his gaze had drifted somewhere between musings, but it finds its way back and settles on her again, ever steady now, something almost thoughtful softening the usual steel found on ice. “ it can feel like that, ” accent threads through words in a way that rounds nothing, only grounds it. he doesn't care about enunciation when comfortable, when with family. “ with him, with shane… it was not like that. we did not have songs. no stars rearranging themselves. just — i understood that everything made more sense when he was there, and nothing was right when he wasn’t. ” the corner of his mouth lifts faintly, “ he proposed, only us there. very inefficient romance for your standards, yes? ” there is a pause then, a drawn out suspension in time, his attention shifting not away from her but deeper into the query that drifts from her fond lips, what sits underneath the dreamy sighs and soft fear of leaving.

ordinarily, fionn only finds single-minded focus at work, when adrenaline courses through his veins and there is no space for anything but being entirely focused on the task at hand. lives may not be at stake, here, and neither is there the urgency, but fionn is entirely present nonetheless; the constant needling, destructive voice in his brain has quieted down entirely, silenced by ilya. by his warmth, this intimacy. it feels sturdier than anything he thinks he's ever felt, as though they are laying a foundation here, instead of rushing into building walls that will quickly collapse—and if anything scares him, it's that, not ilya himself. because fionn isn't used to getting to keep hold of things; when he has let previous sexual partners go, it's often only been because trying to hold onto someone who never saw you as anything more than expendable gets you hurt. he's torn his fingernails enough times, that way, trying to hang onto something that was never his to begin with. and maybe he will still get wounded (he thinks, in his dazed, kiss-drunk state, that he'd let ilya cut him a hundred times over if it was soothed by his mouth), but it won't be today. he's gonna see ilya again.

and there's no turning back now; they passed the point of no return about the time he took his shirt off. maybe even before. fionn doesn't know what they're doing...but he can feel that this isn't as simple as friends who fuck occasionally. if it was, after all, they'd already be fucking. he'd want to be fucking. but fionn wants to stay in this, right here. he's in no rush to be done with this, to turn up the heat so it's over quicker. this is plenty warm enough. ❝ i know you wouldn't be doing this if you didn't want to. ❞ unlike fionn, ilya seems so sure of himself, unwilling to let anyone move him without his consent. fionn, despite his façade of confidence, would bend himself into a pretzel if it made someone else happy. but this isn't a duty, it's desire. a different kind to that he's used to, perhaps, but desire nonetheless.

he lets ilya look at him, neither abashed nor arrogant; this man has, after all, seen pages of fionn's soul that he's not sure he's ever let anyone read, and that feels infinitely more exposing than his gaze on fionn's body. physical nakedness costs him little; it's much harder for fionn to continue to let ilya see him. fionn spends his life trying to reshape himself into something people will like, trying to hide all the parts of himself he hates — a little difficult, when that's most of him — but he's not, at least, ashamed of how he looks. he's worked hard for this body. and under ilya's gaze and those firm, grounding hands, he doesn't feel the need to hide. he just watches ilya's face, his fingers stroking through his curls, his head tilting back as ilya's lips find his neck, and thinks that he might already be in trouble.

but it's a little soon to stay that.

instead, he notes. how gorgeous ilya is. the way he kisses, yes, but the feel of his hands, too. the safety he feels here, the lack of pretence; fionn's the most unguarded he remembers being in a long time. ilya hauls him closer and fionn, inhaling sharply in response, takes special note of that, too, his hand dropping to ilya's arm, fingers squeezing gently into the muscle as though he can assess his strength. definitely something he'll be thinking about later. ❝ ilya, ❞ he murmurs, warm and fond, ❝ there's no pressure here. ❞ not with fionn. not with the way ilya kisses again, the guidance of his hand settling with a sense of rightness. it's easy to let him angle his face how he wants; it all feels so right. fionn's not used to that. ❝ trust me, you've got nothing to worry about. ❞

it's so easy to lose himself in this. so easy, too, for fionn to shift with ilya, resting more of his weight against him, one hand on the back of the sofa by ilya's shoulder for support; there are enough points of contact, now, that he can feel each breath. maybe he'd be able to feel ilya's heartbeat, too, if his own wasn't pounding so loudly in his ears. and easier than anything at all to let ilya's mouth find his again, kissing deep and languid until he has no choice but to break it for air. even then, he rests their foreheads together, ilya's breath warm on his face. ❝ stay, ❞ he requests softly, meaning anything from for dinner to overnight. ❝ we can order food. do a whole lot more of this. ❞

