Work Text:
Ilya
He wears glasses for reading and he sent me a photo from the opticians
Nearly had a stroke
Rinses out every bit of recycling before it goes in the garbage
Bought me a personalized pill organizer that folds up for when I travel
He thinks I don’t know he is learning Russian on duolingo but I hear him getting angry at the owl while I am in the bathroom
Installed wire clips on the side of my bedside table because I tripped on my charger getting out of bed once
Stares at me every time I sneak a cigarette and makes me chew 3 pieces of gum before I can kiss him again
Asks me literally 500 questions a day like I am chatgpt
Tries to make me do yoga because he worries about my hip
Texts me to take the chicken out of the freezer and then 5 minutes later calls me because he knows I will already have forgotten to do it
Talks in his sleep sometimes and once it was just five minutes of him teaching someone how to make a backshot
Holy fuck
Sorry
I have never been able to tell anyone about this before
Shane Hollander is trying to kill him. He’s sure of it. Maybe he’s an operative for the Canadian government sent to play the long game, a black widow within the walls of his comfortable Ottawa home. Maybe he’s been sent by the Boston city council to wipe him off the face of the Earth for the unpaid speeding ticket he conveniently forgot about when he traded teams last summer. Maybe he’s not an operative at all, but has just harboured a decade-long resentment for losing MVP back in Vegas that one time and has now made it his life’s mission to erase Ilya’s.
It could be anything really, but there’s one thing that Ilya knows for certain – Hollander wants him dead. There’s no denying it when, on an unremarkable Wednesday afternoon, his phone pings with a new text, sent all the way from Montreal.
Jane ❤️💦😍
Wednesday January 18th, 2.21pm
Jane
Baby
Are you there?
I need help!
Ilya
Hello, my love
Of course I am here
What is wrong?
Jane
I’m at the opticians – my prescription’s a little worse, so I’m going to need some new frames.
Which of these do you prefer?
Ilya’s drops the dishes he’s currently cleaning back into the sink like he’s been mildly electrocuted, a bubbly bit of warm water splashing over the counter and onto Anya’s head, startling her from where she’s sat beside his feet – evidently convinced that there might be a scrap of now-damp turkey breast remaining on one of the plates that she can beg for. His mind goes slightly hazy after he sees the word ‘opticians’, like the warm shimmer above tarmac on a hot day, so it’s probably that fuzziness which saves him from a straight-up neurological event when the next two pictures come through.
Jane ❤️💦😍
Wednesday January 18th, 2.22pm
Jane
[image attached]
[image attached]
First pair is pretty similar to what I’ve got, second is a bit of a wildcard
Which do you think?
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Ilya mutters to himself in Russian, hands scrabbling for the dishcloth nearby so that he can dry them off and spend the next minute zooming in and out of the photos that Shane’s just sent him like he’s in the mission control centre of a high-stakes Interpol operation.
When he opens the first one, he smiles at Shane’s phrasing of ‘pretty similar’ – because they are the exact same pair of glasses. Thin black frames, nothing too chunky, resting delicately on the bridge of his nose. The warm brown of his irises magnified just slightly by the prescription in the lenses, enough for Ilya to see the lighter flecks amongst the chocolate when he zooms in so hard that the image pixelates. He can see Shane’s freckles poking above and below the frame. They’re tried, tested, and always send the same jolt through Ilya’s gut.
Then he opens the second image.
There’s a noise like one of Anya’s squeaky toys being stepped on, high-pitched and airy, and it takes a second before Ilya realises that it’s come from him. He’s got just enough wherewithal to find ‘wildcard’ funny for being a huge exaggeration before he’s fully able to process what he’s seeing. Tortoiseshell frames, slightly chunkier and wider in lens size, and small gold streak that runs down the legs to tuck behind Shane’s ears. They’re not, in truth, much different from the first pair at all, but there’s something about the way the warmth of the frame plays off Shane’s gently-tanned skin, the way the size of the lens makes his eyes look even more alert and doe-like, the way the gold on the legs draws his gaze to the cartilage of Shane’s ears that he loves to worry between thumb and forefinger while they watch TV on the couch.
Ilya realises that it’s been three minutes and he’s not replied to Shane. Instead, he’s thunked his bodyweight back against the kitchen island like he’s been punched, and he’s got his phone screen so close to his face that for a split second he worries that he might need glasses too. When he clicks back to the conversation, Shane’s messaged again.
Jane ❤️💦😍
Wednesday January 18th, 2.22pm
Jane
Are they both bad?
Do you hate them?
Ilya
Have been having a mild breakdown, sorry
You see, my boyfriend sent me two photos of himself wearing glasses when he knows that this makes me insane man
Jane
Oh come on
You literally see me in them everyday!
Ilya
I do
And I have had an orgasm every day for the last 421 days
You see the connection, yes?
Jane
You are so ridiculous
Which do you prefer?
Ilya pauses for a second, stuck between the warm glow of the old and the exciting pulse of the new. He’s weighing it up like Anya on a walk, when she has to choose between the clean tennis ball in her mouth or the mud-splattered, dented one in a nearby bush, before he realises something prudent.
Ilya
How much are these glasses?
Ten thousand dollars each?
Jane
What? No
They’re like a couple hundred bucks each?
Ilya
Ah, okay!
I was just wondering why Shane Hollander, highest paid player in the league and real estate emperor
Must only have one pair of glasses?
Jane
I don’t need two pairs of glasses!
I literally only need them for when I’m reading
Ilya
But what if you need a backup?
In case one pair breaks?
Jane
Are you planning on breaking a pair?
Ilya
I cannot be held responsible for my actions when you are wearing glasses
Jane
But which ones do you prefer?
I really only need one pair
There’s a pause while Ilya sees the three dots pop up, disappear, pop up, disappear. He worries a thumbnail between his front teeth, leg bouncing restlessly, and he faintly hears the damp slap as the dishcloth hits the floor, finally falling from where it had been precariously perched on the very edge of the counter as he threw it to the side. Anya scuttles over and gives it a cursory sniff, before she realises that it doesn’t have any of the promising scent of grilled meat and slinks off to sulk on the couch.
Ilya
First pair are yours, my beautiful sweetheart who I love to watch read the worst hockey book in the world like it is a crime thriller
The second pair?
Oof
That is the professor who wrote the hockey book and I am just a silly student who missed the deadline for my assignment
How can I save my grade?
