Chapter Text
5-1. Boston over Montreal.
That’s the final score for the night. Boston skated circles around Montreal. Hollander’s lone goal was Montreal’s only hope for the night. Really, Hollander had been the only hope for Montreal. The rest of the team seemed to be sleep skating, making bad passes, and racking up too many penalties that continuously gave Boston the advantage.
Ilya had seen the frustration building on Hollander’s face. The way his jaw slowly got more and more tense, the skin around his eyes tightening ever so slightly, the complete lack of response to Ilya’s chirps during the four face offs they shared during the game.
Not that Ilya minds. His team won. Sure, Hollander is pissed, but he always lets Ilya fuck him so hard when he’s pissed about losing to Boston. And Ilya loves fucking the frustration out of him, edging him and making him wait so when he finally comes, he’s arching that sinuous back as he does, his ridiculously pretty face creased in pleasure. All from Ilya. And then Ilya fucks him through another orgasm as tears of pleasure glide down those glorious freckled cheeks. Hollander always goes so beautifully boneless when Ilya makes him come twice.
It's addicting, the feeling he gets when Hollander hands over control. He likes that about Hollander – how he lives his life with such strict rules except for when it comes to Ilya. He relinquishes that control, places all trust in the Russian and just lets himself be rather than stiffly carry himself with the frustrated kitten look he wears most of the time.
Hollander is very boring, Ilya knows this. But Hollander is never boring when Ilya is fucking him. And Ilya fucking loves that.
But still, outside of sex, Hollander is boring. He is consistent, likes routine, is a very good Canadian boy who’s always on time and worries more about other people’s comfort than his own. Which is why it is so strange that Ilya has been standing outside in the snow for going on ten minutes now since Hollander has not come to open the door for his back staircase, nor has he answered Ilya’s text letting him know that he’s here.
Very un-Hollander like.
Flicking the stub of his second finished cigarette into the snowbank, Ilya decides he’s had enough of just wanting around for Hollander to let him in. He fishes his phone of his pocket and hits the call button on Jane's contact. It rings and rings before going to voicemail. He tries again. Two more calls go answered. Ilya chooses to ignore the unease building in his chest. On the fourth unsuccessful attempt of contacting Hollander, he leaves a message.
“Hollander, it is very cold. Let me in. I fuck you so good you forget about terrible loss tonight, yes?”
Ilya slumps against the frozen wall. He lights up a third cigarette even though he knows Hollander will have something boring to say about the smell of smoke clinging to him whenever he finally decides to open the fucking door and let Ilya in. Let the little shit get upset about the smell and the fact that Ilya is ruining his lungs. Serves him right for making Boston captain wait out in the snow just so they can fuck.
But it’s not just fucking. Not really. Not for Ilya. It hasn’t been for a long time now. He’s really not sure when it happened. A ridiculous part of him thinks everything changed for him in that parking lot in Saskatchewan; happened the very moment he registered the beautiful face with beautiful freckles standing in front of him. That soft voice humbly complementing Ilya and meaning it without wanting something in return. Even during that first encounter, he could sense the incandescent sincerity that makes up Shane Hollander.
From that very moment, Ilya’s been hooked; hungry and curious for everything Shane Hollander. He’s enraptured by Hollander’s boring routines, his obsession with hockey, his fucking freckles, his precious, neurotic brain, the sweet smiles that are gifted to Ilya far more than they are ever given to the media. Don’t even get him started on Hollander’s glasses. Ilya will never forgive Hollander for keeping his glasses a secret for so long. Even after all these years he still can’t get enough of the Canadian. He often wonders how the other man hasn’t noticed Ilya’s fascination with him, especially considering that fact that it took two years to convince Hollander to even let Ilya fuck him properly. Not that Ilya minded waiting so long.
Because in all honesty, he would wait for Hollander forever if it meant getting to see him, to be near him, to watch him fold his clothes before worshiping his naked body thoroughly and in the way that only Ilya knows the true meaning of.
Because he thinks no matter how much time passes, he’ll never get enough of Shane Hollander.
But here in the late January snow, the clock continues to tick. There’s no sign of Hollander.
