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Most of the time, it's cute that Shane is oblivious. Sometimes, the fact that he doesn't know how deeply he captivates Ilya is head-spinning.
"On your stomach," Ilya growls, like he often does. Shane responds as usual, by sinking into the command like it's a warm bed on a snowy night. The obedience is sexy enough by itself, but it's the eagerness that gets Ilya in trouble.
"Please…"
"Please what?"
Ilya runs his fingertips from the small of Shane's back and up his spine, ending at the nylon around his throat. The fit "Jane" pitched when Ilya first sent him a photo of an actual Raiders-branded dog collar from the pro shop is kind of funny to think about now, years into this beautiful, secret thing between them. These days, the easiest way to get Shane into subspace is just…Ilya, putting the collar on him and fastening the buckle with a click.
Which is a thrill every time, no matter how often they do this. Not just how sexy Shane looks in black and gold and nothing else, but the way his dark eyes go hazy as a dreamy smile spreads over his pretty lips; the way he gasps in anticipation when Ilya hooks his fingers under the band and tugs. Not enough to choke, just enough to feel it.
"Answer me, Hollander," Ilya demands, Shane's pulse fluttering wildly against his knuckles.
"Please fuck me," Shane rushes out, so breathless and urgent the words slur together. "Hard. Fast. I need you so bad I can't stand it, please—"
Fuck, he's in deep, and Ilya's right there with him.
There's a feeling that comes with these sorts of nights. It's not the same as a chemical high, but it's better that way. Clearer. Deliberate. Shane feels it too; gets just as hungry for the push and pull, craves it like air the same way Ilya does.
It's been too long since the last time, even longer since they played hard off the ice like this, and they're both pent up and overexcited. Now that they're finally, finally alone together, Ilya finds himself relying on improvisation more than usual, too agitated for their typical pace.
He's been hovering five centimeters off the ground from the anticipation all fucking day. By the time they got back in the locker room after the game, he was so keyed up he nearly punched poor Marly for joking that a face that red and a smile that big could only mean he was headed for a "booty call" with Montreal Jane.
"And don't give me that 'Russians don't blush' bullshit, dude. She's been making you blush since day one. You gotta lock this girl down before she gets sick of you."
"Better." Ilya tugs again on the back of the collar, then spreads his hand out just underneath it and rubs at the muscle of Shane's upper back. "Try not to tense so much. You are carrying rocks in your shoulders."
Shane turns his head so he can look Ilya in the eye, his own half-lidded. He breathes in, holds it, and breathes out, and on the exhale, his shoulders relax.
"Yes, sir."
The soft, hopeful expression on his face hooks into something in Ilya's gut and pulls, hard.
Before he can stop himself, Ilya is driving his hips forward and coming against Shane's thigh like a fucking teenager.
His own voice startles him as he calls out, way too loud and way too close to Shane's name— fuck— Ilya bites down to muffle himself, until the last few shuddering waves of release and the rutting motions he can't control finally slow to a stop.
When he comes back to the room, the universe has rearranged itself around them. It feels like they're in a pocket outside time and space when they're together, and it takes another minute to fully return to the rest of his body.
It's Shane's trapezius Ilya bit down on, and Shane is quivering underneath him and rocking helplessly against the sheets. There's cum streaking his leg and the curve of his glorious ass and, jesus, all the way up to the base of his spine.
Marked. Shane must find the idea as hot as Ilya does, from the way his back heaves as he drags in harsh lungfuls of air.
"Fuck, please, please—"
"I don't know what I should do with you," Ilya breathes against sweat-damp skin, kissing the bright hickey he left without even deciding to. "To reward you. Maybe punish a little for making me look like hair-trigger virgin, but not too much."
"Anything," Shane pleads, his eyes falling shut like he's too overwhelmed to keep them open. "I'll do anything you want, Rozanov, just—"
"If you want me to fuck you, you have to wait for me to recover," Ilya reminds him. Shit. It won't be long, though, not with the whine that comes out of Shane's mouth when Ilya flips him over onto his back again. "Wouldn't need to be so patient if you didn't look so pretty in my colors."
