Archive of Our Own

“You act like I have never flown before.”

“You’re acting like we can just walk into the airport twenty minutes before the plane takes off. Help me pack the car.

They’d been married a week.

Their wedding had been one of the best nights of Shane’s life, and the days after spent in the warm, loving embrace of the home he now shared with his husband (his husband!) were some of the happiest memories he had. And they hadn’t even made it to their honeymoon yet.

But he didn’t want to be late for it.

And Ilya wasn’t being much help. Shane knew that he loathed getting up before the sun, but he’d made it clear when he booked the plane tickets exactly what the plan was. 3:00 am wake up, quick breakfast, final packing and checks, say goodbye to Anya, and on the road by 4:00. Get to the Montreal airport by 6:30, parking, check in, security, at the gate at least an hour before their flight boarded at 9:16. Easy.

But now it was 3:47 and Ilya was still nursing a mug of coffee, his suitcase open on their bed upstairs. Shane didn’t know how he could stand it.

“Is this how you operate before away games?” he asked genuinely. “D’you just throw everything in at the last second?”

“I have been on international flights since I was twelve, Hollander, hundreds of them. Is easy. I have down to a science.” He downed the last of his coffee and kissed the grimace off Shane’s face before dragging himself upstairs. 

Shane stood up from the kitchen island and began pacing, running through his mental checklist in his head over and over until he was saying it out loud. Phone, wallet, passport, keys, underseat bag, “ticket printouts, book, headphones, sunglasses, phone charger, power adapter…”

He snapped out of his mantra when he felt eyes on him, but he hadn’t heard Ilya come down the stairs, and only when he looked into the dark of the living room did he see a very sleepy Anya coming toward him, her paws clicking on the hardwood. 

“Hey, sweet girl,” Shane murmured, stooping to pet her. She leaned her soft head into his hand, and he stroked her silky ears as he muttered little phrases in Russian to her. “Go tell your dad to finish packing, Диско-шар.”

“Did you just call our daughter a disco ball?” 

Shane looked up to Ilya at the foot of the stairs, in his travel clothes and his suitcase at the ready. He looked like death warmed over this early, but he could sleep in the car.

“The groomers put that glitter stuff in her coat last time. She’s still sparkly.”

“My little disco ball,” Ilya cooed, picking up the sleepy dog in his arms and kissing her head affectionately. Shane’s heart jumped, watching his husband with their pet, but his brain wouldn’t let him forget about the half-packed car.

“Can I-” he started, but Ilya was already nodding his head.

“You can take the bag, I will be out in one second.” Shane smiled with relief and toted the heavy case out to the garage where his luggage was already waiting since last night. They were going to Spain for two weeks, and it felt like Ilya packed a bag full of rocks. What the hell had he put in there?

Regardless, Shane packed the car with expert efficiency, and when he checked his watch it was 4:02. Still making decent time. 

“Ilya, you ready?”

“Mmm,” was his husband’s response from inside. He stepped into the garage still holding Anya, and now a travel mug of coffee. “Give her goodbye kiss. It will be years to her before we are back.”

“It won’t be years,” Shane insisted, but he still gave Anya a thorough scratch behind the ears. “My parents and Harris will text us pictures of her constantly.”

“Mmm, but she will miss our beautiful faces,” he lamented, nuzzling his face into her fur. “We will have to Skype every day.”

“We’ll see,” Shane smirked. “Love you, disco ball.”

Shane hopped in the car while Ilya kissed and cooed sweet Russian phrases to Anya until he finally set her down and watched her trot back to bed. He locked the house, and by the time they finally pulled out of the garage and got on the road, it was 4:09. 

“We’re running a little late, but we should still make it in plenty of time,” Shane said aloud, more to himself than his husband.

“Plane does not leave until 10 am, and you are worried we will be late?” Ilya asked, nestling down into his seat with his hat pulled low. “We will be there before the pilot wakes up.”

“When would the Cens bus pull up for a 10 am departure?”

“10 am. They will not leave without us; we are too important.”

Shane shook his head at that, but he was secretly excited to be traveling in public for the first time with Ilya. They’d be doing it all the time when he started playing for them next season.

