Work Text:
Ilya could always tell when Shane Hollander entered a room. It was like some kind of shitty superpower, in that he couldn’t seem to turn it off and no one could know about it. He would much rather have a useful power like super speed or flight or, especially here in Sochi after his shameful loss to Latvia, invisibility. But no, instead, Ilya had an uncanny sense for the presence of Canada’s golden boy, who was currently sneaking up behind him in the nosebleed seats above Olympic ice.
“Hey,” Hollander said unnecessarily, and Ilya finally turned to look at him.
It was almost suffocating, the moments in between knowing Hollander was there and him announcing himself like an indignant kitten who needed attention. Ilya wanted nothing more than to give it to him. If it was up to him, Ilya would press Hollander up against a pillar with the stupid Olympic rings painted on it, take him by the hair and trail fevered kisses over his throat until they were both breathless. But he couldn’t. Not with the heavy gaze of Russia on him.
“Not here,” Ilya said with a shake of his head, pushing down the memory of the last time they were together, of Hollander writhing beneath him, perfect and pliant. Of the terrifying surge of feelings the whole experience had brought.
“No, not…” Hollander shifted nervously. “I saw you up here. Wanted to see how you were doing.”
Ilya didn’t let himself look at Hollander, afraid that anyone with eyes would see the want all over his face.
“Fine,” he said with a tight jaw. “Go sit down.”
Please, before I lose the will to not touch you.
“We…” Hollander took a step forward.
“We are not anything,” Ilya cut in before Hollander could test his resolve any further. “Go away, Hollander.”
“Right. Yeah.” Hollander let out a little huff and it took everything Ilya had to keep his eyes trained on the ice below them. He ached to lean his head down on Hollander’s shoulder to see if the Canadian team fleece was as soft as it looked. Maybe while he was there he would turn his head to the side, brush the tip of his nose against Hollander’s neck and inhale—
“Well, I guess you got what you wanted from me already,” Hollander continued. “Whatever. Fuck you.”
Ilya’s heart, which had been thundering in his chest mere moments ago, came to an abrupt halt, tripping over Hollander’s bitter English. What the fuck was Hollander talking about? Got what he wanted? In past tense? As if having Shane Hollander was something he could want only the once. As if wanting Shane Hollander was an itch that could be scratched, a scrape that could be balmed, never to trouble him again. Impossible.
In Ilya’s periphery, Hollander flinched away, as if to leave, the last words passed between them an accusation that missed the mark by leagues, not inches.
“Wait, no, Hollander.” Ilya turned, throwing an arm into Hollander’s path. “That’s not—”
“No, it’s fine. Stupid of me to expect anything else.” Hollander shook his head, gaze downcast, the barest hint of angry pink tinging his freckled cheeks. “Thanks for making it good, at least.”
It.
His first time.
Ilya was the worst sort of asshole.
He squeezed his eyes shut on the memory of the last few stolen moments in Hollander’s stairwell, the soft press of their lips and the blissed out expression on Hollander’s face. Ilya had thought it was obvious, then—too obvious, like Hollander could see right through his outer layer of brash jokes and chirps to the gooey center where he was soft and raw and tender like a bruise. In the cab afterward, he’d been unable to stop smiling the whole way back to his hotel. At least there Hollander hadn’t been able to see him.
It had snuck up on Ilya the way few things ever did, cresting over him with a slowness he did not usually associate with Hollander. Everything they did was fast and hurried and hot, on the ice and off, but this—the way his heart beat in a silly rhythm, the way his tongue felt too thick in his mouth, the way he wanted to fist his fingers in the fabric of Shane Hollander and never let go—he wasn’t supposed to feel like this. A casual fuck didn’t feel like this.
With Hollander this close to him, in Russia of all places, it was a dangerous game. It was all Ilya could do to hold how he felt inside, but to protect Hollander, he would do anything—even lock away this half-acknowledged fondness behind a wall of disinterest. He could not let Russia be their ruin.
But with what Hollander had said, maybe it was ruined anyway.
“I can’t even be seen with you here,” Ilya whispered, turning his head a fraction toward Hollander just enough that he could see the quiet devastation in his eyes.
“Seriously? You’re that desperate to get rid of me? It’s not like anyone knows anything.”
“That is not what this is, Hollander. I am not...” Ilya shook his head, but the motion did nothing to clear the heady fog descending rapidly the longer Hollander stood there. “I just—”
“I get it,” Hollander said, a jagged edge to his tone. “Don’t worry. I won’t be a problem. I’ll just go.”
