Chapter Text
Shane was three miles into his run when the city finally began to wake around him. Montreal was sitting between seasons. Summer air was still heavy with humidity, turning the back of his shirt dark with sweat, but the mornings had started to push back. Cool air remained beneath the canopy of mature maple trees that lined much of the neighborhood. School buses had returned, their bright yellow contrasting the brick and stone buildings, and he knew soon he would see them stop every few blocks to gather sleepy children and teenagers with weighed down backpacks. The city was settling back into routine after the lazy summer.
Shane pushed harder up the incline. His lungs burned as sweat ran down his back. The flow of conditioning returned to his body, his muscles remembering what the offseason had put on the back burner. It was the beginning of another season. The beginning of another year. A few weeks ago, he’d been standing barefoot at the lake, watching sunlight move across the water in ripples while Louise barked herself hoarse at a canoe. It was so far away he couldn't even count the occupants.
The memory felt impossibly far away. It hadn’t been that long since returning home, but it still didn’t quite feel real. Those weeks outside Ottawa had existed in a strange pocket of life where the days were long. No flights, no games, no media obligations, no constant awareness and management of what came next.
Just the lake, the trees, the dock and Ilya.
Not that they’d spent the summer sitting around doing nothing. They’d explored their property almost daily. Shane smiled to himself as he turned onto another street.
The property. Their property. Their future. A cottage that didn’t exist yet, somehow feeling more solid and real than half the actual buildings around him.
They’d walked miles through the woods as Shane monitored Ilya’s knee with the persistence of a professional athlete who had spent most of his life managing injuries. He’d checked swelling and corrected exercises. Then he’d argued for recovery days.
Ilya had ignored him approximately seventy percent of the time.
They’d swam in the lake and built fires. They’d fallen asleep draped across each other, legs tangled, with open windows while loons called across the water after dark. Beneath the trees on the spot where a cottage would someday stand, they’d made love with sunlight sifting through leaves overhead and pine needles pressed into their backs through the blanket. Sounds groaned into the air and muffled against skin still an echo in the air over the spot they would build a home.
The memory arrived vividly enough to make Shane laugh under his breath.
Fuck. He missed it already.
A cyclist passed with the ding of a bell. Someone walking to work lifted a hand. Shane returned the greeting automatically and continued uphill.
The strange thing was that he’d thought he was already used to living with Ilya. Technically, they had been living together for months. Realistically, playoffs had taken over most of that time. The games, the travel, the recovery, the video review. Practice followed by even more practice. Entire weeks that existed in a blur of hockey.
Now there was time. There were afternoons and evenings and times where he left and returned with the day still present and waiting. The apartment felt different because of it.
The spare bedroom was probably the clearest evidence. It had once contained a home gym and looked exactly like how Shane had also seen himself. Clean and efficient and very practical. It housed a treadmill, a stationary bike. A set of weights. Everything was in its proper place. Now resistance bands hung from wall hooks. Balance discs occupied corners. Foam rollers lined against the wall. Every time Grant worked with Ilya for a knee session, more stuff would appear. Physiotherapy equipment had somehow spread throughout the room and taken it over.
And against the center of the back wall sat a dark brown couch. The couch, according to Ilya, was an essential component of rehabilitation. Mostly because it provided somewhere comfortable to complain between exercises. More than that, Shane knew it was the one thing Ilya had wanted to keep. The only thing from the life he had built on his own, piece by piece, when the pieces of himself had fallen apart those years ago. A couch that represented the support of a family, reminded him of hope.
Louise had claimed the far cushion. Neither of them had challenged her authority, her bared teeth had assured her position.
Shane slowed to a walk as he reached the crest of the hill. His pulse hammered in his ears.
The apartment waited a few blocks away. Home. The word still caught him off guard sometimes in the feelings it brought. He hadn’t lived with anyone since leaving his parents’ house for hockey. For years he’d been protective of his space. There had always been comfort in knowing he could close a door and be alone without any expectations. No observations, no need to explain himself.
