean. He wonders if Shane would care if he was sweaty and smelly. Probably. Definitely. He gets out and walks back towards the bench. The locker room is practically empty at this point, he purposely took forever in the shower for this exact reason. He grabs his phone so he can lay out the plan for Shane. 

Lily

Still here?

Jane

Yes, asshole. 

I’m waiting for you. 

Lily

Good. I’ll be out in 5 minutes. Start walking to my locker room. 

Jane

Okay. 

Well that was easy. A lot easier than Ilya thought it would be. He didn’t even argue, he just listened. Ilya looks up into his eyebrows as he wonders why he expected anything other than obedience from Shane. He pulls his hoodie over his head and slips into his shoes, pushing the door to the locker room open with his elbow. As the door opens, he sees Shane, approaching the door at the same time Ilya opens it. Ilya feels quite pleased with himself that he pulled this off, and that Shane was so ready and willing for him. 

“Ready?” He asks, jabbing Shane’s side with his elbow. 

“Yes, asshole. Let’s get out of here.” Shane says, failing horrendously at trying to hide the smile tugging at his lips. Ilya reaches out his hand and slides Shane’s gear bag off his shoulder, slinging it over his own in one swift motion as if he’s done it hundreds of times. 

“Let me carry.” He says. Winking, mind you. 

“I can carry my own bags, Ilya, I’m a fully grown adult man.” Shane huffs. 

“Yes… Fully grown adult man who just lost miserably. Remember?” Ilya cackles, nudging him in the side once more. 

“Okay, fuck you. It was not miserably. You guys barely won.” 

“Whatever you say, Shane.” He grins wide and bright. 

His pinky plays with Shane’s as they walk through the empty parking lot to Ilya’s car. He catches Shane nervously checking over his shoulders every 5 seconds, even though they are 5 seconds away from the car. 

“Shane.” He says, soft and observant. 

“What?” Shane asks. 

“You’re doing it. You’re freaking out.” He says, his pinky now fully wrapped around Shane’s squeezing tight. 

“I’m not freaking out!” He insists as he reaches his hand out to wrap his fingers around the handle of the door.

Ilya slaps his hand away promptly. 

“Ilya, I can open my own door.” He says, almost offended that Ilya thinks he’s not capable of opening his own door. Except Ilya knows he's perfectly capable. Obviously he is. But he wants to take care of him anyway. Plus, he liked seeing Shane get pissy with him. 

“Shhh. Get in the car, Hollander. Put on seatbelt.” Ilya says, shoving him into the car, bending over him to turn the seat warmer on. Shane settles into the leather seat beneath him, accepting where he is. 

Ilya throws their gear bags in the trunk before joining Shane in the car. He drives with his hand on Shane’s thigh, Shane puts his hand over Ilya’s, interlocking their fingers. 

“Still freaking out?” He asks genuinely, for once not teasing. He’s being completely sincere. 

“No, I’m fine.” Shane says, letting himself smile and lean his head back into the seat as he squeezes Ilya’s hand around his thigh a little tighter. 

“Good.” 

They pull into Ilya’s driveway as he unbuckles his seat belt, leaning over to kiss Shane before popping the trunk and getting out of the car. He walks around the car to open Shane’s door for him, much to his dismay— Ilya can tell by the sour look on his face. It makes him giggle. He hoists both gear bags over each shoulder, leading Shane to the front door as if he hasn’t been here a hundred times already, without Ilya to guide him in. 

They kiss all the way inside the house, lips not parting for even one second. Ilya fucks his tongue into Shane’s mouth while he toes his shoes off at the front door. He holds one hand firmly on Shane’s jaw while he lets their gear bags slip down off his shoulder, the black nylon strap leaving a hissing red mark on his arm as it tugs down and off, lips still pressed together. He grabs Shane’s face with two free hands and backs him into the couch, they trip and giggle into each other’s mouths before Shane pulls away to see where the fuck he’s going. He chuckles as he runs a thumb over Ilya’s cheekbone, noticing freckles and beauty marks perhaps he didn’t pay enough attention to until now. 

“So where do you want me, Captain?” He asks with puppy eyes. Ilya can’t stand when Shane looks at him like that, all shy and innocent and fucking pathetic. He feels his pulse race, veins bobbing up and down on his wrist. 

“Hmm, that depends.” Ilya says, furrowing his brow and rubbing a finger back and forth across his chin, “What are you trying to do, Hollander?” 

“Whatever you want me to do, Rozanov. You won tonight, didn’t you?” That makes Ilya snap. 

He turns Shane around so he’s facing the back end of the couch. He grips Shane’s waist in the palm of his hand and runs the other along the small of his back, pressing gently so he hinges at the hips, bending over the couch. He hears Shane hiss through clenched teeth, he can feel the chills forming on his skin even through his clothes. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up straight. He trails his finger over the waistband of Shane’s sweatpants, letting one finger dip just below, meeting hot flushed skin. He leans down and breathes into Shane’s neck. 

“Is this okay?” He asks. He’s practically foaming at the mouth to get his hands around Shane, but that would never stop him from making sure he feels okay. 

“Yeah. y-yes thats- good. That’s okay.” Shane says between breaths. 

Ilya licks up his neck and sinks his teeth into the soft warm flesh of his earlobe, letting his fingers travel a little further under Shane’s waistband, teasing him over the fabric of his boxers. His other hand finds its way under his shirt, crawling up until it reaches his neck, wrapping his fingers around, not too tight, just enough pressure to feel the vibrations of his vocal chords against his palm when Shane moans and breathes and cries. 

He feels Shane’s dick harden against his palm, fucking himself forward into Ilya’s hand practically begging to feel skin against skin. 

“Okay, okay.” Ilya purrs into his ear, pulling down his sweatpants until they drop at his ankles, turning Shane around before kneeling at his feet. He puts his face down to the floor, kissing delicately up the length of Shane’s leg, nipping a little once he reaches his inner thigh, leaving bruised purple teeth indents in his skin. He rubs his thumb over them soothingly while looking up at Shane, jaw wide, drooling. 

He retains eye contact as he hooks his fingers around his boxers, hastily tugging them down and off, meeting his sweatpants at the floor. He watches as Shane’s mouth drops open, no sound coming out, the wind knocked out of him. He wraps his hand around the base, licking up and down the shaft, watching Shane squeeze his eyes shut and cover his face. This was how Ilya knew he was driving him crazy, which made him even harder than he already was. Pleasing Shane was the biggest pleasure of all. Making him feel good, watching him fall apart in Ilya’s hands, watching his eyes flutter and his brain go fuzzy, that was what mattered most to Ilya. Shane’s comfort came first over everything else. 

After enough teasing he finally guides Shane into his mouth with the tips of his fingers, holding firmly onto his thigh with one hand while the other ventures upward, crawling all over his stomach, squeezing and pulling and playing. 

“Jesus Christ, Ilya.” He cries out, bracing himself on the back of the couch, unsure if he even has the ability to stand up on his own right now. He removes one hand to bury it in Ilya’s hair, wrapping a curl around his finger without even noticing. 

Every time he whimpers Ilya sucks him faster and harder, digging his fingernails into the sides of Shane’s thigh, looking up at him to catch a glimpse of his dumb pink face, his eyebrows creasing, a pout smeared across his kiss-bruised lips. 

“I-Ilya. Don’t stop. P-please… I’m gonna-” He wraps his fingers tighter around Ilya’s hair, letting his head fall forward to meet his chest, he can hear how fast his heart is beating. 

Ilya is now determined to make him come as fast as possible, maybe as fast as he ever has. After all, they’ve just been apart for two weeks, he has to make up for lost time, doesn’t he? 

He digs his fingers deeper into Shane’s flesh, inhaling through his nose before nuzzling his face into Shane, his nose meeting his pelvis, opening his throat to make room for every inch of him. Shane weeps poignantly. 

“F-fuck, Rozanov I-I’m” His fists clench into Ilya’s hair, tugging a little as comes in his mouth. He whines and throws his head back, his chest rapidly rising and falling, desperately trying to catch the breath Ilya just stole from him. Ilya squeezes his thigh a few times before pulling his mouth off of him and standing up. 

“So good it makes you forget about losing, huh?” Ilya snickers. 

“Such a fucking asshole.” Shane says, his hand cradled around Ilya’s cheek. He slaps him a little. He’s never done that before, but for some reason now felt like the right time to do it. 

Ilya was taken aback by the sharp sting against his cheek, and it made him agonizingly hard, a reaction he was not expecting from himself. It transpires to Ilya that he wouldn’t mind if Shane hit him a little bit harder. Or maybe a lot. Like really slapped him. He bit into the surface of Shane’s neck before pulling on his arm, ushering him towards the bedroom. 

Ilya kisses him into the room until the backs of Shane’s legs make contact with the end of the bed. It makes him jump a little and mutter a soft “Ah!” into Ilya’s open mouth. Ilya finds it to be quite possibly the cutest sound he’s ever heard. He pushes down gently on Shane’s shoulder’s, guiding him down to the bed, kissing down his neck. 

