Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Ilya is fourteen, holding half of a boiled potato in one hand and a thin sewing needle in the other, the first time he pierces anyone. Sasha’s sitting between his spread legs, Ilya leaning forward, his thighs resting on top of Sasha’s. Bare-handed, needle a little shaky. There’s a marker dot on Sasha’s right earlobe. Sveta is lying on the ground an arm’s length away, flipping through a magazine. The man on the cover is half-naked and wet, for some reason, and he’s got one brilliant ear piercing in.

“Just do it,” Sasha whines as Ilya holds the potato, cut in half, behind Sasha’s ear. He has to use his thumb to try to keep Sasha’s earlobe pinned to the flat side of the potato, which is harder than it should be because they definitely boiled the potato for way too fucking long.

“Stop moving, then! Fuck,” Ilya says, squinting as he lifts the sewing needle to Sasha’s earlobe with his other hand.

Sveta lowers her magazine to look over at them, rolling her eyes. “Is this going to take all night?”

Her ears are already pierced, by a professional, and Ilya suspects she also doesn’t trust him with a needle. Which he can’t fault her for, he supposes. He has good hands, but not in that sense.

Sasha is much more reckless with his body. Sasha, who yelps as Ilya pricks his lobe with the needle, not enough to pierce the skin, but for it to hurt. He pinches Ilya’s thigh. “Fucking do it!”

Ilya pushes the needle through Sasha’s ear so fast that they both stare at each other, silently, until Sasha says, “You’re done? It’s done—?” and then squeaks when Ilya pulls the potato off the sharp end of the needle, tugging on Sasha’s bright-red ear.

He stares at the needle in Sasha’s earlobe, long and thin and silver, gleaming, and reaches for it right as Sasha shoves the stud earring into his palm and tells him to put that in soon. Before his ear swells red and round. Sasha whimpers when Ilya pulls the needle out. There’s a prick of blood.

“Do you have—” Ilya rummages around, and Sveta slides the tiny ceramic bowl with ice cubes in it toward him. “Thanks.”

Picking one up, slippery and cold between his fingers, Ilya holds it gently against Sasha’s earlobe for a few seconds while Sasha cusses at the chill of the ice. He keeps cussing the whole way through, too, but by the time they’ve got the stud in, and the clear crystal at the end catches the light—almost as pretty as the needle—he stops complaining.

“Stole it from my mom,” he says. “She’s gonna kill me.”

And he smiles at Ilya, who grins back.

“Maybe I should get a third one,” Sveta says, considering it. “Let me know if that one gets infected.”

“Fuck.” Sasha reaches up to touch his tender earlobe, and Ilya smacks his hand away. “Should we douse it in alcohol?”

Ilya shrugs. Then he wipes the needle clean on his shirt and holds it up. “We can sterilize it with liquor. That works, right? Read that somewhere. Now you do me next.”

“I will not be visiting you at the hospital,” Sveta tells them, but rolls over onto her side to look for the bottle Sasha had brought earlier and stashed underneath his bed. “Well, I suppose it’s not the worst way to celebrate. If you manage to convince another girl to fuck you, maybe you can pierce the other ear.”

Sasha stares at Ilya, who looks back at him.

“I’ll get the vodka,” Sasha says, untangling himself from Ilya.

When he’s out of the room, Ilya wraps his fingers around Sveta’s ankle, kisses her knee. She kicks him.

“I know where your mouth has been,” she tells him. “And the rest of you.”

“I cannot deprive the world of me,” Ilya tells her. “Which part of me do you want to have? Sasha gets my right lobe, you can have the left one.”

By the time Sasha is back, Sveta says she wants Ilya’s tongue. Sasha calls it a miracle that Ilya can go a week without talking. He needs that mouth for chirping and kissing and other more interesting things. Sveta settles for the left ear, as promised. She lets Ilya use one of her stud earrings, small and discreet. Big enough to cause a problem with his father, though.

It does get infected. And Sasha’s mom is pissed off. Both of these things are fine because the next time they try, Ilya’s steady hands pinching Sasha’s cartilage, it’s much smoother.

So when Ilya has Shane Hollander on his back some years later, at twenty, his tongue to Hollander’s ear, he recognizes the scar. It’s not big enough to be visible from a distance, but there’s a distinct, pale line on his earlobe, the flesh around it dipping down toward the scar. Signaling a past wound. Because it would have been a wound. More than a scrape. Blood on the shoulder of his pristine shirt.

Ilya pushes himself up on his hands, hips pinning Hollander down. “You have had your ear pierced?”

Hollander immediately reaches for his right ear. His thumb swipes over the scar. “I—yeah, but only for, like, a couple of weeks. It was stupid.”

Ilya hums, lowering himself onto his forearms so that he can take Hollander’s earlobe between his teeth, kissing his jaw right after. “Why stupid? I think it would look quite pretty.”

“I only did it because someone dared me to,” Hollander says. “After the final in oh-eight, when we lost, they—my team, I mean—thought it was only fair I do something to commemorate the loss, which, it’s not that they forced me—”

“Hollander, get to the point.” Ilya groans. Leaning to the side a bit, he takes in Hollander’s face. Hollander is staring up at the ceiling, touching the curve of his ear again. Skin shiny where Ilya has put his tongue. “You lost finals to me, best hockey player in the world”—Hollander rolls his eyes, which is cute—“and your team make you pierce your ear? Did they pierce theirs, also?”

“Uhm, no. It was just me. But we went to a piercing studio because I didn’t trust any of them to… handle a needle. Or be safe about it. There are so many ways for them to get infected, right, and, anyway, they thought it’d be funny to make their captain get the… gay ear pierced, or something. That’s why I said it’s stupid.”

“You took it out?”

Hollander grimaces. “I… it ripped it out. I forgot I had it and it snagged on my helmet.”

Ilya whistles. Must’ve hurt.

Must’ve bled, too.

Later, when Ilya’s so deep inside of Hollander he swears he’s going to melt into him, he pinches Hollander’s earlobe between thumb and forefinger and presses his nail lightly against the divot of his scar there. Hollander shakes under him, face red and begging for release. Which Ilya can give him, obviously, wants to see Hollander come undone on his cock more than anything—presses his nail harder into the skin—Hollander’s voice breaking, a sharp gasp—Ilya’s nail hard, digging deeper—must hurt, must fucking hurt—and Hollander comes, trembles, eyes wide and glistening and bright as he peers up at Ilya. Come pools on Hollander’s belly and Ilya realizes that somewhere in all of that, he came, too. Came warm and heavy inside of Hollander, through the sensation of Hollander’s skin buckling under Ilya’s nail, his pain mirrored onto Ilya’s own body. His ear throbs. His cock twitches, still shoved deep inside of Hollander.

“What the fuck?” Hollander asks, trying to catch his breath, and Ilya laughs, kisses him, and wonders how fucking stupid his face looks at that moment.

It happens again the next time they’re at Hollander’s Montreal apartment. Ilya remembers the first time he held a sewing needle to someone else’s skin.