“Don’t!”
Ilya moved before he could think better of it, turning to face Hollander, body stepping into his path to stop him.
“Don’t,” he said more softly this time, “Not until I explain.”
But how could Ilya explain? Even here, in the highest level of the stands where no one could see them, he couldn’t risk it. There could be cameras anywhere, and even if he spoke low and did not touch Hollander, someone could still see it in his eyes, in the set of his jaw, in the whisper of a smile tugging at his lips. Stupid Americans and even Canadians maybe could not tell, unfamiliar with the angles and edges of Ilya’s face. But here, in the land that shaped him, Ilya could not hide it. His father, his brother… they would take one look at him and know he was half in love with Canada’s prince of hockey, and then where would they be?
Quietly excommunicated from his own country and his family, if Ilya was lucky. Inside a prison cell or beaten bloody if he was not.
Ilya took out his phone, selected his chat with Jane, and began typing furiously.
“So much for explaining,” Hollander drawled with the heavy weight of sarcasm. “Don’t let me keep you from your—”
“I am sending you text,” Ilya said, not looking up from the screen. “You will delete as soon as you read it.”
“Okay…”
Ilya didn’t dare look at Hollander as he pressed send and took a few careful steps to the side. He didn’t trust himself not to give them away.
Is not safe for you. They will know as soon as they see how I look at you. I will text you when we are out of Russia. I’m sorry.
For a moment, they just stood there, a few feet of deniability between them. Then, Ilya felt the receding tide of Hollander’s retreat. It was a little like coming up for air, if that air was devoid of any oxygen at all.
But Ilya did not let himself react. He kept his face forward, unseeing eyes trained on the ice below, as he drowned in the absence of Shane Hollander.
It was easier than Ilya expected to lie about his travel plans. His family believed him when he said he needed to return to Boston, and his coach believed him when he said he needed to remain in Russia for an extra couple of days. No one would have believed the truth: that he was flying from Sochi to Montreal to apologize to Shane Hollander in person.
Are you home?
He really should have asked much sooner. Probably before changing his flight from Sochi to Montreal instead of Boston. Probably before ordering a cab to Hollander’s place. Definitely before coming to stand in the back alley and staring at the door to Shane’s apartment in the cold with all his luggage from the Olympics. And yet. Here he was.
Fortunately, Shane replied quickly.
Yes, why?
Ilya’s exhale curled like smoke into the frigid air as he typed his response.
I’m at the back door.
This time, there was no reply. A moment later, the sound of steps descending the stairs came as a prelude to Hollander’s appearance at the back door, his expression some mix of disbelief and irritation.
“What the fuck?” he huffed, forehead creasing. “You didn’t think you should give me a heads up you were coming?”
Ilya shrugged, then pushed his way inside before Hollander could scold him for standing around where someone could see him. Or worse—turn him away. “Came straight from Russia.”
As if that were any kind of explanation. Hollander didn’t say anything about it, at least. He stared at Ilya for a long moment, gaze searching in the way that made Ilya feel like a raw, exposed nerve. Like Hollander could see through to the very core of him where his heart beat a Hollander shaped bruise against his ribs. For once, Ilya hoped it was true. It would be easier than trying to wrap his tongue around the enormity of his feelings in his inadequate English.
With another little sigh, Hollander grabbed one of Ilya’s bags, turned, and led the way up the stairs and into the apartment, kicking off his shoes at the door. Ilya followed suit, leaving his luggage by the door too. For all he knew, he’d be leaving again soon anyway.
Hollander drifted into the kitchen, pacing. “You want some water or something? I think I have beer. Or tea. Or—”
“Hollander.”
Hollander paused his anxious oscillation, shoving his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie and leaning back against the counter.
“I want to talk,” Ilya began.
“In Russia, you said we couldn’t—”
Ilya took a careful step forward, straining to keep himself in check. “We are not in Russia anymore. I could not be around you there. Now…”
From the moment the door had clicked shut behind them, he’d wanted to engulf Hollander’s body with his own—press their spirits together and wait for the overwhelming awareness of Hollander’s presence to ebb. But Hollander deserved more than the mixed signals he’d been given, even if it was all Ilya had felt capable of in Sochi. He allowed himself one more step forward before planting his feet and willing himself to stand still, giving Hollander plenty of room to maneuver if he needed more space.
Hollander’s gaze dropped to the floor as he whispered, “Okay.”
