Work Text:
MAY 2014
Shane: Hi Marleau, this is Ilya Rozanov’s friend Jane from Montreal. I’m really hoping you’ve heard of me? I’m contacting you because I’m wondering if you think he’d be happy if I surprised him at the cup final. I’ve known him since before he was drafted so I’d really like to be there to support him but what we have is complicated and we haven’t spoken in a while so I’m worried I’ll just make things weird for him and embarrass myself. I’d really appreciate any insight and if you didn’t tell him about this. Thanks.
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): Well this isn’t suspicious at all
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): Why’d you wait until game 7 we almost won in 6 tonight
Shane: You played really well if it’s any consolation, your goal in the second was awesome
Shane: I really wanted to be there but I’m worried he won’t want to see me which is why I'm asking you and hoping you won’t tell him
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): No offense but how do I even know you’re legit? Roz is cagey as hell about Jane and I don’t get why but I’m gonna need some kind of proof especially if you want me keeping secrets from my boy
Shane: That’s fair, what kind of proof?
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): Like I said roz hasn’t given me a lot of details so idk but think of something or lose my number
Shane closes his eyes and drops his head against his kitchen counter. Fuck. Maybe this whole thing is a mistake after all.
He’s already talked himself in and out of this plan a dozen times, both before and after getting Hayden to ask around for Marleau’s number and then chickening out of following through before Game 6. He’s just gotten lucky that San Francisco eked out a third win, taking them to Game 7 and giving Shane a second chance to be there for the deciding game.
But now that he’s actually reached out to Marleau, it’s too late to back out again. What if Marleau brings it up to Ilya and it looks like someone knows his secret and is fucking with him? Or like Shane didn’t care enough and decided Ilya wasn’t worth the effort after all?
Even after Sochi and the following months of silence, Shane doesn’t want to inadvertently worry or hurt Ilya just because of his own anxiety—and right before the Cup Final, no less. Shane doesn’t need his texts answered to know that Ilya wants this win more than anything, especially after the way the Olympics turned out earlier in the year.
He takes a deep breath. And about twenty more.
Shane: I know he’s told you he’s bi. I’m a man and that’s why it’s been a secret
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): I don’t know what you’re talking about
Shane: Thank you for protecting him, you’re a good friend
Shane: He came out to you in 2012 while you were throwing up from a bad flu so he could say it was a fever dream if you were an asshole about it
Shane: Turns out you’re a good guy so he texted to tell me that and then asked where to get good soup in Ottawa
Shane: He probably said he was only looking after you because “Russians don’t get sick” but that’s the night he decided he loves you
Shane: He has four moles on his right ass cheek and if you ask about his favourite movie he’ll say fast and furious but really it’s cheesy romcoms
Shane: And I know nobody will be there for him when you guys win
Shane: Except maybe his friend Sveta if she’s not in Russia?
Shane: Ilya hasn’t answered my texts in a while so I don’t know if he’d even want me there but I want him to know someone cares and is proud of him
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): What do you need from me?
Shane spends the next two days planning, packing, and panicking.
He also spends a not insignificant amount of time texting with Marleau, who admits that he watches cheesy romcoms with Ilya and has become invested in the “romantic gesture” of it all. Shane supposes it’s a fair price to pay for the trust Marleau’s putting in Jane to be something good in Ilya’s life.
Shane does, however, dodge a slew of questions about Jane and about Ilya and Jane, in no small part because Cliff Marleau is not going to be the first to hear that Shane might be falling for Ilya and that it was probably never casual between them, no matter how hard they’ve both been pretending—even if Marleau seems to already know that second part from observing Ilya, which is a comfort, at least, when Shane’s having doubts.
He does answer some of Marleau’s questions, because he’s helping Shane out and because it is a relief to actually be able talk about it at all, especially with someone who cares about Ilya too. Shane thinks he might need more of those in his life. Ilya probably does too.
Marleau also helpfully doesn’t let Shane talk himself out of the plan again.
Shane: Maybe this is a mistake
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): Don’t make me track you down and kidnap you Mr Jane Rozanov from Montreal!!!!
Shane: That is not helping me freak out less
Shane: I might have downplayed what happened between us, I don’t think he’ll want to see me
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): What happened?
