Archive of Our Own

Ilya was wholly unprepared for it when it first happened. He and Shane were on the phone, in their respective hotel rooms—Ilya in Pittsburgh, Shane in Miami—talking. They'd already gotten off, which was never enough over the phone, and Ilya was still covered in his own come, wishing it had been Shane's, so now they were catching up, murmuring quietly over FaceTime. It had been two months since their time at the cottage, and things hadn't really changed…apart from monumentally.

Now, every phone call included at least two I love yous from each of them, and the softness of Shane's gaze was only matched by the softness in his voice as he said it. Now, Ilya felt absolutely free to be as open with his desires as he wanted to be, and he used that to his full advantage, demanding all sorts of things from Shane that Shane appeared thrilled to give.

And then, as they were saying goodbye, before Ilya could defend himself against it in any way, Shane said, "Okay. Спокойной ночи, дорогой," and ended the call.

Ilya sat frozen, his phone still clutched in his hand, staring at his own phone background. "What the fuck?"

He called up "Jane"'s contact info and pressed FaceTime. It rang, and rang, and rang, but Shane never picked up, and Ilya knew he was always glued to his phone.

Lily: what the fuck was that!!

Ilya lay there, his pants still down around his knees, his come already dried on his skin, and waited. Finally, ten minutes later, Shane responded.

Jane: Sorry, was in the shower! What?

Ilya let out a frustrated noise, typing furiously. Where did you learn those words!!

Jane: Oh :) A lady never tells :)

Lily: !!!!

After that, Ilya got nothing, so he heaved himself up and took himself into the shower. Might as well get clean before bed. He had an early flight in the morning.

The second time it happened, it was in person, and, once again, Ilya had not been prepared.

They hadn't seen each other in nearly a month, and Ilya was crawling out of his skin during the entire game. Watching Shane on the ice, focused and visibly thrilled to be there, was akin to throwing kindling onto a fire. Ilya considered checking him into the boards and making out with him right then and there. (He didn't.) (He also won.) The game was in Montreal, and so afterwards, after having showered and dressed, and gotten a drink with the team to celebrate their victory over the Metros on their home turf (secretly Ilya's favorite way to win), he slunk out of the hotel and walked far enough to grab a cab to Shane's place.

Over the years, he had developed a truly embarrassing habit of getting a very fluttery feeling in his stomach the closer the cab took him to Shane's address. His mother had loved My Fair Lady, and she would sing "On the Street Where You Live" often enough while cleaning the apartment that Ilya began to understand the words. He had always thought the song pretty cheesy, until he met Shane.

He let himself in through the front door—1919, Shane's voice told him in his mind as he punched in the numbers—and took the elevator up.

Shane opened the door grinning, looking soft and touchable in his sweats, then shut it very quickly behind him. Ilya backed him up against it the next moment.

They kissed, and Ilya got hard instantly, just from that alone. Had, in fact, been on the way there while in the cab, just in pure anticipation. He thought, actually, he might have been a little hard since they hit the ice for the game.

"Hi," Shane whispered, his gaze trained on Ilya's mouth.

Ilya pressed his hips against Shane's. "Hi." Another kiss. "I missed you."

Shane's mouth stretched into a shy, pleased grin. "Yeah?" His voice was just barely above a whisper. "What did you miss?"

Ilya was never one to turn down a challenge. "This," he said, cupping Shane's obvious hard-on. Shane made a low noise in his throat. "This," he murmured as he nosed under Shane's jaw, where he could smell the scent of soap clinging to his skin. He inhaled, then kissed the softness there, reveling in Shane's soft gasp. "This," he said as he slid down to his knees the next moment and slipped off Shane's sweats. Shane wasn't wearing underwear. Ilya's gaze snapped up to meet Shane's. "Why, Mister Hollander!" he said, voice deadly serious. "How scandalous!" He licked his lips. "Then you are ready for me?"

Shane looked flushed and pleased at the same time. He didn't say a word as he buried his hand in Ilya's hair and tugged him forward until his mouth was against Shane's dick. Ilya didn't need to be told twice.

