“It's not- I'm not-” Shane stutters. Of course, he's rehearsed hundreds of excuses, but his tongue is too clumsy in his mouth now that he needs them. “Let me explain. I didn't- um, this is just-”

Ilya looks up at Shane with his eyebrows raised. “You are painter now?”

“Yes,” Shane agrees without thinking. “Yep. Love painting.”

He hurriedly folds the tarp over itself to hide the stains. Typically, Shane cleans the tarp right away, and skipping the step makes him itch behind his ribcage, but he needs the evidence out of the way before this situation gets any worse.

“You paint very messy,” Ilya observes.

Shane stuffs the tarp into his black duffel bag, covering the other tools, and yanks the zipper shut. “Sure, I guess.” He notices a line of dried blood on his wrist where his gloves ended and tugs his sleeve down to cover it.

“This is why you changed clothes?”

“What?”

“Over there,” explains Ilya, nodding toward the couch behind Shane. On the floor in front of it, a mass of blood soaked clothes sits on top of a trash bag; some of them belong to Shane, some to the man he killed, but it all looks like a single sopping pile now. “Sloppy. I'm surprised at you.”

Somehow, the barb stings. “Oh, yeah.” The extra trash bags are in Shane's now closed duffel, so he grabs the corners of the bag under the clothes to lift them. He can burn them later. “Just, uh,” he shakes his head reflexively, “You know, I, um- you're… kinda fucking early, man.”

As Shane starts down the hallway to drop the bundle in his bathtub, Ilya trails behind him close enough for his breath to tickle the hairs at the nape of Shane's neck.

“I see nothing,” Ilya says pleasantly. “You need help with this?”

Shane swallows the anxious bile rising up his throat. “No.”

“Body is already gone?”

Even expecting Ilya to smile, to laugh, Shane whips around fast enough to stain his wall with a thin spray of blood off the clothes. But when he meets Ilya's eyes, none of the usual humor sparkles behind them. He doesn't seem nervous either. Just concerned. For all his preparation, Shane doesn't have a canned response to this situation.

“I-” he stumbles, “you mean- I don't-”

Ilya holds up a hand to stop him. “Relax, Hollander. Body is gone? Or no?”

The question is so clear and direct that Shane can't come up with a reasonable way out, and since the day they met, Ilya has had an uncanny ability to pull the truth out of Shane whether he likes it or not.

“Yeah,” Shane says quietly. “I already…”

Then Ilya nods, and some of the tension melts off Shane's shoulders. “Okay. Good. Now we clean.”

He nudges Shane's arm to turn him back around, hand straying to the small of Shane's back to guide him toward the main bathroom of his condo almost as if this is an ordinary afternoon. His presence after that is silent, but unignorable: as Shane dumps the clothes into the tub, Ilya hovers overhead to observe the calculated distance between the blood and the shower curtain; as Shane scrubs his hands and arms with antibacterial soap and steaming hot water, Ilya tries and fails to catch his eye in the mirror; and as Shane takes a steadying breath to stave off panic, Ilya rubs his back in soothing circles.

“I'm sorry,” Shane blurts out.

Ilya hums and kisses Shane's shoulder. “Is fixable,” he assures.

Of all the ways Shane mentally played out the moment he got caught, he never pictured this. He prepared for fury, panic, revulsion, and violence, but not the grounding weight of Ilya's hands skimming up and down his ribcage. And so for as long as he can endure, Shane indulges in the comfort of Ilya's embrace in case it's the last time he ever feels it. He really, really doesn't want to have to kill Ilya. He doesn't think he could do it.

“I don't-” Shane starts, and stops with a harsh swallow. “I had it figured out.” He bites the inside of his cheek and admits, “You're early.”

The second Ilya makes to pull away, Shane claws at his forearms to keep him in place, and Ilya goes stock still like a statue. He breathes slow. Deep. Even. One lungful after another, until Shane subconsciously mimics the pattern.

“Hollander,” Ilya says firmly, “I am not going to tell. Okay?”

Shane studiously avoids looking at Ilya in the bathroom mirror until he's jostled with the grip he fought for Ilya to maintain around his abdomen. When his eyes finally fly up to meet Ilya's, he nods the moment before they skate away. His voice is thin when he manages a quiet, “Okay,” in response.

“Not leaving,” Ilya iterates slowly, pressing into Shane's back to trap him against the sink, “and not telling.”

