Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It starts, like many things do, with Luca crying his eyes out when he shouldn't.

The end of this relationship had been a long time coming, though it didn't have to be anywhere near as humiliating and painful as it had turned out to be. Luca blames himself, mostly, for thinking that he could change, or drag out the torture of pretending to be something else just long enough for his boyfriend—well, ex boyfriend—to forget one huge, glaring flaw in his personality. Or lack there of. Luca doesn't know anymore.

What he knows, even through the thick and immense fog is in brain, is that just ten minutes ago he was on top of a warm body, faking moans and mean, impolite words that he didn't mean as his hips pushed forward in a staggering rhythm. Now, he was replaying everything, cataloguing what he did wrong with sickening attention to detail. He remembers his eyes darting to the posters of female pop stars scattered on the walls before they squeeze shut.

"Y-Yeah… You, um— You like t-that? Fucking slut," He grits out, cringing at how rough and insincere his own voice sounds to his ears. He takes a deep breath and tries to think of something else so he doesn't go entirely soft—thankfully, he doesn't have to search very far. His fogged brain provides him with a replay of one of Ilya Rozanov's most watched hat-tricks (the one from 2016, Luca's favorite) that he keeps hidden in his pocket for moments like this. He sees it as though it is tattooed behind his eyelids: the clean shot and the goal, the crowd erupting into cheers that rattle the arena's very foundation and the camera zooming in on his captain's smug grin. The wink he threw to the Admiral's bench.

The phantom smell of the ice reaches his nose. He can go for a little longer. Maybe.

"Yes," His boyfriend replies somewhere along the way, muffled by a pillow, strained and probably fake as well, "Love it. Do it rougher, Luca."

No, please. I don't want to, Luca's heart supplies to deaf ears, I don't like hurting you.

"Rougher? A-Ah," Luca pants, breath quickening and bile rising in his throat as he pushes the panic down and down into a place that he won't bubble over and spill onto the sheets below, "S-such a whore for it, N-Noah— bitch. Bitch."

He hears a mean laugh at his break of character. Luca ignores it, lifting one of his hands to rub his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose in concentration. The sudden movement, regrettably, must look like something else, because not a second later there is a genuine moan under him and where they're touching he can feel his boyfriend shiver as he says, "Yes, fuck. Hit me."

His hips falter and suddenly he slips out of the velvet heat surrounding him. It doesn't land well with Noah, who groans in frustration and turns to the side to shoot daggers in Luca's general direction. Before Luca can open his mouth to utter anything in the realm of an apology, Noah's eyes zero in on his and he sees it then, the fresh tear tracks lining his pale face and the red rims of his eyes. He sees the panic in Luca's gaze and his bitten bottom lip.

None of it seems to invoke empathy. All Luca can read on his boyfriend's face, besides annoyance, is now a general feeling of disgust and contempt.

"You're fucking crying?" Noah spits out, frowning and untangling his briefs from his ankles, pulling them up, "Seriously, Luca? You've been fucking me for like, thirty minutes now. Neither of us have come, and now you're fucking crying?"

Luca feels like he's been slapped. He wishes he had been, instead of this. His cock, still wrapped in the used condom, is hanging soft between his legs and his chest is empty of air, a hollowed balloon.

"Again?"

"I-I'm sorry, Noah," He rushes out, moving backwards and standing up near the bed, "I know. I'm sorry. I can grab your dildo? S-Something—"

"Leave it. You have no fucking clue what you're doing anyway. Oh my fucking god, I feel like killing you. Fuck!"

The finality in his tone and the volume of it genuinely sends Luca reeling backwards. He steps away further from the bed, now near where his clothes are piling on the floor.

"'Get a professional athlete for a boyfriend', they said. 'They're away half the time but fuck well when they're back in your city', they said," it is mean and mocking, but Luca deserves to hear it—maybe, "I'm sick of this bullshit. How are you this big and strong— How are you constantly fighting and getting thrown around by men who are twice your size and age, and you can't fucking do one right thing for me? Why can't you fuck me like I want you to? Seriously, I'm done being left hanging."

"Noah—"

"Your fucking dick doesn't work, that's what it has to be. Surely it's not me—I could step outside and fuck anyone I could ever want. I don't know why I lost nine months of my life on this."

Luca is out of breath—there are ants crawling under his skin.

"Get out. Just fucking get out of my face, seriously," Noah's yelling now but the sound isn't foreign to Luca's ears in the slightest. He pulls his sheets up to cover his body before he yells again, "We're done here. Delete my number and photos off your phone and fucking get out of my apartment. You've overstayed your welcome in ways I can't even fucking explain. What a waste of my fucking time."

That is how Luca Haas, right wing of the Ottawa Centaurs and second place (first loser) overall in the 2018 draft, finds himself sobbing in a dark alleyway he doesn't recognize at two in the morning, with the looming threat of having to show his face to practice in about six hours. He doesn't know how he got there in the first place. Everything around him is blurry and distant and he feels entirely too small in his own body, like he's been tucked into a pocket inside his own chest. His hands and feet feel like they're kilometers away from the rest of him and there is spit and snot everywhere.

His right temple hurts, courtesy of Noah having thrown Luca's phone in his direction in an attempt to get him to move faster. There must still be something inside of his skull that isn't completely liquid, because moments after realizing that his phone is being tightly gripped in his hands, Luca is pressing the screen on it and putting it up to his ear.

It rings about seven times. Luca's ready to hang up and call himself an Uber, but it is then that the "Ringing…" text on his screen becomes "00:00" and then "00:01" just below the contact name "Captain Roz⛸️".

"Haasy?" The voice that floods his ears is gravely, rough from sleep and groaning in what must be annoyance, "It is two in the morning. What is this? What do you need?"

An ugly, deep sob tears itself away from Luca's throat without his permission.

"I-I didn't know who— Who else to call…"

"Luca?" He hears worry and panic in Ilya's voice, sleepiness gone and replaced, as well as his deep accent. There's a rustling of sheets in the background and a distant groan, which must belong to Shane, who is being disturbed by Luca's nonsense at this ungodly hour. It dawns on him then that he's bothering them. It was a terrible idea to call. He won't fucking hear the end of it tomorrow, if he is still alive by then.

"Luca," Ilya says in the tone of someone who had already asked something many times before and didn't get an answer. Luca can't remember hearing anything at all. He focuses again on the background of the call, boyishly picturing what is happening in his idols' Ottawa residence, in the privacy of their master bedroom. Someone turns a beside lamp on and Luca can make out the words 'What is it, Ilya? What's going on? Speaker,' faintly.

"Luca Haas! You do not get to call me at two in the morning, crying in my ear and not answer my questions. Where are you? What is going on? If you do not answer, there are twelve sets of suicides waiting for you at practice!"

"N-No please," he whimpers pathetically, rubbing the sleeve of his hoodie on his nose and sniffling. It's fucking disgusting. He's fucking disgusting—broken. He's a broken thing on the side of some random street.

"Answer me," there is a beat of silence, "Blyat!"

"Don't know," Luca trips up his breathing, coughing and struggling to stutter his way through a single sentence. The sudden expletive makes him feel like a cornered animal, "D-Don't know where I am. Was with b-boyfriend and he kicked— kicked me out. On the street. S-Shouldn't have called y-you guys. I-I'm sorry, captain. G-Goodnight—"

"Absolutely not!" This is Shane's voice now coming through his phone, reeling him back to reality a little with the sheer commanding lilt of it. His alternate captain is so good at that—whenever he uses this voice on the ice, Luca always seems to be able to focus again. It is like magic. It works like it too, only a little less right now. The ruckus inside his head quietens a little bit, just enough for him to hear Shane say, "Stay on the phone, Luca. Don't hang up. We're coming to get you."

He hears the shuffling of clothes being pulled on, hurried steps and some stairs. A door closes and a set of numbers are pressed onto what he recognizes to be their extremely fancy front door lock.

Shane is breathing quickly in his ear.

"Luca, put us on speaker. Ilya went to turn on the car. Send us your location and breathe, okay? You don't have to say anything right now. You don't have to explain anything. Just stay on the phone and let us know where you are."

And so, Luca, ever so obedient, does just that. With trembling fingers, he finds his thread of texts with Ilya and sends a pin of his location, sharing it live. He swipes to the side on the map app on his phone, trying to track how far he'd made it from Noah's house to where he currently is. Holy shit, he walked for forty minutes in a straight line and he doesn't remember a single second of them until he hit the brick wall he's currently leaning against.

"S-Scheisse."

"Luca?"

"I-I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Nothing is wrong with you. You need to calm down for me."

"Did he hurt you?" Ilya asks over the phone. Luca can hear the engine revving as the they pull out of their driveway and seem to speed down the street.

When Luca doesn't answer right away, he can feel his captain getting agitated.

"Haasy, I will kill the fucker."

"I don't know," Luca lies around a sob. He feels like his heart is still beating where he dropped it on Noah's carpeted floor and like the world is as small as a head of a needle. Everything is too much and too little at the same time—he's so tiny he could slip through the cracks of the concrete but he's also a giant that can't fit in this alleyway at the same time.

"Ilya, please. That isn't helping! We're trying to calm him down."

"I tried to be good," Luca confesses, his vision blurred as words spill out before he can stop them, "I tried s-so hard. I did everything. W-Wasn't enough. Never enough. I-I'm not good… Couldn't give him what he wanted. Couldn't fu—Couldn't m-make love to him like he wanted," he interrupts himself to pull his knees up to his chest, burying his face in them.

"Luca…"

"Don't like hurting people… It's n-not me."

