Chapter Text
Ilya’s never liked cardio. Never. He’d rather spend this time lifting.
But. It’s good for stamina, supposedly, the biking and the swimming, so he persists. Anything to keep everything strong. Low impact cardio is all he can really do now, because of the knee, and Ilya would do anything to not go back to that, anything not to go back to that pain. Those sickening moments when the stupid thing would just give way, no warning.
Just weakness.
So he finishes his work out here, ear buds in, on the bike. Fifteen minutes of staring at himself in the mirror. Fifteen minutes of sweaty misery.
But then he can walk it off. Stretch. Shower. Go home.
Ilya likes the bike on the end, closest to the wall; it’s his one. It halves the chance of anyone coming and sitting next to him. It usually works.
Not today.
Some dark haired kid takes the bike right next to him. Ilya eyes the three empty seats on the other side of the kid.
He wonders vaguely, if the kid is the kind who would stand next to you to piss, even if there were three empty urinals. Probably would. Probably the kind to park right next to you in an empty lot, too.
The kid grins at him, in the mirrors, leaning forward and setting the bike up…he matches Ilya’s pace, grinning a challenge, all teeth. Ilya ups the resistance, and he can’t hear, but he knows the kid is laughing as he reaches for the bike controls and matches him again. He looks happy in the mirror, a little wild, the antithesis of Ilya’s golden curls and pale skin and serious frown.
Ilya watches him in their reflection, can’t look away. The kid may be smaller than Ilya, but he’s no less powerful for it, his muscles bunching and shifting, sweat gathering on his forehead, darkening the material of his shirt, making it cling.
The kid grins at him, or maybe it’s a grimace too, a bearing of teeth as he pushes himself, a wiry, quick strength that Ilya respects.
But he’s not going to lose, not today, and he kicks the resistance up again, pushing for speed. The kid starts shaking his head when he sees it. He matches Ilya again, but his whole body is moving now as he pedals, a desperate sway as he tries to maintain their pace, his ass fully off the seat as he leans all his weight forward onto the handles.
The dark haired kid finally caves. Shutting the bike off, he sits up, beautiful as he pulls up his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face, a flash of toned abs that Ilya eats up for the moment they’re exposed. He’s so flush with exertion, but looks so happy about it too. Ilya lets himself come down slow, real slow, so he can watch as the kid wobbles off his bike and goes for his water bottle.
Head tilted back he stands right in front of Ilya’s bike, squirting water into his open mouth. It’s a little obscene, his clothes sticking to him where the patches of sweat are dark. The tiny shorts. Back arched and mouth wide, the flushed and glistening skin of his throat working as he swallows.
And then the kid finally looks over at him and says something. Ilya doesn’t hear, and he gives in and pulls out an earbud, nodding, raising his eyebrows in question.
The kid is still short of breath, shoulders lifting and chest expanding as he’s still settling, “Oh. Hi. I was just saying hi. My names Shane.”
Ilya would definitely remember this kid, so either they’ve never been here at the same time before, or the kid is new. He nods, legs still moving, but really gently now, slow, cooling down, “Ilya.”
“Yeah, I’m, kind of new, you know, this a good gym? Looking to join one, just trying out places.”
Ilya shrugs, “sure, it okay.”
“Huh, Russian right? Ilya is a cool name,” the kid, Shane, grins at him. Big and keen, like a happy puppy.
Ilya’s accent never seems to change, no matter how long he lives here, “yes. Okay. Thanks.”
And then the kid checks him out. Gives him a very blatant once over, lifting his water bottle up to have another drink as his eyes go hooded and slide down Ilya’s body. Isn’t even a little subtle about it, and Ilya lets himself sit up straighter in response, feeling his clothes pull where they’re stuck to his sweaty skin, he draws his shoulders back, opening up his chest.
Being checked out doesn’t bother him, not like it used to. It’s not the sort of thing Ilya would do in public himself, at least, not quite so blatant. Not where someone might walk past at any time. Some habits are impossible to break.
“Maybe you could show me around the showers?”
“Maybe,” Ilya agrees, finally letting his legs slow to a stop. The changing rooms would provide a tiny modicum of privacy, at least.
The kid, Shane, is shorter than Ilya by a full head, and despite how sturdy he feels under Ilya’s hands, he’s slim. A wiry, delicate strength. Ilya backs him against the wall of the changing cubicle, it rattles the plastic wall a little, making Shane giggle, making Ilya reflexively shush him. The changing room is empty anyway; it’s so late in the day.
