Archive of Our Own

Momo is many, many things. A beautiful cat firstly—calico with light green eyes and her patches of orange wrapping around one side of her face, fading out toward her torso that is predominately brown and black. A smart cat secondly, having Shane's schedule memorized down to the minute. She waits at her food bowl when the clock strikes 5PM and will yowl with the same cadence of an elderly woman being strangled if Shane is even thirty seconds late to feeding her. If he's still, somehow, busy, she'll take it upon herself to track him down, screeching in his face or pawing at his legs or both until she is regarded with the utmost exasperation and respect.

Thirdly, she is fucking annoying. And Shane loves her as much as he can considering she's just a cat—she's his cat, and he has to care about her or else that makes him a shitty person. But she's sort of a shitty cat sometimes so he guesses that makes them somewhat even when it comes to their places in each other's lives. Mutual respect, the tilt of a chin. I see you, you see me. I feed you, and you shit in the litter-box most of the time. They have a good thing going, really—he likes her a normal amount, which is better than not at all.

Which is why Shane can trust her to stay out of the way during nights like this, on the rare occasion that he has plans. Those plans usually involve Ilya Rozanov—a devastatingly attractive personal trainer with a heavy Russian accent, who is less of a close friend and more of a friend of a sort of friend, and most importantly, a great fuck.

Shane likes that he doesn't have to outright say what he wants, what he needs. Ilya is only ever in his vicinity for one reason: sex. And he takes his duties seriously, wasting no time between crossing the threshold and licking into Shane's eager and pliant mouth, calloused palms pushing their way up past the hem of Shane's crew-neck and mapping the expanse of his heated skin, anywhere and everywhere he can touch.

Their lips never part on their journey to Shane's bedroom, not until Ilya is ridding him of his clothes, pushing him onto the bed and spreading his legs with his palms to Shane's knees. As much as Shane enjoys this part of it, he has a feeling Ilya enjoyed it even more than he does. His mouth is hot against the sensitive skin of Shane's inner thighs, open mouthed kisses turning into wet stripes licked with a flat tongue that goes straight down the perineum and into Shane with practiced ease.

A breathy moan flutters out of Shane's mouth as he arches into the touch, legs held open by Ilya's hands on the back of his thighs, fingers leaving indents in the skin as he eats Shane out like he's being rated on his performance. Shane takes it all selfishly, threads his fingers through the curls on Ilya's head, pushing him down in the way he knows makes Ilya rut up against the mattress.

From there, it's all quick, a desperate heap of mouths and tongues and touches as Shane pulls Ilya up, as Ilya reaches over toward the nightstand for the well-loved lube. All the mundane motions meld together into nothingness, and before Shane knows it Ilya's got three fingers pressing into him in just the right way, muttering a string of untranslated words into the sweaty skin of Shane's neck, until finally he's tearing the wrapper of a condom between his teeth and pushing into Shane all within the minute.

He knows what Shane likes, knows not to tease him when they're both pent up like this and desperate for relief. The golden cross on his necklace dangles above Shane's face, swaying like a pendulum with every movement of Ilya's hips, like he's willing Shane into a trance of IlyaIlyaIlya.

When Shane does inevitably say his name, Ilya holds Shane's face in one hand, keeping their eyes locked as he fucks into him, slowing just enough to make Shane whine in his throat. The corner of Ilya's mouth tilts into a teasing smile. "Ah, you want it slower? You want me to stop?"

"Fuck you," Shane says quickly, no bite to his tone, only the hitch of his breath as Ilya gives a particularly punctuated thrust. He reaches up, holding the back of Ilya's neck, threading his fingers through the curled hairs at the nape and reveling in the way Ilya's mouth drops with a sigh, the way his eyes flutter shut.

"Yes," Ilya nods. "I will."

There's no warning as Ilya manhandles Shane onto his stomach, pushing down with one hand between his shoulder blades to keep his chest flat against the bed, and pulling his hips back with the other hand to keep his ass in the air. Shane knows he probably looks good, knows there's a nice curve from his ass to his back and is proven right when Ilya exhales shakily, a string of curses in English and probably Russian caught in the air as he drops his forehead against the back of Shane's neck, kissing the skin there before sliding back in.

He's less deliberate like this, more sloppy which Shane finds incredibly sexy, especially when he can tell Ilya is trying his best not to come before Shane does. But he doesn't push Shane, doesn't reach around to help him because at this point he knows Shane prefers to either do it himself or finish untouched. Instead, he pulls Shane back by his hips, adjusts himself so with every thrust is at just the right angle, just enough for Shane's moans to leave his mouth unfiltered and uncaring.

"Da—like that, just like that," Ilya encourages when Shane starts to tense up, grabbing the meat of Shane's ass as leverage for his quickening pace. "Come for me, Shane."

It's easy to comply when he's been at the edge since Ilya texted him only a few hours ago asking if he was free. He comes so hard he thinks he might have lost his hearing, only partially aware of Ilya following close behind in his orgasm.

He comes to after Ilya has disposed of the condom and cleaned the tainted spot on the mattress with a damp cloth tossed into the hamper exactly how Shane likes it. The bed dips beside him, and Ilya is holding himself over Shane's now turned body, back against the bedding.

Shane always likes this part most, the after. The way Ilya keeps kissing him wherever his mouth can land—Shane's cheek, nose, forehead, neck. Slow and syrupy, lips dragging against the flushed skin, bringing them both back down like they have all the time in the world. His hands caress Shane's outer thighs, up his ribs, back down, fingers kneading at the plush skin decorated with stretch marks from the muscle Shane has gained throughout the years, ripened with age. Sometimes, Ilya will sink his teeth into the skin like it's fruit bared on a branch, all for his taking. It's always nice, peaceful, to give himself up like this for a few hours of his week. The closest to bliss Shane thinks he'll ever get.

This time, however, it's short lived, cut off by a loud, screeching wail that makes Ilya gasp against the skin, lurching off Shane with wide eyes and tousled curls and a swollen mouth. "What the fuck?"

"Ah fuck," Shane groans when he spots the source of the noise—Momo—perched on his nightstand, her head politely tilted to the side. She meows normally this time, like she wasn't just summoning the voices of a thousand trapped souls from her chest.

Ilya scrambles back, creating more space between him and this seven pound and domesticated creature. "Uh. You have a cat in your house."

"Yeah," Shane sighs, running a hand over his face, gesturing toward the creature now licking her paw. "That's Momo."

"Momo," Ilya repeats, still terrified, eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline. "Momo. You know this Momo?"

"She's my cat."

Ilya blinks once, looking at Shane. He blinks again, looking at Momo. "Your… your cat?"

Shane furrows his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth turning down. "You… you know what a cat is, right?"

"Da—yes, I am not stupid," Ilya snaps, waving his hand like that'll do something. "I just—I did not know you have a cat. A… Momo."

"Oh," Shane blinks. He should have thought about that—about this. The first meeting between the two. But if he's being honest, he didn't think they'd ever really cross paths. At this point in the night, Momo is usually lounging on the elaborate cat tower Shane spent too much money on, tucked in the corner of the living room, belly full and mind content. She never seemed interested in making herself known. Of course there's always a first for everything. "Yeah, um. She's usually minding her business when, you know. You're here."

"Ah," Ilya says, punctuated by a short nod. His mouth stays open, eyes still on Momo for a few seconds before they flicker to Shane and then back. "Will she… go away?"

"Um," Shane says, eyebrows creased and lips pressed together in thought. He doesn't really know. She's never lingered like this before when guests are over. He doesn't know the protocol is for shooing away a cat that has never been keen on sticking around people for long. "Maybe? I don't know, she's never done this."

"Oh, she's never screamed like a banshee for no reason?" Ilya asks although it doesn't seem like much of a question.

"No, she usually has a reason."

"Of course," Ilya nods, mouth pressed into a straight line as he hums. "Weird cat." He gives Shane a once over. "Must be genetic."

Before Shane can bring up the fact that he'll never really know if it's genetic or not considering she was a stray kitten he found and he couldn't trace her parents even if he wanted to, Momo is hopping off the nightstand and onto the bed, mindlessly walking straight to Ilya. Shane watches in partial shock and curiosity and then full bewilderment when she plants her paws on Ilya's chest and stretches.

Ilya makes a noise, something between huh? and oh! as he hesitates, hand coming up to hover over her spine. He glances up at Shane with a boyish sort of wonder. "Can I…?"

"I don't think she bites or scratches," Shane reassures. "At least, she's never done it to me."

"Well, you are her father," Ilya says matter of factly but brings his hand down onto her fur with care. When she doesn't immediately bolt away, Ilya pets with more confidence, in the same way someone would pet a dog. Pat pat pat. Scratch scratch.

"Have you ever had a cat?" Shane asks after a minute, the corner of his mouth tilting up at how concentrated Ilya seems to be.

"Ah, no," Ilya admits with a sheepish smile, looking up at Shane. "We had lots of stray cats near my house in Moscow when I was little. But my grandmother used to say they liked to eat little boys who didn't listen, so."

Shane grins. "And you weren't a good listener?"

"I stayed very far away from those cats."

The laugh that crackles out of Shane is sudden, startling Momo into leaping off the bed and sliding out of the bedroom through the barely cracked door. Ilya makes a disappointed noise and Shane almost regrets laughing in the first place.

Almost.

Ilya looks at him with an unfamiliar glint in his eyes, tilting his head as his gaze flickers across Shane's face. "I think this is the most we have talked, Shane."

Shane pauses, opening his mouth to disagree only to come up short. He's right. There's usually no… this. No small talk, no childhood stories—just kissing, fucking, and the after. If they're at Shane's, Ilya will get dressed while Shane sleepily contemplates showering even though he knows he'll do it anyway. He'll leave with a brief goodbye and Shane will wave him off, already closing his eyes with the intention of rolling off the mattress to head to the bathroom several minutes after the front door shuts. If they're at Ilya's, Shane is up and out the door as soon as he can see Ilya starting to doze off which isn't too long after they've completed their… task.

