Chapter Text
Kyoto, 2015
Ilya gets on a plane to Kyoto during his precious few weeks between seasons because Sveta tells him to.
"The Western market is overcrowded with blond, blue-eyed bad boys," she'd explained while stubbing out a cigarette on an ashtray worth more than a small car. "But Asia will love you. Tall, rugged NHL star that will look so exotic next to some tiny pop star." She spat out one of the words as if it had personally offended her.
"Don't the Japanese hate Russians?" Ilya had asked. There'd been some wars a while back.
"Japan has successfully washed away their war crimes with sexy animated girls and beautiful doe-eyed men. You will be beautiful rich hockey champion, who happens to be Russian. And after a few days you will be even richer."
It was a reason to delay arrival to Russia, so Ilya had agreed. If the company had really wanted a beautiful rich hockey champion, they could probably have gotten Shane Hollander, who had ties to Japan that didn't involve historical animosity. He said so to Sveta, checking himself before he let the "beautiful" part slip and editing "champion" to "not terrible hockey player", but she'd only answered with an indecipherable look, before chuckling and heading out the door, already on her phone.
This is how Ilya ends up jet-lagged and in a country where he feels pretty good about his English, although it's not at all helpful because no one else seems to actually speak it. He's had a glance at the list of other athletes modeling for this gig, and only recognizes one name - they're all Japanese - from their Olympic roster. It seems like he really is the diversity hire.
There's no time for sightseeing, and Ilya is forced to choose between a nap and visiting the hotel's hot springs (he chooses the nap after he's informed he'll need to cover his tattoos) before the sponsor reception. He meets his interpreter, a fifty-something Japanese man who's also fluent in Russian, and they drive to a generic glass company headquarters before marching to a generic corporate event hall. Ilya wishes desperately that Sveta were with him, instead of off to a yacht with the children of some Russian oligarch that had once made the mistake of calling her "exotic" in her youth and was now about to make her very rich. Instead he's towering over the majority of the room (and he bets that the other people approaching his eye level are all athletes) unable to say anything past basic greetings in his own words. The interpreter is definitely turning anything Ilya says into a version more polite than anything that's ever come out of Ilya's own mouth.
Bored within ten minutes and resigned to letting his interpreter say all the stock phrases, Ilya lets his gaze wander. It's mostly men in suits, with the occasional woman in strict pencil skirts and starched blazers. Sveta would have hated it, and easily stood out in the crowd more than anyone. She'd probably be the most attractive person in the room by far, even more so than Ilya, who hasn't really dressed to impress for this occasion. Some of the other athletes are good-looking, with symmetric faces and fine musculature. One of the taller ones on the other end of the room is really quite striking, but probably only because from the back he looks kind of like --
The man turns and Ilya sees his profile.
"Hollander?" The word slips out unbidden.
"What was that, Mr. Rozanov?" His interpreter asks, deferential.
"Nothing," Ilya says, but his feet are already on the move. "Just saw a friend. Don't worry, he speaks English," he adds, after the interpreter makes to follow him.
Ilya manages to check his speed from a race-walk to what he hopes is a cool saunter as he approaches the corner where Hollander and his team -- his mom, maybe? The older woman at his side looks familiar -- are in conversation. Ilya swipes a drink from a floating tray to occupy his hands, and because he knows he looks sexy eyeing someone over the rim of a martini glass.
He knows the exact moment that Hollander clocks his presence, and smirks, keeping his upper body angled slightly away as if interested in the non-interesting person closest to him, in hopes that he looks aloof and mysterious rather than just a tiny bit desperate. Hollander's back has straightened, stopped doing the thing it did when he was subconsciously trying to appear smaller, and his posture has opened up the circle a little, inviting approach. He does not, Ilya notes, seem surprised about the fact that Ilya is present in the way that Ilya had been when he'd seen Hollander. Briefly, Ilya wonders when that witch Vetrova had intended to tell him about this, if at all.
"Hollander!" he says gregariously as he approaches, and two heads turn to him, confirming his earlier suspicions. He claps Shane on the back in typical hockey bro style, but then leaves the arm draped there as he leans over to assume the role of annoying pest. "I don't escape you anywhere! I go to US, Canada, you are there. Sochi, you are also there. Japan! Here you are in Japan! The only place I do not see you is NHL final."
