Work Text:
MONTREAL 2014
Ilya thrusts his hips again and again; tries to keep the tempo even as Hollander babbles, “Please,” and “More,” and “Yes,” beneath him like a fool. An irritatingly handsome fool, with the nicest ass Ilya’s ever had the pleasure to ride.
“I’m gonna…” Ilya says, unable to stop himself. “Fuck.”
“Do it,” Hollander replies. Ilya thinks he’s touching himself, but can’t make sure before he falls over the edge of his orgasm, collapsing onto Hollander’s back, breathing fast.
“Your turn,” Ilya pants, catching the rolled edge of his condom with a finger and slowly pulling himself out. “You want blowjob, or?”
Hollander snorts and falls away beneath him, flipping onto his back at the last second so as not to land in the mess of his own making.
“Too late. Next time?”
It’s dangerous, Ilya thinks, that there will be a next time. That it’s a given. That there’s no end in sight for their secret rendezvous. Not that he wants them to end.
That’s the most dangerous part.
“Maybe,” he says, leaving the bed. He ties off the condom, bins it, and scans the floor until he finds the pile of clothes he’d hastily abandoned upon arrival at Hollander's apartment. “If you’re good.”
“Fuck you,” Hollander says, his eyes smiling.
It’s cold in Montreal. Too cold to stand around naked, though no colder than Boston.
Warmer than Moscow.
He looks back at Hollander, naked and spent and splayed. Watches him wrinkle his nose as Ilya picks up his briefs.
“You don’t want me to get dressed?” he asks, smirking, then flexing his arms ever so slightly until he sees Hollander’s freckled face break into a real smile. Ilya would do a lot for that smile; is risking a lot for that smile.
“No,” Hollander says, sitting up, and scratching the back of his head. He is still naked, also, but Ilya doesn’t want to remind him, at risk of him covering up. “I mean, yeah, or no, or… you’re not gonna put those back on, are you?”
“That was the plan. You’d prefer I leave your apartment naked? Would be fun paparazzi photos to see tomorrow on front page?”
Hollander ignores his questions to say, “But they’re dirty.”
Ilya shrugs, then sniffs them without breaking eye contact. “Clean enough.” They’re a little damp with precome, but not so much that he’d rather be driven back to his hotel commando. Not in jeans.
“No, seriously,” Hollander continues. “I can’t let you- we’re the same size, basically. Just borrow a pair of mine, please?” He points towards a shiny, dark brown dresser standing against the wall. “Top drawer on the right.”
Ilya rolls his eyes, but lets himself be bossed across the room for reasons best kept even from himself. He opens the drawer and finds, to his surprise, an unorganised collection of plain black briefs and more colourful boxer shorts.
“I thought they’d be folded,” he teases, rooting through to examine his options. As if it matters. To him, it matters. “Colour coordinated. Alphabetical.”
“Shut up,” Hollander says, following him over and taking a pair for himself. “Go home in your gross underwear if you want. I don’t care.”
Ilya almost calls him on the lie, until he finds the most perfect pair of underwear.
“Okay, wow,” he says, holding them up, grinning from ear to ear. A hot pink waistband, with dark navy fabric adorned in garish, luminescent flowers of pink, white, blue, purple. They are somehow both an eyesore, and the best thing he’s ever seen. “Shane Hollander, what are these?”
Hollander’s cheeks flush delightfully, highlighting those damn freckles further.
“Underwear,” he says. Ilya rolls his eyes, and gestures at him to go on. “I didn’t buy them or anything. They’re from a… a campaign about a year ago. I modeled them for an ad, and they sent me home with everything I wore for, like, hygiene.”
Ilya knows Hollander does more advertising than the average hockey player, but usually that means watching him run across the television in a pair of Reeboks.
“There is photographs of you wearing these? On the internet?” Ilya asks, unable to hide his delight.
“Probably, yeah. Or a video, I think. It’s whatever.” It’s cute how shy Hollander gets.
“Mm, being an underwear model is famously a very embarrassing gig,” Ilya says sarcastically. “I see why you are trying to hide this from me. Not even a little bit sexy at all.”
He slips on the boxer briefs, while making a mental note to search for these photographs and videos once he’s back in his hotel. Not that he particularly needs to look up Shane Hollander wearing underwear on the internet when he’s still got the real thing in front of him. But he doesn’t always have the real thing, and he certainly can’t keep him forever.