It's simple and it works. Still, Shane wonders why they've never tried having an actual conversation beyond sex before.

"Sorry," he finds himself saying, unsure what he's apologizing for. Maybe for even having a conversation to begin with, or maybe for Momo disrupting their usual routine. That's not what Ilya's here for.

"Sorry?" Ilya repeats, eyebrows drawn together.

"For, um. You know, the cat—”

"Hey, no," Ilya says quickly, shaking his head and scooting closer to Shane. "I do not mind. Momo is nice. You are nice. Is nice to talk sometimes, yes? Maybe we should do it more."

Shane blinks, taken aback by the sudden acceptance of whatever this is, but before he can start to question things, Ilya's phone chimes from the pocket of his sweatpants still lying on the floor. A small curse leaves Ilya's mouth as he rolls over to the other side of the bed, his bare back and body on display for Shane to ogle for a few seconds as Ilya retrieves the device, clicking his tongue when he unlocks the screen. Shane doesn't have to ask to know that Ilya's presence is required elsewhere.

"Um," Shane says, unsure where he's going with this in the first place. Usually by the time Ilya is leaving, Shane is too blissfully fucked out to say much. "Have a good rest of your night."

Already standing and pulling on his sweatpants over his bare hips, Ilya looks up in something close to surprise but not quite. "Oh, yes. You too, Shane."

"Thanks," Shane nods stiffly, fidgeting with the striped comforter as Ilya finishes tugging on his white t-shirt, flattening his dirty blond curls.

Ilya glances at Shane one more time, offering him one last close mouthed smile as he opens the bedroom door the rest of the way. "Bye," he says simply, over his shoulder, and then disappears from view.

Just before the front door clicks shut, Shane can hear a meow and then Ilya's mumbled voice following closely after. "And goodbye to you too, Momo."

ᗢ

The reality of it all is Shane doesn't really know much about Ilya. Well, that's not entirely true. He knows very basic things about Ilya: his name, where he was born, and what he does for work. But everything else is simply an extension of him, a part of his life that Shane didn't think he was ever meant to know in the first place, like the fact that he truly believed cats ate misbehaving children.

Shane finds himself unable to slot this anywhere in his mind, thus resulting in the trivial fact lingering at the forefront of his thoughts for the majority of the week. He wonders if the next time they see each other he should ask another question just to see if his brain can start to sub-categorize these newfound pieces of knowledge so he can stop thinking about Ilya on the job.

"Uh. Shane?" Shane blinks, snapped out of his thoughts and reminded that he's currently holding a NHL player's ankle in his hand and doing nothing to help them as they lie on the foam treatment table, staring up at him with some confusion. When another beat of silence passes, the player—Wyatt Hayes—tries again. "You alright?"

"Sorry," Shane says quickly, getting back to work on rotating the ankle as the Hayes's face scrunches up in discomfort. "You've been doing those ankle exercises I told you about, right?"

Hayes inhales sharply when Shane rotates his ankle a specific way. "Um… If I say yes and I'm lying is that gonna do any further damage?"

"Nothing more than the damage being done by not doing those exercises."

For once, Hayes actually seems concerned about the state of his ankle. "Yeah, for sure. Can you send me those again?"

Shane nods, patting Hayes's other leg in a silent request to adjust himself so Shane can stretch out the muscle in his thigh that cramped during warm-ups. He's quiet as he goes about the motions, massaging the sore area and only halfheartedly apologizes when Hayes groans in dramatized agony. "Do your stretches and you won't cramp so much," Shane tells him, smiling when Hayes scowls.

"I do my stretches!" Hayes argues, yelping when Shane digs his knuckle into the tender muscle. "Hey, you did that on purpose!"

Shane doesn't even try to hide his chuckle. "You have no proof."

There's a beat of silence as Hayes looks him up and down. Then, a shit eating grin spreads across his face. "Oh, you saw Rozy last night, didn't you?"

Shane's eyebrows furrow in confusion until he realizes who Hayes is talking about. The confusion only returns when he starts to wonder how the fuck Hayes knew that he did, in fact, see Ilya last night. "What—?"

"You're in a good mood," Hayes points out with the wag of his brows. "Smiling and laughing and stuff—come on, I'm right, aren't I?"

"No," Shane says stubbornly, cheeks burning even as he does his best to ignore the cackle coming from Hayes. He only stops when Shane digs his knuckle into his thigh again. "Stop squirming, I'm trying to help."

"You're a little shit," Hayes huffs, teeth clenched. "I bet Rozy likes that, doesn't he? I knew you two would hit it off!"

Shane doesn't know how to say he doesn't really know much about Ilya, coming right back around to the thoughts he was having just before this conversation was forced on him. Though, it's not the first time Wyatt Hayes has tried prying some information about the two of their friend-with-benefits deal from Shane. After all, Shane guesses that in a way he sort of does have the right to know—he's the one that set them up in the first place.

Not that Shane had been looking for someone to be with or sleep with, he wasn't looking for anything serious, let alone anything. But Hayes has the habit of nudging his way into people's lives, of caring about quite literally everyone more than he should. He made it his personal mission to get to know as much as he could about Shane the moment he was transferred to this team, immediately starting up conversations when Shane was trying to get him to do a simple exercise or stretches. Then came the questions, the endless questions, and Shane's stiff answers that felt more rehearsed than anything even if he was being truthful. But Hayes was persistent, and eventually pried enough information out of Shane to come to one correct conclusion.

"You need to get laid," he had said very bluntly one Wednesday morning when Shane had him twisted almost like a pretzel, stretching his lower back.

"I don't," Shane had replied after a few stretched seconds that only incriminated him further.

"Come on," Hayes pushed with a grunt of discomfort. "You need to do something other than go to work, work out, eat, and sleep."

As much as Shane wanted to argue that he liked his simple life, thanks, he knew there was some truth to what Hayes was saying. It had been a while since he was with anyone intimately, but he didn't have time to go and find someone worth taking home. He knew it would only end in disappointment and he'd leave feeling worse than before. Then, Hayes asked: "You got Grindr?"

Shane's entire body jumped viscerally, earning a knowing laugh. "What—no! What the hell. How did you—?"

"I'm an ally!" Hayes beamed like that explained everything. "My sister says I have a good gaydar. I was right, wasn't I?"

Shane didn't answer that, only kept doing his job because that's what he was there for, not to talk about hookup apps and his pathetic sex life. Unfortunately, Hayes only kept pushing.

"Hey, listen, this might be too much but just hear me out—"

"No."

"Please," Hayes begged and Shane shut his mouth, dropping his hand and letting Hayes sit up in a more respectable position. He gestured for him to get it over with. "Okay, so I have this friend—he used to be my personal trainer and he likes guys, too. Well, and girls but that's besides the point. He's fun and pretty hot, and that's coming from me. He wouldn't mind a whole no-strings-attached thing if that's what you're looking for."

"I'm not looking for anything," Shane insisted.

"Here, let me show you a picture," Hayes insisted back, pulling his phone out from beneath his thigh, frantically scrolling like his life depended on Shane finally getting laid. When he shoved the phone toward Shane's face, Shane blinked, mouth drying. The guy was… Well, Shane has fucking eyes, alright? He was hot, hotter than any of the guys Shane had slept with—dirty blond curls, freckles and moles painting his shirtless and sculpted body; even in the shit lighting of the selfie, he was still sort of unreal, carved from marble or something. But he couldn't let Wyatt fucking Hayes know that. As if sensing exactly this, Hayes grinned and clapped Shane on the back. "I'll tell you what—some of the guys and I are getting drinks tonight. I'll text my friend to come, and if you wanna show up, I can introduce you two. No pressure."

"Right," Shane had mumbled, swallowing dryly.

Needless to say, he was at the bar that night, and so was Hayes's friend.

"Ilya Rozanov, personal trainer," Hayes had said. "This is Shane Hollander, our team's PT."

"Shane Hollander," Ilya repeated, accent thick around the letters, tongue rolling over the R at the end. His eyes dragged down Shane's face, catching on his lips the moment Shane wrapped them around the top of the bottle of beer he had clutched in his sweaty palm. "You are flexible, probably. Yes?"

Shane ended his night being pinned to Ilya's mattress and fucked within an inch of his life, and confirming that yes, he was quite flexible.

So. It worked out to say the least. But now, nearly a year later, Hayes is sitting there, still smug about it and Shane has always been stubborn at heart.

He shrugs. "I don't know what he likes."

Hayes blinks, caught off guard by the confession. "What? Sure you do. I mean, you have to."

"No," Shane says simply, the corners of his mouth turning down as he thinks. "Yeah, no. Not really. We don't do much, like. Talking."

"Sure you do," Hayes says again with a small and disbelieving laugh. "How can you not talk?"

"Pretty easily," Shane admits. The only talking they tend to do is when Ilya is spilling praises, complimenting Shane's body, asking Shane if he's okay, if he's close, if he wants him to lock the door on the way out. Well, except for last night. Last night was a weird exception. Luckily, Hayes is called over by another teammate, forcing him to get up but not before giving Shane an unreadable look.

As weird as it is, Shane ignores it. Now, if he could only ignore everything else.

ᗢ

In a way, scheduling a good time to meet up is a bit of a science. It can never be on a Sunday—Shane has dinner with his parents on Sundays. Every other Monday Ilya has a client that pays him a stupid amount to pretty much just watch her run on the treadmill and tell her she's doing a good job, so he can't pass up that type of easy money. Tuesdays Shane's gym time gets pushed an hour back because his dad will call him after work to talk about whatever he finished reading up on in the last week. Wednesdays are usually good, but it's in the middle of the week and sometimes the two of them are too exhausted to do anything other than tread on with their usual, daily routines. Thursdays depend on how long Ilya's last client of the day wants to push their workout. Fridays are always up in the air, plans being made with friends, other plans being cancelled. Saturdays are only good sometimes since it's one of the only rest days either of them have.