Something ugly begins to slither up Ilya’s spine. He knows Hollander is home; he can see the boring Jeep Hollander drives from where’s he’s been loitering. Did Hollander change his mind? Is he ghosting Ilya? Did he bring someone else home?
That final thought has Ilya releasing a string of nasty Russian curses. He can’t—he’s not going to think about it, won’t even entertain the thought. Because Hollander wouldn’t. Would he?
Ilya calls another three times in rapid succession, leaving another message after the failed attempts to get ahold of the Canadian.
“Hollander, what is going on? Are we going to fuck or not?”
He doesn’t mean for it to come out so harsh, but there is a feeling building in his chest. A feeling that is slowly threatening to choke him alive. It’s not jealously, Ilya decides. Because he’s not jealous. He has no reason to be. Hollander would not text him before the game saying he’s excited to see Ilya tonight just for him to bring someone else home. Hollander would never do that; this Ilya knows for a goddamn fact.
No. Something else is keeping Hollander from him, it has to be something else.
One by one, the fingers of worry’s hand tighten their grip around Ilya’s throat. Because that’s what the feeling is: worry. But he can’t be worried. Because Russians don’t do this, they do not get worried about their nearly decade long fuck buddy just because they’ve gone radio silent. But this is Hollander we’re talking about. Ilya’s Hollander.
Another three minutes go by.
Ilya drags a tense hand down his face and tries calling again. He kicks at the brick wall when it goes, once again, to voicemail.
“Hollander, where are you? Why are you not answering the phone? Is something wrong?” Then, belatedly, he adds, “Are you okay? Please let me know you are okay.”
Patience waning, Ilya tugs at his hair, his curls catching in his fingertips as he pulls at them to relieve the tension holding his body taunt.
In reality, Hollander is probably fine. Ilya realizes this. He’s probably caught up in one of his boring routines, like meticulously arranging the thirteen hundred pillows from his bed into the armchair so that Ilya won’t haphazardly swipe them off the bed, uncaring of where they land as he tosses Hollander onto the mattress. Yes, Hollander will come rushing out the door any minute now, a cascade of apologies falling from his lips as he tugs Ilya inside the stairwell and then drops to his knees right then and there to suck Ilya’s dick until he sees stars to make it up to him. Because Hollander is probably okay.
But what if he’s not?
Horrible images invade his mind. Visions of Hollander— of Shane— laying unresponsive on the floor, an empty bottle of pills beside him. Of those bright, sparkling eyes closed forever, those freckles cheeks drained of life, of Hollander’s heart quiet and still and—
That’s it.
“Blyat!” Ilya bites out.
He marches up to the number pad of Hollander’s code reader and glares at it as though it has personally offended him. In a way, it currently is: it’s keeping him from Shane.
With frozen frustration, Ilya sighs. “If I were Hollander, what would my code be? Something boring.”
He presses 1234.
Beep.
Or the code is something important to Hollander, is meaningful to him. Something that is also very boring. Something very Hollander.
He tries his and Hollander’s shared birth year.
1991
Beep.
Hollander’s birthday.
0510
Beep.
The number of the room where they started this whole thing between them.
1410
Beep.
Huffing, Ilya tries again with something hockey related. Hollander’s jersey number.
2424
Beep.
He knocks his head against the brick wall and exhales shakily. The cold is starting to creep deep into his bones; the chill ramping up his discomfort about this entire current situation. Something is definitely wrong. There is no version of Shane Hollander that would allow Ilya to stand out in the cold. Even if he was breaking things off with him, he would still tell Ilya. He would never just leave him hanging, especially after Ilya has already let him know that he’s here, that he’s waiting outside in near subzero weather. Shane would never intentionally do this to anyone.
But especially not me, Ilya thinks selfishly. He's known since that night in that dirty Las Vegas bathroom that he means something to Hollander, that Shane actually cares for him, about him, that he might actually have feelings for—
Ilya decides he’ll try something crazy.
He punches 8181 into the code reader.
Beep.
“Fuck!”
He’s running out of ideas, running out of combinations of numbers that he knows means something to Hollander.
That’s when it hits him.
No... There’s no way.
He tries it anyways, his fingers trembling from something other than just the bitter cold.
2481
Beep.
Ilya puffs out a freezing, ragged breath, a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. Hand shaking, he tries again, this time the two pairs of their jersey numbers reversed.
