Archive of Our Own

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3.

The dim light of the bedside lamp cast a warm, amber glow over the room, but the atmosphere was far from sleepy. The air was heavy, thick with the kind of tension that had been simmering under the surface for days a quiet, desperate hunger born from a week of shared beds, tiny feet stumbling in the hallway, and the constant, beautiful awareness of a child sleeping just a few yards away. 

Shane lay back against the pillows, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs as Ilya hovered over him.

Ilya’s eyes were dark, hooded with a fatigue that was being rapidly overtaken by a singular, driving need. He didn't go for the kill immediately. Instead, he leaned down, his lips grazing the sensitive line of Shane's jaw, his breath hot and ragged against his skin. "I'm so tired, Shane," Ilya whispered, the confession sounding more like a plea. "But god, I've missed this. Just this."

His hands, large and warm, began a slow, torturous ascent. He traced the curve of Shane's waist, his palms dragging over the skin with a deliberate, agonizing slowness that made Shane's breath hitch. When Ilya’s mouth found his, it wasn't a collision, but a slow, deep reclamation. It was a kiss that tasted of longing and the quiet intimacy of a decade of shared mornings. 

Shane reached up, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of Ilya's neck, pulling him closer, desperate to close every millimeter of space between them.

As the layers of clothing were discarded with frantic, hushed movements, the silence of the house became a character in itself. Every rustle of fabric felt deafeningly loud, a sharp contrast to the heavy, rhythmic sound of their breathing. Ilya moved with a focused, tender urgency, his hands exploring Shane's body with a reverence that always made Shane feel cherished even in the heat of passion. 

He paused to press a lingering kiss to the silvery line of Shane's c section scar, his thumb tracing the mark with a soft, grounding touch before moving higher, his eyes never leaving Shane's.

"You're so beautiful," Ilya murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. He leaned down to kiss the hollow of Shane's throat, his teeth grazing the skin just enough to make Shane gasp.

"Ilya... mmm... please," Shane breathed, the word muffled as he bit his lip to keep from being too loud. The need was a physical ache now, a heavy, pulsing heat centered in his hips. He arched toward Ilya, his skin humming where they touched.

Ilya shifted, his weight a welcome, solid pressure as he settled between Shane's thighs. He moved with a careful, deliberate slowness, his eyes searching Shane's for every flicker of sensation. As he began to sink into him, Shane's eyes flew open, his fingers digging into Ilya's shoulders. The sensation was an overwhelming, slow blooming fullness that seemed to stretch him from the inside out.

"Good?" Ilya whispered, his voice strained, his forehead resting against Shane's. He was watching Shane with an intensity that was almost frightening, his own breathing coming in short, jagged bursts.

"Yes... ahhh... so good... mmm..." Shane managed to choke out, his voice barely a thread of sound. He reached up, grabbing a handful of the pillow and pressing it against his own mouth to stifle a moan that threatened to break the silence of the house. The friction was incredible a deep, heavy, sliding heat that made his vision swim.

Ilya began to move, a steady, rhythmic grind that was more about connection than speed. He was careful, his eyes constantly checking Shane's expression, his hands anchoring Shane's hips to guide the pace. He wasn't just a force; he was reacting to every hitch in Shane's breath, every subtle tilt of his pelvis. When Shane's hips bucked upward, seeking more, Ilya responded with a low, guttural groan, his own composure fraying at the edges.

"Stay quiet, love," Ilya breathed, his lips brushing Shane's ear as he increased the depth of his thrusts. "Just for me. Mmm... so perfect. Don't want to wake our beautiful children. Should we make another one tonight?"

Shane nodded frantically, his face flushed, his eyes squeezed shut as he fought to remain silent. He was a creature of pure, concentrated sensation, the world narrowing down to the friction of their bodies and the terrifying, beautiful risk of being heard. The tension in his belly was coiling tighter and tighter, a golden, heavy knot that felt like it was about to shatter him. 

He buried his face in the crook of Ilya's neck, his muffled cries lost in the warmth of Ilya's skin as the rhythm became more urgent, more desperate, the quiet of the night amplifying every wet slide and every heavy, shared breath.

Just as the pressure reached a breaking point, just as Shane felt himself teetering on the very edge of a silent scream...

The floorboard in the hallway groaned.

The door creaked.

Light from the hallway spilled across the bedroom floor in a thin wedge, and both of them moved at exactly the same time - the particular, practiced scramble of two people who had been parents for eighteen years and had developed fast reflexes out of necessity. Sheets pulled up. Evidence hidden. Breathing regulated. By the time the door had opened fully they were both sitting up on their respective sides of the bed with the quilts pulled to their waists, looking, Shane hoped, like two people who had simply been asleep.

Mia stood in the doorway in her pyjamas, the ones with the little stars on them that she'd picked herself. She was holding the ear of her stuffed rabbit with one hand and rubbing her eye with the other. Her bottom lip was doing something precarious.

"Daddy," she said, in a very small voice. "Papa."

"Hey, baby girl," Shane said softly. "Come here."

She padded across the room and reached up at the foot of the bed with both arms, rabbit dangling, and hauled herself up with the determined effort of someone whose legs were not quite long enough for the task yet. She sat at the foot of the bed in a little heap and sniffled.

"Bad dream?" Ilya asked.

Mia nodded very seriously.

"Do you want to tell us about it?"

She took a breath, the kind that meant she was organising her thoughts, which she always did before she talked about something important. Shane and Ilya waited. Behind her, a small shape appeared in the doorway - Anya, their dog, who slept in Mia's room and had apparently followed her out, because Anya went where Mia went and that was simply the arrangement they had all agreed to.

"There was an ice cream," Mia began.

"An ice cream," Shane repeated carefully.

"A big one. With a face." She held her hands apart to indicate the size of the ice cream. It was quite large. "And he was chasing me."

"That sounds very scary," Ilya said, with great seriousness.

"It was." Mia sniffled again. "But then-" she paused, and her expression shifted into something more complicated, the way four year olds looked when a story had taken a turn they were still processing. "Then I fell over. And he stopped chasing me. And he came to help me up."

"He helped you up?" Shane said.

"Because he wasn't actually mean," Mia said, with the gravity of someone delivering important news. "He was just mad. Because he had a prickle in his cone." She looked at them both to make sure they understood the significance of this. "Like the ones in the grass at the cottage, Daddy. The ones that stuck in my foot that time."

