Archive of Our Own ^beta

For the first time in over a decade, Ilya Rozanov is crying.

Actually, that’s not true—the last time he’d cried was in 2014, the first time he’d ever lifted the Stanley Cup over his head, but those were tears of joy and relief and pride in his team’s accomplishments. Maybe a hint of grief that his mother wasn’t there to see it, but he does his best not to think on that too hard when he remembers that moment.

This, here, right now? This is just fucking pathetic. He doesn’t even like his father, and Russia is… Russia. What use is there in crying over it? It won’t change anything about the awful, impossible situation he finds himself in.

“Hey,” Hollander says softly, settling a hand on Ilya’s back.

Ilya turns away and fixes his gaze on a spot of chipped paint on the wall, trying to will the moisture trailing down his cheeks back into his tear ducts. “Sorry,” he whispers, shaking his head.

He can’t actually remember the last time he felt so utterly mortified. This is not at all what he’d envisioned happening when Hollander asked for his room number. He’d guessed that a conversation was on the horizon; Ilya had just imagined it happening after he reminded Hollander exactly what he’d been missing while he was off being Rose Landry’s boyfriend. But no, Hollander always wants to clear the air, always needs to fucking talk, even though Ilya never has the right words for him.

“Hey,” Hollander says again, somehow even more tenderly.

The bed shifts, and suddenly Hollander is crawling into Ilya’s lap and cradling Ilya’s face in his hands and kissing him. His mouth moves so, so sweetly against Ilya’s, and it’s all too much. Ilya didn’t think this would ever happen again, and there are too many enormous feelings rattling around inside his head and stealing the breath from his lungs, and the worst thing is that somehow Hollander knows this. He pulls out of the kiss a moment later and just… embraces Ilya. One arm wraps around Ilya’s shoulders; his other hand sinks into Ilya’s hair, gently guiding him to rest his head on Hollander’s chest.

No one has held Ilya like this in a very long time. Probably not since his mother died.

That realization breaks some sort of dam inside of him, and he lets himself be led, choking out one soft sob as his cheek settles against Hollander’s collarbone. His body is so solid against Ilya’s, and the sunscreen he’d put on earlier in the day makes him smell like summer, and Ilya wants him so, so much. He moves slowly as he wraps his arms around Hollander’s waist, but holds him tightly, like Ilya will float away without Hollander there to ground him. Hollander kisses the top of his head, fingers combing through Ilya’s curls, and it’s all Ilya’s ever wanted and everything he can’t have.

“It’s all right,” Hollander murmurs, tracing the shell of Ilya’s ear with a fingertip. Ilya feels him stiffen just the slightest bit, like he thinks it was the wrong thing to say. “To be upset, I mean. I know things are really bad for you right now. But you— you’re safe here.” He kisses Ilya’s hair again. “You’re safe with me.”

Ilya’s face crumples, and he weeps silently into Hollander’s shirt, his body trembling with the effort it takes to limit the amount of noise he’s making. He wants to scream until his throat is raw, but he can’t. Every word Hollander says makes Ilya feel like his lungs are being crushed by all of the love in his heart that has nowhere to go. It is so, so close to escaping containment, but it can’t, because what if Hollander panics and leaves again? Ilya thinks it might actually kill him if it happens a second time. So he swallows it down, makes himself breathe, allows only the barest of sniffles to be heard while his mind races with contradictions.

I am so glad you are here. You have to stop. I missed you. We can’t do this. I think I might be in love with you. This is torture.

After what feels like an hour but was probably only a few minutes, Ilya’s crying jag begins to let up. He doesn’t loosen his grip on Hollander, though. He sits there, so still, just holding him, feeling the rise and fall of his chest under Ilya’s cheek, the faint scratching of his fingernails grazing Ilya’s scalp.

“Hey,” Hollander says once more, almost on a breath, not even a whisper. “Are you… feeling any better?”

The honest answer is no. Ilya’s chest hurts, his throat aches, his head is pounding a little bit. But he’s in Shane Hollander’s arms again, so… it could be worse.

“I’m OK,” Ilya croaks, and it’s unconvincing even to himself.

Hollander eases back a little bit, enough that he can tilt Ilya’s chin up to look him in the face. Ilya groans and tries to shake him off, but Hollander is strong, and he has the upper hand.

“You look like shit,” he says, and the words are so laced with affection and so startling coming from Hollander at all that Ilya can’t help but choke out a watery laugh.

“You are an asshole,” Ilya says, sniffling.

“Yeah, well, I learned from the best,” Hollander says with a little smile, smooching Ilya’s forehead before he tugs the hem of his shirt up to dry the tears from Ilya’s face.

“Would be easier to do that if you just took it off,” Ilya points out, trying to distract himself from the pang that rattles his chest after that one little kiss. “You could take off the rest of your clothes, too.”

Hollander stops, then, and holds Ilya’s face in his hands. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Ilya swipes at the half of his face that’s still wet and sniffs again, hoping against hope that he doesn’t look as crestfallen as he feels right now. “Wasn’t a good idea any of the other times, and that never stopped you.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that,” Hollander clarifies. “It’s— it’s not that I don’t want to, but you’re— I dunno, I feel like— like I’d be taking advantage of you?”

“I am not drunk, Hollander,” Ilya says quietly. “Just… sad.”

Hollander looks unsure of what to do, and Ilya sighs, because it is Hollander, so of course Ilya is going to have to say the thing he doesn’t want to say out loud if this is going to go anywhere.

“I need this,” Ilya whispers, swallowing as he feels his eyes prick with tears again. “I need you. Please.”

Hollander—Shane, Ilya allows himself, if only privately, when he sees the warmth and determination and maybe something more than that in the depths of his gaze—kisses him again, no less sweetly than he had earlier, but with more intent. He tastes minty, like he’d brushed his teeth before he came over, just in case, and Ilya wants to cry all over again because he’s just that fucking relieved. Rose Landry was nothing, and even if he and Shane can’t be anything, at least Shane wants to be something. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough for tonight.

Ilya kisses back with hunger, but he tries to consciously slow himself down, show some restraint, savor it as much as possible. He took Shane’s presence in his life for granted once, and he’s not foolish enough to do it again so soon. His hands are uncharacteristically shaky as they undo the buttons of Shane’s shirt, but they seem to settle once they make contact with Shane’s warm skin, skimming up his abs to palm his pecs. Shane moans softly into Ilya’s mouth and breaks the kiss after another moment.

“You— you have stuff, right?” he asks, his chest already heaving.

Ilya frowns for a second, then realizes what Shane is getting at. “In my shaving kit. Bathroom counter.” He privately thanks his past self for not taking the condoms and lube out of his toiletry bag despite thinking they probably wouldn’t see much use this weekend.

