Chapter Text
November 2013
Ilya ignores the problem until the problem presents itself in the form of a gorgeous, breathtaking woman who desperately tries to get his attention, dancing with him on the dance floor of a club in Boston, on a rare hockey-free Saturday of a cold November.
This woman is objectively hot; Ilya knows it. He sees that she is. And usually, he would dance with her, show her his moves, maybe he would try to seduce her and then see where the night gets them, since she seems more than interested in him.
Usually, Ilya would have zero issues with the fact that this stunning, blonde woman is crawling slowly and seductively in his personal space. She really does try her best, and usually Ilya would be flattered, probably. She dances around him, and then, when Ilya finally, and completely on autopilot, moves his hands on her waist, she turns around a little, getting closer and rubbing her hip against his crotch.
At this point, usually, Ilya would kiss her, and she would kiss him back, and then maybe he would turn her around and lasciviously rub her ass, just a sultry taste of what could happen afterwards, if she still wants it. He would even follow the music rhythm, and maybe kiss her neck, slow, gauging her reaction, before going deeper, if allowed.
But usually is not now. And now the problem arises, because Ilya Rozanov has never needed to turn a woman down, reject sexual advances. Never, until now.
Now, Ilya hopes he doesn’t come across as an asshole — that’s reserved for the rink, never to his hookups — when he gently slows down, eventually stopping their uncoordinated swaying altogether, and smiles genuinely and apologetically, muttering a genuine “I’m sorry, really— sorry,” before leaving this pretty woman confused behind.
That is a problem. This is new and unprecedented, for Ilya. And it becomes, very quickly, Cliff Marlow’s problem. Specifically, when Ilya spots him across the room and unceremoniously drags him out and back to his own house.
“Roz, what the fuck? Will you tell me what’s going on now?” The poor man begs his captain to explain himself, because Ilya has refused to speak ever since leaving the club, and now they’re in his driveway.
Ilya sighs, checks Marlow out in the passenger seat with the corner of his eye. Then he puts the car in the garage and, still silently, guides him to the house.
“Okay,” he eventually huffs, moving to the kitchen to retrieve some vodka.
Marlow is about to protest, say that it’s too late for that, but then he closes his mouth because Ilya starts drinking straight from the bottle.
“Hey, whoa, Cap, maybe you should put that down,” he says, instead.
Ilya shakes his head. Put that down? He would put himself down, right fucking now, if he could.
“I have problem, Cliff.”
Oh. Marlow thinks. It’s a Cliff problem. They’re fucked. He is fucked, if Ilya decided that he is the only one he’d share his problem with.
“What problem? Is it serious?” He tries to sound calm. There’s no need to panic. Yet.
Ilya takes another sip. “Very serious.”
He debates. Should he tell Marlow the whole truth? No. He can’t. He can’t out Hollander. He definitely can’t do that.
“Are you… dying?” Marlow asks. Maybe Ilya really did spend too long debating, it seems.
“What? No. Are you stupid?” Ilya immediately retorts.
“Fuck you, Roz. Tell me what this problem is.”
Ilya takes some more seconds, silently mulling over it.
“There was this beautiful woman,” he finally says. “She wanted me. We were dancing.”
Marlow nods. “Yeah, I saw that.”
“She was dancing. I was…” Ilya makes an aborted motion with his hand which should mean I was just hanging around…
But Marlow doesn’t speak so he simply has to explain himself.
Sighing again, he tries. “I was not interested.”
Marlow should understand, right?
“Okay, so, what is your problem?”
No.
Ilya must really say it.
“That is my problem, Marlow!”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, mutters something in Russian that Marlow is sure is a curse, and then takes another sip of vodka before continuing.
“I was not interested. I did not want to fuck!”
Marlow flinches a little. This conversation is getting weirder by the minute. “Okay…” he cautiously mumbles, slowly leaning forward to encourage his friend to talk.
“Okay,” Ilya nods. He looks satisfied that at least that point is clear.
“You didn’t like her?” Marlow tries to suggest.
“Yes! But… fuck,” Ilya hides his eyes behind the hand that is not holding the bottle. “This has never happened.”
“What?”
“The problem.”
Marlow sighs. “Right. The problem. Yeah.”
He doesn’t even think about asking what this goddamn problem is, though. He waits.
“You know I have Jane, yes?”
