Chapter Text
"I've been saying since boot camp that he should be putting Carmichael on that little Michigan shitstain, but what do I know? I've only been on this team for seven fuckin' years." Pullman rolls his eyes, and takes a swig of his beer.
"He's saving Carmichael for the Metros," Marleau says, shaking his head. "You know his ankle's still not a hundred percent. And he's worried about that new winger they picked up in the draft."
"Yeah, well, now we're two months into the season and already down a D-man," Pullman replies.
Wiggs' head comes up from his phone. "Hey, you don't know that, man."
"Did you see the same hit I did this afternoon?"
"He'll be fine. Back on ice next week."
Ilya is digging into the label of his own beer bottle with a stubby thumbnail, and worrying at a piece of food stuck in between two of his molars. It had appeared some time between the hot wings and the mozzarella sticks, and he's trying to get it out before the jalapeño poppers arrive.
On the screen just over Pullman's shoulder, Montreal are tied with Toronto in the second period, and Hollander is at center ice.
He wins the faceoff, of course.
The puck immediately gets passed off right, where Ilya would have gone left, and Hollander gets buried in Toronto jerseys for a few seconds before Pike comes in hard from the left. The camera zooms out, and somehow Hollander has popped up on the other side of the blue line, connecting the puck from JJ, around a D-man, back to JJ, over to Pike, back to Hollander and—
Right into the goalie's glove.
Ilya winces a little—but it's Christoffel Rodier, so there's no real shame in the miss. That man is a brick wall and a half. Even Ilya has a hard time getting past him.
Back in August, fresh off a preseason shutout, Ilya had been pouting on the couch and texting with Hollander.
Ilya: Shut the fuck up Hollander you never score on him either
Jane: My Stanley cup says otherwise.
Jane: *cups
Jane: :)
Ilya: You think I do not watch playoffs???
Ilya: You scored on his tandem
Jane: I definitely got a couple shots on him last year.
Jane: He's not impossible. You just have to study his tapes and not get psyched out by his posturing.
Jane: And know how to aim a puck.
Ilya: Fuck you I score on him also
Ilya: More than you probably
Jane: We're up against them next week.
Jane: Bet I get one in.
Ilya: …what do you bet?
Ilya had mostly been kidding but by the next morning he had awoken to an email inviting him to a shared, color-coded Google spreadsheet and a list of precise rules to be followed (shots on goal did not count, assists did not count, shootouts did count, etc., etc.) and it wasn't like Ilya was going to say no to a competition where the prize was sex.
Hollander misses again. A beautiful backhand, especially for him, but evidently still not good enough for Rodier.
Can not wait to see new 0 in spreadsheet Hollander, is what Ilya wants to send.
Is not looking good for your mouth
Maybe you bring your pads, after our last game in April. Important to save your knees for playoffs
"Roz? Hello?"
Ilya's head snaps around to Marleau. "What?"
"You're in outer fucking space, is what," Marleau replies. "The Guardians aren't that interesting. Jesus. Where do you want to go out, after this?"
"Juno," Ilya says at once.
Pullman wrinkles his nose. "All the way over in Seaport?"
"They have this thing," Ilya says. "Is called taxi cab."
"Wiggs isn't allowed in taxis anymore," says Marleau.
"Fuck you," says Wiggs. "It's only happened twice, and the second time wasn't my fault, I was—"
"I will babysit his phone," Ilya says impatiently. "In my hand, whole time. Physically impossible, he will not forget in taxi this time. It will be fine."
"You guys know Marleau has puked in multiple taxi cabs. Multiple. I don't know why I'm the problem here."
"Bro, I told you, I only get car sick if I'm not in the front!"
"Bro—"
The jalapeno poppers arrive, and the argument is paused so they can be immediately demolished.
"Let's just go to The Drop," Pullman says, through a mouthful of breaded cheesy peppers. "It's literally two blocks away."
"Yeah, I'm down," Marleau agrees.
"Sorry, Roz," adds Wiggs.
On the screen, second period is closing out and the score is now 1-2. Hollander is mid-celly.
This night is going from bad to worse.
The girl keeps circling back to him on the dance floor, every other song.
She's hot.
Their gazes meet, again and again, through laser lights and drifting smoke, their bodies moving in time to the music. Her mouth is plump, and her eyes are dark. Her hands are a featherweight on his hips.
When she kisses him, Ilya does his best to ignore the unpleasant slick of her lip gloss. A mouth is a mouth. A body is a body.
A kiss is a kiss.
The song transitions into an intro for something electronic, something faster—a remix of that Drake song—and energy ripples through the club as excitement begins to build. Bodies press in around them. Strobe lights flash. The beat drops, and the floor goes electric.
The girl pulses against him, with him, tits bouncing, head bobbing. She brings him in for another greasy kiss.
The squeeze of her hand over the bulge of his cock, then, does not come as a surprise.
When she pulls back, neon pink lasers reflecting in the dark of her eyes, she licks her lips and tilts her head in the direction of the exit.
Getting diagnosed, it just made me feel like… really stupid.
It keeps echoing in his head, even now.
Especially now.
Ilya wonders how many other men this girl has sucked off in back alleys. How often she lets them get away with not using protection. When she was last tested for anything. Last month? Last year? Does she get tested at all?
Her mouth is shiny with that stupid gloss, red and full, and all Ilya can think about is the way it'll leave the condom slippery with grease afterward.
How she may do this often enough to be good, but she still won't know the particular way he likes that extra bit of pressure from a thumb right at the base, or the way a swallow just before he comes makes him practically white out.
He isn't even hard.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Ilya shakes his head.
She is gorgeous and willing, she is here, and still—he offers her a half-smile, and shakes his head no.
He gets a shrug in return. The girl sways into a turn without missing a beat, and lifts her hands up over her head as she starts to grind her ass up against him instead.
They dance on.
Ilya: Nice goal on Romier Hollander
Ilya: Too bad it only brings you up to tie with me
To: [email protected]
From: Amazon.com <[email protected]>
Subject: Your Amazon.com order #197-8103310-4788802
Hello Ilya,
Thank you for shopping with us. We'll send a confirmation when your items ship.