The chat goes quiet for a moment, and Ilya drops his phone back onto the counter, face up and unlocked, before picking up the dish that’s sitting in the now-tepid soapy water. Anya raises a cursory glance from the sitting room at the noise before deciding that it’s evidently a lost cause, flopping her head back onto her front paws with a huff. As he goes to move the dish to the drying rack, there’s a buzz from next to him and he cheers triumphantly under his breath as he reads the message.
Jane ❤️💦😍
Wednesday January 18th, 2.26pm
Jane
[image attached]
Fine
Noticing the ‘Items: 2’ on the receipt, Ilya just has time to smirk at the screen before a final message arrives.
Jane
I only give out extra credit to students that impress me.
The heat haze in front of his eyes returns in full force, and as Ilya wanders like a ghost back into his bedroom, one hand still covered in suds while the other grips his phone, he remembers faintly that it’s supposed to be the day he’d wash his bedsheets.
Whatever. Shane was over tonight, and by the sounds of things, he’d likely need to strip them afterwards anyway.
Ilya
Fuck
One of the small milestones of what Ilya has jokingly (and also, very unjokingly) dubbed the 'Shane Hollander Experience' was returning home one evening to find him sat in the kitchen, green tea slowly cooling in front of him and glasses on, combing through the test results from Ilya’s first team physical. While the Centaurs don’t have the back-of-house setup that Boston had, they’ve got a lovely nutritionist named Kelly, a physiotherapist named Mark, and an older doctor called Dr. Brooks. Kelly has a photo of her cat framed on her desk, and Dr. Brooks has no photos but there is always a postcard from wherever his grown-up daughter is travelling to this time. Ilya likes to ask about wherever it is, and Dr. Brooks will always spend five minutes telling him new facts his daughter has taught him about Kuala Lumpur, Lima, Tashkent.
“Hello, sweetheart!” Ilya calls cheerily into the house as he toes his shoes off in the hallway, noticing Shane’s trainers neatly lined up by the console table with a now-familiar clench of his heart.
“Your macros are off,” is Shane’s reply, not looking up from the pseudo-Ilya Bible that he’s got spread out in front him. He keeps his gaze on the papers, but twists his face to accept the short smack of Ilya’s lips against his as he makes his way into the kitchen to take a drink from the fridge. He grabs a bottle of sparkling water and twists the cap off with a hiss, eyes on Shane while he frowns over Ilya’s caloric intake chart.
“Kelly is adjusting my plan this week.”
“You’ve told her that you’ve been upping the strength training, right?”
Ilya rolls his eyes fondly. “Yes, I told her.”
“Your protein intake looks too low.”
“That is what Kelly-” Ilya pauses for effect, “-my nutritionist, who my team pay to find this out, has already told me.”
The added stress on Ilya’s response finally gets Shane to look up, and Ilya watches in real time as the furrow in Shane’s brow softens at the sight of Ilya’s amused grin. He huffs a breath that’s less exasperation and more mild embarrassment, before dropping the pen he’s been holding to circle numbers and replace with new ones. Shane stretches a hand over the counter, and Ilya reaches for it out of something baser than sheer instinct, a primal, soul-deep urge to respond to Shane’s need for contact.
“Sorry,” Shane murmurs, the end of the word muffling as he pulls Ilya towards him and rests his head on Ilya’s chest. “Being crazy.”
“Nope,” Ilya responds breezily, popping the ‘p’ and lifting a hand to run over the hair at the nape of Shane’s neck. “You care about me. Is nice.”
They stay there for a couple of breaths, Ilya’s sternum feeling the weight of Shane’s head as it rises and falls with his inhales, exhales. Shane sneaks an arm around to grip low around Ilya’s hips, keeping him close as he lifts his face to meet his eyes again.
“I just want you to be ready for the start of the season. You know that, right?”
“You think I have something to prove to everyone?” Ilya asks sarcastically, choosing to ignore the slight thrum of panic that underlines the words as he does so.
“No, not to anyone,” Shane replies with a small laugh. “You could turn up with your laces tied together and still outskate the entire rink.”
“Mmhmm,” Ilya replies, eyes on Shane while he blindly stretches out a hand to grab Shane’s mug of green tea and steal a sip. Whatever, sue him. The stuff wasn’t that bad. “Who, then?”
“Yourself,” Shane answers simply, cringing a little at the earnestness of it. “You’re going to be testing yourself to make sure you can do here what you did in Boston. I’m not about to tell you not to do that, because God knows I’d be doing the same. So. This is how I’m helping. We prep, train, and get everything in the best place possible for you to crush it.”
“Very responsible,” Ilya replies. He’s aiming for dry, teasing, but the words he says may as well have been oh my god I love you, thank you, you could be the first person who has ever worried about me on this continent who has not been contracted to, please never stop doing it.
Shane glances away, a tiny bit embarrassed, but pretends to doff an imaginary cap in deference. The sight of the gesture seizes Ilya’s chest and for a minute he’s not sure if he wants to scream into a pillow or deliberately trap his finger in a door to deal with the ache of it. He decides to place a kiss on the crown of Shane’s head instead.
“But I am guessing,” Ilya continues, definitely teasing now, “That you did not look in the fridge before you decided that my nutritionist is an idiot.”
“I never said she was an id-”
“-Shane.”
“Fine,” Shane says with a huff, heading dropping back onto Ilya’s chest. “I didn’t look in the fridge. What did I miss?”
A final run of his fingers through Shane’s hair, and Ilya steps back, heads to the fridge, and opens the door with a gesturing flourish like a children’s party magician. The centre shelf is piled high with packs of meat; lean pieces of sirloin, copious chicken breasts, turkey steaks. The crisper drawer has four bags of fresh spinach, two gigantic heads of broccoli, three bunches of asparagus. There’s punnets of edamame, butterbeans, marinated chickpeas. Next to the sparkling water in the tall shelf on the door, two litre-bottles of protein smoothie, already made up from what used to be the fifth bag of spinach, have been neatly labelled.
Ilya raises his eyebrows. “Are you impressed? Are you turned on?”
Shane laughs properly at that, the loud bark of laughter that no one but Ilya and sometimes his parents ever really hears. “Yes, and getting there.”
“Good,” Ilya replies firmly. “I will solve the second problem later. Steak and vegetables for dinner?”
From his place at the counter, Shane picks up his tea to slurp it, eyes mooning. Ilya thinks briefly about making fun of him for the state of his face, before deciding that he would be absolutely onto a losing battle if Shane flipped it back on him.
“What vegetables?”
