Chapter Text
February 2017
It happened in a split second of tangled limbs and desperate stick-work. One of Toronto's defenseman pivoted, his elbow flying up and back in a motion that was either accidental or perfectly, brutally intentional. Shane didn't see the impact; he only felt a blinding, sharp explosion of pain in his mouth and the sickening crunch of enamel giving way.
He collapsed onto the ice, hands flying to his face. The whistle blew, silencing the arena in an instant. When he pulled his glove away, his palm was slick with blood, and something small, hard, and impossibly foreign lay nestled in his sweaty leather.
"Get him off!" Coach shouted.
Shane skated off, dizzy and spitting a crimson stream into the bucket held by the medic. The gap in his upper jaw felt enormous, raw, and horribly exposed.
Toronto's team dentist, mercifully, met Shane in the examination room immediately. This rapid response was a necessity in professional hockey, given the sport's high rate of severe dental and facial trauma. The room itself was a sterile, bright space that smelled faintly of antibacterial soap and latex, always ready for the inevitable emergency.
"Well, Mr. Hollander," Dr. Thorne said, his voice calm and professionally modulated as he tugged on a fresh pair of gloves. Dr. Thorne was mid-thirties, lean, with precise movements and a meticulously trimmed beard that was prematurely greying. "Let’s take a look," he continued, his tone smooth, betraying nothing of the urgency required when a player is bleeding from the mouth. "Open wide for me."
Shane leaned back in the chair, the bright overhead light making him squint, and opened his mouth. The cold metal of the instruments against his exposed gum was a jarring, tender sensation.
Dr. Thorne peered in, flashlight beam guiding him past the missing incisor. Shane felt the usual tug and pull of a professional examination. Then, the light beam shifted.
The dentist's, holding the mirror and probe, froze mid-air. For a fraction of a second, the professionally guarded features of the doctor fractured. His eyes widened, darting from Shane’s mouth to the posterior pharynx, and back again.
Dr. Thorne inhaled sharply, the movement barely perceptible, and then his features snapped back into the mask of detached professionalism. His eyes, when they returned to Shane's mouth, were completely schooled.
"Right," Dr. Thorne said, his voice perhaps a fraction deeper, the tone meticulously neutral. He began probing the injury again. "Yes, well. Number eleven is completely gone. We'll need to clean this out, and then you can get a permanent implant scheduled when you get back home."
Shane, still reeling from the sudden, inexplicable shift in the man's demeanor, could only mumble, "Okay. Is it… bad?"
"It’s what happens when you play hockey, Mr. Hollander," Dr. Thorne replied smoothly, not meeting his eyes. "Nothing we can’t fix."
Ten minutes later, Shane was re-dressed in his pads, ready to return to the ice, feeling awkward with the gaping hole in his smile. Dr. Thorne handed him a small paper cup with pain pills and a sheet of aftercare instructions.
"Follow these instructions exactly, Mr. Hollander," the dentist advised. "I'll pass all the notes on to your team physician."
"Thanks, Doc," Shane said. He was still chewing on the weird moment when the man had nearly fallen out of his chair. Had he seen a cavity or something?
As Shane reached for the door, Dr. Thorne cleared his throat.
"Mr. Hollander. Just... one more thing."
The dentist moved then, stepping way too close for comfort, leaving Shane trapped in front of the closed door.
Dr. Thorne pulled a sleek leather wallet from his lab coat. He retrieved a pristine white business card and, leaning against the counter next to Shane, scribbled something on the back with a heavy silver pen. Shane was hit with the full force of the man’s cologne. It was a thick, spicy scent, heavy on the cinnamon and clove, that felt far too aggressive for a medical office. Shane wrinkled his nose, leaning his head back against the door to find some air. It smelled like a craft store during the holidays, or a very expensive, very intense candle. It was cloying, and being trapped in it made Shane’s skin prickle.
"This is my personal number. For... house calls," Thorne murmured. "Should you find yourself experiencing any dental issues... or a late-night emergency next time you’re in town. I don't like the idea of you being in need and having no one to call."
