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, Rose Landry, Svetlana Vetrova, Original Characters, Wyatt Hayes, Zane Boodram, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Anya Rozanov Hollander - Character

Additional Tags:

Meet-Cute, Alternate Universe, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, dick sucking, Dirty Talk, Miscommunication, Soft Dom Shane Hollander, Sexual Tension, Intoxicated Shane Hollander, Cute Ending, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander is Obsessed With Ilya Rozanov, Conversations about grief

Language:

English

Series:

Part 8 of hollanov <3

Collections:

Anonymous

Stats:

Published: 2026-10-25 Words: 25,744 Chapters: 1/1

Matchmaker

Summary

Ilya’s heart jumps straight into his throat. For a second, he just stares, watching as Shane reaches past him to press his floor before settling beside him. It’s Anya who breaks the moment. She springs up onto her hind legs, tail wagging furiously, tugging hard at her leash toward him.

“Anya,” Ilya warns, dragging his eyes away, gently pulling her back. “Stop.”

“It’s okay,” Shane laughs softly, already crouching down, his hand reaching out without hesitation. “She’s so cute.”

“Yeah,” Ilya mutters, something sharp and irrational flickering in his chest as he watches Shane give her all his attention. After a week of not seeing him, he selfishly wants it all to himself. “She is a menace though.”

“I believe it,” Shane says with a chuckle, standing again just as the elevator begins to rise.

OR

A chance encounter after his menace of a dog escapes from her crate has Ilya Rozanov desperate to find his cute freckled neighbour in apartment 1410.

Notes

took some time off being a freaked out disaster to bring you some tooth rotting fluff!! don't worry though, the shit i'm cooking up for my next fic is about to be so freaked out that the fbi agent inside my laptop is scheduling a counselling session as we speak!! also, thanks again for all the love on the last fic! it's been much appreciated. if you wanna chat with me or read some snippets of what i'm working on next, check out my twitter @annieannonie24 i've felt so welcomed over there, and it’s been lovely chatting with you all <3

Ilya is panicking.

His breath comes in short, shallow bursts; his hands are slick with sweat, his heart pounding outside his fucking chest. His gaze snaps from Anya’s crate to the front door, which is wide open.

“Jesus Christ.”

His stomach drops so violently it makes him sway. No. No, no.

He sets his glass down with a sharp clink and rushes for the door, yanking it open so hard the hinges groan in protest.

“Anya?” he calls, leaning out into the hallway. It is dead, save for the low hum of a garbage truck outside. 

Ilya turns back into his apartment, scanning the living room, the kitchen, anywhere she could have darted instead. Maybe she didn’t go out. Maybe she ran to his room, like she does when the storms get bad. She would curl against him and for a moment, getting a dog became worth it.  

Ilya stalks to his room, feeling dizzy with anxiety. How the fuck does an eight month old puppy get out of her crate? Is she a fucking magician? 

“Anya?” he calls again, pushing open his bedroom door. He scans the room and lets a groan slip when he realizes that she is not here either. So she did run out the front door. This stupid dog he loves so much.

Whose idea was it to get her again? Right. Svetlana, and her brilliant, meddling ideas. She’d said he was getting sad. That he was shutting himself away, going from work to the rink and back again. He needed company, she’d insisted. And if he refused to date, then a dog would do. 

And Ilya had agreed. Dating wasn’t for him. But he’d always loved animals. Back in Russia, his father had hated anything with fur and teeth, had never let him have one. But he wasn’t there anymore. He could have whatever he wanted now. So he’d started with one. One small, chaotic, completely unmanageable menace.

Svetlana had called it karma for all the hearts he’d broken as a teenager. Now he had a dog who wouldn’t potty train, who ignored every command, who apparently could break out of her crate and disappear into the building at night.

“Fuck this,” Ilya mutters in Russian, already grabbing his coat and Anya’s leash. He yanks the door shut behind him. “I’m taking her back to the fucking pound when I find her.”

A lie. He’d burn the whole city down before he let her go. Because for all her chaos, for every chewed shoe, every near escape, every potty accident, Anya had given him something he hadn’t even realized he’d been missing. Before her, his life had been… flat. The same dull rhythm, day after day. Wake up, go to a job he hated, make small talk with people he couldn’t stand. Come home just long enough to grab his gear, head to the rink, play a few games with the only people he half-liked, then drag himself back to his apartment and sink into his bed. Rinse. Repeat. Rot.

Now, there were long walks, clumsy training sessions that ended in laughter when she refused to sit, or offered the wrong paw, or just flopped over entirely. Now there was the comfort of talking to her in Russian, spilling out the worst parts of his day to an animal who couldn’t understand a word. He’d take another fifty heart attacks if it meant keeping her.

Ilya turns down the hall, pulling out his phone, thumb already opening the tracker app. He’d had too many close calls before to not get her chipped. Thank God for that.

His chest loosens, just a little, when he sees the signal. She’s still in the building at least. But the relief doesn’t last long. The GPS is vague, frustratingly so. There’s no exact location, just a stubborn dot telling him she’s somewhere close. 

He passes the elevator just as it dings, the doors sliding open. Ilya glances up and stops dead in his tracks. For a split second, panic is still written all over him. Then, just as quickly, he forces it down, smoothing it into something neutral. Something that won’t worry her.

“Ilyushenka,” Lena greets warmly, stepping out with a careful shuffle, leaning on her cane. A bag of groceries hangs from her arm, and before she can even ask, Ilya reaches out to take it from her. “What are you doing out at this hour?”

“Babushka,” Ilya says, dipping his head as he presses a kiss to her cheek, taking the bag from her hand. He straightens, trying to arrange his face into something calm. But Lena is already watching him, eyes sharp with suspicion, far too perceptive for her eighty years. “It is barely eight o’clock.”

“You are still a growing boy,” She reasoned, coming to pinch his cheek. God, someone hadn’t done that to him in years, since he was a child really, and when Lena had first done it, he had gone home and cried into his pillow. Now, he leans into it without thinking. “What is wrong, sweetheart?”

“Anya’s gone,” Ilya admits with a sigh. There’s no point lying to her. “She broke out of her crate and ran through the front door.”

“You left the door open?” Lena lifts a brow.

“For one second,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I didn’t think she’d escape out of the crate in five seconds and bolt.”

“That dog,” Lena says with a small, knowing smirk, “is harder to train than a mule.”

“Yes,” Ilya mutters, already pulling out his phone again, staring at the useless little dot on the GPS. “She’s giving me hell.”

“Keeping you on your toes,” Lena adds in English, pleased with herself. “Like the Canadians say, yes?”

She reaches for her bag, but Ilya instinctively pulls it back.

“No, let me walk you to your apartment.”

“No, no,” she waves him off, more insistent this time, reaching again. He hesitates, then lets her take it. “Go. Find your dog.”

“But your wrist…” Ilya glances down at the tensor band wrapped around her hand, worry tightening in his chest. 

She looks so small like this, so fragile, and he hates it. Hates how easily something could happen. He worries about her more than he should. More like she’s his to look after. She has children, he reminds himself. They come. Just… not often. And Ilya is right next door. It’s easier this way. Easier to check in, to carry things, to make sure she’s okay.

“Never mind my wrist,” Lena scoffs, shuffling past him with a roll of her eyes. “You’d better find that dog before the landlord does, and catches her peeing on an electrical socket, and kicks you out.”

Ilya sighed. She was right. Of course she was. He gives a short nod, lingering just long enough to watch Lena make it safely inside her apartment, waiting until the door clicks shut behind her. Only then does he move again, already pulling his phone back out. His eyes drop to the screen, and his stomach plummets. The distance is growing. That tiny, taunting dot is moving farther and farther away, like Anya’s heading out of the building entirely. 

Ilya breaks into a jog, cutting toward the stairwell and taking the steps down fast, his hand skimming the railing as he goes. But halfway down the first flight, he looks down at his phone again and realizes that the distance is still increasing. Ilya slows, frowning, pulling his phone closer. He zooms in, watching the dot shift. Is she going up? It makes no sense. It shouldn’t make sense. But this is Anya, and if there’s one thing he knows about that dog, it’s that she has an almost supernatural talent for doing exactly what shouldn’t be possible.

So Ilya pivots on his heel and bolts back up the stairs, taking them two at a time now, lungs burning, heart still racing. This time, as he climbs, the distance starts to shrink. He’s getting closer. 

By the time he reaches the fourteenth floor, he’s slightly out of breath. He pushes open the stairwell door and leans his head out, scanning the hallway.

“Anya?” he calls, and then waits to hear something. 

Relief hits him so fast it almost makes him dizzy when he hears a low bark. Ilya steps fully into the hallway, following the sound, his pace slower now but no less urgent. He glances at his phone again. She’s a few meters away. Ilya looks up, still scowling. Where is this fucking dog?

“Anya?” he calls again as he rounds the corner. 

He is about to call her name again when he stops dead in his tracks. Because there is Anya, just a few feet away, perfectly fine, tail wagging like nothing in the world is wrong, while some stranger crouches in front of her and pets her.

“Anya!” he calls, striding forward quickly, shoving his phone into his pocket. “You little—”

The words die in his throat. The man in front of her stands and Ilya finally looks at him.

Fuck.

The guy is… unfairly attractive. Warm-toned skin, broad shoulders tapering into a narrow waist, and big, soft, brown eyes that reminds Ilya of a deer caught in headlights. Up close, more details settle into place: a scatter of freckles across his cheeks, a mouth curved into a small, polite, almost shy smile.

Ilya slows without meaning to. For a second, he forgets what he was about to say.

“Hi,” Ilya says, his throat suddenly dry.

He crouches, scooping Anya into his arms before she can launch herself at his face. She wriggles anyway, tongue out, determined, and he leans back just enough to avoid her, his attention already pulled elsewhere.

“Hey,” the guy replies.

His voice is low, but he doesn’t quite hold Ilya’s gaze, his eyes flickering down to Anya instead. Not that Ilya can blame him considering he’s staring a little too hard himself.

“Guessing she’s yours?”

“Yeah.” Ilya glances down at the dog in his arms, narrowing his eyes at her. “She is. Unfortunately.”

That earns him a quiet, stifled laugh from the stranger.

Ilya looks up just in time to catch it, and something in his chest shifts. The stranger’s still not really looking at him, his attention lingering on Anya instead, but Ilya finds himself wishing that he would.

“She a troublemaker?” the guy asks.

“Yes,” Ilya says quickly, nodding. His gaze drifts without permission, tracing down the length of the man’s strong, solid arms, catching the veins faint beneath his skin, until it lands on the duffel bag caught in his grip. He’s got big hands.

Ilya swallows, something warm curling low in his stomach.

“She likes to explore the building,” he adds, dragging his eyes back up. “Usually not… this far.”

This time, the guy does look at him and Ilya’s heart stumbles.

“Where do you live?”

“1221,” Ilya answers, shifting Anya higher against his chest, suddenly very aware of how close they’re standing.

“Oh,” the man chuckles softly. “Yeah… she’s come a long way.”

They both glance down at the same time. Anya leans forward in Ilya’s arms, nose twitching as she sniffs toward him, curious and completely unbothered by this stranger. In fact, it kinda looks like she likes him. The stranger looks back up, hesitating just slightly, like he’s asking without words.

Ilya nods and steps closer, closing the small gap between them. Close enough that Ilya catches the faint scent of his aftershave, something clean and warm that travels up his nose and makes him feel dizzy. Close enough that his chest tightens for a completely different reason now.

He thinks briefly that this might actually kill him.

The man reaches out, gentle, and pets Anya’s head. Her tail starts wagging instantly, thumping against Ilya’s arm, and he can feel every movement of it.

“I’m Ilya,” he blurts, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

The stranger glances up again, a little surprised, then nods.

“Oh—uh, I’m Shane. I live in 1410. Nice to meet you.”

They shake hands. It’s nothing more than a quick, polite gesture, but the moment their skin touches, something sharp and electric runs straight up Ilya’s arm. He pulls back a second too late, trying to ignore the lingering buzz in his fingers.

Anya’s sharp yapping snaps them both out of it. She squirms wildly in Ilya’s arms, trying to launch herself free again, and he tightens his hold with a quiet grunt, his face flushing at her audacity.

“Hey, hey,” he mutters, steadying her. “Enough.”

When he looks back up, Shane is still smiling, amused, his attention fixed on Anya, clearly entertained.

“I should go,” Ilya says, clearing his throat, shifting his grip as Anya continues to wiggle.

“Yeah,” Shane nods, glancing up at him for a second before reaching out, fingers brushing gently behind Anya’s ear. “Before she makes another escape.”

“Bye, Shane,” Ilya murmurs, offering a slightly awkward smile as he turns.

“Bye, Ilya.”

It’s a good thing he’s already walking away because the grin that pulls at his mouth is impossible to hide.

After that, he can’t stop thinking about Shane. He leaves that first conversation thinking about the way Shane smiled, the way his voice dipped soft at the edges, the warmth of his hand, the open curiosity in his eyes. Ilya replays the conversation over and over, picking it apart, wishing he’d said something different, something more. Anything that would’ve kept him there a little longer.

That evening, dinner tastes like nothing and the TV is mostly background noise. He moves through the evening half-aware, like part of him is still standing in that hallway. It’s fucking terrifying, especially for someone like Ilya who doesn’t sit around thinking about someone, doesn’t let himself have crushes. But then he wakes the next morning and the feeling is still there.

So, he begins to do something crazy. He begins trying to run into Shane. It’s borderline unhinged to be honest. They spent, what, two minutes together? And somehow that’s all it took for something in Ilya to latch on and refuse to let go. He wants more time, more conversation, more of those soft brown eyes on him. More. More. More. He feels selfish a little with how much he wants from Shane. 

It doesn’t stop him though. He starts walking Anya at eight every night, timing it carefully, hoping that maybe that’s when Shane usually gets home. No luck. If Shane is coming home at that hour, Ilya never catches him.

So he tries something else. He then starts smoking on the roof. Residents drift up there all the time, some to swim or smoke, and Ilya starts showing up more often than he ever has before, cigarette in hand, lingering longer than he needs to. Still, nothing.

Then, after a week of nothing, Ilya gets desperate. He begins just riding the elevator. Seriously. Up and down, over and over, on a continuous loop. After months of barely leaving his routine, of essentially being a hermit in his own building, he’s suddenly smiling at neighbours, making eye contact, lingering just a second too long every time the doors open. Waiting for those eyes.

He finds them on a Saturday, just when he least expects it. He’s all but given up, half convinced Shane has moved out. He’s just come back from lunch with Svetlana and he’s distracted by Anya tugging lightly at her leash as he steps into the elevator. He presses the button for his floor, already zoning out when Anya starts barking.

“Anya,” he murmurs, fond despite himself, crouching to scratch behind her ears. “What is it, hm?”

Just as the doors to the elevator are about to close, Ilya straightens at a voice calling out.

“Hold the door!”

Ilya straightens instantly, reflex taking over as he shoots his arm out, stopping the doors just before they close. They slide back open and there he is. Those same brown eyes, a little breathless now, a little apologetic as Shane steps inside with a small, sheepish smile.

Ilya’s heart jumps straight into his throat. For a second, he just stares, watching as Shane reaches past him to press his floor before settling beside him. It’s Anya who breaks the moment. She springs up onto her hind legs, tail wagging furiously, tugging hard at her leash toward him.

“Anya,” Ilya warns, dragging his eyes away, gently pulling her back. “Stop.”

“It’s okay,” Shane laughs softly, already crouching down, his hand reaching out without hesitation. “She’s so cute.”

“Yeah,” Ilya mutters, something sharp and irrational flickering in his chest as he watches Shane give her all his attention. After a week of not seeing him, he selfishly wants it all to himself. “She is a menace though.”

“I believe it,” Shane says with a chuckle, standing again just as the elevator begins to rise.

Ilya’s eyes travel down his body once more, greedily drinking him in. They land on his hands, steady and strong around the strap of that same duffel bag, and then he sees it. There’s a hockey stick peeking out from the side.

His head snaps up, a bright jolt of electricity sparking through his body.

“You play?” Ilya asks, nodding toward the bag.

Shane follows his gaze, like he’s only just remembering it’s there, then looks back at him with a small nod. “Yeah,” he says, smiling, then hesitates. “Do you?”

“Yes,” Ilya answers, a smirk tugging at his mouth. Thank god. Something they have in common. “But just with some buddies at a community center.”

“No way,” Shane laughs, a little more relaxed now. “Same here. Which one?”