"Fuck off," Shane growls automatically, before growing red and instantly apologizing to the polite company surrounding them. He squirms his shoulders in a half-hearted escape attempt, but Ilya knows he is secretly glad to see him. He hopes, anyway.
Ilya laughs and tugs him closer, momentarily regretting the drink in his other hand which won't allow him to ruffle Hollander's hair. Anyway, one arm means no homo, so hopefully Mrs. Hollander, with her experience of North American hockey culture, won't have reason for alarm.
"Rozanov, this is my mom, Yuna Hollander," Shane says after a beat. A tactic to get Ilya off of him, probably, but maybe he's also regretting it just a little. "Mom, this is Ilya Rozanov, but I guess you know that already."
Ilya grins, takes Shane's mom's offered hand, and kisses it because he's European and a flirt. "Mrs. Hollander, are you sure they didn't want you for magazine instead? Check papers, please. You are much more beautiful than Shane."
Lies, but Yuna is a good-looking woman and it looks like Shane doesn't know whether to be mortified that Ilya is flirting with his mother or ... actually, Ilya can't really decipher the look on Shane's face. Probably he is also a Mama's boy and likes it when someone appreciates her. Ilya would know.
"Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Rozanov," Yuna Hollander says dryly, which means simultaneously a lot and nothing at all. Ilya laughs, delighted.
He dutifully makes it through the rest of the non-English introductions, noting only that Shane is leaving interpretation up to his mother, before dragging Shane away with the excuse that he needs to know the nutritional content of the foods on the buffet table.
"I'm glad you're finally getting professional about your diet," Hollander remarks seriously. "I'm honestly not so sure I can help much, I don't know the names for that many things and I always preferred pasta and sandwiches as a kid."
"I know that you are boring, Hollander," Ilya replies sweetly. "Thank you for confirmation."
"Oh, fuck off," Hollander says hotly, but he's fighting the same fight that Ilya is, to hide his grin.
"It is nice to be able to talk to someone," Hollander turns pensive. "Not exactly something I'm used to, almost everywhere I go someone is bound to speak English."
"Or French," Ilya teases.
Hollander's laugh is self-deprecating and adorable.
"Why are you here? Your name was not on the list I saw." Ilya can broadly blame Svetlana Vetrova for why Shane was here, but he doesn't know about the how.
"Oh, they probably used my Japanese name," Hollander muses, then continues with some generic boring brand deal details while ignoring how Ilya's eyes are bugging out.
"You have Japanese name? Tell me!" Ilya thinks this might be the best day ever.
"Huh? Oh, yeah, but only my grandparents used to call me that. I don't even react to it, really, if anyone says it, so it's not like -"
"Hollander," Ilya does not plead. "Tell me the name!"
"Uh, well, this one's definitely some kind of sashimi," Hollander says, since they've reached the buffet table. He points to some lovely raw fish but Ilya sees the spark in his eye and would give anything to be able to tackle him to the table right now, fish be damned.
"Is also your name?" he persists, tone dry.
Hollander pokes him with a pair of chopsticks he's picked up. "Don't be ridiculous."
Ilya is not above whining to get what he wants. "Hollander, stop teasing," he complains, leaning closer and dropping his voice half an octave. "Tell me your Japanese name. Don't make me beg; that is your job."
Shane steps a meter away from him and blindly grabs something off the table. Probably to keep from dropping to his knees in the middle of a public event, Ilya guesses, grinning like a shark.
"Bye, Rozanov," Hollander manages, choking it out around whatever he's stuffed in his mouth, presumably to keep it occupied from thoughts of Ilya's dick.
"Hey!" Ilya protests, and makes quick work of catching up to Hollander trying to navigate between groups. "Fine, fine. Keep your secrets. But I don't speak Japanese. You don't speak Japanese. We can talk, yes? Or..."
Ilya eyes Shane sideways, sees the tips of his ears pinking in a cute way, then finishes: "Or I talk to your beautiful mother. She knows a lot about hockey? Of course she must. She can tell me all about little Shane Hollander, second best U-17 talent of all time -"
"Shut up!" Hollander exclaims, but there's no malice behind it. "God, Rozanov, you asshole. Don't talk about my mother!"
"Ok. Then we talk." Victory.
"Fine."
"Fine."
They stare at each other for a bit. Ilya thinks that talking, in person at least, was really not something they did a lot.
"So, uh, what should we talk about?" Hollander asks, awkwardly.
