Archive of Our Own

“I want another round of suicides from all of you. Roz, goddammit, if you can’t keep this line's form intact, I'm giving you your own set!” Coach yells from the sidelines, pacing back and forth along the ice the way predatory cats stalk their prey. Ilya spares him a quick glance, then settles into formation. He pushes forward, every muscle in his body aching with exertion, sweat dripping from his brow and plastering his hair to his forehead. His feet are swift, maintaining proper form, but only just. The same cannot be said for many of his teammates. They all reach the first line in tandem, but by the second round, the rookies start dropping off, followed by the oldest members of their team. Ilya perseveres, knowing his hard work is fruitless. Coach will punish him, regardless of his place in the line. He shoulders the weight of the team's failures, and yesterday's game had been their biggest loss of the season.

They flew in early this morning, having lost to Denver last night with a score of 5-1. Terrible. Terrible gameplay. Terrible passes, teamwork, the lot of it. Nobody was at the top of their game last night, half the team seemingly checked out partway through the game. Coach had seethed, spit, screamed, done all he could to motivate his useless players to actually get out there and try. Ilya can't help but feel responsible for bringing the fucked up energy to the ice, the shadow of his conflicting emotions cloaking his team in the bitter, melancholic atmosphere he's been carrying with him all week.

Two hours before last night's game, Ilya's brother had called. He'd bitched about his duties, about their father, about the medicine, the cost of the medicine, the cost of everything. When Ilya had tried to rebuke him, reminding him that he'd sent enough money to pay for a full-time caretaker (and then some), Alexei had thrown a hissy fit.

What the fuck do you know, Ilya? he'd hissed into the phone. You are never here! You do not know what I need!

And Ilya had cursed, but ultimately caved, wiring his brother the money as soon as the game was over. He'd texted his brother thirty minutes after wiring, asking if he'd received the money, asking after their father. Alexei told him to fuck off, then called ten minutes before Ilya's flight boarded back to Boston this morning to let him know that he'd driven their father to the hospital. Ilya asked why, and had received radio silence ever since. He'd tried calling after his flight landed, but was sent straight to voicemail. He'd tried his stepmother's cell as well, knowing it would be a fruitless endeavor. She had checked out of the marriage years ago, long before Grigori had been diagnosed with dementia. As far as Ilya's aware, a quarter of his earnings fund her bi-weekly mani-pedis and her frequent trips to St. Petersburg. He hasn't actually spoken to her in over five years.

So, Ilya's father is in the hospital, and he won’t be receiving any updates until after practice. Their practice, which is now running thirty minutes overtime, doesn't look to be letting up anytime soon. They play a short scrimmage, then another, and another. Ilya captains two teams, fucks up a pass during the second game, and is told to play left wing to Rogers’ center as obvious punishment. Coach is glaring at him, spitting through his teeth when he yells at him from across the ice.

“Where the fuck is your head, Rozanov?”

I don't know, he thinks maniacally, watching the puck get stolen right out from under his nose by a rookie. I really do not know.

“Lazy! Lazy playing, Rozanov!”

They are partway through the third scrimmage when, suddenly, Ilya knows exactly where he is.

“Lazy,” his father scolds, grabbing Ilya by the scruff of his neck and hauling him towards his room. “Humiliating me with that trip, Ilya. Lazy boy. Do not think of leaving your room until you've learned your lesson.” He's thrown into his bedroom, door slammed shut and locked from the outside. He can hear his mother's hushed voice, trying to console his father. Reminding him that “Ilyusha is just a boy. He's just a boy.” Hears his father's response.

“Someday, that boy will be a man, Irina. I will not raise a тунеядец.”

Ilya is curled up on his bedroom floor, picking at the fresh wound on his knee, inflicted by a fall on the ice earlier that evening. He is cold, his house is always cold, and he pulls the duvet down from his bed, wrapping it around his shoulders and tucking the edges beneath his feet. He rests his head against the side of his mattress and wonders if he will be joining his family for dinner. If not, he wonders if his mother will sneak him a plate later, after Grigori has gone to bed, after the anger has been suffused with Vodka.

Ilyushen'ka, his mother would coo, finger-combing his curls out of his eyes. My good boy. I am so sorry.

“Ilya! Where the fuck are you? I need your head back here on the ice!”

Where the fuck are you? Alexei had scolded over the phone. You're not fucking here, I can tell you that!

No, the last time Ilya was in Moscow, he'd stayed with his father, relieving Alexei of his caretaking duties (though, not of the pay). His stepmother had traveled to St. Petersburg, citing a visit to some distant relative or other. Ilya's stepmother is thirty-four. He knows she is young and cunning and completely full of shit. Where Moscow is a city of old money, St. Petersburg is notorious for its youth culture. Polina is still, technically, a youth.

For two months, it had been Ilya and his father. Some days were difficult. Most were quiet. One night, when Ilya had been drifting in and out of sleep due to heavy rain, he'd heard his father tinkering around in the kitchen. He sighed, rolled out of bed, and padded down the hallway to steer his father back to bed. He nearly rounded the corner when he heard it, his father speaking to himself under his breath.

“Irina, моя любовь, where are you? Where are you?”

Ilya rounded the corner only to run into his father, almost knocking him over. He reached out, arms gripping his father's hunched shoulders to steady him. Grigori looked up, blue eyes watery and frightened.

“Your mother,” Grigori asked softly. “Ilyusha, where is your mother? She hasn't come to bed.”

His father, once proud and stern, an ominous presence when entering any room, now stood before Ilya a withered, broken man. He'd lost a lot of muscle mass due to inactivity, his joints calcifying alongside his mind. His lip had a constant tremble to it, like every emotion he'd tucked away over the years was now spilling out. His hands were veiny, skin sallow and paper-thin. Ilya knew he primarily took after his mother, soft eyes and unruly hair. But his strength was all his father's. That bone structure, symmetric and so utterly masculine, could only be attributed to Grigori. He takes after you, other men would say. Coaches, teachers, men who envied that seemingly effortless strength, a physique attributed to athletes, to soldiers. Ilya is a strong man, a proud man. He looks nothing like his father now. That night, staring into the unseeing eyes of his feeble, dying father, he saw nothing of himself. Or, not nothing, but only the parts that were wounded. The parts that yearned to be nurtured and loved by Irina.

