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The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and overcooked peas, a combination Shane would’ve found funny if his knee didn’t feel like it had been run through a woodchipper. He thumbed absently through his phone, pausing on a photo of Ilya mid-laugh at last week’s team dinner, his broad shoulders shaking with it. The door creaked open.
"Did you break your leg or your thumbs?" Ilya leaned against the doorframe, holding a paper cup of coffee in one hand and a crumpled bag of vending machine peanuts in the other. His golden hair was mussed, like he’d run his fingers through it one too many times on the drive over.
Shane's thumb hovered over the photo of Ilya—that unguarded moment caught between two perfect frames where his eyes crinkled at the corners and his mouth was open mid-guffaw, the kind of laugh that made Shane’s ribs ache in the best way. He didn’t hear the door at first, too caught up in the memory of Ilya’s fingers brushing his thigh under the table that night, possessive even in public.
"Hey baby, c'mere," Shane grinned, tossing his phone onto the bedside table with a clatter. The movement jostled his knee, sending a sharp twinge up his thigh, but he didn't care—not when Ilya was already crossing the room in three strides, the peanuts forgotten on the tray table as he leaned down to kiss him.
Ilya's mouth was warm and familiar, the taste of coffee lingering on his tongue. Shane reached up, fingers curling into the fabric of Ilya's shirt, pulling him closer despite the awkward angle of the hospital bed. "Missed you," he murmured against Ilya's lips, and it was stupid because it had only been a few hours since practice, since the fall, since the ambulance ride.
Ilya's thumb brushed the edge of Shane's bruised cheekbone, feather-light, like he was afraid the touch alone might hurt. "Does it still—"
"No," Shane interrupted, catching his wrist before he could pull away. He pressed a kiss to Ilya's knuckles, grinning at the way his fingers twitched in surprise. "With you here? Not even a little."
Ilya exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound almost lost under the rhythmic beep of Shane's heart monitor. He straightened up, arms crossed tight over his chest—a futile attempt at looking stern when his knuckles still tingled from Shane's lips. "I told you to be careful," he muttered, voice dropping into that low, rough register that always made Shane's stomach swoop. "Right before that goddamn drill. 'Don't push it,' I said. 'Ice your knee first,' I said."
Shane bit his lip to hide a smile, watching the way Ilya's jaw worked. The fluorescent lights caught the silver scar above his eyebrow—the one Shane had traced with his tongue just last night—and suddenly the hospital room felt too bright, too sterile for the heat pooling low in his stomach. "Sorry, baby," he murmured, not sorry at all, and tugged Ilya's wrist until the taller man sighed and let himself be pulled onto the narrow bed.
The mattress groaned under their combined weight, Ilya's hip pressing against Shane's uninjured thigh as he settled beside him. "You're lucky I love you," Ilya muttered into Shane's neck, his breath warm against the pulse point there. Shane could feel the tension in his shoulders—the way he held himself carefully still, like he might break something just by existing too loudly in this space.
"You closed the door?" Shane whispered, fingers tightening around the back of Ilya's neck where his hair curled at the base.
Ilya shifted to look at him, eyebrows knitting together. His gaze flicked to the door handle then back to Shane. "Do you need the nurse?"
Shane exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers tightening where they'd tangled in Ilya's shirt. "No," he murmured, watching the way Ilya's pupils dilated in the sterile light, "I need you."
Ilya's breath hitched—just once, barely audible—before his mouth crashed into Shane's with the kind of desperate precision that sent heat arcing down Shane's spine. The hospital bed creaked dangerously as Ilya braced one hand against the railing, the other cupping Shane's jaw with a tenderness that belied the hunger in his kiss. Shane could taste the salt on his skin, the lingering bitterness of bad coffee, and something deeper—that indefinable Ilya scent that always made his thoughts scatter like spilled pucks across ice.
Shane broke the kiss with a gasp, hissing as his knee twinged when he tried to shift closer. "Fuck," he muttered, fingers tightening in Ilya's hair. "Can't do it right now with my casts, so you're just gonna have to sit on me."
Ilya froze. His eyelashes fluttered—once, twice—before his eyes widened comically. "You mean..." His voice cracked. "You fuck me?"
