Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

M/M, F/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike & Jackie Pike, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Hayden Pike/Jackie Pike, David Hollander/Yuna Hollander, David Hollander & Shane Hollander & Yuna Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Sasha | Ilya Rozanov's Coach's Son, Polina Rozanova, Irina Rozanova, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Grigori Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Jackie Pike, Hayden Pike, Hayden Pike's Children, Rose Landry

Additional Tags:

Established Relationship, Post-Episode: s01e06 The Cottage (Heated Rivalry), Pre-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), POV Alternating, POV Ilya Rozanov, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Ilya Rozanov Visits Irina Rozanova's Grave, Grief/Mourning, Yet even more musings on masculinity, POV Shane Hollander, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt with comfort to come I promise, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Top Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander, Blow Jobs

Language:

English

Series:

Part 5 of The Boston Year

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-13 Completed: 2026-06-17 Words: 117,071 Chapters: 10/10

I'll meet you at the cottage

Summary

“Hi Milana,” he murmured, voice gentle. “I’m Ilya, your father’s brother. Did your mama tell you I was coming over?”

Milana nodded and pulled her bottom lip into her mouth, gaze contemplative as Ilya held out a hand to her. He didn’t touch her, didn’t broach the barrier of the doorframe, just held his palm out, a gesture of vulnerability, exposing soft skin. When he’d been a child, listening out for the sound of his father’s footfalls down the hall, trying to guess at what mood the man was in that day, if today was a day he would likely be hit, those gestures of vulnerability–upturned palms, tears on cheeks–had been the only thing he’d trusted. The wounded animal in his sternum reaching out for comfort, seeking safety in the fragility of others. Proof that he wasn’t the weakest one.

Or: After spending Christmas with the Hollanders Ilya realises he has unfinished business in Moscow; namely, saying goodbye to his mother's grave and recovering the pieces of his history. Before meeting Shane at the cottage for their second summer together - and before upending his life and moving to another country once again - Ilya decides to return to his home city and attempt to lay his past to rest.

Notes

Hello dear friends!

This is part of a series I am super proud of. This work definitely should be read as part of the whole (but with especially part 3 in mind) so feel free to read this alone but there is context for this story in those other parts.

Please know that when Ilya is in Russia - or with Sveta in Boston - that the dialogue is happening in Russian. I just am not putting all that through Google translate. Also, everything was put through Google translate so I apologise for my horrendous butchering of Russian - and French.

As always I imagine this series as a blend of book and show canon - though I do believe my characterisations lean more towards show canon.

There is mentioned suicide in this chapter - of Irina - and implied child abuse. Most of this story will touch on those aspects of Ilya's past so please be mindful.

Chapter 1

Ilya played his last game as a Boston Raider on a Wednesday in May.

There was no fanfare, no rousing speech in the locker room, no heartfelt goodbye. It was just… done. Ilya bumped fists with each guy as they passed, told them, ‘good job, I love you,’ and clapped a particularly despondent rookie hard on the back telling him they’d ‘get ‘em next year.’ (There wouldn’t be a next year. Ilya was leaving. This year had probably been his last chance at winning a cup for a long time. Maybe ever. And they’d lost in a fucking shutout in the sixth round of the Eastern Conference Final. Washington would be going on to the Stanley Cup. Boston was done for the season.) Then he stepped off the ice at TD Garden for the last time as a Raider.

He hadn’t told anyone he was leaving, not even Marly. The moment had never presented itself. Or, if it had, he’d just shrugged it off, mumbling about focusing on the season in front of him, not being bothered by future ones. And that had worked. No one prodded him further. Because he was a today guy. A living-for-the-moment guy. Not the guy that people expected to be thinking about the future, to be thinking about setting down lasting roots. Especially not in fucking Ottawa, Ontario of all places.

Sometimes he wondered what people would think. How the NHL would react to Ilya Rozanov leaving his draft team, a team that regularly made the playoffs, for a failing team in Canada’s most boring city. Hell, his new agent–a woman named Farah that Yuna had found for him and vetted with a thoroughness worthy of the SVR–had been surprised. Checking and then triple checking that Ilya was sure he wanted to leave the Boston Raiders for the Ottawa Centaurs once his contract was up. Eventually, when she’d seemed convinced that he wasn’t, in fact, having a nervous meltdown, she’d promised to get him a stellar contract with the Centaurs once free agency began in July.

There was a celebration after the game, though it felt more like commiseration. The guys spread around their favourite bar, drinking and shouting–there was some crying, but no one acknowledged that–and then singing karaoke very badly. The bar technically only did karaoke on Thursday nights, but Ilya supposed the rowdy Raiders had managed to convince Tom to crank up the machine so they could adequately lament their loss. Tom made a lot of money off of the team, if they wanted to wail Purple Rain to cope with losing the chance to play for the Stanley Cup then the man was all too happy to plug in the microphone. Even if it meant bleeding eardrums.

Marly dedicated a particularly emotional rendition of Rasputin to Ilya, gruffly–and drunkenly–extolling him as their fearless leader in the playoffs and the real winner in his eyes. He started choking up halfway through the second chorus, somewhere amongst the ‘ra-ra-rasputin’s. Ilya videoed him and made sure to send the clip straight to Marly’s sister.

A notification popped up from Shane as Ilya was texting the video to the Raiders group chat–so everyone would get to see it again tomorrow and never, ever, forget it. Ilya thumbed to the chat.

Ilya smiled at the message and shook his head. They had absolutely not done ‘great’ and Shane fucking knew it. But Shane had promised to be ‘a nice, supportive boyfriend’ after Montreal had been knocked out by Boston in round two of the playoffs. Despite the sting of the loss, and the competitive, angry sex they’d had after that last match, Shane had promised he would support Ilya throughout the rest of the playoffs. (Ilya had told him it was okay, that he was a grown-up, and that he didn’t expect his boyfriend–who he’d knocked out of contention–to cheer for a rival team. Shane had just told him to ‘shut the fuck up’ and had since proceeded to watch every single game with his parents, texting Ilya photos of the three of them crowded around the TV before each game. Cheering. For him.)

Ilya snorted and fought the wide grin threatening to take over his face. God, he missed Shane. The last game between Boston and Montreal during the regular season had been in mid-March and then they hadn’t played against each other in the first round of the playoffs, making it late April before they finally saw each other again. But even then, in the second round, they’d only been able to see each other once, after that final match, and just for a few short hours. What’s more, between all the travel, and the relentless pace of the playoffs, they’d barely even had time for phone calls let alone a video call. Mostly reduced to texting over the last month and a half.

In seven days Ilya was going back to Russia. Back to scrounge for relics of his past, hopefully not discarded by his brother–or pawned by his brother to pay for his coke habit. Back to say goodbye to his mother’s grave before he started his new life in Canada. With Shane.

Ilya got up from the table and ducked out of the bar, into the dark alley round the back of the building. Boston was barely warming up, summer far from hitting the city despite it being late-May. The city never got particularly warm though, always kind of lingering in the grey and moderate. Ilya was desperately longing for the sun-soaked summer stretching ahead of him at the cottage.

The alley was empty, but Ilya moved well out of view from the bar’s backdoor. Leaning up against the graffitied brick beside an empty dumpster and hitting the call button on Shane’s contact.

The phone picked up on the second ring.

“Hi, baby,” Shane said, soft and low. Ilya melted, body sagging into the–probably disgusting and pee-soaked–wall with a smile curling his lips upwards. When Shane called him ‘baby,’ unguarded and full of affection, just for them, it made all the distance and time feel like nothing. “Aren’t you with your team?”

“Yes, yes,” Ilya murmured, “just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Mm, okay,” Shane replied and Ilya could hear the smile in his words. “I am sorry about the game. And I did mean it when I said you played well. They were just better.”

Ilya laughed and tilted his head back, looking up at the streetlight overhead, flickering and covered in moths. In the background of the call he could hear dishes being cleaned and soft music playing and Yuna’s voice muffled underneath it all. Shane had sent Ilya a photo of himself and his parents before the game. Yuna wearing a Centaurs shirt she’d customised with an ‘81’ on the sleeve–she’d refused to wear the Boston shirt Ilya had bought her for Christmas even if she was cheering for him in the Conference Finals.

There was some shouting on Shane’s end of the call and then Shane was huffing. “Yes, mum, it’s Ilya. Yes, I will tell him.” A pause and more muffled shouting. “Oh my god, mum. Jesus.”

Ilya hummed and asked, “does Yuna have opinions about the game?”

“Mum has opinions about everything,” Shane grumbled back.

“Most of them correct.”

“I’m never letting her know you said that.”

“Is okay I will tell her when I see her soon,” Ilya shrugged and Shane was quiet for a long minute, then Ilya heard him swallow.

“When is your flight again?” Shane asked. He absolutely already knew; had demanded Ilya send him his itinerary the second he’d booked the ticket and then had marked it in his own calendar, already overly cramped with brand deals and meetings and training schedules. Yuna managed Shane’s calendar, he just went where he was told.

Ilya told him anyway. “The second, at three pm.”

Shane hummed and then cleared his throat and said, “anyway, mum wanted to let you know she has been researching potential brand deals for you once you’re in Canada. She is going to send you some stuff to read.” Shane huffed and Ilya could almost hear the eyeroll in his words. “You don’t have to read any of it. She is just going to send it. Okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya agreed, easily. He would probably read it. Yuna was smart. She wouldn’t send him something like that if she didn’t think it was a good idea.

Down the alley, the door to the bar opened. Raiders spilling out into the night with cigarettes and lighters in hand, waving their beers and shouting loudly. They couldn’t see him, tucked behind the dumpster. But still, he should probably go. Spend one last night with his team–even if all he wanted was to listen to Shane’s voice as he talked about nothing, about everything, about their future. Ilya sighed.

“I should go,” he said.

“Yeah, have fun,” Shane agreed and then the sound of his lips smacking. “Call me soon though. I miss you.”

“I’ll call you first thing in the morning,” Ilya promised and Shane hummed.

“Good. I love you,” Shane said. “Text me when you get home.”

“Love you too,” Ilya smiled. What a silly, wonderful thing to have someone who wanted to know when he was home safe. “Bye, моя любовь.”

“Bye.”

He stood for a moment, quietly, blinking past the streetlight to look at the dark sky. No stars. The cottage had so many stars. Miles and miles of sky flecked with flashes of silver. Their light unimpeded by the smog of the city.

Ilya went back inside and dumped himself at his table, picking up his glass and taking a long swig of beer. The guys were still singing, having moved on to the Sweet Caroline portion of the night. They sung that fucking song every time. It drove Ilya insane. He rolled his eyes but grinned anyway. Their predictability was met with fondness now that he knew it was the last time he’d be hearing them sing that cursed fucking song.

Marly dropped into the chair beside Ilya, rocking it onto its back legs and grinning that wide, toothy smile. His veneers bright and perfectly straight. “Did you like the song, Roz?” he asked, nudging Ilya’s shoulder. “Russia’s greatest love machine!”

Ilya didn’t have the heart to tell his alternate captain that Rasputin had been a deeply despised leader and was eventually assassinated by his people. The last emperor of Russia. Maybe the song was fitting. Maybe Marly would fucking hate him when he found out he was leaving. Ilya should really tell him before ESPN or some other dickhead got there first.

“Was beautiful tribute, Marly,” he said instead and patted the man on the knee. Before he could say anything else, the chair slipped out from under Marly and the giant defenseman tumbled to the floor. After that Ilya was too busy laughing to remember to tell Marly he was leaving.

Truthfully, Ilya wasn’t that attached to his life in Boston. There were things he liked about the city; the fans, the dry humour and wit of the locals, the way people drove like they were willing to run each other off the road, the food was pretty okay too. But there wasn’t anything deeper than that. Boston had just been the first place that had offered him a way out. Out of Russia, out of his family home, out of himself at times. If it weren’t for Svetlana–and yeah, maybe even Marly–he’d have no hesitation about leaving the city behind at all.

But, even if he would miss his best friends, he could cope with that, what he couldn’t cope with was another season of missing Shane. It was too much. The last nine months had been… agonising. Over the course of the season he’d only seen Shane in person for a total of ten days–some of those not even full days, just a handful of intense, stolen hours. He couldn’t do that again. Another season of only seeing Shane in passing, only touching him once, maybe twice a month, would absolutely kill him.

He needed to be closer to Shane. He couldn’t wait to be closer to Shane.

That meant he needed to pack though. And Ilya fucking hated packing.

Svetlana had come over to help him and by ‘help,’ Ilya had learnt, she actually meant sitting on the lounge watching replays of the Conference Final and dissecting what went wrong. Not helping with the packing. The most she would do was tape up boxes when Ilya needed them. Safe to say, he was not making much progress.

Maybe it was premature of him to pack before he even got the contract with the Centaurs, before he was even technically done with being a Raider on paper. But he needed to get a start on it before he left for Russia. He didn’t want to waste time in Boston once he was back; he wanted to go straight to the cottage, straight to Shane, and spend as long as he could in that idyllic, sun-glazed bubble, just the two of them. So, he needed to fucking pack.

“I can’t believe you missed that shot,” Svetlana shook her head, rewinding the play for what had to be the fifth time. Ilya was starting to agree with her. “Look there, you had an opening in the top right, but you went down the centre. Obviously, you weren’t going to make that shot going down the centre.”

“Yes,” Ilya nodded, squinting at the footage and sighing as past-Ilya missed the shot once again. Really, he should be embarrassed. “I don’t remember if I noticed or not,” he admitted and sighed when she rewound the footage once again.

Ilya’s father had done this too. Sat him down in the lounge room, made him watch recordings of his games over and over. Rewinding, pausing, playing at half-speed. Pointing out where he’d missed opportunities, needling him until he could explain why he’d missed those opportunities. Spouting the need for discipline, focus. Admonishing his laziness. Svetlana didn’t do it the way Grigori had. She teased, she ribbed, but she analysed the game because she was passionate about it. And her scrutiny was rooted in belief, belief that Ilya could do better. Grigori had only ever expected the worst from his sons.

Still, Ilya was getting sick of the replay.

“If you’re not going to be help me pack, can you at least move on to someone else’s fuck up,” he grumbled and Svetlana rolled her eyes, but she let the footage play. Then she got snagged on a goal St Simon had let in and replayed that a half dozen times with increasing exasperation.

“I can’t believe that shit!” She scoffed. “You better give him a talking to about that piss-ass attempt at blocking.”

Ilya just raised his brows at her, and she waved her hand dismissively. “Please don’t do this with my games next season,” he muttered. “We will be losing all the time.”

“Maybe you can turn them around,” she said. Ilya scoffed. Svetlana had been studiously following the Centaurs’ season since she found out about The Ottawa Plan (patent pending, Yuna Hollander approved) and had been intermittently updating Ilya on their progress… or lack thereof.

Ilya just shook his head, opening the drawers of the coffee table, and dumping shit into the box at his feet. A bottle of lube. A charger–for what, he did not know. A set of coasters from one of the WAGs. A pair of socks. A lighter.

“Dude, you pack like shit,” Svetlana chirped. Ilya just looked at her as he dropped a half-empty pack of tissues in the box. She screwed her nose up in disgust.

“You’re not helping me,” he shrugged.

“You’re a grown fucking man,” she threw her hands up. “Learn to pack like one. Damn.”

The doorbell rang. “Probably the food,” Ilya said and nodded in the direction of the front door. “If you’re not going to help pack you can at least answer the door.”

Svetlana flipped him off but paused her replay and got off the couch to answer the door anyway. Ilya just grinned after her. Then he turned back to the box at his feet and sighed.

She was right. He was packing like shit. Ilya dumped the contents of the box back into the coffee table drawer and scrubbed a hand over his face. He did not need to keep the ugly ass coasters from Costa Rica that Rhianna had given him, or the half empty box of tissues, or the bottle of mostly empty lube. It wasn’t even the lube Shane preferred–he liked the bougie stuff that he ordered online, not the cheap crap Ilya picked up from the pharmacy.

Maybe he would just get all new everything when he got to Ottawa. Start from scratch. He’d done it before. Was there anything he was even that attached to in this house? Probably not. Not even the artwork on the walls.

“Someone sent you funeral flowers,” Svetlana laughed as she walked back into the room, a large bouquet of lilies in her arms, the blooming flowers full and crisp white. The bouquet was neatly arranged in an expensive looking vase, a black and gold ribbon tied around the lip. A smile split Ilya’s face. He could guess who they were from.

“Is there a note?” he asked as Svetlana carefully set the vase on the coffee table. She shook her arms out and reached between the steams, plucking out a little black envelope. When she raised her brows, seeking permission, he nodded and she opened it.

“‘Sorry your team sucked last night,’” she read, a wide grin on her mouth, “and then there’s a little sad face at the end.” Ilya laughed as she flipped over the card and then huffed a laugh herself. “‘Love, Jane.’” The smile on her face was surely mirroring his own, amused and endeared. “I like him. He’s kind of an ass.”

“Mm, not the polite boy everyone thinks he is,” Ilya hummed and reached for the card. Svetlana handed it to him, and he ran his thumb over the thick cardstock. Love, Jane.

“Mister Canada, secretly an asshole,” Svetlana draped herself over the couch and picked up the remote, hitting play. “You’re a match made in heaven.”

“Yes.”

At the airport a week later Ilya was restless. His leg bouncing incessantly, shaking the bench, annoying Svetlana to the point of moving to sit several rows away. Just to get space from his jittery energy. He couldn’t blame her. He fucking wanted space from himself.

There was a little girl across from him, golden haired, curled up on her mother’s lap, the woman gently stroking her daughter’s curls with one hand and idly scrolling her phone with the other. She looked so much like Irina. Or what he remembered of Irina. Sometimes Ilya wasn’t sure he remembered what his mother really looked like at all. All he had were a few faded pictures and cloudy memories. Almost any blonde woman could remind him of his mother. He hoped there would be more pictures of her to be found in Moscow. Needed there to be.

Ilya turned away from the mother-daughter pair and rubbed his clammy palm over his trackpants. His knee was still jumping. Ilya was not afraid of flying. He was not afraid of Moscow. He needed to calm the fuck down.

He dug his fingers into his pocket and pulled out his phone, unlocking it and opening his chat with ‘Jane.’ No missed calls. No new texts. They’d been trying to get in contact all morning but between Ilya making his way through security check and Shane filming for some Reebok campaign they’d kept missing each other. Shane had been busy all week–rearranging all his summer shoots so that he’d be done with his commitments by the time Ilya returned from Russia. It was sweet; his boyfriend upsetting his whole schedule to fit a months’ worth of work into two weeks. But it had meant Shane had been shuffled from set to set with barely a moment’s rest for days and had many more days of that still to come.

Just as he was about to shove his phone back into his trackpants, it lit up, and Ilya jumped to his feet, pacing down the aisle between the benches towards the window. He leaned against the glass and hit ‘accept’, bringing the phone to his ear.

“Hi, sorry, it’s been crazy, hi,” Shane apologised the second the call connected and Ilya shook his head, slumping heavily against the window. The flight was meant to board in twenty minutes, and Ilya had been worried that he wasn’t going to get to hear Shane’s voice beforehand.

“It’s okay,” Ilya murmured and caught Svetlana’s eye. She was seated near the window, headphones on and denting her curls, hazel eyes fixed on the arriving and departing planes. She raised her brows at him, and he nodded, clenching and unclenching his fingers before turning away to stare down at the people on the tarmac below. They were loading up the bags; Ilya could see his suitcase being loaded into the belly of the plane. “How is the shoot?”

“I don’t know, good I guess,” Shane grumbled and Ilya could hear him shuffling on the other end of the line, presumably searching for a space away from the crew. He heard a door shut and Shane let out a heavy breath. “Sometimes I really hate this shit.”

“Mm,” Ilya hummed.

“Are you okay?” Shane asked and Ilya huffed a laugh.

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” A lie. He felt fucking sick to his stomach.

He shut his eyes and dropped his forehead to his arm, braced against the window. This trip was important; he needed to do it. But fuck he didn’t want to go back to Moscow. When his father had died, he’d sworn that he’d never go back, no matter what. Nothing would ever drag him back to the city. Except… he hadn’t said goodbye to his mother. He needed to say goodbye.

“How long is you layover in Istanbul?” Shane asked.

“Four hours,” Ilya replied even though Shane already knew. Shane was tracking Ilya’s flights; he’d sent Ilya screenshots of the flight maps he had bookmarked on his phone.

“Call me when you’re there.”

“It will be three am for you,” Ilya protested and Shane huffed.

“Don’t care,” he said, firm. “Just call me.”

They were both quiet for a moment. Ilya watched as the ground crew closed up the belly of the plane and drove off with the empty bag trolley. The flight would probably be boarding any moment now. He looked over at the gate where the staff were opening the doors. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat.

“Tell me something filthy,” Ilya murmured.

“What?” Shane spluttered and Ilya dropped his voice, low and flirty.

“Tell me something filthy,” he repeated, “so I have sweet dreams on the plane.”

There was a beat wherein Shane seemed to consider his request, his obvious plea for distraction. And then Shane hummed and spoke in that deep, intimate register that only ever came out when they were alone.

“Tu me manques tellement,” he murmured and Ilya sucked in a breath. “Ta voix me manque. Ton sourire me manque. Ton rire me manque. Tes mains sur mon corps me manquent. Tu me fais me sentir si bien. Reviens vite et baise-moi.”

“What does that mean?” Ilya asked, and Shane laughed, soft and breathy.

“Google it,” he answered and Ilya groaned. Over the speakers he heard them call for first class passengers to board. Shane must have heard it too because he said, “you have to go.”

“Yes,” Ilya sighed.

“I’ll be tracking the flight but I’m still at this stupid shoot,” Shane said. “Call me from Istanbul.”

“Yes.” Svetlana appeared beside him, nudging his shoulder, and Ilya held up his finger, asking her to give him one more moment. She rolled her eyes and stalked over to the gate alone. “Я так сильно тебя люблю.”

“Je t'aime tellement,” Shane murmured. The call disconnected.

When Ilya was twelve years old, he’d found his mother’s body.

The memory of that moment, that room, a visceral thing for Ilya. Sharp at its edges and nauseating in its detail. He could recall the colour of the wallpaper; the filigree pattern etched into mauve. He could recall the texture of the carpet, thick and spongy beneath his toes. He could recall the way the room had smelt, pungent with bile, the air stale, windows shut against the winter chill. He could recall the way his mother’s body had been sprawled, over the satin comforter, blonde hair knotted and shrouding her face, her hands deathly cold when he’d reached for her. When he’d shaken her. Mama. Mama. Over and over, until he’d finally understood she would not answer.

He tried to not remember. Didn’t want to remember. But that day lived in his bone marrow, imprinted onto every moment, smearing dark fingerprints over everything good, everything bad, everything he ever did or felt or longed for. It lived, in the core of him, ugly and festering and relentless. Demanding to be recollected. To be looked at. To be repeated, like a hockey tape, over and over, until maybe he would find where he could have improved. What he’d missed. What he could have done better.

But no matter how many times he repeated it, the police would always come to take his mother away in a body bag. The zzzzzzzip of it closing echoing in his ears still, now, over a decade later.

Ilya remembered, before her body had even left the apartment, that his father had been on him, grabbing his shoulders, pushing him back against the wall, fingers pressing deep into skin. Stinging. Bruising. His father shaking him, telling him it was an ‘accident,’ it was just an accident. That his mother had just been trying to sleep. Telling him to keep his damned mouth shut. To not tell anyone what he’d found. How he’d been the one to find her.

Ilya had obeyed, but he’d known. Known what she had done.

But he’d also known that she would not be given a proper burial if anyone found out the truth. And so, he obeyed. Not for his father, but because he remembered the sermons.

Some people in the church found the truth anyway, despite his father’s attempts at burying it alongside Irina. Ilya pulled aside, away from the echoing hall, into the deacon’s office, surrounded by clergy with sympathetic creases between their brows. Reminding him to have trust in God’s mercy, His providence; reminding Ilya that his mother’s sin was the ultimate failure of faith. That she had acted as her own god, which was the most hubristic act of all. Ilya had sat, nails biting into palms, ears ringing. His mother slowly being covered with dirt outside. He did not care what her sin was.

His mother’s room was renovated. The wallpaper stripped, replaced with powder blue paint. The carpet pulled up, replaced with hardwood. The bed removed, replaced with a desk and chairs. And then, eventually, his mother, too, was replaced. Polina marrying his father just eight months later.

In his dreams, sometimes, he thought he found his mother. Walking down the hall of his childhood home, blonde hair swishing at her back, humming melodically as he followed after her. But then, she would turn, and the blonde woman was Polina not Irina. And he would feel guilt. He was no better than his father, replacing his mother with another woman. Some other beautiful, young, blonde woman. Like they were interchangeable, the differences between them so infinitesimal that they could be exchanged through a simple sleight of hand.

Ilya hadn’t had that dream for a while. Not since he was a boy. But he woke from it now, shivering, bile rising in his throat, as Polina and Irina morphed behind his eyelids.

The plane was quiet. Just the hum of the engine, the soft snores of passengers. They were somewhere over Belarus, only a few hours from landing.

Ilya fumbled with his seatbelt, stumbling out of his seat and into the bathroom, then he slumped over the toilet and retched into the bowl. His stomach was empty, he’d been unable to eat at dinner, and so all that came up was vodka and stomach acid. It stung his throat. Made his eyes water.

There was a knock on the door, then a flight attendant’s hesitant voice, checking if he was okay. Ilya dismissed her concern and slunk over to the sink, cupping his hands under the tap and splashing cold water over his face. In the mirror, he looked wrecked. Dark under eyes, puffy faced. He rinsed his mouth and then left the bathroom, hunching himself over in his seat once again.

The flight attendant came over, giving him a sympathetic smile, probably thinking he had airsickness, and placed a can of ginger ale on his tray. He nodded in thanks, barely acknowledging her, his eyes fixed on the can. It was green, Canada Dry written over its front. The barest hint of a smile touching the corners of his mouth.

***

Moscow was an energetic city. Teeming with life. A sprawling metropolis, its bricks laden with history, its glittering glass skyscrapers beacons of its modernity. A city abound in nightlife and art and food and memory. Layers and layers of memories. Right down to the bones of it. From the metro to the spires of St Basil’s Cathedral, to the river flowing through the city’s west, to the ice rinks he grew up playing in. The city, if laid to ruin, could be resurrected from his memories alone.

There was a café on the corner of Svetlana’s block, opulent, fitted with rich mahogany archways and velvet couches. They would go there during the summer, to smoke, to drink coffee, to look at the beautiful girls and boys passing by on the street outside. People watching, their favourite shared hobby besides hockey.

He wasn’t with Svetlana now. Across from him, dressed in Dior, sat Polina. A cigar between her lacquered lips, her manicure drumming over the rich wood of the table. A brand new, shiny diamond on her finger. She had a new husband; older than even his father had been, and richer too.

They’d been sat in a stalemate for quite some time. Polina puffing on her belicoso, him letting the cigarette between his fingers burn away, singeing his fingers. The coffee between them well and truly cold, the people around them nothing but a blur of buzzing background noises. Neither of them willing to capitulate.

“Fifty,” Ilya negotiated, stubbing out his cigarette and crossing his legs at his ankles.

“Seventy-five,” she countered, wrapping her lips around the end of the cigar, muddy brown eyes locked on his face over the rim of her sunglasses.

What a ridiculous, stupid fucking situation. He felt like a hero in a bad American spy movie. Negotiating with a caricature of a femme fatale in a Moscow café, smoking and snarling at one another. Except they weren’t bargaining over the fate of the world, no, Ilya was haggling for his father’s things.

“Sixty,” Ilya returned. Sixty fucking thousand dollars. For a measly box of medals, a few faded photos.

“Seventy,” Polina replied, observing her manicure, blowing smoke out the corner of her mouth.

It was better than the opening one-hundred thousand dollars. American fucking dollars. The rouble was worth shit. She’d been smart enough to ask for American green.

Ilya heaved a sigh and rolled his neck. Maybe ending this entire encounter was worth seventy fucking thousand dollars. He looked at the woman, held her gaze, making sure she felt all his contempt and revulsion, and then he nodded his head. The stalemate broken.

She grinned, wide and toothy and clamped her cigar between her teeth, reaching over the table to shake Ilya’s hand. A sickening business deal. “Send the money,” she nodded at his phone, resting face down on the tabletop, then patted the box on the chair beside her, “then you can have daddy’s things.”

A snarl threatened to curl his lip, but he restrained himself, clenching his jaw, dragging his phone off the table and unlocking it. There was a text from Svetlana, asking him when he’d be done, if he needed her to come by and run Polina over, and a text from Shane, but he didn’t read that one. He scrolled to his banking app, the one he used in Russia, mostly for his family. Well, actually, he’d only ever used it for his family.

Polina’s details were already saved in the app. He’d sent her money over the years. Sent so much fucking money to all these fucking people. And yet… and yet it was never enough.

Ilya flipped his screen and Polina leaned in, grinning widely as her own phone chimed beside her. She swiped open her phone, with her greedy, grubby hands, and then hummed, satisfied. The box was dumped on the table and then she was up, on her feet, and out the door. Seventy thousand dollars richer.

A beat passed. Ilya staring silently out the door she’d left through.

He dragged the box across the table, fingers twitching against the dusty cardboard, then he took a deep breath and opened the lid. Inside, his father’s medals, a stack of photos, a pair of gold cufflinks, an old switchblade. Ilya felt nothing. The items may as well of been a pile of rocks for all the worth they held to him. Medals commemorating his father’s service in the Военная полиция; an institution which would see the likes of Ilya arrested, imprisoned for the crime of loving a man. Photos of his father’s colleagues, of meetings with important officials, men who would label Ilya a traitor for abandoning his country, for shaming his heritage with his filth. All of it, trash, useless, relics of a violent, cruel man, a violent, cruel country. Seventy fucking thousand dollars’ worth of trash.

Ilya stood up, slamming the lid back onto the box and tucking it under his arm. He left a pile of bills on the table–Polina had obviously left the tab to him–and stalked out of the café.

Svetlana’s apartment was just around the corner, to the left. Ilya went right, a dark cloud, swarming through the crowded street towards the riverbank. His legs carried him by muscle memory alone, his brain switched off, churning bitterly, darkness shrouding his vision.

And then he was at the water, bent over the railing, the box gripped between his fingers, held over the rising tide. He wanted to fucking drop it. Let it sink right to the bottom. Let the fucking medals rust and the pictures turn to mush in the filthy water.

Ilya dumped the box beside him, safe on the sidewalk, and dropped his forehead to his arm. His heart was pounding in his throat, blood rushing in his ears, anger searing through his cells and making his fingers ache. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to smoke. He wanted…

Fuck, he wanted Shane.

There was a text waiting for him. Burning a hole in his pocket. But he couldn’t answer it, couldn’t talk to Shane when he felt like this. When he there was a red mist blurring his vision, anger tight between his temples, making his teeth hurt. A violent kind of anger. The kind his father had wielded against his mother.

Ilya squatted, fingers wrapped around the metal balustrade, forehead dropped between his shoulders. He breathed. And rocked. And breathed some more. Until he was able to unfurl himself without feeling the overwhelming urge to catapult himself over the edge of the riverbank. Along with the stupid box. Let the both of them fucking sink.

A shaky hand scrubbed through his hair; an equally shaky breath rattled his lungs. And then he picked up the box and turned back towards Svetlana’s apartment. The box heavy, dense with contempt, a weight dragging him down, as he trudged back through the sun-baked streets of Moscow.

There was a little courtyard nestled in-between the buildings that formed Svetlana’s apartment complex. A small space with a dried-out water feature, paved with sun-bleached concrete, a few chairs and tables strewn about. The perfect place for smoking.

Ilya sat in an ornate, wrought iron chair, with his head tipped back. The sun was just slanting into the courtyard over the top of the complex, baking him in warmth. There was a tray at his elbow, already overflowing with ash and cigarette buds. He added another to the mound, lit his next cigarette, and slumped fully into the uncomfortable chair. Settling in for the long haul.

A thread of texts remained unanswered on his phone. Some from Svetlana, a few from the Hollanders, most of them from Shane. He didn’t open any of them. The box of his father’s belongings on the ground in front of him, currently being used as a footstool.

He’d been supposed to meet Svetlana for lunch over an hour ago at their favourite shashlik spot, just a few blocks from where he’d met Polina, but he had gone back to the apartment instead. When he’d arrived, he’d realised that he’d forgotten his keys and was now stuck in the courtyard until Svetlana decided to come home. If she would let him in after standing her up.

(Once Svetlana had locked him out of his own apartment for the night after he’d been particularly asshole-ish in bed. She’d kicked him out, told him that she did not appreciate being used as a proxy for someone else–Ilya in deep denial that that had been what he’d been doing–and when she’d let him back in the next morning, she’d wacked the back of his head and told him to get his shit together. Ilya had been unable to admit what he’d done that night for a few more months. He’d apologised, eventually, and that had been the last time they’d slept together.)

“Jerk.”

Ah, there she was. Ilya lifted his head, cigarette caught between his teeth as he flashed her his best, most handsomest smile. All teeth and sparkling, crinkled eyes. A scoff. She would not be moved by his attempts at charming her.

There was a paper bag resting in the crook of her arm, the smell of charred meat and garlic and black pepper thick in the air. He leaned forward, intent on the bag, but she just tutted and deposited herself into a chair beside him, carefully unwrapping the packaging. She ripped the alfoil off the flatbread, stuffed full of meat and vegetables and pickles, dropping a tub of narsharab on the table, and dipping the shashlik into the sauce before taking a large, dramatic bite. Moaning for effect.

Ilya rolled his eyes and puffed a ring of smoke at her face. She didn’t even cough, just kept chewing and moaning and generally delighting in his displeasure. After another–massive–mouthful of meat and bread she leaned over the table and plucked the cigarette from between his lips, taking a long drag, before stubbing it out in the ashtray.

“I was smoking that,” he groused.

“I am sure it was not your first,” she shrugged, eyeing the ashtray. “You smoke like a crematorium whenever you see those people. One day you’ll drop dead.”

In the back of his mind, he heard Shane’s voice, soft and sleepy, threatening to kill him if he ever got lung cancer. Something warm bloomed in his chest; soothing the bite of all those gnarled, barbed wires wrapping tight around his sternum.

“Sorry,” Ilya said, frowning down at his knuckles. Not cracked or caked in blood, despite how much he wanted to slam his fist into something, anything, preferably a sturdy wall. He shook out his fingers and looked over at his best friend. “For standing you up.”

Svetlana was quiet a moment, her hazel eyes assessing, then she huffed a sigh and dug a second, alfoil wrapped shashlik from the paper bag at her feet. “Don’t fucking say I don’t do shit for you,” she slapped the hot parcel into his palm with a scowl. “You’re not getting any narsharab though. Fuck you.”

Ilya just grinned and nodded, taking a large bite out of his food. They ate in silence for a while, the sun slowly moving further behind the apartment building, leaving the courtyard fully in shadow. He tried a few times to swipe the sauce, but Svetlana batted away each attempt, stomping on his foot when he rocked the table and smacking the back of his head when he pouted about it. He just laughed and finished his food and waited whilst she chewed her way through the last of hers. The courtyard was getting cold without the sunlight.

Eventually she finished eating and then tapped the box under his feet with the toe of her boot, raising her brows. “How much did that set your back?” she asked. She knew he’d paid for it. Of course she fucking knew. Ilya couldn’t hide the reality of his family from her even if he tried.

“Seventy thousand,” Ilya replied, watching as sporadic windows lit up in front of them. Tenants fighting off the climbing dark with the soft glow of lamplight. If only it were as easy as that.

“Bitch,” Svetlana spat and Ilya shrugged.

“It was expected,” he said and turned to look at her, the hazel of her eyes swallowed in shadow and glinting with something like protectiveness. Ilya swallowed, he was not worthy of such fierceness. “I am rich. It was nothing. A charitable donation to my father’s widow.”

She barked a laugh, bitter and ugly, and crossed her arms over her chest. “What does seventy thousand dollars get you anyway?” A nod to the box, expectant. Ilya did not want to open the damned thing again, so he just shook his head.

“A steaming pile of crap is what.”

She dropped it, a frown between her brows.

Silence stretched between them. It wasn’t the oppressive, impenetrable silence that used to suffocate the rooms of his childhood home, but rather, a sort of easy, companionable quiet. Both of them watching as silhouettes moved through window frames. People watching. Their favourite shared hobby.

“We’re going out,” Svetlana announced, suddenly, launching to her feet. She stuffed the discarded wrapping back into the paper bag and then crushed it between her hands. “One last night in Moscow. We’ll fucking drink ‘til the sun comes back up.”

Ilya tilted his head up towards her, squinting, her curls were glinting gold in the light from the buildings around them, forming a little halo around her face. Like an angel. A foul-mouthed, fierce, beautiful angel. He grinned at her.

“Okay.”

They had a preferred club. It played the best music, offered the most entertaining clientele, the perfect crowd for people watching, and served the best vodka. An unassuming building from the outside, limewashed brick, barred and tinted windows, on a quiet street only a few blocks from the city’s religious centre. They’d discovered it as teenagers, at just fifteen and sixteen years old, when they’d spent their nights sneaking their way into clubs all across Moscow. Back then with Sasha in tow.

Ilya could remember the first time they’d lied their way into the club, Svetlana in five-inch stilettos, liner thick around her eyes and dark lipstick painting her mouth, Ilya had avoided shaving for a few days to try and look more mature. His beard had grown like shit back then, just scraggly tufts of hair. Their efforts had been pointless, the man at the door had not given a single shit, unphased by the obvious teenagers trying to trick their way inside and had just waved them in without a second glance at their very fake IDs. He could remember dancing with Svetlana all night, drinking at the bar, flirting with women many years older than him, then taking the metro, holding Svetlana’s heels and carrying her over a particularly gross puddle on the walk home.

Svetlana didn’t need anyone to carry her heels home for her anymore.

She sat beside him now, legs crossed, fingers wrapped around the thin stem of cocktail glass, wearing a sheer silver dress–the club lights piercing through the fabric and showing off her lacy black underwear–and knee-high, glossy black boots. Ilya was wearing the Gaultier button-down shirt Svetlana had bought for him years ago; a vintage piece from 1996, a male torso printed over its front, the material clinging to his shoulders and pecs, left unbuttoned to the third button, exposing his collarbone and the hair on his chest. There were several men and women peeking over at them, trying to catch their attention from across the room. Girls with their glossy lips wrapped around straws and batting their eyelashes, boys trying to flex through the satin of their shirts. Jealous stares levelled at Svetlana, at Ilya.

In another life he would lean over, wrap a hand around her waist, kiss at her throat, bite her earlobe. Stir the jealousy and want thrumming in the room, drag her to the dancefloor, his chest to her back, dancing together all slow and sultry, hands trailing up her sides, cupping her breasts. Then he’d leave her and find a pretty girl at the bar–sometimes, though very rarely, even a pretty boy–and bask in their simmering jealousy, their blatant want for him. Slowly give them his attention, turning his gaze to their body, eyes flicking up and down. Letting them think that they were winning his attention away from Svetlana. A game. A game that always resulted in hot, sweaty, satisfying sex.

In this life, he couldn’t think of anything less appealing. He remembered playing that game with Shane, eighteen months ago, in that hazy club in Montreal. Kissing and touching a stranger on the dancefloor, lips on her neck, trying to make Shane burn with the same jealousy he was feeling. Make Shane see what he’d lost–the sex, the magnetism, him. The satisfaction he’d felt when Shane had stood, frozen in front of him, club lights pulsing over his skin, reflecting in his shiny brown eyes. Then the crushing disappointment of going back to the hotel alone, unable to bury his self-loathing in another’s body, forced to jerk off down the shower drain alone.

Sometimes he fantasised about a future where he could dance with Shane, in public, in some sleazy club. Press himself into his boyfriend’s space, guiding his hips with possessive hands wrapped around his waist. Touching him, mouthing at his throat, hands wandering over his ass, making people jealous. Jealous that Shane Hollander belonged to Ilya Rozanov. Jealous that Ilya Rozanov belonged to Shane Hollander. Showing off. Their chemistry, the raw need they had for one another undeniable to anyone who saw them together.

It was a nice fantasy. It would probably never come true.

Fuck, he missed Shane.

There was a thread of texts, still unanswered, waiting on his phone. Ilya unable to respond for fear of saying something stupid and pathetic like please tell me you still want me. That you’ll always want me. Because he was stupid and pathetic and being back in Moscow was clawing at his throat and making it hard to remember that there was a future waiting for him in Ottawa with the man he loved. Who loved him back. He fucking hated this god damned city.

“Are we going to see Yelena tomorrow?” Svetlana asked.

Ilya had reached out to Alexie’s wife over text when they’d landed yesterday morning. She was a nice enough woman, having married Alexie young, mostly out of necessity. She’d been just eighteen, and pregnant, stuck with a coke addict for a baby daddy, but for a girl like her there hadn’t been much else in the way of opportunity. So she’d stayed. When he’d reached out, asking if any of his belongings remained in the apartment, she’d told him that she’d kept them safe for him just in case he decided to come back. Because she was grateful. Grateful to Ilya for setting up her daughter with a trust fund, a better future than she had been offered by her own circumstances, and for giving the family his old apartment. She was probably the first person in his family that had ever thanked him for anything.

“We are not,” Ilya said, sipping vodka, “I am going alone.”

“I’m coming,” Svetlana glared. They’d been having this argument for days.

“Yelena said that she can’t guarantee Alexie won’t show up,” Ilya reminded her, eyebrows raised. “He’s meant to be working but…” Ilya shrugged, they both knew how his brother was. Ilya wasn’t really prepared himself to run into Alexie. Having Svetlana there would help, sure, but if Alexie showed up…

“I don’t need to be protected,” Svetlana argued, as she had yesterday, and the day before. “I can handle one pathetic man.”

“I know,” Ilya nodded.

“Then let me come with you.”

“No.”

“Fine, I’ll just fucking come with you anyway.”

“Ugh, Sveta,” he groaned, rubbing his temple.

“Ugh, Ilyushka,” she mimicked, scowling at him. They stared at one another, silent in the loud club, he could feel the bass thumping in his bones as music pumped from the speakers overhead. There was no dissuading her.

“Fucking fine,” he grunted and she hummed, pleased, downing the rest of her drink.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, eyes locked across the room, “I don’t have a ball and chain back home, so I’m going to go have some fun.”

Svetlana stood with a flourish, shaking out her curls, then winked across the room at a beautiful woman dancing a few feet in front of them. She thrust her glass in Ilya’s face and he took it, setting it on the table, grinning after her as she slithered through the crowd to the curvy brunette stood beneath the pulsing lights. When Svetlana reached the woman, she leaned in, purring something in her ear, making the brunette smile bashfully and trail her fingers up Svetlana’s side, digging lacquered nails into the sheer fabric of Svetlana’s dress. They made a handsome image, intertwined under the throbbing blue and pink lights in the middle of the crowd. He thought, again, about dancing with Shane.

He got bored of watching them pretty quickly. Eyes wandering around the club, catching on couples, on trios, kissing and touching, grinding and humping to the music. There was an ache in his chest, the Shane-shaped bruise at his core stinging, a thumb digging into the wound, pressing, pressing, making him lightheaded with want. It was two am in Moscow. Only seven pm in Montreal. He could call.

Ilya downed the rest of his vodka, slung Svetlana’s purse around his shoulders, and made his way through the crushing crowd to the bathrooms at the back of the club. There was a line out the door of the women’s bathroom, girls giggling as they queued, cheeks flushed, pretty dresses catching in the lights. The men’s bathroom was empty and smelt like piss.

The music thudded, muffled by the graffitied and stickered walls, just dulled enough for Ilya to be able to hear a phone call. He thumbed to his chat with Shane, leaning against a sink that had been spray painted orange, or maybe it was some other colour. Overhead the fluorescent lights were a brilliant blue, casting odd shadows, changing the colour of his skin, his shirt, his eyes in the mirror.

A sick feeling rolled around Ilya’s stomach. He’d been ignoring Shane all day and Shane had just been trying to see if he was okay. Worrying about him whilst Ilya had been sulking, feeling sorry for himself, sitting in a club and drinking vodka. He was a shit boyfriend.

Behind him a stall opened, Ilya’s gaze flicked up from his phone to the mirror, catching as two men stumbled out of the cramped space. The first balked when he saw Ilya and scurried away but the second… fuck. The second was fucking Sasha. Ilya vaguely remembered Svetlana mentioning that Sasha was back in town and wanted to catch up, vaguely remembered shrugging, non-committal, when she’d asked if he was interested in seeing their old friend.

The ‘friendship’ he had with Sasha had not been like what Svetlana had. Their relationship had been secret, frantic sexual encounters in storage closets at ice rinks and in bedrooms when their fathers weren’t home. The kind of sex that was fine–they’d always finished–but never more than just fine. Ilya had since had sex that was great, mind-blowing, life-affirming. Sex that was devastating and romantic and so intimate he’d felt cracked open. What he’d had with Sasha had been teenage experimentation and intimacy borne of assured mutual destruction.

Danger used to get you going, Sasha had said. Which was not untrue but… Ilya didn’t want that anymore. He liked boring.

Ilya’s fingers squeezed around his phone, eyes following Sasha as the tall man stalked across the dimly lit space between them and then settled himself against the benchtop, too close for comfort, contorting himself into a funny shape so he could bat his eyes up at Ilya. His sweaty skin was reflecting blue light, the air around him thick with cologne. Ilya restrained himself from screwing his nose against the scent.

“Ilya.” His name said in a purr, Sasha’s voice dipping, low and sultry. Ilya wondered why the man bothered with him anymore; they hadn’t fucked since they were seventeen.

“Sasha,” Ilya nodded.

“Long time no see,” Sasha hummed, reaching out, fixing the collar of Ilya’s shirt.

A finger brushed the skin at Ilya’s collarbone. The action making a muscle in his jaw twitch, but he did his best to keep his expression neutral. A grin spread over Sasha’s lips. Clearly, he hadn’t tried hard enough. Sasha licked his bottom lip, like he was starving, leaning in closer, hand moving to rest fully over Ilya’s pec. Fingers pressing into muscle. Unwelcomed. Ilya stepped back, shaking out his shoulder like he’d been slammed into the boards, and hardened his gaze.

“Sveta said you were back in Moscow,” Ilya said, sliding his phone back into his pocket, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the wall beside the sink. As far from Sasha’s reach as the space would allow. “Finally get bored of Paris?”

Sasha laughed, shaking his head. “I haven’t lived in Paris for over two years, Ilya. You pay such little attention to me,” said with a pout. What a fucking brat. Ilya shrugged because, really, it was true. He couldn’t care less what Sasha did. “We used to be friends, Ilya. We used to fuck.”

Ilya bristled at the words, eyes flicking to the door, to the stalls across from them. There was no one in the space but them. Still, he didn’t need Sasha saying shit like that in public. Not here, not in Moscow. It was different for Ilya than for Sasha. Ilya was an athlete, a representative of his country; he had gone to the Olympics for Russia. If he was caught talking about fucking men in a nightclub bathroom–caught giving a fucking blowjob to another man in a nightclub bathroom–the consequences would be so much worse.

“Okay,” Sasha sighed, eyes locked on Ilya’s tight expression. “We could still be friends, you know. Even if we don’t fuck.”

“We were never friends.”

An eyebrow raised at him, not hurt, but disbelieving. Then Sasha laughed and hoisted himself up onto the sink, pressing his back into the dirty mirror. “What were we then?”

“A secret,” Ilya replied, blunt.

“Got any new secrets?” Sasha hummed, dark eyes swallowed in shadow and intent on Ilya.

Yes. Ilya thought. Yes, I have a secret. He shrugged instead of answering.

“Ah, you do,” the taller man grinned. “Another toy.”

“Not a toy,” Ilya snapped. Fuck, he shouldn’t have snapped. Sasha’s eyes flashed with glee; he knew he’d touched on something sensitive and if there was anything that Sasha enjoyed, it was pressing into bruised flesh. That was just how he was, how he’d always been; he liked to watch people squirm.

“So someone serious then?” Sasha asked coyly. Ilya just glared in response. “Mm, man or woman?” A pause to consider his own question, head tilted, then a scandalised gasp at whatever he’d found in Ilya’s expression. “A man.”

“Sasha,” Ilya warned, eyes flicking back to the door. Still shut. Still muffling the noise of the club. No one could hear them.

“Are you still sleeping with other people?” Something sharp pulled in Ilya’s gut and he snapped his gaze back to Sasha, angry. “No? Mm, I can’t imagine that’s going to work out for you both.”

“The fuck do you mean?” Ilya growled and Sasha’s grin was back. He’d gotten what he’d wanted. Ilya had bitten. Teeth clamped into bait. Like a stupid fucking fish.

“Well, you’re back here,” Sasha waved a hand broadly, at the club, at Moscow generally, Ilya wasn’t sure. Sasha quickly made it clear. “He has to be kept a secret, right? As long as you come back here, you’ll always have to keep him hidden. That’s a lot to sacrifice. The least you could do is let him fuck other people.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. Sasha didn’t have a fucking clue what he was talking about. The secret was for them both, because of the rivalry, because of their careers, and yes, also because of Russia. But fucking other people wasn’t going to make that sacrifice any easier to cope with. If anything, for Ilya, it would just make it worse. He didn’t fucking want anyone else. He didn’t want Shane to want anyone else. The thought made him sick to his stomach. Another man’s hands on Shane, another man seeing Shane so pretty, so needy, so willing to take, take, take. Obedient and pliant and vulnerable and lost to his pleasure.

But… Shane had only accepted he was gay around the time they’d gotten together. Maybe… maybe Shane deserved to sow his wild oats or whatever. See what else was out there. Hopefully discover, like it had been for Ilya, that nothing else would ever feel like they felt. How right they were together.

Something that tasted like doubt pressed on his tongue, strangled his vocal cords.

“You feel possessive of him,” Sasha said then nodded seriously, pursing his lips. “I hope it works out for you, Ilya.” He hopped off the bench and ran his fingers down Ilya’s bicep. “If not, you know where to find me.”

Then Ilya was alone in the restroom. Head hitting the wall behind him as he shut his eyes and breathed heavily out his nose. What the fuck. This day had been a shitshow from start to finish. He needed a drink. He needed about fifty drinks.

Ilya slammed out of the restroom and headed to the bar. Time to get fucking wasted.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Welcome to my beautiful boy Shane's mind.

Every person who commented on the first chapter is why this second chapter exists. I love you. I appreciate the support. Kisses for you all. (The kudos too! and subscriptions!) ❤️❤️❤️

The treadmill in the hotel gym had seen better days. It groaned when he upped the incline, whirred when he increased the speed. Still, he pushed it harder. Feet pounding hard on the worn-out track. Lungs burning in his ribcage. Sweat dripping into and stinging his eyes.

He was pissed.

And normally this would help. Pushing himself physically, raising his heartrate, making his muscles ache. Body forced past the point of comfort and thought. Turning off his restless mind.

For some reason, it wasn’t working tonight. Well, he knew why, really, but he was trying not to think about it even as his eyes flicked constantly back to his phone resting in the cup holder, the screen black, no messages incoming.

There was a chain of texts, unanswered and unopened, on his phone. He’d texted Ilya once, twice, five times. All left without response. Ilya had only been in Russia for thirty six hours and already Shane was considering doing something drastic like getting on a plane and crossing the Arctic Ocean to find his boyfriend and ask him what the fuck was going on. He’d known returning to Russia would be hard for Ilya–it always had been, Shane slowly realising over the years that the harshness of Ilya’s bark was directly related to his proximity to Russia, to his family–but he’d thought that this time, at least, he’d be able to support him through it. But no, Ilya was ignoring him.

And Shane was fucking pissed.

It probably didn’t help that he’d spent the last eight days shuffling between photoshoots and brand meetings and filmsets so hot and bright and busy it made his skin feel like it was too tight, too warm, too itchy. Usually he could block it out–that prickling feeling that lurked under the surface of his skin. He’d had years of practice after all; of learning how to tame into submission those parts of him that felt too much. Those parts of him that wanted, that hungered, that rebelled against carefully crafted, self-inflicted restraints. But all that practice seemed useless now.

And then there was the bullshit the first AD had said to him when he’d been getting touched-up between takes by an overly handsy make-up artist with elaborate eyeliner painted over her lids. The AD had told Shane that he admired him for being visible, for representing diversity in such a white-dominant sport, for fighting racism in the NHL. As if the guy himself wasn’t a fucking white guy. As if he had any idea what it had been like growing up in those locker rooms–boys pulling their eyes at the corners to make them slanted, speculating about the size of his penis, speaking accented gibberish at him in an imitation of Mandarin because they couldn’t care less about him being half-Japanese not Chinese. As if Shane hadn’t just taken it as a teenager, hadn’t just let it happen without saying a word about it to his coaches or his parents. Choosing instead to just shut them up the only way they’d really respect–through physical force, dominating them on the ice, being the best.

It was stupid to get upset about it; he’d met plenty of people like the first AD on sets just like that one. ‘Progressive’ white people who wanted to tell him that they admired him for his bravery. All Shane ever wanted to say in return was what bravery?

He wasn’t some beacon of multicultural harmony in twenty-first century Canada, despite the narratives that his mother and Reebok and the Metros peddled. What he was, was a guy who was fucking good at hockey. Top of the league, consistently leading in points, two-time Stanley Cup winner, captain of his team, Olympic gold medallist. Being half-Japanese was a consequence of genetics; he hadn’t worked for it, hadn’t dedicated himself to mastering it or dominating his peers at it. It was a shallow thing to admire–it felt more like layer of his brand than a facet of his reality.

Fuck, he wasn’t even good at being half-Japanese. He didn’t know the language. He’d never even been to Japan. When his grandparents had died, he’d lost the last remaining thread of connection to his Japanese heritage along with them. And yeah, sometimes he felt guilty about that. About the fact that he wasn’t outspoken about racism in the league or trying to learn more about where his mother had come from. But he hadn’t asked to be made into an icon of inclusivity in sport. Hadn’t asked to have his success and his racial identity conflated for the sake of branding, for good story-telling.

Sometimes he thought about how much worse it would all get if he ever came out. The gaudy, rainbow-saturated Pride collections he’d become the face of. The last thing about himself that was just his turned into another selling point, another key demographic his brand could reach, another box to check in the gambit of representation. There’s a world of opportunity here, if they do it right his mother had said. About his sexuality. About his relationship. His own mother attaching dollar signs to the last shred of himself as a person, not a brand, that he had left.

If he ever came out, hockey would move further down the list of things he was. Not Shane Hollander: hockey player, generational talent, Hall of Famer, legacy builder. But Shane Hollander: gay, half-Japanese, representative of inclusivity in sport, hockey player. The one thing he wanted to be remembered for, to be admired for, moved to the bottom of the list.

Shane jammed his thumb hard into the speed button, pushing the rickety treadmill to its limit, the machine’s alarming droning heard even through the music blaring in his airpods. He knew he was bordering on dangerous territory. Injury potential. But it was the fucking off-season, and he had months to recover if he took it too far. Still… Shane lowered the speed to a jog and ignored the twitching of his thigh muscles. Overworked from keeping such a brutal pace for so long.

He tapped his phone screen. It was nine pm. He’d been punishing his body on the treadmill for over an hour, and his mind still hadn’t shut off.

A niggling thought in the back of his mind begged him to text Ilya again, to check on him again, but Shane stamped it down. If his boyfriend wanted to talk, he would reach out. Shane had to cool it on the clinginess. They’d gone without talking for longer than this during the season, both of them too busy with games and practice and travel to call but… but this wasn’t the same thing. Ilya was in Russia, seeing his family, saying goodbye to his mother.

Shane groaned and hit the emergency stop on the treadmill, bracing himself on the handrails as he stretched his neck, breathing heavily through his nose, ignoring the way his lungs stung with every intake of breath. He wasn’t really pissed at all. Or not just pissed. He was also worried. He was really fucking worried.

Shane wiped his sweaty palms on his shorts and plucked his phone out of the cup holder, turning to lean against the treadmill console.

Each message backspaced, Shane shaking his head, frustrated with himself, with Ilya. It was four am in Moscow anyway. Ilya was probably asleep. But then…

Nothing for a few minutes. Shane watched the screen intently. Then, suddenly, a flood of messages made his phone vibrate in his hand.

Shane frowned. Ilya usually didn’t text him in Cyrillic, or at least not long sentences like this, unless he was helping Shane practice his reading. Or teasing him with filth.

He swiped up to open his translation app, copying and pasting each message into it. Am I limiting you? He said I was too possessive of you. Shane frowned at the translations, utterly and hopelessly confused as to what the fuck Ilya was on about. And who was ‘he’? And why did ‘his’ opinion matter anyway?

If you want to have sex with other people when we’re apart, that’s okay.

“What the fuck,” Shane said out loud and then shut the translation app, reopening the chat with Ilya and hitting the call button as he teared out his airpods and disconnected the Bluetooth. He pressed his phone tight to his ear, the too warm, too itchy, too tight feeling from earlier spreading over his skin. Anger and confusion mixing unpleasantly in his gut. The call connected, he heard a rustling sound over the line, and he repeated, “what the fuck?”

“Shane?” Ilya’s voice, slurred and muffled, crackling over the line.

“Yes, it’s me,” Shane hissed. “What the fuck are you messaging me?”

“Что? Что вы говорите?” He sounded drunk, which only made Shane more frustrated.

“Why are you telling me it’s okay for me to have sex with other people, Ilya?” Shane said, slowly, seething, jaw clenching. “And who the fuck is telling you that you’re too possessive of me?”

“I don’t under–ебать. Я слишком пьян, чтобы говорить по-английски,” Ilya grumbled and then he heaved a loud sigh. “What are you saying?”

“The texts, Ilya,” Shane groaned, pressing his fingers to his forehead and rubbing. “You don’t reply to me for twelve hours and then text me that it’s okay for me to sleep with other people. What. The. Fuck.”

There was a long beat of silence. Through the speaker he could hear Ilya breathing slowly, could hear Ilya shuffling around presumably in his bed. Shane wanted to be next to him so badly, mostly so he could grip his boyfriend’s shoulders and shake him, but also just to be near him. It had been so long. And now he was so mad. And worried. And hurt.

“Sasha said–”

“Who the fuck is Sasha?” Shane interrupted with a growl.

“Ah, ебать,” Ilya said. “I told you about him. My old coach’s son.”

Oh, him…

The first man Ilya had ever slept with. Shane swallowed and stepped off the treadmill, pacing the mats in front of the mirrored wall as he rubbed his thumb over his bottom lip. There were several thoughts running around his head. Most of them wondering what the fuck Ilya was doing telling Sasha about Shane and the rest of them still stuck on the sleeping with other people thing.

“Did you sleep with him? Is that why you’re telling me to sleep with other people?” Shane asked, trying to keep his voice level.

“Что за херня,” Ilya swore, an angry sharpness to his accent. “Нет.”

No. His shoulders sagged. “Then why, Ilya?”

“Shane, I can’t,” Ilya mumbled, the rest of his sentence a jumble of Russian and frustrated sighing. “Am too drunk. Just ignore… it.”

“No, I’m not ignoring it you fucking asshole,” Shane said, firm. “I want you to explain to me why you thought that was an okay thing to send to me.”

“Ради бога,” Ilya huffed. Shane waited, sitting himself on a vinyl bench in front of the mirror, eyes locked on the reflection of the water cooler in the corner of the room. Ilya spoke, eventually, very slowly. “You came out as gay and then right away we got together. I had lots of other… experiences… before we became boyfriends. So maybe you want to… Черт, я не знаю…”

“Sow my wild oats?” Shane scoffed and Ilya hummed in response, affirmative. Something hot lodged itself in his oesophagus, tightening his vocal cords. He could feel tears forming at his lash line and scrubbed his hand over his face in frustration. Frustration at himself, at Ilya, at Russia, at the NHL. At anything and everything that kept him apart from Ilya. “First of all, fuck you. Second of all, I told you at Christmas how I feel about you. How singular you are to me. I don’t fucking want anyone else, you idiot.”

“Shane,” Ilya murmured.

“No, I’m still talking,” Shane snapped. “Thirdly, I have had sex with other men, Ilya. No, not a lot of men, only a few, but seriously–suggesting that we need to what balance the ‘experience’ scales or whatever is fucking absurd. I don’t want to have experiences with other people. I want you.”

“Shane,” Ilya repeated, this time sounding like he was either about to cry or throw up. Shane barrelled on.

“Do you want experiences with other people?” he asked. “Because if you do don’t try to make it something about me and my lack of experiences. Just tell me.”

A long, tense silence fell over the line. Shane gripping the phone so tight his fingers were aching and his palms were sweating. He didn’t think Ilya wanted other people. He knew what they were to each other. Or at least he’d thought he did.

“No… no I do not want that,” Ilya said, breathing out heavily, a tremble in his voice. “I just want you.”

“Asshole,” Shane hissed, though he felt relief spread throughout his entire body at the words. Then he licked his lip; he had to ask. “What is going on over there? Are you okay?”

“Is late,” Ilya murmured. “I drank lots. Should sleep.”

“Ilya,” Shane said, though to his own ears it sounded more like pleading.

“Later,” Ilya promised. He did sound exhausted, in fact, he sounded completely wrecked. Now that Shane was listening, hearing him instead of just seething, he could hear how thin Ilya’s voice was. Shane sighed, hanging his head, a frown creasing between his brows.

“Okay, fine,” he nodded, “but if you send me any more weird shit like that, I’m going to call Svetlana and make her deal with you.”

A laugh, though it sounded a little forced. “Okay. I will go now.”

“Ilya,” Shane called, stopping him from hanging up.

“Yes?”

“I love you,” Shane said, “so, so much.”

Silence. A sniff. “I love you too, more than anything.”

Then he hung up and Shane sat listening to the silence left behind, fighting back the tears stinging behind his eyes, until he was able to force his aching legs into action again.

At breakfast in the hotel dining room the next morning Shane felt like an anvil was sitting on his chest. It was probably because he’d overdone it on the treadmill last night, incline set to the highest level, speed bumped up to the maximum. But still Shane was fairly certain that at least half the heavy feeling was just about the conversation he’d had with Ilya last night. Well, conversation was probably too generous of a word for it… more like he’d talked at a drunk Ilya who’d seemed barely able to comprehend him.

“Honey, I’m sure it’s all going fine,” Yuna soothed, raising her eyebrows at where Shane was fiddling with his phone, spinning it in circles on the tabletop and tapping the screen intermittently. There was a plea in her brown eyes, begging him to cease his restless fidgeting. Shane stuffed the phone back into his pocket and poked around at his plate. The pile of eggs long gone cold.

His mother had no idea if things were going fine. Shane had no idea if things were going fine. All he knew was that Ilya had been supposed to see Yelena today–or last night, he supposed, since Toronto was seven hours behind Moscow–and that he hadn’t heard anything from either Ilya or Svetlana about how it had gone, or if it had happened at all. Part of him suspected that Ilya may have had to delay the meeting, too hungover to deal with it all.

The phone in his pocket burned, his fingers itching to reach for it. Instead, he dug his thumb into the edge of his fork and pressed as hard as he could.

“Now, I couldn’t reschedule the Rolex shoot,” Yuna said, sliding her glasses onto her nose and pulling out her phone, no doubt clicking through to her masterfully organised Google calendar that tracked all of Shane’s endorsements, training, games. Basically his entire life; colour-coded and broken down into blocks of time with contracts and itineraries attached. Shane Hollander laid out in neat boxes.

(There was a month and a half of time blocked out in green, blissfully empty, all his own. During the season, when he’d been missing Ilya like crazy or feeling that suffocating muzzle of being the Shane Hollander just a little too keenly, he would scroll to that wall of green to remind himself of what was on the horizon.)

“So, we’ll have to be in Toronto again for the eighth and nineth of the month,” Yuna continued and Shane frowned, dragging his eyes from the salt grains spilt on the table to look at his mother. She gave him a sympathetic smile. “I know he’s coming back on the nineth. I did try to reschedule but they already booked the location, and it wasn’t available again any other time this summer.”

Shane shook his head and tried to smile, burying his frustration. “No, it’s okay. I know you tried,” he said, by the look on his mother’s face he hadn’t quite managed to not sound annoyed. Shane took a deep breath. “What time will we fly back to Ottawa?”

“Early afternoon, we should be back in Lanaudière by sundown,” she reassured. It wasn’t reassuring. Ilya was landing in the morning; that meant hours of being alone. Yuna seemed to read his mind because she tutted and said, “David can pick him up. Take him to our cottage until we get back.”

He knew it was a good idea, a kind gesture, but Shane felt like shouting I should be picking him up. I should be with him in fucking Moscow. But he swallowed around the words and nodded minutely instead. “Sure, good idea,” he murmured. “What time are we leaving for this meeting?”

Yuna took the obvious cue to move on without fuss, turning back to look at the calendar as Shane swept salt grains into his palm then deposited them onto his plate of cold food. A waste but he couldn’t stomach cold eggs. He would get something on the way downtown.

The meeting was dull, in that way all brand meetings were. Somewhere amongst the contract negotiations and overly enthusiastic marketing spiels full of buzzwords Shane’s brain shut down, eyes locking on a point in the room, nodding occasionally, everything kind of just washing over him. Thank fuck for his mother, without her in the room with him Shane would have no idea what he was signing himself up for.

In the car on the way to the airport she talked him through the next scheduled campaign, which would be shot in Montreal on the sixth. Another underwear commercial. Shane cringed at the thought of hands oiling up his chest and posing awkwardly in front of hot lights as the director asked him if he could possibly try to please pull a less constipated expression. He never understood why he kept getting asked back for those kinds of shoots–he supposed his mother was very good at her job.

As they waited for the last of the passengers to board the flight to Montreal–his mother was staying with him instead of going back and forth from Ottawa–Shane texted Ilya. It was nine pm in Moscow and Shane hadn’t heard from him since their conversation last night.

Shane had a sinking feeling that Ilya would not be calling him.

“Shane, you are a hard fucking guy to pin down!” Hayden greeted, a wide grin on his face, pulling Shane into an aggressively friendly hug on the front step. The Pike’s house was in the suburbs on the outskirts of Montreal; a beautiful, two-storey brick home with large windows and a sprawling backyard littered with colourful children’s toys. Shane liked Brossard, it was a good neighbourhood for families, plenty of privacy, nice architecture. He was looking into real estate in the area, somewhere a little more secluded but still close enough to the rink.

Shane managed to wriggle out of Hayden’s enthusiastic embrace and patted his friend on the shoulder, plastering a smile over his face. Not entirely sincere nor completely insincere. He was happy to see Hayden, and Jackie, they were his closest friends besides Rose, and he would be disappearing for the majority of the summer by the end of the week, but he was also exhausted, running on a mix of anxiety, an ungodly amount of creatine powder, and sheer stubbornness.

“Jackie! We have a celebrity in our home! Quick, get the ginger ale!” Hayden called into the house, nudging Shane ahead of him. Shane had to dodge a large toy garbage truck just inside the entryway, probably Ruby’s. The young girl had a weird fixation on garbage trucks… and garbage in general. She’d once made Shane a necklace out of bread tags.

“I’m happy to sign anything, maybe a jersey,” Shane teased and Hayden laughed. “For my biggest fan.”

“Ha, that’s Ruby,” Hayden grumbled as they rounded the corner into the living area. The space was a mess. Markers spilt over the floor, uncapped and drying out, colouring books and paper strewn about; a half-built Lego-something, maybe it was meant to be a spaceship, on the coffee table; Barbies arranged in a careful circle on the sofa, looking like they were about to perform some dark ritual on the stuffed penguin tied up in hair ribbons in the middle. Shane was immediately overwhelmed. If he and Ilya ever had kids, they sure as fuck were not having four fucking kids. “Still can’t believe she chose your jersey over mine…”

Shane gave his friend a sympathetic smile, patting his back apologetically, though he was still secretly pleased that Ruby had asked for a Hollander jersey last Christmas instead of a Pike jersey. “She just wants to be captain, Hayd,” Shane said with a shrug. “Rubes likes the authority of the C; makes her feel in charge of her siblings.”

“She basically is,” his friend grumbled and Shane grinned, a little easier, a little less forced.

“Uncle Shane!” A high-pitched shout, the pounding of running feet, and then Shane was catching Ruby as she barrelled into him, a wide grin on her face, her face which was covered in chocolate. He hoisted her up into his arms and held her on his hip, ruffling her hair.

“Rubes,” he nodded, she gave her best, most serious nod back and then knocked her head against his, an imitation of how Shane would knock helmets with her father on the ice. Out of all of Hayden’s children she had the most affinity for their sport. Jade thought it was boring, Amber was too little to care, and Arthur was generally just a quiet kid. Shane secretly liked Arthur the most, felt he understood the kid best, a calm buoy in a sea of chaos. Though, he did enjoy Ruby’s bright laughter.

Sometimes he thought, embarrassingly, that his and Ilya’s kid would be a lot like Ruby. Sassy and charming and full of energy and so silly. Like Ilya. Sometimes he thought, embarrassingly, that his and Ilya’s kid would have dark blonde curls and big green-blue eyes and a grin that was wide and toothy. Like Ilya. He thought about them having a little girl, maybe calling her Irina, maybe not if it was too painful. Whatever they named her, he always saw them happy, the three of them a little family.

(Shane kept those kinds of thoughts to himself. They were far too intense for an eleven-month old relationship–or longer, Shane wasn’t sure, the timeline of them was a complicated thing.)

“Why are you covered in chocolate?” Shane asked, gesturing at her face.

“Mummy is baking with Jade,” Ruby shrugged. “I got to lick the bowl.”

Shane screwed up his nose in disgust; that was one way to get salmonella. “You know raw eggs can give them food poisoning, right?” he asked Hayden who just shrugged, looking like the spitting image of his daughter.

“Jackie says its fine,” he waved a hand and Shane rolled his eyes. The man would be hopeless without Jackie and her endless patience, her easy tolerance of her husband. Really, Hayden had lucked out.

“Put me down now,” Ruby said and Shane nodded, dropping her gently to her feet. She gave him a wide grin then ran off back to the kitchen.

“Dude, why does she behave for you?” Hayden groaned and led them through the mess of the lounge room towards the kitchen where Ruby had run off to.

“It’s the C, man,” Shane shrugged. “She respects the captaincy.”

Hayden punched his arm and grumbled under his breath which just made Shane laugh.

The hoard of Pike children were shuffled to bed, an intricate juggling routine of baths and teeth brushing and bedtime stories. Shane ended up reading quietly to Arthur, who would always ask Uncle Shane to read to him if he was over, as Jackie and Hayden settled the girls down the hall.

Arthur had one specific book he liked and one book only: an encyclopedia of Northern American birds. The toddler sat against his pillows, his big green eyes intent on the page, as Shane read aloud about the migration habits of the Steller’s eider. A type of sea duck that bred along the coastline of Russia and Alaska.

Arthur fell asleep quickly, Shane nearly did too, from boredom, but he shook himself awake and eased the little boy down to rest against his pillow, tucking the blankets in around his waist. He watched Arthur for a moment; so small, vulnerable, tiny little hands and fragile bones. He thought of Ilya, losing his mother at just twelve years old, not as small and fragile but still so young, too young. Losing his mother so violently, so horrifically. He wondered if she used to tuck him in at night, if she used to read Russian fairytales to him, or maybe weird books about birds. (Probably not, Ilya wasn’t a big fan of the outdoors.) He wondered if, after Irina died, anyone had comforted that small, too young boy. Had anyone held him or soothed him to sleep or caught his tears with their fingertips or told him it would all be okay. He knew the answer, and it made something tight and painful clench in his stomach.

He thought about Ilya now, an ocean away in Moscow, a place he hated and had sworn never to return to, just so he could say a proper goodbye to his mother’s grave. So that, if the world ever found out about their relationship, he’d at least have gotten one last chance to lay flowers at her final resting place.

Shane pushed back Arthur’s hair, smoothing his unruly curls off of his forehead, and then left the room with one thought burning at the forefront of his mind. He opened an internet browser on his phone as he descended the staircase, chewing on his bottom lip as he scrolled, saving webpages to look at later when he was alone.

In the kitchen Jackie was at the stove, hair done up in a braid with ribbons weaved through the dark strands, her daughters playing hairdresser with her when they’d been meant to be eating their dinner. When he came into the room, she smiled at him and asked him to help set the table whilst Hayden finished putting the twins to bed.

Shane was used to eating with the children; dinner at the Pike’s was usually a loud, messy affair, the twins talking around mouthfuls of food and Hayden making airplane noises at Amber to get her to eat her bowl of mush. Tonight Jackie had insisted that they have a nice, ‘adult’ dinner after the children went to bed even when Shane had insisted he didn’t mind eating with the whole family.

Shane was quietly lining up the cutlery with the edges of the placements when the doorbell rang. He glanced over at Jackie and frowned at the look on her face. She didn’t seem surprised by the intrusion but there was an awkward grimace twisting her mouth.

“Would you mind getting that?” Jackie gestured to the hot pan in front of her and Shane nodded.

Shane stepped over the toy truck in the hallway and opened the door to find a short, red-headed woman on the doorstep. He blinked, she beamed back at him, seemingly unphased by someone other than Jackie or Hayden answering the door. The woman was wearing a short green dress with a denim jacket and her long hair fell over her shoulders in waves.

“You must be Shane,” she said, holding out a hand, the other hand was wrapped around the neck of a wine bottle. She knew his name. She’d been expecting him. She’d brought wine. Oh fucking hell.

