Archive of Our Own

Shane Hollander was never quite good enough.

He knew this. He’d known this his entire life.

There had always been something just that little bit off about him. He was kind, but he didn’t know how to make friends on purpose. He was funny, but he took things too literally sometimes. He was good at hockey, but he came second in the draft. He was disciplined, but he was also somehow too serious. He was a handsome, eligible bachelor–according to the media–but he couldn’t force himself to fall in love with a woman no matter how hard he tried. And he had tried. He’d tried so hard.

For as long as Shane had been able to form self-conscious thoughts, he’d picked at the parts of himself he deemed not quite good enough with his nails until they bled, and scabbed, and then bled again. It didn’t matter how fiercely his mother believed in him or how gently his father encouraged him–in fact sometimes their unwavering belief in his capacity for greatness felt like a boulder looming over him, ready to drop at any moment and squash him–there would always be a part of Shane that whispered that he was lacking. That he could do, and be, more.

And so, to soothe that nagging voice, Shane had turned to an obsessive penchant for self-control.

Shane had become a master at control in his teens. He clung to the threads of his life tightly, wound them around his fingers and wrists even when they pulled at and stung his skin. From his diet to his training regime to his brand endorsements he had a firm grip on Shane Hollander Metros captain, two-time Stanley Cup winner, and NHL All-Star. That version of himself, the one that the NHL had dubbed hockey’s Golden Boy, was held together with a strict, unforgiving hand. Sometimes it felt a little suffocating but, even if it was a self-imposed strangulation, he could not relent.

He had to be good.

There was another Shane though. One that had existed before the hockey scouts started noticing him, one that had existed in the summers at his parent’s cottage growing up and then later at his own cottage, one that only existed now when in the arms of his archrival.

When Ilya Rozanov had skated into his life, all cocksure and gorgeous and surly, that was the first time Shane had felt wildly out of control of something. Of himself.

Ilya was undeniable. From that first moment Shane had seen him trying to light a cigarette in that drab parking lot in Saskatchewan, he had been drawn to him. Ilya was a flame and Shane was a moth; helpless but to linger ever closer and singe his wings.

After they’d hooked up that first time, Shane had sworn to himself he would never lose control like that again. He swore up and down that he would forget about the whole thing and, for a couple months, he had. He’d picked up the thread of his desire and wound it tightly back around his wrists until it felt like shackles. It would remain under control. Shane would not let it slip again.

Except it did. It always did.

Ilya had chirped him at the All-Stars Game in Nashville and told him his room number and then Shane was on his knees, thread fumbled and all semblance of self-control lost in lamplight and the press of Ilya’s warm body. Over and over again, year after year, Shane’s control over himself strained and frayed and then burnt away entirely until he was in love with Ilya and inviting him to his cottage.

It was only then, at the cottage, that he could finally admit to himself that Ilya’s embrace was the one place in the world where Shane didn’t feel the need to control a damn thing. When Ilya held him–roughly, softly, tenderly, commandingly–Shane didn’t feel the tug or burn of all those messy threads. He felt present. He felt real. In those moments he was just Shane. A man in love with another–complicated, maddening, beautiful, wonderful–man. 

The summer spent with Ilya at the cottage detangled Shane’s wires and soothed years and years’ worth of crosshatched wounds. Of course, Shane Hollander would have to remain firmly under control but Shane, well, Shane relaxed. Shane spent three and a half weeks alone with Ilya at the cottage. Shane planned for them to spend the rest of their lives together. Shane told Ilya he loved him, so much. Shane came out to his parents. Shane became a boyfriend. Shane… had to leave the cottage and become Shane Hollander again.

Ilya was still playing for Boston for another year. Next year he’d be in Ottawa, just two hours away, and they could spend their coinciding days and evenings off together between road trips, home games, and practice. It would be better, easier. This year, though, they were still in separate countries and would see each other only a handful of times over the season. And it was agonising.

Their time together during the season was precious, and Shane had already given up a few hours to his parents at the last home game when the Raiders had come to Montreal. He was determined to hoard every moment to himself for the rest of the season. Luckily, his parents were unlikely to bother him again if Ilya was in town–he’d traumatised them by having sex with Ilya, on a completely different floor of the apartment, but somehow, they’d still heard the bedhead hit the wall repeatedly and fuck had that been an embarrassing conversation the next morning. However, it seemed there were forces beyond his control determined to make their fleeting time together more difficult. This time it came in the form of an ominous text from Ilya.

Lily

I need to talk about next week.

Shane frowned at the text. He’d been stuck frowning at the text for a solid two minutes.

Next week Shane was meant to see Ilya again and this time, blessedly, they were meant to be alone at Ilya’s Boston home. Next week Shane was supposed to be spending a full twenty-four hours of uninterrupted time tangled up in Ilya’s embrace. Next week… Shane felt anxiety bubbling in his throat. What could Ilya want to talk to him about about next week?

The noise of the locker room around him had faded to a dull buzz the longer he’d contemplated Ilya’s message.

He took a breath and finally replied.

Shane

Okay. I’ll call you when I get home.

Lily

Yes. Text first.

I am stuck at the airport.

I hate stupid American airports.

Ilya had been in Chicago last night and the game had been brutal. It was rare for Shane to feel anxious watching Ilya play but he had taken a rough hit in the second period that had taken him off the ice for several minutes. The whole time he was off the ice Shane had been glued to the screen, waiting to catch a glimpse of his boyfriend. Which was stupid. They both took hits all the time. But when Ilya had returned for the third period, he’d blown a kiss at the camera and winked–he’d certainly done that for Shane–and once Shane had confirmation that Ilya was okay, he’d felt relief flood through him. Boston had lost in the end, by a narrow margin, and Ilya had grumped about it on the phone to Shane from his hotel room late last night. He’d also shown Shane the dark bruise on his hip from the check by the Chicago defenseman and it had made something irrational and protective boil in Shane’s blood. He would make sure to beat Chicago the next time Montreal faced them.

Shane

How is your hip?

Lily

Perfect. Amazing.

Forget what I said before.

Shane frowned. Did he not want to talk about next week anymore?

He was about to ask Ilya to clarify when another text from ‘Lily’ arrived.

Lily

I love American airports. You can bring dogs.

[image attached]

Shane smiled when the image loaded. The photo was zoomed in and blurry–clearly Ilya had tried to take it in a rush before he lost sight of the dog in the crowded terminal–and Shane could barely make out the fluffy Pomeranian. It wasn’t the first time Shane had received a blurry photo of a dog from Ilya, and he was certain it wouldn’t be the last. Two weeks ago Ilya had snapped a picture of a Doberman on a run in Manhattan and just three days ago he’d received a photo of a Staffie dressed up as a bouncer outside a bar in Detroit.

There were so many things to learn about Ilya Rozanov as a boyfriend. Like how he really loved to lie on top of Shane and nap or scroll on his phone or simply just lie there whilst Shane read and played with his hair. Or that Ilya liked his coffee with creamer and hated olives. Or that Ilya liked it when Shane washed his hair and enjoyed watching terrible action films with lots of explosions. Or that he texted constant photos of the dogs that he spotted in public. The dog photos were a surprising–and ridiculously endearing–part of the Boyfriend Ilya experience. Almost, though not quite, as endearing as the face he made when he was trying to swallow Shane’s kale smoothies because Shane had made it and he was trying to be nice.

“Shane!” Hayden shouted and Shane jumped, fumbling his phone. The phone landed on the floor faceup still open on the blurry picture of the Pomeranian.

“What?” He asked as he bent down to pick up his phone.

“You have been ignoring me for like ten minutes dude,” Hayden sighed as Shane turned to raise his brows at him. “I was asking if you wanted to come over next week and hang out with me and the kids.”

“Where’s Jackie going to be?” Shane asked and finally began pulling on his sweats. He’d been sitting in his towel post-shower for a while.

“She’s going out with a friend from college,” Hayden replied and pulled out his phone. “A single friend. And she’s hot. Look.”

Shane pointedly did not look. Beside him Hayden waved the phone around, trying to catch Shane’s eye, but when Shane’s gaze remained firmly fixed on the floor, Hayden let out a frustrated breath and slumped back onto his locker bench.

“Fine, don’t look,” Hayden tossed the phone into his gym bag. “But will you come over?”

“What? So you don’t have to look after four kids alone?” Shane finally looked over at his friend with a grin. Hayden shrugged.

“Yes. Obviously. It’s a lot of kids.”

“You could have stopped at any time,” Shane pointed out.

“We’re not having any more,” Hayden defended then gave Shane a terrified look. “At least I hope not.”

“I can drive you to the vasectomy appointment,” Shane offered helpfully. Hayden glared at him for a moment, but the heat of it was undermined by the twitch of his lips.

“That would actually be super helpful, man, thanks,” he replied earnestly and Shane clapped his shoulder.

Shane finished getting changed and packing up his gym bag so he could leave whilst Hayden bothered him some more about Jackie’s hot friend. When Shane rolled his eyes and told him to drop it Hayden pouted and complained about having no tolerable couple friends to spend time with. He was tired of only hanging out with Jackie’s couple friends; according to him most of them had partners that didn’t even like hockey and worked in IT or finance. The only couple Hayden liked were Jackie’s friends Brianna and her wife Lisa. But they lived in Vancouver and would only visit Montreal to see Lisa’s family a couple times a year. It was an ongoing issue for Hayden, and Shane, as always, shut his friend’s attempts at setting him up down.

It was reassuring that Hayden and Jackie were friends with a same-sex couple though. Shane was confident that, when he was ready, he could come out to his friends and that they would meet him with nothing but support. Maybe a little frustration, in Hayden’s case, for the wasted years spent thrusting women in front of Shane. Though he knew Hayden would only really be annoyed because he could have been trying to find Shane a boyfriend instead.

But Shane had a boyfriend. One he didn’t think Hayden would be all too pleased about.

Hayden Pike definitely wouldn’t want to go on a double-date with Ilya Rozanov.

The thought made Shane snort, and he waved goodbye at Hayden as he walked away across the parking lot, ignoring as the man continued to complain loudly after him.

Shane did not text Ilya when he got home. Not right away.

First, he showered again. The locker room showers had weak pressure and tepid water, and Shane needed his showers hard and scalding. Second, he heated up one of his meal-prep dinners. It was easier to get through the week if his macros were pre-portioned and ready to eat after practice or games. Finally, he texted Ilya. He sat at the kitchen island, phone propped against his Russian language book, and waited for Ilya to call whilst he chewed slowly on his dinner.

A minute later his phone lit up with a FaceTime request from ‘Lily.’ Shane hit accept.

There was a knot of anxiety burning in his chest that calmed to a dull throb the moment Ilya’s face filled the screen. Shane was struck, as he always was, by how gorgeous his boyfriend was. All messy curls and full lips and long lashes. He smiled, easily, and Ilya smiled back.

“Hello, Любимый,” Ilya said, soft and low.

“Hi,” Shane replied and he knew he sounded hopelessly besotted even in just that one syllable. “How was your flight?”

“Ah, uneventful,” Ilya waved a hand and settled into his sofa. “I watched a Charlize Theron movie. Was good.”

Shane could see the navy couch cushions and the corner of the abstract painting on the wall above it in the background behind Ilya. The TV was on, Shane could hear it humming quietly underneath the cadence of Ilya’s deep voice, and the room was bathed in soft lamplight. Shane wanted so badly to crawl through the screen and into Ilya’s lap.

“Which one?” Shane asked. Ilya smirked.

“Do you even know who she is?”

“Probably if I saw her,” Shane grumbled and Ilya shook his head.

“Probably not,” he teased. “She is hot. Does a lot of action films.”

“Well…” Shane shrugged.

“How was practice?” Ilya asked, gently moving on, though the teasing glint in his eyes lingered.

“It was…” Shane wanted to say good, but Comeau had been a real prick the whole day and it had left Shane feeling agitated. Instead of finishing his sentence he just sighed and gave Ilya a ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ look. Ilya hummed, understanding Shane without words, and tilted his head whilst pursing his lips consideringly.

