Ilya in dom space, like zoned the fuck in on Shane. Everything else had faded away besides his Shane, Shaneâs body, seeing Shane move for him, need him, obey him- give Shane pleasure, dangle is just out of reach, make him beg make him be good. His heart is pounding in his ears and he feels so fucking good, his skin is buzzing, heâs honed in, itâs like when heâs on the nice, each movement natural, instinct.
Shane is a pretty flushed needy thing on his knees for Ilya, pressed to the wooden floor in front of the couch, between the wide loose sprawl of Ilyaâs legs. Ilya cock is a hard aching thick line in his sweats, the fabric obscenely tented, and Shaneâs flushed gorgeous cheek is pressed to it, nuzzling over the fabric. His eyes are big sad brown things, wet in the water line and making his lashes webbed and darker than usual. His pretty boy. Ilyaâs hand slides to Shaneâs cheek, roughs it in his palm and he uses his thumb to tug at Shaneâs top lip, the mauve of it, bitten slick and almost red.
Heâd sucked and pulled at it with his teeth and tongue, soothing with his own mouth as Ilya had pushed his fingers inside Shane while he was sat up in his lap. Shane had ridden his fingers desperate and shaky thighed, begging for Ilya to fill him âproperly please please Ilya I want you not your fingers I wanna be fullâ and Ilya had shaken his head, told Shane a soft no, not yet bunny just this and kept curling his fingers to nail Shaneâs prostate over and over and over. Heâd have no choice but to come soon, Ilya stimulating him like this, without needing so much as a hand on his cock, soon heâd shoot messy between their stomachs. It was fun to watch Shane play like he could hold it off. Like he wanted to hold it off. By the time Shane had cum, heâd been biting at Ilyaâs shoulder, shivering against his body, thanking him for his fingers, a hand fisted in Ilyaâs curls, tugging, tugging.
And now, now his Shane was a soft aching pulse, how Ilya loved him, a tide to Ilyaâs moon, a flower unfolding to his sun. His eyes were heavy as he tried to keep them on Ilya, but they kept blinking slow as he nuzzled his cheek down against the bulge of Ilyaâs cock. Sweet thing. Has sweet thing. Ilya tuts and pats Shaneâs cheek, soft open handed slaps that make Shane moan, turn his face into Shaneâs cock, nuzzle his nose against the hot line of Ilya, lips mouthing gently. âPleaseâ he asks, and Ilyaâs heart squeezes, his voice shaky and soft, heavy tongued. His sweetheart.
âPlease what Zaychik?â Ilya asks, slides his hand up into Shaneâs hair and takes a fistful of it soft and silky, uses it to tilt his head back, neck extended and smiles at the soft whine Shane makes at being pulled away from Ilyaâs cock. Fuck Ilya was lucky. A god at his feet, worshiping him. He feels fire in his fingertips. Slides his hand to cup Shaneâs chin, thumb rubbing under his ear.
âPlease can I have your cockâ Shane asks, a low aching tone.
âPleaseâ he utters again, bottom lip pouted out and he scrunches his brow as he pursed his lips and tries to wriggle his face down, get his face back to Ilyaâs lap.
âPlease Ilyaâ he sighs and Ilya smiles, his hand takes the back of Shaneâs neck as he lets the boy part his lips and nuzzle face first into his hard cock. The drag is his cheek, nose, lips makes Ilya throb.
âYou want it?â Ilya asks, and almost feels bad for the eager way Shane nods so quickly.
âAsk me nice, sweetheart, tell me why you need it huh? Why you deserve itâ Ilya says low, strokes his hand over the back of Shaneâs head, again and again.
âBecause, because I love itâ Shane mumbles and Ilyaâs skin erupts in goosebumps.
âI love it Ilya. I love your cock, I was good, was good and came on your fingers, I waited I waited even thought I love it and I just want you Ilya. Want your cock, please, pleaseâ Shane whines, and Ilya is so proud so fucking proud of Shane, feels so fucking needed and wanted it makes him dizzy.
