Work Text:
«How's one to know?
I'd live and die for moments that we stole
On begged and borrowed time
So tell me to run
Or dare to sit and watch what we'll become»
It starts as it always does.
Dreams of Russian winters, his hands red and covered in frostbites, fingers curled around his small hockey stick.
His mom has always told him to wear gloves while on ice, he’s always been too proud to do it. Never he has seen a Russian man wear gloves in winter. Yes, clearly, professional hockey players do, but his father, he’s always said - never mind.
He marches in the storm, head low as he tries to shade his eyes from the snow.
Moscow has always been dark and threatening in his memories, even in the most recent ones.
In this dream, he arrives home completely wet, drenched in frozen water, his hockey gear duly stored in his big sport bag. He tries to remove locks of blond hair from his forehead, slightly struggling with his fingers, numbed by the cold.
His childhood home is enormous. He walks the gloomy hallways, shoes dripping snow and mud at every step. His mom’s probably still sleeping. He finds her napping in her room almost every afternoon, curled under a blanket.
His parents don’t sleep together, they have not since his birth. They sometimes spend time in bed together, or that’s what he assumes (but he tries so hard to never think about it).
The hardwood floor creaks under his sneakers. His father keeps telling him to bring proper shoes to practice, to stop dragging his stupid Nikes in the snow, that his feet have to be preserved if he wants to become a great hockey player. He mostly doesn’t listen. He loves his Air Force 1, they make him look cool.
He impatiently approaches the first floor, he’s going to wake Irina up, he has to tell her everything about the three goals he has just scored, how he has stolen the puck from Yevgeniy at least six times and how fast he has skated and -
He hears his father’s voice downstairs, he’s scolding their maid for the muds splashes on the carpet. He can’t help but feel the tips of his ears blush guiltily. He’ll apologies to Lydia later. Maybe after getting rid of the dirty water now wetting the moquette of his mother’s bedroom too.
Irina is asleep, as he’s imagined.
The room is warm, warmer than the rest of the house. He kneels at her side, his toes now able to move again as the higher temperature melts all the ice encrusted in his shoes. For a really long second his eyes fix the small greysh droplets as they roll and slip on the rubber sole. Even all stained and worn out, he fucking loves those shoes. But as the soft fabric under his feet gets soaked in sleet, the awareness of how his father will react weighs down his chest. To be fair, he’s not really that preoccupied, he knows his mother will protect him from Grigoryeevich, shielding him from his reproaches.
His hands grab Irina’s shoulders, shacking her gently. He waits for her usual faint smile to appear and light up the face. Her eyes don’t flicker and - as he gets closer he notices it - her mouth doesn’t stretch, her lips already parted in a way he’s never seen before. Her skin is paler than usual, nuances of blue you could find only in snowflakes shade her young face, her eyelids seem to have been holding tears, her eyelashes crumpled together, like small bouquets of dark flowers.
«мама» mom he whispers, pressing his hands on her shoulders a bit harder, «мамочка?» mommy?.
Words seem to tangle in his throat, is mother tongue now hard to pronunce.
He tries again, shacking Irina’s body, calling her name. She doesn’t move, body tense under his hands, muscles stiff. «мама, это я, Илья» mom, it’s me, Ilya he whines, his voice getting smaller by the second.
She doesn’t reply, her body does not respond to her baby’s touch, does not react to his voice, now broken.
She lies on her bed, a small sparrow killed by the harsh Russian winter.
And he knows she won’t wake up, she won’t wrap her ballerina arms around him anymore, not even one last time, not even for a final cuddle. He knows, so he starts crying, hiding into the crease of her neck.
Footsteps and wood squeaks creep in, almost impossible to hear behind the deafening ring piercing his ears. He feels the gentle touch of Lydia on his shoulder and the cold voice of his father ordering him to get back to his own room at the same time, a combo that should probably ground him but just sends him into spiral.
He can’t let his mommy go, he wants to stay there and hold her a little longer. He still has to tell her all about practice, he wants to tell her the joke he’s been thinking about for the last few days, he - he doesn’t want to go to his room, doesn’t want to face his future without her, he just doesn’t.
But Grigoryevich is difficult to disobey, Irina has known it all her life and Ilya knows it too.
He finds himself staring at the ceiling of his own bedroom less then two minutes later, teeth brushed and a clean pajamas on. He has not had dinner. No one has. And even if it’s barely afternoon his father has sent him to bed, stomach growling and heart numb.
He does not sleep, eyes wide open, no tear left to be cried.
The next morning the sun seems unable to rise, leaving Moscow covered in big snowy clouds for the whole day.
Ilya combs his blonde curls and washes his face, brushes his teeth and gets dressed. He looks for his Air Force everywhere, sure to have left them somewhere in his room. He doesn’t find them. He never will, because his father has thrown them in the trash.
*
That’s exactly what he sees, every single time those same clouds that once filled Moscow’s sky crowd his head, stuffing it like wadding.
He knows some of the details from that day are made up, a trick of his memory or a projection of his own head but, as a matter of fact, that really doesn’t matter once he starts getting lost in his spiral of thoughts. He sees fragments of his old life in loop, forgotten details every time more vivid and fresh, colors he can’t remember otherwise, smells long gone.
It’s not always this bad.
Usually the prospect of talking to Galina and spend the night with Shane are enough to keep him afloat and navigate through the day.
Today is not even barely comparable.
He’s never been afraid of the white Canadian winter, he’s lived in Russia most of his life and spent every single day training on ice, freezing temperatures and dim sunlight don’t scare him.
But this morning has triggered something inside his chest, pressing his feelings against his ribs so hard he’s been left with a familiar sense of disgust.
He’s been nauseous ever since.