“Hi,” he replied, taking her hand and shaking briskly. Her smile twitched, just a little, and Shane suddenly wished he’d tripped and hit his head instead of avoiding Ruby’s toys. “Come in, um…”

“June,” she told him and he nodded, awkwardly, stepping back and letting her through the threshold. When she passed, he smelt vanilla and caramel on her skin, and he screwed his nose against the onslaught of perfume. She lingered in the entryway and Shane rigidly gestured at the wine.

“I can take that,” he offered, because his mother had drilled into him how to be a polite date to a woman. Even if he didn’t want to be on a fucking date. Even if he’d been blindsided by said date. Shane was going to kill Hayden; no doubt this had been his doing.

“They didn’t tell you I was coming?” June asked and Shane gave an uncomfortable laugh, shaking his head as he led her down the hall and into the living room.

“No,” Shane said. They didn’t tell me because they knew I wouldn’t come if they did. He smiled at her, a tense thing, not at all friendly, and tried not to be an ass. She was probably a friend of Jackie’s, and he didn’t want to insult either woman. “Jackie is in the kitchen,” he gestured in the direction of the space and June followed after him, still smiling.

“So, how do you know Jackie and Hayden?” June asked. Shane struggled to keep himself from staring at her in bewilderment. Had Jackie and Hayden really chosen a woman with no interest in hockey to set him up with?

“Um, we play hockey together,” Shane answered.

“Oh, cool,” she nodded. “I’m from Australia, not much, well, there’s not any hockey over there. I haven’t gotten into it since moving here but I would love to learn more about Canadian culture.”

Australian. Okay, that explained the lack of interest in hockey. Shane hadn’t even noticed her accent, not at first, but he heard it now. Was he that unobservant? Or just that much of an ass?

At a loss for anything else to talk about Shane cleared his throat. “How do you know Jackie and Hayden?” he asked. Reciprocating the question was surely the best move.

“Oh, I teach gymnastics,” June smiled. “The twins are in my under sevens class.”

Thankfully they were in the kitchen by then and Jackie was turning around and smiling at June then walking over to give the shorter woman a hug. Shane gave Jackie a hard stare over June’s shoulder and Jackie smiled back, apologetic, the look in her green eyes making it clear that this had not been her idea. Shane was going to fucking kill Hayden.

It was then that Hayden decided to re-enter the room and Shane turned his glare on his friend. The man just ignored Shane’s very pointed look and smiled, wide and goofy, at June, giving her a friendly hug. Shane sagged against the kitchen island and rubbed his temples as they chatted enthusiastically about the girls’ progress with their handstands and splits.

Shane was in hell. He was in actual, literal hell. And his best friends had done this to him.

“I just need to use the bathroom,” Shane muttered, ducking out of the kitchen and shutting himself in the half-bath by the staircase. He sat on the closed toilet and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

Shane sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. Rose was right. He could handle one night of pretending to be straight, at least until June was gone, and then yeah, maybe it was time to come out to Jackie and Hayden. If only to avoid this nightmare ever happening again.

Suddenly, he wished Ilya were here with him, like he’d been there when Shane had told his parents. Ilya’s presence beside him in that moment so grounding, safe, keeping him from spinning out entirely. Objectively, in this case, Ilya’s presence would absolutely not help the situation. But, still, Shane wanted him here. Wanted to hold his hand, feel Ilya’s warmth at his back, know that afterwards Ilya would be there to hold him together if it went badly. Not that he thought it would.

He pinched his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, frowning down at his phone. It wouldn’t be fair to bother Ilya with something so trivial, so small, whilst he was dealing with his family in Russia. But Shane wanted to talk to him so badly, wanted to hear his voice. He rolled his shoulders, shook off the urge to reach out to Ilya, before going back to join his friends and June in the kitchen.

Dinner was… well, dinner was fucking awkward.

Shane had no idea what to talk to June about. The woman taught gymnastics to children and had zero knowledge of ice hockey. They talked a bit about Australia, Jackie and Hayden doing most of the work, and Shane trying his very best not to do that thing he did in sponsorship meetings where he kind of just faded out of the room. June was from Brisbane; she knew how to surf; no, there were not kangaroos or snakes in the middle of the city; yes, it was very hot there all year round; no, not everyone looked like Chris Hemsworth. That had been Jackie’s question.

Eventually they ran out of questions about Australia, or at least Hayden and Jackie were done doing all the talking; Jackie nudging Shane’s foot under the table and giving him a pointed look. Saying, with a raise of her sculpted brows ask the girl a question, say something, you’re being weird. The last part was probably all his own projection; he felt like he was being weird. Like he was sitting beside June with the energy of someone caught in a high-stakes hostage situation, not an awkward blind date.

Shane cleared his throat and asked, “so were you born in June?” Jackie pressed her fingers to her temple and stared down at the table, Hayden mouthed ‘what’ at him, and June just blinked. “Because your name is June,” he explained, though it didn’t seem to make the question land any better. Jackie and Hayden looked at him like he was a very strange, exotic bird, like the ones from Arthur’s encyclopedia. Shane felt himself cringe.

“Ah, no,” June laughed, awkwardly. “I was born in April.”

It took every ounce of Shane’s self-restraint not to say something like well, that’s fucking stupid. What was wrong with your parents? Though he was sure the thought was clear in his expression, he was especially sure it was written all over his face when he felt Jackie kick his shin under the table. As if the Pike’s could talk, naming their three daughters Amber, Ruby, and Jade like a collection of precious gemstones. Shane pointedly ignored Jackie’s sighing across the table.

The conversation dropped off for long minutes after that. The four of them pushing food around on their plates, Shane staring so intensely at the pile of string beans that he was sure they were wriggling like worms on the porcelain.

Normally he wasn’t so bad at this. Normally he could handle Hayden shoving women at him, whether that was in bars or at games or at children’s birthday parties. He would be polite, talk to them for a bit, then find some excuse or another to slip away. A teammate to call over, a coach or equipment manager to pretend to need a conversation with, a kid that suddenly really needed Uncle Shane’s help. This time though Hayden and Jackie had locked him in, with wine and a set table and intimate lo-fi music playing through the TV. Shane was trapped by social niceties and a web of lies of his own creation.

Once June was gone, he was going to tell them the truth. Some of the truth. Probably–definitely–not the whole truth. At least enough of it to prevent this from ever happening again. Although would they just try it again with a man? Did they know any gay guys? Jackie had a gay cousin, fuck, was he single? God, okay, maybe he had to at least tell them he wasn’t looking. Though that had never worked before. Okay, maybe he had to tell them he was seeing someone and just hope they’d respect his desire to keep it private for now.

By the time they were all done eating, and then finally done with exchanging awkward pleasantries at the front door, Shane felt like his body was made of lead. He was so tired. Behind his retinas the sting of studio lights was permanently burned into his vision. His skin felt scrubbed raw, each and every nerve ending crackling like a live wire. Tomorrow, he had to stand in front of more crowds of people, in his underwear. He’d just wanted to see his friends tonight, see his god-children, and just relax. Trying to talk to June had not been relaxing.

Shane sat heavily on the chaise lounge once the front door was closed, palms over his face. Jackie knocked the circle of Barbies off the cushion and into a little toy bin, settling into the couch beside Shane, whilst Hayden went into the kitchen to get his wife more wine.

“Sorry about that,” Jackie said, sincere, and Shane shook his head.

“It was Hayden, right?” he asked and she nodded, biting her lip.

“He just wants you to find someone and be happy,” she smiled, “like we are.”

He wanted to say I do have someone. I am happy. Because he did and he was. Even if it was complicated, and even if sometimes trying to have a conversation with Ilya was like trying to talk to a very stubborn rock, and even if they had to keep it secret for the next fifteen years. He was happy, and he was willing to deal with all of it, for Ilya. Because he fucking loved him. So much.

Hayden trudged back into the room, handing his wife a full glass of red wine, and then plopping himself on the coffee table, a frown on his face. “The fuck, dude,” he grumbled. “What is wrong with you? June is great. That was terrible.”

“You sprung it on me,” Shane defended, crossing his arms over his chest. That had not been what he’d intended to say, still, he felt the need to defend himself. “Also, I told you to back off about my dating life, man.”

“You just have impossible standards,” Hayden shook his head and shot back up to his feet, pacing back and forth in front of the couch as he ranted. “You had Rose Landry, you had the fucking Rose Landry, and still she wasn’t good enough for you. She’s the hottest woman on the planet–besides you, babe–and still she wasn’t good enough for Shane Hollander. I am afraid of what kind of standards you have for women, dude. Like maybe you need to self-reflect or something.”

“Hayden,” Shane groaned, tipping his head back and cursing at the ceiling. Jackie was just nodding along and sipping her wine beside him.

“Like, what was wrong with June?” Hayden threw up his hands and raised his brows at Shane, waiting for an answer.

Well, she doesn’t have a dick, for one. Shane shook his head and sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. Just tell them, coward.

“You’ve rejected all of Jackie’s single friends,” Hayden continued his rant, not giving Shane a chance to open his mouth. “So I thought ‘hey what about the nice woman that teaches gymnastics to the girls? Maybe my best buddy just wants a nice, normal girl. Not a celebrity or a supermodel.’ But no, not even nice, normal girls interest Shane Hollander.”

Shane thought Hayden was taking this all way too personally. Was it really so important to Hayden that Shane joined him in the suburbs, married, with two point five kids and a sensible family car. He would only be disappointed. It wasn’t that Shane didn’t like the idea of those things… he just didn’t want them with a nice, normal girl. Or, like his parents had suggested, a nice man from Montreal.

“She even has a cute accent!” Hayden whisper-shouted, exasperated, but clearly trying to be mindful of the kids asleep upstairs. “I give up, man.”

“Good, I never asked you to set me up,” Shane huffed, glaring at his friend.

“Most of the guys are married,” Hayden countered, like that was a reason for Shane to be.

“JJ is still single,” Shane shrugged.

“He’s at least dating, you don’t do anything but work!”

“I’m happy as I am.”

“Why won’t you let us help you find someone?”

“Hayden.”

“At this rate you’re going to be alone forever.”

“Hayden.”

“I’m serious dude, we’ll have to move you into the guest bedroom. No one else to take care of you once you’re old as shit.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Shane hissed. “Hayden, I’m gay!”

Ah, shit. Shane clamped his mouth shut and screwed his eyes tight. He hadn’t meant to yell it like that. He took a few breaths, trying to calm the rising panic in his throat, and opened his eyes to look at his friends.

Hayden had paused his pacing and was just staring at Shane, eyes a little wide, mouth dropped open in shock. Beside him Jackie was still calmly sipping wine, a sympathetic lilt to her mouth when he turned to her, but she didn’t look all that surprised by his outburst. She reached out, placing a reassuring hand on his bicep, squeezing a little, giving him a tender smile. Shane swallowed and looked back at Hayden, who’d finally managed to shut his mouth, and was now frowning at his feet, eyes darting back and forth like he was thinking through the last eight years they’d been teammates.

“I’m sorry,” Shane said. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I only really admitted it to myself like eighteen months ago.” At that, the hand clasped around his bicep tightened, and Jackie leaned forwards, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. He sagged a little into the touch. “But I’m gay, Hayden. So, you can back off with all the setting me up shit now, okay?”

Hayden pursed his lips and then strode over to Shane. Briefly, Shane was worried his best friend was about to hit him, but instead Hayden yanked him to his feet and into a crushing hug. The kind of bro-hug that Shane was familiar with, involving a lot of back patting and awkward throat clearing. Not anymore uncomfortable than the usual, gruff affection exchanged between players in locker rooms.

Hayden pulled back and held Shane’s shoulders, giving him a big, goofy grin. “Thank you for telling me, dude,” he said, so sincere.

A little part of Shane, that was young and scared and that had stood in locker rooms terrified of his own want, his own enormous desire, afraid of this very moment for as long as he could remember, felt soothed by Hayden’s words, by his easy acceptance. There were tears immediately pressing behind his eyes, Shane blinked against them.

“I just have one question,” Hayden patted his shoulders and levelled Shane with a serious look. “What about Boston Lily?”

“Oh god,” Shane laughed and rubbed a hand over his eyes, clearing his throat. “Lily is a fake name.”

“What’s her real name? Patricia?” he asked and behind them Jackie guffawed, they both turned to her, bent over her wine glass, holding her stomach.

“Hayden, no, baby,” she wiped her eyes, sighed loudly, and then leaned back against the couch cushion with a grin spread across her face.

“What?” Hayden demanded, looking back at Shane.

“Lily’s a man,” Shane explained, because for some reason he needed to. He watched the cogs in Hayden’s brain slowly grind into action and then…

“Ohhhhhhh,” he nodded, eyes contemplative. Then something in his expression shifted. “That’s why you’ve always been so weird about her–him… Does this mean I can meet him now? Now that I know she is a he?”

“No, definitely not,” Shane shook his head.

“What? Why?” Hayden pouted, actually pouted, like his six year old daughters. Shane rolled his eyes and pulled away from his friend’s grasp, sitting himself back on the chaise lounge beside Jackie. Hayden slumped back onto the coffee table, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring intently at Shane, waiting for an explanation. Still pouting.

“He’s not out,” Shane explained, slowly, he needed his best friend to get this. “It’s not safe for him to be out. There’s a lot of… stuff outside either of our control. It’s just very complicated. Okay?”

“Mm,” Hayden grunted.

“We understand,” Jackie said, patting Shane’s back. “Thank you for telling us. And we’re sorry about dinner.”

Shane waved a hand, dismissive, despite the fact that he was still kind of annoyed about the whole debacle. “It’s okay,” he said then cleared his throat. “I need you guys to keep this to yourselves. Not a lot of people know and I’m not ready for it to be everywhere yet.”

“Okay,” Jackie nodded, smiling supportively.

“Who knows?” Hayden asked, narrowing his eyes.

“My parents,” Shane answered, and then he gave Hayden an apologetic smile. He knew his best friend would not be happy about the next bit. “And Rose.”

Hayden clicked his tongue and then grumbled under his breath, “so he tells Rose first. Not me. Best friend of eight years.”

“Sorry, buddy,” Shane reached out and knocked Hayden’s knee with a closed fist. “She was part of the whole ‘admitting it to myself’ process.”

“Yeah, okay,” Hayden rolled his eyes then he huffed and shook his head, a grin spreading slowly over his lips. “Did you know Jackie has a single gay cousin?”

“Fuck, Hayden,” Shane groaned and dropped his head to his hands.

Shane was sat in his dressing room, a robe clinging uncomfortably to the oil that had been rubbed into his abs and chest, scrolling through the websites he’d saved on his phone last night, when he got a call from Svetlana. It was just past noon in Montreal, which meant it was seven pm in Moscow. Ilya had sent him the text about going to see Yelena seven hours ago and since then he’d heard nothing. Svetlana calling him could not mean anything good.

He flexed his fingers and answered the call. “Hey, is Ilya okay?” Shane couldn’t even pretend to care about anything else. Yuna was on the couch in the corner of the room, and she looked up from her iPad when she heard Shane’s question, he held her gaze through the mirror as he chewed on his bottom lip.

“Yes, no, fuck,” Svetlana sighed, she sounded exhausted. “It’s not good. We’re at the hospital.”

“What?” Shane asked, throat closing. His mum was on her feet and crossing the room immediately at his tone, moving to stand beside him at the vanity. Shane pulled the phone from his ear and put the call on speaker. “What the fuck happened?”

“Alexei showed up,” Svetlana explained. “It was bad. Um, Ilya’s getting stitches.” Shane let out a hiss of air but before he could ask how Ilya was, Svetlana continued, “he’s okay. Well, physically he is going to be fine. No concussion or anything too serious. Just a black eye and some stitches. His nose isn’t even broken.”

Shane was staring dumbly at his mother. There was a ringing in his ears, pressure at his temples, a thickness in his throat. He tried to reason with his rising panic. Ilya played hockey; he got injuries all the time, had needed stitches on countless occasions, had gotten into plenty of fights on the ice. But this hadn’t happened on the ice, it had happened in Moscow, because of Ilya’s own fucking brother. Shane was suddenly so angry, so furious, his blood felt hot with a kind of vicious protectiveness that was almost overwhelming in its intensity.

Yuna rubbed his shoulder, which was tense and almost at his ear, and took the phone from between his fingers, aching with how tightly he was gripping his phone.

“Hi, this is Shane’s mum, Yuna,” she said, gently, into the speaker. “Has Ilya had brain scans? They’re certain that his head is okay?”

“Yeah, yeah he has, they are,” Svetlana assured. “I’m Svetlana, Ilya’s best friend. Um, I’ve been with him over here. I don’t know if you know who I am.”

“I do, Ilya showed me a picture of you at Christmas,” Yuna smiled and then she asked, “can you tell us what happened?” Over the line Svetlana let out a heavy gush of air.

“Alexei wasn’t supposed to be there,” she explained, a strain in her voice that Shane had never heard before. “I don’t even know. They just started arguing and then Alexei said some shit about their mother and Ilya hit him and then…” A frustrated sigh. “Alexei hit Ilya with a glass bottle and Ilya’s forehead split open. It was a fucking mess.”

“Fuck,” Shane dropped his head onto the vanity, and his mum petted his hair, gentle and soothing, like she had when he was a kid. He nudged into the touch, feeling guilty for having it, for having comfort so readily given, for having his mother, when all Ilya got from his family was a bottle to the fucking face. Fuck.

“His face is going to be fine,” Svetlana reiterated. Shane wasn’t worried about Ilya’s face. He lifted his head and took the phone off his mother, breathing in deep a couple times before clearing his throat.

“I’m at a shoot,” Shane said, voice steady, level, calm. “Can you tell him I’ll call him later? And can you just keep me posted on how he is? Like with the hospital. I will get mum to hold onto my phone, just text with anything, okay.”

“Yeah, Shane, of course,” Svetlana murmured, then she sighed. “I don’t think this is good, Shane. I think he’s…”

“Yeah, I know,” he muttered. He knew. It was not going to be easy to talk to Ilya about this. He was almost certain that Ilya would be determined to push him away, avoid the topic, deflect with sex or humour or just general assholery. Shane wouldn’t let him, not now, not like he would have in the past.

“Just, um,” Svetlana laughed, though it was humourless, “try not to hate him if he’s an ass. Cause he’s going to be an ass.”

Shane nodded, remembered she couldn’t see him, and then said, “I know.”

“Okay,” she mumbled. “Okay, I’m going to go back in and see what I can do to… fuck, keep shit together I guess.”

“Yeah, thank you. Thank you for being there with him.”

“No shit. He’s ours.” A pause. “He’ll be alright. We’ll get him through it.”

The line disconnected. Shane dropped the phone to the vanity and then dropped his head to his hands.

Fuck.

Chapter End Notes

He 🤭

Anyway, I wanted the argument about sleeping with other people that Ilya vaguely referenced in TLG to be in this fic so I kinda re-jigged it to suit my needs. So instead of Shane ignoring Ilya for four days he kinda just yelled at him about it straight away.

I also wanted to have Shane coming out to Hayden and Jackie because at the end of HR we know Hayden figures out that Boston Lily was Ilya all along but at some point Shane had to of come out to him and told him Lily was a man so...

Also! I updated within a week! Be proud of me!

I hope you enjoyed this!

Next chapter we will go back to Ilya's poor, tortured head and deal with what happened with Alexei!

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Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

His brother hadn’t changed at all since Ilya had last seen him. Same angry eyes, same twisted expression, same hard-set jaw. So much like their father, too much like their father.
“I was just leaving,” Ilya said. He was suddenly, acutely, aware that he hadn’t thought through how bad this could be for his sister-in-law and niece.
“Why the fuck is he here, Yelena?” Alexei growled, storming into the room, making the space feel suddenly tighter, smaller, the high-ceilings pressing in. Ilya stepped into his brother’s path, attempting to shield Yelena from view with his body.
“I just wanted to see my niece,” Ilya said, placating. “I came by to see her.”
“You don’t fucking get to see her,” Alexei crowded him against the dining table.

Chapter Notes

Please be aware that this chapter contains: mentions of domestic abuse, depictions of violence, descriptions of blood, descriptions of nausea, homophobic slurs, references to wound stitching and hospitals.

There was a polaroid tucked behind his Massachusetts driver’s licence in his wallet. Over-exposed, a little blurry, creased from being taken out and looked at too often. The captivating curve of Shane’s spine caught on film, the muscles in his back flexing, the back of his head half-hidden by his shirt, his freckles rendered invisible by the photo’s poor quality, but Ilya knew they were there. Knew intimately the patterns they mapped out over Shane’s shoulders, little galaxies that darkened in the summer, so beautiful, his mouth pressing over and over, reverent and adoring, tracing them with his lips.

He’d taken the photo in Vermont, when they’d stolen away a weekend together in mid-February. Trying to be sneaky but caught because the camera was not subtle, the mechanical whir of it spitting out the polaroid drawing Shane’s attention, his boyfriend peeking back at Ilya over his shoulder, grinning, carefree and easy, dark eyes so pretty and so warm. Then Shane tackling him, pushing him into the soft bedsheets, kissing him stupid, kissing him from the tip of his nose down to the arch of his foot. So syrupy, so tender, an overwhelming display of devotion. Them fucking for hours, hours and hours, touching and biting and pressing closer, closer, until Ilya felt entirely remade. Like all his cells had turned over anew, regenerated under the demanding grip of Shane’s strong fingers, his body left branded, marked, possessed. No longer just his own.

Shane would probably disapprove of him keeping the picture in his wallet. Of him bringing it with him to Russia. But it could be anyone, could be any man’s broad, sculpted back. Could be any man’s dark, messy hair. Only Ilya knew it was Shane’s back, Shane’s hair. His Shane captured, looking divine, on film, just for him. No one the wiser.

He held the picture between his thumb and forefinger now, sat at Svetlana’s dining table, lukewarm coffee at his elbow, a cigarette wafting smoke in the ashtray. The sharp edge of the polaroid dug into the delicate skin at the juncture of his purlicue, the sting of it keeping him from slipping too deep into his brooding. Because he was brooding. Svetlana had made sure he was thoroughly aware of that fact, dumping coffee beside him, telling him to eat something other than nicotine, and to stop darkening her nice apartment with his moping.

She sat across from him, sipping on her espresso, scrolling through her phone with her feet tucked under her on the chair, wearing only an oversized sleeping shirt and her underwear. The easy comfort of it, of being beside her in the early morning light, both wearing their sleep clothes, just made him miss Shane even more.

(Miss the slow mornings spent at the cottage last summer, bodies sleep-warm and heavy, tangled together under linen sheets, hands and mouths wandering, smiling into the press of their lips. Making coffee together, drinking it by the lake as the wildlife woke up with the sunrise, sprawling in the grass and making out like teenagers, pushing each other into the dirt, wrestling, until their shorts were filthy with grass stains.)

Ilya tucked the polaroid away, safe behind his driver’s licence, and picked up his cigarette again. Inhaling deep, releasing smoke out the corner of his mouth. He only had to make it through three more days here. Just three more days in Moscow. Then he would be on a plane to Ottawa, to Shane, and everything would be okay again. Maybe.

He’d fucked up yesterday. Let Sasha get to him. When he’d woken up later in the morning, after his drunken phone call with Shane, he’d felt shame. Embarrassment. Complete and utter mortification. He’d let those needy, insecure parts of him slip, spill out in words. Shane had been so mad at him too, his voice pitched low and angry as he’d asked Ilya what the fuck was wrong with him. Truth be told, Ilya didn’t know.

There was an instinct within him. A latent impulse that demanded he dig nails into old wounds, reopening them, tearing through tissue, just to make sure he never forgot them, carving out new scars in his haste. He didn’t know why he prodded, poked at torn flesh, but he couldn’t fucking help it. It was just in his nature to make things worse.

His phone chimed, lighting up where it rested in front of him on the oakwood table.

Ilya wasn’t particularly familiar with his niece. The little girl had been born after he’d started his career in America, and he’d only ever seen her sparingly in the summers between seasons. He sent her presents every year, for birthdays and New Years, had set up a trust fund for her, and given his brother his old apartment so the girl would be housed but… he hadn’t been at her baptism, her first birthday, hadn’t even taken her out for ice cream. Milana was six now and Ilya hadn’t seen her since his father’s funeral, his niece sat quietly at her father’s side, dressed in sombre black, blonde hair tucked back with a headband. He hadn’t spoken to her then; he wondered if she remembered him.

He wondered what she was like. Was she like Alexei? Or more like her mother? Maybe neither of them. Maybe she was like Ilya, or her grandmother. Hopefully nothing like her grandfather.

“Yelena?” Svetlana asked, nodding her head at his phone still lit up and untouched on the tabletop.

“Mm,” Ilya nodded, the message notifications on his lock screen piling up. He should really answer some of them. He reached for his phone and opened his messaging app. There were a few texts from the Hollanders. Yuna and David both. Ilya opened those ones first.

Ilya saved the listings to look at later and liked Yuna’s messages, thumbing through to his chat with David.

He grinned at the picture, an awkward selfie, the edge of David’s face just in frame, camera angled down to capture the completed puzzle on the dining table. It was the puzzle of Boston that Ilya had sent him, as a joke, when Montreal had been knocked out of the playoffs. Shane had been particularly pissy about that joke. Ilya liked the image and responded to David with a simple: better than MTL. Then he opened his messages with Shane; a thread of unopened texts, sent overnight, waiting for him in the chat.

Ilya frowned, reading through the messages twice. Stupid Hayden Pike, trying to set up his boyfriend with some children’s gymnastics teacher. As if Shane would ever go for a gymnast.

Ilya

They tried to set you up with who?

He immediately realised that was, in fact, not the important part of Shane’s message and quickly added:

Ilya

I am glad it went well.

You are very brave, мой Зайчик.

Shane would absolutely not appreciate being called ‘little bunny,’ but Ilya didn’t give a fuck. If he’d have said it to his face Shane would have been annoyed, and said ‘ew, no’, but then he’d fold anyway, let Ilya kiss him, pretend to protest as Ilya murmured it over and over into his skin.

His mother had called him Зайчик, squeezing his nose between her thumb and forefinger, pressing kisses to the creases that formed when he screwed up his nose, like a bunny’s nose, she would say. Sometimes she would call him Солнышко or Малыш, talking to him softly as she tied his skates, blonde hair falling over her shoulder, obscuring her face, as she reminded him to tuck his chin and roll to the side if he felt he was about to fall over. ‘Avoid your tailbone, sunshine,’ she would say, ‘it will hurt lots if you fall backwards.’ Then she would adjust his coat, zipping it up to protect his throat from the cold winter air, and press a kiss to his cheek.

Over the summer he’d told Shane that Irina would have loved him, like Ilya loved him, and, though he’d never even gotten the chance to tell his mother that he was bisexual, he believed it. Believed she would have seen within Shane the same light that Ilya did. Sometimes he fantasised about them meeting, the two people he loved most, together in the same space. Shaking hands, smiling at each other, maybe eventually sharing a hug, laughing together.

“What time are we going over?” Svetlana asked, breaking Ilya’s fantasy.

“Noon,” Ilya replied, locking his phone and dropping it on the table. She stared at him, eyebrows pinched. “What?”

“You’re not going to tell me to fuck off again?” she asked. “No more, ‘you’re not coming with me, Svetlana, it is not safe.’” She did a terrible impression of him; she didn’t sound anything like him at all.

“I cannot stop you,” he shrugged.

“Uh huh,” she squinted at him, “glad you finally recognise you can’t tell me what to do, assface.”

“Yeah yeah,” he muttered, waving his hand and pushing himself away from the table as he stubbed out his cigarette. “I’m going to shower.”

“You should really eat something!” she yelled after him and he just flipped her off over his shoulder.

“I’ll get McDonald’s on the way,” he grumbled back, ducking into the bathroom.

As he shut the door, she yelled out one last time, “if you use all the hot water again, I’m making you check into a hotel!”

Ilya

You’re probably asleep now.

We are seeing Yelena soon.

Ilya’s old apartment was in the Arbat district, an aging, affluent structure that stood across from the shoreline of the Moskva River. He’d bought it for the location, the top floor of the building offering sweeping views of the Moscow skyline, making him feel tall, like a giant looming above the city, separated from the muck at street level.

Svetlana stood beside him in the lift, leaning against the handrail, head tilted back as they watched the blocky numbers tick upwards towards his floor. At the thirteenth floor the doors slid open.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.

The doors slowly started to close; Ilya lurched forward and pressed his palm to the metal, forcing them back open, using the grip he had on the door to push himself out of the lift and into the hall. Svetlana followed after him.

She didn’t say anything as he tilted his head back, glaring at the ceiling, swallowing around the lump in his throat. She just stood, beside him, waiting for him to make a choice.

“Let’s fucking get it over with,” he bit out and she nodded, turning down the hall, as familiar with the building as Ilya was.

It felt strange, knocking on his old door, knuckles tapping hesitantly on wood. He hadn’t been here since after his father’s funeral; spending a fitful night of sleep in his too big, too cold, too empty room. In the morning he’d called Shane in Montreal, managed to convince Shane to jerk off for him on camera, and he’d realised, with the kind of horrifying clarity that could only be achieved post-orgasm, that he had to break it off with him. Because it couldn’t end well, there wasn’t a world where they could be a them, no matter how obvious it was becoming that they both wanted it.

(But then Shane got hurt, and Ilya couldn’t say no to his dopey, drugged-up, gorgeous face. And then Scott Hunter had kissed his boyfriend in front of the entire world, after winning the Stanley Cup, and Ilya hated to admit it, to give Hunter credit for anything, but that moment changed everything. Seeing Hunter at the All-Stars Weekend this year with his boyfriend in tow had been exhilarating for Ilya; Ilya who had thought he had to let the love of his life go just over a year ago, suddenly confronted with a reality wherein a fellow NHL player was in love, publicly, with a man.

Fuck this stupid trip, Ilya wanted to get back on a plane to Ottawa now.)

The door opened, creaking on its hinges, a little blonde girl standing just inside the entryway, staring up at Ilya and Svetlana with big, blue eyes. Milana. Ilya softened his shoulders, crouching to her level, and smiled warmly at his niece. She shrank back, hiding half her body behind the grey door, frowning at him, wary. He was a stranger after all.

“Hi Milana,” he murmured, voice gentle. “I’m Ilya, your father’s brother. Did your mama tell you I was coming over?”

Milana nodded and pulled her bottom lip into her mouth, gaze contemplative as Ilya held out a hand to her. He didn’t touch her, didn’t broach the barrier of the doorframe, just held his palm out, a gesture of vulnerability, exposing soft skin. When he’d been a child, listening out for the sound of his father’s footfalls down the hall, trying to guess at what mood the man was in that day, if today was a day he would likely be hit, those gestures of vulnerability–upturned palms, tears on cheeks–had been the only thing he’d trusted. The wounded animal in his sternum reaching out for comfort, seeking safety in the fragility of others. Proof that he wasn’t the weakest one.

“You were at grandfather’s funeral,” Milana said and Ilya nodded, tilting his head. Behind the young girl, her mother was approaching, quietly, settling her hands on her daughters shoulders gently when she reached the doorway. The little girl only flinched a bit at the touch. Yelena’s fingers gently tucked blonde strands of hair behind Milana’s pink ears.

“This is your uncle Ilya, Milanka,” Yelena said as she smiled hesitantly down at Ilya, still crouching in the doorway. Then her gaze slid warily to Svetlana, stood in the hallway, tall and protective at Ilya’s back.

“This is my friend, Sveta,” Ilya gestured towards her and Svetlana waved awkwardly at the girl. She really was not very good with children. “I like your bow, Milana. It is very pretty.”

Milana smiled, cheeks turning a rosy pink, and she reached out her hand, resting her small, soft palm in the middle of his own, rough, calloused one. He kept his palm open, tickling his fingers at her wrist, and she giggled, turning to bury her face against her mother’s thigh. Yelena smiled at her daughter kindly and then nodded her head, back into the apartment, a gesture for Ilya and Svetlana to follow her inside.

The interior of the apartment hadn’t changed much. Alexei had kept most of Ilya’s old furniture, replacing only a few items, and not adding much to the space apart from a gaudy, gold-trimmed bar cart in the lounge room. There used to be a tasteful, subtle, oak cellarette in the space, bequeathed to Ilya in his grandmother’s will. He wondered if Alexei had sold it or smashed it; he’d always been mad that the old bitch had preferred Ilya to him. It wasn’t like it had been a privilege, their grandmother had been a vile woman.

The biggest change to the space was that there were now children’s toys in his old apartment. A large dollhouse in the lounge room, two-stories tall, sparsely filled with furniture. Milana wandered back over to the rug beside the dollhouse, dropping to her knees and picking up a plastic doll, brushing her fingers through its hair. Ilya watched her for a moment as she played, barely making a sound. There was a clock on the wall, ticking loudly, and the fridge was humming incessantly. Beneath it all, Milana’s soft voice, whispering to her doll.

Svetlana leaned against the kitchen counter beside him, eyes narrowed over at the door Yelena had disappeared through–the old guest bedroom, Ilya wondered what the space housed now.

“It’s like a mausoleum in here,” she murmured, her voice gentle but piercing loudly through the silence. The corners of her mouth were pinched, tense.

“Mm,” Ilya nodded, he was familiar with the particular quality of unease that was haunting the walls of his old home.

Svetlana had only ever known the space in its chaos. Nights spent here in the summer, music loud, Russian synth-pop spilling into the street outside and ruining the neighbours’ evenings. She’d only experienced the parties, the drugs, the free-flowing alcohol, the bodies crammed into spaces too tight, too warm, too intimate for strangers. Svetlana had not known his childhood home, not well. They’d always played in the streets, or at her home, or in the park down by the river. Her mother had not let her in the Rozanov home, she’d known too much about what it was like.

Ilya had done his very best, when he’d lived here, to make sure this place was never mausoleum-quiet like his childhood home had been. That effort didn’t seem to matter now. Alexei had moved in all their shared ghosts along with his wife and child. Ruining a perfectly nice apartment.

Yelena emerged from the old guest bedroom with a stack of small boxes balanced in her arms. Ilya met her in the middle of the living space, taking the top two boxes from the stack and placing them on the dining table before they all went toppling out of her arms. She smiled gratefully, placing the last box on the table as well. He didn’t recognise the boxes; covered in floral print and of varying sizes.

“I had to hide your things,” Yelena explained, wringing her hands, “hence the boxes. They blended in better with my sewing tools. Truthfully, a lot of your stuff was destroyed. Some of this is yours. Some of it is stuff that Alexei didn’t want from your father’s home–but I thought maybe you might want it. I’m sorry it’s not much.”

Ilya shook his head, smiling at his sister-in-law. Her returning smile was threadbare. There was a dark bruise blooming over her clavicle, the strap of her singlet slipping off her thin shoulder as she walked past him and into the kitchen. He was reminded of his mother, at the end. Too thin, bruised flesh, tired eyes. His gaze darted to his niece, still sat quietly in the corner by her dollhouse, light streaming through the window and glinting gold through her hair.

A hand gripped his elbow and Ilya looked down, at Svetlana, staring back at him with caution. “I’ll take the boxes to the car,” she said, nodding to the table. They’d rented a car for the day, neither of them kept one in the city, but they’d figured maybe there would be enough stuff that it would be too difficult to bring it back on the metro. He nodded and she squeezed his elbow. “You can’t fix everything, Ilyushka.” Her tone was serious, her eyes hard.

Ilya pulled his elbow from her grip with a frown. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered back and she just rolled her eyes, turning to stack the boxes back on top of each other before leaving the apartment with one last, firm look at him. He watched her leave, the door left open behind her, and then he turned to Yelena in the kitchen.

“Do you want tea?” she asked, holding the kettle up at him. Ilya nodded.

Yelena brewed black tea for them, serving it in fine porcelain cups, with strawberry jam on the side. Ilya mixed his jam into the tea and grinned at Milana who just shoved spoonfuls of jam in her mouth between gulps of tea, blowing loudly over the rim of her cup before each slurping sip.

Svetlana hadn’t returned from the car yet; Ilya suspected she was trying to give him a moment to talk to his sister-in-law alone. You can’t fix everything, Ilyushka. Fuck that, fuck everything about that. Maybe he could.

“Careful, Milanka, you will burn your mouth,” Yelena murmured, wrapping her fingers around her daughter’s wrist and pulling the teacup from her hand. “Slow sips, little fox.”

“I am being careful, mama,” Milana complained, frowning at her mother. Yelena just hummed and added some cold water to the cup. “Can I play now?” she asked, dropping her spoon onto the saucer. There was jam smeared on her chin.

“Yes, go on,” Yelena nodded, swiping her thumb over her daughter’s face, removing the jam. Milana skipped away, over to her dollhouse, blonde hair swishing at her back as she went.

Ilya waited until the girl was happily preoccupied with her toys to turn back to Yelena. The woman was avoiding looking at him, gaze fixed on her daughter in the corner, hand curling over her shoulder, as if trying to hide the massive bruise they both already knew was there.

“Did my brother do that?” Ilya asked and Yelena tensed, brows furrowing. She turned to him, something like shame, like fury, twisting on her face. There was a cardigan hung over the back of the chair beside her, she tugged it off then pulled it on, wrapping it tight around herself, not quite well enough to cover the yellowing marks on her clavicle.

“It’s none of your business,” she replied, stern. Ilya couldn’t help but push.

“Do you need money?” he offered, reaching for his phone on the table.

“For what?”

“To leave.”

“And then what?” Yelena hissed, voice pitched low so Milana wouldn’t hear. “You think I can just leave? With his daughter? Are you stupid?”

“He hits you,” Ilya murmured, though something in her expression made him feel scolded, like he’d overstepped. Still, his niece was part of this fucked up dynamic. “What about Milana?”

“He doesn’t hit her,” Yelena answered, jutting her chin. “You don’t understand shit, Ilya. I cannot leave without her, and I cannot take her if I leave. He will find me.”

“Can’t you–”

“Alexei is police,” Yelena snapped. “What the fuck do you think that means for me? Who do you think the police will believe? Who will they protect? What can your money do about that? Huh?” she heaved a deep breath, nostrils flaring, and then gritted out between her teeth “I am happy you have given my daughter a chance for a better life. I am grateful. But you don’t know what’s best for her so stay the fuck out of my business.”

Ilya withdrew, settling against the back of his chair, fingers tapping at the side of his teacup. You can’t fix everything, Ilyushka. Maybe that was true after all. God, he hated this fucking city.

On the table his phone buzzed, several messages popping up at once on the screen, he didn’t open them, just shoved his phone in his pocket and nodded apologetically at Yelena. Later he would regret not checking them. “You’re right,” he said, he could still feel his phone buzzing in his pocket. “Thank you for everything… and if you or Milana ever do need anything…”

“Yeah, okay,” Yelena waved a hand, jerking her head to the side, flattening her mouth into a thin line.

“I should go,” he made to stand and she nodded, not looking at him.

That was as clear a sign as any and Ilya drew in a breath, nodding to himself. He didn’t want to interrupt Milana, playing quietly in the corner, but he took a moment to look at her. There was a future wherein he met her again, when she was older, maybe away from Russia, fleeing her motherland like Ilya had at nineteen. He hoped one day he would find her again, get to know her, but for now… for now her mother was right. Ilya didn’t know shit.

“What the fuck is he doing here?”

Ah, fuck. Ilya turned, towards the front door, still standing ajar, to find Alexei stood just inside the entryway, a vicious snarl curling his lip.

His brother hadn’t changed at all since Ilya had last seen him. Same angry eyes, same twisted expression, same hard-set jaw. So much like their father, too much like their father.

“I was just leaving,” Ilya said. He was suddenly, acutely, aware that he hadn’t thought through how bad this could be for his sister-in-law and niece.

“Why the fuck is he here, Yelena?” Alexei growled, storming into the room, making the space feel suddenly tighter, smaller, the high-ceilings pressing in. Ilya stepped into his brother’s path, attempting to shield Yelena from view with his body.

“I just wanted to see my niece,” Ilya said, placating. “I came by to see her.”

“You don’t fucking get to see her,” Alexei crowded him against the dining table.

He was shorter than Ilya, by an inch or so, but he carried himself like a much larger man; with all the arrogance of a fool propped up by a badge. Ilya didn’t shrink from him, he never had, even in this moment he would not fucking fawn to his brother. Ilya pushed on his brother’s chest, creating space between them. Alexei shoved him right back.

“You decided to abandon your family,” Alexei spat. “You decided to live a luxurious, faggot life in America. You don’t get to fucking see her.”

Ilya seethed. Indignation simmering to the surface, itching just under his skin.

“Abandoned,” Ilya laughed, gesturing widely, “who’s fucking apartment do you live in? Who’s fucking money is in a trust for your daughter?”

“It’s the least you could fucking do,” his brother growled, poking a firm finger into Ilya’s chest. “After the shit you put this family through.”

“What I put this family through?” Ilya’s laughter was bordering on hysterical, manic, bubbling in his throat and pushing at the back of his teeth. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Alexei just stared at him, mouth twitching, chest heaving. The pupils of his beady eyes were thin, shaking, focused on Ilya with such intensity that it made his skin crawl. There was a sheen of sweat forming on Alexei’s forehead, prickling under his eyes, a flushing to his cheeks. Ilya could feel his own body tensing, muscles locking, preparing for a hit, like on the ice, like when he was a boy.

“Ilya.” Svetlana’s voice, over by the doorway. Ilya didn’t take his eyes off of his brother, didn’t acknowledge her at all. “Ilya, let’s go.” A plea, he ignored it.

 “What about what you’re putting your family through, Alexei?” Ilya asked, tilting his chin, looking down his nose at his brother. “You’re just like father. Huh? Hitting your wife.”

“She fell.”

“Sure.”

“You don’t fucking speak about my wife.”

“You’re a pathetic man, Alexei,” Ilya spat. “Hitting a woman.”

Alexei nodded, shaking out his hands and stepping up to Ilya, even closer, lowering his voice dangerously. “And you’re pussy, Ilya. Weak. Just like our bitch mother.”

Before Alexei even had a chance to smirk, to relish in the way those words winded Ilya, like a blow right to the chest, he was on the ground. Ilya hadn’t even realised he was moving until he was sprawled on the kitchen floor, gripping Alexei’s shirt with one hand and connecting his fist with his brother’s skull with the other. He punched once. Twice. Three times. On the third blow, a crunch, Alexei’s nose crumpling under his knuckles and then streaming blood.

He was sure there was sound around him, someone saying his name, someone shouting Alexei’s. All of it faded out, drowned out by the ringing in his ears. By the fury boiling in his blood.

Beneath him Alexei was laughing, mouth spread wide, teeth stained red by the blood leaking from his nostrils. Ilya shook him and shouted, “the fuck are you saying about her?!”

“You put her on a pedestal, Ilya,” Alexei spat, a glob of blood aimed at Ilya’s face, missing, landing on the linoleum floor instead. “All these years, thinking she was some perfect angel. That she could do no wrong. But she fucking left you, Ilya. She was weak.”

“She didn’t–”

“She did,” Alexei said. “Even before she died a coward’s death. She was never there, Ilya. She didn’t love us. She left us with him.”

“Fuck you,” Ilya growled and shoved Alexei into the floor, releasing his shirt. He had to get out of this fucking apartment. Get away from his brother.

Ilya made to stand but Alexei caught him around the waist and tackled him back into the ground. They grappled on the floor, fists flying, rolling until they were nudging up against the gaudy bar cart.

Alexei had him pinned with his thighs, pressing his forearm across Ilya’s throat, dripping blood from his nose onto Ilya. One knee was digging hard into Ilya’s palm, making his fingers tingle, his knuckles grinding together, pain radiating up to his shoulder.

Ilya struggled against his brother, eventually managing to free his hand, but his body was still pinned down by Alexei’s weight. He swung his arm up, digging his fingers into Alexei’s eye socket, nails biting in deep, making the man howl angrily and slam his own elbow into Ilya’s eye in retaliation. The impact rattled Ilya’s skull, made his teeth ache, pain spreading throughout his face instantly, his sinuses searing hotly as Alexei elbowed him in the eye again.

Ilya rolled, trying to dislodge his brother above him. Alexei, still clutching his own eye tumbled sideways, back slamming into the bar cart. But his brother recovered quickly, quicker than Ilya could get himself to his feet.

He was on his knees when the bottle shattered against his skull.

Vodka spilled, down his face, over his neck and shoulders, shards of glass raining down in the gush of clear liquid. Then, blood. Red flooding his vision. Pain, sharp and biting, spreading through the left side of his face. His stomach roiled, the nausea was immediate, and even through the ringing in his ears he could hear Svetlana yelling.

Alexei gripped a hand in Ilya’s hair, now damp with vodka, and yanked his head back. Ilya was dizzy, too unsteady to pull back, and he looked up at his brother with one eye, the other shut against the blood pooling in his lash line. Alexei punched him, fist connecting with Ilya’s browbone, over and over.

After the third hit Ilya managed to wrench himself out of Alexei’s grasp, elbowing his brother in the gut, sending the shorter man back to the ground. Ilya scrambled to his feet, one hand coming up to prod at the wound on his forehead, the other grasping blindly for something to steady him. His fingers found the back of a dining chair.

Alexei made to lunge at him, Ilya kicked him in the stomach. Twice. His brother wheezed, bending over, but he finally stayed down.

The room was spinning, the walls shivering around him, the ceiling caving in. Everything felt odd, felt like he was seeing it through a kaleidoscope, through one of those weird mirrors at the circus. He stumbled, an arm wrapped around his shoulders, tugging him back, away from the twisting room.

“Come on, come on,” Svetlana whispered, frantic, her voice pitched higher than he’d ever heard it. Ilya leaned into her, putting too much of his weight against her body, she was not strong enough to keep him up. But she managed, somehow, and Ilya felt her arms quiver around him but hold firm, refusing to let him fall.

Across the room he found Milana, standing beside her dollhouse, tears streaming down her red cheeks, her mother knelt in front of her, trying to pull her head down so she wouldn’t look. So she wouldn’t see the blood and glass and alcohol smeared over the floor. The little girl wouldn’t move though, eyes stuck on Ilya, wide and terrified.

Ilya kept his gaze locked on her as Svetlana dragged him through the door.

“Fucking fuck!” Svetlana hissed, her fingers wrapped tight around the steering wheel, gaze flicking to Ilya frantically as she sped down the off-ramp to the hospital.

She’d been swearing, non-stop, for the last eight minutes. Driving way over the speed limit, yelling at Ilya to keep his eyes open, slapping his arm if his eyes drifted shut for even a moment. Ilya thought she was over-reacting, he was fine. It didn’t even hurt anymore.

The rental screeched to a stop, parked across two spaces, at an angle, and then Svetlana was throwing off her seatbelt and stumbling out the door. She rounded the car, the passenger door swung open, and then she was bending over him, unbuckling his seatbelt, wrapping an arm around his middle and yanking him out with all her strength. Ilya tried to help her, he really did, but his legs felt far too heavy for his body. He leaned most of his weight on her as they hobbled awkwardly to the doors of the emergency department.

Inside the hospital was bright. Too loud. White light glaring overhead, the air reeking of antiseptic. Ilya scrunched his face against the onslaught of stimulation and then hissed, pain throbbing at his temple, more blood pulsing out the wound in his head, dribbling down his face. He had a wad of tissues pressed into his forehead, the best they could do under the circumstances, and Svetlana pressed onto it harder now, making Ilya wince and groan.

“Shut up, hold pressure,” she hissed, dumping him in a hard plastic chair and running off to the triage desk.

Ilya couldn’t tell if the room was busy, or quiet, or if it was even real. His brain was throbbing, pushing against the walls of his skull, he felt like it was going to burst if someone didn’t quickly split him open and release some of the pressure. Another wave of nausea hit and he doubled over, dropping his face into his knees, breathing raggedly in through his nose and out his mouth. He managed to remember to keep pressure on his wound.

There were tears pricking behind his eyes, unbidden, demanding to spill. Everything hurt. Worse than he’d ever remembered hurting before.

Suddenly, desperately, he wanted Shane. Wanted his boyfriend here, beside him, in this too bright, too loud hospital in Moscow. Wanted Shane’s hands in his hair, on his back, soothing and rubbing. Wanted Shane’s voice, deep and gentle, whispering to him, telling him it would be okay, shushing him tenderly. Wanted Shane’s lips pressed to his forehead, kissing him softly, warm mouth to sweaty skin.

I want Shane. I want Shane. I want Shane.

A shadow passed over him. Someone was in front of him, placing a hand on his shoulder, coaxing him to unfurl himself and sit upright. It was a nurse. Ilya wanted to sob; it wasn’t Shane. Not that it would have been. He was in fucking Moscow. God, his head hurt.

“Mister Rozanov,” the nurse said, and then she kept talking but Ilya heard nothing, blinking as his hearing faded out to a ringing again. Svetlana stood beside the nurse, frowning, responding for Ilya when it became apparent that Ilya had lost the ability. His eyes slid shut.

Ilya was in a hospital gown and his jeans. His shirt had been soaked through with blood, and they’d removed it before cleaning the gash above his eyebrow, removing the shards of glass lodged into his skin. He was sat now, a doctor in front of him carefully injecting anaesthetic around the wound to numb the area so they could stitch it up.

Across the room Svetlana was staring at him, standing, refusing to sit, her face set in a deep frown. The fluorescent white lights overhead washed her out, making her skin look sallow, casting dark shadows beneath her big hazel eyes. Ilya could only imagine how terrible he looked. He fucking felt terrible.

“Alright, can you feel this, Ilya?” the doctor asked. Ilya had insisted she stop calling him ‘Mister Rozanov.’ That had been his father’s fucking name.  

“No,” he answered. There was something touching him, but it didn’t hurt, just a dulled sensation on the peripheral of his consciousness.

“Okay, we’re going to stitch you up now,” the doctor told him, making eye contact, Ilya nodded his consent. “Hold still please.”

It didn’t hurt, but there was sensation, discomfort. Nothing too bad. Nothing like the pain from before. Thank god for modern medicine. Specifically morphine.

Svetlana pushed herself off the wall and stalked over, hovering at the doctor’s shoulder, glaring angrily down at Ilya. Now that he was trapped, forced to sit still and be quiet, it seemed she was ready to lecture him.

“You fucking idiot,” she hissed, baring her teeth.

“You heard what he said,” Ilya bristled, doing his best to not frown or move his face too much. The doctor leaned away from Svetlana a bit, closer to Ilya, her eyes fixed firmly on her task.

“You shouldn’t have fucking listened, Ilya,” her voice climbed in volume to an almost shout. The nurse beside them cleared her throat and glared at Svetlana. His best friend just shot the nurse a filthy look then snapped her neck back towards Ilya. “You know what he does. You know better, Ilya.”

He was ashamed to admit it, but he did. His lack of response, or witty retort, seemed to satisfy Svetlana because her shoulders slumped and she scrubbed a hand over her face. When she looked back up at him there was a concerned crease between her brows, and her hazel eyes were less sharp.

“You bled so much, Ilya, I thought–” she cut herself off abruptly and blew out an angry breath. “I’m calling Sha-Jane.”

Ilya jerked, the doctor swore under her breath. “No,” Ilya snapped, pulling away as the doctor grabbed his chin and tried to move his head back into position. “You can’t tell hi-her. She will worry.”

“Of course she’ll fucking worry. She loves you, you idiot,” Svetlana snapped then added with a grumble “for some fucking reason.”

“Please don’t–”

“Nope,” Svetlana shook her head, pulling out her phone and stepping backwards. “I’m telling Jane. I don’t want to hear it.”

Then she was ducking out between the curtains, disappearing into the chaos of the emergency room. The doctor tugged on his chin again and Ilya relented, letting himself be directed, giving her a brief, apologetic smile. Beside them the nurse scoffed.

“Your girlfriend?” the doctor asked, eyes focused on her task.

“Svetlana is my friend,” Ilya replied, staring at a point over her shoulder. The woman shook her head.

“No, Jane,” she clarified and Ilya looked at her, something like panic suddenly flooding his brain. Ilya didn’t like the idea of anyone in Moscow knowing about Jane, knowing something so private, so secret. In an effort to balance the scales, the gaping divide of exposure, his eyes flicked around her scrubs, looking for information. The nametag on her badge said Doctor Zaitseva.

“Yes,” Ilya finally replied.

“You got into a fight?” Zaitseva asked and Ilya hummed in the affirmative. “Then your friend is right to tell your girlfriend. She will be worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” Ilya groused and the doctor tutted, beside them the nurse snorted. Ilya flicked his gaze to her, trying to convey a scowl with just his eyes.

“You’re lucky that you are,” Zaitseva said. “Men,” she sighed, “always trying to prove your point with your fists.”

He felt like biting back, saying something like well, I play hockey for a living, doctor, so yes, my fists are used to prove my point quite regularly. But… but…

Ilya had seen Milana’s face as he’d stumbled out of the apartment. The blue of her eyes stark against her pale skin, tears running down her cheeks. If he really thought about it, he had heard her screaming, terrified, through the ringing in his ears. Something sickening curled in his stomach, twisting around his organs, tugging, pulling, aching. He was no better than his father. A violent man. An angry man. A man that scared children.

It took all of his strength not to crumple, to keep himself upright. He shut his eyes so as to not have to look at the doctor in front of him or the disapproving nurse at her side. Behind his lids Milana’s stricken face seared into his memory, ensuring that he would never, ever forget the fear he’d caused.

There was a photo of his parents’ wedding day at the top of the first box Ilya opened. His mother’s head ducked, veil spilling over her shoulder, obscuring her profile. His father turned outwards, towards the crowd gathered around the church’s ornate doors, smiling, his arm held out for Irina, her hand wrapped around his elbow. His mother had been only twenty-one on her wedding day, Grigori already in his fifties, and she’d fallen pregnant with Alexei only three weeks after the ceremony.

The photo was worn, faded, thin between his fingers. Ilya dropped it back inside and shut the lid.

He couldn’t bring himself to look inside any of the others, stacking them in the corner of the room next to the closet instead, sitting himself against the opposite wall, far away, knees bent in front of him. His phone was buzzing on the nightstand again, it had been buzzing all night, keeping him up. He didn’t want to answer it.

The sun was coming up, grey light filtering in through the drawn curtains, casting odd shadows over the room. Ilya’s head was pounding, throbbing, but he refused to take the painkillers the doctor had discharged him with. Pills were dangerous.

There was a knock at the door. Ilya tipped his head back against the wall and didn’t answer it.

“Ilya.”

Another knock. He remained silent.

Go away. Go away. Go away.

There was something rotten festering in his gut, turning his insides to black tar. Best to be left alone. Best to stay away. Otherwise he might let it spill out.

“Can you at least answer your phone?” Svetlana sighed through the door. “Your boyfriend keeps calling me.”

Ilya’s eyes flicked to his phone, resting at the edge of the nightstand, still buzzing. It had to be past one in the morning in Montreal. He reached for it, laid it flat against his thigh, and stared at the screen. Waiting for it to inevitably ring again.

He hit accept, the call connected, and a gasp rasped through the tiny speaker, making Ilya’s hairs stand on end along his forearms.

“Ilya.” Shane’s voice, thin and laced with worry.

Ilya hung up. A second later the phone lit up again and he hit decline.

The phone’s voicemail inbox was full so Shane couldn’t leave a message. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t like Ilya had listened to any of the others already cramming his inbox anyway.

The phone buzzed again.

Something hot flared in his blood, sudden and overwhelming. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted to sit in this fucking room and rot and seethe and feel fucking sorry for himself alone. He didn’t want Svetlana to knock on the door. He didn’t want Shane to keep calling him–or get his fucking parents to call him. He wanted to be left the fuck alone.

He hit accept. “Stop fucking calling me.”

To his own ears his voice sounded hoarse, gravelly, like he’d been sat in silence for the last ten hours, staring at the wall. (He had.) The ugly shape of his accent, wrapping around those stupid English vowels, sounding especially harsh after having only spoken in Russian for days.

“Ilya, are you okay?” Shane asked. Either ignoring him or not hearing him.

“Stop. Calling. Me.” Ilya repeated, each word a sharp bite, teeth digging in, canines clamping into a soft jugular, the mangled mut in his sternum lashing out. It wasn’t the first time he’d released it on Shane, and he was certain it wouldn’t be the last.

An exhale hissed through the phone’s speaker. “If you hang up again, I’m just going to call again,” Shane said, matter-of-fact, his voice steady, seemingly unphased by the severe edge to Ilya’s tone.

“And I will fucking keep ignoring you,” Ilya growled.

“Fine,” Shane snipped. “But I won’t stop.”

“I don’t want to fucking talk about it,” Ilya insisted, jaw tightening, teeth grinding. The phone was pressed tight to his ear, and his eyes were locked on the stack of floral boxes across the room.

“I just want to know if you’re okay,” Shane murmured, gentle, far too gentle. A show of vulnerability. Ilya did not deserve him. He dug his nails into that feeling, splitting it open, widening the wound.

“Of course I’m okay,” he laughed, bitterly. “I’m great. I was hoping I’d come to Moscow and get a fucking bottle to the face. This is exactly as I planned it.”

“Ilya,” Shane muttered, reproachful. The tone of it grated against Ilya’s already fragile grip on his anger. Before Shane could say anything else, Ilya continued, letting go of the rabid dog leashed inside.

“I wanted to give my step-mother seventy thousand dollars for a box of my father’s shit. I wanted to see fucking Sasha at the club. I wanted to get into a fucking fist fight with my brother in front of my niece. Yes! This is all exactly what I wanted!”

The thing was… it had been what he’d wanted. Not how it had all gone down, but it had been his idea to come back to Moscow. So he could have fucking closure or whatever before he committed to becoming a citizen of a new country, before he committed to moving to Ottawa to be with Shane.

“Ilya…”

But he couldn’t hear it. Not the tenderness in it, the careful way Shane pronounced his name, like it was something precious, like he was something precious. All his mind was able to latch onto, suddenly, was the why of all this… why he’d come back to this fucking place when he’d sworn that he never would again, why he’d felt the need for closure, why he’d decided to scavenge for his parents’ belongings.

“None of this would have happened if I hadn’t spent Christmas with your family.”

Ilya regretted saying it the moment it left his mouth.

“What?” Shane asked, strained, after a long beat. There was hurt, clear in his voice, fragile as it was.

“If I hadn’t been there then I wouldn’t have…” Ilya trailed off. His head was pounding, the pain piercing above his brow making his eyes slide shut, tight, in an attempt to alleviate some of the pressure. “I wouldn’t have come back here.”

“So this is my fault?” Shane said, his voice thick. “You getting smashed in the face with a bottle is my fucking fault? Is that it?”

No. It wasn’t Shane’s fault. None of it was Shane’s fucking fault.

But the silence stretched, and his throat closed, and his voice failed him.

The lingering silence seemed enough of an answer for Shane because he huffed, a bitter imitation of a laugh, and then Ilya heard a thunk over the line, loud and clear, like Shane had knocked something over in frustration.

“Fine.” Shane rasped, sounding angry and heartsick all at once. “Fuck you, Ilya.”

Then the call disconnected and Shane was gone.

Chapter End Notes

So...

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Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

I just want y'all to know that every. single. comment. on the last chapter made me so happy and I love you all and this fic is getting written and completed because of your comments and support! I won't respond to all of them but I read each and every one and I love you so much! Without the support I would just shrivel up lol. Writers create stuff for ourselves yes but also for others to enjoy it so please keep letting me know y'all are having a good (or horrible) time <3

I wrote this chapter super quick because I had 4 days off work and I just wanna get the angst (mostly) over with! There will be more angst at the cottage but the next two chaps (after this) are gonna be fluff, smut, lovey-gooey-dovey galore.

When you see this (❃❃❃) that is a POV change okay have fun~

The thing was, Shane hadn’t meant to lose it on Ilya.

He’d had a plan. Call Ilya. Make sure he was okay physically. Tell him that he had people who loved him, who were worried about him, who were here for him at any time of the day or night. Try and prod into how he was coping emotionally. (Maybe have phone sex with him if that would help alleviate some stress.) Remind him that he could access early check-in online from tomorrow morning for his flight to Ottawa. Tell him, again, that he was loved, so loved. Hang up. Call again in a few hours. Rinse and repeat.

Losing it had not been a part of the fucking plan.

Shit.

Shane had spent the rest of the night after their phone call tossing and turning on his mattress, twisting around himself, unable to find a comfortable position. He’d checked his phone every twenty minutes, harsh blue light burning his retinas, piercingly bright in the otherwise pitch-black room.

(He had blackout curtains, a must in a busy city like Montreal, a must for a professional athlete that needed to fucking sleep.)

It hadn’t mattered how many times he’d checked; no messages had come, there were no missed calls, nothing. Ilya said nothing. And Shane hadn’t reached out either. Instead he’d just stared, eyes burning with exhaustion, unable to move his fingers across the keys, unable to bridge the chasm that had suddenly formed between them.

It was just past six in the morning now and Shane had slept for a total of forty-five fucking minutes. His bedsheets were tangled around his feet, there was a twinge in his spine, a consequence of contorting himself throughout the night, and he was certain that when he went into the bathroom to wash his face, he’d find that his eyes were bloodshot.

“Fuck.”

He rolled, graceless and grumpy, out of his bed and onto his feet. For a moment he just stood, naked apart from his boxer briefs, hands tugging through his hair, considering his phone on the nightstand. The screen still black, and when he tapped it, there were no new notifications. Nothing since the last time he’d checked; which had been only twenty minutes ago.

“Fucking fuck fuck fuck,” Shane hissed, to no one, groaning into his palms, pressing his fingers into his eyes.

He needed a shower. (He needed a lot more than just a shower. But for now it would have to do.)

Under the hot spray Shane tried to take stock.

He’d fucked up, snapped when he’d intended to be gentle, and he didn’t know how to fix it. There was a nagging, insecure part of him that kept latching onto Ilya’s words, that kept poking at the bitterness laced through Ilya’s tone when he’d said that he regretted spending Christmas with Shane and his family. Well, no, he hadn’t said he regretted it exactly…

None of this would have happened if I hadn’t spent Christmas with your family.

Shane tipped his head back into the steady stream of scalding water. It sounded like regret. Even if it hadn’t been said exactly it sure fucking sounded like it.

(Which was crushing. Because the time that Ilya had spent with Shane’s family over Christmas had been so special. To him. It had been special to him. Over those days spent at the cottage, the world around them blanketed in snow, for the first time ever in his adult life, Shane had felt like he’d finally understood his place in the world outside of the rink. And it was beside Ilya.)

He cut off the water abruptly and just stood, for a moment, dripping wet, eyes locked on the drain. All of this was so completely fucked. He never should have let Ilya go.

(As if he had any control over what Ilya did or didn’t do. As if he ever would have tried to stand between his boyfriend and his quest for closure.)

The bathroom mirror was fogged over, condensation dripping down glass, he wiped a streak clear and frowned at his reflection. Bloodshot eyes, the thin skin beneath them dark and hollow. He looked terrible. His mum wasn’t going to be happy about it; they were flying out in a few hours for the Rolex shoot in Toronto and Shane looked like he’d been awake for a week. Thank god for makeup he supposed.

In the kitchen–after he’d managed to force himself into some clothes and to stop staring at his phone, which was now safely tucked in his back pocket, ringer at full volume–his mother looked him up and down and frowned, her crow’s feet deepening, her mouth pursing. Shane couldn’t tell if her expression was disapproving or concerned. He was too tired to guess.

“Sweetheart,” she murmured and Shane’s shoulders sagged, preparing himself for a lecture. It didn’t come. Instead, his mother rounded the kitchen island and wrapped him up in an embrace. Tight, squeezing, the kind of hug that he would have recoiled from at any other time. At this moment though, it was all he really needed, and Shane tucked his face into his mother’s neck and bit his lip against the urge to burst into tears.

They stood like that for a while, silent, his mother’s arms around his broad back, holding him close. Her arms barely encircled him, not like how they would when he was a boy; Shane was too big now to be enveloped properly in his mother’s embrace. Still, it was nice to be held.

Yuna pulled back and cupped his face, rubbing her thumbs over his cheekbones, stroking away tears that had not fallen. But he supposed she could see them clinging to his lash line, stubbornly refusing to slip down his face. “Did you sleep at all last night?” she asked, gentle, tracing his bruised under eye with her finger.

“No,” Shane muttered, ducking his head, avoiding eye contact. Yuna’s eyes were mirrors of his own, big and brown and worried and Shane couldn’t look at her. Didn’t want to be seen.

“Did you talk to him?”

Shane pulled away at that. Striding across the space, away from his mother, his shoulders climbing back up towards his ears, then hiding his face in the fridge when he yanked it open, pretending to look for food. At his back his mother sighed.

“Yes, I talked to him,” Shane mumbled to the yoghurt on the top shelf.

“And?” Yuna prompted, in that same tone she’d used on him when he was a teenager and had been particularly taciturn.

“And” Shane mimicked, wound too tight to control his tone, “I made it worse.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Yuna soothed, either unaware or unbothered by Shane’s sharpness.

He shut the fridge, hard, the shelfs in the door rattling, bottles and jars clinking together with the force. He spun towards his mother, still stood on the other side of the kitchen island. “I basically told him to fuck off,” he threw up his hands, frustrated. “I think that definitely qualifies as making things worse.”

His mother seemed to contemplate his words for a moment, nodding to herself, flattening her expression into something unreadable. “Have you two ever fought before?” she asked.

“Yes, of course,” Shane scoffed then slumped against the kitchen island, elbows digging into the quartz-speckled countertop. Yuna nodded, leaning opposite him, copying his pose.

“The first time your father and I had a real argument I didn’t sleep all night,” Yuna commented, giving him a soft, sympathetic smile. “David wouldn’t introduce me to his father, and I thought he wasn’t taking us seriously. I thought maybe he wasn’t in love with me like I was with him. So, I got mad. Told him to fuck off. And he did, because I told him to. It took a week for us to talk again.”

Shane frowned, he didn’t want to be locked in an argument with Ilya for the next week. Ilya was coming to Ottawa in two days. Maybe. Fuck, hopefully he still was.

“Eventually,” Yuna continued with a sigh, seemingly unaware of Shane’s internal rising panic, “I cornered your dad in the library and had another go at him about it. And then he told me everything. All about your grandfather, all the awful things that man had done to him over the years, all the things David was worried his father would say to me, about me, if he introduced us. I told your father that I was, in fact, a grown ass woman and could handle myself but…” she shrugged.

Shane had never met his grandfather, and his parents had always been upfront about why, making sure Shane understood that it wasn’t about him, not really, that some people were just awful, hateful, ignorant. Sometimes it stung, knowing that he had extended family that refused to meet him because his mother was Japanese. Knowing that his father’s family was so racist they wouldn’t even speak to him, had disowned him, erased him. Most of the time it just made him angry.

“Did you ever meet him?” Shane asked, curious. That was one thing his parents had never told him.

“Yes,” Yuna nodded, a grimace forming on her face. “It was awful. But I’m glad I did. It helped me understand your father a lot better. It also made me love him even more.”

“How?” Shane frowned.

“Because I saw the family he came from, and I saw him, and I was awed by the man he had become despite them.”

A shaky intake of breath was Shane’s only response. His head dropped, eyebrows pinching together, a shiver worming its way up his spine. He didn’t know everything about Ilya’s family, not by a long shot, but he knew enough to understand that Ilya was miraculous. Brave, kind, strong, generous, beautiful, funny, gentle. All these things despite his mother’s suicide, despite his father’s vitriol, despite his brother’s abuse. Ilya was miraculous. And he was Shane’s.

“He was such an ass to me,” Shane grumbled and Yuna laughed.

“Isn’t he notoriously kind of an asshole?” she teased.

“Yeah,” Shane huffed, “but he’s my asshole.”

He looked up at her and she grinned, wide and unrestrained. Shane found himself grinning back, despite the fact that his eyes were burning and his head was throbbing with exhaustion. It was unexpectedly a relief to be able to talk to his mother like this. There had been a time when his wildest fantasy had just been his mother shaking hands with Ilya, being in the same room as him at the NHL awards or some other league event, not even introducing them to each other as people he loved. Just having them touch, just once. Proof they existed in the same universe. Now he was talking to his mother about his boyfriend; getting advice from her on how to resolve a fight. Shane Hollander had a boyfriend, and his mother knew about it, not only knew about it, but actually really liked the man too.

(Warmth bloomed in his chest. He was lucky. So lucky.)

“That boy is crazy about you,” Yuna said, a wistful note to her tone, a glimmer in her eye. “Just give him some time. Let him have a moment to process all of it then try again tomorrow. Okay?”

“Okay,” Shane nodded and his mother nodded back. Then she straightened, rolled her shoulders, and put on her business face. Shane instinctively copied her; pushing down the lingering ache in his gut.

“Now,” she began “about Rolex…”

❃❃❃

The guest bedroom had a nice view. In the distance, over the rooftops of the surrounding buildings, Ilya could see the spires of Moscow State University, looming above the city, piercing the clear blue sky. He was sat on the windowsill, the pane propped open, his leg dangling over the edge, swinging against the side of the building as he blew smoke into the warm summer air. Sunlight fell over his bare chest and shoulders, warm and golden, reminding him of last summer.

Svetlana was crouched in the corner of the room, riffling through one of the boxes they’d rescued from his old apartment, grumbling to herself, or to him. It didn’t matter; either way he wasn’t listening. They hadn’t spoken all morning. Not since Ilya had lashed out at her.

Earlier, after his phone call with Shane, Ilya had emerged from the bedroom, grumbling about the piercing, throbbing pain reverberating throughout his skull and facial nerves. He’d snapped at her when she asked him if he’d spoken to his boyfriend and had practically snarled at her when she’d attempted to talk about yesterday. His best friend, instead of biting back, had simply shoved painkillers and a banana at him, glared him down until he’d swallowed both, and then had stomped off, slamming her bedroom door, without a word.

He’d really done an excellent job at pissing off everyone he loved this morning. Just top-tier work. Gold star stuff. He deserved a fucking trophy.

Ilya thunked his head back against the windowsill, squinting against the sunlight reflecting off of the windows across the road. Now that he’d successfully pissed off the people that he loved, to the satisfaction of the self-flagellating impulse that beat in his sternum, the misery was setting in. Which was, he was pretty sure, what his father had explained to him as ‘the consequences of his own actions.’ That particular lecture was seared into Ilya’s memory.

“Assface.” Svetlana’s voice, interrupting his ruminating.

Ilya looked up, at Svetlana, suddenly stood beside him with a stern crease to her brow. She held up her hand; a piece of paper pinched between her fingers. He eyed it, the front of it was turned away. There was a date scrawled over the yellowing paper in his mother’s looping handwriting.

When Ilya didn’t say anything, didn’t move, Svetlana huffed and yanked on his wrist, forcing him to hold his palm out flat. Gently, far more patiently and tenderly than he’d been expecting, she pressed the paper into his hand and curled his fingers inwards, not tight enough to crush it, but firm enough to caress its edges. Ilya stared at her, for just a moment, at her big hazel eyes and her halo of curls and her thick brows. She was beautiful, and he loved her, and for some fucking reason she put up with him.

She nodded her head, towards his open palm. “This is why we came here. Fuck the rest of it, Ilya.”

Ilya frowned and flicked his gaze downwards.

Immediately, involuntarily, tears burned behind his eyes.

There was his mother, her face as clear as the sky above him was blue.

The slope of her nose, smooth and unbroken; the soft shape of her jaw, round and full; the pronounced dip of her cupid’s bow, so similar to his own; the thin, finely plucked arch of her brows; the exact shade of warm blonde of her hair, cascading down her back in loose curls. And there was Ilya beside her, maybe three years old, his hair much lighter, almost white from the sunlight glinting through his tight curls, Irina’s mouth pressed to his cheek in a tender kiss.

There was his mother. Immortalised in film.

Ilya ducked his head, blinking rapidly, tears dripping, sudden and unshakeable, off his lashes and landing in his lap. Beside him Svetlana made a strangled sound and tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder, awkwardly rubbing his back. And then he laughed. Laughed because Svetlana was so bad at providing comfort even though she would probably kill Alexei for him if he asked, laughed because his mother was beautiful and he finally had a clear photo of her face, laughed because he’d hurt the man he loved and he missed him so much it ached and he was so mad at himself.

“Ilya…” Svetlana said slowly, clearly at a loss for words.

“Thank you, Sveta,” Ilya breathed, wiping roughly at his cheeks. With his other hand he rubbed his thumb over his mother’s face, the surface of the photo smooth and shiny.

“You’re having a meltdown or something,” she muttered and Ilya shrugged.

“Maybe,” he agreed.

They were quiet for a moment, the noise from the busy street outside floating through the open window; cars passing by, people chattering, children running. The sounds of Moscow in summertime. Ilya supposed he should be feeling nostalgic, remorseful. He was leaving tomorrow morning, hopefully never to return. There should be a part of him that felt the sorrow of that, of turning away from his motherland indefinitely. But he just felt glad, relieved, grateful to be going.

He just had one last thing to do.

“I should go see my mama,” Ilya murmured, breaking their quiet, his voice soft. Svetlana nodded, eyes searching his face.

“Do you want me to come with you?” she offered and Ilya shook his head.

“No, it’s just mama,” he said. “I will be fine.”