Ilya looked so fucking cute, green-blue eyes focused tenderly on Shane and his dark blonde curls sweeping his forehead. Shane was overwhelmed by a rush of affection for the man. He was so, so in love it felt like he could burst with it. But… the anxiety was still lingering, stirring in his gut, and Shane had to ask what Ilya wanted to talk about before the feeling made him nauseous.

“So,” he began, drawing out the word, “what did you want to say about next week?”

There was a flicker of amusement on Ilya’s face, as if he had been counting down the seconds until Shane brought up his text, but it quickly shifted into a hesitant grimace. Ilya sucked his teeth and then sat up straight on the couch. The frown, Ilya’s tense shoulders, all of it made Shane’s jaw clench.

“You remember I told you about my friend Svetlana, yes?” Ilya asked.

Shane couldn’t help it. He scowled.

“Yes.”

“Well,” Ilya continued, his gaze locked on Shane intently. “Last night a pipe burst in her apartment. Made a huge mess. Flooded her kitchen. It is probably going to take a week or two to fix.”

When he didn’t continue Shane raised his brows as if to say ‘and?’ which made Ilya sigh.

“I told her she could stay. With me. Until it is fixed.”

Shane dropped his gaze to his half-eaten dinner and stared at it silently for a moment, then two, then three. The whole time Ilya was quietly breathing, and the silence gave room for that incessant voice Shane had carried with him his whole life to breathe air into insecurities he was ashamed to admit to having.

He shouldn’t feel insecure about this, jealous about this. Jealousy was an ugly, immature emotion, and it left him with a bitter taste in the back of his throat. It reminded him of watching Ilya dancing with that blonde woman in that night club last year. Shane had felt so devastated, so small, so confused, so bitterly jealous. And then he’d gone home and slept with Rose and that had made him feel worse and now he was starting to feel sick just thinking about all of it.

“Shane,” Ilya was apparently done waiting for Shane to say something. His voice was gentle, as if trying to cox Shane out of his own mind. It was too late. The spiral was in motion.

There is a girl I like here very much.

It was irrational. Ilya had told him he wasn’t in love with her.

“There’s nowhere else she could stay?” Shane asked, harsher than he’d intended.

“Well, I mean, she could stay in a hotel but…” Ilya frowned. “She is family.”

“Family you used to have sex with.”

“Shane,” Ilya’s voice had taken on a warning tone. It chaffed against Shane’s already agitated nerves.

I could marry Svetlana.

For citizenship, to be safe from Russia, not for love.

And yet…

“So she’s just going to live there, with you, for the next couple of weeks? Just you and her?” Shane could hear the thinly veiled accusation in his words. Ilya’s eyes hardened and he turned his face away, muttering to himself in Russian. Shane translated a ‘fuck’ but not much else.

“You don’t trust me,” Ilya said when he turned back to Shane. It was a statement, not a question.

The thing was Shane did trust Ilya. He did. Underneath all the pathetic insecurities clawing at his throat Shane trusted Ilya like he did no one else. Fuck, he’d always trusted Ilya. Since they were rookies. Since the first moment Ilya had kissed him and in every moment since, Shane had trusted Ilya. Even when he’d hurt him or pushed him away. Shane trusted Ilya. Implicitly.

“It’s not about trusting you,” Shane bristled.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“It is. Even if you say it is about her,” Ilya’s jaw was clenched and his eyes were steely. “What you mean is that you think I would… what? Fuck her?”

Shane felt horrible but he was mad now and his vision was blurring and his throat was burning with the effort not to cry. He was too far into that part of himself that screamed not good enough to say anything nice and so he dropped his head to his hands and took a deep breath.

When he looked up again Ilya was watching him through the phone screen with a look stuck between hurt and anger. Shane wanted to fix it. He didn’t know how. Not right now.

“I think I need to sleep,” Shane said. It was all he could do, end this conversation, and try again when he had his bearings. “Comeau was a prick all day. Talking shit about Hunter’s coming out and… I just… I can’t–I can’t right now.”

Ilya’s expression softened, if only minutely, but then he pressed his lips together into a tight line. Shane wanted so badly to just wrap his arms around his boyfriend and kiss his forehead and tell him that he was being stupid and didn’t even understand what was happening in his own head. He wanted to lay against Ilya’s chest on that stupid big couch and watch TV and then go to sleep later wrapped around Ilya. He wanted to wake up beside him and brush his teeth next to him at the sink and then kiss him as they made coffee in the kitchen.

But he just kept thinking of Svetlana there. In Ilya’s home where Shane should be.

“Okay,” Ilya nodded. “Goodnight, Shane.”

“Goodnight, Ilya.”

Shane could not sleep. He tossed and turned until his sheets were wound around him uncomfortably and his stomach was twisted into knots. His mind prodded restlessly at the tender spots of his heart and pressed on his insecurities until he felt bruised.

It was just after one in the morning when Shane gave up entirely on trying to sleep and pulled out his phone. The screen was blinding in the dark and Shane leaned over his nightstand to turn on the lamp. He found his glasses in the bedside table drawer and slipped them on then adjusted himself to sit up against his headboard.

He thought about texting Ilya, just to see if his boyfriend was also awake and upset. It wasn’t like they’d never fought before. They had known each other for nine years and their relationship had been complicated and fraught for most of that time. But they hadn’t fought as a couple before, not over something serious. They had bickered over the summer, competitively during an afternoon of cards with his parents, playfully when they were sat in front of the Xbox, and one time kind of seriously over how Ilya had stacked the dishwasher. It was bound to happen eventually, a proper fight as a couple, but that didn’t mean he was prepared for how it felt.

He lingered for a moment on the text thread with Ilya but decided against messaging his boyfriend. Ilya was probably asleep and Shane needed to understand why he’d gotten so upset before he tried to talk to him about it.

For a moment he considered texting Rose. She knew he was seeing someone, though he had kept the specifics of who to himself. Rose had dated dozens of people, and she was so much more emotionally in-touch than Shane was. If anyone could help him parse the tangle of thoughts in his mind it would be her. She’d come out for him after all. But Shane knew it would be hypocritical of him to talk to a woman he’d slept with about a woman Ilya had slept with. So, he dropped his phone on the bed and pulled off his glasses.

Shane thunked his head back against the wall above the headboard and shut his eyes.

Why was he so upset about this?

Was it because he knew Ilya liked women?

Shane was embarrassed to admit he’d Googled bisexuality over the summer. He’d needed to soothe the doubt lingering in the back of his mind that told him that Ilya would miss sleeping with women. Shockingly, there were a lot of opinions online about it. Lots of people claiming bisexuals were just curious straight people or were really just gay and needed to stop fooling themselves. Shane had scrunched his face at those. Ilya was certainly attracted to men and women, and Shane didn’t expect him to ‘pick a side’ or whatever now that they were a couple. There were other, hateful, pieces about bisexuals being untrustworthy and prone to adultery. Threads of people taking out their personal gripes; warning others not to trust bisexual partners to be monogamous. It had all made Shane feel a bit gross and he’d shut the internet browser tabs with a sinking feeling of despair in his stomach.

Yeah, sure, he’d seen the photos of Ilya over the years with a new woman at his side every other week. Ilya had a reputation for being the NHL’s most successful playboy after all. Women loved him, but it hadn’t been Shane’s place to be upset about it back then. They were not anything then. Ilya could fuck whoever he wanted. Shane had just wanted himself to be one of those people.

The endless stream of women had never made Shane doubt Ilya’s attraction to him, as a man, either. When he’d been alone with Ilya, in hotel rooms or at either of their places, Shane knew Ilya’s focus was solely on him. He’d felt Ilya’s attraction to him like a visceral thing. It burned in the way his pupils dilated when he’d watch Shane take off his clothes and shivered in his voice when he sucked or fucked Shane into the mattress. Ilya was attracted to him, and he was attracted to women. And Shane had never really minded apart from the fact that he couldn’t make himself like women.

He’d wanted so badly to be like Ilya. Not fully gay. Able to turn off this wild thing he felt–like he’d stupidly believed Ilya could at the time. He knew better now. Hell, Ilya had sat across from him at the cottage and told him that every time he was with a woman he’d wished they were Shane instead.

So, it wasn’t that he didn’t trust in Ilya’s feelings for him.

Shane knew, with unwavering clarity, that Ilya loved him and wanted him. Not only because Ilya had told him but also because Ilya had shown him, over and over, every time they’d touched and with every soft word spoken between them at the cottage and over the phone since. Just the other week Ilya had shown Shane just how deep his love ran as he’d fucked Shane so tenderly it had left him caressing the places Ilya had touched for days after. Ilya’s devotion was pressed into every crease of Shane’s body. It had been whispered into his mouth and kissed into the curve of his neck and bitten into the flesh of his thighs. The love, lingering on his skin and simmering in his blood, was the clearest, most honest thing Shane had ever felt.

Ilya loved him. And god did Shane love him back.

Shane didn’t really think Ilya would sleep with Svetlana. He also didn’t really think Svetlana would try to sleep with Ilya. It wasn’t like he knew much about the woman but from everything he’d heard it sounded like she only slept with Ilya out of convenience. Casual hookups with a trusted person–and not in the way that Shane and Ilya had been casual–that the two of them were happy to end if ever one of them became serious about someone. Shane didn’t know why he’d implied Ilya would cheat and he was embarrassed.

But there was something about Svetlana that snagged at the tenuous threads of Shane’s self-worth and tugged on the parts of him that always felt so profoundly… lacking.

He needed to sleep.

Sitting here and mulling over it wasn’t doing him any good. Shane leaned over to put his glasses away and turn the lamp off but paused when he caught sight of his Russian language book on the bedside table.

Oh.

Everything clicked into place and Shane slumped back into the pillows, a heavy sigh punched from his chest.

Svetlana could give Ilya everything Shane could not.

She shared his language, his culture, and knew what it was like living in Russia–she didn’t have to try and learn Russian in secret so if Ilya wanted to just talk freely with her he could. She’d known Ilya his whole life, known his father and brother and, most importantly, his mother–the most precious person to Ilya. She could date Ilya, in public, and it wouldn’t cause a scandal–Ilya wouldn’t have to sacrifice his country to be with her or have to secure citizenship somewhere safe just so that if people found out he wouldn’t get arrested. She could stay with Ilya during the hockey season and share his space–she could get groceries with him and argue with him in the produce aisle about what to make for dinner that week. She could love Ilya, freely, and Shane could not.

In the end it was not about Ilya or even Svetlana at all really. It was about what Shane could not be, what he could not give, to the person he loved most.

He desperately wanted to call Ilya, apologise to him and tell him that he was being stupid and of course he understood that Svetlana would stay with him because Ilya was kind and gave so much of himself and his resources away to those he loved, but it was well past two in the morning now and he really needed to sleep. He also needed to work up the nerve to tell Ilya the truth about how he was feeling. They’d promised, at the cottage, to be honest with each other. Shane planned to continue that honesty no matter where they were.

Shane opened his texts with Ilya. When they’d hung up earlier, he’d had hated that he hadn’t said ‘I love you,’ and hated that Ilya hadn’t said it either.

Shane

I’m sorry.

Please call me when you wake up.

I love you.

He dropped his phone to the nightstand and switched off the lamp.

When Shane woke up a couple hours later his heart sank to the bottom floor of his complex. Ilya hadn’t called or texted.

Shane tried to rationalise. Maybe Ilya was still asleep. It was only half past five and he had a rest day today, so he was probably trying to take advantage of the day off and sleep in. Over the summer Shane had learnt just how much Ilya liked to sleep in. He’d woken up a dozen times before Ilya and had watched the man sleep until the sunlight was streaming in through the windows and glinting off the cross at his throat, highlighting the golden tone of his curls and lashes where they rested against his cheeks. Ilya was probably still dozing, his lips parted and breathing softly, and the mental image Shane conjured of his sleeping boyfriend suddenly made him miss him so much it felt like a physical thing.

He called Ilya.