He had half of Shane's dick in his mouth when Shane gasped above him and murmured, "Fuck, Ilya, like that…just like that, сладкий мой…"

Ilya had a moment of feeling as though he'd been dropped from a great height before the full meaning of it hit him and he made a noise he'd never made before. Then he slipped Shane out of his mouth, and looked up at him, feeling utterly speechless.

"Shane—"

Shane was watching him, looking equal amounts of tender and smug, which was kind of unbearable, and Ilya found himself surging to his feet, pressing Shane hard into the wall and going at him tongue-first, as though he could lick the words right out of his mouth. Shane was laughing. Ilya felt it where Shane had grabbed onto his jacket with both hands. Their dicks pressed together—Shane's skin against Ilya's jeans.

"You little—"

"What," Shane said, eyes wide and innocent-looking, which made Ilya want to ruin him, "didn't you understand—"

"Oh, I understood," Ilya panted, then kissed him again, before pulling back. "Clothes off," he panted. Shane slipped off his hoodie, revealing a white t-shirt. "Ah," Ilya noted as he chucked off his own jacket and tossed it somewhere in the vicinity of Shane's couch, then went for his own sweater. "You don't wear underwear but this, you need?"

Shane, slipping off his t-shirt, responded, sounding affronted, "You can't just put a hoodie on over your naked skin!"

Ilya laughed, then grabbed him, knowing he was grinning like a lovestruck fool. "Fucking come here," he breathed. Shane stumbled out of his sweatpants and went.

They crashed into walls as they made their way upstairs, kissing the entire time. Ilya couldn't stop—he needed Shane's skin, he needed his taste, he needed…Shane. It had been a long time now that he had felt utterly unmoored without him, like he was missing a part of himself. Stupid, really—he'd always been a whole person. Lonely and maybe a little bit broken, his heart missing jagged pieces, but whole. Now, his heart always felt utterly full, but the rest of him needed more. He needed Shane to ground him. They talked nearly every night, circumstances allowing, and it wasn't until he heard Shane's voice that Ilya could feel tension seep out of his neck and shoulders.

Now he had him and he clutched Shane to himself as they finally stumbled through into Shane's bedroom. Briefly, Ilya noticed that all the throw pillows had already been tossed onto the floor and the covers turned down before he pushed Shane down onto the cleared surface of the bed. Shane was grinning up at him, gloriously naked and so beautiful against the white sheets, Ilya couldn't get enough of just looking.

"Pants," Shane said, tipping his chin at Ilya. "Off."

Ilya smirked, going for his fly. "Yes, sir."

Their eyes met and held as Ilya got fully naked—pants, underwear, socks. Shane's gaze was burning right through him, and Ilya felt as though he had grown a few centimeters under that look alone. He felt like he could take on the world. He quirked an eyebrow. "Get a good look?"

"Enough looking," Shane said in a challenge, and Ilya pounced.

They rolled around the bed, kissing still. Ilya could never seem to stop kissing Shane. Nobody in the world tasted the way that he did, some strange alchemy between them, as though they'd been designed for one another. Nobody else had ever had this effect on Ilya, ever. And Ilya had had a lot of sex in his life. Nobody's skin felt as perfect beneath his hands, nobody's voice turned him on more than when Shane moaned at the merest of touches. Shane was utterly artless in his pleasure, and Ilya could not get enough.

He pulled back from kissing Shane's lips in order to kiss him all over. He kissed his eyelids, his cheeks, his sweet, rounded chin. He ducked beneath his jaw and kissed the tender skin he found, licked up behind his ear, dropped a kiss there. Shane clutched him as he went. Ilya kept on kissing him as he continued to slide down his body, paying special attention to his dark, neat nipples, which seemed to have direct wiring to Shane's dick, because he always, always gasped when Ilya played with his tits.

Ilya licked the nipples one by one, then slid down further, Shane bracketing him with his gorgeous thighs. He licked and sucked all the skin he could find along the way, Shane trembling beneath him, until he had the backs of Shane's thighs in his grip. He caught Shane's blown gaze and kept it as he leaned in and licked in between. Ilya loved rimming Shane. He loved the way Shane tasted, the scent of it so intimate and familiar; loved that Shane let him, had been letting him from the beginning; loved how much it undid Shane, every single time. Shane had shared with him once, as they had been separated by miles and a phone screen, that when Ilya licked him there, he could never think of anything else at all. When Ilya was eating him out, Shane was entirely his.

