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If someone had told Shane over a decade ago that he would find himself here — watching his perfect husband wrassle with their beautiful dog in the backyard, riling her up using a rope toy that has definitely seen better days — he probably would have laughed in their face. It was his reality, though, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything.
The genuine, unfiltered laugh coming from Ilya meant the world to him, and he wished he could bottle it up and swallow the sound, letting it live inside of himself until the end of time. There was a little over two hours until their reservation, and they still had to bring Anya to the dog hotel and get to the restaurant, and that wasn’t even counting the fact that Ilya was going to need a shower after rolling around in the grass with her like this.
It was Ilya’s birthday, though. He hadn’t even asked for a single thing. So if roughhousing in the backyard with their dog was what he wanted right now, that was what he could get, promptness be damned.
Ilya got down to Anya’s level after a few more minutes, getting her rope toy around his wrist, and Shane heard Ilya request come here, my baby in affectionate, soft Russian, a voice he reserved just for Anya. She listened, panting and walking right over to him to happily accept loving scratches behind the ears. Shane couldn’t help but smile watching them, and when Ilya’s eyes met his, Shane swore they were sparkling a little extra in the late afternoon sun.
“Are we going to be late?” Ilya asks, not even flinching when Anya gets on her hind legs and presses her paws to his chest for balance. Her tail is wagging hard, and he is genuinely a bit amused by it; even their dog loves him more and more with time.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m already worrying about it. Is why I’m asking.”
“I’m not making demands of you today, birthday boy. We’re on your time.”
Ilya scrunches up his nose adorably and looks at Anya, telling her, “your father is very annoying.” She tries to lick him in the mouth, but he turns his head, laughing as she licks his cheek and ear. He gently nudges her down, and she shakes out her fur before trotting in Shane’s direction, going right past him into the house.
Shane watches Ilya stand, and he finds himself momentarily distracted by how good he looks, bathed in natural golden light. If he had any less self control, he’d take a page out of Anya’s book and wrassle with him in the backyard too, peeling the tank top off of him slowly and chasing the exposure of more and more skin with his mouth.
“I’ll come shower now,” Ilya tells him. Shane nods, and a crooked smile creeps onto Ilya’s face. “You could join.”
“No time.”
“Says who? I thought we are on my clock.”
“Ilya…”
Ilya walks over to him slowly and stops mere centimeters from him, his eyes on Shane’s lips. He smells slightly sweaty and a hint like grass, but Shane wants to bury his nose in the crook of his neck regardless, maybe even drag his tongue up his throat. It was all the more reason he certainly would not be joining him.
“Is my birthday, Shane,” Ilya says, voice low, eyes flicking up to meet his. Shane swallows hard.
•••
Shane wasn’t sure if it was lucky or not that Ilya really did just want his company in the shower.
Every time Shane tried to touch him, Ilya dramatically pretended to be scandalized, teasing him about letting a man shower in peace. He let Shane kiss him, though, quite a few times, and he smiled like a dork after every one.
Now, here they were, at a semi private table in a beautiful restaurant in expensive suits. Ilya’s sitting across from him, studying the drink menu, and Shane is just…watching him really, trying to decide if he is doing okay in conducting birthday festivities.
He truly hoped that Ilya was enjoying today. Shane knew his birthday wasn’t his favorite; he didn’t even acknowledge its approach until Shane asked if he had anything in mind for it, to which the answer was no. Now that the day was here, he simply accepted all the earlier happy birthdays with a smile and a small “thank you”, unexpectedly shy under this kind of attention. He loved all the texts in the Centaurs groupchat, accepted the hugs and breakfast at Yuna and David’s, and didn’t even pick a fight with Hayden when the Pikes chaotically FaceTimed to say and sing it.
Scanning the main menu now, he still seems to be okay. He has his usual focused scowl on his face as he reads intently, and his hair is free and soft tonight, curling over his ears a bit. It’s adorably lengthy these days and perfect for pulling. His shirt buttons are also undone enough to provide a glimpse of the gold chain underneath…
The waiter comes by, thank God, before his thoughts can stray too far.
