Shotgun Smiles

Shane's jaw works. The camera doesn't capture the flint of his eyes, the line that must be creased between his brows. It doesn't matter. Ilya knows the ways Shane will bend. He stares at the screen, hungry, and a thousand miles away Shane gets off the bed.

The view dips, goes dark, then too bright. A clatter; an angle of a bathroom counter. Shane comes back into view, a razor in hand. Hesitates. "Should I--"

"Mm."

The water runs. First the soap, and then the clean stroke of the razor. Shane's hands are steady as he works. He'd had a goal second period: a slick dangle through the D-pair, then a wrister into the top corner. The Raiders in his living room had exploded in appreciative shouts. Ilya had watched, and wanted, his mouth gone wet.

"I should do this for you," Ilya murmurs.

"Yeah?"

"You would like it, I think." He imagines being there, taking Shane's jaw in his hand. "You'd have to be very good." Ilya would be so careful with him. All that tender skin, smooth and pink. Shane's shallow breathing; his glassy eyes.

Shane lowers the razor. There's water dripping onto the counter. "Ilya."

"Touch yourself." He waits for Shane to put the razor down, a quiet click. "No, other hand."

It'll be harder for Shane, and that's what Ilya wants. It takes a second before his hand disappears under the counter. Ilya watches Shane's eyes, the teeth sinking into his lip. The hiss of his exhale, just audible over the call.

"I want to hear you," Ilya says, and finally gets a hand on his own dick. A long lazy stroke, groaning with it. Shane's breath hitches at the sound; his forearm jerks, convulsive. "Make some noise for me, okay?"

Shane does. God, he does.

***

T-1 to puck drop there's a ping on Ilya's phone: Raymonds pulled out of Team Canada. For a moment Ilya just blinks at the text, no context for it, before he remembers the fucking World Championship. Conflicts with the playoffs every year. Shane would have declined the invitation before.

You have not had enough hockey?, Ilya sends, but he knows the answer to that. He looks up where Worlds are this year, mentally marks the time difference between Boston and Bratislava. Then he tucks his phone away and gets ready to destroy Florida.

The Raiders are playing hungry this year. Ilya tries not to dwell on it, but the thought lives in him, bright and sharp-edged. One last time before he leaves. He's been here eight years, called this place home, bled and cried with these men. It's the only way he knows how to say thank you.

***

The first game is a shutout for Boston. Ilya stretches into bed with a satisfying ache all through his muscles. Shane picks up on the second ring. "Hey," he says. "You looked good out there."

"I always look good," Ilya says, preening. "When are you flying out?"

"A few days. I've been trying to pack, but I can't find my neck guard."

"You have one?" Shane doesn't normally wear one. Ilya's thoughts snag on the image of something dark around Shane's throat.

"From the juniors." Shane sounds a little sheepish. "It's comfortable, you know? I might've left it at my parents' place, I'll go over tomorrow."

The words come out without thought. "Wear mine."

Somewhere deep in his closet Ilya has one, too: a strip of fabric and plastic, worn, faded. At some point Ilya had put his name on it, the inside edge where it would lie against the hollow of his throat. Silver against the black: Илья Розанов.

Shane opens his mouth. Closes it. "I can't come to Boston," he says, which is not a no. His eyes are wide on the screen, and Ilya's teeth ache.

"I will send it to you." There's same-day delivery to Canada. The logistics aren't the problem.

"What if--" Shane swallows. "What if it's not comfortable?"

This is how Ilya knows he's won. He can be magnanimous in victory. "If you try and don't like it," he says. "Then fine, don't wear it. You can choose."

Shane's breathing hard; they both know what he'll choose. "Okay," he says. Touches his tongue to his teeth. "Okay."

***

Boston wins the next game at home, then lose one away. A grinding, dirty game, chippy from the start and stretching into 2OT. It's a lucky bounce that wins it for Florida, the kind that sticks in your teeth, and Ilya doesn't get back to the hotel until midnight.

He's exhausted when he crawls into bed. He means to go to sleep, but midnight in Florida is seven where Shane is, which means Canada is playing Norway in ten hours. Have fun, Ilya texts, absently taps open Twitter, and abruptly comes face to face with Shane.

There's a mic in his face. His hair is a sweaty fringe, probably just out from practice. Someone's asking him a question, who the fuck cares, and all Ilya sees is the dark layer of the neck guard under the collar of Shane's jersey.

Fuck. He goes hard in an instant, shocked wide awake. The way it shifts when Shane tilts his head. The bob of his throat. The interview ends, and Ilya hits replay, shoves a hand into his briefs. It's embarassingly fast: the orgasm hits like a train, hard and blinding, before the video finishes playing a second time.

He's still panting when Shane texts back. Next time, and then: Good night :) Love you.

An ocean away Shane is waking up. He'll put on his pads, his skates, his Team Canada jersey. He'll play the same beautiful hockey he's been playing since he was old enough to stand up, and it will be Ilya's name on his neck, pressing against skin. Keeping him safe.

This year, Ilya is going to win the Cup. He's going to win with the C on his chest, Raiders screaming in his ear, and that will be what he remembers when he asks for the trade. He'll walk away, even though it'll kill him, because the other side of this is Shane. Shane, and the slow yielding in him that has him thrusting his own head into a collar.