“Redding.”

God, why is his heart beating like this?

“No shit,” Shane says, a little disbelieving. “I play with some guys at Garland.”

Ilya huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “So we’re rivals, then. In a way.”

“Barely,” Shane murmurs, amused. “But we do end up playing each other a lot. I haven’t seen you out there, though.”

“I just started again,” Ilya explains, glancing up at the slow crawl of the elevator numbers. Twelve is coming too fast. “I used to play in Russia, before I moved here. Picked it back up just to have something to do.”

Shane looks genuinely impressed and Ilya celebrates that victory. “You’re from Russia?”

“What gave it away?” Ilya teased, watching Shane blush.

The elevator dings, signalling they’ve reached his floor and Ilya holds back his groan. God, this was what he wanted all week. Would he be stupid for letting Shane slip through his fingers again?

He smiles politely at Shane, stepping halfway out of the elevator before stopping.

“Fuck it,” he mutters under his breath.

He turns back abruptly, planting himself in the doorway so the doors can’t close.

“Do you drink?” he asks, a little breathless.

Shane blinks at him. “Hm?”

“Alcohol,” Ilya clarifies quickly. “Sometimes my hockey buddies and I go out after games. You should come.”

It’s a lie. The guys would not give a fuck about some random player on a different team but Ilya could not care less. If he was going to figure out if Shane liked men, more importantly if he liked Ilya, then he needed his number. He needs something more than chance encounters in an elevator. Worst case, he gets someone to chirp with over hockey. Best case—

He doesn’t let himself finish that thought.

“Oh,” Shane says, clearly surprised, but there’s something softer underneath his shocked expression. He seems flattered, maybe even a little nervous. “Yeah, I—yeah. That sounds nice.”

“Good,” Ilya says quickly, already pulling out his phone, juggling Anya’s leash in his other hand as she tugs impatiently at his side. “Put your number in.”

Shane takes it, fingers brushing his for a split second as he does, and Ilya swears he can feel it linger.

The elevator doors try to close again, bumping lightly against his arm before sliding back open. Anya is barking now, the confined space too much, the energy too high, and Ilya can feel his heart pounding in his ears.

By the time Shane hands his phone back, Ilya’s a little breathless.

“Thanks,” he says, shoving it into his pocket. “I’ll text you.”

Shane nods, cheeks still faintly pink. “O-okay. See you.”

“Bye,” Ilya breathes.

He steps back and finally lets the doors close. 

It takes Ilya three full days to send a single text to Shane. It’s quite embarrassing actually. He drafts like four of them, each one more pathetic than the last. The thing is, he wants Shane to answer, of course, but more than that, he wants to start a conversation. Wants to keep the conversation going until they see each other next. Wants the time in between to feel less like agony. But there’s no way to say all that in one message. Instead, he sends something much more pathetic.

Ilya:
[picture attached]
please tell me you are not a die hard Montreal fan?

It’s a screenshot of the final score between Montreal and Boston, with Boston winning by three. Ilya had noticed a Montreal patchwork design sewn into his duffel bag and, to his disappointment, realized that Shane was probably a fan. Montreal, of all teams.

He sends it after work, phone propped nearby as he cooks, telling himself he doesn’t care if Shane takes a while to respond. He’s not checking his phone every thirty seconds. He’s not jumping every time it buzzes.

Finally, he’s put out of his misery when he gets a text right as he sits down to eat.

Shane:
Sorry, when was the last time your team won back to back Cups?

Ilya grins so hard it almost hurts. His steak goes ignored as he types back immediately.

Ilya: 
that was years ago
and they haven’t won a cup since
admit it, they suck and their defence is embarrassing

He’s halfway through cutting into his food, still smiling like an idiot, when his phone buzzes again.

Shane:
God please don’t tell me one of my neighbours is a Boston fan

Ilya:
not your neighbour technically
you’re on top of me
you LIVE above me, i mean

God, Ilya wants to fucking die. He wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

“Fuck,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. There’s no fixing that. No saving it. How likely is it that Shane will believe it was just a mistake caused by English not being his first language, rather than the Freudian slip it actually was? If Shane is grossed out, he gives no indication. Instead, he just thumbs up the message and sends another text.

Shane:
Fake Canadian
How did you get into Boston if you live in Montreal?

Ilya:
my friend Svetlana lived in boston before she came here
before i moved from russia i would visit her in boston every summer
she took me to a few games and i fell in love
besides hard to resist best team in the league

Shane: 
Yes, best team that could barely clinch the wild card this season

Ilya:
semantics

He finishes the rest of his steak barely tasting it, thumb mindlessly scrolling through Twitter while his brain works overtime, trying to come up with something to keep the conversation going. He’s halfway through loading the dishwasher when his phone vibrates and he nearly runs for it.

Shane:
Is that why you decided to move to Canada? For your friend?

Ilya:
yes and no
russia is not a great place for me
svetlana getting a new job in montreal only sweetened the deal
i applied for work visa and got a job here 
got my citizenship just last year

Shane:
Cool!

Ilya huffs a quiet laugh at that, drying his hands and dropping onto the couch, not even bothering to turn the TV on. He doesn’t need the noise.

Ilya: 
what about you?
did you always live in montreal?

Shane: 
No actually
I grew up in Ottawa but came here for work

Ilya: 
what do you do?

Shane:
Uh, I’m a sports psychologist for a hockey team here in Montreal

Ilya:
…
please tell me it’s not the metros

Shane:
…

Ilya:
SHANE
DO NOT TELL ME I JUST MADE FUN OF THE TEAM YOU WORK FOR

He lets out a strangled noise, dropping his phone onto the couch and covering his face with both hands. Jesus Christ. He is a disaster. The only thing that stops him from spiraling completely is the buzz of his phone beside him. He peeks at it.

Shane:
I’ll tell Coach Theriault you think we suck and our defence is embarrassing, as you so lovingly put it

Ilya: 
i will shut my big dumb russian mouth now

Shane:
No, it’s okay
I like that you’re honest with me

Ilya swallows hard, staring up at the ceiling as he decides whether he’s gonna have a stroke or combust from happiness. Jesus, when was the last time he felt this way about someone?

Shane:
Random question but do you play Chel?

Ilya:
i do but i must warn you, i will destroy you

Shane:
We’ll see about that
All the guys on my team suck and it’s boring beating the same people over and over again.

Ilya: 
that is because montreal fans suck at playing chel

Shane:
Says the Boston fan
What’s your username? 

They spend the next few hours playing each other, with Ilya winning some and Shane winning more. He is the better player, not that Ilya is surprised. He’s mostly just talk. Which is also what they do. Shane ends up calling him while they play and Ilya has him on speaker as they play a few rounds. It’s close to ten o’clock when Shane yawns on the other end.

“I should go to sleep,” he murmurs, voice softer now, a little rough around the edges.

“It’s only ten,” Ilya teases, glancing down at his phone. Shit. They’ve been on the phone for three hours. Could it be that long? It certainly didn’t feel like that.

“I’ve got work tomorrow,” Shane says, that familiar hint of a smile in his tone. “Gotta go make sure my shitty Montreal team is healthy enough to play.”

Ilya groans, dragging a hand over his face, heat creeping up his neck again. “Yeah, yeah. Go to bed.” He hesitates, then adds, “Tell Pike he needs to work on his backhand.”

“Asshole,” Shane says, but it’s fond. “Talk to you later?”

“Sure,” Ilya replies, aiming for casual and missing it by a mile. His heart is already picking up again. “Bye, Shane.”

“Bye, Ilya.”

The line goes dead. Ilya sinks back into the couch, controller still loose in his hand, staring at the paused game on the screen. The same stupid grin, which has been on his face all evening, only deepens now that he’s really alone.

Ilya has never texted someone this much in his life. Not even Svetlana, who is practically glued to his hip. As the weekend approaches, both Ilya and Shane check in on each other, asking how their days are going, sending each other photos of the food they’re eating, the things they see during their day. Shane sends photos from the rink sometimes where he watches Montreal practice, and Ilya feels jealousy twist in his chest when he sees them. In return, he sends pictures of his stupid, boring desk. 

They don’t see each other again all week. Work gets in the way, life getting busy with Christmas approaching, neither of them breaking the stalemate and asking to hang out. Thankfully Ilya is essentially living off their texts now and isn’t doing anything desperate like riding the elevator for no reason, chasing a glimpse of someone who might not even be there. 

It’s only on Saturday evening, when Ilya takes Anya for a walk and Lena joins, do they run into each other again.

“One more time around the block,” Lena insists in Russian, her breathing uneven.

“No,” Ilya says immediately, rolling his eyes as he gently tugs Anya toward their building. “Your doctor said you need fresh air, but you shouldn't overdo it.”

“Ah,” Lena waves him off, looping her arm through his like she always does when she’s pretending not to be tired. “What do doctors know?”

He leans forward to pull open the building door, holding it wide for her. “Inside,” he says, putting on a mock-stern voice. “Before I carry you up the stairs myself.”

Lena shoots him a look that is half amused, half delighted. “Do not threaten me with a good time, my boy.”

Ilya huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he jogs ahead to press the elevator button. He turns back, watching her make her slow, careful way toward him. He studies the lines in her face, the way she moves, the softness in her eyes. A thought slips in before he can stop it: What would his mother have looked like, at this age? He shuts it down just as quickly.

No. Lena isn’t his mother, and letting himself blur that line will only end badly.

“What’s wrong, Ilyushenka?” Her voice pulls him back. She’s closer now, watching him carefully, her brows drawn. “You look… sad.”

Ilya shrugs, glancing away, jaw tightening slightly. The elevators always take so long around this time, especially on a Saturday, so he knows they have a few minutes to spare. “What do you miss about Russia?”

“Hm,” Lena hums, studying him for a moment. “Hard to pick just one.”

“You don’t have to.”

She goes quiet, thinking. Ilya glances down at Anya, who’s sitting patiently, watching them both like she’s part of the conversation. He almost smiles, but then looks back up just as Lena exhales.

“Maybe… the people my husband and I had to leave behind,” she says softly. “I had a friend named Anna. We went to school together, grew up side by side. We got married around the same time.” Lena’s gaze drifts somewhere far away. “She stayed when we left. It wasn’t safe, but she… she couldn’t leave.” She pauses, blinking, her eyes glassy. “I knew, of course, that there was a chance I’d never see her again. But it didn’t feel real until I got here.” Her lips press together. “Sometimes I wonder where she is now. If she’s still alive. She wanted to be a scientist, you know?”

Ilya’s chest tightens. “Maybe she did.” 

Lena shrugs, though it’s soft, almost wistful. “Maybe.” She paused, blinking up at Ilya. “I miss the food too.”

Ilya huffs out a laugh, nodding. “Ugh. Me too.”

He wants to ask more. A hundred things, maybe, about Russia, about her life, about the pieces of home she still carries with her. But before he can say anything, he hears someone call out his name.

“Ilya?”

Ilya snaps his head around and sees Shane. His heart jumps, lodging somewhere high in his throat as his eyes take him in. He’s wearing blue jeans, a clean black sweater, his hair neat, his cheeks faintly pink from the cold. He looks… like a dream. Ilya has an urge to reach out and grab him to make sure he’s real.

Except, he can’t. Because when he looks beside him there’s a girl standing beside him. A girl. Ilya blinks. A very pretty girl. She has reddish, brownish hair and is wearing a long peacoat and black jeans. Ilya isn’t really staring at her pretty smile and pretty face but at where her arm is looped through Shane’s. Ilya feels his heart clench.

“Hey,” he says, but it comes out strained and much thinner than he means it to.

Anya, oblivious, perks up instantly, tugging hard at her leash, tail wagging because she sees her favourite person again.

“Out for an evening stroll?” Shane asks as he walks closer.

He slips his arm free from the girl’s without much thought, crouching down to greet Anya, scratching that spot she likes so much behind her ears. Then he stands back up, shifting his attention to Lena.

“Hi, I’m Shane.”

Lena smiles warmly, taking his hand and giving it a gentle shake. “Hello. I am Lena. Ilya’s neighbour.”

“Oh, nice!” Shane says easily, smiling. “I guess that makes me your neighbour too. I’m on the fourteenth floor.”

Lena shoots Ilya a look. He feels it more than he sees it, and makes a point not to meet her eyes. Instead, his gaze drifts right back to where that girl’s arm is looped through Shane’s once again.

“Hi,” the girl says at last, stepping forward to shake Lena’s hand. “I’m Rose.”

Then she turns to Ilya, smiling, and nods toward Anya. “Your dog is so cute. Can I pet her?”

No, Ilya thinks sharply. You already have him. Isn’t that enough?

“Sure,” he says instead, because he’s not insane.

Rose crouches down, and Anya, traitor that she is, immediately melts into her, tail wagging. Ilya watches the whole ordeal, unimpressed. 

“Careful,” Shane teases, glancing up at Ilya with a grin that makes his stomach flip. “She’s a troublemaker.”

Ilya snorts softly. “Yeah. I know firsthand. She chewed my sneakers yesterday.”

Shane laughs under his breath, shaking his head as he watches Anya soak up the attention. “Good girl.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Ilya mutters, though there’s no real bite to it.

When the elevator finally dings, they all file in, one after the other, the space feeling very small. Ilya presses both buttons to his and Shane’s floor automatically, scowling to himself when Shane doesn’t correct him or mention that Rose is going somewhere else. Ilya had stupidly hoped she was just another neighbour but it’s becoming increasingly obvious to Ilya that she is more than that. 

It’s Lena who breaks the silence. 

“So, Shane,” she begins, her tone polite but probing, her accent thicker now, “how long have you lived in this building?”

“About a year,” Shane replies easily, smiling at her.

Ilya barely hears it. His attention keeps drifting back to them, to the space where his and Rose’s arms are linked.

“And what do you do for work?” Lena continues.

Ilya shoots her a look. She ignores it completely.

“I’m a psychologist for a hockey team here in Montreal,” Shane says, glancing at Ilya with a small, knowing smirk. “I think Ilya’s familiar with them.”

“I’m not sure I am,” Ilya mutters, clearing his throat.

Shane chuckles, but Lena isn’t finished.

“You go to school for that?”

Ilya stiffens. “Lena…” he warns, low, embarrassed. The numbers inch closer to their floor and this is the only time Ilya is glad to leave Shane.

“It’s okay,” Shane says, amused, waving it off. “Yeah, I did.”

“And you make good money?”

Ilya chokes on his spit, coughing for a second before recovering quickly. “Lena,” he tries again, mortified now.

But Shane and Rose are both laughing, clearly entertained.

“It’s pretty good,” Shane answers, easygoing as ever.

“What about your parents?” Lena continues. “You have a good relationship with them?”

Shane chuckles to himself, his cheeks slightly red, but he nods. “Yes. I visit them in Ottawa every summer.”

Lena nods, satisfied. Then she leans closer to Ilya, her voice dropping into Russian. “Okay. He is good enough for you. I approve.”

Ilya nearly dies on the spot. He makes a strangled sound, face burning, eyes wide at the sheer audacity of this elderly lady. He’s still red in the face, shaking his head, as both Rose and Shane share confused looks.

“What was that?” Rose asks, smiling.

“Nothing,” Ilya says quickly as the elevator dings. “Have a good night,” he adds, already moving, giving them both a stiff nod before practically ushering Lena out ahead of him.

Only once the elevator doors slide shut behind them does Ilya turn, his voice dropping into a sharp whisper in Russian.

“Have you lost your mind?”

Anya tugs at her leash, whining softly, but Ilya barely spares her a glance. She doesn’t know any better. Lena absolutely does.

“I do not know what you mean,” Lena says breezily, waving him off as she keeps walking. “I’m old and senile remember? You’ll have to be more specific.”

Ilya exhales hard, stepping closer as they round the corner, lowering his voice even more. “What was that interrogation with Shane?”

“Oh, that,” Lena says, and she does a terrible job hiding the smirk tugging at her mouth. “I just wanted to make sure the boy you like has a good head on his shoulders. He’s employed, so already miles ahead of anyone else I’ve seen you date.”

“I do not like him,” Ilya snaps under his breath, suddenly very grateful no one on this floor understands a word he’s saying. “And we are not dating.”

“Ah,” Lena shoots back instantly, sharp as ever, “so you make those big, googly eyes at all your neighbours, then?”

Ilya scoffs, throwing his hands up slightly. “Did you not see the girl with him? The very beautiful brunette practically glued to his arm?” he mutters, stopping in front of her door as she starts digging through her purse. “I’m pretty sure they’re together, so you and my dog can stop playing matchmaker.”