Ilya wonders vaguely why Shane is here so late; maybe he has trouble sleeping too. Maybe he has strange shifts, maybe an office job somewhere. Maybe sales, sitting at a desk with a little headset on and flirting with middle aged married ladies to get a sale.
Maybe.
Ilya doesn’t have to be at practice until after lunch tomorrow. He’s not in any rush, but he doesn’t want to get himself banned from this gym for fucking some twink in the changing room. Ilya actually likes this place. So this is dumb. It’s so dumb.
But the Shane kid is so graceful when he breaks their kiss and chooses to sink right to his knees.
It’s been a while; Ilya’s not going to last.
His shorts go down easy, Shane letting his nails drag along Ilya’s skin as he slides them down around Ilya’s hips, his half hard cock hitting the air. One of Shane’s hands grabs at Ilya’s, putting it on his head. Ilya’s fingers naturally bury themselves in the jet black hair, fingers tugging gently at the sweaty strands as Shane eagerly leans forward, giving the head of Ilya’s cock a single broad lap with his tongue before opening his mouth and sinking down.
“Fuck,” Ilya whispers, trying to be quiet even as the wet sound of Shane’s mouth feels very, very loud in the empty room, the tiles making the sounds echo. The ends of Shane’s hair are silky, and Ilya tugs gently, leaning forward, crowding himself over Shane to rest his hand on the wall. He can’t help his muscles pulling, tight, his thighs shifting, desperate to fuck forward into the tight ring of Shane’s lips. Into the warm heat of his mouth.
Shane pulls back, skin pink again, breathless again, voice a raspy whisper, “I really want to ride this cock,” and then he slides that pretty mouth straight back onto Ilya. The image is clear in Ilya’s mind in that second, the lithe muscles of Shane’s back, the way he would shift and bounce and sweat and blush on Ilya’s cock.
“Yes,” Ilya has to take a breath, bites his bottom lip, his balls drawing tight, the sloppy noises of Shane dragging his mouth up and down Ilya’s cock, “yes. Home. After.” it was hard to summon even those words, all Ilya’s focus now on flooding Shane’s mouth with his come, “close,” he manages a warning, “close.”
Shane just blinks up at him, big dark lashes around big dark eyes, watering, missing breath as he takes Ilya as far as he can, Shane’s nails digging bright stinging furrows into Ilya’s thighs. He doesn’t back off.
Ilya’s guts tighten, looking down at the beauty with his lips wrapped around the thickness of his cock, his lips clinging to Ilya’s flesh, leaving wet and messy streaks of slick spit behind. The orgasm is simmering under the surface for a moment before is crashes down, his grip tightening on Shane’s hair as he holds himself steady, fucking forward in tiny little thrusts, coming onto Shane’s tongue.
Ilya pulls back carefully after, Shane holding suction as Ilya withdraws, suckling at the head as it’s slipping free, Ilya hissing with the pleasure of it. Shane’s eyes are wet, he looks strained, but he manages to swallow before he lets loose an almighty cough.
“You okay?” Ilya asks, finding himself smoothing his fingers through Shane’s hair before he takes his hand and helps him to his feet
“Yeah,” Shane tries, but has to cough again to clear his throat, “yeah, yeah I’m,” he looks away, shy a moment, “I’m good.” Ilya wants him again already, being so good for Ilya, pushing through to keep Ilya’s cock in his throat.
A tear breaks free from Shane’s watery eyes, and Ilya brushes it away with a fingertip, “you will be, come here.”
Ilya pulls his shorts up one handed, grabbing at Shane. Shane allows himself to be turned, caged and held tight, back to Ilya’s front. Shane’s tiny shorts hide nothing, his cock lifting the fabric obscenely, it’s the work of a second to work him free, and Ilya gets a hand on him, jerking him hard and fast.
Shane’s hips thrust into it, then away as has back arches, but Ilya shifts his arm fully across Shane now, and Shane allows himself to be pinned, his arms held tight against his own chest, bracketed easily By Ilya, Shane’s ass presses tight against the cradle of Ilya’s hips as he jerks him, his still softening cock sensitive to being pressed against Shane’s plump little ass.
Shane’s cock emerges from a neat little patch of dark hair. Its’ smaller than Ilya’s, less girth, but fits really nice in Ilya’s hand. It feels good there.
