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Shane Hollander’s got a wire-string running from the top of his head down his spine, and it’s buzzing. It’s been roped into his joints since the first time he put skates to ice, amplifying until he feels it in his teeth. He bites the inside of his cheek. His body is so warm. They rise in tandem, the fever and the buzz. Just one more perfect day. One more impeccable action. One more flawless game.
He doesn’t ask a lot of the world—just see him back on the ice. He will ask himself for everything else.
Ilya’s thumb presses into the dip between two of Shane’s vertebrae. He’s got a nice, big bruise there, almost as large as Ilya’s hand. Plum-colored. A larger one spans his waist, creeping toward his shoulder blade, several of them blending together. The pain tingles, radiating through his body slowly from that center point. Prickles. Shane wants to close his eyes and zone out and let Ilya prod at him until he drifts off, but they’re in the kitchen, and it’s barely nine in the morning.
“Too tense,” Ilya tells him. He presses his palm flat against the curve of Shane’s back, earning a sharp inhale in turn.
Ilya’s hand moves up to his shoulder, the base of his thumb kneading into Shane’s trapezius. This pain is more direct, because Ilya pushes against, against, against. He lets up only when Shane slopes forward, catching himself on the kitchen aisle. He shouldn’t be getting hard from this, but he always does anyway. Ilya kisses his jaw, his cheek. Laughs against his skin.
“Soon. We will relax soon, yes? Sunday. I promise.”
That promise is the only thing getting Shane through his week.
Shane says it once, and maybe it’s because his mouth is shoved into the bedsheets, sopping with drool, Ilya’s fingers on his neck, just doesn’t really hear it, can’t, over the sound of skin on skin and his own grunts and Shane whimpers—“Shit, that’s too much, give me—a moment—stop, stop—fuck!”—and comes. A sort of hurt-and-good intensifying as Ilya’s cock thrusts into him, way past sensitivity into something that aches, over his limit. At that flash of a second, Shane’s body imagines similar hurt: puck to his shin; one arm pinned against boards at the wrong angle; sprained finger.
Ilya does stop, but by that point Shane feels like his body has doubled, the essence of him stretching outside his skin and thrumming. Someone’s placed a speaker inside his gut and turned up the reverb. Even his teeth vibrate. Takes a few minutes, too, before he settles. Ilya’s not inside of him anymore, is running his hands up Shane’s waist, kissing his spine, touching his face. He takes his chin, tilts Shane’s face to the left, then right. Tiny touches.
“Shane?” Ilya’s fingers kneading his hip, coaxing him back. “You are okay? In pain?”
And, well, yeah, Shane’s fucking okay. A-okay so good bursting-out-of-his body excellent. His come is smeared all over his stomach and chin. Breaths so staggered he can’t find his baseline.
Can’t stop thinking about what he would’ve felt if Ilya had kept going. Had maybe adjusted his grip on Shane’s nape, forced his face deeper into the cushions. How he would’ve had to just take it. Be content with it. Find his pleasure in the grooves of what Ilya needs, rather than the both of them, and he thinks about it, thinks about it, thinks about it, says, “You could’ve kept going,” before the thought’s even half-formed. He must still be somewhere outside of himself.
Ilya taps his shoulder, says, “Shane,” and Shane repeats himself, realizing his voice is choked: “You could’ve kept going, like, you could’ve—you should’ve just kept fucking me.”
He’s underneath Ilya, thighs shaking where they’re hooked on Ilya’s waist.
Ilya stares down at him. With one hand on Shane’s leg in a tight grip, Ilya tells him, “If you say stop, I stop.”
Which, okay. Sure. That’s reasonable. He can’t really work his way around that, probably shouldn’t, but—he wants that, anyway. Even if it’s just a fraction of what he experienced earlier. His pulse rattles in his ears, still.
“I know, but—I didn’t want you to, this time, it just came out like that,” Shane tries, blinking until his eyes focus. Jesus. He takes a deep breath, holds it in his stomach. “It wasn’t bad, just, a lot.”
“Was sensitive? Looked that way, after.” Ilya moves his hand to stroke Shane’s stomach, pinky finger smearing Shane’s jizz. It’s tender and filthy at once, and Shane’s getting hard, again. It’s difficult not to with Ilya between his legs, and that prickly sensation hasn’t left his body. Like goosebumps wherever Ilya’s skin is on his. Ilya’s hips are flush against his ass, and every time Shane shifts, he feels the shape of Ilya’s cock. It’s not helping.
Ilya tells him, “If you want me to keep fucking you, I will. But I have to know that is how you want it.”
“Okay,” Shane says. Tries another deep breath. “I don’t think I’m able to tell you what I want right now.”
“Easy.” Ilya grips his cock. “You want to come, yes? Again.”
And Ilya’s right: it’s easy. That’s all he wants right now.
Ilya sees to it. Then, when they’re done, and Shane’s orgasm-riddled brain isn’t actively working against him, he sits in the cold wash of what he asked for, trying to figure out how to ask for it again. He puts his tongue against the roof of his mouth, tries to exhale the press of I-shouldn’t-want-that through the gap between his teeth. You could’ve just kept going. Could’ve fucked me loose and stupid. Because Ilya’s built for that. Shane knows first hand the kind of strength laced thick through him. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s gotten off on being overpowered. He’d have an explanation for giving in. A perfectly ripe excuse.
When they wake up, Shane puts his mouth on Ilya’s hard cock, licks at it until Ilya urges him to take it in fully. He squeezes the inside of Ilya’s thigh, encourages his hips up so that he’ll fuck Shane’s face with some vigour, even though Ilya seems intent on a lazy morning lay today. Shane likes it when Ilya pins him to the bed and moves his hips in tiny thrusts, rocking into him until they’re barely doing more than grinding against each other until they come. But he needs something different.
After Ilya comes down his throat and Shane’s so hard he feels like he’s going to short circuit, Ilya leans back against the headboard and waits. Stares at Shane, whose dick is curved against his hipbone, and asks, “You want my fingers in your mouth or your hole? You get one.”
