Pulvis Et Umbra Sumus

Later, after, after ilya had cleaned Shane’s face with his fingers and both their mouths- they are stumbling heavy footed and tired into the bathroom for a shower- and Ilya sees it, a dark mouth shaped bruise, purple red, it looks like he took a fucking puck to his groin. He gasps and Shane is like huh? All big heavy eyes already in the shower, waiting for Ilya to get in with him. His hair is all wet flat to his head, brushed back out of eyes. Ilya has got to fuck him again. But more importantly -

Shane on his knees. Shane on his hands and knees. Shane and him fucking in front a fireplace with Shane riding him slowly while they’re sat up chest to chest, real romantic shit. Shane’s mouth open and plush. Shane begging for it. Shane crying for it. Shane saying his name. Shane saying goodbye. Shane saying hi. Shane’s eyes and his neck and his baby rabbit soft ears and his strong forearms. The bend of his elbow. Taking Shane to some stupid resort in the Bahamas or something where they would just lie in a private cabin in the middle of the ocean and hold hands and sunbathe and have cocktails appear in their hands. Where Shane would let him have him on every surface. He thought about Shane’s eyes and his eyebrows and the space between his eyebrows that would crinkle when Ilya said something to rouse him on purpose. The way Shane said what. The way he said what do you mean. All earnest like all honest and vulnerable. The way Shane could look at him in a way that made Ilya feel like he was being pierced through the skin. He wanted to lie awake and watch Shane sleep and whisper just loudly enough that it was heard by the world. I would die for you I would die for you I would I would. Shane holding a baby. Shane’s trim waist roped with muscle, Ilya’s big hand wrapped around it. Mine, mine, mine. Shane’s shoulders and back, rippling through water. Shane drinking a glass of water. Shane drinking a glass of beer. Shane wearing blue jeans and a white t-shirt. Shane’s pinched brow. Making out with Shane open mouthed. Fucking Shane up against a wall. In fact, every surface became a place he could fuck Shane. Every song became about Shane. Every conversation thread had by other people something he could spin into Shane.

It got so bad he simply had to talk to someone about it. Luckily Marley had just met some new chick of the month as well and it was easy to transpose Shane onto some nebulous type girl. They weren’t super sharey in general so he kind of got away with being unspecific, never saying a name. Just any excuse to talk about him. They traded lovesick comments between them like tween girls and sexual fantasies like perverse men. He never said the truly damning shit out loud though. It was just a pressure release. A way to keep from exploding, saying the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person.

Ilya imagined taking Shane into his arms rough and ready in the doorway and saying I missed you. Did you miss me? And Shane admitting I missed you and Ilya would get to smirk into Shane’s smiling mouth and Shane would be overcome with it and kiss him like he was air. Shane in shorts. Shane in briefs. Shane in a jock. Shane completely naked in his bed. Waking up to find Shane naked in his bed. Returning from a shower to find Shane naked in his bed. Returning from practice to find Shane naked in his bed. All dark hair and sweet eyes, sheets tangled around his limbs and hands grabbing at nothing, grabbing for Ilya. Shane and him touching chest to chest with nothing in between. Shane holding him under the covers. Shane complaining that the carrots are overcooked. Or the glass isn’t clean enough. Or the fabrics not organic.

Everytime he stopped at a red light while driving he imagined Shane sliding into the passenger seat, smiling and saying “Hi” shyly before throwing himself over Ilya, Shane’s lips all over his face and neck, hands running like water, and Ilya would chuckle and say “Okay easy. Easy now” which was ridiculous because it was Ilya’s fantasy and so he was the one making Shane act like this. And he would say “I missed you, did you miss me?” and Shane would murmur “Well, obviously” and Ilya would feel like a fucking lottery winner for affecting the man who can’t be moved, for making him admit to his being moved. Shane wearing his hat backwards. Shane blushing from the bridge of his nose to his belly button. Shane folded in half gasping and moaning into Ilya’s mouth. Shane across from him at a cafe or a restaurant or in the seat next to him at a bar. He would know exactly what to order for Shane, for Shane to roll his eyes and then say thank you and Ilya would say show me how thankful you are and Shane would roll his eyes and kiss him even though there were people around.

All things absurd and mundane. But if you asked him, even to himself, he would’ve responded he spent minimal amounts of time thinking about Hollander.

Not often. Maybe only a couple of times. Maybe only once.

