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Hollander has a new tattoo when Ilya sees him at the photoshoot. He would've noticed the pink rose with its spreading petals and bright yellow center in the soft bend of his left elbow. It's a single flower, done in a hyper-realistic style with intense shading. It's not a style of tattoo Ilya would want for himself, but it looks good on Hollander. When he comes to Hollander's room that night, he can't help but press a kiss to the flower.
When they find each other again, there are three more flowers, on his right shoulder blade. The style is softer this time, like he went to a different artist. The flowers themselves are pink and white, the colors fading in and out of each other. They look almost like water lilies, round blossoms with lots of pointed petals. Ilya kisses each of them, one at a time, and feels Hollander shiver beneath him.
The first time Ilya has the chance to actually make love fuck Hollander, there is another rose on his skin, this one pale yellow that fades into pink in the center, with many more petals than the other one. It blooms on his left thigh, and Ilya kisses it instead of Hollander's cock just to hear him whine.
At the MLH Awards, Rookie of the Year Shane Hollander has tiny yellow flowers with impossibly thin petals, growing from spindly green stems, tattooed behind his right ear. Ilya pushes him against a wall, kisses that spot. Hollander is more afraid than he is, less daring. Smarter. He leaves. They don't talk for some time.
After Sochi, Silver Medalist Shane Hollander posts a picture of himself with laurel leaves tattooed on his collarbones. Ilya thinks about answering one of Hollander's texts, asking what the fuck was up with him and flowers.
A sports magazine publishes a fluff piece about several players' favorite books. There are several hockey biographies, a few Young Adult Fantasy novels, two different entries for The Art of War. Ilya had sent in his answer as The Little Prince, a book his mama used to read to him. Shane is pictured next to his entry with a battered hardcover copy of The Language of Flowers by Kate Greenaway.
Ilya finds a digital copy online. He had no idea there were so many different kinds of roses. Laurel for glory is easy to find, but the only pictures in the book are playful illustrations of Victorian children, not the flowers themselves. He starts typing each kind of rose flower into google. He finds what he thinks is a match for the thigh tattoo: hundred-leaved rose, more commonly known as cabbage rose, which the book says is for pride. The first rose is still a mystery; nothing online looks quite right. He tries typing a wordy description of the shoulder flowers and nothing comes up.
The next time Hollander posts on Instagram, his left wrist is ringed in basil leaves of all things. Ilya finds the entry in the book. Hatred.
Who could golden boy Shane Hollander hate?
Scott Hunter, maybe, since they got in that fight on the ice. That had been his first MLH fight...
Was Hollander really getting a tattoo about his emotions every time something significant happened to him? Pride for his successful career, glory for an Olympic medal, hatred for his first fight on the ice?
No, he couldn't be doing that.
Hollander wins the cup. Ilya identifies the flowers on his left ankle as bay tree blooms. Glory again, but maybe he doesn't want to repeat flowers.
Hollander wins the cup again. Blue morning glories appear on his left wrist, opposite the basil.
At Hollander's condo, he admonishes Ilya for smoking. Ilya doesn't tell him he's been tapering off, trying to quit because Shane doesn't like the smell. He imagines that Shane smells like a bouquet, a flower shop, a bountiful garden in spring. He searches for a new flower or leaf. Hollander has done plenty since the last time they saw each other; there will be a new one—
Ah.
Just under the curve of his ass, a watercolor tattoo of a five-petaled flower, in the richest shade of fuschia Ilya has ever seen. He has learned that fuchsia is a flower, and not just a shade of pink. But this isn't that flower, which looks more like honeysuckle someone dipped in pink paint.
"What is this one for, Hollander?" He asks, pressing a kiss to the bloom.
The spot is sensitive and Shane shivers, hips moving like he wants to grind his cock against the mattress. "I just like them," Shane says. Ilya doesn't believe him. The sex is still amazing. Ilya wants to ask what kind of flowers are on his shoulders, if he knows the name. Wants to ask why two different roses. Wants to ask if he can stay.
He doesn't.
