Work Text:
Ilya doesn’t know why, only that the way Hollander looks at him makes something in his chest give. It makes him want to hold him, so he does. He shifts closer, settles back against the couch, and draws Hollander down until his head rests over Ilya’s heart. The weight of him is warm and real, a quiet pressure that feels just right. Heavy in a way that doesn’t hurt. Ilya would take this heaviness any day, over the nauseating, crushing weight of that phone call with his dad.
Ilya wonders if Hollander ever regretted this, what they have. He wonders if there were moments when Hollander wanted to end it, to finally stop giving in. Because Ilya has. Maybe.
Sometimes, he wonders what it would be like if they’d never met. Maybe if he had just acknowledged the line instead of crossing it, maybe things would be less complicated. If he had just let them be rivals. Maybe then Ilya would’ve chosen better. Maybe Hollander would’ve felt more free. Maybe he marries a beautiful woman, and have beautiful children. Ilya hopes that, somewhere—some other universe—Hollander isn’t trapped. That Ilya didn’t ruin him. Because he has… ruined him. He knows he has.
But for now, he lets himself linger there, in the feeling of Hollander’s head resting against his chest. He buries his nose in the warmth of his hair, breathes him in. He brushes a thumb along his ear, just to watch the color bloom across his skin. He holds him like that, if only for a moment. Resting against him like this, in his home, watching hockey. This was what couples did.
His breath stutters as Hollander’s hand inches closer, slow and intentional, like he knows exactly what it’s doing to him. He watches as Hollander lowers himself, feels the drag of his presence before the touch even comes. Then warmth. Lips grazing him in unhurried, teasing kisses, leaving him aware of every place they pass, every place they don’t. It takes everything for him not to rut his hips up, because now Hollander is kissing down to his lap.
“Fuck.” He curses under his breath, and he takes his hand under Hollander’s shirt to stroke his back—a gesture that doesn’t fail to make the latter’s breath hitch.
He feels like he gets his breath knocked out of him as he watches Hollander climb onto his lap and crash his mouth against his. From this angle, Hollander had the leverage—enough to slide his fingers into his curls, fist it tight and tip his head back. He kissed him like he meant to take something. The sudden intensity pulled a rough moan from Ilya, and it only made Hollander hungry for more. He wanted to hear every sound he could draw out of him, wanted to learn exactly how much pressure it took to make him break. His hands were already unbuttoning Ilya’s pants, taking his dick and stroking it to full hardness.
Hollander breaks contact only to take his shirt off and pull his own cock out, then he’s pressing himself back down onto Ilya’s lap. He squeezed him with his thighs, holding Ilya in place as he ground his dick against Ilya’s stomach.
“Fuck, Hollander.” Ilya’s head fell back on the couch, and Shane took the opportunity to kiss and lick his neck. Then he took both of them in his hand and started stroking.
It was dry, and a little rough, but it was exactly what they both wanted. He brought their mouths back together and kissed Ilya wildly—on his lips, on his cheek, and on his nose—anywhere he could plant his lips on.
“You gonna cum for me, Rozanov?” Hollander muttered, his voice rough as he quickened the pace, twisting his wrist. Ilya clutched his hips tighter, guiding the subtle rocks that kept their bodies aligned, her breath coming in sharp bursts. The heat built relentlessly, Hollander's arm flexing with every jerk, his thumb occasionally swiping over the slits to spread the wetness further.
“Fucking make me.”
Ilya's eyes locked onto his, dark with lust as he grabbed his wrist to stop his stroking—then gathered saliva in his mouth. With a tilt of his head, he spits directly into his open palm, which was both gross and weirdly arousing.
Hollander's breaths came in ragged pants, his arm burning from the rapid pumps, but he didn't stop—couldn't stop. He ground against him with desperate rolls, their tips bumping and smearing more pre-cum, the wet sounds filling the air. Ilya's nails raked down his back, urging him on, his own hips bucking beneath him.
Ilya could feel the familiar coil in his abdomen, and he could tell Shane felt it too by the way his body shuddered and how moaned into Ilya’s mouth. He watches as Shane’s eyes squeeze tight, his mouth falling to a silent moan that Ilya gladly swallows up.
Ilya goes still, “Fuck, Shane.”
He came in hot bursts, coating Shane’s hand and allowing him to chase the heat between them until everything blurred at once—too fast, too intense—with Shane's name breathed in his rough Russian accent.
“Ilya.”
They stayed like that afterward, tangled together, hearts hammering like they were trying to escape their chests. Shane’s fingers lingered for a moment too long, tracing the outline of him, and Ilya wanted to memorize every second—but he also knew he shouldn’t. He let Shane kiss him, feeling like it would be the last time he gets to have this.
