Archive of Our Own

Shane is rarely caught off guard. He’s just the sort of person who meticulously plans, meticulously thinks about every possible scenario that could materialise in any given situation, obsesses over things to the degree where it would be statistically impossible for him to be surprised by any given outcome. Shane’s got it all figured out, on paper, and not for lack of trying. Which is why he flinches, heartbeat spiking in alarm, when Hayden suddenly shoots off the sofa, bouncing on the cushion with the sudden motion.

“No,” Hayden shouts, arms slicing through the air, face flushed and positively fucking crazy. “No, no, no way. Shane. I’ll kill myself.”

Shane blanks. “You’ll kill yourself.”

“I’m going to kill myself.”

“Why are you gonna kill yourself, what’s gotten into you?”

“Me? Me?”

“Hey, hey!” J.J.’s voice cuts through the tension, his head peering over the doorway, face rumpled and mouth slack. His eyes are barely open, and Shane suddenly realises it’s only past eight in the morning, and he buries his face in his hands in embarrassment. “C'est quoi ce bordel, (What the hell is going on,) eh? You are crazy?”

“Yeah, he is fucking crazy,” Shane supplies, shutting his mouth when Hayden fixes him with a murderous look.

“I’m fucking crazy? I’m crazy – you’re crazy.”

“Les gars, (Guys,)” J.J. collapses on the sofa next to Shane, in his boxers, legs spread wide so one is splayed over Shane’s thighs and the other dangerously close to tipping the fruit bowl Shane so carefully arranges every week right off the coffee table, “can we decide who is crazy so we can go back to sleep, please?”

“He’s crazy,” Hayden points at him so hard that Shane is shocked he doesn’t pull a muscle with it. “He’s fucking crazy and he doesn’t even know it.”

“What the hell are you talking about, what’s gotten into you?” Shane is incredulous, shaking his head to convey just that, although he doubts it registers at all in Hayden’s head.

“Boys, aren’t I a good roommate?” Hayden starts, pausing for an answer he knows he’s never gonna get. “A good friend? Don’t I give you notice if I’m gonna have Jackie over?”

Shane lifts his head and gives J.J. his most pitiful look, the one that usually wins him over. No dice. “Don’t look at me,” is all J.J. says, nods at Hayden in support. “He does.”

“I do,” Hayden is pacing, his face red as all hell – and that’s coming from Shane. “And that’s Jackie! She’s pretty and clean and polite! Not a six foot three Russian who lights up indoors and calls me champ.”

Shane tries J.J. one more time. All he gets is another shrug, a sympathetic arm extended towards Hayden, “He calls him champ, man.”

“Okay, okay, wait– Wait!” Shane repeats, louder, pointing his palm at Hayden, because he looks like he’s about to launch into yet another ridiculous speech. “Hayd,” he starts, his hands fanning out, askance, “do you have a problem with Ilya or something?”

Hayden starts laughing, almost maniacally, and Shane’s so weirded out that all he can do is look at J.J. for some help – but he’s shaking his head at him, scoffing. “Ben la... (Come on...)” he mutters, resigned.

“Tu parles de quoi, toi? (What are you talking about?)” Shane shoves at J.J.’s knee, gentle enough that it sort of sways and falls right back against his leg, “You don’t even know what we’re talking about and you’re still taking his side?”

“J'dirais... (I'd say...)” J.J. starts, twisting his mouth in faux thought, eyes squinted at the ceiling, “You can’t watch the game with us tonight because Ilya is coming over, again,” he says, looking at Shane, then Hayden, speechless and exasperated respectively. He grins, “Oui? J'gagne quoi? (What did I win?)”

“Fuck all,” Shane says, turning back to Hayden. “Where is this coming from? Since when do you not like Ilya?”

“Shane,” Hayden is pleading, it seems, but Shane’s not sure what for. “Shane, it’s not about whether I like him or not, it’s–”

“Well, do you?”

Hayden closes his mouth, glancing over at J.J., who is suddenly very interested in the stitching of his boxers, then back at Shane – stupid. “Huh?”

“Huh?” Shane mocks, craning his neck forward. “Do you like him?”

A beat of silence. “That’s not the point.”

“What the hell, dude – What’s he ever done to you?” Shane says, looking between the two of them. “I mean, where is this coming from?”

“What, I have to get along with everyone?” Hayden looks between the both of them, sort of widening his eyes at J.J., who has now taken to counting the stains on the ceiling. “Whatever. It’s the principle of the thing.”

Shane blinks. “The principle.”

“I think what Hayd is saying is – assuming I can speak for you, man–”

“Go ahead, man.”

“–that maybe somebody who was more, eh, mean-spirited, disons (let's say), would maybe think he’s… homeless.”

Shane is blinking at J.J. now, who is still twisting his mouth up at the ceiling, arms crossed over his chest. When he looks at Hayden, he’s got his eyebrows raised, like he’s expecting Shane to answer. As if they’re not being ridiculous.

“And you think that’s fair to say,” Shane doesn’t really phrase it like a question, his stare matching Hayden’s. He doesn’t seem to get it, so Shane crosses his arms over his chest in challenge, “You have Jackie over all the time, Hayd. Have I ever said anything?”

“Have I?” Hayden doesn’t miss a beat – it makes Shane sort of falter. “And you’re comparing – who? Jackie to Rozanov? Jackie’s got manners, you’d barely know she’s here half the time. She respects you guys.”

“So, Ilya doesn’t respect you guys because, what, you can feel his presence in the apartment?” Shane looks between them again, scoffing. “What do you suggest, I bound and gag him so he doesn’t make any noise, breathe too loud?”

“Ugh, s'te plait (please), man,” J.J. grumbles.

“What?” Shane huffs, starting to count things off on his fingers. “I pay my share of the rent. I do most of the chores. I have… Captain privileges–”

“You just made that up.”

“Well, you’re making things up to make Ilya look bad,” Shane bristles. “What’s your problem with him?”

“Ouais, what’s your problem, champ?” J.J. chimes in, grinning knowingly at Hayden, who just puts his hands on his hips and spins around himself – to calm himself down, or whatever the hell.

“Come on, what– When has he ever called you champ?” Shane scoffs – he realises that’s probably not the route he wants to take as soon as he’s said it, because Ilya does call Hayden champ, does know he doesn’t like it, and Hayden is looking at him like he’s about to launch into another speech. “Okay, so he calls you champ,” he backpedals, lifting his shoulders in a way he hopes looks natural, unbothered, but sort of makes him pull a nerve on his shoulderblade awkwardly in a way that lets him know he probably did not succeed. “That’s, like, short for champion. What’s wrong with that?”

Hayden looks like he’s gonna laugh again. “Shane,” he pleads.

“It’s banter, just – say something back! Call him – I don’t know –” he waves his hands around, realises too late that he can’t really think of something that anyone would say to mock Ilya, because there’s nothing about him that Shane doesn’t like, nothing substantial anyway. He drops his hands. “Whatever. Is that it?”

“Is that it?” Hayden deadpans. “Is that it? You think my only problem is some Ivan Danko caricature calling me champ?”

“Sounds like it.”

J.J. snaps his fingers, pointing at Hayden appreciatively, “Is that from Red Heat?”

Hayden blinks. “Yeah, dude.”

“Quel film (What a film), eh?” he laughs, lolling his head to the side to quirk a brow at Shane. “Schwarzenegger.”

“Who’s she?”

“Guys,” they both look at Hayden, his hands dropping from his hips. “All I know, Shane, is that he’s not watching the game with us tonight. It’s just – Please.”

“What, I’m supposed to tell him he can’t watch the game? What the hell do you think he’s gonna do to you?”

“He might light a cigarette in his room again,” J.J. points out.

“Oh, my God, how many times– I said he could! It was fucking snowing and your room has the biggest window – half his body was literally hanging out trying not to get any ash inside, it’s not his fault it was windy!”

“Fine!” Hayden says, and the hand comes out, fingers ready to be counted on – Shane groans. “He drinks milk straight out the carton, uses up all the hot water, walks around in his underwear–”

“God, are you nine? You’re nine,” Shane interrupts. “You see much worse in the locker room on the daily, Hayd. And we all walk around in our underwear in here.”

“It’s about the social norms within a specific social context, man. We have not entered into any sort of contract specifying we might ever see Rozanov’s dick,” J.J. says.

“Arrete, man, t'as pris genre un seul cours de socio (Shut up, man, you literally only took, like, one sociology class),” Shane tuts.

“He calls me Bug Eyes,” Hayden continues, itching his lip with his teeth, because Shane is gaping at him, and J.J. is covering his mouth suspiciously. “Bug Eyes, like it’s my name. Does he even know my name?” he continues, at which Shane closes his mouth, sort of glances up at the ceiling, like the answer is written on there. “In the three years you guys have been together, has he even bothered to learn my name?”

“He knows your name,” Shane tuts again, shrugs a few times, until he can come up with something else to say. “He just… doesn’t use it.”

“Hear that, J? He just doesn’t use it.”

“You know, have you ever considered that maybe he’s just winding you up because you’re always a dick to him?” Shane says. He blinks, glances over at J.J., then points at him, “J doesn’t have a real problem with him.”

Hayden drops his hands, staring daggers at J.J. It makes Shane look over at him also, the way he’s twisting his mouth, picking at a bruise on his thigh.

A beat. “J?”

J.J. looks up like he’s just been called on in class. “Huh?”

“Huh?” Shane’s eyes are so wide his sockets are starting to ache. “You, too?”

“Écoute, Capitaine, it’s like this,” J.J. sits up – Shane’s already expecting to hear some bullshit. “You are dating a, what is it… controversial figure, hein?”

“What? No!”

“Was rhetorical,” Hayden supplies, matching Shane’s stare.

“Merci,” J.J. continues. “Point is, most people are not going to like him, if not all people. And that’s okay. What you need to do is stand by your guy,” he drags the word out, shaking Shane by the shoulder in a way that he guesses is meant to feel encouraging. “Get it? Be proud of your decisions.”

Shane blinks again. “So you don’t like him either.”

“I can’t lie to you, Capitaine.”

Shane pushes his hand off his shoulder, letting out a heavy breath, his brain so overwhelmed he thinks he feels it swell inside his head. “I just don’t get this,” Shane mumbles, shakes his head for good measure.

“Regarde, man, this isn’t an intervention or anything–”

“Unless you want it to be,” Hayden chimes in, shrugging at J.J. shooting daggers at him, Shane lifting his head with exhaustion. “What? All I’m saying is, look at Shane and look at Rozanov.”

“Come on, là…” J.J. says, before Shane can even open his mouth. “You can call him punchable, annoying, bad at his job–”

“Bad at his– Have you ever worked construction, J?!”

“–but the guy is magnifique. Eh?” he elbows Shane, who gives up on mustering up a defence. “Not his fault if Capitaine looks better.”

It sort of helps. Gets Shane to duck his head, elbow J.J. right back sheepishly.

“Dude!” Hayden is kind of shrill, and Shane instinctively brings his hand up to his ear. “Shane. Dude. I’m sorry, but, I mean – would you rather we never said anything?”

Shane tries to think about it, but ultimately, he just sighs. “No, of course not. It’s just – I don’t understand where this is coming from. He’s so… sweet,” he tries, shakes his head at Hayden’s wrinkled expression. “Okay. Fine. I’ve heard from you,” he says, turning to J.J., shrugging in defeat, “Anything you wanna add? Any other reason I should tell my boyfriend who’s been in Russia for the past two weeks that I can’t have him over after all?”

“Objection,” Hayden shakes a finger at him, finally, finally, collapsing on the sofa, on the other side of them, “badgering the witness.”

“Fine,” Shane huffs, tapping J.J.’s knee once. “Sorry. Shoot. Whatever you wanna say.”

But J.J.’s not looking at him, weirdly. He’s looking at Hayden, and Shane thinks they’re having some sort of conversation with their eyes, one he’s not privy to, and he’s about to intercept until J.J. finally clears his throat, shakes his head dismissively, “I mean, the milk thing’s kinda disgusting, man,” he admits, glancing over at Hayden again, then back at Shane. “And I could go for seeing a bit less of his nipples, but. Yeah, that’s… That’s pretty much it.”

“Pussy,” Hayden chimes in, just as Shane’s about to put an end to the conversation. J.J. is shaking his head at Hayden, almost pleading, maybe a little bit frustrated, but it doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t deter him in the slightest. And then he says: “Shane. J’s room is right next to yours.”

J.J. throws his head against the cushion, back to counting the stains on the ceiling. And Shane, not for the first time in his life and certainly not the last, feels like he’s missing something, something obvious. “Yeah?” is all he says, shrugging his shoulders at Hayden, who merely blinks back at him.

“Yeah?” he mocks, then waits. Nothing. “Any idea why that might be relevant?”

Shane looks between the both of them again. Still nothing, no clues, or hints. “No?” he says, scratches an eyebrow. “Is this about his snoring? You just gotta kick him a little bit and he stops, but – I don’t like doing that anymore because he gets these bruises and he thinks they’re from work, but they were actually from me and I felt–”

“Come on, dude, I can hear you,” J.J. cuts through his babbling, lifting his head up but looking straight ahead, into the kitchen. Shane blinks. “You know,” he finally looks at him, quirks a brow, “At night?”

It may not technically be possible, but Shane does it, anyhow – his face feels like it blanches and goes impossibly pink simultaneously, lips parting on their own accord. And they’re both still looking at him, monitoring his reaction like he’s in a hospital bed, fresh out of a coma. He might be going into a coma now, actually. He’s sort of left staring into the middle distance, over both of their heads, and if God was real he thinks he’d let the earth open up beneath his feet now, get him out of here with the little dignity he still has left.

J.J. is the one that breaks the silence, but it doesn’t really matter – Shane is too busy recounting the million and one nights in bed with Ilya, what he’d said, what Ilya’d said, but now he imagines J through the wall, wide awake and pressing two pillows against both his ears. “It’s not that bad,” he tries, glancing at Hayden for help when Shane says nothing.

He can’t see what Hayden does, but he sort of registers J.J. shaking his head through his peripheral – only marginally. There was the time he’d asked Ilya to call him a slut, and things of that nature. Another time Ilya had taken to describing to Shane exactly what his hole looked like when he was like this, because it is so sad you cannot see, Hollander, so sad it makes me cry. “I can tell you’re having a little moment,” Hayden starts, at which Shane forces himself to turn his head, give the illusion that he’s listening – the time, a year ago, that Ilya had asked him to describe exactly what his dildo had looked like, recount exactly what he’d do with it – “so I won’t go into it. But I can also hear you, sometimes. Most of the time. Whatever.”

