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🥪🐟🔥
“Fuuuuck Shane,” Rozanov moans, spilling into Shane’s hand with a full body tremble. The first name catches Shane completely off guard and he’s suddenly coming too, a breathy ‘Ilya’ on his lips after he stops shaking. He then promptly starts freaking out. They don’t do this - they don’t hang out, they don’t nap together, they don’t eat together, and they certainly don’t use first names. Rozanov (Ilya, now? Can he call him that?) kisses him once, but Shane turns his head before Ilya can capture his lips again. Even thinking of him by his first name is fucking terrifying but also…no. Shane doesn’t think he can let himself want that. Not when - not now. Not ever, because they can’t have this.
“Um. I should - I think I - I need to go,” Shane stammers, scrambling off Ilya’s lap.
“What?” Ilya asks, sitting upright with his shoulders tensing. “Go?”
“Yeah, I. This is -”
“Hollander,” Ilya interrupts, voice surprisingly level. “You can stay.”
“You called me Shane,” Shane says flatly. He really needs to go - needs to shower and curl up in his hotel bed. Regret his life choices for a bit. They’ve got a game tomorrow, how the fuck is Shane supposed to play against him now?
“Oh, is that not your name?” Ilya asks. His voice cracks slightly at the end of his sentence but his jaw is set tight. Shane doesn’t want to fight with him.
“You know it is,” Shane grits out as he tenses and releases his shoulders in a vain attempt to shift some of the tightness he’s feeling all over his body. “But we don’t - you don’t call me that.”
“Maybe I should start so you don’t freak out next time.”
“Ilya -”
“Feels better, right?” Ilya smirks, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“We can’t - we can’t have this,” Shane croaks, deflating because it does feel better. The name feels better in his mouth, feels right. And it fucking terrifies Shane.
“For today,” Ilya offers slowly. “We can pretend.”
“Pretend?”
“For today,” Ilya repeats, standing and walking over to where Shane is standing with Ilya’s shirt in one hand. He takes the black cloth gently and places a warm hand on Shane’s bare shoulder, thumb rubbing back and forth and soothing Shane’s frayed nerves. They could. They could pretend for today and then go back to their normal routine when they part ways before the game tomorrow. It’ll hurt like hell when they do, but…
“Ok,” Shane breathes. “Let’s pretend. For today.”
“Ok. Go clean up, I need to change out of these pants,” Ilya says quietly. “You want change of clothes?”
“Uh. The shirt is fine.” Shane chances a look at the sweatpants he has on and scrunches his nose up - there’s an obvious stain on the waistband and Shane is suddenly grateful he’s not walking back into the hotel room he’s sharing with Hayden wearing them.
“Give. I’ll get clean ones for you.” Ilya holds his hand out, blinking expectantly. Shane exhales slowly and pushes the pants down off his hips, letting them pool at his ankles. Before he’s able to bend down and pick them up Ilya is on his knees and holding Shane’s ankles, lifting his foot up and out of the pants.
“I can -”
“Shut up,” Ilya huffs as he eases Shane’s other foot out of the sweats. He stands and heads wordlessly out of the room, leaving Shane floundering slightly before he makes his way into the bathroom. Should he shower? He could probably get away with just wiping himself down with a damp cloth, but if Ilya is showering is that going to leave Shane awkwardly waiting for pants? He could go and get the jeans he arrived in, but if they're going to…if they’re going to go back to cuddling on the couch (god Shane wants that so bad it’s physically hurting him) then he probably wants another pair of sweatpants. He’s still standing, frozen, in the middle of the bathroom when Ilya knocks on the door and waits for Shane to call out a slightly choked ‘come in’ before entering.
“You need help with shower?” Ilya asks, that fucking crooked smile making it hard for Shane to stay upright. “Is simple, knobs turn and water comes out.”
“Fuck off,” Shane huffs, relaxing a little. “No, I just -”
“You are hoping to clean yourself…what’s the word, with your mind?”
“Telepathically,” Shane offers as Ilya walks him towards the shower.
“You are hoping to clean yourself telepathically,” Ilya repeats slowly, reaching around to turn the water on. “I can help instead.”
“I can clean myself.”
“Is more fun with help,” Ilya murmurs. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Shane’s underwear, eyebrows raised in question. Shane nods and Ilya pulls them down and then his own before dropping to his knees.
“We’re meant to be getting clean,” Shane whispers as Ilya kisses the sensitive skin of Shane’s upper thighs.
“We can do both,” Ilya reasons, standing again. “Water is hot enough?” Shane turns and reaches in, testing the water temperature before stepping back into the shower and pulling Ilya with him.