Shane kisses him again and carefully untangles himself from Ilya so he can fetch the necessary items. Ilya uses the opportunity to peel off his tank top and shimmy out of his tracksuit bottoms and underwear, then pushes himself back on his hands toward the pillows and tugs back the covers just as Shane returns with the lube and a couple condoms. Ilya can’t tell whether that’s a just-in-case thing or a sign that he might want to go for more than one round, but he’s not about to get his hopes up.

Shane leaves everything on the nightstand closest to Ilya, then goes about undressing himself in as orderly a fashion as ever, folding his clothes and leaving them on the dresser. He looks almost shy as he climbs into bed next to Ilya, like they haven’t been in this situation dozens of times, and it reminds Ilya of the way he’d looked the first time they’d ever hooked up, after that CCM shoot, almost seven years ago now. They’d been so young then, only just nineteen, and not even rookies yet.

Christ, he’s known Shane a long time.

Which means that he knows Shane well enough to grasp that his shyness in this moment is nothing like it was the first time. Shane had been scared that night—scared of wanting to be with another man, of how much he’d wanted Ilya to touch him, of doing things wrong. Here, now, he seems more awkward than afraid; now, maybe more than ever, he knows what he really wants. But Shane has always liked to have some guidance in these moments. It keeps him from getting stuck in his own head, makes things clearer for him. Shane worries so much about everything, all the time, and Ilya has always found it oddly satisfying to quiet his mind, even if it’s only ever for a little while at a time.

“Come here,” Ilya says, reaching out to take Shane’s chin in one hand, and it almost takes Ilya’s breath away how readily Shane acquiesces, practically falling into him as he moves to meet Ilya’s kiss.

Ilya slides down in the bed, his head settling against a pillow as he pulls Shane closer, and fuck, has he missed this. They fit together so perfectly, settling into each other the way the last piece slots into a jigsaw puzzle. In having Shane here, naked in his arms again, something Ilya hadn’t wanted to admit was broken is made whole again, albeit with a few cracks showing. He feels a sort of aching relief about it, not unlike the sensation of scratching at a scabbed-over cut until it bleeds again; satisfaction at a price. But that is a bill to be settled later, however steep the cost may be.

Shane is already mostly hard, and a moan sticks in the back of his throat as his cock presses up against Ilya’s thigh. “Fuck,” he gasps, lips parting from Ilya’s just far enough that he can get the word out. “Oh my god, I want you inside me so bad.”

Ilya’s hands slide down Shane’s back to palm either side of his ass, teasingly pulling the halves apart until he’s whining and swearing into Ilya’s cheek. “How long?”

Shane sounds annoyed and confused, and Ilya fucking adores him. “What?”

Ilya shifts his left hand further down and trails his middle finger up from Shane’s balls to his hole, stroking the puckered skin with the pad of his fingertip. “How long have you been wanting my cock inside you again?”

“Jesus Christ—”

Ilya presses a second fingertip against Shane’s hole. “Tell me.”

Shane exhales with a shudder, his breath warm on Ilya’s jaw and neck. “Since the last time, I think,” he admits in a low voice, like it pains him to say the words. “I tried so hard not to think about it, but… nothing else feels like this.”

Ilya feels mildly disgusted with himself over how pleased he is to hear Shane say that, but no amount of self-loathing can stop him from pressing for more information. “Did you think about me when you were with her?” he asks, and it is so fucking pathetic of him to need an answer as badly as he does, but the way Shane’s breath catches suggests that Ilya’s desperation has not crept into his tone. Ilya’s moves his fingertips in small circles as he pushes a little more firmly against Shane’s hole. “About this?”

“Fuck,” Shane hisses, trying to rub himself against Ilya, but Ilya shifts his thigh and clamps his free arm across Shane’s lower back to keep him still. His head falls against Ilya’s shoulder with a groan. “Of course I thought about you, you fucking asshole. I wasn’t— I couldn’t— ”

“Oh, Hollander,” Ilya sighs, trying his best to hold back the laugh that bubbles up in the back of his throat and failing dismally. He is so giddy right now it makes him feel stupid. “You could not get it up for her without my help?”

“Fuck off,” Shane whines, but he doesn’t make any move to leave.

“No,” Ilya says, smiling to himself as he kisses the top of Shane’s head. “Is very flattering to know I am so much sexier than famous Hollywood actress.”

“You’re only hot because I’m gay,” Shane protests weakly.

“Yes. You are gay and I am so hot that you had to think about me to be able to fuck beautiful actress that many people would kill to sleep with. This is the greatest day of my life.” Ilya grins and takes his hand away from Shane’s ass to grab the lube. “Bet you could not wait for her to leave after, so you could fuck yourself with the dildo you will not show me and pretend it was my cock.”

“I should have known you would never let me live this down,” Shane grumbles. “You’re such a dick.”

“Mm, I think that means I am right.” Ilya pops open the bottle and drizzles some lube into the cleft of Shane’s ass. “Sorry, might be cold.”

“Fucking finally,” Shane mutters as Ilya rolls them, flipping their positions to give himself better access.

Ilya reaches down to spread the lube around and warm it up a bit before he taps his fingertip against Shane’s entrance. “Ready?”

Shane nods, and Ilya ducks his head to lavish his neck and chest with kisses as he slowly works his finger inside. Shane fists his hand in Ilya’s hair, giving it a good tug when Ilya starts lapping at his nipple and crooking his finger inside Shane. “Fuck, so good,” he moans. “More, more, please—”

“Has been a while,” Ilya remarks, lightly tugging at Shane’s other nipple with his teeth. “I will go slowly.”

“I can take it,” Shane pants. “I— I fucked myself, like, every night this week before I flew here.”

“Gospodi,” Ilya mutters, his cock fucking throbbing at the thought of Shane wanting him that much, of him working so hard to be ready for Ilya. He sits up to dribble more lube over his fingers and Shane’s hole, then starts to work a second in alongside the first. He glances up at Shane after a few minutes. “Is OK?”

The question is almost unnecessary—even in the dim lamplight Ilya can see that Shane’s belly is already glistening with the precome leaking out of his cock—but it’s habit at this point. He likes a clear response, and it’s hot, the way Shane rambles when he’s out of his mind with lust.

“Yeah, so fucking good,” Shane gasps. “Fuck, your hands are perfect.”

“On and off the ice.” Ilya smirks. “But all anyone ever talks about is my fucking mouth.”

With one hand fingering Shane and the other rhythmically squeezing one of his pecs, Ilya grins and shifts so he can bend down to lick a stripe up the underside of Shane’s dick.

“Oh my f—” Shane starts to cry out, then slams a hand over his mouth to stifle his whimpers when Ilya wraps his lips around the head of Shane’s cock and swirls his tongue around it. “Jesus fuck, you’re so good at that.”

Ilya pulls off, not wanting him to get too overwhelmed and come too quickly. He teases Shane’s hole with a third finger. “You want more?”

“I want you,” Shane chokes out. “Please, please fuck me.”