Ottawa sleeps silently in front of him, covered in a soft, candid mantle. It’s 4:07 AM and Ilya is wide awake; he’s been so for more than an hour already.
He stretches his arms on the mattress for the tenth time, already knowing no one is going to be there. Any other morning, Shane’s absence would be a painful reminder of how much love they have for each other, how much they miss each other, something sad, yes, but also tender.
Any other morning he’d be checking his phone, maybe sending him a text, a red heart emoji or a sincere stream of consciousness, letting his boyfriend know how he’s really feeling.
Today, none of these are plausible options.
From the huge window in his bedroom he observes the Rideau Canal Skateway. He’d give anything to look out that window and feel what he felt the first time he entered that apartment, hand in hand with Shane, so out of their mind in love.
Right now, glancing over the frozen canal, he just fights the desire to jump out of the window, crashing on the ice, praying it’d broke and swallow him whole.
There is not a single muscle in his body not soring. His nape, his neck, his deltoids are burning like fire, skin almost unable to contain the growing pain. His pectorals, his abdomen, his groin ache, each fiber slowly disassembling.
His nerves, pulled like strings, scream in silence, as if they’re devoured by acid.
He’s never felt this kind of fatigue, not even once in his whole career. But fatigue is definitely not the term for what his body is trying to communicate him, it’s rather a call for help he has kept ignoring for weeks.
He tries rolling his stiff shoulders a couple of times, left one first, then right, then together, but he ends with an overlapped tendon and the rancid taste of failure. His head pulses against his fingertips from too much crying and dehydration. He presses his indexes on his temples, trying with no success to lower the hammering thud in his skull, to get rid of the terrible thoughts that have been haunting him no stop for days.
He rolls on his back, perception of every single one of his muscles impossible to ignore, and clenches his abs to pull himself up.
He takes another look out the window. During the day trees skirting the river are almost reddish, bathed in warm sunlight but right now, with the sky still pitch black and two more hours till sunrise, he can’t really see anything other than some streetlights and the rare cars passing by on the bridge.
He should love this view, he has bought this flat (a nice addition to his real estate collection, already including another property in Ottawa, less central and more private) almost on the spot because of it. But life changes quickly, he knows it better than most, and one day you’re enthusiastically imagining your new life in a new city just a couple of hours apart from Montreal and another you linger a little too much on the thought of saying goodbye.
He squeezes his eyes and spots a family of ducks scampering on the ice, duckings following their mother with uncertain steps, trotting to keep up with her pace. Two fat tears roll down his cheeks. His life denied him so many things and provided him so many other. He lost his mother, his father, his home - his brother too, somehow, but he’s been gifted with talent, and talent has brought him glory, money and an emergency exit from the clutches of a harsh family, a difficult country, a cemetery of hunting memories.
And above all, more than fame and fortune, more than cups and awards, his brilliant knack for hockey has brought him on the same path as Shane Hollander.
And that is definitely one of the reasons his life seems to be collapsing right now, pieces of everything he loves the most crumbling under his feet: he loves Shane and Shane loves him back. They are planning a future together, a wedding, a family, perhaps.
Or at least, that’s what he has been fantasizing about until Wednesday - since then every moment has been torturous.
He checks the time, 4:18.
Shane’s about to wake up, later in the morning the Metros are expected to fly to NYC for their match against Admirals. He could call him or, at least, text him. But he is not physically able to. He would not survive listening to the sound of his voice or handle his softness.
He might not be able to bear the sweet good morning message Shane would immediately text back or the cute emojis that would pop up on his screen in less than a minute. Right now, he just has to figure out a way to survive the next few hours, once Shane is in New York he’ll be fine, a two hours flight to separate them and prevent a disastrous meeting.
He has called in sick from his game. Poor, poor behavior, especially for a captain, but could not do any differently. He needs to try and decompress and being a good player would drain the last drops of his lifeblood and leave him stranded on the rink.
His phone buzzes. He doesn’t need to check it to know it’s Shane. He checks anyway.
from: Jane
Heading to the airport. Miss you so fucking much. Good luck for tonight! Love you.
Shane doesn’t know. He doesn’t know he has told coach Wiebe he can’t play tonight, he doesn’t know he’s been sleep deprived for three days, incapable of eating, drinking or taking a shower.
Shane doesn’t know that Ilya has a high possibility to inherit his father dementia. And ruin their lives.
And this new piece of information, acquired by pure chance on Wednesday, has triggered the worst depressive episode of his life, tearing him apart, not in pieces, in fragments, flakes of his precious personality scattered over the bed he has not left since.
The happy, bright future he has been promised and has spent so many flights daydreaming about may never exist, thanks to his incredible genetics.
What could better describe him than tall, blonde and fucking sick?
Living with depression is bloody tiring.
Therapy has changed his mindset, helping him come to terms with his health condition and making him so, so grateful for Galina’s presence in his life.
He is sure he is getting better. He knows he is. Shane’s proposal has been the best thing that had ever happened to him. Ever.
But the possibility, the almost certainty, of dying as his father had, no chance to see what Shane and him have so carefully designed for their life together, has ruined all the progresses, razing his few hopes to the ground.
Not to mention the billboard, the motherfucking billboard that appeared out of the blue in front of the condo and punched him in the guts, knocking him out.
He needs to throw up once again, his stomach painfully lurching. He stumbles to the bathroom and empties himself in the toilet. His mouth immediately fills with the acid aftertaste of vomit.
He’s exhausted, he needs to rest, he needs his mind to let him. He crawls back to the bed and briefly ponders what to do.
Then, dabbing his forehead from sweat, he opens the window.
*
«Ilya?»
Shane’s voice echoes in Ilya’s apartment as he tentatively walks in the semi dark open space.
«Ilya?» he tries again, nervously awaiting for a reply.
