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I don’t know it’s worth jumping over.
That’s the thing about Shane Hollander. From the moment he extended his hand to Ilya outside a god-forsaken ice rink in Saskatchewan, he always had this ability to cut Ilya open, a slap-shot bullseye to the back of the net and there would be Ilya’s insides, bloody and squirming beneath the harsh, unwelcome light. And here is kicker–an expression he picked up from Marly: Shane would have no fucking idea. Completely unaware, guileless. So here’s Ilya, sucker-punched and gasping for breath just from the sheer fucking regard of Shane Hollander. And there is Shane, blinking at him with those eyes and those freckles and those squared-up shoulders all tight around his ears and fuck.
How is Ilya supposed to come back from that?
So it doesn't surprise him, now, that those words tossed at him on some rooftop in Vegas after their rookie season worm their way back to the front of Ilya’s consciousness.
His memory is like that. A steel trap; another phrase he learned from Sveta, of all people, the last time they had slept together right before the All Star game. It had been years since Ilya had last found himself taking refuge in her familiar embrace, but the torture of losing Shane to his ill-fated heteroexperiment of 2016 had Ilya rooting into Svetlana like a hungry child. And he had remembered every inch of her like no time had passed, down to which filthy words she liked best, the specific timing of his fingers in her mouth and his cock in her cunt, the exact speed and angle and the way her soft tongue laved generously over the cut of his jaw as he drove up into her from below. You are a steel trap, she had mused, running her fingers through Ilya’s curls as they came down together. You never forget anything.
It makes sense, when anything worth remembering happened either fifteen years ago, or only in dark, frantic hotel rooms a handful of times a year. You get good at not forgetting.
Thinking about sex with Sveta now feels strange. Like it was another lifetime, instead of a mere few months ago. A hazy dream, vaguely pleasant, but also impossible. Nothing close to reality.
Which brings him back here, to the cold, hard granite chilling him through his flimsy sleep shorts, the buzz of nicotine in his lungs, and the first golden rays of dawn kissing the watery horizon, the lake starting to catch fire beneath the burning light.
But it is, darling, Ilya promises. You are worth jumping for.
He thinks about the first time he rode a rollercoaster: brand-new to the city, new to the entire country, the language, new to the status of finally being a professional hockey player. One of the veterans on the team heard Ilya had never been to an amusement park, and insisted he join him and his family on a daytrip to Six Flags New England. Ilya was squished in the back of the minivan for the nearly two hour ride out and back, learning such useful phrases as “buttface” and “na-nanny-boo-boo” and the efficiency of a well-timed “I’m not touching you” to draw a penalty. He still uses that one on the ice.
But nothing, nothing, compared to the thrill of that very first rollercoaster ride once they finally got there, the fast speed high high high dive into nothing but then you’re caught and you keep going, impossibly. He rode the coasters that day until he was sick, and then went on one more. He’s been hooked ever since.
So now, as he listens to the soft chirps of birds heralding the egg-yolk sun rising before him, he’s flying down the tracks, his stomach left somewhere back at the crest of the drop, but this time, he sees ahead the tracks cut out, nothing but a hard launch into wild, empty space.
That’s what it was like, saying those words last night for the very first time. In English, anyway.
It felt like that to a degree as well, when he said it on the phone that time in Russian, when he was sucked so far down into a spiral of guilt and grief he couldn’t even begin to put enough English together to talk to the one person who could maybe make him feel a fraction lighter. God, he hates it, the way the English words just stop coming, making him feel gagged, trapped. But Shane–his Shane, and fuck, wasn’t it wonderful to think those words–had listened so carefully, so patiently, that the confession felt pulled from Ilya, not flung. As natural as his mother tongue in his mouth and the biting Russian wind under his skin.
Even then he had known, crouched against a graffitied wall with police lights slicing through the distant dark—as soon as those words met the world, turned into sound and breath and fog, Russia would no longer be his home. Not safely, not peacefully. There would simply be no turning back.
And he had said them anyway.
Because he realized he couldn’t chose who he loved any more than he could choose to keep his mother alive;
Because Russia hadn’t felt safe since she died anyway;
Because Ilya hadn’t felt safe since… well, sometime between pushing his thumb into Shane’s mouth in a Toronto hotel room and now.