"Uh, okay. Thanks. I appreciate that," Shane stammered, his eyes darting around the room. He reached for the card, hoping the transaction was over.
Dr. Thorne took Shane’s hand in a handshake. The contact was warm, dry, and went on for an agonizingly long time.
Shane felt a flush creep up his neck. He’d always considered himself the champion of social awkwardness, but this man was making him feel like an amateur. He tried to pull back slightly, but Thorne’s grip was firm, his eyes raking over Shane's face.
"The line is open twenty-four hours for you, Shane," Thorne said, finally releasing his hand with a slow, reluctant slide of his fingers that made Shane squirm.
Shane stared down at the card. Dr. A. Thorne, DMD. On the back, in elegant, aggressive script, was a ten-digit number.
"Right. Great. For the... teeth. Thanks," Shane said, his voice cracking slightly as he finally wrenched the door open, desperate to escape the spicy, suffocating scent of the office.
"My pleasure, Mr. Hollander," Thorne called after him, his tone smooth and dark. "Believe me."
Shane gave a confused, lopsided half-smile and hurried out, the strange encounter adding another layer of bewildering static to the buzzing pain in his jaw.
Later that night, Shane was tucked into his hotel bed, his mouth numb, trying to keep ice on his swollen gum. He had just finished a text conversation with his mother when his phone lit up with a video call from Ilya.
Shane quickly accepted. Ilya’s face, handsome and framed by the messy hair he refused to trim, filled the screen.
"Look at you, Mr. Hockey," Ilya said, a warm, deep rumble in his voice. "Missing tooth. You look like real player now. Very tough."
"Ha. Very funny," Shane muttered, shifting the phone. "It hurts like hell, you know. But I saw the highlight reel. Reider should get fined for that elbow."
"Forget elbow. I saw the collision," Ilya corrected, his expression turning serious. "Are you okay, though? Seriously?"
"Yeah, I’m fine. Just a hole," Shane confirmed. "The Montreal docs will sort me out tomorrow. It was just a strange night. Toronto’s dentist is weird."
Ilya’s brow furrowed. "The dentist? What about him?"
"He was just… I don’t know," Shane tried to explain, rubbing his temple. "When he was looking at the tooth, he had the light and the mirror in my mouth, and he suddenly froze. Like he saw a ghost."
"Frozen?"
"Yeah. Dead stop. His eyes got huge. I thought he was going to fall out of his chair."
Ilya blinked slowly at the story. He was quiet for a long moment, the smile slowly peeling off his face, replaced by a strange, knowing smirk that was equal parts amusement and revelation.
"Ah," Ilya finally breathed, the sound thick with suppressed laughter. "I think I know what he saw. The... the skin in your throat, Shane. The soft part." He poked his cheek with a finger, then tried to point at the back of Shane's throat through the camera. "The tissue. It is… busted."
Shane frowned. "Busted? Like infected? No, he didn't say anything about an infection."
"Nyet, nyet. Not infection," Ilya insisted, shaking his head rapidly. "The small things. Like the little roads of blood. They burst, yes? From the… the sucking." Ilya made a loud, exaggerated vacuum noise and then looked immensely pleased with himself, before realizing Shane was completely lost.
“What are you talking about? What burst roads?"
Ilya sighed heavily, frustrated by the inadequacy of his English vocabulary. "Hold on. I use Google."
He minimized the video call briefly, leaving Shane staring at Ilya’s concentrated forehead. A minute later, Ilya’s voice returned, heavy with the Russian accent of the translator app.
"Okay. He saw the petechiae." Ilya mispronounced the word, but looked relieved to have a term. "Is when your small… cap…capillaries…" He paused, sounding out the word. "The little blood tubes! They break."
"Is it serious? I can't even feel it!"
Ilya sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of his nose in exasperation at the language and medical barrier. He knew exactly what he needed to say to make the point sink in, and sometimes, direct Russian bluntness was the only solution.
He dropped the Google translation and leaned into the camera, his voice low and devoid of any nuance.
"Shane. Listen to me. Last night. I fuck your throat. Now you have bruise."