"Fuck off," Shane says petulantly, his erection straining hard against his stomach. He opens his eyes to glare, but doesn't hide the smile that flickers at the corners of his mouth whenever Ilya uses that word to describe him.
(Which, of course, is the whole point of using it.)
Ilya smiles back as he slides his hand up Shane's thigh, past his groin and over his lower belly. He manages, miraculously, to resist the urgent desire to grip him properly and start pumping.
(Fuck, even Shane's dick is gorgeous; stiff and flushed deep red, leaking, all for Ilya. Fuck.)
"New rule still in play?"
Shane nods, lips parting around his quick breaths, eyes half-lidded. His pretty, swollen cock twitches as though in agreement.
Ilya takes what he wants in a firm, slow stroke.
Shane arches off the bed like he touched a live wire.
"Oh jesus fucking christ please may I come—"
"Not yet," Ilya replies, squeezing hard around the base. Shane collapses back into the sheets, covering his face with his hands.
"Uhn— Rozanov, please!"
Ilya, heart hammering and dick putting up a valiant effort to override his refractory period, nips warningly at Shane's arm.
"No hiding. Want to see your pretty face." But he stays still anyway, motionless as hot precum rolls over his fingers.
It takes a few slow breaths, but eventually Shane lowers his hands, and the keep-going I'm-okay nod follows shortly after. His cheeks are nearly as flushed as his dick, but he still hungrily moves to meet it when Ilya resumes the attention.
"Such a good boy," Ilya praises, twisting upwards in another firm stroke that has Shane whimpering and trying to fuck his fist. "So good for me."
"Please may I come—"
"You can wait."
"No I fucking can't—!"
"Yes, you fucking can," Ilya says firmly, and to prove it, this time he doesn't stop. "You can wait until your pretty hole is full, like it should be."
"Not if you keep talking like that," Shane moans, grasping at the blanket by his hip like it'll keep him from going over. "Fuck, Rozy, I mean it, I'm about to—"
Ilya stops then, because Shane's belly starts tensing up the way it does when he really is at the limit of his self-control. The noise Shane makes is something Ilya can only identify as a sob, his cock pulsing angrily, but still dribbling clear.
Ilya takes a minute to let Shane come down from the razor's edge he was just clinging to. Hands stay on hips as he kisses Shane's hair, soft and close-mouthed, over and over. If he lets his skin-hunger drive his actions, he won't be able to stop, and they won't have time to fuck at all before he has to go back to his hotel room.
Leaving Shane here, in his huge, empty apartment. Alone.
Fuck.
"Such a good boy," Ilya repeats, hushed and even, which doesn't match the frantic pace of his heart. He feels around blindly until he finds a condom in the open nightstand drawer, but the lube must be further back and out of reach. He tries to sit up so he can fish it out, but Shane grabs his arm and tugs him back down.
"I, um," he starts, deliciously breathless. "I got ready before you came over, so you wouldn't have to do it."
"What, finger-fuck you?" Ilya voices, because he knows it'll make Shane flustered. "There is English word for this— presumptive, I think. Maybe I wanted to open you up for me, hm?"
"I'm sorry—"
"No, you can't help it," Ilya cuts in as he tears open the condom and rolls it on, grinning like a schoolboy with a crush. He certainly fucking feels like one. "There is English word for this, too."
"Oh— yeah?" Shane breathes, hitching when Ilya pushes his thigh to his chest and lines up.
Ilya nods, taut as a bowstring, and leans forward enough to growl directly into Shane's ear. (Fuck, if this play doesn't work, he's screwed.)
"You are impatient because you are cockslut."
At the same time, he snaps his hips forward, and thank fuck— it lands. Shane rakes his nails down Ilya's back as he arches again, violently.
"Oh fuck I can't I'm gonna—"
"Now, Hollander."