Oh. Oh, God. Marlow is about to have a stroke. They are doing this. They are talking about Jane.
“Yes, Montreal Jane. Is she the problem?”
Ilya looks away briefly, before shrugging. “Maybe.”
“Okay.” Marlow is now treating him like a scared, wild animal. Ilya knows. He kind of appreciates that.
“We had sex,” he says. How can he possibly explain this without outing Hollander or himself in the process?
“She let me fuck her,” he adds, fully aware of how weird this sounds. Hopefully Marlow won’t question that.
“She let you?” He shrieks. Well, it looks like he did question that. It’s ridiculous. It makes Ilya chuckle.
“That is not important. There is problem, Marly. Focus on problem.”
“Alright. Problem. Yeah.”
“I fucked Jane and now I do not want to fuck anyone else! I do not like people anymore! There is something wrong.”
Marlow’s face does something that Ilya has never witnessed before. His eyes seem to go… soft. How can eyes look soft? And then his lips curl, a grin creeping up his face. Ilya has never seen such a thing. His friend is really weird.
“What? It’s a terrible problem, Marlow. How do I fix this?”
“Roz.” Marlow now sounds like he’s holding back laughter.
“Yes.”
“You are saying that you and Jane fucked and now you don’t want anyone else. You are not interested in other people. You know how that sounds, right?”
Ilya squints, takes a moment to think. “Like a problem? I told you already!”
Marlow wants a medal for the way he is not laughing in his captain’s face.
“Maybe… I mean, is it possible that you fell in love with Jane?”
Ilya moves so abruptly to sit straighter that the bottle of vodka almost slips away from his fingers. Then he starts violently coughing and for a moment or two, Cliff Marlow is sure that he will have to explain to the Raiders GM how he managed to kill their star player and captain.
“Roz? Hey, fuck. Man, come on.”
He takes the bottle from him and pats him awkwardly on the back.
“Don’t die on me.”
Ilya tries to give him a dirty look but if he asked Marlow, his friend would reassure him that it truly did not work.
“I do not fall in love. What is this–” The same aborted hand motion interrupts his own sentence, before continuing with “Bullshit.”
“Alright…”
Marlow doesn’t have a death wish, so he won’t press the issue. What he does, however, is dig deeper into this matter.
“Tell me about her?” He offers.
“No. Marly, this is serious.”
Honestly, Marlow doesn’t remember ever seeing his captain so worried— distressed, even.
“Okay. What can I do, Roz? And what’s so bad about this? You like her and don’t want to have sex with a different woman every time you go out. So? What’s so serious? It’s not a problem… it’s probably how that works for the majority of the population.”
Marlow grimaces internally at his last sentence but he genuinely feels lost. He doesn’t know how to help Ilya.
It also doesn’t help that Ilya is staring into the void, likely forgetting his vodka in the process too. And it’s absolutely the weirdest thing he’s ever done.
“It is problem, because we are not– she is not my girlfriend.”
He sounds almost… disappointed. And Marlow smacks him on the head telepathically because… how doesn’t he see that he’s in love with the chick? Come on.
“You don’t like her like that?” It doesn’t make sense but Marlow still asks.
And that makes Ilya stop blinking. Because it has never occurred to him that he could… like Hollander.
Hollander has always meant absolutely mind-blowing sex, instant connection that never fails to make him feel alive, the thrill of being the best there is when they are on the ice— generational talent and all that— while the others will never be able to compete, and a competitive asshole (even if no one would believe Ilya) and stunning, beautiful freckles.
Oh.
Oh.
Ilya likes Hollander. Ilya likes Shane.
Oh fuck.
He has never thought of Hollander as Shane.
It tastes good on Ilya’s tongue, even if he hasn’t said it yet. He can’t blurt it out in front of Marlow.
“Okay,” he eventually mutters, after a stretch of silence painfully covered by his internal freak-out.
“Maybe I like her, but– but I do not know if she likes me.”
Does Shane like him? Does Shane think of him when a beautiful woman tries to seduce him? Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Ilya needs to know now. He needs Marlow to get the fuck out of his house and call Shane.
Marlow, oblivious to the drama currently unfolding in his captain’s head, soldiers on. “What? Why wouldn’t she like you? You already had sex, right? She didn’t enjoy it?”
He would tease Ilya, if only the man didn’t look like he was a second away from puking his guts all over this expensive carpet.
“Is complicated.”
