Work Text:
The important thing to remember is that it was an accident. The second and more important thing to remember is, it was entirely Ilya’s fault.
The hour was late. The hotel was very nice. That evening’s game had gone into overtime and left them both tired and buzzing and pleasantly sore. Ilya had taken it into his head to light a candle, for some reason -- maybe to set the mood, maybe to fuck with Shane, who knew -- and so in addition to the usual smell of sweat and sex and Ilya’s shampoo, the room smelt disconcertingly of cinnamon spiced vanilla. Ilya’s perfect, perfect mouth had long since worked Shane into little more than a puddle of warmth and arousal in the center of the bed. Ilya himself was exactly where Shane liked him best: strong hands gripping Shane’s thighs, head cradled between Shane’s hips, tongue doing something clever that had Shane fumbling out curses and propping himself up onto his elbows for a better view.
In a word -- heavenly.
“Fuck, Roz,” Shane breathed. “Fuck. Just like that, come on.” He rolled his hips without quite meaning to, then reached down one-handed and clumsily petted Ilya’s hair. It was soft and damp with sweat beneath his fingers. He thought, dazedly, that maybe Ilya had been onto something with that stupid candle of his after all; with the rest of the lights all dimmed, every time the candlelight flickered, it seemed to limn a different one of Ilya’s curls in gold. “Come on,” Shane said again. Ilya murmured something appreciative. Then, maddeningly, he drew back. He sat up on his knees, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and grinned.
“You like this, yes?” Ilya said. He sounded horribly smug, the bastard. “Is good?”
Shane swore and dropped back down onto the pillows with a thump.
“It was good,” he said, “Until you stopped.” At the other end of the bed, he heard Ilya click his tongue. Then Ilya’s hand was back, circling Shane’s shaft loosely and working idly up and down. That was even more maddening, somehow, but Shane gasped and rocked his hips up anyway, chasing Ilya’s touch. He heard Ilya laugh. The next moment the mattress shifted as Ilya settled further back on the bed, his head propped on Shane’s thigh, his hand still stroking Shane’s dick lazily.
“Long day for you, Hollander,” Ilya mused. He squeezed. Shane cursed. “Another loss, tch. Maybe better to -- what is it? -- ‘call it a day?’ Get some rest, nyet? Better luck tomorrow?”
“Fuck you.”
“No no. Other way around.” Ilya turned his head and nipped the inside of Shane’s thigh. “I fuck you, remember?” Shane tried to kick him. Ilya laughed again.
“Asshole.”
“Dorogóy.” Whatever insults Ilya was spouting, his voice, at least, was fond. He bit Shane’s leg again, gentler this time. “Shh,” he soothed. “You like it, I know. You want more, lyubimyĭ? You want to come? Is okay. You can come.”
It was stupid that Ilya crooning a mix of obscenities in English and Russian was enough to make Shane blush red, especially considering that he’d had Ilya himself inside him not even an hour ago. “You’re a dorogóy,” Shane muttered. Ilya only laughed again, and this time planted a single, affectionate kiss to the tip of Shane’s dick.
“True,” he agreed, while Shane choked out a string of curses. Ilya winked at him, caught the nearer of Shane’s hands in his, and smacked a kiss to his palm too. Then with a flourish he leaned forward and took Shane into his mouth again, sucking his dick with redoubled zeal while Shane flailed and tried his best not to come right there on the spot.
The problem with Ilya -- okay, a problem with Ilya -- yes, fine, one of many problems with Ilya, Shane knew perfectly well who it was he regularly fell into bed with, thanks -- was that in addition to being the league’s biggest asshole, he was also the most stupidly, absurdly beautiful person that Shane had ever met. And it wasn’t just his mouth, as obliged as Shane was to his mouth at the moment. Ilya’s eyes were beautiful, and his hair was beautiful, and the way the muscles moved in his broad shoulders was beautiful, and that beauty mark on his cheek was frankly absurd, and -- Shane could probably go on, if the thought of doing so didn’t make that unexamined well of emotions in his chest stir uneasily.
Anyway. The upshot of it all was that Ilya was distractingly good-looking, and it was unfair because he was also simply distracting, full stop. The way he was humming contentedly around Shane’s dick in his mouth right now, for instance. Or the insane things he’d texted Shane before the game. Shane knew that Ilya did it just to fuck with him, he wasn’t an idiot, but somehow it still worked, because that whole game, from the first bell to the last, maddeningly, infuriatingly, the only thing he’d been able to think about was --
“Fuck me, Lily,” Shane groaned, and came in Ilya’s mouth.
At that point, several things happened in very quick succession.
Shane bit his tongue -- hard enough to draw blood, half-a-second too late to take the words back.
Ilya jerked up so suddenly he choked. He overbalanced, then leaned forward to catch himself. He was still choking, though, and between that and the darkness and the unfamiliar room, he misjudged the distance. His nose connected with Shane’s forehead with a sickening crack.
Shane swore.
Ilya swore, rolled off of Shane, and tumbled off the side of the bed with a thud.
Shane stared up at the ceiling dazedly. Then, realizing with a sudden burst of horror that the blood all over his face wasn’t his -- and remembering, with an even fiercer horror, what exactly he’d said that had managed to knock Ilya literally off his feet -- he swore again, scrambled out of the sheets, and dropped down heavily to the floor beside him.
