Archive of Our Own ^beta

The return to reality is even harsher than Ilya had expected. After the two sun-bathed weeks at the cottage, his house in Boston feels starkly lacking in comparison. Empty.

The day he gets back he drops his suitcase on the floor of his bedroom, and he considers unpacking for a moment; he even gets as far as taking out a few shirts, throwing them on the bed to decide which ones he should wash and which ones are clean enough to get away with putting them back in his closet—until he comes across a brown and yellow plaid shirt, originally Shane’s, that they’d ended up wearing back and forth for the entire two weeks, and then Ilya doesn’t feel much like unpacking anymore.

He shoves everything in the washing machine and elects to deal with it another day. He has plenty of other clothes here, anyway. He escapes back to his living room just as his phone lights up with a text.

Jane [2.15pm]: Did you make it?

Lily [2.16pm]: No

Lily [2.16pm]: Changed my mind

Lily [2.17pm]: I am in my car now, coming to Montreal

Jane [2.18pm]: Fuck off.

Jane [2.20pm]: Are you really?

Ilya’s lips curl up at the reply.

Lily [2.21pm]: No. Montreal is too boring

Lily [2.21pm]: But not fun boring like you

Lily [2.21pm]: Plus they hate me there

Jane [2.22pm]: A mystery as to why.

Lily [2.23pm]: Wow

Lily [2.23pm]: So mean

Lily [2.23pm]: I thought you loved me

Lily [2.24pm]: I can’t believe you changed your mind already

Lily [2.24pm]: My heart is broken

Jane [2.25pm]: Shut up.

Jane [2.25pm]: I love you.

Jane [2.25pm]: I’m heading out to see Hayd, call later?

What did he use to do in his apartment before? Well, not much. He didn’t spend a whole lot of time in it, and he’s not going to in the next few months either. He decides to follow Shane’s example and he hits call on Cliff’s contact to check if he’s free; he could use the distraction.

In the next few days, life resumes as normal, dragging Ilya along with it, and forcing him to get used to Shane’s absence once again. Shane has only been in his Boston apartment once, but still, Ilya expects to find him every time he rounds the corner of a room, embarrassingly catches himself a couple times turning his head to share a joke just to find empty air at his side. Right, Shane is not here. Shane is in Montreal.

Ilya sighs, collapsing on the couch after having dinner with Svetlana and then a long, late work-out at his home gym. It’s been weeks now since he’s been back and the Raiders’ first practice is tomorrow. He’s staring down at the barrel of a long, long few months of solitude. The thought shouldn’t be so daunting still, but it is. It is. It’s different now that Shane is his boyfriend, now that he knows what it’s like to spend long, uninterrupted days together and now that he knows what it is to feel the lack of them.

We have a plan, Ilya reminds himself. This is the last season they will have to do this.

He just has to hold on to that.

*

The preseason routine settles over Ilya’s life like a familiar, dark cloud. Practices, brand shoots, sweaty locker rooms, his stick hitting the puck over and over again. He slips back into the role of captain easily, and thinks about his impending departure at every speech, every slap on the back. The guys don’t know, won’t know until it’s done. Part of him feels like an asshole; a bigger part of him doesn’t give a shit, not if the trade off is Shane.

He hasn’t told Svetlana yet. That really makes him feel like the biggest dick in the universe.

Shane is the constant thought in his mind, the only thing that cuts through the unsettled feeling curling in his stomach. They text a lot now, about everything: hockey, obviously, and silly day-to-day stuff. Ilya sends him a lot of random pictures, like the chicken he burnt while cooking or a cloud that looks suspiciously like a dick. They FaceTime at any occasion, which is nice. It doesn’t do much to erase the miles of distance between them, but it helps to see Shane’s face, even if it’s in low resolution in the not-big-enough screen of his phone.

“Your freckles look very pretty today,” Ilya comments during one of their calls, bringing the phone close to his face as if to analyze every single one of them. Shane huffs on the other side of the screen, a small, pleased smile tugging at his lips.