Somehow, they make it work. Shane still isn't really sure how they manage to find these pockets of freedom, but he doesn't question it, only appreciates the fact that it manages to work out when it does.

Today, it's Wednesday, and Shane is coming out of the shower when his phone vibrates on top of the bathroom counter. His reaction time is quick, already having somewhat of an idea of who it could be.

ILYA

are you free tonight?

SHANE

I am if you are.

Two hours later, Shane is clutching the headboard of his bed, rocking his hips so feverishly he can hear the frame creaking beneath them, can see Ilya's body moving against the sheets. Sweat beads against his hairline, dripping down his temples as he watches Shane start to slowly grind with hooded eyes and a slack jaw against the sheets with the force of the motion on top of him. For once, he’s quiet, no words spilling out of his mouth, no praises to be said—bewitched, maybe, if Shane could put a word to it through his own hazy mind.

Ilya quickly takes it upon himself to switch positions, holding Shane's lower back, right where his dimples sit, and his upper back, flipping them over without losing his place inside Shane. He picks up where Shane left off, fucking him until they're both coming, the sloppy kisses dwindling off into nothing more than panting into the other's mouths.

And the routine continues as it normally does; Ilya disposes of the condom, comes back with a wet rag to wipe Shane down, and hovers over him with his lips pressed to every part of Shane he can access. Shane sighs contentedly, hand holding the back of Ilya's neck to keep him close, eyes fluttering shut as the exhaustion starts to creep in, eased by the comfort of Ilya's heat bleeding onto him.

Unlike the other times, he hears the bedroom door creak. Before he can open his eyes, Ilya is saying, "Ah, Momo!"

Shane cracks his eyes open, fingers twisting the curls at the nape of Ilya's neck for a second before he drops the touch in time as Ilya rolls over to sit up. He watches in silence as Momo hops onto the bed, sitting directly in front of Ilya and just… staring. "Huh," he huffs.

"Is good?" Ilya asks, looking over at Shane. "She likes me?"

"Maybe," Shane tells him, unsure himself. "She usually doesn't do this to people."

"Ah," Ilya nods, reaching a hand out and letting her sniff it. "What does she normally do?"

"Um. Nothing," Shane admits, raising his eyebrows when Momo bumps her face into Ilya's knuckles, asking for attention. She barely even asks Shane for attention. "Momo, what the hell?"

Ilya doesn't move, body tensing as he gives Shane a side eye. "What? Why 'what the hell'? She is mad?"

"No," Shane laughs, sitting up too, scooting closer until their bare knees touch beneath the comforter. "She's asking you to pet her. Head bumps are good. It means she likes you."

Ilya's eyes widen for a moment before his face is splitting into a smile, bright and loud, unlike Shane has ever seen him. "You would like pets? I will pet you, Momo, do not worry." He makes good of his promise, slowly running the back of his knuckles over her head and behind her ear. "Momo. Stupid name for a pretty cat," Ilya mumbles, using his nail to scratch between her eyes that close contentedly at the touch. He looks at Shane. "Why did you choose Momo?"

"My mom came up with the name," Shane explains lamely, rubbing the back of his neck "It, um. It means peach in Japanese. She's Japanese—my mom."

"Japanese," Ilya repeats, voice quieter than before. His free hand comes up, cupping Shane's face, thumb running across his cheekbone as he smiles. "That is where you get your good looks from, yes?"

Shane can't help but smile, shrugging and looking down to escape the way Ilya is still looking at him. "Half of them."

Ilya nods, pressing his thumb to Shane's blush and then dropping his hand. "I take it back. Momo is a beautiful name. She is a peach. Very good name for her."

"I will, um. Tell my mom you said that," Shane finds himself saying, regretting it the moment it leaves his mouth.

Luckily, Ilya doesn't seem too bothered by it, too caught up in petting a very content Momo who has only inched closer to him. He hums, the sound low in his throat. "Hazy did not tell me you had a cat, you know."

"I don't even think he knew I had a cat," Shane points out, earning a surprised look.

"Oh, so you do not tell anyone anything."

"I tell people stuff," Shane defends, aware of how stupid he sounds when Ilya raises an amused brow. "I mean—like, I talk to people but just not about everything."

"Hm," Ilya huffs, eyes dancing across Shane's face curiously. "You do not like talking a lot? To people?"

"It's not that," Shane tries explaining even though it's hard to explain if he thinks about it too much. "When it's a lot of people I try not to draw attention to myself. It makes me… uncomfortable, I guess? But like this," he gestures between the two of them, meeting Ilya's eyes to give him a small smile. "This isn't bad. I just, um. I don't think I'm all that interesting."

"Don't worry," Ilya whispers loudly, playfully. "I will tell you if you are boring."

A slow smile tugs at the corner of Shane's mouth. "Okay. Thanks."

Ilya blows a raspberry, quick and efficient. "Boring answer."

Shane laughs, shoving at Ilya who beams anyway. "Shut up. You're such an asshole."

"Hey!" Ilya cheers, laughing loudly, affectionately, startling Momo and sending her scattering out of the room. He doesn't acknowledge it, too delighted by Shane. "That was not boring, you learn fast!"

"Alright," Shane huffs, leaning over the side of the bed to pluck Ilya's discarded sweatpants off the floor, shoving them into his toned and freckled chest. "You can leave."

"So mean," Ilya drawls, leaning over, his body and arms bracketing Shane until he's leaning back, letting Ilya's body hover over his own, teasing him back onto the mattress. He tosses the sweatpants aside again and their noses brush. Twice in one night, Shane is pulled into Ilya's orbit, in his sun soaked grin.

"Doesn't seem like you're too upset," Shane points out, breath caught in his throat when Ilya starts to close the distance between them.

"I think I might like it when you are mean to me. Just a little," Ilya says and then swoops down to slot their lips together.

Another round wouldn't hurt, Shane thinks happily.

ᗢ

On Thursday, Shane wakes up early and well rested despite having gone to sleep a whole two hours later than he normally does. Part of him wonders if Ilya is having the same easy day, but the thought comes just as it goes once he gets into the familiar motions of his well worn routine. There's no text waiting for him when he gets home, not that he expected one anyway—it's rare to see Ilya back to back, so he really isn't waiting around for the loud notification vibration.

Yet, there it is, vibrating beneath his thigh as he eats dinner and watches the as the Sharks lose miserably to the Oilers. He's fully expecting it to be some sort of spam e-mail or his mom asking him if he's doing okay, but Ilya's name stares back at him.

ILYA

[Image Attached]

does momo like these toys?

In the photo, Ilya's hand is holding a cat toy—one of those teasers with a feather attached to the end. Shane glances over at where Momo is scratching at the post on her tower rather viciously, her own teaser abandoned in the top corner of the highest point, where Shane left it the last time he tried to play with her, giving up when she stared at him blankly like he was an idiot.

SHANE

Not really?

I mean when I try to play with her she doesn't care for it.

ILYA

seems like skill issue.

i will buy this for her and she will love it

pink or purple

SHANE
I don't think she cares?

ILYA

[Ilya thumbs downed I don't think she cares?]

this is your child and you cannot make a choice for her?

boo. bad owner.

i think she will like pink

because she is peach

Shane finds himself smiling at the screen despite himself, quick to dampen it and instead take a quick picture of Momo, still at the scratching post.

SHANE

[Image Attached]

She'd say thank you if she talked.

ILYA

MOMO!!!!!!!

she does talk and i hear her very clearly

you are welcome momo. i will bring it next time i come to your home.

SHANE

???

It's MY apartment, not hers.

ILYA

donttttt caaaaaaarrrreeee

SHANE

Alright. Ask Momo to let you in next time, then.

ILYA

wait

is joke

i am kidding, shane.

hahahaha see? i am laughing hehehehehohoohohohohahaha

you try it! is fun look hahahaha

shane

hello?

i see you are joking too.

you are sooo funny shane hahahaha

hello???

SHANE

Goodnight, Ilya.

ILYA

u are terrible

goodnight momo

and shane

and goodnight again to momo

ᗢ

Shane wipes down the treatment table with disinfectant as the players filter out of the showers, conversations fluttering in and out his range of hearing. It all sort of melds together as Shane focuses on getting the table situated, unsurprised when Hayes is the first one to approach him in need of some help.

"If you got another cramp today I'm gonna break your kneecap," Shane threatens lightheartedly. To an extent.

Instead of defending himself, Hayes cocks his head. "You have a cat?"

Shane sighs, dropping his head back in annoyance. "Why is that so surprising? Yeah, I have a cat. She's… she's a cat. I don't know, what else do you want me to say?"

"I thought you said you and Ilya didn't really talk," Hayes continues, looking at Shane like he expects him to slip up or something.

"We don't," Shane tells him slowly, wondering if this is the result of a lifetime of concussions.

"That's weird," Hayes says with a hum, scratching at his chin in thought. "Because Rozy told me that you're actually really funny, Shane."

Shane waits for him to finish whatever point he's trying to make only to realize that it's already been made, if it can even be considered a point at all. "Well, yeah. I mean, we, like. We've been having more conversations than we used to—"

Hayes gasps, open mouth curving into a grin. "Well, I'll be damned."

Shane stares at him, the crease in his brows getting deeper by the second. "What?"

"Nothing!"

"But you just said—"

Hayes shakes his head and starts walking backwards, hands up in defense. "Nothing. I'm just… just gonna let it all play out."

Shane blinks as he gets farther. Hey," he calls. "We still have to rotate your ankle—Hayes? Hayes!"

ᗢ

Ilya delivers on his promise of bringing Momo's toy the next time they see each other, which is only a few days later.