“Arms up.” He barks. 

Shane obeys, lifting his arms tall above his head, allowing for Ilya to kindly pull his shirt up his torso, over his head, and off his arms. His arm reaches back instinctively to toss it somewhere behind him. Instead, Ilya finds himself folding the fucking shirt. Folding it neatly and cleanly and carefully and setting it down on his dresser, the expression on his face reading as if his body is moving without his permission. Which it kind of was. 

“Oh my fucking god, Ilya.” Shane whines, losing control seeing Ilya fold his clothes so tenderly. Taking care of him in a way no one has. 

Ilya chuckles, shrugging his shoulders, making a face that says ‘I don’t know what that was either.’ He decides it’s better to not read into it right now, and focus on what he does best. Making Shane feel good. 

He works him open for a while, observing how each moan escaping from Shane’s lips becomes more desperate and pleading the more fingers he fucks inside him, begging with groans and cries to feel Ilya inside him. Fully. 

“My poor boy, so desperate for me. How about I give you what you want, yes?” He whispers into Shane’s skin, watching the goosebumps form up his neck, starting at his collarbone, climbing up to meet his ear. 

“Yes. Y-yes please, Ilya. Just— p-please.” He begs. 

He holds his hand out under Shane’s chin, looking into his eyes, raising an eyebrow. Shane nods and gathers the spit in his mouth before letting it string down into Ilya’s open palm. 

“More.” Ilya mouths. Shane spits again, this time while staring Ilya in the eyes. 

“Such a good boy. You’re doing so good, Shane.” He grins, wrapping his spit soaked palm around himself, stroking slowly, holding Shane in place with his gaze.

“Holy shit.” Shane says, staring at him transfixed, eyes following Ilya’s hand, up and down, up and down. Ilya tortures Shane for a few moments more before meeting him on the bed, hovering over top of him, breathing into his open mouth. He whispers. 

“Fuck Shaaannneee.” Drawing out his name, watching him squirm at the sound of his own name being spoken like this. So seductively. He could hear the way Ilya was tasting every letter. Ilya forces his thighs open with the back of his hand. 

“You are okay?” He asks, looking back up at him. 

“I am okay, Ilya.” Shane chuckles. “But I need you to fucking move right now.” 

Ilya nods fast in agreement, swiftly fucking himself inside of Shane, bottoming out. It takes Shane’s breath away. He squeezes his eyes shut, a white hot ball of energy crawling up his stomach before wrapping itself tight around his chest. 

“J-Jesus.” He moans, grabbing Ilya’s face between his thumb and four fingers, digging his nails in just slightly. He doesn’t mean to, but the feeling of Ilya pumping so deeply inside of him makes him act in ways he has no control over, and he finds he doesn’t mind it— having no control. Not right now, at least. Not with Ilya over him. 

He takes advantage of the fact that Ilya’s jaw is on the floor. He rubs his thumb back and forth across the bottom of his chin before slipping it into his mouth, Ilya urgently wrapping his lips around, sucking tightly. Shane feels the vibrations of his moan bouncing off the delicate skin of his thumb. 

Ilya’s face is red and torrid and bathed in sweat. He feels Shane tighten around him with every thrust inward. He tilts his head downwards to see Shane’s dick solid and flush against his stomach. He wraps his hand around Shane, stroking once, twice, and—

“Oh my fucking god, Rozy. I c- I can’t I-I’m gonna-” 

He brushes his thumb over the tip, sending Shane over the edge, watching his come cover his fingers; silky sparkling streaks of white dripping down his fingers, covering his hand. 

He comes not long after, seeing Shane’s face look so distraught and pink and wet, he couldn’t help himself. 

He pulls out, slowly. So slow it makes Shane whine and squirm underneath him, wincing and grabbing tight at Ilya’s bicep. He gets up immediately. 

“What the fuck?” Shane says, throwing his hands up in the air. 

“Quiet, Hollander. Stay there. Don’t move.” Ilya calls from inside the bathroom. Shane can hear the tap running and the sound of a glass cup filling with water. 

Ilya returns in mere seconds, towel in one hand, glass of water in the other. He walks back to the bed, handing the glass over to Shane while he wipes off his stomach with the most gentle touch Shane has ever felt in his life. When his skin is clean and perfect again, he kisses just above his bellybutton before tossing the towel on the floor beside the bed. 

“Drink. Whole thing.” He says, pointing towards the untouched glass sitting in Shane’s hand. 

“Ilya, I’m not a-” 

Ilya cuts him off “Drink, Shane. The whole thing. Like I said.” Shane closes his mouth. Only to open his lips once again to drink the whole glass of water, like Ilya said. 

He looks at him with glossy brown eyes while he chugs the entire glass in one go. Ilya swoons. He reaches over to steal the glass out of his hand and kisses into his open cold wet mouth. 

“Good boy.” He beams. It dawns on Ilya that he hasn’t stopped grinning this entire time. Maybe before. Maybe ever since he saw Shane Hollander riding in the front seat of his car with his fingers interlocked with Ilya’s. 

Chapter 12: Blood in the Cut

     February 5, 2012

Ilya woke up frigid underneath bleached-white sheets in his hotel room in Montreal. 

He blinks his eyes open, a flood of memories of the night before taking over his brain. 

They lost last night to Montreal. 4-2. It was gut-wrenching, and the air that hung between him and Shane was hard to breathe through. They didn’t really look at each other, Ilya didn’t bother chirping at Shane, or purposely skating up fast behind him to brush his shoulder against Shane’s or jab him in the leg with his stick. He just kept his head down and breathed through the loss. The energy between them was different. Changed. Stretched taut. 

They hadn’t been texting much either. Shane texted him that he was home safe once he got back to his hotel after the last time they fucked, Ilya responded “Good” but, the conversation fizzled out fast and Shane stopped responding, and Ilya was much too stubborn to even think about reaching out first. He wasn’t trying to ignore him on purpose, but he could feel something was off. Their dynamic was different, after the last time. Ilya worried he got too close to Shane. He folded his fucking clothes for him. What an idiot. Still, he relentlessly checked his phone, chucking it in anger when there weren’t any new messages from Shane. And then picking it up and holding it close to his face, ensuring he didn’t shatter the thing. 

He watched post-game interviews, staring at his screen, mouth wide at the sweaty Shane Hollander responding to each and every question like the cocky asshole he was when he won. He scrolled through dozens of pictures of him on Instagram; pictures of him leaving games, going to the gas station, walking out of an afterparty, leaving the gym. It made him feel sick. And it made him even sicker when he couldn’t figure out why not talking to Shane made him feel so uneasy. He couldn’t sleep at night, tossing and turning, dreaming of Shane’s fingers in his mouth, sitting up straight clenching his stomach when the nausea became too overwhelming. 

He shivers under the covers, reaching a hand out to grab his phone before fully submerging himself under the blankets. Why was this hotel so fucking cold? 

The first thing he sees once his eyes focus on the screen is Shane. Shane walking out of some arbitrary Montreal nightclub. Ilya’s eyes dance to the left of the screen, where he sees a girl. Arm hooked around Shane’s, smiling brightly at the ground, long blonde hair floating behind her. 

What the fuck?

He sits up, fully registering what the fuck he just saw. Shane Hollander. Leaving a nightclub. With a girl around his arm. Ilya felt like he woke up in some sick alternate reality. This could not possibly be his life right now. His heart was racing, the colour draining out of his face completely, leaving his complexion grey with worry. This could not be happening. He swipes out of the app and opens his text thread with Shane. 

Lily

What the actual fuck, Shane?

No, that's too harsh. He deletes it. 

Lily

New girlfriend, Hollander?

No that wasn’t good either, he deletes that one too. Fuck it. Whatever. Shane was for sure not getting a word out of him now. Not after whatever the fuck that was. Ilya slaps his hands down against his thighs in disbelief, he swallows the pointed lump begging to swell in his throat. Shane had no idea what was in store for him. Ilya was going to make him regret this. 

They had another game tonight, against each other. Another chance for Boston to come back vicious and biting. A chance for Ilya to show Shane how badly he fucked up. He grins. 

The arena is loud. The seats are filled with fans, and Ilya notices he can’t find a single empty seat. The roar of the crowd leaves his ears ringing, but he lets it power him. He watches as the Metro’s take up the empty space on the ice, kicking up a spray of snow behind them. Ilya feels his hands rattle beneath his gloves, his ears are hot and he can somehow feel his heartbeat thumping in every limb. He discreetly searches the ice for Shane, eyes dancing around from player to player until they settle on number 24, observing the solid white “C” above his number. He shivers and swallows, moving his eyes back down to his own feet. Better this way. 

