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Shane did not drink; not really.
Certainly not during the season, when his body was his job, recovery was a science and hydration mattered in a way that made him sound unbearable if he said any of it out loud. He knew what alcohol did to sleep quality, inflammation, reaction time, muscle repair, and resting heart rate. He knew because he was Shane fucking Hollander, and knowing things was the only way he could pretend the world could not surprise him.
He could make one beer last an entire team dinner, hold a glass of champagne at a wedding for three hours and somehow drink none of it; usually, nobody noticed.
Ilya noticed because Ilya noticed everything, which was one of the reasons Shane loved him and one of the reasons Shane sometimes wanted to bite him.
Tonight was different, though; they had four days.
Four whole fucking days.
This was the thing Shane touched and retouched like a bruise that did not hurt. They were going to have four whole days together and completely alone; no careful scheduling around the general public’s terrible ability to exist in places where Shane wanted to kiss his boyfriend.
Shane loved how the word sounded in his mouth. It was going to be their first extended time together since Ilya visited the cottage last summer, where they said I love you and planned a future together.
Four days were dangerous because they gave Shane space to make choices.
Poor choices, apparently.
The first poor choice was letting Ilya cook. Ok, that was not fair.
Ilya cooking was a gift as it was easily one of the most erotic things Shane had ever seen that did not involve anyone removing clothing. Ilya moved around the kitchen in denim and a frankly filthy, dark red dress shirt with the sleeves pushed up and a dish towel over one shoulder. God, Shane wanted to lick his forearms.
Ilya cooking involved garlic, tomato, butter, and wine, filling the air and Ilya proudly sharing that he had gotten the recipe from David.
Shane stood at the island and tried not to stare and failed because he had been failing for years.
Ilya looked up from the stove. “You are hovering.”
“I'm appreciating,” Shane corrected.
“You are being strange.”
“Yes,” Shane said, because that did seem fair.
Ilya’s mouth curved and that was the second poor choice; looking at Ilya’s mouth while there was wine open.
The first glass happened naturally. The kitchen was warm, the table was set with candles Shane had put out, felt weird about, and then left because Ilya had noticed them and said nothing, which was somehow worse. There were four days were ahead of them, so one glass of wine was reasonable. The bottle was already open to breathe, and it made his chest feel warm.
Dinner was better than good. The pasta sauce tasted like heat and home, and the wine was beginning to loosen the parts of Shane’s brain responsible for not being embarrassing.
Ilya sat across from him with his shirt open at the throat, sleeves still pushed up. Shane thought about his forearms again for too long, then his hands, then the fact that those hands had made dinner. Then he thought about those hands on him, pinning him down and felt a little dizzy.
Letting his mind wander was the third apparent poor choice. Shane’s thoughts usually had structure and purpose, and would not drift so freely to linger on Ilya’s fingers, and then return to the word boyfriend with the devotion bordering on pathetic.
Ilya was his boyfriend; again, this was not new knowledge, not really, but it still felt new when Shane was two glasses deep, and Ilya was licking pasta sauce from the webbing of his thumb.
The context was Ilya’s mouth, four days, and Shane was so fucking happy he had no idea what to do with it except grope Ilya’s knee under the table. He did not remember deciding to put his hand there. One moment, it was beside his plate; the next, it was on Ilya’s leg, palm spread over denim, warm and possessive.
Ilya looked down; then up. The amusement arrived slowly on his face. It was not his public smirk, but the small, private one that made Shane’s stomach dip.
Ilya was amused by him. By Shane Hollander, who left parties early because they threatened his sleep schedule. Who owned electrolyte tablets in multiple flavours. Ilya looked at him like he had discovered a new, deeply entertaining version of Shane. Of his boyfriend.
Shane should have been embarrassed but mostly, he just wanted to kiss the expression off Ilya’s stupid face.
The third glass (was it three?) was where things went softly wrong. Wrong in the way a hill looks gentle until you are halfway down it, and your legs have become theoretical.
By then, the room had become a bit fuzzy. Shane was not out of control; he was simply unsupervised; his brain having decided to take a leave of absence.
Ilya’s throat. Ilya’s hands. Four fucking days.
He stood up too quickly and the floor did something small and unprofessional beneath him.
How rude.
Ilya’s hands moved at once, not reaching out, just ready and Shane felt a rush of love so intense it almost made him angry.
“I’m fine,” Shane slurred.
Ilya’s eyes were laughing. “Did not say anything.”
Shane came around the table, and it took more concentration than it should have. He reached Ilya and put both hands on his shoulders. Candlelight caught along Ilya's cheekbones, and his shirt was still open. It was not fair of him, honestly, existing like that.
Shane bent and kissed him. It was meant to be a grateful, "a thank you for dinner" kiss. It was not that.
Ilya tasted like red wine and heat. His mouth slowly opened, pliant under Shane’s lips, and Shane made a sound he could not stop. He climbed into Ilya’s lap because distance had become offensive. It was not graceful; one knee hit the chair, and his hand caught Ilya’s shoulder too hard, but Ilya just adjusted with the calm competence of a man accepting a large, drunk hockey player into his lap.
