#grumpy ilya

Ilya likes the bike on the end, closest to the wall; it’s his one. It halves the chance of anyone coming and sitting next to him. It usually works.

Not today.

Some dark haired kid takes the bike right next to him. Ilya eyes the three empty seats on the other side of the kid.

He wonders vaguely, if the kid is the kind who would stand next to you to piss, even if there were three empty urinals. Probably would. Probably the kind to park right next to you in an empty lot, too.

The kid grins at him, in the mirrors, leaning forward and setting the bike up…he matches Ilya’s pace, grinning a challenge, all teeth. Ilya ups the resistance, and he can’t hear, but he knows the kid is laughing as he reaches for the bike controls and matches him again. He looks happy in the mirror, a little wild, the antithesis of Ilya’s golden curls and pale skin and serious frown.

Ilya watches him in their reflection, can’t look away. The kid may be smaller than Ilya, but he’s no less powerful for it, his muscles bunching and shifting, sweat gathering on his forehead, darkening the material of his shirt, making it cling.

The kid grins at him, or maybe it’s a grimace too, a bearing of teeth as he pushes himself, a wiry, quick strength that Ilya respects.

But he’s not going to lose, not today, and he kicks the resistance up again, pushing for speed. The kid starts shaking his head when he sees it. He matches Ilya again, but his whole body is moving now as he pedals, a desperate sway as he tries to maintain their pace, his ass fully off the seat as he leans all his weight forward onto the handles.

The dark haired kid finally caves. Shutting the bike off, he sits up, beautiful as he pulls up his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face, a flash of toned abs that Ilya eats up for the moment they’re exposed. He’s so flush with exertion, but looks so happy about it too. Ilya lets himself come down slow, real slow, so he can watch as the kid wobbles off his bike and goes for his water bottle.

Head tilted back he stands right in front of Ilya’s bike, squirting water into his open mouth. It’s a little obscene, his clothes sticking to him where the patches of sweat are dark. The tiny shorts. Back arched and mouth wide, the flushed and glistening skin of his throat working as he swallows.

And then the kid finally looks over at him and says something. Ilya doesn’t hear, and he gives in and pulls out an earbud, nodding, raising his eyebrows in question.

The kid is still short of breath, shoulders lifting and chest expanding as he’s still settling, “Oh. Hi. I was just saying hi. My names Shane.”

Ilya would definitely remember this kid, so either they’ve never been here at the same time before, or the kid is new. He nods, legs still moving, but really gently now, slow, cooling down, “Ilya.”

“Yeah, I’m, kind of new, you know, this a good gym? Looking to join one, just trying out places.”

Ilya shrugs, “sure, it okay.”

“Huh, Russian right? Ilya is a cool name,” the kid, Shane, grins at him. Big and keen, like a happy puppy.

Ilya’s accent never seems to change, no matter how long he lives here, “yes. Okay. Thanks.”

And then the kid checks him out. Gives him a very blatant once over, lifting his water bottle up to have another drink as his eyes go hooded and slide down Ilya’s body. Isn’t even a little subtle about it, and Ilya lets himself sit up straighter in response, feeling his clothes pull where they’re stuck to his sweaty skin, he draws his shoulders back, opening up his chest.

Being checked out doesn’t bother him, not like it used to. It’s not the sort of thing Ilya would do in public himself, at least, not quite so blatant. Not where someone might walk past at any time. Some habits are impossible to break.

“Maybe you could show me around the showers?”

“Maybe,” Ilya agrees, finally letting his legs slow to a stop. The changing rooms would provide a tiny modicum of privacy, at least.

The kid, Shane, is shorter than Ilya by a full head, and despite how sturdy he feels under Ilya’s hands, he’s slim. A wiry, delicate strength. Ilya backs him against the wall of the changing cubicle, it rattles the plastic wall a little, making Shane giggle, making Ilya reflexively shush him. The changing room is empty anyway; it’s so late in the day.

Ilya wonders vaguely why Shane is here so late; maybe he has trouble sleeping too. Maybe he has strange shifts, maybe an office job somewhere. Maybe sales, sitting at a desk with a little headset on and flirting with middle aged married ladies to get a sale.

Maybe.

Ilya doesn’t have to be at practice until after lunch tomorrow. He’s not in any rush, but he doesn’t want to get himself banned from this gym for fucking some twink in the changing room. Ilya actually likes this place. So this is dumb. It’s so dumb.

But the Shane kid is so graceful when he breaks their kiss and chooses to sink right to his knees.

It’s been a while; Ilya’s not going to last.

His shorts go down easy, Shane letting his nails drag along Ilya’s skin as he slides them down around Ilya’s hips, his half hard cock hitting the air. One of Shane’s hands grabs at Ilya’s, putting it on his head. Ilya’s fingers naturally bury themselves in the jet black hair, fingers tugging gently at the sweaty strands as Shane eagerly leans forward, giving the head of Ilya’s cock a single broad lap with his tongue before opening his mouth and sinking down.

“Fuck,” Ilya whispers, trying to be quiet even as the wet sound of Shane’s mouth feels very, very loud in the empty room, the tiles making the sounds echo. The ends of Shane’s hair are silky, and Ilya tugs gently, leaning forward, crowding himself over Shane to rest his hand on the wall. He can’t help his muscles pulling, tight, his thighs shifting, desperate to fuck forward into the tight ring of Shane’s lips. Into the warm heat of his mouth.

Shane pulls back, skin pink again, breathless again, voice a raspy whisper, “I really want to ride this cock,” and then he slides that pretty mouth straight back onto Ilya. The image is clear in Ilya’s mind in that second, the lithe muscles of Shane’s back, the way he would shift and bounce and sweat and blush on Ilya’s cock.

“Yes,” Ilya has to take a breath, bites his bottom lip, his balls drawing tight, the sloppy noises of Shane dragging his mouth up and down Ilya’s cock, “yes. Home. After.” it was hard to summon even those words, all Ilya’s focus now on flooding Shane’s mouth with his come, “close,” he manages a warning, “close.”

Shane just blinks up at him, big dark lashes around big dark eyes, watering, missing breath as he takes Ilya as far as he can, Shane’s nails digging bright stinging furrows into Ilya’s thighs. He doesn’t back off.

Ilya’s guts tighten, looking down at the beauty with his lips wrapped around the thickness of his cock, his lips clinging to Ilya’s flesh, leaving wet and messy streaks of slick spit behind. The orgasm is simmering under the surface for a moment before is crashes down, his grip tightening on Shane’s hair as he holds himself steady, fucking forward in tiny little thrusts, coming onto Shane’s tongue.

Ilya pulls back carefully after, Shane holding suction as Ilya withdraws, suckling at the head as it’s slipping free, Ilya hissing with the pleasure of it. Shane’s eyes are wet, he looks strained, but he manages to swallow before he lets loose an almighty cough.

“You okay?” Ilya asks, finding himself smoothing his fingers through Shane’s hair before he takes his hand and helps him to his feet

“Yeah,” Shane tries, but has to cough again to clear his throat, “yeah, yeah I’m,” he looks away, shy a moment, “I’m good.” Ilya wants him again already, being so good for Ilya, pushing through to keep Ilya’s cock in his throat.

A tear breaks free from Shane’s watery eyes, and Ilya brushes it away with a fingertip, “you will be, come here.”

Ilya pulls his shorts up one handed, grabbing at Shane. Shane allows himself to be turned, caged and held tight, back to Ilya’s front. Shane’s tiny shorts hide nothing, his cock lifting the fabric obscenely, it’s the work of a second to work him free, and Ilya gets a hand on him, jerking him hard and fast.

Shane’s hips thrust into it, then away as has back arches, but Ilya shifts his arm fully across Shane now, and Shane allows himself to be pinned, his arms held tight against his own chest, bracketed easily By Ilya, Shane’s ass presses tight against the cradle of Ilya’s hips as he jerks him, his still softening cock sensitive to being pressed against Shane’s plump little ass.

Shane’s cock emerges from a neat little patch of dark hair. Its’ smaller than Ilya’s, less girth, but fits really nice in Ilya’s hand. It feels good there.

Shane pants through it, Ilya running a nose up into his hair, breathing in the scent of sweat and shampoo. The salty taste of skin as Ilya licks and kisses at the side of Shane’s neck, dragging his teeth there, too gentle to leave a mark, but enough to make Shane whimper and try to writhe against Ilya’s iron grip.

“I’m gonna’, I, I’m gonna’,” Shane pants out, voice soft and breathy and just above a nothing whisper that Ilya wouldn’t have heard if they hadn’t been pressed together they way they are. The hard length of Shane’s cock twitches in Ilya’s hand, the head wet enough that it’s sloppy when he comes, hot ropes of come hitting the plastic dividing wall of the cubicle and dripping slowly down.

Shane’s dragging air like he’s run a marathon, his delicate chest expanding and falling under Ilya’s arm, and even though Ilya’s holding him pinned, Shane has turned his hands to cling to Ilya’s arm just as tightly. Ilya’s happy to take the weight of the smaller man, giving him a minute to catch his breath. Shane lets his head flop back on Ilya’s shoulder, Ilya standing, still bent, resting his own forehead on Shane’s shoulder. Ilya doesn’t even move his hand, enjoying the feel of Shane’s now softening cock cupped protectively in his hand, “still going to take me home.”

