Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Post-Episode: s01e06 The Cottage (Heated Rivalry), Fluff, 5+1 Things, they are so in love it's sickening, Teasing, Spoilers for Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Established Relationship

Language:

English

Series:

Part 13 of heated rivalry masterlist

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-19 Words: 6,027 Chapters: 1/1

i guess what's wrong is when we're kissing, we can't talk

Summary

“Ilya,” Shane says warningly, but he’s too late as the grin unfurls across Ilya’s face. “I said no laughing,” he snaps, glaring at him. “You’re laughing.”

Ilya shakes his head. “Is not at you, sweetheart,” he says, unable and unwilling to stop his beaming. “I am just—happy. To share this with you.” He meets Shane’s eyes. “You are—singularity,” he says, careful with his pronunciation. “My favorite.”

Shane goes red so fast, Ilya worries about his heart for a second.

“I just want to know you,” Shane murmurs, closing his eyes when Ilya lifts his hand up and strokes through his hair. “I miss you when you aren't around, and I want to carry the little bits of you I can.”

OR: Shane has some questions. Ilya always seems to have an answer. (And one time, Ilya has a question, too.)

Notes

pillowtalk is so goddamn cute, it was so inspiring - i loved it, please go read!!

• Inspired by pillowtalk by floormusic

Ghosts

Ilya is pleasantly sweaty, stretched out across the mattress, one hand settled on his sternum, his other loosely curled around Shane's back, listening to his steady and gentle exhales as they both settle back into their bodies. 

Shane twitches underneath his hand, a stuttering motion rolling down his spine.

It's not his usual, I need to go and be a person about this mess, twitch, but something a little less restless, a little more confused. 

Ilya cracks his eyes open, peering at Shane as he wiggles in closer, setting his palm down across Ilya's ribs, and resting his chin on the back of his hand.

Ilya blinks at him, watching as his face contorts into a strange grimace before settling back into curiosity. 

“Do you believe in ghosts?” 

Ilya blinks at him again, but the inquisitive look on his face doesn't change. He glances around, trying to see if there is something in the room that could've drawn out this question, but it looks the same as it always does: wide glass panes looking out at the lake, his semi-cluttered bedside table, Shane's eternally neat one. 

Sunlight pools across the floor, as cicadas hum outside, frogs croaking in the reeds, while birds splash through the water; no, nothing here would ever bring to mind ghosts.

He turns to look back at Shane, wrinkling his nose. “What?”

Shane hums, his cheekbones turning pink, but repeats himself, looking sheepish. “Do you, uh, believe in ghosts?” 

“Ghosts,” Ilya echoes flatly, a little bit bewildered by what the hell is happening. He has never fucked someone so well that they were injured afterwards, but he supposes that if it were to happen to anyone, it would be Shane; he always gives his all. “You are asking about ghosts, Hollander.” 

Shane nods, and Ilya frowns at him. “Did you hit your head?” he asks, lifting his hand up to gently press around the crown of his head. He can't feel a bump, but that may just be because of his thick skull. “Is okay if so—” 

Shane bats his hand away with an annoyed look. “Fuck off, I didn't hit my head—I was just curious.” 

Ilya squints at him but lets him knock his hand away.

“Believe in ghosts?” he repeats to himself, rolling the odd question around in his mind.

“You don't have to answer—”

“Shut up, Shane,” Ilya murmurs, lifting himself up to drop a kiss on his cheek. “You asked, and I am answering. Is just a complicated question, no? Ghosts are many things, I think.”

Shane furrows his brow. “Are they?” he asks, his eyes fixed on the wall across the room, as if that will give him answers. Fondness wells up in Ilya; he loves this weird man with his whole heart. He has never had someone still unsteady from orgasm ask him about ghosts. He wants to prod at Shane, wants to understand him in ways he has never been greedy for. “I thought they'd be more like, you know, you look up, and there's like a ghost, uh, standing there.” 

Ilya laughs, unabashed, and accepts the gentle thump against his ribs as his due. 