“How would you know? There’s barely any light.” They’re both in bed, Shane cast into the low light of a lamp.

“Ha, I know because they are always pretty.”

Shane rolls his eyes fondly. “You know you don’t have to keep flirting with me, right? You have me now.”

Ilya’s heart skips a beat at the words. Honestly, this is ridiculous. He grins, replying, “Is just my natural charm. Can’t help it.”

“Right.” Shane settles further into the pillow, glasses slightly crooked on his nose. He is so very cute. Ilya misses him devastatingly.

“How do you think I got you?” Ilya teases.

“By being extremely annoying and persistent.”

“Yes, charm. Is that not what I said?”

Shane bursts into a laugh. “Asshole.”

Ilya hums, and they fall into a comfortable silence for a few seconds. “Wish you were here,” Shane murmurs eventually.

“Me too.” Shane will be able to visit in a week, maybe. It’s been two months since they left the cottage.

“Soon,” Shane reassures. Ilya tries to keep his smile normal. They fall asleep on the call, Ilya’s phone lying on the empty pillow next to him.

*

Shane’s visit comes and goes, cut too short. They have great sex, they laugh and cook and cuddle and Ilya’s mood is boosted, Shane’s touch a healing balm, but it’s not easy when he leaves. Ilya maybe holds on to him in a tight hug for a suspiciously long time, trying to convince him to stay a while longer by pressing suggestive kisses to his jaw. Shane seems on the brink of relenting for a second, but then he shakes his head as if to clear his head and puts a bit of space between them.

“I can’t skip this practice,” he says mournfully. Ilya understands, but it doesn’t suck any less. He pouts and draws Shane back into another hug, the last one, and then he forces himself to let go and step back.

“Okay, okay, go. The Metros will fall apart without you, we all know this.” It’s a joke, or Ilya means for it to be a joke, but his voice accidentally comes out a little choked, which is stupid. It’s not about the Metros. He hates them, but that’s besides the point—they both have obligations.

Shane blinks at him, as if trying to parse through Ilya’s tone, but then he accepts the joke. “Fuck off,” he says lightly, and then with a last peck he’s gone.

The time passes; preseason rolls over into the brutal rhythm of the actual season. It’s intense, all-demanding, and Ilya throws himself into it. He keeps busy, works himself to exhaustion, and looks forward to their first game against Montreal. He drags Boston through win after win, pep-talks his teammates after the losses. Through all of it he carves out any slice of time he can with Shane.

“Hey, man. The guys are going out drinking after this, you coming?” Cliff asks after an away game. Connors is standing next to him and they both wait for the inevitable yes that Ilya should give. Aware of his departure, and because it’s also a good distraction as any, he’s said yes a lot, even though he spends a lot of the time at the bars glancing at his phone and texting Shane.

He and Shane are supposed to FaceTime after this, though, and he’s looking forward to it.

“Nah,” he replies, putting his gear away. He’s already showered, ready to go much earlier than everyone else. “You go. Next time.”

Connors seems taken aback. “Seriously?”

Ilya raises his eyebrows. “I have life outside of all of you.”

“Your life is hockey and girls,” Cliff snarks back playfully. “We got it, man. Go get laid.”

Ilya picks up his bag and jacket. “I will, thank you.” He has very exciting phone sex to look forward to. “No need to be so jealous of my very full life.” He winks at Cliff, which gets him a shove.

Later, when the call is over and Ilya’s had a really nice time jerking off with Shane and then listening to his boyfriend talk in depth about the new hockey book he’s started reading, Ilya is on his back, in his big bed, alone, and he has to swallow down the bubble of discontentment that threatens to burst in his throat. He doesn’t want it to be there; it feels like a betrayal to Shane and to his loving, carefully thought-out plan. Still, it’s been months since the cottage, and they’ve only been able to see each other once. The need for Shane’s physical presence is a constant thrum deep in his bones; he wants to touch him, hold him and be held by him.

He hugs a pillow to himself instead; he can push through until their first match against Montreal, which is only a few weeks away. He makes himself go to sleep because he’s being a big baby about all of this.

