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Ilya doesn't really care for branding.
That's a lie. His brand is not caring about branding. It takes a lot of work to appear as nonchalant as he did and he hoped nobody ever found that out.
Truthfully, Ilya knows a lot more about fashion than most of the North American league. He's from old money Europe, and though he distances himself from it he knows about cuts and stitches. He can tell if a shirt is expensive just by looking at it and knows all the etiquette of buttons and heels and cuff lengths for each occasion.
He breaks these rules, of course, because he's Ilya Rosanov, but he knows them and he knows what fashion brands were worth being associated with.
Gucci has gone downhill in recent years, losing some of its oppulence, but the quality is still there in certain pieces. He agreed to a magazine cover because he's been eyeing the new Ducati and it won't buy itself.
The set is familiar enough. Too many people, lights bright enough to sweat under. He's given half a thought of dignity and a denim outfit to put on before hair and makeup. Ilya's stripped in front of dozens of hockey players and dozens more women so he's not shy to drop his pants.
The jeans are snug, made for a model, not the glutes of a hockey player but they go on and the stretch across his crotch is just this side of obscene. He's told the shirt won't be buttoned and as he shrugged it on he's hit with a wave of nostalgia that promptly slams him into jagged rocks.
Hollander
The shirt smelled like Hollander.
Not Hollander's cologne (he doesn't wear any) or his detergent or his shampoo, any of which another person could buy. It smelled like Hollander, a perfect mix of everything that feels like a hug Ilya's not felt in six months.
He nearly cried.
The shoot is over quickly. Ilya's good at posing on a regular day but today he has the moody smolder down. The camera eats it up.
"Thanks, Ilya! We've got what we need, amazing work."
Ilya tuned out whatever other mindless praise is sent his way and stalked over to someone that looked like they had authority.
"Hi. How much for the outfit?"
"Oh, hello," the woman said, lips pursed at the audacity he had to speak to her before being spoken to. "You like the clothes? They'll be in the Spring collection."
"No, not like this. This." Ilya gestured down his body. "I want to take these home. How much?"
"Well, we can't just-"
"I will not wear outside until collection drops," Ilya added, knowing they were fussy about that sort of thing. "How much?"
"I'm not sure. "The shirt is perhaps a thousand retail..."
"I will pay double." So much for his new bike.
He got a tight smile. "Let me see what I can do."
Ilya took the shirt off the second he was home and pressed the collar to his nose.
Fuck. Even Hollander's sweat smelled good.
How long had they had him in it? Was he nervous? Awkward? Did it take a whole day of shooting to get useable footage. Fuck, he hoped so. He hoped the collar was itchy and the lights were too bright and Shane Hollander got infused in the very fibers.
The pants too, Ilya realised, could have been worn by Hollander in the same set he was dolled up in himself. He shucked them off like they were Walmart not Gucci and buried his nose in the crotch.
Yes. These were Shane Hollander too. Fucking jackpot.
Ilya felt no shame at all, lying on the floor or his entranceway, smothering himself with designer denim. The high he got from it was simply too good.
He quit Shane Hollander nine months ago, or rather, Shane Hollander quit him and Ilya had been in withdrawal ever since. A little longer and he might have stopped hallucinating a spatter of freckles and heady brown eyes but not now. Now Ilya had a fresh hit and his addiction was back in full force.
He should text him.
He should text Hollander and tell him he could smell his junk on a pair of jeans he'd worn once a month ago.
Hollander would hate it. He'd hate that the clothes hadn't been washed and he'd hate that Ilya texted him.
Ilya did it anyway.
He sends a picture of his body, face just out of frame, dressed like for his cover picture -shirt open, abs tensed. The lighting he gets is not bad either and Ilya makes sure the horse bit details of the jeans are clearly visible so Shane knows just what he's wearing.
Your mama works hard, getting you modelling Gucci so far before the collection drops
Where the fuck did you find that?
Ilya wriggled around in his bed in delight. He'd made Hollander mad.
Bought it
It's not for sale
It is if you know how to negotiate
Big word for Ilya. He had to look up how to spell it but he was proud to get it in context. Negotiate. Maybe he could negotiate his cock back into Hollander's ass.
You bribed someone
Wait how do you know I shot a magazine cover? That's supposed to be confidential.
Ilya could practically see him pacing. It was glorious.
Rosanov
Ilya tied the $1000 jeans around his head. The musky smell, already faint, was fading. He was going to need a new hit.
