Archive of Our Own

Ilya lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling with bated breath. Apart from the sliver of silver moonlight falling into his room and spilling across his sheets through the thin gap between his curtains, it’s dark in the room. It’s just enough light for him to see the analogue clock on his nightstand, which is a terrible frog-shaped one that Svetlana got him as a gag gift (because apparently he looks like a polite frog sometimes when he smiles, whatever that may mean). But yes, he sees the frog, and cradled below its wide open mouth is a clock face. 

2:08 AM. Exactly what he expected. He rolls over onto his side just as the door cracks open, spilling more navy darkness into his room. But even in the shade, the now familiar silhouette fills out the doorway—wide shoulders and messy hair and all. 

There is no hesitation as Shane files inside, closing the door softly behind himself again. It takes about five paces to cross the room, three more to circle around the bed. For a brief moment, there’s a pause; Ilya watches as Shane’s face scrunches up briefly, his fingers reaching out to curl around a handful of fabric. 

Casual as anything—like he isn’t an invader in this room—Shane lifts the duvet cover, then slips underneath. He isn’t wearing a shirt, so Ilya gets a brief glance of tantalising biceps flexing, a flash of a brown nipple, before the sight is hidden from prying eyes again. Shane nuzzles his face into the pillow, his mouth popping open. His bottom lip reflects the moonlight, slick with his spit. 

Ilya lets it all happen, because, despite how much Shane is moving around, he’s still completely dead to the world. Lunatizm. Sleepwalking. The subconscious mind taking the body for a spin whilst the conscious is still firmly locked behind the haze of sleep. Some people just do it, then go on with their lives, though the internet has told Ilya that stress and bad sleeping habits can trigger it or make it worse, exacerbate it. Some people start wandering around outside. As far as Ilya knows, Shane never made it further than Ilya’s bed. 

He wonders what Shane Hollander has to be stressed about. 

Shane mumbles something. Ilya steals a look over his shoulder at the frog. 2:13 AM. Nobody can tell him Shane Hollander isn’t efficient in everything he does. Even if that is unknowingly stealing the other half of Ilya’s bed. 

Every single time this happens, for a brief moment, Ilya considers kicking Shane out of his room again. One hand on his shoulder, shake him awake, and watch the mortification bloom on his face. He’d probably scramble away before Ilya could get one word in. But then, as Ilya stares, Shane relaxes into the pillow, his eyelashes fluttering, a strand of inky hair falling across his forehead. Even in the dim darkness, Ilya swears he can still make out the freckles that dust his cheeks. 

Waking him up would be cruel right now, Ilya decides, rolling onto his back to cast a pensive gaze up at the ceiling. And what is it hurting, anyway? With the steady heat of another body beside him, Ilya falls asleep before he can conjure up any more questions. 

Shane is always gone in the morning when Ilya wakes up. They don’t talk about it.

--

Let’s backtrack a little bit.

Coming to Northern America had been easy enough once Ilya’s father had kicked the bucket and the inheritance had been split evenly between him and his brother. His grades were good, his recommendations glowing. A golden boy who could end up anywhere. Ilya had originally aimed for the United States, but ended up just a tad more north, when a university made him an offer he could not refuse. Canada wasn’t too bad either—it wasn’t Boston, but the healthcare was better, and apparently so is the quality of living. And the cities here have their own kind of quaint charm, especially once the semester will start in full and the trees will start to turn red and golden. After the pressure and the noise of Russia, Montréal is surprisingly nice. Quiet. 

Anyhow. He moved to Canada, and Svetlana was already there to welcome him, an old friend who’d been moving her luxury car business across borders and was eager to see him again. That they’d ended up in the same city again after Moscow spat both of them out could only be chalked up to fate or destiny. She insisted on helping Ilya move into his apartment, and he’d never been able to say no to her, and was not about to start now that free help is being offered to him. 

Part of the allure of playing hockey at a college in Montreal was that housing would be provided. The first time he saw the place after he picked up the keycard on campus, Ilya was honestly surprised by the quality of the apartment: two bedrooms with both their own walk-ins, a massive bathroom with bathtub, a fancy kitchen with relatively new looking equipment, and a living room with a balcony-situation. Perfect for smoking, in Ilya’s humble opinion. Svetlana had made all of the appropriate noises of admiration when she’d first seen the place, though Ilya didn’t doubt that her apartment was about twice as fancy and double the size, but for an apartment that he was basically paying minimum rent on, he could not complain.

Svetlana had immediately bullied Ilya into buying her pizza for helping him unpack, which he would gladly do anyway, and then drove him into town to pick up some furniture, because Ilya had barely arrived with the clothes on his back and a small suitcase full of personal items, eager to actually start a new life.

She was there when Ilya first met his roommate, Shane Hollander. He was standing in the doorway, one bag slung over his shoulder and a suitcase next to his hip, methodically toeing out of his sneakers and putting them in a neat row next to the door. Ilya and Svetlana were fucking around in the living room, because assembling a clothing rack is apparently a two person job, and it should probably not be as difficult as they’re making it out to be, and Ilya is actually sweating. And there’s suddenly a boy in the doorway, staring at them, and from the easy way that he’d pushed into the apartment, keycard hanging around his neck, it’s clear that this is supposed to be his new roommate. Because two bedrooms had indeed implied two occupants.

The first thought Ilya has when seeing the boy (he’d later hear that his name is Shane Hollander) goes something along the lines of holy shit he’s kind of pretty? Are those vesnushki? What do you call it—freckles? Pretty boy with pretty freckles? Oh god, I want to lick them. The second thought Ilya has is: hm, he looks a bit disapproving.

Because he did. The boy cast one look at Ilya and Svetlana, still fighting with the clothing rack, and it caused a little furrow to appear between his dark eyebrows. He also was still hovering near the door, kind of like a skittish cat, one wrong movement away from fleeing again.

Clearly, Ilya had to be the bigger person here. He’d pushed Svetlana off him with a muffled warning in Russian, which just caused her to burst out in louder giggles. Wiping his hand on his shorts, he advanced on the boy. “Ilya Rozanov,” he said. “You must be the roommate . . .”

“Shane Hollander.” He had a firm handshake, palm and fingers callused. “Looking forward to living with you.” 

The way he had to force every single syllable of that sentence past gritted teeth made Ilya want to raise his eyebrows and question the sincerity. But then again, Shane Hollander was clearly a good Canadian boy, so he’d probably dutifully share whatever grievances he has with his journal and definitely not with Ilya himself. 

Ilya points a thumb over his shoulder. “We’re just using the living room to assemble this thing because there’s more space here. But we’ll keep the noise to a minimum.” Or as minimal as they could keep it. “Promise.”

“Okay.” Shane Hollander looked at him like he didn’t believe a word Ilya was saying. “I’ll be . . . in my room.”

“It is the one I am not in yet!” Ilya called, helpfully. He received no other reply than the door closing behind Shane, decisive.

That was their first meeting. Svetlana thought it had gone hilariously bad, but what the fuck did she know about anything? Ilya had been annoyed, because Shane fucking Hollander fit his type to a tee, but the stick up his ass was so big that you could see it from the outside, and that simply meant there was no space for Ilya there. Disappointing, but possibly not surprising. And maybe best not to fuck the guy you have to share an apartment with for the next two semesters at the very least. 

Shane’s parents, because he was apparently the guy whose parents helped him move into university, were a couple of minutes behind him, let into the apartment by Shane himself. They introduced themselves to Ilya and Svetlana as Yuna and David Hollander, perfect suburban family, and then went to help Shane. 

And that was all there had been to it. Shane had taken his parents out to dinner, reappearing from his room some time after Ilya and Svetlana finished in the living room, and giving him a polite, though distant nod. It was sad that Svetlana had other obligations, because Ilya always fucked better after getting himself a bit worked up and from what he remembers from their time spent in Moscow, Svetlana is a great lay. Alas, he’s sure it won’t be the last time the apartment is empty—and otherwise, the both of them will figure out just how thick the walls are. 

Maybe he can warn Shane to invest in some good noise-cancelling headphones? Anyway. 

After that, it wasn’t long until the semester started. English was . . . a challenge, but Ilya is also smart enough. The reason he came to Montreal in the first place was to play hockey, but he was well aware that he’ll have to keep his other grades up if he wanted to keep playing hockey. Cs get degrees or whatever stupid Canadians say. He was mostly there to play, anyway, and indulge in all the other delicacies that Canadian university had to offer him.

Campus life was nice. Ilya’s never really had a problem at carving out a space for himself. It wasn’t about making friends as much as it was about making connections. He wanted to be the guy called up to go to parties. The guy known as a good hook-up. The guy known for drinking everyone who dared to bet on it under the table. And the guy who played fucking good hockey.

Shane Hollander, first name last name, was also on the team with him. 

Originally an Ottawa native, he’d also been coaxed to Montreal to play on the college hockey team. With the two of them new to campus, new to the team, and new to town, the team staff had found it reasonable to house them together. Apparently, half of the team lived in their building, which meant that it wasn’t too weird for them to be in there, and there’d been vested interest in the two of them settling in well. To make sure the team meshed correctly, and everything.

Ilya quickly found out that Shane Hollander was really good at hockey. Where Ilya mostly acted on instinct, a pressure at the back of the neck that told him to veer left or slap the puck to the right, Shane watched, analysed, plotted. He watched the game roar around him while on the ice, then strategised in real time. Somehow that worked out really well. Especially when combined with Ilya’s more erratic play style. Ilya was brute force and decisive eagerness; Shane was level-headed organisation and cool precision. 

On the ice, they were everything they could not be out of the rink.

Living together, they clashed the first week. Ilya quickly found out that no, Shane being out of the apartment was not really a regular thing. He was at practice, in class, at the library, or at home. There wasn’t a lot of fun to be had, apparently, if you were Shane Hollander. He was committed to his sport and his grades, and not much else. As far as Ilya knew, he woke up at six every single morning to make the world’s loudest protein smoothie, then went for a run or a workout or whatever good boys do. Afterward, he disappeared to campus, where he did—whatever. Ilya didn’t really care. Shane was in bed every night by ten. On Sunday, he did meal prep, the blandest and most nutritionally-balanced meals Ilya has ever had the misfortune of seeing being made. He pitied the unseasoned carrot that ended up in one of those glass tupperwares. Shane does not deviate from this schedule.

Which was all fine and well, but that was clearly not Ilya’s schedule. Ilya’s only schedule was a lack of one. Okay, scratch that. Ilya did not consider himself a total slacker. He makes it to class, say, nine out of ten times. A respectable amount. His father’s favourite way to scold him, after all, was telling him that he is lazy, and Ilya was nothing else if not dedicated to proving the man’s ghost wrong. He got good grades! Cs and Bs and the odd A. So what if he also liked to party? So what if he also liked to tip pretty boys and handsome girls into his bed from time to time? That’s just being a university student!

Cardinal sins, if you ask Shane Hollander. The way he was always scowling and frowning at Ilya whenever they were lucky enough to bump into each other in the common spaces of their apartments. Ilya even texts him ahead of time if he’s taking someone home! It’s not his fault that Shane never goes anywhere else, never picks up anyone—boy or girl, Ilya clearly does not discriminate—to spend a night in their bed. And Ilya goes to the other person’s place whenever he can, just so that Shane doesn’t actually pop a vein, but sometimes it’s simply not possible.

He thinks Shane would have already strangled him by now if they weren’t as good on the ice together as they are. Even Shane could not deny their electric chemistry, the way things just seemed to slot together when it was the two of them on a line. The McGill Foxes actually were becoming a good team, if it was up to Ilya and Shane. 

But outside of that, they really didn’t match. Ilya and Shane lived opposite lives, and sometimes Ilya swears he felt Shane’s tortured gaze on the back of his neck. So what if they would never truly like each other? Ilya could have a great life even without Shane Hollander’s approval.

And then Shane started sleepwalking into Ilya’s bed.

--

Ilya still remembers the first time he woke up to his door cracking open. He wasn’t a super light sleeper, but years of living under his father’s roof with his brother, who loved to be an antagonistic dick whenever he pleased, had honed Ilya’s instincts. Instead of those two ghosts, though, a fairly familiar silhouette had filled the doorway: sleep-rumpled hair, an oversized T-shirt, muscular thighs peeking out from underneath loose shorts.

“Shane?” he had whispered urgently. “Do you . . . need anything?”

No response. At the time, Ilya had frowned. As far as Shane didn’t seem to really like Ilya, it wasn’t like him to just crack open Ilya’s door and then say nothing. Despite how he was often perceived by others—passive, sweet, kind of clumsy—he had absolutely no problem with giving Ilya a scathing comment. Sneaky, sneaky Shane, letting everyone think he is an angel so that he can be a devil to Ilya in private.

And then Shane had let himself into Ilya’s room, still silent, and had made a beeline for Ilya’s bed. 

“Um,” Ilya had said, out loud. “Shane?” 

It had taken him all the way up until Shane was literally snuggling up underneath his blankets for Ilya to realise that Shane was still asleep. Probably had been this entire time. Ilya used to have a friend in primary school who had a sister that used to sleepwalk. But apparently, she just had a test she was worried about, and when she aced said test, she stopped doing it.

