Archive of Our Own ^beta

Shane comes out of sleep reluctantly, feeling lazy and lethargic. He shuts his eyes tight against the soft light filtering through the thin fabric of the blinds, taking the time to adjust before he allows them to flutter open more slowly this time, cautious.

He is used to waking with the sunrise, the room still shrouded in a dusty darkness as he slips out so that he can get a run in before the heat of the day descends. It’s clear that he's much too late for all that today. 

It was all Ilya's fault. 

Shane feels pleasantly achey, body tender and sensitive. It makes him very aware of his own physicality. He feels acutely every point of contact between his skin and the soft bedsheets, the comforting weight of a heavy arm draped over his ribs, the breaths against the back of his neck.

He shifts a little and hums out a sleepy sound, feeling Ilya do the same behind him, an arm tightening around him to pull him impossibly closer. 

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” The word has been adopted from Yuna, and it was not so much the word itself that Ilya had enjoyed as the way it had caused Shane to scowl at his mother and seethe, “I'm not ten years old anymore,” freckles on his cheeks swallowed up by a sea of rosy pink. Unlucky for him, Shane finds he doesn't mind it so much when said in a low, dark rumble, and accompanied by a smattering of tiny, doting kisses pressed to his shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

Shane twists his head to turn back over his shoulder and his lips find the corner of Ilya's jaw. There's a shadow of stubble beginning to grow that he is usually meticulous about shaving outside of the playoffs because Shane doesn't love the feeling of it against his chin, the soft insides of his thighs, but the off-season is a time for being lazy, for putting off things that you know you should've already gotten to. Like getting out of bed for example. 

“I’m so tired,” he laments, lips dragging over Ilya's skin. “What time is it?”

At this angle he can only just catch abstract glimpses of golden curls, already lightened by the summer sun, high cheekbones, one perfectly arched brow. “Is past ten already,” Ilya murmurs. 

Shane groans and turns to bury his face back in the comforting softness of the pillows.

Ilya laughs affectionately, a hand slipping under Shane's shirt where it has ridden up in the night, the warmth of his broad palm intense against Shane's ribs. “And you have not yet drank your disgusting smoothie or gone for a run.” He tuts softly. “This is the end for you, Hollander. Career over. Boo hoo.”

“Well, if it means less time putting up with you…”

Ilya pouts. Shane can hear it in his voice when he speaks. “It did not sound like you felt this way last night,” he drawls, voice heavy with suggestion as his hand slides lower, a single finger tracing the length of Shane's soft cock through his boxers. His hips have shifted too so that Shane is now aware of him, already half hard and pressing into the soft flesh of Shane's hip. 

Shane lets out a low groan from the back of his throat. “I'm tired,” he repeats pointedly.

Ilya presses a single, deliberate kiss to the juncture where his jaw meets his neck. “Is no problem. I will do all of the work.” His hand has started up a leisurely pace, and Shane feels overcome with the familiar hot, squirmy feeling of having Ilya’s full attention on him, his heat and touch and burning intensity. Even the ghosting of his lips against Shane’s jaw as he speaks is almost too much to bear. “It will be natural for me because I have to do all of the work on the ice also.”

They don’t even play on a line together - because they were both too stubborn to give up the position of centre, they had told everyone, but really because Shane felt their relationship got too much attention and interrogation as it was. “I don’t want them overanalysing every time we look at each other, or celebrate a goal together.” It would be best, he thought and Ilya had readily agreed, for them to avoid sharing the ice.

He still takes the bait anyway; it would go against almost every one of his instincts for him not to. “Who scored the most goals last season?” he bites back, voice a little too breathless to properly sell it.

“Yes, well, sometimes I have to take pity on–”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Ilya hums out a warm, pleased sound that Shane melts into a little. “Yes,” he mutters, all the lightness and teasing in his tone gone in an instant and replaced with something thick and sweet and cloying - like syrup - that quickly draws Shane's attention away from their petty squabbling and back to the way Ilya's hand is moving over his dick. “I am trying, moya lyubov.”

Shane stops him with a hand draped softly over his. “Ilya.”

Ilya pauses, and then nods. His hand slips out from under Shane's as he presses one final kiss to his shoulder. “Okay, yes, I agree.” The mattress shifts as he clambers out of the bed, and Shane immediately misses the heat, the smooth slide of bare skin against his own. “Beauty sleep. Is very important for you if you want to be as handsome as me someday.”

Shane is too comfy, face buried into the soft pillows beneath him, to turn around and respond properly. He settles on throwing a lazy middle finger up over his shoulder, and knows that Ilya must catch it before he disappears into the bathroom because of the way the room fills briefly with his bright ringing laughter. “Asshole,” he mutters into the pillow, seeing, behind his eyelids, his husband’s face cracked wide in a grin.

As the sound of the shower starting up drifts through to the bedroom, Shane finds himself struck by the image of Ilya's toned figure under the warm spray, forehead leaning against the back of one hand pressed to the cold tile, the other finding a steady rhythm.

Something strange twists in the pit of his stomach, lingering only a moment before it passes.

He pulls the sheets up to his chin and slips quickly back into that peaceful place half way between waking and sleep.

–

Ilya’s blood has always run hotter than Shane's.

This Shane could have told you back in their rookie season, when anyone with even a passing interest in the Boston Raiders’ newest star centre (and needless to say that Shane had had more than just a passing interest) would’ve found it impossible to miss the string of increasingly beautiful women who showed up in tabloid photographs with him - at bars and outside of clubs and in mildly compromising positions in hotel lobbies. And while the pictures had become less common as they had grown older and Ilya had learned to appreciate privacy and discretion, Shane had never been under the impression that this had any correlation with the frequency with which these hook-ups were actually happening. That Rozanov had just about fucked his way through all of the single women (and probably half of the taken ones) in any and every city with a halfway decent hockey team had become so common a refrain in locker rooms that photographic evidence was hardly necessary anymore for it to be cemented as fact.

If you had asked Shane at the time he would’ve told you that he couldn’t care less what Ilya was getting up to outside of the time that they spent together. (For a brief time, near the start, it might have even been the truth.)

He himself had often gone the weeks - and sometimes months - between their trysts barely even thinking of sex. And maybe this was in part because allowing himself to think about it too long would’ve meant confronting some truths about himself that he wasn’t quite ready for, but it was also just because there were other, more important things to think about - hockey, mainly, but also the instructions from his nutritionist and emails from sponsors and remembering to call his parents on the weekends to check in. The fact was that, unless Ilya was in his direct vicinity and looking at him like he wanted to devour him whole, then in the list of things on Shane’s mind at any given moment, getting off often ranked quite low.

It has never really been a problem.

In fact, for the couple of years that they had dated long-distance - first with Ilya all the way in Boston, and then after he had moved up to Ottawa - Shane had found it exhilarating to occasionally see his phone light up with a text that read You alone? at any hour of the day. He would always feel his heart rate pick up in his chest as he typed out an affirmative response, teeth sinking into his bottom lip when he answered the inevitable FaceTime request that immediately followed to find his boyfriend flushed and breathy, eyelids heavy, the small, rhythmic shifting of his shoulder within the frame making it clear enough what his hand was doing just outside of it. Ilya’s voice would be low and rough, greetings littered with an abundance of Russian pet names - How are you, lyubimyy? and Good morning, moyo solnyshko, and Sorry, were you already sleeping, malen’kiy kotenok? - before he explained that he had come to the realisation that it was crazy for him to be jerking off staring at the wall when he could have something pretty to look at instead.

On the rare occasion that Shane was also in the mood, he would join in too - the echoes of their hitched breathing mingling together across the lonely miles and patchy internet connection - but usually he didn't mind waiting for the real thing. He was happy just to sit and watch and follow the rough directions Ilya grunted out between heavy breaths: look at me, show me your tongue, tilt your chin up, sit up on your knees, spread your legs, take off your shirt, spit in your hand, lick it back up, tell me you miss me, tell me you want my cock so deep inside of you that you can’t think, tell me it is hard to breathe without me, tell me I'm yours. At each fuck or good or yeah, like that that he received in response to his diligent carrying out of the instructions, Shane would feel a thrill buzz through him, preening shamelessly under the praise, enjoying the desperate edge that would begin to creep into Ilya's tone, the colour steadily rising and deepening on his cheeks, the slow slide of his muttered curses from English back into Russian.

Ilya was gorgeous when he came - slack jaw and pinched brow, face all soft and open and vulnerable. Shane would find himself feeling schoolgirl giddy with it - drunk on the look of his curly-haired adonis of a boyfriend when come completely undone. He felt on those occasions that he was more able to appreciate the full beauty of it all, thoughts unclouded by the distraction of pursuing his own pleasure.

Afterwards, while Ilya was still fighting to control his breathing, Shane would say Ya tebya lyublyu in what was probably a truly awful accent, his tongue stumbling over the foreign syllables, just to see the way it tugged the corners of Ilya's mouth up into a lazy smile.

Sometimes, Ilya would lean in and kiss his phone camera. Always, he would say, I love you too, his accent slightly thicker, the way it got in the early morning or after a few drinks when he wasn't up to thinking too hard about how each word curled off his lips. As he cleaned himself up, they would often slip into a conversation about their day, about practice, about something Shane's parents or Ilya’s teammates had told them and they'd been waiting to share. When they finally hung up it could be anywhere between ten minutes and several hours after they had started talking.

Very rarely though, if the call had come late at night - Shane answering bleary-eyed from where he had already been drifting off and insisting sleepily that he was fine, wouldn't have picked up if he hadn't wanted to - once Ilya was done, he would murmur, voice apologetic I must sleep now. Game tomorrow. I am sorry for keeping you up. Sleep well, moy lyubovnik. And then he would hang up.

He would usually call back the next day, some time after the morning skate, and they would finish off the rest of the conversation they might have had the night before, had they not both been so tired.

“You don't have to apologise,” Shane would be left insisting when Ilya inevitably ended up trying to. “I really don't mind.”

This was the truth, but maybe not the entire truth, because Shane had not even admitted to himself the slight thrill that sometimes ran through him at the thought that Ilya had called, gotten what he wanted, and then hung up. As if Shane existed only for Ilya's entertainment when he needed some release. It felt kind of dirty. Lewd. Slutty, even. Which was obviously ridiculous. Watching the boyfriend that he was in a long-term monogamous relationship with get off was pretty much the direct opposite of slutty. And even if it were any of those things, Shane would not find that appealing. He was good. He was normal. He was boring. 