“It’s perfect,” Shane tells him.
“Good. Let’s get you dirty again.”
🥪🐟🔥
Shane’s back on the couch before Ilya is, hair damp after Ilya had towel dried it for him in a move so intimate Shane had teared up a little.
“You want more ginger ale?” Ilya calls out from the kitchen. “I can bring out snacks too.”
“Sure,” Shane replies. Maybe having something to do with his hands will distract him from the fact that his heart is trying to beat right out of his chest. He’s not sure what the rules are here and it’s making him feel absurdly off-kilter. Does he hold Ilya’s hand? Curl up against him again? What the fuck is he supposed to talk about? Does he initiate sex again? He’s in the middle of taking a deep breath when Ilya strolls back into the room, two cans in one hand and a plate of vegetable sticks in the other.
“You are freaking out,” he says, standing in front of Shane.
“I’m not,” Shane lies, staring up at Ilya with what he hopes is a determined look.
“Is ok if you are,” Ilya shrugs. “This is new.”
“I’m fine,” Shane huffs, stretching an arm across the back of the couch. “Are you planning on sitting down?"
“I don’t know, can I?” Ilya retorts, that fucking grin lighting up his face and loosening something inside Shane’s chest. This feels familiar, this is safe ground.
“It’s your house,” Shane bites back, patting the spot on the couch next to him. Ilya rolls his eyes and puts the plate and cans down on the coffee table, dropping down and leaning against Shane.
“Did you want to watch something different?” Ilya asks as he settles himself closer, wriggling his arm between Shane and the couch to wrap around Shane’s waist. It feels like an anchor, stopping Shane from getting too caught up in his own thoughts - he forces himself to focus on the feeling of Ilya’s fingers brushing the sliver of bare skin where the borrowed shirt is riding up a little.
“No, this is fine,” Shane answers quietly. He takes another deep breath and drops his arm down, wrapping it around Ilya’s shoulders and letting his hand rest on Ilya’s firm upper arm. Shane thinks it shouldn’t feel like it belongs there, thinks he probably shouldn’t be cataloguing the feeling of Ilya’s body relaxing against his own to remember the anchoring weight of it. He slides his fingers into Ilya’s curls, scratching lightly at his scalp much like Ilya did to him before.
“You are less tense already,” Ilya comments, voice soft like he’s falling asleep.
“Fuck off,” Shane murmurs.
“Mmm, no. I think I’ll stay right here.” Ilya drops his head onto Shane’s shoulder, arm tightening around Shane’s waist. “We are good like this.”
“Yeah,” Shane breathes as he presses a soft kiss to the top of Ilya’s head. It feels like the most intimate thing he’s ever done.
🥪🐟🔥
Shane insists on cooking dinner despite Ilya’s ongoing protests and goading over Shane’s preparation methods.
“You are boiling the chicken,” Ilya says flatly, eyebrows raised and hands on his hips. “Is this boring Canadian method?”
“I’m poaching it,” Shane grumbles. “You don’t need to add any fats to cook it this way.”
“So we eat chicken with no flavour and what? Leaves?”
“It’s a salad, you asshole,” Shane huffs. “And I’m making a sauce for the chicken. Do you have seeded mustard?”
“Are the seeds a completely necessary ingredient? Because I have regular yellow mustard and -”
“Yellow is fine,” Shane interrupts. He’s been slowly relaxing over the last couple of hours, the shock of hearing his first name out of Ilya’s mouth for the first time in a non-chirping context fading into background noise. But there’s still a low hum of anxiety just under his skin - not really more anxiety than he usually has, honestly. It’s always just kind of…there. Sometimes he can’t even attribute it to anything specific, can’t pinpoint exactly what it is on that particular day that’s twisting his stomach in knots and making his chest feel like someone is using his lungs as a squeeze toy.
“Wrong mustard makes you tense all over again,” Ilya notes as he swipes a slice of cucumber off the chopping board, crunching it obnoxiously. “How long will chicken take? Do we have time to fuck before we eat?”
“No,” Shane says, voice wavering. Technically he could turn the stove off and let the chicken keep cooking in the residual heat if they were to go to the bedroom and fuck (or the couch, or even possibly right here in the kitchen).
“Shame,” Ilya shrugs. “I have lube in the top drawer. What a waste.”
“We don’t have to fuck to make me less tense.”
“But it would work, yes? You are always so nice and compliant after I make you come. Sometimes is only for a few seconds, but is always worth it,” Ilya says, stealing more cucumber. He maintains eye contact with Shane while he chews, cocking his head to the right and grinning.