Ilya can’t stop his smile, or his eye roll, glad that Shane sees neither. He kisses Shane’s shoulder through the material of his shirt, “if you would like.”

“Yup. Yup I think I would.”

Ilya’s apartment is nice, or, he likes it, at least.

He gets bottled water for them both from the fridge, watching the kid. Didn’t dry his hair properly after the shower, didn’t even try, and it’s probably made the inside of his hat wet. Kids going to make himself sick. He watches as Shane meanders around his lounge, reading book spines, looking at the pictures. Ilya likes his apartment, but he wonders what it looks like through Shane’s eyes. He wonders vaguely if Shane likes it. Not that he cares.

Ilya just leans against the kitchen counter, waiting.

The kid stops in frontthat picture, his head tilted as he studies it. Frowns at the Boston team. Frowns at the team posing on the ice, the cup front and center. Sees it on the kids face when he turns, a look of dawning comprehension on his face, “Ilya. Ilya Rozanov?”

Ilya lets it happen, just nods, pretends like that other life was nothing to do with him.

“I...I’ve seen you play. Used to go to games sometimes, with my Mom, when I was a kid. She wanted me to be a hockey player, when I was young,” Shane shrugs, “wasn’t for me though too...aggressive.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow, gesturing with his water, “and you so small. You would get killed.”

The kid shrugs, not seeming to be bothered by Ilya’s assessment, “that too. But it makes me fast.”

“When you were a kid..?” Ilya echoes Shane’s words, questioning them. He’s younger than Ilya, definitely, but he doesn’t look that young.

Shane smirks as he slinks his way across the room, “okay, when I was a teenager, then,” he finally stops, coming to rest leaning against Ilya, still having to tilt his head back to look up even though Ilya is leaning against the counters, “they build them big in Russia, huh?”

It’s stupid, But Ilya smirks, looking away for a second, “Russian’s are sturdy.”

“Hmmmm. I know you, Ilya Rozanov, but you don’t know me, do you? Have you ever watched me skate?”

Ilya frowns, trying now to place the kid. There’s just no way he plays hockey, he’d get snapped in half. And Ilya’s never shown much interest in any other sports.

Well, maybe he watches the ski jump, but that shit is just insane.

“No?”

The kid, Shane, he smiles, “figured as much. Well, maybe one day you’ll figure it out-” Ilya pulls his phone out of his pocket, twisting, “hey now, no fair, that’s cheating.” But Shane makes no move to stop him.

“Famous enough that I could have seen you. Famous enough for TV then. Skater, Shane,” he types, there can’t be that many famous skaters called Shane. And there it is, top result basically, “Hollander. Figure skating.” Makes sense. “Ah, the figure it out was poor joke, no?”

Shane pouts, rolling his eyes, “firstly, I’m hilarious, and secondly, you’re no fun.”

“I am not fun,” Ilya confirms, and then they’re kissing again. Shane has a slight build, it’s easy to lift him. He gets with the program so fast, his legs wrapping around Ilya’s hips like they’re supposed to be right there. Like he was built for exactly this, “can I fuck you?”

“I’ll be really fucking pissed if you don’t.”

“Okay.”

“I think you’re probably spending every spare second you have either skating or at the gym or...counting your fucking macros, or whatever it is you do-”

“Diet is just as important as-”

She gasps dramatically, “you met someone.”

Shane just rolls his eyes, waving a hand at her to shush as the waiter comes over and takes their order. She gets the hint, but Shane can see her physically actually biting her lips together to keep her questions inside. She does take a moment to roll her eyes fondly when he quizzes the waiter about the salad and then insists the dressing comes on the side.

“Right, so,” she folds her hand under he chin, leaning forward to give Shane her undivided attention, “tell me everything.”

“There’s...nothing to tell,” Shane replies primly, only to have Rose kick him under the table, “ow.”

“Don’t be a dick Shane. Come on, I know you,” and she hits him with the judgemental raised eyebrow.

“Okay,” Shane takes a deep breath, “yes. But I can’t really tell you anything. Yet.”

“Oh. He’s not out.”

“No,” Shane admits, “but it’s...fine.”

“Shane honey, it’s not fine, and it’s never been fine. You’re out. What are you going to do, just never ever be seen in public together? Babe, you know it doesn’t work. You know from experience that it doesn’t work.”

And Shane does. He knows it acutely. He knows how much it hurts.

“This isn’t like that, I mean, I think we’re just...seeing where it goes?” He knows it sounds weak, like he's fooling himself, kind of. He already knows he could very easily catch feelings for Ilya. He knows himself well enough to admit that, at least, “it’s just fun, right now,” he says softly, “doesn’t mean it ever needs to be anything.” And Shane needs to keep that front and center in his mind. Ilya might have agreed to them being exclusive, but it almost felt like...exclusive fucking with no relationship to back it up.

Once he gets back from Russia, he’s going to have to really see where it goes, and really think about what he wants. Well, maybe. Maybe just fucking Ilya for a while will be nice, even if it never goes anywhere.

Rose just looks...so sad. And then she’s herself again, “for fucks sake Shane, just ditch him now. Can’t you just do this normally and like, have a relationship-”

“It’s fine, Rose, really.”

She looks like she’s about to say more, not that Shane hasn’t been on the receiving end of this rant repeatedly. “Okay,” she deflates, “okay, you know what, you know what I think and what I’m going to say. And when this moron breaks your heart I’m totally going to be there for you, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane agrees, what else can he do? She’s almost certainly right. Shane just isn’t that kind of guy though, he always has to try, always has to go after the thing he wants.

They hug after, for a long time, standing on the curb, the fluff of Rose’s super fashionable coat tickling Shane’s nose. “Message me the second you land in Russia?”

“I will.”

“Promise me?”

Shane laughs, shaking his head, nose filled with Rose’s perfume, “you know I will.”

Shane’s not famous like hockey players. He doesn’t get recognized, not really. Not right now, except by people who have an interest. Hockey is like, the national sport of Canada, it gets way more traction that figure skating. But still. It means he can kind of move around freely, be in public with no one noticing. Ilya’s probably way more recognizable than he is, even as a team coach.

So he’s not worried about getting an uber to Ilya’s place. Even though he probably shouldn’t be here. He flies out late tomorrow. But, still, three weeks is going to be a long time without Ilya’s dick.

Ilya lets him in, doesn’t even seem surprised that Shane is turning up unannounced. Shane has his jacket half off and stops dead in the middle of Ilya’s lounge. There’s an open suitcase. Half packed.

“Going somewhere?” Shane asks, tentatively.

Ilya sighs, “going to watch idiots in spandex freeze in snow-”

Shane launches himself at Ilya, squealing with excitement, “oh my god you’re going! When is your flight. Where are you staying? Will you watch me-”

“I have friends on Canadian team, some of my players are on team. It wasn’t hard to go with them. I have seen you naked now, everything else is less good, I do not need to see ice dancing-”

“Ilya.”

Ilya shrugs, “maybe I watch. If I find nothing better to do.”

Shane just huffs, and rolls his eyes, and helps himself to a bottle of water from the fridge, “where are you staying?” Shane can’t help but notice that Ilya just didn’t answer.

“Svetlana, she has an apartment for the games.”

Shane bites his lip, and tries not to be jealous even though he’s known Ilya for like, ten minutes.

Ilya presses Shane’s lip with his thumb, pulling it free of his teeth, “I told you. There is nothing between us for a long time. You have no fear there.”

Shane just rolls his eyes, and does his best to pretend he doesn’t care at all. He also does his best to pretend that the visceral spike of jealousy doesn’t mean anything.

He does his best to pretend it doesn’t mean he has feelings for Ilya. He does his best to pretend that it doesn’t mean Rose is right; that Shane can fall in love in ten seconds flat.

“Who is this?” Shane has Ilya’s phone thrust in his face while he’s prodding the chicken, checking. It’s just right, the broccoli and noodles looks pretty good too. Shane’s a half decent cook, and what he found in Ilya’s kitchen has made a good looking stir fry.

“That’s my friend, Rose. My best friend.” It’s them hugging after lunch earlier; they must have gotten papped. Probably more for Rose than Shane, since her career is finally taking off in a big way. How has Ilya even seen that that fast, “did you google me again?”

“Never mind that, why are you inside pretty girls coat with her?”

Shane snorts a laugh, caught off guard, “firstly, we were just hugging, she’s not going to see me until I come back from the Olympics. We are friends.”

Ilya’s eyebrows have practically disappeared behind his curls, “you are best friends with Rose Landry who is apparently very famous actress I have never heard of,” Ilya’s pointing vaguely at the screen of his own phone, the picture of Shane and Rose is still there.

Shane is very happy that Ilya is apparently just as much of a jealous asshole as he is.

“We skated together when were like, kids, and dated for...half an hour. I’m gay Ilya-”

“Not so gay you can’t fuck not famous Rose Landry-”

“Ilya,” Shane laughs, “I was trying to figure stuff out. I was basically a kid, a confused kid, and Rose was nice to me. Plus we were training together like, four nights a week plus weekends. We kissed like, twice, and I didn’t like it. And she stopped skating because she wanted to act,” Shane gets their plates on the table, shrugging, “and I wanted to keep skating. She’s like...my sister.”

