Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Ottawa International Airport was relatively quiet for Christmas Eve. Granted, it was barely two AM, but Ilya had been expecting a bit more chaos in the arrivals terminal. Boston Logan had been teeming with people when Ilya had boarded his flight early yesterday evening–straight after an afternoon game against Pittsburgh. He’d been shoved and pushed in line for security check for over an hour, and he’d wished he'd hired a stupid private jet or had driven over the border instead as he’d watched the child in front of him throw herself on the ground and scream. Ilya had then had a layover in Toronto for three hours where he’d hunched over on an uncomfortable bench and watched an action movie on his phone in an effort to keep himself awake whilst he’d waited for his connecting flight to Ottawa. The flight to Ottawa had been quick but the turbulence had been terrible, and Ilya had been very happy when they’d hit the tarmac.

It had been a shitty seven and a half hours of travel, but he’d booked the worst flights, and the long ass layover, so he could arrive in Ottawa on Christmas Eve before the sun even rose and spend as much time as possible with Shane over the three day Christmas break. Ilya didn’t care for the cheap American Christmas traditions he’d been exposed to since moving to Boston–he only cared for the Russian Orthodox traditions his mother had adored, marked in early January, and even those he didn’t really participate in anymore–but when Shane had asked him to come to Ottawa for the break and spend it with him at the cottage and with his parents Ilya had been elated. Canadian Christmas was probably a little different anyway. And if it wasn’t Ilya didn’t give a fuck because he hadn’t spent more than twenty consecutive hours with Shane since early August and all he wanted was to be in the same place as Shane. Even if only for a little while.

Ilya made it through the airport without incident. It was too early for anyone to be focused on strangers in the terminal, too early for the bleary-eyed families reuniting at baggage claim to recognise him, and he was wearing a toque and had his hood up anyway. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses to hide his face like normal because that would just attract attention–what kind of douchebag would wear sunglasses at two AM in the airport besides a famous douchebag? He’d only packed a small carry-on and so he bypassed the crowd amassed at the baggage carousel and stepped out the doors into the frigid December air. He headed to the carpark.

Shane had texted him where he was parked in the carpark whilst Ilya had been waiting for the rows ahead of him to shuffle out of their seats and down the plane aisle. His boyfriend had played a game last night as well–against Winnipeg–but had gone back to his Montreal apartment for a few hours to sleep before making the drive down to Ottawa to pick up Ilya so they could head to the cottage. Ilya was tempted to offer to drive to the cottage since Shane had already driven two hours from Montreal, but he knew better than to try and get his boyfriend to sit in the passenger seat. Shane liked driving, and truthfully, Ilya liked being driven around by him–even if Shane’s car was objectively terrible. It made him feel safe sitting beside Shane with the man’s large hand rested possessively on his thigh.

He double-checked his text thread with ‘Jane’ as he waited for the lift. Shane was parked on the top floor–presumably because it was empty this early in the morning. Ilya hit the button for the top floor once inside the lift and tugged his backpack strap tight over his shoulder.

It had been a month since he’d last seen Shane, in Boston in late November. Ilya had thought that by this point in the season that he would be used to all… this–being Shane’s, missing him, stealing moments after long weeks apart–but he hadn’t adjusted at all. He missed Shane all the time. Shane’s absence had carved a crater in his chest that ached deep and visceral and Ilya didn’t think that there could ever be a way to get used to that feeling. Sometimes he wondered how he would make it through the next decade of stealing time without feeling like he was slowly eroding under the pressure.

Ilya stepped out of the lift and into the open night. The sky was pitch-black, but the airport was bright behind him and across the mostly empty carpark Ilya spotted Shane’s practical car. His heart leapt to his throat and Ilya resisted the urge to sprint across the concrete. He walked calmly, pulling his suitcase behind him, and restrained himself against the urge to drag Shane out of the car to kiss him up against it only just.

The boot was popped, Ilya dumped his bags in with a sense of déjà vu, and then he was climbing into the passenger seat to find Shane already smiling at him from the driver’s side. The expression Shane wore on his face reminded Ilya that this was a different moment–no longer fragile and nervous about the future but sure and steady.

Shane looked tired but his eyes were so warm in the dim light. Ilya reached out and touched Shane’s cheek, thumb brushing over beloved freckles, but he refrained from leaning in and kissing the man. Airport carparks were littered with cameras and even in the car under cover of the dark of early morning Ilya wasn’t sure Shane would want to risk it. Shane reached up and clasped his hand around Ilya’s wrist, holding his fingers to his face. Then he turned his head a little and pressed a soft kiss to Ilya’s palm and Ilya ducked his head to rest briefly on Shane’s shoulder.

“Good flight?” Shane asked, his voice was low and sleepy. The car was warm, idling with the heating on, and Ilya suspected he might fall asleep on the drive to the cottage.

“No,” Ilya answered and lifted his head. Shane laughed and trailed his hand up Ilya’s wrist so he could intertwine their fingers and rest their hands between them on the console.

“Airports suck this close to Christmas,” Shane said sympathetically and then he surprised Ilya by leaning in and pressing a very, very quick but tender kiss to his mouth. “I’m glad you’re here though.”

“Me too,” Ilya nodded. He leaned back into his seat and smiled at Shane when he lifted their joint hands and placed a careful kiss on the knuckle of his ring finger. Ilya’s chest ached at the gesture, and he breathed through the sudden urge to yank Shane into his lap and kiss him senseless. Shane released his hand and turned the ignition.

“You can sleep on the way if you need to,” he said gently as he pulled out of the parking space.

Ilya watched the neon lights of the carpark flicker across Shane’s lovely face, highlighting his sloping nose and high cheekbones and the plush shape of his mouth. Shane’s gaze flickered over to him when he didn’t respond, eyebrows twitching and brown eyes intent. Ilya nodded and pulled his toque off, his body warming up quickly in the car’s heating–though he suspected some of his warmth came just from being in Shane’s proximity again. The man was a hearth and all Ilya wanted was to lay beside him and bask in his glow.

Once they were on the highway Shane reached for him again, tangling their fingers, and letting Ilya hold their joint hands on his lap. The radio was on, playing softly, and Shane kept his gaze firmly on the road. There was tiredness in the sag of his shoulders and the set of his jaw, but when Ilya rested his other hand over their joint ones Shane smiled and his lashes fluttered momentarily. Shane licked his bottom lip, glanced briefly at Ilya from the corner of his eye, and then spoke in a deliciously low rumble.

“I am really happy you’re here for the holidays,” Shane told him. “My parents are excited too.”

“Mm, they texted me,” Ilya nodded, he was drifting off a little. “Told me they’re very glad you invited me for Christmas. Which was a relief. Last time I saw them…”

“Yes,” Shane agreed and Ilya caught the way his lips twitched up. “We will see them tomorrow night, well, tonight I guess since it’s morning. Just for dinner and then go back home.”

Ilya hummed at the word home. He liked the cottage a lot. It had been easy, natural, over the summer to refer to it as home when talking to Shane. Sometimes he called it home in his texts or over the phone. Sometimes he thought he should be embarrassed by that, but Shane only ever smiled soppily or whispered that he loved him when Ilya talked of the cottage like it was his home too.

“Then we’ll spend Christmas day with them,” Shane continued and squeezed Ilya’s hand just a little. “Boxing day will just be us at the cottage. Usually I spend the whole holiday period with them at their cottage but… well…” Shane trailed off with a shrug. He released Ilya briefly to change lanes and then returned his hand to Ilya’s lap. “I think they get it now that we are in a long-distance relationship and that we don’t get a lot of alone time during the season. So they were fine with us not staying with them.”

Ilya couldn’t help but laugh. “They don’t want a repeat of Montreal?”

“No one wants that,” Shane sighed and stroked his thumb over Ilya’s wrist. “They have still been talking to you regularly, right?”

“Mm,” Ilya confirmed. “Wish me luck before every game. I think they are starting to see I am the better player.”

“Ha,” Shane scoffed and shook his head. Ilya just grinned. “Mum doesn’t like your play style. Doesn’t like Boston at all.” He paused for a moment and then, with palpable affection added. “But she likes you.”

“I like her too,” Ilya said and Shane nodded. “Your dad too.”

“I’m so glad,” Shane’s voice was so soft that Ilya strained to hear it. In the silence that settled Ilya let out a loud yawn and Shane chuckled. He detangled their fingers and slid his hand between Ilya’s head and the headrest. Ilya pressed himself into Shane’s hold, enjoying the way his boyfriend stroked his thumb through the curls at the nape of his neck. “Sleep. I’ll wake you when we’re home.”

“Okay,” Ilya agreed easily and fell asleep with Shane’s fingers cradling his neck.

As the highway drifted smoothly beneath him, Ilya dreamt.

He dreamt of a golden cross, nestled safely in the hollow of a soft neck. Of long, blonde hair cascading down his mother’s back as she threw her head back and laughed, the cross glinting in the lights decorating their tree.