“Papa,” Ilya whispered, taking Grigori's hand and leading him toward his bedroom. “It's okay. She'll be home later.”

Grigori allowed himself to be tucked into bed seamlessly, his eyes drifting toward the bedroom door, his gaze sliding past Ilya like oil in water.

“Silly woman,” Grigori admonished, fingers tapping rhythmically against his chest. “She's with that boy. Spoiling him. Always spoiling him. She'll make him rotten, is what she'll do. Make my son rotten.”

“Rotten!” Coach yells. “Rotten work, boys! How do you expect to beat Montreal like this?” They've wrapped up their third scrimmage, completely dead on their feet. Evans is keeled over, panting into his gloves. Marleau is leaning heavily on his stick, putting enough weight on it that Ilya genuinely fears it may snap. Everyone is exhausted, panting heavily around their mouth guards, sweating through their practice jerseys. Ilya's vision feels blurry, his body canted to the left, aching to rest against anything. Their coach must see it (finally). He tells them to go change, to try and rest up before what is sure to be a tough game tomorrow.

“I need everyone out on the ice to be present.” He sends Ilya a pointed look, one that few on the team are sure to miss. Whatever, Ilya can hardly tell his ass from his elbow right now, he doesn't have the mental capacity to decode his team's furtive glances. They all traipse back to the locker room, and Ilya checks his phone before taking off his pads. One missed call. Not from Alexei, but from his father.

He calls back immediately, ignoring the curious looks as he steps out of the locker room. He's still got his skates on, but he's at least thought to add guards, which is good, because he's already clumsily pacing the hallway.

Grigori doesn't answer, so Ilya calls again, and again. On the third try, his father answers on the final ring.

“Who is this?”

Ilya swallows, maintaining a level composure as he speaks.

“Papa, it's me. It's Ilya.”

A pause on the other end of the line. Then:

“Ilya, where are you? I've been looking for you. Where are you?”

Ilya pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He lets out a deep breath, reminding himself that he loves this man. Somewhere, in some deep, fathomless pit in his heart, there must be some tendril of affection left for Grigori, the father. Not Grigori the man.

“Papa, you are in the hospital, yes? Where is Alexei?”

“Alexei…” his father's voice trails off, like he's trying to tie the name to a face. Ilya doesn't have time for this, clicking his tongue impatiently.

“Yes, Alexei. Your son, Alexei. Where is he?”

“My son,” Grigori repeats, the word stilted on his lips. Ilya sighs, sliding the palm of his hand down his face, ready to give up entirely and just trust that Alexei's taken their father to a proper hospital, when Grigori continues.

“My son. You've heard from my son?”

“Ah,” Ilya tries, but is cut off quickly.

“My son is in America. Have I told you this? He's an NHL player. That's hockey.”

“Papa…”

“He is young, brash. His mother—” Grigori clears his throat, readying himself for a familiar tirade. “She spoils him. Spoils him rotten. He could have been so good. Something so good. But she ruined him.”

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut, the cold beginnings of a migraine pinching the back of his skull.

“Papa, please—”

“He is so lazy,” his father continues, punctuating his words with a scoff. “So incredibly lazy. He thinks I do not see those stupid American tabloids, but I do. All those women. All those cars. Foolish. I give him everything he needs to stand on his own two feet, and he wastes it all in that godforsaken country.”

Ilya leans his back against the wall, sliding down into a low squat. He hangs his head between his knees, ready to take on any length of derogatory rants his father relays to him, if only for a scrap of information about his condition.

“Ilya is his mother's son,” Grigori spits out, vengeful and tactless. “Quick to give up on all things as soon as they get hard.”

In the end, Ilya learns nothing of value. Grigori drones on for some time. He scorns Ilya, scorns his mother, scorns Polina, who somehow lives during the same timeline as Irina in that scrambled egg brain of his. Ilya sits for nearly half an hour, listening to his father's half-baked complaints and feeling his mind start to slip from his body. He hardly registers the end of the call, his father getting cut off mid-sentence. Probably, his phone died. Ilya huffs out a dry, humorless laugh. He cracks his neck, to the left, then the right, then hauls himself back up onto his feet, trudging toward the locker room like a man readying himself for battle. The blank expression he plasters on his face is unwarranted. There is no one left in the locker room.

He undresses quickly, but stands beneath the shower head for an ungodly amount of time. He stares at the white tile before him, water dripping from his curls to occasionally sting his eyes. He hardly feels the heat of the shower, turning the nob until it's almost at the cusp of the highest amount of heat allotted, until his skin is beet-red and he feels a slight tingling in his fingertips. He feels numb, emptied of any sort of grief or remorse he may have picked up in his youth. He doesn't cry, doesn't rage, but he itches for a cigarette, or a good fuck. God, he could use that right now. Someone warm and pliant, shocking some iota of feeling back into his system. Unfortunately, Shane's team isn't due to arrive until late this evening, so the thought of touch eludes him.

He shuts off the shower, dresses with slow, stilted movements, like a baby deer caught up in a barbed fence. When he leaves, the clock on the lock screen on his phone reads 9:48 p.m. He is tired. He is sore. He is praying Doordash will deliver something substantial to his home this late at night.

When he drives up to his house, he's surprised to see the lights on through the entryway windows.

Odd, he thinks. He must have forgotten to shut them off between his flight-to-home-to-practice haste this morning. When he unlocks the door and steps into the foyer, however, he's quick to realize he's not home alone. Soft sounds can be heard from the kitchen, the smell of baked meat and sauteed vegetables permeating the air. Has Svetlana let herself in? But that can't be right, she's been in Russia the past few weeks. Who—

He kicks something as he steps forward, glancing down to see—

Oh.

Oh.

Reebok sneakers. Far too large to belong to Svetlana. Ilya whips his head up, racing toward the kitchen to find—

Shane. Shane, manning the stove top, the Admirals game playing on his phone, propped up against an apple on Ilya's counter so he can watch while cooking. He looks up when Ilya steps into the kitchen, smiling shyly.