âYou love it?â Ilya asks, and wants to drive his body into Shaneâs until Shane is part of him, till Shane is loose and gone and warm and Ilyaâs. All the way through.
âUh huhâ Shane nods, kisses the shape of Ilyaâs cock through the fabric, mouths at the shape of the head.
âLove it. Your cock Ilya love it so much. Love you. I want you I want to make you feel good please I need to feel you I just want it for a little bit Iâve been so good please let me show you, show you how much I love itâ Shane gasps and Ilya coos, so full of love, of ache, of need to hear Shane tell him again and again and again. He leans down and kisses the top of Shaneâs head, hunched down over him, rubs the back of his neck how he know Shane loves and tilts his head down to whisper in his ear.
âTake it out bunny, show me how much you love it hm? Show me how good are you. So goodâ he croons and takes Shaneâs earlobe between his fingers to rub rub rub, to feel Shane shiver as needy hands scramble to get Ilyaâs sweats down- to take his reward. What belongs to him Ilya thinks.
And he canât wait to make Shane come like this too, desperate and humping his calf with a mouthful of Ilya, before heâd take him on his cock, pin him under his body on the couch and fuck him completely apart as they were pinned as close as possible together, becoming one messy brilliant thing in their devotion to each other.
(He canât wait, to rub Shaneâs knees and hips as ass after, kiss him stupid in the shower and tell him how good and gorgeous and his he is, put him back together the way only Ilya knows how)
I think in thg au btw Shane and Ilya are hooking up here and there when they find the time and Ilya fell in love first FOR SURE ! itâs definitely a similar situation where Ilya saved Shaneâs life when they were kids (in a way I have not figured out the exacts of yet) and Shane kind of in his head uses that as an excuse to hook up with Ilya. Like (lying to himself) itâs convenient and I like. Owe him. Which btw if Ilya knew he thought this it would kill him lol .
In my beautiful world this is a trans Shane au. And no he does not volunteer he does not have a prim Iâm not making up a sister for this. What I am doing is saying that Shane gets his named picked and before theyâre even halfway through the random pick of boy tributes name Ilya volunteers. And yes he does do the whole peeta âbecause she came here with meâ live on tv interview moment and yes Shane (thinking Ilya is using him to look good) does attack him back stage like how could you humiliate me like that! where Ilya truly has just laid his heart bare on stage in front of an audience under the guise of a helpful strategy.
Was asked btw about whether they are in the same district and yes they are but Ilya was not born in the district. Irina ran away with Ilya to try to get to district 13 and made it to district 12 before being caught and killing herself to avoid being taken to the capitol for punishment. Ilya escaped being caught because Shane pretended to know Ilya from town, insisting that they grew up together.
This is only after Ilya had given Shane some of the food they stole on their journey, Shane having been unsuccessful in his own food thieving and extremely hungry. Was also asked about Shaneâs parent situation and I do think in this that David is not around for plot reasons Iâm still sorting and Yuna is struggling to find help, especially since she refuses to let Shane take a tesserae.
They get reaped at age 17 also. And Ilyas fuck ass dad is snow also and btw .
like the needy boyfriend schtick would just do a lot for shane IMO. ilya texting him like âpic nowâ and shane hemming and hawing like nooo im with my parents at dinner, ill send later and ilya like âcmonnnn just go into the bathroom. do it quick they wont even know. just one. just send one right now. let me see your cock. pleaaaase. one picâ but shanes been in the bathroom stall for 5 mins already dick in hand trying to get the best angle
Like⌠loverboy Shane getting downright indulgent with how many times a day he tells Ilya âI love youâ while theyâre still at the cottage. Shaneâs parents over for dinner? Heâs like, âlove you, have fun!â when Ilya goes to grill the chicken with his dad. Like, the next day when theyâre riding jet skis and splashing each other, Shane calls out âlove you!â before speeding away and making Ilya eat his dust. Ilya in the mirror trying to deal with his chlorinated, lake water infused hair situation and Shane coming up behind him, threading his fingers in his hair, soft and cool from a nap like âI like your hair that wayâ kiss to the neck âI love youâ and then laughing uneasily and saying âI canât believe I can say that now.â And when Ilyaâs fucking him hard from behind, telling him how needy Shane is for his cock and how much he loves giving it to Shane, and Shane hugging the pillow like âoh my god, I love you, love you love you, ah donât stop, love you so muchââ and Ilya moans and has to like flatten Shane to the bed, draping himself over him and bullying his cock deep even with his thrusts staying steady and theyâre one rocking thing, gasping and moaning and Ilya gets close enough to Shaneâs mouth to hear that every exhale is alternating âIlya, love youâ over and over again.
