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It's raining. They have the blinds open — Ilya won't let Shane close them — and it's almost like being outside. The rain falls so gently, shining in the air. Everything is soft and safe. Shane doesn't know if he's ever felt so deeply at peace.
They fooled around earlier, between their post-run breakfast and making coffee to drink on the patio before the weather moved in. Of all the scenarios Shane imagined, getting blown by Ilya in his kitchen as the coffee machine burbled and gasped wasn't one of them, but he's glad to add it to the list. Getting Ilya off on the couch outside was one of his scenarios, and it lived up to all of his expectations. It doesn't even matter that they made a mess. The rain will wash it away.
Now they have nowhere to be but here.
"Do you think you will get turned on every time you hear the coffee maker?" Ilya murmurs.
"Probably," Shane admits.
"Good," Ilya says. "Then you will be thinking of me."
"Thinking about you is not a problem I have," Shane tells him. "Not thinking about you is the challenge."
Ilya smiles into the pillow. He's lying on his stomach, wearing his swimsuit. They were going to go splash around in the lake before it started raining. But then they were so relaxed, and the first drops pattered down on the stones, and the bed sounded so delicious. Shane's never laid around with anybody like this before. Even with Ilya, when they've managed to steal a few minutes, there was always somewhere to go. Today they have the luxury to do absolutely nothing. Shane's never felt as rich as he does in this moment. He has everything he could want.
Ilya's back is peppered with moles. Shane's noticed them before, but he hasn't had the chance to explore them. Now he touches each one with a fingertip, connecting them like constellations. Signs to guide him in the night, he thinks, a new set of stars to navigate by. The Loon. The Russian Bear. The Lovers. The Cup.
"Feels nice," Ilya says softly. He almost sounds shy. He's watching Shane touch him, something a little wary in his eyes. Like he's happy, but there's fear behind it somewhere. Like he's ready to run if he has to, out the door and through the grass and into the lake to disappear like some creature from a story that can only be told in whispers.
Shane's heart aches. He leans down to kiss Ilya's shoulder, like his lips can draw out the poison in Ilya's thoughts. He's terrified too: that they'll break this fragile thing growing between them, that the world beyond the cottage will be too cruel, that the weight of their secret will shatter this peace. But he's not afraid of himself anymore, and he's not afraid of Ilya.
"Are you ticklish anywhere?" he asks.
Ilya shakes his head. "Not since I was little."
Shane doesn't have brothers, but he's had teammates like that. He's known billet siblings like that. By the time Shane was playing junior hockey, he was already Shane Hollander, so no one messed with him, but he remembers how it was when he was nobody, just one of the two Asian kids. He understands what Ilya's not saying.
There's a strength of will that children have, to deny the truth of their bodies. Coaches like to call it grit. It helped Shane skate through the pain when his feet ached, to do drills past what he thought his body could endure. It makes sense in the rink. It doesn't make sense outside of it. He doesn't like knowing that Ilya's vulnerability was exploited, his boundaries pushed, in the place where he should have been safe. He doesn't know much about Ilya's brother, just that he's a few years older, bigger than Ilya, bulky enough to pin his little brother and tickle Ilya until he couldn't breathe. Until it wasn't fun, if it was ever fun. So now Ilya isn't ticklish. Those are dots Shane can connect as easily as the dots on Ilya's skin.
"Can I touch you?" Shane asks.
Ilya's smile is crooked. "You don't have to ask."
"I want to." Shane doesn't know how to say what he means. He wants to know Ilya wants this contact. Welcomes it. He wants to know that Ilya feels as safe here as Shane does. That he knows that Shane will only ever push Ilya if he knows Ilya will push back, the way they both love to test each other.
The fear leaves Ilya's eyes. Now his gaze is soft, open, full of something Shane could call wonder. "Please," he says, "lyubimyy, please touch me."
Shane catches his breath. He lets his palm skim over Ilya's nape, his shoulders, his spine, his ribs. It's sexy — God, it's sexy, the way Ilya arches into his touch — but this time, it's not sexual. It's sensual. It's about the textures of Ilya's skin. It's about the tension in his hips that melts away as Shane presses his knuckles there. He wants to learn the things about Ilya that he's never had the leisure to explore.