“Got your phone charger?” 

“Yes,” Ilya answered in a sleepy voice.

“Wallet with ID?”

“Da.”

“Passport?”

“Do you think I am new to this, Hollander?” Ilya teased, leaning his seat back and rolling sideways to sleep. 

“Got your pills?”

Shane waited for another quip, but then Ilya was silent. He sat up, thinking hard before swearing in Russian. 

“Turn around,” he said morosely. 

Shane pulled into a neighbor’s driveway and turned their car back toward the house, trying not to look at the clock, and trying not to bug Ilya about remembering his medication. This was all still really new, and he’d been sensitive when talking about his antidepressants, almost like he was ashamed of them. 

Shane had told him over and over that it was a perfectly normal thing to deal with, and that it was important to address just like anything else happening in his body, but there was only so much he could say before Ilya stopped talking about it entirely. And so he didn’t push it. He only parked at the curb and stayed in the car while Ilya ran inside and grabbed the little orange bottle off their dresser. 

“Anya says she’s lonely and we need to take her with us,” he dutifully informed Shane when he got back. He stuffed the medicine into his carry-on in the backseat and settled in for the drive as Shane pulled away from the curb.

“D’you think she’d enjoy flying?”

“I think she would hate flying. She hates the car enough, a plane… And she doesn’t speak Spanish,” Ilya joked. “What if she got lost? She wouldn’t be able to ask for help.”

“We could tie a note around her collar,” Shane offered practically. “That way if she got lost, someone could call us.”

“‘If found, please return to the two gay hockey players staying at the Palacio,’ huh? But in Spanish.”

“Encontra… si se les encontra…” Shane began conjugating, but Ilya gave a melodramatic sigh and resumed his original position of napping on the drive. 

“You’re too smart for your own good, Hollander,” he muttered, doing his best to sound resentful and failing miserably. Shane chuckled at that. His Spanish was godawful compared to his English and French, even his Russian now, but it still always managed to impress Ilya. He began running through verb tenses in his head, drifting between Russian and Spanish, until he couldn’t keep his eyes off the clock any more. 

4:22. Shane sped up just a little.

By the time they got to Montreal, settled their car in long-term parking, and took the tram to the airport proper, it was 7:17. Shane’s timeline had been thrown off in a major way, and while Ilya felt a solid amount of guilt for forgetting his pills, he also wished his husband would relax a little bit. Wasn’t that what a honeymoon was for?

“Where’s your passport?” he asked Ilya quickly. They’d checked their bags and were on their way through the long, winding security line, Shane double checking every single thing in his carry-on. Ilya thought of him doing this every time he flew with his team, and imagined it was part of the reason they’d invested in a company plane a few years ago.

“In my pocket, where it has been all morning,” Ilya assured him. He was tired as hell, but he’d assuage his husband’s nerves any chance he could. “I have not lost it.”

“Okay, I’m just making sure.” Ilya wished he could take Shane into his arms and hold him, tell him everything was taken care of, and not to worry so much, but he abstained. For one, they were trying to keep a low profile. Both of them were minor celebrities in this city, Shane much more so, and didn’t want to be stopped for photos or questions this early in the morning. Second, Shane was busy enough in the head that he wouldn’t want to be touched at all, probably until they were at least sat in front of the gate. Maybe until they got to their hotel room in Madrid.

“You worry too much, lover,” he murmured in Russian, delighting in the way Shane’s face worked as he translated. “If you don’t stop fretting, I will put you in my pocket.”

Ilya watched the gears turn in his husband’s mind as they shuffled along the line. “You does not make sense,” Shane said carefully. Ilya smiled warmly at him despite his fatigue. His pronunciation bordered on offensively bad, but the fact that Shane was trying at all still meant the world to him.

“Keep speaking my language, I’ll drag you into the bathroom and give you something else to do with your mouth.”

He watched in real time as Shane fought through the words and a blush stained his cheeks under the freckles Ilya loved so much. “You are tease me. Not fair.”

Ilya grinned as they got shuffled through security, not bothering to check his watch. The sun was just barely coming up; and it wasn’t like they’d never been in the Montreal airport before. They’d have plenty of time.

