Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov
Ilya’s most prized possession was his mama’s cross. It was the one thing he’d been allowed to keep of hers; everything else disappeared after the funeral, discarded by his father. His second-most valuable possession was a small folder of Polaroids of Shane Hollander.
Ilya had vices: smoking, drinking, fast cars, and those damn pictures. In moments of weakness, he’d indulge in staring his fill at Shane. The photographs had always been a guilty pleasure, but even more so during the few months Shane dated Rose Landry (emphasis on the guilty part). There were a million photos of Shane online, and he even had the awards-show selfie from 2014 on his phone, but none of those gave him the same rush as his little hoard of photos. The Shane Hollander that existed in those seven pictures was different, softer, more real than the Metro’s captain and part-time model Shane Hollander.
(The folder also contained four pictures that were just of a mouse doing various rodent activities, but they stayed in the folder because they were from a memory so deeply intertwined with Shane that it would feel inauthentic to keep them anywhere else.)
The version of Shane that existed in his pictures was the one who fell to his knees without a moment’s hesitation; the one who told him to fuck off, even as his body screamed the opposite; the one who spent two hours hunting a mouse with him; the one who’d slam him into the boards so hard he’d bruise, and then take immense pleasure in pressing his fingers into the bruises as Ilya moaned beneath him just a few hours later.
It was those photos that he’d carefully packed in his backpack to travel with him to Shane’s cottage, along with his Polaroid camera, laptop, a handful of chargers, and a few choice sex toys. His carry-on was all clothes, shoes, and enough camera film to shoot a feature-length movie—Shane having insisted that he send a comprehensive list of hygiene products to him ahead of time so that he wouldn’t have to worry about size restrictions or checked luggage.
There had been a lot of debate about whether he should make the long drive from Boston or the much more reasonable plane ride. Shane was worried about Ilya being spotted in Ottawa, but Ilya deemed it an acceptable risk and was able to convince Shane… eventually. Even so, as Ilya deplaned and made his way through the airport, it felt like there were a million eyes on him. He didn’t think he’d been noticed and had dressed inconspicuously, but he was still nervous—although he could admit that a majority of his nerves came down to spending two whole weeks with Shane.
He couldn’t see a version of this trip that didn’t change their dynamic irreversibly; whether for better or for worse was yet to be determined. The doors to the terminal opened with a woosh and a blast of fresh air, and Ilya stepped out into the warm Ottawa summer. He pulled out his phone and checked his messages.
Jane: At the airport now.
Jane: Just parked.
Jane: Lot E.
Ilya looked up, seeing signs for parking lots A-C. He frowned and opened maps on his phone, eyes widening in shock.
You: You are joking
Jane: Why would I be joking?
You: I might as well walk to the cottage
Jane: Seriously?
Jane: It’s not that far!
Ilya felt himself smiling, and he shook his head.
You: *screenshot of a map with the walking time listed as nine minutes*
You: This is ridiculous
You: *photo of parking lot A, which is only half full*
Jane: You’ll survive.
You: (((((
Ever since All-Stars, sex with Shane had been different. It wasn’t necessarily that their sex before had been lacking somehow, but there was a new dimension to it that either hadn’t existed before or they’d both been incredibly good at repressing.
As it turned out, being at Shane’s cottage had blown even that sex out of the water. If Tampa had created one new dimension, the last few hours had created twenty.
“I’m getting pruny,” Shane complained halfheartedly, the warm water from the frankly ridiculous shower cascading down on them like a warm blanket (it had twelve jets; no one needed that many jets to get clean).
“No…” Ilya grumbled, resting his chin on Shane’s shoulder.
Shane shrugged him off with a smile. “How about I go get dinner started, and you can stay in the shower a little longer?” He punctuated the sentence with a kiss, and Ilya melted. “Are burgers good with you?”
“Mhmm, burgers,” Ilya murmured as he pushed back strands of wet hair that had plastered themselves to Shane’s forehead. Shane huffed out a small laugh, and Ilya acquiesced, “Okay, you can go,” but when Shane turned to leave, he added, “My shower will be so lonely though, so I will have to jerk off all by myself to feel better about it.”
Shane turned and leveled him with what was clearly supposed to be an unimpressed look, but he was doing a terrible job of hiding his amusement. “Honestly, if you can get off again, good for you,” he said, stepping out of the shower and starting to towel off.
Ilya leaned back against the cool tile, a small smile on his face. Shane did have a point; they’d both been extremely enthusiastic in their reunion, and Ilya’s dick was probably out of commission for the next few hours at least. By the time he got out of the shower, faint clattering came from the kitchen.
Ignoring his own luggage, Ilya beelined for Shane’s dresser and rifled through the drawers. Everything inside screamed Shane, and he loved it. He found a soft shirt and a pair of bright red shorts and put them on, foregoing underwear altogether.
In the time it took him to do that, Shane had moved outside, and the scent of cooking meat was already thick in the air. He bent down, rummaging through his bag and emerging with his camera.
Putting on a pair of slides, he stood silently in the doorway, watching as Shane opened the grill, releasing another wave of delicious smells. He raised the camera and snapped a picture, the small click drawing Shane’s attention. “Hey,” he pouted, but it was undermined by the way a smile took over his face almost immediately.
Not bothering with any sort of excuse or explanation, Ilya padded outside and set the developing photo and camera on the table. He looked over Shane’s shoulder at the grill. “Why are you making so many burgers?”
