Chapter Text
After the short heart attack caused by Hollander apparently forgetting he had a girlfriend, Ilya wanted his fucking bed.
He didn’t know why, but when Hollander had first pushed him away, eyes wide with panic and horror, Ilya had felt his heart drop. He was convinced the other man had woken up from the shared manic dream they were in, wanted to go back to the real world with its strict rules and expectations, only for the other man to say a word Ilya never wanted to hear again.
‘Girlfriend.’
Such a simple word, yet so scary on Hollander’s lips.
Ilya wasn’t going to ever judge someone or make assumptions when it came to sexuality, but, to be honest, he couldn’t even imagine Hollander with a girl.
The man practically screamed gay.
Ilya had never once seen him look at a women with anything close to interest, not even the scantly dressed women who had handed over their draft jerseys with a flirty grin and she had some of the best tits he’d ever seen in his life, his eyes only ever staying respectable above their collarbone and never once darking in uncontrolled lust every other 18-year-old man experienced.
Maybe no one else noticed. Maybe no one else saw the things Ilya did, and selfishly, he was grateful for that.
Hollander was the pinacol of the male form, was the very definition of beauty. And men loved destroying beautiful things.
Not Ilya though.
He liked watching them instead. And Hollander did a lot of things that he watched.
His eyes darted to Ilya’s the second he was in the room, locking onto the width of his shoulders, the curve of his waist, the height of his cheekbones and, most telling of all, the bulge of his trousers.
He couldn’t sit still, always seeming to turn towards Ilya the second he was in the room, neck arching back with a slight blush, straightening his spine while pushing out his ass. Ilya would watch as Hollanders eyes darted to him for only a split second, only ever a split second and never more, until something would happen. Until Ilya would roll his shoulders, until he would stretch or ruffle his hair, and Hollanders eyes would come back and stare. Not subtle and not relaxed, gaze dark and focused, making Ilya feel like he was under a spotlight. It made him harder than a rock, seeing Hollanders intensity and desire that was usually reserved for the puck all focused on him.
And the worst thing of all was that Ilya didn’t even think Shane knew he was doing it.
Always lost in thought, licking his lips as he stared at the Russian.
He was like a middle-school boy with a crush, his own feelings confusing him so he turned to bullying, teasing and insulting, something Ilya didn’t even know Hollander knew how to do, like it would make him go away so he could ignore his feelings for another couple of years.
Joke’s on him.
His insults and anger just made Ilya hard, and he wanted to hear more.
“Rozanov, stop fucking around, asshole.”
Perfect.
Just like that.
“Hollander, so mean,” Ilya drawled out, trying to pout, but his lips kept twitching up into a smile. “I’m just trying to help.”
Hollander looked up from the map he had hastily bought at the airport, currently spread out across a random table outside a closed café, scowling as Ilya leaned in and tried to fix his hat for what must have been the 10th time.
“Fucking—” Ilya let out a hiss as Hollander swiftly slapped his hand. “—leave it alone, Rozanov!”
“You look like a dork. I am helping,” Ilya kindly informed the man.
Hollander gave him another scowl and shuffled to the side, trying to keep Ilya away from him while trying to find their position on the map so they could see the distance to the hotel with the ‘floating rooms’ Hollander had talked about.
“I don’t see it,” he sighed in frustration, leaning closer as if that would make the map magically point to their position. “And it’s getting dark.”
And while Ilya did not like the situation, with it slowly getting dark and no place for them to stay, he did like the whine that had entered the other man’s voice.
He wondered where else he could get him to whine.
“You know—”
Ilya was cut off before he could suggest his plan of finding a bridge, just big enough for him and Hollander to slip between the gaps, pressed close together for the whole night. Just Ilya, Hollander and the loud noise of cars passing overhead.
Ilya was confident he could make it romantic.
“Oi! Why the fuck are you loitering outside my café?”
Both Hollander and Ilya turned towards the croaky voice, finding a woman just past middle age, maybe in her mid-60s, leaning out of the window with a scowl on her face.
She had a cigarette in one hand and what looked like brandy in the other, dressed only in a multicoloured robe, leaning out of the window far enough to make Ilya uncomfortable.
Both Ilya and Hollander blinked, looking back at each other for a second before turning back to the grumpy woman.
“I said, what are you two idiots doing outside my café?”
Her voice, though sounding like she smoked a packet a day, was low and melodious, curling around the words. While her accent was very prominent, Ilya found himself understanding her with ease, which was a relief.
“Uhm,” Hollander started, not wanting to start problems. “I’m sorry. We were just using your table to look at our map. We’ve got a bit lost.”
Ilya heard her grumble, “Fucking tourists,” as she took another drag of her cigarette.
The sight made Ilya want one.
She breathed out before frowning down at them.
“Where you going?”
Hollander licked his lips, carefully reading out, “Khao Sok.”