They barely made it to their gate on time. Security had taken way longer than expected because of an issue with another passenger’s bag, and Shane was resisting the urge to run down the causeway the entire time. They got there with twenty minutes to spare before boarding started.

“That was close,” Shane remarked, sitting down heavily in one of the uncomfortable airport chairs. 

“Was it?” Ilya joked. “Afraid the gate would walk away?”

“Fuck off. Wait with the bags; I gotta pee.”

“Yes, sweetheart,” Ilya nodded, replacing Shane in the chair. “I will yell if they start boarding.”

Shane gave him a smirk and took off for the nearest bathroom, grateful to be temporarily out of the noise and bustle of the terminal. He retreated into his own head, going over the travel arrangements step by step, and it was only when he was washing and drying his hands that he felt he was being stared at for a second time that morning. 

No Anya this time; as Shane threw the paper towel in the trash, he spotted a kid no more than six staring at him from where he and his father were waiting in line. The young boy was wearing a Montreal jersey, JJ’s, and tugging insistently on his father’s shirtsleeve. And just as Shane tried to slip by unnoticed, his dad looked up. 

“Holy shit, are you Shane Hollander?”

“Uh.” Shane had never been good at interacting with the public, especially this early in the morning. Especially in an airport bathroom. “Yes.”

“Dude, we’re huge Metros fans,” the man said, gesturing to his son. “This is so crazy seeing you here; I thought you ditched us for Ottawa. Why’d you go and join the Cens, man? No loyalty?” He said it with a smile, like the team was a joke.

Was this stranger… criticizing Shane’s career choices? In a fucking airport bathroom?

“A lot of loyalty, actually,” Shane defended. “Hometown, and all that...”

“Sure, that’s the only reason,” the guy scoffed. “If you ever want to get away from those losers and come back to a winning team, I know the Metros would welcome you with open arms.”

Shane couldn’t even answer that. He simply nodded politely and walked away, the knowledge of how wrong that guy was sitting heavy in his heart. The Metros chewed him up and spit him out for who he loved, and although he still kept up with Hayden and JJ, the rest had fed him to the wolves. He never wanted to go back.

“What’s wrong?”

“Huh?” he hadn’t even realized he was sitting down at the gate until Ilya spoke up. His feet must have carried him there of their own accord.

“You are quiet, you say nothing,” Ilya said, worried. “Something happened?”

“I-it’s nothing…” he floundered, but the interaction had genuinely gotten under his skin. “There was a guy in line who asked me why I left the Metros.”

“Did you tell him they are a bunch of homophobic assholes who will lose their seat in the playoffs without you?”

That made Shane laugh a little. “No, I didn’t bother. He can like them all he wants.”

“He will be disappointed when we win the Cup next season,” Ilya remarked, slipping on his headphones.

“Yeah, he will be,” Shane said lamely. But the dig still got to him a little. He’d been heartbroken leaving the Metros, and he still couldn’t believe he’d have to face the guys he spent so many years on a line with in just a few months. He didn’t know if he could do it. 

But then he felt a warm, strong hand in his. A hand that said I’ve got you. I’ve got us. It was still such a foreign experience, loving Ilya so publicly, and Shane’s eyes automatically darted around to see if anyone recognized them, or were giving them dirty looks, but… It was an airport early in the morning. Everyone was absorbed in their phones or their books, or napping restlessly before boarding. Nobody paid a lick of attention to the two men holding hands at the gate.

Shane relaxed for the first time since he woke up that morning.

Ilya would never admit it, but ever since the ‘incident’ last year, he’d been a deeply nervous flyer. It was one of the reasons he’d insisted on making the drive to Montreal and skipping the layover. One less plane meant one less chance something could go wrong. He’d scraped by on the Centaurs flights as they were typically short and over land (and full of kindred nervous flyers now), but as soon as the Atlantic coast left their vision, he could feel his heart pick up in his chest.

What happened was one in a million, there are hundreds of safeguards in place to prevent a crash, these machines are built to handle these distances, the weather conditions are good, there’s nothing to be worried about-

“You okay?”