Ilya’s got two slivers of a scar on his hip. So pale they are barely noticeable, overpowered by the brown smattering of birthmarks. But they’re there, can be felt against a tongue, and he knows that Hollander has tasted them because sometimes as he is taking Ilya into his mouth, Hollander’s thumb will absentmindedly rub over the raised skin. His eyes trained on Ilya, who peers back at him, puts his hand over Hollander’s to keep it there, on the scars.

“No one else knows of these,” Ilya tells him, and there it is, that glint of possessiveness in Hollander’s eyes. It makes Ilya’s head reel. And it is why he doesn’t hesitate to say, “I could mark you just like that. If you want.”

Hollander moans around him, his hand scrambling to get past the press of his jeans, into his underwear, to get himself off. 

“Would last longer than bruises,” Ilya continues. “Maybe forever.”

He nudges his leg between Hollander’s thighs for him to pivot his hips toward, get himself off that way, arm awkwardly caught between his stomach and Ilya’s shin. And he comes like that, pants still drawn all the way up, his mouth swallowing around Ilya, and Ilya thinks of his own scars on Hollander’s body, silver pricks, like pale freckles, everywhere. His fingers pushing against them.

And the need in him is so deep he feels younger than he is, almost embarrassed by how hot his want is, how badly he wants it, how he doesn’t even have the fucking words to describe what he wants to do to Hollander at that moment. Just knows that if he can figure it out, can say it, then Hollander will say yes, as he always does.

Ilya and Cliff are wandering through BNA, rain pouring heavy outside, the rest of the team split up as they wait for the plane to be readied. Cliff’s halfway done with his pink, fruity drink, flipping through the magazines at Parnassus Books, making some offhand comment about this weekend. Ilya’s eyes catch on the shimmer in the store across from them, James Avery; sleek, glass stands and black signs, completely at odds with the rest of the grey airport. He pats Cliff on the back, thinking he might leave him behind, only for Cliff to bound after him. That’s the fun and annoying thing about Cliff—he follows, like a puppy.

“Buying jewelry for your Montreal girl? Jesus, Rozy, that’s like, serious stuff,” he says, slurping his drink loudly through the straw.

Ilya leans over the glass cases while the woman working the desk stares at them, looking unenthused. He can’t blame her. If he had to work at an airport, he’d be fucking miserable, too. He looks over at Cliff, who is swiping through Tinder, as if they’re not about to step on a plane.

“We are leaving Nashville, you know this, yes?” Ilya asks, gesturing behind them, as if the giant airport didn’t make it apparent. “What the fuck are you doing on Tinder?”

“Premium account, dude.” Cliff doesn’t even look up. “Location set to Boston. You wouldn’t know anything about that, though, I bet, fucking casanova. Are you buying something or not? I wanna get a sandwich before the flight.”

Ilya raises his hand in a quick ‘thank you’ to the woman, who calls out a quick, thanks for stopping by, safe flight! and herds Cliff out of the store. “Not today.”

“Not quite there yet, huh? Better think twice before buying her something real nice, or she’ll get used to it,” Cliff tells him, sipping on his drink. The ice inside the plastic cup clinks loudly.

“Not my Jane,” Ilya says, pressing his tongue against the edge of his front teeth. “She does not care about expensive stuff. Only cares about winning.” Thinks of himself at the end of that sentence, like Hollander’s prized possession.

Cliff howls with laughter, says, “Well thank god she’s already fucking the best center in the MLH, then, otherwise you’d have to stay on your toes. Might wanna think about locking her down.” And Ilya laughs because that’s just not happening. There is no locking down. That’s not what this is.

He pictures Hollander on his stomach, back arched, a surface piercing lodged at his nape. Silver. Gold. Something crystal that catches the light at every angle Ilya takes him. What he wants from Hollander is something of the body; he wants to fuck Hollander until this restless ache in him has worn off. Until he can be inside a woman again and not think of when he will next be in Montreal.

Cliff adds, “Who knows, maybe Hollander wants to finally get back at you for being such a bitch to him. Might take the opportunity to steal her away if you suddenly start playing like shit. Crazier stuff happens.”

Ilya raises both brows and Cliff puts his hands up defensively. “Just saying! He was looking at you real fucking nasty last game. Might wanna watch yourself.”

“Shut the fuck up, Marly,” Ilya says, and Cliff is all laughs.

Into the boards. Hollander’s bruised back, his mottled purple-blue-green thighs and hips from the weight of Ilya’s body ramming into him on the ice. An intentional trip—crowd jeering, one of the zebras sending Ilya away, his giddiness white-toothed—and the explosion that follows in Ilya’s Boston home. Hollander’s teeth on him, the frantic whining, the upset (you fucking asshole, you dick, you piece of shit) as Hollander works his anger out of his system, lets it be fucked out of him until he’s satiated, but not pliant. Ilya curls his fingers hard on Hollander’s hips, so that he can get his nails in there, and Hollander cries out but doesn’t shy away, rocks himself back on Ilya’s cock. And afterward, Hollander touches the marks, stares at the ceiling, says, “Wish those lasted as long as the bruises do.”

Ilya kisses his shoulder, the slope into Hollander’s collarbone, mouth on his pulsepoint.

“I could give you one,” he says, knowing he sounds eager. “Piercing. Like your ear.”

“And how would I go about explaining that to my team? I’m just suddenly into jewelry? I don’t think I’ve ever even been seen in, like, a fucking ring,” Hollander says while Ilya massages his quads for him. Ilya digs his thumbs into the muscles along Hollander’s legs, drags them up, up to unknot the tension there. Hollander lets out a deep, slow sigh of relief.

“Easy,” Ilya murmurs, kissing Hollander’s knee. “Take them out when we are done. It will heal, scar, probably. Maybe not every time. But you would remember I did it, yes? We would know.”

Hollander does it again: touches his ear, eyes unfocused.

“Could be anywhere,” Ilya continues, kissing his way down Hollander’s chest. He puts his mouth to Hollander’s hipbone, says, “Could be here…” to Hollander’s navel, “here…” right above his groin, at the first skirt of his dark pubes, “here…” Teeth against the skin, a mere suggestion of what it might feel like.

Hollander’s cock is hardening against Ilya’s cheek, and he grins, hoping that Hollander catches how sharp his canines are. Hopes that when Hollander closes his eyes as Ilya blows him, the image of them lingers. Sharp as needles.

He’s got him.

Ilya has got Shane Hollander.

He doesn’t bring it up for a few weeks. Next time they meet up, in Boston, Ilya settles for his nails, again, his teeth, though Hollander wriggles desperately under him the whole time, like they’re both seeking an edge they can’t find. The thought of it is heady. Ilya pins him down, holds his arms to the bed as he pistons into Hollander, pants into his mouth, kisses him wet and filthy as Hollander yelps, “Rozanov—fuck!” against his cheek.

