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It’s hard to imagine the timing being worse. Well, no it isn’t, because about thirty-five seconds earlier would have been worse. Two minutes earlier would have been worse.
(Shane lacks the imagination to consider that two hours from now would be, in its own way, worse.)
But the timing is bad. Quite bad.
Shane knew, distantly, that there was a chance his parents would be in touch over the two weeks that Ilya is here. They’re pretty good about his boundaries when he communicates them, but every once and a while his mom can convince herself or Dad that the cause is great enough to nudge up against the line and ask for admittance. Shane has gotten better at sticking to the important lines and compromising the lesser ones as the years have gone by.
If he’d looked at his phone at all this morning, they’d have found a different solution. He could have left the charger on the front step and hidden Ilya away in the basement gym. They could’ve gone on a hike and just told his dad to let himself in. He could’ve handed it over himself at the front door while Ilya waited around the corner.
There were a lot of other ways it could’ve gone.
Instead, Ilya is buried inside him. They’re in bed, spooning in the afterglow but still connected. Ilya’s face is red, his eyes half-lidded. He looks almost drunk, feral and raw. Shane feels like he’s melted into the bed and never wants to leave it. Like he could lie here, claimed and had, for the rest of his life.
And then there’s a knock at the door. He recognizes the pattern, which is both a blessing and a curse. Tap–ta-tap. The way his father always does.
“Fuck,” Shane exclaims, and sort of lunges forward thoughtlessly to tumble out of bed.
“Ah,” Ilya hisses as his cock is jerked free, and Shane gasps at the sudden absence, the way he feels wet and open as, Jesus, Ilya’s cum starts to trickle out. A hell of a time to do it raw for the first time.
“I–fuck, that’s my–”
Tap–ta-tap. Shane’s dad knocks again, a little more insistent this time.
“It’s my dad,” Shane says, as he hears his father call from outside.
“Shane! It’s just me. I just need a second.”
“Fuck.” Shane says again.
Ilya lays a steadying hand on his hip. “Is okay. He’ll just go away if you do not answer, right?”
“But what if it’s important?” Shane shoots Ilya a pleading glance.
Ilya’s fingers dig in for just a second, a grounding pressure. “Then I will stay here, and you can–”
The sound of a key in the lock and then the front door opening stops Ilya in his tracks.
“Shane?”
“Just a second, Dad!” Shane shouts. His voice cracks in the middle. Jesus. Fuck.
“I just need my charger,” Dad calls in return, but it doesn’t sound like he’s moved out of the front doorway.
“Just a second,” Shane repeats insistently, as he stands and starts tugging on the nearest pair of pants. They’re Ilya’s Adidas trackies, which Shane would never wear given the Reebok of it all, but Dad won’t notice.
God. Fuck. There’s cum on his stomach. There’s a hickey on his shoulder, and a constellation of smaller ones on his ribs. “I need–” he turns back to Ilya, voice frantic but hushed, but Ilya is already leaning up with a corner of the duvet to wipe off Shane’s stomach.
Shane frowns at him, but Ilya shrugs and grins. “Have to wash it anyway,” he whispers, and Shane glares harder. Ilya sets his hands on Shane’s waist and gives him a spin. “Shirt on, then go.”
Something settles in Shane’s head. Right. Instructions. He can do that. His t-shirt from this morning is hanging halfway out of the laundry basket, discarded with a coffee stain on the hem, but it’ll do. Shane tugs it on, runs a hand through his hair, and hurries out of the bedroom to meet his father.
Dad is still standing beside the open front door, looking hesitant to encroach into Shane’s space any further. Ilya had asked if Shane gets his boring from his dad, but the truth is more that he has inherited this: the vague discomfort of not quite knowing how to occupy a space or navigate a new situation.
But Dad has been here before, and the way he’s looking pointedly at the dividing wall speaks to a greater awkwardness. Then Dad’s eyes flick to Shane, down to the floor, back to the wall, and back to Shane, faintly embarrassed.
Shane follows the path. Ah. Fuck. Ilya’s shoes. Very obviously men’s shoes, and very obviously not Shane’s. Not because they’re the wrong brand, although they are, but Dad wouldn’t notice. Not because they’re the wrong size, because Ilya’s only a size up from Shane. He has long toes. No, it’s obvious because they’re sitting in a pile in the corridor to the kitchen, not lined up on the little shelf in the entrance.
Shane freezes, six feet from his dad and unwilling to come closer. He smells of sweat and probably cum and, god, the stupid fucking strawberry lube Ilya brought because he thought it was funny. And there’s obviously a man in his house.
