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It would have been the world's worst kept secret if Shane hadn't just admitted that he hates playing Montreal, which is why he has never bothered to lie about it. It sucks when it's a home game, even with their fans cheering for them, but it sucks even more when they're away. The Bell Centre feels unfamiliar under his skates now, carrying out his pre-game ritual on the other side of the red line. It feels weird stepping into the visitors’ locker room, laid out like a mirror image of the one just next door – the one he’d spent more time in than his own home since his rookie season. He hates knowing that Hayden is now his opposition, along with a bunch of guys who used to feel like family but now can't look him in the eye. They've played each other a couple of times already this season, but it doesn't feel like it's getting much easier.
There are some loyal fans, though, who still cheer for him during the starting lineup announcements. A few of them still wear his Metros jersey, which puts a lump firmly in his throat whenever he sees it. He always tries to flick them a puck during warm-ups if they're close enough, or lift an appreciative hand as he skirts around the edge of the ice when they're not. He feels guilty that he took it for granted before.
Despite the fact it's not exactly new, it's still horrible. He's heard the chants calling him ‘Shame Hollander’ or ‘Captain Quit’ enough times that they no longer sting the way they did the first time. He's used to having to play more physically than he usually would, and ignoring all the little comments his old team spit at him. He's even noticed the way that Ilya makes excuses to sit next to him on the bench, throwing quick fleeting looks over his shoulder to check that he's okay.
All of this, to some extent, was expected. Anticipated, even. There were two things that Shane had naively not given much thought to, however. The first was the media, and how any match up between Ottawa and Montreal was now going to be a spectacle – not just the first. The second was how much they would target Ilya. Shane had stupidly thought that their hate and disappointment in him would have taken enough of their energy that the rest of the team could just focus on winning. But of course Ilya is still Rozanov. Except now he's Hollander's-Husband-Rozanov on top of that, so it’s demonstrably worse.
No matter how much he tries to adjust to it, every match up seems to manages to surprise him. Today is no exception.
“It's getting brutal out there,” Dillon mutters, sliding along the bench alongside Shane as the line changes.
Shane just nods wordlessly in response, wincing as Ilya’s slammed into the boards a fraction of a second too late to be necessary. He shouts something which Shane doesn’t catch, but Hayden looks like he's trying not to laugh at whatever it was. Good. That means he isn't hurt.
“Their new left wing is pretty mouthy,” Dillon continues. It sounds a bit like a warning. “Think he's trying to prove himself, or something.”
“Probably,” Shane replies. “Looks like he's been spending a lot of time with Wilson.”
As if on cue, the whistle blows and a TV timeout is called. Drapeau skates across towards the Metros bench, but his eyes stay firmly fixed towards the Centaurs.
“You should keep your dog on a leash, Hollander,” he says.
Ilya is behind him, rolling his eyes.
“What, you're scared I’m going to bite?” Ilya retorts. “Or just scared that you would like it if I did?”
He picks up his water bottle and squeezes it into his mouth as he winks at Drapeau, who stares back at him looking disgusted. He mutters something to Couillard who just shakes his head.
Shane jumps over the boards, ready for his next shift on the ice. He feels Ilya pull on his sleeve lightly and turns back to look at him.
“They're playing defensively,” he says. “They don't have star centre now.”
Shane knows what he's really saying. Keep your head up. Skate hard. Check harder.
“We have two,” Shane responds, shrugging. Don't worry about me. I know what to do.
Ilya nods, smiling as he gestures for Shane to go. He skates towards centre ice, counting the glides as he goes and taking a clockwise turn to get to his spot.
“Have to check with Rozanov whether you're allowed to play with the big boys?”
Shane huffs out a laugh. “Why? You wanna play with us, Wilson?”
“Not the Canadian good boy anymore, eh? Rubbing off on you, is he?”
Shane smirks, meeting Wilson's eyes for the first time. “Something like that.”
The muttered “fucking disgusting” is masked by the sound of the puck dropping and sticks hitting the ice. This is where it feels simple; where he can pretend that they're just any other team. All Shane does is focus on the puck, getting around their defence and trying to score a goal that will make them shut the fuck up.
As the second period goes on, it gets more scrappy. The Metros are behind, and they're not happy about it. Every shift on the ice is more physical than the last: hits coming from all angles, sticks lingering in ribs for slightly too long, shoulders driving bodies into the boards with extra force. When that fails, their tongues get sharper. Shane mostly ignores it; he’s heard enough over the last however-long to know what they’re trying to do. He watches Ilya firing out comments and smirking every time he’s on the ice, peeling himself away from the scrums with his chin held high and his gloves flexing around his stick. But every time he comes back to the bench, his jaw clenched and eyes narrowed, Shane knows they’re managing to get under his skin. At least a little bit.