It was much easier to just tell himself that any excitement was more about the way Ilya would always “make up” for any "selfishness" (Ilya’s words, not Shane’s) the next time they saw each other, dedicating himself to the pursuit of Shane's pleasure with the unwavering devotion of a catholic martyr. Shane had always been made so desperate by the stretches of time between, by the terrible knowledge of the way that one or two stolen nights would have to carry the weight of all the time together they had already lost out on and all that was soon to be lost, that he could absorb all of this fervour, all of this attention and voracious dedication, facilitate his boyfriend’s way of giving and giving and giving and selflessly putting everyone else’s needs before himself.

The past year has been different. Not bad, just different. Moving in together has changed things. There are no long stretches of waiting for Shane's desire to ramp up and up and up. And Ilya is there all the time, always so tactile, always so up for it.

But he listens. Is attentive. Is never pushy or insistent once Shane is firm enough to make it clear he isn't playing. Never makes Shane feel guilty or as if he is denying Ilya something he is owed the way that Rose had implied was frighteningly common when he'd hesitatingly spoken about it with her.

She’d told him it was fine. It was pretty normal for one partner to have a slightly higher sex drive than the other; it was just about finding a balance that worked for them. When Shane had made an uneasy sound at the vagueness of that, Rose had laughed, rolling her eyes so pointedly that Shane felt he could hear it through the phone line. There wasn't some magical solution. But they clearly had a strong relationship, she’d insisted. They both seemed comfortable communicating their needs. If Ilya was unhappy then he would say something. He's probably going to the bathroom, jerking off, and then forgetting about it literally five minutes later, she had told him flippantly and then she'd laughed again. You're bright red now, aren't you? Shane had not bothered to deny it.

It's not really a problem; Ilya didn't seem to mind. Especially during the season when there had been so many other things to think about. For all Ilya didn't really care about hockey, not the way Shane did at least, he was a fucking good captain, and he cared about doing right by his team and his fans, about training hard and developing his strategy and winning every goal they could.

And when they'd made the playoffs (something they'd all had to humbly pretend was a pleasant surprise for Ottawa even though Shane had known they would manage it, the very first time he'd taken to the ice with Ilya in the pre-season training he had known) they had both been so consumed with a single-minded focus that, by some strange luck, it had ceased to be an issue entirely, the moments that they had found themselves needing to scratch an itch suddenly becoming almost perfectly aligned. 

The Centaurs had made it to the second round, played all the way through to the seventh game before it had slipped through their fingers. Shane had found he hadn't minded, not as much as he had expected to; they would try again next year. And then the Cup final had come and gone, and they had muddled through the final obligations of the season - awards shows and press and the like - and with fewer distractions he had noticed them go back to how it had always been. With Ilya wanting. With Shane denying.

Which wasn't a problem, but now they've got four full weeks to themselves - at the cottage, where there aren't any distractions at all - before they have to head back to run the summer camps and it seems far more frequent that Ilya will get that coy, playful look on his face, will start touching Shane with all the overwhelming heaviness and implication of what could come next, only for Shane to gently, politely brush him off.

And, no, it's not a problem.

But Shane has noticed.

-

It's not that he's spent all day thinking about it.

Not really. 

But it has been… there. Just… floating in the back of his mind while they had gone for a walk around the edge of the lake and made lunch together and read out on the deck (or, well, Shane had been reading, Ilya had been doing important work innovating in the fields of distracting Shane and generally being a menace). 

It's still there now, now that it’s dark outside and they are curled up on the sofa, the room bathed only in the warm glow of lamplight and the flickering image of the film Ilya is watching. From what Shane can tell with his eyes closed, there's a lot of fights and explosions and gunfire and the villains are Russian, which leaves Ilya occasionally muttering under his breath in his mother tongue. Shane's head rests against Ilya's chest and he has allowed himself to be lulled into a gentle sense of calm by the soft rise and fall of even breaths beneath him, the fingers combing absentmindedly through his hair. They scrape pleasantly against his skull, until he begins to feel the knotted and gnarled thoughts in his head start to unravel and unspool until they almost feel like things he can separate out, can start to organise and pack away into the correct corners in his brain. 

It is sometimes scary how easily Ilya is able to know what he needs.

After dinner, he’d cleared the dishes, even though he’d been the one who’d cooked as well, Shane muttering a quick thank you, as he went. He had chattered away, the reassuring cadence of his voice carrying smoothly from kitchen to the dinner table and Shane had hmmed and yeah?ed his way through, half listening, twisting his wineglass by the stem.

He'd been startled out of his thoughts by the rough pad of a thumb freeing his lower lip from where he had not realised it had been caught between his teeth. He'd looked up to find the warm features of his husband's face tilted down to him, eyes gentle but searching. “You have been doing this all day.”

He'd felt oddly flustered, heart racing in his chest, by the closeness that had seemingly come out of nowhere, the hushed, heavy tone of Ilya's voice that made Shane wish he could slip into the sound and live there forever. His thumb had begun tracing back and forth over his lower lip.

“Doing what?” he’d asked dumbly.

Ilya had hesitated a moment, eyes intent as they roamed Shane's face, lips pressed into a line. “Biting your lip,” he'd eventually settled on saying. Then he had leant down slowly, and Shane had tilted his head back to meet him in a chaste lingering kiss, eyelids fluttering closed. “It is very distracting.”

“I'm sorry,” Shane had whispered, and then had had to fight the urge to repeat it when Ilya had responded with a soft shake of his head. Shane wasn't supposed to apologise for things that didn't warrant an apology. That was something they’d been working on recently.

“Everything is okay?”

Shane had nodded immediately. “Yes. Everything's fine.”

Ilya's lip had quirked, a tiny hint of a frown. “You will tell me, yes? When you are ready?”

Sometimes it was nice that Ilya could all but read his mind. Sometimes it was a little irritating. Reluctantly, he'd nodded.

Ilya had mirrored the movement, drawing himself back to his full height and taking Shane's hand to pull him up with him. “Ok. Let's go watch a film.”

He had known to pull Shane into his chest, to wrap one arm around him and let the other hand comb through his hair, to occasionally press a kiss to his temple, to turn the sound down low so that it wouldn’t disturb. Shane doesn’t deserve him - this endlessly considerate and perceptive and loving man - could never deserve him no matter how hard he tried. He gives everything to Shane, is everything to Shane. Shane wishes nothing more from his life than to be able to give everything back.

At the deep breath Shane takes before he speaks, Ilya's fingers still in his hair. Shane knows that his head will be tipped down away from the screen to check in on him, eyebrows probably drawing ever so slightly closer in concern. “This morning,” Shane starts, words slow and cautious, “when I…”

He is quiet for long enough that Ilya prompts, “When you?”

“When I told you no, did you… like, afterwards did you…?”

Once again, it is Ilya who has to fill the silence here, his eyes narrowing on Shane as he tries to guess where the sentence was going. “Jerk off in the shower? Yes.”

“Oh,” Shane says, not entirely able to understand the quiet sinking feeling in his stomach. He swallows. “Right.”

“Hollander, I know you are the possessive type, but jealous of my right hand is a bit far, no?”

His voice is light and teasing and it's so clearly a joke but it still has Shane twisting uncomfortably where he sits. “I’m not jealous.” He can feel the colour rising on his cheeks. 

Ilya knows straight away, eyes blowing out wide in surprise, a wolfish grin spreading over his face. “Oh shit, you really are upset about it.”

“No.” Shane winces at the blatantly over-defensive edge to his voice, the suspicious speed of his response. “I mean, that’s not–”

“This is why you have been distracted all day?” Ilya is laughing, like it’s ridiculous and comical.

Shane huffs out a frustrated sigh. “Yeah, sure, if you want,” he announces, defeated, pulling away from where he had been resting and pushing himself up off the sofa.

“No. Don't go,” Ilya says, voice taking on a familiar, whining tone as he reaches out for him. “I will stop,” he promises, an arm wrapping around Shane's waist.

Shane fights against it, trying to worm free of his grasp. Ilya is stronger than him (marginally! barely noticeably!!) but Shane is usually faster and sharper and better at exploiting weaknesses. He manages to duck out of the grasp of one arm only to be caught in the other. 

“Shane. Please. Come on.” He hears Ilya shift closer to give himself more leverage, and with this advantage he finally manages to knock Shane off balance enough that he topples back into the space next to Ilya, an abundance of cushions softening the fall.

Before he can scramble away, Ilya gets a hand on his wrist and an arm slung over him, “Will you talk to me?” He can hear the smile in his voice, even behind the layers of frustration, and knows this is as much a game to them now as it is about the original argument. 

He manages to wrestle his hand free and immediately gets to work trying to pry Ilya's fingers from his thigh, lifting each one in sequence. “There’s nothing to talk about. Just forget about it, ok?” 

“Jesus, Hollander! What is your problem? Is like pulling with pliers!”

Shane can't help but burst into laughter, and in doing so loses his focus and ultimately the battle, allowing himself to be dragged across into Ilya's lap. Once there, he naturally settles into place, his thighs bracketing Ilya's, Ilya's hands on his waist. Ilya looks a little irritated, but playfully so. Shane does his best to hide a smile. “Pulling with pliers,” he repeats, tone dripping with affection.

“Yes, like–” A look of uncertainty flickers over Ilya's face. He makes a motion with one hand that seems to indicate having to tug something hard. Shane's smile spreads wider, which earns him a frustrated huff. “It means you are making things very difficult for no reason.”

Shane traces his fingertips down the side of his husband's face, his little scowl almost unbearably adorable. There is a tiny red mark on his jaw where he cut himself shaving this morning. “Yeah, I got it… We say like pulling teeth.”

Ilya's face lights up. “Ah! Yes, like pulling a tooth. We have this one also.”

They are both smiling now, and Shane can't help himself but brush a stray curl from Ilya's face that must've been disturbed in the scrap.

“And in French?”

Shane frowns and tips his head first to one side and then the other. “There's no direct translation I don't think... Comme arracher les dents isn't a thing. Tirer les vers du nez I guess. But it can only really be used for getting information from someone so it's not exactly one-to-one.”

Ilya doesn't seem to mind. He presses a kiss to Shane's jaw. “Is very sexy when you speak French.” 

Shane rolls his eyes, even as he feels a lick of heat run through him. “Ilya.”

His hands stroke up and down Shane's thighs, palms broad and warm even through the fabric of his sweats. “My clever, sexy, jealous husband.”

Shane remembers what they had been talking about before all this and is immediately washed with his earlier sense of embarrassment. “Ilya.”

“Since you want to know: yes, I touched myself as I showered,” Ilya starts, holding Shane still with strong hands on his waist when he tries to pull away from the words, a blush high on his cheeks – “thinking about my handsome husband” – here he presses a kiss to the side of Shane's throat – “and the pretty sounds he makes when I open him up for me” – he pulls away to tip his head around to the other side of Shane's neck and repeats the motion – “and how well he takes me” – another kiss, to the corner of his jaw now – “and the way he feels when he comes on my cock.” 

