I feel it’s 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 hasn’t travelled a ton outside of hockey - he’s probably been to Mexico a few times, to Europe to work and maybe once or twice on vacation? But all his parents’ 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 doesn’t 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 he’s gonna puke, he’s 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.
“I don’t want to end up in the hospital on our honeymoon—”
“Who said anything about hospital? Hollander, I am an expert. I would drive all around—”
“Yeah, and you shouldn’t have been doing that, anyway! They’re death traps!”
“One ride. Just quickly around.”
“Shane.” He comes closer, sliding his hands over Shane’s hips. “You, with your secret fucked up driving? You will love it, I promise.” He squeezes his hands and shrugs innocently. “And if you’re too scared you can follow me in a car.”
“Fucking—” Shane cuts himself off. Glares. “If we get hurt you’re gonna break the news to Weibe. And my parents.”
Ilya gleefully hands him a helmet.
“This is peer pressure,” Shane grouses as Ilya helps him put it on.
“Mm,” Ilya hums, straddling the bike. He puts on his own helmet. He’s not hot. At all. “Now, behind me. Feet on the little things on the side—yes, perfect.” He revs the engine like an asshole, and Shane firmly tells himself that isn’t hot, either. Neither is the way Shane wraps his arms around him, or how he has to hook his chin over Ilya’s 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 Ilya’s middle. He can he feel him laughing and can’t help but grin back.
Ilya eases off the speed a little so it isn’t quite as terrifying, takes the turns more slowly, and is careful with the cracks and potholes. Eventually, the fact that he’s holding back becomes more annoying than sweet, and Shane takes advantage of an empty road at their more sedate pace to cuddle up against Ilya’s back more thoroughly. “This how you normally drive?” Shane yells against the wind.
He can feel Ilya shrug. “Precious cargo!” He yells back.
Ilya glances back at him, raising a brow. At the squeeze of Shane’s arms around him, he smirks and fucking guns it. They weave through traffic, around potholes, and take turns that have Shane’s heart in his throat and his adrenaline pumping. “If it’s too much, you say!” He hears Ilya yell through the wind.
It’s 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. “Hey! Pull over up there!”
Ilya glances back, confused, but does as he’s told. “Are you—”
Shane has his helmet off almost before they’ve 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.