“Fuck off,” Shane snorts, anxiety fading a little more. If they keep chirping, if Ilya keeps teasing Shane can convince himself that this is normal. He can maybe convince himself that it’s not going to rip his heart out of his chest to walk away from this tomorrow and go back to what they were doing before.
“Mmm, no. I think I’d rather fuck you, Shane.” Ilya’s voice drops a full octave as he saunters around the kitchen counter to where Shane is mixing together mustard and olive oil. He was a little surprised to find Ilya had all the ingredients for the honey mustard sauce Shane makes for himself when he feels like cheating his diet a little and is unreasonably excited to make it for Ilya.
“After,” Shane says in a voice he hopes is strong and confident. “We need protein.”
“Oh I have protein for you right here,” Ilya practically fucking purrs into Shane’s ear, fingers dancing up Shane’s bare arm to the back of his neck. “I promise you will like the delivery method.”
“How did we go from you fucking to calm me down to me sucking your dick for protein?”
“Who said anything about sucking dick? I was talking about leftover tuna in the fridge,” Ilya scoffs, dropping light kisses across Shane’s clothed shoulder. It shouldn’t feel like home and Shane should push him away so his brain doesn’t do something stupid like get used to it.
“The fuck you were,” Shane retorts. “What delivery method for the tuna would I like?”
“Eating it off my body,” Ilya shrugs.
“Gross,” Shane shudders. “Tuna is not a sexy food.”
“And what is a sexy food to you?”
“I dunno, strawberries or some shit? Isn’t whipped cream a thing people eat off - ok, no, this conversation has completely fucking derailed. Get back over to the other side of the bench so I can finish preparing our meal,” Shane orders, firmly pushing Ilya back so he can mix the honey into the sauce. Ilya is cackling as he backs away, clearly delighted that he's got Shane flustered. Shane can’t even be mad at him for it because his anxiety is barely a whisper now, almost unnoticeable as they exist quietly in each other’s presence while dinner comes together.
“Smells good,” Ilya murmurs as Shane plates their food. He hasn’t ever really paid a whole lot of attention to the presentation of his food, mostly caring about macros and calories and all the other shit. But he feels this overwhelming urge to present Ilya with something that looks as appetising as it tastes, so he spends an extra two minutes fussing with the ratio of cucumber to tomato in the salad before arranging the food and drizzling the sauce over everything in a vaguely artful manner (he thinks).
“There’s more sauce if you want it, I don’t usually have a lot but I made extra tonight because I don’t know what you like to eat and -”
“Shane, it’s perfect,” Ilya interrupts. “Shut up and sit with me.”
“Bossy,” Shane mutters, dropping onto the stool next to Ilya.
“Too far,” Ilya complains. He grabs Shane’s stool and drags it closer so that they’re pretty much flush against each other from shoulder to foot, Ilya’s ankle hooking around Shane’s. “Better.”
“Food ok?” Shane asks tentatively, watching Ilya get a little bit of everything on his fork. He groans around his mouthful, chewing slowly with his eyes closed.
“Maybe there is something to boring Canadian chicken,” Ilya says, licking sauce from where it has dripped onto his fingers. “Is very good. Not dry like that one place in Montreal near the rink.”
“Their chicken tastes like they threw it in the oven and forgot about it overnight,” Shane mutters. He’s had to suffer through many a cardboard ‘grilled’ chicken breast from that place with his parents. Next to him, Ilya laughs and leans over to kiss Shane on the cheek and smiles at him softer than Shane has ever seen him smile. They’re never going to be able to walk away from this in one piece.
🥪🐟🔥
Ilya fucks him, bent over the kitchen bench, so hard Shane is actually a little worried about his legs giving out from underneath him. Not that he actually gives a shit in the moment because the angle is perfect, Ilya’s cock is perfect, his rhythm is perfect. Shane may have actually completely lost the ability to form complete sentences or think of words at all, because all that’s coming out of his mouth right now is breathy moans and Ilya’s name broken in half and choked out.
“So good for me,” Ilya moans, hips snapping relentlessly as he pounds into Shane. The edge of the counter is definitely going to leave a bruise where it’s cutting into Shane, as are Ilya's fingers where they’re gripping Shane’s waist.
“Il - uh, fuck - ya, fuck fuck fuck,” Shane groans, the sound ripped out of his throat as his orgasm pulses hot and sudden through him. “Oh fuck.”
“Shane, Shane, oh god,” Ilya moans. The sounds he makes as he follows Shane over the edge are deep and guttural, and if Shane hadn’t already come those noises alone would have done it for him. His first name falling from Ilya’s lips doesn’t scare him away this time - he lets himself be blanketed by Ilya against the countertop and then lets himself be manhandled all the way to the bathroom. Ilya gently directs him underneath the hot spray of water, just holding him for a moment before stepping back and starting to soap down Shane’s back.