The phone rang once, twice, and picked up on the third ring. Over the line he heard Ilya groan, a sleepy, familiar sound that made Shane smile softly. He sunk deep into his pillows and held the speaker tight to his ear as if the phone was Ilya himself.

“Hi,” Shane said gently and huffed a laugh when Ilya responded with a loud yawn that bordered on a shout.

“Good morning,” Ilya mumbled, his accent thick and deliciously low.

The relief Shane felt at just hearing Ilya’s low morning voice, full of soft, open affection, was ridiculous. He’d hated how hurt Ilya’s voice had sounded last night.

“I’m sorry.” It tumbled from his mouth without grace or further explanation, and he heard Ilya make an adorably confused sound on the other end of the line.

He knew that Ilya’s brain was slower in the mornings, when he was just waking up, and knew that his boyfriend was certainly not prepared for a serious conversation at half past five in the morning. It took Ilya just a little bit longer to process English when he was sleepy and he would often mutter things in Russian before carefully translating himself to Shane as he shook himself awake. Shane fucking adored it. He loved listening to Ilya’s slow English in the mornings when Ilya was comfortable and cozy laying in Shane’s arms–it reminded him of when they first met, when Ilya was clumsier with his words and his accent was thicker. There was something so intimate about hearing Ilya so unguarded and sluggish.

“What time is it?” Ilya asked on an exhale and Shane bit his lip.

“Early, before six, sorry,” Shane replied.

“Is okay,” Ilya mumbled. “Why are you sorry?”

“For yesterday,” Shane explained.

“For saying I am cheater?” Ilya asked and Shane winced.

“I didn’t say…” he began defensively then trailed off and took a deep breath. “Yes, I’m sorry. I was being an ass. I know that Svetlana is important to you, that she’s your friend.”

Ilya was quiet for a while. Shane waited anxiously and thumbed at his eyelid as he listened to Ilya breathe.

“You are important too,” Ilya said eventually. As if it were that simple. “Most important actually.”

“Most important?”

“Yes, Shane,” Ilya huffed a laugh as if Shane had said something remarkably stupid. “If you are upset about Svetlana staying here, I can talk to her.”

“No, please,” Shane shook his head and swallowed thickly. “I trust you and I really didn’t mean to make it sound like I didn’t. I just–I was being insecure and I just really fucking miss you and want you to myself.”

“Insecure?” Ilya asked, though Shane knew that his boyfriend wasn’t struggling with the meaning of the word. He was asking what Shane felt insecure about. Shane didn’t think he wanted to have this conversation over the phone.

“We can talk about it in person, okay?”

“Why not now?”

“I just want to talk to you about it properly,” Shane explained. “It feels wrong to do it over the phone.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” Ilya’s tone was light, joking, but there was an edge to it that Shane clocked, and he made an admonishing sound.

“As if,” he scoffed, aiming for teasing and reassuring all at once. “You’re stuck with me, Rozanov.”

Ilya hummed, a slight edge still present in his tone. Shane wanted to wrap the man in his arms and kiss him until Ilya knew, as profoundly as Shane knew, that he was loved and wanted and always would be for as long as he would have Shane. And even then, if he ever didn’t, Shane would still love him.

“Would you…” Ilya broke off with a frustrated sound and Shane waited, trying his best to be patient for Ilya as he found his words. “Would you want to meet her? Maybe it would help.”

Shane considered it. Would he want to meet Svetlana?

The idea of a stranger knowing about Ilya and him made him anxious. Another person knowing their most important, potentially-life-ruining secret was not particularly Shane’s favourite idea. But his parents knew. Ilya couldn’t tell his parents. The only biological family Ilya had left was his horrible brother back in Russia and Ilya could certainly never tell him. Svetlana was the closest thing Ilya had left to a family. Even if Shane’s parents had welcomed Ilya with enthusiasm, and a whole lot of overcompensation, they were not quite family yet. Shane hoped, desperately, that one day Ilya would consider Shane’s family his own. For now, though, Shane owed it to Ilya to get to know his. Even if it pulled on all his insecurities.

“Next week?” Shane asked.

“Yes. We could have dinner.”

Shane let out a long sigh.

“If you really do not want to–” Ilya began and Shane cut him off immediately.

“I want to be alone with you, Ilya,” he began, “and I am getting sick of people intruding on our time together.”

“Shane–”

“But” Shane interrupted again, “I want to know the people you care for.”

“Okay.”

“Does she know who I am?” Shane asked. Ilya had never said if he’d told Svetlana his identity; Shane was certain Ilya would have told him if he’d done so. Still, he was curious.

“Ah,” Ilya laughed awkwardly. “She knows about Jane. She knows Jane is not a woman. I think she has guessed that you are Jane, but I have never said.”

There was a rock, sinking heavily in his stomach, and Shane swallowed thickly. If Svetlana could guess at his identity, then it meant maybe others could as well. It made Shane panic a little.

“She knows me very well,” Ilya said suddenly, seemingly sensing Shane’s impending spiral. “I do not think anyone but her would figure out Jane is you. Svetlana just knows things. Like she knew I was going to win the cup before I did. She knew you were going to win the cup, too. She just is… ah… observant.”

“Okay,” Shane breathed deeply. “Okay. Then I will meet her next week. But um…”

“But?” Ilya prompted. Shane laughed at himself and ran a hand through his hair.

“Can we please just be alone after dinner? Maybe before dinner too?”

“You do not want Svetlana to hear?” Ilya teased. “You are so jealous I thought you would like that. To send clear message that I am yours.”

“Shut up,” Shane grumbled. “I want you to myself for just one fucking day. Is that too much to ask?”

It was quiet for a moment. Shane felt his cheeks start to heat.

“No, I want you to myself as well,” Ilya said softly, his voice drenched in warm affection. “You will be arriving in morning, yes?”

“Yeah, we get to Boston at about six and then we have practice,” Shane told him. The game was the day after they arrived, and once Shane was done with practice he could go over to Ilya’s and spend the afternoon and evening and next morning with his boyfriend. “I’ll come over straight after. And we don’t have practice the next morning so I can stay until the afternoon. We leave for New York right after the game.”

“Svetlana will be at work all day,” Ilya hummed. “She can come for dinner and then go spend the night with one of her lovers.”

Shane scrunched his nose at the word. Even applied to other people he didn’t like it.

“You don’t have to kick her out,” Shane said and Ilya laughed.

“I really do though. You will not have sex with someone else in the house. Not after last time.”

Shane flushed and palmed his face. Ilya was right, of course. After his parents had visited the other week Shane was traumatised for life and had solemnly vowed never to fuck Ilya within earshot of family ever again. He supposed Svetlana counted as family. So Ilya really did have to kick her out for the night.

“She will not mind,” Ilya continued. “She has many girlfriends and boyfriends in Boston. Someone will want her to stay. And I want to have sex with you.”

“Girlfriends?” Shane asked curiously. Ilya had never told him that Svetlana was bi.

“Oh yes,” Ilya replied. “Sveta is very popular with American girls.”

“More so than you?”

It wasn’t a jealous question. Shane’s voice was all tease.

“Much more,” Ilya said with exaggerated frustration. “Women love her. Sveta has charmed many women away from me over the years.”

Shane laughed, brightly. It was hilarious to imagine Ilya’s face as he watched his best friend out-flirt him and take a girl he was trying to take home with her instead. Shane liked her a little more.

“Do not fall in love with her,” Ilya said suddenly, all serious. “Actually, maybe I will not let you meet.”

“Ilya, I’m gay,” Shane reminded him.

“Thank fuck for that,” Ilya sighed and Shane listened as his boyfriend stretched in bed. He could hear the bed sheets rustle and the slight groan Ilya made as he moved.

“I miss you,” Shane whispered.

“I miss you, too,” Ilya replied softly.

They stayed in the quiet for a moment. Sometimes, when they called or videoed, they would let the silence stretch between them. Shane would listen, with his eyes shut, to the steady sounds of Ilya’s breathing and try to remember how he smelt. It was soothing. He could lie and listen to Ilya breathe for hours.

“You will tell me why you feel insecure next week?” Ilya asked, suddenly and hesitantly in the silence. Shane could hear the deep concern in his boyfriend’s voice.

“Yes, I promise.”

“Okay.”

Shane took a deep breath, spent another few moments just listening to Ilya exist on the other end of the call, and then pressed his palm to his chest. His alarm would go off any minute now and he had to get up to get ready for practice. They had a home game tomorrow against Toronto.

“I have to get up,” Shane said, regretfully. “I love you.”

This time, blessedly, Ilya said it back.

After practice there were several texts from an unknown number waiting on his phone.

Unknown Number (+1 617 969 8845)

Hi ‘Jane’, it’s Svetlana.

Ilya told me that you two argued about me staying here so I stole your number from Ilya’s phone when he was in the shower.

Ilya is an absolute dumbass. He told me all the things he said to you about me and I almost throttled him. What an idiot. Talking about marrying me whilst staying at your house?

I would have kicked him out.

To be fair, I would though. Marry him. For citizenship. So he would never have to go back to Russia. He is my best friend, so I would help.

You are also kind of a dumbass as well, dude. He is not in love with me. Never has been. And I have never been in love with him either.

Seriously, you two are perfect for each other. Equally stupid.

Anyway, I’m looking forward to meeting you next week, ‘Jane.’ I hope we can be friends.

Shane laughed, disbelieving. Svetlana had stolen his number from Ilya’s phone just to tell him that he was a dumbass. It was immediately obvious to Shane why she was Ilya’s best friend.

He saved her number to his phone and then typed out a response.

Shane

You’re probably right about us both being dumbasses. Sorry you got dragged into it.

Svetlana

I have spent the better part of the last 20 years getting dragged into Ilya’s shit.

Shane

He’s lucky to have you.

Svetlana

I know.

A moment later she sent another text.

Svetlana

I am lucky to have him too.

I hope you know how lucky you are, ‘Jane.’

Shane did. He really fucking did.

Shane

I do.

And it’s Shane.

Svetlana

Fucking knew it.

I am never going to let him live this down.

I was right. This whole time I was right.

Fuck I’m good.

Shane shook his head and huffed a laugh. He was sitting on a bench outside the rink, his teammates already headed home for the evening, leaving him alone in the carpark.

Svetlana

I have a peace offering for you.

Shane

There’s no need.

I was a dumbass.

Svetlana

Take my gift, Hollander.

[Image attached]

Shane clicked on the image and waited for it to download. His data was always slow at the rink and on cloudy days like today. He really needed to get a new plan.

When it loaded Shane’s face split into a wide grin.

It was Ilya, maybe at seven or eight years old, sitting on a swing in the snow with a scowl on his little face as a girl with curly hair stood behind him with her hands poised to push him. Shane figured the young girl was probably Svetlana. His gaze only landed on her briefly, taking in her wide hazel eyes and the cheeky grin on her face. She was missing several teeth. He felt an immediate fondness for her. It was nothing in comparison to the aching tenderness he felt for little Ilya though.

Ilya was wrapped in a coat several sizes too big, probably a hand-me-down from his older brother, and had a toque pulled low on his forehead. His dark blonde curls were sticking out from beneath the toque, brilliant and golden in contrast to the stark grey and white landscape behind him. Shane’s eyes traced the familiar moles on his boyfriend’s face and a deep fondness clenched in his chest. Ilya looked different now, sure, soft cheeks turned to prominent cheek bones and a cutting jawline. But Shane could see the man he loved now in the little boy in the picture. Same green-blue eyes, same playful scowl, same sweet curls.

He wished he could save the picture and make it his phone background. He couldn’t so instead he pressed his phone briefly over his heart and then responded to Svetlana.

Shane

Thank you, I love it.

Svetlana

😉

When the Metros landed in Boston a week later Shane was restless and needy with anticipation. He managed to make it through practice okay, focused and sharp on the ice as always and wielding his authority as captain with precision and a confidence rarely felt outside of the rink. But something deeper, hotter, lingered beneath the familiar rush of being on the ice and Shane itched to get out of his gear and far away from his team the whole practice.

