Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Halfway through the third period, Ilya forgot about everything. 

In the preceding days, he had been forced to make do with a sad string of sparse texts from Hollander. Absolutely worthless and so boring that Ilya couldn’t even remember the contents of them, found that they didn’t matter. Certainly nothing sexy or fun enough to at least make up for the endless surge of calls from Alexei — The nurse, she will leave if you do not give more money. I have fucking daughter, Ilya. Do you ever think of anyone but yourself, you selfish cunt —  but amongst the riot in the center, Ilya found that he didn’t care. He’d found his tear. He’d made contact with the magic hour: the weight of his stick in his hands, the tension in his striding calves, the heaving joy when he smashed Buffalo’s new star center into the boards. 

The fans shoved close to the rattling glass, sweaty desperate hands hammering near his head. Their boos struck like nails to the brain, and over that was the sound of music, the center stretched to the seams. He laughed. Loved it. Couldn’t think of a better feeling than the spill of violence. The  star center threw an elbow back and shoved against him and the reverberation from the hit lit up all his aches — pain he couldn’t breathe through, not since a bad hit from one of the D-Men during the second period —his body was close to exhaustion. From the corner of his eye was a blur, speeding in close until it resolved into the shape of Haasy stealing away with the puck. 

Ilya went after him, was gone like a bullet. Somewhere between the hit and his decision to move, his brain had gone offline. He didn’t need it to play extraordinary hockey. He loved the feeling of his body when his brain emptied out. He could make a meal out of it:  his shredded lungs and his striding legs and the bright flash of pain when he breathed in too deep, the wrongness of his shoulder.  His soul slid out of his mouth, snatched up by the wave of sound in the center, cacophonous when Haasy threaded through the big D-Men, positioned himself by the goal and backhanded the puck into the net. 

The jumbotron flashed overhead — three to three — and Ilya swept Haasy into a big, sweaty pile-on. He planted a big kiss on the side of his helmet, open-mouthed for his favorite rook and cold against his lips. Marly was somewhere close to his ear. He could feel the heave of him against his back — You fucking beauty — and the crowd stirring. Losing it. Counting down the seconds. Ten more minutes left in the period and little by little, Buffalo was beginning to lose its tongue. 

Ilya shook him by the shoulder again and felt Haasy tremble as he laughed wild and wide-eyed, shy now in the swell of praise. He couldn’t remember being this bashful when shown concrete proof of his greatness. Couldn’t remember much of the memory of his first goal, to be fair. It had all broken down into sensations, a clean line of ecstasy moments before the puck hit the net, before Ilya told it where to go, like the best fuck of his life, like he couldn’t ever die. He hadn’t thought anything could come close to a feeling like that. The jumbotron zoomed in, playing a close-up of Hollander deep in thought. There were dark circles under his eyes, his freckles stood out prominent. He’d heard from the other boys that the GM was giving him hell. They have a lot riding on him, Connors had explained. 

Ilya broke away from his teammates and swung close to the boards. He plastered a big grin on his face for the seething Buffalo fans at the front, sullen now that their new shiny star center had proven that he was all stick and no use. He saved his toothiest for the guy with a sign — Rozanov, eat shit — and got a middle finger for all his troubles. It didn’t matter anyways. Ilya could smell blood in the water, a win was on its way. 

The whistle cut through the jubilation and Hollander beckoned them over. The center blasted music and there was another loud surge from the crowd when Ilya cut across the ice, smashed into a board, and dropped onto the bench. Now that he was off, it was all beginning to come back. His time on the ice had only dimmed the pain and now his shoulder was killing him for real. Vaguely, Ilya felt like he’d gotten caught in one of Alexei’s shit deals. Pain all day but for the great big breath of relief when he set his feet on ice. Nothing in his brain but the steady pulse of blood, sparking and hot all through him, everything that didn’t serve the game folded into the smallest part of his life. He shoved himself down the bench and ignored the irritated jostling from the guys further down. 

Hollander’s dark eyes flickered over to him and settled there for a moment before returning to the ice.

“Nice work on that goal, Haas, and good job on creating an opening, Rozanov.” He was distracted as he said it. Almost motionless except for his twisting mouth as he watched the Buffalo bench. They’d called up their line, a more defensive choice this time. He didn’t look happy about it as he watched them all clamber onto ice, but then, Hollander rarely looked pleased. Scoring goals was the baseline expectation, he’d once explained. It was what they were paid to do. 

Ilya cursed as Buffalo won the face-off, swiped the puck and were off. They still had time, but he didn’t like the idea of playing into overtime. Hollander would definitely kill someone if they did. 

Someone passed his water bottle and Ilya took it gratefully. He chugged down half of it and squirted the rest into his face. He could feel it running down his neck and into his jersey when he tilted his head back. He almost missed it — the riot on the ice. A referee roughly shoved St Vicky away from Buffalo’s hunched-over forward. 

“Jesus Christ,” Hollander muttered and shook his head grimly. St Vicky glided across the ice and ducked into the sin bin. “Alright, first line, you’re back on.” Ilya rolled his shoulder, felt the grinding burn of it as he did. Hollander’s eyes sharpened. He really was a freak. In Ilya’s more uncharitable moments, it sometimes felt like Hollander was trying to gut the answer out of him. Like if he thought long and hard enough, he could make your ribcage crack open just from the force of his thoughts. From there, it would be easy pickings, Hollander rummaging through your guts until he’d got what he needed. How he’d managed to get away with it for the last thirty-six years, Ilya wouldn’t ever be able to tell. “Rozanov, how’s the shoulder?” 

He’d asked the same at the end of the second period when the hit had happened, but Ilya knew better. He didn’t know what it said about him that he could spot Hollander out so well. Could tell that there was only one right answer in Hollander’s eyes. It didn’t matter cause it was Ilya’s too. “Is ok, Coach. I can still play.” 

Hollander gave a terse nod. “Good,” he accepted. “Now go out and don’t embarrass me. I don’t want this going into overtime.” 

Alexei had called five more times by the time the game was done. His fifth call must have landed somewhere between Ilya snatching the puck from Buffalo’s right wing and shooting it over the goalie’s shoulder just as the clock dropped to zero. The roar of the crowd and their stomping feet and jeers as the buzzer sounded — and there would be no escaping that sound — called the end of the game, the special effects and glamor, and the jumbotron flashing with a replay of the winning shot: Ilya cinching another tight win for Boston just before the curtain call.  

His phone rang again, Alexei’s name flashed on his screen. Ilya watched the jumping blue flicker as it rang before dumping it in his cubby facedown. 

“You were a fucking beast,” Marly crowed, voice loud over the locker room’s upheaval. “I mean. Christ, I really thought we were gonna go into overtime, but Roz, you fucking did it again.” 

“You played well,” Hollander agreed easily. He was looking at Ilya as he said it, a rolling one-over that struck off a buzz that he felt first in his teeth, and then in his lower back. Hollander’s eyes dipped to his mouth and lingered there. Not for the first time, he thought of Hollander’s fiancé. How he’d managed to keep it quiet this whole time. Maybe, he was the same sort of stupid as Hollander, emptied out of the instinct that made reading sex so easy. “You all did,” he added quickly, eyes sweeping over the locker room. 

“Good enough to pay for our drinks?” Ilya asked. The room’s attention swung to Hollander, simmering down as they waited for his answer with bated breath. He was squinting a little in annoyance, but it was hard to tell if he was really pissed. His face pulled into that same creasing frown, that quiet sort of restrained distaste that he silently lorded over everyone without really saying it, as if he imagined himself superior for never giving into an urge. Ilya breathed in. He was slick with sweat, he could feel it pooling at the hollow of his back, his upper lip, beneath his pits. He wanted to come, could feel the beginnings of it, how bad he needed it, pulling his stomach low. Three years in, and Hollander still made him crazy. Ilya would  do almost anything if it meant that he could get his hands on him again. 