Ilya grumbles a bunch of shit in Russian and shoves a huge forkful of noodles in his mouth.

“How did you see that so fast – oh my god. You have alerts set up for me, don’t you?”

“Alerts? I don’t know what this is-”

But Shane knows he’s full of shit, and can’t help but laugh about it, delighted.

“It was for Olympics-” Ilya tries to protest, “in case of news!” But Shane just laughs harder.

“On your knees,” Shane doesn’t hesitate. Ilya’s voice is already low and gruff and Shane is hungry for whatever is about to happen to him. Shane moans into the covers, hands clenching as Ilya’s tongue laves a thick, hot stripe across his hole, leaving it damp. It’s immediately chilled again by the air as Ilya pulls away again.

There’s the click of a cap, and Ilya’s tongue is immediately joined by one slick finger, hooked and working deep inside Shane’s body as Shane moans, “fuck, Ilya,” and tries to press back onto Ilya’s mouth. He's already desperate, muscles clenching and guts tight. He wants it again, wants to be filled, the memory fresh and bright.

Ilya’s finger stays deep, carefully working circles, occasionally brushing Shane’s prostate and making his cock twitch and drip as Ilya’s tongue works around the base of his finger. Iya's messy, sloppy, leaving trails of spit on Shane's skin. He prods and licks and sometimes closes his mouth over Shane’s hole and fucking sucks, finger working furiously as Shane’s hips move out of his control. He humps the air, trying to press into Ilya's face at the same time as needing to get away from the too much of it all.

Shane pulls a hand under himself, trying to grab for his cock, but somehow Ilya clocks it immediately and reaches forward, pushing Shane’s hand away, “you come on my cock or you don’t come again until after you have gold medal,” Ilya's voice is a low vibration, a rumble almost directly against Shane's opening. The rasp of Ilya's facial hair on the tender flesh of Shane's ass makes him want to cry.

“Oh fuck, Ilya, now then, please, in me,” Shane’s body clamps down on Ilya’s finger, balls tight and cock twitching. “Now, please now.”

Ilya grumbles something in Russian, but his finger pulls out, replaced immediately by two, sliding easy with spit and more lube. They go easy, Shane loosened on Ilya’s tongue. Ilya works to stretch Shane now, working him for half a dozen thrusts before a third finger slides in. That stretch is a little sharp, a little sudden, but the burn of it is a promise and Shane fucking wants, “now, come on, I’m good.”

Ilya grunts an agreeable noise, and the familiar sounds of a condom and more lube happen fast, and Ilya lines up without Shane moving from where he’s panting wetly into the bedding, hands clawed desperately into the material. The press of the thick head of Ilya’s cock insistent at Shane’s hole, pressing him open. Carving out Shane’s insides and making a home there. Ilya starts slow, almost gentle but the final couple of inches happen fast, inexorable and irresistible, like a landslide, Ilya can’t help himself but drive home into Shane.

Shane groans, the air knocked out of his lungs by Ilya’s ridiculous fucking cock. Ilya doesn’t wait really, gives Shane all of a dragged in, desperate breath, before he sets a punishing pace. Shane is shunted head first against the bedding, Ilya’s strong hips slamming into his ass. He can feel his cock swinging and slapping into his stomach, trailing wet strings of precome every time Ilya slams into his prostate. Shane grits his teeth, barely holding in the animal fucking keen that wants to escape.

Ilya’s hand appears between his shoulder blades, the wight forcing Shane even further into the bedding, into an even harsher arch, Ilya plants a foot next to Shane's knee, letting Ilya shift and fuck down into Shane, relentlessly fucking battering Shane’s prostate.

He feels like he can’t breathe, but he must be, he’s still conscious and Shane can hear the noises he’s making, but it’s secondary, like they’re coming from someone else. Someone who sounds desperate, someone who sounds like they’re sobbing.

“You think about this,” Ilya tells him, orders him, “when someone at stupid Olympics is looking at what is mine, you think about this.”

“Yes,” Shane wails, whole world narrow now, narrowed down to Ilya’s next thrust, the tightening coil of orgasm, the banking unavoidable pleasure that is Ilya Rozanov fucking an orgasm out of him, “yes, yes yes-” Shane makes a choked noise, feels his body clamp on Ilya’s cock, strangling pleasure out of it as Ilya says something desperate sounding in Russian. He is splattered with his own come, whole body a live wire, fingers digging painfully into the bedding and breath, keening and desperate. It feels like it goes on for ages.

Shane can’t hold himself up anymore, and Ilya lets him flop forward into the wet place in the bedding, panting desperately.

Ilya drops down next to him, the bed shifting. Shane doesn’t feel like he has the energy to open his eyes. He feels exhausted, but raw. Whatever that was ramped into too much, too fast. He wants to sleep, and he snuffles the bedding, rubbing his face there, only to find that the material is wet; he had been crying.

A gentle hand, the knuckles and backs of two fingers rubs delicately at Shane’s shoulder, along his arm, “you are good?”

“I am good,” Shane confirms. Managing to speak despite the fact that he feels like his guts have been scraped out by a life altering orgasm. Shane is pretty sure it’s the orgasm that all following ones will be compared too.

“Good, I will clean us up. You sleep, you have flight tomorrow,” and Shane breathes deep, the scent of Ilya and sex filling his nose.

Shane’s hands are already on his own pants, tugging desperately to strip them off along with his boxers and socks. He’s had Ilya’s cock in his mouth, thick and veined and heavy. Now he wants it inside himself with a burning desperation that’s leaving him clenching and empty feeling.

And this is Ilya Rozanov. What are the odds of Shane Hollander finding Ilya Rozanov in that gym so late at night. Looking so sad and serious and almost...pained. Shane couldn’t resist, even if he had no idea that it could have led him here.

There’s no hockey stuff around the apartment, nothing to give it away but for the one photograph of Ilya and his team. That one framed photograph of the cup, front and center, everyone with helmets off and looking so proud. A younger looking Ilya, but that mole on his cheek and the golden curls are instantly recognizable, now Shane knows what he looks like.

Shane never had much interest in hockey really, but his Mom, Yuna, absolutely adores it. Lives and breathes it. So Shane’s knowledge of it is only what he saw for himself at games, or what trickled into him simply by close proximity to Yuna. Knowledge by osmosis, more or less.

So yeah, he knows. He knows about Ilya’s career, and what his future was shaping up to be before that day. That injury on the ice. The knee, the surgeries, and Ilya dropping from the league forever. Can vaguely remember his Mom talking about what a massive shame it was to lose such talent. Like she was mourning something.

She probably was, it’s not so often you see a skater like that on the ice. The mix of power and dexterity and sheer understanding of the game that Ilya Rozanov had displayed. He was shaping up to be a one in generation phenomenon, the kind of skater that even people who have zero interest in the sport can still name.

The kind of player that will produce factoids that turn up on television quiz shows. The kind that make history and break records. The kind with legacy.

But it all came undone, and fell apart, all in a split second.

So yeah, there’s nothing in the apartment that would point out Ilya as a hockey player, nothing but that one picture. And Shane understands it; he has no idea what he would do, how he would feel, how he would react if the ice got ripped from him like that. He loves it, lives it, breathes it.

So maybe the look on Ilya’s face had made sense, as he was torturing himself on that bike, the determined set of his shoulders. The determination of a man struggling uphill despite the weight he carries inside himself. Maybe the kind that would make other people give up. Maybe that was why Shane took the bike next to Ilya. Or maybe it was just because his face is stupid pretty.

Doesn’t matter now; the moment opportunity arose, Shane was more than thrilled to have Ilya’s beautiful cock on his tongue, down his throat. The wet gagging sound of him struggling to breathe around it comes back to him viscerally as Ilya strips at the foot of the bed, arms flexing as his shirt gets pulled off, revealing those broad abs and thick shoulders. His cloud of curls popping free from the neck of it, Ilya carelessly launching the soft material across the room.

“Like what you see?”

Shane can’t help but reach down. He came an hour ago or less with Ilya’s hand on his cock, and he’s had no problem getting hard again. Already wants him again so desperately. He strokes himself a few times, his cock eager to get completely hard, “I dunno. Maybe. Need to see a bit more, you know. To form a proper judgement.”

Not that Shane hasn't already seen it all. Not like he hadn't been staring hungrily as they'd stood a careful six feet apart in the showers after, at the gym.

Just in case someone walked in and saw them. But still; Ilya, naked, flush pink from the hot water, steam surrounding his pinked up skin in a cloak was one of the most arresting things Shane had ever seen. He hadn’t even tried not to stare. Hadn't even attempted to pretend he wasn't entranced by the sight of Ilya's soapy hands gliding all over his skin. His head tilted back under the water, his curls dark and flat with it.

And now Shane is here, peeling himself out of his own clothes in the middle of Ilya Rozanov’s bed. Maybe he should have paid more attention to all the hockey stuff his Mom tried to teach him.

