Chapter Text
POLAND - FEBRUARY 2009
The Brazilian men of volleyball are something else.
Ilya remembers the 2004 Athens Olympics fondly. He was sat for the whole two weeks glued to his shitty 27" CRT television, ignoring his schoolwork to much disapproval of his father. He was only thirteen then, but for his whole life he'd been obsessed with sports, and the Olympics provided him with a glimpse of what he he hoped to become. Hockey was his calling, his greatest passion, and perhaps his only shot at greatness. Watching that final match against Italy, Ilya understood more than anything the expressions on every one of those men's faces: losing is not an option.
The athleticism of the Olympic games was incredibly alluring to him. He has to admit: there's a certain bitter truth to national stereotypes. As a Russian, he certainly embodies the stoicism and bleakness perceived of his people. Americans are brash and loud. The Japanese people are respectful, hard workers.
And Brazilians are hot. No other way of putting it.
That gold medal match awoke something in him in the most wonderful way. The most memorable plays are still vivid in his memory: Ricardo, the best setter to ever play the game, with his insane control and accuracy, dancing masterfully among his teammates. The libero Sergio, powering through impossible saves and leading his country to victory. And those hitters, bursting with talent and aggression, spiking at 110 kilometers per hour, led by Giba's strong blue stare. What a magical team. What a beautiful group of men.
He's fantasized about the country since then. He learned a bit in school about how diverse it is, so rich with life and culture. It seems to him like a miniature version of the world; it is huge, with deserts, jungles, deep rainy grasslands and the most wonderful-looking beaches ever. And the Brazilians... in his mind's eye, he sees a magical land of carefree, sweaty people, dancing and laughing, with a melodic cadence to their speech not that dissimilar to Russian. Beauty in all shapes and colors. He always wanted to visit. He's never met anyone from there.
🏐🏐🏐
He's on a high after having snatched the World Juniors title from Shane Hollander's naive little hands last month. He can't wait to play against him again. While that doesn't happen, Ilya continues representing his country. On a bid to show off the country's young talent and amend diplomatic relations, Russia sends its hockey team on a Eastern European tour of friendly matches. Currently, Ilya finds himself in a dingy Warsaw hotel room, icing a nasty bruise on his abs after a particularly scrappy game against Poland. The stakes at these are truly nonexistant; Ilya's performance on the WJHC had safely secured him a top 3 spot on the NHL draft that summer, and at this point it was just a matter of waiting until he had to return to North America and kickstart the career he'd fought so hard for. But Ilya is nothing if not competitive. Just because a match was friendly didn't mean he had to be too. Ilya pokes his bruise and grins, thinking of how easily he sent the Polish thirty-something flying into the boards. Russia 4-0 Poland.
He's in the mood for showing off tonight. It's only 8, and there's a familiar thrumming sensation under his skin that won't let up. Getting up from the bed, he checks his naked reflection in the full-body mirror beside the dresser. Not too bad: the icing had mostly saved him from purpling too much, and the thick blond hair on his lower stomach did a good job of hiding a lot of the damage. He throws on his Russia tracksuit, grabs his smokes and goes for a walk around the block to weigh his options for the evening.
He doesn't really celebrate his birthdays. After his mother's passing, no one bothered with the date, and he eventually stopped caring too. But 2009 is different. Ilya is freshly eighteen, a hockey star in the making, with a fit body and killer looks, about to explore one of the most haunting cities in Europe. He could certainly find someone to lose himself with for a couple of hours. It's been two weeks since he last had sex. Time to change that.
As the elevator doors open, he is surprised to find an extremely tall figure lounging inside. Ilya is taller than most people, so his eyes take a while to register the full height of the man standing there. His gaze travels up the dark blue tracksuit to find BRASIL written in yellow block letters across a wide chest. Upwards still, there is a pretty face staring at him. How lucky.
"Down?" Ilya asks.
"Yeah." A sweet, friendly voice answers. He moves to the side a bit as Ilya gets in, still appraising him silently. He is definitely an athlete, easily over two meters tall and very skinny. Looks around Ilya's age, with short black hair and thick eyebrows hanging over his hooded eyes. They meet glances once more, and now the man is smiling brightly, straight white teeth and tan lips towering over him. It isn't often that he gets to look at someone from this angle. Especially not someone so attractive. "Brazil, hm? Very nice."
"More than nice. You're an athlete too?" The man asks in lightly accented English, pointing at Ilya's jacket.
"Yes. Hockey."
"That's so cool! I think I saw your teammates at the lobby earlier." That smile is truly blinding, taking Ilya aback a bit and scrambling his English. He takes a deep breath and dares to dream: "Volleyball?"
"How did you know?"
Ilya can't help the grin that takes over his face. He doesn't want to be rude, but is dying to chat him up, and isn't sure how to answer that. He's got a feeling, though. He takes a stab in the dark. "Your body."
The man raises one dark eyebrow and huffs out a little laugh, giving Ilya a quick once-over.
Jackpot.
"My name is Gabriel, but everyone calls me Gabi. Nice to meet you." He offers Ilya a huge hand, which he shakes firmly.
"Ilya."
"Wow. Pretty name." The elevator doors open. Together, they walk out into the hotel lobby, strangely empty this time of the evening.
"What brings you to Poland?"
"World Championship. What about you?"
"Exhibition tour. Just beat Poland hours ago."
"I bet," Gabi responds slyly.
"Where you going?" Ilya asks.