“Come on, Hollzy,” Vaughn jumped in. “The boys did well. Not to mention that Haas scored his very first goal,” he raised his voice as he said it, and the room broke into cheers. In the corner, Haasy was blushing again as Marly clapped a hand on his shoulder. 

“Fine,” Hollander acquiesced. “I’ll pay for a team meal. Whatever you do after that is not my problem as long as you’re packed and ready for the flight to Florida.” 

A sea of thank yous filled the room, but Hollander waved them off, rolling his eyes. “Don’t thank me. You all deserve it.” His eyes softened when they landed on Haasy. “Well done, Haas. That goal of yours was a beauty.”

The room returned to its easy chatter once Hollander left, but Ilya’s skin was beginning to itch, a bad feeling that turned everything out and put his brain back on high focus. Haasy was rubbing at the back of his neck in disbelief. Carmy ruffled his hair. Ilya couldn’t tell what he was saying from here, but knew it must have been some exaggerated shit from the way Haasy was ducking his head down, eyes downcast and all shy. It wasn't often that Hollander shared a real compliment. Ilya certainly hadn’t gotten the same. 

His stomach pulled into a tight knot. When he picked up his phone again, there were two more missed calls from Alexei; this time, a text accompanied it: 

Lyosha: You are such a piece of shit. I know you’re seeing my calls and ignoring them. Fucking pick up!

Ilya swiped past the message. He could picture Alexei’s emergency all too clearly: low on coke and dumbstruck with terror at the prospect of going one hour sober. He could fucking wait. Instead, Ilya clicked onto his thread with Marly and scrolled up until he’d found it. 

Marly: fucking wild 🤣🤣🤣😂

Underneath the message was a thumbnail of a woman bound to a bed. The image was too small to picture the details, but Ilya remembered zooming in on a freckle on her tit, flushed and bitten red, and moaning like she was dying as a fuck machine continued its ceaseless pistoning, dragging one, two, three orgasms out of her before she’d pissed herself on the fourth. 

He copied the link, clicked off Marly’s messages, and found Hollander’s Snapchat. The last message from him was a few days old and simply read: Hearing pretty good things about this new conditioning workout. You should give it a go. 

Ilya hadn’t responded, hadn’t even seen the point. Instead, he pasted the link and then pressed send. 

Holding his breath, he typed and sent: I bet I could make you cum five times. 

There was no way that Hollander was opening a link from him, but Ilya briefly let himself picture it. First, Hollander’s rage and then what came after — pink at his ears and a flush that dipped down lower, his face going slack as he thought of it for real: getting fucked. 

“Hey Roz,” one of the trainers interrupted. Ilya quickly switched his phone off and dropped it back into the cubby. “Shane mentioned something about your shoulder. Let me have a look once you’re done in here.”

“Thanks,” he said tightly.

Hollander hadn’t responded by the time he got out of the showers — not even to do his usual griping — and there was still no sign of him by the time the trainer had taped up his shoulder and told him that it was fine. There was nothing to worry about. Just to get some ice on it. 

By the time he’d made it to the bus, he felt stretched thin. Hollander sat close to the front where he usually did. Ilya could make out the shape of his head as he talked quietly to Vaughn. He’d never wanted to fuck someone as badly as he did now. 

Ilya leaned his head against the window and caught his reflection, his scowling face, and past that saw the blur of glass buildings rearing high into the haze of the sky, a park, moms with their kids,  a silvery river where the light settled and shimmered weakly. Down a few rows of seats, Hammers was arguing very loudly with Carmy — Oi! Haasy, settle something for us. Yes or no. Does listening to Carmy’s country music make you want to blow your head off? Ilya slumped back into his seat once they’d settled on Pusha T. 

If he’d known that Hollander was planning to never put out again, he would have never settled for a measly blowjob. He would’ve never let Hollander come in his pants like some pent-up, desperate teenager. He would have dragged it out just like he’d wanted to, but getting his hands on Hollander seemed to infect him with the same brand of sluttiness. He’d lose his head. Go insane. His body snatched out right from under him, a few sharp flares of memories — Hollander’s low whine and the feel of his cock in his mouth and his brown teary eyes — as the only tells he had for what had happened the night before. Thinking about it too long felt fucking terrifying, made him feel embarrassingly similar to Alexei, or worse, his mother, so he didn’t. He made peace with the fact that Hollander was just one of his many vices. It wasn’t Hollander that he was truly after. It was just Ilya, desperate for his next hit. He’d be fine when he got it. Maybe, he’d even be able to savor it for the next time. Ilya flicked open his phone. Hollander still hadn’t opened his last message. This time he typed: I need to fuck you. He felt like the worst type of cunt when he read the words back. It felt too close to something, a struck nerve.

Quickly, he deleted and typed out instead: Do not pretend that you are not desperate for me to fuck you. 

Ilya undid his buckle and pushed himself up a little. From here he could see Hollander’s head ducked over something. 

“What the fuck are you doing, Roz?” St Vic asked. 

“Stretching my legs,” he mumbled. Hollander didn’t stiffen or tense up. He looked as he always had. Eventually, he straightened and leaned forward. He said something to the bus driver and then pointed out of the window. 

Ilya fell heavily into his seat. He didn’t need to check to know that Hollander still hadn’t looked, wouldn’t anytime soon. 

Fine. Hollander could fuck himself and so could his stuck-up fiancé. He thought back to that first meeting with Jakob Hołub, early on when he’d just been one of Sveta’s many friends, a different breed to her usual coked-up party girls. He’d been boring even back then, and smug about it too. He really was Hollander’s sort, Ilya should have sensed it from the beginning, his twin flame, just as attached to a life of mundanity. He cheered himself up with the thought of their sex life. Ilya couldn’t imagine Jakob Hołub fucking Hollander the way he needed, but that was not his problem. 

He opened up Instagram and thumbed through the list of message requests. Eventually, he settled on a beautiful blonde called Julie. She was a model according to her Instagram, had great tits and an apparent predilection for European hockey players.

Ilya hearted her message, a simple: holler if you ever want someone to show you a good time while  in buffalo ;)

If you are serious about that good time, come over to The Marriott, he typed and then sent her the address.  His eyes fell back to Hollander. The bus was slowing to a stop outside the hotel. 

“I’ve booked the Hot Pot for 7pm, so make sure to be down by 6:30,” Hollander said once they’d all tumbled off the bus. 

Marly nudged his shoulder. “Do you want to get a drink?” 

Ilya’s eyes followed Hollander as he pushed his way through the crowd. He was only a few feet away. “Nah,” he said with a shrug. “I am — how do you say it? — entertaining a guest.”

Marly let out a low whistle as Ilya smiled slyly. Hollander turned a corner and entered the hotel. He hadn’t even looked back. 

Julie didn’t arrive until 3:30, so Ilya made good use of the shower. The heat loosened something, turned the throb in his shoulder into a dull ache. It felt nice almost, close to the feeling that Ilya got when he figured that all he wanted to do was come. The pain struck against his nerves, crossed some of the wires in his brain. He still wasn’t hard, but he felt bloated from it, needed badly to be wrung out. By the time he was done, there was a message from Julie, a selfie that showed half her face and her tits in a lacy black bra.

 Julie: Can’t wait for you to fuck me x

When he opened Snapchat, he could see Hollander typing.  Ilya’s fingers felt thick as he opened up the thread with him. A bubble appeared as Ilya sat heavily on the bed. He was beginning to chub up. The bubbles disappeared and then moments later appeared once more. 

The same cycle struck three more times until eventually Hollander sent: How about next time you DON’T volunteer my card out for team outings. 

And then: 

Why the fuck are you sending me porn? 

Ilya swallowed, his mouth suddenly felt very dry. You like? he sent. 

There was a knock at the door. He briefly thought about ignoring it. He didn’t want to disappear just as things with Hollander were beginning to get interesting. Hollander, unsurprisingly, was skittish now that he was engaged. Who knew when he’d get his next chance, how long he’d have to wait in-between, but his mother had raised him to be a polite boy and after a beat, he pushed himself up and opened the door. 

