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The first time, Ilya doesn’t realize it’s happening. It will be later, many months later, when he finally finds the pattern that triggers it, or at least one of them. In the beginning, it mixes up with everything he’s feeling: getting back into Russia, losing to Hollander, fear and loathing about the next two months of his life.
It blooms from inside him like a wave; he can imagine black tar covering his insides, now his stomach, then his lungs, and finally pressing around his heart, making it smaller and smaller until it disappears.
The point is, it’s not an unknown feeling for Ilya, this despair. That first time, Hollander has just left the penthouse, his stupid voice too soft, too hurt. Not surprisingly, that didn’t help. But Ilya keeps himself anchored to the same spot. It allows the feeling to consume him, heart beating hard inside his chest.
It’s just something else on top of everything that’s going on. The light in the room is still dim, the cigarette in his mouth unlit, his hands slack at his sides. It had been going so well before tonight. Ilya had been able to ignore Hollander’s text for months after the moment he talked to him in Sochi. But he had underestimated the way his body would react to the proximity of Hollander. Ilya can say no to his needs if he wants to. He drinks because he likes to, he fucks because he wants to, but at any point he can stop, and he has, when necessary.
Saying no to Hollander should be easy. But of course, Ilya doesn’t want to. It doesn't matter that it is not good for any of them.
Hollander should be easy. He’s straightforward to a fault, unable to hide, especially for Ilya. He can see everything in those brown, doe-like eyes. The problem with Hollander is that every time they are together, instead of being what Ilya expects, what he should be, he manages to surprise him, and Ilya can say no to his needs but curiosity will always lead him to bad decisions.
Like today, touching his back (his first bad decision), following him to the bathroom (second), especially because Ilya knew that Hollander knew he was going to follow him. What do you want from me? , he asks, teary-eyed and everything. I want to suck you dry, Ilya could’ve answered, I want to become something that crawls in the space between your jugular and your skin and live there for eternity.
Ilya laughs at him, though, and it feels good; he’s still in control of the situation, isn’t he? "You suck me off," Hollander says, and Ilya, fuck. They should be leaving the bathroom, but Hollander can’t, and Ilya knows. Hollander would suck him off in this filthy bathroom, and Ilya can’t understand why someone like him, the golden good boy of the fucking league, is ready to humiliate himself for Ilya Rozanov and do it so willingly, coming in his pants, moaning his surname. A clarity shoots in his brain that Ilya would suck him off too, maybe, probably yes: if only to see his face getting red every time they crossed eyes during the party, his taste still on Ilya’s lips. But someone has to maintain control, and it's not going to be Hollander. It triggers Ilya into growing bold and baiting him (third terrible decision), and then he kisses him (fourth and worst and final; he won’t repeat it again this night).
He curves into himself in the bed, the cigarette breaking against the pillow, makes himself as small as possible, and waits for the wave to pass, breathing shallowly; maybe it will kill him, and at least he would not need to go back to Russia at all.
Summer comes and goes, and with it ending, a new season starts. Ilya comes back to Boston as early as he is able to; he doesn’t miss practice even before the pre-season starts. He imagines Hollander doing the same; the fucker has never missed an optional practice, Ilya’s sure. They meet once in Boston, for the first game, and Ilya doesn’t even try not kissing him. Fuck it. It didn’t help at all anyway. Ilya fucks Hollander like he has never fucked anyone, and Hollander takes it like a champ, mouth open and eyes teary. Ilya spanks him as a punishment for winning, then he shifts him until that reddened ass is sat on Ilya’s face and makes him come so hard his legs don’t respond to him afterwards; Hollander almost falls off the bed, Ilya catches him, and they fucking laugh about it. That one is not a bad night for Ilya. The next day, just as Ilya wakes up, he makes the mistake of thinking about it and has to jerk off just to be able to manage the day.
He watches his interviews obsessively, thinking they don’t know. You talk about your hockey like the perfect player. You fold your clothes and scold me for smoking, and I just know that you separate food of different textures on your plate, but when I spit in your mouth, you ask for more. Who the fuck are you?
The season goes on, inevitably, the same as their encounters after the games. Every time they see each other is a thrill. Ilya realizes that he is starting to try to find limits. Hollander’s, that is, but maybe his, too. Just so he knows if it is further than his, but that is not going to happen. Because whatever gets Hollander going, it will get him going too. He fucks him and makes him come and doesn’t even pull out, because the moment when he’s thinking about it, he can see the posture change and Ilya knows Hollander wants him to stay. Then Hollander is thrashing on the bed, trying to get away from him, but his hands firmly clasped into Ilya’s grip. Ilya makes him come a second time, almost dry and half hard, tears falling from his face.
Those are the bad ones, where the guilt afterwards creeps on him, the dread, because he can’t really remember if Hollander actually asked about it or if it’s just something inside him, a deep, dark desire that he is not the owner of, that is lying to him; and Hollander is just compromising. But Hollander could have freed himself, could have kicked him out of him, Ilya thinks.
No, he knows. He hopes he’s right. But even as it is, why does Ilya like it so much?