Eventually, this arrangement will end, and they will both be all the better for it. He finishes dressing himself and, indulgently, selfishly, turns back towards Shane for one more kiss.
“Thanks for the underwear, Hollander. I still think leaving naked would have been fun.” He doesn’t, obviously, but winding up Hollander is his second favourite sport and - like hockey - he is very good at it.
“Alright, asshole,” Hollander replies, warmly despite his words. “Maybe bring your own next time?”
“Okay,” Ilya agrees, tugging gently at the cross around his neck to make sure it’s straight.
There’s always a next time, he thinks, as the waistband of Hollander’s underwear presses against his lower abdomen, not tight, but snug. Like it’s holding something in.
BOSTON / NEW YORK 2017
Ilya should have been in a car to the airport ten minutes ago.
He was meant to, but he accidentally went out to a bar with Sveta last night because she’d had a bad day at work and needed his moral support. A worthy cause, and worth the top-shelf vodka bill. But now he’s scrambling to pack up everything he’ll need with him for the next two games against the Admirals.
His phone beeps, loud and bouncy, and he checks it while blindly shoveling some clean underwear and socks into his duffel. It’s his Uber driver. Again.
I am still outside. If you would like to cancel this trip you can do so in the app. Thank you.
He resigns himself to re-buying anything he really needs from the overpriced airport stores, tosses the duffel over his shoulder, and makes for the front door.
“Yes, yes, okay. I am coming,” Ilya mutters to himself under his breath, locking up first the front door, then the gate behind him. He scans the street until he see Jeff, Silver Prius parked on the opposite side.
“Appologies,” he says sincerely, sliding into the squeaky leather backseat and adjusting the headphones hanging around his neck. His duffel deflates on the seat beside him. He’s definitely packed too light. “Was delayed.”
The driver just nods. Ilya can’t tell if he’s been recognised or not until they’re already on I-90 and he hears a gruff, self conscious, “Good game last week, Mr. Rozanov.”
Boston had played Pittsburg at home, and won, but it was tight. Ilya’s ribs were bruised from a particularly nasty hit from Sheahan but he’d been allowed by their physio to tape them up for today.
They’ve already lost two games to New York this week, which his driver has kindly left unmentioned. If they lose any more, they may as well concede the playoffs altogether. And without Ilya playing, they will lose.
“Thank you,” he says instead.
“You’re gonna give those Admirals what they deserve today, I hope,” Jeff says, with the conviction of a locker room captain’s speech. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, how intense people entirely removed from the sport can be about it. “We can’t afford another loss right now.”
Boston likes Ilya when he’s winning, and it hates him when he’s losing. A fickle city of fickle people. He understands. But it will never not love hockey.
All Ilya has to do is play hockey well, win a few more cups, and maybe one day they’ll love him too. If that’s something he even wants.
“That is the plan. If I make it to the airport before ten, then yes. I think we will crush them.”
“Well let’s get you to the airport before ten, so.”
It’s tight, but the driver pulls into Logan Airport with a minute to spare, and Ilya again promises the man a win in return, in addition to leaving a generous tip.
The flight is as unmemorable as any other, though when they land Ilya is greeted by a text from Jane wishing him luck.
Don’t need luck, Ilya replies.
My mom say’s Scott Hunter’s going all the way this year
All the way to retirement home, maybe
Because he is so, so old.
Jane laugh reacts, but doesn’t reply further.
Ilya knows he’s been on reduced screen time ever since the bad hit he took while playing Boston - a hit Ilya hasn’t entirely forgiven Marleau for, though his teammate remains unaware of that fact.
With the Metros out, the Admirals are Boston’s biggest obstacle to the cup this year. Ilya can’t think of anything he wants more right now than a second cup.
Except, maybe, the one thing he’s doing his best not to think about at all.
So instead, he thinks about neither, focuses on checking into his hotel, and doesn’t wish he had any company at all. Especially not cute, boring company.
Which is all well and good until he’s rooting through his bag post-shower to find clean underwear and socks for the game.
“Oh, hello,” he says to the obnoxiously bright pair of boxer briefs he’d been forced to steal from Hollander.
He’s due on the bus to the arena in less than ten minutes, and though he does find a second, plain black pair, he decides to save those for afterwards.
It doesn’t matter, really. He’ll just wear the first pair he picked out at random. A fine and normal choice that has nothing to do with anyone.