Hockey consumed enough of him already. The idea of sharing everything else had once felt almost claustrophobic. Until Ilya. Instead of feeling crowded, the apartment somehow felt larger. Safer.
Ilya knew when he needed quiet. Knew when he needed company. Knew when to give him space and when to climb onto the couch beside him and quietly steal half his blanket. Somehow, he always knew. Shane wasn’t entirely sure how.
A man passed walking an elderly golden retriever whose face had gone almost completely white with age. The dog stopped and glanced up at Shane, then busied itself scenting Louise on his socks. Shane laughed. The dog would have loved Ilya. Most dogs loved Ilya. All dogs, honestly. Louise followed him around the apartment with unwavering devotion
And, increasingly, so did most people. His parents, Marianne, the neighbors. Hayden asked about him during every single call. Grant was a devoted fan of Ilya, bringing regular questions from his children. A few times they had joined the physiotherapy lessons and cheered Ilya on, while Ilya found creative words to prevent curses that would make a sailor blush from spilling from his mouth. Even complete strangers seemed to gravitate toward him. As though some part of them recognized what Shane had. That being around Ilya made the world feel steadier.
God. He loved him so fucking much.
The thought arrived so naturally now it barely startled him anymore. He loved him. The words felt as obvious as breathing.
A memory surfaced. One night at the lake, late enough that the sky had gone purple. His father stood beside the grill cleaning the grates while the rest of the house settled into evening. Shane had carried two beers outside. His father accepted one with a quiet thanks.
For a while neither of them spoke. Then his father looked at him. Like, really looked at him.
“Son.” The word had come out rougher than usual. His father paused, then took a breath. “I always worried.”
Shane remembered the way the lake had moved in front of him. The water catching the last traces of sunlight.
“I worried your life was so busy. You were always so careful. So cautious.” He paused again, took a deep breath. “I worried you wouldn’t find somebody to share it with. To find what your mother and I have.”
Shane had stared at his beer, unable to answer.
His father had rested a hand on his shoulder, just a simple gesture that felt like so much more. “I don’t know exactly what changed,” he’d said quietly. “But I can see how happy he makes you.”
Emotion had tightened unexpectedly in Shane’s throat.
“And I can see how happy you make him.” His father squeezed once. “I’m glad you brought him here.”
Then softer, “I’m proud of you.”
The memory lingered as Shane turned onto his street, still causing his throat to struggle on a swallow.
His apartment building stood ahead. Louise was inside. After one disastrous attempt at taking her on a run, she had made her feelings abundantly clear. A quarter mile was her limit, and only when the temperature was hot but not too hot, and the sun positioned in front of her face, and not a drop of precipitation fell from the clouds.
After that she had simply sat down and refused to continue, forcing Shane to carry her home while she stared at passing pedestrians like a queen. He smiled as he climbed the steps. Louise was inside. Ilya was inside. The lock clicked, and the door opened. Just like that, he was home.
-
Later that afternoon, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic, rosemary, and dog. Shane stood at the stove with a wooden spoon in one hand, turning strips of chicken as they browned in the skillet. Steam drifted from a pot of brown rice in front of him before disappearing into the air.
The windows were cracked open despite the humidity; Ilya liked the feel of fresh air. Somewhere below, a bus came to a stop with a sigh. Voices carried briefly from the sidewalk before fading again. Upstairs, water ran through the pipes. Ilya was showering before work while Shane cooked enough to produce leftovers for a few days.
Louise sat directly behind Shane’s left foot. She didn't give so much of an inch of personal space. Years of professional hockey had given him exceptional balance and dexterity. Living with Louise underfoot had given him better balance and dexterity.
He glanced down. She stared back completely without shame. Her brown eyes shifted meaningfully toward the chicken, and then back up to his face.
“No.”
Louise blinked. There was a lot of judgment on her face. Shane smiled despite himself and returned his attention to the stove.