The enormous clock on the living room wall strikes 6:16 and he realizes how fast he must have driven. He will know exactly how when he receives the fine. He does not give a shit.
His heart is pounding, rushing blood to his head and making him unable to stay focused.
He hurries to Ilya’s room, the house spinning under his feet as he enters the night area.
«Ilya? Ilya?»
He can’t contain the tremor in his throat as his voice almost breaks, a sound between a scream unable to form and a weep.
Shane tries again to shout and again fails, the «Ilya!» that escapes his mouth nothing more than a barely audible whisper.
He opens the bedroom’s door with sweaty hands, collapsing against the wooden frame at the sight.
The window is wide open, the air temperature quite below the zero.
Clothes scattered on the floor, blankets tangled at the feet of the bed.
His breath stutters and he almost faints as he spots Ilya, curled on the mattress.
Shane’s voice finds his way back as he blurts «Jesus fuck, Ilya!»
Ilya’s eyes snap open, terror and confusion crossing his face as he realizes Shane’s presence in his room.
«Sha - ne» he pants with a sleepy voice, still groggy, «what are you doing here?»
Shane jumps on the bed and almost launches himself on Ilya, stopping abruptly a few seconds prior to touch him: «Why didn’t you call me Ilya?»
Ilya opens his mouth and immediately closes it. He scrunches his nose, puzzled: «I’m sorry - I - I am», tears pierce his eyes immediately, sobs stopping him middle-sentence.
Shane hugs him, holding tight to his broad chest, «Fuck baby»
The few words get lost in the crease of Ilya’s neck, muffled against the cold skin.
Ilya’s heart crumbles, broken in the tiniest pieces as Shane lulls him, and right there, in the embrace of his fiancé, devoured by insecurities and fears, he desperately starts crying, hiding his face and shutting his eyes tight.
Shane’s whispers get lost in his hair, lips pressed against the top of his head, «Oh, Ilya.»
They stay intertwined for what seems like an eternity, limbs tangled.
Ottawa sky slowly turns into a pale shade of coral pink, dawn’s silence broken only by Ilya’s hopelessness and Shane’s shushes.
Suddenly Ilya pulls back, showing his face to Shane and pressing his fingers on his T-shirt, now wet and stained with tears and snot: «I am sorry Shane»
Shane words crowd in his mouth, too many and too fast to be correctly articulated. He tries anyway: «Don’t be. Just talk to me. Please Ilyusha.»
They look into each other’s eyes for a whole minute, Shane’s ones so profoundly worried, afraid of losing his best friend and life partner, Ilya’s desperate and yet full of devotion for the man beside him.
A deep breath, voice unsteady: «I will die. Like my father. Or mother.»
Shane raises his eyebrows to his hairline, «What?»
A distant police car alarm blares.
Ilya’s eyes get teary again and Shane can’t stop his hands from cupping his cheeks and circling the red and hot skin with his thumbs.
A thin, faint smile appears on Ilya’s lips, «I know it, I read about it. Dementia is hereditary. Fuck.»
New tears streams down his face, his feelings reflected in Shane’s big, kind eyes, his own pain and frustration shining in the brown irises - he can see how they both are utterly scared.
Shane lips tremble a bit as he tries to pull himself together and speak. He needs more than an attempt but once he succeeds his voice sounds steadier than they both expect: «Ilya, baby, breath.»
Ilya slumps against the bedpost, his whole body gone limp, «I can’t - I’m sorry - I »
Shane tries to control the terror wave crashing on Ilya and overflowing from his blue eyes, but he doesn’t let him and starts speaking again, almost shouting: «I don’t wanna die Shane.»
There’s no way for Shane to interfere, Ilya is a river impossible to stop: «I don’t want to die - I don’t - you are my - Shane, fuck, I don’t wanna die unable to remember my life. Unable to remember my mom. You.»
«Ilya that’s -»
«I don’t want our future to look like that - I don’t want you to live with memories of sick me. And more than anything I don’t want to forget you.»
The cry prevails again on Ilya and his urgency to talk, his pretty eyes looking for Shane, scanning his face for a glimpse of comfort.
Shane is aware of his own panic rising, tachycardia and sweaty palms not so subtle warnings, but he swallows hard and takes Ilya’s hands in his and, as stating a matter of fact, says: «You won’t, любимая. Now breath, in and out. Try with me. Please, Ilya.»
And Ilya tries, finally able to let air flow correctly into and out of his lungs.
Shane’s voice soothes him, «Good job baby, keep going.»
He keeps going, in and out as his Shane tells him.
Oxygen is filling his brain cells, allowing his mind to be cleared a little, one breath after the other.
They do it together for a while, neither of them willing to interrupt the grounding procedure, hands still pressed together.
*
Ottawa is finally awake out of the huge window, now duly closed.
It’s still early in the morning and only a few brave tourists are skating on the frozen canal, wrapped up in their snow jackets, bright pink noses barely visible from the scarfs tangles.
Ilya is sleeping, head pressed on Shane’s pecs, jaw slacked, snoring.
Shane has not been able to close his eyes for the past two hours, adrenaline from the whole morning keeping his brain extra active, replaying every single fragment of the day so far.
He’s been researching, reading, typing on his phone with just one hand, the other buried in Ilya’s curls, absentmindedly massaging his scalp.
He knows Ilya so damn well, he knows his fears and how traumatic the events he has lived are.
He knows about the billboard, it’s the first thing he has spot while waiting for the condo’s garage door to open.
It’s stupid, being triggered by something that is not even about him, some sort of second-hand pain.
But he is certain that the Nike advertising must have ignited Ilya’s episode as much as all the dementia stuff.
They have talked about mental health issues and Grigoryeevich’s illness many times and Shane knows almost everything Ilya has been able to recall about the day of Irina’s death. Even about the shoes.
