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Ilya’s on the verge of a pretty epic crashout.
Nothing’s being spoken out loud, but he’s mere moments away, perched on the end of the couch’s chaise - a perfect blockade to the old highlight reel Shane’s trying to watch from behind.
Or-...well he was trying to watch. But there’s just something about the tension squaring off Ilya’s shoulders more than usual tonight. The stiffness in his posture.
It’s distracting. And not in the good way.
“Can you lie back?”
His question falls on closed ears, the recipient lost in a city two hours away. That’s where he’s been a lot lately. Mentally. Not physically. Not yet.
“Hey,” Shane tries again, socked foot nudging into his lower back from behind. “Ilya.”
It must be just annoying enough, because it finally moves him. Mentally. Not physically. “In a moment, Hollander.”
And Shane is just not gonna have that. Not on his watch. Not in his own cottage.
So when he leans forward and latches onto Ilya’s shoulders, it’s with a loud grunt that he drags him all the way back, sending the unsuspecting man off balance until his weight comes to lay back between Shane’s open legs.
Ilya’s heavy head falls into his lap. Brows bunch stubbornly. A true picture of annoyance.
Shane is in love with him.
“Hi.”
From his new place below, Ilya takes a long breath in and out of his nose. Probably steadying himself for whatever his darling boyfriend’s got cooking for him. Then, like he’s trying very hard to be pleasant - “Hello.”
His skin is too warm under his t-shirt, Shane realizes the second he lets his hands run down the front of his chest. “You’re like…about to crash out, I think.”
“Mm,” dismissive, “crashout is for on the ice. Not in boyfriend’s cottage.”
And that’s fine and all, but like... “You’ve been dealing with a lot of stuff lately.” A lot of planning. A lot of big life changes. “Do you…maybe wanna talk about it again…?”
“No,” Ilya answers and there’s no waiting for it this time. “No more talking for today.”
Almost immediately, relief floods Shane’s body and it’s guilty. He knows he’s not the best talker. Knows he’s been pushing into overtime trying to hear Ilya and understand him and help him. They’ve discussed Ottawa already. A lot. Today and yesterday and in the week before that. He knows this isn’t about him, but ‘no more talking for today’ is registering as borderline orgasmic in Shane’s body right now.
So, what is there to do instead…? To unravel the two hundred pounds of tightly wound man in his lap…
Shane rubs his palm over the large span of Ilya’s chest in consideration.
Watches how his gaze tangles itself into the busy mess of space that his brain has stretched out above him.
He could give Ilya a handjob.
That’s usually good for most things, Shane’s come to sleuth out over the years. But Ilya has finally laid down after a day of pacing - is cranky, yes, but is also showing no signs that he plans to move from his new spot.
So…
The voices on the highlight reel filter back in, but they stay muddled in the background as Shane lifts his gaze to the TV, slowly working his touch back down…then upwards…skin too warm and breath too quick under his hand.
He dances his fingers over the cut of Ilya’s collar bone…applies light, pretty pressure around the front of his throat…sweeps upward until he finds it, settled high in the side of his neck, pulsing beneath the pads of his pointer and middle fingers as they stall there…
Silently, Shane counts…
Keeps time with the clock hanging above the TV…
Loses track the instant Ilya speaks, the deep rumble of his voice throwing off his concentration. “What is prognosis, doctor…”
There’s a muted playfulness that’s worked its way into his tone, despite it all. One that Shane can’t help but feed off. “Brooding Boyfriend Disease,” he regrets to inform him. It really is a shame.
From his lap, Ilya hums, thoughtful. “Is it fatal…?”
And Shane has to smile. “Not if we start treatment right away...”
There’s a warmness to it - something familiar and comfortable and like a breath of fresh air gasped above a sea of heaviness.
Ilya latches on in an instant, preparing to steer them into more intimate waters but-
“No,” Shane insists, both hands dropping to gently hold him off. “You stay.”
He’s got this.
He thinks…
Not seeming overly convinced himself, Ilya stalls down there, casting him a look from between his legs. But then, a willingness settles over him - one that’s become more and more recognizable these days.