Shane pressed his lips together.

Ilya was looking at a point just above Mia's head with an expression of tremendous concentration.

"That would make anyone grumpy," Shane managed.

"Yes," said Mia. "So we got the prickle out together and then we were friends." Her voice went quieter. "But then he started to melt. Because we were outside and it was hot. And I tried to-" her bottom lip went again, fully this time, "I tried to hold him together but I couldn't and then he was gone and I woke up."

The silence that followed was one of the most difficult Shane had navigated in recent memory. Beside him he could feel Ilya absolutely holding himself together by a thread.

"Oh, sweetheart," Shane said, and he meant it, because she had made friends with the ice cream and then lost him and she was four years old and her whole heart was in her face right now. "That is a very sad ending."

"He was my friend," Mia said, with devastating simplicity.

"I know, baby."

"I didn't want him to melt."

"Of course you didn't."

Ilya made a sound that he disguised as clearing his throat. Shane did not look at him.

Mia wiped her eye with the rabbit's ear and then looked between them with the directness only small children possessed. "Can I sleep here tonight? Me and Anya?"

Shane looked at Ilya.

Ilya looked at Shane, his expression very clear - eyebrows slightly raised, a tiny shake of his head, mouthing no, we have plans to get back to with the conviction of a man who had spent forty minutes edging his husband with no relief yet.

Shane looked at Mia.

Mia sniffled.

"Yes," Shane said without hesitation.

Ilya closed his eyes briefly. "Of course," he said, with the air of someone accepting a fate he had brought entirely upon himself. "But first-" he shifted, and Shane watched him perform what was genuinely an impressive manoeuvre, shimming his tracksuit bottoms on entirely beneath the quilt without displacing it, which took about thirty seconds and involved Ilya making a face of quiet concentration that Shane was going to think about later. "First we will get you some water, yes? And let Daddy-" he met Shane's eyes over the top of Mia's head, very briefly, "-get things settled in here."

Shane nodded once.

"Okay," said Mia, holding her arms up for Ilya, who scooped her up and settled her against his chest with the ease of long practice.

"Come on, little one. You can tell me more about the ice cream."

"His name was Gerald," Mia said, as Ilya carried her out.

Shane sat in the dark for a moment after they'd gone.

Then he laughed, quietly, into his hands - for just a second, just enough - and got up to deal with things.

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By the time Ilya's footsteps came back down the hall Shane had changed the sheets, put on the lavender wax melter from the bedside table, and retrieved the unicorn night light from the drawer where it lived for exactly these occasions. It cast a soft purple glow across the ceiling. The room smelled calm. Shane was back in bed and looked, he felt, like a completely normal person who had been asleep.

Ilya appeared in the doorway with Mia on his hip, her head already drooping against his shoulder, water bottle clutched in one hand and rabbit in the other. Anya trotted in behind them and went directly to the foot of the bed and turned three circles and lay down.

Ilya looked at the sheets. At the wax melter. At the night light.

He looked at Shane and Shane looked back at him with an expression of complete innocence.

Ilya said nothing. He carried Mia to the bed and tucked her in between them with the same gentleness he always had with her, this baby they hadn't planned for and hadn't known they needed until she was there - small and loud and so full of feelings it sometimes felt like she could barely contain them all. A surprise in every sense. Theirs completely.

Mia starfished immediately, the way she always did, taking up a truly remarkable amount of space for someone so small. Her rabbit went under her chin. Her foot found Shane's side and stayed there.

Shane and Ilya looked at each other across the width of the pillow- across Mia's dark curls and the soft sound of her breathing already evening out from their respective edges of the bed, both clinging on by about six inches.

Ilya shook his head slowly.

Shane shook his too.

The lavender wax melter glowed softly. The unicorn night light turned the ceiling purple. Anya sighed at the foot of the bed.

Ilya mouthed something across the pillow. It took Shane a moment to read it.

Tomorrow, malysh.

Shane put his face into his pillow and shook with silent laughter for a long moment. When he looked up Ilya's eyes were bright with it too, both of them completely silent, completely useless, held together by the hilarity of their situation and the small, starfished, deeply beloved reason for it sleeping peacefully between them.

Shane reached across and found Ilya's hand in the dark, over the top of Mia's quilt.

Ilya squeezed once.

They stayed like that until Shane fell asleep.

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4.

The Centaurs won 4-2, which meant the bus back to the hotel was exactly as chaotic as Shane had anticipated.

He stood at the front of the aisle with his clipboard and waited for the noise to dip below a level that suggested anyone could actually hear him. It took a while. Luca Haas, who was thirty-one years old and had been in the league for over a decade and had a wife and a child at home, was leading a chant from the back of the bus that Shane chose not to examine too closely.

"Okay," Shane said, in his coach voice. "Listen up."

Partial quiet. Enough.

"Curfew is midnight. We fly tomorrow at ten which means we need to be in the lobby by eight-thirty which means you need to actually sleep tonight and not-" he looked pointedly toward the back of the bus, "-whatever that is. Celebrate smart. Drink water. If I get a single phone call from hotel management tonight I will make the next practice so painful you will be thinking about it until Christmas. Are we clear?"

Murmured agreement. A few of the rookies looked appropriately chastened. The veterans, who had heard variations of this speech for fifteen years, looked patient in the way of people who had learned to wait him out.

Ilya, who had been sitting in the aisle seat beside Shane's empty one with his legs stretched out and his arms folded and a look of tremendous fondness on his face, stood up.

He was very tall in the bus aisle. He had always been very tall in bus aisles. Shane had fifteen years of evidence.

"PARTY HARD, BOYS," Ilya announced, to the entire bus. "YOU HAVE EARNED IT."

The bus erupted. Shane closed his eyes.

"Ilya."

"What?" Ilya settled back into his seat looking completely unrepentant. "They won. Let them celebrate."

"I just said-"

"You said midnight curfew. There is plenty of time to party hard before midnight." Ilya reached over and patted Shane's knee. "You gave very good speech, Shanya. Very intimidating. Glasses were a nice touch."

Shane looked at him.

Ilya smiled.

Shane sat down.

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The hotel floor they'd been given was loud for approximately ninety minutes after they arrived.