"Of course not. You would never do that, Luca. You're a really sweet guy," Shane tries to comfort. Luca stupidly feels himself smile for half a second before he starts crying openly into the microphone again. He feels so fucking pathetic—he has to resort to his alternate captain saying he's a 'really sweet guy' to feel better about his lacking performance in bed. Really?

"And there's no need to do any of those things if you don't want to. You need to know this," Shane says as Luca feels his phone vibrate. It's a location sharing notification from Ilya's phone, "We are almost there, Luca. Follow the white dot, okay? Take deep breaths for me."

"O-Okay. Will be good."

Time stretches as Luca follows the small white dot move through the empty streets of Ottawa on his screen. He doesn't know if Shane or Ilya asked him any other questions or if they tried talking to him in the meantime—if they did, they were only met with quiet cries and a couple sniffles in return. The order from Shane has miraculously placed his brain in a tight little vacuum, denying entry to any other thought other than to follow the instruction he was given.

He doesn't necessarily know why it helps, but he supposes it has something to do with, like, therapy and simple tasks to ground himself or something. He'd heard some of the guys on the team talking about something similar—five things you see, four you can touch. That thing. Surely.

When the white dot of their rapidly moving car comes close enough to where Luca can see it as well as himself in the same frame, he snaps out of the trance he was placed in by Shane's commanding voice. They're here—almost here. Luca thinks he can hear the car down the street.

Shane's voice cuts through his thoughts.

"Luca, tell me what's around you, okay? We are pulling up to where you are. Stay put."

His eyes scan his surroundings for maybe the first time since he found himself here. Five things he can see… He can do that. That's easy—if only his mouth wasn't lagging behind from his brain at the moment.

"There is, um… I'm sitting in front of a trash can. It's g-green. Laundromat to my right," Luca takes another deep breath, shaky all the way through as he pushes through the imaginary ash in his mouth, "Lamppost and a stop sign. I think t-the building in front of me is… Um, pizza restaurant."

"With bright yellow sign?" Ilya asks.

Luca squints and looks up, finding the neon lights in the shape of a slice of pizza hanging off the side of the building to his right.

"Yes."

"Perfect boy, Haasy."

Luca startles slightly when he hears a fast approaching car coming to a screeching stop right next to where he is sitting. He doesn't dare to look around, scared of what his body will do if he does. The line on the phone goes dead abruptly and he feels goosebumps all over his skin, expectant of what's to come. He doesn't know what it will be, but it surely can't be good—he'd woken Shane and Ilya up at an inexcusable hour of the night and made them drive all the way from their comfortable home to the middle of nowhere. He'd made them worry and panic for no reason.

Luca is supposed to be a functioning adult with a big boy job across the globe, far away from home, and still...

There's the sound of car doors slamming shut and hurried steps rushing towards him and suddenly, warmth is spreading across his body where two pairs of hands touch him. He recognizes them without having to open his eyes or look up from the wells of tears in them. The calluses from hockey and the roughness of their palms, which he'd memorized from stolen moments at Monk's where they hand him a drink or when they clap him on the back after the showers, are unmistakable. Ilya has one of his hands settled on his chest and the other cradling his face. Shane is holding his shoulders steadily. All fight drains from Luca's body as he lets himself be worked over.

"Bozhe moi," Ilya says, his right hand coming to tilt his chin upwards. His eyes are searching for something in Luca's own and he isn't entirely sure what it is, "Haasy, are you hurt? Did he force you to drink, drugs? Take something?"

Luca recoils. Shane hisses through his teeth and grimaces. Luca realizes, to a screeching halt, that this is the way his captain and alternate captain find out that he's gay in the first place. He doesn't think they care or would ever say anything terrible about it (obviously, they're gay and bisexual and married to each other), but this isn't the way he wanted it to happen.

Fresh tears slip free from his eyes.

"I-I'm sorry."

"No, no," Shane replies, shaking his head, "You have nothing to apologize for, Luca. All you need to do is take some deep breaths and answer us, so that we can help you."

"His pupils are blown to fuck," Ilya states, clearly to his husband. He tilts Luca's head to the side slightly as his eyes spot the small spot of redness over his right temple, his fingers pressing into it tentatively. Luca whimpers and tries to squirm away from it.

"Fuck."

"Did you hit your head? Luca, answer me honestly," He hasn't heard his captain sound like this—so earnest and bothered by something—in a very long time. His expression is open, his hazel eyes deep and perceptive in ways that he'd only seen on the ice or during interviews, when he's asked a particularly invasive question.

"We will not tell anyone. Promise you that."

"N-No. P-Please don't," Luca whimpers pathetically.

"We won't. Blyat, we can't talk here in the cold. Moya lyubov," Ilya says, turning to Shane and letting go of Luca's face. He lets it fall down, his chin touching his chest as his eyes hang down in shame, "Help me get him up and into the car."

They haul him up with an ease that only two hockey players could have. He's holding onto both of them, though his feet barely touch the ground as they take him towards their car. Luca almost sighs in relief when he sees Shane's big black jeep parked on the side of the street and that they are leading him towards the backseat. Thank god it's not Ilya's Porsche. This car is so spacious. Luca distantly remembers a warm summer afternoon when the Centaur's decided to carpool to one of Bood's barbecues so more of them could drink—Luca had been ushered to the backseat of this very jeep, iPad in hand and the procreate app open on a drawing of Anya that Ilya asked him to make.

The cold crisp air from the outside and the annoying buzzing of lampposts is suddenly gone as the car doors close them in. Luca realizes, belatedly, that he's laid across the seats. Ilya and Shane are on their knees in front of him, cramped and trying to fit as comfortably as two hundred pounds of muscles each allow them to.

In the warm, heated-seat quiet of the car, Luca's eyes search for Shane's and Ilya's. The dome light is set to a warm, dimmed color instead of the normal white LED. His captain is wearing an old hoodie and sweatpants—his feet are socked and in slides. Shane is dressed in a similar comfortable manner, except he's wearing a pair of shorts and a jacket instead of a hoodie. Shane's face is a little puffy from sleep and Ilya's hair is tussled, though his curls are still perfect.

Wow. They really rolled out of bed for this. For Luca. They're so handsome. Luca's heart skips a beat.

"It's just us here," Ilya reminds, pulling him from his train of thought, "You don't have to speak, okay? Just nod or shake your head to my questions."

"You're safe, Luca."

Stray tears slide down his blotchy cheeks, but he nods his consent regardless. Shane leans over and swipes a tissue that he must've gotten from one of the compartments of the car over to catch them.

"First question," Ilya says, soft like he's talking to a scared kitten he picked up from the street, and in some sense, he is. Maybe dog is a better word, "Did you drink anything?"

Luca shakes his head.

"Take anything? Edible, other drug?"

Luca shakes his head again. He hasn't and doesn't really think he will take those chances—their drug tests are so frequent nowadays. He wouldn't risk this opportunity for the world.

"You said you were with boyfriend. Nod," Ilya prompts and Luca does, a whimper falling out of his lips at the confession. His stomach twists painfully at the reminder but Shane is miraculously there to squeeze his hand.

Ilya gently tilts Luca's face to the side to inspect what is soon to be a bruise on the side of his head. His blonde hair covers his eyes, shielding him from seeing the grimaces that adorn his idols' faces but not from hearing the noises they make. Ilya lets out a little huff and Shane hisses once again.

"This bruise," Ilya's tone is almost a touch too scary, reverberating from deep inside his chest, "You hit your head?"

Luca shakes his head.

"Did he hit you?"

Luca, shamefully, nods. A sob echoes through the inside of the car. He can't look at them—he's one step away from reaching behind Ilya and pulling the door open to escape.

"Jesus Christ," Shane whispers.

"Need your words for this one, Luca," Ilya pushes the conversation forward, his lips tight in a line and a deep frown in his beautiful features, "Just these ones. How did he hurt you?"

"T-Threw my phone at my head."

Another beat goes by. A glint of anger flickers over Ilya's eyes and it is mirrored in Shane's, though it is not as obvious.

"And why did he do that, Haasy?"

Luca's pale skin blooms red once again and he tries to hide his face in his arms, though they are gently pulled apart by the two of them, each holding one. He feels so ashamed and embarrassed about this. His idols are consoling him and asking him to confess that his ex-boyfriend had broken up with him because he wasn't a good enough fuck. Luca wants to throw up everywhere. He's in a nightmare and he can't fucking wake up from it.

"Luca, we seriously won't make fun of you. We promise," Shane tries, one of his hands sliding to Luca's knee and resting there. He squeezes it before he adds, "You know us. We kept a secret for over ten years. Whatever you say to us, it won't get out to anyone else. You have our word, right, Ilya?"

"Yes," Ilya says, tight and constricted, "Even though I want to kill the motherfucker right now."

"And you know he would."

A gargled noise comes out of Luca's mouth and he thinks it might be an attempt at a wet laugh.

"Tell us, milyy."

Milyy. Even through Luca's very limited knowledge of the Russian language, he knows what this nickname in specific means. Sweet. Ilya had called him that before, with a beaming smile of approval from Shane—a good assist to one of his husband's goals which landed the Centaurs in the playoffs had been the start of it and it just… Never really stopped, though it was reserved for more tender, private moments. It came up specially when Luca spoke of his home in Switzerland and how much he missed it. Now? It feels like balm on a burn.

So he tries to do as he was asked.

"We…" Luca takes a steadying breath, "We were, u-um, having sex. A-And he— N-Noah wanted me to be rougher. Call him mean things… Told me to hit him. I don't like h-hurting him so I… Got soft."

The air inside the car is deathly still. Luca wishes the ground would split into two and swallow him whole, but he continues.