When Ilya was six his mother had taken him to the ballet. It was his first time at Bolshoi Theatre and he had been amazed–head tilting back, back, back, until he’d almost tumbled over, his mouth dropping open in wonder at the gilded, painted ceiling overhead. He could remember the chandeliers, suspended above the rows of seating, crystals dangling and glittering in the warm light. He could remember his mother, wearing an emerald dress, her cross nestled in the hollow of her throat, the diamond earrings his father had bought her glinting at her ears. Alexei had been there too, dressed in a suit, like Ilya, his hand tucked into their mother’s coat as they’d walked through the cold from the metro and into the theatre.

During the second act Irina had pointed to a beautiful woman, with long, sinewy limbs and dark hair neatly tucked into a sharp bun. They had grown up dancing together, she’d told them, her name was Ekaterina, or Katya as his mother had known her. His mother had explained to them that Katya was the prima ballerina, the best dancer in the company. She’d told them that once, before she’d met Grigori and fallen pregnant with Alexei, she’d dreamt of one day becoming the prima ballerina of Bolshoi Theatre, like Katya. Ilya had asked her why she’d given it up and his mother’s mouth had turned downwards, green eyes unfocused, and she’d simply said that sometimes dreams changed, that now being a mother was her dream. Even to Ilya’s young ears, inexperienced as he was, it had sounded like a lie.

Sometimes, when he was younger, he would catch sight of her in the stands during hockey practice with a faraway look in her eyes. Once, after a game, when his chest had been heaving and his hair had been darkened with sweat, sticking to his forehead, he’d asked her if she ever wished he’d chosen to do ballet instead of hockey. Irina had laughed, pinched his cheeks, his nose, kissed his forehead. ‘No, little bunny,’ she’d said ‘you skate so beautifully. This is where you belong.’ Then she’d told him that one day she knew he’d be the best hockey player in the world, like the prima ballerina was the best in her company. Ilya had promised to try his hardest to make her proud, and she’d said she already was.

When he’d lifted the cup over his head in 2014, his teammates crowding around him, TD Garden shaking with the force of Boston’s cheering fans, Ilya had looked skyward, the weight of his mother’s cross pressed tight into his skin beneath his compression gear, and had screamed, in Russian, for you mama. Because he’d done it, all of it, for her. He’d become the best for her.

Irina’s grave was behind the old church Ilya had grown up attending; Sunday mornings spent in the pews, sweltering in the summer, shivering in the winter. He’d been baptised in this church, his brother and parents too, an entire line of Rozanovs made holy, committed to Christ, within the walls of this very building. Ilya wondered, distantly, if any amount of holy water could possibly wash away what he’d done this week.

The footpath through the graveyard was poorly maintained, cracked bricks, sudden dips, portions of the path missing entirely and overgrown with weeds. Most of the headstones were clean, well taken care of, only a few seemed to be eroding, slowly leaning sideways as if sinking into the earth beneath them. There were flowers, sporadic blooms of colour in the otherwise grey and green churchyard, leaning against the cleaner, sturdier headstones. A bunch of peonies here, a bloom of daisies there, a bouquet of roses wilting in the sun.

Ilya walked carefully, quietly, mindful of disturbing the dead. He didn’t know if he believed in ghosts, or even if he believed in heaven, but there was a fragile stillness lingering within the bounds of the cemetery, and Ilya would not break it.

It took him a while to pick his way through the graveyard, avoiding dips in the path and tangles of weeds, but finally, finally, he found his way to his mother’s grave.

Irina was not buried with the rest of the Rozanov family in the mausoleum; that was in a different cemetery, further out of town. His father and grandparents were buried there. When he was younger, he’d wondered if his father had buried his mother here as a punishment, a disowning of her memory, a reminder that she’d committed a sin by taking her own life and shouldn’t have even been granted a grave in the first place. Whether that had been his father’s intention or not, it didn’t matter, Ilya was grateful that his mother was here, near the church she’d loved so dearly.

“Hi mama,” Ilya murmured, kneeling in the grass and dirt, which was soft and spongy from the rain that had fallen overnight. He’d bought a bouquet of carnations, his mother’s favourite, and he laid them at the foot of her headstone, carved in the shape of an orthodox cross, sagging under the weight of debris collecting in its crevices.

Ilya gently brushed away the leaves and twigs caught in the branches of the cross. His mother’s headstone was one of the lesser maintained ones, weeds flourishing at its base, tucked away in the furthest corner of the cemetery beneath the shedding trees. Every time he visited her, he would spend at least an hour tidying up the space.

A tight feeling gripped his throat. No one would come and fix her grave once he was gone.

Overhead the thin canopy of trees was shivering, sunlight peaking through, casting shadows over his hands as he dug his fingers into the dirt, dutifully removing the weeds crawling up his mother’s gravestone. There were tears pressing behind his eyes, stinging his throat, grief churning in his gut and throbbing at his temples. The cut on his forehead fucking hurt, his chest fucking hurt, everything fucking hurt.

Ilya sat back on his haunches, resting his muddy palms on his thighs, staring at the dirt now embedded beneath his fingernails. He sniffed, rubbed his nose on his shoulder, and took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, mama,” he murmured. The breeze picked up, warm and gentle, a few more leaves fell onto the cross. “I have come to say goodbye.”

He glanced around. It was late in the afternoon and the graveyard was empty. In the distance he could hear noise from the church, the creaking of its old foundations, the low murmur of choral music and a piano being played. Far enough away that no one would hear him, notice him, tucked in the corner, knelt before his mother.

Ilya pinched his mother’s cross between his fingers and dipped his head, reciting a quiet prayer, something he barely remembered, probably worded all wrong. He crossed himself and then sighed.

“I’m not a very good Christian anymore, mama. Sorry about that,” he apologised, swallowing thickly. “It’s not that I don’t believe in God–or maybe it is. I don’t really know what I believe in anymore. But I guess it doesn’t really matter, because if what Batyushka taught me is true, then neither you nor I are ever getting into heaven. Maybe that’s why I don’t believe in any of it anymore, mama. I cannot imagine heaven without you there.”

There was a nervous flutter in his stomach, and he took a deep breath, preparing himself to say what he’d wanted to say to his mother for so long.

“I’m in love, mama. So, so in love. That’s why I came to say goodbye,” Ilya glanced around again, making absolutely certain he was alone in the cemetery. When he was sure, he turned back to her headstone, brushing his fingers over the carved indents of her name. “If I want to be with him, then I cannot come back here. It is not safe for me here–I can never be free if I stay here. And mama I... I really, truly, want to be free. Not just for him, but for me too. I don’t want to hide who I am for my whole life because that feels like shame and mama, I am not ashamed. Of myself, of him. Nothing, no one, could ever make me ashamed of loving him.

I think you would like him. He is funny, sometimes without meaning to be. I am always laughing around him. And he is kind, maybe not always very nice, a little judgy, but… very, very kind. He is also stubborn and challenging and strong and earnest and beautiful, and he makes me feel so… safe. I think you would like him a lot, mama. Maybe more than me.

He plays hockey too. He’s better than me–by like the smallest margin–but he’s better than me. I hope that doesn’t disappoint you; I know you believed that I would be the best someday.”

Ilya cleared his throat, rolling his shoulders, trying to dislodge the lump in his oesophagus. He hadn’t spoken this much for a long time, maybe ever. It didn’t help that the only response to his monologuing was the gentle breeze, the soft chirps of birds returning to their nests before sunset.

“I kind of pushed him away. I’m not a very good person when I’m back here, mama. I just get so–I have so much anger, and I don’t know what to do with it all. And it all comes out when I’m here; which is also why I have to leave because I don’t want to be like father and I’m afraid that sometimes I might be. That maybe I’m just violent and angry and… bad…”

A deep breath.

“I saw your granddaughter. Milana. She is very beautiful… and sweet. But I…” Ilya tilted his head back, staring at the slowly shifting shy above him. Purple and orange blooming in the gaps in the canopy. He shut his eyes tight and continued “I cannot save her… or her mother. I think I may have just made things worse actually.”

There was a picture in his pocket. Svetlana had tried to hide it from him; she’d found it when she’d been riffling through the boxes, and Ilya had snatched it from her when she’d attempted to throw it away. He pulled it out now, unfolding it.

In the picture Ilya was only a few days old, tiny and pink and bleary-eyed. Alexei was sat beside him, his hair a brilliant, thick mop of blonde, his arms wrapped around his new baby brother, his mouth held in a pout. Maybe unhappy about being photographed, maybe unhappy about no longer being an only child. Either way he was pouting, eyes focused beyond the camera lens, but still, he held onto Ilya carefully.

“I’m sorry that Alexei and I cannot be family,” Ilya murmured, fingers flexing around the photo, lips pursing. “I know you loved him too. No matter what he says I know you loved us both. But I cannot be his brother. He hates me and I used to think that I could still love him even if I didn’t like him but… I cannot be his brother. I’m sorry.”

He dug into the dirt with his fingers, creating just a tiny sliver in the earth, cracked open and exposed, gently folding the photo into it, covering it back up again with soil, then patting the earth down. Smooth. Flat. An offering to his mother’s body, buried deep in the dirt.

“I’m going to be okay, though,” Ilya said. “I have Shane and Svetlana and… Shane’s parents have been very kind to me as well. So I’ll have a family. You don’t have to worry anymore. I’ll be okay.”

There was truth to what he said but, deep in his stomach, there was something that twisted against those words. Thrashing and wild. Something within him that knew it was broken.

“I’ll be okay,” he repeated, to himself or to her, he wasn’t sure.

For a long while after that he just sat quietly with his mother. Knees aching where they were pressed into soil, hands filthy and settled in his lap, eyes locked on the shifting shadows passing over his mother’s headstone. The sun was well and truly setting, daylight turned from golden to dull and grey, a chill creeping into the air.

Ilya didn’t know what he was waiting for, but he couldn’t leave quite yet.

The breeze picked up–somehow warm despite the looming shadows and encroaching nighttime–caressing his face, twisting through his curls and sweeping them into his eyes. Ilya pushed his hair back and blinked against the flutter of pollen that rained from the trees above, disturbed by the wind. A little bird swooped down, following the path of shedding pollen, and perched itself on the highest point of Irina’s grave.

It was a little grey bird, too thin and too elegant to be a pigeon, with a streak of black over its crown. Ilya didn’t know what type of bird it was, but he knew it was his mother’s bird. She’d always pointed them out to him, in the spring, in the summer, her hand wrapped around his, ducking down to his level to point at the little creature, speaking softly so as not to spook it.

“Hi mama,” Ilya murmured. The bird stayed, its black eyes blinking at Ilya, watching him. And Ilya may not know what the fuck he believed, if God was even real, but he knew the bird was his mother. Saying goodbye.

And when he left the graveyard, not long after that, Ilya finally felt lighter.

Svetlana left him at the baggage drop, wrapping him in a tight hug, his face pressed into her hair, his mouth tickled by her copper curls. They’d gone to dinner last night after he’d returned from his mother’s grave. To their favourite bougie spot that sold expensive bottles of finely aged wine and fatty wagyu steak, and Ilya had foot the bill, an apology of sorts. Not that there was ever any need for apologies between them; a tacit understanding between them, formed in the crucible of Russian child-rearing.

Svetlana was staying back for another couple weeks to see her father and cousins in St Petersburg. Then she was coming to the cottage to spend a weekend with Shane and Ilya–and Rose too, if she was coming, Ilya didn’t know, he still hadn’t spoken to Shane since their fight early yesterday morning.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to speak to Shane; it was just that he didn’t know how. There was a tight knot in his chest, sitting uncomfortably high in his sternum, pressing into his ribcage, making it hard to think clearly, breathe properly. He was at the airport, about to fly to Ottawa to be with Shane, but right at that moment he didn’t even know if Shane wanted to see him anymore.

He should really reach out, make sure that they were still okay, but his thumbs were frozen, hovering uselessly over the keyboard. Outside the large windows he could see the plane pulling up to the gate, the sun creeping up over the horizon just past the plane’s tail. In just over twenty-four hours he would be in Ottawa. And once he was there, he would find a way to make up this whole week to the love of his life. He’d even fucking grovel if he had to.

Ilya sighed. He was so mad at himself, and he had a gash in his forehead and a black eye, and he missed Shane so much that those things barely even hurt in comparison.

In his hand his phone buzzed, and Ilya’s gaze flicked to his chat with Shane, still open on his screen as it had been for the last half hour, Ilya trying to find a way to open a conversation. It looked like Shane had beat him to it.

Ilya let out a sound, halfway between a sob and a laugh, a grin splitting across his face. Part of him had known, really, that Shane still loved him, that they were just having a fight, that it wasn’t over between them. But never, not once, had anyone ever said ‘fuck you, Ilya’ then ‘I love you’ later. It was wonderful and overwhelming and all new territory.

He hit the call button and pressed the phone tight to his ear, eyes screwed shut, breath caught in his throat. He needed to hear Shane’s voice before he got on that fucking flight, he needed to tell him he loved him, that he was sorry, that he was Ilya’s favourite person in the whole world and that he would do better, be better, than he’d been this last week from now on.

The call connected, it was loud in the background. Ilya knew Shane was filming for Rolex, but it was surely the middle of the night in Toronto. Where was he?

“Ilya?” Shane called and Ilya dropped his head to his knees, exhaling a shaky breath. Fuck, he’d missed him so much.

“Shane,” he said, strained, even though he’d done his very best to sound like he wasn’t shaking apart. He heard sirens in the background of the call, the white noise of nighttime traffic, something like the mechanical whirring of a crane. “Where are you?” That hadn’t been what he’d meant to say.

“Toronto,” Shane replied, then he huffed, “at the Rolex shoot. They wanted–I don’t know–for it to be moody and urban or whatever the fuck. We’re filming part of the ad tonight.”

Ilya laughed at his boyfriend’s tone, indifferent yet somehow still haughty. He swallowed, and took a breath, gearing up to apologise. Shane interrupted him before he could even begin.

“You were an ass,” he said, matter-of-fact.

“I know,” Ilya agreed, because he had been, and then, “I didn’t mean any of it.” Because he hadn’t.

“I know,” Shane murmured, gentle, far more gently than Ilya deserved. He melted anyway, body slumping deep into the uncomfortable airport bench, an arm wrapping tight around his middle. “I’m sorry I snapped and said, ‘fuck you.’”

Ilya shook his head then remembered Shane couldn’t see him and said, “I deserved it.”

“No, you didn’t,” Shane sighed. Ilya sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and chewed, eyeing the flight board in front of him. He would be boarding in the next few minutes.

“We can talk more about it when I get there?” he asked, underneath the question another one lurked. Do you still want me there? Shane seemed to hear it, unspoken as it was, and he let out a huff of laughter, fond and tender.

“Yeah, Ilya, of course,” Shane was quiet a moment and then he sighed. “My dad will meet you at the airport, okay? I will be in Toronto when you land in Ottawa, but I should be back in Lanaudière before dark.”

“Okay,” Ilya nodded. It was not at all ideal, and his chest felt heavy and sore, knowing he’d be in Ontario for hours before he got to see Shane again but…

The speakers overhead called for boarding and Ilya tipped his head back, sighing in frustration. Soon, he would be with Shane again soon.

“I love you,” Ilya said, squeezing his fingers tight around the phone, as if trying to feel Shane through the screen. “I love you so fucking much and I’m sorry.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu, Ilya,” Shane whispered back, accent near-perfect. “So fucking much.”

“I’ll see you soon,” Ilya murmured, stretching the call, not yet ready to hang up.

“I’ll meet you at the cottage,” Shane promised and then he was gone. This time… this time the silence left behind didn’t feel like it would crush him. Instead, he pressed his palm to his chest and rubbed, on that sore, Shane-shaped bruise in his sternum.

Soon. I will be with him soon.

Chapter End Notes

Reunion next chap bitches!!!!! Get horny for it.

The next update will definitely not be as fast so please be patient with me. It is gonna be a long one~

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Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

Once again you, YOU, you reading this and commenting on this... You are precious and I love and appreciate you x

Thank you esp to Sarah for all your support ILYSM! I am so happy we met through this fandom and my fics and you are wonderful xxx

Enjoy~

Ilya was stood at the baggage carousel, a Canadian flag hanging proudly overhead, waiting for his second suitcase, when he got a text from David.

Ilya had no idea what the fuck a cell phone lot was, but he sent David a thumbs-up in response anyway. He pocketed his phone and flexed his fingers around the handle of his first suitcase, filled to brim with his spoils from Russia. In keeping with his reputation for ‘packing like shit,’ he’d simply dumped the contents of each box from his old apartment–and from Polina–into an empty suitcase and zipped it shut, refusing to sort through any of it. He’d deal with it later, when he was at the cottage, or back in Boston, or once he was settled in Ottawa, or maybe in twenty years when he was a Canadian citizen and there was no longer a lingering threat from his motherland. Either way, he sure as fuck wasn’t dealing with it now.

On his first flight to Istanbul, and then again on his connecting flight to Ottawa, Ilya had done his best to compartmentalise the hell out of the whole trip. Lock all the anger and grief and disappointment in a fortified, impenetrable box and bury that shit deep, deep, in his body where even he wouldn’t be able to dig it back up. There was a part of him that knew, really, that Shane would want to talk about it all–that maybe even David would question him about it on the two hour drive to Lanaudière–but he couldn’t face it. Didn’t want to. He wanted that shit to stay in Russia; far away from everything in Canada that was good, so good, so fucking important and precious and good.

But he knew, no matter what he did, it would all come out eventually. The smell of it festering could only be masked for so long. He just wanted the summer, at least, to pretend that everything was fine.

Ilya’s second suitcase tumbled onto the carousel, and he squeezed his way through the crowd, adjusting his cap lower over his forehead as he did so. He’d put his sunglasses and cap on immediately upon arrival; it was midmorning in Ottawa, and the city was very fond of hockey. (Even though their home team was shit).

There were a few kids in their hockey apparel–a small boy in a bright blue Metros jersey with ‘Hollander’ emblazoned over the back and an older teen in a red and black Centaurs jersey with ‘Boodram’ stamped over his shoulders–loitering near the baggage claim. And if they knew hockey, and Hollander, then they would certainly know Rozanov–entangled as their careers were. If only people knew just how entangled their lives were too.

He managed to grab his suitcase without attracting the attention of the tiny Metros fan–who had really poor taste in hockey teams but excellent taste in players and kind of looked like a younger Shane, with big brown eyes and thick dark hair and freckles over his little nose, which was crazy adorable and Ilya wanted to tell his boyfriend about it immediately and maybe Yuna too. (Actually, definitely Yuna. She would delight in Ilya’s gooey thoughts about raising tiny little babies that had Shane’s freckles. God, he couldn’t wait to see Shane.) Instead of doing any of that, he texted David and headed to the exit.

It was sunny outside, and humid, the concrete dark and damp from recently fallen rain, and the air smelt like pine trees and musky river water and nothing at all like Moscow. Ilya took a deep breath, replacing the grime of gasoline and cigarettes and sulphur caking his lungs.

Shane’s forest green Range Rover pulled up to the curb beside him and Ilya had to remind his leaping heart that Shane was still in Toronto. And wouldn’t be back for hours still. When he saw the outline of David’s silhouette through the window his heart constricted, just a little, but he quickly plastered a grin over his face when the older man hopped out of the car and waved at Ilya over the hood.

“Hey Ilya!” David greeted, loud and excited. Ilya flicked his gaze around, mindful of the other arriving passengers milling about the pick-up zone. No one seemed to be paying them any attention, so Ilya relaxed and tried his best not to flinch when David clapped him on the shoulder, tugging him into a fatherly hug that involved a lot of back patting and a gruff “so glad to see you!”

No one had been glad to see Ilya all week. It was nice.

David took Ilya’s bags, despite his protests, and loaded them into the boot of the car. Ilya kept his backpack with him and as they pulled away from the curb, he tucked his hat and sunglasses into the main compartment then twisted to drop the bag behind them on the backseat. When he turned back around, they were at a red light, waiting to exit the airport onto the highway, and David sucked in a breath.

Ilya realised, too late, that his hat and sunglasses had been hiding his black eye and the gash in his forehead. When he’d landed in Istanbul, Ilya had stood in the airport bathroom for a while, staring at the damage in the mirror, wondering how the Hollanders would react. His eye was still a little swollen, the lid heavy over his iris, the stark purple of the bruise shocking against his skin, not yet healed enough to have faded to a less hideous yellow. The gash above his brow wasn’t too bad, more pink than red but still full of stiches; it had looked much worse the other day, when it had been gushing blood. There were smaller, red scratches on his cheeks and jaw, just tiny little knicks from where the glass had shattered and then tumbled over his skin. He certainly looked better than he had right after the fight. Still, he supposed, his face was probably shocking to David.

“Jesus kid,” he hissed and Ilya didn’t manage to successfully repress his flinch when they man reached out to grab his chin. David’s hand retreated, and Ilya turned to him, ready to apologise, but the man didn’t look upset, just worried. “When do you need to get those stitches out?”

Ilya blinked, trying to remember what the doctor had told him. “Um, this week, soon as possible, I think.”

David nodded, turning back to look out the windshield just as the light went green. “Alright, I will set up an appointment with Doctor Gauthier. We went to high school together; she’s an old friend; she will be discrete. I’ll book you in for tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Ilya said. He didn’t really want to interrupt his day tomorrow–which he was hoping would be a full day of just touching and kissing and holding and fucking his boyfriend–to get his stitches removed but it was probably a good idea. And Shane would definitely make him go even if it meant less time for sex.

David cleared his throat awkwardly, interrupting Ilya’s daydreaming about Shane’s lovely mouth and pretty eyes and big hands. For a second he worried, irrationally, that David had somehow read his mind.

“I know you probably don’t want to talk to me about it,” David began, eyes locked ahead, as if trying to give Ilya some semblance of anonymity, like in confession, “but I just want to ask… are you okay?”

“I…” Ilya clamped his mouth shut. Lying to David didn’t feel right. “Honestly?”

“Ideally.”

“No,” Ilya shrugged and David nodded, glancing at him briefly to smile.

“We can talk about it,” he offered. Though the look in his eye told Ilya that David knew he wouldn’t want that.

“No thank you,” Ilya laughed, shaking his head. David hmm’ed and turned back to the road, checking his blind spot before changing lanes.

They sat in silence for a while, the low hum of the radio playing the only sound in the cabin. Ilya had his head tilted against the window, eyes unfocused on the landscape flying past, slowly shifting from urban and industrial to sprawling paddocks and farmland. This was his third time in Ontario–the first had been last summer, the second over Christmas–and even though it was still unfamiliar, new, he felt calm here. Moscow had never felt calm; it was energetic and loud, and its streets were paved with misery, too many memories sunken into the grey concrete. Boston was better, he liked it there, but it was lonely and shallow and didn’t feel like home. Maybe Ottawa could finally, finally, be a place to call home.

“How was Vermont?” David asked, conversationally.

“Um,” Ilya hummed, lifting his head.

“Shane never told me,” David explained, waving a hand. “Did you boys have a nice time? What did you do?”

And Ilya was not the type to blush, or get easily flustered, but he felt heat, sudden and mortifying, crawling up his neck and then spreading over his cheeks and ears. There was a very good reason why Shane hadn’t said anything about their Vermont trip to his parents–even though David had gifted them the cabin; even though, Ilya assumed, Shane generally told his parents the things he got up to in his very precious, limited, free time. He couldn’t imagine that his boyfriend would want his parents to know anything about their time in Stowe, Vermont though.

Couldn’t imagine David wanted to hear well, first I fucked him on the dining table, then the kitchen island, then in the leather armchair, and then, finally, in the bed, before we fucked again in the bathtub and then once more on the rug in front of the fireplace. Pretty much I fucked Shane on every available surface in that cabin for forty-eight hours straight barely even taking a break to eat or sleep and my dick really hurt afterwards but my god it was good. Perfect. Best weekend of my life.

The silence lingered. Lingered and lingered until David was suddenly flushing too and rubbing a hand over his face.

“Right, okay,” David nodded. “Never mind.”

Ilya, suddenly, didn’t want David to think he and Shane were… animals. Didn’t want David to think that Ilya’s love for his son was purely sexual or completely unromantic.

So he cleared his throat, dispelling the residual awkwardness and said, “well, it was Valentine’s Day a couple days before, so I made Shane dinner. Bought nice wine and flowers and we ate in front of the fireplace. I also managed to convince him to eat desert.” Naked, and then I fucked him again, so hard he sobbed and cried ‘oh god’ over and over until the place felt consecrated. That detail wasn’t necessary. “I guess because I made it, he allowed himself to break his diet for just one night,” Ilya shrugged. And also, I kind of bullied him into sucking icing off my dick so... Not that he really needed to be bullied into it. He just likes it when we pretend he doesn’t want the things he wants.

David smiled, “that sounds nice. I’m glad you got to celebrate together.” He hummed and then asked, very serious, “did he do anything nice for you? I know he can be a bit… unaware of the significance of those sorts of things. He never gave his high school girlfriend a card on Valentine’s, never even asked her to be his Valentine actually. Though, I suppose he might be better now, right? Because he is with someone he loves and isn’t in the closet anymore…” David trailed off, seemingly talking more to himself than to Ilya.

Again, Ilya didn’t really know what to say to David, because he certainly couldn’t tell the man that Shane had let Ilya cum on his glasses as a Valentine’s present. That Shane had worn his glasses and a nice white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to show off his forearms and had roleplayed a stern accountant rendering services to Ilya–a party-boy hockey star with a terrible grip on his finances–and then had accepted Ilya fucking his face as payment for his services when Ilya had been made to declare bankruptcy. (Shane had only been mildly upset about not playing the hockey star in the scenario. Acquiescing only because it was Ilya’s gift after all. Best gift ever as far as Ilya was concerned. But not appropriate for conversation with his–one day hopefully–future father-in-law.)

“He asked me to be his Valentine, yes,” Ilya said, because Shane had. In a roundabout, weird, Shane-way that involved him blushing and fidgeting under Ilya’s heavy gaze. He rattled his brain for boring, American Valentine’s traditions and added, “and he bought me chocolate. In heart shape.”

David nodded. Ilya wasn’t sure if the man believed him. He needed to change the topic.

“Why are we in Shane’s car?” he asked.

“Oh, our car is parked back at the airport. Yuna left it there in the long-term parking so that when she gets back with Shane, they can drive straight to the cottage.” David paused. “Which, by the way, I am under strict instructions to bring you back to our cottage and not drop you off alone at Shane’s place. Don’t know if he told you.”

“Ah, no,” Ilya said. “Shane did not tell me.”

Probably because they’d been fighting up until Ilya had boarded his flight yesterday. Ilya had only found out that Shane wasn’t going to be in Ontario when he landed, and that David was going to be picking him up instead, just over twenty-four hours ago. He’d been disappointed but Shane was only in Toronto now so that the rest of the summer would be free until August. So they could have a month and a half to themselves at the cottage.

David clicked his tongue. “Well, sorry kid, you’re stuck with me until Yuna and Shane get back.”

“Ah, so I am a hostage,” Ilya joked and David grinned, shrugging.

“I mean if hostages get fed chicken parmesan and vodka, then sure.”

“I think I will enjoy being a hostage.”

The last time Ilya had been at the Hollanders’ cottage it had been blanketed in snow, the trees surrounding it stripped of leaves and the lake behind it frozen over–it was the same lake that Shane’s cottage was on, just around the bend, downstream, out of sight. Now the cottage was once again like it had been last summer. Bright blooms of yellow lining the driveway, thick, green trees crowding around the structure, grassy backyard stretching into the peaceful lake, loud bugs trilling in the distance. The Hollanders’ cottage was simple, modest, a family home, not elaborate and luxurious like Shane’s was. Though Shane’s cottage was definitely Ilya’s favourite–the wide, tall windows, the rich wood walls, the way the light there seemed warmer, softer, casting everything in a tender glow. Definitely his favourite.

Ilya left his bags in the boot of Shane’s car but plucked out a fresh outfit from his suitcase. He’d flown first class–of course–which had granted him access to a private lounge in Istanbul, but he hated airport showers. They were usually tepid, and weak, and had a weird smell. On the flight to Ottawa he’d had what Svetlana affectionately called a ‘whore’s bath’ which involved wiping his pits and crotch down with facewipes, but he felt grimy and uncomfortable by the time they arrived at the Hollanders’ cottage anyway. When David immediately suggested that Ilya go shower whilst he started working on the chicken parmesan Ilya had been beyond grateful. The smell of stale airplane air on his skin was definitely not what he wanted Shane to be smelling when they saw each other again for the first time in almost a month.

He almost couldn’t believe it had been that long but between the playoffs and his trip to Russia Ilya and Shane hadn’t been in the same room for three and a half weeks–and that last time barely counted, hadn’t even scratched the itch, not even a little bit. Sure, they’d gone longer throughout the season without seeing each other. Right at the start, after last summer, it had been seven and a half weeks into the season before their teams had played each other. And then, after Christmas, it had been five weeks later when they’d finally reunited for All-Stars. During the playoffs they’d seen each other once off the ice, for just a few short hours, right after the Metros were knocked out of contention, but all in all they’d spent the majority of the last two months apart.

In the shower he rinsed off the last of his flight, and his trip, and thought about kissing Shane until all that time and distance and waiting, waiting, waiting felt like nothing.

(It would probably take a solid three weeks of endless kissing to make up for it all. He would have to tell Shane, make sure his boyfriend understood the dire nature of the situation, and that Ilya had determined its solution.)

After his shower, as he sat at the kitchen counter, watching David cook and listening to him talk about an article he’d read recently in the New Yorker, he texted Shane.

Ilya grinned at his phone and then turned it over, face down on the countertop. When he raised his head, he realised David had stopped talking, and stopped pounding the chicken breast with the mallet, and was just looking at Ilya with a knowing smile, his eyes flickering with amusement.

“How is Shane?” he asked, because the goofy look on Ilya’s face was clearly enough for the man to know who he’d been texting.

“I just told him I was here,” Ilya explained, gesturing to the cottage, and then, sheepishly, added “I did not ask about that.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” David said with a shrug. “Now that he knows you’re back, I’m sure he’s a lot better.”

Ilya frowned. He hated how upset and worried–and angry–he’d made Shane over the last week. There was a reason why he’d avoided Shane towards the end of each season over the years; the closer he got to summer, the thinner his patience wore. Whenever his season ended, whether that was in April or May or even June, Ilya’s stomach would twist itself in knots, anticipating the return to Russia like one might anticipate a root canal or, perhaps more accurately, a firing squad. Going back had always been the worst part of his year, every year, and this time had been no different.

“Did he tell you…?” Ilya trailed off, letting David fill in the rest.

“No,” David shook his head, “but Yuna was worried about him. Said he was working out in the middle of the night and not sleeping and acting… moody, quiet… well more quiet than usual.”

“Ah,” Ilya chewed on his bottom lip “my fault. I was an ass.”

David gave him an indiscernible look, one Ilya was too jetlagged to decipher, and then sighed, leaning against the counter. “I know you don’t want to talk to me about what went down over there,” he said “but I hope you talk to Shane about it. Family can be really ugly, and painful. I know what that’s like and… well, I don’t think I’m all that perfect either. I mean, fuck, Shane didn’t feel safe enough to tell us he’s gay. He thought he had to hide being in love from us. We clearly–well, we clearly messed up somewhere along the line for him to think that we would ever reject him for that.”

Ilya opened his mouth, to interrupt, to clarify. Because he knew Shane hadn’t worried his parents would reject him–it was more the rivalry and the hockey of it all. David held up a hand and stopped him before he could even start.

“Somewhere, in all these years of Shane becoming the phenomenal player and man that he is,” David continued, “we stopped being his parents. He always seemed so together, or maybe he didn’t, maybe we stopped paying attention. Anyway, Yuna and I are definitely not perfect.” He sighed. “I know that I don’t actually know what you’ve been through with your family, but I can guess and… Shane may have had a kinder family, but he is strong and resilient and willing to learn about things he doesn’t understand if he cares enough about them. And son, he loves you very much. I think he would try to understand anything for you.”

Ilya swallowed, casting his eyes skywards and blinking rapidly. There was a suitcase overstuffed with mementos of his past in the boot of Shane’s Range Rover, and a locked box buried deep in his body full of grief and anger, but David Hollander was smiling at him gently and earnestly pleading with him to talk to Shane about all those ugly, gnarled, parts of his history.

“Talk to him, okay?” David tilted his head and Ilya nodded at him.

“I’ll try,” he promised.

“Good, that’s all I ask.”

Ilya took a nap. He ate several portions of chicken parmesan–because it was bulking season and he hadn’t eaten much in Russia other than nicotine and caffeine and also because it was delicious–which left him with a bloated, solid stomach and heavy, drooping eyelids. David offered him the guestroom, but Ilya wanted to sleep in Shane’s old room, in the bed they’d shared over Christmas, and the man had just grinned and directed him down the hall, telling him to go sleep even as Ilya had protested, insisting on helping with the dishes first. In the end the jetlag and emotional fatigue of the whole trip won out, and Ilya left David to clean up the kitchen alone and stretched himself over Shane’s old, creaky bed, falling asleep almost instantly.

He dreamt of his mother’s gravestone, of it slowly sinking into the earth, of weeds gradually crawling up the stone cross until it was encased, of seasons passing until it eventually eroded and Irina Rozanova was just a body, in an unmarked grave. He dreamt of big, black and white birds with beady red eyes, loons, circling the lake behind the cottage in the summertime, crying mournfully to one another across the water, paddling closer together until they were side-by-side in the soft orange light of sunset.

It was late in the afternoon when he woke up. The house was quiet; he couldn’t hear David in the kitchen or the gentle clinking sound of dishes slotting into place beside each other on the drying rack. He rolled over and rubbed a hand over his eyes, blinking at the drawn curtains across the room, soft golden light slipping through the tiny gap between the material and the windowsill.

Ilya swung his legs over the edge of the double bed and then padded across the room, pushing back the thin, moss green curtains. Shane’s old room overlooked the back garden; the thick, green lawn that stretched down to the lakeside and the tall, lush trees that cradled the boundaries of the property. There was a stone garden path snaking across the lawn and David was stood near the end of it where the grass thinned out to dirt and rocks and the ground dipped down into the lake.

Ilya wandered through the house, which was still, quiet in a way that was peaceful and comforting rather than stifling and tense. So different than his childhood home. He pushed open the sliding doors that led to the back patio and stepped out into the warm afternoon.

If David heard the doors opening, he didn’t make any indication, stood with his back towards the house, holding out a sheet of paper in front of him with a pensive look on his face.

“What are you doing?” Ilya said in lieu of a greeting as he stepped up beside David. The man glanced at him and grinned, holding up the sheet in front of them both. It was a sketch of a gazebo, the wooden structure surrounded by flowering bushes and tall trees and cramped writing with arrows pointed at various features of the structure.

“Planning,” David stated. “Do you think it would look nice over there?” He gestured towards the corner of the lawn where the trees were thickest. Ilya tilted his head, looking between the sketch and where David was pointing, taking the question seriously because it felt nice to be asked about something so… normal.

“Yes, nice view of the lake too,” Ilya observed and David nodded, humming. “Are you building it?”

“Me? No,” David laughed. “I don’t have that kind of skill.” He folded the drawing up and tucked it into the back pocket of his cargo shorts. “Oh, and don’t tell Yuna. It’s a surprise.”

“Surprise?” Ilya raised his brows.

“It’s our thirtieth wedding anniversary next month,” David told him. “Yuna’s always wanted a gazebo to read in during the summertime. I’m going to send her off for a spa day and get it installed whilst she’s gone. Put up some string lights, make a nice dinner, set it all up in the gazebo before she gets home.”

Ilya smiled; he could almost picture it. The elegant wooden structure trimmed with twinkling lights, a table set up in the middle, dishes laid out, Yuna’s surprise and delight when she came home and saw the romantic set-up. Thirty years was impressive, more impressive because David and Yuna actually seemed to still like each other. His parents had been married seventeen years before his mother had passed away and Ilya didn’t think that once, during that time, his father had ever done anything as thoughtful as building his mother a gazebo, so she’d have somewhere peaceful to read.

“How do you still…” Ilya trailed off, unable to find the words for what he wanted to ask. How do you still like each other after all this time? That wasn’t quite what he wanted to ask and he frowned. David considered him and then smiled, the wrinkles around his eyes creasing softly.

“She’s my best friend,” he said. “Marriage is definitely not always easy but it’s easier if your partner is your best friend.”

Ilya thought of Shane. Of laughing together with him, of playing against him on the ice, of teasing him, of watching movies with him, of afternoons spent playing Chel on the Xbox, of splashing him in the lake, of wrestling him into the floorboards and tickling him until he was hiccupping, of working out together in the gym, of sending him annoying texts and stupid pictures of dogs, of telling him all the weird thoughts that popped into his head. 

“Shane is my best friend,” Ilya murmured, and David’s smile widened into a grin so big, and so bright, it almost hurt Ilya’s own cheeks just looking at him. Ilya cleared his throat, suddenly embarrassed, but the man just clapped him on the back, still grinning.

David stepped off the garden path and wandered down towards the shore of the rippling lake, leaning over to pluck a rock out from the shallow water. He flicked his wrist and the stone skipped over the mirror-like surface, once, twice, several times before sinking below the horizon. Ilya watched as David skipped several more stones over the water, the sun slowly dropping beneath the horizon, the sky above them turning orange and purple and pink.

“How do you do that?” Ilya asked and David beckoned him over, holding out a stone for him and placing it in his palm carefully once Ilya was by his side.

“Hold it like this,” David instructed, adjusting Ilya’s fingers to pinch the rock between his thumb and forefinger. “And get close to the water, yes, closer, like that, good.” David picked up another rock and stood at Ilya’s side, demonstrating the correct stance. “The key is in how you flick your wrist. You want to do it fast; you want the stone to spin. Like this.”

They watched as David’s rock skipped across the lake, a dozen times, before sinking into the water. Ilya whistled and David hummed, satisfied. David inclined his head towards Ilya, as if to say, ‘your turn,’ and Ilya lowered his core, mimed flicking his wrist a few times, the way David had, and then released the stone. It immediately sunk beneath the surface. They both laughed.

“Well,” Ilya said and David handed him another stone. He tried again, this time it skipped once and Ilya grunted, turning to David when the man patted his shoulder encouragingly.

They took turns skipping stones, David gently adjusting Ilya’s stance, carefully showing him the right angles and then laughing boisterously when Ilya finally managed to get his rock to skip over the water more than twice before sinking, throwing his arms up victoriously above his head and pumping his fists.

Standing by the water, with David at his side, his low voice calmly correcting and warmly encouraging, was so much… fun… but also... Ilya couldn’t recall a single time his father had taught him anything; how to skip stones, or throw a ball, or tie his shoes, or drive a manual car. Nothing.

“Would you like to go fishing whilst you’re here this summer?” David asked as Ilya crouched close to the water’s edge, digging through the muddy bank to find more stones. “Shane enjoys it. It might be nice to have a boys day?”

Ilya straightened, wiping his hand dry on his shorts as he nodded, turning a small pebble over in his palm. Probably too small to skip. He tried anyway. It sunk instantly and Ilya laughed. “Boys day sounds fun,” he said and David opened his mouth to say something else, but paused, eyes locking on a point over Ilya’s shoulder.

Ilya turned, following David’s gaze, and there, halfway down the garden path, was Shane.

He looked beautiful, cast in the vibrant hues of sunset, the dark brown of his eyes turned amber in the light, his black hair reflecting auburn. He also looked tired, shadows set in deep beneath his eyes, the line of his shoulders tense, a crease embedded into the soft skin between his brows.

Ilya’s chest split open just looking at him, his heart leaping into his throat. Then their gazes locked and the tired lines of Shane’s face shifted, his expression morphing into something tender and vulnerable, big eyes shining wetly in the fading sunlight. That look, open and wanting, was enough to jolt Ilya into motion and suddenly he was scrambling up the sloping ground, sprinting across the lawn.

Shane met him in the middle, colliding with Ilya roughly, sending him stumbling backwards, almost toppling over from the impact of two hundred pounds and six feet of hockey player crashing into his body in a blur. He tensed on instinct, bracing against the force of the collision but then, as quickly as he’d tensed, he melted. His body registering the familiar shape of the arms flung around his neck, the fingers digging into the back of his head, the mouth pressing urgently into his.

Shane.

Every single nerve ending in his body burned, electrified and alive and overwhelmed with Shane, Shane, Shane. His heart was pounding in his chest, thumping hard against his ribcage, beating to the rhythm of he’s here, he’s here, he’s here. Everything was Shane and Shane was everything and Ilya was completely overcome.

He’s here. Shane. He’s here.

Involuntarily, Ilya moaned, his eyes sliding shut, hands fumbling to grip at the fabric of his boyfriend’s shirt, rucking it up, pressing his calloused palms to soft, sun-warmed skin. Against his mouth Shane sighed and then he was pulling Ilya in closer until there was not even an inch of space left between their chests, hearts overlapping and pounding wildly.

Shane’s fingers were twisting painfully tight into Ilya’s curls, his nose squishing against Ilya’s cheek, his tongue slipping between Ilya’s lips, and Ilya held on just as roughly, just as desperately. Clawing at Shane’s hips, nails biting into skin, wanting to find a way to crawl inside of him. Ilya tucked his hands beneath Shane’s ass, Shane jumped, and Ilya hauled him up into his arms. Strong legs wrapped around Ilya’s waist, practiced and sure, and then Shane was kissing Ilya harder. Kissing him so hard it made his ears ring.

Somewhere near them he heard David mumble, “wow, okay. I’m just gonna…” but it barely even registered over the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

“Shane,” Ilya murmured against the man’s mouth, blinking slowly, vision blurring because his boyfriend’s face was pressed so close to his. Shane’s eyes were still shut, his dark, straight lashes pressing delicately into his freckled cheeks. If his boyfriend weren’t gripping him so tightly then Ilya would be dragging his mouth over those freckles, kissing across the bridge of Shane’s lovely, straight nose. As it was, he could only look, his brow pressed tight to Shane’s, their lips touching even though they weren’t kissing anymore. Which, why the hell had they stopped? Ilya made a displeased noise then tilted his head, reconnecting their lips, kissing Shane deep and exploring. Shane’s thighs tightened around his hips.

He tasted salt, felt dampness on his cheeks, on his lips, but he ignored it. One of them was crying. Maybe both of them. It didn’t matter. Shane gasped his name, breath puffing hot and damp over Ilya’s face, his voice raspy and thick. Ilya whispered back to him, voice cracking, throat tightening and it honestly didn’t matter whose tears were slipping down his nose.

Shane’s hands cradled the sides of his head and then his lips were fluttering over Ilya’s face, pressing into the corners of his eyes, trailing down his nose, lingering on his brow, brushing delicately over his forehead before finding their way back to Ilya’s mouth. Shane’s mouth was wet when it pressed to Ilya’s again and he hummed at the salty taste, parting his lips, sucking on Shane’s tongue. The drag of their lips was tender and desperate and demanding, a plea for more, more, more. Maybe he was crying.

Eventually, after what could have been minutes or even hours, their kisses slowed, became less frantic, less hurried, turning languid and soft and lingering. Everything between them sweet and syrupy and slow. Their mouths separated, and Ilya carefully lowered Shane back to his feet, pressing their foreheads together as they stood there, by the lake, the sun long fallen beneath the horizon and the sky above them a purplish-grey.

Ilya pressed his nose into the straight line of Shane’s and breathed him in deeply, squeezing his eyes shut tight. In return, Shane’s fingers dug into the skin at Ilya’s hips, hauling him closer, one hand trailing up underneath the fabric of his shirt to rub up and down the slope of his spine.

“Hi,” Shane mumbled into the corner of his mouth and Ilya hummed, throat tightening, nuzzling somehow closer.

God, he’d missed him so much.

“Hi,” he murmured back, thickly, and Shane’s lips curled into a smile where they were pressed against his skin. “I missed you.”

Shane nodded, forehead digging into Ilya’s. The motion pulled on his stitches, just a bit, but he didn’t fucking care. Shane was so close, finally.

“So much,” Shane sighed and Ilya gripped at his waist so tight it had to hurt. If it did, Shane did not complain.

Shane pulled back, just enough to really look at Ilya, taking him in, thumb brushing carefully over the bruise blooming in harsh purple around Ilya’s left eye. The crease from before returned between his brows, the lines of his shoulders tensing, and Ilya shook his head, dislodging Shane’s hand, pressing his forehead to his boyfriend’s cheek. Not yet. He didn’t want to deal with all that yet.

“How was your shoot?” Ilya asked, distracting, diverting.

“Don’t,” Shane grumbled, firm; Ilya frowned.

“What?” he blinked but Shane just shook his head, grabbing Ilya’s hand, dragging him across the lawn towards the Hollanders’ cottage. “Shane, what?” he tried again but his boyfriend kept his marching pace and yanked Ilya through the open sliding doors and into the house.

Inside, David and Yuna were sat in the living room. They smiled when Ilya and Shane entered, Yuna jumping to her feet to greet Ilya, but Shane just pulled Ilya tighter to his side and gave his mother a firm look. The woman returned Shane’s intense scowl with a puzzled expression and Ilya gently extricated himself from his boyfriend’s grip so he could give Yuna a hug. A displeased sound rumbled in Shane’s throat when Ilya stepped away from him.

“Hi Yuna,” Ilya greeted, ducking to wrap his arms around the shorter woman and trying not to laugh as Shane’s fingers curled into the hem of his shirt from behind, tugging him back insistently.

“Hi sweetheart,” she smiled and patted his cheek, frowning deeper when Shane bodily yanked Ilya back to his side by the forearm. “Shane, what are you…”

“Dad, where are my keys?” Shane asked, interrupting his mother. David hopped up and went into the kitchen, returning a moment later with the keys to the Range Rover, depositing them into Shane’s waiting palm. “Thanks. Okay. We’re going.”

“You don’t want to stay for dinner?” Yuna asked, a disappointed note to her tone. David sidled up beside her and wrapped a hand around her waist, squeezing gently. Probably trying to communicate with her that it was best to let Shane go. “I’d love to catch up with Ilya.”

“You can see Ilya next week,” Shane said and stepped around his parents, tugging Ilya after him. At the front door, he paused, turning to his parents, the pair standing in the living room with mismatched expressions. David’s understanding, Yuna’s entirely lost. “Do not come to the cottage. Do not call or text. We will text you. Okay?”

Ilya suddenly felt giddy. He was sure he was grinning like a lunatic. The energy radiating off of his boyfriend was intense, full of searing want and a palpable possessiveness. It was dizzying, heady, the way Shane’s fingers were squeezing tightly around his; the way his dark eyes were focused and serious; the deep, commanding tone of his voice. The way he was firmly setting a boundary with his parents.

(He was hot. Ilya’s boyfriend was so fucking hot.)

“Shane…” Yuna began but David just squeezed her harder, and the woman huffed, nodding her head.

“We’ll leave you alone,” David promised then he flicked his gaze to Ilya. “I booked you an appointment to get your stitches out with Doctor Gauthier tomorrow at three pm. Please go.”

Ilya nodded. “Thank you, David,” he said and then Shane was pushing him out the door and Ilya was laughing, delighted.

They hurried down the large stone steps to the driveway, fingers intertwined, Ilya grinning so wide it hurt and Shane tugging on him almost hard enough to dislodge his shoulder joint. At the car Shane opened the passenger door for him and Ilya climbed in, holding onto Shane’s hand until the last possible second, squeezing his palm, laughing at his boyfriend’s responding eyeroll and tracking him as he rounded the front of the vehicle before sliding into the driver’s side. Once Shane was settled–his seatbelt buckled, key slotted into the ignition–his hand came down over the top of Ilya’s thigh, fingers pressing into muscle, firm and possessive.

“You know your parents totally know we’re leaving to fuck, right?” Ilya teased, smoothing his palm down Shane’s forearm then threading their fingers, slotting their similarly calloused palms together.

His boyfriend merely shrugged in response and turned the ignition, pulling Ilya’s hand briefly to his mouth to press a kiss to his knuckle then releasing him to focus on backing out of the driveway. Once they were on the road Shane reached for Ilya again, hand placed high on his thigh, fingers brushing beneath the hem of his shorts.

The drive to Shane’s cottage was short, only about ten minutes, but still Ilya spent the whole ride with his temple pressed into the headrest, watching his boyfriend. Wanting–no needing–to drink his fill of him after weeks apart. His eyes flickered over Shane, his big hand wrapped around the steering wheel, his soft mouth and the arch of his dark brows, his throat as his Adam’s apple bobbed with each swallow. For once, Shane didn’t squirm under the weight of Ilya’s intense gaze, his eyes locked on the road ahead of them, a quirk to his lips, the barest hint of a smile.

“You’re staring,” Shane said, turning the car into the long driveway that led to his cottage.

“Missed your face,” Ilya shrugged and Shane’s lips split into a proper grin.

“Just my face?” he asked and Ilya hmm’ed, considering.

“Also your ass.”

“Of course.”

“Of course,” Ilya echoed, smirking as Shane’s eyes briefly darted to him, pupils wide and dark.

The trees along the driveway thinned out and the car slowed to a stop in front of the cottage. Instantly, inexplicably, Ilya felt immense relief. His body sagged and the knot in his chest that he’d been worrying at since he’d left for Russia slackened as he took his first, full breath in a week.

He was home.

Before he could even undo his seatbelt, even reach for the door handle, Shane was scrambling over the centre console and into his lap, hands gripping at the sides of his head and crashing their mouths together. Their teeth knocked, Ilya’s nose bumped into Shane’s cheekbone, and Shane hit the top of his head on the car ceiling. A pained hiss slipped between Shane’s teeth, but he didn’t pull away, instead fumbling for the recline lever, pushing Ilya’s seat back, settling himself more comfortably above Ilya, thighs bracketing him in. The space was far, far, too small for two six-foot men but Ilya grinned into Shane’s mouth and kissed him back, less frantic, more commanding, guiding Shane’s kisses deeper, hotter, slower.

Ilya threaded his fingers through the hair at the nape of Shane’s neck, tugging his head back, baring his throat to press his mouth along the line of his tendon. Above him, Shane sighed, and breathed Ilya’s name like a prayer. There was adoration, reverence, worship in the way Shane’s lips formed the shape of his name. It felt holy every time Shane said it.

Ilya brought their mouths back together, pressing his tongue against Shane’s, chasing the taste of devotion in his boyfriend’s mouth. He licked along the back of Shane’s teeth and shuddered when Shane rolled his hips in response, grinding into his lap. A groan rumbled its way up his throat and Ilya gripped at Shane’s waist, pulling him closer, rocking their hips together through far too many layers of clothing.

“Shane,” Ilya murmured, pulling back, smiling at the whine he got in response. “Малыш, it’s too cramped in here. The cottage is right there.” He said, diplomatically, gesturing behind Shane towards the house with its three, very comfortable king-sized beds.

“Mm,” Shane grunted, then sighed and pushed the passenger door open, awkwardly clambering off Ilya’s lap and out of the car. He held the door open, eyebrows raised and made a sweeping gesture with his arm as if to say ‘well, hurry up then.’ Ilya huffed a laugh and undid his seatbelt.

The moment his feet touched the ground Shane was kissing him again, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers curling into the hair at his nape. Ilya spun them around and pressed Shane against the side of the Range Rover, gripping the back of Shane’s thick thigh, hiking it up to wrap around his hip. Grinding their clothed erections together.

It took an incredible amount of effort to make himself pull Shane towards the front door, hands locked tight around his boyfriend’s waist, guiding him carefully over the uneven gravel driveway whilst the man kept kissing him. Kept tugging at his hair.

They spent an unreasonable amount of time making out against the front door, fingers pulling at clothing, hands slipping beneath waistbands, calloused palms wrapping around hard cocks and groping at firm ass cheeks. If they didn’t slow down Ilya was going to fucking cum on the front step before they even got their clothes off.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya groaned against his mouth, sighing as Shane pressed his thumb into the slit at the tip of his cock, pulling back his foreskin, spreading the slickness beading there over the head. “Open the door, come on. Inside.”

Shane grumbled but released Ilya’s dick, patting at his pockets. “Fuck,” he swore. “I left the keys in the car.”

“Go and get them then,” Ilya shrugged and Shane frowned, unimpressed and horny.

“Get your hands off my ass then,” he bit back bitchily and Ilya groaned, but removed his hands from Shane’s pants anyway. Anything to get them inside faster, even if that meant not touching Shane for a moment.

Ilya leaned against the door, catching his breath, and watched Shane as he tried to walk as fast as he could without running back to the car. A grin tugged at the corners of Ilya’s lips, gaze catching on the way Shane adjusted himself in his shorts, and he tilted his chin smugly at his boyfriend as the man fumbled with the doorhandle before ducking into the car to grab the keys out of the ignition. Shane glared at him as he walked back up the path, his dark eyes flinty.

“Don’t be smug,” Shane muttered and stepped back up to the door, pressing himself into Ilya, chest to chest, nose to nose, before reaching around him to slide the key into the lock.

“You want me so bad,” Ilya teased as Shane twisted the handle, pushing the door open with a hand on Ilya’s chest.

“And you don’t want me just as much?” Shane asked, the words rasped into Ilya’s mouth, hand trailing down his chest, palm pressing into his cock through his shorts.

“I never said I didn’t,” Ilya replied, breathy, tilting his head and sealing their lips together in a proper kiss. He relished in the moan that spilled into him from Shane’s throat.

They stumbled through removing their shoes, heads knocking together, giggling into each other’s mouths, Ilya steadying Shane by the elbow when he tipped forwards in his rush to kick off his Reeboks. The mood between them was giddy, smiling lips pressing to necks and cheeks and teeth when they tried to kiss, pushing each other against furniture, grinding close and panting into gasping mouths, fingers tugging harshly through hair, making a mess of Ilya’s curls, of Shane’s neatly styled bangs. And by the time they were in the bedroom Ilya was breathless and dizzy and so, so warm.

There was a glow in his chest, fragile and aching, burning brighter with every press of Shane’s fingers into his skin, with every brush of Shane’s lips over his.

At the foot of the bed, they slowed, and Ilya wrapped his arms tight around Shane’s middle, clutching him close, feeling the tandem rise and fall of their stomachs where they were pressed together. Shane smelt like eucalyptus shampoo and cedarwood aftershave and stale airplane air and like Shane and Ilya buried his nose into the crook of the man’s neck, nuzzling close, breathing in deep. There were fingers cradling the back of his head, holding him firmly in place, dragging him closer, digging into his scalp and soothing the lingering, snarling parts of Ilya still lost in Moscow. Lulling the rabid creature thrashing weakly in his sternum into a calm stupor, exposing its soft underbelly and quietening its whimpering.

“Ilya,” the name murmured into his temple, lips brushing through his curls. “My Ilya.”

An embarrassing mewl spilt from his parted lips and Ilya quickly dug his teeth into the juncture where Shane’s shoulder met his neck, distracting from his own desperation. Shane wasn’t having any of it, wasn’t indulging Ilya’s impulse to slam the shutters over his bleeding heart. Ilya’s face was pulled away, yanked upwards, eyes forced to lock onto Shane’s intense, dark gaze.

Shane’s thumbs pressed into the delicate skin of his under eyes, gently, careful not to dig too hard into bruised flesh. “My Ilya,” he repeated, touching his lips tenderly to Ilya’s chin, sweeping the tip of his nose across Ilya’s bottom lip. “My Ilya. My Ilya. Mine.”

“Tвоим,” Ilya nodded, “Я всегда буду только твоим.”

Shane hummed and whether or not he understood the exact meaning of the words it didn’t matter. Some things were just obvious. Language barriers be damned.

The back of Ilya’s knees hit the edge of the bedframe and Shane pushed at his chest until he sunk down, onto the mattress, propped up on his elbows and breathing heavily as he watched Shane strip off his shirt and shorts and underwear. Eyes locked on Ilya the whole time. He left his socks on. It reminded Ilya of their first time and he grinned, heart bouncing frantically around his chest cavity, gaze raking up and down his boyfriend’s naked flesh.

Shane was so, so beautiful.

Outside the large windows the light was fading fast, but it was still just bright enough for Ilya to make out the lines of Shane’s strong body. The dips of his hips, the prominent lines of his adonis belt, the muscular shape of his calves, the mounds of his shoulders, the dark hairs trailing up his shins and thinning out above his knees. And his cock. God. Hard and red and sitting so fucking pretty nestled between his thick pubic hair and gorgeous, perfect, strong thighs.

Ilya’s mouth was watering and he was so close to begging but then finally Shane was crawling over him and settling above him and Ilya was sighing, relieved and content and tugging Shane closer until his exposed, warm flesh was pressed tight to Ilya, the heat of Shane’s body felt even through Ilya’s clothing. His hands wandered, gripping and sliding, fingers digging into the muscles flexing in Shane’s back, nails biting into the dimples at the base of his spine, just above his ass. The whole time Shane kissed him, filthy and fervent, grinding his pelvis slow and deliberate into Ilya’s lap.

Ilya rolled them, arms wrapping around Shane’s shoulders and waist, pushing Shane into the mattress with the full weight of his body, eliciting a satisfied moan from between Shane’s teeth. Their tongues pressed, slick in the warmth of Ilya’s mouth, saliva dribbling down Shane’s chin, his breath hitching when they pulled apart, a string of spit glistening between them. Ilya licked the slick from the corner of Shane’s lips then sat back on his haunches, above his boyfriend, smiling down at the man, flushed and breathing heavily beneath him. Shane’s fingers crawled up Ilya’s thighs, squeezing into the meat of his muscle, leaving little impressions of white, flesh discoloured from the strength of his grip.

“Shane,” Ilya murmured. “My Shane.”

Against the comforter Shane simply nodded, his pretty eyes sticky like honey, his smile soft and hazy. There was probably no one on earth as beautiful as him.

“Take off your clothes, please,” Shane breathed, hands gripping at Ilya’s shorts, at the hem of his shirt. “Please.”

Ilya nodded and tugged his t-shirt over his head, throwing it over his shoulder and not caring where it landed. He bent over Shane, kissing him, groping at the swell of his chest, thumbs pressing into his dark nipples. His still had his shorts on, cock straining against the thin material. But he couldn’t make himself get up off of Shane’s lap.

There was lube in the bedside table and Ilya fumbled for it blindly, unwilling to release Shane’s mouth long enough to look at what he was doing. When his fingers grasped around the bottle he hummed victoriously and dropped it beside Shane’s hip on the mattress. But then he paused, remembering.

“Fuck,” he muttered, pulling back, chest rumbling when Shane chased his mouth then growled as Ilya leaned too far for him to reach. “I was digging through the mud,” Ilya told him and Shane sighed, annoyed. “Do you want dirty fingers inside you? Just wait.”

Ilya shuffled off Shane, off the bed, and grinned over his shoulder at his boyfriend, scowling back at him then dropping his head in frustration into the comforter. “Well, hurry the fuck up then,” he groused and Ilya laughed, ducking into the ensuite.

In the bathroom Ilya tried to be as quick, but as thorough, as possible. Scrubbing soap and warm water over his palms, under his fingernails, between his knuckles. He caught a glimpse of his reflection; the ruddy, glowy sheen of his cheeks, the wide, dark pits of his pupils, nearly swallowing the blue of his irises. Ilya dried his hands hastily on the handtowel then shucked off his shorts and briefs, leaving them pooling on the bathroom floor.

When he turned back into the bedroom, he paused, arousal throbbing, zipping hotly up his spine, making his head feel stuffed with cotton. Shane was still on the bed, spread out, his knees bent open, head tipped back and lips falling apart around a breathy sigh. Beside him the bottle of lube was open, and Ilya groaned as he watched Shane’s wrist twist between his legs.

“Mm,” Shane hummed and rolled his neck, blinking his heavy eyes open, taking Ilya in where he was stood in the doorway, a slow smirk spreading across his mouth. He knew what he was doing to Ilya. With his free hand Shane trailed his fingers up his chest, pinching at his nipple.

Fuck. His boyfriend was actually trying to kill him.

Ilya stalked into the room and sunk to his knees at the foot of bed, placing his elbows on the mattress and then reaching for Shane, forcing his legs open wider so he could watch, properly, as his boyfriend languidly fingered himself. There was a gasp, Shane’s thighs twitching, as if wanting to cover himself up but Ilya just growled and held his knees apart, watching raptly as Shane’s fingers pressed into his hole up to his bottom knuckles.

He’d used a lot of lube, probably to help with the awkward angle, and the viscous liquid dripped down his wrist, glistening in the soft lamplight. His pretty hole fluttered, the puckered skin dark like his nipples and dripping wetness as Shane crooked his fingers in search of his prostate. There was a whine at the head of the bed, either because Shane couldn’t reach or because Ilya was staring so intently at him, splayed out, exposed and vulnerable in a way no one else had ever witnessed.

And wasn’t that something. No one else got this. No one else got to watch Shane squirm, his thick cock twitching against his stomach, dribbling wetness onto his abs, his hole clenching around fingers, desperate for a better stretch.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya breathed and surged forwards, pressing his mouth between Shane’s legs, kissing him where his fingers were pumping inside of himself. Over and over and over. Until Shane’s hand fell away and Ilya was pushing his tongue inside his slick warmth, moaning at the taste of him, musky and sweet and familiar.

Shane’s fingers found his hair, tugging, pulling him up and then gripping at his shoulders, urging him to climb back onto the bed, back up his body. Ilya let it happen. Let Shane grasp at his flesh and pull him in close. Let Shane kiss him messy and hard and biting. Let Shane take, and take, and take. In that moment he would have let Shane have anything… maybe in any moment.

Shane murmured into the space between them, “fuck me, Ilya.” And Ilya was helpless but to obey.

He manoeuvred a pillow beneath Shane’s hips and knelt between the man’s legs, splayed open, hole glistening and pulsing, throat flushing a brilliant red as he watched Ilya slick his cock with lube. The drag of his palm over his cock was almost too much and Ilya swallowed thickly. It had been too long. He wasn’t going to last. Especially not with Shane so needy and wanting and eager to take beneath him.

Ilya kept his fingers locked tight around the base of his cock as he pressed into Shane, breathing slow and deliberate, shutting his eyes because Shane was so hot, so good, so perfect with his head thrown back and his chest heaving and his mouth parted around a soundless gasp. When he was fully buried inside, balls pressed flush to Shane’s ass, he stopped and twisted his fingers into the comforter where his hands were braced at either side of his boyfriend’s head. He risked a glance, down their joint bodies, and groaned at the sight of himself filling up the man he loved.

“Don’t cum yet,” Shane laughed, but it was breathy and strained. Maybe he was talking to the both of them.

“You feel good,” Ilya said, voice tight, rolling his hips slowly, chest constricting when Shane gasped and reached out for him at the sensation, fingers digging into his biceps. Another roll, long and languid, and Shane’s mouth dropped open soundlessly, his body shuddering beneath him.

“Fuck, it’s been too long,” he gasped and Ilya nodded, unable to say anything else.

They panted, voices lost, as Ilya adjusted the angle of his hips and dragged the thick head of his cock over Shane’s prostate, finding the spot easily, then setting a brutal pace against it, stroking over the spot with every grinding thrust in, with every torturous pull back out. The sound of their bodies meeting, skin on skin, wet and slapping and frantic, filled the room. Only the occasional moan, grunt, gasp punctuating the air between the slick sounds of their desperate fucking.

Shane’s legs were wrapped around Ilya, his heel digging into the swell of Ilya’s ass, urging him harder, faster, closer. His thigh flexed, pushing his heel deeper into the muscle. His other leg was wound around Ilya’s thigh, socked foot sliding down the back of Ilya’s calf, causing goosebumps to rise to the surface of his skin.

Ilya dropped down, pressing his forehead into the curve of Shane’s throat, mouthing along his pulse point and tasting the beading sweat there, gripping tight at the man’s rolling hips, fingers bruising into flesh. His thrusts were less finessed than usual–grinding and languid, desperate and stuttering–but he still managed to fuck into Shane hard and deep, just the way he knew the man liked.

He could feel his abdomen tensing and he groaned, biting into Shane’s neck. His balls were so tight, his dick was so hard. Had he ever gotten this hard this quick before? Fuck.

“Don’t cum yet,” Shane whined, panting as he dragged his palms up Ilya’s sweaty spine, up until his fingers were twisting into Ilya’s curls. Then he yanked Ilya’s head back, away from his throat, and pressed their foreheads together, licking at Ilya’s top lip. “Don’t cum yet. Don’t cum yet. I want more. Please. Not yet.”

Ilya grunted and adjusted himself, digging his elbows into the mattress at either side of Shane’s head, winding his fingers through Shane’s thick hair and pulling, hard, as he snapped his hips ruthlessly and tried to think of anything but the man beneath him, attempting to stave off the searing tightness gripping his balls. There wasn’t anything that could distract from Shane though, not when he was so gorgeous, so lovely, spread over the comforter, dark eyes focused solely on Ilya, pink lips parted around silent gasps.

When Shane’s head tipped back, baring his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, Ilya moaned, overwhelmed by the wanton way Shane's body squirmed and shuddered. Laid out and all Ilya’s for the taking. Shane was pushed several inches up the mattress from the force of Ilya’s thrusts, and he dug his heel harder into Ilya’s ass, encouraging, begging for more.

Ilya pushed himself up onto his knees, gripping Shane around the waist before dragging him back down the mattress, pounding into him relentlessly. He watched as Shane’s hands clawed over the comforter, fingers twisting into the silky material and pull, pull, pulling as his spine arched and his mouth dropped open. His eyes were rolling back into his skull, and his thighs were twitching and Ilya knew he was about to cum, so he reached for him, wrapping a big palm around Shane’s weeping cock and stroking once, twice, three times until Shane was whining, clenching tight around Ilya’s cock.

“Ilya, fuck, Ilya–” Shane shuddered, chest heaving, fingers releasing the comforter and then reaching for Ilya, grasping at the sides of his face and tugging him down. Their mouths met, sloppy and rough, and Ilya bit sharply into Shane’s plump bottom lip as he rubbed his thumb over the head of his slick cock and then Shane was cuming with a gasp between them–his hot, wet cum coating their stomachs.

Ilya panted into Shane’s mouth, pushing his nose into the side of Shane’s face, hips stuttering in their movement but not slowing, still chasing release. Shane’s fingers slid into his hair and tugged, and he grinded his hips, clenching around Ilya’s cock deliberately, squeezing Ilya closer with his thighs.

“Come on,” Shane rasped. “I want you to cum. Come on, baby, please.”

“Fuck,” Ilya gasped, and then he was cuming, pulsing inside the tight heat of his boyfriend’s body, shivering as Shane made pleased little sounds beneath him, fingers gently tracing the shell of his ear.

“Good, Ilya,” Shane hummed, mouth dragging along the sweaty curls at Ilya’s hairline. “So good.”

Something like a purr rumbled in Ilya’s chest and he nuzzled his cheek into the side of Shane’s face, breathing in the musky smell of sex on his skin, turning his head to mouth at the strong line of his jaw, tongue tasting salt. Shane’s legs moved to wrap around his waist, squeezing tight, preventing Ilya from pulling out, pulling away. The hands in his hair moved down, smoothing over his shoulder blades, then trailing back up the slope of his spine, locking securely around his neck. Ilya was completely wrapped up in Shane’s possessive hold, and he pressed a smile into Shane’s skin, happy to be caught.

Eventually, their mouths drifted back together, as they always did, and then Shane was kissing him slow and sweet and tender, big hand cradling the side of Ilya’s face, thumb pressing into the apple of his cheek. When they parted Shane peppered kisses across Ilya’s brow and then down the bridge of his nose. Careful of his bruises and the stitches in his forehead.

“I missed you,” Shane sighed, the tip of his nose pressing into the dip of Ilya’s cupid’s bow.

“I could tell,” Ilya said, tilting his chin up, kissing Shane’s freckled nose. Shane screwed up his face, frowning, legs sliding down from around Ilya and back onto the mattress. “You were very desperate,” Ilya teased, restoring equilibrium, and Shane rolled his eyes, hands moving to shove at Ilya’s chest.

“You nearly came the moment you got inside of me,” he pointed out, gaze sharp, blunt nails scratching over Ilya’s pecs. “I think that counts as desperate.”

“You look so pretty with my cock inside of you,” Ilya sighed, wistful, and Shane tried to glare but his cheeks burned red and the effect was lost. Ilya grinned, widely, ducking his head to kiss Shane stupid. Kissing and kissing and kissing the man until he was no longer frowning. Eventually, Ilya pulled back and said, “I missed you too.”

Shane considered him a moment, gaze searching, but then he let out a contented hum and nodded, a slow smile spreading over his lips. “I’m glad you’re home,” he murmured, soft and sincere.

Something thick and sharp lodged itself in his throat and Ilya swallowed around it.

I’m glad you’re home. I’m glad you’re home. I’m glad you’re home.

There was nothing else to say to that except, “me too.”

The sun was streaming through the tall windows, stretching over the cream sheets, warming Ilya’s naked back, the heat of it keeping him trapped in that hazy, liminal space between awake and asleep. He couldn’t possibly make a guess as to what time it was, jetlagged and groggy and his head full of cotton. Heavy on his pillow, cheek sinking deeper into the silk fabric, Ilya groaned, stretching his arm across the bed, seeking out Shane’s body.

Shane wasn’t lying beside him and Ilya pouted, displeased, rubbing his face tiredly into his pillow then squinting an eye open, darting his gaze around the room.

Outside the window the sun was high in the sky, bright and brilliant against cloudless blue, reflecting shimmering light off of the surface of the lake, illuminating every rock and leaf and corner of the yard. Ilya shut his lids, tight, the world too bright, too vibrant for his bleary eyes.

He heard a click, the sound of the door opening, and he twisted towards it, grin spreading as Shane carefully peeked into the room, checking if he was awake. When their eyes locked, Shane smiled back and padded across the floorboards, settling himself at the edge of the mattress, hands immediately finding their rightful place on Ilya’s body. Calloused palms smoothing down his side, over his constellation of moles, up and down, his touch warmer than the sunlight.

“Hello sleepyhead,” Shane said and Ilya hummed, taking him in.

His hair was messy, clearly mussed from having run his fingers through it obsessively and his bottom lip was bitten red, something anxious lurking in his gaze. He was wearing dark cargo shorts and a casual, short-sleeved flannel, worn unbuttoned over a singlet. There was dirt on the hem of his shirt, and he smelt like grass and sunscreen and fresh flowers and overturned earth. He smelt like summertime.

Ilya shuffled over the sheets and buried his face in his boyfriend’s lap, pressing his nose to his hip, nuzzling in. Shane petted his hair, fingers gentle and caressing.

“What time?” Ilya mumbled.

“Noon. I have something to show you,” he murmured, scratching his nails at the nape of Ilya’s neck.

“Is it your dick?” Ilya asked, muffled where his mouth was still pressed to Shane’s thigh.

“No,” Shane scoffed, pulling Ilya’s head back, tilting his face up towards him. Ilya groaned and frowned up at his boyfriend, already staring down at him with his serious brown eyes and a crease between his brows. “Don’t be difficult. It’s important.”

“Mm,” Ilya sighed and rolled away, splaying himself across the sheets like a starfish. “What is it?”

“Just come,” Shane said, reaching out, smoothing his palm over Ilya’s bare stomach, stroking over the fine hairs there. “Get up, asshole. Come on.”

Ilya gave an exaggerated moan and swung his legs over the side of the bed, jumping to his feet, reaching high and stretching, grinning as he felt Shane’s eye rake down the lines of his naked body. He looked over his shoulder with a smirk and Shane tore his gaze away from his ass, frowning at having been caught.

“Let’s go,” Ilya hummed, sauntering over to Shane, pressing tight into his space. Shane shut his eyes and took a deep breath, pushing Ilya back, the firm press of his fingers to Ilya’s pecs leaving imprints of pink in their wake.

“Put on some clothes,” Shane muttered, stepping back, turning to riffle through his drawers then chucking a pair of shorts and a shirt at Ilya.

Ilya dressed unhurriedly, laughing as Shane deliberately stared out the window instead of at him. Once he was dressed, he crowded Shane against the doorframe and pressed a kiss to his mouth, fingers wrapping around his waist, tongue pushing past his lips. Shane grunted and pulled back.

“Morning breath,” he complained and Ilya rolled his eyes but went to move away.

“Fine, give me a minute,” he sighed but Shane grabbed his hand and tugged him back. Ilya arched his brows, tilting his head, and Shane leaned in to press a chaste, closed-mouth peck to his lips.

“Later, just–come with me now, okay?” There was a nervous edge to his voice, something fidgety about his energy and suddenly Ilya was worried. He grazed the sharp edge of Shane’s cheekbone with his knuckles, considering him.

“Okay, show me.”

Shane led him through the house, out the sliding back doors, and into the muggy afternoon air thick with the smell of algae and lake water. They wandered down the slate stone staircase, away from the path that sloped towards the lake, and towards the trees crowding at the edge of the property, over the lawn. The grass was damp beneath his feet, soft and squishy, his toes digging into the wet dirt as Shane’s fingers squeezed tighter around his.

Then, Shane came to an abrupt stop and he pulled Ilya up beside him, grabbing his other hand and clasping Ilya’s fingers between his palms, levelling him with a deeply serious look.

“If you hate it then I can fix it, okay?” he said, intense, brown eyes piercing. Ilya nodded mutely, blinking. Shane nodded back and then leaned in and pressed another sweet kiss to Ilya’s mouth, gentle, so gentle, then he spun Ilya around and stepped back.

For a moment, Ilya had no idea what he was looking at and then…

There, rising out of the freshly dug earth, nestled at the edge of the towering pine forest, surrounded by flowering bushes, stood a small, sandstone boulder.

… and then he gasped and staggered forward, dropping to his knees in the damp grass.