Hollander keeps coming to him, though. It doesn’t matter how bad Ilya feels, and it doesn’t matter how much he wants to kiss the bruises better, his hands itching with the need to bring him into his space and confirm he is okay. Hollander gets spacey afterwards, not cold, but blank as if, incapable of actually hiding his feelings from being shown to Ilya, he is able to store them for later. Ilya thinks he is learning from him, and, as with everything, Hollander is a good student. He changes the subject so fast that Ilya has trouble to follow sometimes. The lower they go, the sooner he comes back, see you in a month, or fuck, I just washed this pillow, or sorry about JJ today, or—.
Sometimes Ilya stays on his phone, afterwards, at home. Sometimes he watches the three dots appear, and they help, in a way, when he cannot breathe, when he is pushed into a fetal position in the middle of his bed, hair still wet, eyes burning, unable to get the taste of Hollander from his mouth, no matter how much he brushes his teeth.
Ilya waits until they stop appearing, and even that—the idea that Hollander is thinking about him calms him down. Fucking pathetic.
Do it, Hollander. Say something. Anything.
He doesn’t.
Who cares. Not Ilya, that’s for sure. A taste of reality: this is what he wants; this is what he has with other people: they meet, they fuck.
Simple.
Svetlana asks him about it next summer. Yes, she’s right, he doesn’t fuck around that much anymore. "That much?" she says, eyebrows up. More like nothing, but she is nice enough to not finish the sentence. He justifies himself. Always the same faces in Russia, and he hates this place. You know that, Sveta. She will not say anything when the same happens after coming back to Boston.
Talking in Russian used to make Ilya feel more himself than ever but he feels like lying anyway. A fake version of himself wherever he goes. Svetlana looks at him, sighs, not in a pitiful way, but a knowing one. She takes out her dress and puts on a Boston t-shirt that Ilya has lying around and some shorts that stay way too low in her thin hips. She sits on his bed, pats her lap, and stays in instead of going through the repetitive motion of partying. She wants to, but she does it for him; she knows how he gets sometimes. She’s the only one. This place is killing you, Ilyushenka. She only uses that name when he is really, really sad. He doesn’t tell her that he loves it, for a minute he feels—only his mother called him by a diminutive. His mother and her; Ilya would wish things were different if this wasn’t already perfect.
There is another reason, but that one doesn’t even use his first name.
Her hand on his hair, repetitive motions that calm his thoughts. It’s not that bad, he lies. It’s just that he doesn’t find it thrilling anymore; maybe when he’s back for the season, he will find something else on the road to keep him entertained, he jokes, but she doesn’t take the bait. His phone pings, heart jumping in his chest, and it’s a titanic effort not to check it out. He is trying not think about Hollander, but he fucking keeps writing. And what’s worse, Ilya keeps writing him back.
Another season and the sadness stays in Russia, at least in the beginning. It will reach him, at some point, but he always thinks he has been faster than it, that this time around he will get to be happy. He is always wrong; it always awaits him in the shadows, when he least expects it.
The first night they are going to meet is a bad night for the Metros. Ilya feels on top of the world even before it starts. There are games like this, where he already knows they are going to go well. Especially when it’s against Montreal—his favorites. He doesn’t feel like that later, though, because the win comes with the expectation of knowing that something is going on with Hollander. He feels kind of distracted, and Ilya notices how he avoids making eye contact with him when they are on the benches.
The problem is: you don’t ignore Ilya Rozanov, on or off the ice.
Hollander loses, and, therefore, Ilya picks. It’s a home game for Montreal, too, so the humiliation is doubled. That usually means that Hollander is already angry when he opens the door to his apartment for Ilya. Ilya’s mouth waters. “I didn’t tell you to come,” Hollander says, but he frees the doorway so Ilya can navigate the threshold, which is an invitation in and of itself.
Ilya doesn’t cross it, though, and watches Hollander get impatient. “What has your knickers in a twist, Hollander? Did something bad happen today?”
Ilya has been saving the expression for months, since he heard Cliff using it, knowing he would be using it only with Hollander. He had to look for the translation of "knickers" in the beginning, and he blacked out on the idea of—not only Hollander wearing some but also on the idea of Hollander thinking about it. Delicious. He knew that using that word would also put the expression he liked so much on Hollander’s face. Offended and frustrated and tired of Ilya, all feelings that actually make them both horny.
“I’m trying a new diet that—” he realizes, Ilya thinks, how boring it sounds. Then Hollander reins himself in, as if the information had gone out without his input. “Doesn’t matter. In or out, Rozanov,” chest already pushing against the t-shirt. Like him, bland and boring, except for the way his nipples stand stark against the soft cloth.
In. Always in.
Jacket still on, the most shit-eating grin he can muster on his face, even when he’s already so horny, looking at Hollander, watching him grow more and more impatient. Four months, Hollander. I want to eat you, spit you out, and fuck you until you only remember my name.
“If you didn’t want me here, why are you already hard, Hollander? Were you trying to bring yourself off?”
Brow furrowed, but he doesn’t move away when Ilya closes the space between them.
“Fuck off, Rozanov, I can come without you.” Pink all over the background of his freckles. Ilya wants to lick them. Ilya has come all over those freckles, but Hollander still gets embarrassed even talking about it.
“Hmmm,” low, low, you know it gets him going. More than words sometimes, even. “Not the same, though.” He is not looking at him, but something close, maybe Ilya’s ear, a trick that Hollander does sometimes. Ilya won’t have that; he suddenly clamps his jaws with his hands, unforgiving. He pushes him—without force but relentlessly—until his back is pushed against the counter. Hollander’s mouth opens, either because of the pressure of his fingers or just on his own—it’s always difficult to say with Hollander. Probably both.