Fuck, Ilya would give him the whole goddamn world if he asked for it that nicely. He pulls his fingers out slowly and wipes his hand on the sheet on his side of the bed so Shane can’t complain about it later, then leans over to snatch a condom off the nightstand. He suits up, slicks up, and leans forward, but stops when Shane blocks him with a hand on his chest.

“Wait,” he says. “Roll over. I want to, uh— I wanna ride you again, if that’s OK?”

“Fuck,” Ilya says with a breath of laughter as he moves aside and flops onto his back, slapping his thigh to give Shane the go-ahead. “I don’t think there will ever be a time when that is not OK.”

Shane sits up slowly and maneuvers himself into Ilya’s lap, sitting up on his haunches slightly to keep his weight off Ilya and give him some room. Ilya squeezes his hip with one hand and holds himself steady with the other, then nods at Shane, who plants his hands on Ilya’s chest and lets out a soft exhale as he slowly, slowly sinks down onto Ilya’s dick. They moan in tandem at the sensation of it, Ilya kneading at Shane’s hips and watching his face, utterly transfixed. He’s so fucking perfect like this, with his head tipped back and his mouth open and his body gripping Ilya’s cock in a way that nothing and no one else could ever possibly match.

“Fuck,” Ilya sighs, thumbs tracing the V along Shane’s hips. “You are gorgeous.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” Shane mumbles, smiling a little sheepishly.

He looks slightly flushed under his freckles; Ilya can’t say whether it’s from exertion or bashfulness, but it’s like looking into the sun either way—almost too much for him to take.

“Come here, moy luchik,” Ilya murmurs, the endearment slipping out without a second thought as he reaches up to wrap a hand around the back of Shane’s neck and draw him into a kiss.

It is, he thinks, maybe too romantic.

Dimly, a tiny voice in the back of Ilya’s mind is cursing him out for being stupid and weak-willed enough to fall for for this specific man. It would be a problem for him to be caught with any man, of course, but he just had to go and choose the most forbidden of all fruit: the fucking prince of hockey, Canada’s golden boy, the man he’s been pitted against time and time again for the entirety of his career. Shane fucking Hollander. Yes, Ilya would make his own life that goddamn difficult.

The rest of his brain, however, is completely and totally fuck-drunk, because it is simply impossible to be inside Shane and not fall in love with him. Ilya knows this better than anyone. His entire adult life has revolved around this strange, gut-wrenching, impossible connection between the two of them. Can it really be called weakness if he was simply never equipped to resist the overwhelming gravitational pull Shane has over him? How was he supposed to know that sleeping with Shane the first time all those years ago was equivalent to crossing the event horizon?

(Huh. He must have actually absorbed some of that documentary that started autoplaying on Netflix the other night when he was half asleep and a little drunk.)

Whatever crass joke he could make about supermassive black holes is swiftly forgotten when Shane fumbles for Ilya’s hands and pins them over his head just before he breaks the kiss and begins to slowly roll his hips, fucking himself on Ilya’s cock. Nothing will ever beat that night in Las Vegas, but this is looking like a serious contender for second on his private list of the hottest things Shane has ever done for him.

“You good like this?” Shane asks.

Ilya’s brain is melting out of his ears, and Shane is asking if it’s good. What the fuck.

“So good,” Ilya says. The determined look in Shane’s eyes makes Ilya feel hot all over. “Fuck. Fuck, you are perfect. Don’t stop.”

They tend to be pretty set in their roles; Shane loves to be fucked, and Ilya loves fucking. But even though he is currently inside of Shane, it kind of feels like Ilya is the one being fucked right now. He is used to doing the work; he likes it, and besides, it goes against all his instincts to let himself appear lazy in any way. But watching Shane use him, having his perfect body right there for the taking and being unable to touch unless Shane lets him… it is providing an interesting window into what Shane has always seemed to like about having sex with him: the relief he finds in letting go, because he trusts Ilya to hold him up.

Ilya is plagued by takers, these vampires in the guise of family who suck him dry, always asking him to provide and take charge and make plans. Shane has things he wants from Ilya, too, and Ilya is willing to give them, but it feels like this is Shane’s way of saying he doesn’t have to. He can relax, because Shane can get what he needs without taking anything from Ilya, and what’s more, he always offers something in return. All Ilya has to do is surrender to the pleasure of being Shane Hollander’s living, breathing fucktoy, and Shane will reward him generously for it. It is maybe the easiest thing anyone has ever asked him to do.

Shane starts to move with greater intent as he lowers his chest to Ilya’s again, his cock rubbing against Ilya’s abs while he drives Ilya ever closer to the brink of orgasm (and madness, if he’s being honest) with kisses and little nips to his neck and shoulders and ears.

“Oh, god,” Ilya gasps before he gives up and reverts to breathless, rapid-fire Russian, because he can’t focus on a foreign language and try to keep himself from coming too quickly, and the latter is more crucial at this particular moment. “You are evil for not letting me put my hands on you right now. Evil, and so fucking hot. No one has never made me feel so many things at once. You make me feel crazy, you know that? Crazy, and so horny I could die, and happy. This will all go to shit eventually, I know it will, but I can’t give you up because I feel so good when I’m with you. I want to be with you all the time. I want—”

“Jesus Christ, you sound fucking hot right now,” Shane mutters into Ilya’s ear, and Ilya is embarrassingly close to finishing at those words alone.

“Let me touch you,” Ilya pants.

“No,” Shane half-growls, sounding very self-satisfied.

“Please,” Ilya begs, because this is what he has been reduced to. “Just— just one hand?”

“Nope.”

“I just want to touch your face,” Ilya whines. It is pathetic, but he needs his hands on Shane too much to care. “Please.”

Shane slows to a stop, pushes himself up, and peers down at Ilya with a soft, curious look on his face. “Seriously?”

Ilya nods. “I will even put my other arm under the pillow if you want both your hands back.”

“All right,” Shane agrees, though he does look faintly suspicious. “If you touch me anywhere below the neck or use your other hand, though, we’re done. Agreed?”

“Yes, sir,” Ilya says with a teasing smirk.

“I’m serious.”

“Yes, I know,” Ilya says, unable to help himself from rolling his eyes. “Can I have my hand back now?” Shane narrows his eyes, but releases him anyway. He looks genuinely surprised when Ilya folds his left arm under his head and reaches out to cup Shane’s chin in his hand. “See? I will be good.” Ilya gives him a crooked smile. “I always make it good for you, yes?”

Shane stares at him for a moment, jerks his head in a short, sharp nod, and then lets out a whimpered “Fuck,” almost reluctantly, the way he usually does when he is annoyed and turned on at the same time. He presses his whole body against Ilya’s and fucks himself with abandon, kissing him like all of the oxygen in the atmosphere is contained in Ilya’s mouth. Ilya kisses back just as furiously, like it will somehow make up for all of the time they were apart.

