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Ilya sipped his vodka, and he took in another drag of his cigarette. He shifted and felt the dampness of the towel around his waist seep into him, and he tried to take in a shaky breath. Still, even with all of these sensations, he couldn’t shake the deep-sated trembling he felt in his bones that resulted from his proximity to Shane Hollander.
He had no idea why he’d let Hollander come back to his hotel room or why he’d offered in the first place. He’d spent months learning how to be on his own again, how to live without Hollander. All it had taken was a batting of eyelashes and a desperation on Hollander’s face and Ilya felt weak at the knees, drawing him into a kiss in the bathroom after promising himself for weeks on end that he absolutely would not kiss Hollander. He failed at it, like he’d failed his team in Russia, and like he’d failed most of the people in his life. He’d failed to take care of Hollander too, clearly, if the way the man sat anxiously at his side was any indication.
“So, Russia this year was something else,” Hollander said, offering up a conversation like it could fix the something that was swirling around inside Ilya, the coldness and detachment from his body that mixed with the aching need to hold Shane Hollander in his arms. He wanted to cling to Hollander, to press kisses along his neck and body until the tightness in his chest dissolved. He wanted to bury his face in Hollander’s neck and lavish him in attention but they didn’t do that – that wasn’t what people who were casually fucking did, not what someone who shouldn’t be attached in the first place would do.
“It’s intense there,” Hollander continued. Understatement of the fucking century, Ilya thought.
He hated talking about Russia, about home. It wasn’t a good topic, or a fun or rewarding one, and he already had so little time with Hollander. There was no point in ruining their small moments together with such discussions, not when there were infinitely many better things they could be doing or saying. They had so little time, and Ilya knew he only had so much longer before Hollander moved on from him. He’d been just a little gone on Hollander from the beginning and even the months of silence between them hadn’t silenced the stupid part of his brain that wanted to hoard Shane Hollander to itself so no one else got to have him the way Ilya Rozanov did.
“Are you heading back soon?” Hollander asked, because he just couldn’t leave it alone.
“Back?” Ilya asked, his mind spinning for a moment as he tried to focus. For some reason, he felt distant from everything going on, like his brain wasn’t fully inside of his body and he had to grasp for thoughts instead.
“To Russia, for the summer?”
Ilya glanced at Hollander and felt his heart twist at the fleeting bout of eye contact. “Oh, yes,” he answered, looking away because it was easier than feeling whatever it was in his chest that he always did when looking at Hollander.
“Why?” Hollander asked, sounding almost genuinely confused or concerned.
Ilya’s heart constricted painfully. He didn’t want to go – why was the same question he asked himself. Why go somewhere he had no one? Why go somewhere he didn’t have the family of his team? Why go somewhere so far from Shane Hollander? He went because it’s what he was supposed to do, because it was the only thing he could call home. He went because there was no time to think about Hollander there, not when his father and brother had dozens of commands and problems for him to solve at any given moment. Hollander couldn’t tempt him there, at least not any more than he could tempt Ilya anywhere else. Being close to Hollander was dangerous to his heart and being in Russia was dangerous to his mind – his mind had proven it could take the hits and keep going, but his heart was a fragile thing that he had to keep hidden and protected.
Ilya’s mouth felt dry and he fought to keep the seeping fatigue and slight disassociation away as he asked, “What do you mean, why?”
Hollander shifted just slightly, facing Ilya like he’d been drawn into his orbit without Ilya trying. “Do you have to?” Hollander asked.
“There is no ‘have to’. It’s-” the only option I have, Hollander “-it’s home.” He answered. He knew it wasn’t a convincing answer, not to anyone as stubborn and steadfast as Hollander. It was one of Ilya’s favorite qualities, but he hated how it backfired on him sometimes.
“Yeah, but I don’t know.” Hollander sighed. Ilya could see him out of the corners of his vision and it made it even harder to keep his gaze away; he loved Hollander’s eyes and to ignore them felt counterintuitive to who he was on a fundamental level. Hollander asked, “Is it safe?”
Ilya blinked and took more nicotine into his lungs. “What do you mean ‘safe’?” There was no major risk of bodily harm while he was there – at least not while he behaved and stayed in his lane and only slept with women and didn’t think about Shane Hollander – so, overall, it was safe. He had a roof over his head and food on his table every night, and that was all he really needed in the end.
“I don’t know. Do you- do you even like it there?”