Her eyes went a little wide once she saw him wrapped in just his towel. “Hi,” she said breathlessly and let herself in. She was tall, maybe taller than Sveta, though Ilya rarely remembered these details. “I almost thought you’d chicken out.” 

Ilya hummed and pushed forward until he felt the soft give of her body. She was even hotter than her photos. His brain drifted back to his phone. When he closed his eyes, he imagined Hollander jerking into his fist as he typed out another message.  “I would never leave a beautiful woman waiting.”

“Never,” she breathed out. 

Ilya shook his head gently, ran his nose against her cheek and pressed a kiss to the corner of her lips. “Never.”

“Say something in Russian,” she begged once they’d fallen into bed. Ilya spread two rough fingers in her pussy, heard the squelch of it as he pulled out, bumped her clit with the flat of his palm. Her back arched with it, when Ilya fucked a third finger into her cunt. 

Ilya never knew what to do when asked to speak Russian during sex.  How far he could go without feeling stupid. Thank god for Сукины дети, which continued as his shining star, the song that had played as the backdrop to almost all his best moments, and anyways, it mostly counted as dirty talk. “1.Kla$, on perets klass,” he crooned into her ear. “On trakhnet tvoyo serdtse shchas,” he told her and dragged the fat head of his cock against her cunt, nudged her clit and then pressed a tease to her hole. Held her still even as she rolled forward, hips jerking in his hands. “On kruto vstal, on khuy dostal,” he added finally and sunk all the way in. 

By that point it didn’t matter. All language had slipped away. Ilya groaned and ducked his head low. He could taste it in his throat, how badly he needed it, nauseous like he might vomit if he didn’t come first. He needed everything out of him. He wouldn’t be able to rest until he was completely empty. 

Julie’s hands scrabbled at his back, his neck, his shoulders, whining into his mouth as she dragged him down for a kiss. It wasn’t even hard, nothing truly painful, but the ache from his fucked up shoulder had blended into the feel of her cunt spasming around his cock.

Hollander slipped somewhere through the cracks. The gray threading through his dark hair and his teary eyes and his hands, hard and heavy, shaking from how bad he wanted it. Ilya could feel it in his gut, the spark of it fizzing on his tongue. 

Ilya came with a long groan that he buried in Julie’s tits. In the dark, Hollander was splayed out on his bed, naked and hard and flushed and watching him. 

For a moment, it was quiet, and then Julie spoke and the image of Hollander broke apart, left only bursting pricks of color behind his eyelids. 

“Wow.” Ilya lifted his head and pressed a kiss to her chin, before slipping off the condom. She was flushing very prettily. “That was amazing.”

“Yes,” he echoed before rolling off her. “Was very good.” 

An easy silence settled between them. Julie rolled to her side, slanted a curious look at him. “I can get out of your hair,” she offered and folded her arms. Her tits swelled up with the movement. She really was fucking gorgeous. 

“Come,” he said and tugged her up by the waist. “I cannot let you go without making you come a second time.” 

“Oh, you can’t, can you?” She asked and sounded deeply pleased. 

“Nope,” he confirmed and liked the feel of her body and the rise of her tits and how easy it was to move her up until her thighs bracketed his face. 

“I thought you’d be too busy with your guest,” Marly said once Ilya had rolled into the hotel lobby. 

Ilya felt his face split open as he grinned wide. He’d slept badly after Julie had left, dreamt like he was trapped in the comedown of a bad acid trip. The dream had mostly faded, given away to the sound of a TV bleeding through the walls of another room, a mother talking her kid down from a tantrum, but Ilya still had some of the sensations from it. The smell of the old sofa back in Russia, hands at his thighs and the sound of his mother’s voice calling from somewhere deep in the apartment. Far but fast approaching. When he’d woken up, he’d known that something was wrong, could feel the ringing all through his body, tight in every nerve and muscle. Until slowly, it had sunk in: his underwear sticky and lukewarm with come. 

He could almost see it from the outside, a lazy satisfied uptick of his lips and Ilya’s eyes slitting shut. The buzz from before had melded into a headache blooming behind his right eye, turning it almost blind. “I did not leave the best pussy this side of New York to get all mouth.” 

Marly grinned and shook his head. “That good?” 

“The best.” 

Hollander was at the front, chatting to Vaughn and one of the trainers. He caught a snippet of the conversation — I was thinking of going with Lev next weekend — before he jerked to attention. His eyes swept through the lobby. Hollander cleared his throat. “Alright. I think that’s everyone now. Let’s get some food.” The guys cheered loudly, a uniform sound that attracted the attention of other passing hotel guests. The pulsing pain in his head ticked higher. 

The day had cooked up a real gnawing appetite. Ilya felt famished and then insane, and then insane from how famished he was. A table down, a mom was helping her kid cut into his meal. A drove of teens bumped into their table, rushed out an apology before scampering off —Was that Ilya Rozanov? — he overheard as they swept into a booth a few feet down. He watched the beef bubble and spit on the grill as it seared, and ate that. Cooked the pork belly next, and ate that too, ordered a hot pot as his fifth helping. 

“Christ,” Carmy said once the waitress had left. “Coach’ll kill you if you go overboard.” Ilya shrugged, in the end, he didn’t care — it was not his card that would be taking the damage. It wasn’t even Hollander’s card, really. Ilya knew that he’d been gifted it, a fun perk to smooth the transition from Montreal’s golden boy to coaching in Boston. From the corner of his eye, he could see Hollander listening intently as Vaughn spoke. He nodded and said something back. 

Ilya’s grip on his bowl tightened. He dropped it back onto the table carefully. “Bathroom,” he said and shoved past his teammates, the table with the mom and her son, the teens angling their phones for a quick, sneaky picture, the waitress and cook. Only once he was locked away in a stall did he text Hollander: What room are you in?

There was a loose rattling part, and Ilya needed it out. Needed it gone. Fucking Hollander might be the closest he ever got to doing that. He tucked his phone in his pocket, smoothed his hands over his jeans, and then slipped out.

The man washing his hands froze once he caught Ilya in the mirror. He must have been the same age as Hollander. He would have looked almost familiar if Ilya had cared enough to think it over. 

Ilya raised an eyebrow but said nothing. The moment stretched a beat longer, with the man stealing quick glances his way before darting back to his hands. 

He sighed and gave in. “Do you want autograph?” 

The man flushed an ugly red. “Fuck. No. That’s not why —“ he broke off and shook his head angrily. 

“So you are staring because you do not want an autograph?” Ilya asked dubiously. 

“Could you stop with the autographs?” he begged. “Look — Shane Hollander coaches you, right?” 

Ilya blinked. He’d never been recognized solely off Hollander’s talents. Perhaps in those early days, but it had always been followed closely by a spark of recognition, a moment where people realized that it was Rozanov, the  guy who had taken up Hollander’s mantle as the best, that they were talking to. Hockey magic at play, the sort of thing that fans built cathedrals out of: Shane Hollander coaching Ilya Rozanov. Legacies were built on less. 

Even less interested than before, Ilya gave a terse nod. 

The man pushed on. He shoved his dripping hands under the dryer and then patted them down against his slacks. “Right. Sorry. This is so weird, but I used to play with Shane back in Montreal. I was on the same line as him, as his left wing.” When that drew no reaction, he stuck out his hand with a strained grin. “Hayden Pike — the new GM for Buffalo.” 

Ilya didn’t take it and watched his hand drop awkwardly by his side. “Okay.”

He tried to fake some interest — it was always best to keep powerful men (though how powerful could a guy be while stuck in Buffalo) on his side — but some of the irritation had bled through. Only now did it sink in where Ilya had seen Pike. Two years ago at the NHL awards. Hollander had been on his own, so sex had been a sure bet, all until Pike had wormed his way into a brief conversation. Neither of them had looked particularly comfortable, and Ilya had assumed that was that, until Hollander had disappeared all together. They had only fucked once after that, a few days before he made his way back to Russia and then there had been the long stretch of summer. Ilya still hadn’t forgiven him for it. 