Details
Montblanc Men's Mb0348s Sunglass Man Metal Sunglasses, Multi-Colour | Quantity 1
SIMKHAI Elikai Ribbed Tank | Quantity 2
Omega Men's 326.30.40.50.01.002 Speed Master Racing Analog Display Swiss Automatic Silver Watch | Quantity 1
Rice Krispies Treats Crispy Marshmallow Squares, Kids Snacks, Cereal Bars, Original, 31.2oz Box (40 Bars) | Quantity 2
Sweatsedo Mens Velour Tracksuit | L | Burnt Orange | Quantity 1
adidas Men's Grand Court Alpha Shoe | Size 13 | Halo Green/Grey/Tent Green | Quantity 1
Nintendo Classic Mini Console | Quantity 1
Fullstar The Original Pro Chopper - Vegetable Chopper and Spiralizer, Food Chopper with Container, Fruit Slicer, Kitchen Gadgets & Gifts, Home Essentials (4 in 1, White) | Quantity 1
Arriving: Saturday October 13th
Ship to:
Ilya Rozanov
81 Fullerton St
Boston, MA 02110
View or manage order
Svetlana: Fuck this construction on the south Boston bypass
Svetlana: Can they not just do this at night? Instead of fucking rush hour??
Svetlana: You have one minute to start distracting me or I will start picking apart the loss to Detroit yesterday
"Why are you even on the bypass at—" Ilya glances over at the clock on his nightstand. "—nine in the morning?"
"Client in Jamaica Plains," Svetlana sighs.
Ilya makes a noise of disgust.
"I know," Svetlana agrees, with martyrdom. "And I didn't even get my favorite driver."
Ilya casts about. "…Paul?"
"Patrick," Svetlana corrects.
Ilya clicks on a red Yamaha logo, and while the webpage loads, he reaches over to grab his Extra Large Dunkin Donuts Pumpkin Spice Signature Iced Latte and has a moment of profound appreciation for the American obsession with minimizing the need to ever leave your house. There is a delivery option in the app now. Ilya is truly living in the future.
"I'm surprised you're awake at this hour," Svetlana comments.
"Club was lame last night," Ilya says. "Music was lame. Drinks were shitty. I'm buying a jet ski."
"A jet ski?"
"I've decided to have a mid-life crisis," Ilya explains. He hovers over the drop-downs for Rec Lite, Recreation, Performance and Luxury, and then selecting Luxury after he confirms it's the most expensive option. "And I already own a motorcycle. And a Porsche. And I don't have a wife to divorce."
"I'd make a fabulous ex-wife," Svetlana informs him.
"I weep for your future divorce attorney," Ilya replies. "Do you know, you can only buy a jet ski in like two colors? Some models, only one. Like I want to spend twenty thousand dollars on a jet ski that's black?"
"Where are you even going to use a jet ski? It's October and we live in Boston."
"We still live on the ocean, Svetlana."
"It's October."
Ilya rolls his eyes. "I'll buy a wetsuit. What kind of Russian do you think I am?"
"You know you could get it painted after you buy it," Svetlana says. "What do you want? Yellow like the Porsche?"
"Mm," says Ilya, clicking on another link. "Hot pink."
"I am not riding a hot pink jet ski," Svetlana complains. "I'll look like fucking Barbie. Get yellow."
"Who says you're riding it?"
"Oh, so you're buying me my own?"
"I thought it was too cold for the little Russian princess to be out on the water?"
"It will be summer, eventually," Svetlana says. "What about blue? Do they have blue?"
"Buy your own midlife crisis machine, woman," Ilya grouses, as he clicks on an elite sporting model that is, by complete coincidence, bright turquoise blue.
"You should buy a boat," Svetlana suggests.
"I don't want a boat," Ilya says.
"A yacht," Svetlana presses.
"That is also a boat."
"Think of all the parties you could throw! You could get one with a hot tub. And a DJ booth. And dock the jet skis on it! It would be perfect."
Ilya opens a new tab and types in buy yacht.
"Mm," he says, scrolling. "Only like one million for a yacht—oh, one point five for this one, with the hot tub. Not bad."
"You could be captain of two things," Svetlana says coaxingly.
"Stop trying to spend my fortune," Ilya complains, and closes out of the tab. "I'm getting jet skis and that's it."
"Jet skis, plural?" Svetlana asks.
"Shut up," says Ilya. He slurps on his Extra Large Dunkin Donuts Pumpkin Spice Signature Iced Latte. "Hm. Also."
"…Yes?" Svetlana says, at length.
"I think," says Ilya. "Maybe. I am going to only have sex with Jane, right now."
Silence.
"Oh, shit," says Svetlana. "This is a mid-life crisis."
"You see why I need jet skis," Ilya says sadly.
"Oh my god."
"I know."
"You're going monogamous?"
"A day of national mourning for the women of Boston, yes."
"Is—is Jane putting you up to this?" Svetlana asks. "Because of the chlamydia thing, she suddenly doesn't want you with anyone else?"
"No," Ilya says quickly. "No, no, no, she—she does not know."
Jane isn't even really talking to him, at the moment, but that's beside the point.
"Wow," says Svetlana.
Ilya jabs the straw up and down through the ice, jiggling the cup, trying to get what's left of the coffee into one pocket.
"I don't even remember the last time you had a girlfriend," Svetlana says. "When we were twelve? Thirteen?"
"She is not my girlfriend," Ilya objects. "We are just—I am just not fucking other people anymore. For a while. Maybe. Who knows, maybe I will change my mind."
"I have to meet this woman, Ilya," Svetlana says.
"Ah-hah," says Ilya. "No."
"I promise to be nice!"
"Jane is—very shy."
"Not in bed, apparently," Svetlana retorts. "My god, this is the sex demon that has just ruined you for all other women! She must have the most talented mouth on the Eastern Seaboard and a cunt to match."
Ilya thinks of the delicious stretch of Hollander's mouth around his cock.
The heat of his tongue, and the tight ring of his fingers around the base, the way he presses the pad of his thumb in just right.
But most of all—god fucking help him—Ilya thinks of the way Hollander looks up at him through his lashes, mid-blowjob, sly and confident and familiar.