He dreamt of a quiet church, the air cold and heavy with a dusty, old smell that never seemed to fade. Of his mother’s hand clasped around his as they listened to the liturgy, as they approached the dais and lit candles.

He dreamt of fireworks against a pitch black sky, bursts of colour flashing between tall spires. Of his brother’s fingers curled into to fabric of his winter coat so he wouldn’t get lost in the crowd.

He dreamt of a sombre dining table, his family gathered in fragile silence as they ate kulebyaka and sochivo. Of humming in the kitchen as his mother worked throughout the day preparing a meal she would not be thanked for.

He dreamt of warm, slender hands in his hair. Of a soft voice reciting familiar stories as he curled around himself under his blankets and the press of lips to his forehead as he faded out of consciousness.

He dreamt of tears, staining rouged cheeks. Of his mother’s hair shrouding her face as she wept on the kitchen floor.

He dreamt of Russia, the Russia he knew before his mother passed. Of ballet performances and home-cooked meals and swings in the snow.

“–ya.”

There was a hand in his hair, large and calloused, but warm, so very warm, and there was a soft voice prodding at the edges of his consciousness–he thought it was saying his name.

“Ilya.”

The voice was masculine and comforting and Ilya stirred as the fingers at his hairline gently pushed back his curls.

“Ilya, we’re home. Wake up.”

Home.

Ilya blinked awake and lifted his head. Out the car windshield he saw the cottage, dark inside, but lit up by bright headlights. He groaned a little and rolled his neck, sore from how he’d been sitting with his head flopped sideways. The hand in his hair trailed down to his neck and massaged into the stiff muscles. Another hand rested on his thigh, squeezing. Ilya loved those hands.

Shane.

Ilya turned his head to look at Shane. He was leaning across the centre console; his kind, dark eyes trained on Ilya’s face and a small smile on his lips. Before he could help it, Ilya surged forward and closed the space between them, pressing his lips firmly to Shane’s. Shane responded to the kiss instantly, lips parting, head tilting, and Ilya cupped a hand under the man’s jaw to deepen the kiss. They kissed once, twice, three times. Again and again until Ilya felt warmed from the inside out. It could have been minutes, or hours, or years, by the time he pulled back.

“You slept well,” Shane whispered and Ilya kissed him again because he liked the sound of Shane’s voice and he wanted to capture it with his mouth.

“I missed you,” Ilya said, almost a whisper. Shane huffed a laugh.

“I was here the whole time.”

Ilya shrugged. He’d dreamt of Russia. He couldn’t remember exactly what he’d dreamt of, but the solemn impression of Moscow had opened a yawning pit at the centre of his chest that, inexplicably, had made him miss Shane. His mother too. There wasn’t a way to explain that, in any language he knew, so he just pressed his thumb to Shane’s lips and sighed, his body recalibrating, when Shane kissed the pad tenderly.

“Let’s go inside,” Shane murmured and Ilya nodded, releasing Shane’s chin from his grip.

Shane let Ilya carry his bags, but only because he had his own. He didn’t seem pleased about it. Ilya just laughed.

There were motion-sensor lights on the front landing and Shane stood in a small pool of light, fiddling with his keys. Ilya watched him, watched his hands as he slid the key into the lock, watched his cheeks flush pink in the cold air, watched his eyelashes reflect the light as he blinked. It was just past four in the morning, and he was exhausted, but Ilya wanted him so badly he couldn’t breathe.

Shane stepped inside and held the door open for Ilya. The outdoor lights flickered off, and Shane quickly flicked the switch on the entryway lights. The house was already warm and Ilya hummed, pleased, when he toed of his shoes and found the tile beneath his feet was heated.

“I asked my parents to come by last night and make sure the place would be warm for us,” Shane told him. He was peeling off his jacket, having already placed his shoes neatly on the rack by the door, and then he turned to Ilya with a smile.

“The floor is heated,” Ilya said. He was so happy to be back in this house.

“Yeah, I don’t come here a lot in the colder months,” Shane hung his jacket up by the door and extended his hand to Ilya to take his jacket. He hung them side by side. Ilya bent to pick up his shoes and put them on the shoe rack. “But I still wanted it to be comfortable year round.” Shane dropped his keys and wallet into the hand-carved wooden bowl that sat on his console table.

Ilya nodded, stepping between the bags crowding the entryway, and then wrapping his arms around Shane’s waist. He backed them up until Shane’s hips collided with the table; it rattled, the bowl teetered on the edge. Shane lifted his hands to Ilya’s shoulders and held him there. His eyes were dark in the minimal light, and they were fixed on Ilya’s mouth.

“You snored the whole drive,” Shane said. One of his hands had found its way to the nape of Ilya’s neck and he was digging his thumb into the aching muscle.

“I don’t snore,” Ilya protested then groaned when Shane pressed on a particularly tight spot. The muscle relaxed moments later.

“Not in bed usually,” he agreed. “I think maybe just when you’re really tired.”

“I am still tired,” Ilya murmured then buried his nose in the crook of Shane’s neck. He pressed a trail of kisses into the soft skin at the juncture of Shane’s throat and shoulder before pulling back to squash his forehead to Shane’s cheek.

“I’m exhausted,” Shane exhaled. His breath tickled the shell of Ilya’s ear.

“Let’s go to bed,” Ilya slid his hands under Shane’s sweater, just so he could feel his skin.

“We should put the bags away,” Shane said but his voice was slurring and he was pressing himself tighter into Ilya’s space, seeking contact, as his head lolled tiredly to the side. Ilya’s hands moved up further beneath the fabric of his boyfriend’s sweater, over his smooth chest and lats, around until his palms were pressed firmly into the ridges of his shoulder blades.

“In the morning,” Ilya said as he pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of Shane’s mouth. “It can wait.”

Shane’s face scrunched up, and Ilya knew his boyfriend was about to protest so he leaned in and kissed Shane again but firmly, deeply, until the man sagged and let himself be cradled in Ilya’s hold. They parted momentarily, foreheads tucked together, noses brushing. There was a soft whisper of an ‘okay’, breathed into the space between their lips and Ilya smiled before kissing Shane again. This time a little slower, a little more passionately. A kiss that he hoped Shane understood as an I missed you. I love you. I am so happy I get to sleep next to you. When he pulled back Shane’s eyes were closed and he was smiling softly.

“It can wait,” Shane agreed.

Even though he’d–reluctantly–agreed to leave the bags until morning Shane was still Shane and he refused to let either of them crawl into bed without cleaning their faces and teeth. Fortunately, Shane kept his ensuite at the cottage stocked with all the same hygiene products he used in Montreal and so they didn’t need to riffle through their bags at half past four in the morning to find their toiletries.

Shane’s skincare routine was minimal, but it involved serums and moisturisers that had been bought for him by Yuna. Ever the dutiful son, he used the products his mother told him to–even though he didn’t seem to know what they were for or why there were so many different ones. Ilya leaned against the sink and watched Shane through the mirror as he patted whatever goo his mother had bought him into his freckled skin. He was so beautiful in the soft bathroom light.

When Shane caught him staring, he just grinned and told Ilya to sit. Ilya sat on the closed toilet lid and let Shane pat cool serum into his skin because he was curious and he liked how it smelt–subtle and fresh like everything else Shane used from his laundry detergent to his shampoo. Shane pressed a soft kiss to Ilya’s forehead when he was done, lips sticking to his skin where the product was still tacky and drying down, and Ilya shut his eyes against a rush of overwhelming adoration. He dropped his head to rest against Shane’s stomach. For a while Shane just stood in front of him, fingers carding through Ilya’s curls. But then he gently nudged Ilya back, applied a thin layer of moisturiser to his face, which he then spread with tender brushes of his thumbs, before he told Ilya to brush his teeth.

They finally crawled into bed just before five. Shane had lowered the bedroom blinds so that they wouldn’t be disturbed when the sun rose in just a couple short hours and Ilya hadn’t protested. He wanted at least a few hours of rest; they could leave the blinds open tomorrow.

Ilya opened his arms for Shane and sighed contentedly when his boyfriend snuggled into his side, an arm thrown around his waist, a leg tangled around him. The comforter was warm, Shane was heavy against him, and it took only minutes for Ilya to fall asleep.

This time he didn’t dream.

Ilya woke sprawled halfway across Shane’s side of the bed with the comforter bunched down around his ankles. He was warm, a little sweaty from having slept so entangled with another body, and his elbow ached where it lay bent oddly behind him. But he felt rested. He felt more rested than he had in a month.

The only problem was that Shane wasn’t in bed.

Ilya rolled himself up onto his elbows and blinked sleepily as he took in the room. It was mostly dark, just a slither of light creeping in underneath the heavy blinds. On the nightstand the clock ticked over to eleven. He fumbled for the remote, resting on Shane’s side table, and clicked the button to open the blinds.