And because it’s Ilya’s house he can light a cigarette after, and Hollander can do nothing except furrow his brow and lean against the headboard as Ilya takes a drag and blows smoke through the corner of his mouth. The only terrible thing about this is that now he’s definitely not getting any more action before Hollander rolls out of Ilya’s bed and heads back to his hotel. He weighs his sacrifice, considers putting the cig out. Brushing his teeth again, maybe test how much it’d take to get Hollander to part his lips a final time.

Ilya pinches the cig between his lips instead.

“Have you ever…” Hollander starts, wipes the back of his hand over his forehead. His cute, short bangs ruffle. Ilya wants to fuck him again. “Like, pierced someone before? I mean, at all. Anywhere.”

Looking over at him, Ilya slowly moves to tap the cig over the ashtray at his bedside table.

“Yes,” he says. “Years ago. With Sasha and Sveta—Svetlana. Took sewing needle and potato and pierced our ears, see”—he taps his right ear—“here. But the scar is mostly gone now. My father did not like his son having, as you say, gay earring.”

Hollander’s face twists. Ilya thinks he must’ve had the same thing thrown at him. By the team, maybe. This is the sport of boys: insist on the joke and then turn on each other.

“You think you could do it? Safely, I mean.” Hollander swallows. Ilya watches his throat bob.

Ilya kills his cig. He puts his weight on one hand and pushes himself over to Hollander’s side of the bed, one arm reaching over to rub his thigh. Hollander’s nose wrinkles, probably at the smell of him. It's not the closeness: Ilya knows Hollander better than that

“Where do you want it?” he asks, tapping his fingers against Hollander’s thigh. “Ear? Is the easiest, probably. Or…”

Hollander’s eyes are on his mouth. I have you, Ilya thinks, greedy. I don’t need to do anything to own you. But it stirs something hungry in him, anyway.

“Somewhere discreet, for…”

He doesn’t say for first time, but Hollander must hear it. Ilya's mind fills in: that image of Hollander on his knees, neck on display. Metal gleaming against shiny sweat. Moving his hand up to cup Hollander’s neck, Ilya rubs his fingers over Hollander’s nape. Pinches it. Their eyes meet. Ilya does as he has several other times now—presses the blunt edge of his nail into the skin. Hollander twitches but doesn’t move away, doesn’t even gasp.

“Here,” Ilya says, and it is not a question.

Can’t meet, Hollander says over text. Next time.

It’s three hours before their game. Ilya’s whole body had been vibrating, like he’s four shots into a good night. Now, his body is cold and prickly and off-balance, from one text.

next time is in forever, you will not make it, Ilya tells him, hollander come on. Again, we can be quick. one fuck. i will blow you in the hallway and then door is right there and you can go after, one more, come oooon hollander.

Hollander texts him only half an hour before the game. Fuck off, "Lily."

And Montreal takes the win, to make bad into worse, and Ilya throws his phone into his stall a bit too hard, hears Cliff laugh at him, ask what’s got him so bratty, earns a, “Fuck you, Marly,” and, “I need a drink,” and, “Fuck Montreal,” and, “Fuck Hollander,” with his beautiful two goals and stupid fucking eyes, creased with delight. There’s nothing on the Metros’ schedule tomorrow. Later, when Ilya scrolls through his Instagram, he sees a rare post from Hollander of a night in, some stupid fucking hockey book propped up next to a cup of tea. Because of course he drinks tea at night. Of course he is posting it so that Ilya has to see that he chose not to meet with him. Because Hollander is being a little bitch on purpose, for some reason.

i know you are dying for it, he texts Hollander, because he has no self restraint and also because he’s been nursing his loss with the other guys long enough to be drunk.

The only message he gets is, I don’t know, I’m feeling pretty good about my win tonight, and Ilya’s, i know how to make you feel better than ‘pretty’ good goes unanswered.

Maybe Hollander’s ready to cut him off already, which would be crazy, because that’s Ilya’s call. He started this. Every time he shows up, Hollander’s on his knees before Ilya even has a chance to tell him to do so. For a second, Ilya wonders if Hollander’s mind has made a one-eighty, and he is out there fucking women, or maybe he has a girlfriend he doesn’t want to tell Ilya about. A serious girlfriend. Ilya googles Shane Hollander girlfriend and sees a million photos of random women posting selfies with him, but all of them are fans, and also he is prettier than all of them, which doesn’t matter actually, but they’re not girlfriends. And Rozanov has fucked women just as beautiful. Some news articles speculate, but there’s never anything concrete.

He almost asks Hollander, are you avoiding me? before he realizes that sounds like he is Hollander’s possessive girlfriend. It’s just one missed meeting. He deletes the message, sends instead, girl here at the club has scar on her ear too and when you jerk off tonight, touch your neck like i am there.

Okay. Maybe Ilya doesn’t have Hollander. At least not entirely. But he could.

He knows this; Hollander knows this.

Ilya starts fucking women who look like Shane Hollander; keeps fucking women who look like him. Dark hair, brown eyes. Usually the similarities end there; after all, Hollander’s waist doesn’t slope like that, he doesn’t smell of perfume or have the stickiness of the club on him. He doesn’t have golden hoop earrings or his eyebrow pierced or a single crystal on his cupid’s bow, or wear low rise jeans to show off silver barbells right above his back dimples. The women who sort-of look like him, in the worst light, in the purple light, in the blue light, the red, the yellow-green, like bruises layering themselves on the crowd, a little craven—those women do. And it’s not enough. Ilya doesn’t want to think about why.

They’re in New York when Cliff leans over, holding his fifteen dollar cocktail. He points at a woman across the room, says, “Isn’t that your type?” and Ilya knows he has a problem. That he is building habits without knowing it. Says back to Cliff, “I don’t need you to pick my women for me,” while ordering a Vieux Carré. The rest of the team have scattered across the Lower East Side. Hammersmith is nowhere to be seen. Maybe Ilya will have to pry him out of the bathroom again. He blacks out too fucking easily, and Ilya’s not going to leave him to fend for himself.

“Pick my women for me,” Cliff mouths back, voice high-pitched, grinning wide and toothy as he tips his drink back. Daiquiri. It takes him from smiley to worse. But he is warm, too. Annoying in the good way. Ilya doesn’t mind it. “Just saying you got a type, Roz! Maybe easy for you to forget with the way you cycle through ‘em.” Ilya rolls his eyes, fixes the collar of his shirt. Neckline open enough for the gold cross to show.

Drink in his hand, his phone buzzes in his back pocket. Cliff sees him move to grab it, raises a brow, “Your girl has freaky senses, dude.” Slurps his drink loud, as usual.

Ilya takes his phone out slowly, sees Hollander’s, Congrats on the win. Don’t get too used to it, though. He flicks his eyes up at Cliff, who is pretending to look away, and tucks his phone away again.

“You’re terrible, Roz,” Cliff tells him, no edge. Ilya downs the rest of his cocktail, orders another one, and decides Cliff can figure out Hammersmith’s deal and get him home.