“ yes, ” he murmurs, voice low and roughened from kissing, tilting his head to press a soft, conscious kiss to the man's jaw. “ i stay. food can wait. ” the words are disjointed but casual nonetheless, yet the weight behind them is unmistakable — a choice made fully aware of consequence. he leans into fionn, letting their bodies settle against one another, and for the first time in years, ilya feels the luxury of not thinking ahead, of simply existing in a space defined only by touch, warmth, and the implicit magnitude of connection.

for most of his life, closeness has been something forced to manage rather than inhabit. hockey, a strict upbringing — the rigid structure of it all had shaped him early, carved away softness until what remained was precision and endurance. you learned to control the game, control yourself, control the outcome. emotions were inefficient variables. even outside the rink the same instincts steadily applied : take what you want, keep it uncomplicated, leave before the balance tips. it had worked. it had kept his life sharp and orderly, insulated from a chaos other people invited into themselves impetuously. not that he didn't invite recklessness into the parameters of his world, he most certainly did, but it was controlled. the ball unfailingly in his court.

and now, with fionn warm against him, requesting his presence as though it were the simplest thing in the world, ilya feels that careful architecture shift. it doesn't collapse, nor does it unravel, but it bends in a way he never quite planned for.

he kisses him again, drifting lower, lips gliding down the planes of fionn's solid chest, teasing teeth against sensitive skin, measuring reaction in the subtle catch of breath. every movement is intentional and exploratory, designed to draw responses without rushing, to make the heat linger. he notices how fionn responds — the soft tilts of his head, the pressing of his body into his hands — and feels the rare thrill of shared surrender : mutual inhabitation of the same moment.

ilya's hands wander with muted audacity, sliding over hips and brushing the inner curve of his thighs, anchoring him there, feeling the shape and tension of muscle beneath his wanting palms. the thrill of holding someone like this unravels something he has long buried : the desire to linger, fully, without a single urge to escape. there is no exit strategy here, merely the raw insistence of presence, and it intoxicates him. the thought surprises him however, he could stay like this forever, simply exploring and testing, and in this moment, he feels it could be enough.

Q. " i never thought i would see the day. " ilya rozanov ... @rozenov.

the answer leaves ilya with a crooked half–smile, voice low and accented, consonants softened by years that still have never sanded the edges off his russian. he tips his head toward his friend like the joke belongs tucked safely between them, it warms him. his gaze drifts toward the children as he sits with eli — chloe issuing commands with the confidence of a tiny tyrant while oliver chatters back, unbothered, orbiting her like some loyal little moon. it draws a humming sound from ilya's chest, almost a laugh. “ other one… men getting married in NHL? ” he resumes, shrugging a shoulder. “ that one i already know is coming. world is slow, but is moving. ” amber hues drift back to eli then, thoughtful in that observant way he has when he’s really looking at someone. eli speaks about kaz with so much certainty — best friend, whole life, fuck everyone else — and a usually tensed place in ilya softens around the edges. he rubs his thumb absently along the chain at his throat, a habit he barely notices. “ you make it sound very simple, ” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth tilting. “ maybe it can be, yes? ”

fingers hook the chain and pull it out from beneath the collar of his shirt. the crucifix comes first, old and familiar, catching the light in a small and swift flash. alongside it hangs the other item — newer, heavier in a way that has nothing to do with the weight of metal. ilya lets it sway there between them for a moment, watching the way it rocks along the chain. “ shane asked me, ” he says after a beat, the words still foreign on his tongue. his voice had softened without him truly meaning to, but the smile that follows is bright and helpless all at once. ilya taps the chain lightly so the ring spins beside his mother’s cross, tempered by the fact that his two best friends are the only ones to know, and now eli, too. every person told feeling like a another brick lifting from where it crushes his chest. “ i keep it here. cameras everywhere, you know? easier this way. ” then he glances back at eli, eyes glinting in the soft light.

some things are conspicuous by their absence: time lost and memories never formed, large gaps in his mind that can never be filled, now, but are merely yawning chasms to be avoided. an arm, gone forever, a limb now cut short; fionn sort of wishes the rest of him had gone with it. others are more noticeable by their presence: the pain, for one, something he's going to have to make good friends with. the white chip lying on the table in a pile of things clearly unearthed from his pockets at some point, once a symbol of how far he'd come, a tangible thing to grasp when recovery didn't come easily, and now a taunting reminder that he's back at square one.