"He yelled at me," Luca's voice is barely above a whimper now, "T-Told me we were done. Threw my phone and kicked me out."

Shane averts his eyes but Luca can still see him blinking rapidly as he stares out of the tinted windows of the Jeep. Ilya's expression is still unreadable. His jaw is locked tight and he's scowling like something is deeply unsettling him.

"He kicked you out after you were done?" His captain asks.

Luca is back to shaking his head, wordlessly.

"During?"

A small nod.

"No aftercare, nothing?" Ilya presses even further and now his captain is breathing heavily, gaze dark like he'd just been roughly checked into the boards and was about to throw his gloves, "While you were like this?"

Like this? And what is that supposed to mean? Luca doesn't know what that's entailing, and he must ask as much, because Ilya pulls another confused face. He's about to say something, maybe, because he's opening and closing his mouth like he can't believe what he had just heard.

"Okay. Let's get out of here," Shane intervenes, placing a hand over his husband's thigh. It is a quick touch, though it must be a secret signal between them because they share a look and Ilya nods.

"You drive?"

"I'll drive. You'll be better at consoling him than me right now," Shane confirms, his voice a little shaken as he opens the car door and circles it all the way to the driver seat. Luca shivers when he feels the cold air hitting his skin, and he hadn't realized it was such a cold night until now.

"Lift your head, milyy," Ilya prompts and Luca follows, expecting maybe something soft to be placed under it, but what he gets instead is a thousand times better—Ilya lifts himself off where he's in between the back and front seat and sits down.

Luca's head is on top of his captain's plush thighs while Shane sits on the driver's seat. On any other occasion, Luca would've probably fought against it and blushed furiously, down to his toes, but right now he can't find it in him to deny himself this. The car comes to life with a gentle humming and Shane expertly begins driving. The radio is turned off and the heated seats are on, though Luca's main source of warmth are Ilya's hands—one in his hair, softly brushing his blonde locks while the other sits on his chest, rubbing soothing circles over his sternum.

"I-I'm sorry," he says, "You were sleeping and I— And we have practice tomorrow for the big game."

"Luca."

Tears land on Ilya's sweatpants.

"I didn't m-mean to upset you."

"Luca…"

"I'm sorry I made you a-angry, sir."

Shane presses on the breaks a little harder than he probably should've at a red light.

"Haasy," Ilya calls as the hand in his hair gets just a touch rougher, pulling him to look upwards. His voice is different and something like a switch clicks in Luca's brain, turning off the permanent noise machine inside it, "Settle. You're good here."

"I'm sorry, captain."

"Nothing to apologize for. You did good," the hand on Luca's chest is still rubbing, insistently, pressing and almost willing his heart to calm down, one touch at a time, "Calling us was the right thing to do. I am proud, Haasy. You are good, and you are safe."

Those words strike a deep chord in Luca's heart and for a moment, it sings. Ilya must feel it under his hand.

"Are you going to drop me o-off at my house?" He asks timidly.

"Our house," Shane replies from the front seat, looking at Ilya through the rear view mirror, "You're crashing at our place tonight. You're not in any condition to be left alone."

"B-But, I'm already bothering you so much—"

"We have a guestroom, Luca. It's not a bother. We care about you," Shane says as he drives, eyes steady on the road with precision, "You can borrow some of Ilya's clothes to sleep and tomorrow, if you're still not okay, you don't have to go to practice."

Shane saying this is genuinely unheard of. He never skips practice and never encourages others to do it either.

"Perks of being married to Mr. Real Estate is that he thinks of everything ahead of time. The guestroom is always ready."

We care about you. The phrase echoes inside of his head, replacing Noah's mean and ugly words from earlier. For a moment, Luca catches himself thinking that he deserves someone like Ilya and Shane in his life before that fragile, snowflake of a thought melts away.

He can't even begin to explain the ways in which he doesn't deserve these two kind, wonderful men and the lengths of things they do for him. He doesn't deserve his team. He doesn't deserve his captain and his legend of a husband. He hasn't earned this feeling of fullness that sits comfortably in his chest every time they talk to him just yet. He might never.

Once again, he doesn't fight it. Luca lets his eyes close slowly and when he opens them again after an unknown amount of time, he's being woken up by none other than Shane. His fingers lightly poke Luca's cheeks in an attempt to wake him up, like someone would do to a baby.

"Come on, Luca. We're home," Shane says, helping Ilya pull the sum of Luca's dead weight out of the backseats.

Getting to the guestroom and changing into a pair of loose basketball shorts and a t-shirt is a blur. Burying his face in the soft, perfectly fluffed pillows and letting the warmth of the duvet take him someplace far, far away, is another. He thinks he says something to Ilya and Shane before they close the door of the guestroom and leave him for the night, but he can't remember exactly what it is… His eyelids are so heavy.

The sheets smell of their fabric softener.

As Luca falls asleep, Ilya and Shane are left to their own devices as they shuffle into the master bedroom once again. The blackout curtains are drawn and one of the warm bedside lamps is still turned on, just as they'd left it. The bed is messy and unmade, courtesy of their hurry to get to Luca as soon as they'd received his call.

Ilya trails after Shane in silence. When he sits on the edge of the bed, he shows no intention of wanting to go back to sleep—he simply props his pillow up on the headboard and leans back, his arms crossed over his chest while he remains deep in thought.

Shane is methodically taking off his clothes and folding them, laying them out on top of a chair that sits in the corner of their room. When he's done, he turns to Ilya and sees it then, a familiar wet mist in his hazel eyes.

"Ilya…" He calls out, voice soft and tentative as he gets on the bed and crawls over to his husband. Shane settles in his lap, his hands snaking up to turn Ilya's face towards him.

"Fuck," Ilya breathes out, face crumbling as soon as he feels Shane's weight in his lap and his eyes on his.

"We got to him in time."

The tears slide freely now but Shane catches then with the pads of his thumbs. Ilya's brows are furrowed and his shoulders are tense, unbelievably so. Shane has an idea of what this situation might be taking Ilya back to, and he's for sure not going to let that happen.

"He's safe and in our house, in the bedroom just across the hall," Shane continues. He grabs his husband's right hand and places it over his chest so that Ilya can feel the solid, constant heartbeat. On autopilot, his husband places his other hand on Shane's hip.

"He looked so scared, malysh."

"He was very scared but we pulled him out of it. You know he needed that… You talking to him like that."

"He was dropping for who knows how long during everything with that fucker and after too, probably. Hearing your voice on the phone gave him something real to hold onto.

"I know, Ilyusha."

Ilya pouts a little before he pulls Shane down so that he can lean against his face and kiss him over his cheeks. He needs the closeness—he's thinking of their young, dumb and inexperienced time in Vegas and the aftermath of it, Shane knows. No matter how many talks they've had about it, no matter how many times Shane has said that there is nothing to apologize for, he knows that his husband will never really forgive himself for that specific moment in their relationship.

Moments like this—the crying and the spiraling—are some of the main reasons why their dynamic has shifted so much in the past few years. The constant checking, their list of likes and dislikes, the power exchange, the submission and dominance are traded like a promise of their love and trust for each other. It is sincere, honest and freeing but never taken for granted by either. Losing this is something they've both experienced in their own skin.

Luca clearly needs someone who can give this to him too. Sadly, his first real experience with it had been assigned by the universe to someone who completely played with the immense trust and vulnerability that comes with it. Worst of all, he ended up hurting Luca in the process, too.

"You saw it in him, right?"

Ilya feels Shane nod, "And heard it too."

Ilya sags against his husband, leaning his weight on him as he pulls him down to lay his back flat on the mattress. Shane opens his legs, letting Ilya slot himself between them and bury his face in his chest.

"He called me 'sir' in the car. When we were changing his clothes, tucking him into bed, 'Thank you for the room, sirs'. You ask him if he needs anything else—like water—'No, thank you, sir'."

A sharp intake of breath. Shane looks wide eyed at the ceiling before he says, "Maybe he just idolizes us or something."

"It is not that," Ilya shakes his head, "That looks different. That is blush and stuttering. You know this is more, kotenok. He has never called me or you 'sir' until now. He can barely look in our eyes on a good day."

A moment of silences passes between them. Ilya thinks Shane must hate the whole thing, as he is ever so jealous and a little bit too territorial sometimes. They've had plenty of discussions and heated scenes about this topic—the sharing. Shane had been very open and honest about how he was not interested in doing such a thing because, in his words, they'd fought tooth and nail to have what they do today and he wasn't about to let a random person wedge themselves in the middle of it.

He wouldn't blame him if he did hate it—their dynamic is private and sacred. No one on the team knows. It is just for them, something curated and tight fitting to both like a glove.

Shane has always been more submissive than Ilya by a very large margin, but getting to where they were now wasn't easy. They are a perfectly oiled machine—adding another participant, even if it is a casual thing, is more trouble than it could ever be worth.

Which is why Ilya is so surprised when he hears his husband say, into the quiet night, "I don't think… I don't think I hate it, actually."

"Shane Hollander."

"Hollander-Rozanov."

"Beautiful reminder of my claim," Ilya nags, receiving a light slap on his shoulder for the teasing, "You do not hate what?"

"I don't really know," He hums, searching his mind for the right words to say, "It won't make sense at this hour. It's almost four in the morning. Can we discuss this later? I really want to sleep."

"Okey."

Ilya lifts himself slowly, kissing the side of Shane's face before he hauls him up into his arms once more. Shane holds on for the ride, chuckling softly as Ilya pulls him to lay on his chest, their legs tangled together. He's still propped up against the headboard as he covers Shane with the soft, navy blue duvet and kisses the top of his head.