I really hate the critique that because some queer people want kids in real life that a marriage + kids ending isn't heteronormative. Like that's such a ridiculous argument. Some people sincerely want marriage young too, that doesn't mean that the Disney princesses aren't modelling and promoting a very specific heteronormative lifestyle
The point people are making, as I've said before, is that the romance genre is a genre in the business of defining what a "happily ever after" is. This is a broad social project and conversation. Marriage house and kids IS the standard HEA, and deviations from it, traditionally, are assumed to be lesser. Without kids your couple didn't "really" get a HEA. There has to be some justification.
That's why Hollanov having the kids ending bugs people. Maybe it makes sense for these individual characters, I personally don't think it does but I can see the arguments. But that's not really the point. And the point isn't that no queer people want kids or that wanting kids is bad. No one is saying that's the case. The frustration is that overwhelmingly, HEA means kids. That's what people are critiquing as heteronormative. The enforcement of the narrative. And the lack of representation, especially for queer people, of fluffy romances that don't follow the heterosexual life plan. It's like oh ok my options are the Price of fucking Salt, or Giovanniâs Room, or ending up in the suburbs just like my parents but with a wife. What if I want something else.
i just KNOW troy and ilya have the most vile, twitter cancel-able text conversations. theyâre hockey players (insults as bonding), queer, had/have terrible fathers, became friends when they were both going through itâŚ
troy texts ârunning lateâ and ilya responds with âfaggot.â troy hearts the message. they send and make kill yourself jokes. theyâre rating their shits. when hr-verse charlie kirk gets shot, troy is sending the video and ilya is hearting it. obviously theyâre vetting dick pics but the ranking is incomprehensible. troy is making russia jokes. theyâre sending sonic porn. creating convoluted bond-villain style ways to kill people (only like, 75% of the people have actually wronged them)
for a prompt⌠jealous shane đď¸đď¸đď¸
Rozanov bursts into his hotel room, bullish, suit jacket already halfway off his shoulders.
"All right, Hollander," he says, like he's fucking Desjardins or something. "Let's get this shit on the road."
"It's 'show'," says Shane as he locks the door behind them, irritable. He's just lost 2-1 on fucking Raiders home turf. The tenor of this meetup shouldn't match his annual skin cancer check. But Rozanov's the one disrobing at breakneck pace.
"I know what it is," he says, now in his briefs. "Take off your clothes."
Shane is a little stuck on the sight of Rozanov's broad shoulders, the definition of his abs, which he could swear ripple even without movement in the unflattering Westin light. It doesn't make sense. Some of the guys on the Metros are also built like this. J.J.'s ego is stacked on his six pack. Gagnon has a gruelling routine, claims it's the reason he bagged a wife voted hottest WAG three seasons in a row (Hayden's still pissed - Shane likes Jackie a lot, but...). Shane looks at them - not looks - he just sees - and there's nothing - they never have the same effect, he's pretty sure. But some sick part of his brain has enshrined the chemical reaction Rozanov's body produces in him, pushes him to seek it out. He's been reading about evolutionary desire for sugar and this has got to be related. He--
"Hello? Get on the bed," says Rozanov, dragging Shane's sweats down and off.
"The fuck is your problem?" says Shane, assuming the position. "I'm the one with the curfew, and--"
He cranes his head. Rozanov's opening the condom wrapper, which like - don't dwell - but his cock is so fucking - Shane drags his eyes up to Rozanov's focused girlish mouth.