“Oh, my God,” Shane isn’t sure if he’s the one that says this, but he must be, too embarrassed to fully occupy his own body. “Oh, my God.”

“Dude, I get it, it’s– Look. I’m sure you guys can hear me and Jackie sometimes, too, but–”

“I’ve heard you,” J.J. says, deadpan, “don’t think I’ve ever heard Jackie.”

A pause. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem, what’s your problem – the guy looks like he’s having a heart attack!”

“Jesus, all I’m trying to say is that – it sounds like… I mean, I can see why – Not why, but… maybe how–”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Shane babbles, muffled behind his hands.

“Okay,” J.J. finally interjects, closing and opening his mouth in quick succession. “Again. This is not an intervention,” he tries, rubs his eye self-consciously at Hayden’s quick glance. “This is kind of an intervention, but all we’re saying is – maybe you can go to his sometimes, hein? Maybe we could… make a schedule.”

“Hollsy and Rozanov’s fuck-schedule,” Hayden mutters. “Where would we put that, on the fridge?”

“Okay,” Shane says, and they both look at him as if he’s exploded. Shane thinks he’s managing okay, all things considering. The time Ilya had tried to make him take his cock and his dildo at the same time. “Okay, just… stop. Please. Okay.”

Hayden blinks, careful, as if any sudden movements would be catastrophic for Shane’s nerves. He might be right. “Okay…?”

“Okay, just –!” Shane rubs his eye harshly, his head shaking uncontrollably. “Fine. I won’t– I’ll talk to him. About it.”

He knows Hayden and J.J. are looking at each other, communicating in that utterly obnoxious way. Hayden speaks up again: “When you say it–”

“It, all of it,” he says, curt. “And I won’t… I mean, tonight, I’m not gonna… You know. We won’t. Probably never again, in here.”

J.J. tuts, “Capitaine, we don’t mean never again–”

“Never again,” Shane says, and that’s that, and he finally pushes off the sofa, his face feeling too hot to function. He steps over J.J.’s legs, sort of lingering in the doorway, turning once more. ““Sorry, for… I didn’t know.”

“C’est correct,” J.J. tells him, and Hayden nods, too. “You’re not going to the gym?”

“Yeah, just – I don’t feel so good,” Shane says, , and then he turns, more than ready to go back to his room – but on second thought, he faces them again, and they’re still looking at him. Well, he’s made it clear he’s got something to say now. He clears his throat. “Uh, what exactly have you… heard?”

Hayden drops his head a little bit, and J.J. stares at the same place Shane had been a few moments ago. Until he glances over, twisting his mouth in thought. “S’te plait, man.”

“Okay. Yeah,” Shane nods, taps his fingers on the doorframe a few times, lingers for no reason, really. Hayden’s observing the stitching of his shorts like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Misses the way Shane awkwardly points his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m gonna–”

“Ouais.”

Shane makes it back to his room, somehow, patiently waiting until he’s made it to bang his head against the shut door. After he does that a few times, and he’s taken a few deep breaths, he rubs down his face, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

Shane

Hey. Fun idea.

Why don’t I come to your apartment tonight instead?

Turns out whether or not Svetlana has a good night tonight ultimately hinges on Ilya staying over at Shane’s as planned, because the girl she’s been seeing has some sort of problem with men listening in on her having sex (which Shane has no business arguing with), or perhaps Ilya specifically (which, in light of recent events, Shane might also not be able to argue with). What that means is that Shane has to kind of swallow down any comments he has about Svetlana having had the whole house to herself for the past two weeks, which she could have taken advantage of – because it’s her apartment, too, after all – and that he’s been planted on the sofa for hours, unmoving, trying to be normal around Hayden and J.J. as they watch the game and he waits for Ilya to be done seeing his friends, some Russian guys from work, and Marleau, if he had to guess. He can’t really focus on the game, participate in conversation. All he thinks about is whether Svetlana has picked Ilya up from the airport already. Whether Ilya’s made it to the bar safe. How many drinks he’s had already. Whether he’s gonna show up here drunk and horny, which would normally have him buzzing with excitement, but now seems like the most painful outcome.

Ilya’s distinct, heavy-handed knock on the door makes him jolt, and he mutters and apology before he shoots off the sofa, on a mission. He doesn’t really bother reminding Ilya to text instead of knock anymore – he never does.

He allows himself all of two seconds to admire how good Ilya looks, to satiate his hunger for him, visually, in person, after two weeks of distance. His hair is slightly longer, the ringlets messy from the wind, and he’s got a bit of a stubble, and his lips are so pink, and they’re already smiling at him, so sweet. And he smells so good, the cologne Shane loves, with a hint of cigarette smoke. One, two, and then Shane is pulling him forward by his jacket, making him stumble on the doorstep and nearly break his neck.

“Come on,” he mutters, shuts the door quickly, shielding Ilya from view of the living room – Ilya is looking at him like he’s just escaped from the psych ward. He might as well have. “My room – come on.”

“This is hello?” Ilya is incredulous, trying to smooth over his jacket, but finding it difficult to with the way Shane is trying to push him down the corridor, making him stumble again and again – fuck, he sounds good, too, even better than on the phone, if that’s possible. “Ah– Shane.”

“Rozanov!” J.J. calls from the living room – the apartment is small, the sofa’s right there, but Shane’s back still seizes at the realisation that he and Ilya are entirely visible to Hayden and J.J., slumping his shoulders and accepting his fate as Ilya looks over and gives a quick nod in greeting. “How’s Russia?”

“Still cold and wet,” Ilya says, and then his eyes are on Shane again, his pleading face. He only fits his palm on the back of his head, threading his fingers through his hair quickly: “What is the problem?” he says, but he’s obviously not expecting an answer, giving Shane’s mouth the quickest of pecks before he moves past him, into the living room. Terrifyingly. “Boiziau,” Ilya says, a proper greeting, and Shane turns just in time to watch them dap each other up briefly, politely, all things considered. Just in time to catch the murderous look Hayden throws towards J.J., no doubt for engaging with Ilya, who you’d think is the second coming of Mussolini if you were to judge by the tension in the room. And you didn’t know how sweet he was, Shane thinks. “What is score?” Ilya is watching the TV, leaning down to grab some of the nuts the three of them had been munching on.

Shane bought those. Nobody is allowed to say anything.

“It’s at the top of the screen,” Hayden says, his eyes not moving from the TV. Ilya slowly rips his eyes away, giving Hayden an amused smile – or scheming, rather. Shane can only watch.

“You are here, too?” he asks, and it’s clear he’s not expecting an answer. Hayden blinks at the TV. “I thought you will be in bed. They don’t let you practise at mornings with everyone else, you have to go when it’s dark?”

“It’s, like, ten,” Hayden grumbles, sort of lamely. Well – Shane loves all his friends, loves Hayden, but definitely lamely.

“Yes, true, you can sleep on the bench tomorrow,” Ilya waves a hand dismissively, popping another peanut into his mouth as he turns back to the TV. “Shane,” he casts his eyes on him, then, a glint suddenly overtaking them – only because he’s looking at him, Shane knows. It kind of relaxes him, despite it all, despite Ilya gesturing towards the screen. “You don’t want to watch the game? Montreal is winning,” but he gets distracted halfway through his sentence, frowning down at the mug that is set in front of Hayden on the coffee table, an orange and pink concoction that Jackie made for him when they’d gone to Pottery Barn. Maybe he and Ilya can go to Pottery Barn. Ilya casually lifts the mug, unaware of Hayden’s eyes on him, frowning even further at the contents. “What is this?” he says as he puts it back down, finally looking at Hayden – Shane already knows it’s his matcha, lumpy and gross-looking because Hayden still doesn’t know how to stir it properly. “You throw up?”

“Ilya.”

“My baby,” Ilya blows Shane a loud kiss, still chewing, still smiling with his eyes. And he keeps watching the TV, shaking the peanuts in his hand, until he glances down at the two of them on the sofa – J.J. smiling at the side of Hayden’s face, Hayden’s face impossibly pink as he zeroes in on the screen. “Scoot up, champ,” Ilya waves a hand at Hayden, then at Shane, beckoning him closer, “Shane, come on, is almost over.”

“We can watch it in my room, just – Come on,” Shane practically begs, tilting his head towards the corridor desperately.

Ilya hums happily around his mouthful, “TV is fixed?”

No, the TV is not fixed. Shane hasn’t had a working TV in his room in two weeks, because Ilya had been away and Shane likes watching him fix things. But he nods, “TV’s fixed, yeah.”

“Okay,” Ilya casts one final look at the game, then puts the remaining peanuts into his mouth. “Boiziau,” he daps J.J. up again, staring at Hayden until he’s forced to look up.

“What?” Hayden snaps, still pink.

Ilya grins wide – and obnoxiously, Shane has to admit that. “You like it?” he nods towards the TV, still smiling, chewing. “Hockey?”

“Ilya.”

“Obviously, I like it,” Hayden grumbles, head leaning on two fingers, eyes forward.

Ilya hums, wiping the leftover salt on his hand on the side of his jeans. “You ever think of playing?”

“God, do you ever stop?” Shane mutters, taking matters into his own hands and walking in to grab Ilya by the forearm, manually dragging him towards the corridor, until they’re shielded from the sight of Hayden graduating from pink to red, of J.J. pressing a fist into his straining mouth in a way that seems painful.

“Come on, me and Pike are friends, Shane, he knows I am joking,” Ilya is telling him as they walk – or as Shane walks, and Ilya is dragged – until they make it to Shane’s room and Ilya is shoved inside, Shane busying himself with locking the door. “Fuck, I forgot how strong you are.”

“You’ll remember soon enough,” Shane mutters, checking the door, then checking again, as if that will help with soundproofing. When he turns back around, Ilya is taking his jacket off, his arms on full display, a knowing little smile playing on his lips. He’s wearing the black tank Shane likes. Fuck. “What?” Shane says.

“TV is not fixed,” Ilya nods towards it, very much off, screen still cracked. Ilya tosses his jacket onto Shane’s bed and starts walking towards him, crowding him against the shut door. Conspiratorially, he says, “You tricked me.”

“Poor boy,” Shane mocks, but he lets Ilya sneak his hands under his shirt, melting against the warmth of his hands spreading across his sides.

“Yes. And you lock the door,” he takes one hand out of Shane’s shirt, tries the doorknob as if to make a point. “What are you going to do to me?”

“Talk to you, for one.”

Ilya moans, pornographic and exaggerated, and it gets Shane to smile despite it all, “Yes, I miss your nagging.”

“I missed you,” Shane touches the tips of their noses together, lets Ilya’s hands on his jaw anchor him, his own hands on Ilya’s hips. “Fuck. How’s your dad?”

“Eh, still asshole,” Ilya clears his throat, rubbing their noses together once before tilting his head, looking to the side, as if he’s weighing something. “Doesn’t like his new medicine. Somehow is my problem.”

Shane hums, smiles fondly. “Well, I think it’s really nice that you went.”

“Yes. Is nice,” Ilya hums, stroking a thumb on Shane’s cheek. He watches his face, careful. “You think is hot?”

“What, being your dad’s nurse?” he checks. Ilya smiles, too. “I don’t know. Did you wear a little outfit?”

“Oh, yes. White dress and the hat, too. Was freezing.”

Shane has to laugh, has to touch his face, softly tickle Ilya’s cheek with his finger, trace over his mole lovingly. “You see Katya?”

“Yes,” Ilya’s face lights up, as it always does when he talks about his niece. Shane bites his lip to contain his smile. “Yes, she’s so big. Looks like her mother, слава богу (Thank God),” he says, and Shane figures that’s as much as an allusion as he’s gonna get to Ilya’s brother. Not that he’d ask. He’s learned that’s not something Ilya wants to talk about, by now. There’s a lull, and Ilya blinks at him, taps his fingers against his cheeks softly, “We are going to talk standing up the whole night?”

“Sorry, I’m–” Shane shakes his head, and Ilya lets go of his face, only to grab a hold of his lower back, instead. “Sorry. I’m a bit distracted.”

“Yes. Is okay,” Ilya says – of course, it is. Why couldn’t everyone overhear this, how gentle Ilya is with him, how sweet? The time Ilya had kissed every inch of his body, until Shane had squirmed with both discomfort and overwhelming adoration. “What is wrong?” Ilya continues, getting Shane’s eyes to focus back. “What is in your head?”

At the moment, it’s all Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. But Shane has to be strong. He chews on his lip, then stops, because Ilya tells him off when he draws blood. “I have to talk to you.”

Ilya looks surprised, but he hides it well, and he ultimately nods. “Okay,” he drags the word out, nods again. “Can I have kiss before the talk or are you just business tonight?”

“Of course you can have a kiss, I’m sorry,” Shane sighs – he pulls him in by the nape of his neck, and gives him their first real kiss in two weeks, melting into his mouth, into the feeling of Ilya’s tongue slipping through his parted lips, like it’s the first breath he’s taken in days. He doesn’t know how long it lasts, but he knows it’s not long enough by the time he pulls away, his eyes having slipped shut at some point. “Fuck, I missed you.”

“Was only two weeks,” Ilya smiles, Shane feels it before he sees it, before his eyes flutter open. “I missed you, too. Wish you would come with me.”

“Bad idea,” Shane smiles back – Ilya had asked him, against better judgment, and Shane had had to be the voice of reason. He hadn’t thought Ilya was serious, anyway. It’s just something you say, he supposes. Or wishful thinking. “Who would you even say I am?”

Ilya’s eyelashes flutter. “Sexy nurse.”

“Why would you need a nurse?” Shane is laughing, biting his lip to contain it, because he feels a bit ridiculous. It wasn’t that funny. He still wants to laugh, kiss Ilya until he’s breathless.

“I said sexy nurse,” Ilya tells him, playing annoyed, and then reaches one arm behind himself, the other still nestled above Shane’s ass. “And I pulled my back at work some weeks before, no?”

Shane is still smiling, but he feels a wince seep into his features – his hand slowly making its way down to where Ilya’s own is pressing into his own muscles, the dip of his waist. “That still sore?” Shane checks, rubbing slow circles there, feeling it out.