Some brutal fucking game where Shane cracked his fucking head on the ice hard enough that Ilya swore he felt it through the ice. The visor on his fucking helmet snapped off. His ears rang and his head swam but he didn't lose consciousness, his eyes were dilating fine. The trainers kept him back for half a period but eventually had to let him back out on the ice because someone complaining that much and talking that lucidly was probably alright. And he is, he is actually alright, but by the time the adrenalin of the game is gone and by the time he's done self-flagellating for the fact that, after all of that shit, Boston won by one point--by the time that's done, he's tired. His head aches. And this is the last time he gets to see Ilya, maybe, before playoffs ramp up and they don't speak for awhile. So of course he still goes to Ilya's place and of course he lets Ilya kiss him hard in the doorway, though he can't help the slight Ah, ah that comes out of his mouth when Ilya does his normal thing and fists a hand in his hair.

"Oh, oh, your head." Ilya says this far too gently and far too sweetly, like one might to an animal or child. Because Ilya is a little like the Big Bad Wolf and at times speaks with a voice not his own. Sometimes he opens his mouth but what comes out isn't his normal voice, deep and sexy and sometimes crude. At times he speaks with a different voice enirely--soft, higher. Call it loving, if it wasn't Ilya fucking Rozanov.

(This is because Ilya Rozanov is a loverboy at heart, always has been. Shane doesn't know this yet.)

"It's fine," Shane mutters, already searching for Ilya's mouth again. "Come on. Come on."

And Ilya obliges him, slots their mouths back together and slots his hands behind Shane's thighs to lift, and Shane loves that. He always does. He would never ever tell Rozanov, but he fucking loves submitting to him in that way--giving over his entire body as something to be picked up, moved around. This instrument of his that he keeps so finely tuned, and when he's with Ilya it doesn't belong to him anymore. It feels so fucking good, every time.

It feels especially good tonight, when all he's heard for hours is Fuck Hollander that one was bad. Careful with that head man we're gonna need it. That one was nasty, you sure you're good. Gotta be careful man.

Ilya says absolutely none of this. Ilya hauls him to the bedroom and tilts onto the bed, landing on it widthwise with Shane under him. He kisses Shane's stomach and hips as he takes off his pants for him and then he rests his chin in Shane's bush as he smiles and says, "You have headache, hm? I see you squint."

"A little. It's fine."

"You know what's good for headache?" Ilya kisses him twice, once in the hip, once on the stomach, low enough that Shane feels the suction of the kiss at the base of his dick.

"What?" Shane whispers, arms over his head and knees dropped onto the bedspread.

"Orgasm," Ilya says simply. "Releases chemicals, makes you feel good. I'll make you feel good, okay? See if that headache goes away."

And Ilya, as always, makes him feel good. But only after he puts a pillow behind Shane's head and a pillow under his hips and asks him if he's comfortable. And Shane would roll his eyes and accuse him of patronizing him, making fun of him for taking the hit, if there wasn't something different in Rozanov's eyes tonight. He kneels between Shane's legs and looks down at him, hands massaging Shane's thighs, and he looks unbearably handsome. Shane tells him so.

"Are you gonna fuck me?" Shane murmurs, when the staring and the touching has gone on for a very long time.

"Mm-hm. Yes." Ilya kisses his belly again, presses his forehead there. Says something that might be So beautiful or Pretty boy or even My baby. Shane decides it's not for his ears and doesn't listen, and then makes himself forget he ever heard it.

Ilya fucks him for absolute ages and says things like Feel good? Nice for you? Nice full feeling in your tummy? How is your head, baby, feel better? And Shane doesn't know why it doesn't feel condescending, why it feels so fucking good to let Ilya handle him this way when they normally snarl and bite at each other after games like the one tonight and like it that way. He doesn't know why this version of Ilya's control over him feels so right and fucking special.

Shane comes twice. Once with Ilya's hand around his cock, hand fisted in Ilya's perfect hair, Ilya grunting into his neck, the beautiful sensation of Ilya's thick cock twitching inside him, ideal in almost every way. Once a little later, in Ilya's mouth after he'd come and tied off the condom and got back in bed and kissed his way slowly down Shane's body from his shoulder to his hip. A gentle, soundless orgasm that Ilya swallowed down without comment before he rested his cheek on Shane's hip and dozed for a little while.

Shane taps his chin because it's getting late and he's going to miss curfew.

"I will pay your fine," Ilya mutters next to Shane's balls.

"Bad idea," Shane mumbles. There's a beat of silence, and then he says, "We probably shouldn't...do it like that again."

Ilya, after a moment, only nods.

It's the closest they come to talking about it. The way that it gets just a bit too real sometimes. The way that they let it keep happening, each of them making eye contact with it and then plucking their own eyes out just to forget its shape.

At the door, Ilya says, "Your head feels better, yes?"

And Shane says, "Yeah, you took good care of me."

And Ilya puffs up, proud of himself, then kisses the side of Shane's head while Shane resists the urge to say Fuck, Rozanov, what did I just say, because he wants it. Goddamn it, he fucking wants it and he's tired of denying himself.