He wonders what Shane is so worried about that it has led him straight to Ilya’s bed. 

But yeah, he just watched Shane delicately place his face on the pillow. He remembers whispering to himself, “This is fucking crazy.” And then he reached out to shake Shane awake—only to stop at the last possible second. Because Shane, who walked around with his shoulders pulled up to his ears, seemingly always at the verge of some kind of breakdown, had oozed into the bed. He was relaxing. Ilya did not think he had it in him. But, as he watched, Shane snuffled, turned his face into the pillow, and had clearly sunk deeper into sleep. Waking him up now would be nasty work, even for Ilya.

It’s only this time, right? he thought. It can’t be that bad to just sleep.

So, sue Ilya, he’d fallen asleep next to Shane Hollander. And all they did was sleep. Somehow, it was a really good sleep too, no bad dreams or worrying thoughts about whether he was fucking up his life to keep him awake.

The next morning, for once, he manages to wake up at ass o’clock, like his body had primed itself to demand answers from one very slippery roommate. The other side of the bed was already empty, but not cold. He found Shane at the kitchen counter, his entire posture scrunching up into something awkwardly defensive at the sound of Ilya’s footsteps. 

“Hollander!” he called, delighted. “Man of the hour!”

“Shut it, Rozanov,” Shane had said, not turning to face him. But even from his view at the back of Shane’s head, Ilya had been able to tell that Shane was blushing. His red ears and the flushed back of his neck had given it away. “Listen, about tonight . . . It won’t—happen again. Can we just drop it?”

“Fine,” was all Ilya had managed, amused. “We will drop it. Because I am generous and a great person.”

Shane turned around so quickly that Ilya briefly worried about whiplash. “You must be joking.”

“What?” Ilya was having way too much fun with this. “I allow you in my bed without you asking me, which is already creepy. And then you ask me to drop it, so I do, because I am very aware of how worked up you get if I said no. Then you tell me I am joking? Very hurtful, Hollander.”

Like the good boy he was, Shane immediately turned from righteous anger to sweet-faced embarrassment. “Shut up. It is already bad enough.” 

“Hm, if you wanted to get into my bed so badly, all you needed to do was ask.”

“Oh my god,” Shane said. “I’m going to go to the gym before I do something that I can’t take back.” He paused, considered Ilya. “Like kill you.”

Ilya grabbed his own chest, wounded. “Ouch, Hollander. You hurt me.”

Not looking at him, Shane had flipped him the finger. “You’re disgusting. And I just told you that it won’t happen again, so.” He disappeared into his room, then reappeared with his bag. He hadn’t looked at Ilya anymore that morning. His loss.

--

So, obviously, it keeps happening again and again.

--

It is very fun to get a rise out of Shane. Ilya figures it is only payback—Shane keeps terrorising Ilya’s nights and then gets so stubbornly terrified of it that Ilya can’t bring himself to talk about it, so it’s only fair that he gets to do something back. 

Their apartment is big enough. They have rooms on opposite sides of the hallway. Still, when Ilya brings people home from a party or a club, it’s fun to see how loud the noises he can pull from their lips get. If Shane gets to wake him up with little sniffly breaths and carefully projected movements, Ilya gets to keep him awake by pleasuring his partner to such an extent that they’re very vocal about their appreciation. 

After one such night, Shane corners him in the kitchen, just before Ilya is going to have dinner. “Jesus Christ,” he says, running one hand down his face. “Would it actually kill you to keep it down during the night? Some of us are actually trying to sleep around these parts.”

Ha! Ilya had hoped the sound would carry through two walls and across the hallway. It’s nice to have Shane confirm it for him. He stares at the other, innocently. “I’m not sure if you’re deaf, Hollander,” he says. “But it’s definitely not me making those sounds.”

Shane looks at him like he is trying to explode Ilya with his mind. “Whatever the case may be,” he says, through gritted teeth. “I’m sure both you and your partner are aware of the concept of inside voices.”

Ilya blows a raspberry. “Bah. Inside voices? What are we—twelve years old?”

The glare Shane sends him actually has Ilya take a step back. “The guy from last night actually sounded like he was actually in pain. Maybe consider not doing what you were doing then, and perhaps all of us can live in peace. At least I know I would.”

How cute. “Some people like to be in pain a little bit, Hollander. It makes the release that much sweeter.”

“I—don’t need to know about what you get up to with random guys.” Shane has turned a delightful shade of tomato red. “Frankly, I would love to know less about what you are doing. You are an adult and you seem to know . . . enough about all of the—the sex stuff, but I’d love to go a week without becoming an unwilling listener to whatever depraved things you get up to.”

“You only say it’s depraved because you have no idea what I do,” says Ilya. The guy from last night definitely had been a screamer; Ilya had only edged him and slapped him around a little bit, as they’d decided on beforehand. Ilya couldn’t have guessed then that he’d beg with so much gusto behind it. He frowns at Shane. “You don’t mind that it’s a guy, do you?”

“Fuck, no, definitely not. I don’t care where you get your dick wet.” Shane waves his hand vaguely, gesturing at all of Ilya. “I only care about hearing as little about it as possible.”

“Alright,” laughs Ilya. “Though may I perhaps suggest that you also go out from time to time? You wouldn’t have to lay around listening to me getting my dick wet if you were perhaps doing the same to your own . . .”

Shane turns red so fast that Ilya worries if he’s actually having some sort of stroke. In the end, he just shakes his head and turns away. “Forget it, Rozanov. Just try to keep it down. We have to be roommates for the next year at least and I’d love to at least get through this year without having to strangle you.”

“Kinky!” Ilya calls after him, and he is totally not thinking about what Shane would sound or look like in bed.

--

Ilya shuffles back into the living room from the balcony, happy to be back in the apartment, where it is warm. He immediately comes face to face with a very-unimpressed-looking Shane, sprawled out on the couch wearing a hoodie and shorts that should be indecent, exposing miles of golden skin and thick thighs. Ilya’s brain blue-screens a little bit. 

“What were you doing out there?” Shane asks, his voice gruff and already sounding disapproving.

Groaning, Ilya rolls his eyes. “Why the fucking question? I’m sure you were watching me.”

Shane crosses his arms in front of his chest. He’d probably been on his phone before this, but he’s abandoned it balanced on his thigh to scowl at Ilya. “You shouldn’t smoke. It’s bad for you.”

“Oh my god,” Ilya says. “Next thing you will tell me I shouldn’t drink vodka either.”

“We’re on the same hockey team.” Shane’s eyebrows lower into a frown. “If you hadn’t noticed yet, how you do impacts me. And none of these things help with performance.”

Ilya shrugs and grins, leaning against the glass door behind him. He might be imagining it, but he swears that Shane’s eyes track the motion, trailing from his shoulders down to his legs. “Is just college hockey, Hollander. Plus, I can still skate in circles around you despite the fact that I also like to enjoy and let loose from time to time. Not bad, right?”

Annoyance crosses Shane’s face again. It somehow looks handsome on him, though Ilya isn’t certain that there’s anything that could look bad on a face like that. “In your dreams, Rozanov.”

“Mn, you would like me in your dreams.” Ilya’s having way too much fun with this, enjoying the way that Shane’s face goes a splotchy red within seconds, his mouth dropping open on a scandalised gasp that he manages to swallow back at the last second. 

“They’d be nightmares, first of all,” Shaen mutters, at last, but his voice comes out a bit rough. He shakes his head, breathes out through his nose, harsh. “Whatever, do what you want. Fucking fuck up your body for all I care. But if it starts to affect your playing in a bad way, we’re going to talk about this again.”

Ilya manages to capture his gaze and allows the corners of his mouth to quirk up in a small, slow grin. “Or what? Are you going to punish me?”

The sound that punches out of Shane is one of disgust, but his gaze is too heated for it to really stick to what he’d probably been hoping for. “Every time I think you manage to piss me off the most, you find a way to prove me wrong, hm?”

Still grinning, Ilya takes a step closer. The way Shane’s throat bobs when he swallows is extremely satisfying. “It is my favourite thing to do, Hollander. Proving you wrong.”

Before Shane can answer, the phone on his leg buzzes with an incoming notification. His eyes wander down to the lit screen, and he looks up at Ilya again, one eyebrow jumping. “Don’t you have an afternoon class today, Rozanov?”

“Fuck!” Ilya yelps, and he doesn’t know how quickly he has to get ready and scramble out of the door. The professor is enough of a dickwad to actually count absences, and being late counts as not being present. Which is ridiculous, because this is university, but perhaps the guy doesn’t get enough at home and he’s taking it out on poor, unsuspecting students.

It is only when he is on his way to the lecture hall that he realises that Shane clearly cares a little bit about him. Or he’s just obsessed enough with Ilya to know his schedule. Whatever works.

--

The thing is that Shane is not a passive occupant of Ilya’s bed. No, once he started getting comfortable in Ilya’s bed, it would not be enough for him to simply invade the mattress with his body and lingering scent. Shane is like a little heat-seeking missile and Ilya was born and bred in icy Russia; his body has learned to adapt. Multiple times now, he has become the unwilling recipient of Shane’s feet tucked below his calves or his freckled nose pressed against the dip in Ilya’s shoulder. 

And Ilya is not really a cuddler. Sure, after a good fuck, he enjoys a comedown from his orgasm wrapped in the arms of his lover. And then he kicks out whoever or kicks himself out, and they amicably part ways. Ilya is not in university to find a partner. It’s not really a conscious thing, but he figures it would just distract from either the hockey, or the hooking up, or the partying—all three things he is pretty attached to. He’s not necessarily against hugging or cuddling, but he doesn’t want to send the wrong signal either.

He wouldn’t have guessed Shane to be a cuddler either, if he’s honest. The third time he finds himself trapped underneath all two-hundred pounds of determined hockey-boy, though, he is starting to realise he needs to re-evaluate that statement. Shane is a . . . comfortable cuddle partner, if a bit greedy. Sleepwalking Shane has no regard for what Ilya thinks is pleasant or not, just slips his cold ass hands underneath Ilya’s shirt and drools against his shoulder.

Ilya had not expected the drooling. Apart from being on the ice, where he truly lights up like the Christmas tree on Times Square (Ilya has seen the movies), Shane moves through life as if there is not much that makes him tick. Like a robot that can play hockey, study in the library, and has incredibly gorgeous freckles.

But even Shane Hollander drools. 

Honest to God, Ilya does not know why that makes him pause. Like—surprise! Your asshole roommate who could not be more your opposite if he tried, does endearing things around you. Where only you can see it. And you, who swears off mushy shit even if it makes Svetlana look at you with a disappointed look on your face, are surprisingly happy to be the recipient?

Clearly he needs to get laid more. Get out of the house more. He notices that, when he sneaks back into the house after a hook-up, even if it’s after two, Shane is never there. Like his subconscious knows when Ilya is around or not, and decides to act accordingly. 

Whatever that might mean. Fuck! Ilya is not a philosopher.

That morning, he wakes up in his empty (emptier) bed, because Shane is a squirrely fuck and he always seems to wake up before Ilya does, no matter how hard he tries to catch him in the act of sneaking out. Grumbling, he sits up abruptly, then texts Svetlana. 

Ilyusha: I need to go out. Get laid.

Svveta: Okay? And? It’s never been a problem for you, as far as I recall.

Ilyusha: Fuck you, you know what I meant.
Ilyusha: Any parties tonight?

Sveta: How am I supposed to know? You are the one in university.

Ilyusha: Sveta.

Sveta: Calm down, lover boy. You are lucky that I like you.

Ilyusha: You like me because I am one of the few people who puts up with you.

Sveta: Close enough.
Sveta: [pin]
Sveta: Have fun!

Ilya does end up going to the party Svetlana picked out for him. Of course, he goes to class first, takes notes like a good student, and then goes home to shower and change. By the time he strolls inside, the party is already at full-swing, and it’s not like the thing doesn’t start until he walks in, but he likes to think his presence does elevate it. Marleau and Connors and St-Simone are already hanging around near the edge of the dance floor, second years on the hockey team who have taken Ilya under their wing. They eagerly fold Ilya into their little group, pressing a cup of mystery alcohol into his hand and sending him off with a little pat on his butt when a girl with gorgeous brown eyes keeps giving him sideways glances.

Honestly, Ilya is a simple man. And this girl is beautiful. He learns her name is Eleanore, and she’s a junior, and she smells and tastes like peaches. They dance for a while, and when Eleanore suggests they should go somewhere else, Ilya sees no reason to say no. 

She lives by herself in a tiny apartment just off campus. It’s cramped but homey, photos all over the walls and magnets on the fridge. Ilya does not pay more attention than to what is necessary to back her towards her bed. She has rumpled pink sheets and about a million decorative pillows in various shapes. Ilya takes her apart first on his tongue and then on his fingers. She sucks his dick, skillful mouth and tongue, and then pushes him up against the mountain of pillows so that she can settle on his lap. 