“Hey,” he says, stirring whatever he's been sauteeing one last time before flicking the burner off. He turns, wiping his hands on a dish towel, eyes flittering towards Ilya's, down at his hands, over to the food he just made. He seems nervous, wringing the towel through his hands even though they're most definitely dry by now.

Ilya's mind blanks out. He's surprised he manages to form words, let alone a complete sentence. But, somehow, he manages to breathe out, “You are here.”

Shane visibly blushes, staring down at his socked feet as he toes the tiles of Ilya's kitchen floor.

“I— yeah.”

“And you are—” Ilya gestures towards the oven, swallowing around the lump forming in his throat. “—making dinner.”

Shane nods, still not meeting Ilya's eyes.

“Yeah.”

Ilya doesn't ask any follow-up questions. Doesn't care to hear about flight times or game plans or hotel reservations. He lets the heavy burdens of his day propel him forward. It takes three quick strides to reach Shane, and before Shane can move, can form a noise of protest, Ilya's got him wrapped up in his arms.

Ilya must squeeze a bit too tightly, because he hears a little “oof” sound brush against his ear. He loosens his grip by a fraction, one hand coming up to grip the nape of Shane's neck, the other clutching at his waist. He buries his face in the cusp between Shane’s neck and shoulder, nosing at the tendon there. He does not cry, but it's a very near thing, his relief so palpable he falls just short of collapsing.

“Hey,” Shane says softly, his fingers coming up to tangle in Ilya’s curls. “Hey.”

Ilya shakes his head minutely, hoping it's enough to convey his inability to speak. Shane must understand. He wraps both arms around Ilya's upper back and holds him tight, rocking them slightly when Ilya's grip doesn't let up after a considerable amount of time. Eventually, Shane turns his head, kissing Ilya's temple and letting his lips linger. He whispers, “The food will get cold,” and Ilya nods, but does not pull away.

“How are you here?” he asks instead, letting his thumb rub circles against Shane's lower back, walking him backwards until he's butted up against the countertop. Shane hoists himself up onto it, not breaking their hold, but spreading his legs so Ilya can tuck his body into his torso. He loosens his grip on Shane, curling his arms inward so that they're squeezed between his and Shane's chest. He flattens his palms, resting them both over Shane's heart, and audibly sighs when Shane rests his chin atop his head, kissing his crown through a light cushioning of curls. Shane does not let him go, both arms wound tightly around his upper back.

“Flight changed,” Shane answers. Ilya almost forgot he'd asked a question in the first place, too drunk on Shane's presence to pay attention to the shit spilling out of his mouth. “And you told me where the emergency key was a few weeks back. I thought I'd surprise you.” He pauses, and Ilya wonders if he's blushing. He smiles, pressing his mouth against Shane's skin, hoping he can feel the expression being imprinted. “I didn't realize you'd be gone so long. I hope you don't think I was being presumptuous…”

“Mmm, I cannot think that because I do not know what it means.”

Shane lets out a quiet laugh. Ilya can feel it tickling his curls.

“Like… like I should be here without your permission. I didn't know if you'd want me here or—”

And maybe it's the day. Maybe it's his coach's beratements, or his father's long-winded disappointment. Maybe it's nothing at all, just the simple fact that Ilya misses Shane Hollander with an intensity rivaled only by his mother. But what comes out of his mouth is far too revealing.

“I always want you here,” he whispers to the soft spot beneath Shane's ear. Shane's body freezes momentarily, only for him to melt against Ilya seconds later. He rubs Ilya's back, plays with the soft curls at the base of his skull, hums an affirmative, like he's too touched to reply with words. Ilya understands. English is hard, he wants to say. He knows it's not the English. Even in his imagination, he is coy. After all, the words trapped in his chest are only three syllables, two of which are one of the first words he ever learned in English.

After Ilya's breathing has quieted, his heartbeat steadying. After Shane has pressed enough kisses to his hairline to get him through the next year, he pulls his head back, smiling up at Shane fondly. He hopes his expression does not reveal how vulnerable he feels. Shane brings a hand to his cheek, thumbing at the delicate skin beneath his eye.

“Hi,” he says, smiling down at Ilya like he cradles the world in his palms. Shane's heart putters rhythmically beneath both hands. Nyet, the world is cradled beneath my palms, he thinks in reply to his own imaginings.

“Hi,” he replies, standing on his toes to boop Shane's nose with his own.

“I made food,” Shane says awkwardly, eyes shifting to the side to glance at the pan of seared vegetables. “I think I need to reheat it, though.”

Ilya nods, says “Okay,” the word coming out heavily accented, thicker than normal. “Oh-kee,” it sounds like, and Shane drops down from the counter, turning away from him to flick the burner back on. Ilya watches in silent awe as Shane sautees spinach he completely forgot he had in his fridge. He pulls a tray of baked chicken breasts and sweet potatoes out of the oven, plating them with a spatula and dishes he could have only found snooping. He serves them each an equal amount of sauteed spinach, then asks Ilya to grab them silverware as he carries their food over to the dining table. The dining table Ilya hardly ever uses. Because he is a bachelor. With a couch. And a premium DoorDash subscription. Shane sends him a pointed look over his shoulder. He shakes his head and grabs two forks and two steak knives from the silverware drawer.

Sitting down at the table, he realizes this is the first time he’s ever shared a meal with Shane. Once, after they’d spent hours in bed, after Ilya had edged them both at least three times, and then fucked Shane so hard they’d left indentations in the plaster due to the knocking of the headboard, he’d ordered room service. Since it was after hours, the kitchens had closed. So, Ilya had ordered two bottles of orange juice, a few granola bars, and two packs of Dippin’ Dots. Shane had scrunched his nose up when he heard that part of the order, but had happily acquiesced to the meal when Ilya had later spoon-fed him the ice cream himself. He’s sure Shane felt some kind of way about eating food in bed, but he didn’t say a word about it, smiling dopily at Ilya around a mouthful of orange juice. It had been the best meal of Ilya’s life.