He's never had anyone learn his body like Hollander has.
It should only make sense, he thinks, that he's been ruined for all these stupid one night stands. Why would he settle for the drunken grad students who are doing this on a dare from their friends, or the club girls who think Ilya wants some kind of performance in bed? Why should he have to go out into the night, waiting for taxis and getting cheap alcohol spilled on his clothing, when he, indeed, has his very own little Canadian sex demon just a phone call away?
"Well," Svetlana says. "Mazel tov, I guess."
"Thanks," says Ilya.
"It had better be a yellow jet ski," Svetlana adds.
"It only comes in blue or black," Ilya replies. "You want yellow, you can have it painted."
"Done."
Ilya hits Add to Cart.
Ilya: Hollander
Ilya: Hollander
Ilya: Hollander
Ilya: Hollander
Ilya: Hollander
Ilya: Hollander
Ilya: Ok this is boring
Ilya: I have a better idea
Ilya: 2015 2016 season
Ilya: Darrell Lessio #2 in league for save percentage .932
Ilya: Pavel Davydov #7 in league for goals, scored 7
Ilya: Drillers #6 with average goals per game 3.31
Ilya: Drillers #4 with power play 20.6%
Ilya: Queens #1 with shut outs 4
Ilya: Ricard Cirella #1 with penalty minutes 276
Jane: Do you have a fucking timer set for this?
Jane: Also fuck you.
Ilya: Yes )
Jane: YOU had the most penalty minutes last season and you know it.
Ilya: Oh ok my mistake
Ilya: The others are correct, ok?
Jane: I hate you so much.
Jane: You know they're not. Asshole.
Ilya: Oh no did I get another one wrong? (((
Ilya: Which one???? ((((((((
Jane: What do you want Rozanov?
Ilya: To share hockey fun facts with my Jane!
Ilya: You come to Boston tomorrow? Or Sunday morning?
Jane: Tomorrow.
Ilya: Late?
Jane: No I think we land at like noon.
Jane: Why?
Ilya: You are coming to my place yes?
Ilya: Remember is NEW HOUSE
Jane: [typing]
Jane: [typing]
Ilya: I miss your mouth
Ilya: I am suffering since last time
Ilya: No one in Boston sucks cock like you do ((
Jane: Well you can keep missing it asshole.
Jane: I'm not done with my antibiotics yet.
Ilya: What?
Ilya: How long are antibiotics in Canada? In Boston was 7 days???
Jane: Also 7 days.
Jane: Except when you spend the first 4 puking up everything you try to eat.
Jane: And then when you see a doctor in Toronto for more nausea meds they tell you that you have to start the antibiotics all over to make up for the doses you puked up.
Ilya: Oh
Ilya: Well this is only small problem
Jane: See you next time I guess.
Ilya: Where is your hockey IQ Hollander??
Ilya: You give up just like that????
Ilya: We will make strategy
Jane: It's fine dude.
Jane: Maybe next time you're in Montreal we can find some time.
Ilya: Oh my god you have creativity of potato
Ilya: Listen
Ilya: There are many very sexy things we can do without touching each other
Ilya: Is maybe fun
Ilya: Like challenge
Ilya: You can practice your dirt talking
Jane: Dirty talk. It's called DIRTY talk.
Ilya: Or I can practice mine
Ilya: How fast can I make you come with just my voice, you think?
Ilya: I am thinking
Ilya: You naked in my bed
Ilya: Touching yourself
Jane: I cannot believe you are trying to talk me into weird chlamydia sex right now.
Ilya: Maybe I tell you where to touch yourself
Ilya: See if you are good boy for me
Ilya: I think you would be
Ilya: Are you touching yourself right now?
Jane: No?
Jane: I'm in an Uber on my way to a meeting
Ilya: You are hopeless
Ilya: Okay but
Ilya: This sounds hot yes? No need to touch, we can still have sexy fun
Jane: IDK I still probably shouldn't jerk off on your sheets.
Jane: What if I reinfect you that way?
Ilya: I will wash them???
Ilya: You think I am going to sleep in gross sex mess?
Ilya: We can use towel too
Jane: I don't know.
Jane: Like every website about chlamydia is really clear. NO sex until you finish the antibiotics.
Ilya: I will clean sheets with bleach after. Very clean.
Ilya: Most clean.
Ilya: They will smell like hospital.
Jane: Do you even own bleach?
Jane: And are your sheets white?
Jane: Otherwise you know the bleach will ruin them.
Ilya: Oh my god ok
Ilya: Fine
Ilya: I will burn them
Ilya: I have real back yard now I can do this
Ilya: No more chlamydia 100% gone
Ilya: Happy?
Jane: Burn them??
Ilya: Karla will probably have party
Ilya: She has hated these sheets many years
Jane: Who is Karla?
Ilya: My cleaning woman
Jane: Oh.
Jane: Anyway you shouldn't burn trash.
Jane: It's really bad for the environment.
Ilya: Oh my fucking god
Jane: What?
Ilya: When I kill you
Ilya: These text messages will get me exoneration from jury
Jane: Did you just look up the English word for exoneration?
Ilya: This is not important
Ilya: Come to my house tomorrow
Jane: Maybe.
To: [email protected]
From: Amazon.com <[email protected]>
Subject: Your Amazon.com order #230-1154300-3718062
Hello Ilya,
Thank you for shopping with us. We'll send a confirmation when your items ship.
Details
Canada Dry Ginger Ale Soda, 12 fl oz cans, 12 pack | Quantity 1
9 Inch Blue Tremendous Trevor Feels Like Skin Dildo, with Huge Strong Suction Cup Dildos for Hands-Free Play, Soft Liquid Silicone Anal Adult Sex Toys for Men and Women Pleasure (Flesh) | Quantity 1
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Arriving: Saturday October 13th
Ship to:
Ilya Rozanov
81 Fullerton St
Boston, MA 02110
View or manage order
The knock at the door does not come as a surprise, because Hollander had texted twenty two minutes ago that he was en route. Possibly it was twenty one minutes ago. Or even twenty three.
Ilya has not even a little bit been counting.