"You double booked," says Shane, in disbelief.
"Don't know what this means," says Rozanov. He sniffs.
"Of course you do," snaps Shane. Rozanov just grins.
Don't say "who is she", thinks Shane, you fucking idiot, don't say "who is she" don't say "who is she" don't--
"Who," stutters Shane. Wow, nailed it. Superb control from the guy currently rock hard and ass up.
Rozanov rolls the condom over his dick - asshole, asshole, asshole - and barks out a laugh. "Wouldn't you like to know," he says.
Shane would. Just because. It seems unsanitary. Not to mention exhausting.
Rozanov's hand slots into place over his neck and it's like a blindfold coming down, like those things they put over horses' faces to stop them from freaking out. His thick thumb circles Shane's hole, presses inside. Shane bites his lip.
"But who's the real slut here," says Rozanov, low, dipping his head. Shane can feel his breath on his back. His next two fingers slide in. "You love to make things easy for me."
"I don't," Shane grits out. He jerks forward and Rozanov's face collides against his skin.
Rozanov waits till he's bottomed out before he speaks again. "You want to see a picture," he asks. Shane can hear his teeth. His chain hits Shane's lats over and over again. Shane says nothing in response, just grinds faster. Rozanov moans.
"She is hot," Rozanov pants, gripping Shane's hip. "I could probably get her to come here, you know. We could--"
With all the resolve he has Shane pulls himself off Rozanov and onto his back. He wants this dickhead to look him in the eye suddenly. "Shut. Up."
Rozanov chases him back up the bed till his arms are on either side of Shane's head. "Ah," he laughs, dragging a finger down Shane's throat, digging the nail in with not insignificant pressure. "Doesn't know how to share toys. No brothers, no sisters, right?"
"Stay off my Wikipedia page," says Shane, trying not to move. Rozanov looks at his dick anyway, the elephant in the room. Stupid for withdrawing when he needs it this much. Shouldn't be so transparent. "You're fucking - obsessed with me."
"I don't need internet gossip to know what's right in front of me," sneers Rozanov. Then the bastard fucking ghosts his dick over Shane's hole, the fat head of it grazing his rim while Rozanov stares at Shane's face, which is so fucking red, he can tell. Stripping him for parts or something.
So Rozanov's got a hot model on deck. Sky is blue. Admirals choke tomorrow. The pain in his side's from the check this same hulk rammed him with not two hours ago. Will he do the same -- keep your thoughts up here. Normally this activity is a proving ground for disconnection. Fuck Rozanov's schedule, Shane can still get off. Isn't that the whole point?
"Fuck me or leave," hisses Shane.
Rozanov presses his hand down over Shane's mouth, his fingers fastening over Shane's jaw. There is a bead of sweat on his earlobe that could almost be a pearl. Shane licks Rozanov's hand. It tastes like dirt. He bites down, his teeth in the tendon of Rozanov's palm.
A corner of Rozanov's lip hooks up. Then he slams into Shane again, faster and faster. Well. He has someplace to be.
When he comes, Shane rakes his hands down Rozanov's back as hard as he can. Rozanov doesn't make a sound - he just reaches over his shoulder and covers one of Shane's hands with his own, dragging it. Like it's a knife he's wielding. His gaze bores into Shane's with a ferocity that verges on criminal intent.
I am a tool for you, thinks Shane. In too many ways.
Rozanov pulls out with a disgusting sound and slaps Shane's flank.
"Don't worry, Hollander," he says. "I won't tell her you say hi."
to go with the other prompt... jealous ilya đď¸
Jane: The back door is open
Jane: Finishing up an unexpected call sorry
Jane: Don't fucking say it
Jane: About the back door thing
Ilya thinks about how he could respond to this and ultimately decides silence is more useful than any innuendo. It'll spin Hollander out to be unsure if Ilya got his text or not and he'll spend the whole phone call worrying at it, wondering if someone else is going to come in the door, not listening to whoever the fuck it is monopolising the captain of the Montreal Metros' time - on a victorious game night no less. Hollander might make conciliatory noises, sound like he's got his active listening business brain on, but he'll be thinking about Ilya.