She suddenly let out a cackle which did not bode well for them.
“Did either of you actually plan this out? Khao Sok is on the opposite side of the country. It takes at least 2 days to get there.”
Ilya slapped himself in the face, groaning, while Hollander immediately started going back over the map frantically.
Ilya had plans.
Ilya had motive.
Ilya had an inspiration of what he wanted this holiday to be.
Starting with Hollander’s smile when he saw the stupid ‘floating rooms’ and ending with Hollander’s moans as he was fucked into the mattress in said stupid ‘floating rooms’.
“No, that can’t be right,” Hollander hissed, flipping the map as if that would change anything, before letting it fall back onto the table along with his head. “Shit.”
“Hollander, is OK.” Ilya tried to comfort him, pressing a hand against the tense arch of his spine, unable to watch the other man work himself up any more. “We will find somewhere to stay tonight, then figure out how to get there tomorrow, yes?”
Hollander bit his lip, and Ilya watched in something like horror as his expression turned to shame.
“I’m sorry, Rozanov. I should have known it was on the other side of the country. I should have double-checked which airport we were flying to. We don’t have to go—”
“Shut up, Hollander,” Ilya cut in, unable to watch him take the blame any longer. “I didn’t check either. And the whole point of this trip is to make dumb choices, and flying to the wrong airport is definitely dumb.”
Hollander snorted but looked slightly better.
“Ya?”
“Yes. You are just doing what I told you to do.”
Ilya leaned in then, trying to pull Hollander in by the waist, who was already trying to slap him away, clearly knowing what he was about to say.
“Good boy,” he purred in Hollander’s ear, only to cackle as the other man whipped around and pushed him away with a scowl.
“Fuck off, Rozanov.”
“Yes, I am trying to fuck—”
“Are you two done?”
Both of them froze, silently turning towards the old woman still standing at the window, cigarette gone but brandy still being sipped.
“As entertaining as this is,” she explained, “I do have work tomorrow, and you two are loud.”
Hollander winced.
“Sorry, ma’am. We’ll leave.”
“Call me Dara,” she responded, taking a large gulp of brandy. “Tell me. Do you know where you’re staying tonight?”
“Uhm, no.”
She squinted at them for a moment, looking them both up and down, wearing the look of a woman long used to sizing up men and being able to tell if they were dangerous or not.
“How old are you?” she casually asked.
Ilya and Hollander looked at each other again, trying to decide whether they should give any personal information to a potential human trafficker.
“Why? Are you planning to steal our organs?” Ilya asked cheerfully.
“Rozanov!” Hollander hissed, slapping him somewhat harshly across the stomach.
“Oh, honey,” Dara cackled, the light behind her reflecting through the brandy, “I wouldn’t need to know your age for that. You look young and healthy. That’s what’s important.”
“Thank you,” Ilya preened. He did look particularly young and healthy, and it was always nice to be noticed. “You look very young and healthy for your age as well.”
“Thank you, I guess,” Dara dryly said. “So you are…?”
“18. Both of us, I mean,” Hollander hesitantly forced out, still looking unsure. Mostly likely a result of the thousand and one ‘stranger danger’ talks Ilya was sure Hollander’s parents had forced on him.
Dara’s mouth immediately dropped open, eyes widening.
“Oh my! You’re babies! Who let you go out like this on your own? And you have nowhere to stay tonight?”
Hollander spluttered, offended.
“What? We’re both 18, that’s an adult—”
Ilya cut him off with a hand over his mouth, seeing warm food and a bed in his short future, the woman’s defences obviously weakening at the information about their age.
“Yes. We are babies. Goo goo, gag ga. Please help us.”
And that might have been too much, because Dara then scowled at Ilya, knowing that she had been caught in her mercy of giving them shelter.
However, her eyes glanced over them, catching on their lack of bags and the way Ilya had bundled Hollander close to him so he could place a hand over his mouth, not moving it even though it was clear Hollander was trying to lick it to gross Ilya out.
Stupid boy.
He should know Ilya would only find that hot.
Dara raised an eyebrow at it, however, and in that moment Ilya knew that she knew.
That seemed to be the final nail in the coffin.
“I don’t like you,” she primly informed Ilya, who just grinned because that was not a refusal. “But unfortunately, I can’t help but feel pity for strays. You can stay with me tonight.”
“Yes!” Ilya hissed, almost bouncing with excitement that he could finally go to sleep in a proper bed for the first time in 42 hours, having only slept on the 19-hour flight. “Thank you so much, young and healthy-looking lady.”
He ignored the way Hollander was trying to push away the hand he still had covering his mouth, able to feel the other man’s protests against the palm of his hand.
Dara rolled her eyes but started to shuffle away from the window.
“Keep it up and I’ll only let your friend in.”
Ilya let Hollander go the second she disappeared from the window, smiling at the other man like he didn’t know he was about to be ripped to pieces.
