1 – 1 of 1 Work in tropical island
- tropical island ×
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Away from the rink and under a different kind of heat. The island felt like a dare. Palm fronds leaned low over white sand, the air thick with salt and sweetness, the ocean breathing in slow, blue laps. It was the kind of place that looked fake until you stepped barefoot into it and realized it was real—and that made it worse, somehow. Shane had always done better with things that hurt a little. Cold rinks. Sharp edges. Rivalries that burned hot enough to keep him upright. Ilya, apparently, did not have that problem. He was already sprawled on a lounge chair like he’d been born to tropical vacations instead of raised on ice and spite, sunglasses pushed up into his curls, skin gleaming with sweat and sun. He tipped his head when Shane came closer, smile lazy and dangerous. “Relax,” Ilya said. “Your shoulders are up by your ears.” Shane snorted and dropped his bag onto the sand. “You’re the one who booked this place.” “Together,” Ilya corrected. “We agreed. A truce.” Shane looked at him. Really looked. No gear, no boards between them, no roar of a crowd. Just Ilya, bare-chested, smug, and devastatingly at ease. Out in the open, like they’d promised. Like they’d both been terrified of. “A truce,” Shane echoed. “For one week.” Ilya grinned. “Plenty of time.” That should have been a warning. They didn’t last an hour before the rivalry crept back in, curling around their ankles like a cat that pretended not to care but absolutely did. It lived in the way Shane challenged Ilya to swim farther out. In the way Ilya beat him back to shore and laughed, breathless, water slicking down his torso. “You cheated,” Shane said. “You’re just slow,” Ilya shot back. “Age.” “I’m the same age as you.” “Details.” They lay on their towels afterward, sun beating down, the sound of waves filling the space where trash talk usually lived. Shane closed his eyes, letting the heat sink in. His skin prickled, already pinking. “You’re going to burn,” Ilya said. “I’ll live.” Ilya propped himself up on one elbow. Shane could feel his gaze like a physical thing, dragging slow and unapologetic. “I have sunscreen.” “So do I.” “Yes,” Ilya said, “but I offered.” Shane opened one eye. “You offering now?” Ilya’s smile shifted. Less lazy. More intent. “I am a generous man.” Something in Shane’s chest tightened. He sat up, grabbed his own bottle from his bag, and held it up. “I’m good.” Ilya made a little tsk sound. “Stubborn.” “Competitive.” “Sexy flaw,” Ilya said lightly, then reached out and plucked the bottle from Shane’s hand. Shane sputtered. “Hey—” “Already touching,” Ilya pointed out. He flicked the cap open with his thumb. “Too late.” Shane could have taken it back. He didn’t. He let Ilya pour a cool line of lotion into his palm instead, watched his eyes track the motion. The air shifted, thickened. “Front or back?” Ilya asked. Shane swallowed. “Back.” Ilya’s hands were warm. The contrast made Shane hiss as sunscreen spread across his shoulders, firm palms working it in. Not clinical. Not rushed. Fingers dragging, thumbs pressing into muscle like Ilya was memorizing him. Like he’d earned the right. “You’re tense,” Ilya murmured, close enough now that Shane could feel his breath. “Still think I’m going to stab you in the back?” Shane laughed, a rough sound. “You would.” “Only if you deserved it.” Ilya leaned in, just a fraction. His hands slid lower, down Shane’s spine, stopping at the small of his back. He lingered there, deliberate. Testing. Shane’s pulse kicked. “You done?” “No,” Ilya said softly. “Sides.”
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 2,011
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #75919556