the man leaning against the wall. even before he opens his eyes, fionn knows he's there, somehow. he wishes he could remember if this is the first time — he remembers insisting ilya be told he was here, last time he was properly with it, and likely incomprehensibly before that — or whether he's been waiting the whole time, while fionn was too out of it or high to realise. he's lucid now. exhausted, but here. fionn, opening his eyes now, just looks at him, and to anyone else, ilya's expression might be unreadable. intense, restrained.

but fionn has spent a long time learning the language of his face, and he can see the truth of it. ilya looks devastated. ❝ ilya, ❞ he says, voice hoarse from dryness and disuse; when ilya doesn't immediately move, he tries again, a little more desperate, holding out his hand. ❝ ilya, please. i'm sorry.❞ what for? who knows. everything, probably. he sniffs, too focused on watching him to realise that he's crying; it is lips soft on his cheeks that clue him in, fionn's eyes closing, his body relaxing. his hand finds ilya's, and holds on tight.

he wants this. fionn is, as he has always been, a desperate, lonely man who spent far too long starved of the affection he needs to function; now that he has access to it, fionn wants to gorge himself on it. he wants this. he's so tired of being secret. but this isn't what they do. with his eyes closed, he can be anywhere else, with ilya's kisses, and not here, where his thumb strokes ilya's knuckles and he makes himself say, ❝ baby, someone could see. ❞

the apology slices at his heart before ilya has even moved.

of course he apologizes, he thinks with a pang that's both anger and near heartbreak combined, because it appears that fionn tremayne has somehow convinced himself that surviving requires forgiveness. that he must soften his own existence so that no one is inconvenienced by it. ilya crosses the room quickly after that realization settles, the chair near the bed nudged aside by his hip rather unceremoniously. hand closes firmly around the one his boyfriend holds out to him, and the warmth of it transmits a grounding shock through his chest. he bends over the bed and presses his mouth to the damp path of tears on the man's scarred cheek, once and then again, gentler the second time, as if he is soothing something bruised. thumb slides beneath fionn's eye to catch the moisture there.

❛ no. you do not say sorry to me. ❜ he draws back only enough to look down at him properly, his gaze leisurely traversing across the ever familiar face, every detail long committed to memory. the exhaustion, the pallor. ❛ you scared me, ❜ he adds, exhaling through his nose as his fingers tighten around the hand cradled in his, ❛ but that is not something you say sorry for. ❜

he does not say how quickly he left, how little thought there was in the decision beyond get there now. the flight, the constriction in his chest every minute the plane stayed in the air instead of delivering him here, the frigid certainty that had tried to creep into his mind every time he imagined this room. instead he releases a breath that resembles a near dismal laugh. ❛ coach will be furious when he realizes i disappear in middle of road trip, ❜ he professes quietly. ❛ but what was i supposed to do? stay and think about it? ❜ his thumb begins tracing slow, absent circles across the man's knuckles, a soothing motion he does not seem fully aware of making.

when fionn murmurs that someone could see, ilya's expression softens with something helplessly fond and faintly incredulous. here he is, lying in a hospital bed after nearly dying, and his first instinct is still to protect them from being noticed. ilya leans forward again, resting his forehead lightly against fionn's as if proximity alone could steady the both of them.

shit, fionn had been joking about being special; there's not a single part of him that believes someone like ilya would really notice him, not to this degree. but ilya has been nothing but genuine, even when he's had his fingers dug deep into fionn's chest. if this has been intended as destruction, it's been remarkably gentle. ❝ just me, ❞ he echoes softly, gaze dropping for a moment before it makes its way back to ilya's eyes. he'd truly thought this was just something ilya did. it surprises him that it is not. ❝ why do i make you curious? ❞ he has to ask. even if he doesn't get an answer, he has to try. ilya has seen so much of the fionn that he keeps hidden away, shielding everyone from his broken edges and desperation to be held, but fionn's always known he was there. but, clearly, ilya also sees something that fionn just doesn't. a fresh pair of eyes often brings things to light; fionn just wasn't expecting it to be his fucking soul that got pulled out of the shadows. yours were obvious, he says, and fionn has to shake his head. ❝ not to anybody else. just you. ❞

the why is the part fionn doesn't understand. why him? why now? they were at a bar; what made ilya notice him? because this isn't just someone noticing him for how he looks, for what they want from him. but he can't say he minds. this may be one of the most intense days he's had, but he likes ilya. he likes the weight of his gaze on him — a weighted blanket, grounding and comforting, not an anchor dragging him to the depths — even as it discomfits him to be so seen.