Maybe he would have watched more closely if he knew one day he was going to get that dudes dick in him. It makes him snort at himself, and Ilya catches it, peeling his own socks off and ditching them on the floor before he crawls up the bed. He has an eyebrow raised, still stoic, doesn’t even bother to speak to ask the question.

“I was just thinking I should have paid more attention at those hockey games. Can’t see much under all that body armor you guys wear though, maybe that’s why I was bored.”

“Yes, hockey in glitter- what is it. Onesies. Pajamas, like you dancers, would not be so safe.”

Shane can’t help but snort a laugh, shrugging. He’s caged in now, Ilya’s bulk hovering over him on the bed, “I mean, I’d watch it, I’m sure you’d look fantastic with a big sparkly Russian flag on your ass.”

“No,” Ilya disagrees flatly, before leaning down to kiss him. They kissed before, at the gym, wet and sloppy for a moment before getting on with things. That isn’t like this, with the heat of Ilya’s body, he’s bracing himself over Shane on his forearms, but lets his hips dip, lets their hardening cocks tease together as he plunders Shane’s mouth.

Shane’s legs come up almost reflexively, wrapping around Ilya’s hips, his arms likewise wrap around Ilya’s shoulders, but he doesn’t shift even a centimeter, and Shane is absolutely certain Ilya could do push ups with Shane lazing around on his back. His muscles are thick, solid under Shane’s hands as he explores, the scent of Ilya’s shower gel filling his nose. Ilya only has to roll his hips once and the drag is almost too much, “nope. Nope, in me please.”

Ilya tuts, “such good Canadian manners,” but he rolls away, digging in the drawer for what Shane prays is condoms and lube. It is.

There’s not much preamble, just Ilya’s hot mouth and blunt teeth on the muscle of Shane’s inner thigh, a thick finger circling and rubbing over his hole for a moment before sliding in. It’s enough to make Shane’s back arch already, his cock hard and bobbing against his stomach. Ilya’s fingers are thick and sure, fucking in and out. It’s not long before a second on joins it, Shane blinking up at where Ilya is leaning over him, one of Shane’s legs flung over his shoulder, Ilya occasionally kissing the inside of Shane’s knee.

The light of the lamp highlights the dips and valleys of Ilya’s muscles, catching on his beautiful blonde curls. Shane could, probably, stare all day.

Sweat breaks out over Shane’s skin, and he shivers with it. Ilya’s intense eyes drinking him in, intense as his fingers move inside Shane, filling him and making his cock weep.

“Please,” Shane whispers, voice a little gone, and Ilya withdraws, opening a condom and sliding it onto his cock, slicking that with plenty of lube.

Shane’s arms rest easily around Ilya’s broad shoulders, his legs lifting instinctively to bracket Ilya’s muscled body, “so little,” Ilya tells him, smiling. Grinning really, like a predator, reaching between them to hold his cock steady, pressing slowly of inexorably into Shane’s body, pressing until there’s no more to give.

He rocks carefully, eyes never leaving Shane’s face, watching so attentive, intensity that Shane instinctively wants to shy away from. Ilya doesn’t let him, a hand on Shane’s cheek keeps him steady as Ilya begins to thrust. He's still watching, watching Shane so closely.

“Oh Jesus,” Shane breathes, his hips tilt instinctively, leaning into it, wanting to feel this fullness forever. It’s big, Ilya lighting him up inside without even trying, punching the breath from Shane’s lungs with every slowly measured, but hard thrust.

“So wet for me,” and Ilya mutters something in Russian, fingertips rubbing at just the very tip of Shane’s cock, spreading the thick wetness, making Shane shiver and shake and moan. Ilya spreads it on Shane’s stomach too, chases and gathers the drips before finally, finally taking Shane in hand.

“Fuck. Fuck yes, please,” but Ilya ignores Shane’s breathy whines, the smack of skin from Ilya’s thrusting becoming more insistent, the drag and press of his cock in Shane’s insides all encompassing. He still doesn’t move his hand though, just holds Shane’s dick and squeezes.

All he gets is a tiny bit of residual friction from the movement of Ilya’s body, where he’s practically shunting Shane up the bed now, his thrusts so fucking hard. Shane’s never had this before, he’s always chased it, always wanted more, harder, please but never finding it, never having the air fucked out of his fucking lungs with the god damn tree branch Ilya Rozanov has between his legs.

Shane’s probably leaving bloody furrows in Ilya’s shoulders, but Ilya doesn’t seem to care. He doesn’t look away, watching Shane intently, Ilya’s skin becoming damp with sweat under Shane’s hands.

It’s perfect, Ilya squeezes and Shane drips and cries and starts to shake as all his muscles go taught.

“You will come,” Ilya informs him, Shane’s head thrown back and eyes scrunched tight shut, “you will come before I do,” and then there’s more mumbled Russian, Ilya grunting now with effort. Licks of fire tighten Shane’s balls every time Ilya hits his prostate; not that it’s much effort, he’s so big he can hardly miss.

“Oh fuck,” Shane sounds pained even to himself, “oh fuck yeah I am, Ilya, please, fuck I’m going to come, you’re going to make me come, please, oh fuck-”

Ilya still doesn’t move his hand, must feel it clearly as Shane’s cock twitches and kicks and covers him in splatters of hot feeling come. Ilya fuck’s him through it. Shane’s whole body leans into it, arches without his control, and he’s vaguely aware of Ilya lifting his hips like it’s nothing, keeping them together.

He’s a panting mess when Ilya finally comes to a halt, watching Shane intently. Shane’s mouth feels dry and gummy, but he frowns and manages to say, “did you come?”

Ilya nods, “with you,” and he fucks his half hard cock into Shane once more, making him squeak with over sensitivity before he pulls out, dealing with the condom as he walks into the en suite.

Shane very much enjoys watching Ilya walk away, his broad back shifts with defined muscle, his ass almost fucking bouncy. His golden curls stuck down with sweat. Shane doesn’t move, vaguely aware that his come is going to drip everywhere if he does. His ass clenches on nothing, feeling wet and open and very well used.

Ilya’s back a minute later, using a towel, one end wet, to both clean off the mess and then dry the same place. He unceremoniously lifts one of Shane’s noodley thighs, giving his hole a quick clean from streaks of lube.

Shane tries not to let is get awkward. He knows that, probably, he should get up and put his clothes on. He should leave. He should especially do those things before he’s asked to leave.

Ilya launches the towel through the bathroom, door, “up. Off the blanket,” Shane shifts, letting Ilya work the comforter from under him and then over the top of both of them. Ilya collapses next to him, throwing a heavy arm over Shane before pulling him close like it’s nothing. “You want me to stay?” Shane asks, feeling uncertain.

Ilya cracks one eye, looking vaguely annoyed, “you have better place to be?”

“No?”

“Shut up then. Sleep.”

It’s lazy hand jobs and morning breath the next day. Neither of them are bothered by it, and Ilya makes Shane come all over himself all over again before Ilya fucks into Shane’s fist, held against the crease of Shane’s thigh, and makes another mess all over him. It drips across his hand and Ilya seems to enjoy pressing his fingers through their spend and rubbing it into the sensitive skin of Shane’s softening cock.

They shower together, though, after, so it’s not the end of the world as far as Shane is concerned. Ilya’s face might be grumpy Russian, and his whole demeanor may be leave me the fuck alone but it doesn’t change the fact that his touch is tender when he washes Shane’s hair for him.

“I’ve been washing my hair for a long time, I can do it.”

“No. You probably do a terrible job.”

And Shane doesn’t question it, just stands and lets Ilya trail soapy hands all over him. Stands as Ilya makes a performance of squeezing his sudsy ass cheeks.

Ilya has a spare toothbrush for him, which is nice.

Ilya makes breakfast, and actually does a decent job of it. Pancakes and scrambled eggs, which Shane allows himself to eat one of the pancakes, it’s light and fluffy, and Shane makes a mental note of sugar and carbs for the day. He eats more eggs after that, but he can taste dairy and butter and resigns himself to plain salmon and white rice later, “your team have practice today?”

Ilya raises an eyebrow at him.

“What?” Shane says defensively, “my Mom loves hockey, I don’t know which team it is, but I’m vaguely aware you went into coaching at some point.”

Ilya grunts, eating more, then, “this afternoon, few hours.”

Shane hums. He likes Ilya. Likes him a lot, considering he’s known him for less than twenty four hours. He wants to do something nice for him. Wants something fun, maybe lift that weight off of Ilya’s shoulders, even if it’s just for a moment. Wants something that he would absolutely, dare not ever call a date out loud, “want to do something later?”

Ilya indicates his bedroom door, across the apartment, “thinking of my cock again already.”

Shane snorts, “give me your phone.”

Ilya’s face is a hundred shades of fuck off, but that just seems to be his base setting, because he unlocks his phone and hands it to Shane without even thinking about it. Shane’s phone chimes in his pocket as he messages himself. Shane gives it back, before pulling out his own phone and messaging Ilya a time and an address.

He should go; he has his own practice to get to.

And Ilya can’t help but wonder why the fuck he’s even here. Answering the summons of this Shane kid.

