At some point early in the post-cottage days Shane lets himself into the Boston McMansion and creeps into the bedroom and finds Ilya face-down dead asleep with his back bare and his shoulders scrunched and maybe even his ass out. Who knows. And Shane crawls onto the bed, nothing on but socks, and lays himself down completely on top of Ilya's back, smooths his hands down along Ilya's arms until he finds his hands, twines their fingers together, rests his cheek between Ilya's shoulder blades and waits for Ilya to wake up, which only takes him a minute because there's a 200 pound hockey player using him as a mattress.
"Hey," Shane says in that half-nervous way of his, like he's not certain of his welcome even now, and then when Ilya squeezes his hands and mumbles, Shane says, "Hi, handsome," and presses his forehead against Ilya's temple and kisses his jaw and the world is so fucking quiet and still.
So they lay there like that, because Ilya is still drifting, post-dream, and he's rubbing his thumbs over Shane's palms and breathing deep, and Shane's clung onto him like a backpack and then, slowly, starts to shift his hips. Gentle, slow, almost like he doesn't realize he's doing it. When Ilya looks at him, the side of his face pressed into the back of Ilya's shoulder, he's got his eyes squeezed closed, he's blushing just so prettily. Ilya folds their arms together under his head, kisses Shane's hands, enjoys the cocoon of his biceps and the smell of man.
"Needy boy?" Ilya murmurs, first thing he's said so far, maybe first thing he's said all day because Shane got here so so early so that they could have this time together before tonight's game--came directly from the airport, probably has been thinking about this for at least the last handful of hours, probably got himself all worked up on the way here. Sweatshirt loose around his hips, dick tucked up into his waistband, ballcap low over the eyes so as not to be recognized. Soft and needy and just waiting, waiting.
"I just--" Shane sighs, forehead sliding down to find the dip between Ilya's shoulders again. His hips move a little more, still slow and steady but definitely there now. Not trying to hide it anymore, like he ever thought Ilya wouldn't notice. Trying to be a naughty boy when Ilya knows he's good, so good, so sweet. He would stop if he was told. He murmurs, "Ilya. Can I?"
"You want it like that?" Ilya says, because this is unusual for Shane--he loves to be underneath, loves to be pressed down, loves to be rocked by the entire weight of Ilya's body over him. Cries about it, sometimes, how much be fucking loves it.
"Yeah," Shane breathes, trembling. "Won't--won't take much, just--feels good--"
"Mm, easy," Ilya accuses, and kisses his hand again. Big, pretty long fingers. Ilya kisses each one. "So easy, Hollander. Couldn't wait, ah?"
"Ilya," Shane pants. He whines, and the small of Ilya's back is slippery with sweat, with wet, and Ilya's dick is burrowing a hole into the mattress.
"Naughty," Ilya tells him, because maybe it's what he wants to hear. "Sneaking in here. Trying to take without permission. What do you say?"
"Sorry," Shane murmurs--whimpers, really, somewhere in the depths of Ilya's back muscles.
"You'll be a good boy later, won't you?" Ilya says. "So good for me. Lay on your back for me, how I like. Let me look at your pretty face."
"Yes," Shane hisses. "Yes, Ilya, I'll be good." Hips stuttering now, close.
"Poor slutty bunny," Ilya sighs. "Needs it so bad. Go ahead."
So Shane shivers, swears as he comes, but softly--because he's trying not to be naughty, his very good boy. Comes when he's told, moans when he's allowed.
"Clean it up," Ilya says, immediately afterwards, with an air of benevolence; here you go, here's your reward.
Shane does as he's told, licking and sucking along Ilya's back, making everything that much more wet. When Ilya's tired of it, he turns over, flips Shane back towards the foot of the bed, catches him before he cracks his pretty little head on the footboard. His head ends up hanging half-off the edge of the bed, and Ilya plants a foot on the floor, a knee on Shane's chest, and takes his cock in hand.
"Close your slutty mouth," Ilya says, when Shane sticks his tongue out, and the speed with which he sucks it back in makes an almost comical sound. Ilya had called him froggy once, one of those quiescent cottage days. The face he'd made had prompted Ilya to say Yes, just like that and then laugh himself into a cramp.
"Be good," Ilya reminds him, as Shane watches with saucer eyes, eager as Ilya's stomach muscles visibly shudder. Shane nods mindlessly, but doesn't pick up on the implication, because Ilya has to say, "Fuck, Shane, close your eyes."
Shane remembers himself, remembers how to be good, exactly as Ilya begins to come. His cum lands pretty across the freckles, catches pearly-translucent in Shane's dark eyelashes. He is the prettiest thing on the goddamn planet.
"Oh," Shane says, after a moment, when he realizes he can't open his eyes. "Um."
Ilya chuckles, finds the tissues in the bedside drawer. He's careful, dabbing until Shane's waterlines are safe from debris. His face breaks into a smile when he gets his first look at Ilya's full face, hovering over him at the end of the bed.
"Hi," Shane says again, dreamily. "Can I have a kiss?"
The answer being, yes. Of course.