There was Cyrillic script carved into the stone and Ilya shuffled forwards on his knees, pressing the pads of his fingers to the words, a sob wracking through his chest, his vision blurring, as he read the inscription.

In loving memory of Irina Rozanova.

He curled over himself, head dropping to his knees, body shaking against the overwhelming urge to sob, fingers curling into his sides and digging deep. Pressing into his ribcage through his skin, trying to hold himself together.

“What the fuck,” he whimpered and behind him Shane made a strangled sound, rushing over, sinking down beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Shane’s hand pressed to the side of Ilya’s face, thumb stroking over his cheekbone, catching his tears, urging him to unfurl. Whispering something that Ilya could not hear, but that he knew was tender and loving and pleading.

“Ilya, Ilya,” Shane whispered, frantic, worried, and Ilya finally unfurled at the urgency in his boyfriend’s tone, turning to throw his arms around the man, pressing his face into Shane’s neck and crying harder.

Shane tensed in his hold; back straightening, muscles clenching, seemingly unsure of how to react.

“I know it’s not the same,” Shane said carefully, “but I thought maybe it would help to have somewhere to go when you want to…” think of her, talk to her, be near her. All those possibilities lingered in the air, unspoken, and Ilya’s heart tumbled helplessly around in his chest.

“Fuck, I love you,” he hiccupped. “Fuck. Shane. I love you, holy fuck.”

Shane’s shoulders relaxed, finally, and he grasped at Ilya’s back, laughing, though it sounded wet, thick, and then he was pressing his lips to Ilya’s temple. “I love you. I love you. I love you.” He mumbled back, warm breath ghosting over the shell of Ilya’s ear.

Ilya didn’t know how long they sat like that, curled around each other on the lawn, the sun beating down on their backs, his hands gripping at Shane’s shirt, Shane’s arms wrapped tight around him, rocking him back and forth, lips pressing into his temple and gently shushing his tears.

Chapter End Notes

I don't know if it is a common thing in other countries but where I am from people often put little sandstone plaques or boulders in their back gardens as memorials for people (or pets) - often in the spot the loved one liked the most like beside their favourite tree or in the garden bed with their beloved rose bushes. Obviously, Irina doesn't have a favourite spot at the cottage but this way Ilya has a space to visit.

This whole fic literally was inspired by the idea of Shane installing a memorial plaque at the cottage for Irina so Ilya would have somewhere to visit her. So...

Anyway, I have at least four more chapters planned - of fluff and smut and also some serious stuff and reflections on Russia and friendship and coming out and identity so look forward to that. I hope you are enjoying this so far and are looking forwards to more!

Also! I am considering writing a series like this one set in their first year of marriage (The Ottawa Year if you will). I know Unrivaled will be that but... lmk if y'all are interested. :)

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Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

Posting an Ilya bday chapter on Shane's bday seems wild but like... Shane would want this. That's his baby.

When you see this (❃❃❃) that is POV change~

This chap is very much a bandaid over a bullethole okay. Boys, boys, we need to talk to actually move on from a situation. They continue to suck at communicating and yet... I still love them.

Once again you reading and commenting on this I love you and I adore you and I appreciate you xxx

There was something remarkably captivating about a sleeping Ilya Rozanov. His pretty lips parted, pink tongue darting out occasionally to wet his lips, breathing softly through his mouth, making little snoring sounds that delighted rather than irritated Shane. His long lashes bending against the hollows beneath his eyes, glinting golden in the early morning light. The high bridge of his nose, broken and healed and broken again, casting shadows over his cheek and handsome jawline. The moles trailing down his throat, scattered across his chest and stomach towards the prominent lines of his pelvis, disappearing beneath the sheets slung low around his hips.

He was gorgeous. Absolutely, and completely, gorgeous.

Shane had been up for a while, just watching his boyfriend sleep, unable to drag himself out of bed or stop himself from staring no matter how many times he told himself just one more minute. (He’d first told himself just one more minute twenty-nine minutes ago.) Ilya had been at the cottage for four days but still Shane felt like he was waiting for the man to suddenly slip through his fingers, dissolving like fog over the lake on a sunny morning. So he just needed one more minute.

They hadn’t talked about Russia yet. Shane wanted to blame the wild, frantic, mind-blowing sex they just couldn’t stop having for Ilya’s reticence, for the lack of a conversation, but… Ilya’s suitcase was still in the boot of the Range Rover, and he hadn’t gone outside once since Shane had shown him the plaque for Irina. It had been storming for the past two days, the sky dark and rumbling, endless sheets of rain pounding on the steel roof, loud and rhythmic but also soothing, cocooning them inside the cottage; the wind and the rain and the thunder background noise beneath the sounds of their bodies moving, their mouths gasping. It had been a perfect few days but still… they had not talked about Russia.

Shane was not delusional; he knew Ilya would avoid the topic for as long as possible, maybe forever if he could get away with it. He’d known Ilya for far too long to be under any impression that the man would just open up willingly. Fuck, he’d known Ilya since they were seventeen; fresh-faced and stupid and eager to become the best of the best. He’d known Ilya through years of clandestine hook-ups and tense conversations–trying to say nothing when he’d been dying to say everything, all of his want and need spilling out of him and his desperate attempts at reigning it all back in for fear of it ruining him–and rivalries and lies, lies, lies. But, he supposed, he hadn’t really known Ilya at all then. Playing a tiring guessing game with the man, with his own fucking mind, for the better part of the last decade.

He knew Ilya now… or at least knew him better.

They would talk. At some point. Just probably not today because today was…

Ilya snuffled, nose scrunching, lips smacking. Shane stilled, eyes darting up to his boyfriend’s face, watching as his lids twitched then eventually settled, lashes curling gently against his cheekbones. Still asleep.

Shane slipped his palm over Ilya’s stomach, splaying his fingers across his sun-warmed skin, feeling the steady rise and fall of his soft belly with each breath. The hair trailing down from his bellybutton was silky, dark blonde, and Shane fucking loved it. Letting himself pet his fingers over it, gently, careful not to wake his boyfriend.

Another soft sound escaped Ilya’s mouth, this time a moan, the cadence of it rich and familiar, stirring heat deep in the pit of Shane’s stomach. His gaze flicked down the lines of Ilya’s chest to his hips where the cream sheet had slipped further down, exposing the pubic hair above his dick. Shane’s mouth flooded with saliva, and he took a deep breath.

His boyfriend was making lovely, sleepy sounds and his curls were a mess from Shane’s fingers and his lips were a little swollen from kissing and he had a dark bruise in the shape of Shane’s mouth on his collarbone and Shane was so, so in love with him.

Shane leaned over, pressing his mouth to Ilya’s shoulder, kissing the little cluster of moles there, dragging his lips between each one, connecting them like constellations. Ilya did not wake. Shane shuffled closer, sliding his hand up the man’s chest, pressing his fingers into the dip between his pecs, feeling for his heartbeat.

It wasn’t often that Shane got to just… touch his boyfriend, with his mouth, with his hands, at all really. Usually too overwhelmed and too willing to just melt beneath Ilya’s touch, happy to be held down, to be kissed, to turn off his brain and just feel his body like it was a real, tangible thing. Not a machine. Not a project. A body that wanted, that needed, that was wanted and needed in turn. And right now he wanted, needed, to touch Ilya.

(He wondered, vaguely, if the compulsive urge to touch, touch, touch would settle at all before the summer ended. And then, once they were back to how things had been over the last nine months, would this feeling just come roaring back, stronger, more urgent than ever.)

Shane swept his gaze back up Ilya’s body, watching his face for a moment, eyes briefly catching on the thin, pink line across his forehead; his stitches had been removed, and the wound was healing well. It probably wouldn’t scar–the doctor in Russia had been very skilled. Ilya’s eyebrows pinched slightly when Shane’s fingers trailed up his ribs, tucking beneath his armpit and pressing in, seeking warmth, but still, he stayed asleep.

Shane lowered his head, pressing a kiss to Ilya’s chest, just below the swell of his pec, to the mole that sat in the crease there. Then he dragged kisses up over soft skin, through fine hairs, before wrapping his lips around Ilya’s dusty pink nipple, sucking and nipping at the nub delicately. He didn’t neglect the other nipple, circling the tip of his index finger, just a ghosting touch, blunt nail pushing into pebbled flesh.

A soft moan–this time in the shape of Shane’s name–fell from Ilya’s mouth and Shane rolled over, slipping his thigh between Ilya’s knees, pressing himself tight to his boyfriend’s body. Ilya was warm beneath him, his cock slowly hardening against the muscle of Shane’s thigh, and Shane sighed, pleased with the effect he was having. Pleased that Ilya, even in his sleep, was responding so enthusiastically to his touch.

The sun was warm on his naked back, the heat of it spilling down over his thighs and calves, illuminating the whole bed in a soft glow. Everything was so incandescent and syrupy; the heat of the day seeping into the room, into his skin, making him feel hazy around his usually rigid edges.

Shane dragged his kisses down Ilya’s chest, over the ridges of his abs, tongue tracing shapes around his scattered moles then sucking vivid pink marks into the skin at his hips. It was summer. He could mark his man. He inched his hand further down, beneath the cotton sheet, brushing his fingertips through Ilya’s pubic hair, not yet touching his dick, now fully hard and begging for attention.

“Shane…” his name murmured, groggily, and Shane shifted to look up at Ilya as the man’s green-blue eyes squinted open, bleary and still half asleep. The sunlight slicing across his face, making his blonde lashes look almost white.

Shane hummed, acknowledging Ilya, letting him know that he’d heard him, and then he pushed the sheet aside and slotted himself into place between Ilya’s legs. He dipped his head, gripping at his boyfriend’s hips, before dragging his tongue, wet and warm, over the delicate skin of Ilya’s balls. Ilya’s hips jerked, and he made a strangled sound, deep and rumbling, coloured by sleepiness. Shane nuzzled his nose into the underside of Ilya’s cock and breathed in the musky scent of him before sucking his heavy, sensitive balls into his mouth. He moaned at the taste of them, the feel of them, velvety on his tongue and tight with Ilya’s arousal.

There were hands on the back of his skull all of a sudden, fingers winding through his hair and tugging lazily, fumbling and still heavy with drowsiness. Shane pushed his head into the touch and let Ilya’s balls slip from between his lips, slick with saliva. He licked up the vein stretching along the underside of Ilya’s cock before suckling at the head, pressing his tongue into the folds of his foreskin then using one hand to peel it back, the other reaching to caress Ilya’s balls.

He took Ilya’s cock into his mouth, not fully, just deep enough to nudge the head against the roof of his mouth, filling him up, warm and thick on his tongue. Saliva flooded his mouth and he moaned, relaxing his throat, surging forwards to swallow Ilya down as far as he could. Beneath him, Ilya’s hips jerked, pressing upward, and Shane settled into the sensation, losing himself in the feeling of fullness.

God, he loved this. Loved Ilya’s cock. Loved the feel of it deep in his throat, choking him. Loved the smell of his boyfriend here, between his legs, heady and musky and so masculine. Loved making Ilya feel good, using Shane’s mouth however he wanted, chasing his pleasure with each roll of his hips. Loved the taste of him, salty and hot on his tongue.

Shane rolled his own hips against Ilya’s shin, moaning softly. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d gotten off just from sucking Ilya and he was certain it wouldn’t be the last. And in that moment, he didn’t give a fuck how much Ilya would tease him for it later, how smug he’d be about it, the asshole. Shane just couldn’t help it, his cock aching for stimulation, desperate for friction. Ilya, of course, noticed and he adjusted the angle of his leg, pressing his shin firmly between Shane’s thighs, humming softly in encouragement as Shane grinded harder against him.

“Ебать,” Ilya hissed. “Ты невероятный. Не могу поверить, что ты существуешь. Ты такой идеальный.”

Shane groaned, hollowing his cheeks, putting his years and years of practice to good use. Ilya was babbling so beautifully in Russian–his mind clearly still sleep muddled and clouded by lust, too overwhelmed to remember English and fuck did that make Shane feel good. His boyfriend was wrecked, voice hoarse, tongue grasping for English between spurts of rambling Russian and failing. So hot. So perfect. So his.

“Я сейчас кончу,” Ilya moaned and Shane understood that. He slid his hand up Ilya’s chest, thumbing over his nipple, rubbing at the pebbled nub, maintaining his deep, relentless pace around Ilya’s cock. Ilya’s hand slid out of his hair to cup the side of his face, fingertips brushing over Shane’s cheek.

There was saliva dripping from the corner of his lips, dribbling down his chin, and Ilya swiped his thumb over it, smearing the wetness gathering there across his chin before pressing his thumb into Shane’s mouth alongside his cock. The stretch of it was dizzying and Shane whined, his jaw aching, eyes flicking up to look at Ilya. His boyfriend was watching him, his pupils blown wide, his eyes half-shut, mouth dropped open and his brows furrowed. They locked eyes and Shane deliberately, slowly, swallowed around Ilya as he took him as far back into his throat as he possibly could.

Ilya’s eyes widened, his abdomen tensed, and then he released, hot and thick and pulsing, down Shane’s throat. Shane moaned, revelling in the way Ilya’s dick twitched against his tongue, the way his balls tensed between his fingers. All of it just urging him to roll his hips more insistently against Ilya’s shin. Then he was cuming too, all over Ilya’s leg as he kept suckling on Ilya’s slowly softening cock, refusing to move away until he absolutely had to.

When Ilya pulled on his hair, hissing and oversensitive, Shane finally relented and crawled up his boyfriend’s body, clamping his thighs around Ilya’s waist, pressing their flaccid, spent dicks together as he leaned down to kiss him.

“Ебать, eбать,” Ilya whispered into his lips, pressing his tongue into Shane’s mouth, chasing the taste of his own cum. Shane simply hummed and let Ilya lick over his teeth, at the sides of his mouth.

They parted, spit glistening between them. Ilya reached a hand up, brushing his thumb tenderly over Shane’s mouth then pressing his blunt nail into the swell of his bottom lip.

“Happy birthday, baby,” Shane mumbled before closing his lips around Ilya’s thumb, dragging his tongue along the pad. Ilya huffed a laugh and sunk back into his pillow, curls a rumpled mess, sprawling in a golden halo around his head.

“You killed me,” Ilya breathed, tipping his head back and humming. Shane smiled, leaning over him, pressing his mouth to the moles dotting the skin of his throat.

“I don’t want you to die on your birthday,” Shane said, brushing his lips over the hinge of Ilya’s jaw, up his cheek, pressing a sweet kiss to the mole there.

“Too late, am dead,” Ilya declared, sticking out his tongue, rolling his eyes back. “Thane Howander killt me on my birfday.”

“Put your tongue away,” Shane scowled, poking at Ilya’s tongue with his forefinger. “Don’t talk with it hanging out of your mouth like that.”

“Is my birthday, I do what I want,” Ilya blew a raspberry at him and Shane rolled off of him and stretched himself out over his side of the bed, arching his spine, pressing his palms above his head into the headboard. He groaned, softly, and smiled when he felt the bed dip as Ilya rolled into him, grasping at his waist, nuzzling into his neck and whining. “You are not allowed to move.”

“According to what rules?”

“Birthday rules.”

“I’ve never heard of these rules.”

“You’ve never spent my birthday with me before,” Ilya shrugged, nonchalant, though there was a sombre note to his tone.

Shane considered that. His own birthday was in May, early in the month, usually overshadowed by the pandemonium of playoffs. It had been years since he’d taken the time to mark his birthday; his 2015 and 2016 seasons ending in well into June with the Cup hauled over his head–that in itself far more worthy of commemoration than simply being born–and then his injury dimming any enthusiasm to celebrate in 2017. Even this year, though the date had fallen after the Metros’ season had ended, he’d been too disgruntled and just plain fucking exhausted to think about marking the occasion. He’d simply turned twenty-seven on Thursday and then gone to a team gathering at Miitka’s house on Friday–only Hayden saying anything about his birthday to him, not that Shane had cared, he preferred when those kinds of things flew under the radar.

As far as Shane knew, Ilya usually celebrated his birthday in Boston. In 2014 Ilya had won the Cup just two days before his twenty-third birthday. Shane had seen the pictures–splashed over his social media feeds, shoved down his throat on the sport’s channels–of Ilya Rozanov sweaty and grinning and so stupidly handsome stumbling out of clubs in Boston, night after night, with a new woman clinging to his side each time.

(Shane had–shamefully and with an immense amount of self-loathing–jerked off to a photo of Ilya doused in champagne, shirtless, hair wet and plastered to his face, cheeks ruddy and his pupils blown wide with excitement. It had been a low point. His body aching and wanting and anticipating seeing the man at the NHL awards the next week–knowing he’d been ignored for the last six months but still so full of frightening, immense, want that he just couldn’t leave well enough alone.)

He wondered how Ilya had celebrated his birthdays before moving to America–before the money and the fame and the women. How had Ilya celebrated when his mother had been alive? Had he really, properly celebrated since she’d passed?

Something painful, sorrowful and nauseating, twisted in his stomach and Shane chewed on his bottom lip, trying to figure out a way to word the questions tumbling around his brain without causing Ilya to withdraw, without causing him pain.

“Did you just make up the concept of birthday rules?” Shane asked, propping himself up on his elbow, leaning his temple against his open palm and looking down at Ilya. His boyfriend was staring at the ceiling, at the fan slowly turning overhead, his lips pursed in thought. Shane reached his other hand out, dragging his finger up from Ilya’s bellybutton to the centre of his chest. Ilya smiled and rolled his neck to look up at him.

“No,” he shook his head. “When I was a kid, I got to make all the decisions for the day. I taught Sveta about birthday rules when she turned seven, so now she bosses me around every October twenty-second.” He laughed, seemingly remembering something else, his light eyes effervescent and lovely in the sunlight. “Marly also knows birthday rules. Last year he made me climb a tree and catch a squirrel.”

“You caught a squirrel?” Shane spluttered.

“No,” Ilya rolled his eyes. “Was too fast.”

“Oh my god,” Shane shoved Ilya’s chest and the man laughed which, in turn, just made Shane grin stupidly wide and hopelessly besotted. “Okay, okay. So what? Birthday rules are just you bossing me around?” Shane asked, arching his brows. He had a feeling that opening himself up to this was probably a mistake but…

“For you, is different,” Ilya shrugged and Shane narrowed his eyes.

“How so?”

A smirk unfurled, slow and lazy, over Ilya’s lips. The kind of smirk that had teased over his mouth when they were rookies–sat on opposing team benches at their first All-Stars Game, Ilya leaning in and murmuring ‘1221’ before skating away. The kind of smirk that had glinted in his eyes when they were twenty-two–bent over at centre ice, a series of texts burning on his phone back in the locker room, asking him how many times he could cum in an hour, promising to make good on Shane’s responding ‘maybe twice’ later. The kind of smirk that had accompanied giddy laughter last summer–Shane desperately trying to mute his phone, pulling it from his ear, right as he came down Ilya’s throat before climbing into his lap and laughing, discovering something new about himself, about them, in that moment.

“Mm,” Ilya hummed, pretending to consider. “Well, I still boss you around…”

“Of course.”

“But also…” Ilya tilted his head “you finally tell me full details of disastrous sex with Rose Landry.”

Shane squawked, a deeply unattractive sound, and then yanked the pillow out from under Ilya’s head, smacking his boyfriend square in the face with it. “Fuck you! Absolutely not!” he yelled and Ilya laughed, a deep, rumbling, belly laugh as he threw up his hands against Shane’s onslaught.

“I’m meeting her in two weeks, is only fair,” Ilya protested and Shane just hit him again, the dull thud of the pillow hitting Ilya’s face punctuating each of the man’s giggles.

“You’re such an asshole,” he said and Ilya caught the pillow, chucking it off the bed before rolling over on top of Shane and burying his face in his throat, blowing a raspberry into the juncture where his shoulder met his neck. Shane pushed at Ilya’s face, half-heartedly, laughing even as he tried to keep scowling.

Ilya pulled back, curls wild and big and sticking out in every direction and his smile so wide it made Shane melt. Like stupidly, ridiculously melt. His heart turned to a useless puddle of goo. All because of a smile. A really, really nice smile.

“Okay, okay, seriously” Ilya shook his head and then pulled a serious expression, an imitation of the scowl Shane was still trying his best to maintain. “I just want to spend the day with you. I don’t care what we do.”

That dissolved any remaining hope of Shane keeping up his scowling façade.

“Mm, I think that can be arranged,” he murmured, his helpless affection spilling out of him in the gentle tone of his voice, hands reaching up to press thumbs into the apples of Ilya’s smiling cheeks. Ilya turned his head and sucked an open-mouthed kiss into Shane’s palm then dug his teeth into the heel.

“I still get to boss you around,” his words were muffled against Shane’s skin. “And you can’t go anywhere without me all day.”

“What if I need to go to the toilet?”

“I’ve been inside of you; I can watch you pee,” Ilya shrugged and Shane shoved at the side of Ilya’s head, rolling out from under him.

“You’re disgusting,” he grumbled then swung his legs over the side of the bed. Ilya reached for his hips as he stood but Shane slipped away, avoiding Ilya’s grasping hands and padding across the room to dig through his drawers for something to wear. Not that he imagined he’d be dressed for long. He pulled a pair of cotton pyjama pants up around his hips and then turned to Ilya where the man was sat pouting on the bed. “Come on, I will make you breakfast.”

Ilya’s face lit up, excited, and then his expression quickly fell, turning sceptical. “I am not drinking kale smoothie on my birthday.”

“I’m not going to make you a fucking kale smoothie,” Shane rolled his eyes and ducked into the ensuite, wetting a washcloth then chucking it at Ilya’s head. His boyfriend still had Shane’s cum drying on his shin. “I’ll make you whatever you want. Come on.”

It turned out that what Ilya wanted was pancakes. Well, he’d actually said, ‘your cum’ and then Shane had punched him in the arm so hard he’d yelped. And then he’d said, ‘fine pancakes.’

So now Shane was standing at the stove, spatula in hand, watching for bubbles to form on the surface of the batter, waiting for that perfect moment to flip the pancake so it would be golden brown and fluffy and hold its round shape. It bubbled. He flipped it. The pancake was perfect and he let out a satisfied little hum. Ilya whistled, his chin was hooked over Shane’s shoulder, and his arms were wound around Shane’s waist, clinging like a koala and making the whole process infinitely more difficult. Even so, Shane did not push him away.

“You are almost as good as David,” Ilya observed and Shane grinned, strangely pleased at the comparison, at hearing Ilya refer to his father as ‘David’ comfortably now, without that rigid awkwardness that had coloured their encounters before Christmas.

“Mm, dad is the pancake king,” he said, lifting the pancake out of the pan and then sliding it onto the plate covered in alfoil, already stacked with food.

“Does that make you the pancake prince?” Ilya asked, nose pressing into Shane’s neck just below his ear, mouth brushing over Shane’s pulse point.

Shane shrugged and ladled more batter into the pan. “Maybe,” he agreed and Ilya squeezed him tighter around his stomach making Shane grunt. “Can you go clean the fruit like I asked and give me some room to work? I can barely lift my arm, Ilya.”

“No,” Ilya shook his head, biting at Shane’s shoulder gently. “Is my birthday. My rules. And I say I get to stand here and annoy you.”

An opening. Shane swallowed and tried his best to feign a casual tone as he asked, “who introduced you to birthday rules anyway? You said that you told Svetlana about them so…”

Unfortunately for him, Ilya could read him like a fucking book and the man’s arms dropped from where they were locked tight around his waist. Shane tried not to react as Ilya pulled away, tried not to stare as Ilya stepped back and leaned against the counter opposite the stove, even though every part of him wanted to pout and pull Ilya back. It was amazing how immediately he missed the warmth of Ilya’s body, plastered along his back. How instantly his muscles tensed, lacking the pressure of Ilya’s hold.

“My mama,” Ilya said flatly with a shrug. His performance of nonchalance almost perfect; it was only the slight twitch of his cheek as his jaw clenched that gave him away. Shane considered him for a moment, unsure of whether to push. Ilya decided for him. “When I was five, I asked mama for ватрушка for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and she said ‘of course, солнышко, birthday rules means you can have one hundred ватрушка if you wish.’”

There was something melancholic about the way Ilya recalled the memory; his mouth twisting at the corners, not quite a frown but clearly pained. Shane hurt for him. He didn’t understand what it was like to lose a parent–and he was so grateful that he didn’t–but sometimes he would think about what it would have been like growing up without his mother, or without his father, and he would feel tears threatening to fall just at the thought of it.

“How many va–vatrushka did you have?” Shane asked, trying his best to imitate Ilya’s pronunciation and clearly failing because Ilya’s blank expression morphed into delighted amusement.

“Twelve,” Ilya replied. “I threw up.”

“Of course,” Shane grinned. “What is vatrushka anyway?”

“Little round pastry with um… творог, in the centre,” Ilya explained, making a circle with his thumbs and forefingers. “I think творог is like… fermented milk in English.”

“Like cottage cheese?”

“Yes, I suppose,” Ilya shrugged. “Tворог is better.”

“Cottage cheese has a lot of protein.”

“Of course that is what you care about.”

“Shut up.”

Ilya simply grinned in response and finally began prepping the fruit–the one task in the kitchen he always insisted on being in charge of, even apparently when it was his birthday and Shane had said he’d take care of everything. Ilya had developed an endearing–and embarrassing–preoccupation with preparing fruit for Shane in the morning ever since Shane had explained that appropriate fibre intake and hydration were half the reason they could have anal sex as often as they did. His boyfriend also always made sure that Shane had water nearby at all times; whether that meant filling up Shane’s steel bottle with the Metros logo embossed on the front or plopping a glass on his bedside table before they went to sleep. It was cute. And embarrassing.

Once Ilya was done washing and drying the fresh blackberries and raspberries, he slotted himself back into position, pressing his chest along Shane’s back, wrapping his arms around Shane’s waist, his forehead digging into the knob at the top of Shane’s spine. Shane hummed, pleased to be so close, and reached up to briefly pet Ilya’s curls.

“Do you want to go outside today?” Shane asked, switching off the stove as he slid the last pancake onto the plate. “We can have a picnic on the lawn, swim in the lake. It’s finally stopped raining.”

“Mm,” Ilya nuzzled his nose into the hairs at the nape of Shane’s neck. “I want to fuck you all day. For my birthday present.”

Shane turned in Ilya’s arms, sliding his hands over the man’s broad, naked shoulders. He was only wearing a pair of loose basketball shorts, and it was incredibly distracting. “We’ve been inside having sex for four days, I want to go outside,” Shane complained and Ilya grumbled which just made Shane smile, and he pushed Ilya’s curls back from his forehead, pressing his fingers into his hairline.

“You are already bored of having sex with me?” Ilya gave an exaggerated pout and Shane huffed a laugh.

“That is literally impossible,” Shane shook his head. “And going outside doesn’t mean we can’t have sex, Ilya. The cottage is very private. I have no neighbours for miles.”

Ilya’s expression shifted, turning predatory, and then he was moving to press Shane into the pantry door beside the stove, smearing kisses over Shane’s mouth, his throat, his collarbone. The force of his kisses making Shane’s head spin and he moaned, soft and needy, winding his fingers through Ilya’s thick curls, pushing his body into Ilya’s space until they were flush together. Ilya, in turn, dug his fingers into Shane’s hips and made a pleased sound, deep and rumbling.

“Okay,” Ilya sing-songed when he pulled back. Shane had forgotten what Ilya was responding to and just stared at him blankly. Ilya laughed, leaning in and pressing a quick, chaste kiss to Shane’s mouth. “Outside picnic actually sounds nice.”

“It will be,” Shane murmured once his brain was back online, fingers trailing across Ilya’s cheek, down his throat, over the muscular mounds of his shoulders. Then Ilya’s stomach rumbled and they both snickered.

“Can we eat now?” Ilya said, a cheeky grin twisting the corners of his mouth. “Will you feed me?”

“No,” Shane pushed him away, frowning. “You’re a grown fucking man, feed yourself.”

“Is my birthday,” Ilya reminded him and Shane just groaned.

“You’re such a pain in my ass.”

“Yes, but I am pretty sure you beg me to be,” Ilya shrugged and then put on a terrible, downright offensive, imitation of a Canadian accent and said, “‘please fuck me, Ilya. I want you to fuck me. Please put your big, thick cock inside my pretty hole and fuck me.’”

Shane just punched him in the arm. “Fuck off.”

“No,” Ilya shook his head and buried his face into Shane’s neck, licking his throat and making Shane splutter and shove at him until they were both laughing.

❃ ❃ ❃

It was a warm day. The sun piercingly bright and searingly hot; the only relief from the heat came from the breeze that was rolling over the rippling surface of the lake, rustling through the thin tree line and over the manicured lawn. Shane had laid out a large picnic blanket where the breeze was strongest, right on the shoreline and underneath a cluster of swaying trees, the thin canopy providing them with dappled shade and some reprieve from the intensity of the sun overhead.

Ilya was in the lake, of course. Splashing in the shallows like a little kid and Shane laughed from his perch on the blanket when a fish brushed against Ilya’s leg and he yelped, slipping in the mud in his haste to move away from the slimy creature. Ilya loved the lake, and he loved swimming, and the water was always so nice and cold, but he’d been raised in between the towering skyscrapers of Moscow and in its underground clubs. He’d never spent time camping, or fishing, or even hiking in his youth. And he hadn’t sought out those kinds of experiences as an adult. He was finding though, now that he was spending his summers in Canada at Shane’s cottage, the natural world was more intriguing.

He still fucking hated fish though.

“You’re a baby,” Shane called from land and Ilya glowered at him. “Just move around a lot and the fish will stay away. They hate noise too.”

Ilya cupped his hands around his mouth and made a horrendous noise; an imitation of the loon call he’d become so familiar with last summer and had already heard several times since arriving in Canada. It didn’t sound anything at all like the bird and, objectively, Shane was much better at it. Shane laughed and the lovely, happy sound of it carried over the lake water to Ilya and made him smile. He tried again and this time he was sure that the sound he made was more like a honking goose noise than anything else.

Satisfied he’d scared off the fish; Ilya swam further out into the water.

He floated for a while, on his back, eyes shut, the sunshine piercing through the thin skin of his eyelids, lighting up his vision in blurry shades of yellow and orange. In the distance he could hear birds singing in the trees and bugs chirping incessantly and the subtle woosh of the breeze through the trees. The air smelt like earth and musky lake water and pine trees and vibrant grass. And floating there, on the sparkling surface of the lake, he felt calmer than he’d felt in a long time.

It wasn’t just being out of Moscow. It was being with Shane; being with Shane and knowing he had weeks more of this to come, the summer stretching ahead of them all syrupy and warm and, in that moment, infinite. There wasn’t an ominous ticking clock lurking above their heads, weighing down every kiss, every touch, every whispered word. For the first time, in a long time, they were just together and the clock was frozen. Forgotten. The real world was so far from them here; here in this place that was just theirs. Because it was theirs. It was the one place Ilya felt, unequivocally, that he belonged to, that belonged to him in turn.

He wished he could stay here forever.

Suddenly, absurdly, he missed Shane. They’d been connected at the… well, not hip… for the past few days but Ilya was greedy, and he was needy, and being even ten metres away was suddenly unbearable. He ducked under the cool surface of the lake and swam to shore.

Shane was lying on his back on the picnic rug, a book held over his head, his glasses pressed into the bridge of his nose, his thin linen shirt unbuttoned exposing the light hairs trailing from beneath his bellybutton into his shorts. Ilya stood over him and shook out his curls, sending fat droplets of water flying over his boyfriend and the rug.

“Ilya!” Shane admonished, raising an arm to shield his book from the spray. Too late. “You asshole, there’s a towel right there!”

Ilya simply grinned and tugged the towel off the branch it was hanging over. It was sun warmed and smelt like Shane’s laundry detergent and Ilya quickly dried himself off then flung the towel back over the low hanging branch. Then he turned and considered Shane for a moment, still spread out over the blanket but now with his book resting on his chest and a scowl on his face. Ilya’s grin tugged wider and then he flopped himself out beside his boyfriend, stretching obnoxiously, whacking Shane in the face with a flapping hand before rolling over to plaster himself to his boyfriend’s side, burying his face in his neck.

“You’re cold,” Shane complained, shoving at Ilya’s chest, “and you need more sunscreen.”

Ilya groaned and flipped himself onto his stomach, cushioning his head on his overlapped arms. “I hate the smell,” he grumbled and Shane just rolled his eyes, shoving his bookmark between the pages of his book and then sitting up to dig through the backpack he’d brought with him. The cottage was only up the hill, but Shane had insisted on bringing water and snacks and whatever else he’d deemed essential with them so they could just relax without worrying. Not that Ilya had planned on worrying about anything today.

“You have so many moles,” Shane said, producing the tube of sunscreen from the bag, “you need to be more careful about sun exposure.”

And, well, Ilya couldn’t argue with Shane when he spoke like that, soft and tender, like Ilya was precious. So, he hummed and nodded and blinked up at Shane. “If you put it on me,” he grinned and Shane rolled his eyes but there was a smile beneath it.

Shane smeared a thick layer of sunscreen over Ilya’s back, carefully working the heels of his palms into Ilya’s muscles. Then he nudged Ilya to roll over and massaged the sunscreen into the grooves of Ilya’s adonis belt, his abs, his pecs. It was weirdly soothing; Shane’s big, strong hands caressing the lines of his body carefully, diligently, making sure the lotion disappeared into his skin. Shane took his time coating Ilya’s arms in sunblock as well, then smoothed a thin layer over Ilya’s cheeks and forehead, before finally wiping off his hands with some wet wipes he’d produced from the backpack.

“Thank you,” Ilya tilted his head, watching as Shane spread himself out on his stomach, propped up on his elbows with his book back in hand.

“You’re welcome,” he said, gently, and then went back to reading.

Ilya watched him. Watched as sunlight and shadows danced over his linen shirt, the canopy overhead projected onto his back, light glinting through his dark hair and over the high points of his cheekbones. The breeze had picked up a little and it disturbed the paper edges of Shane’s book, gently ruffling through his hair as it tumbled over the lake and up the lawn.

At some point Ilya must have fallen asleep. Between one blink and the next he went from looking at Shane to staring up at the shivering treetops, blurry from the sleep sticking to his lashes. He blinked, rubbing a hand over his eyes, and then turned to Shane, who was sat beside him cross-legged and carefully peeling the skin off of a mandarin orange.

He observed Shane through squinting lids, watching as his boyfriend carefully plucked the vein-like, white fibres off the fruit before plopping a crescent into his mouth and chewing slowly, spitting out seeds into the surrounding bushes. Ilya shuffled over, pressing himself into Shane’s hip and nuzzling into his skin. Shane raised an eyebrow down at him and Ilya simply opened his mouth, sticking out his tongue. There was an eyeroll, and a huff, but then Shane placed a crescent of mandarin on Ilya’s tongue and Ilya chewed happily, swallowing the seeds and all. That just made Shane screw up his nose in disgust.

Shane fed him a few more pieces of fruit, not saying a word, giving a pleased little hum when Ilya wrapped his mouth around his finger and sucked. Shane tasted like fruit juice with the soapy aftertaste of wet wipes lingering underneath but also like salt, and skin, and Shane. When Shane tried to pull his hand away, Ilya clung to his wrist and dragged his tongue over the bump of Shane’s thick knuckle, moaning softly, chasing the sticky flavour of mandarin juice as it dripped down Shane’s hand. As his tongue dragged between Shane’s fingers he watched his boyfriend’s face, peeking up at him through his lashes. The brown of Shane’s eyes was thin, his pupils blown wide, his mouth dropped open as he leaned over Ilya, observing him with rapt attention.

“Ilya,” he rasped, voice thick, and then he was pulling his hand back and pushing his tongue into Ilya’s mouth, crawling onto Ilya and pinning him to the rug with his strong thighs. Ilya hummed, victorious and pleased. His boyfriend tasted like sweet fruit and smelt like sunscreen and their mouths were dragging hotly, teeth tugging, hands wandering, with the sun shining overhead and making everything hotter.

Shane’s fingers found his waistband and then he was shoving Ilya’s shorts down his thighs, wrapping a hand around his half-hard cock and slowly working his fist over him, his fingers too loose and too gentle to take Ilya over the edge but just enough to get him fully hard. Ilya nipped at Shane’s bottom lip, frustrated and suddenly stupidly horny, but Shane just laughed into his mouth and pulled back.

“Come back,” Ilya grumbled, reaching for his boyfriend’s hips as Shane rolled off of him, but Shane just shook his head and smirked, undoing his shorts then shimmying them off. Once he was free of the material, he swung his leg back over Ilya’s thighs and settled back into his lap. Ilya reached for him immediately, determined to keep him in place.

The skin beneath Shane’s linen shirt was warm, a little sweaty from the heat of the day, and Ilya ran his hands over his boyfriend’s spine reverently. Feeling his muscles all warm and damp and flexing as Shane held himself above him. He liked Shane sweaty, the smell of his musk thicker and the taste of his skin saltier. And as their mouths met in another wild kiss, Ilya dragged his palms down to Shane’s ass and pressed the man closer, breathing him in deeply as Shane settled over him with his elbows at either side of his head.

They kissed for a long while, slowly rocking together, Ilya sucking sweat from off of Shane’s top lip then licking at the beading perspiration at his temple. When Shane dragged his hips down, pressing the cleft of his ass to Ilya’s hard cock, Ilya groaned and pulled apart Shane’s cheeks, grinding himself into the warmth there.

“Do you have…?” he asked, brain fogging over and forgetting the word.

“Duh,” Shane scoffed and leaned over to grab lube and a condom from the backpack. He really did think of everything. Although…

“No condom,” Ilya whined and Shane just shook his head.

“I’m not lying out here with cum inside me,” he said and Ilya sighed but acquiesced, laying back and watching as Shane rolled the condom down his cock and then reached behind himself with slick fingers to coat his entrance. They’d been fucking for days; Shane didn’t need all that much prep.

Ilya dragged his palms down Shane’s thighs, digging his fingertips into the muscles flexing there, feeling the strength in them as Shane lifted himself over Ilya’s cock and then slowly, deliberately, lowered himself into Ilya’s lap. He gritted his teeth, flexing his hands, overwhelmed by heat and the way Shane’s hole squeezed around him, melding to the shape of his cock so perfectly and so warm even through the extra barrier. Above him Shane rolled his neck, a pink flush spreading over his chest and neck, dusting over his pretty cheeks. His freckles stark against the rosy hue.

Shane placed his palms on Ilya’s pecs, pressing fingers into flesh, leaving imprints of discolouration where his nails bit in. Then he shuddered and slowly rocked his hips, a careful movement, adjusting to the stretch, before he groaned and began bouncing in Ilya’s lap, his knees clamping tight around Ilya’s hips.

Fuck, Shane was hot like this. His thick thighs twitching with the effort to keep his relentless, pounding pace. His brow pinched in concentration, his bottom lip between his teeth as he arched his spine and reached back, gripping at Ilya’s leg just above his left knee to steady himself as he rotated his hips, deliberate and skilled and so perfect. His lovely cock was slapping into his stomach, just below his bellybutton, smearing precum on his skin. Fuck, he was hot.

The light was playing over Shane’s flushing skin, highlighting the beading sweat between his pecs, at his throat. He looked golden and ethereal, and Ilya gasped, chest constricting, as Shane tilted his head down to look at him. There was something in his gaze–yes, heat and arousal and a kind of fuck drunkenness that Ilya was familiar with, but also something else. Something adoring and tender and unbelievably… happy. Shane looked happy, a subtle lilt to his lips, a shimmer in his hooded eyes. And fuck was Ilya happy too. In this moment so deliriously happy.

Ilya snapped his hips up, desperate and fast and hard, meeting the steady pace of Shane’s movements and spurring his boyfriend on, encouraging him to take, take, take. Ilya wanted Shane to use his body and make himself feel good and make himself cum. But also, he wanted this moment to last forever. Wanted to lay here, sprawled out on a blanket on the shore of the lake, his boyfriend rocking on his cock so pretty, the breeze fluttering over them, the sun shining through the canopy, the sounds of bugs and birds and lapping water in the background.

“Fuck, baby,” Shane moaned, head thrown back, baring the long line of his throat. “I can feel you in my fucking guts, fuck.”

Ilya moaned, one hand squeezing at Shane’s hip, the other slipping over his skin, pressing his palm into Shane’s stomach, as if feeling for himself there. Shane gave a little chuckle, gripping at Ilya’s hand, pushing his palm deeper into the swell of his stomach.

“Right here, baby, I feel you right here,” he murmured and Ilya nearly passed out he was so dizzy and warm with arousal. Shane just smiled and changed the roll of his hips, filthy and deep and lingering. Ilya’s breath hitched and he grinded against Shane, needy and aching for release.

Then Shane was reaching for himself, pumping his fist over his pretty, pink cock, moving his hips in Ilya’s lap with increasing sloppiness, his rhythm stuttering as he chased his own release. Ilya watched him, enthralled, entirely mesmerised, and hopelessly in love. Every part of him felt hot and needy and tight with the building pressure of release.

“Shane,” Ilya sighed, gripping at his boyfriend’s waist again and Shane nodded, smiling down at him.

“Yeah,” Shane agreed. “Come on, baby.”

Ilya swore, batting Shane’s hand out of the way and reaching for his cock, stroking him hard and fast, turning Shane’s movements more sloppy, more desperate, more filthy, hips grinding and rolling, thighs gripping tighter around Ilya’s hips. Then they were cuming, together, mouths parting around hitched gasps, echoing over the glass-like surface of the lake.

“Yes, Ilya,” Shane sighed, eyebrows pinching as he slowed his movements to a gentle rocking.

“Fuck,” Ilya breathed, dropping his head to the rug, lifting his hand to his mouth and licking Shane’s cum off of his fingers. Shane watched him, chest heaving, eyes narrowing, his tongue darting out to lick at his bottom lip. Ilya dropped his hand and then Shane gripped the sides of his head, leaning down to shove his tongue in Ilya’s mouth, chasing the taste of himself on Ilya’s tongue.

Then Shane was wriggling off of him, tying off the condom and chucking it in the plastic bag he’d packed in his backpack for rubbish, already full of mandarin skins. They lay there for a while, breathing heavily, staring up at the sky peeking through the cover of leaves. Then Ilya giggled and then Shane giggled and then they were making out and rolling over the rug, limbs tangling, smiling into each other’s mouths.

Ilya pinned Shane’s wrists to the ground, flexing his fingers tight around his skin, trapping his boyfriend beneath him with the steady pressure of his thighs and hips. Shane pretended to strain against the hold then dropped his head back to the rug, smiling broadly. He was very pretty, all big brown eyes and scattered freckles and long lashes. Ilya wanted to like… devour him or something.

“Я так сильно тебя люблю, это просто невероятно,” Ilya murmured, mouth smearing over Shane’s, lips dragging wet and warm. Shane sighed into his mouth, content, and nudged their noses.

Ilya smiled, deliriously in love and stupidly happy, dropping down and curling himself over Shane’s body, flinging an arm over his waist, slotting a leg between his thighs, holding him close. Arms came down around him, smoothing over his back, tracing patterns down the line of his spine, pulling him tighter to the warm body beneath him. Then, lips on his forehead, pressing into his hairline, into his brow.

They dozed until the sun was slipping beneath the horizon, waking up as the birds on the lake started calling loudly, their songs carrying in the breeze and onshore. Shane had a sunburn blooming over the tip of his nose and his cheekbones, and he scowled as Ilya cooed, kissing the warm skin, brushing his thumbs over burnt flesh tenderly. He blamed Ilya for it, blamed him for distracting Shane with sex and napping and making him forget to reapply sunscreen. Ilya just laughed and patted his own cheeks, slightly golden from the warmth of the day but otherwise unburnt.

They showered together, pressed close in the warm water, fingers slipping over wet muscles, washing away the sweat and lake water and sunscreen clinging to their skin. Shane washed Ilya’s hair, fingers digging into his scalp firmly, working in the special curl shampoo that he’d made sure to stock up on for Ilya. It smelt like coconut. Ilya returned the favour, working Shane’s eucalyptus shampoo into his thick hair, scratching at his scalp and pressing kisses to the crown of his head as he tilted Shane’s head back into the water, washing away the suds. They made out for a long while, mouths slipping wet and warm, fingers gripping and trailing down chests, between legs, stroking each other as they pressed against the foggy glass, panting and then cuming together and cleaning themselves up all over again. This time for real. This time they wouldn’t make another mess.

Then they were rushing to change and shoving each other in the walk-in closet, Ilya laughing manically when Shane toppled over in his rush to pull his pants up and then Shane grouching at him and knocking Ilya onto his ass with a swiping kick to his feet. Ilya tugged Shane to the ground with him, and they wrestled over the floorboards; Ilya locking Shane’s head into the crook of his elbow and ruffling his hair and Shane biting his forearm in retaliation. Shane pinned Ilya down to the floor of the walk-in and nipped at his ear, growling at him to stay down, then he was scrambling away to finish getting changed. Ilya just laughed on the floor for a minute, catching his breath.

They were half an hour late by the time they were clambering into the car, still touching, still pushing, stealing kisses and biting lips as they leaned over the centre console and into each other’s space, the car idling in the driveway.

Sometimes he thought that surely all this would fade, fizzle out, that one day he’d wake up and touching Shane wouldn’t feel so necessary, that it wouldn’t feel like he’d die if he couldn’t press his fingers into the other man’s warm skin. Today was not that day, tomorrow probably wouldn’t be either.

(He honestly hoped the day would never come.)

Eventually, Shane pulled away, lips shiny with spit and eyes dark with want. He smiled when Ilya pursed his lips, asking for more, and leaned in to press one more, chaste, peck to Ilya’s mouth. That just made Ilya frown and Shane’s smile only widened as he turned to buckle his seatbelt and put the car in drive.

“Shane,” Ilya whined and Shane just shook his head.

“We’re already like forty minutes late,” he reprimanded, as if it was only Ilya’s fault. Ilya leaned over and pressed a kiss to his boyfriend’s shoulder, to the fabric of his cotton shirt.

“Why do we have to go anyway?” Ilya mumbled, muffled where his mouth lingered on Shane’s body.

“My parents want to say happy birthday, and you said you wanted to see them,” Shane reminded him and Ilya groaned, slumping back into his seat. He had said that hadn’t he.

“One more kiss?” he asked and Shane stopped the car, halfway down the driveway, putting it in park and then reaching over the gearshift to grab Ilya’s shirt, tugging him close and pressing their mouths together in a searing kiss, more tongue and teeth than anything else. The force of it made Ilya’s head spin and he gave as good as he got, twisting his fingers through Shane’s thick hair and pressing them closer, noses digging into cheeks, breath mingling heavy and warm between their mouths. It was the kind of kiss that usually came right before Shane would cum, lost entirely in his pleasure, body trembling and pupils blown wide with lust. The kind of kiss that Ilya coveted.

Then Shane pulled back, brushing his mouth over Ilya’s cheek sweetly, and turned to focus on navigating the winding driveway. As if he hadn’t just kissed Ilya so deep and so messy and so hot that Ilya was left completely brainless, his head a useless puddle of goo. His boyfriend had been trying to kill him all day. Actively trying to end his life at just twenty-seven years of age. Waking him up with a blowjob, riding him so sweet and filthy on the lawn, kissing him like he needed Ilya’s touch to live. It was driving Ilya insane. He was going to have to fuck him at least four more times once they got back from the Hollanders.

Ilya slumped into the passenger seat as Shane turned the car onto the road that wound around the pine forest, through the quiet streets of the sparsely populated town. The nearest neighbour to Shane was almost a full kilometre from the edge of his property and down a long, densely wooded driveway. Ilya couldn’t see the house from the road, squinting through the trees and only catching a glimpse of a dark structure in the distance.

The Hollanders’ cottage was less isolated. A few houses dotting the road and Ilya poked his head out the open window, enjoying the warm evening air as the smell of barbecued meat and freshly cut grass drifted on the breeze. There was a family on the lawn down the road from David and Yuna’s cottage, gathered around a long table surrounded by mismatched chairs and crowded with people. There was laughter and soft music, and the excited yapping of dogs intermingled with the delighted shrieks of running children. It was nice and normal and Ilya wondered what it was like to have a big family and friends that spent the summers barbecuing and drinking beer together in the stretching light of day. He wondered if, one day, perhaps he and Shane might get that. A chance to exist, surrounded by people who knew them, eating and laughing and entertaining friends and family at the cottage.

If they did, it would be a long time away.

The car rolled to a stop on the gravel driveway and Shane turned off the ignition. They wandered up the stone staircase, fingers interlaced, the light of day slowly fading behind them, and on the front step Shane paused, pressing Ilya’s palm to his mouth then giving him a shy smile. The kind of smile that he wore when he was nervous.

Before Ilya could ask him what he was thinking Shane was tugging him through the front door, squeezing his hand, and Ilya was standing in the lounge room, the space bright and cluttered with gaudy decorations. Then the Hollanders were jumping up from the couch and yelling ‘happy birthday,’ and Ilya lost his grip on Shane’s hand as David and Yuna hugged him tightly.

His gaze wandered the space over Yuna’s shoulder, taking in the streamers and balloons and the banner hanging over the fireplace, spelling out ‘happy birthday’ in colourful, chunky letters. The dining room was similarly decorated, balloons crowding the ceiling and streamers draped over the archway, the table covered in a rainbow gingham cloth with party hats at each placemat. It was over-the-top and probably tacky, but Ilya found himself smiling, something thickening in his throat and making it hard to breathe.

“It’s probably too much,” David chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his head as Ilya continued to just stand there and stare at the birthday decorations filling the space. “But Shane told us to get some decorations so…”

“I didn’t mean for you to buy the whole store,” Shane muttered but he was smiling, eyes darting from the banner on the mantle to Ilya’s face. There was a question in his eyes, his gaze searching. Ilya reached for him, pressing their palms together and overlapping their fingers in answer.

“Thank you, looks very… colourful,” Ilya hummed and Yuna cackled, rubbing his shoulder.

“I told you it was too much, David,” she said as she passed by her husband, ducking into the kitchen.

“She did,” David admitted sheepishly.

Yuna returned with four beers, and they wandered outside to the back patio, spreading out on the outdoor setting. David and Yuna took the loveseat and Ilya and Shane tucked closer than was strictly necessary on the three-seater lounge. Shane pressed his hand between Ilya’s back and the cushion, fingers curling into his shirt and scratching lightly through the fabric. Ilya’s arm was stretched out over the back of the lounge, hand cradling the nape of Shane’s neck, brushing his thumb through the short hairs there. There was a content smile on Shane’s face as he sipped his beer and pressed his body tight along Ilya’s side.

“So, Ilya,” Yuna started, giving her son a pointed look and then turning a warm smile at Ilya, “it’s good to see you properly. Finally.”

“It’s only been four days,” David said mildly, and Yuna smacked his chest.

“I am surprised you boys actually came over tonight,” Yuna added, ignoring her husband. “Shane was so insistent that we wouldn’t be seeing you until next week. And you were almost an hour late.”

“Mum,” Shane groaned at the same time David murmured ‘Yuna’ in an imploring tone.

“What?” she threw out her arms. “Is it wrong to want to see my son-in-law?”

“Oh my god, mum!” Shane repeated, flushing from his throat to the tips of his ears. Ilya was secretly–maybe not-so-secretly because he was suddenly grinning stupidly big–pleased by Yuna’s words. She already thought of him as her son-in-law and that made Ilya’s heart clench and ache and expand all at once.

“What? Is it because I said son-in-law? Don’t act like that’s not where this is heading, Shane. I can see it in the way you–”

“Mum!”

“How was Russia?” David asked, loud and friendly, over the sound of Yuna and Shane’s bickering.

Ilya would have preferred it if Shane and Yuna had kept bickering. The question, as innocuous as it was, made him tense, his body drawing tight like a bowstring, pulling away from the warm press of Shane’s body at his side.

They hadn’t talked about Russia yet. Ilya had been avoiding it, kissing the question off of Shane’s lips every time he saw it beginning to stir in his eyes, desperate to keep the lid on it all for as long as was possible. Maybe forever. He was ashamed of how he’d behaved in Russia; he was afraid of all the anger and grief that was rumbling somewhere deep beneath the surface of his skin, desperate to claw its way out and bite at the hands that loved him, that offered him comfort. He was a poorly trained mutt, riddled with fleas, bound to lash out eventually. All he wanted was to prevent that from happening here. Not here.

Ilya swallowed; he could feel Shane’s eyes on him, concerned and intense. His throat worked, unable to form words, in any language. Luckily, Yuna saved him from having to.

“David, I think you need to check on the roast,” she patted his shoulder and the man frowned at her, confused. Yuna gave him a look, communicating with her husband with just her stare, and then he pursed his lips and excused himself inside.

Ilya took a long pull from his beer, trying to ignore the way Shane was looking at him. He’d removed his hand from Ilya’s back, and the absence of his touch was almost painful.

“Now,” Yuna clapped her hands and levelled Ilya with a serious look “I have some thoughts about that final game against Washington last season.”

“Jesus Christ, mum,” Shane groaned but his hand had crept back onto Ilya’s knee, thumb brushing over skin and Ilya really didn’t mind talking shop with Yuna. It was better than talking about Russia.

When Ilya turned twelve years old his mother had pulled on his ear thirteen times. Once for every year he was turning plus one more for luck. She’d done it every year he could remember, cupping his face in her thin hands, tucking his hair behind his ear and then gently tugging on the helix. Upwards, so he’d grow tall and strong. In the afternoon she’d taken him to the bakery a few blocks from their apartment and bought him a hefty slice of медови́к, all his own, and then they’d wandered down to the park, and he’d eaten it with a little plastic spoon as they’d watched the birds dawdling around the grass, looking for bugs.

The birthdays he’d celebrated in Russia after his mother’s death were fuzzy. He could remember dragging lectures from his father, sat at the dinning table, Polina smoking a cigar and looking at him disdainfully, as if it was his fault she’d chosen to marry a man with a thirteen year old son. He could remember Sasha stealing a bottle of vodka for Ilya’s fourteenth birthday and getting drunk with him and kissing him and touching a boy for the first time. He could remember spending his fifteenth birthday with Svetlana and her family, feeling mostly normal for a little while, before returning home to find his father in a mood and ending the day with bruises in the shape of his big hands on his forearms. He could remember turning sixteen and having his first threesome, with Sasha and some girl Sasha knew from university, and smoking his first cigarette afterwards, the girl holding the butt to his lips and Ilya inhaling deep, getting addicted to the drag of nicotine in his lungs. He could remember watching tapes from Canada of a boy named Shane Hollander all night the night he’d turned seventeen, eyes glued to the screen, fascination and jealously fighting for dominance in his gut, churning away as he anticipated the NHL draft, just one more year away. Most of all he could remember turning eighteen just days before getting drafted number one, stood beside the boy with the pretty freckles that had shook his hand twice in Saskatchewan, and seeing a future far from Russian soil in the black and gold thread of his Boston jersey, in the 81 stitched into it.

Ilya supposed he hadn’t had any idea just how much of his future he’d been witness to that day; the love of his life, his soulmate, stood beside him before the press, forcing a smile as he flashed two fingers at the cameras. If only he’d known then what he knew now…

He was sat now at the dining table with the Hollander family, a sparkly party hat secured on his head with an elastic string tucked under his chin, digging uncomfortably into his skin. But he didn’t mind it. David had cooked risotto and a massive roast chicken and served it all with homemade bread and roasted brussels sprouts and it smelt divine. They’d switched from beer to wine and chatted loudly over the table about the playoffs and David’s office drama involving some woman named Patrice that hated Brad from HR and was killing all his desk plants one by one and Ilya had nearly choked on his wine from laughing, fascinated by it all because it was so different than hockey. Yuna told them all about the wine club gossip, how Louise was now fucking Brenda’s ex-husband but also Mason’s ex-wife and now there was a whole impeachment in the works because Louise’s behaviour was unfit for president and surely against wine club’s charter. Yuna told them she liked Louise, she had chutzpah.

Then Shane and Yuna got up to clear the table and Ilya chatted with David quietly as the other two whispered to each other in the kitchen. He paid them no attention, too engaged with the story David was enthusiastically recounting. A dramatic tale of Shane’s thirteenth birthday, going to his first Metros game where the team was in the playoffs and him trying not to cry in the car on the way home when Montreal lost to Philadelphia. How it had taken Yuna and David years to convince Shane after that that he hadn’t ruined the Metros’ chances and that he wasn’t a ‘bad luck charm.’ Ilya laughed and leaned over the table when David showed him the photos he’d scanned to his phone of teenage Shane in his Metros jersey sat on a plastic chair at Harvey’s, pouting at his burger.

He startled when the overhead lights switched off suddenly, plunging the room into darkness, the glow of David’s phone the only point of light in the room. But then Yuna and Shane were walking in carefully, a large cake balanced on plate in Yuna’s outstretched arms, the surface of it smothered in icing and loaded with candles, casting shadows all over the room, illuminating everything in a soft yellow incandescence.

Ilya blinked, a trembling smile spreading over his mouth as the cake was placed in front of him and then the Hollanders were singing ‘happy birthday’ in very bad Russian and Ilya was laughing and pressing his palms to his face to try and hide the flush rising to his cheeks. Beside him Shane had placed his hand at the top of his spine and was gently pressing his thumb into the base of Ilya’s skull, grounding and safe.

“S dnyom rozhdeniya tebya mily Ilya,” the three sung, clumsy and off-beat as they struggled with the foreign language. “S dnyom rozhdeniya tebya!” Then they were clapping and Ilya was staring up at Shane and Yuna and David trying to find the words to express how full and also small and also enormous his heart felt right in that moment.

Instead, he said, “there are so many candles.”

“There’s twenty-seven,” Shane shrugged and Ilya cleared his throat.

“Fuck, I’m old now,” he muttered and Yuna and David laughed. Shane brushed his fingers through Ilya’s curls, subtly, just for them.

“Make a wish,” Yuna directed and Ilya nodded, squeezing his eyes tight like his mama had taught him as a boy.

Behind his eyelids he saw himself eating медови́к in the park with his mother, saw himself dwarfed at an oak table, saw himself in Svetlana’s childhood home, saw himself in a bed with a stranger smoking his first cigarette, saw himself in New York holding an NHL jersey for the first time. Saw the boy he’d been in Moscow after his mother had passed, lost and alone and seeking comfort wherever he could find it, desperate for connection and grasping at flesh in hopes of finding something to hold on to.

Then it shifted, tipped sideways, and he saw himself as he was now, sat beneath a ceiling crowded with balloons in a home that was warm and welcoming and so far from Moscow it was basically another planet. He saw himself beside Shane, the man’s hand on his neck, thumb swiping over his nape tenderly. Saw himself across from Yuna and David, big smiles on their faces, their eyes kind as they looked down at him. The candlelight illuminating it all in a sort of hazy surrealness.

And he wished, maybe for the first time in his life, for things to stay as they were. For these people, for this place, for this life to stay. To be his. Forever.

He leaned in and blew out the candles, sending the room back into darkness and the Hollanders all cheered and clapped and then the overhead lights were switched back on, and Ilya tilted his head up towards Shane, pursing his mouth. Shane made a soft, humming sound, and bent down, pressing his lips to Ilya’s in a chaste kiss. Before he pulled away, Shane brushed his mouth over Ilya’s forehead, gently petting his curls as he whispered, “I love you, happy birthday.”

Chapter End Notes

At this point in time our lovely Ilya is sticking his fingers in his ears and loudly yelling LALAALALALALALALA over the sounds of his trauma and pain. This is the boy at his peak of 'hey i'm having a good time and i'm happy wow i never have been traumatised ever and am so fine' à la his vibes in TLG after he got engaged and was like 'lol everything is cool again i was just being goofy'... 'wait actually i'm still depressed because love doesn't cure mental illness'. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Next chap we're going back to the suffering baby.

But then there's more fun stuff after that!

Talk to me on Tumblr

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Thank you again to the ppl that keep commenting on this. I survive off of your comments. Without y'all I would shrivel up and die <3

Please be mindful this chapter is heavier on the child abuse element of this whole fic.

The nightmare began as they all did; with his mother’s limp body sprawled across the satin blue comforter. Her blonde hair spilling over her face and obscuring her profile, her slim hand slack where it was draped over the edge of the mattress, a puddle of vomit soaking into the bedspread. Visceral. Familiar.

But…

When Ilya reached for her, as he always did, the hands that curled around her biceps were not the hands of the twelve year old boy that had found her that day. They were the hands of a man, thick knuckled and calloused, big enough to wrap around the circumference of her slender arms, thumb and forefinger meeting against the press of her bony ribcage. And when her hair–golden and fine–slid off of her shoulder, the shape of her face was all wrong.

It took a moment, the blurry edges of dreaming and memory colliding, but then he recognised her.

Her thick, straight brows. Her tall nose. Her deep set eyes, shadowed and hollow. Her blonde hair, lighter than his mother’s, more platinum than gold.

Yelena.

The room shifted; mauve wallpaper fading to painted grey walls, carpet melting to floorboards. Modern and minimalist and… It was Ilya’s old apartment.

Behind him the door clicked, creaking open. Ilya turned and there, dwarfed in the doorway, stood Milana.

Don’t look. Don’t look. Sweetheart, don’t look.

But his throat made no sound, and when he reached for her, his knuckles were cracked and stained with blood, glass embedded in his flesh. His hands fell to the ground in front of him, useless, sinking into the wooden floorboards.

The edges of the room shivered and morphed and then the floor was littered with glinting shards of broken crystal, soaked through with alcohol, splattered with blood. A dollhouse shadowed in the corner of the room, broken and empty.

He made to move; to reach for Milana and shield her from the carnage but the second he moved Milana shrieked, loud and piercing and agonised. Her cheeks red, face smeared with tears and snot. So, so frightened. Of him. Trembling with every move he made, even when he tried to shrink away from her, make himself smaller, less threatening.

It didn’t help. He couldn’t fix it.

Milana kept screaming. And screaming. And screaming.

Ilya shuddered awake, ears ringing, a sickening disquiet roiling in his gut.

It was dark. The waning moon outside the window barely touching the edges of the pine forest with its silvery glow and there were no lights on inside the cottage. The bedroom was engulfed in shadow, the space peaceful and quiet, so quiet. Only the sounds of the bugs outside and Shane’s soft snoring piercing the stillness of the night.

Beside him Shane was breathing deeply, asleep on his stomach, the lines of his naked back illuminated in the faint moonlight, his face squished into his pillow, dark hair mussed and falling over his forehead. Beautiful and beloved.

Ilya shuffled carefully to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over the mattress and pressing the soles of his bare feet into the hardwood floor. The cold touch of the dark floorboards sent a shiver through his toes and up his spine, settling deep into his blood, into his bones. He gripped the side of the mattress and shook his head, brows pinched, trying to dispel the lingering hissing in his ears. Trying to banish the sickening scene clawing behind his eyes.

With each blink he just saw Milana’s face.

He shifted, made to move, but felt hands reaching for him, gripping at the waistband of his shorts.

“Where’re you’goin?” Shane’s voice, sleepy and slurred, curling over Ilya’s tense shoulders and tugging at his chest.

Ilya turned, gently unfurling Shane’s grip, placing the man’s hand back onto the bedsheets, squeezing his fingers. Shane made a whining sound, and Ilya stroked his palm over the back of his head, fingers brushing gently through dark strands.

“Just need to pee,” Ilya lied and Shane grumbled, nuzzling his face deeper into his pillow.

“Comebackquick,” he yawned, words jumbling together as he struggled to keep his eyes open.

“Yes, мой любимый,” Ilya soothed, leaning down to press a kiss to Shane’s temple. He lingered for a moment, nose pressed to Shane’s hair, breathing in the sleepy smell of him before pulling back, stroking a hand down Shane’s flank.

Then he waited. Waited until Shane’s breathing flattened, until his shoulders sagged again with sleep, and then he left the room.

The sun was rising. Grey light turning golden and reflecting off of the smooth surface of the lake, illuminating the leaping fish disturbing the otherwise calm water and the drifting dragonflies, their fine wings glinting sunshine. At the edges of the property the forest was waking up, sagging saplings stretching towards the rising sun, sleeping birds unfurling ruffled wings and soaring above the tree line, singing to one another in the warm, open air. And as the world lit up around him, bright and beautiful, he sat on the patio, obscured by smoke.

There were several cigarette butts squashed into the bottom of the jar in front of him. Some of them still smouldering. The glass jar had an old label, half faded, the only letters left of the original packaging were ‘emp se ds.’ He’d found it in a cupboard in the kitchen, amongst a collection of similarly aged jars, and had figured his boyfriend wouldn’t miss it, would in fact prefer it if Ilya made himself an ashtray rather than just stamping out his cigarettes beneath his foot into the concrete patio. Well, he’d probably prefer that Ilya didn’t smoke at all. Too bad.

Ilya hadn’t been able to go back to sleep last night. Wandering through the rooms of the cottage like a spectre, adrift and disturbed. And so, instead of bothering Shane with his restlessness, he’d slipped outside, into the chill of the early morning hours, sinking into a chair on the patio and refamiliarizing himself with the soothing drag of nicotine in his lungs. He’d been at the cottage for eight days and in that time he’d managed to steer clear of his dreadful habit; the secret stash of cigarettes in his suitcase left untouched until three am this morning. Dug up with shaking fingers and shamefully lit up outside, alone, under cover of darkness.

Behind him the sliding door unlatched, rumbling open, the sound of it loud in the hush of sunrise. Ilya squared his shoulders, rolling the cigarette between his lips and puffing out a thick cloud of smoke, causing the man approaching him to cough. The sound was satisfying, maybe the smoke would make Shane stay back.

“You’re smoking.”

Déjà vu. Ilya smoking on the patio over Christmas, thinking about his brother, smearing ash into snow, turning pure white to filthy grey. But he’d been… sad, or maybe regretful, then. His fragility exposed and weeping like a wound. Now he was just angry and frayed. His nerves teetering on the edge of snapping, teeth clenched, canines poised to cut through flesh.

Shane pulled out the chair across from him, and sunk into it, one leg tucking underneath himself, the other drawn up against his chest, his arms wrapping around his shin. He blinked at Ilya tiredly, his hooded lids hanging heavily over his irises, long lashes sweeping his under eyes. They’d spent the last few days in the sun, swimming and paddling the kayaks and fucking and kicking around the football, so Shane’s freckles were darker. Spreading over his cheeks, darkest over the bridge of his nose, and more prominent where they scattered across his bare shoulders. His skin had also regained its golden hue, warm and sun kissed and healthy.

He was very beautiful in the summertime.

“You didn’t come back to bed last night,” Shane murmured, eyes locked on Ilya’s, assessing. Looking too closely. Ilya did not want to be seen.

“I did,” Ilya lied and Shane’s mouth pinched.

“You didn’t,” he insisted and then his eyes dragged from Ilya’s face to the glass jar, crowded with discarded cigarettes, and he frowned. “How many have you smoked?” he asked, an edge to his tone, bordering on reproachful.

Ilya was too tired for a lecture. He just shrugged. That only seemed to deepen the line forming between Shane’s dark brows.

“You really shouldn’t be smoking,” he griped. “It’ll make you sick.”

“Everyone dies eventually, Hollander. Fucking relax,” Ilya snipped, stubbing out his dwindling cigarette and lighting another. Only for the satisfaction of making Shane’s eyes narrow, a glare levelled at the thing, the kind of glare Shane usually reserved for when Ilya was really pissing him off.

“You know second-hand smoke can make me sick too,” Shane pointed out. And he’d never tried that approach before. It made Ilya’s hackles raise; something within him churning angry and ashamed. Mostly ashamed.

“Then go away,” Ilya waved a hand dismissively, blowing smoke out the corner of his mouth. Away from Shane.

Across from him his boyfriend scoffed, eyebrows arching, disbelieving. But then his stare hardened, searching Ilya’s face for… something. Maybe trying to tell if Ilya was serious; Ilya didn’t even fucking know if he was serious. So good fucking luck to him. Whatever Shane found, he clearly didn’t like, and he shook his head, mouth pressing into a tense line, his jaw clenching.

“Fine,” Shane muttered, then pushed away from the table.

The moment the door slid shut Ilya crumpled, head thunking against the backrest. He inhaled deep through his mouth and exhaled loudly out his nose, squeezing his eyes shut against the soft sunlight.

There was something wrong with him. Prone as he was to snarling, inclined as he was to splintering. The sinew and tissue of his body brittle and easily torn, making his teeth sharper, his bark louder, to protect against the fragility of his own flesh. To shield the whimpering creature he concealed behind his ribcage. Pathetic and small as it was.

He lifted the cigarette back to his lips and took a long drag.

The rest of the morning followed the same pattern. Ilya sniped. Shane huffed. Ilya sneered. Shane glowered. Relentless, ruthless, until it became a vicious cycle. Ilya unable to muffle the growling of his self-contempt and Shane grasping at his thinning self-composure, the brown of his eyes hardening with each prod, with each jeer. At some point he was bound to snap as well. And that angry, shameful, part of Ilya was begging for it. Begging to be bitten in return.

It was late in the morning, the sun nearly at its peak, when everything imploded.

Ilya was sitting at the kitchen island, scrolling through property listings on Shane’s laptop, when his boyfriend approached him. He tried not to tense when Shane leaned over the back of his stool, pursing his lips at the townhouse Ilya had open on the screen. But then Shane sucked his teeth and irritation, immediate and irrational, prickled over Ilya’s scalp. He could see what was about to happen like a fucking hockey play: Shane was going to have an opinion, and Ilya was going to snap.

“I wouldn’t buy around there,” Shane said, “they’re expanding the light rail out that way. It’ll be years of road closures and night works and mess.”

“Good thing you’re not buying it then,” Ilya shrugged, resting his chin on his closed fist. He clicked unnecessarily hard on the trackpad, opening the listing, scrolling to the ‘enquire now’ button at the bottom of the page. At his shoulder, Shane huffed.

“Yeah, but I’ll be visiting a lot,” Shane argued.

“Will you?” Ilya hummed, dismissive.

“I mean you’ll obviously visit me sometimes too,” Shane added, slowly, cautiously. Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya saw a scowl setting into the fine lines of his pretty face. He’d been frowning far too much today which was Ilya’s fault but…

“Will I?” he raised his brows. Pushing, pressing into Shane’s simmering frustration, urging him to break. To bite. It was easier than exposing the aching loneliness within him that just wanted to live inside Shane. To crawl into his ribcage between his beating heart and pulsing lungs and never leave his side.

“Okay,” Shane breathed, angry now. Ilya had won. “Seriously what the fuck? What is going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

Shane reached over Ilya’s shoulder and slammed the lid of the laptop shut.

“I was looking at that,” Ilya drawled, like an asshole.

“Do you not want to move to Ottawa?” Shane asked, now in front of Ilya, trying to catch his eye, but Ilya stared stubbornly at the closed laptop instead. Jaw clenched in a tense line; his teeth hurt from the pressure. “You’re still a Raider. You can still tell your agent you don’t want to leave.”

Ilya bristled. Of course he wanted to move to fucking Ottawa. He had agreed to the plan. It was half his plan anyway. He wanted to get rid of his Russian passport and he didn’t want to become American to do it. America wasn’t even a safe country for him, not as an immigrant, not as a Russian. And, more importantly, he wanted Shane.

But he didn’t say any of that. Instead, he snapped.

“I never said that. I just do not need Mister Real Estate’s opinion on everything. I am capable of finding a house on my own. I did it in Boston when I was much worse at English.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Shane hissed. “It’s not about–I was fucking born in Ottawa, Ilya. My parents live there. I might actually have a fucking opinion worth listening to. Did that ever cross your mind?”

Ilya shrugged and Shane scrubbed a frustrated hand over his face. They stood in tense silence for a long moment and then Shane lifted his head and gave Ilya a look that was so miserable it knocked the air right out of him.

“I just thought that maybe one day we’d live there,” he muttered, “you know, together.”

“What?” Ilya breathed. Heart in his throat.

“The place you buy might be the place where we live when we are retired and we’re not here…” Shane gestured to the cottage then trailed off and shook his head. “So I thought that maybe we could look… together.”

And fuck didn’t that just make Ilya feel like the biggest fucking asshole to walk the planet. His heart plummeted, right to the floor, sinking further when Shane turned around, trying to hide the way his eyes were shining. Something ugly twisted in Ilya’s stomach.

Buying a home to live in with Shane was all he wanted–it had been all he’d wanted for fucking years. Years of nights spent tearing himself out of Shane’s arms and days spent repressing thoughts of the man, of a life with him, deep into the back of his mind. Trying his best to hide his own desperate wanting from himself. Almost a fucking decade of denying how helplessly in love he was. And now he had him, the cute boy from World Juniors with the pretty freckles, and he was pushing him away.

Always, foolishly, pushing him away.

Shane suddenly turned back around, eyes still shiny, but there was now a resolute firmness in the set of his jaw, in the pinch of his brows. “I just wish you would talk to me,” he implored.

“About what?”

He wasn’t trying to be obtuse. He just couldn’t help it.

Shane’s eyes narrowed and he let out a low sound, halfway between a sigh and a growl.

“You know what about,” he insisted.

“I don’t.” He did.

“Ilya.”

“Shane.”

Ilya raised his brows, daring Shane to say it. Daring Shane to push past that unspoken boundary. To break that final thread.

The silence stretched. Both of them breathing heavily.

“About Russia you obstinate fucking prick,” Shane bit out between clenched teeth.

That did it. Ilya’s thread snapped.