It was bright outside the window; the landscape blanketed in white snow. Around the cottage the previously lush greenery was stripped bare and the lake which had rippled in the summer was frozen over, reflecting sunlight off its icy surface. Something like grief churned in his sternum–that same something that would hit him in Boston winter when he was surrounded by stark, grey streets, and old buildings coated in snow, and twinkling Christmas lights in shop windows. The shape of it felt like Moscow along its jagged edges. Ilya shut his eyes and breathed.

Distantly, he heard the sound of a blender and soft voices talking.

Ilya dragged himself out of bed and into the ensuite, brushing his teeth and splashing his face with cold water to dispel the lingering ache in his chest. This time of year, the snow, all of it made him think of his mother. Of her warm blonde hair tucked into her fuzzy winter coat and of her magenta gloves bright against the snow as she balled up handfuls of snow to throw at Ilya and Alexei. Irina had loved the snow, had loved celebrating the festive season, and Ilya had spent the last decade and a half avoiding reminders of it.

He leaned against the bathroom counter for a few moments, staring down the drain. Around his neck his chain felt heavy. Ilya lifted his right hand and curled his fingers around the cross; the metal warm from having laid against his skin as he’d slept and its edges familiar as they dug into his palm. He breathed deep, pulled the cross to his mouth, and then dropped it back to its resting place at his collarbone.

It took him a few more minutes of silent breathing to pull himself out of the all too familiar grief and back into the present. He was at the cottage. He was with Shane. He wanted to be in this moment with Shane, not snowed in by memories of a family he no longer had.

Ilya wandered out of the bedroom and into the main living area of the cottage where Shane was standing in the kitchen. His boyfriend was leaning against the countertop, phone at his side on speaker as he poured boiling water into his French press. There were two smoothies on the bench next to a set of plates loaded with eggs and fruit and toast with avocado. Shane hadn’t noticed Ilya and was still talking with whoever was on the phone.

“I don’t understand how you keep meeting such horrible men,” Shane said as he stirred the coffee in the French press before securing the lid and putting it to the side to brew. He bent over the counter, leaning on his elbows as the voice on the other end replied.

“I work in Hollywood. Horrible men is kind of a prerequisite.”

Ah. Rose.

Ilya crossed the room and Shane finally noticed him. He waved, a soft smile spreading across his face as he straightened, and Ilya couldn’t help the gooey smile he gave in return. When he reached Shane, he pressed himself to his boyfriend’s back, tucking his face into the crook of his neck, and then wrapping his arms tight around the man’s stomach. They swayed a little. Shane hummed and reached his hand back to bury it in Ilya’s curls.

“Maybe you need to date men outside Hollywood,” Shane suggested as he scratched his nails into Ilya’s scalp. Ilya groaned softly and pressed wet kisses to Shane’s throat.

“I tried that, remember, and you turned out to be gay,” Rose sighed and Shane laughed. “Men in Hollywood are assholes. The one athlete I date turns out gay. I am cursed.”

“There are plenty of straight athletes, Rose,” Shane said and Ilya snorted. Shane swatted him as Ilya buried his laughter in the collar of his boyfriend’s sweater.

“Maybe I should try being more like you. Focus on my career and let love find me,” Rose said. “I mean, how did you end up with your mystery guy? Which by the way I am still annoyed that you won’t tell me literally anything about him.”

Ilya rested his cheek on Shane’s shoulder and looked up at his boyfriend with raised brows. He was curious what kind of advice Shane would give for finding love. Shane frowned back at him, as if he knew what Ilya was thinking, and dug his thumb between Ilya’s brows. It hurt a little but Ilya just grinned.

“I don’t know,” Shane mumbled eventually, removing his thumb from Ilya’s forehead. “We met… at work, I guess. Which doesn’t help you, since you want to stop dating men from work.”

“At work?” Rose asked, sounding excited. “Is he a coach? A physio? Part of management?”

“I’m not going to tell you,” Shane said and leaned into Ilya to kiss his brow. “But none of those, no.”

“Ugh, Shane,” Rose groaned. “You are no fun. After you told me you prefer being the hol–”

“Okay,” Shane interrupted and turned a brilliant shade of red.

“You can’t tell me these things and then not share,” Rose whined, a pout clear in her tone. “I tell you stuff.”

Ilya raised his brows at Shane again with amusement. Shane wriggled in his arms, feigning an attempt to break free, and Ilya pulled him in tighter to his chest. He pressed kisses along the side of Shane’s face, up his cheekbone and into his hairline and then down over the shell of his ear. The red tint of his cheeks grew warmer and Ilya bit Shane’s ear as it pinked-up as well.

“I don’t ask you to tell me stuff,” Shane protested, his voice a little strained as Ilya kept nipping and kissing at his ear. Once he was satisfied with how hot Shane’s ear felt under his mouth, he trailed his tongue down to Shane’s neck and sucked on the skin beneath his jaw. Shane gasped sharply.

“Best friends don’t need to ask,” Rose shot back.

Ilya unfurled his arms from around Shane’s stomach, dragging his palms over Shane’s hips and down to the man’s ass. He squeezed the firm muscle then slid his hands lower, fingers kneading into the thick muscle of Shane’s strong thighs. Shane shifted in his hold, his chest shuddering, his back arching as he dropped his head onto Ilya’s shoulder. Encouraged by his boyfriend’s neediness, Ilya brought one hand around Shane to settle over his clothed cock. Ilya pressed his palm into the heat between Shane’s legs and grinned against the man’s skin when he bit back a whine and pressed himself harder into Ilya. His own cock twitched as Shane’s ass grinded into him.

“Uh, anyway,” Shane breathed, lifting his head languidly from Ilya’s shoulder and resting his temple to Ilya’s cheek. Ilya snuck his other hand up under Shane’s sweater and began swiping his thumb over his nipple. “I was just calling to wish you a–ah happy Christmas. I, uh, have to go now though.”

“You sound funny,” Rose said and then she laughed delightedly. “Is your boyfriend with you? Oh my god, hi boyfriend!”

“Hel-” Ilya began but Shane just clamped his hand over his mouth.

“Shut up,” Shane hissed and Rose’s laughter grew louder. Ilya squeezed Shane’s cock through his pants, tweaked his nipple a little harshly, and grinded his hips into the man’s firm ass. Shane bit his lip.

“So he’s there then,” Rose was still laughing. “Well, hello, even though Shane won’t let you talk to me. Though maybe you can’t talk right now…”

“He can talk,” Shane said, still sounding strained and bothered. “Just another time. I gotta go.”

“Have fun! Merry Christmas,” Rose sing-songed and Shane slammed his hand on the counter beside the phone, frantically hitting the ‘end call’ button after he muttered a breathy ‘merry Christmas’ back.

The second the call disconnected Shane spun around in Ilya’s arms and yanked on his shirt until they were flush together and kissing wet and messy. Shane’s tongue was in his mouth, Shane’s fingers were curled into the fabric of his top over his pecs, and Shane’s hips were grinding into his own growing erection. Everything was Shane. Shane. Shane. Ilya was surrounded and he couldn’t be happier.

When Shane pulled back and knocked their foreheads together his breathing was harsh and he glared at Ilya. “What is it with you and interrupting my phone calls?” he demanded and Ilya just shrugged.

“I want attention,” was his only response and Shane let out a frustrated sound and reeled Ilya back in. The kiss was deep and searing and took the breath right from Ilya’s chest.

“Well you’ve got my attention, asshole,” Shane murmured into his mouth, the air hot between them. “What are you going to do with it?”

Ilya growled and shoved Shane back until his ass was pressed into the countertop. Their mouths collided in another harsh kiss, all teeth and tongue and heavy breathing. He tucked his hands under Shane’s thighs and hoisted his boyfriend up onto the bench whilst their lips remained interlocked. Shane breathed a moan into Ilya as he settled on the bench, his legs instinctively wrapping around Ilya’s hips to drag him closer and trap him between his thighs. As if Ilya would ever think of pulling away.

Their mouths parted, Ilya shoved at Shane’s chest until he dropped back onto his elbows, and then he pushed Shane’s sweater up his stomach until it was tucked under his armpits. Shane’s muscular abdomen shuddered as Ilya ran his hands up his boyfriend’s sides, goosebumps broke out on the soft skin and his nipples pebbled when Ilya pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his navel. Ilya dragged his bottom lip up Shane’s abs, flicking his tongue out occasionally to lick between the hard lines of his stomach. Around him Shane’s legs tightened and he nudged Ilya closer, pressing their erections together through the fabric of their pants.

“Ilya,” Shane mumbled and Ilya just pushed him back further on the bench–grateful Shane had chosen such a wide slab of dark marble for the kitchen–until Shane’s legs dropped from around his waist.

Ilya tugged Shane’s sweatpants down around his knees and bent over to press his mouth into the sensitive skin at the crease of his thigh. On the counter Shane squirmed and arched up, and Ilya pulled his pants the rest of the way off. He gripped the underside of Shane’s thigh and guided his knee over his shoulder, leaning further into the island to rest a forearm on the countertop. It was a little awkward to lean over the bench like this, he had to push his hips back, and his neck would certainly hurt when he was done but he wanted Shane in his mouth like yesterday. The hand he had on Shane’s thigh slowly glided down the smooth skin then underneath him so Ilya could grip at the flesh of Shane’s ass. Ilya loved Shane’s ass, almost as much as his thighs. He dug his fingers into the muscle and Shane’s hands found his curls, fingers tugging desperately at the sandy strands and Ilya moaned happily.