Ilya has never minded a woman who knows what she wants. And her tits are pretty and perky, two handfuls, so he presses his tongue and teeth against her nipples until she starts shuddering in his hold. She comes with Ilya’s thumb pressed against her clit.

“You’re not staying?” she asks, afterwards, when he’s out of the shower and pulling his shirt back over his head again. She’s still on the bed, naked, all gorgeous pale skin and dark hair spilling over her shoulder.

“Hm, no,” he says. He looks at her, vaguely apologetic. “I don’t really do that.”

At that, Eleanore laughs, her head tilting back. “Ah, it’s true what they said about you, Ilya Rozanov. But you were a good fuck, so I don’t regret taking this chance.” She grabs his phone where it had fallen on the floor in their mad scramble to get rid of their clothes and holds it hostage until he unlocks it. It makes him smile. He likes a girl who knows what she wants. “Text me. If you ever want something uncomplicated again.”

“I just might,” says Ilya, which is not a lie and not a complete truth. Apart from Svetlana, he doesn’t really do repeat performances. But she is pretty. And her eyes are a really gorgeous brown colour. “Thank you.” 

Eleanore is laughing when he presses a last, lingering kiss to her bottom lip, then shoves him away, muttering something about beauty sleep.

Ilya idles on the curb as he waits for his Uber to pull up, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Taxis in Canada are way more expensive than in Moscow, but he already has more money than he knows what to do with, and it’s a small pleasure for him to be taken from door to door. Winter is starting to arrive with a vengeance, his breath coming out in clouds along with the smoke, but he’s strong, Slavic blood. He’s fine, even only wearing a hoodie and leather jacket on top. When the car rolls around, he’s nearly smoked through the entire pack.

The apartment is dark and silent by the time he gets back. Once he’s bundled up underneath the blankets, he checks the time on the frog. 2:24 AM. He is definitely going to regret this in the morning.

--

There’s hockey practice the next day. Ilya does not regret going to the party the previous night, but he does regret ever getting good at hockey. Who the fuck invented early morning hockey practices anyway? The devil, that’s who.

He manages to drag himself out of bed at the last second before he’d definitely be late, and walks past the McDonald's on his way to the rink. Armed with the biggest, most disgusting black coffee he’ll probably ever consume in his life, if he has anything to say about it, he makes it onto the ice just before Coach Wiebe can yell at him about it.

Coach Wiebe still yells at him, but mostly about drills and passes and scrimmage. Which is something Ilya can handle. He’s aiming for that A or maybe even that C, when their current line of seniors graduates by the end of the year, so he’ll gladly take a little bit of yelling if that hints that the coach sees him as a reliable figure. As far as he sees it, it’ll be a toss-up between him and Shane, but Ilya likes to think he’s more of a people-person while Shane is the brains behind the organisation. It can go either way, really. Doesn’t mean he shouldn’t try.

And then, in the middle of their scrimmage, it happens: Shane misses a pass for the first time—ever, probably. At least since Ilya started playing with him. He raises his eyebrows as Shane goes scrambling after the puck, quick on his feet, but it’s clear that his reflexes are lagging behind a little bit. “Something on your mind, Hollander?” he asks, just to be a dick about it.

“Fuck you,” says Shane, no heat behind it. “I just didn’t sleep well. I’ll get it next time.” 

“Ooh, even golden boy Shane Hollander can be bad at something!” Boodram hollers from the other side of the rink, though he sounds amused rather than teasing. Not that Ilya would have minded if the guys were picking on Shane a little bit. It probably would build character.

Shane rolls his eyes and flips Boodram the finger. “I’m still skating in circles around you,” he says, easy as anything. “Maybe you could try getting better, instead?”

It doesn’t really make a lot of sense, but it still has the older guys guffawing and slapping Shane on the shoulders. That brings a tiny, pleased smile to Shane’s face, a flush to his cheeks, which Ilya can see peek out from underneath his visor. Ilya is hit with a sudden vertigo. 

He grips his fingers tighter around his stick and sends Shane a flat look. “Think you’ll do better if we continue, or do you need another minute to recover, sleeping beauty?” 

“Ready whenever you are,” says Shane, and something in his expression shutters. 

And so they start again. This time, when Ilya sends the puck, Shane is exactly where he needs to be to receive it. It still doesn’t feel quite right.

They have an afternoon game that day. A home game. With Shane and Ilya giving the team a fresh impulse, winning more than they ever did before, drawing a big crowd to see the Foxes play isn’t very difficult. Ilya goes home in between, takes a quick nap, then gets ready before Shane can start banging on his door. 

Boodram is a good captain. He sweeps all of them up in his speech in the locker room before the game starts, and they make their way to the rink with energy singing underneath their skin.

Just before the game starts, Ilya makes eye contact with Shane across the ice. Coach Wiebe has been starting them as the first line more often than not lately, which is something they cannot fuck up for themselves. Understanding passes between them. They both want to win this as much as the other does. For the game, they can put whatever weird thing happened between them earlier this morning to the side. 

Without meaning to, the corner of Ilya’s mouth quirks up in a grin. Shane is rolling his eyes. It looks like they’ll be alright.

Shane takes position at the dot as the whistle sounds for them to take their places. It had been rough for Ilya to give up his center spot, but he can actually play wing and Shane is too hyperfocused in his ways to switch positions as easily as Ilya does. And they work too well together to give that up either, so Ilya can bite his tongue and accept the position Coach Wiebe puts him in. 

The puck drops. Of course Shane is faster than the opposing player. He makes them look laughingly slow. Ilya is already skating towards the other team’s net before he realises what is happening. Shane sweeps the puck towards him. After that, it’s simply instinct.

It is by now not surprising anymore that they win. Ilya scores twice, Shane once. 

“Well done, kiddos!” says Dykstra, slapping Ilya on the shoulder after they file back into the locker room. He swings one arm around Shane’s neck. “Bar tonight to celebrate?”

Shane is already pulling away, apologetic. “Sorry, not tonight. I really need to catch up on sleep.”

“All good.” Dykstra ruffles his sweaty hair, then pulls away with a wink at Ilya. “I know Rozanov won’t say no, at least. I’ll buy your first drink to celebrate that beautiful second goal. God knows we’ve been itching for some guys like the two of you on the team.”

Ilya sends him a lazy thumbs up, never one to pass up on an invitation like that. “You know my weak spots.”

Dykstra salutes and then pulls away to shower.

The bar they end up in is nice and kind of a dump at the same time. Ilya has been here a couple of times after a win, and he still thinks The Woodpecker is kind of a corny name, but the beers are cheap and not of terrible quality. Though he’d personally much prefer a good, Russian vodka, he also knows not to expect too much from Canada. And Dykstra does make good on his promise to buy Ilya a drink, so it’s not all wasted time.

It only gets better when Ilya makes eye contact with a pretty boy across the bar. He’s kind of foxy looking, with a mischievous smile, and he breaks away from his friend—who kind of looks like a disgruntled duck—when Ilya makes his way over amidst the appreciative whoops of the rest of the team. He introduces himself as Matthew. When they kiss, he tastes like the sweet cocktail he’d been sipping. Ilya briefly considers inviting him back to the apartment, but before he can, Matthew is already pulling at his belt loops and arching one eyebrow at Ilya, asking whether he wants to come with him to his place. Somehow, that makes Ilya feel relieved.

Matthew screams like a hellcat when Ilya fucks into him, but he’d warned Ilya beforehand that he’d probably be loud, and he’s also cross-eyed with satisfaction, so Ilya isn’t too worried. They both wring out a couple of delicious orgasms, Matthew teasing him with his mouth around Ilya’s cock even after he’s already finished all across Matthew’s back, and Ilya chases pain into pleasure with one hand wrapped in Matthew’s dyed golden locks. 

Afterwards, Matthew offers his tiny balcony for Ilya to smoke while he waits for his Uber. He seems to be about as interested in having Ilya stay over as Ilya is to do exactly that. Apparently Matthew’s in love with the guy he was at the bar with, who also happens to be his roommate, and it’s all messy and complicated. He’d just been looking for an uncomplicated fuck. Ilya can figure that he’d probably want Ilya to get out of there before said roommate comes back. That is also something Ilya really wants, because he’d love not to be beaten up if he can’t help it. 

“That was nice,” says Ilya, before he leaves, and means it. Matthew was a nice hookup. They’ll probably never see each other again.

“Yeah.” Matthew’s leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed in front of his chest. He hasn’t put his shirt back on and there’s a tattoo of a cherry blossom on his ribs. “Nice to know that some rumours are true. You do have a good dick.”

“Mm.” Ilya gives him an amused smile. “Word travels fast, huh?” He presses a last kiss to Matthew’s cheek. “Good luck with the roommate situation. I’m rooting for you.”

Matthew gives him a last thumbs up and blows him a kiss. The Uber pulls up and takes Ilya back to the apartment. Standing before the door, Ilya briefly hesitates. He isn’t back as late as he was yesterday, but there’s still something that feels wrong. Somewhere inside the door, Shane is asleep. All Ilya can hope is that he’s sleeping well. 

He’s not selfish enough to think otherwise.

--

Somehow, Ilya is unsurprised to be woken up again by Shane letting himself into the room the following day. Even in sleep, there’s a slowness to him, a tiredness. The furrow between his eyebrows does not completely go away even as he settles down on the pillow next to Ilya. He does not creep closer during the night either. In the morning, just like always, he’s gone.

--

After that, Ilya keeps barely missing Shane in the apartment. It wasn’t like Ilya was trying to catch his attention before, happy enough for their lives to just barely intersect at planned intervals, but now it is almost a sport just to catch a glimpse of him. He doesn’t slip into Ilya’s bed anymore either, which is technically better for Ilya as he isn’t awoken every time Shane decides that his own bed doesn’t cut it anymore, but it’s clearly worse for Shane. Even the guys on the team have started to notice and point out the dark circles below Shane’s eyes. Which in turn makes Shane crabbier, because he clearly does not like to be anything less than perfect, so it’s a weird stand off on all sides.

They clearly can’t go on like this, because Shane’s bad performance—which is still leagues better than anyone else, just bad when you consider that it’s Shane—on the team directly impacts Ilya too. It’s not like Ilya necessarily feels bad, but he’s only human. And Shane’s a mean bitch on a good day, but maybe Ilya has missed that side of him too. Ugh. Everything is so needlessly complicated.

He finally manages to hunt Shane down in the hallway that separates their bedroom doors, and only because he had the bright idea to get there early. It’s way earlier than he’d normally even consider going to bed, which means that it is perfectly the time Shane starts turning in. 

“What is this?” says Shane, an annoyed tilt to his mouth. He’s almost pouting. His lips are very pink and the bottom lip is very plush. Ilya hadn’t really noticed before just how pretty Shane’s mouth is. He almost misses Shane’s next words. “Is this an intervention?”

“No, nothing like that.” Ilya puts one hand on the doorframe next to him to steady himself. Why had it cost him so much energy just to pin Shane down?

“Okay . . .” Shane gives him a weary look. “If that was all.” He starts shuffling away. 

Ilya snaps himself out of his thoughts and clicks his tongue. “Just listen before you run away. I have an idea, Hollander. Something that will benefit us both.” 

Like a weary cat, Shane looks at him from the corner of his eye. “What is it?”

“You need a lot of sleep, but you seemingly cannot get it in your own bed.” Ilya smiles when Shane stiffens. “Maybe that is why you always come to my bed instead? So, I’m suggesting that you just start your night in my bed. Team would kill me if they knew I was the reason second best player on the team wasn’t sleeping well and playing badly because of it.”

Shane frowns. “I am not the second best player on the team.”

That is what he wants to focus on? Ilya is suddenly overcome by the sudden urge to reach over and . . . squeeze Shane? Weird. “Sure,” he says, definitely not deflecting. “Third best player, maybe. After Barrett.”

“Fuck you,” says Shane, seriously. But he hasn’t said no yet, and he hasn’t run away either.

“You might be the first best player with regards to technique,” Ilya allows. “But hockey is not only about technique and planning. Sometimes, it is about instinct and feeling too.” 

Exhaling so sharply it sends his fringe fluttering, Shane stares at him. “Whatever. So, what are you suggesting? That is . . . sleep in your bed with you? What is the benefit for you in all this?”

Ilya raises his eyebrows, then grins. “You don’t think I wake up every time some naughty Canadian boy decides to go for a nightly wander and slips into my bed. If you start there, I might actually sleep through the entire night. Is mutually beneficial for us both.”

“Wow,” says Shane, swallowing. “Big words for you.”

“Mm, I know a thing or two about what’s mutually beneficial.” Ilya pauses. “In many ways.”

Shane pulls a face. But then he actually starts thinking about it, from the focused look on his face. “It isn’t a bad idea,” he allows, at last. He cuts Ilya off when he opens his mouth, triumphant. “We can try it once. See how it works. It’ll probably be terrible anyway.” 

“Sure, Hollander,” says Ilya. “That is why you end up in my bed like three times per week.”

“It’s not—!” Shane cuts himself off, fuming. “Whatever.” He stomps off, probably to shower or get ready for bed. 