“What the fuck was that, Rozanov?” Hollander hissed.
And God, had his name ever sounded better?
“We are not staying with a random stranger in a country where no one knows we are. Are you thick?”
He was feeling thick, but those plans would have to wait. Ilya was refusing to fuck Hollander when there was someone else who could overhear.
What?
Ilya wanted to make it special for Hollander for his first time, sue him.
“What is problem, Hollander? We need place to stay, and we have found place to stay. Everyone is happy.”
“I’m not! We don’t know her! What if she kidnaps us?”
Ilya raised an eyebrow, looking down at his 6’4” figure, his muscles bulging beneath the fabric of his shirt, and then at Hollander, who stood with his arms crossed, shoulders tense which only further defined the sheer strength of his figure.
“I think we will be fine. I have a feeling we can take her if it comes down to it,” he said dryly.
“Not if she drugs us!” Hollander hissed nervously, eyes darting around. “Anything can happen.”
“Hollander,” Ilya whined. “You are so paranoid. Nothing is going to happen. She is little old lady, completely harmless.”
“But what if—”
“Hollander,” he said more firmly. “Young and dumb, remember?”
Hollander paused, taking a couple of deep breaths as he looked at Ilya before hesitantly nodding.
“OK. OK. I trust you. Young and dumb. Young and dumb.”
Ilya grinned to himself as he watched Hollander treat the saying almost like a repetitive mantra, slowly whispering it under his breath as he started to calm down, trusting Ilya’s belief that the elderly woman was nothing more than a kind stranger.
“Yes, you are young and dumb,” Dara suddenly said, having opened the door to the shop without either of them noticing. “I’m happy I don’t have to tell you that.”
An awkward shuffle through a doorway that was clearly built for people considerably shorter than Ilya resulted in him smacking his head against the frame hard enough to make him hiss. Hollander immediately reached up as if to check for a bump, earning an irritated swat from Ilya.
“Fucking tiny doors.”
They continued upwards, climbing a set of stairs so steep they looked like someone had simply forgotten to finish building them properly. Each step was narrow beneath their feet, the paint worn almost completely away in the middle from decades of people walking over them, and a rusty metal railing ran along one side that wobbled alarmingly whenever either of them touched it.
The higher they went, the warmer it seemed to get.
The noise from the street slowly faded behind them, replaced by the hum of an old air-conditioning unit somewhere above, the distant buzz of insects and the occasional muffled sound of a television coming through one of the walls.
At the top was another narrow corridor, the walls painted in a faded colour that might once have been cream but had long since surrendered to years of smoke, humidity and time. Old photographs hung crookedly along one side, some held in mismatched frames, alongside little wooden shelves crowded with knick-knacks, dried flowers and things Ilya couldn’t identify.
Dara unlocked a battered wooden door with a key that looked almost as old as she was and pushed it open.
Warm, stale air rolled over them.
The apartment smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and spices, something rich and unfamiliar lingering beneath the stale scent of alcohol. There were little signs of Dara everywhere: a pair of worn flip-flops kicked beside the entrance, an umbrella shoved into the corner, shopping bags hanging from hooks, and a pile of newspapers and magazines stacked dangerously high against one wall.
The furniture looked like it had been collected over decades rather than bought together. An old wooden cabinet sat beneath a television, its surface crowded with bottles, photographs and little ornaments. A faded rug covered part of the tiled floor, while colourful cushions and blankets had been thrown over chairs that had seen considerably better days.
There was something oddly comforting about it.
It was messy.
It was cramped.
It smelled like someone actually lived there.
And, in a strange way, it reminded Ilya of home.
“Bathroom, kitchen, my room and…” Dara opened a sliding door to reveal another modest-looking living room, tiled floor with a low-sitting wooden couch softened only by a multitude of pillows. “This is where you two will be staying.”
“Huh.” Ilya breathed out, looking around the room, which in a weird way reminded him of Russian design, if Russia was hot, of course. “Thank you.”
“Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. But don’t take my chocolate or alcohol.”
She turned then to give a particularly judgemental look to Ilya.
“I mean it. I will notice if you take even a sip of my vodka. I know how you Russians get.”
Ilya gasped, holding a hand to his heart.
“Dara, you insult me.”
The elderly woman rolled her eyes, slowly shuffling across the room in her flip-flops.
“Whatever. I’m going to bed. I’ll make you breakfast in the morning, and you can tell me what inspired you to fly off to another country without your parents and no plan.”
She paused at the doorframe, giving them both a stink-eye.
“If either of you two wake me up with any… suspicious noises, I’m chucking you out.”
And with that charming statement, she slammed the bedroom door shut, leaving Ilya and Hollander standing in the living room with only the couch and the floor, no spare pillows or blankets.