Shane can't help but smile. Ilya isn't quite right - it's not that he had been jealous, not exactly - but the words are pretty all the same and Shane will never pass up the opportunity to bask in the glow of his husband's affection. 

It isn't even a bad guess at what's on Shane's mind either. Shane has many positive traits, he's sure, but an ability to avoid giving in to irrational jealousy is not one of them. 

He thinks of the four days that Svetlana had spent at their house. It had been a few months after the wedding, and only the second time that Shane had met her outside of the event. She and Ilya had spent long hours chatting to each other in rapid-fire Russian, a bright smile splitting Ilya's face as they reminisced about childhood memories and finished each others' sentences and called each other Sveta and Ilyushen’ka because that was how they had both known each other as children, which was completely normal and not at all the same as a pet name you might call a lover (except that people did also use diminutives with their lovers so actually it was a little bit the same, even if not exactly the same). Shane had smiled, and given them space to catch up, and waved Svetlana off politely when she had shot him apologetic looks each time she had switched to Russian mid-conversation at dinner so that she could convey something that she didn't quite have the words for in English; in other words, he had tried to act as utterly unbothered as he was supposed to have been by this absolutely gorgeous, quick-witted woman who understood better than anyone the childhood that had made Ilya the man he was today, and who allowed him in brief glimpses to be transported back to the country Shane knew that deep down he missed so much. 

The illusion of his success in the extremely basic task of acting like a normal husband had come crashing down the penultimate night of her stay, when Shane had gone to bed early after a long call from his mom about some problems with sponsorships and left them drinking vodka on the sofa, giggling like children getting away with something they know they shouldn't. The sounds of their laughter had followed Shane up the staircase and into bed, where he had tossed and turned, unable to sleep, huffing at regular intervals to illustrate his displeasure with this inability to properly clear his head.

The problem had lain in the endless reliving the handful of seconds that that had followed him entering the living room once his mom had hung up, the way he had stared for a second too long at the scene he’d been met with; Ilya sprawled out on the couch in that messy, boyish way he had, Svetlana sitting with her back against the armrest and her legs kicked up into his lap, one of his arms draped casually over them. His fingers had been tracing absentminded arcs back and forth over her bare skin. Shane’s heart had seized momentarily in his chest, and it had taken him just a little too long to shake the feeling off, a couple of long beats passing before the rational portion of his brain finally kicked back in. Slowly, he’d drawn his gaze from his husband's fingers and to his face, which had been tilted up towards Shane and softened into a wide grin. He’d looked younger, adorably carefree. “Sladkiy moy!” he had announced in a tone theatrical enough to tell Shane that the bottle of vodka Svetlana had brought as a gift must be at least half-empty without him even having to look toward the table. “How is Yuna?! Did you tell her that her favourite son misses her?!” 

“She’s well,” Shane had told him, hating the clipped tone of his voice, hating the way his disappointment in himself could not be kept from radiating outwards. He had been planning on sitting down with them, even if it was just to soak in the joy that they exuded, but it had seemed impossible with the way Svetlana had been looking at him with sly, seeing eyes that gave the impression that she could read every thought that had flashed through his mind. He’d found himself feeling hot, sure that his burning cheeks must be giving away his eternal embarrassment at the whole pathetic display. “I just came to say I'm heading to bed,” he’d said instead, trying carefully to make his voice sound unaffected and failing failing failing.

Ilya had held out his hand, the one that had been trailing over the skin of Svetlana's ankle only moments before, and flapped it insistently when Shane hadn’t immediately taken it. On cautiously surrendering his own hand to his husband’s grasp, Shane had found himself dragged forward into a messy kiss. Ilya's hot, slick tongue had tasted of vodka as it had slipped past Shane's lips but Shane had found himself leaning into it anyway, deepening the kiss. Mine, he had been unable to stop himself from thinking, hating himself even as he did. Do you see? He's mine.

When Ilya had pulled away he'd still been grinning. “Sleep well, moya lyubov. Sladkikh snov.”

Shane was usually pretty good with instructions, but he'd still been awake much later in the evening when they had finally made their way up the stairs, the creak of floorboards surely Svetlana's work because Ilya had an unnerving way of moving around any space almost entirely silently. When the bedroom door had swung open, a soft light slanting into the room, Shane had made his breathing deep and even, hoping he might get away with pretending to be asleep and just forgetting the whole evening entirely. 

Instead, the slight dipping of the mattress was the only warning he'd had before a heavy arm had slung across him, a familiar warmth enveloping him as Ilya had fit himself to the curve of Shane's back. He'd smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, because Svetlana wasn't the kind of boring killjoy who would nag Ilya about his health and his lungs as if Ilya wasn't a fully-grown adult free to make his own decisions. He had run his nose up and down Shane's neck reassuringly. When he'd spoken his voice had been a soft murmur, as if trying not to disturb something delicate. “She is only a friend.”

Shane had winced, a flush of shame descending over him at the way he had made Ilya feel this was something he needed to say. There had been no accusation in his tone, but Shane had known that there should have been, that he had deserved for his husband to be upset. “I'm sorry,” he'd muttered, his tone bitter, muscles in his jaw tight. “I know it's pathetic. And irrational. And it's totally unfair on you to imagine you might ever–” To even speak it was insulting. Shane had swallowed the lump in his throat. “I know you wouldn't ever. I know you, Ilya. I trust you.”

He didn't know why he couldn't just be like Ilya, who seemed entirely unbothered by any potential competition for Shane's affections. In fact, he seemed to view people making flirty comments or fans lingering a little too long in a hug or the deranged pleas that came out of internet comment sections with an easy amusement, pleased by the almost endless potential to make Shane uncomfortable.

“You should get his number,” he had suggested casually only a few weeks before when, at a charity fundraiser for the foundation, a starstruck Shane had spent ten minutes speaking to an actor who (only now that he was comfortable with who he was could he easily see and admit to himself) had been one of his first on-screen crushes as a teen.

Ilya had grinned at the blush that had painted Shane's cheeks, at the little frustrated crease that formed in his forehead when Ilya was being intentionally annoying, at the furtive way that Shane had glanced around to see if anyone else might have heard.

“I'm not going to get his–” He'd taken a deep breath, reminded himself that Ilya was trying to get him worked up, and said in a calm, measured tone. “Behave.”

Ilya had ignored the second part of Shane's response entirely. “Why not? He was clearly flirting,” he had whispered, his breath hot on Shane's ear as Shane had attempted to work his expression into something neutral that would not give Ilya the satisfaction of the reaction he was trying to draw from him. “I'm a reasonable man. I can share.”

“Ilya,” Shane had warned, his voice tense.

Ilya had shrugged, shuffling in even closer. “He is hot. You are hot. Maybe I would like to watch.”

Shane had finally pushed him away and Ilya had responded with a wide self-satisfied grin. “Aww, come on. For my birthday at least?” he'd called as Shane had started walking away, the rising volume of his voice enough to turn a few heads in their vicinity and turn Shane's cheeks even pinker than they had been.

Had Ilya walked in on the evening's scene with Shane and Hayden instead, he would've planted himself in the armchair across from them, utterly unfazed, and wasted no time in starting to hurl insults at Pike.

It was only Shane who had to make everything so complicated. “I just– I look at the way you smile when you can speak Russian or talk about your family with someone who knew them and I can't– I'm never going to be able to give you that. And it makes me feel–” He'd shaken his head, a small, dejected noise spilling past his lips. “I'm sorry. I've been trying my best to hide it.”

Ilya had smiled against his skin. “Hmm. This you are not very good at. Not very good at all. Almost as bad as your backhand.”

“I'll be better,” he'd insisted, his voice sounding tiny in the darkness of the room.

Ilya had sighed, the depth of Shane’s distress evident in the way he had not taken the bait, and then shuffled back just far enough to encourage Shane to roll over and face him.

In the dark he could barely make out the strong lines of Ilya’s features but his eyes had seemed no less piercing and perceptive. Shane had focused on the hollow of his collarbones peeking out of his tank top to avoid having to look at his face at all.

Ilya has traced the side of his thumb over the side of Shane's face. “You are not always in control of what your brain is thinking. I know this. I understand.” Ilya had told him, voice gentle.

“I'm sorry.”

“You don’t have to keep on apologising. You know that I am yours. It does not matter what else you are thinking as long as you always come back to this.” Here Ilya had kissed him, his lips still tasting faintly of vodka and causing Shane's nose to scrunch up. “Anyway, I think I like you like this. You are very… hands-on? Is this right? Always touching and kissing, yes?”

Shane's mouth had snapped open, but even as he had prepared the protestations of his own innocence he'd known that Ilya was right, that he was never usually as openly affectionate (especially in front of other people) as he had been in the previous three days.

“Marking your territory,” Ilya had continued, the corner of his lip turning up in a suggestion of a smirk. 

“Oh god,” Shane had groaned, burying his head in Ilya's shoulder and feeling his laughter in its jerky movements. “She must hate me.”

“No, of course not,” Ilya had soothed, a hand smoothing over Shane's back. “You are the best non-Russian player in the league. She could never.”

Shane had levelled him with an unimpressed look. There was no need to remind Ilya of the importance of making a good impression on her as a person because he had been the there to witness every second of Shane's stressing over it, and had been the one who'd had to talk Shane down every time he’d decided they needed to do something crazy like completely redecorate the guest bedroom, or head to the other side of town and buy out the entire Russian section of the world foods supermarket.

“She thinks you are sweet. She is happy for us.” Ilya had smirked then, the kind of look that told Shane that the next thing out of his mouth had been carefully constructed to get a reaction out of him. “She says I deserve to marry someone who is obsessed with me.”

For the second time in the conversation, Shane had gone to defend himself and then had the self-awareness to think better of it. His look of indignation had softened into a smile. “I am,” he'd agreed, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of Ilya's lips. “Completely obsessed.”

Ilya’s grin had melted into something devastatingly affectionate. “Good. Because I am obsessed with you too.”

They had kissed, and the kissing had led to touching, and the touching had led to Ilya beneath the covers promising to prove to Shane just how obsessed with him he was. And if Shane was a little louder than usual when moaning his husband's name - loud enough to be heard by, say, anyone who might be staying in the guest room down the hall - then both Ilya and Svetlana were generous and gracious enough that they did not mention it. 

It is in his nature, Shane has learnt over the many years of circling each other, spinning ever closer, to be a little irrational when it comes to Ilya, to go a little insane. It would not be hard to pretend that that's all that's going on now, that this is just another case of that same extreme jealousy that sometimes manages to overcome his capability for rational thought. Ilya would tease him about it relentlessly for a few days, sure, but by the end of the week it would all be forgotten, and Shane could write the whole thing off as a funny turn. And yet he doesn't really want to. 