Lena pauses her movements for a moment to glance up at him. “Ilyushenka,” she says carefully, like she’s explaining something obvious to a child, “that boy is gay.”

Ilya blinks. “What?”

He actually stutters, the word catching awkwardly in his throat as his brain tries to catch up. 

They’ve never really talked about this. Lena has never been anything close to judgmental, if anything, it has been the opposite. She talks about her granddaughter, who began transitioning just last summer, with nothing but pride, loud enough for anyone within earshot to hear. And she’s seen enough of the people Ilya has brought home to understand he likes men and women, even if they’ve never sat down and said it out loud. Still, this feels strange. Like discussing your love life with your grandmother—if your grandmother happened to be a blunt, chain-smoking, foul-mouthed eighty year old who refuses to mind her own business.

“I—how would you even know that?” Ilya finally manages, frowning at her.

Lena gives him a look. The kind that says please.

“First of all, you can’t know that,” Ilya mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “And second, did you miss the part where I just said there was a gorgeous brunette hanging off his arm? Shane does not like me. Tonight made that very clear. I would do just fine without you meddling in my love life.”

Lena lets him finish and doesn’t interrupt once. Then, after a beat, she asks, “You done?”

Ilya nods stiffly.

“Good,” she says, lifting one finger. “First, I do know. That boy was making eyes at you the second he saw you. He was blushing every time you looked at him, like a little schoolgirl.” She raises a second finger. “Second, the brunette was more interested in the dog than in him. If they were together, they’d be touching, leaning, kissing maybe. Instead, he looked stiff as a board every time she got close.” Lena shrugs. “If a man isn’t interested in a woman like that, then he must be gay.” 

Ilya groans, pressing his fingers to his temples. “You cannot just go around calling people gay, Lena.”

“You are right,” she agrees easily. “But he is gay,” she adds, completely unbothered. “I have what my granddaughter calls… gay radar.”

“Gaydar,” Ilya corrects automatically, then immediately regrets it, shaking his head. “No. No, I do not want to hear anything else about gaydar or Shane, okay? And for the record, I never said I like him.”

Lena just looks at him. “Oh, Ilyushenka,” she says softly, almost fond. “You are a terrible liar. I always thought it was impossible for a Russian man to blush like that, but tonight? You proved me wrong.” Her lips twitch. “You were practically twirling your hair and giggling.”

“I was not—” he cuts himself off, mortified, waving her away. “Stop. Just—stop.”

“Very soft,” she adds, amused. “Very mushy. Not like us at all.”

“Enough,” Ilya groans, already backing toward his own door. “I am going to bed. And so are you. Goodnight, Babushka.”

“Goodnight, Ilyushenka.” She leans up, pressing a kiss to his cheek before turning her key in the lock. The door opens, and she steps halfway inside before pausing. She turns back, just slightly. “Remember what I said.”

The door clicks shut behind her, and Ilya is left standing there, alone in the hallway, heat still lingering in his face. He exhales slowly, glancing down at Anya.

“I was not twirling my hair,” he mutters.

Anya just wags her tail.

By the next day, Ilya decides he’s done. He’d obviously read too much into everything, built something out of nothing. Shane is just a nice, friendly, straight guy who wants more friends in the building. Ilya can be that. He’s good at that.

His whole life has been built on restraint—on holding things in, keeping himself small, quiet, controlled. Swallowing words when his father yelled, keeping his fists down when his brother pushed too far, folding himself into whatever shape was safest until he could finally leave that place behind. This is nothing new. If anything, it’s almost comforting. He can tuck this away. He can push it down and pray it goes away.

To prove it to himself, he even redownloads a dating app, scrolling through faces he doesn’t care about just so he can feel something. Ten minutes later, the app is deleted when Shane texts him.

Shane:
What are you up to today?

Ilya glances around his apartment, seeing the laundry half-folded, his desk cluttered, and his bed unmade.

Ilya:
nothing much, just resting before the work week
what about you?

Shane:
[picture attached]

Ilya almost drops his fucking phone when he opens it. It’s a picture of Shane standing in front of a mirror, wearing ridiculously short shorts and a loose white shirt, headphones tucked over his ears. It’s clear he’s in the gym and by the background, Ilya thinks it’s the one in their building. Ilya feels like he might actually die from a single photo.

Shane:
Trying to get some cardio in.
Do you work out at this gym?

Ilya drags a hand down his face, trying to collect himself.

Ilya:
no
i have my own gym membership somewhere else

Shane:
Ooh, fancy

Ilya:
shut up
they have more machines at the place i go to

Shane:
Got it.
If you’re not busy, I could use some company.

Okay, either Shane is in fact gay or he was the straightest man of all time. He thinks of all his straight friends, not that there are many. None of them have ever texted him like this. None of them have ever asked him to come work out and sent mirror selfies that look like that. When you work out, you’re supposed to be focused, controlled, and you definitely don’t need any distractions. And for Ilya, Shane would be nothing but a distraction.

This is a bad idea. A very bad idea. If Ilya actually wants to get over this stupid infatuation, he should say no. He should protect himself. He should stay exactly where he is.

Ilya:
i can be down in ten minutes

Shane:
Great!
See you then

He changes in record time, putting on a black muscle shirt, the shortest black shorts he owns, barely thinking as he pulls them on. His hands move fast, but his heart is faster, pounding hard enough that he feels it everywhere.

The elevator ride down is torture. He grips his water bottle tightly, fingers tense around the plastic like he might crush it, his breath coming a little too shallow. By the time the doors slide open, he’s already stepping out and heading straight for the gym.

The doors swing open under his hands, and he steps inside, eyes scanning the room almost frantically. There’s a few people still lingering, lifting weights or stretching in the corner, but it’s mostly quiet.

And then he sees him. 

Shane is on one of the stationary bikes, earbuds in, pedaling at an easy pace. Ilya exhales without realizing he was holding his breath and quickly inhales again sharply. Shane looks good. Very good. Ilya’s eyes trail down to his hands firmly gripping on the handlebars. He fights the shiver that rolls through his body. His hair is damp, hair sticking slightly to his forehead, a faint sheen of sweat along his skin that makes Ilya’s stomach twist tight. His legs feel weak. He might actually pass out.

“Hey,” Ilya calls, lifting a hand, trying to steady his voice despite the way it wants to betray him.

Shane looks up immediately, pulling one earbud out, then the other, slowing the bike to a stop as he leans back slightly.

“Oh, hey,” he smiles warmly. “Glad you could join.”

“Yeah,” Ilya says, but his attention drifts, tracking the line of sweat down Shane’s neck before he forces himself to look back up. “Thanks for thinking of me.”

“Well,” Shane shrugs, a small smirk tugging at his lips, his breath still a little uneven, “you said you liked working out.”

Oh. Right. That’s what this is. Just normal male friend bonding. Ilya supposes this makes sense. He tries not to feel so deflated. God, he needs to get a grip.

“I do,” Ilya nods quickly. “I love it.”

Working out, for him, has always been… necessary. Something you put up with, or something you do, not something you enjoy. But when they were texting, Shane had made it sound so exciting and Ilya could tell he really enjoyed it. So here he was, spending his weekend working out.

“Did you want to join me?” Shane asks, nodding toward the bike beside him. “We can do weights after or something.”

Ilya nods again, stepping around him. As he moves behind Shane, his eyes flicker to the damp fabric clinging to his back, the darker patch of sweat spreading across the white shirt.

He swallows hard, and then climbs onto the bike beside him.

“I go pretty hard,” Shane says, that same teasing edge in his voice as he pops his earbuds back in, glancing over. “Think you can keep up?”

Ilya’s throat goes dry. “Yeah.”

Shane grins at that. “Alright,” he says, tapping a few buttons on the machine. “Let’s see it, then.”

Ilya adjusts his grip, rolling his shoulders back, trying to steady his breath. “Okay,” Ilya mutters to himself, matching his pace.

The first minute is easy. The second is less so. By the third, Ilya can feel his legs begin to burn, his breath starting to deepen, his focus narrowing. Beside him, Shane doesn’t slow down. If anything, he pushes harder, seemingly very controlled.

Ilya narrows his eyes. He pushes harder because Ilya is catching up to him.

“Oh, fuck off,” he breathes, increasing the resistance.

Shane just huffs out a laugh, pedaling harder. 

They fall into it intensely after that, and Ilya feels the competitive energy coursing between them. It drives him to go faster, to push harder, and he knows only Shane can draw this out of him. He forces away the ache in his body, focusing instead on the hum of the machines, the rhythm of their breathing, and the tension between them.

He tries not to laugh as he pushes himself further and Shane matches him stride for stride. It feels like they’re chasing each other, trying to keep pace. It’s almost playful. It kinda feels like flirting without having to use words. 

The last stretch is brutal. His legs feel like they might give out entirely, lungs burning, every breath dragging in sharp and fast but he refuses to stop. Ilya pushes with everything he has one last time and then finally, after what seems like forever, the machines slow. When Ilya leans over and compares their mileage, he frowns when he realizes that Shane beat him, only by a bit though.

Ilya slumps forward slightly, gripping the handlebars, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.

“Fuck you,” he pants.

Shane laughs, equally breathless, his chest rising and falling as he drags a hand through his damp hair.

“I told you,” he manages between breaths. “I go hard.”

“You are insane,” Ilya mutters, shaking his head, though a grin tugs at his lips despite himself. “Who works out like that for fun?”

“I do,” Shane shoots back. “Besides, I won.”

Ilya scoffs, pushing himself upright, his legs still unsteady so he doesn’t get off the bike yet. “Relax.”

Shane just shrugs, though the edge of his grin softens the words. “Didn’t peg you as a sore loser.”

Ilya doesn’t bother answering right away. He reaches for his water bottle instead, taking a long drink, trying to ignore the way his pulse is still racing.

“I hate you,” he mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“No, you don’t,” Shane says easily, stretching his arms over his head.

Ilya has to look away. He drags a hand across his forehead, forcing his breathing to slow before it gives him away. When he looks back, he holds out his water bottle before he can stop himself.

“You want?”

Shane glances down at it, and for the first time today, he hesitates. Ilya can see him turning over the offer in his mind and for a moment he thinks Shane might say no. Then he exhales quietly, nods, and takes it from Ilya’s hand. He tilts it, squeezing a small stream into his mouth before lowering it again.

He starts to hand it back but then Ilya interrupts him.

“More,” Ilya says, rougher this time.

Shane pauses, then nods again. He tips the bottle higher, mouth open as he drinks properly this time, his throat moving as he swallows. When he passes it back, their fingers brush and heat coils low in his stomach. Ilya stares at the bottle in his hands for a moment. If he thinks about it too hard, it’s almost like they kissed.

He looks up and finds Shane already looking at him. Both of them are breathing a little too hard now, the air between them thick with an energy Ilya can’t explain.

For a second, neither of them moves. Ilya doesn’t know whether to break it but he doesn’t have to hesitate for too long because Shane takes the lead and speaks.

“You hungry?”

Ilya blinks, caught off guard, and feels the heat rise to his face almost immediately. Him. Blushing. He can hardly believe it himself. “What?”

“I know we didn’t, like, do a full workout,” Shane says, glancing away now, almost sheepish. “But I’m fucking starving. Are you?”

Ilya’s gaze drops without meaning to, following the line of Shane’s throat, the damp fabric of his shirt clinging to him, then drifts back up to his eyes.

“Yes,” he says, quieter.

“Okay,” Shane nods, pushing off the bike.

Ilya stands too quickly, his legs still shaky enough that he nearly stumbles.

“I’m gonna shower and change,” Shane adds, already stepping back. “Meet in the lobby in, like, thirty minutes?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, gripping his bottle a little tighter than necessary. “Yes. I’ll see you then.”

When Ilya gets back into his apartment, he’s a hurricane. He barely gets the door shut before he’s stripping out of his damp clothes, peeling them off his skin, tossing them somewhere behind him as he heads straight for the shower. The water’s barely warm before he’s scrubbing his scalp and his skin roughly.

He’s in and out in record time. But showering is the easy part. The hard part is standing in his room after, towel slung low on his hips, trying to pick something to wear. Nothing feels right. If he’s too dressed up, he looks desperate. If he’s too casual, it looks like he doesn’t care.

Ten minutes later, his bed is a mess of shirts, jeans, jackets, and Ilya is standing in the middle of it, dragging a hand down his face with a frustrated groan.

“Fuck this.”

He grabs his phone and hits call before he can overthink it.

Svetlana answers almost immediately.

“My love,” she sings in Russian, her face lighting up the screen, warm and bright. “What’re you up to?”

“My black jeans,” Ilya blurts out in Russian, not even bothering with a greeting. He snatches them off the bed and holds them up to the camera. “Do you like them?”

“What?” She frowns, blinking at him, clearly caught off guard.

“The light-washed black ones,” he clarifies impatiently, giving them a little shake. “Do you like them?”

Svetlana leans back slightly, squinting at the screen. “…Yes,” she says slowly. “They’re cute. Make your ass look incredible.”

“Are they too casual?” Ilya groans, dropping them back onto the bed as he starts pacing. “I feel like they’re too loose fitting—”

“Ilya,” she cuts in, voice sharpening slightly, “what are you talking about?”

“I have dinner with Shane,” Ilya says, already propping his phone against the pillows as he jumps into his jeans. “I don’t know where we’re going, but black jeans and a white long sleeve is good, yes?”

“Ilya,” Svetlana says again, and the giggle he hears from her afterwards makes him pause.

He looks up at the screen, shirtless, brows pulling together.

“Your neighbour Shane?” she asks slowly. “The cute one you said looks like a bunny?”

“Yes,” Ilya answers, tugging his shirt over his head, voice slightly muffled as he does.

Svetlana just stares at him for a second. “When did you ask him on a date?”

“I didn’t,” Ilya scoffs, grabbing his phone again, trying to fix his hair with one hand. “We were working out and he asked if I was hungry—”

“He asked you out?” she cuts in, sharper now.

Ilya hesitates. “What? No,” he says quickly. “He just wants to get something to eat.”

Svetlana goes very still. “Ilya,” she says, and now she definitely sounds like she’s about to scold him, “you are the dumbest man alive. He just asked you out.”

Ilya freezes. “No,” he argues, shaking his head immediately. “No, no. He asked if I was hungry. That is not the same thing.”

“Uh-huh,” Svetlana hums, clearly unconvinced. “Are you eating with anyone else?”

“No,” Ilya frowns, like the idea offends him.

“Just the two of you?” she presses, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Sharing a meal?”

Ilya nods, slower this time.

Svetlana’s grin widens. “That is a date, my love.”

Ilya blinks at her. “…It is?” he asks, uncertain now, watching her try to hold back a laugh. “Sveta, don’t fucking laugh at me.”

“Sorry,” she says, though she does not look sorry at all. “But you must admit, it’s a little funny. You, king of sluts, missing this?”

“He’s straight,” Ilya insists, already turning toward the bathroom, grabbing his toothbrush. “I saw the girl he’s seeing. Lena and I met her. This cannot be a date. He asked me to work out, now he is hungry, and he is being polite. That is all.”

Svetlana is laughing outright now.

“Ilya, you are so dumb,” she says fondly. “Did it occur to you he asked you to work out so he could ask you to eat after?”

Ilya pauses mid-brush, staring at his reflection.

“…People do that?” he asks, genuinely baffled, spitting into the sink.

“Once I pretended my car broke down just so I could ask a man to fix it and then invite him out,” Svetlana says proudly.

Ilya blinks at himself in the mirror. “Oh.” This couldn’t be a date, could it? He shakes his head quickly. “No. No, Sveta. Stop. You’re getting in my head.”

“Okay, okay,” she sighs, though there’s still amusement in her voice. “But when he leans in to kiss you at the end of the night, just remember I told you so.”

Ilya’s heart stutters hard in his chest at that.

“Fuck off,” he mutters, grabbing a towel to wipe his face, trying to steady himself. “Goodnight, my love.”

“Goodnight, Ilya,” she sings. Then, just as he’s about to hang up, she adds, “Go get your dick—”

He ends the call before she can finish.

Ilya exhales sharply, grabbing his jacket, forcing himself to move before he can spiral any further. He puts his shoes on, grips his keys in hand and is out the door before he can change his mind. On his way out, he refills Anya’s bowl, gives her one last kiss, before locking the door behind him.