“Right,” Pike huffed. “Well, tell Shane I said hi and —” For a moment he softened. “don’t give him too much trouble.”

Ilya watched in disbelief as Pike left. He still had high hopes for tonight, was set on getting his dick wet, he wasn’t about to let Pike ruin that again. 

“What the fuck took you so long?” St Vic asked once he rejoined the table. Hollander was still at the far end, taking quietly to the waitress as he put his card down. 

“I was fucking your mama.” The thrum from all the way before had ramped into a pulse, a rhythm. He could feel all the teeth in his mouth, sticky with the aftertaste of his meal. He sucked the inside of his cheek and teethed at some of the gristle trapped there. The food had satiated one hunger but now he had all these other urges sprawling out to nowhere. 

They filed out into the open air, where Hollander was already making his round of goodbyes. “We have an early flight tomorrow — 6:30am. It’s an optional skate, but it would be good to see some of you down at the rink.” 

“Well, that’s not fucking happening,” Marly said blandly as Hollander and all the others made their way back onto the bus. Ilya watched them go, Hollander pausing by a seat, his back to the window.  

“I need a fucking drink,” he made himself speak, and followed after Hammers who had a friend of a friend who knew the hottest spot —  rare for this part of the US — in Buffalo and promised that it was worth their time. 

An hour passed, long enough to realize the place was a dud. Ilya drank one more shot, a good luck charm for the rest of the night before they roamed from bar to club and then club to bar again. 

Hollander had managed to slip along for the mess of the night. A few bars back, he’d been served by a man who looked like him from behind, enough to get the blood racing. There’d been a girl outside the bathroom from one of the earlier clubs that had the same freckles. She’d let him bum a cigarette when he’d bumped into her again in the smoking area. Hey, are you famous or something? she’d asked afterwards, shivering a little as she handed over her lighter. 

Five bars in, the night was beginning to spiral into something good and the fact that they’re hockey players had suddenly come into the interest of the beautiful people they were throwing back rounds of shots with. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever watched a single game of hockey,” one of the girls confessed. “I’m more of a baseball girl.” 

Ilya didn’t point out that it was probably for the best. Buffalo had a fucking shit hockey team. She had molly on her and was willing to share. Ilya knew well enough to always speak nicely to the girls with the goods. 

None of the other boys said anything about it, but Ilya was careful to wave her off in their sight, and snuck into a bathroom stall with her soon after. 

“You should watch,” he told her after he’d taken a pill. Pressed a wet kiss to the gap between her neck and shoulder, more out of habit, an easy thank you more than anything else. He could have sex with her. He wanted to, or at least his body did, and knew that she probably did, too. Could feel himself hardening at the press of her body and her hand palming his dick, tugging the zipper down and the ecstasy, and the sound of the whole club pressing in, a mess from a girl a stall down, heaving her stomach out. His brain tripped, stumbled back to the apartment in Moscow, fucking in the bathroom and the bedroom and that sagging, depressed cream couch. The fear fizzing in the back of his throat and the feel of all his teeth in his skull — scattered onto the floor if he ever got caught — how good it felt to fuck through it. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Ilya cursed and pulled away. The moment was broken anyways. It was Alexei. “I need to take this,” he mumbled and shouldered out of the stall. A few stink eyes from the girls waiting in line. 

He dug his way out of the crowd, weaving through the moving bodies until he made it to the exit. “Lyosha,” he greeted and pulled his coat down tight. He’d built up a nice little sweat in the bar, a half-decent padding against the chill in the air, but now on the phone with his brother, he could feel it sinking in. 

“Ilyusha? What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” Alexei’s voice echoed weirdly, tinny. There was a rustle that muffled his voice but even with all that, Ilya could hear the sneer. He rolled back his shoulder, and felt the sharp drag of it break through the booze and his nice high. 

“I’ve been busy all day. What the fuck do you want?” The girl from the stall stumbled out with her beautiful friends. There went his night, Ilya thought, somewhat mournful. 

“Yes,” Alexei snapped. “So busy shitting out millions of dollars for the prized task of pushing around pucks.” 

That money kept Alexei’s coke addiction afloat. Meant that he and his whole sad family lived a warm, bright, the flies don’t bite type of life. It had dug him out of multiple disasters, Ilya thought and waited him out.

“Papa’s nurse has quit,” he finally spat out. 

Ilya raised a brow and folded his arms. “What did he do?” 

“She’s being a greedy fucking bitch.” 

“Probably,” he agreed. And then. “I will sort it in the morning.” 

“Make sure you do, Ilyusha, or else.” Was Alexei’s last warning before he hung up. Ilya held back a snort. What the fuck was Alexiei going to do  to him from Russia? He pulled the phone away, caught the time. It would be eight in the morning back in Moscow, Alexei would be starting his day. 

The table was just full of his teammates by the time he squeezed back into the bar. Marly hadn’t managed to convince anyone else interesting to throw their lot in with them. 

“You gotta slow down, brother,” Marly warned when he downed three shots in short succession. “You’re fucking wasted, and we still have an early flight to catch.” 

“Shut your face, Marly,” he said and tapped a conciliatory slap to the side of his face. “I’m Russian. I know how to drink, Papa Bear.” He worked his jaw around an exaggerated frown, letting Marly shove him away with a laugh. 

The night continued at a club next. The music pulsing through the walls like an unsteady heartbeat spiking into a heart attack. In the strobing lights, he saw the shadow of Hollander everywhere. There was nothing he could do about it, Hollander was probably asleep by now. He hadn’t even responded to his last few messages. Ilya drank some more and then sweated it out. Replaced it with a bag of ket that someone had slyly slipped into his hands for fifty dollars — fucking bargain.  

The night broke off, fragmented with half of the group turning tail into taxis back to the hotel. And the thought of Hollander grew more solid, the edges thickening until it really did feel like he was trapped in a room with him. Hollander watching from the corners, a booth, the line outside the bathroom. He fucking hated feeling like this. Almost hated Hollander for putting it there in the first place. Like the world’s worst bitch. Like he hadn’t ever fucked someone good, but Ilya had been having good sex almost all his life. Julie was proof of that. 

“I need to piss,” he yelled at Marly, who nodded. Said something over the music. 

Ilya found himself a dark corner, and chewing at the inside of his cheek, tapped open the thread with Hollander. He was doing this because he was bored, he reminded himself, and typed out a message. 

Tell me something that you do with your fiancé.

Hollander’s response was immediate. The music spluttered, cut off, gave way to boos from the crowd before spiking into Play Hard. 

Jane: I dunno. The usual couple things. 

He rolled his eyes and hunched over the screen. Flirting with Hollander sometimes felt like drawing blood out of a stone. He was useless. Would not sext or send pictures without spiraling into a panic, couldn’t even tell when someone wanted to fuck him. He sometimes liked to imagine Hollander as a child, programmed only with hockey and cock-sucking capabilities, and depowered as soon as the clock struck ten. 

Ilya: I’m talking about how he fucks you… 

Ilya: *If he does 

Hammers stumbled over, almost fell to his feet. “Rozy,” he cheered when Ilya got his arms around him, pulled him up straight. 

“What the fuck do you want?” The red strobing light cut through the dark, lit up his pale, queasy face. He was definitely on something. 

“I gotta piss, dude.” 

“Well, go piss over there,” Ilya said and pointed in the vague direction of a bathroom. Hammers could do whatever the fuck he wanted, and besides, it served him right for Underbar. 

He worked his way through the crowd. He was dying for a smoke. There was a new message from Hollander by the time he pushed his way out. He managed to steal a cigarette from a drunk girl who liked the sound of his accent. 