Shane’s hand was on his arm in the aisle seat of their little two-seat row in first class. A shrill voice in Ilya’s head yelled at him to stop touching him, that something bad might happen if Shane was touching him, but Ilya shut it up. Galina had described these thoughts as little trolls: they make lots of noise, but they don’t mean much.

“‘m okay…” he muttered unconvincingly. If he’d been honest, he’d say I’m exhausted, Shane. I slept terribly, I miss Anya, we were hurrying all morning, and now I’m in a metal tube a million feet over the ocean. But he didn’t say any of it. 

Shane looked at him hard, though, in that way he did when he would try to figure out what someone was thinking from their face. He got that stupidly adorable little scrunch in his nose when he did it, and it was almost enough to remind Ilya they weren’t one mechanical failure away from death. 

“No, you aren’t,” he said definitively, and Ilya knew if it was clear enough on his face for Shane to pick up, he was probably a lot more stressed than he thought.

He sighed, defeated. “No, I’m not. I thought I would be, but…” he gestured toward the window. Sure, he could pull the shade down, but then what if he missed something? Some horrible something outside the plane?

“Nervous about it still?” Shane said sympathetically. 

Ilya nodded. He ached for a cigarette, despite quitting them months ago. Just something familiar, that’s all he needed.

“Y’wanna switch seats?”

He thought about it for a second. “Yes, but… keep the shade up? Just in case?”

Shane nodded resolutely and unbuckled, hopping into the aisle so that Ilya could get out. They fire drilled and swapped their bags around, settling into their new seats and getting buckled in quickly. Ilya had a feeling Shane wanted the belt for security, and in a strange way, so did Ilya. It felt safe.

“Better?”

“A little. You will be okay?”

“Just fine. Read your book.” Shane smiled at him and slipped in an earbud, leaning over to take in the view of the ocean. The thought of staring out the window like that nauseated Ilya, but he kept his opinions to himself and put on his own headphones before taking out a well-loved copy of Anne of Green Gables. 

Ryan Price had slipped it to him at their wedding in a little paper bag, calling it a honeymoon present. When Ilya opened it later, he’d expected to find fuzzy handcuffs or something that vibrated, but instead there was a dog-eared children’s book with a note tucked into the front. 

Roz, it read, I know a lot is changing, and I know you might feel weird about planes, but Anne always keeps me safe. Take her with you, and you’ll be just fine. Don’t be afraid to ask for help. He loves you. -RP

Ilya read the note over again just for the hell of it. Ryan had been a major help in getting adjusted to his medication, and then to lend Ilya one of his most cherished possessions for his honeymoon… After all these years, he was turning out to be a real friend.

He spared one final glance over to his husband before he settled in and flipped open to the first page. Mrs. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow…

“Attention all passengers, we will begin our descent shortly. Please fasten your seatbelts and return your tray tables to their upright positions.”

The announcement was repeated first in Spanish, then again in French, but Shane didn’t bother listening to them. He was stiff necked and tired from a seven hour flight that left them on the opposite side of the world from where they’d started their day. It didn’t help that Madrid was ahead of them in timezones, and they’d basically chased the sun the wrong way around. It would be ten o’clock local time when they landed, and another hour before they got to their hotel.

Shane looked over to Ilya, who was dead asleep with his book resting half-finished on his chest. He couldn’t help but find the irony in his husband being able to sleep on a plane after what happened, but he’d never been able to. Something about the way they moved wouldn’t let his body relax.

And so it was with a self admittedly grouchy attitude that Shane nudged Ilya in the shoulder to wake him up. He started a little and nearly dropped his book before he looked at Shane through bleary eyes. “Where are we?” he muttered in Russian.

“Over Madrid. Twenty minutes until we get cleared.”

“We are over land?” he asked as he stretched as well as he could in the cramped space. 

“Yeah, and the sun is going down. Want a look?” Shane offered, gesturing to the window. 

“Mmm, I’m okay,” he whispered, settling down until he resumed the posture of a sleeping man.

“Ilya,” Shane admonished, smacking him lightly on the shoulder. 

“Shane,” he bit back.

“We’re gonna land soon, don’t go back to sleep. It’s like nine o’clock here right now.”

“You said twenty minutes until we land. I cannot nap?”

