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Ilya is not used to this.
It’s running around his head in circles as he watches TV with the Hollanders, his feet wrapped in pink fluffy socks and a blanket that smells like incense thrown on his lap. It’s been a few weeks now that David has walked in on them at the cottage—weeks that turned to months, and with every visit to their family home in Ottawa, Ilya feels a weight lift off his shoulders slowly.
The Hollanders are obviously different from his family, in every way that counts. They’re caring, and kind, and they turn to Ilya to ask about his day when they ask about Shane’s, having seemingly processed that he’s not the person he shows on TV quite quickly. Sometimes, it doesn’t make sense to Ilya. Parents who listen. Parents who care. But he nods along anyway, waiting for a day when he would not be invited to tag along anymore, secretly wishing this day would never come while keeping his guard up.
It still feels strange, though.
It feels foreign to have Yuna saved in his phone as “Yuna” rather than Mrs Hollander (she insisted, and Ilya is famously bad at refusing anything when it comes to those eyes Shane inherited) and to have her text about brand deals he could get if she pressed a little bit. It feels new, too, when David sits down with him and tells him about the things he’s read in the paper, and Ilya doesn’t even want to make fun of him for it for once.
Especially not when Shane looks at him with those baby doe eyes, lower lash filled with happy tears. Ilya wonders if he’s ever going to win any argument in this relationship, because really, he is incapable of thinking straight when it comes to those eyes. Not that Shane has realised it yet, but when he does, Ilya wonders what kind of things he will get himself thrown into.
They’re watching hockey on TV one night, which is Yuna’s idea of a good time even during their respective breaks, when his boyfriend makes a half-hearted comment that has Ilya rolling his eyes playfully.
“You’re always telling me I have a weak backhand!” Shane argues, throwing him a look.
He’s left his safe space against Ilya’s side—at reasonable distance enough from his parents so that Ilya doesn't feel too stressed about them being tangled together, but still close enough so that Ilya can relish in his warmth and hold his hand under the blanket like a teenager—to spring to his feet and grab more chips in the kitchen, and he’s now standing in front of the couch with a frown on his gorgeous face.
“Is different,” Ilya argues, trying very hard not to smile too wide. “I can criticise your play. You cannot criticise your own, but you cannot criticise mine, either.”
To Ilya’s right, Yuna laughs. It makes Ilya feel warm inside.
“You know you’re right, though,” Shane argues. “Montreal hasn’t won a game in forever now, and it’s definitely because of me.”
Ilya wonders if Shane is ever going to feel like the weight of the world has been taken off his shoulders. He’s so unaware of his own magnificence in hockey that it’s almost funny, too.
“Montréal is shit. You’re not.”
Shane makes a face. “A very convincing argument.”
“Not everybody can play for Boston.”
“You’ve left Boston for Ottawa.”
“Still better than Montreal.”
Shane rolls his eyes.
“It’s not. And you’ve not won any games either, and it’s halfway through the season.”
“We’re, how do you say here? Working on it.”
This time, a soft snort of pure disbelief escapes Yuna. Ilya looks back at her, betrayed. She’s hiding her laughter behind the rim of a glass of wine, and it all feels so disgustingly comfortable that Ilya cannot even be mad about it for too long.
“He’s not wrong,” she says, because she can’t help herself when it comes to hockey, “Ottawa is shit.”
Ilya gasps dramatically. “Is not!”
“That’s enough,” David says, walking back from the kitchen with his silly apron and a playful smile on his face. “No more bickering about hockey on my watch. Dinner is almost ready.”
“How is everybody coming to Ilya’s defense but never mine?” Shane pouts.
It happens in a fraction of a second. David rolls his eyes playfully, in a way he has done a thousand times before. With that, he reaches out for Shane’s cheek—for a playful shove, Ilya will realise much later. But the movement is too precise, painfully familiar, and alarm bells ring out in Ilya’s head immediately.
He does not think. One moment he’s sitting on the couch, the next he’s standing before Shane with his hands held in front of his face, shielding him from a blow that does not come. The blanket previously thrown on his legs is pooling on the floor by his feet, but the cold of the evening is nothing compared to the chill that’s taken over Ilya’s bloodstream.
Silence falls in the living-room. Ilya can faintly hear the TV still going in the background, but it’s all muted by the ringing in his ears. And eventually, a slow but obvious flush of shame creeps up his neck when he realises what he’s done—and who he’s with. Ilya drops his hands by his side numbly, uncovering his face to a blow that was never coming in the first place. David is looking back at him with shock—no anger, never anger. But there’s understanding on his face, laced with something else that looks too close to pity for Ilya’s comfort. It makes his insides burn with shame.