He lit it up and took a drag, the cigarette burning steadily between his fingers as he flicked through the rest of Hollander’s messages. 

Jane: Fuck off! 

Jane: It’s good. 

And then: 

Jane: It’s amazing. 

Jane: It feels different when it’s happening with someone you love. 

Ilya’s heart dropped. 

A pretty girl with the same dark eyes as Hollander cosied up close, watched him from under her eyelashes. “Can I share that with you?” 

“I don’t speak any English,” he lied, and stubbed the cigarette against a wall, then tucked it behind his ear. He turned his back on her and left for the bar. 

In love, Ilya replayed the words and felt real nausea at the idea, even though it was the one thing that made the most sense. Why else would Hollander get engaged if it wasn’t for love? Hollander and his boring, sexless fiancé belonged to an older class of people. Mormon types who planned ten years ahead and made sure to carve out a space for you in the future. 

He made for the bathroom, did another line of ket, and the thought of Hollander. Getting married. Living it up with a husband, almost felt small, didn’t matter.  

“Rozy,” Connors cheered when he came back. “You grabbing another drink?” 

“I’m bored here,” he announced. “Let’s go.”

Connors stared at him in disbelief. “What? Come on, Roz! We just got here. Let’s stay for at least another hour.”

“Did fifth concussion scramble your brain? Mess with your English,” Ilya said coolly. “I said let’s go.” 

“Alright,” Marly jumped in, ever the diplomat. “Let’s stay for half an hour. We can head after that.”

“Fine,” he conceded. “I will go now. You can meet me whenever you’re done being boring.” He roughly pulled his jacket from under St Vic. 

“For fuck sake, Roz!”

“What the hell died in his ass?”

“Jesus. Fine! I’ll come with.” Marly rolled his eyes and swerved past Connors and Merrel. “I’ll text once we find somewhere,” he directed to the group. 

They cut through the crowd, dodging past a guy balancing a tray of shots. The lights had sunk their way into his skull, turning his brain flat. Ilya felt like he was coming down from a hard hit on the ice, but with none of the impact. His shoulder twinged. 

“What the hell is up with you, Rozy?” Marly asked when they were outside. He waved off a guy begging for spare cash — I’ll pay you back. I just need ten dollars to get a taxi back home — "Sorry man,” Marly said with some sympathy and then when they were past, raised his eyebrow as in would-you-look-at-that. 

Ilya ignored him and sped up. At the street corner, there was a guy dressed as a giant robot patrolling the streets. He had a bubble gun in one hand and flyers in the other, periodically shooting bubbles into the sky, where they hung in the air, reflecting the small dazzling lights of neon signs and cars passing by. 

“Thank you,” he said when the robot handed him a leaflet. It had a woman caught in mid-spin around a pole and in huge pink letters read: Saturday Night Striptease. Hollander would fucking lose his mind if he ever set foot in there. Burst into flames at the sight of some bare skin and pussy. 

Ilya couldn’t imagine Hollander stepping in  without him losing his fucking mind. He imagined it. The flashing lights and a dark booth, Ilya getting his fill, touching a few asses, palming a few tits, tucking some dollar bills into bikinis, and Hollander in some dark corner, seething, dreaming up murder, but then they rounded a corner and by the time Ilya had figured that he liked the idea, they were three blocks down. 

“How about here?” Marly asked and pointed to a dive bar with the flashiest sign. The red and white blur of neon sharpened into a name: Eddie’s Parlour. It looked like a shithole, but they were almost out of options. 

“Yes. Fine,” he agreed and ducked past a group of blonds smoking and bobbing by the entrance. The music — I’m flirtin’ with disaster — seeped into the crisp night, rapidly swallowing the sound of outside. “I’m getting a drink. What do you want?” 

Marly rattled his order — a simple beer — and sent the name of the bar to their groupchat. The floors were so tacky with spilled drinks that the soles of his Adidas’ got stuck. He had to lift his feet with a wrench that came from the hips to get them off the ground.   A few college look-alikes skirted the shadows of a pool table, holding their cues and taking turns making their shots. 

He signalled for a bartender, a pretty brunette, with a tramp stamp that covered the breadth of her lower back when she turned and bent over. She looked a little like a Yulia, a college girl he’d fucked around with when he hit fifteen. He’d liked her and felt almost sad when she’d decided to finally get serious about her piece-of-shit boyfriend and optometry school. For old time’s sake, he caught her eyes and gave her a slow smile as he ordered their drinks. 

“Meet me in the staff bathroom in ten minutes,” she said as he paid. He left their drinks at the table and slipped away before Marly could get another word in. He was a big boy. He could handle himself. 

She kissed him open-mouthed, all tongue when he slipped into the bathroom, right on time. 

She had a gorgeous ass that fit nicely into his hands and was efficient and straight-to-the-point in the way he liked best in all women.  “I don’t have long for my break,” she explained and then fitted her hand down his jeans. Her hand felt nice against his dick, like what he’d wanted all night. But somewhere along the way, his dick disconnected from his brain. That stupid dream had somehow tripped its way into his head. Hollander probably couldn’t even wake it up. It felt just like skin against skin, none of the impulse. 

She lifted her head and gave a startled laugh. “Are you fucking serious?”

“I’ll get you off,” he promised and then popped the button of her jeans open. He dipped his fingers low enough to feel the lacy edge of her panties. She was fucking soaked when he slid his fingers in. Too tight a fit with her jeans to squeeze fingers into her cunt but Ilya rolled a thumb over her clit in steady round circles until she was moaning and flushed, and shaking. 

“Alright, enough,” she laughed shakily but gave him a sweet kiss once she’d buttoned up her jeans, straightened her top. 

Ilya did another line while she tidied herself up in the grimy mirror. “That shit will kill your dick,” she warned. 

“What, are you the expert?” He tweaked his nose and sniffed hard. 

“I’m in my third year of microbiology,” she said dryly and at his look of surprise, added, with some defence. “I still need to pay rent.” 

Ilya left five minutes after her and went to the bar for a drink. A woman slipped next to him. She was much older, maybe older than Hollander, but hot in the sort of way that mothers and married women often were. She caught him looking and offered a small smile. Shook her head when Ilya asked if he could buy her a drink. 

Five minutes later, it didn’t matter and she had a drink at hand. “You have a beautiful aura,” she told him solemnly and took his hand. She hadn’t looked like she was on anything, but then here she was talking about auras. And well, Ilya couldn’t imagine having a night out in Buffalo completely sober. 

She was lost in the sea of bodies before he could even blink. Ilya braced himself against the bartop as he waited. The dark wood was marred with countless rings that collapsed into one big spiral. The lights were doing something weird to his head. He felt tight, clammy even though the place was fucking steaming. It wasn’t until a bartender paused to take his order — different to the last one but just as hot — that he remembered that he’d left the drinks with Marly. 

He mumbled an apology and pushed away, slid through the withering crowd. 

Marly’s eyes lit up for a moment before sinking into worry. “You look like a mess, Roz,” he greeted. 

“Fuck off.” But Marly was already shaking his head and shrugging his jacket back on. 

“We’re getting out of here.” 

They stumbled out just as Hammers and all the others were sliding in. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Connors complained. 

“I can’t leave him out like this, man.”

They staggered together into a nearby taxi. Ilya sank into his seat as Marly leaned forward to give the address to the driver. He caught the slant of a dirty look from the driver and a whispered threat before he tucked his head into the glass. It felt good against his skin. Through half-closed eyes, he watched the city pass by in smears, a stream of people still finding their fun. 

The car slid to a stop. The journey had felt like nothing, and then he realized with a start that it was because he’d fallen asleep halfway through.

Marly thrust the money to the driver and then shoved him out. “You are so gonna feel this,” he huffed as they staggered to the elevator. “What room are you in again?” 

Ilya opened his mouth to tell him to fuck off just as the doors opened up to reveal Hollander. 

Oh,” he said into his phone. “Baby, I’m gonna have to go. Some of the boys need help. Yeah. Yes. Love you too. Bye.”