Realistically, he knows he is being ridiculous; between their unspoken annual playoffs moratorium followed by his summers spent in Moscow, Ilya has gone months longer than this without even seeing Shane, much less touching him. But the last ten weeks of having Shane’s relationship with Rose thrown in his face over and over on social media and by his idiot teammates felt like a fucking eternity. Playing against him in Montreal earlier this month without the promise of seeing him afterwards was the most miserable experience of his career. Watching him dance with his perfect girlfriend at that club, knowing that they were going home together at the end of the night, was fucking agony. And yes, he knows that it’s over now, that Shane has figured things out for himself, but Ilya just feels so fucking fragile when it comes to him. It’s so stupid. They can’t be anything. But this thing they have, whatever it is—it’s theirs, and Ilya wants to hold onto it for as long as he can, even if it will only burn him in the end.

“Fuuuuuuck,” Shane hisses after a couple minutes. “I’m close, but my leg’s cramping.”

“So… I can use my hands now, yes?” Ilya asks, and Shane nods impatiently. “OK. Get on your stomach.”

Ilya reaches between them to keep the condom from shifting when Shane pulls off, flopping bonelessly onto his side first, then rolling onto his front. Ilya slicks himself up again, then covers Shane with his whole body, his cock nudging up against Shane’s hole again. Shane pushes back eagerly, and Ilya groans as he slides into him, pulls back slightly, and sinks into him again, deeper this time. “Missed fucking you like this,” Ilya mumbles, like Shane won’t hear it even though Ilya’s lips are six inches away from his ear. “Think you can come on my cock again?”

“Think you can make me?” Shane snipes, but it’s playful, challenging.

“We will see,” Ilya says, dropping an open-mouthed kiss on the scattered freckles dotting the nape of Shane’s neck.

Ilya knows how Shane likes it, and Shane knows how to position himself to get what he wants, so it doesn’t take long before he’s starting to show signs that he’s close.

“Is good?”

“Fuck you, you know it is,” Shane says through gritted teeth, then lets out a little whine. “Fuck. Fuck. Talk— talk to me in Russian again?”

Ilya grins and licks a stripe of sweat off of Shane’s neck. “What should I say?”

“Anything, just— fucking do it, already!”

“OK.” Ilya’s cock throbs inside Shane, and he leans into the thoughts hovering at the front of his mind. “I know you hate mess,” he pants in Shane’s ear, switching to Russian again, “But I’ve always wondered how it would feel to come inside you. Good, obviously, but I think it would also feel like— like you were mine. Just mine. But I’ve never done it to anyone else, so I think it would make me yours, too.” He kisses the knob at the top of Shane’s spine and moans, thrusting harder as he feels Shane tighten around him. “God, to see your face when you felt it happen… and you would know it was your doing, because I never come harder than I do after you come on my cock.”

“Ohhhh my god—”

Shane mashes his face into the nearest pillow with a muffled shout, hips jerking as his orgasm finally hits him. Ilya follows him seconds later, moving with quick, shallow thrusts as he rides it out. Shane collapses beneath him, and Ilya carefully lowers himself to cover him without crushing him, wanting to stay inside him for a few moments longer. But he knows Shane will gripe about the wet spot before long, so after allowing himself approximately fifteen seconds to catch his breath, Ilya slowly pulls out and clambers off of the bed.

“Don’t move,” he tells Shane, hoping it sounds more commanding than pleading. “I will be right back.”

Ilya slips into the bathroom to take care of the usual post-coital housekeeping without going so far as to shower, because Shane might take the opportunity to leave. Ilya does recognize that he is being borderline paranoid about Shane just fucking off with no explanation again. He knows that Shane apologized about how he’d reacted in Boston, but what does that stupid Christmas song he’d heard fucking everywhere for all of December say? “Once bitten, twice shy”?

Ilya sighs and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror when he’s done washing his hands and grimaces slightly. He looks… worn out, to say the least, and his eyes are still a little puffy from crying. He grabs a washcloth, soaks it with cold water, and presses it to his eyes for several seconds, then wrings it out, pats away any stray drops from his face, and soaks the cloth in hot water before wringing it out again.

He returns to the bedroom to see that Shane has moved into the middle of the bed, between the wet spots. “You look comfortable,” Ilya says wryly, handing Shane the washcloth before he goes to the end of the bed to retrieve his boxer briefs from the floor.

“Yeah, well,” Shane says, gesturing broadly at the mess they’d made. He works on cleaning himself up as Ilya puts his underwear back on and tosses Shane his briefs as well. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Ilya looks at the bed and folds his arms. “So where am I supposed to fit if you are taking up all the clean space?”

“Relax, I’ll get up in a minute,” Shane says, rolling his eyes.

“No, no, is not what I meant.” Ilya rakes a hand through his hair and tries to look much cooler than he feels right now. “Is just, um— I know we have early flights, but it is not too late yet, so… you want to stay for a while, maybe?”

“Oh.” Shane blinks at him, then glances at his watch. “Yeah, I could stick around for another hour, maybe.”

“OK. Good.” One measly hour should not make him as unreasonably happy as it does, but Ilya is completely fucked when it comes to this guy. “You want anything? Minibar has drinks.”

Shane arches off the bed to shimmy back into his underwear, then pushes himself up to sit against the headboard. “Uh, sure. Ginger ale if they have it, water if they don’t.”

Ilya crouches down to check out the minibar. “Motherfucker. No ginger ale, and only Pepsi.” He sighs and pulls out a couple bottles of overpriced water. “Guess we are both having water.”

“Probably for the best,” Shane says, leaning over to dab at the stains on the sheets with the washcloth. “Too much sugar, anyway.”

Ilya shakes his head and smiles. “How did I fucking know you were going to say that?”

Shane glances up at him with a faintly knowing smile. “Because I’m boring?”

“No. Well, yes.” Ilya holds out a hand to take the dirty washcloth from him, trading him one of the bottles for it. He chucks the cloth in the general direction of the bathroom, then climbs into bed, wedging one of the pillows between his back and the headboard. “But I think maybe it is also because I have known you for a long time.”

Shane does some quick counting on his fingers and looks at Ilya. “Shit. Has it really been eight years?”

“More, if you count all of the fucking tape my coach made us watch of the Canadian team before World Juniors,” Ilya says with a little snort, cracking open his bottle of water. He takes a long pull from it, then caps it and leaves it on the nightstand. “Does not feel like it has been that long, though.”

“It’s weird, right?” Shane takes a sip of his water and busies himself fiddling with the label on the bottle. “We see each other a few times a year for a handful of hours here and there, and it still feels like…”

“Something,” Ilya finishes quietly, sliding down onto the bed so he can stretch out.