Ilya is Most Valuable Player. Ilya is expecting Shane Hollander in his penthouse. Ilya is going back to Russia soon.
"Take off your clothes," he tells him. Shane does, revealing inch after inch of skin. When he turns to fold his trousers and lay them on the couch with his other clothes, Ilya sees the scattered yellow flowers on his ribs. At first, he thinks they are the same as the ones behind his ear, but they're clearly daffodils.
He asks Hollander to touch himself, asks him if he wants to cum on Ilya's cock or in his mouth—he chooses cock because he's fucking perfect.
He doesn't kiss him. Not his perfect mouth, and not any of his beautiful flowers.
Ilya goes back to Russia. The summer passes. Shane does not text him.
An interview. Shane Hollander scratches his face while he listens thoughtfully to a question. Dead, shriveled leaves decorate his fingers. The book is quite clear on this: melancholy, which Ilya has to look up. Sadness.
Shane—Shane, Shane, Shane—is needy the next time they meet, demanding kisses, caresses, Ilya wants to give him everything. The list of things he can actually give him is short, but includes orgasms, of which there are plenty.
A cluster of leaves has appeared on Shane's inner thigh. He holds Shane's basil-adorned wrist up to it for comparison. "I thought you weren't repeating things."
Shane tugs his wrist away. He's still deep in the afterglow, and so maybe isn't as guarded as he normally would be. "It's not sweet basil," he says of the tattoo on his thigh. "It's different."
Ilya nods, wondering if there is a difference between basil and sweet basil. "Then, what is it?"
Shane sighs. "Why'd you wanna know?"
"Maybe I like flowers, too." He certainly likes them when they're covering Shane's beautiful body, muscling in on territory otherwise only occupied by his constellation of freckles.
Shane looks away. "People think they're girlie."
"So what?" Ilya shrugs. He grips Shane's chin, directs his gaze toward Ilya's. "I am not making fun of your tattoos, Hollander. I think they're beautiful."
Shane reaches up, touches the Boston Bears logo over Ilya's heart. It's American Traditional style, hard lines and bold, simple colors. Not like Shane's delicate linework and watercolor art. Not like the detail-heavy pink and yellow rose Ilya has yet to identify.
"Beautiful?" Shane murmurs.
"Mmhm." He bends, kisses the laurel leaves, the mystery rose, the morning glories. "Some men are intimidated by flowers. They think liking them makes them weak." He kisses the cabbage rose on his thigh, and the new green leaves. He brings Shane's foot close to his face and kisses the bay tree flowers on his ankle. Shane touches his face with his sadness hand. He wants to ask what had made Shane so sad he wanted to inscribe it on his skin forever; he thinks he knows the answer. "You are not weak."
"Thank you," Shane sighs.
The next time they see each other, there is more yellow, this time on Shane's back, between his shoulder blades. It's a spindly, delicate looking thing that reminds Ilya of queen anne's lace. Googling yellow queen anne's lace brings him to fennel flowers, and Ilya thought only fruits had flowers.
Strength, the book says. Worthy of all praise.
Is that how Hollander wants to feel? Worthy?
Ilya invites Shane to his house—not his apartment in the city where he parties and fucks women and yells at his brother over the phone—his house. He listens to Shane moan and keen and cry as he rides him, then even more after he flips them over, fucks into him with everything he has. Pours everything into every kiss.
Another five-point pink flower has bloomed, this one on Shane's sternum, framed by his ribs and laurel leaves on his collarbone. It's a much lighter pink that the one below his ass, with a yellow center.
"Which is this one?" Ilya asks, pressing kisses to it.
"It's a Carolina rose," Shane answers, scratching at the hairs on the back of Ilya's neck.
Why were there so many kinds of roses?
Ilya takes a chance, kisses the first tattoo, where it's tucked in the bend of Shane's arm. "Same as this one?"
"No, that's—" Shane looks away. Ilya moves himself into his eyeline, lying on his side and gathering the other man in his arms. He kisses the yellow flowers behind his ear. "You're not making fun of me?" Shane asks.
"No."
Shane looks at him over his shoulder. "It's just... you give me a lot of shit, and I... I like them."