“I think yes, that is one,” he says, dragging his fingers up and down Shane's back, firm enough not to tickle. “I think, also, there is more. Ghosts are ideas, no? Haunting is an, hm, is like world before rain. You can taste the difference.” He shrugs, meeting Shane’s gaze. “I think I would not go to graves and ask for proof. Would be—unkind.” 

“So is that a yes?” Shane asks, his brow wrinkled. He looks flat and annoyed, and Ilya loves him so much he cannot stand it. He wants to be asked such strange questions forever. “Or no?” 

“Ghosts, as you said, I do not know,” Ilya settles on, because Shane has always deserved his truth, even if he doesn't know how to say it. “It is not something I think about. Ghosts as haunting? Yes, I think so. Would be unfair to not have them, to not let them creep around the edges.” 

Shane hums, rocking his chin across his knuckles. “Yeah, okay,” he settles on, and Ilya can't help the laugh that slips free. 

“Oh, was this a test?” he asks, grinning when Shane rolls his eyes. “Would you have kicked me out if I did not believe?” 

“You're so annoying,” Shane says, but he's smiling, so Ilya ignores it. “And no, I wouldn't kick you out. I just—I don't really think about ghosts.”

“I did not think so,” Ilya murmurs, which he is glad for, truly. The dead are better left alone. “Why the question, solnyshko?”

Shane flushes, pink spilling across his skin, down his back. 

“It's silly,” he says, which is code for please bug me until I spill, my love, if Ilya has ever heard of one. “And stupid.”

“Is neither,” Ilya corrects. “You have asked a question, and I have answered. Would be unfair to not give me the same, no?” 

Shane squints at him, stilling. “I don't want you to make fun of me,” he says, pink dancing across his face. “Or like, you can make fun of—whatever. I—my mom—” He sighs. “My mom gets a subscription to a magazine. Cosmopolitan.”

“Yes, I know,” Ilya says, smirking at him. “Mister Number One Hottest Man, 2016.”

Shane groans and rolls his eyes. “She wanted me to read something in the latest one, I dunno—” 

“You have already forgotten the article?” Ilya asks, raising a brow. “Maybe you do need more in your brain than hockey.” 

“Leave me alone,” Shane whines, even as he poorly tries to hide a smile. “I'm trying to—do you want to know or not?” 

Ilya mimes zipping his lips, even though he’s smiling too wide for it to make sense, and Shane sighs, averting his eyes to stare at the wall. 

“There was a different article,” he says, sounding long-suffering. Ilya loves the way it zings through him, how clear it is that he can get under Shane's skin. What a gift to be an annoyance. “And it was—it was about how important connections are in bed.” Ilya watches as the tips of his ears turn red enough to be a tomato. He wants to bite them, wants to sink his teeth into the heart of Shane and stay forever as he listens to him trip over his words. “And about what some fun questions were to ask.” He pauses, his eyes flicking to Ilya's and then away. “In bed. After sex.” 

Ilya presses his lips together, adoration singing in his soul. 

The quiet swells between them, as Ilya fights back the urge to laugh; not at Shane, not about this, but at the clear reluctance that's smeared across his face, the grumpy pout that sits on his mouth. 

“Ilya,” Shane says warningly, but he’s too late as the grin unfurls across Ilya’s face. “I said no laughing,” he snaps, glaring at him. “You’re laughing.” 

Ilya shakes his head. “Is not at you, sweetheart,” he says, unable and unwilling to stop his beaming. “I am just—happy. To share this with you.” He meets Shane’s eyes. “You are—singularity,” he says, careful with his pronunciation. “My favorite.” 

Shane goes red so fast, Ilya worries about his heart for a second. 

“I just want to know you,” Shane murmurs, closing his eyes when Ilya lifts his hand up and strokes through his hair. “I miss you when you aren't around, and I want to carry the little bits of you I can.” 

“I am haunting you,” Ilya says, smiling. Ghosts and memories and love; who's to say they aren't all the same in the end? “Da, yes, I like.” 

Shane opens his eyes, chewing on his bottom lip. “Am I haunting you?” he asks, sounding shy. 

Ilya can't help himself, he curls his hands around Shane's arms and tugs him up, so that they're face to face. 