“I—” Hollander starts, but Ilya hushes him, and he stills, whatever the next word was going to be dying in his mouth. Ilya’s dick twitches inside his jeans sympathetically.
“If you’re going to say it’s the same, I’m taking the door back to my hotel.” A beat. “Is it?”
Hollander swallows. “Is it what.”
“The same, Hollander.”
He tries to shake his head against the deadtrap that is Ilya’s hand. Ilya’s pinkie slips to his Adam’s apple, and he almost, almost misses how Hollander’s eyes glint at the pressure. Oh, fuck me, not this too, Ilya thinks.
“It’s not. Please,”
“Please what.”
“Please stay.”
Hand down to his neck, clamping now the sides under his ears, and Ilya bites into his mouth, extracting sounds from Hollander that go straight to his dick.
Hollander on all fours, as God intended. Ass up, trying to get Ilya to fuck him, pushing against the tip. A smack on his ass, hard, and then another, and another one. “Be good and stay still,” soothing the place up afterwards, and Hollander whimpers, his face pressed against the pillow, his hands below it to stop himself from touching what he should not touch. “You’ve come twice, Hollander. Almost a hat trick. Almost what I did to you this afternoon. Do you remember it?” Six hours or a lifetime ago.
“I’m going to kill you.” Muffled from the pillow. Ilya presses in, so slowly that it even hurts himself; he has been edging Hollander for so long that the lube has gone slightly drier than it should.
He won't even be capable of sitting still the next day. Are you going to remember me during practice, Hollander? Are you going to get hard thinking about this during your lame captain pep talk about the loss?
Finally, his voice, half muffled against the pillow: “If you don’t shut the fuck up, I swear they will never find your body.” Ilya laughs; he must have said it out loud. He does have a tendency to run his mouth when deep into Hollander; he has to be careful. Doesn’t matter now; it’s already out. Cat is out of the bag or whatever. He rolls his hips around, once, twice, and then takes pity on the mess that Hollander is under him and fucks him in earnest.
He focuses on the back of Hollander’s head and then on the pillow where his face is pushed into, silent; not even—a thought crosses his mind.
Is he? No. But maybe he is. Is he not fucking breathing? Ilya stays glued to him for a second. The heat. Like fucking into a forge. No, seriously, is he? Breathing? Is he pushing himself against the pillow, against the cloth, trying to make it difficult for himself? Is this the first time? Ilya can’t deal with that, not right now; the thought all-consuming. He tries to store it for later in the folder inside his brain that says Shane Hollander should not be a fucking mystery, and yet. He takes him by the hips and thrusts into him, the angle to hit and punish his prostate known like the back of his hand. Like coming home if he loved his home. The folder is full of information about this man. He came untouched the first night they fucked, the first night. Ilya looks down to the place where their bodies meet, watches Hollander take him once and again and how the rim contracts around his cock, and a sound leaves his throat; it sounds like Holland-fuck or something equally gone. Hollander likes when I press on his bruises. He likes when I check him on a game, and I remind him about it later. Shane—Hollander is moaning now, close to coming, and Ilya tries to focus on it. I want to taste his tears. He likes feeling helpless, but only when I win. Just when the known pressure consumes him, the orgasm following Hollander’s, just a couple seconds after he starts drooling on the pillow, Ilya thinks, he likes to be choked, maybe, and comes so hard he can’t even see for ten seconds straight.
He gets back to that later, on his own bed, after showering. Trying to wash away the dread with hot water, and it is almost working. Focusing on the night helps, focusing on the win helps, but nothing is enough when he feels like this. It doesn’t always happen, but it’s frequent enough to know that his encounters with Hollander are sometimes the trigger, but not enough to remember about it when he is looking at those eyes, needy, unable to tell him no.
He dissects the night instead, remembering every detail, the curve on his neck, the silence—more telling than anything else—where heavy breathing should have been. Back tense with withholding himself. He tries to remember the way his ass felt around him, even, and it’s a testament to his obsession that he doesn’t even want to jerk off. The hotel room is dark and quiet; Montreal is always nice like that. He wants to go back home, and he still has five more days on the road. He checks his calendar. Fucking New York in two days; he already knows it’s not going to be a good day like today. He checks it further. A month and a half until they meet again in Boston. He changes to check their messages. The last one was left on read.
The three dots appear for a second, and Ilya’s heart makes a somersault jump inside his chest; he pushes up onto his elbow. They disappear, then. Then again, longer this time. Come on, Hollander. Disappeared. Goes from green to grey.
They don’t come up again. Ilya falls asleep looking at his phone, and he wakes up and it’s drained of battery, like himself.
Svetlana appears in his home after a disastrous game against Houston. Ilya is not in the mood to see anyone, but she brings good vodka, and they are half drunk and half on top of each other before an hour. She makes it so easy.
“—and this fucking guy spanks me, can you believe it?”
She is talking about her last—whatever. Not boyfriend but also not-not boyfriend. “And, like, okay, but warn a girl, you know?”
Ilya knows. Hollander doesn’t want him to warn, he thinks. As for himself, he wants to and he doesn’t want to. Hollander wants Ilya to take and take and take as if everything were Ilya’s, but the point is that it is not, and in a way that makes it hotter. Ilya is confused.