It’s in the final two minutes of the second period when it happens. The Metros’ centre gets waved out of the faceoff circle, and their new left wing replaces him opposite Ilya. Shane watches like it’s in slow motion. The way the guy’s mouth moves – quick and sharp – spitting out something vicious. The way Ilya visibly bristles, his fingers loosening around his stick. The way he just stands there, completely still, seemingly not registering the puck when it drops. Shane, fleetingly, hopes he is going to swing. Instead he does something worse: he pushes off hard and skates straight back to the bench, his stick lifted in one hand. His breathing is ragged like he’s just finished a full shift, his face pale.
“Go,” Ilya shouts, as he gets closer to the bench. “Hollander, fucking go.”
Shane scrambles over the boards. He knows better than to argue – not now – and takes Ilya’s place with the first line. He shoots Barrett a questioning look, who manages a quick shrug as he chases down the puck. Whatever happened, he hadn’t heard it.
Shane risks a glance back towards the bench. Boodram is trying to talk to Ilya, leaning in like he’s making sure he can be heard, but Ilya’s just staring down between his skates, not even looking at the ice. Shane manages a thirty-five second shift before he’s back at the bench – short by his standards – but his presence on the ice is futile. His head isn’t in it, chasing the play out of instinct, but his attention is firmly at the bench. There’s no point him being out there when his husband is sitting there looking like he’s seen a ghost.
As soon as the buzzer signals the end of the period, Ilya is up and making his way down the tunnel before anyone else manages to move. Shane elbows his way through the group to reach Boodram as they shuffle towards the locker room.
“Do you know what happened?” he asks.
Boodram shakes his head, opening his mouth before shutting it just as quickly, looking guilty.
“Bood. Tell me.”
“I don’t know what happened,” he insists, eyes flicking towards the locker room, hesitating. “He just said that he used her name.”
Their eyes meet.
“Oh,” Shane manages. “Fuck.”
“Yeah, fuck,” Boodram agrees.
Every player knows there are lines you don't cross, no matter how heated the game gets or how much you hate the other guy. Family is one of them.
Shane isn’t sure what he expects to see when he walks into the locker room. Part of him hopes for anger, for kit to be thrown across the floor, colour returning to Ilya’s cheeks with the heat of it all. It would be easier than the reality – Ilya sat quietly, the only movement his finger stroking across the bridge of his nose. Shane has noticed that he does this: small, repetitive movements in an effort to self-soothe. He sits down next to him, shooting a warning look at everyone else in the room. They hurry to look busy, starting pointless conversations with each other to fill the silence.
“Not now, Hollander.” Ilya’s voice is quiet, refusing to look at him as he speaks.
“Ilya,” Shane says. It’s a cruel trick, breaking his own rule about who they are in the locker room and who they are everywhere else. “Talk to me. Now.”
He’s not sure if it’s the use of his name or the insistent tone of his voice, but he's grateful for whatever it is that works.
“He spoke about Mama,” Ilya says. His voice is small and subdued, almost childlike. It’s so far away from how he usually carries himself, and Shane feels it land squarely in his chest. “He used her name.”
Shane’s blood runs cold. He remembers the first time Ilya spoke his mother’s name to him and how special it had sounded, like each individual syllable was precious. He remembers every story that Ilya has shared, no matter how small, and how much his face lights up to be able to speak them aloud again. He remembers the difficult conversations that they had before they announced the foundation; how conflicted Ilya was about sharing her with the world.
“What did he say?” Shane’s hand finds Ilya’s, and he loops his fingers between his own.
Ilya looks down at their hands, still not meeting his eyes.
“He said she would be disappointed.” Ilya takes a deep breath, and Shane recognises that, somehow, that was going to be the easier part for him to repeat. He lets the silence of Ilya's hesitation hang between them, waiting for him to say more. “He said I should be glad that she isn’t here. Irina would be disgusted.”
The last sentence is spoken more harshly, Ilya’s voice taking an American lilt. Shane instantly knows that’s the part that’s been repeating on a loop ever since he heard it. He knows it’s going to take a lot to dislodge it. He feels sick.
“Okay,” Shane says, his voice as even as he can manage. He shifts his body, turning his knees in towards Ilya. He brings his free hand up to cup Ilya’s jaw, his thumb softly grazing against his cheek. For the first time, Shane doesn’t care about blurring the lines between being his teammate and being his husband. What anyone else in the locker room thinks about him – about them – has never felt so inconsequential. He forces Ilya’s face towards his, waiting until he finally meets his eyes. “It’s not fucking true.”
Ilya nods, just once. His eyes are dull, a thin veneer of tears threatening to spill. Ilya isn't good at hiding anything from Shane, not anymore, and it’s painfully obvious that he doesn’t believe him. Shane doesn’t think he’s ever been this angry in his life. His vision is blurred around the edges, his skin prickling with heat as his heart pounds in his ears. He doesn’t think it would be possible for him to ever feel more angry than he currently does.
“It’s not, Ilya,” he says. “It is not true, okay?”
Ilya nods again, with more conviction than before. Barely. It must have landed somewhere, though, because he takes a breath and manages to reply. “Okay.”
