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Ilya likes playing hockey. It’s fast, and physical, and he’s brilliant at it, so there’s no reason not to enjoy it.
One day when he’s ten, though, he steps onto the ice, and a current sparks through him. This, he keeps thinking, this, this, I was made for this. He plays like a demon, and his mom smiles when she picks him up.
“You had lots of fun today, your trainer told me.”
Ilya nods. He can’t explain the feeling, he doesn’t know a single word or phrase that could express what he felt on the ice today. He doesn’t know how to describe that it wasn’t quite his own emotions he was experiencing. So he just nods and beams and hugs his mom.
He’s never off the ice unless someone drags him off from then on.
Shane knows he’s a late bloomer, and he doesn’t mind. He hasn’t felt any Connection, but he doesn’t think he really needs to. It sounds scary, and overwhelming, and he’s pretty sure he’d be happy to live without it. Some people don’t ever feel a Connection, and plenty more feel it but live contently never even meeting the person. That sounds just fine to Shane.
His parents reassure him that they will love him no matter what. No one seems worried, so he just goes on like he always has.
Until one day when he’s twelve his parents find him where he’s crawled under his bed, pressing himself into the corner, screeching and tearing at his hair and sobbing until his mom drags him out and holds him and rocks him and he can manage harsh breaths in through his nose, viciously biting into his bottom lip to try and keep his feelings inside his body.
The doctor at the emergency room says, It’s not your son, it’s his Connected Person.
That knowledge doesn’t help Shane through the next year, the lethargy that almost drowns him on some days.
Hockey is all that helps, so he plays, and plays, and plays.
One day, Shane comes home from school so high his parents take him to the emergency room again. His blood test is completely clean, and his parents think Shane can’t hear them whisper about how unhappy they are with his person. They definitely weren’t expecting drugs, that much is clear. Their supportive manner switches to reassuring him there’s no need to go looking for his Connected Person, that if it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen.
“Maybe European,” his mom is saying once Shane’s pretended he’s going to bed later that day. His parents are talking in the living room, thinking he’s asleep. “Based on the times when these things are hitting him.”
“Maybe an artist,” his dad says. “You know, with the first -”
“What could that have been?” his mom says.
For all the information Shane doesn’t have, he knows that it was nothing less than his person’s whole life being torn down.
Ilya tries. He tries so, so hard not to fail his soulmate. He doesn’t know him, but he knows he’s a boy, even though he isn’t sure how he knows. All he gets is occasional flashes of hockey, of panic, and of overwhelming sincerity.
Ilya tries to get his emotions under control. He tries not to get blackout drunk. He tries not to do drugs when Sasha offers them. He fails, and fails, and keeps failing.
He knows it must hurt his soulmate, because his boy, as Ilya has come to think of him, is fussy when things aren’t how he feels they should be. And Ilya definitely isn’t how he should be.
He keeps trying, though.
Shane takes pictures of dogs on his way to and from school. He doesn’t know why exactly he does it, because he never used to like dogs that much. They’re okay, they just aren’t as cool as cats. And cats are more quiet, Shane likes that.
He has a folder on his computer that’s called Dogs and Jessica teases him, saying he likes looking at dogs more than at her, because he doesn’t save her photos in a special folder. Shane stammers at her, and she laughs and hugs him and tells him she was joking. Shane doesn’t get many of her jokes, and he feels pretty bad about it, because she’s a fun and smart and kind person.
Jessica suggests they contact a shelter and volunteer to take some dogs for a walk. Shane is hesitant at first, but he agrees, and being with the dogs turns out really nice. They walk in the park with a dog each, a weak autumn sun overhead and the air cool and clear. The little spaniel on the leash Shane is holding yaps and barks and raises his nose in the air. Shane feels calm and peaceful and happy.
He would love this, Shane thinks. He loves dogs.
He has to sit down on a bench. Oh, no.
“Shane?” Jessica asks. “Are you okay?”
The feeling of calm has disappeared. Shane nods and goes home and plays hockey and puts it out of his mind. It’s a mistake. It’s just a mistake. His brain is being wrong.
They don’t go to walk the dogs another time.
Svetlana gets a look in her eyes whenever Ilya tries for his boy. Not that he’s told her that it’s a boy. Svetlana knows about stuff he’s done with Sasha, of course, but that’s entirely different.
She hands him the can when she’s in Moscow with her father. Ilya pops it open and takes a sip. It’s disgusting.
“It’s better if you put vodka in it,” she says.
“Since when do you need to mix?” he asks, and she grins.
“You’re the one who asked for ginger ale. I didn’t even know you knew what it was.”
“I didn’t,” Ilya says. He turns the can back and forth, reading all the English words on it. “They only have this in America?”
“I mean, I guess they have it in other countries, probably you can find it at speciality stores here. I think it was invented in Canada,” she says. “But, yeah, lots of Americans drink it.”
“Hm,” Ilya says.
“You can try a different brand when you go to the World Juniors soon,” she says. “Maybe you’ll like a Canadian one better.”
Something is churning in Shane’s gut as he walks across the parking lot to where Ilya Rozanov is leaning against the wall smoking.
When Shane says his name, Rozanov looks up to meet his gaze. His eyes are a lot.
Rozanov is silent as he takes the hand Shane is offering, and he stays silent as Shane’s world implodes, as Shane’s heart starts hammering in his chest and a buzzing fills his ears and he starts sweating despite the cold winter air. He fumbles for his toque and yanks it off, shoving it into the pocket of his coat. The cold air hitting his hair and ears makes it easier to breathe.
“Surprised?” Rozanov asks.
“There’s nothing – this is nothing,” Shane forces out.
“Soulmates is something,” Rozanov says.
“You know you should say Connected Person, not soulmate,” Shane says. “It’s old-fashioned and sugar-coating.”
Rozanov takes a drag of his cigarette and looks Shane up and down. “Sugar? You think is always sweet and fun?”
Shane stares at him for too long, can’t look at anything else, until he turns too fast, almost slipping, and runs until he’s safe in his parents’ car.