Ilya orders a glass of wine, and Shane requests to make it two, explaining it’s his birthday. Ilya actually blushes and smiles bashfully, and says a soft “thank you” when the waiter tells him happy birthday for the trillionth time today before walking away. Ilya clears his throat and clasps his hands together on the table, leaning forward a bit.
“Are we getting wild for my birthday? You're going glass for glass with me, Hollander?”
“You’re a pain in the ass,” Shane laughs.
“Not yet,” he jokes, pointing at Shane and smiling brightly, clearly amused at his own joke.
“Oh, stop. Yes, I am having one glass with you for your birthday. One,” he stresses.
“Three. Perhaps four.”
“Maybe two, max. And that’s maybe, Ilya.”
“Sure it is.”
And two glasses Shane did indeed have, since they were actually given a bottle on the house for the occasion. Ilya was endeared by the way Shane’s face flushed from alcohol on the rare occasions he indulged; he was sickeningly adorable, especially with the small grin that stayed on his face all throughout dinner. Shane, of course, had some stupid salmon dish, but he did have one bite of the creamy chicken pasta Ilya ordered, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he chewed and told Ilya “that’s fuckin’ nice” with his mouth full. Shane flushed a little more when Ilya countered earnestly with “you’re fucking nice.”
He really did believe that, that Shane was nice. Nice when approached in grocery stores as Ilya threw bullshit like two-bite brownies into their cart, taking pictures when asked. Nice when playing with the little Pikes, accepting clips and small bows in his hair with ease, or with baby Milo and the teeny hands that smooshed his lips and face every time. Nice when he cut the grass instead of making Ilya do it (which was for the best, actually, because Ilya was genuinely a terror with their mower). His beloved Shane was very nice. He considered himself to be very lucky.
When the bill comes, Shane immediately takes it with ease, sending his card back swiftly. Ilya waits to make jokes until the waiter returns with it. Shane picks up the pen, squinting to read the bill in the dim light especially without his glasses. Ilya huffs a laugh through his nose, and Shane looks up at him, his eyebrows furrowed. Svarlivyy kotenok, Ilya thinks.
“What’re you laughing at?” Shane asks.
“Nothing. Just funny that I am your sugar baby tonight.”
“Oh, shut up,” Shane scoffs, rolling his eyes and signing the bill.
“Does my sugar daddy want, uh…sugar?”
“Ilya.”
“What? Rude to not be getting sugar on my birthday, but. Is you, so. Treat either way, yes?”
“No. No more sugar talk.”
“What about…salt talk, then?” Ilya asks. Shane shakes his head, smiling, and closes the check, setting the pen on top. “Or pepper? Maybe flour?”
“You’re an idiot. Let’s go.”
Shane stands, smoothing his hands over his suit, and Ilya does the same, stepping way closer into his space than really is appropriate. Shane’s eyes never leave his, and they go a bit soft with the closeness.
“Sir, yes, sir,” Ilya murmurs, his voice bordering on a hum. Shane takes a deep breath and breaks their eye contact.
“Behave.”
Another command. Gentle, but still. He loved when Shane was a little bossy, really. He listens, too, stepping back and biting his lip to keep from smiling or saying anything else.
•••
“I have something. For you,” Shane tells him, standing shyly by the door when they get home. Ilya looks at him, raising his eyebrows in amusement as he toes his shoes off.
“Okay?”
“It’s kind of silly, but…I wanted you to have it. So.”
Shane peels off his suit jacket, starting to hold it in his fist but deciding against it and draping it over his arm. Ilya starts to smile, and Shane tilts his head in silent inquiry.
“Is it you in sexy underwear, Hollander?” he teases. “Lace with a bow?”
“Go to our room please,” he huffs, approaching him and shoving the jacket in his hands. Ilya takes it gingerly, licking his lips.
“Mmh, so it is. Show me now, I want to see.”
“It is not! Go be a good birthday boy, please,” Shane pleads. Ilya groans, pretending to be annoyed as Shane turns him around and pushes him to walk.
“Only because you’re asking nicely.”