Gabi shrugs. "Not sure. I just arrived, but our first game is only tomorrow night, so I have nothing to do. I was thinking about exploring the neighborhood a little bit. You?" They walk slowly along the large space towards the front door. Snow is falling, and the streets are brightly lit by the full moon.
"I am going for a walk also. Your English is very good, Gabi."
"Oh, thanks!" The smile is back, along with a little tilt of his head. What a friendly dude, so different from the curmudgeons he usually has to deal with over on this part of the globe. Ilya stares hungrily, letting Gabi speak and do most of the work for him. "I study a lot. Been traveling for games since I was fourteen."
They walk out into the night, a passing breeze ruffling Gabi's hair and making him shiver. Neither of them are wearing gloves, which doesn't bother Ilya but is clearly uncomfortable for the Brazilian, who brings them to his mouth to try and warm them up. Ilya grabs a cigarette and quickly lights it. "You are how old now?" he asks, resenting his heavy accent but schooling his expression into cool indifference, trying to play it off as charming.
"Twenty. Just joined the team. Damn, you smoke?" Gabi scrunches his expressive face into a frown that looks more cute than truly grossed out. "I thought you were supposed to be an athlete."
That face and that voice can make anything sound like a compliment. Ilya knows this dance well. "Of course I am athlete. I am strong, lots of muscle. Smoking is just sexy."
"Can't disagree with that," Gabi says, visibly shaking now, which hinders his flirting abilities a bit. Looking more carefully at the collar of his jacket, Ilya can see several more layers of fabric under it. Poor thing. "You look cold, Gabi. You want to find a bar?"
"Yes, please. This weather is terrible. How do you live like this?"
"It's in my blood."
Ilya remembers having seen a bar about two blocks from the hotel. He takes the lead, trying to keep a fast pace to match Gabi's long strides. In less than ten minutes, they arrive at the bar and grab a seat near the window at the back. As they sit, Gabi rubs his hands together absentmindedly, staring at the snowflakes that stick to the glass. "So you don't like snow?"
"Oh, it's very pretty! But I'm from Bahia, dude. It's thirty degrees all year. I'm used to sweating and going to the beach, not this."
Gabi's profile is stunning, bright and wistful, so far away from home. Ilya wants to make him feel welcome, show him a little bit of warmth in this frigid, unfamiliar town. "How is it like there?"
The Brazilian beams and whips out a digital camera from his jacket pocket. "You wanna see?"
Gabi spends the next hour showing Ilya tons of pictures that leave him enchanted: feet sunk into white sand, cyan blue waters, baroque arquitecture, big Catholic churches. In one of them, Gabi stands beneath Christ the Redeemer, imitating his pose. He explains every single one of them, and while Ilya doesn't understand everything the Brazilian says, he still hangs on every single word, holding eye contact and letting himself be charmed. They talk back and forth about the hardships of being a professional athlete; their sports are very different, but the profession tends to attract a very specific type of personality, which Ilya can clearly see the more he talks to Gabi. His confidence is especially apparent.
In one of the pictures, Gabi is wearing a tiny red speedo, lounging on a towel. "Oh," he says, "this is in the south of the country. A bit colder, but really pretty beaches out there too."
Ilya licks his lips. "Hm. I like this one." He intentionally deepens his voice a bit, which has worked the few times he's tried it out on foreign girls. Turning his gaze back to Gabi's, Ilya notices him pause and choose his next words.
"You single, Ilya?" Very forward. Ilya grins.
"Yes. You?"
"Mhm. You like guys?"
"I like everyone. I like you."
"I noticed." Gabi rests his chin on one of his hands. With a swift click of one finger, he turns off the camera and rests it on the table. His manicured nails are purple, painting a stark contrast to his brown skin.
"You are cold still?" Ilya reaches out to touch him, resting one hand on top of his. "I can make you warm."
Gabi flashes his white teeth, the fiercest expression Ilya's seen on him yet. "Wanna go back to the hotel?"
🏐🏐🏐
Naked, Gabi is even more gorgeous than in the photo. Ilya takes a long time undressing him, appreciating every new centimeter of skin, blowing hot air into his mouth and whispering sweet nothings into his ear. He must have absolutely no body fat, every lean muscle on display, incredible strength vacuum-packed into a massive body.
Massive is right. Rubbing Gabi through his underwear, Ilya can barely contain his excitement when he feels the length of him. He takes the rest of their clothes off and climbs on top of him, taking out his own erection and holding them side by side. Ilya himself is big, and their cocks together make such a pretty picture. Gabi a bit longer, Ilya a bit thicker, both heads complementary shades of pink and glistening under the dim lights of his hotel room. "You're hot, Gabi. Very beautiful. Love your cock."
Gabi is equally as chatty during sex as he was before. When Ilya sucks him into his mouth, he moans so sweetly, so lovely, that smile never leaving his face, breathing out what have to be expletives—caralho, que gostoso, galego safado. It's been a while since Ilya last allowed himself a long, leisurely fuck like this. They don't fuck, exactly, but they do everything else; it is a bit competitive, even, the way Gabi reciprocates every single action, kissing and sucking and swaying his hips hipnotically at the end, when they're sweaty and pent up and looking for release.
After a scalding hot shower, Gabi doesn't stay for long. The steam in the bathroom hasn't even cleared when he says, "I need to sleep. Nice meeting you, Ilya. Good luck on the draft."
Ilya's made the same exit a thousand times before. The empty feeling afterwards in the silence of his room is always the same, too. He stands by the window, opening it a crack and letting the cold air touch his bare skin for a few moments, thinking of maple leaves and freckled noses. One last cigarette before bed.