In the elevator, his hands are restless as he keeps adjusting his sleeves, smoothing his shirt, checking his phone every second.

Ilya lifts his head from his phone the moment he hears the elevator ding, the doors opening to reveal the lobby before him. His eyes find Shane immediately. He’s leaning casually against the wall, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed, but his head lifts immediately the second he hears the doors.

He looks… fuck. He looks good. He’s wearing dark jeans this time, fitted just enough to show off his thick thighs, a soft sweater pulled over his shoulders, his hair clean and styled but still a little loose around his face. Ilya’s stomach flips when he notices that parts of Shane’s hair is still wet.

For a second, Ilya just stands there beside the elevator, frozen.

Shane’s eyes meet his and he gives Ilya a warm, almost shy smile.

“Hey,” Shane says, pushing off the wall.

Ilya’s throat goes dry.

“Hi,” he manages.

“I just realized,” Shane says with a small chuckle as they step closer together, “I never asked what you’re in the mood for.”

“Oh,” Ilya shrugs, trying to sound casual. “I don’t care.”

“Perfect,” Shane nods, smiling. “There’s this really good taco place not too far from here. Have you been?”

Ilya shakes his head.

“Good,” Shane says, already turning toward the door, gesturing for him to follow and Ilya falls into step with him. “You’ll like it.”

He doesn’t know how to tell Shane that he already likes this; just the two of them, being together.

The taco place Shane suggests is about a ten minute walk from their building. Shane asks if they want to drive but Ilya wants the walk. He needs to feel the cool winter air on his skin, wants to breathe in the crisp air. He needs to cool down. He can feel his body overheating from stress. Shane doesn’t help much, coaxing a conversation out of him about the upcoming Montreal vs. Boston game, teasing him lightly, trying to pull him in. Ilya tries but his thoughts are scattered, his focus slipping every few seconds. He nods at the right times, throws in a comment here and there, but most of his awareness is somewhere else entirely.

When they arrive at the taco place, they’re seated immediately and Ilya can feel his leg bouncing underneath the table. He hates this feeling so he tries to fill the comfortable silence.

“What do you usually get?”

Shane looks up from the menu, already closing it like he doesn’t need it.

“Chicken tacos, usually,” he says. “I’m kind of picky, but if you’re into tacos, the birria ones are really good. Rose loves those.”

Something in Ilya’s chest drops. Oh. Right. Of course. Yeah, this definitely can’t be a date. Who talks about another girl like that if it is?

“Okay,” Ilya nods, his voice a little flatter than before as he looks back down at the menu, though he’s not really reading it anymore. And because he hates himself, because he needs to know, he asks, “How long have you known her?”

Shane glances up. “Rose?”

Ilya nods, trying to keep his expression neutral, even as something tight coils in his chest.

“Oh, years,” Shane says, his face lighting up a little. “I met her through a friend, and ever since then we’ve been attached at the hip.”

“Really?” Ilya is surprised, if not a bit jealous.

“Yeah,” Shane laughs softly. “She’s basically my best friend.” He pauses, then corrects himself, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks. “Actually, she is my best friend.”

Ilya watches him carefully. “Your best friend,” he repeats. “Just your best friend?”

Shane flushes and he looks down, then back up, shrugging slightly. “I mean… we were something, a long time ago,” he admits. “But it didn’t really work out like that. We’re better as friends.”

“Oh,” he says, and he can’t quite hide the way his own smile breaks through now, brighter than before. “Okay.”

He glances back down at the menu, though now he’s actually seeing it. “I think I’m ready to order.”

Shane watches him for a second and then smiles too. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

Ilya ends up ordering the birria tacos, much to his annoyance. They looks so good and honestly he can admit Rose has good taste because when they’re plated in front of them and he takes a first bite, he almost moans into his taco. 

As they eat, their conversation flows again. It was a bit stunted at the beginning but now that Ilya knows Shane is single, that him and Rose are not together, he feels a weight lifted. There’s no sign that Shane might like him but his chances just got much better with no girlfriend in the picture. Their first topic of conversation is of course hockey.

“Why did you start playing hockey at the community center again?” Shane asks.

“Oh,” Ilya shrugs. “My friend Svetlana said I needed something to do. I had become like a hermit, always either at work or in my apartment.”

Shane smirks. “Yeah, I can get that way too. The guys there are nice. Much better than the last team I was on.”

Ilya frowns. “What do you mean?”

Shane flushes. “Well, they, uh, weren’t exactly… nice to me.”

Ilya stills, taco half way to his mouth. He feels like ice water has been thrown over his body. A flash of hurt then anger flashes so quickly inside him that he barely recognizes it. “What did they do?”

Shane shakes his head, smiling awkwardly like he’s trying to calm Ilya down before he even answers. “Oh, just, you know, guys being guys, I guess. I was the youngest on the team and I wasn’t exactly out out but someone must’ve found out and it was… unpleasant.”

“Out?” Ilya rasps, completely focusing on the wrong thing.

“Oh, yeah,” Shane’s cheeks turn pink. “I’m gay. Didn’t I say?”

No, Ilya wanted to say. No, you conveniently left that part out, which sucks for me because I’ve been basically torturing myself, convinced I had absolutely no chance, when you’ve been gay this entire time and ripe for the taking. 

“No,” Ilya quickly spits out, wanting to say more, specifically that he is bisexual too, but there are more pressing issues at hand. Like those stupid fucking hockey players. “Did they give you a hard time?”

Shane nods, swallowing harshly. “Yeah. They didn’t want to shower with me, didn’t wanna share gear, didn’t want to catch my germs,” Shane lets out a bitter laugh while across from him Ilya’s heart is breaking. “They’re fucking morons. I finally got tired of it and left. Took me a few years to find another team that wasn’t…”

“Complete assholes?” Ilya finished Shane’s sentence, barely containing his contempt.

Shane smirks, taking another big bite out of his taco. “Yeah.”

There’s a beat of silence between them, this time a bit more comfortable even though Ilya is still vibrating with rage right underneath. Ilya takes a few moments to roll his shoulders, try and calm himself down from basically interrogating Shane, asking him the names of these bastards, of where they live, of what they love so Ilya can destroy it—

Yeah. He needs to chill. 

Instead, Ilya sets down his taco and turns his attention back to Shane, offering him a small, understanding smile.

“My family and I do not talk anymore because I am bisexual,” he says. “It is not the only reason, but it certainly did not help. I had to get out of Russia while it was still safe, and my friend Svetlana sponsored me.” He pauses, searching for the right words. Even after all this time, there are some things he still struggles to explain in English, and this is one of them. It was very… hard for me to leave my country, my friends, my life, my… mother, but I had to.”

Shane’s eyes seem to go wider and wider as Ilya continues and when he finally stops, his eyes drop down to where his hands are balled into fists on the table. Fuck. He didn’t even realize he was doing that. Tentatively, Shane reaches out and touches Ilya’s knuckles, rubbing very small circles. It calms Ilya some to finally release his fists. 

“That sounds… horrible.” Shane says and Ilya can tell he really means it.

“I am not trying to play oppression olympics with you,” Ilya says with a quiet chuckle. Shane’s mouth quirks, letting out a laugh and shaking his head before pulling his hand away. “I am just trying to say I understand. It is not easy being who we are sometimes. But I never regret leaving, not for a second. Sometimes I am lonely, yes, but I am me, you understand? I get to be me.”

Ilya doesn’t know if he is saying any of this right. He waits for Shane’s reaction and is relieved to find him nodding along, smiling.

“I understand.” Shane scratches at his scalp, looking a bit sheepish. “You explained it better than I ever could.”

Ilya flushes and surprises himself with his reaction. “Thanks.”

Another beat of silence, but this time their eyes never leave each other. Ilya has the dizzying urge to reach across the table and hug him but he holds back, not wanting to completely scare him off.

Finally, Shane takes a deep breath, looking down at his half finished tacos. “I think I’m almost full.”

Ilya grins. “Me too. Wanna go back to mine?”

Shane looks up, the twinge of red on his cheeks deepening. Fuck. Ilya immediately repeats what he just said in his head. He sounds like he’s trying to get Shane into his bed. Which, to be fair, he absolutely is, but not right now. He just wanted more time with Shane and now he looks like a touch starved asshole. Which, again, he is. But Shane doesn’t need to know that.

“I mean,” Ilya adds quickly, clearing his throat and taking a long sip of water to give himself a moment to recover. “We could watch a movie or put on a game. I heard New York and Las Vegas are playing tonight. I, for one, would love to see Scott Hunter get checked into the boards and lose.”

Shane scoffs, shaking his head. “Fuck off. He’s a great player.”

“He’s a dinosaur.” Ilya counters, grateful for the familiar territory of hockey banter. It gives him something to do besides stare at Shane’s mouth. “He started playing hockey before you had to wear helmets.”

Shane lets out a laugh, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “You’re an asshole.”

When he says it though, he’s grinning, before turning to politely wave down their waitress, who spots him and begins making her way over.

“I am the asshole who is paying,” Ilya announces, already reaching for his wallet.

“No.” Shane immediately goes for his own, waving at the waitress again with considerably more urgency.

Ilya shoots a foot beneath the table and gives Shane’s ankle a light kick to which he hears him yelp. “Don’t even try.”

“I invited you.” Shane kicks him back, a little harder this time.

Ilya has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning. Why the fuck is this so hot?

“Yes,” Ilya says, forcing his attention back to Shane’s face. “So that means it’s my treat.”

Shane gives him a look like he’s the most annoying man on the planet and Ilya just smiles. Shane holds his gaze for another moment, apparently weighing his chances of winning this argument, before finally conceding. With an exaggerated sigh, he slowly puts his wallet away.

The waitress reaches their table, and Ilya turns to her with his most charming smile, pointedly ignoring the glare Shane is still directing at him.

“Can we get the bill, please?”

“Sure!” She pulls out her notepad. “Together or separate?”

Ilya doesn't even hesitate. “Together.”

Ilya realizes a little too late that his apartment is in no state to receive guests. They’re halfway down the hall, his keys jingling in his pocket, when the horrifying truth dawns on him: his bed is unmade, there are dirty dishes in the sink, and there’s a pile of laundry in his bedroom that is calling his name.

Ilya is not a messy person. Growing up with a father as militant as his own teaches you quickly how to stay clean. But Ilya is also a procrastinator when it comes to chores and now it’s finally caught up to him. He rolls his shoulders, already devising a plan to go inside, distract Shane for approximately three seconds, and shut the bedroom door before he has a chance to see the mess inside. Unfortunately, just as he’s just reaching for his keys, a familiar voice calls out from behind them.

“Ilyushenka.”

Both Shane and Ilya whip their heads around like they’ve been caught. In a way, they have been because none other than Lena stands a few doors down the hall, one hand gripping the handle of a shopping cart overflowing with groceries. Ilya, who is flushing like crazy, clears his throat and immediately zeroes in on the cart behind Lena.

“I thought your son said he was bringing you groceries?” He asks in English, partly out of consideration for Shane, who stands beside him watching the exchange with curiosity.

Lena rolls his eyes, waving him off as she tugs on the cart, wheels squeaking as she approaches them. “Oh that boy always gets me the wrong things. I ask for whole wheat bread, he gives me white. I ask for bananas, he gives me apples.”

“Then you should ask me.”

Lena snorts, rising on her tiptoes, peering around him shamelessly. “Seems you are too busy.”

Ilya feels the heat climb straight to his ears. Oh, for fuck’s sake. He casts a helpless glance over his shoulder at Shane, who is smiling sweetly and finally approaches. “Lena,” he says warmly, extending his hand. “How are you?”

“Other than this useless excuse for a wrist,” Lena says, lifting her arm to show Shane the brace around it, “I am fine.”

“Oh.” Shane frowns, his gaze dropping to the brace. Without hesitation, he reaches for Lena’s cart. “Let me. I can bring it inside for you.”

Ilya nearly chokes. Lena doesn’t take kindly to strangers helping her, let alone Ilya who has known her long enough to have personally witnessed her threaten to beat a deliveryman with her own cane because he’d dared to carry a package to her door without being asked. Yet, somehow, Shane gets away with it.

“What a dear you are,” she says, beaming at Shane before casting a pointed glance at Ilya. “You won’t mind me stealing him for a moment, would you?”

Ilya gives her a flat, unimpressed look. He knows exactly what she’s doing. He can practically see the gears turning in her head, the little wheels spinning as she concocts whatever ridiculous scheme she’s already decided to pursue. And while he would love nothing more than to tell her exactly where she can shove her matchmaking attempts, he’s not about to do it in front of Shane.

“Go ahead,” he says stiffly.

Shane smiles at Ilya. “I’ll just be a second.”

Ilya nods, waiting for Shane to turn his back, for him to walk ahead of Lena towards her apartment, before hissing directly at Lena in Russian, who is still planted in the same spot.

“You are not as clever as you think.”

Lena snorts, finally turning and following after, but not before throwing back. “And you are not as subtle as you think.” She gestures to Shane, who is oblivious to the both of them. “Try and keep it down in there. An old lady like me needs her beauty rest.”

Ilya chokes, even his ears going red at this point. He turns back to his door, opening it up before mumbling in Russian. “Old bat.”

The moment he opens the door, Anya comes barreling toward him, nails clicking excitedly against the floor as she barks her welcome. Ilya barely has time to bend down and pat her head before he’s hurrying toward his bedroom, with Anya hot on his heels.

“Not now, Anya,” he mutters, stepping over her as she tries to wedge herself between his legs.

He throws the entire pile of unfolded laundry onto his bed, straightens the living room, and pours Shane a glass of water in the few minutes it takes for him to drop off Lena’s groceries and walk back over. He’s sweating slightly, a little red in the face too once Shane knocks, made worse when he sees that shy smile again.

“She’s so cool,” Shane says as he steps inside.

Anya greets him with a few barks and bounces toward him, front paws lifting off the floor as she attempts to climb him. Ilya catches her around the middle and hauls her back before she can knock Shane over.

Shane crouches down, and Ilya loosens his hold just enough for Anya to approach him again. Shane scratches behind her ears, laughing softly when she practically melts against his hands. A second later, she rolls onto her back, paws curled toward her chest, exposing her belly. Shane is more than happy to indulge in a few belly scratches. Jesus. This dog is so fucking spoiled.

“Who? Anya?” Ilya jokes, watching Shane grin in response as he stands back up. Ilya doesn’t even have to say the usual “make yourself at home” because Shane immediately walks further into his home, looking around Ilya’s living room while Ilya stands by the entrance to watch. It almost feels unreal that Shane is here. 

“No,” Shane finally says, glancing back at him.

Ilya blinks. “No?”

“Anya is very cool,” Shane clarifies, looking down as she barks at him again, her big, pleading eyes fixed on his face. “But I was talking about Lena.”

“What did she say?” Ilya asks, following after him when he pokes his head into the living room fully, taking in the nice leather couch, the small coffee table, and the waters patiently waiting on top of it. 

Shane turns to Ilya, frowning. “What?”

“She said something about me, didn’t she?” Ilya takes another step forward until there’s barely any space between them, save for Anya, who has positioned herself directly between their legs. She barks every so often, alternating her attention between the two of them in a desperate bid for affection. Neither of them pays her any mind.

Ilya, for his part, is having a much harder time concentrating on the conversation. Shane is standing right there, close enough that Ilya can make out the little freckles scattered across his cheeks, close enough to see the way his mouth twitches as he tries to come up with a convincing answer.

“What did she say?” he repeats, his grin widening.

Shane’s cheeks turn a deeper shade of pink and Ilya wants to take a big bite out of them.

“Not everything is about you,” Shane mutters.

Ilya laughs, the sound coming out a little breathless, and finally forces himself to take a step back. His whole body feels heavy. “You are a very bad liar.”

Shane rolls his eyes, crouching down to finally give Anya some attention. Like the greedy little baby she is, the second Shane’s fingers find her belly, she flops onto her back, panting happily, her tail thumping against the floor. She even has the audacity to look up at Ilya and… look, Ilya knows dogs can’t actually communicate with humans beyond barking, whining, and the occasional paw to the face, but the way Anya is looking at him right now screams look at me! Ha ha ha! I have pretty boy’s attention and you do not! 

Ilya is not jealous of a dog. He is not. He loves Anya very much and it’s nice Shane likes her too, but damnit Ilya is itching to get him alone.

“Want to watch the game?”