Maybe it's a good thing that this is Ilya's second round. Shane obliterates his stamina no matter what, but it's definitely easier after clearing out the pipes to at least pretend he isn't almost as wound up.
He fucks Shane through his orgasm, hard and fast like he begged for, drenched in the sacredness of it all: the cries spilling from Shane's mouth with every contraction, the wet heat flooding between them, the way Shane digs his heel into Ilya's lower back as he meets every thrust.
"Ro-oz!"
Fuck, it's huge. Shane always comes like a freight train when he's getting fucked, but this is explosive, even for him. It's magnificent to see the wanton bliss written on his pretty face, to feel that intense, rhythmic clenching, to hear Shane's voice break around Ilya's name.
Ilya feels like he's flying, and might never come back down.
Their movements slow when all that's left are the aftershocks, but neither one of them stills completely. Ilya's so high he doesn't catch the words when Shane moans something, soft but rich with desire.
"Say again," Ilya whispers into Shane's ear, trying to ignore the insistent throbbing of his own cock. "Your ass. Very distracting."
"Don't stop," Shane repeats louder, tipping his head back into the pillow as Ilya kisses from his ear down to the collar on his throat. "Fuck, please don't stop."
"Doesn't hurt?"
"It does, but it's good. I want—"
He chokes off, turns away. Ilya grabs his jaw and turns him back.
"Tell me."
"I want to feel you coming," Shane whispers, his warm brown eyes glossy in the low light. "Please. I— I need you to. Inside me."
"Then keep talking," Ilya whispers back, as he slowly speeds up. Not too fast, because he wants to overwhelm Shane, not push him beyond what he can handle; still quick enough that it won't take long to give him what he's so desperate for.
"I've needed you for fucking— weeks, Rozanov. You made me wait for three fucking weeks."
"You liked it," Ilya pants against Shane's collar. "Thinking of me. Aching for me. So hot you could barely fucking stand it, huh?"
"You were so fucking mean," Shane groans back, thick with lust, as he loops his arms around Ilya's neck. "And I loved it, you asshole. You know I did. It was your idea to get me edging myself stupid every time we texted, fucking— crying because I was so turned on it fucking hurt, and you still wouldn't let me—"
"Because you, as you say, fucking loved it, Hollander. Would have just used your toys to get off if you didn't. Plenty of chances. I never would have known."
"Fuck you, don't stop—"
"But you wanted to be good, didn't you?" Ilya continues, a wild edge to his voice, as the velvet heat surrounding him winds tighter and tighter in his stomach. "For me. I ask, you obey."
"Of course I do—"
The present tense brings a pricking sensation to Ilya's eyes. He ignores it, pushes it down, focuses on playing the body under him like the finely-tuned instrument it is.
"Gonna come again for me, pretty cockslut?"
"Ah-hah—"
Shane, panting, nods frantically as his mouth falls open. The sounds are mostly wordless now, but it doesn't matter. Ilya's so close he's dizzy with it, so he works his hand between them to make sure he drags Shane over first.
"Say it," Ilya orders, because it's never a bad thing to have a little insurance. "Tell me what you are, Hollander, while I make it up to you by making you come until you beg me to stop."
"I'm a cockslut, fuck, please—"
"My cockslut," Ilya snarls, and that does it— Shane is coming again, not as hard as the first time, but more satisfying if the way he calls out is any indication: full-throated, heavy with audible relief.
That, in turn, is what pushes Ilya over. Satisfying Shane is enough by itself, but after spending the past three weeks driving each other lust-mad, it's heaven to sink into and let himself enjoy it. The whole thing can't last more than a minute, but it feels longer, the honeyed seconds stretching between them as they meld together.
"You see why I made you wait?"
Ilya speaks it into the skin of Shane's throat to soothe the sting of loss as he pulls out. Shane nods, but still grunts softly, disappointed. He's never ready to let go at the end, so Ilya consoles him again, this time with a kiss.