Shane lets Ilya wring his orgasm from him with three fingers up his ass, so much lube it squelches, always so loud that Shane’s face goes red and he knows—knows that’s the point, the whole fucking point of it, the embarrassament, hearing himself open like that. When he spills onto his own stomach, Ilya continues, barely acknowledging it even though Shane’s entire body twitches, muscles tensing. He kisses Shane’s stomach, eyes locked onto him, keeps going, going, going until it’s dry, stings, Shane’s entire body overstimulated. He kisses Shane, whose face scrunched up and red so fucking wet as he blinks and blinks and Ilya says good boy and finally pulls his fingers out, wiping them on the sheets.
“You can say stop, wait, like that. I will keep going,” Ilya tells him. “We will talk about it tonight.”
As if it’s Ilya’s call only.
Shane stares at the ceiling, his cock twitching and his hands covering his face. Ilya strokes his thigh, his stomach to his chest, squeezes him wherever he is sore: shoulders, biceps, feet. Kisses the little divot at the side of his knee. Waits until Shane takes his hands off his face, nods, and then peels himself off the disgusting bedsheets. Shane makes it into the shower only because he’s thinking about laundry, imagining the scent of fresh detergent.
Soon. We will relax soon, yes? Sunday. I promise. Ilya says “relax” because that’s the only choice presented to him. It’s not a common thing, either, and there’s no yes-but option. It’s yes or no. Most of the time, he doesn’t mind the frantic sex; he wants Ilya to thrust into him desperately, loudly, while jerking him off. He wants to touch Ilya all over and let him know just how badly he wants him in turn. Wants to make up for lost time even now.
But summer’s hot, and Shane can’t shake what he feels is a subpar last few games, even though the season’s long over. Not bad play, but not good enough. When he’s rewatched Montreal’s losing game to Detroit three times, pausing, rewinding, trying to identify where the energy of the game shifted—was that his fucking fault?—Ilya turns the TV off. He folds his arms over his chest, and Shane knows he shouldn’t be doing all this right now. Between him and Ilya, Shane’s always been worse at untangling hockey from them during their private time.
“Maybe time to relax,” Ilya tells him, and Shane’s mouth is hot-wet. Feverish.
It’s not a question, but this is Shane’s chance to opt out. He just has to say, I’m alright, I don’t want to relax, and Ilya will shrug and let it go.
But Shane really fucking needs it, so he says, “Yeah, I think you’re right,” and, “Drinks like usual?”
Ilya nods, slowly, and then holds his hand out for the TV remote. “I will pick nice bar for us.” Because it always changes. Has to be somewhere where people, when drunk enough, might not pay too much attention. A near-impossible mission, but because Ilya is loved in Ottawa, now, usually people are looking to do him a solid. And he knows more than a handful of bartenders.
“When?” Shane tries not to sound too eager, even though there’s only one answer. Knows he has failed already.
Ilya tilts his head, seems to be considering it. His eyes catch on Shane’s throat. “Sunday.”
Shane can wait two days.
He goes on his regular morning run, tries to find that pep in his step, feels the stretch of muscle. Like it is anticipating the release. Ilya jogs alongside him, no different than usual. Shane thinks of Sunday. Tries not to think about Sunday. They cook lunch together, fold clothes, sit outside on the dock and bask in the sun. Friday-hot, sweat stains on their t-shirts. Ilya’s always adjusting his shorts where they stick to his crotch. Shane smears sunscreen over Ilya’s face; it washes off when he dives into the water. He drags Shane into the lake with one hand on his ankle, kisses him filthy once they’re both soaked. Tries not to remember it’s Saturday. Doesn’t think that tomorrow’s Sunday. Tries to forget the names of the week in their entirety because maybe then they go by quicker. Fails at that and remembers that tomorrow is Sunday, anyway, as Ilya licks a fat stripe up the column of his throat, bodies in the water, and says, “Johnnie’s tomorrow night. Nine. I drive us home.” His teeth on Shane’s pulse, like a period to the sentence. Shane closes his eyes. Tomorrow, tomorrow. Yeah. Sunday’s for relaxation.
Ilya’s not there when Shane wakes up the following day, and he’s not back by noon. Shane makes himself a smoothie and does his yoga outside. When he spreads his legs and reaches for his left foot, he holds the stretch until the twinge of the initial ache is more of a dull throb. Repeats on the other side. The cottage shouldn’t feel so empty without Ilya—he used to come here alone for years—but it does. Shane arranges the pillows on their bed and, like every other time, turns the few photos of them together around to face the wall.
He takes a long shower. Doesn’t prep. There’s this special luxury soap. Shane got it one time in a gift bag from a brand, and it’s eighty bucks a bottle because sometimes soap is that good. That’s the annoying part—he knows there’s eighty dollar soap that’s worth eighty dollars. And that it has a nearly teen douchebag scent to it, a musky, almost obnoxious smell. The consistency is more of a gel, and it’s amber in color. Shane keeps the bottle under his sink, and Ilya will dig to find it because he says it reminds him of his old deodorant. Shane uses it on Sundays, and whenever Ilya’s gone. He’s emptied a few bottles throughout the years. Ilya will rub it in for him. Rinse it off his skin and kiss the same spot right after. Shane’s pretty sure that the last Blue Sunday, he heard eight separate joints in his body pop.
He picks out a nice, simple outfit. Jeans, an athletic t-shirt; it was one of the few ones his stylist hadn’t begged him to get rid of. The white looks good on him, she’d said, and the v-neck wasn’t too horrendous. It was even possible to ignore the off-white embroidered logo on the chest.
Seven-thirty. Ilya’s car is still missing from the driveway. Sometimes he does come back, before. Last year, he’d shown up at Shane’s door and acted like he got the wrong house, pretending he didn’t even know Shane’s name. He threw a long look over Shane’s shoulder, studying the layout as if he hadn’t bent Shane over in the halfway the night before. He brought that up later—you would’ve let me in if I asked—while Shane choked on his cock.
