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Ilya’s first thought is, how do I reduce the risk of Shane being hit?
He doesn’t know Mr. Hollander, but fathers hit sons. He doesn’t think Mr. Hollander beats Shane, because Ilya knows how that sits on a person, and he thinks Mrs. Hollander would not stand for it and has enough power to make that stick, but…
Fathers hit sons.
And Ilya does not want to have to watch Shane be hit.
So he will not leave Shane alone with Mr. Hollander, if he has the choice, but he will also make himself a more convenient target. He already is a more convenient target, but he can draw ire to himself in ways that will hopefully not blow back on Shane.
The Bears shirt, for one thing.
Mr. Hollander is soft-spoken, polite, and Ilya thinks, he does not look like he will hit very hard.
There is a technique to it, hitting hard enough to truly punish, and Mr. Hollander does not look like he knows it. He does not move like a man with enough anger in him to do so.
But still, Ilya does not leave Shane alone with him, and still, when they are back at the cottage, Ilya traces Shane’s body to look for bruises that were not there before.
Shane is trembling underneath him, adrenaline and the weight of the day catching up with him, but his fingers are gentle where they close in Ilya’s hair and tug his head up from Shane’s pec just enough to look him in the eye and ask, “My dad didn’t say anything rude to you, did he? When I went out to talk to Mom?”
Ilya shakes his head, relishing in the tug. “Nyet,” he says, tilting his head down as far as it can go to press another kiss to Shane’s skin. “Very polite. Perfect gentleman.”
He lands another kiss before Shane is tugging his head back up again, more urgently this time. Ilya has to keep from letting his eyes flutter closed at the pleasure of all of those points of sensation and Shane’s perfect hand in his hair. “Then why were you watching him like you were waiting for him to attack you?”
Ilya doesn’t want to talk about this, and he wants to talk about it even less when Shane tightens his grip, sending sparks all down Ilya’s spine. “Why are we talking, Hollander, when I could be kissing your perfect tits?”
“Because I want to know what my dad did to you.”
Ilya drops his head down on Shane’s chest, groaning as Shane’s hand in his hair turns into ecstatic pain for just a second before Shane releases his grip. “Did not want to give him chance to hit you,” he mumbles against Shane’s chest.
Shane freezes under him. “Why would my dad hit me?”
“Not—not drop gloves, punch in face sort of hit. Just.” Ilya isn’t sure the right words for this in English, post-adrenaline exhaustion hitting him too. “Just slap in the face for not telling him, or because he caught you kissing boy.” He can hear himself dropping articles, but he can’t entirely bring himself to care.
“Ilya,” Shane says. Then, more urgently, “Ilya. My dad doesn’t hit me.”
“I know,” Ilya says impatiently. He was there the whole time.
“No,” Shane says. He tugs Ilya up until Ilya is sitting upright, straddling his chest and looking down at his face. He looks very serious. “Ilya, my dad doesn’t hit me. Not—not just a slap or anything. Neither of my parents ever hit me.”
Ilya never thought Mrs. Hollander did, but. “Fathers hit sons.”
Shane blinks up at him with wet eyes. “Would you hit our kids?”
The question is like a blow to the chest, driving the air from Ilya’s lungs. He gasps in a breath. “You would have children with me?”
“Would you hit them?”
The idea makes Ilya want to saw his own hands off. “Nyet. No. No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I—” His hands flex involuntarily, at the phantom sensation of striking someone. He’s hit many people before. He knows what it feels like, intimately. “I would rather die.”
“Even if they’re a boy?” Shane asks. He tangles his fingers with Ilya’s, lifting Ilya’s hand up to press a kiss to his knuckles. Ilya shudders but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t ever want to pull away. “Even if they’re a little curly-haired boy like you? Even if they make you mad?”
Ilya trembles in Shane’s grasp. He can’t imagine a little boy who looks like him, because all he can see is a little Shane like the one in the photos in his parents’ house, on the ice, smiling, smiling.
“What if you walked in on him kissing a boy?” Shane prompts against Ilya’s knuckles, and Ilya laughs wetly.
“I would give him pointers,” Ilya says, and leans down to replace his knuckles with his lips and kiss Shane. “Our son will look like you,” he says, “or maybe we will have one of each. Yes, one of each, a boy and a girl, and they will both look like you, and I would rather die than hit them.”
“Why do they both look like me?” Shane complains.
“Yes, yes, you are right,” Ilya says. “We need four, so two can look like you and two can look like me. Can be power play. Unless one is goalie. If one is goalie then must have a fifth.”
“At that point why not have six and make an entire side?” Shane asks, but he’s laughing, his entire body vibrating under Ilya.
Ilya leans down to kiss him again, because he has no other choice, then says, “Yes, let us have six. Your best idea all day.” He grins down at Shane. “Now we must start practicing.”
Shane blinks at him. “Practicing?”
“At baby-making,” Ilya says, then slides back so they can get started. They have a lot of babies to make, after all.