That’s probably what drove him out here at dawn, why he couldn’t sleep and craved the cold and the smoke and the solitude—
The painful, incredible, all-encompassing realization that this whole time, he had never really had a home at all. Not if this is what it’s supposed to feel like. Witnessed down to the core of him, affirmed and held and free.
He smells the coffee first.
Dark, soothing, making his pulse jump and stomach swoop, not for the pleasure of the aroma but for what its presence must mean: Shane.
And then he is there, his beautiful boy, rose gold and glowing, silently handing Ilya a steaming mug before nestling in next to him, knit blanket wrapping around both their shoulders. The force of it, the power of this small gesture—it cuts Ilya all over again, like always. Like it will for the rest of his life, like it will until his goddamn dying day.
Does it fucking kill you too?
Not anymore.
“Found you,” Shane whispers.
They stay like that, watching the majesty of a perfectly ordinary sunrise, until their coffee runs cool and Ilya’s cigarette is carefully stubbed into the dregs.
Shane starts to shiver.
“Canadian,” Ilya murmurs into his lover’s neck, lingering, letting his breath warm the skin there. He takes the opportunity to run his nose behind Shane’s ear, inhale his scent where it’s at its most pure. “So sensitive to a little morning chill. Is good thing we cannot go back to Russia. Cannot have my котеночек freezing to death.” They both know he is testing the flippancy, rolling it between them to see if it bruises or simply bumps.
Shane tilts his chin to catch Ilya’s lips before they could decide either way.
Shane’s mouth is so soft, is the thing, a plush reward for Ilya to sink into once Shane finally gives over to the vulnerability of his own pleasure. Ilya knows he must taste foul, between the cigarette and the coffee, but Shane just kisses him all the sweeter. Acceptance. Vices and all.
“Come,” Ilya coaxes against those tender lips. He can tell Shane is already slipping to that place he goes, where only Ilya can take him, and Ilya himself isn’t far behind. “Let’s get you warmed up.”
And without hesitation, Ilya scoops Shane into his arms, bridal style, the blanket slipping from their shoulders and Shane’s coffee mug sent flying into the grass.
“Asshole!” Shane yelps, predictably, legs flailing even as his strong arms secure themselves firmly around Ilya’s neck to take some of his own weight. “Your ribs!”
“Ugh, how many times I tell you, they are fine,” Ilya lies with a kiss to the very tip of Shane’s nose, navigating carefully around rocks and up the steps toward the sliding door.
“Bullshit. You’re on thin ice, Rozanov.”
God, Ilya loves this man. Shane is just so delicious when he gets like this, all huffy and bitchy yet completely unable to resist him.
“I’ll let you get door for me, I am nice guy. Very accommodating.” Shane merely glares, even as he reaches behind himself to push the door open in an impressive show of tricep strength. Ilya maneuvers them over the threshold, pausing to let Shane close the door behind them. “See, keep this up and your backhand will be better in no time.”
“Oh fuck off, Ily–AH”
Ilya’s name collapses into the most adorable squawk as Shane’s body hits the sofa cushions, bouncing once with the force of the throw. Ilya immediately follows him, hurrying to cover his body with his own and steal the laughter right from his throat, tongue sweeping in to lick and kiss and worship all at once.
He doesn’t stop until they are both hard and panting, until Ilya pulls away and looks into those impossible brown eyes.
And something shifts.
Maybe Shane could read what Ilya had been thinking about all morning, mother and motherland alike. Who is he kidding, of course Shane knows. He always knows, isn’t that the whole point? It’s a laser beam shined directly into the soul of Ilya, all his brilliantly constructed walls of bullshit no more than a whisper of first snow when facing off with the Shane Hollander.
Ilya would know. He’s lost that faceoff as much as he’s won, over the years.
He’s losing now. Miserably. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Take me to bed,” Shane says. It’s not a request.
Ilya practically jumps to his feet. Another Marly-ism: You say jump, we say how high, right Cap? Honestly, wrong. Wrong, when it comes to Shane Hollander. And even though it’s Ilya in front, gently tugging Shane’s hand along to lead him back to their room (and when did it become “theirs”?), they both know Shane is in charge right now.