“Various.”
“Sounds delicious.”
Ilya busies himself with cooking dinner while they chat, idle gossip from the day blending with family news, things on the internet, the neighbours. Willa and Andrew next door are coming to see Ilya’s first game, but Willa was upset when her mom reminded her that Anya wouldn’t be on the ice with him. Yuna’s cousin’s daughter just had a baby boy, and should I ask Mom for her address to send her a congratulations card or is it weird if we don’t know each other that well? ESPN got streaming rights to the EPL this year, do you think we should have a sport that isn’t hockey as a hobby? Should we pick a team?
They’re halfway through debating Manchester United over Manchester City, neither of them knowing the difference but somehow feeling very impassioned over the choice, before Shane lets out an indignant noise that he will swear to the ends of the Earth isn’t a squawk but is, in fact, very much a squawk. Ilya freezes from where he’s about to throw the plastic steak packets into the recycling.
“Ilya, you need to wash those out!”
Ilya is confused, but knows instinctively that whatever answer he comes up with here, it will not be correct. “Why would I rinse before I put it in a garbage bag?”
He’s right. He was not correct. “Ilya! You always have to wash out recycling before you trash it.”
What the hell. In for a penny.
“Who said?”
“Like,” Shane’s mouth works around his answer for a moment, agog. “Anyone who has ever recycled?”
“And why are they right?”
“Because it’s just what you do! You have to rinse it out so there’s not, like, food shit on the stuff when they take it to the recycling plant.”
“And who will die if I don’t?”
He’s being facetious at this point, but it gets Shane out of his seat and crowding him against the kitchen counter, so Ilya congratulates himself on a job well done. For a second, he thinks he’s riled Shane up enough to need to take him to bed, and there’s a tiny part at the back of his brain slightly mourning the steak he was looking forward to when Shane rips the package out of his hand and turns to the sink.
“If you’re not going to rinse it out, there’s literally no point in doing the recycling because it’s just going to end up in landfill anyway.”
Ilya watches over Shane’s shoulders as he peels the plastic back from the card a little more, grimacing as he turns the taps on and swills the packets out. Ilya knows he hates prepping meat because he hates the raw gunk on his skin, so as he washes the blood left from the steak out and a little bit runs over a knuckle, Ilya decides there and then that he will dedicate his life to three things.
- Shane Hollander.
- Hockey, and by extension, playing hockey against (and in a dream he has more and more often, with) Shane Hollander.
- Rinsing out every bit of recycling that ever ends up in his path so that Shane Hollander doesn’t have to feel gross.
But later, if he orders an obnoxiously green t-shirt that reads EARTH WARRIOR!! in bubble writing that he knows Shane will find repulsive? That’s his business.
Ilya’s halfway through packing his cabin bag in the bedroom when he hears a clang, a bang, and muttered fuck from the kitchen. On the bed, Anya lifts her head and, he swears, cocks a brow at him like what? He’s your boyfriend.
“Shane?” Ilya calls. “Are you okay?”
“...Yeah,” comes the unconvincing answer a brief pause later, and Ilya drops the socks he was balling together back onto the duvet before he heads to inspect the problem. When he enters the kitchen, Shane’s got his back to him, his thumb under the tap and a small delivery box onto the counter, half-opened and looking like it’s been mangled by a coyote. Lying next to it is a pair of scissors. The culprit, he presumes.
“What happened?”
“The tape on this box is made of fucking steel, that’s what.”
“Silly boy. Show me.”
Ilya rounds the island and catches Shane’s wrist gently from under the tap, wetting his sleeve in process but not caring. There’s a small cut on his thumb, bleeding lightly, and they both watch Ilya’s hands while he rips a piece of kitchen towel off the roll, folds it neatly into a thicker, longer oblong, and wraps it around the cut. He grabs it in his fist and tightens it firmly, shushing Shane when he hisses between his teeth while he staunches the blood.
“Since when do you buy online, Mr. We-Should-All-Shop-Independent?”
Shane rolls his eyes fondly, jolting his arm so that Ilya rocks back on his heels. “I do think that! But I needed something fast, and I haven’t had time to go into town for it.”
Ilya turns to look at the box. Turns back to Shane, raises an eyebrow. Shane stares back defiantly. There’s a pause, weighted, before the pair of them scramble for the box on the counter at the same time, shoving each other as they try and wrestle it into their own grip. Ilya pinches at Shane’s waist lightly, at exactly the spot between hipbone and ribcage where he knows he’s ticklish, and Shane squirms away with a yelp as Ilya snatches the box.
“Stop playing dirty, bitch!”
“Stop being a bad loser, Hollander!”
Ilya laughs and darts away to the living room with Shane hot on his heels, sticking his own thumb into the messy gap in the cardboard that Shane had evidently managed to create and ripping it sideways, tearing down the side of the parcel and gauging a hole in it. He stops on one side of the coffee table, Shane on the other, and they’re both in a slight squat, faking each other out by pretending to throw themselves around it in different directions. Ilya crows victoriously when he manages to get the box open enough to pull out whatever’s in there, and Shane lets out an exasperated sigh and straightens up.
“Fine, whatever! It’s for you, anyway.”
Ilya smirks smugly for a second, before what Shane said registers. He looks down at the package in his hands, but he can’t quite work out what it is underneath the plastic film it's wrapped in.
“For me? What is it?”
“Just open it,” Shane says quietly.
Ilya rips open the top of the plastic and pulls out a small, cubic zip-up organizer, quilted in an expensive-looking black velvet. He takes a moment to trace the golden thread of the embossed I.R. on the top before he unzips it. When he opens it, one side has a full-size compartment, and the other is home to eight smaller compartments, each stamped with a word.
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Saturday
Sunday
Spare
“It’s a pill organizer,” Shane supplies. “I noticed when you travelled last time that you just put the full bottles of your meds and vitamins in your bag. I figured it might be simpler if you just took what you needed from now on? I mean, you have the station in the kitchen and I guess I thought that rather than having to put everything back like, four times a month, you could just decant it out? There’s a spare section in case any of them fall on the floor or anything, and then the extra section could have, like, some spare painkillers or anithistamines in case you need them.”
Shane’s rambling now because Ilya still hasn’t spoken, looking down at the organizer in his hands and trying to figure out the words in either English or Russian that will shape the sentiments rattling around his brain. He settles on:
“I love you.”
That shuts Shane up, but he just tilts his head and gives Ilya a small smile. “Well, I love you too.”