“There is nothing to fucking talk about,” he snarled.

“There obviously is,” Shane threw up his hands in frustration.

“There is not.”

“You’ve shut me down every time I’ve tried to talk to you about it.”

“Because there is nothing to fucking talk about.”

“Fuck. Ilya.”

Shane pressed his palms into the edge of the countertop and hung his head, his shoulders drawn, deltoids squeezing tight together beneath the thin material of his t-shirt. He hadn’t been tense like that in days; the freedom of summer softening all his usually rigid lines. Ilya watched, in real time, as Shane’s body solidified, each muscle locking and bracing, like during the season.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Shane murmured, miserable, his head still bowed.

The chair beneath Ilya suddenly felt unstable, like it could break at any moment.

Shane couldn’t keep doing this. What was this? The arguing? The relationship?

Ilya’s throat was tight, straining, unable to ask what this meant. Too scared to.

“I need…” Shane trailed off and then cleared his throat, righting himself, his back ramrod straight. He looked unfamiliar, stood in the cottage kitchen like that, the warmth of his summer glow drained. “I need to go. I just–I need to be alone.”

Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go. Please. Please. Please.

“Okay,” Ilya shrugged and lifted the laptop lid, fixing his eyes on the screen. He couldn’t even read anything on the page anymore, vision blurry.

“Okay,” Shane sighed and then he turned away.

Ilya listened to the sound of Shane leaving. Listened to the front door slamming shut. Listened to the silence left behind. Then he shut the laptop and pressed his palms to his eyes.

“Ты придурок.”

❃❃❃

Shane got about as far as opening the door to his Range Rover before he realised that he was too angry to drive. Also, his vision was too blurry, tears pushing at his waterline but stubbornly refusing to fall.

He slammed the door shut and thunked his forehead to the window, taking several deep breaths. There was probably a smear on the glass now, from the oil on his skin. He should lift his head, wipe off the mark, make sure it didn’t leave a lasting stain. But the car was cool, parked in the shade, its smooth windows not yet warmed by the sunlight. And the day was hot, sweltering and stuffy. The press of cold glass to his flushed skin was making it easier to think.

Shane pulled back and there was a tiny mark on the driver’s side window. He lifted the hem of his t-shirt and wiped. Not the most effective clean but it would have to do for now. There was no way he was going back inside to look for his window cleaner right now. He needed not to look at Ilya right now.

There was a circuit around the property that he liked to walk in the summertime. Usually in the afternoons when the sun was softer and the air was a little less thick with heat. In the dimming light he would follow the edges of his acreage, weaving through the thin pine forest and then meandering down to the lakeside. Reaching the shoreline just in time for sunset.

It was almost midday. Absolutely not a good time for a long walk, especially given the searing heat of the day. But he couldn’t drive away and he couldn’t go back inside so Shane scrubbed a hand through his hair and trudged towards the tree line, stepping into the shroud of the thick shadows beneath the canopy.

The temperature was cooler beneath the pine trees. Their crowded bodies forming a barrier between Shane and the sun, protecting him from some of the day’s unbearable stuffiness. It was quiet too–only the sound of his Reeboks shuffling through the underbrush and the warbles of unseen birds floating overhead.

For years he’d walked this route alone; for years his cottage had been his own, private oasis. A refuge from the intensity of a life spent in front of a piercing spotlight; a space to hide away from the grabbing hands of agents and brands and fans and, sometimes, his own mother. But now it wasn’t just his and stomping through the trees felt miserable and lonely and made him want to throw something.

He probably also wanted to throw something because Ilya had been a fucking asshole all day.

From the moment Shane had found him in the morning he had been in a horrible mood, anger practically rolling off of him in thick, suffocating waves. Like the smoke of his stupid fucking cigarettes. And it was pissing Shane off. Pissing him off because his boyfriend was brooding and pushing and digging at him because he refused to just talk about what was going on. Pissing him off because there was so much pain in Ilya’s eyes and Shane didn’t know what to do to fix it. Pissing him off because they only got so much time together and Shane had been missing Ilya like a hole in the chest for months, for almost a whole year, and now they were back here for the summer, together for six weeks, and Ilya was wasting time pushing him away.

Shane wanted to understand. He wanted to help. But he couldn’t keep going like this. Something had to give.

He reached the lake in record time; his walk had been more of an angry stomp than his usual calm meander. There was a small gap in the tree line that sloped downwards into the lakeshore, water lapping at the dirt, wetting stones and weeds and the toes of his shoes when he stood too close.

Shane squatted by the water and picked through the rocks, looking for the perfect stones to skip.

He skipped one, two, three stones. Smoothly over the surface of the lake. Each one skipping once, twice, several times before sinking below the waterline where the sun was reflecting off the rippling surface in sparkling bursts of gold.

There is nothing to fucking talk about.

Shane huffed and lobbed the fourth rock as hard as he could at the lake. It splashed, breaking the calm surface, sinking heavily into the murky water. He hurled another. There was a satisfaction in just throwing rocks at the water, watching it splash up high, letting his anger out with each sinking stone, with each overarm throw.

By the time he was out of rocks he was breathing heavily and there was sweat prickling across his brow, his top lip, slipping down his temple and beading at his neck. The muscles in his shoulders felt stretched out, his back less tense, the anger caught in his tissues released, sunk to the bottom of the lake with each thrown stone.

The sun was high in the sky; scorching overhead and beating down over his back. He could feel the tips of his ears burning in the heat. Definitely not a good idea to stay out here any longer. He sighed and started picking his way along the shoreline towards the dock and the lawn that stretched behind the back of the cottage.

Right when he stepped onto the neatly maintained grass of the lawn, his phone rang. Shane startled, having forgotten it was in his pocket, then he reached around, pulling it out and checking the caller ID. It was his dad.

Shane paced across the lawn to the chairs he kept set-up overlooking the lake and sat down heavily, lifting the phone to his ear.

“Hi dad,” he greeted, settling against the backrest and squinting over at the water.

“Hey bud,” his dad returned. In the background Shane could hear the record player spinning his dad’s old Joni Mitchell vinyl. “Sorry to bother you boys. I baked some cheesecake for your mother. I was only going to make one, but she wanted a passionfruit one and a strawberry one and a cherry one and… well… let’s just say I have about six different flavours of cheesecake taking up room in my fridge. Do you want me to bring you boys some? Does Ilya like cheesecake? I’ve never asked. I know you only like the lemon one. I made one of those too. Just for you.”

Shane smiled, dropping his head back, listening as his father rambled. David Hollander was the best of them. He was generous and kind and patient and probably the only one out of the three Hollanders who was at all emotionally intelligent. Shane adored his mother; her protectiveness, her sharpness, her intelligence and wit, the way she navigated the world with confidence and charm and never backed down from a challenge. She was funny and she was strong and she knew hockey sometimes better than him. But she was not tender or mushy or easy to talk to about hard things. She didn’t like excessive crying or self-indulgent displays of emotion. She was a woman of action; always moving to the solution before the emotion could stew too long. Sometimes he thought he was too much like her. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t get Ilya to talk to him.

“Shane?” David called and Shane jolted. He’d zoned out. Lost in his thoughts.

“Mm?” he hummed.

“Are you okay?” David asked. “Is Ilya okay?”

His father was sometimes too perceptive.

Shane chewed on his lip, ruminating on his father’s question. How much should he share? How much would Ilya want him to share? There were too many questions stumbling around inside his mind, bumping up against his skull, and he had no fucking clue how to talk about any of it.

“Um, I don’t know,” he settled on. A nothing answer.

“What’s going on?” David prodded, gentle. Like he had when Shane was five; when he’d come home from school crying because the kids in his class didn’t want to play with him because he was ‘weird.’ Shane hadn’t understood what was so ‘weird’ about him. He just liked when games had rules and made sense and everyone followed them and things were fair. The kids at preschool had not been so interested in Shane’s way of playing.

“We had a fight,” Shane grumbled. He felt like a kid, sinking further into his seat, glaring at the sun.

“Ah, he still isn’t talking?” David guessed and Shane made a sound, confused and questioning. “He didn’t say anything to me,” his dad reassured “I just–he is very sensitive, I think. He feels a lot. Which is such a great thing, but I don’t think he had anyone to talk to for a long time. So maybe he doesn’t know how.”

“He’s being an ass,” Shane said, furrowing his brows, shutting his eyes against the sunshine. Light played over the thin skin of his eyelids, bursting in colour over his retinas. “How do I make him talk?”

“You probably can’t,” David answered and Shane huffed. There was a soft laugh over the line.

“I want to help him.”

“Well, what do you think is wrong with him?”

Shane sighed, deep and stretching, screwing up his nose. He wanted to say ‘he’s a fucking asshole that’s what’s wrong with him’ but he knew that wasn’t the full picture. Silence lingered over the line, David giving him room to think, and Shane blinked his eyes open, casting his gaze skywards, and did his best to piece together the fragments of Ilya’s moods and words. Trying to get an understanding of what had happened in Moscow, of what was making him so… mean… so...

“He’s angry,” Shane said, slowly. “Maybe at his brother”–no that didn’t feel right–“or maybe at Russia”–that didn’t either–“or maybe with me. I don’t know.” That stuck. Lodged itself deep in Shane’s chest and made his throat burn.

“I don’t think with you,” David asserted. “And I think he’s only angry because he doesn’t want to hurt. The hurting is much worse.”

Shane shook his head. “How do you know that? How do I not know anything? Am I a terrible boyfriend?”

“No, bud,” he said, gentle as anything. “I just know what it’s like to grow up with an angry father in an angry home where the only acceptable emotion was anger. There wasn’t much room for anything else.”

Shane was quiet, focused intently on his father’s words. The man let out a soft sigh, then he kept talking.

“That’s why I think hockey was so good for me in college. It gave me somewhere to put all that energy; it gave me a way to funnel my anger into something productive rather than self-destructive.”

“Hockey season is over,” Shane muttered. David huffed a laugh.

“I’m not suggesting you take him to a rink,” he teased and then his tone got serious again. “I was very angry for a very long time, Shane. But more than that, under it all, I was hurt. I was hurt and no one had shown me how to feel that in a way that didn’t look like violence.”

Shane couldn’t imagine his father as violent, as angry. It didn’t align with the man he knew, with the man that had raised him. The man that had never once raised his voice, or a hand, always only treating Shane with patience and tenderness. Even when his father had disciplined him it was more gentle correction than punishment.

“He has to figure those things out for himself, though. Maybe go to therapy like I did.”

“Then what can I do?” Shane groaned, feeling frustrated.

“Just be there,” David said, as if it were that simple. “You can’t love him into being less angry, less hurt. But you can be there and maybe, eventually, he’ll realise you’re not going to run away.”

“Fuck,” Shane huffed. He palmed his face and then pressed his fingers to his throat. “I just don’t want to keep arguing with him. Today has sucked.”

“I know,” David hummed, considering. “Maybe he just needs to get some of that energy out.”

“Like with hockey?” Shane joked, though it was half-hearted.

David laughed. “Something. Or maybe eating six cheesecakes would help.”

Shane grinned and shook his head. “We’ll come over tomorrow and eat some,” he promised and David gave an exaggerated ‘phew’ over the line.

“Good, I cannot eat all this alone. I’ll turn into cheesecake.”

“Okay,” Shane laughed. “Tomorrow. I promise. Thanks dad.”

“See you tomorrow, love you,” David said. “Give Ilya my love too.”

“Love you too, bye dad.”

“Just be there, you boys will work it out. Bye son.”

The call disconnected and Shane tapped his phone against his chest, pursing his mouth as he stared out over the water.

❃❃❃

The first time Ilya realised that anger was a bad emotion he’d been five. He’d been out with his mother all day, wandering the streets of Moscow, her hand clasped firmly around his as they’d floated between bakeries and bookshops and cafés and little clothing boutiques with old ladies sat at the counter. The old ladies would always pinch his cheeks when his mother went to pay. It had been a wonderful day. A spring day. Mild and sunny and Ilya had been the centre of attention, his mother cooing at him, calling him мое солнышко when his curls caught the sunlight. Then they’d gone home.

Ilya had been too young to understand what went wrong between the hallway and the living room, but it had fallen apart in an instant, all the colour leeched from the day in the blink of an eye. His memory was fuzzy, imperfect at its edges, but he could remember screaming. Something about money, something about Ilya turning spoilt and indulgent and feminine, something about Irina being spoilt and indulgent and weak. Mostly he just remembered his father’s face. Red and sweaty, his eyes bulging, his teeth bared, spittle flying from his lips as he shouted Irina down into a corner, until she was cowering beneath him. The tone of his voice, harsh and hateful, was ingrained in Ilya’s mind, having heard it hundreds of times directed at himself. Always with a flair of disappointment.

When he’d gone to check on his mother later, she’d been curled up in her bed, cradling a pillow against her stomach with a faraway look in her eye. He remembered asking her what was wrong, what had happened, and then her smiling softly, tugging him down to lie beside her. She’d carded her fingers through his curls and said ‘papa was just angry. It’s fine now.’ Then she’d pulled him tight to her chest and clutched at him as she’d cried.

His papa had always been angry. He’d come home from school, and his mama would say ‘don’t bother papa, sunshine, he is angry today.’ Or he’d lose a hockey game and return to the stands to find that his papa had left, and his mama would say ‘let’s apologise to papa for losing, we don’t want him to be angry.’ Or he’d wake up from a nightmare, screaming, and his mama would rush in shushing him, murmuring ‘please, little bunny, don’t cry, you will wake papa and he will be angry.’ Eventually, Ilya had learned that his father could get angry about anything.

As he’d grown, he’d done his best not to be like that, not to be angry. He didn’t want to upset his mama; he didn’t want to be like papa. But it simmered. The anger seethed beneath his skin, pushing at his pores, desperate to be released. It would eventually come out on the ice; an illegal check here, a biting chirp there. Harmless. No one really getting hurt, it was just part of the game. But, after his mother died, anger became the only thing he could feel that didn’t taste like suffocation.

Off the ice he did his best to keep his anger internal, stuffed deep in his belly, letting it eat away at him rather than exploding outwards. It was safer like that. Better. To unleash the rage stewing in his gut would be to turn into his father. And then one day someone would say ‘don’t talk to Ilya today, he is angry’ and everyone would be afraid to go near him for fear of him snarling at them. And then he would be the beast with the snapping jaw and the beady eyes and the red neck. Ilya did not want to be that.

Yet, it still came out. Came out in mockery and cruelty and pushing, pushing, pushing until he was all alone.

Ilya was staring at the clock on the microwave, still sat at the kitchen bench, his jaw set in a firm line. There was a throbbing pain between his temples, putting pressure on his skull. He was tired and frustrated and scared, and he wanted to rewind the whole day back and start over. He couldn’t, of course. But fuck he wished he could.

According to the clock Shane had been gone for an hour. Ilya had listened to him slam the front door closed and stomp down the stairs and then had waited for the sound of the car engine turning over but it hadn’t happened. He hadn’t checked the driveway though, hadn’t wanted to see Shane’s car gone. Just in case.

There was an ugly anxiety sitting in his chest. A fear that he’d pushed too much, too hard, and now Shane was gone. Now Shane knew how angry and gnarled the core of him really was. And he was gone.

Ilya pushed away from the bench and raked his fingers through his hair, tugging on his curls. “Успокоиться,” he muttered and rolled his neck.

He was being dramatic and insane, and this was Shane’s fucking house so he wouldn’t just leave Ilya here and go somewhere else. Okay. Okay. He just had to find his boyfriend and try and…

Fuck, he didn’t know. He didn’t want to talk about it, but he didn’t think Shane would forgive him unless he did. There had to be a way to fix it without getting into the Russia of it all. He would find a way.

First, he had to find Shane.

The car was still in the driveway; parked in the shade like it had been for days. Unmoved. Though, there was a smudge on the driver’s side window and Ilya frowned. Shane would hate that. He lifted the hem of his shirt and carefully wiped it away.

Shane wasn’t at the front of the house, so Ilya went around the side, walking between the trees and the stone exterior of the cottage. When he came around to the back of the cottage he gave the patio a cursory glance. He had been able to see the patio in the reflection of the clean oven door, and he hadn’t seen Shane out there when he’d been stewing in the kitchen. Shane hadn’t suddenly appeared there since Ilya had gone outside. So he wandered down the lawn.

The memorial stone Shane had installed for his mother was at the other end of the backyard, at the edge of the lawn near the pine trees, and Ilya hoped Shane wasn’t there. He adored the memorial. He fucking adored Shane for thinking of it. But his tissue was friable and he was too full of jittery rage to handle seeing her name engraved in Cyrillic in stone.

Across the lawn the dock was empty, stretching over the lake and shifting slightly in the retreating tide.

Ilya swept his gaze broadly over the lawn, over the large windows of the cottage, and felt his anxiety bubble over, clawing at his throat, as the property sat empty and quiet in the early afternoon heat. The sun was high above him, piercing and hot, and Ilya was starting to feel queasy.

But then, as he turned back to the lake, he noticed the sun reflecting warm light through dark hair, peeking above the backrest of one of the Adirondack chairs by the water.

Shane.

“Hi,” Ilya said, sidling up beside Shane’s chair rather than taking one for himself. He could feel Shane’s gaze turn towards him, but he kept his eyes on the lake and the trees bending over it.

“Hi,” Shane replied, “are you done being an ass?”

Ilya rolled his eyes and felt that same irritation from earlier prickle over his skin, but he clenched his teeth rather than biting back. He hated fighting with Shane. And he had been an ass. But he was also still fucking angry. So he just said nothing in response.

It was silent for a beat, then two, and then Shane was sighing and rising to his feet. He stood in front of Ilya, blocking his view of the water, and Ilya dragged his eyes to Shane’s. His boyfriend was standing on a slope, and Ilya had to, for the first time, look down to make eye contact with him. He didn’t feel taller though. He felt small, like a child, and pathetic.

“Come on,” Shane tilted his head, towards the cottage. “I want to do something.”

“What?” Ilya asked but Shane just stepped around him and started up the lawn.

When Ilya didn’t follow Shane paused, at the side of the cottage, and waved his hand. “Come on, Rozanov,” he yelled. “I will not ask again.”

Ilya grumbled, a jumble of nonsense, and then stalked across the lawn, barely catching up to Shane before the man was turning on his heel and walking down the side of the cottage. On the opposite side of the house that Ilya had walked earlier.

Shane led him around to the front of the cottage, not to the front door or the car, but to a shed Ilya had never noticed at the edge of the gravel driveway. The shed was a dark charcoal colour and made of corrugated iron, nestled at the boundary of the tree line and reflecting heat off of its surface where the sun was hitting it.

When Shane pulled his keys from his back pocket and unlocked the door Ilya just raised his brows at his boyfriend. Confused and vaguely concerned he was about to be shown some weird torture chamber. Which was insane and really Ilya’s imagination was a wild place. His boyfriend rolled his eyes at him, as if reading Ilya’s mind, and stepped into the doorway, waving for Ilya to follow him and Ilya only hesitated briefly, swallowing as he looked around, before he ducked into the shed after Shane.

The inside of the shed was totally normal. A lawnmower in one corner along with a weed whacker and several other gardening tools leaned against the wall beside it. There was fertiliser and an old bird bath and a bike with a deflated wheel and a spare tyre crowding the opposite corner of the shed. And at the other end there was a pile of log rounds and a chopping block with an axe laid over it.

Ilya eyed the axe and then turned towards his boyfriend. Shane was pulling log rounds from the pile and setting them besides the block, a frown on his face.

“You will murder me?” Ilya asked. Shane paused at the question, a grin twitching on his lips, and he looked up at Ilya from where he was bent over. In the dim lighting of the shed his eyes were dark and beautiful, focused on Ilya through his lashes.

“Maybe,” he said, mildly. Ilya breathed a laugh.

Shane kept stacking logs beside the block and Ilya watched. Confused.

The inside of the shed was even hotter than outside. It was stuffy and the space felt too tight for the both of them and all the unspoken things lingering between them. Ilya was immediately sweating, could feel dampness at the nape of his neck, dripping down his spine between his shoulder blades. He wiped a hand over his forehead and cleared his throat.

“What are you doing?” he asked as Shane straightened.

Shane picked up the axe with one hand and placed a log round on the block with the other. He arched a brow at Ilya as if to say, ‘is it not obvious?’ and then he raised the axe above his head with both hands, biceps flexing, before bringing it back down fast and hard, splintering the wood apart. The axe swung down a few more times and then Shane lifted the edge of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow before turning to Ilya and holding out the axe to him, as if he thought Ilya had any fucking idea what to do with it.

“What?” he pointed at himself and Shane nodded, releasing the axe once Ilya wrapped a hand around the wooden handle. It was heavier than he had expected and he stared at it dumbly as Shane collected his chunks of wood and piled them neatly beside the shed door. “What am I doing with this?”

“You chop wood with it,” Shane said and leaned against the shed wall opposite Ilya, crossing his arms over his chest.

The sun was slicing through the open door of the shed and illuminating the wall beside Shane, reflecting light along the contours of his face, the strong line of his jaw and nose, the high curve of his cheekbone, the wide cupid’s bow of his top lip. God, he was fucking beautiful. Ilya was briefly distracted and found himself frowning when Shane raised his brows at him expectantly.

“Go on,” he said, waving a hand at the log round on the block. Ilya laughed.

“What are we lumberjacks now?” Ilya scoffed. “Do you want me to grow a beard and wear a flannel? Is this part of Canadian citizenship test?”

Shane only rolled his eyes and tilted his head back. “Fuck off,” he grumbled to the ceiling. “No. You’re angry and–”

“I’m not angry,” he said, angrily.

“You are,” Shane hissed. “I don’t know what about because you won’t fucking talk to me, but you clearly need to hit something so fucking have at it.” Again, he gestured to the wood. “Fucking hit something and then maybe we can talk.”

Ilya flexed his fingers around the handle of the axe. There was a part of him that felt… ashamed… because hitting something really did sound good. And didn’t that just make him like his fucking father? Willing to use violence to manage his own rage…

“I don’t–”

“Come on, Rozanov,” Shane goaded. He was fucking goading Ilya. “Don’t tell me you don’t know how to swing an axe.”

He absolutely had no idea how to swing an axe. “I can fucking do it,” Ilya grumbled and Shane shrugged.

“Show me then, Rozanov,” he said, his gaze locked intensely on Ilya.

“Fuck off, Hollander,” Ilya bit back, though his bite was less sharp than it had been earlier, and then he was moving over to stand in front of the chopping block.

He lifted the axe above his head, trying to emulate the way he’d seen Shane holding the tool, hands stacked along the handle and his biceps flexing. Then he swung down and the axe sunk into the log, only to get stuck halfway, lodged uselessly in the round. Ilya cursed and frowned at the stupid thing. Now he was just more pissed off. He wiggled the sharp blade out of the wood and rolled his shoulder, ignoring the piercing gaze he could feel digging into the side of his face.

“Come on, baby,” Shane murmured. “I know you can hit harder than that.”

That just made Ilya’s blood heat. A hazy cocktail of arousal and frustration searing through his veins and making him shiver. He snapped his gaze to Shane, still leaning against the shed wall, biceps bulging where they were crossed over his thick chest. There was sweat glistening on his top lip, on the slope of his neck, and Ilya had never wanted to bite him more.

He turned back to the log instead. He swung again. This time the log broke in two.

“Good, baby,” Shane praised, voice pitched deep. The words sent a tingle from Ilya’s scalp to his toes.

The next log was easier to split; Ilya becoming more familiar with the weight of the axe, the arc of its swing. With each hit, with each resounding snap and crack and creak of the splitting wood, Ilya felt his anger building. His palms were sweaty and hot, and the axe handle chaffed against his warm skin and his biceps were burning with the force of his swings but fuck it felt good.

By the fourth log Shane was moving, grabbing more from the pile stacked against the far wall, leaving them at Ilya’s side then moving away, briefly pressing his warm palm between Ilya’s sweaty shoulder blades as he went. That touch spurred Ilya on. Something unspooling in his gut that was hot and wanting and aching.

In the back of his mind he saw his brother’s face. Saw him snarling. Heard his ugly voice hissing, you put her on a pedestal, Ilya. All these years, thinking she was some perfect angel. That she could do no wrong. But she fucking left you, Ilya. She was weak. Even before she died a coward’s death. She was never there. She didn’t love us. She left us with him.

With the next log of wood he saw himself hitting his brother, felt that momentary rush of relief, of vindication, then the sickness. The shame. The anger at himself overpowering any vitriol he could ever really feel for his older brother. Even after all the shit Alexei had put him through. Hitting him had felt good for a split second and then it had crumbled around him and he’d felt so, so ashamed.

Then he saw Yelena and Milana. And the feeling grew uglier. Grew until he was almost blind with it. Swinging without thought.

Ilya went through log after log until he had sweat in his eyes and his chest was heaving and his arms felt heavy and sore. There were wood chunks littering the floor of the shed and Shane was collecting them patiently, stacking them by the door. Silent and waiting for Ilya to be done.

Ilya stopped when it all became too much. Anger and shame and guilt ricochetting in his sternum, spilling out the ends of his fingertips and into the splintering wood. He dropped the axe to the chopping block and bent over, hands on his knees, breathing through the dry rasp of his throat.

“Feel better?” Shane asked. Ilya shook his head.

“No, yes, maybe a little,” he breathed, pushing himself up, wiping his hand over his face. He caught Shane’s eye and there was a naked heat and arousal in his expression, his pupils blown wide in the dim light.

Shane stepped around the chopping block and pressed his palm flat to Ilya’s chest, right over his heart, pushing him backwards until his back collided with the hot iron wall of the shed. The hand on his chest slid down, over the damp, sweat-soaked fabric of his tank, and then Shane’s fingers curled into the top of Ilya’s shorts, tugging his hips forwards. Ilya breathed a low sigh when their hips pressed together.

It was so hot inside the shed. The air thick with the smell of fertiliser and summer and the pine trees outside. But the smell of Shane was thicker, heady. Filling Ilya’s brain with cotton and making his mouth water, making his hips tilt forwards, seeking pressure.

“Use me,” Shane murmured and Ilya’s brain short circuited.

“What?” he breathed.

“You’re still angry. So use me,” Shane repeated, casually, like it wasn’t an earth-shattering statement.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Ilya mumbled, confused and aroused in equal measure but desperate to make sure Shane understood that Ilya’s anger was never a threat to him.

“I’m not asking you to hurt me,” Shane shook his head. “I know you wouldn’t. I’m asking you to give it to me. Let me feel it. Let me understand it. I want your anger. I want all of you. Use me.”

Ilya stared at him. The serious crease between his brows, the hard stare of his dark eyes, the firm line of his soft mouth. All of him laser focused on Ilya, intense and unrelenting. The press of his body insistent and hot and all Ilya wanted was to sink his teeth into him. Bite him and lick him and fuck him until he cried and make him take everything Ilya wanted to give him. Make Shane plead and cry for more as Ilya trapped his beautiful body beneath him. But. Fuck.

“Shane,” Ilya murmured.

“You’ve been treating me like I’m fragile since you got here,” Shane growled, pressing closer, his nose dragging over Ilya’s.

“I haven’t.”

He had. He hadn’t been as rough or commanding or domineering with Shane over the last week. Part of him afraid of his own need for control and worried what wanting Shane to submit to him said about him. If it made him like his father.

“You have,” Shane argued, hand trailing up to grasp the back of Ilya’s neck, tugging him closer so their foreheads were pressed tight together. “I’m not breakable or weak–”

“I know–”

“And I want you,” Shane interrupted. “I want you. Use me. Ilya, use me.”

And, well, Ilya was a weak-willed man. Especially when Shane was pleading.

Ilya pushed forwards, away from the wall, gripping Shane’s hips hard enough to bruise and then spinning them around, pinning his boyfriend to the metal and kissing him fiercely. He licked into Shane’s mouth, pressing his tongue between his teeth impatiently, one hand snaking up his body to grip at his chin, tilting his face where Ilya wanted him so he could push his tongue deeper into the damp warmth of him. Against him Shane shuddered and his muscles relaxed, a moan slowly rolling up his throat.

The metal of the shed was hot, probably burning where Shane was pressed firmly against it, but he didn’t complain. Hanging limply in Ilya’s hold, handing over his body for Ilya’s use with so much trust it made Ilya dizzy with arousal. Use me, he’d said. Offering himself without limitations. It was a heady thing, to be granted that so easily. Ilya’s body ached with it.

When he pulled back Shane chased after his mouth, brown eyes hooded, gaze already hazy at the edges. Ilya gripped his jaw and tilted his head back, amazed at the easy way Shane’s body followed Ilya’s guiding hands. 

He leaned in and pressed a searing kiss to Shane’s mouth before biting down on his bottom lip, dragging the plump flesh between his teeth and pressing his tongue to it. Shane whined and his hands gripped at Ilya’s back, rucking up his shirt, desperately searching for skin.

Ilya retreated and Shane’s whining grew needier, pleading, but Ilya just grasped at the man’s wrists and pulled them up, crossing them above his head and pressing them into the hot metal. This wasn’t about what Shane wanted, what Shane needed. And he knew it. The muscles in Shane’s arms flexed as he strained a little, and Ilya knew he could break the hold without even trying but instead Shane submitted to it, easily. So easy for Ilya. Always so easy for him.

One hand stayed locked around Shane’s wrists, pining him hard to the wall, the other trailing down his chest, feeling the smooth planes of his stomach, enjoying the damp stickiness of the fabric where sweat was wetting it against his skin. When Ilya pressed his palm between Shane’s legs the man almost buckled to the ground, throwing his head back against the wall and grinding his hips forwards as Ilya pressed him tighter to the metal, preventing him from slipping.

The air was thick with their combined musk, heavy with the sounds of their panting. It was almost suffocating, but Ilya wanted to choke on it. Wanted to fill every single sense with Shane.

Use me.

Ilya licked a long, languid stripe up the curve of Shane’s throat, tasting the sweat beading there then chewing on his pulse point. Sucking and biting until the skin was swollen and red and irritated and Shane was breathing shakily against him. Breath puffing hotly over Ilya’s ear.

He pressed a kiss to the underside of Shane’s clenched jaw and then pushed their mouths back together, biting and sucking and tugging at Shane’s lovely, wide cupid’s bow. The sweat on his skin tasted amazing. Then Ilya pulled back, pressing his thumb into Shane’s full bottom lip.

“On your knees,” he commanded and Shane dropped, knees smacking hard into the cement flooring. Ilya was sure they would bruise.

Shane always looked so good on his knees, face tilted up, his gaze heavy through his thick, straight lashes. Looking down at him, at the flush blooming over his cheeks, the sweat slicking his hair to his forehead, Ilya was awed. Amazed. The man between his legs was a fucking revelation. And he was all Ilya’s to use.

Ilya smoothed his palm over Shane’s forehead, threading his fingers in his hair and tugging his head back. “No hands,” he murmured and Shane nodded, dark eyes fixed on Ilya’s bulge where it was pressing against the material of his shorts.

He released Shane’s hair from his grip and then shoved down his pants, grabbing his dick and stroking leisurely, watching the way Shane’s eyes followed the movement of his hand. So needy for it, his Shane. So eager.

“Open,” he instructed and Shane opened his mouth, pushing his tongue out flat and moaning softly as Ilya fed him his swollen cock. He pushed forwards until Shane’s eyes were watering, his lips stretched wide, his breathing deepening and heaving through his nose. “I want you to get me wet so I can fuck you.”

Shane moaned, the sound slightly gurgled by the press of Ilya’s cock head to the back of his throat, and then he was squeezing his eyes tight, a tear slipping down the side of his face. Just one. But it was enough to set Ilya’s blood on fire.

The slick warmth of Shane’s mouth was perfect. Lips slowly dragging up and down the throbbing length of Ilya’s cock, saliva pooling in Shane’s mouth, dripping down his chin. Then Shane was swirling his tongue around the head, pressing into the folds of his foreskin, before taking Ilya back deep into his throat again. Getting Ilya wet just like he’d asked.

“Spit, моя шлюха,” Ilya demanded, pulling Shane’s head back with a firm grip on his dark hair.

Shane nodded and worked his jaw, eyes locked on Ilya through his lashes, and then he spat, right onto the head of Ilya’s cock. Ilya groaned and smeared the slick down his length, watching the hunger in Shane’s eyes darken, thicken. The desire, the want, in his face so blatant it nearly knocked Ilya over.

“Up,” Ilya breathed and Shane shot to his feet, eyes searching. Looking for reassurance. Ilya leaned in and kissed him, deep and wet and filthy, gripping the back of his head and tugging on his hair. “Turn around.”

A shudder rolled up Shane’s spine as he turned, pressing his face and chest into the wall and arching his back, hips pushed back, offering his ass. Ilya slapped his palm into the muscle, groping at it through Shane’s shorts, humming appreciatively when Shane moaned and wiggled in his hold. Asking for more with the roll of his hips. Ilya tugged Shane’s shorts down around his thighs and sunk to his knees.

The material of Shane’s shorts strained around the thick muscle of his thighs as they trembled. Shane’s whole body shaking as Ilya gripped at the fat globes of his ass, spreading his cheeks, pressing his face into the skin then licking along the warmth of his hole. Tonguing at him, spearing into him, getting his boyfriend as messy and wet as he could. He leaned back and spat, right onto Shane’s hole, and the man shivered, thunking his forehead into the metal wall and letting out a desperate whine. Ilya smeared the spit over Shane’s fluttering entrance with his thumb then pressed in, deep.

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane gasped. “I want you, please.”

“You think you’re ready?” Ilya asked and Shane nodded, desperate, fingers scrambling over the wall.

“Yes, I can take it,” he pleaded. “Use me. Use me. Please.”

“Mm,” Ilya nodded and pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the dimples at the base of Shane’s spine before he rose to his feet.

Ilya lifted his hand to Shane’s face and Shane opened his lips, tongue lolling out, taking Ilya’s fingers into his mouth easily, sucking and biting. As Shane sucked, Ilya leaned in, biting along the shell of Shane’s ear, right where his favourite freckle kissed Shane’s skin. At the edge of his helix.

“Spit,” Ilya said and Shane spat into his hand.

Ilya reached down for his cock and spread the slick over his head before he grasped himself at the base and pressed into Shane’s hole. They’d been fucking for days but still… there was no lube and Shane had barely been opened. It was probably going to hurt.

He took it slow. Pushing into the tight warmth of Shane’s body carefully, kissing at his neck as he went, thumbing at his nipple with his free hand. Against him Shane was breathing heavily, letting out sharp little gasps and sweet, addictive mewls. So perfect and good as he took what Ilya decided to give him.

Once he was fully inside, balls pressing into the cleft of Shane’s firm ass, he reached around and grabbed Shane’s cock. It had softened a little and Ilya stroked it gently, fingers tight, enjoying the pained little whines Shane let out at each sweep of Ilya’s palm over the leaking head. Soon he was fully hard again and Ilya buried his face in Shane’s neck, biting at his throat.

“Okay?” he asked and Shane nodded.

“Hurts a little, but feels good, I like it,” Shane breathed, his voice high and whiny, like he was embarrassed but unable to do anything but tell Ilya the truth.

“You like it, mm?” Ilya hummed and Shane reached back, grabbing at Ilya’s ass, digging blunt nails into his flesh and pressing them tighter together.

“I have wanted you to fuck me like this for so long,” he admitted, a flush spreading over his cheeks, down his neck and chest. His head tilted back, falling to Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya nuzzled at Shane’s ear and started rolling his hips slowly. Shane’s fingers squeezing at his ass with every roll. “Fuck, please, harder.”

“You really are a slut, mm?” Ilya grinned and snapped his hips, harsh, making Shane gasp and bite on his bottom lip. “Say it.”

“I am, I am,” Shane agreed, nodding as Ilya picked up pace, gripping at Shane’s hips and pounding into him. “I’m a slut. Your slut. Fuck baby. Fuck.”

Ilya grunted, pressing a hot kiss to Shane’s throat, and then he lost himself to it. Lost himself in the warm clench of Shane’s hole around his cock, in the smell of Shane’s body so close to his, in the heat of the summer air and the feeling of sweat dripping down his back. With each thrust he lost more of himself, sinking into the feeling of liberation, sinking into the movement of them. Everything else falling away until all that was left was saliva and sweat and snapping hips and tight heat around his cock.

He pushed harder, pressing his palm between Shane’s shoulder blades, shoving his chest tight to the wall, keeping him in place as Ilya fucked him. Used him. Pounded relentlessly into his hole and blindly chased his own pleasure. Beneath his hold Shane was writhing, his back rolling in overwhelmed waves, his chest heaving, hips pushing back and begging for more, taking Ilya so well. Always taking Ilya so well.

The sweat on Shane’s skin made it hard to grip at him and Ilya’s fingers slid down his sides, trying to find somewhere to grab on to. At his hips, Ilya dug his fingers deep into Shane’s skin, hard enough to bruise, to feel bone beneath muscle, and then he hauled Shane upright, locking his arms around him, holding him tight to his front. Shane’s back pressed along the line of Ilya’s chest, their hips snapping together, Shane’s head falling forward as he keened and trembled in Ilya’s hold.

The curve of Shane’s throat glistened with sweat and Ilya leaned in, biting down hard on delicate flesh. Shane cried out and his hips jerked forwards, the fingers gripping into the flesh of Ilya’s ass digging in deeper. Ilya just clamped down harder, teeth pressing tight to Shane’s jugular, feeling for the pulse of his wild heartbeat with his tongue.

Ilya reached down and stroked, his fist tight, over Shane’s leaking cock and then his boyfriend was cuming with a shout, the force of it trembling through his body as he let out a pained sound. Then Shane was sagging against him, hissing and overstimulated, as Ilya kept snapping his hips, chasing his own release. Not removing his teeth from Shane’s throat even for a second. Using him, like he’d asked.

When Ilya came it made his vision blur, made his head spin, made his whole body shake, and it took all his strength not to loosen his hold on Shane. The man limp in his grasp, relying on Ilya to keep him upright. Ilya would not drop him. He would never drop him.

They stood for a while, breathing heavily, not saying a word. Shane slumped heavily against Ilya’s chest, his head lolling back, over Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya kissed delicately at the bite mark he’d branded into Shane’s flesh, already bruised and red, burst capillaries visible under the delicate skin.

Carefully, he pulled out of Shane’s abused hole then reached between Shane’s cheeks and pressed gentle fingers against the puffy rim, feeling the heat there. Shane hissed, sensitive, then let out a pleased hum when Ilya licked his fingers before pressing them back to his hole. The wetness soothing against the burning flesh. Ilya would make sure to spread some lotion over him later, after a shower.

“You did so good,” Ilya whispered, nuzzling his nose into the skin behind Shane’s ear, still petting soothingly at his hole. “So good for me. So good, my Shane.”

“Mm,” Shane nodded and wriggled back, pressing closer to Ilya’s chest. “My Ilya.”

“Thank you,” Ilya muttered, the words muffled where his mouth was pressed tight to Shane’s throat, but Shane seemed to hear him anyway, reaching up to thread his fingers through Ilya’s curls.

“I love you,” Shane mumbled and Ilya nodded.

There was a storm of emotion crashing through his chest, pounding against his ribcage, bubbling up his throat. Sometimes the love he had for Shane felt so enormous, so overwhelming, that he didn’t know how he contained it all. It made him feel small, in the same way that the night sky made him feel small, lucky to be witness to something so huge and overwhelming and beautiful.

“We will go inside now, yes?” Ilya hummed, pushing his palm over Shane’s hairline, smoothing his dark hair back from his forehead. “Come, sweetheart.”

“My legs feel like…” Shane trailed off, taking a deep breath. Ilya nodded, understanding, pressing several kisses to the back of Shane’s sweaty head.

“I know, мой Любимый,” he soothed. Because he did. Shane’s body was heavy and his mind was foggy and he needed Ilya to understand him without speaking right now.

A shower usually helped Shane settle back into himself and Ilya made to guide them out of the shed, but Shane grumbled some slurred comment about mess, waving a lazy hand at the cum on the wall, which just made Ilya smile. He gently pulled away from Shane, tugging his boyfriend’s shorts up and then his own, before sitting him on the chopping block. Ilya yanked his sweat-soaked tank over his head and wiped up the cum splattered over the corrugated iron wall then shoved the end of the shirt into his shorts–he would throw it in the laundry hamper once they were inside.

Then he turned back to Shane and grabbed his hands, pulling him to his feet, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead when Shane swayed into him, unwilling or unable to stand without leaning on Ilya. Not that Ilya minded.

The cottage–and the ensuite–was too far for Ilya to carry Shane the whole way; his boyfriend too tall and muscular and heavy with contentment for Ilya to hoist him into his arms. So, he wrapped a supportive arm around Shane’s waist, gripping tight at his hip, and practically dragged the man up the driveway and into the house.

In the bathroom Ilya dimmed the lights and let the water heat as he stripped Shane. Slowly peeling sticky fabric off his skin, fluttering soothing kisses over his flushed cheeks as he stared at Ilya, brown eyes almost black in the low light. There was a dopey little smile on his face, lips curved lazily upwards, nose crinkling when Ilya pushed the hair back from his face. His eyes intent on every move Ilya made, hands reaching out and grasping for him when he dared to step even an inch away.

“Wait, мой Любимый,” Ilya hushed, chucking his tank in the hamper and then pushing his shorts and briefs down his legs. Then he stepped back, tight into the circle of Shane’s personal space, their chests and stomachs brushing. “I’m here.”

“Mm,” Shane nodded and ducked his head, nuzzling his nose over Ilya’s collarbone, breathing in deep. The soft skin of his stomach felt so intimate against Ilya’s–maybe even more intimate than being inside of him, Ilya able to feel each breath his beautiful boy breathed, feeling as each one settled deep in his belly before exhaling back out, puffing over Ilya’s neck.

“In the shower, come on,” Ilya instructed, pressing his mouth to Shane’s temple. Shane nodded against him and let Ilya guide him under the hot spray.

Under the steady cascade of warm water Shane’s body melted, sagging into Ilya, relying on him entirely to keep himself upright. Ilya held him tight to his chest, lathering soap over his freckled skin, scrubbing the sweat and dirt off his body and running soothing fingers through his hair when he whined. He massaged shampoo into the thick, dark strands of Shane’s hair, carefully shielding his eyes with his palm when he tipped his head back to rinse his scalp. Then he reached between Shane’s legs and tenderly cleaned his cock and hole, pressing kisses to Shane’s slack lips as he did.

By the time he was clean Shane’s eyes were a little less hazy, a little more focused, the curl of his mouth less drowsy. A gentle whisper of a smile on his pretty face. Ilya had to kiss him about it and Shane hummed into it, tilting his head, sucking gently on Ilya’s bottom lip.

“You are s’good,” Shane slurred when they parted and Ilya hummed, questioning. “You take such good care of me.”

Something tight twisted in Ilya’s sternum and his eyes burned, his throat working but unable to produce any kind of sound. So he just nodded instead, trying to hide the tension suddenly gripping his body.

Am I good? He wanted to ask. Am I a good man?

Shane’s brows furrowed when Ilya didn’t respond, imitating the crease between Ilya’s own brows, and then Shane was shaking his head, reaching up to press his thumb over the folded skin. Smoothing the line there before tugging Ilya closer and pressing a kiss to it. So achingly tender it made Ilya melt, tipping forwards, pressing tighter to Shane’s body.

That seemed to be all Shane needed to shake off the last of his haze and then he was cleaning Ilya, carefully, treating his body like it was something precious, something to be adored. The bathroom air was thick with steam and the smell of eucalyptus and the weight of all of Ilya’s wanting, all of his aching, spilling out the cracks in his defences. Shane had wiggled his way inside, cracked him open, and now it was naked between them.

The water shut off and Ilya dried them both with the fluffy blue towels Shane liked the most. When Shane was dry, Ilya pulled him close and kissed him slow and sweet, running soothing palms down his spine, over the swell of his ass and carefully pulling his cheeks apart. He dipped his pointer finger in and Shane shivered, hissing just slightly. There was a flush colouring Shane’s face when Ilya pulled back and he grinned, teasing, pressing their foreheads together when Shane grumbled.

Shane let Ilya massage Aquaphor around his hole anyway. Face pressed into Ilya’s neck, burying his embarrassment as Ilya cooed, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest. He liked doing this for Shane and, even more than simply just enjoying the act of caring for his boyfriend, he liked that it made Shane squirm–as if smearing ointment on his hole was any more intimate than Ilya tonguing into him or fucking him.

When Ilya was done Shane kissed his cheek, right over his mole, sweet and lingering and then he retreated from the ensuite, still naked. Ilya took a deep breath, listening to Shane shuffling around in the bedroom, and then he capped the Aquaphor and cleaned his hands, taking his time. In the mirror’s reflection he looked tired.

The bedroom was dark when Ilya emerged from the ensuite, the blinds lowered against the bright afternoon sun. It was also nice and cool, the air-conditioning set to freezing. Shane was under the covers, leaning against the bedhead, blankets pooling around his waist, presumably still naked given the sliver of tanned hip peeking above the fabric.

When Ilya paused in the doorway Shane patted the mattress then flung back the sheets on Ilya’s side of the bed, eyebrows raised. An invitation, a white flag. Ilya took it and slid beneath the covers, shuffling closer until he was able to press his nose into the crease of Shane’s hip. Shane’s hands immediately found his hair.

“It is only one,” Ilya yawned, nuzzling closer as Shane’s fingers curled through his damp locks, twisting them around his knuckles.

“You didn’t sleep last night,” Shane said and Ilya felt him shrug. “I didn’t either. We can nap.”

“Do you want to talk?” Ilya asked, quietly, tilting his head up to look at Shane. His boyfriend was already looking back down at him, a frown creasing his forehead.

“You are offering to talk?” Shane’s tone was incredulous and Ilya grinned.

“No,” he shook his head. “I am asking if you want to talk.”

Shane rolled his eyes and tugged on his hair in reprimand. “Nap first, then we can both talk.”

“Mm,” Ilya grumbled and Shane bent down, pressing a kiss to his temple. He drifted off to sleep as Shane kept peppering kisses at his hairline and scratching at his scalp.

At some point during their nap Ilya had migrated into a position on top of Shane. His boyfriend beneath him, pressed firm into the mattress, his chest rising and falling steadily against Ilya’s sternum. Ilya was splayed out over him, an arm wrapped possessively around his waist, his leg slotted snug between Shane’s thighs, his face squished against Shane’s collarbone. Entirely blanketing the man, trapping him under two hundred pounds of muscle and warm, tanned skin. Not that Shane seemed to mind, snoring contentedly with his nose squashed against the crown of Ilya’s head. Arms wrapped tight around Ilya’s back.

Ilya pushed himself up, leaning on his elbow, and Shane made a displeased sound, something like a whine, trying to nuzzle closer as Ilya shuffled away. His big hands reached for Ilya, grasping at his skin, and Ilya just grinned, pushing the hair back from his face then swiping careful fingers over his scattered freckles.

His eyes trailed down, to the bruise blooming over Shane’s throat, bite marks imprinted into the discoloured skin. He thought of Yelena. Yellow and green smeared over her collarbone, marring her pale flesh. He thought of his brother, of his father. He reached up and pressed his thumb into the bruise.

“You didn’t hurt me,” Shane mumbled and Ilya flicked his gaze up, towards Shane’s face. The man was squinting at him tiredly, brows pinched. “I’m not weak.”

“I do not think you are weak,” Ilya shook his head, voice thin.

“Then what?”

I think maybe I am just like them.

Ilya shook his head again and Shane just stared at him. There was something intimidating… no, penetrating about Shane’s gaze. It pierced through all his layers and left him naked, exposed, vulnerable to being perceived. And Ilya did not fucking want to be perceived. He looked away.

“You are not like your father, Ilya,” Shane murmured and Ilya’s head snapped up, gaze locking on Shane, helpless but to seek out the earnest depths of his brown eyes. “Or your brother.”

“I–” Ilya cut himself off. He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to argue but he also wanted to be comforted and held and told that he was good and those things warred inside of him in a confusing tempest.

Shane reached up and pushed Ilya’s curls back from his forehead, scratching his fingers over his scalp, then he cupped the side of Ilya’s face tenderly in his big hand. Ilya leaned into the touch.

“My niece,” Ilya croaked then cleared his throat, shutting his eyes tight. “Milana. I–I scared her. I hit her father in front of her and probably made things worse for her mother. For Yelena. I made a mess because I was so… fucking angry.”

Shane nodded, watching him closely, dark eyes searching Ilya’s face. For what, he did not know. Then Shane’s expression softened and he swiped his thumb at the corner of Ilya’s eye. Smearing dampness there. Ilya hadn’t even realised he’d started crying.

“What did your brother say?” Shane asked, his other hand reaching up to press his palm to the other side of Ilya’s face. Ilya sucked in a deep breath, sagging into Shane’s firm hold.

“He said mama was weak,” Ilya mumbled, sliding his eyes shut again. “Said that she did not love us because she left us with father. Said–I don’t know…”

He did know. He remembered clearly. But he couldn’t say anything more.

When he opened his eyes, Shane was looking at him softly, something like sympathy in his gaze. Ilya hated that. He didn’t want to be pitied.

“He said that to hurt you,” Shane said, gently.

“I know.”

“To provoke you.”

“I know,” Ilya huffed, frustrated. Shane shook his head and pressed his palms tighter to Ilya’s cheeks.

“It was a fucking shitty thing to say,” he said, firm. “I’m so sorry he said that to you.”

Ilya shrugged. “I should not have reacted.”

“Maybe, but,” Shane sighed “I understand why you did.”

Ilya pulled his face from Shane’s hold and then settled himself on his side. Shane rolled over too and then they were face-to-face on the same pillow. This close he could see every little pore on Shane’s face and the small, faded acne scar on his cheek, and he could even count each freckle spread over his nose.

“Alexei did not always hate me,” Ilya confessed. “Not until he was older and then mama died and he seemed to hate me even more. Maybe I was a bad brother. He was probably sad too and no one checked if he was okay.”

Shane blinked, a disbelieving look crossing his face. “Did anyone check on you? How old was he when she died?”

“Seventeen.”

“Ilya…”

“Maybe he needed me and I didn’t notice,” Ilya said and Shane reached over, pressing his thumb to the apple of his cheek.

“You–” he cut himself off then took a shaky breath before continuing “Ilya, you were a child.”

“Yeah,” Ilya muttered “and so is Milana.”

“You are not a bad man, Ilya,” Shane’s voice was steady, firm. His captain voice. “What happened in Moscow was awful and I am sorry that your niece saw that, but you are not a bad man. You are good, baby. You are so good. You are my favourite person, Ilya.”

“I put Yelena and Milana in danger,” Ilya frowned. “And then I left them there.”

“You can’t fix everything.”

“I am so sick of hearing that.”

Shane nodded, chewing on his bottom lip. He didn’t seem to know what to say and Ilya reached up to lace his fingers through Shane’s, pulling Shane’s hand to his mouth and then kissing his knuckle.

“Sometimes maybe I am too angry,” Ilya said, eyes fixed on Shane’s hand, on the dark hairs and the sparse freckles dotting his tanned skin.

“Everyone gets angry, it’s normal,” Shane replied and Ilya raised a brow at him. Shane shrugged then asked, “are you still angry?”

No. He wasn’t. All the clenched parts of him had loosened, released, and now he just felt… hollow.

“No, I am not angry.”

“So the wood chopping helped?” Shane asked, something pleased flickering in his expression.

“Probably more the fucking,” Ilya teased and Shane rolled his eyes, but his skin flushed a pretty pink. So Ilya counted it as a win. Then Shane looked back at him seriously and pressed their noses together. Ilya shut his eyes, basking in the proximity. “Yes, it helped,” he murmured and Shane hummed, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his mouth.

“I can take your bad feelings, Ilya,” Shane said when he pulled back. “I mean–you can be angry or sad or whatever and I can take it. I want everything. All that you are.”

“Maybe not everything,” Ilya swallowed.

“Everything,” Shane repeated.

There was no way Ilya could give Shane everything. There were too many ugly, gnarled parts of him. Too many corners of himself that he didn’t even fucking understand, so Shane had no fucking hope. He couldn’t give those to Shane. He couldn’t.

But he could give him everything else.

“You are my favourite person too,” Ilya murmured and Shane smiled, beamed really, all his teeth exposed, and Ilya felt himself smiling back, something warm glowing in his chest. “And I do want your opinion on the Ottawa place,” he added.

Shane dragged him close and kissed him.

The grass was damp beneath him; dew drops soaking through his shorts into his skin. Behind him the sun was rising, just crawling over the line of the horizon, casting the sky overhead in orange and yellow and soft blue. It was already warm, the air thick with the smell of lake water and loud with the buzzing of bugs. And in the yawning morning, Ilya sat cross-legged on the lawn, before his mother’s memorial.

There were flower bushes planted around the sandstone block. Some of them in bloom, bright shocks of colour against the dark green backdrop of the pine trees. The other shrubs would bloom in autumn or spring. Shane had made sure to plant an array of bushes that would blossom at different times, all year long, so that Irina’s memorial would always have flowers beside it. Even when Ilya was not there.

Ilya watched the morning light play over the carving of her name, thumbing at the cross resting at the hollow of his throat. He’d dreamt of her last night. Not the usual nightmare. He’d dreamt of her here, at the cottage, sitting by the lakeside and laughing brightly, hair flung over her shoulder as the sunlight reflected in sparks over the water. He’d dreamt of her smiling at him, waving him over, pulling him down beside her and leaning her head on his shoulder, the two of them with their feet in the cool water.

Then he’d woken up and he’d looked at Shane asleep beside him, and he’d leaned over his sleeping boyfriend, pressing a kiss to his eyelid, before slipping out of the room to visit his mother’s memorial. For the first time since Shane had shown it to him.

There was movement at the peripheral of his vision, the sound of feet over grass, and Ilya smiled softly. But then Shane stopped, a few feet away. Ilya turned to him, lifting his hand to shield against the rising sun behind Shane’s head.

Shane was sleep rumpled and bleary-eyed, his hair a mess and his cheek creased where he’d pressed his face into the seam of his pillow overnight. He had two mugs of coffee in his hands and was squinting against the bright morning light, his nose scrunching up as he stifled a yawn. He was so beautiful and so lovely, but he did not come closer. Standing still, waiting for Ilya to decide what he wanted.

Ilya held out a hand and then Shane finally approached, handing Ilya a mug, their fingers brushing. When he made to leave Ilya shook his head, setting the mug on the grass then extending his hand again, reaching for Shane.

“Sit with me,” he murmured and Shane hummed, smiling, reaching back and letting Ilya guide him where he wanted him.

Ilya stretched out his legs and Shane settled between them, slumping against Ilya’s chest, his head resting on Ilya’s sternum, legs bent in front of him. Ilya wrapped one arm around Shane’s stomach, fingers digging into the meat of his hip and pressing them tight together. Back to chest. With his free hand he picked up his coffee and took a sip.

They didn’t say anything as the sun slowly crept over the horizon. Didn’t say anything as they finished their coffee and set aside their cups. Didn’t say anything as Ilya pressed kisses to the side of Shane’s face, lips fluttering over his temple and hairline and the shell of his ear. Didn’t say anything until Ilya’s stomach rumbled, both of them laughing in the quiet morning, then slowly unfurling, lacing their fingers and walking back up the lawn to the cottage.

Chapter End Notes

I have a lot to say about this chapter. So, buckle up. (Or like totally ignore me, okay? This is gonna get overshare-y).

I grew up with an angry father and as I grew up I internalised that anger was bad and the language of brutal, evil people. I felt I wasn't allowed to have anger, express anger. Or else I would turn into my father. Eventually someone explained to me that anger was a secondary emotion - a reaction to something else like sadness, like fear. It wasn't a bad emotion, it was a reaction, and it was a valid reaction. For many, many years now I have worked on letting myself be fucking angry.

I went and saw a comedy show whilst writing this and the comedian said "anger witnessed is anger metabolised" and I know it seems weird to be inspired by a comedy routine but his words got to me. (His name was Khaled Khalafalla @khaledrepublic on Insta if you are interested). His routine was about much more serious stuff than this fic but what he said struck a cord. To have your anger validated and seen and met with understanding is to quell it's fire, to soothe its self-destructive force.

Shane witnesses Ilya's anger the best way he knows how. They communicate it the best way they know how. Then they can talk about it. (I believe most of their more serious arguments even a decade into marriage involve intense fucking of some kind. Okay.)

Now, I still think that despite the fact that they are communicating well in this verse (kinda sorta well) that TLG could follow The Boston Year. Why? Because Ilya processing his anger gives his sadness room to breathe. AND, more significantly, as a human that only survived for years and years once I finally started to feel safe and secure all my pain spilled over and became so much more intense. Ilya finds safety, his nervous system gets to settle, he no longer has to return to Russia or see his family, and now his mind can process all his trauma. And the depression sets in. I also think that Ilya is only willing to talk in this chapter because it isn't about them. TLG is an issue Ilya is having within his relationship with Shane and I think he is soooo afraid of asking anything of Shane because he wants so bad to be good for him. To be enough for him. So I think the events of TLG still could follow this. Though I maintain that I would write it differently in some aspects and give more weight to Shane's side of the story as I have to Ilya here. That's what I hope to do in The Ottawa Year - give Shane's character room to breathe a bit more. Focus on him and his trauma more.

Okay. What was my point? My point is that anger is okay. There is a lot to be angry about. Feel it. I hope someone witnesses your anger and lessens your burden.

There will be three more chapters of this fic. In the next chapter Rose and Svetlana will be visiting the boys!

Please keep engaging with this fic. It keeps me from slipping into despair~

Talk to me on Tumblr

Love you dearly x

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Thank you once again for all your comments and support and kudos and I love you come here 😗😗😗

This chapter is long but it is mostly dialogue so it is an easy read. It is also self-indulgent with minimal plot. Why? Because this is ff and I am a firm believer that ff is self-indulgent and can be whatever we want it to be. I'm not trying to write a real novel here. I wanna play with my dolls~

Enjoy Xx

The storm was just starting to clear, dark clouds thinning out to blue skies, by the time Shane was parking the Range Rover at the curb. It had been raining for the majority of the drive; about an hour in a thick wall of clouds had rolled over the sunny sky, turning the daylight dull and the traffic into a nightmare. And it was then, as he’d stared at the seemingly never-ending sea of red break lights, that he had begun to regret his decision to pick up Rose from the airport alone. At one point he’d been stuck bumper to bumper on the highway and–in a move he never would’ve pulled in flowing traffic–he’d pulled out his phone to text Ilya. (Checking in on him. Asking what he was up to back at the cottage. Ilya had just sent him back that stupid purple devil emoji and Shane had rolled his eyes.) He checked his phone again now, first for messages from Rose, then for messages from Ilya.

Shane thumbed through to his chat with Ilya, already missing him. Which was ridiculous because it had only been three hours since they’d parted on the driveway. Since Ilya had been pressing Shane against the side of the car and kissing him so deep and slow it had made Shane’s head spin and then he’d been pulling away and slapping Shane’s ass and jogging off back inside with a wild grin on his stupidly handsome face.

There was a dull knock on the passenger window and Shane startled, dropping his phone like it was a hot poker straight from the fire. He glanced up and Rose waved at him through the tinted glass, a bright smile on her face, her eyes hidden behind a massive pair of sunglasses. Shane smiled back, shaking away the heat he could feel prickling at the tips of his ears, and then he jumped out of the car to meet her on the curb.

“Hello, my love,” Rose greeted, opening her arms wide and then practically launching herself into his embrace once he was close enough. He caught her easily and pressed his grin into her hair, breathing in the smell of her. Jasmine and vanilla with something woodsy underneath. When she pulled back, she squished his cheeks between her palms then shook his head from side to side. “You look so cute! Look at you.”

“Rose,” Shane said, it came out muffled because she was squishing his face so tight. “You look beautiful.”

“Ugh,” she groaned, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head. There were bags under her eyes and she looked exhausted. Still, she was beautiful. “I look like shit but thank you for pretending. I need this break. I am so sick of LA. LA people. LA traffic. Filming in LA. God, I just want to be outside.”

Over her shoulder he noticed people starting to recognise her. A young girl pausing as she rushed past, mouth dropping open, elbowing the man beside her hard in the ribs and not so subtly pointing as she whisper-shouted ‘oh my god that’s Rose fucking Landry.’

Sometimes Shane thought he was famous. Not in a conceited way–it was just that most people in Montreal knew Shane Hollander and almost every grocery trip or dinner out or run in the park ended in a photo-op or a sloppy signature scrawled on a serviette. But when he was with Rose the attention he received from strangers seemed microscopic by comparison.

He would hate to be as famous as Rose Landry.

“Well, there’s plenty of ‘outside’ at the cottage,” Shane squeezed her forearm and then reached for her bag. Rose followed him around to the back of the Range Rover and dumped the duffel slung over her shoulder into the boot alongside her suitcase.

Rose pointed at the suitcase already in the boot–Ilya’s, from Russia–and raised a brow. “You going somewhere?” she asked.

“Uh,” Shane shook his head and then lowered his voice to a whisper, mindful of the people milling around the curb and stretching their necks to ogle at Rose “no, that’s my boyfriend’s.”

Rose bit her lip, trying and failing miserably to mask the grin spreading over her face, and Shane just rolled his eyes. Embarrassed but also pleased that she was so excited to not only be visiting him but also meeting his boyfriend. He’d never gotten to do this before; his parents had stumbled upon the information and he’d only told Hayden and Jackie that he was gay, nothing more specific, nothing about a committed relationship. He was excited and he was nervous and he was kind of nauseas, and he was… a lot of things. Most of them good. At least half of them good.

They were pulling onto the highway, Rose fiddling with the car’s radio and connecting her phone to the Bluetooth, insisting he had to listen to her latest music obsession, when Rose broached the boyfriend topic. He was honestly impressed that she’d managed to wait so long; he’d felt her vibrating with questions beside him from the moment he’d said ‘boyfriend.’

“So…” Rose said, drawing out the word.

“So,” Shane echoed, shorter, clipped. Rose smacked his shoulder.

“Are you finally going to tell me about the boyfriend?” she asked. “Because I’m what two hours from meeting the guy and you haven’t told me a single thing about him.”

“What do you want to know?” Shane asked, keeping his gaze locked on the traffic ahead of them. Thinner now than it had been earlier. The drive back to the cottage would be a lot smoother than the drive into Ottawa had been.

“Everything, obviously, but you can start with his name.”

A hesitant smile pulled at the corner of his mouth at that. This was the part he’d been nervous about.

Rose was a Michigan girl with three older brothers; one was in the AHL, and the others had been hockey players in college. She would understand the complexity of it all, the scandal of it all. She might even be vaguely horrified that Shane–a captain in the NHL–was in a romantic relationship with a rival captain. Maybe she’d even question his loyalty to Montreal. Maybe she’d doubt his integrity. And maybe, as Ilya had suggested, she wouldn’t give a single fuck about any of those things.

So that left Shane to confront the real reason why he’d been stalling this conversation. Why he’d left it until his best friend was just hours away from meeting the love of his life to address the boyfriend topic.

The thing was… the thing was he’d been in love with Ilya when he’d been with her. And even though she was so supportive, and kind, and shockingly saintlike about the whole ‘being in deep denial about his own sexuality’ thing he didn’t know if the Ilya of it all would be the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. So, he’d delayed the conversation until he could do it in person. But now, sitting in the car with her, trapped for at least the next two hours, he wondered if perhaps he hadn’t thought this through at all.

Now he was freaking the fuck out.

Shane swallowed. “Ilya.”

“Ilya, that’s nice,” Rose hummed. He could feel her gaze locked on the side of his face, could feel her smiling. “Is he from Montreal?”

“Mm,” Shane shook his head. “Russia.”

“Russia,” Rose repeated and then, “Ilya.”

Shane rolled his shoulders and kept his eyes locked on the traffic. The radio was playing softly, and the sun was finally peeking out from behind the last of the lingering clouds, and Rose was staring at him so hard Shane felt like there was a hole burning into the side of his head.

“What does he do for work?” she said, slowly.

“He’s an athlete.”

“What sport?”

Shane’s fingers flexed around the steering wheel, and he glanced at her briefly out of the corner of his eye. Her expression was inscrutable, half her face hidden behind her sunglasses. Shane took a deep breath and then said, “hockey.”

“And what’s his last name?” There was an edge to her tone that he thought might be something like delight, but he’d been wrong before.

“Rozanov.”

She was quiet for a minute. And then…

“Oh. My. Fucking. God!” Then she was whacking his shoulder, repeatedly, aggressively, so hard that he almost swerved the car and he had to shove her hands away to prevent them from crashing. She seemed unphased by his pushing and he could see the toothy grin spreading across her mouth even without facing her properly. “Ilya Rozanov! How? When? Oh my god. What?”

“Hey, don’t hit me whilst I’m driving,” Shane reprimanded. “It’s dangerous.”

She ignored him.

“Ilya Rozanov!”

“Yes.”

“Ilya. Rozanov.”

“Mhm.”

“Ilya–”

“Okay, I get it,” Shane interrupted, glancing at her briefly. She smacked his shoulder again.

“When did this happen?” Rose wriggled in her seat, turning her torso to face him, bringing a leg up to tuck beneath her on the chair. She’d kicked off her sneakers, flexing her toes in her white socks. “How did this happen?”

“Um, the short version or the long version?” Shane drummed his fingers over the steering wheel, over the gear shift, stalling again.

“Long version, duh,” Rose answered.

“Okay,” Shane took a deep breath in through his nose then exhaled loudly out his mouth. “Well, it’s complicated, but I need you to know that when we were together, I wasn’t talking to him. Or sleeping with him. I never cheated on you. But I’m still sorry and–”

“Shane,” Rose interrupted, gently, placing her hand on his hand where he was tapping his fingers over the gear shift. She rubbed a comforting thumb over his knuckles and Shane relaxed. Just a little. “We dated for like five weeks over eighteen months ago. It’s not like we were married or something.”

“I know I just…” Shane trailed off then huffed. “I am sorry. About all of it.”

“I’m not,” Rose shrugged and Shane just frowned. She laughed softly. “If it hadn’t of happened then we wouldn’t be friends now. And I love being your friend.” Shane cleared his throat and nodded stiffly. She squeezed his fingers then pulled her hand away. “Tell me about him. The long version. Please.”

Shane told her the long version. Well, an abridged version of the long version because some things were just his–theirs–and he was not willing to share those moments with anyone. Even his best friend.

He told her about meeting Ilya at the 2008 World Juniors in Saskatchewan, about approaching him in the carpark because he’d spent the weeks before the tournament basically stalking Ilya online. Learning all his stats, watching grainy clips of his games, comparing himself to the boy from Russia with a backhand even stronger than his own, the boy who skated elegantly, like he was made for it. He told her about shaking Ilya’s hand and the little smirk Ilya had given him and the confusing tumble of emotions that had ripped through his body at just that simple touch. At just that little smile.

He told her about meeting Ilya again at the draft. How frustrated he’d been to come in at number two and how it was made even worse by the fact that he knew Ilya deserved number one. The swell of jealousy and competitiveness that had glowed hotly in his chest, stood beside Ilya in front of the press, but underneath that something else had buzzed, thrilling and electric. He shared a little about the hotel gym–something about that night felt too intimate, too precious, to be laid entirely bare. Confessing quietly that when Ilya’s fingers had brushed his in the antiseptic lighting Shane had felt his entire world tip, something shifting within him but still being too terrified to identify it.

He told her about the CCM commercial. How Ilya had set it up so they could see each other again. But he left out what happened in the showers, skirted around the specifics of how exactly Ilya had ended up in his hotel room. That was his–theirs. He did, however, tell her how it felt the first time Ilya kissed him. (Only after she badgered him for more details when he’d waved his hand around in a vague ‘we had sex’ gesture.) He told her how warm he’d felt, like his brain had filled with static, everything going hazy in a good way, the volume of his thoughts turned way down, the lights dimmed. How after Ilya had left, he’d been simultaneously giddy and confused and desperate for it to happen again but also terrified of it happening again.

He told her about the years of casually hooking up that followed after that. Seeing Ilya whenever their teams would meet, at All-Star Weekends, at NHL award nights. About all the confusing push and pull–sometimes Ilya pushing, sometimes Shane, the both of them always pulling away when it got to close. Neither willing to reveal their hand. He told her about hooking up with other men over that time–and still sleeping with women too–because he was trying to find something, someone, that would make the itch to return to Ilya’s bed just… stop. All he’d wanted was to make himself stop.

“Is he really that good in bed?” Rose asked, eyebrows raised incredulously. “I always figure guys with reputations like his–well, let’s just say I’ve slept with my share of them and they’re usually not very good.”

“Yes,” Shane muttered, unable to look her in the eye. “The first time we–the first time I–”

“The first time you were the hole not the peg?” Rose suggested with a giggle and Shane scoffed a laugh then nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “Ilya was so… kind. I felt safe. And even when he isn’t… gentle… I always feel safe.”

Rose hummed, a wistful note to her tone as she murmured, “that’s nice. Feeling safe. That’s so nice.”

“It is.”

And then he told her about Boston. About Ilya asking him to stay the night for the first time ever and Shane saying yes then freaking the fuck out because in that moment, pressed tight to Ilya on his couch, he’d realised that no one made him feel like Ilya Rozanov did. That no one ever would. Rose asked him how he hadn’t realised that sooner and Shane grimaced. In retrospect it was obvious–all of it was so obvious–but at the time it had felt too big, too lonely, too confusing. He still hadn’t even admitted he was fully gay yet; he’d still been hoping that he might be bisexual, he reminded her, and Rose gave him a sad look.

“And then you and I happened,” Shane explained. Rose was quiet for a minute, then two, and Shane chanced a glance over at her. She had pushed her glasses up and her gaze was locked on the sprawling fields of green ahead of them. They were only half an hour from the cottage now.

“So you were in love with him,” she said, slowly, “when we met.”

“Yeah,” Shane nodded. Because he had been; even if he’d been in deep, deep, denial about it.

“Do you have any red wine at your place?” she asked and Shane shook his head. He had vodka and beer and white wine because his mother liked it but not any red. “Okay, we need wine. Is there a town nearby?”

“Yeah, about twenty minutes away,” Shane said and then, hesitantly, “are you okay?”

Rose hummed, absently, chewing on her nail. “Oh me?” she pointed to herself. “Totally. I’m not upset with you. I’m horrified by my own complete and utter lack of… awareness. Like, seriously Shane, you were not even my first gay boyfriend or even my first boyfriend that was in love with someone else. What is actually wrong with me? Shane. What is wrong with me?”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Shane tried, reassuring, but Rose just shook her head.

“No, babe, there is,” she sighed. “Like do I not want to be loved? Why do I keep picking men who are gay, or men who are in love with other people, or men who are totally emotionally unavailable, or men who are like renowned cheaters–like what is wrong with me?”

“Rose, I’m sorry I didn’t mean–”

“No. This is good,” Rose waved a hand at Shane, shutting him up. “Tell me the rest of it.”

“What? No,” Shane protested, shaking his head. “I’ve upset you.”

“No, no, you haven’t,” Rose insisted. “Please. I want to know how you two figured it out. Shane, you spent seven years in love with this man and so deep in the closet you couldn’t admit that to yourself. That’s awful. I’m not even mad at you. I’m mad for you. I’m just also having some revelations about myself right now. Please continue.”

“Okay…” Shane hesitated, glancing at her again, she just nodded her head enthusiastically. He turned off the highway, taking the exit that would bring them into town. If Rose wanted red wine, then he would get Rose a hundred bottles of red wine–he’d buy her the whole damn shop. “We’re going to stop for wine.”

“Yes, please,” Rose said. “Now go on.”

So, he went on. He told her about the All-Stars Game in Tampa, about Ilya opening up to him, about holding Ilya tight and comforting him and how everything had just felt so… right… in that moment. Holding Ilya, soothing Ilya. Realising that this was what he’d wanted–what he’d wanted for so long, maybe what he’d always wanted.

He told her about Ilya’s father dying. About the phone calls between them whilst Ilya had been in Russia. Getting closer, closer, closer. Finally worming his way beneath Ilya’s shuttered exterior. Talking to him regularly, texting him, getting to hear about his days, his thoughts, for the first time, and feeling so happy just to have those tiny scraps of Ilya after hungering for him for so long. He told her about formulating a plan to invite Ilya to his cottage over the summer because Ilya fucking hated going back to Moscow and Shane just wanted to be with him. Alone. No NHL or Russia or ticking clock. Just them.

And as they were pulling into town, he told her about Ilya spending last summer at the cottage. Nothing detailed. That summer–from the lazy mornings they’d spent fucking to their intimate conversations by the fire pit–was just theirs to know. But he smiled when he told her about Ilya saying ‘I love you’ first, about Ilya calling them boyfriends first. Laughed awkwardly as he explained his father catching them making out and subsequently coming out to his parents with Ilya at his side. Because, in retrospect, it had been kind of funny.

“And, well, he’s moving to Ottawa next season to be closer to me,” Shane said as he parked in front of the liquor store.

“Fuck, he’s changing teams for you?” she asked as she hopped out of the car and Shane nodded, following after her.

The sidewalk was mostly empty, only a few people wandering in and out of the stores lining the quiet street. Most of the locals were probably enjoying the sunny afternoon, swimming or boating or barbecuing. Still, Shane pressed a finger to his mouth and gave her a significant look, mouthing ‘later.’ Rose nodded and linked her arm with his as they stepped into the air-conditioning.