Now, sitting across from Shane at the dinner table, trying not to think too hard about the implications of this, he thinks their late-night power snack has been knocked down to second place. Shane fills the silence for him, seeming to catch onto the fact that Ilya’s not really in a chatty mood. He talks about the flight, about the book he’s reading, about a new tactic he’d learned about watching a 78’ rerun of a Philadelphia game. Ilya listens to him, shoveling lean protein and complex carbs into his mouth, thinking about how he’d give up every grand cuisine he’s ever been offered if only to eat this bland, Hollander-coded meal for the rest of his life. He thinks about how this is the warmest he’s ever felt sitting down to a meal, a sharp contrast between Shane’s delighted, exuberant stories and the silent, austere atmosphere of his childhood home. Oftentimes, his father never joined him and Alexei for dinner, opting to bring his plate with him to his study. On the rare occasions he did join, the room was dead silent, save for the occasional clatter of silverware scraping against porcelain; but even that was a rarity, as Grigori would chastise them for the noise if the sounds grew too frequent. Ilya wonders why so many people who do not want the space in their homes to be filled with little noises and little bodies choose to have children.

Ilya tries to pitch into the conversation, but his English keeps coming out stilted and choked. The emotional whiplash of having to hold his head up, worrying about his father, hating his father, hating his coach, hating Alexei, hating everything, everything— to having everything, everything here with him, in his home, making him food, making him feel warm, making the world feel tangible again, hot bath water trickling down his spine and forcing dexterity back into his fingertips— it’s a lot. Shane is so much, he fills Ilya’s lungs with nettles, sticking to his ribcage and growing around the rotten roots planted in the meat of his heart. One meal, and his body is begging him to make space for the rest of their lives. Here is your side of the bed, he wants to say. Here is your drawer, your space in the closet. Here is the shelf in the fridge I will reserve for your terrible food and your not-so-terrible cooking. Here is my heart, my love, take it. My father is dying, and I cannot save him. And I do not want to save him, but I want to be held for this. I am so alone, and so selfish, and I want you to hold me. I will always make space for this.

“Was the chicken okay?” Shane asks, clearly having noticed Ilya hadn’t taken a bite of food in a while. “I know sometimes I can overbake it, and it comes out dry. I wasn’t familiar with your oven, so…”

Ilay reaches across the table, taking Shane’s free hand in his own. He smiles at him, knowing it’s a little tight, but his sincerity is not a facade.

“Is very good. Thank you. I’m sorry, I am just—” He drops his fork to wave his hand around, the way he does when he’s searching for the proper word. He knows enough English words to describe what it is he’s feeling, but they don’t feel like adequate descriptors. My father, the man I loathe, is dying, and there is nothing I can do to save him. Everyone in my life expects so little of me, and I feel as though I may disappear. I feel like, if I did disappear, perhaps the world would be all the better for it. You are the only man in my life who has made me feel happy to take up space. Shane, tell me, what is the English word for this?

“—tired,” he finishes, dropping his hand to the table. “I am just tired.”

Shane squeezes his hand, then rises from the table to collect their plates. Ilya playfully shovels the last few bites into his mouth before handing his plate over, cheeks filled out like a chipmunk’s. Shane lets out an exasperated huff, then leaves him to fill the dishwasher. Ilya joins him, not giving two shits if his dishes get cleaned tonight or next week, but he knows these are things Shane cares about. Cleanliness, order, it makes Shane comfortable. Ilya never wants him to feel uncomfortable in his home.

“I need to shower,” Shane dries his hand on a dish towel, staring up at Ilya through thick lashes. “Long day of travel.”

Ilya nods, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the bathroom. He grabs a fresh towel from the hall closet on the way, placing it on the closed toilet lid when they enter the restroom.

“You can use whatever you like,” he gestures toward the small assortment of bottles lining the rim of his tub. “Shampoo, conditioner, I think it’s all there.” Shane smiles bashfully, reaching behind him to close the bathroom door, shutting it softly, the little “click” of the latch echoing briefly off the tile.

“Will you join me?” he asks, big brown eyes staring up at Ilya, questioning, fond. Like Ilya could ever say no to being wanted. He nods, letting go of Shane’s hand to turn the nob. Meanwhile, Shane strips down, and Ilya watches him get naked in his periphery. He nearly jolts when he feels Shane reach for the hem of his T-shirt, tugging at it playfully.

“Off,” he teases, helping Ilya shuck the shirt off in one full swoop. Pants next, then boxers. He leans back against the wall when Shane kneels, tugging his socks off with an exaggerated eyebrow dance. Ilya laughs, poking at his pec with his big toe.

“Someone is feeling silly tonight,” he teases as Shane rises to his feet. Shane stands on his tiptoes, kissing Ilya’s cheek. When he speaks, it is to Ilya’s ear, his face hidden from view.

“I just missed you.”

He says it with such earnestness. His Shane, his milyy, always so earnest, so honest. Too sincere for his own good. He’s bound to cut his hand on the shattered glass of Ilya’s heart one day.

Ilya turns his head, kissing Shane’s cheek, then his jaw. He slaps his ass playfully, spinning him around by both hips to lead him toward the shower.

They enter, and Shane tips his head back to wet his hair. Ilya leans in, mouthing at his throat as he dampens his body to get clean. Shane lets out an exasperated huff, but doesn't push him off. He allows Ilya's hands to wander, to slide up his flanks, over his torso, fingers curling at his shoulders. He sighs when Ilya kisses the dip between both collarbones, body melting into Ilya's hands like putty. He grabs at Ilya's hips, using them as leverage to shift their positions. He walks Ilya back into the stream, grabs his hair and gently tugs to force his head beneath the stream. He holds Ilya to him with one hand, pelvis to pelvis, chest to chest, the other massaging the water into his curls. He plants a kiss atop Ilya's sternum, directly above his heart, and said heart aches. Ilya tightens his grip on Shane’s shoulders, pushing him back and crowding him against the steamed-up glass of the shower wall. Out of the stream, he drops to his knees, trailing kisses up the inside of Shane's thigh.