"I know I give you shit," Ilya says. "But not when you don't want it, when you don't like it. Is fun, playful. But I would not make fun of this." He kisses the newest yellow flower, between Shane's shoulder blades. "You keep covering up your freckles with them. I would like to know why."
Shane chuckles. "You like my freckles? I kind of hate them."
Ilya sits up in alarm. "Hate them? How can you hate—Hollander, your freckles are stunning."
Shane rolls onto his back, smiles wide and bright and beautiful. "Stunning?"
"Yes, yes, stunning. Is that not the right word? They are incredible." He peppers kisses all over Shane's neck, his chest. Shane giggles, buries a hand in Ilya's curls. He kisses the mystery rose again. "You can share this with me, if you want to."
Shane's hand shifts, cups his face. Ilya leans into the touch, presses a kiss to his palm. Shane sighs. "They make me feel... okay with being a little feminine."
"With being gay?" Ilya asks.
Shane nods. "And they make me feel good about my body."
"You have an excellent body. Should feel good about it."
Shane pulls him down for a kiss. "They make me feel beautiful."
"You were already beautiful," Ilya murmurs. "Your garden is only... enhancement."
Shane chuckles. "Wow, big word."
"Mmhm, I read books," Ilya says. It's true; Kate Greenaway has other books, all of them archived on Project Gutenberg. "You will not tell me which flower this is?" He touches the bend of Shane's elbow.
"Oh," Shane says, like he forgot Ilya's original question. "It's a Damask rose. It's a hybrid of two different rose species. They were developed in Bulgaria." Shane goes on for a little while longer, explaining what traits the Damask rose kept from each of its two parent roses. Ilya wonders if this is what Shane is actually interested in—the science, the history—and not the meanings in the book, the poetry of it.
Laurel for glory.
Cabbage rose for pride.
Bay tree for more glory.
Morning glories for glorious beauty (and Ilya will not tell him how accurate that one is).
Sweet basil is different than basil basil; it means good wishes. Nothing to do with his fight with Hunter. Good. Ilya doesn't want Shane to have a tattoo for Scott Hunter.
Not that it matters what Ilya wants.
He presses a finger to the yellow flowers on Shane's ribs, where they're rising from a bed of pointed leaves. "These are daffodils, yes?"
Shane shrugs. "No, but—"
"I want to know," Ilya insists. "They look like daffodils."
"Jonquils," Shane says. "In the same family."
Ilya touches the leaves on his inner thigh. Shane's cock, still spent, gives a tiny twitch. Ilya chooses not to tease him about it in this moment; there will be time for that later, when Shane isn't opening up to him like a tulip in spring. "These are not sweet basil."
"Dittany of Crete," Shane says.
"Bless you," Ilya replies, as if Shane had sneezed.
He rolls his eyes, smiles his beautiful smile. "It—they're Greek."
"Makes sense. What about the one back here?" Ilya touches the spot behind his ear.
"Chinese ragwort," Shane says. "It's a mountain flower."
He hums. He will have to remember these, to look them up in the book later. "On your shoulder, the ones that look like pink water lilies."
Lilies. Lily?
For Ilya?
No. Surely not.
"Crown vetch," Shane says.
"You are sneezing a lot today, Holander," Ilya teases.
"Maybe I'm allergic to your bullshit," Shane suggests.
"No." He shakes his head. "You would have broken into hives long ago."
Shane chuckles again. It's such a lovely sound. "I like them... sometimes they're called coronella, but that's actually the name of a snake."
"They don't look like snakes." Ilya kisses his collarbone again.
"No, I don't know the etymology." Shane touches his face again. Ilya doesn't recognize that word, but he could look it up.
"Are you hungry?" Ilya asks.
Shane nods. "Do you wanna order in?"
No, he does not. "Do you like tuna melts?"
Shane raises an eyebrow. "You want to make me a tuna melt?"
Ilya's jaw clenches. Yes, he thinks. Yes, I want to make you a tuna melt and give you a ginger ale out of my fridge and rub your feet when you are tired. I want to hear you talk about flowers, I want to crack my chest open and let you crawl inside.