“Coach,” Marly said weakly. 

Hollander’s eyes flickered over to Marly and then to the arm he’d thrown over his shoulder, settled finally on Ilya. 

“Let me help you get him up.” He sighed and cut off Marly’s protests with an impatient wave. “Do you even know what his room is?” 

There really wasn’t an answer to that, and Marly meekly stepped in, depositing Ilya in the middle so he was in-between them. 

Hollander leaned forward and pressed a button for a floor, and after quietly confirming Marly’s, pressed that too. 

He stole a quick look at Hollander and felt a small tug at his heart when he saw his pinching brows and stiff mouth. He was holding himself very still like he was holding his breath. Christ, Ilya thought with a strong sweep of emotion, he’s so fucking rude. 

The elevator glided up, the numbers ticking by until it stopped at five. 

“I really don’t mind taking him up,” Marly said in one big rush just as the doors were opening. 

Hollander rubbed at a spot between his eyes. “Just go to bed.” 

“Don’t worry, Papa Bear,” he shouted at Marly’s receding back. “Coach loves me too much to kill me.”

“We’ll see about that,” Hollander muttered under his breath. 

The elevator sealed close, slipping past the eighth floor and then the ninth. They were alone, just like Ilya had wanted. He listed towards Hollander, smeared a wet kiss against his cheek and felt him stiffen. 

“Not right now, Rozanov. You’re fucking wasted, and it’s late.” 

“But not so late for you to call your fiancé.” 

Hollander laughed in disbelief and shook his head. “Yes. Because he’s my fiancé.” The elevator finally stopped at twelve. Hollander grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out, dragging him down the narrow yellow corridor until they were outside his room. “Where’s your keycard?” he demanded. When Ilya didn’t respond, he cursed and rummaged through his jeans pockets. 

“If you want to touch my dick, you can just ask.” His eyes slipped out of focus, turning the corridor into a spinning blur. He wasn’t even really thinking with his dick. Mostly, he just wanted to sleep, but Hollander jerked him roughly forward by his pocket. Let loose another little curse and Ilya felt his cock take interest. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he whisper-yelled and pulled out the almost empty bag of ket that he’d made most of his night with. 

Ilya planted a shoulder on the wall and shifted forward. “You want to do a line? I will be nice and let you do it on my dick.”

“You’re fucking unbelievable.” He thrust a finger into Ilya's chest. “And where the hell are your keys?”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “Fucking relax. My key is inside my jacket.” He pulled it out of said pocket and cracked the door open. 

Hollander grabbed him by the jacket, dragged him in and shoved the door closed with the weight of  Ilya’s body. His head fell back with a thump. “What the fuck are you doing with this shit?” Hollander's fists tightened in his shirt. The whole stretch of Hollander’s body pressed close to him, warm and flushed, and smelling a little like citrus and mint. Ilya throbbed in his jeans. His heart was beating like crazy.

“I promised Marly that you would not murder me,” he pointed out. “He will be very sad if you do.” 

Hollander shoved away, putting some space between them. “Are you fucking getting off on this?” He pulled at his hair and paced back. “You’ve got a game in two days, and fuck. Drug testing. I swear to god if you get suspended over this shit, I’ll —” 

Ilya watched Hollander work himself into a frenzied panic and grew bored. 

“Relax,” he said and muscled close, got his hands on his pacing hips, thumbed aside his Boston Raiders sweatshirt and made contact with skin. Hollander’s eyes went wide. “It doesn’t even stay in the system for that long — six hours max. It’ll be gone by the time we land in Florida,” he lied. 

Hollander jerked up and got a good look at Ilya's face. The freckles on his cheeks bunched up close when he scrunched his nose. He's pathetic, Ilya thought and felt another tug at his dick, and then a sweeter swoop in his stomach.  

“Are you sure?” he asked. At some point, he’d wound his hands around Ilya’s biceps and was squeezing them periodically. “You’re not just saying that cause you know I’m pissed?” 

“No,” he lied again and made his voice impatient. “I’m not fucking stupid. I wouldn’t do it if it stayed in system for hours.” 

“You shouldn’t be doing it anyways,” Hollander sniffed. God, he was so boring. 

He tipped his head back and groaned. When he looked back, Hollander was fighting a small smile. “I want to fuck you,” he said too truthfully. He swallowed tightly and focused his gaze on a corner of the room. Hollander was already shaking his head. 

“No way,” he said, but didn’t let go. “You’re fucking wasted.” 

“What, so my dick doesn’t work?” 

“That’s not,” he huffed and trailed off. Ilya rubbed a smooth, small circle into the skin above his hips. He could feel him softening, turning easy. There you are, Ilya thought and felt a fresh bloom of fondness. 

“You know,” Ilya started, pressing a sweet kiss to the corner of Hollander’s eye, then tracked an open-mouthed kiss to his cheek. “Sex helps to flush out drugs. All traces of it disappear when you jizz.” 

“So jerk off on your own.” 

“No,” he whined and pulled Hollander closer. “Is the jizz of the partner that helps to flush it out.” 

“You are so full of shit,” Hollander said dryly, but he shuddered when Ilya sucked a biting kiss into the edge of his jaw. 

“Come on, Hollander, be a good coach.” 

“Fuck,” he breathed out, then grabbed Ilya by the shoulders, yanking him into a sloppy kiss. Ilya sucked in his tongue as Hollander’s hitching whines worked their way out of his throat. And when he knotted a hand in his hair and wrenched him back, Hollander was dazed, and lips were spittle-slick. Ilya dragged his teeth over his bottom lip, and sucked it into his mouth. Felt the stutter of his breath when he pulled away. 

“You think you can yank me around like a dog after all that yelling?” he asked. There was a freckle below Hollander’s ear, darker than the rest. He kissed it, open-mouthed, then bit very gently at the skin. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Hollander asked, but he didn’t sound pissed about it. His hazy eyes dipped and the thick fan of his eyelashes cast a small shadow over the peaks of his cheekbones. Ilya dragged a thumb over his lips, sunk the tip of it into his waiting mouth. He could feel the hard line of Hollander’s cock against his hip. 

“You‘ve been so bitchy, dragging me around hotel,” he chastised. 

The flush on Hollander’s face climbed higher. Ilya muscled a leg between his thighs and dropped his hands to his ass, dragged him forward. Hollander dropped his head  onto Ilya’s shoulder, sweet now that he’d been put in his place. 

“No,” Ilya cooed and jerked Hollander back by his hair. “Fucking look me in the eye, and tell me you’re sorry.” 

Hollander’s eyes widened. Under the flush, his freckles grew more prominent against his cheeks and the curve of his nose and under his eyes. He shook his head and grinded forward, frantic now as he rutted his fat dick against Ilya’s jeans. Ilya pulled his leg away, grinned when a small, throaty whine wrangled its way out of Hollander’s chest. 

He could feel the breath in his lungs and the tight stretch of his face as he shook Hollander, and this time meanly, said: “Apologize now.” 

All his ties cut loose and Hollander slumped heavy against him. “Fuck. I’m sorry, Rozanov. I’m so sorry.” 

“For?” Ilya pushed. 

“I’m sorry for yanking you around,” he said weakly. He was beginning to tear up a little, one teardrop sitting trapped on the sweep of his eyelashes before it trembled down his cheek. It tasted of salt and the warm flush of skin when Ilya pressed his tongue to its trail. 

“See,” he murmured and drew Hollander close. “That wasn’t so hard.” And then he gave Hollander what he’d wanted all along. Ilya grabbed his jaw, pried it open, and then fed a line of spit into Hollander’s mouth. He chased away Hollander’s loud moan with a kiss and then pushed him away. 

“Get on the bed.” 