Shane and Ilya's room was at the end of the hall, which helped marginally. They could still hear the rookies moving between rooms, the particular crash of someone dropping something important, laughter carrying through walls that had not been built with NHL celebration budgets in mind. Wyatt Hayes, who was also on staff and whose room was two doors down, could be heard at one point delivering what sounded like a very calm and reasonable reminder about noise levels that was received with the same energy as Shane's bus speech.

"He's becoming you," Ilya observed from where he was lying on the bed still in his suit jacket, tie loosened, watching Shane move around the room.

"He's becoming responsible," Shane said. "There's a difference."

"Mm." Ilya didn't sound convinced.

Gradually, in stages, the hallway quieted. Doors stopped slamming. The rookies, apparently, had taken the party elsewhere. The floor settled into the particular hush of a hotel at night, just the hum of the heating and the distant sound of the city outside.

Shane sat on the edge of the bed to take his shoes off. He'd kept his glasses on through the game tonight, which he always did now, which Ilya had strong opinions about that he expressed regularly and without shame.

He became aware that Ilya was watching him.

"What," Shane said.

"Nothing." Ilya's voice had shifted into something lower and more deliberate. "I am just thinking."

"About what."

Ilya sat up and moved behind him on the bed, hands finding Shane's shoulders, mouth finding the side of his neck just below his jaw. Shane went still.

"About how much I enjoy watching you yell at rookies on the ice," Ilya said, against his skin. "Very attractive, Shanya. Very authoritative." His hands slid down Shane's arms. "And the glasses. And the suit." He paused. "I want you tonight, Malysh. We are alone, we won, and I have been thinking about this since the third period."

Shane turned his head. Ilya was very close.

"The third period," Shane said.

"At least."

"We were down by one in the third period."

"Yes," Ilya agreed. "And I was still thinking about it. I contain multitudes."

Shane laughed despite himself, and then Ilya kissed him, and the win and the adrenaline and the quiet hotel room all folded together into something warm and unhurried, and Shane stopped thinking about the third period entirely.

The air in the hotel room was thick, charged with a heavy, electric tension that seemed to hum in the space between them. As they lay tangled in the silk sheets, the adrenaline of the evening began to settle into something much deeper, much more primal. 

Ilya’s gaze was uncharacteristically feverish, his eyes dark and searching as he looked up at Shane. He wasn't the composed, commanding man the world knew; he was raw, his breathing ragged and uneven. He reached out, his large hand cupping the back of Shane’s neck, his thumb tracing the line of Shane’s jaw with a desperate, trembling pressure. 

"Shane," he rasped, the name sounding like a prayer. "I need too much from you tonight. Please... let me just... let me be yours. Take me. I want to feel you take me." The sheer vulnerability of the request, the way Ilya was practically offering himself up on a silver platter, sent a jolt of pure, possessive heat straight to Shane’s core. 

He didn't need to be told; he simply nodded, his eyes darkening in response to the surrender.

The descent into pleasure was a slow, exquisite torture. 

Shane moved with a deliberate, worshipful intention, his hands roaming over the hard, rippling muscles of Ilya's thighs as he moved down the bed. He reached for the small toiletry bag they’d brought, his fingers finding the cool, slick bottle of lube, but before he used it, he wanted to taste him. 

Shane settled between Ilya’s legs, his breath hot against the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. When he finally leaned in, his tongue tracing the heat of Ilya's entrance, the sound that tore from Ilya's throat was nothing short of a howl. It was a deep, guttural moan of pure, unadulterated shock and pleasure. Shane was thorough, his tongue working with a rhythmic, swirling pressure that had Ilya arching his back off the mattress, his fingers clawing at the sheets. 

"Oh god... Shane... mmm... fuck... yes!" Ilya was vocal, his composure completely shattered as he bucked against Shane's mouth, his hips stuttering in a desperate, instinctive search for more of that wet, swirling heat.

Shane didn't let up, his tongue dancing over the most sensitive nerves until Ilya was a trembling, weeping mess of sensation. Only when Ilya was practically begging, his voice a broken, desperate litany of "Please, Shane, please," did Shane reach for the lube. He applied it with a steady, warming hand, his fingers working to prep Ilya, his touch a mix of gentle coaxing and firm, demanding pressure. 

The slick, sliding sensation made Ilya let out a long, shaky whimper, his eyes squeezed shut as he drifted in a sea of pure sensation. "Ahhh... mmm... so good... mmm..." Ilya's voice was a low, vibrating hum of ecstasy, his entire body reacting to the way Shane's fingers moved inside him, stretching him, preparing him for the weight that was to come.

The transition was seamless, driven by an urgent, mutual need. Ilya moved to the center of the bed, his movements heavy with desire as he settled onto his hands and knees. He was on all fours, his back arching in a beautiful, vulnerable curve, his head bowed as he waited in a state of heightened, agonizing anticipation. 

He looked magnificent powerful in his musculature but utterly submissive in his posture, his hips tilted back in a silent, desperate invitation. Shane knelt behind him, his own breath coming in heavy, controlled hitches. He reached into the bag one last time, retrieving the sleek, humming vibrator. As he brought the device close, the low, steady buzz filled the quiet room, and Ilya let out a long, shaky whimper, his hips already beginning to tilt back in a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm.

The vibration hit the sensitive heat of Ilya's entrance, and the man let out a loud, uninhibited cry, his fingers digging into the mattress. "Ohhh... blyat... da... like that!" 

He was trembling, his entire body vibrating in sympathy with the device. Shane leaned forward, his chest pressing against Ilya's broad, sweating back, his hands guiding the vibrator and himself simultaneously, preparing to bridge the final gap. He was watching the way Ilya's muscles bunched and rippled, the way he was so close to the edge, his eyes glazed with a beautiful, desperate hunger. He was just about to drive home, to finally claim the surrender he had been promised, when the quiet of the hotel room was shattered by the sudden, sharp click of the door handle.

The door opened.

It did not knock first.

This was not, in itself, unusual. Luca Haas had been walking into rooms without adequate warning for his entire career and Shane had long since accepted this as a personality trait rather than a correctable behaviour. Ilya and Luca had had an interesting father-son relationship since Luca had joined the Centaurs as a rookie many years ago now.

What was unusual was that Luca came in with his eyes fixed entirely on his phone, brow furrowed with the particular concentration of someone working through a problem he found genuinely distressing, and closed the door behind him with his foot without looking up once.