"I am making one," he says, sliding out of bed. "I can make two."
Shane eats. He drinks. He is satisfied. He talks about the Buffalo Longswords and how they suck and are bad. Ilya angles his phone away from him as he looks up the flowers he'd named. He doesn't want to forget.
Rose, Carolina yields love is dangerous. Ilya agrees.
Jonquil says I desire a return of affection. He has it. Ilya hopes he knows now, years after getting this flower and its message etched on his ribs, near his heart, that he has Ilya's affection. He has everything he can give him.
Dittany of Crete has different entries for if the flowers are pink or white. Shane only has the leaves, but seeing as pink ones are for birth and white ones are for passion, he assumes Shane means that one. Passion on his inner thigh. Of course.
Chinese ragwort is not in the book. He thinks maybe Chinese ragwort is the same as Chinese chrysanthemum, which the book does list under Cheerfulness under adversity, which would make sense for Shane, especially very early in his career. He googles it, but they don't look the same at all.
Just searching Chinese ragwort yields older names for the flower. Cacalia. Adultation.
Crown vetch is another puzzle to unravel, but Ilya has the coronella clue. The Wikipedia article for the snake is interrupted by his father's contact flashing on the screen.
His father is alone. Where the fuck is Alexei.
Fucking.
Goddamn motherfucking—
Shane is on the couch when he returns. He asks after Ilya's father. Ilya swallows. He wants to saw himself open and give this man every opportunity he wants to hurt him. He knows Shane would handle his beating heart with care.
But he also does not want to ruin the beauty of this moment. "Do not worry." He kisses Shane's forehead. Shane snuggles into his side. Shane crawls into his lap and makes him fall apart. He cries out his name—Shane not Hollander—as he's covered in the two of them, their release hot on his skin.
Shane leaves.
It's Ilya's fault, for wanting.
He curls up in his bed, finds the entry for coronella in the book. Success crown your wishes.
Shane is dating Rose Landry. Ilya wants to tear the Bears' training room apart, piece by piece.
Cranberries—flowers, berries, leaves, a single twig—grow across Shane's right shoulder blade, toward the fennel flowers. Ilya doesn't look it up. He doesn't want to risk their meaning being new love.
He reads and rereads poems Greenaway had written about friendship, and love, about the laughter of happy children and the patience it takes to grow a garden. Ilya doesn't think he has what it takes.
He buys a physical copy of the book, just so he's not staring at his phone screen all the fucking time, pouring blue light into his eyes on nights when he failed to convince himself to go to a bar with the team.
Alien-looking purple and pink flowers splash up the back of Shane's upper right arm, visible in a photo Pike posts where Shane is facing away from the camera, starting at his elbow and working their way nearly to the cranberries. They look like orchids, with their strange shape and thin petals, but their oak-like leaves give them away.
Geranium, oak-leaved. True friendship.
Ilya is surprised by the lack of new roses.
Shane is wearing a jacket when he walks up to Ilya at the bar. Ilya can see the barest hint of his glory laurels, the sadness leaves on his hand, and of course the adulation cacalia behind his ear. He wants to kiss it. Wants to kiss Shane.
"What room are you in?"
Ilya lets himself cry, wraps his arms around Shane and holds him close. He loves this man, he loves this man, he loves this man.
They demolish that fucking hotel bed. The whole room smells like sex and sweat and Shane's cologne. Ilya could bathe in that scent combination.
There is a flour-petaled flower, pinky-purple, on Shane's left ring finger. Ilya has already seen it, in a gossip post speculating that he and Rose Landry are engaged. Stupid. Why wouldn't he get a rose for Rose Landry? Or else, forget-me-nots for true love. Ilya kisses the flower. "What is this one called?"
"Honesty," Shane murmurs. Ilya looks at him. Surely that is the meaning and not the name. But Shane doesn't tell Ilya the meanings of his flowers. "Lunaria anua," Shane clarifies when he registers Ilya's confusion. "They're in the cabbage and mustard family."