Slowly, Shane prizes his fingers off Ilya's arms. The metallic tang of blood is still thick in the air and Ilya's cologne isn't enough to cut through it in the slightest, leaving the blood to taunt Shane with its cloying odor. He's almost gotten used to it over the years, but there are moments when the evolutionary aversion rears its ugly head.

“You're being way too chill about this,” he chokes out.

Ilya noses at Shane's neck, prompting him to tilt his head and skimming kisses down the newly bared skin. “You are not going to kill me, so.”

“How would you know that?” Shane bites back. The arms around him are suddenly too constricting but when he shoves at Ilya, he lacks the leverage and the raw muscle to escape. Tears burn behind his nose as his throat tightens. “Hey. You're kinda freaking me out here, Roz.”

“Fuck,” Ilya murmurs against Shane's hammering pulse. “You are murderer, and I freak you out. Da, makes sense.”

But he's still there, his own heartbeat steady where his chest presses against Shane's back. Ilya edges his hands under Shane's tee shirt to caress his stomach, soothing and gentling with unsettling ease.

“You aren't gonna run away?” Shane questions.

Ilya's hair tickles Shane's cheek as he shakes his head. “No.” He nips the junction of Shane's neck and shoulder before taking a reluctant step back. “Turn around.”

He waits patiently for Shane to about-face, then grabs and lifts his thighs so Shane has no choice but to wrap his legs and arms around Ilya to avoid falling. As he walks them toward Shane's bedroom, Ilya kisses Shane like a man starved, biting at his bottom lip and groaning whenever he catches his breath. The normalcy of it chips away at Shane until he's nearly boneless when Ilya finally drops him on his mattress.

“Worry after,” Ilya says softly, almost too quiet for Shane to hear. Louder, he adds, “We will talk. But first…” he kneels on the bed between Shane's legs, lowering his torso until their faces are inches apart and their bodies are pressed together like two halves of a whole. “I want to fuck you. Yes?”

He stares into Shane's eyes like he's searching for something, all while his own features remain as unreadable as always. Ilya seems soft around the edges, but the set of his lips is too tense, and yet he's here on top of Shane, subtly grinding against him, and waiting for permission to skip past what he saw.

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “Please.”

Finally, Ilya blesses him with a genuine smile. “Thank you,” he breathes, reverent, beginning to undress Shane at a teasingly glacial pace. His calloused hands dance over Shane's stomach and chest, grope his pecs, and tweak his nipples underneath his shirt long before he bothers to ruck the hem up. Shane is the one who gets too impatient and tugs the fabric over his head, but Ilya takes advantage of the distraction to kiss down Shane's happy trail as he tugs his sweatpants.

As Ilya pulls Shane's pants off, he chases the waistband with open-mouthed kisses that have Shane's legs twitching and breath catching. He watches Shane through thick blonde lashes, like a cat studying its prey before it pounces. And when he wraps one massive hand around Shane's half-hard dick, the air caught in Shane's lungs finally rushes out in a breathy whine.

“Pretty,” Ilya says, peppering a few more kisses up Shane's thigh. “Do you want me to suck your cock?”

Shane threads his fingers through Ilya's hair, letting the short waves wind around his digits because if this is the last time, he needs to commit every detail to memory. Every inch of Ilya's body. Every subtle difference between the texture of the rough stubble on his chin and the downy fur on his legs. Every tiny hitch in his breath and shift of his weight.

“Hollander.”

He shakes his head, tugging Ilya closer.

“Hollander,” Ilya repeats, quieter, leaning back and tilting his head against Shane's calf. “Calm down. We don't have to fuck.”

Shane shuts his eyes, focusing on the warmth of Ilya between his legs. “I want to, but I- you were early, and-” he didn't plan for something like this, he doesn't have a script, “Aren't you gonna- you don't have questions? You're just…” Shane trails off when Ilya kisses the inside of his knee. “...fine with it?”

“I have many questions,” Ilya drawls, cheek still pressed into Shane's leg. “I am fine…? Mm, probably.” He quirks his lips in a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. “I will know for sure after we talk.”

When Shane starts to sit up, Ilya lowers his legs onto the mattress and slinks up beside him. He hasn't taken off his sneakers yet. “I'm not gonna kill you, or anything, if you're worried.”

“Comforting,” Ilya rumbles.

“Really.” Shane makes himself look Ilya in the eyes as he speaks. “I wouldn't- can't. I promise.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow, tugging at one of his earlobes. “Oh? Not your type?”