In all his years playing hockey Shane Hollander had never wanted to get off the ice quickly. When he was a child, he would plant himself firmly on the rink’s cool surface and stubbornly refuse to go home much to his father’s amusement. He can remember bearing down with all his might against his father’s gentle attempts to lift him off the ice. Shane didn’t want to eat lunch; he wanted to skate more. Even into his teens Shane had refused to leave the rink before he was ready to and would linger after practice when his teammates were long gone just to get in a little more time on the ice. It was safe to say that the Zamboni driver at his hometown rink was not his biggest fan. Yuna always bought the man a nice Christmas gift as consolation.

For once, Shane didn’t linger after practice. He hurried through a debrief with Theriault and barely took the time to check in on the rooks. Hayden smirked knowingly at him the whole time he got changed in the guest locker room, chuckling as Shane checked his phone periodically, and Shane glared back when he caught his best friend’s eye. He would normally be more worried about being obvious, but he needed Ilya more than he cared about Hayden’s ribbing.

Over the last few months since they’d became boyfriends, since they’d spent those perfect weeks alone at the cottage, Shane had caught himself alight with want in ways he’d never felt before. Sometimes he’d wonder how he’d spent all those years keeping Ilya at arm’s length. Now that he had him, he wanted him constantly. It was wildly inconvenient.

“Keen to go somewhere?” Hayden asked as they settled on the bus to the hotel. They would be sharing a room at the hotel, as usual, and Shane was happy for once to let Hayden assume he was spending the night with ‘Lily.’ Shane planned to leave from the hotel–after a thorough shower–and spend the rest of the day finally alone with Ilya again after three weeks apart. He would not be coming back until just before they left for the game the next day. If Hayden wanted to assume Shane was with a woman in that time, then fine, it gave him the cover he needed. But still, he couldn’t help but raise his hackles.

“Seeing a friend,” Shane shrugged dismissively and leaned against the window, shutting his eyes. Hayden gave an exaggerated sigh which Shane assumed was accompanied by a dramatic eye roll.

“Riiiiiiiiight,” Hayden dragged out the word. “Will I have the room to myself tonight?”

Shane opened an eye to glare at his best friend. Hayden grinned back and waggled his eyebrows. He wondered if Hayden would still be excited for him if he knew who ‘Lily’ really was. He wanted to tell him, wanted his best friend to know the man he loved, but the how of it always made him hesitate. How the fuck did he tell Hayden that he’d been sleeping with the ‘enemy’ for over seven years? How the fuck did he tell Hayden that he’d never really hated Ilya Rozanov and, in fact, had probably loved him the whole time?

“Yeah,” Shane turned his head, and Hayden jostled his shoulder teasingly.

“You seriously have to introduce me to this girl one day.”

“Maybe one day,” Shane replied. And he meant it. One day.

An hour later Shane was finally, finally, walking up to Ilya’s doorstep. A cool breeze made Shane shiver. It was late November and the temperature in Boston was dropping, the sky overcast, hiding the sun, and bathing the streets in dull grey light making it feel later than noon. It was a lot warmer than Montreal though and so Shane was only in a hoodie, t-shirt and jeans. As the doorbell chimed, he smoothed the soft fabric of his hoodie beneath his palms. The hoodie was worn, several years old by now, and had been shared between Ilya and Shane over the summer. Shane brought it everywhere with him now–like some kind of security blanket. He couldn’t bring himself to feel too much shame over his attachment to the hoodie though, not when it was stitched with memories of Ilya.

Shane noticed movement through the glass panel beside the door and tracked it until Ilya was in view just beyond the glass. The door opened a moment later and then Shane’s cheeks hurt from smiling so wide. Ilya was smiling back, hair mussed, and looking soft in a long-sleeved henley and fitted trackpants. His feet were bare and his mother’s orthodox cross rested at his collarbone, visible at the open neck of his shirt. Shane wanted to sink to his knees right there in the doorway and press his mouth to the warmth between Ilya’s legs.

Fuck, he’d missed him.

Instead, he was pulled forward by the beltloops of his jeans in through the threshold and into Ilya’s embrace. His hands came up, by reflex, and his fingers immediately tangled into Ilya’s soft curls. Their foreheads touched, Shane took a deep breath as Ilya’s hands slid around his waist and underneath the hem of his hoodie. Ilya removed one hand from Shane’s waist, for just a moment, and nudged the large door shut behind them before he pressed Shane up against it. And then they were kissing.

Shane melted, instantly, easily. A low sound, between a sigh and a moan, left his lips. Ilya’s fingers found his chin, tilting his head, holding him in place so that he could kiss Shane exactly how he wanted. His mouth was commanding and tender, his tongue exploring, and his teeth occasionally nipped at Shane’s lower lip. It was, as it always was, a benediction to be kissed like this by Ilya Rozanov.

The itchy, needy sensation beneath his skin dissipated, replaced by the soothing balm of Ilya’s touch. Ilya’s hands wandered his body, fingers skimming his neck and scratching at his scalp, palms gliding over the skin at his waist and groping down to his ass. All of Shane’s tangled threads slackened and his body’s usual tension bled away until Shane was being held together just by Ilya’s warm hands and hot mouth. His knees buckled and Ilya pressed him firm against the door, leg sliding between Shane’s thighs to keep him upright in the entryway.

When they parted, what felt like hours later, a thin string of spit glistened between their mouths and Shane eyed Ilya’s slick, pink lips hungrily. He followed Ilya’s mouth as it retreated and refused to blush at Ilya’s smug little laugh. Shane knew he was needy. Ilya made him needy.

“Hello, мой радость,” Ilya murmured as he stroked his fingertips down the curve of Shane’s cheek, over his freckles, before pressing his thumb gently to Shane’s mouth. Shane pursed his lips in a tiny kiss against the pad of Ilya’s thumb. He wanted to wrap his mouth around Ilya, but he also wanted to hear his boyfriend whisper more low words to him.

“Hi,” Shane mumbled against Ilya’s thumb. The man smiled brightly at him, his light eyes looking more green than blue in the grey light. Shane could stare at him for hours. “I missed you.”

“I missed you,” Ilya echoed and trailed his fingers over the bridge of Shane’s nose before settling his hand at the nape of Shane’s neck where he rubbed firm fingers into his hairline. Shane pressed back into Ilya’s hand; a low rumble pulled from his chest at the touch.

Everything melted under Ilya’s ministrations. All the things Shane held onto so tightly, so harshly, unwound and fell away until all that was left was Ilya. Ilya. Ilya.

“How was practice?” Ilya asked as he leaned in and pressed featherlight kisses over Shane’s cheekbones.

“It was good,” he replied. He really didn’t want to talk about practice, but he couldn’t resist the urge to competitively rib his boyfriend. “I hope you’re ready for tomorrow. We’re in very good shape.”

“Mm,” Ilya hummed and pulled back to give Shane a mischievous look, his hands had wandered back down to Shane’s ass, and he was groping the muscle playfully. “Such good shape. Big, handsome, hockey player shape.”

“The team, you idiot,” Shane pinched Ilya’s chest and his boyfriend pulled him closer to blow a raspberry against the curve of his neck. Shane made a sound of protest and shoved at Ilya’s face as the man laughed.

“I don’t know about the team,” Ilya said. “But I know about you. And you are in excellent shape, мой котенок.”

“What’s that mean?” Shane asked, his hands flattening against his boyfriend’s muscular chest. He was learning Russian, slowly, and had been studying it on the plane to Boston just that morning, but he still had a lot to learn. Ilya often took advantage of Shane’s limited knowledge and teased him with filthy, or strange, terms of endearment.

“My kitten,” Ilya smirked and Shane scrunched his nose.

“Ew, no,” he protested, much like he had over the word lover. Ilya’s lips spread to show off his teeth. Shane loved that smile, all wide and uninhibited. He still didn’t want to be called ‘kitten’ though.

“But you make that scrunchy annoyed face like kitten,” Ilya teased and poked Shane’s nose.

“Shut the fuck up,” Shane bit back and Ilya laughed, brightly, before leaning in and kissing Shane’s nose.

“Okay, lover,” Ilya hummed and Shane pushed on his boyfriend’s chest.

Ilya stepped back, hands falling from Shane’s body, and started walking backwards into the house. Shane eyed him for a moment, gaze dragging down the swell of his boyfriend’s chest to the tapered point where his waist met his hips, and then further down to the strong shape of his thighs. When his gaze flicked back up to Ilya’s face the man was smirking, a hungry glint in his hooded eyes. Shane met Ilya’s heavy gaze with a matching heat and then followed after his boyfriend.

When they reached the kitchen Ilya grabbed for him again by the beltloops of his jeans and spun them around until Shane was pressed up against the pantry door with Ilya between his legs. Ilya pulled one of Shane’s legs up around his thigh and latched his mouth to Shane’s throat, sucking and biting as Shane gripped and tugged at Ilya’s shirt. They spent quite some time like that, kissing and groping against the pantry door, until Shane was on the verge of whining and was half-hard in his pants. Just as Ilya’s hands finally, fucking finally, made their way into his jeans a timer went off, and Ilya pulled away and turned to the oven.

Shane’s head felt fuzzy. He leaned heavily against the pantry door, breathing deep, and watched Ilya with bewildered frustration. The heady, desperate, lust he experienced singularly in Ilya’s hold was scrambling his brain and he was struggling to comprehend that his boyfriend had just pulled away. Had just left him hard and needy to check on the oven.

Shane made a displeased sound and glared at his boyfriend who, despite the mess of his curls and the red tint to his lips, looked largely unphased as he pulled a dish from the oven. The man pointedly did not look over at Shane as he set the dish on the kitchen counter.

“I made you lunch, thought you would be hungry after practice and you probably had not eaten much for breakfast because of your flight,” Ilya told him, back turned to Shane. The sentence alone dissipated any of Shane’s lingering frustration at being left high and dry.

He pushed himself away from the pantry doors and stood behind Ilya so he could wrap his arms around his boyfriend’s stomach and hook his chin over his shoulder. The dish did not look the least bit appealing, but Shane wasn’t bothered. He pressed his nose into the space beneath Ilya’s ear and kissed him sweetly.

“What did you make?” Shane asked, lips still pressed to Ilya’s warm skin. Ilya turned his head, dislodging Shane from his neck, and met Shane’s gaze with a vaguely self-conscious look.

“I went on that horrible website you like so much,” Ilya said, voice full of confidence and teasing despite the shyness in his eyes. “It is eggless quiche. Which I do not understand. Quiche is eggs. But that is what it was called.”

The way he said ‘quiche’ in his accent was stupidly endearing and Shane stretched his neck to kiss his boyfriend on the mouth, chaste and adoring.

“Thank you,” he whispered. It felt important to keep his voice soft, to keep the moment contained in the small, intimate space between their flush bodies. “It smells very good.”

Shane had cooked for Ilya constantly over the summer. Cooking for the man he loved had filled him with so much joy and warmth; the privilege of getting to provide for Ilya had made him feel giddy. Ilya had watched him, heatedly and adoringly, every time he’d cooked for them both, often draping himself over Shane’s back and kissing at his throat whilst Shane stood by the grill or in the kitchen. Shane understood now why Ilya had been so touchy in those moments. His chest was burning with affection, and he wanted to sink into Ilya’s skin and linger there for the rest of his life.

“It looks really ugly,” Ilya grumbled and Shane laughed.

“Yes, but I don’t think there’s a way to make an eggless quiche look nice,” Shane assured him and leaned in to press another gentle kiss on Ilya’s cheekbone just beneath his eye. He swore his boyfriend’s face was a little flushed.

Ilya’s hands rested over Shane’s where they were overlapped on his stomach. He stroked his fingers over Shane’s skin for a few tender moments and then pulled Shane’s hands away.

“Go sit, I will bring you food,” Ilya nodded towards the massive dining table and Shane went with little protest. Normally he would try to help but Ilya seemed insistent on Shane just relaxing.