It gets Ilya moving around the coffee table, breaking their stalemate position to press a gentle kiss to Shane’s lips that he returns softly. When Ilya breaks it, he pulls back just enough to talk but keeps their noses connected, brushing his words against Shane’s lips.
“I bet it will really turn you on to know that I have big, fancy organizer in my bag.”
Shane makes a noise like blech, pushing him backwards lightly but immediately betraying himself by pulling Ilya back in by the hips. “Shut up.”
“If you want, you can watch me fill it now as foreplay.”
“Never mind, I’m sending it back.”
“No,” Ilya laments between a chuckle, “You can’t give it back. My boyfriend bought it for me!”
“Oh, did he? He sounds smart.”
“Very smart, very boring. He is my favourite.”
In the decade that Ilya has known him, Shane has successfully kept three secrets. Firstly, their entire relationship. That’s a big one, granted. Secondly, that he’s a health nut who has a smoothie for breakfast every weekday but hates bananas, which Ilya only found out by accident when he tried to make him a shake for the road one morning and Shane swallowed it like his throat was full of razor blades. Third, that he went through a phase in his early teens where he had an emo fringe like a member of Fall Out Boy. Ilya’s got Yuna and a slightly tipsy Saturday afternoon off to thank for that one.
Point being, Shane’s not a good secret-keeper, nor a good liar. He’s not had the type of upbringing that gives you an ultra-handy metaphorical box at the back of your brain labelled ‘Stuff’ where he can secrete information. That’s why it’s almost endearing that he doesn’t know when Ilya clocks immediately that he’s trying to learn Russian.
It starts when Shane starts spending just a second too long carrying on a conversation with Ilya after he’ll drop a Russian endearment. Or when Ilya exclaims something – he can’t remember them all, but most likely sordid or painfully fucking rude – when he’s playing Bood on Call of Duty online. To an outside eye, it’s just a slow reaction from Shane. He’s distracted, maybe. But Ilya’s bilingual, has spent most of his adult life evaluating exactly how Russian (or not) he needs to appear and sound in any given situation. He’s sat in media scrums while people with often unintelligible North American accents have wound their way around meandering questions directed at him. He knows what Shane is doing right away, knows what that pause means.
He’s translating.
Ilya also knows that if he broaches it with Shane, he’ll stutter and stammer his way through some falsely-peevish but secretly embarrassed no I’m not! But he’s spent enough time around Shane now to know that while he cannot make him drink, he can lead him to water. So, without Shane realizing it, Ilya starts teaching him.
“Sweetheart, can you grab me something from the fridge? My hands are garlicky.”
“Sure. What do you need?”
“Pomidor. Just one.”
“A what?”
“Ah, sorry. Tomato.”
When Shane hands him the tomato, Ilya watches him out of the corner of his eye as his mouth silently makes the shape of the word he just heard. Pom-ee-dor. He nods to himself, a tiny movement that says he’s banked it. A couple more reminders, and the next time Ilya asks him for a tomato in Russian from his place by the chopping board, Shane hands it to him without delay. He tries more.
A towel, after he conveniently leaves it on the bed when he goes to take a shower. Polotentse.
His mug, from where it’s just too far out of reach from his position on the couch, head buried in Shane’s lap with his boyfriend’s fingers carding through his curls. Kruzhka.
A specific t-shirt, when he’s packing to head home from Montreal on an off-weekend while Shane lounges, frustratingly and beautifully naked, on the bed. The grey one, please. Seryy.
A parting kiss just inside the front door, pushed up against the wall of the hallway with a hand pressed around the shape of his jaw like he’s moulding it with his mind. Goodbye, darling. Milyy.
He’s in the en suite one evening, getting himself ready for bed, when he hears a small, buried jingle from the bedroom next door. A just-there da-ding followed by a slightly more negative da-dum, and a curse from Shane.
“Fucking asshole.”
Ilya tried every language app on the market back in the day before he realized that, realistically, it was the chats he’d have in the street, on the ice, in the locker room, and at the grocery store that would sharpen his English the best. But he knows what Duolingo sounds like, and he also knows how fucking annoying that owl is.
“Oh my god, will you literally fuck off?” Ilya presses his laugh between his lips as he finishes washing his face, pretending not to hear through the cracked door.
“Who even fucking needs to know that?” Ilya muffles a snort into a washcloth.
“Teach me to count to ten, idiot.”
Ilya deliberately grabs the door handle with a little more force than necessary on his way out of the bathroom, jiggling it a little and alerting Shane with just enough time that he can shove his phone under the duvet and school his face (though it’s never really schooled, not once you know him).
“What are you doing, sweetheart?”
“Nothing. Just scrolling.”
Ilya nods, acting like he believes him, and flops onto the bed next to Shane with enough dramatic flair to make his boyfriend groan as the mattress jolts. Whatever grand declaration of love that Shane’s saving up to reveal his newfound language skills with, he’ll let him have it. Ilya’s not stupid enough to pretend that it won’t make his stomach flip anyway.
Bood 🥵🏒
Thursday March 12th, 7.04am
Ilya
Boody
My prince 👑
I cannot make practise today
Bood
morning king 👑
what? why?
you ok?
Ilya
I think I need my leg amputated
Bood
it’s too early for this
what did you do
Ilya
Car crash
Bood
what the fuck??
are you for real??
Ilya
No
Sorry
I do not know why I said that actually
Bood
not cool, man
either tell me what happened or get your kit bag and get to the rink
Ilya
My house wants me dead
Bood
??
Ilya
Tripped over my charger and twisted my ankle
[image attached]
Bood
oof that’s a nice bruise
doesn’t look broken though?
i’ll let wiebe know you won’t be in today
Ilya
I owe you, sweet boy
Bood
iced coffee tomorrow morning
and if you tell me you’ve been in a car crash again when you haven’t
this is a verbal agreement that i am allowed to punch you in the head
you’re sending me grey, bitch
Ilya
That is fair
Love you!
❤️Bood
Bood
luvvvvv ya
ice that ankle!
Ilya’s on hour seven of hating his life on the couch, ankle elevated and covered with a defrosting bag of peas, when he hears keys in his door. Shane’s not supposed to be here for another two days, so he’s levering himself, inquisitive, from his horizontal position across the cushions, when his boyfriend walks into the room holding a couple of plastic bags.
“Nuh-uh,” is his greeting. “Sit your ass down.”