“No, but also, it's-” Shaking his head, Shane gives up on the sentence. “You don't understand.”

Beside him, Ilya shrugs, stretching legs out in front of himself so his heels hang off the bed and his head tips back between his shoulder blades. The posture is a picture of relaxation, but the corded muscles of Ilya's biceps betray how quickly he could still run.

“Then explain,” Ilya says, as if it's so simple. “I listen now; ask questions when you are done.”

This part, at least, Shane is prepared for. He's crafted innumerable ways to explain himself, tailored to various audiences, but Ilya is one of the only people in the world he imagines would understand. They're cut of the same cloth: perfectionists, and dedicated to the point of self sacrifice. Ilya knows risk more intimately than anyone else Shane has ever met, and, more importantly, he's still here.

“You knew,” Shane realizes aloud as Ilya takes his hand to fidget with the fingers. “For how long?”

“Since I saw blood today,” says Ilya. He picks a point on the far wall to stare at, tilting his head from side to side as he ponders his next words. “Is hard to ignore.”

“You're taking it really well.”

Ilya snorts, an actual smile flirting at the edge of his mouth for a moment, the joke clear behind his lips though he doesn't speak it.

“Yes,” Ilya says instead. “It, uh… fits you. Was not a surprise.”

If he squints, Shane thinks there might be blood left under his close-clipped fingernails, but Ilya doesn't seem to notice. Then again, Shane is discovering how many things seem to slip Ilya's attention only to come back around later. He runs through their past hookups in his mind; somewhere, he had to have slipped up, and he has to know how if he's going to ensure he doesn't do it again. He could always ask. But Ilya needs plausible deniability, and Shane has owes him that much.

Carefully, he extricates himself from Ilya's grasp. “I tried not to be, I- I didn't want to do it. But we won for the first time in years, and-”

Shane drops his head against his knees and takes a shuddering breath in. The articles he read suggested remorse goes over well if he were to get caught, but the guilt is real- even if he does bury it deep beneath his ambition. One of Ilya's hands settles against the back of his neck and Shane shrugs it off.

“Everyone has rituals. You know? Everyone does, fucking- Scott Hunter does, and you probably do-”

“I have rituals after game,” Ilya interjects, faux-casual. “For after I win. You know this.”

He doesn't try to touch Shane again, but he stays close enough for their weight to tip them toward each other on the mattress, letting the silence stretch between them until Shane remembers how to speak.

“It's not funny,” he finally says.

“Boring,” teases Ilya right back, “but go on. You are a murderer because rituals, okay, I understand. What else?”

Shane huffs. “No, that's- that's it.” He lifts his head enough to peer at Ilya over his bare leg. “If I don't- if-” Shane swears he can still smell the blood, but he focuses on the familiar line of Ilya's jaw to keep himself grounded. “I have to see, uh, someone die. In front of me. Or I lose my game.”

The first time was an accident, but it was the Metro's first victory all season. Shane owes it to the team now, after two consecutive cups, to keep up the momentum.

“That makes no sense,” Ilya informs. “You are insane person.”

Shane stares at him incredulously. “Jesus, Ilya.” He wonders how long Ilya suspected him and didn't care. “Do you have any sense of self-preservation?”

Ilya shrugs. “Like you say, you cannot kill me. Too, eh, suspicious, yes?” he deadpans, flicking open the top button of his shirt and pulling the silk away from his skin. When he laughs, it's dry and humorless. “So. How many people did you murder for superstition?”

“It's not like that,” argues Shane, but Ilya doesn't give him the chance to explain further.

“Ah. But, is not rational, so, maybe?” Ilya presses, before searching Shane's eyes and seeing something that makes him hesitate. “Or no. Whatever you say.”

“Does it matter to you?” Shane asks. “How many people I've killed?”

For a beat, Ilya considers the question, drumming his fingertips against his own leg. “Should? Yes.”

Then he bumps his clothed shoulder against Shane's bare one.

“Does, no,” Ilya finishes. “You are not stupid, I trust you will not get caught.”

As soon as Shane starts to relax from his tense little ball, Ilya holds out a hand to him again like Shane is the one owed reassurance right now.

“You can't show up early ever again,” Shane stipulates, his voice wavering despite his best efforts. “Got it, Rozanov?”

Ilya nods seriously. “Yes, got it. And you will call if you need help?”

“What?”