He’s not home by eight, either. Shane slicks his hair back, twisting the strands between his fingers. Tries to be casual. It doesn’t matter what he’s wearing, or what he’s doing with his hair, but there’s a part of him that tells him he should look worth the effort. Should look hot enough for Ilya to want to risk something for, to take home and fuck and then clean up the mess.
Shane adjusts his pants, lets them hang a little lower on his hips. A hint of his boxers show, faded blue against tan skin and the dark wash of his jeans. It’s a tonight-only fixture of his outfit.
He remembers when Ilya bought an obscene pair of low-rise jeans that showed off the entire logo of his Versace underwear. Said he wore them because he lost a bet. Shane’s not sure betting with yourself on how many goals you’re gonna score calls for punishments like that, but Ilya lapped up the public’s attention and seemed all too happy to let Shane peel those jeans off him in a hotel room a few weeks after being photographed in them. They’re in the bottom drawer, tucked away. Helplessly crusty in places. Ilya calls them his sex pants.
They’ll stay in the bottom drawer for a bit longer.
But Shane doesn’t have any fucking sex pants, or whatever. He’s got a fairly well-rounded set of collared shirts and crisp t-shirts and the occasional unsteamed linen shirt. Dress pants. Some charity run t-shirts and sponsored items. When he goes to clubs or bars he’s not asking for attention. Not usually.
He wipes his hands over his face again. Presses his thumb against the curve of his brow and follows the arc.
Eight-thirty he’s out the door. He fiddles with his phone, trying not to make eye contact with the taxi driver. If he recognizes Shane, he doesn’t say anything. Maybe it helps that Shane’s forehead is pressed against the glass the whole drive there.
This is the deal: Ilya and Shane don't know each other. Shane’s there to relax. He’s there to grab a beer and watch whatever’s on the bar TV and speak to no one. Ilya might approach him, or might not. It’s not up to Shane. If he has to wait, he waits. No questions once they’re in it, but there will be nothing unsafe, no doing anything that’d show up on a medical. Shane’s job is to trust—to believe a little.
Again, this is the deal: Shane takes what he’s given.
It’s a stuffy bar perfectly tucked away in a four-way intersection, right across from a shoddy gas station with several broken overhead lights. The parking lot is half-full, and once inside, the radio’s all he can hear, playing songs Shane has definitely heard before but could never name. He slides into one of the high top chairs at the bar, orders a Labatts Blue, yes, lime, and waits. Keeps his attention on his hands because otherwise he’s going to etch out every corner of the room until he finds who he’s looking for.
And that’s not how this works.
So Shane sits at the bar for fifteen minutes, thirty. Orders another beer, puts the lime between his teeth and bites. The aftertaste sits real sour in his mouth, almost nauseating. He rubs his tongue against the inside of his cheek and sucks on the lime one more time until it blights his tastebuds, then slides the wrinkled wedge into his beer bottle.
He’s running on Ilya’s time. That’s a forbidden word today, though, like thinking of Sunday before Sunday’s come. He’s not here for Ilya.
Shane’s just there to drink Maybe watch TV—some reality show, a guy throwing his hands up in defeat, the sound misaligned with the bar’s radio, like a terrible music video—and be a guy in a bar. Not Hollander, not twenty-four, not Metros’-fucking-anything. A couple of people eye him, and a singe of panic sears up Shane’s back. Enough for a bit of paranoia to flicker up. He hangs his head low, rubs his face with one hand to cover it. One time, a single drink in and with Ilya within eyesight, a couple dudes had pulled up to speak to him. They’d been in Ottawa then, too. Wasn’t all that bad in the end, but Shane didn’t get to relax that night. Plans totally spoiled.
Ilya blew him with the car pulled over on the side of the road.
Someone orders a drink next to him: mule, extra lime. Voice like the blunt edge of a thumbnail over his nape.
Shane is reading the labels of the shelved liquor bottles. Shane peels his jacket off and drapes it over his thighs, stretches his arms out on the bar so that the muscles flex. Rolls his shoulders, takes a sip. He keeps picking at the label on the beer bottle, peeling it off so that the sticky glue on the other side rubs against his fingers. Little balls of it come off as he rubs his thumb against the glue and the damp paper label. Making a whole mess.
After what feels like a reasonable amount of time, he looks to his right.
Ilya is already staring at him. His tongue presses a dip into his bottom lip, his drink half empty. One of his hands is resting on the table, curled into a loose fist. They don’t greet each other; Shane’s eyes trail down Ilya’s jaw, over what he knows is a prickly five o’clock shadow. A bit further—low-neck t-shirt, deep blue or black, hard to tell in the unsteady indoor light. Gold chain gleaming, cross resting over his shirt. Pale jeans. When Ilya takes his next sip, he holds Shane’s gaze.
He asks something. Or Shane thinks he asks something. Can only really make out Ilya’s lips moving and Shane, who has been waiting, has been good, knows the play, the deal, leans in, lets Ilya put his mouth to his ear and keeps his eyes on the wall behind him.
“Long week?” Ilya asks, shifting in his seat to bump his knee into Shane’s.
At that moment, he’s a handsome stranger talking over the bassline. So stupid gorgeous that Shane’s normal inhibitions, every sane thought, bends under the weight of his voice. From the corner of his eye, he can catch Ilya’s curled hand raising a bit, looking so nonchalant about it, like he’s reaching for something. Shane swallows. Ilya follows the bobbing movement, then lowers his hand, taps his fingers against the table a few times, then slides the same hand up Shane’s wrist. Easy work. Shane tenses up, eyes flicking behind the bar, but the bartender’s on the other side, entertaining someone else. No one’s watching them.
But they could be. All it would take is one glance.
“Yes?” Ilya says. “You are always stiff like this?” His fingers digging into Shane’s shoulder. “Maybe you need another drink to relax.”