Ilya has more or less accepted that he wants Hollander to think about him when he's not there, and there's a nice solid Soviet-solid wall between the concept and the rationale behind it. Enough to know it exists, no reason to know why. That's where you run into trouble.
He closes the door behind him and makes his way up the stairs. Without Hollander ushering him in the space feels extra industrial, utilitarian. He could be on his way to a warehouse party. He could be fleeing a fire. He's just getting where he needs to go.
Hollander's apartment, meanwhile, looks the same as ever. It's almost as nondescript as the stairwell, but for all the modern roaring fireplaces. Ilya is not immune to a good fireplace. He can hear Hollander in another room - he's being so cagey about this, why doesn't he pace in the comfort of his regularly used spaces, not like he's discussing nuclear codes or anything - and notices an opened cardboard box on the kitchen counter. He goes to it, picks up the note printed on good cardstock that's sitting beside it. FROM YOUR FRIENDS AT ROLEX. The edges are embossed with a gold border Ilya's father would approve of. Ilya opens the fridge, grabs himself a bottle of water, chugs it.
"... yes. Of course," comes Hollander's voice, closer now. "And I just wanted to say again, Sophie, that I'm so sorry about this. Really."
Ilya rolls his eyes. Hollander finally emerges in the hallway - sees Ilya - his eyebrows draw together and then back apart with the tiniest spring. Then Hollander fucking laughs into his phone.
"No, I mean, I know it's not my fault," he says. Ilya throws his coat over one of the dining table chairs, advances towards Hollander. "But I do feel responsible, you know? If I'd been here--"
Ilya takes one of Hollander's hands, moves it to Ilya's waistband. He'd made a pit stop at his hotel room just now and jettisoned his suit, thrown on his sweats. Maybe there's some product in his hair. He could swear the Bell Centre fucks with the visitors' locker room shower pressure when the Raiders are in town - he recently asked his friend Mossy, who was traded to the Red Wings last season, if he noticed a difference in Montreal now, and Mossy had all but confirmed. So Ilya had ducked under the water again in the hotel - for his own gratification, not because of Hollander's impossible hygiene standards.
Still, Hollander frowns. Shakes his head. But he doesn't move his hand.
"--it would have reached me in one piece. I just feel terrible. The night concierge here is normally--"
Ilya shoves Hollander's hand down his pants. His knuckles brush Ilya's cock. Ilya grins.
"--so good," Hollander finishes, staring at Ilya. His tongue darts out between his perfect straight front teeth.
"I, um, I have to go, actually, Sophie. But please keep me updated."
Ilya's other hand moves to Hollander's ass. Hollander's textbook fucking ass. Like the rest of him. He squeezes.
"Thanks. Thank you. Sorry again. Bye."
He hangs up.
"What the actual fuck is wrong with you?"
"Wrong with me? What about 'good evening, Ilyushka darling'? What about throwing me a sorry for talking to someone else while I am trying to make sweet love to you?"
"'Trying to make'--" sputters Hollander. God, if Ilya could bottle this feeling. If he could catch Hollander out like this on the ice. More than he already does, anyway.
Hollander shakes his head, clears the dust away, yanks the hand he had all but forgotten about out from Ilya's sweats. "Someone stole the watch Rolex had couriered to me tonight. So I'm a little fucking preoccupied, yeah. You got in just fine."
Ilya takes off his shirt. Hollander barely glances at Ilya even though Ilya knows this is one of Hollander's favourite views. His line of sight goes straight back to the box on the counter. What the fuck. Ilya steps in front of Hollander's face, blocking the box.
"Get unpreoccupied. Now."
Hollander licks his lips again. Ilya tilts his head towards him.
"Okay," says Hollander.
