through every window the sun

Shane's jaw works. The camera doesn't capture the flint of his eyes, the line that must be creased between his brows. It doesn't matter. Ilya knows the ways Shane will bend. He stares at the screen, hungry, and a thousand miles away Shane gets off the bed.

The view dips, goes dark, then too bright. A clatter; an angle of a bathroom counter. Shane comes back into view, a razor in hand. Hesitates. "Should I--"

"Mm."

The water runs. First the soap, and then the clean stroke of the razor. Shane's hands are steady as he works. He'd had a goal second period: a slick dangle through the D-pair, then a wrister into the top corner. The Raiders in his living room had exploded in appreciative shouts. Ilya had watched, and wanted, his mouth gone wet.

"I should do this for you," Ilya murmurs.

"Yeah?"

"You would like it, I think." He imagines being there, taking Shane's jaw in his hand. "You'd have to be very good." Ilya would be so careful with him. All that tender skin, smooth and pink. Shane's shallow breathing; his glassy eyes.

Shane lowers the razor. There's water dripping onto the counter. "Ilya."

"Touch yourself." He waits for Shane to put the razor down, a quiet click. "No, other hand."

It'll be harder for Shane, and that's what Ilya wants. It takes a second before his hand disappears under the counter. Ilya watches Shane's eyes, the teeth sinking into his lip. The hiss of his exhale, just audible over the call.

"I want to hear you," Ilya says, and finally gets a hand on his own dick. A long lazy stroke, groaning with it. Shane's breath hitches at the sound; his forearm jerks, convulsive. "Make some noise for me, okay?"

Shane does. God, he does.

***

T-1 to puck drop there's a ping on Ilya's phone: Raymonds pulled out of Team Canada. For a moment Ilya just blinks at the text, no context for it, before he remembers the fucking World Championship. Conflicts with the playoffs every year. Shane would have declined the invitation before.

You have not had enough hockey?, Ilya sends, but he knows the answer to that. He looks up where Worlds are this year, mentally marks the time difference between Boston and Bratislava. Then he tucks his phone away and gets ready to destroy Florida.

The Raiders are playing hungry this year. Ilya tries not to dwell on it, but the thought lives in him, bright and sharp-edged. One last time before he leaves. He's been here eight years, called this place home, bled and cried with these men. It's the only way he knows how to say thank you.

***

The first game is a shutout for Boston. Ilya stretches into bed with a satisfying ache all through his muscles. Shane picks up on the second ring. "Hey," he says. "You looked good out there."

"I always look good," Ilya says, preening. "When are you flying out?"

"A few days. I've been trying to pack, but I can't find my neck guard."

"You have one?" Shane doesn't normally wear one. Ilya's thoughts snag on the image of something dark around Shane's throat.

"From the juniors." Shane sounds a little sheepish. "It's comfortable, you know? I might've left it at my parents' place, I'll go over tomorrow."

The words come out without thought. "Wear mine."

Somewhere deep in his closet Ilya has one, too: a strip of fabric and plastic, worn, faded. At some point Ilya had put his name on it, the inside edge where it would lie against the hollow of his throat. Silver against the black: Илья Розанов.

Shane opens his mouth. Closes it. "I can't come to Boston," he says, which is not a no. His eyes are wide on the screen, and Ilya's teeth ache.

"I will send it to you." There's same-day delivery to Canada. The logistics aren't the problem.

"What if--" Shane swallows. "What if it's not comfortable?"

This is how Ilya knows he's won. He can be magnanimous in victory. "If you try and don't like it," he says. "Then fine, don't wear it. You can choose."

Shane's breathing hard; they both know what he'll choose. "Okay," he says. Touches his tongue to his teeth. "Okay."

***

Boston wins the next game at home, then lose one away. A grinding, dirty game, chippy from the start and stretching into 2OT. It's a lucky bounce that wins it for Florida, the kind that sticks in your teeth, and Ilya doesn't get back to the hotel until midnight.

He's exhausted when he crawls into bed. He means to go to sleep, but midnight in Florida is seven where Shane is, which means Canada is playing Norway in ten hours. Have fun, Ilya texts, absently taps open Twitter, and abruptly comes face to face with Shane.

