Chapter Text
Ilya pressed Shane against the smooth, white painted wall of his bedroom, crushing their mouths together, trying to memorize every inch of that beautiful freckled face and silky tanned skin. Breathless and dizzy, he was overwhelmed by the desire to be inside of Shane. He wanted Shane to feel his pulsing urge that ran like a live wire between his throat and cock. And he knew how much Shane wanted it too. He knew Shane would open himself up so easily for Ilya, and that even with Ilya pushed deeply inside him, Shane would still want more.
Shane needed Ilya so badly sometimes. And no one had ever needed Ilya like that; in a way that wasn’t for money or fame or power. They’d made it official last year, calling each other boyfriends. Ilya didn’t think he’d ever dare trust something that real, something that filled his entire body with a gentle warmth so consuming that he didn’t always know what to do with it. But somehow he did trust it. He trusted Shane more than anything, more than himself. Yet, it still felt so fragile, like it would slip away with a whisper in the wrong direction. So he held on with his entire consciousness even when it felt impossible.
Because the thing was, he knew this was a bad idea right now, fucking Shane silly until they were both stripped of all composure. Nearly a third of the Ottawa Centaurs had been taken out by an incessant flu that didn’t seem to care about vaccinations. Montreal also had to pull a few players ahead of the next day’s game. And, frankly it was all starting to feel a bit apocalyptic.
But Ilya was ultimately helpless to the tether between him and Shane. Because even though they were together, like really together, he still barely got to see Shane; separated by city borders and secretly loving each other. A secret that Ilya was starting to wonder if he even wanted to be secret anymore.
Shane grabbed the collar of Ilya’s ribbed muscle tank and tugged him towards the bed, Ilya falling on top of Shane, the two men folding into each other. Ilya grinded his erect cock against Shane’s increasingly hard shaft, sending Shane arching backwards and gasping for air.
“I need you,” Shane breathed, “Please fuck me.”
Without saying a word, Ilya yanked off his tank, his and Shane’s sweatpants and boxers already discarded somewhere along the way to the bed. Ilya had made a half hearted effort to at least kick the clothes into his laundry basket, knowing Shane would worry about the mess. But Shane seemed entirely focused on Ilya tonight, not able to care about anything more than finally breathing the same air as Ilya after nearly two months apart.
Reaching for the top drawer of his nightstand, Ilya quickly fumbled to grab the lube and a condom as Shane practically ripped off his own tee. He rolled the condom down his shaft that strained tight against the barrier, and dripped lube down the latex, one hand gripping his pulsing dick to spread the gel. He flipped Shane impatiently, hovering the lube bottle above his perfect ass, letting it drip slowly down to his hole. Two fingers traced around the taut rim and found their way into Shane. Shane let out a guttural moan, desperate for the contact. Ilya worked his way inside of Shane, caressing all the tender spots until he found Shane’s prostate. And Shane yelled out even louder, unable to have any semblance of self-control. Right when Ilya knew Shane was at the edge, he slid his fingers out and pushed his cock in.
The rain pattered on the bedroom window glass as Shane writhed beneath a thrusting Ilya. “So fucking good,” Shane gasped, “harder.” Ilya drove deeper until he was swallowed by Shane’s hole and it felt like Ilya might burst open.
“Gonna come,” Shane whimpered.
Ilya wasn’t far behind. “Wait for me,” he rasped, “I’m close.” And within a minute they were coming together, Shane’s load shooting up between his chest and the comforter, Ilya’s body alternating between stilling and twitching with his dick still inside of Shane.
“I missed you so fucking much,” Shane said into the comforter, catching his breath, eyes still closed in drowsy pleasure.
Ilya rolled off of Shane, tugging off the condom and collapsing on his back next to his boyfriend. “Mmh yes,” he breathed heavily, “But I missed you more.”
“It’s not a competition,” Shane rolled his eyes. Then realizing, laughed and playfully shoved Ilya’s shoulder, “Shut up.”
“I did not say anything!” Ilya exclaimed and pulled Shane tightly into his chest, ruffling his hair. Shane initially protested, trying to release himself from Ilya’s grip. But a smile spread across his face and his body soon went limp, settling against Ilya’s broad toned frame. Ilya traced soft circles across his boyfriend’s rippling muscular back until he felt Shane’s breath level out and his own eyes drifting into a blissful, contented sleep.
———
The feeling of being with Shane again was a high that Ilya rode for the entire following day, even if they were now on opposite sides of the ice. It was pre-game warmups and Ilya was at the bench going over strategy with Coach Wiebe, re-working the line-up for the tenth time in an effort to assemble a team that was seemingly dropping like flies.
Out of the corner of his eye Ilya caught Troy wavering on his skates by the net, oddly swaying to one side, one foot slightly lifted for balance almost as if he was about to do some lazy version of a three-turn. He’d been running drills with Haas who, despite being a rookie, was going to start in the game against Montreal.
“Barrett!” Ilya called out, “trying to teach Haas how to figure skate?”
Troy swayed closer to the boards, dipping further and further to the side. And then he crumbled hard into the ice as though he’d been checked.
“Fuck!” Ilya jumped the bench and skated fast over to Troy, skidding to a halt and dropping to his knees next to the shorter man’s body, Wiebe and Haas not too far behind. Even through his gloved hands, Ilya immediately felt the heat radiating off of Troy’s skin as he gently pulled his helmet off.
“He is fucking burning up, someone get Terry and Harris over here!” Ilya yelled over his shoulder.
They were about 20 minutes out from puck drop and Ilya frantically scanned the other side of the ice for Shane, desperate for an anchor in the chaos. He caught Shane’s widened brown eyes and even seeing that hint of anxiety behind them, Ilya felt himself release a breath.
It made sense to Ilya when Bood and Dykstra had gone down for the count. They were old; a measly little flu shot wasn’t going to stop them from getting sick. But, Troy was younger than Ilya and about as healthy as they came, even rivaling his boyfriend for the most boring diet.
So now Ilya was getting kind of nervous. Terry and Harris were kneeling on the ice by Troy, Harris bracing his boyfriend, who had come to but his head lolled and he was looking progressively drained of color. “Fever’s 39.5,” Terry furrowed his brow at the infrared thermometer pointed at Troy’s forehead. “I’ll swab him but my money’s on another positive Flu A.”
“Fuck,” mumbled Ilya, helping to haul Troy to his feet and draping his arms over Harris and Terry who carried him off the ice. Wiebe wrapped up drills faster than standard pre-game protocol and led the team back to the locker rooms. Ilya was going to have to think of a really great pep talk to keep morale alive. If only he could get rid of the burning sensation at the back of his throat. It was probably just from the cold air in the rink, right? Besides, he had a strong Russian constitution, no match for a weak Canadian flu.