The drop this kicks into Ilya's stomach gives him some pause. It is a very ordinary turn of events. Ilya asks for something. Hollander gives it to him. Ilya takes something. Hollander protests, lets him take it. He's about to fuck this professionally beautiful man who has just beaten him for only the second time this season - this unbested pure Canadian idol is about to go limp and euphoric as Ilya smashes his hot fucking face into twenty-two pillows and worse, as Ilya bends him into a pipeline for Ilya's cock. And it's this little "okay" after a prematurely concluded call with Sophie from Rolex that's got Ilya's heart trying to escape through his throat.
Ilya pushes him onto the couch.
Next time he hooks up with Hollander, he thinks, he's going to get him in a real fucking lather. Taste his own medicine. Not just his come. How exactly he intends to do this Ilya will work out later. Maybe he'll let Hollander think Ilya's got another engagement. Maybe he actually will have another engagement.
Ilya goes over to the couch, gets up onto it. Straddles Hollander's Swiss watch of a body. Runs his hands over his fucking huge thighs. Sweeps them over his little brown nipples, his pecs. Thrusts a finger into the side of his mouth, two.
"Say sorry."
"'orry," Hollander says, impeded by Ilya's fingers.
"Didn't get that," says Ilya.
"Sorry," says Hollander, spitting Ilya out. The resulting slap across his cheek widens his eyes, but only for a second. They stare at each other.
Then, slowly, Hollander takes Ilya's wrist, directs Ilya's fingers back into his mouth. The training is. It almost. Ilya narrows his eyes. Concentrate.
"Sorry," Hollander says, audible, contrite, his tongue working around Ilya's fingers.
When Ilya goes to touch Hollander's face again he almost flinches, but this next tap is the same you'd give a beloved but poorly behaved dog.
"Forgiven," says Ilya, moving down Hollander's exceptional abs. "For now."
hiiii if you're still taking prompts! public/private
They were doing this in Montreal because they wanted to be noticed. If they met for lunch in Boston there's definitely a chance someone might recognise them, take a picture, post it somewhere - Ilya is locally very famous, is beloved, (is leaving), and the two of them together double their odds - but Montreal is a 100% guarantee to Boston's 75%, and Ilya knows Shane prefers that number. If he's going to freak himself out like this, he wants to be sure of the outcome, control what can be controlled. Ilya understands. It's not just for Shane's sake that he agrees.
And this, after all, is Shane's design. He wants to be seen together once before the Foundation announcement so that the press conference's emphasis is on the charity, not the relationship, as if that's going to be possible. "You want to make a Rozanov-Hollander vaccine?" Ilya had laughed, the first time Shane brought it up. "Here's a little bit, next time you get it, won't be so bad?"
Shane had punched him in the arm for that, which was fitting. But Ilya already had the virus and it was incurable, like a lot of things about him. Love. It was so disgusting.
Here they are, then. Shane's already there. He had wanted to arrive first, and Ilya had wanted him to be as chill as possible. Ilya kind of gets it now, because as he enters this very inoffensive midrange Saint-Henri bistro it's apparent every single one of these polite Canadians is looking at him, even though they aren't looking at him. It's very strange, like the room is full of a new kind of oxygen that his lungs can't tolerate. Ilya's heart rate kicks up, coke jittery. What the fuck. He's meeting Shane for lunch. Outside. In the world. Together. On purpose. The hostess is looking at him like he's the three-headed hound of hell, but she's also smiling and asking if he has a reservation.
"I," says Ilya, wondering if Shane's mouth is this dry, wondering if he'll ever piss normally again, always a thrill to discover new genres of his own fear, "yes, I think he's--"
Shane is off in a quiet corner with his back to them, but Ilya's had eyes on him while pretending not to have eyes on him since he pushed open the door several years, or possibly seconds ago. So in a way Ilya has a lot in common with everyone else in this restaurant.
The hostess takes pity on him, even though she probably thinks he's about to smother Shane with a chloroform-soaked rag and haul him out the back. Oh, Canada. "Right this way," she says, grabbing another menu. He follows her to the table.