Shane loves when he gets to win.
Ilya drops from the elbow he had propped in preparation. Moves back to his original setup, safe and snug between sturdy legs.
And when his head settles into his lap again, that heat returns in Shane’s chest at the sight, somehow fluttery and gooey all at the same time.
He’s definitely got this.
“Close your eyes.”
Ilya’s gaze flicks up to him automatically. Sceptically. “Why…”
“Just do it,” he insists, tacking on a quick, “please. If you want.”
Okay, so maybe he doesn’t got this got this, but he’s gonna try. Pull from what he knows. And that starts with getting his boyfriend’s face cradled into his hands once his eyes shut, thumbs stroking both cheeks just like he’s felt during times like these.
Considering how quickly he usually folds on the other side of this move, the lack of instant gratification has Shane sweating it a bit. To say it goes over luke-warmly is an understatement. Nothing more than the continued, just-too-quick breaths.
It’s…probably fine? The two of them don’t have to fall prey to all the same stuff. It’d be boring if they did, Shane thinks.
To be fair, he’s not sure Ilya’s, like…built the same way as he is. But one thing about this man is he loves attention. And affection. And Shane’s got a lot of that to give him right now, so…
With a determined frown, he leans down, craning his head over Ilya’s until he can capture his mouth in an awkward, off-center, upside down kiss.
The press of lips in answer is promising. As is the little content hum. Shane plants a better one, and then leans back up before he goes into traction.
“Mm…” Ilya’s pleased, despite the crease still bunched between his brow.
Okay, yes. That’s gotta go.
Shane traces his fingertip over it as lightly as can be... Smoothes it out, like a crease in poorly wrapped stick tape… He follows over the arch of Ilya’s eyebrows next…first right…then left…then back in the middle to dance down the distinct curve in the bridge of his nose.
Another murmur, quieter this time. “Strange treatment… You are sure you’re doctor…?”
Shane smiles, the breath he lets out playful. “What, you wanna see my license…?”
“No… I want to see you bounce on it like you did last night...”
Shane’s path hitches at that, paired with the twitch of betrayal in his shorts as Ilya’s gaze locks onto him. “You’re definitely too sick for that.” He’s really not sure how this whole roleplay thing developed. Time to put an end to it, amongst other things. “Let’s just do this, okay…? …relax…” God, it’s so good when Ilya does it for him. Surely he can return the favor. “You can relax for me now, right Ilya…?”
It feels a little awkward coming out of his mouth. To be the one asking.
But wow, he thinks he might understand the allure when Ilya groans a heavy sigh, eyes closing and voice borderline whiny when he answers. “Yes of course, Shane… I can relax for you…”
He’s pushing his luck.
Hamming it up a little, just to be an asshole.
Shane’s dick doesn’t give a shit about that. “Um…” Wow. Maybe he’s not cut out for this after all. “Okay,” he says. “Thank you.”
Honestly probably the polar opposite of how he’s supposed to be responding right now, but he can’t be held responsible for that. Not when Ilya’s laid up so prettily in his lap, tired face lit golden by the soft glow of the lamps around them.
A reset. That’s all they need. Hands dropping to Ilya’s shoulders to give them a squeeze, then gliding down to his pecs to give them the same.
He can feel the breath rush into Ilya’s lungs with it…
…the long one out after, his body unfolding into Shane’s as the touch moves.
It’s like he’s thawing out. Melting. Sinking into Shane more and more the longer he’s touched - the more attention he gets - the firmer and more unmistakable the pressure is. Shane slips the front of Ilya’s t-shirt up and his hand underneath in one movement, spanning over every single inch of his body as he feels Ilya’s hand drop down to guide him lower… Lower… Lower… Until…
Shane huffs, frustrated despite the grin trying to tug at his mouth. Okay. “You want me to just get you off...?” he asks. “Because I can just get you off…” It’s an easy approach but it’s old hat. Uninspired.
From the blanket of Shane’s bent over stomach, Ilya mumbles something, keeping their hands pressed over the bulge in his shorts.