During the second period, Ilya’s had enough. Enough of watching Shane score goals and make great passes, skating around the ice like he’s made of it. He decides right then and there he’s gonna do something about it. All of the rage, all of the hurt and guilt and confusion that's been boiling just under the surface, was now spilling out all over the ice. Ilya feels himself begin to lose control, his eyes turning from blue to black. 

Around 6 minutes in, he body checks him into the boards. He shoves into him a little further with his arms as he pushes himself off of Shane. Shane looks up at him and opens his mouth, his throat beginning to make a sound, the beginning of a word. 

“What the f-” 

Ilya doesn’t give him the time of day, before his brain has time to catch up to him, he’s dropping his gloves, throwing his stick, and pulling his helmet off. He clocks Shane in the cheekbone, a spray of blood escaping from his mouth and sparkling on the ice below them. He looks down at his knuckles, now purple and blood-stained, hands shaking violently. What have I done?

 He looks up again to Shane, this time clenching his jersey between his fingers and punching again, sharp and hot and clean right across his face. Another blow, this time to his stomach, watching him double over at the pain. Shane picks his head up and follows his lead, abandoning his gloves, tossing his stick, and taking off his helmet, like an idiot. They were both idiots for that. He strikes Ilya with a closed fist and pointed knuckles, a laceration glowing deep and red across his cheek, pulsing open next to his eye. Again. This time across his nose, sending blood flooding down into his mouth, smearing across his once pearly white teeth. He grins at Shane through a blood-soaked smile. The blood and sweat coat Ilya’s face, he studies the welts beginning to form on Shane’s face, satisfactory. He feels something warm and hot between his legs, something he should not be feeling right now. He was supposed to be angry. He is fucking angry, but the look of Shane all bruised and bloodied and deplorable makes his stomach ache in a way he’s not sure he’s ever felt before. 

He’s welcomed harshly back to reality by the feeling of a ref tugging him off of Shane, winking at him before rightfully taking his seat in the penalty box. Ilya was out for the rest of the game for instigating the fight. Shane got a lousy 5 minutes. 

Now he just feels like a fucking idiot. He just beat the shit out of Shane, and now he couldn’t even win the game to make him feel even shittier. His plan was slowly starting to break apart right in front of him. At least he caught his attention. 

Somehow, by the grace of God, the Raiders pull through. Ilya beams from the penalty box, he feels an urge to stick out his tongue and wag around it in Shane’s face, as a way of saying ‘loser!’ He doesn’t, although he really wants to. 

Ilya closes the door to his hotel room, dropping his bags off his shoulder and hissing through bruised ribs. He lifts his shirt up to see a constellation of reds, purples, blues, and blacks beginning to paint themselves onto his torso. He sinks his fingers in a little, letting his fingernails leave soft pink crescent shaped indents on the bruising. 

He fucks with his pocket trying to free his phone from inside. He pulls it out and checks the time, noting that Shane was definitely home from the game by now. He scrolls up through their text thread for a little bit, searching for the text Shane sent him forever ago with his address. It had been a while since he last went to Shane’s apartment, so the address wasn’t as fresh in his brain anymore. 

He lets the door shut softly behind him and begins his excursion to Shane’s apartment. He doesn’t have a plan, he didn’t really think this through at all, actually. He doesn’t know what he wants to say, doesn’t know what he wants to do, he doesn't even know if Shane is gonna answer the door or not. He stops in his tracks, it dawns on him that the girl he saw in the photo of Shane leaving the nightclub, the one who was wrapped so tightly around his arm, could be at his apartment. Right now. Ilya walks even faster. Determined to catch them doing… something. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to think about what they could be doing right now. Except he is thinking about it, and it’s making his vision go dark and his heart hammer, his crucifix bouncing against his chest. 

He walks in through the back door, walking up the stairs, peering at the numbers on each door before he finds Shane’s. 

“Ah.” he whispers to himself as he lifts up his fist, pounding it against the door. 

He hears Shane’s soft footsteps approaching the door, then his hand wrapping around the doorknob, turning until there was nothing blocking his view. Shane opens the door, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low off his hips, hair wet at the tips from the shower.

Shane’s face drops, his mouth open like he was going to say something, but too stunned to once he realized Ilya Rozanov was standing behind his door, knuckles red, face swollen, blood drying against his cheek, pupils completely shot. Shane could see his reflection in Ilya’s eyes. Ilya maneuvers around him, letting himself inside the apartment without a peep, stepping slowly and carefully against the hardwood. He toes his shoes off. 

“Is your girlfriend here?” He asks, looking around the living room, not bothering to look at Shane. 

Shane scoffs. “My what?” 

“Your girlfriend. Pretty, blonde hair. I saw you two. Leaving the club last night.” He says as he walks circles around Shane, looking him up and down, his eyes hovering over the purple hue washed over Shane’s eye. 

“Ilya, what the fuck are you talking about?” He asks, stepping back. 

“Was not your girlfriend?” Ilya asks, raising a brow. 

“Jesus Christ. No. It wasn’t. I don’t have a fucking girlfriend you psychopath!” Shane yells, throwing his hands into the air. 

“So then who the fuck were you with, Shane?” Ilya asks, raising his voice to meet Shane’s. 

“It was Hayden’s sister! We went to the club last night to celebrate the w-” He pauses. “Wait, how did you see that? You fucking stalking me or something?” He accuses. 

Ilya takes a few steps forward, closing the distance, rubbing the pad of his thumb along the lesion stretched long and wide across Shane’s nose. 

“Yes.” He says matter-of-factly. Shane pauses. 

“What?” 

“Yes. I am stalking you. What is confusing?” He asks, pressing his thumb into the cut just a little. Shane hisses. 

“Fuck! You asshole! What the fuck is wrong with you?” He flinches backwards against the sting. “What was all that about? During our game? You punched me in the fucking face, Ilya!” He yells, gesturing at his bruised and broken skin. Ilya sighs out heavily, puffing his cheeks up. 

“I’m sorry… For hitting you. I was confused and hurt and angry and I don’t know what came over me.” He takes a breath before looking up at Shane, cupping his jaw in his hand. “... But you look kinda sexy covered in blood, you know.” Shane chuckles although he’s trying his hardest not to. Ilya can see him getting hard through his sweatpants. 

“You’re such a fucking asshole, Ilya. Do you know that?” Wrapping a hand around Ilya’s waist, fingers travelling up and under his shirt, feeling the swell of where his shoulder crashed into Ilya’s torso. 

“I’ve been told.” Ilya purrs.

He feels his mouth dry. He didn’t come here to apologize, or to fight, or to fuck. He wasn’t actually sure what came here for. But here he stood, Shane’s fingers ghosting over his bruises, holding his beautifully miffed face. And he’s okay with it. He’d take this over days of silence from Shane. No questions asked.

Shane rubs his fingers over the slash of dried blood caked onto Ilya’s skin, his eyes filling with tears. He wraps his fingers around Ilya’s wrist, dragging him onto the couch, forcing him down with a hand on his shoulder. He grabs Ilya’s jaw between his fingers, tilting up so he’s looking right at him. 

“Stay here.” He says flatly. 

“Hollander, wh-” Ilya begins. 

“Shut up, Ilya.” He calls out as he walks towards the bathroom. Ilya rolls his eyes and settles further into the couch, letting the cushions behind him catch his heavy aching head. 

Shane returns, standing tall over Ilya, first aid kit in his hands and a glass of water on the coffee table behind him. He kneels down to the floor and settles himself between Ilya’s knees. 

“Come here.” He says, waving his hand towards himself. Ilya leans down, resting his elbows against his knees so Shane can easily access his face. He unzips the kit, pulling out a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, butterfly bandages, cotton balls, and some gauze. 

“What, are you preforming a fucking surgery on me? Doctor Hollander?” Ilya protests. 

“You came here, Ilya. Remember that? Or are you concussed?” Shane says, looking up from the kit on his lap. Ilya raises his hands in surrender, promptly closing his lips, but not before he leaves a kiss on Shane’s temple and whispers, barely detectable, “Didn’t hit me that hard.” 

Shane grabs the gauze, soaking up any leftover blood pooling in Ilya’s wounds. He flicks the cap off the alcohol, placing a cotton pad over the opening, dumping the bottle upside down to soak it. He always had an aptitude for taking care of people. People he loved. He holds Ilya still with one hand while he dabs the cotton pad over his lacerations. Ilya closes one eye and whines at the sting of the alcohol, it sinks deep into his skin. Shane gently wipes the blood away, staring for a moment before jamming the cotton ball into the cut. 

“Чёрт!” Ilya yelps. 

“You deserve that.” Shane snickers. 

“Yes. I do, I definitely do. I’m sorry.” Ilya replies, sincerely, softly. 

He grabs the butterfly bandages, peeling off the plastic layer and softly pressing it into the cut on Ilya’s cheek, squeezing the wound close. His stomach flutters, feeling Ilya’s skin throb hot beneath his fingers. He uses the hand still cradling Ilya’s jaw to move his head around, bringing his face close, examining his skin to see if there were any other gashes hiding themselves. He lets go and flicks Ilya under the chin. 