with a fry in hand, fionn laughs, unbothered by being called boring. he's been called worse. ❝ you're the one still talking to me, man. ❞ he smiles, brief and bright around his mouthful. ❝ sometimes it's fitting smoke detectors for old people, and that is boring. ❞ tell me. fionn finds that he wants to; maybe it makes him party to his own psychological destruction, but he wants to tell ilya things. he wants to talk to him. ❝ what, do i do it so everyone looks at me like a superhero? jesus, no. no. ❞ he's no fucking hero. fionn's nose wrinkles briefly, taking the time to chew before continuing. ❝ i like that it's a challenge. every day's different, you know. but mostly i signed up 'cause i needed a purpose, a-a reason to get out of bed. and i was skint. uh, broke. ❞ he's in america now; it's no judgement on ilya's english skills to assume he won't know slang that the yanks don't understand, either.

not to anybody else. that earns him a prolonged look, it gives rise to dubiety and, as expected, more curiosity. he tilts his head just a fraction, considering the claim like he would a risky pass. ❛ other people are distracted. i am not. ❜ he doesn’t say by what — by fame, by egoism, by the constant churn of expectation — but it hangs there either way. he notices because he has spent his entire life being noticed for the wrong things ; he has learned to return the favor properly. when fionn laughs about smoke detectors and boredom, ilya’s mouth curves more openly before setting into a line. ❛ what? you are saying fitting smoke detectors is not interesting? ❜ dry sarcasm etched across his brow. ❛ the elderly will never recover when they hear. ❜ but when fionn speaks about purpose, about needing a reason to get out of bed, something in ilya quiets, he stills because of it. that part he understands intimately. that is not boring, it's honest.

their feet press again beneath the table and ilya lets his shoe rest there, a silent acknowledgment of the choices they continuously make that evening. eyes trail the action of the man across him removing his jacket, watches the flush in his cheeks and wonders if it solely has to do with the heat of the restaurant. there is an openness in the way he looks at him, and ilya feels the reciprocating tug deep in his chest, inconvenient and undeniable. he doesn't smile fully yet, but its imminent emergence looms.

this should terrify him. the man that fionn has become has grown around the sharp, pressing barb of his parents' wish he had never been born (as though he'd asked) and his own self-loathing; invisible to most, it has still cut wounds into him with every breath, every lonely struggle, every dark night alone. for all that he has an open heart, fionn eschews this kind of vulnerability. it's one thing to feel too much, to put himself into situations where he cares more for others than they do for him, and quite another to give someone else that kind of power. to let ilya see who he really is, deep inside, is scary; fionn wants ilya to want him, and who would want that broken man? it's a little like pulling his heart out of his own chest and placing it in ilya's hands, trusting that he won't simply crush it.

it should be terrifying; it is not. fionn's spent his entire life chasing this kind of connection; an intimacy that comes not from giving his body to other people, as he's done so many times before (being wanted, yes, but only for a time, only 'til they're done with him, leaving him hollow), but from letting someone else see him. this isn't merely a shallow, carnal lust, but the desire for something real. ilya is, fionn's pretty sure, just as lonely as he is. no amount of money or acclaim can fill the kind of hunger that lingers in hearts like theirs. and fionn wants, desperately, to be the one to help fill those gaps up. to be as safe for him as ilya has clearly become for fionn. ilya may not be nearly as demonstrative as fionn, but he's made it clear how he feels. in words and actions.

❝ maybe i'm selfish, and want more of it.❞ it is strong, sure hands that keep fionn tethered, grounded in this moment, and the press of ilya's mouth that finally quietens his mind and lets him be present, bathing in the heat of this; he would, he thinks, follow anywhere ilya led. he presses closer — to the exploring hands, to ilya's body, to the feeling of being known, here — his head tilting to give better access to his neck.

(if the sound he fails to swallow down is a response to i like you too, four simple words that take residence in his mind, almost as much as it is to ilya kissing his throat, fionn staunchly refuses to mention it.)

his own hand slides beneath ilya's collar, the other travelling down his shoulder to the curve of his chest, mapping the strength he carries. a smile is pressed into another kiss with his tongue, lingering for long, languid moments before he pulls back, breathless and dazed as he gazes at ilya, lips kiss-swollen. how many times have they looked at each other, like this, saying nothing and saying everything? in the quiet, the only sound their breath, fionn pulls his shirt off, breaking eye contact for only as long as necessary, his hands coming to cup ilya's face the moment it's dropped. you can touch me, is the invitation, i want you to touch me.