And Shane has to wonder if it just isn’t in the cards tonight. Or at all. Maybe this is too far a detour from their usual way of things.
Or maybe he should put his back into it.
“Ilya… You know how sometimes you…” How does he word this… “You know when I’m really upset…? And you-… Well, you’re like…really nice to me…?”
It hangs strangely, in the weird little bent up position they find themselves in.
From beneath him, there’s a stirring, and then Ilya lets go of his hand.
Finally able to sit back up, Shane chances a look down at him. Waits, patiently, for a response.
“I’m not upset,” Ilya frowns. Upsetly.
There’s an unfortunate element of adorableness lurking beneath it too, but Shane can’t even begin to work that one out. “Ilya…”
“Shane…”
“Can I just do something…? Will you let me…?”
Or is he gonna be a stubborn dick about it all for no reason?
“Please…?” Shane adds on for effect. Then, to sweeten the deal - or maybe to share his reasoning as a way to help convince, “You love attention…”
Ilya contemplates this. “Yes.”
“You love touching.”
A dismissive nod.
“You love me.”
A sigh. And when Ilya tilts his head back a little to look up at him, it’s with tired, brutally honest eyes. “Yes… I do…”
The urge to stroke his cheek presents itself and wins, Shane’s chest doing a little fluttery thing. “Then let me try this for you… Please.”
He knows too well what it feels like - the uniquely overwhelming chaos of ten strings of thought cinching around your brain.
There’s nothing in this stupid universe that Shane wants more than to go in there and untangle them. Just like Ilya’s done for him.
From his spot in his lap, tired eyes search his. And say what you will about all these previous attempts, but there’s definitely a calmness in his face that wasn’t there before.
So…
“What should I do, doctor…”
Shane bites back a smile. “We’re done with that,” he cuts in to remind him first, then, “and you should go sit on the floor.”
The request takes a moment to register, and maybe it’s the scene change of it all. Maybe it’s the physical relocation - a transition that Shane knows comes as a bit of a struggle, for him at least, during times when his brain isn’t firing right.
But Ilya is different from him. The way his brain operates is different. He’s got a quicker turnaround time for almost everything and before Shane knows it, he’s sliding himself off the end of the chaise, getting to the floor just as requested.
A little blip of nerves pops under Shane’s rib cage, but as he scoots forward to sit at the edge of it the couch, it’s mostly determination. And anticipation.
And horrible, horrible affection, nothing on this earth quite as endearing as the image of his boyfriend sprawled out on the carpet, knees bent, arms back to prop himself up as he waits for him to do whatever the fuck.
“Here…” Shane quietly insists, spreading his thighs so there’s plenty of room to fill. “Closer, okay…?”
Ilya doesn’t say anything, but he does follow - long, easy movements until he’s come to sit at Shane’s feet, his legs crossed leisurely beneath him.
It’s immediately a very interesting picture.
A thought-provoking dynamic.
Ilya looks up at him from the floor and there’s this hint of recognition slowly starting to creep across his face. Like maybe the position is registering... Like maybe he’s finally starting to grasp what Shane’s trying to do… Like maybe he’s a little intrigued by tonight’s reversal of roles…
Shane won’t shine too much attention on it. Not when he knows how much Ilya likes being on the other side of things.
He’ll just have to do him justice.
“Come here…” he murmurs, easing a bit closer to the edge - easing Ilya into him by the back of the head until they’re hitting something a little more accurate to the source material. “...you’re like-...really fucking handsome, you know that…?”
Ilya blinks up at him and it’s tired. Frayed. “Yes…” he mumbles. “Thank you…”
And Shane just has to kiss him. Has to take his face in both hands and lean down to slot their lips together, holding it until he can feel the sentiment returned.
He gives him another one then.
Breaks off and kisses the corner of his mouth next…
Then his cheek… The other… The tip of his nose… All very very slowly. Very very purposefully. Like he’s administering a balm to soothe away burns that the day left behind.
Shane runs his fingers through Ilya’s hair and sweeps it off his forehead so he can leave one there too. Sweet. Methodical. Three, pressed carefully across from left to right.