“No, you cannot, now pack your stuff. You can sleep at the hotel and beat the jetlag.”

“Maybe I don’t want to sleep at the hotel,” he said in growling Russian that sounded equal parts mean and lustful. His hand fell onto Shane’s leg and squeezed, pressing just a little above his kneecap.

It  lit a fire in Shane’s stomach that was quickly tamped down by his irritability and practicality. “No, we need to sleep. You’ve been messed up by timezones enough to know better.”

“Then right here, then.” Ilya wasn’t asleep now. He let his head roll to the side, his eyes dark and mischievous. “Let me take you into the bathroom and fuck you.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Shane told him, but the image was still there. Shoved into the cramped closet of the plane bathroom, his knees on Ilya’s shoulders while he fingered him into a stupor. But no. They had to be responsible. “You double checked that the room’s booked, right?”

Ilya sighed dramatically. “For the one thousandth time, yes. I booked it months ago.”

“But did you check it more recently than that?” Shane asked, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. New places made him nervous, especially when he didn’t speak the language. 

“I checked it before we boarded the plane; we are fine,” Ilya told him, waving his hand like Shane was a gnat humming in his ear. The gesture bothered him, but Ilya did start packing his bag reluctantly as more and more multilingual announcements filtered over the intercom and the plane slowly coasted lower and lower until the wheels touched down. 

Shane guided them through the airport, his phone out to facilitate any navigation, any language barriers. Most signs were in Spanish, then a combination of languages, but as they got through baggage claim and to the sea of cars and taxis in the pickup zone, it became obvious everyone around them was speaking Spanish.

“Hunter couldn’t give us a vacation place where they spoke English?” Ilya remarked, rubbing his eyes tiredly. 

“Or French?” Shane offered, half kidding. They were heading northwest in just a few days for all the touristy stuff in the City of Love.

“Don’t joke, Hollander, I will die in Paris.” Shane gave him a reprimanding look that Ilya answered with his crooked smile, making butterflies in Shane’s stomach. He wanted to get to their hotel and shower off that plane ride, jump into bed, and stay there until the sun came up.

Shane managed to flag down a cab and convey their hotel, agreeing to a fare that he honestly wasn’t positive on, but it seemed easier to shell out the money than learn the language. Soon they were standing on the curb in front of a spectacular building lit by a million hidden lights and edged with spires and flagpoles. He was sure it was probably a miracle of modern architecture that he’d love to explore in the daytime, but right now it meant feather pillows and clean towels.

“Can you grab the rest of the bags while I get us checked in?”

Ilya looked at him from where the cab driver was unloading their things onto the street. “What do I tell her?” 

Shane sighed a little. “Just say gracias and give her ten euro for a tip.”

“Okay, okay, fine.” Ilya threw his hands up and Shane hauled his suitcase up the steps and into the opulent lobby, making note of all the different spaces he wanted to explore when they got settled in. The front desk was blessedly obvious, and when Shane approached it the concierge gave him a wide customer-service smile and began talking in rapid Spanish.

“Oh, uh-” Shane held up his hand worriedly. “No-habla… um, yo habla poquito español?” Fuck, that was probably all wrong, but it got her to slow her roll and stop speaking Spanish. Unfortunately, she looked Shane up and down and began speaking Mandarin instead, and when he only looked more upset, she began cycling through languages so quickly Shane couldn’t keep up with identifying them. 

“Shit, this isn’t-” His brain was going way too fast. “English?” he said out of desperation.

“English?” the concierge confirmed, the smile never leaving her face. Shane didn’t want to look her in the eyes; she kind of frightened him. “Good evening sir, how may I help you?”

Much better. Easier, at least. “Uh, late check in for the… Cervantes suite? Please.”

“And the name on your reservation?” her accent gave an interesting lilt to the end of the sentence that Shane became fascinated with before answering her. 

“Uh, Rozanov. Two for Rozanov.”

The woman nodded and began typing rapidly, the smile faltering on her face just a little. “I’m sorry, sir, can you spell the name for me?”

“R-O-Z-A-N-O-V,” he spelled carefully, anxiety bubbling in his chest. It was a hard name to misspell. Had Ilya really not confirmed their reservation? Shane saw him crossing the lobby with their luggage in tow, his head down. He wished he’d look up. 