Shane: I don’t know exactly? I thought things were good until he went to Russia for the Olympics, then he said we were nothing and he didn’t want to see me and he hasn’t answered my texts since
Shane: I don’t think I should show up out of the blue when the last thing he said to me was telling me to leave him alone
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): I don’t care what he said man, Jane is everything
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): I’ve seen him still reading your texts if that helps? Didn’t he spend like two years blushing and smiling at his phone texting you without even getting to see you?
Shane: Things change, people get bored
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): I don’t think that’s what happened
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): You already decided to hear him out and give him another chance right? Please please PLEASE trust that instinct, I know roz so I know he can be stupid about feelings but he’s got big feelings and a lot of them are for you
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): And Russia makes him grumpy
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): If he’s not happy to see you tomorrow he’s been replaced by a pod person and I’ll eat my hockey stick bro
Shane: I hope you’re right
Shane: Thank you
Shane drives down to Boston on the morning of Game 7 and, because of his nerves, arrives way too early, which of course only makes him more anxious.
He doesn’t want to get recognised in Boston when it’s crawling with hockey fans, and he gambled not bothering to try getting a hotel room less than two days before the Cup Final—after Marleau confirmed that his spare room will be available on the off chance that Ilya doesn’t enthusiastically invite Shane home like Marleau predicts he will.
So he has plenty of time to sit in his car and panic out of his skin all over again.
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): You in Boston yet? I can feel your stress from here man
Shane: Fuck you I’m fine
Shane: Don’t worry about me, worry about preparing to crush San Francisco
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): I can multitask! I’ve only had three concussions!
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): Roz said once that you get a lot of anxiety and I encouraged you to come so if you need anything I’ll help. I’ll be home until 3, can let you in if you need somewhere to chill
Shane: Thank you but I just need you to win so Ilya’s in a good mood when he sees me
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): Aye aye captain’s lover
Shane: Gross don’t call it that
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): 😂😂😂
The usher who checks Shane’s ticket raises a brow when they recognise him, and then they nod, perfunctory and professional, and tell Shane to wait before ducking into an alcove behind the door.
Just as Shane’s heart rate starts climbing toward triple digits, the usher returns and hands him a Raiders hat embroidered with Ilya’s name and number.
“Cliff Marleau left this for you,” the usher says dryly, “Guess he thinks he’s funny.”
“Ha,” Shane says weakly, “Yeah. Thanks.”
Shane’s seat is good but not so good that he won’t be able to blend in with the anonymous sea of Raiders colours in his black hoodie and shiny new snapback, which he’ll turn backwards once the game starts and pulls all focus to the ice.
When the players come out for warmups, the energy in the arena surges, and Shane’s gaze is drawn immediately to Ilya, who hangs back at the boards as the rest of the Raiders file out onto the ice.
He looks good, if understandably tired by this point in the playoffs, and he seems… softer, with his curls having grown out a bit. Shane really hopes he gets to sink his hands into them later, and maybe even feel that annoyingly sexy playoff scruff against his skin.
Ilya exchanges grins and hearty shoulder pats with Marleau when he passes by last, a ritual Shane knows they’ll repeat before the puck drop, and Shane follows Marleau with his eyes as he does a first loop of the ice.
He can’t look away, nervous and unwilling to miss Marleau’s reaction when he realises just who’s in the seat number relayed to him from Jane.
He’s prepared himself for Marleau finding out that he likes men and likes Ilya, but it hadn’t quite occurred to him until right now that this is the first person other than Ilya that Shane’s even indirectly coming out to. It does help to know that Ilya trusts him and has been glad to have told Marleau about his own bisexuality, but Shane still has to see for himself that he hasn’t made a huge mistake by being here and letting Marleau in on their secret.
Shane’s surprised to find out that Marleau’s warmup rituals are almost as particular and purposeful as his own, if in different ways. He figures he never noticed before because he was always looking at Ilya—or trying not to look at Ilya, or pretending he wasn’t looking at Ilya.
Marleau’s still boisterous and playful and unafraid to take up space on the ice just like when the puck’s in play, but Shane sees him checking on Ilya, and making sure the rookies are okay, and when Connors looks a little green, Marleau gets him laughing and looking much more grounded.
His focus on the ice and his teammates is admirable; he doesn’t look into the stands once despite his own admission to being fucken psyched, bro to find out more about Roz’s Jane.