The day had been good. A run before the city, or Ilya, fully woke. Then conditioning in the morning. Then time on the ice with a handful of teammates who had drifted back into Montreal before camp officially began. Hayden had been there. A few others. All familiar faces, familiar drills, familiar jokes.
The first skates of late summer were always slightly strange. His body remembered what to do, but there was a bit of roughness beneath the movements. Timing needed sharpening. Habits needed polishing. Everyone pretended they hadn’t spent part of July eating things that fell far outside of any imagination of a nutritionist meal plan.
It felt good. Normal to the point of being comforting, even.
A year ago this exact day would have looked almost identical. He would have jogged and then conditioned. Skated and then come home. He probably would have cooked chicken, then watched game footage, eventually gone to bed. Nothing about the routine itself had changed.
The water upstairs shut off. A few moments later he heard footsteps crossing the second floor.
Everything had changed.
Shane lowered the heat beneath the skillet and moved toward the cutting board. He sliced tomatoes for the salad. Then cucumber. Then red onion. The stairs creaked and Shane's attention shifted automatically as Ilya came into view.
The reaction hit him with embarrassing consistency.
Every. Single. Time.
Months later and still, every time.
His hair was still slightly damp from the shower, the strands lightened by the sun curling around his ears and staying with the effort he had made to tame them. The sleeves of his black button-down were rolled neatly to his forearms. Dark jeans sat low on his hips. The scent of soap followed him down the stairs, clean and familiar beneath the subtle trace of the Armoni cologne he wore to work.
The version of Ilya the rest of the world got. The version Shane knew was only part of the picture.
The corner of Ilya’s mouth lifted.
“You are staring.” Shane rolled his eyes even as warmth spread up his neck and over his ears. Ilya was lounging lazily, hip touching the counter, fingers drumming slowly on the marble.
“You are distracting.”
“Da?” Ilya's expression remained perfectly innocent. The innocence was complete and utter bullshit. Shane snorted softly.
“You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“Maybe.” The admission arrived without a drop remorse.
Ilya crossed the kitchen and slipped both arms around Shane’s waist from behind. The warmth of his body landed along his back. His chin brushed his shoulder. The contact felt so familiar now that sometimes Shane forgot how extraordinary it was. Nobody had ever done this before. Nobody had ever simply belonged in his space.
Then Ilya kissed the side of his neck. Slowly, deliberately. Just once.
But then again.
Shane closed his eyes. A moment later he abandoned the pretense of finishing dinner and turned fully toward him. The kiss landed somewhere between sweet affection and complete mind-shattering disaster. Time at the lake had apparently taught neither of them restraint.
Ilya made a quiet sound against his mouth. Shane forgot entirely about the chicken. The smell of something beginning to overcook rescued the meal at the last possible second. Shane groaned as Ilya laughed and moved the chicken off the heat, grabbing the wooden spatula from him, stirring it off the bottom of the pan.
The laughter remained in Ilya’s eyes as he stepped back. His hands disappeared into Shane’s back pockets while Shane returned to the stove and stirred the rice. The movement had become so familiar neither of them seemed to consciously think about it anymore.
Ilya rested his chin on his shoulder. For several minutes nobody spoke, just two people completely at ease with one another. The silence was broken by the sound of Louise's increasingly dramatic breathing as she suffered through starvation. Eventually Shane handed down a single piece of chicken. Louise accepted her reward with immediate forgiveness for every hardship she had ever endured.
“Vulture,” Ilya informed her. Louise disagreed. The evidence disappeared into her mouth, therefore there was no proof.
A few minutes later they sat down at the table. The meal itself wasn’t remarkable. Chicken seasoned with garlic and rosemary, served with brown rice and a salad. Exactly the sort of dinner Shane had been eating for most of his professional career. The chair across from him was the remarkable part. It was new compared to so many of his suppers from the past.
It was everything.
Ilya stole a piece of cucumber before the meal properly started. Shane watched him do it and the warmth that followed felt absurdly disproportionate. “How was your day?” he asked.
Ilya sighed heavily. “Grant continues his campaign of torture even by video.”