“All clean.” He smirks. Ilya's expression changes, his brows suddenly creasing like he’s worried about something. 

“Shouldn’t I be the one cleaning your face? Your pretty purple face?” He says, running the backs of his swollen knuckles along Shane’s broken face. 

Shane laughs out his nose. “I’m okay, Ilya.” He says, resting his hand overtop Ilya’s. 

Ilya mouths a soft “okay” before pulling Shane up onto his lap. He watches Shane’s eyes wander all over his face, taking in every bruise, every welt, every scrape. He kisses over each and every wound. Ilya tightens his hand around Shane’s waist, sinking his fingernails into his battered broken skin, hoping to leave an extra bruise or two. 

Chapter 13: Ilya, Ilya, Ilya

    February 10, 2012

Jane

We still on for tonight?

Lily

Duh. ;)

Jane

Okay.

That’s my room number in case you were confused. 

Lily

Understood, Captain. 

Be there at 7. 

The last five days Ilya had found went rather smoothly between him and Shane. They texted regularly, almost every day in fact. They had moved on from only texting to plan their hookups to Ilya sending him random clips from hockey games, pictures of Shane he thought were cute, or really any thought that crossed his mind. He liked it. The regularity. It started to feel like they were really something. Something beyond just a whisper behind a hotel door, closed with a quiet hand and an even quieter mouth. 

There was no game tonight, so both Ilya and Shane were blessed with a day off. A day of calm after the shitstorm that was just now starting to blow over and dissipate. Ilya could feel an odd sense of calm begin to wash over him, finally drowning out the swirling guilt sitting at the bottom of his stomach. He laid awake at night losing sleep over what happened the last time he saw Shane. He had never witnessed himself lose control like that. Well, maybe not never, but at least never with Shane. This was never supposed to happen with Shane. He never wanted to see it ever again. He never wanted Shane to have to see it ever again. He kicked his feet under the sheets, twisting and turning, sweating and breathing hard, his mind playing a never-ending loop of the look on Shane’s face when he hit him for the first time. The look of betrayal and confusion and anger smeared across his skin. He cheeks turning bright red, not because of a flush, but because of something much more deep. Something much more painful. 

After he left Shane’s apartment that night, he sobbed against his own hands, terrified Shane had become afraid of him. He was too unpredictable now. He was dangerous. He thought about whether Shane thought he was going to hit him for real. Outside of hockey. Out of anger or frustration. He sobbed harder at the realization that maybe Shane didn’t look at him the same. That maybe this thing that they had, whatever it was, was over now. Done. Done because Ilya was the one to fuck it all up. He stared at the wall across from his bed, eyes unfocused, fingers twitching against the skin of his thigh. A pain growing hot and white inside his stomach. 

From inside his hotel room, Ilya smiles down at the glowing blue of his phone screen. He glances at the top of the screen and huffs. 6 pm. He told Shane he’d be at his room by 7. One hour. He tossed his phone down on the bed behind him and got undressed. Under the balmy spray of water he stands, running his fingers against his scalp, lathering cedar and pine scented body wash between his hands, letting it trickle down his thighs and wash over his feet. He knew Shane loved the way he smelt, and he wanted to smell the best he could for him. As the water splashes against his skin, beads of water latching themselves onto his blond eyelashes before plummeting to the tile, something hits him. Right in the gut. A feeling like all the air has just been sucked out of his stomach with a vacuum cleaner. Suddenly all he can think about is the worst case scenario. What if Shane was inviting him over to break up with him? I mean, they aren’t dating, but still. What if he realized he deserved better than Ilya? What if he finally woke up and realized whatever they had was never going to work? They’d never be more than a secret. His heart skips a beat at the thoughts. He rubs his eyes with the backs of his knuckles contentiously. He continues with his shower, hoping it will serve as a sort of distraction for whatever decided to start torturing his mind at this very moment. He steps out, grabbing a white cotton towel and wrapping it lazily around his hips. He wipes away the fog settled on the mirror with the palm of his hand, his reflection now clear staring back at him. He pokes around at his face for a little bit, smoothing over his eyebrows and running his finger through his hair until he thought it looked good enough to show up to Shane’s door with. Fuck, if he really was about to get broken up with, the least he could do was look hot. Maybe if he looked provocative enough Shane would change his mind. 

As he picks his phone back up off the bed, a new text from Shane overtakes his screen. 

Jane

It’s past 7, Ilya. 

Lily

Was getting all clean for you. 

Be there soon, I swear. 

Jane

Better be. I’m locking my door in 5 mins. 

Lily

I know how to pick locks ;)

Jane

Of course you do. 

Get your ass over here, Rozanov. 

He chucks his phone over his shoulder and pulls on a pair of black Adidas sweatpants, a black t-shirt, and black hoodie. It occurs to Ilya briefly that he looks like he’s dressed for his own funeral. Whatever. Maybe he was. He pauses to look in the mirror before leaving the room. He was a few floors away from Shane, so he started towards the elevator. The doors open and he pauses, turning the other direction, opting to take the stairs instead.

He arrives at 1323, a little bit flush in the face and a little bit out of breath. As he raises his fist to meet the door, it opens, Shane standing behind it, a tender smile stretched across his lips. Ilya smiles involuntarily and walks in. Out of instinct, Ilya grabs his face, pressing him up against the wall, shutting the door behind him with the bottom of his shoe. Shane kisses him viciously, but it’s tender and deep at the same time. He pulls back suddenly. 

“Can we sit?” He asks, running his hands under Ilya’s hoodie, feeling the heat pulsating out of his skin. 

“Why?” Ilya asks. 

“Let’s just sit, Ilya. Please?” Shane says, his tone becoming more firm. It forms a pit in the bottom of Ilya’s stomach. It’s happening. Shane Hollander was about two seconds from telling Ilya he never wanted to see him ever again. He’s certain. 

“Okay… Yeah, sure, okay.” He says, letting Shane lead him by his wrist to sit on the very edge of the bed. 

“What is going on, Shane?” He asks, thinking the worry on his face must be incredibly obvious to Shane. 

“I’ve been wanting to ask you something. For a little bit… actually.” Shane says. He can’t even look at Ilya. 

 Ilya’s heart stops beating.

“What?” He asks, trying to purposely relax the muscles in his face so he looks completely indifferent. Unreadable. It would be easier this way. He clenches his stomach and braces for impact. 

“I wanted to ask you… if um.” He stutters, Ilya notices him tapping his foot against the ground. He offers his hand on his thigh to soothe him. 

“Keep going, it’s okay.” He doesn’t want him to, but it's instinct to want to comfort Shane. 

“I wanted to ask you, Ilya, if you… um. If you would want to come to my cottage? With me? This summer?” He asks finally, only just now lifting his eyes off the ground to look at Ilya. 

Ilya feels every muscle soften underneath the weight of his own body. This was the complete opposite of a break up. Shane really wants to take him there. To his most sacred space. Ilya recalls watching Shane’s short documentary about his cottage, he already knew the layout of the entire thing, knew where Shane did yoga in the morning, where he made his coffee and rabbit food, knew the glossiness of the marble countertops. But Shane didn’t need to know that. Not right now at least, but he’d love to throw it at him later. Maybe when they were at the cottage. 

“Shane.” He says, voice low and cautious, his hand staying planted on his thigh. 

“It super private, we’ll have the whole place to ourselves, no one will even know we’re there, we can stay for a week or maybe even two-” 

“Shane.” He says, cutting him off, squeezing his hand around Shane’s thigh. “Are you sure about this?” 

He wants to go. He wants to go so badly. But he wants Shane to want it just as badly as he does before he agrees to it. His heart aches when he remembers its only fucking February. He’ll have to go through the motions for the next 5 months just waiting. Waiting to live. To really live. 

“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life, I think.” 

Ilya feels the sting of tears teasing his eyes. A bath filling just beneath his iris’ like he’s peeking his head halfway out of a pool. One blink will send them streaming down his warm red cheeks. His cheeks, which are so warm he thinks steam must be rising from the top of his head. He grabs Shane by the jaw and pulls him in fast and close. Pressing their lips together with a rugged but somehow tender, gentle kiss. It holds depth, meaning. He pulls away once he feels he can compose himself again. One he feels like he can speak without his voice breaking and eyelashes fluttering. 

“I would love to come to your cottage, Shane.” He says, his hand is cradling Shane’s cheek, his thumb brushing softly against his freckles. He moves his thumb just for a moment to plant a kiss on each cheek, right, then left, then the tip of his nose, then back to his mouth. Oh how he loves his mouth. 

“Yeah?” Shane asks, holding Ilya’s hand tight against his flushed face. 

“Yeah.” Ilya says, so sure of himself. He’s never felt so right about a decision in his life—saying yes to Shane is a no-brainer. This feels good. This feels right. 