He dances. This is easy. He can bury his face in the crook of a woman’s neck and smell the scent of her perfume and open his eyes to her face and enjoy it. Let it be just sex. She asks for his number because she already knows his name, and he pauses before he gives it to her. Doesn’t save it when she texts. It’s her apartment and tomorrow there’s an early flight, so he leaves without saying much else. Cliff flips him off when he gets back. Hammersmith puked all over himself in their bathroom, and now he’s sleeping in Ilya’s spot on the bed, so Ilya has to peel the hotel key out of Hammersmith’s fucking jean pockets and go to his room instead. Congrats on the win.

Ilya leans against the hotel door, head spinning, staring at his screen. So white it looks blue. He writes, new york is boring tonight. wish we played montreal not fucking admirals. Deletes it. Sucks a deep breath in through his nose, runs cold water in the bathroom sink, and puts his head straight under the faucet.

Ilya fucks a man who is not Hollander. He misses dick, he thinks. And there is something about the chase, the secrecy of it, the shift in language. If Ilya wants to find a woman, he can walk up to her. It is simple. She will understand. If Ilya wants to fuck a man, he has to play. This guy is toned and tanned and eager and willing to keep his mouth shut, is tattooed on his back, bends over but pushes back a bit when he can tell Ilya’s into that, seems to be enjoying himself a whole fucking lot when he hangs off Ilya’s dick and it’s—fine. Is made only a little more interesting by the piercings on the underside of his cock: straight barbells, silver, two of them parallel. Ilya tongues the metal ball at one end of the barbell. He closes his eyes.

It’s summer before they even have a chance to meet up again. Ilya’s not sure he’s ever sent this many text messages in exchange for such little attention. He begs—asks—Hollander for a photo and gets one of the sunset. Offers one of his cock and gets a photo of Hollander’s middle finger, to which he suggests where he can put that finger if he wants to be a good boy, and then there’s nothing else for a day.

Ilya goes shopping with Sveta. She’s buying a dainty bracelet when his eyes snag on a loop earring with a dangling crystal. Simple gold, definitely an earring. He pushes his tongue against the back of his teeth, staring into the glass case, takes another lap around the shop and ends back up in front of the tiny, gold hoops.

“Stop pacing, you look like a dog that needs to piss,” Sveta says, throwing him a brief look while the attendant adjusts the bracelet for her and asks if she will need a paired necklace. Sveta indulges in a second purchase.

He sends a photo of the gold hoops to Hollander, who does not reply. After a few hours have passed, Ilya adds, not for your ear. Still nothing. Ilya tosses his phone on his bed, meets Sveta, takes a shot and then licks the taste of liquor off her tongue, takes a taxi to a club which is all bodies without distinction, reels in the scent of perfume. He considers men. He knows the cues, how to signal. Hand on the back, sliding low, right tone of voice, eyes always drifting to a door, a bathroom, as if to say, we can go anywhere together. But he ends up squeezed between two women, instead, leans forward to kiss the brunette in front of him, hand on her hip, and discovers the metal ball on her tongue only when it swipes against the roof of his mouth. Thinks of Hollander.

Sveta is surprised that he rides back with her, but she rests her head on his shoulder and does not ask him about the fact he is staring at several text messages that have no response. Ilya tries one last time: want to be inside you.

And Hollander, who is terrifying because he is aware of the extent of Ilya’s desires by now, sends a photo of his shoulders and neck, droplets of water still on him, hair damp, the line of his jaw visible only in the edge of the photo. Not even a glimpse of his mouth, which Ilya misses on his cock and would love to see, but still. This is Hollander’s peace offering.

He texts, this is your idea of good photo? lower your camera, then, cant even see your ass.

Hollander tells him, Fuck you, asshole, and Ilya, who is very nice, promises, hard and deep. how you like it, because it is more fun when Hollander is so into it he is overwhelmed by the boundlessness of his own want. Sweaty with it. Boneless with it. Ilya’s not sure if that is Hollander’s need he is imagining or his own. He puts that thought with the scraps.

gold or silver? he asks, and when Hollander says, I don’t know I haven’t thought about that before, it really means: I didn’t realize I wanted this until you.

He hasn’t commented on the earrings, but if Ilya has any idea of how Hollander’s pretty head works, which Ilya thinks he does, Hollander’s not going to be able to stop thinking about them. Ilya wants him to imagine the prick of the needle, the slide of it through skin, the scar left behind when it comes out. But for Hollander, admitting that means admitting a lot of other things. Like the fact he is going to let Ilya put a needle to him. As if it isn’t enough he is bending over and letting Ilya fuck him, that he sucks Ilya’s cock as if it’s his purpose on earth, gets off on being manhandled and bruised and roughed up and gets off on having Ilya Rozanov of the Boston Raiders’ cock split him open.

See you soon, Hollander texts him.

Sveta asks why he is smiling and he kisses her cheek and says, this year I will win the Stanley Cup, and she laughs, tells him, thank god, finally.

He buys a hollow needle. If he tried to shove a sewing needle into Hollander’s skin, he’d end up with a shiner. Hollander is nothing if not meticulous when it comes to himself. His body, his entire fucking life. Even through text, Ilya has gotten a sense for how obsessive Hollander’s routines are. Down to the quarter hour of his days. Post-training gym sessions, a scale for his food, coconut water and orange juice mixed for hydration. And Hollander is offering that pristine body up to Ilya, who’s just there to get laid. It would be a bitch move to treat him carelessly.

So maybe all of this is not useless labor, he thinks, with ten tabs open on his laptop and a glass of vodka. But it doesn’t feel that way. Not when he is acutely aware of what he will get out of this.

He buys gloves, too. Though, really, he wants to feel the texture of Hollander’s skin when he puts the needle to it. Jewelry—curved barbells, implant grade titanium. He wanted something sparkly immediately, but Hollander had googled too many things, too, and said, It’s not like I will wear it after, it’s a waste of money. Ilya is fine wasting his money, but lets Hollander coax him into titanium this time if only because he is always hornier after winning an argument.

Ninety-nine percent isopropyl alcohol. He pops the cap open to smell it and the scent feels like stripping off all other senses.

There’s a photo of his supplies in his and Hollander’s message thread. He refuses to delete it. Thinks Hollander probably hasn’t, either. It’s a pretty simple photo: his bedroom, the box placed on the chair he likes draping his clothes over.

One of his semi-regular hookups peeks into it, asks, “Are those piercing needles?”

He shrugs, tells her he has hobbies, says, “Good way to make use of my hands when I am not playing hockey,” and she shows him what else he can do with them, which is distraction enough. But only for until she’s gone. It’s probably about time he deleted that girl’s number. She lingers in the doorway too often these days when he walks her out. She leaves, and Ilya’s alone with that fucking box and the echo of Hollander asking him, You think you could do it?

Ilya’s fingers cradle his neck. Dreams of how Hollander’s skin might scar, how Ilya might feel the punctures once they’ve healed. Perfectly round and silvered.