They don’t bother closing the door.
The second they enter the room, Ilya spins and pulls Shane into him in one fluid motion, connecting their mouths like he’d die if he had to spend one more second breathing his own air, all cold and sterile and alone. Shane, beautiful, perfect Shane, opens wide to him, lets Ilya fuck his tongue into his upturned mouth, lets Ilya hold him firm with one hand gripping his chin and the other pressed into the small of his back. He’s spreading Shane’s legs, getting his own in between, relishing the sparks that light up his belly when he feels Shane immediately start to hump against him, helpless, instinctual. Ilya can’t stop licking and biting up all those little whines and pants spilling from Shane’s gorgeous mouth, caressing his tongue expertly over Shane’s bottom lip the way that makes Shane melt in his arms. Shane’s fists find their home in his curls, and Ilya moans with it, the feeling of being wanted, needed, because Ilya knows the needing hurts like a motherfucker until you’re needed in return. больше Илья, больше, больше, больше, больше, больше, больше—Shane never wanted to take anything from Ilya, never, unless it was in bed and Ilya was there taking right fucking back.
And now, after last night, Ilya knows it’s not just in bed. It’s in morning sunrises and car rides from airports and scrolling on the couch and grilling burgers.
Yes, it’s on the ice, always on the ice. Where it started, but didn’t stay. Their mutual taking was too big, too inevitable, and now Shane is letting it swallow Ilya whole and Ilya is too busy being incandescently grateful to so much as smile on the way down.
“Get on the bed,” Ilya growls between one filthy kiss and the next. “Take off your clothes.”
Shane Hollander doesn’t need to be told twice. He raises his arms obediently, lets Ilya slide his shirt off and onto the floor.
“No folding this time?” Ilya teases, fond, so stupidly fond he might break with it. He is rewarded with his favorite little glare. “’S dirty,” Shane mumbles as Ilya crowds him closer to the bed, forcing Shane to turn around and crawl up on it. Ilya follows immediately, losing both their pants along the way.
Finally, finally, there’s nothing but warm skin and the solid weight of Shane beneath him, looking up at him, eyes wide and wet and pleading. It’s a repeat of their position last night, when Ilya said it first.
This time, he waits.
“I love you, Ilya.”
Ilya’s breath catches on the inhale.
“Make me suck you. Make me feel it,” Shane asks, guileless. Like he knows Ilya will give him whatever he wants. “Make me feel you.”
Ilya swoops down to kiss him generously, a reward for using such pretty words, though he noticed there was no please. Ilya will make damn sure he gets one later. Probably.
This is different, Ilya thinks as he sucks on Shane’s tongue. Something is different. They had caught glimpses of it, before, in the hotel room in Tampa, on their X-rated Facetimes lately, even that awful day with the damn tuna melts. It’s like, they still have sex as their shared language, one their bodies are both fluent in, a way to say please I want you you’re important to me you’re beautiful I love you, but now, it’s like the other is actually listening. Listening, instead of speaking over and past each other every single time.
So when Shane says “Make me feel it,” Ilya knows what this really means:
“Make me feel loved.”
Ilya deposits one last, full kiss to Shane’s spit-slick lips, before kneeling up and crawling toward the headboard, over Shane’s torso, until his knees are either side of Shane’s shoulders.
Until his cock hangs, heavy and swollen, directly over Shane’s angelic face.
Ilya watches, mesmerized, as a drool of pre drops onto Shane’s cheek, smearing those freckles with proof of Ilya’s devotion.
Shane licks his lips. He grips Ilya’s ass with both hands and squeezes, hard.
Ilya breaks.
With a forearm braced against the headboard, Ilya bends over, traces his cockhead against Shane’s lips only once, a warning as much as an act of solace. Shane opens. Ilya pushes inside in one smooth thrust.
And doesn’t stop.
The pace is brutal—harsh, shallow snaps of Ilya’s pelvis, fucking down into Shane’s face over and over. The position is too awkward for proper suction, but perfect for slamming against that soft spot in the back of Shane’s throat, a delicious tease that has Ilya chasing a more more more that he knows won’t come. Ilya fucking loves it.