“I can do that,” Shane argues weakly.
“I know,” Ilya hums. “But let me?”
“Ok,” Shane whispers. He lets his eyes flutter shut as Ilya’s hands move across his back in slow, circular movements. He kneads the muscle a little and leaves gentle kisses as he goes, making Shane melt back against him. Ilya wraps an arm around Shane’s waist and hooks his chin over Shane’s shoulder, almost swaying them on the spot.
“This is nice, yes?” Shane can hear the hesitation in Ilya’s voice and can hardly blame him. Shane had almost run away just a few hours ago, had almost not had this with Ilya.
“Yeah,” Shane agrees easily. “Yeah, this is really nice.” What if Shane had run? What would he even be doing right now? Freaking out alone in the hotel room? Freaking out silently while trying not to let Hayden know something was wrong? Ignoring any messages Ilya may have been sending him? Feeling sick to his stomach because Ilya wasn’t messaging him?
“And yet you are overthinking again,” Ilya says. “I can feel tension in your shoulders when your brain starts going too fast, Shane.”
“Sorry,” Shane mumbles. “Just - thinking about what I’d be doing if I had left.”
“You would be very miserable,” Ilya answers simply. “Maybe feeling a little stupid for freaking out over a name.”
“It was more than a name I was freaking out over,” Shane says with a huff. “I - it doesn’t matter. We’re here now. Let’s just…keep pretending, ok?”
“Yes,” Ilya sighs. “Ok. We keep pretending.”
🥪🐟🔥
As Shane predicted, walking away from Ilya the next day feels awful. Shane has known for a while that the way he truly wants Ilya isn’t compatible with their situation and had thought he’d known that Ilya didn’t want the same thing. The last twenty four hours have, unfortunately, proven to Shane that if they could have this - if they could really have each other like this, that it would work. In an alternate universe where they weren’t supposed to publicly hate each other, where it wouldn’t ruin their lives by being together, that they would be really fucking great as a couple.
“Will, uh. Will I see you tonight?” Shane asks, avoiding eye contact as he puts his shoes on at the door. They’d both been stretching out their goodbye as long as possible, but Shane really does need to get back to the hotel now before people start asking too many questions. As it is he’s in for a lot of teasing and ribbing about ‘his Boston girl’ roping him into spending the night.
“You fly out early tomorrow, yes? Maybe I come to you this time,” Ilya suggests. “Save us some time.”
“Ok, yeah,” Shane nods, straightening himself up as he shrugs on his jacket. “I’ll text you my room number.”
“Good.”
“Um. Well, goodbye, I guess,” Shane says, feeling awkward as fuck standing next to Ilya’s front door. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Thank you for staying,” Ilya replies softly. Shane nods, ducking his head a little as Ilya steps closer and places a gentle hand on his jaw. Ilya lifts Shane’s head, forcing eye contact before leaning in to press a frankly devastating kiss to Shane’s mouth.
“I really need to go,” Shane whispers, hands gripping the front of Ilya’s shirt. “I - fuck, I have to leave like right now.”
“Ok,” Ilya sighs, stepping out of Shane’s space. Shane instinctively leans forward, following the loss of contact before clearing his throat and opening the door. “Good luck tonight, Hollander.”
“Don’t need luck when I play against you, Rozanov,” Shane smirks. They’re stepping back into familiar territory again, away from them. Ilya rolls his eyes as Shane starts walking towards his waiting cab, telling himself he doesn’t need to look back to try and get one last glance of Ilya before he faces off against Rozanov.
“Shane,” Ilya calls out after him. Shane stops and spins around, already halfway locked back into ‘Hollander and Rozanov’.
“Yeah?”
“Maybe, uh. Maybe we can pretend again soon, yes?” Ilya looks deeply uncertain of his own words, like he maybe thinks Shane will laugh in his face.
“Yes,” Shane blurts out quickly. He doesn’t even need to think about it - he wants so badly to pretend again. Maybe if they pretend enough together Shane can pretend this won’t probably blow up in their faces one day. Can pretend that maybe one day they could have this for real.
🥪🐟🔥
They keep pretending every time they meet up. What used to be frantic and rushed hookups turn into something sweeter and softer, the two of them holding each other for longer afterwards and whispering things to each other that would definitely get them laughed out of their respective locker rooms if anyone overheard.