“Oh,” Shane gasps, having the audacity to be shocked. Like this would lead anywhere except right here. Ilya hums, sucking a bruise into the soft skin of his thigh, nosing at his half-hard cock. He swallows Shane down quickly; he's always loved the feeling of Shane growing hard inside his mouth, a sign he's doing something right, doing something proper in bringing Shane pleasure. He often teases Shane for how eager he is to get Ilya's cock in his mouth, but Ilya's not much better off. He loves giving head, always has. Women adore him for it, call him giving, call him gracious. Truth is, he's neither of these things. He's selfish with his lovers, selfishly wants to hear their quiet pleading, their moans of pleasure. Nothing gets him off quite like a choked-off little “yes— yes!” He always looks up last minute, delighting in the little “o” their mouths form, the wrinkle forming in their brow, like they're perpetually shocked that Ilya has found it in his heart to do this for them. And nobody wears that expression better than Shane. He wears it now, tongue peeking out as he focuses on guiding Ilya's movements with the grip he has on his hair.

Ilya's mind blanks out. He focuses solely on the cadence of Shane's breaths, on the reverence his fingers hold for his curls, his other hand traveling down to stroke Ilya's cheek. Ilya bobs his head slowly, languidly, tonguing and licking at the head like candy. He wants to make this last, wants to live down here, cocooned in Shane's pleasure and the steady stream of water pelting his back. He wants—

“Good,” Shane coos, fingers rubbing back and forth over Ilya's cheekbone. “So good.”

Ilya freezes, his ears buzzing with a light hum. Vaguely, he hears the shower water rattling against the tile beneath his feet, hears the sharp breath Shane takes in. Above all this, though, he hears his father's voice, chastising and cool, the sound of sharp nails raking over chalkboard. Such a bad boy, Ilya, he scolds, lifting him from his spot on the ice where he'd fallen. Bad, bad boy. Cannot do anything correctly.

Ilya is dragged back to the present by Shane's thumbs, pushing against his temple so that he's forced to drag his mouth away from Shane's cock. Those thumbs move to the corners of his eyes, where he knows mortifying tears have begun to gather.

“Ilya?” Shane asks, trepidation mixed with arousal. Ilya reaches up, grasping at his hand and pushing it back into his hair. He tongues at Shane’s cockhead, trying desperately to convey with his eyes what his body needs.

“Please,” he begs, pushing in further to kiss along the length of Shane's cock. “Please,” he asks again, burying his nose in pubic hair. He closes his eyes, feels Shane's hands hesitate for a moment, but then his grip firms up, and he's guiding Ilya's mouth back to his cockhead. Ilya moans around his cock, wanting him to know he aches for this, prays for this, has found no other joy like this, this surrender to Shane's pleasure. Ilya has been with many women, a few men. Many beautiful, seductive people. People in fine silks and designer clothes. People with perfect skin, perfect teeth, perfect bodies, pampered and powdered by life's opulent pleasures. But nobody, nobody has ever come remotely close to making him feel the way Shane does.

“Good,” Shane says again, speaking with a slight quiver. “So good, Ilyusha, so good to me. My good boy.” Ilya thinks he must black out for a second, both the sound of his intimate name and the pet name hooking into his heart. Even with the delivery coming out shaky and uncertain, Ilya trembles. He moans, loudly, around Shane's cock, desperate to hide the tears that have now fallen from the corners of his eyes. His hands reach for Shane's hips, tugging him closer, closer. His blunt nails digging into Shane's skin, clawing at the beautiful stretch marks he knows are there. Shane's hands are everywhere, in his hair, at the back of his neck, rubbing his shoulder blades. Soothing, comforting. Suddenly, they're removed, and Ilya hears the cap of a bottle being popped off. Then, Shane's hands are back in his hair, rubbing soap suds into his curls. Ilya stills, holding Shane's cock partway in his mouth. He closes his eyes and relishes the feel of Shane scratching at his scalp, distributing the shampoo evenly throughout his wild locks of hair. The soap begins to run down his back, intermingling with the shower water that reaches him there, and he moans.

“Ilya,” Shane hums, fingers tugging ever so slightly to pull Ilya off his cock. He guides his head toward the shower stream, tilting his head back so that water can wash the soap out of Ilya’s hair. His fingers massage his scalp, running through the hair behind his ears and at the nape of his neck. “Good, Ilyusha. Good boy.”

Ilya is grateful that the water can wash away the tears that refuse to quit falling.

Shane guides his head back toward him, allowing him to return to his cock. Ilya sucks a little harder, a little faster, and Shane's hands audibly fumble with the bottle of conditioner. It takes a second for his hands to return to Ilya's hair, but they do eventually find purchase. Ilya hums around his cock, shifting his body, feeling his knees press hard against the cool tile. He breathes through his nose, keeps his eyes closed so the conditioner won't sting them. Once Shane has conditioned his hair, he must grab for Ilya’s bar of soap, because the next thing he feels is Shane's strong hands gliding over his upper back.

“Ilya I—” Shane chokes, fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders. “I can't last much longer, I—”

Ilya groans around his cock. He slides his hands up Shane's calves, the backs of his thighs, grabbing his ass and tugging. Shane grunts, thrusting forward to match his pace. His hands move back to Ilya's hair, slipping through his conditioned curls.

“Good, so good, Ilya. You're so good.”

Ilya's fingers clench, pressing bruises into Shane’s perfect skin. Spit dribbles from his lips, dripping down to mix with the bath water. His father is thousands of miles away, his voice silenced by the heady keen Shane lets out, by his erratic pants that always lead up to—

“Fuck, oh fuck, baby,” Shane spits, shoving Ilya's forehead to his stomach. Ilya chokes slightly, but swallows, his mind blissfully blank, body at complete ease in Shane's quivering hold. He wants to live there, Shane's cock buried in his mouth, reminding him he's human, reminding him he's lo—

Ilya pulls back with a gasp, wiping his mouth off on Shane's upper thigh. Shane sinks to the floor with him, his legs spreading out to cradle Ilya between them. Shane smiles up at him, dopey and lovesick and so terribly charming. He reaches out with one hand, smoothing hair away from Ilya's forehead.

“Lean back,” he rasps. “You still need to rinse your hair.”