It’s the earliest Ilya has gone to bed, probably since he was fifteen or something, but Shane spends so long taking a shower or jacking off that Ilya is already underneath the covers by the time the other boy makes it to his room. Probably psyching himself up, or whatever, which Ilya can sympathise with. It’s one thing to wander into your roommate’s bed by accident, but another to do so completely aware.

When Shane finally appears, he’s in a soft, stretched out sleep shirt and a pair of linen pants. He’s got his phone in one hand, his pillow tucked underneath his arm. Something seems to be stopping him from crossing the threshold, so Ilya pats the bed next to himself invitingly.

“This how you coax all of your hookups into bed with you?” Shane asks, but starts crossing the floor toward the bed anyway. He’s way more awkward about it now that he’s actually awake. 

“Nope.” Ilya pops the p. “I don’t cuddle them, so.”

Shane raises one eyebrow, but doesn’t voice the clear question on his face out loud. He’s finally made it to the bed and quickly slips underneath the blankets. “My alarm will go off pretty early tomorrow morning,” he warns, turning to the side so that he can type something in his phone. 

“Yeah,” sighs Ilya, despondent. “The worst outcome of this whole situation. At least I’ll probably fall asleep so stupidly early tonight that it probably won’t matter that much.”

“Ha, so maybe there’s something good for you in all of this too,” Shane says, amused. He throws Ilya’s pillow on the ground and swaps it for his own, sliding down so that he can press his cheek against it. “Who knows, maybe this will actually help you get into a healthy rhythm as well.”

Ilya tears his gaze away from where it had been lingering on the soft swell of Shane’s cheek. “Don’t count on it, Hollander. And this is only a trial anyway. It might suck for both of us.”

“Sure.” Shane’s breaths are already lengthening, his eyelashes fluttering. There’s something strangely unguarded about him right now. Ilya has already seen him asleep, but this languid Shane is choosing to be here. His voice is slow and a bit deeper than normal when he speaks next. “Good night, I guess, Rozanov.”

“Hm. Don’t steal the blankets or I will kick you out again.” Ilya shuffles down the bed so that he can straighten out as well. “But good night, Hollander. Dream of me.”

Shane snorts. “Don’t make me throw up in your bed.” But he sounds like he’s joking. Possibly. 

When he suggested this whole bed-sharing scheme to Shane, Ilya had not really considered the consequences. Right now, he thinks he should have probably thought this through more. Won’t it keep him awake, being this close to someone? Ilya can’t remember the last time he fell asleep next to someone when it was actually his choice to do so. But Shane smells distractingly nice, and the even rise and fall of his shoulders is weirdly meditative. 

He dozes off still thinking about it.

--

Ilya’s life starts containing a weirdly large share of Shane Hollander. He guesses that is what happens when you fall asleep and wake up next to one person for a lot of days out of the week—because after that first trial run, the both of them had come to the sheepish conclusion that this bedsharing thing really is valuable for both of them. And, as terrible as it is to admit, maybe Shane’s grandpa sleeping rhythm did start rubbing off on Ilya, and he’s been awake before the sun comes up a couple of times now. It is dreadful. 

But it is also kind of weirdly nice to wake up next to Shane and see his sleep-flushed face, the slow blinks of his long lashes as he swims into consciousness, the imprint of his pillow on his round, freckled cheek. They haven’t been sleeping in Ilya’s bed every night, but maybe every other one, and maybe the reliability of that pattern has been why Ilya has been looking forward to it more often than not. He didn’t think he slept terribly before, except for the nights when dreams of his mother would wake him up in a horrible manner, but it seems as if falling asleep next to Shane has introduced him to a whole new level of restfulness. He refuses to make the connection to the healthier sleeping pattern. It has absolutely nothing to do with it. He won’t be a grandpa who goes to sleep every night at 9 PM.

Shane likes teasing him about it. It is a side to him that Ilya didn’t really know existed. Well, he was aware that Shane has displays of emotion, but rarely has he turned this ability on Ilya. When they wake up, tangled together again (sometimes weirdly in the middle, like Ilya had also been migrating toward Shane during the night), Shane will quip, “Are you secretly turning into an octopus, or what?”

Which—bad joke. But it does alert Ilya to the fact that he’d probably actually been holding Shane in a tight grip during the night. “My partners would like that,” he settles on saying, waggling his eyebrows. “More limbs equals more pleasure.” 

“Ugh, you disgust me.”

And when Ilya slumps into the kitchen after a night spent apart, awake at Shane’s ridiculous time despite the fact that he went to bed at his own leisure the previous night: “Wow. Did you get run over by one of your friend’s ridiculous cars?”

Ilya had flipped him the finger, but something weird had happened in his chest. The fact that Svetlana sells luxury vehicles had come up around Shane maybe once, but he still remembered it. Enough to chirp Ilya about it, at least. Ilya can’t really blame him for it; he knows he looks terrible. But it had been a rare moment in bed by himself, so he’d masturbated slowly, finished in the palm of his hand while biting a pillow. The time had run away from him, but he’d woken up at a ridiculous time anyway. He guesses he would do it again, if it gets Shane to look at him with that tiny, self-satisfied smirk. 

It is a heady feeling. One that he does not really know how to place.

Let it be said that Ilya Rozanov does not necessarily not do feelings. He just thinks that university is not necessarily the place for all of that. University is for having fun and exploring every single side of you and things that are short and sweet. Shane Hollander is boring and lives the life of a grandpa and barely goes anywhere if the team isn’t doubling down and dragging him somewhere kicking and screaming. Everything he does is like the opposite of what Ilya considers to be a good time.

And yet—and yet. 

Maybe he does need to go out and get laid. Last time he tried, though, he’d pushed into his bedroom to find Shane already there, curled up underneath Ilya’s blankets with a book in his lap. He’d been wearing glasses. Ilya doesn’t even remember the excuse he’d made to exit the room again, just recalls having to take a very long, very satisfying shower before he felt fit to join Shane in the bed again. The idea of going out and getting laid had fizzed out into nothing.

Ilya is no stranger to having crushes either. After all, the first thought he ever had about Shane Hollander is that he’s very, very pretty. Those stupid freckles and those soft brown eyes are an attack on Ilya’s wellbeing even now. But every argument of why it is a bad idea to start something with Shane still holds right now. 

No matter how pretty Ilya thinks Shane is, the two of them simply are not very compatible. And when all of this blows up in their faces—because when has Ilya ever been fortunate—he still has to live in the same apartment as Shane.

So, it’s better not to start anything he cannot commit to. It would not be fair to either of them.

--

The end of the first semester approaches, and with it, finals week. Ilya would like to think he’s kept up with his studies, even on top of his extracurriculars and all of the shit he gets up to outside of that. But Econ is evil and Ilya is only a human being and numbers are stupid. He swears he didn’t use to be this bad at it, but sitting at the kitchen table in their apartment with his books spread out around him and his almost unreadable notes piled on top, makes him want to bash his head against the table top. Just to feel something other than annoyance.

Face-down in his books with a long groan leaving his lips is how Shane finds him, wandering out of his room as he hums slightly to himself. His footsteps come to a pause when he spots Ilya, then start heading his way. 

“You good?”

Ilya does not raise his face to look at him. “Does it look like I’m good, Hollander?” He huffs out a breath. “I should have never gone to university. I should have just declared draft when I was eighteen and stayed dumb forever.”

Shane laughs, a low, pleasant sound. “Is this Econ? We can take a look together.” When Ilya jerks his head up to frown at him, suspicious, Shane just rolls his eyes. “Don’t give me that face. I figured that I should do something back for you, since you’re always allowing me in your bed.” He tacks on a sharp, “Shut up!” when Ilya opens his mouth, probably recognising that Ilya’s going to say something crass. “Do you want my help or not?”

“Fine, fine,” grumbles Ilya, managing to bite down on a dramatic pout at the last second. Russians do not do that. “Okay, please help me.”

Between the two of them, they manage to actually get quite far. See, Ilya knows that he’s never going to be the smartest person in the room. He’s determined to do well at everything he does, but sometimes you just have to know your limitations. Plus, as a hockey player, he’s definitely killed some brain cells with all of the concussions he’s had so far. As they say: you win some, you lose some. But between that determination and Shane’s relatively good teaching, they make it pretty far  

“Thank you for helping me,” Ilya says, at the end. He feels marginally better about his chances at this exam now that they’ve gone through the material together, even if he probably won’t get a 100. He’d take a conservative bet on a pass.

Shane gives him a small smile, and suddenly Ilya realises what Svetlana means when she says he looks like a frog sometimes. Right now, Shane looks like a pleased cat, soft whiskers next to his nose and eyes blinking slowly. “All of the information was here,” he says, tapping his temple with one finger. “You just needed to find it.”

“Maybe, but you know me. I’m lazy, so.”

Huffing, Shane shakes his head. His gaze softens even further, so much that Ilya can barely stand to look at him, lest he says something weird. “I don’t know that side of you at all.”

Before he knows what he is doing, Ilya reaches out and covers Shane’s hand with his own. He squeezes gently. “Thank you. Really.” 

For a minute, Shane just looks down at their fingers overlapping; Ilya’s hands are broader and paler, his knuckles scarred, and tinged slightly reddish hue. In contrast, Shane’s skin is surprisingly soft, a warm golden colour. He clears his throat, his eyelashes flutter. “It is no problem at all.”

--

“Someone tells me that the Russian manwhore has settled down,” Svetlana announces, her face scrunched up in glee, the next time she meets up with Ilya. They’re at a table in the back of their favourite Russian restaurant, one of the few that actually does authentic dishes on this side of Montreal. He doesn’t ever miss Russia, not really, but he misses this: the flavours, the scents, the sounds of muted Russian coming from the kitchen.

“I have not settled down,” says Ilya immediately, puzzled. “You know I don’t do that kind of stuff.”

Western Christmas has come and gone; Shane had gone home, which is apparently just out to Ottawa, and Ilya had stayed behind. He’d pigged out on as much takeout pad thai and pizza as he wanted without Shane there to frown at him, judgingly, and played console games until early in the morning. Russian Christmas isn’t until early January, and by that point, the semester would slowly be starting up again. Not that there would have been any reason for Ilya to go back to Moscow, even if he would have had the time to do so. But he still wanted to celebrate something, and he knew that Svetlana probably felt the same, so he’d invited her to come out to have dinner with him.

Svetlana raises one of her perfectly done eyebrows at him. “Okay, genius. I know you don’t do that. But I texted Marley and he says that you haven’t really been going out anymore. And if you do—you’ve been blowing everyone off to go home early. Which is all very unlike you. So, what’s all of that about?”

“Why are you texting Marleau?” Ilya frowns at her. He doesn’t even question why she has his number; Svetlana simply has her fingers in many pies. And in other things.

“Because of reasons,” she says, breezy. “Now, don’t deflect, Ilyusha.”

Ilya thinks it through. It is true that he hasn’t really gone out lately. Which isn’t because he doesn’t like it anymore, but going out and being home late means that Shane won’t sleep well. Because he’ll never find his way into Ilya’s bed if Ilya isn’t there, like he is a most polite vampire who has to be invited in over and over again. And the idea of Shane not sleeping well, when there’s technically something that Ilya can do to help it, which only hinges on him being home on time . . . Often, it is not even a decision he has to make. And Shane always smiles at him, so small and grateful, when he sees Ilya come home. It makes it worth it in a weird way.

“Okay,” says Ilya, at last. “I’m going to tell you something, and you’re not allowed to interrupt me, and you’re not allowed to laugh at the end. Okay?”

She looks him up and down, slowly, then grins. “Okay.”

By the end of the story, exactly as Ilya had projected and exactly as he told her not to, Svetlana’s laughing so hard there’s actual tears beading at her lash line. Ilya just stares at her, unamused, his arms crossed in front of her chest, as he waits for her to calm down. 

“Oh my God, Ilyusha,” she says, wiping her hands across her cheeks. “Only you would get into a situation like that. Shit, this is like the funniest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“You don’t have to say it like that,” Ilya grumbles.

Smirking, Svetlana leans back in her chair. “Have you, like, realised that you’re in love with him? Or, at least, that you like him a lot? Because I know Ilya Rozanov, and he would not allow anyone to sleep in his bed if he didn’t like them. Remember what you said to me after we first saw him? ‘Gorgeous freckles, but probably a stick in the mud’?”

“Well, he is a stick in the mud!” says Ilya, with a huff. “Or he has one up his ass, or something!”

He knows he’s made a mistake when her gaze snaps to him, flint-sharp. A real smile breaks out on her face. “You did not deny that you like him,” she breathes.

Ilya slaps his hands across his face to hide the way his cheeks must be flushing a little bit—Russians do not do that. He gives her a sullen look. “I don’t—like him. He just has a pleasant face to look at. And he’s nice to me from time to time. Plus, he plays good hockey.”

“Shining praise, coming from you.” Svetlana flags down the little grandma running the floor and orders them both a double shot of vodka. They’ll probably need it. “Listen, Ilyushenka. The way I see it, you don’t hate Shane Hollander, or else you wouldn’t have suggested that whole scheme in the first place. I actually can’t believe that you were the one to suggest it to him. And Shane Hollander doesn’t hate you, because he wouldn’t be, like, sleepwalking into your bed if he did. Did you ever ask him what led to this happening?”