“Did you like it?”
She looks at him and rolls her eyes. “Yes! But that’s totally not the point. What if I did not like it? What if it hurt me?”
Ilya says, “I would have to kill him.”
“You know I don’t need you to kill a guy.”
“No, but I would do it anyway.”
She messes his hair and laughs. Ilya keeps listening to her ramblings, not fully paying attention. He thinks about Hollander and himself. He doesn’t worry that much about the first question; they both like it, so that’s not the point.
The second one, though. The second one leaves him thinking for way longer than it should.
Montreal ends up winning this time around, in overtime. It’s never an easy game between them, even being at home ice, but Montreal is still butthurt about the last one, and they are playing harder than usual. It has been one of the most difficult in the whole season, and half of both teams are fucked up. Ilya checks Hollander so hard he thought for a second he had broken something, his grunt of pain leaving a bad taste in his mouth. Not a bad check on purpose, but—this is hockey. A moment of weakness to confirm he is standing up distracts him enough that he doesn’t catch fucking Pike throwing gloves at him, and that’s why Ilya does not see the first punch coming, and then he just sees red. Always a good day when Hayden Pike gives Ilya an excuse to make him pay for being close to Hollander in a way that Ilya will never be allowed to. Pike ends up with his back on the ice anyway, but Ilya’s ear rings for a moment.
Ilya almost punches him one last time, but between all the voices there is one—fucking stop it!—and he is so attuned to that voice that he can hear it in the middle of the roaring of ten other male voices screeching. The second of hesitation actually allows Cliff to move him away from the body of Pike in the ice, who’s looking at him as if he wanted to kill him. Ilya smiles at him, something feral, he thinks, and then winks. He doesn’t eye Hollander; he doesn’t want to see the look of disappointment.
Afterwards, when he looks at the play repeated on the screen, he can see Hollander’s pain in his eyes, the way he spits blood afterwards, and the way he touches his shoulder.
Ilya skates away, Cliff’s hand patting him on the back. He’s sorry (I don’t want to hurt you); he’s not sorry (it’s the game we decided to play); he wants to ask for forgiveness anyway. He might not be able to.
He’s just out of the shower, ignoring the movement around him on the locker, wet hair plastered to his forehead, when his phone pings. Jane. The name like the gavel of a judge. Found guilty, sentenced for life.
your home?
Hollander needs to check his shoulder. They should not fuck. They should not meet again, not even on the ice. Ilya should go back to Russia, where no one really cares about Shane Hollander.
Nobody cares about Ilya there, either.
He doesn’t reply. He is still reeling from the last time and he knows that if they meet, he will do something that he will regret. Maybe Hollander won’t, but—
Three dots appear. Disappear. Hollander wants.
Just a word.
rozanov.
Hollander was not breathing. Ilya wants.
yes.
Three dots appear. Ilya feels like he’s always waiting for them to disappear, leaving something behind or just emptiness. Ilya writes, or he doesn’t; Hollander hesitates so much that sometimes Ilya ignores him afterwards, just to fuck with him.
I have to get this checked. I’ll be a little late.
Relief and dread. In or out, Rozanov? Hollander is always in, too. Will his mouth taste like blood?
i will survive 🙄 check your fucking shoulder.
Three dots. They appear, disappear, nothing else comes. Cliff throws a towel at his face. “Fucking dry yourself off, Rozy. I won’t forgive you if you get sick.”
Ilya flips him off.
The problem with Hollander, or. Well. The problem with them both is that they fight to get exactly the same result. There is a crack on the inside of Hollander’s lip. He complains when Ilya kisses him. “You’re such an asshole.”
A moment of hesitation. “Is your shoulder—”
“It’s fine,” Hollander lies. “Don’t flatter yourself; I’ve had worse.”
“I’ll be sure to break it next time.”
Hollander smiles inside the kiss. It takes Ilya a second to realize he is also smiling, too. He bites his lip down, and Hollander moans.
His mouth does taste like blood.
“What do you want?” Ilya says. Hollander shrugs and winces. Fine, my ass, Ilya thinks. “Come here, then,” and Ilya makes the decision to at least be fucking careful today. Maybe not careful, but—well. He wasn’t breathing, haven't you heard?. Hollander answers to his kiss like he always does: as if Ilya’s mouth was the first contact with water after a week. Ilya takes a moment to take out his jacket and launches it to the sofa, but it doesn't make it. He checks it out, still kissing Hollander, and can see his brow furrow. “Don’t worry, I will let you hang it afterwards.”
“I don’t care about your stupid clothes, Rozanov,” he says, his hand automatically moving under Ilya’s shirt, tugging on it. Ilya laughs and allows him to take it out; he throws it away. “See?” He says, and his mouth is on Ilya’s collarbone, licking it, climbing up to his neck.
Ilya is walking backwards into his room, not allowing more than centimeters between them. They get inside, the back of Ilya’s knees against the bed.
“That was wild, Hollander; you deserve a prize for being so irresponsible,” but he is giving Hollander the time to put his own shirt on the chair that Ilya specifically prepared beforehand for this.
“I deserve a prize for winning,” Hollander says, and it is kind of true. Ilya should be angrier, and he doesn’t dwell on the fact that he is not or the reason for it. He knows. He doesn’t think about it.