Ilya took advantage of it now, licking him out again and again, his own eyes closing in pleasure, inhaling Shane's scent and drinking in his moans. Мой, мой, мой, только мой.

He pulled back enough to say it, his own language on his own tongue, and Shane gasped and murmured, "Yes, yes, yours, yours, yours, and you're mine," and Ilya nearly lost his mind. He wanted to ask, how the fuck did you learn those words? but he needed to be inside him more.

Last time they'd been together, Shane had asked, his face flaming, if they could forgo condoms, since they weren't sleeping with anybody else, and so now, Ilya, hands trembling, nearly upended the bottle of lube Shane had laid out on his nightstand, before managing to slick up his dick. "How do you want it?" he rasped, looking at Shane's flushed face in the low light.

"Like this," Shane told him, extending his arms. "Come here."

Ilya went. Of course he did: he had no other choice. They were connected by more than just the physical, something he had been telling himself was impossible for years, but could never actually resist in the end.

Shane enveloped him in his arms as Ilya pushed his way inside. Their eyes caught, and Ilya moaned as he began to move inside him, Shane's thighs warm and soft on either side of his hips. "Missed you," Ilya moaned, dropping his head into the crook of Shane's neck, his hands feeling like claws beneath Shane's ass.

"Missed you, too," Shane whispered. Ilya felt a soft kiss to his ear. They rocked together, Ilya barely even leaving Shane's body, just moving in a way that kept them close.

But the tension and the pleasure built, and so he went with his body's needs—the need for more, and harder, and longer. Shane moaned and panted beneath him, releasing Ilya enough that Ilya was able to fuck him in the way they both needed. Ilya gave in, went at him hard and fast, and then, when he was no longer thinking at all but acting on pleasure alone, he pulled out, rolled Shane over onto his stomach, and pulled him up by the hips.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck—"

Ilya loved it when Shane lost it beneath him. When Shane came hands-free beneath him. When Shane moaned his name out loud, hands gripping the sheets, back rippling with tense motion, so obviously lost in pleasure.

Shane did all of that now, in quick succession, spasming around Ilya's dick as he did. Ilya groaned and came inside him, pulsing to the beat of his heart.

They panted together, attempting to breathe.

Ilya slipped out as slowly as he could manage, and then held Shane's ass open so he could watch his own spunk seep out of him. The ownership he felt at the sight felt visceral; gutting.

"C'mon, Ilya, don't…" Shane was still embarrassed by this part.

Ilya wasn't. "Stay there," he commanded, and Shane did, heat coming off of him in waves.

Ilya backed up, lowered himself, and began to lick it out of him. Shane groaned but didn't tell him to stop, so Ilya kept going until it was all gone, spurt after tiny spurt of it.

Afterwards, Shane pulled him in and kissed him.

"Not grossed out?" Ilya asked him, his voice a rasp.

Shane ducked his head, but then shook it. "No." A pause, and then, "It's…it's us, right? Nothing we do is ever gross to me."

Ilya tipped Shane's chin up with a finger and gave him another kiss, this one deeper. Longer.

Later, when Shane's head was settled firmly on Ilya's chest, Shane's fingers stroking up and down his side, Ilya asked, feeling strangely timid and sounding hesitant, "Are you learning Russian?"

Shane's hand paused across his skin. "Oh." Another tentative pause. "No…this is…not. That." Another pause, which felt heavy on Ilya's lungs. "Not yet, anyway." He sighed. "I'm…intimidated. Isn't it, like, a really hard language for an English-speaker to learn?"

Ilya, feeling strangely disappointed and doing his best not to, shrugged. "I don't know. I already speak it."

"I…I'm not great at languages…not really," Shane told him, sounding glum. "I mean, I obviously had to learn French, but…Russian…" He lifted his head and put his chin on Ilya's chest. Their eyes met. "Do you…want me to?"

Ilya didn't actually know. He gave Shane a smile that felt soft on his face, then shook his head. "You don't have to."

Something shifted in Shane's gaze. He was so easy to read. "Maybe I will," he said, sounding determined. "It will just, you know…take a while."