Shane shakes his head, pulling away, trying not to stare at Ilya’s curved cupid’s bow, his wet-from-liquor lips. “I’m good, I got one.” Holds his beer up.
Ilya shrugs and leans back. Taps his fingers against the table. His thumb’s blue, smears like ink against his forefinger when he rubs them together. Shane lifts his beer to his lips, hoppy and sour from the lime, and finishes the rest of it. Sniffs, pinches the tip of his nose, and basks in Ilya’s dark eyes.
Ilya doesn’t move his legs, their knees still touching.
“You like this music?” Ilya asks, waving his hand as if they can see the song bounce around.
Shane shrugs. “I don’t really know any of these songs.”
“Is okay,” Ilya says, taking the opportunity to lean back in. “I can tell you. But you say them back to me, yes? So I know you are listening.”
Shane’s ears are red. “Weird game.”
“Not a game,” Ilya counters, taking another sip of his cocktail. “This is—”
“—hey,” Ilya says, so close their noses almost touch. “You look bad, do you want to ?”
Very sweet of him. Shane nods, laughs, pretends he heard the last part. Ilya furrows his brows.
This is the deal, Shane. You don’t get to know anything. Do you trust me? Do you trust me, Shane? It only works if you do, and of course, of course Shane trusts him, more than anything. He has: loved ya since I knew ya. He’s laying it all on the line because of trust. Because he needs some release, needs to have the stiffness worked out of him by more capable hands. Someone who knows every inch of his muscles, his heart.
“Maybe you , yes?” Ilya pats his cheek, pushing his beer bottle away. “No more, I think.” Just two beers, it was just two beers. “I could really have another one, I’m not drunk. And I’m not driving home. It’s totally fine.” And I think you’re taking me, anyway, right? Taking me back home with you, to us, after this. Jesus Christ, he leans forward, not so intentional. Ilya squeezes his thigh. The bartender says something to Ilya, who waves him away. We know each other, Shane almost says. It’s cool, we know each other. He’s got me.
He’s got me.
But Shane’s kind of heavy, though. Or that could just be the day catching up to him. He follows the curve of his molars with his tongue, puts the tip of it against the corner of his mouth. Wipes it with his thumb. Catches a glimpse of his skin, blue. Thinks, that’s fucking weird, but okay. Remembers the last time Sunday was a blue day. Ilya’s blue tongue in his mouth, a bit slack-jawed, thinks of how blue made his body feel, how, right now, there’s the guitar riff of a new song cracking its chords through his head, down his spine, into his groin and toes, and he’s so restless, so lazy, all at once.
“I’m gonna use the restroom,” Shane says, and doesn’t wait to hear what Ilya-who-isn’t-his-right-now tells him in turn.
He walks normally, keeping his posture as stiff as he can. Beelines for the bathroom. One stall, one sink, one urinal.
Shane turns the tap on and runs cold water over his hands while counting to thirty. Inside the bathroom all other noise is muffled. His head clears some. He lifts his damp hands to his cheeks and holds them there with the water still running, peering at his own reflection. His pupils are blown wide. Why’s he so fucking sweaty? Hair sticking to his forehead. That hair gel did nothing, clearly.
When he leans forward, he catches a line of blue smeared along the very seam of his mouth. Some of it on his front teeth, which looks stupid. He thinks of Ilya’s colored fingers.
This is the deal: Shane takes what he’s given.
That lime really did a number on his tastebuds. He wipes his mouth, blinks, and—it’s not really that noticeable, after all, the color. Maybe it’s the stale, overhead light, which is kind of cool-toned. Typical public bathroom. He drags his tongue along his teeth and swallows, tries to make out powder, anything. Can’t. He feels like he’s holding a pulse inside of his mouth. It rolls from one cheek to the other, weighing on his tongue. Flutters behind his eyes. He turns the sink on to wash his hands. He turns the water off. He turns the sink on to wash his hands, rubs the ball of his thumb hard, hard, hard. Picks out the dirt underneath his nails. He’s got a good rhythm going. Dries his hands. Wipes his mouth—again, right. Sunday. Sunday for relaxation.
His head keeps tilting left. Shane cracks his neck to one side, the other. Sways left, anyway. He puts his hands down on the bathroom sink, closes his eyes. His grip tightens, knuckles pale.
The bathroom door slides open.
Shane’s jacket hangs over Ilya’s arm. A white flag.
They stare at each other, and it could be that filtered music, the dreamy guitar riff, maybe just the cloying air, but Shane’s weak in the knees, right now. He considers pushing Ilya into the bathroom stall, getting on the filthy floor, wobbling as he does it. Thinks real deep and hard about nosing into Ilya’s crotch and staying there. His ankles have weight to them, lead in his shoes.
It’s as if Ilya’s touching him, eyes pinning Shane in place. He watches Ilya’s gaze move over the line of his shoulders, down to his waist, the teasing sliver of his underwear over his jeans where his t-shirt has rolled up. Shane loops a finger into the hem of his shirt, tugging it up a bit and wafting the fabric to get cool air on his skin. With dozens of nights imprinted on body, it’s simple to picture the push of Ilya’s hands on him. As if Ilya’s closing in on him. Or someone in the shape of him, who wouldn’t be as forgiving or gentle.
Ilya doesn’t ask if Shane’s fine: instead he holds his jacket out. The corner of his mouth twitches. Shane shakes his head. He’s not there yet, is barely drunk, barely—his chest lurches. He spits in the sink.
Ilya turns around and leaves the bathroom, leaving Shane, letting him stew there. He finds his balance again, wipes his hands dry on his pants, then pats his face until there’s no more droplets there. His reflection isn’t half as steady as Shane feels, but he’s totally clear. Head wise. Grip’s not too good, he thinks. But he can finish his drink. Which he finished. So maybe another one—a last beer before going home. Together.
