take Ilya's dick out of your mouth before you talk

shane: hey :) play better next time best buddy :)

All Ilya has to do is press the little button above his seat and in a matter of seconds a beautiful man will come stand in front of Ilya and ask what he can do for him. A beautiful man with beautiful freckles and shining brown eyes and biceps that had flexed tantalizingly when he'd helped an older woman with her overhead luggage during boarding. And not Ilya, no. He'll ask what he can do for Mr. Rozanov.

It's honestly almost too much. (Almost.)

The first couple of calls had seemed innocent enough, and the flight attendant ("SHANE," his name tag helpfully provides) had been the picture of customer service as he arrived at Ilya's seat with a pasted-on pleasant smile and confidently strode up and down the aisle to bring him a hot towel, a snack, an extra blanket, and always "if there's anything else I can do, sir, please let me know." Ilya had never appreciated the phrase "hate to see them go, love to watch them leave" more.

By the fifth call in the space of an hour, Shane seems to be getting suspicious. His smile has taken on a wry edge as he approaches Ilya's seat, but Ilya maintains perfect innocence as he asks Shane if he can close his window shade.

Shane stops just short of rolling his eyes. "Mr. Rozanov, I have a feeling you're more than capable of closing a window shade on your own."

Ilya shrugs, eyes wide in put-upon bewilderment. "It's stuck! I cannot budge it."

Shane sighs as he braces one hand on Ilya's armrest leans across him to pull the shade down (easily, of course). Ilya tries not to be too obvious as he breathes Shane in, reveling in having him so close, but Shane must sense it anyway because he freezes as he starts to pull away, looking back at Ilya warily as if he's not quite sure what his game is.

"Ah, my hero," Ilya praises softly. "I knew you could do it."

Ilya watches Shane swallow hard before he straightens up. "Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Rozanov?" he asks, a slight waver in his voice.

"Not right now, thank you, Shane. But I'll let you know next time I need you." Ilya points to the button above his head and winks, smiling at the way it makes Shane flush before he hurries away.

Ilya decides not to press the button for over an hour after that, just to see, and the way it makes Shane slowly grow more and more antsy is simply delicious. Ilya can tell he's itching for Ilya's next call, nervously shifting his eyes over to Ilya as he assists other passengers.

After about forty-five minutes, Ilya is playing a game on his phone when he senses Shane next to him and looks up, where he's nervously biting his lip. "Mr. Rozanov, I just wanted to let you know that we'll be starting beverage service shortly. I'll be busy with the cart for a while, so if there's anything you might need..."

He's so beautifully nervous. He's being so wonderfully good. Ilya rewards him with an honest smile, one that seems to put Shane at ease. "Thank you, Shane. I will be fine."

Shane breathes out, returning Ilya's smile. "Ok, cool. I'll, uh, check on you later, ok?"

"Ok. Thank you."

When Shane comes with the beverage cart, he asks for Shane's number. He's never seen anyone flush more prettily as he writes it down on an airline cocktail napkin and signs it "xx Shane."

~~

COMIN RIGHT UP

Shane was weird about Ilya’s bump.

He’s seven months along now, really rounding out and obviously showing, unable to wear most of his old shirts and any pants that don’t have elastic waistbands. It had been easier, at first, when Shane had moved in and Ilya’s body stubbornly hid the pregnancy away beneath its well-honed walls of muscle, but now there’s no denying it: every time Shane looks at him, he’s reminded that there’s a whole other human growing inside of Ilya.

And he’s being weird about it.

He knows he’s being weird, at least. He just keeps hoping Ilya (and Cliff, of course) just won’t bring it up.

But now they’re all sitting in the living room watching a west coast game, Ilya slumped in a nest of pillows with Cliff’s arm slung loosely over his shoulders. His Raiders shirt is creeping up and up and up, baring more and more of his belly every time he wriggles around to try to get comfortable, and Shane is trying not to stare from where he sits on the floor beside the coffee table, a half-assembled crib mobile laying on the surface before him.

Ilya grunts, wincing and hissing through his teeth. “Little shit,” he mutters.

“You okay babe?” Cliff asks, drawing Shane’s attention as well.

“Fine. He’s just kicking like crazy. Little soccer star. My poor organs are the ball.”

Cliff does not suffer the same hangups as Shane. He’s one of the fathers, after all, and he’s the kind of guy this shit comes naturally to. He doesn’t even hesitate to push Ilya’s shirt up over his belly, exposing it fully as he rests a huge hand beneath the swell of it and leans toward it, listening.

“Damn, you’re not kidding,” he says with a delighted grin. “Little guy’s gunning for the World Cup in there.” He glances down at Shane, his face still so warm, so earnest. “C’mere, Hollzy. Come feel.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Shane says reflexively, and he sees Ilya’s face fall at once.

