Work Text:
December 25th, 2016
Arms crossed, Ilya’s gaze swept over the empty streets that stretched below his penthouse. Christmas lights were strung from building to building, and lampposts were adorned with lush pine garlands and red bows. He leaned deeper into the window, almost touching the tall, translucent wall. Peering down at the road below, he studied the distance from his penthouse to the ground intently.
Uncomfortable, his heart began to pound loudly. He stepped back from the windowsill, shook himself from his thoughts, and turned to reach for his phone on the kitchen counter.
No new messages – well, there was one from Alexei, asking for more money even though Ilya had sent over fifty grand earlier in the month. He had requested that his elder brother get something nice for everyone. Ilya ignored it without hesitation.
He tossed his phone back onto the counter and flopped onto his couch. Grabbing the TV remote, he turned it on and TMZ blasted through the surround sound speakers. Someone must have turned it on during the holiday party that he’d hosted earlier in the week.
Today, like the MLH players, TMZ hosts had a vacation. In their stead, a looped “December’s Best Hits” segment for celebrity gossip was running. Margot Robbie married, Golden Globe nominations, potential Kim Kardashian and Kanye West divorce, Grammy snubs, Mariah Carey’s jaw-dropping carpool karaoke, and Rose Landry dating Shane Hollander.
Photos of the A-list celebrity and Shane blitzed across the screen, one atop another. The TMZ voiceover talked about how perfectly they fit together. “When’s the engagement going to be? Any guesses!?”
Was the Grinch running TMZ? Ilya rolled his eyes and changed the channel to Sportscenter before sprawling onto his back, holding the remote on his chest. The MBA dominated the schedule today.
I should be grateful, the curly blond thought to himself in Russian, I can move on from that boring kid.
Yet, his grip tightened on the remote as he stared at his tall, vaulted ceilings. He had thought for the longest time that he had everything he needed: a home in Boston, international recognition, and distance from his family. Ilya had not realized it yet, but he was mistaken; everything he had worked for merely obscured his desire to be truly seen.
A weight pressed down on his chest as questions crowded in, flooding his mind. Was Rose spending Christmas with Hollander’s family in Ottawa? Would the Internet grace Ilya’s news feed with a Rose and Shane kiss at some swanky party in Montreal? When would Rose post Shane on her Instagram? (Ilya had stalked her account enough to know that she was still not publicly or softly launching him on her end.)
The Boston hockey player was ashamed to be so green with envy – that life had never been destined for him. Since he was young, he had been sent down one path: playing hockey and winning. Anything else that deviated from that journey was a distraction, an example of his laziness and lack of devotion. He took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut. He needed to focus. He was so close. He was going to get the Cup again this year.
The channel's basketball coverage went on an extended 30-minute break. Ilya snapped back into reality as Sportscenter started their yearly sports highlights, starting with hockey. Blond curls bounced as he turned his head to watch the stitched-together clips from interviews and games.
A compilation of all of Ilya’s goals during the regular season graced the screen, and he couldn’t help but smirk. Even if he wasn’t performing at his best, he was still the best player of the 2010s — maybe all of the 21st century.
Only one other person could contend for that title.
Fuck.
He forcefully jammed his thumb on the volume down button as the sportscaster, with uncanny timing, began to talk about Shane’s skating statistics this year. He stared at the screen, mouth slightly agape and eyes hungry as it jumped from clip to clip of Shane celebrating, scoring, and speeding across the ice. His cheeks flushed red as he caught himself slipping into a trance – shutting his mouth and furrowing his eyebrows together.
“Shane Hollander’s the only person who can take on Boston’s Ilya Rozanov, don’t you think? Ilya’s always scrambling to beat him! Look at him fly!”
Ilya groaned under his breath as he turned his head back to the ceiling, “idiotic Sportscenter.” He crossed his arms as he drowned out the noise again – those show hosts didn’t know what they were talking about.