He tilts his head back, closes his eyes again. Deep breaths in through your nose, out your mouth. So solid. So fucking nothing right now.
The music’s shifting, Shane realizes. Each component of the song is ajar. Folds over itself, words / PUT ON THE RED LIGHT / and yeah, the bar’s red, for sure, has a couple of mood-lights set up around the room, what was the name of this one? / I LOVED YOU SINCE I KNEW YA / Ilya had told him just seconds earlier, Ilya, whose hand is on his thigh, tucked out of sight, surely it’s been that long, right? Since that first time, fuck, the first cigarette, crazy, crazy, how time goes, ten years / I WON’T SHARE YOU WITH ANOTHER BOY / But Shane’s had to share before, even if he’ll never know the men Ilya fucked, has told Ilya everything there is to know about his own fumbling encounters / RED LIGHT / Left temple throbbing, how it wasn’t the same getting on his knees for someone else, how it felt askew, wrong / RED LIGHT / Squinting at his hand, lifting it to press against the side of his head, ease the ache out, out, / I LOVED YOU SINCE / and it’s probably because he didn’t drink enough water, because his body’s been strung out on expectations for two days, and now Ilya’s there, relishing in him / I KNEW YA, I KNEW YA / without giving Shane what he wants, it’s bearing on him, sour, again, where’s the lime wedge glass against his fingernails
Shane’s got a tab open on Flunitrazepam. Dosage. Interactions. Half-life.
Occasionally, Ilya enjoys making Shane think he can guess what he’s getting. If he’s getting anything at all. He’ll wear a blue shirt the day before, act cheeky about it. All fun and games. Ilya will leave a blister pack out on the table at home and say nothing about it. He will let Shane walk into the kitchen and see it, stare, go and google ten side effects, how it’ll feel. And Shane will shower thinking about it, will go to bed thinking about it, will wake up thinking about it, will be Sunday Blue long before Sunday comes.
And sometimes Monday morning comes and the pack’s still there, even though Shane’s body feels the aftermath of it. Ilya picks it up, looks at Shane, and drops it in the trash. You can do that all on your own. Do we need this? Do you need this?
He kneads Shane’s bruises. Shane wants to ask: Did you feed it to me? Afterward, he works through it, the not-knowing. Accepts that’s what he gets out of this.
Shane sits back down at the bar. Ilya hands his jacket back and Shane puts it on. Thirty minutes.
He runs through his usual list in his head while Ilya orders two sodas.
Name all the teams in the Eastern Conference: easy, entry level. Recite ten capital cities in Europe. Not hard, either. There’s a few others. A couple others, surely, questions—he knows this song, it’s by that one famous singer Rose loves, the blonde one, he says it before Ilya can tell him the name—he’s got to finish the rest of the questions. In Ottawa-Gatineau, there are over two-hundred-and-thirty distinct bird species that can be observed throughout the year, such as the black-capped chickadee and the palm warbler. Ilya asks, “ , go home? You are , I think. ?” And this fucking music just keeps going, fuck. The time is eleven-thirty. How late is the bar open? Ilya says, “Three,” like he’s read Shane’s mind, and Shane hears his own voice, in an echo—leave, together? Ilya finishes his soda, ice clinking in the tall glass. Yes, leave together.
It’s hot even approaching midnight. Ilya smokes a cigarette while Shane waits. If Ilya was nice tonight, he’d open the door and let Shane sit down in the passenger seat while he polishes off his cig. They both stand. It’s hot and still Shane shivers. He puts his arms around himself, then takes his jacket off. Just to have something to do with his hands. Ilya stares at the patch of sweat in the center of his chest. His shirt’s sticking to the small of his back. Smoke in a cloud. It smells fucking terrible. Shane needs to be kissed. Doesn’t want to be kissed. Needs to be held down. Wants to sleep. Wants to sit in Ilya’s car while he smokes close his eyes sleep wake up and there, okay, engine’s running now, windows rolled down, Shane’s head against the seatrest, there’s that familiar road winding home. Ilya’s hand on his thigh again, higher up than it maybe should be, almost at his dick, and Shane’s tired, god. He’s so fucking heavy all over. Closes his eyes and opens them and the car clock says one minute has passed. Another minute. No music. They listen to the wind. Ilya is speaking to him. Shane listens, doesn’t hear.
They stop midway up the gravel driveway. You live here? Ilya opening the car door. Yes, I live here, this is my house: mine, not ours, tonight. Yeah, this is right—get you in there. Fumbling with the keys, one foot in front of the other. The ground’s not very stable, he should've gone with something smooth, like Ilya’s perfectly semicircular driveway, probably. His right ankle buckles, but Ilya’s got him. Drunk then. Tipsy at the very least, from a couple of beers? Wow.
He stares at the door handle, both hands grabbing his keys, as if he’s brandishing a knife.
“I don’t usually get this drunk,” Shane says. His reflection is wobbly in the shiny door handle. He’s got his handsome not-stranger holding his waist while he unlocks the front door, and that’s kind of dreamy.
Ilya looks at him, grip tightening, tells him, “Liar,” and maybe he watches Shane’s face go red, because he’s warm there, on the heights of his cheek, ears, his neck. So embarrassing to be drunk like this, Sunday Blue-drunk, sort of fucked up a little bit, jesus, again, it’s just some beers and a soda, but it’s a long day, has been a long wait, and who knows, because Ilya wore red this week, not blue, if that tablet’s popped into his Labatts Blue, well, with the lime, right, you know? How would he know?
And he’s on his back on the bed, so it doesn’t matter. Ilya above him, hands on either side of his head, peering down at him with intent. It would probably feel really good to throw up, right about now, but it’d take some work, and Shane’s not feeling work, only everything else. Like Ilya’s hips slotting against his own. The reek of his cigarette.
“Very pretty,” llya says, thumb stroking the soft spot under Shane’s chin before grabbing his jaw, coaxing it open. It’s a little too easy for him to do that, Shane thinks, but before he can say that, Ilya’s already licking past his lips.
