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Ilya finally calls back while Shane is in the midst of a paragraph detailing the history of jersey numbers. Shane tried reaching him after getting home from the rink, and then once again while it was still light out, both going straight to voicemail. It would be an understatement for him to say he was concerned. No time is wasted in tossing his mom’s book to the side, because really, he doubted Ilya would phone him back at all.
“Hey,” Shane starts immediately after accepting the call, “Are you okay?”
Ilya’s voice crackles through not a second later, but he doesn’t answer the question. “You wear glasses?”
“Just for reading,” He answers, pulling them off his face. Serious talk, can’t have Rozanov getting distracted, “Where are you?”
“Home. Put them back on, please.”
Shane blinks, “Boston?”
“Moscow.”
“Oh,” Shane purses his lips. With that time difference 8:37 PM for Shane is 4:37 AM for Ilya. Not that he has it memorized or anything. His voice softens, “Are you okay?”
“I will be better when I see you in your glasses again.”
Sometimes Shane wishes Ilya would just speak to him when something’s clearly wrong, but it’s not like he’s much stranger to repression either. He huffs but puts them back on, “Happy?”
“Happier.”
“Is your father…” Shane trails off.
His voice is flat, “Yes, dead.”
Shane let out a tiny huff, as he processed the words. “Ilya…” he began, almost hesitant, “I’m so sorry.”
Ilya’s eyes flit, “What are people saying about me?”
“Nothing,” He thinks for a moment before elaborating, “Um, the media is being super secretive, and the Raiders haven’t…”
Ilya interrupts before Shane can say much more, “Good. I will be back by the end of the week.”
Shane’s eyebrows furrow. He couldn’t help himself, “You should take more time than that.”
“Why?” He’s smirking all stupidly, “So you can catch up to me in the scoring race?”
Shane shakes his head slightly, “I’m being serious.” He pauses and lets the words hang, “You know, you can talk to me about... whatever. I want to help if I can.”
There’s a another pause. For a moment, it seems like Ilya isn’t going to say anything, but then his voice comes back, low and deliberate, “Take off your clothes.”
Shane’s breath catches, “What?”
“I’m also being serious,” Ilya sets his phone down on the living room table, “If you want to help me, take your clothes off.
Shane stares as Ilya lets himself down onto his leather couch and peels his shirt off so tantalizingly Shane feels like he could drool. When he realizes Ilya’s watching expectanty, he scrambles to take his glasses off again, yanking his shirt off in a similar fashion.
“Glasses back on,” Ilya grunts.
“Okay,” Shane responds, trying to keep his voice steady despite the flush creeping up his neck. He nudges his pillows to the side enough to lean back, letting Ilya see him. Ilya groans, hungry eyes latched onto Shane’s every miniscule movement. It feels just as intense, even from thousands of miles away on a different continent.
“Hollander,” Ilya breathes. He leans further into his couch, one hand trailing lazily over his own exposed abs, following his happy trail until his fingers are dipping beneath the waistband of his Adidas track pants. “Everything else off too.”
“Including my socks?”
Ilya suppresses a smile, “Whatever you are comfortable.”
Shane swallows hard, hesitates for a beat, but moves to set his phone down where Ilya can see him anyway. Hooking his thumbs into the elastic, he shimmies his pajama pants down his hips, folding them and putting them to the side. His boxers come off in a similar fashion and he stacks them on his pants, trying to decide if he should add his book to the pile. He figures it might be best not to. His dick springs free, tumescent already, bobbing against his thigh as he settles.
“Fuck,” Ilya mutters, his bulge straining visibly. Admittedly, he was lying when he said it was nine inches, but it’s no small package either. “Spit in your hand. Stroke it for me. Slow.”
Shane’s face burns but he obeys. His hand wraps around his shaft and he pulls base to tip, his thumb circling the head on each upstroke to spread the bead of precum gathering there. His breaths are coming quicker, glasses slipping down his nose. He pushes them up with his free hand, meeting Ilya’s eyes on the screen.
”Good boy,” Ilya purrs, and Shane just about loses it, an embarrassing whine ripping itself from his throat. His hips lift off of the mattress, bucking furiously into his fist.
“Ilya...” Shane warns, voice breaking.
“Stop.” Ilya snaps, “Not yet. Show me your hole.”
