Archive of Our Own

It starts the very first time they go out to dinner together. Which is itself a little dizzying to think about - that it had been almost a full decade since he had first taken Ilya's dick inside his mouth and at no point in those years had they ever sat down together in a restaurant and eaten food, drank wine, chatted amiably for the world to see.

“Out?” Shane had asked nervously - stomach fluttering in equal parts anticipation and apprehension - when Ilya had suggested it. They had spent all day unloading boxes of his belongings into the apartment that he would be renting until he found somewhere more permanent to buy, but somehow they still hadn't gotten around to the kitchen by the time the sun had started dipping and the decision had been made to call it a day. “Like to a restaurant?”

Ilya had shrugged as if to say Sure, why not? “We can do that now, yes?” he'd argued, moving closer. “Since we are friends?” The word had curled suggestively off his tongue and had been accompanied by a wolfish grin.

When his hand had slid around the back of Shane's neck, Shane's head naturally tilted upwards, lips parting ready to receive Ilya's tongue as it licked into his mouth. Since this was a type of argument that Shane was particularly vulnerable to, he had immediately acquiesced, worries momentarily melting away under the attention of Ilya's lips and the weight of his fingers at the base of Shane's skull.

It’s a nice place, Shane thinks. Fancy. The tablecloths are a thick fabric, pristine white; when Shane had sort of absentmindedly tested how a knife felt in his hand it had been pleasantly weighty; and the lighting is the kind that might be described as atmospheric - dim enough that, were Shane's dad here, he would joke that it was so you couldn't read the prices off the menu. Ilya had picked it out because - despite having lived all of his life either in the city or making regular trips back to it to see his parents - Shane had realised he had no idea where he would suggest. Usually his parents decided these things and he just showed up to the address that was sent to him. 

If Shane is honest, it's not the kind of place he would have chosen had it been up to him. He doesn't care for fine dining, which seems to take the basic task of putting calories into your body and then unnecessarily add a slew of unspoken rules and conventions to abide by. 

Ilya seems comfortable here though - the way he seemed to be everywhere he went but Shane only ever felt either on the ice or when alone with Ilya. From the second they'd stepped in through the door - Ilya explaining to the maitre d’ with a quiet sophistication that they had a reservation for two under the name of Rozanov - he had moved through the space with a fluidity that Shane found magnetic. When he had ordered a bottle of wine for the both of them, the waitress had told him that it was an excellent choice, sir. 

He's leaning back in his chair now - not slouching, just relaxed, at ease.

Shane thinks that the last words anyone would think to describe him with would be at ease. He's been trying his best to ignore the instinct to glance anxiously around the room for anyone noticing them. Ilya didn’t like it (didn't want to feel like Shane's dirty little secret, he said) and Shane didn’t want to taint the memory of this first dinner together with an argument once they got back to the apartment.

Instead, he's been staring down at the menu intently, absentmindedly worrying his lower lip between his teeth. They’ve already had to ask the waitress for just a couple more minutes twice when she had quietly approached their table and asked, in a gentle voice, whether they were ready to order food yet. It's just– There are a lot of options and he's– He’s trying to calculate macros - how many grams of protein in each dish and how many calories and which fats could be considered healthy fats. Would the chicken breast have been carefully trimmed of all its fat? And would they do it with the sauce on the side if he asked? It would probably be better to just get the salad, right? And then he could make himself a protein shake when he got back to Ilya's. But, actually, the salad dressing might be an issue. Maybe he could ask for it without–

He realises that, across the table from him, Ilya has stopped talking. He lifts his head. 

It’s still a shock to him every time. Just how handsome Ilya is. Especially like this. Hair slicked back, eyes bright even in the low light, sharp lines of his face cast in soft, shifting shadow. The top four buttons of his black silk shirt have been undone to expose an almost indecent triangle of pale, speckled skin in a way that had had Shane rolling his eyes performatively even as he’d felt a heat creep into his cheeks. He’s looking expectantly at Shane, as if waiting for an answer from him, and Shane feels a little claustrophobic under the weight of his gaze. Pinned down. 

“Sorry?” he says, hoping that Ilya will repeat the question.

He doesn't. Instead, he looks up and gestures for the waitress with a subtle wave of his hand and– Right. Yeah. Shane supposes it’s probably a good thing - even as he feels the panic start to rise in him - to be forced to just make a decision instead of wasting the whole evening sitting here staring at a page and ruining his and Ilya’s first ever dinner together.

When the waitress arrives, Shane is glad that she looks to Ilya first. His own brain is buzzing, humming with a frantic energy that sometimes overtook him on the ice when they were losing or playing a man down and the pressure was on. There, though, it felt contained - tight and focused, easy to channel into a tangible purpose - whereas here it seems a wild, sprawling thing that leaves him feeling scattered, helpless. 

“I’ll have the steak - medium rare - with the peppercorn sauce,” Ilya is saying, the young woman nodding in response, and just as Shane is getting ready to open his mouth and order the salad. Or– wait, no. The chicken would be fine. Right? But– No. Definitely the salad– Ilya is continuing. “And for Mr Hollander, the chicken,” he tells the waitress, before closing the menu and casually holding it out for her to take.

It feels as if all of the air has been sucked out of the room. Like he’s been shunted up against the boards and his body has forgotten - momentarily - that it has lungs, that they are capable of expanding and of drawing in air. He stares at Ilya, who stares right back at him, and tries to understand what exactly is happening - feeling for the edges of the situation first, like when his dad does a jigsaw puzzle, before attempting to fill in the centre.

There is an electric feeling - nothing like the low, churning anxiety of moments before, but instead bright and high and buzzy - under his skin that seems so immediate that Shane's sure everyone else must notice - must see him vibrating with it. But the waitress looks entirely unfazed as she turns to Shane and asks, “Will that be all, sir?” and Shane– Right– his menu is still open in front of him.

“Yes. Thank you,” Ilya answers for him before Shane has the chance to stutter out something incoherent and embarrassing, fumbling his menu closed. When he manages to pass it off into the waitress’ expectant hand, Shane is immensely grateful for the small, silent nod of thanks that she gives, which allows him to do the same in response without having to attempt to convince his tongue and lips to curl around any words. 

Shane stares down at the tablecloth until the waitress is gone. His cheeks feel hot - must be flushed a bright red. Embarrassment, he thinks. At the idea that he’s had to have his food ordered for him like he's a child, that he could fail at such a simple task.

It feels futile to think that Ilya won't tease him for it the second it's just the two of them again - mouth twisted up into a smirk as he asks whether Shane would like him him to cut his food up nice little bite-sized pieces too - but when Shane finally, tentatively shifts his gaze up, he finds that Ilya’s expression is fairly neutral as his eyes over Shane's face, and when he speaks he makes no mention of it at all. Instead, he brings up this year's draft, which had happened almost a month before but they still found themselves drifting back to discuss sometimes - how it would affect various teams’ prospects for the season, who would be worth keeping an eye on, and who they expected might struggle. Shane could discuss it in his sleep, so he manages to stumble through on autopilot until the odd, half-dazed embarrassment slips away and he's able to properly engage with it all. He forces himself to relax, a little, into the joy of it - of having Ilya to himself, out here, in the open like this.

After the food comes, Shane lowers his cutlery self-consciously when he realises that Ilya has not picked up his own, worried that he has missed some common convention that he should've known about. Ilya only gives him an encouraging tilt of his chin, as if to say Go on. Eat. Shane does not often fail to do as he's told. 

Ilya watches him as he lifts the fork to his mouth, scrapes the tender flesh from the tines. “Is it good?” he asks.

Shane nods, eyes momentarily meeting Ilya's before flicking away from the intensity of his gaze.

Ilya hums out a satisfied sound. It is only then that he picks up his own cutlery.

_____

It’s important to Shane that Rose should like Ilya straight away. Really, it’s important to Shane that everyone should like Ilya straight away but, given that the vast majority of the people he knew were either in or related to hockey, he had learned not to get his hopes up, and settle for the fact that he knew they would all come round to him eventually - with differing time scales on how long that eventually might end up being.

Rose felt like his one shot at actually, finally, having someone realise how wonderful he was from the get go. She knew some hockey, but not much, and so she did not come with her own preconceived notions. When Shane had first told her about Ilya, she had said she'd heard the name, but had been entirely unaware of the asshole persona he had created on and around the ice. She knew him, primarily, through the stories that Shane had told her of him - and these were almost universally complimentary, so it was already off to a good start.

Still, when the day itself rolls around, Shane feels nervous about it - on edge. It’s probably because they’ve left it so long - the struggle of three very busy people trying to co-ordinate schedules. There had been tentative plans for the summer, but then reshoots out in Budapest had gone long and so the whole thing had fallen through and by the time they manage to set a date, Ilya has been in Ottawa for a month already and Shane has been calling him his boyfriend for almost 14.

She’d mentioned a few weeks in advance that she had a short break between projects and would be in Montreal for a few days to meet some co-stars from the X-Squad movie that she’d been shooting there when she and Shane had met. Let me know when you’re free to catch up! she had texted. And then, Would be great to meet your boytoy too, if he’s around?

“You don’t have to come,” Shane had said flippantly after he'd introduced the idea, as if he didn't really care about Ilya's answer either way. 

Ilya had raised his eyebrows. “And leave you alone with your movie star ex-girlfriend? No. I do not think so.”

So Ilya had driven two hours straight after practice ended (even though he would have to drive back first thing in the morning for the home game he was playing the next day) and they had fucked in the shower (even though that negated any time saved by them going in together, which was the only reason Shane had let Ilya talk him into it in the first place) and then they had both rushed to get ready given the time they'd lost, Ilya decamping to the guest bathroom so that they didn't get under each others’ feet.

By now, the clock on the bedside table informs Shane that they really should've left 5 minutes ago (that was the time he had told Ilya he had to be ready to leave by, since he was usually the more likely of the two to end up failing to stick to a schedule) and really Shane can't allow them to be late (he so wants everything to go perfectly) but he is standing in front of the mirror and holding up two ties that Rose bought for him when she took him shopping the last time Montreal played in LA and trying, desperately, to figure out if either of them would look right on him. He wants to show her that he appreciates the gift, even though he hasn't actually worn either since they were bought. They're nice - really nice - but he's used to plain, dull colours that go with anything and every time he's gotten these out he's ended up worrying that they don't suit him at all, like he is right now, and maybe it would be better to just go get a reliable black tie from the closet because he knew that would always–

“Solnyshko.”

When his head snaps towards the sound, Shane finds that Ilya has somehow silently materialised in his bedroom doorway. He looks ready to leave already, with his big great woolen coat on to protect against the Canadian winters and burgundy dress shoes that Shane knows he would never have the confidence to put on but work unsurprisingly well on Ilya because everything does. 

Shane turns his body towards him, taking a step. 

“We will be late,” Ilya points out gently, as if Shane isn't already acutely aware of that.

“Which tie looks better?” He thrusts the two that he is holding into Ilya’s chest with the wild-eyed desperation of a child flinging themselves at the nearest adult - sure that they will know, by their adulthood alone, how to fix everything.

The corner of Ilya’s lip curls. “A tie?” 

Shane doesn’t have time for teasing. Rose had implied that it was a fancy place they were going to. Dress smart, she’d replied when Shane had asked about what he should wear and he can’t shake the feeling that he also needs to make a good impression today. Even though Rose already knows him. Even though she had somehow found him interesting and funny and charming when his idea of dressing smart was a white t-shirt and dark wash jeans. “Please,” he asks– begs.

For a moment, the smirk on Ilya’s lips stays, and Shane worries that he's going to waste time poking at him - smartest player in the league cannot even dress himself? - but then in an instant his expression changes, sobers. He slides the lengths of fabric from Shane's grip and Shane lets himself relax, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

When Ilya runs his eyes over Shane, head to toe, it's with a detached, impersonal, evaluative nature but it still makes Shane's stomach do a flip the same way it does when there's much more heat behind it. Shane watches his face - the intense, focused crease that has appeared between his eyebrows. The corner of his mouth twitches. “This. Off,” he says, tugging lightly at the fabric of Shane's shirt.

“What?” Shane asks, but Ilya's already striding across the room, discarding the ties on Shane's bed and inviting himself into Shane's closet. He begins carding through the limited collection of shirts that hang before him, running the fabric between his fingers. He pulls one out to hold up in the light, eyes running over it, before returning it to its place. When he glances over his shoulder and finds Shane still frozen in place, his chin juts forward, eyes blowing out wide, in an exaggerated performance of disbelief. “Now. Off,” he insists shortly. “We do not have much time.” 