He’s not last to the bus, thankfully, and they take off for the arena to suit up, and warm up, and if all goes to plan, absolutely crush the Admirals on their home ice.
Easy peasy.
-
One hockey game later and the team are back in their locker room, basking in their 4-2 win.
The team had truly been on fire, though Ilya had stolen the show with two goals, an assist, and a verbal fight with Scott Hunter that he almost turned physical without ever dropping a glove.
It’s fun to get under someone’s skin, to know that with words alone - in his second language no less - he can evoke such emotion, such fury.
Ilya’s stripping down in front of his cubby to take a well deserved shower, when he hears a sharp whistle and a laugh from behind him.
“Nice undies, Roz,” snips Marleau.
Ilya kicks them off and wraps a towel around his waist before turning around.
“You like?” he asks, scooping them up off the ground, and pulling at the elastic like he’s going to slingshot them into Marleau’s face. “You want?” It gets everyone laughing, like he knew it would.
Not at Ilya, specifically, but at his antics. His team laughs with him, and he can pretend he doesn’t care what kind of jokes make them laugh longest.
Still, he makes sure to tuck the pair carefully back into his gear bag before showering. And then he doesn’t think about them again until he’s back in his hotel, stuffing them into a laundry bag with his gym clothes and socks to be taken care of by housekeeping.
–
The next game versus the Admirals, two days later, Ilya can feel something is off from the very first face-off. Which is weird because he hasn’t had an off game since the All Stars. Since Hollander had become Shane. Not like this, and especially not when he’d felt on top of the world only one game prior.
In the first period he’d been checked so hard by Vaughn that it got a little hard to breathe. It’s his ribs, probably. Still bruised, hopefully. He knows he should say something; request a medical check to be sure. If he does, he may as well give up the cup.
He stays quiet, and stays on the ice
But despite his perseverance, his game is off, and when they lose to New York, Ilya’s pissed, but can’t find it in himself to be surprised.
He returns to the locker room with frustration flowing through his body like fire, or tension, or some other annoying English metaphor his exhausted brain is too tired to remember.
First thing he does is check his phone, and swear under his breath when he sees a text from Jane.
He chews on the chain around his neck - a poor substitute for the cigarette he’d love to smoke right now - and reads it.
what happened?
Ilya doesn’t answer.
There will be time later, but right now the words are too hard, and he hasn’t even had to face the media yet.
He makes for the showers, hoping to at least wash off before getting his ribs checked, when Marleau calls across the locker room.
“I think the captain forgot his lucky briefs,” he says. It’s a joke, Ilya’s sure, but there’s a bite to the words. They have three more games to turn things around, but this should have been an easy win.
“I don't believe in this,” he replies, summoning what nonchalance he can. “Hockey is not luck, it is skill. You are either the better team, or you are not. Today, we are not.”
It’s not the best note to leave his team on, but Ilya’s never been known to pull his punches when speaking his mind.
American hockey players may be some of the most superstitious oafs he’s ever played alongside, but Ilya has no time for superstition.
His speed, his strength, his dedication - none of it should be affected by the underwear he is or isn’t wearing. Right?
He finally replies to Jane, the most superstitious player of them all, after his shower.
Your stupid boxers gave me bad luck.
You wore my underwear while playing?
No, I didn’t wear them. That’s the problem.
He puts his phone away. Readies himself to suffer through some of the dullest questions the reporters can sling at him. Tries to compose an answer to why the team lost that has nothing to do with Shane Hollander.
–
Next game Ilya wears Shane’s underwear, he wins. Then the next too. The one after, Boston loses but it’s a close thing, and not Ilya’s fault their goalie is slow and blind, so he doesn’t count it, even though they’re out of the playoffs now. He just puts them away until the next season. And on and on he goes until it’s second nature for Ilya to toss his very normal and not even slightly superstitious underwear in the laundry machine right after a game to ensure they’re clean for the next one.
They follow him to Ottawa, to the Cens, looking a lot worse for wear, and despite his team’s poor performance, he’s still proud of the hockey he’s playing. Mostly.
He’s proud of himself, or he tries to be. While he still doesn’t believe the underwear have any kind of magical ability, he’s ready to admit that there’s something comforting about the fact that they’re Shane’s. Or were Shane’s at least. Even if he remembered, even if he asked, there’s no way Ilya can give them back to his boyfriend now.