The kiss doesn’t last long, and it’s mostly Ilya tasting him. But he’s humming, and Shane swallows that noise, keeping it in his throat. There’s that fever again. Is he supposed to be salivating this much? Ilya’s hum is in his chest, now, travels into his gut. He’s not hard, he thinks. Ilya’s touching him anyway. Or fumbling about between his legs, at least. Their hips slot together, Shane’s shaky thighs split open. He pushes back a bit, tries to close them, and Ilya pushes them apart again, a furrow between his brows. Like Shane’s bugging him. Like he’s being fucking annoying.
Ilya holds himself up with one hand and taps the full flat of his palm against Shane’s face once, twice. Takes a hold of his chin tilts—left, right—and Shane’s eyes drag across the ceiling, catching only on Ilya’s red mouth.
“Relaxed?” Ilya asks, and Shane thinks it’ll probably be the last thing he’s asked tonight.
There’s gotta be an answer in him somewhere, at the edge of his half-opened mouth. Ilya taps his cheek again, harder this time. He squeezes Shane’s shoulder, his arm, moving his grip back to Shane’s hips before finally reaching for the hem of Shane’s shirt.
Ilya says, “Eyes open, sweetheart.”
Sure thing. Because Shane’s an excellent listener, only partially wishes Ilya would let him sleep this one off. How many milligrams? Did he even check dosages, first? Surely he would, because Ilya knows how much stuff like that matters to Shane, being precise. He wouldn’t pop more than a pill or two. That’s the max they’ve ever tried. The max Shane thinks he’s ever tried, because Ilya flipped up two fingers one time. Made Shane suck on them after, mouth extra sloppy, said: See? Two is perfect for you.
“Don’t feel too good,” Shane murmurs. “Could we, first—fuck, my head—bathroom first, maybe? Like, give me a moment.”
The first time Shane asked this, Ilya had stopped and dragged Shane to the bathroom, patting him on his back and while it had been sweet, it hadn’t been sexy, and not at all what Shane intended. But how the hell was Ilya supposed to know? Shane should probably appreciate that his boyfriend had been so quick about getting him off the bed. It has taken them a few times to work out the language. Give the right cues, at the right time, to break out of the scene should Shane have to. Shane's nausea sits fradulent in him. He swallows dryly, waits for Ilya to respond.
Tonight, Ilya’s not even looking at him. It takes him a moment, but he manages to shove Shane’s shirt up to his armpits, where it gets stuck because Shane hadn’t thought about getting undressed, yet, and his arms aren’t cooperative, and he could probably sleep in his clothes. Even though he hates having outdoor clothes on the bed. Ilya slides his hands up Shane’s armpits, balling the shirt up until it’s finally off.
Ilya maneuvers himself on top of Shane’s chest, pulling his own shirt off and unbuttoning his jeans. He doesn’t take his cock out right away, though. Instead he grabs Shane’s wrist, bringing it to his crotch, and Shane’s fingers twitch.
“Hey,” Shane says, totally coherent. He hears the sound a few seconds after he says it, though. “Bathroom, yeah? Come on, Ilya.”
Rolling his eyes, Ilya covers Shane’s hand with his own. Doesn’t even answer, and that—that’s the first inkling. Shane’s not getting through to him.
“I’ll be so quick,” Shane tells him. “Just—think I’m getting a bit nauseous.”
“Hollander”—Ilya raises himself off Shane’s chest, shoves his jeans and underwear down over the fat curve of his ass—“I don’t want my cock in your mouth after you puke. Shut up.”
Hollander. Right. If Shane’s not really Shane, is barely-there, then he’s not Ilya’s boyfriend, either. Is something simpler. He feels young again, rough around the edges of his own desire. Stupid desperate and terrified of his own needs. Ilya keeps prying at it. Picking the scabs. But Shane’s throat is constricting, right now, lurching around the growing dizziness.
“Shut up,” Ilya repeats, as if he can tell that Shane’s about to make another case for himself.
He doesn’t seem to be executing an answer, because Ilya’s hand is on his cock, moving slowly. They both stare at it. Shane swallows. Jaw tensing. He’s pretty familiar with Ilya’s dick, but everything is sorta new, the ruddy, thick head, the fucking smell of him, no soap. Musky. Shane’s stomach flexes. He chokes on a breath, and Ilya makes a tutting sound, stroking his throat and cheek. Soft and sweet.
Ilya’s hand on his face, thumb pressing at the spot where Shane’s jaw dips toward his ear. His grip hurts. He says, “No,” and kneads his finger into the hinge of Shane’s jaw until he opens his mouth. Ilya moves his hand so he can hook his thumb inside Shane’s cheek and feed him his cock in its entirety.
Shane feels him all the way down his throat.
“No gagging,” Ilya murmurs, as if Shane can help it, as if his eyes aren’t tearing up. The swell of Ilya’s cock in his mouth, the taste of him, his fucking warmth. Ilya taps the side of his nose. “Breathe through here. No teeth.”
Then he takes the hand not used to pry Shane’s mouth open to grab the headboard, adjusting his hips, shifting closer, and fucks. And Shane’s half-chubbed in his underwear, rubbing against the entice of his pants every time Ilya’s thrusts jostle him up the bed. He grabs Ilya’s pants, fingertips caught on the belt loops so he can get some leverage, and it’s hard to focus on anything. Hard to see much past Ilya’s dark, curly pubes, the thick line of his cock, how fucking wet it is, glossed with Shane’s—his spit, because it’s spilling out the corner of his mouth, now. Smeared on his chin.
“Messy,” Ilya tells him, keeping it short. But he’s grinning. He’s calling Shane messy and fucking grinning about it, fake-white shit-eating smiling about it. And Shane chokes on him, chest constricting and hitching off the bed and Ilya goes, “Whoa—whoa, calm, shit, Hollander, calm the fuck down,” and pushes Shane’s head onto the bed with a hand on his forehead. “Shit, no teeth, I told you, open up. What, you want me to fuck your ass, instead? Make mess there?”