Shane keeps staring at him, looking for any sign that he actually is okay. He can’t find one. Shane tries to even out his own shallow breathing, unclenching his jaw and rolling out his neck.
“We’re switching lines,” Shane says eventually.
“Shane–”
“We’re switching lines,” he says again, leaving no space for argument. He squeezes Ilya’s hand, before unlinking them and walking away before Ilya can protest.
He moves towards Boodram and Barrett, who look at him before throwing a cautious glance over his shoulder towards Ilya.
He follows their gaze, looking back at him. Ilya has his eyes closed, hands cupping Irina’s necklace. Shane can see his mouth moving, and he knows he’s talking to her. He’s only seen him doing it once before, on their wedding day when he thought Shane was outside with everyone else, but he’s certain he does it when he’s alone sometimes.
“I’ll handle it,” Shane says, bringing the others' attention back to him.
“With Roz, or with that fucker?” Barrett asks.
“Both.”
Boodram nods, but he looks wary. “Did he tell you what happened?”
“Yeah.”
Shane doesn’t add anything else. It’s not his to share. And if he heard those words again, he thinks he might actually storm the Metros’ dressing room.
By the time they’re being called back onto the ice for the third period, Shane feels like he could explode. He tells himself to hold it together, feeling Boodram and Barrett’s worried eyes on him as the rest of the team shuffles back towards the ice. Ilya is the last to stand up. Shane knocks their helmets together, his hand finding the back of his neck, holding him there for a moment longer than usual before they leave the locker room.
“Leave him to me, okay?” Shane says as they make their way back through the tunnel.
Ilya offers a feeble smile.
“What, is Shane Hollander going to drop gloves for me?” he says, voice mocking.
Shane doesn’t respond, just stares straight ahead, clenching his fists.
“Shane,” Ilya says, catching his wrist. “Don’t be stupid.”
Shane shakes himself free. “I’m not being stupid.”
Before Ilya can stop him, Shane picks up his pace and steps onto the ice. He hears Wiebe asking what’s going on, questioning why Shane’s going up with the first line. He doesn’t hear what excuse Ilya gives, or if he even bothers trying to give one. He can feel everyone staring at him, though, and decides it’s probably for the best that he doesn’t look back at the bench.
Barrett skates close to him.
“We’ve got you,” he says quietly as he takes his position at the edge of the circle.
Shane shoots him a grateful smile, before facing ahead and dropping into position. He bends low over his stick, eyes fixed on the ref’s hand. He doesn’t trust himself to look across the ice. Not yet.
Shane wins the faceoff, snapping the puck straight towards Barrett.
It takes less than fifteen seconds for that fucking asshole to skate into him, exactly like Shane predicted.
“He can’t even be on the ice with me now?” he says, voice low in Shane’s ear. He punctuates it with a shove of his stick against his back. “Truth hurts that much, does it?”
That’s all it takes.
Shane spins around to face him, the game around him falling away as the noise of the crowd fades. All he can focus on is the smug, shit-eating grin staring back at him.
“You don't know a fucking thing about the truth,” Shane snaps.
The grin widens. “I know enough about Russia to fill in the gaps. And so do you.”
Shane's gloves hit the ice.
The other guy barely has a second for his grin to falter before Shane grabs a fistful of his jersey, twisting the material in his hand and pulling him forward with a jolt. The first punch lands beside his mouth, his head jerking to the side. Shane barely registers that he's made the hit, despite the sharp sting along his knuckles, before he lands the second punch on his jaw. It seems to kick-start the other player into action, shouting something as he tries to land a retaliatory punch. Shane doesn't let himself process the words, ducking away from the swinging fist, bunching up more of the jersey as leverage and pushing the guy sideways along the ice. He lands a third punch on his cheekbone.
Distantly, he hears Boodram's deep voice and the rumble of the crowd, but he can't process it, not when he's using every ounce of focus he has to narrow in on the man in front of him. Skates start cutting in their direction, but Shane blocks them out. The other man's hands flail wildly in his direction, desperate to land something, but Shane jabs another punch into his ribs which finally takes his legs out from under him. The momentum takes Shane down with him, his hand still firmly gripping the jersey tightly enough to control the fall, knees hitting the ice as the other player lands flat against it – dazed and silent.
Shane could hit him again. It would be so easy to draw his fist back and slam it into his stupid, smarmy face. Everyone can see that he could. Instead he settles on shoving him the rest of the way down to the ice, hard enough to knock his helmet off his head. Then he’s pushing himself back onto his feet, before anyone can pull him away. He skates off, taking himself towards the penalty box, gloves and stick abandoned on the ice.
Shane Hollander doesn't fight. That's what everyone always says. But that doesn't mean that he can't, when someone fucks with what matters.
“Shane.”
He hears Hayden’s voice as he skates past, thick with confusion and concern, but he doesn't look back.
“Learn to control your fucking team, Pike.”
