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Ilya is in the middle of mourning the end of his career when his phone rings.
He is, of course, entirely uninjured. His ribs stopped twinging about a week ago, ignoring whatever was happening with his wrist seems to have succeeded in making it go away, and even that mysterious recurring bruise on his shin has recently faded to a faint greenish-yellow. Arguably, he’s in peak condition to play.
But playing hockey would require him to leave this sofa, and by extension, remove Shane’s head from his lap. So, alas. Such a shame, his team was wonderful, winning the cup was glorious, etc. etc. But he lives on this sofa now. He has drafted such a beautiful statement in his head. Perhaps he will give the press conference over Skype.
Shane stirs when the phone starts to vibrate, making a muzzy, half-asleep sound in the back of his throat and starting to lift his head. “Is that mine?” he asks groggily.
“Mm, no, mine,” Ilya replies, lazily running his fingers through Shane’s hair and nudging him back down. Shane acquiesces easily, settling against Ilya’s stomach again. With his unoccupied hand, Ilya grabs for his phone where he’d let it fall face-down on his chest, squinting at the incoming call. So few people call Ilya at the best of times, let alone at eleven at fucking night, that he’s got a pit of dread opening up in his chest; it’s an immediate and unexpected relief to see no Cyrillic on the screen.
“It’s Marleau,” he tells Shane, still absently petting at his hair. “I should answer. Won’t be long.”
He expects Shane to move, to push up enough to allow Ilya to extract himself so he can take the call in another room. Instead, he simply hums in acknowledgment, muffled into Ilya’s shirt, and resettles, one hand snaking up from beneath the blanket at his waist to curl around Ilya’s hip.
He manages to stop staring just in time to answer the call before it rings through.
“The fuck do you want, Marly?” There’s no heat to it, there never is, and on the other end of the call, Marleau cackles.
“Rozy,” he crows, “How the fuck are you? This a good time?”
Ilya squints, frowns, opens his mouth to reply before he abruptly remembers that he’s supposed to be in Moscow. It occurs to him that if he were in Moscow, then yes, this would actually be a reasonable time of day to take a phone call. Actually, if he thinks back on it, just about every time Marleau’s called him during the summer, it’s been at some inoffensive early-afternoon time that would have been late as hell in Boston.
He finds himself oddly touched.
“I’ve got time,” Ilya assures him. “Why do you? Your summer so fucking boring you miss your captain already?”
It’s all the invitation Marleau needs to launch into a highlight reel of his off-season, an easy rhythm of clubs and bars and almost-perfect hookups who stole his wallet that Ilya has known and loved for many years now.
Shane shifts in his lap, and Ilya’s hand stills in his hair, glancing down to see if he needs to move to allow Shane to get up. Instead, he sees Shane nosing his way lazily down Ilya’s stomach, shuffling back until his feet bump against the opposite armrest. He resettles, without much fanfare beyond a soft sigh, with his head pillowed on Ilya’s thigh, and his nose and mouth pressed against Ilya’s dick. Ilya doesn’t think much of it, still humming in appropriate places at Marleau’s story. Nothing about Shane’s movement screams any particular intent, beyond getting more comfortable, and they’ve largely lost track of the concept of personal space since Ilya arrived at the cottage.
Then the nuzzling starts.
It’s gentle, but unmistakably deliberate, the slow drag of Shane’s nose along the faint swell of Ilya’s cock where it rests, soft, against his thigh. He hadn’t bothered with underwear, so there’s just the thin, soft fabric of his sweatpants between Shane and his dick, and Ilya can feel the heat of his breath. Arousal pools low in his gut, buzzing without any real urgency. He scratches behind Shane’s ear and down to the nape of his neck, a silent encouragement.
“You remember the roadie back in 2013 where—” Marleau starts, and Ilya cuts him off, already grinning.
“—Where you and Carmie fell off a fucking bridge in Winnipeg and we spent all night in hospital because you almost froze to death? Yes, Marly, I remember.”
“Fuck you,” Marleau says, through breathing, wheezing laughter. “I didn’t almost die—”
The flat of Shane’s tongue presses, hard, against the head of Ilya’s cock. Ilya holds his breath, looks down to see Shane already looking back up at him, eyes dark and shining in the dimmed light of the sitting room.
Ilya narrows his eyes. Oh, I see, he thinks flatly. His fingers twist involuntarily into Shane’s hair, neither pressing him closer nor pulling him away, just holding. The pleasant buzz in his groin intensifies. To the extent that there had been anything to forgive, Ilya is fairly certain that Shane had immediately forgiven his little stunt during the call with Pike. He had neglected to remember, however, that Shane’s mind tended to plan on a scale of weeks, months, or years, and that forgiven did not necessarily mean forgotten. He is, Ilya supposes, due for his payback.
Shane’s hands creep up towards Ilya’s hips, his fingers curling around the waistband of his sweatpants without pulling. He looks up again at Ilya, raises an eyebrow in a way that quite clearly asks, you gonna stop me?