"I don't know. Whatever, I guess. Why don't you speak Japanese?"
"Wow, straight into childhood issues, thanks Rozanov," Hollander says sarcastically.
"Why is it issue? It's just language," Ilya replies neutrally.
"Well, I guess I was kind of a banana growing up, you know. Still am. I didn't want to go to Japanese school on the weekends when all the other kids were playing hockey. Except the Chinese and Korean kids, I guess. Actually I wanted to go to Chinese school with my friend, but mom said that didn't make sense because -"
Ilya must have heard wrong. "You are... banana?"
"Huh? Oh, you know. Yellow on the outside, white on the inside? You probably never heard that growing up, there can't be a ton of Asians in Russia."
Ilya blinks at him, because two-thirds of Russia is in Asia and he thought Canadians were marginally better at geography than Americans. "Okay," he says slowly. Then because he's a dick, he leans in and whispers: "It's okay if it curves, you know. Perfectly normal. Also cute and sexy."
Hollander shoves him. "You're the worst," he exclaims, and then adds under his breath: "Why am I even talking to you."
Ilya bites his tongue on sing-songing because you love me, but that's one thing he's not willing to be wrong about and right now he's having fun. As much fun as he can probably have with both of them in a place where clothing is required.
"Sorry, sorry," he waves his hands but doesn't mean a word he says. "I don't see what is wrong with a banana. Has carbs, has potassium, vitamin A, vitamin B, vitamin -"
Hollander cuts him off sharply before he reaches the inevitable vitamin D. Either they know each other better than they thought, Ilya muses, or Hollander just correctly assumes that Ilya was never more than sixty seconds away from saying something sexual. "It was something other kids said to make fun of the Asian kids, okay? Among other things. Actually, that was one of the least terrible things they said, not that you would know."
Ilya cedes this point because it is not a battle he's afraid to lose. "Did they say you were bad at hockey? Is what I said to eastern Russian kids in Soviet hockey gulag." But only if they deserved it.
"Huh?" Hollander is a little bit mad and a little bit confused, which Ilya finds adorable.
"There are Russian people who look like you, Hollander. Maybe not so pretty, but -"
"Hockey gulag?"
Ilya thinks that was one Russian word that had made it into English, but maybe he's wrong. "Gulag?" He tries to put an American spin to the vowels. "It's in Eastern Russia, where there is only cold, ice, and hockey. Like American movie, where kid goes away from parents for the first time, finds girl, has first kiss, does drugs, sings stupid song."
"Summer camp?" Hollander provides incredulously, and Ilya shrugs. Close enough.
"Sure. Summer camp, but no singing or girls, only eat sleep hockey." Ilya's tone turns sly. "You would love Soviet hockey gulag."
"I…" Hollander bites back the next words, probably because he's boring and Ilya is right. "I have so many questions," Hollander mumbles, rubbing at his temple. "Why Soviet? The USSR dissolved in 1991! Did you go to one of these gulags? Is it like those gymnastics ones that got busted for… well, just about every abuse imaginable, really. Wait, drugs? You didn't say no drugs, shit, Ilya…"
Ilya also hadn't said no kissing, which he had hoped was what Hollander would have picked up on, but that's good Captain Canada for you. Anyway, it was basically an open secret. Hollander knew that, right?
"Soviet Union fell, yes, but Soviet institutions only get new names. Is the same inside. Sometimes hockey gulag doctor gives you some pills without names, smart ones who are good at hockey can fake it, dumb ones or bad hockey players think it will help."
Hollander is looking at him with what might by sympathy, and what also might be pity. "Rozanov," he says softly, and Ilya greatly prefers the mindless Ilya that had slipped from his lips earlier.
He doesn't want pity from anyone, least of all Shane Hollander. "I do not need drugs to beat you," Ilya clarifies. "Not when I was a kid, and not now." He's the most drug-tested player in the NHL for fuck's sake, between being one of the best players in the league and being Russian. If he bought the wrong anti-inflammatory at the pharmacy it'd be front-page news and deportation.
Hollander's shoulders lose a line of tension that had appeared, and he forms a sly smile. "You might need some better edge control, though. My mother says that your footwork gets sloppy in the third period."
Ilya gasps and brings a dramatic hand to his chest. "My sweet Yuna! She wounds me! How do I get the most beautiful Hollander to love me again? I will buy her cars. Jewels. Blue ray DVD of every goal I have scored." Ilya admittedly isn't talking about Yuna anymore.