Shane drops onto the bench in the penalty box with a thud, his chest still heaving as his penalty minutes are announced. A replay of the fight is being shown on the jumbotron, a slow motion recoil of his fist, eyes dark and cheeks flushed. He barely recognises himself. The camera swings away and lands on Ilya. He's laughing – mostly out of disbelief rather than anything else – his eyes bright and wide like he can't believe what he’s seeing. There's more life in him than there was when Shane had skated away, and it's enough for him to know that he made the right call.
Shane tears his attention away from the screen, his eyes catching Ilya’s from across the ice. Ilya lifts two fingers up and taps lightly on his own bottom lip. Shane frowns, confused, until a sharp sting blooms across his mouth and he tastes blood where he must have caught a stray hit. He wipes the back of his hand against his mouth, looking back up. Ilya lingers looking at his mouth, tugging his own bottom lip between his teeth as he lifts his gaze to meet Shane’s eyes again. He gives a brief nod, indicating that the blood is gone, his expression carefully blank as he looks back towards centre ice as if nothing happened. The ref indicates that they’re ready to resume the clock, and Ilya stands to join the others for the penalty kill.
Shane settles through the rest of his penalty, feeling his heartbeat level out and his breathing returning to its usual rate. He watches as the rest of his team circle the left-wing, or anyone else that gets too close to Ilya for that matter, feeling grateful to finally be a part of a team that defends their own.
There are a few raised eyebrows as he steps back onto the ice after his penalty minutes are up. Boodram taps him lightly with his stick as he passes, grinning like he still can’t believe what he saw. Shane ignores it all, lets the noise of the crowd become a blur, focusing instead on getting a closer look at Ilya. He looks steadier than he had earlier, the colour back on his cheeks and his shoulders no longer hunched towards his ears. Every time their eyes meet, however briefly, Shane catches the way Ilya’s lips twitch upwards, threatening to break his usual composure as he plays.
Thankfully, the rest of the third period passes without incident – just a couple of shoves disguised as protecting the goalie. Ottawa takes the win. The buzz of it mixes with the residual adrenaline, making the locker room louder than usual.
“Didn’t know you had it in you, Hollander,” Hayes laughs, clapping Shane on the shoulder as he passes.
A few more chirps get thrown his way, but they’re all amused and lighthearted enough that he lets them wash over him. Ilya throws him a puck, hockey tape around the edge, first fight written across it in thick marker with a time stamp and the date.
“Fuck you,” Shane laughs, nudging Ilya with his elbow. He pockets it anyway.
Ilya grins back at him, and he’s still quieter than usual but it’s something.
The quietness is still there as the team clambers onto their bus, making their way back to Ottawa. Ilya joins in conversations when he’s prompted, smiling at Luca’s stupid comments and snorting as Boodram dramatically recounts the fight from his perspective. He even laughs when Troy asks, in all seriousness, if Harris can cut footage of the fight to Eye Of The Tiger for the team's socials.
But Shane catches him looking down at his feet with his jaw set tight. He watches the way that the mask slips away whenever he thinks that nobody is looking. Shane knocks his knee against Ilya’s, urging him to look at him. He manages a small, tired smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Shane leans across, nudging Ilya to rest his head down against his shoulder. Ilya settles there for the rest of the journey, his eyes fluttering shut as Shane rakes his fingers through his hair.
It’s harder to push it away when they cross the threshold of their own house. Their kit bags land on the floor with a thud, followed by a melancholy silence. Ilya barely moves away from the door, absently scratching at his cheek once he’s toed his sneakers off.
“Ilya,” Shane reaches up, circling his fingers around his wrist to stop the movement. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Ilya turns to look at him, dropping his arm down. “No.”
“Okay.” He rubs his thumb against the soft skin on the inside of Ilya’s wrist, watching as he sighs a long, shuddering breath. “What do you want to do?”
Ilya turns to face him properly, stepping in closer so that there’s barely any distance between them. His eyes flicker down to Shane’s mouth before bringing them back up to meet Shane’s unrelenting stare.
“I could maybe talk about how good you looked throwing punches,” he says finally, lip curling upwards.
“Yeah?”
Ilya nods, stepping closer still as he bows his head down.. “Yes.”
He presses their mouths together, his tongue darting between Shane’s lips as he slides his hand along his jaw. Ilya pulls his lower lip between his teeth, and Shane’s breath hitches at the sting. Ilya’s tongue darts across the cut on Shane’s lower lip, soothing it.
“So good,” Ilya murmurs against his mouth, pulling away from the kiss. “Being bad suits you, Hollander.”
Heat rises in Shane’s cheeks, exposed under Ilya’s intense gaze, his pupils blown. Shane knows it’s probably not healthy, letting Ilya bury every negative emotion by chasing pleasure. He knows they should probably talk about it. But this feels safer somehow, more contained. Shane leans back in, taking the coward’s way out, his lips grazing against the light stubble along Ilya’s jaw.