After lunch–which was delicious, well, Shane liked it, whilst Ilya frowned the whole time–Ilya blocked Shane’s attempts at helping clean up and shooed him off to the living room. Shane had protested, insistent on cleaning up because his boyfriend had spent the morning cooking for him, but Ilya had just pushed him down onto the couch and told him firmly to stay there. It had been easier, in the end, to just relent.

Shane was stretched out on the couch now, an arm thrown over his face, listening to Ilya in the kitchen. He wondered, if they didn’t have to keep this so secret, if they were just regular people, what it would be like to do this every day with Ilya. Cook and eat and do chores. Not for the first time Shane wished he could go to the grocery store with Ilya or go for a jog around the neighbourhood with him or go to a car dealership together and pick out Ilya a sensible car for the snow.

Lost in his mundane daydreams he didn’t hear Ilya enter the living room, didn’t notice his boyfriend at all, until suddenly he was being pressed into the couch cushions under the full weight of Ilya’s body. Shane let out a grunt when Ilya landed on him and lifted his arm off his face to squint down at his boyfriend. Ilya’s chest and stomach rested over Shane’s thighs, his curly head buried against Shane’s abdomen. Shane reached out and petted his boyfriend’s hair and the man hummed happily, pushing up the fabric of Shane’s hoodie.

Instead of kissing him, or trying to strip him, Ilya pushed himself under the fabric of Shane’s hoodie until his head was resting on Shane’s sternum beneath the fabric. Shane poked at the small mountain Ilya’s head made beneath the fabric and rolled his eyes.

“Ilya, you’re going to stretch my hoodie,” he complained.

“You are millionaire,” Ilya replied, muffled by the fabric, as he wrapped his arms around Shane and nuzzled impossibly closer. “You can buy another one.”

“I like this one,” Shane argued but, really, he didn’t mind. Ilya was warm and his weight was an anchor. He settled his arms over Ilya’s back, rubbing his palms up and down his boyfriend’s spine and slowing his breathing until they were in-sync.

“I like this one, too,” Ilya said.

“You can’t have it. You have like four of my sweaters already.”

“Fine. Be horrible boyfriend then.”

Shane scoffed and they settled into a comfortable silence. The house was quiet apart from the distant hum of the dishwasher running in the other room and the soft sounds of Ilya breathing in his scent. He had discovered Ilya had a thing for how he smelt very quickly and had done his best not to get fidgety or shy about it when Ilya would press his nose to his armpit or the crease of his groin. Shane liked the way Ilya smelt too, so he understood, even if he felt himself blush every time Ilya would nose at his most intimate places and breath in deeply.

Ilya shifted on top of him, tangling his legs with Shane’s, and Shane brought a hand up to cradle his boyfriend’s head through the fabric of his hoodie.

“What time is Svetlana coming?” Shane asked.

It was still early afternoon, and Shane wanted to know how much time he had to make out with–and yes have sex with–Ilya before they had company. He also wanted to know so he could ready himself mentally. Over the last week Svetlana had texted him a few times–she’d sent him a few more photos, including one of Ilya passed out after a night of clubbing in Moscow with a penis drawn in lipstick on his forehead that had made Shane almost choke on his breakfast smoothie from laughing–and he had already decided he liked her. Still, Shane was nervous, he was never very good at making friends on purpose. All his friends–Hayden, Rose, JJ–were boisterous and charming and he wasn’t sure how he’d managed to befriend any of them. Shane was well-liked, by his teammates and their partners and his coaches and other staff on the Metros, but he didn’t really make friends. Hayden and JJ had just decided they were his friends and Shane had happily gone along with it. And Rose was his ex-girlfriend for fuck’s sake.

“Probably around seven,” Ilya said. “She is going to pick up food.”

“Oh, what’s she getting?” Shane scratched at Ilya’s head through the hoodie. Ilya hummed and dragged himself out from under the fabric, emerging adorably rumpled with his lovely dark blonde curls sticking up in every direction. Shane smiled and reached out to smooth Ilya’s hair back from his forehead.

“Do not worry,” Ilya assured. “She wants to make good impression. She knows your diet.”

“I think I’m the one that needs to worry about making a good impression,” Shane sighed and twined Ilya’s curls around his fingers, tugging gently.

“Is this why you felt insecure?” Ilya asked, eyes intent on Shane’s face and brow furrowed.

Shane sighed. He’d known it was going to come up eventually, but he’d kind of been hoping Ilya wouldn’t mention it until after he’d thoroughly fucked him and Shane was feeling that familiar calm that came from being held down by Ilya so firmly.

“Shane?” Ilya sat up and tugged Shane into a sitting position with him. Ilya’s hands rested securely on Shane’s hips as he straddled his legs.

“Okay, um,” Shane pinched his eyelid between his forefinger and thumb and then dropped his hands to Ilya’s thighs where they were pinning down his own. “You said that you could marry Svetlana, right?”

“You know why I said that” Ilya frowned, “for the passport.”

“No, I know,” Shane nodded. “And I know it would only be for the passport, but I guess I just… When you said that she was going to stay with you I started thinking about all the things that she can give you that I just… can’t.”

Ilya’s confused expression only deepened and his lips pursed consideringly. “Like what?”

“Like, well, marriage for one,” Shane said. “I mean, you could marry her now and start a family if you wanted. You wouldn’t have to wait years and come up with some elaborate plan to convince the public you’re not rivals like you do if you want to marry m–”

Shane clamped his mouth shut. Okay, marriage was a lot to open this conversation on. He didn’t even know if Ilya seriously wanted to marry him some day. Ilya had joked about it at the cottage but that was said in a silly, sun-soaked moment when they’d both been giddy and horny and feeling loose. He tried to ignore the heat he could feel flooding his face and moved on.

“And she knows your culture,” Shane continued hurriedly. “She speaks your language, fluently. And you wouldn’t have to give up Russia for her. You wouldn’t have to leave Boston either. You could keep playing for the Raiders and not have to trade to the actual worst team in the league just to be near her.”

Shane’s breathing was getting shallow. He was freaking the fuck out again. Voicing all this, the niggling doubts that kept him up at night, felt like dumping ice water on his heart.

“There’s just so much,” Shane mumbled. “So much that I can’t give you, that we cannot have, not now or not for a very long time. Some of it maybe never.”

At some point he’d started digging his fingers into Ilya’s thighs and had turned his head downwards to frown at his lap. Ilya’s calloused, gentle hands reached for him and cradled the sides of his face, pulling his head up and directing Shane’s eyes back to him.

“Shane,” Ilya said, so softly it made Shane want to cry. “You are a very stupid man.”

“What?” Shane breathed and swallowed around the lump forming in his throat.

“I am sorry I said I would marry Svetlana,” Ilya brushed his thumbs over Shane’s cheeks. “It was just an idea to protect me from Russia. She would be my, I think you call it, beard?”

Shane huffed a laugh at that. “A beard. Oh my god. Who taught you that?”

“I am very on the internet,” Ilya removed a hand from Shane’s face and made a dismissive gesture. “I know lots of things.”

“You do.”

Ilya returned his hand to Shane’s cheek and scratched his blunt nails into the hair at his temple. Shane leaned into the touch.

“Also, I told you I am not in love with her,” Ilya sighed. “Yes, I used to sleep with her, and I used to enjoy it. Was easy and familiar from when we were teenagers. But I stopped sleeping with her years ago.”

“I know, it’s not about that. I think, um,” Shane pulled his bottom lip into his mouth and tried to keep his eyes on Ilya. “It’s not about her at all really. It’s about me. Knowing she was staying here made me think about how it could be easier for you to be with someone else, not her exactly but someone like her. Someone who can give you the things you deserve, without all the lies and secrecy.”

“Mm,” Ilya nodded. “Maybe it would be easier but…”

“But what?” Shane prompted, voice strained. Ilya considered him a moment and then smiled a little.

“Remember when your parents asked if there were any nice men in Montreal?” Ilya asked and Shane nodded slowly. “You said you did not know but there probably were, yes?”

Again, Shane nodded.

“So, why didn’t you ever try to find out?” Ilya raised his brows, eyes intense in their focus on Shane.

Shane could respond to that in a dozen ways. Because it wouldn’t be safe to try and date men in Montreal with his high public profile as captain of the fucking Metros. Because he was scared of his own needs and wants and didn’t know how to ask for them, especially from a man that wasn’t Ilya–hell he could barely ask Ilya for them sometimes. Because he was awkward and kind of terrible at being gay and he wouldn’t be able to flirt with a guy in a bar to save his life. But there was a deeper, truer answer besides all that.

“Because I love you,” Shane replied. “And I’ve only ever wanted you.”

Ilya grinned and dragged one hand down Shane’s neck. He pressed his thumb to the hollow of Shane’s throat and the touch felt grounding, safe.

“And I have only ever wanted you,” Ilya said, sincerity laced through every word. “And I do not ever want to go back to Russia so there is no ‘giving up’ there. And you are learning my language–even if it is taking you long time and you have a really bad accent.”

Shane pushed on Ilya’s chest playfully at that. Ilya grinned.

“And I do not want to be American,” Ilya continued. “They are stupid. I want to be boring Canadian. So I will play for terrible Canadian team.”

“I don’t know if it’s fair for you to give so much up for me,” Shane mumbled.

“Is not just for you,” Ilya shrugged. “Is for me as well.”

“It would be easier if you tried to love someone else,” Shane said.

“I do not think it works like that,” Ilya said, serious and firm, and then he shrugged. “I did not try to love you.”

Shane stared at his boyfriend for a long moment, tracing the lovely shape of his mouth with his eyes and committing the contours of his handsome face to memory. He supposed Ilya was right. It didn’t work like that. Shane had spent years trying not to be in love with Ilya. It didn’t matter what either of them knew would be easier, or simpler, they loved each other. Against all sense or reason they loved each other.

“Okay,” Shane whispered and Ilya smiled before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Shane’s mouth.

“So no need to be insecure,” Ilya told him. Shane huffed a laugh; he wished it were that simple. Shane had spent his whole life hyperaware of all the ways he was lacking, that wasn’t going to change in one afternoon.

“I can’t promise I’ll never feel insecure again,” he said.

“Mm,” Ilya hummed.

“Or that I’ll never feel jealous.”

“Oh, I know,” Ilya smirked, a smug glint in his eyes.

“Shut up, you get jealous too,” Shane muttered.

“I do not.”

“Rose.”

Ilya groaned and rolled his eyes dramatically. Shane laughed as Ilya pushed him down onto his back again and spread himself out on top of him. Ilya buried his face in the side of Shane’s neck and blew a raspberry against his skin as Shane shoved at his shoulders and squirmed. Ilya pulled back, sitting on top of him with a smirk as Shane tried to buck him off. Ilya batted his hands away playfully when Shane tried to grab at him again.

Being silly like this, shoving and swatting at each other, made Shane feel giddy. It was nice to just exist with Ilya this way, boyish and carefree in ways their careers and responsibilities had denied them in their teens and early twenties. Teasing like this also usually led to sex, which Shane also liked.

Shane wiggled his hips beneath Ilya’s weight, but the man just pressed down firmer, pinning him to the cushions, and his grin turned wicked as he snatched at Shane’s wrists and drew them up above his head to hold them firm against the couch. Ilya leaned down over him, brushing their noses together, and his searing gaze was as effective at pinning Shane down as his thighs and hands. Shane pushed up against Ilya, feigning an attempt to break free, and relished in the way Ilya’s fingers tightened around his wrists and the way his hips ground down into his lap.

“I am yours,” Ilya said, his eyes heavy and voice deep. “And you are mine.”

“Yes,” Shane breathed as Ilya dipped his head to press an open-mouthed, wet kiss to the hinge of his jaw.

“Tell me,” Ilya scrapped his teeth down Shane’s jaw to his neck.

“I am yours,” Shane said, voice catching on a moan as Ilya dragged his tongue down to the hollow of his throat.

“And?”

“You are mine, Ilya.”

At that, Ilya growled and bit down.