❝ i'm gonna be thinking about the way you kiss forever, ❞ he murmurs, mouths pressed together for a long moment before he trails his lips along ilya's jaw. ❝ i don't remember the last time i kissed someone like this. it's usually... ❞ a hello. foreplay, at best. but this feels like its own thing; they are intentionally lingering, letting the heat build slowly. giving it a stable foundation. maybe they'll fuck today, maybe they won't, but fionn would be fine either way. this is a much deeper kind of intimacy, one he'd pretended he didn't need. he gestures vaguely to fill in the end of the sentence, switching to the other side of ilya's jaw, mouth tracing a hot, tender path across his skin. ❝ this is so good. ❞

strong hands move more firmly over bare skin now, palms flattening against the newly revealed warmth of the man's torso. the discarded shirt registers in his mind as an unstated turning point. not escalation or urgency exactly, but a conscious gesture of trust. ilya lets his gaze travel over him without haste, studying the shape of him the way he studies ice before a game — ever patient and observant, indexing every small shift in tension and breath. attraction has never been difficult for him ; it has always been immediate, uncomplicated. what unsettles him now is the awareness that this moment carries a weight beyond that simple instinct. he dips his head once more, letting his mouth follow the long line of fionn's throat with measured attention, the contact slow enough that he can feel the subtle responses in the body beneath his hands.

❛ if you are selfish, ❜ a quiet add as lips brush along warm skin, ❛ then we are both in trouble. ❜

the sound fionn makes in response settles somewhere deeper than ilya expects. it is soft and involuntary, the kind of reaction people rarely allow themselves when they are performing for someone else’s pleasure. he feels it resonate through the closeness between them and it draws his focus sharply back to the present. his hands begin to explore with greater certainty, sliding from ribs to waist, mapping the firm structure of muscle beneath his palms before settling briefly at fionn's thighs to pull him closer. the movement is intentional and daring, and the physical closeness that ensues is grounding in a way ilya can't remember ever having experienced before. for once, his mind isn't drifting ahead toward an inevitable exit. instead it lingers exactly where he is, attentive to the warmth pressed against him and the trust threaded through it.

when fionn tells him he will remember the way he kisses, ilya exhales a huff that borders on self-consciousness. ❛ is lot of pressure, ❜ he mutters. despite the dry remark, he promptly draws the other down again with a steady hand at his nape, guiding the angle of the kiss with the same natural precision he brings to everything else in his life. he deepens it gradually, letting it stretch into something slower and more consuming, a contact that kindles rather than extinguishes. he is distantly aware of how easily he could push this moment further, escalate it into something faster and less complicated. and yet he holds it at this pace, allowing the heat gather patiently between them.

fionn trails off mid-sentence, but the meaning that lives in the unspoken is clear. ilya has lived long enough in a world of fleeting encounters to recognize the rhythm of them : quick hellos, efficient intimacy, departures that arrive before anything real has the chance to grow roots. his thumb drifts along a stubbled jaw before his hand slides down the center of his chest, pausing briefly over the steady rhythm beneath his palm.

shane stared dumbfounded at the phone for a full minute, almost like he was waiting for a 'just kidding!' follow up text that never came. then he typed out three words : fuck you rozanov. he almost sent that text immediately, but something stopped him. finger hovered over send before he deleted the text, dropped the phone on the bed and brought both arms up to cover his eyes, barely resisting the urge to scream and wake everyone on his floor. there were three little typing dots, and then there was nothing.

he's moving before he can allow himself a moment of hesitation. down the corridor and up the elevator, knuckles rapping sharply against shane's hotel door, pulse thundering in his ears like he’s stepping onto fresh ice. the door swings open and there he is — shane, rumpled and bright-eyed and infuriatingly dear — and ilya doesn’t give either of them time to retreat. he crowds forward, one hand bracing at shane's hip, the other sliding into his hair as he drags him close. the kiss is not the kind he has perfected for cameras or conquests ; it is full and soft and searing all at once, a confession pressed mouth to mouth, slow enough to mean something and deep enough to utterly undo him. he feels the hitch of shane's breath getting trapped against his own, tastes the salt of everything unsaid, and for one reckless moment he lets himself hold him the way he has relentlessly desired to. when he finally pulls back, forehead resting briefly against the other's, his voice is quiet and exposed of its usual bounds.