The kisses he placed at the base of Shane’s dick were mean, teasing, not enough. Ilya delighted in the sounds of frustration and the breathy ‘asshole’ Shane gritted through his teeth. It only encouraged him more. He ran his lips over the shaft, pressing soft kisses to the underside, and sucking lightly on the head. Shane dropped his head back and rocked his hips, knocking the leaking head of his lovely cock into Ilya’s cheek. When Ilya turned his head up to look at his boyfriend the glint in Shane’s eyes was molten hot and flickering frustration.

Ilya smoothed his palm up Shane’s side, fingers finding bruises at the thin skin of his ribs, and he dug into them just to see Shane squirm. A trembling breath escaped Shane and his eyes turned glassy, lips parting and throat bobbing as he pushed himself harder into Ilya’s touch. The bruises littering Shane’s gorgeous skin were all hockey–Ilya hadn’t left a mark on his boyfriend since August–but the way he moaned as Ilya pressed on them was as erotic as if he’d left them himself. He wondered if Shane would let him suck new bruises into the existing ones.

“Fuck,” Shane hissed and Ilya could only agree.

Ilya pressed his thumb firmly into a smaller bruise at Shane’s hip and finally took his cock deep into his throat. Shane shouted a curse and jerked against him, elbows dropping until he slid flat onto the countertop. The muscles in his thighs tensed, his leg over Ilya’s shoulder pulling Ilya further down onto him seemingly involuntarily. Ilya didn’t mind. He just breathed through his nose and relaxed his throat until he could feel Shane pressing deep into him.

Shane’s cock was thick and heavy on his tongue. And god did Ilya love it. Loved how Shane’s length choked him a little when he took him in his mouth, loved how his jaw ached to accommodate him, and how his mouth felt full as it flooded with the taste of Shane and his own saliva. He could stay between Shane’s thighs for days, sucking his dick, or eating his ass. In fact the only thing he liked to do with his mouth more than sucking Shane off was tonguing into his hole.

There was a whine when he pulled off, Shane chasing his mouth with a thrust of his hips, but Ilya just pressed him back into the counter. He ran his fingers through the mess dripping down Shane’s cock, slicking the digits with precum and spit, before returning his mouth to Shane. As he bobbed his head, slow and torturous, he slipped his hand beneath Shane’s hip and rubbed his spit-slick fingers over his boyfriend’s hole. That made Shane whine again, this time needy and pleased.

“Holy shit,” Shane moaned. “You are so goo–ahd–fuck.”

Ilya just hummed around him and twisted his fingers inside his boyfriend’s warmth, suddenly desperate for Shane to cum in his mouth. He wanted to taste him and swallow him and then get him hard again and fuck him. And he wanted all of that right now.

Shane was breathing heavily, hands sliding on the marble counter, and he jerked hard when Ilya finally found his prostate. The motion sent him further down Ilya’s throat and it hurt, made him choke, but he didn’t pull away. He began thrusting his fingers hard into Shane as he sucked wet and messy on his cock. Ilya could hear himself moaning, he could feel how unbearably hard he was in his own pants. He was so fucking turned on by Shane it felt a little unfair.

Ilya had once told Shane that he’d ruined him for anyone else. The same could be said for himself. Nothing and nobody else could ever compare.

“I’m gonna–Ilya–oh fuck–”

When Shane came, hot and thick down his throat, Ilya moaned contentedly. His fingers slowing to a gentle pulse and his bobbing halting so he could swallow Shane down until he was done. He didn’t want to waste any of Shane’s release.

Ilya pulled off once Shane’s whines turned from needy to overstimulated. He removed his fingers, wiping them on a dishtowel on the bench, and pressed one last loving kiss to the flaccid flesh of Shane’s dick. A soft whimper stirred the air in response. Ilya slid Shane’s thigh off his shoulder.

He kissed his way up Shane’s stomach, over his chest where he stopped briefly at Shane’s nipple to suck and nip, and then he pulled Shane up. Shane swayed a little, his mouth was damp, his eyes glazed over, and his cheeks ruddy. Ilya supported Shane’s back with his hands, locked firm around his hips, and pulled Shane to the edge of the counter so he could kiss his boyfriend. Their tongues brushed lazily, their lips dragged languidly, and when they parted Shane chased his mouth. He kissed Shane again, soft and tender, then rested their foreheads together.

“Are you going to do that every time I take a phone call?” Shane asked, a lazy grin spreading over his lips. The hazy look in his eyes was clearing a bit. Ilya brushed his fingers over beloved freckles.

“Maybe,” Ilya shrugged. “You sound sexy on the phone.”

“No I don’t,” Shane scoffed. “I sound normal.”

“Mm,” Ilya traced the slope of Shane’s brow with his index finger. “Maybe you just always sound sexy.”

“Shut up,” Shane muttered. Ilya grinned and kissed him again, dragging Shane’s bottom lip down between his teeth. When he released his lip Shane rolled his forehead into Ilya’s and looked down between them. “Do you want me to suck you?”

Ilya pretended to consider it. “Mm, no,” he said eventually. “I want to get you hard again and fuck you.”

“I don’t know how long that’ll take,” Shane warned and Ilya hummed pensively.

“How terrible,” he said gravely. Shane raised his brows. “I have to kiss and touch my boyfriend, maybe for hours, to get him hard again so I can fuck him. My life is hard. I am very unlucky. How did I end up with such a terrible life?”

Shane rolled his eyes as he wrapped his arms around Ilya’s neck. “You’re probably the unluckiest man on the planet,” he said, tone laced with false sympathy.

“Yes,” Ilya nodded and dragged Shane off the bench and into his arms. Shane’s legs wrapped around his waist. “But someone has to be. And for you, Shane Hollander, I will deal with my miserable fate.”

Shane’s bright laughter followed them through the house as Ilya took them to the bedroom.

The breakfast Shane had prepared earlier was ruined by the time they were done. Shane had not been happy about the waste. Ilya had just reminded Shane that he’d had three orgasms in an hour and that he hadn’t been complaining at the time–in fact he’d been begging for more as Ilya’d fucked him hard into the mattress. Shane had just told him to ‘shut the fuck up’ and Ilya loved him so much he felt stupid with it.

Shane’s parents had dropped off groceries the previous night when they’d swung by to turn the heating on. They’d also left a tub of pasta salad in the fridge. After they cleaned up the spoiled eggs, congealed smoothies, and soggy toast–the fruit was salvageable–they sat at the dining table eating pasta salad and sliced persimmons. Their hands rested between them, with their fingers intertwined, the whole meal.

It was late in the afternoon by the time they were done eating and putting away their bags; they would be expected at Shane’s parents’ house for Christmas Eve celebrations within the hour. They still needed to shower, and Ilya wanted Shane to join him, but his boyfriend had shooed him away with the excuse that he needed to wrap his parents’ presents. Ilya had pouted in Shane’s face and feigned dismay when Shane had just patted his cheek placatingly and pushed him away.

Ilya wasn’t alone in the bathroom for long though. Shane joined him barely a minute after Ilya ducked into the hot spray. They’d made out in the shower, their skin turning pink and their fingers pruning as they’d groped and grinded and kissed. It had taken an unbelievable amount of effort to focus long enough to actually clean themselves–and even then, they’d barely separated, hips pressed close and legs tangling, as they ran distracted hands over wet skin. It was a miracle they’d managed to finish showering, gotten changed, and into the car without ending up fucking again–not for a lack of trying on Ilya’s part.

He sat now, in the passenger seat, head tilted towards the window. The quiet roads between Shane’s and his parents’ cottages were dotted sparsely with houses–houses that spilt warm light out their windows into the snowy landscape, with twinkling lights hanging off their front porches, and children in their yards building snowmen. Ilya’s fingers drifted from his cross to rest over Shane’s where he was resting his hand on the gearshift. Shane flipped his hand instantly and pressed their calloused palms together, twining their fingers.

“Are you okay?” Shane asked, fingers squeezing.

“Why?” Ilya kept his eyes focused on the tree line as they turned onto the secluded road to the Hollanders’ cottage. He remembered the road from the summer, surrounded by trees and bright flowers. Now it was lined with carefully shovelled snow.

“You just seem…” Shane trailed off and Ilya turned to look at him. Shane’s eyes were fixed on the road, always the cautious driver, but Ilya noticed the concerned crease of his brow.

“My mother liked this time of year,” was all he said. Shane nodded. It was all he needed to say.