Shane has been on hockey teams since before he lost his baby teeth. His body is following the instruction before he has even fully processed it. Once he does catch up with the words, his brain turns blessedly quiet as it comprehends that Shane does not have to worry anymore; the situation is no longer in his hands; Ilya has waltzed in and deftly pried control of it from his desperate, shaking fingers. He strips out of his suit jacket and lays it out neatly beside the two discarded ties before starting on the tiny pearlescent buttons of his shirt, slipping each one out through its buttonhole. By the time he's done, Ilya's back, and he takes the offending article from Shane’s hands and replaces it.

The shirt Shane had been wearing had been white because the majority of Shane's shirts were white because he had been reliably informed by multiple sources that you could wear a white shirt with almost any suit and have it look at least decent. The fabric Shane now holds between his fingers is a soft blue. Shane stares down at it. He's not sure if– Like, he just doesn't know–

“Quicky please,” Ilya prompts, returning the white shirt to an empty hanger, and yeah, he's right. The last thing they need is to get into a disagreement over this - they've not got time for it. He stuffs his arms into the sleeves and gets to work on the buttons, feeling Ilya's gaze on him as he works. He doesn't allow himself to lift his own eyes from the task before him to meet it - his hands feel shaky enough as it is. The adrenaline, he thinks, from the time pressure and the flurry of movement. 

He's tucking the fabric in at the waist when Ilya slips in the space before him. He runs his fingers under Shane's collar to stand it up and slips a length of fabric around his neck. It's the dark purplish one - a subtle floral pattern set in in similar muted shades - that Shane would never have picked out for himself but had found himself agreeing looked nice when Rose had insisted it'd look good on him (before reminding him that she was the one buying it and so it didn't matter whether he agreed or not; he didn't have a say). He worries momentarily if it will be too much - with the colour of his shirt, with the rest of the outfit - but then he remembers that Ilya has chosen it. That he knows these kinds of things. 

Ilya begins manipulating the fabric into knots with practised precision. His elegant fingers move with a skilled confidence, in with quick, deft movements and Shane should roll his eyes and say I can tie my own tie, Rozanov, but he doesn't - just stands and watches Ilya work, occasionally flicking his eyes up to catch the firm set of his lips, the expression of intense focus. Like he wants to make this perfect. Like it's important that it's perfect. For Shane.

When Ilya works the knot up to his throat, Shane sucks in a deep breath and realises only then that he had stopped breathing.

“Too tight?” Ilya murmurs, his hands hovering in anticipation of having to correct any mistake.

Shane, confident in his inability to form a single intelligible word at this moment, shakes his head. 

Ilya hums out a pleased sound, giving a small, self-satisfied nod at his handiwork. He meets Shane's eye.

Shane stares back at him. He can feel that electric buzzing under his skin, the unearthing of something hungry deep in the pit of him, that he couldn't - doesn't want to - give name to.

Then Ilya is turning away, scooping Shane's jacket up from the bed and holding it out for Shane to step into, turning to slip one arm in and then the other. It's only once he's smoothed down the front of it - out of habit more than necessity - and lifted his gaze, that he realises Ilya has, just by the way he held it out to Shane, shepherded him to end up standing in front of the bedroom mirror.

His eyes drift towards the movement as Ilya's head appears behind Shane's left shoulder. Now that his brain is quiet, Shane feels like he can finally see him - soft curls and sharp angles, the pretty sweep of his lower lip. He crowds in a little closer behind Shane, his arm curling around to place a possessive hand on Shane's hip. “Yes?”

It's only then that he realises he's supposed to be looking at himself - at Ilya's handiwork. He sweeps his eyes down his frame, from head to toe. He looks sort of elegant, he thinks. Sophisticated - which is not a word then anyone would've ever used to describe Shane. The boring suit that he has worn hundreds of times somehow seems less dull itself when sitting next to such pretty things.  

Unthinkingly, one of Shane's hands comes up, fingertips brushing gently over the knot of the tie resting at the hollow of his throat. “Yeah,” he breathes.

Ilya smiles, “Good,” and leans in to kiss the side of Shane's neck - a brief, chaste thing that is over before it even begins and yet still has Shane's eyes fluttering closed as he contemplates turning around and looping his arms around Ilya's neck and suggesting that they cancel - even though he knows Rose would murder him for it when she's waited so long - and stay in tonight instead.

Luckily, before he can do anything so embarrassing, Ilya is patting his hip twice and announcing, “Ok. Time to go. I am not having you taking away even more time from my first meeting with glamorous movie star Rose Landry,” and with that he has swept out of the room and there is nothing, really, for Shane to do but follow.

Obviously Shane had already factored in extra time just in case there was traffic so, even with the delay, they arrive barely a couple of minutes late. They are informed that Rose is already at the table, and Shane watches her face light up when she first catches sight of them, standing up from her chair to pull Shane into a long hug. She smells of vanilla and something floral - familiar - and Shane feels himself relax into her embrace the way he can do with very few people.

He recognises a certain jittery tension dissipate, the tension of his muscles loosening. He's not exactly sure what it has been, maybe lingering nerves from the pressure of seeing her and needing it to go perfectly, maybe lingering adrenaline from the mad rush of him changing his outfit last minute. Maybe something else, a part of him that he did not listen to suggested. 

In the car, with Ilya in the driver's seat even though he complained every time about how much he hated driving Shane's car, Ilya's hand had rested on Shane's thigh the whole drive, retreating only when he changed gear and returning immediately after. Shane had gotten the sense that where this would usually be a reassuring thing it was now partially fuelling the jittery feeling; he had felt oddly squirmy under the touch, as if he couldn't tell if he wanted to pull away or push closer. And although there was a part of him that was engaging in ridiculous play-argument with Ilya about what he was and wasn't allowed to say to Rose (a firm no to: A pleasure to meet the woman who turned my boyfriend gay), there was another part of him that was was not really there in the moment at all.

He had kept glancing over at Ilya as if expecting to find… something. What exactly, he wasn't sure, and whatever it was he hadn't found it - Ilya had seemed entirely unaffected by the whole thing. Which– yeah, of course he was. There was no thing to be affected by.

“God, it's been too long,” Rose sighs as she releases him - holding him at arm's length in a way that makes him feel 14 years old again, his grandparents looking him over and exclaiming haven't you grown! Rose makes no comment about his height, but she does say, with a conspiratorial wink, “This is fun. Whoever chose it must have good taste,” gesturing to the tie and Shane can feel how badly he flushes - too deep and too hot, burning all the way down to his throat, utterly disproportionate to the compliment itself. He worries that he will have given it away (what, exactly? given what away?) but Rose seems to write it off as the typical dusting of colour that paints Shane's cheeks whenever he is forced to listen to compliments about himself that do not concern hockey, breezily declaring, “Ugh, you're adorable,” through a light, tinkling movie-star laugh before turning to Ilya.

Shane watches her introduce herself to him, and him to her, both dripping with easy charisma and dazzling smiles. Ilya insists that Shane take the seat across from Rose, so that they can catch up. He chooses for himself the chair beside her, and furthest from Shane, and Shane has to remind himself that once Ilya had admitted that he tried to avoid ending up standing near him in group settings - press bullshit or All Stars weekends or awards show afterparties - because he worried that if he got too close to Shane he would not be able to stop himself from reaching out and touching him. It makes it a little easier, but only a little.

Shane had worried that it might be awkward - Ilya could be jealous, and this often made him momentarily sulky and distant - but they all fall into conversation easily. They are two of the people that Shane finds it easiest to exist in the company of, and he's happy to find that that still applies even when it is all three of them together. Rose asks Ilya about his life, about hockey, engaging in it with the same earnest curiosity that had once endeared Shane to her - soaking up everything, just so endlessly fascinated by people in a way that Shane supposed was probably necessary for an actor. When she asks about his childhood, Ilya deftly avoids saying anything too personal by launching into a funny anecdote that Shane has heard many times at press events and Rose laughs at all the right times and reacts appropriately shocked by the big reveal and then moves the conversation on again.

As Shane settles into it, he manages to convince himself that he was right: what he had felt in the car was just nerves. He could overcome them the same way that he did the occasional bout of pre-game jitters: by just pushing it all down and throwing himself into it. 

When Rose mentions that this place is famous for their cocktails - or so her co-star Océan has told her - Shane answers, by rote, “I'm driving.”

Rose pouts stroppily in response, but Shane can tell that she's about to sigh and tell him ok. fine, before making the joke that she will try her best to drink for the both of them, when Ilya says, “You can have one, can't you?”

Shane looks at him. His face is cool and unreadable, but his eyes are fixed intently on Shane. He talked often about moderation about Shane following his nutritionists instructions and his routines, yes, if that helped, but not allowing them to control him completely - showing himself that he could deviate from them occasionally and the world would not end, so that when he broke one of his rules accidentally it did not feel quite so catastrophic. Shane felt the philosophy made sense when Ilya said it, but it was another thing entirely to attempt to implement.

“If you wanted one,” Ilya clarifies when Shane doesn't respond. “You are still ok to drive after one, right?”

It's a question. He could say no if he wanted.

“Yeah, I can have one,” Shane agrees, flipping back to the cocktails page and hoping that if he tilts his head down enough then it will hide the burning of his cheeks. That heart-racing skittishness from the car is back, and there is something anxious in its quality but a part of Shane recognises that it is not only that - the dark, hungry thing coiling inside him is back. Restlessly, he scans his eyes over the page and rolls the combinations of ingredients around on his tongue, tries to find one that he thinks he might actually like but he doesn't know anything about this - about what flavours work well together and what complements what - and some of the ingredients sound utterly unfamiliar.

It doesn't really matter, he tries to remind himself. Rose's friend had said they were famous for this. They wouldn't be filling the menu with drinks that weren't going to taste good. He could choose anything, probably, and it would be fine.

But he doesn't want to do that, he realises. He flicks his eyes across to Ilya, who is still regarding him with a dark amusement, lip curled and lashes low. And the hungry thing lurches and stretches wide its jaws and Shane says, “I don't really drink that much,” with a performative air of innocence, holding Ilya's gaze. “Will you order me something you think I'd like?” 

Rose's final verdict - delivered in a hushed, conspiratorial whisper when Ilya excuses himself to the bathroom, the two of them leaning in across the table in a way that the probably should've guessed would be splashed all across the internet by the next morning (“You are dating Rose Landry again?” Ilya will gasp as he scrolls through his phone in bed. “And you did not think to tell your boyfriend?”) - is “I like him. I think he's good for you.”

“Yeah,” he can't help but agree, fingertips once again unthinkingly finding the knot of his tie. “I think he's good for me too.”

_____

It's just… it's easy after that. To ask for Ilya's advice. He knows things - all the kinds of things that Shane is utterly clueless about - and he knows Shane, knows what he will like.

So it makes sense to snap a picture before he heads out of the door to the Pike twins’ ballet recital and ask what Ilya thinks - makes sense to switch his bomber jacket for a leather one when Ilya suggests it would look better. Makes sense to call him in a panic before a charity gala he was invited to through one of his sponsorships and walk him through his entire wardrobe before settling on an outfit. Makes sense to let Ilya comb through the collection of watches that Rolex has sent him over the years and listen to his suggestions as to the situations that Shane should swap out his regular favourite for something that would suit better. Makes sense to text Salmon or salad? when he goes out for dinner with Hayden and JJ, or to discreetly snap a picture of the menu and send it off without a word when team dinner takes them somewhere where nothing on the menu would suit his nutritionist's standards. (Because Shane is a good captain, and because a good captain knows when to delegate, JJ is always the one who picks where they go for team dinner.) 

They both took pride in beating each other, and Shane knew that - in much the same way that he had found no joy in the Metros annihilating the Centaurs when Ilya had been playing with his fucked up shoulder - Ilya would not be proud of a victory were Shane off his game because he'd messed up his diet spectacularly, and so it feels safe to pass off food-based decisions onto him.

The next time they had gone for food together after Rose, Shane hadn't looked at his menu once. Ilya hadn't appeared to notice, occupied with looking down at his own as they both kept up the argument that they have been having on and off for months about whether Ilya should get an apartment or a house in Ottawa. There had been a moment, just as the waiter had approached the table, that Shane had worried he'd misjudged. But then the waiter had asked if they were ready to order and Ilya had not even looked at Shane as he said yes, thank you, and began reading off the order for the both of them. Shane had looked down at the table, smiling privately to himself, because it had felt impossible to look at Ilya directly and be able to keep hidden from the waiter and other diners what Ilya meant to him.

It wordlessly continues each time the two of them go out for food together, and the next time they find themselves at lunch with Shane's parents in a local cafe his dad likes, Ilya finds a quiet moment to lean into Shane's space and prod a finger at his menu. “Sounds like something you'd like, no?”

The words run through Shane like lightning, sets his heart racing and makes heat prickle across his skin. That Ilya thought to find a way… even in front of Shane's parents… There's something in it that Shane can't - won't - name. And beyond that there is a nervousness, fear. 