"Hey," he said, to his phone. "Ilya. Hey. Okay so I know this is maybe weird to bring up but you said I could come to you for anything and I just - Claire and I have been trying to work out this whole phone thing while I'm away because I haven't seen her in like two and a half weeks and I miss her and we tried tonight and it just - it wasn't - Well, man- she sent me the best photo you won't believe it- not that I'll let you see it- okay so my question is." He paused, still not looking up. "How do you hold the phone. Like logistically. While you're also - you know. How does that work. Is there a stand or something because I really couldn't figure out the-"

He looked up.

The silence was immediate and total.

On both ends.

Shane had never heard Luca talk like this. He knew he and Ilya had some rather... private conversations (especially after he met his wife), but he never assumed they were this comfortable with each other!

And Luca had never seen Ilya as vulnerable as he was right now- it had always been Shane in that predicament... well, in the countless times Luca had interupted them before.

Luca Haas stood in the doorway of the hotel room and looked at what was in front of him and his brain, by all observable measures, simply stopped.

Shane had gone completely still. His eyes were very wide. His hand had not moved.

Ilya, breathless, turned his head toward the door. "Phone stand, Luca," he said, with remarkable composure given the circumstances. "We can talk about this later, yes?"

Luca turned around.

He walked back out the door.

He closed it behind him with a click that was somehow worse than a slam - the sound of someone operating entirely on autopilot while their higher functions rebooted.

The room was quiet.

"Fuck," Shane said, to the middle distance. "This keeps happening."

Ilya dropped his head. His shoulders were shaking, which was not fair.

"It's not funny," Shane said.

"Little bit funny."

"Ilya."

"Little bit."

Shane sat back and looked at the ceiling for a long moment. The mood, such as it was, had concluded. This was simply a fact they were both arriving at in real time.

"Shower?" Ilya offered.

"Shower," Shane agreed.

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They knocked on Luca's door ten minutes later, both in tracksuits, hair damp. No answer. Shane knocked again. Still nothing. Down the hall, the light was on under Wyatt's door.

Ilya knocked.

"It's open," Wyatt called.

They pushed the door open to find Wyatt Hayes sitting on the edge of his bed in a hotel robe with the expression of a man who had encountered something he hadn't budgeted for this evening. Luca was beside him, also on the edge of the bed, shoulders slightly hunched, staring at a point on the carpet with the thousand yard look of someone who had seen something they were still organising into coherent memory.

He was not rocking, exactly. But he was also not entirely still.

"There they are," Wyatt said, looking up at them with an expression that was difficult to read. "You want to tell me what happened to my guy?"

"He walked in," Shane started.

"On us," Ilya finished.

Wyatt waited.

"We were-" Shane gestured vaguely.

"In the middle of something," Ilya said.

Wyatt looked at Luca. Luca had not reacted to their arrival in any meaningful way.

"He came in here," Wyatt said, "sat down, and has said four words since, which were 'phone stand' and then 'Ilya' and then nothing." He paused. "I don't know what phone stand means in this context and I have chosen not to ask."

"It's a long story," Shane said.

"I don't need the long story." Wyatt put a hand on the back of Luca's head in the way of someone who had been looking out for this particular person for a very long time. "I just need to know he's going to be okay."

"He will be fine," Ilya said. "He has walked in on us many, many times before. I don't know why tonight is-"

Shane's hand found Ilya's arm.

Ilya stopped.

"Many times?" Wyatt said, very slowly.

"Different circumstances," Shane said quickly. "Tonight was. Different."

Wyatt looked between them. Something moved across his face that suggested he was making inferences he had not asked to make. He pulled Luca slightly closer by the shoulder in a protective, instinctive way that Luca didn't resist.

"My poor baby," Wyatt said, with great feeling. "He doesn't need to see that."

"He's thirty-one," Shane said.

"He doesn't need to see that," Wyatt repeated, with more conviction.

Luca, from somewhere inside his own head, said: "Phone stand."

"It's okay, bud," Wyatt said, patting his shoulder. "You don't have to think about the phone stand."

Ilya pressed his lips together very hard. Shane looked at the ceiling.

"We are sorry, Luca," Ilya managed, with sincerity. "Genuinely."

Luca nodded slowly, still looking at the carpet.

"And for what it's worth," Ilya added, "the answer to your question is a ring light with a clamp attachment. Very stable. Good angle."

"ILYA," Shane said.

Luca made a noise that was almost, possibly, the beginning of a laugh.

Wyatt pointed at the door. "Get out of my room," he said, but he was shaking his head with the smile of a man who had signed up for this fifteen years ago and had nobody to blame but himself. "Both of you. Go."

They went.

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5. 

The lunch table at the Hollander-Rozanov house was, as it always was when Svetlana was visiting, loud.

Svetlana Vetrova had been Ilya's best friend since they were teenagers, which meant she had been a fixture in this house since before it was this house - since before the kids, since before the ring, since before any of it. The kids had grown up calling her Aunty Sveta with the easy unselfconsciousness of children who had never known a world where she wasn't in it, showing up from Boston twice a year with gifts she'd thought too hard about and opinions she hadn't thought about at all.

Mia was currently in her lap.

This was not unusual.

"Aunty Sveta," Mia said, with the gravity of someone delivering important information. "Do you want to come to my tea party after lunch."

"I would love nothing more," Svetlana said, in the same serious register.

"Anya can come too."

"Anya is excellent company. Better than your Papa."

"Hey," said Ilya, from across the table.

"You fell asleep at the last one," Sophie said cheerfully.

"I was resting my eyes."

"Papa, you were snoring," Zakya said, in Russian, not looking up from his plate. "Громко."

"Loudly," Mia translated helpfully, for Shane's benefit, in the solemn tone of a four year old who took her role as family interpreter very seriously.

"I know what громко means, bug," Shane said.

"I know you know. I was helping."

"Spasibo," Shane said, and Mia beamed.

The table settled into its usual rhythm - that particular overlap of English and Russian that had been the background noise of this house for as long as any of them could remember, Svetlana and Ilya sliding between languages mid-sentence the way people did when they'd been speaking to each other for thirty years, Zakya keeping up easily, Sophie half a beat behind but holding her own, Mia collecting words from both sides like she was building a private vocabulary nobody else had full access to yet.