And, well, no. Ilya is absolutely not going to do that.
Given tacit permission, Shane fishes Ilya out of his sweatpants, tucking the waistband just below his balls. He’s mostly soft in Shane’s hand, Shane’s fingers curled loosely around him and lazily stroking his shaft. Ilya settles back against the cushions, bracing himself, already riled at the thought of a challenge.
Shane has a tried and true method of getting him hard, refined and perfected over years; usually, he’ll start worrying at the underside of Ilya’s cock with his tongue, lips teasing at the head, drawing back the foreskin to lick at his slit, while his other hand cups and massages his balls, periodically digging a thumb into the meat of Ilya’s thigh or creeping down to rub at his perineum. Once he’s actually standing to attention, Shane will finally take him into his mouth and start blowing him in earnest. It’s a well-worn path for them, and Ilya holds it dear to his heart. He’s also fairly certain that he can endure it and still maintain a conversation with Marleau without needing to resort to making up an Amazon delivery.
Though even if he did manage to guess what was happening, Marleau would probably just laugh, call him a fucking horndog, and hang up.
He is wholly unprepared for Shane to, immediately and without much fanfare, open his mouth and sink down onto Ilya’s cock, taking about half of it into the slick heat of his mouth in one go. Shane takes a slow, careful breath through his nose, the exhale vaguely ticklish against Ilya’s skin, and sinks down the rest of the way.
Ilya swallows tightly, feeling his cockhead bump against the back of Shane’s throat. He can feel himself hardening steadily, sheathed inside Shane’s mouth, but Shane shows no sign of discomfort, just slackening his jaw and shifting his tongue to accommodate the growing intrusion, pressing forward until his nose bumps against Ilya’s stomach.
Possibly, Ilya is going to die. He may already be dead.
Shane does not, as Ilya expects, begin to move. Shane gets comfortable.
Ilya watches, in distant amazement, as Shane shifts and settles, lilting to one side to rest his head against Ilya’s thigh again, Ilya’s cock still buried in his mouth. The hand curled loosely at Ilya’s hip shoots him a lazy thumbs up, and Shane’s eyes slip closed.
Definitely dead. He’s sure Yuna will plan him a lovely funeral. Perhaps there will be speeches.
The thing about Shane, the thing Ilya sometimes forgets, is that while he certainly enjoys being bad, he seems to need to be good. It occurs to him, that in Shane’s organized, balanced, delineated view of the world, this may be less about payback and more about returning the favor.
Awed, utterly bewildered, and experiencing a critical lack of blood flow to his brain, he strokes a thumb across Shane’s cheekbone, allows it to trail down to where his lips are stretched around Ilya’s cock, spit dribbling in lazy rivers from the corners of his mouth. Good boy, Ilya thinks, cupping Shane’s face in his palm. Shane, as though somehow hearing him, hums softly around his dick and leans into the touch.
It is, perhaps, a minute and a half before Ilya’s blood settles from a boil to a low simmer, and he is able to actually hear the words Marleau is saying again. Marleau is telling him about St-Simon’s birthday rager. Ilya is answering on autopilot. Suddenly, the situation becomes quite easy to endure.
Perhaps it’s the benefit of nearly two weeks of very-near-constant fucking to burn off the worst of the urgency that usually dictates the pace of their meetings, maybe it’s the horrible, animal thing buried deep in his chest that settles in contentment at seeing Shane, comfortable and hazy and full in his lap, or perhaps it’s the dreamlike feeling that seems to pervade the cottage, the surreal impossibility of him actually being allowed to be here, to have this. Whatever it is, it clicks into place, and he allows himself to sink into it by careful degrees.
He and Marleau trade chirps, leave scattered threads of conversation that they put down and pick up at random, pre-season workouts, or the time Marleau puked in the back of Ilya’s third favorite car, or somebody’s new bullshit diet, or the last-minute trade that’s going to make LA a fucking nightmare for the rest of the Western Conference. His cock, hot and thick and heavy, sits snug in Shane’s mouth, completely sheathed inside of him, Shane’s fingers tracing random, featherlight patterns on the skin of his hip where his hand has snuck up under Ilya’s shirt. Ilya watches his eyelashes flutter without his eyes ever quite opening when Ilya drags nails across his scalp. Feels him sigh softly through his nose when Ilya swipes at the spit collecting on his chin, wiping it off against his sweatpants.
We could sleep like this, Ilya thinks. It shouldn’t feel like such a dangerous admission in his own head; he’s woken up more than once this summer to Shane between his legs, mouth hot and wet and insistent, has coaxed Shane awake on slow mornings with teeth at the nape of his neck and a hand around his cock. This, though, it feels – perhaps too close to that flayed-open, raw thing that is too tender for Ilya to touch without flinching, the thing that makes him want to crack open his ribcage and spill whatever’s inside on the bed between them, makes him want to say, here, here’s what I’ve got, you want it? Please, take me, take something, take anything, it’s already yours.