Ilya released Shane’s wrists, his hands sliding down Shane’s sides to tuck underneath his hoodie. With his hands free Shane couldn’t help but reach for Ilya’s hair, fingers sinking into the man’s messy curls and tugging gently as Ilya sucked kisses into his throat. He felt Ilya’s calloused palms glide over his stomach, up over his ribs, up until Ilya was pulling and pinching at his pecs. It was a familiar dance; Shane’s fingers tangled in Ilya’s hair and Ilya’s hands kneading at Shane’s chest. His mind went fuzzy at its sharp edges as his body sagged against the touches and then he was sighing and his head was thrown back as Ilya licked a trail back up his neck, his chin, and then was licking into his mouth.

They kissed, hot and wet and messy, until Shane’s mouth felt bruised and needy little sounds were escaping his lips. Ilya nipped on his bottom lip then ran a gentle tongue over the swollen flesh before pulling back to look down at Shane. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, and Shane ran one hand from Ilya’s hair down to clasp lightly around his throat. Thumb pressed over his Adam’s apple and fingers curled around to the back of his neck. Ilya groaned at that, pressing his throat harder into Shane’s grip, and rolled his hips down into Shane. He met the demanding press of Ilya’s hips with a roll of his own and hummed appreciatively when he felt the bulge of Ilya’s hard cock.

“I want to fuck you,” Ilya told him and Shane nodded, eyes a little unfocused as Ilya continued to rock against him.

“Then fuck me,” Shane pulled Ilya down by the throat and pressed a hard kiss to his boyfriend’s mouth.

“Do you want to go upstairs?” Ilya asked, pulling his mouth from Shane’s then ducking his head to suck at Shane’s earlobe.

“No, here,” Shane replied and slowly released Ilya’s throat to reach down and pull at the elastic of his boyfriend’s waistband. He managed to shove Ilya’s trackpants and briefs over the swell of his ass but couldn’t reach much further than that with Ilya’s thighs bracketing his hips and their bodies pressed so close. It was no matter. He could grab Ilya’s cock like this. Ilya let out a pleased sigh as Shane slowly worked his fist over him.

“You are not worried about getting my couch dirty?” Ilya teased, though his voice was strained and he was fucking himself into Shane’s hand with increasingly uncoordinated movements.

“I will clean it,” Shane huffed. “I want you to fuck me here.”

“Why?” Ilya stopped moving and rested his forehead against Shane’s, keeping their eyes locked with a penetrating gaze.

“Because last time we were on this couch I fucked it up,” Shane shrugged, or tried to, Ilya was so heavy on top of him. It was dizzying having Ilya’s body holding him down so firmly. Shane wanted to stay under him forever.

Ilya pulled back just a fraction, eyes considering, and then he raised a hand to graze Shane’s freckles with his thumb. Shane’s eyes fluttered shut at the touch and he tilted his face into Ilya’s hand. He felt Ilya kiss his chin, his cheeks, and then moaned when Ilya captured his mouth in a possessive kiss. The way Ilya kissed him, filthy and loving and thorough, was Shane’s favourite thing in the world. He arched into the kiss, body aching, as Ilya deepened it and their tongues brushed.

When Ilya released his mouth Shane gave a little noise of protest and blinked up at his boyfriend. Ilya was smiling at him, pupils still blown wide with lust, but there was a tenderness in his gaze as well. Shane tilted his chin up, lips pouted, and Ilya laughed before pressing another brief kiss to his lips.

“Ilya,” Shane grouched, growing impatient the longer Ilya stared down at him. “Will you hurry up?”

“What?” Ilya nipped at Shane’s jaw and then the tip of his nose. “I can take as long as I want.”

“And I can leave,” Shane threatened. It was an empty threat. But still he twisted underneath Ilya to dislodge him a little and made to roll off the couch. Ilya quickly grabbed at his hips and pushed him back down into the cushions.

“Okay, okay,” Ilya sighed dramatically. “Just wait. I will get condom.”

“Condom?” Shane asked then flushed, embarrassed by the way he said the word with a scowl and the way Ilya raised his brows down at him.

“You know how sex works, yes?” Ilya teased.

“No, I know but,” Shane huffed “we don’t use them much anymore.”

“Oh, so you want come on my furniture just not yours,” Ilya hummed and Shane’s face burned impossibly warmer.

He was the one that usually worried about those sorts of things, not Ilya. He was the one that was neurotic about mess and who’d given Ilya a hard time about come stains when he’d wanted them to fuck on the dining table over the summer. He’d let Ilya bend him over the table, of course, but had insisted they both wear condoms. His parents ate at that table sometimes for fuck’s sake. Shane bit his lip as Ilya laughed brightly at him and he did his best not to laugh as well when he shoved Ilya and rolled out from under him.

Shane stood, a little awkwardly, in front of the couch as Ilya moved himself until he was sat comfortably in the middle of the cushion. His trackpants were still around his thighs, his hard cock resting against his clothed stomach, and he was looking up at Shane with that infuriating, sexy fucking smirk. Shane frowned at him and then undid his belt and jeans, pushing them down his legs, along with his briefs, before stepping out of them.

“Lube is in drawer,” Ilya pointed at the coffee table behind Shane. “Get it.”

“You could say please,” Shane grumbled but turned and grabbed the lube regardless. He tossed it onto the couch beside Ilya and then let Ilya reach out for him so he could drag Shane to sit in his lap. Both of them sighed contentedly when their erections pressed together.

“Please,” Ilya said facetiously as he held out his hand and Shane rolled his eyes. He picked up the lube and squeezed some into his boyfriend’s waiting palm.

Ilya reached around Shane and dipped his slick fingers between his cheeks. The sensation made Shane jolt a little and he pressed himself reflexively into Ilya. Shane shuddered and reached for the hem of his hoddie before pulling it up and over his head. He pulled his shirt off as well–he was already leaking and didn’t want to get his spend on either item of clothing. Ilya chuckled at him as if he knew exactly what Shane was thinking and Shane swore he could hear Ilya’s taunt in the sound. So you can get come on my clothes but not yours, Hollander. Shane just swallowed Ilya’s laughter with a demanding kiss.

As Ilya pushed his fingers into him, Shane gripped at Ilya’s hair and ground his ass into his boyfriend’s tender touch. It was easy to get lost in this. Easy to forget himself in the sensation. Ilya’s fingers were practiced and skilled, finding all of Shane’s most sensitive spots without fumbling, and undoing him with ease.

Shane gripped at Ilya’s shoulders and slowly moved his hips, riding Ilya’s fingers and taking him as deep as he could. It wasn’t enough. He nipped at Ilya’s bottom lip and begged him for more with his tongue in Ilya’s throat. At Ilya’s third finger Shane started to whine a little and he pressed himself into his boyfriend until Ilya’s cock was flush with his own and they were grinding against one another.

“That’s it,” Ilya murmured into Shane’s mouth. “Fuck, Ты мне идеально подходишь. Shane. Fuck.”

Shane moaned. Hearing Ilya’s tone turn needy and deep was wildly arousing. Shane did that. Shane made Ilya needy and hot and fuck wasn’t that amazing.

“Ilya,” Shane broke their kiss and pressed his mouth to Ilya’s cheek. “I want it.”

“Want what?” Ilya asked, a teasing lilt to his voice and Shane just growled and reached behind him.

Shane pulled on Ilya’s wrist until his fingers fell away from his ass and then Shane reached down for Ilya’s cock, stabilising it beneath him before sinking down on it in one fluid motion. Ilya made a punched-out sound, chest shuddering, and hips snapping up into Shane a little painfully. It took the breath right from Shane’s throat and he dropped his head to rest against Ilya’s.

They breathed into the space between them shallowly for a moment. Ilya’s hands came around Shane to run soothing palms over his ass and up to his shoulder blades. Shane arched into the touch and shivered when Ilya began to mouth wetly at his throat. He shoved at Ilya’s shirt as Ilya kissed him and managed to get his boyfriend’s henley tucked under his armpits, exposing his muscular stomach and the yellowing bruise on his hip. Shane was careful not to press into the bruise as he slid his hands down Ilya’s abs.

“Ты — единственный, кто мне нужен,” Ilya murmured into his skin and Shane rocked his hips, making them both gasp. “тебя, только тебя, всегда только тебя.”

“What’s that mean?” Shane asked and lifted himself up until just Ilya’s tip was pressing against his hole. Ilya didn’t answer apart from a smug look and so Shane dropped himself onto his boyfriend hard, making the man groan and scramble to grab at Shane’s hips; Ilya’s fingers pressing into his flesh harshly. Shane had never wanted Ilya to leave a mark on him more. “Tell me.”

“I said–” Ilya began but cut himself off with a gasp when Shane started moving more insistently against him. Shane was practically bouncing in his lap. “Fuck–you… you are all I want. Just you.”

A hot thrill of possession ran through Shane’s blood at that. Ilya was his. Ilya was beneath him, gaze turned up toward Shane reverently and thrusting up off the couch to meet Shane’s movements desperately, and he belonged to Shane. Shane gripped at Ilya’s hair with one hand and pulled his head back, baring his neck over the back of the couch, with his other hand Shane pressed Ilya’s shoulder hard into the cushion behind him, using the leverage to move himself on his boyfriend’s dick harder and faster. Ilya stared up at Shane through hooded eyes and dug his fingers even deeper into Shane’s hips.

His thighs were burning, his knees dragging a little uncomfortably on the rough fabric of the sofa cushion, but Shane’s pleasure addled mind dulled all of that. Nothing registered except for the feeling of Ilya’s hard, thick cock inside of him. Shane felt like Ilya’s dick was in his fucking ribs. He was so consumed in the moment, so enthusiastic in his movements, that he barely registered the way Ilya had started to shudder beneath him.

“Малыш,” Ilya gritted out, fingers splayed over Shane’s ass and pulling him down harder onto him, burying himself deeper. Shane gasped. “Shane. Малыш. I can’t–”

“It’s okay,” Shane dipped his head and kissed along Ilya’s browbone, tasting sweat and skin and Ilya.

Shane knew Ilya was going to come before him because he knew Ilya lost control just that little bit quicker with Shane on top. There was something about Shane holding him down and moving on top of him that Ilya claimed was undeniably hot. Shane didn’t know about all that, about him being hot, but the way Ilya would look at him when he rode him made Shane feel on display in the most intoxicating way. Objectively, Shane knew he was attractive–one didn’t get all the brand deals he did without being attractive, especially not the amount Shane had that involved him being half nude–but he had never really thought of himself as sexy. When he was with Ilya, he wasn’t focused on performing, or looking good, or being enough. He certainly wasn’t thinking about being sexy. Ilya insisted that’s what made him hot in bed though: the non-thinking.

His mouth slid down Ilya’s temple, lips wet, pressing hot kisses to his boyfriend’s face as it contorted in pleasure. Ilya turned his head up, straining against the grip Shane had on his hair, and Shane gave in to his silent demands, placing open-mouthed kisses to the man’s eager mouth. Beneath him Ilya’s hips were snapping harshly. Shane stopped bouncing, instead grinding and rolling his hips the filthiest way he knew how, and then Ilya was groaning and coming inside of him with Shane’s name on his lips.

“Fucking shit,” Ilya breathed. Shane hummed, rocking just a little, and smiled at the sensitive hiss Ilya gave in response.

Shane’s own cock was achingly hard and leaking between them, but he could give Ilya a moment, he could be patient. The feeling of Ilya’s come inside of him was enough for now. He clenched, making Ilya hiss again, and tried to keep as much of Ilya’s spend inside him as he could. Later, he would find the sensation gross, but for now he was delirious with want and unreasonably turned on by Ilya coming first. It didn’t happen often, but when it did Shane couldn’t help but feel smug.

“One sec,” Ilya murmured, holding up his hand languidly in a ‘give me a moment’ gesture, and Shane released his fierce grip on the man’s hair to wrap his fingers loosely around Ilya’s throat. Ilya moaned a little and his eyes fluttered shut as he dropped his hand back to Shane’s thigh. “Fuck, Hollander. You killed me.”

“Mm, you’ve said this before,” Shane bent down to kiss along Ilya’s throat. “And yet you’re still here.”