They make love there, on that hotel bed. Clothes strewn around the room, peeled off slow and lazy, pressing kisses against tepid tender skin between layers of shirts and pants and boxers. They kiss until their lips are purple—bruised, swollen, tender to the touch. Ilya fucks Shane slow. Maybe the slowest he ever has. He fucks him like he’s hallowed, like he’s a sacred being he’s somehow earned the blessing of being able to touch with his hands and mouth and tongue. The callouses scattered across his palms rub rough against the pliable silky skin of Shane’s hips. He holds them like it's the only thing keeping him upright. He counts each and every freckle that stains the skin of Shane’s back as he thrust into him so excruciatingly slow. He kisses the tip of his finger and drags it along them, noting the differences in colour, shape, how these three freckles form a backwards L right in the center of his spine, and how these ones look like constellations. Shane shivers against his touch, breathing out small whimpers and moans, muffled by the pillow cradling his flushed face. 

Ilya comes inside him as Shane fucks his hips backwards in a effort to get even closer to him. He can feel the skin of Ilya’s pelvis sticking to him, and he doesn’t ever want to free himself. 

They lay on the bed, limbs tangled around soft cotton sheets, arms around necks, lips against lips. They kiss even slower than they fucked. Ilya moves his mouth around Shane’s like he’s trying to mentally map out the shape of his lips. Pressing in slowly, licking around inside his mouth lazily, biting down and pulling on his bottom lip until it snaps back into place. He pulls Shane’s face off of his own with the same calloused hands that felt over the skin of his hips with such care and concern, a string of glinting spit the only thing keeping their lips connected. 

“Shane, Shane, Shane.” He says, tucking a strand of hair around the top of Shane’s ear. 

“Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.” Shane says, eyes glossy, full of stars. 

“In case I wasn’t… clear enough… before. I am sorry. For hitting you. So terribly sorry.” He shakes his head and lifts his gaze to the ceiling, the familiar sting returning to settle overtop of his eyes. He opens his mouth to try to finish the sentence, but he just can’t. Nothing will come out. 

“Hey, hey. It’s okay, Ilya. We can move past that. I-” He grabs Ilya’s face to look at him. “I wanna move past that.” 

“It will never happen ever again, Shane.” A single tear gleams down the side of Ilya’s cheek. Shane promptly wipes it away with the pad of his thumb, kissing just where the tear fell, licking the saltiness of Ilya’s agony on his lips. 

“I know.” 

There's so much more Ilya wants to say but he doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know how to make the words flow out of his mouth in a way that Shane would think is beautiful and strong instead of sad and weak. He never wanted Shane to think he was weak. He wasn’t. He isn’t. He thinks to himself it’s best to leave it at that. 

As he lay with Shane’s head tucked under his chin, fingers crawling through his hair and over his scalp, he closes his eyes. Lets the warmth overtake him. He lets it be transferred to his mouth from inside Shane’s. He lets it crawl down his throat and live inside his stomach. He’ll let it make a home inside of him for as long as it's willing to stay. 

Chapter 14: Chapter Fourteen

    July 3, 2012

The past five months have been… different, for lack of a better word. Ilya and Shane still saw each other on stolen nights between games, behind hotel room doors, in each other’s beds, on Ilya’s couch, and maybe his kitchen counter. But their dynamic was different now. The feelings were out in the air. Ilya was vulnerable in front of Shane. He fucking cried in front of him. Ilya hadn’t cried in the arms of another man since he was born, and even then, that's a gamble. He let Shane see the parts of him he thought he buried deep enough that they would never resurface. But they did. And Shane embraced them, he embraced every part of Ilya. He looked him in his teary eyes on that hotel bed and when they inevitably poured out of him he wiped them away with a gentle thumb and an even gentler kiss. He saw him. He saw Ilya, not Ilya Rozanov, Russia’s own golden boy of hockey, not Rozy, just Ilya. 

They texted every single day. Every minute Ilya had the opportunity, his phone was between his fingers, checking his notifications, texting Shane upwards of five times in a row when he’d take more than three seconds to answer, sending him sweaty and slutty post-gym pictures, prompting Shane to do the same. They talked about the cottage a lot. Shane’s a meticulous planner, every minute detail is huge to him. Ilya knows this about Shane very well, so he let him explain the plan a dozen times, each time in great detail. Shane had sent him paragraphs over text, laid it out for him over facetime, talked about it for 30 minutes over the phone, waved his hands around in the air with his legs tangled around Ilya mere minutes after having sex. And every time, Ilya nodded his head, told Shane that sounded great, he couldn’t wait, and thanked him endlessly for inviting him by kissing every square inch of skin he could get his mouth on.

Ilya stepped off the plane, luggage in hand, head to toe in black in an attempt to be as undercover as possible—black muscle tee, black joggers, a black baseball cap, and black sunglasses. He follows a bunch of signs aimlessly until he finds his way out of the airport to arrivals where Shane was parked, probably going silently frantic from inside the comfort—or discomfort—of his own mind. 

Jane

I’m parked at arrivals. 

Black Land Rover. 

I see you. 

Lily

I can’t see you.

Nvm, coming. U look cute.

Wtf are you driving. 

He walks towards the obnoxious black Land Rover, peeking his head in the window to see Shane tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and glancing over his shoulder every second. He looks around before opening the trunk and tosses his luggage in, walking a few steps around to let himself into the car. 

“What the fuck is this?” He asks, waving his hand around the inside of the car. 

“It’s a car.” Shane says, like Ilya must be stupid to not know they’re in a car right now. 

“It's so… loud. And obnoxious.” Ilya says, looking around at the interior. It’s really not, he thinks it’s actually quite nice, but he loves teasing Shane about anything and everything. 

“It’s a good car! Good in the winter, good in the snow. What do you even know about cars, Ilya?” 

“Nothing, clearly.” 

They drive for a bit, mostly in silence, but Ilya’s hand never leaves Shane’s thigh. He keeps it there for so long he thinks there may be a red steaming handprint embedded in his skin when he does finally lift his hand, the ghost of his skin against Shane’s still lingering. He can tell Shane’s nervous, falling back into his anxious habit of tapping his fingers aggressively against the leather of the steering wheel, occasionally nipping at the skin of his thumb. Ilyas nervous too. Extremely, but that wasn’t important right now. 

They’d already been vulnerable and mushy, soft and warm and pliant,  and whispered each other’s names with wet eyes and pink cheeks, but now, they were about to do something about it. They were about to prove they meant what they said to each other. The longest they’d ever spent together couldn’t have been more than overnight, maybe twelve hours at the most. And that was rare. They didn’t get time like this to just be with each other and no one else. Just Shane and Ilya. No performances, no masks, no petty texts, no sitting on his couch at 2 in the morning watching a post-game Shane Hollander interview. None of that. This is raw and visceral. This is real. 

About thirty minutes into the drive, Shane clearly can’t handle the silence for a second longer. Ilya can see him being driven to madness from out the sides of his sunglasses. 

“I, uh, picked up some groceries so we shouldn’t really have to leave. I also got you two cases of coke, one of them’s in the fridge so you can have a cold one when we get there, if you want, I don’t know.” He says, looking at Ilya for a split second before redirecting his attention back to the road ahead of them. 

“Thank you for inviting me, Shane.” Ilya says warmly, grabbing one of Shane’s hands and swallowing it whole with his own. 

“Of course. I’m looking forward to having some alone time with you. For more than a few hours, for once.” He chuckles, squeezing his hand inside Ilya’s strong grasp. 

“What are we going to do?” Ilya asks, lowering his sunglasses to the tip of his nose and peering at Shane over top of them, wetting his lower lip with the tip of his tongue, the sunlight streaming in makes his spit sparkle. 

“Whatever we want to. I told my parents I was going to this silent mediation retreat thing so they wont bother us. The cottage is super priv-” 

Ilya cuts in, head thrown back in the seat, cackling. “You told them what?” He clutches his stomach, laughing so hard he can't find his own breath. 

“What? Does that not sound believable?” Shane laughs. 

“No, no, for you it’s believable. But not for anyone else.” He unwraps his hand from around Shane’s and leaves tiny little kisses all over, going up and down each finger. 

“Anyways,” He continues. “the cottage is super private, so no one will be able to see us. We can do whatever we want.” 

“Whatever we want, huh?” Ilya asks, poking Shane in the side teasingly. 

“Shut up, Rozanov.” He says, for once not fighting back the smile. He lets it take over his entire face until his cheeks grow sore. 

They pull into the driveway, the sound of gravel being moved by the heavy rubber of the tires. The place is huge, covered in floor to ceiling windows, a grand entry way, and dark wood paneling. It's gorgeous, Ilya thinks, but he’s not gonna tell Shane that.  Shane pops the trunk and unbuckles his seatbelt while Ilya watches. He unloads all the bags out of the trunk, including all of Ilya’s luggage. 

“I can carry my own bags, Shane.” He says, reaching his hand out so Shane will just give him his shit. 

“No.” Shane says, swatting Ilya’s hand away like he’s a gnat hovering over a bowl of fresh fruit. 