Their praise of Shane got under Ilya's skin more than he would ever admit to himself. Pressing OFF, the athlete got up from the couch and looked out the window once more, admiring the setting sun, before grabbing his phone again to check if there were any new messages.
Just a follow up from Alexei:
Too busy fucking around on Christmas to remember your family? Remember where you come from, bastard!
“Merry Christmas to you too, asshole,” Ilya muttered aloud as he put his phone back on the counter. He rolled his shoulders back with a soft grunt before walking to the bathroom.
It was a quiet Christmas this year. He usually tried to busy himself during the MLH's mandatory three-day break; he'd do things like dinner with another player’s family, a gift exchange with the family that Svetlana had in America, or volunteering at the local hospital. This year, he had planned to do all three, but at the last minute, he canceled all his plans.
He sent over 500 autographed pucks to Mass General to apologize for his absence this year, citing that he hadn’t felt well enough to come. For his teammates, he had sent several bottles of whiskey to the childless players and nice toys for the ones with kids. To Svetlana, he sent her a pair of red-bottomed shoes to get her off his ass for ignoring her texts for the past month.
That was enough to silence everyone and leave him alone on Christmas – excluding Alexei and a flurry of "Merry Christmas!" texts. His original thought process was that he needed the quiet this year, but receiving season's greetings from everyone but the one person he wanted it from? It irritated him.
Ilya stared into the mirror and shook his head in disapproval.
How could you go to America and become distracted? By a man? His face contorted as he mocked his father’s angry attitude in Russian. I gift you life, and you sully my name. You destroy Russia’s reputation – taken by a man!
“It's not exactly like that,” he laughed aloud to no one. If anything, Canada was getting fucked by Russia.
When he was younger, Ilya used to repeatedly play out arguments with his father in his head until he won. Their fights would rattle in his head for hours, even while he played on the ice. Ilya recalled hundreds of times where he'd be arguing with the renowned intelligence officer in his head while scoring a goal. As he grew older and the abuse became purely verbal, he realized there was no winning until the man was dead. Despite this realization, the noise never seemed to fade away.
The blond boy unclenched his fists. Without realizing it, he had been gripping the sink counter tightly – his palms slowly regaining color as he released the tension. Maybe he should’ve been at Svetlana’s aunt’s house tonight. He needed a distraction.
He sighed as he stripped off his clothes, throwing them haphazardly next to the laundry basket in his bathroom. As he walked past his mirror, he caught his reflection and turned around with a grin. Well, at least I still have myself.
He got back on track to take a shower. After turning the handle, Ilya waited for it to heat up by his sink counter. He leaned against the edge, cold marble touching his backside. Both muscular arms positioned to grip the solid block as he pivoted his head up to look at the ceiling once more.
His mind trailed again to the dark-haired Canadian, probably off fucking his girlfriend after sharing a wonderful night with his family. He could almost see Rose’s lithe, naked body pressed up underneath Shane – screaming his name – against the white ceiling. Shane was pounding her with force, gripping her hair, and pulling her closer to—
Ilya shook himself out of it, deeply humiliated and sporting a half hard-on.
What the fuck?
His right hand slipped between his legs and he gave his dick a soft squeeze.
The athlete pushed himself off the counter, tested the temperature of the shower, and then stepped in. The hot steam enveloped him completely, and he took a seat on a carved out section of the shower wall.
For a moment, he just let the shower pour down on him like a storm passing by – his mind empty and heart anxious. He knew very well that he was jealous of stupid Rose Landry for being able to have what he couldn’t.
He wanted to spend Christmas with Shane. Meet Shane’s parents that the media loved to gush about – the golden boy and his perfect family that loves him so much. Exchange gifts with Shane. Eat whatever the hell Canadians eat for Christmas – he was used to roasted goose and blinis, but all his teammates seemed to prefer prime rib and eggnog.
Ilya wanted to be the one that spent the night with Shane. The dark-haired rival would be wrapped up like a little gift for him to devour. Maybe with a red bow on his head, he grinned, like the streetlamps outside Ilya’s apartment.
