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Morning light creeps into the room and a breeze comes in through the window. It smells like summer; dirt and greenery and the lake, and when a loon calls out across the water Shane feels Ilya’s groan against his shoulder. “Shut up, wolfbird,” Ilya mutters, shifting to bury his face in Shane’s neck. “Shane.”
“Muh?”
Ilya mumbles against his skin in whiny Russian, his tongue curling sluggishly around the syllables in a way that makes Shane shiver, even half-asleep. Turn off the sun. Shane huffs, turns over. He spends about two seconds trying to figure out if Ilya actually told him to turn off the sun before he decides it doesn’t fucking matter. Instead, he attempts to rearrange himself in a way that has them pressed more tightly together. “You turn off the sun,” he slurs back, pushing his leg between Ilya’s. Ilya hums and tucks his face under Shane’s chin, now, sighing against his collarbone. His arms squeeze tight around Shane’s waist. There’s another loon call. Another groan.
Shane forces his eyes open with a frown.
Loons. The sun.
They’re at the cottage?
They’re at the cottage.
Right.
The sky is a pink that makes the whole room blush. Despite that, things are a bit of a disaster; comforter mostly pushed off the bed but clinging to the left corner of the mattress, sheets tangled messily around their feet. The big sliding windows have been thrown open and their bags are probably still by the front door, unopened from when they arrived late last night. God, they didn’t even shower. Just—stripped down to their underwear and fell into bed. Shane thinks he was asleep before his head hit the pillow.
He… can’t believe he’s here.
This wasn’t the original plan. The original plan had been to spend the next two weeks getting their shit together at home before the Ottawa camp: cross-referencing lists of kids, going over drills and activities, creating the staff schedule…
Shane hadn’t been planning on getting into a fight with his mother about fucking pride month. They’re already going to Ottawa’s parade in August (which Shane has been repeatedly told is called Capital Pride and not Ottawa Pride, like he’ll fucking forget).
It’ll be him and Ilya attending apart from the team, but a bunch of the Cens will be walking with the folks from You Can Play. Which, for the record, Shane is kinda touched by. And like, he understands the historical significance of the event and why it’s personally important for him to be there; he and Ilya did the whole walking with You Can Play thing last year. It’s just—annoying that it’s such a big deal. Even like a year post-outing, people still obsess over content of he and Ilya together, picking apart how they touch or don’t touch or fucking stand in public. He’ll think things have calmed down, and then one of their campaigns will drop, or Harris’ll post, or he or Ilya will just fucking—like someone else’s tweet, and it’s at a fucking fever pitch again. Shane’s used to public scrutiny—he played for Montreal, for fuck’s sake—but this is… fucking insane.
And like, say what you will about racism in hockey, but at least representing every Asian in Canada never forced Shane to bring the entire world into his bedroom—including other fucking gay people. Which is ridiculous; sharing a sexuality shouldn’t automatically entitle anyone to the details of his relationship.
Which isn’t to say that he doesn’t wish they could do normal newlywed shit? Contrary to popular belief, Shane isn’t a hockey robot. The fucking worst part is that he wants to show Ilya off. Desperately. Shane wants to post shitty phone pictures and dumb selfies and gush about him in interviews. He wants to engage in light, tasteful PDA. He just, you know, wants to do it without the entire world dissecting how they kiss.
And that’s not even touching on the fucking buffet of professional consequences coming out has wrought. He and Ilya present a united front, and they mostly are, but Jesus fuck, it’s fucking relentless; the chirping, the press, the pressure. It’s this weird catch 22 where being casual about their relationship increases the vitriol regarding their level of professionalism, but keeping a professional distance is isolating as fuck. And like, sometimes, it feels like everyone has forgotten that Shane is Shane fucking Hollander and not just Ilya Rozanov’s husband. And that Ilya is not some kind of evil slut whose entire game is to throw Shane off his. Even though they’re on the same team. Even though they’re fucking married.
It’s bullshit. But Shane can’t say that. Saying something makes it worse. So he just has to—let go. Not sit in it. Not care. Just let it wash over him like people aren’t analyzing him to either make creepy inferences or spout heinous BS about his marriage and sex life.