“Of course you are, moy lyubimyj,” he murmurs, dropping kisses across his forehead, dotting them across his freckles. “My most favorite ghost of all.” 

Art

Ilya is hardly able to inhale a full lungful of air, slumped over Shane's back as he is. 

“You're heavy,” Shane mutters, wriggling against him, before letting out a yelp as Ilya swats lazily at his ass. “Fucking—get off me, Ilya.” 

“I have got off,” Ilya says smugly, though he thinks it might be muffled as he rubs his cheek across the top of Shane's spine, mouthing at his skin. “Was very impressive. We both cheered.” 

“We did not,” Shane says primly, and squirms out from underneath him, ignoring the pitiful moan Ilya lets out as he slips away. “Oh my god, you're impossible. Get over here.” 

Ilya scrambles up the sheets, toppling back over Shane, pressing his face into the damp curve of his neck to hide his smile as Shane fusses over their cooling bodies.

He clears his throat after a few moments of silence, and Ilya reluctantly pulls his face out of his hiding spot, meeting Shane’s eyes. 

“Do you have a favorite piece of art?” Shane asks, arching a brow, before he glares when Ilya snickers. “What?” 

“I have a favorite piece of art,” Ilya says, with a sly smirk, his eyes twinkling. “I could show you—is a picture of you, and me, and your mouth is—” 

“Ilya,” Shane snaps, narrowing his eyes. Ilya can see the faint amusement in the shape of his mouth and doesn't let his irritation stop him from dropping a kiss on his shoulder. “That's not what I meant.” 

Ilya laughs again, shaking his head. “Fine, yes, okay. What art do I like?” He squints, letting the questions roll around his head. He's not really an art person, but he also doesn't want to not answer. He would turn over every heavy stone in his heart just so Shane could peek; he wouldn’t even think about the weight. “Is it okay if I do not say painting? You are very strict, Hollander. I do not want to cause issue.” 

Shane rolls his eyes. “Whatever you want your art to be, it can be that, I guess,” he says as Ilya settles back in against him. “I was thinking of paintings or, like, museum installations. Why? What came to mind?” 

“Ballet and music,” Ilya murmurs after a slight pause. He can feel Shane's gaze on the top of his head, but doesn't glance at him. “The Moscow Symphony Orchestra was always a sight to see. It was—” He pauses, pressing his lips together, his lightheartedness draining away. “Tradition.” 

“It was always so beautiful,” he continues, letting his eyes drift shut as he curls into Shane, his cheek settling on his shoulder. “The snow, the music. We would go in winter, wearing thick coats. Could almost taste the notes, the hum of sound. I would not want to forget how it felt, moy lyubimyj. Would be like missing a part of me.” 

“That sounds really nice,” Shane whispers, after Ilya falls silent, his voice thick. There's a beat of quiet, and then his cheek settles in against the crown of Ilya's head. “Would you want to go to an orchestra again? Or to see the Nutcracker this winter?” 

“I do not know,” Ilya answers honestly. He feels scraped raw by the question; he has not thought of those long, cold winters before his mother died in quite some time. “It could hurt.” 

Shane nods, and for a long moment, they're still and silent, soaking in each other's warmth. 

“Do you have a favorite art?” Ilya asks, curious as always, even as he slips closer to sleep. 

Shane shifts underneath him, reaching for his hand, and Ilya's lip curls into a soft smile as he laces their fingers together. 

“I'm not big on art,” he says wryly, and Ilya squeezes his hand, one quick pulse of understanding. “But there’s a big art museum in Ottawa that I went to growing up. The National Gallery of Canada.” 

“Yes,” Ilya says. He knows exactly what museum Shane's talking about. “David enjoys the art there. Yuna is meh. She prefers the rink to the gallery.” 

Shane snorts, but doesn't argue. “There was a painting, and I don't know if it's still up, or if it's in a backroom for some reason, but it was a little town, covered in snow.” He pauses, and Ilya hums, a quiet prompt when the silence lingers too long. 

