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Ilya Rozanov loves his best friend. Svetlana is the one person he knows is always on his side, no matter what. That’s not to say that she ever lets him get away with any of his shit. She’ll call him out and put him in his place, but in front of other people, she will stand by him no matter what. She’s seen him at his worst, or at least the worst he’s ever dared himself to be around other people. He knows how much she loves him, that she would do anything for him.
But sometimes, she really pushes his buttons. He’s not sure if she knows about Shane, but she sure acts like she does sometimes. She asks Ilya about him more than any other player in the league, and always looks at him like she’s waiting for him to bite onto her bait. But he also knows that if Svetlana truly suspected something was going on with him and Shane, she’d just come right out and ask.
He’s not sure if she meant to cause Ilya any stress when she asked, rhetorically it seems, what Rose Landry’s wardrobe would look like at the All Star Game. And it isn’t like he’s harboring any delusions that anything will happen between him and Hollander during the weekend. Shane’s made it painfully clear that whatever they were, whatever they had, is over. He still would prefer it if he didn’t have to see them again in person. It had been torture seeing them grinding at each other at that club, he’s not sure how he’ll handle a whole weekend with them even peripherally.
So when Shane approached him at the bar, looking like an entirely different person with his fancy clothes and his newly developed swagger, Ilya was of course annoyed. And surprised. Ilya hadn’t spoken to him since Boston, had made sure not to touch him during their following matches any more than playing the game necessitated. He pushed away immediately after checks, kept his head down during face offs. He assumed this was what Hollander wanted, and he wasn’t sure he could handle hearing him say that, so he just did it. He kept away.
But there he was, climbing onto the seat right next to Ilya despite the almost empty bar. The other players mingled somewhere around them, Ilya knew, but the stools that lined the bar had been empty. And yet Hollander sat there, so close Ilya could smell his new cologne that his girlfriend or fiancée or whatever Hollander called her had probably bought for him.
Despite himself, he couldn’t last a minute sitting so near Shane without letting his curiosity get the better of him. And so here he is, asking, and holding his breath. Because maybe it would be easier if he just knew for sure. He’d never fool himself into believing he’d ever be over Shane Hollander, but maybe hearing it straight from his beautiful mouth that he was in love with someone else would make the ache bearable. Because then there would be an actual reason for them to be over.
Hollander seems hellbent on keeping Ilya in misery, though, and just keeps being so vague about it. He says he and Rose are not compatible, and although Ilya thinks he knows what that means, he can’t be a hundred percent sure. He’s just decided to google the damn word later when Shane excuses himself, and…
Ilya is so taken aback by the way Shane turns towards him, slipping off his seat and squeezing between the stool and Ilya, that he freezes. He can’t help the way his gaze wanders down the length of Shane’s body, can’t help but inhale deeply so that he smells the familiar scent of Shane’s shampoo just lingering underneath the cologne. He clasps his hands over his bottle, then clamps one down over his mouth as he watches Shane walk away.
Don’t do it, Ilya, he thinks, even as he’s getting up out of his own seat and following Shane.
He reaches Shane in five strides, grabs the back of his jacket and steers him to a secluded corner just behind the bar.
“Are you still with Rose fucking Landry?”
He can’t be any clearer than that. Shane looks surprised to be accosted like that, so Ilya steps back a little to give him more space.
“No, I’m not. I just told you, we’re not–“
“Compatible, yes. How the fuck am I supposed to know what that means?”
Shane blinks, and then his gaze falls down to Ilya’s mouth, which is sneering in annoyance. Ilya pushes off before he does anything stupid like kiss him right there for all of Florida to see. He runs his hand through his hair as he heads for the elevator, jabbing the button with more force than necessary.
“It means we’re not suited for each other.”
Ilya turns slowly, trying not to show how surprised he is that Shane followed him.
“She’s not what I want. She’s not…who I want.”
The doors open and three people step out, but neither Ilya nor Shane take their eyes off each other. They step inside the elevator wordlessly, and when Ilya presses the button to his floor, Shane just stares at him.
“What floor?” Ilya asks, though his heart is starting to hope.
Shane makes a show of looking at the button Ilya pressed.
“12.”
Ilya shoves his hands in his pockets. He’s unable to keep his eyes off of Shane’s face, but he’s determined to keep his hands to himself. At least until they were safely inside his room.
When the doors open, it’s Shane who steps out first, looking around to make sure the coast was clear before gesturing for Ilya to lead the way.
“Who the fuck are you?” Ilya asks, unable to hide the amazement in his voice. “Your stylist get you confidence with those new clothes?”
Shane shakes his head, smiling. “Just someone who finally knows what he wants. And I’m determined to get it.”
Ilya walks faster.
As soon as they’re inside his room, Ilya shoves Shane against the door, grabbing his jaw and kissing him. If he’s a bit rougher than usual, Shane doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, Shane moans against his mouth, grabbing Ilya’s hips and pulling them flush against each other. Shane grinds his hips, letting Ilya know how hard he already is. And thank god for that, because Ilya has been fighting for his life since Shane got off that barstool.
Shane fumbles with his buttons, then shoves his hand down Ilya’s boxer briefs to wrap those long fingers around his cock. Ilya bites down on Shane’s lip, groaning. He licks into Shane’s mouth as Shane starts to stroke him, and he’s about to get down on his knees when Shane beats him to it. His knees have barely touched the floor before he’s pulling Ilya inside his mouth, moaning around him in pleasure like he’s been dying for this.