If they don’t win the Cup next season they’re fucking done: the narrative becomes that they were better apart than they ever were together, and that players in a relationship fucking defang each other or whatever bullshit the league’s got ready to go. If they shit the bed for the second time with Shane on the team, the consequences will affect every single queer player that comes after them.
So, yeah, Shane has deliberately not thought about Pride beyond his one actual, personal obligation.
Which again, it’s not like he hates that they’re going to the parade; honestly, despite being fucking freaked by the prospect of being so visibly gay—queer—whatever—and that inevitable fallout, he’s… maybe a little excited, to stand beside Ilya at an actual, non-work-related event. With like half of Ottawa and most of the Cens nearby, but. Yeah. With Ilya. His husband.
The fact that he actually gets to call him that is still surreal in a way that is simultaneously fucking incredible and makes Shane feel like he’s going to be hunted for sport.
Which is kind of how he feels right now, despite the fact that he’s in his favourite place on Earth with his favourite person. It’s just—he hadn’t planned to be firm with his mother. He fucking hates doing it; it makes him feel guilty, and ungrateful, and like he’s gonna puke, but she just kept pushing about posting for Pride and attending Pride events before camp and how much he and Ilya mean to the community, as if this is Shane’s first time being a fucking role model, and he’s just—tired. He’s really fucking tired. Of being visible, and a soundbyte, and a figurehead, and a monolith.
It makes Shane feel like shit, but he wishes that sometimes his mom would just be his fucking mom.
I’m not suggesting anything crazy, I’m just saying: it wouldn’t be the end of the world to post a photo of yourselves together, maybe with a small statement. It would prevent any backlash. I could whip something up, you wouldn’t have to worry about a thing.
So, Shane had… drawn a line the sand. Kind of. More like he’d heavily hinted that his mother should leave their house and go back to her own, and then had gone on a half-hour rant to Ilya about why it was ridiculous to have to owe people insights into their personal life. How did being gay automatically grant people access to him, to them, whenever they wanted? And, what, refusing that access meant he was a bad gay person? So what? What’s the right way? Wearing rainbows and watching Drag Race and saying shit like girl bye and partying and drinking and—doing poppers all month? Posting about that? Was his mother really going to fucking pimp him out for fucking hole to appease the LA gays or whatever the fuck? At which point Ilya, who had been gently reassuring him that, your mother would never make you show hole, Hollander, only tasteful nipple—had taken his hands and asked what Shane actually wanted to do.
And he’d wanted this: his favourite person in his favourite place. Obviously they can’t run away until the thirtieth, but after an hour of negotiation they had compromised on a few days.
So here they are.
“You are thinking too loud,” Ilya groans, giving Shane another squeeze.
Shane kisses his chin, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth in apology. When Ilya moves to try and return the favour, it smears to nothing against his skin. “Tell,” he mumbles, still mostly asleep.
Shane’s fingers gently trace the shell of his ear. Ilya shivers. Gives a sleepy smile. Shane loves him so much it’s honestly terrifying. “The view’s really pretty,” he offers quietly. He doesn’t really know which he means; he’s not sure it actually matters.
“You are not thinking about view.” It looks like it takes a Herculean effort for Ilya’s eyes to crack open, brow furrowed and blue barely visible as he half-heartedly lifts his head. He glances out the window before flopping back in place. “Mm, nice.” There’s another contended hum, a nuzzle. “Yuna will understand.”
“We fucked off without telling her and are gonna be gone for multiple days,” Shane says, chewing his lip. “Because I had a tantrum about fucking Pride. She’s going to kill me.”
Ilya yawns. “What is tantrum.”
“Like a full-on crying screaming kicking their feet meltdown a little kid has when they don’t get what they want.”
“Okay,” he mumbles, “you can’t have tantrum, Hollander, you are too old.”
Shane’s laugh is more of an amused huff, though it makes Ilya smile anyway. His eyes have slipped shut again, he’s hanging on like a human barnacle, and he’s so fucking cute Shane doesn’t know what to do with himself. He presses his face to the side of Ilya’s head hard. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what makes it embarrassing.”