Shane laughed. He had been at the receiving end of Grant's punishments and fully sympathized. “That bad?”
“He says good progress. I say he is attempting murder.”
“How’s the knee?” Ilya considered the question seriously. “Is better.” The word seemed pulled from him against his will. “Still annoying. Still stiff. Stairs remain stupid.”
“But better?”
“Da.” The concession came reluctantly. “I am still allowed to complain. Grant says so.”
“I think that has its own chapter in the recovery handbook.”
“Good. Then I will continue.”
Shane smiled and reached for his water. “What else?”
“Louise acquired friend.”
“A dog?”
“Owner.”
That made Shane smile immediately. “What happened?”
“We were walking," Ilya said. "She sat down directly in front of this poor man and refused to move.”
“That sounds like her.”
“Then demanded attention," Ilya said with a frown that he could barely keep from sliding to a smile. “I spent twenty minutes speaking to Steve because Louise decided we were now all family.”
“What kind of dog did Steve have?”
“A Kevin.”
Shane paused. “Kevin was the dog?”
“Da.”
“What kind of dog is Kevin?"
“A good boy kind who is brown.”
“What else did you do today?” Shane asked around a bite of chicken.
“I attempted French from the owl on the app.” That earned him immediate sympathy.
“How’d that go?”
“French is ridiculous,” Ilya said with a snort. There are letters they do not use.”
Shane grinned hard at Ilya's look of complete exasperation. All it had taken was a single sentence from Shane, spoken in French while naked, mouth around his cock, for Ilya to make the decision to learn introductory French.
Okay. Maybe it was more than a single sentence. And a single occasion. Ilya's reaction had been strong, especially for somebody who regularly scraped his teeth against Shane's neck while deep Russian poured out hot and wet against his skin.
Shane shuttered at the table, and Ilya's mouth curved slightly into something that was pretty risky for a man who had to leave for work. Shane took a deep breath. The conversation wandered from there. Hayden’s children returning to school. The approaching season. The new coffee shop he passed on his run.
Nothing important or dramatic, just two people who wanted to hear about each other’s day. The kind of ordinary conversation most people probably forgot about five minutes after it happened. Shane found himself paying attention to every word. Memorizing it.
Later, when the plates were cleared and Ilya stood to leave for work, the apartment seemed to shift. It became quieter. The kiss goodbye lingered. The quietly whispered, "I love you's" lingered longer.
The click of the front door lingered the longest.
Shane stood in the kitchen for a moment afterward, staring at nothing in particular. Then he cleaned up and washed the dishes. Took Louise for a walk. Eventually settled on the couch with his phone.
Game footage from last season filled his screen. Power play entries and zone exits. Mistakes that shouldn't have been made, or opportunities to improve as they were often framed. All of it the familiar work of preparing himself for another year.
A year ago he would have spent the entire evening exactly like this. Reviewing film, making notes. Thinking about hockey without anything else pulling at his attention. A year ago a quiet evening alone in his apartment would have been normal. This had been his life.
Now his eyes drifted toward the clock. Toward the front door. Toward the space beside him on the couch.
Louise eventually abandoned the blanket she was burrowed under and moved closer to the front door, just waiting. Shane understood the feeling more than he cared to admit. Missing someone was hard. For most of his life there simply hadn’t been anyone to miss. But tonight, he wasn’t lonely. That wasn’t it. He was waiting.
So yes, it was strange, missing someone. Stranger still to realize he was glad there was someone to miss. Being apart didn’t feel good. He wasn't a complete glutton for punishment. But having someone matter this much felt like its own kind of gift.
A few months ago, Ilya's shifts at Wolfbird existed mostly during road trips and away games. They had talked about it when the playoffs ended. Shane had been a little too enthusiastic about the idea of them both having the summer off work. All the time spent together. His daydreams of fucking all day, and conditioning and exercise in the morning while Ilya happily and willingly participated in physiotherapy homework, and evenings spent with Ilya inside of him following a lazy movie night.