It is a dangerous thing, he knows, to get what you want. 

Alone? Ilya texts.

The answer is no. They are at a shitty club because they've just beaten the Admirals 5-1 and everyone had insisted that he had to come out after a game like that and it's easy to get caught up in the excitement of it all when the boys are like that - so joyful that it's overflowing from them. He's been nursing the same beer (that had been pressed into his hand by JJ along with an exaggerated wet smack of lips on his cheek, a reward for scoring the final goal) for about an hour and thinking about the fact that they have another game tomorrow and it's already eleven o'clock. And even though the answer is no, Shane finds himself slipping out to the smoking area and huddling against the wall, as far away from other people as he can get in the tiny space. 

Once the call is connected, Shane finds he doesn’t actually know what he had wanted to say. He says Hi and Ilya says Hi back and then there are a few awkward seconds of silence before Ilya points out, “It does not sound like you are alone.”

They are usually more careful than this.

Shane shakes his head even though Ilya can’t see and hastily explains that the guys wanted to celebrate, that they’re in a club. Or, he’s outside of the club now. In the smoking area. “I’ve had a beer,” he says, rushing through the syllables so that they end up tripping together into one long word. Then he holds his breath and waits.

On the other end of the phone, Ilya gasps. “Should we call the press? Do we need to alert NATO? Shane Hollander is at a club and has had one beer. More on the situation as it develops.”

“Fuck off,” he says automatically. But it is nice to hear him joke - to imply that it's not such a big deal to have one beer, even on the night before a game, and Shane should maybe chill out a little. 

“So. You called to tell me that you’ve had a beer?”

Shane's face heats and he turns into the wall a little bit. Almost everyone out here is red-faced and sweaty from the dancing, but he worries that somehow they'll be able to distinguish the flush on his cheeks. “No. I just thought– I mean– I thought–” Should I have another one? he thinks. Can you decide whether I should be allowed to have another one? The guys will try to get him to, he knows. He'll feel better about it if Ilya says he should. And he'll feel less like a buzzkill saying no if Ilya says he can't. Might even be able to do it without apologising a million times which is something that he's trying to curb, since Ilya quietly clucks his tongue when Shane says sorry in situations when he isn't actually at fault. Sometimes places his hand on the small of Shane's back or the nape of his neck when he goes to say it and then stops himself, even when they're out in public.

Which is not something to be thinking about in the crowded smoking area of a shitty club. God, his face is probably– They can probably all see–

“Thought what?” Ilya prompts.

Shane shakes his head, shakes off the brief wave of craziness that has apparently overtaken him, and focuses on the thought of Ilya's hand, warm even through layers of fabric, the sound of Ilya's voice, warm even across the desperate miles. He touched down in Colorado a couple of hours ago. Sometimes it’s harder now that he's in Ottawa. Instead of being grateful for usually having him close, Shane's just more resentful of the time they have to spend apart. It just makes him want more.

“I missed you,” Shane says, because he is always thinking this so it is not technically a lie, his voice hushed under the ambient chatter that is being passed back and forth along with the cigarettes.

Ilya laughs affectionately. “You called me from the public smoking area of a public club to tell me you have had one beer and you missed me?” Ilya clarifies. “No, I think it is worse than we thought. You are wasted, Hollander,” he jokes. “Go drink some water.”

Shane smiles. Sometimes it really is enough just to hear his laugh. Just to hear the way Shane makes him smile. And sometimes– “How much?” he asks. It's that growing, greedy thing inside him. That thing that he’s getting worse and worse at keeping a hold on. He's a little breathless already. Just at the thought of it. 

Obviously Ilya could say no, could say What the fuck are you talking about? could say What kind of grown adult needs this much direction? Are you that fucking useless? and he's already getting ready to explain it away - blame it on the alcohol, even though he's not even close to tipsy - when a pensive hum comes down the phone line. “We’ll say one bottle of water for every beer.”

“I've only had one.”

Shane can imagine Ilya’s shrug even through the phone. “Ok, so one bottle of water for now,” he says, matter-of-fact, “and then, if you have more beers later, more water too.” 

He wakes up feeling slightly queasy, the way he often does when he drinks during the season. It's not a hangover (he'd had three beers in the end and he weighs 190 pounds; he is not hungover) but it always feels like his body's attempt to mimic one. A punishment. The guilt manifesting as something physical.

He downs half of the bottle of water on the bedside table in a couple of glugs and in doing so is reminded of Ilya's instructions - one bottle of water for every beer. He'd followed them. Diligently. Alternated drinks with water every single time.

Should we call the press? Do we need to alert NATO? Ilya hadn't thought it a big deal. Had said if you have more beers later as if it hadn't mattered at all if Shane did.

Shane turns that over in his head, and by the time he's gone for his morning run his symptoms have disappeared entirely.

When he gets back, he sees that he's missed a text from Ilya. How's your head?  

Fine. Shane replies, because he genuinely is feeling fine. Excited to play later that day - to prove to himself that he isn't going to let the team down because of a few beers.

When Ilya's response comes through, Shane frowns down at his phone for a couple of seconds before the confused lines of his face smooth out and he rolls his eyes.

do not be so hard on yourself (((

much better than fine, i promise ;)

Ok. Well. He walked right into that one. Fuck off. he responds for good measure. 

On one of their long phone calls where they stay on the line long after either of them has anything to say, Shane mentions that he should get a haircut soon, just for something to keep the conversation going. It's always something he ends up putting off. It feels awkward, he explains, that he doesn't really know what to ask for, or even what it is that he wants. To avoid this, he's been going to the same place almost as long as he’s been playing for Montreal, and ends up asking for the usual every time. By now, he thinks, they would probably be shocked if he tried to ask for something new. 

A couple of minutes after he hangs up, his phone pings. He checks the notifications. Lily. Three texts: two photos and a brief instruction. show to the barber

Shane looks at them for far too long. A creeping heat spreading down the back of his neck. That hungry, clawing thing in his gut. He is nervous, the next day, when he shows his barber the photos, that he will see it on him, that he'll think– he'll know–

Afterwards, he wonders if he should send a photo to Ilya. He takes one - an awkward thing, face oddly serious as he focuses on getting the right angle. He opens his text thread with Lily but everything he types out seems wrong. Got the haircut by the way. then What do you think? then Does it look good? then Is this what you wanted? He deletes each one immediately after typing it out, jabbing furiously at the back space button.

It wasn't even– Ilya probably didn't even care that much. Not enough to want to see it immediately. He'd just been offering some friendly advice. Shane was building it up into something that it wasn't. 

looks good, Ilya texts him later that night. Shane had found himself taking his helmet off whenever he could on the bench between shifts. That or Ilya had looked up the press photos of Shane entering the arena.

Thanks, he replies. A couple of the boys had wolf-whistled when he arrived for the morning skate, room erupting in good-natured jeers. JJ had clapped him on the shoulder and said, Oh thank God. We might finally get you laid, capitane! Before he can decide against it, he's writing out a new text and hastily clicking send: You should give me advice more often.

He switches his phone off and slams it facedown on the sofa cushion beside him, but he has not even had time to think about regretting sending it before it is buzzing with a new notification. Lily: i should

When the Players’ Association occasionally talks about negotiating a relaxing of the game day dress code, Shane's mom always talks about it as if they're suggesting the players all turn up to games naked. It's about professionalism, she insists, mouth twisting in open distaste. 

Shane would also be sad to see the dress code go, but less because he cares about how players look and more for the same reason that he had once liked having a school uniform. For years, he has curated a reliable rotation of classic cut suits in black and navy and charcoal, white shirts, and plain ties that mean he can pick almost any combination from his wardrobe and not have to worry about whether they might work together because they probably would. 

Hiring a stylist had helped diversify his options a little, and he occasionally tried to venture out himself by buying things that seemed less boring. He often checks with Ilya before he actually wears them - gets advice on what they'll pair well with. And then he starts texting Ilya on game day mornings - asking for his opinion on which pair of shoes go best with his suit or which shirt he should wear under it.

It makes sense. Shane is one of the faces of the sport - the only hockey player some people would be able to name; he doesn't want to embarrass himself and the profession by showing up to games looking like someone who doesn't know how to dress himself.

That's why he does it, he tells himself. Ignores the hot squirmy feeling that he gets when he thinks about the impersonal sweep of Ilya's eyes over him - the breathlessness that comes with the thought of himself dressed up to Ilya's standards.

He doesn't realise how much he's come to rely on Ilya until he's blinking down at his screen, trying to make sense of the four tiny words there. you can choose today. And sure. Sure. He can choose any day if he wants to. He doesn't have to take Ilya's advice. It's just… it's nice to have.

He stares at the photo he had sent. Today it's three ties laid horizontally across a linen suit jacket - so that Ilya can see the way the fabrics interact. He'd made sure to open the curtains fully before he'd taken the photo. Natural lighting was important, apparently. It affected how things would look.

Shane looks up at the bed, where the image is duplicated in real life, as if he has been given a puzzle to solve.  

He checks his phone about twenty times before the game. The only text he gets from Lily reads, today you will lose so badly that they will take your conn smythe off you.

It makes him snort laughter to himself. Types back, Not going to happen. And if it did, I'd make do with my three cups… 

He gets nothing about it from Ilya in the warm-ups either. Or any of the times they square up to each other for a face-off. 

He has to wait until later, in his bedroom, for judgement. Ilya stalks around him in a slow circle. Eyes cold and unsentimental as they assess him.

Shane had changed back into the suit after coming home and showering the game off him, and he has somehow made it all the way from greeting Ilya at the front door to the bedroom, lips locked together the entire time, without losing a stitch of it. He feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, heart thumping, as he resists the urge to turn around and find exactly where Ilya is behind him.

When Ilya does reappear to Shane's field of vision, Shane feels a flurry of butterflies in his stomach, like he's some lovesick teen. He really is so handsome, though. Especially like this - his face set in hard unreadable lines, his eyes sharp and all-seeing. He plants himself in front of Shane again and slips his hand under Shane’s tie, lifting it gently toward him.

The fabric is jet black, silky, with an intricate pattern set into it in glossy black thread that disappears into the fabric at a distance but reveals itself when it catches the light. It’s not something he would usually consider game day wear, but it had reminded him of Ilya - his silky shirts and love of extravagant patterns and the hidden depths of his shifting gaze. He considers explaining that but he isn't sure Ilya would appreciate any input from him right now.  

Finally, Ilya delivers his verdict. “This I like.” He tugs lightly at the fabric, so that Shane is dragged in closer to him, bending forward a little to accommodate the movement. Ilya's clever fingers make quick work of the knot at Shane’s throat and the fabric is in his hands. He wraps it slowly around one hand as if a boxer taping up before a fight, tugs to test its give. Shane - still leant forward into Ilya’s space even though there is no longer anything holding him there except the magnetizing draw of Ilya’s presence - wonders if it might end up around his wrists by the end of the night when he inevitably failed to ask before he touched.

“The rest is a little boring.”

Shane winces. He had panicked at the last minute and hurriedly stripped out of the pale linen suit, instead returning to the reliable black-suit-and-white-shirt combination that has served him so well for almost a decade. “Should I–”

“Yes. Off. Please.”

He starts removing his jacket. “I’m sorry,” he says as he slips it back onto a hanger - Ilya is very precise about keeping clothing stored correctly. “I really tried.” 

Ilya smiles then – a little condescending, but no less affectionate because of it. “I know, solnyshko. I know. But maybe it is best that you do not try again.”

Hayden hosts the first barbecue once the spring finally rolls around and approaches Shane when he's at the grill, which is not fair because he knows Shane can't exactly leave everything to burn to a crisp.

“‘nother beer?” he asks. He's holding two in one hand and has managed to extend one out in Shane's direction. 

Shane nods, “Sure,” as he reaches out to accept it, the glass cool against his palm. He's just finished his first, no harm in having another. 

Hayden flops down into the chair beside him, raising his own bottle to his lips. He takes a gulp and then makes a satisfied ahh as if he's in a commercial. Then he tilts his head up to Shane. “You look good,” he says, in that direct way that Shane has always liked about him. 

Shane feigns a nervous look across the garden to where Jackie's chatting with the other WAGs, a gaggle of kids threading through the crowded legs. “Dude, your wife is right there,” he hisses, an exaggerated stage-whisper. 

Hayden laughs. He has always found Shane funny. For all his general social ineptitude, all of the closest people in Shane's life do. “Oh, Jackie wouldn't mind. An affair would get me out of the house at least.” He doesn't leave long enough of a pause for Shane to carry on the joke. “I mean it though. Not just the trim and the clothes or whatever - though the trim and the clothes are, obviously, an improvement.” 