He also knows how Ilya has never bought a single pair of Air Force 1 ever since.
He tenderly kisses Ilya’s head, pulling him closer. The Russian boy is still asleep, exhaustion painted on his mesmerizing features, eyelashes still wet and mouth open, a small trickle of saliva escaping the plushy lips. Shane could not describe how deeply in awe of his beauty and of his unbelievable being he is. How so he has been for the past ten years.
*
It’s an unusual smell the one that wakes him up and that causes his synapsis to take a little longer than usual to orientate in space and time.
He must have fallen asleep, he actually remembers falling asleep while being held by Shane - but where is Shane now? And what kind of smell is filling his house?
Pulling himself up is not an easy game, his head spins a bit as he walks out of his bedroom and stumbles into the living area.
He finds Shane on the phone, sat on the couch, under a fancy blanket Yuna has gifted them for Christmas.
He sneaks under the blanket himself and immediately lean his head on Shane’s shoulder, patiently waiting for his call to end.
Less than a minute and a couple of “okay, thank you” and “noted, thank you” later Shane puts his phone away and tilts his head so that is angled towards Ilya.
«Goodmorning» he whispers, laying his forehead against Ilya’s.
«Goodmorning. What time is it?»
«Noon. Are you hungry?»
Ilya nods, still slightly dizzy. His stomach lurches as if personally involved in the conversation.
Shane keeps his hand steady on his back as they head toward the kitchen.
The unusual smell fills his nostrils once again, stronger. It’s weirdly familiar but he’s not quite sure of why.
«What is this smell?» he asks, sitting on the one the stool around the kitchen island.
Shane smile, freckles on full display enough to make his heart rest for the first time in days: «пельмени.»
«Shane - where do you found fucking Pel’meni?»
«At a deli. So fucking hard to find.»
Ilya furrows his brows, «A deli? Like a Russian deli?»
Shane places two bowls of pel’meni on the lacquered surface, «Yes - I found one a couple of blocks from your house.»
The smell, now stronger, makes his mouth water. Then the realization of the double portion hits him, «are you eating pel’meni too?»
A shy smile appears on Shane’s face, «Of course.»
«But they’re like thousands of cal - »
The smile falters a bit, but stays on: «I don’t care.»
The taste is possibly a million times better than the smell. The meat filling melts on his tongue, the sharp horseradish flavor somehow grounding him, serotonin level finally increasing in his system.
Shane seems to be enjoying the dumplings as well, but Ilya checks anyway, for good measure: «Do you like them?»
«They’re like - super good!»
«Don’t sound so surprised Hollander, Russians are very good at many things.»
Shane smiles, fondly: «Oh, I know.»
Ilya grins, «Pervert.»
Shane doesn’t even look up from his food, «I was talking about hockey. And ballet.»
«Hockey and ballet, wow.»
A beat of silence, their eyes meet in the domesticity of the moment.
It’s Shane who speaks again, voice soft: «How are you feeling?»
«Better. I am so sorry for - »
Shane stops him immediately, «Don’t. Please, Ilya, don’t apologize.»
Ilya’s voice trembles a little, «Ok. Just let me explain, then, yes?»
Shane nods and brings a dumpling to his mouth, chewing in silence.
«I fear forgetting the past. My mother, Russia, hockey. But the thing that scares me most is forgetting you. I don’t know how I could survive without you. Because I survived this far only because of you Shane. And the idea of forgetting our first kiss, or first time at the cottage or first time playing against each other is not plausible» then Ilya briefly stop, looking, if possible, really small, «plausible, yes? правдоподобный?»
«Yes - правдоподобный, plausible.»
«I don’t want you to deal with my problems more than you already do. It’s not - they don’t belong to you. But I can’t think of me without you. And I am so selfish I always hope you don’t think of yourself without me. Not even for a bit, not even when I’m like this.»
Shane’s vision blurs, his brown eyes now teary: «I could never, ever, live a day without you, neither a bad day nor a good one. You are my my whole life, Ilya. And you will never forget about us - because I wouldn’t let you.
But you don’t have to shut me out, don’t let me know you’re not playing a game from Hayden, don’t leave on read and turn off your notifications ever again - it’s cruel.»
And oh, oh - Ilya realizes what must have happened less than six hours before.
Shane at the airport, Hayden reading some sport news to him, some Ilya Rozanov sick - unable to play tonight’s game shit. He can only imagine Shane storming out of the airport, picking up his car and driving 30 miles over the limit all the way to Ottawa. Shit, how could he have been so stupid?
But, right then and there, Shane takes his hand and squeezes it. «I am not mad. I just need you to talk to me, all the time. And - I’m sorry if I seem off sometimes, I just can’t wait for us to get married and openly together. I swear to god, Ilyusha, I want the whole world to know how lucky I am to be with you. And I am so proud of you and the work you’re doing in therapy. You deserve lightness baby. You deserve the sun.»
Ilya is on the verge of tears, blue eyes so clear they’re almost liquid, but Shane needs to add something: «And, for the record, dementia is almost never hereditary. I’ve talked to a couple of doctors while you were sleeping, friends of my mom and googled a lot. Chances are extremely low. But you can take some test, if it makes you feel better. But please, baby, don’t believe everything you read online.»
Ilya swallows the food he’s been filling is mouth with to refrain from crying, «I am so sorry. And so grateful. And so amazed you found time to order Russian food and call doctors while I was sleeping.»
Shane squeezes his hand again, now with a real, proper smile on his beautiful lips.
«At what time do you need to get to the airport?» Ilya asks, silently hoping not to have wasted all the available time with Shane while sleeping.
«Oh», Shane says causally, «I don’t. I told the team I had a family emergency. I won’t be playing tomorrow. I have a free weekend. Also, I bought you something. Delivery was not scheduled before Monday but, you know, I told them it was for the hockey superstar Ilya Rozanov and - I guess they figured out a way to let your doorman receive the package after thirty minutes.»