Ilya does, letting Shane finger-comb his hair beneath the shower stream. He hums at the feeling, wondering if this is how baby birds feel with their mothers pluck their wings and clean their down feathers for them. He feels light, euphoric, like he'd be floating away if Shane weren't holding him down by the grip he has on his curls. Ilya lets himself drown in the heat, in the hold Shane has on him, hyper-focusing on how lovely it feels to be touched like this. Shane is so gentle with him, fingers dragging through his curls like they're stroking butterfly wings. When he's eventually tugged out of the water stream, he's guided towards Shane's mouth, lips wet and waiting, open for him in wanton hunger. Ilya groans, tonguing at Shane’s lower lip, prodding at his teeth. It's wet and messy, his moans swallowed down by Shane's eager mouth. Shane eventually breaks it off, smiling shyly before he stands, pulling Ilya up with him. They both take one last dip each in the shower stream before Ilya shuts it off, stepping out onto the bath mat to grab both their towels.

Ilya brushes his teeth while Shane towels off. He then squirts on a new glob of toothpaste and offers it to Shane, who scrunched up his nose in disgust. Ilya dryly reminds him that they've both had each other's dicks in their mouths an ungodly amount of times, and Shane huffs, solemnly accepting the toothbrush, but not without shooting Ilya another disgusted side-eye. Ilya presses his mouth to Shane's shoulder as he brushes his teeth, peppering kisses across his upper back. Shane bends down to spit into the sink, giving Ilya a momentary clear view of himself in the mirror. His eyes are still embarrassingly rimmed red, cheeks slightly ruddy. For a brief moment, he is in another restroom, half a globe and half a decade away. He's staring into a gold-trimmed mirror in Sochi, the bright, overhead lights casting a sterile quality over his features. He can hear his father's voice on the other side of the door, speaking to him as though he hadn't just left the bedroom to escape his ramblings.

Latvia, Ilya! You have lost to Latvia! Disgraceful child. What would your mother say?

Shane's head pokes back up, blocking Ilya's view of his own reflection. Shane rinses the toothbrush, then turns, hands settling on Ilya's hips. He tilts his head, brown eyes shining. He looks like a confused puppy, and Ilya is struck with an overwhelming surge of cuteness aggression. He wants to bite his cheeks.

“I have an idea,” Shane says shyly, a light blush spreading beneath his freckles. But he maintains eye contact, brave boy.

“Do you have oil? Like—” he bites his lip, one hand coming up to nervously finger at Ilya's sparse chest hair. “Like massage oil?”

Ilya smirks, wrapping his arms around Shane and pulling him flush against his body.

“Oh, you have a long day? Long flight? I am your personal massage therapist now? Blowjob didn't loosen you up enough?”

Shane swats at his chest playfully.

“Not for me,” he says cautiously, eyes meeting Ilya's again, worry settling in their depths. “For you.”

Ilya pauses, swallowing thickly so as not to speak around a wet cry of anguish. Shane Hollander, he thinks, you will ruin me with your uninhibited kindness.

“Da,” he says, snarky retorts dying on the tip of his tongue when he can clearly see how nervous Shane is in broaching the subject. “Head to the bedroom. I will grab it.”

When he enters the bedroom, massage oil in hand, Shane's lying atop the duvet, having turned on only one bedside lamp. The warm glow of the light casts elegant shadows over his body. He looks soft here, in Ilya's bed, in Ilya's home. He still doesn't know what they are to one another. He doesn't know the shape he's taking in Shane's life, but he knows the shape of Shane's prominence in his own life. How he fills in every gap, every void, seeping into Ilya's very skin. He fills his mind, his chest, his sheets, spread out now like a naked angel. Ilya wants to devour him, wants to be devoured by him.

Shane props himself up onto one elbow and pats the empty space next to him on the bed.

Ilya crawls over to him, lying down next to him as he waits for his next set of instructions. Shane holds his hand out, curling his fingertips in a small “gimme” motion. Ilya wordlessly hands over the bottle of oil. Shane sets the bottle next to his head, between the pillows. He rises, kneeling over Ilya and tapping his hip, a silent request for him to roll onto his stomach. He follows suit, tucking both arms beneath his pillow and turning his head to the side. He can just barely make out Shane's features in his periphery.

Shane straddles his upper thighs, which immediately does things to Ilya. He can feel his strong thighs hiking up to squeeze around his hips, his softened cock pressing against the underside of his ass. The nonsexual intimacy of it has Ilya’s breath catching, and he buries his face in the pillow, hoping to hide the fondness leaking into his expression.

He feels Shane shift his weight, hears him pop the cap of the massage oil. Viscous liquid drips down into his lower back, pooling at his spine. Then, warm hands are on him, rough palms and callused fingertips digging into his skin. Ilya gets frequent sports massages, knows Shane does too, the two of them being the professional athletes that they are. Still, the calculated push and pull of Boston’s hired masseuses has nothing on the strong press of Shane’s hands, on the way he rolls his knuckles against the notches of Ilya’s spine. Shane’s obviously received enough of these in his life to know where to press, to know what feels good. He intuits where Ilya wants him to dig in hard, circling his thumb against a stubborn knot in Ilya’s upper back. Ilya can’t help the groans Shane’s ministrations pull from his lips, the pornographic keens he lets out when Shane’s fingers move back and forth across the base of his neck. He tries to recall the last time anyone close to him had touched him like this, holding him with the intent to comfort, to please. Not to be pleased.

Svetlana, perhaps. Cradling his head in her lap as they watched last season’s finals in this very bed. She’d pet his hair back, promising a prospective win next year, as long as their goalie healed from his recent sprain and Ilya’s left wing pulled his head out of his ass. Still, they fucked halfway through the game, then she left once the final buzzer sounded. Ilya had been left feeling slightly bereft, as he always does when someone feeds him any iota of intimacy. He’s pathetic, he thinks. A mangy dog begging for scraps at the feet of his owners.

He’s halfway to begging now, groaning loudly when Shane reaches his glutes, kneading his ass like dough, thumbs digging in hard enough to almost bruise. He presses his face deeper into the pillow, subconsciously pushing his ass up into Shane’s needy hands.

