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The sun is lowering itself down the horizon, with it comes the birds returning home, noisy as they make their way into the forest surrounding them. The sky, in turn, though still mostly blue, has started gathering violet hues, tinting the scenery inevitably interrupted by the two figures trying to play.
“So,” Ilya mentions casually, kicking the ball with ease, slightly out of breath as Shane gets a hold of his shirt, biting his lip before trying to push him. “My contract is up next year.”
A chuckle. More struggling as they both fight for the lead, something sharp poking at the heel of his feet, probably a twig, a short lived wince before the other man finally mumbles a reply.
“Are you signing with Boston again?”
“Nah,” is his answer, baring his teeth for a second that throws Shane off, probably. It makes Ilya score a goal that goes uncelebrated except for the shit eating grin he offers, and the panted ‘asshole’ he receives in return. “Was thinking Canadian team this time.”
“Where?”
“Canada?” He asks annoyingly, knowing it will bother him. “You surely remember the place, yes? The stupid birds, boring people, boring—nature.” Ilya falls to one of the seats in the garden, reaching out for the water bottle he thankfully thought to bring before this.
Silence. Only the sound of their huffs, the river in the background and the faint buzzing of insects nearby. Shane sits down by his side rolling his eyes. “I mean yes, b—but what team?”
“Not Montreal,” Ilya is quick to point out, smiling again. “Worst team in all league.” To which the other man tries to retort, reaching out to his chest again, almost touching the cross hanging from it. “But I’d like not to have a Russian passport.”
He’s thought about it for months. Years, even, in what he considered the darkest parts of his thoughts, or during the days where he’d see his brother’s number on the screen and took a few breaths in before answering.
Sometimes Ilya wonders who he would’ve been, had he been born anywhere else.
••
“I could marry Svetlana.”
It sounds rather loud in the stillness they’ve been keeping for some minutes, each deciding to have different entertainment sources in the comfort of their company, replying to important emails and the such.
Which of course has made Ilya’s head spin, like it has been doing every time he sees Shane this relaxed. Holding a cushion between his legs, the orange glow of the lamps making his skin look a bit warmer. He never looks as handsome as he does with ambient lighting, anyone with eyes would be able to see.
His words land exactly as he intended. A frown quickly appears on his pretty forehead, interrupting the peace; Shane looks up from his phone with eyes that could burn a hole through a wall.
“She has an american passport, would make the process easier for me to be able to get one too. Her father used to play hockey, back when—”
“Yeah, you’ve said.”
Something ignites inside of him, way past his lower stomach.
Because Shane doesn’t look annoyed, he doesn’t look really jealous, no. The man looks ready to commit homicide right there and then.
“Well, she would help, I know she’d do it if I asked.”
And she would. Though probably a bit unfair for her. What else can Ilya really do? As much as a joke to get a rise out of Shane, a reaction, this is also a bit of a call for help. The couch under him feels so soft, the woods around the house shouldn’t bring this much comfort, it’s been a while since he’s had a full night of sleep without any interruptions, and it’s all because of the person in front of him. Ilya is sure he hasn’t felt this happy in years, which is such a dangerous thing to someone like him.
How would he even tell him, either way? He cannot go back, there are so many ghosts over there. Without his father alive there’s simply no reason to return anymore, that’s done. His apartment is gone, that bridge that once might’ve existed with his brother has been gone for years.
Cирота, in every sense.
Does Shane even comprehend the hidden meaning behind his imagined scheme? Behind his insistence on the matter?
“Do you really want to?” The other man asks at last, his gaze completely turned from him. His shoulders tense in anticipation to whatever the answer might be.
Ilya shrugs.
And Shane nods, clearing his throat and standing up rapidly, not even bothering to fold the blanket that had been covering his legs. “I, um. I’ll go—see what I can do. For dinner,” he says, looking around, “stay there.”
Leaving him completely alone before listening to the bathroom’s door closing.
••
There’s a small probability Ilya has fucked up.