Shane pants through it, Ilya running a nose up into his hair, breathing in the scent of sweat and shampoo. The salty taste of skin as Ilya licks and kisses at the side of Shane’s neck, dragging his teeth there, too gentle to leave a mark, but enough to make Shane whimper and try to writhe against Ilya’s iron grip.
“I’m gonna’, I, I’m gonna’,” Shane pants out, voice soft and breathy and just above a nothing whisper that Ilya wouldn’t have heard if they hadn’t been pressed together they way they are. The hard length of Shane’s cock twitches in Ilya’s hand, the head wet enough that it’s sloppy when he comes, hot ropes of come hitting the plastic dividing wall of the cubicle and dripping slowly down.
Shane’s dragging air like he’s run a marathon, his delicate chest expanding and falling under Ilya’s arm, and even though Ilya’s holding him pinned, Shane has turned his hands to cling to Ilya’s arm just as tightly. Ilya’s happy to take the weight of the smaller man, giving him a minute to catch his breath. Shane lets his head flop back on Ilya’s shoulder, Ilya standing, still bent, resting his own forehead on Shane’s shoulder. Ilya doesn’t even move his hand, enjoying the feel of Shane’s now softening cock cupped protectively in his hand, “still going to take me home.”
Ilya can’t stop his smile, or his eye roll, glad that Shane sees neither. He kisses Shane’s shoulder through the material of his shirt, “if you would like.”
“Yup. Yup I think I would.”
Ilya’s apartment is nice, or, he likes it, at least.
He gets bottled water for them both from the fridge, watching the kid. Didn’t dry his hair properly after the shower, didn’t even try, and it’s probably made the inside of his hat wet. Kids going to make himself sick. He watches as Shane meanders around his lounge, reading book spines, looking at the pictures. Ilya likes his apartment, but he wonders what it looks like through Shane’s eyes. He wonders vaguely if Shane likes it. Not that he cares.
Ilya just leans against the kitchen counter, waiting.
The kid stops in frontthat picture, his head tilted as he studies it. Frowns at the Boston team. Frowns at the team posing on the ice, the cup front and center. Sees it on the kids face when he turns, a look of dawning comprehension on his face, “Ilya. Ilya Rozanov?”
Ilya lets it happen, just nods, pretends like that other life was nothing to do with him.
“I...I’ve seen you play. Used to go to games sometimes, with my Mom, when I was a kid. She wanted me to be a hockey player, when I was young,” Shane shrugs, “wasn’t for me though too...aggressive.”
Ilya raises an eyebrow, gesturing with his water, “and you so small. You would get killed.”
The kid shrugs, not seeming to be bothered by Ilya’s assessment, “that too. But it makes me fast.”
“When you were a kid..?” Ilya echoes Shane’s words, questioning them. He’s younger than Ilya, definitely, but he doesn’t look that young.
Shane smirks as he slinks his way across the room, “okay, when I was a teenager, then,” he finally stops, coming to rest leaning against Ilya, still having to tilt his head back to look up even though Ilya is leaning against the counters, “they build them big in Russia, huh?”
It’s stupid, But Ilya smirks, looking away for a second, “Russian’s are sturdy.”
“Hmmmm. I know you, Ilya Rozanov, but you don’t know me, do you? Have you ever watched me skate?”
Ilya frowns, trying now to place the kid. There’s just no way he plays hockey, he’d get snapped in half. And Ilya’s never shown much interest in any other sports.
Well, maybe he watches the ski jump, but that shit is just insane.
“No?”
The kid, Shane, he smiles, “figured as much. Well, maybe one day you’ll figure it out-” Ilya pulls his phone out of his pocket, twisting, “hey now, no fair, that’s cheating.” But Shane makes no move to stop him.
“Famous enough that I could have seen you. Famous enough for TV then. Skater, Shane,” he types, there can’t be that many famous skaters called Shane. And there it is, top result basically, “Hollander. Figure skating.” Makes sense. “Ah, the figure it out was poor joke, no?”
Shane pouts, rolling his eyes, “firstly, I’m hilarious, and secondly, you’re no fun.”
“I am not fun,” Ilya confirms, and then they’re kissing again. Shane has a slight build, it’s easy to lift him. He gets with the program so fast, his legs wrapping around Ilya’s hips like they’re supposed to be right there. Like he was built for exactly this, “can I fuck you?”
“I’ll be really fucking pissed if you don’t.”
“Okay.”