Archive of Our Own

Ilya walks up the unfamiliar flight of stairs with an ominous sense of foreboding settling in his stomach. He'd played horribly tonight: zero goals, one assist. The Metros hadn't swept the floor with them— Boston could still hold their own when Ilya was playing like shit— but they'd still taken a hit.

Ilya had tried to focus on the game, to not let outside influences mess with his play style. But that strategy had been left to the birds when, during their first face-off, Shane had smiled at him around his mouth guard. Earlier, before the game, he'd sent Ilya a text. A different address, presumably his actual apartment.

I am so fucked, he'd thought, tripping up the face-off and watching Shane skate away with the puck. He couldn't find it in himself to give a shit about the minor loss. His mind, sluggish and dulled by the thought of what he had to do that evening, had never touched down on the ice. He was in Shane's home, drifting in and out of different rooms, wondering where he'd inevitably end up breaking his own heart.

When Shane had scored the first goal, he'd spit the mouth guard out, screaming out a triumphant “Yeah!” as he bumped helmets with Pike. He'd returned to the face-off with a smile, and all Ilya could think of was the first time they met.

You will not be so nice when we beat you.

Their sticks had lined up, Shane's knocking playfully at his own, and he thought of Shane. Imagined him stripped down and soap-soft, skin still heated from the post-game shower. He imagined wrapping him up in his own duvet, not the one at their secret sex loft, but his. The one that smells like him, head resting on a pillow he'd probably spent hours reading about on r/sleep. He'd want the perfect pillow, to match his perfect mattress, to optimize his perfect routine. Perfect Shane, with his perfect life and his perfect body; his perfect little smile, dimming as Ilya would press his body down into the sheets and tell him he cannot have this anymore.

You will not be so nice when I hurt you.

Ilya frowned down at their playful stick handling, and Shane stole the puck during the second face-off.

He is silent now, standing before the door that will lead him out of the stairwell and onto Shane's floor. He steadies himself, running his hand down his face until his palm cups his own neck. He twists it, stretching to the left, then the right, pushing off the inevitable, pushing off the most painful goodbye he has ever spoken, next to that of the one he never got to offer his mother. He thinks of someone else standing here, maybe in a few years. Another man, one who Shane does not have to covet. A man who has, perhaps, met his doting parents. Who they like, because he is kind to Shane, and he doesn't ram him into the boards every chance he gets. Or, maybe, this man is not standing here at all. He is standing outside a restaurant, flowers held loosely at his side, as he waits to very publicly share a meal with a man whom he tentatively loves. How can he not love Shane, after all? This man, who does not yet exist, but who is waiting in the confines, ready to jump as soon as Ilya cuts the string tying his heart to the ribs just beneath Shane's left breastbone.

Ilya's hands ball into fists, and he swallows down bile. Sick with jealousy over a man who is not real.

He pushes his way through the doorway, checks carefully for the proper apartment number, then, taking a deep breath, he knocks. He hears the pitter-patter of unsocked feet approach the door, the unlocking of the security latch, and then it's open, Shane's flushed face staring up at him from around the door.

“Hi,” he says shyly, opening the door wider so Ilya can step through. He does, taking note of the well-organized shoe rack to his left. He begins toeing off his sneakers, and Shane preens.

“There are slippers, if you'd like,” he says quietly, like his own consideration for others embarrasses him. Ilya's answering smile is tight, and when he slides his feet into the slippers, finding them to be a perfect fit, he swallows down the lump in his throat. He needs to leave, now, before Shane's out anymore money on this half-baked relationship.

When Ilya turns, Shane's looking up at him, expectant, a blush still painting his cheeks. It makes his freckles stand out, and Ilya hates that he can't lean down to kiss them. He takes a small step back, placing a minuscule amount of distance between them, but Shane notices. His smile dims, and he self-consciously rubs at his nose with his sleeve.

Ilya steels himself, shoving both hands in his pockets and looking down at his feet. He mentally berates himself for his cowardice, for not, at the very least, meeting Shane's eyes when he breaks his heart. He thinks, perhaps, he is as weak as his father always told him he was.

“Hollander I—” he doesn't miss the way Shane flinches at the sound of his last name, arms crossing across his chest in a protective gesture. Ilya swallows thickly, trying again.

“There is something I would want to discuss.” He doesn't think the wording is right. It's never right, in this stupid, nonsensical language, but he guesses it doesn't matter. A breakup is a breakup, pretty easy to convey in any language. A lot easier to translate than his love, apparently, as it's seemingly taken Shane upwards of eight years and one failed girlfriend to see that Ilya is maybe, just maybe, a little more into just his body.

Shane apparently misinterprets the energy in the room. He drops his arms, his smile turning a bit dopey.

“Oh! Yeah, no. No worries. I actually—” he wrings his hands together nervously, his shoulders bunching up to his ears. He lets out a huff of laughter, dipping his head down and toeing at the carpet. “There's something I wanted to ask you, too.” He looks up at Ilya from beneath his lashes, and Ilya's heart skips a beat. He's so utterly helpless in the wake of Shane's bashful way of living.