Obviously Shane does not generally need someone micromanaging what he wears to the gym or around the house or on a casual day out. So when he had announced that he was heading out to Hayden's and would be back late that evening, he had waltzed past the living room in a plain white t-shirt and loose jeans.

Ilya had been playing one of his racing games, the volume up obnoxiously loud, image blown up massive on the TV Shane had bought to watch game tape on, so that he could see his mistakes in HD after their losses and note down what he needed to work on the next time he got on the ice.

(This practice Ilya referred to as Shane's boo hoo, poor me time and had absolutely no patience for.

What? You're so important that the whole game hinges on your one stupid mistake? Tomorrow, you'll go over the game at practice as a team. As it should be. For now, get over yourself and go to bed, Hollander, he'd said once from the alley behind a bar when he'd been shocked to find Shane still awake.

Is that an order? Shane had replied because he was, apparently, shameless.)

Ilya had lifted his head as Shane had walked past and then the music and revving engines had stopped and the controller had been abandoned on the cushion. “Eh. No. I am not having people think I let my boyfriend leave the house like that,” he had said (eyeing Shane's outfit with obvious disdain and ignoring the fact that the majority of Shane's teammates had absolutely no clue about Ilya), before dragging Shane back upstairs and picking out a light cashmere sweater that Shane had bought a couple of months back and not quite gotten round to wearing yet, making small adjustments the rest of Shane's outfit to better complement it. 

“Like– a massive improvement,” Hayden corrects. “But also it's just– you. You seem more confident maybe. Like we get Captain-mode Shane even off the ice. When you were talking to the rookies earlier you seemed so. Relaxed? Comfortable? I don't know, man. But it looks good on you.”

“Thanks, man,” Shane says. This is Ilya's work too, he knows - the ease of just accepting nice things people say to him. 

(At the All Stars weekend this year, in the hotel bar the afternoon before anything really kicked off besides the dreary round out press he'd just finished up with, Ilya had kept catching Shane's eye from across the conversation, stern look set into his features, whenever Shane had graciously deflected a compliment that had come his way. This was a habit trained into him by his mother - who had told him that they would find him cocky and arrogant were he no to, no matter how much he thought he deserved them - and reinforced by every coach he'd ever had who had all persistently reminded him that hockey was a team sport. Later, in his hotel room, Ilya had sat him on the bed made him practice saying thank you to the stream of compliments: everything from your freckles are pretty to you're the sharpest on the ice of anyone in this hotel to you have the tightest fucking pussy I've ever been inside.)

Shane smiles to himself. “I feel good.” 

Once Shane had been appropriately dressed to Ilya's standards, Ilya had kissed him in the entryway until Shane had insisted that he really did have to go or he would be late. “Pass my car keys?” he'd murmured from where Ilya had him pinned against the door. 

“Won't you be drinking?”

Shane hadn't really considered that. They had a rare four-day break so he’d supposed maybe he could. Although he had a session with his trainer in the morning so maybe it would be best to–

“Everyone else will be drinking?” Ilya had clarified and then, when Shane had nodded, “So maybe you should drink too. To help with team bonding.” 

Shane could've nodded then - gone to Hayden's, had a couple of drinks - or said no, he didn't feel like it. Instead, he'd asked, “How many?”

“What?”

Shane had swallowed, feeling a creeping heat across his cheeks. Shameless, he'd thought. So fucking shameless. “How many beers should I have?”

There is always a part of Shane that wishes Ilya will say no. Will pull back, disgusted. Will shake his head (God no. No. You sick, broken thing. Get a grip.) and put a stop to all this and Shane will get his confirmation of what he already knew: that nothing can ever be this easy. It hasn't happened yet, but that doesn't mean it won't.

Ilya had hummed out a thoughtful noise. “Up to four?”

“Four,” Shane had repeated.

Ilya had nodded. “Up to four. I have plans for you when you get back that I need you mostly sober for.”

"When should I get back?" he'd asked quickly - breathless, eager.

The question had been dismissed with a brief, firm shake of Ilya's head. "Whenever you're done. I'm in no rush." Then Ilya had smiled and tapped him twice on the cheek. "Ok. Go. Have fun," he'd instructed. 

Yeah, Shane feels good these days. No reason not to. 

_____

When Rose had asked if Shane felt threatened by Svetlana, Shane had said yes. Which was the truth but had also felt like a gross oversimplification of the situation. 

She was not a threat in the sense that he suspected Rose had meant by the word (she was not some evil seductress who was concocting plans to steal Ilya for herself) but in the sense that she clearly meant so much to Ilya, and was someone for whom Ilya held an immense reverence and respect. Shane got the sense that, were he to allow himself to fall from her good graces for any reason, then all it would take would be a casual, throwaway comment about how she wasn't sure Shane was the right fit for him and before Shane knew it he would abruptly lose the best thing that had ever happened to him. 

Because he did not believe her to be needlessly cruel, Shane knew that this was not something she would do without good reason. In some small sense, this was comforting, but it also put an immense amount of pressure on any interaction between the two of them. To spend time with Svetlana was to risk more opportunity for Shane to invertedly provide her with the required good reason to intervene and so he found himself near-constantly on edge in her presence, awkwardly second-guessing every action. Her approval - when it came, in subtle twitches of the corner of her mouth or a momentary softening of her sharp, unreadable gaze - felt immense, and Shane chased after it desperately despite having no real understanding of any way to consistently produce it. In this way he was sometimes reminded of his interactions with Ilya in those first few years. Now too, Shane supposes, on the occasions that Ilya feels like making him work for it.

As a result of all this, when Svetlana finally does what she had sworn she would never do, (Please, no. Ilyusha, please, she had apparently begged when he had first explained to her Shane’s plan, before turning to threats because Ilya was practically immune to desperate pleading. I will not come to see you. Not there. Never. I would die of boredom), and flies up to Ottawa to spend a long weekend at Ilya's new place, Shane is not at all bothered by them having so much time alone together but he is stressed about the idea of joining them on her final night - going out for dinner together at a Polish restaurant that had recently gained a michelin star.

He spends the drive down working himself up over the fact that he's running 20 minutes behind schedule, but he is also self-aware enough to recognise that he would’ve arrived to Ilya’s house feeling frantic and jittery no matter what. Ilya appears as he’s wrenching his shoes off - trying to check his watch and set down his bags at the same time and so failing to make meaningful progress on any of the three tasks. Shane launches into garbled apologies immediately. 

Before he knows it, Ilya is in front of him, pulling him upright and running his hands soothingly up and down Shane's arms, shushing him like a fussing baby. “It's ok. It's ok. Hey. Breathe,” he instructs, and Shane closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths like his yoga instructor has taught him.

“Sveta is getting ready still,” Ilya continues to explain, his voice a soft, gentle rumble. “She will make us late anyway because she will decide she does not like her eyeliner and have to redo it two minutes before we are meant to leave. So there is no rush.”

Shane hums. “Restaurants usually only hold a table for fifteen minutes,” he points out weakly.

Ilya laughs, squeezing Shane's biceps. “I am a very famous hockey player planning on spending a silly amount of money on the kinds of dishes my mama once made for less than I now pay for a takeaway coffee. They will hold the table for me.” A beat passes, and then Ilya sighs affectionately. “Shane, moyo solnyshko. All this stressing is silly. There is time. Go. Shower. Sort your hair. Clothes are on the bed for you. It will all be ok”

It will all be ok. Shane feels the low rumbling anxiety that has been building in him finally starts to settle. He will go. Shower. Sort his hair. Put on the clothes that Ilya has laid out for him. And it will all be ok. 

He nods. “Yeah. Thank you. Thank you. I–“ He realises then that he is standing in his boyfriend’s house - his boyfriend who he has not seen for almost a week and who is looking unfairly kissable with his slicked-back hair and his loud silk shirt in cream and gold and teal, a pattern that reminds Shane of European palaces. A smile breaks out across his face, as he leans in to press a soft kiss against Ilya's lips. “Hi. I missed you,” he says, feeling the giddy delight that should have flooded through him the moment he arrived in Ilya's presence belatedly arrive.

Ilya is mirroring his beaming smile, eyes bright. “Yes. Yes. I missed you too,” he says. “Now go and get ready before you start to panic again.” 

He takes the stairs two at a time and rushes through the master bedroom to the ensuite, heart skipping a beat at the glimpse of a dark suit and shirt laid out on the bed, three boxes lined up neatly on the top of the dresser. 

He showers quickly, efficiently, and then runs through his usual routine - styles his hair the way Ilya says he likes it, opens the cabinet to take the bottle of cologne - identical to one that sits in his own bathroom in his apartment in Montreal - out from amongst Ilya's things.

This had also been chosen for him, of course. A gift. Two different scents - one for when he would see Ilya and one for when he wouldn't, Ilya had explained. “Oh. Why?” Shane had not been able to stop himself from asking, and Ilya had smiled at him like he was silly, like he was sweet, and kissed him softly on the cheek and said only, “Because.”

Shane liked it for the way that it made him think, every day - after he got out of the shower in the morning - of Ilya. Liked that, when he was back in Montreal and got to spray this scent on his wrists and his neck and the inside of his elbows the way Ilya had taught him, he would spend the few hours before Ilya arrived being reminded that he was coming. 

Back in the bedroom, he's able to take a proper look at the suit on the bed for the first time. It's not one he has seen before, which means Ilya has bought it for him, and he feels his heart swell with the soft, steady glow of being treated and loved and valued. 

Then he opens the jacket and sees the lining. The reaction he has to that is not steady or gentle. It's like a shock of lightning through his body. He reaches out and touches the fabric, silky and smooth under his fingers. That ridiculous pattern - gold and teal on a soft cream background - much louder and more extravagant than anything Shane would ever be seen in but it's ok, because it won't be seen. No one will know. No one but him and Ilya, who will walk into the restaurant with the kind of cool detachment that will hopefully announce to the world their cordial friendship, all the while knowing that they carry a little of each other in the fabrics they are wearing. He has to close his eyes against the enormity of it, feels himself sway a little where he stands.

He must've had them both tailored, Shane realises - Shane's suit, his shirt. Perhaps at the same place that he had taken Shane when he’d ordered him to drive down with 60% of the suits he owned (a detailed list had been sent in advance - most of his favourites) so he could bring them all to a tiny shop in an area of town Shane didn't know too well. A man who knew Ilya well enough to greet him like a friend had ushered Shane into one of the suits and stood him in front of an unnerving number of mirrors before murmuring with Ilya in a low, rapid Russian - the two of them pinching and pulling at sections of fabric as they discussed, with concerned expressions on their faces, what needed to be done. After, the man had pulled out a tape measure and had gotten to work setting it against various parts of Shane's body, calling out the numbers in Russian (which Shane now knew well enough to recognise) to his wife, who dutifully took them down on a weathered legal pad. For this, Ilya had planted himself on a plastic chair and maintained steady eye contact with Shane through the mirror the whole time.

The altered suits had been brought back up the next time Ilya had visited Shane and Ilya had made him try each one on to check that they fit just right, casting an appraising eye up and down the length of Shane's body each time. “Feels good, right?” murmured low and dark as he'd demonstrated how much better they fit around the bulk of his shoulders, the width of his chest, fingertips skimming over him in barely-there touches. 

Shane traces his fingers over the fabric, imagining Ilya doing the same when he had picked it out - testing the feel of it in his hand, imagining how it would drape over Shane's body. And now Shane gets to wear it - made exactly to his measurements, exactly to Ilya's desires. 

He doesn't even know what to do with it - the feeling is too big in his chest to be able to get a handle on before they leave for dinner - and so he breathes very carefully for a moment, and then does his best to pack that all away in a box that he can open when he has Ilya to himself.

He pulls on the trousers, and then diligently fastens each button of the shirt, fabric unthinkably soft against his skin. Looping a belt around his waist, he turns to the three boxes on the dresser. Two of them he recognises, and he reaches for those first, slipping one of his Rolexes that he keeps here around his right wrist and fastening a pair of cufflinks at the end of his sleeves.

The final box is wider, flatter, and Shane gasps when he eases it open. God. God. Nestled into the velvet of the box, a strand of what Shane assumes must be diamonds - looks like 30 of them, maybe 40, all uniform in size and clarity and set in one long line clearly designed to wrap around a wrist, a small silver clasp the only interruption in the chain. It must've cost–

That Ilya and Shane had pretty diametrically opposed approaches to money had become obvious when Shane had tried to ask him about his investment portfolio once in the early days of their relationship and Ilya had looked at him as if he had started speaking French. His accountant probably had something set up, he had claimed dismissively, but for a long time he had been sending most of what he didn't spend back to Russia, so there was likely not a whole lot in there. He had not seemed at all concerned by this admission. What use was money sitting in accounts? he had argued. You could not take it with you when you were gone; better to spend it while you still had the chance. 