Ilya harrumphs and sinks back onto the couch, closing his eyes and puckering his lips like a two hundred-pound Sleeping Beauty. There’s a snort from somewhere above his head, and then Shane’s leaning over the back of the couch to tuck a curled index finger underneath his chin and catch his lips in a kiss.
“Still sore, baby?”
Ilya opens one and lifts an eyebrow seductively, and the force with which Shane rolls his eyes could separate his optic nerve. “Okay, so clearly you’re fine.”
“I will be more fine if you come over here, please.”
But Shane’s already busy unpacking a few groceries and sticking them in the fridge, opting to ignore Ilya’s subsequent whine. Anya trots over to Shane from where she’s been keeping vigil at Ilya’s side, and he takes a second to crouch and scratch her cheeks, cooing quietly. Then he’s back upright, pulling a bottle of Coke Zero from the now-empty first bag and ambling back to Ilya, twisting the cap off as he goes.
“A gift,” he says, handing the bottle to Ilya.
“Ah, my hero.”
While he lifts his head enough to take a sip of his drink, Shane lifts the peas off of his ankle and tosses the bag a fair distance behind him onto the kitchen island. He traces a finger around the already-yellowing bruise on Ilya’s ankle bone, studying it like it’s the Mona Lisa and he’s the new curator at the Louvre.
“It’s already gone down, that’s good. You’ll be fine by the weekend.”
“Yes,” Ilya replies seriously, “I am afraid Montreal will not get their win on Saturday after all. Sorry!”
Shane scoffs and gently flicks Ilya’s foot, rolling his eyes again when Ilya acts like he’s been shot. “Baby, you could get an ankle specifically designed to win hockey games installed and I’d still kick your ass.”
Then he’s back to the kitchen, grabbing the second plastic bag from the island and walking straight past Ilya to head into the bedroom. They chat a little, calling between the rooms, before Ilya’s nosiness gets the better of him and he lifts himself up to go and see what Shane is doing. He takes a moment to shift his weight from foot to foot, and when he’s sufficiently convinced that it’ll hold, he paces gingerly into the next room. When he gets to the doorway, Shane’s shoved his bed about a foot to the left and he’s on his belly across the pillows, fiddling with the side of his bedside table.
“What are you doing?”
Shane doesn’t even look up. “Sit down. Don’t push your luck with it or it’ll take longer to heal.”
Ilya clucks his tongue but parks himself obediently on the end of the bed, craning around to see what Shane’s doing. He’s neatly lining up a final plastic grip, pushing the adhesive command strip firmly against the wood. The line of them (four) is perfectly straight, a couple of fingers’ width down from the lip of the table.
“There,” Shane mutters, more to himself than Ilya. Then he’s reaching under the bed, Ilya wincing as his head just misses the corner of the wood, and fumbling an arm around to pull out the cords plugged into the extension cable on the floor. One by one, he slots Ilya’s smartwatch charger, toothbrush charger, phone charger, and spare laptop charger into the grips, holding the wires off the floor.
Thank you, Ilya says in his mind.
“You didn’t need to,” is what comes out instead. Stupid. Shane doesn’t even dignify it with a response, just pushes himself back off the pillows and proceeds to shove the entire bed, complete with Ilya’s full bodyweight, back to its original position with ease. A pulse of want runs through Ilya at the display, and he twists, falls backwards to snatch Shane around the waist and pull him onto the duvet, shuffling to swing a leg over him until he’s straddling his boyfriend. Shane goes limp, looking up at him fondly, and Ilya trails a series of kisses up his neck, ending behind his ear.
“I am not having you ruin the best games of the year for me just because your dumb ass can’t get out of bed properly.”
“The best games of the year, yes?” Ilya’s made his way to the other side of his jaw now, murmuring as he goes.
“Yeah.” A pause. “A few games I know I’ll win.”
Ilya’s head up shoots up, shocked, but he breaks into a grin when Shane cackles at the look on his face.
It’s Ilya’s favourite type of summer morning at the cottage, where the season has imbued dawn with a warmth that shouldn’t really be possible before the sun is up. It’ll be a touch oppressive by lunchtime and downright stifling by mid-afternoon, at which point he’ll retreat with Shane into the air-conditioned lounge to alternate between watching old games, making out, forcing Shane to sit through a film he doesn’t care about, making out, and dragging Shane to the bedroom to make out with fewer clothes on. Shane’s parents sit on that couch, after all.
But for now, the dock is quiet and the lake is reflecting the light pinkish hue of the sky, and Ilya’s treating himself to one of his final Marlboro Reds of the break, mug of coffee on the wooden slats next to him. He’s got one foot lightly trailing in the water and the other pulled up so that he can rest his head on his knee, gazing to where he can see the gentle ripples of fish breaking the surface a small way out.
A deep drag in as a gust of wind rustles through the trees. Hold the breath, lightly, as the distant motor of a boat, probably a mile away, splutters to life. Exhale, slightly to the side so that the wind doesn’t blow the smell back into his hair, as he hears the door to the patio slide open and closed. He feels Shane reach the dock, feels the tremor of the wood as his foot steps onto it.
“You’re up early.”
Ilya drops his knee so that he can turn to face Shane, whose face alternates rapidly between that fucking fond look which drives Ilya insane and poorly-hidden disgust at the sight of the cigarette which, in fairness, also drives Ilya insane.
“I wanted to get out before it gets too hot.”
In the couple of summers they’ve been coming here together, Ilya’s discovered that he’s a total fucking water baby. Not only for the swimming, the hard push of his muscles when he could do with a bit of exercise or the gentle strokes when he’s just in it to cool off. Not only for the shrieks of laughter he managed to get out of the Pike twins when the whole family came up for a weekend earlier in the break, which did something very specific to his heart and had him immediately searching to see what Shane thought of it. But also for the peace of it on mornings like these, the silence of his brain that accompanies the gentle lap of the water against the pebbles on the small beach and the near-hypnotic play of the light across the surface.
Behind him, Shane steps closer, and Ilya pushes the arm holding the cigarette out further, away from Shane, as he turns back towards the lake. The creak of the wood behind him tells him that Shane’s crouched, and then a firm kiss gets pressed to the top of his head and a hand runs briefly down his back.
“Good morning,” his boyfriend says quietly. “Do you need a refill?”
Ilya murmurs a greeting back to him and gives him a grateful nod, and Shane leans past him to pick up the mug and head back into the kitchen. He sits there for another couple of minutes, drawing out the pleasant buzz that accompanies the last of the cigarette, before he stubs it out and places it carefully on the post next to him, making a mental note to pick it up and trash it when he heads inside.