“I left my charger here,” Dad says without greeting. And that’s fair enough, because they’ve been silently avoiding each other’s gaze for a good five seconds. “The old one, the one that works? Your mom called ahead, but you didn’t pick up, and we thought you might be out on a run…” Dad trails off, apologetic.
“I can grab it,” Shane says, and it comes out more softly than he meant for it to. It’s very silly, standing here in his home with his father, both of them feeling sorry for each other and themselves. Silly, and painfully them.
Shane doesn’t like lying, but he’s done a lot of it by necessity. It’s strange to be confronted by it now, after days of raw vulnerability.
“I think I left it in the kitchen,” Dad says and doesn’t follow when Shane turns away to retrieve it. That feels bad too, to leave Dad feeling uncomfortable and unwelcome in Shane’s home.
Just as much as it feels bad to have the cracks of this safe haven exposed. That here, just like everywhere, they’ve only ever been lucky, not safe.
In the kitchen, Shane plants his palms on the edge of the counter, ducks his head, and just breathes. In two three four, hold two three four, out two three four, hold two three four. He repeats it, and then repeats it again, and then looks for the charger.
It’s stunningly obvious when he’s looking for it, plugged innocuously into the side of the kitchen island, a quiet sign of life that he missed. Shane jerks it out of the socket more forcefully than necessary, then glances back toward the bedroom.
Ilya’s standing in the door, Shane’s sweatpants slung low on his hips. He’s watching Shane with concerned eyes, tucked just enough out of the way that Dad won’t be able to see him in the window reflections.
Ilya raises his eyebrows, a quiet question, something like, What are you going to say?
Shane bites his lip and shrugs minutely. I don’t know. What should I do?
Ilya thinks a moment, then tilts his head ever so slightly towards the door with a quirk of his mouth. I could say hello.
Shane shakes his head. No. He absentmindedly coils the cord around his palm.
Ilya’s still watching him, his face soft. After a beat, Ilya juts his chin out, a small movement, then winks. It means, Shane thinks, off you go, and be brave, and I love you.
Shane’s not very good at reading people usually, but he and Ilya have been dancing around real communication for almost a decade now. Sentiment is hard, but Shane knows how to read the play when the puck’s on his teammate’s stick.
He exhales and walks back to the door. His dad is looking at the shoes again.
“Found it,” Shane says, holding out the cord. Dad takes it carefully. They don’t touch. That’s probably good, because Shane has certainly not washed his hands since–since, and he knows where they’ve been. Fucking hell. “Look–” he starts, just as his dad speaks too.
“Sorry for barging in here.”
There’s a beat, and then Shane gestures for his dad to continue.
“I called ahead, but it could’ve waited. Sorry. I know you wanted…” Dad’s gaze flicks past Shane to the windows and the lakeview. “Quiet.”
“It’s alright,” Shane says softly, even though it isn’t, really. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I, um. There’s something I should talk to you and Mom about actually.”
Dad’s gaze returns to Shane’s. “Something to be worried about?”
Shane shakes his head. “No. Just…” He licks his lips. It’s hard to look or feel normal when he’s talking to his dad with cum drying on his thighs, but maybe this was never going to feel normal. Maybe telling the truth after avoiding it was always going to be odd. He clenches his fists, then relaxes them deliberately. “There’s someone here. Someone I’m seeing. That was why I wanted the privacy, not… you know.”
Dad doesn’t move, just listens. He’s good at that.
Shane shoves his hands in his pockets. Breath in, breath out, body braced like he’s about to get checked into the boards by fucking Ryan Price. If you see it coming and you can’t avoid it, at least you can absorb it. “I’d like you guys to meet him.” Shane swallows as his dad’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Shane… We’d love to.”
Shane nods, glancing away. “Good.” It comes out barely a whisper. “I, um–”
“You could come for dinner tonight?” Dad offers, voice gentle like he’s coaxing a stray cat out of an alleyway. Shane feels that way a bit, scared shitless after years of playing defence but wanting so desperately to find his way into that warm glowing house.
“I should talk to him first,” Shane says, because you always keep the escape open when you’re caught in the corner. “Make sure he’s okay with that. But I’d like that, I think.”
“Okay,” Dad says. “Well, you let us know. Text, or whatever. I’ll tell Mom– well, I’ll tell her we might be expecting you.”