“Mm, when you are not doing this, yes,” Ilya moans, his head dipping low, resting into the nape of Shane’s neck – Shane keeps it up, relishing in the way Ilya’s eyelashes flutter against his skin, the way the tiny bit of stubble on his jaw is tickling his neck. “Fuck, yes. More up, a little bit.”

“Wanna lie down?” Shane places a feather-light kiss on his cheekbone, then another on his temple, wherever he can reach. “Can rub your back. Feel better.”

Ilya doesn’t answer for a bit. His breaths are soft and deep against Shane’s skin, and Shane wouldn’t mind if he fell asleep right there, leaning on Shane, pressing him against flush against the door. Shane’s strong enough. “I want to lie down, yes,” Ilya finally says. He lifts his head, and then his mouth is on Shane, and he forgets to keep rubbing, his hand on a new mission to get his fingers into Ilya’s curls, feeling the softness on his fingertips. “Back rub,” Ilya says when he pulls back, tilting his head from side to side again, “maybe later.”

“Do you ever think about anything else?” Shane laughs, but he’s the one who leans back in, captures Ilya’s mouth again. He missed this too much, a scary amount. He’s not sure what would happen if he had to go more than two weeks without Ilya. He doesn’t want to find out.

Ilya pulls back, attaching his lips to Shane’s jaw. “No,” he supplies, kisses trailing up to Shane’s ear. “Do you?”

“Fuck no,” Shane breathes – his earlobe is in Ilya’s mouth, and the sound Shane makes is loud, and positively embarrassing. And positively makes his brain short-circuit, and his eyes are fluttering open, and he’s half-heartedly tugging at Ilya’s hair, as soft as he can muster. “Wait, Ilya, I really wanted to – To talk to you.”

“I want to talk, too,” Ilya says, right against his ear, and Shane shivers so bad it sort of scares him. Ilya doesn’t even budge. It’s weird, how he anticipates Shane’s reactions better than he can – or dizzying, rather, makes him nearly forget what he’s supposed to be doing yet again.

“Yeah?” Shane breathes, swallowing at the feel of Ilya’s tongue swirling. “What about?”

“About…” Ilya mutters, pulling back slightly – the needed inch away he needs to be able to glance down as his fingers walk to the waistband of Shane’s joggers, tugging at them, peering inside. “What colour are these?”

“You’re gross,” Shane tells him, but he shivers again, embarrassingly. It hurts him to have to do this, what with the way Ilya is grinning at him, fingers tracing Shane’s happy trail lazily. “Come on. Really. Sort of important.”

“Is always important,” Ilya tells him, but he doesn’t really move. Rather, there’s more kisses down Shane’s neck, across his jaw, until Shane finds the courage to push him a bit firmer, until he complies. He probably just wanted Shane to rough him up a bit. Because he’s sick. “Okay. Okay,” Ilya pulls away with great difficulty, hands coming up in surrender as he turns and makes his way to the bed, but all Shane can think about is the strain of his muscles under his skin, the veins on his forearms. There’s no way he came back bigger from Russia. Shane’s just missed him.

Shane only moves when Ilya’s sat down on the edge of the bed, patting the space next to him. He pauses as he walks over, halfway there, eyes glued on Ilya’s arms thoughtfully, something nagging him. “You went out in this?”

Ilya looks down at his arms, faltering as if he hadn’t been expecting the question. Then he puts one behind his head and flexes obnoxiously. “Yes,” he says, flexes a couple more times before looking back at Shane in challenge. “I let a few people touch them. Striptease on table. Is that okay?”

“Fuck off, you didn’t,” Shane says, and he sits down anyway, picking at his comforter as Ilya sits up to face him.

Ilya watches his fingers pick at the threads, then his eyes find his face again, thoughtful. “Do you want to touch them, too? Help you relax.”

“No, thanks. That’s really kind of you, though.”

“They’re here if you change your mind,” he says. He watches him for a beat longer, then sighs, reaches over to still his restless fingers. “Shane,” he says, and Shane finally looks up, timid. “What is it?”

He doesn’t know what to say, is the thing. Or, he knows what he needs to say, but doesn’t know how to say it. Something occurs to him then, how anxiety-inducing this must be for Ilya, and he blurts it out before he can process it: “I’m not breaking up with you.”

Ilya watches him, and a long moment passes before the side of his mouth quirks up. “Am I bad boyfriend if I was not worrying about that?”

“No,” Shane shakes his head, starts picking at the comforter again. “Normal boyfriend, maybe.”

Ilya hums, pinches his cheek softly, and then his hands is gone again. “And who is not normal?”

“Nobody. Nevermind. That’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

“What’s wrong, baby?” Ilya is worried, and it makes Shane feel worse. Ilya eyes him briefly, “And why are you sitting over there?”

Over there is a reach. Their knees are touching. “I’m right here,” Shane tells him.

“I want to be closer. I have not touched you in two weeks.”

“Me too, but – being closer might make it worse.”

“Okay,” Ilya sort of slaps his hands on his own thighs, sighing with the word. He’s getting annoyed, probably. Shane would be, too. That’s why he buries his face in his hands, groaning in frustration. “Shane.”

“God,” Shane groans again.

“Shaney,” Ilya drags the word out, syrupy sweet – it gets Shane to laugh a little bit, buried into his hands, a ridiculous habit that Ilya had picked up by mocking Rose’s nickname for him (jealous, always jealous), one that had sort of stuck, because Ilya said it was cute like him (Shane had told him to fuck off), and he liked the way it made Shane smile (again, Shane had told him to fuck off). “There is no one else in here,” he continues, his hand warm on Shane’s thigh. “Why are you being shy?”

“Fuck off, ‘m not shy,” Shane lifts his head back up, not missing the way Ilya raises his eyebrows. “And it’s not just us in here, Ilya, that’s the thing. That’s what I wanted to talk about.”

Ilya blinks, then looks around the room slowly, alarmed.

“In here, like, in the house, Ilya, stop it,” Shane scoffs, shoving at his shoulder lightly. “What I mean to say is that… I don’t live alone.”

Ilya blinks, once, then twice. “Yes.”

“Yes,” Shane repeats, realises too late that he’s just mimicked his accent. Ilya smiles. “Fuck off. And – I wanna be, like… considerate.”

A hum. “Considerate,” Ilya looks like he’s tasting the word in his mouth, rubs his eyebrow. “Considerate how?”

“Like…” Shane clears his throat, and there’s probably a hole on his comforter by now. “Maybe… Some people might think it’s weird to have sex with… others in the house.”

Ilya looks like he’s thinking very hard about this. Or that he’s trying to understand. At last, he gives a tiny smile, thought it’s obstructed by a confused frown. “Shane, I think Boiziau knows what adults in relationship do when they are alone, yes?” Ilya raises his eyebrows at him, then tilts his head in thought, considering something. “The other one, maybe not. But is time for him to learn, I think.”

“This, that’s what I’m talking about. Do you have to be such a dick?” Shane is facing him now, undeterred by Ilya’s alarmed expression, the way he points to his own chest incredulously. “Yeah, you. Do you have to antagonise him all the time?”

He thinks for a moment, searching Shane’s face for the answer. Then, his brows knit together. “Who, Bug Eyes?”

“Yes, Bu– Hayden. Stop calling him that,” Shane tells him. “And stop calling him champ.”

That gets Ilya to laugh a little, nodding in appreciation, “Is funny because he is not, do you get it? Because he never scores.”

“God, Ilya, this is exactly what I’m talking about.”

Ilya blinks, sort of annoyed, leaning forward a little bit. “I am half-hard in your bed and you want to talk about… Hayden, now?”

“It’s not just Hayden, I need to– You’re half-hard?”

Ilya looks down at his crotch, then back up. “Yes.”

“Already?”

“Yes?” Ilya gestures towards the door, weakly, alluding to a mere few moments ago, probably. He tuts, “You have problem?”

“What? No,” Shane says, then he eyes him, careful. “Are you trying to pick a fight?”

“No, I am not picking fight, but in two weeks I have only seen you naked through cracked phone screen and now I am here and you want to talk about Bug– Pike. Is like talking about toilet when I am eating.”

“Okay, Ilya? Ilya,” Shane grabs his hands, doesn’t miss the way Ilya looks down at them, then back at his face. He sighs, “I just wish– I want to ask you to be more… discreet. In here.”

Ilya lets a beat pass. “Discreet,” he says then, shakes his head when Shane nods. “I don’t know this one.”

“Discreet, like,” Shane gestures uselessly, suddenly self-conscious at the way Ilya looks at his moving hands, like they hold the answer. He tucks them between his thighs. “More… subtle,” he checks Ilya’s face, rubs his eyebrow when he finds his expression hasn’t changed. “You know. Around Hayd and J. I just – I don’t live alone, you know.”

“Ah,” Ilya says, careful. “Subtle. Subtle how?”

“You don’t have to walk around in your underwear, for example,” Shane says, quieter, leaning in like he’s telling Ilya a secret. “You know, it might – They might not want to see that.”

“You want me to get dressed to go to take piss?” Ilya checks, changing his tone when Shane just looks at the ceiling. “Okay, no underwear,” he shakes his head when Shane gives him a look. “No walking around in underwear, I mean. Yes,” he scratches behind his ear, his expression careful. “Is this it?”

“And – the milk,” Shane says – it must sound like he’s crossing off items on a list, because Ilya’s looking kind of amused, and patient, so patient. “You know, could you use a glass? Or I can get you your own, just – Just tell me. I just want everyone to be comfortable.”

Ilya’s nodding, he’s been nodding for a while, like he understands something Shane doesn’t. When Shane makes it clear he’s not gonna say anything else any time soon, Ilya smiles, putting a comforting hand on his knee. “Baby,” he starts, and Shane instinctively puts both hands over Ilya’s own, seeking his warmth, “who is not comfortable? You are not comfortable?”

“Me? No!” Shane shakes his head, and Ilya’s reassuring nod doesn’t calm him in the slightest. “Of course not, I love having you here. I love when you’re… in your underwear,” he finishes, wincing at his choice of words.

“Yes, I know,” Ilya says, and then he turns his head, pretends to think, because he thinks he’s so funny. “Hm, I wonder… Who does this leave? In this house?”

Shane groans, dropping his head forward, “Why are you torturing me?”

“Okay, okay, I think I get it,” Ilya spares him, taking his hand out from between Shane’s, only to slide it under his shirt, place it in the middle of his back. He scratches him there, and Shane sighs, borderline melts. “Boiziau and Pike have problem. Yes?”

“No, not a problem–”

Ilya shushes him softly, bumping his knuckle gently against Shane’s nose. It shuts him up. “I am sorry Pike had to see dick over three inches for the first time in his own home. I did not mean to scare him. Was not, uh, что вы сказали (what was it you said) – considerate,” his accent wraps clumsily around the word, and Shane’s exhaled breath of Ilya comes out weak, like he doesn’t even mean it. “Okay. No more naked walks. No more milk. Are you feeling a little better?”

Shane’s feeling worse, if anything, because Ilya is so patient, even though it’s clear he doesn’t fully understand. Shane starts to pick at his nails, and watches Ilya’s hand reach out and stop him, dusting over his knuckles once. “No. I mean…” he clears his throat, tries to focus on the rhythmic scratching on his back, tries to unwind. “There’s something else.”

“A то (Of course),” Ilya scoffs, and his hand drops from Shane’s back – Shane shivers, embarrassingly. “What is it, I leave toilet seat up? Did Pike fall inside?”

“Ilya,” Shane mumbles, his face growing hot. And Ilya knows, although he doesn’t say anything – he knows Shane wants him to put his palm flush on the nape of his neck, massage his tense muscles in the way only he knows gets him to melt. It makes it easier, but only marginally. “They can… hear us,” he finally says, looking between Ilya’s eyes to make sure he understands.

He doesn’t think he does. Ilya blinks again, his mouth pouted in the way it gets when he’s thinking very carefully, maybe translating in his head. “Hear us,” he repeats, like it’s suddenly gonna make sense.

“Yeah,” Shane plays with a loose thread on Ilya’s jeans, on the side of his knee. He swallows. “Like… at night.”

Ilya watches his fingers fiddle with it. “Hear what? Hear us sleep?” he scratches behind his own ear, helpfully. “I snore so loud?”

“No, Ilya, they can hear us not sleep,” Shane leans forward, searching Ilya’s face. Almost. “What we do before we sleep.”

And Shane knows he gets it, because his whole face lights up, and Shane isn’t really in the position to appreciate it fully because the context is just not allowing him to. And it makes him feel worse. “Ah, that!” Ilya is laughing, and he presses down on Shane’s neck more solidly, shaking him around a little, almost proud if Shane had to guess.

“Is this funny to you?”

“Come on, Shane, what do you wanna do, put a muffler on me like I am Pike’s Nissan Micra? – You know I like to rev,” and he’s still laughing, leaning forward so he can kiss Shane’s cheek, right where he’s the pinkest.

“He drives a Honda Civic and I just had to have the most humiliating conversation of my life this morning exactly because you like to rev, Ilya,” Shane is quoting with his fingers, tutting when Ilya doesn’t stop kissing him. He pulls away, eyes wide, “Ilya!”

“Okay, so it is just me they hear?” Ilya finally pulls away, but his eyes are still shining. Shane closes his mouth. “Hm? Shane, if they think I am alone and jerking off in your room then, sorry, but I also have house I can do this in.”

“Obviously, it’s not just you they hear– Do you want me to say it?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. They hear me, too,” Shane shoves his shoulder, rubbing at the side of his face like that’s gonna get rid of that ridiculous pink tint he can feel on there. “Happy now?”

“Yes, Shane, because we should say things like they are,” Ilya says. “You are much louder than me. No?”

“What? I don’t know.”

“You know,” Ilya dismisses, like Shane’s being ridiculous. “I like it. But I don’t ask you to do it,” he continues, pausing to think for a moment. “Of course, I also didn’t ask to be so gifted sexually but you have God to thank for this.”

“Fine, fine,” Shane says, breathing out slowly. “It’s my fault, too, I never said it’s just your fault. It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it doesn’t matter,” Ilya agrees, leans forward conspiratorially. “But I think I need reminder of how loud you are, yes? I am left out. How do Pike and Boiziau remember and not me?”

Shane watches him for a moment, incredulous, watches him lean forward and attach his lips to his neck, humming in question against his skin. He’s too stunned to speak, for a moment, but eventually he pushes Ilya away – who’s gotten with the programme by now, merely groaning in protest, “You’re genuinely fucking crazy.”