“Ilya…”
Shane’s voice tears him from his trance. Ilya bolts from the living-room, rushing outside and onto the patio, his lungs tight. It’s cold enough at this time of the year to tear a shiver from him, but he needs the fresh air.
He feels lost, empty, and so stupid.
Ilya has always kept everything from his past close to his chest, mostly because the only person who only cared enough to ask about it was Shane, and it took him long enough to open up to him in the first place. But Yuna and David have always been good, and pure, and Ilya wanted to keep this part of his life separate from the new one he’s building here. A single person knew about his weakness—and he always meant to keep it that way.
There’s no turning back from that, now. David is not clueless, and neither are Shane and Yuna. There’s no doubt left on why Ilya reacted the way he did, on instinct more than anything else. Shane has traced the small marks left on his body countless times now, and when he’s never openly asked about them individually, he knows the scars are deeper than just physical. And now, Ilya’s made a fool of himself in front of his parents, too.
Maybe his father was right. Maybe he is weak, and does not deserve good things.
He wonders if things will change from there. If Yuna will stop offering brands and insisting to take him to lunch when they have a day off and Shane is off training. He dreads the judgment in David’s eyes the next time he tells him about the latest news in the world, and if he will secretly think that Ilya should just man up, too. He hates that he’s ruined this, that one thing that felt good and pure and beautiful outside of Shane for the last decade of Ilya’s life.
Ilya doesn’t know how long he stays outside for, but it’s a few minutes that feel like hours before the sliding door opens, and soft but familiar steps pad towards the rock he’s sitting on.
“You’re going to catch your death out there,” Yuna says, her voice soft.
Ilya keeps staring ahead. He feels like crying, so he tries not to blink for the tears not to fall. He mastered the skill of keeping his expression blank and soulless, by now.
“I’m Russian. Russians do not fear cold.”
“Well, I hope you’re not too Russian for a blanket, because I brought you one.”
She drops it on his shoulders, and Ilya instantly feels the warmth of it seep into his bones. It reminds him of the soft feeling of home, this new home he was trying so hard to build for himself and that just crumbled like a deck of cards. He tries not to think about being unable to come by as often, now.
He will miss the smell of the house, above all.
Yuna sits next to him, stealing a bit of the blanket for herself without even asking. The place where their knees almost touch burns, even with the cold air swirling around them. Ilya can barely breathe, barely think with the way his heart hammers against the side of his ribs. He feels like he should say something, like the silence stretching thin between them is heavy with implications.
He hates how little he feels. He hasn’t felt like this since Russia, since Alexei put his hands on him and Ilya hit him back.
“I am sorry,” Ilya eventually says, and he finds that his accent is thicker than usual. He hates it, hates how weak it makes him feel.
Yuna shakes her head with a low hum.
“You should never be sorry for defending my son.”
Despite everything, Ilya snorts in disbelief. “Even from threats that do not exist?”
“Even then.”
She does not reach out to him, which he appreciates. His skin is crawling in a way it hasn’t for a very long time, a stark reminder of where he comes from and what he endured behind closed doors. He can almost taste the acrid smell of cigar at the back of his throat, and remember the burns along his arms when his father turned the steamy head to him once.
It only happened that one time, in middle school, when Ilya became friends with a boy who was way braver than Ilya ever would be; claiming to everyone he knew that he’d be a ballet dancer. Ilya’s dad didn’t like it. Shamefully, and out of fear of repercussions, he never spoke to the boy again.
Sitting here with Yuna is different, Ilya knows rationally, but it doesn’t make the chill that’s cruising through his body any less intense. He hates feeling so helpless, and it prompts him to open his dry lips and speak. Even to justify himself as best he can—something his father never accepted. It was either heartfelt apologies or the feeling of the belt coming down his back, but there was never any understanding behind his cold eyes.
Excuses are for the weak, and Ilya was always full of them.
“My father was not a kind man,” Ilya says. It’s a whisper, because he feels Yuna stiffen beside him. “It’s no excuse, and I should not have reacted the way I did. I know… I know David is not same.”
“But?”
Ilya hates that she’s right, and that there is a but.
“But sometimes it… scares me.”
“David?”
“No. Never. It scares me how easy this was, for you. For him.”