Of course, the toy is tossed aside the moment Ilya enters the apartment, landing somewhere in the living room as he crowds Shane space, his priorities elsewhere which Shane is grateful for. He isn't sure what he would do if Ilya was more excited to see a fucking cat than have sex.

He makes the mistake of absentmindedly voicing this after they've cleaned up and gotten redressed, Ilya insisting that he get the stupid toy to see if Momo likes it or not. The moment the words leave his mouth, Ilya makes a disapproving noise.

"You talk about this cat like you do not like her," he points out with something close to a pout. It's the first time Shane has seen him like this—bottom lip jutted out slightly, making his lips look fuller than normal. It makes his chest constrict in a weird way, so much so that he has to press a flat palm to his sternum, wondering if he's having a fucking heart attack or something adjacent to a medical emergency.

"I like her," Shane answers, knowing that it probably doesn't sound convincing judging by the way Ilya's eyebrows shoot up quickly, eyes widening in amusement as he waves the toy around a very unamused Momo. "What? I do. She's a good cat. Sometimes."

"Sometimes," Ilya repeats, poking Momo's head with the feather. "Only sometimes? She is a cat, Shane. She does not know how to be bad even if she tried really, really hard. Isn't that right, kisa?"

His voice pitches up as he regards Momo who gracefully jumps right over Shane and onto Ilya's lap, nudging her head into the tips of his fingers, forcing him to drop the toy and earning a deep, rumbling and affectionate laugh. Shane shifts awkwardly. It's weird hearing that laugh come from Ilya when it's not directed at him. "Well, she's, like… She's needy."

"She is a pet," Ilya defends, eyes practically shining with adoration as he lets her press her head against his palm. "She has to be needy. Is how she survives, no?"

"Sometimes she doesn't shit in the litter-box," Shane says quickly, desperate to prove himself for reasons unknown.

"Ah," Ilya drawls slowly, retracting his hand and fixing Momo with what should probably be a stern look, but looks more silly than anything. "Is this true? You like to be difficult to your dad, hm?" For a moment, it seems like she understands him, head cocking to the side before she blinks, paws digging into Ilya's abdomen. It takes no time for her to start kneading the skin, pulling another loud laugh from Ilya. "Aw, is okay, you can shit wherever you want, kisa."

"Hey," Shane scolds with a frown. "You're not the one that has to clean it."

Ilya glances up, the corner of his mouth curving into a smile as his eyes dance across Shane's face. He lets out a small chuckle, leaning over and holding Shane's chin between his pointer finger and thumb. "You call me and I will come clean it," he whispers, kissing Shane softly and quickly before averting his attention back to Momo.

Shane blushes, sitting back and not minding the stolen attention for once.

ᗢ

Ilya's apartment is fifteen minutes away from Shane's. It's nice, a little smaller than Shane's and not decorated all that much outside of the basic furniture requirements needed to live. But there is a painting of a bear that hangs crookedly over his TV and what looks like a photo of a child and a woman framed hung up right next to it. Shane guesses it's Ilya and maybe his mother—he has the same curls, the same smile and mole on his cheek. He looks exactly like her. Though he only really gets a look at it when he's leaving, the light from the kitchen on a majority of the time and giving him a enough of a strip of light to make out these details.

It usually goes exactly like this when Shane shows up: Ilya will unlock the door after a ridiculous amount of time. He's always shirtless, always wearing sweatpants low on his hips, always barefoot. His curls are damp, fresh from a shower, and pushed back neatly, like he had ran a comb through the golden strands in an attempt to keep it tamed for the time being. Then, he waits for Shane to toe off his shoes, lets him tuck them into the empty slot on the shoe rack before backing him against the wall. Shane tries saying hello even though he knows it's only wasting time and Ilya's thumb catches on his bottom lip, stopping him. Then he says hello back, and licks into Shane's mouth to swallow whatever words may be hiding in his throat and holds his chin to keep him in place. After, his hands grip the back of Shane's thighs and he carries him to the bedroom that smells of tobacco and vanilla, deposits Shane on the bed, and eats him out until Shane can no longer string any coherent thought together.

Today, Ilya fucks him ass up face down, palm flat against the side of Shane's face in a way he shouldn't enjoy so much but he does—there's drool sliding out of the side of his mouth, darkening the navy blue sheets but he can't find it in himself to care, not when he's coming untouched to the sound of Ilya's thighs slapping against his ass coupled with his moans and muttered, "Good—you are so good."

Ilya sticks to the same string of actions after they finish, and finally he's kissing at Shane's stomach, trailing up to his chest and neck until finally taking his mouth in a soft and slow kiss. Shane melts against it, lets his hands bury themselves in Ilya's hair, pulling him in closer even though they're already chest to chest. When Ilya pulls back to look at Shane, it makes him suddenly shy, aware of how close they are, the way Ilya's eyes seem to be tracing over every one of his features like they're something to memorize.

His knuckle drags against the skin beneath Shane's eye and over the bridge of his nose to mirror the same motion on the other side of his face. "I do not talk about your freckles enough," he says, voice low, for Shane's ears only. "They are pretty. You have a lot of pretty things—pretty face, pretty freckles, pretty cat. Some people may think this is unfair."

"Some people?" Shane asks, amused. "You think it's unfair?"

"No," Ilya says easily, shaking his head. "If I didn't have you like this then it would not be fair, but you are in my bed naked, so."

Shane presses his lips together even as the edges of his mouth wobble, trying their best to tilt up against his defiance. "Lucky you."

"Lucky me," Ilya agrees without missing a beat.

Shane swallows. Every inhale doesn't feel like enough to fill his lungs, to lessen the pressure in his chest. So, he says nothing, lets the silence stretch as he runs his fingers through Ilya's hair, content with watching the way he pushes into the touch, hearing the purr of bliss that rumbles in his chest, barely audible even in the quietness. Slowly, his body relaxes on top of Shane's, head tucked beneath Shane's chin, the weight of him comforting in an odd way.

In the moment, Shane finds himself wanting to know more about the guy splayed on top of him. "That picture in your living room," he starts quietly, hesitant to break the silence, "is that you?"

"No," Ilya says. "It is a bear."

Shane rolls his eyes, smacking the back of Ilya's head with no real force. "No, idiot. You know which one I'm talking about."

Ilya's smile is small and subtle as he nods, the movement slightly stunted by the way he's still pressed against Shane. "Yes. I was five years old, I think."

"You and your mom?"

"Da, yes," Ilya says, turning his head, chin digging into Shane's sternum to look him in the eye. "How did you know?"

"You look like her," Shane tells him, twisting one of Ilya's loose, golden curls. "You have her hair." He touches the corner of Ilya's eye with the pad of his finger. "And her eyes," he continues, trailing his featherlight touch to Ilya's mouth, brushing over the soft skin of his lips. "And her smile."

There's an unfamiliar glint in Ilya's eyes. Sad maybe, but not quite. There's some joy in there too, soft at the edges of his smile and the flicker of his eyes. "Yes," he whispers. "She was very beautiful."

The past tense doesn't go unnoticed. Shane says nothing, thumb pressing against the corner of Ilya's mouth. "Tell me about her." He wants to know anything and everything—all the small things and in-between. Whatever Ilya is willing to share.

"Okay," Ilya whispers gently.

From there, his mouth is an endless stream of words painted in the most vivid colors and hues of someone that once was, someone who still is, who exists in an eternal, rose tinted lens and in memories of love and fondness.

She was great, Ilya says. So kind, so funny. Shane doesn't doubt it, not even for a second—Ilya has to get that from somewhere, too. Irina, her name was Irina. She sang lullabies when Ilya had nightmares, and would even sing them beneath the warmth of the sun to show him there was nothing to be afraid of. She loved sweets, would bake cakes and let him lick at the residual frosting left on the utensil she used to smooth it over the top. When she picked him up from school, she would find a new way to walk home. This time around the pond, this time through the pond, this time looping around the pond until they were both dizzy. Her laugh sounded like a songbird perched on a sturdy branch waking a forest in the kindest way it knew how.

As the stories unfold and the minutes pass, Ilya's smile grows wider, his eyes become heavier. He trails off, losing his train of thought with his tiredness. "Sorry," he says, but Shane has a feeling he's not really apologizing to Shane, but to someone else. Someone that's probably watching over him, reminiscing too.

"Don't be," Shane assures him, brushing down the curls tousled from his nails combing through them. "I should probably go before Momo shits on the floor."

"You should bring her over one day," Ilya says and Shane expects it to be tacked on by a small laugh, a big bright indicator of a joke. but Ilya doesn't even smile, only shrugs sleepily when Shane keeps staring at him waiting for the punchline. "She will probably like it better here."

Shane tugs at his lip between his teeth in thought. "Okay, yeah. Maybe next time she can, um, visit."

Ilya smiles, eyes already closed, words heavy and slow, already on the brink of sleep. "Mm. I look forward to that, Shane."

Shane nods even though it goes unseen. He's careful as he gets up and redressed, taking another look at Ilya who is still awake, only barely. "Thank you. For… for telling me about her. It was beautiful."

Ilya's eyes crack open. He reaches his arm out, squeezes Shane's hand in his own. "No," he whispers. "Thank you."

ᗢ

ILYA

question

SHANE

?

Go ahead?

ILYA

momo is vaccinated, yes?

SHANE

That's not really a question, but yeah.

Why?

ILYA

microchipped?

SHANE

Yes…?

ILYA

does she have passport?

SHANE

They have cat passports?

ILYA

obviously, shane.

how else would they fly planes and take over world?

she has one yes or no

SHANE

No, I don't think so.

Why do you need to know this?

ILYA

skeeming

skemeing

skmemeinfuck this shit

i have plans

SHANE

I'm so confused.

ILYA

:)

goodnight momo

and to you too i guess

SHANE

Goodnight, Ilya.