Noises come from the kitchen behind him, sharp and clipped in what he considers might be Shane’s way of showing he’s upset without really wanting to. The door to the fridge has been nearly slammed at least twice, so naturally, his natural response is to go and take a closer look at what’s going on.
The scene receives him with a turned back and several open containers on the counter. When he makes a small noise as to be noticed there’s no response.
“What are you doing?”
There’s a whole minute in which Shane pretends he didn’t hear, then he huffs, but sounds bothered. “Tuna melts.”
Something warms deep in his heart, Ilya cannot help but smile a little as he takes a step forward and circles the other man’s torso with his arms. Breathing in his scent, burying his nose in the crook of his neck, a gentle kiss on the back of his shoulder.
“Tuna melt,” he says, not hiding his entertainment. “Mister cuisine.”
“Stop.” Shane pushes him away, not even making eye contact, which is as endearing as insulting to a man like him.
Ilya doesn’t stop. It’s only seconds later, mayonnaise open on the counter and all that he decides to reach out again, wrapping a hand around Shane’s waist.
“Ilya.”
He pouts. “I do not want tuna melt.”
The other man’s movements stop, he turns with a knife still between his fingers, yes, bothered but also confused. This might be Ilya’s chance to get closer, to keep on talking about this, to gain a true confession from Shane’s mouth. The ones that only come out when he’s all angry like this.
“What do you want then?”
There’s a full second of calm before Ilya is touching the other’s stomach, under the hoodie he’s wearing, gliding through his velvety abdomen, raising his brows in question, rejoicing in the flinch as a response to a specific spot he pinches.
The answer is as simple and as difficult as, “you.”
His neck is next. Just a slow draft of his lips against the more sensitive parts, using a bit of teeth, his nose, then finally the right amount of tongue to tease. Shane’s breath starts hitching.
And he’s starting to pull Ilya too.
It’s like a bonfire being lit, his approval. Their hips meet, causing a delicious sort of friction that makes everything escalate.
Lips crash against each other, needy and intense and wanting; Shane opens up to him almost instantly, pliant when Ilya pushes his tongue inside, when he bites and gasps a bit at how good this feels, how good it’s always felt.
He’s sinking to his knees in a second, pulling down the sweats and briefs in a swift motion, no hesitation before taking Shane completely in his mouth.
“Fuck.” Ilya hears, to his complete delight.
It’s extremely easy, nowadays, to disarm him to the point of complete stupidity in minutes. He knows exactly what to do, how to do it and what speed, which is exactly what he focuses on.
The fingers pulling at his hair, the way the other’s knees buck from time to time as if Shane couldn’t hold himself upright, the rhythmic breaths that increase as he gets closer, as Ilya makes a wet mess out of them; keeping him in place against the closest surface, humming, rolling his tongue right into his tip and the rest of his length every time he descends, literally latching onto him, clenching his lips tighter and tighter until the man over him simply folds.
The muscles in his stomach give in, hollowing, he probably tries to warn him, but it only comes as a desperate moan. Ilya has to make quick work of supporting him as his thighs shake once, basically melting, letting pleasure strike through his nerves completely, eyes closed.
“Fuck,” Shane pants, his hands now over the kitchen island, gathering his wits. “Ilya what the fuck.”
He only wipes his chin with the back of his hand, sniffs once. There are half formed tears in his eyes and he must look completely ruined but that matters little, Ilya feels like bursting from the heat he’s feeling past his lower stomach. His knees protest slightly when he stands up, grabbing Shane’s face, clasping his cheek once with a shit eating grin before kissing again.
Slower. Taking their time as they both catch their breath, smiling intently into each other’s mouths, letting themselves enjoy for the sake of enjoying.
He never wanted to fight, he didn’t want this to affect the way it did, he hated seeing the hurt in Shane’s beautiful face. Would telling him upfront fix it? Would letting him know what goes on inside his head? Ilya takes his chin between his fingers, forcing them to make eye contact.
It might be one of those rare instances in which Shane is riding some sort of high, still; blissfully softer, leaning into him with pupils taking most of his irises. Yet his hands know exactly what they’re doing, they recognise the path carved so many years ago.