He can feel the big intake of breath against his own chest, is jostled around by the way Ilya shifts; hands sliding against Shane’s back and side as he sighs and cracks his eyes open, this time the sliver of blue staying as he squints. He adorably rubs at his eyes. Itches his nose. Shane waits, gently tracing fingers over his shoulder and scritching at the base of his skull. Ilya’s body wakes up before the rest of him, but he can usually be coaxed back to sleep if you catch him early enough in the process. Shane presses a kiss to his forehead and breathes deep against him. He really wasn’t trying to get them both up. Bad enough that he’s basically dragged Ilya up here, the least Shane could do is make sure he gets a decent—
The clumsy, soft press of lips catches the corner of Shane’s mouth, which Ilya briefly huffs about before managing something more direct. He’s awake, now. He doesn’t usually really kiss unless he’s actually going to commit. Shane feels the tell-tale prickle of guilt. “Go back to sleep,” he murmurs. “I’m okay, I’m gonna make coffee and go for a run with Anya.”
“No,” Ilya rumbles, tightening his arms around Shane’s waist. “I was promised Pride sexcation.” He drops a line of kisses up Shane’s jaw and nips at his ear. “Was legally binding.”
“Huh, really?” Shane asks, unable to keep the smile from his face. “Guess I missed the memo.”
“Well,” Ilya murmurs. “My people called your people, so…”
“So,” Shane agrees softly. He brushes his knuckles across Ilya’s cheek. “Hey, seriously, I’m gonna get up. You relax.” But when Shane makes another attempt to leave, he’s only squeezed more tightly.
“No,” Ilya complains again. “You kidnap me and now you abandon me? In the middle of the Canadian wilderness? Alone?”
Shane knows he’s teasing. It’s in the whine of his voice, the way his hands have not stop moving and stroking and squeezing. Still, it’s a little too close—and he can’t— “I… I’m really sorry about that,” Shane says, chewing his lip. “The tantrum, and dragging you up here. I don’t—fuck, I didn’t even ask what you wanted to do. Just dumped all my shit on you and then we were here and—”
“Hollander.”
“—I’m sorry, I don’t know how to stop being selfish about this—”
“What selfish? Shane—”
“—And now you’re up and it’s, like, the ass crack of dawn—”
“Hey.” Ilya grabs Shane’s face between his hands. “Dorogoy, it was a joke. Do you not remember how the conversation went last night? I told you we could come up. I wanted to come. I convinced you.”
But would he have wanted to if Shane hadn’t suggested it? Shane bites his lip. Looks away.
Ilya gently redirects him. “Shane.”
“Sorry.”
“No apologies,” he says easily. “I want to be here, yes? There was no dragging, no dumping—maybe, okay, yes, is a little early—”
Shane snorts. His throat feels tight. When he reaches up to pluck at his lashes, his fingers come away damp.
Ilya gently takes his hands, entwining them. “What’s happening?”
The thing is… Shane doesn’t really know. He was fine. Or, he thought he was fine. Not any more stressed than he usually is. Probably more relaxed, in the grand scheme of things, because being here with Ilya always takes the pressure off. He’s… he’s probably fine. Or like, mostly fine? Actually, definitely. He just needs to get up, start his day. Go for long run and a skate, or like, lift for a bit. He’ll be totally fine after that. “Nothing, I think I just need to blow off some steam or whatever. I’m gonna take Anya.”
“Shane,” Ilya says, watching as he stumbles out of bed.
“I’m good,” Shane replies. “Seriously.” He leans over for a quick peck. “What do you want to do for Pride?”
Ilya looks at him for a long moment, but, mercifully, decides to let it go. “Be with you,” he says easily. “Here, in Ottawa, doesn’t matter. And super gay sex with my super gay husband; eating, sleeping, fucking… that word, the good English one, that is at the top of my list.”
“Hedonism?”
“Yes, best word in the English language: hedonism.”
The corner of Shane’s mouth tugs up in a smile. “That’s it?” He asks. “Because if you want to go out—”
“You are overthinking this, yozhik,” Ilya says. “It’s an event, yes? For people like us? We do as little or as much as we want.”
“Yeah, but you,” Shane presses. “What do you want?”