ᗢ

Shane doesn't hear from Ilya in the days following his string of messages that Shane still finds himself going back to, wondering if he missed something. Maybe he should have called an ambulance and sent it to Ilya's apartment, for all anyone knows he could have brained himself and his last words were wishing a goodnight to Shane's fucking cat and Shane as an afterthought.

He gets something of an answer on a Friday night when he's, for the most part, settled for the night, already washed up and lounging in bed with his glasses perched on his nose and a book splayed open on his raised knees. Momo is lying beside him, dead to the world, even when Shane's phone starts to vibrate continuously.

Ilya's caller ID takes up the screen, making Shane fumble with his book and then his phone, quick to answer it and toss the pages aside, just barely missing Momo. "Ilya? Are you okay?"

"What? I am fine."

Shane rolls his eyes, regretting asking. "Well the last I heard from you you were texting me a bunch of weird shit and then never followed up. And now you're calling me."

"Yes," Ilya says blandly. "People will sometimes text other people when they are bored. And they also can call. You do it all on these little things called cellphones—"

"Alright, I'm hanging up."

"No—hey, come on!" Ilya says quickly with a whine. "I want to talk to you, Shane."

Shane blinks at the wall on the other side of the room. "Talk?"

"Yes. Well, I have a problem."

"Problem," Shane repeats again. "What's the problem?"

"I am so tired. So tired. I cannot have sex, I think I will fall asleep if I try—"

"Okay? We don't have to meet up if you're not up for it, I thought we knew this—"

Ilya groans, voice distant from the receiver. He comes back with a huff. "See, that is my problem. I am tired and I want to see you."

Shane blinks. "I'm… I'm confused."

Again, Ilya groans, this time adding a few Russian words in there, mumbled but still audible to Shane's eager ears. "I have to go to Moscow in two days and I will not see you for three weeks."

"Oh," Shane says, the disappointment in his tone most definitely bleeding over. "That sucks."

"Yes, very much," Ilya agrees. "And I want to see you before I go."

Shane can't help the surprise that melts into a simple, "Really?"

"Really," Ilya confirms, tone softer than before. "Come over. Bring Momo and her food and whatever she needs. Spend the night."

"Ilya—"

Ilya tsks. Shane can picture him shaking his head with one of those crooked smiles on his face. "Say yes, Shane. Is all you have to say. One word, really easy. Yes, just like that."

Shane smiles to himself. "Okay."

"Eh, is not yes, but close enough."

"Fuck you, asshole," Shane says with no real bite, already standing to pack an overnight bag. "I'll be there in thirty."

"Don't forget Momo," Ilya reminds him. "I will not let you in without her."

"Of course not," Shane sighs, the breath laced with more fondness than he'd like to admit.

ᗢ

The moment Ilya sees Momo in her carrier, he frowns.

"What is this?" he chastises, palm facing the ceiling as he gestures toward where she's being held hostage. "No—get her out of this cage—my poor kisa. This is animal abuse, Shane."

Shane doesn't try to hide it as he rolls his eyes. "It would be animal abuse if I let her roam around a moving vehicle."

Ilya brushes him off with an unsatisfied click of his tongue, taking the carrier from Shane's grasp and also the backpack Shane is holding. Before Shane can remind him that he's capable of holding his own stuff, Ilya is putting the carrier down and unlatching it, releasing Momo from the confined space.

He turns and points to Shane sternly. "Do not put her back in there."

With that, he turns and disappears into the hallway leading into his bedroom, coming back without the backpack. Meanwhile Shane is still standing at the entrance, shoes now off, waiting for something. What, he's not too sure, but it seems like Ilya is doing the same. He's not sure which of them smiles first, he just knows that they can't stop.

"Come here," Ilya says even though he's already stepping toward Shane.

"No, you come here," Shane says back, already half way there.

"No, you come here," Ilya mutters once they've reached each other. He holds Shane's face in his hands as he kisses him, a tamed version of all the other times he's kissed Shane in this exact spot in his apartment.

When the kisses start getting sloppy and Ilya slips a hand up Shane's hoodie, Shane pulls away, raising an eyebrow. "I though you were too tired."

Ilya reaches around and squeezes Shane's ass. "Hm, no. I feel very awake right now."

They end up getting each other off on the sofa, Shane sitting in Ilya's lap as Ilya jerks them both off in one hand. Left to her own devices, Momo wanders around the apartment, only reappearing when Ilya is throwing the soiled and crumpled napkins away in the kitchen waste bin. Unsurprisingly, his focus is on her immediately.

He kneels down carefully, cautiously, and lets her come to him on her own terms. Shane watches from the couch as Ilya plays with her for almost an hour, somehow having more cat toys here than Shane has at his own place. When he questions this out loud Ilya only shrugs and that's that.

Eventually Momo curls up on the far edge of the sofa and falls asleep and Ilya is forced to get off the floor. He plops down next to Shane on the sofa, leaning his weight against him, pressing his chin to Shane's shoulder.

"So," he drawls, lips forming a circle around the extended vowel. "What do you want to do?"

"I don't know," Shane answers lamely. Truthfully, he didn't really think this far ahead.

Ilya presses his lips together before leaning forward to pluck the remote off the coffee table, turning on the TV and settling on a random movie. Though, it goes pretty much unwatched as a conversation starts to build.

"You said you're going to Moscow for three weeks?" Shane mentions, partially wondering if he made that up somehow.

Ilya puffs his cheeks as he exhales, confirming that this is very much their reality. "Yes," he says. "It sucks but I have things to take care of and then I do not have to go back again, so. Probably better to just get it out the way."

Shane tilts his head curiously. "You don't like it there?"

Ilya rubs at Shane's thigh, pausing to pick at a loose thread on the fabric of his shorts. "It is not my favorite place, no," he admits eventually. "But that is why Momo needs her passport, so I can take her. Emotional support animal—they are real, you know? Very useful."

Shane pauses, coming to a realization. "That's why you were asking all those weird questions?"

"Hey, they weren't weird," Ilya defends quickly. "They were important, every owner should know this stuff. How does your cat not have passport?"

"I don't know, it wasn't really on my list of priorities."

Ilya waves him off. "Next time, then. Well, hopefully there is no next time, but if there is, she must have her passport."

"You can't take her she's my cat. "

"Eh," Ilya says flippantly. "You barely like her."

"Well, that's not true," Shane tells him. He likes her a normal amount.

Ilya ignores him, sitting up and gesturing toward the few toys scattered across the living room. "And look at all the toys I bought her! I am already a better dad!"

"So you did go out of your way to buy her all these toys?" Shane points out, unable to help the way he starts to smile, the slight giddiness that flutters in his chest.

"Well, they did not just show up here," Ilya says matter of factly, tacking it on with a simple shrug. "I am not a magician, Shane."

"You can't spoil her," Shane says, dropping his head against the back of the sofa, voice going soft despite himself. "It'll get to her head."

Ilya looks over at where Momo is lying next to him and pats her head, the corner of his mouth curving up gently. "That's okay. I don't mind."

Again Shane is hit with the fluttering in his chest and stomach, both assaulting him at the same time as he does his best to fill his lungs with air in the most subtle way possible. His shaky exhale is missed by Ilya who leans against him and rests his head on Shane's shoulder, unknowingly doing nothing to help tame Shane's racing heart and sweaty palms. He isn't used to this. The soft tones, the cuddling, the way they fall together seamlessly and naturally in an uncharted territory. To add the realization, Shane likes it. He likes it so much he doesn't know what to do with it.

His overthinking dwindles into a muted, distant thrum left to be discarded in the back of his mind as Ilya pulls him against his chest, scratching at his scalp until he has no choice but to settle into the comfort and doze off. It's only then that Ilya moves, making a noise when he notices Shane's body getting heavier and heavier by the second He mutters something about a fucked up neck before ushering Shane up and toward the bedroom, only to hesitate, looking back at Momo who has yet to move.

"She'll follow us eventually," Shane assures him, having an idea of where Ilya's mind is at.

Still, Ilya frowns. "You are sure?"

"I can't really promise anything," Shane says honestly. "She does whatever she wants to do."

"Good for her," Ilya nods proudly, seemingly content with this answer instead.

Shane tries not to think about how well they move around each other as they brush their teeth in Ilya's small bathroom, how when he leans over to spit in the sink, Ilya is holding onto his waist to make sure he doesn't stumble when he steps back to give Ilya space to do the same. Even stripping down to their briefs feels like some sort of step in an unnamed routine, one waiting to be set and followed time and time again.

Beneath the covers, they face each other, bodies gravitating toward one another like they had been melded together at some point in the past, like they're trying desperately to be whole again.

Ilya's hands are ceaseless, innocent in all their touches. He starts at Shane's neck, runs a featherlight touch over where his pulse beats recklessly. "What is the name of the muscle here?" he asks suddenly, the quietness in his voice nearly lost as Shane basks in the touch, the attention.

Despite his confusion, Shane answers it quickly, like a habit. "It's the sternocleidomastoid muscle."

Ilya hums, his eyes tracing down, following his finger. He presses into Shane's pec. "And this one?"

"Pectoralis major."Ilya continues down Shane's body. And this one? And this? This? Shane answers, his smile growing wider in amusement as Ilya gets down to Shane's leg where it's hooked over Ilya's hip. "Shouldn't you know this stuff?" he asks, the words nearly lost in the hitch of his breath as Ilya splays a hand on his thigh.

"Too difficult," Ilya says simply, eyes breaking from their journey to look into Shane's, flickering back and forth. "I turn stupid when I look at you. So beautiful, how can I even think?" He runs his fingertip up the side of Shane's leg, from the outside of his knee up past the hem of his briefs and to his bare hip, sending a thrill up Shane's spine. "And what is this?"

"There's a few," Shane whispers, tilting his head back when Ilya starts to nose at his neck, pressing soft and slow kisses to the skin warmed with a blush.