"We have time," Ilya told him, starting to smile. "Take all the time you need." And then, because he felt like he needed to say it, "You really don't need to. We understand each other, yes?"

"Yeah, but…" Shane looked away, hand resuming stroking Ilya's side. "It's yours, so…"

It was only after Ilya left, so early in the morning even the birds weren't up yet, that he realized he still didn't know how Shane was learning all those words he had begun using.

Oh, well. He would ask him next time.

They didn't see each other again for another three weeks, but then there was a break: a glorious five days without any plans, since neither of them had been picked for the All-Star Game, and Ilya flew out to Shane. Shane was still nervous about being seen together, so they planned on holing up at his cottage—which was just fine with Ilya.

He loved Shane's cottage. Loved it for the privacy and freedom it afforded, loved it for being the place where they had finally been able to let all of their walls down and just be.

Shane, once again, met him at the airport, sunglasses firmly in place. Ilya hadn't worn his own, but he hid his face beneath the brim of his hat. Nobody had even given him a second glance.

He held Shane's hand in the car as Shane drove (very carefully just over the speed limit), and breathed. He felt like he hadn't taken a full breath in months, not since their last time at Shane's cottage.

He turned his head, watching Shane's neat profile, feeling his heart attempting to climb out of his chest by way of his throat. He gave a small cough. "Are your parents going to be there? I mean, at their own cottage?" he asked, just to make conversation. Just to hear Shane speak—he was looking deep in thought, and Ilya wanted him here, with him.

"Mmm, my mom for now. My dad is in Ottawa, working."

Ilya hummed. "She's scary, no?" he said, hoping his smile imbued his words with humor.

Shane huffed out a laugh, shook his head. "She's tough, I guess. I never found her scary."

"She's not your mother-in-law," Ilya mumbled, looking at the road.

He felt more than saw Shane twist his head to stare at him, his hand twitching in Ilya's hold, and studiously ignored him, watching the trees that lined the road pass him by. It was strange, he reflected, how similar yet different the trees were in Canada. When he'd first gotten to Boston, he was put off by its oaks—why were the leaves inverted? And—not enough birches, he remembered thinking. The woods were just a bit too dark.

"Mother-in-law?" Shane finally asked, his voice breaking slightly.

Ilya pulled his thoughts back to the moment. He shrugged, still watching the road. "I mean, you know. What else should I call her?"

"My mom? I guess?"

Finally, at the sound of Shane's voice, Ilya turned his head, studying him. Shane was watching him almost panicked, which had not been Ilya's intent. "Hey, hey—Hollander—are you—"

Shane's eyes went back on the road, but they were suspiciously bright. "It's fine, it's cool, I just—"

Ilya mustered his own strength and courage. It wasn't easy. "Shane," he said softly, still holding onto his hand. "I didn't mean…" A stab of something in his chest. He couldn't define it, not exactly. A hurt of one kind or another, but hey—he was used to those. "I did not want to panic you." At least Shane hadn't taken his hand back.

A moment of tense silence, the only sounds between them the car engine humming and the road passing underneath.

"You didn't," Shane finally said, quietly. "I…" Ilya watched his every move, studying the minute shifts of his features—he had always been an open book, and Ilya had made a study of him a long time ago. Shane cleared his throat. A bright yellow car whooshed past them. "I liked it." He said it quietly, like a confession.

Ilya felt his mouth twitching in relief. "Yes?"

Shane nodded, his own lips stretching into a smile. "Yeah. I'm sorry, though."

Ilya shook his head. "You don't have to be sorry."

"No," Shane said, voice firmer this time. "I'm sorry that you've got such a scary lady for a mother-in-law. Must be rough."

Ilya backed him up against the glass wall of the living room as soon as their shoes were off and the bags were dropped. Shane let him.

Ilya sank to his knees and took him in his mouth. There were times when he wished Shane was less fastidious, would let himself be just a little bit dirty, just a little bit sweaty. Ilya often fantasized about sucking Shane's dick directly after a game, when he would smell the most like himself: like ice and sweat and uniform. He would drown in his scent, absolutely let himself be annihilated by it.

Still, this was good, too—the clean scent of him, with a touch of sweat that came with living inside clothes, his taste, the twitching of his desire.