“Maybe we— I mean, I made dinner. I thought we could talk. After, um, after dinner?” Shane gestures awkwardly toward the kitchen, and that's when Ilya finally takes note of the smell permeating throughout the apartment. Something's baking, something citrusy and spiced.

We don't do this, he wants to shout. He wants to grab Shane by his shoulders, shake him out of whatever bubble he thinks they're living in. Shane must see the hesitation in his eyes because he stutters.

“Unless you already ate! Which is totally fine. I should have thought to ask. I didn't—”

Ilya takes pity on him, resting his palm on his tense shoulder.

“Hollander, relax, I have not eaten.”

Shane lets out a deep breath, a way to calm himself. Ilya knows this. He hates that he knows this. He hates that he's learning more, stepping out of the foyer to follow Shane down the hall and into the kitchen. Here is his table where, bless him, he has laid out placemats. Because of course he has. That's the kind of man Shane is. A man who hates messes. Who— Ilya's eyes slide to the counter— keeps tins labeled with all their contents: coffee, tea, flour, etc. Ilya suspects the labeler sits on its own pedestal in the top drawer, keys well-loved, easily accessible. He knows Shane, knows that everything has its place, its compartment, categorized and uncomplicated. He knows there is no place for him to fit in this apartment, suspects that's why he's never been here in the first place. There is no perfect little shelf for Shane to put him on, to hide him away until company is gone, and he can pull him out to do as he pleases. There is no place here for Ilya.

“It's almost done,” Shane says softly, reaching out to squeeze his fingers before rounding the kitchen island. Ilya watches with rapt fascination as he checks something steaming atop the stove, stirs rice in his rice cooker, then pulls the chicken out of the oven. Wordlessly, he dishes out their meals: chicken, steamed broccoli, and rice. It's so simple, so very domestic. Ilya can picture it vividly: stepping into his home, walking into the kitchen to find some bland, but well-balanced, meal waiting for him. He would bitch about it, then gobble it down happily. Probably ask for seconds. He has never been loved enough to have been fed purposefully, with intention. Here's X amount of grams of protein, he pictures Shane saying around a mouthful of grilled fish. Here's the fiber you need for the day. Ilya wants to be told these things, to be loved this way, wants it so much it makes him sick.

“Ilya?”

Shane's set the table, standing awkwardly at his chair. Ilya shakes his head, ridding himself of his stupid fantasy. He smiles, knowing it's tight, knowing it doesn't reach his eyes, but he tries. He sits in his own chair, across from Shane, and tries very hard not to get used to the vision of Shane staring across the dinner table at him, utensils hovering over a meal he's prepared for them both.

“This is… very nice,” Ilya tries, carving into the chicken and refusing to make direct eye contact.

“Oh, thanks.” Shane's blushing, the color rising to his cheeks so easily. Ilya loves it, loves how easy it is to get a rise out of Shane. Frustration, embarrassment, arousal, all carrying with them their accompanying microexpressions that leave Ilya weak in the knees. He's so terribly weak for Shane Hollander.

“This is my consolation? For you beating me tonight?” He's trying to tease, to lighten the stale atmosphere that he knows he's responsible for. But Shane doesn't bite. He shakes his head, then makes everything worse by saying:

“What? No, I— no. I just wanted to do something. Nice.” He swallows his food, not meeting Ilya's eyes. He tries again, speaking to his cooked chicken. “I wanted us to do something nice.”

Ilya can't look at this too closely. If he does, his resolve will crumble, and he'll be begging Shane to drag him back to the bedroom in no time. He pivots.

“Oh? Beating me was not nice enough? Now you must feed me bland Hollander diet? What is they say, ah— ‘kick the dead horse?’”

He can immediately tell he's overcompensated. Shane flinches, fork falling to his plate with a loud “clang.”

“You don't like it? I'm sorry, I thought—” he's looking at his food a bit maniacally, probably trying to find the punchline between the grains of rice. “I just wanted—”

Ilya's heart lurches, guilt clogging his throat. He immediately takes pity, reaching out his hand to grasp Shane's. He brings their hands to the center of the table and tilts his head, catching Shane's panicked eyes.

“Hey, hey. I am sorry. That was mean. Is good meal, yes? I am teasing you. Just teasing you.” It wasn't teasing. It was cruel. He knows it was cruel. He'd aimed for his own vulnerabilities, which are now, unfortunately, inextricably tied to Shane's.

Shane nods, but he doesn't meet his eyes. Conversation is stilted after that, the meal ruined by Ilya's casual cruelty. In all honesty, it's probably for the best. It will give Shane one more reason to watch Ilya walk away from them with relief.

After the food is finished, Shane takes their plates to the sink. He begins washing them, alongside the pots and pans he used to make their meal.

“Ah, ah, hey. Let me do this part. You made dinner.”

Shane looks up, eyes cautious. Ilya doesn't blame him; he's clearly overcompensating for the earlier jab. Which he shouldn't be. He never would have before. It's all a mess, really. He's caught between the final moments of being with a man who wants to make him well-balanced meals, and a lonely stretch of time ahead. He's salvaging precious moments and tainting them with his fear.

“You can dry, da? You know where your dishes go.” He doesn't dare suggest they leave the dishes for later. Knows they're the only thing Shane's brain will linger on. Also, he is selfish. He'd like to forestall the inevitable conversion for a few more minutes. He's in love, sue him.