Something sours in Ilya's gut. It's not like he expected Hollander to dump his boyfriend of seven years after one night with him.... except who does he think he's kidding, that is absolutely what he thought.

After a night like that? Ilya doesn't think anyone should blame him. He doubts fucking Brian ever made Hollander come hands free, not if he can't even be bothered to eat him out.

"Are you okay?"

Ilya responds by biting the soft flesh of Hollander's thigh, grinning when Hollander gasps, hips twitching upwards.

He's just gonna have to keep going, he decides. One night was not enough but a few weeks or months of consistently amazing sex should do the trick. Ilya doesn't exactly love the idea of sharing Hollander for that long, but he can be patient.

To start with, tonight he'll suck Hollander's soul out of his dick.

But first, he'll make sure to wipe out every trace of his terrible boyfriend from Hollander's body and mind.

With that thought, Ilya places his mouth over the bruise and bites.

+

The first game of the season proper Boston beats Montreal and after, Ilya fucks Hollander in his own bed.

Hollander is tense when they start out. Maybe like Ilya, he's thinking of the fact that this is the bed where he sleeps with his boyfriend. Ilya doesn't mind; enjoys, in fact, putting Hollander on his hands and knees and fucking the tension out of him until he can barely stay upright.

They collapse on the mattress in the aftermath, sticky with sweat. Ilya turns his head to watch Hollander as they catch their breath, feeling smug at the dazed expression on his face.

"Where is your boyfriend tonight?" Ilya asks.

There were no hickeys this time but he's still fairly certain Hollander's relationship status hasn't changed and he wants to find out for sure.

"At home," Hollander says. "His place, I mean. We don't actually live together, it would be a logistical nightmare to keep hidden. He spends some nights here, I spend some nights at his, we make it work."

"Does he know I'm here?"

Hollander glances at him. "Why?"

Ilya shrugs one shoulder. "Just curious."

"Oh." Hollander's expression twists, lips tugging in a frown. "No, he doesn't. He doesn't tell me about other people, either. I don't wanna know."

"Sound healthy," Ilya says dryly.

"Fuck you. Don't you need to have been in a relationship to know what a healthy one looks like?"

Ilya resists the urge to tell Hollander that his relationship is so dysfunctional, a blind dog could see it. He doesn't feel like being thrown out of bed just yet.

"What about me?" he asks instead. "Do I get to know if you fuck anyone else?"

Hollander looks at him, startled. "Who else would I fuck?"

Ilya blinks. "Who - anyone you want to? You are aware that you're Shane Hollander, yes?"

Hollander's cheeks go bright red. It's a nice color on him, Ilya thinks.

"I know I'm successful," he mutters, like that's not a massive understatement. "But it's not like I could go out to a bar and pick someone up, you know? You're the only person besides Brian who knows I'm gay. I don't know how to find someone else I could trust to keep it secret."

"Hm." Ilya understands; it's the same reason men have been such a rare indulgence for him. It's also a sad reality he has no interest in dwelling on. "I see. So I am, what, last resort?"

Hollander rolls his eyes. "Oh, fuck off. You've got a different girl hanging off your arm every week, your ego doesn't need any more stroking."

"Still keeping up with me in the tabloids, I see."

Hollander smacks him in the face with a pillow.

+

shane’s stomach drops. he pulls away, looking for his shirt. the millisecond he manages to spare on noticing ilya’s face devastates him, but he doesn’t have time he has to move he needs to get out. through the itch at the back of his tongue, he scrambles off ilya’s lap, mumbling something about having to go, and bolts to the bedroom where his stuff is.

he’s crouched at his duffel bag, rifling through the pocket where his epipen lives—it has to be in that pocket, it’s never been anywhere else he’s never put it anywhere else—and his throat is starting to close as ilya finally catches up to him, and he’s saying something that shane can’t understand because where the fuck is his epipen oh god it’s getting hard to breathe fuck where is it—

his pinky finger brushes the hard plastic of the case, which he whips open to dump the auto-injector out into his right hand. he pops the safety cap off and swings down to stab himself in the thigh.

he’s still too panicked to take a full breath, but at least he’s not actively dying. he looks up at ilya to ask him to call an ambulance, but before the word “can” fully leaves his mouth, he stops at the look on ilya’s face. in one word: terrified. in two: terrified, devastated.

“i’ll be okay,” shane says. “i just need you to call an ambulance.” at the refreshed panic in ilya’s wide eyes, he repeats, “i’ll be okay. it’s just—the first thing they teach you when you get diagnosed with a life-threatening allergy, you always call an ambulance after using an epipen.” ilya doesn’t relax, but he manages to pull himself together enough to nod and pull his phone out of his pocket to dial 911.

they wait in the kitchen until they hear sirens.

“do you want—”

“could you—” they speak at the same time.

“sorry. you first,” shane says, ever canadian even when he just almost died.

ilya waves, head jerking in a single nod.

“okay. um. i know this is probably weird to ask, and you can totally say no and i won’t be mad or anyth—”

“hollander.”

“will you ride to the hospital with me? please?” shane rushes out, the request sounding like one single word.

“i…”

shane shakes his head a little. “seriously, it’s okay, you don’t have to come. it was stupid of me to ask, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to make y—”

“shane. is okay. i will come to hospital with you. you should not go alone.”

shane nods once, and when the medics knock on the door, ilya is there to let them in.