this is set after their arrangement is largely dissolved, and they're just a regular couple with some added benefits!
based on this absolutely insane post from wifey @grabmyboner
Ilya runs into a former client while he and Shane are celebrating a win. Shane reacts totally normally.
“Will you even eat any of this?”
“Sure. Look, salmon and rice. Easy.”
“Boo, Hollander. Why bring me if you won’t have any fun?”
Ilya is pouting. Shane doesn’t even need to look up from the menu to be able to tell, the lilt of his voice and the way the word fun drips from his mouth like honey. He’s ridiculous. It’s the middle of the season, and Shane didn’t make to forty-one while staying at the top of the league by eating whatever he wanted.
He squeezes Ilya’s thigh once, half apology and half placation.
“You can have whatever you want,” Shane reminds him, “No-one is forcing you to eat like a grown up.”
“I would say $500 truffle fries are very grown up.” Ilya says, which makes Shane snort. Yes, he supposes the prices at this place do elevate the choice of a burger and fries a little.
The restaurant is a good one. One of Shane's favourites, even. And tonight is special, because as of last Thursday Ilya is a newly minted U-Cup winning captain; he took McGill all the way, as a senior, and Shane watched every game he could. Incredible hockey. The man he loves. The promise of more stupid, bright, remarkable moments to come. What more could he ask for?
He has something a little more special planned for Ilya’s graduation, of course, but for tonight dinner is enough. They’re sitting side by side at one of the sleek, lifted tables, thighs pressed together. It’s no surprise that Ilya looks good, because he always looks good; curls gelled just so, the nice silk shirt that Shane likes so much. It’s unbuttoned just low enough to show off the smattering of hair and the gold of his chain. God, he needs to figure out the right way to propose. He needs to—
“Oh,” Shane says, shaken back to reality with the reminder, “Rose wants to know if we can do dinner next week.”
Ilya shrugs. “I am probably busy.”
“Ilya.”
“What? If she wants to do dinner you can do dinner, I do not need to be there.” He grouses, glaring at Shane from the corner of his eye. It’s a reaction that Shane is very used to, now, and is more endearing than it is annoying. Rose loves Ilya, and Shane loves them both, and Ilya will come around. Rose has that effect on people. “Is fucking weird, Shane. Dinner with my boyfriend and his ex-wife, yay.”
“I’m gay, Ilya. And Rose isn’t my ex-wife— I mean, she is, but. She’s my friend. She wants to be your friend. And, again, I’m gay.”
“Not too gay to marry her.”
“She just wants to get to know you.”
“I am handsome, I am Russian, I give up a life of luxury and being spoiled by old men to be monogamous with one single boring old man. There.”
It’s a tough job to keep the smile off his face, but Shane just about manages. He really needs to figure out how to propose. Instead of submitting to his baser wills and dropping to his knees right there in the hospital, begging to marry him with a strategically placed $100 onion ring, Shane just squeezes Ilya’s thick thigh again.
They have time, after all.
He’s about to try harder at cajoling a date or time for dinner for him, but the second Shane opens his mouth he’s interrupted by a string of long, loud Russian. Ilya tenses up beside him so fast that Shane can’t help but whip his head around, his arm immediately curling around the back of Ilya’s chair.
Shane’s gaze lands on a gaudily dressed man, older than him; maybe in his late fifties or early sixties. Grey hair slicked back, thick, gold watch on his wrist. He’s in good shape, but not as good as Shane is, and he’s certainly nothing to look twice at. Maybe Shane’s assessment would be a little kinder, if Ilya’s smile didn’t seem so forced. It makes something in Shane’s stomach drop; he moves his hand up from the chair to Ilya’s shoulder.
“Ilya!” The man says; “Look at you, sweetheart. You look good.”
“I always look good,” Ilya shrugs, all charisma. “Your accent is still shit, Spencer. I think stick to English.”
Ilya is still smiling, the words playful, but there’s a harder edge underneath that makes Shane shift slightly in his seat.
“I’ve been trying,” The other man, Spencer, says; his accent is American, Shane thinks, maybe somewhere in the south. Had he learned Russian for Ilya? What had he said to make Ilya tense up so fast? “But there’s just something about Russian that pulls me back in. Don’t keep me waiting here, honey.”
Spencer takes a step forward, arms open; there’s something in his features, so smug, so entitled, that Shane has to bite down hard on his bottom lip to keep his mouth shut. Ilya is a grown man. They’re equal partners, now, and he’d just invited him to dinner with his ex-wife. He has no right to go caveman over one of Ilya’s ex… Somethings. No matter how much he want to, no matter how much the wire of tension across Ilya’s shoulders and in his jaw and in his usually glowing smile makes Shane want to be sick, or break something, or maybe do both.
But then Ilya shifts slightly, as if to stand up, and Shane tightens his grip on his shoulder immediately, all but forcing him back down onto the chair. It’s a subconscious movement, not something he intended to, an ugly showing of the possessiveness he can’t quite shake. But Ilya isn’t comfortable with this Spencer, and Shane isn’t going to let the man he loves suffer through an awkward hug with some old, ugly, has-been.