Shane steps to the side, grabbing a dish towel from one of his drawers. Ilya bypasses the dish gloves, grabbing the sponge and pouring a generous amount of dish soap on it before wetting it and using it against the first dish he sees. He glances over, smiling when he spots Shane's frustrated expression.

“You're an animal,” Shane admonishes, watching Ilya scrub the pan like the entire act is being undertaken as a personal affront to his lifestyle. Ilya smirks, flicking soap suds at him mid-scrub. Shane jumps back, yelping out a “Hey!” but he's giggling, and he swats at Ilya playfully with the towel. Ilya hip-checks him as he hands over the freshly-scrubbed pot, and they're smiling, nose-to-nose, ice broken. Shane takes the pot, kissing his cheek during the hand-off, and Ilya wants to scream.

They work in tandem, Ilya washing, Shane drying and putting away the dishes. “The mugs are on the middle shelf,” he says cheerfully. “In case you wake up before me and you want coffee. Which— coffee machine is over there, by the way. Grounds in the tin next to it. And the creamer…”

He goes on, opening the fridge to show Ilya something important, something sweet and domestic. He doesn't hear it over the static in his ears. He's holding a plate limply, rinsing it beneath the faucet far longer than is necessary. Shane returns to his side, still talking, still saying very important, loving things, Ilya is sure. Things about the kitchen, about the house, where he is apparently supposed to be making himself comfortable. He knows he is interrupting Shane mid-sentence when he says:

“I need to tell you something.”

Shane stops talking, a surprised “o” at his lips. His brow furrows, and he reaches for the plate Ilya's still got trapped beneath a steady stream of water.

“Right, um, yeah. Me too, I guess. Would you like to go first? I also had a— I mean, I guess I should just say it. I was wondering if you'd—”

“I think we should stop seeing each other.”

“—like to come to my cottage this summer.”

The plate slips from Shane's hand and shatters on the kitchen floor.

”Blyat!”

Ceramic shrapnel is scattered all around them, covering the linoleum floor in its entirety. Ilya's eyes do a quick scan of the floor, taking note of areas where the largest pieces have fallen. He looks back at Shane, whose hands are gripping the bottom hem of his shirt. He does a quick body scan of him, eyes zeroing in on his feet. His toes are bleeding, the blood spreading from his skin and congealing in droplets on the floor. He glances back up to see Shane's chest heaving slightly, his eyes flitting around the room, seemingly unseeing.

“Okay,” Ilya tries. It comes out thick, “Ok-ie,” the English heavy on his tongue. Shane is barefoot, but Ilya has his socks and the guest slippers on. At quick glance, he can see that his feet are fine. He levels Shane with a look, forcing eye contact.

“I need you to stay right there and tell me where the broom is.” But Shane's not hearing him. His breaths are starting to sound like heaves, his knuckles white as they twist the fabric of his shirt. Ilya reaches out to place a steadying hand on his shoulder, ignoring the full-body flinch Shane has in response. “Shane, your broom.”

Shane takes a deep, grounding breath, then another. He reaches one hand out to grip the edge of the counter, eyes still wild.

“I— closet. In the hall.”

Ilya nods, squeezing his arm to let him know he'll be right back. He walks through the kitchen, then toes off his shoes so he doesn't track glass into the rest of the house. He finds the closet on the third try, the first two doors being the bathroom and bedroom. He digs around in the closet and finds the broom. Just as he's about to shut the door, his eyes zero in on a first aid kit. He snatches that up too, then stops by the bathroom again to grab tweezers. He finds them quickly, second drawer, tucked in next to a spare toothbrush and a box of Korean face masks. When he returns to the kitchen, Shane is still there, staring down at his bleeding feet like a man defeated. Ilya puts his shoes back on, then begins sweeping from the outside in. He makes quick work of the task. He'd spotted a Roomba earlier, knowing the vacuum could do a better job at this than the broom. Still, he gathers the large pieces in a pile and sweeps the perimeter. When he gets to Shane, Shane delicately lifts one foot for him to sweep around, then another. He ends up pulling himself onto the countertop, watching Ilya with a sluggish dispassion. Ilya pauses in sweeping, leaning the handle against the counter so he can grab a few paper towels. He wets them, then bends down to wipe Shane's blood from the floor.

“You don't have to—”

“Hush,” Ilya clicks his tongue, getting at the last of the blood. He rises, tossing the bloodied paper towels in the trash, then quickly sweeps up the glass, tossing that too. He sees Shane shift his weight in his periphery, and he crosses the room with an “ah ah ah.” He presses down on Shane's thighs with his palms, keeping him from crawling off the counter. His hands slide to Shane's hips, and he slips between the parting of his thighs with ease.