Ilya walks into their room and tosses Shane’s jacket in the hamper, shoving his hands in his pockets. He is vaguely aware that isn’t what Shane would’ve wanted for it, but he isn’t sure what else to do with it for now. Weirdly enough, standing here alone in their room waiting for Shane has his stomach feeling a little strange, not knowing what to expect.
What if Shane made him something, debuting some new skill Ilya would never guess and it makes him cry? Or what if Shane really did come in with lace on after all? He hoped his brain would survive such a thing without melting out of his ears.
Shane enters their room sans shoes, protecting the flame of a singular candle on a singular cupcake (classic vanilla, of course). He’s walking slowly and so focused, it makes Ilya’s chest ache, a smile taking over his face. Shane starts up with a terrible, speak-singing rendition of happy birthday, and Ilya frees a hand to cover the lower half of his face, trying to contain his smile.
Ilya wants to eat him. Or drop to his knees and suck him, he can’t decide. He simply can’t believe that Shane Hollander — his Shane — is here, in the bedroom they share, singing to him on his birthday, looking proud of himself as he stops in front of Ilya, uncovering the flame. It’s small but glows bright, and their room is dim enough right now that it bathes Shane’s face in soft orange light. Ilya uncovers his mouth and stares into his eyes, unblinking, and it’s apparently too intense for Shane after roughly five seconds. His eyes shift quickly to Ilya's mouth before landing on the cupcake, gently moving the plate it's on closer to Ilya.
“Make a wish,” he urges, “c’mon.”
“I have my wish. I married my wish.”
“Another one then.”
Ilya does not make another wish. He does blow the candle out, though, eyes never leaving Shane. Ilya watches as he then takes the candle out, sucking the frosting coated end and wincing a bit before laughing genuinely.
“The wax tastes so bad,” he complains, finally meeting Ilya’s eyes again. His pupils are almost comedically huge, the blue-green of them barely visible, and Shane can only imagine what he’s thinking.
“You got me cake,” Ilya observes plainly. Shane nods.
“Yeah. I did. Aren’t you gonna eat it?”
“Help me, Hollander.”
“Help you?”
“Mhm.”
The smirk that quirks Ilya’s lips is so subtle and quick, Shane almost feels like he’s tripping out to think he’s a smug bastard for the briefest of seconds. He takes the plate in one hand, using his free one to break off the top half and halves that, wiping off most of the frosting onto the plate. Shane raises the piece to his lips, and Ilya immediately opens, no words needed.
Ilya chews carefully, clearly trying not to smile, and Shane gets some of the frosting onto his finger, swiping it over Ilya’s lips and down his chin. Ilya makes a soft, surprised sound, and Shane legit giggles. Ilya tries to lick at it but fails.
He takes the plate from Shane, eating another small piece and setting it on top of some nearby shelf, and Shane makes a mental note to move that later. It’s the last thought he has before Ilya’s hand is on him, gripping the front of his dress shirt and backing him into the wall. Ilya should look ridiculous, mouth streaked with frosting, but his eyes look like he wants to eat Shane alive.
“You got a little…” Shane tells him on a shaky exhale, gesturing vaguely to his face. Ilya’s eyebrows quirk in interest, as if he wasn’t aware.
“Oh yeah?” he rasps, his voice annoyingly steady. Shane nods once, eyes never leaving Ilya’s. “Get it.”
Shane swallows, raising his thumb halfway to Ilya’s face before he tilts his head back a bit, just out of Shane’s touch. Ilya moves the same way with a second attempt. He gets it then. Make a better move, Ilya is saying, don’t get shy on me. Don't be all nice guy about it.
Shane tries again, this time taking his face in his hands and pulling him in, their noses brushing gently. He feels Ilya’s slow exhale through his nose, feels him crowd into him a touch more. It’s just enough to have Shane fully commit to this bit, to not overthink it.
He licks him. From his chin up over the plush of his lower lip, slow and certain. A second drag of his tongue for his upper, tonguing sugar and vanilla off his cupid’s bow. Shane releases him, actually pleased with himself, but is then pressed into the wall with a strong grip at his jaw, wiping his brain clean of every thought besides fuck. The pulse in Ilya’s neck is visibly jumping, and his eyes look unreal with how dark they’ve become in the last ten seconds, locked on his mouth.