All it took was thinking about his dark hair and freckles, the way he tucks his chin when he laughs, like he needs to hide his joy and keep it, and Ilya had found himself typing an answer ten minutes after Shane was gone. Typing a yes.

Maybe it was the sudden oppressive silence of the apartment, something that rarely bothers Ilya. Maybe it was the fact that there were two plates in the sink, that had him saying yes so fast. Either way, this is stupid.

A light comes on inside, illuminating a square of ground in front of Ilya, and the door clicks open and Shane is there, “get in,” he hisses, and Ilya does. “We’re not supposed to be here,” he says, locking the door behind them.

“Then why are we here?”

Shane snorts a laugh, “big grumpy Russian,” he sniggers, turning the hall light off again as they head into the ice rink. “I had to guess your size, I mean I assume you have your own but I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

Ilya’s skate’s live in his locker at the teams rink. He rarely wears them now, really. No need for him to get on the ice himself much. If he does he just slides around in his shoes. He can shout at players just as easily from the sidelines. “You give me address of an ice rink. I am not surprised.”

Shane grins at him, thrusting the pair of skates against Ilya’s chest. He takes them, watching Shane lace up his tiny slim skates. They’re like ballet slippers with a shaving razor on the bottom. Not like the heavy duty things Ilya is used to. The ones in his hands are the kind that people hire, and it’s only slightly gross. But still. He puts them on, following Shane’s mincing steps to the ice.

Ilya hasn't been skating just for enjoyment for, well, years. Since he was a kid, probably. Not from the moment his mother died, and hockey became a tool. A means of escape. Something that used to be fun became nothing but pressure; pressure to be good. Pressure to succeed.

Getting drafted to a team outside of Russia, and then taking the soonest available opportunity for citizenship became his life. His one goal.

He didn’t care where. As long as it wasn’t there.

It’s silent here, just the sound, for a moment, of Shane’s skates slicing across the ice. He makes a sweeping turn, twin white fans of ice shavings following in his wake. He’s so light; so graceful. If not for the visible ice spray that Shane sometimes kicks up, Ilya would not be surprised if he inspected the ice and found that Shane has not left the slightest of marks. He flutters across the ice, and Ilya just stands there, finding his equilibrium. He tries harder to remember the last time he stepped onto the ice just for fun; tries to picture it. Everything he can summon involves his mother in some way.

Shane glides over, smiling, “come on,” he takes Ilya’s hand, and Ilya allows himself to be tugged along. They skate a couple of laps, Ilya lost in his memories. An unrecognizable emotion welling up inside him, something melancholy and full of lost dreams. A million sounds of a thousand games. The crowd. The feeling of the chill of the ice. The smell of it. The sound of sticks clashing and players clattering against the boards.

The sound of his mother’s voice as she would call encouragement.

“Hey, this okay?”

Ilya finds himself swallowing thickly, “yes, of course. Is just skating.”

“Uh hu. Well, it happens to be something I love, and I wanted to skate with you, so less of the,” Shane waves a hand vaguely, “stoic grumpy Russian please.”

“I will try and control myself, Shane Hollander, only skater to ever land a quadruple axle in competition.”

Shane drops his hand, turning to skate backward around the rink, Ilya keeping pace, Shane grinning back at him, his hair blowing across his forehead, “you looked me up huh?”

Ilya shrugs, “maybe I watched some YouTube.”

“And?”

“And I think every jump looks the same, show me this axle.”

Shane grins big, skating a lap to gain momentum, body bent close to the ice in the turn, fancy like a speed skater, before he does the jump. He seems to be in the air for an impossible amount of time, but he lands it confidently, doing something graceful and lifting one leg as he smoothly glides again, a happy grin on his face.

“Now a lutz,” Ilya demands, as much to see if Shane will do it or not. He does, and he makes it looks so graceful. So easy. Ilya makes a dismissive noise, “that was the same.”

“They are not remotely the same,” Shane laughs, coming to keep pace with Ilya again.

“You skate, you jump, you spin however many times-”

“Four. Its called a quadruple-”

Ilya huffs again, if only to hear Shane laugh, “and then you land. Damage ice. The poor man comes out with his blower and scraper-”

Shane is properly laughing now, shoving at Ilya. Ilya stops, standing still, he lets Shane push him around the rink for a minute, Shane’s hands firm on Ilya’s hips, adjusting a little to turn rather than let them both crash into the barrier. He’s fierce, and surprisingly strong on his skates, despite what Ilya knows he can do.

“Here, I’ll teach you to spin me-”

“But Hollander, I am not wearing my sparkly pyjamas-”

“Oh hush,” and Shane gets on the tip of his blades to drop a kiss on Ilya’s lips, “okay, we’re going to turn okay,” but Ilya doesn’t really need to do anything, just angles his feet, and allows himself to be spun in place as Shane does a loop around him, pulling him by the hand, “usually the girl gets lifted but, I guess I can put you to use. You ready?”

“I don’t even know what we do-”

Shane keeps skating, one hand holding Ilya’s, the other spread wide, like he can’t help himself but make it look good. Look like a dance, “it’s easy, you ready? Just don’t drop me,” he says with a confidence that Ilya most definitely does not feel.

“Not really,” but it’s happening before Ilya can protest further, and it is easy, Shane turns so Ilya has both his hands, and then Ilya instinctively braces into the spin when Shane jumps, knees bent, skates pointing into the spin, Shane held up a little longer by momentum before he lands again.

Ilya’s knee twitches, a mild reminder, but Shane is grinning and laughing and happy. His face flushed from all the skating about and playing he has been doing, “okay, enough, ledyanaya ptitsa.”

Shane snorts, “what did you just call me? Lady pizza?”

Ilya sighs, “of course yes, lady pizza, now come here,” and Shane easily allows himself to be backed up against the barrier, allows himself to be trapped between Ilya’s arms and kissed.

Ilya has to dip his head, the angle is awkward, splaying his legs to dip his hips low enough to press them together, pinning Shane with his hips. He slowly slides backward on the ice as Shane presses into him, and they end up with Ilya holding onto the barrier on each side of Shane, pulling tight and pressing close until Shane’s shoulders are bent back over the boards a little.

“Yeah, Yeah,” Shane says urgently, reaching between them to get at Ilya’s pants, pushing everything down just low enough to pull out his hardening cock. Ilya busies himself while Shane is looking down, kissing and nuzzling into his neck instead.

Shane pulls out his own cock next, since Ilya has no choice but to hang on and bare down to keep them both pressed together, Shane’s hand working between them, gripping their cocks together.

“This is stupidest thing I ever do,” Ilya mumbles against Shane’s skin even as Shane starts to jack them in earnest. His cock is smaller, and Shane’s hand doesn’t reach all the way around them both, but still it is getting the job done as Ilya starts to hump against Shane’s dick, fucking up into his grip. It’s made slick by the both of them leaking precome, the drag of Shane’s hot cock in the cool air lighting sparks up Ilya’s spine.

“What,” Shane pants, kissing him again now, the sight of their cocks obscured, but Shane’ arm moving fast.

“We have knives on our feet, one slip and then a wrong move,” Ilya’s words are choppy getting breathless as his orgasm banks, “someone is getting their cock sliced off.”

Shane makes a choked laugh, “Jesus Ilya,” it’s the most beautiful laugh Ilya has ever heard.

Ilya’s muscles are burning, holding them both pinned against the boards, pulling them tight together. Humping into Shane’s hand and not sliding backwards feels like it’s a full body work out, “not on jacket,” Ilya grits out. He likes this jacket.

“Fuck, okay,” Shane is clumsy when he pulls Ilya’s jacket and shirt up with his free hand. The heads of their cocks poking out obscenely from the circle of Shane’s hand, wet and leaking, everything slick now with shiny precome, “shit,” Shane breathes before he comes, the splash hot on Ilya’s cock, Shane’s hand slicking his own come down their cocks and Ilya is done too, unable to stop his own aborted little thrusts as he spills all over them both, their come mixing into a tacky mess.

They had cleaned up a little with a towel in the sink in the locker room; it hadn’t really done the job, but it will do until Ilya can make it home for a shower. Ilya is lacing his sneakers on the bench when his phone chimes. Svetlana. Ilya reads the first part of the message, but doesn’t bother to open it. Just the sight of it makes discomfort rear up in his mind.

“You okay?” Shane frowns at him, clearly concerned. Ilya’s pretty sure his face hadn’t given anything away.

“Yes. Is nothing.”

“Well it doesn’t feel like nothing. You have like. An aura.”

“An aura. What is this aura, Shane Hollander.”

“You like, leak grumpy everywhere. What ever that was made it worse.”

“I do not leak,” Ilya informs him, only mildly put out. “It is old friend, Svetlana, she was asking if I will go home for the Olympics. Is soon now.”

“Well that would be cool, you could come and see me skate-” Shane starts, clearly all excited at the prospect.

“No. I am not going.”

“Oh. Okay that’s cool,” Shane pauses, waiting for a moment, but Ilya has no explanation to give. Nothing that he particularly wants to talk about. “well, I’m going to be gone for like, nearly three weeks,” he finally volunteers.

There’s a long moment of silence, before Shane speaks again, pointedly not looking at Ilya when he does, “so does Svetlana live here, or, or...in Russia?”