Shane pauses mid-rub, glancing up at Ilya with a smirk. Ilya watches, thoroughly delighted, as Anya seems to deflate beneath Shane’s hand. Her tail slows, her ears droop, and she lets out a dramatic little sigh when Shane finally withdraws his fingers from her belly. Ilya looks down at her, grinning victoriously. Of course, the only thing that could pull Shane away from a cute dog is hockey.

“Fine,” Shane grins, standing to his feet. “But if I hear you chirp Hunter even once, I’m gone.”

Ilya smirks, plopping down on the couch and feeling giddy when Shane does the same. “I can’t make any promises.”

He’s just about to shift closer, to close the small but increasingly offensive gap between their bodies until their thighs brush together, when a furry blur launches itself onto the couch. Anya lands squarely between them. Ilya stares, watching his dog turn in a circle, sniffing the cushions, and then promptly lowering herself against Shane, resting her head on his thigh with a sigh. Shane actually giggles, patting her head, and for a second it looks like she’s smirking. This fucking dog.

When they turn the game on, the first period is already winding down, and Las Vegas is up by a point. Naturally, Ilya is insufferable about it, taking every opportunity to rub New York’s defeat in Shane’s face. He doesn’t necessarily have a stake in this game since Boston isn’t playing but it’s nice to pick a team Shane hates just to get under his skin. Shane, to his credit, has some good chirps back but ultimately sits back and continues to watch the game. Halfway through the game though, Ilya immediately eats his words. New York scores to tie the game and then in the third period, scores the winning goal. Ilya is a groaning mess after that. As he watches stupid fucking Scott Hunter celebrating on the ice with his teammates, Shane turns to him, smug as ever.

“What were you saying about Hunter’s shitty backhand?”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

“Oh, now it’s whatever?” Shane chuckles. He reaches over to pet Anya’s head, absentmindedly running his fingers through her hair and the sight makes his chest ache. “Before it was Scott Hunter sucks, Scott Hunter is one hundred years old,” Shane continues, slipping into a terrible, exaggerated Russian accent that makes Ilya’s face burn. “Scott Hunter looks like an embalmed zombie on the ice—”

“He does,” Ilya grumbles.

“Still won though,” Shane shrugs. 

“Okay, okay,” Ilya groans, pushing himself up off the couch, staring down at Shane who is smug as ever. He catches the way Anya’s gaze flickers between them. “So you win, I lose. Do you want a reward?”

Immediately, Shane’s cheeks go red and his eyes dart away. Fuck. Ilya watches him swallow, watches the way he clears his throat before pushing himself off the couch to stand beside him. For a moment, Shane seems uncertain what to do with himself, his gaze shifting everywhere but Ilya’s face. Then his eyes flicker down to Ilya’s lips, so quickly that Ilya might have missed it if he weren’t watching him so closely, but the glance sends a jolt of electricity through his entire body. 

He prays briefly that Shane may want Ilya to reward him with a kiss. But before he can even move, Shane speaks.

“I should get going.” Shane sighs, biting the inside of his cheek. The light in his eyes dim just a bit and it makes Ilya’s stomach drop. “I’m, uh, getting brunch with Rose tomorrow.”

Ilya nods quickly, stepping away from Shane. “Of course.”

Fuck. Fuck. Did he miss his window? Did he completely fuck it up? He follows Shane to the front door, trying to ignore the sudden awkwardness settling between them. Shane pauses to pat Anya’s head one last time, murmuring something sweet to her that Ilya doesn’t quite catch. Fuck. Should he have kissed him? Was that what Shane had been waiting for?

Ilya watches him bend to tie his laces, his fingers fumbling briefly with the knots, and feels angry at how unfamiliar he is to himself these days. He’s never been this uncertain. He’s never been the kind of person to agonize over a glance or replay a conversation. He knows how to want things. He knows how to ask for them. Except, apparently, when it comes to Shane Hollander.

Suddenly, desperation grips Ilya and just as Shane straightens once again to look at him, Ilya speaks. “Are you free tomorrow night?”

Shane frowns. “Uh, I think so. Why?”

“Some of the guys on my team are going out to a bar,” Ilya explains. He can hear the slight tremor in his own voice and hates himself for it. “Did you want to come?”

Shane shrugs, his lips pressed into a warm smile. “You don’t think they’ll mind getting drinks with a rival player?”

Ilya snorts. “You said yourself we’re barely rivals.”

Shane reaches for the doorknob, turning it until the door cracks open and the cool air from the hallway slips inside. “Alright. I guess I could come. Text me the details?”

Ilya nods. “See you soon.”

“Bye.”

Ilya has the goofiest smile on his face when he turns back around and makes his way back to his living room. Anya is there waiting for him on the couch. Her ears are perked up, her head tilted just slightly, and the sight makes Ilya’s grin widen. He crosses the room and sinks onto the couch beside her, reaching out both hands and watching as she sniffs them. A moment later, her tail begins to thump enthusiastically against the cushions. 

“You like him, don’t you?” Ilya murmurs in Russian, scratching behind Anya’s ears. Ilya ducks his head down to press a kiss to the top of her furry little head. “Yes, my love, so do I.”

The moment Ilya spots the booth his friends have reserved, he realizes he’s made a terrible mistake. In hindsight, there had been signs, all pointing toward the conclusion that this wasn’t the smartest idea. 

For starters, Bood had picked a country bar, of all fucking places, despite Ilya reminding them repeatedly that none of them liked country music. Bood least of all. Apparently, though, the drinks were cheap, and there was a mechanical bull he wanted to try, which was enough to override every other consideration. Ilya should have known better than to trust these idiots with a night out.

When he’d texted Shane the details, he’d half expected him to politely decline. Hell, he’d been prepared for Shane to invent some elaborate excuse to get out of it. Who in their right mind willingly agrees to meet essentially a group of complete strangers in a country bar at midnight? Shane, surprisingly, had sent Ilya a thumbs up with the promise that he’d be there closer to midnight. And now here Ilya was, approaching his friend’s booth, the smile draining from his face entirely. 

Bood and Cliff are sitting across from each other, engaged in an arm wrestling competition, while Hayes chants over them. Fucking hell. Ilya almost forgot how much of a disaster his friends are. For a moment, he debates just turning around, texting Shane not to come because he has the flu, or fucking chlamydia for that matter, but then thinks better of it. Shane might as well meet them now. If these idiots don’t scare him away, then it will be a miracle.

“Rozy!” Hayes is the first to notice him. He immediately breaks away from his position at the edge of the booth, reaching out to pull Ilya into a half hug as he approaches. Ilya returns it automatically, grateful, at least, that one of his friends seems excited to see him.

“Hey,” Ilya smirks, nodding at Bood and Cliff who have yet to acknowledge his existence. “What are these idiots up to?”

“Bood tried to say he benches more than me,” Cliff grits out.

He’s visibly straining, his jaw clenched as he tries to force Bood’s hand toward the tabletop. Bood, to his credit, is putting up a hell of a fight. His brows are pulled together in concentration, though he manages to shoot Ilya a brief smirk before immediately returning his attention to his hand.

“Gotta show this fucker who I am,” Cliff adds with a smirk.

“Your mouth’s writing a check your ass can’t cash,” Bood replies, his grin widening as he gains a little ground, their joined hands inching closer to the table.

“What the fuck are you on about?” Cliff winces, desperately trying to hold his ground.

“Just means you’re about to owe me fifty bucks.” Bood grins.

Ilya rolls his eyes and reaches across their clasped hands to steal Cliff’s beer, taking a long, desperate swig in the hopes that alcohol might do something to settle his fraying nerves. It doesn’t, particularly, but at least it gives him something to do with his hands.

He glances around the bar, taking in the sea of cowboy hats and flannel shirts, the neon signs glowing above the counter, and the long line of people waiting for their turn on the mechanical bull. Then he looks back at his idiot friends. 

“I’ll give both of you a hundred dollars to stop this nonsense right now.”

Bood finally looks up at Ilya, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. Whatever he sees in Ilya’s expression must be enough to convince him something is up, because he abruptly relaxes his grip. Cliff, who has apparently been waiting for this moment, slams Bood’s hand against the table.

“FUCKING DID IT!” he bellows, throwing his arms up in triumph before pounding a fist against the tabletop. “You owe me fifty bucks, Boodram!”

“Shut the fuck up, Marly,” Bood hisses. The look he gives Cliff is sharp enough to cut glass, and, miraculously, Cliff shuts his mouth. He settles back into the booth, still grinning like an idiot, clearly satisfied with his victory even if he’s just forfeited any chance of celebrating it.

Bood, meanwhile, has turned his full attention to Ilya. He watches as Ilya takes another swig of Cliff’s beer before setting the bottle down and sliding into the spot Hayes has thoughtfully made for him.

“What’s wrong, Ilya?”

Ilya’s head snaps away from the mechanical bull, where his eyes have been nervously tracking the increasingly long line of people waiting to climb aboard.

“What?” he stutters. His gaze darts from Hayes to Bood, then back again. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. Why does something have to be wrong?”

Bood throws Hayes a look from across the table. “You just seem… off. Is something going on?”

Ilya shifts uncomfortably in his seat. While he loved his very perceptible friend, he also hated him for this reason too. “I am fine.”

Hayes turns toward him, resting an arm along the back of the booth. His expression is gentler than Bood’s, but there’s no less concern in his eyes. “How’s your mood been?”

With strangers, he might have told Hayes to fuck off. He might have laughed it off, made a joke, or snapped at him for asking something so personal in the middle of a crowded bar. He’s spent enough of his life learning how to make people believe he’s fine that the instinct comes almost automatically. But these are his friends. This is Zane, Wyatt, and Cliff, who all saw Ilya at his worst, who knocked on his door during a few particularly hard weeks and pulled him out of bed, who sat with him when he made the first phone call to his therapist to book his first appointment. They’ve become more than just teammates. They’ve become his family too. That’s why he knows he can be honest with them.

“It’s actually been better.” Ilya admits, a smile on his lips. “I’m just nervous.”

Cliff frowns. “Why?”

“Uh, well, Shane is coming to say hi.” Ilya sighs, ducking his head as warmth creeps up his neck and settles in his cheeks.

“Your neighbour who plays hockey, too?” Bood asks, looking thoroughly confused.

Ilya barely has time to nod before Cliff cuts in, his grin turning downright wolfish. “He’s the one Ilya has a big, gay crush on.”

Ilya shoots him a warning glare, but before he can even think about retaliating, Bood’s hand comes down against the back of Cliff’s head with a sharp smack.

“Idiot.”

“What?” Cliff groans, rubbing the spot with a scowl.

Hayes and Ilya exchange an amused look, both of them struggling to hold back their laughter as Bood launches into what promises to be a very familiar lecture.

“You can’t just go around saying shit like that,” Bood scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re not fucking gay, and besides, Ilya’s bisexual.”

“I’m just repeating what Svetlana told me!” Cliff whines, shooting Ilya a sheepish look.

“If Svetlana told you Crosby had joined the Flyers, you’d fucking believe her,” Hayes mutters, rolling his eyes before taking another sip of his beer.

“Hey, I believe all women,” Cliff says with a smug little smirk, crossing his arms over his chest.

Bood smacks him on the back of the head again, though this time with considerably less force. “Shut your idiot face right now, Marly.”

Cliff scoffs, his mouth already opening to fire back, but whatever clever retort he has ready dies on his tongue when Bood turns a particularly murderous glare his way. Ilya can’t help but chuckle at this exchange, while also feeling overwhelming love for these idiots who clearly care so much about him.

“Shane is my neighbour,” Ilya finally says when their eyes land on him again, urging him to continue. “He’s the one I invited tonight. I am just a bit nervous for you guys to meet him.”

“Because you like him?” Cliff raises his brows, looking smug.

Ilya bites his lip. “He is a nice guy. I think you all will like him.”

Bood and Hayes exchange knowing smirks, but Cliff is the one who rolls his eyes with an exaggerated groan. Leaning forward, he props his elbows on the table. “Svetlana told me you guys went on a date. Apparently, you called her with your room looking like a fucking tornado had torn through it, asking what you should wear, like a teenager getting ready for his first date.”

That earns a chuckle from Hayes and Bood but Ilya just swallows the burn that’s rising in his cheeks. “Fuck off. There was no date. It was just two guys getting mexican food and watching a hockey game.”

“That’s not what Svetlana said.” Cliff’s grin only widens.

“Ugh, stop listening to her.” Ilya rolls his eyes. “She is not going to fuck you, Marly. She likes women, and unless something’s changed since the last time we all showered after practice, you don’t have the right equipment.”

Bood lets out a low chuckle. “Rozy, don’t make fun of Marly. It’s not his fault he’s so pathetic.”

“Shut up, both of you,” Cliff snaps, shooting them a murderous look. “I don’t like Svetlana like that… anymore.”

“Thank fuck for that,” Hayes smirks. “Because those few months were really embarrassing to watch.”

“We’re not talking about my love life,” Cliff groans. “We’re talking about Rozy and his embarrassing little crush on his neighbour.”

“It’s not a crush,” Ilya insists, though the warmth in his cheeks makes a liar of him. He folds his arms across his chest, hoping the gesture might somehow make him look less flustered. “I’m just nervous about him meeting you all and realizing I spend my free time with a bunch of idiots. Then he’ll never want to talk to me again.”

“Fuck off, Rozy,” Hayes laughs. “Shane might actually like us. We’re all considerably more handsome than you.”

“And better players,” Bood adds with a smirk.

“I hate you guys so much,” Ilya mutters. 

“No you don’t,” Bood says, pausing for a moment and waiting for them to stop laughing before he continues. “Don’t be nervous. I’m sure him agreeing to come out and meet you here has to be a good sign.”

Ilya shrugs. “I hope so.”

“Bood’s right,” Hayes says, giving him a sympathetic nod. “Try not to overthink it. Go get us a few drinks, and we’ll have some fun. Besides, Bood hasn’t even shared the best news yet.”

Ilya's head snaps towards Bood, his worries momentarily forgotten. “What?”

Bood rolls his eyes but not even he can hold in his smile. “Cassie and I set a date for the wedding.”

Ilya grins, letting out a delighted gasp. “Amazing!” he shouts. “I’ll go get some drinks to celebrate.”

Ilya practically skips his way to the bar, a stupid grin tugging at his lips. It’s ridiculous how much five minutes with his friends can do for him. He feels lighter, if not a bit less anxious. His friends might be idiots sometimes but he also loves the fuck out of them. Not that he’d tell them that. 

“Four beers, please,” Ilya orders, leaning against the bar while he waits. The second he’s paid, his phone is in his hand, his thumb already hovering over Shane’s name.

He knows texting Shane right now would probably be insane. It’s nearly midnight, for fuck’s sake, and he’s already spent far too much time thinking about this. But knowing something is a bad idea has never stopped Ilya from doing it, so he opens their chat anyway, scrolling through their messages. He’s so absorbed in his screen that he almost jumps when three little message bubbles appear. A few seconds later, a message comes through.

Shane:
Here.

The bar is packed. There are too many people, and his eyes dart frantically across the room, catching on the backs of strangers, on shoulders that look familiar, on dark hair that makes his stomach flip before he realizes it isn’t right. Ilya’s eyes return to his phone.

Ilya: 
i’m at the bar

When Ilya looks up again, he searches the crowd for those brown eyes he has grown to find comfort in and doesn’t find them yet. He buzzes with anticipation and anxiety, so much so that when the crowd parts and Shane excuses himself through it, a long sigh leaves Ilya’s nose without him realizing it. 

He waves to get Shane’s attention and Shane’s eyes immediately lock onto him, making him forget why he was so nervous to begin with. Shane starts toward him, and Ilya finally gets a proper look at what he’s wearing. 

Oh, fuck. He looks so fucking good. Shane is wearing wide-legged blue jeans that sit just right on his hips, fitting snugly over his ass and making his thighs look thick and fucking delectable. A simple black long-sleeve shirt hugs his upper body beneath a brown bomber jacket, and he looks like something out of Ilya’s wet dreams. 

Ilya catches a few lingering glances from the people around them, sees the way their eyes follow Shane as he moves through the crowd. He can hardly blame them. He’d stare, too. Hell, he’s staring right now, and he has absolutely no intention of stopping. What makes Ilya insanely happy though is that Shane only seems to notice him.

“Hey,” Shane says when he finally reaches him, leaning in to pull him into a brief, one-armed hug.

Ilya smells the deep, rich scent of his cologne and he breathes out shakily. “Hi.”