Shane parked the car in the driveway. For a moment they just sat quietly and the heaviness Ilya had felt all day settled over the car. When Shane turned to face him, his eyes were soft, and he reached out to rest a hand against Ilya’s collarbone. His thumb pressed firmly into the cross at Ilya’s throat, as if he were trying to brand its edges into his skin, and then he shut his eyes and breathed in deep through his nose. The weight of his mother’s cross, and Shane’s touch, made Ilya ache, and he swallowed thickly around the grief… and the love.

Mama should be here. She should know you.

After a moment Shane opened his eyes and leaned in, but he didn’t press into Ilya, instead he ducked his head and whispered a kiss over the metal at Ilya’s throat. He shuddered and supressed a sob. Shane pulled back to lean their foreheads together.

“I love you,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

Ilya nodded. He couldn’t speak.

“You are missing her?” Shane asked, soft and prodding in that way of his.

“Yes,” Ilya breathed. He pressed closer to Shane, nose to nose. “I am missing her.”

“Okay, maybe this is too much,” Shane said, concerned. His fingers had settled in Ilya’s curls and were massaging into his scalp. “Do you want to go back home?”

Ilya shook his head, nose bumping into Shane’s, and he leaned in to press a kiss to Shane’s mouth. It was slow and sweet and Shane sighed into it.

“No, it’s okay,” Ilya whispered when they parted. Shane pulled back a little so they could lock eyes. Ilya wanted to pull him back in but refrained.

“Are you sure?” Shane’s brown eyes were full of tender concern.

“Yes,” Ilya nodded. “I love you. I want to be here.”

There was a flicker of hesitation in Shane’s eyes, but he nodded slowly before leaning in and pressing his mouth to Ilya’s. The kiss was so adoring that Ilya felt dizzy when Shane leaned back.

“You let me know if you need anything,” Shane’s voice was firm. “I am here, okay. I am right here and I want to help. If I can.”

“You have already helped,” Ilya replied. Shane smiled and pressed a kiss to Ilya’s forehead before he pulled away and moved to open his door. He paused, fingers on the handle.

“Anything, Ilya,” he repeated, firm. “Anything you need from me I’ll give you.”

“Okay,” Ilya nodded. There was a joke about anything on the tip of his tongue, but he was choked up by Shane’s sincerity. Shane always had a way of unsettling Ilya with his earnestness.

Ilya hopped out of the car and smiled when Shane rounded the Range Rover to take hold of his hand. Shane grabbed the bag of presents from the boot, holding onto Ilya the whole time. It was cold outside, but Ilya’s skin hummed with warmth where their palms and fingers met. They walked, hands clasped together, up the winding path to the Hollander family cottage.

At the front door Shane didn’t pause to knock, he just pushed the door open and stepped inside, tugging Ilya along with him into the warmth. The door shut behind them, Shane hung their coats in the entryway, and Ilya removed his shoes.

“Hi,” Shane called into the house. “Dad. Mum.”

“Boys!” Came a shout from somewhere in the cottage, maybe the lounge room. When Ilya turned, he saw David poking his head out from the kitchen. The man waved, there was a tea towel thrown over his shoulder, and he was wearing a patterned green sweater. “Hello! Come in, come in. Yuna is in the bedroom calling your aunt. Join me in the kitchen.”

Shane took Ilya’s hand again and followed after his dad, stopping only briefly in the loungeroom to drop the present bag by a colourfully decorated tree. They ducked into the kitchen and found David rolling out dough on the counter. He smiled when they approached and Shane dropped Ilya’s hand to give his dad a one-armed hug from the side. David left his arm out for Ilya, and he only hesitated momentarily before leaning in and hugging the man. David patted his back as they parted and asked them how their day had been. They hadn’t done much with their day other than have sex and sleep, so Ilya let Shane take the lead. Shane, obviously, led with the sleeping all day part.

Ilya stood, leaning against the archway into the kitchen, watching the father-son pair as they talked. Occasionally Shane’s gaze would slide over to Ilya, checking in on him, including him in the conversation, but not drawing attention to the way Ilya quietly lingered at the edge of the room. His gaze said I’m here. It’s okay. Ilya just smiled back, a thin, fragile twist of the mouth, that even he knew was pathetic.

“Oh, Ilya,” David said, an excited edge to his tone. Ilya lifted his head in acknowledgement. “I did some research and found a recipe online for salmon kulebyaka–the internet said it is eaten a lot for Russian Christmas. Is that right?” Ilya nodded and David smiled at him, pleased, before turning back to cutting cookies out of the dough he had rolled out over the bench. “Well, anyway, I bought the ingredients for it if you want me to make it for tomorrow.”

A knot formed in his chest.

“I have not had кулебяка in a long time,” Ilya said, slowly. “That would be nice.”

David nodded and looked over at Shane with a bright smile that seemed to say see, I am getting along with your boyfriend so well. The look Shane gave his father in return was fond. Ilya excused himself quietly, muttering about needing to use the toilet, and ducked out of the room.

Ilya felt fragile, in this house that smelt like pine and gingerbread, that was decorated with family photos and stocked with food bought just for him. And if Ilya knew anything, it was that fragility was a dangerous thing; fragility meant a mocking word, a firm hand, a dead mother, a father that forgot him, a brother that didn’t want him.

He needed a moment.

When he came out of the bathroom Shane was on the phone, presumably talking to his aunt, sitting in the living room with Yuna propped on the sofa armrest beside him as she patted his hair tenderly. Yuna looked up when Ilya entered the room and stood up to greet him with a hug. She was about a head shorter than him and when she hugged him, she pulled him down, so his chin rested over her shoulder.

“Hello, honey,” Yuna squeezed him and then pulled away, she kept her hands on his shoulders. “How are you?”

“Hi,” he murmured. “I am good. How are you, Yuna?”

“You look tired,” she said instead of answering, one hand cupping the side of his face and her thumb brushing his undereye. “I’m glad you boys have a few days to rest. You’ve both been playing so well but you must be exhausted.”

“Yeah,” Ilya nodded. Over Yuna’s shoulder he could see Shane watching them, a frown creasing between his brows as he hmm’d and ah’d in response to whatever was being said to him over the phone.

Ilya looked away, over at the Christmas tree.  The tree was decorated with a bright array of ornaments, tinsel, and flickering lights. In between the branches Ilya spotted paper stars, cut roughly around their edges, covered in what could only be a child’s messy scrawling. He pulled away from Yuna and approached the tree, cupping a hand around one of the stars. The paper was old, curling inwards, and the scribbled pictures were fading with age. One of the stars had ‘Shane’ written across its back in shaky, uneven letters. The ‘e’ was backwards.

“Shane made those,” Yuna sidled up beside him and she was grinning proudly. “Back when he was in elementary school–he was never very artistic, never made me any pictures for the fridge, but the school made the kids make Christmas ornaments that year.” Her voice turned soft and fond as she reached out to touch a star with glitter flaking off of it. “These are my favourite decorations.”

Ilya smiled, he could remember cutting paper snowflakes for his mother and her hanging them on the mantle. He dropped a paper star and inspected the other ornaments carefully. They were mismatched–which surprised Ilya, he would have expected Yuna Hollander to have a sleek, clean Christmas tree. The rest of the house wasn’t decorated though, only the tree in the corner indicated it was Christmas, which was much more aligned with Ilya’s expectations of the woman.

“David decorates the tree,” Yuna said as if reading his mind. “I don’t care much about this–” she gestured at the tree “–part of the season. I just like having my boy home.”

“Did you celebrate growing up?” Ilya asked and Yuna nodded.

“Yes, we did,” she replied, “but it wasn’t a big thing for my family. Christmas wasn’t even a public holiday in Japan. So we didn’t celebrate it like they do in Canada until I was five–that’s when we immigrated here.”

“Is different in Russia, too,” Ilya hummed. “We celebrate New Years Eve. Is kind of like Western Christmas with presents and Дед Мороз–Father Frost, like Santa, kind of. And we have Рождество Христово in January–that is religious holiday.”

“Did you celebrate?” Yuna asked, she was looking up at him with those same curious brown eyes that her son had. Ilya couldn’t help but answer.

“Yes,” he nodded, “my mother loved Рождество Христово. She would take me and my brother to church every year and we would eat Сочиво. Was very important to her.”

“And you?” Yuna was fiddling with an ornament that had tangled itself in the tree’s branches.

“I liked it,” Ilya shrugged. “Where were you born in Japan?”

“Chigasaki,” she turned to him. “It’s on the beach but I don’t remember much about it.”

Yuna reached out to grab his forearm and led him over to a bookcase on the other side of the loungeroom. She plucked a small wooden picture frame from the shelf and handed it to Ilya. The photo was old, worn at its corners, its colours dulled. On the left a beautiful young woman sat, her dark hair styled elegantly on top of her head, and she was clothed in layers of silky, colourful robes. Beside her stood a handsome man, maybe a few years older, and he was looking down at her adoringly. Ilya ran a thumb along the edge of the frame. The woman’s face was similar in shape to Yuna’s, but Yuna had the man’s nose and smile.

“Your parents?” he asked. Yuna nodded and touched the picture tenderly.