He finds himself wishing they could stay like this forever.

"Tell me," Ilya whispers against his mouth. So, Shane tells him.

Morning comes with the sun's golden hues bleeding in through the sheer blue curtains, just enough to stir Shane from sleep. The bed is empty, the space beside him rumpled and still slightly warm. He finds Ilya on the balcony, standing shirtless in only his briefs, leaning forward against the iron railing with a cigarette hanging from his pointer and middle finger. His cheeks hollow as he inhales, curls tousled by a subtle breeze that carries the smoke away. Momo is lounging by his feet, the first to notice Shane as the door opens. She takes the opportunity to rise, her tail brushing Ilya's ankles as she hurries to slip through the open door before it closes.

Ilya looks over his shoulder, stoic expression softening when he sees Shane. Wordlessly, he opens an arm and Shane tucks himself into his side, nose scrunching at the strong and unpleasant scent of the cigarette. He steps back slightly, wanting to put some distance between himself and the smell, but simultaneously and selfishly not wanting to abandon the warmth of Ilya's bare skin. Quickly, Ilya puts out the cigarette against the iron rail.

"You didn't have to put it out," Shane says, although grateful.

"You do not like the smell," Ilya says like that justifies it. "And I do not want you to go back inside. Look, Momo already left me."

Shane huffs out a laugh, letting Ilya tug at his wrist to close the distance, and leans his head against Ilya's shoulder. "She probably didn't want to fuck up her lungs."

Ilya stills, eyebrows furrowing as he turns his head to look at Shane. "Her lungs?"

"Second hand smoke," Shane points out.

"Ah," Ilya says, his eyebrows yet to relax. Shane straightens up, uses his thumb to smooth out the lines in Ilya's face.

"You okay?"

Ilya smiles, just barely, but kisses Shane before he can question any further. "Yes, I am okay."

Later, Shane pretends not to notice the cigarette packs tossed in the trashcan. He keeps that smile to himself, but makes sure to kiss Ilya a little harder before he leaves.

ᗢ

The first week without Ilya drags, stretches so long it feels like it can't get any thinner. By the time the second week rolls away, Shane wonders if this is the longest they've gone without seeing each other, which he knows it's not. They used to only meet up every three to four weeks, but that was when they first started seeing each other. Gradually, the time between their hooks up started to get shorter. Every three to four weeks turned into every two weeks. Every two weeks turned into every week and a half, and now, even if the day of the week isn't consistent, they see each other at least once a week.

So maybe it's that Shane's body has grown used to Ilya by now. Maybe that's why he hasn't been sleeping all that well, why even Momo seems to be thrown off by this, searching the apartment corner to corner like there's something missing. Someone missing.

The shift in his personal life shows even at work. He's quieter, stuck in his thoughts even as conversations are attempted. He tries to reply with something useful, but more often than not finds himself only managing to huff out a breath that is supposed to be a laugh.

Even Hayes and his usual banter isn't enough to raise Shane's spirit, but by god, he tries.

"Come on, give me something!" Hayes nearly whines as Shane stretches out his sore shoulder. "You're being boring today, Shane."

Shane frowns. Boring doesn't sound like a compliment coming from Hayes. When it's Ilya calling him boring, it's usually coupled with one of his soft smiles or a laugh that makes Shane laugh, too. He doesn't like the word boring when it's said like this, when it's not painted by Ilya's accent adding texture to every vowel, every letter. "I'm not boring," he says firmly. "I'm doing my job."

Hayes blinks, turning his neck to look over his shoulder with a raised brow. "You alright, man?"

It's only then that Shane realizes how hard he's grasping Hayes's shoulder, how much tension he's holding in his mouth and body. He exhales, drops his hand, and presses his lips together. "Um," he starts, clearing his throat in embarrassment. "Sorry. It's just—I, um… Ilya's in Russia."

Hayes looks genuinely surprised, both of his eyebrows shooting up. "Oh, shit. Really? When did he leave?"

"The week before last week," Shane answers a little too quickly. He isn't keeping track of the days on purpose, it just sort of ended up being that way. "He'll be back next week—"

"Ahhh," Hayes nods. "That's why you're so high strung."

Shane doesn't have the energy to argue or deflect. Admittedly, it's sort of nice to get this off his chest. His shoulders slump in defeat. "Yeah. He's busy so I haven't texted him or anything, but, yeah. It's, um… I'm just… I miss him more than I thought I would, I guess."

Hayes gives him a soft look that is almost sympathetic, throwing Shane a bone and not teasing him about the fact that he's blushing and stammering through his confession. He pats Shane's shoulder. "Try calling him today. I'm sure he'd like to hear from you."

"I don't know—"

"Do it," Hayes encourages. "Trust me, it'll make his day. Or night. Fucking timezones."

Shane presses his lips together, but doesn't say anything, not even when Hayes tells him he got another cramp during practice.

ᗢ

Momo stares at Shane pacing in the living room. Shane knows that if she could talk, she would call him a fucking idiot.

"I'm not an idiot," he says out loud just in case she actually is thinking it. He's met with her green eyes blinking and then a meow before she jumps off the back of the sofa and goes to her tower, aggressively scratching at her post.

In the (sort of) silence, Shane closes his eyes, tipping his head back toward the ceiling as he lets out a breath. Even then, his chest is still vibrating, his palms are still sweating, and he's still overthinking. He's sure Hayes is right. Ilya probably wouldn't mind a call from Shane, or at least won't make him feel stupid about calling, but the slight what if in the back of Shane's head is louder than all logic.

Momo is right. He is being a fucking idiot.

The phone rings twice against Shane's ear before there's an answer. His breath catches, words failing him. Luckily Ilya is the first to say something.

"Shane?"

Simple, only one syllable, but it's enough. "Ilya," Shane says back. "Sorry, I know you're probably busy, but um. I wanted to know how you were doing."

"I'm not busy," Ilya says. In the background, there's some muted rustling. "It is two in the morning, so. Not busy at all."

"Oh, shit. I'm so sorry—"

"No, no. Is okay," Ilya says over him. "I was awake, I don't mind."

"Really?" Shane asks, pausing in his pacing. "I can always call you back tomorrow or something if you're trying to sleep."

"Shane, you're okay," Ilya tells him, tone sincere. "And, ah… Is nice to hear your voice."

"Yeah?" Shane breathes after a beat, wondering if he heard wrong. Hoping he didn't.

"Yes," Ilya confirms. "Can I see you?"

Shane looks down at himself, at the worn sports tee and cotton shorts he's wearing. "What, like a picture?"

"Video call," Ilya says, and Shane is almost positive he's smiling, can hear it clearly. "But maybe later you can send me a picture. I would not mind."

It takes a moment of fumbling with his phone, but eventually he manages to successfully switch the call over to video. On the small screen of his phone, Ilya is laying back against a headboard. The soft glow of a lamp to his left offers enough light to make out the details of his face and bare chest, the rest of him cut off. He looks awake, confirming that he was, in fact, up when Shane called.

"You wear glasses," is the first thing Ilya says, his eyes dancing across the screen in the same way they do when they're nose to nose in person. Like he's taking in every single detail.

"Only sometimes," Shane says, suddenly flustered and reaching up to take them off only to be stopped by Ilya's voice.

"No, keep them on," he insists. "Please. You look good—they, um… How do you say—they suit you, yes? I like it."

"Oh, thanks," Shane blushes, moving to sit on the sofa awkwardly. He hadn't really planned this far ahead. "How's Russia?"

"Shit," Ilya answers bluntly, letting his head knock back against the headboard. "Stupid. Terrible. All the bad words you can think of, that is what it is."

"I'm sorry," Shane says, wishing he could do something. "But you come back soon, at least."

"Yes, in a week," Ilya sighs. "How is Momo? Does she miss me?"

"I don't think she even knows you're gone," Shane teases even though it's a lie. He has a feeling Ilya's presence is missed in this apartment more than he can explain, but telling Ilya that will only make his head bigger.

"You are a really bad liar," Ilya deadpans. "Get her on the phone."

"She can't talk, Ilya."

"I understand her better than you do, Shane."

Shane laughs despite himself. "Yeah, you're probably right."

"She is a good cat," Ilya says, smiling. "I will bring her back a special Russian toy."

"You don't have to do that."

"Yes, but I want to."

Not for the first time since Ilya has met Momo, Shane is left with the same feelings he's heard people talk about time and time again. Butterflies in his stomach, a swoop in his chest.

He has a fucking crush on Ilya Rozanov.

"Oh no," he says out loud.

Ilya blinks, raising his eyebrows. "What, she cannot have more toys?"

"No," Shane says quickly before backtracking. "I mean, yeah, you can get her a toy, that's fine."

"Then why did you say no?" Ilya pushes, the confusion yet to leave his face. Then, he pauses, grinning. "Ah, I see. You are going crazy, yes? Has been over a week since I fucked you—"

"Jesus Christ," Shane whispers, mortified, closing his eyes in hopes that Ilya will somehow disappear. "That's not it."

"No?" Ilya says, unbelieving. "So if I asked you to take off your clothes and touch yourself, you wouldn't do it?"

Shane pauses, hating the way Ilya's grin starts to widen. "I… I didn't say that."

"Well," Ilya drawls, tilting his chin up. "Take off your clothes and touch yourself, Shane."

And, well. How is he supposed to say no?

ᗢ

"—and my ankle actually feels better!"

"Uh huh," Shane answers, partially listening to Hayes's revelation that physical therapy is actually useful. The greater part of his mind keeps wandering back to Ilya, back to their phone call and the realization that fully settled once he came all over his fist and stained the fabric of his sofa while Ilya praised him sluggishly, exhausted from his own orgasm and the late hour. When Shane was left to stare at the ceiling in the silence of his apartment, he came to a conclusion.