*

The closer the match, the more the days drag. A week out, Ilya is grumpy and annoyed with himself for it. He works out harder, longer, trying to sweat out his strange restlessness.

“Are you okay?” Shane asks one day, on a normal call. Ilya has, admittedly, been quieter than usual, but in his defense he’d been getting out of the rink, and then driving, and he’s unlocking the door to his house; it’s been a grueling day. He’s allowed to be tired.

“Why?” Ilya asks, maybe too defensively.

A pause. Ilya can practically hear Shane’s gears turning all the way from Boston, and it softens him a bit.

“I’m okay, Hollander.” He throws his keys and bag somewhere in his entryway and heads directly to the bathroom. “Stress. The season, you know.”

“I know. Boston is doing well, though.” Ilya can hear how reluctant Shane’s tone is and it makes him laugh, finally.

“How hard was it to say that? Did your Metros jerseys catch on fire?”

“Shut up,” Shane mutters. “Can we switch to video?”

“I’m about to take a shower.”

There’s a heavy silence before Shane says, “So, can we?”

Ilya smirks and sets his phone down on the bathroom counter, whipping his shirt off and letting it fall on the floor before he accepts the video call. He can see himself in the mirror behind the phone, sweat sticking to his pecs and abs, his curls a sweaty mess. He avoids looking too hard at his face.

“Oh,” Shane breathes when the call connects. His eyes drift over Ilya’s body; his arms, his chest, down to his crotch where his dick is already bulging in his sweatpants. Ilya can track the blush splotching Shane’s cheeks, the way his lips part slightly, the tip of Shane’s tongue just peeking out.

“Like what you see?” Ilya asks, the bad mood melting away to leave space to the familiar heat of lust. It’s an ingrained reaction around Shane at this point.

“Always.”

Ilya slips his hand to the front of his sweatpants, cupping his rapidly fattening dick over the fabric; Shane’s gaze follows the movement hungrily. Ilya squeezes himself, a tease, while Shane watches intently. It takes no time for Ilya to get hard under Shane’s reverent gaze, the tip of his cock peeking from the elastic waistband.

“Fuck,” Shane breathes. Ilya hears some rustling.

“Are you touching yourself?” he asks, pressing a thumb over his slit, feeling the wetness gathering there.

Shane nods frantically. “I wish it was you. Fuck, Ilya, please.” The angle has changed a bit, with Shane distracted. Ilya can see the line of his shoulder, the movement of Shane jerking off.

“Please what?” His voice is a low rumble. He spits into his palm and then slips his hand inside his sweatpants, grabbing his hard cock and jerking off fast and rough, just on the side of too dry, too painful. Shane licks his lips. “C’mon. You know.”

Ilya smiles. He wants to hear Shane say it. “I don’t know. What?” They’re both breathing fast, and Ilya feels wrecked with the need to come and to watch Shane fall apart with him.

“Let me see,” Shane pleads. He looks so pretty, with his pink lips and the dazed look in his eyes.

“You first,” Ilya replies, satisfied. “Use the other camera.” He needs to see Shane’s cock, needs to see Shane touching himself, his big, calloused hands around himself. Shane fumbles with the phone and then Shane’s erection fills the screen, Shane’s hand moving over it in a ruthless rhythm, and Ilya can see how wet he is already, pre-come beading at the tip.

“Fuck. Is that for me?” Ilya asks, shoving his sweatpants down just enough to free his erection. He leans one hand on the counter, the other stripping over his cock. Shane whines at the sight, his hips bucking into his hand.

“You look—holy fuck, Ilya.” Shane’s voice is bordering on desperate. He knows that if he had both hands free he would be playing with his balls, and then he would reach out further and play with his pretty hole, slipping a finger in to fuck himself to orgasm. The thought of it makes Ilya groan, his own climax cresting. Shane is chasing his own release just as deliriously, breath hitching, his hand losing rhythm.