Shane meets Rose Landry when he’s out with the team one night and straight up tells her ‘sorry, I’m actually seeing someone’ when she asks him to meet up again for drinks before realising that he’s technically not actually dating Ilya - he’s just pretending to when they’re alone together. Not that he would really want to date her anyway - she’s great and they exchange numbers to be friends, but Shane is pretty sure at this point that he might be completely gay. Probably is.
“Is this meant to be new information for me, Shane?” Ilya asks when Shane awkwardly comes out to him in a Tampa Bay hotel room, during the All-Stars weekend.
“Yes? I don’t know,” Shane huffs. “This is kind of a big deal to me, ok? I didn’t - I didn’t know.”
“That you like dick?”
“Obviously I fucking knew I like dick,” Shane grunts. “Don’t be an asshole. You like dick and you’re not gay.”
“Not completely gay, no,” Ilya sighs, sitting next to Shane on the bed and placing a comforting hand on the back of his neck. Shane deflates, hackles lowering as he leans into the touch. “Shane. I know you are gay. I have known for a while.”
“Well you could have told me,” Shane mutters petulantly. “I thought part of this whole thing was being honest when we were together.”
“I thought you knew,” Ilya murmurs. “When was the last time you were with a woman?”
“Like a year ago,” Shane admits, embarrassed.
“And how was it?”
“I - normal?” Shane lies. “Terrible. Total disaster.”
“Disaster how?”
“No,” Shane puts an end to the conversation. “Conversation over. I get it, I’m an idiot. I should have known that struggling to get it up for a woman when I have the exact opposite problem with you meant I was gay. Everyone laugh at Hollander the fucking moron.”
“Shane,” Ilya snaps. “I do not think you are an idiot. Sexuality is complicated, yes? NHL sucks for queer players, Russia is terrible for queer people.”
“It is?” Shane is a little ashamed to admit he knows very little about Russia, despite sleeping with a Russian man for the last seven years.
“Mmm, yes. People finding out I am bisexual would mean I could not go home again,” Ilya tells him. Shane feels his heart clench and his chest tighten - he knows, somewhat vaguely, that home is a sensitive topic for Ilya. The few times Shane has tried to bring it up and get Ilya to talk about it he’s been swiftly shut down and locked out, so he gave up trying. Maybe now that they’re doing whatever the fuck this is he can push a little.
“Would your family not support you?”
“No,” Ilya answers bluntly. “My father and brother are both police. My mother is dead.”
“Oh, fuck,” Shane whispers. “Ilya, I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”
“Is ok,” Ilya shrugs even though it is most definitely not ok. “I was young. My father…he is sick. And very old fashioned. His memory is going and…”
“Ilya,” Shane murmurs, angling his body to try to force Ilya to look at him. Ilya turns towards him and rests his head on Shane’s shoulder, allowing Shane to tug him down onto the bed and hold him from behind. He cries, softly, in Shane’s arms until he falls asleep.
🥪🐟🔥
Ilya’s father dies and Shane feels fucking helpless. He can’t be with Ilya to help him, he can’t hold him and tell him everything will be ok.
“Just talk to me?” Ilya asks quietly. “San Jose played like shit last night, tell me how you would fix their power play.”
“They need to fix more than their fucking power play,” Shane snorts before spending the next ten minutes picking apart everything that’s wrong with San Jose’s current lineup. “They need new blood. Hopefully they can get some good rookies next season.”
“Or hopefully not so we can keep beating them,” Ilya murmurs. “Thank you.”
“I just talked about hockey for ten minutes,” Shane snorts. “I didn’t do anything helpful.”
“Your voice is helpful, Shane,” Ilya tells him insistently and oh god Shane definitely cannot walk away from this unscathed. There’s no coming back, no returning to ‘normal’. Are they going to keep pretending for the rest of their lives?
“You can talk to me too, if - if you want,” Shane says. “If it will help, you can speak in Russian? If you just need to get shit out.” Ilya takes a deep breath, exhaling heavily before speaking. Shane doesn’t understand a single word of what Ilya says but he understands the raw emotion in Ilya’s voice, can hear the pain and anguish behind the words. He really wishes he was there to hold him.
“We’ve got a game against each other not long after you come back,” Shane reminds Ilya once he’s done talking. “Will you be spending that night in Montreal or do you fly out right after?”
“We will be staying,” Ilya murmurs. “I will stay with you?”
“Yes,” Shane agrees quickly. “Of course.”
“Good,” Ilya breathes. “Will be something to look forward to.”
🥪🐟🔥
“So this is your real apartment? Not another sex condo?” Ilya asks, hand trailing along the granite countertop in Shane’s kitchen. Shane’s own kitchen, not the half-empty condo they’d always gone to. Ilya is in Shane’s home, standing in his kitchen. They’re about to fuck in Shane’s own home.