“I dunno why I liked it so much,” he says, soft and uncertain, as if he’s fumbling for a light switch in the dark, feeling out the expanse of his own walls. Ilya wonders if he knows how much of his uncertainty is a gift, if he knows how intimate it feels to be allowed the unvarnished truth straight from his mouth. “But it just felt—real, I guess. It was mostly white and blue, these yellow walls in the distance, and I just remembered I could feel it, in my chest sort of. Not like I was there, but just—” He shrugs, careful not to dislodge Ilya from his shoulder. “We'll have to go back and see if I can show you. If you, uh, if you want.” 

“Yes,” Ilya says, soft and certain. “I want.” 

“Cool,” Shane says, and Ilya can hear the happiness in his voice. 

He drops another kiss to Shane's warm skin and sighs, wrung out and close to dozing.  

“Yeah,” Shane says, tracing his knuckles gently. “I hear you.” He squeezes his hand. “Take a nap, baby, if you want. The world will be here when you wake up.” 

“And you?” Ilya manages to ask, even as drowsiness floods his body and he slides down a bit lower, resting on Shane's chest. “You will be okay?” 

“Of course,” Shane murmurs, syrupy sweet devotion soaking through voice. He sounds almost offended that Ilya would even ask. “I've got you, haven't I?” 

Ilya nods in agreement, using the last of his awareness to do so, and drifts out to sleep, content in Shane's arms. 

One Word

Shane wipes at his panting mouth, his brow crinkling up, and Ilya immediately begins to smile without meaning to, well aware of just what that expression on his face means.

“Were you thinking of your question, solnyshko?” Ilya asks, tenderhearted with love. He doesn’t even care that he’s soppy with emotion; he would dare anyone to find a man who gives head like a champion and wants to know all of his intimate thoughts to not be besotted. “Is not normally what you are after on your knees, no?” 

Shane swats at him, his cheeks bright pink. “Shut up,” he mutters, even as he drops a kiss to Ilya’s thigh and makes no move to rise from between his legs. “It’s a habit now.”

Ilya curls his fingers tighter into Shane’s hair, well-aware that he has not cum yet, a smirk emerging. “Well,” he says, tugging lightly. “What is question?” 

Shane hisses, arching into the motion, his eyelashes fluttering as he squirms, before Ilya releases his grip, letting him relax. 

“Asshole,” Shane mutters, but it's too fond for Ilya to take to heart. “I was just—if you could describe yourself in one word, what would it be?” 

Ilya hums, frowning. “Only one word?” he asks. He can think of many words to describe himself, but only one will be hard—made, all the worse by stupid English. 

Shane nods, still leaning against his legs as Ilya tucks himself away, one hand curling around his ankle, warm fingertips pressed against his skin. 

“I do not think I have word for this one,” Ilya says slowly, thinking it over. “I can tell you word for you, but for me? No, I do not have.” 

Shane furrows his brow, looking faintly suspicious. “What word would you use for me?” 

“Brave,” Ilya answers immediately, watching Shane’s face shift into surprise before it settles into his favorite expression of all: deep, unending love. “Bravest man I know, no? Bravest person, truly.”

“Ilya,” Shane breathes out, and Ilya can't stop himself from swooping down to smatter kisses across his brow, over his freckles, on his mouth. 

He loves him, his kind, brave boyfriend; his beautiful, strange Shane. 

“You're brave too,” Shane says, in between kisses. “I think that word suits you well.” 

Ilya shrugs, pulling back. “Is not my word,” he says, because he isn't brave, not like Shane is. He hums, turning the question over in his mind. “Could pick one like hot or sexy.” 

“Those are both true,” Shane says, squeezing his ankle. “I was thinking more along the lines of kind, or even more simply, good.” He flushes at the look Ilya sends him. “What? You're a good person.” 

“I am not kind,” Ilya says, arching a brow, even as his mouth twitches. “I am, in fact, very, very mean.” 

Shane makes a disbelieving sound in the back of his throat. “You're kind,” he says immediately. “I'll give you that maybe you're not nice all the time, but you're the kindest person I know, baby. You always treat people with compassion, and you love—actually, you know what? I'm changing my answer. Your word isn't kind or good, though both are still true. Your word is loveable.” 