“Oh, come on, Roz, you gotta give me more than that.”
Ilya huffs, sighs theatrically, and acts like he’s about to die from a poisonous snake bite instead of answering. But then he thinks that Marlow would probably be anywhere but here if it weren’t for his dramatic self, so he speaks.
“You cannot tell anyone,” he points a finger at the other man, squinting in what he hopes is his most threatening look.
“Promise.”
Marlow looks at him for a second too long before realizing that he is serious. “I promise.”
“Jane works for the Metros.”
Marlow’s eyes pop out of his skull. “The Metros?” He shrieks, loudly, obnoxiously.
Ilya rolls his eyes. “Yes. And they would not be happy, yes? If we…”
He doesn’t even finish the sentence. It’s such a utopian scenario that he can’t bring himself to speak it into existence.
“But you still don’t know what she thinks,” Marlow suggests. “Maybe you could be fuck buddies and then friends with benefits!”
He looks so proud of his idea that Ilya feels bad because he doesn’t know what fuck buddies mean and that will dim the light in his teammate’s eyes.
“Marly.”
“Yeah?”
“What the fuck is fuck buddies?”
Marlow laughs. He laughs. He has the audacity to fucking laugh in Ilya’s face while he is experiencing a life-altering realization. He likes Shane Hollander and Cliff Marlow is laughing at him.
“This is serious. You were trying to help, yes?” He fidgets with the vodka bottle and vaguely gesticulates with the other hand. “Help.”
“Okay. Okay. Sorry, Roz,” Marlow recovers pretty quickly but he still can’t drop the smirk. “Fuck buddies means that you only meet for sex. So you tell her that you like her and want to have sex with her, and then you can tell her that you wanna be her friend, so that gets you to the friends with benefits stage–”
Ilya is looking at him as if he’s lost his mind but doesn’t dare interrupt this very interesting lecture about the sex experience between humans who are not in a relationship. Apparently, Cliff Marlow is an expert.
“And then, you will be friends! Friends who sometimes have sex, and then you can ask her if she wants to be exclusive–”
At this point, Marlow is so excited that Ilya’s heart physically hurts for him. He thinks this is easy. He has no idea that–
“Marly.”
“No, wait. Really– listen–”
“No–”
Ilya wants to tell him that Jane is a man. But he can’t. He can’t do that to Shane.
“You can get yourself a girlfriend, buddy! Even if she’s a Metro. I don’t care.”
Ilya smiles. God. Marlow really has no idea. If it were this easy, he wouldn’t feel like he’s choking on air because he’s just realized that he likes Shane.
“Thank you, Marly. You are a good friend.”
There’s not much he can say, after this whole overexcited plan that his friend has made for him. Ilya really is grateful, but there’s nothing he can do that would convince Shane Hollander to be his— whatever.
Why would perfect Hollander with perfect family and perfect hockey and perfect fucking French want to be anything to Ilya? Fucked up Ilya who doesn’t even have a family.
He doesn’t tell Marlow, but he often thinks that if his own father and his own brother don’t love him, how could he ever be enough for anybody else? How could he possibly be enough for Shane fucking Hollander?
Also, there’s the whole Russia problem, capital p-problem that keeps him awake at night whenever he thinks of him and Hollander. Of him and Shane. Thinking of him as Shane makes his stomach turn in very particular, new ways. He won’t dwell on that.
“This has never happened before…” he also adds, before Marlow can tell him to go fuck himself over the good friend comment— that’s just how they are.
“I am a very good friend, yeah,” Marlow gloats. “But that’s normal, Roz. Nothing to be ashamed of, or worried about, you know?”
Ilya breathes out softly, moves to the couch to somehow sink into it. And closes his eyes.
“She kissed my head, last time,” he says, for reasons that he can’t explain.
There are goosebumps on his arms when he thinks about that particular moment, in Shane’s bed, when he came back from his shower and Shane looked all blissed out and pliant after his orgasm, and— fuck, he looked so soft Ilya wants to cry. And he kissed his fucking forehead!
That’s why he couldn’t get out of there any faster.
He has never wanted another person, he has never felt the need to stay. Nobody has ever kissed his forehead after sex. Then Hollander went and did exactly that. Who the hell gave him the right to? And why is Ilya thinking about that now? Whywhywhy? Because he couldn’t get hard for a woman who would be on the top of his list of hookups if things were different. That’s why.
