I continue to ponder Hollanov's long-distance Honeymoon Phase during the final Boston year. Think about it: They are in love. They essentially spent the summer together in a haze of fuck drunk ecstasy with a side of wholesome domesticity. They barely put on pants that button and didn't go a day without fucking and jumping in the lake and hiking to see a sunrise. It's a fantasy. They’re in a state where they can touch each other as much as they want and whenever they want, no matter what they're doing, only grounded by the occasional presence of Shane's family.
And then suddenly… nothing. They’re happy to be back doing summer training and then with their teams getting ready for the season, but like, they’re together. They’re boyfriends. And they’re even more sexually compatible than they were before because they're letting the feelings flow. Ilya knows what it feels like to just hold Shane in his arms in bed and kiss him until their lips are sore, and to wake up to Shane's mouth on his chest and hear him ask for his cock using Ilya's first name, and then baby, baby are you awake? Want you. Shane knows every which way he likes Ilya inside of him— rough, slow, riding him until they're both exhausted, and then again later with Ilya’s full weight pressing him into the bed, and then the next day in the kitchen, on the floor (like they only used to joke about), against the bathroom sink— and now he's expected to go days without him. Days without telling Ilya he loves him with their mouths and lips and tongues touching in the moments before the words are said, and the moments after.
They talk every day. They video call and have phone sex. They say I love you, I want you, I miss you in every spoken and unspoken way they can. But it's not enough.
It starts at a pre-season game in Montreal. Shane and Ilya barely play, only going up against each other in one face-off. It's the first time they've seen each other since the Cottage and it's like, they just talked on the phone a couple hours ago, but in the month since they've seen each other they've become almost ephemeral, unreal, like it was all a dream. Like they could just drift away because whatever it is barely had enough time to become real. But then they're there, in person. Ilya is going to Shane's apartment later. They only have a few hours because Ilya has to get on a plane mid-morning.
Imagine Ilya in that face-off thinking Do you want me do you still love me was it all a dream can it even be replicated and Shane just in awe because the man across from him is his boyfriend his best friend his (secretly, in his heart, softly) his lover and someday, when they both retire and can be together, for real: his husband. They can see the future because they know they see each other in it.
Montreal wins the game. Ilya shows up at Shane's apartment, he enters the code into the front door. Shane is there, showing him where to put his shoes and talking about the game, and for a moment it seems like they'll have to relearn their rhythm, and maybe they do, they still have a lot to learn about being a we, but at the same time, they know each other. They've known each other for years.
"Come here," Shane says. "I want to kiss you."
And Ilya presses Shane into the entryway wall because yes, he wants that too, and they kiss for a long time, just finding ways to align the long lines of their bodies with each other. It builds from sweet to warm to boiling hot, cocks pressed together over their clothes, and they could come this way, easily, and yet—
"Turn around," Ilya all but growls, "Want to fuck you."
"Here?" Shane says, but he's the one with the travel size bottle of lube in his pocket, turning around and bracing his forearms against the wall while Ilya just moves the necessary clothes aside; his jeans unzipped, Shane's sweatpants waistband hooked under his juicy ass for Ilya's viewing pleasure. Shane lets Ilya discover that he's already prepped himself, is already wet and open.
"Look at you," Ilya says, slipping two fingers in easily. "Next time, let me, though? Wanna open you up—"
"Yeah," Shane gasps. He gasps and rises on his toes as Ilya sinks inside, his stomach swooping with the first sensation of this, of his favorite fucking thing in the world. They've only done it bare like this a few times, in the last days at the cottage when the desire won out. "When we have time. Next time, baby."
And it's hard and fast, their moans deep and growling, like they're claiming each other again, remembering that this is theirs for as long as they both want it, and they both want. So much, they can't possibly conceive that the other is equal in their desire. The zipper on Ilya's pants catches on Shane's skin. Ilya shoves his pants down a little more to avoid it but he also likes the imprint on Shane's skin, notches a thumb in it and digs in as he fucks in harder and faster. He flattens Shane to the wall and tells him to—
"Stay still, want you come on my cock."
And Shane whines that he wants to, puts his arms above his head of his own accord: "I wanna come just from you, keep going, fuck Ilya, do it harder, so close, been close for days—"
And Ilya smacks his ass when he realizes Shane hasn't come in days because he wanted to wait for him, that Ilya doesn't even ask for it but Shane wants it so bad, loves it so much, gives so much, and really it's a relief, because Ilya wants to crawl inside him and never leave, wants to leave his mark on every part of this man because the love inside of him might combust, but his red hot hand print on his ass will have to be enough.
"You too," Shane pants, reaching behind him to tangle his fingers in Ilya's hair. Ilya's been sucking a hickey into Shane's shoulder for what feels like an hour, rutting his hips and cock inside Shane with the singular purpose of getting off and bringing Shane off with him. "With me, come on, baby, inside me like we like it—"
And it's the we that does it. That everything they want is tangled up in each other. They want to win at hockey and they want to be the best and they want to be together, and they can barely tell it apart anymore. Everything in their future has the shadow of the other person beside them, and it's not real yet, can't be real, but Shane has a plan and then at least they can be seen together, then at least it won't be so fucking difficult.
"You?" Ilya asks, and Shane is nodding, knocking his head against the wall to let Ilya know that he's coming, working his hips back on Ilya's cock like he can get them closer and make himself fuller. More effort, more work, more payoff— that's his Shane, and Ilya peels them apart and bends Shane over so that he can rest his head against the wall, check pressed into the drywall, and watch from the side, mouth slack, as Ilya takes and takes, his grip possessive as he runs a hand through the mess on Shane's t-shirt and belly. He brings himself off with Shane's body, inside Shane's body.
They catch their breath together after, Ilya rucking up Shane's shirt to kiss the sweat off of his back. Shane eases off of him, and turns, looking at Ilya with the bright eyes that are like a drug to Ilya, his perfect substance that could never kill him in excess, only make him feel more alive.
"Again?" Shane asks, breathless but far from satisfied, far from tired. It's only the pre-season, after all, and they barely played.
Ilya grips Shane's thighs, fingers brushing where his come is already leaking out, and with a little jump from Shane, successfully lifts him up.
"Kiss me and I'll think about it," Ilya says.
Shane rolls his eyes and lets himself be carried, kissing Ilya all the way up the stairs, where they can get naked, take their time, and be in love in the same room. They'll take their time now. It's never enough time.