Hollander sends a photo. Another one of those badly-angled, semi-artistic ones that Ilya thinks are definitely not meant to be repeat-jerkoff material for him, like the one of his neck, but he’s gotten off to them anyway.

If you had to pick one, Hollander asks, which one would you do first.

And there’s another photo of his neck, but this time Hollander is pushing his dark hair out of the way so Ilya can see his nape better, the bump of his spine, Hollander’s nail making the skin divot. A second image: Hollander’s hipbone dipping into his underwear, the same place Ilya put his mouth on before, said here, where the skin is especially thin and sensitive.

Ilya’s alone. He is alone and with one hand on his cock he types: i will get both, and Hollander finally, fucking-finally, says, Do you fly out same night? Talking about the upcoming Montreal game. Ilya’s heart is so loud he can hear it in his ears.

morning after. your place.

Hollander asks, Can you bring everything with you?

Ilya’s still hard. He’s hard and he laughs and only manages to tell Hollander, yes, before he’s pulling the photo of Hollander’s hipbone back up, which is a new contender for most unintentionally-hot image Ilya has of him. An undeniable favorite-to-be.

Montreal loses.

“Christ, dude,” Cliff says next to him as Ilya peels his pads off one by one. “Are you seeing your girl again? You’re practically bouncing off the walls. Can’t imagine she’s gonna match that energy if she’s a Metros fan.”

Ilya smiles, his fingers twitching. “You will cover for me, yes? For curfew?”

“Maybe you should learn to cover your ass.” Cliff is grinning back at him, though. “You gonna play it sweet with her? Lick her wounds a bit?”

Sweet is probably the last thing Hollander wants from him right now.

“No problem at all,” Ilya tells him. “She likes me when I am mouthy.” And he clicks his teeth together, like an animal, and Cliff howls, laughs with him until someone else comes to give them shit for it and then Jane is everyone else’s business, too, which Ilya doesn’t like but can’t do much about.

“I’ll drink for you when we go celebrate,” Cliff promises. “Not that I think you’ll feel like you’re missing out.”

So, yes—Montreal lost. Which means Hollander lost. Which means that when Ilya walks the two-hundred meter trek from where his taxi dropped him off to the backdoor entrance of Hollander’s fucking sex-apartment, like he requested, he braces himself for a Hollander who is horny and angry, and not just horny and boastful. With some humility, of course. As is typical of him.

He doesn’t brace himself for Hollander swinging the door open, grabbing him by the belt, and hoisting him inside. Practically shoves Ilya the entire length of the stairs up to his apartment, and Ilya’s never felt—Hollander is fucking scrambling after him, with his hands on Ilya’s hips, pushing, his head against Ilya’s back until they’re inside. The apartment door shuts and Ilya opens his mouth and Hollander’s is right there, licking into him.

“Fuck,” Ilya says, because there’s not much else he can conjure up. “Hollander…”

“Missed you,” Hollander pants, as if he’s not the reason it’s been this long since they saw each other. “Are we—are you going to—?”

Their foreheads meet, the length of Hollander’s nose against Ilya’s. His warm breath.

His eyelashes are so dark this close. Straight and thick and pretty and Ilya kind of wonders if he could pinch them between his teeth. How close to Hollander he can get before it becomes a problem. Or a bigger problem.

“Thought you changed your mind,” Ilya says, because for a few months he really had. “Maybe did not know how to say you wanted to just fuck.”

Hollander licks his lips. Ilya watches him. “You’re not here to fuck me?”

“I will,” Ilya promises. “I am thinking…” He slides his fingers over Hollander’s nape, massages the skin and Hollander preens, tilts his head to the side and rolls his shoulders, leans into the touch. “You have freckles here.”

Hollander’s eyes are heavy-lidded. He is so beautiful that Ilya’s chest hurts. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t make a habit of checking my back out in the mirror.”

“Hm.” Ilya rubs circles into Hollander’s neck, presses one nail in a bit too roughly so he can feel the downy hairs prickle. “Ask me for it.”

Hollander swallows loudly, blinks at him, as if he doesn’t know. He loves pretending he can get what he wants without needing to work for it. “Ask…”

“For it, yes,” Ilya repeats. “Tell me what you want me to do to you, so I can think about it.”

“But we already agreed—we already—” Hollander says, staring at Ilya in what must be genuine bewilderment. Ilya thinks of his eyelashes again. The jut of his hipbones.

“Yes, but that was then, now is now.” Ilya’s grip on the back of Hollander’s neck tightens, his thumb nestled right against Hollander’s jaw. “I want to hear you say it,” and because he has such a good view of Hollander’s face, adds, “It can be my prize. For winning tonight. You will tell me what you want and maybe I am feeling nice.”

Hollander’s lips tighten into a line. His brow furrows. “You don’t think it’s prize enough you get to fuck Montreal’s captain?”

“No, I get to do that anyways,” Ilya says sweetly. “He is my biggest fan, I think, always begging for my—”

And then Hollander is kissing him again, more teeth than tongue and his hands are in Ilya’s hair, tugging him impossibly close. Hollander arches into the kiss, and Ilya thinks he hears him call Ilya an asshole, or something equally unimpressive. Ilya moves his hand from Hollander’s neck to the curve of his back. He gasps, keens against Ilya’s mouth like a starved animal and Ilya is feeling fucking starved, too, a bit sickeningly ravenous, wants to have Hollander’s cock in his mouth, wants to bend him over and enter him, wants to get his tongue into his ass and take his time but all of that is second to what Hollander says into his ear:

“I want you to pierce my neck. I want you to—I want something that’s yours. That you haven’t done to anyone else. I don’t want to share this with any of—any of the other people you’re… fucking, or whatever, I want you to pierce me, and I want it to scar, and—I want to be the only one you ever do that to. Okay? That’s what I fucking want, Rozanov. I want you to pierce me and then I want you to fuck me and come on me. It’s all I can think about and it makes me feel crazy. Happy? Or should I give it to you printed and notarized?”

Hollander’s face is flushed and his chest is heaving and he is so gorgeous like this.

Ilya’s not happy. That word seems trivial and useless right now. It doesn’t matter if he’s happy, because he’s got Hollander, again. Ilya is hard in his underwear. Fully erect, straining against his jeans.

He holds Hollander’s waist with both hands, waits until his attention moves from Ilya’s lips back to his eyes. Ilya tells him, “Take your clothes off and get on the bed,” heat in his stomach, his head, “and then wait for me.”

He thinks of their first All Stars game, when Hollander had sunk to his knees the moment Ilya asked him to. How easy it had looked.

Hollander sways. He is always moving toward Ilya, like a magnetic pull. Even now he tries to lean in for one last kiss, and Ilya wants to give it to him. He does.

“Hollander,” he says instead, voice steady. It tickles his throat. He wants to pry Hollander’s mouth back open and taste the soft spot at the very back of his mouth. Wants to shove his fingers in there and press it.

He leans back against the door, takes his hands off Hollander’s waist, and watches.