They found the shelves of red wine and Rose made Shane carry the hand basket as she plucked several bottles off the shelf and read each label carefully. The store wasn’t crowded but still Shane noticed the stares, the whispers. Behind the front counter the young cashier was blatantly filming them. Several other customers had their phones not so subtly pointed in their direction. Shane rolled his shoulders and neck and cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Sorry, is that too many?” Rose frowned, gesturing to the hand basket stuffed with bottles of merlot and cabernet sauvignon. “Is it heavy?”

“No, all good,” Shane smiled, his press smile, his fake smile. Rose’s frown deepened and she looked around. Her gaze caught on the young cashier and she sucked her teeth.

“Ah, I don’t even notice it anymore.”

“You’re used to it,” Shane shrugged.

“You’re not?”

“I mean yeah, I am,” Shane nodded “I just have never gotten comfortable with it. And it’s never this… intense when it’s just me.”

“Come on, I’m done,” Rose squeezed his arm.

At the register they argued over paying for the wine as the cashier stared at them, starstruck and bewildered, eyes almost bulging out of his head. Shane eventually managing to convince Rose to let him pay and she rolled her eyes, dramatic and exasperated, but leaned in to peck him on the cheek anyway, a grin on her face. Then Shane carried the bags to the car, tucking them securely into the boot between the suitcases so they wouldn’t knock over, and held Rose’s door open for her as she climbed into the Range Rover.

The whole time he felt eyes on them, following their every move. He had no doubt pictures of them at the airport and then at the store would be all over the internet by the next morning.

He was reversing out of the park when his phone chimed. “Can you check that?” he asked Rose.

“Yeah, of course,” Rose reached for the phone in the central cup holder and read the text off of the lockscreen. “It’s from Lily. She says ‘where are you? You have been gone forever’ and then something else but I can’t read it. Who is Lily?”

“Lily is Ilya,” Shane shrugged. “We have fake names in each other’s phones.”

“Seriously?” Rose raised her brows at him. “You chose Lily for Ilya? That is so obvious. What is yours? Jane?” Shane was silent as Rose stared at him; he could feel heat rising to his face. Then she burst into laughter and said, “oh my god. Seriously. Tell me no.”

“No one’s ever figured it out,” Shane defended, a little petulantly.

“Yeah, because you’re surrounded by people who get concussions regularly,” she sighed, trying and failing to stifle her giggles. “Lily and Jane. That’s hilarious.”

Shane just flipped her off and suppressed his grin as her laughter bubbled over again.

“Ilya! I’m back. Rose is here.”

There was music playing over the in-ceiling speakers, loudly, something Russian with a throbbing bass. The electric rhythm of it made Shane’s teeth clench, his shoulders tense. He kicked off his shoes in the entryway and called out for Ilya again, shouting over the blaring music.

“In the kitchen, малыш,” Ilya called back and then the volume was turned down, almost to mute. Shane’s clenched muscles immediately relaxed and then he wandered down the hall with Rose following along behind him, her head tilted back, admiring the tall, beamed ceilings. Ilya’s head poked out from around the corner, and he smiled apologetically at Shane. “I’m sorry, моя любовь, I didn’t hear you come in.”

Shane shook his head. If Ilya wanted to use Shane’s stupidly expensive speaker system to play his horrendous music loud enough for the neighbours a mile away to hear then Shane was happy. Glad someone was finally making use of the damned things. He had no idea why he’d installed them in the first place but, maybe, with Ilya here, they finally made sense.

In the kitchen Ilya was fiddling with the plates of snacks they’d organised last night–well, David had organised them really. Knocking on the door last night with armfuls of paper bags stuffed with cured meats and nice cheeses and bread and antipasto from the deli in town. When they’d told his parents last week that they had invited Rose and Svetlana over for the weekend his mother had insisted they do something nice like a charcuterie board and when Ilya and Shane had stared at her dumbly, David had sighed and told them he’d pick up stuff for them before the girls came. His dad had dropped off the groceries last night, but they hadn’t been set up like this–Ilya had clearly found something else to occupy himself with whilst Shane had been gone.

“Oh yum,” Rose groaned as she leaned over the kitchen island. “This looks incredible. Did you do this?”

“I’m a man of many talents,” Ilya shrugged, affecting nonchalance, but Shane caught the pleased twist of his lips. He’d clearly put effort into the spread and Shane’s chest warmed.

Rose nodded, still staring at the food, reaching out for the sliced bread before stopping herself. “So sorry, I’m starving. I’m Rose. It’s so nice to meet you,” she extended a hand to Ilya over the kitchen counter and Ilya took it.

“Ilya,” he said, then added “Rozanov.”

“Oh, I know,” Rose grinned. “Hockey fan. Also, Shane told me a lot about you on the drive up.”

“Rose,” Shane grumbled.

“Mm, all good things I assume,” Ilya tilted his head, gaze flicking to Shane then back to Rose. Shane could feel his face heating.

“Yeah, actually,” Rose leaned over and pinched Shane’s cheek affectionately, cooing, “he’s so smitten with you.”

“Really?” Ilya teased, a smirk spreading over his lips.

“Rose,” Shane groaned. “His ego is huge. Don’t inflate it further.”

“I’m not, I’m not,” Rose raised her hands innocently.

“Please inflate my ego, Rose,” Ilya interjected. “Tell me all the nice things my boyfriend said about me.”

“Ilya,” Shane warned. Ilya sauntered over to him and wrapped an arm around his waist, tugging him close to plant a sloppy kiss to his cheek. Shane spluttered, wiping at his skin, then he shoved Ilya off him.

“Well, he said you’re a very good kisser, for one,” Rose offered and Shane wilted, pressing his elbows into the countertop and then his face into his palms. Ilya laughed beside him, bright and boisterous, placing his palm between Shane’s shoulder blades and scratching lightly. Shane wanted to melt into the touch, but he was too embarrassed.

“Just good?”

“I think he said your first kiss was life-changing actually.”

“Rose,” Shane said weakly, cheek fully pressed into the marble now, hands overlapping behind his head.

“Life-changing, mm?” Ilya teased, hand slipping further down Shane’s back, fingers creeping beneath the fabric of Shane’s shirt and then pressing into skin.

“I want to die.”

“It was for me too,” Ilya said softly and Shane twisted his head, peering up at his boyfriend through his lashes. Ilya’s fingers moved to caress the side of Shane’s face and Shane couldn’t help but press himself further into the touch. He would always press further into Ilya’s touch.

“Fuck, I’m so single,” Rose sighed and Shane straightened himself, scrubbing a palm through his hair.

“Why don’t we eat?” Shane said, too loud. Both Ilya and Rose gave him amused smiles.

❃❃❃

Shane set up the fire pit–which was apparently his signature move for impressing guests–and dragged over the chairs from the outdoor dining set, arranging them around the stone pit opposite the small lounge. Rose took one of the armchairs, tucking her feet underneath herself, several plates of snacks crowded on the table beside her. She had a massive glass of red wine cradled between her hands and an assortment of full bottles at her feet within reach so she could easily top up her glass. Ilya had tucked himself into the corner of the wicker couch closest to the snacks and Shane was sat beside him, knee pressed into Ilya’s thigh, also nursing a massive glass of merlot. The last chair was left free for Svetlana.

Ilya had decided, in the short time they’d been sitting around the fire, that he liked Rose.

She was charming and funny and surprisingly down to earth and she clearly adored Shane. And Shane clearly adored her back. He seemed comfortable with her; all easy smiles and relaxed posture, his usually flat affect more varied and his laughter more genuine. Rose brought out a side of Shane that Ilya usually only saw in private–that softer, surer version of Shane, removed of all his usual stiffness and hypervigilance. Which Ilya was doing his best not to be weird about, resolutely ignoring the nagging jealousy worming its way behind his ribcage.

“Anyway, point is,” Rose gestured widely with her wine glass “do not drink the sangria at Leo’s parties. I don’t remember anything after nine pm and I’m pretty sure I met Beyoncé. But I don’t fucking remember it. Can you believe that? Forgetting Beyoncé?!” Rose frowned into her merlot. “I will never get a chance like that again.”

“I’m sure you will,” Shane reassured. His face was slightly flushed, colour high on his cheekbones and his mouth stained red from the wine. The warm glow of the fire was drenching him in delicate, flickering light and his eyes were big and shiny and dark. Reflecting sparks. Ilya was struggling to pay attention to anything but him.

“It’s Beyoncé, so she probably won’t,” Ilya hummed, tipping his head back to take another swig of beer, delighting in the grumpy look his boyfriend shot him in response.

“Hey,” Shane elbowed Ilya in the ribs. Ilya grunted at the impact, rubbing his palm over the spot; Shane was straddling the border between tipsy and drunk and had clearly forgotten his own strength.

“No, Shane, your boyfriend is right,” Rose shook her head then reached down to grab one of the bottles at her feet. She topped up her glass and then leaned over the fire pit to fill up Shane’s. “You don’t get a second chance with Beyoncé.”

“Shane probably does not even know who Beyoncé is,” Ilya quipped and Shane elbowed him again, this time Ilya blocked the hit before it landed.

“I know who she is,” Shane protested, a crease forming between his brows. Ilya just grinned at him adoringly. “She’s the one with the song.”

“What song, sweetheart?” Ilya laughed, tilting his head as Shane’s frown deepened.

“The ring song,” Shane answered, holding up his hand and waving it around.

“You mean Single Ladies?” Rose giggled then hid her face behind her glass when Shane turned to glare at her.

“You’re both making fun of me now,” he waved his wine glass between them then slumped back into the couch cushion with a huff.

“You are just so easy to tease, Зайчик, you cannot blame us,” Ilya hummed, smoothing his palm down Shane’s thigh, past the hem of his shorts to the bare skin of his knee. There were fading bruises on Shane’s kneecaps–not from hockey for once–and Ilya pressed his thumb into them. Shane wriggled slightly on the lounge, pressing his thigh along the seam of Ilya’s pants.

A low rumbling broke the still of the peaceful night; drowning out the chirping bugs and the calling loons. The tone of it was deep and growling, the distinct tell of a powerful engine crawling through the winding, secluded roads that led to the cottage. Ilya immediately knew it was Svetlana. Only she would bring a sports car out here.

“That’s probably Sveta,” Ilya observed as the engine revved and then cut off.

Shane tilted his head onto Ilya’s shoulder. “Will you get her?” he asked, blinking up at Ilya.

“Is your house, Hollander,” Ilya scoffed, Shane just pouted. “You are a terrible host.”

“Fuck off, I’m comfy,” Shane grumbled and Ilya groaned, dramatically, unfurling himself and rising to his feet.

“Fine, I will be the bell boy,” Ilya sighed and Shane’s mouth twitched, barely managing to hide his smile in his wine glass.

By the time Ilya reached the front door Svetlana was already dragging her suitcase up to the stoop. The rest of her Louis Vutton luggage was stacked neatly beside the back wheel of the sleek, black sports car in the driveway. Ilya whistled.

“You rented a Maserati Granturismo to drive around the Canadian countryside?” Ilya asked, in Russian, leaning against the doorframe and watching with amusement as Svetlana struggled to roll her suitcase over the gravel driveway. Her gaze shot up to him and she glared.

“You could fucking help me,” she spat back, in Russian, and Ilya just shrugged.

“I think I like watching you struggle more,” he grinned as she finally got her first suitcase to the foot of the short staircase before trudging back to the car to get the next one. “How was Saint Petersburg?”

They hadn’t texted or called since Ilya had left Russia. The week they’d spent together had been… intense… and usually when they were both in Moscow for the summer, they had their own apartments to return to during the day when they needed their own space. Spending a week almost constantly with each other had been a lot. Even when Svetlana had stayed with him in Boston for two weeks last year, she’d mostly been at work during the day and had spent several nights with other friends. So, the last two and a half weeks of space had been good. Necessary. But he was very happy to see her again. Not that he would ever tell her that.

“Papa is the same as always,” Svetlana shrugged. Ilya noticed the new, gleaming, diamond-studded Cartier bracelet on her wrist. Minister Vetrov was very fond of his eldest daughter and had showered her in expensive gifts since that day she’d been born–her first handbag had been a Birkin; her first car had been an Aston Martin. So, when Svetlana said her dad was ‘the same as always’ she meant he’d spent the last two weeks spoiling her.

“Nice bracelet,” Ilya nodded at her wrist, and she glanced down then rolled her eyes.

“Still trying to make up for cheating on mama,” Svetlana said dismissively as she dragged her last bag to the foot of the stairs. “Now will you help me, you motherfucker.”

“Yes, yes,” Ilya said, in English, then hopped down the stairs. When he reached her, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of her curly head, and she punched him in the chest in return. Their usual exchange of affection.

He helped her bring her bags inside then watched as she tilted her head back and admired the tall ceilings, her gaze sweeping down from the beams overhead to the wide windows and the lake beyond the glass. It was dark outside, just the glow of the fire and the faint moonlight illuminating the stretching forest and rippling lake. But the property was beautiful even at night and shrouded in shadow. The inside of the cottage was bathed in soft lamplight and as inviting as always. Svetlana whistled, impressed, and Ilya felt strangely pleased. Like he was showing her his house. He supposed, in a way, he was.

The cottage felt more like his home than anywhere else he’d ever lived.

“Did he build this?” She asked, running a hand over the wood panelled wall.

“Mm,” Ilya hummed then nodded down the hall. “Your room is downstairs.”

Ilya showed her to her room, which was across from where Rose was staying, and had a view of the pine forest and a luxurious, king-sized bed. Then they wandered back upstairs to join Rose and Shane on the patio.

“Svetlana!” Shane greeted, loudly and slightly slurred. He’d clearly tipped over the line into fully drunk since Ilya had been gone.

“Well if it isn’t Mister Hockey himself,” Svetlana teased then let out a soft ‘oof’ when Shane wrapped her in a tight hug, spilling wine as he squeezed her middle. Ilya watched the scene equal parts thrilled and confused.

He knew that Shane and Svetlana talked to one another on the phone sometimes, and obviously the three of them had a group chat–that Svetlana had rudely named ‘2 hotties & Lily’–but he’d missed the part when his boyfriend and his best friend had become so… familiar. It was a good thing. He was happy about it. He was just also confused.

“When did you two get so close?” he asked, and to his own ears he sounded petulant.

Svetlana squished Shane’s cheeks between her palms then said, “since you were an annoying fucker in Russia and I had to talk to this one every day just to cope.”

“Svetlana texted and called me every day you were in Moscow,” Shane nodded, face still pressed between Svetlana’s manicured hands, and Ilya swallowed thickly around the lump in his throat. “I was worried and she was worried. We bonded.”

“He was more worried,” Svetlana muttered then released Shane’s face with a little pat. She turned to Rose who was stood beside the fire pit, tucking her hair behind her ears and eyeing Svetlana curiously. “Hi, I’m Svetlana Vetrova,” she extended a hand over to the shorter woman and Rose smiled, reaching back.

“Rose Landry,” she said and Svetlana smirked, the tilt of her lips turning flirty and teasing.

“Oh, I know,” Svetlana purred, smooth as whiskey. Rose’s cheeks turned a rosy pink in the glow from the fire. Ilya huffed a laugh; Svetlana could fluster anyone.

Ilya had never seen Shane drunk. Well, not this kind of drunk.

There’d been that time in Las Vegas after Shane had won Rookie of the Year, on the rooftop. Shane flushed and handsome in his tuxedo, the dazzling Vegas skyline reflecting in his big, dark eyes. He’d been pissy and obtuse, and Ilya had been overwhelmed by the urge to kiss him, to devour him, to bury all his own feelings about returning to Moscow in the warm press of Shane Hollander’s stupid, perfect mouth. Then Shane had pushed him away, somehow even more pissy than before, and Ilya had been left brooding on the rooftop, glaring at the street below.

This version of drunk Shane was different. Maybe because Shane was drinking wine, not tequila, or maybe because of the company. Whatever the reason, Ilya was delighted by this version of drunk Shane. Chatty and silly and smiley and increasingly affectionate. Each sip weakening his inhibitions.

Shane had a leg slung over Ilya’s knee and didn’t seem at all bothered by the intimate press of Ilya’s fingers against his inner thigh despite the company. In fact, when Ilya tried to pull away, just to get his beer, Shane grabbed his wrist in a tight hold and pushed his hand higher, under the hem of his shorts. Ilya was grinning stupidly, eyes locked on where his hand was tucked into Shane’s pants, and barely listening to the conversation.

“I’m serious,” Rose shouted, drunk and flushed and sloshing wine over the rim of her glass. “Something is wrong with me. I keep dating gay men or emotionally unavailable men or like–fucking cheaters.” She slumped back into her chair, and Svetlana gave her a considering look.

Svetlana was nursing a glass of vodka, tapping her nails on the crystal. “Maybe you don’t like men,” she shrugged and Rose gaped at her.

“What?”

“Well,” Svetlana gestured over at Shane “did you like fucking him?”

Ilya dragged his eyes away from Shane’s thigh to gaze over the crackling flames at Rose, who was squinting at Shane consideringly. Beside him Shane was wide-eyed and blinking rapidly, like he was concerned about suddenly being the centre of this conversation.

“That is not a fair question,” Shane shook his head. “I was very not good. Ask her about someone good.”

“You weren’t that bad,” Rose insisted and Svetlana snickered. “You were pretty good at oral. The”–she made a crude gesture with her hands–“was the main issue.”

Ilya choked on his drink and Svetlana burst into full-on laughter, throwing her head back. Shane didn’t seem to get what Svetlana was laughing about and had a serious frown on his face.

“And also I could tell you did not want to be there,” Rose added after some thought. “Like at all.”

“I didn’t,” Shane admitted, solemn and apologetic. “Also, I researched cun–cunning linguist.”

“You researched that?” Ilya asked, quietly.

“Well, I wasn’t gonna let girls blow me and not return the favour.”

“What the fuck, Shane.”

“Shane was probably my best boyfriend, he even researched cunning–whatever the fuck,” Rose turned back to Svetlana, waving her glass in Shane’s direction. “So sweet and funny and considerate. Honestly, the perfect boyfriend. Besides the whole gay and in love with his rival thing.”

“I was a good boyfriend?” Shane asked, perking up.

“You were!” Rose nodded her head vigorously. “We could talk so easily, and you respected me as, like, a person and everything.”

“The bar is in hell,” Svetlana muttered. “Okay, okay. How about someone who wasn’t gay? Have you ever had satisfying sex with a man that was attracted to women?”

Rose blanched, glassy eyes locking on the fire pit and darting back and forth. Shane was leaning forward, way too far over the edge of the couch, and Ilya tucked a hand into Shane’s waistband to keep him from tumbling forward into the flames.

He was still kind of reeling from the revelation that Shane and Rose’s sex life hadn’t been all that disastrous after all. Apparently, his boyfriend was good at performing cunnilingus. (Or cunning linguist as he’d called it.) Which was… well, something Ilya prided himself on being very skilled at but not exactly something he’d ever thought of when it came to what Shane got up to in bed.

“Fuck, no, maybe,” Rose said and then gave Svetlana a helpless look. “A man has never made me cum.”

“Mm,” Svetlana hummed, grave.

“That’s normal though,” she insisted, then looked over at Ilya and Shane. Shane threw up his hands in a ‘don’t look at me’ gesture.

“Darling,” Svetlana said, gently, “Ilya is the only man that has ever made me cum vaginally, but I have orgasmed with many, many men.”

“You two have fucked?” Rose gasped, gesturing between Svetlana and Ilya.

“They have,” Shane confirmed and Ilya tugged on his boyfriend’s waistband. Rose’s jaw dropped as she twisted back to Svetlana.

“And you hang out with him still?” she asked then turned to Shane and added, “and you invited her here?”

“They’re best friends,” Shane shrugged.

“We’re best friends,” Svetlana said at the same time then she waved her hand dismissively. “Besides, there were never any feelings involved. The only thing about that whole situation”–Svetlana gestured at Shane and Ilya–“that upset me was that I lost a reliable lay and that Ilya somehow landed my celebrity crush.”

“I’m your celebrity crush?” Shane grinned, clearly chuffed.

“Baby, I think you’re everyone’s celebrity crush. At least around this fire pit,” Svetlana winked and Shane giggled, actually fucking giggled. Ilya was going to scream.

Shane turned to Ilya, his brown eyes wide, a smile on his flushed face. He was so fucking pretty and perfect and Ilya wanted to like, eat him. “Am I your celebrity crush?” he asked and Ilya tipped his head back, looking at the sprawling stars above and taking a deep breath.

“Да,” Ilya muttered and Shane hummed, pleased, shuffling so he was sat fully in Ilya’s lap, facing the girls and the fire pit. Ilya dropped his forehead to the back of Shane’s head, nosing at the soft hairs at his nape, breathing him in. Shane smelt like pine and eucalyptus and smoke and he was so, so warm and heavy in Ilya’s lap.

“Okay, well, how do you know if you’re maybe a little gay?” Rose asked, returning to the point.

“Don’t look at me,” Shane objected, wriggling his butt in Ilya’s lap. “Deep denial, remember?”

“Yeah, but you knew that you weren’t fully straight, you’d been sleeping with Ilya for seven years by then,” Rose insisted and Ilya felt, rather than saw, as Shane shrugged in response.

“You underestimate a man’s ability to live in denial,” Svetlana sighed. “I mean I always knew that I liked girls and boys.”

“You’re bi?” Rose asked, trying too hard to sound casual. “What about you, Ilya? How did you know you were gay?”

“Bi,” Ilya corrected as he dragged himself upright, hooking his chin over Shane’s shoulder so he could look at Rose over the licking flames. “I was in many locker rooms with many naked boys. I was curious. One boy was curious too so we… experimented. Together.” Ilya shrugged. “Just find someone who is willing to be experiment, and you will know if you are maybe little bit gay.”

Shane made a displeased sound, wriggling in Ilya’s lap. The action made Ilya’s soft cock twitch, and he bit his lip against a groan. Ilya gripped at his boyfriend’s hips, digging firm fingers deep into warm flesh in an attempt to still Shane’s squirming. He felt Shane’s chest rise and fall in a huff then heard him mutter something unintelligible into his wine glass. When he turned to look at him Shane was resolutely staring at the fire pit, a deep scowl set into the lines of his face. Ilya reached up and smoothed his palm over Shane’s neck, but Shane tilted his head away, avoiding the touch. Ilya frowned at that.

“What did you say?” Ilya asked and Shane huffed again, shaking his head. Ilya leaned in close, nose pressing to Shane’s cheek, kissing his jaw. “I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”

“Doyoujustflirtwithboysinlockerroomsallthetime?” Shane said and Ilya was either really drunk and just hadn’t realised it or Shane had learnt how to speak gibberish. Ilya’s brain took a moment, processing, translating, and then he laughed. In his lap Shane squirmed again, making to get up, but Ilya just locked his arms around his middle to keep him in place.

“You are the only boy I have ever jerked off at in a locker room,” Ilya reassured, fluttering kisses over the side of Shane’s face. “Promise.”

“You what?” Rose sputtered at the same time that Svetlana burst into laughter, kicking her feet as she threw her head back. Beneath his mouth, Ilya could feel Shane’s skin heating further.

“You jerked off at him in a locker room!” Svetlana was still cackling, firelight reflecting in the tears leaking out the corners of her eyes.

“You did not tell Rose this part?” Ilya hummed, looking back up at Shane, who just shook his head.

“Felt too… important to share,” Shane murmured, tilting his head to look down at Ilya.

“Men are so gross,” Rose lamented across the pit, but Ilya ignored her. He ignored Svetlana’s returning remark, too.

All his attention was tunnelled towards Shane, sat on his thighs, looking down at him with such blatant, open affection it was almost too much to bear. Ilya wanted to drown in that look, wanted to turn away from that look, wanted to always be deserving of that look. It was possible he was more drunk than he’d realised.

“So I am the only one?” Shane asked, softly, almost shyly. Ilya raised his brows. “The only boy you ever jerked off at in the showers?”

Ilya nodded, fighting a grin. “Yes, Shane. Only you.”

Shane hummed, a satisfied little smile on his mouth. Then he tipped forwards, more colliding with rather than kissing Ilya, nose knocking into Ilya’s nose, lips missing Ilya’s mouth by an inch. Ilya laughed and tilted his head, slotting their mouths together, kissing Shane properly.

Across the pit he heard Svetlana make a gagging sound and Rose wolf-whistling. Ilya flipped them both off, without looking, then threaded his fingers through Shane’s hair and pulled him closer, kissing him deeper, filthy, far too filthy for company. When he pulled back Shane’s mouth was shiny and his eyes were heavy, pupils blown wide in the dim light. Ilya licked Shane’s bottom lip then pecked his nose and Shane just grinned, dopey and drunk and delighted.

After that Ilya stopped paying attention to anything that wasn’t Shane. Eyes focused on his boyfriend’s face, arms wrapped tight around his waist, trying to keep Shane from moving too much in his lap. Shane’s focus had drifted from the conversation as well. His gaze straying from Rose and Svetlana, to find Ilya already looking at him. Ilya was sure that his want was seeping out of every pore, written all over his face. Shane’s certainly was. Dark eyes hazy and focused on Ilya’s mouth, his own lips parted, tongue sweeping over his bottom lip.

“Will you two just go and fuck already?” Svetlana shouted, waving a hand between Shane and Ilya. “Go away so the women can talk, yes?”

“Fuck off,” Ilya grumbled but Shane was already worming out of his grasp, stumbling to his feet.

“Come on,” Shane held out his hand, flexing his fingers. “Let the women talk.”

“Mm,” Ilya grunted, taking Shane’s hand anyway. As Shane pulled him away, Ilya flipped Svetlana off and hissed, “заткинись.”

“Иди трахни своего парня,” Svetlana bit back “так что я могу экспериментировать.”

Before he could respond, Shane was dragging him by the hand through the sliding doors and into the dimly lit cottage, through the kitchen and the TV room, and to the main bedroom. Once inside the bedroom Shane released Ilya’s hand then flopped onto the bed, spreading his arms out, kicking at the duvet cover until it was sliding off the end of the bed. Then he settled, making that sweet, deep purring sound that Ilya was so familiar with, his eyes shut as he smiled serenely.

Ilya chuckled and shut the door behind him. He crossed the room in two, long strides, then crawled up the mattress, settling himself on top of Shane, pressing their bodies tight together. Shane’s eyes fluttered open and he stared intently up at Ilya, dark eyes darting all over his face, before landing on Ilya’s mouth, black pupils swallowing the brown of his irises in the lamplight.

“Kiss me?” Shane asked, so sweet, so earnest.

Ilya kissed him.

Kissed him slow and dragging. Lips parted, tongue sweeping, breaths mingling. The kind of kiss that would always make Shane squirm, too soft, too deep, too languid for Shane’s impatient, needy, clutching. It took no time at all for Shane to push up into him, teeth nipping, throat working around a whine, trying to get Ilya to hurry up. Ilya just kissed him slower, sucking on his bottom lip, pressing his nose into Shane’s cheek. He would not be hurried.

Beneath him Shane was wriggling, pressing his hips up, seeking friction. Ilya slid his thigh between Shane’s knees and sighed, gratified by the firm press of Shane’s already hard cock through his pants. It never took Shane very long to get hard, but this had to be a new record. The wine was making him sloppy, and impatient, and somehow even needier than normal.

Shane had started tugging on Ilya’s shirt, fingers clutching, breaths coming out in soft little whines as Ilya obstructed his efforts. Resolutely keeping his clothes on. A frustrated huff blew over Ilya’s face and he grinned, pushing his thigh firmer into the heat between Shane’s legs. In response Shane’s hips started to slowly rotate, grinding against Ilya’s leg, chasing pleasure blindly. His mouth dropped open and Ilya licked at his tongue.

“Pretty boy,” he mumbled and Shane’s brow pinched.

“Fuck me?” Shane asked, tilting his head sweetly.

“Mm, no,” Ilya shook his head. “I think I want to see you cum like this.”

Shane whined but his hips kept rocking, finding a steady rhythm, his trapped cock dragging over Ilya’s thigh desperately. “It’s not enough,” he complained, his breathing laboured, chest heaving.

“I think it is,” Ilya said.

Then he reached between them, unbuttoning Shane’s shorts and unzipping the fly, tugging the material down Shane’s hips, just enough so that only his thin briefs covered his cock. There was a little bloom of wetness already spreading over the grey fabric and Ilya groaned, resisting the urge to nuzzle into Shane’s lap, suck him through his underwear, swallow him down. He really did want Shane to cum just from grinding on him.

Shane pressed his head back into the mattress, baring his neck, the skin at his collarbones flushed and sweaty and dotted with barely visible freckles. Ilya ducked down to suck on Shane’s throat, nipping lightly at the skin as he circled his hands around Shane’s waist and pulled him closer, encouraging his boyfriend’s hips back into movement. Shane quickly found his rhythm again, fingers sinking into Ilya’s curls, nails scratching into his scalp. His big hands dragging Ilya’s head up, away from his neck, so they were pressed nose to nose again.

They kissed for a long while, Shane’s hips rolling with increasing frustration, rutting desperately against Ilya’s thigh. All of the blood in Ilya’s body was pooled between his legs, leaving him aching and hard, uncomfortable in the tight material of his shorts, but he was more than happy to wait. The soft sounds escaping Shane’s lips were more than enough. Looking at Shane, spread out beneath him, flushed from drinking too much wine and hazy-eyed, was all that Ilya wanted in that moment. His dick could wait.

“Ilya, please,” Shane whimpered, mouth shiny with Ilya’s spit.

“Not tonight,” Ilya hummed then hushed Shane gently when he whined again, wide-eyed and teary. “I know. I know. You want me inside you, yes?” Shane nodded, biting his lip, blinking rapidly, and Ilya smoothed his palm over Shane’s forehead, pushing back his hair. “Maybe tomorrow if you are good for me now, mm? Can you be good?”

“Yes,” Shane nodded.

“My good boy,” Ilya cooed, trailing his fingers down to Shane’s mouth, rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip. “You are a good boy, yes?”

“I am,” Shane agreed, gripping at Ilya’s shoulder blades, hard enough to bruise.

“Then cum like this, sweetheart, just from this.”

Ilya pushed his fingers into Shane’s mouth and Shane groaned, pressing his tongue between Ilya’s knuckles, nipping on his fingertips, bobbing his head as if he was sucking Ilya’s cock. The sight of it, of saliva dribbling from the corner of Shane’s mouth, of his eyelids drooping as he lost himself in the feeling of fullness, made Ilya feel like he was shaking apart. Shane was so much. Too much. Absolutely everything Ilya had never even allowed himself to want. But here he was and he was fucking perfect.

“Good boy,” Ilya murmured and Shane moaned around Ilya’s fingers, hips grinding harder, filthy and languid against the muscle of Ilya’s thigh.

When Shane came, mouth still wrapped around Ilya’s fingers, cock still trapped in his underwear, the sound he made was obscene. Ilya shuddered, pressing his face into Shane’s neck, breathing in the heady scent of him, all woodsy and smoky and masculine. Sighing as Shane panted beneath him, hips still stuttering, unable to stop even though he was past the point of oversensitive.

Ilya pushed Shane down, into the bedspread, and lifted his head to kiss Shane’s mouth. Kissing him deep and warm and wet. Kissing him as his mouth went slack and lazy, barely returning the press. Not that Ilya minded. Happy to just suck on Shane’s limp tongue.

“Told you that you could do it,” Ilya murmured, pulling back. Shane hummed, tilting his head, clearly still drunk; he wasn’t complaining about the cum in his underwear or frowning at Ilya for teasing him.

“What’about’you?” he slurred, nodding his head towards Ilya’s cock, still hard and aching in his shorts.

“Mm, I can take care of it,” Ilya shrugged then shuffled onto his knees. He swung a leg over Shane’s broad chest and knelt, hovering just above his sternum, before freeing his cock from his shorts and briefs. Shane’s eyes locked in on Ilya’s hand as he leisurely stroked himself. And Ilya watched Shane right back.

It didn’t take much for Ilya to bring himself to the edge. Not with Shane spread out beneath him, dark hair mussed and falling over his forehead, eyes intent on Ilya’s fingers, mouth hanging open as he watched. So desperate for Ilya’s cock.

“You want me to finish in your mouth, yes?” Ilya asked, trying and failing to keep the raspy, consuming, neediness from his voice. Shane didn’t seem to notice; he just nodded, glassy-eyed.

Ilya stroked himself the way he liked best, rocking his hips into his fist, keeping his gaze locked on Shane. When he came, he came across Shane’s chin, his lips, his cheek. Shane’s tongue darted out to lick along his top lip, swiping away cum, and Ilya groaned, flopping down beside Shane. It was too much. Shane was too much.

“Fuck,” Ilya swore, pressing a sloppy kiss to Shane’s shoulder. “Почему ты такой идеальный?”

Shane simply hummed in response, turning his head to press a kiss to Ilya’s hair. Ilya had no idea if he had understood him.

They lay in the quiet like that for a moment, breathing heavily. Ilya was trying to convince his heavy limbs into motion; he knew he needed to get up and clean them both. Shane was too drunk to deal with it himself. Just as he was ready to move, Shane started giggling, and Ilya squinted over at him, raising his brows. Shane just giggled harder.

“I’m your celebrity crush,” he beamed and Ilya rolled his eyes.

“Shut up,” Ilya muttered, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

“You have a crush on me.”

“Shut up, Hollander.”

Shane just kept giggling; even when Ilya threw the washcloth at his face.

They’d forgotten to shut the blinds last night, too drunk, too horny, and then too sleepy afterwards. Ilya woke in a pool of searing sunlight, groaning against the glaring brightness, throwing an arm over his face to shield his eyes. He stretched his other hand across the sheets, seeking out Shane’s form, intent on burying his face between the man’s warm pecs. When his hand met empty sheets, he groaned again and rolled over, squinting at Shane’s side of the mattress.

Shane was sitting at the edge of the bed, pulling up his socks, already dressed in a long-sleeved compression shirt and his running shorts. Ilya shuffled over the sheets and pressed his face into Shane’s back, just above the curve of his ass, right where his cute dimples indented into his smooth skin.

“What are you doing?” Ilya grumbled, nuzzling his nose into the slick, synthetic material of Shane’s shirt. The feel of it was cool and soothing against Ilya’s sun-warmed skin.

“Going to the gym,” Shane replied. Ilya whined, shaking his head, snaking a hand around Shane’s waist then dipping his hand into the waistband of his shorts. He wrapped his hand around Shane’s flaccid dick and squeezed, rubbing his thumb over the shaft leisurely. “Ilya, stop. I need to work off this hangover.”

“Who does that?” Ilya sighed, hand moving more insistently. Shane grabbed his wrist and yanked Ilya’s hand out of his pants.

“Me, I do that,” Shane said, firm, and stood up. Ilya pouted, squinting up at his boyfriend, cheek pressed into the sheets where Shane’s ass had been. There were dark bags beneath Shane’s eyes, and his face looked a little puffy–he was definitely hungover. Ilya had no idea why the fuck his boyfriend was insisting that working out was a remedy for a hangover; they could be fucking instead. “I’m just going downstairs. I’ll be back.”

Then he leaned over, pressing a kiss to Ilya’s temple, running his fingers tenderly through Ilya’s curls. When the door shut behind him Ilya huffed and rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, arms spread out beside him, taking up the full width of the oversized bed.

There was a dull throbbing between his temples, the beginnings of a headache. Ilya didn’t get hangovers. That was not something Russians did. But maybe he’d drunk more than he’d realised last night and maybe he was getting older and maybe at twenty-seven he could no longer drink a six-pack without feeling slightly shit the next day. Annoying.

Ilya rolled over and trudged into the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. He would go straight back to bed after, maybe strip off all his clothes, so that when Shane came back from his stupid, ill-advised, gym workout Ilya could convince him back into bed for some lazy sex. A much better cure for the throbbing ache in his head than running on a fucking treadmill.

Back in bed Ilya plucked his phone from the nightstand. He hadn’t checked his phone over the last few days. Too busy swimming and fucking and hiking the secluded trails winding through the pine forests around the cottage. The last time he’d checked his phone had been to text Svetlana Shane’s address and to respond to a message from David asking if Ilya wanted to do his new 100 Dogs puzzle with him. Ilya’s answer had, obviously, been yes.

He opened his notifications now, swiping past the unread messages accruing in the Raiders group chat. Mostly the guys just sent pics of their summer shenanigans or asked for advice about their training regimes anyway. It was never anything important. And besides, Ilya’s contract was over. He was a free agent; and Farah was already in negotiations with the Ottawa Centaurs. Part of him felt like he wasn’t even allowed to read the Raiders chat anymore. They were no longer his team.

Ilya shook off the discomfort that thought sparked. He was no longer a Raider. But he wasn’t officially a Centaur yet either. For the first time since he’d started his career he was floating in a sort of in-between. A liminal space. Still clinging onto his old identity but also eagerly reaching for a new one.

He was too hungover to think of any of it. It made his head hurt.

Ilya opened his emails, intending to check for anything from his agent but another email caught his attention and derailed him. A Google Alert. One he’d set over a year and a half ago when he’d been drunk on vodka and self-loathing and feeling particularly gluttonous for his own misery.

A ‘Rose Landry and Shane Hollander’ alert.

What the fuck.

He sat up, bending over his phone, swiping to his internet browser and clicking on the first article he found.

Rose Landry and Shane Hollander: Back Together? Check Out These Hot New Photos! 🔥 🥵 

And there they were. At the airport, Rose with her arms wrapped around Shane’s neck, Shane with his face pressed into her wavy, auburn hair, arms locked around her waist. Shane putting Rose’s bags into the boot of his stupid, horrible SUV. Ilya could see his suitcase–the one he was stubbornly pretending did not exist–in the boot, grainy and cloaked in shadow. 

Ilya scrolled further down the article and several more photos loaded. Shane and Rose with their arms interlinked in the aisles of a store, Rose’s head tipped back as she laughed, Shane smiling at her fondly. Then a photo of Shane holding a hand basket loaded with bottles of merlot, that strained, press smile pinching his lips as he eyed the camera. The caption read: What a man! Shane Hollander spotted carrying Rose Landry’s shopping basket 😍. Ilya scoffed. What a stupid fucking caption.

The next photo was Rose leaning in and kissing Shane’s cheek, taken from behind a shelf, slightly blurry, but clear enough. Clear enough for the article to speculate that Rose Landry and Shane Hollander were secretly back together, sneaking away for a romantic weekend in cottage-country. The article then went on to talk about Rose’s latest movie project and Ilya lost interest, switching to his Twitter app. Sure enough, #Hollandry was trending.

Sienna @roselandryslefttit

Omg! #hollandry lives on! I knew they were perfect for eo. I knew they’d get back 2gether 😍😍😍

Elly @rosesupremacy

I wish I could say I was surprised to see #hollandry back together but I’m not 💅 Those 2 r made for eo it was only a matter of time 🕓

Rose Landry Updates @roselandryupdates

@RoseLandry spotted in Canda. Is she back with @ShaneHollanderhockeyplayer? Check out these photos! #hollandry #roselandry [4 photos attached]

Ilya scrolled through dozens and dozens of tweets. All saying the same things; all so excited to see Rose and Shane back together. It made something queasy roll around in his stomach. Something that tasted a hell of a lot like jealousy. Which was dumb. So dumb.

It wasn’t like last time. He was in Shane Hollander’s bed. He was Shane Hollander’s boyfriend. Shane was fucking gay for fuck’s sake. Still, something about it all sent him right back to that night, stood in his hotel bathroom, glaring at his own reflection. Hating himself. Hating, hating, hating himself. Unable to even hate Shane. Unable to hate Rose either. Just all his embarrassment and anger and hatred turned inwards, simmering in his chest, asinine and acidic.

Ilya slammed his phone into the mattress and let out a huff. This was so stupid. He was working himself up over nothing. Shane was his. Who gave a single fuck if no one in the world knew that and thought that Rose was actually Shane’s perfect match and that Ilya was Shane’s archrival and they secretly hated one another. Who cared?

He did. He cared. A lot.

Ilya swung his legs over the edge of the bed then pulled his discarded trackpants back on, shoving his phone in his pocket.

The home gym was on the bottom floor of the cottage, overlooking the lawn, with big, tall windows along one wall and mirrors along the opposite one, reflecting the lake and trees and making the gym feel less sterile. Across the hall from the gym were the guest bedrooms and Ilya was careful not to disturb the girls–who were probably being reasonable and sleeping off their hangovers unlike his ridiculous boyfriend–as he stomped down the hall.

In the gym the lights were all off, just the sunlight illuminating the space. Shane was on the treadmill in the corner, walking sluggishly, his sunglasses perched on his nose, hands on his hips. Ilya would have laughed at him any other time. He made a ridiculous image, slightly slumped, feet dragging, yawning as he pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. He was absolutely not succeeding at walking off his hangover.

Ridiculous man. Ridiculous, perfect, annoying, man.

Ilya’s man.

Ilya strode across the rubber flooring, barefoot, coming to a stop behind the treadmill then clearing his throat. Shane looked at him over his shoulder and tipped his sunglasses down, raising his eyebrows.

“What?” he grumbled.

Ilya just shrugged, slinking around the side of the machine then draping himself over the handrail, tilting his head up to look at his boyfriend. The treadmill gave Shane a few inches of height over him.

“What?” Shane asked again, pushing his sunglasses up his head then immediately squinting, perturbed.

Instead of replying Ilya unlocked his phone and handed it over to Shane, a smirk on his lips. A smirk that was far more teasing and playful than he felt. Shane took the phone in his hand and held it out, far from his face, struggling to read without his glasses. Then Shane laughed, a short, sharp burst of disbelief. He shook his head then tried to hand Ilya back the phone. When Ilya didn’t take it back, he just frowned and dumped it in the treadmill’s cupholder.

“So you and Rose Landry are back together, mm?” Ilya drawled, casually. Not sounding at all annoyed.

“Apparently,” Shane rolled his eyes, turning away from Ilya and focusing on his feet moving over the trackpad.

“Turns out she did want a repeat performance,” Ilya jeered. “Your research on–cunning linguist I think you called it–must have paid off. You got the girl back.”

“Shut up, Rozanov,” Shane groaned, rubbing his temples, then he muttered “I can’t believe I said that.”

“You said lots of things last night, so did Rose,” Ilya shrugged, affecting nonchalance. “I believe she said you were her best boyfriend. Maybe she’s come to get you back. Twitter would certainly be happy about that.”

“Twitter is a cesspool,” Shane retorted, slowing the treadmill further, to an almost standstill.

“The media thinks you two are soooooo cute together,” Ilya mocked. “Shane Hollander is such a gentleman. Picks his secret lover up from the airport and holds her door open and carries her bags and her shopping basket. Such a sweet boyfriend.”

“Ugh, will you shut the fuck up?” Shane moaned, pressing his palms to his eyes. “I have a throbbing headache, and I do not need you making fun of me right now.”

“I’m not making fun,” Ilya scoffed. “I’m just looking for advice. How can I become Mister Heartthrob? Maybe you can give me tips on cunning linguist.”

“Fuck off, Rozanov.”

“You talk to me so cruelly,” Ilya complained, playing up a pout. “Telling me to ‘shut up’ and ‘fuck off.’ I bet you do not tell Rose, ‘fuck off, Landry.’” He imitated a Canadian accent and Shane scowled at him. “How did I end up with mean boyfriend Hollander? Mm? You don’t hug me at the airport or hold doors open for me or carry my groceries in the store or let me kiss your cheek at checkout.”

Shane’s scowl deepened, eyes narrowing on Ilya. The treadmill stopped and then Shane was turning to face him fully. Ilya kept going; almost sneering.

“Can’t even be seen in public with you because everyone thinks we hate each other. Maybe when we retire in fifteen years you can hold my hand outside and people will say ‘oh, Shane Hollander is such a good boyfriend to his big, sexy Russian lover.’”

There was something in that that was too revealing. Too close to what was really burning in Ilya’s gut. He snapped his mouth shut, swallowing the rest of his stupid, jealous words. Too late. Shane was already staring intently at him, brown eyes piercing.

“Is a shame the media doesn’t know the real scandal,” Ilya tried, distracting from his embarrassing jealousy with more teasing. “Shane Hollander is actually a really mean boyfriend that tells his lover to ‘shut up’ and ‘fuck off’ everyday over and over.”

Shane shook his head then stepped down off the treadmill, placing a hand on Ilya’s chest, fingers pressing into the groove between his pecs, pushing Ilya back until his shoulder blades collided with the cool glass window behind him. The hand on his chest kept him pinned to the glass and Ilya swallowed, gaze straying to Shane’s mouth. Pink and plush and perfect.

“Pushes me around too,” Ilya murmured, breathy. To his own ears he sounded needy and he fidgeted against it. Pushing forwards a little. Shane just pressed him firmly back, his muscles flexing, eyes narrowed.

“Ilya, are you jealous?” Shane asked, a teasing lilt to his voice, a spark of delight in his eye. Ilya simultaneously wanted to shove him away and kiss him until they both forgot about anyone else.

“No.”

“You are.”

“Am not.”

“You know I’m not back with Rose,” Shane said as his hand snaked around Ilya’s hip, slipping down his lower back to squeeze at Ilya’s ass.

“I am not jealous, Hollander,” Ilya bit back, rolling his eyes. Shane simply hummed, unconvinced, and then he slotted both his hands behind Ilya’s thighs, digging his fingers into muscle.

Ilya was not at all prepared to be lifted. He jolted, startled, suddenly pinned between Shane’s body and the glass, his boyfriend’s arms tucked beneath his thighs, big hands supporting his ass. Everything in Ilya’s body rushed south. Jealousy, reason, thought. Blood. His brain emptied entirely and he felt like he was spinning, heat stirring low in his belly as Shane smirked up at him.

It wasn’t like he didn’t know that Shane was strong. It was just that this was usually the other way around. He liked their dynamic–no, fucking loved their dynamic. The sex they had was thrilling and romantic and hot and filthy and playful and fun and the sexual chemistry he had with Shane was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. All that was to say, he was not dissatisfied. He’d never thought of doing things differently. But this… this was…

“Святое дерьмо,” Ilya cursed, barely above a whisper.

Shane stepped away from the glass, still supporting Ilya’s weight in his arms, his muscles barely twitching with the effort. As if it was nothing. Not even a challenge to pick up Ilya and carry him across the room. Somehow, impossibly, more blood rushed to Ilya’s dick. He was going to pass out–maybe, probably.

Then Ilya was on his back, on the yoga mat by the mirrors, with Shane knelt between his legs as he tugged Ilya’s pants off. Ilya’s head was still spinning, too muddled to help, but Shane seemed unbothered, happy to manoeuvre Ilya out of his trackpants himself.

It was strange, being so exposed. Shane was above him still in his compression shirt, his shorts bunching up around his thighs, his socks and sneakers still on his feet. Fully clothed with Ilya underneath him completely naked. A part of him wanted to roll them over, flip Shane onto his back, claw off his clothes. Restore the natural order of things. But another, louder, aching part of him was thrilled, excited, eager to see what Shane would do.

Shane took control of their sex life plenty, riding Ilya into the mattress, or the grass, or the couch. Taking what he needed from Ilya’s body and holding Ilya down. Maybe Shane would ride him now, here on the floor of his home gym. The thought made Ilya groan.

But Shane didn’t strip. And he didn’t climb on top of Ilya either. Shane did, however, kiss him. Once, twice, several times. Wet, warm presses, tongue parting the seam of Ilya’s lips, pushing into his throat. Then Shane was pulling away and dragging his mouth down Ilya’s chest, his stomach, nuzzling into the thick thatch of pubic hair at the base of his hard cock.

Ilya’s head tipped back when Shane lips wrapped around the head of his cock; the spongy yoga mat beneath him protecting his skull from hitting the hard ground. Still, the impact rattled his brain, his earlier headache pushing on his temples. When Shane’s tongue wandered down to lap at his balls the headache was almost entirely forgotten, replaced by hazy pleasure.

Shane didn’t stop there. He went lower. Licking at the soft skin behind Ilya’s balls, nose pressing into Ilya’s sack, fingers gripping the backs of Ilya’s thighs, pushing his legs apart. Ilya jolted when Shane’s tongue pressed into his asshole, warm and wet, slick as it traced the shape of his entrance. His hands scrambled to grip at Shane’s hair, fingers threading through thick strands, tugging harshly. Shane’s sunglasses toppled off his head and landed on the floor.

He didn’t mean for Shane to stop but Shane did; pulling away and peering up at Ilya from between his legs. There was a question in his eyes and Ilya wanted to answer it. But his tongue felt heavy. He didn’t know if he remembered English. Shane tilted his head and sucked a kiss into Ilya’s inner thigh, nipping delicately at the muscle.

“I know we haven’t done this before,” Shane murmured, mouth still pressed to Ilya’s skin, “but I want to, baby. Will you let me?”

Let him? Of course Ilya would fucking let him.

For some reason he couldn’t find the words to say so.

“Mm, now you’ve shut up,” Shane smirked, trailing kisses down Ilya’s thigh, towards his perineum. “Just nod, baby. Or shake your head. Can I touch you here?” Shane brushed a finger between Ilya’s cheeks, the pad of his pointer finger pressing into Ilya’s hole. Ilya nodded, too dumb with lust to speak. “Thank you,” Shane kissed his hip and then he was pushing Ilya’s legs back, fingers slotted behind Ilya’s knees, pressing Ilya’s thighs to his chest.

Ilya had been eaten out before. By women. By men. Several times, and generally he didn’t mind it. He didn’t seek it out necessarily, but he didn’t object when the people he hooked up with wanted to lavish their attention between his legs. And sometimes he would even let them finger him–though that was very, very rare, something about being fingered too… intimate, too exposing. Sasha had fingered him; Svetlana too. But he’d never had Shane’s fingers inside him, or his tongue. And Ilya was starting to realise that he’d been missing out.

Shane’s tongue was so warm, slick, and fat. Lapping at his hole eagerly in long, languid stripes, pushing past the ring of muscle, flicking inside Ilya carefully. Shane alternated between tonguing and kissing Ilya’s hole, sucking filthy, hot kisses into the skin and moaning, deep and rumbling. Ilya couldn’t help the responding moan that rippled through his chest.

Getting eaten out had never felt like this before.

He felt cracked open. Hot from the prickling hairs on his scalp to the tips of his toes, his whole body alight with zinging arousal. Shane was so, so, so good. His tongue strong and sure, his lips firm and tender, lavishing attention between Ilya’s legs with so much enthusiasm and intention that it made Ilya feel dizzy. Like he was being worshipped. His stomach twisted and he rocked his hips, fighting the whimper crawling up his throat.

“Fuck, Shane,” he hissed, strained. A moan spilt from his clenched teeth, and he arched off the mat, breathing heavily.

“Can I finger you?” Shane asked and Ilya groaned, covering his face with his forearm as he nodded. Shane was trying to kill him. Maybe he was getting revenge for last night.

Ilya heard the sound of a lube bottle uncapping and tipped his head down, raising an eyebrow. Shane had a tiny bottle of lube in his hand and was spreading the liquid over his pointer and middle fingers. “You take lube to the gym?” Ilya huffed, haltingly, as he tried to remember English, and Shane shrugged.

“I thought you might come down and bother me,” he explained and Ilya meant to retort but then Shane was dipping down to lap at his entrance again and all thoughts left his brain.

Shane kissed his hole for a while, sucking then dragging his tongue over the puckered skin, making sure Ilya was fully relaxed. Then, slowly, he pushed the tip of his middle finger into Ilya. It was a strange sensation; unfamiliar. Ilya couldn’t remember the last time he’d fingered himself or been fingered. The adjustment was longer than it usually was for Shane. Not that Shane seemed to mind, pressing fluttering kisses to Ilya’s cock as he wriggled the tip of his finger around, just pushing on Ilya’s walls slightly.

When Ilya’s body relaxed again Shane pushed further, until half his finger was inside Ilya. His fingers were thick, long. He had such big, strong hands. And Ilya loved Shane’s hands; masculine and calloused and thick knuckled. Having Shane’s finger inside of him was… shockingly good.

Eventually, both Shane’s middle and pointer fingers were settled inside of Ilya, pumping slowly, stretching his walls, searching for that sweet spot. Ilya had felt it within Shane dozens of times, that small, round, slightly firm gland, just two inches from Shane’s entrance. When Shane’s fingers found it, pressing in, Ilya jerked, thighs trembling, breath hitching. He’d forgotten how intense it could feel.

“Uh, uh,” he grunted and Shane hummed, kissing his inner thigh.

Shane kept massaging the spot, dragging his lips down Ilya’s inner thigh, nuzzling into the pubic hair at the base of Ilya’s cock. Ilya reached for him, digging his nails into Shane’s scalp, hard. Shane didn’t seem to mind, pressing into the touch before wrapping his lips around Ilya’s cock and sinking down, his throat relaxing, taking Ilya deep, deep, until his nose was bumping up against Ilya’s stomach. Ilya cursed and bit out a moan, though it came out more like a whimper.

Ilya felt like he was being bombarded with pleasure from all sides. His whole body warm and buzzing and clenching, his throat clicking as he tried to repress the whines trapped in his chest. Shane was bobbing his head slowly, torturously, still massaging Ilya’s prostate, unrelenting in the pressure of his fingers. It felt so good. It was so much. Ilya was so turned on and so close to cuming he swore he could hear his blood rushing through his veins, his heart pumping rapidly, wildly in his chest cavity.

“I’m–fuck–Shane–I’m going to–”

Shane simply redoubled his efforts, releasing one of Ilya’s knees to grab Ilya’s wrist, guiding his hand to wrap around Shane’s neck. Ilya could fucking feel himself, sheathed in Shane’s tight throat, and a whimper finally slipped, rolling off his tongue. The fingers inside of him pressed harder, moved faster, and Shane’s head bobbed quicker, wet sounds clicking in his oesophagus as he swallowed Ilya down enthusiastically.

When Shane’s eyes opened, gaze flicking up, locking on Ilya’s through his dark lashes, that was when Ilya shattered. He moaned, long and loud, and released down Shane’s throat, watching raptly as Shane groaned around his cock and swallowed, eyelids fluttering. Like he was in fucking heaven.

Shane pulled off him with a slick pop and then he was stroking Ilya, thumbing at his head, still pressing fingers into his prostate. Ilya’s breathing stuttered, his head was full of cotton, and his limbs were heavy. There were no English or Russian words in his mind. He had been reduced to want. Even as he hissed, overstimulated, he still wanted.

Eventually, he managed to mutter, “you really are good at cunnilingus.”

Shane laughed, a startled sound and then he was shaking his head. Grinning as he squeezed his fingers around Ilya’s cock, thumb pressing along the underside of his shaft, still pushing on Ilya’s prostate. Then he pulled away.

“Don’t go soft,” Shane murmured before pushing off his shorts and crawling into Ilya’s lap, smearing lube over Ilya’s throbbing cock before sinking down on him. Taking him all in one go. Shane tipped forward, mouth parting, moaning softly. “Fuck, shit. Yes.”

Ilya wrapped his fingers around Shane’s hips and held on, tight, as Shane began rocking his hips, dragging himself up and down Ilya’s shaft enthusiastically. He still had his sneakers on, and his compression shirt, and Ilya watched as Shane tugged at the hem of his shirt, stuffing it into his own mouth. Biting down on the fabric as he set a punishing pace, thighs flexing as he pounded into Ilya’s lap.

Ilya was going to cum again. His cock ached and his balls felt so tight. Above him Shane was moaning, the sound only slightly muffled by the fabric caught between his teeth. Ilya couldn’t stop staring at him, awed. Drinking in the way his abdominals flexed and shuddered with each bounce. Admiring the way his thick, big cock slapped into his stomach and smeared wetness between them.

Then Shane was reaching for himself, pumping his cock in a tight fist, whining through the clench of his teeth. His hips were stuttering, grinding, thighs struggling to maintain the brutal pace he’d set. But Shane did not relent; his body was athletic and powerful and strong. He would not tire out.

“Ah, ah,” Ilya huffed and Shane looked down at him, a smirk on his face. He released his shirt from between his teeth and licked across his bottom lip.

“Am I still mean?” he asked and Ilya groaned, gripping tighter at Shane’s hips. There would surely be bruises blooming over Shane’s tanned skin when they were done. “I’m going to tell you something, Ilya. A secret.” Shane murmured, rolling his hips, clenching his hole around Ilya’s sensitive cock. “When I was with Rose I thought about you. About your cock, your ass, your fucking tongue. I thought about you, baby. I always think about you.”

“Ебать,” Ilya groaned and snapped his hips up, harsh. Shane met every snap with a confident grind, head falling back, moaning so deliciously.

“I love you,” Shane gasped and Ilya tried to say it back, but his tongue fumbled. Instead, he thrust harder.

A few more rough snaps and Shane was cuming, shuddering above Ilya, spilling over Ilya’s chest. Watching him was enough to send Ilya over the edge, his balls tightening, his toes curling as he spilled into the heat of his boyfriend’s perfect, pretty hole. Their movements slowed to a gentle rocking, still connected, the both of them breathing raggedly as they came down from their highs.

Shane eventually rolled off of him and flopped onto his back, on the rubber floor, gulping for air like he was starving. Ilya stared up at the ceiling, blinking dumbly. He felt like his whole body had been rearranged. He needed a moment.

Then Shane was rolling back into him, propping himself up on his elbow and looking down at Ilya, running careful fingers down Ilya’s chest, avoiding the mess of cum drying between Ilya’s abs. Ilya dragged his gaze to Shane and the look he found on his boyfriend’s face was soft and adoring.

“You know I would hold your hand in public if I could, right?” Shane mumbled, brushing his thumb lightly over Ilya’s nipple. “And pick you up at the gate and kiss you in the terminal and carry your bags and your shopping basket. If we could.”

“Mm,” Ilya nodded.

“I love you,” Shane murmured, leaning in to kiss Ilya’s cheekbone. “And you’re mine, Ilya. You’re mine.”

“Mine,” Ilya agreed, reaching out to press his fingers to Shane’s chest, right over where his heart was thudding loud and steady. “My man. My sweetheart.”

“Yours, baby, all yours,” Shane nodded then bent over him to kiss him, deep and slow and sighing.

❃ ❃ ❃

There were flowers blooming at edges of the muddy lakeshore; bursts of white and blue and purple. Perfect little globes swaying in the subtle breeze, their stems stretching towards the sun shining overhead, leaves unfurling vibrant green against the rocks and dirt.

It was a perfect day; warm, blue-skied, the lake water cool and clear. The kind of day that smelt like warm linen and freshly mowed grass and sunscreen. The kind of day he remembered enjoying most as a kid, standing on his father’s shoulders in the lake, giggling when his father tipped them both over, splashing through the cool surface and reemerging still grinning. The kind of day that always ended in a sunburn with his mother lathering aloe vera over his shoulders, across his nose, pressing a cool icepack to his burning skin. And, at night, when it was still clear and warm, his mother would set up the fire pit and Shane would crawl into her lap, and she would stroke his hair as she pointed out the stars above. His father was usually snoring beside them, head tipped over the back of his armchair, exhausted from chasing Shane around in the heat all day.

There was a time when Shane had thought his summers would never look like the ones of his childhood again. The first summer he’d spent at the cottage had curdled as the weeks had crawled on–the stretching, sunny days becoming tiresome, empty, alone on his acreage. At first, he’d enjoyed the solitude. Working out, reviewing game tape, hiking through the forest, learning how to maintain his lawn, how to use his barbeque without his father’s help. By the second week he’d been itching for… companionship. He’d gone to his parents’ place for dinner and for a while the ache had dulled, his loneliness eased, but then he’d felt that distance, that chasm that was growing between them. His parents on one side with the life he knew he should have and him on the other side–failing. Shane had gone home and slept on the couch. Curled around an unsent text message that read ‘see you next season.’

The cottage wasn’t empty now. Every bedroom occupied.

Shane was sat on the shoreline, cross-legged on a blanket stretching over the grass, watching as Rose and Svetlana and Ilya splashed around in the shallows. Rose was laughing, wet hair dripping down her back, hands raised against the onslaught of waves crashing into her. Svetlana was yelling something about her hair and Ilya was ignoring her, pausing his assault on Rose to send a sweeping torrent of water in Svetlana’s direction. There was cussing and then Svetlana was tackling Ilya into the water, holding him beneath the surface and cackling. Ilya emerged spluttering and swearing in Russian and then he dunked Svetlana. Rose squealed when a fish brushed her ankle.

“Just move lots and the fish will stay away,” Ilya shouted, releasing his hold on Svetlana. The woman broke the surface of the lake, her curls heavy around her face, almost doubled in length.

“You motherfucker!” Svetlana shoved at him and Ilya just grinned, all his teeth showing.

“You are such a princess, Sveta.”

“I washed my hair yesterday!”

Svetlana trudged out of the shallows and up the rocky shore, pausing at the edge of the grass to wring out her curls. There were several towels slung over the overhanging branches and Svetlana tugged one down, wrapping it around her head before spreading out over the blanket beside Shane on her back. The canopy overhead provided sparse cover and the dappled light played over Svetlana’s brown skin, sunlight reflecting off the piercing in her bellybutton.

“He’s such an asshole,” Svetlana complained and Shane hummed, agreeing.

In the lake Rose and Ilya were treading water, talking. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, their voices too soft, their conversation muffled by the sounds of the birds and the bugs in the trees. They looked like they were having fun together though, Rose throwing her head back and laughing, Ilya grinning wide and silly.

Shane’s chest was overflowing with warmth, affection pushing at the seams of his heart and threatening to spill over. When Ilya had returned from Russia, he’d been so angry, so wound up. Even when he’d been playing and teasing there had been tension in the lines of his body, pinching at the corners of his mouth. Shane had felt helpless for days, not knowing what to say or do to make it better. It was a relief to see Ilya happy and easy and beautiful in the sunlight.

“You two are gross,” Svetlana sighed and Shane twisted to look at her. She had her hand stretched out above her, shielding her eyes from the sunlight. He raised his brows at her. “There’s like a giant ‘I’m so in love’ neon sign pointing at your head. And somehow, he is worse.”

“Sorry,” Shane muttered and Svetlana sat up, shaking her head.

“No, absolutely not,” she said, firm. “The guy may be a pain in my ass and a threat to my personal sanity, but he deserves to be loved the way he gives love. I have spent twenty-two years with Ilyusha. I have watched him hate himself and deny himself affection and–fucking think he is unlovable for the last decade and a half.”

“He’s easy to love,” Shane murmured.

“I know. We know. He doesn’t,” she waved towards the water. Shane flicked his gaze to Ilya, he was carrying Rose on his shoulders and she was giggling hysterically. “Moscow was horrible, Shane. I was really worried. I thought–well, I didn’t know what he’d be like when I got here.”

Shane nodded, slowly, then said, “he didn’t open up right away. When he got here we kind of just… avoided it for a while.”

“But you got him to talk,” Svetlana insisted and Shane shrugged.

“Yeah, a bit, I think there’s still more that he won’t tell me,” he rolled his shoulders. There was still the matter of the suitcase, left in the boot of Shane’s Range Rover. Ilya wasn’t acknowledging it. Shane was working out a plan to get the damned thing at least inside the cottage. “I’m not sure if he’ll ever tell me everything.”

“Probably not,” Svetlana acquiesced, “but he’s good. Like actually okay. Not fake okay. If he didn’t have you, he’d be drowning right now.”

“You would have him–”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Svetlana cut him off, holding up a hand. “Ilya and I are cut from the same, sturdy Russian cloth. We drink and smoke and fuck about our problems. There’s no… healing. Just burying that shit deep. I would just make it worse. Help him bury it. Tell him to fuck about it.”

“We did fuck about it,” Shane muttered and Svetlana bit her lip, suppressing a grin.

“I don’t doubt it,” she teased. “I heard you this morning, Hollander. You sex fiend.”

Shane rolled his eyes, ignoring the flush spreading over his throat and warming his ears. He’d known fucking Ilya in the gym meant that the girls had probably heard but that didn’t mean he wanted to think about it. Svetlana poked his ear and cackled when he swatted her hand away.

“I’ve never heard Ilya like that before,” Svetlana hummed. Shane glanced at her, something possessive pulling at his stomach. “It was hot. Rose thought so too.”

Shane raised his brows and Svetlana’s grin widened. “Did you and her…?”

“I’m don’t kiss and tell, darling,” Svetlana winked. “I’m not an exhibitionist like you.”

“I’m not…” Shane grumbled, trailing off because he couldn’t make himself finish that sentence. It was… hot… that someone had been listening. And Shane was entirely unwilling to dig further into that, slamming the lid shut to address at another time.

Svetlana let him drop it, falling back onto her elbows and turning to watch Rose and Ilya in the water. Rose had tumbled off Ilya’s shoulders and was now trying to tackle him–trying with all her strength but failing because Ilya was a wall of muscle. Ilya was laughing brightly, blonde hair dark and wet and curling at his forehead, the cross at his throat glinting gold in the sunlight. Shane was helpless but to smile, pressing his cheek into his open palm, watching his best friend and his boyfriend playing like kids in the lake.

“Shane?” Svetlana murmured, voice gentle.

“Yeah?”

“I think you’ve carried him home.”

Shane snapped his gaze to her. She was looking at him tenderly, her hazel eyes big and light and earnest in the afternoon sunshine. He felt tears press behind his eyes, sudden and overwhelming, threatening to spill over his cheeks.

He remembered standing with her in Ilya’s kitchen in Boston, her hands wrapped around his forearms, her gaze intense.

Ever since his mum died, I’ve just been trying to carry him home.

“Fuck,” he whispered, emphatic, and she laughed, wetly. They both pressed their palms to their eyes and cleared their throats.

“You can never tell him I said this mushy shit, okay?” Svetlana wiped at her cheeks and gave Shane a wide grin, eyes still glassy. “Our secret.”

“Promise,” Shane huffed and she extended a pinkie. Shane rolled his eyes but interlocked his finger with hers, like he would when he was a boy. It was juvenile but it warmed something in him that still missed the summers of his childhood.

“Are you two making secret deals?” Ilya asked, approaching them.

“Top secret, no assfaces allowed,” Svetlana retorted and Ilya flipped her off, ignoring her as he stood over Shane, dripping lake water all over the blanket.

“You’re getting water all over the rug, asshole,” Shane grumbled. Which was a mistake. Ilya shook his head out like a dog, spraying Shane and Svetlana with droplets of cold water. “Asshole!”

“Ilya!” Svetlana shrieked.

Ilya just grinned, toothy and wolfish. “Come in the water, Hollander.”

“I don’t want to,” Shane shook his head. “I’m fine here.”

“Come on,” Ilya whined and Shane rolled his eyes.

“No.”

“Shane.”

“No.”

“Shaneeeeeeee.”

“No–fuck, Rozanov!” Shane shouted, trying to wriggle out of Ilya’s grasp. Ilya just laughed and hauled Shane over his shoulder like he weighed nothing. “Put me down!”

“Okay,” Ilya hummed and then Shane was in the lake, flailing. Water closing over his head, cool and soothing, obscuring the sun. Like when he was a boy.

Shane broke the surface of the lake spluttering and coughing, blinking against the lake water dripping down his hair and into his eyes. “Fucking asshole,” he hissed, splashing in Ilya’s direction. His boyfriend just laughed, falling backwards into the water and creating waves.

“Such a baby, Hollander,” Ilya mocked, swimming away backwards. “Scared of a little water.”

Shane glared after him, watching as Ilya retreated deeper into the lake, head bobbing above the water, handsome and annoying and absolutely the best thing that had ever happened to Shane.

“I’m going to fucking drown you,” Shane threatened and Ilya grinned, seemingly delighted as Shane dove after him.

Chapter End Notes

For me this chap was about exploring Shane and Ilya getting to be comfortable with normal people about their relationship. I know this is obvs massively canon divergent but I think that the joy they experience here and the fact that they have a support system makes TLG more sad. Ilya has friends but his depression makes him isolate so severely and he loses touch with Svetlana in some ways as his depression escalates. Also, for Shane I think he is like enthusiastic and optimistic about them coming out to their friends--as seen in the end of HR book--but obvs something goes wrong that increases his paranoia and his self-controlling behaviours. I think that something was coming out to the Metros/Voyagers. I think Shane came out and things changed in his locker room and then he became more paranoid and controlling about hiding and they BOTH stopped reaching out. They were in such a bitch of a situation in TLG. Ugh. If I could I would write it all over.

Also, I really just wanted someone to be happy and excited finding out about hollanov so... Rose.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter my loves!

The next chapter will bring back some of the grief and angst. We're gonna bring that suitcase inside. I hope you enjoyed this interlude exploring friendship and horniness and jealousy and enjoyed the call back to part 2 of this series because I really wanted to call back to that moment!!!!!

Love you Xx

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Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

Thank you for all your comments on last chapter! I love you so much!! I appreciate you like you won't believe!!!!!

Happy pride!

The Suitcase became a fixture of about sixty-five percent of all their conversations over the next week and a half.

When was Ilya going to get it out of the car? Why was he leaving it in the car? Did he plan on leaving it in the car forever? What if Shane wanted to sell the car one day, would The Suitcase still be in there? Could Ilya at least consider bringing it inside even if he didn’t want to open it?

Ilya didn’t have a good answer for any of those questions. And each time Shane tried to discuss The Suitcase, Ilya would just wave his hand vaguely, mutter something dismissive in Russian, and try to divert. With sex, usually. Most of the time it worked. When that failed, they bickered.

About the stupidest shit. Like how Ilya stacked the dishwasher wrong or how Ilya folded fitted sheets wrong–and by wrong that meant ‘not the way Shane would do it’–or Shane’s uncompromising control over the air-conditioning settings or Shane’s gross protein smoothie recipe. Stupid, stupid shit.

The rest of the time was fine, wonderful, absolutely idyllic. Sleepy morning sex, making out in the bathroom after they brushed their teeth, drinking coffee on the lawn, swimming in the lake, training together in the gym, showering and then, obviously, fucking again. Cooking together in the evening, Ilya eating half the ingredients off the chopping board before they even made it into the pan and Shane smacking the back of his head, then, obviously, making out with Shane sat on the countertop. Half the time whatever dinner they’d been intending on eating got burnt, and so they’d make something else. Watching movies snuggled close on the couch, Ilya stretched out over Shane, head buried beneath the fabric of his t-shirt, not even paying attention, just enjoying being in the cocoon of Shane smell, Shane warmth, Shane, Shane, Shane.

Still, the matter of The Suitcase loomed.

On the ninth day of their stalemate they had dinner with Yuna and David at their cottage. Yuna had taken over the cooking for the night–which, for Yuna Hollander, ‘cooking’ apparently meant getting Italian from her favourite place the town over and staying far away from the kitchen–and David made vanilla maple ice-cream in his new ice-cream maker. (A gift from Yuna for their wedding anniversary.) They ate the sweet, frozen dessert in the brand new gazebo David had built in the backyard, the structure strung with twinkling lights and fitted with comfy armchairs.

Everything was going great, the conversation flowing easily. They talked a bit about the contract negotiations ongoing with the Centaurs–Ilya was yet to sign on but things were looking pretty good–and David offered to look at properties with Ilya in town next week since Shane couldn’t. They told Shane’s parents about Rose and Svetlana’s visit, and Yuna asked Ilya to please bring Svetlana over next time so they could meet her. And then Yuna broached The Suitcase topic.

Her question had been innocuous enough. She’d simply asked, “and when will I get to see you baby photos, Ilya? I’ve been dying to see them since you got back.”

And, because Ilya hadn’t been able to divert with sex, the question turned into bickering. No, arguing.

“What the fuck are you saying?” Shane snipped, eyes focused on the dark road ahead of them. High beams illuminating the crowding trees lining the winding driveway.

“Oh, I’m sorry, my English is soooooo bad,” Ilya said, facetiously. “I will repeat myself slower.”

“I didn’t fucking–you know that’s not what I meant,” Shane hissed.

The trees thinned and the cottage emerged from the shadows, the dark structure lit up by the car’s headlights. Shane parked the Range Rover then threw off his seatbelt, shoving the door open and climbing out with an incredible amount of pissy-ness. Really, it was impressive how much pissy-ness he could convey in the simple act of opening a door. Shane slammed the car door, hard, and the SUV shook. Ilya scoffed and then he was jumping out and slamming the door too.

“I’m just trying to understand what you think I did,” Shane said, stomping up the stoop, fiddling with his keys. He fumbled them and then cursed bitterly, dropping into a squat, patting over the dark ground to find them.

Ilya crouched beside him and swiped the keys off the ground, spotting them only because the silver key to the front door was reflecting the bright moonlight. “Did you tell your mother about the fucking suitcase?” Ilya growled, pushing past Shane and shoving the key in the lock.

“Why would I tell my mother about the fucking suitcase?” Shane spat back, kicking off his shoes angrily by the door and then thundering off, into the dark house. He didn’t bother to turn on any of the lights. Ilya flicked them all on just to be annoying.

“Well, why did she ask about my baby photos?” Ilya demanded, catching up with Shane in the kitchen.

“I don’t know, Ilya. Maybe because she’s interested in your life!” Shane threw up his hands, exasperated, pulling open the fridge then slamming it back shut again. There was a frown set deep into the skin between his brows.

“You didn’t ask her to ask me about it?” Ilya prodded. He tapped his knuckles on the kitchen counter and Shane gave him a puzzled look.

“You think I enlisted my mother’s help to get you to bring that stupid fucking bag inside?” Shane raised his brows, bitchily. The arch of his dark brows said ‘really?’