“Yeah. And…” Shane bites his lip, glancing behind him. Ilya is still tucked out of sight, but Shane wishes he could exchange a glance with him just to be sure. Trust your instincts and read the play, he reminds himself. If Ilya was willing to emerge from the bedroom now, at least his parents can know he exists, maybe. “Would you tell her that I might bring someone?”
Dad smiles. “Of course.” There’s a beat, the space where maybe they should be saying goodbye, but Shane’s not gonna hug his dad like this, and, anyway, it feels like they’ve hardly said anything at all. It’s Dad who picks up the thread again. “We’re proud of you, Shane. And we love you, alright? If… If he’s someone you care about, we’ll care about him too.”
There’s a lump in Shane’s throat that he struggles to swallow around. “Yeah. I– yeah, I love you guys too, Dad.”
Dad watches him for another long moment, then smiles and nods and reaches for the door. “Alright. Thanks for the charger. See you tonight.”
“Yeah,” Shane agrees, and he watches from the doorway as his dad gets into the car and drives away. He’s still slumped against the doorframe when Ilya presses himself against Shane’s back, arms circling his waist.
“You are okay?” he asks, cheek pressed to the side of Shane’s head.
“I think so.”
“You did not have to tell them.”
“I kind of did, though,” Shane says, closing his eyes and dropping his head back to rest on Ilya’s shoulder. “Should’ve maybe a while ago.” He straightens and turns in Ilya’s embrace, arms coming up to circle Ilya’s neck. “You don’t have to meet them. I don’t want to pressure you.”
Ilya’s thumb brushes over the base of Shane’s spine. “I will go though. If it helps, if you want me there.”
Shane bites his lip. “I don’t know if it’ll help. But I think maybe I want you there anyway.”
In his mind’s eye, it’s this: For the first time in his life, there’s a body next to his at the kitchen table. It’s Ilya, who has a way with people Shane will never be able to mimic, who could charm anyone’s parents. Who Shane would never take into a dangerous situation, but would be grateful to have in a tricky one. And if Ilya’s there, Shane can’t chicken out at the last second about who the man in his life is. If Ilya’s there, his parents can only protest so much.
“Then I will be there,” Ilya says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to be sure of this. “So you can introduce your parents to your lover.”
Shane wrinkles his nose. “No, Ilya, that’s gross.”
“What is gross about being a lover? I love you, you are my lover. Is it not this simple?”
“It has very sexual connotations.”
“Mm.” Ilya hums thoughtfully. “Connotations. We do have a lot of sex, though.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “I don’t want to tell my parents that.”
“No, they expect you to be pure? Should I pretend to take your virginity again?” Ilya sounds a little too delighted.
“Fuck off,” Shane says without heat.
“My pretty little thing, saving himself just for me, yes?” Ilya leans down to kiss him, and Shane lets him, but pulls away when Ilya goes to deepen it.
“Not when we’re talking about my parents, weirdo,” he says, twisting out of Ilya’s grasp to shut the front door. The movement reminds him of what’s drying on the backs of his thighs, of what’s still inside him.
Ilya cumming in him raw was very sexy when Shane imagined it beforehand, and had been pretty sexy when it happened, but he never really got to experience it sexily in the after. Instead, it was mortifying, and now pretty gross. They’ll have to try it again without getting interrupted.
Shane takes Ilya’s hand and tugs him back toward the bedroom and its ensuite bathroom. “C’mon, I feel gross,” he says.
Once they’re both under the shower head, skin to skin again, warm and nearly clean, Ilya tugs Shane against his chest and asks, “If not lover, how will you introduce me to your parents?”
Shane swallows. “Well,” he says, and then stops. He knows what he wants to say. He should probably just say it. Ilya is in love with him and everything. But a label is something that outlasts the cottage more than just sentiment. They’ve never been anything to each other before, except lovers, maybe, in retrospect. Shane wouldn’t have said that, but maybe it was apt for the thing they had arrived at the cottage as.
“This is Ilya Rozanov, the best hockey player in the world–” Ilya begins with an enormously silly grin.
Shane pushes his shoulder half-heartedly. “Second best, asshole.”
“–And he is my boyfriend,” Ilya finishes. “Or is that wrong also?”
“Yeah,” Shane croaks, his throat dry. He swallows, then repeats, “No, I mean, yeah. God. Yeah. My boyfriend.” He pushes a hand through Ilya’s wet curls, then tugs him closer to kiss him. “I really love you, you know?” he murmurs into Ilya’s mouth.
Against his lips, Ilya smiles. “I know. I love you too.”
And it’s the best feeling in the world.