Shane’s mouth opens wide beneath him, drool spilling from the corners of his mouth with the effort to hold still, hold his tongue out, keep his teeth out of the way. So meticulous, his Shane.
Ilya will ruin him all the better for it.
He reaches down and wraps his entire hand around Shane’s throat, thumb and forefinger pressing exactly where his котенок needs, and his own mouth falls open in satisfaction at the way Shane’s eyes roll to the back of his head with the slightest pressure. He’s making Shane choke and gasp and fight to breathe and fight to keep it good for Ilya and Ilya loves him.
“You are so fucking good at this, Shane,” Ilya grits out. At the sound of his name, Shane whimpers and arches, large hands gripping harder into Ilya’s ass. “This is my mouth, mine to fill, mine to fuck. No one else, hm? Say it. Say this mouth belongs to no one else–”
Ilya pulls out enough to let Shane catch his breath, but not so far his lips don’t brush the tip of Ilya’s dick with every word.
“My mouth is yours, Ilya.” Shane meets his gaze head-on. “All of me is yours.” And then he is sitting up a little, that challenging fucking glint in his eyes that has led to Ilya doing some very stupid, very bad, very wonderful things over the last eight years. Braced up on his elbows, Shane maintains eye contact as he starts gently suckling on the head of Ilya’s cock, massaging the underside with his tongue—
“Shane,” Ilya warns.
But Shane just sighs, closes his eyes, and continues, smiling around the occasional mouthful when he lingers long enough to suck down a few inches, or alternating between perfect little kitten licks and long, lavish kisses up and down the shaft. Ilya is about to lose his goddamn mind.
“I would not keep doing that if I were you.” Ilya tries for stern but knows he sounds as desperate as he feels. “Not if you want me to do anything else to you with my cock before breakfast.”
“Fuck you, I am breakfast,” Shane chirps back without opening his eyes, and Ilya can tell it’s out of his mouth before he realizes what he said.
Shane freezes like a little rabbit who knows he’s caught. He slowly looks up at Ilya, almost pleading—a useless endeavor, at least when it comes to not devouring Shane.
Ilya lets his grin get the better of him. “Oh it’s like that, is it? My котенок is not satisfied? I let you blow me, give your greedy mouth exactly what it is asking for, and you still say ‘fuck you, Ilya?’” Ilya shrugs. “If you are breakfast, then, is okay, I will eat.”
And without warning, Ilya dives down between Shane’s legs, yanks his ankles over his shoulder, spreads his cheeks—
And bites.
“Fuck!” Shane shouts. “Ilya, what the f—”
But Ilya is already soothing the sting with his tongue, making a meal out of Shane’s hole the way God himself intended, or would if he knew the first thing about Shane Hollander and his glorious, glorious ass.
“Ilya, holy shit, Ilya.”
Ilya has one hand pushed firmly against the back of Shane’s thigh, makes Shane hold up his other leg, sends Shane’s knees to he ears where they fucking belong.
“Keep them spread. Wider.” Shane wines but obeys, pushes his pelvis up and out, abs tightening with the effort. Ilya can’t help but reach up and grip a handful of Shane’s tits in approval, brushing over Shane’s throbbing cock in favor of worrying at those muscles, the tight little nipples just begging for Ilya’s touch, fuck. Shane’s fingers find his own, entwining and holding on tight. Ilya squeezes reassuringly, even as he pulls back and spits aggressively onto Shane’s fluttering hole, fucks it into him with his tongue, makes Shane thrash and curse and pinch his eyes shut.
“You taste delicious, моя любовь,” Ilya growls and licks against Shane’s perineum, before biting there too, only a little hard, nipping, claiming. He lets his tongue swirl over Shane’s swollen balls, up his neglected dick, laving up the bitter-sweet wetness dripping from his tip.
He takes Shane’s cock all the way down, hard and thick and fucking delicious against his tongue, filling his mouth and his senses. He swallows around the head just to make Shane scream his name.
This is where Ilya loses the plot a little. He starts to beg.
“Fuck, Hollander, I want to fuck you. Please let me, let me fuck you,” Ilya babbles, all his focus pulled in by the wreck of a man beneath him, narrowed to that wet, open mouth and wet, open hole, those shaking muscles, beautiful freckles…
“Not yet,” comes the answer.