Has it leaked?
I can't see anything online
I can smell you on them, Ilya finally messaged.
All day Hollander
I have been wearing your skin
That might have been too much. However, knowing Hollander, it probably wasn't. In his delightful but tragically short-lived explorations of the man, nothing was too much. Everything turned him on. Shane Hollander was a natural freak through and through and Ilya was an idiot for letting him walk away.
Are you hard?
Fuck off Rosanov
So yes
I'm not doing this again
Oh he absolutely was. He was texting Ilya again, turned on with so little input, his needy Shane Hollander.
Ilya scrambled to pull up the league schedule, scanning through for any Montreal away game. They wouldn't play each other for another two weeks but... Ilya was in New York on Tuesday. Shane had a game there on Wednesday.
When do you fly in to NY?
No
Yes. Tell me when you fly in or I will get this information from someone else
Shane took a while to answer and Ilya saw the three typing dots disappear and reappear.
Tuesday. Late.
We'll be opposite ends of the city
I'll come to you
Ilya won his game on Tuesday and he went out with his team to celebrate, to pass the time. He has on the jeans that he's not supposed to have and even the thought that Hollander had been the last one to wear them has Ilya acting like he's had far more shots than he has. Any other day he'd go to a club and find a woman to distract him but the thought of someone else touching the jeans makes him want to bear his teeth. Maybe drinking wasn't the best idea.
Hollander took forever to get to his hotel so Ilya was practically sober by the time he finally knocked on the door of the room Ilya booked down the street.
Hollander moved quickly as soon as Ilya got the door open and llya got a fresh waft of him. Hollander... Fuck, he's addicting.
Ilya was on his knees, pulling down Hollander's zipper with his teeth before he could even process the decision. He pressed his open mouth over the cotton of Hollander's boxers and felt him chub up at the contact. It was bliss but Ilya was getting ahead of himself so he got to his feet again, kissing up Hollander's stomach until his t-shirt got too much in the way, and then skipping to his mouth.
Fuck, his mouth.
Ilya should have started there. He wanted to eat him, to suck his soul up his throat and consume him completely. He wanted to turn Hollander into a whining puddle of desperation.
Ilya moved to his pulsepoint and Hollander simultaneously arched into him and bared his neck.
"Fuck, Rosanov," he gasped as Ilya sunk his teeth into his tender flesh. "Shit, hold on."
Hollander got Ilya's shirt off then his own. He kicked off his own jeans, already sagging from the open zipper and reached Ilya's. Ilya saw the moment he recognised the detailing.
"Fuck, are these...? Holy shit, Rosanov."
Ilya grinned.
"Too tight," he excused his lack of underwear. "Did not fit."
Suddenly Shane's mouth was on his dick like it was magnetised.
The spike of pleasure was so good Ilya didn't know what to do with his hands. He always knew what to do with his hands, how to keep his partner pliant and begging. Now, Ilya could only lean back against the wall and try not to shoot off too early.
"Hollander, Hollander." He hauled Shane to his feet and the man's eyes were already glazing over. "Fuck, Hollander. Don't look at me like that."
He'd been punishing himself when he pushed Hollander away and stopped answering his texts. No Olympic medal, no Olympic medalist. That's what he deserved for being shit at the one thing he was supposed to be good at.
By the time he won the Cup and had a modicum of self-respect he'd not spoken to Hollander in five months and his advances at the MHL awards had been rightfully rejected.
Ilya's summer was even shittier than usual, sex with strangers not even working as the distraction it normally was. He was going to reset in Boston. Play hard, work hard, buy a new bike and focus on things he could control.
And then they'd dressed him in a shirt that smelled like Shane Hollander.
"You're not prepped, are you?"
It would be insane to ask that of him when they'd not even spoken all year.
Hollander nodded, his head dropping just a fraction like he was fighting sleep.
Ilya cupped his cheek, an emotion so strong rising up his throat it felt like he'd throw up.
"Yes? You did, Hollander? Tell me."
"I did."
Ilya slammed their mouths together, using all his experience to get Hollander gasping and moaning.
"Fuck, Hollander. You are too good for me, Ilya panted with their foreheads pressed together, still breathing him in. "I'll make it worth it, hm? Make you come twice."
Ilya hadn't even caught his breath after they were (probably) done and Hollander was interagating him.
"How was Russia?"