Marlow coos. He fucking coos at him. Ilya will use his captaincy to make him pay for this. He doesn’t know the specifics yet, but he will.
“You are a softie, Rozy!” He teases him mercilessly, even if he knows that Ilya must be planning his murder right now.
He goes as far as sitting closer to him on the couch, so that he can poke him in the ribs, playfully.
“It’s cute,” he happily tells him.
“I am not cute, Marlow,” Ilya grunts, sniffing and rubbing his nose as a nervous habit, eventually crossing his arms.
Marlow turns slightly towards him, putting one leg on the couch. “Ilya.”
“Clifford.”
“My name isn’t even Clifford, you asshole” Marlow chuckles.
“What? What do you mean?”
“I am Cliff. Just Cliff.”
Ilya frowns, wondering why he didn’t know this. How. “Really?”
“Yeah, I swear I know my name.”
That makes Ilya laugh a little, finally. He relaxes slightly. He doesn’t feel like the whole world is collapsing on his chest anymore, fracturing his ribs and preventing him from breathing.
“You can stay in the guest room if you want, I’m sorry that you are here because of me,” he tells Cliff, because he genuinely appreciates his help, appreciates that he left everything, left the club and followed him home. Ilya did drag him outside but ultimately Marlow could have refused to follow him, and he didn’t.
“Oh, that’s surprisingly nice, Roz, thanks,” Marlow grins, taking him up on the offer.
Seeing this side of his captain was so unexpected that he is still trying to wrap his head around what happened when Ilya says goodbye to him, some time later, before going to bed. But that doesn’t mean he won’t tease him.
“Jane looks good on you, Roz,” he winks at him, already beneath the duvet, when Ilya passes by the door.
“Fuck you, Cliff,” Ilya fires back quickly, but smiles again.
Cliff breathes out a relaxed huff as soon as he’s alone. He doesn’t know whether he’s helped Ilya or not, but he has been there when he needed him, and that’s the best he could do.
He’s also a little excited about Jane, if he focuses on the fact that he knows that she exists, and that she has apparently his captain wrapped around her finger. He wants to talk about it with the rest of the team so much that his fingers twitch with the need to text them, but he knows that he can’t betray Ilya’s trust, nor would he want to, so he simply falls asleep lulled by a secret, Jane-induced giddiness.
Ilya, on the other hand, can’t fall asleep. If his life depended on the amount of sleep he’s going to get this night, he would be dead. No chance of survival.
He keeps tossing and turning, thrashing around because under the duvet he’s too hot but without the duvet he feels like he’s freezing, until he gets so restless that he ends up going back to the couch, with the television on mute and the dimmest light on. Jimmy Fallon stares at him. It’s almost unsettling. But still less disturbing than whatever is going on inside him.
Why couldn’t he simply hook up with that woman? She was so pretty, and she wanted him. What was the void that threatened to engulf him when he thought about bringing her home?
Why was the way Shane’s back arched, face scrunched up in pure pleasure all Ilya could see, every time he closed his eyes?
His plan was simple. He liked Hollander’s freckles, he thought Hollander was hot, and it turned out that Hollander appreciated him in return. All he had to do was fucking him once and the itch would be scratched. Where does this flaw in his plan come from?
He was supposed to hook up with Hollander and get back to his life. Instead, it seems like he hooked up with Hollander and now he’s stuck liking Shane. Old life nowhere in sight.
Eventually, exhaustion wins and his eyes finally close, on their own accord, on their own terms. His dreams are a mess, though; a string of nonsensical blobs whose shape reminds him of Shane, and his father, and for a second, his mother too. Maybe that’s why he wakes up with a start. But he doesn’t go to Marlow to tell him. He can’t. He wouldn’t know how to.
He observes the ceiling of his room, praying that he falls back asleep before he can do something utterly terrible, like texting Shane.
Shane is still thinking about Rozanov.
It’s been weeks, at this point. And his mind still hasn’t received the goddamn memo. That he should forget him. That even though the sex was almost a spiritual experience, thinking about Rozanov is such a bad idea. Truthfully, everything that revolves around Rozanov is, but Shane has stopped caring about that for years, at this point. Considering that it’s been five years since the time he went and introduced himself to him.
So, yeah, he is still thinking about him and he doesn’t think he’s going to stop anytime soon.