“I am crazy because I love to fuck my boyfriend?” Ilya throws his hands in the air, pointing at Shane’s door. “Or are they crazy for being shocked that I love to fuck my boyfriend? They are nuns?!”

“You’re crazy,” Shane answers, easily. “Ilya, I’m so fucking embarrassed. I’m serious.”

Ilya blinks, sort of laughing to himself, more exasperated than anything. “Shane, it– I think people know that we have sex,” he says, slowly, like this is brand new information to Shane and he needs to break it gently. “Did you think your friends thought we are playing board games in here?”

“There’s a difference between them knowing that we do what we do in here and them hearing everything!” Shane says, shaking his head in disbelief. “Does this not bother you at all?”

Ilya thinks for a moment, although Shane has a sneaking suspicion he doesn’t really have to. “Bother me that people can hear how much I like to have sex with my Shane?” he checks, and Shane closes his eyes. “No, I don’t think so. You?”

“Yes,” Shane says, even though he doesn’t need to. “Yes, it bothers me.”

“Okay, what is the solution to this?”

“I think it’s obvious,” Shane tells him, rubbing his eye.

Ilya’s mouth is twisting. “Mm, help me.”

“Ilya,” Shane is looking at Ilya’s hand, confident in its stroking up and down Shane’s inner thigh, like it belongs there, like it doesn’t even cross his mind that Shane might not want it. And he’s right. Shane always wants it – Shane wants it even now, even with how embarrassed he is, wants Ilya’s touch everywhere, all the time. That’s why it pains him to put his hand over Ilya’s, to still it, “You know what I mean.”

And it dawns on Ilya, in real time, and his smile falters, his hand halting on Shane’s thigh, blinking in confusion. “No sex?” he says, quiet.

Shane nods.

“At all?”

“Not when there’s others in the apartment.”

Another blink. “So, today–”

“No, because J and Hayd are in the apartment.”

“Okay, my place is–”

“Svetlana and her girl are in your apartment.”

“Shane!” Ilya seemingly explodes, leaning forward like he’s craving contact, his hand unmoving from Shane’s tingling thigh. “Come on, baby, it has been two weeks! I miss you!”

“Think of it this way,” Shane tries, although he’s aching for contact, too, to feel the whole expanse of Ilya’s body flush against his. “It might be good for us, like… Detox.”

Ilya makes a face Shane has never seen before. “You think our sex is toxic?”

“Okay, not detox,” Shane tuts, choosing a different route. “Have you ever heard of the phrase ‘distance makes the heart grow fonder?’” he starts rubbing up the expanse of Ilya’s forearm, sort of faltering when he reaches his bicep, because it feels too good in his palm, too solid, and he’s so touch-deprived that he might come just from feeling it. He strokes back down to his hand – safer. “Maybe going a few days without it will make the next time even… better.”

Ilya’s not convinced. “My heart cannot grow fonder, Shane,” he tells him. “Is as fond as it will go. I love you. And it makes me hard.”

“You’re being childish,” Shane says, although he agrees, in his head. He wants to touch him so bad. Inappropriately. But the embarrassment is more palpable than anything. “Do you understand that I’m just freaked out? I won’t even be able to enjoy it because I’ll be in my head about them hearing us. You won’t enjoy it either.”

“Impossible,” Ilya mutters, Shane’s not even sure he’s talking to him. “What if we are quiet?” he tries, touching Shane’s cheek gently, pushing his skin back, his thumb digging into his cheekbone. “Hm? I can be quiet. I will bite my tongue.”

“I can’t be quiet,” Shane says, giving a knowing look. “Come on.”

“I do not understand you, Shane, I do not understand any of you,” Ilya stands, pacing away from him, then back, leaving Shane shivering and touch-starved on the bed. “This is not real problem. And don’t think I believe they are blushing virgins, they probably sit with their ear on the wall trying to hear.”

“Are you listening to yourself?”

“Shane, this is the closest thing to sex Pike experienced in his life and he wants to complain?” Ilya continues, a bit too loud, rolling his eyes when Shane shushes him even louder. “They are pussies, Shane. Why did Sveta never complain and they did? Because she is not pussy and they are.”

Shane’s head snaps up. “She can hear us, too?!”

“Of course, she can!” Ilya says, a bit louder. “Shane, we are loud. You didn’t know this? We have really hot sex and we are really loud because that is how it is. I think if your friends do not get this then maybe they have bigger problem than knowing how I sound when I come.”

“How is this their fault? I’m sorry they’re not as liberated as you and Svetlana, but at the end of the day they live here too and they get a say.”

“They get a say about when I can fuck my boyfriend?”

Shane groans, burying his fists into his shut eyes, “I just can’t talk to you when you get like this.”

There’s a pause, and when Shane chances a glance up, Ilya is thinking, hands on his hips, tonguing at his lip with his eyes cast on the ceiling. “Okay,” he finally says, looking at Shane. “Okay, you don’t want to fuck here. Or at mine,” he says, and Shane nods, albeit reluctantly. “Let’s go, then. Hotel.”

“Hotel,” Shane deadpans, and Ilya nods, stupidly. “That’s so cold, Ilya. We haven’t been to a hotel in years.”

“Yes, trip down memory street.”

“Memory lane.”

“Hollander.”

“I don’t want our first time since you’ve been back to be in a hotel,” Shane tuts, shaking his head at Ilya. “It’s hard for me, too–”

“Please do not say that word.”

Shane huffs, abandoning what he was about to say in favour of looking at the ceiling in exasperation. “Now you’re being dramatic.”

“Shane,” Ilya starts, and he’s walking towards him – the bed dips when he sits next to Shane, when he grabs both of his hands. “Shane, I love you. Yes?” Shane nods, of course. “And you love me. Yes?”

“Of course, I love you,” Shane answers this time, because a nod is not enough.

“So, it doesn’t matter where we do it,” Ilya is nodding wildly, like it’s gonna make Shane agree. It helps, but marginally. “Where I make love to you. Does it? In hotel or, the car, or…” he trails off, shrugs.

Shane eyes him sceptically, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Calling it making love doesn’t work on me anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because it gets you harder than it gets me.”

“Okay, Shane,” Ilya puts his hands up, clears his throat. “Okay. What can I say? Let them put tariffs on my dick.”

“Ilya, this is as hard for– As difficult for me as it is for you. Yeah?” Shane puts a hand at the nape of Ilya’s neck, strokes solidly, working out the kinks. Ilya sighs into it, his eyes slipping shut. “But sex isn’t all we do. And we won’t even stop doing it, we’ll just– We’re just being more mindful, is all. Okay?” he keeps working on Ilya’s neck, smiles at the way the lines on Ilya’s face disappear, the sounds he’s making low in his throat, barely audible. “Yeah? Come on, baby.”

That always works on him, calms him down. Ilya opens his eyes, watches him for a moment, and then he’s squeezing Shane’s thigh, using it as leverage to lean forward and kiss him again, sighing into it. “Okay. I cannot say no to you,” he mumbles against his mouth – he leans in further, hand cradling Shane’s waist, but then he’s hissing softly, face contorted in pain as he touches his back tenderly.

“Come on, lie down,” Shane runs a hand through his hair, moving his discarded jacket out of the way. “Give you a back rub.”

“Yes,” Ilya groans, and then he’s pulling his tank over his head, collapsing onto his stomach on the bed before Shane can fully admire his stomach, his hard chest. “This is kind of like sex, no?” Ilya says, his cheek squished into his folded arms, making Shane smile as he straddles his ass. “Maybe I will be even louder now.”

“It sounds like you’ve already decided you’re gonna be even louder,” Shane is saying, starting to press into that spot on Ilya’s back gingerly – and then Ilya lets out a guttural, pornographic groan, laughing when Shane jumps and shoves at the back of his head, careful of his back. “Dude!”

But he loves the way the side of Ilya’s face crinkles as he laughs, the pink of his cheek that’s visible to him from this angle. So he laughs, too, and buries his thumbs into the dip of Ilya’s waist.

Turns out, it doesn’t matter how beautiful, intelligent, talented, and busy you might be. It does not guarantee you will attract a like-minded friend group.

This is what Ilya has come to realise in the past thirteen days, when it becomes incredibly obvious that it doesn’t matter how nicely he asks, or at what time of the day he checks in, or however long he goes without visiting Shane at his place. His friends just won’t budge, one or both of them always there, gone only when Shane is, too, when they’ve all got practice, or a game, or classes. Whatever happened to jobs? Ilya works every day, and even then he thinks about Shane, and when he’s off he thinks about Shane even more, has come to daydream about the strong flex of his thighs when he spreads his legs for Ilya, the ripple of his back muscles when he arches in pleasure, the obscene bulge of his bicep when he manhandles Ilya, pushes down his chest so he’s locked in place, exactly where Shane wants him. And it makes him fucking sad, and horny. At the same time.

He’s managed to keep the thoughts at bay, right now at least, his thumbs cramping on the controller as he lays on the sofa, work vest still on, hands smudged and smelling of sawdust and wood. He groans, hand blindly flying out to swat at Marleau, eyes still glued on the TV, “You are disrespectful, ah?”

“I’m disrespectful ‘cause you’re fuckin’ useless?” Marleau kicks at his hand, legs spread wide on the armchair, the one with the hole in the cushion that Shane wrinkles his nose at every time Ilya sits down on it and pulls him on his lap. He’s thinking about it again. He shifts uncomfortably on the sofa. “Got you now.”

“You are in my house, you have to let me win,” Ilya grumbles, although he’s sort of playing for the sake of it, now, because he knows he’s gonna lose. It’s just something to do for the next two hours, until Shane gets out of afternoon training. “Fucker.”

“Aye, what would your boy say if I told him about your language?”

“He is not boy, he is my man,” Ilya tells him, lolling his head to the side at the sound of a suspicious grumble. “What was that?”

“Nothing, I said I’m glad your man isn’t here to see you gettin’ your ass handed to you.”

“Fuck off,” Ilya grumbles, passively watching his character be obliterated. He sighs, “Yes, me too.”

“Ilyusha, you’re still good to drive me to work later?” Ilya lolls his head to the side again, just in time to see Sveta round the corner, head tilted to the side as she fluffs her hair. Her eyes settle on Marleau on the armchair, mouth settling into its natural, unimpressed default. “Oh, great.”

“Lana,” Marleau tilts his head back, smiling obnoxiously. Ilya blinks at the TV. “Lookin’ good. As always.”

“Can you tell your neanderthal friend to get his feet off my table?” Sveta continues, walking further into the living room, rifling for something through the shelves that Ilya built for her.

“But it’s okay when your friends throw up on the carpet,” Ilya shoots back, meeting Marleau’s inquisitive gaze. He clears his throat, gesturing vaguely, “She said hello.”

“Huh. Long hello,” Marleau mumbles, eyes back on the game. “Does neanderthal mean handsome in Russian?”

“Yes,” Ilya contemplates actually trying to play, but it seems like he’s already lost. He doesn’t really know how this works.

“Ilyusha,” Sveta sings, her back still turned, clicking and clanging as she looks through the contents of the drawer. “If you’re not driving me, I have to leave earlier to catch the bus.”

“Uh, when are you working?” Ilya replies, rubs his eyebrow, switching to English to allow Marleau to participate. Considerate, Shane had put it. That’s being considerate.

“At eight,” Sveta replies, still in Russian, ever so stubborn. “As I said this morning. And last night.”

“If Shane is not here yet, I will take you,” he tells her.

“I’m free,” Marleau says – Ilya looks at Sveta, who looks at Marleau, who looks at Sveta. “Maybe I can finally give you that ride we’ve been talkin’ about, Lana.”

“I do not go into Fiats, Marleau,” she tells him, finally shutting that drawer, a bottle of perfume in her hand. And apparently, she’s done with that conversation, because she’s looking back at Ilya, leaning her hip against the doorway and playing with the bottle in her hands, “When is Shane getting here?”

“Don’t know. He’s out of training at around seven but he might hang out with Boiziau and that other sack of shit he lives with for a bit.”

“Alright. Maybe you want to take shower before, yes?” Sveta switches to English so Marleau hears this, too, because she’s just like that, wrinkling her nose in a way that she no doubt thinks is subtle. “Before smell is infused in my sofa.”

“Infused,” Ilya mocks, but he sniffs his armpit nonetheless, twists his mouth. He checks with Marleau, “What do you think?”

“What, about showering?” Ilya nods. “Together?”

There’s a soft knock at the door, and Sveta waves an arm in the air, her face wrinkled in irritation. “His feet are still on my table,” she says as she makes her way down the corridor.

Ilya tuts, nearly shoving Marleau off the armchair altogether as he manually pushes his feet down, and he isn’t really able to monitor the situation in the doorway as Marleau shoves him right back, giving Ilya no other choice but to do it again.

“You are just on time, they were saying they are going to take shower together,” Sveta is saying, and Ilya’s about to stand up and start shoving her around, too, but then she comes into the room with Shane in tow, who’s got his gym bag slung over his shoulder, in shorts that hit mid-thigh, his cheeks a little bit glossy and sticky, which Ilya guesses might be from Sveta kissing them in greeting. “Maybe Shane can join you.”

“My Shane!” Ilya spreads wide on the sofa, splays his arms out, and then he’s up, the controller dropping off his chest and onto the floor with a thud as he walks over, playfully shoving Sveta out of the way, barely budging when she shoves him right back. “What are you doing here? No training?”

“Got cancelled today, came straight from class. Been texting you,” he lets Ilya pull him close, plant a huge, loud, wet on his cheek, just to see that pink hue dust over his freckles. “Sorry, didn’t know you had company. Hi, Cliff.”

“Hollander,” Marleau raises his controller in greeting, then points it at the TV. “Tell me – how do you feel about big fat fuckin’ losers?”

“Marley was leaving,” Ilya tells him, slipping Shane’s bag off his shoulder and slinging it over his own.

“Yes,” Sveta agrees, sighing, throwing a glance over at Marleau. “He has to take shower before he drives me to work.”

“Hell, yeah,” Marleau stands, tossing the controller on the table. “Lana, our planet is dying. You’re taking a shower before work, I’m taking one after work. Don’t you agree we all need to do our part, save some water?”

“I will be in the bathroom with door locked,” Sveta says, mostly at Ilya and Shane, pinching Shane’s cheek with two knuckles before she turns. Over her shoulder, she calls: “Make sure you see him leave.”

“Come, Marley,” Ilya waves him over, letting go of Shane in favour of opening the front door, watching as Marleau pauses to clap Shane on the shoulder on his way out. “And we have to talk about this flirting. Or whatever you are trying to do.”