OTTAWA - 2019
It’s not that Ilya has been hiding his new ritual from Shane. Not on purpose, at least, but somehow it never comes up.
It never comes up, until a few months after Ilya settles into Ottawa, and by some scheduling miracle he and Shane get an entire three days together.
“Oh wow,” Shane says. He’s raiding Ilya’s underwear drawer, hair slicked back and damp from their post-game sex, and post-sex shower, interrupted by a mid-shower sex reprise. “I can’t believe you still have these?”
He holds up the briefs in all their worn-out glory.The elastic has lost almost all its function, and there’s a lumpy patch on the back seam where Ilya attempted to mend a hole. Badly.
“They’re my good luck charm,” Ilya says simply, as he wraps a towel around his waist, then adjusts his chain, so the cross is centred at his neck.
“I thought you didn’t believe in that stuff.”
“Not the fake superstitions, no. Those are bullshit. I used your underwear for this old Russian curse. Now, every time I wear them, I steal more of your hockey skills,” he jokes, slotting himself behind Shane until the curves of their bodies line up perfectly, only the towel separating them.
“Of course you did.”
Ilya feels Shane’s laugh reverberate into his own chest.
“Don’t laugh solnishko, I am being very serious,” he lies, snaking his arms around Shane’s waist. ‘“Pretty soon you won’t even remember how to skate.”
“Is that right?” Shane puts the raggedy boxers back, carefully, and trades them for a pair of plain black briefs instead. “‘Cause it looks like they’ll disintegrate before that happens.”
“Not possible.” Ilya grabs a pair for himself before Shane shuts the drawer. “Because of the magic.”
Shane laughs again, too far away now for Ilya to feel it, yet he feels it all the same.
“Oh of course, the magic.” Shane’s eyes shine so bright in the lamp-lit bedroom that Ilya almost believes in luck, for a moment.
But it wasn’t luck that brought him and Shane together. It was skill, and stubbornness. It was Ilya’s thirst for trouble and Shane’s too, though he hides his better.
“Come to bed,” Ilya says, his own thoughts becoming far too soft and sappy for his own liking. He flops only his back, and beckons Shane over. “I’m not done with you.”
Shane raises an eyebrow at him, his soft lips pursing up just a little, freckles wrinkling deliciously across his nose and cheeks.
“I don’t know if we have another round in us tonight?”
Ilya scoffs, but rephrases the request as Shane crawls into bed beside him.
“Did I say another round? Jesus Christ, Shane, do you think I’m a machine?” He tilts his head, and then pulls Shane closer, rests his head against his chest until he can hear the soft thrum of his lover’s heartbeat. “What I said is, I am not done with you.” He kisses Shane’s naked chest, to punctuate his point.
“Oh. Well, in that case-“ Shane kisses the crown of Ilya’s head, “I’m not done with you either.” He bookends his words with a yawn that Ilya finds nothing short of adorable.
“Are you tired?” Ilya cranes his neck back far enough to see Shane’s eyes are closed, without ever letting him go.
“Kinda.” That means yes. “I can stay up if you want to.”
“I don’t want anything except this.”
Ilya flails one arm out until he finds the remote he keeps on his bedside locker that turns off all the lights.
“Good,” Shane whispers into his hair, his arms wrapped tight around Ilya. “Me either.”
Within minutes, Ilya feels Shane’s breaths slow to a steady, relaxed rhythm, but sleep doesn’t find him so easily. He never meant to let an inanimate object gain such control on his life, especially one that is far from indestructible.
Shane is right that the briefs won’t last forever, and Ilya doesn’t want to know what their demise could do to his gameplay.
Then again, for the longest time he never believed he and Shane could last forever, and look at them now.
MONTREAL - 2019
The inevitable tragedy strikes before a game against Montreal, of all teams. The waistband of Ilya’s boxers falls away along its seam towards the end of morning practice. Destruction far beyond his meager mending skills. Though he briefly considers asking Coach Wiebe to call in a local seamstress to repair them, luckily, he gets a slightly leas insane idea.
Mayday mayday, he texts Jane.
I need a pair of your underwear
Before game
Please?
He watches three dots appear and disappear from his screen an agonizing minute before finally receiving a reply.
I can bring extra, don’t panic
But I don’t know how I’m going to give them to you without someone seeing us
Ilya swears, and hits his phone against his forehead. He has another pair in his bag, for after the game. Which means if he puts them on now, he doesn’t need to worry about it until after the game. But his traitorous, sentimental heart won’t let him when there’s another option.