“Couch,” Shane says, stepping back and turning towards the living room.
As he walks away he pulls his shirt over his head, folding it between his hands and placing it on the arm of the couch. He looks back over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow at Ilya expectantly.
“Take your shirt off,” Shane says, tugging at the hem as soon as Ilya is close enough.
Ilya crosses his hands at the bottom of his t-shirt, yanking it upwards in that frustrating way that leaves it inside out, and throws it to the ground. Ilya stares, just blinking back at him. Shane rolls his eyes, placing one of his palms firmly against his shoulder, pushing Ilya lightly to sit down.
Shane climbs on top of him, his legs straddled on either side of Ilya’s lap. He places both hands on either side of Ilya’s jaw, thumbs rubbing against his cheekbones. He lets himself look at his husband’s face properly. The way that his eyebrows are slightly furrowed, the tiniest wrinkle forming between them. He drinks in the way he pulls his lips into his mouth, like he’s sealing it shut to stop words from tumbling out. Ilya’s eyes dart around Shane’s face like he’s trying to work something out, like Shane’s a puzzle he doesn’t know how to solve.
“You’re just so fucking beautiful, you know that?” Shane says. It’s rhetorical, of course it is. Ilya obviously knows he’s attractive, but Shane knows he never lets himself believe that he’s beautiful. It’s one of the very few things that actually bothers him about Ilya Rozanov.
He doesn’t wait for an answer, doesn’t give Ilya the time to come up with some snarky response. He just sinks back down and kisses him. Shane threads his fingers through Ilya’s hair, tugging on it lightly as he deepens the kiss again. Ilya sighs against his mouth, bringing his hands to rest on Shane's hips. As Shane pulls back, Ilya digs his thumbs just above his hip bones in protest. Shane laughs, rubbing his nose softly against his cheek.
“Stop rushing me,” Shane whispers, feeling Ilya bristle as his breath washes over his skin. “We've got forever.”
He feels Ilya shift underneath him, trying to turn his head to look at him. Shane twists his fingers in Ilya’s hair again, holding him in place and eliciting a soft groan, quiet and low in Ilya’s throat.
“When have you ever been patient, Hollander,” Ilya protests, bucking his hips upwards.
Shane ignores him. He could mention their lazy day off last week, when they barely left their bed and Ilya edged him for what felt like hours. He could remind him of the time he drove all the way from Montreal to Ottawa wearing a butt plug, so hard that he had to pull over to calm himself down. If he wanted to be an asshole, he could mention that he spent almost ten years waiting for moments like this, actually.
Instead he just peppers a trail of kisses along Ilya’s jaw, all the way up to his ear. He pulls Ilya’s earlobe into his mouth, scraping his teeth gently across the skin before sucking it.
“Shane, fuck,” Ilya moans, fingers digging into his hips again.
Shane hums in response, feeling his cock twitch at how breathless Ilya sounds already just from this.
“Love hearing you,” Shane says, bringing his mouth to his neck to place more kisses there. He gently nips at his skin, earning another moan from Ilya as he licks back over the spot.
Shane pulls himself up, planting another kiss against Ilya’s mouth before he straightens fully and loosens his fingers in his hair. There are a few stray curls across his forehead and Shane brushes them back gently, watching as Ilya's eyelids flutter shut at the touch.
“Shane,” Ilya says, his voice close to a whisper.
Shane leans in, pressing a quick kiss against the now-exposed skin where his hair had been.
“I know, baby.”
Of course he knows what Ilya's asking for. He knows he needs to feel good, needs to let his body take over so that his brain stops working overtime. He needs Shane to get him there.
Shane moves slowly, letting the pads of his fingertips stroke gently along Ilya's skin. They trail down the sides of his face and his neck, along his shoulders and all the way down his arms, their hands meeting where Ilya is still holding Shane's hips firmly. Shane pulls Ilya's right hand away from his skin, placing it directly on his sweatpants against his erection.
“You make me so hard, Ilya.” Shane closes his hand around Ilya's, making him squeeze his cock, groaning. “Don't even have to try.”
Ilya watches him, his lips parted. He visibly swallows, eyes flicking down to their hands on Shane’s crotch. He wriggles his hand free, bringing the other to join it as his fingers hook into Shane's waistband. Shane grabs at his wrists to stop him from moving further, shaking his head. Ilya raises an eyebrow, questioning him.
“Not yet,” Shane explains. “You're first.”
“Ah, perfect husband is going to take care of me?” Ilya's voice has an edge to it that's treading the line of teasing him, but his eyes are soft as he looks up at Shane. Like he really means it.
“Exactly.”
Shane lifts Ilya's hands away from his waistband and raises them up to his mouth, kissing his knuckles before dropping them back down at his side. He shuffles backwards out of Ilya’s lap, standing in front of him. He skims his fingers along Ilya’s lower stomach, smirking as he hisses and shudders into the touch. He trails his hand lower, fingers grasping at the waistband of Ilya’s sweatpants.