Ilya shrugged, “your mother called me when I was in Moscow a–”

“My mother called you in Moscow because she was worried about you. Not because of anything I did or did not say. Sometimes people just care about you, asshole.”

Ilya was quiet for a beat, then two, pursing his lips. The anger had simmered out. Maybe there had never been anything to be angry about. The look on Shane’s face made it clear there hadn’t been.

“You didn’t tell her to…?” Ilya trailed off and Shane rolled his eyes as he leaned against the fridge.

“You’re asking me–you’re seriously asking me if I got my mother to pry?” Shane scoffed. Ilya merely raised his eyebrows in response. “My mother–who you know frequently bulldozes right over my boundaries–does not need me to ask her to fuck with yours. She can come up with that all on her own. I haven’t told her anything about what happened in Russia, Ilya. If she’s asking about your baby photos, it’s probably because she wants to be fucking weird about us having children again.”

And Ilya did know that Yuna Hollander–as much as she loved her son–was frequently overbearing and often ignorant to Shane’s attempts at setting boundaries. Yuna was the one that had asked Ilya last summer about his loyalties. She was the one who’d pried further into his dating history and had not so subtly asked if he’d practiced safe sex with his slew of previous partners. She was the one that had sat with him at Christmas and had shown him Shane’s baby photos and asked to see his. She was the one that had wanted to see more because she wanted to see what her potential grandchildren might look like.

Ilya sighed, long and defeated, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, asshole,” Shane grumbled, though his tone was less pissy, more drained.

“I just…” Ilya scrubbed his palms through his hair then looked over at his boyfriend. Shane was still leaning against the fridge, scowling, though his shoulders were slumped and his eyes were no longer flinty. He was just watching Ilya warily.

“You think I would manipulate you like that?” Shane asked. “Use my mother against you?”

Ilya’s shoulders fell and he rounded the kitchen island, crowding Shane against the fridge, wrapping his arms around his waist. Shane didn’t hug him back; he was stiff in Ilya’s hold. Ilya squeezed him tighter, burying his face into Shane’s neck, breathing in the smell of him. Shane had never been so still in his hold before. It felt fucking terrible.

“No, sweetheart, I’m sorry,” Ilya mumbled, mouth pressed to Shane’s pulse point. “I don’t think that.”

Shane’s posture relaxed, his arms finally raising to reciprocate Ilya’s embrace as he pressed into the hug, nose burrowing into Ilya’s curls. “You’re such an asshole,” he muttered.

“Massive asshole, absolutely huge,” Ilya agreed, nodding against Shane’s throat, pressing kisses to his shoulder.

“Can you please bring the stupid fucking bag inside?” Shane pleaded and his voice was so gentle, so low, that Ilya was helpless but to sigh. “You don’t have to open it today. But I would really like to see your baby photos, Ilya. You saw all mine at Christmas. I want to see yours.”

“I don’t know what’s in there,” Ilya said, face still pressed to Shane’s skin, unwilling to look into Shane’s big, gorgeous, devastating eyes. If he looked into Shane’s eyes he’d start agreeing to all kinds of nonsense. “What if it’s all just… shit?”

“Then we’ll deal with it. You and me,” Shane promised, head twisting, mouth brushing over Ilya’s temple. “I really want to stop arguing about this.”

Ilya pulled away and sure enough Shane’s eyes were big and imploring and beautiful. Shane could probably get away with murder if he just looked at a judge like that. All long lashes and shiny irises and gently creased brows.

“Чёрт возьми,” Ilya swore, pulling away from Shane’s grasp and trudging down the hall. He paused at the console table to grab the keys and then he was outside opening the boot of the Range Rover and yanking the stupid thing out.

When he came back inside Shane was already waiting for him in the hallway, arms crossed over his chest, brows pinched in concern. Then he spotted The Suitcase and his expression softened, his arms falling to his sides. Ilya parked the stupid thing beside the shoe rack and then chucked the car keys in the bowl before sweeping his arm in a sarcastic gesture towards the black nylon bag in a ‘it’s inside now, are you happy?’ gesture. Shane considered him, head tilted, and then he held out his hand.

All of Ilya’s defences melted. He took the offered hand, warm and steady against his palm, and let Shane lead him into the bedroom.

Four days later The Suitcase was still standing just inside the front door, leaning against the wall beside the shoe rack, looming at the periphery of his consciousness as the days went on. Shane had stopped asking him about it though; apparently happy just to have the damned thing out of his car. Or maybe he was feeling the ache of the impending end to their summer just as keenly as Ilya was feeling it. He had caught Shane staring at the calendar pinned to the fridge more than once over the last few days, brows pinching, staring at the ‘X’ that marked the date they were set to return to their respective cities. Ilya was resolutely ignoring the shrinking gap between them and that ‘X’. As if, through sheer willpower alone, he could stretch their summer on forever.

They had just eleven days left. And Ilya was about to be gone all day.

“What time is dad getting here?” Shane asked, his back to Ilya, stood in the kitchen with his bottom lip caught between his teeth, thinking loud enough for Ilya to hear from across the room.

“Mm,” Ilya checked his phone. It was quarter past nine in the morning. “He said half past.”

“Are you excited?” Shane was still facing the calendar. Still not looking at Ilya.

“To sign paperwork? Is this exciting to you?” Ilya teased. “Does paperwork get you going Mister Businessman?”

“Well, this particular paperwork does,” Shane shrugged, finally turning around, raising his brows at Ilya as he leaned against the kitchen island. Ilya’s smile softened as he pressed his elbows into the countertop, leaning forwards on his stool. Shane smiled back, peering at Ilya through his lashes.

“Stop flirting with me, your dad will be here soon,” Ilya murmured which just made Shane roll his eyes.

Truthfully, Ilya was excited. The Centaurs contract had been finalised, and Ilya was going into Ottawa with David to sign it and meet the management team today. Shane had offered to drive him in and hang around but since he was going to be in Ottawa for the day, Ilya had also decided to line up a few home inspections and something about Shane hanging out in the car on the curb whilst Ilya looked at homes for them made bitterness curdle in his stomach. David had offered to take Ilya when Ilya had proposed renting a car and going by himself, even when Shane had protested. Eventually Yuna had been the one to remind Shane that it wasn’t like Ilya Rozanov could be seen house hunting with Shane Hollander and Shane had finally agreed to let his dad take Ilya to Ottawa instead.

Yesterday Shane had spent the afternoon coming up with a list of chores he needed to get done around the cottage and had mumbled that he would be fine alone for the day. He had plenty to do around here after all. It was only that he’d said it with those big, sad brown eyes and with his teeth digging into his bottom lip. When Shane’s mouth had twisted into that unhappy frown Ilya had felt less embarrassed about thinking he’d miss him.

(They were in such deep shit. A month together almost constantly touching had made them greedy. Needy. Next season was going to be even worse than the last one had been. Because, Ilya was starting to realise, unless they were living inside of each other then nothing would ever be close enough. Not even Ottawa and Montreal.)

Shane was just rounding the counter and settling himself between Ilya’s spread knees when the front door opened.

“Hello! Is everybody decent?” David shouted from the entryway.

“Jesus Christ,” Shane huffed, sliding his hands off Ilya’s thighs and stepping away. “Hi dad!” he shouted back and gave Ilya a look. Ilya couldn’t help but laugh because if David had of been asking that an hour earlier then the answer would have been a firm ‘no’.

“Morning boys,” David greeted as he rounded the corner cautiously. Like he didn’t quite believe them. His expression turned bright and cheerful when he saw Shane and Ilya a respectable distance apart in the kitchen. “Ready to go Ilya?”

“Hi David,” Ilya waved, quickly downing the rest of his coffee. “Just one second.”

Ilya hopped off the stool and swiped his phone and wallet off the counter, shoving them into the back pockets of his jeans. Shane had insisted on helping Ilya find something nicer to wear than just shorts and a t-shirt for his meeting with the Centaurs’ management team. Selecting a nice pair of dark wash jeans and a casual, linen button-up from his own closet for Ilya. He’d even done up Ilya’s shirt, big hands careful as he slotted the tiny buttons into place, dark lashes sweeping his cheeks, pretty mouth pursed in concentration. Then he’d folded the shirtsleeves back, leaving Ilya’s forearms exposed and his hairs prickling along his nape. Heart beating funny in his chest. It had been almost more intimate than all the times Shane had undressed him put together.

Ilya stepped close to Shane now and caught him around the waist, pressing their mouths together in a firm but chaste kiss, nudging his nose into the soft skin of Shane’s cheek, breathing him in deep as their lips moved together sweetly.

“Я тебя люблю,” Ilya murmured when he pulled back, pressing his fingers briefly beneath Shane’s shirt, to the stretch marks on his hips. “Have a good day, дорогой.”

Shane’s eyes were soft when he mumbled back, “Ya tebya lyublyu. FaceTime me when you look at the houses.”

“Yes, I know,” Ilya pecked him once more then pulled away. David was staring out the window, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Ready now,” Ilya said cheerfully and David nodded.

In the car David gave him complete control over the stereo and Ilya happily connected his Bluetooth, selecting his favourite driving playlist and settling into the passenger seat as David steered the car through the winding, secluded roads that led to the main highway.

“Are you excited?” David asked when they were on the highway. Ilya couldn’t help but laugh; endeared by the way Shane and his father asked the question the exact same way, tone and everything. “What?” David glanced at him, frowning a little.

“Sorry, sorry,” Ilya shook his head. “Shane asked me the same thing.”

“Ah,” David nodded. “Well, are you?”

“Yes,” Ilya shrugged, trying for casual. “I have met with the General Manager over video call. He seems nice. The owners seem very nice too. I think they will be good people to work for.”

“Even though their stats are in the toilet?” David cocked an eyebrow and Ilya scoffed.

“Is this Yuna’s question?”

“Yes, of course. Who else?” David grinned.

“They are not the best no,” Ilya said thoughtfully, watching the stretching green landscape out the window. “Boston was not the best when I started there either though. I got them into shape.”

“Yuna said this also.”

“She really is such a big fan,” Ilya preened and David laughed but then his voice got sincere and quiet.

“She is,” David murmured. “We watch all your games, you know. And if you’re both playing, she has one game playing her laptop and the other on the television.”

“Oh,” Ilya glanced over at David. The man was watching the traffic, but he was smiling, the skin around his eyes crinkled kindly.

“Between us, I think she always admired your talent,” David continued “but she is so stubborn and you came first in the draft over our baby, so I think she hated you on principle.”

“Ah, yes, well,” Ilya chuckled as he rubbed his palm over his knee. “Shane got Rookie of the Year and has two Cups so… she cannot hate me for that now.”

“She doesn’t hate you at all,” David reassured. “I think she is overjoyed that she has the two best players in the league in her family. If she could she would brag about it to everyone. She loves watching you play. She wanted to come today to see you sign with Ottawa.”

“Is nice to have people watching my games again,” Ilya murmured, straining to get the words out around the sudden tightness in his throat.

“Your family didn’t watch your games?”

“No. My father did not want me to play in the NHL, thought I was betraying Russia, and my brother hates me so,” Ilya shrugged then swallowed. “No one has watched my games since mama died. Well, Sveta does but she just loves hockey. Is not really about me. She won’t cheer for me when I play with the Centaurs–it would betray her loyalty to Boston.”

Beside him David frowned, brows pinching together as he adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. Ilya looked away from the man, locking his gaze on the flowing traffic instead.

Ilya could remember his mother sat in the stands at his junior hockey league games and practices as a boy. She had always sat alone, the other mamas gathered right at the edge of the rink in a huddle, sending filthy looks her way, Irina several rows back, eyes locked on Ilya’s every move. He’d asked his mama about it once and she’d just rolled her eyes and said they were jealous that her son was best on the team, so they ignored her. Ilya could remember frowning and telling her that that was stupid, and she’d just pinched his cheek and said, ‘yes, people are often stupid when they are envious, sunshine.’

At his games she’d always cheered the loudest, clapped the hardest, smiled the brightest. All the other mamas voices were drowned out by the volume of Irina’s applause. Except for when his father was at his games and then Irina would be quiet, sat beside Grigori with her hands folded in her lap, her mouth pressed into a thin line. Still, afterwards, when he would skate up to the boards, she would unclasp his helmet and run her fingers through his curls, pressing a kiss to his forehead. ‘Good job, little bunny,’ she would murmur ‘I am so proud of you.’ Every time. Win or lose.

Ilya suddenly missed her so severely it made his chest hurt.

“When did your mother die?” David asked, carefully. Like he was talking to a spooked, injured creature he’d accidentally hit with his car. Ilya squirmed against the tenderness of David’s tone.

“Long time ago,” he replied casually, as if the scar of her death weren’t still fresh and bleeding in his chest. “I was twelve.”

“And your father died of dementia last year, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” David said and Ilya swallowed thickly.

“He was very sick,” Ilya waved a hand.

“And your mother she…”

Ilya stared out the window as he quietly said, “she killed herself.”

The only sound in the car was the radio, playing some obnoxious Russian club anthem he’d been obsessed with as a teen. Ilya didn’t dare glance at David, keeping his gaze locked on the passing signs overhead. They were only fifty kilometres outside of Ottawa now.

“Ilya, I’m so sorry,” David’s voice broke the silence and Ilya shrugged, still not looking at him. “Is that why you wanted to name the foundation after her?”

Last summer Shane had explained The Ottawa Plan to his parents as they’d sat around the dining table eating pasta and garlic bread with the soft sunlight filtering through the window. He’d told his parents about Ilya’s plan to move to the Centaurs, about starting a foundation to support mental health initiatives, about using the foundation as a way to change the rivalry narrative. He’d also said they wanted to call it The Irina Foundation, but he hadn’t said why, leaving that up to Ilya. At the time Ilya hadn’t known Shane’s parents well enough to share something like that with them, and since then there’d never been a moment to casually mention his mother had committed suicide.

“Yes, I found her afterwards,” Ilya explained. “I told Shane about this last summer. So he came up with the idea to make the foundation for mental health. He suggested that we name it after her.”

“You found her?” David couldn’t hide the shock from his voice despite how clear it was that he was trying to. Ilya simply nodded, throat too raw to force any words out.

Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. The kind of touch he’d seen his teammates’ fathers give them–manly hands clasped around shoulders as gruff voices muttered ‘good job, son.’ Ilya had never been touched like that by his father. There’d been that time his coach in juniors had clapped him on the shoulder after he’d returned from New York, after the draft, and had roughly said ‘nice work.’ That was the closest he’d ever come.

David didn’t say anything now. He just squeezed gently, strong fingers pressing into Ilya’s muscles. Tears pricked at his lash line, but Ilya said nothing, tipping his head back against the headrest, breathing quietly into the silence.

An hour later Ilya was officially an Ottawa Centaur. He signed his contract and shook hands with the owners and the GM and posed for photos with the management team in a Centaurs branded cap and t-shirt. Red and black covering his dark blonde curls, the hideous half-man half-horse logo emblazoned across his chest. And as the social media team discussed when would be the best time to post the announcement, Ilya realised he really should tell Marly before he found out on fucking Instagram.

Back in the car Ilya took a selfie in his new cap and sent it to Shane.

Ilya stared at his phone, with his mouth dropped open, unable to even blink. Shane looked fucking magnificent. Handsome and sweaty and sun-soaked. He’d taken the selfie from an angle, showing off the freshly mowed lawn behind him. An innocent enough picture except for the fact that his cheeks were glowing and flushed and his shirt was damp with sweat and his hair was tucked into a backwards cap and Ilya could see Shane’s muscular thighs and calves flecked with dirt and grass because he was wearing tiny, slutty shorts.

“So this first place you’re looking at isn’t too far from Yuna and me,” David said as Ilya closed his texts with Shane, glancing towards the GPS on the dash. They were about twenty minutes from the first property. Ilya had only lined up three to look at. All within a half hour drive of the rink and all along the Ottawa River with enclosed front and backyards providing plenty of privacy.

“Yuna sent it to me,” Ilya explained.

“Ah, makes sense,” David nodded. “The other two are not too far either. It’ll be nice to have you in town. We will be able to catch up with you more often.”

“Really? You want that?” Ilya raised an eyebrow, incredulous. Sure, Ilya was going to be close to the Hollanders, even closer to them than to Shane, but he hadn’t imagined they would want to see him without Shane. He wasn’t their son. David looked over at him with an amused twist to his mouth.

“Yeah, Ilya,” David said. “I hope we can have you over for dinner even without Shane around.”

“Oh,” Ilya murmured. “Okay.”

“Only if you want.”

“No, I want–I am just… surprised.”

“Kid, you have got to get used to people caring about you,” David sighed. Shane had told him that the other day as well.

“Right,” Ilya muttered. David raised his brows at him, clearly unimpressed with Ilya’s dismissive tone. “I will try,” Ilya promised, aiming for sincerity. David just hmm’ed and shook his head.

“And you’re in a great school district here,” the agent said as she pressed the button on the automated blinds, revealing the big backyard that stretched down to the riverbank. “In case you have kids or are planning on having them.”

Ilya nodded absently. He didn’t know if she was pretending not to know him or if she genuinely didn’t. Given the Centaurs keychain he’d seen hanging off her car keys he had to assume the former. And if she knew who he was then she knew he didn’t have children. But he supposed his move hadn’t been announced yet and for all she knew he could be buying property in Ottawa to hide his secret baby mama and love child from the public eye so he could continue living his playboy lifestyle free of consequence. Some guy in the league had done that before–back in the early 2010s–and he was just the only one who’d been caught doing it. There were probably dozens of others.

“Do you mind if I look around privately and call my b–” Ilya caught himself just in time and said, haltingly, “business manager.”

The woman nodded, tucking her dark hair behind her ears and then heading back towards the foyer, her tall heels clicking over the hardwood floor. Once she was out of earshot Ilya slid his wireless buds into his ears. It only took two rings for Shane to pick up.

“Hey, which house is this?” Shane was squinting at the phone, as if trying to figure out which house it was just by the background, his glasses were perched on the end of his nose, blue light reflecting in the lenses. “I have my laptop open so I can look at the listings.”

Ilya breathed a laugh and said, “the one in Rockcliffe Park.”

“Okay,” Shane nodded as his eyes flicked away, presumably to open the correct listing on his laptop. “It’s listed for two point seven-five million. Is that in your budget?”

“Yes, I may not have Rolex money like you,” Ilya teased “but I will probably make four million selling the Boston house. And, in case you forgot, I just signed on for more money than even Boston was paying me.”

Shane rolled his eyes and looked back at the phone, frowning. “Turn the camera around and show me the house, asshole. I’m meant to be helping you pick a home not staring at your face.”

“But my face is so handsome.”

“I’ve seen your face every day for the past month.”

“Oh, are you saying you are bored of my face now? Mm?” Ilya arched his brows.

“No, I could never get bored of your face,” Shane grumbled and Ilya positively beamed. He could see his expression in the little window at the bottom of the screen; he looked hopelessly, ridiculously besotted.

“So romantic, Jane,” Ilya hummed and Shane scowled.

“Turn the fucking camera around.”

“Okay. Okay.”

“Oh wow, it’s nice,” Shane whistled. “Is this the living room?”

“Yes, you can see the river,” Ilya said and walked further into the room until the camera focused on the distant water and dock through the tall, sliding glass doors. “Reminds me of your cottage.” On his phone screen Shane frowned, his mouth twisting into a tense pout. “What? Is that insulting to your cottage?”

“No, just…” Shane trailed off then shook his head. “You said ‘your cottage.’”

Ilya blinked, confused, and said, slowly, “it is your cottage, yes?”

“Yeah, I know, I just–never mind,” Shane waved a hand. “Show me the kitchen.”

Ilya hmm’ed and showed Shane the kitchen. He showed Shane the whole house. Opening closets and drawers and pressing the camera into the window when Shane wanted to see the view from the second floor guest bedroom. The house was sleek and modern, not too dissimilar from Ilya’s Boston home. It had tall ceilings and wide windows and a beautiful stone fireplace in the second sitting room. The main bedroom was spacious and had a walk-in closet with enough storage for all of Ilya’s clothes and probably all of Shane’s too. And there was an ensuite off the main bedroom with an ample shower–the stall was certainly wide enough for the two of them.

“I do not know why you want to see the garage; it is just a room with nothing in it,” Ilya grumbled as he pushed open the door off the foyer into the space. The real estate agent smiled at him politely from the bottom of the staircase, nails tapping on the banister as he walked past. He’d been showing Shane around the house for a good half hour; her patience was probably thinning. As he ducked into the garage, he held up his finger in a ‘one more minute’ gesture and then shut the door firmly behind him.

“Just show it to me, for fuck’s sake,” Shane replied and Ilya grinned, fond, as he swept the camera in a wide circle around the space.

“See, boring like you,” Ilya said, softer than he’d intended.

“Ha,” Shane scoffed and Ilya watched Shane’s face on the screen as he looked back at his computer. He really was very cute in his glasses. “It’s a four car garage, right?”

“Mm, I will only have to sell a few of my cars,” Ilya nodded and then switched the camera back to face him instead of the room. Shane’s mouth twitched into a smile when Ilya’s face reappeared.

“You need to buy a better car for the snow too,” Shane said and Ilya rolled his eyes.

“Ugh, fine, I will keep two sexy cars and buy one boring car,” he groaned.

“It’s a four car garage you can keep three, Ilya,” Shane laughed and Ilya raised his brows.

“Yes, I know math. Last space is for you. So four spaces minus one for my boring boyfriend’s terrible car means three spaces left for me.”

“The last space is for me?”

“Yes, obviously.”

“You’d let me park my terrible car in your garage?” Shane teased, his expression flirty.

“I will even buy my own terrible car to make you happy.”

“That’s really romantic, actually.”

“What can I say? I am a real Romeo.”

“I’m not fucking Juliet,” Shane grumbled and Ilya blew a raspberry at him.

“Boo, you’re boring, Hollander,” Ilya pouted and Shane flipped him off. “We are like Romeo and Juliet. Star-crossed lovers torn apart by a centuries old rivalry between our houses. Forced to hide our love because people wouldn’t understand.”

Shane pursed his lips thoughtfully but then he shook his head, screwing up his nose in disgust, “shut up, Rozanov. That is so dumb.”

“You’re bullying me so much today,” Ilya complained. “Maybe I won’t come home tonight.”

Something like worry briefly flittered over Shane’s expression but it was quickly replaced by a deep frown. The kind of frown Ilya recognised from their post-game hook-ups before they were boyfriends; the kind of frown that usually ended in Shane shoving Ilya into a wall and kissing him so hard it made his bones ache. Ilya liked that frown; he liked when Shane took his frustrations out on his body. When Shane used him like a stress ball, pinching and pulling and biting until his own body finally settled again.

“I think I’ll go jerk off now,” Shane said suddenly, “and I won’t send any photos.”

“What? No. Shaneeeeeee,” Ilya whined but Shane was already waving sarcastically and hanging up the call. “Чёртов ублюдок,” Ilya cursed into the empty room.

When Ilya first moved to Boston, when he’d been just nineteen, he’d still been pretty terrible at English. He could remember his first six months in America, struggling to adjust to the language, the culture, the demands of professional hockey. Doing his best to make sure no one noticed him struggling at all. Doing his best to make it all look effortless.

He could also remember being lonely. Boston wasn’t a big city like Moscow. It was the echo of a city rather than the bones of one and Ilya had memorised its streets within his first year living there. But still, even between the intimate blocks of Boston, Ilya had been lonely.

There had been plenty of strangers between his sheets during that first year. More than he could probably count. He could remember nights spent with his mouth between velvety soft thighs, slim fingers wrapped in his hair. The faces of all his lovers blurring together in the patchy recall of memory. But there had been many, many bodies in his bed, in his home, wrapped around him. At the time they’d soothed his aching loneliness, made the night pass by easier, but come daybreak it would creep back in. And then he’d be lonely again.

His family had called him a lot that year. At least once a week Alexei would call asking for money and his father would call after every game he lost–never once after one he had won–and Ilya would sit, small and pathetic, at the edge of his bed with the phone pressed tight to his ear. Saying ‘no, father’, ‘yes, father’, ‘I’m sorry, father’ into the speaker. Not once, during any of those calls, had either his brother or father asked him how he was. How he was adjusting to America, to speaking English more often than Russian, to eating strange food that didn’t taste at all like home, to being all alone in a new country before he was even twenty years old.

When Svetlana had moved back to Boston things had gotten better. They couldn’t go clubbing like they used to in Moscow–Boston was more a bars and pubs city–and so they spent a lot of time at parties. Sometimes parties hosted by Ilya’s teammates but mostly parties hosted by strangers in unfamiliar buildings and houses crowded with writhing, pressing bodies. When they weren’t partying, they would hang out at his house, watching hockey, or fucking. But the loneliness would still linger, even with Svetlana there. And especially once she was gone.

There were times when he’d felt less lonely. Usually on the ice at TD Garden, surrounded by fans cheering his name. And when he’d hauled the cup over his head, the roar of the crowd had made him almost forget about ever being lonely in Boston. The crush of his teammates bodies as they’d celebrated, the weight of his teammates hands, pressing into his shoulders, his neck, grabbing at his uniform, had soothed his raw aching for days. But then summer had come and Ilya had been back in Moscow, and the loneliness had gnawed at his bone marrow again.

When he’d returned to Boston after that summer, the city had felt as lonely as it had before, as if nothing had ever changed.

Part of him knew he would miss Boston. He’d spent almost a decade learning it streets, its people, its quirks, its fans. But a bigger part of him, that part of him that had spent over a decade crawling around looking for connection, for a body to bury his longing in, could not care less about leaving Boston behind.

His longing had found its home. In the warm press of Shane Hollander’s hands and for the first time, in a long time, Ilya did not look at his life and feel lonely. He would give up a whole lot more than just Boston to keep that feeling at bay.

The cottage was quiet when he pushed his way inside later that evening.

“Shane?” Ilya called, closing the front door softly behind him then switching over the lock. He kicked off his shoes and placed them on the rack beside The Suitcase, eyes adjusting to the darkness.

When he didn’t get a reply Ilya frowned and padded into the quiet. The overhead lights were all off, only the standing lamp in the corner of the living room illuminating the nooks and crannies of the space, casting tall shadows over the walls. Ilya found Shane on the lounge beneath the lamp, a book spread open over his chest, his glasses askew on the bridge of his nose.

He was lovely. Cast in soft lamplight, his mouth parted as he snored softly, his lashes pressing into the hollows beneath his eyes, tucked beneath a thick blanket as the AC blasted and kept the room cold. Warmth bloomed in Ilya’s chest, soft as sunlight, curling around his heart, seeping into his lungs. He was so, so, stupidly in love.

Ilya quietly made his way across the room and sat himself on the edge of the couch, his hip pressing to Shane’s through the thick material of the woven blanket. He carefully carded his fingers through Shane’s dark hair, pushing errant strands off his forehead, before gently removing his glasses and tucking them away into their case on the coffee table. He was sliding the book onto the table when Shane stirred, blinking tiredly at Ilya.

“Mm,” Shane grumbled, brows pinching, squinting through the heavy drooping of his eyelashes. “When di’you get‘ome,” the words slurred together, tumbling from Shane’s puffy mouth adorably.

Ilya leaned forward, tucking his fingers behind Shane’s neck, feeling the sleep-warmth of his skin, scratching the short hair at his nape. “Just now. You were asleep,” Ilya murmured. Shane tipped his head into Ilya’s touch, nosing at Ilya’s wrist, kissing softly at the skin.

“‘m tired,” Shane yawned then pressed his mouth back to Ilya’s skin.

“Mm, yes, bullying me all day is tiring work,” Ilya sighed and Shane frowned at him. Ilya couldn’t help but grin at the expression on his boyfriend’s face; sleepy and grumpy and endearing.

“Shud’up,” Shane rolled his eyes but then he was reaching for Ilya, tangling his fingers through Ilya’s curls, and tugging him closer. Ilya went happily, letting himself be pulled down until his mouth was pressing against Shane’s tacky lips.

Shane was warm, his skin a little sweaty, his mouth soft and puffy. He tasted like cherries and sleep and smelt like eucalyptus shampoo and freshly cut grass. Ilya pressed closer, kissed him deeper, sliding his tongue along the slick heat of Shane’s tongue, nudging his nose into Shane’s cheek. Beneath him Shane hummed softly, tilting his head, dragging his fingers through Ilya’s curls lazily, scratching at his scalp.

“Come closer,” Shane mumbled against his mouth and Ilya huffed a laugh. He was bent over Shane, still sat beside him on the lounge, twisting his back at an awkward angle. Shane tugged on his curls and then Ilya shuffled until he was spread out fully on top of Shane, knees bracketing Shane’s hips, one hand pressing into the cushion beside Shane’s head with the other caressing the back of Shane’s neck, pulling him in to kiss him again.

The drag of Shane’s lips was slow, lingering, hypnotic. His fingers gripping at Ilya’s hair as their mouths moved, tugging on the strands, thumbs pressing into Ilya’s skull then slowly massaging down the slope of his neck, before travelling back up, tenderly stroking along the shells of Ilya’s sensitive ears, rubbing at his lobes. It was dizzying to be touched so tenderly, gently, like he was something precious, something worthy of careful reverence. Each kiss, each press of Shane’s fingers, felt like devotion. And Ilya melted into it.

Ilya’s own hands pressed into Shane’s warm skin, returning devotion tenfold, thumbs smearing over the smattering of freckles on Shane’s cheeks, tracing the high, fine bones beneath his skin then dragging down to caress the strong line of his jaw. Fingers trailing down to press into the soft curve of Shane’s throat, feeling for his heartbeat, tapping his pointer fingers in time with the thu-thump thu-thump of Shane’s pulse. Thumbs smoothing over the knob of Shane’s Adam’s apple, feeling each swallow, the vibrations in his throat as his chest rumbled, making that pleased purring sound Ilya was so fond of.

Shane bit at Ilya’s mouth, sharp teeth digging into soft skin, tugging, then sucking carefully, his tongue dragging over the flesh in apology. Ilya just groaned, biting back, scraping his teeth along Shane’s bottom lip. Wanting more. Wanting to carve the indent of Shane’s teeth into his skin permanently. He would tattoo the line of Shane’s teeth into his inner lip if he could.

Kissing Shane really was Ilya’s favourite thing to do. Especially like this. Lazy and pulling, sweet and sleepy, their mouths pressing together hot and wet and lingering, unable to drag themselves apart even as their lips began to sting and swell. Mouths rubbed raw and left tingly but still pressing close, close, closer. When they kissed like this all Ilya’s brain could think was more, more, more. Shane, Shane, Shane. Over and over until everything else slipped away, until it was just them. Just Shane and Ilya. IlyaandShane.

Shane yawned against his lips and Ilya grinned, nuzzling his nose into the curve of Shane’s cheek, breathing in the smell of him. He bit softly at the apple of Shane’s cheek and Shane huffed a laugh, tilting his head up, asking silently for more. Ilya obliged, fluttering kisses over Shane’s skin. Over the bridge of his nose, across the curve of his brow before nosing at Shane’s hairline, grazing kisses along his forehead. Dragging his mouth lower, lips brushing Shane’s temple, the shell of his ear, the juncture where his jaw met his neck. Then sliding his lips across Shane’s jaw, nipping at his chin, grinning as Shane preened under the attention.

“Ilya,” Shane rumbled happily, grinning dopily. Ilya nudged their noses together in response. “Kiss me again.”

“I am kissing you,” Ilya murmured, punctuating his point with a delicate peck to Shane’s cheek.

“No, not what I mean,” Shane shook his head then stifled a yawn by pressing his lips together.

“You are falling asleep,” Ilya chuckled, smoothing his palm up Shane’s throat, behind his neck, cupping the back of his head tenderly.

“Kiss me,” Shane demanded and Ilya hummed, leaning in to peck the tip of Shane’s nose. “Not there.”

“Where then?” Ilya teased, mouthing at Shane’s jaw.

“My lips, you asshole.”

“Mm,” Ilya dragged his mouth along Shane’s skin then nipped lightly at Shane’s bottom lip, teasing, enjoying the way Shane frowned for just a moment before tilting his head and kissing Shane properly. Deep and devotional, pouring all his affection into the point where their lips met. When he pulled back Shane hummed softly and Ilya murmured, “better?”

“Mm, more,” Shane nudged their noses together, licking at Ilya’s top lip. The fingers tangled in Ilya’s hair clutched tighter, pulling them somehow closer. “More, more, more.”

“Greedy,” Ilya reprimanded but then he was kissing Shane again. Kissing him more, more, more.

Ilya was hard in his jeans and his body felt like a live wire, every brush of Shane’s fingers against his skin sending pleasure jolting up his spine, tingling over his scalp. But Shane’s mouth was slack and he kept yawning into each kiss and his eyes were drooping, heavy with exhaustion. When Ilya tried to pry them apart Shane just nudged closer, gripped tighter at Ilya’s curls, pressing his mouth in lazy kisses to Ilya’s lips. Refusing to let them separate.

“Let’s go to bed, малыш,” Ilya said, words muffled by Shane’s lips smearing over his.

“No, wan’ you to fuck me,” Shane protested, even as he yawned again.

“You will fall asleep before I even get you undressed,” Ilya teased and Shane shrugged.

“I do not mind. Just wan’ you inside me.”

Ilya groaned and pressed his forehead into Shane’s cheek, digging his teeth into his bottom lip. “You cannot say things like that, Hollander,” he murmured. Shane’s fingers were digging into his scalp, sending pleasant, rolling tingles down Ilya’s spine to his toes.

“I mean it,” Shane murmured, dragging his mouth lazily across Ilya’s hairline. “You could fuck me whilst ’m asleep.”

“О боже,” Ilya swore, suddenly painfully aware of his aching dick, then pulling back, raking his gaze across Shane’s face.

Shane’s eyes were hooded, his pupils blown, the brown of his irises reflecting amber in the low lamplight. His hair was a mess, sticking up in all directions, mussed by Ilya’s fingers. His lips were swollen, pink and puffy, slick with spit and curled into a lazy grin. And his cheeks, fuck, flushed and sweet, his freckles stark against the rosy hue. He was so fucking beautiful, and Ilya wanted to devour him. But…

“Maybe say this to me again when you are not half asleep, yes?” Ilya said. “So I know you are serious.”

“I am serious,” Shane grouched and Ilya kissed him softly, just a gentle brush of their lips.

“Tell me again tomorrow,” Ilya murmured into his mouth and Shane just rolled his eyes. “Bed now.”

“Fine,” Shane sighed. But he didn’t move and Ilya huffed a laugh, dragging Shane up with him and towards the bedroom.

When Ilya was ten, he broke his arm. It was his first real hockey injury, and he’d been so damned proud of it. He’d fallen wrong. The entire weight of his body crashing down on his arm because he’d forgotten to twist, to tuck in his elbows, and he could still remember the snap of it, the sudden searing pain, the ice cold beneath him and his nerves suddenly on fire. He’d smacked his chin on the way down, the end of his stick bumping into his mouth, knocking his tooth right from his gums. The bloody baby tooth his first real trophy. He was a man now. A real hockey player. His mama had let him keep the tooth in an empty matchbox beside his bed.

Grigori had lectured him when he’d gotten home from the hospital. Unimpressed by the cast Ilya proudly showed off, disappointed that Ilya’s season was over. Not because Ilya was hurt but because Ilya had been careless. He could remember his father saying, ‘you know better than to fall like that, Ilya. You are just like your mother. Finding any excuse to avoid your responsibilities.’

The arm never healed right, and sometimes, when it rained, it ached. A deep, throbbing pain; a permanent bruise on his radius.

Ilya woke to his bones aching. Pain radiating up his forearm to his elbow.

When he turned his head, he found the source of the pain; Shane pressed into him, sleeping soundly. His forearm was pinned beneath Shane’s head, his boyfriend’s face smooshed into his bicep, lips smeared against muscle, breathing slow and deep. Suddenly Ilya didn’t mind the ache, he would contort himself into any shape to keep Shane right there, latched to his side.

Ilya turned, just slightly, just enough to push the fingers of his free hand through Shane’s hair. Tucking the dark strands back, behind his ears, thumb gently pressing into the delicate cartilage of his helix. Shane snuffled, nose twitching, nuzzling closer and grabbing at Ilya’s skin with sleepy, clumsy hands. His fingers curled around Ilya’s hip, clutching, pulling their bodies tighter. Ilya pressed his smile into Shane’s forehead and breathed him in.

On the nightstand his phone rang, the ringtone piercing through the quiet of the morning. Shane groaned against him, rubbing his forehead into Ilya’s armpit, frowning against the sudden noise.

“Turn off,” Shane grumbled and Ilya nodded, gently extracting his arm from beneath Shane’s sleep-heavy weight. “Don’ go.”

“I have to,” Ilya chuckled. “To turn it off.”

“Mmgh,” Shane complained, inarticulate and grumpy. He buried his face in the pillow Ilya had abandoned as Ilya rolled over to scoop his phone off the nightstand.

‘Lucille Bouchard’ flashed across the screen; the real estate agent Ilya had met yesterday. He’d submitted an offer on the place with the four car garage last night on the drive back to the cottage. Ilya sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, behind him Shane made another grumbling noise of complaint but otherwise did not move, face still squished into the fabric of Ilya’s pillow.

“I have to take this, моя любовь,” Ilya told him, pressing his palm to the back of Shane’s head then shushing him when he groaned again. “Sleep. I will be back.” He brushed a quick kiss over the back of Shane’s neck then padded across the room.

Ilya shut the bedroom door gently behind him then hit accept on the call, pressing the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” he murmured into the phone, wandering through the quiet cottage to the kitchen.

“Mister Rozanov,” Lucille greeted. “I wanted to let you know that your offer was accepted. I can arrange to have the formal inspections done this week unless you have specific contractors you prefer to use.”

“Uh, okay,” Ilya nodded, pulling the phone from his ear then placing the call on speaker. He quickly texted David; the man had mentioned a reliable building inspector when they’d been out yesterday. David responded almost instantly. “I will arrange my own inspections.”

“Great, this week would be best, the owners are eager to finalise the sale of the property before their move to Copenhagen.”

“That is no problem, I will get in touch with my lawyer,” Ilya said.

“Amazing,” Lucille’s voice was overly friendly, and Ilya wondered if she was just being nice to him now because he’d gotten her a huge commission. Yesterday she’d seemed incredibly uninterested in him. Maybe the allure of a fat commission check was sweeter than loyalty to her hockey team. “I am so happy we found you a home so fast, Mister Rozanov. I will be in touch again soon.”

“Yes, thank you, Lucille.”

Ilya stared at the other notifications on his screen after he hung up. One from Marleau that simply read, ‘how is ur summer big dick 🏖️🍆’ and Ilya sighed. He really should tell Marly.

The phone rang once, twice, then picked up on the third ring.

“Rozy!” Marly’s voice boomed over the speaker. Ilya grinned and moved further away from the bedroom where Shane was still sleeping. “Where the fuck have you been, brother? I haven’t heard from you in a month!”

“Canada,” Ilya shrugged, pacing the foyer. Out of the corner of his eye The Suitcase begged for his attention. Ilya turned his back on it.

“Ah, shit, with the missus, you dog,” Marly ribbed. Ilya could picture his gleaming, veneered smile clearly. “How is the mysterious Jane?”

“She is…” Ilya trailed off. Suddenly, impulsively, he wanted to tell Marly everything. Wanted Marly to know the real reason why he was leaving Boston. Wanted to say, Jane is amazing, but she is actually a he and his name is Shane. Yes, that Shane. I know. Shane Hollander is in love with me. The second best player in the NHL is in love with me. And he wants a whole life with me and a home with me. “She is good,” Ilya said instead.

“Why suddenly so shy, Rozy? Usually you love bragging about her,” Marly chuckled and Ilya hmm’ed.

“Maybe you do not deserve to hear about her,” Ilya dismissed. Maybe I am tired of lying about her to you. “Anyway, I am calling to tell you some news.”

“Is she pregnant?” Marly asked and Ilya spluttered. It took every ounce of his self-control not to burst into hysterics at that question.

“No, fuck you,” Ilya huffed, then added, absently, “though not for a lack of trying.”

“You dog. I’m surprised you have convinced this girl to put up with you.”

Ilya pressed his grin into his knuckles. Marly had no idea.

“I’m leaving Boston,” Ilya said, casually. Over the line Marly went quiet. A beat passed, then two. Ilya sucked on his teeth. “I’m going to Ottawa.”

“Fuck, Roz,” Marly breathed. He didn’t sound angry. Maybe shocked. “For her? Montreal is near Ottawa, right?”

“Yes, for her,” Ilya murmured. He was leaning against the front door, staring at The Suitcase, pushing it away with the tips of his toes.

“And obviously you can’t go to the Metros, not with Hollander there,” Marly said. “Although, that would be hilarious. You and Hollander on the same team. Rivals turned teammates.”

“That would be funny,” Ilya mused.

“That sucks, you are moving to be closer to her, but you have to go to the fucking Centaurs,” Marly sighed, sympathetic. “Fucking Hollander, hey?”

“Mm, fucking Hollander,” Ilya agreed, though he could hear the helpless affection in his tone. He hoped Marly didn’t notice.

“She’s worth it though?” Marly asked.

“I am going to marry her someday,” Ilya shrugged and Marly hmm’ed.

“I feel sorry for Jane. Having to push out your big-headed babies.”

“She’s strong.”

“I bet. To be putting up with you.”

They were both quiet for a moment. Marly was maybe processing the news. Ilya was staring at The Suitcase again. Something was tugging on his chest. He thought of Shane asking to see his baby photos. He thought of seeing Shane’s baby photos last Christmas. He thought of finally, finally, having a home. Here, with Shane.

“I’ll miss you, Rozy,” Marly said, shockingly sincere.

“I’ll miss you too, Marly,” Ilya felt surprisingly emotional. He cleared his throat then said, “I gotta go. The missus wants me to put a baby in her.”

“Ha, go knock her up.”

“Bye, Marly.”

“Bye, Roz.”

Ilya was sat, cross-legged on the floor, staring at The Suitcase. He’d brought it into the sitting room, laid it on its back, sat down beside it, and then had just… not opened it.

There was a–completely irrational–part of him that was terrified that he would open the damned thing and that his father would tumble out of it like some deranged spectre. Like in the stories his бабушка used to tell him as a child. At night, as she’d been tucking him into bed, she’d whispered that his дедушка haunted the fireplace and that if Ilya was not good, if he did not keep the home tidy, then дедушка would crawl out from beneath the ashes to punish him. Ilya had a lot of nightmares about his soot-covered дедушка as a boy.

“Hey.”

Shane’s voice, soft as sunlight. Ilya shivered, twisting his head, and there was Shane stood behind him, wearing a pale yellow sweater and a pair of white briefs. All thoughts of ghosts left his mind. Replaced by Shane, Shane, Shane.

“Hi,” Ilya murmured. Shane smiled but his expression quickly morphed into concern when his gaze caught on The Suitcase. “Do not say anything about it or I will put it away,” Ilya said, firm, before Shane could make a big deal out of it.

Shane threw up his hands in a placating gesture, blinking tiredly. “I’m not saying anything,” he promised, then he bit his lip and said, “you were meant to come back to bed.”

Ilya tilted his head, hopeless affection tumbling around in his chest, pushing at the walls of his heart, too big to be contained. “I got the house in Rockcliffe Park,” he explained as Shane stepped down into the sunken sitting room. Ilya turned back to look at The Suitcase as Shane approached, his body melting, sagging into Shane when he stood behind him, shins pressed to Ilya’s back. Ilya’s head dropped, his crown pushing into the muscle of Shane’s thigh. Warm hands found his hair immediately, fingers twisting through loose curls. “I also told Marly I was leaving.”

“Oh,” Shane said, thumb brushing soothingly over the shell of Ilya’s ear. “Was it okay?”

“Yes, he understood,” Ilya hummed and then, just to tease Shane, added “Marly is very supportive of my relationship with Jane. He guessed immediately I was moving for her.”

“Lucky her,” Shane muttered. Ilya could hear the eyeroll in his tone. “Why did you finally decide to get it out?”

“I told you not to say anything about it,” Ilya grumbled, though his tone was mild.

“I’m not. I’m just asking.”

“That is saying something.”

“Ilya.”

Ilya huffed, tilting his head to press his cheek to Shane’s naked thigh. His skin was warm and smooth and the hairs on his leg were soft. Ilya breathed him in, the sleep-heavy smell of him, and then murmured, “I don’t know.”

“Can I sit with you?”

“Mm,” Ilya nodded. Shane bent over him and pressed a kiss to his forehead, just a soft brush of his lips along Ilya’s hairline, and then he moved away to sit across form Ilya. Cross-legged on the floor. Sat like that Ilya could see the line of bruises trailing down his inner thigh from his groin to his knee, a perfect constellation of love, left by Ilya’s teeth.

Ilya didn’t move. He didn’t open The Suitcase. Shane didn’t move either. He just sat, back pressed into the edge of the coffee table, brown eyes focused out the window, hands folded in his lap. Like he was waiting for Ilya to decide what he wanted. Ilya had no fucking clue what he wanted.

(Ilya knew exactly what he wanted.)

Ilya followed the line of Shane’s gaze out the window, to the lake at the edge of the lawn. Then his eyes wandered, over the picturesque scenery, before landing on the sandstone block carved with his mother’s name. Back in Moscow his mother’s grave was probably covered in leaves again, overgrown with weeds, sitting shadowed and neglected in the corner of the churchyard. No one would visit her again. But here, at the cottage, her name was bathed in sunshine.

He unzipped the suitcase.

Chapter End Notes

Hi loves!

I think, for me, the important part of this story is that Ilya opened the damn suitcase. Not what was inside it. We know he got a good photo of Irina -- we saw that in chapter four. I will mention some of the other photos in the suitcase next chapter but I think the significance of the suitcase was Ilya's willingness to open it -- not really what was in it. This chapter was Ilya getting the things he needed to be able to open the suitcase. The contract signed, the house, saying goodbye to being a Raider. Finally willing to embrace the next part of his life with security and comfort. Knowing he is loved.

Also, I really believe Ilya puts a lot of stock in his relationship, in Ottawa, to fix his lingering depression. And when he moves to Ottawa and the loneliness, that aching sadness, continues to permeate his life I think that is shocking for him. He really was relying on Shane to be a cure for his depression -- before he understood that he had depression. Boy needs therapy is all I have to say. Shane does too.

Finally, I have run out of steam a little. I have written almost 200k words since Feb! That's wild. I am struggling. I have just one more chap of this left and it is mostly gonna be smut and fun but boy am I struggling. Comments of encouragement desperately needed.

Love you sm Xx

UPDATE: Final chapter will be out this week my loves! It is very long and smutty so it has taken me a long time to write it. I have not forgotten you all!!! Thank you for the love and support 🥰🥰🥰

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Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

Hello my dear loves! I am so sorry this took so long. I had a rough couple of weeks and was fighting to make something good despite my mental state. In the end I am very proud of it but also so sad it is done.

Again, as always, thank you so much for all your comments on last chapter. I love and appreciate you so dearly and will respond soon! But, for now, just know I read every one and they make my day and make this all feel so much easier. You are appreciated! Thank you esp to everyone that had followed this as a WiP. You are strong and beautiful and I adore you.

There were a lot less boxes than he’d thought there’d be. About a dozen, stacked in short, leaning towers in the empty living room. His whole life in America neatly parcelled away in cardboard and bubble wrap and tape. As if he’d barely lived there at all.

It was, at least, more than he’d had when he’d first arrived in North America. Touching down in Boston at nineteen with two suitcases dragging behind him, full of clothes and packets of мишка косолапый and a collection of worn CDs.

He’d built his life in America from scratch. Buying everything from kitchen knives to a toilet brush. Not all at once though. He’d accrued things slowly. Unwilling to outsource the task to someone else; unable to rely on his mother to set-up his house like the rookies from other teams. Eventually he’d hired a decorator–when he’d moved into the house in Brookline–and then a cleaner and a gardener. All the hallmarks of a successful, wealthy, independent adult. Still, even then, he’d had just himself, his basic understanding of English, and the discipline of his childhood in Russia to guide him through life in a new country.

When he’d been drafted to the NHL–instead of the KHL–his father had simply said ‘okay, if you want to leave Russia then you must figure it out’ and that had been that. No one had shown him how to handle immigration paperwork or manage foreign money or navigate employment contracts or negotiate better terms around brand deals. He’d had an agent, who’d supposedly been meant to help him with those things–some guy from Russia his father had set him up with as a teen–but the man knew almost nothing about America and was kind of shit at his job and barely got Ilya any endorsements.

(Luckily, Yuna had found Farah and Ilya had fired Mikhail in January.)

All that was to say, it had been just him for the last nine years. Just Ilya. Alone in his giant Boston home. Alone in his language. Alone in his career.

Now he had Yuna Hollander emailing him links to luxury Canadian furniture stores like Huppé and David Hollander texting him reviews of restaurants to try around Ottawa and Shane sending him pictures of ugly, practical SUVs along with bullet pointed lists highlighting their safety features. And Ilya felt simultaneously overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information and the overt demonstration of interest in him, his life, his wellbeing, by all the Hollanders.

Suddenly, he had three people making sure he had his work visa sorted and his movers organised and his furniture picked out. And, truthfully, Ilya didn’t know how to handle it.

Ilya grinned and tucked his phone back into his pocket. He missed Shane an unreasonable amount. They’d only been apart for five days but already Ilya was missing the cottage and the sunshine and the lake water and the warm press of Shane’s big palms. But summer had to end eventually, and they had to return to their real lives.

Ilya had flown back to Boston to deal with selling his house and packing away the last of his things and fulfilling his promise to Marly to say a proper goodbye to him and the rest of the boys. Shane had gone back to Montreal after dropping Ilya off at the airport and was driving back to Ottawa tomorrow to meet Ilya at his new house–once the movers were gone, of course.

“I still can’t believe you’re moving to fucking Ottawa,” Svetlana sighed as she approached him, carrying the vase he’d had displayed on his hallway table since he’d moved in. She’d always liked it; Ilya had never cared much for it.

He’d given away a lot from his Boston house. Given some of his furniture to his last rookie, his TV to Marly, some art to Connors. And, of course, he had let Svetlana pick through his décor. When all of them had asked him if he was sure Ilya had just shrugged and said he planned on restarting entirely in Ottawa anyway and nothing much in the Boston house had significance. All that mattered to him was stacked in boxes already. Or was with Shane–the contents of his suitcase from Russia sorted and organised into three boxes marked ‘important’, ‘to throw away’, and ‘to keep in storage.’ Shane was keeping the ‘important’ and ‘to keep in storage’ boxes safe with him to bring to Ottawa once Ilya was there.

“Will you visit me?” Ilya asked and Svetlana scrunched her nose.

“No, if you were moving to Montreal maybe I would,” she said and Ilya hmm’ed, watching as the movers stacked his boxes then wheeled them away to load into the van idling in the driveway.

Ilya was going to be driving ahead of them in his orange Lotus Evora. It was an almost seven hour drive to Ottawa from Boston and Shane had opinions about Ilya driving a sportscar that distance, but Ilya was excited to spend some time with his favourite car alone on the road. Though, he could admit–privately, to himself–that Shane was right and it would probably be at least a little uncomfortable. He would be much better off in a stupid fucking SUV.

“So you would visit Shane?” Ilya asked, absently, leaning against the bare wall where his TV used to hang.

“Of course, I love Shane,” Svetlana shrugged.

“Such disloyalty to Boston.”

“You’re calling me disloyal to Boston? Ha!” Svetlana scoffed, an incredulous expression twisting on her face. “You’re leaving Boston for dick. For dick.”

Ilya snorted a laugh and bit his lip when the movers came back in. Holding in his retort until the men were once again out of earshot.

“You haven’t seen his dick, Sveta,” Ilya mused. “It’s worth leaving Boston for.”

“Oh, I heard,” Svetlana drawled, rolling her eyes. “Either he’s really good or you were just performing for Rose Landry’s benefit.”

“Can it not be both?” Ilya shrugged and Svetlana’s mouth twitched into a smirk. “Did you fuck her? You never told me.”

“Maybe.”

“Mm, so yes.”

“So maybe.”

“Okay, don’t tell me then.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

They stood quietly as the movers stacked the last of his boxes onto the hand trolley. Then the room was empty. Just Ilya and Svetlana and the light wood floors and the tall white walls and the stupid, expensive vase she had tucked into the crook of her elbow. Something like grief shook through Ilya’s bones, unsettling the joints that connected his ribs to his spine. He could feel his lungs scraping against the sharp edges of his ribcage.

“I’ll miss you,” he said, clipped, strained.

Svetlana’s mouth pinched and she looked anywhere but at him as she muttered back, “yeah, well, maybe I’ll miss you too, assface.”

And then she was striding across the room, and Ilya had his arms wrapped around her slender frame, his face tucked against her curls, breathing in the scent of her. Her rich, spicy perfume, the clean smell of her thick hair. She was warm against him; one arm still clutching the vase and the other wound around his back, fingers curled into his t-shirt, gripping onto him like she didn’t want to let him go. Ilya held her back just as tight, mouth pressed to the crown of her head, palms pushing firm between her shoulder blades.

“Don’t get all weird on me, okay?” Svetlana murmured, the sound of her voice muffled where her face was tucked into Ilya’s chest.

“Weird how?” Ilya frowned, absently petting her curls.

“Like when you first moved to Boston and stopped talking to me for months because you were all brooding and shit,” Svetlana said, arm squeezing tighter around Ilya’s back.

Ilya scoffed but found he didn’t have a retort. He had been kind of weird when he’d first left Moscow.

There’d been months of practice and press and games and staring into cameras and microphones and bright lights trying not to sound like some dumb foreigner and still failing and getting dragged through the mud about his clipped sentences and heavy accent. He’d been in a weird headspace. Tired, no, fucking shattered. Every ounce of energy focused in on hockey, hockey, hockey. That first year he’d either been on the ice, in the gym, or asleep. Well, there had been plenty of sex too. But he barely remembered any of it–apart from Shane–and most of that first year in Boston was a dark, crawling blur of trying, trying, trying and failing, failing, failing. Mostly, he just remembered feeling heavy. Lost. Alone.

Svetlana cleared her throat after a minute, pushing him back, stepping away. “Stop being dramatic,” she sniffed, a frown creasing between her brows.

“Me? You hugged me,” Ilya scoffed and Svetlana waved a hand dismissively.

“You breathed in my hair and shit,” she muttered.

Ilya rolled his eyes and then walked with Svetlana out to her car which was parked behind the moving van in the driveway. She tucked the vase securely into the boot and then he held her door open for her. Before she got into the car he pressed a kiss to her cheek, and she pecked his mouth gently in return, brushing his curls back from his forehead.

“Love you,” she said, hazel eyes bright. And if Ilya didn’t know her better, he would think that she was trying not to cry.

“Love you too,” Ilya nodded, clearing his throat, and then he closed the door of her Benz behind her.

Svetlana waved through the windshield as she backed out of the driveway and Ilya stood on the slope, hands stuffed into his pockets, as he watched her drive away.

Ilya hadn’t seen his house this empty since… well, maybe ever. Even when he’d first moved into the sprawling, modern Brookline home–during his second year with the Raiders–he’d moved in only after his decorator had been through all the rooms, furnishing the space with sleek, masculine furniture and expensive, abstract art. According to his decorator the harsh, dark colours and sharp lines that made up the furnishings of his home were the perfect décor for a bachelor pad. At the time, Ilya remembered being excited by the adult feel of the space.

Now the home was empty. His life in Boston was officially over.

The movers had already left–they would be stopping overnight right near the border–and Ilya would be leaving in the morning before sunrise. Even with the headstart Ilya would still make it to Ottawa before the movers. He’d booked a hotel in the city for himself for the night because Marly and Connors wanted to take him out for dinner before he left, but Ilya was tempted to blow them off. He was feeling twitchy, restless. The tall, blank walls and echoey halls probably weren’t helping that feeling.

The house was so stark now that it was empty. It reminded him of his apartment in Moscow–during the daytime when it hadn’t been packed with bodies and loud with chatter and electronic music. When it had been just him and the harsh, Moscow sunlight; somehow the sun had never been warm in Russia. More fluorescent than golden.

In his hand, his phone burned, the smooth edges of it pressing into his palm as his thumb hovered over the keyboard. At the top of the screen the name ‘Yelena Rozanova’ seared into his retinas.

He hadn’t heard from Yelena since that day in Moscow. Which was probably for the best but… he was moving countries and Farah had already gotten her assistant to set him up with a Canadian number and if Yelena ever needed him, if Milana ever needed him, then they would only have his American number saved. They’d be unable to contact him.

Ilya switched from his English to his Cyrillic keyboard and typed out a message, bottom lip caught between his teeth, frown creasing between his brows.

It took him a good twenty minutes of just staring at the message before he could force himself to hit send.

Yelena Rozanova

Ilya frowned. He copied the text then sent it again.

Something heavy sank in his stomach; something nauseating.

Ilya pressed the call button and held the phone to his ear. It rang once, twice, then cut off. A robotic voice crackled through the speaker, its artificial tone echoing off the walls of his empty home.

“This number has been disconnected.”

Fuck.

The feeling in his stomach grew, spread through his limbs, stretched itself into his fingers and toes until he felt sick with it. And then he was squatting, pressing his hand to his forehead, digging his thumb into the thin scar above his eyebrow, breathing heavily through his nose.

He tried calling again.

The phone rang once, twice.

“This number has been disconnected.”

“Ебать,” Ilya swore and dropped the phone. It clattered loudly to the hardwood floor, landing face-up, Yelena’s contact still open on the screen.

Ilya was just across the border into Canada, filling up his car, when the news of his move to the Ottawa Centaurs was officially announced. The notification came in the form of his phone pinging from his pocket. Ilya plucked the device out, slotting the fuel nozzle back into place as he swiped to unlock his phone. Immediately his home screen flooded with notifications; texts and emails and comments and likes.

Ilya cautiously opened his Instagram app to see what was being said.

The post was simple enough. Just a carousel of photos featuring Ilya shaking hands with the owners of the Centaurs, the GM of the Centaurs, and another with their current coach–some old guy called Matt Matthews who was maybe a season from retiring–with Ilya wearing a branded cap and tee. The caption simply read The Ottawa Centaurs are excited to welcome Ilya Rozanov @RealRoz81 to the team. Welcome, Captain Rozanov. #81 #GoCens 🖤❤️🏒! Innocuous. Boring. It was the comments that Ilya was interested in anyway.

boston.babe.81 omg this is the biggest betrayal of all my life!!! What??? Tell me it is April. This is an April Fools, right? Is it April? This has to be a JOKE!

       Rozanov_Defender girl, it’s August

Charles_Cens_Fan_1 this is actually potentially the most insane thing that has ever happened in the history of the Cens. Ilya Rozanov????????????????

Samson85 I cannot tell if this man has had a nervous breakdown or if he is a genius… time will tell I suppose… 🤔

RaidersRevolution81 well, looks like I have to burn my Rozanov jersey

        RaidersRevolution81 and change my username

Ottawa.girl.75 The female population of Ottawa thanks Cens management for this gift. Girls. We are getting the hottest player in the league, the playboy of the league, in our      hometown. We have prayed for times like these 🙏🙏🙏

       Lesbians_in_hockey some of us are lesbians

           Ottawa.girl.75 fine okay the heterosexual female population* of Ottawa thanks the Cens management 🙄

               Lesbians_in_hockey I am simultaneously touched by your clarification and offended by the eyeroll

Montreal.Elijah do you reckon he got through all the pussy in Boston and decided he wanted to have a go at Canadian beaver?

      Quebec_Bec tell me, Elijah, has a woman ever touched your penis?

Boston_Brandon he either got an INSANE pay incentive to move, or he’s taken too many punches on the ice and sustained brain damage and now he has lost his god damned      Russian mind. What are you doing dude?!

Ontario_Ben are the Cens gonna get into the playoffs? 🥹

Raiders_Renee do you guys reckon he’s gotten into some kind of trouble with Boston law enforcement? Now he has to flee the country? :/

Ilya closed the thread. The comments just kept coming; about half of them were convinced he was having some sort of nervous breakdown or was in some kind of trouble with American law enforcement whilst the other half was convinced he was moving to the Great White North because he’d fucked his way through the United States and needed a new playground. Apparently, he was bored of American pussy. And Ilya couldn’t help but snort at those comments.

A text from his agent Farah slid down at the top of his screen and he thumbed to his messages with her.

Ilya considered Farah’s question as he leaned against the boot of his car. Did he have any regrets?

Another notification made his phone buzz and Ilya peered back down at the screen.

No, he had no regrets at all.

***

***

The sun was high in the sky, bright and hot, bathing his new backyard in stark light. At the edge of the property, through the thin tree line, he could see the sunshine reflecting off the churning surface of the Ottawa River, sparks twitching over water then disappearing in between the swells. It reminded him of Shane’s cottage. Though, the light at the cottage was warmer, softer, and the water was calmer, gentler.

Ilya wished he was still at the cottage. He wished that the summer wasn’t over.

Well, it was only the first week of August, so the summer wasn’t really over. Not for everyone else.

The air was thick with heat and humidity and smelt like approaching rain and fresh cut grass. And when he’d been driving into the cul-de-sac, where his new house stood, there had been children riding bikes down the street and running through sprinklers on their front lawns and eating popsicles on the sidewalk with their bare feet pressed into the hot concrete. (A few of the kids had waved at him as he’d driven past, boys with oversized helmets on their heads staring open-mouthed at his brightly coloured sportscar. When he’d parked in his driveway a couple of the boys had pressed their faces into the bars of his gate and had begged to see his car up close. Ilya had been all too happy to let the kids ogle his car after they’d rinsed their sticky hands in the sprinkler water.) Ilya’s summer may have come to an end but the children in his street were still enjoying the long days and the warm nights and the freedom from school. And, despite never having lived near children before, Ilya found he didn’t mind the sounds of their delighted laughter.

There was a buzz from his intercom and Ilya turned away from the open sliding glass doors that overlooked his patio and lawn, wandering through the sprawling halls of the house to his front door. On the little screen he could see Shane’s terrible car idling at his front gate and the outline of Shane, tapping absently on his steering wheel, through the tinted window. Ilya grinned and pressed down on the button that unlocked the front gate.

Ilya pushed his way into the garage, stepping around the boxes crowded in his foyer, and pressed the clicker to lift the automatic roller doors. Only one spot in the garage was occupied; his Porsche Cayman was currently in a truck crossing the border and his Mercedes G-Wagon was getting delivered next week. The G-Wagon had been Ilya’s compromise between luxury, style and practicality. He’d even sent Shane a bullet pointed list of all its safety features last night from his hotel.

Shane’s forest green Range Rover rolled slowly up the short driveway and Ilya waved his hand to the car space furthest from his Lotus Evora, indicating for Shane to park there. If Shane asked why Ilya would say it was for practical reasons but really, he just didn’t want the ugly to rub off on his baby.

Ilya pushed himself off the wall as Shane’s engine cut off, striding over to the vehicle. The garage doors were rumbling shut just as Shane was pushing open his door and then Ilya was yanking him bodily out of the car and into his embrace.

His hands clamped around Shane’s waist, pushing him against the side of the car, pressing tight into his boyfriend’s space, crashing their mouths together in a biting, messy kiss. Shane responded instantly. Returning the kiss fervently, clutching at Ilya’s curls, digging his fingers into the tightly coiled muscles in Ilya’s neck. Ilya hadn’t even realised he was so tense but, as always, under the press of Shane’s strong fingers, all the tension bled away.

“Hi,” Shane breathed a laugh, the short syllable muffled by the unrelenting press of Ilya’s lips into his.

“Hi,” Ilya mumbled back, digging his teeth into Shane’s bottom lip, tugging then licking over the hot flesh. Shane grinned into the bite of Ilya’s teeth.

“You missed me,” he teased and Ilya pulled back, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“No, my mouth was just cold,” he waved a hand, but his dismissive tone was surely undermined by the way he kept brushing his mouth over Shane’s, kept pecking sweetly at his lips. Shane’s mouth was also following his though, chasing when he pulled back, sucking kisses into Ilya’s cupid’s bow. Maybe his mouth was cold too.

Eventually, Shane pulled away, pressing the back of his head into the car window. His eyes were bright, rich brown and warm even in the stark white glow from the fluorescent lighting overhead. Shane brushed his fingers through Ilya’s curls, fingers tracing the shell of his ear, following the line of Ilya’s jaw down to the slope of his neck where Shane rested his palm, warm and steady, against Ilya’s pulse point. His thumb stroked back and forth along the hinge of Ilya’s jaw.

“How was the drive?” Shane asked, eyes roaming over Ilya’s face.

“Was fine,” Ilya shrugged. He’d arrived about two hours ago without any issues. Apart from maybe being a little tired and sore, his body aching from being cramped into the tight space for seven hours–not that he would ever admit to that to Shane. “No problems with my ‘stupid, impractical sports car.’”

“You didn’t get into any accidents?” Shane’s mouth twitched and Ilya just rolled his eyes, pulling away to sweep his arm towards his car.

“You see her, yes?” he said as he crossed the garage, stopping to run his palm over its shiny hood. “She is perfect. Not even a dent.”

“Does she have a name?” Shane teased and Ilya glared.

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“Yelizaveta,” Ilya grumbled, ignoring the gleeful grin spreading across Shane’s pretty mouth. Which wasn’t easy; when Shane smiled like that all Ilya wanted to do was lick his stupid face.

“You’re so weird,” Shane hummed as he sidled up beside Ilya, tangling their fingers together once they were shoulder-to-shoulder. “Show me the house?”

“You saw it on FaceTime,” Ilya said, to be annoying.

“You’re so annoying,” Shane responded, predictably.

“I am weird. I am annoying. Is there anything good about me?” Ilya quirked a brow and Shane tilted his head, as if considering.

“Mm, you have a nice butt,” Shane shrugged and Ilya mock gasped, pressing a hand to his chest.

“You see me as just a piece of ass,” he lamented.

“Mhm,” Shane nodded, his dark eyes alight with mirth. “Now lead the way so I can look at your ass.”

Ilya turned on his heel and gave his butt a wiggle as he pushed open the door into the foyer. Behind him Shane laughed, the bright sound of it echoing off the walls of the empty house and settling in Ilya’s sternum.

Ilya showed Shane around the house, their fingers linked together loosely, their voices carrying loudly through the empty rooms and halls. He had no furniture yet besides the king-sized bed in the main bedroom. (He’d ordered it last week off that website Yuna had sent him, tucked in bed at the cottage with Shane, the two of them scrolling through the website and arguing about upholstery options for the headboard. David had accepted the delivery for him and had texted him photos of the bed once it had been assembled.) The rest of the house was empty, waiting to be furnished.

“Are you going to hire someone to decorate?” Shane asked as they meandered back through the halls to the foyer where Ilya had made the movers leave his boxes.

“Yes, probably,” Ilya shrugged, squeezing Shane’s fingers. “I think your mother wants to be my decorator.”

“Oh god, I’m sorry,” Shane groaned. “I never asked her when I set up my place in Montreal. I just hired someone and she has always been upset about it.”

“Mm, is okay,” Ilya hummed. “She has good taste. I like that website she sent me. I will probably buy some furniture myself and leave the walls and… flourishes… to someone professional though.”

“Flourishes,” Shane repeated, the tone of his voice sounding deeply tender.

“I do not know, you know, the Цацки…” Ilya waved a hand, looking for the word in English but coming up short.

When Ilya turned to him, he found Shane was biting his bottom lip, attempting to repress a smile. “What’s in all these boxes then?” Shane asked, releasing his grip on Ilya and running his fingers over the stack of cardboard boxes closest to the staircase.

“Uh, mostly things I need,” Ilya pursed his lips “like clothes and kitchen stuff and…”

Ilya trailed off. Honestly, he couldn’t remember what he’d kept. Most of the boxes had been packed before he’d left for Russia and, in the tempest of Moscow, he’d forgotten all about Boston and packing and moving and the things he owned or did not own and what he’d packed or had not packed. For all he knew there could be anything in the boxes from the remote to the TV he no longer owned to a half-used bottle of lube. He had been distracted when he’d been packing.

“Okay, well, should we sort through it all?” Shane asked and Ilya turned, appraising his boyfriend.

Shane was certainly dressed for the job. Wearing a faded Metros t-shirt, a pair of blue gym shorts, and his white Metros cap, his dark hair tucked into it, keeping it out of his face. He’d taken off his shoes earlier, before stepping over the threshold from the garage into the foyer, and he stood in front of Ilya now in a pair of white socks. Ilya thought that it was unfair that Shane managed to look so devastatingly, effortlessly handsome in what was probably the most boring outfit any man had ever worn in the history of the world.

“Are we doing sexy movers role-play?” Ilya waggled his brows and Shane gave Ilya a wry look in return.

“It’s not role-play if you’re actually moving,” Shane pointed out and Ilya threw back his head, releasing a long groan.

“Ugh, you are so boring, Hollander.”

“Shut the fuck up and help me with this shit,” Shane snapped back, already squatting to grab a large box marked ‘kitchen.’ Ilya just grinned and leaned in to peck Shane’s cheek.

Ilya was standing in the kitchen, being entirely unhelpful, ogling his boyfriend, appreciating the way his biceps flexed as he hauled the boxes from the foyer into the house. He was meant to be unpacking the kitchen stuff, but he’d gotten distracted after about thirty seconds, eyes following Shane around the space.

Truly, he couldn’t be blamed. Shane was stupid hot.

“What the hell is even in this box?” Shane complained, depositing the box in question on the kitchen island with a frown on his face. Ilya just hummed, absently, watching as Shane lifted his cap and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. Then he put his hat back on, backwards, and raised an expectant eyebrow at Ilya.

“What?” Ilya asked, stupidly, and Shane just frowned, turning the box around.

“It just says ‘stuff’ with a smiley face,” Shane jabbed his thumb at the word scrawled in messy sharpie.

“Is my stuff,” Ilya shrugged, helpfully. Shane looked wildly unimpressed with him.

Ilya rolled his eyes and pulled his switchblade–his father’s, one of the few pieces of Grigori he’d kept from his trip to Moscow over the summer–from his pocket. He ran the sharp tip of the blade through the tape that held the box together then flipped open the lid.

“See, is my stuff,” he repeated as Shane leaned closer, inspecting the contents of the box.

Inside was a collection of things. A pair of boxing gloves, a miniature replica of his Lotus Evora, an empty bottle of champagne–the one he’d poured over his head after he’d won the Cup–and–

“Is that a fucking NERF gun?” Shane guffawed and Ilya nodded, pulling the garishly coloured plastic toy from the box. It had come in a set, and the other one was buried beneath the boxing gloves, just its nozzle visible.

“Yes,” Ilya said and then he aimed it at Shane’s thigh and pulled the trigger.

A little foam bullet exploded out the end of the toy and smacked loudly into the muscle of Shane’s thigh. Hard. Shane yelped, more startled than anything, and punched Ilya in the arm. Ilya just threw his head back and laughed.

“What the fuck,” Shane shoved Ilya then dug through the box, yanking out the other NERF gun and aiming it at Ilya. He pulled the trigger and Ilya let out an ‘oof’ when the foam bullet collided with his stomach. The muscles in his abdomen jumped at the impact.

“Ow, Hollander, that was a dirty hit,” Ilya complained, pressing his palm into the spot.

“You shot me first,” Shane scoffed as he lowered the toy, like he was going to put it away. Ilya took the opportunity to aim and fire his NERF gun at Shane again. This time the foam bullet smacked into Shane’s bicep with a dull thwack.

Shane shouted, indignant, and then his expression shifted, dark eyes narrowing in on Ilya, the corner of his mouth twitching as he tried to repress a grin. Ilya started slowly backing away, biting his lip, trying his best to keep from breaking out into a goofy grin of his own. When Shane began stalking after him, toy gun still in hand, Ilya’s composure broke and his face suddenly hurt from smiling so wide.

He turned on his heel and ran, laughing delightedly as a bullet collided with his thigh, as another bullet ricochetted off the wall to his right. Ilya aimed blindly behind him and fired twice. Behind him he could hear Shane’s feet pounding over the hardwood floor, hear him cursing when a bullet hit him, as he chased after Ilya through the empty rooms of the massive, sprawling house and Ilya kept firing.

Ilya ducked behind a stack of boxes in the foyer and fired several foam bullets at Shane over the top, using the wall of cardboard as a shield. Shane hissed when a bullet smacked into his chest and fired back at Ilya. The foam cylinder just bounced off the boxes and landed harmlessly on the floor.

Then Shane was darting around the side of Ilya’s shield and Ilya practically shrieked when Shane fired at him from close-range, a bullet hitting him in the ass as he spun and scrambled up the staircase. Shane ran up after him and Ilya nearly slipped rounding the corner.

He was almost to the safety of the main bedroom when he heard a loud thud and a pained groan.

The sound made him pause, glancing over his shoulder to find Shane sprawled on the floor behind him. Briefly, he considered the possibility that Shane had faked a fall to get Ilya’s sympathy so he could deliver a final blow when Ilya was all worried and fretting over him.

But surely Shane wouldn’t play that dirty.

“Shane,” Ilya called and Shane simply moaned in response. The pathetic sound of it jolted Ilya into action and he jogged back down the hall, dropping to his knees beside Shane and discarding his gun on the floor. “Sweetheart, are you okay?”

“Mmgh,” Shane replied, articulately. Ilya huffed a laugh and bent over him, brushing his knuckles over Shane’s cheek.

“Did you hit your head?” Ilya asked, concerned.