The door opens to reveal Hollander in typical Hollander state—gym-casual, hands in pockets, hair still visibly damp from the shower—and there is no reason, no fucking reason that this sight should make Ilya's dick twitch.
"Hey," Ilya says.
Hollander nods. "Hey."
Ilya steps back, and uses the open door as coverage to discreetly readjust his pants.
"Do I take my shoes off?" Hollander asks, casting a look back.
Ilya shakes his head. "No, you're good."
It isn't that Ilya had imagined what Hollander would look like in this house. How impressed Hollander would be with the sleekly modern design, or the refrigerator that comes with an app, or the custom-built infrared sauna, or the toilets that should in fact look suspiciously familiar to Hollander because Ilya had had something like a religious experience two years ago in Montreal when he'd first sat down on Hollander's ten thousand dollar imported Japanese toilet, and the first thing Ilya had done in his new house was install one in every bathroom.
Anyway.
Ilya is not feeling any kind of way about Hollander stepping into his brand new house for the first time, because it's just a house, and more importantly, it's just Hollander.
God, but he looks good in this lighting, though.
He'd look even better, bent over the imported marble countertops.
"Wow," says Hollander, thumbs hooked under the straps of his backpack as he takes in said countertops, and the equally luxurious kitchen they reside in. "Wow," he says again, shifting his weight as Ilya approaches. "This, uh. This place is great."
His shoelaces are tied into advertisement-perfect knots.
All of his backpack's zippers are aligned exactly in the center.
Ilya wants to fucking wreck him.
Hollander glances back at him. "Did you get this built, or, like—oh."
Ilya has begun to slide the backpack off of Hollander's shoulders.
"It's just, um—"
"Breakable?" Ilya asks, close enough to smell hotel shampoo. Close enough to hear a hitch of breath, or see pupils start to dilate.
Hollander shakes his head.
Ilya tosses it sight unseen toward the entryway. It is the work of two simple steps forward, then, to corner Hollander against the kitchen island, right where Ilya wants him, and Ilya doesn't need to put his hands on those tight little hips except for all the ways that he does, actually, very much need to do that. He can't help it. It makes him a little crazy, sometimes, how Hollander always seems to fit right here, between Ilya's hands and around the push of his thigh.
Like he was made to be Ilya's.
Hollander's eyes are on his, flickering with uncertainty, his hands hovering just over Ilya's bare chest, and twice he opens his mouth and takes in a breath that does not become sound. He stares helplessly at Ilya, lips parted, thin rings of amber glowing in the afternoon sun.
A classic glitch in the Hollander operating system.
Ilya hooks his hands under Hollander's thighs, and—
"Rozan—oh."
Shoves.
He grins, then, stepping forward into the awaiting vee of Hollander's legs where he's now seated on the countertop.
"I think we should talk," Hollander manages.
Ilya slides his hands up Hollander's sides, reveling in the solidity of his body. The warmth of his inner thighs where they press against Ilya's hips. The way his ankles lock around Ilya's thighs like a reflex. Like a claim.
"Yes," Ilya purrs, slipping Hollander's jacket from his shoulders. "Talking. I hope you are ready for dirtiest talking of your life."
"No, like—"
And Ilya tries to kiss him, but Hollander—
Startles backward.
Ilya stills.
They are snared together, muscle and tendon, ankle and wrist, nose to nose and forehead to forehead, and the kitchen is perfectly silent. Hollander's eyes are dark and wide.
Anxious.
"Shane," Ilya says.
Hollander swallows.
Ilya rubs a thumb against the skin of his neck. "Is okay."
"…You don't call me that," Hollander says shakily.
"Oh, okay," says Ilya, nudging him a little. "You forgive me for horrible sex infection, no problem, but I use your first name and this is misconduct penalty? Makes sense, yes, I see."
"Fuck you," Hollander says, but it's with a huff of laughter. That stupid little smile. "I haven't forgiven you for shit yet."
Ilya hums, and slides his hand up to cup the angle of Hollander's jaw in the palm of his hand. His thumb rests just under a spray of freckles. "Allow me," he rumbles, with a deliberate little nuzzle, "to make nice apology, then."
He feels, rather than hears, Hollander's breath hitch.
Ilya presses the advantage, crowding in somehow closer, skin to skin and breath to breath. Cock to cock. "Shane."
"Ilya," Hollander whispers.
It sounds a confession.
It sounds like an admission.
And this time, their mouths meet in the middle.
Hollander, naked and cross-legged on the bed, stares at the dildo.
They hadn't made it fully up the stairs for round one, and Ilya has the bruises blooming on his shins to prove it. He is maybe getting too old for stairway sex. This is a part of his mid-life crisis he will ruminate upon later. Hollander had then been extremely distracting, once they'd actually gotten into the bedroom and our of their clothes, and Ilya had very nearly almost forgotten.
Sitting bolt upright in the middle of dirty talking Shane Hollander into an orgasm with a sudden declaration of Hang on, the thing! is, possibly, not the smoothest moment Ilya has ever had.
Still.
He has nine inches of magnificent aquamarine blue justification in the palm of his hand, now.
"Is new," Ilya states, sliding one bare leg underneath himself and ignoring the stretch of his rug-burned knee. He rotates the dildo back and forth a bit, so Hollander can properly admire the craftsmanship. "From Amazon this morning. Never used. I just took out of the box to clean."
Hollander eyes it.
"Has four point nine stars," Ilya adds, waggling the dildo demonstrably.
"You want us to use…"
"Us?"
Hollander looks at him.
Ilya raises his eyebrows. "Obviously is for you."
Hollander kicks him.
"Oh, very nice," Ilya complains. "This is thanks I get? I do illegal mail to get you medicine. I buy you nice big dildo from Amazon, not cheap—"
"Okay, you gave me chlamydia, you asshole," Hollander says, but it's with a little huff and a smile. He kicks Ilya again, too gentle to really be a kick at all this time. "You're the reason I needed nausea meds in the first place?"
"…Okay," Ilya allows. "This is maybe not wrong."
"And—"
"Yes?"
Hollander's eyes flick between Ilya and the dildo.