Shane stared back at the screen. His eyes, wide with confusion just moments before, now ballooned into disbelief. The blood completely drained from his face.
"WHAT?!" Shane yelled, forgetting where he was, the sound echoing slightly in the room. He immediately clapped his hand over his mouth.
"Yes, zayka," Ilya confirmed, his voice instantly softening with tenderness despite the crude explanation. "Is true. Why you think your throat is sore this morning even before the elbow?"
The panic hit Shane. He didn't know what to do with his hands or his face. The mortification was absolute.
"Oh my God, oh my God," Shane whimpered, running a trembling hand through his hair. "Ilya, the dentist! He knows! He saw it, and he knows we're gay! My career, the team—"
Ilya cut him off with a loud, incredulous laugh. "Shane, relax! No! The dentist does not know! Why would he think that?"
"He saw the bruises!" Shane hissed, near tears with panic.
Ilya chuckled, shaking his head. "He does not know you are gay. He knows one thing only." Ilya smiled, a deep, satisfied smirk curling his lips. “He knows that Mr. Shane Hollander gives great head. Maybe is with dildo, hmm? But either way...is very enthusiastic. Very big. Is all dentist knows, my little slut. And he is jealous."
Shane felt his hysteria melt into a weak, embarrassed groan. "Are you serious? He can actually see that…that I…?"
"Yes!" Ilya chuckled, though his voice was tender. "When you, ah, accommodate me with that much enthusiasm, it leaves little purple marks on the back, where the throat curtain is." He minimized the call again. "Okay, wait, throat curtain is not right. Translator says... soft palate. Yes. He saw the sign of your very recent, very impressive blowjob."
"Oh God, Ilya. Oh my God," Shane whispered, mortified. "He knows. That's why he reacted like that. He knows. He’s going to think I’m some kind of… pervert!"
Ilya stopped laughing. "Stop. Stop. Did he look disgusted? Like he was going to tell your coach?"
"No," Shane admitted, squinting as he replayed the scene. "He was shocked. Then he got really professional, almost too professional. And then he was weirdly intense...and—"
"Okay, so he did not run away," Ilya said, his voice leveling out, sounding suspicious. "And he saw what we did to your neck, and then he just… what did he do after that?"
"He just," Shane said, leaning into his camera, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion, "gave me the aftercare stuff and shook my hand before I left. For like, a full minute. I thought maybe he was checking my pulse? Is that a dentist thing?"
On the other side of the screen, Ilya was silent, his face blank with disbelief. "Shane—"
Shane blinked. "Wait," Shane whispered, his eyes going wide. "Oh... oh no. Ilya, was he... was he hitting on me?
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the business card, holding it up to the camera. "He gave me this. His personal number. He said it was for 'house calls.'"
Ilya’s face went completely still. The easy humor vanished. His eyes narrowed to slits, and his jaw tightened so hard the muscle pulsed.
"He what?" Ilya's voice dropped two registers, becoming gravelly and dangerous. "He saw my mark in your throat and gave you his number? For 'house calls'??" Ilya repeated the phrase with heavy contempt. The audacity of some Canadian dentist. This fucking guy.
Ilya glared at the phone screen, his gaze burning right through the screen. "Tear up card, Shane," Ilya commanded. "Right now. Do not call him. Do not text him. If you need 'house call' you call me.”
"Ilya, he’s just a guy," Shane protested, though he felt a sudden rush of warmth at Ilya's jealous possessiveness.
"No," Ilya growled. "He is stranger who knows intimate details about your throat, details I put there. You do not need this creep's number. Rip the card now, Shane." Ilya's voice was low, demanding, and utterly serious, yet the underlying current of wounded pride and possessiveness was almost comical.
Shane tried to hold his expression steady, but a defiant, pleased smirk started twitching at the corner of his mouth, the side where the tooth was not missing.
"Stop," Shane managed, though his tone lacked any real heat. "It's a dentist. A very hot, very professional dentist who thinks my throat is hot."