“I should be inside you,” Ilya drawls. “Look at you, you’re so needy. You feel empty, yes? Without my cock?”

Shane hums brokenly. “I need—”

“No,” Ilya replies. “I want you to come from just this. My voice, your hand.”

“Fuck—you—”

“Are you such a slut,” Ilya teases, “that you cannot come without something in you?”

Shane gasps, hips lifting off the bed as he releases all over his hand and stomach. Ilya, watches, rapt, as Shane paints himself with stripes of his own come, as he moans helplessly, calling Ilya’s name. There’s power to it, the knowledge that he can do this to Shane, that he’s the only one who gets to. He pictures being there with Shane, licking the come off, Shane’s fingers tugging at his curls. He bends over and comes with a choked groan, catching most of it in his hand, but some of it stains his very nice, marble, bathroom counter.

They breathe in sync for a few minutes, recovering. Then Shane says, “your counter!” and Ilya loses it, bending over in a helpless laugh.

Fuck. He loves him so fucking much. The distance is a physical wound.

Ilya showers with Shane still on the call and then he takes his phone to his couch, sprawling over it with the TV low in the background. He’s loose, relaxed after the orgasm, but some of the weirdness is creeping back in at the edges.

“You look tired,” Shane comments.

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Well, you know hockey. Very tiring sport.”

Shane gives him a deadpan stare. “Stop that. It’s—I don’t know. Not hockey tired. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Shane looks genuinely concerned. Ilya clenches his jaw, another sarcastic response bubbling up in his throat because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what to say, he doesn’t know what’s wrong. If there’s even anything wrong. Maybe he’s just being a pathetic, needy boyfriend, unable to cope with the long distance, which is fucking stupid because all of their relationship has been long distance.

The worry in Shane’s soft brown eyes stops him. Something in him tugs tighter, a noose, and he doesn’t have any words for all of this except, “I miss you.” It comes out small. He hopes it’s enough. It’s the truth, or at least something close to it.

Shane smiles sadly. “I know, me too. But soon, right?”

“Yeah.” Ilya tries to smile back. “Phone sex isn’t enough, you are too hot, and you are so far away from me. Is unfair. Lots of things we can’t do this way.”

Shane shakes his head, pleased and flustered. “Well, if I was there…what would we do?” he asks.

Ilya fidgets with the phone, thinking. “I’d want you on your knees,” he starts, lewd, winking at Shane. That part’s easy.

“That’s it?” Shane challenges.

Ilya swallows a lump. “I’d want my cock in your mouth to feel you around me. I would want to fuck your mouth, until you gag. Until you cry.” Shane has gone quiet, eyes wide. “I’d want—” There are not enough words in any language, not even in Russian, to explain what Ilya wants, or the sheer, embarrassing size of it. How does he explain that he wants to stitch himself to Shane, wants to be so close to him that they become one, that he would climb inside Shane’s body and make a home there if he could?

“What?” Shane asks, gravelly. “Please, tell me.”

He’s lost his trail of thought. He grasps for something to say, and without a real conscious decision, he settles on, “I’d want your body over me. Like, um, weighted blanket,” Ilya continues. Shane blinks, seeming taken aback. Fuck, too honest, too weird, Ilya thinks in a panic, but then Shane’s mouth curls into a content smile.

“After you come in my mouth, though?” he jokes.

Ilya smiles in relief. “Yes, of course, Hollander. Who do you take me for?”

They have to say goodnight eventually. Ilya curls up on his couch with a thin blanket, not weighted, not as nearly as satisfying as Shane would be, staring at some point in the dark over the top of the TV. Contentment and bitterness mix strangely in his chest. He feels like he’s constantly slipping on ice, the strange unsteadiness of something that should be like muscle memory to him.

He sees Shane’s smile on the back of his eyelids when he closes his eyes, and he can’t bring to drag his heavy body to the bedroom. He sleeps.

*

“You’re being weird,” Svetlana accuses him one day. They’re drinking wine and sitting in the garden in Ilya’s house. Well, she’s drinking wine, and Ilya is nursing a beer and itching for a cigarette.