Their vodka is dropped off, ruthless efficiency as always at this place. Ilya immediately takes a long drink. “It’s never come up yet.”

“Okay, so ask him, maybe?” She gives him a long-suffering look, which is honestly fair. 

“I might,” he says, placing his glass back on the table and running his finger along the rim. “God, this is all too confusing. I thought I was handling it well?”

“You are handling it well,” Svetlana says, immediately. She gives him a placating smile when he looks at her, frowning. “Listen, liking someone has never been easy. For anyone. And you are in an uniquely interesting situation completely of your own making. So, all in all, you’re not doing terribly. You’re just an idiot.”

“Thanks, Sveta,” he says, pressing his lips together. “You know exactly how to put it, huh?”

Rolling her eyes, she flips him the finger. “What would you guys do without us women, honestly? You never would have figured anything out by yourself.”

He raises his vodka at her. “I’ll drink to that.”

--

Okay, now Ilya has been the perfect platonic bedhost. He could start charging rent for half of a twin bed with how often he finds Shane curled up on the other side of the mattress, already halfway asleep by the time Ilya even makes it to bed after spending twenty minutes in the shower. Hell, he’s the reason they have this arrangement in the first place—he could technically kick out Shane at any time and it would not be weird. They’re only continuing all of this out of the goodness of Ilya’s heart. Really, that’s all there is to it.

So why is he waking up in the middle of the night, one of Shane’s legs slung over his waist, to the man himself rutting up against Ilya’s side, little whimpers leaving his parted lips? What did he do to deserve this?

Fuck, this is—bad? Terrible? Completely incredible? Ilya manages to clear the last vestiges of sleep from his mind, blinking heavily. What is happening is doing incredible work shocking him into awareness. And as much as his own cock is beginning to stir to attention, very clearly on board with the situation.

Taking a deep breath, he reaches out and touches Shane’s shoulder. “Hollander?” It takes a little bit of determination, because Shane is determined to cling to sleep. Ilya cannot quite blame him, if he is being honest. It definitely feels like Shane is enjoying the current moment.

“Ilya . . .?” Shane mumbles, sleepy. His hips slow down but don’t still completely, still unconsciously chasing his pleasure.

Ilya’s breath stutters in his chest. Was that the first time that—? Somehow, that is what does it for him, makes him do something he should probably never start. But it’s too late now. “Do you, uh,” he says, in probably the most awkward manner he could possibly do this (and Svetlana would be laughing her ass off if she ever witnessed anything like this), “need help with—that?”

“Huh?” Shane manages. He finally manages to open his eyes fully, and then takes in their predicament. Ilya thinks he would’ve launched himself off the bed if it weren’t for the fact that his reflexes are still slow, probably due to his drowsiness and the comedown from what had seemed to be him heading towards his peak. His mouth pops open in shock, pink and slightly slick with drool. “What?”

Ilya takes a deep breath. Fuck it, he’s already committed. 

Shane’s eyes blow wide, his pupils visibly eclipsing his irises even in the near darkness. He swallows; Ilya can see the bob of his throat. Then he nods, his eyelashes sweeping as he blinks up at Ilya.

“I need your words,” says Ilya, the words just a breath of noise. And then: “Shane.” 

With a shudder, Shane keens. He slowly moves forward until his hips are pressed against Ilya’s side again, his dick a hot weight. It hasn’t flagged yet, Ilya thinks. “I want it,” he murmurs. “I want you to help me with this and—and make me feel good.” 

It clearly surprises him, when Ilya flips over onto his side so that he can slide their mouths together. He’s always believed in kissing your hookups, even if it’s just for a night. It doesn’t have to mean anything unless you want it to. Separation of church and state, or whatever. What’s immediately clear is that Shane isn’t the most experienced kisser. He’s probably kissed some people, but it must’ve been a while ago. Despite the fact that his lips are clumsy though, once he recovers from his shock, he’s clearly eager. And eagerness will get you further than skill.

Humming, Ilya brings his hand up so that he can cup Shane’s face, angle it slightly. Shane just goes wherever Ilya wants him to, sighing into his mouth, his lips eagerly parting to give Ilya access. He tastes minty and slightly musky, like the night he spent drooling against Ilya’s shoulder. The duvet slips down to their waists. Shane tentatively reaches out to skim his fingers along Ilya’s ribs, probably feeling Ilya’s lung contract underneath his touch.

Good fucking boy. Ilya couldn’t even stop himself from going forward with this even if he tried. He tilts his head back slightly, panting. A string of saliva connects their lips until Shane dazedly licks his lips. If Ilya hadn’t been hard before, he definitely is now.

“Remember.” His hand moves down at a snail’s pace, but Shane does not stop him. He does not even attempt to reach out, just watches with wide eyes and a stuttering breath. “Remember when you told me about the guys you heard? How you’d hear them scream through the walls. And you were so annoyed, weren’t you? ‘Cause I kept you up all night.” 

Shane gasps when Ilya’s fingers curl around his waistband, then pull down his sleep pants and boxers in one movement. There’s not that much space between them to move around, but they make it work anyway. Shane’s dick slaps against his abs when Ilya frees it, leaving a smear against his shirt where the cockhead is already drooling precome. He pushes Ilya away slightly so that he can ruck his shirt over his head. The freckles really are everywhere. Ilya stares at them for probably too long before he shakes himself, follows Shane’s lead. It is much better when they are both naked, body to body as they fit themselves together again.

Ilya presses his lips against Shane’s neck, grinning when he feels Shane’s pulse flutter underneath his tongue as he curls his fingers around Shane’s cock. “Tell me,” he says. “When you listened to me with those people, did you ever wish that was you? You must have been curious, hearing them.”

“I wasn’t—” Shane breaks off to gasp. “I wasn’t listening in.”

“Weren’t you?” Ilya purses his lips, then slowly drags his hand along Shane’s dick. There’s barely any pressure to it, just a slow, dry drag of skin against skin. “You know, it’s really not nice to lie to other people. Especially not when I’m being so nice to you now.”

Shane gasps. “You call this—nice?”

“Mm, am I not?” Ilya gathers some precome at the head and slicks up his hand with that. “You woke me up by rutting up against me like a needy puppy. And instead of kicking you out, I even decided to make you feel good. I would say that’s rather nice of me.” He quirks one eyebrow. “Unless you don’t want me to continue, shchenok.”

“Fuck,” says Shane, with feeling. “Fuck. I do, I do.”

“That’s what I thought.” Ilya takes great pleasure in seeing what kind of sounds he can coax from Shane’s parted lips. He’s responsive like a dream, and for once, there’s no second guessing what he is feeling. If he could, Ilya thinks he would live in this moment forever. Shane’s face is gorgeous, expressive, his eyebrows scrunching up and his cheeks blazing red. Somehow, it paints those gorgeous freckles starker against his skin. Ilya can hardly be blamed for tilting down so that he can press his mouth against the little spring kisses.

Time slips and slides. Ilya does not know how long he’s moving his fist up and down Shane’s dick, but he occupies himself by kissing Shane. His own arousal is almost an afterthought. Every now and then, his hips kick forward when Shane does something with his tongue, clearly a fast learner, but he’s mostly focused on Shane. It is not hard for Shane to occupy his whole mind.

When Shane’s whimpers start pitching up, Ilya knows what is going to happen. “Are you going to come for me, Hollander?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Shane nods against the side of Ilya’s face. His lips are swollen and his eyes blown wide, tracing across Ilya’s expression like there’s nothing he wants to miss. When Ilya tightens his hand, pressing a kiss against the side of his neck, he seizes up. A hoarse yell leaves his lips as he reaches his orgasm, come splattering all across his own stomach and even up to his ribcage. 

He looks so good. Ilya wishes he had been able to take a photo of this moment. He’ll just have to do with his memories.

It takes Shane a little while to come back to himself, sighing and whimpering through the pleasure as he oozes into Ilya’s side. As he does, Ilya does not know how fast he needs to get a hand around himself, a loud grunt leaving his mouth before he can stop himself.

Shane’s gaze zeroes in on the movement. With a whine, he bats Ilya’s hand away. Before Ilya can huff something, amused by the fact that Shane won’t allow him to get off when he just brought Shane to a toe-curling orgasm, Shane dives forward so that he can position himself between Ilya’s legs. Ilya curses in Russian as Shane’s mouth pops open, movements still languid as his orgasm still clearly weighs his limbs. But Shane doesn’t let that stop him.

Honest to God, Ilya has received a lot of blowjobs. Good blowjobs, bad blowjobs, incredible blowjobs. With regards to technique or skills, Shane would not even make top ten, top twenty. He’s clearly inexperienced.

But fuck, if it doesn’t do something for Ilya. Because Shane is eager. He wants this like Ilya wants it—maybe not in the same way, but he must feel the same need behind it all. When he swallows Ilya down, it is not the slick glide of an expert, but with the wet, hot heat of someone who is determined  to prove themselves. Ilya sees stars when Shane hollows his cheeks, his tongue clumsily exploring the vein running along the bottom of Ilya’s cock. He pulls back to press his lips to Ilya’s tip, hand coming up to curl around the base. 

“Blyat,” says Ilya, mouth dry. “Shane Hollander, you goddamn heathen.”

A pleased grin curls around Shane’s lips. Precome blurts from the head of Ilya’s cock, dripping down Shane’s mouth and chin. “You like it?”

Ilya’s hip jump without his permission. “What do you think?”

“Nice to hear it anyway.” Shane dives back down before Ilya can give another retort, clearly emboldened by the sounds of pleasure that Ilya could not even bite down on if he wanted to. His mouth grows more courageous, his hands exploratory but without fear as they run up the inside of Ilya’s leg and along his balls. 

Heat shivers deep inside Ilya’s stomach, frissons of pleasure running up his spine. One hand cups Shane’s face, thumb pressing against the stretched corner of his mouth; the other one curls into his hair, not pulling or pushing but holding. Shane allows it with a slow blink of his eyes, drool pooling along his bottom lip as he sucks Ilya down. Despite the fact that he clearly hasn’t given many blowjobs before, there’s no hint of teeth, nothing sharp or painful, like he is determined to prove himself. Like Ilya wouldn’t have him in any way, in any shape. 

His orgasm both surprises him and not. At the last moment, he has time to pull Shane away, even if Shane struggles against him with a whine, his tongue lolling past his lips as he tries to chase Ilya’s dick. Which, while flattering, Shane would not be able to handle all of it right now, as pent up as Ilya was, that’s one thing he is certain about. Ilya manages to catch most of it in the palm of his hand, and Shane tongues at his fingers, wide-eyed and curious. 

God, what a devil. What a perfect, beautiful vixen.

“Wow,” says Shane, collapsing next to Ilya. “That was—huh.”

“Everything you expected when you were pressing your ear against the wall trying to listen in?” Ilya waggles his eyebrows at Shane, rejoices in the door look he gets in return.

Shane reaches out, blindly, to whack Ilya on the chest. His bare palm makes contact with Ilya’s chest with a satisfying noise, and even he seems surprised at the sound of it. His mouth pops open around a gasp. “Oh!” he squeaks. “Shit.”

With a roll of his eyes, Ilya gathers Shane against his side. He isn’t even thinking about it as he presses a kiss to the top of Shane’s head, his eyes already slipping closed, shoulders shaking up and down with barely concealed giggles. “Sleep, Shane,” he murmurs, waiting for Shane to relax into his side, into the bed.

They do. 

--

“You snore,” Shane says, in the morning, turning baleful eyes on Ilya. He’s sleep-rumpled and ruffled, the side of his face pressed against the pillow. His shoulder is bare and golden, corded muscles leading to the slope of his neck. Below his ear, a mottled bruise blooms in the shape of Ilya’s mouth. A healthy flush sits below his eyes, still swollen from sleep, and above that the constellations of his freckles.

Bleary, Ilya blinks at him. “I do not snore,” he says, at last. If he sounds petulant, he does not care.

Shane looks personally affronted by the denial. “I know what I heard,” he says, rolling over so that he can prop his knees behind himself. Sitting up above Ilya, with the light pouring through the gap between the curtains behind him, he looks a little bit like an old god. “You sounded like this—” He makes sounds through his nose, snorting and huffing, dramatic like he is playing a part.

“Ah,” says Ilya, a bit dumb. He licks his lips. “Like grizzly bear.” He bares his teeth. “It would make sense. I am Russian, after all.”

“Grizzly bear?” Shane laughs, and the force of it tilts his head back, scrunches up his eyes. “More like a little piggy. Oink oink.” 

Indignity rears his head. Ilya rolls onto his side so that he can pin Shane to the bed with one hand gathering both of his wrists. “That was an adorable baby insult, Shane Hollander,” he says. “I’m almost proud of you. Maybe you should take this to the ice, hm?”