So Shane’s left to wait, mostly watching Ilya and absently sizing up both teams, cataloguing likely injuries and making his predictions about the game until they clear the ice again.
When the Raiders return to the ice for the puck drop, Ilya’s gained a determined edge that makes him intimidating to the other team and downright gorgeous to Shane. He’s last onto the ice again, fist-bumping vets and jostling rookies as they pass him at the boards, before he smacks Marleau’s shoulder, takes a deep breath, and finally steps out after his team.
In front of him, barely two strides onto the ice, Marleau drifts away and verrrry casually snaps his eyes to Shane’s section, searching.
Shane sees the moments of recognition, then realisation, as Marleau’s eyes go wide and a grin takes over his whole face. He turns away sharply, which Shane is grateful for when more than a few players on both sides clock the reaction and look around to find what Marleau’s grinning at.
Shane’s worried glance at Ilya reveals that he’s one of them, except he’s narrowed his eyes at Marleau rather than searching for the source of his unbridled delight.
Marleau’s grin only brightens under Ilya’s scrutiny, and he wrestles a very curious Connors away and sends him sliding toward Ilya. Both Ilya and Connors let it happen, colliding in a joyful, grappling embrace before pushing away from each other and skating into position for the puck drop.
Marleau glances back at Shane and shakes his head, disbelieving smile still in place.
Shane, relieved and unburdened from at least one of his worries, is finally able to focus fully on Ilya.
At the end of the first period, when the Raiders are up by one, Marleau looks back at Shane again before disappearing down the tunnel for the intermission, and Shane smiles to himself when his phone buzzes not a minute later.
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): WHAT!!!!
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): FUCK YEAH BRO
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): Thanks for coming man, are you sure I can’t tell Roz you’re here for him?
Shane: After you win
Shane: Get off your phone and listen to your captain tell you to focus and fix your pass timing, you’re too eager and the guys are tired so you need to adjust
Cliff Marleau (BOS 07): Shane fucking Hollander, what the fuck man
The Raiders win.
Ilya looks hot as hell holding the Cup and happy, boyish and proud of himself and the team he’s led to this moment.
Shane’s chest squeezes with pride, and he feels a little like crying. He’s so fucking proud of Ilya. He also desperately wants to join the loved ones swarming the ice, but he doesn’t know if Ilya will want to see him even without his team and a million people watching, especially after the last few months of radio silence.
So Shane watches from afar as Ilya takes it all in, standing alone.
Until Marleau skates up behind him and sends them both skidding a few feet forward with how hard he collides into Ilya’s back. Ilya laughs as Marleau throws thick arms around his chest, jostling him joyfully before leaning closer to say something by his ear.
Ilya whips around to look at Marleau, and then he slowly turns, scanning the crowd. Marleau puts their heads close and, with an arm draped over Ilya’s shoulder, points right at Shane.
Ilya’s jaw drops when their eyes meet.
Shane inclines his head in acknowledgement and gives a little wave, and Ilya’s ecstatic grin returns, softened with something like awe.
Marleau, apparently now full of unrestrained glee, gestures hugely for Shane to join them on the ice. Shane waits for Ilya to nod too, stunned but enthusiastic, before he takes a deep breath and starts toward the ice, more nervous than he thinks he’s ever been in his life.
Murmurs ripple through the crowd and Shane sees himself on the jumbotron, but he does his best to ignore it all, instead focusing on Ilya, who shoves away from Marleau to meet Shane by the boards.
“My best friend Shane Hollander is here to celebrate number one hockey player?” he calls, loud enough to be overheard and steer the inevitable rumours in a safe direction, slightly to the left of the truth.
“Something like that,” Shane says, taking the arm Ilya offers despite not really needing the support, except maybe to steady his nerves. “Hey.”
“Hey?” Ilya repeats incredulously. “Come here.” He wraps Shane in a sweaty hug and lifts him off his feet, sliding into a twirl on his skates when Shane’s weight tips his equilibrium.
Shane makes a show of resisting, but being in Ilya’s arms again, even knowing they have a very confused audience, is well worth the baffled laughter that spreads through the players and families on the ice, as well as the crowd in the stands.
Ilya carefully makes sure Shane’s steady on his feet when he puts him back down, gripping his shoulders tightly, and then gives him a gentle shake. “You are here,” he says wondrously.