“This is my real apartment,” Shane assures him. It’s a little surreal having Ilya here after all these years. Shane has wanted Ilya here for so long but that want was always overshadowed by angry clouds of fear and anxiety - people in the building know who he is, know who Ilya is, and Shane has always been too scared of rumours being spread to brave Ilya coming over. But he’s been feeling progressively bolder and less terrified over the last few months and thought ‘fuck it, I want him to fuck me in my own bed so I can sleep in the same spot he’s touched me in’.
“It’s very you,” Ilya comments, dropping himself onto the couch. “Very…Candadian.”
“What does that even mean?” Shane asked, sitting next to Ilya. He’s immediately drawn in for a kiss, Ilya’s arm around his neck and one hand unbuttoning Shane’s shirt.
“Very boring,” Ilya hums, lips trailing down Shane’s neck. ‘There is no personality. Looks like home they show people to make them buy.”
“You can leave if you hate it that much,” Shane huffs, not at all resisting Ilya pushing him back and climbing on top of him.
“This is my first time fucking you in your own home, Shane. I am not going anywhere until tomorrow morning,” Ilya says. “Have wanted this for years.”
“Years?”
“Yes, years. I have wanted you in your own home for years,” Ilya admits quietly as he sits back to pull off his own shirt before pulling Shane’s off too. “To sleep where you sleep. Make you come where you make yourself come.”
“Fuck,” Shane breathes because this doesn’t feel like pretending anymore. An admission that Ilya has wanted Shane here for years? Are they even still pretending at this point?
“Do you ever make yourself come on this couch? Cannot make it to your room before touching yourself?” Ilya is back on top of his own, blanketing Shane’s body with his own as he snakes a hand between them to palm Shane’s cock through his pants. Shane arches into the touch, grinding his hips upwards and grabbing Ilya’s hair.
“Sometimes,” Shane admits breathlessly.
“And what do you think about when you touch yourself?”
“You,” Shane moans. Ilya’s hand is inside his pants now, gripping Shane almost too tight. “Fuck, Ilya. Always you.”
“Tell me exactly what you think about,” Ilya demands, kicking off his own pants. “I want details, Shane.”
“Fuck - ah - think about you eating me out right here,” Shane groans. Ilya starts stroking him, slow and torturous as he licks a line from the base of Shane’s throat up to his mouth. “Your fingers inside me at the same time.”
“Tell me more.”
“God, I - you bending me over the arm of the couch,” Shane pants, trying to wriggle out of his pants. Ilya uses his free hand to help pull them down, pushing them onto the floor. “Fucking me until I’m crying.”
“Do you use your dildo and imagine it is my cock inside you?” Ilya asks. “Do you fuck yourself bent over the arm of the couch, Shane? Pretend it is me behind you?”
“Yes,” Shane moans. “Please - god, please bend me over the arm of the couch and fuck me. Please, Ilya.”
“You beg so pretty, Shane,” Ilya breathes. “How can I ever say no to you?” Ilya stands and pulls Shane with him, pulling off his underwear and bending Shane over the arm of the couch. He pulls lube from god knows where, using his tongue and fingers to open Shane up slowly.
“Not - jesus fucking christ - not meant to make me cry yet,” Shane practically sobs as Ilya rubs at his prostate and completely neglects Shane’s painfully hard cock. “Hurry up, please please please.”
“I should make you beg more,” Ilya groans, hurrying up just as Shane asked. The couch ends up a good ten centimetres away from its usual position, Ilya fucking Shane so hard they need to shuffle their feet to avoid ending up on the floor.
“Need to come,” Shane whines, reaching down to grab his still neglected cock. Ilya bats his hand away, finally touching him. Shane, unsurprisingly, comes pretty much immediately with a loud moan of Ilya’s name.
“Fuck, my name sounds so fucking good coming out of your mouth,” Ilya moans. “Want to - fuck - want to hear it all the time.”
“Wanna say it all the time,” Shane mumbles, slumped over the arm of the couch while Ilya keeps fucking him to chase his own release. ‘Want you all the time’ he doesn’t let himself say, because it’s too much while they’re still just pretending. Ilya comes with a grunt and low, long moan in Shane’s ear. They stay pressed together for a few long minutes before Shane starts to feel sticky and uncomfortable, leading Ilya into his shower and then his bed.
Ilya leaves early the next morning, kissing Shane just inside his apartment door before he pulls him in for a hug and leaves. Shane lingers by the door for longer than he’d ever admit.