Ilya widens his eyes, watching as Shane gets up, retrieve a black bag from behind the couch and handles it to him.
The little note on top of the package reads:
за любовь всей моей жизни. Пора. Shane.
for the love of my life. it’s time. Shane.
He opens the courier box, hands delicate but strong enough to not need a pair of scissors.
There’s another box inside, he lifts the cardboard cover and removes the crinkly tissue paper with trembling fingers.
He knew it. He fucking knew it. Shane Hollander is the best thing this world has gifted him and life is worth living (or tried to be lived, at least).
Because Shane Hollander could have anyone and anything but has chosen him, has chosen to be the purpose in life for Ilya Rozanov.
His fingertips slowly trace the stitchings, grazing the the white leather.
Shane Hollander has bought him the exact replica of his beloved Air Force 1.
He can’t contain the tsunami of emotions crashing over him. But he does not cry, his eyes are teary but his heart is so full that for the first time in days he feels like everything is possible. It’s fucking amazing.
He stands up, placing the shoes on the floor, and grabs Shane by the hoodie collar, pulling him up fiercely.
«Hollander, I have prayed for you all my life» he hisses under his breath, Shane’s body completely pressed against his own, already walking towards the bedroom.
«Uh, no» Shane smiles, but seems serious, «finish your food first. I mean, if you want to. But really, let me have a shower, I need it.»
Ilya is puzzled but nods and gets back to the island, finishing the pel’meni.
He sees Shane cleaning the kitchen counter, putting his plate into the dishwasher and disappearing in the night area.
*
Of course Shane had changed the bed and lit up a scented candle.
«Is this a way to tell me I smell? Cause I was going to shower anyway» he mumbles.
Shane cups his face, hands on his lightly bearded cheeks, «No, you can rest now, if you like. I mean, or shower. Or watch the shit tv you like so much. Whatever you want, I’ll be here till Monday, we’ve got plenty of time.»
«No. I’m gonna shower now. Than I’m gonna fuck you, yes? I mean, if you want.»
Shane pulls him closer, letting their mouth crash together, lips on lips.
Ilya immediately intensifies the contact, sliding his tongue into Shane’s mouth and moaning relieved.
Shane leaves a small peck on his mouth, «I want, you idiot. Go shower, I’ll be waiting right here.»
Ilya Rozanov is many things: globally-recognized as fucking hot, stubborn, lovable, smart, an amazing hockey player.
Not always a great example of fairplay, sometimes a menace, some other times desperately fragile.
Right now, Shane is looking at him mouth agape. Ilya Rozanov is a fucking vision.
He stands in front of the king size bed completely naked but for a small, hand towel hung on his waist, covering just his cock.
Shane, as well in no clothes but his briefs and already hard at the vision, can’t help but drooling: «Come here Rozanov.»
Ilya smirks, «It will be Hollander-Rozanov soon» then grabs his face and kisses him full force.
They fall on the bed together, still devouring each other with hunger.
Shane’s hands fly to Ilya’s hips, swiftly removing the towel and throwing it on the floor.
Ilya’s dick springs free, already hard, pushing against Shane’s stomach, seeking any kind of friction.
Today there’s no need to play or string out the agony, they need each other. And they have plenty of time for games and endless rounds of sex. He needs closeness now, he needs to touch and to be touched, their intimacy again and again.
Ilya tilts his head, deepening the kiss then retrieving just a bit in order to bite Shane’s bottom lip till the bitter taste of iron awakes his taste buds.
Shane grunts in frustration and pushes his whole body against Ilya’s, climbing on top of him. But it’s Ilya’s turn to be impatient and needy, he always deserves to be loved but today, today especially. He flips Shane on his back and attaches his mouth to his neck, sucking for a couple of seconds prior to freeze and stop. There’s a strict no hickeys rule, unless they’re below the belt, between them and Shane is pretty scrupulous about it.
But, after all and against all the odds, this may be a good day. Shane pants and nods at the same time, «keep going, do not stop love».
Ilya’s heart might explode. He moves his mouth south anyway, not wanting Shane to change his mind later about the bruised skin, sucking and carefully biting Shane’s nipple.
Air still smells lightly of the lavander detergent used for the laundry, fresh and clean. Shane’s salty sweat and the citrusy of his body wash linger on his tongue.
A soft whine, «Shit baby - shit, Ilya»
Ilya moves his fingers on the yoked pecs, replacing his teeth with his thumb and index, squeezing them playfully and bringing his mouth on Shane’s groin.
He nuzzles Shane’s cock, leaving small pecks on the entire lenght, up and down again and again. He licks it maliciously, pinning the boy down, holding his hips in place as he frantically tries to fuck his mouth the secondo he takes his tip between the lips.
«Behave Hollander» he murmurs before taking him all in, bobbing his head and letting a trickle of saliva lubricate the motion.
Shane rolls his eyes, intoxicated by the touch, «It’s going to be - fuck - Hollander Rozanov soon»
Ilya moans, letting the sound vibrate against Shane’s cock. His ring and cross swing on the golden chain as he blows Shane off.
He knows he has a long way to go before getting better, but he’s so fucking happy right now. And he owes Shane so much. And they deserve the world and so much more - and they will get every-fucking-thing. As Shane said, he deserves the lightness and the sun, they both do, together.
He angles his head to be able to have Shane’s dick bump against the back of his throat.
He knows Shane is close so he pulls back with a pop, licking Shane’s tip once again, slowly and lusciously, eyes fixed in Shane’s puppy ones.