“Alright, brother, it’s late as dicks here, I’m gonna let you go,” Marleau eventually, finally says.
“Mh,” Ilya agrees vaguely. “Add me to group chat for the camp, I need the schedule still.”
“You got it. Take care, Rozy.”
“Bye, Marly.”
He hangs up, then checks his phone twice to ensure that yes, he definitely had actually hung up.
The dam breaks.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hisses, his free hand migrating from Shane’s cheek to grip his hair. “Fuck. Can I—Are You—”
Immediately, Shane taps permission on his hip three times, go-go-go, and Ilya doesn’t need any further encouragement; he throws his phone aside and takes Shane’s head in both hands, thrusting up into his throat with a broken groan. Shane moans around him, and Ilya watches as his eyes flutter and roll back in his head, watches the way he swallows and breathes carefully, takes him so fucking perfectly.
Ilya’s close, he’s so close, he’s been close for fucking years, barely has time to choke out, “Where—” before Shane’s pulling back just enough to take a full breath and sinking back down to the root of him again. He lets Ilya hold him there, an iron grip in his hair, as he spills in wrecked waves down his throat, hips rolling and grinding and soft, pained little noises ripping out of his chest.
His thighs are shaking and he’s possibly seeing angels by the time he allows Shane to pull back, slipping off of his cock with a wet, obscene pop. For a moment, they stare at each other, both heaving for breath; Shane looks wild, cheeks stained a blotchy red that crawls down his throat and beyond the collar of his shirt, the entire bottom half of his face slick and glistening, lips swollen and red. There are tears clumped in his eyelashes, and his eyes are wide and dark, completely desperate.
Ilya is grabbing for him in an instant, tugging him closer and muttering, “Up, up, up,” as Shane eagerly clambers over to straddle his chest. The solid weight of him on Ilya’s sternum is a fucking godsend. He’s hard and aching, soaking through the front of his ridiculous flannel pajamas, and he keens as Ilya reaches in to pull his cock free. He swipes his hand across the head of his dick, slick with the precome dribbling from the slit, and starts stroking Shane in earnest, quick and hard and unforgiving.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Shane breathes, voice more broken with every pass of Ilya’s thumb over his slit, eyes wide open but glassy and unseeing. “Fuck, please, Ilya, please, I need—”
“I know what you need,” Ilya tells him, doesn’t relent, doesn’t slow down even as he slides his free hand up along the curve of Shane’s hip, makes a brief but highly necessary detour to knead at the soft pillow of his pec, before finally hooking three fingers into Shane’s mouth, sliding slick and easy against his tongue.
He bites down on Ilya as he comes – not hard, but probably enough to leave the imprint of his teeth around Ilya’s knuckles for a day or so. Ilya takes the come spattering across his mouth, his nose, his chin, with a preening, animal sort of pride.
It’s a long, sweaty moment before Shane descends back to Earth; he puts a hand firmly around Ilya’s wrist to stop his movement, and Ilya releases his spent cock, slides the fingers of his other hand out of Shane’s mouth, wiping them on his shirt before returning them to Shane’s hair, stroking lightly as the heave of Shane’s chest slows.
Shane clears his throat quietly, and his voice is wet and wrecked when he asks, “That was okay, right?”
Ilya can’t help the incredulous smile that creeps onto his face. He gestures vaguely at the mess between them. “What do you think, Hollander?” he asks dryly.
Shane huffs, rolls his eyes. He’s still leaning into Ilya’s hand in his hair. “Fuck off. I just meant—on the phone. I wasn’t trying to fuck with you or anything. I just… really wanted you in me. Like, right then.”
Ilya feels his eyebrows shoot up. “If I ever complain about getting to have your mouth, you need to kill me. Will be the first sign I have been replaced by hockey robot.” This is a far safer thing to say than any of the other options that had presented themselves to his brain, ranging from “marry me” to “if this is one of those bad American movies where I wake up from a coma at the end and this was all a dream I think I am actually going to die.”
Shane gives him a crooked, dry smile. “Hockey robot,” he echoes.
“Mh, yes,” Ilya agrees. “Old Soviet program. Top secret plans to invade NHL. I am blueprint, of course. Perfect specimen.”
This has the desired result: Shane leans down to shut him up with a kiss, slow and deep. When he pulls back, he’s already making the face, licking at his lips and frowning. Right on cue:
“Okay, gross,” he announces, rolling off of Ilya and getting to his feet with a groan. “Up, shower, teeth, bed,” he instructs firmly, the four steps to restoring peace and order to Shane Hollander’s universe.
“I love you so fucking much,” Ilya breathes. This had not been on the approved list of things to say, but his brain and mouth were apparently not on speaking terms.
Shane’s face softens immediately. Without hesitation, he says, “I love you too.” It feels as though he might love the taste of those words, the thrill of being allowed to say them, maybe as much as Ilya does. Still smiling, Shane says possibly the only four words Ilya wants to hear more: “Let’s go to bed.”
Well, Hockey was fun while it lasted. He’ll announce his retirement from the bedroom.