“There is nothing to be jealous of, lyubimyy,” Ilya soothes, hand in Shane's hair where his head is tucked into the crook of his shoulder. “I promise I would take you over my hand every time.”

“So take me then.” Shane doesn't mean to say it so bluntly, but the words spill out into the fabric of Ilya's shirt anyway.

He feels Ilya still, his head tilted quizzically, and does not need to see him to know that his strong brow will be drawn together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Shane shifts uncomfortably. “Do I have to say it?”

“Do you know a way to explain something without saying it?”

“Fuck you.”

“Sure, after. If you are good.” 

Shane smiles against the warm, sturdy body beneath him, something immensely reassuring about the way they can always return to that same performed hostility and easy quips that characterised so much of their early relationship. He takes a deep breath, tries to ignore the feeling that he is scraping his insides out with a fork. “I mean, if you want something from me you should just– you can take… whatever you need from me… whenever you need it.”

There is a long pause as Ilya seems to process the words. Then he's lifting Shane's face out of the nice comfortable spot he'd found where he thought he might hide from the world forever. His eyes narrow on Shane's. “I still don’t understand.”

Shane squirms again and fights the urge to attempt to brush the whole thing off - It doesn't matter. Let's just forget about it.

Why was it still so hard? Why could you meet the love of your life at 17 years old and spend years and years in utter agony unable to let yourself love him, or later unable to let yourself love him openly, and then even after you had overcome all that, had put a ring on his finger for all the world to see, you could still be subjected to the gut wrenching ordeal of having to explain to him that sometimes you wanted? One of the most beautiful things about Ilya at the start had been that Shane had never had to; for the most part, Ilya had instructed - on your knees, on your front, open your mouth, get yourself off - and Shane had done as he was told, without ever having to wrestle with his own dizzying desire for any of the things they did.

But Ilya's eyes are bright and open, like he wants to listen, wants to learn. He presses a soft kiss to the corner of Shane's mouth.

Shane sighs, centres himself. “Like… this morning, I would've liked it if, instead of using your hand, you had used…” He lets the sentence trail unfinished, suddenly too embarrassed by the idea of following up with the word me, equally embarrassed by the wave of chills it sends through him.

Ilya looks offended, gaze turning hard, a rigidity in his body where he had been all softness and light. “No. You did not–” His words are sharp, curt. He exhales sharply. “I will not enjoy it if you do not want to.”

Shane takes his face between his hands, tries to smooth out each ugly line of his distress with gentle fingers. “It was more… I didn't want you touching me. I didn’t want to be so… focused on.” It could be intense, being the object of Ilya's undivided attention. Most of the time, Shane adored it, enjoyed the passion of his gaze, the insistent, demanding nature of his touch. But it could be intense. “I didn't want to have to think and feel and react and perform. But I wouldn't have minded… I mean, I think I would've enjoyed… if you'd…”

Ilya looks very intently at him.

“I'm yours. I want you to think of me, my body, as yours to use, however you need.” He no longer forces himself to ignore the shiver that the words send up his spine, the greedy anticipation he already feels. “And you're mine, baby” he continues, voice soft. The word always makes his heart flutter in his chest to say. It has done since the very first time - Ilya’s head tucked into Shane’s neck on the pillow, “Good morning, baby.” 

Ilya had stilled for long enough that Shane had considered trying to take it back, but then he had tilted his head up to look at Shane and smiled. He'd said, softly and slightly self-consciously, “Is my first time being someone's baby, I think.”

Shane breath had caught in his throat. Ilya had been so many of his firsts; it was nice to have even one of his. He'd brushed the backs of his fingers over Ilya's jaw. He’d looked so delicate, unbearably beautiful. “You're first time?” Shane had whispered, unable to contain his smile even as he tried to keep his tone earnest. “You should've told me. I would've been gentler with you… taken it slow.”

He’d watched Ilya’s eyes light up, his mouth spread into a smile. (He'd often reacted to Shane's jokes with this sort of startled awe that sometimes made Shane feel sorry for the younger version of himself who had always been so tightly wound, so highly strung.) Ilya had inched up his body until their lips hovered centimetres apart. “All sweet and loving, hmm?”

“Of course, baby.”

Ilya had kissed him for a long time. “Say it again,” he’d muttered against Shane's lips. And Shane had.

He wonders if it still affects Ilya the same way too, even after all this time.

He brings Ilya's left hand to his mouth, kisses the simple band that he wears proudly on his fourth finger now that the season is over. “You’re mine. Your pleasure should be mine too, should be because of me. Every time.” In the silence that follows, Shane presses a kiss to the ends of each of Ilya’s fingers, the very centre of his palm.

“Whenever I want,” Ilya tries cautiously, as if he’s testing out how the words sit on his tongue.

Shane nods.

“And what if you do not want me to?”

“I will want you to.”

Too quickly for Shane to follow, the hand slips out of Shane’s grasp and closes in a fist around a handful of Shane's hair with a sharp tug that sends a small smart of pain through him. “This does not answer my question.”

Shane blinks, slightly breathless at the hard lines in Ilya's face, at the distinct shift in mood that has taken place. “I'll tell you.”

There have been times in their relationship in which this might not have been true. Near the start maybe, had Ilya asked something of him in the right tone of voice, with the right promise of praise to accompany it, then Shane might have done it anyway, regardless of whether he wanted to or not. (It had perhaps even been essential back then, when Shane either didn't know what he wanted, or had not been able to admit it even to himself.) It is true now though. Now, he knows what he wants, he knows himself, and he loves Ilya too much to let him do something he knows he won't enjoy.

“You promise?”

"I promise."

Ilya hesitates for only a moment, eyes intense and expression closed-off in a way that reminds Shane of those early years. Then he nods. “Ok. I will think about it.”

-

Shane likes mornings.

He likes watching the sun make its sleepy ascent. He likes to catch the grass still bejewelled with beads of dew. He likes the freshness of the air, clean and crisp and ringing with birdsong. He likes feeling as if he is making the most of the day, not allowing a single moment to slip through his fingers.

Ilya, in the off-season at least, does not share this opinion. This morning, he had still been deep in slumber when Shane had slid out from under his arm, barely stirring at the movement. Even after Shane had come back, Ilya had only grunted out a groggy good morning to him, mumbling something about needing another half hour. Never mind that it was already nearly 9.

Shane had sat out on the deck with a cup of herbal tea, and then had set the coffee machine going and started on breakfast in anticipation of Ilya getting up sometime soon. He’s chopping a banana into bite sized rounds and adding it to the big bowl of fruit salad he’s assembling for him to have with greek yogurt and Ilya with pancakes - because when he had been running, the way the sun had filtered through the gaps in the tall trees lining the trail had struck him like a gong and he had decided that he would go home and cook something sweet and delicious and carb-based for his husband who he loved more than life itself.

He doesn’t hear Ilya come down the stairs but he does become vaguely aware of his presence in the kitchen. He can feel the eyes on him, sharp and keen, like a cat ready to pounce. He smiles to himself, continuing to focus on the motion of the knife against the chopping board because he can’t risk looking up and catching sight of sleep-heavy eyelids or rumpled hair - he’s on a mission right now, and the mission does not involve kissing his husband senseless. “Morning,” he calls out over his shoulder instead, the sound infused with a bright delight as it pings through the sun-soaked kitchen. 

He waits for his husband to pad over and slip his arms around his waist and kiss the freckles on the back of his neck and mumble a sleepy, “Morning,” back. “What’s for breakfast?” he’ll ask, and Shane anticipates the joy of feeling the mouth against his skin spread into a smile when he says, “I’m making you pancakes.”

None of this happens.

Instead, he keeps his distance, stalking close enough that Shane is aware of the presence behind him (convinced he can feel slow breaths on his neck, radiating body heat) but hovering just out of reach.

The air between them feels charged. It hums - tight and restless. Shane is reminded of a physics lesson from decades ago, the teacher carefully explaining that electricity can easily jump through the air if the gap is tight enough, or if the potential is high enough.

Slowly, he lowers the knife to the counter. It hits the hard surface with a dull, muted click that is too loud. He swallows. 

On the cabinet in front of him there is a tiny dint in the wood that he has never noticed before.

(It has been three days. He had almost managed to convince himself that the maybe had really been a no.)

Almost imperceptibly, he nods. 

Then Ilya's voice rings through the room, firm and clear. “On your knees.”

-

“Why do you like it so much, do you think?”

Shane lifts his head. Across the table Ilya’s pen still moves in an easy lazy scrawl over the card in front of him. He signs his name with a flourish and then moves his card onto a stack in front of Shane, seemingly absorbed in the task in front of him as if he is so blasé about the question that he can just throw it out while focused on something else. It has come out of nowhere, the both of them working away in a contented silence for the past fifteen minutes or so. Shane should be able to get away with asking “Why do I like what so much?” since Ilya has given him no indication at all of what he's referring to, but he can already see the way Ilya would raise one of his eyebrows into a sceptical arch, a smirk forming at the corners of his lips. Instead he says, “I don't like it so much.”

It sounds pettier coming out of his mouth than it had in his head, and even there he had known that it would be a weak rebuttal. It has been a week now. Ilya could easily say something like “Ah yes, this is why your breath catches and your eyes glaze over? This is why your pupils blow out, like you're hungry, like you're starving for it? Because you ‘don't like it so much’?”, that cocky self-assurance that Shane is embarrassed to find so attractive laced in every word. 

So Shane is surprised when he asks, “But you do like it, yes?” with a genuine edge of insecurity to the question.

Shane sighs. “Ilya, we are signing cards for children.” The summer camps will start up in just over a fortnight and part of the goodie bag they send them away with is a handwritten note from both of them. It had been his mom’s idea (“something for them to remember the experience by!” as if kids these days didn't have phones they could use to take selfies with their star coaches that might be better souvenirs), and sure, it was sappy and sentimental, but Shane liked the idea of these kids finding them under a stack of schoolwork or fallen down the back of the bookcase and fondly reminiscing when they moved out of their childhood rooms one day.

Shane looks pointedly at the now unmoving pen in Ilya's hand, hoping to drive home his point about the topics of conversation that might or might not be appropriate at this point in time. 

Ilya's brows are drawn together as if he cannot comprehend what relevance this has to anything. Yes. And? Shane reads in his features. 

He feels his cheeks start to heat up. “And you're trying to talk about…”

If anything Ilya just looks more confounded by this explanation. After a long stretch of silence, he finally says, “You know they will not know what we talked about while we were writing the cards, yes? Unless you are planning to write out a transcript.”