He drags his fingers over Ilya's ass and down the backs of Ilya's thighs. The hair on Ilya's legs is a dark gold in the sun, but brown in the grey rainlight. It's coarser than Shane's hair. It springs back when his fingers move. Shane is careful, but Ilya wasn't lying: he isn't ticklish. Even when Shane touches the backs of Ilya's knees, Ilya doesn't move. Shane strokes down Ilya's calves, feeling the round muscles there. Ilya flexes and relaxes just for fun.
"What does it mean?" Shane asks as he fingers the bones of Ilya's ankles. Ilya is so beautifully put together. "Lyubimyy."
"It means, the man I love," Ilya says. He's watching Shane again, his head resting on his arms. His eyes are dark with interest.
"Lyubimyy," Shane says again, tasting the word, and Ilya smiles. Shane runs his hands over Ilya's feet. There's a dusting of hair on them, not much. They're long and lean. Shane presses his thumbs into Ilya's arches and Ilya sighs with pleasure. Shane thinks there's probably a bottle of massage oil somewhere among the supplies he bought for Ilya's visit. He can't remember. He bought a lot of things. He wanted to make this perfect. Maybe later he'll rub Ilya's feet. Maybe the rain will stop and they'll build a fire this evening and Shane can enjoy the flickers of warmth and the cool heavy breeze and the play of Ilya's bones and tendons under his fingers.
"Turn over," Shane says, and Ilya rolls onto his back. Shane makes his way up Ilya's front. There's a place on Ilya's shin that isn't ticklish, but it makes Ilya's feet twitch. There's a scar on his knee.
"I fell out of a tree," Ilya tells him. "Sasha pushed me. I was, hmm, ten, maybe."
"Do I know about Sasha?"
Ilya's mouth slants with amusement. "My coach's son."
Shane feels himself frown. "Oh."
"You look like a storm cloud," Ilya says lovingly. "Are you jealous, Shanya?"
"Yeah," Shane says, because he's trying to be honest. "He got to touch you first."
"We were both very awkward." Ilya props his head on his hand. "Our first time was much better. Yours and mine."
Shane pauses, his hands on Ilya's thighs. "Really?"
Ilya nods. "At least one of us knew what he was doing." He winks.
"I was fucking terrified," Shane says, moving slowly to Ilya's hips, just visible over the waist of his swimsuit.
"I know," Ilya says. "It was adorable. I was enchanted."
"I guess that's good." Shane lets his hand hover over Ilya's abs. Ilya waits, lips parted. Shane puts the tip of his finger into Ilya's belly button. He can feel the heat of Ilya's insides. He strokes the strip of hair that trails into Ilya's swimsuit. He loves the tight curls and the way it feels on his skin when Ilya presses against him.
"You will wake him up," Ilya says, nodding toward his crotch.
Shane pats Ilya's groin, resting his hand there briefly. "Not yet, buddy."
"He can be patient."
"I thought we were being honest," Shane teases.
"Shanya, I waited two years to fuck you," Ilya says, his lips quirking in fond exasperation. It's funny, Shane never has a problem reading Ilya. It's everyone else that's confusing. "I think I can wait a little longer today."
"Okay, that's fair." Shane traces the planes of Ilya's stomach, the Vs that lead to his dick, the dip where his ribs end.
"Anyway," Ilya says, "we have time."
"Yeah, for sure," Shane says, because their two weeks is shorter every time he pauses to catch his breath. Seven days left, more or less. He moves to Ilya's chest to distract himself. God, he loves Ilya's chest. Ilya's pecs are so full and firm. They fill up Shane's hands in a way that satisfies something so deep in Shane's brain he can't even name it. And above them: Ilya's broad shoulders, leading to Ilya's muscled arms and his strong wrists and his beautiful hands. Shane's hands span Ilya's neck. He puts his thumbs in Ilya's ears, tracing the softness of them, pinching the lobes gently. There's a spot behind Ilya's ear that makes his eyes close when Shane touches it.
"Sasha never touched me there," Ilya offers.
Shane presses his lips to the place where his thumb was. He can feel the way Ilya's chest rises and falls. He kisses across Ilya's cheek to his chin. There's a scar there too. Shane follows it with his finger.
"Sasha?"
"No, no," Ilya says in a soothing tone. "Svetlana."
"Really?"
Ilya nods. "Her father was worried. He put her in a self-defense class. She practiced on me. She is very tough actually." He grins. "I told everyone it was a hockey fight."