The sun’s rising fast by the time Shane’s back out with a fresh cup of coffee in each hand, a light hoodie now covering his previously bare chest. He hands both mugs to Ilya, who takes them while Shane lowers himself to the wood to dangle both legs over the side of the dock as well. Ilya hands his mug back, and they clink them together before taking a sip simultaneously.
“How did you sleep?” Ilya asks, voice a little rough from disuse.
“Good,” Shane replies simply. It’s a redundant question, out here. They both sleep like the dead in the cottage.
Ilya turns his head to watch Shane’s profile for a moment, the morning light setting off his freckles, before leaning in. At the last moment, Shane turns and makes a grossed-out noise in the back of his throat.
“Baby, you smell,” Shane whines quietly. Ilya’s about to protest, when Shane pulls out a pack of gum from the pocket of his shorts. Ilya raises an eyebrow.
“Somebody is prepared.”
“Forgive me for wanting to kiss my boyfriend without him tasting like a nightclub ashtray.”
Ilya acquiesces in the name of getting said kiss, already dreading what his next sip of coffee will taste like. Shane passes him a piece of gum and he chews it obediently, winding Shane up by sticking his tongue out with the gum on it, before leaning in again. Shane meets him, sniffs, and pops another piece in. Ilya rolls his eyes, but carries on chewing. A minute more silence, and they repeat the process, Ilya groaning when Shane sticks a third piece in.
“My jaw hurts.”
“Stop smoking, then.”
“I am stopping next month, you know this.”
“Sure.”
Ilya chews for a minute longer before leaning into Shane once more, who nods approvingly at the smell, apparently satisfied. He pops the gum out and flounders with where to put it, before he finally just sticks it to the front of the cigarette pack. They both grimace at the sight, and Ilya moves it to his other side so that’s out of Shane’s eyeline. When he turns back, Shane is already sliding his fingers into the unruly curls at his temple, large hand framing the side of his face and pulling him in. They kiss lazily for a couple of minutes, Ilya using one hand to fiddle with the string of Shane’s hoodie while their tongues meet. When they finally break, they both turn to watch the water again. On autopilot, Ilya goes to take another sip of his coffee.
“Jesus, fuck!”
By the time the sun’s fully up and the heat of the day is well on its way, Shane has only just stopped laughing and Ilya’s still not got the horrid clash of mint and coffee out of his mouth.
Jane ❤️💦😍
Tuesday September 8th, 8.01am
Jane
Morning, baby ❤️
Did I leave my watch at yours?
Ilya
Good morning, my love ❤️
Yes, it is on your side of the bed
Shall I bring it next weekend?
Jane
Please ❤️
Jane ❤️💦😍
Tuesday September 8th, 8.37am
Jane
Just caught the highlights of the Admirals game last night.
Does Hunter’s stride look weird to you?
Ilya
He probably left his walking stick at home 👴🏻
😂Jane
Jane ❤️💦😍
Tuesday September 8th, 9.26am
Jane
Did my mom text you about going to theirs on Sunday?
Ilya
Yes!
I have bought your dad a new puzzle for his birthday, by the way 🧩
It is a Monet painting
Jane
He’ll love that ❤️
Jane ❤️💦😍
Tuesday September 8th, 10.55am
Jane
Do you think Jackie’s pregnant again?
Hayden’s being weird
Ilya
One hundred percent
Someone needs to get that man off of her 🥴
Arthur is 2 seconds old
Jane ❤️💦😍
Tuesday September 8th, 11.48am
Jane
Should we go to Europe at some point?
Ilya
Europe is a big place, sweetheart
Where do you want to go?
Jane
Ibiza could be nice?
❤️Ilya
Jane ❤️💦😍
Tuesday September 8th, 12.21pm
Jane
Thinking of having salmon for dinner.
Should I do satay sauce or lemon & garlic?
Ilya
Check your freezer later 😘
I left you a couple of tupperwares of the satay sauce
Jane
Thank you, baby!
Jane ❤️💦😍
Tuesday September 8th, 1.45pm
Jane
Am I the only one who thinks that bringing egg salad into work should be an actual crime?
Like the whole fucking locker room stinks 🤢
Ilya
JJ?
Jane
Yup
Ilya
Send him to jail, I will back you up
Jane ❤️💦😍
Tuesday September 8th, 2.59pm
Jane
https://www.uniql…
https://www.uniql…
Which one do you think?
Ilya
The second one!
But you should be prepared for me to die when I see you in it
Maybe buy two so that I can rip the first one off you
😏Jane
Jane ❤️💦😍
Tuesday September 8th, 4.00pm
Jane
What are you having for dinner?
Ilya
Pork noodles with vegetables, I think?
Bood has been sending me Pinterest links again
Jane
Liar.
I know you have an account!
Ilya
How dare you!! 🫨
Jane ❤️💦😍
Tuesday September 8th, 5.10pm
Jane
How’s Barrett doing?
Ilya
Shane Hollander
Are you prying for team secrets?? 🤔
Jane
No!
I’m not
You just told me that you were worried he was quiet
I promise I’m not!
Ilya
Relax, sweetheart
I was kidding!
Yes, he is loosening up a little bit now
Which is good
Jane
He’s a really good player.
Ilya
Scared?
Jane
You wish 🖕
Jane ❤️💦😍
Tuesday September 8th, 6.39pm
Jane
Baby
Do you remember where I put the skillet last time you were over?
Ilya
Bottom drawer, left side of oven
❤️Jane
Jane ❤️💦😍
Tuesday September 8th, 7.23pm
Jane
Home safe?
Ilya
Yes, thank you sweetheart
Do you have the evening free?
Cook dinner with me?
Jane
Always
[incoming FaceTime call from Lily]
Jane ❤️💦😍
Tuesday September 8th, 11.02pm
Jane
Did you remember to take your meds today?
I forgot to ask on the phone
Ilya
I did
You have an early start!
Go to sleep, my love
Jane
I’m going!
Goodnight, I love you ❤️
Ilya
Love you more ❤️
Jane ❤️💦😍
Wednesday September 9th, 00.11am
Jane
https://www.ibizavillas.co…
https://www.ibizavillas.co…
Ilya
Sweetheart
GO TO SLEEP!!
😴Jane
Twenty-nine hits most people hard. Logically, Ilya knows this. The hangovers get worse – except for him, because the Russian constitution defies aging. But the feeling of never getting quite enough sleep gets more ever-present, and even for a regular person, things start to creak and ache like they didn’t five years ago. But for an athlete? That creak feels just a little bit worse.