Hollander slipped out of his shoes, clambered onto the bed on shaky legs, pulling off his clothes in fumbling, desperate movements. He folded his sweatshirt and dropped it onto the bedside table, did the same to both  his trousers and briefs. When he fell back, his cock slapped against his belly, drizzling slick precome into a crease on his stomach. Maybe it was fondness, the ket for sure, that resolved itself into a thickening patter, a pinch of something sweet, in his chest. Hollander in his bed and naked for the first time in over four months. 

Hollander fidgeted and rubbed his palms against his naked thighs. “Are you gonna strip, too?” 

Ilya hummed. “I can keep all my clothes on, because I’m not fucking desperate.” He kicked off his shoes and then crawled into the bed between Hollander’s legs. The fat tip of Hollander's cock dragged wet against his hip. He felt him strain and arch into the feeling, letting out another tight whine when Ilya got a hand around his dick and jacked him off slow. 

“Fuck, Rozanov. Please,” he moaned and wound his arms around Ilya’s neck. Ilya pressed a wet kiss to his cheek, his chin, his lips where Hollander was mouthing a silent curse. 

“Please what?” he asked innocently. His hand twisted on the upstroke, when it reached the base, he dropped him, watched his cock slap, wet and red at the tip, on his belly. 

“No, please. Please touch me. I need you to fucking touch me.”

“But I am.” Ilya cupped his balls. He ran the edge of his thumbnail against the seam and then pressed down into the skin. He watched Hollander twitch and moan and shake. Watched his skin mottle red and his eyebrows pinch, the little crease he got in his forehead. “Does it hurt?” 

Hollander trembled. His eyes squeezed shut. “Yes,” he gasped. His dick was leaking steadily against his belly, wet like a girl. Ilya pressed his nail in harder for a beat, two, before sitting up on his haunches. 

“Get on your fucking stomach.”

He reached over Hollander for the bedside drawer, where he’d dumped the lube and condoms in. He dropped them onto the mattress, and stripped out of his clothes. Hollander really was fucking beautiful and Ilya was hard. He’d thought it was done for the night, dead in some disgusting bathroom stall, but Hollander had brought it all back to life. Ilya got a hand around himself and pressed the head of his dick to Hollander’s hole. 

He jerked away with a yelp. “Don’t even think about putting that shit in me without some fucking prep and protection.” 

Ilya rolled his eyes. “I’m not an idiot.” He pulled back a little and ran a reverent hand down the curve of Hollander’s thigh, the muscle twitched under him. His back was flushed, he could see the small sweet dimples punched into them, the curve of his ass, his face buried in the fold of his arms, but turned just enough so Ilya could see the gleam in his eyes when he arched forward. “But I’d bet you’d like it if I fucked you dry.” 

“Fuck off. I’m not into that,” Hollander argued, but his voice shook and he arched his back, taut like he was moments away from coming there and then. A tremble was beginning to settle into the skin. 

“Yes, you are,” Ilya said in a sing-song voice. He popped the lid open with his thumb. His skin was too tight. The thrum he’d built up all night from seeing all of Hollander’s look-alikes, from needing to come, was deafening. 

He spread Hollander’s cheeks open — a sweet flutter in the chest at the sight of his twitching brown hole — and drizzled it down his crack, watched it drip down to his balls. 

Hollander jumped. “You fucking asshole.”

“Shhh,” Ilya hummed and shoved Hollander’s face into the pillows. “I am trying to prep your asshole.”

He rocked up on his knees, and scooped some of the lube from his ass crack, rubbed two wet fingers at the ring of muscle before pushing them both straight in. 

Hollander sighed with his whole body. His hole greedily sucked his fingers down like they were nothing. 

“Slut,” he said fondly. He focused on scissoring his fingers open, and then tilted them up. Watched as Hollander’s hole softened, stretched open, made space just for Ilya. He didn’t know what to do with the feeling that rushed through his chest, so he pressed a biting kiss to Hollander’s ass. Hollander would kill him if he ever left any marks, but for a moment Ilya imagined it. Jakob Hołub stumbling upon them, thumbing at the edges, finding that he’d never been good enough. 

“I can take another finger. Fuck Rozanov,” he heaved out, tilting his ass up in a dare. He let out a small hiss when Ilya fit a third finger in. 

“God, your fucking pussy.” He laughed breathless, ringing in his ear, when Hollander whined and fucked back onto his fingers. He mashed Hollander’s face deeper into the pillows, couldn’t see it but he imagined it: red and drooling into the sheets. 

“Don’t call it that,” Hollander complained, but his hole clenched around the first knuckle, and he rolled back onto Ilya’s fingers, sighing when he’d filled him. Ilya ran a thumb over his stretched out slick rim. 

“But it is.” He fucked a grunt out of Hollander. He pulled his fingers out, letting the tips rest inside the winking gape of his hole. They were wet and shiny, the skin puckered like he’d been underwater for ages. “The best fucking pussy in Boston.” 

“Fuck, Rozanov. Please.” 

Ilya felt something snap. All the close-calls, the almosts from the bathroom stalls sank into his skin like static from an old TV, ramped up high and fucking unbearable. He fumbled for a condom, ripped it open with the edge of his teeth and rolled it on with one hand. Quickly, he pulled out his fingers and slicked his cock, shuffling forward to bump its head against the smear of lube around Hollander’s hole. He ran a line, nudged down to his  balls where the lube had dripped down and gone tacky. Ilya hissed as he dragged himself back up, the fat tip catching on Hollander’s hole. Hollander pushed back, fucked himself deeper. 

“You are so desperate and impatient,” he said. Dizzy. Fucked out as he watched Hollander roll back onto another inch of his cock, shaking a little like it was the first time. “You said your fiancé fucked you well, but here you are, taking my cock like a slut.” 

“Shit — Rozanov. I need you to. Please, can you —“

“What, you cannot speak English now? Born and bred Canadian, but just the tip makes you lose it?” He felt the flurried clench of Hollander forced open, sucking him in deeper as he trembled back another half-inch, slick and heaving already. 

“I need you to fuck me,” Hollander begged. “Just fucking give it to me — Fuck.” 

Hollander cut off with a wail as Ilya slammed in deep. 

“Shh,” he cooed. Hollander’s shoulder blades bunched  together, jutting up under his skin, and his hands twisted into the sheet as Ilya changed the angle and ground down. Ilya leaned forward and found the curve of Hollander’s face, reddening and shaking, tears pooled into the puffy creases of his eyes. “You need to be quiet.” 

Ilya  coaxed the fingers that he’d fucked him open with into his mouth. Hollander sucked at them obediently, cheeks hollowing as he ran a tongue over the pads. Ilya’s heart did something strange, a nasty dark bloom that sunk the thud of it down to his cock. 

He hooked his fingers in Hollander’s mouth, and hauled him up. Nasty squelch and strain in his shoulder when he manhandled Hollander, pressing his broad back to his chest. Never easy like it was with the girls. Ilya groped Hollander’s tit and pressed the curve of his nail hard into his nipple. Felt him twitch and shake and whine, turning his head this way and that as he pinched down. No marks, Hollander’s reminder tore through his head. Ilya’s nail dug in harder before he let up, rolled the sensitive bud under the flat of his thumb. 

“This is what you need, Hollander.” He lowered his mouth and pressed a kiss to his neck. “You need someone to fuck you properly. Can’t get it good enough from your Jakob.” 

Hollander said something around his fingers, broke off into a muffled groan when Ilya upped the pace and started fucking Hollander in quick, jerky movements. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging. 

“What was that, Hollander?” He snapped his hips forward, felt the tension buzzing like crazy in his skin. “I am best fuck of your life?” 

Hollander angled his head, big brown eyes watering already, so fucking wet like the rest of him. Ilya fucked in faster, neck straining and his lower back pulling tight.

Ilya turned him roughly for an open-mouthed kiss. It was weird with his fingers still in Hollander’s mouth, not much of a kiss, but he felt fucking insane. Loved the open whine from deep in Hollander’s chest, his throat as he fucked his tongue in there, too. 