Shane kisses the scar and works his way back down Ilya's body. He's not trying to turn Ilya on, he's just enjoying the way everything feels different against his lips. Here's a callus on Ilya's palm. Here's a scar almost too small to see. He does lick briefly at Ilya's nipple, because he can't resist. Ilya hisses through his teeth. Shane smiles and moves on, nuzzling his way down Ilya's belly and legs. He nips at Ilya's ankle. He presses a kiss to the sole of Ilya's foot. Maybe that's gross, but Shane is following some instinct he doesn't entirely understand, as confident about this as he is about hockey. Nothing about Ilya could be gross, especially in this moment. Even the strangeness of him is beautiful.
He taps Ilya's hip and Ilya rolls onto his belly again, letting Shane browse up the backs of his legs over his ass to his shoulders. Shane maps Ilya's skin with his mouth. The feel of it against his lips is mesmerizing. When he gets to the nape of Ilya's neck, he touches his tongue to the bone there and then spreads himself over Ilya, covering Ilya's body.
"No one has touched me like this," Ilya says quietly. Shane can feel the rumble of Ilya's voice in his own chest. "Was nice." He rolls, pins Shane under him. "My turn."
Time disappears as Ilya touches Shane. His big hands are everywhere. They're everything. He caresses every inch of Shane's skin and Shane feels like he's brand new. He has nerves he didn't know about until Ilya's hand revealed them. His body is capable of so much more than he ever imagined, and contains so much more beauty than he could ever see himself. Shane can't remember how long they've been in this bed. Maybe forever. The gentleness of Ilya's touch blends in with the sound of the rain and the soft damp of the air and it's so beautiful Shane almost wants to cry. He blinks a little too fast.
"Shane," Ilya says, his voice full of worry.
"I'm not sad," Shane says, shaning his head. "I'm not. It's just...so much."
Ilya kisses each of Shane's eyes. "I know, lyubimyy."
"I didn't know this could feel like this," Shane says, and it's not elegantly worded, but he thinks Ilya knows what he means. Ilya strokes Shane's cheek, his eyes on Shane's.
"Keep going," Shane says at last, and Ilya smiles. He moves slowly, caressing Shane's chest and his belly and his hips and his thighs.
"So smooth," he says. "Beautiful."
"Well, I can't grow a beard," Shane says.
"Yes, I know," Ilya tells him. "I saw you try, the first year the Metros made the playoffs. Is okay. I will grow beard for both of us."
"Why, because you'll be winning Cups for both of us?"
Ilya smiles. "Yes."
Shane rolls his eyes. "I love you," he says, instead of You're an asshole, Rozanov. But that's what he was saying all along, he guesses, even before he knew it.
Ilya stretches out, lying half-on Shane. The weight of him is comforting. He's half-hard and so is Shane, but neither of them does anything about it. Ilya was right: they can wait.
Ilya presses a kiss to Shane's shoulder. "One day, we will win Cups together."
"Yeah?" Shane says.
"Yes," Ilya says, like it's already written somewhere. "You and me, Hollander. We will be legends. They will retire our jerseys side by side."
"As long as we're together," Shane says. He puts his hands on Ilya's face. God, this man is so precious to him. He can't put it into words.
Ilya leans in and kisses him slowly, so slowly, and so sweetly that Shane's bones ache. "Guaranteed."
Shane wraps his arms around Ilya and pulls him close. They lie that way, listening to the rain, breathing together, until Ilya's stomach gurgles.
"Sorry," he says.
"We should eat," Shane says. "I have chicken. We could make sandwiches."
"Chicken salad?" Ilya asks. "With egg. And pickles."
Shane smiles. "Yeah. We can do that."
Ilya rolls off the bed and holds out his hand to Shane. "Do you have dill?"
"Probably," Shane says. "I have a lot of stuff." He lets Ilya pull him up, enjoying Ilya's strength. "Is it stupid, to enjoy this this much?"
"If it is, we are stupid together," Ilya says, his hand still tangled with Shane's as they walk to the kitchen. "That's what I want. To be stupid together forever with you, lyubimyy. Okay?"
"Okay," Shane says.
Outside it's still raining, but he can feel the sunshine that's waiting to illuminate the years stretching out in front of them.