Ilya stares at him as Shane beams up at him, looking pleased. He feels oddly gutted by the word, caught off guard by the sudden rush of odd hope that spills through.

“Why loveable?” he manages to ask, feeling like his heart is going to explode. You love me, he wants to murmur, like it's a revelation, because it is every time he hears it, despite it being an axis on which his world spins.

Shane shrugs as if he's somehow heard his thoughts. “It’s the easiest thing in my life to love you,” he murmurs. “Your heart, your strength, your unwavering support—every day I think I can't possibly love you more, and every day I get to go to bed proved absolutely wrong.” 

“And I mean, there's a reason that both my parents love you so much, and it's that you're so easy to love, Ilya. You're just—you're everything to me, which I guess could be another word, but I'm selfish enough to want that to be my word for you and not the world's.” 

Ilya stares down at Shane, blinking back the rush of emotion that swamps him. He, too, knows exactly what Shane means, knows the exact flavor of greed that coats his words. 

When they're out, Ilya won't hold back his love—he'll shout it from the rooftops, throw parades in their honor. He's planning on being the most obnoxious, smitten fool there's ever been. 

But still, despite that, there are things he doesn't ever want to share; the sight of Shane in the too-early morning, bleary-eyed and yawning. Or, the noise he makes when Ilya slides inside of him, shocked by how good it feels every single time. Or, the laughter he lets himself fall into at the cottage, shameless and unabashed, free from everything he thinks he should be.  

“We are bad at this question,” Ilya murmurs after a beat, pressing his lips together. He shakes his head, shoving all of his sappy emotions away. “If you had one word for yourself, what would it be?” 

Shane hums, before a tiny smirk crosses his face. Ilya arches his brow, immediately intrigued as Shane shifts before him. 

“Right now?” Shane asks, and flushes when Ilya nods. “Uh, horny?” 

Ilya laughs, boisterous and delighted, the weight on his shoulders lifting. 

“We cannot have that, sweetheart,” Ilya says, and reaches down for him, hunger rising. “Come here and let me change your word to satisfied.” 

Shane laughs, his face still streaked with bright pink, but rises, settling into Ilya’s lap with a grin. 

“Do your worst, Rozanov,” he murmurs, winding his arms around Ilya's neck. 

Ilya smirks, his eyes dark with desire as his hands drop to the waistband of Shane's shorts, running over the thin material as Shane bites back quiet moans at the touch. “Oh, moya shlyukha, I intend to.” 

Scent

The windows are open, the soft sounds of the burgeoning night spilling in through the screens as Shane sprawls across Ilya’s chest, idly pressing kisses against his skin as his fingers draw tiny swirls across his chest. 

They've been lying there for a while, sated and content, and for a moment, Ilya forgets that they have a routine. He’s, instead, sliding closer and closer to sleep by the time Shane stirs, shifting to get even closer somehow. 

He buries his face into the crook of Ilya's neck and mutters something he can't quite catch. 

“Hm?” Ilya murmurs, keeping his eyes closed. “Is important?” 

Shane shrugs but obligingly peels his face out of his hiding spot. 

“Favorite smell?” Shane asks quietly. He sounds muddled with laziness, a little bit of a slur in his soft words. Ilya reaches for him blindly, listening to him hum when he pats at his hip, before he slides his hand up, pressing into the curve of his ribs.  

“This,” Ilya says, unashamed, even as Shane makes a disapproving sound in the back of his throat. “You, then, if I am not allowed to say sex.”

“It's not that you're not allowed,” Shane grumbles. “It's just that—is it really your favorite smell?” 

Ilya shrugs, a smooth motion. “Is the two of us,” he answers, running his fingers over Shane's ribs. “What else would I say?” 

Shane hums. “I would've thought you had a cologne of some kind. Didn't you say you liked one in that interview you did ages ago?” 

Ilya's mouth curls into a fond smile. “Wow,” he says, mellow teasing in his tone. “You are obsessed with me, Hollander.” Shane groans, but Ilya doesn't let that deter him, love coursing through his veins. “I will sign something for you to treasure, I promise. Cannot let my number one fan go home empty-handed.” 