When Hollander drops down onto the gym floor opposite Ilya, he is breathing hard, his shirt soaked with sweat, his lips turned up into a smile, his eyes bright. All the ways he didn’t look when they first met outside that rink in Regina, the ways he didn’t look in front of the cameras earlier today.
Ilya observes him unabashedly now. He’s fucking gorgeous, that much was obvious from the first time they met, but his clothes clinging to his body with sweat means he’s finally not hidden underneath winter clothes or hockey gear or a suit. Not that Hollander wasn’t hot in all of those outfits.
Hollander drinks water when Ilya tells him to, and drinks more when Ilya tells him that. Hollander looks at him like he wants Ilya to eat him up, and Ilya really fucking wants to. He knocks his ankle against Hollander’s shin, as gentle an encouragement he can think of after Hollander running away last time.
Hollander looks down at Ilya’s ankle, then at Ilya’s thighs, then into his eyes. Ilya licks his lips, and Hollander practically launches himself forward into Ilya’s lap, easily letting Ilya kiss him, messy and hungry.
Ilya bites Hollander’s lips and licks into his mouth and groans when Hollander tugs at his hair. They’re chasing each other’s mouths too eagerly, teeth clacking. Ilya laughs into the space between them and pulls away to make a joke or a comment, when he notices Hollander’s hands are shaking slightly. Ilya is about to let him out of his hold and ask if he’s all right, when Hollander leans in and licks the sweat off Ilya’s neck.
“Fuck,” Ilya says, grabbing Hollander’s ass and pulling him closer, grinding up against him.
Hollander makes a muffled noise against Ilya’s neck. He’s panting still, or maybe again, little puffs of air against Ilya’s damp, overheated skin. His hands are roaming across Ilya’s shoulders, up to his jaw and back down to his collarbones. Ilya lets him explore with his hands and his mouth and tries not to come in his pants. It’s not like Ilya’s not had plenty of sex, but he’s never done something like this, something that felt so inevitable. Had his arms around someone who’s touching him like it’s a treat to discover him, instead of a quick fix.
“We shouldn’t be doing this here,” Hollander whispers, but he kisses Ilya right after and rolls his hips, clumsy and ecstatically good.
“Yes, no,” Ilya agrees on a gasp, but he doesn’t stop either.
“Someone could walk in,” Hollander says, tilting his head back while Ilya nips down his throat. Ilya looks up at him, at his flushed face and long lashes fanning his freckled cheekbones. Sweet, innocent Hollander, getting so hard off the thought of someone seeing him like this.
“Yes,” Ilya agrees, sliding his hands into Hollander’s shorts and underwear, firmly kneading his ass. “Someone could come in and watch me make you come.”
Hollander moans and jerks in Ilya’s arms. “Oh,” he gasps, “Rozanov – I – fuck -”
“You have done this before?”
“I’ve had sex, fuck you -”
“Like this?”
“No,” Hollander says, “No, no, never, please, come on, please.”
Ilya shoves Hollander’s shorts and briefs down enough to wrap a hand around his cock and stroke him, slowly to start with.
Hollander’s mouth drops open a little and his eyes flutter shut. He looks unreal. Holy fuck, Ilya thinks, and strokes him faster. Hollander is dripping precome, easing the slide of Ilya’s hand, getting him Hollander’s nails digging into his biceps and Hollander thrusting up into his fist.
“Rozanov,” Hollander grits out.
“Good,” Ilya grunts. “Good, Hollander, like that.”
Hollander comes pressing his head against Ilya’s shoulder, the rhythm of his hips slowing down but not stilling. Ilya keeps stroking him until he’s ridden out his orgasm and stilled completely, his breathing loud in Ilya’s ear.
“Shit,” Hollander says. “Oh, shit.” He scoots back on Ilya’s thighs a little.
Ilya presses his teeth together. He feels desperate, but he’s not about to beg Hollander to get him off. If he wants to run again, he can run. Ilya won’t care.
Hollander doesn’t leave, though. He runs his fingertips up and down Ilya’s chest, looking down at his come staining their clothes and the bulge in Ilya’s pants.
“Can, can I -” He clears his throat. “Can I touch you?”
“You are touching me,” Ilya says, simply to be a dick.
“Asshole,” Hollander mumbles sullenly. “Fine, then, guess I won’t.”
Ilya grabs his hand and drags it to his cock. “Do you want?”
“Yes,” Hollander says, squeezing his fingers around Ilya’s erection, making Ilya groan. “Obviously I fucking want.”
The thing is, Ilya knows. He can feel Hollander’s desire bleed into his own, different but not less intense. He can feel the awe and tenderness washing over Hollander when he shoves Ilya’s pants down wraps a hand around Ilya’s cock, stroking experimentally. There’s a douse of determination as well, like stepping under a water spout, that has Ilya grinning, until Hollander pushes himself back, down onto the floor, and takes him in his mouth.
Ilya only barely manages not to shout. He grabs Hollander’s dark hair and tips his head back against the wall. He doesn’t know what he expected to happen, but it wasn’t this, not this fast and this driven.
Hollander is inexperienced, that much is obvious, but he’s eager and he makes filthy little noises and doesn’t seem to mind that he’s getting spit everywhere. He ends up gagging after trying to take too much, but he doesn’t let it slow him down. If anything, it seems to make him more determined.
Ilya’s close far too soon, taken almost by surprise so that he has to pull Hollander’s hair to get him to stop. He reaches down to finish, but Hollander scrambles back up and knocks his hand away and does it himself, looking mesmerised as he watches Ilya come.
They sit there together for a minute, sweaty with dirty clothes and breathing hard. Their satisfaction threatens to drown Ilya, the gym feeling tiny and too hot and like a place where Ilya could stay forever. He catches Hollander’s eyes and laughs.
After looking at Ilya incredulously for a few seconds, Hollander joins in. “Oh, fuck. Fuck, I can’t believe we just -”
“Was good, no?”
Hollander looks at him again. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, it was.”
Rozanov is pissing Shane off. He’s clenching and looking at Shane and making Shane remember how it tasted to suck his cock. In a public fucking shower.
“Stop it,” Shane hisses over the rush of the water.