Ilya shrugs. “Is like I said: I want people to know we’re together, I want to show you off.”
“Okay, but—”
“I don’t like all the crazy, either,” he says, brow furrowing. “I do not go around excited when people make stupid comments.”
Shane’s eyes widen as he comes to sit on the edge of the bed. “Shit, Ilya, I didn’t mean—”
He cuts himself off as Ilya grasps his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “I know,” he says. “I just… I just want to be with you, Shane. Normally. Like anyone else. Mostly this does not mean fucking in the middle of a pride parade to show how hot and gay we are.”
“Mostly?”
“Ah, maybe that’s what some people like. Who am I to judge.”
“But not you.”
“No,” Ilya says, looking deliberately down to Shane’s mouth. “I am far too jealous for that.”
“Yeah?” Shane asks, a little breathless. His eyes flutter shut as Ilya nudges in, brushing their mouths. “Yes.”
“Is this when the sexcation starts?” Shane grins.
“Also yes. Legally binding, you understand; my hands are, ah, tied.” As if to demonstrate, he guides Shane back until he’s lying down, hands pressing his wrists to the mattress as he straddles his waist. The kiss they share is slow and soft and wet and Shane desperately wants to just turn his fucking brain off but—
“So you don’t want to do anything else?”
Ilya groans. He collapses on top of Shane dramatically, ignoring the oof of surprise at his weight. Shane’s hand comes up to thumb at the nape of his neck.
“Malysh,” Ilya says. “We are here, I will post something, we will go to Pride in August. For me, that’s enough. And right now, I think the best way to celebrate is…”
He leans back in.
Shane can’t. “You don’t like all the crazy but you still want to post.”
Ilya makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. He sighs and Shane only feels a little guilty for the way he sits on his knees. “Yes, of course. Anyone else would; I want to be like anyone else.”
“You’re not, though.”
“Mm,” Ilya nods. “I am married to the sexiest player with a weak backhand in the league.”
“Fuuuuck you,” Shane says, rote. The smile is Pavlovian at this point.
“This is what I’m trying to do,” Ilya cries dramatically. Shane playfully pushes at his shoulder and snorts at the way he just keels over onto his side. “You are killing me Hollander. On pride month? This is a hate crime.”
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Shane grins. “Can you please take this seriously?”
“I am taking so seriously,” Ilya says. “My husband is homophobic, this is fucking—very serious.”
Shane laughs. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
Shane scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip. He knows what his role is, here, and he wants to play it. He just—he still feels itchy, and sex will probably take care of that, but Shane just has to fucking make sure he’s crystal fucking clear. “You know that I’m so proud to be with you, right?”
Ilya’s eyes widen.
“Like, so proud,” Shane continues, his throat getting tight. “And I love you—you don’t even know how I love you, Ilya, because I can’t—they don’t have words—”
“I know,” Ilya shushes. His cheeks turn a blotchy, violent red. The colour brings out his eyes. “I am the same. You know I am.”
“Of course I know,” Shane replies. “But you just. You have to understand, okay? I love you so fucking much it’s fucking terrifying.”
“Okay,” Ilya murmurs. “I know.” His hands move to Shane’s shoulders, kneading them as if that’ll end this. “Shane, it’s okay—”
“It’s not,” Shane insists. Because now that he’s started, he can’t stop. It’s just. In him. Forcing its way up. Out. There’s a prickling behind his eyes. “I don’t want you to think I’m afraid, or ashamed, because I’m not, Ilya, I swear.”
“Okay okay, I know, malysh.”
Shane’s vision blurs. “And it actually fucking kills me that anyone would think I am. Or that people still think that, what, I made a mistake in choosing you? Like you aren’t the best person I’ve ever met? It’s bullshit. I—“ He shakes his head, sucking air into his lungs. “I don’t even—I don’t—fuck.”
“Shane,” Ilya says more strongly. Shane can’t—look at him. He can’t—
He doesn’t have to. Ilya carefully gathers him in his arms, hand pushing through his hair as he presses a kiss to Shane’s temple and taking deep, exaggerated breaths. “Breathe, lyubimy.”