"Do cabbages have flowers?" Ilya asks, kissing the sweet basil on his wrist.
"No, but there's decorative varieties. Sometimes people use them in landscaping." He shows Ilya a picture on his phone, a spring-green cabbage with a pink center, surrounded by greenery in a garden bed. "A lot of plants you wouldn't think are related, are related. Like, roses and apples are the same plant doing different things."
Ilya blinks. "Is that why there are so many different roses?"
Shane laughs. "I donno, I never really thought about it. There's a lot of different kinds of apples too... maybe because people just like them."
"They're beautiful," Ilya says, looking at the freckles on Shane's nose. Shane kisses him. They go for one more round before he has to say goodbye.
Ilya's father is dead. Shane sends flowers. They are white lilies, funeral flowers. Not weeping willow—mourning—or cypress—death—or mourning bride all is lost.
But Ilya has not lost all. He has lost a foggy layer of sadness, he has lost thorns that choke and bleed, he has lost a home that has not felt like home in some time.
"You wear glasses?" Ilya asks in surprise when Shane answers his video call.
Shane, silly thing that he is, takes them off before he replies. Ilya asks him to put them back on, to take off his clothes. "That one is new," he says, seeing round bundle of yellow blossoms just above his right hip, in that place where Ilya likes to nip and suck, until there is a mark there, since Hollander can cover it with his designer underwear.
“Yeah,” Shane says with a sigh. “Acacia flowers.” His cock is half hard against his thigh, just from the act of getting undressed for Ilya.
“How do you choose where you put them?” Ilya asks.
Shane shrugs. “I um… my artist, Kimiko, has a set of dice she rolls.”
“Dice?” Ilya asks, getting comfortable in bed. He fishes his cock out his sweatpants, strokes himself idly as Shane talks.
“Yeah, they have different…” His eyes catch on the movement of Ilya’s hand. He swallows. “Different parts of the body on each side.”
“And you rolled hip for this one?” Ilya reaches down, squeezes his balls. The movement brings the tip of his cock into view of the camera for just a moment. Shane’s mouth drops open. “Hm?” Ilya prompts.
He clears his throat. “Uh, stomach. But I think I want something bigger in the center eventually.”
“Why not roll dice again?” Ilya watches the way Shane’s eyes move with his hand as he strokes himself lazily. Shane is at full mast now, but isn’t touching himself, just letting his erection sit against his thigh. Ilya licks his lips.
Shane shrugs. “I donno, I didn’t think about it.”
“What will you put in the middle?” Ilya touches his own abdomen with his free hand.
“Um… I have piece planned. It’s more elaborate, involved. I’d have to do it over the summer.”
Ilya nods. “Are you still getting shit about them? People post about your artwork online. They like it. Want to… explore.”
“Explore?” Shane’s voice is hoarse, his eyes glued to the movement of Ilya jacking himself just off screen.
“Your body. They want to count your flowers, catalogue them.”
Shane hums absent mindedly. “You… you really want to talk about this right now?”
“I always want to talk about you.”
Shane swallows. His mouth opens, tongue peaking out for a moment. Excuses pile up behind Ilya’s teeth. He didn’t mean it like that, was joke, he doesn’t—
“I don’t really want anyone exploring my body,” Shane says. He looks away for the first time. “Except… you know.”
“I don’t know,” Ilya says, a teasing lilt to his voice.
Shane shakes his head. “You’re going to make me say it.”
“I am.” Ilya shifts so his cock bobs into Shane’s view again. The man lets out a small sound, then looks embarrassed. “Please don’t hold back your pretty noises, moy tsvetok.” My flower.
“You haven’t called me that before,” Shane murmurs. He shifts in his seat and finally wraps a hand around his neglected cock. “Fuck, Ilya—” Ilya groans at the sound of Shane saying his name, breathless and needy. “I don’t want anyone to explore my body but you.”
“Good boy, moy tsvetok. Thank you for speaking your mind.”
“Fuck off,” Shane laughs. He strokes himself with purpose now, head thrown back to expose the long column of his neck.