Shane followed most of it. He always had. Eighteen-odd years of immersion and Ilya's patient, occasionally impatient, tutoring had seen to that. He didn't always contribute to the Russian half but he rarely missed anything. He knew the children were filling their Aunt Sveta in about friends at school- he caught that much. 

Which was how he almost caught Sophie's expression. It was small - just a flicker, the beginning of something, directed sideways across the table in Zakya's general direction with the energy of someone who had information and was physically struggling not to share it. "Oh, speaking of my friend Anna-" she started, a particular brightness in her voice that meant she was about to say something she absolutely should not.

"Sophie" Zakya said, very quietly, not looking at her. A warning.

Sophie's mouth closed. 

"Ne nado," he said. Don't.

"I wasn't going to," Sophie said, in English, too quickly.

"You had your face on," Mia said.

"I don't have a face."

"Ty vsegda tak delayesh' pered tem, kak skazat' chto-to," Mia said - you always make it before you say something - with the confidence of a child who had been paying attention to her siblings for four years and had catalogued everything.

Svetlana looked delighted. Ilya looked at his youngest daughter with an expression of pure pride. Shane filed the whole exchange away under things to return to later and reached for his glass.

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After lunch, Svetlana pushed back from the table.

"Plavat'?" she said, looking at the kids. Swimming?

"YES," said Mia, already halfway off her chair.

"Da," said Zakya, with the studied nonchalance of someone who absolutely wanted to go.

"Obviously," said Sophie, already heading for the stairs.

The house dissolved into the organised chaos of three people finding swimwear and sunscreen, Mia's voice carrying from upstairs about her floaties, Anya trotting after them with the hopeful energy of a dog who knew what towels meant. The back door banged. The house went properly, genuinely quiet.

Shane stood at the sink and began loading the dishwasher.

He had a system. Plates at the back, angled correctly. Glasses along the side. Cutlery sorted by type in the basket. Ilya had learned, over many years, to simply hand things over rather than place them himself, because placing them himself resulted in Shane reorganising them anyway with the quiet focus of someone correcting an error that could not be left uncorrected.

He was bent over the lower rack, carefully optimising the angle of a pasta bowl, when Ilya's hands settled on his hips.

"Ilyusha," Shane said, without straightening up.

"Mm."

"We have a guest."

"We have a guest," Ilya agreed, "kotoraya is outside. In the lake. Distracting our three children." His thumbs moved in small circles. "She is occupied, Shanya."

"Stop it."

"You are very attractive when you load the dishwasher."

"Nobody is attractive loading a dishwasher, Ilya."

"You are. You get very focused. I find it-"

"If you say endearing, I'm closing the dishwasher on your hand."

Ilya laughed low against the back of his neck. "I find it," he continued anyway, "ochen' privlekatel'nym."

Shane straightened up and turned around. Ilya was leaning against the counter, looking entirely too pleased with himself and entirely too attractive for a Tuesday afternoon in a house that smelled like sunscreen and lunch.

"We are not doing this," Shane said. "Svetlana is forty metres away."

"Forty metres is very far."

"Ilya."

"Znaesh'," Ilya said thoughtfully, "our children are out there too. You know what our children are? Cockblockers. All three of them. Professionally."

Shane stared at him.

"You cannot call our children cockblocks."

"I said cockblockers. It's different. More specific."

"It is NOT-"

"Ty menya lyubish'," Ilya said, in the voice he used when he knew he was winning.

"That is not-you can't just say you love me in Russian to win an argument-"

"You love me too," Ilya said, switching back to English without missing a beat, "unfortunately for you."

Shane opened his mouth. Closed it.

"Come here," Ilya said.

"No."

"Shanya."

"I said no, we have a guest, and I'm not finished with the-"

"The dishwasher will still be here."

"I'm in the middle of a system, Ilya, I can't just-"

"Zdes'," Ilya said softly. Here. And held out his hand.

Shane looked at the dishwasher. He looked at Ilya's hand. He looked at Ilya's face, which was doing something completely unfair.

"This is a terrible idea," Shane said.

"Da," Ilya agreed. Probably.

Shane took his hand.

Ilya's smile did something warm and private and Shane had loved that smile for longer than he wanted to admit on a Tuesday afternoon, and then Ilya was leading him toward the stairs and Shane was following, because he always followed, because that had never once stopped being true.

The heavy oak door of the master bedroom clicked shut with a definitive thud, sealing them away from the summer heat and the distant, joyful chaos of the lake. Ilya didn't even let go of Shane's hand before he was leaning his weight against the wood, a breathless, triumphant giggle escaping him - a sound so uncharacteristic of the formidable man the world knew, but so perfectly him when they were alone. 

He looked at Shane, eyes dancing with a mischievous, slightly tipsy light, his hair mussed from their frantic, laughing ascent up the stairs. "Finally," Ilya exhaled, his voice a gravelly, delighted rasp. "No Svetlana. No children. No... tea parties."

Shane was already moving, his movements fluid and fueled by the same heady, carefree energy. He didn't head for the bed immediately; instead, he drifted toward the tall, ornate vanity mirror that stood in the corner of the room, the glass catching the afternoon sun and throwing dancing fractals of light across the walls. 

He turned back to Ilya, a playful, challenging smirk on his lips. "You're very horny for a man who was just having a family lunch with his children," Shane teased, his voice dropping an octave as he began to unbutton his shirt, his eyes never leaving Ilya's.

The air in the room was thick, charged with a delicious, unhurried urgency. Shane moved toward him, his hands finding Ilya's waist and guiding him toward the mirror until Ilya was standing directly in front of it, face to face with his own reflection. Shane pressed close behind him for just a moment. Close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough to watch Ilya's eyes go dark in the glass, before stepping back and sinking to his knees, leaving Ilya with nowhere to look but himself. The sight of it- Ilya, flushed and undone, staring at his own reflection while Shane disappeared behind him, was something else entirely.

As Shane took him into his mouth, the world narrowed down to the intense, singular sensation of Ilya's pleasure. The sounds in the room shifted; the lighthearted laughter was replaced by the heavy, rhythmic sounds of intimacy.

Ilya's head fell back, a low, guttural groan vibrating through his entire frame. "Shanya... mmm... god, fuck..." he gasped, his fingers tangling deeply in Shane's hair, not pulling, but anchoring himself to the sensation. The friction was perfect, the heat overwhelming, and as Shane worked with a focused, worshipful intensity, Ilya felt his knees go weak, his breath hitching in a series of jagged, desperate stutters.