What can he possibly do? It’s not long before they fall into bed together, like it’s been happening nonstop ever since they stepped through the doors of this house. Legs are spread, throats are licked, thumbs squeeze into tender skin, a bottle opened, the contents warmed as a small courtesy before taking care of the unraveling. Hips grind, exhales get devoured when digits slide past muscle, carefully, taking account of every reaction, every expression in case it gets too much.
In case he demands more.
“Still okay?” Ilya asks, right before the first push, a disarray of sheets underneath from the tangling, grabbing and kissing minutes before. From the hands gripping tightly to them, from the quick discarded clothes and the impatience swallowing them both right now.
Shane nods, which has always been his way of telling him he’s ready, clenched teeth as if braced for impact, tugging at his blonde curls. He gasps with the first press, head falling back with his neck completely bared and tempting.
He’s so gorgeous every time he’s trying to get adjusted. Ilya’s mind can’t help but drift away to the first time he drank from him like this, when everything was new and his guts sparked with a strange burst of electricity he hadn’t really felt fully before. Hadn’t ever allowed himself to.
Ilya had foolishly thought he could do it back then. Everything in his life had been somewhat planned out, he believed in the certainty of it. The appointments, the gym, routine and running every morning, the sensation in his chest that wouldn’t go away, the pain, the triumph of proving himself over and over again.
And then he had let this happen. And then Shane had to keep appearing in his mind, right in the middle of everything he considered order, winding up his life between pattern, presenting himself like a pause from it all, like a honeyed thrill he was willingly taking from unashamedly, not noticing the lingering threat underneath. How addictive affection can be.
And then he thought he could keep this casual. Another foolish lie, of course. Nothing had ever been enough, why would having only a piece of him would placate the hunger inside? The stupid longing that followed short? Ilya lived in delusion, thinking it could be possible, not to be someone’s first choice, not to choose in return yet knowing exactly the shape of their body, the difference in textures it could offer, how soft their hair became after a shower, where he liked to be kissed, and squeezed, and bitten and the exact roughness and—
It would shock him how it never felt enough. How sick it made him feel, imagining. How Ilya would keep tabs, either way.
Nobody else could ever understand Shane like this, he kept repeating himself. Had someone ever made him come undone without touching? No, no one else could, no one else should’ve had the right. This place has been only his to take ever since that day and hearing that charming voice for the first time. Did he see other men, like he did Ilya, in secret?
That would drive him mad. And it’s not that he believes himself the sole authority of how this goes, he knows he does not own Shane, he wouldn’t be that type of guy. But oh, how every sense evaporates, how rationality disappears, how something far more primal takes over everything when he’s got him like this.
Sweat sliding down his throat. His knuckles white from holding onto the pillows behind him tightly. His arch. His face pressed against the fabric that does little to conceal his sounds.
“Ilya,” he groans, whines, repeats between gasps, “oh my god. Oh my god—”
He can only grunt, holding his hips for the angle to be right. Their reflection on the glass of the windows looks straight up sinful with Ilyas’ roll of his pelvis. A pull back, slowly. The released breath when he pushes against, as he sees himself disappearing inside the beautiful body underneath him.
There’s a possibility he might finish too soon.
Short puffs of air intertwine in the small space between them, he’s pretty sure his eyes would be nearly rolling if he wasn’t so keen on checking if his partner is still comfortable.
“Still good?” Ilya asks, letting out a sigh into the crook of Shane’s neck, placing a quick kiss over his clavicle.
“Fuck yes.”
It sounds nearly gone. Something twists tight in his guts, dragging a raw grumble out of his chest. He won’t last like this, so he pulls out, catching his breath while the other makes a noise in complaint.
Strong legs enfold him, a wounded ‘noo’ can be heard so he’s quick to amend. Chuckling.
“Solnyshko,” Ilya soothes, trying to manhandle this muscled guy. It takes a good minute, though in the end he succeeds, falling on his back against the bed, positioning Shane over him, both looking at the ceiling.
It’s easy to regain control. He only needs a good grasp of the other man’s body and to set his feet then it’s complete devastation from there. He thrusts himself into Shane as hard as he can.