Slowly, Ilya turned to him, desperately hoping that the instant no he wanted to say didn’t show through his eyes. He couldn’t stay during the off season – his visa wouldn’t allow it – and it wasn’t like he’d be around Hollander, so there was no real drive to stay. He could love Russia or he could hate it and it didn’t change the fact that he still had to go, that it was his obligation and only option. So, he asked, “What difference does it make?”
“A pretty big one, I think,” Hollander answered with a weak laugh and a slight frown, like he was seeing all the inner turmoil Ilya had tried so hard to hide. Hollander, my lovely Hollander, Ilya thought almost deliriously, so endeared by the fact that Hollander thought whether or not Ilya enjoyed something was actually relevant to any decision he made. He wanted to get his hands on Hollander’s cheeks, to draw him into a kiss until Hollander melted against him and gave up all of that control he faked having. He wanted to beg Hollander to stay – to never leave – and to hold him until he could breathe again because this conversation had taken all of the remnants of air out of his lungs.
Ilya looked away, feeling strangely nauseous as he stared forward blankly. His heart was beating in his chest too quickly and he felt disgusted with himself, suddenly. He’d treated Hollander so poorly – his own issues weren’t an excuse, he should have pushed himself to answer even when he felt like he was dying so Hollander had no reason to tear up in the bathroom like that – and then he’d still brought Hollander back to his room, knowing deep in his core that he was just going to push him away again. Ilya was selfish, though, and desperate, and painfully close to being entirely in love with Shane Hollander. It was cruel to keep putting them in this situation and he felt like he was losing his grip on reality a bit.
“I need to sleep,” he announced, hoping it came out stronger than he heard it. Ilya was far from tired but he had no idea what to say to get Hollander to leave before he broke down – he’d offhandedly mentioned Hollander staying the night once and Hollander had never left so quickly, so he prayed it would do the same this time and that he wouldn’t see the way Ilya was splintering at the seams.
Hollander murmured something and left the bed, rushing to go gather his clothes, and Ilya felt something akin to humiliation curl in his chest. He hadn’t taken care of Hollander, not the way he deserved to be taken care of, and his negligence had already almost broken Hollander away from him. Now, Ilya wanted to get on his feet and chase after Hollander, to litter his face with kisses until Hollander was smiling and blissed out again, but all Ilya could think about was how his touch would taint the other man.
He clenched and unclenched his hands but they felt strangely numb. He stared at the wall in front of him, unable to drag his eyes away; everything felt like an out of body experience but he knew he hadn’t drank enough to feel like this, so it had to-
Oh, Ilya realized.
It had been a few years since he’d felt like this after fucking someone, but it wasn’t the first time. It was the first time he’d felt like this after fucking Hollander, though. At first, it was always like this – a feeling of disgust and humiliation curling inside of him when whoever he’d been with left the moment they were done. He was naive back then, dumbly wishing that he could hold his hookups afterwards for just a moment so he felt like he was more than just a body; Hollander had always seemed to cling to him, had always sought out Ilya’s touch like he needed it to breathe. This time, though, Hollander hadn’t reached out for him once, hadn’t brushed his hand across Ilya’s arm or pouted his way into a kiss. He hadn’t even wanted to show off at first, and the thought that he’d hurt Hollander was swirling in his gut and Ilya felt like he was going to puke.
“So, I’m off,” Hollander called from the other room.
“Goodbye, Hollander,” Ilya answered reflexively, wishing he hadn’t gone after Hollander so he hadn’t pushed him like this. Nothing was worth compromising Hollander’s comfort, and he’d gone and done it anyway. Please come back and kiss me, he wanted to beg. Instead, the door closed and Ilya heard the sound ricochet across the room.
A sharp gasp penetrated the following silence and it took Ilya a moment to realise it had come from him.
Another one followed immediately, followed by a weak, wet sound, and Ilya scrambled to his feet to race to the en suite. His own wide, teary eyes reflected his panicked gaze in the mirror and Ilya realised with a start that was simply and fully crying. All of the feelings and emotions were just too much and he felt like he was drowning in it, a stray tear slipping down his face every few seconds.
I’ve lost him, haven’t I? He thought, angrily swiping at the tears. Ilya had promised to take care of Hollander and he’d ignored him and then pushed him through so many different emotions once he reappeared – Ilya didn’t even want to be around himself, so he wasn’t insane enough to think someone as inherently good as Shane Hollander would feel any differently. It was Ilya’s fault, really; he should have compartmentalized, should have held Hollander and treated him like the prince he was. Fuck Ilya’s feelings and his increasing dependence on Hollander; he should have dealt with the emotional aftermath and been what Hollander needed instead of pushing Hollander to be what he needed.