Shane swallows around him and Ilya’s brows pinch together, breath hitching. “Fuck, again—Hollander, come on. Swallow. This is the cock you love.”
But Shane can’t make himself do it again because Ilya’s cock is scraping the roof of his mouth and his jaw aches and his throat’s rasped up. Ilya moves his hand into Shane’s hair, knots his fingers through the strands. Asks for it again. Tightens his grip when Shane can’t. Says, “Swallow,” and Shane’s eyes burn and his face is hot and he can’t do what Ilya’s asking of him, his thoughts are leaking out his ears. Are down in his gut, in his cock. When did he even get this hard?
Ilya hushes him again, wipes his finger over the corner of Shane’s eye, his cheek. When Ilya stops moving, Shane thinks he might come like that, happy to fill Shane's mouth up and call it a night.
But Ilya keeps petting his hair. Strokes his cheek again, thumb swiping under his eye, and he’s nodding to himself. His cock stretches Shane’s mouth open: it must look obscene. Ilya prods at the inside of Shane’s mouth with the thumb he still has lodged in there, grinds his cock along the bend of his finger and groans at the drag.
“Okay,” he says, but Shane doesn’t think he’s talking to him, because Ilya’s eyes are on his own cock, nowhere else. “Wet enough, I think.”
He circles the base of his cock with his free hand when he pulls out, wincing, and Shane lurches at the loss, head jostling to the side as he spits onto the bedsheets. It’s clear. No blue. But Shane knows—can’t, but knows, surely, fucking surely all of this is, has to be Ilya’s doing. His perfect arrangement to get Shane how he needs him. A pliant fuck, for once.
Ilya moves down Shane’s body, thighs on either side of his hips so that he can’t wiggle away. They lock eyes.
Shane wonders what he looks like.
“On your stomach,” Ilya says, tapping Shane’s hip.
When he doesn’t move, Ilya sighs, grabs his waist with one hand, and flips him over. Shane gasps, pushing himself up on his elbows so that his face isn’t smushed into the pillows. He turns his head so he can watch as Ilya nudges his pants down, exposing his ass. Ilya hasn’t even undressed all the way, and it doesn’t seem like he’s going to get Shane naked, either. As if he’s intending to bounce after and is making this as easy on himself as possible.
“Come on,” Shane pants, but the words don’t come out right. His tongue keeps slipping past his teeth.
He just wants to lie down and close his eyes and maybe crawl to the bathroom, maybe feel the cool tile floor on his cheek let it soothe him.
“Come on,” Shane says, again. “I can’t—I can’t right now, I’m so fucking tired. Just give me a second,” Ilya’s pinching his waist hard, “ooo-kay? Take a break, then you can—whatever, you can do whatever.”
“I am doing whatever I want,” Ilya says, ignoring Shane’s eyes.
Hes puts both hands on Shane’s ass, squeezing it before spreading his cheeks and though Ilya has seen him in this position numerous times, it never stops being a bit mortifying to have him just look. He stares at Shane’s hole, thumbing at the furl, dipping just the tip of his finger in, thrusting it in and out and it’s fucking dry and doesn’t feel very good. Shane realizes wet enough means Ilya’s going to fuck him just like that.
His entire body tenses up, and Ilya squeezes his ass again when he feels the muscles tense, glances up at Shane. He feels his body shaking, upper body slipping down. And there it is, again: his wire-string, rooted into him, an electric buzz starting in his head and reaching everywhere he is. Builds steady.
Ilya hovers over him, kisses his shoulder blades one at a time, and then licks a stripe between them, all the way to his nape. Ilya’s gold cross touches the curve of Shane’s back when he bends down. Shane keeps waiting for him to say something, like, okay, sweetheart, one break, then I fuck you. Or that he’s doing well. Ask if he’s feeling a bit sick, needs to lie on his back, maybe.
Instead, Ilya sinks his cock into Shane, slick only with his spit, until his hips are flush to his ass and the one place Shane wasn’t burning jolts with friction.
“Jesus,” Shane says, stomach and chest contracting as he rubs his face into the bedsheets. “Fuck, that’s—get the lube, that’s—Rozanov, please—”
“Please, fuck me?” Ilya mimics, voice a bit uppity, pleased with himself. “Don’t worry, Hollander. I will fuck you.”
Shane kind of laughs. The sound sticks in the back of his mouth, another gasp, hurts his throat.
With his pants pushed out the way, his cock chafes against the sheets. Makes a damp spot that rubs over his stomach every time Ilya fucks into him and pushes him up the bed. His thrusts are short, deep, Ilya’s breath right by his ear. He’s as ragged as Shane is.
“Soft and warm,” Ilya tells him, gripping his hip. He pushes Shane deeper into the mattress, kneads his back muscles with his other hand, deep into the bruises, into every knot until the ache blooms. Shane thinks he might bruise, will feel this in him tomorrow. Shane tries to lift his hips off the bed, carve some space out for his dick, and Ilya reaches around, like he’d been waiting, and grabs it.
Shane stiffens. Ilya’s thumb digs into the head of his cock, no gentler than he’d been with the rest of Shane’s body, working him into soreness. Shane’s dick is embarrassingly wet, so slick with precome he can hear it as Ilya pumps him into climax. It just takes another second for Shane to spill all over his hand with a yelp.
“See? Say please, break first, but you come anyway.” Ilya stops moving only to wiggle his fingers in front of Shane’s face. They catch the light. “You say you do not want to fuck, but you are feeling good, yes? My cock in you is good. You want this. Is what you really want. Not break, not sleep. Just to get fucked by me.” And he kneads the low curve of Shane’s back with one hand, settling for a slower rhythm. With one orgasm wrung out of him, Shane’s ooziness shifts into a vibrant hum. He knows he could come again. He understands Ilya’s probably going to make him.