“I'm pretty sure I'm not empty-handed,” Shane says, as he reaches down and runs a hand over Ilya. Ilya grins, cracking his eyes open to find Shane staring at him, completely unimpressed. “So do with that what you will.” 

“Did not say you were not my number one fan,” Ilya shoots back, beaming. He pauses, thinking it through. “You are so in love with me.”

Shane huffs, pulling his hand back. “Well, yeah,” he says, and Ilya's chest fills with happiness so quickly he feels as if he could explode. “Of course, I'm your number one fan.” 

“Are my number one smell,” Ilya offers, grinning at the noise of disgruntlement Shane makes. “And I am your biggest fan, obviously.” 

“Obviously,” Shane echoes, his mouth twitching. “You seriously think the smell of sex is the best one out there?” 

“Is not just sex, solnyshko,” Ilya says immediately. His tongue feels thick in his mouth as he tries to explain. “It is us.” He inhales slowly, getting a lungful of salt and sweat, but also the faint scent of Shane's bodywash, and the ever-present lemon of cleaning products that clings to him, the rich musk of Shane’s skin that is unmistakably him. 

He smells like home, like warmth and love and safety, and Ilya doesn’t have the words to explain that it’s as if he’s undone with devotion every time he steps into their bedroom and gets a lungful of Shane, of them; that it’s like stepping into a cool lake under the moon and hearing nature sing with joy, that it’s another small, irreplaceable piece that makes him happy.

“There is nothing in world that smells like we do,” he murmurs. “Nothing that is as welcoming to my lungs. I know home by sight and touch, but also by smell. By how traces of you linger, even when you have not been at my home for days.” 

“Well, when you put it like that,” Shane rasps, flushing up to the tips of his ears. “Of course it’s the best smell out there.” 

Ilya’s lips curl into a fond grin. “What is yours?” 

“Well, now it’s us,” Shane mutters, wrinkling his nose when Ilya laughs. “What? I’m not gonna be an asshole and say it’s not after you said all that, especially because it’s true.” 

Ilya shrugs. “Can be an asshole,” he says, smirking. “I am sure it would be familiar.” 

Shane rolls his eyes. “You're the asshole,” he says, because he is nothing if not consistently terrible with his chirps. “If I can't pick us—” 

“Is my smell, Hollander, pick another.” 

“—then I guess the smell of the rink? Or snow?” he says, his brow furrowing. “I like the way you can taste them both on the wind.” 

Ilya hums in agreement. “Ah, yes, makes sense. Is basically your second home, no?” 

“I mean, yeah, kinda,” Shane mutters, flushing. “It's like—I'd rather have you than hockey, but I love you just as much as hockey, and the rink smell is another reminder of that. Of you too, I guess, since you're both so, uhm, important to me.” He buries his face into Ilya's neck. “This is so embarrassing.” 

Ilya laughs, soft and gentle, his hand rising to card through Shane's hair. “Is not embarrassing, sweetheart. It makes me happy to know that of all the love you have to give, I am woven in.” 

Shane nods, his nose pressed in against the curve of Ilya's throat, his lips settling in on his skin, before he relaxes, going completely boneless in his sprawl. 

Ilya smiles, letting his eyes drift shut. He's pretty sure they can get a nap in before dinner, and if they sleep through it, who cares? This is far more important than anything else they could possibly do. 

Playlists

Shane stirs from where he's collapsed against the dock, his chest heaving as Ilya settles in next to him, the sun-warmed wood delightful on his back. 

“One of these days,” Shane pants, a hand coming up to shade his eyes. “We're gonna get fined for public indecency.”

“Mm, no, I do not think so,” Ilya says, grinning at nothing. There is nothing like the summer, when their laziness and contentment stretch out to the horizon, and everything turns into a simmering roil of pleasure. “Nothing indecent about anything we just did. In fact, I think, very decent of us.” 

Shane laughs, his voice spilling out over the lake, an enticing compliment to the birdsong and wind, as if sunshine in a bottle. “You're a menace,” he says, and Ilya turns his head to grin at Shane even harder. 