Ilya lets his head tilt, can’t help that he is a tiny bit delighted, “are you jealous Hollander?”

“No,” Shane huffs, looking away again, pretending to study the adverts lining the outside of the rink, “no. Of course not, no.”

“Uh hu. Well Svetlana lives in Russia, she is very old friend. We used to hook up,” Ilya shrugs at Shane’s frown, taking his hand, rubbing his thumb across Shane’s knuckles, “but nothing for a long time, we have both grown out of that, I think,” as much as Ilya enjoys Shane’s jealousy, he wont let him stew in it, “and...there is no one else right now. Only you, ledyanaya ptitsa.” It isn’t like Ilya’s making a sacrifice, it’s been a while since Ilya’s really had any kind of connection with anyone anyway. Just hookups that have become more and more sparse as Ilya’s dissatisfaction with them has grown.

“Oh. Oh that’s cool because,” Shane shuffles on the bench, moving closer, “I know me going to the Olympics, that’s like, a long time to like, be apart so soon and I just, you know. Didn’t want to assume.”

“I am not wanting to fuck anyone else but you right now,” Ilya grips Shane’s chin, pulling his face around to look at Ilya. There’s something in Shane’s eyes, relief, maybe, “but that also means you cannot fuck half of Olympic village. I’ve been to the Olympics before, I know how it goes.”

“Yeah, I, I mean I don’t want to fuck anyone else either.”

“Good,” and Ilya leans forward, and kisses Shane’s pretty mouth, “what is this thing you say, friends with benefits?”

Once they break apart Shane’s already speaking, “uhm, maybe more than friends with benefits? Maybe when I get back, we could go on actual date?”

“Maybe,” Ilya grumbles, not committing. The thought of it leaves something uncomfortable squirming in his chest. It is an instant reminder that he shouldn’t be doing this.

He should not have agreed to being exclusive, even, he's probably sending Shane the wrong message. He’s definitely sending Shane the wrong message. But he cant...tolerate the idea of anyone putting their hands on the little ice bird. Nor is the thought of fucking anyone else even remotely appealing right now.

He doesn’t bother opening the message, just swipes it away. By the time he gets home, his phone is ringing, Svetlana. He contemplates ignoring it, but he knows where that leads. The woman is a wolf with a fawn in its jaws, it will never, ever let go.

He answers, moving through his apartment, “what?” He slips his shoes off, hangs his jacket, fixes a drink. Listens as she dissects hockey teams and hockey plays and what is happening in each league. Stands, staring blankly out of the window, not really listening as she explains to him how he’s a mediocre coach, at best.

Explains to him what plays his team should be doing and what he needs to work on with his players.

Ilya leans his head against the glass, squinting to the lights in the distance blur and merge into huge streaks across across the horizon. It’s comforting, listening to someone speak Russian. He doesn’t hear it much any more. Except for the thoughts in his own head.

She explains that she will not tell him a single thing about the training sessions she’s worked on with the Russian team; he would only steal her tactics.

Being belittled by Sveta is most comforting.

“So, we can go through all this when you come home for the Olympics.”

“I’m not going to the Olympics-”

“Yes. You can stay with me, I already have an apartment for the games-”

“Svet-”

“You have not been back to Russia for years. We haven't seen each other for so long,” Ilya sighs, “come on Ilya.”

He knows its a bad idea. There’s nothing there for him any more, and hasn’t been for a long time. He hasn’t spoken to his brother since his fathers wake; every contact since has been through solicitors. His niece will be set when she’s eighteen, the trust thing they set up with Ilya’s money just sitting somewhere, earning interest.

He won’t see any of his shitty family if he goes back. But he could visit his mother. That’s one thing he could do. He could do his best to ignore his fathers grave, right next to it.

Ilya wonders, vaguely, if he’s becoming melancholy with age, even though he is only just barely thirty. He wonder sometimes, when he is lonely, if he is like her. If he is the way she was.

He is already older than she was when she died.

He finally realizes that Svetlana is quiet. He doesn’t know how long she hasn’t spoken for. He clears his throat, “fine.” It’s not like he will be able to do much at home anyway, it feels like half his own team will be at the Olympics themselves, having made the Canadian team.

“You will come?”

“Against my better judgement.” They hang up, and Ilya tells himself it’s nothing to do with watching Shane skate.

“Svet,” Ilya rubs at his forehead, can feel the headache forming behind his eyes, “I can’t be that for him. Hockey is different. The team would see me differently. I just...I can’t take risks like that. It would...it will be better for him if we are apart.”

“You, Ilya Rozanov, are possibly the biggest idiot I have ever known-”

“I am a trap for him Sveta! He is out, he lives his life free, I am not and I cannot be. Hockey is not like that Svet, and you know it. He is...better off now. He will find someone...young and open and he will live his life.”

“Oh my god Ilya, you are not a hockey player, you are not-” she makes an incoherent noise of frustration, “if your team treats you differently because of where you stick your dick, then maybe they should look for a new coach.”

“No...no Sveta. It is not just the team, it is the league, it is everything-”

“So retire! You are rich and very old-”

“Thanks-” Ilya sighs, it isn’t that she does not understand. She is refusing to understand.

“Things are different now Ilya. Maybe not so much here, but you’re not here. You’re not in Russia Ilya, things are different there.”

Ilya just sighs, he doesn’t know what to say. How to argue it. He doesn’t know any more, if he’s right, if the way he’s been living is even worth it any more. If he should hide. If he should...he could retire, Svetlana has a point. He could just call it at the end of this season.

Or he could let Shane go. He could keep coaching Hockey and Shane could be free to be happy. Someone younger than Ilya, someone who doesn’t carry the weight he feels on his shoulders. Someone who could just...be with him. Someone who isn’t as selfish as Ilya.

Ilya has tried to do this dance, has tried to fuck Shane and hold Shane and keep Shane just outside of his ribs, because that final inch would be fatal for them both.

It hurts to think about. It makes Ilya’s chest tight in a way he doesn’t think he’s felt before. Not since he was sitting in the hospital room, looking at X rays of his knee, listening to some doctor explain the medical reasons for how he’s never going to play hockey again.

Heartbreak, Ilya’s pretty sure.

He doesn’t hear anything from Shane for nearly two days, and that's as big of an indicator as any that Ilya’s really hurt him by saying no, by lying to him. By claiming they are not serious in order to keep this false barrier between Ilya and Shane. He swings back and forth. He tells himself that Shane said the cottage is private; he could have just gone. All he’s doing is hurting himself and Shane.

And then he tells himself; Shane is young and beautiful and deserves to be free. He needs to leave his ledyanaya ptitsa be free.

There is no way Shane’s parents would approve of a miserable, broken Hockey player anyway. What good is a Hockey player who cannot play Hockey.

There is an American saying about it, those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach. It is shit, but it is true.

He’s mid practice when his phone rings. The sound of the team on the ice is loud, and Ilya walks away from the rink to answer.

When Shane calls, Ilya answers. Of course he answers. Shane is already speaking as Ilya gets the phone to his ear. Ilya makes it a dozen steps into the stands, finding a seat, watching his team run drills.

“I’ve been thinking, and...we should talk.” Ilya can hear the wobble in Shane’s voice. He already sounds upset.

“You want to...meet?” Ilya offers, already ninety nine percent sure where this is going. Honestly, it’s for the best. Shane needs to move on, needs to do better than Ilya. Ilya who is probably going to keep him trapped in secret for the rest of their lives. Or for as long as Shane would tolerate it.

“No, no. This is fine, I don’t...no point in dragging it out, right?” Ilya doesn’t answer. What can he possibly say? He’s certain now, where this is going. He listens as Shane lets out a long, shuddering breath. Feels kind of frozen in place, like if he moves, Shane will startle. “Anyway, I think it’s kind of clear now,” Shane drags in a long, pained breath, “that we...want different things here. And I can’t be with someone who doesn’t feel about me, how I feel about them,” Shane’s voice breaks. He clears his throat. “So, yeah. Thank you for your time.”

Ilya catches a quiet sob before the line goes dead.

Only Shane Hollander would say ‘thank you for your time’ when breaking up with you.

Ilya sits, tapping the corner of his phone against his forehead, and tries to convince himself that this is for the best. He’s the coach of a successful hockey team, he can’t come out. They’re in the running; they aren’t far away from actually bringing the cup home this year. Ilya cannot risk creating back lash for the team now. Shane deserves happiness, and he won’t get that with Ilya, not really.

It is better that Shane never knows just how desperately Ilya cares for him.

This is for the best, no matter how much it hurts.

Ilya takes a deep breath before heading back toward the rink, shoving his phone in his pocket. He takes over the drills, and if the team are all fucking glaring daggers at him by the end of practice, Ilya pretends not to notice.

“The fuck was that about Rozanov?”

Ilya sighs, but doesn’t stop walking. He heads into his office, not quite letting the door slam shut. Scott Hunter pushes it open anyway, following him in. Ilya sits behind his desk, Scott looks pissed. His hair is still wet from the shower; he must have come straight here.

“You actually trying to kill us?”