To say Ilya kisses him almost feels like an understatement, a misuse of the word. Ilya’s lips gently meet his once, slow and sweet, before he tongues into Shane’s mouth, stealing his breath. The way Ilya kisses him is deliberate and heady and good, and Shane can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed at how quickly he feels himself go a bit limp in his grasp or the whimper he hears escape from himself. He is too turned on to care, or even think about it and any thought that isn’t more. Kissing Ilya makes him greedy, makes him crave Ilya in a way that feels primal, makes him feel so much he feels crazy. It always did and still does.
Ilya breaks the kiss to look him over, and Shane tries to chase his mouth, forgetting the hold Ilya has on him. He blinks slowly instead, thinking for a brief second how he almost wants Ilya’s hand to drop lower to his throat. Ilya drops his hand completely and steps back, though, before he can even consider asking for it.
“Thank you for this wonderful birthday, moya lyubov,” he says, voice rough. The words and his voice go straight to Shane’s already solid dick. “Can always be better though.”
Shane can’t even begin to think about what he’s getting at, what game he’s playing here. So he says nothing, and Ilya takes another step back. The few steps feel like a fucking mile, and he dumbly almost asks him to come back.
“You want to make it better?” Ilya asks evenly.
Shane, always honest, in a voice that trembles oh so slightly answers him: “I wanna make it perfect.”
“I know you do. Need to, even.”
That simple fact makes Ilya’s blood thrum, combined with the image of the man standing against the wall before him — his chocolate brown eyes, slightly unfocused and beautiful, his freckled cheeks tinged red with the flush up his neck to match and fuck, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. He can’t help but think about how fucking good Shane is. How he can’t believe Shane is his. How he wants to drown in him.
“Do you need me,” he continues, “just as much?” Shane nods wordlessly. “Show me. Take off your clothes.”
Shane immediately moves to do just that, his hands slightly trembling, and he watches as Ilya takes off his own suit jacket, joining him in the endeavor. Shane looks down to mind what he’s doing as he undoes the buttons of his shirt, but he hears Ilya tsk mmh mmh, making him look up again. Ilya nods once, his voice barely audible when he says “good boy.”
Shane wants to jump him. He very nearly says fuck the clothes and climbs him like a tree. Instead, he doesn’t look away, fumbling be damned, and places everything nicely atop the dresser, waiting for the birthday boy’s next move.
He calmly backs up until he’s close enough to reach their bedside table, grabbing lube and climbing into their bed, tossing it aside before gently commanding, “come here.” Shane goes without thinking twice, feeling like a well trained dog, but he doesn’t hate it. He wants it, wants to listen, do what’s asked…be good.
He lays on his back, and Ilya wastes no time moving over him, situating himself between Shane’s legs, his half hard dick grazing over Shane’s and making him shiver. Ilya grabs his face once more, tilting it up and immediately licking into his mouth. Shane makes a helpless little noise, running his hands into Ilya’s hair and gripping hard. He moans into Shane’s mouth and rolls his hips against him intently, mumbling fuck between kisses and his breathing growing more ragged. Shane feels a bit dizzy from it, feels drunk off of him, but also feels like a live wire, his heart beating harder than ever.
Ilya’s kisses travel along his jaw and down his neck, until he pauses to suck hard over his pulse point. Shane moans, arching up into him, and Ilya picks his head up, meeting Shane’s eyes.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Very,” Shane breathes, nodding quickly, “super okay.”
Ilya hums thoughtfully, pressing a kiss to the center of Shane’s throat before shifting over him once more, making just enough space to wrap his hand around Shane’s cock, stroking him slow. Shane jerks his hips up into his touch, exhaling a shaky “fuck” before Ilya kisses him once more, sucking and biting on his lower lip as he tightens his grip and thumbs over the head.