“Of course,” Shane says, shrugging one shoulder like there’s anything at all casual about him being there, “Congratulations.”
Ilya’s smile is beautiful and bright, but it soon falls into a cute frustrated pout. He glances around them and scratches at his scruff to cover his mouth when he says, “God, I want to kiss you.”
So kiss me, Shane thinks, heart thudding hard. But he knows, now, that the danger for Ilya is bigger than just his image, job and reputation with the league, and even if Shane might feel a not insignificant urge to give all that up on a whim just to taste this particular smile of Ilya’s, he knows they can’t do that.
“Same,” Shane says, ducking his head. “I wasn’t sure if you’d even want me here.”
“Of course I do. I am so happy you are here.” Ilya’s fingers dig into the meat of Shane’s shoulders and he says, soft and sincere, “I’m sorry I made you think I would not be. I’m so sorry, Shane. I should not have…”
Shane shakes his head and pats Ilya’s hip over his gear, the most affectionate gesture he thinks he can get away with right now. “Later, okay? Just enjoy your win. You deserve it.”
Ilya’s eyes go misty and he sniffs harshly, nodding once. “Come over tonight? I will apologise properly, and we can talk, and…” He waggles his eyebrows, and he snickers when Shane flushes and rolls his eyes, shoving Ilya in the chest. Ilya just laughs harder and swings an arm around Shane’s neck, guiding them into the thick of it.
They endure a bit of good-natured jostling and jeering, but the Raiders and co are much more focused on their well-deserved win than their captain’s secret friendship with his supposed rival.
As they’re pulling away from Connors and his girlfriend, Ilya’s eyes slide to the left, and Shane follows his gaze to see Marleau skating around smacking obnoxious kisses to each of his teammates’ faces. As he locks in on Connors next, Marleau looks right at them and winks.
One corner of Ilya’s mouth twitches upward.
“No,” Shane says, backing away but unable to suppress his own smile. “Rozanov—”
“No?” Ilya repeats, and he advances on Shane with mischief lighting up his whole face, murmuring, “I thought you like my mouth on you.”
Shane laughs, ridiculously relieved by the return to their familiar affectionate teasing, and he’s so busy taking in Ilya’s beautiful grin that he falters and slips on the ice in his Reeboks. He manages to right himself and keep half-heartedly backing away, but Ilya still plays hero, giving up the game and using the advantage of being in skates to zip forward, catching Shane around the waist and pressing a laughing kiss to his cheek.
It makes Shane’s heart pound and his body thrum with adrenalin, and he wishes he could get away with being goofy and obnoxiously affectionate like Ilya so he could kiss him right back. But it’s already going to be enough of a capital-T Thing that he’s here in the first place, hugging Ilya and smiling at him like they really are the best of friends.
Marleau barrels into them, then, and smacks a series of kisses all over Ilya’s face until he twists away and wrestles Marleau into a headlock.
“Thank you,” Ilya says, kissing Marleau right back, “you big fucking idiot.”
“Hey, this big idiot helped bring you your… Jane,” Marleau says, “and gave you an excuse for a celly kiss.” He grins at Shane, making no effort to free himself from Ilya’s clutches. “Good to meet you, man. Thanks for being here for Roz, even if he’s a fucking dumbass.”
“Hey!”
“You too,” Shane says, “Thanks for all your help.”
“Yes,” Ilya says, finally releasing Marleau so he can sock him in the arm, eyes narrowed, “Whatever you did, even if it was sneaky behind my back—”
“Hey, you might’ve been being stupid about having no distractions,” Marleau says, making air quotes, “but I’ve always liked Jane for you. If you were gonna get another chance…” He shrugs broadly. “I barely even did anything.”
“Mm, did so little you did not even tell me he was coming,” Ilya grouches. He turns to Shane and asks, only slightly less petulant, “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
Shane’s face scrunches unhappily. “Because you’ve been so good at answering my texts recently?” he says dryly. “And I asked Marleau not to tell you. I didn’t want to distract you in case you didn’t want to see me.”
“I… I’m sorry,” Ilya says feebly, eyes flicking back and forth between Shane’s.
Shane shakes his head, wishing he could reach out and comfort Ilya with touch, the only way he really knows how. “You chased me once,” he says, “I figured I could try it.”