Shane nodded, his eyes a little glassy, and Ilya felt something simultaneously protective and terrified clawing at his throat but then–

Ilya yelped, startled, completely unprepared when the foam bullet smacked him right in the chest, right into the ribs that protected the soft tissue of his heart. Then Shane was laughing, bright and unrestrained, rolling away from Ilya and springing to his feet with a victorious grin on his beautiful, stupid, handsome face. Ilya just blinked at him, dumbfounded.

“You cheat!” Ilya managed to yell, shaking his head and himself out of his shock. “I was worried! Hollander!”

Ilya scrambled for his NERF gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He was out of bullets.

“Ha! I win!” Shane cheered, throwing his arms up in the air.

“You fucking–”

Ilya cut himself off, growling, pushing himself to his feet then running at Shane, catching him around the waist before he could dart away. He pushed Shane against the nearest wall, crowding into his space, pressing their chests together and grabbing at Shane’s wrists, pinning them at either side of his boyfriend’s head. Shane dropped the toy gun, swallowing thickly, eyes straying to Ilya’s mouth.

“Let me go,” Shane murmured. Though he didn’t put up any sort of a fight. The easy way Shane sagged into his touch thrilled Ilya; they both knew Shane could break away if he really wanted to.

“No, you played dirty,” Ilya dropped his forehead, pressing his brow to Shane’s. This close he could count all the freckles on Shane’s nose.

“I really did fall over,” Shane protested, blinking his big eyes and long lashes at Ilya, but there was a twinkle in his gaze that betrayed his attempt at feigning innocence. “I just saw an opportunity and took it,” Shane shrugged, or tried too, as Ilya pressed harder on his wrists.

“Mhm.”

“Alls fair in love and NERF wars,” Shane said, his tone teasing, his eyes bright. Ilya couldn’t help but grin. Between the press of their bodies he could feel Shane hardening as his hips pressed forwards. And Ilya really wanted to drop to his knees right then. Take Shane into his mouth. Taste him. Devour him. But Shane had played dirty and was far too pleased with himself.

Ilya withdrew, fingers trailing over Shane’s chest to pat at the crumpled fabric of his t-shirt before slipping lower to tug on his hem, straightening the material. Then he bent down and picked up the discarded NERF guns. Shane watched him intently the entire time, eyes narrowing.

“Well, come on,” Ilya sighed. “These boxes will not unpack themselves.”

“Ilya,” Shane said in a warning tone.

“Yes, Shane?” Ilya raised his brows, tilting his head.

Shane stared at him, assessing, and then he blew out a frustrated breath, adjusting his wonky cap. He pushed past Ilya and trudged down the staircase. Ilya laughed after him.

“Where do you want this one, baby?”

Shane was playing dirty. Calling Ilya ‘baby’ as he walked around in his short shorts and his white ankle socks and his backwards cap. His face a little red and sweaty from exertion, his biceps bulging as he carried heavy box after heavy box, his thick, muscular thighs on full display. Fully playing dirty.

Ilya followed Shane’s movements around the room with a predatory gaze, grinning, and mentally patted himself on the back. Getting the movers to leave his boxes in the foyer had been a stroke of genius. Really. He could have paid a dozen or so different people to deal with all of this for him. But, had he done that, he wouldn’t have gotten this: Shane Hollander in full Boyfriend Mode. Sweaty and sweet and eager to be helpful and so stupid hot that it was almost unfair.

“What does the box say?” Ilya asked, resuming his unpacking.

“Um,” Shane frowned, squinting at the sharpie on the cardboard. “It says ‘Jane.’ Ilya, why do you have a box with ‘Jane’ written on it?” Shane demanded, his tone hard.

“Mm, well, I cannot write Shane,” Ilya shrugged.

“What’s in it?”

“Stuff and things,” Ilya waved a hand, turning around to the open kitchen drawer in an attempt at hiding his grin. He added another pan to the drawer as Shane huffed behind him.

“Ilya.”

“Put it in the bedroom.”

“Oh my god, is it sex toys?”

“You think I have enough sex toys for a box that big?” Ilya huffed a laugh, closing the drawer then turning back to Shane who was stood on the other side of the kitchen island with a scowl on his face. “Is just your clothes that I have borrowed,” Ilya said, aiming for casual, but there was vulnerability in his voice and his accent thickened around the tightness in his throat. Suddenly, he was self-conscious.

“How many of my clothes have you stolen?” Shane looked at the box in his arms, as if assessing its size and weight.

“Borrowed. There are other things as well,” Ilya shrugged. There wasn’t. It was all Shane’s clothes.

“Like what?” Shane asked, a cautious expression on his face.

“Sex toys.”

Shane rolled his eyes and walked off with the box. Ilya leaned over the kitchen counter, watching him until he rounded the corner, eyes fixed on the way the fabric of his shorts clung to his ass.

Ilya had developed a habit for stealing borrowing Shane’s clothes during their first summer at the cottage. They had only had three weeks together that first time and on that last day–in-between the lazy hours they’d spent just kissing, touching, fucking, holding–Ilya had spent every moment nosing into Shane’s neck, his armpit, his groin, smelling him. Trying to imprint the masculine, clean smell of Shane into his permanent memory. When he’d been packing, folding his clothes carefully and tucking them into his carry-on, he’d reached for the plaid shirt Shane had lent him. The smell of them both weaved into its fibres. Shane had said he could have it–had said that it looked better on Ilya anyway–and Ilya had taken that as permission to also take Shane’s Metros sweater. The one that Shane wore in the mornings, when he was sleepy and soft and wanted to hold onto the warmth of their bed just a little longer. It smelt like Shane’s laundry powder, his sweat, his shampoo, his skin. And even though it had a rival hockey team’s branding, it was Ilya’s favourite thing in his closet.

Over the season, each time they’d met up, Ilya had stolen borrowed other bits and pieces from Shane’s wardrobe. A plain grey t-shirt after that first match-up of the season in Montreal. A pair of Shane’s socks after that first time Shane had returned to Ilya’s Boston home. A hoodie at Christmas. The nice button-up Ilya had ripped after the All-Stars Game in February. A pair of sweatpants from Shane’s suitcase during their weekend in Vermont. Another flannel from this summer at the cottage.

All together it sounded like a lot. All together it probably looked like Ilya was some sort of stalker.

But Ilya had spent the majority of his year missing Shane; clinging onto the lingering impression of fingers curled around his bicep, the memory of lips pressed into his cheek. The ghost of touch his only proof that this was real. That he was wanted, loved, desired, fucking coveted.

There were so many ghosts haunting the halls of his memory; his mother, his father, his brother. He did not want Shane to be a ghost as well. Reduced to memory. And the clothes helped with that.

Shane came back into the kitchen then, carrying another box, disappearing into the living room then re-emerging, wiping his eyes with the hem of his shirt. The action exposed the lines of Shane’s stomach, the soft skin there damp with perspiration and golden-brown from a summer spent playing in the sun. Ilya suddenly wanted–no, needed–to bury his face into Shane’s navel, into the thin hair Shane had let grow out trailing from his bellybutton down to the waistband of his shorts.

“Shane,” Ilya said, voice gravelly and thick. 

“Yeah?” Shane asked, looking up, dropping the edge of his shirt. He looked at Ilya questioningly, as if he hadn’t heard the tone of Ilya’s voice, the want overt in the way his tongue wrapped around that singular syllable, and Ilya almost scoffed. Maybe Shane hadn’t heard it. Maybe Ilya’s want was not as obvious as he thought it was.

“C‘mere,” Ilya murmured, gaze wandering over Shane’s face, eyes lingering on the shape of his full lips.

Shane squinted at him, clearly confused, but came over anyway. Always so good for Ilya.

When Shane stopped beside him, just an inch away, Ilya turned, tucking his fingers into the waistband of Shane’s gym shorts, feeling the warm, damp skin there. Up-close Ilya could see the thin layer of sweat beading along Shane’s brow, his top lip, in the hollows beneath his lovely eyes. His gaze lingered on Shane’s freckles, the slope of his nose, the high lines of his cheekbones. He would never tire of looking at Shane.

Shane was looking right back at him, brown eyes curious, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. Ilya released a long sigh, gaze catching on the dampness on Shane’s lower lip, and then he slowly walked Shane backwards, pushing him until his back collided with the pantry doors with a clattering sound. A tiny gasp slipped from between Shane’s lips at the impact, pupils blowing wide as Ilya pressed into him, nosing into Shane’s neck.

Ilya breathed him in; the musky, masculine smell of him. The salt on his skin, the fresh fragrance of his deodorant, the lingering, clean scent of his eucalyptus shampoo. He smelt familiar and perfect and warm and Ilya couldn’t help but sink to his knees, pushing his face into Shane’s groin through his shorts, the slick fabric cool against his heated skin.

“Ilya,” Shane breathed, sharp and wanting. “What are you doing?”

That just made Ilya laugh; a breathy, disbelieving sound rising from his chest. He tilted his head up, chin digging into the crease of Shane’s thigh, and raised his brows as if to say, ‘what does it look like I’m doing?’ Shane just blinked back, bottom lip caught between his teeth, brows pinching, maybe in confusion.

Ilya didn’t let Shane stay confused for long.

The fingers curled into Shane’s shorts tugged, yanking them down to Shane’s midthigh, the material catching on the bulk of his muscle. That alone made Ilya groan. Shane’s thighs were fucking unreal.

Then his lips were on Shane. The soft, flaccid length of Shane’s dick fitting comfortably in his mouth. Above him, Shane hissed and jolted, hands flying down to grip at Ilya’s curls. Fingers weaving through the thick strands of his hair, pulling. Ilya just moaned happily, content, holding Shane’s cock on his tongue as it slowly hardened in the warmth of his mouth.

By the time Shane was fully hard Ilya had to ease off him, just a little, using his fist to curl around the base of Shane’s cock, thumb stroking leisurely over the pulsing vein along the underside of his shaft.

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane groaned and then Ilya heard the thump of Shane’s head smacking into the pantry door. Ilya just hummed, pleased, around the fullness in his mouth.

For a while he stayed just like that; still with Shane’s cock pressing down on his tongue. The weight of it was familiar and the smell of Shane here was thick and heady, making Ilya’s mouth water.

He could feel Shane’s cockhead twitching on the back of his tongue, dripping precum, pressing into the roof of his mouth. He could feel Shane’s muscles tensing, holding himself back, as Ilya wrapped his palms and fingers around the backs of Shane’s thick thighs. He could hear Shane’s breathing, turning shaky and uneven, as the fingers in his hair twisted tighter into his curls, just tight enough to sting without becoming unbearable.

“Ilya, please,” Shane whispered, almost soundlessly. Though, in the empty house, it sounded louder. Shane’s plea echoing off the blank walls and rolling over Ilya’s ears, making him shiver.

Ilya withdrew. Pulled his mouth back until just the tip of Shane’s pretty, swollen cock was caught between his lips. He sucked leisurely, swirling his tongue around the girthy head. Shane’s cock was just so thick. Long too. But the thickness of it specifically always made Ilya moan, made his eyes roll back as he took it deep into the back of his throat. He loved the way accommodating Shane’s cock made his jaw ache, his mouth salivate, his throat spasm. His boyfriend was so big and hot and wet on his tongue. It made Ilya feel a little insane.

A moan vibrated in the column of his throat, unbidden, as Ilya sank further onto Shane’s cock, lips brushing against his own fist where he was still holding Shane loosely at the base. He bobbed his head, languidly, savouring the way Shane whined above him, the way Shane’s muscles jumped beneath the press of Ilya’s calloused palms.

Ilya flicked his gaze up, still bobbing his head, watching Shane raptly, watching as Shane’s neck stretched and his throat worked, as his eyes screwed shut and his teeth pressed into his bottom lip. He was very, very beautiful.

One of Ilya’s hands released the meat of Shane’s thigh, palm pushing up Shane’s stomach, beneath the hem of his shirt, exposing the skin there. His hand found Shane’s pec, warm and round, and Ilya squeezed, thumb brushing over Shane’s nipple. Back and forth. Back and forth. Something between a whimper and a moan fell from Shane’s lips and Ilya pressed harder, thumb digging into flesh. Shane’s hips jerked forward and the head of his cock jammed roughly, and unexpectedly, into Ilya’s tonsils, almost making him gag. Ilya flinched, just a little, but he did not lose his rhythm.

“Fuck, sorry,” Shane muttered as he gently cradled the back of Ilya’s head. An apology. Ilya just hummed, dismissive, pinching at Shane’s pec. Forgiving.

Ilya pulled off Shane entirely and then licked delicately at his head, tonguing at where Shane was steadily leaking precum. The taste of it was salty, familiar. Ilya lapped at it greedily as his eyes slid shut, savouring the flavour on his tongue.

Fuck, he wanted Shane’s cum in his throat so badly. Wanted to feel Shane twitch and spasm on his tongue as he came. Wanted to swallow him down until he was done and whimpering his little fuck, fuck, fucks that he did whenever Ilya sucked him off. But he also wanted to fuck Shane. Finger him. Taste his hole. He wanted so much from Shane in that moment he felt dizzy with it. Unsure of where to start.

Maybe he wanted all of it. Right now. One after the other.

“Baby,” Shane sighed, fingers pushing back the curls sweeping over Ilya’s forehead.

Ilya groaned at the pet name, pinching Shane’s nipple, digging his nails into Shane’s thigh. He ducked his head and sucked Shane’s balls into his mouth, running his tongue along the velvet soft skin, through the neatly trimmed hair. Taking a deep breath as his nose pushed into the underside of Shane’s cock.

“Shane,” Ilya said, muffled where his mouth was pressed into Shane’s balls. Shane hmm’ed, a dazed sound, rolling his neck to look down at Ilya.

“Yes, baby?”

Shane really was playing dirty. Ilya felt like his blood was searing through his veins.

“I want you to cum in my throat,” Ilya murmured, kissing softly along the length of Shane’s dick. Featherlight and reverent.

“Okay,” Shane replied, voice thick and strained. Ilya felt Shane’s cock twitch beneath his touch.

“But I also want you to cum with my fingers inside you,” Ilya continued, nuzzling his cheek into the head of Shane’s pulsing cock. Precum leaked onto his cheekbone. “And then I want you to cum on my dick. More than once.”

“Ilya, I don’t know if I–”

“I think you can do it,” Ilya said, tilting his head to look up at Shane. “I think you can give me more than three.” Ilya narrowed his eyes. “Or are you not capable, Hollander? Is that too much for you?”

Shane’s shoulders rolled. Ilya noticed the muscles in his jaw twitching.

“I can do it,” Shane said, tone a little defensive.

Ilya was so stupid in love with this competitive, stubborn, ridiculous man. He felt drunk with it.

“Mm, we will see,” Ilya hummed and took Shane back into his mouth.

This time he took Shane’s fat, dribbling cock all the way to the back of his throat, releasing his grip around the base, pressing his nose into the trimmed hairs trailing down from Shane’s bellybutton. The hand he had wrapped around the back of Shane’s thigh wandered over the soft skin of his ass, tracing over thin stretch marks, before he was pushing his middle and pointer fingers between Shane’s cheeks, brushing teasingly at his hole. Above him, Shane groaned, and beneath his fingers Shane’s hole fluttered. Begging to be filled.

Ilya didn’t press in; he just leisurely ran his fingers up and down the cleft of Shane’s ass. A teasing, delicate touch. A promise of more to come.

Shane’s thumb was stroking over Ilya’s cheekbone, smearing the wetness there over his skin. It made Ilya’s cock twitch; his balls tighten. Something about Shane’s precum, smeared across his face, made him feel owned, adored, possessed, in the best possible way. If he could he’d have ‘property of Shane Hollander’ inked in a fine line across his throat. If he could, he’d ink ‘property of Ilya Rozanov’ across Shane’s pec, right over his heart.

Ilya swallowed around Shane, throat constricting around the thick head of his cock, making Shane shiver and whimper, hips pushing forwards, seeking more. Ilya was all too happy to give it. Relaxing his throat, pressing closer, taking in his boyfriend’s heat all the way to the root.

The sound of his throat clicking, of his mouth gliding over salty skin, was so hot to his own ears. It made him moan. He’d always loved the sounds of oral. Whether it was the wet, slick sounds of a woman’s pussy as he sucked at her clit, lapped at her folds, or this, the gurgling sounds caught in his throat as he took a cock deep into his mouth, until it was almost gagging him.

More than any of that though he fucking loved the way Shane sounded. His boyfriend letting out the sweetest little sighs and mewls, breathless curses, stretching groans. All of it making Ilya’s dick ache, rubbing sensitive and dry against the thin cotton material of his briefs. He had to press his palm over himself, just to give his cock some relief.

He could always hear it in Shane’s shuddering breaths when he was getting close. The little ‘uh, uh, uhs’ that slipped from Shane’s plush lips as his fingers dug into Ilya’s scalp, firm and directing, refusing to let Ilya back off.

Ilya could still remember the first time they’d done this; Shane trying to push Ilya off him as he’d felt his orgasm building, Ilya staying put, swallowing and moaning. Later, in his hotel room, he’d been a little embarrassed by how loudly he’d moaned at the taste of Shane’s cum.

Now, nine years later, Shane always held Ilya’s head down. Always made sure to cum in Ilya’s mouth. And for some fucking reason that made Ilya deliriously happy.

“Ilya, Ilya,” Shane gasped, chest hitching. Warning.

Ilya redoubled his efforts. Worshipping Shane’s cock with his mouth, his tongue, his throat. Taking Shane in deep, swallowing around him, dragging his mouth back and swirling his tongue around the head. The fingers on Shane’s hole pressed firmer but did not breach; the pressure itself was usually enough of a tease to tip Shane over the edge.

The fingers wound through his curls gripped tighter, painful and sharp, making his scalp burn. He didn’t mind. He moaned, the sound muffled by the cock filling his throat.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Shane breathed and then he came. Hot and thick and salty. The taste of him flooding Ilya’s mouth and making his eyes roll back into his head. Fuck he loved how Shane’s cum tasted.

“Mm,” Ilya hummed, pulling back just a little so he could swallow easier.

Once he was sure he’d swallowed all that Shane had to give him he let Shane’s softening cock slip from between his lips. But he didn’t go far, nuzzling his nose into Shane’s pubic hair, pressing adoring kisses to Shane’s saliva-slick dick. Ilya paid extra attention to the head; sucking open mouthed kisses into the pink, sensitive flesh.

Ilya’s fingers slipped from Shane’s hole, sliding down to grip at the muscle of Shane’s thigh. Holding him in a bruising grip. His mouth soon followed, lips pressing searing kisses into Shane’s inner thighs, tongue dragging up the warm, sweaty skin. Then he bit into the flesh, sharp teeth digging into muscle, nipping then sucking bruises into tanned skin. Shane shivered at each bite.

“I love your thighs,” Ilya mumbled, mouth smearing over skin, leaving a trail of saliva in his wake. Shane hmm’ed above him, fingers gently carding through Ilya’s curls. “So strong. Hairy. Thick.” He accentuated his final point with a smack, palm meeting skin with a satisfying, sharp thwack sound. The muscles in Shane’s thigh jumped and Ilya smacked him again, harder. Redness bloomed where Ilya’s palm collided with flesh.

Over the summer they’d both gained weight and muscle, thickening after the hockey season, bulking after loosing mass to the relentless, brutal intensity of the playoffs. Getting to watch Shane bulk had been weirdly intimate. A strange kind of privilege. More than once over the summer Ilya had found himself wishing he got to watch Shane going through the motions every day. Watch him make his boring protein smoothies and do his morning yoga and rub lotion into his dry elbows and run through his specific gym routines and cook his bland high fibre, high protein dinners. All the things that made Shane the athlete he was. Even Shane sitting in bed watching tapes on his iPad or reading boring, horrible hockey memoirs.

But Ilya didn’t just want to see the results of Shane’s summers, he wanted to see the effects of the hockey season too. In real time. Wanted to trace each bruise as they bloomed over Shane’s flesh. Witness as Shane’s skin paled during the winter months. As his freckles lightened and faded throughout the season before bursting back into sharp relief in the summer sun in June. As his hipbones became sharper the longer the season stretched and he lost most of his bulk. As their shared sport changed the body of the man he loved, left its mark on his skin.

Ilya knew he would see some of it. In glimpses. With days or weeks in between. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

“Bend over the counter,” Ilya instructed, nipping at Shane’s thigh then releasing him.

Shane bent over the counter, elbows pressing into grey marble, head dropping between his shoulders as he arched his back. His blue gym shorts were still stretched around his thighs, the material straining as Shane widened his stance. Ilya let out a low, appreciative rumble then leaned over Shane, pressing kisses between his shoulder blades through his t-shirt.

“Legs together, шлюха,” Ilya murmured as he massaged Shane’s ass cheek in one hand. He could feel Shane’s eye roll in the way his shoulders tensed then relaxed but Shane pressed his thighs together anyway. Ilya just grinned against Shane’s neck, pulling at the neck of his t-shirt then scraping his teeth over the knob at the top of his spine. “Хороший мальчик. Мой красивый мальчик.”

A shuddering breath left Shane’s lips as Ilya pressed his clothed erection into Shane’s ass, grinding torturously slow against him, pulling his cheeks apart with firm hands then pressing the seams of his shorts against Shane’s hole. It felt stupidly good, but it wasn’t enough. Ilya withdrew and tugged down his shorts, wrapping a palm around his cock and stroking lazily. He tapped the head against Shane’s hole, pressed into him just a little, just enough to tease. Then he pulled away.

“Ilya, what the fuck?” Shane bit out, though the sharpness of it was undermined by the whine he let slip at the end. His hips pushing back, chasing Ilya’s cock.

Ilya opened the cutlery draw he’d been attempting to organise earlier–attempting being the key word as he’d spent the majority of the last hour just watching Shane carry boxes–and pulled out the travel sized bottle of lube he’d stashed there. Shane twisted his head, peeking over his shoulder at Ilya. He spotted the lube and scoffed a laugh.

“Was that in one of your kitchen boxes?” Shane asked, incredulous, and Ilya shrugged, uncapping the bottle and smearing lube over his palm.

“You know crockery makes me horny sometimes,” Ilya said and Shane just laughed. Ilya leaned over his boyfriend, slipping his lubed palm between his thighs, rubbing the viscous liquid into warm skin.

“Fuck,” Shane groaned, head dropping to the counter as he squeezed his slick thighs tight together.

They’d done this before. Not often. Ilya preferred being inside Shane and Shane preferred feeling full. But they’d done this before. The most notable being that first time, in that hotel room next to Scott Hunter’s in Nashville. When Shane had been nervous about bottoming and Ilya had backed off but had still been eager to show Shane how good it could be. For him. For Ilya. For the both of them.

Ilya had manhandled Shane onto his side and made him squeeze his legs tight together before slipping his dick into the tight, warm, wet space. And then he’d fucked Shane Hollander’s thighs.

At the time he’d felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest, wild and erratic with arousal. Shane had been so responsive to it, pressing back into him, reaching back to grip at Ilya’s hair, muffling his moans between bitten lips.

Something about Shane Hollander–rival, equal, teenage phenom, media darling–whining just from Ilya pressing his cock between his thick thighs had driven Ilya insane. Insane enough to basically beg him over the next two years to let Ilya fuck him for real. Though, really, he would have fucked Shane’s thighs forever if Shane never wanted to do more than that.

Now he pushed his cock into the tight, wet space between Shane’s thighs. Pushed against him until his balls were flush with Shane’s skin and the head of his dick was nudging against Shane’s ball sack.

Shane’s elbows dragged along the countertop as his back rolled and his forehead dropped to the marble. Ilya could feel the strain, the tremble, in Shane’s thighs as he did his very best to keep his knees locked together. It was a dizzying display of strength. Ilya groaned and began to move.

He started slow. Rocking his hips leisurely, enjoying the dragging, slick sensation of his cock slipping against hot skin. Focusing entirely on his own pleasure, ignoring the way Shane’s balls jumped with every brush, ignoring the way Shane’s cock was twitching and hardening where it hung between his legs. He would make Shane cum again soon. Three more times like he’d promised. For now he just needed to relieve some of the pressure building in his own body. Needed release so he could focus on what he wanted from Shane. If he got himself off now, he could hold off when Shane got all sweet and achy and pleading later. Fucking Shane’s thighs was purely strategic… well, he also really had been driven insane by Shane wandering around in his short shorts all day. All pretty and strong and considerate. All long legs and thick biceps and big hands.

Ilya gripped at Shane’s hips, fingers biting into flesh, and began moving harder, dirtier, entirely focused on getting himself off now.

It took an embarrassingly short time for Ilya to bring himself to the edge. He could blame the past week of no sex for it or the unreal way Shane looked beneath him–forehead pressed into marble, dark hair tucked into a backwards cap, cheeks flushed as his mouth dropped open and he let out needy little sounds–or the euphoric feeling of finally being in Ottawa. But the truth of it was just that it felt so fucking good.

Ilya had always liked sex. Sex with women, with men, with strangers, with friends, with himself even. But sex with Shane was always, always something else. Maybe because he was in love with Shane–though it had felt different with Shane even when they’d been just nineteen–or maybe because Shane’s body was made for Ilya. Just as Ilya’s body was made for Shane. Every single inch of him fitting perfectly against every single inch of Shane.

He leaned over Shane, pressing the full weight of his chest into Shane’s back as he rutted sloppily into the slick space between Shane’s thighs and buried his face into Shane’s neck, nosing behind his ear, breathing in the salty, sweaty smell of him. Shane groaned beneath him, pushing up into the press of Ilya’s weight until they were plastered together.

Ilya bit into Shane’s neck as his hips stuttered, sucking a bruise into the skin at his nape. When he pulled back the skin was shiny with spit and bright red.

“Мой красивый мальчик,” Ilya murmured, digging his forehead into the knob at the top of Shane’s spine as he came with a grunt.

The moment he was done he dropped to his knees and pried Shane’s legs apart, fingers biting into muscle as his eyes hungrily took in the sight of his cum splattered over Shane’s twitching, bulky thighs. Something between a moan and a sigh escaped his lips as he leaned in, dragging his tongue through the mess, cleaning Shane up. The lube he’d spread between Shane’s thighs tasted like strawberries and sugar and beneath the artificial flavour he could taste the musk of Shane’s sweat and the salt of his skin. It was an intoxicating cocktail. Bright and heady on his tongue.

“I think you got some on the cabinet too,” Shane muttered and Ilya huffed a laugh, pressing a sweet kiss to the crease where Shane’s ass met his thigh before standing up, pulling up his pants as he stood. He leaned over Shane and bit delicately at his earlobe. “You gonna lick it clean too?”

“No, but you can if you want,” Ilya ran the tip of his tongue along the shell of Shane’s ear. The touch made his boyfriend shiver, tilting his head away from Ilya and burying his ear against his shoulder.

“Get off me,” Shane grumbled as Ilya dragged his palms down to his ass and squeezed, thumbs rubbing along stretch marks reverently.

“I’m not done with you yet, I said four times,” Ilya murmured, pulling back and spinning Shane around so his bare ass was pressing into the edge of the marble counter. His dick was hard again, pink and twitching, pointing right at Ilya. Ilya grinned at it, trailing his fingers featherlight down the length of it. Shane’s eyes squeezed shut and he scrunched his nose adorably at the sensation.

“You have a lot of unpacking to do,” Shane said, breathy. “And my parents are coming over tonight.”

“Is only three, we have plenty of time,” Ilya shrugged, thumb pressing into the head of Shane’s cock. Shane made a little grunting sound and bit his lip. “We have to christen the house, Hollander. Is important part of buying real estate. Surely you know this.”

“I’ve never ‘christened’ a house like this, asshole,” Shane rolled his eyes, though the bite of it was tempered by the way he kept pressing into Ilya’s touch. As if he just couldn’t help it. Ilya preened under Shane’s hot gaze. “Did you christen your Boston place like this?”

“Yes, with Sveta,” Ilya replied, casual. Something in Shane’s expression shifted as his eyes narrowed. Not jealousy exactly–they were past the point of that when it came to Svetlana–but maybe something… competitive. Ilya’s gaze locked in on Shane, a slow smirk twisting the corners of his mouth. He liked when Shane got competitive. “I christened every room with Sveta.”

Shane nodded, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as his eyes darted around Ilya’s face. Ilya could see the cogs in Shane’s brain turning, gears grinding, his racing thoughts clear in the shine of his brown eyes.

Sometimes Ilya couldn’t believe just how easily he could read Shane. How, when they were pressed tight like this, their desire thick between them, Ilya could read every thought as it tumbled around Shane’s beautiful head. But then, on the ice, Shane was an impenetrable fortress. Eyes hard and focused, a wall erected around his thoughts. Whenever Ilya caught Shane’s gaze across the ice, he found himself met with a different man. He was Shane Hollander on the ice. He was Shane, Ilya’s Shane, here in the warmth between their half-naked bodies.

“There’s more than four rooms in this house,” Shane murmured, eyes locked on Ilya’s mouth. Ilya just grinned. Fuck, he loved Shane so much.

“Mm, there is twenty,” Ilya nodded, pressing close into Shane’s personal space. Shane’s cock was trapped between their bodies, grinding hot against the slippery material of Ilya’s basketball shorts.

“That’s a lot of sex,” Shane observed, tilting his head. “It will probably take more than one afternoon.”

“When do you have to go back to Montreal?” Ilya asked, ducking his head, brushing his lips along the column of Shane’s throat. He knew when Shane had to go back. In two days. They had today and tomorrow and then the next morning before Shane had to be gone by mid-afternoon. Then after that they would be snatching at time greedily, clawing at the hours, trying to make more where there was no more to give. Pre-season training began in three weeks and already Ilya was dreading the return to routine. It would be easier now though. He hoped. Fuck, he hoped.

“Day after tomorrow,” Shane answered, even though they both knew they had each other’s schedules memorised.

“That’s enough time to get through every room,” Ilya hummed and Shane scoffed.

“Only if we do nothing but fuck.”

“I have no problems with this suggestion.”

Shane just smacked the back of Ilya’s head in response, grumbling something under his breath about unpacking and his parents and training and hurting his ass. Ilya ignored him, licking a languid stripe up Shane’s neck, punctuating with a sucking kiss behind Shane’s ear. Shane squirmed but dropped his head back, letting Ilya nip and suck and lick at the skin.

“Which room do you want to do next?” Ilya asked, muffled where his mouth was smeared against the underside of Shane’s jaw. “Dining room? Foyer? Living room?”

“You have no furniture,” Shane bit out, sounding both pissy and desperate. Ilya’s favourite.

“I have a rug in the living room,” Ilya retorted. “We have fucked on the floor before. Remember 2015? After Boston beat Montreal four to none? You were so grumpy that you made me fuck you in the hallway. Wouldn’t let me further into the house. I did not even get to shower after. So mean.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Shane grumbled, breath hitching at the end when Ilya tugged on his cock.

“I think I will make you cum on the living room floor next, yes?” Ilya murmured, kissing wet and messy down Shane’s throat. Then he pulled back, tugging on Shane’s hips, walking them backwards. “Come on, pretty boy. I want you to cum on my new rug.”

The rug was rolled up and wrapped in plastic and Shane refused to lay down on the bare hardwood floors and risk hurting his back, so Ilya cut through the plastic with his switchblade and unfurled the rug, laying it out over the floor. Ilya grumbled throughout the entire process–mostly for show–as Shane stood watching him with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Come here,” Ilya said once he’d tucked away the switchblade and was sat down in the middle of the rug. Shane had left his shorts in the kitchen and was stood at the edge of the plush carpet in just his t-shirt and socks. He’d left his hat on the marble counter, which Ilya was trying not to pout about. There was something stupidly hot and boyish about Shane in a backwards cap. And Ilya really liked it.

Shane seemed to consider Ilya for a moment, but then he uncrossed his arms and reached back to tug his t-shirt over his head before dropping it at the edge of the rug.

The wall to Shane’s left was made entirely of glass; sliding doors ajar and letting in the afternoon breeze as it stumbled across the river and up the lawn. The yard was entirely enclosed, as private as could be, but the thrill of looking at Shane, naked and hard and resplendent in the middle of Ottawa with all the windows open, made something hot pulse in Ilya’s chest. He wanted everyone in the city to know their hometown legend was so, so beautiful and perfect and needy for Ilya.

His heart leapt into his throat when Shane stood over him before sinking down into his lap, knees spreading wide to accommodate Ilya between them, his thighs bracketing Ilya’s hips and pressing in tight, locking Ilya in place beneath him. As if Ilya would ever try to move. Having a lapful of naked, beautiful, warm Shane was all he ever wanted.

Ilya’s head tipped back as Shane wound his arms around his shoulders, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck as he tugged Ilya into a filthy, searing kiss. The kind of kiss that had Ilya on the precipice of whimpering as he returned Shane’s fervour with a similar, aching need. He could kiss Shane just like this for hours.

It was easy to get lost in kissing Shane. His mouth was so warm and wet, and his lips were so plush and soft. Every dragging, languid kiss was met with a sweet sigh. Every bitting, brutal kiss was met with a groan and fingers gripping tighter at his curls. When Ilya pressed his tongue into Shane’s hot mouth Shane melted and pushed back, licking over Ilya’s teeth. When Ilya sucked on Shane’s tongue and scrapped his teeth along Shane’s full bottom lip Shane shivered and kissed harder, harder, harder. Kissed Ilya hard enough to bruise. God did he wish Shane’s kisses would leave bruises. Leave sprawling blooms of purple in their wake, smeared over Ilya’s mouth.

Ilya let his hands wander as they kissed. Palms gliding over Shane’s freckled skin from the mounds of his muscular shoulders, down his elegant spine, then over the globes of his perfect ass. Fingers pressing into dimpled flesh and squeezing, grasping, scratching. Wanting to touch, touch, touch. To trace every inch of Shane beneath his fingertips.

His hands smoothed over Shane’s hips, up the ladder of his ribs, fingers pressing deep into skin to try and feel the bones beneath. His palms found Shane’s pecs and he squeezed roughly, pressing his thumbs into Shane’s dark nipples. Shane’s breath stuttered at the touch and his kisses turned biting and messy. The hands in Ilya’s hair gripping harder and dragging him closer. Ilya pushed back, tight against Shane, nose bumping into Shane’s cheek, trying to kiss him deeper.

Shane’s hands were wandering now too. Sliding out of Ilya’s hair, smoothing over his shoulders and down his back, nails scratching over Ilya’s lats then dragging back up and pressing into his throat. Shane’s big thumbs pressed into the hinge of Ilya’s jaw, brushing over his earlobes, making Ilya’s flesh tingle and shiver, spreading goosebumps over his neck and arms.

The way Shane was stroking him, petting him, was making it hard to remember what his plan had been. Why he’d dragged Shane into the empty living room and down onto the floor.

Something about opening Shane up with his tongue. Right.

Ilya wrapped his arms around Shane’s waist and rolled them over, spreading Shane out on the rug beneath him with his legs bent at Ilya’s hips. There was something like delight in Shane’s expression when Ilya gazed down at him. His pretty mouth tugging at the corner into a grin, his dark eyes hooded, and his cheeks flushed.

“Pretty, pretty, pretty,” Ilya murmured, pushing Shane’s knees further apart before sliding down Shane’s body, dragging kisses over his chest as he went.

Once he was settled between Shane’s legs, he slung one of Shane’s knees over his shoulder and pushed the other back as far as he could until Shane was folded in half and breathing raggedly beneath him. Ilya lapped at Shane’s tight balls and felt Shane’s thigh twitch where it was slung over his shoulder, Shane’s heel pressing into Ilya’s shoulder blade and pulling him closer at the touch. Then Shane’s whole body shivered as Ilya dragged his face lower and pressed his nose into Shane’s perinium, breathing in the hot, heady smell of him.

“Ilya,” Shane sighed and Ilya pressed a messy kiss to his hole in response, sucking on the hot flesh then dragging his teeth over his sensitive, fluttering muscle.

Shane said something else. Maybe it was please or Ilya or more. Whatever it was, Ilya didn’t hear it. Lost in the heat of licking into Shane, in the sensation of fucking his tongue into Shane, in the act of kissing sloppily at the soft skin between Shane’s thighs. Nothing registering in his brain but the aching, needy way Shane’s hole clenched and pulsed beneath his mouth.

Shane was writhing beneath his ministrations and the caressing, dragging wet press of his tongue, his back arching, thighs twitching, heel digging into Ilya’s shoulder blade. Making the sweetest sounds as his fingernails dragged over the thick wool rug, trying to find something to grasp on to.

Ilya sucked a filthy, sloppy kiss into Shane’s hole and Shane grinded his hips in response, gasping around a breathless moan. Ilya loved it when Shane grinded on his face. Absolutely fucking adored the way Shane shuddered and whined as he rolled his hips and chased Ilya’s tongue with his asshole.

“Fuck, Il–ah, Ilya,” Shane huffed, one of his hands scrabbling over the carpet and reaching out to grasp at Ilya’s head. Twisting his strong fingers through Ilya’s curls and tugging him closer. Ilya almost couldn’t breathe, pressed so tight into Shane’s taint as Shane humped more insistently against his face. He kept fucking his tongue leisurely into Shane’s clenching hole as he moaned, long and loud. He loved feeling Shane pulse around his tongue. His dick twitched in his shorts and Ilya pressed his hips down into the rug, grinding just a little. Just enough to relieve the heat throbbing through his bones.

When he dragged his mouth away Shane whined; a high, stretching sound that made Ilya smirk and bite at Shane’s inner thigh. Teeth tearing deep into muscle. He sucked a mark into the flesh of Shane’s thigh, smearing his tongue over the bright bloom of red and the teeth indents his mouth left behind. Ilya sat back on his haunches and admired his work as Shane’s hips rolled upwards, seeking friction. His legs now spread akimbo on the carpet.

Ilya pressed the pad of his thumb against Shane’s hole, stretching it, pulling at the puckered, pink skin. Eyes hungrily taking in the way his spit was making the skin there shiny and wet. Admiring Shane at the most intimate point of his body.

The strawberry lube was in the pocket of his shorts, pressing against his thigh. Ilya pulled it out and smeared lube over his fingers, chucking the bottle over his shoulder and then bending down, planting an elbow beside Shane’s head as he bullied his middle and pointer fingers into Shane’s hole. Not quite loose enough to take two fingers all at once.

“Ah, ah,” Shane grunted, eyes rolling back, neck stretching as he bared his throat.

“I know,” Ilya soothed, pressing his fingers into Shane’s prostate, massaging the spot slowly, intentionally. “Is a lot. I know.” He kept petting as he shushed Shane; his fingers unrelenting in their firm press.

“Fuck,” Shane hissed, his torso twisting as he pressed his cheek into the carpet. Almost like he was trying to wriggle away.

“No, no, моя любовь,” Ilya cooed. “Stay here. Right here. That’s it.”

Shane let out a long, ragged breath. A pink flush spreading down his neck and chest as his lungs shuddered. Ilya couldn’t help but kiss him. Pushing his tongue between Shane’s lips and licking at his teeth, at the roof of his mouth. Beneath him Shane groaned, his hips rolling shamelessly as Ilya kept massaging his fingers inside of him. Kneading into that spot with a confident precision and ease that always made Shane turn to puddy beneath him.

“Fuck, Ilya, can’t–”

“Yes, you can,” Ilya encouraged, gently, sucking on Shane’s bottom lip as he pushed his fingers harder into his boyfriend’s prostate.

He could grab Shane’s dick, stroke him a few times and tip him over the edge, but he much preferred this. Preferred watching as Shane fell apart and came just from this. Just from having Ilya’s fingers pressing inside of him. Applying the perfect amount of pressure to that sensitive, aching spot.

Shane’s cock was dribbling, smearing wetness over his stomach, twitching untouched as it bobbed with each of helpless little rutting roll of his hips. The head so pretty and pink and shiny with slick. Precum leaking down the shaft and wetting the neatly trimmed pubic hairs at the base. Sticking to Shane’s heavy balls.

Ilya was stuck switching between kissing and biting at Shane’s gaping, damp mouth, and staring at his thick, throbbing cock. Both so pretty and distracting.

“Uh, uh,” Shane moaned and Ilya’s eyes darted up, catching on the way Shane’s brows pinched as his teeth dragged over his bottom lip. He was about to cum. Ilya knew that sound. That face.

“Come on, Shane. I want to see.”

When Shane came it was with a breathless, shuddering moan. His back arching and his hole clenching tight around Ilya’s fingers. Ilya groaned as he watched; his eyes flicking from Shane’s flushed cheeks and bitten lip to his dick as it twitched and spurted all over his trembling stomach. Once his gaze landed on Shane’s cock, it was impossible to drag his eyes away, mesmerised by the way Shane’s cock jerked as it spat and dribbled cum–completely handsfree.

Ilya eventually shook off his stupor and looked back at Shane’s face. His boyfriend was blinking up at the ceiling, his forearm flung over his forehead, his tongue poking at the split in his lip. He’d bitten his lip so hard when he came that it had drawn blood. The bright burst of red on his mouth made Ilya groan.

Ilya removed his fingers from Shane’s hole then dragged them through the mess on his abdomen, scooping up cum before pressing his dirty fingers against Shane’s lips. Shane opened his mouth easily and sucked. Cleaning Ilya’s fingers, lapping his tongue between the digits and over Ilya’s thick knuckles.

“Ты просто невероятный,” Ilya murmured then leaned down, slipping his fingers out of Shane’s mouth and replacing them with his tongue. Sucking on the blood on Shane’s lower lip. Chasing the taste of Shane’s cum and blood with each sweep of his tongue. “Two more,” Ilya said as he pulled back and Shane screwed up his nose.

“I don’t know if I can,” he breathed. So damn earnest, not even trying to be coy.

Immediately Ilya decided it was his turn to play dirty.

“I got through five rooms with Sveta on first night in my Boston home,” Ilya shrugged. Never mind the fact that Sveta had still been living in Moscow up until Ilya’s second year in the home. (The first person he’d fucked in his Boston home had actually been some blonde woman he’d entirely forgotten the name of that had had a habit for wailing like a banshee when she came and Ilya had failed to get off. Too disturbed by her mournful cries.) Though, a little fabrication, for the sake of competition, never hurt anyone.

Shane was glaring at him. His pupils still blown wide, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he came down from his orgasm. Ilya simply tilted his head and smiled serenely, brushing his fingers through the hair at Shane’s temple. It didn’t surprise him at all when Shane slapped his hand away.

“Asshole,” Shane groused. He was quiet for a moment and then, “give me like five minutes.”

“We can use the time to pick the next room,” Ilya nodded, dragging his fingers through the remnants of sticky cum painting Shane’s abdomen. Smearing it over his belly and navel, massaging it into his skin. “Which room would you like next? I picked last.”

Shane’s eyes were shut, his brow pinched, long lashes bent against the curve of his cheek. Ilya watched him with a grin. Shane was angry and competitive, but he was also only one orgasm away from getting all sweet and sticky and clingy. Ilya just had to push him a little further.

“Sveta–”

“Ilya, I like Svetlana a lot but if you talk about her one more time I’m going to punch you in the teeth,” Shane growled. Ilya felt his face split into a manic grin. Unable to contain his delight.

“Yes, моя любовь.”

The silence between them stretched. Ilya threaded his fingers through Shane’s and Shane let him. Clinging back even as he rolled his eyes and stared resolutely at the ceiling.

“What rooms did you do with Svetlana?” Shane asked, voice pitched low, attempting to obscure the bite in his tone.

“I thought you said not to talk about her anymo–”

“Answer the fucking question.”

“Okay, okay,” Ilya chuckled then pursed his lips in thought. “Kitchen and dining room. The foyer, obviously. And the lounge room.”

“That’s only four.”

“Huh, I must have remembered wrong,” Ilya said, sly. Shane levelled him with a frown but kept their fingers twined together. His thumb brushed over Ilya’s knuckles gently.

“You didn’t mention the bedroom,” Shane murmured.

“No, we did not do the bedroom,” Ilya shrugged. Shane nodded. He ran his tongue over the split in his lip then rolled his neck and peered up at Ilya through his lashes.

“You haven’t touched the bed here yet.” It wasn’t a question. Ilya nodded anyway. “Fuck me in your bed, Ilya.”

“Boring,” Ilya murmured, teasing. Shane frowned at him then huffed a breath.

“I am going to be the first and last person you ever fuck in that bed, Ilya,” Shane said. His eyes were dark and serious and locked on Ilya.

Something in Ilya bent at those words. Almost to the point of breaking. Ilya wanted to say you’re going to be the last person I fuck anywhere. Or something more romantic and meaningful than that. Something that conveyed just how much he belonged to Shane; how entirely, helplessly, unequivocally, he was devoted to the beautiful man flushed and naked on the carpet beneath him. But he didn’t have the words to express any of it. His tongue was all twisted in knots.

“Я тебя люблю,” he said instead. Because that was always easy to say.

Ilya dragged Shane off the carpet and up the staircase. Fingers pressed into the dimples at the base of his spine, leading him through the empty house with care.

In the bedroom Ilya positioned Shane at the foot of the bed, naked with his arms hanging loosely at his sides, as he found a blanket to protect the new mattress with. Shane had moved several boxes of linens into the room earlier; all stacked beside the box marked ‘Jane.’ (Opened and obviously picked through. Ilya wondered if Shane planned on saying anything about the pile of stolen borrowed clothes inside.) The top box had the ‘sex blanket’ Ilya had bought purely because Shane liked the texture of it and the ease of cleaning one thing rather than a whole set of linens. It was the same one that Shane had at his place in Montreal–though Ilya’s was a deep burgundy rather than Shane’s dull grey.

Once the mattress was covered Ilya laid back, propping himself up on his elbows and cocking an eyebrow at Shane. An invitation. A dare. Shane just scoffed and rolled his eyes before crawling on top of him and kissing him down into the soft blanket. Kissing and stripping Ilya patiently. With all the care in the world. Like he was handling something precious.

Ilya swallowed each of Shane’s tender, bruising kisses. Repressing a shiver at every brush of his tongue.

They ended up fucking with Shane on his hands and knees. Ilya knelt behind him, pushing his palm between Shane’s shoulder blades as Shane liquified, face smooshed into the blanket as his mouth hung open and he drooled. He was past the point of overstimulated. Making high whining noises and low grunting gasps. His body shivering with every stroke of Ilya’s cock over his prostate. Ilya had to focus on his own breathing not to cum, pressing his face into the nape of Shane’s neck and counting as he inhaled and exhaled.

At some point Shane’s had reached for him, groping backwards to grasp at Ilya’s hip, keeping him close as he made the most obscene whimpering sounds Ilya had ever fucking heard.

Ilya fucking loved it when Shane got to this point.

Lost in the sensations curling up his spine and spreading through his limbs. All his tissues lax and melted into the mattress. His hips chasing Ilya’s body even as he twitched with every thrust, prostate abused and sore and oversensitive.

“Okay?” Ilya mumbled, mouth smearing over Shane’s nape.

“Mngh,” Shane nodded and Ilya smiled, nosing at the short hairs there. Damp with sweat and soft beneath Ilya’s touch.

Shane nudged his head back, pressing his hard skull into Ilya’s nose, and Ilya scrapped his teeth over the juncture where Shane’s neck met his shoulder in response. He could read what Shane needed in the way he was pushing, pressing, stretching. Body asking for something more to tip him over the precipice into release.

Ilya’s teeth clamped down.

At the sharp bite of his incisors, Shane came. Moaning sweet and shaky and so pretty as he pushed his face into the mattress.

Ilya had to curl his fingers around the base of his own cock and squeeze to stop himself from cuming as Shane clenched and spasmed around him in the aftershocks. Burying his face into the hot, damp skin between Shane’s tensed shoulder blades. Dragging wet kisses over flesh as he tried his best to keep himself together.

As the ringing in his own ears cleared, the room filled with the ragged sounds of Shane’s breathing. Ilya stroked the back of his boyfriend’s head carefully; Shane’s scalp warm and damp beneath his palm. Ilya’s other hand was slowly soothing up and down Shane’s sides, caressing his shivering ribcage. He stayed inside Shane the whole time, hips rocking just slightly. Unable to help himself.

Eventually Ilya gently eased Shane onto his side. Shushing his whining when Ilya’s cock slipped out of his puffy, clenching hole.

“Is okay, is okay,” Ilya reassured, stretching himself out behind Shane then carefully pushing back into him, curling his arm around Shane’s waist and spreading his fingers out over Shane’s belly, pulling him closer. “I am here,” he murmured into Shane’s throat, nosing at his jawline. “You are okay.”

Shane nodded, pressing into Ilya. His cheek hot and tacky with sweat as he pushed his face into Ilya’s nose, nuzzling close. “‘m okay,” he slurred and Ilya breathed shakily, lips brushing Shane’s cheek.

It was always astounding how easily Shane handed himself over to Ilya. How Ilya could just say ‘you’re okay’ and how quickly Shane would agree. Trusting Ilya to keep him safe, to take care of him. To know when Shane was no longer okay and when to stop.

“One more time, sweetheart,” Ilya kissed the words into the corner of Shane’s mouth, sliding one arm underneath Shane and the other down Shane’s stomach, wrapping his hand around Shane’s twitching cock. Still mostly hard and slick with cum. He stroked Shane slowly, thumb teasing over the head.

“I don’,” Shane shook his head, even as his hips jerked forwards and chased Ilya’s fist. Even as his hips pushed back when Ilya began moving against him. Shane’s arm bent back, sliding around Ilya’s head, fingers tangling into Ilya’s hair, gripping tight as he kissed sloppily at Ilya’s mouth, whining at every dragging press of Ilya’s cock inside of him. “Ilya, Il-Ilya, Ily-ah.”

There were tears forming at the corners of Shane’s eyes, threatening to spill over, clinging to his lower lashes and clumping them together. The colour in his cheeks was splotchy and vibrant; his freckles swallowed by the red dusting over his nose and cheekbones. And when his tears finally fell, with a hiccupping gasp, the tracks they made down his face glistened in the sunlight spilling through the wide bedroom windows.

Ilya licked at Shane’s face, gripping his jaw tight, chewing on Shane’s cheek, relishing in the salty taste of his tears.

Ilya felt a little delirious as his teeth sank into the soft skin of Shane’s cheek, his tongue dragging over the indents left behind. If he could he would tear through flesh and swallow Shane whole. Which was insane. All the blood in his body was in his dick and he was now insane. Lapping helplessly at the tears spilling down Shane’s lovely face and rutting like a desperate animal inside of him. Reduced entirely to an aching, profound need that burned so bright it was cracking him apart.

Heat prickled at his hairline, sweat beading there then slipping down his forehead, catching in his brows. His mouth found Shane’s again and he bit, trapping Shane’s lower lip between his incisors and reopening the wound there. The metallic tang of blood blooming over his tongue made Ilya groan and sigh and shiver and then he was sucking hard on Shane’s lip. Prodding at the flesh with the tip of his tongue.

When he pulled back Shane’s mouth was bloody and shiny with spit and Ilya pressed his thumb into the delicate flesh, smearing the mess over Shane’s chin then leaning in to lick it away.

Shane’s pupils were blown so wide his eyes were almost black and his lids were so heavy he was struggling to keep them open. Each thrust of Ilya’s cock met with a sweet flutter of dark lashes, a fresh bloom of tears, a soft grunt spilling from bitten lips.

“У тебя всё отлично получается,” Ilya murmured, unsure if he was speaking English or Russian or some other third thing that was a mix between the two. He felt drunk. “So good. Мой мальчик. Мой хороший мальчик. So pretty. Красивый. So Красивый.”

A pathetic little whimpering sound tumbled from Shane’s gaping mouth. Shattering the last of Ilya’s composure. Driving him to madness as he moved without restraint. Fucking hard and dirty and cruel into Shane’s pliant body.

“It feels good, yes?” Ilya asked, his accent thick. “You feel so good, I know. Ты так любишь мой член. Моя плаксивая шлюха. So pretty. Ты плачешь, потому что мой член так приятно ощущается внутри тебя. Mm?”

Shane hiccupped and nodded, twisting his torso and stretching towards Ilya, pressing his face into Ilya’s cheek, smearing his lips over Ilya’s jawline. Whining low and needy into Ilya’s skin. Ilya shivered, pushing back, finding Shane’s mouth and then just breathing into him. Sharing air. Desperate and damp and drowning. His own breath spilling out of him in needy gasps and guttural groans.

“Feels s’good,” Shane sighed. “Love you s’much.”

“Love you so much,” Ilya echoed.

When Shane came it was completely dry. His dick twitching in Ilya’s fist and his chest shuddering as he clenched tight around Ilya. The unrelenting pressure around his cock, the gripping warmth of Shane’s body, the way Shane looked beneath him, all of it sent Ilya crashing over the edge, spilling wet and hot inside of Shane. His vision turning fuzzy at the edges as he came for what felt like hours.

In the aftermath he felt wrung out. Like a dishcloth twisted around itself and squeezed dry. His whole body ached, his muscles burned, his blood tingled, his bones shivered. All of him heavy and blissful and warm.

“Святое дерьмо,” Ilya breathed, tucking his face into Shane’s throat and nudging into his pulse point. Shane’s heart was racing. Ilya’s was too. He could hear his own blood crashing in his ears.

“Mm,” Shane hummed, lips dragging over Ilya’s hairline, fingers gently carding through his curls. Touching Ilya so soft and tender it made Ilya want to cry. He swallowed around the urge and pressed a gentle kiss to Shane’s collarbone. Pressing adoring murmurs into Shane’s hot skin.

“Я так сильно тебя люблю. Я люблю тебя больше всего на свете.”

“Love you, love you, love you,” Shane mumbled, mouth fumbling the words as he yawned around them.

After a few, fragile moments Ilya pulled out of Shane gently. Kissing across Shane’s shoulder as he whined, making sure to keep murmuring sweet words in Russian as he tipped Shane onto his back then slid down his body. Pressing praise into Shane’s sternum, his ribs, his hips, the tops of his thighs. Trailing tenderness all the way down Shane’s satiated body to where he was dripping cum. Then Ilya pushed Shane’s knees apart, rubbing soothing circles into his inner thighs with his thumbs.

“Show me, мой Любимый,” Ilya said and Shane hummed, abdomen tensing as he pushed Ilya’s cum out. Ilya watched, enraptured, as the slick dribbled down Shane’s crack and soaked into the blanket below. “So beautiful.”

“Was good?” Shane asked after a quiet moment of Ilya just staring, stifling another yawn as he blinked down his body at Ilya. Dark eyes shiny and dark hair messy. Ilya pressed a kiss to Shane’s hole then crawled back up Shane’s body. Kissing the slick on his lips into Shane’s mouth.

“Was perfect, you are perfect,” Ilya praised, voice syrupy and low.

“S’are you,” Shane smiled, arms wrapping around Ilya’s neck then pulling him close. Nuzzling their foreheads together. “Jus’ lie on top of me for a bit. ‘kay?”

“Yes, okay,” Ilya nodded and settled the full weight of his body over Shane, pressing him into the mattress.

Shane’s chest rumbled with a deep purr, pleased, as he dragged his mouth over Ilya’s temple in clumsy, adoring kisses.

Ilya counted Shane’s slow breaths in the quiet for a while. Ear pressed into Shane’s sternum, listening as his rapidly thrumming heartbeat slowed and eventually steadied. Returning to its familiar rhythm.

“When do your parents get here?” Ilya asked, shuffling up to burrow into the crook of Shane’s neck, curling his fingers around Shane’s ribcage.

“Shhhh,” Shane groaned, burying his nose in Ilya’s hair. “Talk later.”

Ilya pushed his grin into Shane’s skin then hummed, placating and soft. “Okay, later.”

The sun was setting by the time Ilya was out of the shower. Shane had showered first, and alone, needing a moment to himself after Ilya had wrecked him so thoroughly. When he’d come out of the shower he’d bent over Ilya, still stretched out on the messy bed, and had kissed him tenderly on the mouth, the tip of his nose, the slope of his brow. Murmuring soft, clumsy Russian into Ilya’s hairline before leaving the room with a smile.

Showering alone had turned out to be a good idea. He could feel himself again. Skin no longer stretching, trying to fuse with Shane’s, but wrapped securely back around his own sinews, his own tissues, his own bones.

Downstairs he found Shane in the second sitting room, stood by the fireplace in a fresh pair of sweats and a t-shirt, fiddling with something on the mantel. Ilya padded quietly over the hardwood and snaked his arms around Shane’s stomach, nuzzling into his throat as he came up behind him.

“Missed me?” Ilya asked, nipping at Shane’s earlobe.

“No,” Shane answered bluntly, but the way he tangled their hands together over his belly and squeezed at Ilya’s fingers made his ‘no’ read more like a ‘yes.’

“You missed me,” Ilya sing-songed.

“Shut up.”

“What are you doing anyway?” Ilya ignored Shane, digging his chin into Shane’s shoulder then peeking over at the fireplace.

There were three frames propped up against the stone overmantel. Simple, sleek wooden frames with neatly centred photos displayed behind the clear glass.

Photos of his mother.

Ilya released his hold on Shane and stepped around him. Carefully pressing his thumb into the sharp edge of a frame. Throat working uselessly around useless questions. How? When?

All of him suddenly felt split open and exposed.

The silence stretched as Ilya stared at his mother. Behind him he felt as Shane’s anxiety boiled over.

“You said those were your favourites, so I got them framed,” Shane explained. Ilya nodded absently, tracing his pointer finger over the top of the first frame. “I didn’t pick the frames. Obviously. I got it done professionally. The guy at the shop said they will be better preserved like this. But maybe–fuck maybe that was overstepping. I just–I wanted to get them ready for you. I can put them away though. And you can move them if you want. They don’t have to stay there exactly. Also the other photos are in the box still; I left it in the kitchen.” A pause. “Oh, and the ones you didn’t want to throw out but didn’t want to look at are on that shelf in the garage. We can find a better place for them but that will do for now I think.”

“Shane.”

“Yes?”

“Give me a minute.”

“Okay.”

There hadn’t been many photos that Ilya had cared about from Russia, in the end. Just enough to fill a small, flat box that Ilya could tuck neatly away beneath his bed. The box–which had been kept with Shane over the last week–contained just enough of his past so as not to forget it.

A few pictures of his father from when he’d been younger. When his hair had been thick and his eyes bright blue instead of dull grey. And then a few of him older, stoic and disapproving in his uniform. Those pictures in particular made something coil ugly and sick in Ilya’s stomach but, still, he was his father, and Ilya loved him. So he kept them.

A collection of photos of Svetlana and Ilya as children in Moscow, chasing birds in the park and eating ice cream and pulling silly faces at the camera. Sat together on Svetlana’s couch, her mother between them and smiling big and adoring at the person behind the camera.

One photo of his brother with baby Ilya asleep beside him on their old lounge, the one with the ugly floral upholstery.

Several pictures of his paternal grandparents, his бабушка with a cigarette caught between her teeth and her hand clamped around Ilya’s shoulder as they stood in grey coats in the thick snow. A picture of his дедушка with baby Ilya on his lap, a cigarette between his fingers, waving his hand over Ilya’s head and shedding ashes. If he looked close enough, he could see spots of cigarette ash in his own blonde hair.

A handful of photos of Ilya as a baby, a toddler, a young boy, a young man. Mostly kept because Yuna wanted to see them and Shane had smiled so adoringly at them that Ilya hadn’t had the heart to discard them. He’d given a couple to Shane; one of Ilya smiling open-mouthed at the camera with his front two teeth missing and his mother’s make-up smeared all over his mouth and eyelids and cheeks and another of Ilya in his skates on the ice for the first time poking his tongue out at the camera and scrunching his nose. Like a bunny. Yuna had asked to keep the photo of Ilya as a toddler sat on the linoleum floor surrounded by flour, clutching several kitchen utensils in his tiny fists. She had a near identical photo of Shane in a similar mess and when Ilya had gone to the Hollanders’ cottage that last night before leaving Lanaudière he’d seen the photos framed side-by-side on the credenza by the dining table.

And then there were the photos of his mother.

Several of her in her wedding dress looking miserable and dull in thick, creamy lace, weighed down by the heavy veil shrouding her bright eyes.

A few of her from her days as a ballerina; stretching on the floor; pulling her hair tight into a fierce bun; smiling beside the girl that would go on the be the Prima Ballerina of the Bolshoi theatre.

The photos of Irina in the 80s were Ilya’s favourite though. His mama wearing her hair big and smiling coyly over her shoulder at the camera with the sun shining through her golden curls. His mama squatting in a pair of roller-skates by the Moskva River, her kneepads all scratched up, and her elbows bruised and bleeding but her face bright and cheerful. His mama with her lips pressed into another woman’s temple, holding her close with a hand buried in the woman’s brown hair. Ilya wondered who she was.

And then there were the photos of Irina with Ilya. Kissing three year old Ilya’s cheek and holding him tight to her chest. Pressing her nose to newborn Ilya’s nose and smiling gently. Wrapping her arms around Ilya’s middle and biting her lip against a grin as six year old Ilya frowned at the camera in his hockey gear. There weren’t many but it was more than he’d ever thought he’d get.

It was enough.

In the first frame was the photo of his mama in the Moscow sunshine. Her hair big and blonde and beautiful. Her smile coy and her eyes crinkled at the corners. In the second frame was Ilya with his mama, Irina’s mouth pressed to toddler Ilya’s chubby cheek. And, in the final frame, Irina in her roller-skates looking more alive and carefree than Ilya ever remembered seeing her.

“She was very beautiful,” Ilya murmured. His nose twitched and he rubbed at it roughly.

“Like you,” Shane said, matter-of-fact, and Ilya huffed a wet laugh before clearing his throat.

“Don’t use my dead mother to flirt with me, Hollander.”

“I mean it,” Shane retorted. He’d stepped up beside Ilya at some point as he’d stood silent and staring at the photos on the mantel. One of Shane’s big hands caressed the back of Ilya’s head, strong fingers weaving through his curls, thumb brushing over his temple. “You look just like her. And you are very beautiful.”

Ilya nodded, sniffed, then swallowed around the lump in his throat. Still staring at Irina grinning in her skates.

“Milana looks just like her,” Ilya said.

“Your niece?” Shane asked. Ilya hmm’ed in affirmation.

“I think mama would hate that I failed her.”

“You haven’t failed anyone, Ilya,” Shane asserted, stepping closer, pressing his thumb tight to Ilya’s temple. Ilya nudged into the touch.

“I tried to text my sister-in-law. Give her my new number,” Ilya said. “The number was disconnected. I think Alexei maybe took her phone. Made her get a new one so I cannot reach her.”

“You think he would do that?”

“Yes.”

He felt as Shane exhaled, deep and sighing through his nose. Warm air brushing over Ilya’s cheek and jaw. Ilya inhaled and held his breath for a beat.

“Could you give Alexei your new number?” The question made Ilya bristle and he pulled back, just a fraction, turning his gaze on Shane. Shane didn’t release him, soothing his fingers through Ilya’s curls. “If Alexei has it then maybe your sister-in-law will be able to find it. If she ever needs it.”

“If I give it to him, he will just ask for money,” Ilya grumbled and Shane nodded, pursing his lips.

“Would he save your number though?”

“Probably.” Ilya shrugged.

Shane hmm’ed then dragged his hand down, clasping his palm around the nape of Ilya’s neck. “I’m not telling you what to do or what not to do. In this situation I am entirely selfish and my only concern is you.” Shane punctuated his point by pressing his thumb delicately to the corner of Ilya’s eye. “But you, Ilya, you are good and kind and generous, and I know you would feel better if you knew there was a way for them to find you. If they ever really needed you.”

Ilya stared at Shane. And Shane stared back. Seeing right through him. The soft parts of Ilya held up to the light and observed with tenderness under Shane’s dark gaze.

“I will text Alexei,” Ilya said and Shane nodded, leaning in to press a soft kiss to Ilya’s temple.

Alexei

Yuna and David Hollander knocked on Ilya’s front door at seven pm holding several boxes of pizza and a six-pack of beer. Canadian beer, specifically, to go along with the ‘Welcome to Canada’ gift basket they’d assembled for Ilya. The wicker basket decorated with a red ribbon and a mini Canadian flag stuck into the handle; inside the basket was a $100 gift card for Tim Hortons and a bear wearing a maple leaf sweater and an assortment of Canadian sweets and a postcard from Niagara Falls and a badge that read ‘Kiss Me I’m Canadian.’ Ilya waved the red and white badge in Shane’s face and puckered his lips, making annoying kissy noises until Shane relented and pecked his mouth with an eyeroll.

“There’s also a bunch of pens,” David said, riffling through the basket then pulling out a few pens with ‘Treasury Board of Canada’ embossed in gold along the cylinder. There was a matching notepad to go along with the pens. “I know pens aren’t the most exciting thing, but I swear every time I’ve moved house, I’ve always ended up needing them. And somehow none of my boxes ever had any.”

“I don’t think Ilya will ever need to buy himself a pen again, dad,” Shane muttered. There were a total of thirteen pens spread out over the kitchen counter. Ilya just grinned at his collection.

“Thank you, David,” Ilya said then turned to Yuna who was snooping through the kitchen drawers, allegedly looking for a bottle opener. “Thank you, Yuna.”

“Mm? Oh, sure, you’re welcome,” she waved a hand. “Ilya you do not have a toaster oven. Would you like one? I have a spare.”

“Mum,” Shane said, warning.

“Also, I don’t see any oven mitts. Have you finished unpacking your kitchen stuff?” Yuna continued, ignoring Shane.

“Uh, yes,” Ilya nodded. He had managed to finish unpacking the kitchen whilst they’d been waiting for Yuna and David. Shane arguing with him the whole time about the proper place for everything.

“Look at this mug, it has a moose on it,” David said, holding up the mug in question with a grin. “You could put your pens in it.”

“Yes, good idea,” Ilya nodded and scooped up the pile of pens, taking the mug from David then dumping them into the porcelain. “Looks good.”

“Ilya, would you like a rice cooker too?” Yuna called from the pantry, her head hidden behind the grey doors. “I have two and I think you’d like it. Shane eats a lot of brown rice. Do you?”

“Uh…” Ilya blinked. Shane was leaning against the bench beside him, pressing his forehead into his fingertips and muttering beneath his breath. Something that sounded a lot like ‘please stop.’

Ilya pushed a palm into Shane’s hair, rubbing his thumb over his nape and then along the soft skin of his earlobe. He didn’t know how to tell Shane that he hoped this never stopped. That he hadn’t felt this loved or cared for or important since maybe… ever. Even when his mother had been alive there had been long stretches of time when she had been absent, physically there, but just… absent. And even though her love had glowed, warm and tender like a flame, the light she radiated had only stretched so far. Darkness always encroaching too close for comfort at the edges of her tenderness.

The combined light of Shane, and Yuna, and David was so much brighter. Ilya felt safe, nestled by the open flame of their warmth.

“I got you this tea towel,” David announced. It was black and red plaid with a white maple leaf printed over it. “Though oven mitts would be better. We’ll get you some.”

“They don’t have to be Canada-themed,” Shane said, though it sounded more like pleading. Ilya dug his nail into the bruise he’d bitten into Shane’s nape. Trying to bring his boyfriend out of his head. A hitched gasp fell from Shane at the touch and he squirmed, rolling his shoulders. “This is very nice of you, dad. But I don’t think Ilya wants to turn his house into a shrine to Canada.”

“Right, right,” David nodded, looking at Ilya sheepishly then tucking away the tea towel. Back into the gift basket. “Maybe we went overboard.”

There was a horrified gasp behind them and Ilya startled, spinning to find Yuna crouched and peering into a drawer. Ilya’s mind immediately spiralled. Had she found lube? A dildo? A vibrator? Had he put any of those things in the kitchen?

Beside him Shane was clearly wondering the same thing, his skin turned grey and his eyes wide.

“Ilya, why are your pans in this drawer? This is all wrong,” Yuna tutted and Ilya’s heart started beating again. Shoulders loosening as an endeared smile spread over his mouth. Yuna and Shane were so similar.

“I told you they don’t belong there,” Shane mumbled and Ilya rolled his eyes, huffing a laugh.

“I didn’t know there was a right place for pans,” Ilya shrugged.

“There’s a right place for everything,” Yuna insisted and began pulling pans from the drawer.

“Mum, leave them,” Shane straightened up and joined his mother across the kitchen. “If Ilya wants them in the wrong spot, then that’s his choice.”

“I can’t leave it like this, Shane!”

“Put it back. Mum. Stop.”

“Sure you want to be a part of this family, kid?” David asked.

Ilya looked over at David, the man was smiling kindly, his eyes crinkled at the corners. Ilya couldn’t help but smile back, something warm churning in his chest.

“Absolutely.”

Along with the pizza David had also brought his special edition Canadian Monopoly, and they all sat in a loose circle on the rug in the lounge room and rolled dice and drank beer and ate pizza and laughed. Ilya slid a pillow beneath Shane when he went to sit on the rug–the cushion embroidered with a maple leaf and gifted by David–and Shane had blushed furiously when his parents asked if he’d hurt himself. Ilya quickly saving his boyfriend from dying of embarrassment and explaining that Shane had fallen over earlier, his socks slipping on the hardwood floors. Yuna had tutted and told Shane to be more careful, especially with pre-season starting so soon. Ilya had buried a giggle in a bite of greasy pepperoni pizza as Shane had punched him in the arm, hard. David had just rolled the dice and shook his head.

As the game unfolded Ilya saw the competitive, brilliant, annoying, cocky, fucking sexy man he loved in all his glory. Shane, as the real estate mogul of the family, took the game particularly seriously. Accruing property across the board and bankrupting everyone with a smug little smirk. Dark eyes bright and fierce, narrowed on the pile of colourful money growing at his side and shrinking by everyone else. Ilya wanted to shove his tongue down Shane’s throat and only managed to hold himself back because Yuna and David were there. If they weren’t, Ilya may have tried to fuck him again.

Eventually Ilya ran out of money and Shane had stolen bought all his property, but Ilya was so attracted to the smug look on his stupid, handsome face that he didn’t even care. Yuna had lost all her money to a community chest card and only David was left. Though, he probably wasn’t going to last much longer. He only had four properties and two apartments left.

“I’m too old to sit on the floor for this long,” Yuna groaned as she stretched, pressing her palms into her lower back and leaning to the side.

“Thirty-five is not old,” Ilya said and Yuna grinned, reaching over to pat his cheek.

“You’re a sweet boy,” she cooed.

“Ew, that would mean she had me at like eight years old,” Shane scrunched up his nose.

“I know you are gay, Shane, but surely you know how to compliment a woman,” Ilya sighed, feigning disappointment.

“Stop trying to flirt with my mum,” Shane bit back.

“I am not flirting. I am… kissing ass,” Ilya smirked and Shane whacked him.

“That’s worse!”

“You like when I kiss your a–”

“If you finish that sentence I will leave,” Shane threatened, voice pitched low. Ilya threw up his hands and tilted his head innocently. Across the circle he saw Yuna attempting to hide a giggle behind her hand and he winked at her. “Ilya!”

“What?” Ilya returned in the same, childish tone.

“Ilya, let’s leave David and Shane to finish the game,” Yuna interjected before Shane could retort. “I want to see the rest of the house.”

“Yes, of course,” Ilya stood up with a flourish and extended his hand down to Yuna, helping her to her feet. Shane glared at him from the floor and Ilya just blew him a kiss. “David will lose soon anyway.”

“Hey!” David protested, mildly, with a laugh. “I could… maybe come back from this.” He waved a hand at his small pile of money. “I’ve come back from worse.”

Shane scoffed. David cocked an eyebrow at his son.

“Oh, you’re going down kid,” David said. “Give me the dice.”

“Let’s go before this gets ugly,” Yuna whispered and Ilya nodded, leading Yuna out of the room, her hand wrapped around his elbow.

Ilya led Yuna back through the dining room and kitchen and into the second lounge. At the fireplace she paused, loosening her hold on his arm and picking a picture frame carefully from the shelf. The one with the photo of his mother smiling right into the camera.

“Your mother?” Yuna asked, glancing at Ilya. He nodded. “You look just like her. Same eyes. Same smile.”

“Thank you,” Ilya swallowed, eyes following as she set the photo carefully back in its place. He liked the photos where they were he decided. He would probably keep them there.

There was a polaroid of Shane at the cottage in Ilya’s backpack upstairs, smiling bright in the sunshine with his hair wet from the lake and his freckles all scrunched up around his nose. Ilya wished he could display it next to the photos of his mother.

“Are you glad you went back?” Yuna was cradling the photo of Ilya and his mother close to her chest, smiling softly.

Ilya hummed, considering. Was he glad he went back?

There were many things he wished he could take back, erase, rewind. Things he would have done differently given a redo. Things he would have fixed if he could’ve. And those things rolled into something painful and heavy and sank like a stone in his gut but…

“Yes,” Ilya said, eventually. “But I was much more… glad to come back home.”

“Mm,” Yuna nodded, putting the photo back then turning to him and pressing her palm to his cheek. “We're glad you’re home, too.”

And for a second, stood there beside Yuna, Ilya swore he could hear his mama’s voice murmuring Я очень тебя люблю, моё маленькое солнышко.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you thank you thank you for reading this, for your kudos and comments and attention! Thank you!

In my mind Ilya has a good first year in Ottawa and by mid-way through the second year things start to spiral with his mental health. By the time we get to the third year (TLG) then Ilya is in a full depression.

I started this series applying for my PhD and I have now finished it and been officially accepted and offered a full scholarship. Y'all that's so wild :")

Love ya Xx

Talk to me on Tumblr for updates on The Ottawa Year~