“I feel like I’m gonna die. I—Ilya—”
“I know, solnyshko. Just breathe, yes? In. Out. Good.”
Shane closes his eyes, allowing himself to fall into the up and down rhythm of Ilya’s chest, the feeling of fingers in his hair. His mouth is still pressed to Shane’s temple. “You’re okay,” he murmurs. “I have you. We’re good.”
Shane isn’t sure how long they spend tangled up like that, breathing, but it’s enough time for him to feel embarrassed when the panic passes. By then, Shane is kind of just… hiding, in Ilya’s arms. He takes a deep breath and pulls away. “Sorry,” he grimaces, roughly wiping at his face. He feels himself turn bright red.
“Why?” Ilya asks, clearly working through his own embarrassment. “Was—nice. You, ah, said nice things. Thank you.”
God. Shane wants to—he doesn’t know what he wants to do, exactly. But something fucking—depraved. Like bite him until he leaves a mark or spend the rest of the fucking day with his cock in his mouth. That’s fucked up, isn’t it? It feels like it should be.
Shane starts with a kiss that’s more teeth than anything else, pleased as fuck when Ilya meets him head-on. He’s only just managed to roll them over, is skating his fingers up Ilya’s side when Anya whines outside the door.
Shit.
“I’ll go,” they both say at the same time.
Shane takes the opportunity offered to him with both hands and fucking runs with it. “No,” he says, pressing a smacking kiss to Ilya’s lips. “I’ll go. You relax, try and nap or something. I kind of just—I think I need to be outside.”
“I’ll come with you,” Ilya insists.
“Really,” Shane says. “Stay here, relax. I’ll be gone like ten minutes tops. I’m gonna let her out, make coffee, and come right back.”
“Shane—”
“Ilya,” Shane says, trying not to sound as desperate as he feels. “Please.”
Though he doesn’t seem convinced, Ilya nods, and Shane kisses him stupid for his trouble. He can get this morning back on track. He’d had this whole vision yesterday, of waking up and having fuck all to do on an unplanned vacation. The idea had made him giddy when he wasn’t feeling sick over it.
He can still make that happen. He wants to make it happen.
“I’m fine,” he says in response to the look Ilya is giving him.
“Oh yes completely fine,” he agrees sarcastically. He heaves a sigh. “If I am staying here all alone on my sexcation, the bed cannot get cold.”
“Ten minutes,” Shane says. He kisses him again and takes Anya out.
Shane keeps the sliding door open and the screen closed, calling Anya back every time she gets too close to the water. The coffee percolates. The cicadas sing. Shane decides to cut up some strawberries to bring up, too. That’s romantic, right?
He refreshes Anya’s water bowl and the sound of food hitting her dish has her rocketing back inside.
Still, she abandons it the second she sees Shane start to walk back towards the stairs, his little fruit bowl and two mugs balanced precariously in his hands. He thinks, for the millionth time, that he should get a tray.
“I just want you to know that no dog has ever loved a person more than Anya loves you,” Shane says as he walks back into the bedroom. Anya shoots past his legs and makes a beeline for Ilya. “She just abandoned her breakfast for—Ilya?”
Ilya is, unfortunately, not sprawled out and relaxing as Shane had hoped. Instead, he’s in his underwear, sitting cross-legged on top of the covers with his face in his hands.
“Ilya?” Shane asks again, carefully placing the mugs and bowl on the bedside table.
Ilya looks up and gives a guarded a smile. Nodding in thanks at the coffee mug Shane hands over. His other hand absently scratches Anya behind the ears.
Fuck, is it a bad day? Shane shouldn’t have left. “…You okay?”
“Are you?” Ilya asks carefully.
Shane bites his lip. Takes stock of himself. He is, he thinks. All that stuff that had been bubbling on the surface has sunk further down again, finally; buried under the familiarity of having a task to complete. “Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Thanks.”
Ilya nods. Keeps looking at him.
Shane shrugs only slightly uncomfortably. “I mean,” he says. “I just—there’s a lot of pressure, right, with everything, and I handled it—us—so fucking badly last year that I just don’t want to fuck up again. I want you to know that I would—do anything for you. And that I want to do all the public stuff it’s just—fucking scary, because of everything else.”