Ilya sighs beneath him, but it’s more of a release of breath than anything.
“This okay…?” Shane checks in, nearly a whisper.
He gets the warmth of Ilya’s hand settling around one of his wrists. Hanging on. Willing.
So Shane gives it to him.
Sweet kisses for his temples…
Firmer ones along his jaw…
And when he makes his way back over to his lips, Ilya’s mouth is slack, more than a second passing before he kisses him back. It’s languid though. Lazy.
Good, Shane thinks to himself. That’s exactly how he’s supposed to be feeling.
On the TV in front of them, the roar of a crowd seeps in. Shane blindly feels around for the remote without leaning away, committed to covering every square inch of his boyfriend’s face with kisses now that he knows he likes it.
Fingers against cool plastic. Muscle memory of the long rubber button and the noise plunging into almost nothing and then the touch, Ilya wrapping around his wrist and dragging the wandering hand back over to slot against his face.
Shane can’t help the little bubble of happiness when it connects because wait a minute…he knows that feeling. The desire to keep all the attention on the moment - on the touch - on him.
He leans back a bit out of curiosity and feels it swell even thicker. Because Ilya’s eyes have drifted closed. Head has begun to tilt into Shane’s hands, heavy and comfortable and trusting.
And fuck, maybe Ilya isn’t built so differently after all.
Gently, experimentally, Shane eases the weight of his resting head into one hand so he can move the other - so he can dive between curls and scratch blunt fingernails over his scalp.
It immediately pulls a noise from Ilya, soft and almost-grumbly. “Mm…”
Shane grins, fully endeared. “That good…?”
“Mhmm…”
Then he’ll keep doing it.
Just like he knows feels good.
Exactly how Ilya’s done it for him, mapping it out from muscle memory alone.
Attentive, quicker scratches just above the back of his neck…
Pulling it upward and drawing it out - nice, long sweeps across the back of his head…
Wrapping around and threading in through his bangs, watching fondly as Ilya goes with the flow of it all in his spot on the floor.
Silently, Shane wonders if Ilya ever thought he’d be on the receiving end of his own moves. If he ever imagined they’d switch roles as Boyfriend Whisperer.
It’s not like Shane could ever hold a candle to the absolutely insane way he knows how to unwind his body, but Ilya looks more than relaxed down there, another hum falling from him on a particularly good scratch.
He likes it here. Just above his ear.
“And you say I’m the puppy…” Shane grins, so much love sweeping through his chest that he fears he might go into cardiac arrest from it.
Because he'll never tell, but he gets it now.
The sweet, obedient way Ilya sits at his feet.
How his heavy head presses into his hand - adorable curls in the low golden glow.
This is a puppy.
Shane’s thinking maybe a golden retriever.
He asks it softly, lowering Ilya’s head so he can lean against his thigh. “What does it feel like…?”
A moment… A mumble… Something in Russian.
“Hm…?”
Then… “Tired…” Ilya murmurs, like the word itself is taking too much energy now that comfort has settled over him.
Shane nods to himself. To no one.
Perfect.
“Come up with me…” He guides him with the slowest movements imaginable, knowing far too well how critical big changes like this can be. “Careful… Yeah, like that…”
He sinks them backwards on the couch, helping Ilya along with him, until he’s come to rest against the back again.
It’s just like how they started but this time, Ilya melts into his chest - front to front - exhaling in a way that Shane just knows feels so good.
His boyfriend’s body is heavy and perfect over his, but Shane drags his legs out from under them for both their sakes, keeping Ilya’s sides pressed snugly between his thighs.
“How’s this…?” he asks, still not quite able to shake each second-guess.
“Mm…” says Ilya. And that sounds good, so…
Shane lets himself exhale too, enjoying the release from his lungs and how it inspires another one from above.
He presses a kiss into the top of Ilya’s curls.
Keeps one arm steady around his back.
Uses the other to click the TV up one notch. Just one. Just enough for the steady hum of familiar noises.
He really likes this shit when he’s halfway to zoned-out heaven. Maybe Ilya will too.