The silence stretched between them. Hollander was the one who’d wanted to talk back in Sochi, but Ilya was the one who needed to explain himself. So, they were trapped in this terrible game of chicken, neither willing to be the first to reveal a hint of tender underbelly. But Hollander’s words from Russia rang in his ears still.
I guess you got what you wanted from me already.
Ilya was the asshole here. It was only fair that he go first.
“In Sochi you said… you thought that all I wanted was to fuck you once, be your first time and then be done. Yes?”
Hollander grimaced, flushing all pink and pretty. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything in the first place. It was just me being a naïve fucking virgin about the whole thing.”
“No.” Unconsciously, Ilya’s hands balled into fists. “I owe you explanation.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Hollander said with a shake of his head. “I know we’re not anything.”
Ilya’s face contorted in a pained expression.
“That’s what you said,” Shane reminded him.
Ilya had said that, hadn’t he? But he hadn’t meant it like a denial, he’d meant it like a regret. They weren’t anything, but God how he wished they could be. Now, he wished he could take it back, somehow. And replace it with what? There was nothing he could have said, then. They were in Russia. They were not safe. They couldn’t be anything. No matter how much he might have wanted it. No matter how much he might want it still.
“But, fuck, Rozanov,” Hollander continued, chewing on the inside of his lip. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and rough. “Was it really that bad that you don’t even wanna see me anymore? We don’t have to do it again if you don’t want to, we can just go back to—”
Ilya could not let that stand, control deteriorating completely. He launched himself across the gap between them to cradle Hollander’s face in his hands before capturing his lips in a desperate kiss. Hollander’s lips were warm and soft against his own, opening for him before Ilya even had a chance to ask for entry. It was all he could do not to slip his hands under Hollander’s thighs and hoist him onto the kitchen counter. But he hadn’t come to Montreal to fuck. Or, at least not only to fuck. It was more important to tell Hollander the truth, to fix what he had broken, even if Ilya’s body had other priorities.
With no small amount of regret, Ilya peeled himself off of Hollander, letting a heavy breath sit between them as he knocked their foreheads together, noses brushing lightly in the aftermath.
“It was the best I’ve ever had, Hollander.”
There. He’d said it and survived. But that wasn’t all of it. He could leave it at that, probably. He had corrected the record. Perfectionist competitive Hollander needed to know he was not a bad lay. Okay, Ilya had told him. He was exceptional. He was everything Ilya had known he would be, and many things he could never have hoped for. They could go back to normal, now. They could go back to fucking every few months in hotel rooms and sexting in between and Hollander never needed to know the rest of it. The soft, stupid, achingly fond way Ilya’s chest caved in at the very sight of him.
He really meant to keep the rest inside, the things he could only be honest with himself about between the hours of mistake and regret. But Ilya had never been good at following instructions, and apparently neither was his mouth.
“I have spent every day since then wanting you,” he said, breathless, eyes shuttering closed as he leaned closer into Hollander’s orbit. “And I should not. I cannot.”
Ilya expected Hollander to duck out of his embrace at the admission. Ilya Rozanov, the Russian Menace, Russia’s Greatest Love Machine, was not supposed to catch feelings. Hollander had not signed up for this. He wanted Ilya to keep fucking him, or he wanted reassurance that Ilya had liked fucking him. That was all. This would be too much, and Hollander would send him back out the door into the cold.
Strong arms wrapped around Ilya’s body, a hand coming to rest at the nape of his neck and tugging the curls there. Ilya’s eyes fluttered open as Hollander leaned into him.
“Maybe you can,” Hollander said, chasing his lips with a soft kiss. “Maybe you should.”
And, well, what could Ilya do but show him just how wanted he truly was?
He pulled their hips together, captured Shane’s mouth, and poured everything he felt into him.
Ilya didn’t usually allow himself to indulge in afterglow. Not with anyone. Not with anything. He didn’t celebrate his successes for long, always bracing for the phone call from home that would trample his spirit. Joy was not a thing to be treasured but a thing to be experienced in a brief, uncontrollable burst, and then swiftly crushed. But tonight, Ilya held on to the man beside him like a lifeline. Hollander’s head was pillowed on Ilya’s chest, a drowsy smile on his lips as he traced circles around Ilya’s moles.
“So, was that… good for you?” Hollander asked, somewhere between meek and smug.
“Very,” Ilya said, the English gumming up his mouth so soon after orgasm.
“It wasn’t just me that…”
“No.” Ilya grinned against Hollander’s hair.
“It was… intense.”