Rozanov gives him a mock-innocent look. “You do not like view?”
“Fuck you!”
“You like being in public, I remember,” Rozanov says. He glances down at Shane’s painfully hard dick with a smirk.
“Shut up,” Shane says, turning back to resolutely look at the wall while rinsing his hair.
“Okay,” Rozanov says cheerfully.
Shane can still feel his eyes on him as he turns off his shower. He’s going to grab his towel, and go up to his room. Maybe, he can consider hooking up with Rozanov in one of their rooms, where they can lock the door and there is no chance of being discovered. That could be okay. It could be really, really okay. The night of the draft, the feeling of Rozanov’s dick in his hands and his mouth, and the way Shane had felt Rozanov’s emotions brushing up against his own, have been playing on his mind since then.
He walks to where he’s hung his towel. When he passes Rozanov, who’s still standing under the water and rinsing his curls, he feels a stab of want. It might be his own, or it might not. Maybe both.
Shane takes a sharp breath, and stops. He looks. Rozanov reaches out almost casually and drags him under the spray, kissing him and running his hands down his sides to rest on his hips.
Shane has to close his eyes not to get water in them, and it feels right like that anyway. He wraps his arms around Rozanov’s neck and makes embarrassing sounds when Rozanov shifts their bodies so their cocks press together. But Rozanov saw and heard him already, writhing on the gym floor like some sort of wanton sex fiend. Shane had felt wild in that moment, nothing on his mind but needing Rozanov’s dick in his mouth.
This feels different, settled. He slowly explores Rozanov’s mouth with this tongue like he hadn’t quite let himself last time in the rush to progress things. It’s nothing at all like kissing a girl.
It’s there again, the urge to sink to his knees and wrap his lips around Rozanov’s dick, but he ignores it for now in favour of clutching Rozanov closer against him and languidly sliding their mouths together.
Shane groans when Rozanov wriggles a hand between them, but he only briefly touches Shane’s cock before reaching lower to cup his balls. His touch is feather-light and so good that Shane is almost surprised when he feels the fingers of Rozanov’s other hand slide between his ass cheeks. Oh. He hasn’t really thought about that, but also it’s been pushing at the edge of his mind, the fantasy of Rozanov doing that to him.
“Have you done this?”
Shane shakes his head. The truth is, he’s attempted it, touching himself like that, but he chickened out every time. One time, he’d got one finger inside, and it hadn’t been bad, exactly, but he’d had a mild panic attack about it, and stopped, and then gone to Jessica’s house and tried to eat her out until he felt close to tears and she’d said Shane, what are you trying to accomplish here? with her voice full of pity. It had been a humiliating experience all around. Shane knows he’s close to freaking out merely thinking about it.
Rozanov must be able to tell, because he takes both his hands away from what they were doing and rests them on Shane’s hips. “Is okay,” he says. “We can do something else. Or nothing. Is okay.”
Shane nods, then shakes his head. “I – I want to, but can we go to my room, or your room, or something? This is too dangerous.”
He expects Rozanov to tease him about liking that type of danger, because Shane had liked it last time, but instead he just says, “Okay, no problem. We go to your room.”
It feels strange, leaving the shower together, walking up to the elevator side-by-side. But they finished the shoot at the same time, it’s not like it’s suspicious. No one is outside the elevator doors when it stops on Shane’s floor, and he rushes to his door, hands trembling as he holds the key card to the lock.
They stumble to the bed, kissing all the while, until Rozanov starts pulling off his clothes, motioning for Shane to follow. As soon as they're naked, Rozanov shoves him onto the mattress, kisses him quickly, and then trails his lips down Shane’s chest and abs until he’s mouthing at Shane’s cock.
“Fuck,” Shane says. “Fuck, Rozanov.”
Rozanov looks up at him. “I think I owe you blowjob after last time.” He winks, and takes Shane fully into his mouth. Shane bites down on his tongue with the effort of trying not to come immediately. It’s better than he even imagined, it’s so good, like nothing Shane’s ever felt from anyone touching him. Rozanov looks up at Shane through his lashes, bobbing his head. It’s almost too much to look at directly, but Shane wants the sight burned into his memory forever.
Rozanov pulls off and Shane protests weakly, only to shut himself up when Rozanov kisses and sucks at his balls instead.
“Fuck,” Shane whines. There’s nothing else in his head at the feeling. “Fuck, I – it’s too much, I’m gonna come -”
“Hm, not yet. Here,” Rozanov says, pushing Shane’s legs up all the way to his chest. “Stay like this, okay?”
He takes Shane’s hand and guides him to hold his thighs up. Shane tenses. “You aren’t -”
Rozanov leans in to kiss him. “No,” he says. “Only things you want. I check with you, for everything. I promise.”
Shane nods and watches Rozanov slide back down the mattress. And then – then –
“Okay?” Rozanov asks over Shane’s gasps. His breath is hot against Shane’s hole.
Shane nods, again and again. It’s all he can manage. Rozanov just chuckles and starts licking around Shane’s rim.
“Oh god,” Shane wheezes. “Oh, holy shit, Rozanov.”
“Is okay? You like this?”
“Oh my fucking god,” Shane groans.
“Hollander? I can keep going, yes or no?”
“Yes, yes, fuck, keep going, yes,” Shane pants. “Yes, keep going, yes, please.”
Everything is hot and wet and new, and there’s slick pressure inside him, Rozanov’s tongue is inside him, and Shane tries to keep still and keep his legs up and he keens and makes noises that he didn’t even know he could make, and he comes when Rozanov almost digs his mouth in, licking and sucking. He doesn’t stop until Shane isn’t able to hold his thighs up any longer. Rozanov holds on to them and spreads Shane out onto the mattress.
He kisses Shane slow and easy, and it isn’t weird, it’s good, and Shane feels almost distressed when Rozanov pulls away again.
“Do you have lube?” Rozanov asks, bracing himself over Shane’s body. Shane’s mind goes to fucking again immediately, and he wonders, almost hopeful now, if that’s what Rozanov is planning. But he promised, so Shane knows he won’t ask, much less do anything without asking.