He keeps replaying the way Rozanov’s hands held him down to the bed, pushed him until they both were one with the mattress. His breath hitches whenever he remembers how his lungs burned with the sensation of being full of Rozanov, of having some part of Rozanov — that part of him — fill him up so completely, so perfectly.
Shane’s eyes might even water if he thinks about that kiss on the stairwell, while Rozanov waited for his cab. It had no right to be that tender, to make Shane’s insides turn to mush after such a hot, bordering on filthy experience. And yet it was. And yet— and yet Shane hasn’t slept well since that night.
That is the reason why, when his phone screen lights up with a text from Rozanov at two in the morning, he is still up, looking at the ceiling of his bedroom. It’s a good ceiling, smooth plaster, Shane thinks deliriously. Shane has observed it for so long that he would have every single crack memorized, if there were any.
His heart catapults itself from his ribcage.
Do you miss my trick?
What the hell? Shane’s breath has no business stopping for a moment. A moment too long. Why is Rozanov texting him in the middle of the night? And why is he apparently thinking about the sex they had the last time they met?
Are you fucking serious?
That is probably the only combination of letters, of words, that does not give him away, that doesn’t tell Rozanov that Shane has been thinking about said trick for days. So that’s what Shane goes on with.
And, well, that sends a jolt of panic through Ilya’s spine now. Because he didn’t expect Shane to text back. He was sure that Shane was asleep, sticking to whatever weird schedule he strictly follows to be the NHL absolute best.
Fuck. What does he do now? He can’t confess. He can’t tell Shane that he couldn’t get hard because all he could think of was him, in the middle of a very busy club. And now he’s thinking about his new sponsored-by-Marlow befriending-the-enemy plan.
You are not sleeping?
He decides to ask that, because that’s the safest option.
On the other side, Shane frowns. They don’t do this. At least… he was pretty sure they don’t. But apparently, they do? It’s confusing, and weird.
I couldn’t sleep
Well, that’s pretty safe. That does not sound like Shane has been thinking about getting fucked into the mattress for several days, at this point.
Me too
Shane immediately reads. And chuckles.
That would be me neither
He cheekily retorts. Because he likes pissing Rozanov off. It’s one of the things he enjoys most, actually.
Fuck you
Rozanov texts back in a second. And Shane can’t stop the smile that blooms on his lips.
What about you? You thinking of your own trick?
Shane has never felt brave in his life. He knows that he has accomplished some remarkable achievements, but he has never thought of himself as brave. And yet now he does. He doesn’t know what he’s doing with Rozanov, but this is nice. It’s like having a friend who is not Hayden, and who also knows what to do to push him right over the edge.
Maybe that’s why he keeps grinning like an idiot, instead of sleeping. He’s dead tired, but this is more fun than whatever dream his mind could come up with. So he just keeps texting Rozanov.
That’s your job
Fuck you
You are confused, maybe
I fuck you
You come for me
Are you trying to sext me?
I don’t understand
Depends
Is it working?
I’m tired
You are BORING!
And you’re always horny?
Also I’m not boring
Fuck you
For you always
Well, maybe that was too much, Ilya realizes when he’s already hit send.
Shane’s heart definitely speeds up. That’s for sure.
He chooses to deflect. He can’t do much more than that.
Flattery will bring you nowhere, asshole
Rozanov takes a while to text back, and Shane wonders why. He hopes he won’t be left on read, spiraling about what he might have said wrong.
I had to look up flattery
Oh, that’s why. Shane sighs softly. Why is that making him smile like a fool?
You use big words
You know what else is big?
I think you know
Shane rolls his eyes. Rozanov is fucking impossible.
He tells him as much.
You are IMPOSSIBLE
Mmmm, yes, hard to resist
They tell me all the time
Ilya smiles so big that his cheeks hurt, even if it should make him worry that just texting bullshit with Shane back and forth currently feels better than any potential hookup he could have left the club with.
Things are weird.
He wonders if Shane is smiling too.
He also wonders why Shane is not sleeping if he’s tired. Is it possible that he’s feeling just like him? Well, Ilya doesn’t think so. He doesn’t really know Hollander but he doesn’t look like a casual one-night stand kind of guy, so he doesn’t think Hollander has just had the same thing happen to him, but he also doesn’t look like he fucks his arch-rival, and he does, he did. So… Ilya’s brain itches. It’s unbearable.
Why can’t you sleep?