"Oh fuck, Ilya—Ilya, fuck—"

Ilya had a vise grip on Shane's bare hips, sucking him down with messy precision, going all the way down before nearly popping off, and then back down again. His jaw ached in a way he always missed between their meetings. Ilya loved the way sex tested their bodies—the stretch of them, the bend, the pleasure. He hummed in response, keeping them connected not just by skin.

Shane grabbed onto the back of his head, fingers gripping his curls. "Ilya…Ilyushen'ka…"

Ilya nearly bit Shane's dick off. He pulled off with an obscene sounding slurp and looked up. "Shane—"

Shane's head was thrown back, eyes closed and eyebrows arched, slick mouth open. "Fuck, why did you stop, please, please don't stop—"

Ilya managed to rise to his feet, pressing Shane into the glass with his entire body. He grabbed onto Shane's chin. "Hollander." Shane bit his lip and wouldn't open his eyes. Ilya squeezed his chin tighter and lowered his voice. "Hollander. Look at me." Shane squeezed his eyes tighter. Ilya made his voice a slice of a knife. "Hollander."

Finally, Shane's eyelashes fluttered and they watched each other from a few centimeters away. Ilya felt his chest rising and falling rapidly, his heart hammering inside his ribcage. He was so hard, he thought he might explode. "Where did you learn to say that?" he rasped, not letting go of Shane's chin but releasing his hold a tiny bit so Shane could talk.

"Does it matter?" Shane asked, eyes sliding away from Ilya's.

"Yes," Ilya said, his voice nearly breaking in his throat. "Where?" he demanded, hearing begging in his own voice. What he really wanted to ask was why, but he couldn't make the words leave his mouth.

Shane rolled his eyes, then said, still not looking at him, "Svetlana."

Ilya blinked, then dropped his hand, stepping back without intending to. "What?"

Shane visibly swallowed and rested his head against the glass, finally meeting his eyes. There was a smile threatening to grow in the corners of his mouth. "You know her, don't you? Tall, beautiful, kind of intimidating?"

Ilya grabbed onto Shane's waist, the skin there slick already from the heat between them. His own growing smile felt feral on his face. "I do. How?" he demanded. Why, why, why?

Shane shrugged, playing at nonchalant. "Remember when you had us both over so we could meet?"

Did he ever. It had been the scariest fucking day of Ilya's life. "Yes?"

"Well, we exchanged numbers, so…"

"So what, you've been texting? Talking?" He couldn't picture it, couldn't make anything of the possibility. "What, what?"

Shane's smug grin turned tender. "Texting, mostly…sometimes talking," he added, keeping his gaze on Ilya's. "I need to hear how to say some things before I can get it right."

Ilya's head spun with new information, his world tilting a bit to the left. Shane and Sveta, talking. Without him.

"Shane," he said before he could think better of it, and he was mortified at the pleading note in his voice. "Why?"

Shane's expression shifted again, a seriousness to go with the tenderness, and that was Ilya's favorite Shane: so steady and studious in his love. "Because," Shane said, pulling Ilya towards him by the hips, "I love you." Ilya had never experienced being both turned on and wanting to cry, but there was, he supposed, a first time for everything. He refused to cry, but he had to swallow a few times before he could get a handle on himself. It would have been impossible for Shane to know exactly what this meant to Ilya. He had never loved someone in a language that wasn't his own. "Shane," he whispered.

"Ilya," Shane responded softly, then added, "Милый мой." His accent was hopeless, but that wasn't the fucking point, was it?

Ilya dropped his head into the crook of Shane's neck and let the tears smear where nobody could see them. No one had called him that in a very, very long time.

They were in Ilya's favorite place: Shane's bed. Not a stitch between them, only the sweat they'd worked up fucking. Ilya's dick was resting softly against Shane's plump ass, his arm around Shane's middle, the smell of sex all around them. Shane had left a single lamp on, which glowed warmly over the ruined sheets, against the comfortable walls and the shades Shane had insisted on lowering because I want it to be just us. It was probably the safest Ilya had felt in a decade.