And it’s on the tip of his tongue as he sits here in the quiet. He wants to ask so bad. Is this doing it for you? Am I doing things right? Do you feel as good as I do when you do this for me? Because God, do I want that for you right now. What can I do to make you feel that?
If it wouldn’t shatter the tranquility that’s settled over these muscles, he would.
But…
The noise from his heavy boyfriend is wordless, and yet filled with unspoken intent. Attention-grabbing.
Needy.
Shane reaches up with his free hand, holding his cheek where he can’t quite see. “What…” Forgive him for smiling - he’s in love, is all.
Because when he says it, it’s borderline petulant - mumbled out from a pout. “...kiss…”
The second it takes to sink in is generous, because once it hits, it’s like a punch right to the solar plexus.
Jesus Christ…
Shane grins to himself, unable to hide it anymore as he hooks under Ilya’s chin to tilt his head up where he lays, opening plenty of space to lean down and press a kiss to his forehead.
An instant balm.
Fast-acting, soothing out the furrow in Ilya’s brow like magic.
“That help…?” he teases, his own heart fluttering so hard that he wonders if Ilya can hear it.
But he’s too far gone down there. Too satisfied, his voice as gravely as it is dreamily insistent. “...yes… …more…”
And of course Shane’s gonna do that for him.
With a grin, he presses another kiss to Ilya’s forehead, letting it linger. Then one a little lower, tender over his brow bone before moving on.
It has the clock above the TV sinking into stillness. Has the heady glow of the lamps blanketing over them softly. Ilya stretches a little, arms gliding up the couch and around so he can hook them behind Shane’s back, hanging on good and snug.
And maybe Shane doesn’t need to ask him after all. Maybe all the signs are there and he just doesn’t know how to read them yet.
Maybe he’s doing a good job for him.
Shane kisses the space between his eyebrows and runs the pad of his thumb over his lips and Ilya hums, lazily pressing his own kiss against it. And Shane likes that. This isn’t about him, but he really likes that. So much that he keeps his thumb there, tracing over his plush bottom lip before everything just sort of melts together and it’s slipping in.
Ilya’s mouth is warm and wet and comforting in a way he’s not really sure how to describe.
He casts a look down, heartstrings tugging at the sight of this beautiful man laying on his chest, eyes shut and worry lines erased and mouth slack - lips not even wrapped, just enjoying the weight of the thumb on his tongue.
And…
Holy fuck.
Shane’s good at this. Isn’t he.
The transition is a little lost on him, he won’t lie - how he managed to get Ilya from that spot at the end of the couch, rigid as hell, to curled up against his chest like a perfectly peaceful puppy. There has to have been a switch at some point - somewhere in Shane’s careful steps. He needs to figure it out. In case he ever wants to do this again.
Or maybe he can just-
Another sound, quiet and breathy.
Shane glances down, trying very hard not to move too fast. Trying very hard not to groan out in existential fondness when he sees it.
Because Ilya’s breaths have evened out.
His head has tipped forward again, drool starting to pool around Shane’s thumb.
Against all odds - each string of thought that once snared his brain - Ilya has fallen asleep.
Shane takes a moment to steady himself so he doesn’t wrap every limb around him and squeeze like a boa constrictor. He resists the very powerful urge to grab his phone off the arm of the couch and take a picture, although his eyes sure are glued to it in consideration.
Instead, he brushes forward, leaving a feather-light kiss to Ilya’s forehead that has him stirring, but, “S’okay…” Shane murmurs against him. “Sleep… I got you…”
Ilya doesn’t need all that much convincing, it seems. Because he lets out this little noise and then sinks back in, the side of his face nuzzling into Shane’s chest.
Perfect.
Now that’s a feeling he knows like the back of his hand.
Around them, the highlight reel continues to play.
The clock above it drags back into motion.
Shane makes a night of wrapping his pointer finger around Ilya’s curls - seeing how much of a coaxing it takes to get it to fall back into place.
He isn’t even going to freak out about the drool spot that’s collecting on his shirt.
Because that, Shane thinks, is love.