“No. Obviously not,” Shane mutters, his voice tight. He continues where he had left off with the card in front of him so that he doesn't have to look across the table. He can feel himself pressing too hard into the paper, his handwriting becoming sloppier (although still exemplary compared to the chicken scratch scrawl on the other side of the page). “Just, do we really have to talk about this now?”

“No. No, of course we don't have to,” Ilya says, in the exaggerated tone he uses when he thinks Shane is being ridiculous. Shane can picture him, pout on his lips and sardonic look in his eyes.

“Great"

“But I want to. And you just love doing what I want. Remember?” His tone is teasing, playful. His foot taps against Shane's under the table. When Shane looks up, jaw set into a tense, rigid line, there is a smirk on his lips.

This was something Ilya made him do sometimes - talk about why he enjoyed certain things. At the start, Shane had though he was fucking with him, asking only as a way of making Shane flustered and uncomfortable because that was something that Ilya always took a giddy, joyful glee in.

“Why does it even matter?” Shane had huffed the first time he'd not been allowed to brush off the enquiries with humour or sexual advances like he usually did. He'd been up on the counter, thighs spread wide to make room for Ilya’s hips between them, and somehow they'd gone from Shane certain that he was roughly thirty seconds from having Ilya's dick in his mouth to tense silence in an instant. He'd almost had whiplash from the whole thing. All he'd asked was for Ilya to give him some direction, be a little more forceful with it. “Why do you care why I like it? You never gave a shit about any of that before.”

“I don't know!” Ilya had thrown his arms into the air dramatically as he'd backed away into open space, eyes wide, voice drenched in irritation. “Maybe I feel like an asshole sometimes ordering my boyfriend around like he is a dog, hmm? Maybe I would feel a little better about it if I at least knew it got him off?”

Shane had scoffed. As if Ilya could've ever had any doubts about whether Shane enjoyed being ordered around or not. As if he needed Shane to say it out loud for any reason other than to stroke his own ego.

Perhaps sensing that Shane was thinking this, he had continued, voice still frustrated but now carrying an edge of something softer beneath. “Maybe it would be easier to do well if I knew exactly what he liked about it.”

“Well, what do you like about it, hmm?” Shane had spat, certain in the heat of the moment that he'd found the golden ticket out of the conversation, that Ilya would not have an answer to the question beyond it being sexy to have someone so slavishly dedicated to him. 

To his surprise, Ilya had run a hand through his hair and then his voice had become suddenly very calm and his eyes suddenly very vulnerable as he'd said, “I think there has been a lot of chaos in my life. A lot I felt I couldn't control. Especially as a teenager. My mother. My father's expectations. My brother's hatred. And because I was young and an idiot, I responded to that by adding more chaos - parties and drugs and fights and fucking other people's girlfriends… fucking men. Anything dangerous. Anything that felt like a bad idea. It was like… like I thought At least this is a chaos that I'm in control of. As if there's any such thing as a chaos that you can control…”

He'd shaken his head, a weary sigh slipping out into the still air, and Shane had felt all of the anger in him find a new target: anger at the world for allowing someone so kind and generous and loving to feel so lost, anger at himself for letting his frustration convince him that this could ever all just be a game for Ilya.

Ilya had quickly met Shane's gaze with soft, shiny eyes, and tried a reassuring smile that had sent a crack clean through Shane's heart. “I think that's what I thought this was at the start but… I look back and this was the only real constant in my life for a long time. I tell Hollander my room number and he turns up and he calls me an asshole and then he does what I tell him to. Every time. And for a little while I can pretend I am in charge.” He'd paused, and rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. “My life is more grounded now, yes. You centre me. But I think it’s still comforting to know that, whenever anything does change, there will always be these moments where I can feel I'm in control of something. I think this is why I like it.”

For nearly a decade, the years before their summer at the cottage, Shane had felt that Ilya was so closed off to him, so emotionally distant, that it still sometimes shocked him to discover the depths of his capability for introspection, his emotional awareness. He had reached for Ilya, and felt immense relief when he had come closer, slotted back into the space between his thighs like it had been carved just for him. Shane had held his face, traced his thumb soothingly over his jaw. 

“I'm happy I could be that for you.” He'd kissed Ilya softly. When he'd drawn away, Ilya had been looking at him, expectant. Shane had winced. “For me.. I just… I don't know….” Shane wasn't so complex, he didn't think. He liked being told what to do because he liked having done what he was told. He wasn't certain it ran any deeper than that.

“Please. Try. For me?”

So Shane had done his best, had tried to pin down some reason why this might be something he sometimes needed so badly, why it could snap him back to reality when he felt like someone had tugged at a loose thread in his brain and was slowly unravelling him. “I just like being good, I think.” He'd shrugged. It didn't seem as sophisticated or intricate as what Ilya had said. He liked it when Hayden clapped him on the back and told him he'd made a good pass, and when he checked his phone after the game to find his mom had texted him the same thing; he liked it when Rose laughed at something he said, “Good joke,” mouth spread wide and eyes shining; he liked it when his dad ruffled his hair, “You're a good kid,” as if he was eight years old again; so of course he liked it when Ilya moaned as Shane took him in his mouth, "That's it. Good. Like that,” or when he responded to Shane shifting his body so he could take Ilya deeper by gasping, “Fuck, that's good.” It wasn't particularly insightful, Shane thought. He was one of the top hockey players in the entire fucking league. That didn't happen unless you were the kind of person who took pride in being good at what you did.

But Ilya had smiled at him, like he was delighted to hear even such a simple thing expressed, and had nodded reassuringly as if to prompt Shane to say more. So, just to stay under the glow of Ilya’s approval, he had found a way to repackage the same idea into new words. “It’s just, like, a nice, easy way of doing a good job. You tell me what to do and I can just… do it. And then you call me good or whatever and it's just easy and I don't have to worry about– I mean–” A crease had formed between his eyebrows as they'd drawn together, pensive. “Actually, what I think I really like about it is that I know exactly what I'm supposed to do. I think sometimes… sometimes I feel like I just… don't quite understand what's expected of me, like I'm playing a game but someone forgot to tell me the rules and there are all these secret expectations that I'm just supposed to understand. But with you it's always clear.”

Ilya had been beaming, his smile infused with all the glaring brightness of the mid-afternoon sun. He'd stroked a thumb across Shane's cheek and muttered something to himself in Russian. 

Shane had felt himself grow increasingly self-conscious about the confession, sitting under the weight of Ilya's attention. “I mean… it is kind of hard to misinterpret what you might mean by ‘Suck my dick, Hollander.’”

It had succeeded in making Ilya laugh, breaking the intensity of the moment, and Shane had joined in, the ringing sounds mingling together as they bounced off pristine white kitchen cabinets. Ilya had smiled affectionately and pressed a soft kiss to Shane's lips, fingers sliding up to cradle his chin in a grip that promised they might shortly move towards what Shane had felt he needed after the loss the Metros had suffered earlier in the evening.

“Thank you,” Ilya had whispered into the tiny scrap of air between them.

Shane had pressed his forehead to Ilya's for a moment, hoping that he would read in it the gentle reassurance he was meaning to convey - that he would try, he would try to be open to Ilya, if that was what he wanted; he would try to be vulnerable. Then he had pulled away, a playful smile on his lips. “Sure, anytime,” he had drawled dismissively. “Now will you order me to get on my knees and suck your dick or something?”

And he had. Because, ultimately, what Ilya wanted was to make Shane happy. And these brief bouts of agonising vulnerability that he forces Shane into are all in service of that.

He tries to remember this now - Ilya's unending desire to understand Shane, to know all of him - and turns inwards, tries to pick apart exactly what part of this is so attractive to him. He thinks about the diets and the drills and the dedication that is required to allow him to excel at the only other great love of his life, the hard work that he puts in to make sure that he stays a productive member of the team. He thinks of the comparative ease with which he is able to draw pleasure from Ilya. “I think I like that I can be good, without even trying. Like, I don't even have to do anything. And it's just… my body… me… being, kind of inherently… useful.”

“Useful?” 

(Ilya seems surprised by the word - not judgemental, just intrigued. Shane wonders if he realises he uses it sometimes. Isn't that a useful trick? usually when Shane manages to channel his yoga into contorting his body in such a way that will allow Ilya to wring even more pleasure from him, or when he comes entirely untouched.)

He nods. He hadn't known that that was the word he was going to use, but now that he had he's not sure he could find a better one. He wants to be that for Ilya, he wants to provide. “Yeah… useful,” he repeats. He had avoided looking across the table while he was speaking, opting instead to focus on a spot on the table in front of him, but he flicks his eyes up in a quick glance here. “I want you to need me,” he explains, swallowing thickly before he speaks again. “The way I need you.” 

Ilya's face falls a little, an almost imperceptible change. He reaches across the table, drapes his hand over Shane's and squeezes. His voice wraps around Shane like a blanket in winter. “Shane. Moy vozlyublenny. I do need you. I will always need you. Even if I could never touch you again I would–”

It makes Shane laugh for some reason - maybe because if he didn't he might cry. He twists his hand up so that he can thread his fingers between Ilya's own. “I know. I know. That's not what I mean.” He was luckily long past the days of a voice in the back of his head insisting that Ilya would only stick around for as long as Shane stayed exciting for him sexually. He knows he is needed, is loved unconditionally. “I just– You have given me everything. Everything I ever wanted and more. Things I would never have thought to dream of. I want to be the same for you.”

Shane is worried that he might continue to push back - to argue that Shane had offered him a family and a home and a future, a life, a world in which he can always be himself, without fear of hatred or of shame - like he often did when Shane expressed any sort of gratitude for the way Ilya had transformed his entire life, as if even this were a competition that Ilya could not bear to lose. But he seems to understand. Instead he just squeezes Shane's hand again. I love you it says. Always. Always.

Shane smiles across the table at his husband. “Do you… like it too?” he asks.

Ilya narrows his eyes, shoulders raising in a half-shrug. “No, I hate that I can get a blowjob on demand, whenever I want. Is a real fucking chore,” he says, tone dry and dour although he immediately gives the game away when his face splits into a wide grin.

Shane kicks him under the table. “Asshole. You know what I mean.”

Ilya kicks back, much less power behind it than Shane’s, an obligation more than anything else. “Yes. A lot,” he admits earnestly, his expression softened. “I like it a lot.”

-

Ilya had always been greedy.

Ever since he was a child he has wanted and wanted and wanted: his father's attention, his brother's respect, his mother’s tenderness; the warmth of the fans’ adoration and the heat of his rivals’ hatred; fame, cars, sex, money, power.

His first instinct, it seems, upon holding anything of value in the palm of his hand is to reach out with clawing desperation and try to take more.