“ Spasibo, chto pozvolili mne osmotret' vash sad,” Ilya says, first in Russia, which has Shane looking at him, curiosity and lust in his gaze, then in English. “Thank you for letting me into your garden.”
He laughs again. “Ilya, that’s gross.”
“Why is it gross? You are a garden, a greenhouse. A beautiful orchard.”
Shane shakes his head. “There’s just connotations in English… nevermind, it doesn’t matter. I like how much you like my tattoos.”
Ilya smiles despite himself. Shane likes something about him, about how Ilya loves him. “I do like your tattoos.” I like you. “I might get another one… what do you think I should get? If I got a flower, like yours?” He continues stroking himself, but the pleasure is the background that Shane is performing against.
Shane reaches up and pinches one of his nipples, lets his head fall back against the couch cushion. “Um… I donno, maybe purple columbines, or maybe cowslip?” He sighs, gathers a bead of pre-cum with his thumb. “Fuck.”
“Mm, these are pretty flowers? Would look good together?” Ilya asks. He licks his palm, the taste salty and musky.
Shane groans, watching Ilya stroke himself a little faster. “I—um, they’re both purple? They… fuck, Ilya.” He thrusts up into his own fist.
“They fuck?” Ilya teases. “The flowers?”
“Fuck off, that’s not what I mean, and you know it.” Shane pants.
Ilya chuckles. “You look very nice like this, Hollander. Falling apart for me.”
“I—I’m close,” Shane whines. “Ilya, can—I want—”
“Are you asking permission, tsvetok? Such a good boy. So good for me.” He’s getting close himself. “Want to see you come, Shane.” Shane cries out, paints himself white up to his chest.
Later, Ilya drags a finger down the A’s in The Language of Flowers. Acacia flowers mean—
Secret love.
He can’t really handle that information right at this moment.
He finds columbine, foolish. But purple columbine means resolved to win. He knows his smile is bright and goofy. He looks them up—they’re gorgeous, purple and white with dramatic petals. That Shane would pick a flower like this for him, he feels honored, lov—
Loved?
He feels loved.
It’s strange how alien the feeling is.
Cowslip is a flower Ilya has never heard of, but there are lots of those in the book. He looks them up, and they’re yellow, not purple. He looks in the book. Ah—not only is there cowslip, but also American cowslip. This variety is purple, with thin petals that stand on end, like the flowers are surprised. The two flowers would look good together, he thinks. The book provides the meaning, divine beauty.
It’s stupid to text his tattoo artist, asks if he can recommend someone more comfortable with colorwork.
He nearly murders his brother. He seeks solace in Svetlana. He settles his affairs and vows to never return to this place. He pours his entire self into a confession to Shane, to the man he loves, to the place he feels safest. Shane doesn’t understand him, but he listens. He asks how he feels. He tells him he misses him. It’s enough.
Shane says hello during warmups, asks how he’s doing. He tells him the door code to his condo. Tells Ilya he’s excited to spend the night together. Goes down on the ice.
For 12 hours, Ilya is a ghost. He lays in his hotel bed, stairs at the ceiling, presses his fingers to the sore, sensitive tissue of his fresh tattoo, just to remind himself that he’s still alive.
It’s Marlow who texts him. Just got the news. Hollander’s okay. Concussed, but okay. I should go apologize to him.
I’m going anyway, Ilya texts back. I’ll give him your regrets. Marlow sends flowers. Yellow tulips. He doesn’t know they mean hopeless love.
“Ilya!” Shane practically sings as Ilya pushes into the room, Marlow’s flowers in hand. “Hiii!”
Ilya moves faster, setting the flowers on the bedside table. “Holander, shh, you have to be quiet.”
“Mmm,” Shane hums. His eyes land on the flowers. “Ohh.” He touches the yellow petals.
“Marly sent them,” Ilya explains. “He’s very sorry.”
“I’m not mad at him,” Shane says. “I love tulips.”
“You don’t have any tulip tattoos,” Ilya murmurs, taking Shane’s hand in his. He runs his thumb over Shane’s knuckles. He’s alive, he’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay.