Shane took hold of his hand and threaded their fingers together before bringing them up to his lips and kissing Ilya's knuckles. "That was so good," he murmured. "Fuck, I'll be feeling that tomorrow."

Ilya pressed his hips up against him. "You'll be feeling it tomorrow because I will fuck you again in the morning."

Shane huffed out a laugh. "Oh yeah?"

"Mmm." Ilya kissed his shoulder, then hooked his chin over it. Shane's cheek was soft against his. "I might not even wait until you wake up…" He waited to gauge Shane's reaction. Shane appeared to be waiting. "You know…lube myself up, roll you over…you could wake up with my dick inside you." Shane pushed back against him, which Ilya took for encouragement. "You like this idea," he said softly, carefully. Shane was still quiet. "Maybe I would go slow," he went on, making himself sound both thoughtful and nonchalant. "Let you sleep a little longer…"

"Wouldn't need me, huh?"

Ilya gave a snuffle of a laugh. "No, why? Your hole is all I need."

Shane gave an answering little quake of laughter, then made to turn over. Ilya allowed him room, then gave him a kiss on the lips once he settled. Shane's eyes were smiling. "I guess I could use the sleep," he said, eyes trained on Ilya's mouth.

Ilya thought his heart might burst, again and again. Was he destined to walk around with his heart threatening to give out every time he so much as looked at Shane? "Canada's Shane Hollander can nap with my dick inside him all he wants."

Shane leaned in, his intent clear. Ilya ran a hand softly against his cheek, then cupped his jaw as they kissed. Shane turned until his hips were flush with Ilya's, then wrapped one thigh around him. Ilya moaned, kissing him harder, longer, slower. Shane's tongue felt like silk against his. Ilya fancied that he had made Shane into such a good kisser—otherwise, where would he have gotten the practice? But it had always felt good to be kissing Shane, from the very beginning. His taste and smell had turned Ilya on from the word go.

They couldn't get it up again if they tried, so all they did was kiss, until Shane made a soft noise and pulled back. "We never had dinner."

Ilya shrugged. "It's late. We can have breakfast when we wake up. You know, after I fuck you."

Shane squirmed, then said, more in question than anything else, "I should shower? So should you..."

Ilya wrinkled his nose. "Why? I cleaned us up."

"Your tongue doesn't count as getting clean," Shane said prissily, but Ilya knew he wouldn't be leaving this bed.

"My tongue is like a dog's," Ilya informed him. "Very clean. How you say…sanitary."

Shane's eyebrows drew together adorably. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Ilya pressed him hard into the bed. "Woof."

Shane cracked up, throwing his head back. "You're such an idiot."

Ilya laughed and kissed him some more. It was after he pulled back that he saw Shane looking strangely hesitant for the moment they were in. "What?" he asked.

Shane raised his hand and softly touched his finger to the dip between Ilya's chin and lip, watching himself do so. "I, uh…I found a tutor."

"A tutor? What is—"

"Like, a teacher." Shane's gaze flew up to Ilya's, moved down again. "To teach me Russian."

Ilya's knee slipped off of Shane's leg. "What?" he asked, knowing he'd heard right but not trusting it.

"I'm gonna learn Russian," Shane said, sounding stubborn and ready for a fight. As though Ilya was going to fight him on this. "And I know it's hard and stuff, but with a teacher and regular practice, I could probably—"

Ilya kissed him. He couldn't have stopped himself, and he didn't even want to. Shane kissed him back, eager and open and sweet.

When he pulled back, he had his hand on Ilya's cheek and he was smiling. "You like that idea?"

Ilya had to work hard to keep his voice steady. "Yes."

Shane was watching him as though he were studying him, his gaze bright in the warm light of the room. Ilya watched him back, hoping he wouldn't have to say any more for Shane to understand. Then Shane bit his lip, let it slip out, and said, haltingly, "Ilya…ya tebya liubliu."

Ilya squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his forehead to Shane's chest. He couldn't say it back, not in that moment, but Shane wrapped his arms around Ilya and held him as though he knew it, anyway.

And he probably did.

Ilya allowed himself to be held.

In the morning, when he slipped inside Shane, he leaned over him, kissed him softly on the ear, and said, "Доброе утро, дорогой."

Shane grinned as he slowly opened his eyes.