Shane goes still beside him, and Ilya feels the bed shift, hears the faint plunk of a bottle being set on the other nightstand, and then Shane is scooting down in bed, too. Ilya hazards a glance at him out of the corner of his eye and sees him lying there, hands folded over his stomach. He looks much the same as he’d looked in that Toronto hotel room six and a half years ago; less tense, maybe, but a little unsure all the same. That night had just been a hookup, of course—the first of many—but a small part of Ilya had hoped that Shane would ask him to stay a bit longer. Even in those early days, he was so curious about Shane—or maybe about the way Shane made him feel—that no amount of time spent with him could ever be enough, thought he certainly couldn’t admit it to himself in those exact words. He still can’t, not exactly, and he would use a different word than “curious” now, but he recognizes that the feeling is… significant.

Ilya can’t bring himself to look when he feels movement beside him, but he is more than pleasantly surprised when Shane’s hand covers his own where it rests on the mattress. Ilya tentatively turns his hand over to lace their fingers together, and the way his heart leaps in his chest when Shane squeezes his hand back is ridiculous. He is a grown man—a professional athlete with an agent, a multimillion-dollar home, and a garage full of flashy European sports cars—and here he is, the very definition of twitterpated over the fact that he is doing nothing more than holding hands with a guy he has big dumb feelings for.

And still, it’s not enough.

Ilya tugs on their joined hands. “You are too far away. Come over here.”

Shane sighs and lets go of his hand, but he indulges Ilya, scooting closer. Ilya sits up just long enough to yank the comforter up to their waists, then settles back into bed and sort of… lovingly manhandles Shane into his arms, until their legs are comfortably tangled together and Shane’s head is pillowed on Ilya’s chest.

Ilya closes his eyes and allows himself to stroke Shane’s hair gently. “Is OK?”

“Yeah,” Shane whispers, reaching for Ilya’s other hand and lacing it with his again before resting them just over Ilya’s heart. The placement is not intentional—probably—but it gives Ilya those wonderful, aggravating butterflies anyway. “Feels nice.”

It does feel nice. It really, really does. Ilya should definitely not let himself get used to this, but it is probably already too late for him. He makes a soft sound of agreement and lifts his chin to just barely press his lips to the crown of Shane’s head.

They lie together like that for a little while; Ilya’s not sure how long. But just as he’s beginning to get a little drowsy, Shane asks, “What were you saying earlier? In Russian, I mean.”

Fuck, Ilya mouths at the ceiling, and wonders, How do I say “mind your own fucking business” in a way that won’t piss him off?

Just lie, idiot. Lie harder than you’ve ever lied about anything in your life.

“Lyrics to Russian national anthem,” Ilya says casually.

“You are so full of shit,” Shane laughs. “Seriously, what was it?”

“Was just dirty talk and swearing,” Ilya says, and it’s not entirely a lie. “Really. Russian has many, many bad words. Is very easy to come up with things to say without trying too hard, especially when I am fucking someone.”

“OK, yeah, that sounds like you,” Shane says, and it takes everything Ilya has in him not to let out a massive sigh of relief. But it’s Shane, so of course there are always more questions. “But there was one other thing you said before anything else. Moy— moy lu—?”

“Ah, was little joke,” Ilya says, again, not completely lying, but definitely not telling the whole truth. “Luchik is nickname, sort of. Means, like… little ray of light, or sunbeam? Because you were blushing so hard you were almost glowing.” Not because you are actually the light of my life or anything. “Russian has many nicknames and short versions of names, so, you know, is like old habit, using them with people you are… close to.”

Shane takes the bait. “Oh, so we’re close?”

“I have known you longer than most people who are not my family,” Ilya says flatly. “And also I had my dick inside you, like, ten minutes ago, so yes, I think that counts as close.”

“Sure,” Shane says with that same amused skepticism. He rubs the pad of his thumb over the side of Ilya’s hand. “I guess your name is already pretty short, but do you have a nickname? In Russian, I mean, not— not Roz or Rozy or whatever your teammates call you.”

“Nicknames are not always shorter in Russian,” Ilya says, pausing for a long moment, “and there are different versions for family or friends or lovers, but most common one for Ilya would maybe be Ilyusha.”

“Ilyusha,” Shane repeats, and it is all Ilya can do not to flinch at the sound, because it makes him feel like he has been struck by lightning. It has been so long since he heard that name on the lips of someone he loved, or someone who loved him (except for Sveta, maybe). And it is one thing to wrestle with the notion that he is in love with Shane, but if he thinks too hard about Shane loving him back, it might actually break him. He can get over the former; the latter is beyond his control.

“Mmhmm,” Ilya hums. “Do you have nicknames? Seems like everyone always calls you by your first or last name, never Holly or Hollzy.”

“I had teammates in juniors who called me Hollzy sometimes, but I was never really into the hockey nickname thing,” Shane says with a little shrug. “It always felt too… familiar, if that makes sense? Maybe I’m weird for feeling that way. I dunno.” He makes a soft little noise, like he’s thinking. “I’ve captained nearly every team I’ve ever been on, but locker room culture has always been awkward for me.”

“Well, you are different from most hockey players I have known,” Ilya says. “Not in a bad way. Just… maybe more focused on how the team works on the ice? Less…” He grunts in frustration, trying to find the right words, because he’s just making an observation, not being critical. “Fuck. I don’t know. Is like… maybe you do not need everyone to be your best friend, but you still make them feel like they can trust you?”

“Yeah,” Shane says quietly. “I mean, I’m closest with my linemates, but I think I have a good relationship with everyone in the room. Everyone knows they can talk to me if there’s a problem. But I don’t know if they have the same kind of affection for me that your guys seem to have for you.”

This doesn’t surprise Ilya; the Montreal guys have never come off as an exceptionally fun crew. Boston’s team has been around nearly as long as Montreal’s, but the atmospheres feel radically different. Maybe it’s the blood feud between their teams; maybe it’s just that Canadians are more serious about their hockey than Americans are. Even so, Ilya can’t imagine why they wouldn’t all adore Shane; he’s a good person, and he cares so much. Sure, he may be a little hard to get to know, but he is almost too easy to love. Ilya would know.

“Ah, is just kind of the vibe in Boston, maybe, even though most of the guys are not from there,” Ilya says. “There is a certain attitude you get from playing there.”

“It’s not just that.” Shane shakes his head minutely where it lies on Ilya’s chest. “I hear you after every game as we’re coming off the ice. ‘Good game, I love you,’” he says, mimicking Ilya’s accent and deep voice, and Ilya can’t help but find it cute. “If I said that to anyone but Hayden or J.J., they’d look at me like I had three heads.” He sounds genuinely perplexed. “You have this big personality, you goof off with your team, but they still respect you. Montreal is a lot more… I dunno. Intense.”

“Every team, every locker room is different,” Ilya points out. “You are very serious about hockey, but captain is not the only one who sets the tone. Coaching staff is a big part of it, too. Is possible for coaches to be serious about the game while also letting us have a good time, because hockey is fun. Why else would we play? Is not like we are doing important job, like doctors or teachers or scientists. We play because people have fun watching us, and winning feels great, and we have fun playing, yes?”