Ilya had set his jaw hard at the suggestion. Reminded Shane, kindly, that his work depended on his availability and his repeat clients. He had taken the time off for his knee. He had taken the time off for Ottawa with Shane's parents. They could fuck all day, but he was still going back to work.
When the season started, Ilya wanted to keep his schedule similar to what he had managed during the playoffs, balancing shifts during times when Shane would not be home. So, for late summer, Ilya was working.
Shane frowned. On nights like this, he couldn't stand it. He just missed him.
He found himself looking at the clock. When the doorknob finally turned, his attention changed before he consciously registered the sound. The door opened and Ilya stepped inside. The apartment immediately felt right again, like it wasn’t complete until he came home.
It was a startling thought.
Ilya closed the door and looked up, their eyes meeting. Shane immediately noticed the tension. It wasn't any sort of distress, just a carefulness that hadn’t fully left him yet. He looked hyperaware, the version of himself he wore at Wolfbird still lingering around the edges.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” Ilya crossed the room and kissed him. Shane’s hand settled against the back of his neck.
“You okay?”
He paused for a second, eyes searching Shane's. “Da.”
Maybe true, but not entirely. Shane was beginning to understand the difference. “You want a movie?”
Ilya considered, then shook his head. “I think shower.”
Shane almost offered to join him, but he could see how tightly Ilya was holding himself. So instead, he smiled. “Okay. I’ll be upstairs when you’re done.”
Something softened immediately on Ilya's face as he leaned in for another quick kiss.
Shane understood the need for decompression very well. He often lingered in the locker room showers, letting the hot water rinse away any physical effects of the game, the steam clearing his mind. He had time before he recentered the world outside of work, time to busy himself with small tasks and meaningless interviews, space to come back into himself before he returned home to life outside of the game.
Ilya really didn't have that, he realized. Not since giving up his apartment. He just had the short metro ride home. Shane made a mental note to help Ilya form a routine in their space to find himself after the heavy demands of his job.
Twenty minutes later steam drifted in from the bathroom as the bedroom door opened. Ilya emerged wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, damp curls escaping in every direction. Shane noticed the difference immediately. His shoulders had lowered. The alertness was gone. Whatever part of him belonged to work had remained behind in the steam.
Shane set his book aside. Ilya climbed into bed without a word and settled beside him. Like this was exactly where he belonged.
The mattress shifted beneath his weight. The familiar heat of his body settled against Shane’s side. Shane draped his arm over Ilya and pulled him close. Ilya threaded his fingers through his hand, kissing the flat of his hand twice as they settled in together.
Tomorrow would look a lot like today. An early morning run, conditioning, rink time. Louise ruling the home. The thought should have felt ordinary; these were all ordinary things.
Instead it settled deep inside him, warming him from head to toe. A year ago, he had come home to an empty apartment as he started a new season in Montreal. Tonight, someone had come home to him. And for the first time in his life, Shane found himself hoping tomorrow would be exactly the same.
The alarm went off at six. For a few disoriented seconds Shane wasn’t entirely sure where he was. He reached out automatically to silence it. Rain tapped steadily against the windows, soft and persistent. The sound pulled him fully awake. The room remained dim despite the hour. He lay in bed, listening to the rain for a moment.
In the past, he would have pulled on running clothes and headed outside anyway, rain be damned. Today, the thought barely crossed his mind. He wasn’t running through that. Maybe the treadmill.
And there was an arm, wrapped firmly around his middle, making any immediate plans difficult. Shane glanced down and smiled. Ilya was practically attached to him. One leg tangled with his, an arm locked around his waist. Face buried somewhere near Shane’s shoulder. Completely asleep, breath heavy against Shane's neck.
Louise was burrowed beneath a mountain of blankets at the foot of the bed, only the slight rise and fall of fabric revealing that a dog existed somewhere in there.
The second Shane moved to sit up, the arm around him tightened. A low groan sounded behind him. “No.”
Shane laughed quietly. “Good morning to you too.”
“No.”