Ilya was wrung dry, physically and emotionally, and he didn't have it in him to deflect any more.
"Worse than usual."
"Because of the Olympics?"
"Because I captained an absolute shitshow at the Olympics on home ground and then turned around and captained a win of the 'American' series a few months later."
"Shit," Hollander said appraisingly. "I hadn't thought about it like that... That proves what happened at the Olympics wasn't your fault though. I mean- I saw the game. It wasn't your fault anyway."
If only Shane Hollander's opinion held as much weight in Russia as it did in Ilya's heart.
"My father did not agree. If I had not betrayed my country for a paycheck I could have been at home before the games and taken the same shit as the rest of them and done even longer shifts."
"Take..." Hollander's brow furrowed. "Drugs?"
Ilya rolled his eyes. "Yes."
"You didn't-"
"I am not fucking stupid, Hollander. I did not."
"But they wanted you to. You're teammates did."
"You tell no-one," Ilya warned him in a low hiss. Hollander could keep a secret, even if it was hockey.
Hollander shook his head but Ilya knew it was agreement. He was just trying to reorder his shiny little worldview.
"Shit, Rosanov. I was worried enough because you were a gay."
"Bisexual."
Hollander shot him a disapproving glare. "Oh, because they'll let you go if you put your dick in enough vaginas between buttsex?"
Ilya couldn't help but smile. "Maybe. How many do you think is a good number?"
"For you?" Hollander looked scandalised, but that was easy to achieve.
"For you. You date girls, yes?"
"Uhh." Hollander did that fast blinking thing he did when he was trying to lie. "Yeah. Sometimes."
No. That meant the answer was no. And as far as Ilya could see he wasn't bringing any new tricks to the 'buttsex' either, just beautifully copying what Ilya had taught him.
Fuck. Was he Hollander's only lay?
"So, men?"
Hollander recoiled from that option.
"No! No. How could I even-? I'd be recognised."
And he could have been recognised tonight walking into the same hotel as Ilya Rosanov, his long-standing rival that he's not even playing.
"So, just me."
"I said girls!"
"And you are terrible liar, I have known this a long time," Ilya replied, crawling to straddle him. "It is just me."
Hollander sucked his teeth like he was thinking of socking Ilya in the jaw.
"I have left you with no-one," Ilya continued in a whisper, leaning closer until he was nibbling at Hollander's jaw. "For months. You have been starving."
Hollander bucked his hips and it wasn't clear if it was an attempt to dislodge Ilya from his perch or encourage him.
"Do we need to meet more, Hollander? Do I need to come find you even when we're not playing?"
Ilya tilted his chin and showed Hollander just the sort of thing that he might be missing. Hollander chased him with hooded eyes as he pulled away.
Ilya withheld his kisses.
"Would you do it? Would you meet me in Buffalo if you were playing Toronto?"
Hollander blinked back into himself and scowled. "Would you text me back in the off-season?"
Oh. Angry Kitten. Yes, Ilya hadn't fully redeemed himself yet.
"What do you want texts about? Something to get off to?"
"When I ask if you're ok, fucking reply and tell me if you're ok!"
Shit.
"We are not a couple, Hollander. I do not need to text you when I feeling sad."
That was the wrong answer.
"And I don't need to drive to Buffalo. I don't need any of this shit at all."
And then Hollander really was bucking him off, because he was plenty strong enough to do that, and reaching for his clothes.
He'd do it, Ilya realised. He'd walk away and be fucking celibate if he had to to keep playing hockey. Hockey came first and Ilya's only privilege was that he was part of that world.
"Wait."
"I have been," Hollander snapped, standing straight with his socks balled in his fist. "But you don't even say 'hey, my private life is hell right now, I need a break until the season starts up'. You ghost me! You could have fucking died and I wouldn't know until your first game."
"I nearly did!" Ilya yelled back. "Is this what you want to know? Ok, Hollander. Today I was attacked on the street by four men because I won the Cup but not the Olympics and they hit me until I was unconscious. I did not wake up until after dark and then when I got home my father hit me for missing dinner and then again for not even winning fight. How is Canada? That is a nice text for you?"
"Did you go to the hospital?"
God, he was impossible to make understand.
"No!"
Hollander frowned. "You might have had concussion."
"I did have concussion!" Ilya let his head drop back against the headboard, the fight gone from him. "Just go."