Shane goes quiet for a long time, and Ilya closes his eyes in frustration, because obviously something he said has rubbed Shane the wrong way, nothing Ilya ever says is right, why is he always ruining things with the stupid words that come out of his mouth—

“I think today was the most fun I’ve ever had playing hockey,” Shane murmurs.

Ilya’s heart leaps and aches at the same time. “Yes. Same for me.”

“Don’t get me wrong; I like beating you more than almost anything,” Shane adds with a note of amusement in his voice, “but… fuck, I never imagined we could be that good on a line together.”

In the runup to All-Star weekend every year, Ilya had wondered what it would be like to play with Shane instead of against him, but never in his wildest dreams could he have anticipated just how incredible it would be. In twenty-odd years of playing hockey, Ilya had never felt more in sync with a teammate than he did while playing wing to Shane’s center. (And, despite his posturing to Sveta, he really hadn’t minded playing wing; if anything, Ilya thinks smugly, it had shown him to be the more versatile player.)

All those years Ilya had spent reviewing tape and learning Shane’s playstyle and trying to outwit him on the ice—and all the years Shane had presumably spent absorbing Ilya’s tactics, too—made it so easy to predict where he’d be, to keep up with him, to ensure that nearly every pass between them went straight from tape to tape. They’d been so locked in, so aware of each other, it was as if they could read each other’s minds. It felt so fucking right; like they were always meant to be at the top together, not apart.

“Yes.” Ilya gives the back of Shane’s neck a little squeeze. “Is no wonder the league likes to pit us against each other. If we were on the same team, would be pointless even having a league anymore. We would win the Cup every year until we retired.”

Shane lets out a little snort. “Too bad everyone in Montreal would rather burn Centre Bell to the ground than see the Metros sign you.”

“Who says I would ever play for Montreal?” Ilya says in mock outrage. “Maybe you come to Boston. You would have to take big pay cut, of course, and I would still be star player and captain, but maybe, if you are very nice to me, I will see what I can do about getting you the A.”

“Fuck off,” Shane says, but there’s no venom in it. “I think the city of Montreal would petition the Canadian government to revoke my citizenship if I ever played for the Raiders, not to mention my mom would seriously consider disowning me.”

Ilya frowns slightly. He’d always gotten the sense that Shane had nice parents. He seemed to enjoy spending time with them; why else would he have thought that Ilya could ever be happy about going back to Russia every summer?

“You are joking,” Ilya says.

“I’m not saying she’d actually do it,” Shane clarifies, “but I can’t say the thought wouldn’t cross her mind. She’s the world’s biggest Metros fan, and therefore the world’s biggest Raiders hater.”

That could be a problem, Ilya thinks, then immediately slams the brakes on that train of thought. Shane Hollander is not and never will be his boyfriend (and Ilya isn’t even sure he actually wants him to be, which means there’s no reason for his heart to do that awful lurching thing when the word pops into his head), so there is no problem. Ilya does not have to make a good impression on Shane’s mother because he will never meet her; not like that, anyway.

“Is just hockey,” Ilya says, shaking his head with a little smile. “Weird to be so crazy about it. But is nice for you that she cares so much.”

Shane goes silent again, and Ilya winces, because he has once again left himself open to big, uncomfortable questions, but they never come. Shane just says, “You deserve to have that, too, you know. People who care about what’s important to you.”

Deserving something doesn’t mean you’ll ever actually get it, Ilya thinks.

He doesn’t repeat it aloud, though; he just rolls slightly to the side, enough that he can easily kiss Shane without straining either of their necks.

It’s… tender. More than it ought to be. But that has always been Ilya’s weakness when it comes to Shane. Yes, the sex is intense and impassioned and occasionally a little rough, but Shane has this way about him after, a softness that Ilya has always found himself nearly powerless to resist, which is why he has almost always fled from it. But he’d allowed himself a taste of it once, in Boston, and now he craves it. It is probably bad for him to give in to this desire, but he feels so fucking good right now; even better than last time, before it all went sour. The sex tonight has been very hot, verging on romantic, and Shane seems so much more relaxed than he normally is, and now they’re just lying here, talking and cuddling and kissing. Like… people. People who like each other. Because, if nothing else, they can at least admit to genuinely liking each other. That’s… attainable. Realistic.

Shane’s hand unfolds from around Ilya’s so he can use both hands, one to cup Ilya’s cheek, the other to get a fistful of his hair. God, he loves it when Shane gets a little rough with his hair, and the way Shane’s fingertips trace his features, and the way he moans when Ilya’s tongue glides against his own, and… Christ, will there ever be a time when Ilya doesn’t want him so bad it feels like he’ll die without him?

Ilya breaks the kiss and sighs as he nuzzles Shane’s cheek. “You will make me want to fuck you again if you are not careful.”

Shane makes an incredulous sound. “How is that my problem? You kissed me.”

“Yes, but you are so pretty, and you make beautiful noises when I kiss you,” Ilya complains, trailing his lips from Shane’s cheek down to his neck, “and you get hard so fucking fast, and you brought two condoms from the bathroom. You think I do not notice when you are being sneaky?”

“It was— it was just in case something was wrong with one of them,” Shane stammers, still pawing absently at Ilya’s face. Ilya turns his head to suck two of Shane’s fingers into his mouth, thrusting his tongue between them obscenely. “Jesus.”

Ilya sucks Shane’s fingers hard, then pulls back off of them with a slow drag of his tongue and a soft popping sound. “We almost never have time to do this twice,” he murmurs, moving to cup Shane’s growing erection with one hand. “Let me fuck you again, and if you don’t come by the time I do, I will suck you so there is no mess to clean up.”

“Fuck,” Shane hisses, then scrambles to shove his underwear down. “Where do you want me?”

On every surface of this room in every position I can think of until we die of exhaustion, Ilya thinks, but all he does is give Shane one last deep kiss and say, “On your back,” before he sits back to wriggle out of his underwear again and deal with the condom and lube. He pushes Shane’s knees toward his chest but angled out, and uses them to brace himself as he enters slowly, sinking in as deep as he can.

“Fuck, so tight,” Ilya gasps, looking down at Shane as he shifts forward to plant his hands on the mattress. “You are OK? Does not hurt?”

“No, no, just… full,” Shane pants, wrapping his legs around Ilya’s waist. “It’s good, it’s good, go on.”

Ilya hunkers down, working his arms between Shane’s back and the mattress, one around his waist, the other hand cradling the back of Shane’s head, holding him as close as humanly possible as he starts to move inside him. “Fuck, you take it so well,” Ilya groans, his nose pressed into Shane’s cheek. The sturdy thwack of his hips against Shane’s ass sounds so fucking good. “Always so good for me, so sweet, so perfect.”