"Mr. Hollander," she says, with the same reverence his mother effected for fairytales about Vladimir the Great. Then, for Koschei, "Your guest."
Shane rises from his chair, and he is the saviour-king. Ilya's never seen anyone so brave in his life. Shane holds out his hand. "Rozanov," he says, voice steady. "Thanks for coming."
Ilya wants to get down on one knee. Pledge fealty? Propose? Suck dick? All three?
He shakes Shane's hand, same as he's done a million times before. Not like this. Fuck, Shane's not going to like that sweaty palm. Goodbye, sportsmanship. "Thank you for inviting me."
They both sit. The hostess leaves. Her Dutiful Discretion comes off her in waves.
Ilya looks at Shane, who's got his face trained into its most diplomatic shape. Only Ilya would know that nostril flare is the suppression of a smile. His own face, he hopes, has been wrangled into second-language-plausible-deniability territory. Trust the mask. For an instant - only a millisecond - he finds himself considering setting the mask on fire, hating it with a screaming malice. But no. Mask is utilitarian. He has no feelings about it.
"So," says Shane.
"So," says Ilya, watching the way the light from the bay window behind him interacts with the restaurant's copious greenery to give Shane shadowy dapples, big freckles over little ones. He leans back. "How do you want to help me, Hollander?"
This startles a laugh out of Shane.
"Help you? You're not here so I can help you," says Shane. "Not that anything could," he adds, the barest suggestion of a gleam in his eye.
Ilya wants to grin. Ilya wants to eat him alive.
"Oh, that can't be true," he drawls, picking up the menu. He taps his fingers against the back of it. One by one. Strokes the leather softly.
Shane goes red faster than bloodied gauze. He stares at Ilya's hands, then up at Ilya's face, suddenly furious. Ilya gets the message. Reel. It. In. Ilya clears his throat.
"This is a business meeting, then," says Ilya, just loud enough. That had been part of the script. He's seen at least two people attempt surreptitious pictures.
"Yes," says Shane. "I wanted to take your temperature on--"
The waiter comes by. His eyes are practically bulging out of his skull. Ilya knows, of course, that Montreal is a hockey town. The hockey town. But it's very surreal to see this play out, and he sort of wishes he could be a fly on the wall when Shane goes out on his own. What kind of treatment he gets when Ilya isn't there. How hard they would fumble and stutter and fawn if the devil incarnate wasn't sitting across from their Messiah. He touches his cross, but he isn't too sorry to blaspheme.
"Can I start you off with something to drink," the waiter asks breathlessly.
"Just water is good for me, thank you," says Shane, not beating the Christ-like allegations.
"Stella, if you have, please," says Ilya.
"You bet," says the waiter, whose mouth twitches. Ilya's pretty sure this man thought he was about to ask for a bucket of vodka. "Back in just a moment."
"Actually," says Shane, bright, inspired. "You know what? That sounds good. I'll do a beer as well." The waiter murmurs assent and leaves.
Ilya looks at Shane. It's too fucking hard. He's not sure he can get through this next hour of ultra-normal normalcy. He laughs, and then Shane lets out a little laugh.
a little prompt:
"I can change (if it helps you fall in love)"
There have been a few nights lately where Ilya's come home from a practice or a game or a dinner and sat down in his house in the dark. He moves past the light switch like he doesn't know it's there, sits on the couch in his outside clothes and stares in the television's direction, empty glasses on the coffee table, or if the cleaner's been through the still life's swept of any personal touches, no evidence that he sat here in this same affected sulk two nights ago. The house already staged. But he's getting ahead of himself. Not yet on the market. He's always getting ahead of himself, and it's an unnecessary piece of theatricality he's never been able to train out of himself, though many figures in his life - from his teachers to his brother to Sveta - have instructed him, with varying levels of patience, to do so. If they can't see how his reactions are based in reality it's not his issue.