Maybe that’s too much, though? He shouldn’t have asked.
Canada is so fun that you cannot sleep?
Shane does smile. He grins. Then he huffs and, again, rolls his eyes. And yet he can’t bring himself to lock his phone and go to sleep.
No, my distraction is from Boston right now
Ilya has to bite his lower lip to stop himself from laughing and waking Marlow up.
Maybe Shane is fun too. Oh.
Why are you not sleeping?
Well. That is unexpected now. Ilya certainly didn’t expect Shane to ask him such a deep question. He also knows that he should stop thinking of him as Shane, because that might get him in trouble. Hockey players usually don’t refer to each other by their first names. That would raise questions. But now is not the time for that.
I was thinking of beautiful Canadian boy with freckles
Maybe that’s a little too close to the truth but Shane will never think he’s serious, so there’s no harm.
Jesus Christ why are you like this
Indeed. Ilya cheekily grins.
Then, for reasons that he can’t quite comprehend, despite not knowing what compels him to do it, he says something that makes him feel all raw and vulnerable.
I was out but did not feel like hookup
He won’t even correct the grammar. Shane will forgive him. It’s almost three in the morning.
That’s… weird for you?
Is Shane serious? Yeah, Ilya is fairly certain that he is.
Yes
Beautiful women want me
Men also
Shane sighs. That, somehow, gets under his skin. Not so deep. Nothing like that. But… just enough to make him ponder abandoning the conversation.
Well, it’s okay if you didn’t want them for once
Isn’t it?
Maybe you are right
I’m taking a screenshot
Fuck off
And people think I’m asshole
Shane chuckles. This shouldn’t feel so nice. But he’s never had someone to talk to when he can’t sleep, so talking with Rozanov is nice. And he’s surprisingly funny too. Despite being his rival and constantly getting on his nerves, he sounds like he might be a good friend.
Maybe they could be… friends who fuck? No. Friends with benefits is something that Shane doesn’t think would work.
Maybe… fuck buddies? His teammates keep repeating this word over and over. Maybe he and Rozanov could—
A text cuts through his thoughts.
Do you do hookups?
I bet everyone wants the golden boy
He rolls his eyes so hard that it’s almost painful. If they were next to each other, he would probably shove him.
I do not
And nobody wants me
People are not waiting for me or whatever
That’s bullshit
Ilya should definitely not fist bump the air; it’s very embarrassing and very dangerous, because he’s sure that a lot of people want Shane, and because that doesn’t mean that Shane wants to repeat their latest performance. It does exponentially increase their chances of becoming fuck buddies, as Marlow kindly suggested, though. So, in Ilya’s book, it’s a win.
Oh so now you are dumble
What?
Ilya frowns. What did he say wrong?
Dumble?
Is Shane drunk?
Yes?
You mean humble?
Fuck stupid English. Ilya seriously hates it. There he goes, back to Google.
Yes, sorry
Humble
Shane smiles. He’d rather die than admit it, but Ilya’s English is endearing, to him.
What?
You think I am the people’s princess?
He even adds two laughing emojis because the thought is hilarious to him. But the text seems to be well received by Rozanov, because the text bubbles keep appearing and disappearing. What could he possibly be writing?
PEOPLE’S PRINCESS? What is this?
No wait I LOVE this
I’ll call you princess now
Shane sighs and hides behind a hand, despite being alone in his bedroom.
Don’t you dare
Stop right now
God. Rozanov is going to be insufferable about this.
But… there’s a small part of Shane that likes this teasing. He has a feeling that if he seriously asked Rozanov to stop, he would. No questions.
Or what? You won’t have sex with me anymore?
Are you threatening your prince?
With abstinence???
Shane laughs. How does he know the word abstinence and then get humble wrong?
He also feels something akin to giddiness and excitement and anticipation mixed with fear, at the mention of sex with Rozanov, again. As much as he has felt guilty about enjoying sex with another man and hasn’t fully accepted what that might mean, he also knows that he kind of can’t resist Rozanov.
Also, Rozanov is safe. For reasons that are both clear — he certainly has no interest in broadcasting their arrangement to the public— and unclear.
I’m sure you get your fair share of propositions
And why would you be the prince in this relationship?
Shane panics as soon as he sees that he’s actually typed the word relationship and has hit send too. Ilya, on the other hand, feels suddenly alert. He was having trouble falling asleep before— now he’s as awake as a child at six a.m. on Christmas Day.