«Jesus fuck Ilya - please, fuck me»
How could he refuse the honey dripping pray of his husband to be? He lifts himself and climb on top of Shane, kissing his mouth again, biting and licking his upper lip, pulling it between his incisors. Jesus, he could do this forever, kissing Shane could be the best thing he has ever decided to do in his life and somehow it only keeps getting better.
Shane slides one hand between their bodies and strokes Ilya’s dick, allowing him to release a deep moan.
«Fuck, Shane» he hisses, closing his eyes and savoring the plushy lips of his fiancé a bit more.
He grabs a bottle of lube from somewhere on his nightstand and squeezes the gel on his fingers, bringing them to Shane’s rim.
The boy holds his breath at the cold sensation, but relaxes immediately around him, jerking his hips to better envelop him.
He pushes his index inside Shane’s hole, circling and curling the finger and teasing his lover’s patience.
«Mo - re»
He obeys, sliding his middle finger in and scissoring the tight muscles open.
Air is now thicker with the sweet smell of sweat.
Shane nods with desperation, his left hand anchored behind Ilya’s neck, pulling him closer and closer, the hunger for kisses definitely not satiated.
They part just to inhale some air, «Condom?» he pants.
Shane’s eyes wide in disbelief: «Fuck no.»
Ilya aligns his aching dick to Shane’s anus, slowly pushing in, inch after inch.
His jaw falls open at sensation, not new, definitely, but so fucking overwhelming. Shane mimics his expression, face ablaze, eyes glossy in lust.
Ilya’s tongue capture Shane’s thumb, already languishing on his chin, sucking on it as his dick penetrates the fucking temple of the body of Shane Hollander.
«Holy shit, Roz - »
A deeper thrust and his dick hits Shane’s prostate.
«Ah fuck, fuck Ilya»
Another one, more deliberate.
His free hand blocks Shane from touching himself, «come untouched. Just from -» he digs himself deeper into him, «just from me fucking your pretty ass».
His dick is on fire, buried into Shane’s flesh, warm and tight, friction of each movement sending him into orbit. He wants to hammer his boyfriend’s body down, but he’ll save it for the night. Right now being together is what really counts - that and the fact that each bump into Shane’s sensitive spot is fire straight to his balls.
Shane’s cock is on full display between his bended legs and Ilya’s hands itch from wanting to touch it.
He moves his hips faster, desire boiling at the base of his stomach, almost unbearable.
«Fuck Ilya, I’m close»
Deeper and harder, each dig more destabilizing.
Shane’s head feels full of cotton, he can’t stop looking for Ilya’s eyes as he gets fucked, devoured by pleasure, cheeks wet by tears both of pain and ecstasy. He’s so damn close he can feel his own balls hurt.
He needs it and Ilya needs it too.
He digs his nails on Ilya’s shoulders, making him grunt in surprise, pulling him closer so he can fuck him better.
Ilya murmurs something, lips pressed on his neck crease, something like «блядь» fuck.
Shane loves that word in Ilya’s mouth, it makes him sound so powerful, so fucking hot.
And most of the times means that his Russian puppy is on the point of no return.
He slides a hand between Ilya’s chin and lifts it up, making their lips collide. And that’s it, in the frantic mess of tongues and teeth Ilya crashes him with a final thrust.
Shane’s vision goes white, constellations appear beyond his eyelids as his dick twitches and finally releases himself, coming untouched as per the instructions received.
He bites Ilya’s tongue, not hard, not with rage, but with just enough intention to make Ilya moan even harder as he comes as well, pulsing against his flesh and filling him.
Another kiss, slower and fonder.
«Can I open the window?» Ilya asks, slowly leaving Shane’s body and rolling on his back.
«But it’s freezing»
«I want a taste of the future. Nobody can see us up here, I just want the window open - »
Shane smiles, «I have a better idea. Go shower and get dressed.»
Ilya giggles, «Bossy.»
But once Shane lifts his head to reply, he is already walking to the bathroom.
*
«Wear your gloves, it’s fucking February»
Shane’s voice is almost singsong like as he scolds him and throws him a pair of gloves.
«I am grown up Russian man, I don’t need gloves»
Shane smiles at him, «Ok, as you say.»
He’s a bit confused as they exit the apartment and take the elevator down to the garage. He’s not sure where they’re going or what they’re doing, but he just follows Shane in silence.
Ilya’s car collection is not completely stored in this building, some models are at his other place in Ottawa, a couple in Montreal, maybe a couple at the cottage.
Shane stares at the super cars in silence, slightly puzzeled with indecision, «Can they all go in the snow?»
Ilya shrugs, «Probably - but why would…»
Shane cuts him off, «We’ll take that one.»
That one turns out to be a Lamborghini Huracan Sterrato. Even without any clue of what they’re about to do Ilya is secretly grateful Shane has chosen the only of his cars really able to go on gravel and snow.
Ilya automatically heads to the driver’s door.
Shane puts a hand on his hip, pulling him back: «Nope, today you’re the princess passenger», then proceeds to climb into the seat.
Ilya’s heart flips. He has no idea why. Less than ten hours before he was experiencing the worst crisis of his life and now, sat in his $ 465.000 car, his chest is burning with excitement.
Shane fastens his seatbelt and reverses, exiting the condo and proceeding out in the city.
Ottawa is so pretty in the snow, nothing like the gloomy elegance of Moscow, but cute.
«Where exactly are we going?»
A delighted hum fills the cabin as Shane drives the Lamborghini with extreme ease, «You’ll see. Seat back and relax.»
The car moves swiftly, striding towards the Trans Canada Highway.
Ilya watches the city fading out of the windows and the panorama changing from the urban one of Ottawa to the snowy rows of spruce trees, lining the road.
Shane’s driving is, somehow, different from any previous time: reckless wouldn’t be the definition but it may give an idea. He’s faster and, definitely, more self-confident. Not above the limit or careless of the road conditions, just - more free? Ilya has dreamed of moments like this so much in the past years.