“You were not huge asshole first like I was. Thank you for…” Ilya sniffs. “You are too good for me. Thank you for coming tonight.”
“I’m not—We’ll talk later, okay? I didn’t mean for us to have this conversation right now,” Shane says, glancing around them, “But I forgive you, and I’m really fucking proud of you, Ilya.”
“Aw, Rozy’s gonna cry,” Marleau coos, and Shane laughs as Ilya takes off to chase him across the ice.
Ilya reluctantly leaves Shane with Marleau’s sisters while he fulfils his captainly duties with the team and then the media, bulldozing over questions about Shane’s presence by instead uplifting the strengths of each of his teammates—with only one chirp about number-two-draft-pick Shane Hollander coming to see the superior captain take the Cup first, and how Ilya’s boys are clearly better than the mediocre Metros, who put up much less of a fight than even San Francisco did.
They make an appearance at the bar the Raiders have bought out to celebrate with friends and family, and Shane has to tuck away his giddy smiles every time he catches Ilya staring at him in wonder.
And then Ilya takes Shane home for the first time.
They take a sleepy shower together, kissing under the spray and pressing close, grinding languidly. Neither of them makes moves to push it further, and it’s nice, just like all the other times they’ve been together, even if it’s a different, scarier kind of intimacy.
Ilya dips his head, mouthing at Shane’s neck in between whispered apologies, and Shane tugs at Ilya’s drenched and flattened curls when he starts murmuring in Russian against Shane’s skin.
“What’s that mean? Ya tebya…?”
“Mm. Ask me tomorrow,” Ilya says, and he laps at a particularly ticklish drop of water as it reaches Shane’s collarbone. “I might even tell you.”
Shane sighs. “Fine. Keep your shady Russian secrets.”
Ilya lifts his head, studies Shane’s face, and finally murmurs, “I really like you.”
“I like you too,” Shane says, biting down on his smile in the face of the lingering uncertainty in Ilya’s expression.
“Okay,” he says. And then he admits quietly, “I don’t know what this means, or what happens next.”
Shane tightens the grip he has in Ilya’s hair and nods, because, yeah, where the fuck do they go from here? “Why don’t we go to bed,” he suggests, “and we can figure out the rest tomorrow.”
“Mm,” Ilya says, eyes finally lighting up with mischief again, “First I have a few questions for you. Maybe some rules, too. I know you like those.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “All right, what?”
Ilya swipes his hands down Shane’s back to finish rinsing him off—and gives his ass a quick squeeze like he can’t help it—and then he turns the water off and takes Shane’s hand to lead him out of the shower.
They dry off, Ilya extremely half-heartedly and Shane much more thoroughly, so Shane’s still swiping his towel over himself when Ilya—still distractingly naked and drippy—plants his feet and squares his shoulders like he’s preparing for a very important discussion.
The effect is severely dampened by his bright smile.
“So,” he says.
“So,” Shane echoes, grinning.
“You want left or right side of bed?”
“Oh, I usually sleep right in the middle,” Shane says seriously, “I don’t think I can negotiate on that, sorry.”
Ilya’s brows raise, and then he tips his head like he’s thought his way out of his own surprise. “Good answer,” he decides. “Middle means you will be closer to me, no?”
“Like you wouldn’t end up sprawled all over me either way?” Shane says dryly. They haven’t ever shared a bed for long, outside of having sex, but Ilya has always gravitated toward pressing Shane into the mattress one way or another.
“You like it.”
“So?”
“So,” Ilya repeats softly, like he’s agreeing with something. “Me too,” he says, shrugging, “Is okay.”
“I know,” Shane snaps. He frowns at himself, breathing hard.
“Is not test,” Ilya murmurs, tugging him closer and rubbing Shane’s shoulders soothingly. “Relax, okay? I just like to tease you, but I will stop now if…”
“Sorry. I… Sorry.”
“This is very… new,” Ilya offers. “I thought maybe talking about it first would make it less scary, but maybe I was wrong.”
“No, that’s… You’re right. Thank you.”
“I am nervous too,” Ilya says. Then: “The last person I shared bed with was Marly and he talks in his sleep and he kicks.”
Shane snorts. “I promise I don’t talk in my sleep, and I’ll do my best not to kick you.”