Men like this can smell fear. Shane knows it, too, but realises a second too late; the other man can already smell blood in the water. His eyes, piercing blue, snap to Shane.
“Oh,” Spencer drops his arms, a smug sneer twisting his features. “Ilya, forgive me, I didn’t realise you were working.”
The way he says it— Drawing out the word working, as if Ilya had ever been any less-than for the way he made his money, as if the man in front of them hadn’t clearly benefitted from it, too— It’s the last straw for Shane. He stands up, adjusting his glasses, and plasters the familiar media-scrum smile over his features.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” He says, forcing something level into his tone, pretending he’s at a table in front of a crowd of reporters. “Shane Hollander.”
“Oh, I know who you are. Helluva season you boys have been having. Spencer Craig,” The other man replies. He takes Shane’s hand when he offers it, palm clammy, shaking with too much force. Blood in the water. Shane smiles wider, baring his teeth. “Ilya and I are— Well, we’re old friends, aren’t we?”
“Sure,” Ilya shrugs, easy, nonchalant. Shane is standing directly behind his chair, the sleeve of his suit jacket brushing against Ilya’s curls. “Friends.”
“I’m sure you understand how special Ilya’s friendship can be,” Spencer says. He still has Shane’s hand in his grip, and Shane takes the opportunity to apply a little more pressure. “He’s a great kid, with the right motivation.”
“Ilya’s an incredible hockey player, if that’s what you mean.” Shane says, cooly. There’s no way on earth that this stupid, sleazy man can pull him into a dick-measuring contest built on innuendo when Ilya is sitting right beside him. “We’re actually out celebrating. He just won the U-Cup.”
“It was a team effort,” Ilya protests, “Hazey is a beast in the net, a brick wall.”
Shane finally tears his gaze away from Spencer, dropping his hand and casually looping his other arm over Ilya’s shoulder.
“Are you serious?” Shane frowns down at him, “Game-winning goal in overtime? Captain of the team? MVP?”
“Da, the goal was set up by Haas.”
“Which is why he got his assist, but—“
“Team effort,” Ilya interrupts, and then, because his boy is so brave, and so perfect, he lifts Shane’s hand and presses a quick kiss to his knuckles. “Now sit down and order before I starve to death.”
Shane had, honestly, almost forgotten that Spencer is there. It’s that easy, with Ilya. Talking hockey, arguing over it, touching him in any way he can.
“I gotta ask,” Spencer says, leaning over to Ilya conspiratorially, like Shane isn’t even there. “Have you raised your rates, or are you still whoring out for a—”
“That’s enough.” Shane cuts him off, planting a hand square in the centre of Spencer’s chest. “I have no fucking clue who you are. You are so insignificant to the both of us that Ilya has never mentioned you once. Less than a bug on my fucking windshield. You don’t have any influence here, and you don't talk to him or anyone like that in front of me.”
Spencer blinks at him, clearly caught off guard. “Oh, please, it was a fucking joke—“
“Do I look like I’m fucking laughing?” Shane asks, tone flat. Professional, even. He’s not in the business of losing his temper. Rarely on the ice, never off it. But it’s close. “Get the fuck out. Make another reservation.”
“I’m not going anywh—“
“I will lay you out right fucking here,” Shane warns, voice low. He has at least three inches of height on Spencer, and a lot more muscle. “And my lawyers will clean it up so fast it’ll be less than a fucking parking ticket to me. So. Take your pick, Spencer. Leave, or lose your teeth.”
“Jesus Christ,” Spencer mutters, shaking his head. “Leash your dog if you’re taking him out in public, Ilya.”
That, at least, makes Ilya grin, wide and toothy; he waves mockingly at Spencer, shooing him away. “Bye-bye.”
*.✧*.✧*.✧
“I am so sorry, Ilya,” Shane says, the second the bathroom door closes behind them. It’s too nice a place for stalls, and they’re crowded instead into a little individual suite-like room with all the amenities; toilet, sink, backlit mirror. A little vanity with a stool. The lighting is low and atmospheric, matching the restaurant outside.
As soon as Spencer had left the restaurant, Ilya had practically dragged him around the corner towards the restrooms, one hand tight around his wrist. Which Shane understands, he does, because it was a stupid move on Shane’s part to start a dick-measuring contest, and it was rude and objectifying and—
“That was so fucking hot,” Ilya growls, pushing Shane back against the closed door and kissing him so hard his head knocks against the varnished wood. “You were so jealous.”
“What— I wasn’t jealous,” Shane mutters, but the words are lost in the heat of Ilya’s mouth. Maybe he was a little jealous. Maybe he hates thinking about any other man or woman touching Ilya, using him, paying for him. Maybe it’s hypocritical. It doesn’t fucking matter. “I was just— Oh, fuck, Ilya.”