“Up,” Shane commands.
Ilya complies, raising his hips up so that Shane can tug his clothing down. He pulls his boxers and trousers off in one swift motion, carefully placing them on the floor beside Ilya's abandoned t-shirt. He nudges Ilya's knees apart, creating space for him to sink between them.
“Hey,” Ilya says, pulling Shane back towards him before he can lower himself down. He grabs Shane's jaw with his right hand, drawing him in for a hot, open mouthed kiss. Shane feels one of the scatter cushions from the sofa being pushed against his chest. “Now suck my dick, please.”
Shane laughs against his mouth, grabbing the cushion and throwing it onto the floor between Ilya’s legs, lowering down onto it. He places his palms on top of Ilya’s knees, pushing them wider apart before dragging his hands upwards along Ilya’s thighs. He presses his fingers into the muscle, squeezing them and looking back up towards Ilya’s face. Shane makes a show of blinking slowly, staring through his eyelashes and licking his lips. Ilya’s eyes flick down towards Shane’s mouth, lingering over the darkened stripe on his lower lip where it split earlier. Ilya swipes his thumb across it, applying just the right amount of pressure to make it sting before pushing his thumb into Shane’s mouth. Shane moans, sucking gently as Ilya pushes down on his tongue, eyes still scanning across his lips.
Shane loves this; feeling Ilya’s eyes all over him, earning his undivided attention. Sex with Ilya is always good but when it’s like this, all slow touches like they’re relearning each other's bodies, Shane’s reminded about how much time they have now. He hopes it’s the same for Ilya, that it serves as a reminder of what they’ve overcome to be able to have this.
Shane pulls back, letting Ilya’s thumb slide out of his mouth. He leans in towards Ilya’s inner thighs, brushing his nose against them before placing small delicate kisses into skin, juxtaposed to the way his hands are kneading roughly into his muscles.
“Shane, fuck,” Ilya pants, “stop teasing me you–”
He’s cut off with a sharp intake of breath as Shane bites down on his thigh. Shane looks up at him, smug, eyebrows raised. Ilya’s breathing is shallow, a light flush on his chest. Shane’s chest swells when all he can see on Ilya’s face is want, with none of that lingering sadness. Shane’s managed to make him distracted enough to forget, even if it is just for now. He thinks about teasing him more – wondering how far he could push it before Ilya takes matters into his own hands – but decides against it, wanting Ilya to let himself relinquish some of his control for once.
Shane shifts closer and pauses for a moment as he lets his breath ghost across Ilya’s balls, feeling him twitch.
“This is what you need?” Shane asks quietly.
Ilya groans, one of his hands flying down and cupping the back of Shane’s neck. “Yes, malysh, fuck.”
Shane sucks one of Ilya’s balls into his mouth, heavy on his tongue. He revels in the way it makes Ilya groan, how breathy and unrestrained it is as his grasp around the nape of Shane’s neck tightens. He rolls it around his mouth, lapping at the skin and humming as Ilya’s fingernails dig into his neck. As he pulls away, his teeth scrape ever so slightly along the skin before he lets it drop out of his mouth, glistening with spit.
“Love tasting you,” Shane murmurs, his hand drifting across to replace his mouth as Ilya grumbles at the loss of heat.
Shane chances a quick look up towards Ilya’s face. His eyes are lidded, mouth slightly agape as he stares back down at him. Ilya loosens the hold he has against his neck, brushing his fingers up towards the ends of Shane’s hair, petting it softly.
“Shane.” Ilya’s voice is strained, the please implied. It’s as close to desperate as Ilya will ever allow himself to get.
Shane responds immediately, his left hand planted firmly against Ilya’s hip as the right trails up from Ilya’s balls to the base of his cock. He licks a broad, wet stripe along the underside, from his fist at the base up to the tip. He lingers at the head, his tongue lapping at the slit and collecting a bead of pre-come. Shane withdraws his tongue so that he can spit onto Ilya’s cock, stealing another look up as he spreads his saliva along the length with his hand. Ilya is leaning back into the couch, his left arm draped behind his head with his elbow angled outwards. It looks like his fingers are brushing against his own neck, mirroring the patterns he’s tracing against Shane’s skin.
Shane doesn’t want to look away. Not yet, not with Ilya’s eyes trained so intensely on him. He bows his head down, keeping his eyes up as he takes the head of Ilya’s cock between his lips. He’s teasing, just a little, swirling his tongue around it as he keeps his fist at the base. Ilya visibly inhales through his nose, a deep calming breath, the effort of keeping still evident. Shane rewards him by finally sinking down, his lips meeting his fingers before he draws his head back up. He starts slowly, adjusting to the weight of Ilya in his mouth, chasing every sighed breath and little moan getting caught in Ilya’s throat.