Ilya doesn't know how he's supposed to stop skipping ahead, especially when he knows he's right. It's not intuition, it's not some girl giggling in his ear about planetary cycles and mood, not vibes or vice or clickbait. "When this happens, then this happens" is a cornerstone of his life. He is the literal best at it. He is paid millions of dollars for it. It has shaped his body. I am right, so I'm right, so I'm right, so I'm right, an image of infinite mirrors. There's only one other person he shares this psychology with and he'd rather throw himself in front of the T than pollute that stream with what he sees now. He fondles the remote. Turn it on, tune it out.
Or.
He takes his phone out his coat pocket, taps it against his veneers. He wants to hear Shane's voice so badly. And this is how it's supposed to go now that they are what they are, and it's like. They do text all day. They do call and FaceTime and find midpoints on the map. Ilya's in a car or on a plane as much as he can be, and it is, as he had known it would be in Lanaudière, not enough. That's the trouble of the trap: he used to hold back because he wanted too much, and he's still holding back because he wants too much, because even when Shane tells him so he's not totally convinced their wanting matches up. One day he's going to make a huge mistake and Shane's going to step back in disgust, and then maybe he really will have to throw himself in front of the T, or whatever the fuck the Ottawa public transit is called. Because it will be then, he knows. But it's probably going to be worth it as long as he doesn't ruin Shane's life in the process. He really, really wishes Shane hadn't come out to the Metros, for instance. It--
He unlocks his phone and calls Shane because he doesn't want to keep thinking about that. Shane picks up on the first ring.
"Hi," says Shane. "So weird. I was just about to call you."
"Yeah?" says Ilya. He wants to make a joke, but nothing comes to him. It's embarrassing the way he can only linger in the reciprocity.
"Yeah," says Shane, who can't have gotten home that much earlier than him. "I'm looking at the calendar and I was thinking. You've got a game in Buffalo Tuesday, right?"
Ilya gets up. The garden lights are on, actually. That's what was nagging at his periphery. Maybe the rain's triggered the motion sensor, though it seems like that shouldn't happen. "Yes," he says. Can he say more words? Apparently not.
"And we'll be in Toronto," says Shane.
They'd dismissed this intersection when they charted the season. "Yeah, but the window is too tight, Shane," he says, directing himself down the hall.
"Fuck the window," says Shane. "I can say I have a meeting in the city and take a Wednesday morning flight. I'd just have to leave pretty early, but we could overnight in Niagara or something."
"Niagara? Falls?" Ilya laughs. "You want to piss Desjardins off to honeymoon with me?" He opens the fridge, grabs a container from the stack of branded meals.
"Do you - do you not want me to?" says Shane. Shane says everything he wants out loud. Even when he's not saying it Ilya hears it. Ilya wants to be standing next to him right now, his arms around his middle, his head on Shane's shoulder. Ilya wants to say we're both going to be so fucking tired. I'm already so tired, aren't you? Do you want that? From me? Ilya wants to say yes I'm going to need you so badly it's going to make me stupid, it's been two weeks since I last had your dick in my mouth and I might be going insane, I sleep on top of the pillow you used and it's the only thing that keeps me getting into that bed when you aren't here, can't you see how this is untenable, it's only November.
"No, I want you to," Ilya says. He sounds so quiet underneath the microwave's buzzing. "We should do that."
"Good. I think so too," says Shane. He's smiling, Ilya thinks. Just in that little way. Shane doesn't always like to FaceTime. "We can meet on the American side. It'll be easier."
"Okay," says Ilya, fumbling for a bowl, a knife and fork. The microwave dings.
"What are you having for dinner?" Shane asks.
"Steak fajita thing," says Ilya. "You had... veal sweetbreads. Dauphinoise. Side of pâtÊ."
Shane laughs. Ilya bottles it. "Uh huh."
"Save me a profiterole for dessert, please."
"Eat your dinner, Ilya. You're clearly starving."
"I am," says Ilya, adding another thirty seconds to the lukewarm peppers.
"I love you," says Shane, in Montreal. Shane who was thinking about calling him when Ilya called him. Shane who wants to see him sooner and not later. Shane who will do anything he can do make that happen.
"I love you," says Ilya, watching the timer tick down.
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