Understanding dawns on Yuna. It’s not about the act, really, it’s about all that’s standing behind. It’s about Ilya sitting at their family table, and sharing meals with them. It’s about them including Ilya in their plans like there was never a time when it was the three of them alone. It’s every bit of understanding that Ilya has troubles wrapping his mind around, because he is still unable to think of a world where he doesn’t have to look above his shoulder.
“You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop,” Yuna says.
Ilya’s face does something complicated.
“I do not understand the shoe metaphor,” he admits.
“Oh. It means you’re on high alert. You don’t know if the situation is going to change suddenly.”
“Yes. That.”
“Ilya…”
“I don’t want you to think I do not know how to make a difference between my family and Shane’s. I know David is not… I know it’s different. But it was just a reflex.”
Yuna makes a noise at the back of her throat.
“Ilya. Can I hug you?”
Ilya doesn’t trust himself to answer verbally, so he nods. Yuna’s right arm wraps around his shoulders, and for a singular moment, Ilya thinks about the scar she’s covering there, smushed between fabric and skin, and if she understands the deeper significance of it all.
“I don’t want you to think of this family as Shane’s, alright? This is your family as much as his, now. You’re one of us, Ilya, and I am sorry I ever made you feel like you weren’t.”
The knot in Ilya’s throat grows. He’s so close to crying, and all he can do is shake his head side to side in a vain attempt to communicate around the balloon that’s threatening to burst in his heart.
“I’m sorry about all the things you went through as a kid,” Yuna continues. “Nobody deserves this, and especially not a child. You’re perfectly allowed to react the way you did today, and I’m so proud of you for standing up for my son, no matter what happens.”
She reaches for his chin then, tilting his head up.
“But Ilya, I don’t ever want you to put yourself in potential danger for him. You deserve grace and you deserve the security you want to bring him too, alright?”
The words break him, like a hammer to the wall he’s erected around the careful persona Ilya has built for himself over the years.
He is hopeless to stop the worn-out sob that tears itself out of his mouth, covering it immediately by pressing his face to the crook of Yuna’s neck. Shame burns at the back of his head—but not as bright as the feeling of safety that wraps around him when Yuna rocks them slowly from side to side, her hands in his hair.
He doesn’t know how long they stay like this for. Time loses all meaning, and by the time the feeling in Ilya’s chest has eased into a softer edge, he has pulled back and wiped the corner of his eyes.
“Do you wanna come back inside?” Yuna asks kindly. She pats his curls, and he wonders if she’s made a mess of them with her fingers. It wouldn’t be the first time he looks disheveled in her presence, but it’s usually not from her hand.
“Can I have a minute?”
“Of course. I will tell Shane you will be right there.”
The mention of Ilya’s boyfriend brings a small curl to his lips. Knowing Shane, he must be up the walls with worry, but Yuna Hollander is one menacing presence when she wants to be. Ilya feels grateful that she’s kept him away long enough to have a proper chat, because he has no idea if he would have told her half the things he said tonight if not for the privacy of their backyard.
“Alright,” she pats his knees. “I’ll be inside if you need me.”
For a while, Ilya is left with his thoughts and a blanket that smells like Shane’s family house. It’s not until he hears the door opening again that Ilya realises that he’s spent a significant amount of time staring at the water rippling in front of his feet.
“дорогой, I told your mother I’d be right inside.”
“Actually, Shane is still inside.”
Ilya freezes at David’s voice. He turns, just enough to see David standing by a few inches away, hands held in front of his body like he’s afraid of scaring a wild animal. Ilya realises that he’s the animal, in that strange metaphor.
“Can I come closer?”
“Of course. Of course, sorry.”
Scooting a little closer to the edge of the rock, Ilya leaves room for David to sit down comfortably. Some tension has returned to his shoulders, but it’s nothing compared to how tight they felt before his talk with Yuna. Ilya mostly feels ashamed to have assumed David would ever be like his own father, looking at him now. He’s got that Shane Hollander lopsided smile, the one that makes his son look a little bashful, and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands when he talks, either.
He breaks the silence before it becomes uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry–” Ilya starts, at the same time David goes,
“I’m sorry for earlier–”
They both stop at the same time, looking at each other with wide eyes, and David lets out a chuckle.
“Can I go first?” He asks, to which Ilya nods. “You have nothing to apologise for, Ilya.”
Ilya makes a noise at the back of his throat.
“No, listen to me, son.”
Son.
The words are both familiar and foreign to Ilya’s ears. He hasn’t heard them in years—his father was not an emotional person, and he rarely indulged in using nicknames or terms of endearment. In his last few years however, there were a few times when he forgot himself, and Ilya hates that he relished in every bit of attention his father ever gave him, even then.