"You're not going to sleep?" Shane asks, barely above a whisper as he settles in the premium spot. Warmth envelops him in the form of his husband's thick, delicious arms resting over him.

Ilya shakes his head and Shane understands.

"I'll keep watch for a while. Goodnight, moya lyubov."

"Goodnight. Ya tebya lyublyu…"

"Ya lyublyu tebya vsey dushoy." 

When Luca wakes up, a tidal wave of embarrassment crashes into his body, full force. His eyes flutter open slowly, adjusting to the comforting light in the room. The blackout curtains are drawn over the large windows and the room is warm, comfortable.

Even without seeing the light from outside, his body feels weirdly rested considering the time he must've gone to sleep, so he knows it's late—practice must be about to end and he's still laying amidst sage green sheets and an array of too many pillows. That just won't do. He sits up to look around, noticing first that there's a salt lamp in the corner of the bedside table, emitting a soft ambient glow and his clothes are folded on top of a beautifully slick and modern walnut dresser. Under the bed there's a large soft rug with a pair of slippers near the bed.

Luca reaches for his phone, which either Shane or Ilya must've put to charge at some point on the bedside table, and looks at the time. 10:30am. Fuck. At the top of his notifications, one missed call from coach Wiebe is coupled with a short text from him:

His face is as red as a tomato when he all but throws his phone on the duvet, covering his face with his hands and a quiet yell. Luca is going to die—his heart hammers against his ribcage, a heavy drum of shame mixed with something he can't quite place his finger on stirring within him.

He can't be here. He absolutely cannot be here, surrounded by everything that is theirs. These things that took years to build and conquer, a life built together… Luca feels like he's sticking out like a sore thumb just by being present and taking space here.

He stands up from the bed's siren song of warmth and reaches to pull his clothes back on. To the right of the walnut dresser, in the corner of the room, is a full body mirror lined in a sleek black metal.

He's wearing an old Boston Raiders shirt with a hole at the bottom hem. In the sleeves, the number #81 stares back at him—Luca is transported back home, to a time where he had camped outside his front door, expecting to receive a package. A similar t-shirt to this one is still in his childhood bedroom, hidden at the bottom of a drawer. He knows what it says on the back.

Luca takes it off quickly.

His hair is a mess and his face is… Rough. His eyes are puffy from crying and they're swollen underneath, still a little red. When he reaches to touch the skin, its sore. He jerks backwards, choosing to avoid his reflection for the next twenty four hours.

Luca's putting his legs through the baggy jeans he had on last night when there's a knock on the door, before it creaks open. Luca stumbles a little and almost falls on his ass with a yelp of surprise, like a deer learning how to use its legs for the first time.

It's Ilya, peeking through a gap in the door, "Rise and shine," He says playfully, closing the door when he sees that Luca isn't entirely decent, "Put some clothes on, Haasy."

"S-Sorry captain!" Luca stutters out as he finishes putting his clothes back on and sits at the edge of the bed, at the very end. They've spent more than two years sharing a locker room, but still, not being clothed outside of it just feels different. He's turned towards the door, his eyes imagining what Ilya looks like behind it. X-ray vision would be so good right now.

"All good," Ilya dismisses and Luca can hear the airy chuckle from behind the door, vowels curling around his Russian accent. It makes his stomach turn.

"You… Didn't go to practice?"

"No," Ilya says simply, "Can I open the door?"

"Y-Yeah, sure. It's your house."

So Ilya does. He opens the door, stepping through it smoothly and putting his hands inside his pockets. He's in the sweatpants from yesterday, though his shirt is different and he's clearly showered, since his hair is slightly damp and he's walking around in slippers. He's leaning against the frame of the door, devastatingly charismatic.

Ilya's hazel eyes pierce Luca's, who averts his gaze towards the floor so he doesn't maintain the intimidating contact. The air is tense, suddenly.

"Slept good?"

"Yeah."

"Good," Ilya nods and he must catch the frown on Luca's face, because something shifts in his eyes, "My Shane is coming from practice soon but he will stop for groceries first. When he is not here, I can have normal breakfast instead of bird food macrobiotic plate. Do you want something to eat?"

It only takes a second to assess his state: Luca is absolutely starving. He doesn't think he could say no to his captain's offer if he tried—his body would do it for him.

"I don't want to impose—"

"I'm making for me, I can do for you. Not a problem, I just came from the home gym."

Luca pushes down the image that pops up in his mind of his captain running on the treadmill and pulling weights shirtless. The object of his desire during his teenage years is within reach and yet so far away—guilt pangs inside his ribcage.

"S-Sure! What are you having? I don't want to impose and make you do something entirely new."

He feels like a teenager all over again.

"Real breakfast of champions," Ilya says, "Banana pancakes, protein shake. Greasy bacon. Eggs. Yogurt bowl."

Luca's stomach grumbles audibly. Ilya throws his head back with a laugh when he says, "I have my answer. Come," before he spins on his heel and begins padding over to the kitchen.

Luca scrambles to follow him.

They descend dark wood floating stairs into the open floor concept kitchen and living room with Luca following behind Ilya and stealing glances around the place, committing all details he can see to memory. The large TV mounted on the accent wall lined with wood paneling and shelves is on a replay of last night's game and Anya is sleeping soundly in her large, comfortable doggy bed next to the couch.

Ilya makes a beeline for the kitchen, opening the double door fridge while Luca stands awkwardly in the middle of the space, unsure where to go or sit. He looks over to his captain as he takes out labeled containers from their impressively organized fridge—everything is dated, perfectly lined and packaged securely. This is definitely the work of Shane Hollander, ever so organized. He imagines it, Shane coming home with a reusable bag of groceries and taking his sweet time separating everything, preparing meals ahead of time and sticking the waterproof labels on the respective Tupperware.

When Ilya closes the fridge, Luca spots a whiteboard calendar and cute magnets from several states and countries the Centaurs have played hockey in holding photographs of Ilya, Shane and Anya. Some other magnets have what Luca assumes to be Shane's parents and one, in the very middle, is of their wedding. Luca feels the love and warmth of this house slowly pouring itself into his heart. It is not directed at him but it heals something deep in his core. It's so domestic.

Tears prickle in his eyes.

"Haasy," Ilya calls, like he can read his mind, "Make yourself comfortable. Watch the game on the couch, yes? We eat when it's done."

Luca nods and wordlessly sits at the edge of the couch before he kicks his socked feet up, tucking himself in to occupy as little space as possible. He grabs the throw blanket that's near the middle and covers himself with it, except his head, which peeks out to keep his eyes glued to the TV, as he was told to do.

Sounds and smells of food being cooked being paired with watching himself and his teammates on TV distracts Luca just long enough for Ilya to finish cooking. About twenty minutes later, there is a tray with several bowls and two tall glasses being placed on the coffee table, and a bowl with yogurt, granola and chopped banana and strawberry is placed into Luca's hands.

Everything smells and looks fucking delicious. Luca is a little too stunned to speak when Ilya sits on the couch, not far away from him but also not glued to Luca. His captain keeps a safe distance as he reaches forward and drinks his protein shake in almost one gulp.

"This looks amazing, captain. T-Thank you, really."

"Eat well," Ilya says simply, and there is an edge to his voice that Luca wouldn't catch if he wasn't paying attention. It makes something in his brain click once more, just like yesterday.

He's going to eat well. He's going to eat so fucking well—Ilya will be proud of him. He's going to devour this whole tray.

Comfortable silence settles over them as the two wolf down the food Ilya made. They don't speak about last night yet, which Luca is somewhat glad for. Instead, his captain takes to commenting on the replay of the game, pausing and rewinding at times to point out things that can be improved and to poke fun at the opposing team. Luca laughs, answering to his captain's feedback and easily relaxing—it's better when hockey is involved. Luca feels like he communicates and relates to Ilya and his husband better when hockey is the middle man of their conversations.

As they finish scraping the last bits of the scrambled eggs off of their plates, Shane comes home. He pushes through the front door and Ilya instantly snaps his head towards the sound.

When Shane comes into view, shoes toed off at the front door, he's just like Luca imagined him to be: he holds a reusable grocery bag in one hand, car keys in the other and his practice duffel bag over his shoulder.

"Lyubimyy, you're back."

Ilya stands up and bridges the distance between them, stamping a quick kiss to his husband's lips while his hands expertly free him of his practice bag. Shane returns the kiss with a small chuckle, setting the groceries down on the counter right after.

He holds Ilya's gaze for a while before his eyes meet Luca's own, wide and curious, over Ilya's shoulder as he stares at them from the couch.

"Oh, Luca," he says, "You're still here."

Luca feels himself pale.

"Y-Yes. Sorry, Mr. Hollander— Captain made breakfast and I… I was just about to leave."

"Relax, rookie," Ilya says, detaching himself from Shane and taking the duffel bag with him, "Let me do my husband-ly duties and put these in wash. Don't frighten the shchenok while I am away, lyubimyy."

"I'm not—" Shane's sentence is interrupted by Ilya delivering a quick and sharp slap to his ass just before he walks away.

Shane yelps. Luca turns a deep shade of red.

"Fucking asshole!"

Ilya is no longer in the room to hear his husband's complaints and he cackles loudly down the hallway. Shane is standing in the middle of the kitchen, rubbing a hand up and down his face.

Luca can guess why—Shane and Ilya always try to be professional in front of the team, specially in the locker room and gatherings, even though everyone else has already said they don't care and actually quite like that they can be comfortable and show affection in public. It must have something to do with Shane being shy about it because Ilya is the exactly opposite of that. He happily sports bruises, scratches and love bites in the locker room—he kisses Shane every chance he gets, even if his husband squirms away.