“Fuck you.” Shane struggles against Ilya’s grip, but he’s clearly not putting all of his weight behind it. In a fight, Ilya would probably win, but they’d be fairly evenly matched if Shane really wanted to commit. “I can play well without having to bait the other team into making mistakes. I would argue that makes me a better player; I’m not dependent on the other person messing up.”

Ilya grins. “But where’s the fun in that?” Abruptly, he realises the position they’ve put themselves in: Ilya half-crouched over Shane, their bodies all but pressed together, their faces only a whisper apart. He rears back, a bit confused at the immediate ache in his chest, and looks away. “We should probably . . . get some breakfast.” He is not blushing. Russians do not do that.

“Yes, yes,” says Shane, but even from the corner of his eyes, Ilya can see that his gaze is bright.

--

They play hockey; they lose. But they’re also college-aged kids—a loss is still a reason to go out and have a drink. Soothe the hurt with a drink or two or seven. Ilya sticks to beer, would even go as far to say that he’s nursing his second glass after throwing back his first. The Woodpecker is stuffed to the brim with college-aged kids and just above, which usually means easy pickings. Ilya had already spotted Eleanore, dancing with some friends, and they’d made eye contact across the room. If nothing else popped up, maybe they could link up again, but Ilya isn’t much of a repeater and would love to keep up that streak.

Simple, right?

Ilya has been feeling weird around Shane lately, his body not his own. His hands are always trying to reach out for him, his lips tingling as if they are aching for something Ilya refuses to name, his heart stuttering messily in his chest. Shane is Shane—skittish and bitchy and gorgeous. Always dancing just out of reach, but watching Ilya with those dark eyes of his. As if there’s something Ilya’s supposed to know just by meeting eyes.

To nobody’s surprise, Shane had opted out of coming. He’ll probably sit at home reviewing tapes, see how he can be better next time (because it is not a question of if) and then go to bed. His own bed. Because he never comes to Ilya’s room alone, no matter how often Ilya has told him that it’s fine. 

Plus, there’s a bit of a selfish desire there as well. What would it feel like to come home to Shane already in his bed? Ilya would not need to go anywhere else, if that was the case.

An embarrassing admission. There’s a reason why Ilya hasn’t told anyone that truth, why he’s barely admitted it to himself. Even now, in the dim bar, teammates and passersby pressing up against all sides of him, just thinking about it brings an annoyed flush to his cheeks. Like he’s somehow denouncing a part of himself by being so goddamn taken by Shane fucking Hollander. 

As if Shane wouldn’t be a dream to have. 

He needs to get out of his head before he goes crazy. The easiest way would be to pick someone up and get it out of his system that way. Everyone he finds in the crowd, though, is wrong: too short, too tall, shoulders too narrow, eyes too soft.

He doesn’t even know why he’s feeling this way. Or he does—and he just refuses to name it. Everything is much easier when you don’t give it a name.

In the end, he goes home alone. The house is silent when he gets back, silent and dark. It isn’t too late yet, but he isn’t surprised that Shane has gone to bed already. He’s a little grandpa like that, early to go to sleep and with those horrible, delicious reading glasses of his. Ilya is so fond of him that it almost makes him sick to his stomach.

Annoyed at himself, he goes to take a shower. With the hot water sluicing down his shoulders and the back of his head, he wraps a hand around himself. He thinks of Shane, sweet and pliant against him, those pleading sounds falling from his lips. How gorgeous he looked with his lips wrapped around Ilya’s dick, but also how his face looked when he laughed at Ilya in the morning. It doesn’t take long for him to come, which doesn’t surprise him, but the force of it does, his come spraying against the wall. He shudders through the aftershocks, then angles the shower so that he washes away the evidence of his pleasure.

Despite the cigarette he smokes out on the balcony, shivering against the cold wind, it takes him a long time to fall asleep afterwards.

--

Ilya’s been on his best behaviour for the last few weeks, he swears. Coming home early, trying to make conversation, changing his sheets on his bed nearly every third day to keep them fresh. But Shane sleeps by himself.

For as much as he tries, he still can’t make the words cross his lips. Won’t you come to my bed, Shane Hollander? It’s much better when you’re there. Maybe he has always been a coward. But he cannot ask, and so Shane goes to his own bed. And Ilya goes to his own bed and stares at the ceiling.

It is clearly affecting Shane—affecting the both of them. Apparently, Ilya had also grown used to someone lying next to him. The bed feels too big, the sheets too cold. Sometimes, his hands reach out, only to find nobody there. He sleeps, as easily as he’s ever done, but it doesn’t feel right. An incompletion that he does not know how to broach, a chasm that seems impossible to cross, this tiredness in Shane’s gaze.

Tonight, Ilya manages to bump into him in front of their bedrooms. Marleau had tried to invite him out to a party—there’s always a party somewhere—but he hadn’t felt up to it. Hasn’t felt up to it in a while. Shane already has one foot inside the door, but when he spots Ilya turn the corner, he pauses, a deer in the headlights. Ilya’s relieved that Shane allows him to draw closer, that he doesn’t immediately bolt.

“Shane, uhm.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, but he wishes he could swallow them back into his mouth. Too late.

Questioningly, the other boy glances at him. He doesn’t say anything, just waits.

“You will be . . . okay?” Ilya cannot help but ask, probably sounding a bit pathetic. “By yourself?”

Shane gives him a long look. His gaze is unreadable, his glasses slip down the bridge of his nose. Ilya is hit with the horrible realisation that he’s never seen anyone as beautiful as this. “I’m fine,” Shane says, at last, dismissing him. It would’ve sounded cold, if his voice didn’t waver somewhere in the middle of those two words. “Good night, Ilya.”

Ilya. Smile shaky and probably obviously half-baked even to Shane, Ilya nods his head. “Good night, Shane.”

--

Sveta: Come over for dinner soon?

Ilyusha: Why?

Sveta: A friend cannot miss a friend?

Ilyusha: You are not sappy enough for this.

Sveta: >:(

Ilyusha: But fine, I will come.
Ilyusha: Just text me the details.

Sveta: You are too easy.
Sveta: See you soon ;)

Svetlana’s apartment is extremely fancy, and Ilya has, as of yet, not taken enough advantage of this fact. He hasn’t really enjoyed the extensive entertainment system or luxuriated in the massive bathtub yet. Today, too, when he lets himself into the place, he is annoyed that he is probably just here to talk to Svetlana. Some kind of intervention? Ilya has known her for long enough now that that is a high possibility. She knows him well, too.

Will she bring up Shane? It is not completely out of the picture. Will Ilya bring him up? If she just stares at him with those damn piercing eyes of hers, he probably will. He’ll break immediately, because the fucking words are building up in the hollow of his throat and they’ll surely spill out if he does as much as open his mouth to say hello.

He kicks off his shoes at the door and then pushes further into the apartment. Something smells delicious, warm spices and broth, but Svetlana’s never been much of a cook so she probably ordered in. Not that Ilya’s complaining about good food.

“There you are!” Svetlana thrills when she sees him, and wraps him up in a hug. She smells like cigarettes and vanilla. It would be a disgusting combination on anyone else, but Svetlana isn’t anyone else. Ilya has long given up on understanding girls. They have some kind of magic that makes them untouchable by things that plague the common college-aged boy, like making bad decisions or having bad skin. 

Shane has great skin, though. Fuck. 

Ilya does not manage to hug back fast enough, caught up in his thoughts, and nothing slips past Svetlana. She pulls back, blinks at him. “Something the matter?”

“I think I like Shane,” says Ilya, blankly. 

The words come out before he can stop them, and he just ends up blinking at Svetlana, like a deer in the headlights of a trap of his own making. They hadn’t even made it to the couch before he was spilling his guts.

She looks at him and then laughs, throwing her head back. “Do you want me to tell you I told you so now, or should I save it for later?”

“Oh fuck you,” Ilya manages to force out, immediately, but relief lowers his shoulders. And then he laughs as well, the sound punched out of him, running his hands through his curls. “Fuck, man, you couldn’t have told me?” 

“Why would I tell you that you like Shane?” She rolls her eyes, but it’s a fond thing, familiar. “God, Ilyushenka, you know how much I’ve had to hear you talk about him. Oh, haha, Hollander this. Hollander that. Don’t you know how cute Shane is? If you could hear yourself talk, you would have known this ages ago. I mean, fuck’s sake, he shares your bed. What did you say again? You don’t do that.”

Ilya groans and tips his head back, pushes her so that they both stumble in the direction of the living room. Svetlana’s couch is big enough for the both of them to stretch out across it, but they curl up together, and Svetlana’s eyes are clearly probing. He huffs. “What?”

“Well?”

He raises his eyebrows, just to be annoying. “Well, what?”

Svetlana hits him over the shoulder, a surprising amount of strength behind it. “Don’t be fucking obtuse. Tell me about him. Your Shane.”

“What does it get me?” 

Unimpressed, she flips him the finger. “I won’t kick you out immediately. And if you give me juicy stuff, I might even decide to feed you.” 

She was always going to feed him, so Ilya isn’t too worried, but. But the truth is that he’s been wanting to talk about Shane to someone. The guys from the hockey team are a definite no, just because he doesn’t want them to have weird ideas about the whole thing—even if he thinks they might be . . . understanding? Supportive? Still, he won’t do it without Shane. And his friends are not the type of people who would be receptive to heart-to-heart talks. He’ll always have Svetlana, though. 

It takes a while to sort through his thoughts. “He is—Shane is special. First of all, he’s so annoying. On my ass about smoking, and being noisy, and hockey all of the time. He’s always fucking blending things at seven in the morning. Who even does that? Fuck. And he always nags me, about hockey or smoking or partying.”

“Stuff you don’t take from me,” Svetlana laughs.

He sends her a look through narrowed eyes. “I don’t take it from him either.”

“The fuck you don’t!” She looks way too amused right now.

“Anyway.” He shakes his head, but he has to bite down on his bottom lip so that he doesn’t smile too widely. “Obviously, he’s really hot, but there’s more to it. When he smiles at me, I nearly go crazy. And when he’s annoyed, it makes me want to roll over, or something crazy. He gets so passionate and it’s so fun to draw a reaction out of him.” Russian makes him honest, clearly. “And when he sleeps in my bed . . . It’s like I relax as well. I thought I was doing it for him, and so that he wouldn’t wake me up in the middle of the night, but it might be for me as well. I want to spend all of my nights like that.”

For a moment, she just looks at him, a range of expressions cycling across her face. In the end, she manages to smooth it back into something vaguely placating. Before she says anything, though, she gets up from the couch and disappears into the kitchen. Ilya hears her putter around, hears the whir of the induction stove. A few minutes later, she reappears with two bowls full of steaming bowls of ukha, of which she wordlessly hands one to Ilya. 

“Thanks.” He warms his hands on the bowl, breathes in the steam and the smell. It’s great soup, that’s clear, all clear broth and vegetables and fish. The type of comfort food he could really use right now. Svetlana somehow always knows just how to help him.  

“So,” she says, after a long silence in which they just spoon food from their bowls into their mouths. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Do about what?” Even though he probably knows what she is aiming at, he still wants to hear her say it out loud. Make it tangible that way.

Annoyed, she pinches him in the side, and he nearly drops his bowl down his front. He sends her an affronted look, but she doesn’t even flinch. “About this whole Shane Hollander situation, of course. You like him. You want to date Shane Hollander. What are you going to do about that?”

He stares at her. “You think I could get that far.”

“Oh, honey.” She smiles at him, one part devious, one part amused. “You are Ilya Rozanov. When you put your mind to it, what can’t you do?” She reaches over and pats him on the thigh. “Come on. Let’s go get you your man.”

Ilya puts up his hand, shaking his head. “How do you even know that he likes me as well?”

She clicks her tongue. “Because everyone who spends a little time with you falls in love with you, you damn asshole. And because I’ve seen the way he looks at you during your matches, all yearning eyes. Geeze, you should be happy that you have the help of an incredible woman here. Neither of you would have figured any of this out by yourself.”

At those words, he just laughs, tipping back his head. She might be very right. “Okay, then. What do you suggest I do?”

--

Step one: Get Shane back in bed with you. To sleep, obviously. Easier said than done. 

Fuck, if you asked Ilya half a year ago, he’d tell you that he wouldn’t mind it if Shane fucked off a little more. He was always at the apartment, always in Ilya’s space, always staring at him with those big, disapproving eyes. Ilya just wishes for a minute to breathe without Shane close by, hovering, an annoyed pout on those pink, kissable lips.

But now that he actually needs the man, he’s just so slippery. Maybe at the library or the smoothie shop on campus he seems to prefer or at any of his friends' houses—Ilya knows of a handful people that Shane reasonably would enjoy spending more than two hours around—or wherever he goes to hide. It doesn’t help that Ilya mostly has afternoon and evening classes, and Shane is a heathen who prefers to be up at unreasonable times. Apart from their nights spent one hallway apart, their lives move on different schedules. 

Tonight, for once, Ilya manages to make it back to the apartment at a reasonable time and gets lucky. Shane is in the kitchen and seems surprised to see Ilya burst through the door, panting slightly, his backpack slung over his shoulder. And then Shane looks away again, his throat bobbing, eyebrows lowering. 