“...I’m sorry sir, we don’t have any reservations for that party… Is there a different name it could be under?” Fear jumped in Shane’s chest, right alongside anger. Ilya’s one responsibility for their trip had been to book the hotels, this one especially. Their first stop, and he hadn’t even made sure they would have a place to sleep in a brand new city.

“Okay?” Ilya asked, raising his eyes to his husband’s and finding him pissed.

“No, not okay,” Shane said angrily, all the tiredness and nerves coming out to play. Ilya had been dragging his feet since they woke up, forgetting things, teasing him, and now this. It was all too fucking much after such a long day. “They don’t have our reservation,” he snapped. “You said you confirmed it this morning.”

“I did,” Ilya insisted, digging for his phone. “Yes, here. Right here, two for the Cervantes suite.”

“What’s the name on the reservation, sir?” the concierge interjected with her broad smile stuck back on.

“Hollander, obviously.”

Shane’s anger stopped in his chest. “What?”

Ilya looked at him with confusion. “Hollander, is booked under Hollander.”

“You booked it under my name?” His heart was flipping in circles. Ilya had booked their hotel room under his name. “Why?”

“...You are my husband. Maybe not on paper, but I have your last name now. We are the Hollanders, yes?” Ilya’s face looked a little crestfallen, and for the first time, it smacked Shane in the face that they were really and truly married to each other. They were going to be permanently linked for the rest of their lives. Not just by legality and citizenship, but by something less describable than the rings on their fingers. He was Ilya’s and Ilya was his.

“You booked it under my name,” Shane murmured, tears temporarily welling in his eyes. Ilya broke into a crooked grin and turned to the concierge to confirm their room and get two little passkeys. Shane barely heard the conversation. Over and over again in his head he was repeating We’re the Hollanders.

He felt Ilya take his hand and tug him in the direction of the elevators, quieter than the main lobby. “Earth to Shane?” he teased, gripping him tight and smacking the button with his other hand. “Do you read me, Shane?”

“You booked it under my name.” He’d finally processed enough that he could meet Ilya’s eyes, his whole face lit up in a smile. “You booked it under Hollander.”

“We are the Hollanders, no?” Ilya asked shyly, his gaze dropping to the floor like a nervous kid. “I’m part of your family now, I hope.”

“You are, Ilya,” Shane whispered, nudging his head against his husband’s. He kissed his cheek softly and kept his forehead pressed to his temple. “That was so fucking romantic.”

“I am a big mush for you,” he said honestly as the elevator arrived. “It’s my favorite thing in the world, being your husband.”

Warmth bloomed in the pit of Shane’s stomach. Fuck, he needed Ilya, needed his husband, right fucking now. 

“Shane and Ilya Hollander, huh?”

Ilya gave him a dark look as they loaded their things into the little box. “Sweetheart…”

But Shane knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it.

“Ilya Hollander.”

“Mmm, don’t say that,” Ilya groaned as he hit their button. Eight floors between them and their suite.

“No? Why not.”

“Because I’ll suck your dick in the elevator.”

They didn’t even make it in the room. As soon as the elevator doors closed, Shane was on him, pressing Ilya into the mirrored wall and crushing their mouths together in a desperate mix of tongue and spit. “Ilya Hollander,” he whispered, and Ilya felt himself grow increasingly hot under the collar. 

“Say it again, please,” Ilya begged, not even ashamed at how much he liked the sound of it. “Fuck, Shane, say it again.”

He felt Shane’s hands bracket him on either side and his jaw slide up close to Ilya’s ear until he could whisper it just for him. No one else. Just him.

“Ilya Hollander.”

The moan that got caught coming out of Ilya’s chest might have been embarrassing to anyone else, but not him. Not now, in this moment. Right now, he reveled in his husband’s touch, the feeling of being pinned to the wall by a man who so rarely showed his strength. Shane’s teeth dragged over the sensitive skin of his neck and he fucking whined.

“You like the sound of that?” Shane teased, the nervous edge gone from him. “You like it when you hear my name on yours?”