It's languid now, not urgent and biting, like they have all the time in the world— they don't, but it's nice to imagine they do, at least for a little while. Besides, Ilya has made a point not to skimp on this part ever since Shane admitted to how disastrous the aftermath of that (scorching hot, awful, wonderful, terrible failure of a) night in Vegas actually was.
"You were so intense the whole time, and it felt so good while it was happening, but then it was just…over, like it didn't even matter to you."
(It was perfectly clear what Shane really meant— like I didn't even matter to you. Ilya will never fucking forgive himself for making Shane feel used and discarded like that, but at least he hasn't lost the chance to atone.)
For a while, they just lie there together, tangled in each other. Shane will be annoyed when he comes down enough to realize what happened to the condom (tied off, but dropped over the side of the bed without much care to the placement of the trash can). For now, Ilya just wants to keep them in the cozy intimacy of the afterglow as long as possible, so he rolls them over and arranges Shane on top of him.
"You still feel good?" Ilya murmurs, gently running his hands up and down Shane's back as it pebbles in a shiver of gooseflesh.
"I feel fucking amazing," Shane sighs, warm against Ilya's chest. "I think that's the best thing we've ever done. Like, I knew it would be hot, but I didn't expect it to be that hot."
"Agree. Don't think I can wait with you next time, though."
Shane lifts his head, a curious smile playing on his lips, like the idea thrills him the same way his expression thrills Ilya.
"Really? You held off too?"
"Not as long as you, but yes." Ilya pulls Shane's head back down to where it was, and takes the opportunity to pet his hair. "Wanted to see if I could keep up with you. I couldn't. Quit last week."
"I can't believe that," Shane mumbles, reverent, as he settles closer into Ilya's arms. "I low-key felt like I was gonna die if I didn't come soon, but you were so cool and collected the whole time."
"Have to keep my head in the game," Ilya responds, gently. He takes Shane's hand and brings it to his mouth to kiss his palm. "Stay in control, know when to forfeit so you don't get hurt. I lose focus, you pay price."
"It was so, so good," Shane assures, cradling Ilya's cheek. "I'm gonna be riding this until the next time I get a chance to ride you."
Ilya bursts into surprised laughter at the dirty joke. He feels proud, almost— a little bit that he successfully brought Shane to that warm, safe bubble where he can let go and recharge, but mostly of Shane himself, for trusting Ilya enough to let go with him in the first place.
"Fuck you," Shane says, but there's laughter in his voice too. "You know I'm funny."
"Sometimes, yes." Ilya pulls Shane in for another kiss. Two turns into four. "Your tub is working okay?"
"Yeah. Why, you gonna draw me a bath?"
"Shower first, then soak." Ilya rolls them over again, and can't help but smile when Shane lights up with one of his own at being pinned. "I want to wash your hair, rub your back, sit in steam with you before I go. But before all that, I'm breaking your record."
"My record?"
It couldn't be further from the night in Vegas. They've been skin to skin since the collar went on, partly because Ilya is chronically starving for physical affection, but mostly to make sure that Shane feels as precious, as cherished, as he is.
Ilya's never told him, but on some level, he has to know. Maybe (almost definitely) not consciously, but he's too loose and happy when they do this, too ready to let Ilya try and touch his fill before they have to separate.
(The idea of leaving is crushing. Ilya swats it away in his head, and trails one hand down Shane's back and lower.)
"Three times in one hour, Hollander," Ilya says, low and gravelly, as he gently caresses the heat of Shane's well-fucked asshole. "I think you have it in you. Just need assist, maybe."
Shane pushes back against Ilya's slow, careful pressure. He's hot, still slick with lube, a little inflamed around the rim— he'll be sore tomorrow. The idea drives Ilya fucking crazy, but this part isn't about him or what he wants; it's about leaving Shane too comfortably exhausted to spiral into overthinking.
"If anyone can get me there, it's you." Sleepy but sincere, Shane tilts his head up for another lingering kiss.
(He never lets Ilya leave without a little comfort of his own. It comes in the methodical touch of his hands mapping Ilya's skin, the verbal reassurances like this; the way he always seems to know exactly when Ilya is desperate for more contact.)