Shane remove his right hand from the wheel and cups Ilya’s knee, squeezing it tightly, then proceeds to turn the heating on and opens the car windows.
Ilya’s stomach drops enthusiastically - a weird sensation giving him shivers: «People might see us Hollander.»
Shane smiles and presses his foot on the accelerator, «We’re too fast.»
Fucking hell, who is this man?
Acceleration pushes him back against the seat but he peaks his head out of the window anyway, snow flakes melting on his nose.
He has never admitted it out loud, maybe it’s time: «Canada is not bad.»
Shane smiles, «I’ll tell Justin Trudeau.»
«Justin Trudeau - is PM your friend?»
A soft laugh, «Being the country’s golden boy has his perks.»
Ilya brings his hand on Shane’s thigh, moving the thumb in small circles, «Mine.»
«As long as you want me, Ilyusha»
A gust of wind brings some snow on the leather interiors, «Forever then.»
They spend another half an hour enjoying the new pilot version of Shane drive, admiring the stargazing Canadian landscape.
Ilya takes a deep breath, unable to refrain himself: «Do you really think I won’t get sick like my father?»
Shane brings their hands to his mouth and kisses Ilya’s knuckles, «I am pretty sure. But you know what - we could investigate. If you want to run a few tests, we could do it together.»
«я тебя люблю. вечно, моя любовь»
I love you. Forever, my love.
*
Less than an hour and a half later and the view outside the car’s window looks like it’s coming straight out of frosty fairytale.
The snow has covered even the tiniest portion of land, white ice crystals shining as the light reflects on them.
A frozen lake glistens in the distance as Shane parks the Lamborghini.
«Where are we?» Ilya asks.
«Ontario, Canada»
«Oh wow, really? Could’ve sworn this was Los Angeles» he laughs.
«Stop being so sassy and wear some fucking gloves, Rozanov» Shane snaps back, the shadow of a grin on his face.
«I don’t need gloves!» and, as an unequivocal proof of what he’s saying, Ilya presses his left hand on Shane’s face, «see? Not cold at all. While yours - I bet they’re a block of ice.»
Shane is honestly not surprised by Ilya’s hands being warm, he’s used to his body being, well, hot.
Ilya grabs Shane’s hands for good measure, «fucking freezing, maybe you need better gloves.»
They get off the car, snow immediately wetting their clothes. Ilya just follows Shane, still unsure of where they’re heading.
He has seen this place, probably on some Canada’s appreciation post on instagram or on a documentary he was napping to. Cannot lie, it’s pure magic, Frozen come to life.
Shane leads the way as if he’d be strolling the hallways of his own house, heading to the entrance of an extra luxurious building, some sort of boogie chalet nestled in the forest.
It’s like the cottage but - bigger, fancier and probably less private.
«What’s this place?»
«A chalet.»
«Is it safe? People may recognize us.»
«There’s no one else here today.»
Ilya shrugs in disbelief, «How is it possible?»
«Perks of being the country’s golden boy, I guess. I, uh, asked for a favor. I thought you - we might need some time alone, to - ehm, decompress?»
It isn’t a question but it sounds like it, Shane almost shy now.
Ilya wraps his arms around him, «I dream of the day we won’t need to rent an entire chalet to be together.»
Shane goes even softer, «Soon. Promised.»
The room Shane lets Ilya choose is huge. No other word could better describe it.
It has a king size bed, it has a view and, of course, it has an en suite bathroom.
As the huge wooden door closes behind their backs, Ilya attaches their mouths, hands already pulling Shane’s raven black hair.
Clearly Shane responds to the kiss passionately, slipping his tongue past Ilya’s soft lips and deepening the contact immediately.
As soon as they reach the bed and Shane’s calves hit the mattress he breaks the contact, «Uh - wait, wait, wait. I - I have programs.»
Ilya kisses him again, «Your programs can wait.»
Shane can’t break away, so kisses Ilya back before stopping again, «Eh - no. Soon the sun will set. I swear we’ll have plenty of time for this.»
Somehow Shane has convinced Ilya to follow him outside and they are now pulling on skates, sat on a wooden bench on the lake side.
The sun is slowly setting over, sprinkling the frozen surface with a white and blue pearlescence.
Shane starts moving with swift and powerful strikes, he’s mesmerizing to watch. Ilya has always loved the way he skates, fast and self aware, concentration painting his beautiful features. So damn sexy.
He follows him, dancing around him flawlessly.
«Is the lake private too?»
Shane sprints away, «Yup. Private.»
He almost has to shout, «And you wanted to - skate?»
A few strides and they’re close again, «We rarely have time to do it together. Or for fun.»
The most sincere smile in a really long time curves his lips, Shane can be so relieving sometimes.
Away from Montreal, away from the pressure. He misses something he has never even experienced before. But he does. And he is eager to have it all.
They keep skating on the frozen lake for almost an hour, just circling around one another, admiring the sunset.
Shane grabs his hand and kisses him on the mouth,«Let’s go, we have dinner booked in thirty minutes.»
«Dinner? Like real food or birds seeds with a side of gluten free vegan macrobiotics?»
«Shut the fuck up Rozanov. I’m trying. Ok?»
Oh, oh. He almost feels guilty. So he presses his nose to Shane’s one and bites his bottom lip.
«Sorry baby» he murmurs, «Я мог бы съесть тебя» I could eat you.
Shane moans and bites him back, sucking his tongue in and deepening the kiss. He moves his hands under Ilya’s jacket and pulls him closer.
Ilya melts under the palms of his freezing hands. Those cold hands have been holding him and all his pain, all his grudge, all the sadness and tiredness and frustration. He’d die for those beautiful hands.