“You are fucking my ghost,” Ilya replied.

“Did I use a Ouija board to summon you?” Shane asked and Ilya blinked at him then frowned.

“The fuck is a wee-gee board?” he grumbled and Shane laughed, delighted by Ilya’s annoyed expression. “Is this weird Canadian shit, Hollander?”

“No,” Shane was still laughing. “It’s like a tool for talking to ghosts.”

“Why are you talking to ghosts?”

“Because I keep killing you. Apparently.”

“With your ass, yes,” Ilya nodded and then he was grinning and his hands were around Shane’s hips. “Speaking of…”

Shane let out a surprised yelp when Ilya suddenly pulled out and manhandled him down onto the couch, manoeuvring them until Shane was splayed out on the cushions flat on his back with Ilya between his legs. Ilya bent down and kissed him, filthy and wet, all tongue and teeth. Ilya kissed him until Shane was arching up and desperately trying to rut himself against Ilya’s hip. He wanted to come. He wanted to come so badly. But Ilya held his body just out of reach and pined Shane’s hips to the couch beneath him to stop Shane from humping his way to release. It was simultaneously arousing and infuriating.

Ilya kissed down Shane’s chest, down his stomach, stopping briefly to tongue at Shane’s navel which always made him shiver, and then nuzzled into the crease of Shane’s groin with his nose before tilting his head up to look at Shane. His eyes were bright, green-blue in the afternoon light, and full of open want. Shane shivered and reached down to scratch his fingers through Ilya’s curls.

“I am going to eat you out now,” Ilya told him, all serious and intense.

“Oh, fuck.”

Then Ilya’s tongue was inside him and he was eating his own spend out of Shane’s ass and Shane was bordering on hysterical he was so turned on. It didn’t take long for Shane’s orgasm to build after that, not with Ilya’s lovely curls caressed between his thighs and Ilya’s skilful tongue buried deep in his ass alongside his fingers as they pumped against his prostate. With a shout, Shane came, all over his own abdomen and then Ilya was licking that up too.

Shane watched, vision blurred, as Ilya dragged his tongue through the mess on Shane’s stomach. Ilya didn’t swallow, instead he moved back up Shane’s body and when he reached his face Ilya grabbed Shane’s chin and forced his mouth open. With a groan, Shane tilted his head back, let his tongue slip out and he obediently swallowed when Ilya pushed Shane’s own come into his mouth with his tongue. It was fucking filthy. It was also ridiculously hot, and Shane’s spent dick twitched with interest against his stomach.

Ilya kissed him some more, his tongue teasing against Shane’s, as he tugged his hands through his hair. It felt like hours before they finally separated, spit slick between them and their breathing ragged. As their breathing settled, Ilya rested his forehead against Shane’s and nuzzled their noses together affectionately. The gesture was far too sweet for how filthy Ilya had just been with his tongue. It made Shane giggle.

“What?” Ilya asked, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“You’re just very sweet,” Shane told him and Ilya pulled back to give him a reproachful look.

“No,” Ilya protested. “I am not sweet.”

“So sweet,” Shane teased, poking at Ilya’s chest.

“Do not say this,” Ilya groaned but he was grinning as he dropped himself on top of Shane. “Will ruin my reputation as Russian asshole.”

“Oh, you’re still an asshole,” Shane reassured, palms gliding over Ilya’s back. “You’re just also very sweet.”

“Mm,” Ilya tilted his head to look up at Shane from where he was buried into his chest. “I contain… multitudes.”

Shane laughed. Bright and unguarded as he took in the way Ilya frowned so seriously as he said it.

“Yeah, you do.”

Ilya glared at him a little, obviously suspecting Shane was teasing him, but after a moment he shrugged and turned back to pressing his face into Shane’s naked chest. Shane hummed at the feel of Ilya’s lips dragging languidly over his cooling skin and buried his hands in his boyfriend’s hair.

They really should be getting up. Shane didn’t generally like laying about like this for too long after sex–especially not when that sex was on expensive furniture that could get stained if they left it too long–but he was pleasantly fuzzy and warm beneath Ilya. And he’d missed Ilya. It would be stupid to break the moment before absolutely necessary.

“Is good we fucked here,” Ilya mumbled into the skin of Shane’s pec before pressing a soft kiss to his nipple.

“Mm?” Shane squinted down at him.

“Replace bad memories,” Ilya shrugged and Shane gave him a soft smile, fingers trailing down to his boyfriend’s jaw and then curling behind his ear.

“Yeah, that was kind of the idea,” Shane admitted sheepishly and Ilya nodded before lifting himself up to bring them face-to-face.

“No running away this time,” Ilya said.

“Never again,” Shane promised. Maybe they both had insecurities that had been soothed this afternoon. “I love you.”

“I love you, so much,” Ilya replied and Shane kissed him softly.

“So much,” he echoed before sealing their mouths together again with a tender kiss.

It was quarter past seven and Shane was starting to feel a little queasy.

Ilya was doing his best to distract Shane. They were sat in front of the TV–the cushions hadn’t needed much cleaning when they’d finally managed to untangle their limbs–and were watching the game between New York and New Jersey with only mild interest. Shane was tucked against Ilya’s side, head resting on his boyfriend’s chest, and Ilya had his phone out as he chirped Scott Hunter. Ilya was petting Shane’s hair absently with his free hand and he occasionally planted soft kisses to Shane’s forehead. For the most part, the distraction was working, and Shane’s queasy stomach settled as he wrapped an arm around Ilya’s waist and squeezed.

Shane turned his head to place a kiss over Ilya’s heart, his lips pressing to the fabric of Ilya’s t-shirt–he’d changed out of his earlier outfit–and he hummed when Ilya returned the kiss with one to Shane’s hairline. By that point he’d mostly tuned out the hockey game, focused instead on Ilya’s heartbeat where it thrummed under his ear, and so he startled when Ilya laughed heartedly beneath him. Shane turned to the TV to see Hunter scowling at the New Jersey second-line centre–Mathews, Shane thought his name was.

“Hunter scowls like a toddler,” Ilya laughed as he typed something out on his phone with his thumb.

“I thought he was a thousand years old,” Shane said.

“A hundred thousand,” Ilya corrected with a wave of his hand which he then returned to Shane’s hair. “And old people act like babies too.”

“Mm, true,” Shane acquiesced.

“Hunter is older than volcanoes of Камчатка,” Ilya said which just made Shane roll his eyes.

“Okay,” he patted Ilya’s stomach and then laid his head back on the man’s chest. Ilya seemed on a roll though and Shane bit back a laugh as he kept going.

“Older than Храм Васи́лия Блаже́нного.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Older than…” Ilya paused and then said slowly, as if he was saying the words for the first time, “Göbekli Tepe.”

“Older than what?”

“Is old place in Turkey,” Ilya said casually, as if he talked about old Turkish architecture on the daily.

“Right.”

It was quiet for a few moments before Ilya snorted to himself and then began talking again.

“Scott Hunter is older than the rock art at Murujuga.”

This he said slowly as well, and Shane pulled away from Ilya so he could stare at the man properly. Ilya was looking down at his phone and frowning in concentration, mouthing words as if he was thinking of how to say them before he spoke. Shane lunged quickly for the device and laughed when Ilya reacted a moment too late and tried to swat at him. He held the phone out of Ilya’s reach and squinted at the screen to look at what Ilya had been staring at so intently. When he read Ilya’s Google search, he laughed so hard he almost cried.

“Did you just Google ‘old places’ so you could say Hunter is older than them?” Shane turned his smile on his boyfriend, who was shrugging and just grinned back.

“Yes, I do not know old things. I am young and full of life,” Ilya snatched his phone back and Shane allowed it.

Shane grabbed either side of Ilya’s beautiful, smiling face and kissed him firmly on the mouth. “You are ridiculous.”

“Do not worry I do not need to Google ‘boring things’ when I bully you,” Ilya told him seriously and Shane scowled. “I just think of things you like. The dentist. Hockey memoirs. Kale…”

“When did this turn on me? I thought you were making fun of Hunter,” Shane groaned and Ilya just laughed.

“Is not my fault,” Ilya grabbed at Shane as he tried to pull away. “You are just so easy to tease.”

“Fuck off,” Shane grumbled but he allowed himself to be wrangled back into Ilya’s hold anyway.

“Милый мой,” Ilya cooed and planted kisses along Shane’s cheekbone as Shane shoved at him half-heartedly. “Ты такой симпатичный.”

“You are so fucking annoying,” Shane grouched and pushed at Ilya’s face when the man tried to press more kisses to the other side of his face. Shane was sure he was blushing, but he refused to give Ilya more reason to gloat. “Get off me, asshole.”

“No,” Ilya hummed.

“Get off him, Ilyushka, Блять.”

The unfamiliar voice jolted Shane upright from where he was sagging against Ilya and pretending to push away his boyfriend’s onslaught of kisses. Despite the interruption, and the admonishment, Ilya’s hold didn’t loosen and so Shane shoved at him until the man released him with a noise of protest. Shane was vaguely aware that his hair was a mess, his face was red, and his clothes were rumpled when he turned to face Svetlana where she stood in the living room entrance. The woman was watching them with a sly smirk spread across her lips.

“Sveta,” Ilya greeted, warm and affectionate. “This is my Shane.”

Svetlana was tall and beautiful. Shane was so distracted by how objectively stunning she was that he barely registered how Ilya’d introduced him. She extended a perfectly manicured hand to Shane and there was a twinkle in her eye that teased trouble when Shane awkwardly clasped her hand back.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Svetlana said, no hint of a Russian accent in her words. Her English was coloured by a mild Boston accent. “Ilya’s Shane. I am Svetlana Vetrova.”

Shane flushed at the way she said, ‘Ilya’s Shane,’ voice honeyed and full of suggestion, and then tried to pull himself the fuck together.

“I’m my Shane–I mean–I’m not Ilya’s Shane, I’m just Shane.”

Okay, he had not pulled himself together.

Ilya laughed behind him, loud and unrestrained, and Shane whipped around to glare at the man where he sat on the couch clutching at his stomach. When Ilya caught his eye, he tried to stop laughing by shoving his hand over his mouth and Shane just huffed at his boyfriend’s antics. He turned back to Svetlana who was biting her lip in an attempt not to laugh as well. Shane wanted to rewind the entire interaction. Or like. Drown.

“Okay, just Shane,” Svetlana managed through a wide grin. “Let’s go unpack the food I brought and leave this idiot to get his shit together.”

“Okay,” Shane nodded and ignored Ilya’s indignant sounds of protest at his back.

Svetlana had left several paper bags on the kitchen countertop, and she directed Shane to the cupboards to collect plates and cutlery as she began unpacking Styrofoam containers from the bags. Her familiarity with the space made that bitter thing inside Shane twist but he squashed it as best he could and tried for casual and unaffected.

“What do you do for work?” he asked as he laid out the plates for Svetlana. She had placed a couple serving spoons and a pair of tongs besides the food containers. A bemused smile flickered across her face as she turned to look at Shane.

“At the moment, marketing for luxury cars,” she told him. “I think I would like to go into sports marketing though. Specifically for hockey, of course.”

“Ilya said your dad is Sergei Vetrov,” Shane said. “Did you play hockey growing up or…?”

“Ah, no,” Svetlana shook her head and her gaze flicked over to Ilya as he entered the room. Shane tried to ignore his boyfriend and kept his focus on Svetlana. He wanted to talk to her without relying on Ilya. “My dad taught me how to skate, but I did ballet. Which I hated.”

“You were very good,” Ilya said and Svetlana tilted her head with a cocky smirk.

“Of course, I am good at most things.”

Shane smiled a little at that. The two were very similar.

“Our mothers used to take us to the ballet,” Svetlana turned back to Shane. “Ilya liked it much more than I did.”

“You like ballet?” Shane glanced at Ilya who just shrugged and sidled up beside him to wrap an arm around his waist. Shane leaned into the hold without even thinking.