“Let me worry about what women like, Roz,” Marleau says, but he daps Ilya up, giving one final wave over his shoulder. “See you later. Shane.”

“Bye, Cliff,” Shane says, and he smiles when Ilya finally shuts the door, leaning against it with a playful look in his eyes. “What?”

“Skipping training to see me,” Ilya shakes his head, tutting, watching Shane laugh incredulously as he walks over again. “Bad. Bad, bad. What will I do with you?”

“Coach sent us home, Ilya,” Shane is smiling, and Ilya wants to keep teasing him, so he’ll keep smiling. “Zamboni broke, we couldn’t skate.”

“You could not wake up Pike from the bench and make him shovel it?”

“Ilya,” Shane grumbles, but he lets Ilya kiss him on the neck, two pecks.

“Is always Ilya, Ilya, but you never disagree with me.”

“Because you’re being ridiculous,” Shane tells him, lets Ilya put an arm over both of his shoulders and drag him towards his room. “You don’t have to carry that,” Shane says, his palm covering the sore spot on Ilya’s back, stroking his thumb over it gently.

“Jersey is in here?” Ilya lets Shane walk into his room first, waiting for his nod before he sets down the duffel, shuts the door. “Is sweaty?”

“Don’t sniff my jersey,” Shane sits down on the bed, his knees drawing up to his chest. “You just get off work?”

“An hour ago,” Ilya takes his vest off, lets it hit the floor, occupied with scratching off some black dust from his white tank. “Marley invited himself inside, wanted to try that new game. Did not get the chance to change.”

“Or shower,” Shane says, leaning his cheek against his knees.

Ilya makes a face, sniffs his armpit again. Somehow worse than before. “I stink, ah?” he tries the other one – not much different.

“Yeah,” Shane draws the word out, his eyes shining. He’s still looking at Ilya, but his cheek is squished against his knee, and his eyes look shinier from this angle, like they’re talking to Ilya all on their own. “You sweat a lot today?”

Ilya smiles. He abandons the stain on his tank, because he thinks it might help matters, after, and he takes a lazy step forward, circling Shane on the bed. “Oh, yes,” he rubs the back of his neck, makes sure to flex his bicep as he does so. Shane rolls his eyes. “Very much. This was soaked,” he pinches his tank, watches Shane’s eyes dip down, then up again. “So I had to take it off.”

“Uh huh.”

“Yes.”

“How’d you take it off?”

Ilya pulls it over his head, letting it join his vest on the floor. “I like when audience is, eh, in the story…”

“Immersed,” Shane leans back onto his elbows, eyes gleaming, knees falling open, just a bit. Ilya stammers on a breath. “What else?”

“Wheelbarrow was broken, so I had to carry everything.”

Shane hums, legs parting further. “You carry bricks?”

“I carried a million bricks.”

“A million bricks.”

“Up scaffolding,” Ilya puts his palms flush on either side of Shane, leaning over him, ignoring the twinge low on his back. “Arms were sore, but I could not take break because I had to mix mortar.”

“Oh,” Shane mutters, almost involuntary, and he’s feeling Ilya’s arm, his fingertips digging into the muscles pleasantly, so much so that Ilya’s lips part and he lets a soft breath escape him. “That’s too bad.”

Ilya makes a contemplative sound, tilting his head to the side. He fits perfectly between Shane’s parted knees. “Was okay,” he says, distracted by Shane’s hands stroking up and down his arms, “because I was thinking… is only a few hours until I see my Shane.”

Shane smiles, eyes cast low, on Ilya’s dangling crucifix. “You think about me at work?” he asks, stupidly.

“I think about you everywhere,” Ilya tells him.

A hum, and Shane is hooking his fingers into the waistband of Ilya’s jeans, until he’s kneeling between Shane’s open legs, hands gripping Shane’s waist for balance. “Fuck, you really stink,” Shane says, and then he’s kissing him, slipping his tongue in almost instantly, still tugging on the waistband, like Ilya could be closer somehow.

“This is doing it for you?” Ilya says against his mouth, his smile sort of obstructing Shane from attempting to stick his tongue down his throat, from the looks of it. “Should I stop washing forever?”

“I miss you so bad,” Shane is saying, his fingers desperate, undoing the button of Ilya’s jeans with practiced dexterity. And they see each other every day, really, but Ilya knows what he means – they have never really gone this long without having sex, not without good reason. And no, Ilya doesn’t think Hayden Pike’s feelings are a good reason. But he promised Shane he wouldn’t fight him on it, so he just takes what he can get, pushing Shane’s hoodie up his torso, feeling out the strong lines of his abs, the way they flex under his fingers. “Shit, did you get bigger? Why did you shave your face?”

“Shane, one by one, please,” Ilya is just watching Shane work, take off his hoodie and quickly fold it in his hands, carefully put it on the bedside table, and somehow even that is sexy. He taps his own head, “There is no blood up here right now.”

“You don’t need any blood up there,” Shane shoves his jeans down, bunched around his thighs, and he pulls Ilya in with his legs, their crotches flush together. “Fuck, Ilya, I need–”

“Big, strong boyfriend to make love to you?” Ilya is smiling, tonguing at Shane’s neck, feeling out the most visible spot to leave a mark, so Shane’s friends can complain even more.

“No, I need him to fuck me,” Shane says.

Ilya groans into Shane’s neck, his grip deadly on his waist. He realises he’s here to take orders, for the most part, and he’s more than happy to do so, shoving Shane’s joggers down hastily, letting his thumbs knead at the jut of his hips, circle around and dig into the dimples on his back, feeling him arch into it, fold into Ilya perfectly.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and Shane flinches at the vibration against his inner thigh, melting again when Ilya shushes him. There’s no way he’s stopping. He blindly reaches for it, tosses it on the bedside table, where it continues to buzz a few times until it’s stopped, until Ilya can focus entirely on Shane’s pleading eyes, the cute way he is so clearly focusing so hard on speaking, on forming the words he wants to say, too overwhelmed with pleasure to remember how to.

There’s knocking at Ilya’s door, and all that ends up coming out of Shane’s mouth is a yelp. Ilya’s still for a moment, watching Shane’s face turn tight, rigid, and he shakes his head as a way to calm him, though he knows it won’t work. And it doesn’t.

More knocking, and it makes things even worse. “What?” Ilya shouts, turning his head to the side, towards the closed door as if Sveta can see how irritated he is.

“Ilyusha!” is all she says.

Ilya groans quietly, pecking Shane on the mouth quickly before heaving himself upright, using his thigh as leverage.

“What– Ilya!” Shane hisses, and Ilya stops, turns back in alarm. “What are you doing?”

Ilya blinks, nodding to his left, “Opening door.”

Shane looks at him like he’s crazy – and he might be – harshly gesturing towards his own crotch, incredulous.

As if that means something to Ilya. But it means something to Shane, so Ilya just shows him both palms, like he’s a spooked animal, and calls: “What is it?”

“Where’s your phone, I’ve been texting you,” Sveta says, knocks again. “Are you gonna keep making me shout? – I need to tell you something quick.”

“I’m, ah, I’m naked.”

There’s a pause. “So?”

“Fuck, hold– Go in your room, I’ll be right there!” Ilya rubs both hands down his face, waits to hear her footsteps. He turns to Shane, who’s got Ilya’s pillow covering his face, his briefs looking noticeably less full than they did a mere moment ago. Fuck. “One second, baby, just one second.”

“Take your time,” Shane’s voice is muffled against the pillow, tiny, and Ilya isn’t sure if he spoke at all.

Sveta’s in front of her vanity when Ilya stalks in, brushing eyeshadow onto her eyelid with a finger, and glances at him through the mirror. Her eyes dip low, and she covers her mouth with her hands, her usually pleasant laugh now having the same effect as nails on a chalkboard to Ilya’s ears.

“Is this funny? Is it?”

“I’m sorry, Ilyusha, fuck,” she’s still laughing, drops her hands from her face and turns to face him, folding her arms on the back of the chair. “Is Shane mad at me? Should I apologise?”

“No, just – What is it?” Ilya sighs, pulls his jeans up and buttons them again. He eyes her face, the shimmery gold eyeshadow that’s applied on one eye, “Why so gorgeous for work?”

Sveta smiles with her hands framing her face in lieu of a thank you, her fingers dancing, “That’s what I wanted to say to you. I’m not working today.”

“You’re not.”

She shakes her head, turns back around to resume her makeup. “They just called me. So I need you to tell your neanderthal friend I won’t be needing his services after all.”

“Okay,” Ilya drags the word out, scratches behind his ear. “So where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” Sveta says, tutting when her finger slips, gold eyeshadow dusting near her temple. “But Nadia is coming over.”

Ilya nods on autopilot, more than ready to go back to his room, where Shane is waiting for him, half-naked and open and nearly edible – and probably really angry, which is also appealing. But then he pauses on the doorway, turns so quick he feels dizzy with it: “Here?!”

Sveta glances at him through the mirror again, mimics his tone when she says: “Yeah?!”

“Fuck, Sveta, no!” he covers his face with his hands, buries his fingers in his eyes. “No, no, Shane’s here, Sveta, come on, you knew I was gonna have him over!”

“What’s the matter with you, we’re not camping in your room,” Sveta turns again, incredulous. “We’ll be in my room and you guys will be in yours.”

“It doesn’t matter, Shane doesn’t–” Ilya stops, taking a few deep breaths and shutting the door, because even if Shane can’t understand what they’re talking about, he is shouting, and that’s probably alarming. He carries on, quieter, “Shane doesn’t like it when there’s others in the house.”

“What?” Sveta scoffs, waving a hand around. “Shane and I are friends.”

“No, he– He can’t… function when there’s others in the house,” Ilya says. Sveta’s blinking, slow. “Like… He feels weird, having sex, about others hearing us have sex.”

“Oh,” Sveta blows a raspberry, leaning her cheek against her folded hands, “who cares about you guys, we’ll be too busy to even think about what’s going on in the next room.”

“It doesn’t matter – God, can’t you go to hers?”

Sveta sort of sighs, shrugs, overwhelmed. “I’ll ask her, Ilyusha, but– I don’t understand what the problem is, I mean… It’s just sex,” she makes a gesture with her hands, still confused. “Like, I know you guys have sex. You guys know I have sex. It’s whatever.”

“It’s Hayden Pike’s fault,” Ilya tells her, watches her face morph into the epitome of irritation.

“This guy again – I haven’t even met him and he’s ruining my life.”

“Your life,” Ilya raises his eyebrows, waits until she’s looking at him to say: “I haven’t had sex in three weeks.”

Her mouth falls open. “Three weeks?!”

“Over three weeks.”

Sveta blows up her cheeks, sighing like Ilya’s just let her know they’re both getting evicted. She nods, sighs again, “I’ll ask her, but… I can’t promise you anything.”

“Thank you,” Ilya says, walking over to kiss her on the cheek, and she kisses his at the same time.

“And tell him I’m sorry,” she calls after him, because he nearly bolts it out of her room after that, quickly tacking on: “And text Marleau!”

Shane’s still got the pillow pressed on his face when Ilya comes back, only peering around it at the sound of the door closing, regarding Ilya with cautious eyes. “What was it?”

“Huh?” Ilya says, collapsing back between Shane’s legs, having to manually pull them apart this time. “Why are you so beautiful?” he tries, stroking up and down his thigh.

“What was it?” Shane repeats, as if Ilya hadn’t said anything.

He’s still touching him, soft, peering over to watch the way Shane’s strong thigh flexes under his touch, so he doesn’t have to meet his gaze, partly. “I want to start with saying that this is very good apartment, beautiful apartment, with very good soundproofing. Sveta is drilling new shelf on the wall right now and you would not even know.”

Shane is staring at him, expressionless.

He clears his throat. “She is not going to work today. And her girl is coming over,” he says, and watches as Shane’s head tips back, his hand covering his eyes, the lines around his beautiful mouth growing deeper, more pronounced. “But you were telling me something, something about needing your big, strong boyfriend – what was this about?”

Shane makes a sound, one Ilya can’t decipher – embarrassed, maybe. Not a bad sign – not good, either. He digs his fingertips into Shane’s thigh more solidly, the way he likes it, his other hand smoothing back his cheek soothingly, kissing the side of his mouth, testing the waters. Another sound, softer this time.

“You know what I want to do to you?” Ilya says, bumping his nose against Shane’s cheekbone, watching it bloom pink. Another sound – negative – so Ilya lets his hand trail up, fit right into the crease between Shane’s inner thigh and his crotch, “You want to know?”

“Hold on,” Shane breathes, both of his hands on Ilya’s shoulders, holding him in place. “Just – one second.”

“Okay,” is Ilya’s immediate response, hand dropping back down to a safer spot, back onto Shane’s outer thigh. “Sveta doesn’t care, baby,” he says, thinks Shane might find it helpful. “Yes? And her friend is not coming for hours.”

Shane is nodding, eyes glued on Ilya’s waistband, toying with the elastic thoughtfully. He seems to contemplate something for a few moments, and Ilya waits, waits with his eyes studying the beautiful swell of Shane’s bottom lip, the even more beautiful dip of his cupid’s bow, the warm brown freckles dusting his cheeks. The gorgeous tip of his nose. Then Shane nods once more, says, “Yeah. Yeah, okay,” and Ilya feels his hand on the back of his head, reluctantly pulling him closer.

They kiss, and Ilya does everything right, everything Shane likes. Tongue gentle into his mouth, thumbs caressing his inner thighs, letting his full weight press against his front like an anchor, making it impossible for him to go anywhere, to be taken away. It’s all right. But Shane is straining, somehow, and when Ilya kisses down the length of his body, pulls his briefs down and takes him into his mouth, slow and careful, kneading at the meat of his thigh, something is off, something doesn’t feel like them.

Ilya pulls off, frowns at the sight of Shane’s mouth, pressed into a tight line, eyes cast on the ceiling. “Shane,” he coaxes, quiet, and Shane looks down at him, relaxing his mouth at once. “We don’t have to, baby.”

“I really want to,” Shane tells him, and he reaches down to touch himself, keeps it brief with two strokes, then bunches up the sheets in his fist. “Please, I’m…” he squirms, leans his hips up, his legs falling open even further.

Ilya studies him. How shiny his eyes are, his bitten-pink lips, the red blooming on his chest. He takes him back into his mouth.