This is his time to shine.
He can follow Marlow’s plan. Even if the idea of following Marlow’s plan doesn’t immediately make him feel calm.
Yes, I already told you this
But I am more interested in you
And I am prince because you’re princess, yes?
God. Ilya needs someone to kill him now. He needs the spirit of dear old Russia to fucking strike him with lightning from the other side of the planet.
Please.
You liked it last time, yes?
That is one hell of a desperate attempt at salvaging a hopeless situation. Ilya knows it. But what else—
You know I did
Don’t you?
My prince
Shane cuts through his misery. And he sounds… flirty? No. People cannot sound through texts. Ilya is just losing his mind.
I did too
I was thinking, before
Ilya gulps down a Texas-sized tennis ball. Even breathing hurts. This is under any circumstances not normal.
He must tell Marlow as soon as he wakes up tomorrow that he almost died, to follow his advice.
Ok that’s dangerous
Should I be concerned?
That makes the situation slightly better, but Ilya can’t properly relax.
Fuck you
Maybe we could have arrangement
Yes?
What do you think?
Ilya’s palms sweat and that is absolutely not normal. Ilya is sure of that. But Shane called him his prince! That must mean something, right?
Shane takes two eons to reply and Ilya is going to have a heart attack.
No.
No. It’s okay.
He needs to calm down, or he will end up embarrassing himself even more. He needs to calm down because everything will be fine, and if it isn’t, Ilya will move on and be happy without fucking Shane Hollander of all people.
I’ll offer you a deal
Oh God.
You stop calling me princess and we have an arrangement
Ilya is one second away from going to wake up Marlow, because he can’t do this on his own. What is he supposed to do now? What’s the protocol for this? He likes Shane, enough to lose interest in having meaningless sex with anyone else, but how does he act now? What should he say?
So we are fuck buddies instead of prince and princess?
This is probably the riskiest text Ilya has ever sent, and he has repeatedly told his brother to go fuck himself and bring their father with him twice in the last three months.
He doesn’t know how he’ll act if Shane tells him to stop talking to him, forget his number, forget everything that happened between them. How would he face him on the ice?
That’s a gross word
But yeah?
I guess?
Oh. Yeah? I guess? Ilya is so relieved that if someone flayed him open, they’d find an endless ocean of peace, probably.
Usually people are more excited
He needs to keep at least a semblance of distance. He can’t show Shane how much this means to him, the way he feels relieved because, if even he doesn’t feel like hooking up with anyone else ever again, at least he’ll be sure to have Shane. And for other reasons that he’s been refusing to acknowledge— for years, at this point.
Fuck you
You thought I’d be celebrating?
Shane’s texts make him grin. Riling him up is the easiest thing in the world, for Ilya. And even the funniest, probably.
Probably I expected more emotion
I’m disappointed
Oh really? Poor thing
I am so incredibly, infinitely, completely, utterly grateful for this opportunity, your majesty
Ilya chuckles loudly and then rolls his eyes. This man.
You are not nice
Canadians are supposed to be nice
Now I will be nice and say good night because I am really tired
Fine
BORING
Good night, princess
Fuck you
Neither knows but there’s a fond and ridiculous grin on both their faces by the time their phones are locked and on their respective bedside tables.
Ilya is already up and rummaging around the kitchen when Marlow wakes up and that nearly scares the man.
“Whoa!” Replaces any possible version of good morning, startling Ilya who drops a thankfully-plastic bowl on the floor.
“Is this the Jane effect, Roz?” Marlow smirks, even if he’s still feeling sleepy. He rubs his eyes while Ilya looks at him like he’s been punched.
“You startled me!” Eventually Ilya huffs, crouching down to retrieve the bowl and throwing it into the sink.
Marlow chuckles. “You hate waking up early, it’s… surprising,” he explains.
Ilya waves him off with the flick of his wrist. “Whatever– you want breakfast, yes?”
“Oh, this is really kind of you, I need to thank Jane!”
“Marlow.” Ilya crosses his arms, leaning against the counter and doing his best to look pissed, even if he really isn’t. “Do you think I am asshole? I always make breakfast.”
Marlow smiles behind the coffee that has been shoved in his hands as soon as he sat down. “Kidding, Cap.”
“But seriously…” he tries again, while Ilya is busy with something that is sizzling in a pan.