"Is not his," Ilya countered, his Russian accent thickening with his irritation. "Is mine. And he saw my work, and still gave you his number. That is disrespect."
Shane couldn't hold it in anymore; a soft snort escaped him, followed by a quiet laugh. The sight of Ilya, so intensely grumpy and possessive over a couple of throat bruises, was deeply endearing.
"Fine," Shane conceded, picking up the white business card. "You want me to tear up the evidence of this gross act of disrespect?"
"Da. Show me," Ilya instructed, crossing his arms over his broad chest on the video feed, watching with narrowed eyes.
With exaggerated ceremony, Shane slowly tore the crisp card down the middle, then tore the halves into quarters, and finally shredded the pieces into tiny confetti, letting the white scraps flutter down onto the carpet of the hotel.
Ilya watched the process with the grim satisfaction. When the last piece was on the floor, the tension eased visibly from his shoulders.
"Good," Ilya said, a small, triumphant smile finally touching his lips. "That is where that number belongs. The garbage."
The mood instantly shifted from possessive threat to playful intimacy.
"So," Ilya continued, his eyes crinkling. "Toronto dental staff knows how much of a little slut you are, yes? They know how much you enjoy making a mess of your throat for me."
Shane felt his cheeks heat up again, but this time it was from pleasure, not panic. "Ilya! He just saw bruises. He doesn’t know who—"
"He saw the signature of a man who knows how to use your mouth, dorogoy," Ilya interrupted smoothly. "And he is jealous. Next time I see you, you have to be very good, and I put bruises back when they fade."
Shane ran his tongue gingerly over the tender gap in his gums, the reality of the timeline finally sinking in.
"The game is in three days," Shane muttered, his shoulders dropping as he leaned closer to the camera. "The dentist said the swelling won’t even be down by then, let alone healed enough for… you know. I was looking forward to seeing you, but I’m going to be useless. I can't exactly give you a blowjob."
Ilya let out a short, huffing laugh, his eyes crinkling. "Don’t pout, malysh. You have more than one hole and I have very long list I want to do to the other."
"Ilya," Shane croaked, his face flooding with a deep blush as he squirmed away from the screen.
Coward," Ilya rumbled. "Come back. I cannot see you when you hide."
"You can't just... say things like that," Shane croaked, slowly inching back into the frame. "Have some mercy."
"I have no mercy for you," Ilya corrected, his brow furrowing as he leaned closer to the screen with a frustrated groan. "And you are being cruel. To not have your mouth is tragedy, yes, but to hide your face when you are blushing like this? This is true torture."
"You’ve seen it a thousand times."
"No," Ilya insisted. "Your freckles are my favorite, and I can't see them. Please. Pozhaluysta. Come back."
Shane slowly inched back into the frame, his face still glowing a brilliant, embarrassed red.
"There they are," Ilya murmured, his expression softening into something hungrily possessive as he stared at Shane. "My freckles. You should not hide what belongs to me, my Shane."
"They're on my face, Ilya," Shane countered. "I'm pretty sure that makes them mine."
"Everything on that beautiful face is mine," Ilya corrected, his voice dropping to a seductive rasp as he leaned so close to the camera his eyes seemed to swallow the screen. "And I will prove it in three days. But for now... you are alone, yes? Tell me what you are wearing for me."
Shane rolled his eyes, a genuine, delighted grin spreading across his face despite the tender spot in his mouth and the lingering heat in his cheeks. "Just some old sweatpants and a hoodie. Nothing special."
"Then take them off," Ilya commanded, the playfulness vanishing into pure, dark intent. "Slowly. I want to see what I am missing."
Shane set the phone down against the pillow, carefully positioning the camera so Ilya had a clear, unobstructed view of his body. His heart thudded against his ribs as he reached for the hem of his hoodie. He moved slowly eyes locked on Ilya’s expectant face, watching the way the Russian’s pupils blown wide.
As he shed the last of his clothes, the cool air of the room hit his skin, but he felt nothing but the heat of Ilya’s gaze. He sat back, completely exposed and focused on the man behind the screen, prepared to obey every possessive command his grumpy Russian could dream up.