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“Your parents are nice,” Ilya remarks, hand on Shane’s thigh. They're going sixty down a long, winding road, the one that’ll take them back to the cottage Ilya has been coveting in more than his mind for the past six days.
“They are,” Shane agrees, both hands on the wheel. His sunglasses are perched at the top of his head, pushing his hair back. “I’m glad they were nice about you.” Shane knows what choice words have been reserved for Ilya when he isn’t in the room, by family and teammates alike.
Ilya shrugs. “Nice is okay. Accepting is better. Your parents are both.”
Shane hums in response, giving Ilya a sidelong glance. He isn’t expecting Ilya to be looking right back at him, corners of his mouth quirked up. Shane feels his heart quiver at the sight as Ilya squeezes his thigh. “Eyes on the road,” Ilya says, and Shane immediately snaps his attention back to the task at hand.
It’s quiet save for the sound of a ballad on the radio, the fields around them giving way to trees and forestry. Ilya is humming off-time, free hand drumming a beat onto his leg.
Shane clears his throat, trying to suppress the laugh that threatens to spill out. “You know this song?” he asks instead, amusement coloring his tone.
“No.” Ilya’s grip on Shane’s thigh tightens, making him jump. “Is there a problem?” Ilya asks, voice low and drawling.
“None,” Shane replies. He tries to ignore the tingling in his spine at the challenge. “We’re almost there.”
“Hm.”
Pulling up to the cottage, Shane shuts the car off, taking Ilya’s hand in his own and kissing it. “We have time to kill before my parents come for dinner.” He squeezes Ilya’s hand. “What do you want to do?”
“I might have an idea,” Ilya replies, eyes bright and full of mischief. “Come on.”
He gets out of the car quicker than Shane can process, car door slamming behind him. Eyebrows furrowed, he quickly follows, locking the car behind him as he follows Ilya down the path to the lake. “Swimming?”
“I’ll swim.” Ilya’s voice is muffled, shirt halfway off his head, thrown to the side without a care. “You watch.”
“The water is cold,” Shane calls after Ilya, watching him walk down to the lake and wading in without as much as a sound of displeasure.
“It’s good,” Ilya calls back out, water up to his chest now, before he dives down.
Shane walks to the shore, and waits. The sun is slowly dipping into the horizon, reflecting off the water as small waves lap at the curved shoreline. The sound of birds trilling at each other fills his ears, followed by the sound of Ilya breaking over the surface.
He’s wading out of the lake in time, water dripping off him and illuminated by the sun. Shane’s squatting, arms folded over each other, head perched on them. He tilts his head up to look at Ilya, following a water droplet rolling down his toned stomach with a hungry eye. “Took you long enough.”
“Show me your hand,” Ilya says. Shane obliges, stretching his hand out.
Ilya drops a small rock onto his palm, a stone so grey it almost looks green. Shane turns it around in his hand, smooth to the touch with no sharp edges. “This is for me?”
“Mm.” Ilya’s hand comes to rest at the top of Shane’s head, running a damp hand through his hair. “So you can remember this.”
Shane purses his lips; he doesn’t think he needs clarification for what Ilya means. He clears his throat as he stands up. “Thank you,” he says quietly. He runs his thumb across the stone.
Ilya grips Shane’s chin, turning his gaze upwards. “I’m with you,” Ilya says seriously. His eyes are searching Shane’s face. “Okay?”
His eyes sting. “Okay,” he says back, and the smile that spreads over Ilya’s face warms him down to his toes.
Still holding his chin, Ilya draws him in for a kiss, open-mouthed and sweet. They stay like this for a minute until Ilya’s hands start to wander, gliding over his chest, squeezing at his waist. Shane jumps; Ilya’s firm hold there keeps him still as Ilya pulls him in closer, arms wrapping more fully around him. Ilya hasn’t dried off yet, the fabric of Shane’s shirt sticking to Ilya’s skin.
Shane can’t help it—he moans. Ilya pulls away, snickering despite the string of spit joining their mouths together. Shane’s eyes narrow. “The hell you laughing at, Rozanov?”
“Nothing.” Ilya presses his face into the crook of his neck, taking a deep inhale. “You smell good.” His hands flex around Shane’s waist, Shane squirming in his grasp.
Shane pushes Ilya’s hands away to no avail. “Can we at least go inside?”
“Sure,” Ilya shrugs. “If you let me fuck you on the couch.”
“Inside, Ilya,” Shane says firmly, walking towards the door, Ilya still latched onto him as he follows. “You’re going to get sick if you stay wet.”
“I want to make you wet,” Ilya retorts, and promptly sneezes.
Shane lets them inside, throwing a towel at Ilya immediately. “Go get warm in the shower,” he orders, “before my parents get here.”
Ilya looks like he wants to argue before he’s cut off by another sneeze. “Go,” Shane repeats himself. Ilya grumbles under his breath on his way to the bathroom, trailing water behind him.
They make it through dinner without as much as a sniffle. Shane thinks they’re in the clear until him and Ilya are waving at his parents from the front door as they pull away in their car and Ilya leans over and says, “My head hurts.”
Shane presses the back of his palm to Ilya’s forehead; it’s warmer than it should be. Shane frowns. “Do you get sick easily?”
“I used to.” Ilya bats Shane’s hand away, touching his own forehead with a furrowed brow. “When I was a kid. It’s not a big deal.”
He must be making a face because Ilya rolls his eyes. “What, Hollander. Tell me.”
“Maybe it’ll pass,” Shane suggests.
It doesn’t. Ilya’s voice becomes thick with congestion, shivering all throughout the night. Shane wakes up to find him perched at the foot of the bed, staring into the darkness.
He sits up, cheek wet from the pool of spit on his pillow. He rubs at it with the back of his hand, blinking into the dark. His words are mumbled when he says, “You okay?”
Shane is almost convinced Ilya doesn’t hear him, clears his throat to repeat himself when Ilya replies, “My throat hurts.” He sounds petulant and frustrated, and Shane feels something tickling at his insides, something like love.
“I can make you tea.” He stretches his arms over his head, yawning into his shoulder. “Do you want honey?”
“Too sweet.”
Shane hums. He stands up, rounding the bed to stand in front of Ilya; it’s not often Ilya is the one looking up at him. Ilya lets out a huff of a breath, hand reaching out to smooth down Shane’s waist. Shane leans down to press his lips to the crown of Ilya’s head, curly blonde tickling his cheeks.
“You are too nice to me, Hollander.”
“Am I?” Shane asks into Ilya’s scalp. He straightens up, hand instinctively moving to smooth the crease in Ilya’s brow. “I feel like I was a dick to you for so long.”
“No,” Ilya replies, eyes elsewhere now. “It was me who was a dick to you. You are soft, Shane.”
Ilya reaches out, wraps arms around Shane’s middle and pulls him close. His head rests on Shane’s abdomen, and Shane runs his hands through Ilya’s hair. Maybe Shane always wanted him this close—his heart aches less and less now.
“I still want to fuck you.” Ilya’s voice is muffled into the fabric of Shane’s shirt. Shane sighs as his hands move over Ilya’s shoulders, bare skin feverish to the touch.
“Tomorrow,” he says, squeezing at Ilya’s upper arms. “You need to get better.”
He untangles himself from Ilya, the sound of him sneezing echoing into the room as Shane walks to make him tea.
Shane is waiting for the water to boil, cup of chamomile set in front of him when he feels a tickle in his throat, clearing his throat several times. He swipes a hand over his nose, feeling a distinct pressure that wasn’t there before.
Shit. Better make two cups of tea instead.