Ilya throws his head back in dramatics as he rolls his eyes, opting to grip the fabric of Shane’s button down as he follows him inside the cottage like a lost puppy. He doesn’t mind being Shane’s lost puppy for the next two weeks. He looks around at the tall cedars surrounding them while Shane fumbles with his keys, the sound of metal clanking against the hefty steel lock when he finally gets the door open. Shane leads him inside, kicking his shoes off at the door, Ilya promptly follows, pushing his shoes next to Shane’s with his feet. He thinks it looks beautiful, their shoes, side by side like this. He thinks about what it would be like to come home to Shane’s shoes next to his everyday. He mouths a soft “wow” as he looks around the inside of the cottage. Its fucking massive. When he walks in, he can see straight out into the yard that overlooks the lake, it looks strangely familiar. 

“Is that where you do your yoga every morning?” He asks, pointing outside. 

“Yeah, I love to look at the lake when I-” He pauses, furrowing his brows as he thinks. “You saw that?” 

“Oh yes I did. And I loved every second of it. You are a bit stiff, though. Maybe I need to loosen you up.” Ilya says, walking closer to Shane, like he’s stalking him. 

“Fuck off, I’d like to see you try it.” Shane says, biting down on his lip trying to suppress a smile, letting go when he realizes he doesn’t have to anymore. 

“Ah, no. Is for you to do and for me to watch.” Ilya says, closing the distance, grabbing at Shane’s hips. 

“Can I show you around?” Shane asks after pressing a kiss to his jaw. 

Ilya steps aside and lets Shane guide him around the cottage. He takes him to the kitchen, putting emphasis on the expensive black marble countertops, he opens the fridge to show him what groceries he bought, tapping his finger against the cans of coke he bought for Ilya, which happen to be beside the cans of ginger ale he bought for himself. Ilya wants to weep seeing it. He shows him the bathroom, tapping on the glass of the shower door, which can most definitely fit two bodies in it. He shows him the bathroom counter, the left side filled with Shane’s toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, face towel, the spot next to it completely empty, waiting for Ilya’s stuff to fill the vacant lot on the counter. He takes him upstairs, showing him all three of the bedrooms, letting Ilya decide which one they would claim and theirs for the next two weeks. Ilya chooses the one with the biggest bed and the most windows, noticing the way the sunlight streams in and pools onto the bed. He wanted Shane’s face to glow from the shine of the sun when he was fucking him senseless later. Or maybe right now. 

He walks circles around Shane until he’s directly in front of him, a gentle hand on his chest to guide him up against one of the many windows. Shane feels the cold glass against the skin of his back even through the linen of his button down. They stare at each other for a while, Shane noticing the way the sun morphs Ilya’s eyes into a shade of blue he’s never seen before. Ilya takes Shane’s chin between his fingers, twisting it just slightly to the left so he can get his mouth around his neck. He kisses him starting at the jaw, kissing down and down and down until he meets the skin of his chest, just below his collarbone. He undoes a third button on Shane’s shirt, exposing more bare chest, sinking his teeth into his tepid flesh. Shane hisses through his teeth, wrapping his fingers around Ilya’s golden curls. Ilya kisses back up Shane’s neck until his lips find his mouth, pressing firm, kissing him so tenderly, and so slowly like they have all the time in the world, because right now, they do. 

Shane drops to his knees in an instant, mouthing at Ilya overtop of his sweatpants, letting his fingers climb up his thighs.. It catches Ilya off guard, reaching out a hand to brace himself against the cool window, breathless. Shane continues rubbing his face over the fabric covering Ilya’s crotch, looking up at him with needy, desperate eyes. Ilya tilts his head down to look at Shane, sitting between his legs pathetically. 

“Use your words, кролик,” He breathes, “Tell me what you want.” He lets his fingers wander through Shane’s hair. 

“You.” Shane hums, sliding his hand a little further up Ilya’s thighs, he can practically feel the heat radiating off his dick. “I want you, Ilya.” 

“Oh, fuck.” Ilya whispers. “You have me, baby.” Running a thumb across the skin of Shane’s cheekbones, stroking his freckles. His freckles which are a darker shade now, Ilya can tell his face has been in the sun, warm pink cheeks and deeper, more apparent freckles, appearing like constellations scattered across his nose and cheeks. 

“Can I?” Shane whispers, palming Ilya over his sweatpants. He can feel how agonizingly hard he is from seeing Shane, like this, on his knees so easily for him, drool pooling in his mouth threatening to spill, his pupils shot, so wide his eyes look black. Ilya nods, placing his other hand against the window, letting Shane pull down his sweatpants. He makes a breathless noise, like he’s been punched in the gut when he realizes Ilya’s not wearing any underwear. 

“Oh my god, Ilya.” He says in disbelief. 

“What? Nothing wrong with being prepared.” Ilya laughs. 

Shane rolls his eyes, faking disgust, before wrapping his hands around Ilya’s thighs and letting him into his mouth, breathing deep, opening his throat to get every inch inside, to be as close to Ilya as he possibly fucking can. Ilya hisses, feeling himself rub against the warm wet flesh waiting for him at the back of Shane’s throat. He can hear—and feel—him gagging, spit streaming down his chin, dripping onto his own thighs. Seeing him like that, Shane, choking and drooling and going red in the face, swallowing Ilya whole like he’s a fucking python, makes him swoon. He’s gonna come. Already. He hasn’t been with anyone in the last year other than Shane, but he didn’t need to know that, not right now at least, he was busy. He tries to slow his breathing down, inhaling deep, exhaling long, as if it’s gonna make him last longer. It doesn’t. He cradles Shane’s head with both of his hands, letting his forehead fall against the glass, shoving himself deeper into Shane’s mouth. 

“That’s it, baby.” He pants. “Take it all, fuck.” He throws his head back, a deep, primal sound coming out of his throat as he comes in Shane’s mouth. He feels Shane swallow all of it with his mouth still wrapped around him. It feels so good he thinks he may start weeping and never stop. 

He pulls Shane up by the collar of his shirt, licking into his mouth, tasting himself on Shane’s tongue. He felt fucking drunk, like maybe Shane’s saliva had seeped into his skin and drugged him. He kisses Shane like he’s thanking him, like he’s worshipping his mouth, and in a way, he is. He loves Shane’s mouth. He loves the feeling of it on his own, he loves hearing the noises he can force out of it, loves the colour his lips turn when he’s been kissing him for hours until his brain was no longer functioning. He loves it all. As he swirls his tongue against Shane’s, he wonders if these feelings are shared. Oh god, he hopes they are. 

Chapter 15: Divine Adoration

Chapter Summary

ahh final chapter!!

Chapter Notes

    July 6, 2012

The last three days have been the easiest of Ilya’s life. The only things he concerns himself with are Shane, what’s for dinner, when they can go swimming in the lake, and putting his mouth all over his boy. He wakes up every morning to a sleeping angel strung around his arms, the early morning sunlight making him glow in Ilya’s embrace, he feels warm and he smells sweet. 

This morning, he wasn’t the first to wake up. He blinks his eyes open, the daylight warming his chest, the smell of eggs and bacon wafting from the kitchen into the crack of the bedroom door. He feels the warm impression Shane left on the mattress beside him. He pulls on a pair of sweatpants he found on the floor and one of Shane’s hoodies, taking the collar between his fingers, inhaling the scent still lingering on the cotton that is so uniquely Shane. He wants to drown in the scent forever. 

He pads down the stairs, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, his vision still a little fuzzy from sleeping so deeply—the deepest he’s slept maybe ever. He reaches the bottom of the stairs, the one thing he can make out, is Shane. He stands in front of the stove, one hand on his hip, the other flipping bacon in a pan, behind him on the island, a plate of steaming fried eggs. Ilya looks at the table outside, seeing two plates and napkins sitting side by side, it makes him weak in the knees. 

“Morning sleepy.” Shane says with the warmest smile, moving the bacon around in the pan while keeping his gaze fixed on Ilya. He notices Ilyas in his hoodie, he thinks it looks much nicer on him. 

“You are so fucking cute.” Ilya says, walking closer, wrapping his arms around Shane’s waist from behind. “I think it might kill me.” He says, planting a kiss right in the crook of Shane’s warm neck. Shane twitches backwards against the touch. 

“Then who will I make breakfast for every morning?” Shane asks, looking behind him to press a kiss against Ilya’s cheek. He smells like sleep, and his skin is still warm from the bed and all the sun that's kissed his face since they got to the cottage. Ilya hums, nodding his head in agreement. Shane would be cooking breakfast for absolutely no one else except Ilya. Ilya hopes to eat Shane’s breakfast for the rest of his life. 

Ilya grabs the plate of eggs and two cups as Shane follows behind him with the bacon and a jug of juice. They sit outside and eat their breakfast together, the sun warm on their face, Shane’s freckles tripling in the last three days. Ilya loves it. When they sit on the couch together watching a movie at night, he counts all the new ones that sprouted that weren’t there the day before. He’ll run his thumb along Shane’s flushed cheeks and whisper Russian endearments into his perfect skin. 