The first few times that Ilya had bought gifts for Shane out of the blue (small things back then - tie clips and cufflinks and wallets and watches), Shane had tried to insist that he didn't need them, or that he could at least buy them himself. Ilya had not wanted to hear it and had, the first few times, casually waved off his concerns at the inequity of the situation (not that Shane didn't buy Ilya anything, just that it happened with significantly lower frequency and was largely confined to Christmas, birthdays, and anniversaries). And then, later on, he had became increasingly irritated each time Shane brought it up, until Shane had learnt it was just better not to. 

He has long since decided that he would have to be the fiscally responsible one of the two of them. Ilya could keep buying his fast cars and his designer clothing and his frequent little gifts for Shane and losing unthinkable sums in his monthly poker games because (despite always being able to read Shane like a book) he couldn't play for shit. And Shane would have the money to put up if they decided to look into summer homes in Europe, for example. Or when Ilya lost all his money in a crypto currency scam that Shane was constantly having to shepherd him away from. Or when a woman came forward with a sex tape and wanted money to keep from releasing it on Twitter. Or when a woman came forward with a kid and wanted child support until it turned 18. Plus money to keep from releasing her story on Twitter. 

So Shane has mostly gotten used to getting gifts by now, but this is– It's–

It's sort of delicate in a way, Shane thinks as he traces the very tip of a finger over the line of jewels, and then in another way it is decidedly not. Not in the way that dainty chains are, or tiny inlaid jewels. There's something imposing about the long line of jewels with no frills and no ornamentation to soften them. It would probably end up looking strikingly masculine wrapped around Ilya's wrist. 

Shane wonders if it's been left here by accident. It seems unlikely - Ilya wears gold, not silver, and is meticulous about keeping his space tidy - but surely it can't have been left out for Shane. He doesn't– He's never really worn jewellery. It just isn't his thing. He's not–

The sound of the box snapping shut echoes as Shane turns away. He pulls his suit jacket on and gives himself a quick once over in the mirror before he exits the room.

When he descends the stairs Ilya is leaning against the kitchen island, head bent over his phone - some inane, mind numbing game that he will abandon for something new in a few days no doubt. Shane hadn’t had a chance to take him in properly before, but now he really looks. He is all clean lines and sharp features. It's obvious now that his shirt has been meticulously tailored, from the way it fits snugly not only across his chest and around his biceps but as it tapers down into his neat little waist, the fabric skimming over the lines of him. He has, as usual, a ridiculous number of buttons undone and Shane lets his eyes follow down the path they lead, stops at the buckle of his belt - an ostentatious monstrosity that matches the tangle of delicate chains that have joined his crucifix and the slew of gold splashed across his fingers. 

Ilya looks up, eyes brightening and mouth parting slightly to say something but there is no time for him to before Shane has captured his lips in a kiss, arms looping around his neck, drawing him in close. 

“You like it?” Ilya asks when Shane finally allows them both a second to breathe.

“Ilya. It’s–“ There are no words so he kisses him again, runs his hands everywhere he can reach, pressing against the firmness Ilya's muscles under the slippery fabric of his shirt.

Ilya laughs under the onslaught of Shane's affection, asks, “Did you see–”

His heart feels so full it might burst. “Yes,” he sighs. “Yes. Thank you.” As if two tiny words could ever be enough for what Ilya constantly does for him.

Ilya shakes his head, smiling - so handsome like this, so unbearably handsome. “Is my pleasure,” he murmurs into Shane's jaw. Then, he takes a step back, “Let me see,” spinning his finger in the air.

Shane forces himself to turn slowly, so that Ilya can see, can take in every detail.  Feels the prickly heat begin to rise on the back of his neck at the thought of Ilya's eyes on him, the depth of his gaze.

When he has completed his full turn, he comes back to Ilya to find that a line has worked it's way between his brows. He feels a stab of worry shoot through him. “Is it–” he starts, but that's all he gets out before Ilya is brushing past him and heading back up the stairs.

Shane understands when he sees him return, hands cradling glimpses of jewels, glinting in the gaps between his fingers.

Shane's face falls, heart dropping into his stomach. “Ilya…” he murmurs, tone apologetic. It was rude. Shane knows that. When this was a gift. When Ilya had bought it for him. But– Ilya knows too - that Shane doesn't wear jewellery, and has never worn jewellery. Ilya knew that when he bought it. “I’m sorry, I just don’t really like–” he starts to explain.

He’s not expecting for Ilya to interrupt him - to say, voice laced with a quiet, simmering anger, “Doesn’t matter if you like it.” His expression is hard and unwavering, lips pressed tight in a disappointed line. His hands not quite violent but rough as he lifts Shane’s own hand to hover out in front of him, drapes the delicate string of diamonds over his left wrist, the metal cool against his skin. “I want you to wear it.”

And Shane supposes– Well, it’s just– It’s that– They’ve just never said it so definitively before. Then again, Shane's never tried to refuse anything before. 

“I want Sveta to see you wear it. I want her to see that I treat you well,” Ilya is explaining, deft fingers making quick work of the clasp so that it closes tightly around Shane’s wrist. He releases Shane's hand and Shane can feel the weight of it - conspicuous. He looks down at it and thinks that he will probably not have enough time to get used to it by the end of the evening, will be constantly aware that it's there.

Ilya lifts his head with a knuckle under his chin and his eyes are clear and hard as Shane's own gaze settles on them. “I want her to know that I take care of what’s mine.”

Shane doesn't know how it happens, but his forehead is pressed against the soft fabric over Ilya's shoulder, the same fabric that lines the inside of Shane's jacket, and he's leaning heavily against Ilya's body, feeling a little like it's a miracle that he's managed to keep himself upright at all.

He senses Ilya soften beneath him, the momentary flare of anger that he had held in the hard set of his shoulders and jaw smoothing out. He curls one arm around Shane's waist, and his other hand strokes over the back of Shane's neck so delicately it makes him shiver. “It’s ok. It's fixed now,” he murmurs, lips against the shell of Shane’s ear, voice free of its cold edge. “You will be good for me, won't you?”

Shane’s mouth feels filled with paste. Which is a good thing because if it wasn't he can't be certain he wouldn't just ask Ilya to fuck him over the kitchen counter. Which would be– Well, it would certainly give away the fact that– 

Shane jumps back at the sound of Svetlana's dry, sarcastic tone announcing her arrival into the space. “Yes. Yes. You are both very much in love. We know,” she drawls as if the very concept itself bores her. “Can we go now?”

Out in the driveway she takes a second to look Shane over - eyes dragging lazily over him from head to toe - and then her lip curls up slightly. “I’ll admit, he does clean up nice, Ilyusha,” she calls over Shane’s head to Ilya, who is somewhere behind him still fiddling with the keys in the door. It makes Shane feel like a child at a parent-teacher’s meeting. His cheeks feel hot, even though the compliment wasn’t really for him. Perhaps precisely because the compliment wasn’t really for him, because it acknowledged the way that Shane's appearance wasn't his domain but Ilya’s.

Ilya turns to them, pocketing his keys, and shrugs. “Yes, well, I have a good canvas to work with,” he smirks, throwing a wink at Shane.

Svetlana mimes sticking two fingers down her throat as she climbs into the passenger seat and Shane smiles to himself. 

The very first time she had met Ilya and Shane together she had  - seemingly out of nowhere but probably prompted by Ilya smiling dopily at something stupid Shane had said or done - turned to Ilya with a lightly horrified expression and asked, “Ilyusha, if I am ever so in love, you will kill me, yes? You will put me down like a dog?”

Shane had felt himself bristle, convinced that she was trying to signal to Ilya that he should be embarrassed to have settled down into a relationship, but beside him Ilya had let out a short bark of laughter the way he did when caught him by surprise in how much it delighted him. “Sveta, radost moya,” he had cooed, "I would have done it long before I ever let you get this far, I promise.”

By now, Shane understood that exaggerated performances of disgust were her way of saying that she was glad the two of them made each other so happy; he recognised that all those months ago she had been giving the relationship her blessing.

Ilya walks into the restaurant with Svetlana's arm looped through his and pulls her chair out for her before she sits, and Shane is not so bothered by the actions themselves so much as the fact that everyone else in the room almost certainly thinks that Svetlana is Ilya’s girlfriend and Shane only his friend. That's the whole point, he has to remind himself, as Ilya takes his seat opposite Svetlana and Shane slides into the chair next to him. You both put immense effort into making people think you're just friends - this is literally the whole point.

Still, Ilya must sense it - by the tension in Shane's shoulders, by the curl of his lips; one he sits down, he leans back in his chair, slouching slightly in a way that strikes Shane as odd, and then he casually lays his arm out along the back of Shane's chair in a way that could maybe read, to the rest of the room, as stereotypical alpha-male posturing, showing who's in charge, putting Shane in his place.

Heat pools in Shane's gut - something deep and clawing.

He glances surreptitiously around the room but no one is taking any notice of them. Somehow. Even though Shane had felt the entire world shake. A smile spreads slowly across his face - smug, like he's getting away with something.

When the waiter places a menu in front of him, he begins absently scanning over the page - a charade at this point, but one that must be entertained when they’re out with others. In a couple of minutes, Ilya will lean over, point something out. This sounds nice, right? And Shane will nod. Yeah, I was thinking that too. 

They all fall into conversation easily. He forgets every time - because from a distance Svetlana is easy to build up into something mysterious and unknowable - that he and Svetlana have in common their one greatest passion. She knows her hockey, knows it well, and Shane really could talk to her for hours about it and never get bored of listening to what she has to say. She is sharp and insightful and informed, but more than that she is creative. She can see ludicrous things that no one else would even think to entertain. Sometimes she's wrong, and in those cases she brushes the whole thing off with an unaffected shrug, but sometimes she is astonishingly, maddeningly right. There had been more than one occasion on which Shane had nodded politely at something she said while privately filing it away as ridiculous, only to watch it play out before his eyes weeks or months later. 

She is more careful now - now that Ilya has abandoned her beloved Raiders - and she knows when to keep her cards close to her chest, when her opinions and insights are a little too valuable. She catches herself at one point - halfway through detailing her thoughts on how Florida are likely to want to play it with their star centre still out on IR only three weeks before the playoffs that they had, only weeks ago, been looking to qualify second in the conference for. “But you don't want to hear me go on about that,” she says, dismissing the topic with a wave of her hand.

Shane, who will be flying out to Florida in a week and a half's time, does. Very much.

In fact, anyone - any player or coach or GM, if they knew what was good for them - would likely kill to hear what she had to say. 

Ilya attempted, on occasion, to convince her to take up a job working for the management at Boston - his gift, perhaps, to the fans that had raised him and still had not forgiven him for leaving. The last time he had proposed it she had laughed and said, “This again? Come now, you know I don't mix business and pleasure.”

When, in response, Ilya had asked how many of her clients she was currently regularly sleeping with, she had looked at him sort of disappointed. “Ilyusha, no. That is entertainment,” she'd explained, an effortless air of condescension in the words that made it easy to picture the stories Ilya had told him of them as children: her dragging him by the arm, making him play dolls with her, scolding him when he failed to adhere to her strict rules that were completely unknowable to him until the moment that he broke one.

Obviously Shane does not like to remember that they had used to fuck but in moments like that he did like to convince himself that, when they had, Ilya had not ordered her about the way he did with Shane. That she would not stand for it. 

Shane half expects Ilya to bring it up again - clearly convinced that if he can needle her enough then she'll finally give in which does not seem at all conducive to what Shane understand of her character - but instead, when he lifts his head from his menu he asks, with an air of performed casualness, “Sveta, what would you like? I will order for everyone.”

Shane's head snaps round to him. “No.” It is too quick, too firm, too laced with an edge of pleading desperation. It rings out, too loud, through the quiet of the room and everyone - it feels - everyone turns to look at him. Shane feels his face flush with embarrassment, and he shrinks away from their inquiring eyes, body curling in on itself self-consciously, turning his face back down to his menu. 

Ilya is trying to do a nice thing, Shane knows; he's trying to find a way to let Shane have the evening he wants without worrying what people will think, whether they will suspect something, if Ilya orders food for Shane and not for Svetlana. It's so unbearably thoughtful, and if Shane were a good person he would be happy, would be grateful but– He feels sick, physically sick. There's an uncomfortable twisting in his stomach, as if his organs are wrapping up around each other and squeezing. He would rather, he realises, watch Ilya fuck her right here on the table in front of him than have him order her food for her.