Suddenly, Ilya reached down, his hands sliding under Shane's arms to hoist him up with a strength that was both effortless and commanding. 

"Enough... mmm... enough of that," Ilya managed to choke out, his voice thick with a hunger that had reached its breaking point. He practically threw Shane onto the sprawling expanse of the bed, the duvet a soft, white cloud beneath him. Before Shane could even catch his breath, Ilya was over him, his weight a delicious pressure that pinned Shane into the mattress.

With a sudden, playful lunge, Ilya grabbed Shane's ankles, pulling his legs up and folding him nearly in half, his hips pressing high and vulnerable. Shane let out a startled, melodic laugh, his head tossing back against the pillows. "Ilya! Nyet! You're being... ngh... you're being a brute!" he cried out, though his hands were already reaching up to pull Ilya down, his fingers digging into the muscles of Ilya's back.

"A brute who loves you," Ilya countered, his voice a low, triumphant growl. He entered him in one smooth, deep thrust that drew a long, high-pitched wail of pure ecstasy from Shane's throat. 

"Ahhh... Ilya... fuck... right there!" The rhythm they found was frantic and uncoordinated, a beautiful, messy dance of limbs and laughter. They were bumping hips, losing their balance, sliding against the sheets, and every time they hit a peak of sensation, it was punctuated by a burst of breathless, joyous sound. It was carnal, it was intense, but above all, it was them - unfiltered, unashamed, and utterly, wildly alive.

The tension was a white-hot wire, stretched to the absolute limit. Ilya's movements became more urgent, more desperate, his breath coming in short, jagged gasps. "Almost... Shanya... almost... mmm!" He was losing himself, the control he so carefully maintained in the rest of his life fraying into nothingness. Shane's body arched, a high, keening wail escaping his lips as he was driven toward the precipice. "Ilya... ngh... don't stop... ahhh!"

Ilya was right on the edge, his muscles corded and trembling, his head thrown back in a mask of pure, unadulterated, and highly uncharacteristic ecstasy - his mouth open, his eyes squeezed shut, his face completely undone by the sheer intensity of the moment.

The door opened without a knock.

Svetlana had known Ilya Rozanov since they were teenagers. She had known him through bad haircuts and worse decisions and everything in between, through years that were complicated and years that were simple and years that were neither. She knew his face better than almost anyone alive.

She knew it very well right now. And she didn't say a word in shock

"Ilya- fuck- Ilya- I'm gonna- uuuugghhhhhnnnn!" Shane cried out, grabbing Ilya tightly before crying out in pleasure. 

"Fuuuuuck Shane," Ilya moaned out, shuddering with his release, holding onto Shane just as tight. 

Suddenly, Svetlana, who had been standing in the doorway, announced the 'grand finale', if you will, began to clap "Bravo!" she called out!

"Svetlana-" Ilya managed.

"Married for-how long now-" she was already pulling the door closed, still laughing, "bozhe moi-"

"GET OUT," Shane said, from somewhere behind a pillow.

"I'm going, I'm going-" the door was almost shut. Almost.

She paused.

"Ilyshka," she said, through the gap, voice shaking with laughter. "You still make the same face when you-"

"DO NOT," Shane said, with a conviction that came from somewhere very deep, "finish that sentence if you want to stay in this house."

A beat.

"If you want to stay married," he corrected, with feeling, directing his voice now at his husband.

Svetlana laughed harder. The door clicked shut.

Her laughter carried down the hallway. Down the stairs. Out through the back of the house, getting further and then-

"Mia, solnyshko!" Svetlana's voice, drifting up through the open window, warm and carrying. "Your dads can't come to the tea party. They're having an afternoon nap."

Silence from the lake.

Then Sophie, clear as anything:

"EWWWW."

And Zakya, half a beat behind:

"OH GROSS. WE KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS. UGHHHHHHH."

And Mia, completely unbothered, already moving on: "Nichego," she said cheerfully. It's okay. "Anya can pour the tea."

🩷🏒🩷🏒🩷

Shane put his face fully into the pillow.

Ilya was shaking beside him, useless with silent laughter, and had been since the door opened, and showed no signs of stopping.

"She cannot stay here anymore," Shane said, into the pillow.

"She can stay as long as she wants," Ilya said, still shaking.

"She walked in on us."

"She has seen worse."

Shane lifted his face from the pillow to look at his husband. "I know she has seen worse," he said, meaningfully. "That is exactly the problem."

Ilya had the grace to look slightly sheepish. Slightly.

"She was not going to finish the sentence," he offered.

"She absolutely was going to finish the sentence."

"Shanya-"

"I have known Svetlana for a very long time, Ilya, and she was going to finish that sentence, and I need you to know that face you make-" Shane pointed at him, "-I don't want to think when you made it for her."

"I cannot control my face."

"Try."

"It is a biological response, I cannot-"

"Ilya."

Ilya pressed his smile into Shane's shoulder. Shane stared at the ceiling. Downstairs, faintly, they could hear Mia telling Anya it was her turn to pour.

"Our family," Shane said.

"Nasha sem'ya," Ilya agreed, warm against his shoulder. 

Shane looked at the ceiling for another long moment.

"She's never letting you live that down," he said.

"Nyet," Ilya said, unbothered. No.

"Does that not bother you?"

Ilya considered this with genuine thought, the way he did when Shane asked him something he actually wanted to answer properly.

"She has known me a very long time," he said finally. "I vsё ravno zdes'. And she is still here." He paused. "This does not bother me."

Shane was quiet for a moment.

"Unfortunately," he said, "that's extremely cute."

"Ya znayu," Ilya said. I know.

Shane shoved him. Ilya laughed. Outside, the lake was still going, and Svetlana's voice carried on the summer air, telling Mia that yes, Anya could absolutely be the guest of honour, and somewhere in the back garden their eighteen-year-olds were still recovering, and the dishwasher was still half loaded downstairs.

It could wait.

~~⭐️~🌟~⭐️~🌟~⭐️~~

+1

The kitchen smelled like flour and warm dough and something that was going to be, Shane had promised, significantly better than anything they could have ordered.