“Strip here or in the bedroom?” Hollander asks him.

I don’t fucking care, I just want to see you.

Ilya picks his bag off the ground, says, “Bedroom.”

They walk; Hollander first, Ilya following. The moment they enter the bedroom, Hollander’s neatly made-up bed with all it’s stupid fucking pillows in view, Ilya dumps his bag on the floor again. Hollander thumbs the bottom hem of his shirt, his back to the bed.

“What?” Ilya asks. “Undress.”

“Right. But, like, are you…” Hollander starts, tugging his shirt up just enough to show his happy trail.

“Hollander,” Ilya says, raising his brows pointedly. “Take your fucking clothes off.”

There’s a beat after where Hollander stands completely still, shirt halfway off. Then he moves, as if Ilya’s words are rippling through his body, firing through his veins, joints shifting, tugging his shirt over his head, tucking the short sleeves in neatly and then folding the shirt over twice. He reaches for his pants, undoing the top button before unzipping. While pushing his pants down his thighs, he holds Ilya’s gaze, eyes only flicking down when he has to step out of his jeans and fold those, too. His underwear goes last, and Ilya believes, for a second, that Hollander will hesitate. But Ilya had said to take his clothes off, and so he gets to watch Hollander pry his navy blue boxers off. Gets to see him already hard, how he is wet in a way the color of his underwear had hidden. Hollander glances around and Ilya points at the dresser in the corner. As if this isn’t Hollander’s apartment.

Hollander puts his clothes on top of the dresser, pauses before dipping down to roll his socks off, white, over-ankle socks. He rolls those up.

“Okay,” Hollander says, one hand pausing right below his navel. Perhaps he realizes that there’s not really any point in covering himself up. “I’m naked.”

Ilya waits. Hollander nods, slowly, then backs up on the bed, sits down and scoots back, shoulders raised.

“Good,” Ilya tells him, and then he kneels down in front of his bag. He pulls each item out slowly, one by one, the alcohol; the barbell; the gloves; last, the packaged and sterilized needle. That one he tilts his head up for, so he can get a better look at Hollander’s face when he sees it. And it is so worth it. Hollander’s eyes are blown, chest heaving already, dick hard against the curve of his hip. Ready for him.

Ilya wonders if he should fuck him first or after. What would be better—to watch the piercing glint as he takes Hollander from behind, or to have him loose and sweet after an orgasm, trembling as the needle pushes into his skin? It could complicate things if he’s wriggling about too much. He might need Ilya to put his knees on his arms, hold him in place.

Hollander says nothing. He sits and waits and keeps his eyes on Ilya’s hands, leaning back on his elbows, still a bit out of breath.

“Get on your stomach,” Ilya says, finally standing up. He pulls his own t-shirt off, throws it onto the floor as he unzips his pants.

There’s lube in the drawer. Hollander always buys the same kind. Condoms tucked neatly into the space next to them.

It’s so easy for Hollander to get in position these days. Barely any hesitation as he rolls over onto his stomach and raises his ass up, his hand rubbing up the back of his thigh, stopping short of his ass. Like he was going to spread himself open, too. Eager. “I thought you would—”

“Soon,” Ilya tells him, kissing his way down Hollander’s spine. He leaves his pants on, shoves them down the curve of his ass so he can get his cock out but not much further. The slope of Hollander’s waist is as sturdy as the rest of him, but he always shivers at the touch, and when Ilya rubs his palms over Hollander’s hipbones he pushes his ass back against Ilya’s cock.

“Rozanov…” he says, looking over his shoulder, head resting against his forearms. Eyes wide and wet.

Ilya holds his breath, rubs his nose against the bumps of Hollander’s spine. He puts his mouth to Hollander’s shoulderblade, pulls his lips back, teeth skirting against his skin. All he can taste is skin, warmth. He flattens his tongue against the bend of Hollander’s back and kisses him there again, open-mouthed and sloppy, blowing his cold breath onto the spit-slick skin. Hollander whimpers, fists tangling into the bedsheets as he continues to rub his ass against Ilya’s cock. His jeans against Hollander’s bare ass blushes the skin; it must be uncomfortable, he must love it.

Ilya wants to fuck him raw, make Hollander’s hole leak his come. He drops his forehead to Hollander’s back as he rips the condom open, drags it down over his cock and slicks his fingers with lube. Two fingers to start with, because it hasn’t escaped him how much easier Hollander takes them, these days. Must be fingering himself on the regular. Thinking about Ilya’s cock, surely. He rubs Hollander’s stomach with his free hand, delights in how it flexes as Hollander grinds back onto Ilya’s hand. Twisting his wrist, Ilya sinks his fingers to the knuckles, strokes the seam down to his balls with his thumb and Hollander gasps, wiggling his hips to encourage.

He’s so worked up already. When Ilya slides his hand down to Hollander’s groin, rubbing through his pubes before fitting his hand around the base of his cock, it is smeared with precum. Wet like a girl, Ilya had said one time. It’s true now, too. Leaking all over, begging for Ilya to fuck him in the simplest of languages. Ilya could give him another finger. Ease Hollander into this a bit more.

“Hold still,” he says instead, taking his fingers out. He kisses down Hollander’s spine while circling Hollander’s loose hole with one thumb, kisses the furl of it so that his lips gloss with lube, and then licks a stripe up his taint, over his hole, back to his spine.

“Rozanov, fucking—god, please, please,” Hollander begs, face smushed against the bed.

He reaches back to pull his left cheek to the side and the sight of it, Hollander displaying himself for Ilya, twists white-hot behind his eyes. Ilya sinks his cock into him and Hollander still doesn’t let go of his own ass, giving Ilya a full view of how his rim clings to his cock when he moves his hip back, puffy and dark-red. Gripping Hollander’s wrist, Ilya shoves Hollander’s arm up his back, keeping it pinned there. Like this, Hollander can’t do much to stay upright, whimpers at every thrust, bare chest rubbing over the sheets. Later, maybe Ilya can mouth at his sore nipples for him. With some practice, he thinks Hollander could come just from that. He’s a quick study.

“Roz—Rozanov,” Hollander’s voice is jumbled, and Ilya doesn’t think his name has ever sounded so appealing. He needs to hear it on the ice. Needs to see Hollander with his gloves dropped, those dark eyes blown from something other than desire to be fucked. He would look so good angry, like before the first time Ilya had his ass, shoving at him in the staircase, why the fuck would you sext me before the game?

And with Ilya’s cock in to the hilt Hollander tells him, “Deeper, fuck, deeper, please, come on, come on—” reaching between his legs to tug on his own dick where Ilya has left him hanging. Ilya smothers his grin against Hollander’s neck, bites the skin there and holds it between his teeth as he sharpens the hold he has on Hollander’s hips. Listens to Hollander’s breath hitch, the moan turning into a shallow whimper, a, “Rozanov, that’s—fuck, fuck, that’s, my neck—” shaking underneath Hollander. Ilya lightens his bite, licks over the red crescents and watches the dents slowly rise, flattening out again.