Shane’s arms wind around Ilya’s neck and shoulders, holding him just as close, and he turns his head to catch Ilya’s mouth. Ilya licks into the kiss, wanting to be completely inside of Shane, to crawl into him and stop time so he doesn’t have to leave, so they don’t have to be apart again. This must be what people mean when they use the term “make love,” because fuck, Ilya definitely loves Shane, and he may not be brave enough to say it to his face, not even in Russian, but maybe he can make him feel it if he tries hard enough.

“Why is it never this good with anyone else?” Ilya gasps, switching back to Russian as he comes up for air. “I can’t have you, but I don’t want anyone else. How do I get over you when I don’t want to? What am I supposed to do?”

But Shane feels so hot and tight and perfect around Ilya’s cock, and every noise that Ilya fucks out of him is too gorgeous for words, and Ilya just wants to make him feel good, to make him happy, to live in a world where it would be possible to do that forever—

“Fuck,” he says in a strangled voice, and comes with an almost embarrassingly loud groan that makes his whole head feel hot; all the more reason to pull out and immediately fall mouth-first onto Shane’s cock.

“Motherfu—” Shane half-shouts before he remembers where they are and sucks his lower lip into his mouth with a groan. He gets a handful of Ilya’s hair and gives it a rough tug, gasping, “Warn me before you do that, you— you fucking asshole!”

Ilya pulls off and drags his tongue down the underside of Shane’s cock. “Sorry,” he says, not sorry at all, and sucks one of Shane’s balls into his mouth as he pushes one fingertip past Shane’s lube-slick rim again. He switches sides after a minute, working another finger into Shane and stroking relentlessly at that spot that makes his whole body tremble. It doesn’t take long to have him squirming and panting; he knows Shane’s body better than any but his own. When Shane can’t take it anymore, Ilya takes his cock into his mouth again, bobbing his head in time with the circling of his fingertips.

“Ohhhhh my god,” Shane whines, only moments later, “oh, fuck, fuck, Ilya—”

If Ilya hadn’t just shot his load a couple minutes ago, the sound of his name as his mouth is flooded with Shane’s release would have done him in for sure. His softening cock twitches weakly against the mattress as Shane spasms under the weight of Ilya’s upper body. Ilya slowly withdraws his fingers and lets Shane’s cock slip out of his mouth with one last soft flick of his tongue against the slit, then rests his head on Shane’s thigh while he catches his breath.

Shane’s hand loosens its grip on Ilya’s hair and his fingertips begin to rub soothing little circles against Ilya’s scalp instead.

“Now you’re too far away,” Shane says quietly.

Ilya presses a kiss to his inner thigh, then pushes himself up with a little grunt, moving over to the side of the bed to tie off the condom and grab a couple tissues to clean himself up. He crumples the whole mess up and leaves it on the nightstand.

“God, I hope they sanitize that before anyone has to stay in here again,” Shane says with a grimace.

“Shut up,” Ilya says with a little shake of his head, then rolls over to spoon Shane, too fucked-out to feel self-conscious about wanting to, but he has to admit to himself that he’s relieved to feel Shane’s back relax into his chest. He drapes an arm around Shane’s waist and presses his lips to the divot behind his ear before taking a breath and murmuring, “You called me Ilya again.”

Shane’s quiet for a moment, and then his hand finds Ilya’s and folds around it. “Yeah.”

Ilya kisses another spot on the curve of Shane’s neck, near the border where the freckles on his nape begin. “So you are done running away from me?”

“Are you done pretending that I ‘freaked out over nothing’?” Shane asks dryly.

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Yes, Shane.”

Shane’s hand tightens around Ilya’s. “Then yeah.”

Ilya smiles to himself and kisses Shane’s shoulder. A very stupid thought is tumbling around in his head. “I am thinking.”

Shane turns his head slightly. “About what?”

Ilya can’t help himself. “Well, is just, you told me all that embarrassing shit about how you needed to think of me so you could fuck your girlfriend—”

Shane starts wriggling like he’s trying to leave. “Oh my god, fuck off—”

“Fucking relax, Hollander,” Ilya says easily, pulling him closer. “I am just thinking I should return the favor. Tell you something stupid or embarrassing.”

Shane’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I’m listening.”

“OK. So.” How to phrase this? Ilya thinks. “That night a couple weeks ago, at the club in Montreal. I did not go home with that girl.”

Shane stiffens in his arms. “That’s what you consider embarrassing?”

“No, no, there is more to it,” Ilya explains. “After you left, I was… frustrated, so I asked her if she wanted to go somewhere else, and she said, ‘No, my boyfriend is here.’ So I got nervous and started looking around, thinking that this guy was going to see me with his girl and kick my fucking ass. But she said, ‘No, is fine, he likes to watch me make out with other guys.’”

“What the fuck?” Shane asks, sounding genuinely grossed out. It’s adorable, honestly. “People are into that?”

“Yes. There is some French word for it, I think, but I don’t remember it right now,” Ilya says. “And I am not the type of person to, um… kink shame? But I did not agree to parti— partici—”

“Participate?”

“Yes. I did not agree to participate in their fucking foreplay.” Ilya sighs. “So I went back to the hotel and jerked off in the shower and went to bed. And the next morning Connors told Marly that I was already asleep when he came back from the club, and Marly told Hammersmith, who can’t keep his idiot mouth shut, so then the whole fucking team was giving me shit about it for the entire flight back to Boston. ‘Oh, Roz, you are losing your edge.’ ‘Must be in the doghouse with your Montreal girl, huh?’” Ilya grimaces. “But I have not been the best captain the last couple months, so maybe I deserve it.”

“‘Montreal girl’?” Shane sounds confused for a moment. “Oh. Is that supposed to be me?”

“Mmhmm. Obviously they do not know it is you,” Ilya adds, because Shane will definitely start spiraling if he doesn’t make that clear. “But Marly noticed a few years ago that I was leaving team hangouts early whenever we were in Montreal and he likes to tease me about it. None of them know that I am bisexual, though, so they would never even think that I was meeting another guy. So, you know, nothing to worry about.”

“That’s… good, I guess,” Shane says quietly. “I don’t— I don’t think anyone suspects that I’m gay. Hayden’s known about ‘Boston Lily’ for a while now, and Rose was good cover while it lasted, but…”

Ilya’s stomach clenches. “Did she take it well? When you broke up with her, I mean.”

“Oh. She… she was sort of the one who broke up with me,” Shane mumbles. “She, um— she sort of realized that I was gay before I did. I mean, I guess I knew deep down, but I wasn’t ready to admit it to myself until she, uh… I dunno. I’m not out, obviously, but I guess you could say she, like… reached in and turned on the closet light?”

“Oh, Hollander…” Ilya smothers a laugh with his mouth against Shane’s neck, and Shane lightly shoves him back with a jerk of his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I promise I am not laughing at you. Is good that you had someone to talk to. But it is just… very funny picture in my head, thinking of her, like, holding your hand and telling you, ‘Ah, Shane, I think maybe you might be gay.’”