8124
Click.
Ilya opens the door. He stands stalk still for a few moments, eyes locked on the staircase ascending to Hollanders apartment, his gaze wide and stunned. Because the code actually worked. There’s a tightening in his chest. It’s warm and spreading throughout his entire body. He can’t believe it. Can’t believe the code to enter Hollander’s home is—
No.
He shakes the thoughts and feelings away. He needs to check on Shane. And then as soon as he’s satisfied that Hollander is indeed fine, he’s going to fuck him senseless until that only thing Shane can think of is Ilya, so that Ilya can focus on nothing other than driving pleasure up the Canadian’s spine, not overanalyze what they mean to each other, what he means to Hollander considering his jersey number is—
Ilya reaches the top of the staircase before he even realizes it. He goes to input the code again at the reader by Shane’s apartment door when he realizes something is off. Something is wrong.
The door is not completely closed. It’s ajar and there’s a slight tilt to it, like it’s been knocked off its hinges. Like it’s been rammed into to force it open.
Heart clenching, Ilya barrels through the door.
“Hollander?”
The silence that answers him sets off all sorts of alarms bells in his head.
“Hollander?” He calls out again. “Hollander, it is me.”
More silence. It’s cold and eerie and it’s threatening to suffocate Ilya.
He stalks into the apartment, looking for any trace of Hollander. He sees nothing out of the ordinary, everything tidy and clean just how Hollander likes it. That provides him with the slightest bit of relief, if just for a second. Then he rounds the wall and enters the kitchen. He steps in something wet.
Ilya freezes.
An open can of ginger ale lays fallen over on the kitchen island, its context spilt across the floor. An un-opened can of Coke sits beside it.
Maybe it would seem normal to most people, is something that happens all the time. Something that happens and then is cleaned up and quickly forgotten about like it’s nothing.
Because it’s a mess, just a mess. No big deal.
But this is Hollander’s home. And this is a mess. And Hollander hates mess.
Fear rears its ugly head, slithering down Ilya’s spine like a snake made of ice, freezing cold and coiling tighter and tighter around him as breathing suddenly becomes much harder.
A distant groan tears Ilya out his stunned haze from his place frozen in the kitchen.
“Hollander!” He shouts harshly. “Hollander!”
Body reacting instinctively, he’s racing up the stairs and into the bedroom before he can even think. He runs straight into someone wearing red.
Ilya’s hands reach up to steady the person, immediately thinking it’s Hollander still wearing his jersey for some reason. “Hollander,” he says breathlessly. “Hollander—"
But it’s not Hollander. It’s some blonde guy with a bloody nose wearing a Hollander jersey and smelling like he drank himself through an entire liquor store.
“What the fuck?” Ilya growls in Russian. He throws the man to the ground and towers over him, crouching to grab a fist full of the jersey to yank the guy’s face up. “Who the fuck are you?”
“We shoulda won,” the guy slurs. “H-hate fucken— fuck Boston. Shoulda...shoulda... but fucken Holl’der—”
Ilya doesn’t let him finish, instead opting to punch the man straight in the face. He knocks the guy out cold with that one hit. He releases the jersey and lets the intruder fall unceremoniously to floor, uncaring if it hurts him. The Russian seethes, entire body vibrating with rage as red bleeds into vision the longer he stares at the man because what the fuck, what the fuck—
Another low groan laced with pain sounds off behind him, this time much closer and clearer sounding. Ilya knows instantly that it’s Hollander.
He bolts towards the bathroom.
“Hollander!” He shouts again. “Shane!”
The first thing Ilya registers is that the shower is running. Next, he sees sporadic droplets of blood. Then he spots the heap that is Hollander’s naked body laying unmoving in the walk-in shower.
“No,” he chokes under his breath.
He lunges towards Hollander, uncaring of the water spraying them both or of the way his knees protest as they drop heavily onto the tile floor. He doesn’t care about anything other than the man in front of him. Breathing stuttered and hands trembling, Ilya reaches for Hollander. There’s blood smeared across his beautiful freckles, his bright eyes closed, his handsome face creased in pain.