"Come on," Shane groaned, rolling his hips up against Ilya's thigh despite the twinge in his knee, his fingers tightening in Ilya's hair. "I'm fucking horny and you were gone for hours at practice." The words came out ragged, punctuated by the sharp inhale when Ilya's thumb brushed the hollow of his throat.
Ilya's breath hitched—Shane could feel it against his lips—before he pulled back just far enough to meet Shane's gaze. His pupils were blown wide, dark enough to drown in, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "You want to top." It wasn't a question. The way his voice dropped, rough with something between disbelief and want, sent heat licking down Shane's spine.
Ilya's blush spread like wildfire—pink creeping from the hollow of his throat up to the tips of his ears—as his fingers flexed against Shane's collarbone. "O-okay," he muttered, voice cracking on the second syllable in a way that made Shane's stomach flip.
Shane exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers tightening where they'd tangled in Ilya's shirt. "Only if you want to," he murmured, watching the way Ilya's pupils dilated in the sterile light. "Or you can just give me a blowjob if not—"
"I want to." Ilya's voice was rough, his thumb already tracing the waistband of Shane's hospital-issued pants with an uncharacteristic hesitance. "Always curious how your dick will feel anyway," he added, the words muffled against Shane's throat where his lips lingered—hot and insistent.
Ilya's fingers paused at the hem of Shane's hospital gown, his knuckles brushing the warm skin of Shane's thigh. "You're insufferable," he muttered, but there was no heat in it—just that rough-edged affection that made Shane's chest tighten. With a quick tug, the gown bunched around Shane's hips, the cool air hitting his bare skin.
Then Shane's fingers curled around Ilya's wrist, stopping him before he could push the fabric further. "Come on," Shane murmured, voice dropping into something low and teasing. "Give me a full show." His thumb traced the inside of Ilya's wrist, feeling the jump of his pulse.
Ilya's blush deepened to a shade Shane had only seen once—after that disastrous vodka-fueled karaoke night in Moscow—but he didn't hesitate. The hospital gown hit the floor with a whisper of fabric, followed by the soft thud of his sweatpants. Shane's breath caught at the way the overhead lights caught the curve of Ilya's shoulders, the dip of his waist, the dusting of dark hair trailing below his navel.
"If they force that door open and find me butt naked," Ilya muttered, stepping out of his boxers with a huff, "I blame you." His voice cracked on the last word as Shane's fingers skimmed up his inner thigh, calloused from years of stick handling but impossibly gentle now.
Ilya's breath hitched when Shane's fingers curled around his hips, tugging him forward with an insistence that made his knees wobble. "Spit on your hand," Shane murmured, voice rough with want, and Ilya—god help him—didn't hesitate. His own spit slicked his palm before he wrapped it around Shane's cock, the heat of him almost startling against Ilya's skin.
The first press was electric—Ilya's body resisting just long enough to make Shane groan before yielding all at once. A punched-out noise escaped Ilya's throat as he sank down, inch by inch, Shane's hands guiding his hips with a firmness that belied the tremble in his fingers. The stretch burned in the best way, familiar yet entirely new, and Ilya bit his lip hard enough to taste copper.
"You good?" Shane's voice was rough, fingers tightening on Ilya's hips where they dug into the mattress. The words came out strained—half concern, half desperation—as Ilya's body clenched around him, hot and impossibly tight.
Ilya nodded shakily, his throat working around a swallowed groan. "Yeah," he managed, breathless in a way Shane had never heard before. The word cracked mid-syllable, and Shane could feel the tremble in Ilya's thighs where they bracketed his own.
Ilya made a startled noise—something between a gasp and a whine—when Shane pulled him down deeper, his hips canting upward with a precision that shouldn’t have been possible given the knee brace and hospital bed constraints. The sound was unfamiliar, raw, and Shane cataloged it instantly, the way he did every new piece of Ilya’s vocabulary. The bed frame groaned under them, a metallic protest drowned out by Ilya’s sharp inhale as Shane’s fingers dug into the meat of his thighs.