Hollander was normally so good at following his instructions but now he didn't. He bent down to tuck his socks into the shoes he hadn't put on yet and then pulled out his phone.
"The 21st."
"What?"
"The 21st. We play Boston away." Hollander risked a second of eye contact and then just stared at Ilya's lips the way he always did when he had something to say. "If you want to meet after the game, book a room and text me."
His speech delivered, Hollander nodded and set about putting his socks and shoes on again.
He was a delight to watch and Ilya almost missed him leaving, so caught up in the details. It was only when Hollander's knee cracked that Ilya was pulled from his revere.
"No, off."
"Off?" Hollander huffed. "We're not going again, I have a game tomorrow."
"Not that. I have idea. Shoes off. Jeans off."
"Rosanov."
Or Ilya could strip him himself. He was good at that too.
Hollander didn't put up much resistance until Ilya retrieved his own jeans from the floor and held the legs straight for Hollander to step into.
"Those are yours."
"Ours," Ilya replied, his forearm spread along the back of hollander's thigh under the guise of steadying him.
"Yours. Where did you even buy them?"
"From the shoot. I washed them so they don't smell like us anymore but-"
"Like us? Rosanov, are these the same fucking jeans."
"Yes?" Why else would Ilya buy random editorial outfits? "I want to see you in them before the rest of the world. Please."
Hollander sighed but stepped forward and let Ilya dress him. Like for Ilya, it's a tight fit over his ass and thighs but on Hollander it looks criminal.
"I'm not going to be able to sit down," Hollander complained.
"You are allergic to pants that fit you," Ilya replied before kissing him, hands groping Hollander's ass. "This is the right size. Wear them back to your hotel and then wear them when you come in Boston."
Hollander smiled into the kiss. "That wasn't bad grammar, was it?"
Why did Ilya put him in jeans? His ass isn't nearly as malleable.
"No. My English is perfect," Ilya lied smoothly. "I have been reading New Yorker."
"The New Yorker. My dad loves it."
The little squirrel in Ilya's brain stole that fact and rushed to bury it with all the other morsels of Shane Hollander he'd collected over the years. It was information Ilya never got to use and maybe one day it would go bad and rot his brain from the inside.
"Ah. This is where you get your boring from. From your father. It is... genetic."
If only something so endearing really was written in DNA and not the clawing sadness Ilya shared with his mother.
"Wow. Genetic." Hollander smiled so beautifully, like Ilya had hung him the stars and not forced him into his clothes and groped him.
Ilya shrugged. "I told you. Perfect English."
He leaned in a little and let Hollander close the gap for a kiss that was far too sweet for the animalistic hookup this was supposed to be.
"I need to go," Hollander said eventually. "Are you going to text me?"
"I will try."
"Rosanov..."
"Ok, I will text you. All the mistakes you make in game tomorrow and pictures of me in your jeans." He pulled a face. "They will be so saggy."
"You'll survive, pervert. I see now this was not about getting me into designer clothes, it was about stealing my jeans and wearing them without any underwear."
Ilya grinned. "It can be both."
"I want them back. Laundered. Ironed."
"No. Incinerated. Now I know we wear the same size I can buy you better clothes."
Hollander glared so hard Ilya was pretty sure he was trying to blow him up with his mind.
"Ok, ok. I will wash them," he relented. "Bio or non-bio?"
"Non-bio," Hollander mumbled, distractedly running his finger along Ilya's hipbone. "Bio is itchy."
"Non-bio," Ilya confirmed, though he'd have to go out and buy some. He appeased Hollander with another kiss. "Ironed. Hand-delivered on the 21st in Boston. Ok?"
"Ok," Hollander echoed. "Uh. Good night."
"Good night," Ilya replied and kissed him one last time before letting Hollander pull away. "See you in Boston."
Hollander nodded and hurriedly put on his shoes, giving Ilya one last smile before he was out of the door.
Ilya gave himself a minute to bask in it before putting on his shirt and Hollander's disgusting saggy pants and opening the window for a smoke. Except...
You've got my fucking lighter
Smoking is bad for you, Lily
You'll get it back in Boston
Or maybe not
It was a nice lighter, refillable with a flame that burned like a jet engine for no reasonable purpose. Ilya liked that it lit cigarettes even in the wind and Boston was often windy. But he could use other lighters, buy some cheap bic shit, until he got it back from Hollander.
Or maybe he could wait. He was already living with one craving, what was one more.