🥪🐟🔥
The hit could have been so much worse than it was. A broken collarbone isn’t fun and he’s out for the playoffs but he manages to avoid hitting his head and getting a concussion, pivoting at the last second when he sees Marlow in his peripheral vision.
Lily: Give me a reason not to punch Marlow in the face.
Jane: I can give you several.
Jane: 1 - he’s your teammate and best friend.
Jane: 2 - you’ll probably get suspended.
Jane: 3 - I’m fine. My collarbone will heal and I’ll be back on the ice for pre-season.
Jane: 4 - I’m asking you not to.
Lily: You make a compelling argument, Shane.
Lily: Ok.
Lily: I will not punch him because you asked me not to.
Jane: That’s your reason? Nothing else I pointed out there made sense for you?
Lily: Yes yes, all good sense. But that is the reason I pick.
Lily: How are you feeling? Are they giving you the good pain meds?
Jane: Fucking sore. Last dose of meds wore off and they should be giving me the next one soon.
Lily: What time can I come see you? Are your parents there?
Jane: They’re getting set up at my place for while I’m in here. You could come now?
Lily: Good, I am outside. See you in 2 minutes.
Ilya slips through the door of Shane’s hospital room one minute and forty-five seconds later (not that Shane was counting or anything).
“Hey,” Shane grins. He’s in a private room, thank fuck, and it should be at least five minutes before the nurse comes in to give him his next morphine dose.
“Shane,” Ilya breathes. “You are really ok?”
“I’m really ok,” Shane assures him, reaching his hand out. If there was ever a good enough excuse to pretend, this would be it right? They can pretend here, they just need to be extra careful about it.
“Was scary,” Ilya murmurs as he takes Shane’s hand, standing next to his bed. “Seeing you go down like that.”
“Didn’t feel so great either,” Shane snorts. “Marlow is fucking huge.”
“Marlow is a fucking asshole,” Ilya mutters. “I will not punch him but I did yell at him.”
“Mmm, you’re very scary when you yell,” Shane says. This gets a laugh out of Ilya, his hand slipping out of Shane’s in favour of cupping his cheek.
“I am Russian, we are scary by nature,” Ilya smirks. “He is very sorry for hurting you, he did not mean to.”
“I know,” Shane shrugs his good shoulder and regrets it immediately - jostles the bad one and this gap between morphine doses fucking sucks. Ilya catches Shane’s wince, because of course he does, and moves to hit the bell for the nurse. “Don’t, I’m ok. She’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“You are in pain,” Ilya grumbles.
“And they have very strict rules around administering morphine,” Shane replies. “Just sit with me, ok? I wanted to ask you something when you came over last night.”
“Oh?” Ilya drags over and sits down in the chair near the window, brushing his thumb lightly over Shane’s cheekbones before dropping both hands into his own lap. Shane’s only a little nervous about asking this question - he’s fairly confident Ilya will say yes.
“Are you going back to Russia for the summer?”
“This is your question?”
“Part of it, yes,” Shane says, watching Ilya expectantly.
“I do not know,” Ilya sighs, a sad smile flashing briefly across his face. “There is not much left for me there.”
“If you decide not to go you could maybe come to my cottage? I usually stay there for a few weeks over the summer. You don’t have to stay the whole time I’m there, could be one or two weeks,” Shane explains quickly. He’s more nervous than he thought he was, rushing to get all the words out before Ilya can cut him off and tell him it’s a bad idea. Ilya is just watching him, eyes wide and a smile creeping back in.
“Ok,” he answers with a nod of his head. “Yes, ok. Two whole weeks of pretending?”
“More, if you want,” Shane whispers. “I - you’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”
“You might never get rid of me,” Ilya murmurs. Shane thinks he might never want to.
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Picking Ilya up at the airport is equal parts nerve-wracking and thrilling - it’s so domestic, so coupley that Shane could almost combust from all the love he has for Ilya. But the underlying fear that someone will recognise them and the haunting knowledge that this might be all they ever get clouds Shane’s excitement, just a little.
He spots Ilya approaching in the rearview mirror, looking fucking absurdly hot in his black tank top and backwards cap. It’s going to take all of Shane’s self-control not to find a private spot and beg Ilya to fuck him in the backseat. That might slightly derail the even bigger question Shane has for Ilya once they reach the cottage.
“I did not know you drove a Jeep,” Ilya says as he buckles his seatbelt. “This is not your usual car.”
“It’s better for longer drives,” Shane shrugs, hand itching to reach over and knock the hat off Ilya’s head so he can bury his fingers in the curls. “Safer in the snow.”
“Not sexy,” Ilya adds, grinning.
“I’ll happily leave the sexy cars to you,” Shane scoffs. “I’d rather make it to my destination in one piece.”