The most Luca has seen from them was during one of Bood's barbecues. Shane had a little much to drink and was feeling loose and carefree—he'd taken his rightful spot on Ilya's lap and turned his face with gentle hands, kissing him square on the mouth for a long few minutes in front of everyone. The team hooted and hollered and only then did they pull away from each other. Shane hid his face in Ilya's neck and then Ilya stood up, carrying him like he wasn't two hundred pounds of muscle.

Luca remembers Ilya excusing the both of them and going somewhere private. Luca wonders where and what they did after that. He remembers feeling a little bit dizzy and fuzzy in the head. It was normal, right? To picture such a thing when the beginnings of it happened right in front of him, yes?

"Sorry about that," Shane cuts through his thoughts like Ilya had done earlier. They keep doing that, recently.

"I-It's fine, Mr. Hollander. This is your house."

"Please, just call me Shane," his alternate captain says with a warm smile as he begins organizing the groceries he bought, "And about you leaving… I would rather you not, for a little bit. Ilya and I would like to talk to you, if that's okay."

Luca silently prays for the ground to open beneath his feet and swallow him once again. He shrinks back into the comfortable cocoon he made for himself on the couch before he utters out a quiet, "Okay."

They're going to ask him questions about Noah. An abyss of dread opens in his stomach, cracking him open once more. Fuck, he doesn't want to talk about it ever again. It's already so embarrassing to even live with the fact that this happened, never mind having to unearth every single thing he did wrong with two of his favorite people in the whole world—Luca's so done feeling like a disappointment.

"Coach Wiebe texted you?" Shane asks, set on replacing the dish washing liquid in the sleek black ceramic dispenser on the kitchen sink, "He said he would."

"U-Um, yeah. You said I had food poisoning?"

"Yeah. He believed it, even though I'm not that good of a liar. He bought it enough."

"Thank you, Mr. Hollander. Really."

"Shane."

"Y-Yes. Shane."

"You didn't miss a lot from practice today. We just did a few drills, nothing you won't be able to pick up later. I can run them with you, if you'd like."

He hears Shane padding over to the couch and he lifts his head from the cocoon of blankets up to see him. When their gazes meet, just as Shane is getting ready to sit down on the couch, Shane's eyes widen and he halts his movements.

"W-What?"

Shane comes closer, his freckled face in line with Luca's as he seems to inspect his skin. Fuck, he must look like a mess.

"Your under eyes are really swollen," He points out, standing up quickly and turning to the kitchen once more. Luca hears him opening the fridge and he's pouring something out of a jug before he returns with a wet cloth in hand.

"What's that for?" Luca asks curiously, moving over so that Shane can sit close to him.

"Cold green tea cloth," Shane informs, "The green tea helps reduce inflammation and itchiness, and the cold cloth will calm the swelling down. May I?"

Luca opens his mouth to speak and say anything intelligent but nothing comes out. Shane gives him a soft smile, crinkling his eyes when Luca nods that he can, indeed, press the cold cloth to his face. Shane dabs it carefully, concentrating like he does with everything and Luca can't help but watch. His eyes look to meet Shane's—he's so close, Luca can feel his alternate captain's breath tickling his neck. He gulps and his pupils shake lightly. Flashes of his fingertips pressing against a varnished magazine page as they trace each freckle on Shane's face assault him like vultures pecking at his exposed heart.

Luca squeezes his eyes shut and Shane stops abruptly, which makes Luca let out a little keen whine, "Did I hurt you, Luca?"

"N-No. Sorry. Continue. It feels… It feels nice."

"You sure?"

Luca looks at Shane again and sees it then, his alternate captain's looking at him through his long lashes. It makes Luca's heart stop dead in his chest.

"Y-Yes," he gulps, once again closing his eyes so he doesn't have to look at Shane anymore—if he does, he might combust, "Keep going, please, sir."

Shane's eyes widen before he sets on the task again, wordlessly this time. They sit there for a few minutes as they wait for the swelling to go down and for Ilya to return to the living room. Luca makes a terrible job at keeping it together but the cold green tea cloth feels amazing on his skin. It's calming, and this type of care feels foreign, but it's welcome, even if Luca feels like he's embarrassing himself by freaking the fuck out.

Shane and Ilya are married. Should they be doing this? It feels so… Intimate.

Shane pulls the cloth away, folding it and patting it again with a fresh part of it that hadn't yet made contact with Luca's scalding skin. Luca almost melts against the couch. His brain feels like it's turning into a warm liquid, sloshing inside his head loudly.

"There," Shane comforts, his words keeping Luca from drifting off somewhere unknown and scary, "The swelling is already going down. When you get home, make sure to wash your face. Do you have a good moisturizer?"

Luca shakes his head.

"Lyubimyy, give him one of your many creams. It will work for sure," Ilya says, scaring Luca into opening his eyes with a tiny jump. He's sitting on the other side of the couch, legs spread out and kicked up as he leans back on a pillow with his arms crossed. How long has he been sitting there?

Ilya's smile spreads lazily and a genuine laugh tumbles after it.

"Someone's jumpy."

Shane rolls his eyes at his husband. He pulls the cloth away and rubs the remaining moisture into Luca's skin gently.

"Be nice, Ilya."

"I am nicest. Nicest captain who stayed home to keep an eye on our heartbroken rookie. I would do it again and again. Nobel prize."

Luca's bottom lip quivers a little bit before he sucks it in between his teeth, but thankfully none of them notice. Shane places the cloth on the tray that's still on the coffee table and moves closer to his husband, creating some space in between himself and Luca. The breathing room is appreciated—if this went on, Luca would've probably become a puddle on the carpet.

"Thank you for yesterday," Luca tells them, pulling the blanket off of him slightly. He tries to sound as genuine as he can without tearing up, which is a hard thing to do.

"Ilya's right. We would've done it again and again for you, Luca."

"We should talk," Ilya says, his right hand sliding behind Shane and settling on the dip of his hip, "Nothing too serious, Haasy. We are just worried about you and..."

Ilya looks at Shane, something in his face reading that words in English might be hard at the moment.

"It was intense," Shane takes over to say in Ilya's stead, "We just wanted to talk to you about what happened and to make sure you understood the situation fully."

Luca looks between them, eyes bouncing back and forth. Shane has taken to holding Ilya's hand and god, Luca feels like he just got in trouble with his parents for the first time. That's exactly what this is feeling like. Is this an intervention?

"I know that was embarrassing of me," he says, "I-I, um, genuinely didn't know who to call and I guess I thought about you."

"Is not embarrassing," Ilya cuts that thought off by the root right away, "I told you last night, you did the right thing, calling us. You needed to feel safe. We were able to provide. We are happy we were on your mind at a time like that."

Shane nods along to it.

"R-Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Okay," Luca says, a bit more confident than he has felt in a long time, "It's hard for me to believe that but I will try, captain."

"Good. You will try, for us."

Luca gulps dry and nods.

"Onto less pleasant things. Luca," Shane says, reaching one of his hands over and placing it over his knee, "How long have you and, uh… Your boyfriend been together?"

Luca shrinks physically and his eyes get misty again before he eventually answers, "Ex-boyfriend," he corrects gently, ducking his head so he can look somewhere else, "And it was nine months. I didn't tell the team b-because, well… I knew everyone would be fine with it, but I was still scared of what it all meant."

Shane nods empathetically, the hand that's over Luca's knee squeezing in reassurance. Ilya shoots him a warm smile that says absolutely everything—they understood him probably better than anyone else ever could.

"And it has always been this… Bad?"

"Ilya."

"What? It is a fair question."

Luca coughs, reaching across to grab the glass he drank the milkshake out of to finish the remainder of it and hide his face.

"W-What do you mean?"

"Luca," Ilya's voice turns to something sterner and he tilts his head to the side as if to say 'C'mon, really?'. Luca can't meet his eyes when he continues, "What you told us yesterday was pretty bad."

Luca sets down the glass again and his left hand has taken to fiddling with a loose thread from the thick throw blanket. He's not answering, though he's stilling his breathing slowly, blinking back so the tears he's been holding don't fall. His throat is tightening and tingling, choking his words out before they can leave.

"We are not going to pretend like we are therapists or couple counselors," Shane takes the reins of the conversation again, all good boy and polite Canadian, "But you said a lot of alarming things last night and as your alternate captain and captain and, most important of all, your friends," he says, gesticulating between himself and his husband, "We are really fucking worried, Luca."

He's going to melt into goo. Luca is going to be hit by God from the sky and vaporized into a pile of ash in the middle of this living room.

"You said you were fucking and he kicked you out during it," Ilya leaves no room for interjections, "And that he also threw your phone at you on purpose. This is not behavior of a boyfriend of nine months, Luca. How long has he been treating you like that?"

Luca swallows. He'd had plenty of crying sessions about the matter on his own but making the sentences up in his mind to say them out loud and not in the privacy of his own room is proving to be exceptionally difficult. He's getting that buzzing feeling under his skin again, ants crawling inside the thinnest layer of it and making him feel like he can't move his fingers or like his legs are useless.

He must make a distressed noise. He doesn't know. Luca's ears aren't fucking working anymore.

The hand that was previously on his knee moves away, leaving an imprint of warmth in its wake. Luca shivers, missing it, though it doesn't stand for long—faster than he can blink the confusion away, there are hands on him again. Two pairs.

"Milyy, I need you to breathe for me."

Luca hears him but it's distant, though he tries to follow through with the order. There is a solid, warm body slotting itself behind him, thick thighs bracketing him and arms wrapping around his waist with soft yet constant pressure. A tuff of dark hair is in front of him—Shane. Shane is holding his head up with his hands while Ilya moves him with the full weight and force of his body, tilting his head backwards onto his shoulder.