Ilya’s been ignoring the twinge in his hip when he lies on his front for about three months now. He’s been ignoring the catch that makes him suck in a breath when he turns awkwardly in the shower, the way that his inner groin pulls even harder when he warms up on the ice. But Mark, the team physio, hasn’t noticed or asked Ilya anything, so he assumes he’s getting away with it.
Of course he forgot that, despite the glasses, his boyfriend has laser vision that is uniquely attuned to all things Rozanov.
“Why are you walking like that?” Ilya hears behind him one morning. He’s just pulled himself out of bed where they’ve both been lying, pleasantly sated after a delicious round of lazy Saturday morning sex. Thankfully, he was facing the other way when his hip gave the now-routine twinge, so Shane didn’t quite see the face he made. He turns around to face the bed with a cocky look plastered on, hand gesturing at his boyfriend.
“I think I should be the one asking you that, yes?” Ilya drawls.
Shane laughs sarcastically for exactly two seconds, before his face drops. He looks sombre, but it’s a little comically underscored by the way he’s lying spreadeagled on top of the duvet, lube drying on the inside of one thigh.
“I’m serious. Why are you leaning to one side like that like that?”
“I am not leaning like anything,” Ilya retorts, immediately correcting his lean. Shane raises his eyebrows and pushes himself to his elbows. They stare at each other for a moment, each daring the other to speak, before Ilya scoffs and heads off to use the bathroom.
“Fine,” Shane calls to his back. “I’ll wait.”
The next time it happens, it’s a little more poorly-timed. Ilya’s mid-thrust, Shane lying underneath him with his legs wrapped around his waist, and as he pushes one heel into the left-side divot of Ilya’s back with a moaned harder, Ilya's hip twists and he gasps in pain, swearing directly into his boyfriend’s mouth. Shane stops squirming immediately and drops his legs back to the mattress, pushing Ilya back with both hands on his chest when he attempts to power through.
“What the hell was that?”
“Nothing,” Ilya replies quickly, but the blush that he swears doesn’t exist makes its way up his neck in spite of his words. He leans back down and tries to find his rhythm again, but Shane turns his head out of the way of Ilya’s lips, slapping him lightly on the ass with one hand.
“No way, you’re not doing this again. Out, out, out.”
With a low groan, Ilya resigns himself to the impromptu end of the evening’s activities and pulls out, slumping to the side and onto his back, no longer bothering to hide the wince that accompanies the twinge as he does so. Shane rolls to the side to face him, head propped up on a fist.
“Ilya, baby. What’s going on?”
“My hip is sore, that is all,” Ilya replies with a shrug, trying to sound unbothered.
But Shane is a deadly combination of perceptive and nosy, and honestly, Ilya should know better than to hope that he’d be satisfied with that answer. “How long has it been sore?”
Ilya lets out a loud ugh, exasperated at himself more than Shane, and pulls the pillow from behind his head to in front of his face, muffling his next reply into it like he genuinely believes it’ll stop Shane from being pissed off at his answer. “A couple of months.”
He is, of course, wrong in his belief. “A couple of months? For fuck’s sake, Ilya.”
“I’m sorry,” Ilya tells the pillow.
He hears a scoff next to him, before Shane whips the pillow out of his grip and lobs it across the room. He resorts to screwing his eyes shut, not even close to proud of the way he’s handling this, and feels Shane tug his chin firmly to face him. “Don’t be a child.”
Ilya takes a moment to wonder what colour the flowers at his funeral will be before he cracks his eyes open meekly. The expression is exactly what he expects. Jaw clenched, eyes blazing, the muscle in one nostril twitching. Oh, he’s pissed pissed.
“I think it’s just a strain?” Ilya guesses, voice cracking at the end as he scans Shane’s face.
“Ilya, you are a professional athlete. A strain is a strain until it is absolutely the fuck not.”
“I’m sorry,” Ilya repeats again weakly.
“Now, I know that you’re not an idiot, so I know that the answer to my next question is not going to be a no. Have you seen the physio yet?”
Ilya’s silence is enough of an answer, and Shane shouts an oh my god! to the ceiling before throwing himself to his feet, grabbing his boxers from the floor and storming into the en suite. Ilya just lies there, ears ringing like he’s in the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan and dick really not understanding the last five minutes, before deciding that it’s time to deal with this like a big boy.
“Shane,” he calls at the closed door. “Please come out.”
The door opens. “I was going to come out. I’m not hiding in the bathroom of my own home.”
Ilya smiles apologetically, pushing himself up to lean against the headboard and making grabby-hands at Shane, who heaves a world-weary sigh but rounds the bed regardless to straddle Ilya’s upper thighs. He’s lighter than he usually is with it, though, so Ilya makes a noise of protest and grabs his hips to pull him down and plant him more firmly. “I will not break, sweetheart.”
“And you know that, do you? No, you don’t. Because you haven’t seen the fucking physio.”
“It is fine, Shane.”
“It’s not fine, Ilya. You could fuck your way through the nuclear apocalypse, so if you can’t do that without pain right now, it’s not fine.”
They look at each other for a moment, but then, horrifyingly, Ilya’s eyes start burning. He turns them to the ceiling, and Shane’s hands land on his shoulders, thumbs brushing his clavicle. “Baby, why won’t you see him?”
It takes a moment for Ilya to work himself up to give him the answer, the first honest one he’s given so far and the one that’s been playing on his mind since the very start. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, accent thicker than usual as he tries to get his mouth around the admission.
“What if it is bad?”
Shane tuts sympathetically, but doesn’t let up. “Do you seriously think that not seeing him is the better choice here?”
The worst part is, Ilya knows he’s right. “No.”
“No. And it’s probably not a big deal, but I really don’t like the idea of us not knowing either way.”
The use of ‘us’ doesn’t go unnoticed by Ilya, who finally drops his gaze back to Shane’s, hands coming up to settle on the crook of his elbows. “Sorry,” he says again, and his face must do something right because Shane relaxes and moves one hand to stroke a cheekbone.
“First thing Monday, you’re seeing Mark.”
Ilya nods his agreement. “First thing on Monday.”
Satisfied with the reply, Shane leans forward to push his forehead against Ilya’s. “You’re stupid,” he mutters fondly. They sit there for a moment, before Shane pulls his head back and straightens up so quickly that it makes Ilya’s eyes cross.