“I have not died in a car wreck yet, Shane,” Ilya tells him. “I will take you for a drive in my Porsche one day, yes?”
“As long as you promise to stick to the speed limit,” Shane huffs. Ilya just laughs, reaching over to take Shane’s hand. He rests their joined hands in his own lap as they turn onto the highway and Shane loses his last ounce of self-control. He waits until he spots a somewhat secluded rest area just off the road and pulls over, parking the car and twisting in his seat to face Ilya. It’ll be better, he thinks, to ask this question here so that he can turn around and take Ilya back to the airport if he needs to. No point in making it all the way to the cottage to get his heart broken only to have to endure a painfully awkward two hours back to Ottawa in the car.
“Ah, your long game has been to murder me,” Ilya hums. “Cannot even wait until we are at the cottage to do it? You have to do it now?”
“Shut up,” Shane huffs. “I mean, yeah. I can’t wait until we get to the cottage for this. I, uh. I have a question for you.”
“You have to park car for this? Sounds serious.” Ilya’s mouth twists, shoulders noticeably tightening and posture straightening. Fuck.
“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” Shane admits, doing his best to maintain eye contact with Ilya who suddenly seems incapable of looking at Shane at all.
“Ah,” Ilya says, clearing his throat as his fingers start to pick at a loose thread on the hem of his tank top. “So two weeks of casual, yes? Ok, Hollander.”
“No, no fuck. Fuck, that’s not what I mean,” Shane all but shouts. “Fuck casual, Ilya. I can’t pretend this isn’t fucking everything to me anymore. Can you really go on pretending? Can you really keep this up?”
“We are impossible,” Ilya mumbles. “How would we even make this work, Shane?”
“The same way we have been since that day at your place,” Shane insists. “We’ve been making it work.”
“I suppose this is true,” Ilya says, reaching out for Shane again. Shane grips his hand, not caring that someone could pull up right next to them and see them holding hands in the car.
“We make a plan,” Shane explains. “Work out when we can spend time together, think about the future together. We’ll keep making it work.”
“And this is what you want? A future together?” Ilya asks him. Shane could walk it back - could tell Ilya ‘oh well, I just meant like the next season or two’ but they’d both know he was lying. They’re about to hurl themselves off this precipice together, but Shane thinks they’ve been in freefall since Boston anyway. He’s just deploying the parachute to stop them slamming into the ground.
“More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life,” Shane whispers.
“Ah, I do not think you want this more than you want another Stanley Cup,” Ilya smirks, eyes watering a little. “I am still not convinced you will not kill me to make this happen.”
“It’s pretty fucking close,” Shane laughs. “The wanting you more than another Cup, not the murdering you thing.”
“You know, is very rude of you to ask me these things now,” Ilya sniffles. “I cannot kiss you.”
“Is that a yes?”
“It’s a yes, Shane,” Ilya whispers, squeezing his hand almost hard enough to hurt. “Fuck. Let me drive, I will get us to cottage so much faster.”
“Uh, no,” Shane scoffs. “Would be kind of a bummer if we had a fiery crash on the way there, don’t you think?”
“I already told you, I have not crashed yet.”
“Yeah, well, there’s a first time for everything,” Shane tells him. “We’ll be there before you know it. Then we can start not pretending together.”
“I really wish I could kiss you right now, Shane.” Ilya murmurs. Shane looks around - there’s nobody else in the rest stop, cars on the highway far enough away that Shane feels pretty confident that nobody just driving past would see them.
“Do it,” Shane whispers, already halfway to Ilya who grips the back of Shane’s neck and hauls him closer, smashing their lips together and pushing his tongue into Shane’s mouth. It’s messy, it’s wet, it’s borderline painful - it’s fucking perfect. There’s so much more Shane wants to say, words right on the tip of his tongue. He wants to tell Ilya that he loves him so much he was worried for a bit there that it might kill him, he wants to tell Ilya he can so clearly see them getting their happily ever after if they can only get through the hard parts, he wants to tell Ilya that the greatest honour of his life will be getting to call Ilya his.
“I love you,” Ilya says against Shane’s lips, resting their foreheads together with his eyes closed. They fly open when a hysterical laugh bursts out of Shane and he jerks back, mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to find a way to take it back and Shane cannot let that happen.
“I love you too, holy shit,” Shane blurts out, pulling Ilya back in to kiss him again.
“Thank fuck,” Ilya groans. They’ll make it work. Whatever they need to do, they’ll make this work. Shane loves to make a plan, and this is probably going to be the most important one he’s ever made. For them.
🥪🐟🔥