There's a mic in his face. His hair is a sweaty fringe, probably just out from practice. Someone's asking him a question, who the fuck cares, and all Ilya sees is the dark layer of the neck guard under the collar of Shane's jersey.

Fuck. He goes hard in an instant, shocked wide awake. The way it shifts when Shane tilts his head. The bob of his throat. The interview ends, and Ilya hits replay, shoves a hand into his briefs. It's embarassingly fast: the orgasm hits like a train, hard and blinding, before the video finishes playing a second time.

He's still panting when Shane texts back. Next time, and then: Good night :) Love you.

An ocean away Shane is waking up. He'll put on his pads, his skates, his Team Canada jersey. He'll play the same beautiful hockey he's been playing since he was old enough to stand up, and it will be Ilya's name on his neck, pressing against skin. Keeping him safe.

This year, Ilya is going to win the Cup. He's going to win with the C on his chest, Raiders screaming in his ear, and that will be what he remembers when he asks for the trade. He'll walk away, even though it'll kill him, because the other side of this is Shane. Shane, and the slow yielding in him that has him thrusting his own head into a collar.

This one started out as a game in the shower, with Ilya seeing how long he could snipe Shane without him noticing. He aims for the back of his calves, his heels, the tops of his feet. 

He’s about halfway through starting and stopping when the jig is up. 

Shane’s face emerges from his hands wiping the water from his eyes, looking sideways at him suspiciously. “Ilya?” 

“Yes, Shane?” Ilya asks mildly, leaning against one of the walls of the shower, a hand still holding his mostly softened cock. 

“What was that?” Shane asks with forced calm. 

“What was what?”

“Hitting my foot.”

Ilya gives him a clueless frown. “Water? Maybe?”

Shane pushes his wet hair back from his face. “From your dick?”

Ilya’s mouth struggles against a smile. “New feature. Just found out about it.”

Shane’s eyes narrow slightly, folding his arms. “You pissed on my foot.”

Ilya groans in defeat, falling forward with his forehead against Shane’s chest. “I had to go! And I didn’t want to leave you,” he whines, drawing out the last word in a bid for forgiveness. 

Shane wraps Ilya’s head in his arms lightly, running his fingers through his soaked curls, laughing gently despite himself. “Then aim it at the….fucking drain!”

“Wanted to see how you would react…” Ilya mumbles just above the volume of the shower head. 

Shane prompts his face out of his chest, and Ilya looks sheepish, a bit caught out. His husband asks genuinely, “Why?”

Ilya’s eyes shoot to the floor of the shower as he smirks. “…Hot.”

“Hot?” Shane asks incredulously. “What kind of porn has Marleau been sending you lately?”

“Was not Marly!” He insists. 

“Oh, great, so you found this little gem on your own?”

Ilya shrugs, clinging to Shane’s slick biceps, massaging as the hot water pounds at his back and the steam rolls around them. “Internet is big place, Hollander. Many things to see. Many kinks to discover.”

“Ah, got it. So the internet gave you a piss kink?”

Ilya makes a noise of discomfort, intertwined with embarrassment. “Look, I'm sorry! I’m sorry, forget I said anything. Forget I did anything,” Ilya says, holding his hands up and skirting around his husband to get under the spray again. 

A hand grips his shoulder. “No, I didn’t say stop, I just…” he urges Ilya to turn, his face having gone more stoic. When he sees Shane again, his husband has a soft, reassuring smile and fingers on his face, stroking. “Just let me fucking process this. Warn a guy before you piss on him, maybe?”

“I can try,” Ilya says coyly, giving him a small grin.

Shane frames his face with his hands, brushing droplets away as they land on his skin. He holds Ilya’s gaze for several long moments, and Ilya feels a warmth in his chest, as if he’s being seen. Shane can be so good at this when he notices Ilya reverting to fear or discomfort. When his emotions begin to shut down once he feels he’s being scolded or viewed as the source of disappointment. Shane doesn’t just look at him. He witnesses him. He reads him. 

“You think it’s hot?” Shane asks, any and all judgment withheld from his voice. 