“Please.” Ilya doesn’t recognize his own voice.
“No,” Shane gasps. “Make me come first. Need it, need you.”
Shane needs me.
Ilya bends back down and redoubles his efforts, moaning sloppily into Shane’s asshole, letting him feel the vibration, how much Ilya wants him, how he could live here worshiping his body as long as it takes for Shane to be satisfied. It’s all he wants, he’s greedy for it: Shane’s pleasure, his praise. Loving him harder and better than anyone else ever could, even though they would try.
“Have you. Can’t believe I have you,” Ilya pants while massaging Shane’s rim, petting, hot breath reminding Shane exactly how close his mouth still is to his most intimate place. “Everyone wants you. So many people tried, yes?” He lets his finger dip inside, pull a little, coaxing him that much more open. “In bars and clubs, fucking Mexico. They all try, but you are like this only for me. Mine.”
Shane shudders violently, whether at the words or the penetration, Ilya isn’t sure, nor does he particularly care. “Yes, yours, Ilya.” Another finger, followed by more spit dripped lovingly from Ilya’s generous tongue. “Only for you.”
Ilya wants to keep talking, make Shane come apart with dirty words of utter devotion, but his mouth is much too busy for that. Sucking, slurping, making a fucking meal out of Hollander’s ass around greedy fingers, Jesus fucking Christ. Nothing beats this. Nothing is better than this.
Well, maybe one thing, Ilya’s aching cock reminds him.
“Please, baby.” Ah, so it’s back to begging. At least the pet name that slips from between Ilya’s lips for the first time—quite without permission, too—seems to have gotten Shane’s attention; Ilya feels Shane’s hole clench down, hard, with it. “Let me touch myself, I’m so fucking hard, I can’t—”
“Rozanov I—unnngh—I swear to Christ if you come anywhere but inside this ass you won’t taste me for a week shityestheretherethere—”
And Ilya wants to chirp back, he does, only Shane’s thighs are shaking, his breath coming in these sucking little gasps that drive Ilya insane, and Ilya can’t stop now, not when his baby needs him. So he settles for delivering a hard smack against Shane’s ass, turning the skin around his tiger stripes bright red and sending Shane into a fresh round of holy fucking shit Jesus Christ Rozanov don’t stop don’t stop—
It’s transcendental, driving his Shane to the edge of pleasure like this. Ilya flicks his eyes up, mouth still sealed over fluttering muscle and pumping fingers, tongue licking so fucking deep inside—
—and he watches as Shane’s breathing stops and his mouth drops into a perfect “O.” Watches as his back arches so beautifully Ilya could weep with it. Ilya watches, and whines, pathetic, needy, but holds on, holds on by sheer force of will as Shane Hollander shakes apart around him—
Ilya watches as Shane comes.
Shane is still panting as Ilya slides up, cleaning precious cum off Shane’s stomach along the way. Unable to take his eyes off the piece of literal art blinking dazedly up at him, Ilya rummages around for the lube one handed before tipping Shane gently on his side, just enough to get his lubed fingers between Shane’s already-soaked cheeks. He slides them into his hole, sweeps around, testing, making sure he is ready from all angles, thorough and possessive. When Shane mewls and pushes back, Ilya fucks down firmly against his prostate, wanting Shane to feel only mind-numbing pleasure even in the practicalities.
Ilya is so lost in it, it takes him a moment to realize Shane is mumbling, trying to form coherent words. Ilya kisses his ear, his neck. “Yes, sweetheart? What is it? Anything, I give you.”
Shane swallows, pants some more, tries again—
“No condom. Want to feel you.” Ilya freezes. “You said—you said not since last time. You said… you said…”
“Shh, sweetheart, shh. Yes, not since last time. And I am clean. You?”
Shane can only nod, the movement sending soft black hair tickling Ilya’s face. He presses his nose to the crown there, breathes, closes his eyes. Kisses Shane’s hair softly.
Shane turns so they are face-to-face. “You’re it. You’re it, for me.”
Ilya can’t wait a single fucking second longer. He holds Shane’s ass open and pushes his cock inside, finally, shaking with restraint as he lets Shane take him bare for the very first time.