Shane Hollander
Shane felt like he was floating. Ilya was at his house. His real house, the one that was a home. He’d never invited anyone but his parents here, yet Shane didn’t feel like his space was being intruded on at all. It was the opposite, actually. The idea of the cottage without Ilya now seemed so barren, and it had only been a few hours. He felt ravenous, and Ilya was a feast. How was he supposed to resist?
He loved Ilya. The thought had been coming to the forefront of his head more and more easily these days, and he was helpless to resist it. He smiled down at the sink as he placed another plate on the drying rack. Shane had never felt this way about another person, and containing it was taking all his effort. He knew that if he weren’t careful, it would all come spilling out.
Hearing footsteps behind him, he peeked over his shoulder to find Ilya padding softly toward him. He stopped at the counter and rested his head on a hand… just watching. Shane felt himself flush and turned back to the sink.
“So… what now?” Ilya asked, voice soft in a way that was becoming more and more common as the years ticked by.
He shrugged. “I was thinking maybe a bonfire? It’s the perfect time of year for it, but I’m open to other ideas.”
“Mmm, no. We will do fire. Very manly. Will you chop wood shirtless, too?”
“You wish, dude.”
“Mhmm.”
Shane laughed. It was so easy to just… coexist with Ilya.
He was so fucked.
“So we do fire…” Ilya said, and Shane felt more than heard him approaching. “But first…”
A warm pair of arms wrapped around his waist, and he halfheartedly complained, “I’m almost done with the dishes.”
“Okay, so finish,” Ilya smirked against his neck and rocked his dick enticingly against Shane’s ass. They were both still fully clothed, but Shane had no trouble feeling anything through the thin fabric. Ilya definitely wasn’t wearing underwear.
“Fuck,” he sighed, quickly drying his hands and spinning around until they were face-to-face. Ilya looked extremely pleased with himself and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth, and he mumbled, “Shut up.”
“I said nothing!”
“You didn’t need to.”
Ilya’s grin widened, and he leaned in for another kiss. Shane met him in the middle.
As the fire crackled, their conversation drifted. They talked about everything and nothing. The differences between cup parades in Boston and Montreal. Who gave a better blow job. What was the best pizza topping (when Shane wasn’t following his seasonal performance diet, of course).
Eventually, the conversation petered out into a comfortable silence, and Ilya tipped over until his head was in Shane’s lap. He put his hand in Ilya's hair and started scratching lightly at his scalp. If Ilya had been humanly capable, Shane was sure he’d have started purring. He’d always known Ilya was a touchy person, and it turned out this extended to being extremely cuddly when he wasn’t holding himself back. Despite usually despising excessive touching, Shane found himself leaning into it every time.
“Have you talked to your brother lately?” Shane asked after a long while.
“Mm-mmm.” Ilya shook his head.
“Is that a good thing?”
Ilya paused for a beat before saying, “Probably, I don’t know.”
“I’m sorry about your family. Even if they suck, you must miss them.”
The pause was longer this time, until Ilya said, “My mother didn’t suck. She was great.”
“How did she die?”
“By accident.” He paused. “She accidentally swallowed a whole bottle of pills.”
Shane had no idea what to say to that, so he just asked the first question that popped into his head: “How old were you?” He’d never known Ilya to have a mother, so either he’d never talked about her for all the years he’d been playing, or she died when he was young. Very young.
“Twelve. I found her.”
Fuck. They sat in silence for a while, nothing but the crackling of the fire and the buzzing of crickets. He wanted to say something, but how could he respond to that in any meaningful way? He’d never lost a parent, and his grandparents had all died when he was older.
“I don’t want you to think she was weak,” Ilya said.
Shane shook his head. “I don’t.”
“She wasn’t. She was so funny and beautiful. She was so sad. And my dad was so hard on her. And…,” a loon’s cry ripped through the air, causing Ilya to startle and let out a small laugh. “Motherfucker!” He settled back onto Shane’s lap.
Ilya’s smile slowly faded, and Shane grabbed his hand, asking, “Do you wanna go inside?”
He shook his head. “No.” They sat together in silence once more. The air was heavier than earlier, but still peaceful. “I lied,” Ilya suddenly said.
Shane squeezed his hand ever so slightly. “About what?”
“Your camera. You asked why I liked it so much. Years ago. I said it was just fun, but I lied.” There was a pause, and Shane stayed quiet, giving him time to sort out his thoughts. “It was because of my mother.” Shane squeezed his hand again, and Ilya’s eyes were distant as he gazed into the fire. “She had one. Just like yours. It made me feel… I don’t know.” There was another, shorter pause. “It made me remember her, I think. Hard to explain.”
“Oh,” Shane said, not sure how to respond. “Nostalgic?”
“Yes, probably. I don’t know. ‘M sorry I lied.”
“No.” Shane shook his shoulder. “No, it was personal. You didn’t owe me an answer. You don’t owe me anything.”
Ilya tugged on Shane’s hand, pulling it closer. “After her funeral, it disappeared. The pictures, too.”
“I–” Shane swallowed hard. “That sucks. I’m so sorry, Ilya.”
He felt Ilya shrug. “It’s been a long time.”
They slipped into silence once more. After a few minutes, Ilya shifted in his lap until he was on his back, looking up at Shane. Their eyes met, and Ilya softly smiled. Shane had started thinking of it as Ilya’s ‘cottage smile’, because in the seven years he’d known him, he’d never seen Ilya smile like that until now, and it fit perfectly with the version of Ilya that finally felt safe enough, here at Shane’s cottage, to finally let down his walls.