Ilya frowns at her. “Wow, we are here, enjoying this very nice day, and that’s what you choose to say? My feelings are hurt.”

“What’s wrong, Ilya?” She doesn’t put up with his bullshit, and Ilya loves her for that, and also hates her a bit at the moment. He can’t say I miss my boyfriend, Shane Hollander, because even though she knows he has someone, and she knows it’s a he, knowing it’s Shane would be a completely different thing. He won’t tell her if Shane is not okay with it. He hasn’t asked.

This is as good a time as any, he supposes. “I’m not re-signing with Boston.” He takes a swig of the lukewarm beer, not looking at her.

He feels the shock in her silence, which is rare; it’s hard to surprise her in general and even more so for Ilya—she knows him a little too well. She recovers fast though, and when Ilya sneaks a glance at her she’s pulled herself back together. “Where, then?”

“Ottawa.”

Her mouth drops open. “The Centaurs? Are you kidding me? They haven’t made the playoffs in decades!”

Ilya shrugs. “Boston hadn’t either, before me.”

Svetlana scoffs, taking a long sip of her wine and then setting the glass on the ground. “What the hell, Ilya? Have you lost your mind?”

“Maybe I miss a challenge.”

“Is this about Jane?”

Ilya’s teeth click shut. He has a moment of panic, wondering if saying yes will lead Svetlana too close to the actual truth, but his hesitation is enough of a confirmation. Svetlana goes quiet for a moment, looking out into the garden, and when she turns back to him she seems to have steeled herself. “Are you happy?”

“Yes,” Ilya breathes out. Not right now, not when he’s so far away from Shane. But he will be. “I’ll miss you, Sveta.”

Svetlana scoots closer and wraps him into a hug. “Me too, Ilyusha. But you deserve this, and I’ll still be here.”

Ilya nods, and they hug quietly for a while. Svetlana smells like she always does—sweet and nostalgic, like the best parts of his childhood. He wonders what it will be like to be so far away from her.

“Really, though? The Centaurs?” She says when they separate, her nose scrunching up.

“I’ll make you change your mind.” It’s a bold promise, but Ilya’s used to those.

*

The day before the match against Montreal, a home game for Ilya, he’s almost vibrating with the excitement of seeing Shane in twenty-four hours; he forces everything else to the side. At practice he flies on his skates, seeing Shane in his mind’s eye skating alongside him, against him. He can’t fucking wait. The only other thing that is as thrilling as fucking Shane is seeing him on the ice, a beast in his element.

“Hey, Ilya! Dude, look at this.” Cliff calls him over in the changing room after practice, waving his phone around. Ilya, curiosity piqued, walks over. “Is it one of your stupid American Facebook memes?” Ilya asks. They are very funny.

“Nah.” On the screen, there’s blurry phone shots of some of the Metros players walking out of their hotel. “Looks like the enemy is already in town. What are the chances they get blasted and play like shit tomorrow?”

Ilya’s ears are ringing. The Metros are in Boston, which means Shane…

His eyes scan over the picture, but he can’t see him. “Hollander wouldn’t let his team do that,” he replies, his own voice sounding distant and muffled to his own ears. “I have to go.”

Ilya snatches his phone from his stall. Maybe he missed a text but—no, no new message from Shane informing him that he’s in fucking Boston already and hasn’t let Ilya know. He hears Cliff call his name, but he waves him away dismissively as he gathers his shit and storms out of the changing room and the rink, eyes glued to his phone.

He spends an embarrassing amount of time sitting still in his car, debating whether to text—or call—Shane to ask him what the hell is happening. Is it a new ritual? They don’t see each other before games at all? What a waste of precious fucking time. Ilya’s heart is doing its best to beat out of his chest, disappointment and fear climbing in his throat.

He types at least a dozen texts that he doesn’t send. There has to be another explanation. There has to be.

In the end Ilya throws his phone in the backseat and heads home. He keeps the window open the entire drive, the breeze chilly on his face; he needs to cool down before talking to Shane.