He swallows, tries his best to ignore his racing heart. “It’s fine. I can–” he starts, voice sounding wrong, panicked. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Svetlana eyeing him with intrigue. “Just. I was thinking of getting the dumplings,” he says, finding, at a glance, the dish that most repulses him. Mushrooms. Cream sauce. “They sound nice,” he lies, finally lifting his head and looking to Ilya.

Ilya is already looking at him very intently, eyes piercing. His thumb brushes, featherlight, against the back of Shane’s neck before retreating, hasty, careful not to give them away.

Please, Shane thinks at him. Ilya has always teased that he cannot hide anything, that his eyes always give him away, so Shane looks at Ilya and hopes he's right and thinks, Please just let me– Don’t make this– She can’t see. She can’t– It’s ours. I don’t want her to see.

Ilya nods. “Yes, they sound good,” he agrees, turning back to the menu and casually looking it over. “But did you see the pork? Near the bottom of the page?”

When the waiter turns to Shane, Ilya says, before Shane has a chance to speak, “You were thinking of getting the kotlet schabowy, yes?” so that all he has to say is, Yeah, yeah I'll have that, and it’s a crime that Shane cannot slide beneath the table and take him into his mouth, whisper thank you so much thank you thank you you're so good to me into the crease of his thigh.

When Svetlana finally notices the bracelet she lets out a delighted squeal, reaching for his hand. “Let me see!”

Shane lets himself be dragged towards her, leaning awkwardly over the table in a way that tugs the sleeve of his jacket a little higher and leaves the jewellery better on show. His hand is tilted slowly from side to side, gems glistening in the light as they move.

“It is very pretty,” Svetlana concludes.

Shane nods in agreement, then tells her (feeling suddenly hot and fidgety as he does), “Ilya bought it for me,” though he has a feeling that this admission is unnecessary, that Svetlana already knows.

She performs an exaggerated surprise anyway - eyebrows flying towards her hairline. “Ilyusha, I have never known you to be so generous,” she drawls with a wry smile, which is odd, Shane thinks, because it feels as if generous is all Shane knows Ilya to be. 

_____

When they get in - once he's tucked his shoes away neatly in the rack by the door - Ilya heads straight to the kitchen. Shane's dad had sent them away with 6 mini tiramisus, each in their own individual glass pot so that they had all jangled against each other in the farmer's market tote bag cradled in Ilya's lap on the drive home. As Shane locks the front door and begins removing his own shoes, he hears the sound of the fridge opening, and things being shuffled around to make space for them.

That David had made a dozen tiramisus when there were only four of them at dinner (and he knew how rarely Shane partook in dessert) had seemed a little confusing, but he'd explained that there were twelve tiramisus worth of lady's fingers in a packet and were they not used up in one go they would only end up shoved to the back of the cupboard, going stale and attracting mice. “Plus,” he had added with an easy smile, "we all know what this one's like,” and had clapped Ilya on the shoulder, which Shane had been able to tell had made Ilya happier than he had wanted to let on.

When Ilya had tasted his first spoonful, he had put on a display of delight that Shane would've believed to be mocking from anyone other than him - his shoulders wiggling in an excited little shimmy, eyes blowing out wide. “David this is delicious,” he had announced. “This is the best thing that I have ever tasted,” which was a statement that meant less when Shane had heard him say it about a bag of flamin’ hot Cheetos once but Shane's dad didn't know that and so had beamed in pride in response. 

Ilya had taken another couple of greedy spoonfuls, and then had turned to Shane, who had been picking his way through a bowl of blueberries, and asked, “Do you want to try a bite?”

It was, ostensibly, a question. But they both understood that there was only one answer.

Once, when Shane had been on a stretch of his high-performance diet that was a little more intense and rigid than usual, Ilya had pointed out that it was kind of rude for him to take his own food round to dinner at his parents’ when his dad went to all the trouble of cooking.

Shane had squirmed a little, uncomfortable with paradoxes like this - where one set of rules seemed to conflict directly with another. “I know,” he'd conceded, understanding that what he should do was put aside the advice of the team's nutritionist for an evening and prioritise the rules of social politeness. “I don't– I do want to eat dad's food it's just– I just don't want to feel guilty about it after.”

“So don't feel guilty about it after,” had been Ilya's solution.

Shane had looked at him funny. “I can't just stop feeling guilty about it,” he'd stated. Because surely Ilya knew that it wasn't that simple. Surely he understood that if guilt were something Shane could turn on and off like a tap then he would have wrenched that thing closed tight long ago and never touched it again.

But Ilya had told him, lightly, “Sure you can.”

Shane's eyebrows had drawn together as he'd stared back at Ilya, mouth hanging open slightly, completely lost for words.

Apparently his face had explained what he was thinking well enough because Ilya had gone on to explain his stance. “You are always saying this. I can't, Ilya. No, really, this time I can't. And then I tell you to. And you do,” he had pointed out with a shrug. 

Shane's cheeks had immediately flushed at the thought of the kind of contexts in which that exchange usually took place. He didn't like the drawing of parallels between this - Ilya's gentle coaxing of Shane away from bad habits and into good ones - and what they did when they fucked. It felt like it brushed too close to revealing what Shane was so desperately trying to keep hidden. He didn't want Ilya to think– It was true, of course, but he couldn't let Ilya know–

“So you'll tell me not to?” Shane had asked, pushing the conversation back on track. “Not to feel guilty about it, I mean.” 

Somewhere along the line Shane had shed himself of almost all embarrassment over the idea of asking Ilya to install these small pockets of structure in his life. Ilya had repeatedly shown him that he did not have to twist himself into knots over it - couching his requests in a light-hearted humour so they could be easily brushed off were Ilya to point out how ridiculous and pathetic it was that this was something he needed. Ilya would not do that. He would not tease or mock or torture. He would not make Shane beg and plead. Not about this. Shane could ask for help when he needed it.

Sure enough, Ilya had breezily agreed, “Sure. If you need,” as if what Shane was asking of him was perfectly reasonable and Shane had felt his heart give a little squeeze in his chest. 

The specifics varied a little each time: whether he could ask for less sauce and to swap the rice out for quinoa or had to eat exactly what was presented to him; whether he was allowed to refuse dessert entirely or could just negotiate down to a smaller portion; whether he could use the drive home as an excuse not to drink - always permitted in the 12 hours or so before a game - or if he had to have at one beer or glass of wine along with everyone else. The main body of it stayed unerringly consistent: he was to eat what his dad had cooked, he was to accept anything Ilya offered to him, he was not to feel guilty about any of it because doing as Ilya told him was more important than following his nutritionist’s instructions. In reward, Ilya would find excuses to touch him - to press the sides of their calves together or lay his broad palm on the inside of Shane's knee or, if he was particularly good, take Shane by the jaw and just hold him like that for a couple of seconds, while he sucked in a deep, centering breath and tried to fight against the urge to let his eyelids flutter closed - and if he caught Shane sulkily pushing the bits of the meal that he didn't want to eat around his plate like a petulant child he would fix Shane with a look that cut through him like ice and joltingly spur him into action. If it got really bad, he'd find some exposed patch of Shane's skin that he could discreetly take between his thumb and forefinger and squeeze - hard.

On those occasions, the drive back would be silent and tense and, as soon as the front door was closed Ilya would back him against it and take his chin between his thumb and finger. He'd say It was very disappointing, the way you acted today and Shane would apologise profusely - never giving in to the instinct to meekly drop Ilya's gaze because he knew what would happen if he did - until a small, sharp squeeze notified him that Ilya was done listening and Shane's mouth would instantly clamp shut. Ok so you are ‘sorry’, he would say with a callous shrug and a slightly bored expression. What use is sorry now? Hmm? You will be better next time, yes?

It happened rarely these days. Today they had driven back in quiet, but only because sometimes when you had the privilege of spending so much time with a person, you ran out with things to say. They had both been smiling, Shane's hand dragged over to rest under Ilya's own, Ilya occasionally tunelessly crooning along to the choruses of songs Shane did not recognise on the radio.

Once his shoes are neatly lined up next to Ilya's, Shane wanders after him, pulling his phone from his phone from his pocket to check the message that had buzzed through on the drive over. He's frowning down at it as he slows to a halt in the kitchen doorway. “Oh. Mom's sent the contract through already,” he announces, more to himself than to Ilya.

She had mentioned it over dinner.

Before Ilya had pointed it out (Does your mom always turn family meals into business meetings?) on maybe the third time that they had joined his parents for food, Shane had never really noticed her habit of doing so, but now that it had been acknowledged Shane found himself much more aware of it, and much less convinced by the justification he had given Ilya at the time of I guess it would just be kind of weird to schedule a ‘business meeting’ with my mom. It might be good, he was starting to think, to have some sort of distinction between time spent with his family and time spent with his manager. 

He had half-listened to her pitch as he started down at the food in his plate, knowing the broad shape of it already because it always inevitably looped round to cover the same territory when she wanted to try and sell him on something: representation and aspiration, and challenging stereotypes, and lifting Them up (Them being the entire East Asian diaspora, whose collective hope and dreams and futures somehow rested exclusively on Shane's shoulders). He had wondered - absently, without any real pointedness - how long, exactly, he would be expected to keep this up for.

When she'd finished, he'd nodded obediently, smoothing his fingers over his eyebrow. “Yeah. Sure. Sounds good. Send me over the contract and I'll take a look.”

His mom had smiled, self-satisfied, and, beside him, Shane had sensed Ilya bristle. 

When he clicks on the pdf attachment to his mom's email, the phone screen fills with a block of tiny black letters that merge into fuzzy lines. He makes a brief, futile effort to squint at the screen hard enough to cure him of his need for reading glasses. Then he sighs and turns to start drifting towards the study.

“Shane,” he hears Ilya say.

Shane has navigated out of the contract and back to his mom's email, which he can just about make out on the tiny screen. He’s quickly scanning through her thoughts about why this particular partnership might be beneficial, and the list of specific clauses that she'd like him to look over and get back to her if he'd like them adjusted. “I’ll be in the study,” he calls out distractedly over his shoulder. “I'm just going to read–”

“Shane.”

Shane stops, blinks, registers the tone - that heady mix of gentle-and-firm, adoring-and-condescending that should be contradictory but somehow never felt it. He spins quickly on the balls of his feet and moves back to the kitchen doorway. “Yeah?”

Ilya is leaning against the countertop in a way that would show off the thick, corded muscle of his upper arms were he in the distracting tank top that he had changed out of before they had driven over to his parents’ place. Illuminated from behind by the soft under-cabinet lighting he looks mythical, godly. He's not smiling, but he doesn't look stern either. If Shane didn't know better, he would guess by the tiny line between his eyebrows that he was a little unsure of something, uneasy. “Come here,” he says, voice soft.

Shane's junior's coach had sometimes shouted at them so emphatically that they would be able to see his veins bulge in his neck but Ilya could murmur in a way that still left Shane scrambling to follow. It is, he had to admit, blindingly sexy. He can already feel it as he starts across the room - that electric humming sitting just under his skin only a murmur for now but it would grow, he knew, the longer Ilya looked at him like he was right now.

He stops by the kitchen island, a couple of feet from Ilya, slipping his phone onto the counter. 

“Here,” Ilya prompts, and Shane moves closer until they are toe to toe, faces separated by a scant handful of inches. With Ilya slouching lazily as he is, Shane has to tilt his head down slightly too look at him, eyes darting over his unreadable features. 

Ilya lifts one hand and his fingers brush over the shell of Shane's ear and then down the side of his face in a way that makes him suck in a heady rush of breath, which, in turn, makes Ilya smile. His hand comes down to bracket Shane's jaw. When his lips part slightly, they freeze like that for a moment - almost as if in hesitation - before he says, quietly but decisively, “You do not have to do anything you don't want to do.”

Shane’s blood turns to ice in his veins. The dreamy, floaty feeling that he'd already been halfway to achieving drops like a lead balloon and curdles in the pit of his stomach. 

Probably his parents had noticed. That's why Ilya was bringing it up now - this thing they never spoke about, never looked at directly. His parents had noticed (because obviously they had noticed, because they were always so fucking blatant about it - Ilya's quiet hums of approval, his hand on Shane's neck a flashing fucking neon sign) and they had decided that it was finally time to address it, one of them taking Ilya aside while Shane was otherwise occupied. Shane knew that it would've been his mom who'd done it, but he couldn't help but wish it was his dad. He would have been gentle at least. “We like you, son. You're a good kid,” he would've started, a reassuring hand on Ilya's shoulder, “but Shane's a grown man. He can make these decisions for himself. You can't keep babying him forever.”