Another distressed groan tumbles out of Hollander’s mouth as Ilya carefully maneuvers the man into his lap until he’s half propped against the Russian’s chest. Hands framing the Canadian’s face, Ilya thumbs over his cheeks in a gentle caress. “Hollander, hey, Hollander. Look at me. Open your eyes.”
Slowly, brown eyes meet blue.
“Roz’nov?” Hollander slurs.
Ilya sucks in a much-needed breath. “Yes. Yes, is me. Is okay. I am here. I help you now.”
“Where’s...? There’s a—a man,” Hollander croaks, blurry eyes darting around. “A man—”
“He is sleeping,” Ilya tells him placatingly. “You do not need to worry now.”
“Fuck,” Hollander collapses heavily against him. “I don’t know what happened. He just...”
“Shh. I know, malysh. Is okay. I am here. I have you.”
Holding the other man close, Ilya takes a few moments to breathe, to quell the stampede of emotions that are dangerously close to exploding out of him in the shape of relieved tears. The shower is still going, soaking him, causing his clothes to cling uncomfortably to his body. Not that he cares. Not when he’s cradling a bruised and battered Hollander in his arms. He nestles his nose into the dark, wet hair, inhaling deeply. His lips find Shane’s temple again and again, a constant stream of tender, lingering kisses to help reassure the both of them. Because Ilya is here now. He found Hollander. Hollander is okay.
Well, that last part, not really.
Warily, the Russian pulls back just enough to examine the state of Hollander’s body. The usually unblemished, tanned skin is mottled with fresh forming bruises, his left eyebrow is busted open, blood spilling down onto his cheeks. A bump is forming near his temple, and the knuckles of his right hand are spilt, likely from a hit he got in during the struggle with the intruder. What really catches Ilya’s attention, though, is the trail of bruises leading down Hollander’s ribs and towards his back and his bare ass.
A horrible, gut-wrenching thought invades Ilya’s brain. “Hollander,” he says roughly. “Did he touch you? Did he...”
“Yeah, he beat the shit out of me,” Hollander scoffs with a wince. “He got some good kicks into my ribs. Fuck.”
“No,” Ilya barks out gruffly. “That is not what I mean.”
Hollander flinches at his tone.
Face towards the sky, Ilya heaves in some deep, calming breathes. He makes sure his voice is even and quiet before speaking again. “You are naked. I know he hurt you, but I need to make sure he did not hurt you like... like that.”
He watches as realization drips down Hollander’s face. Finally, face earnest, voice sure, he says exactly what Ilya’s been praying he would. “No. He didn’t. I promise.”
The slightest bit of rigid anxiety finally leaks out of the Russian. His forehead drops to rest on Hollander’s shoulder. “Okay. Okay. Fuck. Thank god.”
In his hold, Hollander tenses, face ducking down like he’s trying to hide. “I didn’t see him coming. I didn’t hear anything. I was showering and then he was just there, suddenly. I—I wasn’t ready for it, he caught me completely off guard. I slipped while fighting with him and hit my head and that’s when he started kicking, but I—I still should’ve—"
“Stop,” Ilya demands, one hand finding Shane’s chin in an ever gentle but firm hold to force eye contact. “Do not do that. Do not blame yourself. He surprised you, then hit you while you were down. Was not fair fight.” With his other hand he grabs Hollander’s injured hand and presses a featherlight kiss to the busted knuckles. “You still got a good hit in, yes? Because you are Shane fucking Hollander. You are not weak or helpless or whatever bad thing your brain is telling you. You do not need to explain yourself. You did good.”
Shane stares at him, eyes shiny with tears. Ilya stares back. He has no idea what his face is doing, has no idea how his expression is full of utter devotion for the man in his arms, exposing all of his closely guarded secrets, but he doesn’t give a fuck; not when Shane is looking at him like he hung the moon and stars.
They stay lost in each other’s eyes until Shane shivers, a chilled hiss escaping him. Ilya belatedly realizes that the water pelting them has since turned cold. Albeit extremely reluctant, he pulls away, knowing he needs to get Shane proper medical help. Hollander clings to him and the devastated look on his face nearly breaks Ilya’s heart in two.
“I need to call police,” Ilya tell him.
“No,” Hollander shakes his head firmly. “You can’t. They’re gonna ask why you’re here.”