“I like it,” Ilya panted, dragging Shane’s hips close to his so he could feel the growing bulge of his cock in his sweats. “I like it so fucking much, sweetheart, fuck,” he groaned. “Shane, I-”

Ilya’s words were quickly cut off by the elevator shuddering to a stop somewhere near the sixth floor, and before Shane had a moment to step away, the doors opened. They both jumped away from each other, panicked, when they saw a group of young women who were dressed to the nines, one of them wearing a white sash with the word Esposa across it in curly script. All of them were staring at the men in the elevator.

One of them said something in rapid Spanish and pointed to the ground, and Shane thankfully had the presence of mind to answer her and point to the sky. Ilya didn’t need to speak the language; he was just grateful the door started to shut. Just as the gap closed, one of them shouted something to Shane, and the rest all giggled.

“Jesus,” he laughed.

“What did she say?” Ilya asked warily. Could you get kicked out of a hotel for kissing in the elevator?

“I think she said something like, ‘fuck him until the sun comes up’.”

Ilya’s heart ceased racing for a split second as he laughed. “Hunter was right; they are very gay here.”

Before either had a chance to speak, the elevator halted again, this time on their floor to an empty hallway. Ilya grabbed at Shane’s ass playfully before they took their bags and began looking for their room.

And as Shane was muttering under his breath, reading the plaques on the walls, Ilya edged ahead of him just a little. Just enough to be in front.

Shane side eyed him and shouldered ahead, walking faster. Ilya picked up his pace, pushing forward again, and soon Shane caught up to the game. Both of them began running down the hallway, thumping and rolling with their bags and shoving at each other until they landed in front of the door to their suite.

“I won,” Ilya said breathlessly, leaning against the frame.

“No you didn’t,” Shane insisted. “It was a tie.”

Ilya plucked one of the key cards out of his hand and pulled Shane in close, their chests moving together as they caught their breath. “No, I think I won.” With you by my side, I always win, he thought wistfully. 

Shane leaned in, not quite kissing him as he pressed his card to the door with a beep. “Ilya Hollander.”

“Fuck, Shane.” Ilya felt his dick stir in his pants all over again as the door opened behind him. His husband shoved him inside the dark room and as soon as the latch clicked, Shane was on him. He felt his back hit the door, and Shane’s mouth on his neck. He could have melted.

“You really like it, don’t you?” Shane whispered in his ear. His hands were in Ilya’s jacket, working it off his shoulders as Ilya pulled frantically at his husband’s belt buckle. 

“I really fucking do,” Ilya said, not bothering to keep the whine out of his voice. “Fuck, I need it, I-”

“I do too,” Shane panted breathlessly as they stripped each other in the dark of the small living room. Ilya was sure it was a lovely suite, just as nice as the pictures showed, but he didn’t give a damn about that right now. He only gave a damn about the man on his knees tugging insistently on his pants, getting them down around his thighs.

 Ilya got dizzy when he felt Shane mouthing his dick through his boxers, wetting them down with his spit. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he stuttered, unable and unwilling to keep up his cocky persona. He needed this so fucking bad. And when Shane pulled down his waistband and took half of him into his mouth, it was like he was back in that hotel room all those years ago.

A deadly combination of Shane’s earnestness, his desperation to please, and the undeniable wet heat of his mouth had Ilya so fucking close already. It was only a couple seconds of Shane’s expert tongue stroking the sensitive underside of his dick before he was moaning above him, trying and failing to stay cool.

“Nnh, stop, Shane, stop,” he finally relented, pulling his husband off of him. But instead of letting Shane stand back up, he held him down by the shoulders as he kicked off his pants and dropped to the floor with him. “Want to come inside you,” he moaned into his lover’s mouth. “Want to fuck you, want to come inside.”

“You sound desperate, Mister Ilya Hollander,” Shane teased, but there was no venom in the way he whimpered as Ilya bit his neck. 

“Fuck, you will kill me.” 

“Want the bed?”

“Want you here, right here,” Ilya told him, clawing open his carry-on for the bottle of lube he’d stashed in it. Shane dragged off his pants and shirt, leaving them both naked on the floor of their honeymoon suite in Madrid, and Ilya couldn’t think of anywhere in the world he’d rather be.