“I will never resent you for doing what’s right by my son,” David says. “But I don’t want you to think you don’t have a place in this family, either.”
“You sound like your wife,” Ilya confesses in a mere whisper.
David laughs. “Yeah, well. What can I say? She is rarely wrong. I’ve learned that in my years of marriage”
The thought makes Ilya smile. It’s not rare for David to just sit back and enjoy the ride when it comes to anything his wife brings him into, and this dynamic has always been very amusing to him. David is the kind of husband Ilya would like to be today—mostly because he sees himself in the fond way David melts under any of Yuna’s attentions, happy to tag along if it gives him the opportunity to bask in her sunny presence.
“Not everyone in my family was the way my father was,” Ilya says suddenly, and he’s almost surprised with his own confession. But he wants David to know, he wants him to understand that not everything was dark and painful when he was a child.
That there was some light, too.
David tilts his head to the side.
“Okay.”
“There used to be a time… A time when my brother and I were friends,” he confesses, looking down at his feet.
The fluffy socks he’s wearing are going straight into the hamper, if Shane has anything to say about it. He can almost see the way his nose will wrinkle if he walks into the house with dirty socks, or the non-subtle way he will shove ugly flip flops his way. Ilya loves him and his little quirks so much it hurts.
“Back before my father became this cold man, before my mom died, there was a moment… A few years when Alexei and I were friends. He was kinder, and he liked drugs a little less, I think. Last one is probably my fault.”
“It’s not. Your brother’s decisions are not your own, Ilya.”
Ilya ignores the fluttery feeling in his chest at the validation. He always craves it, even after all this time.
“It was before my mom died. I think a lot of things changed, after.” He shakes his head, as if to push the memory away, “My mom would love Canada. She was always talking about leaving Russia. Sometimes, I wish she could see my life now. It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” David counters immediately, because of course he does.
“I do not regret my choices, and I love my life,” Ilya says. “But sometimes…”
He takes a deep breath.
“Sometimes I wish I could have visited her grave one last time. To say goodbye. To tell her… tell her about this. I think about it a lot, lately.”
“Oh, Ilya.”
Ilya doesn’t realise he’s crying again until David’s left right hand presses between his shoulder blades, grounding him. Furiously wiping the wetness from his eyes, Ilya shakes his head, willing the knot in his throat to dissipate before he makes an even bigger fool of himself.
“I can’t do much for your grief,” David says when it becomes clear that Ilya cannot speak without choking on his own words, “but I can tell you, as a parent, that your mom would have been proud of you.”
Ilya immediately shakes his head from side to side.
The memories he has of his mother are fuzzy around the edges. He was so young when she died. He has no idea what she would think of him now, of his reputation, of his life. A small part of him likes to think that she knew about him before she passed, but it’s something he will never truly know for sure.
Sometimes, Ilya likes to think he idealised his mother because it was easier than to deal with the harsh reality of life. He doesn’t like thinking about this too much, though. Because he likes the vision he has of her before that night, before the feeling of her cold and unmoving body slouched into his arms as he called for help.
“She would,” David insists. “Because we’ve only known you for a few months now, and we are proud of the man you are. You have a kind heart, Ilya, and a strong will, and we’re so proud to see you stand by our son. Your lives are not going to be easy going forward, and it’s a lonely secret to keep. But to know that you stand with Shane in all of that? It’s the best comfort Yuna and I have.”
Ilya would like to stop crying at some point in the evening, he thinks idly. It’s not very likely.
But David’s words are soothing a wound he didn’t know cut so deep, and he feels a weight lift off his shoulders, eased away by the feeling of his boyfriend’s dad's hand on his back. He knows the man is not a very touchy person—he’s much like Shane, in this regard. He’s seen David creep close to Yuna, orbiting around his wife the way Shane would curl around Ilya, but the latter has never seen David initiating touch with anyone else of his own free will.
Ilya vividly remembers calling David boring, back when he and Shane were something they did not define yet. Now, Ilya sees the depth of David’s love, and so much like Shane it hurts. It makes him think of his own future, and children that would also frown up their nose at Ilya leaving his clothes on the floor in a bundle and reprimand him for eating his food in the wrong order. He dreams of freckled noses and half-hooded eyes, of small Russian accents and Sunday family dinners.
He wants it so badly.
“My father was not a kind man either,” David says after a few seconds of heavy silence, his grip tightening minutely against Ilya’s shoulder. “This is not something I talk about much, especially not with Shane around. But he was a drunk, and he used to call me soft when he was displeased with me.”