“You can have it as fast as you get down on your knees,” he says, and allows Hollander to push him into the bed, a smile on his face, eyes dark. On the bedtable there are lube and condoms. Everything is prepared for this, so they don’t have to stop, so they don’t have time to think at all. His mouth on Ilya’s balls first, lapping around them and putting them inside his mouth. "Да, yes," he says, and he raises himself onto his elbows to look at him licking a long stripe through his shaft, then the head, then pushing softly into the slit. Ilya moans his approval. He gets momentarily distracted by the purple that is already blooming on the side of his shoulder. Hollander doesn’t seem to mind when Ilya puts his hand on top of it. The skin is so warm there. He looks Ilya in the eye in the last second before he puts his cock in his mouth, deep, as deep as he’s able; his eyes close for a second in concentration, and he does something on his throat that takes it further deep, and fuckfuckfuck, his nose is pressed against Ilya’s pubes.
He was not breathing. Ilya’s fingers sink into the purple of his shoulder. Not enough to hurt, maybe. Not yet, anyway.
“Do you want me to fuck your pretty little face?”
Hollander is bitchy enough to fucking roll his eyes, as if saying, what do you think? It’s funny and infuriating on the same level; Ilya goes for infuriating. He moves around his leg, pressing the heel against the bed to find purchase; leaves the bruise to entangle his fingers around Hollander’s hair and pulls out until his cock is just halfway through Hollander's mouth. He drools on it. It’s the hottest thing Ilya has seen. Hollander is fully flushed, Ilya can count all his freckles, and he breathes in heavily after the long seconds without air.
“Take this, then.”
His eyes close the minute Ilya starts thrusting against the back of his throat. His hand is on Ilya’s thigh, fingers pressed against it. It doesn’t take long for Ilya to be closer to finishing than he would like to, so at some point he just pushes and pushes until they end up like before, pressed together, Ilya not breathing to match Hollander. He opens his eyes, and tears are pooling inside, but Hollander is not making any move to free himself, to stop this, or to stop Ilya from hurting him. Ilya puts his thumb on his cheek, touches his own cock through it.
The most fucked-up gay chicken game in history.
Ilya loses. He pulls out, and they both breathe in as if they were finishing a marathon. Hollander blinks, and one stupid tear falls down from the corner of his eye; he cleans it against Ilya’s leg. Ilya mourns the opportunity to taste it.
“How close are you?”
Hollander smiles sheepishly, too horny to care. Ilya loves it when he’s like this. “Very. But I can—”
Whatever he’s going to say, Ilya doesn’t want to hear it. “Come here to my face then. I want you to last when I fuck you later.”
Hollander all but scrambles, but Ilya does not miss how even on his knees, he is favoring his left shoulder. I’m sorry, he wants to say, but instead he just puts the pillow below his head and the lube close to him, and he opens his mouth.
It doesn’t take long for Hollander to come, cock in Ilya’s mouth and Ilya’s thumb already coated in lube inside his hole, teasing enough for Hollander to finish on Ilya’s throat.
Ilya smacks him in the ass, but instead of falling to the side, like he expected, Hollander drops down and stays there for a second, on top of him. Kisses his own taste from Ilya and then rests his head on his chest. His soft cock against Ilya’s hard, not exactly moving, not exactly motionless. Ilya doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
At some point, Hollander seems to regain common sense and moves to his left (of course), his bruised shoulder too close to Ilya for comfort. Ilya remembers thirty minutes ago when he decided he would be good, but by the time the thought really forms, his mouth is on the bruise. He bites, not strong, but it makes Hollander open his eyes. “That’s not how you kiss it better.”
He sometimes gets like this after coming. Ilya wonders if this is the Shane—the Hollander that other people get when he is really comfortable, when he forgets the world is not getting him and he is not getting the world. Does Pike get this?
“Who says I want to make it better?”
“You’re the worst.”
Ilya shifts until he is straddling Hollander’s legs. He puts an arm below his waist and raises him to his knees, head still on the pillow, looking back at him, neck in what must be an uncomfortable position.
Ilya tries to take his time preparing him for the second round; his own cock is ignored, tip red and angry. Maybe he should have come, too, but there is something in making himself wait.
Masochism, maybe.
“That’s enough, Rozanov.” A second, and he looks back at him. The thing is, it is not enough. If Hollander and he fucked every week, maybe, maybe it would suffice with thirty seconds of preparation, but he is still pressing onto his fingers. “Since when are you an expert on this, Hollander? I would say I know how this works better than you.”
Hollander pushes his ass against his fingers.
“I’m not—I won’t break, Rozanov.”
Ilya thinks, this is going to hurt. Another thought: Hollander wants it to hurt. And then, the worst of them all—he wants to be the one to inflict that pain.
I won’t break, he says. Do you want me to try anyway? It is what I’m good at, in the end, am I not? Exhibit A: your shoulder. Exhibit B: the taste of blood from your lip. Exhibit C: the way you keep coming back to me.
“We’ll see about that,” and the moment it is out of his mouth, Ilya hates it, in a way. A challenge he can never back down from. Because that’s the most important part: not only that Hollander wants to be broken, but that he wants to break Hollander. He wants to be the one to break him. That he wants to ruin him, Ilya needs Hollander to know that anything he needs, Ilya can provide, he doesn’t need to be looking for it anywhere else. Then he puts on the condom, and the head of his cock pushes into the heat and goes in, in, in. Hollander’s hands grasping the pillow, Ilya takes a second to confirm that the position is not weird.