“Come here,” he ushers, sliding his hands up Shane's sides to grip beneath his arms. He tugs, gesturing for him to lift his arms, which he does, albeit half-heartedly. He wraps his arms around Ilya's neck, his legs crossing behind his hips, and Ilya hoists him off the counter. He walks them through the kitchen, toeing off his slippers before stepping out into the living room. He walks around the back of the couch, then deposits Shane onto the cushions as gracefully as he can. He props Shane's bloodied feet atop the coffee table, then makes a quick trip back to the kitchen to retrieve the first aid kit and some wet paper towels. When he comes back, he notes Shane hasn't moved. He's staring blankly at his mantle, his breaths even, but deep. Ilya tries not to let his mind linger on that, focusing on the task at hand. He settles down on the cushion next to Shane and pulls one of his feet onto his lap.

It's only when Shane hears Ilya pop the first aid kit open that he whips his head around, eyes zeroing in on Ilya's hands.

“What are you doing?” His voice is chalky, and it sounds like he's holding something back. Words clogging up his throat. Ilya pretends he's grateful he cannot hear Shane's thoughts, that he can only wonder at the pain he's inflicted.

It is better this way, he reminds himself, pulling the tweezers out from his pocket. He is sad now, but you're all he's known. He'll find someone nice, someone close to him. He will thank you later, maybe, for giving him this.

He props his knee up, then places Shane's heel on top. Narrowing his gaze, he begins picking out the tiny glass shards that have dug their way into Shane's toes. There are not many, thankfully, and there's a lot of blood, but the cuts are shallow. He digs the glass out efficiently, piling the pieces on the coffee table. Shane doesn't say anything, just watches him with that unreadable stare, eyes rimmed slightly red.

Once damage control is established, and Ilya's deposited all the glass from Shane's right foot onto the table, he takes a moment to admire Shane's feet. He hasn't thought about them much, especially because Shane's a little dweeb who likes to keep his socks on during sex, but he looks at them now. His ankles are less dainty than he imagined, and the bones of his feet are prominent. His toenails are all intact, a rare feat for ice skaters. Many men on Ilya's team have lost their fair share of toenails, Ilya included. But not Shane. Aside from dried blood and a few minor cuts, his feet are completely unmarred.

Ilya thumbs at Shane's arch, rubbing small circles into his skin. A memory bubbles up inside him— or— more a sensation. Rare instances of post-sex cuddling, Shane worming his way into his arms, head on his chest, leg hitched up around his thighs. His toes, digging playfully into the meat of Ilya’s calves, tickling him. He glances up at Shane, wondering if he'll be able to see the same memory playing out behind his eyes, but Shane's not looking at him. He's staring at their point of contact, where Ilya’s hands cradle the heel of his foot gently, like he's something precious.

Ilya shakes his head minutely, reaching for the damp paper towel to wipe the dried blood off Shane's skin. He then coats the cuts in Neosporin and bandages them as efficiently as he can. The wrap job is a tad wonky, but it's whatever, they're toes.

He sets Shane's foot down gently next to him on the couch. He then reaches for his other foot and begins the process all over.

He thinks, as he picks the glass out of Shane’s foot, about how he’s never been in Shane’s living room. How this will be the first and last time he ever sees Shane curled up on his own couch, how this will have been the last meal they share together. He thinks of Shane, alone after this, probably sad, but maybe, if Ilya is lucky, more angry than anything. He imagines he’ll be leaving a bitter aftertaste, one that will follow them to the rink, where Shane’s chirps will not be so playful, and Ilya’s retorts will be half-baked, no true heat behind them. He knows the heartache will last however long heartache must last for a man cut off from his first gay anything. But Shane is attractive, stunning really. He’s kind and cute, easily lovable and even easier to goad. Someday, perhaps not far off, he will meet a normal man with a normal life. Some Montreal man, polite and Canadian. He will eat Shane’s meals with gratitude, maybe rub his feet like this after a game. He will hold him after they make love, and allow Shane to fall asleep on his chest the way Ilya has only ever dreamed about. He will go to Shane’s hideaway cabin with him, not because he is a secret, but because he is a comfort.

Ilya tells himself these things. He must believe them. He must believe he is making the right decision here, that Shane will be loved again.

He swallows around the lump in his throat and pulls the last piece of glass from Shane’s foot.

He is so, so easy to love.

He wipes the blood from Shane’s foot perfuctually, bandages it as well as he can manage, then cradles the heel of his foot between both palms. Shane isn’t looking at him. He’s staring down at his lap, his expression forlorn. He pulls the throw pillow from the back of the couch down into his lap and begins tugging at its loose threads.

“Okay,” Ilya breaks the silence, his voice thick with emotion. He clears his throat, staring down at Shane’s bandaged foot like it might have all the answers to his problems. Shane says nothing, still watching his own fingers tear apart his throw blanket. Ilya tries again, the goodbye heavy and cloying on his tongue.

“I will go now.”

“Okay,” Shane says to the blanket. Ilya’s crushed that he won’t see Shane’s eyes one last time before he leaves, but he knows he’s not owed a consolation prize for breaking a beautiful man’s heart.

“Okay.” Ilya moves Shane’s foot from his lap, resting it delicately atop the couch cushion he vacates. “Run your vacuum in the kitchen before you go back in, da?”

Of course, Shane knows to do this, Mr. Clean Freak Extrordinaire, but Ilya still worries. He still cares. That is the whole problem here, really.

“Yeah.”