Shane’s cheeks are flushed but even in the dim lighting of the bar, Ilya can make out the adorable freckles scattered across his nose. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Thanks for coming,” Ilya nods nervously. “My friends are excited to meet you.”

Shane looks around the bar. “Where are they?”

“I was getting some drinks.” Ilya gestures toward the bar just as the bartender approaches with their order. “Did you want something?”

Shane shrugs, his gaze following the bartender as he sets four beers down in front of them. “No, it’s okay.”

“Oh, okay.”

Ilya reaches for the glasses, already mentally calculating how he’s going to carry all four back to the booth without spilling beer all over himself, when Shane steps closer and closer until he’s practically in Ilya’s space. Shane reaches out and rests a hand on his forearm. 

“We can share, can’t we?” he asks. 

Ilya swallows hard. His eyes drop to Shane’s hand, and for a brief, humiliating moment, he genuinely cannot remember how to speak. The first thought that crosses his mind is as funny as it is terrifying.

These are gay torture tactics being used on a healed bisexual.

“Yes,” he manages, clearing his throat. “Of course.”

“Good.” Shane nods. He pulls his hand away and grabs two of the beers. “I can help you carry these.”

Ilya startles, grabbing the other two beers and nodding stiffly. “Okay.”

As they approach the booth and Ilya’s eyes land on his friends, he’s immediately rolling his eyes. Hayes is doubled over, laughing so hard that his shoulders are shaking. Cliff has both hands over his face, his body folded in on itself, while Bood sits beside him, cackling like a madman. While they look drunk, Ilya knows that those empty beer glasses are only their first glasses of the night. These men are basically entirely sober, laughing like idiots.

“Guys,” Ilya calls over the laughter, setting the beers down on the table with perhaps a little more force than necessary. He gestures toward Shane when their laughter settles down. “This is Shane.”

Shane sets the beers down and gives them a small wave. “Hey. Nice to meet you guys.”

Bood, at least, has the decency to be friendly about it. He pushes himself up from the booth and steps forward, dapping Shane up.

“Hey, I’m Zane, but everyone calls me Bood.” He nods, his grin easy and welcoming. “Nice to meet you, too. We’ve heard a lot about you.”

Ilya’s head snaps toward him.

“You have?” Shane asks, his lips twitching.

“Oh, yeah,” Hayes chimes in, finally straightening up enough to acknowledge Shane properly. He gives him a wave, his grin now a little less obnoxious and a lot more genuine. “You play for Garland, right?”

Shane nods. “Yeah. For a few months now.”

“You’re a beast,” Hayes tells him without hesitation. “I start fucking shaking like a chihuahua whenever you’re on the ice and I’m goaltending.”

Shane flushes and his gaze drops for a second, a bashful little smile tugging at his lips. Ilya turns toward Hayes and gives him a small, appreciative nod. He’s beginning to find it increasingly unfair he’s never had the honour of sharing the ice with Shane. 

“Thanks,” Shane says, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Okay,” Ilya sighs. “Make room. You can ask Shane all the hockey questions you want after he sits down.”

Hayes and Cliff shuffle down the booth, making enough room for Shane to slide in first, followed by Ilya settling into the space beside him. Their thighs brush beneath the table, and Ilya has to make a concerted effort to pretend not to notice. They all clink their glasses together, taking a sip of their beer, before the questions start rolling again. Shane is in the middle of taking a sip of Ilya’s beer when Cliff starts.

“How long have you been playing hockey for?”

“Oh,” Shane shrugs, swallowing harshly and throwing Ilya a sour look. Ilya smirks, sipping on the same spot on the glass that Shane did. “Since I was a kid really.”

“Ah,” Cliff nods. “Makes sense. What do you do for work?”

“Oh,” Shane flushes, his elbow brushing Ilya’s. “I’m actually a sports psychologist for the Metros.”

There’s approximately three seconds of full silence before the table erupts.

“What?” Bood chokes, nearly spitting out his beer.

“Do you get to go to games for free?” Hayes demands, leaning so far across the table that Ilya worries he might actually fall into their drinks.

Shane laughs, looking thoroughly amused by the sudden questions. “Yes. Sometimes.”

“Have you met JJ Boiziau?” Cliff asks, his eyes wide.

“Oh, sure.” Shane shrugs. “He’s great.”

“What the fuck?” Cliff sends Ilya a glare. “You didn’t tell me he knew the Metros.”

“Of fucking course all my friends like the Metros.” Ilya groans, rolling his eyes.

“Shut up, Rozy,” Hayes rolls his eyes. “Go sit in the corner with your shitty team.”

Shane turns his head, shooting Ilya a smirk. “I like your friends.”

“Whatever,” Ilya rolls his eyes, feeling himself smile anyway.

“What’s it like working with those guys?” Bood asks, dragging the conversation back to what they were talking about before. “They’re legends.”

“They are.” Shane nods, his expression softening a little. “But they’re also just people, you know? They’re sons, fathers. People who get stressed and have a lot of responsibility on their shoulders. It’s nice to be there to support them.”

“And they’re nice to you?” Cliff asks, raising his eyebrows.

Shane shrugs. “Sure.”

Cliff opens his mouth again. “Even though—”

“Marly, shut up.” Bood shoots him a warning glare.

“What?” Cliff protests, holding up his hands. “Ilya said we could ask him questions!”

Ilya feels the blood rush to his face so quickly he’s grateful for the dim lighting. He turns toward Cliff with a look that promises a slow and painful death, but it’s too late. The words already hang in the air between them.

Beside him, Shane lets out a soft chuckle. He shakes his head, looking down at his hands before lifting his gaze back to the table. “No, it’s okay. I think I know what you mean. Yes, they’re nice to me even though they know I’m gay. Some of the guys aren’t the friendliest, and they don’t exactly want to open up to a gay guy in case someone thinks that makes them gay, too.” He sighs, giving a small shrug. “But they’re nice.”

“That’s good,” Hayes smiles and there’s silence for a long moment before he sighs loudly and looks behind him on the dancefloor. “I don’t know about you guys but I definitely wanna try line dancing. Who’s with me?”

“I’ll take a stab at it,” Bood announces, already grinning as he pushes himself out of the booth.

“No thanks,” Cliff says with a chuckle, settling farther into his seat.

“I can try.” Shane rises from the other side of the booth and Ilya rises with him, leaving enough space for him to exit the booth. Shane follows Hayes and Bood as they begin making their way toward the dance floor. He takes a few steps before turning back around, hesitating when he sees Ilya sit back down beside Cliff. “You’re not coming?”

Ilya shakes his head, glancing at the dance floor. “Never been into this whole country thing,” he says, lifting his beer. “But you go. Have fun. You’re already gonna do better than Bood and Hayes.”

“Fuck off!” Bood shouts, flipping him off without even turning around.

Hayes bursts out laughing, and Shane follows suit, his head tipping back as he laughs at something Bood says. Ilya watches them go, unable to stop the smile that settles on his face. Shane seems to fit right in and it makes him irrationally happy.

Once they’re out of earshot, Cliff leans over. “He’s cool.”

Ilya snaps his head to Cliff, who’s smiling like a moron. Ilya tries his best to school his expression into something neutral, but he probably looks constipated. He adds a small shrug of his shoulders to really sell the whole nonchalant look. “Yes, he is.”

Cliff raises his brows, that same smile only widening. “And he likes hockey.”

Ilya nods, shifting uncomfortably in his seat before taking a long sip of his beer. “He likes the Metros, but I suppose that’s better than nothing.”

Cliff nods, nudging Ilya’s elbow. “And he’s gay.”

Ilya slams his beer on the table. “Was your little interrogation just now to confirm he was gay? Didn’t Svetlana tell you I already told her he was?”

Cliff shrugs. “Just wanted to confirm.”

“Well you were as subtle as a heart attack,” Ilya murmurs, rolling his eyes. “What is your point, Marly?”

Cliff gives him a look like he can’t be serious. “Ilya, for fucks sake, I know everyone treats me like an idiot but even I’m not that dumb.”

Ilya glances at the dance floor, where Shane, Bood, and Hayes have lined up for their lesson. The instructor demonstrates a few steps, and the three of them follow along, sticking their feet out in awkward little kicks as they try to find the rhythm. Shane though looks the most coordinated of them all. He moves gracefully, his hands resting on his hips as he follows the instructor’s steps. There’s a sweetness to his smile, and every so often he breaks into a giggle with Bood as they watch Hayes fumble his way through the routine. He looks natural in between his friends, like he was always meant to be there, and it makes Ilya’s chest ache. Fuck. He really likes Shane. Like a lot. He’s been a bit afraid to admit it until now because of how vulnerable it makes him feel, like he’s walking around with an open wound, but he also wants Shane so badly it hurts. He trusts Cliff, of course he does, but he doesn’t trust himself not to completely let this good thing slip out of his hands. Ilya’s never been particularly good at keeping something good for long.

“Shane is…” Ilya trails off with a sigh, unsure where to begin. His eyes never leave Shane, following the way he twists and turns to the music, his cheeks flushed pink and a smile on his lips. “… very good. Maybe too good for me.”

Cliff’s brows knit together. He studies Ilya for a moment before taking a breath. “Ilya, dude, I’m gonna say something, but you have to promise not to make fun of me.”

Ilya smirks. “No promises.”

Cliff rolls his eyes. “You’re a good guy and you deserve to be happy.”

Ilya snorts, shaking his head. “Wow, Marly, thank you. Should we kiss?”

“Fuck you,” Cliff mutters. “You’re such a dickhead.”

“I know.” 

“No, not about that,” Cliff waves. “Who the fuck do you think you are trying to ruin a good thing? You’re, like, basically giving a middle finger to the universe.”

Ilya looks at Cliff like he’s gone crazy. “A middle finger to the universe?”

“Yeah,” Cliff scoffs. “You like him, and don’t even try to deny it, and I can tell he likes you. When the universe, or God, or whatever woman in the sky pulling the strings puts someone like that in your life, you can’t ignore it.”

“Cliff—” Ilya begins, stunned that something so intelligent has come out of his friend's mouth, but he’s soon cut off when Cliff speaks again. 

“And he’s not too good for you,” Cliff grumbles. “You deserve good things Ilya. Not because the world owes it to you because, shit, it might, but because you’re good too. And I fucking hate to hear you talk about yourself like that. So cut it out, alright?”

Ilya stares at him, mouth slightly agape. Cliff’s like Ilya in so many ways. He’s not sentimental or outwardly sensitive, but Ilya knows he cares deeply for his friends, even though he doesn’t do a great job at showing it. Ilya knows it took a lot for Cliff to say these words. It makes him kind of emotional to be honest, which is probably insane considering the setting of their conversation. He fights back real tears, closing his mouth and swallowing harshly before reaching out and placing a hand on Cliff’s shoulder. 

“Thank you,” Ilya says, his voice strained. 

Cliff shrugs. “Whatever.”

“No, no,” Ilya shakes his head, his hand lingering on Cliff’s shoulder for another moment before he pulls it back. “You are right. I just didn’t expect to hear it from you.”

“Bood and Hayes aren’t the only ones good with words.” Cliff rolls his eyes. 

“No, I know,” Ilya nods, taking another sip of his beer. 

Ilya doesn’t even have time to bask in this moment because it’s almost immediately interrupted when Hayes crashes back into the booth. He’s laughing like a maniac, carrying four shot glasses in both his hands. Ilya instinctively shifts over to make room for him, eyeing the glasses warily as Hayes slides into the seat beside him.

“What’s that?” Ilya asks, rather stupidly.

“Vodka,” Hayes announces with a smirk, knocking back one shot and then another without so much as a pause.

“No shit.” Ilya rolls his eyes. “Did you buy it?”

“No, Hollzy got it for us.” Hayes smirks, his eyes already a bit hazy, which tells Ilya he’s already had a few shots before these ones.

“Hollzy?” Ilya scoffs. “Who is that?”

Hayes wiggles his eyebrows, leaning closer. “You know.” He gestures vaguely in Ilya’s direction. “Your boyfriend.”

Ilya straightens, fighting a flush and trying to look angry. “Shut up.” 

Hayes starts mumbling something incoherent about the nickname they’ve bestowed onto Shane ever so lovingly, but Ilya barely hears him. His eyes scan the dance floor and his blood runs cold when Shane isn’t there anymore. He cranes his neck, his gaze drifting past Hayes’s shoulder and toward the dance floor. Fuck. Where is he? He scans the dancers, the tables, the little pockets of people gathered around the edge of the floor. Nothing. His eyes dart toward the bar, searching for Shane’s familiar face among the crowd, but Bood is nowhere to be seen either.

He looks back at Hayes, who is downing his fourth shot. He winces and gags a bit, shaking his head. “Gross.”

“I thought you were dancing?” 

“We were.” Hayes hiccups, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “We danced up a storm, bud. We were thirsty.”

“Wyatt,” Ilya says, his voice sharper. “Did Shane drink?”

Hayes snorts, nodding his head. “Oh yeah. At first he was like no, no, no, but then after he saw us get the first round, he wanted in on the fun.”

“He doesn’t really drink,” Ilya bit back. 

“Oh, Hollzy drinks,” Hayes laughs. “He had like three—no! Four. He had four shots.”

Ilya’s standing from the booth now, his eyes frantic as he searches the bar. He can’t find him. What if he’s feeling ill? What if he’s outside somewhere vomiting his guts out? Ilya walks toward the entrance, where a large group of people have congregated around the mechanical bull. His eyes land on every single brunette man in the bar but no such luck. Ilya is feeling anxious now, his chest tight, already patting his pockets for his phone when he feels someone grab his shoulder. 

Ilya jumps, turning around to see Hayes. “What?”

“Found him.” 

Ilya’s shoulders relax, but only a bit. “Where is he?”

Hayes doesn’t say anything else, just raising his hand and pointing to somewhere past Ilya. Ilya follows it until it lands on the large group of people beside the mechanical bull. Someone’s riding it and people are gathering around to watch them fail. Ilya’s almost about to look back at Hayes and tell him to fuck off if he’s not going to help, when he sees who is on the bull.

Shane is on the bull. Shane Hollander is riding the fucking bull. His hips sway with every violent jerk of the machine, one hand raised high in the air as he struggles to keep his balance. Forward, then back, all to torture Ilya. Fuck. His narrow waist twists from side to side, and every time he throws his weight into another desperate attempt to stay upright, the hem of his shirt rides a little higher, revealing another tantalising sliver of tan skin. An image flickers through Ilya’s mind; it almost looks as though he’s riding— 

No. Ilya squeezes his eyes tight. Fuck. His dick might have exploded.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Hayes murmurs beside him, his eyes wide as he watches Shane with the same rapt attention as everyone else in the bar.

Ilya wants to rip his fucking eyes out. In fact, he wants to rip out the eyes of every single person in this bar who has the audacity to look at Shane like that.

“Hollzy’s got moves.”

Ilya grips his cold glass of half finished beer, trying to channel every single fibre of his being upright. He can feel Hayes looking at him. With a considerable amount of effort, Ilya drags his eyes away from Shane and looks around the bar. His blood only begins to buzz beneath his skin when he sees a few other people staring at Shane in awe as he rides that stupid mechanical bull. 

Fuck them. Ilya’s eyes snap back up to Shane, who has lost his grip on the bull and is falling halfway off. Fuck this. Ilya needs to stop this madness now. 

“Here,” Ilya murmurs, handing Hayes his beer before moving forward. 

He shoulders his way through the crowd, weaving between a dozen or so people without so much as a mumbled excuse me. He doesn’t care. His eyes have already found Shane, or more specifically, Shane’s face, which is flushed pink and split into the brightest, most unrestrained smile Ilya has ever seen. His short hair is a complete mess, sticking up in every direction, and he looks slick with sweat. Ilya belly swoops. Fuck. He looks so good. Ilya shakes his head. No, not now. Step one is to get Shane off that bull. Step two is to get him out of this bar. And step three is to kill his friends.

As he approaches the circle that surrounds the bull, he spots Bood gripping onto the barricade, hooting and hollering, waving his hands in the air as he excitedly cheers for Shane. Fucker.

“GO HOLLZY!” Bood yells, cackling at the end of it, clearly just as drunk as the rest of them.

On the bull, Shane shifts his weight, gripping the reins more tightly as the machine bucks beneath him. His thighs squeeze against its sides, and he leans forward to steady himself. Ilya has to genuinely rip his eyes away from the scene before he starts drooling. He grabs Bood’s elbow instead. 

“Which one of you idiots dared him to do this?” Ilya yells into Bood’s ear.