“That’s… not too far off from what actually happened,” Shane says with a muted chuckle. “She was very kind about it, though. Apparently I am not the first guy she’s had to have that conversation with. Or the second. Or the third.”

Ilya bursts out laughing again. “Wow, that is some bad luck! Almost makes me feel sorry for her. Maybe I should send her flowers or something, you know, for helping you figure things out. You have her address?”

“Yeah, but there’s no fucking way I’m giving it to you,” Shane says with a little snort. “I’ll be sure to pass on your thanks next time I talk to her, though. Anonymously, of course.”

“Fine,” Ilya grumbles. There is a shitty, jealous part of him that doesn’t like them talking at all, but he figures Shane ought to have someone besides him that he can be himself with. (And if she’s had that many gay boyfriends, she’s clearly under no illusions that Shane would ever want to get back together with her.)

“Oh, I meant to ask, before you tried to distract me by changing the subject…” Ilya can’t see his face, but it sure sounds like Shane is smirking. “What were you thinking about in the shower after you came back from the club?”

“I think you can guess,” Ilya says dryly.

“Say it,” Shane says, and it’s kind of hot, hearing him get a little bossy.

“You,” Ilya murmurs into his ear, enjoying the little shiver the word elicits from Shane. “I was so fucking mad at you, but I still could not get you out of my head.”

Shane hesitates. “Are you still mad at me?”

“No,” Ilya says honestly. Mad hadn’t exactly been the right word for what he’d felt at the time, anyway; he’d felt more hurt than anything, but it’s harder to be mired in self-pity when you’re too busy being pissed off. “We are good, yes?”

“Yeah,” Shane says. He shifts slightly to glance at his watch. “I should probably get going, though.”

“Nooooo,” Ilya whines, hugging Shane tightly to his chest. “Stay. We can just go to sleep. You can sneak out early.”

Shane reaches back to scrunch a hand through Ilya’s hair. “It’s too risky.”

Ilya groans and lets go of Shane to roll onto his back, only half pretending to sulk. “I know, but I want more time with you. Is never enough.”

“It’s not, but…” Shane sits up and digs around in the sheets for his underwear. “We’re playing Boston in mid-March, I think, so, what… five weeks from now? And at least February’s a short month. It’ll go faster than we think it will.”

Yes, but after that we have only one more regular season game, and then we will not see each other during playoffs, and then I go back to Russia again, Ilya thinks miserably. This is hell. I just got you back and it’s already killing me to let you go again. We have to stop doing this.

Shane unearths a pair of boxer briefs and squints at the label, then drops them on Ilya’s chest. “Where the hell are mine…?”

Ilya feels a lump under his lower back and reaches down to produce Shane’s underwear. “Here.”

Shane takes them with a murmured thanks and turns to sit on the edge of the bed to put them on while Ilya drops his own off the other side of the bed; he’s getting in the shower as soon as Shane leaves, so there’s no point in getting dressed. When Shane moves to stand up, though, Ilya reaches out to catch his hand and tug him back down.

“What?” Shane sighs, pulling one leg up onto the bed as he turns to face Ilya, looking only half as annoyed as he sounds.

Ilya lets his eyebrows flick upward. “You are not going to kiss me good night?”

Shane arches an eyebrow right back at him, though he looks amused. “Are you going to let me leave this room if I kiss you again?”

Ilya shrugs. “I will not stop you, but is not my fault if you don’t want to go.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “I think I can handle one kiss.”

“OK, then come here.”

Ilya beckons to him, and Shane scoots closer and leans down. Ilya closes the distance between them with a firm hand cupping Shane’s jaw, and Shane “I can handle one kiss” Hollander fucking melts, draping his upper body across Ilya’s chest as he cradles Ilya’s face in his hands. True to his word, Ilya doesn’t make it difficult for him to pull away, should he want to; the hand on Shane’s jaw moves to palm the back of his head instead while the other splays out midway down his back, just to feel him, not to hold him. Just for one more minute. Maybe two.

Ilya has no idea how much time passes before Shane breaks away with a little gasp. “Jesus,” Shane whispers, and Ilya opens his eyes to see a slightly dazed look on his face. “I have to go.”

“I know,” Ilya says quietly, letting his hands fall away, though not without one last brush of his thumb against the freckles on Shane’s left cheekbone.

“I really have to go,” Shane repeats, like he’s having an argument with himself that Ilya is only hearing one side of.

A wry smile tugs at Ilya’s lips. “You don’t sound very sure about that.”

“I am,” Shane says, and he sneaks one last peck to the twitching corner of Ilya’s mouth before he pushes himself up and off the bed.

The cool air in the hotel room is starting to give Ilya goosebumps, so he sits up and pulls the sheet up over his hips while he watches Shane get dressed. Shane at least seems conflicted about leaving, which is some consolation… but not much, seeing as Ilya is the one who will have to sleep alone in this bed that smells like him now. Ilya has typically been the one to leave after their hookups, and he suddenly understands on a visceral level—maybe even more than he had after the terrible end to their last meetup—how hard it is to be the one who stays behind. It probably hadn’t always been like this for Shane, not before feelings began to muddle things between them, but it doesn’t feel especially good when Ilya thinks about whether Shane has ever felt the way he feels right now.

“OK, I’m gonna head out, then,” Shane says suddenly, snapping Ilya out of his thoughts. “I’m, uh— I’m glad we were able to talk. And— the other stuff was good, too.”

“Yes,” Ilya says with a sly smile, his words dripping with sarcasm. He feels so much affection for Shane in this moment, though. It’s crazy that a guy can ride cock and suck dick like that and somehow still be so awkward at talking about sex. “We are still very good at fucking.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, lifting a hand to scratch behind his ear as he takes a couple steps toward the door. He might be blushing; the light is pretty dim, and it won’t do Ilya any good to look too closely. “Anyway, I know it’ll be a while before we see each other again, but, y’know, you have my number. You can text me if you want. If you get bored, or— or whatever.”

He’s right. They don’t have to keep their messages limited to making plans. They are friends, technically. Sort of. So it wouldn’t be weird to text him about hockey news; the trade deadline is coming up, after all. And it would be nice to have someone to send all of those pictures he takes of the dogs he meets when he’s running in Brookline. Although maybe Shane’s more of a cat guy. Ilya should—

No, what you should do is stop. The thought comes at him as quickly as a door being slammed in his face. He is not your boyfriend.

“I will think about it,” Ilya says. He pauses for a moment, then adds, “Good night, Shane.”

Shane kind of glances away and rolls his eyes, but his smile is somewhere between bashful and indulgent as he meets Ilya’s gaze again. “Good night, Ilya,” he says, and then he opens the door and slips out into the hallway.

The door closes behind him, and Ilya sinks back against the pillows, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

I love him. I love him. I love him.

FUCK.