Ilya says to him, “Give me one more,” and fucks that second orgasm right out of him. Tops it off with a sloppy kiss on Shane’s cheek that’s half teeth, sinks those same teeth into Shane’s shoulder afterward so hard Shane’s body jerks off the bed, shoved back down by the weight of Ilya’s hips slamming against his ass.
It feels good to come, tiny sparks of yes-that’s-right, fuck, crashing through the blend of sluggish there-ness. All of him is sort of edgeless. He’s pretty sure he can taste Ilya’s words in his mouth. Sour as always.
“There is my pretty boy,” Ilya tells him, stroking his cock furiously. “See? Can come again, no problem, is easy for you. All you do is lie there and take it.”
He’s not leaking as much, but Ilya doesn’t loosen his grip. Nudges his thumb against the ridge of the cockhead, follows the curve of it with his palm. He jerks Shane off like he’s trying to see how fast he can get him off even though his cock is too sensitive, barely hard. Like it’s a game to him. Shane sobs, face down; as Ilya says, he’s good and easy. Could come again, if Ilya wanted him to.
When Ilya finally climaxes, Shane doesn’t get to see his face. Ilya’s fingers nip at his sides, pinching, testing against the yellow-green scuffs on his body, relishing in every little flinch. Gets out of Shane’s body whatever he needs. He fucks his come back into Shane and pulls out only when he’s softening. The sensations hit on a delay: the loss of Ilya’s cock stretching him out, how sore his ass is, the lingering burn from the friction, Ilya’s slick come soothing and not at the same time, a dull pounding in every muscle in his body, a half-wrung, final orgasm abandoned. Ilya’s gotten to every inch of him, has gotten inside of him, and fucking kneaded him there, too.
Ilya pats his ass, and then he gets off the bed and Shane hears the shower turn on.
It takes a minute before Shane can roll over, knees knocking together. Pants halfway on, his t-shirt on the floor. His underwear’s got come on it, too. There’s a whole lot glistening on his stomach, stuck to his arm hair. Bedsheets, soaked.
He reaches for his pants and manages to chuck them onto the floor, too. The socks are more difficult. He has to curl over on his side and get two fingers under the band, peel them off one-by-one. But he does it; he manages all on his own, even though there’s a noise in his ear like water on sand. Leftover static from the dive bar. It ebbs and flows from his elbows into his chest, throughout the rest of him. When he slides two fingers down his ass, he can feel Ilya’s come around his hole. For a second, he’s compelled to push it back inside, test against his own fingers just how much he’s loosened.
He tilts his head to the side. Left. The bedroom table lamp is the only light on, and it’s a nauseating, warm yellow. Shane lies there for what feels like an hour, rubbing his tongue over his teeth. He puts the tip against the inside of his cheek and it twinges with the memory of Ilya’s nail against the soft flesh. When he rolls over onto his side again, his spine pops. His shoulders slump forward and he wriggles his toes. Bends one finger over at a time until he’s done it for all ten, twice over.
The water’s still running inside the bathroom, but he can hear Ilya moving around in there.
Shane pushes himself up so he can sit, wrinkling his noise as his body protests. He rubs the tips of his fingers in a circle at the center of his chest, then moves down to his quads, raking his thumbs down the lines of muscle until he’s to his thighs. He’s clearing up a bit. Maybe he could make it into the shower on his own without toppling over. He sways. Catches himself with one hand.
The water turns off, and Ilya walks out a few moments later with a towel around his waist, and Shane blinks at him, hunched over his left leg.
“Need another drink?” Ilya asks, the pinch between his brows back. His chest and shoulders have pinked from the hot water. He does love it scalding.
Shane shakes his head and himself a few seconds to respond. “I’m pretty relaxed.”
Ilya’s stance shifts: his shoulders not as upright, the stiff line of his mouth curving softer. “Need more time alone? Bathroom?”
“No,” Shane says, faster this time, but even he can hear the drawl at the end of the word. “No time alone. Can you help me shower, though? I’m gross.”
That’s the last bit. Ilya crosses over to the bed, rubs Shane’s thighs before he gently hoists him to the edge of the bed, his hands behind Shane’s knees. He kisses the top of each knee, then noses at the side, right by the crease. Ilya waits a few seconds, unmoving, then steadies his hands on Shane’s hips and helps him up. With their faces this close together, Shane can watch Ilya’s eyes flick around. He pats Shane’s cheek, thumb wiping at something. He leans in and kisses Shane. It’s a pretty simple kiss, more of a peck.
“Okay,” Ilya tells him, not easing his grip. “We shower, then sleep. I will shower with you, yes?”
“Yeah.” Shane’s head knocks against Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya strokes his back.
Shane leans back as much as he can, asks, “How many milligrams?”
Ilya studies his face while continuing to stroke his back. He kisses Shane’s cheek, right under his eye, and tells him, “Water hot or cold?”
And Shane, who has never had his question answered, anyway, says, “Cold.”
Ilya digs for the soap underneath the bathroom sink while Shane names all the teams in the Eastern Conference to himself, and then ten European capital cities. Ilya pinches his armpit with a grin when he catches him zoning out, and Shane would shove him to the ground if he wasn’t also clinging to him. In Ottawa-Gatineau, there are over two-hundred-and-thirty distinct bird species. Shower on again. Ilya kisses him again, licks over his top lip and then bites his jaw, nothing but a nip, and follows it with a wet smack of his mouth. The humming in Shane’s head is not louder than Ilya’s voice in his ear.
Tomorrow, Shane’s going to dump their clothes from the floor into the laundry bin. Ilya will have left his jeans on a chair, blister packet in his back pocket. The aluminium winks at him. He can hear Ilya rummaging around in the kitchen, no doubt cracking open the cream cheese, or something.
Shane holds his jeans up, eyes fixated on the rectangular print of the pack.
Then he folds Ilya’s pants properly, back pockets facing in, and puts them at the edge of the bed, right in the middle, and heads downstairs.