“Oh, Ilya,” Shane sighs, breaking the heady silence they’d found themselves in. Ilya lets out a little noise, something soft and vulnerable. He’s hard, achingly so, gyrating his hips minutely, rubbing himself against the sheets, pushing himself back up into Shane’s diligent hands. He feels high, feels the tension of the day slipping from his body with each of Shane’s strength-fueled kneads. His mouth is open, and he knows he’s drooling into the fabric beneath him. He doesn’t care, can’t focus on anything, anything aside from Shane’s hands, Shane’s thighs, Shane’s mouth, repeating, “Good boy. Good boy, Ilyusha,” over and over again in his head, like a mantra echoing throughout the cavities of his heart. He hardly notices when Shane stops, his hands stilling at the cleft of his ass, thumbs circling his lower back dimples.

“Ilya,” Shane tries, a near-whisper. “I want to try something.”

“Anything,” Ilya groans, mindless, boneless. Anything, he repeats, the words wild in his head. Anything, baby. Anything for you.

Shane shifts his weight, his ass leaving its spot on the backs of Ilya’s thighs for a millisecond. He digs around for something in the bedside drawer, then settles back on his perch. Another popping of a bottle cap, another restless second between not being touched and being touched. And then— then—

Shane’s fingers slide down lower, lower, until his index finger is circling his rim, wet with lube. He rubs his finger back and forth, back and forth, applying no pressure, waiting to see if Ilya will tense up. Ilya doesn’t, but he turns his head, knowing his cheeks are blotchy and red. Still, he needs to offer Shane a nod at the very least when Shane lets out a deep, shaky breath and asks, “Okay?” like he’s not tearing Ilya’s heart out of the weak seams used to sew it to his sleeve. Ilya nods, pressing his lips together in a thin line, squeezing his eyes shut. He's only done this a handful of times in his life, most of them with Sasha.

He remembers his first time. It had been in Sasha’s room, his father having left for work earlier that morning. They’d been hanging out, watching Western films and eating an absurd amount of corn chips, drinking their way through a bottle of Vodka Sasha had stolen from his dad’s stash beneath the kitchen sink. They alternated between lazily making out and cuddling under the thin cotton sheets. Their inhibitions loosened as they got more tipsy, their hands more exploratory. Eventually, shirts came off, then shorts, followed by boxers. He’d given Sasha the sloppiest, most drunken blowjob of all time, teasing his asshole with his fingertips near the end. But after Sasha had come, loose-limbed and grinning stupidly, he’d flipped them, asking Ilya if he could do it to him.

“Do what to me?” Ilya asked nervously. But he knew. And when Sasha’s fingertips teased at his own entrance, he definitely knew.

The experience hadn’t been altogether unpleasant. Sasha had been kind, patient, knowing from firsthand experience how long it actually takes to open up an asshole. Still, Ilya had to work very hard to keep his muscles relaxed, focusing on the way Sasha used his free hand to pet the baby hairs of his stomach. He loosened up enough for Sasha to get two fingers into him, but not three. Sasha made do with what he could, pushing and scissoring until he found the little bundle of nerves that had Ilya bucking up against nothing. Sasha had grinned, rubbing the pads of his fingers against Ilya’s prostate again and again until Ilya was making broken, whiny noises, turning his head back and forth, fingers knuckling the sheets as he fought against the onslaught of emotions. Just as Ilya had been on the cusp of orgasming, Sasha had jolted forward, kissing the large mole on Ilya’s jaw. The last person to have ever done this was Ilya’s mother, who’d kissed him on that exact mole the last day of her life, waving him off to school with a smile on her face.

When Ilya came, it was with tears in his eyes.

Now, he lets his focus linger, lets himself melt into the sheets as Shane circles his rim with a lazy finger. He cants his hips up, and Shane takes the hint, lifting his legs so Ilya can spread his own. Shane grabs his own pillow from its spot next to Ilya’s head, bringing it down to squeeze between Ilya’s pelvis and the mattress. He settles between Ilya’s spread legs and resumes teasing Ilya’s fluttering hole until Ilya’s whispering “please, please” into his pillow.

Shane finally presses in, just the tip of his finger, dipping in and out no further than one knuckle deep. Ilya sighs, matching the thrusts with timid movements of his hips, which must bolster Shane’s confidence. The next thrust brings him to a second knuckle, then a third, his finger sheathed completely in Ilya’s ass. Ilya grinds against the pillow beneath him, then pushes back against the finger Shane’s slowly thrusting in and out of his body.

“I want to see you,” Shane says brokenly, pressing a kiss to Ilya’s lower back. “Let me see you?”

Ilya almost shakes his head, knowing how he looks, knowing he’s bereft of any emotional shields. But Shane asks so prettily, so kindly, petting his hip with his free hand, and Ilya knows what he’s scared of, knows that as soon as Shane sees his face, he’ll see the love pouring from Ilya’s very being. And he can’t, he can’t—

”Baby,” Shane breathes against his hyper-sensitive skin. “Please.”

Ilya’s breath hitches, the movement of his hips stilling. The white noise, the cotton that had clogged his ears earlier, is back, filling the blank space in his mind with nothing but thoughts of Shane. Of pleasing Shane. Of loving him. Yes, he nods sharply, turning slowly but keeping his face hidden beneath a forearm he slings over it, covering his eyes and puffed-up cheeks. Yes, yes. Anything for you. Anything.

Shane adjusts the pillow beneath his hips, then runs his hands up Ilya’s calves, bending his knees and spreading them, making a place for himself between Ilya’s legs. Ilya peeks out from beneath his arm, watching the reverent way Shane’s eyes rove over him, his hands following the tracks of his eyes. He runs his fingertips over the divots in Ilya’s ribs, the valley of his stomach. He thumbs the sharp jut of his hipbones, the coarse hair at the base of his cock. Then, lower, finger ghosting over his perineum before it's back at his entrance, pressing in with slightly more confidence than before. In, out, in. Ilya matches his breaths with the thrusts, watching Shane through hooded lids. Shane meets his eyes, smiling shyly when he teases at Ilya’s rim with a second finger, tongue peeking out of his mouth as he concentrates. When he presses in, the burn sharp enough to make Ilya flinch, Shane pauses.