“Because of who we are,” Ilya clarifies.
“I mean, yeah, but—”
“We can’t change that, though.”
“And I wouldn’t want to,” Shane insists. “I… I love you for you. The other stuff is just… really loud noise. But I hate that it’s so loud? I gotta learn to block it out, so I will. It’s just—hard, you know? And I know I’m a freak about it. I’m working on that.”
Ilya frowns. He carelessly puts his mug on the nightstand, coffee almost sloshing over the side as he gathers Shane into his arms. “You’re not a freak,” he says. “You’re brave, remember? This is scary.“ Ilya’s hands cup Shane’s face, the contact almost painful in its gentleness. “I am scared by so much of this, Shane. The good, the bad… it is terrifying.”
Shane nods. “For me too.”
“You know you don’t have to do anything for this stupid month if you do not want to,” Ilya says. “If it is supposed to be for us it should serve us.”
“Yeah,” Shane murmurs, feeling his shoulders start to descend from his ears. “You’re right.”
Ilya’s smile is more relief than anything else. “Of course I am, I am the hottest, most talented, best player in the MLH.”
Shane looks at him, trying to decide the best way to play things before giving up. He worms his way into Ilya’s arms, shrugging. “Keep telling yourself that,” he says.
Ilya laughs and squeezes him.
***
They wake up for the second time.
Shane isn’t totally sure how they fell back asleep; they’d been cuddling and trading wet, lazy kisses and then… Shane must have passed out? He hates the way panic takes it out of him sometimes. Fuck, did Ilya sleep too? He hopes so.
It’s brighter, now, and Shane squints against the light, trying to orient himself. He feels toes drag up against his shin, fingers firmly pulling through his hair. He hums, snuffling and rubbing his face against his pillow as he blinks awake to the sight of Ilya propped up beside him as he scrolls his phone. He looks like some kind of… Shane doesn’t even know, but like that, sheet artfully pulled over his hip, chewing his lip, with the light gold and syrupy and clinging to him like he was fucking made for it. Still groggy, Shane feels around for his own phone and takes a quick picture, because he wants to. Then he takes another, and is about to take a third when he sees Ilya looking back at him. “You are taking secret gay pictures now?” He asks, clearly pleased. He tucks an arm behind his head, stretching to show off the long line of his torso.
“Wow,” Shane croaks, only a little more awake. “Subtle.” He gets another picture just for the sheer hell of it, and it’s his grogginess he blames for how Ilya gets the jump on him: one arm hooking over his thigh while the other wraps around his waist. He drags them both violently down to the mattress, clearly delighting in Shane’s yelp.
Well, Shane’s definitely awake, now.
There’s an onslaught of kisses that quickly dissolves with how much they’re smiling, until Ilya can do little else but press his grin to Shane’s. When he pulls back, his cheeks are faintly pink. “I want one, too.”
“One what?” Shane asks, leaning in again.
“A picture, pervert.”
“You want a picture of me naked and I’m the pervert?”
“Ah, I never said naked.”
“I mean, yeah, but—” Shane sputters as Ilya snaps the elastic band of his underwear.
“You are not naked,” Ilya says. “Come on. Picture.”
Shane watches him root around, settling on his own pillow. When he’s finally set up, the phone is half covering his face, but that’s a good picture, too, so Shane takes it. They end playing a weird game of hide-and-seek, peering out from behind their cameras only to cover their own faces until Ilya gets fed up and starts pushing at Shane’s phone hand, trying to get an unobstructed shot. Which isn’t fair, obviously, so Shane gives as good as he gets.
“Oh my god Hollander you are so annoying,” Ilya grunts, trying to hold down his arm with one hand and take a picture with the other. “Stop—ah, zhopa!”
“That all you got, bud?” Shane smirks, holding down Ilya’s wrist and taking the world’s most blurry fucking picture as he tries to pin his husband.
“Fucking brat,” Ilya mutters, dropping his phone to fully just grab at Shane, now. “You really want to go there?”
“You think you can handle me?” Shane shoots back.