He walks through his front door in a distracted daze. He’s mentally rehearsing what he will say to Shane, something cool and collected and not accusatory and scared, and as he throws the light switch on in his living room he jumps about ten feet in the air because there’s someone in his fucking house.

There’s a split second where he thinks he’s either about to get murdered or robbed and then his brain catches up to what he’s seeing and—

Shane. Shane is in his living room, standing in his adorably awkward way.

“What the fuck!” Ilya manages to choke out, gripping at his own chest.

“Sorry!” Shane grimaces. “The Metros got in a day early and I wanted to…” Shane fidgets, hesitant in response to Ilya’s reaction. “Surprise?”

Surprise. Surprise. All the concern disappears from Ilya in a rush, leaving him dizzy. His boyfriend didn’t tell him he was in town because he wanted to surprise him. He rubs his hands over his face and laughs. He hears Shane walk closer.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya exhales and grabs Shane by his shoulders, tugging him into a heady, passionate kiss. Shane responds enthusiastically, wrapping his arms around Ilya and melting into him, letting Ilya take control. He missed him so fucking much, fuck. He could almost cry at the feeling of Shane in his arms, their mouths pressed together after so fucking long. How is he meant to keep doing this for another season?

“So you’re happy?” Shane murmurs against his lips as Ilya walks him into the wall next to his bedroom.

“The happiest.”

Shane smiles, wrapping a leg around Ilya’s waist and keeping him close. Ilya grabs at it, squeezing the powerful muscle in Shane’s thigh appreciatively. “Be honest, you convinced your team to get to Boston early to see me?” he teases.

“You know it’s not up to me,” Shane replies, his hands wandering to Ilya’s chest. “But it was convenient.”

“Hm, lucky.” Shane licks his lips, and Ilya gets distracted by the sight, pressing more kisses to Shane’s mouth, licking inside. They get lost into it, re-learning each other again, Shane’s hips hitching softly against him.

“You—” Shane breathes out, throwing his head back against the wall, and Ilya takes advantage to press his lips against Shane’s neck, sucking and nipping at the skin. “You said some stuff—the other day—Ilya—”

“I say lots of stuff.”

Shane tugs playfully at his curls. “I know, believe me.” Ilya glances up at him, and Shane looks flustered but determined. “You said all that stuff about your cock and my mouth.”

Oh. Oh. Ilya is swinging between devastating horniness and unending love for this man. “What about it?”

Shane looks at him with disarming earnestness. “I want to give it to you.”

Ilya chokes on a breath. He doesn’t deserve this. God, he doesn’t, not at all, but he’ll be damned if he ever lets this man go. “The bed,” he croaks, dragging Shane away from the wall and into the bedroom. He basically throws himself down on the edge of the bed. “On your knees.”

Shane drops. Ilya is so hard that, if he had any less self-control, he would probably come on the spot. He watches Shane crawl closer to him, drag his hands up his legs, over his clothed thighs. “You know what to do, kotenok.”

Shane licks his lips, eager, his fingers hooking in Ilya’s waistband and tugging down until he frees his cock. Ilya holds the base of it, fisting his hand in Shane’s hair. “Come here.”

Shane takes the tip in his mouth, eyes slipping shut, sucking gently around the foreskin. His mouth is hot, inviting, and Ilya wants nothing more than to ruin it. Holding on to Shane’s hair, he lets him set the pace for now, taking this moment to admire how good Shane looks with a dick in his mouth. Ilya has never met anyone who loves sucking dick as much as Shane does.

He goes slowly at first, as if he’s savoring it, licking and sucking around the head; then taking him in further, pressing his tongue to the underside. Going back up, and then down again, a little more each time until his lips are meeting Ilya’s hand, until Shane knocks it away. There’s a fist clenched around Ilya’s heart and a fire building in his stomach.