Mia was on her step stool at the bench, both hands deep in a ball of dough with the focused commitment of someone doing very important work. Shane was beside her, rolling out a base with the kind of care that suggested he had strong opinions about pizza base thickness, which he did, and had expressed before. Sophie was across the bench from them both, flour on her cheek and her hair pulled back, cutting circles of dough with a glass and absolutely not doing it the way Shane had shown her, which Shane had noticed and chosen not to comment on.

"Bol'she," Mia told her dough. Bigger. She pressed both palms flat and pushed outward. The dough did not cooperate. "Papa," she said, without looking up, "mine isn't working."

"You have to be gentle with it, bug," Shane said, coming to help her. "Here - like this-"

"Nezhnenko," Sophie said, in Ilya's voice, so accurate it was unsettling.

Shane pointed at her. "Flour on your face."

"I know."

"Just so you know that I know."

"I know that you know."

Mia giggled. Shane went back to his base.

The back door opened and Ilya came in from outside, took one look at the bench - the flour, the dough, the three of them in various states of coverage - and said, with great patience:

"It would have been faster to order pizza."

Shane turned around. "Homemade is healthier. Less sodium, no preservatives, we know exactly what's-"

"Dad's right," Sophie said, without looking up.

Ilya looked at his daughter. He looked at his husband. He shook his head slowly with the expression of a man who had been outnumbered in this kitchen for many years and had accepted his fate.

"Just like your father," he said, to Sophie, with enormous fondness. "Schast'ye, chto ya vas oboikh lyublyu."

"Lucky you love us both," Sophie translated cheerfully, for no one in particular.

"I understood that one," Shane said.

"I know you did." Ilya crossed the kitchen and pressed a kiss to the side of Shane's head, flour and all. "How long until dinner?"

"Depends on when Anna gets here. Zakya said six?"

"Zakya," Ilya said, opening the fridge and looking into it with the focus of someone who was actually just giving himself something to do, "is upstairs right now taming his curls to look krasivo for his girlfriend."

"He inherited your curls," Shane said. "He knows exactly what he's doing with them."

"He inherited my curls," Ilya agreed, closing the fridge. "He did not inherit my patience with them. Every time it is a whole-" he made a gesture that encompassed suffering.

"Sophie," Shane said, "is Anna allergic to anything? For the toppings?"

"Not that I know of," Sophie said. "She's not a big olive fan but she'll eat them if they're there."

"No olives on one half," Shane said, already filing this away. He looked at Ilya. "Make yourself useful - go ask Zakya what he wants on his half and whether Anna has any other preferences. I want to make a good impression."

Ilya looked at him. "Ty vsegda proizvodish khorosheye vpechatleniye," he said. You always make a good impression.

"Ilya."

"I'm going." He headed for the stairs, already calling up as he went: "Zakya! Zak-"

The door to Zakya's room was closed.

Ilya knocked once, out of habit, already talking: "Zak, tvoy otets ochen' volnuyetsya-your dad is very worried about making a good impression on this girl of yours, which, fair, she sounds lovely - he wants to know what she wants on her pizza, any allergies, preferences-" he was already turning the handle, already pushing the door open, still talking- "and also I know you want to look good for her and I know you have my curls so if you need help I can-"

He opened the door.

He stopped.

Zakya and Anna separated so fast the air moved. Zakya grabbed the nearest thing - a blanket, thankfully, mercifully - and Anna made a sound that was mostly just a sharp inhale and pulled it around herself, and they were both staring at him with the wide, frozen expressions of people whose brains had just made a very loud noise and stopped.

Ilya stood in the doorway.

He looked at his son.

He looked at Anna, who was - yes. Yes, she was. He filed this away and closed the filing cabinet very firmly.

He took a breath.

"Okay," he said, very calmly. "Nobody is in trouble." He kept his voice level in the way he had learned, over eighteen years of parenting, meant everyone stayed calm. "But I am going to need you both to wash up and get dressed and come downstairs for a chat. Da?"

Two very small nods.

"Good." Ilya stepped back. Pulled the door softly, carefully shut.

He stood in the hallway for a moment.

Then he walked back down the stairs.

Shane looked up from the bench when he heard Ilya's footsteps. Something in the way he came into the kitchen - too careful, slightly too deliberate - made Shane put down the rolling pin.

"What's wrong?"

Ilya sat down at the kitchen table. He placed both hands flat on the surface and looked at them.

"Tak," he said. So. "Ya poznakomilsya s Annoy." I met Anna.

Shane frowned. "Anna's not here yet. What are you talking about."

"She is here." Ilya looked up. "She is very much here. She is upstairs right now." He paused. "Wow."

Shane stared at him.

Sophie had gone still across the bench. Something moved across her face - guilt, recognition, the expression of someone who had known this was coming and had said as much. She laughed, short and helpless. "Blyad'. I told him he was going to get caught sneaking her in eventually-"

"SOPHIE." Shane pointed. "Language. Mia is right there."

"Sorry-"

"Take your sister and go put on a movie. Lounge. Please."

Sophie was already moving, scooping Mia off the step stool with practised ease. Mia went without complaint, dough still on her hands, already asking Sophie what movie they were going to watch.

The kitchen went quiet.

Shane pulled out the chair beside Ilya and sat down. He looked at his husband's face - the careful stillness of it, the slightly glazed quality around the eyes - and got up again without saying anything and put the kettle on. He found Ilya's tea, the Russian kind, the one that had lived in the second shelf of the pantry for as long as they'd had a pantry, and made two cups and brought them to the table and sat back down.

Ilya wrapped both hands around the mug.

"Tell me," Shane said.

Ilya told him.

Shane listened. His expression moved through several stages - surprise, then the particular oh no of a parent absorbing information they hadn't been ready for, then something that was trying very hard to be composed.

"Oh my god," he said, when Ilya had finished.

"Da."

"What do we - I don't know what we-"

"We have to figure it out," Ilya said, "potomu chto-" because- "I told them to come down and talk about it."

Shane looked at him. "You told them to come down now?"

"I said wash up and get dressed and-"

Footsteps on the stairs.

They both looked at the kitchen doorway.

Zakya appeared first, in a fresh t-shirt and jeans, hair still doing what it wanted to do regardless of his earlier efforts. Anna was half a step behind him - Sophie's age, Shane registered, dark eyes, a face that would have been pretty at the best of times and was currently pink with embarrassment in a way that made her look very young and very mortified. She was holding Zakya's hand.