“Do I think I can handle you,” Ilya scoffs, trying to slap Shane’s hands away. Unfortunately, they’re both doing their best impressions of a fucking octopus, and what starts as a sexy kind of wrestling very quickly becomes some kind of fucking MMA cage match. Pillows fly off the bed, covers are pushed to the floor, the fitted sheet gets untucked.
“Fucking—” They grapple and go rocketing towards the headboard as the bed careens into the fucking wall. There’s a crunch, a crack, and they freeze.
Shit.
Ilya’s eyes are almost comically wide, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. They stare at each other before looking up toward the headboard, scrambling to look behind the bed. They need to pull it back a couple of inches before they’re both looking at a crack in the headboard and twin dents in the drywall.
Oh my god.
Ilya stares at Shane like he’s waiting for him to fucking blow.
Oh my fucking god.
Shane just… loses it. The laugh comes from his belly, his face scrunching up as he doubles over, wheezing with it. Holy fuck. They—they broke the bed. They broke the fucking bed. They dented the wall. Not because of acrobatic sex, which would be, you know, the logical assumption. No. Because they wrestled too hard. Because Ilya is the most competitive motherfucker on the planet and Shane would rather break the house than let him win.
Shane’s cheeks ache and he has tears in his eyes, but he can see Ilya beaming at him, laughing a little, now, too. He’s kind of bashful with it, a little pink-cheeked in a way that Shane can’t help but need to touch. He stumbles over and presses his forehead to Ilya’s smiling cheek. Arms wrap around his waist.
“This is so fucking stupid,” Shane wheezes. Leaning into Ilya’s hands as he wipes the tears from Shane’s cheeks. “We… we broke the fucking…”
“Oops?”
Shane snorts. Things taper off eventually, laughter quieting to a chuckle here and there. Ilya pecks his mouth and pulls away. “Can I please take a real picture of you now?”
Shane feels himself flush. Which is fucking ridiculous—they’re married, for fuck’s sake; the idea that Ilya wants a photo of him shouldn’t be so flattering. But… it is. It’s really fucking nice.
Shane ducks his head in a nod. “As long as we do one of the two of us?”
“Deal.”
***
Later, they cuddle in their destroyed bed, both looking at their phones. Shane scrolls through the Instagram carousel one more time, heart pounding. It’s… more personal than what he usually posts. Definitely more vulnerable. The kind of thing people will obsess over. The fact that he knows every pixel will be picked apart kind of makes him want to puke, but—but he’s still running off the high of this morning, and he wants to—prove himself, maybe? Or be normal? This is the kind of thing he’s seen other guys post all the time. He’s not different than them. He’s not.
He’s not.
It’s reckless, but despite the fact that his heart is in his ass, Shane holds his breath and presses post.
He hears Ilya’s phone buzz with the notification and just barely allows himself to look, tracking the tap of fingers, the slide of his thumb. The way he freezes at the first tile, glancing up with wide eyes, biting back a smile, before he keeps going. He’s got a wide, crooked grin by the end but scrolls back and through a handful more times.
Then he… does something else.
Shane feels his phone buzz in his hand and barely has time to look down at the notification before he’s being tackled onto the bed.
Let the sexcation begin.
***
[A carousel of five images, the first of Ilya Rozanov on his side in bed. He’s shirtless and has the covers tangled around his waist. He’s holding his phone up to take a picture, the device half-obscuring his face. He wears an expression of intense focus.
The second image is mostly the same, but a little blurry; this time, Ilya is slightly more visible and starting to smile.
The third image is less easy to read; composition has gone out the window and Ilya seems to be deliberately trying to hold his phone in front of his own face. His grin is barely visible with how blurry the photo is.
The fourth image is a disaster; it’s so blurry it’s almost impossible to parse. There appears to be a hand pushing at Ilya while Ilya’s arm has lifted with the clear intent to push at the photographer. Ilya may be laughing delightedly. It’s difficult to tell.
The last image is crystal clear: a selfie of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov sharing a pillow. They’re only visible from their shoulders up, and Ilya has turned to give a big, smacking, cheesy kiss to Shane’s cheek. Shane beams, his nose scrunching, smiling so big his eyes are practically closed.]
shanehollander24: Proud.
ilyarozanov: 💕