Hollander squirms in his grip, tries to move the arm Rozanov secured behind his back, sobbing as he says, “I’m going to come—”

Ilya flinches, then slaps Hollander’s hand off his cock; Hollander lets him, perhaps because he thinks Ilya is going to help him finish. He looks nearly relieved when their eyes meet over Hollander’s shoulder, and then Ilya pushes him down hard. Like this, Hollander’s cock is pinned between his stomach and bed, and Ilya pulls out, pushes Hollander’s hand away when he tries to grab his own cock, brows furrowed cutely, confusion so stark in his eyes it might as well pour out of them.

“Open your mouth,” Ilya says as he pulls out and shuffles up the length of Hollander’s body until he can grab his hair and turn his face toward Ilya’s cock.

Hollander parts his lips, eyes on the blurry movement of Ilya’s hand moving over his dick. He even sticks his fucking tongue out, and that’s—it’s so fucking slutty, Ilya thinks, so insanely hot. How he doesn’t complain, just does. Ilya comes in streaks over Hollander’s cheek and the bridge of his nose and his tongue and then he shoves his thumb in Hollander’s mouth, rubs the pad of it over the length of Hollander’s tongue so he has to taste him. Hollander’s throat bobs and he peers up at Ilya, eyes red-rimmed.

“I wanna come,” he says, tilting his hips up so that Ilya can feel Hollander’s hard cock rub against the back of his thigh.

“After,” Ilya tells him, and Hollander stares back at him, mouth open still.

“What? No, I’m—Rozanov, get me off, what the fuck?” He’s pushing himself up on his elbows and Ilya shoves him in turn. Hollander’s forehead wrinkles. He licks his top lip. “What do you mean after?”

“After,” Ilya repeats. “I won our game tonight, so time for my prize, remember? Or did I fuck you so hard you forgot?” He pats Hollander’s waist, smiling. “On your stomach.”

And Hollander, who is hard and indignant but needy all the same, moves onto his stomach again, upper body resting on his forearms. He is breathing so loudly that Ilya can hear him. He kisses Hollander’s ear, rubs his fingers over the spot on Hollander’s neck where he’d bit him. The only thing remaining of his bite are dark pink lines.

That’s fine; Ilya has other, sharper teeth.

“Don’t move,” he tells Hollander while pulling the condom off, tying it neatly, and tossing it into the garbage can by the bed. Nice of Hollander to keep it there. Always the chistyulya. He stuffs his softening cock back into his underwear but doesn’t bother zipping back up, instead walks into the bathroom and takes his sweet time washing his hands, twice over. There’s not a noise from the bedroom in his absence.

On his way back he grabs the alcohol and the flat piercing. The gloves, the needle. When he crawls back onto the mattress, he sits down on Hollander’s back. Curls his left forefinger and drags it up, up, between Hollander’s shoulder blades, until he can tap it against his nape. He cleans the skin and marks two purple spots vertically and a line connecting them, following Hollander’s spine.

“It will be so pretty,” Ilya promises. Hums. “Might hurt.”

Hollander sucks in a breath. Ilya watches his shoulderblades shift. He rests his forehead on the back of his hands, eyes down. It is the only downside, Ilya thinks. That he won’t see Hollander’s face when he pierces him. He does everything slower than he needs to, and when Hollander’s hips lift a bit off the bed and grind back down, trying to get some relief for his cock, Ilya flicks Hollander’s arm. Hollander lowers his hips and does not buck them up again.

Putting his gloves on, he makes sure to snap them against his wrists, if only because the sound makes Hollander jolt. Trying to figure out how far from the point of the needle he is, perhaps.

Ilya pulls the needle out of its plastic bag.

It’s much thicker than the embroidery needle Ilya remembers putting to his body as a kid. Not heavy, but a weight in the room. An extension of himself as much as his fingers, which he uses to pinch the skin on Hollander’s neck. Hollander’s breathing quiets, body tense.

“Breathe out, Hollander,” Ilya murmurs, and when Hollander sighs, he tells him, “Yes, very good,” because he has earned it.

“Remember? I said you have freckles here,” he continues, “so many of them, very pretty, I think”— the round marks lined up between his fingers, the needle kissing the one closest to Ilya, Hollander’s dark-red flush, his quiet, steady breathing—“two more is perfect”—Ilya’s thumb urging the needle through the flesh, buttery smooth, Hollander’s hitched gasp, his arms twitching, the gleam of the needle’s fine point emerging.

Ilya leans back for a moment without letting go of Hollander’s neck. From this angle, the needle looks particularly long and intrusive. He kisses Hollander’s shoulder, then grabs the tongs. There’s not much blood. A dot or two of red. But Hollander’s neck is flushing red like when Ilya fucks him, and Ilya imagines it must be hot to the touch. Feverish. He could put his tongue to it. Could taste the swelling, the pervasive, pink blush. The sweat. Pry himself into Hollander in a new, strange fashion. It would be terrible; Hollander might never let him do this again. But the thought of it makes Ilya’s stomach coil. It makes him hard.

Hollander mumbles something into his hands. His back is broad and muscular, the needle the most delicate thing about him. How it winks near-gold in his moody, yellow lighting, perfectly straight. Ilya remembers some people pin insects for fun. Stretch the wings out, anchor them to a moment in time.

He’s going to remember this sight until the day something finally kills him.

Inserting the jewelry requires him to hold the skin steady, twisting the ball of the piercing onto the jewelry itself, pulling the needle out to finish screwing on the second one. Ilya puts his thumb between the two round ends and feels the metal rod push back. He should fetch the saline.

“Please,” Hollander says, then. His voice is steadier now as he tries lifting his hips again. Ilya’s eyes go down to where Hollander has twisted his waist just enough to show off his hard cock. “Rozanov, please.” As if he isn’t already the most perfect thing on earth.

So Ilya shuffles backward, allowing Hollander some space to push himself up on his forearms. He leaves his glove on when he reaches down to jerk Hollander off, does it hard and fast, covers the entire length of his cock and presses his thumb against his slit and Hollander’s hips jump, ass muscles clenching as he chases his orgasm into Rozanov’s fist. Ilya smells latex and sweat: gloves, used condom, Hollander’s warm body. After waiting for so long, the friction on his cock can’t be anything but too much-too good, balanced out by the drag of the stiff, dry gloves. Even the sound is stuffy until Hollander’s precome has slicked the glove enough to smooth each pump of Ilya’s hand on his cock. Crinkling, Hollander’s groans, his hitched, pleased whine as his orgasm builds again. And this time, Ilya will let him have it.

When Hollander comes—loudly, groaning into the crook of his arm—his white come is stark against the black gloves.