Ilya takes one step backward, away from the couch, followed by another. He’s accosted by memories, parallels drawn between this moment and every other time he’s left Shane alone in bed. Those beautiful brown eyes staring after him, a silent plea to stay. Ilya never did. He won’t now. And he won’t be coming back either. He wonders if this is how his mother felt, kissing him goodbye as he fled for school on the final day of her life. He wonders if she cataloged his smile, the way his eyes glowed when he looked up at her, holding a reverence inside his chest that only little boys of twelve hold for their perfect, perfect mothers.

“Will see you next season,” he tries one last time. That gets him a wince, at least. He wonders if Shane is thinking of his cottage, contrasting it in his mind’s eye with the way he imagines Moscow looks. He’s probably not far off, if it's as grey and bleak as Ilya knows it to be. Lonely— mostly, it is lonely. His heart breaks for the little fantasy they almost built together.

Shane doesn’t respond to that. He pulls his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his shins and resting his cheek on one of his knees. His face is turned away from Ilya. He will not watch him leave.

Ilya turns then, knowing this is the best goodbye he could have probably asked for. He doesn’t know what he expected. A screaming match, maybe? Some sort of pushback, at the very least. Nothing. Shane offered nothing, rolling over on his back and exposing his soft underbelly, only for Ilya to stab at the heart of him. He’d just taken it, quiet and acquiescing. Maybe they had never been something worth fighting for.

Ilya grabs his jacket, then bends down to put on his shoes. He ties the laces robotically, looking at the empty spot where his slippers sat not an hour prior. He slides open the security latch, takes one last deep breath, then calls out: “Goodnight, Hollander.”

Silence, louder than any stadium Ilya’s played for. Then, so softly, he barely hears it:

“Goodnight, Ilya.”

The “good” and “night” are parted by a hiccup. Ilya coming out perfectly, two syllables, not three, like Shane’s been practicing for him. Maybe had been, mumbling the name to himself under his breath as he went about his boring day, making god-awful smoothies, folding the corner back on his sheets like a good little soldier. Maybe he held Ilya’s name in his mouth for weeks, excited to open the door to the man himself so he could set it free, having something much more substantial to cling to. Ilya does not think he’d pictured choking it out like a goodbye, two syllables nestled between what was obviously a broken sob. Ilya should leave him be, should let him mourn whatever this is in private. He deserves this, reserved and coveting as he is. He deserves to not have to cry quietly.

Ilya abandons all reason, marching back into the living room with his shoes on. What greets him is an awful picture: Shane, eyes pressed to his knees, shoulders hunched and shaking. How ready he was to fall apart as soon as the door shut. Alone, without a fight. Bitterness bubbles up from Ilya’s chest, and he spits it out into the space between them.

“What is this?”

Shane shakes his head minutely, tucking his chin to his chest.

“Nothing.”

Ilya’s anger swells, his emotions buoyed by tears unshed and words unspoken.

“Nothing? Is nothing? Okay, you are crying here on this couch, quiet, and is nothing to me?”

Shane’s head shoots up, eyes bloodshot and cheeks damp with tears. He’s livid.

“So what? You can’t march back in here and tell me that you give a shit! That’s not your prerogative anymore, remember?”

Ilya shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“My per— what? Hollander, I do not know this word. I don’t know what it means.”

“It means—” Shane spits out, ugly and cruel, “—that you gave up your place to care about what I do. So please, keep ‘not caring’ and get the fuck out of my apartment.”

Ilya sees red. His hands leave his pockets, spreading like flames fanned to eat up— nothing. Nowhere. He has nowhere to go, nothing to burn, except the fledgling love he uproots and feeds the flames of rage he feels at everything. Everyone. But mostly himself.

“Oh? I do not care? I tell you we cannot do this, we cannot be this anymore, and you say ‘okay.’ Like I am giving you stupid weather report. ‘Hi Hollander, nice game today; yes, your chicken is good, thank you; no, I cannot see you anymore, sorry.’ ‘Ah, okay, Ilya. No problem. Here is door.’”

Shane looks around wildly, expression bordering on manic.

“What the fuck do you want me to say? It’s not like you were trying very hard not to leave!”

“But you did not even fight to make me stay!”

Shane sucks in a breath through his teeth, his eyes widening by a fraction. Ilya knows he is being cruel. He knows this is selfish and underhanded and so not the way Shane deserves to be left. But he cannot hide the hurt in his voice. He is mad, crushed by the thought that Shane truly could let them fall to the wayside so easily. Yes, Ilya was taking the sickly plunge for them both, but he didn’t think it would be so easy. Walking away from them, from what they have, it shouldn’t be this easy.

His thoughts flash to his mother again, her hand hanging limply over the side of the bed. Had it been? Easy to leave him? Is he truly this unlovable?

Well, he’s definitely not making a very good case for himself right now.

Shane’s shoulders droop, the fight dying from his posture as quickly as it had risen. He wipes at his eyes with his sleeve, gaze slipping back down to his lap. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, the fire of his earlier words snuffed out by a sort of melancholy that settles over both of them.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Ilya.” He wipes at his eyes again, speaking around half-formed sobs. “Everything you're using to justify this decision is probably fair.” He shrugs his shoulders helplessly, wet doe eyes finally rising to meet Ilya’s. “This is too complicated. It’s too hard. It’ll never work. It has no future. I don’t know which one you picked, but any one of them is reason enough to leave.”

