Chapter Text
“No threesomes. That's my hard rule.”
Ilya Rozanov remembered the day that his boyfriend, Shane Hollander, had declared this. It had not affected him in the slightest. Shane was enough for him for the rest of his life. The thought of looking elsewhere in either gender made his stomach feel hollow. On the day that Shane adamantly declined threesomes, he had been very clear that if Ilya wanted to be with him, it would never be a possibility.
So one could imagine Ilya’s surprise when Shane, cheeks flushed, hair mussed, and three buttons of a light white long-sleeved shirt popped open, approached Ilya in a chic New York City nightclub and said in his matter-of-fact voice,
“I’m hard. From watching you dance with Svetlana. I think that I… would want to watch you together.”
Ilya raised an eyebrow and looked around the nightclub. He had just danced with Svetlana Vitrov a few moments ago, and now she lounged in a section with a handsome, but not particularly good, hockey player for the New York Admirals.
Ilya kept a straight face, raised an eyebrow, and gave his boyfriend a once-over. Shane’s cheeks were beginning to redden, and he shifted uncomfortably in the gloriously tailored Armani trousers his stylist had dressed him in. It was not uncommon for Shane Hollander’s beauty to distract Ilya, so he only came to once more when Shane cleared his throat.
“Earth to Rozanov…”
Shane snapped a sassy hand in his face, and Ilya glanced around a few times before reaching out to snatch his Rolex-adorned wrist. Shane’s eyes widened in a small panic before Ilya rolled his own eyes and pulled Shane into the straightest, most platonic headlock he could muster.
They were not out yet, but they were now, according to the headlines, “unlikely best friends” thanks to the joint charity announcement. This photo would likely end up in The New York Times, and Hollander’s boring father (who Ilya loved dearly) would cut it out and frame it.
“I heard you, vesnushki,”
Ilya whispered in Shane’s ear, and he gripped him harder when he felt a shiver race through Shane’s body. Shane Hollander was an absolute slut for many things, pet names being top five.
“You want to watch me fuck Svetlana?”
Shane’s breath caught in his throat as Ilya kept up the boyish horsing-around act and turned so that they could both observe the beautiful Russian woman across the club. She wore a short, tight, embellished Balmain dress that molded to her lithe body, and her hair framed her face in tantalizing, wild ringlets. Her golden-brown skin glowed under the club lights, and the New York Admirals player had a large hand resting comfortably on her thigh.
“Hollander. Do you want to watch me fuck her?”
Shane struggled to answer, and Ilya released him from his hold. Shane’s ears were now red, and he stood before Ilya quite awkwardly. Ilya loved to make him uncomfortable because, well, Shane Hollander was cute when he was puzzled and distressed.
“No. I don’t know. That’s fucking gross, right? We said no threesomes, and here I am messing with our rules, forget I-”
“Svetlana has wanted to fuck both of us together since before she knew about us,”
Ilya told him bluntly, and Shane looked over at Svetlana, who now ran her long, slender fingers across the Admirals player’s chest.
“Really? Even me?”
Ilya shrugged.
“She has bad taste. She thinks you are prettier than me.”
Shane raised an eyebrow.
“Hollander. Yes or no?”
Ilya raised his voice in a challenging tone that immediately awoke Shane’s competitive nature.
“Yes. Yeah. I want to…”
Ilya nodded and rolled his eyes.
“Yes, yes. Watch me fuck her.”
Shane shook his head slightly, and Ilya gave him a look of confusion.
“Oh. This is like… pretend? Fantasy?”
Shane shook his head again.
“I think that I’d like to join.”
Ilya’s eyes widened, and he studied the love of his life with great consideration. He would never force Shane to be with anyone. He would, however, encourage any and all sexual fantasies he had (within reason), because he loved when Shane, no pun intended, opened up for him.
“Okay,”
Ilya said before he grabbed his abandoned vodka from the bar, downed it in a long gulp, and charged straight for Svetlana. Shane followed closely behind like a puppy.
The both of them got into the section easily, and the bottle girls made a show of touching and rubbing themselves against them.
“Sveta,”
Ilya said, interrupting her kiss with the Admirals player. She pulled away, lips swollen and cheeks tinged pink from heat, not embarrassment. Svetlana did not get embarrassed. She was, in the words of her famous father, 'too perfect to feel such things.'
Her grey eyes blinked up at Ilya, and his heart swelled. He did truly love his childhood best friend, enough, at least, to save her from the abomination of a kiss she had been experiencing seconds before.
“Rozanov. Hollander,”
the Admirals player said in greeting, in a failed attempt at acting nonchalant. He looked like any fan who met Shane and Ilya.
“Hi, Garrison. Having a good night?”
Shane asked from behind in a friendly greeting, and Ilya forced himself not to roll his eyes. Leave it to his boring boyfriend to know every player in existence.
“Perfect night. Svetlana here has made sure of that!”
Ilya remembered the manners that Shane had attempted to teach him during their time together and gave Levi Garrison a curt nod. He then turned his full attention to his best friend.
“Want to leave this second-string nobody alone and have a more interesting night?”
he asked in Russian, and Svetlana’s interest was mildly piqued.
“He has a penthouse downtown. He wants to show me his in-home aquarium.”
Ilya snorted, and Levi and Shane, who had struck up a small conversation themselves, looked at him. Ilya cleared his throat and said,
“My boyfriend is horny. He will let us fuck him.”
Svetlana’s eyes widened impossibly, and she looked over at Shane, who caught her eye and then blushed furiously.
“Da,”
she said firmly before grabbing her purse and kissing Levi on the cheek. With zero explanation, she took hold of Shane’s hand and then Ilya’s, and the three left laughing into the crisp New York night.