Rozanov would tear Hollander apart, haphazardly like a gift that was tightly wrapped. Trailing kisses and bites down from his cheeks to his thighs, opening Shane up by pressing his mouth to his ass—
“Fuck, Hollander,” he gasped. His eyes, which he had not realized he had shut, burst open. His hands had practically moved themselves to his dick, cupping his balls with one and slowly stroking the shaft with the other.
His hips involuntarily thrust off the ledge and into his hand, and a soft moan escaped his lips. He shut his eyes again, letting the hand that caressed his balls travel up to his chest and grip it tightly.
Shane would do something ambitiously stupid like learning how to tie himself to wrap himself up like a present for Christmas, Ilya fantasized. The Canadian hockey player was an overachiever, and a present like that would be unforgettable. The blond imagined him sporting an erection as he carefully looped his body together with a red rope.
Ilya would be finishing out vodka that they drank together in celebration of their first Christmas together – Hollander would probably, with a flushed face, tell him he couldn’t drink anymore and that he needed to do something in the bedroom.
“Don’t come in until I say so,” he would demand. His yearning, doe-like eyes would be half-lidded, probably inebriated and excited to prepare the surprise for Ilya. Of course, the blond would resist and try to get up, but Shane would push him down.
“Fuck, can you wait for once?”
I’ve been waiting for a long time, Hollander.
Ilya inhaled deeply as a pang of pain hit his chest – not the stimulation that he was expecting or wanting at the moment. A small shake of the head, he tried to focus back in on “their” Christmas night.
“You can come in now,” Shane would shout with a gasp, the movements from yelling rubbing the rope across his chest. Ilya, knowing himself, would wait a beat to make Shane anxious – just enough to set him further on the edge before entering the man’s bedroom with enough confidence for both of them.
He could see Shane clearly – red rope crisscrossing his back and chest. He would be lying on his side, revealing his entire body to the doorway with a thick ribbon wrapping around his leaking cock, pink and begging to be touched.
“Merry Christmas, Ilya.”
“Wow. Bow on your head too.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, I think I will be doing that. To you.”
Ilya literally made himself laugh as he stroked his cock faster. He opened his eyes with a smile, as he fantasized – without much visual – about taking the rival player deep while the man was tied up. No pushback from him like usual – just taking it like he was born to.
He could hear Shane moan in his ears, something that had imprinted itself on him from the moment that he had first kissed him eight years ago. The sounds of the shower had long faded into the background; all he could hear was Shane moaning and begging for it deeper.
“Ilya – fuck, Ilya please.”
“Please what?” Ilya whispered aloud, the echoes bouncing off the shower wall.
“Please. Touch me. Deeper. Please.”
Ilya moaned so loud that he almost fell out of his fantasy. He began thrusting into his hand with more ferocity, grunting as he felt the heat building up in his dick.
“Hollander,” Ilya said breathlessly, “I’m going to cum.”
“Inside. Please.”
“Fuck!”
Ilya panted as he spurt all over his hand and onto the shower floor. His whole body shuddered, and he leaned against the shower wall for respite. For a moment, he watched as his come circled around the drain and disappeared before removing his hand from his dick and wiping it on his leg.
Post-orgasm embarrassment rose briefly in Ilya’s chest before he shook it off – if he had anything, it was bravado. He smiled, satisfied, and pushed himself off the shower rest with legs that were a little shaky.
Bad day to do legs, he joked as he went to finish cleaning himself.
After the shower, Ilya found himself on the couch again, feeling a little better than he had felt earlier today. Maybe he was just pent up – unintentionally, he had denied himself release for a few days.
He turned on the television and flipped the channels until he found something that interested him. Home Alone was playing on the movie channel.
As Kevin set up the next trap, Ilya reached for his phone and opened his texts. No new messages. For a minute, he scrolled through his old texts with Jane. On an impulse, he sent a message.
Merry Christmas!
He grinned as he hit send.