“I am Russian,” he said dismissively but then paused and Shane could see it in his eyes; he was deciding whether or not to say more. “My mother loved it. So I loved it. I stopped going after she died.”

Shane rested his hand briefly over Ilya’s where it was wrapped around his hip. Ilya squeezed him a little in response and dropped a kiss to Shane’s shoulder before pulling away and turning to the food spread out on the countertop. He started piling food onto an empty plate, but Svetlana quickly swatted at him.

“Ilyushka, serve your boyfriend first,” she reprimanded.

“I can serve myself,” Shane said mildly and Ilya stuck his tongue out at Svetlana.

“He does not need princess treatment like you do, Sveta,” Ilya teased. In response Svetlana wrestled the serving spoon from his grasp and hip checked Ilya out of the way.

“You will take all the good stuff before he can get any,” she blocked him from coming closer to the food and turned to Shane with a grin. “Please serve yourself first before the neanderthal eats everything.”

“Neanderthal,” Ilya muttered behind her with a frown. “I am not ancient human. That is Hunter.”

“Ugh, shut up about him,” Svetlana groaned and handed Shane the tongs. “Does he talk about Hunter to you all the time too?”

“Yes,” Shane nodded with a smirk as he turned to inspect the food laid out on the bench. There were cooked string beans and salmon fillets and several salads with nuts and grains that all looked delicious. Shane was impressed by the spread; Svetlana had clearly considered the kinds of macros Shane and Ilya needed as athletes. Though Shane knew Ilya was certainly not as strategic with his diet as he should be. “Sometimes I think they should have been rivals instead.”

“No,” Ilya said vehemently. “Hunter is not good enough to be my rival.”

“He won the cup,” Shane pointed out and Ilya twisted up his face.

“Once.”

“That’s as many times as you’ve won it,” Shane laughed and Svetlana cackled when Ilya turned an affronted look in his direction.

“Your boyfriend’s won it twice,” Svetlana looked delighted by this fact and Shane flushed a little when she winked at him. “Little embarrassing for you, Rozanov.”

“I will win it again,” Ilya glared. “Many more times. More than Shane.”

“Uh huh, sure, buddy,” Svetlana said in the kind of placating tone one might use on a child as she patted Ilya’s shoulder.

Ilya rolled his eyes at his friend and Shane smiled to himself as the pair began to argue rapidly in Russian.

They sat around Ilya’s stupidly long dining table together; Shane and Ilya on one side with their ankles and knees pressed together under the table and Svetlana across from them. She was an easy person to talk to. She kept the conversation flowing when Shane didn’t know what to say and didn’t seem to mind when he asked dull questions like: did she grow up in Boston and how did she spend her summers in Russia, or did she have siblings or was she always interested in marketing as a career. Boring questions. Very Shane questions. Ilya didn’t tease him about it though; he just listened and ate and occasionally nudged his toes against Shane’s foot.

Eventually they got around to the topic of ‘Shane and Ilya’ which made him equal parts nervous and happy. It was nice to talk about Ilya as his partner to someone, not as a rival or a hockey player, but as someone Shane was intimately familiar with and genuinely really liked as a person. It was also intimidating. Because Svetlana loved Ilya too. In a completely different way. The kind of way that came with a scrutinising gaze and a contemplative tilt to the head with each of his answers.

But, underneath the nerves, Shane was pleased that someone was assessing him in the same way his parents had done to Ilya over the summer. It meant Ilya was loved. All Shane wanted was for Ilya to be loved.

“Ottawa? Seriously, Rozanov?” Svetlana was frowning and her eyes were locked intently on her best friend across the table. Shane knew the Ottawa plan would be hard to stomach for a staunch Boston fan when they’d started laying it out to her.

“Yes, seriously,” Ilya shrugged, as if it was nothing. Svetlana huffed at that and turned her serious gaze on Shane. He felt exposed under her hazel eyes, like a bug under a magnifying glass.

“They’re the worst team in the league,” she told him. As if he didn’t know.

“Boston was shit before Ilya,” Shane pointed out. It was true. Boston hadn’t been to the playoffs in years before Ilya became captain, and they certainly wouldn’t have won any fucking cups without him.

“You think he can turn them around?” she raised her brows.

“Of course,” he nodded. “He did it in Boston. He will do it again in Ottawa.”

“You think I am so great,” Ilya sing-songed and Shane just shoved his shoulder.

“Shut up,” he bit back and turned back to Svetlana. She stared him down for a moment and then looked at Ilya.

“You love him enough to move to fucking Ottawa?” she asked and Shane gave a mild ‘hey’. Ottawa was his hometown after all.

“Yes,” Ilya was firm when he spoke. Svetlana let out a long sigh and leaned back in her chair when Ilya continued a moment later in Russian. “Я люблю его настолько, что готова на всё. Он тоже меня любит и очень многим рискует ради меня.”

She seemed to consider this for a while and the longer she considered it the more Shane wished he knew Russian. In amongst the unfamiliar words he’d recognised ‘love’ and could only hope that whatever Ilya’d said had been enough to convince her that Shane only wanted the best for Ilya. Shane didn’t want Ilya to move to a shitty team and suffer there. He genuinely believed Ilya could turn around any team he joined. It was unfortunate that the closest team to Montreal were the Centaurs, but Ilya wanted to be Canadian and wanted to be with him, so Ottawa made the most sense when all those things were factored in.

“I am not rooting for the fucking Centaurs,” she told Ilya. “Their logo is stupid.”

“Yes, but I will make it sexy,” Ilya grinned and Shane scoffed. There was no making that logo sexy. “You think I cannot?”

“It’s the ugliest logo I have ever seen,” Shane replied.

“And I am hottest man in league,” Ilya said.

“Actually, I think that’s your boyfriend,” Svetlana interjected and Shane dipped his head. “Pretty sure Cosmopolitan named him ‘Hottest Man in the NHL’ not once but twice.”

“Mm,” Ilya glanced at Shane with a heated look, one that Shane recognised from the bedroom. “And they would be right.”

“Remember when you used to pretend to not know he was gorgeous?” Svetlana laughed and Shane’s head snapped over to her.

“He what?” Shane asked and she grinned.

“He used to moon over you, right in front of me,” she explained, “and then pretend you weren’t hot and he wasn’t staring, right in front of me.”

“Помолчи,” Ilya grumbled and Shane just laughed.

“When you were dating Rose Landry, he was especially bad,” Svetlana continued, ignoring her friend’s frustrated glare from across the table.

“Do not bring that up,” Ilya groaned and Shane laughed even harder.

“I thought he was going to vibrate out of his skin from jealousy,” she smirked and Shane felt Ilya kick out at her under the table. “Прекрати, Илья!”

“He likes to pretend he doesn’t get jealous,” Shane said mildly and didn’t even flinch when Ilya kicked at his shin as he had done to Svetlana. Shane elbowed him back but remembered too late Ilya had a serious bruise right where he’d aimed his elbow.

“Ow, Hollander!” Ilya shouted and then clutched dramatically at his side. “I am bruised. You are trying to take me out of game tomorrow. This was your plan all along.”

“Yeah, sure,” Shane rolled his eyes. “I’ve been sleeping with you for the past eight years just so I could prevent you from playing in one game in 2017. Totally. You caught me.”

“Eight years?” Svetlana asked with a waggle of her brows.

“You know this,” Ilya grouched, still pretending to nurse his side. “You saw me texting ‘Jane’ years ago.”

“No, I know,” she waved a hand and then leaned against the table with a glint in her eye. “I just guess it kind of contradicts the whole ‘Golden Boy Hollander’ thing. You’ve been sleeping with your rival your whole career.”

“Before,” Ilya corrected, as he always did. “Summer before.”

“Before then,” Svetlana nodded and then looked at Shane. “Your whole career would be questioned if this ever got out, you know. I think the fans would be a lot harder on you about it than him. Is he worth all that to you?”

She was testing him. He knew that. The way she phrased the question, the tone of her voice, the glint in her eye. She wanted to know Shane was serious about Ilya.

“He is,” Shane said, easily, even though everything she’d said was true and it kind of made him sick if he thought about it too hard. “I love him.”

Beside him, Ilya beamed and leaned in to press a loud, smacking kiss to Shane’s cheek. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes and push Ilya away in response, but the sweet affection warmed him to the core and he smiled stupidly. He was absolutely besotted. It was ridiculous.

“And we have a plan,” Shane continued, schooling his features. “I think if we stick to the plan then it will be okay. We will be retired and can maybe fade away a bit before people know. Maybe then no one will care about us that much anymore.”

“Mm, maybe,” Svetlana looked unconvinced but there was a softness in her gaze. He thought, by the way she gave Ilya a fond glance, that at least she believed in how much Shane loved Ilya.

After dinner Svetlana banished Ilya to the loungeroom in an obvious effort to get Shane alone and needle him further. Ilya had given Shane a glance, offering to stay, but Shane had just waved him off. It would be better for both Svetlana, and him, if they just got everything they needed to out between them.

They were tidying up the kitchen in silence when Svetlana suddenly stopped and turned to face Shane. He paused as well, looking up from where he was packing up the leftovers and stacking them neatly to go in the fridge. Shane raised a brow at her, and she huffed a laugh as she leaned against the countertop beside him, looking over at the fridge whilst Shane looked out on the dining room.

“I was serious, you know,” she began slowly, “about your career. I think the fans might not be so shocked that Ilya has been sleeping with his rival–it kind of seems on-brand for him. But for you…”

“You would get along with my mother,” Shane huffed a laugh and fiddled with the containers in front of him. “But I am not too worried about that right now. The league has been iffy with Hunter coming out. I don’t think we’ll be coming out for a long time.”

“Mm, and he’s not dating another player,” Svetlana nodded and Shane sighed. She looked at him sympathetically. “Sorry, I’m not trying to stress you out. I’m just thinking about all this from all angles.”

“Yeah, you and my mom both,” Shane said. He turned to lean against the bench and face the same direction as her. “I think right now I am more worried about his citizenship. We need to keep this quiet to protect him from Russia first and foremost. The rest of it… I have a plan…”

“Even the best laid plans…” Svetlana tilted her head towards him and Shane nodded.

“I want to be with him, so badly,” he whispered. She was easy to talk to, and even if he felt himself getting warm under the collar, he couldn’t help but confess. “I can make this plan work if it means I get to have him.”

It was Svetlana’s turn to nod. She was quiet for a long while, arms tucked around her ribs and her lips pursed in thought. Eventually, Shane felt her soften beside him, and then she was standing in front of him and holding his forearms.

“When we were seven, I fell over on the ice,” Svetlana said. “I hit my chin and lost a tooth and bled everywhere. I was not very tough or brave about it. Ilyushka carried me home and cleaned me up and made me feel better. Ever since his mom died, I’ve just been trying to carry him home.”

She squeezed his arms and Shane nodded. He understood. Or at least, he thought he did.

“I’ll carry him,” he promised and she gave him the softest smile. She really was beautiful.

“I know.”

Later, after Svetlana had left, Shane was tangled up and naked in Ilya’s bed. His head was pillowed on Ilya’s chest, his fingers trailing soothing patterns over the man’s mole-dotted skin, and his eyes were slowly drooping. Ilya was so warm and steady beneath him, breathing deep as he slept, and Shane felt the safest he’d ever felt just lying there cradled in Ilya’s arms.

Shane tilted his head up and took in his sleeping boyfriend. Ilya, all chiselled and firm in the light of day, looked so soft and serene in the moonlight. He could see the boy from that picture in the snow in this Ilya. Shane couldn’t help but press his mouth over Ilya’s heart in a tender kiss. The man stirred, only a little, then settled again with a sigh.

In the quiet Shane settled back into Ilya’s side and pressed himself as close as possible. There was an ache in his chest, stirred by Svetlana’s gentle concern, and Shane squeezed his eyes tight against the rising tide of emotion.

Shane Hollander was never quite good enough. He knew this. He’d known it his whole life.

He couldn’t allow that here. Not with Ilya. He had to be good enough for this. To protect this. There was a plan and he would follow it and it would be enough.

Shane would be good enough at this.