Chapter Text
Hollander spun him around pressed him against the pillar, which, okay, hot.
“We’re in tuxedos out in public!”
Ilya wanted to ask why wearing tuxedos specifically was so important, but sensed that Hollander wouldn’t be in the mood to joke.
Hollander pulled away, and then he was leaving.
“See you next season.”
No response.
Ah, damn. At least he got a couple of kisses in. Would’ve been nice to have more. Maybe he had pushed him too much. If he’d tried a different approach maybe they’d be heading to a hotel room now. Hollander just got him so…
With nothing better to do, Ilya turned back to the balcony, eyes absentmindedly roaming the view.
Summer in Russia would be… less fun than the hockey season. Ilya had loved the freedom this year, and getting time away from his dad and brother, although his brother kept fucking calling, though-
Jesus Christ what the hell! He thought as his hand flew to his head. There was something wet??? On his head???
When he pulled his hand away and saw something white his mind did first go to dirty places but then, oh. Bird shit. Bird shit on his fucking head. And now on his hand. Great. Awesome.
It felt like someone had cracked an egg over his head. It was starting to slide down the sides and- oh my god it was soaking all through his curls wasn’t it? Maybe he’d have to shave his whole damn head.
Ilya rushed inside like a missile, aiming to get to the bathroom without any questions. Then once he got there… what was he even supposed to do? Pat at it with a paper towel? Just stick his whole damn head under the faucet?
He stuck his whole damn head under the faucet, grimacing as he had to scrub with his fingers to make sure he got it all out. It was pretty difficult to turn his head all the way around to make sure the water got everything and on top of that it was one of those fancy hands free faucets with a timer that was never long enough so he had to keep waving his hand around above his head until he was splashed with water.
Finally, after a few minutes of… whatever you called that, he felt clean again and shook his head like a dog, splashing the counter and mirror with water droplets. He wrung some of it out of his bangs, then got to kind of patting his hair and scrunching it with a paper towel, which didn’t do much.
After a bit of that, he stepped back to inspect his work, and turned his head quickly when the door opened.
Scott Hunter was standing there, looking from the droplets on Ilya’s shoulders to his wet hair.
“Wha-”
“No questions,” Ilya said and stormed out of the bathroom.