Ilya has to brace himself against the door as he looks down at Shane, still fully dressed in his linen suit, head bobbing up and down. He almost loses it when Shane looks up at him with those Bambi eyes of his, pupils blown wide with want, and this is not happening. He’s not going to blow his load before he’s had Shane back.
He snakes his hand through Shane’s hair, grips tightly, and pulls his cock out of that perfect mouth. Shane makes a protesting noise, but Ilya just grabs him by his arms and yanks him to his feet, dragging Shane towards the bed.
“I’m not going to fucking come on this hotel floor, I want to come inside you.”
“My throat is inside me,” Shane answers, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and Ilya stumbles on his feet. They’d never done that before, Ilya always pulling Shane off, or warning him, whenever he was close.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says roughly. “I’m here. You got me. I’m easy as fuck.”
“That’s not why…I want you to…”
Ilya waits for Shane to stumble into whatever sentence he wants, but when he can’t seem to find his way, Ilya just starts undressing him. He’s just tossed off Shane’s jacket when Shane finally says,
“Let me taste you.”
And Ilya’s knees give out. He makes it seem like he meant to sit down on the bed to be eye level with Shane’s belt as he fumbles with it.
“Hollander…”
Shane covers Ilya’s hand with his own over his belt, tips Ilya’s chin up so he can look him in the eye.
“Shane,” he says firmly. “Call me Shane.”
And Ilya doesn’t know why that simple command makes his chest ache in the best possible way. He lets Shane pull him up from the bed, then watches as Shane gets back onto his knees, still wearing his black shirt, still in his trousers, belt just unbuckled. Shane holds his gaze, looking up at Ilya with those yearning eyes that always makes Ilya fold to whatever he wants.
“Fuck my mouth, Ilya. Come down my throat. Please.”
Ilya swallows thickly, ignoring the way his cock twitches at the sight of Shane on his knees, or maybe at the sound of his words.
“We’ve got all weekend, you can fuck me all you want.”
Well. When he puts it that way.
Ilya bites his lip and all but growls as he cups the back of Shane’s head and holds his cock with his other hand. Shane’s mouth opens automatically, his eyes closing as soon as Ilya moves closer. He traces Shane’s mouth with the head of his cock, licking his own lips as his precome glazes Shane’s lips. Shane sighs when Ilya finally guides his cock into that warm, wet mouth.
He lets Shane suck on the head for a bit, his toes curling at every satisfied moan that escapes Shane’s throat. Shane slides a hand up ilya’s calf, over the side of his knee, and finally settles on Ilya’s thigh, his long fingers digging into the inside of it. Ilya pulls his cock out again, holds it in front of Shane, who darts his tongue out and licks under the ridge of its head. Shane opens his eyes and looks up at him again, mouthing at the swollen head. When he squeezes Ilya’s thigh, Ilya nods and pushes his cock into his mouth again.
He pushes all the way in this time, stopping only when he feels the back of Shane’s throat. It’s hot, and tight, and when Shane hollows his cheeks, flat of his tongue pressing against the underside of Ilya’s cock, Ilya’s control slips. He lets go of his cock to hold Shane’s head with both hands, then moves his hips slowly, breathing through his mouth as he fights to make this last as long as he can.
“Da, like that, Hollander.”
Shane’s brow furrows into a scowl, and Ilya smiles.
“Shane,” he says, softly, as if testing out the name. As if it isn’t the name he’s been defaulting to in his head for months now. Shane seems to melt then, his shoulders dropping, his throat relaxing until Ilya can push more of himself into his mouth. His hips move faster, thrusting into Shane’s mouth again and again until he can see the bulge on his neck. Shane’s eyes start to water as he gags, and Ilya pulls out, letting Shane catch his breath. Shane takes one, two, three breaths, then surges forward again.
“Ah…Fuck, Shane,” Ilya mutters through gritted teeth, fingers fisting in Shane’s hair as he looks past his own cock to where Shane is rubbing himself over his trousers with his free hand. “You really love this. You like my cock in your mouth this much?”
Shane moans in answer, closing his eyes again in pleasure. How is it possible that Ilya is falling in love with this man even more?
The room is then filled with the wet glugglugglug from Shane’s throat as Ilya fucks into his mouth. Shane tries to swallow around him and Ilya lets out a string of swear words in Russian that he can’t even remember after they’ve left his mouth. Shane trails his fingers up the inside of Ilya’s thigh then, pressing down at the flesh just under his balls, and Ilya is done for. He pushes in as much as Shane can take, his hips shuddering to a stop as he holds Shane’s head steady, and he spills and spills into him. Shane takes it all, swallowing again and making Ilya’s knees weak, his vision blurring.
“Fuck, Shane…Shane…I…” He clamps his teeth onto his lip to keep from saying it out loud.
I fucking love you.
When his eyes can finally focus again, he looks down at Shane. Shane, with his whole face flushed, eyes heavy-lidded and teary, watches him adoringly. It’s the only word Ilya can think of.
“That was…fucking hell.”
He pulls out and wipes Shane’s lips with his thumb, and he finally notices that Shane had somehow freed himself from his trousers and had apparently been stroking himself while Ilya fucked his mouth. His black shirt is now streaked white with his own come.
“Oh, baby,” Ilya murmurs, dropping to his knees and kissing Shane hungrily. Shane slumps forward, letting Ilya hold him up as they kiss.
“You okay?” He asks when they pull apart, massaging Shane’s jaw.
“I’m fucking perfect,” Shane says breathily, smiling weakly as he rests his head on Ilya’s shoulder, pressing his face against Ilya’s neck.