It’s the same when Ilya’s inside him – it feels so good, it’s the best Ilya’s felt since he left for Russia, excluding the first night he saw Shane again, but Shane’s so clearly holding back. Mouth shut, tight, choking sounds in his throat before they can escape. And Ilya’s reduced to doing the same, deterred by Shane avoiding his eyes every time he makes a sound, shows him how much he loves it. So, it’s quiet, and because of that, it’s incomplete, somehow.

But Ilya’s just happy to feel him again. Later, with Shane’s head on Ilya’s chest, fingers drawing shapes on his pecs, and Ilya’s hand carding through his hair, Shane balances his chin on his shoulder, looks up timidly. “Was that okay?” he says, clearly expecting a specific answer.

Ilya watches him, smiles, kisses his forehead. “Perfect. Always perfect,” he says. Shane studies his face, sighs, and lets his cheek rest back on his chest, drops it. Ilya pulls him closer.

Shane keeps holding back.

It’s only been a handful of times since the day at Ilya’s – there’s almost always something, always someone there. Certainly at Shane’s apartment, to the point where Ilya thinks Boiziau and Bug Eyes must be doing it on purpose, and Ilya’s apartment, too – although Sveta, who is an overall beautiful and understanding person and an even better friend, has been more than accommodating, willing to let them have the place to themselves when she can. But Shane is still on guard, paranoid she might come home while he’s on his knees in the living room, despite Ilya’s reassurance that this won’t happen.

There was the time in Ilya’s car, when he’d picked up Shane from training and was driving them back to his place, when Shane had pounced on him as soon as Ilya had parked outside of his apartment building. It was uncomfortable in the backseat, because Ilya keeps all sorts of equipment back there, and long rods, and no matter how many jokes he made about Shane being careful around those long rods it did not change the fact that there had not been enough space for Shane to ride him without bumping his head against the roof, so they’d settled for blowing each other, knees scraping against the scratchy floors.

There was the time Ilya had shown up with a gash on his forearm, work accident, and Shane had insisted on sanitising it and wrapping it up himself despite Ilya insisting this had all been done already, and then he’d suddenly straddled Ilya on his bed, inexplicably turned on in a way that Ilya still doesn’t understand nor does he care to. Pike had been out, for once, but Boiziau had been in his room, and Shane had been in the middle of slicking Ilya up when the doorbell had rung, and he’d jumped, and it had soon become clear that it was just Boiziau’s food delivery. Shane had ended up just jerking Ilya off, quick, like he’d just wanted to get it over with.

Other times, alone in less-than-ideal places, or in ideal places in less-than-ideal circumstances, where they’d both been holding back, somehow – Shane trying to be quiet, Ilya trying not to spook him. All of this to say, Ilya is frustrated, charged up with no prospect of release on the horizon, and he misses Shane’s sounds like he’d miss breathing.

He tries to channel all of this frustration onto Shane’s apartment door, knocking heavily, having just dropped Shane off at the gym to make sure he’d be out.

Pike opens the door, sees who it is, and immediately tries to close it again.

“Ah, ah,” Ilya shoves his foot in the doorway, taking his chance to push it open, making Pike stumble a little bit, allowing him to slip inside. “Too slow, champ. Off the ice, too – impressive.”

“Fuck’s wrong with you, Rozanov?” Pike holds the door open for a bit, in hopes that Ilya will walk back out, but lets it fall shut when he takes off his wool hat, gets comfortable. “That’s how you do it in Russia, you just barge into people’s houses?”

“Where’s Boiziau?” Ilya tosses his jacket and hat on the sofa, smoothing down his shirt, peering around. “Call him here.”

“No, I’m not gonna call him, fuck’s–”

“Boiziau!” Ilya shouts, bangs his hand on the table. It gets the fruit bowl to rattle a little bit, so he stills it, putting an apple back into its place the way that Shane arranged it. “Pike!”

“I’m right here! – I let you in!”

“You did not let me in,” Ilya is laughing, turning just in time to see Boiziau still next to Hayden, scratching his stomach awkwardly. “Good. We are all here.”

“Rozanov,” Boiziau nods, glancing over at Pike, quick. “Shane’s not here, man.”

“I know where Shane is,” Ilya offers, then sits down on the sofa, legs spread wide, comfortable. When nobody moves, he gestures towards the other side, “Sit.”

Boiziau and Pike just look at each other. Then, Boiziau moves first, sitting down slowly, “You’re… okay, Rozanov?”

“I can not say that I am, my friend,” Ilya says, putting a hand out hastily just as Pike makes to take his seat next to Boiziau, making him halt mid-squat. “I will have beer. Heineken, if you have it.”

“I’m not getting you a fucking drink, Rozanov,” Pike starts, but Boiziau bumps his knee, so he closes his mouth, closes his eyes, too. “What the fuck do you want? Why are you here?”

“Talk nice, first of all,” Ilya says, folding his hands together. Pike just stares. “I want to talk to you – both of you. Without Shane here.”

Boiziau rubs his nose, leans back against the sofa. “Okay,” he says, and he and Pike look at each other again. He shrugs, and then Ilya is being stared at once more, “About…”

“Shane – obviously, Shane,” Ilya says. “I… think you know more than me, but I know you all had a talk. Some time ago.”

Boiziau cracks his knuckles, briefly glancing sideways, as if he’s thinking. “A talk.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, helpfully. “About me.”

That seems to jog their memory: Boiziau scoffs, and Pike shakes his head, leaning forward. “What, you’re here to bully us for talking shit about you, Rozanov? Because I’ll say it to your face – I don’t like you.”

“I think you had enough bullying in your life, Pike, please,” Ilya grumbles, spreading his legs further. “I do not care if you like me or not, it does not matter. And the things my Shane said, they are not…” he gestures with his hands, looking for the words, “They make sense, I think. Is not my house, not my fridge,” he waves dismissively, shrugs. “Is okay. And I apologise. I did not realise it was a problem.”

That helps things a bit. Boiziau is nodding, and Pike isn’t actively scowling at him, which is actually a very good sign. “Okay, man,” Boiziau says, shrugs too, “Appreciate it. Water under the bridge.”

Ilya falters, but thinks that nodding is good practice. “Bridge,” he repeats, clears his throat. “And when I am in my underwear – I did not realise this is problem, too. We are very open in my house, but I understand if it is, ah… weird.”

They nod again, receptive.

Ilya laughs a little bit, good-naturedly, and extends a friendly hand at Pike, gesturing towards his crotch with the other and shaking his head, “I did not mean to scare you.”

Pike’s shoulders slump, like he’d been expecting something like that, and he closes his eyes again, like he’s meditating. “Alright, Rozanov,” he says, opening them slowly – Jesus Christ, they really are terrifyingly huge – “thanks for apologising. Is that it?”

“No, is not it,” Ilya clears his throat, watches his own hands flex against each other. “I think there was another thing you said. Something about… noise.”

When he looks back up, Boiziau’s staring at Pike, and Pike is staring at the ceiling – both deathly quiet. And they stay that way, for a few moments.

“I do not want to make you uncomfortable,” Ilya adds, leaning forward. “Or go into detail. But I am trying to understand what is the problem exactly.”

A lot of throat-clearing, a lot of shuffling. After a beat, it’s Boiziau who pipes up, because Pike is just picking at his jeans, a hole he probably can’t afford to pay and fix, or is too useless to patch himself. “Look, Rozanov,” he starts, determined, “it’s not that serious. We know you guys have been together for a long time, we know Shane loves you–” Pike makes a sound that Ilya narrows his eyes at, “–we know what you do when you’re alone, we’re all adults here.” He looks at Pike for support, sort of waves his hand in exasperation when he gets nothing, “What we said was just something that we thought you should keep in mind. You know. I don’t think it’d even be worth mentioning if it was, like, once or twice but, it’s– I mean, you guys…”

It doesn’t seem like he’s gonna finish that thought, but Ilya thinks he gets it. And he’s confused. He looks between the two of them, blinks, “Oh?” then he taps his fingers against his knee, thoughtfully, points between them. “So, you guys – how many times in a week do you…” he trails off, nodding meaningfully.

They look at each other, then Boiziau says, “Us?”

“You,” Ilya affirms, then smiles. “Not together,” and the confusion sort of dissolves. “With your people.”

Boiziau seems to think about it, and so does Pike, for a little bit, until he suddenly looks at Rozanov, his face morphing into its usual scowl, “Fuck you, Rozanov – how is that any of your business?”

“I don’t know, you obviously have thoughts about how many times my Shane and I should have sex – I think is fair to ask.”

“Rozanov,” Pike is laughing, and it’s sort of ugly, so Ilya squints so he doesn’t have to watch fully, “I don’t give a shit how many days a week you two have sex. Okay? But every day– I mean, hearing it every day, it’s– Do you even do anything else? Do you guys talk, watch something once in a while?!”

“And what are you, Pike, security guard for my dick?”

“Aye, okay!” Boiziau bangs his hand on the table, looking between the both of them, before Pike can say anything. “Okay! Rozanov,” he turns to Ilya, his expression tired, “what exactly do you want?”

Ilya exhales. He just wants Shane to be able to let go, like he’s always been able to do with him. He wants to see Shane loose, touch him freely, have Shane touch him, too, he wants to know how much Shane wants him. He wants to hear Shane, most of all. He’s always loved them, Shane’s sounds – some breathy, when he’s too choked up to inhale properly, some loud and loose, when he’s too overwhelmed to worry about his volume, to even register it. That’s when Ilya knows that Shane wants him, that he needs him. That’s all Ilya wants, right now.

He doesn’t say any of that, exactly. What he does is scratch behind his ear, and shrug. “I want Shane to be comfortable,” he starts, studying that fruit bowl, the meticulous way Shane’s arranged the fruit, stacked on top of each other, beautiful, careful. “You said we are all adults here. Yes?” Boiziau nods, reluctantly, and so does Pike, somehow. “Well, Shane likes sex. I like sex. I am sure you two like sex. Yes?” They nod again, barely a movement. “What if you were trying to have sex with your girl and you could not just… let go? Be in the moment?” He pauses, but nothing happens. “Like there is something nagging you, always, like what you are doing is not right. He is too into his head. Is not his fault, is not anyone’s fault. But… I think you can talk to him. Let him know is okay. And– fine,” he shows them his palms, sighs, “Maybe is too much. I can try to understand. We will be more… discreet.”

He’s not sure if his pronunciation is right, but they seem to understand. They do, and Ilya’s glad. But he doesn’t really know where to go from here.

“Okay, Rozanov,” Boiziau finally says, nodding earnestly, his eyes soft. “We’ll talk to him. Sorry for, you know… We didn’t want to cause any problems.”

“No problems,” Ilya dismisses, but then he clears his throat, nodding hopefully, almost pleadingly. “And maybe you also can be a bit… discreet.”

Boiziau laughs. “Yeah, man,” he reaches over, taps Ilya’s knee, once. “He doesn’t have to know you were here. It’s all good.”

Pike is watching him in a way he can’t decipher. Then he opens his mouth, and he says: “Did you just learn that word?”

Hah. Ilya smiles, fingers his crucifix around his neck. “Yes. Kind of.”

It’s suspiciously quiet when Shane gets back from the gym – he’s been so used to some sort of sound around the apartment at all times, whether it be the TV, or the blender in the kitchen, or Hayd and J arguing about something that any normal person would not even think twice about. So, he naturally assumes the house is empty when he steps through the door, readjusting his gym bag over his shoulder as he locks up, turning to go store it into his room.

He jumps when he sees the two of them, dressed, sat on the sofa. Suspiciously. Shane pauses, mid-step, then decides this is probably more interesting than taking a shower, so he lets his bag fall on the floor, looking between the two of them silently.

When Hayden finally speaks, it’s with a smile – professional. “Shane.”

J.J. nods, as if in agreement. Right.

Shane walks further inside, peering over to check the TV. It’s off. “You guys okay?” he starts, cautious. More nods, so Shane scratches the back of his head, blinking. “Waiting for me?”

“Ouais,” J.J. says, folding one leg over the other. “Wanted to let you know we’re going out.”

“Oh,” Shane says, folds his arms, thoughtful. “Where are you guys… going?”

“Just out,” Hayden says, helpful.

He waits for something more, but it’s clear he’s not getting anything. “Fun,” he clears his throat, points a thumb over his shoulder. “If you give me, like, ten minutes I can probably–”

“Non, Capitaine, it’s not for you,” J.J. interrupts him, shaking his head. “I mean, it’s for us. I mean, we are going out. Out of here.”

Shane’s used to not getting stuff, needing more context, sometimes. But he thinks nobody would ever fault him for not getting this, the way they’re both sat there like Siamese twins, watching him like he’s a lab experiment, monitoring his reactions. Weirdly blinking at the exact same intervals, somehow. “I don’t get it,” he says, sort of smiles, confused. “What’s… What’s going on?”

“What he means is–” Hayden stands, and so does J.J., walking over so he can put a hand on his shoulder, speaking meaningfully so that the words penetrate Shane’s skull, he guesses: “We are going out. So you – or whoever – are gonna have the whole place to yourself. For a really long time. Maybe the whole night – right, J?”

“Maybe the whole night,” J.J. affirms, spoken over Hayden’s shoulder.

Shane looks at the hand on his shoulder. “Okay,” he says, slow, watching them carefully. “That’s good to know.”

They stand there for a moment, and then J.J. says, “Is Rozanov doing anything tonight?”

Shane blinks. “You wanna invite him out?”

They laugh like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard, like they owe Shane money, or something. “That’s funny, dude – no, he means, maybe he can, like… come over. You could have him over,” Hayden is smiling when he says it, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and it makes for an overall weird sort of expression, one that Shane can’t look at for too long.

“Oh, I – Yeah, I guess I could,” Shane nods, mostly because it feels like that’s what Hayden’s expecting him to do. It gets him to drop his hand, at least. Another beat passes, during which they’re all kind of stood nodding at each other, and Shane can’t really take it anymore: “Do you guys have something you wanna tell me?”

That restores some normalcy in their demeanours, the both of them turning to each other as if to check, and Shane is kind of proud of himself for that, but he’s got to keep it in check, because J.J. looks like he’s about to say something. “We feel bad, Hollsy, for what we said– You know, weeks ago,” he tells him, shrugging. “About you and Rozanov. All that stuff.”