Ilya blinks. Soft is certainly a word he’s thought of when it comes to David; but never in a pejorative way. There is strength in softness, in the way David cares for the ones around him and keeps to himself most of the time. Ilya likes it, likes the silences that come with doing a puzzle with David here and there or sitting in contemplation watching TV when it’s only the two of them.
“He was never more than mean, but I know how hard this can be, and how deeply this affects your life growing up. For the longest time, I did not believe myself capable of being a dad.”
At that, Ilya makes a face.
“Don’t laugh,” David says, but he’s laughing too. “And Shane was a surprise.”
“A surprise?”
“I mean, he wasn’t planned. Not that we were mad about it, obviously, but it was quite a shock at first.”
Ilya tries to picture it, the little plus sign on a pregnancy test and the doubts plaguing David and Yuna immediately. It’s hard to imagine them without kids, now that they have Shane. But he supposes they had a life before their son, and their own paths carved around that.
“It wasn’t until Shane took his first breath that these doubts left. Mind you, I was still afraid of fucking everything up,” David says, “ like every other parent. But that urge to get mad at my son, to call him names or even raise my hand at him every time he woke up screaming in the middle of the night or doubted himself never came. Because it is not who I am, and it is not who you are, either.”
Ilya swallows around the knot in his throat. “How do you know?”
“Oh, I know. And you will see it too, one day. I have no doubt.”
Much later that night, Ilya watches as Shane caresses the small white scar on the plane of his chest, the one that his dad put there with the bottom of a bottle when he was drunk and pissed at Ilya for existing on one of his bad days. Shane doesn’t ask about it—but he knows. He always knows.
“Make love to me?” he asks, turning his dark shiny eyes to Ilya with intent.
Ilya wants to ask if pity plays a role in their bed tonight, or if he craves the touch as much as Ilya does—but there’s nothing but raw want in Shane’s eyes, and Ilya is incapable of resisting the pull.
“Is that what you want?” he asks, echoing his words all those months ago at the cottage.
“Always.”
There’s no urgency behind Ilya’s movements when he shrugs off his sleep pants, leaving him naked in the bed. Shane is shimmying out of his own clothes, carefully folding them into a little pile by the bed, and Ilya watches the muscles in his back ripple with every movement. It’s a little dance that has been going on for years, and Ilya never wants it to change if he can help it.
He wraps his arms around Shane when he rolls back into bed, the bottle of lube secured in his hands. Shane is always so careful, so prepared, so good. Ilya still wonders at times how he got so lucky. They’re just out of the shower after driving home from Shane’s parents—they’re spending another week at the cottage, just the two of them—and Ilya knows for a fact that Shane has taken a few extra minutes in the shower by himself in preparation for tonight.
He always does that, always a little bashful and somehow extremely endearing when it comes to bottoming, even after almost ten years of Ilya putting his lips and tongue and fingers in his ass. Ilya finds it awfully cute, not that he’d ever admit it too much. Shane has enough power over him as it is, but warmth always spreads inside of Ilya when he sees how careful Shane is in taking care of himself and his body for them. It’s rendered even cuter when Shane gets all shy and bothered about it, looking coy even as he’s begging to be fucked into the mattress.
As expected, there is no resistance from Shane when Ilya reaches for the crease of his ass, fingers dipping between his flesh to rub at the place he’s fucked so many times before. If Ilya were to put his mouth there, he would bet Shane smells and tastes like the amber soap they keep in the bedroom, and the thought makes him oddly sad. He loves sweaty Shane, the one that skates out of the rink with hair plastered to his forehead and a stupid grin, the one who jumps into the shower as soon as he can to wash the grime off him and lets Ilya do it for him once in a while. It’s the smell of them that drives him wild, when they’re both lying on their backs in the bed and Ilya sometimes gets to eat his cum out of his ass when Shane is too fucked out to resist the pull of overstimulation.
“Ilya,” Shane whispers to bring him back to Earth, to their bed, handing him the lube.
Ilya knows that look. It’s the look of a man who knows what he wants, the look of the man who asks for ‘harder’ and for ‘deeper’ when Ilya tries to give it to him inch by inch—and Ilya loves it. He loves that Shane knows exactly what he needs right now, and that there’s tenderness in his eyes but raw need between his thighs. After the roughness of today, it feels only right.
“очень хорошо,” Ilya whispers. So good, Shane.