“I talked with Jane.” Ilya surprises him.
“What? When? What did you tell her?”
Ilya can privately smile thinking about his conversation with Shane, because Marlow is watching his back, so he doesn’t risk any more friendly nagging. “I sent text, she was awake, so we talked,” he shrugs, as though his heart hadn’t been racing the whole night.
When he turns around and puts eggs on a plate, he lifts his gaze and finds a huge, cheeky grin on his teammate’s face, so it’s natural that he rolls his eyes. “What now?”
“Nothing,” Marlow keeps secretly smirking.
“Did you tell her?”
“What?”
“That you loooove her!”
Marlow insists. Fuck. Jesus Christ. He cannot keep insinuating shit like this or Ilya could end up believing him.
“I do not love her,” he quickly corrects him. “Maybe,” he adds, but points a (not really) threatening finger at Marlow before continuing, “Maybe I like her. But that’s… that is sex only.”
Marlow makes a condescending, humming noise that honestly grates on Ilya, and then seems to give up, at least momentarily.
“Alright, if you say so…”
“I say so,” Ilya replies, out of spite. “And I am expert in me, so…”
Marlow chuckles, amused, still unsure about this whole sex-only agenda that the other man is trying to push, but then his captain keeps talking and things become even more interesting.
“We are fuck buddies now.”
Ilya says that while he’s chewing on a piece of scrambled egg and it’s honestly a disgusting sight— Marlow has told him repeatedly to close his mouth when it’s full, but it doesn’t seem to work— but if Marlow’s ears worked like dogs’ ones, they’d be totally perked up now.
“Oh, you are?” Marlow’s eyebrows park themselves at his hairline. This man is impossible— talking about the girl he’s apparently obsessed with as if he were talking about the goddamn weather.
“Mm-hmm. But nothing serious, yes?” Ilya keeps vaguely gesticulating with his free hand and Marlow wonders why that is. Isn’t that an Italian thing? Why is his captain moving his hand around so much? Anyway— not the time.
“‘Course buddy, nothing serious. She’s just the only one who gets you going nowadays, got it.”
Marlow’s tone is absolutely mocking and Ilya doesn’t appreciate that. He also doesn’t appreciate that maybe, just maybe, Marlow could be right. He will probably try to get a girl home next time he’s out at a club out of fucking spite— Take that, Clifford-not-Clifford, he thinks privately— but right now he needs to defend himself.
“You were such a good friend yesterday, Marly. Is shame, you are ruining morning now…” he dramatically tells the other man that laughs in response.
“You are so dramatic, Roz. Fuck you.”
“I will not tell you about our arrangement now.”
“You have an arrangement? You and Jane?”
Ilya nods, satisfaction painting his features. He even smiles proudly— Marlow can’t believe his eyes. “Yes, she offered.”
Marlow’s eyes go wide. “She offered? Wow, wow.”
“Why do you sound surprised? You do not believe in your captain?” Ilya’s right eyebrow shoots up, questioning the other man’s position, but luckily, Marlow’s phone vibrates before he can even open his mouth.
And, really, truly, Ilya would love to discuss his non-existent feelings for Jane — it’s strictly about sex, alright? — with Marlow, but he can’t bring himself to feel sad when his friend forlornly announces that he has to leave shortly because his sister is requesting his help with her kitchen sink.
Ilya can’t feel bad when he finally ends up on his couch alone for the first time since getting the confirmation that he is something to Hollander, to Shane, even if what they do is just sex. He doesn’t feel bad that Marlow left when he can lie down and keep reminiscing about the way Hollander’s lips grazed his chin, his nose, and then found their spot on his forehead in a sweet kiss.
He will probably ask Hollander, ask Shane, if he wants to upgrade their relationship to friendship with benefits, in a few months. Maybe they’ll meet more, will have some more amazing, mind-blowing sex and he’ll ask Hollander what he thinks about being friends —maybe in public too— after his brain is floating away post-orgasm. He will slowly work his way to a friendship with Shane, so that he won’t have to worry about hooking up with random people, so that he will feel free to text Shane whenever he wants. Maybe turning it into sexting, or silly hockey chats.
Ilya will do it. He managed to leave Russia, to be the first overall pick in the NHL draft— he will manage to become Shane Hollander’s best friend.
Then who cares if they are two best friends who also occasionally have sex?