“You okay, Cap?” asks Wyatt Hayes, startling him. “You’re kinda glaring at the wall. Did it do something wrong?”
Ilya recovers from the jolt enough to smile at the terrible joke.
“No, it is a fine wall. Solid. Not its fault it lives in Montreal.”
Wyatt laughs. “Okay, but you know you can talk to me? To us? You and the Metros have all that history, from when you played for Boston. The team would understand if you’re feeling the pressure right now.”
Translation - the Centaurs understand that Ilya is a fool for leaving the Raiders and joining them, and that when faced with his old rivals, he might now be regretting that choice.
He can’t explain the whole truth. That he’s never more grateful for leaving Boston than when he gets to see Shane in Montreal. It would be the wrong kind of recklessness. He can only redirect his teammate’s worry instead.
“I had a- uh- mishap this morning. It will be fine, but I broke something, but a friend will bring a replacement for me.” Just as soon as Ilya figures out how to keep the handoff with Shane a secret from both of their teams. He might ask Yuna, or David, which would be marginally less incriminating, and has the added bonus of mortifying Shane just a little bit.
“Oh, is it a gumshield? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’ve a few spares in my bag.”
“No. It is not a gumshield.” Ilya doesn’t elaborate, Wyatt wisely asks no follow up questions.
He’s almost certain the conversation’s over - is ready to text Shane the plan to use his parents as underwear mules - when Wyatt speaks up again.
“I’m really glad we have you on the team. I don’t think I’ll ever understand why you moved here, but I’ve also never never thought we had a real chance against Montreal before you did. We’re really lucky to have you.”
Ilya smiles, genuinely touched by his words.
“There is no luck. This team? It is where I am meant to be. And it means very much to me now.”
Wyatt raises his brow.
“More than winning?”
“Who is saying we will not win?” Ilya asks sarcastically, as though the odds of the Centaurs winning aren’t even worth betting on. If there was a category below underdogs, that’s where they would belong. But Ilya’s always liked dogs. “They are crazy people. We have this game completely in the bag.”
Wyatt laughs.
‘Whatever you say, Captain. Hope you get whatever you need from your friend.”
“I will make sure of it,” Ilya replies as he walks away.
He relays his genius idea to Shane via text who, predictably, doesn’t love it.
But even he can admit that it’s not entirely crazy for Yuna and Ilya to be seen speaking before the game, given their charitable affiliation.
And when their plan goes off without a hitch, Ilya Rozanov skates out onto the ice wearing a pair of his opposing Captain’s underwear.
Wearing Shane’s regular, boring, plain black briefs that look almost indistinguishable from Ilya’s own.
He hopes it makes a difference.
–
It doesn’t.
Montreal wins, and it’s not even close. They’re the better team, undeniably, but Ottawa has been able to hold their own before.
No one was holding anything today, it was more like a massacre than a hockey game. Humiliating enough that Ilya opts out of a round of commiseration drinks at the hotel with his team.
Instead, he’s wallowing in Shane’s apartment, his feet in Shane’s lap, watching as he flicks through the tv channels to find any kind of hockey that isn’t the highlights of their own match.
Not that Ilya wouldn’t happily rewatch any of Shane’s four beautiful goals. At the end of the day, his boyfriend played some gorgeous hockey. Ilya can ignore his own disappointment at the game’s outcome to admire Shane’s achievements.
It’s Shane who’d rather not bask in his own success, or let it feed his ego. Once the game’s over, it’s over. On to the next one.
Ilya, though he tries, has never been able to match his boyfriend’s level of control in that area.
His own mind will happily loop its very own custom highlight reel of mistakes Ilya made on the ice today. And whether he believes in luck or not, he can’t deny that without Shane’s underwear, his play has been undeniably worse.
Ilya closes his eyes, sighs deeply, and tilts his head back until it smacks against the arm of the sofa.
“This is really getting to you, isn’t it?’ Shane asks, reaching forward to rub Ilya’s foot comfortingly. Ilya shakes his head, not wanting to get into it after the day he’s had, but it doesn’t stop his boyfriend. “It’s okay if it is. We all have our superstitions. It’s part of the game.”
He’s being irritatingly kind, and Ilya’s in no mood to be coddled.