"Luca," Shane calls through the fog, gentle but calloused fingers swiping away his messy blonde hair from his forehead and eyes, "Luca. Come up. Follow my voice. You're okay—Nothing changed."

Luca's tears suddenly pool and spill free as massive rivers of them stream down his face. Ilya has his face pressed to Luca's neck, nose against his jaw. He's shaking still but slightly less now, and he focuses on feeling Shane's heart through his fingertips and Ilya's through his own artery.

"'M sorry, I don't know why I get l-like this."

"Big part of the problem," Ilya whispers and now he's rocking him back and forth slowly, like someone would a baby. Shame floods Luca entirely once again—why does he like this? Why does it make him feel so weirdly at ease? "Is precisely why we need to talk."

"Breathe, Luca."

It feels like his mind is a tangled ball of yarn, thoughts too tightly knotted together to make any sort of sense. He makes a show of breathing mindfully and with purpose, though it's difficult—the reward is handed to him in the form of Shane smiling like he's proud of him.

"You can follow instructions. You're good at that," Ilya comments and Luca isn't sure where he's going with this until his captain continues, "You are going to calm down, slowly… And you can stay floating for however long you want, but you have to listen to what we are going to tell you."

Luca nods shakily, sniffles slowly dying down with each rub of Shane's hands over his cheeks.

"Allow yourself to feel it," Shane says, "Specially here with us. We understand what you're feeling incredibly well and we can help you."

Luca lets out a little pathetic whine, "Y-You do?"

"Yes, milyy. Take deep breaths with my Shane," Ilya instructs, one of the hands that's helping hold Luca up loosening its grip and rubbing gentle circles over Luca's chest, "Think of what feels good. Think of things you like."

"Like you, s-sirs."

Ilya chuckles against his skin and Shane gains a nice flush over his tanned, freckled face.

"We like you too. Right, kotenok?"

"Right," Shane says with a small nod.

There is something in his tone that is a little bit tight, like Shane hasn't fully explored the idea of letting himself admit such a thing yet. The way Ilya pulls that out of him is almost seamless, like he knows just what to say and prod at to get Shane to admit his darkest secrets.

"What you are feeling right now is a subdrop," Ilya explains calmly, "It might not make sense to you yet, but that's what this is."

"The restlessness, the bad thoughts. The crying and the shaking… You are overwhelmed with things you don't allow yourself to feel. You're uncomfortable. None of it is your fault and it's not weird—You're not broken and there's nothing wrong with you, you just need different things during intimacy," Shane follows through, and Luca is following the way his lips move around the words he says. It's weirdly calming and helps him focus on what he's saying.

"Last night, you dropped because you were left with no aftercare, no reassurance and on top of that, he hurt you," Ilya almost sneers as he says it, holding back the hardest he ever has, "And you do not deserve that. You deserve to feel safe. You deserve someone who makes you feel safe."

"No way," Luca shakes his head, tears stopping and making way for confusion to settle in their place, "N-Not a sub. I was always the more… Y'know. I topped. I, u-um, was the one in control."

"Luca, no you were not," Shane shakes his head, "Being a top and a dominant is not the same thing at all. BDSM is way more complicated than just having sex. Was that ever even a conversation between the two of you? Did he ever ask you what your preferences were? Or did he just assume that was something you wanted to do?"

BDSM? Silence follows the question and so Shane makes a face—Luca thinks it looks part scared, part worried and another, maybe a smaller one, angry.

"Answer him, Luca."

Luca shivers upon hearing Ilya's voice. It's darker, sterner and slightly colder than what he's used to now. Ilya must be really upset. Luca can't tell if it's with him or the situation itself.

"Tell the truth."

"N-No, it wasn't," Luca says quickly, followed by a distressed noise as he tries to squirm away from Ilya's hold, "I'm sorry. I tried to tell him. I did, sir. I-I said that I didn't want to hurt him so many times—"

Ilya doesn't let him get away. His hold tightens but Luca doesn't feel cold from it, instead he feels pressure, its comfort and warmth.

"He never listened and if he did, he didn't care. He said I was a b-big and strong athlete and that I was built for that purpose. T-That's what he wanted from me, and I wanted a b-boyfriend, okay?"

"Lu—"

"I tried t-to be what he wanted me to be. I c-could've broken up with him and I could've said no, but I didn't want to be lonely," Luca cries a little bit as the confession tears through him, "I'm so much bigger than him… He tried to guide me but I could never do it. I disappointed him every single time— Sirs, he was my first boyfriend and I was so sad and small the entire t-time."

Shane and Ilya are silent through the whole thing, watching as Luca's face gets redder with every sentence. It's almost like a faucet has been broken open and words just keep tumbling out with no sign of stopping, each one hurtful in its own way. Luca's shaking and breathing heavily and Shane is wiping tears away from his own eyes, but they need this. Luca needs to let it out.

"I wanted someone so badly. I-I kept thinking about how it might be. I kept thinking about you. I wanted something like you two have—"

He's sobbing now.

"Was so jealous, s-sirs. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Ilya says calmly, one hand letting go of Luca so that he can reach forward and hold his husband also, rubbing his hand over his face gently, "Never apologize for this, Luca. None of it was your fault, milyy."

"He didn't deserve you…" Shane surges forward and hugs Luca and Ilya. His breathing is a little uneven when Luca feels him against his chest, "We're here for you, Luca. We will help you unlearn it—I mean it. We will help you in whatever way we can."

Luca is driven home by Shane and Ilya later that day with a tote bag on his shoulder.

Inside it is a round travel sized container with moisturizer cream, the clothes he had worn the day before and a book with the title 'BDSM for Beginners'. Self-explanatory. He'd been sent off a few hours after their talk—after they'd all calmed down and no one was crying anymore, Ilya and Shane swore to be there for him during this tough time of his life and that anything Luca told them would never go out to anyone else. They also swore that they would answer any of his questions about BDSM, which Luca wasn't totally unfamiliar with, apparently. They wouldn't make fun of him, they wouldn't judge—he was safe to ask them any questions he had.

Luca believed them.

The next day, Luca went to practice and apologized to their coach as soon as he saw him, telling him that he was all better and still very much ready to play in the important game coming up. Coach Wiebe pat him on the back once, firmly, and sent him off to do some drills and a few extra ones to compensate for the missed day. Ilya joined him during the extra ones, as he had also stayed behind to take care of him—Ilya told him that as an excuse, Shane said Ilya needed to schedule an emergency therapy session and that coach Wiebe didn't push for more information after that.

That's the last time they speak or even remotely mention anything related to that incident for the following week. It's a busy week, full of practice and team meetings to prepare for a big game on Saturday against the Montreal Metros. This specific matchup is always hard for the Centaurs—not because they are bad like they used to be, but because of what had transpired between Shane and his previous team when he'd been outed along with Ilya. His alternate captain is always a little on edge in preparation for these types of games where there's more at stake, specially against his old teammates—he's meaner during practice and becomes a little prissy, a permanent frown on his features.

It's not a good mix with the way Luca has been feeling lately, and Ilya must tell Shane such, because his alternate captain still works him to be bone but doesn't really raise his voice at him like he does with the others. This doesn't go unnoticed by the team, which raises some eyebrows and worst of all, some arguments on the ice.

Luca had stopped for some water after asking Shane for permission and being waved off dismissively during an exercise. This doesn't seem to sit right with anyone.

"Going soft on the rook, Hollywood?" Troy chirps, loud enough for Luca to hear.

Luca hasn't been a rookie for three years now.

"Yeah, fuck that!" Dykstra complains, heaving for breath as he's on the last stretch of a suicide.

"Fuck off, the two of you. Back to the line," Shane grits out.

Luca tries to not let it get to him.

And it doesn't, for the most part, until he gets home that day and drowns in his own tears for a good two hours. The tote bag is still sitting in the back of his closet where he'd shoved it and it's burning a hole through the floor of his apartment. He's so distressed, he can't stop thinking about the way Shane and Ilya are treating him differently since that day and how he hasn't taken advantage of the promise they'd made him.

It is then that Luca makes a decision. He opens the door to his closet and gets the book from the tote bag, settling for a night of deep dive studying. Luca showers, changes into comfortable clothes and heats some leftovers all before he gets in bed and grabs his phone. Luca opens his text messages and makes a new group before his brain can stop his fingers from doing so.

On the receiving end of the last four messages, Ilya shoots his husband a look from across the kitchen counter. He wiggles his eyebrows in a mockingly sexy way that Shane is unfortunately very used to and so very explicitly hates—it means his husband has clocked something about him, and is going to be extremely insistent or annoying about the topic. Shane rolls his eyes and slides off the bench he's sitting on with a groan.

"Hollander," Ilya singsongs as he follows right after him, crowding against his body and locking his arms around Shane's torso and making them both stumble in the process, "Moya lyubov~"

Shane is dutifully ignoring him as he goes up the stairs, effectively dragging himself and his husband's weight up to their bedroom. When he pushes in through the door, Ilya becomes a dead weight as they reach the bed.

Ilya lands on top of him, trapping him under his body, chest to his back. Shane gasps and squirms under his husband's weight pressing him down on the mattress.

"Ilya! Get off me!" He protests with no bite to it, "You're ridiculous!"

"But I like you so much," Ilya drawls out, pressing a kiss in between Shane's shoulder blades. Shane whines once more before he settles into the pressure, thoroughly satisfied but still a little bit annoyed when Ilya says, "Good boy."

Shane whimpers.