"We use condom," Ilya reasons, beginning to tick his points off his fingers. "Is brand new. And is only for you. And I check with Lisa, confirm sex toys can be cleaned with soap and water even if you have chlamydia, safe to re-use, but if you are being paranoid we can throw it away after—"
"Wait, who's Lisa?"
"Very nice lady," Ilya says. "She is junior administrative assistant at Boston Public Health Commission. Although she says Tameka is leaving for new job in Rhode Island, so she is hoping for promotion for Christmas. I offer to write letter of recommendations."
Hollander blinks.
"Anyway," says Ilya.
A beat.
"Hollander."
"What?"
Ilya looks in him the eye. "I am very sorry for chlamydia. I am sorry you need nausea medication. I am sorry I cannot fuck you with my glorious thick cock today. Please will you accept offering of nice big dildo, instead?"
Hollander—laughs.
And Ilya feels something loosen in his chest, something that had been tight and growing tighter still, and he can breathe again.
God.
First heartburn, now angina.
He'll be in the rest home with Hunter by next month, at this rate.
"Okay," Hollander says, grinning easy now. "Okay, okay. Yeah. But—"
"What?"
Hollander looks again between Ilya and the dildo, and then back again. He takes in a little breath. "So you think that's a big dildo?"
Ilya is not proud of the noise that leaves him.
Hollander is bright pink but smug as hell.
"Hollander," Ilya manages. "Shane."
Hollander gives a little shrug.
Jesus fuck but Ilya wants to lay him out and pound him flat into the mattress.
"New plan," Ilya announces. "We are doing video call, when you are back in Montreal."
Hollander's eyebrows go up. "We are?"
"Yes," says Ilya.
"Oh." Hollander bites his lip, still quite pink. "Uh. Okay."
"We can celebrate—" Ilya casts about. "—end of your antibiotics. Is big milestone. Needs big dildo. Is only making sense."
Hollander's foot bumps against his shin. "If you say so."
Ilya is stretched out on his side, face half-smushed into Hollander's bicep, drifting between a doze and a light hypnosis, afloat in the rhythmic rise and fall of Hollander's chest beneath the palm of his hand, settled in a way he rarely feels these days, content—when the air raid siren goes off.
"Jesus fucking—"
"Sorry, sorry!" Hollander yelps, flailing his way out of the bed.
Ilya presses a hand over his heart, now upright, watching a bare-assed and graceless Hollander stumble over toward a puddle of clothing. "The fuck is that?"
"An alarm!"
"For what?" Ilya demands. "Fucking—nuclear war?"
"No!" Hollander has managed to retrieve his phone. "No, it's just—hang on—"
Silence.
Ilya exhales.
"Sorry," Hollander says, sheepish. "Um. I didn't want to miss it. In case my phone was in another room or something."
"Good plan," says Ilya darkly.
Hollander offers him a lopsided smile. "Well, it worked?"
Ilya rolls his eyes, and flops back onto the bed.
He hears Hollander set the phone on the floor, and then a moment later, the sound of clothing rustling.
"So?" Ilya asks, eventually.
"It's for my meds," Hollander says.
Ilya scrunches his nose.
"They are not making you so sick, now?" he asks, after a few beats.
"Not really," Hollander replies. "I got more of the ondansetron from the doc in Toronto. As long as I take it like half an hour before the doxycycline, it's been okay."
Ilya mouths ondansetron to himself, having no doubt that Hollander—being Hollander—is pronouncing it perfectly.
He feels the bed dip, and Hollander's face appears above his. "Where'd you throw my backpack earlier?"
"Mm," says Ilya. "Same place you throw all your shots on Rodier."
Hollander blinks.
Ilya grins.
Hollander scowls. "So you mean, into the net?"
"Remind me. What is your shots on goal from last game?" Ilya asks.
"You literally texted me two nights ago that we were tied. I know you know this."
"Took you long enough to catch up."
"Fuck off. I'm at a disadvantage."
"Yes," Ilya agrees. "Weak backhand. Sloppy footwork."
"He wasn't even in goal the last time the Metros played Toronto," Hollander bites out. "You can't score on a goalie that's not there. It's not my fault he scratched the game."
"Is not my fault spreadsheet maker did not account for scratched games," Ilya replies, with a shrug.
Hollander looks ready for murder.
Ilya grins, and bounces up to smack a sloppy kiss to his cheek.
"You don't have to follow me," Hollander says.
"Who says I am following? Is not all about you, Hollander," Ilya replies, from two steps behind.
Hollander rolls his eyes.
"Over there, by the door," Ilya tells him, gesturing toward the entryway, as he himself detours toward the kitchen. He makes a beeline for the thing Americans apparently call an appliance garage, and pulls the handle.
Elsewhere, he hears the zippers on a bag, and the rattle of a pill bottle.
Ilya pulls the kettle out, and pops the lid as he carries the jug over to the sink. "You want tea?" he asks.
"Tea?" Hollander repeats.
Ilya flips the tap. "Yes. Tea. I am making. Do you want some?"
Hollander appears at the kitchen island with two small orange pill bottles, and frowns at Ilya. "You drink tea?"
"No," says Ilya. "I just like to make cup of tea and stare at it. Is famous Russian tradition."
"You're a dick," Hollander informs him.
Ilya lets the kettle fill a little past the two-cup mark, and shuts off the water.
At the island, Hollander slips a pill onto his tongue to dissolve.
"What kind of tea you like?" Ilya asks, gesturing at the haphazard collection of boxes and jars that sit next to the kettle in the appliance garage.
"Um. Nothing caffeinated?" Hollander ventures.
Ilya studies his options for a moment. He'd been craving a black tea—Svetlana had gifted him a shockingly good Ceylon over the summer and he's been steadily depleting the supply—but his eyes catch on a French lemon ginger blend instead.
Ginger is supposed to be good for nausea, right?
He's already making tea. It might as well do Hollander some good.
Ilya grabs the box and checks the brewing temperature, and then programs the kettle accordingly. He then starts shaking loose leaf into an empty teapot.
"I should probably go," Hollander blurts out.
Ilya looks over at him.
"Um," says Hollander, and shifts awkwardly.
"Ah," says Ilya, nodding in understanding. "You hate tea."
