I feel itâs maybe time we talk about the Ibiza honeymoon? And like, the fact that Shane specifically wants to go there because he thinks Ilya would be magnificent in that kind of hedonistic party environment. I feel like Shane likely hasnât travelled a ton outside of hockey - heâs probably been to Mexico a few times, to Europe to work and maybe once or twice on vacation? But all his parentsâ money would have gone to hockey, hockey-related travel, and their cottage⌠and Shane is the type of guy to do all his brand management stuff in the off-season, and spend his time training instead of travelling when he doesnât have any big hockey obligations. Plus the Foundation camps.
But he knows Ilya used to traipse around Europe in the summers, and he knows he was a club rat, so despite the fact that it makes Shane feel like heâs gonna puke, heâs incredibly excited to, like, not only see this side of Ilya but to experience it with him.
But before we talk partying we gotta talk about transport.
They get picked up from the airport with a very highly rated private service and rent an obnoxious villa on a fucking cliff over-looking the water because they can. It has a gym, infinity pool, private beach access and various other amenities, including a huge wine cellar with included sommelier, and a garage of sports cars and motorbikes/scooters. They take the cars a few times, and the Montrealer in Shane fucking relishes in the chaotic pace of Spanish traffic (which Ilya has not yet had the opportunity to see and is a little shocked by, but finds incredibly hot).
It takes more for convincing for the motorbike.
âI donât want to end up in the hospital on our honeymoonââ
âWho said anything about hospital? Hollander, I am an expert. I would drive all aroundââ
âYeah, and you shouldnât have been doing that, anyway! Theyâre death traps!â
âOne ride. Just quickly around.â
âShane.â He comes closer, sliding his hands over Shaneâs hips. âYou, with your secret fucked up driving? You will love it, I promise.â He squeezes his hands and shrugs innocently. âAnd if youâre too scared you can follow me in a car.â
âFuckingââ Shane cuts himself off. Glares. âIf we get hurt youâre gonna break the news to Weibe. And my parents.â
Ilya gleefully hands him a helmet.
âThis is peer pressure,â Shane grouses as Ilya helps him put it on.
âMm,â Ilya hums, straddling the bike. He puts on his own helmet. Heâs not hot. At all. âNow, behind me. Feet on the little things on the sideâyes, perfect.â He revs the engine like an asshole, and Shane firmly tells himself that isnât hot, either. Neither is the way Shane wraps his arms around him, or how he has to hook his chin over Ilyaâs shoulder to hear him over the noise, or when Ilya smirks and says hold on, Hollander before they take off like a fucking shot. Shane swears in surprise, arms squeezing Ilyaâs middle. He can he feel him laughing and canât help but grin back.
Itâs⌠okay, itâs fun.
Ilya eases off the speed a little so it isnât quite as terrifying, takes the turns more slowly, and is careful with the cracks and potholes. Eventually, the fact that heâs holding back becomes more annoying than sweet, and Shane takes advantage of an empty road at their more sedate pace to cuddle up against Ilyaâs back more thoroughly. âThis how you normally drive?â Shane yells against the wind.
He can feel Ilya shrug. âPrecious cargo!â He yells back.
âDonât worry about me!â
Ilya glances back at him, raising a brow. At the squeeze of Shaneâs arms around him, he smirks and fucking guns it. They weave through traffic, around potholes, and take turns that have Shaneâs heart in his throat and his adrenaline pumping. âIf itâs too much, you say!â He hears Ilya yell through the wind.
Itâs not too much. It is so embarrassingly not too much that he gets hard and horny enough to rub up against Ilya and feels him laugh delightedly. When Shane sees a good spot up ahead he grins. âHey! Pull over up there!â
Ilya glances back, confused, but does as heâs told. âAre youââ
Shane has his helmet off almost before theyâve stopped, sliding off the back of the bike and walking backwards towards the trees. His hands are already undoing the button and zip of his shorts.
Ilya does that thing he does sometimes; the wide-eyed blush as he mouths wow, like all the air has been stolen from his lungs. He scrambles to follow.
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