“You’re getting old Hunter,” Ilya waves dismissively, “you all need to work harder-”

“Uh hu, old but not fucking injured Rozanov – and you need to not take your personal shit out on my team otherwise that’s what’s going to happen-”

“Your team?” Ilya finds himself standing back up again.

“Yeah. I’m captain. My team! So it’s my job to protect them from you when you’re clearly bringing personal shit onto the ice-”

Anger is a hot emotion. It takes a lot to maintain it, and Ilya just doesn’t have the kind of fire in him right now. He just doesn’t have the energy. He sits back down. Hunter’s right.

“-Look, whatever it is, you just made the whole team feel like shit. They don’t need to be battered like that the day before a game okay-”

“You’re right.”

“I-” Hunter stumbles for a second. He seems taken aback, briefly, “Yeah. Yeah I’m right,” and with nothing else to do, he sits down. “So, uhm…” he looks like he’d rather peel his skin off than say what he says next, but Hunter’s a good guy, so he says it, “you want to talk about it?”

Does he? Ilya doesn’t know. Does he want to talk to another hockey player about it? He’s pretty sure Hunter won’t tell anyone, he’s been a good Hockey player and an even better captain for a long time. He's been a good team with Ilya, they’ve led the team to a lot of victories over the last few years.

Ilya suddenly needs that. Needs some understanding, if even if it’s...even if he’s not ready to be out. Even if he’s not ready for anything, really. It is easy for Sveta to make things sound so simple when they are not. She sees things, so black and white, when they are not. It is easy for her to say ‘so come out. So retire. So so so-’ like what she is suggesting isn’t catastrophic.

“I just...broke up.”

“Ah,” understanding dawns over Scott’s face, “I didn’t know you were even...seeing someone. I mean, you never talk about this stuff.”

“Neither do you” Ilya points out easily. He realizes for the first time that it’s true. Scott is as private as Ilya, not like the other guys who talk about their girls and wives and kids. Huh.

And Scott’s looking at him, like, really looking at him. Ilya stares back and it feels like...mutual understanding suddenly. Or, just a feeling that it could be. Maybe.

“If you...ever need to...talk. It won’t leave the room I swear I mean. Maybe, even if it’s not...necessarily a woman that’s giving you trouble…”

Ilya huffs. Looking away, “like...car trouble, you mean?”

Scott shrugs, “maybe, if you want to call it that. Did you just break up with your car Rozanov?”

It’s...a chance. They could laugh now, could leave it at that and never talk about it and Ilya could just, never bring it up again. He knows instinctively that Scott never would again. This is...maybe it. Maybe have someone near by, he can actually talk about this with.

“I like women,” Ilya shrugs, “but I’m fond of cars too.”

Scott snorts a laugh, finally relaxing all the way into his chair. He crosses his legs, “so he dump you, or you dump him?”

He doesn’t have to do this. He could still back out, plausible deniability. His father’s voice haunts him. A thousand times the slurs have been thrown around in changing rooms. But then...the sound of Shane’s wet voice on the phone. The way it wobbled, his sadness.

His smile when they'd been together. His laughter, when Ilya had spun him on the ice that night.

Ilya is an idiot. Hockey doesn’t even fucking matter in the face of having Shane in his life.

“He...he dumped me. But, he was right to. I...am not open. I could not make him live hidden with me.”

“Yeah,” Scott looks down at his own clasped hands, he looks briefly pained, “man I feel you, really you have no idea how much I feel that.”

“I’m sorry.”

Scott shrugs, “it’s just how the world is right? It just...is what it is. It shouldn’t be...but,” he shrugs again. Ilya makes a faint sound of agreement, even as he’s thinking that it most certainly should not be that way.

“Maybe it’ll change soon?”

Scott looks up, frowning, an expression Ilya can’t read, “maybe. But only if someone changes it.”

They talk a little longer, vague plans for the training schedule right up to the cup game next week, plans for matches that have been talked about months in advance. A plan in place since the draw at the start of the season. It’s a comfortable conversation, a well trodden familiar route, it’s exactly what the head coach should be talking about with his team captain, but, as he leaves, Scott stills in the doorway for a second.

“Maybe...look, if you ever want to get a drink, talk about it,” he shrugs, “might do us both some good.” He leaves, offer hanging in the air. Ilya having found an unexpected ally right under his nose.

It feels...good. It feels better. Something he didn’t realize he’d been holding onto for decades unclenches a little.

The days that follow are good and, also, awful. Ilya misses Shane acutely. His phone is silent. He has one of those stupid bottled pre biotic protein things of Shane’s in the fridge. It’s gross, but Ilya can’t bring himself to throw it away, even though he has to look at it every time he opens the door.

His life feels, suddenly, empty. It’s not empty, it’s exactly the same as it was before he had Shane, but somehow he’d changed everything. In such a short time he’d made himself completely essential to Ilya’s welfare. Ilya can’t even remember how he used to fill the time before Shane.

He’s still thinking about him now; the team are on the ice, literally playing a cup final, and still he can’t help but think about Shane. He stands on the edge of the rink, leaning against the barrier. His job is done; there’s less than five minutes left on the clock, and the team is three goals up.

All he has to do now is wait, knowing that they’ve won already. Just have to wait it out, wait for the clock to tick down. Wait for the ending buzzer. Wait for Scott Hunter to congratulate his team and lift the cup.

There’s an energy in the stadium. Everyone waiting for the end of match. Every holding in their yells and celebrations now, waiting for it to be final.

It’s loud, when it happens. Thousands of people celebrating the teams win. No doubt thousands upon thousands everywhere watching this on the television. People at home, people in bars. Just people, living their lives.

Ilya takes a deep breath. Watches the teams skate past each other, hand shakes and hugs and high fives and good sportsmanship. It’s a good feeling, standing here and watching his team invite their families onto the ice. Watching his team celebrate. Ilya is content here, watching, leaning against the barrier, on the ice now, but still lingering at the edge. Occasionally a player skates by, helmets and gloves and sticks long discarded, hair sweaty and faces flush with joy. He gets a high fives and hugs from the passing players, before they all get distracted by the red carpet being rolled out, the presence of the press.

The trophy on it’s stand.

He wonders vaguely if Shane is watching. Maybe he’s watching with his Mom. Maybe he’s happy. Or maybe he isn’t watching, and he’s forgotten about Ilya altogether.

Probably for the best.

Ilya watches. Then he realizes he’s being watched right back. Scott Hunter is standing on the ice, away from everyone else. He’s staring at Ilya, and the moment Ilya finally notices and meets Scott’s stare...Scott frowns. And then he nods.

Ilya nods back.

Scott’s attention shifts then, and he’s beckoning someone down from the stands. The hairs on Ilya’s arms stand up, and he’s suddenly anxious. Anxious on behalf of Scott. Anxious of what he’s doing, even though, instinctively, Ilya knows.

He knows what's about to happen, can feel it in his bones. Ilya walks and slides, following the curve of the rink boundary, to keep Scott in view.

A man tentatively walks onto the ice, Scott pulling him a little way away from the barrier.

Scott holds that man's cheek in his hand, and he kisses him.

It’s a relief. An indescribable weight being shifted, cracking and moving. Scott did something brave. He did something that lifted Ilya’s heart right out of his chest. And nothing bad happened. The sky didn’t fall in, Scott and his man were not struck by lightning.

The crowd are cheering even, Ilya looks around. The people look so happy, they’re screaming support for Scott. Ilya watches as a few of the team skate over, shaking hands with Scott and his man, smacking Scott on the back in support.

Scott Hunter just turned the world upside down like it was nothing.

The outpouring of support since Hunter, oh so publicly came out, has been overwhelming for him, the team, the league. Hell, the whole damn sport.

There’s been some negativity obviously, loud, stupid individuals spewing hate, but they have been shut down and cancelled out by the outpouring of love. Scott was braver than Ilya, he deserves to be happy forever with Kip.

Ilya met Kip, briefly, while it was all happening. He looked so happy. So overwhelmed. But more than anything he couldn’t take his eyes off Scott. The devotion there was almost painful to look at.

So this is all he deserves really.

He was not brave enough to be like Hunter, so now he must wear his punishment. He had Shane, and he lost him, and now he’s just sitting on the couch, watching figure skaters he doesn’t even know the names of, waiting, waiting, just to have a glimpse of Shane. Just a few minutes of watching him dance across the ice. Hopefully, he’s going to watch Shane win whatever this competition is. Some sort of figure skating grand prix. Ilya hopes he does; Shane deserves to win. He deserves all good things, always.

His breath catches when Shane appears on the screen. He’s wearing an oversized hoodie over his outfit, something jet black and absolutely skin tight from what Ilya can see of his legs.

He’s in the holding area bit next to the rink, waiting for his turn to glide out onto the ice. He’s talking to someone, his coach. Hopping a little from foot to foot, warming up. Or keeping warm.

There’s a brief close up, Shane’s name and stats scrolling across the bottom of the screen. He looks drawn; tired. Ilya notices immediately. His eyes look too dark, like he hasn’t been sleeping. Ilya only has to look for a second longer; watching as Shane stands in the gate, unzipping the hoodie and sliding it off. A familiar hoodie. Ilya recognizes it because it’s his.