He wants Ilya.

He wants Ilya in every way he can have him. As a lover, a friend, a part of his life. He wants Ilya there, always. He wants to be the first person Ilya calls when something happens, good or bad. He wants to be the first emergency contact. The last person to see him before he goes to sleep. The only one who gets to be on the receiving end of one of those tilted smiles, of his darting eyes full of adoration and devotion.

He wants it all and this is all Ilya's fault. If he wasn't so fucking nice to Momo then Shane would never have seen how kind he is, how selfless he can be. How stupidly well he fits into Shane's life, how empty it is without him there.

"Uh oh," Hayes says, disrupting his thoughts. "You're thinking a whole lot, I can hear it from here."

Shane startles, opening his mouth to combat it but clamping it shut just as quickly. He considers his options: shove this down into his chest until he dies, or use Ilya and Hayes's friendship to his advantage. One of those is a little easier than the other. "Hey, um. You said Ilya wasn't looking for a relationship, right?"

Hayes blinks. "What? When did I say that?"

Shane blinks back. "Before you introduced us," he starts slowly. "You said you had a friend that wanted a no-strings-attached thing."

"No," Hayes says back, just as slowly. "I said he wouldn't mind a whole no-strings-attached thing if that's what you were looking for. That's what you were looking for, right?"

"Right," Shane confirms lamely. "But… what if I don't want that anymore?"

"What do you mean?" Hayes asks quickly, slightly panicked.

"It's just that I've been thinking," Shane explains. "And I think that maybe I want something more serious, you know?"

"Okay, right," Hayes nods, eyebrows creasing in worry. He starts to get up, patting his pockets hurriedly before locating his phone on the table. "I'm just gonna—I gotta call a friend."

Shane's eyebrows crease, confused at the sudden shift in Hayes. "Are you okay?"

"Fine, I'm fine," Hayes says quickly, phone already to his ear as he walks away. Even with the distance gained, Shane can hear him mumble something about playing fucking cupid.

ᗢ

Unfortunately for Shane's poorly timed epiphany, he doesn't hear from Ilya, not even after he's due to be back from Russia.

Now, he's counting the days since he last saw Ilya. Thirty four days. A little over a month since the last time they touched, kissed. Part of him wonders if maybe he's overthinking it, but there's no real explanation for why he wouldn't at least reach out. Not unless he caught wind of Shane being stupidly infatuated with him. For that reason, Shane is a little terrified of being the first one to reach out. The only thing worse than Ilya knowing that Shane's feelings have shifted into something serious would be if he knew and Shane was blowing up his phone pathetically.

Worse case scenario, they never talk again and Shane is left to go back to his sexless, outdated routine he had before Ilya. Best case scenario, Ilya texts him like he normally does, and they keep this thing going until Shane has the balls to tell Ilya he wants more than this.

It's fine. At least that's what Shane keeps telling himself as the days pass. He has to get used to a life without Ilya at some point, he supposes. It wouldn't be so terrible to start doing it now.

As if things couldn't get any worse, Shane wakes up at one in the morning to the grating sound of gagging.

He stumbles up, grabbing his glasses from the nightstand and hurrying into the living room in time to see Momo throwing up what looks like nothing but stomach acid. To his horror, there are multiple piles of throw up in different spots of the living room as well as the kitchen. He doesn't have time to wonder if this is something he should wait out because Momo is gagging again, her body contorted uncomfortably as she expels the little contents of her stomach.

Emergency vet, he decides quickly. They need to go, like, now.

It's a clumsy mess of movements as Shane rushes to get himself dressed in sweatpants and a sweatshirt with a faded out university name on the front. Momo's carrier is still by the front door, so he scoops her up as careful and quick as he can and puts her in, leaving the carrier on the floor as he looks for his car keys. The hook where they're usually hung up is empty and the entrance table has nothing on it either. He curses under his breath, running into his bedroom only to find nothing.

In the carrier, Momo starts to gag again. Shane's hands are shaking as he dials the only person who can think of that lives close to him.

Ilya answers on the fourth ring. "Shane?"

"I'm sorry," Shane says before anything else, face burning in anxiety and embarrassment. "I—I know it's late but I need a huge favor. Momo's been throwing up for who knows how long and she won't stop and I can't find my fucking car keys even though I hang them up in the same spot all the time and I don't have a spare and I need to take her to the vet and I don't know what else to do and—"

Ilya cuts him off. "I'm on my way."

Ilya's apartment is fifteen minutes away from Shane's, but he gets there in twelve minutes.

He sends a here text and Shane is out of the door within the second he receives it, surprised to see Ilya standing in the hallway already, face flushed like he had been running, and in flannel pajama pants and a black zip up hoodie. His eyebrows twitch in concern, lips pressed together as he looks down at the carrier where Momo is lying down.

"Is she…?"

"I don't know," Shane says, voice cracking anxiously.

Ilya says nothing, taking the carrier from Shane, placing a hand on his lower back to guide him. The car ride to the emergency vet is quiet except for the mewls and noises coming from Momo in the back. At the very least, she's conscious and not throwing up. Shane tries to be grateful for that at the very least.

When they arrive, Shane is given paperwork to fill out, his shaking hands stilled by Ilya rubbing his back as they take refuge in the stiff chairs, waiting to be called into a back room. Finally, after what seems like lifetime but can't be more than ten minutes, they're taken into a white and stale room with posters on pet care and tips for owners. They're given the okay to let Momo out and Ilya jumps at the opportunity, immediately unlatching it.

It takes a few minutes before Momo crawls out, doing nothing more than taking a few steps before stopping, lying down. Shane tears up, shoving his hands in his face and standing, pacing in efforts to keep himself from spiraling in the chair.

He hears Ilya's voice through the blood rushing in his ears. "Shane—"

"What if she dies?" Shane says over him, dropping his hands and trying his best to inhale, lungs aching. "Oh god—I don't even know how long she was throwing up for, I—I was sleep. Fuck. This is my fault, isn't it? I wasn't paying attention to her like I should have—god. She's gonna fucking die—"

Ilya is standing and in Shane's space within the second, holding Shane's face in his hands. "Hey—hey, Shane. Sweetheart. Breathe, you need to breathe." It's good advice, but Shane can't seem to remember how to do something as simple as fucking breathe. Ilya is gentle as he tilts Shane's head back, forcing him to meet his eyes. "We're okay. Momo is going to be okay—"

"You don't know that," Shane says back stubbornly. The last thing he wants to do is have false hope.

"I do," Ilya insists, raising his eyebrows carefully when Shane tries shaking his head in disagreement. "No, listen. I do know this because she is annoying, even you said this, remember? She is going to make you worry for no reason and she is going to be okay because she is drama queen who wants attention. That is probably why she did this, you know. Because I have not seen her in weeks, she probably missed me."

Shane laughs just barely but it's enough to make Ilya beam. "Definitely not," he argues. "She's never been happier."

"Ah yes," Ilya says, sarcasm laced in every word, "that is why we are currently at emergency room for animals. She seems very happy." Shane huffs, pushing at Ilya's chest and stopping when Ilya holds his wrist with one hand, stroking the skin of Shane's cheek with the other. His tone is softer this time. "Better?"

Shane swallows, eyes fluttering shut as he nods, swaying into Ilya's body and dropping his forehead against Ilya's shoulder. When Ilya hugs him, he nearly melts against the affection, clutching at the back of Ilya's jacket, now very aware that he's wearing nothing underneath. They break apart when someone comes in to check Momo on the exam table.

Momo makes a noise when they press on her stomach and Ilya tenses up, stepping forward. "Is she in pain?"

The vet smiles. "It doesn't seem like it. Sometimes they just hate being touched by strangers."

Ilya only presses his lips at the answer, eyes narrowed as the physical exam is continues. After, Momo is taken to the back the back after they're informed of the tests they'll be running. Blood samples, urine samples. A few other thing Shane doesn't catch.

They wait for over an hour, both now slumped in the chairs with their hands intertwined between them. The exhaustion starts to hit Shane slowly, his eyes shutting as Ilya raises their hands to kiss at Shane's knuckles. He doesn't doze off, doesn't have a chance to as the vet comes back with Momo, setting her on the exam table.

"All her labs look normal," the vet tells them happily. "We have reason to believe her excessive vomiting was due to stress—"

"Stress?" Shane repeats incredulously. There's no fucking way this is all because of stress. "How is she stressed? She's a cat—"

Ilya's hand is between his shoulder blades, cutting him off. "Sweetheart, listen to the doctor, yes?" He turns to the vet, giving her a polite smile. "What is wrong with Momo—why is she stressed?"

The vet smiles as she looks back and forth between the two of them. "Well there could be a lot of factors. Have there been any sudden changes in her environment or routine? A new home? Any additions to the household? Any extended periods of time away from either of you?"

Ilya raises his eyebrows, delighted. "Ah," he starts, slowly looking over at Shane. "Would you look at that."

Shane says nothing to regard him, rubbing a hand over his face with a sigh. "So, what? We just get her back on the same routine?"

"Pretty much," she nods. "Obviously if there are any other concerns that come up with her behavior, come in so we can get her checked out. For now just follow up with your local vet and see how she progresses, but I have a feeling she's gonna be just fine. She's got two dads that care about her a whole lot."

Shane almost chokes on his spit. From beside him, Ilya smiles. "Thank you," says sincerely. "We appreciate it."

They're released with some medicine for Momo and follow up instructions. Shane tries his best not to glance over at Ilya as much as he wants to, knowing that if he does, he might give himself away.

Unfortunately for him, Ilya can never shut the fuck up.

"Two dads," he says as they walk toward his car. "Does this mean she is my cat too?"

"You can have her," Shane says, only partially kidding. Ilya would probably be a better owner by a long run.

Ilya tsks, opening the back door so Shane can put Momo and her crate inside. "Ah, be nice to Momo. she is going through a lot. She missed me very much, you know."