Ilya fumbles to get his own cock out, rips his right glove off with his teeth, holds it in his mouth, and uses the same hand to bring himself to completion one more time that night, eyes caught on the hook of Hollander’s new, shiny piercing. He pushes Hollander onto his back so he can shoot right over his cock. He rips the left glove off, too, drops them both right on the mattress and pretends he doesn’t see Hollander wince. Hollander’s thighs are spread wide to accommodate him, and Ilya rubs the inside of his thigh with his bare hand until Hollander’s eyes start to focus.

He pulls his legs up, arms resting on his elbows, realizing how out of breath he is, too.

Hollander nudges his cold toes against Ilya’s ass. Ilya looks at him.

“I want to see,” he says, tapping the side of his neck.

There’s one photo. After they’ve showered, Hollander uses his thumbs to push the hair on his nape up as best as he can. It’s not that it would’ve covered the piercing, but Ilya has a feeling he wants to be a participant; he wants to show it off. The photo is cropped right at Hollander’s shoulders, showing nothing of his face. Only his neck and the silver piercing.

Afterward, Hollander stares at it, lips pursed. For the first time, Ilya’s chest shifts with worry. Maybe he fucking hates it.

“You can’t tell it’s me, right?” he asks. He’s got a notch between his brows. Thinking face.

Ilya blinks, peering over Hollander’s shoulder down at the picture on his phone. “No.”

“Okay,” Hollander says. He pauses, still looking at the photo, then turns his chin so he can meet Ilya’s eyes. “You can save the photo. On your phone, I mean. You don’t have to delete it.”

“Oh?” Ilya raises his brows. He presses his tongue against the corner of his mouth. “You are letting me keep it? This photo I took?” He reaches out to snag his phone back, meeting no resistance. With a quick kiss to Hollander’s cheek and one hand stroking his waist, Ilya assures him, “It is my photo, Hollander. If I want it, I keep it. Maybe next time I take it while you are on my cock. Just for me to know.”

They stare at each other. Ilya drums his fingers against Hollander’s stomach. He can see the thoughts moving in Hollander’s head, one hundred of them at the same time. Somewhere in the middle of it, Hollander is surely picturing himself spread open on Ilya’s dick, seeing the flash of the camera more so than hearing the shutter go off. Ilya has taken a lot of photos during sex; most of them he is not sure were ever deleted properly. Maybe one day it will fuck him in the metaphorical sense. He does not want that for Hollander, but the idea is appealing all the same.

Hollander touches his own shoulder, dipping up to the curve of his neck, but he doesn’t touch the piercing. “You have to help me take it out tomorrow before you leave. I couldn’t get it out without you.”

Because he’ll need Ilya’s help. If tomorrow Ilya walked out the door before Hollander even woke up, there’d be nothing he could do about it. He imagines Hollander trying to cover the piercing up with a large bandaid, something opaque. Would it even cover the bumps of the barbell? And if he’s out of bandaids, then he’d be at the mercy of a high collar. Ilya imagines Hollander touching his neck throughout practice, praying no one can see the silver lodged in his skin. He would have to go to a piercer to take it out, because Hollander wouldn’t trust some random person to do it for him. He might even wait until their next game, too paranoid that anyone but Ilya might let their tongue slip and say, you know Shane Hollander’s got a neck piercing? Who would’ve thought.

But he kisses Hollander’s shoulder, pats his ass once, and promises, “Yes. Tomorrow.”

When they go to bed, Hollander is on his side, Ilya behind him. The flesh around the piercing is warm to the touch, like Ilya thought it would be, and while he doesn’t put his teeth to it, he does mouth along the side of Hollander’s throat. Getting as close to the fresh wound as he can before Hollander squirms, skirting his teeth instead to the prominent scar on Hollander’s left shoulder, following the length of it with the tip of his tongue.

In the morning, he fucks Hollander on his stomach, again, sucks him off until he comes into Ilya’s mouth. Works him into pliancy, so that he is soft and relaxed. Ilya puts the gloves on one at a time, stroking his thumb up Hollander’s neck, next to the piercing. Bends down to kiss the shell of his ear. The saline spray is cold; Hollander shivers as it settles on his nape. It beads on the barbell and Hollander’s skin, like mist. There’s something magical about it; he remembers Hollander, years ago, sweaty and red and on the verge of his wanting in that gym after the draft.

Ilya holds one end of the barbell with his thumb and forefinger, repeats the grip on the other side, unscrews the balled end slow and steady. The ball rolls into the center of his palm when he’s done. Pulling on the piercing, Ilya watches the bar move out, out, skin clinging to it. Then it’s out, and Ilya stares at the barbell. All that’s left behind are two divots. He sprays the skin with saline again, chest fluttering at Hollander’s pleased sigh, and then he rubs his thumb over the two holes once, twice. One more time, smooth circles, until Hollander shifts underneath him.

And maybe his face mirrors Hollander’s when they stare at each other, afterward, and there is a sort of bitter downturn to the curves of his mouth, even though his eyes are hazy with content. Working through a loss that’s not really a loss.

“It didn’t hurt that bad,” Hollander tells him.

There’s a bandaid plastered over his neck, if only to ease his paranoia. There is barely a discernable mark left behind by the piercing, but perhaps a few weeks from now Ilya will be able to put his tongue to that scar, too.

“If it had,” Ilya asks, one hand on Hollander’s lip, “would you stop?”

Hollander licks his lips, touches his earlobe. Eyes moving down to Ilya’s mouth, back to his eyes. His shoulders sag a bit.

“No,” he says. “I don’t think so.”

He takes a taxi back to the hotel so early that the sun’s not up yet. Both hands folded on his lap, Ilya rubs each of his knuckles, grinds his thumb into his palm. The window glass is cold against his cheek. Even with the radio on, it’s quiet. As if he has been jerked out of a constant thrum of noise, a boundless buzz-hum-pulse beginning at his mouth, his fingertips, and ending somewhere deep inside of Hollander’s body. Tuned into the same, desperate frequency.

Staring at his phone, he pulls the photo up again. Two perfect titanium marks on Hollander’s neck, an echo of his teeth, an extension of him. He thinks of Hollander’s face, again, that what-have-we-lost and what-have-we-gained coexisting. Wishes Hollander was less expressive.

Text me when you get to the hotel, Hollander sends.

Ilya turns his phone off. Closes his eyes. Sees Hollander behind them, anyway.

Ilya Rozanov is not a desperate man: he’s just fucking greedy. And this is only—is only want. Is simple to categorize. It’s only sex. Hollander offers and Ilya takes. Ilya demands and Hollander gives. And because it’s only sex, when Cliff asks him how Jane was as he stumbles into the hotel room, too loud to be courteous, Ilya says it was good, and gives him no other details, even when Cliff demands them, claiming he’s too secretive. Come on, Roz, we don’t even know what the fuck she looks like, that’s crazy. She’s got you locked down, she does. You don’t keep fucking good when you have models begging for it, that’s just not happening.

Look at you, Roz, you’re obsessed. Can’t you see it? Can’t you fucking see it?

And it’s just sex. That’s why Ilya doesn’t reply to Hollander until he’s already back in Boston: hipbone, next time. my place.