And Shane’s wearing it, in public. On national fucking television. No one else could possibly know, obviously, but Ilya does. His throat goes tight at the sight of it. Maybe Shane assumes Ilya isn’t watching, that Ilya will never know. Shane probably assumes that Ilya doesn’t care.

The outfit that’s revealed is jet black, not just the legs. It covers Shane from throat to wrists, right down to his matching black skates. The dark material is only broken by a touch of something sparkly around the throat and wrists. Every part of his lithe frame is on display, his dark hair slicked back out of his face. The effect is harsh. Not like the soft smiling Shane Ilya is used to.

Shane is always so conscious of his diet, literally every mouthful carefully monitored on his macro whatever it is he counts. He’s lost weight, Ilya can see it immediately, worry spiking.

He leans forward, literally on the edge of his seat as Shane takes his place in the middle of the ice, taking a breath, eyes closed. A breath that shifts him, his whole body, fills him up as he centers himself, balances precariously on the points of his skates. Ilya wants to reach out to him, hold him. Tell him how beautiful and wonderful and perfect he is.

The music starts, and Shane’s eyes open, full of fire. Full of something that wasn’t there ten seconds ago.

Anger, Ilya thinks.

Shane usually skates with such joy, such gentle love for what he’s dong, genuine care for the beauty of movement. Shane skates because he enjoys it so much. This isn't that. This is sharp, erratic, too fast, and the commentators notice almost immediately that something is off, Shane's movements far too choppy.

Ilya’s heart feels like it’s in his throat, and like a premonition, he knows it’s going to happen a split second before it does.

Shane hits the ice hard.

Ilya had his coat on and his feet forced into his shoes before he could really think it through. He still hasn’t really thought it through. He knew, he was pretty sure, which hospital Shane would get taken too. It’s just the kind of thing you know through years of Hockey player injuries at different rinks. Shane’s skating at home, this competition is in Ottawa. He knows where Shane is, he’s sure.

He stands in reception; he’d practically thrown himself down the stairs from his apartment, knowing even that would save him a few valuable seconds on taking the elevator. His knee is still screaming at him. He’s going to have to ice it later.

“Look, I’m sorry man, but if you’re not next of kin then I can’t let you in. You need to talk to his family.” Ilya can’t remember hospitals having security like this, but. He guesses it’s a bit different. When it was someone on the team, they were all recognizable, they could just walk in and out when they were visiting their fellow players. Since he’s been coach, he'd just flash his I.D. if he ever needs to visit one of his players.

Ilya is about half an inch away from just picking this dude up and...just moving him out of the way. But he doesn’t want to be that guy, and the people behind the desk are already eying him. He doesn’t want to start trouble, even though he is very close to completely losing his shit. Shane could be...really hurt. He knows what it feels like to hit the ice wearing the full body kit of a Hockey player. Shane hit the ice, basically from height, wearing nothing but velvet and a few sequins. The thought makes him feel a little sick.

He feels out of options. Except for one. He’s desperate enough to take that one option.

“Tell Yuna Hollander that Ilya Rozanov is here to see her.”

The security guard sighs, shaking his head, “fine man,” and he walks away, presumably to make a call. Ilya needs to know that Shane is okay, but he may have just gone about it in the absolute fucking worst way possible.

He may have just betrayed Shane’s trust. Shane is out, he knows that. Shane is brave enough to live openly, and it never even seems to bother him. Like it’s just...okay for him. Ilya feels like he’s cracking open. He was wrong. He was so wrong. Scott has shown him that. So has Shane.

And Ilya, if he gets the chance, fully intends to do something about it.

The tiny Asian woman looks...terrifying.

It doesn’t help that she looks worn thin, it just makes her look an inch closer to committing murder. Illya, suddenly understands what Shane means about auras, because this tiny woman's aura is exuding the fact that she is completely done with Ilya’s shit and she hasn’t opened her mouth yet.

She looks like she’s been crying. She is definitely already having a rough enough day without Ilya doing this. He is possibly the shittest human being that has ever existed.

“Ilya Rosanov?”

Ilya clears his throat, “da.”

“And why does a hockey coach want to talk to me?” She wraps her cardigan around herself, Ilya vaguely aware of the people moving around them in the busy hospital reception. Ilya knows then, that this may be some sort of betrayal; Shane has very clearly never mentioned Ilya to his mother.

“I...want to see Shane.”

She stares at him skeptically, but she doesn’t exactly seem surprised by this, “and why, exactly, do you want to see my son?”

It isn’t often in his adult life Ilya’s felt like this. This kind of discomfort. His father could make him feel like this, just with a look, when he was a teenager. “I...need to know he is okay.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t really answer my question. Why do you, specifically, need to know my son is okay?”

“I,” Ilya swears under his breath, but in Russian, and he is pretty sure that the tiny scary lady doesn’t understand him, “I care about Shane.”

“Uh hu,” she’s still looking at Ilya like she might gut him, “well, as soon as he heard me say your name, he was asking for you.”

Ilya’s heart feels like it unclenches, just a little bit. A tiny wave of relief that has him letting out a long slow breath, Shane is awake, that has to be a good thing.

“Yeah, my son is high as a kite on pain meds right now, and you know what he said? That the big grumpy Russian man is probably worried. About him.”

Ilya can only nod, “he is right.”

“Uh hu. I knew something was going on with him, and it’s you isn’t it? He hasn’t been sleeping, he hasn’t been eating, he’s been pushing himself way too hard, and now this,” she gestures angrily back toward the hospital corridor, presumably where, somewhere, Shane is. “I need you to know, if this was up to me, I’d be telling you to go fuck yourself,” and that is fair, and Ilya braces for it, because if this woman tells him to go, he will listen, “but my son is actually crying up there because he wants to see you so bad. So you’re going to go up there, and you’re going to tell him whatever he needs to hear to calm him down, because he is injured and then you’re going to leave, understand?”

“Yes ma’am.”

From what Ilya had seen, Shane hadn’t cracked his head on the ice. That was the thing that had frightened him most, that it might have happened even if Ilya didn’t see it. Helmets should be a part of the sparkly pajama uniform. He didn’t exactly hang around for the action replays. But he sees it for himself now, Shane awake, blinking at him with red ringed eyes. “Ilyyyyyyyya,” he says happily, dragging out Ilya’s name. He sounds drunk, Ilya hopes it’s painkillers and not fall out from some sort of concussion or head injury.

“Hey,” Ilya makes his way to the bottom of the bed, very aware that Shane’s dad is right there, and he has no doubt that Shane's Mom is behind him, trying to murder him with a glare right now. He can feel the weight of her presence behind him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane shrugs, then hisses with pain, “broken collarbone. Just banged up a tiny bit.”

Behind Ilya, Yuna scoffs. Ilya lets himself touch, just Shane's ankle through the covers, it’s easy enough to lean down and grip at it gently. “I am...relieved.”

“It’s okay,” Shane wriggles in the bed, clearly uncomfortable despite the meds, “and...you don’t have to...you know. It was nice you came to check on me.” Shane is resting back into the cushions. He seems clear headed enough, despite his words being slow and syrupy. He’s clearly able to think about what he’s saying, even if it is a little slower.

“I...actually wanted to...talk.”

Shane immediately perks up, seeming hopeful, and Ilya widens his eyes fractionally, tilting his head at Shane’s dad. Hopefully Shane gets it, even though he’s clearly a little wobbly from the drugs.

He does get it, eventually, after blinking absently for a long few seconds, “Uhm...could we have a minute?”

Shane’s dad gets up to leave immediately, no issue, but his Mom makes a lethal huffing noise before saying, “a minute, Shane, one minute. And we will be right outside.”

The door clicks shut, and Shane looks sad again, like he’s remembered all over again what Ilya did. What Ilya needs to fix.

“It’s really okay, you don’t need to be here,” he hisses in pain, shifting again, “actually pretty sure all the drugs are wearing off. I’ll be...fine. Thank you for coming.”

Ilya ignores all of that, moving up the bed. He can’t help but reach for Shane’s freckles, rubbing a thumb across Shane’s cheek, “your Mom, she said you’re not eating. Not sleeping. Not happy.”

“I,” Shane shrugs, then he aborts the movement and his whole face crinkles in pain for a minute. Ilya wants to tell him to stop fucking moving because that’s like, the fourth time Shane’s hurt himself in under a minute, Ilya moves, he can’t stop himself from moving, and he takes Shane’s hand. He wants to hold him still. He wants to make him heal. Make all of this better. “I…” But he looks lost. He doesn’t know what to say.

“I will come to the cottage.”

It doesn’t get an immediate smile, no kind of immediate reaction really, just some wide blinks and a lot of uncertainty, “because I got hurt?”

“No. Yes. But no. Because I think…” Ilya takes a deep breath, “because I realized I made a stupid mistake. Because when I saw you fall it felt like it was my heart that got smashed against the ice. I’m sorry you had to get hurt for me to see it.”

A smile then. Soft. Shane turns his hand, lets their fingers link together.

“But you have to promise to take care of yourself,” when Ilya reaches out to cup Shane’s face again, he leans into it, so trusting. So full of love.

“I will.”