"Fuck," Ilya choked out, his voice shredded at the edges. His palms slid against Shane’s chest, fingers splaying over his sternum like he was trying to steady himself—or maybe memorize the shape of him beneath his hands. The movement made his shoulders flex, the play of muscle under sweat-slick skin catching the harsh overhead light in a way that made Shane’s breath stutter.
Ilya’s hips stuttered forward—once, twice—before he sank down fully with a sharp exhale that bordered on a whimper. The sound punched through Shane’s chest like a live wire, raw and unguarded in a way Ilya never was outside these moments. Shane’s fingers dug into the meat of Ilya’s thighs, grounding himself as much as guiding him, the heat of him almost unbearable.
"God, you feel—" Shane’s voice broke off into a groan as Ilya rolled his hips experimentally, the drag of him deliberate and slow. Every shift sent sparks up Shane’s spine, the stretch of Ilya’s body around him impossibly tight, impossibly right. Ilya’s breath hitched when Shane’s thumbs pressed into the crease of his hips, the pressure just shy of bruising—a silent ‘stay there’ that Ilya obeyed with a shudder.
"Please—" Ilya's voice cracked, raw and breathless, his fingers scrabbling against Shane's chest like he couldn't decide whether to push or pull. "Let me move, sir, it's too—" The word dissolved into a punched-out groan as Shane's cock pressed flush against his prostate again, deliberate and unyielding. The honorific slipped out unbidden, foreign on Ilya's tongue in this context, and Shane's grip on his hips tightened in response.
Ilya's thighs trembled where they bracketed Shane's, sweat-slick skin catching the harsh fluorescent light. Every shallow breath made his ribs expand against Shane's palms, the shift of muscle under taut skin mesmerizing. Shane could feel the exact moment Ilya's body tried to clench down—could see the way his eyelashes fluttered, dark against his flushed cheeks—and he held, keeping him perfectly still with the press of his thumbs against Ilya's hipbones.
"Move," Shane growled, fingers digging into the sweat-slick curve of Ilya's hips hard enough to leave crescent marks. His voice dropped into that low, commanding register that usually had Ilya unraveling—but now it made him freeze, thighs trembling with the effort of holding still.
Ilya made a wounded noise in the back of his throat, his forehead dropping to Shane's shoulder as he tried—and failed—to rock forward. "I can't—" he gasped, the words fracturing into a sob when Shane's grip tightened.
The sound of Shane's palm connecting with Ilya's thigh was sharp—a sudden punctuation in the humid air between them. Ilya's whole body jerked, a startled cry escaping his lips before he could bite it down, his fingers digging into Shane's shoulders hard enough to bruise. The red mark bloomed instantly, stark against his pale skin, and Shane watched, mesmerized, as Ilya's cock twitched against his stomach, leaking precum in a way that made his own breath catch.
"Fuck—" Ilya gasped, his hips stuttering forward involuntarily, chasing the sting. His voice was wrecked, raw at the edges, and Shane couldn't resist bringing his hand down again, just to hear that broken noise once more. This time, Ilya's back arched off the bed, his thighs tensing where they bracketed Shane's hips, the muscles quivering under Shane's grip.
Ilya's cry tore through the sterile hospital room—sharp, ragged, and utterly unrestrained. Shane felt it vibrate against his chest where Ilya's forehead pressed against him, damp with sweat. The sound wasn't just surprise; it was surrender, the kind of raw noise Shane had only ever coaxed from him in the darkest hours of night, when even the walls couldn't hear. Shane's cock throbbed inside him, buried impossibly deep, and Ilya's thighs shook like he'd just skated a triple shift, his fingers scrambling for purchase against Shane's shoulders.
"Shane—" Ilya gasped, the name fracturing into a moan as Shane shifted beneath him, angling his hips just so. The movement sent white-hot pleasure arcing up Ilya's spine, his body clamping down around Shane in a vice-like grip. His vision blurred at the edges, the hospital room dissolving into a haze of sensation—the scrape of sheets against his knees, the metallic tang of his own blood where he'd bitten his lip, the overwhelming fullness of Shane inside him, stretching him in ways that shouldn't feel this good.