“Your menace,” he corrects, snagging his free hand to press a flurry of kisses against the back of it. “Is how I show love, Hollander, no?” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Shane mutters. Still, he's grinning back at Ilya, beautiful and happy in the warm rays that drift down from the sky, and Ilya could implode with the force of greed that sweeps through him as he threads their fingers together and sidles closer, uncaring of the way the wood prickles across his skin. Who cares if he gets splinters? He wants to be closer to Shane. 

Shane bites his lip, his cheeks faintly pink. “What's the name of your favorite playlist?” he asks as Ilya throws his head back and laughs, delighted as always by the ways in which Shane’s mind works. 

“What?” he says when Ilya stops laughing to smile at him. “I’m curious! I feel like sometimes you’ve always got half a headphone in and you’re always telling me to listen to more music.” 

“I am always asking if you want to listen to music,” Ilya corrects, shaking his head. “You are hopeless with music, Hollander. I am just trying to do my part.” 

Shane shrugs. “I just—I don't have any interest in music,” he mutters, squeezing Ilya's hand as if this is somehow news and not a bizarre fact about him that Ilya has known for at least a decade. “My mind is already full enough, you know?” 

“I know, solnyshko,” Ilya murmurs. He can feel the affection sugarspun into his voice, the depth of his love leaking through. “You are always thinking. Is one of my favorite things about you.” 

Shane scoffs. “You say that about everything,” he mutters, pink creeping down his throat, across the line of his collar bones. “They can't all be your favorite things about me.” 

Ilya scowls at him, ignoring the tug on his heart as he watches Shane’s eyes crinkle up, his freckles on full display. “They can,” Ilya says, narrowing his eyes when Shane laughs again. “Is not my fault you are full of my favorite things, Hollander. It is, hm, victim blaming.” 

“Who the fuck taught you about victim blaming?” Shane asks, his lips curving up into a grin. He looks infuriated and amused, a common expression Ilya loves to drag out of him. “And don’t you dare—” 

“Your mother,” Ilya says, smugly, delighted by both the way it’s true—Yuna had been very informative on the matter—and by how it makes Shane groan with displeasure, even though he can’t stop smiling. “What? Is true!” 

“Of course it’s true,” Shane mutters, rolling his eyes. “You two love to collude.” 

“It is not my fault that Yuna has a favorite, and it is not you,” Ilya says, watching Shane’s eyes dance. In the sun, the brown of his pupils turns amber, flecks of caramel and umber speckling through; Ilya meets his gaze and can’t help himself, rolling closer to press a kiss to his cheek with a loud, exaggerated mwah! just to hear him laugh again. 

Sometimes he thinks he loves Shane so much that he could die from it. 

“I'm not having this argument again,” Shane says, with faint mirth still clinging to his tone. He jostles Ilya's arm, arching an imperious brow when he glances at him. “Tell me about your playlists.” 

Ilya sighs, but obliges. “I have many, Hollander,” he says. “One for working out. Some for running. A, as Hazy says, pump up the jams jamfest, which I do not understand, but he enjoys to call it that, and I do not have the heart to say it is called playlist 5.” 

Shane snorts, squinting at him. “Please tell me your playlists aren't all just named numbers.” 

“Of course they are not,” Ilya says immediately, fighting back a smirk. “Only most. I have two that are my favorites, and they have been named.” 

“And they're named…?” Shane asks, looking as though he already regrets asking. His mouth is curved into a soft smile despite his expression, his eyes bright as he watches Ilya. The sun beats down on the two of them, and for a moment, everything is so perfect, Ilya thinks he's dreaming, before Shane squeezes his hand, and reality returns. 

“Let’s go get laid,” Ilya says, winking when Shane groans. “And summertime.” 

“Is let's go get laid what you would listen to on the way—” 

“To our hookups?” Ilya finishes cheerfully. “Yes, they have very good beats to pace yourself to. Very sexy.” 

Shane meets his eyes again, shaking his head. “You're ridiculous,” he mutters, flushing a tantalizing pink. Ilya watches it trail down his skin with low-lidded eyes before he drags his gaze back up again. 