Even after all this time, it amazes Ilya how he doesn’t even really need lube for this part, how wet Shane gets from kisses and praise alone. Ilya grips him harder, strokes him rougher and twists his wrist on an upstroke, and Shane preens under his touch, breaking their kiss to tilt his head back, his eyes rolling as he whimpers Ilya’s name. Ilya shuts his eyes, dropping his head to Shane’s shoulder and listening to the pretty, broken sounds he makes as he gradually falls apart.
It doesn’t take long for Shane to start fucking up into his fist, and when he suddenly grips Ilya’s wrist, Ilya picks his head up immediately. Shane’s staring at the ceiling, shallowly breathing through his nose, and Ilya releases him; he seems to deflate as his body relaxes on a full exhale, shakily saying “holy shit, I was gonna come” so quickly, Ilya almost doesn’t catch what he said.
“That is the point,” Ilya teases, grabbing the lube and pouring it over his fingers. Shane props himself up on his elbows to look at him, and Ilya takes in the sheen of sweat slightly dampening the hair on his forehead and making his face glow, his hair a bit wild. He imagines he appears in a similar state, without the excuse of having been touched.
“I know that’s the point,” Shane grumbles, “but it’s your birthday.”
“Ah, I see. No quick shot for the special occasion?”
“You’re such an asshole! You’re so lucky it’s—fuck.”
Shane’s head falls back and he hums approvingly when Ilya presses two fingers against his hole, using enough pressure to make a point but not to breach. Shane shuts his eyes, and Ilya presses a kiss to the underside of his chin, mumbling so perfect in Russian. Shane smiles at that, and of course he does; he definitely knows what idealen means by now. Ilya says it to him more often than not, granted he’s the textbook definition in his eyes.
The softest, prettiest sound leaves Shane when Ilya finally pushes a finger into him, shifting his hips and laying flat once again. Shane hums a low moan, body tensing when Ilya curls his fingers just so, brushing his prostate. Ilya torments him by never quite getting there again, winding him up slow, and dips his head to kiss and graze his teeth over one of Shane’s nipples. Shane inhales sharply through his teeth and buries a hand in Ilya’s hair, petting roughly. Ilya hums, going for Shane’s other one, this time biting and tugging gently on it while adding another finger and working over his spot with perfect precision. Shane half gasps, half moans, and Ilya moves to kiss him, swallowing the sound.
“Fuck, Ilya, I—please,” he whines after a bit, hips rolling up into him and grinding against Ilya’s fingers. Ilya noses at his jaw, smiling smugly to himself; a needy Shane is his favorite kind. He isn’t any better off, though, if he’s honest. He needs Shane just as much if not more, if the way he finds himself gently rutting is anything to go by.
He wastes no time removing his fingers and slicking himself up, putting his hands besides Shane’s head and burying himself with one hard thrust that makes them both moan. Ilya teases Shane for being quick, but it’s this that usually gets him — the first time Shane takes him to the hilt, engulfing his cock in perfect pressure. It never gets old, really; he wishes he could live in this feeling.
When he pulls out slow and thrusts back in like before, Shane touches his face and nods, whispering a soft yes, do it, and it’s all Ilya needs to start fucking him in earnest, finding a rhythm quickly. Shane’s shaky hands move to touch wherever he can get them, even gently scratching over his chest and nipples, sending a buzz through Ilya's bloodstream, making him tremble a bit. They settle on the sides of Ilya’s neck, squeezing with his fingertips and thumbing the hinge of his jaw as he breathes. Ilya kisses him, inhaling his shallow breaths and whimpers, and everything about it goes straight to his dick.
Ilya breaks the kiss to look down to where their bodies meet, shifting his hips around to change the angle of his thrusts. He knows immediately when he’s struck gold, is exactly where Shane wants him — he makes this louder, broken off noise and looks at the ceiling, taking a few quick audible breaths before humming low in his throat.
“Fuck, just like that,” he grunts, “that’s so good, ba—“
He cuts himself off, gasping and sliding a hand down to his own dick, starting to stroke himself with no finesse at all, the other resting over Ilya’s chest and digging his fingers in. An insanely small part of him wishes he let Shane finish, knowing he was getting a baby from him, a rarity that lights him up every time. Knowing it is enough though, knowing Shane knows and feels it enough to say at all is always enough. He clings to that, bringing his eyes up to watch the beautiful way Shane’s face scrunches up as he teeters closer and closer to the edge.