Same thing as the last time. Ilya feels like he has fallen in a trap. Like last time, Hollander is before him, his back to him, sweat beading down to his neck. Ilya shifts down and licks a long strip of it, salty to his tongue; Hollander raises his back so he has better access to his skin, but he doesn’t stay there. It’s the shoulder, Ilya knows.
Ilya positions his hand on the middle of the shoulder blades and pushes him down softly, then the fingers slip down to where his actual shoulder meets his neck, and the fingers just. They just need to hook up there to be able to fuck Hollander like he wants, like he needs, although he must already be feeling Ilya up to his stomach. And then, a movement, and if at this point Ilya were not so attuned to Hollander, he would not have noticed; it’s not really even a movement, maybe a jerk, maybe just a fucking nod, but his fingers slip just a little bit more, and, fuck, Ilya can’t stop himself from pressing lower still, surrounding his neck.
For a fraction of a second, the world hangs on the pad of his finger against his Adam’s apple. Then, pressure on his dick, like he has not felt in a long time, not since Hollander was—since their first days. And it's not the same, not at all, because this is intentional; this is Hollander pressing down on him so strongly that Ilya just can’t do anything else but take him from the neck, dragging Hollander just a little bit up, closer to him, with free access to his neck, with so much power that he doesn’t really know what to do with it for a second.
Ilya shifts down, one hand on Hollander's side to support himself and the other hand on his neck, pressing down, not too hard, not enough to stop the air from entering completely—he thinks. Ilya has not done this before; not like this, not as anything more than a show. Some girls like it, or they say they do, but also a lot of them just think they want it because they fuck guys that watch too much porn. And it’s not like Ilya gets off to it—until now, apparently, and after this. Before Hollander and after him. Hollander’s hands are gripping Ilya’s legs, scratching his skin; he could free himself if he wanted to (he thinks), but the line is so fucking thin, and Ilya is liking this, the struggle, and isn’t that—
He needs to look at his face, or he will fucking panic. “Hollander,” he says, I need to see you, he thinks, and his hand is still on his neck, an hysteric laugh almost bubbling out of him. He pulls away and turns Hollander onto his back, careful about the shoulder. Hollander’s brow is furrowed, his hands trying to get Ilya back into him, needy, needy, needy. “Fucking impatient,” Ilya says, and he follows the unspoken order by pushing inside of him, now with better access both to his neck and to his cock, and he can see his face. I want to hurt you; I don’t want to hurt you. I need to know exactly what I am doing.
Hollander’s body is at his mercy, and Ilya thrusts into him, almost supporting himself on his neck, muscles under his hand straining, face red, mouth open, looking for air. He loosens the pressure, and Hollander closes his eyes, breathes in hard, and then moans at a particularly accurate shot of Ilya’s hips. His tights are straining after a full game and two hours of fucking, but if he has to break his cock to make this man come, he will. It won’t take long; he’s so close. With his free hand, he pushes into the shoulder once again at the same time that he tightens the one in his neck, Hollander’s face doing seventy-two expressions in half a second, and then he finally starts to walk the way down to his nipples, smacking them a couple of times, hard as they are. He moves it to his balls, his sack tight and so fucking ready to spill, the precome dripping through the shaft. “Fuck, Hollander, will you come when I tell you to?” He only gets a dry moan with too little air and his nails pressing down on Ilya’s leg so hard it will leave a mark. There are tears forming in his eyes, and suddenly they spill from the eyelids to the side.
Ilya doesn’t think; he drops down and kisses him. Almost not a kiss, just a slip of the tongue against his. Hollander is breathing, albeit shallowly. Then he reaches out to the side of his face and kisses the tear, brings the salt to his tongue, and grunts. Hollander’s arms are suddenly around Ilya’s back, pressing them together.
Fucking Shane Hollander, what would they say if they saw you like this? What would the world say? I would do it on the ice; I would do it while your teammates watched, the fucking Stanley Cup in their hands. He hopes he has not said that out loud, and then, just in case, his hand sneaks between them, and it surrounds Hollander’s cock and moves up and down on the rhythm his hips have established. A whisper, his surname, coated in desperation and a plea. Ilya grunts, angry that he can’t postpone it anymore; he has three, maybe four more thrusts in him before he comes, too. He pulls out, leaves his throat for a second, and Hollander breathes in against his mouth, and then Ilya rams inside him once, twice more. “Come for me, Hollander,” and he just melts around him, Ilya finishing just as his last, almost dry spurt leaves Hollander’s cock, pressing so hard inside of him that he might actually break him; he might finish them both.
Ilya has maybe a quarter of a second left of coherent thoughts to think that he should not slump on top of Hollander, to give him some space to actually fucking breathe, but Hollander’s arms are still around him, and he cannot do get away without being an asshole, so he stays there, his hands on Hollander’s sides taking some of the full weight with them.
“That was,” Hollander says, under him, after a couple of minutes or half an hour. Ilya’s brain is full of fog., He nods, pushing into his hands. For a second it feels like Hollander will not move his arms, but then he allows him to leave. Ilya turns on himself, back onto the bed, and he finally takes out the condom. He stands up, almost afraid that Hollander will see his legs still trembling, but he has a hand over his eyes, still breathing heavily.