Because Shane is good, at taking his finger one after the other until he’s a wriggling mess on the bed and sweat is once again bedding at his hairline. Ilya has three fingers deep inside of his boyfriend now, curling them to tease his prostate the way Shane likes best, and he cannot take his eyes off his boyfriend. Ilya knows he likes the stretch, because Shane has told him enough time as it is. But he also knows his favorite thing is to feel full to the brim—and Ilya will give it to him tonight.
He takes his fingers out when Shane’s cheeks turn a brighter shade of pink, his mouth opening around an O of pleasure that Ilya wants to kiss off his face. He knows Shane’s body well-enough to know that he could get him to the edge like this, with filthy nothing whispered in his ears and his fingers deep inside of his ass. But Ilya has other plans for tonight.
“Come on, Ilya. Want you.”
“I always give it to you,” Ilya counters, slapping the inside of his thigh playfully. He leaves a wet smear of lube in his wake, and watches as Shane’s nose wrinkles in distaste.
They don’t bother with condoms on nights like this. They do before games—because Shane hates the feeling of cum dripping down his legs when he skates and focuses on a game, and Ilya has to reluctantly agree. But they don’t at home, not anymore. It makes Ilya’s heart feel ten sizes bigger in his chest. He loves the sight of his cum dripping out of Shane after they fuck, almost as much as he loves the little grimaces it tears out of Shane when it cools on his skin. There isn’t much Ilya doesn’t find endearing when it comes to him.
Shane gets on his hands and knees immediately, scrambling a little on the bed. It’s a smaller mattress than the one Ilya owns, but it’s better on his back, too. Ilya could not give two fucks about the type of bed he bought when he got his condo, but he has to admit that once again, Shane knows better. The mattress is firm underneath his knees when he positions himself behind his boyfriend, and he makes a mental note to change his when he gets home.
Not that he gets home by himself a lot, now. Every single minute of free time he gets, he spends at Shane’s place. They don’t sleep well apart from each other anymore.
Ilya takes a minute to just take in the view of his boyfriend’s powerful back muscles rippling with each movement as he lowers his upper body on the bed, opening his thighs wide as if to stretch before a game. Doggy style is one of Shane’s favorite positions—he always regrets not getting to see Ilya much that way, but it’s all worth it for the depth he gets. And he always makes the prettiest noises on his knees, anyway.
Reaching out to gently slap the skin of his left cheek, Ilya smiles at the huff of amusement Shane lets out. He’s impatient, he knows it for sure, but he’s not as bossy as he usually is tonight. Ilya wonders if he’s keeping himself in check for his benefit, and that just won’t do. Reaching with his right hand, Ilya parts his boyfriend’s ass with a firm grip, relishing in the gasp of pure pleasure it tears from Shane. His hole is wet with lube, twitching a little under his scrutinizing gaze–and it’s all Ilya can take before he spits on it. The effect it has on Shane is immediate: a moan tears itself out of his throat, and he rolls his hips in short bursts, aching for more. In that position, half of his face is smushed against the bedding, but Ilya can see the blush that has taken over his cheeks, highlighting the freckles dusting his skin.
“Don’t be an asshole,” Shane groans.
“I’m admiring,” Ilya replies with a smirk.
He reaches for his cock still, guiding it to the place Shane wants it the most. The latter lets out a sigh at the feeling, and Ilya is almost tempted to tease him a little more with short strokes over his twitching hole—but he’s all the more impatient himself. So on the next pass of his dick, he finally pushes the head inside, a groan slipping past his lips at the feeling.
No matter how many times they do that, Shane is always so tight.
“Feels like you’re sucking me in,” he tells Shane through gritted teeth, rolling his hips in slow movements to press further and further inside of his boyfriend’s body.
Against the bed, Shane all but mewls in pleasure. His eyes are closed—like they often are at that first thrust, like he can’t quite believe the things his body can do after all these years and the pleasure he tears out of it. Ilya almost regrets not being able to kiss that awed expression off his face tonight.
“Ilya,” Shane says, almost brokenly.
“I got you.”
That part is as easy as breathing, Ilya thinks. It feels like his body was made for Shane’s, guided by the pleasure he tears out of his boyfriend with every thrust of his hips. He starts slow, because he likes dragging Shane’s pleasure and he cannot find it in himself to rush this tonight. He opts for slow and deep, making sure to angle his hips just right to abuse Shane’s prostate on every movement. It tears beautiful, almost delirious noises out of Shane, his body rocking with every thrust.