“Where are we meant to sleep?” Hollander hesitantly asked, speaking loud enough for it to carry through the door.
“Oh, I’m sure you two will sleep inside of each other—I mean, on top of each other,” came her croaky reply, followed by a cackle more suited to a witch than a grumpy café owner.
“What did she just say?” Hollander squeaked, looking at Ilya with panicked eyes.
Ilya couldn’t stop himself from snorting.
It was so different from the fear and pure horror he would have been feeling if he were still in Russia.
“She is old lady, Hollander. She is going senile in her old age,” Ilya tried to soothe. “Ignore her.”
“You’re acting very confident for a man I could throw out to sleep under a bridge,” Dara yelled through the walls, letting Ilya know that, yes, the walls really were too thin to do anything fun with Hollander. “I’d be careful if I was you.”
“Did I say old? I meant young and beautiful. English, you know. Is not my first language.” Ilya tried to hide his snort, urging Shane further into the living room.
“Shut up and go to sleep,” came the muttered, angry reply. “Fucking Russians.”
Hollander stared unimpressed at Ilya, who blinked and spread his arms out in the universal ‘What?’ position, confused as to what Hollander was mad about.
“Does it hurt you to shut up or something?” Hollander angrily whispered to him, bitten lips formed into a cute little pout. “It’s dark, and we don’t have a single clue as to where we are or where a hotel is. If she throws us out, we’re fucked. Is it that hard to not be a little shit for 5 minutes?”
Ilya blinked and thought for a minute.
“Yes,” he said, deadly serious.
Hollander let out a snort at that, not expecting the shift in tone or how honestly Ilya had been.
“Shut up. Come on, let’s get to sleep. We have to figure out how to travel to the opposite side of the country tomorrow.”
They got ready for bed quickly, both facing the wall and not each other. Ilya because he could feel the heat in his stomach from not jacking off in the last 12 hours while next to the hottest man he’d ever met.
Hollander because he had taken off his shirt, and Ilya had not been able to stop himself from stepping forward, making the Canadian throw a panicked glance towards Dara’s room before turning around to help Ilya fight his own temptations.
Ilya flopped onto the couch with a happy sigh, feeling the harsh wood softened by pillows underneath his bare spine, smacking his lips together as he got comfortable, legs stretching out in his grey sweatpants.
Hollander seemed to roll his eyes, dressed in an old T-shirt and sweats, before pulling a plain blue blanket out of his backpack and sitting on the floor.
Ilya frowned, raising an eyebrow.
“Hollander. What are you doing?”
Hollander gave him a confused look.
“Going to sleep?”
Ilya rolled his eyes.
“Yes, I can see that. Why are you on the floor?”
“Because you’re on the couch?” Hollander said slowly. “It’s not big enough for two.”
“Yes it is.” Ilya patted his own stomach. “Come here. Sleep on top of me.”
Hollander immediately blushed, refusing to meet Ilya’s eyes and instead looking at the floor.
“I can’t—there’s no room—I mean…”
“Oh my God, Hollander, calm down.” Ilya almost laughed, seeing the other man twist himself up in nervousness. “Is not big deal. Come here.”
“I, uh—I mean…” Hollander stuttered, but slowly shuffled over. “Don’t you think that’s a bit…”
He cut himself off, but Ilya knew what he was about to say.
“A bit what? Gay?” Ilya snorted. “Hollander, I’m sorry to tell you this, but your dick was in my mouth. It’s already gay.”
Hollander snorted at that, seeming to surprise himself, but he looked a lot less panicked than Ilya would have thought, which was a relief.
He was sure that if he had said the same thing back in the States, Hollander would have run out of the room like a headless chicken.
But here, where no one knew them, where no one would recognise them and their actions weren’t going to be splashed across the news, Hollander laughed.
“OK. Fine.”
Hollander quickly moved, like Ilya would take back the offer at any moment, only hesitating slightly before climbing on top of Ilya and letting the man shift his body until they were both comfortable.
Hollander, pressed up against the back of the couch, had one leg in between Ilya’s, his arms curled up against his own chest, his head coming to rest in the crook of Ilya’s neck.
Ilya slowly traced a hand up and down Hollander’s spine, feeling his tense muscles and the hard surface of his bones.
“Relax, Hollander. We are just sleeping.” He tried to soften his voice, knowing this was properly the first time Hollander had slept so close to another man, and Ilya tried to ignore the way his own stomach as fluttering, having never slept so close to another man either.
He didn’t say anything, but Ilya could feel him take a deep breath, steadying himself before he went boneless against him, making Ilya feel something warm he didn’t want to examine at this point in time.
Ilya couldn’t stop himself from lowering his head until he felt the soft touch of Hollander’s hair against the tip of his nose.
Ilya fell asleep to the scent of 2-in-1 body and hair wash intertwined with something like ginger, and the warmth of a strong body pressed up against his.