All thoughts of Spencer and Ilya’s past are knocked out of Shane’s head when Ilya drops to his knees, dragging his hands down Shane’s ribs before settling on his hips. He nuzzles at Shane’s half-hard cock through the fabric of his dress slacks.
“Always so happy to see me,” Ilya coos, and Shane flushes. Fuck. “Even in a restaurant bathroom. Dirty old man, Hollander.”
“Shut up.”
“No, I don’t think I will,” Ilya grins up at him, wide like a shark, even wider when Shane tangles one hand in his curls. “You are hard thinking about it? Other men fucking me? Me getting on my knees for them?”
Shane shakes his head. The thought is laughable. “No. Fuck no. I’m just— You.”
“You’re me?” Ilya mocks, “I don’t think so.”
“I’m hard because of you.” Shane grits out, tugging a little at Ilya’s hair. “Kissing me. Fuck, Ilya, just—“
“I’m hard too, you know,” Ilya says, almost conversational. He unbuckles Shane’s belt deftly, leaning forward to take down his fly with his teeth, the same way he did the first time. It never gets old, and Shane can feel his dick swelling even more in his briefs. “I was hard at the fucking table. The way you handled him.”
He yanks his slacks down, just enough to be able to free his aching cock from his briefs. Ilya hums at the sight, before licking a thick, wet stripe up the shaft as Shane shudders against the door. He lets the heavy tip of Shane’s cock rest against his bottom lip for a second, looking up at Shane through his thick lashes before pulling back.
“I am not doing this because you are buying me dinner,” Ilya says, suddenly serious. Shane blinks. “Or because you buy me nice clothes and nice cars. I am doing this because I love you, and I love your cock. Okay?”
“Okay,” Shane breathes. He runs his thumb in small circles against Ilya’s scalp, this talented, beautiful man on his knees.
“I do not believe you,” Ilya tuts, but he still leans into the touch. His breath is so warm, so sweet on Shane’s achingly hard dick; he’s already fucking leaking for him. “Say it.”
“Ilya.”
“Say it, or you will not come again until next Friday.”
It would be embarrassing, the way Shane whines and tilts his head back, like he isn’t in his forties, like he isn’t one of the richest men in the country. But it’s not embarrassing, and the rest of that shit doesn’t matter. Not his age or the money or the threat of retirement looming like a shadow in the window; not when he has Ilya on his knees, telling him he loves him. It still throws him for a loop, still makes him feel like he’s hearing it for the first time.
Ilya gathers up some of the pre-come leaking from Shane’s cock and spreads it around the head with his thumb, pressing down a little when he decides Shane is taking too long to answer. It does little to help him form a coherent thought, instead causing him to arch his back against the bathroom door, hissing.
“Fuck. Ilya. You— You love me, and you love my— My—“
Shane dissolves into groans again as Ilya starts working his hand up and down his shaft, twisting at the head to spread his wetness even further. It’s obscene, the slick sound of his hand moving against the bland muzak of the bathroom.
“Say it properly, Hollander.”
“Fuck,” Shane whines, his head hitting the door again, “You love me. You love my cock. I love you, Ilya, fuck—“
“Good boy,” Ilya grins, and finally has mercy.
He takes Shane to the root, until his thick cock is stretching his pretty lips, his nose buried in the small patch of neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair. Shane has no clue what he looks like sucking dick, but he knows it’s nothing like, who somehow makes it look good and feel good. His eyes roll back in his head when Ilya swallows, his throat constricting around Shane’s length before pulling back, letting the head catch on his lip, and sinking back down again.
The pace is relentless, a constant push-and-pull of Ily’s throat, the flat of his tongue and back again. Shane’s hand in his hair is little more than set-dressing, grip weak as his shudders and sighs, biting down on his own fist to keep from moaning. They’re in a fucking restaurant. Shane’s favourite restaurant. He’s not getting banned.
It doesn’t take long; Ilya takes his entire length down to the root, throat working around the intrusion, and Shane can do little more than tug his curls in warning before he’s coming. Ilya holds him there, hands on Shane’s hips, as his cock twitches and spurts the last of his release. It could be seconds, or minutes, or hours; Shane doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. All he can see is Ilya, perfect Ilya, finally pulling back from his spent cock.
He opens his mouth, sticking out his white-painted tongue for Shane to inspect, before swallowing it down with the rest. Fuck.
“Clean yourself up, lyubov,” Ilya says, getting to his feet easily, all the mobility of a twenty-something. “Really. We are in public. Is not a good look, hm?”
“Wh— Fuck you,” Shane laughs, breathless. He pulls Ilya in for one last kiss, open-mouthed and hungry, before finally pushing off the door and heading to the sink. “You didn’t leave me much to clean up in the first place.”
“Yes, well, I’m fucking starving. I want my fries, come on.”
having a best friend who meets your level of freak is unmatched. you present them with the most unhinged, deeply buried thought from the depths of your psyche and instead of blinking blankly they just go "oh absolutely"—and I think that mutual brain rot like that is the highest form of intimacy actually.