He sucks at the tip of Ilya’s cock as he removes his hand from around the shaft. He taps Ilya’s thigh twice, an unspoken signal that makes him swear under his breath. Ilya brushes the hair away from Shane’s face as he brings both of his hands to settle on the sides of his head. Shane glances at Ilya, squeezing his thigh in confirmation, before sinking his head back down. Ilya moans as Shane begins to bob his head faster, taking his cock further into his mouth.
Shane feels Ilya’s hands tighten, pushing his head down with a force that’s barely there. He’s always controlled at first, carefully coaxing Shane to take more of him in. Shane does, responsive as always, relaxing his mouth as he feels Ilya’s cock hitting the back of his throat. He takes a deep breath through his nose, steadying himself as he gags, and Ilya groans louder as Shane sucks his way back up.
Ilya pushes him back down as he bucks his hips up, fucking into his mouth. He rubs small circles against Shane’s temples with his thumbs, sending shivers along his spine. He squeezes Ilya’s thigh again, needing more.
“Fuck, Shane.”
Ilya sounds breathless, panting around the words. He pushes Shane down again with more urgency, moaning as Shane willingly succumbs to it. Ilya keeps his hands firm against his head, holding him down. Shane moans into it, muffled around Ilya’s cock. The sensation makes Ilya’s cock twitch against his throat, and he loosens the fingers in his hair so that Shane can bring himself back up.
Shane wraps his fist around the base of Ilya’s cock again, stroking him as he sucks on the head and gets his breath back. After a few seconds Shane removes his hand again, lowering it to cup Ilya’s balls. Ilya’s hands are firm on the side of his head, the warmth of his palms radiating against Shane’s skin. Ilya uses the pressure to quicken the pace before holding him down, and Shane buries his nose into Ilya’s pubic hair, groaning as he breathes in his scent and chokes on his cock. Ilya moves his hands from Shane’s head, one hooking under his chin as he pushes him up.
Shane gasps for air, swiping the back of his hand against his mouth as Ilya’s cock slips out. He darts his tongue out, tasting a faint tinge of copper. Ilya brushes his fingers against Shane's cheeks, silently checking in and wiping away a trail of tears from where he’d gagged on his cock.
“Fuck,” Ilya breathes, looking down at where Shane’s split lip has reopened. “Let me touch you, Shane. I need–”
He cuts himself off, favouring grabbing wildly at Shane instead, hands gripping firmly around his biceps to help haul him up. Ilya tugs at Shane’s waistband, pushing his joggers and boxers halfway down his thighs. Shane pushes them the rest of the way down, stepping out of them.
“What do you need?” Shane asks, his voice slightly raspy.
Ilya doesn’t respond, just grabs at Shane’s wrist and pulls him forwards as he shuffles back on the couch. Shane lets himself go easily, straddling Ilya once again as plants his knees on either side of his thighs. Ilya brings his hand down to squeeze Shane’s cock, his thumb brushing against his leaking tip.
“Always so wet for me,” Ilya says, smirking.
“Yeah,” Shane hisses, hips twitching forward. “Always, you asshole. What do you need?”
Ilya laughs. A real one, the kind where his eyes crinkle at the edges. He lifts Shane’s hand up to his mouth, palm facing upwards, and spits into it.
“I need you to make me come, Hollander.”
Shane reaches down, wrapping his hand around Ilya’s cock first, stroking it a few times as he leans in to kiss him. Shane loosens his grip, shifting in Ilya’s lap so that their cocks rub together. Ilya's hand lands on his thigh, holding Shane where he is. He cranes his neck up, his other hand on Shane’s chin, pulling him forward to kiss him again. Shane moans into the kiss as he wraps his hand around both of their cocks, slick with spit.
It would be easy for Shane to let his eyes close, to let him lose himself in the pleasure of Ilya's skin against his and the rough glide of his palm. But there’s a tug somewhere in his chest, something he hasn't felt for years, that keeps his eyes open and fixed on Ilya. He watches everything like he's trying to commit it to memory. He watches the way his brow furrows, nose wrinkling with every deep shuddering breath. He watches his jaw clenching, teeth gritted like he's trying to contain his moans. He watches the way his eyelids flicker closed, eyelashes fanning against his cheeks, before they snap back open and focus back on Shane like he’s doing the same thing.
“Ilya, oh my God,” Shane stutters, his hand quickening between them. “So perfect.”
Ilya makes a strangled noise somewhere in his throat, pinching his lips into his closed mouth. Shane brings his free hand up towards Ilya's cheek, stroking it gently as Ilya leans into his touch. They lock eyes again, and Ilya pushes Shane's head closer so that their foreheads are pressed together. The thin sheen of Ilya’s sweat slides against his own skin as he holds himself there.
Shane tightens his fist around their cocks, stroking faster. It’s fucking intense, their stubborn refusal to look away from each other combined with the friction. Impossibly, Shane needs to be closer to him. He tilts his head, bringing his lips crashing against Ilya’s, drawing him into an open mouthed kiss. Ilya bucks up into his hand, moaning against his mouth. Shane keeps kissing him, barely letting himself breathe as their mouths crash together. It feels clumsy and desperate as their tongues slide against one another, teeth clashing, tugging at each other's lips.