“You do not seem to mind when it gives you results,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss right under his collarbone, before he scrapes his teeth across his skin, leaving a damp trail behind. “I would be more than willing to give example now, sweetheart.” 

Shane gasps, shivering under Ilya’s steady touch, but shakes his head when Ilya glances up at him. “Explain summertime,” he rasps. “And then you can fuck me again.” 

Ilya grins, rolling over to cage him against the dock. 

Shane beams up at him, looking utterly delighted with the change. “Hi,” he murmurs, fluttering his lashes.

“Hi,” Ilya returns, unable to stop himself from dropping lower to steal a kiss from Shane's mouth. For a moment, he loses himself in the touch, the familiar give and take, the sweet taste of Shane filling his mouth, before he pulls his head backwards, ignoring the faint whine that slips from Shane.

“Summertime playlist is,” he starts, settling himself in more fully, as Shane's legs spread even wider to accommodate him, “You, as playlist, if I had to say. Is my favorite one to listen to, and one of the oldest. Just full of songs that make me happy, that taste like summer in the notes.” 

“Like love?” Shane asks, his hand coming up to slide across Ilya's jaw. His eyes are shining, adoration and love and happiness so thick that it's all Ilya can see; everything Ilya wants wrapped up in one perfect man. 

“Yes, solnyshko,” Ilya answers, quietly sure that this is where he wants to be for the rest of his life; in awe of Shane Hollander and all of his devotion. He breathes out against Shane’s lips, heat stirring back to life in his veins. “Is exactly like love.” 

+1: Anything

Ilya stares down at Shane, curled up in his arms, sated, damp with tears, a ring glinting on his finger, and wonders how in the world he ever got so lucky. 

“Shane,” he murmurs, running a hand down his back, smoothing over his shoulder blades and across firm muscle. He admires the matching ring on his hand as he drags his fingers over Shane's warm skin. “Am I allowed to ask the question tonight?” 

Shane nods. “You can always ask me anything,” he murmurs, pressing in closer somehow, his ear pressed over Ilya’s heart. 

He hopes Shane can feel how every beat is for him, how every pump of his heart is an ode to their love. He does not ever want to imagine his life without this man at his side, without the familiar traces of Shane Hollander in his life. 

He clears his throat, smiling down at him. “Shane Hollander,” he says, with all the gravitas of a sports announcer, or Harris when he has a really important idea they all must heed immediately. “If you could have a wish in whole world right now, what would it be?” 

Shane hums, his brow wrinkling. “Can I wish for anything?” 

“Yes.” 

“Can it be like—world peace? Because if it can be, don't I have a duty? Isn't that what everyone says? But—or, does a million dollars for everyone make more sense?” 

“Shane—” 

“Or like, food for enough people? That would be pretty good. Or—maybe I'd make hockey equipment free for people who can't afford it?” 

“Sweetheart.” 

“This is a really complicated question,” Shane mutters, frowning. He looks like a disgruntled kitten as he scratches gently across Ilya's ribs. “There’s a lot we could do with anything.” 

Ilya smothers a smile, caught both by the immediate use of we and the delight of how eager Shane always is to help. “I am not speaking of the world, solnyshko,” he murmurs, carding a hand through Shane's hand. “I am asking you.” 

“Right,” Shane says slowly. “But—I don't want anything else.” He shifts, meeting Ilya's eyes. “I have you, and I have hockey. What more could I need?” 

Ilya blinks at him before he reaches down and tugs him up, unable to stand another second without kissing him. “Truly?” he asks, when they've parted, hardly able to stop himself from beaming. “There is nothing more you want?” 

“No, of course not,” Shane says, before his brow furrows. “I mean, I think world peace would probably benefit me in some way, but—” 

“I love you,” Ilya murmurs, cutting him off. He watches Shane’s whole face change, settling back into a soft, warm expression of contentment. 

“I love you too,” Shane says easily, just like he had in front of all their guests mere days before. “Is there anything else you want?” 

“No, of course not,” Ilya parrots, grinning when Shane rolls his eyes. “You are all I need, solnyshko. Why would I ever need anything else?”