He let Shane be greedy; he let him mouth along his jaw and breathe in the warm skin of his neck. He let Shane obscenely grind into the growing hardness below him. Shane wanted all of him, immediately and forever.
“I need you,” Shane said, his voice low and sincere and entirely unnecessary given his current position.
Ilya’s breath shifted, and he put a cool, steady hand at the back of Shane’s neck. “I know.”
For a few minutes, Ilya indulged him. He let Shane be handsy and obvious, let him kiss his neck and slide his hands under his shirt, but when Shane tried to deepen the kiss again, Ilya’s hand came up to his jaw and held him still.
Not away; just still for a moment.
The rejection was gentle, but Shane’s body took a moment to understand it. His stomach understood first. It rolled, slow and unpleasant, and the room tilted.
Ilya’s amusement changed. It remained fond, but something steadier moved under it. Shane felt like he was being assessed.
“Bed,” Ilya suddenly announced.
Shane approved, Shane very much fucking approved. Going to bed was sensible, beds contained pillows, drawers with lube, and, hopefully, Ilya, divested of all his clothes. Shane nodded so hard he almost gave himself whiplash.
Ilya reached up, hand gently cupping Shane’s face, and his thumb stroked his cheek. “For sleeping.”
Shane had several arguments ready. He wanted Ilya, and Ilya wanted him. Wine was romantic, and statistically, people had sex after wine and Shane wanted to be thoroughly fucked by his boyfriend.
Then his stomach rolled again, and the arguments lost their structural integrity.
Ilya’s expression was tender and seemed entirely unbothered by the fact that Shane had tried to mount him but was now being defeated by a cabernet.
Ilya stood with him, providing the coordination Shane no longer seemed to possess. He wrapped one arm around Shane’s waist, guiding him gently down a hallway that seemed longer than usual.
In the bedroom, Ilya sat him on the edge of the mattress. Shane reached for him again; his hands operating without conscious thought again. Ilya covered Shane’s hands with his own, warm and firm.
No.
The word was not spoken, but Shane felt it. Ilya was deciding for him because Shane’s judgment had maybe become a little unreliable. Shane knew this was care. Annoying care because it was care that made Shane want to cry, or maybe just throw up.
“I love you,” Shane said, the words slipping out soft and wrecked.
Ilya went still, and the lamplight made his face gentler than usual. He did not say anything for a moment, and Shane felt the weight of it in his ribs.
“I know, I love you too.”
Shane loved him. That was the whole reason for the wine, the lap and the fact that he could not hold all the wanting neatly anymore. He wanted the evening to be perfect, or sexy, or memorable, and now...
Oh. Fuck. He was definitely going to throw up.
The bathroom happened quickly and not at all gracefully. Cool tile under Shane’s knees and the sour burn of red wine and poor choices. He was dimly aware of apologising, once, or maybe a dozen times.
Ilya did not leave; he just rested a hand between Shane’s shoulder blades, broad and steady, holding his hair back. Shane's hair was not that long, but Ilya did it anyway while sitting on the edge of the bath, and Shane loved him for it.
Shane, the man with training socks sorted by purpose, was vomiting into a toilet like a teenager. Like a fucking rookie, and Ilya stayed.
Afterwards, there was water and a cool cloth against his face. Teeth were brushed, and he was gently undressed. Ilya’s thumb brushed his temple, and Shane closed his eyes, shame and relief tangled so tightly he could not separate them.
By the time Ilya got him into bed, Shane’s body was heavy. Ilya placed a bucket on the floor. Shane felt moderately offended; then he reassessed his body and was thankful it was there.
Ilya placed a glass of cold water on the bedside table and next to it, a blister packet of paracetamol. He moved with quiet efficiency, still in the shirt Shane had intended to remove.
The shirt had won; Shane would remember this. Possibly.
Ilya came back to the bed and stood over him. His face was still amused, but under the wicked glint was a love so steady Shane could feel himself held by it. Shane reached out, and Ilya took his hand.
Being wanted was good, but being loved and cared for when he was entirely unsexy was possibly better and maybe more frightening.
Ilya squeezed his hand once. “Sleep.”
Shane woke briefly later when the mattress dipped, and Ilya slid in beside him, careful not to jostle. Shane turned toward him, his body knowing exactly where it wanted to go even when his head felt like it was full of wool.
He pressed his face against Ilya’s shoulder, inhaling cotton, cooking smoke, and warm skin.
Tomorrow would be awful. Tomorrow, there would be a headache and Ilya’s private, amused smile. Tomorrow, Shane would have to survive the knowledge that he had tried to climb his boyfriend like a tree before declaring love with the emotional subtlety of a toddler.
But tomorrow was not here yet; there was only the dark, and Ilya’s hand settling at the back of his neck, cool and steady.
Four days, Shane thought, fading out. Four whole days.
Ilya’s thumb moved once against his skin, and Shane slept.