“Yes.”
“Is it always like that?”
“No.” Ilya had to do better than that. He searched himself for additional syllables. “Definitely not.”
“So what does that mean?”
Ilya tipped his head back and let out a soft groan. “Hollander, so many questions. You are so needy.”
Hollander’s fingers stilled against Ilya’s skin immediately.
“Sorry.” He pulled his hand back. Ilya caught Hollander’s wrist and brought it to his lips.
“Don’t be sorry,” he said between alternating sharp nips and soft licks against the other man’s skin. He wasn’t ready for another round, not yet, but he couldn’t help his instinct to tease. “I like you needy.”
Then, as though his earlier honesty had broken the floodgates, the other half of the truth spilled out. “I like it when you need me.”
Hollander didn’t respond, but he snuggled closer, gripping Ilya around the waist. There wasn’t much Ilya wouldn’t give to stay in that moment forever, but by now he knew how particular Hollander could be after sex. Before, too, with his neatly folded clothes in the corner. Eventually, Hollander would want to shower, and that would be Ilya’s cue to disappear.
“I will get towel?” Ilya kissed the top of Hollander’s head, waiting until the other man nodded against him before extracting himself from the embrace.
It was a painful separation, the seconds he was gone from Hollander’s side warming the water from the tap and wetting a hand towel. The longer it took, the more Ilya’s thoughts turned to the inevitable ending of this encounter. Of every encounter. Of the day someday, possibly soon, that Hollander would decide the risk was no longer worth the reward.
When he returned to the bedroom, Hollander was splayed out, eyes closed, a small smile lingering on his lips, the back of his hand perched on his forehead like he was in a renaissance painting. Ilya needed to get him on a chaise longue someday. He would look outrageously sexy with his back arched on one of those stupid french couches.
“So good for me, Hollander,” Ilya murmured as he cleaned Hollander’s stomach and thighs, spending more time on the task than was strictly necessary in an attempt to prolong his stay.
“Yeah?” Hollander asked.
The idea that it was ever in question sent a sharp quake through Ilya’s body and he lowered himself over Hollander to kiss his navel, his breastbone, his throat, his lips. “The best.”
Hollander practically purred under the attention. A laugh punched its way out of Ilya’s lungs.
“Always so competitive, Hollander.”
“Only with you,” Hollander grumbled.
“Hmm.” Ilya inched up the bed so their noses were touching. “Always coming in second. Second in draft, second in olympics, second best hockey player in MLH… but this, having sex with me, you get first place.”
Hollander fixed him with a rueful stare.
“I’m honored,” he said sarcastically.
“You should be. Is very highly contested spot.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Ilya knew immediately by the way Hollander went still beneath him, how his breathing changed—more rigid and controlled.
“Is good thing,” Ilya said, trying to course correct. “I am saying you are my favorite. The best.”
Hollander nodded, but his brown eyes had lost some of their sleepy softness, gaining a wet edge and a faraway quality. Ilya gripped Hollander’s arms and swept his lips over Hollander’s jaw, trying to pull him back from wherever he’d gone with gentle kisses interspersed with diffuse praise about his body, his brain, his hockey. Eventually, Ilya lost himself in the words, desperate to reel Hollander back to the moment.
“You are everything I need, Hollander. Everything I want,” Ilya heard himself say aloud. “Only you.”
“Only me?” Hollander asked, a little breathy.
It was, perhaps, more honest than Ilya had meant to be, but that was the theme of the night, wasn’t it? And Ilya would do anything to chase away that distant look he’d caused with his careless words. He sucked a small mark into Hollander’s collarbone, a little claim on his body that could be easily hidden from view, easily explained away as a hockey bruise. But he would know it was there. Hollander would know Ilya was the one who put it there.
Hollander pushed himself up to sit against his ridiculous mound of pillows, dragging Ilya up with him. He turned to face Ilya, putting a few inches of detestable distance between them before saying, “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“What do you think I’m saying?” Ilya asked. Hollander swatted his chest and rolled his eyes.
“This is stupid,” he muttered. “We are so bad at actually talking to each other.”
“We are good at other things.” Ilya reached around and pinched Hollander’s ass playfully, but Hollander only fixed him with an even more serious stare.
“Okay, okay. Sorry.” He held his hands up in surrender. “I’m listening.”
“I think we need to be honest, maybe.” Hollander said, a slight quiver in his lip. “About what we want from each other. Really be clear about it. No dancing around it.”
“Hmm but I am good dancer. You should see me in the clubs.”