“Okay?” he asks, the second finger lingering but not moving. Ilya offers him a jerky nod. He reaches up with both hands, fingers curling into the fabric of the pillow above his head. He watches Shane move, easing two fingers into his body with practiced precision, humming when he feels Ilya’s muscles soften against the intrusion. For a moment, Ilya’s back in Russia, returning home from that afternoon spent at Sasha’s, his body sore in places it’s never been sore before. He feels raw, vulnerable, flayed open by unpracticed but earnest and curious fingers. He’s giddy, smiling, opening the door to his bedroom only to find his father waiting for him, standing rigidly at his window overlooking the street below.

“Alexei told me you weren’t there when he drove by to pick you up from practice.”

Shit. He’d completely forgotten about Alexei, too lust-drunk and regular drunk to remember that Alexei would be waiting for him at the rink’s entryway. Ilya had decided to skip practice as soon as he’d found the strength to stand from Sasha’s bed, only to find that his legs were too wobbly to walk, much less skate. He clenches his fists, squaring his jaw as he tries not to tremble beneath his father’s hardened gaze.

“Papa—”

“Do not ‘Papa’ me,” Grigori scolds, turning bodily away from the window, revealing the belt he holds in one hand. He folds it in half, snapping it once. Twice. Ilya flinches, eyes widening in fear.

“I told your mother this would happen,” Grigori says calmly, taking one step forward, then another. “She never listened to me. Just like you. So spoiled, so arrogant.” Another step, and he snaps the belt again. Ilya stumbles back, reaching a hand out to grasp the doorknob, steadying himself.

“Papa, please—”

Please, please.

Ilya writhes against the bedsheets, twisting around in his own sweat.

Please, papa, please.

Shane’s two fingers deep, and he finds Ilya’s prostate.

“Daddy, please.”

Shane’s hand stills, and Ilya’s eyes fly open. They stare at each other, Ilya holding his breath, an apology on the tip of his tongue. Before he can completely freak out, Shane’s expression softens. He leans forward, kissing Ilya’s stomach, kissing the canyon between his pecs, kissing his collarbone, his neck, the underside of his jaw. He moves his fingers again, the tips of them brushing up against Ilya’s prostate once more.

“Okay,” he whispers into Ilya’s ear. “Okay, baby. Good. So good.”

Ilya keens, twisting his face away, trying to bury it in the pillow next to him. Shane crooks his fingers just so, and something inside him breaks, fracturing around the glass palace he’s built around his love for this beautiful, perfect man. Memories meld together: Alexei grabbing his forearm, dragging him toward his room with unnecessary force. Shane staring across the ice at him, smiling as they wait for the puck to drop. His coach, screaming at him in front of his teammates, asking how he could possibly be stupid enough to have let Denver win. Shane, curled up in bed, smiling at him through the screen, his glasses perched precariously atop the ridge of his nose.

His father, grabbing his shoulder, turning him toward the door, shoving him hard enough to bend him over, the sharp sting of leather on his exposed skin.

Shane, fingers pressing again and again against that spot, that one spot that has Ilya seeing stars, seeing God.

“Daddy, daddy, please, I—”

He cuts himself off, and Shane grips his jaw, tilting his face forward. He feels tears building at the corners of his eyes for the second time that night, shame eating at him from the inside out. Shane kisses him, tonguing into his mouth, swallowing down his pleas. He doesn’t linger, rising to kiss the tears that have begun to fall, tracking down into Ilya’s hairline.

“Good Ilyushen’ka. You are so good.”

Ilya cries out, loud and broken. He clenches around Shane’s fingers, hot spurts of come painting his stomach and chest. His eyes squeeze shut, his teeth biting down so hard on his lower lip he tastes blood. He is nowhere now. He feels nothing, sees nothing, senses only the white-hot pleasure of coming on Shane’s fingers and wailing into his shoulder. His ears are ringing, his muscles tight, the grip he has on the sheets bordering on painful. As he comes down, reentering his body limb by limb, he hears a heavy, pained noise, like that of a dying animal. Another moment, and he realizes it is him. He’s crying into Shane’s shoulder, sobs wracking his body so vehnementyl that he’s shaking.

“Ilya,” he hears over the cotton clogging his ears. “Ilya, come here, come here.” Shane reaches for his hands, unfurling his fingers from the tight grip he has on the sheets. He pulls them up, guiding his hands to the back of his head, silently encouraging Ilya to tangle his fingers in his hair. Ilya holds on tightly, hiding his face in the crook of Shane’s neck. Shane pulls him to his lap, wrapping both arms around him and holding him close to his body. He allows Ilya to wet his skin with tears, rubbing his upper back with both palms, soothing, kind. So kind. His Shane, always so kind.

“I am sorry,” Ilya squeezes out through raucous hiccups. “I am—”

“Shh, shh,” Shane hushes, cradling the back of Ilya’s head with his large hand. “Baby, it’s okay. It’s all okay.”

“No I—” Ilya croaks, pressing the words to Shane’s clavicle. “I should not have—”

“You can, Ilyusha. You should.” Which brings on a fresh wave of tears.

Ilya doesn’t know how long he lies there, body wrapped up in Shane’s limbs. Eventually, Shane moves them beneath the covers, but he doesn’t stop holding him, doesn’t stop rocking him, side to side, side to side, just as his mother had done when he was a little boy. He kisses his temple, whispers sweet nothings into his ear, until Ilya dozes off into a fitful sleep. When he awakens, the room is dark and cool, his position altered. He faces his bedside table, Shane pressed up against him, chest to back. Shane’s arms are wrapped around him, holding him impossibly close. Ilya reaches for his hand, pulling it to his chest, holding it over his hummingbird heart. He feels Shane exhale against his nape, warm breath tickling the baby hairs there. He thinks, morosely, that he will never be able to give this up. That nobody, not even his appalling, dying father could pry Shane from his fingers. The only way he will ever lose the stronghold he has on Shane Hollander is if the man himself walks away from what they have.

And even then, Ilya is not above begging.