“Fuck. You feel so good,” he groaned when Ilya dragged his fingers out of his mouth, wrapped them around his cock. 

“Better than Jakob Hołub?” Hollander shook his head frantic, hips chasing after his fist and then fucking back down onto his cock. 

“Stop,” he slurred. Head shaking as Ilya thumbed at a bead of precome that drooled out his cock. He smeared it down the shaft, then tracked his nail down at a fat vein on the underside of his cock. “Stop talking about him.” 

“Fine,” Ilya accepted and dropped Hollander’s cock entirely. He punched forward and ground down deeper. He needed Hollander to remember this. Needed him to remember the press of his cock, the feeling of his hole stretched open, making room, just for Ilya. Always making space, not a single part of him that hadn’t been fucked open by his dick.  

Hollander was shaking in his arms. “No, please. Rozanov.” His voice was a little watery as he spoke, and when he angled his face, his cheeks were gleaming with tears. 

Ilya tucked his teeth behind Hollander’s ear, where some of the gray had edged in. “Then tell me.” 

“That’s not fucking fair,” Hollander cried, face tight and stained with tears. His mouth fell open, let loose little whines and moans as Ilya sped up. Ilya was close. He could taste it in the back of his throat. His entire body a throbbing exposed nerve. 

“Unfair?” Ilya jeered, he slowed into a shallow roll. “I fuck you just how you like and you think its unfair?” 

“You’re being a dick just cause I won’t give you what you want. Come on, Rozanov. I’m so close. Please touch —”

The buzz of a phone cut through. When Ilya turned his head, he could see it was Hollander’s phone, flashing blue through the material of his sweatpants. 

Hollander’s hole clenched tight around his dick. “Do you think that’s him? Should we pick up and ask?” His jagged pace halted. He pulled out slowly, the sound of it loud and filthy. For a moment it was quiet, the room settling into the sound of their heavy breathing and Hollander’s phone ringing through the musk. And then, Hollander slumped down to his hands, ass in the air as he rocked back, fucking himself slow on Ilya’s cock. 

The air left him in one big rush. He carded his fingers through Hollander’s dark hair, gentler than he had meant to. 

“Fuck, please Roz —  I need —” The words came out in one long seething breath. Ilya watched and felt his pulse spiking up, the loud ring of it in his ears and the comedown pulling tight at his back as Hollander sunk back jerkily on his cock. Watched the slick breadth of his dick appear and then disappear, shiny in the furl of his asshole. Brown and reddening a little when he spread his cheeks open, angled forward and drooled a line of spit onto his stretched rim, watched it disappear, fucked into his hole as Hollander sunk back another inch. 

“Then fucking say it.” He punctuated the statement with a slap to his ass. The clap of it echoed loudly and pinked on Hollander’s skin. “If you want me to fuck you properly, tell me.” 

“Fine.” Hollander’s voice broke apart. “You fuck me better. I need it all the time. I can feel you in my gut for days afterwards.”  

Ilya wormed a hand down, got it around his cock. His shoulder flared with a flash of pain but it was worth it just for the sound of Hollander whimpering, drooling into his sheets, going tight as he came all over Ilya’s fist. 

Ilya braced himself back and fucked him through it, could feel the familiar burn, tight in his balls and building up fast. He drove in deeper, desperate now, and everything from before — the game and Julie and his brother, the drugs and earlier than that. Waking up alone in bed to jizz congealing in his pubes, the dream fading, and his mother’s voice disappearing as the seconds went on — fractured, turned to nothing, gave away to Hollander’s voice talking him through it: “Come on Rozanov. Fucking give it to me.” Ilya pitched forward with a groan and came hard. 

Hollander let out an annoyed protest as Ilya pulled out. He collapsed back into the bed with a bounce, pulling off the condom before tying it up into a knot and leaving it on the bedside drawer. Beside him, Hollander eased away from the wet patch and onto his side. Come streaked his belly 

Ilya ran his fingers through the mess. “Jesus, Hollander, you blew a whole load.” He could feel the rise and fall of his body as he scooped the come with his finger and fed it into Hollander’s mouth. He chased after it with his tongue. 

“Your sheets are dirty,” he mumbled against his mouth. 

Ilya pulled away and dropped one brief kiss on his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up.” 

It was quiet and for a moment, there was just the stillness of the room as their breathing slowed in the dark, synchronizing, but then Hollander stiffened. Ilya knew the routine well enough and watched as Hollander pulled away and leaned his back up against the headboard, hands folded in his lap like he was holding an emergency meeting — It’s not me, baby. It’s definitely you. 

“So that was hot,” he said conversationally. “Wasn’t expecting you to blow your load when I mentioned your fiancé. Will make sure to bring him up many times.” He leaned forward and scraped a biting kiss to Hollander’s shoulder. 

Hollander shied away and shrugged him off. “You can’t do that again.” 

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Do what? Fuck you?”

He waited a beat for Hollander to call him an asshole, to redden with anger or squash a quick, surprised laugh, but his hands only twisted tight in his lap. He looked very far away. “All that stuff about J? It isn’t hot or funny or whatever you think it is. It’s fucking cruel.”  

He barked out a small laugh. “Yes, just as cruel as us fucking. Maybe, we should call him up and ask — which one’s worse?” 

Hollander’s face went very still. For the first time, Ilya couldn’t read any of his thoughts. He felt almost dizzy from it, the sudden flip. Like all the lights on a road had tripped into darkness, and sent everything to pitch black. 

“You get that this isn’t some stupid joke, right? That people could get seriously hurt if they ever found out?” 

Three years of keeping the same secret, being on the same line, having the sort of understanding that came from fucking the very best. Ilya had lived these last three years with those easy truths: Hollander was fucking boring, Hollander was fucking desperate and Hollander was one of the fucking best, second to only him. All undone and for what? A fucking engagement ring? 

“Hollander, that’s why we have this big secret. Was just sexy playing around, but it wasn't serious.”  

But Hollander was already pulling away, gone. There would be no pulling him back. “Listen, I should go. It’s late, and we have that early flight.” He looked miserable and tired as he wiped down his stomach with the corner of a blanket. “I’ll talk to you when...” he began and then trailed off. 

“Fine,” he said flatly, and played at disinterest while Hollander got changed in the corner of a room. Ilya ignored him, rescued his phone from the piles of clothes and scrolled through the sea of notifications: a missed call from his father, and Instagram notification from Julie, a sea of messages in the Raiders groupchat, and a message from Sveta: 

Sveta: Your brother is a cunt. 

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Hollander said quietly. Ilya offered a brief look, raising an eyebrow before plugging his phone.  

“Okay.”  

He’d been stupid to think Hollander knew what fun was. A fucking idiot for thinking that they were even on the same wavelength. Hollander had his fiance and his son, his legacy and maybe a few friends that filled up his spare time. This thing they had was just that, Ilya scratching just another urge until something shinier came along. He slumped back into bed and avoided the wet patch. There was still the indentation of Hollander’s body in his sheets, warm and pricking with the smell of sex, the smell of him. Not for the first time, he felt a real hatred for Jakob Hołub, a thick and indivisible welt made up of smaller moments like this. The man couldn’t even fuck Hollander properly, and still somehow had managed to stretch his shadow over this. 

He closed his eyes and covered his face with one arm. In the dark, the thought of the fetid black river of Moskva flowing beneath the bridge, its unstoppable roving course, came to life. And Irina dangling close to the railings, his hand in hers as she pointed out the boats gliding down its dark bloated surface, small wishes that might come true if only they stopped long enough to wave at them until they winked out into the horizon. In his drunken state, it felt very close to resting on the body of the River. He couldn’t tell when the thought had tipped into a dream, only that it had. Irina, pointing now from a boat to the bridge, and the mole behind her ear, and her hair in her face and the curve of her breasts at eye view, and when she spoke. When she said, “Ilyushenka,” with all of the love and tenderness she’d always had for him, she said it in Hollander’s voice.