He walks over to the small trashcan that he has ready for this. He thinks about himself afterwards, putting the bag out, everything that could be proof of their encounter disappearing even before Hollander is back home.
Except Hollander's pain, maybe. Except Ilya’s. Bathroom then; he picks up the towel that he had prepared beforehand and runs the water until it is warm.
There is something so intimate about cleaning Hollander. Another thing that’s only for him, not because he doesn’t want to, but because other people just don’t hate it as much as Hollander when it dries out. Or maybe they do, and Ilya has just never been so observant—obsessed—about them to notice. But he likes doing this for Hollander, a small part of something he thinks, hopes, is only his. His mind, always helpful, provides then; you know what is only yours too? The way he wants to be hurt. Maybe he is not coming back only because he likes how you hurt him. Maybe he is coming back because he knows you will do it, and isn’t that a warming thought?
He drops down beside Hollander.
“Okay?”
Hollander sighs and then nods. “Yes, sorry. I’ll leave in a minute.”
Ilya swallows. I didn’t say that. Stay. Fucking stay; I’m starting to see the teeth in the shadows, the monster that will eat me whole the minute you’re out of the door.
Hollander finally leaves the bed, and suddenly it’s not only the teeth; he can see the whole monster climbing out from inside his chest, his dirty paws on his own shoulders.
“You’re fucking limping, Hollander.”
“It’s just—”
“I know what it was.” How could he not? It was Ilya, of course.
Ilya realizes too late that the despair that usually blooms into his chest is appearing way faster this time around, and it might be in full before Hollander is out. Bad. Bad, bad, bad. While Hollander is looking away, he sits up on the other side of the bed, back to Hollander, and presses his nails into his hands until the pain takes away a little bit of the edge. Not enough to last, but Hollander is fast, normally. He should be already half-dressed. He breathes in and out and puts on his briefs, discarded on the floor. By the time he looks around, Hollander has his clothes on and he’s looking at him. Then he nods and leaves the room on his way to the door. Ilya breathes in and follows, and then Hollander turns around, a very concerned look on his face.
“What are you waiting for, Hollander? You have flight tomorrow, yes?”
Hollander licks his lips. He is scanning Ilya’s face, but Ilya has recovered enough control over himself to hide it. He thinks. He hopes.
“Is everything all right?”
Of course. I love fucking you up so much that you’re wincing when you put on your jacket, and you cannot breathe, and you’re fucking limping. Let’s do it again in a month. Can’t wait.
“My dick is not infinite, Hollander, but if you need another go—”
“God, you’re insufferable sometimes.”
Yes. Get angry and leave. Please.
“And you keep coming for more, so who’s the problem here?”
Expression like a kicked puppy. Ilya wants to get on his knees and hug his legs.
“Ok, fuck you then, Rozanov. See you around,” he says.
Ilya can’t stop himself from having the last word. “Of course. Ready to fuck your shoulder again when you need it.”
He’s halfway out the door, but that makes Hollander look back at him. “What do you mean?”
Ilya sighs. “Nothing. Go.”
For a second, it feels like Hollander is going to do something stupid, like ask again. Then he nods, eyebrows still knitted together, and raises his hands in a gesture that probably means that he gives up, which is exactly how it should be.
Ilya waits for the sound of his steps getting further away, and when they finally disappear, he puts his forehead against the door, hoping he were different. He slides down, slowly, wishing he had enough energy to get to the vodka in the cupboard, and stays down for a long time and he doesn’t, doesn’t, does not fucking cry.
He wakes up with a start, not knowing what time it is or even where he is. His phone is ringing on his side, on the bed. The night before comes to him in a second, and he realizes that at some point he must have come into the bed, not even bothering to shower or get inside the blankets. The phone stops ringing; he checks it out and realizes that it’s almost too early in the morning to consider it last night.
The phone starts ringing again. Jane. It’s the first time he calls Ilya in all these years. The first thing that he thinks is that something bad has happened. If Hollander had an accident and someone took his phone, the last messages should be to him, even under the Lily disguise. There are unread messages, too, but his eyes do not respond. He picks it up.
“Hollander?”
“Open the door.”
“What door?” That doesn’t make any fucking sense.
“The door to your house, Rozanov. I’m freezing my ass out here, and you’re fucking deaf. I’ve been calling for twenty minutes.”
He must be dreaming. He goes to the door, opens it, and Shane Hollander is there, in the flesh. He doesn’t even bother to wait until Ilya allows him to pass through; he just lets himself into the kitchen.
Ilya is still at the door, still open, looking at Hollander as if it were an apparition.
“Is this nightmare?”
Kicked puppy face. “Yes. I mean no. I mean, you’re not asleep. Please close the door and come here?”
Ilya, at a loss for anything better to do, obeys.
“Why are you not in your hotel?”
Hollander bites his lip. He looks at him, concentrating on his face, and Ilya suddenly realizes how his face might look. It’s written all over it, he’s sure.
“I went. I could not sleep. I had to come back.”
“Are you crazy? They are going to—”
Hollander laughs bitterly. “Probably yes, but it is too early, and Hayden won’t even bother with asking if I am back at a reasonable hour. We won; half of them will be sleeping until someone else wakes them up.”