He might be sore tomorrow from all the effort he’s putting into keeping his tempo but it’s completely worth it when the first twitch of Shane’s stomach takes over. Yes, it’s exactly what he’s looking for. Their breaths come ragged and louder every time, nearly heaving; Ilya wraps his arms around his lover’s waist, locking him there.
They’re both close, so fucking close.
Shane’s nails dig into his wrists, he can’t stop squirming, it’s as if they’ve both reached that level in which absolutely every stimulus piles up; too much and not nearly enough for the avid craving. The glide of extremities, the goosebumps, a rasp, a gulp, the flush of Shane’s cheeks, their frantic movements—it all reaches its peak in an explosive ripple.
The cry comes first, almost a scream, but short lived, then the trembling. Ilya is barely keeping himself sane as jerks take over his lover’s body, taking a hold of his legs in waves that expand to his abdomen. His eyes completely shut, his face completely twisted into pleasure. Even this feels too intimate to watch, but he does, cataloguing his noises, every responding nerve, every pull of his hand that urges him impossibly closer. He cannot take it anymore.
“Shane,” Ilya moans one last time in warning before it crashes into him just as violent. The name falling from his mouth like the most precious thing as his hips finally still, and an almost animalistic groan is ripped off his throat, God, if he could drown in this every day for the rest of his life.
If he could only have this in quotidianity.
It becomes difficult to haul up enough air to their lungs after, the effort of it the only thing filling the room, side by side. So it’s not on purpose when Ilya misses the first signs of Shane’s sobs.
“Hey,” he mumbles, his voice cracking a bit, “Shane.”
The other man doesn’t glance back, his shoulders rise and fall with every silent whimper. Fear settles deep between his ribs. Yes, he is definitely crying.
“Sweetheart,” he tries this time, reaching out to try to make eye contact, heart pounding. “What is happening? Did I hurt you?”
Shane shakes his head, still not looking back.
“Shane,” his voice is more serious now, “tell me, I cannot fix anything if you don’t tell me—”
His answer comes so faintly Ilya doesn’t really get it at first. It takes another question for the other to raise his voice.
“Don’t marry Svetlana.”
It surprises him, his head has to catch up rapidly because Shane spins around, prompted by the lack of response. His eyes are red on the edges, tears still streaking his cheeks and sweat still clinging to his forehead.
“Please,” he whispers, as if he had decided this needed to be bargained. “Please don’t, Ilya, I can figure something out, give me some time—”
Could be shocking, eye-opening, the immediate need to comfort.
“Don’t marry her,” he repeats, which is partially interrupted by another sob.
“Shane.”
Ilya embraces him, not caring about anything else besides the warmth of his skin, the knowledge of how he has fucked up starting to creep up, fully.
Ilya is completely fucked.
The weight of his adoration hits him like a ton of bricks, this moment is the one he’ll keep on recalling for decades, the one he noticed it was impossible to contain. “Shane,” he lulls, fingers alleviating through his hair, “I am not going to marry anyone, okay?”
Because it’s him. If he ever wanted to marry someone it would be him.
Shane keeps silent once more, not rejecting the hug but not really participating either. Doubt still takes up most of his expression, Ilya can see the hundreds of thoughts racing around his mind, the desperation.
And he almost says it, right there. The three words ready to roll out his tongue, but he stops them. Emotions have been too strong today, and the least he wants is for the man between his arms to escape from him again, so he swallows them whole, a lump swelling in his stomach.
“We can figure something else, yes?” A kiss is placed over Shane’s temple. What else can he say? His limited vocabulary will not encompass even a third of the explanations he wants to give. This isn’t meant to hurt him, this isn’t meant to cause a breakup between them, it was only an attempt.
Brown eyes fix on him, at last. There’s a whole hidden message past them, bouncing and scanning his face, maybe looking for a sign he’s lying. “Okay,” he agrees, when he seems not to find any.
Heaviness lifts off Ilya’s chest.
“Give me time,” is his lover’s hopeless bid.
Ilya would give him all the time in the world.