Ilya’s breath felt like it was coming in too fast and his chest was aching, painful. He grasped at his cross with one hand and his chest with the other, desperately trying to feel something other than like he was dying. His phone rang in the bedroom and he stumbled towards it, Hollander’s calling me he must be calling me please please please let it be Hollander I need him running through his mind.
He answered the call without looking. “Hollander,” he breathed out, desperation and relief intermixed.
“Hello. This is an automated message. Are you interested in purchasing new home insurance-”
Ilya slammed the phone into the ground, screaming at it in rage that a fucking telemarketer would call him instead of Hollander. The second the device collided with the ground, Ilya sank to his knees.
“No, no,” he said weakly, clutching at the dark screen that refused to turn on again. “Hollander…”
He fidgeted with the phone, trying to turn it on again, and felt his despair sink into his bones even further. He couldn’t do anything right, no matter how hard he tried. It was like everywhere he turned there was someone or something telling him to give up on Hollander, to smile as Hollander moved on like it wasn’t breaking his heart at the same time. All Ilya needed was some sign that he wasn’t alone in this, that he hadn’t ruined everything beyond comprehension.
He froze in place as he heard his doorknob move, immediately followed by the door clicking open.
“Rozanov?”
Hollander. Ilya stood on shaky legs, leaning on his bed for a moment to catch his breath, his limbs still feeling strange and detached from him.
“Rozanov? You asshole – you better be in there.” Hollander scoffed before Ilya heard footsteps, Hollander moving closer to him.
Ilya wasn’t going to make him do that, not when Hollander had come back to him. He stood and pushed one foot in front of the other, adjusting the towel still around his waist and throwing himself around the doorway. He froze the moment he locked eyes with Hollander – with teary, hurt, sad, Hollander.
“What is wrong?” Ilya asked, his breath catching in his throat as he knew full well that it was his fault Hollander was like that, because he’d been bad towards him, because he wasn’t good enough to take care of him.
“We didn’t even kiss,” Hollander answered, sounding like it had cut him at his very core. “But that’s not- fuck, Rozanov, that’s not important. What happened?”
“What happened?” Ilya echoed. He stepped closer and ached to sprint forward, to hide Hollander in his arms until Hollander was okay again. Hollander was hurt and it was Ilya’s fault, so it didn’t make sense for Hollander to ask what had happened to him.
“Yeah, Rozanov, shit. You look-” Hollander cut himself off, sniffling slightly and clearly trying to make himself put more together. What was it he had said? Why did Hollander- oh. We didn’t even kiss.
“What happened?” Hollander asked again, dropping his jacket over the back of the sofa.
“What happened is we didn’t even kiss,” Ilya said, his anxieties falling away with the recognition that he hadn’t fucked up too badly if it meant Hollander had come back for him, for more from him. He raced forward, one hand colliding with Hollander’s cheek and the other settling on his lower back, pressing Hollander against himself and kissing him like Hollander had enough air in his lungs to give some extra to Ilya.
“Rozanov,” Hollander panted, his arms flying up to Ilya’s shoulders and wrapping around his neck as he fell against Ilya. He made a sound almost like a whimper when Ilya tugged at Hollander’s bottom lip with his teeth, pushing himself against Ilya like he could meld their bodies if he tried hard enough.
Ilya had never wished for something to be true like he wished for that.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled in Russian against Hollander’s lips, too much of a coward to admit it in English to him. “Don’t leave me.”
“What does that mean?” Hollander asked, drawing back slightly with shiny lips and a dazed look in his eyes.
“Is nothing. Don’t worry about it.” Ilya countered, pressing his lips to the spot where Hollander’s ear met his jaw, the spot that was like Hollander's system reset button. Sure enough, Hollander dropped his head backwards and moaned, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him and only held up by Rozanov’s strong arms around him. Rozanov bent slightly until he had his hands on the backs of Hollander’s thighs, effortlessly lifting him until Hollander wrapped his legs around Ilya’s waist.
“Hate when you do this,” Hollander mumbled, chasing Ilya’s lips as he walked them back towards his bed. The kisses made Ilya’s head swim, his need to keep Hollander forever rising again.
“Hate it?” Ilya questioned, too caught up in his head to know if Hollander was being serious or not. He went to put Hollander down, even if the loss of contact made him ache a bit.