“They died the summer after Shane’s rookie season,” she told him, gently taking the photo from his hand and settling it on the bookshelf again. “I still miss them.”

Ilya could only nod. Yuna’s hand rested on his bicep for a brief moment. A shared acknowledgement of grief. He leaned into it and swallowed around the urge to cry.

“Do you speak Japanese?” Ilya cleared his throat. Yuna sniffed and shook her head sadly.

“No, um,” she sighed. “I used to, but our parents wanted us to focus on learning English so we wouldn’t feel so out of place and so we could help them learn as well. My parents still spoke it until they died but I just… I lost it. I didn’t practice. I never taught Shane. His grandparents tried, but he had no one to regularly practice with so…”

“Mm,” Ilya nodded. “Well, it wouldn’t be fair if he knew even more languages. Two is enough. Such a show off.”

Yuna laughed, the heaviness of their shared grief lifting as she smiled at Ilya. The laugh lines at her mouth and eyes were really, truly beautiful. Ilya wished his mother had grown old enough to develop those.

“He told me he is learning Russian,” Yuna said. “So it seems like soon he might know three languages anyway.”

“No, not soon,” Ilya protested, pulling an exaggerated frown. “His accent is terrible. Will take him many years to learn.”

“Fuck you, Rozanov!” Came Shane’s voice, shouting across the room from the couch. He pronounced the name with his usual Canadian inflection and Ilya just smirked. Point proven. When Ilya turned, he saw Shane had hung up the phone and was flipping him off. Ilya flipped him off back.

Yuna was still laughing as she tugged Ilya’s hand down and clasped it between her hands. Her palms were warm, the skin on the back of her hands lined with wrinkles and dotted with freckles. They were the hands of someone who was aging–who had lived and had many years left to go.

“Ignore him,” she tutted and pulled Ilya into her side, turning them back to the shelf. She nodded to the photo of her parents. “I know you’ve come here a lot later in life than I did but… I don’t want you to lose parts of your history like I did and end up regretting it. I know you’ll never lose your language, but I hope you don’t lose the traditions that mattered to you.” She tilted her head onto his shoulder. “If we can help you keep those alive, we would like to.”

“Oh,” he breathed.

They stood quietly for a moment, Yuna’s head on his shoulder, and her hand wrapped around his bicep. She smelt like jasmine and fresh linen. His mother had smelt like soft amber and cloves. It was different–they were so different–but for the first time, in a long time, Ilya remembered what the tender concern of a mother was meant to feel like.

“Thank you.”

Yuna simply nodded and squeezed his arm.

As the evening went on, Ilya found himself settling. The knot in his chest unfurled as they ate dinner at the dining table and played Gin Rummy in teams of two afterwards–he was paired with Yuna and Shane with David. They drank vodka–well Ilya, Yuna and David did–and they ate the gingerbread cookies David had baked. Even Shane had a couple–they were apparently his favourite. And the more they drank, and played, the more the house filled with raucous laughter and heated arguments. Yuna and Ilya winning almost every round, much to Shane’s chagrin, and Ilya delighted in the vicious way Yuna celebrated beating her son and husband. She was a lot like Shane in the face of victory, dark eyes lit with smug satisfaction and mouth twisted cockily.

He was several vodkas in and definitely a little tipsy by the time they finished playing, well, by the time Shane was sick of losing. David and Shane had both left the table and were in the loungeroom, setting up a movie, as was apparently Hollander family tradition on Christmas Eve. Yuna was still sat beside him, giggling, her face flushed, as she sipped on her vodka.

“You are a good teammate,” she told him, clinking their glasses together.

“The best,” Ilya agreed and downed the rest of his glass, setting it on the table, hard. “Though maybe those two are just terrible.”

“They are really bad,” Yuna agreed and patted her flushed cheeks. “Oh my, I am drunk.”

Ilya just laughed and nodded. “You are.”

“Are you?” Yuna looked over at him, eyes serious.

“No, am Russian,” Ilya shook his head but then he giggled. Yuna threw her head back and laughed. “Maybe little bit.”

“This is fun,” she wheezed between bursts of laughter.

“Will you two hurry up!” Shane shouted from the loungeroom. “We want to watch the movie.”

“Oh my godddddddd, so bossyyyyyyy,” Ilya groaned and Yuna snickered.

She held out her hand when Ilya stood, a silent request for help to steady her, and he obliged, leading her with her hand rested in the crook of his elbow into the loungeroom. David was sat at one end of the L-shaped lounge with Shane at the opposite side on the chaise, legs spread out in front of him, and arms crossed over his stomach. Ilya helped Yuna over to David and she plopped herself down beside him with a wide grin, tucking her feet under herself and leaning into her husband’s side. Her head found his shoulder and David laid his arm over her back, pulling her close.

Ilya turned, considered the middle cushion, but he caught Shane’s eye and the man gave a smile as he opened his arms. It was no decision at all really to flop himself onto the chaise between Shane’s legs. He leaned into Shane, back to his chest, Shane’s knees bending to accommodate him, bracketing him in. Ilya squirmed against his boyfriend until he was comfortable, slumping down low against his chest so he could rest his head on Shane’s sternum. Shane’s arms slid over his shoulders, hands clasping together on Ilya’s pecs, and he leaned down to press several kisses to the top of Ilya’s head.

“Are you okay?” Shane whispered against Ilya’s ear as the opening credits began to play. Ilya reached up and rubbed his palms along Shane’s forearms, reassuring.

“Yeah,” he replied, turning his head and pressing a kiss to Shane’s bicep where it rested on his shoulder. Shane pulled him in tighter then dropped his cheek to the top of Ilya’s head.

Out of the corner of his eye Ilya noticed David smiling over at them, tangled together on the chaise, and the warmth in that look settled Ilya the rest of the way. He was nestled in his boyfriend’s arms, his belly was full of home-cooked pasta and cookies, and he was surrounded by people who, by a stroke of luck, cared deeply for him.

Shane fell asleep halfway through the movie, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath Ilya as he dozed. Ilya almost felt like he could fall asleep as well; Shane’s deep breathing soothing him into a fuzzy space. The alcohol was probably making him a little bleary as well.

Ilya shut his eyes, just for a moment, and nuzzled his face into Shane’s arm.

It wasn’t until his was being shaken awake that Ilya realised he’d dozed off as well. He groaned and blinked and rubbed his face as Shane stirred beneath him. When he managed to shake himself awake, David was leaning over them, his hand on Ilya’s shoulder, and he was smiling fondly.

“You boys missed the whole movie,” David laughed, his low voice gentle over the sound of the end credits.

“Seen it before,” Shane grumbled against Ilya’s head and then he removed an arm from around Ilya to scrub over his face. “What’s the time? We should go.”

“It’s really late,” David moved his hand to his son’s shoulder. “I think you boys should stay. The roads are too dark now, it’s been snowing, and you’re exhausted Shane. You can’t drive like this.”

“I can drive,” Ilya mumbled sleepily, knowing Shane would never let him drive after drinking that much. Even though Ilya was fine. Totally sober.

“You’ve had a bit to drink, son,” David said and stood up. “I think it’s better you stay.”

“Mm,” Ilya agreed and Shane made a grumbling noise, his cheek pressing into Ilya’s curls.

“Kay,” he was muffled by Ilya’s hair, but David nodded happily.

“Good,” he said. “One small problem. The guest room is full of boxes–we’re redoing the bedrooms in Ottawa, and we brought everything here to get it out of the way. We didn’t think you boys would be staying with us, so we didn’t tidy up.” David explained then waved his hand as if all that was unimportant. “Anyway, Shane, your old room is empty but the bed’s only a double.” Shane had his chin propped on top of Ilya’s head and was nodding. “Might be too small for you both though, maybe one of you should sleep on the cou-”

“No,” Shane shook his head, chin digging into Ilya’s crown. Ilya grinned, widely, at the slight whine in his boyfriend’s tired voice. If Shane hadn’t protested, he certainly would have. Or if Shane had agreed Ilya would have just had to crawl into bed beside him once he was asleep. “We’ll be fine. Right, Ilya?” His arms squeezed around Ilya, prompting him to agree.

“Yes, fine,” Ilya nodded, dislodging Shane’s chin. David raised his brows down at them, then he pursed his lips and scratched his neck a little awkwardly.

“It’s an old bed, very creaky,” was all he said and Ilya burst into laughter as Shane spluttered behind him.

“Dad! No! What!” Shane’s voice was no longer sleepy, and he jostled Ilya as he sat up which just made Ilya pout. “We’re not–Dad! I just–I don’t want to sleep apart. We won’t–Dad!”

“We like to sleep together,” Ilya said helpfully and Shane punched his arm. “What? I mean like beside each other!”

“Shut up!” Shane hissed and David threw up his hands in an apologetic gesture.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he said, placatingly. Ilya sat up and twisted to frown at Shane, who was bright red and scowling at his father. “I just wanted to warn you–”

“Don’t worry, Mr Hollander,” Ilya said, still not used to using the man’s first name. “Shane wouldn’t let that happen again.”