“Of course I don’t have any,” Shane says. “Do you think I expected this?”
Rozanov shrugs and heads to the bathroom, returning with Shane’s lotion. “Can I use this?”
“Yeah,” Shane says, watching him as he comes back to the bed. Rozanov turns Shane onto his side and presses up along his back. He draws one of Shane’s thighs up. Shane’s heart is beating rapidly. Rozanov must feel that he’s curious, that he kind of wants to try it, but he only smears lotion between Shane’s thighs and then pushes his cock into the space there with a sigh. He presses down on Shane’s upper thigh. “Like this,” he says. “Tight, okay?”
Shane nods.
“Is okay? That I do this?”
Rozanov’s hand is sliding up and down Shane’s waist, almost petting. Shane takes it and draws it around his middle, pressing himself back into Rozanov’s arms. “Yeah. Definitely okay.”
Rozanov starts fucking his cock into the space between Shane’s thighs, and Shane can’t help but moan. His dick twitches even though he’s only just come. Why the fuck has he never thought about doing this before, never got off to imagining it?
“You like it, Hollander?” Rozanov’s words come out choppy, in time with his thrusts. “Come for me again?”
“Fuck,” Shane groans. He’s going to, he’s pretty sure. He reaches down but Rozanov is quicker, taking Shane in hand. Shane has pretty good coordination, but he doesn’t think he could have timed his strokes to Rozanov’s movements the way Rozanov can, so Shane settles for grunting and pulling at the sheets, trying to come. In the end, when Rozanov’s come splatters over his thighs and Rozanov rasps something in Russian, Shane’s orgasm hits him so hard that he whites out for a moment.
He comes back to himself when Rozanov tugs at his hip so that Shane is facing him. Shane feels dizzy with affection, and again he can’t tell who it belongs to. But somehow, against all odds of his brain’s usual patterns, he can stop worrying about it and bask in it instead.
“Okay?” Rozanov asks. “Was good?”
Shane nods. He can’t speak. He isn’t sure why.
Rozanov looks at him. His eyes are so intense, Shane doesn’t know if he can bear it. He also doesn’t want that look to go away.
Shane opens his mouth, but he still has no idea what to say. “Ilya,” is what ends up tumbling out.
Rozanov smiles, even brighter than when they laughed on the ice earlier. He gently knocks his forehead against Shane’s. “Shane,” he says around the smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Did you meet your ginger ale person?” Svetlana asks Ilya one day.
“Don’t be so nosy,” Ilya says.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re not the same.”
Ilya knows. He doesn’t know if it’s because of Shane, or because of himself. When he goes out with Svetlana, or sleeps with her, it’s different. He’s not really quite there. He’s thinking of Shane’s freckles, of Shane’s thighs, of Shane’s smile.
He considers, sometimes, telling Svetlana he can’t sleep with her any more. Shane gave him his number when Ilya asked after their night in Toronto, but he hasn’t really said anything about where he wants things to go. If he wants things to go anywhere.
They text occasionally, about hockey, mostly, sometimes about what they’re doing that day. One day Shane sends Ilya a picture of a cute dog. Ilya responds with hearts and baby talk that he asks Shane to tell the dog, and he gets several pictures of dogs a week from then on.
“Maybe I met the ginger ale person, yes,” he tells Svetlana.
“And?”
“And what?”
“Are you in love?”
Ilya scoffs. He can’t be in love. He goes to Russia every summer. He plays for the national team. He has to win a Stanley Cup, and Olympic Gold. Make Russia proud. Build a career. He can’t do any of that if he’s in love with Shane Hollander.
“So that’s a yes,” Svetlana mutters, lighting herself a cigarette. Ilya hits her with a pillow. When his mind reminds him of the fire hazard immediately, in Shane’s tone, he knows he has a problem.
It works terrifyingly well, his whole arrangement with Ilya. Hiding in hotel rooms whenever they see each other during the season, which is only a handful of times. Each time is better than the last, and scarier. Ilya makes Shane lose control in a way Shane never has before. He makes Shane want to forget everything else. He makes Shane want to bite, and strip himself bare, and let himself be torn apart because he knows it would feel perfect.
“You okay, buddy?” Hayden asks.
Shane likes Hayden, and is grateful for their friendship. Hayden mostly respects that Shane prefers to stay in and play a video game, but tonight Hayden asked him to go out, and Shane acquiesced for Hayden’s sake. He thinks Hayden might be regretting it with the way Shane has been distracted all night by Ilya texting him a picture of his workout.
A girl dances up to them. Her eyes sparkle and her hair stuck to her neck with sweat. She beams and says something to Hayden, who looks like he just got checked. She says something to Shane, too, with an apologetic smile, but he can’t hear her over the music. Then she grabs Hayden’s arm and drags him onto the dance floor. Hayden follows her like he’s in a trance.
Hayden leaves the club with the girl, whose name is Jackie. “My person, Shane,” he keeps saying as he apologises for ditching Shane so early. “She found me. She found me, can you believe how lucky I am?”
Hayden is lucky, Shane thinks. Hayden can leave a club with his person, in full view of everyone, and go home with her. Hayden can spend every day from now on with her, if he wants. Hayden can tell her he loves her, and she’ll probably tell him she loves him back.
Shane goes home, drinks a ginger ale, and looks at what he tells himself is going to be a good real estate investment.
“This is nice place,” Ilya says, looking around. “Better than hotel rooms.”
“Yeah,” Shane agrees. He babbles on about his plans to maybe buy the whole building, not just this condo, in a few seasons once he’s on a new contract and needs to look at investing his savings. Ilya watches him, the corner of his mouth lifted into half a smile.
Shane drags his toes across the carpet. “I, uh, bought lube.”
“Okay,” Ilya says. It’s almost a question. They’ve both started brining lube to hotel rooms.
Shane isn’t being clear enough. He draws another circle on the carpet with his toes. “And, um, condoms.”
Ilya raises an eyebrow. They haven’t fucked, Shane always demurring in the hotels they’ve stayed at, worried about anyone overhearing. They usually blow each other in the shower, or jerk each other off together, and one time Ilya fucked Shane’s thighs again. Shane thinks of how lucky they were not to get caught the first couple of times, when he let himself just want. He’s become more cautious. Exhibit A being the purchase of this condo.