Shane makes a face. “That isn’t true.” Ilya raises an eyebrow, but Shane only smiles at him, eyes unfocused. “Hi.”
Fuck, he loves this man. “Hi. You scared me.”
“I'm sorry I didn't text you.” He looks genuinely sad.
Ilya shakes his head. “No, that's—"
“And I'm sorry we couldn't spend last night together,” Shane interrupts. “I really wanted to. Really wanted to see you. And show you...”
“Show me what, Hollander?”
“And I wanted to ask you something.” Shane’s eyes are on their hands, on Ilya’s thumb as it strokes slowly across his skin.
“Okay,” Ilya prompts.
“Will you come to my cottage this summer?” Shane asks, voice bouncing the way fat, fuzzy bumble bees bounce against pollen-laden flowers. He lists all the reasons why this isn't a terrible, awful idea: the cottage is private. No one will know Ilya is there. It will be fun.
Fun.
Because Shane enjoys his company.
Enjoys him.
“Maybe," Ilya says. Maybe. Probably not. But maybe.
“And I wanted to show you my new one," Shane says. Ilya’s mouth waters, because his body is more foolish than he is. "I was scared they would have to cut it, but I didn't need surgery."
“New what?" He asks even though he knows the answer.
Shane winks at him. "Wouldn't you like to know."
Ilya does want to know.
The nurse comes in to check on Shane. Ilya leaves. He goes back to Boston. He hurts his ribs, gets knocked out of the playoffs.
Scott Hunter kisses his boyfriend on national television.
Shane picks him up from the airport. Ilya tells him he is terrified. Shane says he hasn’t slept with anyone since they’ve been apart. Neither has Ilya. He pretends to be annoyed when Shane stops to marvel at this fact, to ask him to be honest this weekend.
“Okay, I honestly want to fuck you now,” Ilya says and tugs Shane’s shirt up and over his head.
Holy fuck.
This must be the big piece Shane mentioned during their video call: two half wreaths, bracketing Shane’s navel and leading down to his hip bones. Ilya touches the blooms traces the gossamer lines of their leaves. “Tell me what they are,” Ilya murmurs.
Shane takes his hand, guides it on a tour of sorts: towers of dark purple honey flowers, purple and yellow hyacinths, yellow tulips and lilies, springs of linden tree, fuzzy fluffy motherwort, oak leaves, and bridal roses.
Ilya kisses the new flowers, licks, and nips at the sensitive skin of Shane’s abdomen. Shane pants and groans, fingers buried in Ilya’s hair. Each of them needs equal attention—a kiss, a lick, a tiny bite, a kiss again.
Shane whines. “Ilya, please.”
“Please what, tsvetok?” Ilya murmurs against Shane’s belly button. He can feel his lover’s cock, hard and leaking, pressed against his shoulder as he bends over Shane on the couch.
“Please.” He’s shaking, back arched, head thrown back.
Ilya shifts so he’s kneeling between Shane’s legs. Makes Shane cum down his throat. He licks his lips, wipes his chin, smiles at Shane.
“Let me see you,” Shane pants.
Ilya stands, pulls his shirt off, then hesitates to take his shorts. Shane smiles, gets down onto his knees in front of Ilya. He licks his lips, hooking his thumbs into Ilya’s waistband. “Shane…” Ilya breathes.
He tugs Ilya’s short down, mouth falling open as he’s presented with Ilya’s straining cock. Shane wraps his lips around the head, eyes fluttering closed. Ilya is far too aware of the new tattoo on his hip bone, the two purple flowers entwined in each other.
Shane fucking loves sucking Ilya’s cock—he moans and drools, buries his nose in Ilya’s pubic hair. When he eyes do open, they’re rolling back in his head, or staring intently up at Ilya. He cups Shane’s face in one hand, strokes his cheek with his thumb. Shane makes him cum with a deep, rumbling groan, aiming Ilya’s cock so it splashes across Shane’s chest.