Ilya’s heart contracts, his own lashline growing teary. Not one of the excuses being, “you don’t want me,” or “you don’t love me.” His arms fall to his sides, breaths coming out ragged and chopped, splintered like the porcelain covering Shane’s kitchen floor. Shane barrels on, ignorant of the whirlwind of emotions battling for prominence beneath Ilya’s ribcage. Or, perhaps, in spite of.

Because of? Ilya thinks, wistfully.

“I’m sure there are better options out there. For us.” Shane swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in slow motion. “For you. I know you can find someone— a girl, even, who would make things easier.” Shane’s voice trips over “girl” and the tail end of his sentence, like he’s chewing through nails to get these words out. Ilya understands the sentiment; there lie their shared fears, hopeless and aggravatingly real, voiced into existence.

Shane turns his head, hiding his eyes but unable to hide the tears that just keep falling. And falling. Dripping from his chin and wetting the neckline of his shirt.

“I just wonder—” Shane starts, stops, presses his fist to his mouth, hiccuping around a sob. He squeezes his eyes shut, speaking to a dark room when he says, “I know you have so many options. So many women who could love you. But I— I just wonder, maybe, if you’ve taken into account the fact that I love you.” His voice breaks around a sob, and he buries his face in his knees. When he speaks, the words are muffled. “That I’m in love with you.”

”Moy lyubimyy.”

Ilya rushes forward, falling back to his spot on the couch clumsily. He jostles Shane’s feet, scooting forward to hold his calves, his knees. His hands want to be everywhere, on his skin, in his hair. He wants to hold him, to kiss him, swallow those beautiful words down so they might douse the raging inferno burning him from the inside out.

“Shane, you do not mean this,” he says, paradoxically. “Tell me you do not mean this.”

But Shane’s shaking his head, forehead rubbing back and forth against his knees.

“I do,” he says, broken but honest. “I really do. I’m so stupidly in love with you.”

Ilya pulls at his hands, cupping both of them between his own. He brings them to his lips, kissing his calloused fingertips, his sharp knuckles, the delicate veins of his wrists. He says, to the meat of Shane’s palm, “I love you too,” tears wetting their clasped hands. Shane’s sob is loud, rough and relieved. He presses his eyes to his knees, speaking to the gap in his thighs when he says, “You’ve got a fucked up way of showing it.”

“I know,” he replies, his grip on Shane’s clasped hands tight, probably bordering on uncomfortable. “I know. I am sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you. I love you.” He says it again, in English, then in Russian, pressing the words into Shane’s skin like that will make them tangible. Shane’s head rises, his face red and blotchy. He smiles timidly around his tears, watching Ilya with such an open expression that it makes Ilya’s teeth ache. He doesn’t say anything, just lets his knees part, his legs falling open to accommodate Ilya’s sturdy frame. Ilya falls into him, kissing his neck, his damp cheeks, his hooded lids, sticky with tears. I love you, his kisses speak. I love you here, one pressed purposefully against Shane’s smattering of freckles. And here. The cupid’s bow of his lip. He captures his mouth, kissing him hungrily. It’s sloppy and riding just on the edge of desperate, a familiar feeling when he’s with Shane. He wonders how he could have ever given this up. He wonders if he ever truly could have, how many weeks it would have taken for him to be crawling back to Shane’s apartment like a wounded animal. Not long, he thinks.

“You’re not leaving me,” Shane groans into their kiss, turning his head so Ilya can pepper kisses across his jawline, biting at his earlobe in a teasing manner.

“No,” he says, directly into his ear. Shane lets out a soft whimper, hands clawing at Ilya’s upper back.

“You’ll stay?” Ilya doesn’t know what he means. Stay a little longer? Stay the night? Stay in his life? He nods his head vigorously, a yes to each question.

“Yes,” he says, gruff and eager. “Yes.” He makes his way back to Shane’s mouth, kissing him harshly. He slides his tongue along Shane’s bottom lip, tasting the salt of his tears. He shifts their weight, moving so that he’s crouched over the couch in a hovering stance without dislodging himself from Shane’s embrace. He slides one arm beneath Shane’s lower back, his other slipping into the folds of his knees. He hoists Shane up from the couch, ignoring Shane’s reproachful “Mmmf!” as he carries him blindly toward the bedroom. Shane pulls away from the kiss, only to reattach his lips to the bit of skin peaking out from behind Ilya’s unbuttoned collar. Ilya groans, rushing toward the bedroom and depositing Shane onto the perfectly arranged sheets in haste. Shane tugs his hoodie over his shoulders as Ilya begins to clumsily unbutton his own shirt. He then starts on his pants, undoing the belt buckle and sliding his slacks down to his knees, only to realize he’s still wearing his sneakers. He hears a haughty sniff come from Shane’s perch at the edge of the bed. When he glances up, he’s met with a completely naked Shane Hollander, sans bandages, who’s looking at him while wearing an expression of mild distaste.