“Why not?” Ilya asks, and it sounds like he’s been wanting to ask for weeks. “Is not going to bite you.”

Shane’s shoulders are creeping up toward his ears. His skin heats. He feels stupid, but he also can’t get past it. “It’s just - I don’t know. I’m not one of the dads. I guess…” He bites off the rest of his sentence as his throat suddenly gets tight.

“You think you won’t feel anything,” Cliff guesses, surprising Shane yet again by how intuitive he can be. “You won’t know until you try, man. C’mon. Put your hand right here.”

Shane doesn’t want to, but when it’s two on one like this, he always goes along with whatever they want to do. He lets Cliff guide his hand up to Ilya’s belly, ignores the tickle in his own stomach as Cliff’s hand sandwiches Shane’s between it and Ilya’s skin. He holds Shane’s hand there, refusing to let him pull away.

And Shane doesn’t feel anything.

There’s no magical tapping or kicking or whatever you’re supposed to feel when they say the baby’s kicking. Whatever Ilya and Cliff felt has since gone dormant now that Shane is butting into the picture. He tries desperately not to look as disappointed as he feels.

“Just hang on,” Cliff says gently. “He’s thinking about it.”

Shane sighs. “It’s fine, guys, really. I figured this would happen.”

He’s about to try to pull away when he feels it. A nudge beneath the very center of his palm. A very sharp, very solid kick. And then another. And another.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, and Cliff and Ilya wear matching smiles.

“Hate to break it to you, Hollzy, but I think you’re gonna be a dad whether you want to be or not.”

They start as creases in the corners of his eyes, the natural consequence of David's awful dad jokes, or Yuna's brand negotiation horror stories, or a stellar Cens reunion, or something wild and out of the blue that their toddler says, or a bitchy comment from Shane from their seats in the stands as they watch games rather than play them, or the way Shane's hip now clicks in a comically loud way every time Ilya spreads his legs.

Initially the lines fade away immediately.

Then, as the years go on, they linger, so that Shane gets to look at them and hear the sound of Ilya's laughter in his head for longer and longer. Then, they stop fading, and Shane can see the evidence of every beautiful moment they've had together etched onto his favorite face in the world.

When Ilya finally concedes and says they're not laugh lines anymore - he's officially got wrinkles, Shane beams at him and kisses each one reverently.

"You know me, I would never complain, but what was that for?" Ilya asks and Shane smiles back at him, knowing the lines on his own face largely mirror his husband's.

"Just grateful that I've spent long enough with you to get to see you with wrinkles."

three years and a random question instead of a greeting. instead of an apology. instead of anything.

more silence and ilya supposes he deserves it. or, alexei thinks he does at least, and he's not sure why he bothered to pick up the phone in the first place.

"i remember deda dima telling us not to climb them in case we got sap on our clothes," alexei says eventually, and his voice is still heavy with exhaustion.

"i didn't know if it was real or . . . or if it was something i made up."

But this year he's not in Russia, and he slips into this warm syrupy slumber while Shane pets through his hair (incidentally making a disastrous mess of his curls) and reads his book. When Ilya eventually rouses, with a happy grumble of contentment, nuzzling closer into Shane's stomach, he can feels Shane laughing gently at him almost before he hears it.

"Did you sleep well?" Shane asks, and that sounds warm and syrupy too, and Ilya rolls over so he can smile at Shane and revel in the smile he gets in return.

And then Shane says, "Are you hungry? It's almost dinnertime," and Ilya realises he's been lying here, napping and pinning Shane to the couch and wasting both of their time, for hours, and he jackknifes upright so suddenly that Shane startles back.

"Fuck!" Ilya spits out. "I was--fuck, has been so long. Why didn't you wake me up?" already guilty because Shane had wanted to make some pasta thing that he was weirdly excited about and they'd talked about maybe playing more Chel but now the whole day's been napped away and--Ilya sneaks a look---Shane's book is lying closed on the couch, bookmark set neatly aside, so Shane had finished his book and not even been able to get up to go do something else.

And he's just smiling at Ilya, completely unconcerned that Ilya's been idle and asleep and... and... lazy, all afternoon, just glad Ilya had a good nap.

Shane's frowning in mild confusion at him. "Why?" he says, genuinely not seeing the problem. "You were napping, it was nice. I mean, if I'd needed to pee or something I'd have got up but I was fine." He reaches out and smoothes some of Ilya's hair down. "Oh, the pasta. We can do that tomorrow, we have all that salad from lunch and rolls and there's peaches if we want dessert."

Ilya must have responded somehow because Shane beams at him and says, "Cool, I'll go set the table if you want to go wash your face." He smirks and pokes at Ilya's cheek. "Got a little drool there." And then he smacks a kiss on Ilya's head, gets up, and trots over to the kitchen while Ilya just sits there reeling.