He’s still panting, Ilya’s release dripping off his nipples, when his eyes lock on Ilya’s flower tattoo. Shane’s eyes narrow. “Is that… did you…” he looks up at Ilya. “Did you fucking get the tattoo I suggested for you?” He sounds incredulous, but he’s smiling like he just one his tenth cup in a row.
Ilya swallows. “You want me to be honest this week, yes?” Shane nods enthusiastically. Ilya’s eyes land on the mess on Shane’s chest. If it dries there, Shane will be grossed out and upset. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
In the bathroom, Shane touches the purple columbine and cowslip flowers. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“You like Kate Greenaway?” Ilya asks.
Shane’s gaze snaps to him, utter shock on his face. “Yeah, I… wait.”
“A few years ago,” Ilya says, fingers trailing along the jonquil flowers on Shane’s ribs. They just barely meet with his new wreaths, leaves touching like new lovers. “There was that article, about favorite books. I said The Little Prince.”
“Yeah.” Shane nods. “I said The Language of Flowers. My grandmother gave it to me when I was little. I mean, it was her copy, but I would read it whenever we visited her. I was obsessed, and when I went to sleepaway hockey camp for the first time, she gaze it to me to keep.”
Ilya swallows. “I bought a copy.”
“You what?”
“I don’t want you to be angry with me,” Ilya says, eyes on Shane’s Carolina rose. Love is dangerous. “Today is already perfect.”
“Why would I be angry with you?” Shane takes both his hands in his. Ilya looks at him. “You read my favorite book. Why would that make me angry?”
Ilya touches the laurel leaves on Shane’s collarbone. “Glory,” he says. His hand moves to Shane’s ear. “Adulation.” His upper arm. “True friendship.” His fingers. “Sadness.” He kisses the dead leaves, feels tears begin to threaten behind his eyes.
Shane looks at him curiously. “You… you looked them up? In the book?”
He nods. “Every time you got a new one. I was fucking obsessed. Ty chertovski prekrasna.” So fucking beautiful.
Shane kisses him. Their mouths work against each other slowly, arms wrapped around each other, bodies pressed close. Ilya’s back hits the far wall and Shane pulls away, panting. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry…?”
“When you asked me what my tattoos meant, it never occurred to me you wanted to know what they were in flower language. I didn’t—I couldn’t imagine that you were interested in that part of me.”
“I am interested in every part of you, Shane Hollander,” Ilya says, unambiguously.
Shane kisses him again, this one quicker. “Do you wanna know what the new ones mean?”
Ilya nods. Shane leads him to the bedroom, shows him his grandmother’s copy of The Language of Flowers and lays back on the bed. Ilya flips to the L’s first, curious about the lilies in Shane’s wreaths. “They are for me, yes.”
“Partially,” Shane chuckles. “But they’re yellow because—”
“Falsehood,” Ilya reads. Also, gaiety, which Ilya can get behind. That is what they’re always doing when they’re together.
“With the honey flowers, the connotation is more like secret,” Shane explains.
“I looked up that word before,” Ilya says, remembering their video call again. “You are very good for my English vocabulary, Hollander.” He flips back to the H’s. “Honey flowers: love sweet and secret,” he reads.
Love?
Love.
Surely not actually—
“Mmhm.” Shane nods.
“You have secret lover, Hollander?” Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Do they know you’re here with me?” Shane laughs, looks away from him. Ilya makes a big deal of flipping the page to the entry for hyacinth. “Sport,” he reads. “Game. Play. Ah, your lover is hockey. That makes sense.” He touches one finger to the oak leaves. “These I remember: bravery.”
Shane nods. “Yeah.”
“Tulips-comma-yellow.” Ilya flips several pages. “Hopeless—”
Love.
Hopeless love.
No.
“Yeah,” Shane repeats. He kisses Ilya’s free hand, presses the tips of his fingers to his lips. Ilya flips the pages again. Linden tree; conjugal love. Motherwort; concealed love. Bridal roses; happy love.
He looks at Shane, tears finally falling. Shane reaches up, thumbs one tear away with his thumb. “I love you, Ilya Rozanov.”
“I love you, Shane Hollander.” Ilya’s voice cracks. Shane pulls him down into a kiss.