Ilya finds Shane beautiful all the time, but he thinks it’s definitely a top three concept during sex. His beautiful brain is occupied with a simultaneously selfish and mutual effort to please and be pleased, focused on taking what he wants and needs instead of what he looks like. His eyes are a bit glassy and his lips are parted slightly and his face is so flushed under the beautiful smattering of freckles and Ilya loves it.
He grabs Shane’s perfect little face roughly, smushing his cheeks a bit and making Shane look at him with focus, neither of them even blinking as they look into each other's eyes. Ilya feels the seams of himself beginning to unravel, and he knows Shane’s there with him and has been for a minute, can feel it.
“You are the greatest gift of my life,” Ilya tells him earnestly, his voice husky, coated with lust and conviction, “ty nastoyashchiy angel.”
If Shane was not two milliseconds from coming undone, he’d probably honestly cry about that, the unexpected, honest truth of the words. But Ilya was balls deep, and it was too perfect, rendering him completely unable to think.
“I fuckin’ love you,” he grits out instead.
“I love you,” Ilya pants, fucking into him even harder somehow, “God, Hollander, I love you.”
His huge hand slides down, just under Shane’s jaw, and he tightens his hold, pressing his head into the pillow like that. Slightly strained, needy sounds escape him, and Shane encouragingly grips Ilya’s wrist, holding him there as his own strokes falter. He whimpers, shutting his eyes tight as his back bows, the familiar rush of release pulsing through him.
“Holy shit, Ilya, I’m—fuck, I’m coming, holy shit,” he rushes out, his toes curling as his orgasm hits him, hard and sudden, coating his stomach and fingers, some even getting Ilya’s wrist. He isn’t even sure if he’s heard himself make the noise that’s ripped from him in his life. Ilya makes a sound resembling a growl as he continues to drill him, and manages a breathy “fuck, Shane”, thrusting roughly a bit more before stilling against him, only subtly rolling his hips as he comes down and slowly lets Shane go.
They lay there, both of them panting for a minute before making any moves. Shane, now free from his hold, looks down at himself and huffs a sigh before looking up at Ilya, who actually is also looking at the mess of him. Ilya lets out a breathy laugh and looks up to meet Shane’s eyes.
“Modern day piccolo,” he mumbles. Shane thinks he misheard him, but gets distracted by Ilya running a finger over his abdomen, licking Shane’s release off his middle finger.
“Ilya!” he laughs, surprised. “Did you just call me a piccolo? Like the fucking flute?”
“No. The painter. Piccolo.”
“That’s Picasso, you idiot,” he tells him fondly, and Ilya shrugs and rolls his eyes, mumbling same thing against his lips before giving Shane a few soft kisses.
God, Shane loves this man.
When Ilya pulls away, Shane’s eyes fall to the clasp of his chain, which is actually sitting closer to his collarbone now. He fixes it, slowly turning it until it’s situated properly with everything centered, and then rests his hands on Ilya’s shoulders, thumbing absentmindedly.
“So,” Shane says. It comes out more like a statement than he intended. Ilya makes a confused face, his eyebrows furrowing, and Shane can't help but think he's cute.
“So what?”
“Your birthday. Is it perfect now?”
Ilya’s face softens and a small smile starts on his face. The fact that Shane is asking just feels so Shane, wanting honest feedback for his efforts. If it wouldn’t be wildly theatric, Ilya would tell him that it’s one of the first birthdays that felt like his, not performative for other people to enjoy more than himself. He would tell him if he knew this is what a birthday could feel like, maybe he’d have liked them a lot more sooner. He’d tell Shane that it was perfect from the start because he exists, and Ilya woke up to him today and is ending his day with him, and they get to do this again and again, birthdays and all. But he knows Shane, and Shane wants a real yes or no.
“Of course it is, moya lyubov,” he says. “It always was.”