It takes a while, the third time. Ilya keeps it to two fingers, and alternates between pushing in and massaging more lube around the outside because it makes Shane roll his head back and grind against the pressure.
"You want more, don't you?"
"Christ, yes."
"Sorry." Ilya softens the refusal by pushing in again, and this time he stays there, firmly curling as he feels the rim contract around his knuckles.
"Please—"
"I want you thinking of me when you sit down tomorrow, not benched because you can't fucking walk."
"Rude," Shane grouses, but when he's panting like that, it doesn't have any sting. "Making me think of you—"
"Fucking you until you can't walk?"
"Oh my g—"
"I'd keep you in bed all day, after." Ilya repositions so they can make out a little between words, while he works. "Not let you up for anything but emergency. Carry you around anywhere you need to go. Bring you food on trays. Tie you to headboard if I had to."
"What— oh— what would I tell my team?"
"Easy. 'Lily is kinky'. Probably make them jealous."
"Ooh, fuck!"
"That's it, Hollander, one more—"
And with another sob, Shane obeys.
It's dry and weak this time, after the other two. It's exactly as much as he needs to break, which becomes obvious when the welled-up tears finally start to fall. Ilya brings Shane to the fleeting edge of discomfort, just to make sure it's enough, but swiftly and carefully pulls out and gathers him in a tight embrace before too much has a chance to turn too much.
"I can't— I'm not—"
"Shhh, you're done, it's over—"
"Roz—"
"You were perfect," Ilya whispers against Shane's hair, because right now he still has an excuse. "You took it so well. Every time, you take it so well, no matter what I give. My best boy. Never had a sub so good, who works so hard."
Shane lets out a shaky exhale and reaches up to wipe his face. Ilya stops him with one hand, and uses the other to complete the action for him. Dark, wet lashes flutter against scattered freckles at the touch of Ilya's thumb.
When Shane speaks again, it's half-mumbled and thick with emotion that tugs Ilya's heart into his throat.
"You're my first dom, so I'm not exactly an expert, but I'm pretty sure you're an awesome one. It's easy to be good when I know you'll always take care of me."
It's also wholly undeserved.
"No, not always," Ilya counters quietly, neon lights and the taste of vodka flashing in his memory.
"Listen, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." Shane smiles, something not quite shy in the way he keeps breaking eye contact. "And yeah, we biffed the landing on that one, but the scene was still hot, and you've mostly made up for it since then."
"Trying, anyway," Ilya jokes— but it doesn't land that way. His voice is too raw; the sincerity rings clear enough that even darling, clueless Shane picks up on it.
(He doesn't say anything, but the tender kiss he pulls Ilya into says enough on its own.)
—
Taking off the collar is the worst part, for both of them. Maybe it's overboard, but Ilya's developed a system to make it a little easier— or at least a little less painful.
He starts with a kiss, because they always make Shane pliant. Then he massages for a while, above and below the nylon, and whispers as much praise as he can think of into Shane's ear while he undoes the buckle as slowly as he can. Usually, he lingers there for a few moments; sometimes, Shane will lace his fingers through Ilya's so they're holding the collar together.
Finally, when it feels like the need for each other has been cauterized enough not to bleed out, Ilya will straighten up and put the collar with his clothes. When he's up to it, Shane sometimes sneaks in behind Ilya and kisses the back of his neck; tonight, he's already half asleep by the time Ilya gets back to the bed.
"Shower, Hollander."
"Don' wanna."
"Soak after, okay?" Ilya badgers, partly so he doesn't just burst into giggles like a limerent child. Shane buries his face in the pillow, seemingly determined not to get up, and grumbles something Ilya doesn't catch.
It's fucking adorable, but it does mean it's time for plan B.
Shane doesn't want to move, so Ilya doesn't make him— just scoops him up before he knows what's happening, which critically means he can't wriggle free.
"Hey— Rozy, what the fuck?"