“You should start doing yoga with me!”
Jane ❤️💦😍
Wednesday February 3rd, 8.02am
Jane
Morning, baby ❤️
If you’re doing chicken curry tonight, you need to take it out the freezer!
Ilya
Good morning, sweetheart!
What would I do without you
Bood 🥵🏒
Wednesday February 3rd, 8.03am
Bood
heyoooooo
Ilya
Ciao bella! 💋
Bood
guess what i found out yesterday evening 👀
Ilya
Go go go go
Tell me!!
Bood
you know steve, the janitor?
the one who works the weekends?
Ilya
Nice guy
Yes?
Bood
nicole & boyle saw him in the grocery store yesterday
they got chatting
and it turns out that steve knew tara on reception from back when he used to clean at planet fitness
Ilya
Tara worked at Planet Fitness?
I thought that was just her cheater boyfriend
Bood
that’s where they met, apparently
but the cheater came up
Ilya
Of course he did, Nicole was there
😂Bood
Bood
literally lmfao
anyway
so nicole asked him if he knew his new gf
the pilates instructor
but steve looked super confused
Ilya
Maybe she did not work there before?
Bood
hush
wait for it
so nic describes her
and steve goes “his ex-wife?”
Ilya
Stop it
Bood
nicole googles the gym, finds a photo
and steve confirms that’s his ex-wife
exact words were that he was “not surprised”
Ilya
Ouch 😬
Bood
they chatted a little bit more
but basically nicole worked out
cheater cheated on ex-wife with tara
AND THEN HE CHEATED ON TARA WITH HIS EX-WIFE
uno reverse
Ilya
SHUT UP!!!!
Best gossip I have heard all year
Oh my god
Jane ❤️💦😍
Wednesday February 3rd, 8.09am
Ilya
[incoming voice call from Jane]
Jane
Reminder: chicken 🍗
Ilya
Wait, call me back
I HAVE TARA DRAMA
[incoming voice call from Jane]
It’s a rare occasion during Ilya’s first season as a Centaur where they’re able to make a long weekend of it after several apart, and Shane peels into the driveway (well, his version of ‘peels’, anyway) a little after seven-thirty on the Friday evening. Ilya’s had a turkey phở simmering away in the slow cooker all day so that they don’t need to waste time making dinner. Candles are lit, Anya’s fed and sufficiently tired out from her walk. All in all, doorway to bedroom takes about forty-five minutes, and that’s where they stay until the next morning.
After several rounds, they’re both so tired that they crash out a little after midnight, and Ilya clings onto about ten minutes of consciousness to listen to the slight whistle of Shane’s breathing before he falls asleep as well. It’s a tough battle, but it’s worth it for the respite of one of his favourite sounds in the world.
The next night, they’ve paced themselves a little better, so they’re chatting away while channel surfing, ankles tangled under the duvet. They’re flipping idly between sports networks, watching about fifteen minutes of the Manchester City game live before agreeing unanimously that they really don’t give a fuck about soccer, switching over to some hockey highlights from a couple of seasons back. Well, Shane watches. Ilya reads an article about Madonna, watches about twenty minutes of dog-themed YouTube videos on low volume, and then scrolls idly through Instagram. Cliff’s in Florida, Pike’s posted a photo of the twins at the funfair with emojis over their faces, and Svetlana’s got an approximately eighty-part story up which appears to give a minute-by-minute rundown of her night at the club.
“What the fuck was that?” Shane remarks scornfully from next to him, pulling his focus back to the TV.
“Hmm?”
Shane glances at him, before rewinding back thirty seconds. They both watch as some third-liner from Detroit makes an attempt at a backshot that verges on offensive in its uselessness.
“Holy shit,” Ilya laughs. “Does he know that he is playing hockey?”
Shane blows out a breath. “Beats me. I don’t know if he knows where he is, full stop.”
The rest of the night carries on in much the same way, the two of them trading bitchy little barbs and Shane making all the appropriate yays and nays as Ilya shows him clothes he’s steadily adding to his Farfetch shopping cart. Yes to a black denim jacket with a shearskin collar, yes to a pair of pants that make the model’s ass look great. No to a satin shirt in green, but yes to the same shirt in a deep claret. A nonplussed face and a strong no to a tank top that barely covers the model’s nipples. Wide eyes, a gulp, and a hearty yes to a pair of sports shorts that hit mid-thigh.
The responses begin to slow down, though, and a few minutes later Ilya looks over to see Shane passed out, head tilted back to rest against the back of the headboard and mouth slightly agape. With a small smile to himself, he slips out of bed to let Anya into the backyard for the last time and check that he blew the candles out. He’s turning off the remaining lamps as he goes, and as he heads back into the bedroom, he stops in the doorway to watch the sight of his boyfriend’s unceremonious sleeping arrangement for a moment. Ilya crawls back under the duvet and gently wiggles one hand under the small of Shane’s back, the other cupping the back of his head between the headboard.
“Sweetheart,” he whispers softly, smiling when Shane furrows his brow and grumbles in response. “Slide down.”
Between a half-conscious Shane and a besotted Ilya, they both manage to get horizontal, Shane already back asleep after his momentary stirring. Ilya reaches behind himself to turn off the final lamp, before rolling back and assuming his usual position. Arm around Shane’s waist, kneecaps tucked into the crook of Shane’s, nose buried firmly into the soft tuft of hair at the nape of his neck. He’s getting ready to pass out, brain mercifully emptying, when Shane starts talking to him.
“...Hand higher,” he murmurs, and Ilya grunts in reponse, dutifully moving his hand from Shane’s stomach to his pec. He goes silent, and Ilya’s just drifting once more, when he speaks again.
“...Shift back,” Shane mumbles into his pillow. Well, alright. Maybe he’s warm. It’s December, so he wouldn’t have thought so – but so be it. Ilya pulls his hips back a few inches to put some space between his groin and Shane’s ass, but then Shane immediately negates his own request by wiggling back as he chases Ilya. Whatever.
Five more minutes, and Ilya’s on the edge of consciousness when Shane speaks one last time.
“…Clean up the snap.”
It takes a second to process in Ilya’s foggy brain, but when he gets just exactly what Shane is doing – what he’s teaching – in that ridiculous head of his, he chuckles quietly into the soft skin of Shane’s neck. He’s still laughing as he falls asleep, his final thought a prayer to remember it when he wakes up, so he can tease Shane over their scrambled eggs in the morning.