"Are you happy, kotenok? Luca finally opened that little book you gave him…" Ilya taunts, his hands wandering Shane's body as he rolls his hips down. Shane gasps as he feels the slowly hardening pressure against his hip—Ilya is hard from this specific topic? Surely not. Ilya hums before he says, "Now he can learn why he likes calling you 'sir' so much."

"He calls you 'sir' too," Shane defies uselessly, pout hidden as his face hits the mattress but still present in his voice. He's blushing down to his chest, lifting his hips to meet his husband's.

"Yes, but that makes sense," Ilya teases, nipping the back of Shane's neck and smiling against the skin when he hears him gasp, "I am 'sir' to you, also. You? No one has ever called you 'sir'," Ilya's hands become rougher, gripping Shane's body and raking his nails against the sensitive skin under his shirt instead of the soft touch from moments ago, "Do you know what you are called?"

Shane shakes his head.

Ilya leans down once more to his ear, "My kotik, my zaychik, good boy…" He kisses Shane's lobe before he bites and pulls meanly, relishing in the sharp moan that tumbles out of him, "Your favorite—my slut. My whore. 'Sir' is new for you, no?"

"Fuck," Shane cries and god, he's hard. It's so fucking embarrassing—guilt and shame bloom in his chest.

He shouldn't feel that way about Luca. It's so wrong. Luca looks up to the both of them and considers them his hockey mentors, his idols. Shane agreed to help Luca learn about BDSM so that he could practice it in a safe way, not because he was looking to—Oh, fuck. This shouldn't be so exciting… He hasn't even talked with Ilya about how he feels about the matter yet.

Shane moans wantonly as Ilya quickly pulls his shorts and underwear down in one go, leaving him bare as he flips him over onto his back, "Oh, f-fuck," he whimpers, "Ilya, please…"

"Please what, slut? Hm? Please call Luca so he can see how much of a fucking whore you are?"

Shane buries his face in his arms, crying out. His face is fucking burning—steam must be coming out of his ears. He knows better, though. Before Ilya can correct his mistake, Shane uncovers himself, looking at his husband's face, completely engulfed in lust.

"N-No, don't call him…"

Ilya hums and Shane hears a bottle of lube popping open—instinctively, Shane spreads his legs open so that Ilya can get in between them. There's cold fingers ghosting over his hole because Ilya is very mean when he gets like this. Shane doesn't even think he needs the prep—they'd fucked this morning when they woke up, lazy and sweet, before practice.

"I won't, kotik. Is more exciting like this," Ilya moans in his ear, pressing in right away with two fingers. Ilya opens his husband, fully delighted to see the tiny little sniffles of embarrassment from him, "Is more exciting to talk about him when he's not here."

"Ilya—"

"Not my name," he tuts.

Shane lifts his lips a little bit, trying to meet Ilya's wrist, "Sir, please, I need it."

Ilya nods, biting his bottom lip, "There we go, kotik…" His fingers inside Shane turn from two to three and he grazes his prostate with slow, intentional strokes, "Empty that pretty head."

Shane is leaking steadily against his stomach, staining his loose, navy blue shirt. His shorts pool at his ankles before Ilya shoves them off the rest of the way and throws them to the ground. Shane whines, as the clothes were not folded, but he's quick to let the topic go once Ilya pulls his fingers away.

"Up. On your knees," his husband says and so Shane follows the order quickly, feeling loose limbed and so fucking turned on when Ilya smacks a hand down on his ass as he moves to position himself.

With Shane situated in place, Ilya takes a moment to just look—miles of perfect skin stand before him, covered in a light sheen of sweat that he so badly wants to lean down and lick clean. Shane's back is arched beautifully and his shirt is bunched up at the front, showing off his dimples near his ass. Ilya wastes no time gripping his husband's hips with his hands as he slots himself in the middle of Shane's legs and grinds forward.

Ilya's head rolls back while Shane's hits the mattress as they moan together. Ilya's cock rubs against his husband's hole, slightly red from the abuse and so achingly empty.

Ilya enters him slowly, making Shane feel every inch of him before he bottoms out with a low groan. Shane's legs wobble when Ilya bends forward to whisper in his ear, as he's supporting the full weight of his husband on his back. Shane fucking loves it when Ilya does this—he loves being pressed between Ilya and whatever he wants to fuck him against.

"So fucking tight, every time—" he moans, cut off with a groan when Shane clenches around him. He can't see but he knows Shane smiles under him, "My good whore, always ready for me."

"Y-yes, yes, yes," Shane babbles, halfway through towards delirium when Ilya starts a relentless and unforgiving pace from the jump. Shane cries and whines and tries to get away, only to be gripped back on his husband's cock by the unwavering hold he has of his hips. It burns a little, stings just right, but it's everything Shane needs every single time.

He loves it like this. He loves it when Ilya throws him around, when he hurts him just a little bit and leaves him sore to feel it the following morning. They're both so strong but Shane feels nauseous with arousal every time Ilya shows that he can boss him and manhandle him about the place with no problem whatsoever—no one has ever been able to make him feel so delightfully small like Ilya can.

They're sweating, Ilya's moaning loud in his ear before he peels himself off of Shane's back. He kicks Shane's legs further apart with his own and now Shane's back is delightfully stretched, hurting as his chest comes in contact w the bedding as well.

Ilya's pace slows and his hands come free of Shane's hips, though he takes them down further to grip his ass apart and just look at how Shane stretches when Ilya pushes forward. It's fucking addicting—Ilya could never get tired of this.

"Beautiful zaychik," He grunts, "Fucking love it when I'm mean to you, huh? When I stretch this little hole out?"

Shane must nod and make a nonsensical noise because Ilya lifts a hand up and smacks him hard enough to swell. Shane yelps loudly, trying to get away again.

"Think—Ah, fuck. Think Luca would like it like this, too?" Ilya pants out, the question unmistakable and impossible to miss.

"F-Fuck," Shane shakes his head, "S-Stop talking—talking about Luca," he whimpers out. Ilya's brain, knowing Shane for upwards of ten years now, automatically translates his sentence to "Please, Sir, keep going!". Shane knows he can safeword, so Ilya doubles down.

"Maybe not," Ilya muses, his pace once again unrelenting and making Shane grip the sheets until his knuckles are white with every thrust against his poor, abused prostate, "He's so sweet. Can't be mean to him—I would have to fuck him really gently. Do it until he comes and then—then turn you around, shove your pants down and use you to come."

Shane's vision goes white, fireworks bursting behind his eyelids and back bowing off the mattress as he pictures it—Luca and Ilya fucking in this very bed, gentle and sweet all the while Shane is tied to the headboard by the wrists, his legs tied together and he's plugged up, ready to Ilya whenever he needs a warm hole to come in.

"Take it. Fucking take it."

The scenario is so clear and the stimulation is so much. Cum lands on his chin and stomach, the force of it seemingly defying the laws of nature itself. He knows he becomes a warm unyielding grip when Ilya's hips slowly come to a stop. His husband buries himself as deep as he can go before he groans like a wild animal, filling him to the brim with his spend.

Shane's head hits the pillows again and one of Ilya's hands come to hold him still there, cheeks and face squished to the side as he breathes with difficulty.

So fucking good. Ilya pulls away slowly after letting Shane catch his breath and he knows, right away, as soon as he hears a whine beneath him, that Shane feels achingly empty. Ilya reaches for the bedside drawer and picks up a smooth, black velvet bag, tied with two leather strings. Inside is a slick metal plug—Shane's favorite.

Ilya warms it in his hands, comforting Shane with soft words of praise and random kisses over the expanse of his back before he slowly slides it in, settling him with a quick shush and another kiss to his ear.

"My zaychik," he whispers, laying down next to Shane and pulling him into his arms, "Spi, lyubimyy, zasnuysya."

His husband visibly melts against him, tucking himself in his hold while Ilya throws a leg over him. They're sweaty, they're out of breath and there's dried cum everywhere, but they don't care.

Shane smiles lazily against Ilya's collarbone.

"S'ho hot…" He babbles, cheeks squeezed where him and Ilya become one.

"I should start calling you 'my pervert' instead," Ilya jokes, "Look at you, all under."

Shane slaps his shoulder noncommittally. Ilya smiles and kisses him square on the mouth again.

"Sleep, zaychik. I will clean you, okay?"

Shane nods.

"I love you, Ilya."

"I love you too, solnyshko."

There's a pause where Ilya thinks Shane might've drifted off far away, but then his husband lifts his cute little head from Ilya's chest and his eyes are all shiny and a little too worried for someone who should be floating in subspace.

"I love only you," he whispers in an all too serious tone that is just the right amount of obsessed, "You know that, right?"

Ilya would carve his own heart out of his chest with his bare hands and give it to Shane if he asked.

"Of course I do. Don't get upset, my Shane," Ilya quickly corrects, "Is fun, yes?" Shane nods timidly at the question, "We can talk more about it when you wake up. I know you need it… But don't think too much. I love only you. Forever, stuck with boring."

"Yes, you are," Shane smiles around the words and he gently falls asleep in his husband's arms, happy and fulfilled. He's got some thoughts to share with him tomorrow but it's okay, because he's safe, warm and so thoroughly used, like he always wants to be.

When Ilya feels Shane drift off he gets up without rousing him—a skill that took many years to master. He pads over to the bathroom, cleans himself, wets a washcloth with warm water, wringing it of its excess before he comes back in the room to take care of his husband. Shane is sleeping soundly exactly where Ilya left him. Ilya cleans him dutifully, pressing kisses to soothe him whenever he twitches a little too much or whines about being turned over.