“I will come up with a story.”
“No. You—no. I’m fine, don’t call any—”
But Ilya’s not willing to listen to any of his reasonings, not after the roller-coaster of turmoil he’s been on since waiting out in the snow. “No. Is not up for debate, Hollander. You are hurt, you are bleeding. You need ambulance. I am calling 911. You can cry on my shoulder when I am done.”
Pulling out his phone, Ilya finally turns off the shower. He stays with Hollander the whole time, the shorter man still leaning heavily against his chest. Ilya’s free hand rubs soothingly up and down Shane’s arm when the Canadian tenses at his use of intruder and attacked to the emergency services operator. When he hangs up the phone, he presses soft kisses to the crown of the dark-haired head.
“They are coming.”
Hollander just nods silently.
“Do you think you can get up? Would be better if you are dressed when the police come.”
Slowly and gingerly, Ilya helps Shane stand up and stagger out of the shower to sit on the toilet where the Russian then towel dries the Canadian with a devout reverence that he hopes isn’t too obvious. It’s only when Ilya is helping him put on a shirt that Shane finally releases the pained moans that he’s been biting back, body falling forward into the blonde’s strong chest, the exertion having caught up to him.
Ilya instantly catches him in an embrace. “I’ve got you, malysh.”
“M sorry,” Shane mumbles. “For all of this. I’m sorry.”
“Do not apologize,” Ilya tells him sternly. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
Hollander sniffs and tucks his face into the crook of Ilya’s neck.
Ilya kisses the hinge of his jaw and toys with the hairs at the base of his neck. “You will press charges against that man, yes?”
“Yeah. Yeah, definitely. My mom will make sure of that. I, um...I’m pretty sure he was waiting for me. He was already hanging around my door when I got home. Chirped at me a bit and said he wanted to talk about the game. I just ignored him. He must have propped the door of the staircase open after I went in and then forced his way into my apartment. I had no idea he was here. He’s drunk out of his mind, I think. He just kept saying how much he hates Boston and—and that it was m-my fault Montreal lost tonight.”
After hearing Hollander’s voice break at that last part, Ilya moves to leave the bathroom.
Shane’s hand darts out and wraps around his wrist. “Where are you going?”
“To make sure he is still sleeping. Maybe also give him something to help him take even longer nap.”
“No,” The grip at Ilya’s wrist tightens. “No. Please stay here. I...”
Ilya hears everything left unsaid. I don’t want to be alone right now.
“Okay,” he gives in easily. “Okay, malysh. Of course, I stay here.”
Without meaning to, Ilya reaches up and caresses Hollander’s bloody cheek, his thumb brushing softly across that priceless collection of freckles.
“You are okay,” Ilya says again, though, he’s not sure if he says it more for Hollander’s benefit or his own.
Hollander leans into the touch. His dark brown eyes are red rimmed and lacking their usual brightness, though they still sparkle. Unable to help himself, Ilya ducks down for a kiss. It’s a gentle dance of their lips, neither trying to make it anything more than it is. Soft and slow and communicating all the feelings Ilya is too scared to say out loud. They stay there together, foreheads touching, hands keeping the other close, content just to breath each other’s air. Even though Ilya is still in his own sopping wet clothes, he is more than happy to hold Hollander safe in his arms until the authorities arrive.
If the media finds out and this makes the news, that it was Ilya Rozanov that came to Shane Hollander’s rescue, it could ruin both of them. But in this moment, with the unyielding holds they both refuse to release, their bodies melding into one, Ilya can’t find it in himself to care about anything other than the fact that Shane is okay.
***
There are many things in the world considered to be true; things that are commonly known amongst the masses. Then, there are some that are known in certain circles. For example, there are truths known in the hockey world, such as Ilya Rozanov is the best player in the league, Shane Hollander is the second-best player in the league, Hayden Pike is lucky to be a hockey player, and Scott Hunter is old. Another truth that is known throughout the hockey world is this:
Yuna Hollander is a force of nature.