Ilya grins wickedly, pulling the pants off over his shoes. He stands, wearing only his boxers and sneakers, and lifts his leg playfully, slowly extending his leg so that the bottom of his shoe looms over the sheets. Shane’s eyes widen, and he grabs Ilya’s ankle, hooking his fingers into the lip of his sneaker and tugging it off. The move throws Ilya off balance, and he falls on his ass unceremoniously. This, of course, has them both cracking up.

“Nasty,” Shane admonishes between giggles. “Take your other shoe off, you heathen.”

Ilya does, crawling toward the edge of the bed on his hands and knees. He slides his torso up between Shane’s thighs, gripping the back of his neck so he can tug him down into a hungry kiss. Shane huffs out a shaky laugh, and Ilya uses the opportunity to part his lips, sliding his tongue into Shane’s mouth with ease. Shane’s hands move from the edge of the bed, burying themselves in Ilya’s curls. Ilya slides his mouth down to Shane’s chin, nipping at it playfully. He trails kisses down his throat, his chest, licking a broad, wet stripe down his happy trail.

“Gross,” Shane pants, but his breathing is quickening, his stomach fluttering in rapid succession beneath Ilya’s lips. He dips his head and takes Shane into his mouth in one full swoop.

”Shit,” Shane chokes, his nails digging into Ilya’s scalp. Ilya pulls back, letting his tongue swirl lazily around the head of Shane’s cock before he slides back down, letting it hit the back of his throat with ease.

“Oh— shit”.

Ilya grins as much as he can with a full mouth. He glances up at Shane, eyes full of mirth, and Shane smiles back, loosening the tight grip he has on Ilya’s curls to pet his hair back from his forehead. Ilya refocuses, bobbing his head so that he takes Shane deep every time, but he keeps the pace slow, distracting Shane from the play of his fingers as he tucks them beneath his ass, circling his dry rim with the tip of his index finger. Shane bucks, clearly immediately taking notice. He pulls Ilya’s head back by his hair, the tip of his cock resting teasingly on Ilya’s lower lip. Ilya lets his tongue peek out, licking at the slit just to be an asshole.

Shane’s eyes are hard, determined. His hand slides down, fingers gripping Ilya’s chin, his thumb slipping into his mouth, the pad of it digging into his teeth.

“Fuck me,” he breathes, and Ilya doesn’t need to be told twice. He rises from his perch at the edge of the bed as Shane scoots backward so that he’s resting against a mountain of pillows. It seems he used the same interior designer here as he had his “fuck pad” (as Ilya so lovingly refers to it). He reaches into the nightstand, grabbing a half-empty bottle of lube and tossing it Ilya’s way. Ilya grabs it, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively as he pours some onto his fingertips.

“Will I find a sticky 2014 GQ magazine with my winter campaign spread in there, too?”

Shane blushes, spreading his legs and canting his hips up.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Somehow, there’s little bite to his words when he’s very clearly offering his ass like a dinner spread for Ilya’s taking. Determining that the lube has been properly heated, he lets his fingers fall, circling Shane’s fluttering hole with his index finger. He prods a bit, knowing Shane's trying to relax for him, then slips a finger in easily, silky smooth. It doesn't take long to fit two in, kissing Shane through the hissing pain. He lingers at two for a while, languidly pumping his fingers in and out of Shane's body, wondering at how he ever thought he'd be able to walk away from this a sane man. He introduces a third when Shane starts growing whiny and twitchy, pawing at his chest like a restless cat. It's hot and a little bit bitchy and has Ilya crooking his fingers just so, his ringer finger bumping up against Shane’s prostate every third thrust. Shane keens, arching his back into it, fingers finding the sheets and fisting them loosely. His cheeks have reddened, his chest flushed and ruddy. Ilya loves him like this, thighs spread and body undulating in small waves, mouth parted in a perpetual “o.” His hooded eyes lock into Ilya's, and he grunts out a needy “please,” bending his knees and spreading his legs like a butterfly. One of his feet knocks against Ilya's kneeling form, the bandage he'd lain earlier scraping against his skin. He pulls his fingers out of Shane's soft body, acutely aware of how vulnerable he is. He wonders how close he came to breaking his heart this evening.

He reaches for the bedside table, but Shane stops him with a hand to his forearm. His eyes are pleading, shoulders tensed up in embarrassment.

“When was—” he clears his throat, looking down at the loose grip he has on Ilya's arm. When he speaks, it is to this point of contact. “When was your last test?”

Ilya knows what he means. They both get tested every three months, at Shane’s insistence early in their endeavors. Ilya had grumbled about it, seventeen and invincible at the time, but he'd acquiesced. The sex was just too good.

“Ah, three weeks back. Last check-up.” Shane nods, like they're discussing hockey stats.

“And when was the last time you…”

He knows the neatness of the date will kill the mood, so he keeps the answer vague.

“Club hookup, before the last checkup.”

“Okay, so nothing since you were tested?”

“No, Hollander, why—”

The grip on his forearm tightens, dragging his hand away from the bedside table, and, suddenly, Ilya gets it. His pupils dilate, zeroing in on Shane's shame-faced blush, on the way he bites his bottom lip, a sharp little canine peeking out to redden the hue of his pretty mouth. He feels like a predator, hungry and trigger-friendly, ready to pounce the moment Shane says “yes.” “Jump,” Shane could beg, Ilya would only ask, "how high?” “Kneel,” and Ilya would be worshipping at his feet, begging for scraps of affection.