Whatever, if Shane wants to throw a hissy fit, that is his prerogative. Ilya just needed to know he was actually here so that he could herd him where he needed the man to be. His bed, please and thank you. For totally platonic things—for now, at least.

They do the silent dance that has become very familiar to Ilya by now, moving around each other like they are strangers inhabiting the same space. He badly wants to reach out and break the fragile peace, but moving too fast would send Shane retreating imminently, and Ilya needs him to be reasonable to carry out this first step. And talking to him, if he can do anything about it.

By nightfall, Shane starts going through the motions of his bedtime ritual. He is very careful with the steps of it, meditation and a shower and then his skincare—Ilya has seen the various pots and bottles—then heads off to his room. Between those two last parts, Ilya needs to interfere. 

Fate is smiling upon him kindly. He manages to time it so that he is in the hallway just as Shane exits the bathroom, his hair curling at the neck, and stops in front of Shane’s door. Like this, Shane can’t get into his room unless he bodily moves Ilya to the side. Or, as Ilya hopes is going to happen, unless he talks to Ilya first.

“What is this.” Shane looks less than pleased. “Get out of my way, Rozanov.”

Ilya clicks his tongue. “No.”

“No?” Never before, Ilya has seen someone fly into rage as quickly over one word. Anger splashes across Shane’s face in red splotches, his eyes narrowing into flint. “What the fuck does that mean? Just let me in my room.” 

He reaches around Ilya to grab the handle, but as he does, Ilya quickly wraps his fingers around Shane’s arm, stopping him in his tracks. He presses his thumb against the inside of Shane’s wrist, feeling the pulse of his blood underneath the pad of his finger. 

“Shane,” says Ilya, softly. 

The call of his name is enough to get Shane to stop in his tracks and stare up at him. Confusion and anger war in his gaze. He takes a deep breath, eyelashes fluttering. “What do you want, Ilya?” He sounds tired, more than anything.

Ilya takes a deep breath. “Sleep in my room again, Shane.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Shane is already shaking his head. “You know that’s not a good idea.”

“It’s never been a good idea,” says Ilya. “That hasn’t stopped us before, either."

A stand-off. Ilya wonders who is going to bend first. It might be him, this time.

“Why?” Shane says, at last. He looks frustrated and something else, something Ilya cannot place. “Why does it matter to you so much?”

“You are miserable, Shane.” The words burst out of Ilya before he can stop them. I am miserable too, you idiotic, beautiful boy. He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Don’t be so damn stubborn. You’re clearly not sleeping well again. Won’t you just take what you want for once?”

Shane draws himself to his full height, his eyes narrowing. He’s only an inch shorter than Ilya, his shoulders slightly narrower, but at this moment, the difference narrows to something negligible. Time suspends as Shane only looks at him, a muscle in his jaw working as he clenches his teeth together. He clearly realises that there’s something Ilya is not telling him. “Fine,” he says, at last, spitting out the word. “Now let me in my room.” 

Before Ilya does so, he catches Shane's gaze and holds it. “If you don’t show up and lock yourself in here, I’m going to stand knocking outside your door until you come out.”

“You are so fucking annoying.” To what is clearly both of their surprises, Shane sounds fonder than Ilya thought he would. Shane takes a step back, clears his throat. When he looks back at Ilya from where his gaze had jumped to his feet, unsteady determination sparks deep in his irises. “I won’t run. Just let me do my thing first.”

Most of his bedtime routine has concluded, but Ilya does not point that out. He doesn’t think Shane would appreciate it, is all. So, he just retreats to his own room, showers, and dresses in comfortable clothing. He knows Shane likes his chest, has seen his wandering eyes land somewhere below his collarbones before, but he thinks that Shane won’t quite appreciate that sight right now. Firm boundaries, he tells himself. Don’t chase him now that you finally have what you want.

It must be an hour after their conversation that Shane finally lets himself in Ilya’s room. He has his pillow tucked underneath his arm, and the familiarity of the scene makes Ilya want to sit up and tug him closer. He doesn’t do any of that, though. He just watches as Shane carefully lifts the cover, puts the other pillow away, and then places his own down. He presses his hand into the middle of the fabric, smoothing it out slightly, and then lies down. Always so careful with this part. Tonight, he isn’t wearing his glasses, which is a shame, hasn’t brought anything else but his pillow and his phone. 

“I’m setting an alarm,” he announces to Ilya, not even bothering to look at the other boy over his shoulder. Such a stubborn little thing. 

Unable to help himself, Ilya smiles. They have an afternoon game the following day, which is part of the reason Ilya knew that Shane had said yes in the first place—he needs his sleep to play good hockey, and they both are aware of it—so there is no morning practice. No reason to wake up early. Shane is probably doing this to fuck with him in his very Shane-way. “I know, Shane.”

He gives Shane his space as he putters around on his phone, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. Neither of them have bothered to close the blinds, he realises, but Shane’s alarm will probably wake them way before the sun can rise. 

“Good night,” Ilya whispers into the space between them. 

Shane does not reply with words, but he does let out a hum that sounds like agreement. His breathing is already slowing, lengthening. 

When Ilya dares to roll over onto his side so that he can look at the other. Shane’s eyes have already fluttered closed, and if he is not asleep yet, he is a very good actor. Ilya reaches out, carefully, and traces Shane’s cheekbone with the tips of his fingers. He might imagine it, but it feels like Shane presses into the touch ever so slightly. It can just be wishful thinking.

It takes him a surprising long time to fall asleep, but that might just be due to the fact that he can’t stop staring at Shane. When he sleeps, he dreams pleasantly.

--

Step two: Play damn good hockey. This one is easier.

With the semester slowly drawing to a close, so is the hockey season. The Foxes are doing well in the rankings, so every match counts, every win is important. To nobody’s surprise—at least not Ilya’s—this clearly drives Shane up the wall. He’s snappy and always stomps around the apartment like he has something heavy coiled up in his chest, but at least he sleeps in Ilya’s bed again from time to time. Even if he mostly likes to pretend that Ilya does not exist for the moments leading up to them falling asleep, he manages to stick to his side of the bed for maybe twenty percent of the time. Multiple times, Ilya had woken in the middle of the night with his nose buried in Shane’s hair. 

But anyway—hockey. Important, as well. 

Today’s a match against one of their chief rival schools. Even before he gets to the stadium, Ilya knows the stands will be packed. With how well the team has been doing, and how high the stakes are right now, it will promise to be an important match. Coach Wiebe calmly chews them out in the locker room beforehand, and then Boodram gives a rousing speech. By the end of it, as they filter onto the ice, Ilya feels pumped up. They will crush this. 

As he finishes his warmups, he automatically finds Shane near the edge of the rink, clutching the boards with one hand and looking vaguely unsteady. Before Ilya can talk himself out of it, he skates to a stop next to the other boy. “You aren’t worried, are you?”

Shane does not turn to him. “I’m not in the mood, Rozanov.”

“Then make the mood for it,” says Ilya, even if he’s pretty sure those words don’t make sense. From Shane’s reaction, he clearly had not expected Ilya to call him out as crudely as that. “Come on, man. What’s got you so nervous?”

“I’m not nervous,” Shane snaps, immediately, then cowers when Ilya gives him an unimpressed look. “I just don’t want to let the team down. I want to do well.”

“You couldn’t even let the team down if you tried.” Ilya bumps his shoulder into Shane’s. “You got this. You are Shane Hollander. Let’s show these clowns what we got.”

For a moment, it looks like Shane is going to ignore him or tell him to fuck off. But then he ducks his head, the reddening of his cheeks obvious even below his visor. “Yes,” he says, at last. “Let’s make it so that they don’t even stand a chance.” 

With a grin, Ilya knocks their helmets together, placing his gloved hand on top of Shane’s helmet so that he can shake his head around a little bit. “Fighting words, Hollander. We’ll fuck them up.”

“Ilya!” laughs Shane. The use of Ilya’s first name zips heat up Ilya’s spine. Shane seems to realise what he has said at the exact same time as Ilya does, his spine straightening. But he does not take the words back, just gives Ilya a small smile. The tightness around his eyes has not eased completely, but the hard line of his shoulders has relaxed some. Ilya will take what he can get.

He skates to the wing-position as Shane takes the middle for the face-off. He needs to be the best person he can be for himself and for Shane. Like this, it is almost easy.

They win 3-1.

--

Step three: Do as Ilya Rozanov does best. 

They celebrate their win in the locker room afterwards, but that’s clearly not enough for most of the guys present. It’s too early to go out right now, but that doesn’t mean that they can’t make plans for later. Ilya already knows that half of the guys present will be puking up their guts by the end of the night, but a mood like this deserves a celebration. 

“Ey Hollander!” says Boodram, startling Shane, who had clearly been trying to become one with his locker, most luckily the one next to Ilya’s. “You’re coming as well, right?” 

Shane is clearly hesitating, his mouth opening and closing.

“You have to come,” Ilya says, seriously, eagerly latching onto the opening that is afforded him. “It’s a new rule, actually. If you make incredible goal, you have to come out with us afterwards. At least so you can mooch off the other guys and have them buy drinks for you. Or just have them buy you stuff and give it to me. 

Barrett flips Ilya the finger. 

Hayes hoots and slaps Shane on the shoulder. “The other kid is right, kid.” Grinning, he looks at Ilya. “The two of you live together, right? You make sure he comes out with you. We’ll treat you well.” He gives Shane a wide, trustworthy smile.

Between that and the rest of the guys watching them curiously, Shane recognises a losing battle. His shoulders lower, defeated. “Fine,” he says, and when the other guys whoop, adds: “But just for one drink.”

Ilya slings one arm over Shane’s shoulder. “Or two or three,” he says, squeezing him gently. “Don’t worry, Hollander. I will take care of you. Make sure nothing bad happens.” 

Smiling slightly, Shane looks at him from the corner of his eye. “I’m not sure you have the best intentions with me either, Rozanov,” he says, pointedly. Then he sighs. “Don’t already make me regret this.”

“I would never,” says Ilya. He lowers his arm so that he can pat Shane on the side of his waist. “Come on, let’s have dinner at home, then we’ll get ready. We’ll show you how hockey boys party.” 

“This is a terrible idea.” But Ilya knows that Shane is going to go along with it anyway.

--

Despite Shane’s protests that they can take the subway to the bar, Ilya orders them an Uber. This also has to do with the fact that he is wearing the leather jacket that he knows makes him look good, stretches across his shoulders well, but that it is outside technically too cold to be wearing this. From the way Shane’s eyes keep wandering over, not so innocently, Ilya knows that Shane does not mind the outfit either. 

Shane looks good, too, which shouldn’t surprise Ilya—but maybe he just hadn’t thought that Shane could know how to dress for going out. He’s in a tight shirt that shows off his chest, a suede jacket thrown on top. His tight jeans hug his ass quite generously. When Ilya compliments him, he blushes and turns his face away. “Rose helped,” he admits. 

Ilya whistles. “Rose Landry, hm? A good friend to have.”

“Shut up.” Shane punches him in the arm, but it’s a friendly gesture, and he’s smiling as they make their way downstairs. 

It doesn’t take long for the Uber to arrive. On the drive over to the bar, Shane keeps playing with his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth just to chew on it, then pulling it back out with his fingers. Ilya recognises that he is probably pretty nervous at the moment, but this is really distracting for him. He leans over so that he can place a hand on Shane’s thigh, squeezing it gently.

“Hey,” he says. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. And the guys like you. They just want you to have some fun as well.”

Shane swallows and looks down at Ilya’s hand. “I—I know. Thank you.”

“And if you’re not having fun,” says Ilya, tilting back his head with a grin. “You find me. And I’ll show you fun.”

“I’m not sure we have the same ideas of fun.” Shane snorts.

Ilya waggles his eyebrows at him. “You don’t know until you try, hm?”

The car spits them out next to The Woodpecker, and Ilya thanks the driver, then ushers Shane towards the bar before Shane can change his mind. On Saturdays, part of the floor is cleared out to make space for dancing, though the music is still pretty chill by the time they make it inside. It’ll sweep up into something more exciting later on.

For now, Ilya hustles Shane towards the bar, where he can already see a cluster of the other guys on the hockey team. They are welcomed with big grins and excited hollers, many of the guys clapping Shane on the back and shoulders. It’s clear that Shane doesn’t quite know with all of the attention, though he seems to be preening at the fact that the guys actually seem to want him to be there, and Ilya watches for a second, something fond bubbling in his chest, then goes to rescue Shane and tugs him to the side.

“Drink first,” says Ilya, waving the bartender over. He can see that Shane is going to complain, his mouth dropping open on an argument, so he holds up his hand. “You promised at least one drink, didn’t you? You can’t back out now.” 

“Fine.” Shane’s top lip curls slightly, peeved, but he allows Ilya to order them both a shot of vodka. As soon as Shane throws the shot back, his throat working, he scrunches up his face. “Fuck, that’s horrible.”

“Ow, Hollander.” Ilya presses his palm across his chest, above where his heart is. It’s not the best vodka he’s ever tasted either, but still— “You wound my Russian soul.”