Hockey had been good for that - the cheap thrill of checking someone into the boards, of stealing the puck out from under them; smug, self-assured pride coursing through him as he'd been advanced up through teams, skating circles around kids two or three or five years older than him; the way it had quickly become clear that he was capable not only of being very good at this but possibly of becoming one of the best, his coaches unable to hide their impressed looks; world juniors champion team captain; first draft pick; Cup win in his rookie season. Each achievement had only presented him with a new, shining goal to aim for, had only made him hungry for the next victory. 

Sex had been good for it too.

Even that first fumbling time with sweet, sarcastic Masha - who he could now see had only been a child herself but at 15 years old had seemed so gracefully mature to him at the time, a whole ten months older than him, with her razor-sharp wit and elegant neck. She'd guided his head to the apex of her thighs as if dealing with some skittish prey animal and had directed him, with gentle but firm instructions until she was arching up into him, fingers twisting around his curls, as she came apart on his tongue. He had known instantly that it would be addicting - the taste of her, the smell, the desperate way she had cried out his name, the untempered adoration, the discovery that he could affect someone so all-encompassingly. When she had let him fuck her - the whole world crumbling until there existed only that moment, a rare oasis of clarity amongst the chaos - her fingers had dug tight into the meat of his bicep as if she never wanted to let go and this, he had realised, was what it felt like to be wanted, needed (maybe, for a small moment, loved, he had thought and then vowed to never do so again).

It had all come together to form a neat, easy, temporary fix that could just about hide the ever widening void that, even then, he had felt festering within him. There had been more than enough to keep everything else pushed to the back of his mind between the hockey and the sex and the drinking, smoking, dancing (as important for the way they dulled the ever present ache as they were for their potential as an easy scapegoat - were his career to crash and burn, were he to fail to make the MLH draft, he would be able to point to the alcohol, cigarettes, parties and know that he had failed because of actions he had taken, and not because of things outside of his control, because his best had turned out to simply not be good enough). Like a new lick of paint over a mouldy wall - if applied regularly enough you could almost convince yourself the problem wasn't there.

He had indulged with gleeful abandon. In anything and everything he could get his hands on. The more dangerous, the more enticing. He had delighted in the adrenaline of soft, clicking footsteps outside the sweaty storecupboard he and Sasha had tucked themselves away in, or the exhilaration of blood slowly trickling down into his mouth as Komarov held him by the scruff of his shirt against the metal of the lockers, knuckles stinging. If you even fucking look at her again, Rozanov… The higher the chance that it could bring everything crashing down around him, the better.

So when he had first met Shane Hollander at 17 years old, all freckles and sunshine, it had not occurred to him not to reach out and take. 

And somehow he had ended up here. 

The cottage would always symbolise a lot for Ilya: freedom, openness, vulnerability, acceptance. It would always carry the memories of that first sun-drenched summer - watching the rain fall with Shane's head on his chest; shuffling around the kitchen as they cooked together, their hips grazing as they passed each other; brushing crumbs from the corner of Shane’s mouth with the side of his thumb.

They had also fucked a lot. 

In every room. At every time of day. So that there was no piece of furniture or specific slant of sunlight through the floor-to-ceiling windows that Ilya couldn't immediately associate with at least one memory of his own panting desperation.

It has been mostly the same each year when they came back, but this time is something else. Ilya takes and takes and takes. He had thought himself familiar with desire, the feeling of it running hot through his veins, but the thought of Shane waiting for him - pliant, willing, his body so ready to welcome him - is so far beyond the magnitude of anything he'd ever associated with the word. 

It is indulgence in its purest form. Ilya feels almost sick with it. The excess. The greed.

Surely no one could be allowed to live like this.

-

“Is it too much?”

Shane looks up from where he's diligently stirring carefully sliced onions in a pan, anxiously monitoring them in case they burn. His eyebrows are still drawn together in concentration as he turns his gaze towards Ilya. He looks tired, Ilya thinks, hints of dark circles starting to form beneath his eyes. His hair falls messily over his forehead. There is a dark purple bruise that has slowly bloomed over the course of the day peeking out from the neckline of his t-shirt.

“God, you really were holding back before, weren't you?” Shane had muttered as Ilya had slowly sucked the mark into his delicate skin the night before, them both on their sides with Ilya's chest fitting perfectly against the curve of Shane's spine.

He'd been up late talking to Svetlana, who was back in Russia for a few weeks and so had called him without calculating how late it would be halfway across the world. He’d not minded - there wasn't anything to be waking up early for - but it had meant that by the time he'd made it to the bedroom the light had already been out and Shane had been tucked under the covers, the rise and fall of his breaths even, his eyelashes fanned out over freckled cheeks. Ilya had sighed, but quickly got ready for bed himself and slid in behind his husband.

He had thought he'd been fast asleep, but Shane had shifted to settle into his embrace as he wrapped an arm over him. “How is she?” he had mumbled, eyes still shut tight, voice sleep-thickened.

“Good.” She had a new boyfriend. It seemed somewhat serious. She’d spent a decent chunk of time reviewing his performance in the bedroom. Ilya had begun to mouth at Shane's neck, hands sliding tentatively over his skin, testing the waters. “I was hoping you would still be awake.”

“I almost am,” Shane had sighed, pressing back into Ilya's chest, and Ilya had taken that as all the permission he needed.

By the time Shane had spoken again, Ilya (half dazed by the sort of shallow, gentle fucking that might allow Shane to continue to rest undisturbed but also never quite gave Ilya the friction he needed) had hardly been able to register what had been said. With a soft, wet sound, he'd released the patch of skin that he'd been working at and lifted his head. “Hmm?” 

“It's been like, twice a day. At least. I hadn't realised–” he'd cut himself off with a soft moan and clutched Ilya's hand in his own. Like that, Ilya had understood from the tightness of his grip. Keep doing that.

Ilya had ended up getting lost in trying to perfectly replicate the motions of his hips so he hadn't remembered what had been said until the morning. “God, you really were holding back before, weren't you?” what seemed to be a genuine, breathless surprise in the tone. “It's been like, twice a day. At least. I hadn't realised–” When he'd turned the words over in his mind, he hadn't really been sure whether they had been painting it as a positive or a negative.

The plan had been to rein it in today. Not stop completely, but maybe just hold back a little, limit himself to just once - in the evening maybe, after they cooked dinner together and watched the sun set over the lake. Act a little more romantic. A little less like a dog in heat.

But then Shane had unexpectedly woken him up from the dozing half-sleep he'd been indulging in with a kiss to his temple, his skin radiating heat and damp with sweat from his morning run. “Morning, baby. I was about to hop in the shower,” he'd whispered. “If you want to join.” And how was Ilya supposed to refuse that offer? 

Shane had sunk to his knees almost as soon as they'd gotten under the water and teased Ilya ruthlessly with short, kittenish licks and delicate kisses, taking just the head into his mouth and suckling gently at it, and when Ilya couldn't take it anymore he'd lifted Shane to his feet and pressed him into the tiles and opened him up with quick, rough movements all while Shane had impatiently begged and begged and begged: Come on. Fuck. Please. Need you inside of me, baby. Need it so bad. Ilya, please. 

And maybe that could've been fine. Sure, he'd gone a little early on it, but if he could manage to restrain himself for the rest of the day then it didn't necessarily mean he'd blown his shot at cooling things off a little bit. But then they'd gone into the town together, and wandered around the market stalls, chatting about anything and everything, fingers interlinked. A handful of people had recognised them - Ilya had heard the smattering of whispers here and there as they walked past - but they'd mostly gone by unnoticed and unbothered. Shane had looked irresistible, skin glowing, freckles darkened thanks to the time spent under the shifting glare of the egg-yolk sun. He had spoken to a couple of the stall owners in French, and Ilya had been able to do nothing but stare at him and take it all in: the words dripping like honey from his lips, his smile twinkling, the easy effortlessness to his charm that only the summers could seem to coax out of him.

They had eaten lunch at a tiny café, and the waitress - barely more than a child really, probably working there to make some quick cash in her summer break from university - had blushed whenever Ilya spoke directly to her, and tentatively flirted as she'd brought them their drinks, and let her hand linger over his for a little too long as she'd taken his menu from him. It had made Ilya laugh to himself; usually Shane was the one who got this type of attention, hometown hero as he was.

“Do you ever miss fucking women?” he had asked on the drive home.

He already knew the answer to the question. He had asked it before. Ilya had answered it, plainly, definitively.

Ilya's lips had pressed together into a line. He had taught himself not to be too offended on the occasions that the question came back. It had become obvious a while ago that it mainly served as a way for Shane to communicate to Ilya that he felt insecure without having to come out and openly admit to feeling insecure.

He had not even had to say anything. By the time he had slid his eyes across to his husband in the driver's seat, Shane had already been wincing. “Fuck. Sorry. I'm sorry.” He'd swallowed thickly. His hand had lifted from the wheel in a nervous, dismissive flick. “Please forget I said that. I wasn't thinking.”

Ilya had reached across the aisle and settled his fingers on the back of Shane's neck, kneaded gently in a way he knew would soothe him. It had helped, a little, but he could tell Shane still felt on edge - probably in equal parts due to lingering anxieties about his ability to successfully compete for Ilya’s affection and embarrassment at the way he had failed to contain that fear when he knew, rationally, that he no longer had to, that this was a contest he had already won.

They’d been on the secluded back roads close to the cottage itself that hardly anyone used except for those in the handful of holiday houses dotted in the area that lay empty for most of the year. Yuna and David were back in Ottawa. Ilya hadn’t been able to remember the last time he'd seen another car on the road. “Pull over.”

Shane had looked across to him, brow furrowed. His eyes had flicked down over Ilya's body, head to toe, before finding his face again. “Are you ok?”

Ilya had nodded. “I’m fine. Pull over.” He'd dug his fingers a little firmer into Shane's neck and watched the muscles his jaw tense, his Adam’s apple bob.

“It's not too far to the cottage.”

“I know.”

Shane had acquiesced, indicating and diligently checking his mirrors as if they hadn't been the only car on the road for the last 5km; it had made Ilya smile. When he'd parked up, two wheels on the grass verge by the road and the hazard lights switched on, Ilya had slid his seat back. It had not taken very much at all to convince Shane to climb over the console and fit himself into the tiny space that had been created by the movement. Once there, he'd buried his face into Ilya's crotch, nosing along the line of his soft cock with no instruction.