“Not my game.” He lifts his chain up to his mouth, holds it between his teeth like his dentist has told him a thousand times not to.
“Yes, your game. You’re a hockey player,” Shane says, pointing at Ilya like it’s something he might not know. “It would be weirder if you had no game day routines.”
“You’re weird,” Ilya retorts lamely. And then he adds, “Maybe I need you to model more underwear, and bring them home to me.” It’s as close to admitting out loud that he’s succumbed to such a stupid superstition.
No, not stupid. Sentimental.
“Maybe.” Shane frowns, the little furrow above his nose deepening as he thinks. Ilya loves him so much, for being here when he could be out celebrating with his team. For helping solve this problem Ilya will barely admit to having. “Or maybe we need to figure out another way to channel the luck.”
Ilya’s pretty sure he understands what Shane means, but he still asks for some clarification with a, “Huh?”
“Well, okay so you tried to wear a different pair of my underwear today, but that didn’t work, right?”
“Right.”
“So maybe it’s not just that you’re wearing something of mine. Maybe it’s like, the pattern on them. And we need to find something that looks the same.” Shane tilts his head and adds, “Ideally, something less likely to fall off you.”
“Something to last forever.” Ilya says, less question than statement. He thinks about the loon on his chest, the secret symbol of his love for Shane that he carries so proudly. “Something like a tattoo?”
“Uhh.” Shane’s eyes widen, revealing to Ilya every thought running through his handsome head before they can be voiced.
“No, that isn’t what you said. Yes, I know it is permanent. No, I’m not being crazy,” he answers, unasked while poking Shane in the side with his foot.
“Stop reading my mind, asshole.” He frowns, then scrunches up his nose and mouth while grabbing at Ilya’s foot, and pulling it back into his lap. Finally, he concedes, “It’s not the worst idea.”
“I know, my love, you only have good ideas.” One foot trapped in his boyfriend’s hands, Ilya resumes poking Shane with his other one. “Like telling me to get a flower tattoo on my ass.”
“Wait, I never said on your ass. Would that affect your play?” he asks, looking genuinely concerned. He grabs Ilya’s other foot, digs his thumbs into the arch.
Ilya blows a raspberry. When he got his loon tattoo it had been summer. He had two weeks off, though he remembers it healing okay after just one. If he has to wait for summer again to do this…
The only thing worse than admitting to himself that he might actually, slightly believe in a stupid hockey superstition, would be not doing everything in his power to resolve it immediately. It’s completely unthinkable.
Ottawa’s game has been improving so much since Ilya joined the team, it would kill him to ruin all that progress over a little ink.
“I think, no. But I can ask.” He sighs, over exaggerated, and opens instagram on his phone. He needs to find out if the same artist who did his loon has any free time tomorrow. “But it does have to be my ass. Which is your fault.”
“Wait, how is any of this my fault?”
“Were you not the one who told me to take your ugly boxers, and then ugly briefs became good luck,” he says, with airquotes. “Now, you say ‘Ilya, my lover, you must get your tattoo of flowers from ugly briefs onto your beautiful, sexy ass,’ so I think this tattoo will be the same thing.”
“Lucky?” Shane asks, ignoring Ilya’s embellishments.
“Yes,” Ilya admits, seriously. “Will make it lucky.”
“So the magic ingredient is actually me bossing you around.” Shane smiles a little too smugly for Ilya’s liking.
“No, of course not.” He drops his phone and flips himself on the sofa until his head is nestled under Shane’s arm, against his chest. “I mean, yes. This is the most likely thing, but you know I can never admit that to you.”
He won’t admit how much he loves listening to the beat of Shane’s heart, either. Doesn’t make it any less obvious. Or any less true.
“Never. You’re way too stubborn to do that,” Shane jokes. His fingers scratch through Ilya’s hair, tugging on it, getting tangled in it.
“You know me so well.” There was a time, years ago, in a cold Montreal apartment when those words would have scared him to say. The truth of them would have ruined him.
He’s glad they don't anymore, knows they never will again.
“Poor you.” Shane strokes his face with one hand, a soothing gesture to contrast his words. Ilya leans into the touch.
“Yes, poor me.”
Ilya hears his phone ping and lifts his head until he can read the screen. It’s a message from his artist.
He leans all the way back, until his head is in Shane’s lap, and smiles deviously at him.
“So, you want to come watch me get an ass tattoo tomorrow, yes?”