Bood barely spares him a glance, too busy clapping and cheering as Shane manages to stay upright through another buck of the machine.

“No one!” he yells back, shrugging. “Guy wanted to do it himself!”

Ilya scoffs, shaking his head and letting go of Bood. Idiots. He leaves Shane alone with his friends for ten minutes and all of a sudden they convince him he’s a wrangler. 

“Shane!” Ilya calls, stepping closer to the barricade. When Shane doesn’t immediately hear him, he raises both hands and waves them over his head. “Shane!”

Shane immediately looks up from his hands and his entire face lights up. “Ilya!”

Shane lifts both his hands from the reins to wave at Ilya and in a flash he falls off the bull and lands very ungracefully on his back. The entire crowd winces with Ilya and in a flash he’s jumped over the barricade and comes to crouch down where Shane lays.

“Shane?” Ilya frowns, taking his head in both hands. “Shane, are you okay?”

Shane’s eyes fly open and he smiles up at Ilya, laughter rumbling in his chest. “Did you see me?”

Tension immediately loosens in his body and he lets out a relieved sigh. “Yes, I did. Very stupid of you.”

“Just jealous that you could never last that long.” Shane smirks, letting Ilya’s hands move further down to help him to his feet. 

Ilya lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. Of course. Of fucking course Shane would have the audacity to still be competitive while lying on the floor after falling off a mechanical bull.

Once Ilya manages to get Shane back on his feet, he guides him out of the crowd, keeping a firm hand at his waist in case his legs decide to give out again. Ilya settles Shane onto a stool and flags down the bartender for a glass of water. Shane, meanwhile, is muttering something under his breath, his shoulders hunched as he cradles his head in his hands. Ilya barely pays him any mind until the bartender returns with the water, which he takes gladly and turns back to find Shane still mumbling into his palm.

Ilya leans an elbow on the bar and smirks, angling his body toward Shane. “What was that?”

Shane lifts his head just enough to peer at him through his fingers, his cheek squished against his palm.

“Vodka,” he mumbles miserably. “The worst thing Russians invented since nuclear weapons.”

Ilya snorts, holding the water out in front of Shane, giving it a little shake. “Here. Drink.”

Shane looks up from his hands, squinting. “No! No more vodka!”

Ilya chuckles before stepping between Shane’s parted thighs to get closer. He places the glass near Shane’s face and bends until they’re eye to eye, his grin softening. He rests his free hand on Shane’s thigh, rubbing slow, soothing circles with his thumb. “Is just water, Shane.”

He watches Shane shiver before nodding slowly, his eyes trained on the glass as he takes it in both hands and takes a sip. “Thank you.”

A hand on Ilya’s shoulder breaks him from his bubble with Shane. Ilya straightens and turns to see Bood, whose eyes are glassy and he’s wearing a smirk. “He okay? Looks like he took a tumble.”

“Yeah.” Ilya takes the now-empty glass from Shane’s hands and sets it on the bar. His other hand never leaves Shane’s thigh, his thumb continuing its absent, gentle circles. “I'm going to take him home, though.”

“Alright,” Bood smirks. “Need help getting him up?”

“Hey!” Shane protests, lifting his head. “I can get up.”

Before either of them can respond, he plants both hands on the bar and pushes himself upright. To his credit, he manages fairly well. He wobbles a little at the top, but Ilya is already there, one hand moving to the small of his back to steady him.

“Get home safe,” Bood says, still smirking as Shane leans into Ilya’s side. “Nice meeting you, buddy.”

“Nice meeting you,” Shane replies, giving him a little nod that’s almost comically formal.

Ilya bites back a laugh. “You are taking an Uber home, yes?”

“Yeah, yeah. I'm not driving.” Bood waves him off. “I guess it's up to me to wrangle the rest of the boys, but we should be fine.” His gaze flicks toward Shane, then back to Ilya, and that damn smirk returns. “Take your boy home.”

Ilya tenses, shooting Bood a glare. “Fuck off.”

Shane raises his brows. “Who?”

“Nothing,” Ilya says quickly. 

He slides an arm more securely around Shane’s waist, partly to keep him upright and partly to prevent him from asking any more questions. Shane is warm against his side, his shoulder tucked beneath Ilya’s arm, and Ilya can feel the occasional little sway of his body as he tries to find his balance.

They make it back to Ilya’s car without incident. The real problem is getting Shane in the passenger seat but Ilya manages to hoist him up and into the seat, grunting softly as he reaches across Shane to fasten his seatbelt. Shane beams up at him, his eyes sleepy, and Ilya has to resist the urge to smile back. He closes the passenger door before he tries to kiss him stupid, then rounds the car and gets into the driver’s seat.

“Sleepover!” Shane snorts, letting his head fall against the headrest.

“No,” Ilya shakes his head, starting the car. “I’m taking you home.”

“We have the same home,” Shane points out with a lazy smirk.

“Your apartment,” Ilya clarifies.

Shane frowns. “Why?”

Ilya maneuvers out of the parking lot and starts down the road. “Because,” he begins. “Anya will be bugging you all night if she knows there’s a guest over.”

“I don’t mind.” Shane hiccups.

“Well, I do,” Ilya smirks, stealing a glance at Shane. “Would it help if I stayed with you? At least until tomorrow morning when I have to walk Anya?”

Shane brightens. “Yes! I can show you my video games, my kitchen that I just renovated and—oh! And my bedroom!” Shane pauses, watching for Ilya’s reaction which he tries his best not to give. “It has a nice, big bed. More than enough for two.”

Ilya clears his throat. “That’s okay. I can take the couch.”

Shane shrugs, eyes turning back to the road. “Okay.”

Ilya’s glad he drops it because he’s about two seconds from combusting. 

By the time they reach the parking garage beneath their building, Shane seems to have sobered up a little. He’s still unsteady, still leaning into Ilya, but the walk to the elevator is considerably less eventful than the journey to the car. Ilya keeps a hand hovering near his waist anyway, ready to catch him at the slightest stumble.

They step into the elevator, and Ilya presses the button for the fourteenth floor. The doors slide shut, and Shane drifts to the opposite wall and leans against it, folding his arms loosely over his chest. There’s a faint, knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Ilya can feel the weight of his gaze without evening having to look. He can feel Shane’s gaze trace the line of his neck and then drop down further over his chest. It’s almost suffocating in a way, and Ilya has to fight the urge to return the stare.

His entire face heats up when Shane speaks again. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. I’ve been drunk before, you know.”

Ilya looks at him now, his entire body tensing when he sees the way Shane’s eyes are greedily drinking him in. His eyes are still a little cloudy from the alcohol, but there’s something in his expression that feels very raw. Shane has always been good at keeping himself composed, at hiding behind a polite smile and curt nod. Now, however, it feels like the last of his filter is gone. That realization makes Ilya literally shake with desire. 

“I know,” Ilya manages, swallowing around the sudden dryness in his throat. He forces himself to hold Shane’s gaze, even as his heart begins to pound. “I would feel better, though. Just in case you throw up or something.”

“Or if I get dizzy and fall over?” Shane asks, his lips twitching.

Ilya shrugs. “Yes, sure.”

Suddenly, Shane straightens, pressing one hand to the side of his head. “Ilya, I think I’m…”

He takes a step forward but his balance falters, his body swaying dangerously to one side, and then he falls.

Or, at least, it looks like he does to Ilya, who moves before he has time to think, lunging forward and catching Shane beneath the arms as he’s about to hit the floor. His own heart hammers in chest at the thought of Shane cracking his head open on the floor. Except Shane never hits the floor. Instead, the moment Ilya’s arms close around him, Shane miraculously finds his balance and melts against Ilya’s chest.

Ilya hears Shane’s laughter bubble up from somewhere deep in his chest, his hands finding Ilya’s shoulders as he steadies himself.

Ilya realizes a moment too late that he’s been played. He pushes Shane upright, though he’s careful to keep a hand at his waist until he’s certain he won’t actually fall this time and he prays Shane can’t feel the frantic pounding of his heart through their clothes. When Shane’s upright again, the doors to the fourteenth floor open. 

“See?” Shane says, looping both arms around his neck and drawing Ilya close before he even has the chance to pull away. “You saved me already.”

Ilya rolls his eyes, ignoring how hot his cheeks have gotten, pulling Shane by the waist out of the elevator and pushing him into the nearest wall. He tries to put as much distance between them as possible but it’s hard with Shane’s arm locked around Ilya’s neck. 

Ilya has to plant a hand against Shane’s stomach to keep him from pulling them together again. His belly swoops when he feels the muscles underneath. “You are a little shit. You know that, yes?”

Shane smirks, not looking the least bit sorry. “Mhm,” he hums, lifting one leg and hooking it around Ilya’s. Ilya has to fight the shiver of his life as he feels the heat of Shane’s body. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Shane is drunk. Ilya knows this. Shane might not be completely drunk, just enough that his filter and usual composure has been long forgotten, but Ilya is not an asshole. He would never take advantage of Shane. But Shane isn’t making it fucking easy.

“I’m going to get you into bed,” Ilya grumbles as he pulls Shane off the wall and guides him down the hall.

Shane’s apartment has a very similar layout to Ilya’s, except Shane’s apartment is beautifully decorated and Ilya’s looks bare in comparison. The lighting is warmer, a kind of amber instead of the harsh white glow of Ilya’s own fixtures, and the kitchen has been renovated with sleek, modern finishes that make it look like something straight out of a magazine. In his living room, there’s even a stack of coffee table books and a white throw draped over the couch. While Shane excuses himself to go and change, Ilya ventures deeper into his home, gravitating towards the family photos in the hallway across from his room.

The first photograph is of Shane as a child, standing between two adults who must be his parents. He’s missing a few teeth and grinning so widely that Ilya can’t help but smile back at the picture. His mother looks warm and beautiful, smiling with a sheepishness that reminds Ilya of his own mother. His father’s smile is more restrained, lips pressed together politely, which resembles Shane a lot.

The second photograph is of Shane and his friends, all squeezed together in a booth at some bar, pride flags hanging in the background. Ilya recognizes Rose immediately, who is leaning against Shane’s shoulder with a smile directed straight at the camera. There are a few other people in the photograph whom he doesn’t recognize, their faces pressed close together, their smiles wide. These are his friends, Ilya excitedly thinks. Maybe I’ll get to meet them too. 

The third and final photograph shows Shane a little younger, probably in his early twenties, dressed in his hockey gear and grinning brightly from inside his helmet. Whoever took it must have been waiting for him after a game, because his face is flushed and his hair damp with sweat, his skin still pink from exertion. He looks exhausted but happy. These photos tell Ilya a story of the man he’s come to really like and it makes him irrationally happy that Shane has invited him into his home, drunk or not.

Ilya turns at the sound of a door opening across the hall. Shane stands in the doorway of his bedroom, dressed in a white shirt and flannel pants, his hair sticking up in the air.

“That was when I played junior hockey,” Shane says, nodding toward the photograph Ilya had been studying. He punctuates the sentence with a yawn, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Cute,” Ilya says with a smirk. He looks so warm and cuddly, and Ilya has an urge to tuck him beneath a blanket and let his head rest against Ilya’s chest.

“You know, I played on Russia’s junior team,” Ilya adds, mostly to distract himself from the thought. “We could have met.”

Shane shakes his head, another yawn slipping out before he can stop it. “I didn’t play for long.”

Ilya fights back a laugh. “You want water or something?”

Shane rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm. “No. Just tired.”

Ilya nods, glancing down the hallway toward the living room. “I’ll take the couch.” He pauses, turning his attention back to Shane, who seems to be swaying ever so slightly on his feet. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Shane mumbles, still rubbing at his eyes as he shuffles past Ilya, heading in the opposite direction of his bedroom. “Let me just get you a blanket and pillow.”

“It’s fine,” Ilya protests, reaching out to stop Shane from taking another step. 

He wants Shane to go to bed. He wants him to get some sleep, to drink some water, to wake up tomorrow without a pounding headache and the embarrassment he knows Shane will feel, but Shane slips out of his reach before he can stop him.

At the end of the hall, Shane opens a closet and rummages around until he emerges with a pillow and a blue cotton blanket. He holds them out to Ilya, who accepts them with a grateful smile. The blanket looks so soft. It probably smells like Shane's laundry detergent, or his apartment, or him, and Ilya has to resist the urge to bury his face in it right there in the hallway.

“Thanks,” he says instead.

Shane yawns again, his eyes nearly closing. Even so, he manages a small, satisfied smile. “I gotta be a good host,” he says. “My mama raised me well.”

Ilya’s smile softens. “Okay.”

Shane sighs, nodding at Ilya once again. “You sure you don’t wanna sleep in my room? I got a whole left side of the bed empty for you.”

“I’m good,” Ilya flushes. “Goodnight, Shane.”

“Night, Ilya.” Shane grins before turning around and quietly closing his door behind him, but Ilya notices that he leaves it open just a crack. 

Ilya takes a deep breath, turning on his heel and walking back down the hall. It takes all the self control he has left in his tired body not to push that door open wider. Instead, he falls asleep staring at a picture of tween Shane Hollander and his parents on the coffee table in front of him.

Ilya wakes to the soft clatter of pots and pans. His eyes crack open, squinting against the sunlight streaming through the windows and spilling across his face. He scrunches his nose, turning away from the light, and rubs at his eyes before finally forcing them open. For a moment, he lies there, still half-asleep, and listens to the sounds coming from behind him in the kitchen. Then, slowly, he turns his head and sees possibly the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Shane is standing at the stove, using a spatula to move around eggs on a pan. The muscles in his back shift beneath his shirt as he reaches for the bowl of chopped spinach beside him and scatters a handful into the eggs. The smell alone is enough to pull Ilya from the last remnants of sleep. He sits up, resting his head against the back of the couch, his gaze wandering over the broad expanse of Shane’s shoulders, following the line of his spine to the gentle curve of his waist. He can hear Shane mumbling softly under his breath but then Shane turns his head slightly to reach for the chopped mushrooms, and Ilya catches sight of the black-framed glasses perched on his nose.

Fuck. Ilya should start praying.

“Morning,” he mumbles, his voice rough with sleep.

Shane startles, the spatula clattering against the edge of the pan as he sets it down. He turns toward the living room, his eyes finding Ilya’s across from him. Shane’s cheeks are already flushed, a soft pink spreading across his face, and Ilya’s chest gives a little squeeze. “Oh, hi.”

“You are making breakfast,” Ilya says, pushing himself off the couch and rounding it, making his way slowly across the living room and into the kitchen. “You’re feeling better, then?”

Shane nods, turning back to the stove, though his eyes flick toward Ilya every few seconds as he approaches. There’s a bashful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. I took an Advil but now I’m just starving. Sorry if the sound woke you up.”

Ilya shrugs, glancing at the island when he enters the kitchen fully. On the kitchen island is a plate of scrambled eggs with spinach and mushrooms and pieces of bacon and toast. Ilya hesitates. “Is that…”

Shane follows his gaze, then glances back at him as though he’s only just remembered the food is there. “Oh, yeah. That’s for you.” He scratches the back of his neck, looking a little self-conscious. “I hope you like it. Rose always complains that I don’t use enough seasoning.”

Ilya's heart flutters. Fuck. It’s too early to be feeling so mushy already. “You didn’t have to.”

Shane flushes deeper, finally turning off the stove and transferring the eggs onto a plate that looks similar to Ilya’s.“You’re kidding, right? I embarrass you in front of your friends—”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Oh, falling on my ass in front of your friends and an entire bar after getting wasted wasn’t embarrassing?”

Ilya leans a hip against the counter, unable to stop the smile tugging at his mouth. “You had fun?”

Shane pauses, then shrugs, a smirk slowly spreading across his face. “Of course.”

“Well, then don’t worry about it.” Ilya chuckles. “My friends loved you. Probably more than they love me, actually. And I didn’t mind looking after you. Was kind of fun.”

“Ugh.” Shane shakes his head, carrying his plate over to the island. He settles onto one of the stools, and Ilya follows, slipping into the seat beside him. There’s an assortment of coffee and orange juice in front of him too. Who the fuck makes a spread like this? Is Ilya in heaven? “Don’t remind me.” Shane mutters, reaching for his fork. “I’m so fucking sorry for how I acted. I was—I was—”

“I liked it,” Ilya admits, shovelling eggs into his mouth and looking away from Shane.

“You liked it?” Shane asks, sounding a bit shocked. “You liked that I was loud and obnoxious and throwing myself at you?”