Naturally, Ilya had known this for years. He’d figured it out as soon as he’d seen her all those years ago in Saskatchewan, sitting in the bleachers with Shane as they watched the Russian players practice for the Prospect Cup. He’d carefully avoided her during the shooting of his and Hollander’s CCM commercial, though he’d felt her penetrating stare tracking his every move regardless. But, as it is known throughout the league that Yuna Hollander is not to be trifled with, Ilya finds himself extremely grateful for the seismic magic that woman is able to work.
So, when she’d burst into Shane’s apartment with all the calm serenity of a raging tsunami, Ilya had already been prepared for nothing less. She marched right past the police and up to her son, examining him with the tender touch that comes only to mothers, and demanded answers. She listened to Shane explain the situation with terse, hawklike eyes, her jaw tightening in anger the same way her son’s does. When Shane had finished, she’d spun and pinned Ilya, who’d been loitering out of the way after having giving his statement to the police, with nothing but her fierce expression, gaze assessing and calculating. The Russian had willed himself to be prepared for a smack to the face, a knee to groin, a restraining order filed on spot because to Yuna Hollander, Ilya Rozanov is nothing but the enemy; but, instead, her gaze had softened as she gave him a brief nod of thanks.
She’d then turned her focus to the police and the medics, told them under no uncertain circumstances exactly how to delicately handle the situation with her son and Mr. Rozanov unless they would like to face a lawsuit, and that, yes, Shane will be pressing all charges against the intruder. All of this from Yuna Hollander, Ilya had expected.
What he had definitely not been expecting was for her to walk right up to Ilya to personally thank him for helping her son. First shaking his hand, followed by her all but yanking him down for a firm hug. Then, she’d invited him over for dinner the next time Boston played in Montreal and stated that she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
And Ilya’s not stupid.
He accepted, of course. Lest he face that wrath of Yuna Hollander.
Shane, however, seems to be apprehensive, if his tone over the phone is anything to go by.
“So, uh, what kind of wine do you like?”
“Ah, you trying to wine and dine me, Hollander?” Ilya asks with a smirk. “Is this your boring attempt of asking me on a date?”
“Fuck off. My mom wants to know. For dinner, you know. Since, um, you’re coming.” There’s a hesitant pause. “You are still coming, right?”
Ilya is so endeared he thinks his heart might burst. “Yes, Hollander. Of course, I am coming. I will not defy your mother. She is very scary when she wants something. And I like vodka, not wine. But please tell your mother she does not need to do this.”
“Nah, it’s all good. My dad likes vodka.”
“He has good taste.”
“Not boring?”
“No, he leaves all the boring to you.”
“Asshole,” but Ilya can hear the smile in Hollander’s voice. It’s almost as if he’s using asshole as an endearment for Ilya.
“So,” Ilya shifts his grip on his phone, attempting to loosen the muscles threatening to tighten up at the upcoming subject. “How are you?”
“Fine.”
“Hollander.”
“Rozanov.”
“Tell me the truth or I won’t fuck you next time we see each other.”
There’s a scoff on the other end. “Seriously? It’s—the next time we see each other we’re both going to be having dinner with my parents. There won’t be any time for...”
“Oh, yes, there will. I will pretend to leave after dinner. Then they will leave. Then I will come back and I will fuck you. Is simple.”
“Roza-nov...”
“Hollan-der...”
Hollander laughs breathily. “You’re impossible.”
“Mm. Yes. But you like it. Now tell me about your head,” Ilya demands insistently. “What did doctor say?”
“Oh my god,” Hollander groans. “You’re almost as bad as my mom. It’s a grade one concussion, that’s most basic one there is. It’s basically nothing more than a bad headache.”
“Wow, Hollander. I did not think after all these years you could still be such a bad liar.”
“I’m fine.”
“You were attacked,” Ilya deadpans.
“But I’m okay! I’m okay because—because you...”
“I’m sorry I did not get there sooner,” Ilya says quietly.
“No, no, don’t apologize. I’m glad you were there. Thank you, for... everything.”
Sunshine weaves it way in and around Ilya’s heart. “Hmm,” he hums. “From now on, I will be there to protect you.”
Neither of them acknowledges the tender promise of Ilya’s fierce declaration. To protect Shane, to guard him from anyone and anything that could harm him, to be there for Shane always.
“You know, I’m been meaning to ask you,” Shane begins. “How did you even get in my stairwell?”