They eventually part, remove the skates, put back their shoes and head to the chalet.
Dinner happens to be served in a cabin-style room, in front of a majestic fireplace.
The sky outside is pitch black, star-studded in a way you could never see anywhere else. Not in Ottawa, not in Boston. Never in Moscow.
Shane has insisted not to order room service, despite all his attempts to physically convince him.
Now they are being served -
«Shane»
«Ilya»
He stutters, «Is this - »
«Yes»
«And you are - »
Shane rolls his eyes, «I’ll get back to my diet on Monday. And you should definitely cut your sugars too. But for these two days - I don’t think this will kill us. I wanted to spoil you.»
Ilya has cried so much already in the past week, he’d rather not do it some more, but he can’t help a few more tears roll on his cheeks, down to his chin.
«любовь моя» my love.
Shane has teary eyes too as he points to the mac and cheese on the table, «Eat. You can thank me later. Properly.»
But despite the cheeky tone Shane’s eyes keep glimmering.
Ilya winks and starts eating, still unsure of how one of the worst days of the last three years might have turned into this.
There is a side of poutine and two cheeseburgers on the table, Coke and Ginger Ale.
They eat in silence, completely alone and Ilya feels so full: of good food, of care, of love. He feels seen.
He’ll hold on to that, at least for a little longer, at least until the summer.
«Dessert?» Shane asks, sipping his Canadian Dry.
Seeing a waiter approaching them, Ilya switches to his mother tongue once again: «Я бы хотел, чтобы ты был моим десертом. Или я мог бы быть твоим. и ты можешь любезно отсосать мой член» I would like you to be my dessert. Or I could be yours and you could kindly suck my cock.
Shane can’t help but laughing, «Idiot.»
Then turning to the waiter, «We’ll have the berry pie, please.»
Ilya adds: «With whipped cream.»
It’s probably the best pie they’ve ever had. It’s buttery, sugary yet slightly citrusy ad the same time.
It has the taste of the perfect afternoon, skating on the lake and kissing in front of the sunset.
«I would like to kiss you while you still taste of blueberries» Ilya says, almost sheepishly.
Shane gets up, silently asks for his hand and pulls him closer, «Let’s get back to our room.»
Then kisses him.
Once inside Shane slips away from Ilia’s touch, stripping down of his clothes.
Ilya smiles, «Oh I like what I see.»
«Do the same, there’s a jacuzzi on the balcony and it’s snowing.»
The water is perfect, steam floating above the surface, leaving them immersed in a transparent cloud.
Around them snow flakes, whitening the wooden floor and sprinkling on their bathrobes.
Shane wraps his arms around Ilya’s waist, «How are you?»
Ilya watches as some crystals form on Shane’s black eyebrows, «Better. I am um - sorry for scaring you today.»
Shane’s biceps flex, keeping his body pressed against his own: «Second time in less than two months. You need more. You deserve more. I’ll give it to you.»
«No sweetheart - don’t say so. You are perfect. I - it’s hard sometimes. But we’ll be together soon, like together-together. And I need it. But I think you need it too. You deserve it too.»
Shane lips press against Ilya’s wet shoulder, tasting the melting snow and the soft skin.
He lifts his head and kisses Ilya’s neck, jaw and chin. Finally, their mouths connect, mixing flavors of pie, water and sodas.
It’s sweeter than usual, less heated and much slower. Ilya places his hands at the base oh Shane’s neck, massaging his shoulders and around his collarbones. Shane’s muscles are a bit tense, Ilya knows the day must have been quite hard for him. The wave that crashes on his chest is not one of guilt, more of melancholy.
And Shane reads it in his face, «the weekend is not over. We’ve got two more days for ourselves. Then, forever.»
He nods, leaving a small trace of pecks on Shane’s freckles: «Then forever» he murmurs.
Shane is bended against the jacuzzi, black hair now covered in snow, arms flexed against the edge of the tub, fingers pressed against the wood. Ilya is levering himself, his fat cock already buried in his fiancé’s ass. It’s not sweet, not the slow love they sometimes make, they’ll have the whole night for that.
Right now, with Ilya pumping against his prostate, Shane can only push back with force, hot waves of bubbling water splashing all around their bodies, melting the white flakes like lava.
«Fucking - fuck. Harder.»
Ilya pledges to Shane’s desire, hammering inside his hole, one hand on his neck, the other wrapped around his dick, stroking it under water, movements rhythmically synchronized, hips’ thrust so lethal Ilya’s dick almost slips out.
Ilya slightly presses his fingers on Shane’s throat, making him whine.
He slams against Shane and pushes him against the tub, making him hit it with his chest. None of them seem to care, lost in their own bubble, almost desperate for the kind of lust they’ve only been able to experience together.
Shane turns his head, angling it just enough to capture Ilya’s lips in a frantic kiss. Teeth and tongue and spit.
Ilya repeatedly hits Shane’s delicate spot, some sort of hunger no kind of food could ever satiate.
Another desperate thrust, another stroke, another kiss - they come simultaneously, their hair wet in water and ice, their pupils blown, hearts so full they might implode.
It’s a long orgasm for both of them and they do need a minute to come down from their high.
Once they get out of the pool and rush back inside they are both shivering.
*
«I don’t think we actually need to shower» Shane says sleepily.
Ilya laughs, «I agree.»
Shane removes his bathrobe and puts on a new pair of briefs, «You sure you are okay?»
Ilya is already on the bed, still naked, under the duvet, «I am. Now, really tired. Please come here, Hollander. I need you for good sleep.»
Shane spoons him, resting his face against Ilya’s neck: «Hollander Rozanov, soon.»
It may not be perfection, they both know it’s not. But it’s tangible. It’s a start.
«My house of stone, your ivy grows
And now I'm covered in you
And I'm covered in you»