“Rozanov,” Hollander warned. “I’m being serious.”
“Okay, Mr. Serious.” Ilya ducked his chin, if only to stop himself from kissing the angry look off Hollander’s face. “Tell me. What do you want from me? Other than my dick.”
“Fuck off.” Hollander let out a weary sigh, but a fond smile inched onto his lips. “I want to know what you’re thinking.”
“Right now?”
“All the time, I guess. Whenever. But sure, we can start with right now.”
Ilya fought every instinct that screamed at him to pull back, close up, push away. Say something mean, something sarcastic, something to make him laugh or get pissed or get anything other than this: open and vulnerable and expectant. He replayed that soft kiss Hollander had given him when he’d asked, worth the wait? and felt the surge of feeling all over again, the one that had pushed him to retreat in the first place.
“I am thinking this is maybe not as casual as it was supposed to be,” he admitted.
“Okay.” Hollander nodded and chewed his lip. “Is that… bad?”
“Probably.” Ilya’s mouth twisted in a wry grin. “But I can’t make it stop. Do not want to.”
“Me either.” Hollander’s lips twitched into a smile to match. “So then, what do we do?”
“Other than fuck again?”
Hollander’s eyes bloomed with heat as he glanced down at Ilya’s mouth. “Other than that, yeah.”
It was a miracle that stayed Ilya’s hand as the urge to devour this man before him crested like a tidal wave. Shane’s words earlier, asking him to be honest, were all that kept his desire at bay. Later, he told himself, he could have his way with Hollander again. First, he would flay himself open and show off the tenderest parts of his heart. All because Hollander had asked so very nicely.
“Maybe we do not sleep with other people,” he suggested, feeling all the breath leave him at once with the honest admission—direct, not roundabout like before.
“I don’t,” Hollander said quickly, then added with a blush, “I haven’t been. At all, actually.”
Ilya wanted to lick the rosy color off Hollander’s cheeks. “Your turn,” he said instead, barely keeping his grin in check.
“Can we text more?” Hollander asked.
“Da. We could do that.”
“And no more ghosting?”
“Ghosting?” Ilya’s brows crashed together at the unfamiliar phrase. “You are haunted, Hollander? Mr. Christmas Carol comes to you at night and tells you to be nicer to your employees?”
Hollander shook his head. “No, it’s like when you stop texting someone out of the blue.”
“Out of blue? Hollander, you kill me with stupid English.”
“Suddenly, without warning. Like you did before the Olympics.”
“Okay,” Ilya said with a slow nod. “I will not stop texting.” He laid a kiss on Hollander’s bicep. “Ever.” Another on Hollander’s shoulder. “Will be constant. You will block my number.”
“Maybe.” Hollander grinned. “We could do calls sometimes, too. Facetimes and stuff.”
“I think I would like this. Anything to see your pretty freckles.” Ilya ran his thumb across Hollander’s cheek, then buried his fingers in his hair. “Also phone sex can be hot.”
“Fuck off.” Hollander swatted at him, but inched closer to lean his head against Ilya’s chest. “Thank you for coming tonight.”
“Twice,” Ilya said with a wink.
“Fuck you.” Shane shoved Ilya’s shoulder weakly. “I meant for coming straight here from Russia. And for being honest.”
Ilya nodded, burying his face in the crook of Shane’s neck. It felt stupid, to be thanked for something that ought to have been simple, for the difficulty Ilya had with it to be acknowledged. He wanted to be better for Hollander, to be someone who could say the hard things out loud, even when it scared him. Maybe someday he would gather the courage to call him Shane out loud, to ask to be called Ilya.
But this was a start. They would text more, they would facetime. They would be exclusive, if not exactly together. It wasn’t nothing. They weren’t nothing. All those small steps already felt like a lot. It was plenty.
It was enough.
Hollander couldn’t expect more than that from him, not tonight.
But as Ilya burrowed into Hollander, breathing in his scent, it wasn’t Hollander’s needs that rose to the forefront of his mind. It was his own. Could he ask for it? Should he?
“Can I… maybe stay the night tonight?” he asked in a small voice that he barely recognized.
Hollander tightened his grip on Ilya, fingers almost bruising as he clutched him to his chest. “You’d fucking better.”
Ilya closed his eyes and smiled. And as his breaths slowed, he let the quiet comfort of Hollander’s arms lull him toward slumber, giddy and warm with the high of this new first between them.
Maybe, if he were lucky, it would not be the last.