Shane hums, looking up at him pleadingly. Spit is gathered at the corner of his mouth. Ilya touches it gently, feels the place where his lips are stretched around him. With a firm hold on Shane’s hair, he starts moving his hips. Shane moans around him, eyelashes fluttering, his fingers digging into Ilya’s thighs. So beautiful.

“You take it so well,” Ilya whispers, building up a steady, unforgiving rhythm, forcing his dick all the way into Shane’s mouth. Shane’s breathing hard, letting Ilya use him. “Is like you were made for this, made for my cock, hm?”

Shane whimpers something unintelligible. Wetness gathers under his eyes, spit dribbling all over his chin. Ilya fucks his mouth with reverence, feeling his tip press against the tight entrance of Shane’s throat. He’s hot and wet around him and it feels so fucking good that all he wants is to come down Shane’s throat, paint his insides with his come. But no, it's not enough. He needs more, after all the weeks of not having him, not touching him.

He pulls out suddenly, moving Shane’s head away with the grip he has on his hair. Shane, surprised, gapes at him for a moment, lips cherry-red, used. “Don’t you fucking dare stop,” he croaks.

“Never,” Ilya promises, cupping Shane’s face in his hands and leaning down to kiss him. It’s sweet, deep. “Undress for me?”

Shane’s clothes get folded neatly, Ilya’s thrown somewhere off the side; Ilya pushes Shane on the bed on his back. His erection is spit-slick and red, aching to be buried inside Shane. When he kneels on the bed and spreads Shane’s cheeks apart he finds his hole already wet and shiny. Fuck.

“Is this a present for me?” Ilya asks, feeling lightheaded with want. He thinks Shane must have been created in a laboratory to drive him insane. He buries two fingers inside the slicked hole eagerly, finding Shane open and ready. Shane gasps, fisting the sheet beside him. He looks good enough to eat, his hair messy from Ilya’s fingers, his eyes half-lidded with want. The sheer need to have him corkscrews violently down Ilya’s spine.

“Who else?” Shane tries to snark back, although the effect is lost with how choked his voice comes out.

Ilya crooks his fingers inside him and Shane’s eyelashes flutter. “Ilya...”

Ilya wants him so badly, all the fucking time. “You deserve this, lyubimy. For wanting to surprise me.”

Shane smiles at him. “Kiss me?”

Ilya loves when Shane feels comfortable enough to make these requests of him; he leans down and locks their lips in a kiss as he stretches Shane open. It should be filthy, but it turns tender, almost melancholy; Shane wraps his arms around Ilya’s shoulders, whining a bit when Ilya has to pull away to smear lube on his dick.

“Patience,” Ilya chides.

“I’ve been too patient,” Shane retorts, tugging Ilya close again as soon as he can. Ilya breaches him easily, Shane wet and ready for him. The position isn’t the best for the rough, merciless fucking they like, but Ilya realizes that’s not what he wants right now, and it’s clearly not what Shane is looking for today. So he sets a slow, torturing pace, Shane’s legs locked at the small of his back. He’s covering Shane’s body with his own and they can’t stop kissing. Ilya could live in this moment forever: here, inside Shane, skin to skin, mouth to mouth. Every bad mood, every lonely moment is swept away like the tide, leaving him full of contentment and love, so much love he doesn’t know how he could possibly contain all of it.

Shane gasps and moans into his mouth every time Ilya fucks into him. He’s warm and perfect under him, happy to take whatever Ilya gives him. Ilya is whispering nonsense in Russian, I love you, perfect, I want you like this all the time. Shane writhes under him; he loves hearing Ilya speak Russian. I miss you so bad, this is killing me, I want you, I want you, I can’t stop wanting you. Ilya is a coward, hiding behind a language Shane will not understand.

Shane kisses his cheek, buries a hand in his curls. Ilya hits his prostate, again and again and again, deep, pointed strokes. Sweat is making their skin slick. Shane’s eyes are shiny with overwhelmed tears. “Close?” Ilya asks, feeling Shane’s erection rub against his belly, feeling the wetness of pre-come on his skin.

“Mhhh.” Shane nods frantically, trying to move his hips to both meet Ilya’s thrusts and rub his dick against his stomach.