Ilya knows how Shane's mind works. Every little detail, distraction, obsession—every neurotic thought that Shane has ever uttered to his husband in secrecy could've been detected by Ilya days, if not weeks, before Shane spoke the words into existence. Ilya knows Shane inside out, so he should've expected to be woken up at an ungodly hour of the night to his husband shaking his shoulder and softly calling him.

Ilya panics for a moment all the same.

"Ilya… Ilya," Shane calls, hand sliding down to cup one of his husband's bulging pecs, feeling the soft skin and the hair under his palm.

Ilya opens his eyes slowly, rubbing them and sighing deep from his chest as he adjusts his vision to the light in the room. Shane has turned on his bedside lamp, casting a warm amber glow on everything inside the room. He's staring at him with wide eyes, shiny and observing Ilya's every move.

"Moya lyubov… What? Uh, what time—"

"It's 4am," Shane says, all too awake for how early it is, caressing the side of Ilya's face, "I know you said we will talk in the morning, but I couldn't stop thinking about what we said and I just— Can we talk now? I'll go make something to eat after?"

Ilya rubs his face again, his right hand slithering down his body to squeeze his hardening cock. Sue him, okay? Shane looks beautiful in this light and Ilya is really fucking sleepy.

"Fine," he says, whatever hope he had of falling back asleep now gone, "Do it slow, I'm still… Waking. Slow, english is difficult at this hour."

"I know, I know," Shane nods, laying sideways and helping Ilya prop himself up against the pillows near the headboard. "I don't even know where to start, to be honest."

"You did not wake me up at 4am to talk with no plan, this I know," Ilya shakes his head, closing his eyes briefly and then opening them to look at Shane again. He's worriedly chewing his bottom lip, eyes searching Ilya's face for something, "Did I upset you, kotik? Is okay. I don't have to talk about Luca again when we fuck, if you do not want."

"No, that's not—" Shane sighs, closing his eyes this time and turning away a little so he doesn't have to make eye contact while talking. Ilya knows this habit—a little quirk of his autism, Yuna had explained—sometimes Shane finds it easier to express himself when he can focus on something else. He continues shortly after, "I wasn't upset. I was just surprised, I guess? We, um—We talked about it very briefly after Luca left a week ago, remember?"

Ilya remembers. He remembers the long, grueling and silent drive back home after leaving Luca at his apartment, interrupted only by small sniffles and hiccups from Shane in the passenger seat. Ilya remembers gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles were white, his right hand over Shane's knee providing very little comfort. He remembers the both of them getting home, collapsing in bed in each other's arms and Shane leaving tear tracks all over his shirt. He remembers wanting to throw up.

There's no way of knowing if Luca was aware of the gravity of what he'd confessed to his captains—maybe he hadn't processed everything himself, and these were the first steps towards some sort of healing. Ilya wasn't sure. What he knew at the moment was that something terrible had happened to someone they both deeply care about, and now they have nowhere to put this newly found grief. That's what this feeling was—Shane and Ilya were mourning for the experiences that Luca could've had; how differently things might've gone for him.

There is a whole new world of experiences that Luca didn't get to witness. It's fucking heartbreaking.

"No more," Ilya had whispered in Shane's hair, "Is last time that happened. He has us now, solnyshko."

Shane had nodded then. He had said something along the lines of, "Yes, sir," around a tight throat. His eyes were shining with tears when he added, "We will show him there's good things still."

The memories of this conversation come flooding back to the two of them. Unspoken words hang heavy when Ilya says, "Yes, my Shane. I remember."

"I liked talking about him, during— You know," Shane has a pretty little blush over his freckles, making him look bashful and dewy in this light, "It's fun and hot. I know that before I said that I wasn't really into… Threesomes, or more."

Ilya nods. It's definitely something that he enjoys but not a hill that he's going to die on. Ilya enjoys it, Shane doesn't—it's not hard to give up something he doesn't need for the safety of his husband.

Ilya hasn't even thought about the possibility of that ever happening or being a thing. Mentioning Luca had been a way to tease Shane, rile him up and get him embarrassed enough to tip over the edge of submissive bliss.

"I think… I think that—" Shane groans, hitting the back of his head on the headboard and then sliding down to lay against Ilya. He's looking at the ceiling when he says, "I know you said you love only me, but do you really?"

Shane might as well have dropped an anvil on Ilya's head. He feels his throat tightening, his eyes bulge out of his head at the question and for a moment, Ilya has no response to give him. He's trying to keep it together but the devil on his shoulder is asking him, "How could he ask that, after all this time?" and "After everything you've done for him, he can still ask this question?" on a loop.

Shane must see the distaste in Ilya's face, because he's quick to try and remedy it, "Wait, Ilya. That came out wrong. Fuck! That's not how I wanted to ask that at all."

"How did you mean it, then?"

"I know you love only me," Shane turns once again, placing his left hand over Ilya's heart. He's compelled to grab his wrist and keep Shane's hand from moving, so he does. Shane takes the initiative to lace their hands together, wedding bands touching, "I guess I'm just asking, do you look at Luca and think 'Wow, I could not love you at all'?"

Ilya bites the inside of his cheek. Why's this conversation bringing tears to his eyes?

"I love him in a different way, like I love my team," He ends up saying. Something in his chest tells him that's not the full story. Shane comes closer, using his free hand to tilt Ilya's face towards him—he frowns when a tear slides down his husband's cheek and he wipes it with his thumb.

"Ilyusha, it's okay," Shane whispers, leaning in to kiss Ilya's cheek over the wet track of the tear, "We are married. It's you and me until the end—nothing is ever going to change that. I just… Seeing the way he reacted to us, even without fully knowing what he was doing, made me think."

Ilya is still silent, but he nods to show he's listening.

"I've been thinking a lot about it for the past week. You know that, because you know every fucking thing that crosses my mind," Shane jokes with a small roll of his eyes, smiling when Ilya's seemingly sour mood breaks a little with a twitch of his lip, "I understand how you feel and I think I feel the same way. About this."

"And how do you think I feel?"

It's direct, courtesy of being Russian, which will never truly leave his bones, but he needs to know.

"I think that last week, when we took care of him, something... Shifted. I felt really good, knowing that we could be a safe place for him and help where we could," Ilya follows every word and he notices Shane is speaking slowly, like he asked him to. He wants to lean over and kiss Shane square on the lips, even though he was incredibly upset a few minutes ago. His husband had that effect on him.

“You are always a safe space. You have been one for me, and now you are one for others. Especially for Luca,” Ilya can’t help but jump in to reassure his husband, words strong in their conviction as he leans forward and grasps onto Shane’s bicep loosely, tugging him towards his chest.

"We have this dynamic, the two of us. I always thought that having someone else in the middle. of it would feel... Weird. Every time I tried to picture us with someone, they would stick out like a sore thumb. I couldn't think of it as something I could ever enjoy."

Ilya can't help but feel guilt—cold and crushing—in his stomach, as Shane describes the feeling of inviting someone else into their bed. He opens his mouth to interject—to apologize, perhaps, for wanting the thing that has apparently caused so much damage despite all the conversation they’ve had around it, but Shane beats him to the punch again.

Ilya finally breathes out, a near sob of relief.

"All of this to say—I'm not saying I have feelings for Luca. But I think... I think I could, at some point. Very different from the ones I have for you, my Ilyusha. Always."

“You think you could?” It’s a quiet question, but one full of conviction. Of need to know more and prod all the answers out of these questions that now hang loose inside their bedroom, “Of course our love would be different. Our love would be… A unit, I think,” Ilya whispers.

"I think I could. I can't explain it very well? This information and um—Want, feels very new. I don't think I can map all of it, yet... But it's exciting. Imagine," Shane leans in to whisper back, like he's a kid telling funny secrets during recess, "Can you imagine us, with a boyfriend? He wouldn't be my boyfriend, or your boyfriend, either... Ours. As one. I think that's it."

"Thinking wishfully there, Hollander."

"It's wishful thinking, dumbass," Shane chirps back and now they are laughing with each other, heads thrown back on the pillows and their hair messy. It's easy to slip back into something so comfortable—knowing they have each other, no matter what, is what keeps them so thoroughly connected.

“Is okay if you can’t map it yet. It’s new, and new things take most time,” Ilya replies, carding his fingers through Shane’s hair, tugging gently at the roots just to watch the way it makes his eyes flutter shut at the comfort.

His lips are set in a small smirk as he watches Shane talk with a new confidence. His chest swells with something overwhelmingly fond, as well as desperately proud, filling him to the edges of his throat. Watching Shane speak like a schoolboy with a crush and realizing his husband has never gotten to do this before makes Ilya's heart skip several beats. Realization hits him then: Ilya is the first to have this honor. He's the first person Shane has ever felt close enough to share something so deeply fragile with, and they're married. Whether this adventure goes well or very badly, Ilya will always have him to come home to. They will have each other forever and beyond.

“Yes, malysh. He could be our boyfriend. Our boy.” He throws out a few titles, trying to see which one makes Shane tick, “Just ours. Our property, ours to take care of. Our puppy.”

The last one in particular makes a sound slip out of Shane's lips. They'd tried that kind of play before but Shane found it slightly silly—he couldn't get in the headspace, no matter how much he tried. Inevitably, it had been crossed off their lists as something they'd tried but didn't really enjoy. This response? It is entirely new. Ilya's eyes twinkle under the amber light.

"You like that? Think Luca would agree to it?" Ilya's voice drops an octave as he feels Shane shamelessly grinding against his thigh, "To being our pet?"

"Oh, fuck."

"So horny from the thought of it," Ilya drawls out, slow and dark like molasses, "You have the plug, still?" Shane nods as much as the grip on his hair allows and his hips grind lower, "Turn over. On your stomach."