“Murdering people is dangerous business,” Ilya reasons, cocking his head to the side like a dog. “If you get hurt, if murder goes wrong, you need help- you call. Yes?”

Now it's Shane's turn to stifle an uncomfortable laugh, looking back at his bedcovers. “Fuck you.”

“After we talk,” Ilya says automatically. He leans in and lowers his voice to add, “I am serious. You will call?”

“Never gonna happen,” Shane scoffs. But when Ilya lifts his arm, he wiggles under it and allows himself to be pulled into Ilya's side. “I've been doing this a while, I'm pretty good at it now.”

He shuts his eyes while Ilya kisses the crown of his head.

“Just forget about it. Please.”

Ilya rubs Shane's arms as if to warm him up in the already stuffy room. “Oh, easy,” he says lightly. “No problem. I will forget my name, too.”

Shane tucks his face into Ilya's chest, idly wishing to feel skin instead of the smooth weave of athleisure. Somehow, it makes sense. Ilya has kept his secrets for eight years; this is just one more for the pile. He takes it as he has every one of Shane's idiosyncrasies off the ice, with grace, affection, and more kindness than Shane deserves.

“I swear, you're safe with me,” he whispers.

When Ilya takes a deep breath, Shane is pushed with it, reminding him he's been holding his own too long.

“Okay,” Ilya sighs on the tail end of his exhale. “You say so, yes, but…” he squeezes Shane's bicep and buzzes his lips. “I understand, you have ritual for hockey, but I-”

He cuts himself off again by clearing his throat. His next words are impossibly small, so quiet Shane strains to hear them over the lively beat of Ilya's heart.

“You ever think of killing me?”

According to Shane's research, he should always say no to such a question, regardless of the truth, but he doesn't want to keep up any more fronts with Ilya. Not when he knows everything Shane hides from the rest of the world. For the few hours a year they get together, he doesn't have to hide. But if he admits the truth, he may lose that, too, and Ilya could tell someone, and Shane would have to do something to stop him, and it would be a mess, and he really just doesn't want this fragile moment in Ilya's arms to end.

“I don't want to,” Shane answers.

Ilya's hands skate down Shane's forearms, loosely curling around his wrists so he's almost entirely engulfed between Ilya's legs and arms. “Not my question,” Ilya corrects.

But he doesn't leave.

So Shane admits, “I mean, sure. But I don't want to, I just- I needed to, because I have to have a plan, just in case, but I really don't want to kill you.”

The silence is so thick Shane is choking on it. He tries to sit up, but Ilya's grip on him is immovable, if still loose enough for it to feel gentle, and Shane sinks back against Ilya's chest as he rushes to explain himself.

“It's not like that, it's not,” Shane pleads. “Don't tell anyone, Ilya, please. I- I promise, I'm doing my research, I'm careful-”

“Take a fucking breath, Hollander,” Ilya interrupts. “I keep your secrets.”

“I know,” Shane snaps back at him.

“Do you?”

Shane is grateful, suddenly, that Ilya can't see his face. He turns it further into Ilya's shirt as he shakes his head slightly, the best he can manage without tripping over his words again. In turn, Ilya releases one of Shane's arms to curl around the back of his neck.

He says something to himself in Russian, quick and low, before he speaks to Shane. “You ask how long I knew. I… I thought, for very long time, but I did not know until today. I only thought. But-”

Ilya takes another measured deep breath.

“But I am still here.”

“You're still here,” Shane agrees, as though the words were plucked straight from his mind. “Nothing's gonna change, right? Between us, I mean.”

Only the unyielding pressure of Ilya around him grounds Shane through the next long stretch of silence as Ilya parses and translates a response to the question. His English has improved leaps and bounds since they first met all those years ago, but Shane can imagine how difficult the words must be to find right now. He can barely string them together himself, and it's one of his own first languages.

“I do not know,” Ilya finally tells him.

He releases Shane's neck to scratch at his own jaw for a moment, and when his hand settles once more it's between Shane's shoulder blades.

“Maybe,” Ilya concedes, “probably. We will find out. For right now, I am here, and I-” he stops himself, taking a quick breath. “I still want to see you. If you also want.”

This time, when Shane moves to face him, Ilya allows it. His touch goes lax until Shane kneels between Ilya's legs, knees pressed against his inner thighs, still a shade too uncertain to cup Ilya's face and draw him into a kiss.

“As long as you'll have me,” Shane answers softly.