“I’m just going to the bathroom. And I need take Louise out.”
Another groan. The grip tightened further. Shane twisted enough to look back at him. Ilya’s eyes were still closed. His curls were a complete disaster. He looked entirely unwilling to participate in the day. “You can survive five minutes without me in bed."
“I won't try.”
Shane leaned down and kissed him, slow and sleepy. “I’ll be right back.”
Ilya finally loosened his hold enough for Shane to escape and he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching until his back popped. When he glanced back, Ilya had already stolen his side of the bed and half his pillow.
Louise proved to be equally difficult in the morning. A girl truly after Ilya's heart.
Shane disturbed her carefully constructed blanket fortress despite the low rumbling growl. Louise immediately opened her eyes and showed enough teeth to communicate her feelings on mornings. Or rain.
“Come on,” he whispered.
The dog stared at him unimpressed.
“Out.”
Louise continued staring as if weighing whether ignoring him completely might somehow change her reality. It did not. Eventually she sighed dramatically, climbed to her feet, stretched from nose to tail, and then allowed Shane to carry her off the mattress.
The battle of taking Louise outside for morning business lasted less than a minute. Louise touched wet grass and immediately pulled back inside the building. The apartment door barely opened before she zoomed inside, waiting beside her food dish for breakfast.
Shane climbed the stairs barely noticing the rain dripping from his hair. He stepped inside the bathroom, turned on the faucet and splashed water across his face. A few seconds later soft footsteps sounded behind him. Shane looked up.
Ilya appeared in the doorway looking exactly as awake as someone dragged from bed against his will. Which was to say, not awake at all. “You said you’d be right back.”
“It’s been like four minutes.” Shane shook his head, smiling despite himself. Ilya shuffled into the bathroom, immediately invading his space.
Shane leaned into the mouth that had found his neck, the simple task of placing toothpaste on his brush suddenly feeling monumental. Ilya kept one hand on his waist while the other reached for his own toothbrush, holding it out for Shane to paste.
Shane's minty fresh mouth was immediately invaded by Ilya's, hands pushing him back towards the bed.
"I've gotta run," Shane breathed between kisses. "Treadmill… cardio…" The words barely made it into the air before they lost all relevance. Ilya's hands dropped to his ass, lifting him onto the bed with effortless certainty. In one smooth motion his joggers and briefs disappeared onto the floor. Shane tugged his shirt over his head and reached for Ilya in return as he settled behind him, positioning him on his knees.
"There is better cardio than treadmill, no?" Ilya purred against his neck, pausing to nibble on his ear.
Shane's breath caught as Ilya's arms came around him, both hands finding his cock. The touch remained infuriatingly slow. Absent of any semblance of hurry. Ilya stroked him once, twice, then stopped entirely, holding him in place as though he had all the time in the world.
It was maddening. So fucking slow.
Shane tried to push back into his hands, chasing more. Ilya merely shifted one hand to his waist, steadying him, controlling the pace without any apparent effort.
"Please," Shane managed, leaning back against him as his cock leaked down onto the sheets.
"Mm. What do you need, khoroshiy malchik?" Ilya asked
"Fuck me," Shane breathed. "Please."
"Such a polite boy," Ilya murmured, amusement threading through his voice as his hand still gripped Shane. "So good for me."
The praise settled deep inside him. Shane made another frustrated sound, reaching back in an attempt to stroke Ilya, hoping to encourage things along.
"Both hands on bed," Ilya said with a soft tsk.
Shane fell forward, feeling the immediate loss of contact as Ilya released him. He felt him move behind him, slipping on a condom. Ilya rubbed lube gently against his hole, and Shane greedily chased the fingers, trying to urge them in.
"Not yet, milyy mit," Ilya murmured as he rubbed it in further. "Do you think you can open yourself on me?"
Shane's breath caught. He had never done that before, attempted to take Ilya inside himself without stretching himself first. The challenge sent a sharp hit of anticipation through him. "Yeah," he said quietly.