Shane sends him a look from the corner of his eye, a teasing smile curling around the corners of his mouth. “You have a soul, Rozanov?” he jokes. 

“Just for that, you have to dance with me now. Because you’re so terrible to me.” Ilya curls his fingers around Shane’s wrist, though lightly so, giving Shane space to back away. When Shane doesn’t, just looks at the place where they touch with lightly pinkening cheeks, Ilya drags him along. The dance floor has grown busier since they entered, the music changed to something a lot more suited for dancing. 

It quite quickly becomes clear that Shane doesn’t . . . really know how to dance. He mostly knows how to sway in place a little bit awkwardly. But Ilya wants to dance, and he isn’t going to let Shane escape now, not when he only just has him.

So he grabs Shane by the waist. For a brief second, Shane freezes, his body clearly unsure what to do with the various sensory inputs. And then Ilya squeezes, not harsh but sharp, and he sags forward slightly, right into Ilya’s space. Like this, somehow, it is easier to dance, their bodies rolling and moving together. Shane is everywhere, enticingly so, and he seems to loosen up underneath Ilya’s touch. If Ilya dared to be so bold, he’d almost say that Shane is enjoying himself at the moment.

“Do you like this?” Ilya asks, having to shout to be heard over the music. “Are you having fun, Shane?”

It is Shane who kisses him, this time. He doesn’t say anything but reaches up, cups Ilya’s cheek with his free hand, and slides their lips together. Ilya’s heart stutters in his chest, but kissing back comes like a second nature, something he doesn’t even have to think about. He’s only kissed Shane once before this, but it already feels familiar. Feels like his body was made to hold Shane, kiss him like this.

And then Shane is yanking himself away, taking a step back. His chest is heaving with his panting breaths, his lips swollen from their kiss. There’s something erratic about his movements, a panic in his eyes. This is not how it’s supposed to be. 

Ilya feels the loss like a physical thing. He frowns, his hand reaching out and meeting the empty air. “Shane—”

“Sorry,” says Shane. He is shaking his head. “Just. I can’t do this now. I want to go home.”

“Okay,” says Ilya, softly. “Okay, let’s go then.”

“No, you don’t have to go with me.” Shane is already turning away, his shoulder cold and creating an almost unbroachable distance between them. “You’re clearly having fun here, Ilya. You don’t have to leave now. I’m fine.”

“Shane.” Ilya reaches forward and grabs Shane’s hand before he can slip away, squeezing gently. His lips still tingle, a phantom touch. “You’re clearly not fine. Let me at least take you home. Make sure that you’re safe.”

Slowly, so slowly, Shane turns back to him. The strobe lights cascade down on him, colouring him pink-red-blue. Despite that, his eyes are still two dark pools, searching as he looks at Ilya. For a moment, they just stare at each other, time suspended. “Fine,” Shane says at last, exhaling. “Fine, then.”

--

Step four (and this one is important): Get your head out of your ass, and talk to him. Hope he talks back. You have to try.

By the time that they make it back home in a flagged-down cab, Shane has burned out whatever nervous energy he’d been holding before. When Ilya looks over at him, he looks tired. He’s worrying his lip between his teeth again, but this time Ilya worries he’ll actually break the skin. 

They silently take the elevator up to their apartment. Shane holds tension in his shoulders again. Ilya desperately wants to reach out and smooth his hand along the tight muscles, but he feels like Shane won’t be quite as receptive to that right now. He holds his keycard in front of the door so that they can let themselves in, though Shane is very careful not to touch Ilya. Even the centimetres between them feel like miles.

As soon as they make it into the hallway, their shoes deposited near the door, Ilya can feel Shane pull away. Worry rears its head, and with it, something else: determination. He says: “I have a very empty half of my bed tonight.” 

It is silent. Shane freezes with his hand on the handle of his own door. Never in his life did Ilya wish harder that he was able to know what someone else was thinking without them having to say it. Even the twitches of Shane’s muscles and the expressions crossing his face reveal nothing of what is clearly raging behind his eyes. His hand moves on the door handle, slowly pushing it down, even when he clearly seems to be fighting with himself.

“Talk to me, Shane. Don’t run away.” Ilya is pleading, but he can’t bring himself to care. He is so close, and he’s not about to let this opportunity slip away from him. 

Shane grits his teeth, his face screwed up. He releases the door to turn to Ilya, his gaze blazing. There is the passion that Ilya has found himself to be so fond of, over the last few months. “What do you want me to say?” 

“Anything!” Ilya says, opening his arms in what he hopes is an inviting gesture. “Everything! Whatever you want to say, Shane. I want to hear it.”

“I—can’t do this with you, Ilya,” says Shane, all at once, frustrated. “I can’t be what you want. I can’t be with you.”

“Why not?” asks Ilya. He steps forward.

Shane steps back, crossing his arms in front of his chest in something that looks like defense. “Because I refuse to be another notch on your bedpost. Haven’t you had your fun? Haven’t you had enough?”

Ilya’s eyes widen. “Enough? What do you mean by that?” 

Exasperated, Shane shakes his head. “That is what you do, don’t you, Ilya Rozanov? You fuck people and then you move on.” His face shutters into something sad, all of the anger from before melting away. “You had your fun with me. Won’t you move on and spare me my heartbreak?”

“Shane.” The name slips from his tongue before Ilya can stop himself, and he takes a step closer. To his relief, Shane does not move away. “Do you think I let anyone sleep in my bed? Sure, I love to have sex, and I would say that I’m pretty good at it. But I’m not good at all the other stuff—the cuddling, the falling asleep together, the talking in the morning. I only do that with—with you.” He laughs. “This isn’t something to brag about, but I haven’t slept with anyone else since I’ve been with you. I go out and nobody compares. All I look for, everywhere, is you. Isn’t that pathetic?”

For a brief moment, it is quiet. Completely still. Shane stares at Ilya with something like confusion on his face. “You don’t . . . like me,” he says, at last. But his voice is weak.

“Why not?” says Ilya. “Who are you to tell me who I do and don’t like? I—I do like you. Despite everything, I find that I like living with you. I like falling asleep next to you and I liked the few times you did not sneak out and I got to see you wake up. Fuck, I even like it when you nag me to hell and back or when you make your disgusting food, and you pretend you are somehow above pizza.” He huffs out a breath, amused. “I think you entered my heart the same way that you entered my bed, at first: I had no say in it. But I did—do—welcome it.” 

“You,” says Shane, then stops. He looks at Ilya, takes a step forward himself. “You mean this.”

Ilya smiles at him, a soft thing. “I don’t know what you think about me, Shane,” he says. “But I have never lied to you. Not once. And I don’t intend to start now.”

“This is crazy,” says Shane, seriously. He laughs through his nose, shakes his head. “You don’t do this, Ilya Rozanov.”

“I didn’t do it,” Ilya corrects him. Shane is almost close enough to touch now. If he shifts, Ilya could press their chests together, curl his arms around Shane’s waist. So he does, because it doesn’t look like Shane is going to stop him. “But I want to do it. All of it, with you. Is that so crazy?”

“It is,” says Shane, with a nod. And then: “But maybe I don’t mind it.” 

Gasping, Ilya presses his nose into Shane’s cheek, closes his eyes. “What don’t you mind?”

“Doing all of it with you,” says Shane. “You’ll kiss me. You’ll take me on dates. You’ll hold my hand. You’ll be mine in the way that I will be yours. And the rest—the rest will come, right?”

Oh fuck. Ilya thinks he’ll go crazy if they keep this up. It will be something he’ll welcome with eager, open arms. “Come on, Shane.” He loops his fingers through the loops of Shane’s jeans and pulls him closer, slightly, delighting in the small smile that blooms on Shane’s face. “My bed is so empty and cold. Won’t you warm it with me?”

--

They undress each other slowly, despite the heat brewing in Ilya’s gut. Shane is wide eyes and eager touches: he is clearly enthusiastic to run his hands along every single sliver of skin Ilya reveals. And then he follows his touches with his mouth, worshipful.

Somehow, they make it to the bed rather unscathed, even if Ilya’s trousers awkwardly tangle around his legs and he nearly falls over. Shane straddles Ilya’s legs while Ilya works two, three fingers inside of him, their mouths sliding together messily. If he wasn’t born to play hockey, Ilya swears he would keep him here, on his lap and wanting for nothing. 

“I like you too,” says Shane, when Ilya starts fucking himself inside with short strokes, careful not to be too rough, too demanding. How he manages to be so coherent despite the clear want in his eyes is a wonder to Ilya. “If you hadn’t figured it out. I think I liked you from the moment I saw you when I first entered the apartment. But you were with that girl and so untouchable that I didn’t allow myself to want it. It was fucking torture, though.” 

“We were both stupid,” Ilya manages, once he bottoms out, their hips flush together. “When I first saw these—” He reaches up to caress the freckles below Shane’s eyes, “—I was immediately so taken. God, you were so gorgeous. And scowling at me so angrily.” 

Shane laughs, his face screwing up in pleasure when Ilya shifts slightly. “I thought you were with your girlfriend, you prick. And you were so out of my league, so.”

“If anyone here is outside of the other’s league, it’s you.” Ilya leans down so that he can press a kiss against Shane’s palm, and then, when Shane gives him a small nod, starts pulling out so that he can fuck himself forward again. “So smart, so good at hockey, so disciplined. I wanted you so bad. And then, after I first tasted you, really had you, I knew I was going to be ruined for life.”

Moaning, Shane throws back his head. “That was so embarrassing. You were in my dream, and then, when I opened my eyes, there you were again. And reciprocating." 

“Fuck, that’s hot.” Ilya can almost feel his pupils blow wide, his hips driving forward with more strength than he had originally planned. Sweat is already gathering at the line of his hair. “We’ll—we’ll have to revisit that statement in the future. If I think about it too hard now, I’ll blow my load way too early.”

“Don’t say blow your load.” Shane’s affronted look breaks off into a gorgeous moan when Ilya tilts his hips so that he is certain that he’ll hit Shane’s prostate on his next movement. Goosebumps scatter across his skin, which Ilya soothes with his tongue. Shane’s hand tangles in Ilya’s curls as he starts moving his hips back into Ilya, their bodies working together. 

“God—Ilya.” Shane is gorgeous in the throes of his pleasure, his eyes heavy and so beautiful. “You make me feel insane.” 

Ilya nods and laughs, biting on his lip. “Well, that makes two of us, at least.” 

“Make me come,” Shane begs, reaching out so that he can slide his fingers between Ilya’s, their palms pressed together. “Please.”

Blindly, Ilya leans forward, their mouths a perfect fit, panting his worship against Shane’s lips. “You only need to ask. I will do everything for you.” 

And then he sets out to prove just that.

--

Afterwards, they lay curled up, Shane’s hand pressing into the muscles of Ilya’s chest while Ilya plays with the little hairs at the back of Shane’s nape. “Did you ever figure out why you were sleepwalking?” he asks Shane.

“I think,” says Shane, and then pauses, swallowing. “I think I just really, really wanted you. To be close to you, I mean. And I couldn’t figure out how to do it during the day. So, I guess my body just decided for me—to do what I couldn’t make myself do when I was conscious.” He grins. “And you didn’t kick me out, so . . .”

Ilya grins and nudges his nose into Shane’s hair, breathing in. “I think that is the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me,” he says, serious.

“That is kind of funny.” Shane leans over and presses a small kiss against Ilya’s collarbone. And then he bites down, just for good measure, letting out a satisfied hum at the shape of his teeth in Ilya’s skin. “But it makes me weirdly happy, too. I’m going to be all of that for you. Most romantic, most thoughtful, most helpful. All of these firsts.”

With a roll of his eyes, Ilya presses his thigh against Shane’s. “Best lay, too, you possessive minx.”

“Well, I just literally got the guy of my dreams, so nothing you say will hurt me. Also: fuck you.” But Shane is smiling when he says it, so he can’t mean it too much.

--

Step five, six, seven: You’ll figure this out later, together. For now, just dream.

--

“Hey Shane,” says Ilya, one night when spring is dripping into a slow, suave summer. They’re curled together in Ilya’s bed, both of their bodies sweaty from exertion and the heat that is slowly starting to permeate even the late nights. “You know our lease is almost up on this place, right?” 

Shane blinks at him, slowly, then hums. He shoves his face in Ilya’s neck. “Right.” 

“I’m just saying.” It’s hard to focus with Shane’s breath tickling the side of his face, his lips ghosting across Ilya’s skin, but Ilya presses on anyway. “Are you going to re-sign the lease on this place, or . . .?”

“Mm,” says Shane. He pulls back to grin up at Ilya, one part amused, one part sly. “How else am I going to crawl into your bed, hm?”

Warmth bursts through Ilya’s chest, an emotion that is too big to name yet but surely will get a place later in his life. In this life that they share, now. “You’re right,” he murmurs, leaning down so that he can slide their lips together. “Where else would you go?”

Even though their kiss turns heated, Ilya can feel the shape of Shane’s smile against his own.

On the bedside table, Svetlana's frog looks mighty pleased with itself.