Ilya was flat on his back on the ground. There was come and blood on the corner of his mouth and messy, gushing blood all around his nose. One eye was already swelling shut. He was making a horrible, wheezing sound, as though he couldn’t breathe -- as though Shane had, had choked him with his dick, oh God, oh God --
Shane landed on his knees and immediately tugged Ilya into his lap. He wiped at Ilya’s face frantically; although with nothing to scrub away the blood with, all he managed to do was smear it around even more. Ilya was still gasping for air. He could be turning blue for all Shane knew -- there was nothing to see by but Ilya’s stupid candle, all three wicks still dancing merrily on the bedside table as though Ilya wasn’t dying on the floor here in Shane’s lap. Shane gave up on wiping the blood from Ilya’s face and hoisted him higher into his arms. He moved his hand down to Ilya’s neck, checking for a pulse. “Shit,” he said, “Shit, Roz -- can you breathe? Say something if you can breathe.”
More wheezing. And then --
“Lily,” Ilya choked, and Shane realized, with a burst of mortification so intense he could’ve disappeared right there on the spot, that Ilya wasn’t choking at all. He was laughing.
“Lily!” crowed Ilya again. He managed to scramble around in Shane’s arms. Before Shane had quite realized what was happening, he was on his back on the ground and Ilya was on top of him, his bloody nose dripping onto Shane’s chest, his grin so wide Shane could see it even in the dark. “Say it again, Hollander!”
“Say what?” Shane said, though without much hope. Sure enough, Ilya only cackled again. He turned his head enough to wipe away the worst of the blood on his arm, then turned back and grinned at Shane again. He looked utterly, maniacally delighted.
“Fuck me Lily,” Ilya crooned. He ducked his head and laved Shane’s neck in kisses. Between the sweat and the blood and the semen, it should have been disgusting. It was disgusting. If Shane's hand came up to cradle the back of Ilya’s neck and hold him there anyway, well. A minute ago Shane had thought Ilya was choking to death in his lap, so. Perspective. “Fuck me harder, Lily. Mmph, yes, so good, Lily."
“I hate you,” Shane said. It was hard to sound convincing when his fingers were still stroking through Ilya’s hair, but he gave it his best shot anyways. “You’re dead to me.”
“Yes,” Ilya agreed happily. He was still kissing down the column of Shane’s neck. His hand was on Shane’s chest, rubbing over his heart. “Yes, is fine. I can die happy, Hollander. Or I should say -- Jane.”
Shane groaned and turned to hide his face in Ilya’s hair. Ilya was laughing again, hard enough this time that he had to break off kissing and press his own face against Shane’s collarbone while his shoulders shook. Shane took a minute to think despairingly of the mess they were making on the carpet and the tip he’d have to leave the cleaning staff tomorrow. Then he tightened his arm around Ilya’s back and drew him closer.
“For the record,” he said, his voice muffled, “I didn’t mean to say that.”
“Maybe you did,” Ilya countered. His voice was muffled too. Shane could still feel him grinning, the asshole. “It is a -- how do you say in English?”
“You don’t say in English.”
“No, there is word for it. Ogovorka po Freyd-u.”
“....A Freudian slip.”
“Da, yes. ‘A Freudian slip.’”
Shane felt his face heating again, and was suddenly very glad that Ilya was probably too distracted by the blood all over his own face to notice. “No,” he mumbled. “No, it’s really not.”
This time Ilya only hummed. He didn’t make any move to get up, so Shane didn’t either. They just stayed where they were, naked and tangled up on the floor, Shane’s face buried in Ilya’s curls, Ilya’s face smushed against the crook of Shane’s neck. Slowly, Shane’s heartbeat steadied, while Ilya’s laughter faded. Shane continued to stroke his fingers through Ilya’s hair. When Ilya finally propped himself up on his elbows, pushing himself up just far enough so that they were nose to nose, Shane squinted up at him and smiled.
“You’re an asshole,” he said. Ilya smiled back, dazzlingly white against the smears of blood all over his face and his black eye.
“Yes,” he agreed.
“You knew what I meant.”
“Lily and Rozanov,” Ilya said. He ducked down and kissed Shane’s lips, chastely enough that, despite the blood, it was almost sweet. “Easy to confuse.”
Lily and Ilya, Shane thought. But he couldn’t say that, so he didn’t say anything. He just met Ilya’s lips, and kissed him again.
“I don’t wish you were really a Lily,” Shane said at last, into the breath of space Ilya left between them when they parted. Ilya only hummed. As near as they were, Shane could feel the rise and fall of Ilya’s chest. He could feel every inch of Ilya’s warm skin, Ilya’s smile, Ilya’s erection, nudging against his hip. “Or -- I don't wish that you were a woman, I guess. It's not a Freudian slip. I don’t -- I just. I never think of you like that.”
“No?” Ilya nudged Shane’s nose, then kissed him again. “What do you think of me like, Hollander?”
What did Shane think of Ilya like? Brilliant. An asshole. So beautiful it drove Shane crazy. Such a jerk that that drove Shane crazy, too. The best center and best player and best captain in the league. Stupid and funny and impossible and kind. The steadiest, surest person in Shane's entire life.
“Remind me how you say ‘asshole’ in Russian?” Shane asked. He nosed against Ilya, then kissed him again. “Lyubimyĭ, right?” Ilya smiled into their kiss.
“Lyubimyĭ,” he agreed, and kissed him, again and again and again.