Someone else meaning Hollander, probably.
“Okay,” Ilya says. Then he raises his eyebrows. “And all this for what, Hollander?”
Hollander nods. He suddenly realizes the difference in temperatures, and he takes out his jacket and puts it with care in the chair. Ilya feels a wave of—something. Something that makes him feel better, the dread he's feeling relieving a bit. It’s so stupid.
“I felt like something was wrong. And I left, and I feel like I shouldn’t have.”
“There is nothing wrong, Hollander. What would be?”
Hollander makes a clear effort not to roll his eyes. Ilya appreciates it. He has not seen how he looks, but it can’t be good. “I should have—but you didn’t look good when I left. I’m sorry if I—”
“Hollander, can you finish a sentence?” Because Ilya is a bitch.
“Fuck off. Sorry. Not that. I mean.” He breathes in. “I want this,” he says, pointing his hand between the both of them. Whatever that means. “To keep happening. And I know that something was going on when I left yesterday. You said something about hurting me—well, my shoulder.”
Ilya wants this conversation to end. Right now. If possible. “Yes. I hurt you in the ice.” Hollander looks at him, eyebrows up as if saying, and what else? Ilya shrugs.
“We hurt each other on the ice all the time. That was not it.” He swallows. “Please,” he just says, and Ilya can’t stop himself from answering. Hollander is so fucking stubborn. He doesn’t seem like it, but Ilya at this point knows him too well to know that he won’t leave. Or, if he does, it will be worse.
“And I hurt you after, too.”
Hollander frowns. “Not after. It will be fine. I don’t play today, either; I can rest.”
“Not the shoulder, maybe. But,” Ilya swallows. “Other things.”
Hollander says, oh, and they stay there, looking at each other, at a stalemate. Ilya is not going to be the one to say it out loud. He feels weak for even thinking about it.
“That doesn’t count. I—,” Hollander starts, swallowing down. “I like that.” Like pulling the words out from himself with a corkscrew.
“Oh, I know. Proof is in the towel over there.”
Hollander grimaces, and Ilya almost, almost smiles.
“Then what is the problem? Do you not like it? Because you did not seem to have anything against it.” He is a little bit defensive, as if he were regretting showing that part of him.
Ilya shakes his head. His words fail him, the despair still clinging to his sides; something earnest in the side of Hollander’s eyes is disarming him. If Hollander touches him, he might be the one to crumble down.
“What if—”
He wants to say, What if I hurt you for real? I don’t fucking know what I am doing, Hollander, and sometimes I enjoy so much making you cry it scares me.
He can’t. It’s too much, Hollander will see through it.
Hollander is looking him directly in the eye, and that’s how Ilya knows he’s in trouble. “Please. I know we don’t—but this time feels different. My ass hurts, and my shoulder is fucked, and I felt like I was the bad guy here, or that I had done something wrong. But I am just trying to understand. And there are no bad guys in this scenario. Just to be clear.“
An ugly laugh leaves Ilya’s mouth. “Are there not? Would you be asking me for it, if I wasn’t?”
There it is. It’s out. Instead of having a weight taken from him, Ilya feels even worse, if possible. Now, apart from being a bad person, he is also a fucking pussy.
Hollander looks at him, and his hand moves in Ilya’s direction, and Ilya has to gather all his strength not to fucking recoil from it. Hollander notices anyway and retrieves it back.
Don’t, Ilya thinks. Push through it and touch me.
He doesn’t.
“Holy shit, Rozanov. That’s what you think?” Hollander shakes his head, something like relief in his voice. “That’s not it at all. I promise, that’s not—”
“Come on, Hollander.” He pinches the bridge of his nose to have the respite of not looking at him for a second.
Hollander’s eyes are soft. “You got it wrong. It’s the other way around. I ask this from you because you are not a bad guy.”
Ilya looks back at him. “What.”
“You don’t even realize, but it’s like you read my mind sometimes; you know me so well. You know what to do to me before I even start to think about it. And you never berate,” Ilya makes a face. “Sorry, insult me or make me feel bad about it. I can be like that only with you because I trust you will be nice with me about it.”
It feels like something bigger. For a second Hollander looks regretful of his words, but then he bites down, jaw solid, and lets them go.
A truth for a truth. “I don’t read your mind. I worry, afterwards. You don’t tell me anything. I can just watch you, and I see that you’re hurt.”
Hollander nods. “Maybe today was a little bit too much. We had a rough game, but… what other option do we have? I didn’t want to wait. We never have enough time anyway.”
Ilya shrugs. “It is what it is.”
They stay there for a beat, looking at each other, words that won’t get spilled hovering around them. Then Hollander says, “Come here, at least,” and before his brain has anything to input against it, Ilya is there, inside a hug, and he is taller than Hollander, but he doesn’t feel like it. Hollander kisses his cheek, close to his ear, and his neck. “I’m okay. I’m not hurt,” he whispers. “I like remembering you the day after. Okay?”
Ilya can just nod, one hand under Hollander’s shirt and the other one on his shoulder, lightly caressing the bruise he knows is below the cloth.
Hollander says, again, "It's okay," and he might be talking about the shoulder, or he might be talking about something totally different, but it calms Ilya anyway.
The biting feeling in his chest dilutes and steams away.