He could feel Ilya positioned against him, patient and impossibly still. Shane eased back slowly, groaning as the tip of a Ilya's cock stretched against him.
His mouth fell open.
He focused on his breathing, forcing himself to relax into the sensation rather than fight it, breathing into the stretch. Everything else faded. Ilya remained motionless behind him. Shane heard a quiet, whispered, "Gospodi." The sound alone nearly undid him.
Heat unfurled through him as he pushed back further, taking in just the head of Ilya's cock. He felt the burn, the fire, the stretch, and a low sound flew out of his mouth as he bit down on his knuckles.
"Fuck, Shane," Ilya groaned, hands on Shane's waist to steady him. "Khorosho. So good. Keep hands on bed. Don't hold it back"
For that moment in time, there was nothing. The world slipped quietly out of focus. Shane barely registered the sound of the rain softly tapping against the windows, the feel of the cotton against his knees, the sheets gathered beneath his hands. Shane registered all of it and none of it.
Only the rush of blood in his ears. The stretch of Ilya inside him. The steady weight of Ilya's hands steadying on his waist. Only this
He pushed back further, Ilya's moan matching his, breaking through the haze in his mind. It wouldn't matter how many times they found themselves here, Ilya fitting him perfectly, filling him completely. It would never be too much. Would never be enough.
The familiarity of it never dulled. The wonder never did either.
He drew in another deep breath, focusing on Ilya's hands, grounding him, and then pushed back completely, Ilya buried inside of him until there was nowhere left to go.
"Oh god.” The words escaped on a gasp. For a second he paused, absorbing the feeling of fullness, feeling the pull of him stretched to surround Ilya.
"It's all you Shane," Ilya said, voice barely more than a whisper.
Shane started to move against him, pushing back slowly, testing the rhythm. He braced against his forearm while his other hand drifted instinctively downward to his cock.
"Both hands on the bed, Shane," Ilya reminded him, already sounding strained. "I know you can come with just this."
Oh, fuck. He really could. Usually Ilya paced it. This morning he remained still behind him, steady hands at his waist, allowing Shane to chase the movement.
And so he fucking chased it.
Shane pushed back against Ilya, harder, using his knees to drive the movement. His breath punched out, every sensation narrowed into heat, pressure, and the relentless pull of pleasure building beneath his skin.
When he shifted the angle, lowering his chest closer to the mattress, everything changed.
"Oh god, oh fuck… Ilya…"
Shane groaned, dropping his head to bite into the sheets as his orgasm built until it broke free, crashing through him. He moaned loudly into the sheets as Ilya bent over him, pushing him down by his shoulders, fucking him hard as he chased his own release before collapsing on top of him, breath tangled in his hair.
Shane lost track of time while his mind went deliciously empty, body boneless and warm and pinned under Ilya. He was aware of the weight on top of him, the breath against his hair, and the pulse racing through his chest.
Nothing else was relevant. Time moved as it moved, and Shane flowed with it. Eventually the sound of water drops against the window pulled him back into the space, and he opened his eyes to find Ilya's gaze already on him. Shane's mouth curved softly as Ilya's lifted into a smirk.
"You use me as cardio equipment now," he said, popping a loud kiss onto Shane's neck.
Shane chuckled. There was no lie in what had just happened.
"Fine," he said, threading his fingers through Ilya's. "I'll sell all the equipment. Just use your dick from now on."
"Perfect," Ilya replied with a twinkle in his eyes. "We clear out other bedroom except for couch. Make it sex room. Bring in St. Andrew's cross and a swing. You'll be very happy."
Shane reddened to the roots of his hair, even as he laughed. He figured there was a fifty-fifty shot his exercise equipment would be gone and replaced by the time he returned home.
It seemed indulgent to be lying in bed, but if he was being honest, Shane wasn't quite ready to give up the summer yet. Not when mornings like this existed. He knew that all too soon his schedule would consume more time than he wanted. He smiled again, thinking about how strange it was starting this season. He just wasn’t ready for it quite yet.