Ilya sets down his fork and looks up at Shane who is sitting beside him, his entire body turned toward Ilya, his food forgotten. “Yes. I did.” He pauses, rolling his shoulders. “Do you, uh, regret it?”

Shane shakes his head, scratching the top of his bedhead, his fingers disappearing into the unruly strands. “No. Uh, not in the way you’re thinking.” He hesitates, his gaze dropping briefly to his plate before returning to Ilya’s face. “I just… I’m usually much cooler around the guys I’m seeing, so I’m more embarrassed about the whole thing than anything else.”

Ilya basically stops breathing. TheguyI’mseeingtheguyI’mseeingtheguyI’mseeing—

“Wait,” Ilya sharply interrupts. “What did you say?”

Shane frowns. “Uh, well, I was saying a lot so you’ll have to be more specific.”

“I am a guy you are seeing?” Ilya can barely speak but he manages this weak question.

Shane’s blush rises all the way to his ears. “You’re the only guy I am seeing.”

Ilya’s grin rivals the fucking sun. “This is news to me.”

Shane rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling now too. “Fuck you.”

“No, no.” Ilya shakes his head, scooting closer until their knees are pressed firmly together beneath the island. “Tell me. When did this start?”

“You’re so annoying,” Shane scoffs, though there’s no real bite to it. He takes another bite of his breakfast, but when he glances over, he catches the look on Ilya’s face, and pauses. “You’re serious?”

“You didn’t tell me!” Ilya defends.

“I asked you out on a date!” Shane shoots back, breaking into a laugh. “We got dinner and everything!”

“A date has a kiss at the end of the night,” Ilya points out. “If I remember correctly, there was no kiss.”

“I was taking it slow,” Shane rolls his eyes. “And I tried but you seemed scared shitless so I decided to wait.”

“I was not scared,” Ilya scoffs. 

“You were shaking in your fucking jeans when I so much as sat down next to you on the couch.” Shane smirks, knocking his and Ilya’s knees together. “I didn’t want to rush you.”

Ilya probably looks a bit shocked if he’s honest. He knew he felt nervous around Shane but he had thought he was better at hiding it. His cheeks begin to warm, and he turns back to his plate for a moment.

It’s a moment long enough that he can feel Shane stir beside him, ducking his head to try and get Ilya to look at him. “You feel the same, right?”

His head snaps toward Shane, a smile spreading across his face before he can even think about it. “Yes. Yes. Of course.”

Shane chuckles, looking a bit relieved. “Good. And, uh, sorry again about last night—”

“Shane,” Ilya interrupts, their knees knocking again. “Can I kiss you?”

Shane breathes a long sigh of relief. “Yes.”

Ilya doesn’t hesitate after that. He reaches for Shane, cupping both sides of his jaw, his thumbs settling gently against the warmth of his cheeks. Shane’s skin is soft beneath his palms. He quickly closes the distance between them and their first kiss is soft and sweet, like they’re both trying to savour the moment. 

This is so much better than Ilya ever imagined. His entire body seems to light up at once, a fizzing, electric warmth spreading from his toes to the crown of his head. His heart is beating so hard he can feel it in his throat, and his hands tremble just slightly where they cradle Shane’s face. He’s wanted this for so long. Ever since he first met Shane probably and now that he’s here he can hardly believe it.

Ilya opens his eyes for a brief second, just enough to catch sight of Shane’s full lips before he draws away by the smallest fraction. Shane’s eyes remain closed, his expression soft and almost dazed, and when Ilya pauses, he sees Shane tilt forward ever so slightly, chasing the warmth of his mouth. The second kiss is nothing like the first. Ilya kisses him more firmly this time and Shane responds immediately. One of Shane’s hands finds Ilya’s waist, then the other, his fingers curling around him as he pulls Ilya closer, as close as their chairs and the narrow space between them will allow. Ilya deepens the kiss with a groan, licking into Shane’s wet, hot mouth and smirking when he feels Shane sigh against him. When they finally pull away, it’s more for air than anything else.

“Want to go to my bedroom?” Shane pants against Ilya’s mouth, stealing another kiss before murmuring, “You still haven’t seen it.”

Ilya lets out a soft sigh, pulling back just enough to look at him properly. Shane’s glasses have slipped crookedly down his nose and his lips are pink and swollen. Fuck. “What time is it?”

Shane frowns, pulling one hand away from Ilya’s waist to check his Apple Watch. “It’s 9 am.”

He tips his head back and lets out a dramatic sigh. “I have to take Anya on a walk. She’s been inside all night, and she hasn’t eaten.”

Shane pulls away a bit more but doesn’t look disappointed. “Can I come?”

Ilya grins. “You would want to?”

“Of course.” Shane shrugs. “You know, she’s half the reason I like you so much.”

Ilya snorts. “Gee thanks.”

Shane places a quick kiss on Ilya’s lips. “Eat first and then we can go down, yeah?”

Ilya nods, trying very hard not to look as disappointed as he feels. “Okay.”

He’s halfway through his coffee when Shane leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Stop moping.”

Ilya shoots him a sheepish look. “I’m not.”

“You are.” Shane grins, leaning over and placing another kiss on his cheek. This time, he doesn’t pull away immediately. His lips linger against Ilya’s skin, soft enough to make Ilya’s breath catch. “When we fuck, I want us to have at least a few hours to ourself. I’ll need your undivided attention.”

Ilya shivers. “Fuck, Hollander.”

“Hurry up and eat.” Shane points to the plate. “Anya’s waiting.”

Ilya holds back a roll of his eyes. How is he supposed to control himself around this man?

Ilya can not control himself. To be fair, he makes it pretty far. He makes it through breakfast, even manages to finish his coffee, and waits patiently in the living room while Shane disappears into his bedroom to change. He follows him out of the apartment and down the hall without so much as reaching for his hand, which, considering the circumstances, should honestly earn him a fucking gold medal. He doesn’t last much longer after that. 

The moment the elevator doors slide shut behind them, Ilya turns, catches Shane by the waist, and pulls him flush against his body.

Shane lets out a surprised yelp, barely managing to get out an incredulous, “Ilya—” before Ilya kisses him.

Shane melts into him almost immediately, his hands finding Ilya’s shoulders as he kisses him back just as eagerly. Ilya presses closer, one hand settling at the small of Shane’s back, the other slipping around his waist. Shane’s mouth is warm and wet, his tongue exploring Ilya’s mouth with a desperation that tells Ilya he feels it too. He feels just as uncontrollable, just as desperate, and maybe he was waiting for Ilya to break the stalemate first. 

It’s the elevator ding that has Shane pushing at Ilya’s chest, and separating them, much to Ilya’s annoyance. 

“There’s no one here,” Ilya whines, threading their fingers together and tugging him down the hallway toward his apartment.

“Shut up,” Shane chuckles, knocking their shoulders together. 

As they walk, Ilya fishes his keys out of his pocket, swinging their joined hands between them. He glances sideways at Shane, a smirk on his lips. “I’m guessing you’re not a fan of PDA?”

Shane’s face screws up in immediate disgust. “No way. Are you?”

“Not usually.” He pauses, glancing down at their intertwined fingers. “But with you, I guess so.”

Shane smirks, opening his mouth to respond but before he can, a voice rings out in the hallway.

“Walk of shame, boys?”

Ilya stops dead. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Lena is standing a few feet away in the hallway, looking quite smug. She doesn’t have her grocery cart this time, but instead carries an enormous purse that could probably fit a small child and at least three emergency food supplies. These run-ins are getting suspicious.

Ilya narrows his eyes at her. “Lena,” he says, giving her a stiff nod. “Where are you going now?”

“Hello, Shane!” Lena completely ignores him, waving cheerfully at the man beside him. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, and yourself?” Shane chuckles.

“Oh, very good.” Lena adjusts the strap of her purse on her shoulder. “My daughter is coming to pick me up for lunch. Isn’t that nice?”

“How sweet,” Shane says warmly. “Have fun.”

Lena looks down at where they are holding hands before looking back up at Shane. “You too.” She gives Ilya a smug look and it makes him flush. Her next words are in Russian. “I told you.”

“Have a good lunch,” Ilya mutters before he walks off and drags Shane along. 

“What did she say?” Shane asks, still grinning as Ilya fumbles with his keys.

“Old Russian inside joke,” Ilya mutters, his cheeks hot.

He knows Shane probably wants to bother him about it but before he can, they step into the apartment, and Shane is immediately distracted by Anya. She comes bounding toward them, barking excitedly, pushing up onto her hind legs as her tail wags hard enough to shake her entire body. Ilya barely has time to close the door behind them before she’s greeting them both. He crouches to give her a few pats, rubbing behind her ears before heading into the kitchen to get her food.

Shane, meanwhile, stays by the door, and bends down to pet Anya, nuzzling into the top of her head and giggling when she enthusiastically licks his face. Ilya smiles to himself as he opens the fridge, listening to Shane talk to her in that soft, sweet voice he seems to only use with Anya.

He pulls out the shredded chicken, chopped baby spinach, shredded carrots and zucchini, and peas, all of it prepped ahead of time. He takes his time mixing everything together, careful to drizzle a little coconut oil over the food before gathering the bowl and heading back to the front door, where Shane and Anya are still happily occupied with each other.

“Hey girl,” Ilya whistles, catching Anya’s attention. “Come here.”

Anya trots over to him, sitting obediently at his feet as she watches him lower the bowl to the floor. At the sound of another low whistle, she dives in nose-first, barely giving Ilya enough time to pull his hand away.

Ilya hears Shane chuckle from behind him. “She’s so cute.”

Ilya watches Anya enthusiastically devour her dinner, her tail still sweeping back and forth against the floor. “That’ll take her, like, five minutes to finish. Then we can take her on a walk.”

“Good.” Shane nods, though there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Then we have enough time for you to give me a tour of your home.”

“Tour?” Ilya laughs, lifting both hands, palms facing up. “This is my home. It is small and looks exactly like yours, just with less decor.”

“Cute,” Shane scoffs, stepping closer. Before Ilya can say anything else, Shane slips both arms around his neck, drawing him in until there’s barely any space left between them. “But I was talking more about a tour of your room.”

Ilya straightens, eyes snapping to Shane’s. “Follow me.”

Ilya’s room is boring. It has white walls, a big bed covered in a white comforter, a desk tucked against the opposite wall, and a handful of books that are boring too. There are a few pictures scattered across his walls, much like in Shane’s apartment, mostly pictures of him and Svetlana as children, as teenagers, and, on its own, one picture of him and his Mama, taken when he was still a baby. He wants to tell him the stories behind the photographs, explain the memories that have stayed with him and the ones that have grown blurry with time. He wants to tell him about the people he used to be, the boy he was before he came to Canada. To Ilya’s surprise, he realizes that he wants to let Shane in.

Unfortunately, that thought is quickly put on hold because once the door to his bedroom is closed, they get distracted very easily. 

Shane lets out a surprised yelp as Ilya pushes him onto the bed, barely able to register the loss of contact before follows after him, climbing over him and stealing the breath in his lungs with a harsh kiss. Shane’s arms wrap around his waist and pulls Ilya down on him hard. Their bodies collide roughly and Ilya groans into Shane’s mouth. Slowly, Shane grinds his hips down and Ilya blushes when he realizes he’s already hard in his jeans. 

“Fuck,” Shane hisses, pulling Ilya’s hips down on Shane again to feel the hardness in Ilya’s jeans once again. “Hard for me already, Rozanov?”

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya groans, his cock twitching once again when Shane grinds on him again.

“Can I suck your cock?” Shane whispers in between kisses. “Just wanna taste.”

And really, who is Ilya to say no? He’s not that strong-willed, nor does he want to be. “Please.”

In one swift motion, Shane tightens his grip on Ilya’s waist and flips him over. It knocks the wind out of Ilya slightly; he’s never been manhandled before. The men and women he’s slept with have never been this dominant and he never really complained. He liked being the one in control. Now, though, the pit in his stomach swoops as Shane hovers over him, a smug smirk on his lips.

“You okay?” Shane asks.

Ilya nods, propping himself up on his elbows and Shane shuffles down Ilya’s body, kissing and nipping at any free skin he can find. Finally, after a few torturous moments, Shane’s hands drop to Ilya’s belt. Ilya is on the verge of begging at this point. He’s never been one to plead with sexual partners before but it seems that Shane is bringing that side out of him. Shane must feel Ilya’s desperation because not long after, he is unbuttoning Ilya’s jeans and tugging them down, his hard cock bobbing up in the air. 

“Fuck,” Ilya hisses, his hooded gaze watching as Shane grips Ilya at the base of his cock. “Shane, I—fuck—”

His words are cut off when Shane takes his cock in his mouth all in one go. 

Ilya’s not a puritan. He’s had his cock sucked before. He enjoys receiving as much as he enjoys giving and he’s always been sure of his skills. Partners have enjoyed themselves in the past and he’s always enjoyed himself too. This is different though. Shane is a fucking dick sucking machine. He stuffs Ilya’s cock as far back as it goes in his mouth, the tip touching the back of his throat. The rest he can’t fit in his mouth, he uses both hands to stroke. 

Ilya’s entire fucking back lifts off the bed. “Fuck—Shane!”

Ilya whines when Shane pulls off his cock entirely, looking up at him through his lashes. “Wanted to taste this cock since I first met you.”

“M-me too,” Ilya groans, trying to keep his head tilted so he can watch Shane swallow his cock again.

Ilya’s already halfway there once Shane starts bobbing his head. It’s fucking embarrassing, really, and maybe he should feel that way but he can’t. All he can seem to feel is Shane’s warm, wet mouth and his tongue as he continues to bob up and down on Ilya’s cock.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya whines, biting down on his lip hard. “I’m gonna cum, please.”

“In my mouth,” Shane gasps, a string of spit glistening against the harsh bedroom light. “Lemme taste you, baby.”

That’s what does it. Ilya cums with an earth-shattering groan, his hips twitching as they fuck into Shane’s mouth. For one long moment, Ilya’s body goes entirely limp and his body feels like lead against the mattress. He’s distantly aware of the feeling of Shane letting go of his cock, of helping him tuck himself back into his jeans, but his body doesn’t react. He just inhales deeply, trying to steady his breath after the quickest orgasm of his life.

He feels Shane settle his head against Ilya’s shoulder, an arm slipping around his waist as he nuzzles into the curve of Ilya’s neck and presses a kiss to his skin. “You okay?”

“No,” Ilya rasps. “I am dead. You have killed me.”

Shane chuckles against his neck. “That good, huh?”

Ilya finally opens his eyes to look down at Shane’s beautiful, flushed face. “Let me catch my breath and then I can return the favour.”

Shane smiles and places another kiss along his jaw, but Ilya isn’t ready to let him go just yet. He cups Shane’s face in both hands and draws him back in, capturing his lips in a kiss so fierce that their noses squish together. Shane laughs softly against his mouth, and Ilya feels his heart pound in his ears. He is about to say that he thinks he might be in love, and not just because Shane has insane dick sucking skills, but before he can so much as break the kiss, a soft whine followed by nails scratching against the door interrupt Ilya’s declaration.

“This fucking dog,” Ilya mutters against Shane’s lips. 

“It’s okay.” Shane chuckles, patting his chest affectionately. “She probably wants to go on a walk.”

“She can wait,” Ilya groans as Shane wriggles out of his embrace and sits up in bed. 

“She cannot,” Shane argues, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stands and reaches for Ilya’s hands, giving them an encouraging tug. “She might need to pee.”

Ilya’s legs feel slightly unstable. “Fine. We take Anya on a quick walk to pee and then we’re back here in ten minutes.” Ilya pulls Shane by the waist and kisses him once more. “This is not over, Hollander.”

“Oh, I know.” Shane giggles, lacing their fingers together and tugging him toward the door. “I intend to hold you to your word, Rozanov.”

As Ilya fastens Anya’s leash by the door, he tries not to be so annoyed with his furry friend. After all, it’s because of her that he has Shane with him right now. He pats Anya’s head and she looks up at him with a smile, her tail wagging. 

Ilya straightens just as Shane opens the front door. He reaches out for Shane’s hand and grips Anya’s leash with the other. There’s no way he’s letting either of them go now.

“Let’s take this little сваха for a walk, yes?”

Shane frowns. “What’s that?”

“Russian word for matchmaker.” Ilya flushes, not realizing he used the word at all.

Shane bursts into laughter, the sound spilling out into the hallway and probably carrying all the way to the neighbours. Ilya already knows he’ll never tire of that sound.