And now Shane would have to lie and say that it was fine. Because he was a grown adult capable of making his own decisions. Because he spent his days giving orders on the ice and knowing the right degree of stern to be when reprimanding the rookies and weighing in when he disagreed with the way the coaches wanted to play things so obviously there was no reason why he couldn’t do the rest, too. He would have to say Yeah no I know. It's just a silly game, right? When we do this. We're just joking about. But you're right, we should stop. It's gotten out of hand, hasn't it? We’ll stop. And he would go back to what it had been like before: the constant roiling anxiety in the pit of his stomach at the idea he was doing everything Wrong; the routine and structure and rules that he had stuck to with unfailing rigidity on the hopes that that would stop the feeling from spreading any further.

If you hadn't been so fucking greedy, a small, bitter part of him is saying. If you could’ve just been satisfied with what you were given instead of needing more and more and more, taking everything you could get. If you'd shown even an ounce of self-restraint.

It feels like he can't breathe, his lungs gone from his chest and leaving behind only a wide gaping cavity, his heart at once up in his throat and down in his stomach - his entire body, apparently, taking itself apart piece by piece in protest.

Selfish, he thinks to himself. So fucking selfish.

He's brought back to the present with a small smart of pain as Ilya digs his fingers into his jaw. “Shane. I know it is maybe not what you want to hear but I do need you to listen. Yes?” he asks, and only continues after Shane nods his head. “Even if your mom wants you to do something, even if it would be a good thing to do, this does not mean you have to do it.”

The relief that crashes over him is astronomical, feels like a physical force as it rushes through him head to toe. This isn't even about– He wasn't even talking about–  

“I am not saying you should turn down this deal,” Ilya is clarifying. “But I would like you to think more before just blindly accepting anything your mom decides she wants you to do.”

Shane's heart squeezes a little at the idea that he noticed. Shane had never expressed it, would never dare admit it when he understands the privilege that it is. But Ilya had seen anyway. The way he was tired of it all. Tired of being Shane Hollander. “Yeah, I know,” he says, tone apologetic. “It’s just hard sometimes when I know she–”

Ilya gives a curt shake of his head. “No. It is your life, not hers. If you don't want to do something, you should say no to it.” Shane senses, for a second time in this exchange, Ilya’s hesitation, and he only has a moment to process the idea as foreign before Ilya squeezes his jaw again, looks him right in the eyes, and says, in that lovely, stern tone of voice that makes Shane feel like he's walking on air, “It would make me happy if you said no to things you don't want to do.”

Shane feels his mind wipe blank of all pushback, filled entirely with cotton wool and a warm fuzzy tv static - the type that his dad sometimes talks about when complaining about modern technologies, that you could reach out and touch. He lets it wrap around him, melts forward into Ilya’s body and Ilya lets him go - the hand on his chin slipping around to cradle the back of his neck.

“Can I blow you?” Shane asks into the warmth of Ilya's skin. 

The sound of Ilya's laughter is so warm and affectionate that Shane wants to live the rest of his life in it. Shane feels against his cheek the vibrations of the column of his throat.

He'll regret this at some point, he knows. When he can remember how carefully he tries to keep these spheres of his life separate, how desperately he hides the way that Ilya's gentle guiding hand over his life affects him. 

At the start, he’d figured that it was probably a natural consequence of the fact that Ilya led things when they fucked - set the pace and determined what they did and arranged Shane to his liking like molding plasticine.

(The first year that he came to the cottage - on another night following a dinner with his parents, when Ilya had used the word boyfriend for the first time - Ilya had asked Shane, pinned beneath him on the bed, “What do you want, solnyshko? Tell me. Anything you want.”

Shane, fuelled by the pure, bright euphoria of the day that still coursed through his veins, had shaken his head. “Want you to decide,” he’d said, and then - just in case Ilya might have misinterpreted this as Shane asking him something small like deciding what they did in that specific moment or on that specific night - “Want you to decide what I want and when I want it and how I want it. Want you to tell me,” his voice a little breathless, his head tucked away in the crook of Ilya’s shoulder so that he could easily hide his shame if Ilya said no, that’s too much, you’re too much. No.

Ilya had made a low, rough sound and encouraged him out of his hiding spot and then kissed him for a long time - wet and deep and messy, tongue licking into the desperate cavern of Shane’s mouth - until Shane had felt dizzy and disoriented and so so desperately in love. “Yes. Ok,” he’d said, voice deliciously fractured. Cracked open. “I can do that.”)

It had seemed logical, in the face of all that, to conclude that the degree of dizzyingly turned on that he got under Ilya's command was a side effect of those wires getting crossed in his brain. The more this had gone on, and the more they had leant further into it, the more he felt that this was not the case; the pleasure he derived from the inherent eroticism of following Ilya’s instructions and allowing Ilya to take control of his decisions so vastly outstripped that which he associated with sexual release that he had begun to think that it was perhaps the other way around - that part of the reason he so enjoyed sex was because, for almost as long as he could remember, it had been synonymous with allowing Ilya to guide and shepherd him, and had been perhaps the only place where this desire was really, truly satisfied. 

Ilya runs his fingers through Shane's hair and tugs lightly, bringing Shane back to himself at least a little. “We are talking about your mother and you are thinking of blowjobs,” he teases. “This is a little worrying, Hollander.”

Shane can't focus enough to catch the thread of what is being implied here, never mind feel embarrassed by it. He’s grasping at Ilya with the desperation of a drowning man clutching to a buoy. “Please,” he begs.

“Shane–” Ilya starts.

“Please,” he tries again. The way Ilya had said Shane's name, it had sounded like a no. But maybe he would let Shane plead. Just for a little bit. 

“No,” Ilya tells him, voice firm and final. “Here’s what will happen: you are going to go and read the contract, and in 15 minutes I am going to come through and ask you if this is something that you want to do.” The way he says it is so self-assured - like he's got complete control of the situation, like Shane doesn't even need to worry about anything because Ilya's got it, he's figured it all out. “For yourself,” he clarifies firmly. “Not because you are worried about disappointing your mom. Understand?”

Shane nods his agreement and Ilya rewards him with a soft squeeze of the back of his neck.

“And after,” Shane asks, voice small and breathy and hopeful. “After, will you let me?”

Ilya hums. “We'll see. Maybe.” Another squeeze of his neck. “Now go on. 15 minutes.”

By the time Ilya wanders through to the study Shane feels surprisingly centred. He explains that he wants to turn down the sponsorship deal and start to step back from some of his other partnerships as well. He explains that he understands how the visibility he gains through these partnerships can have a positive effect, but ultimately thinks that he is more interested in exploring the good he can do on that front through work with the foundation, with the other charities that he occasionally partners with, that are much less demanding and much less time-consuming and much more rewarding than his brand deals are.

Ilya lets him talk even though it must be boring (perhaps because he can sense that Shane needs to have this all straight in his head - what he would say if asked to justify it) and then, when he's finished, asks, “And this is what you want, yes?”

Shane nods, with more conviction than he has felt in this area of his life for a long time. 

Ilya nods back. “Good. I’m proud of you,” he says. “You should write to your mom now?”

Shane agrees. He doesn't want the decision weighing in the back of his mind for the rest of the evening, he doesn't want the chance to change his mind. He keeps it short. Simple. He can always fill more detail in later. 

When he hits send, he sits back in his seat and lets out a slow breath.

“All done?” Ilya asks, giving two short squeezes to the back of Shane's neck. Shane tilts his head up to see his face, basks in the glow of his approval - his smile a bright and golden thing. “Ok. Now, upstairs.”

Shane’s mouth twists into an uneasy line. He drops his eyes meekly to the dip of Ilya's collarbone as he says, “I should wait for her reply. I think. To see what she thinks,” before hurrying his gaze back up to read Ilya's reaction.

“Ok,” he says. He is still smiling amiably but there's a cool, easy callousness to his gaze as he fixes it on Shane. “Then you should have thought of that before you offered to blow me after.”

He turns to leave the room before Shane has time to respond - knows that Shane will follow.

Ilya sits at the foot of the bed and puts Shane on his knees between his legs. Fucks Shane's mouth like he knows Shane likes it - not necessarily fast but deep and messy, pushing in and in and in until there's no room inside Shane for anything else but this. The ache in his jaw and the wet slide of drool down his chin. The delicate timing of swallowing around the head of Ilya's cock when it ends up in the back of his throat. The instant reward of Ilya's choked off groans when he manages to get it right. His mind blank and untethered. His self floating somewhere a few feet above his kneeling form.

After Ilya finishes on his tongue, Shane feels shivery all over with how bad he needs it, the urgency of his own desire crashing over him all at once. There is nothing in his mind but touch me touch me Ilya please touch me please please touch me which he must be saying out loud too because as Ilya guides him up onto the bed and arranges him on his hands and knees, he is cooing, “Yes, rodnoy moy. I know. I've got what you need. Let me give you what you need.” 

When he finally comes almost an hour later, it's with Ilya's name on his lips and his entire fist tucked inside of him.

When he wakes in the morning, the first thing he thinks is that he never checked to see if his mom responded to his email.

It's still early - too early for Ilya and probably too early for Shane as well if the dusty grey of the room is anything to go by. Still, he swats blindly at the bedside table a couple of times so that he can read his mom's reply before he goes back to sleep. Then he remembers that when Ilya had called him back to the kitchen he had left it on the kitchen counter, after which a lot of things had happened very quickly and so he hadn't thought  to go back and grab it. 

He groans quietly into the pillow, careful not to wake Ilya, and then slips out of bed and down the stairs.

His phone is exactly where he left it. 

He is surprised to find, as he thumbs in his passcode, that he's not at all anxious about what his mom's reply will be. Either it will be positive or it won't be.

When he scans through the email, he finds that it's somewhere between the two. Of course, honey. No problem. I'll get back to the brand rep and let them know that we don't think this partnership is quite right for you at this time. Then she goes on to say, About stepping back from your other sponsorships - I think we should avoid making any hasty decision here. You have built a strong relationship with these brands over the years and that might be difficult to regain. Here she had detailed how she felt cutting ties - especially with the premium brands - could reflect negatively on his image, and finishes it all with, We can talk about it next week when you come round for lunch. Xx

It was a start at least. She would come around on the second point, he knew. He will calmly explain everything he had said to Ilya the night before, and if she is not happy after that then he will remind her, firmly, as Ilya had him, that it was his life to do with as he pleased.

We all just want you to be happy, Ilya had murmured at some point the night before (possibly with four fingers inside of him but it could've been afterwards, while he'd gently cleaned Shane up; the details were a little fuzzy) and Shane did know, deep down, that this was the truth.

He types out a reply, asking if they can meet at a coffee shop instead and, for the first time in his life, books a business meeting with his mother. 

It is just gone five. His mom will not reply for another hour or so. 

He pours himself a glass of water, and drinks it slowly, leaning back against the counter next to the sink. He smiles at the memory of Ilya in the same stance the night before - the strong lines of his body, the otherworldly glow. His fingers had cradled Shane's jaw as if he was something precious. There had been a slight hesitation before he'd spoken - almost as if he hadn't wanted to. 

That's when the panic sets in.

He is not sure how long he stands there before he hears the sound of soft footfalls descending the stairs, too early in the morning for Ilya to have engaged that unnerving ability to move almost-silently through a space. He turns quickly before Ilya enters the room, staring blankly at the kitchen cupboard. He can't– If he has to look at him he's not going to be able to.

“Solnyshko, it is so early,” Ilya grumbles as he wanders in, voice thick and groggy. “Come back to bed.” Sometimes when he's tired he raises his arm at 90 degrees to his body and bends his forearm back towards himself so that he can shove a knuckle into his eyelid in a way that gives him the air of an eight year old child and makes Shane's heart ache that he will never be able to know him at that age.

“I need you to break up with me,” Shane says quickly, rushing it out all in one go before he can change his mind. Like ripping off a band aid, he thinks.

There is a long stretch of silence in which Shane breathes very carefully and imagines the ripple of confusion pass over Ilya's face. “You need me to break up with you?” he asks.

Shane nods, closing his hands around the edge of the counter and focusing on the way the harsh edges cut into the fat of his palm. That had been the conclusion he had come to. It was not possible for him to not keep pushing and pushing and pushing. He didn't have that kind of self control. And at some point he would push Ilya too far. Or he would become careless and someone would notice. Or he would become careless and Ilya would realise that Shane does not approach any of this with the same cool, unaffected, detachment that Ilya does. And then Ilya will withdraw, repulsed, and Shane will lose it all anyway. Or - worse - Ilya will continue, will give Shane what he needs, only now with a steadily building resentment humming away beneath the surface.

“What? You can't break up with me yourself?” Ilya asks. His tone is playful but Shane can hear the friction under it - can tell that the lightness is forced.

Shane knows it's not fair. He knows. But isn't that how they operate? Ilya graciously swoops in and does for Shane all of the things that Shane doesn't want to have to. Takes on all the responsibility. Gives so much of his time, of his energy, when Shane cannot be bothered to offer his own to. And Shane, greedy thing that he is, takes and takes and takes. This will be his last chance, he thinks, to be deliciously and recklessly selfish. So he will take it. He will make Ilya shoulder the burden one final time.  