“Why would I want anyone else?” Ilya had later murmured, fingers tugging at Shane's hair as he worked his mouth over Ilya just the way he liked it. “Why would I ever need another when I already have someone who will do whatever I want?” Shane had shivered when he'd said it; Ilya had watched it chase through his entire body. He had known somehow, intuitively, that it would affect Shane like that, the same way that he'd known putting him in this position of total submission would calm him faster than anything he could say. “Is so obedient, so eager, always a sure bet.” It had still felt vulgar, vaguely uncomfortable, pushing the words past his lips, even in full knowledge of how Shane would respond to them; he had found himself wondering what Rose would say if she heard Ilya speaking like this to him, or his parents.

He’d closed his eyes briefly, twisting his fingers tighter into Shane's hair to ground himself and focusing on the way Shane had moaned around his cock in response. There had not been anyone else listening. It was just the two of them.

“You were made for this, lyubimyy, made for me. There is no one else for me but you.”

“I love you,” Shane had said as the car pulled out into the road, Ilya now in the driver's seat because he hadn't quite trusted the fuzzy, love-drunk look in Shane's eyes.

Ilya had smiled. “I love you too.”

Back at the cottage they'd laid out on the grass under the afternoon sun. Shane had been reading one of his dull strategy books, and Ilya had watched clouds pass lazily across the sky and tried to pick out familiar shapes. When he'd gotten bored he'd started plucking blades of grass and pressing them between the fat of his palms, beneath his thumb. He’d tried to blow through it at just the right angle for the air to make a high whistle as it passed through, the way it did when Shane did it. It had mostly just resulted in him blowing raspberries against his own skin. At some point Shane had stood up suddenly and said, “Ok, let's go for a swim.”

“Like a fucking child hyped up on sugar,” he'd muttered under his breath as they'd picked their way down the garden path to the water.

Ilya had laughed, and Shane had turned back, looking momentarily surprised, as if he hadn't quite factored in that Ilya might hear him. Then his mouth had spread wide into a grin too. “You are! All this pent up energy and all this dedication to using it in the most irritating way possible,” he'd said to defend his words.

Ilya had caught up and slipped a hand in his, kissed the round of his bare shoulder so that he knew all was forgiven.

They passed a few beats in silence. 

“You know, my mom used to make me run back and forth from the front door to the living room.” He’d been smiling distantly, as if only just struck by the long-forgotten memory, and he had lifted a finger into the air in front of him and moved it left to right and back again a couple of times to illustrate his point. “Like, when it was the middle of winter and freezing outside, or late in the evenings. If I had too much energy to use up and I was being annoying about it. It was the longest straight line in the house.”

Ilya had found he could easily picture it, the Shane with chubby cheeks and a riot of freckles on his tiny face that he knew from the many pictures Yuna had shown him, entirely focused on his pointless, repetitive task - door to bookcase and back again, his hands coming out to brace him for every turn. 

“I actually really enjoyed it,” Shane had admitted sheepishly. “I sometimes did it for like an hour.” Ilya had found it adorable that he had thought he might need to clarify this, as if Ilya might not have instantly come to this conclusion by himself.

They had swam for a bit, and then inevitably ended up racing. Ilya had mostly lost until he'd started playing dirty, sinking beneath the water to drag Shane down by his ankles and then lurching ahead to exploit the precious few seconds he had while Shane attempted to gain back his momentum.

Shane, spluttering and indignant, had not allowed him to get away and soon they'd been launching themselves at each other, pushing and grappling, laughing raucously as they did their best to submerge the other down beneath the waves. At some point it had been obvious that Shane - who had never gotten into a fight off the ice, and even on it had only done so very rarely and usually because someone else had started it - was absolutely no match for Ilya’s ability to anticipate his next move, and he had instead opted for a strategy of immediate retreat. 

Ilya had caught him just as he'd made it to the shoreline, trying to climb the soft incline of one of the jagged rocks he usually sat on to watch Ilya on the days he didn't want to join in. Ilya had gotten a hand around his ankle and, from there, had managed to shimmy his way up and pin Shane down against the rough stone. The water had run down his body in rivulets as he had hovered over Shane, both of their chests heaving still from the exertion. The sun had only just begun its descent down past the distant line of the horizon, and the fading rays had danced over Shane's face, casting long shadows that highlighted every soft curve. 

Ilya had carefully lowered his lips and kissed him, slow and soft, Shane sighing into his mouth.

When Ilya had pulled away, Shane had chased him before settling back against the hard surface behind him. His lips had been slick and shiny and slightly parted as he panted softly. He'd gazed up at Ilya with the big, brown eyes of a baby deer. So adoring. So desperate. So eager to please. 

From anyone else he would've refused to believe that they weren't acutely aware of what they were doing.

But Shane was just so pure. He never realised when a bartender was flirting with him, or when someone spent the whole night giving him the eye from across the room, or when a fan was gazing up at him with a mix of such open adoration and barely-concealed embarrassment that Ilya could be almost certain, even from a distance, that they had touched themselves while staring at a poster of him at some point in their life. (Shane often put Ilya on a pedestal when it came to dealing with ‘jealousy’ but it wasn't even that Ilya wasn't a possessive person when it came to Shane - that he was particularly healthy or well-adjusted in this regard - it was just that it was so astoundingly obvious how oblivious Shane was to any sort of sexual interest that Ilya never felt he had to worry about Shane recognising another person's desire for him, never mind acting on it.) He had an innocence to him that made you believe that he could just be completely unaware of the effect he had on the people around him. That he could be digging his teeth into his lower lip right at that moment with no real understanding of how devastatingly hot an image he made. 

Against the rock, he'd shifted nervously. His eyes had self-consciously dropped Ilya's gaze before he had spoken, hesitant. “You can – if you want to.”

The thing was, Ilya hadn't wanted to. Or at least he hadn't when they'd crashed into the lake’s cool water; and he hadn't when they'd raced, pushing each other to go faster, harder, because they had never learned any other way to be; and he hadn't when they'd been tumbling over one another, hands clawing at any scrap of flesh they could find; not even when he'd gotten Shane under him, his body warm and soft in the now-dwindling sunlight. It was only meant to be a brief kiss. He had assumed they would be swimming again by now. 

But there was just something about Shane that seemed to invite it, beg for it. His vulnerability, his inherent acquiescence. The way he couldn't seem to help himself from offering up complete and total control over him with both palms upturned. It seemed such a shame to waste it. 

He'd pressed himself forward, already half hard in his shorts as he'd begun to grind against Shane's thigh. “Yeah. Ok. Just… like this, ok?” he'd muttered, mouthing at the juncture where Shane's shoulder became his neck, scraping his teeth over the delicate, mottled bruise there. “Is that alright, moyo solnyshko?”

Shane had sighed and nodded, his whole body seeming to relax into the gentle rocking of Ilya's hips as if his bones had melted into something more pliable. “Whatever you want,” he'd whispered. “You can use me however you want.”

Ilya had come in his swim trunks in about thirty seconds like a teenager, which made sense considering that only a teenager would be getting off for their third time in a day before the sun had even set.

There was probably something wrong with him. Medically. 

“Is what too much?” Shane is furrowing his brow as he eyes the carrots that Ilya is chopping into even chunks with uneasy suspicion, as if they might be the offending article.

Ilya shakes his head.

My desire. My greed, he thinks. Me. Am I too much?

He sighs. “This… arrangement,” he settles on, unsure of the best way to refer to what they've been doing for the past three weeks.

Shane's cheeks flush and his eyes flick back to the pot in front of him, embarrassed. “It's not too much,” he mumbles beneath his breath.

“You're sure?” Would Shane feel he could back out if he wanted to? He had suggested it. Did he think this came with the expectation that he had to enjoy it too? “I don't want you to–”

Shane cuts him off. “Ilya, it's not too much.” 

Ilya nods, turning back to the task at hand.

That should be the end of it. His tone had had an unmistakable finality to it. Drop it. As if Ilya were a dog with a ball.

He wishes he could. But there was this feeling in the back of his mind… this fear. Because Shane has always been desperate for praise, so docile, so I can be good I need to be good please just let me be good for you that Ilya wonders if it's hard, sometimes, to separate out what he actually wants from what he thinks Ilya might want.

He is sometimes reminded of the way that for every single sexual boundary that Shane had crossed since high school girlfriend heavy petting while making out, Ilya had been there, had guided him through it. It was difficult, in the face of realisations like that, not to worry that Ilya had crashed into Shane's life, all cocky and demanding, and carefully shaped him into something that perfectly suited Ilya’s needs, with desires that perfectly complemented his own, and effectively ruined him for anyone else. (That Shane still sucked cock the way that Ilya liked it - the way Ilya had taught him to at 18 years old - Ilya reflected on often when he had a hand on himself. That Shane had admitted that pretty much all of his sexual encounters outside of Ilya could be placed on a sliding scale from endurable to disaster Ilya did not ever let himself think about at all because it made him feel both transcendentally lightheaded and then, subsequently, like the world's biggest asshole.)

But when he had nervously brought it up once, instead of the gentle forgiveness he had been hoping for or the condemnation he'd feared he deserved, Shane had only laughed in his face. “Oh my god, you are so fucking full of yourself! Not everything's about you, Rozanov.”

Shane had suggested that that was maybe just the nature of a sexual relationship that had lasted as long as theirs had, that their desires would become somewhat intertwined. “Like, what about the ways you've changed for me, hmm? Because I find it hard to believe you were ever bossing Svetlana around, or calling her good girl.”

While Shane had been right that he had been with many women who had not wanted to surrender any control to him when they fucked, it had been the memories of the women who had that had done more to click things into place for him. The more 'famous' he had gotten (if an MLH player could really be referred to in those terms), the more it had seemed he was expected to take on a more authoritative role in the sex he had with women. And he didn't mind that at all - he could be big and intimidating if they wanted, he could flex his muscles and throw them about and give orders. But when he doled out instructions it all felt a little fake, like a big performance. If he told them to get on their knees they would do so slowly, fingers trailing down his body, teeth sunk into their lip, holding Ilya's gaze the whole time. Do you find this attractive? their eyes seemed to ask. Does it turn you on to see me do what you say? He'd often gotten the sense that they wanted him to be dominant not because they themselves were interested in being dominated by him but because they thought that this was what he might like. And who was he kidding? Yes, it had been hot - it had definitely never made the sex any less enjoyable - but he had always been aware of the artificial aftertaste of it all stuck under his tongue.  

With Shane he had almost immediately got the sense of the desire for structure as an innate, clawing need. When he dropped to his knees - lightning quick and without fanfare - it was clear that his submission was not really for Ilya but for himself. It made Ilya feel that it was something he was giving to Shane, rather than something he was taking from him. He had had found himself naturally slipping into a role that he knew would facilitate more of what Shane so clearly needed, and by now he wasn't even sure of where his enjoyment of the dynamic they so often took on when they fucked actually ended and where his enjoyment of Shane's reaction to it began.