“I guessed your code.”
Hollander makes the cutest confused noise over the phone. “Code?”
“To the door.”
“Oh,” Hollander says. Then, “Oh.”
There’s an awkward silence. And even though neither of them is saying anything, the silence feels like it’s saying everything neither of them want to admit out loud.
“Is good code,” Ilya tells him, trying to keep things light. “I like it. Very Hollander.”
“What do you mean?”
“Is boring. Just like you.”
“Fuck off.”
“No,” Ilya says. Never. “Be honest, how is your head right now? Is hurting?”
“A little.”
“Did you take medication?”
“Yes, Rozanov, I took some medication.”
“And ribs? How bad is the bruising?”
“Rozanov, seriously, I’m—”
Ilya cuts him off. “Shane. Please.”
It’s silent for a moment. The sound of what could be Shane gulping makes its way across the line. “The bruising is... mild. Could be a lot worse. Nothing broken.”
“Good. That is good. How many games will you miss?”
“Five.”
“Mm,” Ilya hums. “Montreal will have big losing streak without you. No playoffs for Metros this year, probably.”
“Shut the fuck up, you asshole.”
“Is okay. Don’t worry, I will still make it to Montreal to fuck you before Boston wins the cup.”
“Why would you drive here during playoffs?”
“Is like I said, to fuck you.”
“You’d drive five hours from Boston just for sex?”
“Yes,” Ilya answers easily, like that’s it. Like it would be just for sex. Like there are no other reasons. Reasons like wanting to see Shane in person to ensure he really is okay, or wanting to check his front door for any sign of a break in and then inviting himself to stay the night or maybe even the entire weekend. Or the reason Ilya feels sunshine swirling deep and molten in his chest whenever he thinks of Shane. A reason that would destroy both of them if anyone ever found out.
“What? There aren’t any nice girls in Boston?”
“They aren’t you.”
Silence.
“Oh.”
Yes, Ilya thinks, oh. “Are you blushing, Hollander?”
“Shut up,” Shane squeaks.
“How much? Does blush go down to your dick?” Ilya asks with a shit eating grin.
“Fuck you, Rozanov.”
“Mm, yes, I always want to fuck you.”
“Such an asshole.”
“I will see your asshole in two weeks, yes? After dinner with your parents.”
“Yeah, I’ll see you then.”
“Good,” Ilya says, then declares. “I will fuck you extra good.”
“Oh my god.”
“But I will make it easy for you. You can ride my dick. That way, we don’t make bruised ribs angry.”
“My ribs will be fine.”
“Just in case. Don’t worry, I will still make you cum twice. Once in my mouth and once while you are bouncing on my dick. Will make you cum untouched, of course.”
“Jesus, Rozanov,” Shane hisses. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not? Is turning you on, yes? You are hard right now, I know it.”
“You don’t know shit.”
“Mm, I know I make you hard. And you like very much when I talk dirty.”
He hears Shane yawn big and deep. Suddenly, Ilya wishes he was on FaceTime with Shane so he could see him all sleepy and adorable.
“Am I boring you, Hollander? Sleep comes after phone sex, not before.”
“Sorry, ‘m just—” Another yawn. “The medication makes me tired.”
And that’s...painfully adorable. Painful, because Ilya hates that Shane is currently having to take pain medication, but adorable because he sounds so fucking cute when he’s sleepy. Like a stubborn kitten that’s exhausted but doesn’t want to go to sleep. Fuck, they should have FaceTimed.
“Is past good, little Canadian boys’ bedtime, yes?” He ignores the “Fuck you” spat indignantly from across the line. “I understand. Go to bed, Hollander. I do not want you to be grumpy kitten when you wake up tomorrow.”
“Shuddup,” Shane grumbles sleepily, and Ilya decides he’s actually glad they aren’t on FaceTime so Hollander can’t see the impossibly wide, smitten smile that’s making his cheeks hurt.
“Are you already sleeping? You didn’t even tell me goodnight. How will I have sweet dreams if you do not tell me goodnight? Hollander, this is very important. You must tell me goodnight.”
Shane’s voice comes delayed and preciously mumbled. “Goodnight, asshole.”
“Goodnight,” Ilya murmurs back fondly. “Malysh.”