“No, I can't.”

“Why not?”

“Don't want to.”

He sounds like a spoiled child - not yet realised that the universe doesn't revolve around him - and when Ilya laughs it should be pointed and cruel but it's not. He's doing that thing where, yes, he is laughing at Shane, of course he is laughing at Shane, but the sound is so filled with wide-eyed delight and amusement that it somehow doesn't feel like that at all. When he crosses the room and drapes himself over Shane's back, Shane makes his body go rigid, tries not to sink into it like he wants to. Now is a good time, he thinks, to start getting used to wanting things he cannot have again. 

Ilya presses a trail of kisses against the back of his neck, hums into his skin, face split in a smile. “Well, then we have a problem, because I do not want to break up with you either,” he says. “So.”

You will, Shane thinks. When you realise, you will. He squeezes his eyes shut against the thought of it. “Please.”

Ilya takes a deep breath and then huffs it out in a sigh. “Ok. Ok, you tell me why you need me to. And then I will consider it,” he offers.

Shane can't. He can't let Ilya know. That would defeat the point. Of this. Of letting him go before he figures it out himself. 

“Is it because of last night?”

He hesitates for only what feels like half a second before he says, “No.”

It's long enough. “Well, that is really a yes then.” Ilya, for the first time, sounds irritated - words clipped short, accent slipping back in a little more than usual. “Your mom will be fine. It is good for you to–”

“No. Not that.”

Ilya sighs. “Me, then? Something I have done.”

Shane shakes his head. 

“Something you have done?”

Shane does nothing and knows that Ilya will recognise this as an admission. Even though it is less something he has done and more something he has been continuously doing for the past year or so of their relationship. Which was worse. Obviously. 

Ilya's chin hooks over Shane's shoulder and Shane immediately turns his face to the opposite side. Too risky otherwise. Ilya can read him too well.

Ilya sighs. “Sweetheart, I am not a patient man. You know this. Come. Tell me,” and then, when Shane doesn't respond, firmer, “Shane. Tell me.”

And what is Shane supposed to do in the face of that? “It's that,” he admits so softly it's barely a whisper, head hung in heavy repentance. His knuckles have probably gone white against the countertop and he can feel the way tears are attempting to gather behind his scrunched eyelids. “When you tell me what to do. When you make decisions for me. When I don't get to think.”

Ilya’s body tenses behind Shane, drawing away a little. “What about it?” he asks urgingly, tone brittle at the edges. 

Shane feels sick. He finds himself wishing - not for the first time, but the first in years - that he had never met Ilya. He swallows thickly around his heart in his throat. “I like it,” he admits. 

There is a short pause. “You like it when I tell you what to do?” Ilya clarifies, genuine confusion in his tone.

“Yeah.”

There is a moment of silence before Ilya lets out a short, sharp bark of laughter. Shane thinks he hears a bright relief in the sound. “No?! Really?!” he drawls, theatrical. Shane can imagine the exact sequence of shifting muscles in his face that had taken him from quiet concern to mocking delight - he has seen it enough times - and for one tiny dazzling moment, the thought is almost enough to make him think that maybe this could work out alright.

Ilya buries his face into the crook of Shane's shoulder. “I had figured that one out, solnyshko,” he mumbles, nose nudging softly against Shane's neck - like he's something precious, something worth handling gently, worth taking care of. 

But it's not– He doesn't get it. Shane shakes his head, tries to pull away from this touch that he does not deserve.  “Like. I like it.” His voice is soft and timid and flooded with shame. “Like. It turns me on.”

“Ok,” Ilya says. There is a long pause and then, tentatively, delicately, “I had figured that out too.”

Shane's face crumples. There is a low, devastated groan that rips through the air and he knows that it must've come from his body. He knew. He already knew. He hadn't said anything, because of course he wouldn't, but he had known all along that Shane was this fucked up, broken thing.

And now - because he was good, because he was always so good to Shane, even when he didn’t deserve it - he was holding Shane tighter and saying, “It's ok. It’s ok to like it,” pretending that it wasn't neurotic, that he didn't mind it, that Shane could do anything and Ilya would love him anyway and the worst part was that that bit was not even pretending.

“I'm sorry,” Shane gasps, as if that could ever make up for it. 

Ilya hums out a sympathetic sound, the backs of his fingers stroking up and down Shane's side reassuringly. “What for?”

For pushing it. For taking advantage. For taking Ilya's kindness and his generosity and turning it into something twisted and dirty and wrong.

“I'll stop,” he offers, and only realises that he doesn't even know what he's offering to stop after Ilya questions it.

“Stop what?” he asks, and when Shane doesn't have a response he tries, “Doing what I tell you?” raised eyebrow clear in his tone of voice. 

“No. No,” Shane answers quickly, shakily. He doesn't even think that he could. Doesn't think his body's physically capable of not responding to Ilya's gently issued commands.

“Liking it?” Where the previous question had come with a light skepticism, at this one Ilya openly laughs. 

Shane's face is burning. “Yeah. I’ll– I’ll–” he mumbles. “Yeah.” He could do it. He could. If that was what he needed to do. He had been an expert - once upon a time - at ignoring it. His desire. His need. Even in those early years of their hookups, he had gotten so good at pushing down what he felt deep enough that he could trick his body into thinking it wasn't there, packing it away in a neat little box and pushing it all the way to the back of his brain until the next time him and Ilya could steal a few short hours together. 

The problem was one of excess. Ilya talked about moderation but that wasn't for Shane. Shane couldn't do that. He had allowed himself to indulge a little and, with nothing in place to stop him from going off the rails, this was where it had landed him.

But he could go back. He could. If he cut it out completely then he wouldn't crave it anymore. All it would take was some discipline. Shane could be good at discipline.

“I'll stop,” he repeats, voice a little surer this time. 

“Spit,” Ilya says.

Shane's eyes open, as if being able to see the cupboards in front of him might explain the tiny, incongruous word that had seemed to come out of nowhere. His brow furrows. “What?”

“On the counter. Spit.”

Shane does. The tone of Ilya's voice leaves no room for any other option.

“Lick it up.”

It should be embarrassing how little time passes between the instruction and Shane's wet pink tongue spread wide against the counter, licking a long stripe over the bubbly saliva. It is embarrassing. But while he's confessing the rest, he might as well also admit that the embarrassment is part of what's got him hard so fast he's feeling dizzy.

When he begins to raise himself back to standing Ilya's voice stops him - “Stay there.” - so he holds his position, hovering half way between the two, bent awkwardly at the waist. 

Ilya makes a small irritated noise. “No. Down.”

He lowers himself back onto the counter, until his cheek is pressed against the cool, smooth surface, probably over the patch where his spit coats the surface. It's nice. Pleasant. Cuts through the heat that he feels all over and leaves his head blissfully clear - nothing but the simple contentment of having been given an instruction and then having easily executed it. 

The touch of Ilya's fingers is featherlight over Shane's hip, and Shane’s breath catches in his throat, his heart racing at the thought of what he's about to do. What he'll find. 

His hand slides around under Shane's body and between his legs to cup his cock through his shorts. He gives a few rough strokes over the hard length of it. “How's that going for you?” Ilya murmurs, voice suddenly low and slow and syrupy. “Not liking it.”

Shane fights the urge to whimper, breathes very carefully through his nose. “Not fair,” he mumbles out of the side of his mouth not presently squished into the counter.

“No? Why’s that?”

Shane shakes his head as best he can. The breath he pulls into his lungs is a weak, shaky thing. “You–” His teeth feel strange in his mouth; he runs his tongue over them before trying again. “You fuck me like this,” he explains. “Sometimes.”

“Mm. I do fuck you like this sometimes,” Ilya muses, self-satisfied smirk evident in his tone. “Is that really all it takes? Is there anywhere you can go in this house where you're not instantly hard?”

He's speaking with that offhand condescension that comes so easy to him and Shane's cheeks are so hot with the shame of it (that he's so easy; that Ilya had fucked him against absolutely every single available surface within a month of having bought the place), and his arousal, and the shame of his arousal, and the arousal of his shame, everything linking together in an endless feedback loop that has him trying to bury his face further into the counter, being met with only hard, unyielding stone. “I'm sorry,” he whimpers, because it's too much to think of anything else to say. 

It's the wrong thing, though, because behind him, Ilya sighs. It sounds like genuine exasperation, and there's a mounting frustration in his voice as he asks, “Solnyshko, what for?” 

For everything. For all of it. There are tears on Shane's cheeks now. It's not that he’s crying, but he can feel the wet tracks tracing down his skin.

“For doing something that makes your life easier?” Ilya prompts. “Something that hurts no one and we both enjoy?”

Shane winces. “You don't have to–” he starts, because he's not stupid. He knows that this is not fun for Ilya.

And it's not even just this - the orders and the decisions and the managing of everything Shane doesn't want to - but the rest of it as well. Putting up with his boring. Suffering his endless questions. Spending time with his mom, who can be intense, and his dad, who can be clueless. Keeping this a secret - even though Shane knows how much Ilya wishes it didn't have to be - because Shane's not quite ready to have to sacrifice anything, not quite yet. Moving to fucking Ottawa because Shane had said that he could not handle having Ilya so far away from him. And fucking him. How he needs it. Hard and fast and dirty. All the time. Because Shane is greedy and desperate and needs it all the fucking time.

He's heard girls called high-maintenance for so much less, but all of this Ilya does without complaint, without expectation of reward, because he is too kind to do what no one would blame him for and just fucking leave. 

“I know I'm hard work,” he mumbles.

For a long time Ilya is quiet. When he does speak, his tone is a little bewildered.  “Do you– Do you think I don't like it?” he asks. “Is that it? You think it doesn't also turn me on?”

Still and silent against the counter, Shane turns the words over in his head.

“Shane,” Ilya laughs, sunshine now slipping back into his voice. “Shane, my beautiful little idiot.”

They go to bed after - too much excitement too early in the morning, Ilya grumbles as he ushers Shane up the stairs and under the covers. Ilya falls back asleep the second his head hits the pillow but by this time it is not so early for Shane, so he just watches. He catalogues the sweep of Ilya's eyelashes over his cheek and the curl of his lips and the strong line of his brow, wonders what he has possibly done to deserve this. 

I like it so much, Ilya had said. I don't have the fancy words for it but– Having you like this. You trusting me to handle you the way you need. His hand had been under Shane's shirt, tracing delicately over each notch of his spine. Shane had felt like his whole body was singing. I like it too. It makes me want you too. I wouldn't do it otherwise; I am not so selfless, I promise. 

The sun is up now. The light has started filtering through the gap in the curtains because Ilya never quite pulls them all the way closed. Ilya's hand rests on the pillow beside his face. Shane gently lifts it towards himself, the dead weight of it oddly pleasing, and guides Ilya's first two fingers between his lips. He lets them rest there, delights in the heavy press against the muscle, then laps slowly at the calloused pads, circles his tongue over them. 

When Ilya stirs, he eases open one eye first, long lashes tracing out a slow arc, before his mouth curls into an affectionate smile. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

Shane pulls Ilya's fingers from his mouth, lets the pads of them rest against the sweep of his bottom lip. “I love you,” he says, and watches the way Ilya's smile spreads that little bit wider. 

“I love you too,” he replies. Then, his mouth twists into a sly smirk and he asks, teasing, “You do not need me to break up with you anymore?”

Shane smiles too as he shakes his head. He can no longer remember the train of logic that has told him that that was his only option. It all feels silly now. Foolish. 

“No? Well, maybe I have come around to the idea now. I will have to think about it.”

“Fuck you,” Shane says affectionately, moving to shove at Ilya's shoulder, but Ilya anticipates the move, grabs Shane’s wrist and before he knows it he's been pinned flat on his back, Ilya hovering over him, playful smile on his face. With all of his strength, Shane tries, once, to push himself up against Ilya's weight and finds himself pressed even further into the mattress.

“And I do not have to stop telling you what to do?” Ilya asks. “You do not need to stop liking it?”

I won't let them, he'd promised when Shane had insisted that they would find out. That it wouldn't be enough and he would keep wanting more because he was needy and desperate and eventually they would see. Eventually they'd find out. They would realise that Shane was weak and broken and depraved. Or, worse, they would misunderstand. Think Ilya was demanding. Controlling. I'll take care of it. You don't have to worry. It's not yours to worry about anymore. Let me handle it.

“Ok,” Shane agrees.

Ilya leans down to kiss him then, mouth insistent as it works against Shane's own, tongue hot and slick. Shane lets himself sink back into the pillows, sink into the feeling of it. Trusts Ilya to handle him.