“Hm.” He makes a show of considering this, fingers dancing playfully across Shane’s skin. “Okay, fine,” he says, “But do you snore?”
“No,” Shane says, “But Marleau said you do.”
“Ugh,” Ilya says, so adorably pouty that Shane has to press him against the counter and kiss him. Ilya vies for control immediately, and Shane lets him take it, sinking into him and the familiar heat, pliant and greedy for all Ilya gives him. Finally, Ilya pulls away and tilts his head to rest his temple against Shane’s, breathless. “You are not allowed to gossip about me with Marly.”
“Too late,” Shane says, smacking Ilya’s thick waist. “What else?”
“Rule two,” Ilya says, catching Shane’s hand and tugging him into the bedroom, “is you have to sleep naked—”
Shane scoffs. “Have to?”
“—if you want me to wake you up with blowjob tomorrow,” Ilya finishes, raising a challenging brow.
Shane deflates, grinning. “Okay. And if I wake up first?”
Ilya shrugs, pulling Shane close again and slotting their hips together. “Same deal.” He narrows his eyes and adds firmly, “But no alarms. And no getting out of bed before I get to suck your dick.”
Shane snorts. “Fine,” he agrees, knowing he’ll likely still wake up at a time Ilya would call ungodly and get to have his turn first, “Sounds good.”
“And you have to let me be big spoon. I want to hold you.”
Shane pauses and considers this. “Can we swap tomorrow night?”
Ilya takes a slow, deep breath. “Yes,” he says quietly, “I would like this, I think.” He tilts his head. “I did not ask—How long do I have you?”
“You have me,” he starts, thinking I’m yours I’m yours I’m yours. He closes his eyes, and he leans in for a kiss. “I’m yours,” he says, “for as long as you want me.”
“Fuck,” Ilya mutters, and then, with that same low reverence as in the shower, “Ya tebya lyublyu. You kill me.”
“In a good way?” Shane asks uncertainly.
“So good. Too good.” Ilya smooths his hands up and down Shane’s back, then curls his arms around his waist, squeezing tightly. He tucks his face into Shane’s neck and presses a kiss there. “I know you said we should talk tomorrow,” he says, “so you can tell me answer in the morning or some other time, but… I am yours too. I want us to be… I would like very much to be your boyfriend.”
“I—Boyfriend?”
“Think about it?” Ilya says, lifting his head to look Shane in the face, even if Shane can’t quite meet his pleading gaze. “Please. Let me prove to you I can be better than these last months. Before that was nice, no? We were getting closer.” His brows twitch into a frown. “But if you don’t want—”
“Yes,” Shane says quickly, “I want.”
Ilya’s face lights up in awe. “Really? Yes?”
Shane nods. Then he gently thwaps Ilya’s naked chest. “But you can’t go silent on me again. Asshole.”
“Never,” Ilya promises, gently stroking the backs of his fingers over Shane’s cheekbone. “I’m very sorry. I… We talk about it tomorrow, yes? But was terrible time for me too. I missed you very much.”
“Okay,” Shane says, nodding decisively, “Boyfriends, then.” Then, feeling the nerves and uncertainty creeping in again, he laughs uncomfortably and mutters, “Fuck,” before he meets Ilya’s eyes in search of his steady reassurance. “What now?”
“Bedtime, no? This very smart, very cute boy told me big, scary conversations can wait for tomorrow, after blowjobs and breakfast.”
“I don’t think that’s exactly what I said,” Shane argues, letting Ilya push him onto the bed with a smile. “But I guess I can get on board anyway.”
Ilya crawls over him once Shane’s reclined against the pillows, leaving a trail of kisses up his hip, belly, chest, and neck, until he can lick into his mouth, pressing him into the mattress with his full weight. “Ya tebya lyublyu,” he says again, “I will tell you tomorrow, okay?”
I love you, Shane thinks, wondering if tomorrow’s too soon to say so. It definitely is. It’s probably too early to even be thinking it, but…
Ilya pats Shane’s flank. “On your side. I want to cuddle.”
“Bossy,” Shane mutters.
“Mm, but you like it,” Ilya teases, wrestling Shane onto his side and curling around him. Then, very quiet and almost a question, he murmurs, “You like me.”
I love you I love you I love you.
“Yeah,” Shane says, “I really do.”