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It is not often that Shane Hollander, someone who prides himself on being organized and planned and stringent with some (all) of his routines, allows himself to unravel. It’s usually not on purpose—outtings with the Cens or house parties thrown at a player’s home encouraging that comfortability that Shane rarely felt when out with the Metros. Because he’s relaxed, because he’s safe, he indulges in a bit more than he usually allows himself too.
Ilya loves so many versions of Shane; the dedicated Captain, the best player in the league (not cocky, exactly, but so well-versed and trained and knowledgeable that he can make those kinds of short comments about other players and other teams because he’s earned it), the polite dutiful son (who holds doors and thanks the waitress and always makes sure Yuna has a sweater), and his blissed out husband (someone who is warm and pliable and wanting; eyes big and brown, lower lip wet, cheeks pink under his freckles)
—to name a few.
But there’s something about his Shane like this, wine drunk and a bit top-heavy as Ilya tries to maneuver him through the cottage front door and towards the kitchen. His body is solid and warm, smelling like laundry detergent and mint shampoo and something purely Shane. His cheeks are rosy and eyes glazed and he won’t stop smiling, especially when Ilya locks eyes with him.
“Hi.” He says, possibly for the twentieth time since they left the bar.
And Ilya smiles right back, pressing a kiss to the bridge of Shane’s nose, “Hi.” He whispers.
They pause in the entryway, Ilya closing the front door with his foot. Shane is wobbly and off balance, like some sort of baby deer, something he’d never be on the ice. The dichotomy never fails to blow Ilya’s mind a little bit. His hands come down to Shane’s hips when he tries to move.
“Shoes.” He says because Shane won’t want them on in the house.
Shane blinks, like he somehow forgot he’s even wearing anything on his feet. He nods, looking down almost too quickly, his hand clamping over Ilya’s shoulder as he struggles to toe them off. A soft whine leaves his throat and Ilya hums lightly,
“Okay, okay,” He soothes, “I got you. Hold still.”
Ilya crouches to the floor, encouraging Shane to hold onto his shoulder as he unties his sneakers. He slips the right off, then the left, and then makes the mistake of looking up at his husband in this position. Shane is staring at him through his pretty lashes, his mouth slightly open and it takes everything in Ilya to stand back up and not put his mouth to better use. He presses a few kisses to Shane’s cheeks, gently clasping his chin with his fingers,
“Bed?”
“Pancakes.” Shane replies.
Ilya’s eyebrows draw together, like he’s somehow not translating something correctly, “Bliny?”
And Shane smiles like Ilya has offered him the sun, as if this pancake thing wasn’t wholeheartedly his idea. He wraps his arms around Ilya’s waist with enough force that they almost teeter off balance, “Yes.”
A warm chuckle rumbles in Ilya’s chest, running a hand down Shane’s spine. Pancakes. It’s one AM and they both have practice in the afternoon but Ilya isn’t going to pretend that he won’t give Shane whatever he wants. They wander towards the kitchen and Shane sticks to him like a barnacle as he gets out the bowls and ingredients. He turns his head every so often, shivering when Shane’s lips brush against his cheek.
He’s done mixing the batter when Shane announces, “I think you should kiss me.”
Ilya swallows over heat that sparks embers in his chest, turning his head again to look at Shane. His Shane, who is so beautiful as he stands close in the golden light of the kitchen, shirt a bit ruffled and hair a bit messy, longer as some strands bow over his forehead. Warm cheeks and wet lips and it’s taking everything in Ilya not to press him against the counter and fuck him.
He grabs at his chin again, running his thumb over his lower lip, “You think?” He says softly, “Say what you want.”
Shane leans his forehead into Ilya’s, his hand moving to thread through his curls, tugging just a little. He speaks against his mouth when he says, “Kiss me.”
Ilya does. The words are barely out of Shane’s mouth before he’s gently backing him into the counter and kissing him. A soft moan vibrates against Ilya’s chest and his hands move from clasping the sides of Shane’s face to slide down his neck and shoulders. Ilya squeezes his sides before his fingers grab onto his hips, hoisting him up in a fluid motion so that his husband is sitting on the counter. Ilya slots in-between his legs, Shane’s ankles hooking along his lower back.
He turns his head into the kiss, licking into Shane’s mouth, making him keen out the sweetest noises that go straight to his groin. He pulls back after a moment, breathing a little heavily, kisses peppered along Shane’s jawline until he presses one to his freckles.
“Ilya,” Shane grabs onto his shirt, not wanting him to move. He’s incredibly squirmy on the countertop, inching closer like that’s somehow possible.
Ilya hums lightly, tipping his chin up to look into Shane’s eyes. “You are too tipsy, Hollander.”
“I don’t care,” Shane huffs, his eyes closing. His head dips forward until it’s resting on Ilya’s shoulder.
Ilya rubs the back of Shane’s neck, gently squeezing the muscles for a moment. “I do, malysh.” He whispers, turning his head to plant kisses behind Shane’s ear. His husband shivers, swaying against him, tipping between staying awake and passing out. He cups Shane’s cheek, running his thumb over the bone, “Bliny?” He asks again, just to be sure.
Shane smiles and nods.
Ilya smirks, pulling back to get the pan out. Shane tries to follow him but Ilya shakes his head, firmly pushing on his hips, “No, sit.” Then nips at his lower lip with his teeth, “Stay.”
The soft directive spills over Shane like warm honey and he nods, obeying, as Ilya makes pancakes. He pauses in the middle to get Shane a glass of water, rubbing his knee with one hand as he flips pancakes with the other.
Once there’s a stack of three on a plate, he sets them down near Shane’s thigh and gets out the butter and syrup. He grabs at the edge of one of the pancakes with his fingers, breaking off a piece to pop into his mouth as Shane slathers the top with butter and haphazardly drizzles syrup over everything. He nearly gets it on Ilya’s hand but he doesn’t seem to care, he’s too busy stabbing a forkful and taking a bite.
The sound that leaves Shane’s lips is downright diabolical and Ilya has to shift on his feet and breathe out slowly through his nose.
“Good?” He asks, moving to brush syrup off Shane’s chin with his thumb. He puts it directly into his mouth, Shane watching with keen interest.
“So good.”
Shane eats the majority of the pancakes, sighing contently as Ilya cleans up. He reaches out for Ilya and hooks a hand around his elbow, tugging until he’s standing between Shane’s legs again.
“The room is still spinning,” Shane tells him a moment later, crinkling his nose in such a way that it bunches up his freckles. Ilya almost drops to his knees right there and then, “Which is rude.”
“Very,” Ilya agrees instantly, cupping both sides of Shane’s face. “What do you need?” He seems a little more sober than before, the pancakes and water doing their job. His gaze isn’t as distant, his smile a shade softer, his squirming just a touch more regulated than before.
Shane leans forward, their noses brushing in a bunny kiss. It’s late, they should get to sleep. Ilya needs to clean up plates and pans from the pancakes because he doesn’t want Shane to wake up hungover and grouchy to a messy kitchen.
And yet Shane kisses him, slow and steady, intimate but not hinting at anything more—an indication that they’re not moving from here any time soon. He cups Ilya’s cheek, his fingers stroking through his curls, keeping him close, “Just need you.” He whispers against his mouth and Ilya wraps his arms around Shane’s waist, squeezing him, kissing him again.
He tastes as sweet as syrup.