"What? No! Dude, I'm half Japanese, that's like—like genetically impossible or something," Hollander huffs, shaking his head. "It's just, uh. I mean. It's late. You know?"
"Mother Hayden is expecting you home, then?" Ilya asks, raising his eyebrows.
Hollander lets out a deeply aggrieved noise—as if Ilya is the one being annoying here—and rolls his eyes. "Fuck off. He's not my mother. He—"
Ilya waits, watching Hollander's face go through several emotions.
A few beats later, Hollander is still struggling when the click of the kettle comes, so Ilya gives a mental shrug and turns around to give Hollander time to sort out his own glitch for once. He pours boiling water into the teapot, sets the kettle down, and then puts the lid on the teapot.
He's opened the cabinet above the kettle and is debating his mug choices when Hollander abruptly says, "I told Hayden you gave me chlamydia."
Ilya pauses.
Tells himself that it isn't fucking fondness rising in his chest like the sun, but irritation. Exasperation.
Dyspepsia, perhaps.
"Okay," he says slowly. He glances back over his shoulder at Hollander. "Why?"
"Well, not you you," Hollander amends hastily, fiddling with the pill bottle in his hands. "He knows I got it from Lily, because, uh. I guess he knows about Lily. Just. From all the texting. He's seen the name pop up on my phone and stuff."
"And why," Ilya sighs, although he knows the answer, "does Hayden know about the chlamydia?"
"Um," says Hollander.
Fuck.
It's definitely fucking fondness.
Ilya grabs two Raiders mugs as revenge, and closes the cupboard. "So how does Hayden feel about maybe getting your butt-chlamydia, moy malenkiy chaynik?" he asks.
Hollander mumbles something.
"Hm? What was this?"
"I said he laughed at me," Hollander snaps. "And—and said some other stupid stuff. I don't know. He said he was proud of me for, like, 'living on the wild side', or whatever. Um. And then he tried to high five me. It was stupid."
Ilya nods sagely. "Hold out for the chlamydia cake. Give high five then."
Hollander scowls.
"You have had Russian tea before?" Ilya asks.
"Uh," says Hollander. "No? Is it decaf?"
"No, I mean—tea is normal tea. But Russians make tea special. Ah. Is, ah. Is a special way to make tea."
Fucking English.
Ilya gestures. "Come, I will show you."
Hollander comes around the kitchen island, looking unnecessarily wary.
"This is zavarka," Ilya explains, tapping the teapot.
"Okay," says Hollander, a bit blankly. He glances at Ilya, and then at the counter, and then gestures with instructive authority. "Teapot."
Ilya rolls his eyes. "Thank you, Professor Vocabulary. No, is not teapot. Inside of teapot, is tea leaves and little bit hot water. Not good to drink. Too strong. This is zavarka."
Hollander nods slowly.
"Some people, they like their tea very strong, yes? And some people, not so strong maybe. So when you have tea, you make very very strong in teapot, and then add zavarka to cup first, however much you are want—and then you add more water, to make full cup. So everyone can have a tea they like. Is very smart, yes?"
"Oh." The corners of Hollander's mouth poke upward. "That is kinda smart, yeah."
"Russians always having good ideas," Ilya agrees. He happily pours some of the zavarka into his mug, and then looks over at Hollander. "Scale of one to five, how strong you like your tea?"
Ilya pours according to Hollander's request, but leaves room for a little extra water if it ends up being too strong a brew for him. He is, subsequently, unsurprised to learn that Hollander does not take any sugar or honey in his tea.
"Yes, obviously," Ilya says, rolling his eyes. "Why make sweet and nice when there is free option to suffer?"
"Tea isn't supposed to be sweet," Hollander explains, brow furrowed. "It's—adding sweeteners just masks the full flavor of the leaves."
Ilya dumps another heaping teaspoon of sugar into his mug. "Mazokhist," he mutters.
Hollander's eyes narrow. "Did you just call me a masochist?"
"You can take them over, please," Ilya says, gesturing at his perfectly prepared mug and Hollander's sad gross bitter one. "I will get snacks."
"Oh." Hollander blinks. "Uh. I don't need…"
"What, you are world's only professional hockey player who does not need to eat dinner?" Ilya asks.
Hollander glances at the clock. "It's eight o'clock at night."
"And I am too lazy to cook," Ilya says, with a shrug. "Eat. Don't eat. I don't care. Snacks can be for just me."
Ilya digs into the refrigerator, and emerges a few moments later with baby carrots, tahini, and a carton of raspberries. A handful of Rice Krispies Treats from the cupboard completes the feast. He sits down next to Hollander at the counter, one leg under his bottom, one leg dangling from the bar stool. He swivels a bit, flashing a grin at Hollander, and snags a carrot.
"This is weird, right?" Hollander asks, after Ilya has gotten through approximately half a dozen carrots and a quarter of the jar of tahini.
Ilya glances over at him. "What?"
"We don't—you—you made me tea." Hollander's fingers drum against the marble countertop, restless. His gaze turns sharply to Ilya. "We don't have tea. You don't make me tea, you're, you're Ilya fucking Rozanov, you don't—"
Ilya shrugs one shoulder. "First time we met, we did not fuck. Now we are fucking. First time we fuck, we do not text. Now we are texting. This is first time I make you tea. Now, we are drinking tea."
"Is it—is this because you feel guilty? About the chlamydia?"
"Hollander. Is just tea."
"No," Hollander says tersely. "It isn't. You know it fucking isn't, it's—you keep changing the rules."
"Hollander. Relax. Is not so serious." A grin pokes at one corner of Ilya's mouth. "You are the only one inventing any rules here."
"No, I'm just the only one who has to fucking follow them," Hollander snaps.
Ilya's grin fades.
Hollander's jaw works. "Don't stay over. Don't linger, don't kiss, don't ask about Russia, don't get upset when you get fucking ghosted for six months, don't get—and—and I only figure it out when I screw up and you fucking punish me for it. So don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about, Rozanov. It isn't just. Fucking. Tea."
Ilya feels something cold drip into the pit of his stomach.
Hollander is staring at him. His face is hard.
Okay wow last time I make you tea.
You are such drama queen.