Shane’s not proud of himself anymore. He thinks his face has gone pink, because he feels a bit warmer, and he hides it with a laugh, shaking his head: “Guys, there’s nothing to feel bad about, it’s– It’s not even–”

“Okay,” Hayden stops him, thankfully. “All we’re saying is that we want to make sure you didn’t take it the wrong way. Nobody’s saying you should stop having sex with your boyfriend, or, having him around, I mean, that’s– That’s crazy. Sex is... natural.”

Even warmer, impossibly warm. Shane can’t do anything else but blink, stuck in place.

“I’ll stop,” Hayden taps his cheek, then points at him. “Just wanted to let you know. Just in case. He’s…” he looks for the words, or the word, and finally he settles on: “…okay.”

Shane doesn’t know what to do. What to think. All he knows is that Hayden looks sincere, and that he’s trying, and he’s overwhelmed by the sudden surge of appreciation that hits him, the countless ways he could react. Ultimately, he chooses to nod, simple. “Thanks, Hayd.”

“Sure,” he says – then, he clears his throat, and taps J.J.’s arm. “Come on. Time to go.”

“Yes,” J.J. is grinning, roughing Shane up before he follows Hayd out the door – he ruffles his hair, shakes him around, plants a loud kiss on his temple. Shane laughs a little bit, in disbelief, and watches J.J. linger at the door, thoughtful. “Hollsy.”

Shane blinks. “Oui?”

He taps his fingers against the doorframe, looking for the words. “Rozanov… ben... y'est ben correct (well... he's pretty alright).”

He leaves, and Shane waits for the door to fall shut before he lets himself blink again, his mind racing. He doesn’t know how long he stands there. He moves, eventually, reaching down to grab his gym bag on autopilot, but then he stops, faltering as he grabs his phone instead, slowly types out a message.

Shane

How quick can you get here?

Pretty quick, as it turns out. Shane hasn’t really moved from the sofa, shower be damned, and he hasn’t turned the TV on, either, his skin buzzing, leaning his head on his fist and just thinking it all over. Ilya’s heavy knock on the door snaps him out of it, and he smooths his compression shirt over his stomach – nervous, for some reason.

“I know what you are going to say,” is the first thing that Ilya says, walking past Shane and letting him shut the door – he brings a breeze in with him that makes Shane shiver, and a lingering aroma, woodsy, a hint of cigarettes – “we had Chinese two days ago, yes, I know, but imagine this – I was getting in my car, excited to see my Shane, and then this smell was pulling me, talking to me: eat me, Ilya, feed your Shane–”

He stops talking when Shane wordlessly grabs the bag out of his hand, simply sets it down on the table. When he looks back, Ilya’s hand is still hovering in the air.

“Something happened to me earlier,” Shane starts, gesturing towards the sofa. Ilya peers down the corridor, looking for the others, probably, but eventually he complies, taking a seat, shrugging off his jacket. “And I was wondering if you could help me make sense of it.”

Ilya hums, slowly. He glances at the Chinese on the table, then back at Shane, his mouth pursed in thought. “If I can.”

“I think you can,” Shane says, and then he takes a seat next to Ilya, smoothing over his hair – he tucks some curls behind his ears, pushes some down, ruffled from the breeze outside. “Of course, you can. You’re so helpful. So sweet.”

Ilya is tonguing at his lip, his eyes knowing. “Shane–”

“Baby,” Shane smooths back his eyebrow, the way Ilya does to him, the way he loves. “What is it?”

Ilya melts into it – Shane can feel his skin thrumming underneath the tip of his thumb. “Where are your friends?” he says, his eyes fluttering open, easy.

Shane hums in thought. “Out,” he shrugs – the tip of his thumb trails down, feather-soft touch on the mole on his cheek. “Does it matter?”

“I think it does.”

“Ilya,” Shane finally smiles, unable to contain it anymore – he laughs a little, shakes his head in disbelief. He feels a little crazy with it, how much he loves Ilya, how much he wants to pepper kisses all over his face until all he can breathe in is Shane’s scent, until he goes numb with it, “What did you do?”

“I just talked to them,” Ilya admits, leaning into Shane’s touch. “Just talked, that’s it. What did Pike tell you?”

“Nothing, fuck, just leave Hayden alone – leave each other alone,” Shane is laughing again, and then he bites his lip, so his smile doesn’t split his mouth in half and he ends up not being able to kiss Ilya anymore. Ilya smiles, too, despite himself – a bit smaller, sort of dazed. “Okay,” Shane puts a hand on Ilya’s shoulder, hoists himself up, and then he plants himself on his lap, their faces close, Ilya’s hand instinctively resting on the side of his thigh, “what did you talk about?”

Ilya seems nervous, fingers drumming on Shane’s leg. “You do not know?”

“I think I do, but – I don’t know. I want you to tell me.”

He’s thinking. But not for long. “I did not like seeing you like that, Shane. You know, in your head all the time. You are not like this with me,” he says – Shane’s smile is encouraging him, so he keeps it up, although he doesn’t think he could stop if he wanted to. “And sometimes is not something I can fix. And I know you love your friends, and you care what they think – even Pike for some reason –”

“Hey.”

“–and I wanted to see if they can help to… make you feel better. More comfortable. I like when you are comfortable,” he says, pausing. “I also like when you are uptight. And boring.”

Shane’s still smiling, his finger playing with Ilya’s earlobe. “And, uh…” he thinks, “during this talk… were you…” He looks up through his lashes, “Were you Rozanov? Or were you Ilya?”

Ilya itches his bottom lip with his teeth, contemplative. “I was really nice actually,” he nods, as if appreciative. “Even to–”

“Even to Pike, yeah, okay,” Shane says, pressing a thumb square in the middle of Ilya’s lip. “Okay… I really like that.”

“You do?”

“Of course, I do,” he says, sighs with the words, his shoulders light, at ease. “Do you know how good it feels to see you all get along? Even if it’s just for now, just today, it’s like – fuck,” he breathes, laughs with it, then a bit more at the way Ilya is smiling at him. “It’s like a weight’s been lifted off my shoulders.”

“Really?” Ilya asks, hums at Shane’s nod. “Wow. Should I take Pike to work with me, do you think? Bond a little?”

“You just want to see him get stuck on the scaffolding.”

“No, we are friends now,” Ilya teases, emphasises the word like it’s gonna do something to Shane – and maybe it does. It makes him happy. “Or maybe I should start with Boiziau. Ease into it.”

“I love you,” Shane says, because he does, and he kisses Ilya in lieu of saying it again and again, leaning his whole weight into his front until he’s forced to lean back, hold onto his waist desperately. “Thank you. You’re… Thank you.”

Ilya hums against his mouth, Shane’s whole body vibrating with it. He feels a hand reach south, rest on his lower back, fingertips grazing the top of his ass. He smiles into it. “You are very easy to impress,” Ilya mumbles, fingers pressing down, square in the middle of Shane’s joggers, “Someone could take advantage of you. A very bad man.”

“What if I want to be taken advantage of?” he leans back into Ilya’s hand, burying his nose in Ilya’s cheek, letting his mouth trail a line to Ilya’s ear, suck on, lick at Ilya’s earlobe – Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. “Hm?” he breathes, straight into Ilya’s ear, and he feels him shiver, “Who can I turn to?”

“Something can be arranged.”

“Fuck, come on,” Shane tries to stand, tries to tug Ilya up by the bicep, but Ilya’s quicker – he pulls him right back down, and Shane lands a bit more awkwardly on his lap, eyes alarmed. “Let’s go, I want–”

“I want, too,” Ilya says this into his neck, stretching down the tight collar of his shirt, letting his lips trail down lower, brushing over the dip before his collarbone.

Shane barely remembers what he was going to do, barely remembers his own name or to be embarrassed about the dried sweat on his skin, acutely aware all of a sudden that he never showered after the gym, but then Ilya bites down onto the base of his neck, and it jolts him into action: “Here?”

“This sofa came with apartment. Yes?” Ilya says, and Shane blinks at him, nodding reluctantly. “Yes. So, price is included in rent. So, it is also yours. So, who can say I can not fuck you on your share?”

Shane can’t really argue with that, but he tries to anyway. “Ilya–”

“Yes, say my name, that is good start,” Ilya wraps an arm around his waist and manhandles him so that he’s straddling his legs, Shane’s knees digging into the cushions, his hands flying up to Ilya’s shoulders to steady himself. “Come on, I want to hear again. Louder. Is just us.”

It is just them. Shane tries to focus on Ilya’s eyes, their earnest gleam, hopeful, and everything dissipates, like there’s just a sofa, and him and Ilya, floating into a black hole. “Ilya,” he breathes, watches him smile. “Ilya. Ilya.”

“Yes,” Ilya pulls him in by the waist, kissing him deeply. “Again.”

“Ilya,” Shane whimpers, not because Ilya’s asked him to, but because he’s nibbling at his pulse point, his teeth cutting straight through the noise in his head: “Fuck, yeah.”

“Lie down, baby,” Ilya murmurs, kissing over the spot he’s biting. He doesn’t wait for Shane to move: he wraps an arm around his waist, lays him out on the cushions, lips still attached to this neck. So strong. “I want to hear you.”

Shane whimpers again, missing the warmth on his neck when Ilya pulls away, peeling his shirt off his torso, muttering something about Shane lifting his arms up. He does. His shirt’s discarded somewhere on the floor, and Ilya’s tonguing down the dips of his abs, the dip of his V-line.

“I like these little shorts,” Ilya says, even as he pulls them down, Shane’s boxers, too. They join his shirt. “Did you go to the gym like this?”

“Yeah,” Shane breathes, shifting upward, “why?”

Ilya doesn’t answer – he just takes him into his mouth like he can’t help himself, and Shane forgets all about it, ass lifting off the cushion instantaneously. He doesn’t recognise the sound that rips from his throat, can’t control it, but Ilya seems to like it, his eyes shut and moaning around him, fingers digging into the back of his knee.

“Shit!” Shane tries to fuck his mouth, unable to control the stuttering of his hips, too charged up, overwhelmed. “Shit– Ilya.”

When Ilya pulls off, chin wet and lips swollen, Shane pulls him up by the shirt, impatient, making him scramble to hold himself up. He reaches one hand behind him, tries to push his jeans down, feeling around when he hears some crinkling.

“Is–” Ilya reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a packet of lube, sheepish grin on his face. “Is for you. What did you get for me?”

“You fucking asshole,” Shane smiles, breathless, watching Ilya rip it open with his teeth. “You just assume you’re gonna get lucky now? That what I am to you, a piece of meat?”

“You are the most beautiful, talented, neurotic piece of meat – my piece of meat,” Ilya dribbles some on his fingers, carefully placing the packet on the table before rubbing it around, slicking up his hand, “And you are the one getting lucky.”

“I might be,” Shane says, and Ilya shakes his head before he puts a finger in.

More sounds, all of them ripped straight out of his throat, like he’s lost control of his vocal chords. Ilya likes it, alternates between watching Shane’s face and his hole, like it’s imperative he doesn’t miss a thing, as if the way Shane holds his own legs up with two hands between his knees is a sight to behold. By the time he’s got three fingers in, Shane contemplates clamping his own hand over his mouth, because it might be too much, how loud he is – even for them.

“And I was worried you will be mad,” Ilya breathes, his lips brushing the inside of his thigh, fingers twisting inside of Shane. Shane almost doesn’t hear him, ears buzzing. “Fuck, I wish you could see.”

“Why would I be mad?” Shane covers his eyes with his hand, a breathless little smile taking over his features. With his other hand, he blindly reaches for Ilya’s head, carding his fingers through his hair, massaging. “Mad that you’re so thoughtful, that you were nice?”

“I am all of those things, yes,” Ilya leans into the touch, leaving a kiss on the nearest patch of skin on his leg. “But I was not worried about this, I meant more about the sex stuff – I thought maybe you will take it the wrong way. Fuck, I got some on cushion.”

“It’s okay, I don’t care, just–” Shane stops, his hand dropping from his face. He tries to focus on the ceiling, tries to focus despite the low tingling from Ilya’s fingers and replay the conversation in his head, glancing down reluctantly. “What did you say?”

“Here, is gone – look,” Ilya wipes his forearm into a spot obstructed from Shane’s vision, presumably onto the lube stain in the cushion, no doubt making it worse. “Is gone.”

“Before, what did you say about–” Shane tries to scoot up, leaning his hips up – Ilya looks at him, confused, letting his fingers slip out reluctantly. Shane blinks at him, perched on his elbows, “What sex stuff? What do you mean?”

Ilya’s three fingers are still angled exactly as they had been inside him – it makes him a little dizzy. “The sex stuff. About us making noise.”

God. “Ilya,” Shane starts, and he finally, finally relaxes his fingers, “what exactly did you say?”

Ilya’s watching his face like he’s about to explode. “Nothing bad,” he says, his voice even, careful, “Nothing… specific. Just that… couples have sex, and is normal, and maybe that… what they said made it a little… awkward. Maybe.”

Shane lets his head fall back slowly, all of it dawning on him, and his hands come up to cover his rapidly reddening face. “Oh, my God,” he says, more so groans. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”

“I thought you knew,” Ilya leans up, too, tries to level with him, arms on either side of Shane’s chest. “You said it was sweet, Shane, that I talked to them – bonded.”

“I thought you talked to them about getting along, Ilya, not about the birds and the bees!”

“I talked to them about getting along, too!” Ilya reassures – Shane peeks at him through his fingers. “We are friends now. Yes? Friends talk about sex life, is normal. We are all friends here.”

“Ilya, saying friends over and over isn’t making me feel better,” Shane is uncomfortably hot, but he finally drops his hands, eyes unmoving from the ceiling. “Oh, my God, that’s what he meant with that sex is natural stuff – fuck, this isn’t real.”

Ilya looks to the side, making a sound in his throat, “There is no way this guy is not virgin.”

“Shut up, I didn’t say it was Hayden!”

“Was it?”

Shane doesn’t even grace him with a reply, just closes his eyes, tilts his head back even further, feeling the blush bloom lower, on his chest.

“Shane,” Ilya grunts as he climbs up, his arms now bracketing his head, his nose inches away from touching his, “is not a big deal.”

“Stop telling me what is and isn’t a big deal, it’s really starting to piss me off.”

“Okay – okay, is a big deal,” Ilya is sighing – and then he’s sitting up, putting his hands up, and Shane instinctively reaches out, because that’s never what he wants. “Fine. I know this was bothering you and I thought I can help, but I should not have gone behind your back. I am sorry. I made it worse.”