Ilya is going to die. He’s never done this before, with anyone, and he’s already clenching every muscle in his body with the effort not to come.
“How did we let this happen?” Shane nearly pleads.
“We were both very stupid, and irresponsible.” Ilya sweeps his gaze down over Shane’s stunning body, adjusts the angle with a caress to Shane’s thigh. When Ilya looks back up, Shane is still watching him.
“This is real though, right?”
“Mm.” A nod, as if speaking anything more out loud would make it untrue.
And then Shane says something he has never said before.
“Please fuck me.”
Ilya’s gone. His body reacts faster than his brain. He’s moving inside Shane, against him, the position squeezing his cock so fucking hard he can barely pull out before Shane is sucking him right back in again. He’s consumed, fucking awe-struck as Shane arches his neck and makes that face, the one he makes only for Ilya, so in response Ilya gratefully kisses the golden skin presented to him, kisses right beneath Shane’s armpit where his scent makes Ilya’s cock drool and leak. Shane’s arm is twisted around Ilya’s shoulders, and then his fist is firm in Ilya’s curls, drawing him in, keeping him there, then his thumb bullies into Ilya’s mouth and Ilya—well, Ilya opens wide for it. He’s starving, ravenous, the hunger lighting up his spine, driving his hips harder and harder. Shane bends impossibly more, delicately placing a beautiful brown nipple right beneath Ilya’s mouth, and Ilya accepts the offering with complete and utter devotion. He latches on, suckling, besotted, so fucking dumb, out of his mind with this too-big-too-much-so-fucking-right feeling that’s eating them both alive. Ilya’s mouth is wide open; Shane’s hands are everywhere, holding his face, keeping him tethered, letting Ilya finally have what he’s been desperate for since, since—
Since always. Since fucking always. Since the lightning-crack snap of a lighter and the boyish press of rink-chilled hands, Ilya has been desperate, stupid for this man. To fuck him hard and hold him close, to pleasure and protect him all at once. To seek refuge. To find sanctuary.
To find home.
“Love you,” Shane gasps, face inches from Ilya’s, their eyes locked, bodies moving completely as one. Ilya’s hand has found Shane’s dick, stroking messily, and Ilya relishes how bad his baby wants it, needs it—
“Love you so fucking much, Ilya, Ilya—”
—Needs Ilya. Just Ilya. Of course it’s his name that does it. He worked so fucking hard for that name, for it to finally belong to Shane.
“Need to come,” Ilya begs. “Please, Shane, baby.”
“Shit, wait, let me—fuck, fuck, fuck, Ilya—”
Shane arches, shouts, and breaks over Ilya’s body, and Ilya breaks himself in return, groaning and gasping, emptying himself deep inside, deep enough to stick. To ruin. A mutual sacrifice to their mutual destruction. Just boys, still, boys finding each other over and over for the better part of a decade, and now—now, Ilya would rather die than let Shane go. It’s a good thing, really. He knows that’s how it will happen, in the end. ’Till fucking death.
It’s the kind of pleasure that wipes everything away. The last thing he sees are Shane’s beautiful brown eyes and tear-streaked freckles bunching as his face collapses into the sweetest agony.
Oblivion. That’s what it is. Sweet oblivion.
They float, drifting in and out, heedless of the mess or the time or anything that isn’t held right here in each other’s arms. It could have been minutes or hours before Shane rouses, blinks muzzily against Ilya’s chest.
He asks about Ilya’s mother.
He knew. Of course he knew. Perfect takedowns, every time, my Shanya.
His idea for the foundation is perfect, of course, but Ilya knows what Shane is really asking. It’s a door left carefully open, seeing if Ilya will follow. If he will trust.
So, Ilya answers, as best he can through the sudden tightness in his throat and his fucked-out English.
“She would have loved you.” I will always feel this grief. It will always be with me, the prism that colors everything I see. Мама и Родина-мать. “Like I love you.” That’s the only way I know how to do this. I only know how to love through pain. Is that too much? Am I too much? Are you sure?
And Shane? Shane smiles shyly and looks straight at Ilya when he replies. No room for misunderstanding, no hiding. Plain and honest truth.
“Say it again in Russian, please.”
Yes, Ilya. All of you.