It's Ilya who pulls away first, throwing his head back in a silent moan as he rocks his hips into Shane's fist. Shane soaks it in, the way his jaw drops and the muscles in his neck flex. He stares as Ilya’s mouth opens, trembling around a stuttered inhale. Shane notices then that his lips are shining, tinged with crimson. He hears himself moan at the sight of it, his own blood smeared against Ilya’s lips, before he has the chance to process it.
“Fuck, Ilya.” He closes the space between them again, swiping his tongue along Ilya’s lower lip before pulling back to see him more clearly. “Let me hear you.”
Shane punctuates his point by flexing his hand, twisting on the upstroke and squeezing more firmly on the downstroke. He feels Ilya twitch in his palm.
“Shane,” he rasps, lifting his head back up and pressing his forehead back against Shane's. It’s like every point of their bodies are connected, like there’s no space between them at all. Even so, Ilya brings one of his hands onto Shane’s back, palm flat and firm between his shoulder blades, trying to press him closer. “Feel so fucking good.”
Shane moans a response, looking down into his hand at their cocks, both of them leaking at the tip. He grinds his hips down, feeling how slick they are in his hand, the added pressure making him shudder.
“Gonna come,” Shane says. “Need you to come for me, too.”
Ilya nods as he moans, their noses rubbing together from the movement. Ilya flexes his fingers, digging them into Shane's back. His fingernails sink into his flesh, scratching down his spine.
“Shit. Yes, Ilya. Fuck, baby, so good.” Shane hears himself babbling, but he can't stop.
He ruts his hips forward, the sensation of their cocks rubbing together in his palm sending shocks across his skin with every movement. Ilya's groans are growing louder and less restrained, no longer being swallowed down.
“Gonna make me come,” Ilya says breathlessly, rocking his hips into Shane's fist as his strokes become less rhythmic. “Gospodi, Shane.”
That's all it takes. His name tumbling helplessly from his husband's lips, strained, laced with a desperation no one else gets to see. Shane lets himself go, his eyes screwed shut so tightly that he swears he can see stars. His orgasm is loud, moans falling from his mouth as he spills into his hand, over himself and Ilya. He works himself through it, hand still stroking frantically, come smearing their cocks.
“Malysh, oh fuck.”
Ilya's voice sounds distant and loud at the same time. Shane opens his eyes in time to see Ilya's slip shut, his bottom lip clamped between his teeth as he groans. His hips are still twitching up into his hand, his cock rubbing against Shane's, making him hiss. Ilya's hips stutter, the hand on Shane's back going still as his fingers dig firmly into his back. Ilya's mouth falls open with a loud guttural moan, his come spurting warm and sticky over his knuckles.
Shane loosens his grip around them once Ilya stills, blinking his eyes back open. They stay like that, eyes locked on one another with their foreheads pressed together, panting into each other's mouths. Ilya rubs his palm up and down Shane’s back, grounding them as their breaths even out. Ilya’s eyes have a softness to them, their usual glimmer and warmth returning as he looks at Shane. He leans up, closing the small gap between their lips and kisses him gently.
“Thank you,” Ilya says softly. He glances over his shoulder towards the arm of the sofa. He shifts his weight, one arm still holding Shane in place as the other grabs Shane's carefully folded t-shirt. He wipes it clumsily against his stomach, cleaning the come off his skin.
“Ew, Ilya, gross. That's my shirt.” It's a half-hearted protest. Ilya smirks as Shane takes it from him to wipe at his own stomach and fist as well. “Thank you for what? Making you come?”
Ilya shakes his head. “No. Well, yes, that too. But I meant fighting for me. Was very sexy.”
Shane senses that the last sentence doesn't sound as cocky as Ilya meant it to. His tone is still soft, voice quiet as his hand resumes rubbing lightly across his back. Shane hums at the contact as goosebumps prickle up on his skin, deciding not to call him out on it.
“We should ice that, though.” Ilya ghosts his thumb against Shane's cheekbone, featherlight and barely there. “Is going to bruise.”
Shane frowns. “I didn't realise he hit me.”
“Ah, Shane.” Ilya laughs, pulled from deep within his stomach. It makes Shane's heart flutter at how low and full and totally his-Ilya it is. “You are good, but you are not that good, kotik.”
Shane huffs, his cheeks warming a little.
“Fuck you,” he retorts without heat. He ducks his head, burying his flushed face in the crook of Ilya's neck. Ilya wraps his arms around him properly, pulling him into a tight hug.
After a few wordless minutes – nothing but the sound of their breathing filling the quiet room – Shane says, “I love you.”
“I know.” Ilya's voice is quiet, steady with certainty. He combs one of his hands through Shane's hair and shifts them both just enough to kiss his temple. “I love you, too.”