(Not that he wants to wriggle free, obviously— he puts up the world's least convincing fight, and it's mostly just shifting to a more comfortable position. He's also breathlessly laughing the whole time, which somehow doesn't look stupid on him the way it does on Ilya.)
"Shower first, then soak," Ilya repeats as they cross into the bathroom. "Like we talked about."
"I'm not some pillow princess just because I like it when you fuck my brains out. You wanted me to be able to walk."
"Tomorrow," Ilya corrects. "I want you to be able to walk tomorrow. Tonight, you let me do it for you."
He carries Shane all the way into the shower stall, gingerly setting him down only when it becomes necessary to turn the water on. Ilya still keeps one arm close around Shane's waist for support, and Shane leans against him with a grateful sigh.
"Mmm."
"Still feeling good?"
Shane lifts head. Those doe eyes, looking at Ilya almost straight-on with all the warmth of the summer sun, should be classified as a weapon.
"I'll tell you if I'm not, okay?"
"Okay," Ilya concedes, because he never could have done anything else.
"Okay," Shane repeats, clearly pleased with himself as he goes back to resting against Ilya's shoulder.
And, fuck, he should be. Despite their roles (maybe because of them), Shane has Ilya hopelessly and entirely wrapped around his finger.
Well, it's also Ilya's treacherous, bleeding heart. Somehow, at some point, he tripped and fell so hard that he's still falling; early enough that he barely even remembers what the world felt like before they were magnetically drawn to each other. It's as though he grew up seeing through a filter of black and white, until Shane came into his life and shattered it and brought everything into vivid color.
It's terrifying. The thought of losing it and going back to that slow, greyscale decay makes Ilya want to vomit, but he can't say it— any of it. He can't break the spell, or Shane will spook and all of the colors in Ilya's world will be gone.
He can't say it with his voice, anyway. It's a lucky stroke of heartbreak that Shane hasn't noticed how often Ilya says it with his hands.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
It's in the way he ribs Shane for his three-in-one and threatens to bring his own product next time while still working it in, not really because it's necessary, but because scalp massages make Shane weak at the knees. It's in the way Ilya digs his fingers into every knot he finds, not just on Shane's back but all over, until he feels each one break up and hears the corresponding sigh of relief. It's in the circle of Ilya's arms after all the sweat and soap and cum and tension is washed away, and there's nothing but the two of them and the hot water and the almost-synchronicity of their heartbeats.
If they ever manage to sync to the same rhythm, they'll be unstoppable.
The soak has to be shorter than Ilya wants, because he spends a solid three minutes bundling towels and making sure the closed lid of the ridiculously expensive toilet is a good enough seat. No time spent on Shane's comfort is a waste, but Ilya still ends up staring impatiently at the water level in the tub as the seconds tick by in his head.
"Fuck it," he mutters halfway through, and pulls Shane to his feet. The towels hit the floor in a soft whump.
It's a short distance, but carrying Shane never, ever gets old. They're close in size, but neither of them is exactly small, and Shane's a little thicker; it does something to Ilya's brain that he's probably the only person who even has permission to try.
Shane hisses sharply as his ass makes contact with the hot water. Ilya immediately stops lowering him in, ready to apologize, but it must be written on his face; Shane rolls his pretty brown eyes, smiles and dismisses it before Ilya can even open his mouth.
"You can put me down. I just forgot you like to boil yourself like a teabag, that's all. Is that, like, a sauna thing? I forget what they're called in Russian."
"Banya, and yes, probably."
The second time Ilya lets him down, Shane winces, but visibly relaxes once he settles into it. The running water covers his voice; Ilya can see his lips moving, but shakes his head and leans in close in a wordless request.
"You said you'd sit with me?"
The heat covers nicely for how flushed Ilya feels himself get— not just his face, but down his throat and chest too.
"I was thinking you in, me out." An explanation, or maybe a question. Ilya takes Shane's hand and weaves their fingers together with a squeeze.
"It'll be a little cramped, but I think you can fit if you get in behind me."