In the cabin, the bed is sturdy enough for them to go at it without fear. They’ve had sex in Ilya’s new house a few times, and the noise the bed makes as it hits the wall had them bursting out in laughter multiple times before. Tonight, however, Ilya has no such restraints. He fucks into Shane with force, his hands gripping his hips so hard he’s probably going to leave small red marks for the rest of the right, watching himself disappear over and over again inside of his lover’s body.
He’s well aware of the downright animalistic sounds he lets out, grunts and small moans mixing with the wet sounds of their love-making, but Ilya does not care, not anymore. He used to be more careful about the sounds that left his mouth whenever he met Shane for clandestine hookups, but he has nothing to hide anymore. They’re not two barely legal teenage boys going at it in hotel rooms, they’re boyfriends who love each other openly within the four walls of their homes.
Shane loves his noises, too. Ilya knows, because every grunt that slips past Ilya’s lips is met with an echoing whimper, and the feeling of Shane’s body tightening around him. It’s heaven, and Ilya doesn’t know how he could ever live without this again.
“Ilya,” Shane moans, drooling a little on the bed. His hand reaches for Ilya’s, tightening around the fingers digging into his hips. “Want to see you.”
And who is Ilya to deny such a request?
Almost regretfully, he pulls out of Shane, and flips him over on the mattress. Shane makes a face when his back comes into contact with the wet sheets. His cock has been drooling precum steadily, Ilya knows, because he always gets awfully wet. He liked to tease Shane about it, before, but he can’t find the heart to now that he knows how much he loves having his boyfriend’s dick in his mouth in every possible circumstance.
“The sheets are disgusting," Shane complains, as if Ilya hadn’t read through his adorable grimace seconds before.
Ilya flicks at his dick with the tip of his forefinger. “And whose fault is that?”
As expected, a blush takes over Shane’s cheeks. He swats Ilya’s hand away with a grunt.
“Shut up.”
“Pretty dick getting all excited for good fucking,” Ilya keeps going with a smirk, reaching out to stroke his boyfriend a couple of times, loving the way Shane’s entire body gets lax immediately. His hips rise to meet the movement, already wrecked, and Ilya indulges him for a few seconds before letting go, watching as his dick bobs above Shane’s abs with a twitch.
“Ilya,” Shane says, and it sounds broken.
“I know you want more than my hand, Hollander.”
Shane doesn’t answer verbally, but his thighs fall open minutely. Ilya grins as he lies between them, letting his dick rub against Shane’s just for a moment, capturing his lips in a bruising kiss. Shane has always been a shy kisser compared to Ilya—but there’s no inhibitions in the way he kisses Ilya when they have sex. It’s like every wall this shy, proper boy has raised around himself for all his life comes down at once when Ilya’s tongue plunges into his mouth.
Ilya always kisses Shane like he wants to devour him, which is not too far from the truth, either. He likes kissing Shane at every given occasion, but there’s always something special about swallowing his boyfriend’s moans as he fucks him into the mattress. Call it territorial, but it always makes a deep, ugly part of Ilya’s chest purr in pleasure.
With that in mind, he reaches between their bodies to fold Shane easily, aided by years of yoga and even longer hockey training, and pushes back into his boyfriend’s willing body. This time, he gets a front seat row to the way Shane’s eyes flutter shut and his mouth parts in pleasure, and Ilya loves him so much it hurts. He rolls his eyes in slow circles, watching every different kind of pleasure flutter on Shane’s face as he does, his breath catching in his throat when his baby doe eyes open and find Ilya’s.
“I want you to hold my throat,” Shane all but begs.
Ilya swallows. It is not the kinkiest thing they’ve ever done, far from it. But it’s the first time he’s asking for something like this after an emotional day, and Ilya knows why. His hips come to an alt, tearing an annoyed noise out of Shane.
“Shane…”
“Please. I trust you, Ilya. I want you to make me feel good tonight. Can you do that for me?”
And Ilya would do anything for Shane, really. So he does. He brings his hand to Shane’s throat, curling his fingers around the edges to make sure he’s not crushing his airways with his palm, and resuming his movements slowly.
He can feel the way Shane swallows under his palm. He catches the rough timber of his moans, feels the power of his thrusts reverberate through Shane’s body that way and all of a sudden Ilya isn’t just fucking Shane. He’s owning him, he’s showing him how much he loves him and how far he would go for this love. Ilya thinks about earlier, about the thought of someone putting their hands on Shane, and the rage inside of him burns bright. Shane must feel it too—because he always does.