“You want to fuck?” Ilya asks.
Shane nods. “Yeah, I do.”
“Hm,” Ilya says. “Let me think if I am in the mood.”
“You are such a fucking asshole,” Shane says.
Ilya laughs, and kisses him. “Don’t worry. I will make you forget to be angry at me.”
He does. He makes Shane forget everything except the movement of their bodies, the slide of their lips, the depth of him inside Shane and their emotions threading together like vines. When Shane comes, he wails with pleasure. He doesn’t bite down into Ilya’s bicep to keep himself quiet the way he used to have to in those hotel rooms. It’s so much better this way with Ilya looking at him as Shane lets go, his eyes soft and stunned at the same time.
They’re lying in bed in a hotel room in Las Vegas. Ilya lost out on the Rookie of the Year Award. It’s strange to feel his own frustration and pride of Shane mingle with Shane’s happiness and relief at having won. He feels pressure as well already, to keep this up. That’s all Shane’s.
Shane is pressed up against Ilya’s side, freshly showered and looking like he might fall asleep. Ilya is itching for a cigarette, but he hasn’t bought any in a while.
“Ilya?” Shane mumbles.
“Hm?”
Shane blinks his eyes open. “I think I’ll miss you in the summer.”
Ilya looks at him, his freckles, his nose, his lips. Ilya misses him right now, even holding him in his arms.
Shane looks away when Ilya doesn’t respond. “Are you going to Russia in the summer?”
“Yes,” Ilya says curtly.
Shane nods. “That’s cool. We can text, and stuff.”
“Probably not much,” Ilya says. Even with false names in their phones, he can't risk his brother or father noticing anything amiss.
“Oh, yeah, I mean, you’ll be busy, seeing family.”
Ilya feels himself tense. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Okay,” Shane says. “But if you wanted to talk about anything, we could -”
“I don’t,” Ilya says.
“Right,” Shane says. He hesitates. “It’s just, you probably remember, there was a day when we were twelve -”
“Hollander,” Ilya snaps. “I said I don’t want to talk about this!”
“Fine,” Shane says.
“I will be busy in Russia,” Ilya says. “Better don’t text me while I am there.”
“Fine,” Shane says again. “Will people there ask you about your Connected Person?”
“My friend Svetlana will pretend to be my soulmate,” Ilya says. He’s had enough of this Connected Person bullshit. They’re soulmates, and he’s tired of people over here refusing to fucking call it that. Tired of Shane not calling it that. “She knows me so well, will be no problem for her.”
Shane sits up and wraps his arms around his knees. “Svetlana? You did not mention her before.”
“You do not need to know about her,” Ilya says.
Shane gets up and starts pulling on clothes. Fucking fantastic. “If she’s so good at pretending to be, I’m sure you’re happy enough to go around telling people she’s your Connected Person.”
“Can you fucking call it soulmates?” Ilya says.
“It’s not soulmates, it’s just a – a fucking biological, or psychological – whatever – it isn't real,” Shane says.
It could be real, Ilya wants to say. He wants to beg, please, let’s make it real. All he says is, “Okay. You are right. See you after summer, I guess.”
“Have fun with Svetlana,” Shane says as he goes.
Shane gets flashes of Ilya getting off regularly over the beginning of the summer, so it’s out of spite that Shane orders a dildo online, out of spite that he tries it and comes so hard he sees stars. He smiles when he gets a texts moments after. Having a good night, Hollander?
He doesn’t respond and goes to sleep instead. The next morning, he sees Ilya sent another text while Shane was asleep.
Who are you with?
“You fucking idiot,” Svetlana says.
“What the fuck? What did I do?” Ilya asks her.
“I don’t know, but look at you! You’re sad, and you’re wasted at midnight already. Ilyusha, you have to take care of yourself, you deserve better than this.”
“Shut up,” Ilya says. “Leave me alone.”
She sighs. “Let me take you home.”
“No,” Ilya slurs. “I don’t want to go home. Don’t make me.”
“Not your father’s house,” she says. “Come with me to my place.”
Ilya starts to cry.
“Oh, Ilyusha,” she says, putting her arm around him.
“I don’t want to sleep with you,” he says, wiping at his face.
“For fuck’s sake.” She grabs him by the hand and drags him out of the bar, steering him towards where she has a car waiting already.
She makes him drink water on the drive and only once they’re sitting on her sofa with a bag of chips does she talk again. “You really think I’d sleep with you while you’re in this state?”
“Not up to your standards, I know,” he mutters.
“Ilyusha, fuck!” she says, kicking him. “You’re not in a good way. I wouldn’t take advantage.”
He’s tired. “Thanks,” he mumbles.
“Why did you cry?”
“I was just being drunk,” he says.
“Bullshit.” She grabs the chips back from him and shoves a handful into her mouth, passing the bag over again.
Ilya looks at the chips and eats a couple. “I fucked something up.”
“Something with your family?” her voice is very soft.
He shakes his head. “With my soulmate,” he says quietly.
He hears her sharp intake of breath. “You never told me you actually started something with that boy,” she says.
Ilya looks up so fast he cricks his neck. “You know?”
She shrugs. “I had a feeling.”
“You’re a witch,” he says.
She smiles. “I have to say, you did throw me off with that girl you’re texting in Boston. Jane. I’ve seen her name on your phone.”
“Jane,” Ilya says. “Does not live in Boston.”
“Where does Jane live?”
“Canada,” Ilya says.
“She drinks ginger ale?”
Ilya rubs a hand down his face. “Yeah, he does.”
She looks at him gently, but not with pity. “Oh, Ilya. All year, you’ve known him? Since you moved to the US?”
“Since before,” Ilya says.
“When exactly?”
He practically see the gears turning and shakes his head to forestall her. “I can’t tell you.”
“Ilyusha!”
“I really can’t Sveta. He is not out, same as me.”
“In Canada? He’d be safe.”
Ilya shrugs non-committally.