Ilya gazes at the lake while he shoves fried eggs and bacon in his mouth. He notices the way the sun casts a golden strip of light right in the middle of the water, only ever at this time of day, this early in the morning. Eventually, later tonight when the sun starts to set, he’ll get to see the golden sparkles dancing just on the surface of the water while he and Shane swim naked. It’s quiet, but Shane notices that Ilya still hasn’t said much of anything. He rubs his open palm against the back of Ilya’s neck, wrapping his fingers around, thumb gently swaying across his curls. 

“Whatcha thinking about?” He asks, moving his chair over a little closer so he can rest his hand against Ilya’s thigh. 

“I don’t know.” Ilya says, turning away from the lake to face Shane. He’ll never get tired of looking at that face. “Maybe nothing?” He adds. 

“Is that a good thing?” Shane asks, rubbing his thumb gently against Ilya’s leg. 

“I think so.” He takes a sip of fresh pressed juice Shane made the day before. “I think maybe my brain only has room for you right now.” 

Shane laughs, slapping his hand on his thigh. “You’re such an idiot.” 

“You love it.” Ilya says, pressing his face against Shane's, moving it to the side so he can kiss his sun-warmed cheeks. 

It’s true. He doesn’t have room to think of anything but Shane, and it’s pure bliss. He searches inside of himself for some kind of worry, some kind of anxiety that maybe he forgot was in there, something that should be plaguing his mind and worrying him sick, but there's just nothing there. He presses a hand to his stomach, looking for the familiar tugging pain that's always reminding him his joy is merely temporary, but that isn’t there either. It’s soft, the feeling in his stomach. It’s warm and soothing and it feels like it's supplying him with love and tenderness for him to share with Shane. 

“All done?” Shane asks, grabbing the plates. 

“Yes, thank you, baby.” Ilya says, rubbing a hand over Shane’s ass as he stands up, squeezing a little until Shane slaps his hand away. 

After dinner, he watches Shane as he walks slowly back into the kitchen, turning on the hot water in the sink and washing their plates by hand. It’s so domestic, so normal, it feels so familiar that Ilya can’t think of one reason why this can’t just be reality for them. He wants Shane, in his home, leaning with his stomach against the sink washing dishes, for the rest of his life. His chest starts to hurt a little looking at him, he pads back inside to rest his head against Shane’s shoulder from behind while he finishes cleaning up. The skin of his neck is flushed and he smells like sunscreen and Ilya’s cologne, because he’s in Ilya’s hoodie. Ilya wraps his arms around to tuck them in the pockets of the hoodie, ticking Shane’s stomach. 

They lay sprawled out on the couch, limbs tangled, fingers laced together, warm cheeks pressed together. They’re watching one of Ilya’s favourite Russian films from childhood, Shane promised Ilya they could watch it together, and it meant way more to Ilya than he let show in the moment, he thought maybe that would’ve been an appropriate time to propose to Shane. They play with each other’s fingers while Shane comments on how bleak the movie is, nodding to the fact that Ilya must’ve had a pretty fucked up childhood for this to be his favourite movie. Ilya doesn’t deny it, but he doesn’t get any deeper into it, either. He’d rather think about how happy he is to be with Shane right now, sprawled out lazily on his couch, his head tucked under Ilya’s chin. 

Ilya’s pretty sure he loves him. No, actually, he’s positive. He loves Shane Hollander. He loves him so much he feels like it's consuming him, washing over him like a wave, pooling in his ribcage, filling up his lungs. Ilya would gladly drown in this feeling, until water poured out of his eyes, spilling salt water down his cheeks for Shane to kiss away with soft plush lips. His heart races at the thought, praying Shane can’t feel Ilya’s pulse thumping against the back of his skull. Ilya pauses the movie. 

“Had enough of your sad Russian movie already?” Shane asks, turning his head to gaze up at Ilya. 

“Had enough of not having my mouth on you.” He growls, leaning down to kiss Shane so gently it’s barely felt, his voice is rough but his touch is tender. He strokes Shane’s cheek with the edge of his thumb while he pushes his tongue into his mouth, licking around, tasting Shane’s saliva against his own. 

“You taste like cigarettes.” Shane scolds, slapping his hand lightly against Ilya’s chest and pushing himself upright. 

Ilya scoffs. “Oh my god, I had one. Like three hours ago.” He rolls his eyes. 

“You shouldn’t be having any, Ilya.” Shane tilts his head, raising a brow. 

“And you shouldn’t be telling me what to do. Is my job. I boss you around.” He says, reaching out his hand to caress Shane’s thigh, not touching his skin for even a moment feels like agony. 

“Shut up, you love it.” Shane teases. 

Ilya stills, his fingers once gently teasing at Shane’s skin now unmoving. He bites at his lip for a moment before—

“I love you, Shane.” 

Shane’s smile drops, his mouth slightly agape and eyes the widest Ilya’s ever seen them.

“I mean, I-” He stirs. “You don’t have to say it back, I know it’s a lot, but I’ve been wanting to tell you since we got here. It’s been killing me.” The words sing brightly in the air against the silence. He watches Shane’s face, trying to pick up on any microexpressions to get some kind of insight as to what Shane’s thinking right now. 

“I love you too, Ilya.” He says, eyes welling up the second the words escape past his lips. “I love you so fucking much.” He says through a broken voice, a single tear spilling over the edge of his eye, trickling down his cheek, clinging to his jaw. 

Ilya lets out a heavy sigh as he collapses forward, burying his head in Shane’s lap. Wet hot tears are falling fast, running down his face, collecting in the collar of his shirt. He feels Shane run his hand under the fabric, brushing his bare palm against the warmth of Ilya’s back, letting his fingernails stroke gently up and down, his other hand nuzzled in the golden curls. He swallows his pride—along with the lump growing aggressively wide in his throat—and lifts his head from Shane’s lap. He’s a complete fucking mess, face welted and red, eyes glossy and rubbed raw, cheeks pink and glistening with tears. Shane feels himself fall apart seeing the anguish on Ilya’s face. He mouths a soft “hey” before grabbing Ilya’s jaw in his hand, wiping the tears with the backs of his knuckles. He kisses him firmly on the forehead, then the very tip of his nose, then melts into his lips. Ilya dissolves into the kiss, Shane feels each muscle soften as he brushes his hand over Ilya’s arms. 

“Can we go to bed now?” Ilya asks, a softness and desperation in his voice Shane’s never heard from him before. 

“Of course, Ilya.” Shane says, standing up, helping Ilya up by tugging on his arm. 

It takes them forever to actually get up the stairs, giggling and taking turns pressing each other against the wall, kissing deeply, peeling off clothes lazily, leaving them strewn around the steps. They don’t even make it to their bedroom before they’ve both stripped every last piece of clothing off. Ilya kisses Shane into the bedroom, gently closing the door with the back of his foot, not that there's any reason to, they are alone afterall, it’s just muscle memory at this point. He pulls away briefly to lay Shane down on the mattress, so gentle Shane can’t tell the difference between being held in Ilya’s arms and laying down against the sheets. 

Without a word, Ilya kneels at Shane’s feet, kissing the tops, up his ankles, pressing soft open mouthed kisses up his shins, mouthing lazily at his thighs. It’s sloppy and wet and he feels like he’s high, his brain becoming soft and malleable, his face hot and buzzing. He looks up from between Shane’s legs to see that sad, puppy dog look on his face. Big brown eyes glossed over with tears, brows furrowed and mouth hanging open, practically drooling looking at Ilya kneeling before him. 

“Please, Ilya.” He whimpers. 

“Please what?” Ilya breathes over his thighs, sinking his teeth into the skin. “Use your words for me, baby.” 

“Please fucking touch me.” Shane whispers. 

Ilya’s eyes go dark as he grins. “That’s my good boy. Telling me exactly what you want, hm?” 

Ilya decides he’s tortured him enough, now all he wants is to make him feel good. He wraps his fingers around the base, licking up and kissing off the bead of pre-come. He takes all of Shane in his mouth, opening his throat to make room for the angel laying on his bed before him. He feels Shane’s hand crawl up into his hair, gripping tight, pulling up on his scalp. He swirls his tongue around the tip, making Shane yelp and squeeze his hand harder against Ilya’s scalp. 

“Jesus, fuck, Ilya.” He whines, voice drowning in desperation. 