Shane sighs. "That makes two of us."

Ilya looks over at him before closing the car door. "Does it?"

"Yeah," Shane nods.

Ilya's answer comes in the form of a hum in the back of his throat, his eyes flickering across Shane's face for a moment before he's rounding the car and getting into the driver's side.

The car ride back is quiet, leaving Shane to do nothing but sneak glancing at Ilya and think, think, think. He's partially surprised when they get to Shane's apartment complex and instead of saying goodbye, Ilya turns off the car, getting out before Shane does. He grabs Momo from the back seat, waiting for Shane to get out the car and follow. The silence stretches even as they make it up to Shane's apartment, even as he unlocks the door and Ilya frees Momo from the confined space.

"Fuck," Shane groans, eyes falling on one of the many throw up stains. "I forgot that she threw up everywhere."

Ilya looks around, letting out a clean and singular whistle. "Wow. Very gross."

"Shut up," Shane sighs tiredly, already walking to the kitchen to get the disinfectant and wipes.He pauses when he realizes Ilya is following him. "Thank you for the ride and everything. You didn't have to."

"Is okay," Ilya shrugs. "Momo is very important."

Shane smiles, just barely, already dreading the thought of Ilya leaving, but knowing it would be too much to ask him to stay, even if it's only for a few more minutes. "Have a good night, Ilya. Get some sleep."

Ilya looks at him incredulously, eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline. "Ah, no. Give me the wipes."

"You don't have to—"

"Shane you are exhausted," Ilya points out. "And there is so much throw up. It will be faster if I help."

Even if Shane had the energy to argue, he wouldn't.

They start on opposite ends of the open area, scrubbing at the dried spots until the air smells like alcohol and artificial lemons. When Ilya is washing his hands in the kitchen right after Shane, Shane leans back against the counter, fidgeting with his hands, working up some courage he knows is locked away in the depths of his chest.

Finally, he breaks the silence. "Were… Did it, um… did it bother you? When the vet thought we were together?"

The faucet cuts off. Ilya turns around with dripping hands and furrowed brows, confusion etched on every corner of his face. "Why would it bother me?

"You know," Shane starts lamely, looking at everything except for Ilya. "Because we aren't together."

"No," Ilya says slowly. "But that is not a terrible thing to think of."

Shane swallows, finally willing himself to look at Ilya who isn't looking at him anymore and instead at where he's drying his hands on the front of his pajama pants. "What isn't terrible to think of?"

Ilya shrugs nonchalantly, but Shane can see the way his throat bobs. "Us being together."

Shane's eyes widen. "Oh—"

"But it's fine," Ilya says quickly, another shrug punctuating his indifference before he crosses his arms over his chest. "I know you do not want a boyfriend, so."

There's a heavy pause. Shane's mouth twitches for a moment before he bites the bullet. "What if I do, though? What if I want a boyfriend?"

Ilya says nothing, his jaw twitching. "Do you?"

"Maybe," Shane admits, doing his best to sound steady but knowing there's a slight tremble in his words, in his confession. "Only if the feeling is mutual, I mean."

"Ah," Ilya says with a sharp nod and some bitterness. "Well you should go ask him, then."

Shane straightens up, scrambling to find his words. He didn't think Ilya would be so blunt about it. "Oh, okay. Um—"

"I should go," Ilya says suddenly, pushing off the counter.

"What?" Shane blurts, rushing to follow Ilya as he leaves the kitchen. "Ilya, what are you—"

"Shane, you do not have to tell me anything. Is fine. I get it."

"Wait," Shane says desperately, grabbing onto Ilya's bicep to stop him. He turns around, shrugging Shane's touch off of him and as much as it hurts, Shane is fucking confused. "Get what exactly? What are you talking about?"

Ilya looks up in something close to defeat before fixing Shane with a blank stare. "Hayes told me you wanted something serious."

"Yeah, I do," Shane nods. "Is… is that so bad?"

"No, I'm happy for you," Ilya says, but it doesn't seem like he's actually happy. He seems more annoyed than anything. "Whoever he is, he's lucky. You can tell him I said that. Show him a picture of me too, yes? The one I told Hazy to show you where I have no shirt, that is a good one."

Again, Shane is lost. He glances around just in case he missed something. "Who are you talking about?"

Ilya groans, rolling his eyes and muttering something in Russian. "Whatever guy you met and are seeing. Him. I am talking about him." With that, he turns back around, heading toward the door.

Shane intercepts him and pauses, hands on Ilya's chest to keep him from going anywhere. Luckily, their strength is matched, and Ilya realizes and gives up on trying to barrel his way past. "Do you think I'm talking about another guy?"

Ilya groans again. "For fucks sake—"

"Ilya, I'm talking about you," Shane tells him. "I, um. I want something serious with you. I want you."

There it is, out in the open, said out loud instead of trapped in Shane's head left to be trampled by every doubt and insecurity. He watches, hanging on by a thread as Ilya's eyes widen and his mouth parts with a small sound.

For several seconds, he says nothing. Shane swallows shakily, dropping his hands from Ilya's chest and looking down to hide the crestfallen expression bound to be etched on his face.

"I am going to kill Hayes," Ilya says.

Before Shane can ask why, Ilya is cupping his face and pulling him into a bruising kiss. Shane's hands bury themselves in Ilya's hair to stabilize himself, his knees nearly giving out as Ilya licks into his mouth, nips at his lip, devours Shane within an inch of his life.

Shane is lightheaded by the time Ilya pulls away, aware of the way he instinctively chases the kiss but not finding it in himself to care, not even even Ilya starts laughing. He's still breathless when he asks, to be sure, "Does—does this mean you feel the same?"

"You are very dumb," Ilya says but it sounds like he might as well be saying I like you so much with the fondness bleeding through his tone. "Yes, I feel the same. Maybe more. I almost killed a man that does not exist."

Shane can't help but smile. "You thought I was talking about someone else?"

Ilya rolls his eyes but nods. "Yes, which is also why I am going to actually kill Hayes."

"But what did he do?" Shane asks, confused again. If anything, they owe all of this to him. Not that they'll ever tell him, but, still.

"Almost ruined my life," Ilya answers unhelpfully, only adding to the confusion. He kisses Shane once and then twice. "Don't worry about it."

Shane nods before pausing, backtracking. "Wait—you picked the picture he pitched you with?"

"Yes," Ilya nods.

"How did you know he was gonna show me?"

"Because he showed me picture of hot nerd first and said, 'do you want to fuck him?' and I am honest and good person so I said yes."

Shane blinks. "Wait—me? He showed you a picture of me?"

"Yes," Ilya answers simply. "And he said you needed a good lay but did not want a boyfriend, but you did not meet me yet so how would you know you did not want a boyfriend?" He leans forward and kisses Shane's gaping mouth. "Now look at you. Hot nerd with hot boyfriend. You should say thank you to Hazy."

"I thought you were gonna kill him."

Ilya considers this, bottom lip jutting out in thought. He shrugs. "You say thank you first and then I strangle him."

Before Shane can try pleading for Hayes's life, Ilya is grabbing him by the back of his thighs and hoisting him up without warning. Shane gasps, legs wrapping around Ilya's waist instinctively to keep them from both toppling over as Ilya takes them into the bedroom. He doesn't have it in him to scold Ilya, not when he's tilting his chin up for another kiss that Shane can't deny him.

ᗢ

While Shane knows he'll never admit it, Ilya's favorite position is missionary.

Even if he constantly calls it boring, Shane knows he prefers it like this, when Shane is beneath him, holding onto the back of his neck to keep their lips pressed together. He can hear the way Ilya's breath is hitching, can feel the way his thrusts start to falter when Shane whines into his mouth, asking for more without saying anything because he doesn't have to. Ilya knows what he wants, always has and always will.

"Good, so good," Ilya pants into Shane's mouth. "You take it so well, lyubimyy."

All Shane can do is nod brokenly, words lost on him as Ilya fucks into him roughly before slowing down, dragging it out. Shane's curse is swallowed as Ilya kisses him again, matching the way he licks into his mouth with the steadiness of his hips. Not too rushed, just enough for Shane to shudder in pleasure, melting into the sensation. Ilya's hands are ceaseless, hot against Shane's already warm skin. He drags his palm down Shane's stomach, brushes the tips of his fingers against his erection before pulling back as Shane arches into the touch.

"Perfect, so beautiful," Ilya whispers between kisses. "You want more?"

Shane nods, choking back a whimper. "Yeah—give it to me—"

"Say you love me," Ilya urges, selfish in his own ways when it comes to this. He loves nothing more than to hear it, to bask in the affection, the words. To know that the aching in his chest is shared. "Say it—"

A meow sounds, light and sudden.

Ilya pauses, opening his eyes slowly, eyebrow raising as he looks at Shane. "Oh? We are trying out new things today?"

Shane blinks, turning his head to the side and finding Momo there on the other side of the bed, staring at them with those judgmental eyes of hers. "Jesus Christ—I told you to shut the door, Ilya."

"The door was shut!" Ilya insists before pausing, tilting his head. "Well, maybe not. How do you want me to focus when you start touching my dick? If you want the door closed, you close it!"

"You're such an asshole," Shane says blandly. He can feel Ilya throb inside of him. "Really?"

"What?" Ilya nearly yells, defensive. "You are sexy when you are mean to me, I have told you this!"

"Go close the door. And get Momo out of here," Shane tells him, pushing at Ilya until he pulls out with a groan and his eyes rolling dramatically.

"This house is a nightmare," Ilya mumbles, getting off the bed and pointing at Momo. "Come on, your dad hates you."

"No I don't," Shane calls out like she can understand any of this.

"He does not hate you," Ilya tells her, opting to pick her up when she doesn't move. "But he loves me more, so. You have to go."

Well. Shane can't argue with that.