“Don’t. Mention. It.” Shane said, teeth clenched.

“Okay, alright,” David laughed as he began backing out of the room. “I’ll let you boys go get settled for bed. If you need anything let us know. You’ve still got some old clothes in your room, Shane. And you know there’s spare toiletries in the guest bathroom.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Shane mumbled and then flopped back against the couch cushions once David was gone. He brought his hands up to cover his face and gave a long, dramatic groan. Ilya huffed a laugh.

“You are red,” he observed.

“My dad told us the bed is creaky!” Shane whisper-shouted and parted his fingers to look at Ilya. “That is so embarrassing.” He whined and Ilya just grinned and turned around fully, settling himself on his knees between Shane’s thighs so he could lean down over Shane, hands bracing on the back of the couch at either side of his head. Ilya kissed the backs of Shane’s hands then pulled on his wrists until the man let him remove them from his face. He leaned in and kissed Shane’s flushed cheeks.

“Come on,” he hummed “take me to bed.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Shane shoved him and Ilya grinned as he stood.

Shane led him down the hall, past David and Yuna’s room; through the door Ilya could see the couple moving about the room getting ready for bed. Shane’s cottage bedroom was just past the main bathroom, one door down and across from David and Yuna. The room was sparsely decorated, a double bed pushed into one corner, the duvet cover a very Canadian plaid pattern, and in the opposite corner there was a bookshelf and a small desk. There were a few books on the shelf, old and yellowing, and a collection of pretty rocks piled beside photos of Shane with his high school and middle school hockey teams. On the desk there was a blue lamp and above it were several posters of NHL stars from the late 90s and early 2000s. There were no trophies or jerseys hanging in the room–Ilya suspected that was because Yuna had all of them proudly displayed in the living room.

The space was a time capsule, a glimpse of Shane before the NHL, before Ilya. They’d met at seventeen, but Ilya hadn’t known this version of Shane at all–the one that had occupied this space in the summers off from school, the one that apparently collected rocks. He trailed a hand over the little pile of stones; they were cool against his fingers.

“Did you collect these?” Ilya asked. He looked over at Shane, who was standing at the wardrobe across the room and riffling through the bottom drawers. Shane glanced over his shoulder briefly and shook his head.

“No, um, my dad,” Shane told him as he straightened up, holding a neatly folded shirt. “We used to hike a lot in the summer. It’s so nice around here–we should do that next year–um, anyway, he would pick them out of the lake or off the shore and give them to me. Dad likes nature, he was a Scout when he was younger.” Shane shrugged. “I was a Beaver when I was six, too.”

“A beaver?” Ilya blinked, head tilted. Shane laughed.

“In the Scouts,” he explained. Ilya was vaguely aware of what Shane meant but didn’t press for more information, just nodded. “But I didn’t stick with it–with any other hobbies really. It was always just hockey.”

“Ah, yes,” Ilya rolled one of the stones over in his palm. It was smooth, black, and flecked with white; he put it back on the shelf.

Shane had placed the shirt he’d pulled from the wardrobe on the bed and was digging through the drawers again for more clothes for them to sleep in. Ilya sat on the edge of the small mattress, the bed creaking beneath him, and he snorted. If they even tried to fuck in this bed the whole neighbourhood would hear. Let alone Shane’s parents.

He shamelessly ogled Shane’s ass as the man bent over in the wardrobe and didn’t even feign innocence when Shane straightened up and eyed him suspiciously. Shane had a bundle of clothes in his arms, and he dumped them at Ilya’s side. He pulled off his sweater, and the shirt underneath, then picked out a blue t-shirt with white writing emblazoned across the chest from the pile. Garrett Ross Hockey Camp 2006 it said. It was way too small for him.

The blue fabric stretched tight over Shane’s chest, his nipples showing through the thin material, and the shirt riding up his waist, exposing the skin at his navel and his hips. It was hot. The way he filled out the material of the shirt, the way his biceps bulged out the sleeves, the way the fabric clung to the swell of his pecs. His fucking nipples poking through the fabric. Ilya wanted to eat him alive, creaky bed be damned.

Then he looked up, at Shane’s face, and burst into laughter.

Shane was frowning down at himself, an adorable crease between his brows, and a flush rising high on his pretty cheekbones. He looked so offended by the shirt’s slutty fit.

“Why are you laughing?” Shane demanded, tugging on the hem. Ilya just batted his hands away and pulled Shane close to him, making the man stand between his thighs as he kept laughing. “It is a lot smaller than I remember–I look stupid. Ilya, stop laughing.”

“No, no,” Ilya pressed his thumbs to Shane’s hipbones. “You look hot, this is crazy. Unfair. Please put your nipples away.”

“What?” Shane almost, but not quite, squeaked. Ilya reached up and pinched Shane’s chest.

“Look at these,” he teased. “Staring right at me. Hollander, you are trying to seduce me. In your childhood bedroom with creaky bed. I am… scandalised.”

“I’m not trying to seduce anyone,” Shane grumbled and wriggled away from Ilya’s hold. He stood in the middle of the room, looking self-conscious. “I didn’t realise I gained so much muscle.”

“Mm,” Ilya leaned back on his elbows and raked his eyes appreciatively down Shane’s torso. “Is good, no? You were fifteen when you got this shirt, yes?”

“Yeah, I mean,” Shane nodded and looked at himself in the mirror hanging on the open wardrobe door. “I was fifteen, yeah. This shirt was fitted then, but I guess I got bigger.”

Ilya smirked, thinking of Shane at seventeen. He’d been big then too, broad shouldered, even though he had always been hunching over to make himself appear smaller. Over the years Ilya had seen the changes in Shane’s body–his most favourite, of course, being the steady growth of his glutes and thighs. Ilya loved the stretch marks that lined the swell of Shane’s ass and trailed down his inner thighs. Signs of growth, of change.

He was just about to tell Shane just how ridiculously fucking hot he was when he heard laughter at the doorway. They both looked up towards the door. Yuna was standing there with her hand over her mouth as she giggled.

“Oh honey,” she said, “I think that might be too small for you.”

“No,” Ilya protested. “Is perfect. He should wear it all the time.”

Shane shot him a glare and Ilya just grinned, sending Shane a playful wink.

“Do you think dad could lend us something?” he asked, ignoring Ilya’s blatant flirting.

“Yeah,” Yuna nodded. “I will go have a look.”

“Thanks, mum.”

Shane yanked the shirt off, with some effort, and folded it back up. When he glanced over at Ilya, his chest bare, Ilya pretended to have a heart attack and flopped back on the bed clutching his chest. He made some exaggerated dying noises and Shane just kicked his shin.

“Hollander, stop,” Ilya said in a strangled voice. “You are killing me. Too hot.”

“Shut up,” Shane threw the shirt at Ilya’s face, undoing his careful folding. Ilya just laughed, head covered and unbothered.

Yuna came back then and Ilya pulled the shirt off of his face, sitting up as she placed a pile of clothes at the foot of the bed. “These are David’s old McGill clothes. He was big in college like you two are now. They should fit.”

“Thank you, Yuna,” Ilya smiled at her and she ruffled his curls before hugging Shane and patting him on the cheek.

“See you in the morning,” she said. “Remember the bed creaks.”

“Oh my god! Mum!” Shane yelled and flushed bright red as Yuna left the room, shutting the door behind her.

“They really think we cannot control ourselves,” Ilya hummed and Shane glared at him.

“You cannot control yourself,” Shane muttered as he plucked an oversized red t-shirt with McGill Athletics written across it in white from the pile.

“And you can?” Ilya raised a brow. He leaned over to the pile and picked out a black shirt with a red and white crest printed on it. He shucked off his own shirt and caught Shane staring at his chest before the man mumbled something and walked to the other side of the room to take off his jeans and put on a pair of black sweats with the same crest embroidered on the pockets. Ilya changed into a pair of grey sweats with McGill written along the outer seams.

Shane put his old hockey camp t-shirts away and closed the wardrobe. He led Ilya back out the room, to the bathroom, and they brushed their teeth with the spare toothbrushes under the sink and washed their faces with a spare cleanser. Yuna had left some moisturiser on the bench for Shane and Ilya made Shane put it on his face again, grinning the whole time as Shane grumbled at him about using his own damn hands. If Ilya could make his boyfriend touch him, for any reason, he would.

They shut off all the lights in the house, including the string lights on the tree, and went past David and Yuna’s room to say goodnight. The pair said goodnight back and didn’t mention the creaky bed again. Shane held his hand the whole time.

Back in Shane’s bedroom they crawled under the covers together, Shane sprawled out on top of Ilya, as they slowly kissed in the lamplight. The kisses they exchanged were soft, lips warm, tongues gentle, hands wandering over stomachs and chests but not below waistbands. It was stupid how much Ilya enjoyed it.

He’d never spent time like this before, kissing and touching just to kiss and touch, just because he wanted to, just because he could. Knowing they couldn’t go any further but not wanting to stop. Frankly, making out like teenagers.