Definitely a question; Shane bites his lip in anticipation, and Ilya can't deny him anything.
"Lean forward."
"Yes, sir," Shane breathes into the steam. Ilya shudders and steps into the near-scalding water, vibrating half out of his skin from how badly he wants to show exactly how much that phrase affects him.
It takes a little doing, but they find a comfortable position lying back to chest. Ilya turns off the water with his foot, so he doesn't have to move his arms from around Shane's waist or stop gently stroking his stomach and the soft hollows of his hips. Shane, in turn, tilts his head back against Ilya's shoulder and lazily kisses everywhere he can reach.
"I am fucking mush right now," he mumbles, and hooks his ankle around Ilya's calf. "Like, I don't think I could drive like this."
"I've never seen you go that deep." Ilya meets Shane's next kiss with his own. "It was…'incredible to watch', I think, is phrase you used when we met? Tonight also, for me."
Shane is already so pink-faced from the hot water that if he's blushing, it isn't visible, but the way he hides his face in Ilya's neck gives him away.
"I love how strong your accent gets when you're tired."
Ilya smiles, kisses Shane's wet hair, and pretends it doesn't break his heart to hear that word casually tossed around.
"We should get out before water gets cold," he says regretfully, a long minute later, when he feels like has control over his voice again.
Shane doesn't respond. His breath comes in soft, even puffs against Ilya's collarbone.
Fuck. He felt safe and secure enough, here in Ilya's arms, to fall asleep.
Ilya's heart rises into his throat.
Waking Shane makes him want to cry, but Ilya forces himself to nibble gently until he feels conscious stirring and a groan muffled against his clavicle.
"I know, I know, but if we stay here all night, you will become prune and I will miss plane. Come on, I tuck you in and everything."
"I'm only caving because I'm too tired to argue," Shane grumbles, but leans forward so Ilya can get out and help him after. "I'm also not gonna argue if you want to carry me back to bed or something."
Ilya's raw, open heart squeezes. As the cycle goes, he finds himself smiling in hopeless adoration when Shane obediently steps into a towel to be dried off.
"Or something," Ilya teases once he's done, and lifts Shane again into his arms.
It's the last time he'll get to do this tonight, so he tries to savor it while he can. It still goes by too quickly, and feels like they flash from the bathroom directly to the bedside. Shane is almost out again, but not completely, because he can still catch Ilya's wrist in a vise grip when his back hits the mattress.
"Please don' go."
It's slurred with exhaustion. Shane doesn't even have his eyes open; he probably won't remember this in the morning.
So Ilya makes a stupid, reckless decision.
First, he finishes settling Shane and tucking the blankets around him. Then, he grabs his own shirt from the foot of the bed and drapes it across the curves and muscle of Shane's upper body. Finally, he presses his mouth to Shane's temple, and imagines pouring all of the feelings he can't speak aloud into the point of contact.
"Sleep, lyubov," Ilya whispers against dark hair, so soft he can barely even hear himself. Shane sighs, shifts, and goes still.
Standing up feels like tearing away a layer of skin.
Ilya dresses as quietly as he can, so as not to disturb the angel in the sheets. Giving Shane his shirt means going out in just a sweatshirt and jacket; it's fucking cold this time of year even if you're not coming from a cozy bedroom, which is probably why he doesn't argue with himself when he pulls on the t-shirt Shane folded and set neatly on his own dresser.
Adorable, but also a little sad; like he's a guest in his own home. The shirt is wonderfully soft, though, and it smells like the stupid three-in-one body wash that dries out the ends of Shane's hair, and that's enough to carry Ilya to the doorway.
He shouldn't turn back. He does anyway. Shane is curled on his side, mouth open, eyes closed, Ilya's shirt held tight in his fist.
Taking off the collar is the worst part, but the most difficult, at least for Ilya, is forcing himself to leave when everything in him wants to pull Shane close and never fucking let go.