Shane releases himself with a whine and a pout, dick throbbing and flushed. He takes a moment to stare at Ilya (lovingly). At some point his dick has come out, thank the universe, large and obscene against the hair of his navel. He thinks he might be drooling just staring at it. Ilya raises his eyebrows, “Be good.”
“Sorry,” Shane mumbles, scrambling to turn around. He readjusts his camera to have a clear view of his callipygian figure. He reaches back, spreading himself open, exposing his tight hole.
“Good fucking boy,” Ilya praises, voice dropping even lower, “Finger yourself. Pretend it’s me stretching you open.”
Shane grabs the lube from his nightstand- always within reach these days, with Ilya plaguing his mind almost constantly (and orgasms far easier with something in his ass)- and slicks two fingers up. He circles his hole slowly at first, feeling it clench desperately. Then pushes them both in in one motion, gasping at the burn that quickly melts into bliss. His mind is fuzzy. This is all that matters.
Ilya’s groans fill the speakers, and Shane can’t see him but he imagines he’s fucking into his fist. Ilya commands, “Another. Fuck yourself harder.”
Shane obeys, sliding a second finger in beside the first two. The fullness makes his knees weak and head dizzy, cock leaking steadily. “Wish it was you,” he pants, “Wish it was you here filling me up.”
Ilya's eyes darken at the words, and his hand tightens around his cock. He wishes it was him too, “When I get back, I swear.”
“Please,” Shane moans softly at the promise, his words sending a shiver down his spine. He imagines the things they could do if they were alone together for more than the few hours they get, what he’d get up to completely at Ilya's mercy.
“You can get off, sweetheart,” Ilya says, “But don’t touch, keep fucking yourself with fingers. Hump something.”
Shane’s glad Ilya can only see his ass and not the pout gracing his face. It’s humiliating but he mumbles out a “yes” before pulling his fingers out with a slick pop! He winces at the emptiness but it only spurs him on to grab his pillow quicker. He flips it and straddles it, sinking down on the edge. Any pressure is heavenly on his neglected cock, and he finds his hips humping into it before he even gets a chance to get his fingers back in his face.
“This okay?” Shane asks.
It’s obscene. Ilya can’t think about anything except Shane’s dick, red and leaking, pressing into a pillow like a mutt, his balls drawn up close to his body, fluttering asshole slick with lube. He’s tripping over his words, “Yes- yes, so okay. Very okay. Good. Finger yourself again.”
Shane complies, reaching back and going right back in with the three fingers, hooking them to rub against his prostate. He presses his face into the same pillow he’s desperately grinding against, muffling his cries of ilyailyailyafuckohmygodilya.
That does it for Ilya. With a guttural curse in Russian, he comes hard, ropes of warm jizz splattering across his stomach, his chest heaving. The sounds are heavenly and Shane whines again.
“Please, Ilya, can I- can I please-” His words break off into a gasp as he prods against his prostate again. Tears are prickling at the corners of his eyes, he’s so fucking close and just- he wants Ilya.
Ilya catches his breath and reaches for his phone, “No. No, you don’t come yet.”
“Ilya- fuck-”
“Beg pretty for me if you want it.”
“Please, Ilya,” Shane whimpers, voice cracking. His fingers move faster inside himself, chasing it. “Need it so bad, need to come. Please, please, I’ll be good. Been good. I swear, when you get back you can have me whenever, do anything to me- please-”
“Good boy, so pretty begging. Will take you up on that,” Ilya rasps, “Come, sweetheart.”
“Thank you, thank you, oh my-” And he’s spilling his seed into the pillowcase with a loud moan, hole frantically squeezing at his fingers. His thighs, balls, everything is tensing up and jerking. Must be quite the sight for Ilya.
By the time he peels himself off of the pillow and picks up his phone, glasses still on, fogged up and askew, Ilya’s been whispering to him for a while.
“...so good. Perfect boy. Are you coming back to me?”
“Mmm,” Shane answers, eloquently. He’s a flushed sticky mess, heart still pounding like a jackhammer.
“Good. You’re so beautiful. Am sorry about the laundry you’ll have to do, but you have twenty pillows for good reason.”
“Fuck you,” An affectionate mumble. The wet fabric is, admittedly, bothering Shane a lot less with the knowledge there are about four identical ones within reach.
“Fuck you,” Ilya corrects, “Soon. I promise. And lots.”