“Don’t put me down,” Hollander answered, drawing back enough to look at Ilya with an incredulous look.
Ilya felt his heart skip and he pressed a kiss to Hollander’s chin as they crossed the threshold of his bedroom, turning quickly and laying Hollander out on the bed, looming over him as he held himself up on one hand. It was unfair how pretty Hollander was – all the time, but especially when he was laid out for Ilya like this, relaxed and content on a comfortable mattress. Ilya wanted him like this always: when he came back from a game or the grocery store, when he’d had a great day or an awful one, when he went to sleep and especially when he woke up.
Ilya felt his heart give a pathetic thump, yearning and desperate as always. “I have things to say but I do not know how to say them to you,” Ilya told him, holding Hollander’s jaw in his hand and stroking his thumb over Hollander’s cheekbone. Like a cat, Hollander turned into the grip and brushed his head against Ilya’s hand.
“Say it in Russian. I won’t understand, but I’ll listen,” Hollander offered.
The moment he had permission, it was like the words flew out from his lips without control, not needing it in his native tongue. “I think I’m in love with you,” Ilya said in Russian, wearing his heart on his sleeve for the first time with Hollander. “And I’m either going to hurt you or you’re going to break my heart, and I don’t think I can live with either.”
“Better?” Hollander asked, a small smile on his face as he squeezed Ilya’s bicep and rubbed at the back of it.
“No,” Ilya answered, because it wasn’t. He wished he had the strength to say it in English, or that he was smart enough to say it in French so that Hollander could understand it either way, but neither was the truth. Instead of admitting it, he leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to Hollander’s lips, everything in him relaxing a bit at the soft look he got when he pulled back. “Now better.”
“Yeah?” Hollander prompted, an imminent tease already visible on his face. “Didn’t realise kissing me has healing properties.”
“I did not say that,” Ilya countered, even as he kissed Hollander again. It does, though. Healing properties.
“Pretty sure you look alive again now that you’ve been kissed.” Hollander answered, cocking an eyebrow.
“No, no. I am just…what do you call it, how you feel when you drink water when you are thirsty?”
“Uhh,” Hollander blinked, mentally running through words in a language that had never come as easily to Ilya as he wished it did. “Refreshing?”
“Yes, that. I am refreshing when you kiss me.”
“Refreshed,” Hollander corrected lightly, a horribly soft look on his face. Ilya analyzed it, committing it to memory, just in case he never got to see it again. Because he knew he probably wouldn’t, not when he inevitably pushed Hollander away again.
“Refreshed,” Ilya agreed, dropping their foreheads together and taking in Hollander’s warmth. Finally, that cold feeling inside of him had started to dissipate. He still worried he hadn’t been good enough to Hollander, or had ignored him in favour of having Hollander perform for him, so he felt the need to ask, “Did you get what you came for, Hollander?”
“Oh. Yeah.” Hollander answered, shrinking in on himself a little. “I should go, shouldn’t I?”
No. Please, stay. Don’t leave. “If you need to.”
“Probably need to.”
“Probably,” Ilya echoed, kissing Hollander in the way that he knew would have Hollander clinging to him. He trailed down afterwards, kissing Hollander’s chin, and then his jaw, and then his neck, and then the exposed part of his collarbone where the top of his dress shirt was unbuttoned. “But not definitely?”
“Definitely need to,” Hollander answered, his head tipped back against the bed and his chest rising and falling unsteadily. Then, barely audible like it was a confession Ilya wasn’t meant to hear, he said, “Don’t want to.”
Ilya dropped his head against Hollander’s pec, bringing his arms down to wrap around Hollander’s chest and pulled him into a just-shy-of-too-tight hug. I don’t want you to either, Ilya thought, nauseated at the thought of Hollander leaving again. It was all the more reason Hollander needed to go, though, before he got stuck with Ilya forever.
“Just give to me a moment?” Ilya asked quietly, holding Hollander tightly. He expected to be pushed away the same way he always was when he wanted too much from Hollander, but was pleasantly surprised when a warm hand settled on the back of his head, fingers intertwining with curls.
“I like your hair,” Hollander said instead of addressing Hollander’s question. “It looks like gold sometimes, in certain lighting.”
“Gold?”
Hollander hummed in confirmation. “You’re so rich your hair reflects it.”