Shane's groan comes out through a mouth that is trying not to smile. "Stop it", he protests, and then a little more deeply and urgently: "Stop it."
Ilya follows Hollander's gaze to where a group of men in suits, including Ilya's translator, is approaching. He allows himself to pout for a moment as Hollander gives him a professional nod.
"This is probably why we don't talk." Hollander might have looked wistful as he walks away, and unfortunately for Ilya he made his escape before Ilya could suggest many delightful alternatives for talking.
It had been nice, though, Ilya will readily admit. He is learning that he is willing to take whatever he can get, when it comes to Shane Hollander.
Back in his room, Ilya texts Sveta: Do you know which Russian witch has cursed me, that Hollander is wherever I go?
Because he has no self-control, Ilya follows up that text a minute later with: Who else is staying at this hotel?
Minutes later, he has a complete guest list waiting to be downloaded to his phone. He can't help grinning when he finds what he wants. Those Russian hexes sure are strong.
Ilya has excellent self-control, so he waits until 8:30 pm local time to make use of his ill-got information. When Hollander opens the door, Ilya jams his foot in it just in time for it to get crunched in the swift rebound. He winces; that might leave a mark.
"Dude, my mom's here!" Hollander hisses through the gap in the door as Ilya applies his weight and sings, "Hello, Mrs. Hollander!"
Shane pushes back. "What do you want, Rozanov?"
Ilya gives him puppy eyes and nudges the door further open. "Good evening to you, too, Hollander. Can I come in?"
Caught between his Canadian inability to look rude in front of his mom and his desire to keep it in his pants, Ilya presumes, Shane finally releases the pressure on the door. "What do you want," he repeats, cautious.
Ilya strides in as if he owns the place, and innocently asks: "Do you have hockey tape?"
"I - what? Why do you need hockey tape?"
Ilya plops himself down on the couch, across the coffee table where Yuna nods a greeting at him from over a notebook and tablet.
"Do you have?"
"I - this isn't a hockey trip, why would I have it?"
Ilya hasn't stopped laughing internally since his foot got released from the doorframe and he wasn't about to stop now, the way Shane is hovering at the side of his mother's armchair trying not to sound like a hockey obsessed nerd.
"For the hot springs," Ilya finally explains. "I need the tape. To cover tattoos. For cultural appropriation."
Yuna's eyes flick up and Shane can't help but snort. "Appreciation. Appropriation is the other one."
"Ah, yes. Wait, what is other one?" The words are basically identical, but Ilya means whichever one matches the way he's dragging his eyes up Shane's body now.
"That's a great idea, actually," Yuna says after Shane's hasty vocabulary lesson. "Shane, honey, you said you wanted to visit the onsen too, right? Do you remember all the rules I told you?"
"I…" Ilya had never thought of Shane Hollander as an idiot, except maybe when it came to his cock, so he was surprised it took the other man so long to clock what a great opportunity had just been dropped in his lap.
"It is a lot of etiquette," Shane says slowly, suddenly trying to contain his excitement. Ilya should know, he's looking at his pants. "You'd definitely fuck something up, Rozanov."
"Shane," his mother chides, "You don't have to like each other, but please be civil."
Ilya quirks an eyebrow at Shane, but returns his expression to angelic as soon as Yuna looks over.
"I don't want to get in trouble," Ilya lies, because he is so planning on getting into trouble as soon as possible. "You do have tape, yes?"
Hockey nerd extraordinaire Shane Hollander sighs and mumbles: "Yes, I have tape. Now get out, I'll meet you there or whatever."
Ilya will give him hell later about Hollander wanting to watch him walk away, but it'll be more effective if he makes it worth it. He doesn't go too far, though, waiting outside the cracked door and counting down the minutes until he can have Hollander's tongue in his mouth.
"He's not as bad as you would think, given all the press about him," Ilya hears Yuna muse. A small jolt of surprise washes through him and he can't help a small smile.
"Mom, he's so annoying. He drives me up the fucking wall," Shane complains, sounding more like a teenager than a ripe 24-year-old man. Ilya tingles with pride at that, and as soon as Shane makes it out of the door, tape, towel, and change of clothes in one hand, Ilya pulls him into the stairwell and proceeds to drive him up the fucking wall.