Fucking relax.
But the words drip drip drip into that pit in his stomach, colder by the second. Ilya hates that. He hates the way Hollander's eyes have gone flat. He hates, most of all, the way his brain is replaying Sochi and the 2014 MLH awards and that one night in Seattle—Tampa—Montreal—a dozen, a hundred little punishments he's doled out over the years.
It's more complicated than that.
But also.
It's not.
"Okay," Ilya says, raising his hands in surrender. "What are rules?"
"You tell me," Hollander says coldly.
Ilya swallows.
"You know," he says carefully, "is probably bad idea to ask for rules from player with statistically most time in sin bin last season."
Hollander throws his hands up. "Okay. I'm out—"
"Oh my god, drama queen, you sit back down," Ilya snaps. "I am bad at following rules, okay? This is what I am saying. Fuck you."
Silence.
"Well," says Hollander. "You're real fucking good at making them."
Ilya looks down at the counter.
He inhales, and exhales.
Inhales again.
"Okay," Ilya says, looking up once more. "Okay, rule is. I want to fuck you. And I want to suck you off. And maybe I want do video call with your very giant dildo. And—"
Hollander's gaze is unrelenting.
Ilya draws in a new breath. "And maybe. Sometimes, now I want to have tea after we fuck."
"With me."
"Whatever," Ilya says.
Hollander is unblinking.
Ilya waves a hand. "Okay, yes. Fucking—with you. What, you think I will just make tea for me and drink it in front of you like an asshole?"
"Well," says Hollander.
"Fuck you."
"Right. So it's just tea?"
"I don't know, Hollander," Ilya says, running a hand through his hair. "Fuck. Maybe is like. Texting sometimes. Or you tell me about stupid bee things. Or we play video games, or—or watch hockey game, or something. I cannot give you list. Just. These things, sometimes."
Hollander studies him. "You mean, like. Friends with benefits?"
"Well…"
"Like Svetlana?"
"No," Ilya says immediately. "No, no, Svetlana is like… ninety-nine percent friend. One percent fucking. When I give her chlamydia, this is first time for us in maybe one year. You are more like… Hm."
"Ninety-nine percent fucking?"
"No," says Ilya.
Hollander waits.
And waits.
Ilya blows out a breath. "Come on, Hollander. We both know, has not been ninety-nine percent fucking for long time, now."
"…Maybe," Hollander allows.
Ilya nudges Hollander with a socked foot. "It has been—what—seven years we are doing this?"
"Yeah. I mean—yeah."
"Okay. So, seven years is long time to fuck, without maybe making tea sometimes. Yes?"
Slowly—oh so slowly—the corner of Hollander's mouth starts to twitch. "I guess. Or, like… texting about bees, sometimes?"
Ilya nods. "Yes. Yes, maybe bees, sometimes. Maybe Chinese reality typing TV shows, sometimes. Maybe you stay the night, if you want, sometimes."
"And maybe..." Hollander exhales wanly. "Maybe sometimes we give each other chlamydia."
It's an olive branch, but it still catches Ilya right in the stomach.
Fuck.
"No," Ilya says softly. "No, that will not happen sometimes."
Hollander bites his bottom lip.
"Not again," Ilya insists, clapping a hand to Hollander's thigh and squeezing. "Hollander. Shane. I promise, not again. Okay?"
"Okay," Hollander whispers.
Ilya nods. "Okay."
Hollander's getting that stupid smile on his face.
"Okay, okay," Ilya says hastily, withdrawing his hand and sitting up straight. "This is rule. Anyone breaking rule gets penalty box, two minutes. New rules are needing official approval from RHL Board of Governors. Yes? Good?"
"RHL?" Hollander asks.
"Rozanov Hollander League," Ilya says, obviously.
Hollander frowns. "But why not the Hollander Rozanov League? That's the alphabetical—"
"Is by draft order," Ilya says.
"Draft order?" Hollander repeats, with offense. "Fuck off. If anything it should be in order of, of most Stanley Cups to least Stanley Cups."
Ilya grins. "No, no. I think should be maybe most MVP awards."
"How about least time in the penalty box."
"Most time in the penalty box."
"Most shots of the season."
"Most successful shots on Romier."
Hollander freezes. His eyes fucking gleam.
Ilya holds out a hand.
"You are so fucking on," Hollander says, and gives it a hard shake.
"RHL," Ilya muses.
"HRL."
"Okay, Shane."
"Okay, Ilya."
Ilya grins. "Drink your sad gross tea. Is getting cold."
"Enjoy your future diabetes in a cup," Hollander replies, and shoulder-checks him as he turns back to the counter.
Ilya checks him right back, and then grabs a baby carrot from the bag. Dips it in tahini. Crunches, crunches, crunches. Grabs another carrot.
Next to him, finally, porcelain scrapes against marble and then—
"Wait, is this a fucking Raiders mug?"
Ilya had imagined gently drifting into consciousness in a warm tangle of Hollander and bed sheets, the grey dawn of Boston filtering in through the curtains. The places he would put his mouth and the dirty little things he would whisper to bring Hollander back into the waking world. Languid, velvety (chlamydia-safe and separate) morning orgasms. Long, lingering kisses. Perhaps another orgasm, after that.
Instead—
The fucking air raid sirens.
"Blyat—"
"Ow!"
"For fucking sake Hollander."
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I—shit—there."
Silence rings.
Ilya glares at Hollander, rubbing his nose. "You have skull like fucking—helmet."
"Well, asshole," Hollander bites back, rubbing his jaw, "maybe don't sock me in the face with a fucking uppercut—"
"Was not on purpose!"
"—and you won't punch my head back into your own fucking nose."
Ilya has no conscious memory of falling asleep spooned up behind Hollander, but it had clearly happened at some point in the night. His arm must have been around Hollander's chest—his hand, just on trajectory for Hollander's jaw.
Even now, their legs are still tangled together.
"Maybe you don't pick alarm that used to be signal for fucking Luftwaffe," Ilya retorts, detangling himself enough that he can shove himself upright against the pillows. "Jesus Christ."
Hollander rolls his eyes, and flops back onto the bed.