Ilya could feel a stupid, helpless smile creeping onto his lips, but the moment he glanced at Shane, it vanished. Shane’s face was unreadable, tense, and distant, and suddenly everything felt dangerous. He blinked, and Shane was off him, stepping back.
Then Shane leaned over him, fumbling with his shirt. “I’m sorry, I can’t, um…” His voice faltered, and Ilya felt a tight knot twist in his throat. Watching Shane retreat a few feet, refusing to meet his eyes, every second stretched painfully long.
“I need to um, go. I can’t stay.”
“Go?” The word hit too hard.
“Yeah… forgot—team meeting in the morning, so…”
“You forgot team meeting?”
Ilya barely processed the excuse. His gaze stayed fixed on Shane’s face, and then he saw it—the way his eyes lost focus, the slight tremble in his hands—and a cold spike of panic slammed into him.
Fuck. He said it. He said Shane’s name.
Ilya’s mind raced, scrambling for some excuse, some way to erase the sound of it. He wanted to blame it on the post-orgasm haze, on Shane’s stupid, infuriatingly pretty freckles, on the heat of the moment. But instead, he calls him by his last name, an attempt to cover up whatever the fuck he had just done.
“Hollander.” Don’t do this. Please don’t do this. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I take it back. It’s stupid.
Shane still wouldn’t look at him, and that refusal cut sharper than any words. Ilya’s chest tightened, his stomach dropped. He had to try again, had to reach for something—anything—to stop him from leaving.
“Hollander.” Please don't go.
And just like that, the air between them felt like a live wire, and Ilya realized he might never get this moment back, not really, not ever.
“I’m sorry.”
The words hit hard, but it’s the silence after that crushes him. He watches Shane leave, and Ilya swears Shane took his heart with him. Just ripped it out and walked away.
He swallows. Nothing works. His chest tightens so fast he can barely draw air. He stares at the mess on his stomach, at the remnants of what just happened—and the panic sets in. His limbs feel like lead, his muscles trembling, but he can’t stop moving.
He rises abruptly, almost stumbling, toward the bathroom. The tap is cold. He turns it on, letting the water shock his skin, hoping it’ll burn away the anxiety inside him—but it doesn’t. It’s too late. He can feel it everywhere. He rubs his skin, frantic, trying to will it back into control. Wiping, scrubbing, anything. Needles. Prickling, stabbing, crawling up his arms. His fingers clench, unclench. Rub. Wipe. Wipe again.
“Fuck… fuck, I—what the fuck?” His voice is sharp against the silence of his home, he rambles in Russian. His chest pounds. His stomach knots. Heart hammering like it’s trying to escape his ribs. He tries to blink it away, tries to tell himself it’s just the post-scene high collapsing—but it doesn’t work.
Doesn’t. Fuck, doesn’t.
Everything feels too tight. His chest. His skin. His pants. So he rips them off, suddenly aware of how little control he has over his own body right now. The shaking won’t stop. His heart won’t stop. The world feels too empty, too fast, too much. He steps into the shower. The freezing water is a shock, something to punish himself into awareness. It streams over him, but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough. The shaking ripples down his spine, into his hands, his stomach, and he can’t hold himself together.
He’s burning. He’s raw. He’s hollow. And Shane is gone.
I can’t stay. I’m sorry.
The words don’t stop. They echo. Over and over inside Ilya’s skull until it feels like he’s gonna break. Shane’s gone, he left. And Ilya—he can feel it—Shane took everything with him. He didn’t just walk away, it felt like he left for good. He collapses against the shower wall. This is not enough. Nothing is enough. Nothing can fill the emptiness. He shuts his eyes, hard. Wants to erase it. Wants to pretend. Wants Shane back. Wants control. Wants calm. Wants nothing and everything all at once. Because this is not him, Ilya doesn’t panic.
Why the fuck did he have to say his name?
He groans, frustrated. He wanted to punch a hole into the bathroom wall.
But no, Shane said it back.
Fuck, Shane had said it back. He called him Ilya before he…
Ilya’s breath stutters, then breaks entirely. He gasps, a raw, desperate sound, his hand scrambling blindly for the faucet. He twists it off, cutting the water mid-stream, the silence ringing louder than the noise ever did.
I need you…
He presses his forehead to the glass, and knows—absolutely devastatingly—that it doesn’t change anything. Shane is gone, the emptiness he left behind is still there. And Ilya knows he’s fucked. Because Shane fucking Hollander has ruined Ilya Rozanov, completely.
Fuck, he really needs to call Svetlana.