Shane stood up.

He crossed the kitchen, and before Anna could say anything or Zakya could say anything or the moment could become any more excruciating than it already was, Shane held out his hand and then changed his mind and pulled her gently into a hug instead, brief and warm and completely genuine.

"It's so lovely to meet you," he said. "Are you okay? That is a terrible way to meet your boyfriend's family and I'm very sorry."

Anna laughed, startled and relieved. "I'm okay," she said, a little muffled. "I'm so embarrassed."

"Don't be." Shane pulled back and looked at her properly and smiled. "Come and sit down. I'll make you both something hot to drink."

He made them tea. Zakya got the mug with the chipped handle that he'd always used since he was small, without thinking about it, and Ilya noticed and said nothing.

They sat at the table - Ilya and Shane on one side, Zakya and Anna across from them, both sitting up very straight in the manner of people who had decided that dignity was still technically available to them if they committed to it hard enough.

Nobody said anything for a moment.

Shane started, because Shane always started. "So," he said. "First of all - Anna, you are very welcome in this house. That has not changed. Okay?"

Anna nodded, hands around her mug.

"Second." Shane looked between them. "We're not angry. We want to be really clear about that." He glanced at Ilya, who nodded in confirmation. "But we do need to talk about a couple of things." He paused. "The door, for starters."

"Lock it," Ilya said. "From now on. And I will knock and wait."

"Ya tozhe," Shane said. Me too.

Zakya's shoulders came down approximately one centimetre. "Okay," he said quietly.

"And-" Shane chose his words carefully, "-we know you're both grown up. We know that. It's just-" he glanced at Ilya again.

"It is still a shock," Ilya said, plainly, "to see your son." He left the rest of the sentence where it was.

Zakya made a face. Anna looked at the table.

"Are you being safe?" Shane asked.

"Dad," Zakya said, with feeling. "Gross. Yes. Obviously."

"I'm asking because I care, not because-"

"I know why you're asking, it's still gross."

Ilya, who had been quiet and careful and measured for the last several minutes, looked at his son.

"You know what is gross?" he said. "Walking into a room and seeing your-"

"Ilya," Shane said.

"I'm just saying-"

"I know what you're saying."

Silence around the table.

Shane sighed. He looked at Anna. "Anna, sweetheart - Sophie and Mia are in the lounge watching a movie. Would you mind giving us five minutes with Zakya? You're not in trouble at all, I just want to check in with him quickly."

Anna stood with the relieved speed of someone who had been waiting for an exit. "Of course. Thank you for - yeah." She looked at Zakya, something passing between them, and then she was gone down the hallway.

The three of them sat at the table.

Shane and Ilya looked at their son.

Zakya looked back at them. He'd lost the careful composure now that it was just them - he looked younger, suddenly, the way he always did when the performance dropped. Eighteen, Shane thought. Still eighteen.

"You okay?" Shane asked quietly.

Zakya nodded. Then, after a second: "That was genuinely awful."

"Da," Ilya said, with feeling. "For all of us."

"Papa-"

"I'm joking. Mostly." Ilya reached across the table and put his hand briefly over Zakya's. "Vsyo khorosho, Zak. Everything is okay."

They went through it - gently, without making it bigger than it needed to be. Safe sex. Talking to them if he ever needed anything. The door. The knocking. Zakya endured it with the expression of someone waiting for a dentist appointment to be over.

"And you know," Shane said, "if you ever have questions. About any of it. You can always come to us."

Zakya looked at them both. "I know," he said. "Spasibo."

"Especially your father," Shane added. "About anything."

Ilya nodded seriously. Then: "Although if your questions are specifically about girls-" he tilted his head, "-you should not ask your father."

Shane frowned. "Why not?"

"Because, Shanya," Ilya said, with great delicacy, "you cannot make a girl-"

"ILYA-"

"Slava Bogu, Rose Landry." Ilya shook his head solemnly. God bless her.

Zakya's head came up so fast he nearly knocked the mug over. "Wait." He stared. "You slept with Rose Landry?"

"That is not-" Shane started.

"She's so hot-"

"This conversation is OVER," Shane said, standing up. "We're making dinner. Go get the girls please. Now. Thank you. Conversation over. Go."

Zakya was still staring at Ilya as he stood up. Ilya looked serene. Shane pointed at the hallway and did not make eye contact with either of them.

Ten minutes later they were all around the bench - Shane, Ilya, Zakya, Sophie, Anna, and Mia on her step stool - pizza bases laid out, bowls of toppings distributed, tomato sauce ready to spread.

Ilya watched his son reach for a handful of mushrooms.

"Podozhdite," he said. Wait.

Everyone looked at him.

Ilya looked at Zakya. He looked at Anna. He looked at their hands, both of which were hovering over the toppings.

"Please," he said, with enormous sincerity, "tell me you both washed your hands. Very, very well. Both of you."

The silence that followed was spectacular.

Shane closed his eyes.

"PAPA," Zakya said.

Anna went the colour of the tomato sauce.

Sophie started laughing so hard she had to put both hands on the bench.

Mia looked around at everyone and then back at her pizza base. "Ya pomyla ruki," she announced, to no one in particular. I washed my hands.

"Good girl," Shane said faintly.

Ilya spread his hands in a gesture of pure innocence. "Ya prosto sprosil." I was just asking.

Shane looked at his husband. At his mortified son. At Sophie, who was still laughing. At Anna, who had hidden her face behind Zakya's shoulder. At Mia, who was very carefully placing a single mushroom in the exact centre of her base with the focus of someone doing important work.

"Right," Shane said. "Toppings. Everyone. Now. We are making pizza and we are not talking anymore."

"Nichego ne skazal." Ilya said, serenely. I said nothing.

"Ilya."

"Nichego."

Shane pointed at the tomato sauce. Ilya picked it up and started spreading it, the picture of innocence, and the kitchen filled back up with noise and flour and the comfortable chaos of all of them together, Anna laughing now too despite herself, Mia narrating her topping choices to no one in particular, Sophie recovering in stages, Zakya pretending to be more traumatised than he was.

Shane looked at Ilya over the top of Mia's head.

Ilya looked back at him.

Our family, his eyes said, warm and impossible and completely unrepentant.

Shane shook his head.

But he was smiling.