“Oh my god,” she says. “Is he a public figure? An athlete? Does he play hockey, too? Which team? He’d have to be brilliant, for you to want him.”
“Sveta.”
She takes the chips from him and eats a few in silence. “Jane is a brilliant hockey player in Canada,” she says slowly, watching him like a hawk.
“And we stop here,” Ilya says.
She pouts, and shakes the chips bag in front of his face. “I’m going to finish these. You tell me how you messed up with your Canadian Jane.”
Practise was good, but Shane is feeling his good mood rapidly decline in the locker room. He’s getting dressed while the other guys are talking. Specifically, Comeau is complaining about his girlfriend.
“She keeps nagging me,” he says. “Not to go out so much when I’m not on the road, ‘cause she wants to spend time with me.”
“Imagine that,” J. J. says, rolling his eyes. “She’s your CP, isn’t she? Don’t you want to spend time with her?”
“It’s not always that easy,” Comeau says. “We’re not exclusive, I want to fuck other girls.”
“Can’t you do that on the road?” Drapeau asks.
Hayden is next to Shane, listening with a stony expression. He worships the ground Jackie walks on, and hates when others don’t respect their persons.
“Well, yeah,” Comeau says. “But it’s more about my freedom, you know?”
Drapeau nods.
“Right, guys?” Comeau says.
“Sure,” J. J. says.
“Can’t relate,” Hayden says, still stone-faced.
“What about you, Hollander?” Comeau says with a nasty grin. “You never come out with us, have you ever even fucked a girl properly?”
“Leave him alone, Comeau,” Hayden says. It’s brave of him, he’s not been there any longer than Shane, but Shane almost wishes he hadn’t said anything.
“So that’s a no, then,” Comeau says. “We should go out tonight, get the rookies some girls.”
Neither Shane nor Hayden are rookies now, but some of the vets don’t seem to care.
“Your girlfriend wanted to see you tonight, I thought,” Shane says.
“You wouldn’t get it, I need more besides my CP,” Comeau says. “That’s normal.”
“I don’t know why you’d bother, it’s not even good with someone else besides your person,” Shane says.
All the guys turn to him.
“You’ve fucked your CP?” Comeau asks.
“You know your CP?” Hayden’s voice is quiet.
“No, it’s not like that,” Shane hurries to say.
“Guess you’re not a virgin after all,” Drapeau says, laughing.
Shane frowns. “I’ve dated people before that.”
Drapeau snorts.
“So tell us about who this girl is,” Comeau says. “Hot?”
“We’re keeping things private,” Shane says.
“Ugly as fuck, then,” Comeau says.
“Shut up, Comeau,” J. J. says. “You don’t know, could be any reason. Maybe she’s married, or something.”
“Who gets married at twenty if it’s not to their person?”
“Maybe she’s old, then!”
“She could get an express divorce if you guys prove the Connection,” one of the rookies says, like he thinks he’s being helpful.
“Depends on where she got married,” someone else chimes in. “I think they don’t do that in the States.”
“I think in some countries you’re divorced automatically once you meet your CP.”
“I heard that’s just a myth.”
“When did you meet her?” Hayden asks, his voice still quiet.
Shane just wants everyone to stop talking. He hasn’t seen Ilya in so long, and it’s like a physical ache throughout his entire body. He gets a sense of Ilya occasionally, there were some days over the summer where he woke up hungover, or so sad he could hardly get up. He tries not to think too much about it, because Ilya has Svetlana to take care of him, surely.
“I’ll tell you later,” he mumbles to Hayden, even though he’s planning to get out of it somehow.
Ilya hasn’t been looking forward to their first game against the Voyageurs this season. Now that Shane’s looking at him during the face-off, he can’t remember why. Shane’s face is slightly rounder from his summer weight, his hair is cut better, and his freckles are as distracting as ever. Ilya wants to reach out and trace them. By the look in Shane’s eyes, he’s getting what Ilya’s feeling.
Shane wins the face-off.
The night after their first game of the season against Boston, Shane paces in his apartment. He hopes Ilya can’t feel the nervous thrum that’s coursing through him. He keeps thinking about what the guys said in the locker room a few days ago. About how sex can apparently be just as good with someone who’s not your person.
Shane opens a beer that he keeps in the fridge for visitors. He really should not be doing that, but he doesn’t know what else to do. Maybe, he keeps thinking, it’s not so great with Ilya specifically because he’s Shane’s person. Maybe it’s just because Ilya is a guy.
Shane drains his beer. Svetlana probably has lots of experience. Svetlana probably drinks expensive drinks and goes dancing in exclusive clubs.
Shane can find a club. Okay, maybe a bar. He could do that, right?
He googles gay bars in Montreal in his private browser and finds one on the outskirts that looks small and unpopular. Hopefully, he won’t be recognised there.
Once he gets there, he spends ten minutes psyching himself up enough to go in. He sits in a booth in the corner and has a ginger ale. This was a bad idea. He’s going to finish his drink to be polite and leave. He’ll be fine. If any pictures of him here get taken, he’ll say someone dared him to go. He can get Hayden to back him up in an emergency, he thinks, even though Hayden is mad at him because he wouldn’t tell him about his person.
Someone drops down into the booth next to him. A heavy, large body. For a split second, Shane has the irrational hope that he’ll look up, and it’ll be Ilya there. He knows it isn’t, though. He’d feel it if Ilya were in the same room. He’d have found him immediately.
He’d be feeling better than this if Ilya were around.
“Hi,” the guys who sat down next to Shane says. He’s very close.
“Hi,” Shane whispers.
“I’m Jeff.”
“Hi,” Shane repeats, feeling stupid. He has to get out of here. What if Jeff is a hockey fan? What if Jeff recognises him, and tells everyone, and Shane’s life is over?
Jeff puts a hand on Shane’s arm, making Shane flinch. “What’s your name?”
Shane shakes his head and tries to think of how to get out of the booth. Jeff is sitting where Shane would need to go to get out. How can he get out? The more time he spends here, the more likely Jeff will know. Shane tries to keep his eyes down, give Jeff the least opportunity possible to see his face.