Ilya picks up his gaze for a moment, looking at Shane with dark hungry eyes, Shane looks reverent, his brows furrowed, eyes barely open, his cheeks pink, the flush spreading to his jaw, creeping down the skin of his neck, and he looks about two second away from bursting into tears. This is worship, Ilya thinks. He thinks back to that time, in the hotel room after the party, Shane on his knees crawling to Ilya. He felt that was the closest he’d get to seeing Heaven. He realizes now, lips wrapped around Shane, knees rough against the hardwood, drool spilling out of his mouth dripping onto his thigh, this is Heaven. He doesn’t have to dream of white clouds and golden gates, because it’s been in front of him this entire time. Shane’s been in front of him this entire time. He lowers his head as far down as his neck will let him, nuzzling his nose in the freshly trimmed hair on Shane’s pelvis, he inhales. He can still smell his body wash through layers of sweat and sunscreen. He swallows while Shane’s tip reaches the very back of his throat, and he can feel Shane squirming above him. 

“Fuck, Ilya I-I can’t anymore.” He cries. “I’m gonna come.” 

Ilya looks up at him once more, nodding his head and winking. Shane takes that as permission, which is how Ilya meant it. He braces both hands on the sides of Ilya’s soft coiled hair. His hips jerk up involuntarily, sending himself even further into Ilya’s throat. Ilya chokes a little, but puts his hands behind his back to let Shane fuck his face, even if he’s not meaning to. He comes with a frenzied cry, his thighs closing around Ilya’s head. Ilya wouldn’t mind if Shane crushed his skull right now, he’d die happy. He takes every last drop of Shane before pulling his mouth off, coming up to hover over Shane. 

“Open your mouth, baby.” He whispers, tapping his finger against his bottom lip. 

Shane drops his jaw immediately, sticking his tongue out for Ilya. He gathers a little more spit on his tongue before spitting onto Shane’s tongue, watching him take it, his adams apple bouncing as he swallows it all. Ilya wants to die just seeing it, how easily Shane opened his mouth and swallowed, like it was a second nature, and, at this point, it was. Doing what Ilya told him to came so naturally. It was the one thing Shane could never feel ashamed of, no matter how hard he tried to. Ilya closes his eyes and whines, leaning in closer to kiss Shane filthily. 

“I love you.” He says, pulling back. 

“I love you so much, Ilya.”

“I love you, I love you, I love you.” Ilya whispers into his skin over and over and over, the impressions of his love living in Shane’s flesh forever. 

They make love slowly in a drunken haze, Ilya’s warm strong hands pressing Shane’s face further and further into the bed, running his fingers through his hair, leaning down to mouth at his neck. Ilya can barely keep his eyes open, eyelids weighed down with love and lust, feeling Shane so tightly around him is making him fucking crazy. He curses under his breath in Russian while Shane whines and whimpers and cries into the sheets, his fingers desperately gripping onto whatever he can get his hands on, his knuckles turning white. 

Their bedroom is dark and warm, the only light being a tender orange glow coming from the bedside lamp. Ilya collapses overtop of Shane, his glinting gold crucifix coming to rest against the skin of Shane’s shoulder blades, leaving behind a red cross dent on his skin when Ilya shifts himself off to lay beside him. Ilya holds the back of Shane’s head, feeling his pulse at the base of his neck on his palm, he pulls until their foreheads are touching. It’s quiet as he rubs his nose back and forth against Shane’s, the only thing heard being their shared breathlessness. 

“Shane,” He says, quiet and gentle, like he’s trying not to wake a sleeping baby.

“Mmm?” Shane mumbles, his eyes still closed, nose flush against Ilya’s. 

“You’re so beautiful, baby.” He says, running his thumb along Shane's freckles. “Are you still awake?” 

Shane nods with an “Mhm.” Opening his eyes to prove it. 

“I’m gonna run us a bath, okay? You stay here. Don’t fall asleep, кролик.” Ilya whispers as he props himself up to get out of bed, leaving Shane with a kiss on the temple as he pads into the bathroom. 

The en-suite bathroom is obnoxiously massive, but it has a gorgeous porcelain clawfoot bathtub, big enough for a lot more than just two people, so Ilya thought why not make use of it. Him and Shane usually shower together after sex, but Ilya’s feeling romantic. He’s always fantasized of tenderly washing Shane’s hair in the bathtub, taking care of him. He turns the water on, letting it run over his wrist to ensure it would be the right temperature for Shane. While the tub fills up, he grabs Shane’s shampoo, conditioner, body wash from inside the shower, and a glass cup to rinse Shane’s hair. He grabs them two towels, folding them neatly on the edge of the counter. He walks back into the bedroom to see Shane sitting upright on the edge of the bed, quietly watching Ilya the entire time. 

“We’re you watching me, pervert?” He asks, giggling. 

“Thought maybe I’d stalk you for a change.” Shane teases. 

“You are adorable. Come.” He says, reaching out his hand for Shane to hold on to. 

He continues to hold Shane’s hand as he gets into the tub, Ilya following not far behind, settling in behind Shane, spreading his legs so he can get as close as possible. He wraps his arms around Shane’s chest and showers him with kisses, it makes Shane giggle with such genuine bliss, Ilya can practically hear his cheeks flushing. He reaches for the shampoo, lathering it between his palms before massaging it into Shane’s scalp, which earns him a gentle hum. He dunks the cup into the warm soapy water, holding his hand over Shane’s forehead to protect his face from the water. He pours it slowly over his head, running his fingers through his hair to get the last suds of shampoo out. Shane softens his body against Ilya’s, his hands treading beneath the water until his fingers meet the skin of Ilya’s ankles, wrapping around, like he’s trying to hold him still. As if there's anywhere Ilya would rather be. He’s not budging. 

Ilya finishes washing his hair, setting down the bottle of conditioner on the ground, grabbing the body wash. He lathers it all over Shane’s warm skin, he leans in close to his neck, leaving a wet kiss.

“Arms up, baby.” He whispers in his ear. Shane lets his head fall back into Ilya, lifting his arms up, letting Ilya wash him. Ilya gently presses Shane’s arms back down to rest against his torso, moving his hands down his chest, rubbing tenderly. He rests his hands over Shane’s stomach, watching his own hand rise and fall with the rhythm of Shane’s breath, which is deepening as he moves his hand lower. 

“Ilya.” Shane whispers. 

“Want me to stop?” He asks, his hand stills. 

“No. No, please don’t.” Shane says immediately, lifting his hand from Ilya’s ankle to grab the hand on his stomach, pushing it further down. 

“Fuck.” Ilya breathes. 

He strokes him slowly under the warm water, his other hand coming up to wrap around Shane’s throat, his pulse bobbing against Ilya’s palm. He holds Shane close when he comes, wrapping his arm around his waist to pull him as close as he possibly can. 

“Now we’re all dirty again.” Shane whines. 

“Nonsense. Stand up, I’ll dry you off, my sweet boy.” Ilya says, standing up and stepping out onto the dry bath mat, holding his hand out for Shane to hold on to. He grabs a towel from the counter, drying Shane off completely before wrapping it around him. 

“Go sit on the bed, my love.” He says, sending him off with a kiss. 

“Okay.” Shane smiles, his voice so quiet Ilya can barely hear it, but he’s gotten good at reading Shane’s expressions, so he knows he’s content. 

Ilya grabs the other towel and wraps it lazily around his hips before treading back into their bedroom and opening the closet. 

“What do you want to sleep in, Shane?” He asks, staring at the vast sea of dark coloured shirts hanging in the closet. 

“Want one of your t-shirts.” Shane hums, watching Ilya from the bed. 

Ilya smiles so wide his eyes shut. “You are going to kill me.” He grabs Shane one of his old, oversized and faded Boston shirts, ROZANOV 81 sprawled across the back of it. He walks over to the bed and kneels, pulling Shane’s towel off. He leaves a few kisses and bites along the insides of his thighs before pulling up a pair of clean boxers. He lifts Shane arms up and slides the t-shirt on over his head. Shane looks down and scoffs, looking up at Ilya. 

“Really?” He asks, deadpan. 

“You look so beautiful wearing my number.” Ilya says as he dresses himself in a similar fashion—oversized hockey t-shirt and fresh boxers. He lays down beside Shane, snuggling as close as possible until Shane’s breath feels warm against his cheek. He pushes a few stray hairs away from his face before running his thumb across his darkened freckles, kissing every square inch of his face. 

“I love you, Shane.” He whispers, “So much.” He moves his hand under the covers, creeping under Shane’s shirt to feel his skin against his palm. 

“I love you too, Ilya. So much.” Shane whispers back, hooking his leg up and over Ilya’s, tangled. 

Shane falls asleep, breathing heavily into Ilya’s chest. Ilya reaches over quietly to turn the lamp off, careful as to not disturb the angel in his arms. He does so successfully, laying back down and stroking Shane’s hair. He whispers sweet-nothings in Russian against his head before pulling him closer and shutting his eyes. He feels full. The fullest he’s ever been. 

Chapter End Notes

ahh final chapter!!

thank you so much for all the love and support on this fic, i didn't think anyone would even seen it, much less like it and continue to read it! i love this story and i love these character so so much, i had so much fun writing this, i hope you love it <3

i currently have a f/f hollanova fic up!! it is a wip, but i love it and you should read it ;)

LOVE U ALL!!!