He climbed over Shane as he lay on the hardwood, leaving hungry kisses all down his body. “Tomorrow I’ll melt you before I even get inside,” Ilya promised in Russian so fast he doubted Shane could even translate it all. “I’ll take all the worry out of your muscles and tease you until you’re on the edge and limp and begging for it, but right now,” he promised as he got his first finger inside his lover, “right now I need you here. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Shane strained, working and relaxing to accommodate the second finger Ilya was slipping into him. “I love you so fucking much, Ilya, fuck.”

Ilya was not going to come just from the sound of his name in Shane’s mouth.

“You like the way I feel, huh?” Ilya teased. He was pinning Shane down with a hand on his chest, squeezing his pec and tweaking at his nipple. “You like the way your husband feels inside you?”

“God, fuck, yes,” Shane panted underneath him, a little sheen of sweat forming on his temples. Both of them were disgusting from the plane ride. Neither of them cared. “Ilya, fuck, I-I need you.”

“Not yet, sweetheart; I don’t want to break you our first night.” 

The sentiment was genuine, but the motivation was only half true. Ilya was still desperately close to the edge, and he hid a few deep breaths under Shane’s heady moans as he worked him open. It did the trick, but when Ilya grappled Shane’s legs up and got himself inside, he wasn’t thinking about how to last longer. The only thing echoing around his head was Ilya Hollander.

“Oh holy shit,” Shane cried with Ilya finally inside him. “Yes, fuck yes, Ilya please.”

And Ilya knew that when Shane said please like that, begged him so nice, there was no helping himself.

He picked up his pace, driving into his husband hard enough to rattle the glasses in the bar cart across the room. The noises coming out of Shane were so fucking beautiful, but in that moment, they weren’t the ones Ilya wanted to hear.

“Say it again, please, Shane,” he begged, sloppy and needy above him. “Tell me again.”

Shane’s eyes flew open and in a surprising show of strength, he grabbed onto Ilya’s straining neck. “Ilya Hollander.” 

“Fuck.”

“Ilya Hollander, my husband,” Shane grated in Russian. The words went straight down Ilya’s spine, and he knew he was done for. Right this second, for this whole trip, for the rest of his life. He belonged entirely to the man underneath him. And Shane let him know it.

“Mine.”

“Yours, yours, always yours-” Ilya cried, losing himself in the stuttering ecstasy of his own orgasm. His vision went dark at the edges as he felt Shane clench and writhe underneath him, milking him for every drop. And he gave it so fucking willingly. 

“Oh Jesus, fuck, Ilya,” Shane whined underneath him, coming down off his high in a shaking, shuddering puddle on the nice wood floors of their hotel. “Shit, that was hot.”

Ilya was breathing heavy over him, trying to slow his heart rate enough to get off. He kissed Shane’s sweaty neck and moaned in agreement. 

“Mmm, hot, yes,” he whispered against his husband’s damp skin, trying hard to keep English in his foggy head. “And fucking true. I’m yours.”

Shane pulled his face out of his collarbone to look him in the eye. “You are mine, Ilya. I’m yours, and you’re mine.”

And Jesus, if he wasn’t already spent, Ilya would have started crying. 

Instead he opted to laugh and kiss Shane all over his wonderful face, sending him into his own laughing fit. Ilya drew out of him slowly and pulled him up into a sweaty hug, all slipping hands and smiles until they were both sitting, looking into the dark of their suite. The lights of Madrid were bright outside their balcony, casting the entire room in a warm aura.

“You picked a good room,” Shane complimented. “It’s probably gonna look even better with the lights on.”

Ilya barked out a laugh that he would have been embarrassed about around anyone else. But not Shane. As they stood and turned on the lights (the room did look nicer) and cleaned up after themselves, Ilya realized he never had to be embarrassed about anything with Shane. Not the languages they spoke, not the pills he took, not the fears he harbored from a long life. He could be himself with his husband.

Ilya Hollander, he thought to himself as they responsibly climbed into their hotel-fresh bed to try and beat the jet lag. 

Ilya Hollander.

Ilya Hollander.

Ilya Hollander.