His hands come up to hold the headboard, fingers scrambling for purchase as his body is rammed against the bed with every powerful thrust inside of him. He looks at peace, Ilya thinks as he looks down at Shane, his eyes closed, cheeks flushed and his lips opened around a steady string of moans. He looks at peace, and so utterly confident in Ilya’s ability to make him feel good that it hurts.
“So good at taking care of me,” Shane babbles, every vibration of his voice resonating deep inside of Ilya’s body. “Always protecting me.”
And suddenly, Ilya wants to cry. He feels the pressure of it behind his eyelids, pressing against the side of his skull. His skin tingles all over, and it’s with pure instinct that he rasps Shane’s name, prompting his boyfriend to open his eyes and look at him.
“Ilya,” Shane says, but he does not sound panicked at the sight of him crumbling in his arms. Instead, there’s an understanding, a softness that lingers behind the word. He reaches out to wrap his hand around the back of Ilya’s skull, holding him there, grounding him.
It’s an awkward angle for them to kiss, but Ilya breathes into Shane’s mouth, swallowing every little pant that escapes his lips. It feels like they’re one and the same, even more than usual. Every moan and every breath that escapes Shane feels like Ilya’s, and he cannot look away from the depth of his boyfriend’s eyes as they reach their peak together.
Ilya’s orgasm almost takes him by surprise.
One second he’s aching for a kiss and feeling Shane flutter around him, and the next he’s thrown over the edge and muffling a shout that threatens to tear itself out of his throat. He rarely ever comes before Shane, out of principle, but also because the sight of Shane coming is too pretty to miss and he likes to drink it in full. But tonight there’s no holding back the tsunami of feelings taking over him, and Ilya lets go.
“Ilya,” Shane whispers in wonder, his fingers tightening in his hair, pleasure mixing with the slight pain at the tug at the base of his scalp.
It grounds him, to Shane and to the moment between them, and there’s nothing Ilya can do but ride the wave, eyes fluttering shut despite everything. He wants nothing more than to keep looking at Shane, but the pleasure cursing through him is too great. Distantly, Ilya realises that his lash line is wet, and there used to be a time when he cared about every tear he shed in the presence of others—but not today.
Tonight, he presses his sweaty and tear-stained face to Shane’s, his fingers loosening their grip around his boyfriend’s throat. Around the fog in his mind, he can feel Shane reach for himself between their bellies, and it only takes a couple of strokes for him to spill between them.
It’s a tumble of limbs and sweaty bodies when Ilya all but falls into Shane, the latter widening his stance and allowing their body to collide in a weird stretch that cannot possibly feel comfortable. But Shane is nothing but determined to cuddle after sex, especially after the emotional roller coaster of today.
“How are you feeling?” he asks eventually, both of his hands in Ilya’s hair, massaging his scalp. Ilya feels his spine melt under the attention.
“Is my line,” Ilya mumbles in response.
“Not today, it isn’t.”
Ilya could fall asleep right there and then, with his cock still nestled into Shane and his face smushed in his pecs, but he knows how much Shane hates when they fall asleep in a messy bed. So he forces himself to look up, and presses a kiss against the tip of Shane’s nose, then one more against his lips.
“Shower?” he says, because proper grammar is not in the cards after all of this.
Shane nods.
“You go. I change the sheets.”
He’s met with no resistance—because Ilya is very much aware of how disgusting Shane feels right now, and he wants a smile to come back on his boyfriend’s face as soon as possible. So he lets him go, slipping out of him with a soft whine and another kiss pressed against the corner of Shane’s lips, and for a moment, Ilya lies on the bed staring at the ceiling.
Life has a funny way of working.
Ten years ago, Ilya was afraid of wanting, afraid of loving, terrified of being himself most of all. He met Shane Hollander at a strange time in his life—one where he was still grieving the loss of his mother, and trying his hardest to please a sick father. It had felt like life had nothing to offer but the possibility of leaving Russia with hockey at the time, but little did he know how much hockey would bring him in the end.
Turning his head to the side, Ilya looks at the ensuite bathroom’s door. It’s closed, but he can hear the water running, and he can almost picture the droplets of water running down Shane’s body. Being afraid has been his curse for most of his life, but not anymore. Because he gets to have this, gets to love this man unashamedly and perhaps, soon, in front of the whole world. And no amount of whitened scars on his back or bad dreams will ever change that.
In the bathroom, the water turns off. The familiar sound of the sliding door resonates in the otherwise quiet summer evening, and it’s almost easy to picture Shane wrapping himself in his big, fluffy white towel.
On the bed, Ilya smiles.