“Hey,” Jeff says, slowly scooting away. “It’s cool. I’m going, okay? If you need help, will you ask someone? Not me, the bartender?”
Shane nods, keeping his face down.
“Okay,” Jeff says. “I hope you feel better.”
As soon as he’s done, Shane stumbles out of the booth and outside into the night air. It’s blissful, and he drags in deep lungfuls before getting into his car.
He sets his GPS to home and sees that he has a barrage of texts and missed calls from Ilya.
Why are you scared?
Shane, where are you?
What is wrong?
Where are you?
Are you at the condo, I can come there
can I do something to help
Shane can you answer
this doesn’t feel good
something’s wrong I can feel it
please answer the phone
Shane please where are you
Shane stares at the texts for a minute. He wipes his eyes. Then he does something he’s never done before. He calls Ilya.
Ilya picks up on the first ring. “Shane,” he says. “Shane, where are you?”
“I’m okay,” Shane says.
“You were so scared,” Ilya says.
“Sorry,” Shane mumbles.
“No, no, no,” Ilya says. “Don’t – no. Is okay. Where are you?”
“On the way home,” Shane says.
“Can I – what can I do? Can I help you?”
Shane leans his head back against the headrest. “Can you meet me there? At my apartment, I mean. Not the condo. You’re still in Montreal, right? I would like to see you.”
“Yes,” Ilya says immediately. “I will come there. Text me address. I will leave now. As fast as I can, I’m there.”
Ilya arrives at Shane’s apartment before Shane does. He texts Shane that he’s there, and then hides in a cluster of bushes around the corner.
Shane doesn’t take much longer to text him that he has arrived can let him in. Ilya can feel that he’s calmer now. He’s getting a baseline nervousness but not the panic from earlier.
“Why are there leaves in your hair?” Shane asks as soon as he’s closed the door behind Ilya. “And, and, I’m sorry, I made you break your curfew, I wasn’t thinking -”
Ilya steps forward and pulls him into his arms. He can feel Shane exhale and wrap his arms around his waist.
It’s like a first cup of coffee in the morning, like scoring a goal, like having a particularly good run. He can feel himself recharge.
After a little while, Shane reaches up and starts to pick the leaves out of Ilya’s curls. He collects them all and then puts them on a little side table in the hallway. “Come in, let’s sit down,” Shane says. “Do you want something to drink?”
Ilya shakes his head. “Is okay. But sitting down would be good.”
Shane leads him into a large, open living room with huge windows. It’s nicely furnished and very neat.
The sit on the sofa, close to each other.
“Nice view,” Ilya says, pointing out of the window at Montreal’s city lights.
“Thanks,” Shane says. “It’s a pretty good place to live.”
“I am glad you are okay.”
Shane nods. “Thank you for checking.”
Ilya shuffles around on the sofa. “You were out? When something happened?”
Shane looks down at his lap. “I, ah, went to a kind of bar. I was having a ginger ale, and a guy sat down with me.”
“Right,” Ilya says. He wonders whether Shane can feel his nausea at the idea.
“He touched me,” Shane says, and Ilya goes stock still. “No, no – just like, took my arm, whatever. And I was – it was wrong, I was just thinking about -” His voice dies, he coughs, he plows on. “About you. And I was scared that someone would know, and I wanted to be with you.”
“Oh,” Ilya says. He looks at Shane, who’s still looking down. “I think about you, too. A lot. Like during the summer.”
“Weren’t you busy with Svetlana?”
Ilya takes a deep breath. “I am sorry that I said that. Svetlana is just a friend.”
“But you pretended to be Connected over the summer? Why?”
“Is better in Russia. In Russia, people are not Connected with someone who has the same gender.” He laughs bitterly. “No such things in Russia.”
Shane looks at him wide-eyed. “But, but you – I mean, we -”
“Hollander. Was joke. Of course it happens in Russia. Everybody just pretends it does not.”
“Oh,” Shane says. He sounds upset, and he feels upset, too. “So, what would happen to you if someone found out about, you know.”
Ilya shrugs. “Better not to test this.”
“Oh.” Shane’s eyes are shining. “I’m so sorry, Ilya. I didn’t know – I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I thought you and Svetlana were, you know, together.”
“We used to fuck,” Ilya says. “But not now. I told her that I do not want to have sex with her any more.”
“No?”
“No.”
“I didn’t want to sleep with that guy at the bar, either,” Shane whispers. “Or anyone. I just wanted to get out of there. To see you.”
Ilya reaches out slowly, but he needn’t have hesitated. Shane easily interlaces their fingers and squeezes.
“And if you want,” Ilya says. “I will stop sleeping with anyone else. Ever.”
“Really?”
“You want me to stop, I stop,” Ilya says.
“Okay,” Shane breathes. He tucks his legs up onto the couch and nestles into Ilya’s side. They watch the city lights for a few minutes, contented silence settling over them.
“Ilya?”
“Yes?”
“Please, will you stop?”
“Yes,” Ilya says.
“It won’t be too hard for you?”
“No, Ilya says. “Is easy. So easy, Shane. I told you, I do not even want to.”
“Okay.”
Ilya grins. “And I stopped smoking. That was hard. This is nothing.”
“You stopped smoking because of me?” Shane sounds astonished.
Ilya rolls his eyes. “No, I stopped because giving up smoking is so easy and fun.”
“Shut up,” Shane says, and starts pulling at Ilya’s clothes.
They end up naked on the sofa, just cuddling under a throw blanket. Shane is half on top of him, dragging his toes up and down Ilya’s calf, making contented little humming sounds. Ilya cradles the back of his head and watches him drift off to sleep eventually. He can drink him in to his heart’s content like this, a rink-side view of Shane’s dark hair, long lashes, of his perfect nose and his freckles.
He doesn’t know how much time passes until Shane stirs again, nosing at Ilya’s collarbone and yawning hotly against his skin. “Did I fall asleep?”
“Mhm,” Ilya makes, running his hand down Shane’s spine.
“Sorry,” Shane mumbles. He still only sounds half-awake.
“Don’t say sorry,” Ilya whispers. “Was nice.”