“Can you come like this?”

“Yeah.”

“Good boy,” Ilya praises. “You’re perfect, Shane, fuck.”

“You—too—fuck, there, Ilya.” Shane’s rapidly spiraling towards release, and Ilya is not far behind. “You’re the best, the best for me.”

Ilya’s pace stutters, something blooming hot in his chest. He fucks deep once, twice, driving Shane up the bed, and he comes inside him, shaking. He feels Shane follow, his come getting on their stomachs, and he grabs Shane’s chin, licks into his mouth like a man possessed.

He collapses onto Shane, spent and wrung out, come smearing between them, but as soon as he feels like he can move his limbs he tightens his legs around Shane and rolls them around so that Shane is lying on top of him. It has the unintended consequences of his dick slipping out of Shane, which is a shame. He wishes he could stay inside Shane forever.

Shane lifts his head to look at him before Ilya is ready, mouth opening to say something and then pausing. Ilya doesn’t want to know what’s written on his face, tries to smooth his features into something neutral. Whatever Shane sees, he ends up pressing a kiss to Ilya’s chin before he settles back down, his strong body pressing him into the bed. Ilya is grateful.

It feels good. Ilya closes his eyes and lets himself drift, Shane held in his arms. He feels surrounded by Shane, the heat of his skin, the steadfast weight of him. Shane only moves to press a kiss here and there, to Ilya’s shoulders, his collarbone, his neck. It feels like claiming, like being owned. Ilya buries his fingers in Shane’s hair—it’s getting longer, Ilya likes it a lot—and strokes at Shane’s scalp, which he swears almost makes Shane purr like a cat.

“Shower?” he asks after a while, even though he doesn’t want to get up, but he feels guilty for making Shane lie covered in sticky, dried come. Shane doesn’t seem as bothered this time though.

“But we’d have to move.”

“Yes, unfortunate.”

Ilya strokes a hand down Shane’s back, reaches the top of his ass, thumb dipping in the dimples there; Ilya loves those dimples. “This was the best surprise of my life,” he comments.

Shane exhales in relief. “I’m glad you liked it. I’ve missed you a lot.”

Ilya basks at the confirmation, and the fact that they can say this out loud. “Missed me enough to change the Metros schedule for dick appointment even if you won’t admit it, I’m very flattered.”

Shane smacks him playfully. “Idiot,” he replies. He seems to get lost in thought while playing with Ilya’s curls, and then adds, “Just one more season, Ilya, okay? We’re gonna be closer soon, we'll see each other more often.”

“I know.” Ilya doesn’t want to talk about this, doesn’t want to think about more long months of this. He just wants to enjoy Shane being here. He doesn’t want to acknowledge why Shane feels the need to reassure him or why Shane felt the need for this surprise in the first place. He can’t talk about his weird mood, and he doesn’t want Shane to ask, so he kisses him instead. Small, short pecks that turn into a longer kiss.

“Thank you,” he manages to force out. He should still say something, anything. He hopes this is enough. He hopes it doesn’t sound like back off.

“Ye tebya lyublyu,” Shane murmurs in reply, stumbling sweetly over the pronunciation. Ilya doesn’t care. He smiles, big and wide and in love, and says it back, pulling Shane into a tight hug, hoping his body will leave an imprint on Ilya, a memory that will linger when he’s gone, something to tide him over through the weird loneliness that has settled over his life in Boston.

They get up to shower eventually, because Shane gets antsy and even Ilya begins to feel gross, and they end up on the couch, since Ilya thinks it’s way too early to go to bed. “We are not old men,” he protests. Shane climbs right back onto him, without asking, without saying anything. He’s grateful for the silent offer, that Shane is not pressing, that he doesn’t have to wreck his brain for a lie to being asked if he’s okay.

He’s okay right now, with Shane sleepily pressing kisses to his neck, the TV droning on about hockey on a channel that Shane put on, their skin pressed together because they’d only bothered with underwear. This is enough. It will always be enough.