By the time he finally gets out the door, the first watery edges of dawn are starting to creep past the horizon. It's probably stupid (certainly reckless), but Ilya is thrumming with emotion that has nowhere else to go, so he walks back to the hotel instead of calling a cab. The wind bites at his face, but does little to calm his mind; by the time he gets into the lobby, he's still thinking too fast to sleep.
The hotel gym is out, because he'll just think of Shane. Same with another shower. He heads up to his room anyway, partly from lack of anywhere else to go.
It's on the elevator up that Ilya pulls his phone from his pocket. Shane's collar is coiled and tucked in the other one, feeling heavier than it actually is. He just means to reread their recent text exchanges, but without even thinking about it, he types in a new message.
L: Good morning sleeping beauty 😴 💕make sure you eat well today! Real food, carbs/fat/protein. Salt and fluids too, we lost a lot in our workout 😈 can't wait for the next one babe!
Ilya taps send before he can talk himself out of it. He puts his phone back in his pocket and keys into his room, resigned to a restless few hours of staring at the ceiling until the alarm goes off.
He's stripping down to his boxers and the shirt he stole from Shane when it vibrates. Fuck. This early, a response might mean something's wrong. Ilya fumbles his phone in his hurry to answer, but recovers before it drops to the floor with a clatter that certainly would have woken Marleau. It vibrates again in his hands as he pulls up the text.
J: you took the wrong shirt, "Lily". I'll give yours back when I finish using it to clean up YOUR TRASH from MY FLOOR.
J: You eat well and have electrolytes & fluids too, ok? you worked out as hard as I did and you have to get on a plane in like 6 hours.
Attached is a photo of the discarded condom, which Shane is indeed using Ilya's shirt to pick up. That's not what sticks, though; what Ilya relaxes back onto the mattress thinking of is you too, ok? you worked as hard as I did.
Shane must be fine, or he wouldn't be chirping. It's enough that Ilya finally dozes off, his phone still in his hand.
—
"Rise and shine, Roz!"
"Shut your mouth," Ilya groans into his pillow, what feels like seconds after he finally passed out. "Too early for noise."
"Dude, you slept through breakfast. We have to leave in, like, an hour."
"Fuck off," Ilya grumbles. Reluctantly, he forces himself to sit up. Shane's t-shirt is just a little too small, and rides up with the movement.
Marleau is standing there fully dressed, infuriatingly awake, looking curiously at him.
"Since when do you wear Nike?"
"Fuck off," Ilya repeats, a little more venomously this time. Every movement feels labored, like he's trying to push through something sticky.
Marleau raises his hands in surrender. Ilya washes up, dresses and repacks in record time, but he doesn't feel any less crabby by the time they pile into the elevator with their luggage.
He's irritable all the way to the gate. It isn't until he drops into a too-small seat in the waiting area that he gets a chance to respond to Shane's early-morning text, but as soon as he pulls it up, his bad mood dissipates like wood smoke in a soft breeze.
There's a new message.
J: I know you worry about me after our "workouts", so if it helps, you did a great job on cool-down and I still feel amazing even though you stole my shirt. I promise I'm eating real food, walking fine and staying hydrated. 🫶
"You are so friggin' whipped it's not even funny, bro."
"Shut your face," Ilya tells Marly for maybe the fifth time this morning, but he knows it's different this time. He can feel how red he is; that he can't keep from beaming like an idiot.
Marleau ruffles Ilya's hair, then passes him a soggy danish and a coffee. Maybe it's because of the lack of sleep, but the caffeine just makes Ilya drowsy. At least he stops snapping at his teammates for looking at him the wrong way, but by boarding, it once again feels like he's running through sand.
He makes it to his seat. There's still enough time before takeoff to reply.
L: good girl jane, looking after yourself like I would. airplane mode now, ttyl xoxo 💖
Then, just as he's about to turn it off, Ilya's phone buzzes one more time.
J: sure thing "Kinky Lily" 🙄 fly safe, ma'am.
For some reason, it sticks more than the others. Ilya shuts his eyes and leans against the window, and lets it sink into him and spread through his whole body.
He sleeps for the entire flight.