"Fucking—asshole—" Ilya's voice cracked mid-insult as Shane shifted his hips again, the deliberate drag of him sending sparks up Ilya's spine. His fingers dug into Shane's shoulders hard enough to leave crescent moons in their wake. "Isn't your leg supposed to hurt?! Ah!" The last syllable dissolved into a punched-out moan as Shane's cock grazed his prostate with precision.
Shane grinned up at him—all teeth and smug satisfaction—his grip tightening on Ilya's hips as he rolled his own upward. The bedframe groaned in protest, the sound nearly drowned out by Ilya's ragged exhale. "You're distracting me," Shane murmured, his voice rough with want. He punctuated the lie with another slow, calculated thrust that made Ilya's thighs tremble.
The slap of skin against skin was obscenely loud in the quiet hospital room, punctuated only by Ilya's ragged breaths and the occasional creak of the bedframe. Shane could feel the exact moment Ilya's body tensed—a full-body shudder that made his thighs tremble violently where they bracketed Shane's hips.
"Fuck—" Ilya gasped, his voice cracking mid-syllable as his cock twitched untouched between them, stripes of white painting Shane's stomach in erratic bursts. His hips jerked forward instinctively, chasing the sensation even as his body tried to recoil from the overwhelming pleasure-pain of it.
Shane froze as Ilya's body clamped down around him like a vice, hot and impossibly tight. The sudden pressure dragged a groan from his throat, his fingers digging into the sweat-slick curve of Ilya's hips hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indents in their wake.
Ilya's breath hitched wetly against Shane's collarbone, his forehead pressed hard against Shane's shoulder as his orgasm ripped through him with unexpected ferocity. His fingers scrabbled against Shane's chest, blunt nails leaving red trails across sweat-damp skin, his entire body shuddering like a live wire.
The first pulse hit deep—Shane's hips jerking up involuntarily as heat spilled into Ilya in thick, shuddering waves. Ilya made a sound Shane had never heard before—half whimper, half sob—his body clamping down like he wanted to keep every drop trapped inside. Shane's vision whited out at the edges, fingers gripping Ilya's hips hard enough to bruise as the last tremors wracked through him, his cock twitching weakly inside Ilya's still-clenching heat.
Ilya went boneless against Shane's chest, his body still trembling with aftershocks like a plucked guitar string. The weight of him was familiar—muscle and heat and the particular way his left shoulder always dipped lower than his right—but the slackness was new. Shane could feel every exhale against his collarbone, warm and uneven, as Ilya's fingers uncurled from their death grip on his shoulders.
The heart monitor beeped a frantic rhythm beside them—too fast, too fast—before settling into something closer to normal as Ilya nuzzled lazily into the crook of Shane's neck. His lips brushed the pulse point there, damp and slightly parted, and Shane could taste the moment on his tongue—coffee and sweat and something distinctly Ilya that made his stomach flip.
"You liked that," Shane murmured against Ilya's temple, his fingers tracing idle circles on the small of Ilya's back where sweat had pooled in the dip of his spine. It wasn't a question—not with the way Ilya's body had responded, clenching around—but the hitch in Ilya's breath when Shane's thumb pressed into a bruise forming on his hip told him everything he needed to know.
Ilya nodded, his forehead still pressed to Shane's collarbone like he couldn't bear to lift it. His fingers flexed against Shane's ribs—not gripping, just there, as if he needed the anchor. "We can do that again," he muttered into Shane's skin, the words slurred with exhaustion and something else—a vulnerability Shane rarely got to see outside the tangle of sheets at 3 AM.
Shane smirked, the corner of his mouth quirking up as he traced lazy circles on the small of Ilya's back. The sweat-damp skin under his fingers twitched reflexively, still hypersensitive from the aftershocks. "Oh, we definitely will," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of Ilya's ear. The words came out rough, still tinged with the leftover rasp of exertion, and he felt Ilya shiver against him—not from the cold, but from the promise laced into those five syllables.
Ilya lifted his head just enough to glare, but the effect was ruined by the way his eyelashes stuck together in clumps, the flush still high on his cheekbones. "Shut up," he muttered, his voice wrecked in a way that made Shane's stomach tighten all over again. The words lacked their usual bite—more breath than sound—and Shane couldn't resist catching Ilya's bottom lip between his teeth, tugging gently just to hear that punched-out little noise again.