Shane twists his mouth in thought, and then he sits up, too, drawing his knees up to his chest, “I didn’t say that. You did help,” he reaches out, grabs Ilya’s hand. He’s suddenly aware that he’s naked, and that Ilya’s in his briefs, but he doesn’t let it distract him, “Ilya, me, Hayd, and J don’t really talk about that stuff, I mean, it’s– I’m just not used to it. It just feels weird, them knowing.”

Ilya smiles, “Knowing we have sex?”

“No, not– Stop it, I mean knowing about, like, our problems and stuff, in that department. I don’t know, it’s– It’s a little embarrassing. Obviously they know we have sex, but…”

“Good sex,” Ilya says, and Shane can’t help but laugh, just a little, a breathy exhale.

“Yeah, good sex. Great sex,” he says, kind of shifts on the cushion. “I don’t really mind them knowing we have great sex, I guess.”

Ilya hums. He clearly sees an in, and Shane doesn’t really want to block it, lets him scoot closer, stretch his arm over the back of the sofa so that Shane can see the bulge of his muscles, “I don’t mind it, either. I kind of like it.”

Shane lets Ilya’s hand float, lazily play with a strand of his hair, sticking up awkwardly from trying to let the sofa swallow him whole earlier. “You like it,” he checks, kind of exasperated. When Ilya hums, he says, “What do you like about it?”

“I like them knowing how much I like fucking you, I think. How good you are, even at this.”

Oh. Shane hadn’t really thought about it like that before. “Yeah?” he says, tries to hide how invested he is, but he thinks Ilya sees it, anyway.

“Oh, yes, are you joking?” Ilya tells him, his thumb brushing the soft skin under Shane’s eye. “I think is about, showing you off. Or something. Because you are really, very good,” he pauses, gives a little smile. “Maybe I am sick.”

“You are sick,” Shane breathes, but he feels even sicker, and he slowly leans back, softly letting his back touch the cushions again. “Keep talking.”

“They will think, what did Rozanov do to deserve this?” Ilya is grinning, moving slowly, hovering over Shane in a way that makes his crucifix dangle, hang over Shane’s chest. “How did he, what is it…”

Shane bites his lip through his smile. “Bag him.”

“Yes, bag, they will think I put bag over your head and kidnap you, that is why you are with me,” Ilya says – Shane is laughing, his hand flying up to cover his mouth. Ilya pushes it away, bumps their noses together, “I know this is the root of our problems these days, but I always wanted to ask you…”

Shane waits, holds his breath, even. “What?”

Ilya thinks. “What do you think they are saying, when they hear us through the wall?” he says, and Shane finally lets that breath out. “Listen to Rozanov. He is trying to keep up.”

Shane wraps his legs around Ilya, pulls him closer, impossibly so. “Fuck, Ilya.”

“How is Shaney so good at everything?” Ilya continues, his hand reaching south, feeling the back of Shane’s thigh, kneading. “Listen to Rozanov. He sounds like he is getting his soul sucked out of his dick. Poor Rozanov.”

“Shut up,” Shane smiles, but he feels like he’s on fire, breaths coming out heavier, his hands itching to touch. He digs his fingers into Ilya’s hair, his other hand pushing him in with a flat palm on his ass, because he doesn’t want him to shut up, not really.

And Ilya always understands him, it’s not something he ever worries about. “Maybe they are jealous,” his fingers inch away from Shane’s thigh, circle his hole, and one pushes in lazily, easily. “Do you think Pike ever heard his girl make the sounds that you get me to make?”

“Heaving, masculine, and Russian?”

“Maybe he will like that – he is, uh, pulling my pigtails,” Ilya puts another finger in, but you wouldn’t know it if you were looking at his face – fond, sweet in a way that is going straight to Shane’s head, a dizzying effect. “Or maybe he wants to see, too. What the hell is Shane doing to him in there? I wish I could see, let him do it to me, too.”

“Ugh, you’re gross,” Shane says, but there’s no real bite to it, because he kind of likes the fact that Ilya’s voice has gone a bit tighter, a bit lower, and he peers up at him and smiles in challenge, a bit dazed: “You jealous of Hayden, Ilya?”

“Shane, I am even jealous of your right hand.”

“I should be the one jealous of your right hand, Ilya.”

“I do not do it that much.”

“Do what, this?” Shane slips his hand in Ilya’s underwear, smiles at the way his mouth goes slack, the way he moans when Shane starts working, eyelashes fluttering. “Come on, what else? Why should I let them hear us?”

“Mm, so I can prove myself. So they do not worry,” Ilya’s distracted, so Shane knows he’s speaking from the heart, as ridiculous as it sounds. He shifts, pushing desperately into Shane’ hand, “Maybe Rozanov is good enough for Shane. It sounds like he is.”

Shane’s face feels hot again, and he squirms, trying to push himself down onto Ilya’s fingers – he gets what he wants, Ilya starting to pump again, “You’d be good for me?”

“What, only you can be good?”

“Fuck, Ilya, stop,” Shane squirms again, shakes his head when Ilya’s hand stutters. “That’s enough, just– I need you.”

“You have to be more specific,” Ilya leans down to capture a nipple in his mouth, although his other hand is reaching blindly to his left, looking for the lube.

“Put it in,” Shane shifts again, lets his legs fall open even further, arching into Ilya’s mouth.

“Put it in? Oh, I don’t like that,” Ilya is slicking himself up, watching himself do it – such an asshole, all the time.

“Fuck me, fuck, show me – show me how good you are,” Shane says – it has Ilya glancing up, his hand slowing down on his cock. Interesting. “Unless you’re all talk.”

Ilya stares at him, challenging. Then he’s sort of laughing, pushing Shane’s thighs open in a way that hurts pleasantly, because Shane wasn’t expecting it, and he’s also not expecting Ilya to line up and press but not push, to let his head catch on Shane’s rim and just watch him, waiting for something, “Let me know how much you want it.”

Shane breathes out. “I want it,” he says, tries to push Ilya in with his heels. “Of course I want it.”

“What if they were in the next room?” Ilya’s crucifix bumps his chin when he leans down, only once. “Hm? Do you think they would know you want it?”

Shane groans, “Fuck.”

A shrug, and he’s rubbing the head around torturously. “Is a start.”

And Shane opens his mouth, tests it out, because it’s been a while since he let himself go like this, let himself show Ilya exactly how much he wants it. He starts whining, grabbing Ilya’s face, digging his thumbs into his cheekbones: “Ilya, please. Fuck, I want it so bad, please.”

Ilya breathes out. “Let them know,” he says, and he pushes in.

His back arches off the sofa, his mouth falling open in a loud moan. It feels good, better than it has in weeks – he feels loose, focusing only on the pressure in his lower back, how hard Ilya’s arms feel under his tight grip.

“Fuck, I missed your sounds,” Ilya grunts, speeding up, like he’s not able to help himself. It makes Shane feel so good, so good. “Come on, tell me. Tell me.”

“Tell you – oh, fuck, ‘s good.”

“Is good?”

“Harder,” Shane squirms, the back of his hair rubbing uncomfortably against the cushion, scooting upward with every thrust. “Come on, you – you’re holding back on me.”

“Yes, baby,” Ilya obliges, grinning maniacally, his forehead shiny, teeth bright. Shane wants to be bitten. “What else do you want? Anything, anything for you.”

Shane doesn’t know what he wants exactly, only knows that he wants more. And the light on the ceiling is directly behind Ilya’s head, the outline of his hair shining like a halo, but that means that there’s shadows, and he can’t see Ilya’s face. And that’s something that gets him to reach up, fit his palm flat against Ilya’s cheek, squish his skin. “Get on your back. Want you on your back.”

“My–” Ilya stops, squeezing hard around Shane’s thighs, and then he’s nodding, wild, “Okay. Yes.”

He slips out, which Shane supposes it kind of necessary but still traumatic, and Shane can’t wait for him to lie down on his own – he grabs him by the arm, pulls him to the side, pushes him on his back. Ilya is smiling, breathless and dazed, letting Shane manhandle him this way and that, straddle his hips.

“Where is leash when you need one?” Ilya says, and Shane has to ignore him so he doesn’t shoot off prematurely, make a mess of Ilya’s heaving stomach.

“Shut up,” he tells him, pushes his hand against his face for good measure, turning it to the side – Ilya groans, so loud the walls seem to rattle. “You’re distracting me.”

“You are distracting me,” Ilya’s words sort of die in his throat, because Shane has reached his arm behind himself, had grabbed Ilya and is guiding him where he needs him the most, “I am supposed to be teaching you lesson. Fuck–” Shane sinks down, his own sounds drowning out Ilya’s voice, “Maybe I do not fuck you so good if you can still talk.”

“Maybe you don’t,” Shane is moving, and the words don’t really sound right coming from him, because Ilya fucks him so well that it’s kind of scary sometimes, how good it feels. “Maybe I need to show you.”

“I wish they heard how you speak to me,” Ilya grabs his thighs again – that’s where Shane always finds his hands, always, it’s kind of an obsession – as Shane rolls his hips, shoves his head again to shut him up. “Is always Rozanov is the asshole. You are terrible.”

“You can take it,” Shane smiles – he leans down, takes Ilya’s bottom lip between his teeth, pulls. He lets go, waits until Ilya’s opened his eyes before he speaks again, “Strong guy like you. Hm? Show me, you love to show me.”

Ilya’s still in a daze, but he finds it in himself to smile, absentmindedly lifting his arm and flexing, until Shane shoves it down, guides his hand on his waist. Ilya looks kind of flustered, his face hot. “Fuck, Shane,” he says, his lip curling, looking down at the way Shane rolls his hips, the way he bounces, lifting his own hips up to meet him halfway, “fuck, I wish everyone could see you – they do not know how good you are, so good–”

“You wish everyone could see me,” Shane repeats, challenging, kneading at Ilya’s pec, other hand holding himself up, planted next to Ilya’s head.

“But then I will have to kill everyone,” he admits – that’s what Shane wanted to hear. “And myself.”

That’s what Shane didn’t want to hear. He smiles nonetheless, lets go of his pec to tap his cheek, soft enough to not feel bad about it, hard enough for Ilya to moan like his soul has left his body. “Think I’d kill you first if you let that happen,” Shane mumbles, because it’s getting hard for him to speak, because he has a one track mind – roll, grind, breathe.

Ilya seems to like that, love it even, death grip on Shane’s hips undoubtedly leaving bruises in its wake, mouth permanently slack, “Fuck, baby, are you– Don’t want to–”

“You won’t, not until I say, mm?” Shane doesn’t know how he can still speak, if he’s even audible, all breath and throaty sounds, “Fuck, I’m…”

“Shane, please, you look so good, sound so good, I can’t–”

Shane shoves his fingers into Ilya’s mouth, shutting him up, his knuckles tingling with the shuddering groan he gives around them. He starts going to work, licks between them, bites, trying to distract himself. “You can,” Shane says, breathless, watching in a trancelike state. The heat in his stomach is flaring up, blossoming. “Thought you said you’d be good. Come on, baby.”

Ilya’s head lolls back, like he’s watching his soul leave his body, dragging Shane’s fingers with him by the mouth. He’s pinching his eyes shut, like it hurts to hold back, like not coming inside Shane is the same as resisting an integral bodily function, the same as holding his breath. The thought has Shane’s mouth falling open, jaw sore, and bursting onto his own stomach with a sound that hurts his throat.

Ilya’s eyes snap open, his head lifting on its own accord to check – Shane can’t think about how well Ilya knows him, knows exactly the sound he makes when wants more, when he wants less, when he comes. He lets his fingers slip out of his mouth, leaving a trail of spit down Ilya’s chin, his lip shiny, and he grinds through the aftershocks, smiling sweetly: “Go ahead.”

Ilya humps half a dozen times before he comes, too, and Shane thinks he’s even louder, although maybe that’s because his ears have started working now that he’s less charged up. The sound itself would have Shane good to go again if he was slightly more fucked in the head than he already is, if he was willing to jeopardise his health and his career in favour of milking Ilya dry. The more he thinks about it, the more appealing it seems, so he forces himself to shift and let Ilya slip out, cooing when his face scrunches up with a hiss.

“Oh, you’re okay,” Shane pats his cheek, but he’s sensitive, too, and he arranges himself carefully, fitting his front against Ilya’s side, resting his head on his slack arm, spread out like Jesus on the cross. Shane realises something, looking up at Ilya carefully, rubbing over his chest as if to bring him back, “Your back okay?”

“No,” Ilya doesn’t miss a beat, his mouth barely moving. Shane laughs into his armpit. “Is over. You are breadwinner now. I can not go back to work.”

“Soon as the NHL works out, you won’t have to step foot in a construction site again.”

“No. My man will have NHL money,” Ilya says, sighing deeply. “NHL,” he says again, because he has this theory that the thought turns Shane on – it kind of does, but maybe not in the way Ilya’s sick mind operates. “But you will make me go anyway. Because you think is hot.”

“Yeah, I get so hot worrying if today is the day you’ll get hit on the head with a brick.”

“Shane, is time to teach you a few things I think – I am not bricklayer. I do other stuff.”

“Like take smoke breaks every fifteen minutes.”

“Okay?” Ilya says loudly, feigning irritation, raising his eyebrows at the ceiling. Shane’s still laughing, pushing his forehead into his side. “But you have a lot to say when you call me and I do not pick up – how will I pick up if I am not on break?”

“Don’t pick up, fuck if I care,” Shane mumbles, burrowing further into Ilya’s side, sighing as Ilya wraps his arm tight around him. There’s no real bite to it. They both know he’s gonna keep calling. Shane wrinkles his nose, “Fuck, I’m leaking.”

Ilya makes a noise. “I would offer to clean it but I think I am going to fuck you again soon so I do not think there is any point.”

Shane’s hum is kind of sarcastic, kind of fond, and he gingerly wipes the leftover spit from Ilya’s chin – Ilya doesn’t even open his eyes. “Think I was the one that fucked you,” he points out.

“No, no,” with his eyes still shut, Ilya lets his hand trail down, lazily circle Shane’s wet hole with the tip of his middle finger. “I fucked you.”

“You’re falling asleep. I fucked you.”

“This is why you need audience,” Ilya tuts – Shane flinches at the feel of his hand, coming down hard on his ass, and he slaps Ilya’s chest right back, “now how will we settle this?” He sighs dreamily, “I wish Pike was here.”

Shane bites him, teeth sinking deep into his pec, just to hear him yelp.