Shane was warm on top of him, laying between his legs, with his hands in Ilya’s curls, gently tugging through the strands. Ilya’s mouth tingled from the kisses. Yet he still wanted to be closer to Shane somehow. Crawl inside him. Bury down deep in his chest and refuse to leave.

Ilya carefully rolled them over, aware of the limited space, shuffling them to the middle of the bed, and pushing himself into Shane, kissing and kissing the man beneath him into the mattress. Shane sighed happily against his mouth, arms curling around Ilya’s neck and dragging him closer, their noses squishing as their kisses deepened. Their tongues brushed, their breathing turned ragged, and they both sighed softly when their hips pressed together accidentally. Ilya could feel the heat between them, both of them half hard in their sweats. He kept kissing Shane, angling his hips away, toning down the intensity of his kisses.

They parted, foreheads brushing, noses bumping. Ilya kept leaning in to press closed-mouth kisses to Shane’s lips, his chin, his jaw, then his lips again. He couldn’t stop kissing him completely, but he was trying to cool the simmering heat between them.

Shane trailed his fingers down the side of Ilya’s face, down then back up, before pushing his hand through Ilya’s curls, fingers settling at the back of Ilya’s head and massaging his scalp. He was smiling, eyes shining in the yellow lamplight, his nose casting shadows on his freckled cheek, his mouth spread in an adoring smile. Ilya could look at him forever.

“You know,” Shane whispered, “this is really nice.”

“Nice?” Ilya raised his brows. “Just nice? I am offended.”

“No, shut up, I mean,” Shane rolled his eyes and tugged on Ilya’s hair just a little in reprimand. “When I was a teenager, I guess I never thought I’d make out with someone in here. I mean I had a girlfriend in high school but I just never…” Shane trailed off and looked around the room, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes. “I would kiss her, and I had sex with her. There were other girls too. But I guess I just never thought I’d experience what all the hype was about.”

“The hype?” Ilya asked, settling in on top of Shane, spreading his weight over his boyfriend’s body. Shane shut his eyes momentarily and breathed a sigh that sounded like relief, one hand leaving Ilya’s curls and trailing down Ilya’s spine. Ilya reached a hand up to push back the messy strands of Shane’s dark hair, longer now than it had been since Ilya had known him. “What hype?”

“Sex,” Shane murmured. “It was never that good. I kind of thought everyone was exaggerating, making up how good it made them feel, until…” He flushed and looked Ilya in the eye, the shimmer of his brown eyes clearly trying to communicate something to Ilya that he didn’t want to say out loud.

“Until?” Ilya prompted, he could guess what Shane wanted to say. But he wanted to hear it. Shane huffed at him and visibly steeled himself.

“Until you,” he said. “When you touched me… I understood.”

“I am glad,” Ilya replied, he was smirking a bit, but his tone was sincere.

“You’re not going to make fun of me?” Shane asked, brows in his hairline. Ilya pinched his cheek.

“I mean I can if you want,” he shrugged. “But no. I am happy you found out what ‘the hype’ was about.” Ilya pressed a gentle kiss to Shane’s mouth. “And am very, very happy you found it with me.”

“Don’t go getting a big ego about it,” Shane grumbled but he was kissing Ilya between the words, murmuring them into Ilya’s mouth.

“How could I not?” Ilya laughed, pulling back a bit, and relishing the way Shane pouted at the loss of contact with his mouth. “Shane Hollander, Canada’s pride and joy, who never understood the hype, turned into sex crazed man by Ilya Rozanov, best NHL player, champion of the hype. Is much to brag about.”

“Shut up,” Shane smiled and yanked Ilya back down to kiss him again. Ilya went happily, making out with Shane long and slow and tender.

When they parted again, Shane ran his thumb over Ilya’s wet bottom lip. Ilya watched Shane, the way his straight lashes fluttered over his cheeks, the way his mouth parted as he breathed slow into the space between them. He was so in love.

“What were you like in high school?” Shane asked, gaze flickering up to meet Ilya’s. His brown eyes were curious, intent on Ilya and full of raw adoration.

“Ah,” Ilya thought about it. He didn’t remember much about high school. “I was terrible student. Skipped class a lot. Was always smoking behind back buildings. Went to all the parties.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” Ilya nodded. “I mean, I did not fail school. My father would never have allowed that.” He shrugged then smiled down at Shane. “What about you? Mr Perfect.”

“I wasn’t a very good student either,” Shane shook his head. “Same as you I didn’t fail, mum would never let me fail, but I was always thinking about hockey–I didn’t care at all about anything else.”

“Were you like me?” Ilya asked, fingers skimming Shane’s hairline.

“Like you?”

“Bad boy.”

“Ha,” Shane scoffed. “I was not smoking at school, but I went to parties. I was popular, I guess, everyone knew me. I was invited to everything. But I don’t really think I had friends, if that makes sense.”

Ilya nodded. It did. “What would you have done do you think?” he asked. When Shane frowned, confused, he elaborated. “If not hockey.”

“Oh,” Shane flushed and laughed quietly. “No fucking idea. There was never anything else.” He pursed his lips and titled his head. “You?”

“Mm,” Ilya hummed as he thought. “F1 driver. I like going fast.”

“Of course,” Shane smiled. “We both are very lucky hockey worked out.”

“For many reasons,” Ilya agreed and pressed his lips to Shane’s.

“Yeah, for many reasons,” Shane agreed, kissing back.

“Did you ever notice boys in school?” Ilya asked when they parted, nuzzling his nose into Shane’s.

“I have thought about this,” Shane admitted and Ilya raised his brows. “I think I did but I just repressed it super hard. I definitely had a crush on one of my assistant coaches–he was a college guy.”

“Oh really?” Ilya waggled his brows and pinned Shane beneath him a little firmer. “What was he like?”

“Tall, muscular, curly hair, good at hockey,” Shane shrugged and Ilya grinned broadly.

“Mm, accent?” He asked and Shane flushed a brilliant red.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Yeah, he was Czech.”

“You have a type,” Ilya sing-songed and pressed kisses into Shane’s cheeks. Shane squirmed and pushed at him before covering his face with his hands.

“I do,” he complained and Ilya laughed, tugging Shane’s hands away.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he cooed. “I am your type. Is good.”

“You are like my whole type,” Shane corrected.

“You are my type, too,” Ilya hummed and Shane rolled his eyes, muttering ‘yeah right’ under his breath. “What? Is true!” He nudged Shane and made the man look at him. Ilya held up his hand and listed his type. “Dark hair, fat butt, thick thighs, pretty face, glasses, freckles, gets hard when sees me naked in showers, cums quickly, boring.”

Shane shoved him and Ilya laughed, bright and happy, burying his face in his boyfriend’s neck as the man kept pushing at him. Ilya blew a raspberry into the curve of Shane’s neck and delighted in the indignant sounds of protest Shane made in response. Shane pushed on his face until Ilya was out of his neck and grinning down at him again.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Is your type.”

“Whatever.”

Ilya ducked his head and kissed Shane, hard and messy, square on the mouth. Satisfied when Shane melted into him and pulled him closer. He ran his hands under the hem of Shane’s shirt, palms gliding over soft skin, fingers tickling at the man’s happy trail, before settling his hands around Shane’s hips. They kissed for a while, lazily, lips dragging and breath mingling. It felt incredible.

Suddenly, Ilya yawned, right into Shane’s mouth. Shane laughed. “Okay, let’s sleep,” he said and Ilya made to protest but yawned again. He nodded instead.

Shane switched off the lamp on the bedside table, and they shuffled around on the bed, trying to get comfortable on the small mattress. Ilya ended up pressed between Shane and the wall, a leg trapped between Shane’s thighs, his arms wrapped around his boyfriend, Shane’s head pillowed on his chest. They were pressed together at every possible point; bodies so entangled Ilya wasn’t sure where either of them began or ended. Ilya would hate sleeping in a king-sized bed with Shane again. This was as close as he always wanted them to be.

Shane nuzzled into his chest, pressing a kiss to his pec. “Thank you for coming,” he murmured. “I know it was hard for you, but I like having you here, so much.”

“I like being here,” Ilya mumbled back, pressing his lips to Shane’s forehead, dragging kisses into his dark hair.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane said, his pronunciation sloppy with sleepiness.

“I love you too,” Ilya replied, arms tightening around him.

It didn’t take long for Shane to drift off, his breathing turning even and deep as he snuggled into Ilya’s hold. Ilya rested his cheek in Shane’s hair, stroking his thumb tenderly over the curve of Shane’s spine beneath his shirt.

He thought of home. Of rooms lit by grey light, of quiet footfalls in the hallway, of impenetrable silences over dining tables, of blank walls and lush carpets, of affection withheld and the empty spaces left behind. Of a cottage nestled in the woods, of warm light spilling in through wide windows, of home-cooked meals, of arms wrapped around him, of kisses pressed into his hair and a comforting hand on his arm.

Ilya drifted off, thinking of home, of Shane.