Maybe they couldn’t be extricated. Maybe Shane was right. Maybe they were like two plants potted in the same soil, roots too tangled and intertwined now for them to ever be separated without doing great damage to either one.

Still it didn't stop him from worrying sometimes - that he might overstep the line and Shane wouldn't tell him; that he might fail to make it clear to Shane that really he was in control, that really Ilya was only here to please.

“You would say.”

“Hmm?”

Ilya wonders if he has spent enough time lost in thought that Shane genuinely thinks they might've started on a different topic or if he's just trying to avoid getting dragged back into a conversation he clearly didn't want to be having again.

“You would tell me if it was too much?” Ilya presses. His chest is tight. He is suddenly aware of the fact that he feels almost as if he might cry. The emotion itself is hard to pin down and he doesn't know what has caused it or how he might make it go away.

“Ilya, why–”

“You would tell me.”

Shane sighs. Ilya senses his exasperation and immediately feels embarrassed by it, where he has historically always been flooded with a bright ringing pride each time he managed to get under Shane's skin. 

He's struck by the odd instinct to feverishly apologise. 

But before he can, Shane seems to soften, turning to Ilya and smiling. He strokes the side of Ilya's face. “I promise I would tell you. But I also need you to understand that it is really, genuinely not even close to being too much.” 

Ilya leans into Shane’s touch. He feels the weight on his chest lighten a little. “Ok.”

Shane nods. “Ok.” At the corner of Ilya’s mouth, he drops a gentle kiss. “But I'm going to need those carrots soon, so it would be really great if you could quit worrying and get working.”

-

“I wish this could last forever”

Shane is underneath him, chest pressed into the mattress, his back halfway to that ridiculous, anatomy-defying arch that never fails to make Ilya feel like a rabid dog, frothing at the mouth. There is a pillow tucked beneath him - propping his hips up to allow Ilya to push into him at the right angle - because he had claimed he was too tired, is supposedly trying to sleep. (Ilya thinks that had been a lie, that Shane has just come to like fucking like this too much to pass up an opportunity.)

There is a smug self-satisfaction that runs through Ilya at the words, a selfish arrogance that he feels any time he does something he excels at, and this he has always excelled at. 

“This?” Ilya has been fucking him in slow, shallow thrusts, but here he shifts his weight so that he can drive that little bit deeper into Shane, grinding his hips in a lazy circle to illustrate his meaning.

A low, muffled groan stumbles out into the heavy air. Shane presses the side of his face further into the pillow below him, jaw slack. “Yes. This. Always.” The sound is thin and breathless, a slight slur sending each word tripping into the next. “But also, fuck” - his fingers curl into a tight fist, bedsheets twisted between each digit as Ilya realises he can pick up his pace now that it's clear he no longer has to sustain the illusion of trying not to disturb Shane - “also this… you taking what you need; me taking what you give.”

Ilya curls forward until almost every inch of his chest is pressed against Shane, resting his forehead in the shallow valley between his shoulder blades, skin tacky with sweat. How are you even real? he wants to ask. What have I ever done to deserve this? Instead he mutters, “Like a fucking fantasy,” against Shane's back. “So fucking perfect. You know that?”

At the soft rustle of movement beneath him, he lifts his head far enough to catch Shane nodding against the pillow, his hair ruffled by the motion.

The burning, selfish pride returns tenfold. There might be better players in the league and there were certainly better people in the world but who amongst them would ever be able to boast an ability to make Shane Hollander take a compliment without having to go through a full 10-minute charade of him attempting to deflect it beforehand?

“Wish we could do this forever too,” Ilya agrees.

He knows that it's not really true. Not for either of them. There is a reason that Shane had introduced the idea as wistful fantasy - Oh if only we could do this forever, he had sighed dramatically, back of his hand against his forehead like a frail Victorian lady, but we, two adults of sound mind in a consensual sexual relationship, are simply not allowed to continue to indulge in an act we find mutually enjoyable when we are anywhere but here! Ilya gets it. It's definitely for the best. He really does think the Centaurs have a shot at the Cup next season - something he's sure no one wants more than Shane ‘the only thing I love more than hockey is being good’ Hollander - but it will require grit and hard work and dedication. They cannot afford distractions, and the thought of Shane all willing and obedient was the dictionary definition of distracting. 

Still, the sticky heat of their bed is no place for pragmatism, especially not in the face of such an enticing fantasy. “Maybe it is too late already,” he murmurs, taking Shane's ear lobe between his teeth. “Maybe I’m not strong enough to stop.”

He hears Shane's breath catch in his throat, feels him begin to squirm under him. “What… what do you mean?”

Ilya has slowed to long, slow, deep thrusts, rolling his hips with careful intention as he murmurs right into Shane's ear. “You can't expect me to come off the ice, all pumped up from a victory - I scored a hat trick probably - and just stand in the showers with you naked less than ten feet from me, can you? When I know if I pressed you into the tiles you'd just take it for me?”

Shane makes a high, panicked sound that almost gets lost in the sound of Ilya's heavy breath, the way his own heartbeat thuds in his ears. “The team?”

Ilya laughs, pressing his smile into Shane's skin. “Mmm yes. They can watch if they want. They should know, don't you think? How lovely and obedient you are.”

“Fuck. Ilya,” Shane moans, pushing into the press of Ilya's lips into the space behind his ear. It was always such an easy way to rile him up: talk about other people watching, about them knowing what a slut he was, knowing how easy he gave it up, knowing how well he took it.

“And all that boring press, with all their boring questions… It is very dull being captain. You know this. But maybe not so dull if I can put you on your knees for me while I do it, hmm? Keep me entertained.”

There is a sound ripped from the back of Shane's throat that Ilya thinks he would not recognise as human had he not witnessed its spill from the man beneath him. He is writhing against the sheets as if possessed by something ungodly, fingers closing and opening as he reaches for something, low, urging noises dragged from him every time Ilya presses all the way into him.

Ilya holds him down with the weight of his body, takes one wrist in each hand and pins them against the mattress because he knows Shane likes to feel overpowered when he's like this. He holds him like this for a few beats before he speaks again, until he feels Shane starting to calm. 

“Would you do it?” Shane does not seem capable of forming answers to anything right now - eyes glazed over like there's nothing going on behind them - but Ilya presses on anyway. “Would you let me, moya lyubov? If I asked?” He draws back so that he can take in the smooth expanse of Shane's back, the dip of his spine, the shifting of his muscles beneath his skin - all tantalising and draped in warm lamplight. Ilya runs a knuckle down his spine, dipping down into each shadow and up over each bony peak as he goes. At the base are two dimples, one either side, that Ilya had once watched him come pool in and ever since has not been able to look at without feeling dizzy. “Would you let me show you off?” 

“Want to look at you,” Shane mumbles into the pillow, voice strained and urgent.

Ilya laughs. “I thought you were supposed to be sleeping,” he says pointedly, but he quickly negotiates putting Shane on his back anyway, getting him comfortable, before sliding back into him all the way to the hilt. For someone who has just whined about wanting to look at Ilya, Shane's eyes flutter closed pretty fast as Ilya begins to find a rhythmic, brutal pace.

He rolls his eyes and takes Shane's chin in his hand. “So you didn’t want to look?" he prompts, a tone of mock impatience. 

Shane's eyes fly open immediately, lashes delicate and dark and damp with tears against his golden skin. Momentarily, Ilya is reminded of that first time in the showers and feels washed with a sense of utter adoration at the memory: Shane's eyes wide - skittish but curious, cautiously intrigued. 

Ilya hums out a pleased sound and gives Shane's chin a light squeeze. “Good boy.” He leans down to meet Shane's lips in a kiss, mouths slack and lazy as they slide over each other, tongues curious. 

When Ilya pulls away, there is a thin line of spit that connects their lips. “I think I am going to miss being so greedy.”

“Greedy?”

“Hmm, taking and taking and taking,” Ilya clarifies, punctuating each repetition with a snap of his hips, “whenever I what.”

Shane’s head tips back, a pained expression on his face as his hand flies out and grabs blindly at Ilya's bicep. “Not greedy,” he insists between desperate, gasping attempts to catch his breath, “to take what is yours.”

Ilya curses under his breath; he is not sure of the language. “Shane, I'm going to–”

“Wait.” Shane's voice is featherlight, deliciously breathy. Ilya could maybe pretend that he hadn't heard the tiny word were it not for the heel of an ankle pressing into his side, and unspoken warning. He groans, teeth gritted as he pushes his forehead into the crook of Shane's neck and slows his hips, thrusts turning shallow and careful.

A dreamy sigh flutters past Shane's lips. He brings a hand up to the back of Ilya's head, starts stroking the hair at the nape of his neck. Ilya focuses on that, on the soothing touch, on that small scrap of skin, and not the way the rest of his body feels as if it is on fire. “Just a little longer, baby,” Shane whispers. “Want you inside me a little longer.”

Ilya nods obediently. Shane got like this sometimes - more than happy to exploit the fact that he rarely ever seems to need it as bad as Ilya does. God you're just desperate for it, aren't you? he will sometimes tease if he's feeling playful, performatively pretending to muse on whether he feels like letting Ilya fuck him that day, as if he would ever have the confidence to talk like that if he wasn't in the mood for something. It usually ends with Ilya sinking to the floor, fervent kisses pressed to the insides of Shane's knees, soft whimpers pushed out from the back of his throat, Shane's fingers in his hair. Why don't you beg for it a little, baby?

“Please,” Ilya murmurs, his voice strained, entire body taut and tense. “Please. Shane.”

Shane hums, disappointed. His words come out soft and distant, settling over Ilya like snowfall. “Usually last a little longer before you get like this.” It's said observationally, as if he's remarking on the weather, as if they have all the time in the world.

Ilya makes a gruff, pained noise. “I can't–”

He knows it's a bad choice of words even before he sees Shane's eyes harden. “You can. You know you can.” Two fingers slide into the wide gasping cavern of Ilya's mouth and his lips close instinctively around them, tongue laving over the pads of his fingertips. “Stop if you need,” Shane offers.

Ilya shakes his head. He would rather die than still his hips, than try to hold himself motionless inside the tight, slick heat of him. He is far too greedy for that.

He doesn't know how long it is before Shane takes pity on him, pausing the doting kisses he has been leaving along the line of his jaw to tell him, Now. Come for me, but by that point Ilya is too out of it to really be aware of anything as he thrusts blindly, erratically, chasing his own release, Shane’s hand working himself to the same goal. 

When he comes around enough to be able to process his immediate surroundings, Shane is cradling Ilya's head against his chest, fingers running through his curls. “Perfect,” Shane is whispering. “Always so perfect for me.”

And he is. This is. They are. Perfect. Just perfect for each other.