Ilya sighs, pressing his hands over Shane’s on his face. “I think most things with you are hot. I’m not picky. But yes. This I think would be hot with you.”

Shane nods thoughtfully, taking a breath. “Okay. Then let’s give it a shot.”

—

“And you’ve been drinking your water?”

“Yes, малыш, I am very hydrated,” Ilya entertains Shane’s interrogation with aplomb, the anticipation humming through his body as his husband sits on the bathroom counter a few days later. The backs of his heels hit against the cabinet, antsy and restless. “Baby, this will be fun.”

“You're not the one being pissed on,” Shane points out. 

Ilya smiles wickedly. “I could be. You want to?”

“Jesus, Ilya. One step at a time, okay?”

“Okay, okay. Come on, get in the shower. We will go easy,” Ilya reassures, offering his hand to his husband and helping him off the counter. He watches him shimmy his beautiful ass out of his boxers and step into the large glass shower. Ilya follows after, shutting the door behind them. “You want the water on? Make it a little less intense?”

“No,” Shane mutters. “How will I know if I like it if I can’t distinguish it? Just do it.”

Ilya fluffs Shane’s hair affectionately. “Okay. We’ll start out like this. Even ground, yes?”

“Yeah,” Shane exhales after a deep breath. 

Ilya guides Shane’s hands onto his shoulders. “Don’t let go. Those stay right there.”

Shane nods obediently, squeezing Ilya’s toned muscles. “Okay. Do it.”

“Do what?” Ilya toys, grin slinky and roguish, wrapping a hand around his semi-hard cock. 

Shane narrows his eyes. “Fuck you. Piss on me.”

Ilya scrunched his nose in endeared amusement. He focuses his concentration to his cock, the fullness of his bladder tense and solid in his abdomen. He relaxes himself, and then it comes quick. 

Shane inhales sharply as the stream pelts his half-erect cock, his eyes flying downward to watch what Ilya is subjecting him to. “Fuck,” Shane whispers, but not in disgust. It sounds like intrigue, that lilt that his voice gets when he’s realizing that something is doing it for him. 

“Yeah?” Ilya breathes out suggestively, aiming his piss at the neatly trimmed bed of pubic hair above the base of his cock and watching it soak and drip with his fluids. 

“Yeah,” he responds, just as airy and slightly more desperate. “Yeah, yeah,” he repeats. Ilya can see his eyes going dark, lustful as the lightly tinted piss runs down his cock and balls. 

Ilya directs it higher, staring ravenously as his belly button swiftly puddles with him, cascading out just as fast as it fills and circling around the thickness of his now fully hard cock in rivulets. Ilya’s breath comes out shorter, licking his lips and devouring what he’s doing, how Shane is responding. 

“Jerk yourself off with it.”

Shane’s breath hiccups, looking wide-eyed at Ilya at the order. “Fuck, yeah, okay,” he pants out, immediately wrapping a hand around his dick and starting to stroke himself. 

“Jesus,” Ilya expresses, aiming right for his pumping fist. Shane moans shamelessly at the hot piss hitting his knuckles, his nails digging into Ilya’s shoulder with his other hand. “Fuck, such a dirty boy for me. So fucking naughty. You like jacking off with my piss, baby? That make you so fucking hard?”

Shane groans as his pace increases, and Ilya can already see the clenching in his stomach that is such a major tell to Ilya that he’s already close. “Fuck, Ilya, this is…fucking insane. Christ, don’t stop.”

“I’m running out, baby. Hurry for me,” he encourages, his stream steadily growing weaker by the second as Shane’s forehead hits his collarbone, jerking himself aggressively. “Come on, beautiful,” Ilya groans, reaching under his cock to fondle his balls, squeezing and tugging and massaging as Shane begins to choke on his own moans. 

“Oh fuck, Ilya, I’m gonna…” Shane whines, and his cock explodes, shooting white over his soaked knuckles and fingers and Ilya’s own pissing cock as it finally runs dry. 

Ilya gasps in aroused awe, releasing his balls and grabbing him by the back of his neck, kissing him sloppy and desperate and rabid. “So fucking hot,” he groans into his mouth. “We are doing that again. In fifty different ways.”