Ilya studies him—bedhead, and chapped lips, and pillow crease lines stamped into his cheek—and feels a now-familiar surge of warmth in his chest.
He should really buy some Tums.
"Shane," he says.
Hollander side-eyes him. "Ilya."
"You have medication to take, no?"
"Shit," Hollander mutters, and runs a hand over his face. "Yeah. Sorry. I don't… even remember falling asleep last night."
"Is because you have two carrots for dinner," Ilya replies. He claps Hollander on the thigh. "Idiot. Come on. I make us breakfast."
"What? Oh. No. I mean, you don't have to…"
"You are fainting from hunger," Ilya says. "And really, is the least I can do. Is my fault you are on low protein diet this week."
Hollander blinks. "My nutritionist hasn't changed my meal plan in months?"
"Hollander."
"What?"
Ilya makes a pointed hand gesture, while tonguing a bulge into the side of his cheek.
"Wha—oh come on."
"Low protein diet," Ilya repeats, with wicked delight.
"You're so gross," Hollander complains.
"Poor baby," Ilya croons, rolling into his side to plant a wet kiss to Hollander's cheek—
"—get off—"
"Starving for come," Ilya continues, easily pinning down an arm. He gives Hollander another, even sloppier kiss. "Next time, I promise make sure you are nice and full."
"I hate you," Hollander informs him, staring pointedly at the ceiling.
"I will be—hm. How is it called."
"A dickhead?"
"'All you can eat buffet'."
Hollander makes a noise of disgust that does nothing to hide the grin that breaks free at the same time.
Ilya grins right back, and then on impulse, fastens a gentle bite to the angle of Hollander's jaw.
Hollander grunts, rolling a shoulder against the dead weight atop him. "Get off of me, asshole. I thought you were going to make breakfast?"
Ilya's teeth scrape over the barest hint of stubble as he releases his catch. "Yes, yes, okay. Breakfast."
He procures a pair of clean sweatpants for himself from the dresser, opting to freeball for the morning, and then on consideration, he turns around and holds up another pair for Hollander. "You want?"
Hollander looks up from his phone. "Oh. Uh. Yeah, I guess. Thanks."
"Mother Hayden thinks you have died?" Ilya guesses, nodding at the phone.
Hollander sighs. "I wish."
Ilya raises an eyebrow.
Hollander, resigned, flips his phone around as Ilya approaches the bed with the sweatpants. He holds it out, and Ilya plants a hand on the bed to lean across and read.
Hayden: Hey stud
Hayden: https://smartsexresource.com/answered-questions/what-happens-if-i-have-sex-during-my-treatment-of-chlamydia/
Hayden: Thought you and Lily might find this helpful this morning
Ilya looks up at Hollander. "I will give you one thousand dollars to let me send a reply."
"No."
"Two thousand."
"Fuck off," Hollander says, and grabs the sweatpants out of Ilya's hand.
"Boring," Ilya complains.
Hollander does not dignify this with a response.
Ilya slips into his own pants, and disappears into the bathroom for his morning piss. At the sink, he washes his hands and his face, but makes the executive decision to skip shaving and teeth brushing—he doesn't have an extra toothbrush for Hollander, for one, and Ilya has the bizarre notion that it would seem rude.
He spies Hollander lingering at the door, as he's pouring himself a shot of Listerine.
"You want?" Ilya asks, turning away from the mirror to hold the little plastic cup out.
Hollander's face does something weird.
Ilya, hoping to preempt the glitch, sets the cup on the counter and gulps a mouthful straight from the bottle. He swish-swish-swishes the minty freshness around his mouth. Spits. Wipes his mouth on a towel.
"I, uh," says Hollander, still standing awkwardly in the doorway. He glances down at the ground, toes curling into carpet, and then back up at Ilya. "I really don't remember falling asleep. Last night. I'm sorry to, like." His eyes dart around the bathroom. He swallows, and shrugs a shoulder. "Yeah."
"I told you last night, you could stay, no problem," Ilya says, with a shrug of his own. "Is, actually, still not a problem."
Hollander watches him with a faintly guarded look.
"Is within RHL playbook rules, remember?" Ilya adds. He pushes off the bathroom counter, and as he passes by, he grabs a handful of perfect hockey butt. "We go round five, after breakfast."
Hollander jumps a little—but then huffs out a laugh and hip-checks Ilya away. "That's HRL, actually."
"Okay, Mr. Delusional," Ilya says. "Now hurry up. You have medicine to take. Imagine you skip dose and need to start over for third time, hm? You probably get—what is word—like, super chlamydia. When medicine does not work. Yes?"
Hollander pinches the bridge of his nose. "Dude, come on. Please don't give me anything else to freak out about."
Ilya swats his ass. "Okay, so less freak outing, more pissing. Let's go, Hollander."
"You're such a dick," Hollander groans, but he steps into the bathroom at last, and Ilya steps out so Hollander can close the door properly.
He flops back on the bed.
For a few minutes, Ilya stares up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of Hollander pottering about the bathroom, while also trying to remember if the eggs in his fridge are expired or not. He definitely has ingredients for protein shakes, but it's game day so they're both going to need more than just that. He's got bread and cold cuts—a shit load of tuna, because he's been on a tuna melt kick recently—and maybe some sausage? Definitely cheese.
The sound of gargling comes from the bathroom.
Ilya runs his tongue over his teeth, minty but not quite clean.
He reaches out, and pats around blindly. Realizes his phone is a little higher up, and shifts himself accordingly until he has his prize. Mashes his thumb around the home button until it recognizes his fingerprint. Scrolls until he finds the Amazon app.
Finally, he finds Colgate Extra Clean Toothbrush, Soft Toothbrush for Adults, 6 Count (Pack of 1), and adds it to the cart.
To: [email protected]
From: Amazon.com <[email protected]>
Subject: Your Amazon.com order #994-7459314-6710444
Hello Svetlana,
Thank you for shopping with us. We'll send a confirmation when your items ship.
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Chlamydia Survivor Fluffy Kitten Rainbow T-Shirt | Men's L | Quantity 1
Arriving: Saturday October 20th
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Ilya Rozanov
81 Fullerton St
Boston, MA 02110
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