“In me,” real-life Shane sighs, hands finding Ilya’s and guiding them toward his waist. “Come inside me.”

Ilya feels as though he's been knocked down on the ice without a helmet. His ears ring, followed by a blissful static. His body folds into Shane's, face burying itself in the crook of his neck, his hands splay out, grabbing at his ass, kneading the muscle there wantonly. He whispers his love into the sweat-slick skin of Shane's neck. “Ya tebya lyublyu.” It's so sickeningly sweet, how much he loves this man.

Shane's arms wrap around his neck, and he positions himself delicately, pushing in slow, slow— because, Christ, it's everything. It's warm and tight and too much. Way too much. He can't think, can't process anything beyond the kisses Shane presses to his forehead, his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose.

“Ilya,” he groans, tilting his pelvis and taking him— impossibly— deeper. “Ilya, Ilya.”

“I'm going to come,” Ilya whimpers, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to push through the overarching pleasure of it all. “Fuck— baby— I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but I'm going to come.”

But Shane doesn't sound disappointed when he moans “yes, yes” against Ilya's temple. He slips his thumb into Ilya's mouth, pressing the pad of it against his tongue. Ilya thrusts once, twice, tries not to feel too terribly guilty about trying to break up with this beautiful man, then blowing his load way too soon all in one night. All thoughts leave him completely when Shane wiggles a hand between them, fingering the spot where they're joined.

“Oh,” he breathes out, wet and innocent, and Ilya's coming. Oh God, he's coming, thrusting into Shane as deep as he can manage, mind stuck on an endless loop of Shane asking him to “Come in me. Come inside me.”

I am, he thinks, wildly, biting down on the meat of Shane’s shoulder to stifle his cry. I'm inside you.

His body softens, warm and buttery and so utterly devoid of the suffering he'd been determined to put himself through earlier. He pulls back, making a dull note of the sharp bruise he's left on Shane's skin. Shane smiles up at him, eyes teary and shining. When he pulls out, almost too sensitive to move, the sound is obscene. He glances down, and the picture's nearly worse. His spent dick gives a feeble twitch at the sight of his spend leaking out of Shane. He reaches forward, absentmindedly wiping at the mess with the tips of his fingers. He's so enthralled by the picture painted before him that he doesn't notice Shane reaching down, his fingers joining Ilya's. He watches, transfixed, as Shane swipes his fingers through the spend trickling down over his perineum, dragging them back up to his hole so he can push Ilya's come back into himself.

”Shane,” Ilya chokes, a morbid fascination drawing him in closer, his palm covering the hand Shane uses to lazily finger himself.

“Mmm,” is Shane's only reply. Ilya glances up, only to find Shane looking down at him, heavy-lidded and fucked out. His mouth has fallen open, little “ah ah ah” noises falling from his lips. Ilya leans in, batting his hand away so he can replace his fingers with his own. Shane pulls his hand away diligently, maintaining heady eye contact as he drags his hand up his chest and sucks those two dirtied fingers into his mouth. Ilya's very proud of himself for not completely blacking out. Instead, he leans down, taking Shane's cock in his mouth as he eases two fingers into his body. At the slick, fucked-open feel of Shane's walls, the quick jerk of his hips, he moans, hoping the sound carries through to the cavity of Shane’s heart. He doesn't think he'll ever know a pleasure like this, this vulnerability that Shane has allowed him to see, despite everything. He vows never to take this for granted again.

It doesn't take much to get Shane off. Ilya less so fucks him with his fingers, opting instead to crook them, rubbing at his prostate relentlessly in a “come hither” motion. Shane's hands find purchase in his hair once more. When he comes, a breathy ”Ilya” falling from his lips, Ilya swallows him down, letting him spasm in his mouth while convulsing beneath his fingertips. It is, quite easily, the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. But, of course, he thinks this every time he brings Shane to release.

He crawls up Shane's still-quaking body, pillowing his head on his chest. Shane's arms wrap around his body easily, one hand rising to cradle the back of his head, thumb at the hinge of his jaw. Ilya feels flayed open, half his heart now completely autonomous. He wonders how people do this, how they can possibly live like this, having something so precious to them live outside their own skin, waving their mortality around like the red cloth of a matador. He wants to pull Shane close, tuck him beneath his sleeve and sew him there, pressed directly against his pulse point. He loves him so much he aches with it, feels insane with it.

“Wow,” Ilya breathes, kissing Shane's clavicle simply because it's there. “Breakup sex is awesome.”

Shane briefly detangles his fingers from Ilya’s hair to slap him upside the head. Ah, too soon.

“I swear to God, Ilya, if you ever pull that shit again—”

Ilya knows he's trying to joke, but the sentence breaks off with a crack in his voice. Ilya raises his head, reaching up to hold Shane's flushed cheeks between both palms. When he speaks, it is with solemnity.

“Never again, moy lyubimyy.” He rubs their noses together, a charming little bunny kiss, then moves his head back to Shane’s chest.

“Never again.”