Shane smiles and presses a kiss against Ilya’s chest. Then he moves, and Ilya almost stops him to keep him close. But Shane just slides down his chest, dragging the blanket with him, until he can mouth at Ilya’s cock. He kisses and licks, interrupted by occasional yawns, the blanket bunched around his ears. He looks up at Ilya with dark eyes. “Okay?”
“Perfect,” Ilya tells him. “You’re so fucking cute, Shane.”
“Cute?” Shane sounds outraged, and Ilya laughs a little at his expression.
“Yes, very cute. You are licking me like kitten drinking milk.”
“Fuck you, see if I do it again,” Shane grumbles, but he goes back to mouthing along the underside of Ilya’s dick anyway. He sucks at just the head for a little while, playful with his tongue, one hand around the base, thumb idly stroking up and down. He traces his fingers down to Ilya’s balls and strokes, almost soothes.
“Shane,” Ilya says.
“Mhm?” Shane makes without stopping what he’s doing.
Ilya cards his fingers through Shane’s hair. “Still cute.”
Shane laughs and pulls off, his lips red and slick with spit. “Shut up.” He gets up to leave the couch.
“No, no, wait, I’m sorry,” Ilya says, grabbing at him.
Shane just grins and walks backwards, all smooth skin, his cock hard and leaking, his hair ruffled. Ilya aches to follow him and catch him in his arms. He sits up, but Shane shakes his head, still grinning. “You stay there and think about what you’ve done.”
The words, combined with the smugness and joy Shane feels, do something to Ilya that he might have to unpack later. Right now, he follows Shane with his eyes, until he disappears around the corner. Thankfully, it doesn’t take long for him to reappear with lube and condoms.
“This is my punishment?” Ilya asks.
Shane sticks his tongue out at him. “You’re really pushing it. I’d be careful if I were you.” He hands the things he brought over to Ilya.
Ilya gestures at where Shane is getting on his hands and knees on the sofa, even though Shane can’t see him now. “Yes, you definitely look like you will not let me fuck you. Very, what is word, credible threat.”
“Asshole,” Shane says.
“Yes, yes, I will get to your asshole,” Ilya says.
Shane doesn’t laugh out loud, but his amusement washes over Ilya like the first warm air in spring. I love you, Ilya thinks, hoping Shane will understand. Certainly, it’s strong enough that Ilya thinks Shane has to feel it radiating off him.
Shane is easy for him, relaxed, opening up beautifully on Ilya’s fingers. He can feel Shane’s tenderness for him curl warm in his chest, next to his own for Shane. He feels dizzy with it and kisses Shane’s spine as much to steady himself as to let Shane know he’s here and about to make him feel so good. “Shane, fuck,” he says, because there isn’t anything else to say.
Shane doesn’t respond, just arches in invitation under Ilya’s hands.
Ilya strokes Shane’s flanks as he pushes in, slowly and reverently. Shane feels so lovely, so tight, so right for Ilya. Shane’s contentment is shimmering around them, warm and needy for more. Ilya thrusts, gently to begin with, making Shane groan and urge him on. Shane’s craving it, desperate for it, it’s all over him, all over and inside Ilya, pulling him in, binding him to Shane. Ilya pulls out almost completely, Shane pushes his hips back to keep him, and Ilya finally lets himself fuck into Shane properly.
“Fuck, Ilya, shit.” Shane’s voice is rough, his words interrupted by winded gasps.
Ilya pushes at the nape of his neck until Shane lays his chest onto the couch, arching gorgeously, all for Ilya, wanting and offering all at once.
“Good?” Ilya manages to rasp between heady thrusts.
Shane curses at him and calls him an asshole and says yes yes so good yes don’t stop so Ilya doesn’t stop and gives him everything, Shane is everything, Shane clenches around Ilya’s cock and cries out and comes and Ilya follows him because he’ll follow him anywhere.
“Oh, fuck,” Ilya says, trying to get his brain to form complete sentences. “Fuck, Shane, fuck, perfect. You’re so beautiful, so good, you did so good.”
He catches his breath as he pulls out carefully, ties off the condom and throws it on the floor because he’s not going anywhere, not with Shane warm and pliant underneath him.
Shane just lies there for a few moments, his breathing evening out. Then he starts squirming in the wet spot. “Ilya -”
“I know, is okay, I know you hate it. Wait.” Ilya takes care not to fall off the couch and manoeuvres them so he’s on his back with Shane on top of him. That way, Shane doesn’t have to deal with the soiled cushions. Ilya personally is completely happy to lie in Shane’s come for a while.
“Here, all fixed,” Ilya says.
“Oh my god,” Shane says, scrunching up his nose. “You’re so gross. Those cushions are going to have to be steam-cleaned.”
“Yes, yes.” Ilya puts a hand on the back of Shane’s head and smushes Shane’s face into his chest. “Maybe I am gross and have to pay for your steam-cleaning, but I am not getting up right now.”
“Ugh,” Shane makes, but he does rest his head against Ilya’s heart properly, shifting around until he’s fully comfortable. “Fine. Five minutes.”
Ilya pulls the throw blanket back over them, smiling as he loops his arms around Shane. He already feels that Shane won’t rush him to let go.
“Maybe you should wait in the car,” Shane says.
Ilya gives him a look and knows Shane can feel the mix of fond exasperation and reassurance. Shane nods once, readying himself, and leads Ilya into the house.
Shane’s parents don’t interrupt Shane saying hello, or explaining that he’s gay. Shane’s fear at the uncertainty of their reaction is sitting tight right at the base of Ilya’s throat.
“And this is Ilya,” Shane says, sounding out of breath with nerves standing so vulnerable in front of his parents. “Rozanov. You know that already. He’s… we’re…” He swallows, trailing off.
“Connected persons,” Ilya says. He’s clasping his hands together firmly, trying to look respectable, hoping to ease Shane’s parents’ shocked expressions.
“No, Ilya, that’s wrong,” Shane says. His voice is still quiet, but not shaking like it was when he began his explanation. He grabs Ilya’s hand. Right then, Ilya feels nothing but both their love.
Shane says, “We’re soulmates.”