Ilya huffed in mild amusement, burrowing his head in closer against Hollander’s chest. He was still partially off the bed, his legs hanging off the edge, but he had never been more comfortable in his life than with Hollander’s hand in his hair and Hollander’s body against his.
“I like your hair too, if it makes you feel better,” Ilya answered after a moment. He liked everything about Hollander, really, but that felt like too strong of an answer.
“It’s boring.”
“Yes. Like you.”
“Wow, Rozanov. Way to make a guy feel special,” Hollander scoffed.
“No. It suits you. All of the simple, all of the boring. It is-” Attractive, everything I didn’t know I wanted.
“It is…?”
“I do not know the English word,” Ilya answered. A cop-out, but one that Hollander took at face value instead of pressing on. “But it is good thing, Hollander. A nice thing.”
“A nice thing,” Hollander exhaled, his breath skating across the back of Ilya’s hair where Hollander’s fingers were still messing with his curls. For a few moments, they simply existed like that. Ilya breathed in the remnants of Hollander’s cologne and Hollander let himself be used like a body pillow, fidgeting with Ilya’s hair all the while.
Then, like Ilya knew would happen, Hollander broke the peace. “I do need to go,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” Ilya agreed, because he was far too comfortable and it was dangerous to know that this was an option. Slowly, he unwound his limbs and stood up, offering a hand to Hollander that was rejected in favor of Hollander pushing himself up until he stood.
“Are you alright now?” Hollander asked, looking at Ilya with those big brown eyes that Ilya constantly found himself falling into.
“I’m alright.” Ilya answered. He raised his hand and swiped beneath each of Hollander’s eyes, collecting the last bit of moisture that was pooling at the corners of them. “No crying now?”
“No, no crying.” Hollander looked away, almost embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I know it was stupid, I just-”
“Hollander.”
“-needed to say it, and I felt like shit and I didn’t know-”
“Hollander.” Ilya repeated, more emphatic this time. Hollander stopped and looked at him and Ilya wanted to give him everything. Instead, he settled a hand on Hollander’s neck and brought him into another kiss, a solid but simple one that was a reminder they were real, that they were okay and together.
When they broke apart, Hollander nodded. “I need to go,” he said again, pulling himself away from Ilya. Ilya walked with him towards the door, completely unwilling to spend a moment away from Hollander while they were in the same space.
“Wow, what a gentleman. Walking me to the door and everything,” Hollander teased.
“A gentleman? Do not say such things about me, Hollander, you will ruin my reputation.”
“C’mon, Rozanov. People wouldn’t believe me if I tried,” Hollander countered, his back pressing against the door as they stood against it. Ilya watched as Hollander’s gaze dropped to Ilya’s mouth, caught up as always.
Ilya was happy to indulge him, though, and leaned forward to press one last kiss against Hollander’s mouth. “See you next season?” He asked against Hollander’s mouth.
“I’ll text you,” Hollander agreed, eyes lidded and chasing after Ilya’s mouth for a second last kiss.
Ilya grimaced. “No. My phone is dead.”
“Then charge it, asshole.”
“No. It is dead. Broken, hit the ground with a bam. Does not turn back on.”
Hollander stared at him for a moment, then rolled his eyes. “Alright.” He glanced over Ilya’s shoulder, moving away from the door and grabbing the notepad and pen the hotel had left next to the room’s phone. He wrote down his number, tearing off the small piece of paper and pressing it into Ilya’s hand.
“If you lose that, you’re never getting my number again.” Hollander threatened. Ilya wanted to kiss him, so he did – their third last kiss.
“When you get a text from a stranger, do not ignore it.” Ilya warned in response. Hollander shoved at his chest, pushing Ilya away playfully and resting his hand on the door.
“We’ll see.” Hollander countered. “See you next season?”
And, because Ilya was a weak, weak man and couldn’t resist now that he felt like he belonged in his skin again, now that he could actually breathe and didn’t feel like he’d ruined everything, he leaned forward for another kiss, their actual last one this time. “See you next season,” he confirmed.
Hollander looked at him for a long moment before he pulled open the door quickly and left, the door closing behind him. Ilya stood there until he heard the elevator ding and then stood there for a few moments longer, just in case Hollander was coming back again. When it became clear he wasn’t, Ilya nodded to himself and looked at the note in his hand.
Call this number if you’re in need of healing properties.
Ilya laughed and ran his finger over the digits, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest. He was fucked – so, insanely, extremely fucked – but he was also in love with Shane Hollander, and it was one of the best things in the entire world.