Chapter Text
0.
Ilya isn’t good at saying “no.”
It’s not a word he’s had much practice with, after all. He is not in the habit of denying himself anything that will feel good. Whether he’s being offered a drink, a line, a fuck… when people ask whether he wants it, they are not really asking. They already know what the answer is; there is a script. Saying “yes” is less a choice than a lifestyle.
Same with family. It’s not like Alexei would ever take no for an answer. Refusing his father would only earn him the belt. They ask, so he gives. Simple.
No, Ilya rarely refuses to give anyone what they want, least of all himself. He’s not sure why he thought he could stay away from Shane in the first place, so it shouldn’t be surprising that his resolve crumbles the moment he smells Shane’s cologne. He follows Shane into a dingy, ugly little bathroom, tugged along like a dog on a chain by nothing more than the scent of his skin.
Ilya has never had much willpower. It’s a wonder that he lasted six months, really.
The problem with Shane Hollander – one of the problems – is that he’s soft. Despite all that muscle and discipline, despite the way he bristles and snaps and tells Ilya to fuck off, he is one of the softest people Ilya’s ever met. It’s in his eyes; they’re too expressive for his own good. Too honest. And that honesty is contagious, maybe. When Ilya’s around him, he can’t help but let down the guard around his own vulnerable heart. Shane brings out the parts of him that remain sweet and scared and weak.
Ilya’s father tried to beat those out of him, over the years. He’s always been a firm believer that pain can be an effective tool; even the stupidest dog will eventually learn to dodge a kick, and Ilya, for all that he plays the fool, is not entirely stupid. He just learned the wrong lesson. He never managed to eradicate his sweetness, but he got very good at hiding it, especially when he’s in Russia.
In order to survive his family, his country, he becomes haughty and cold and untouchable. That Ilya is antithetical to the soft Ilya who emerges whenever Shane aims those shining eyes in his direction. In Sochi, when Shane came to find him, the Ilya he found was not the same Ilya who had tenderly kissed him goodbye in a stairwell… or at least that’s what Ilya likes to tell himself: that wasn’t me. I can be different.
It was the Olympic visit that finally made it clear to Ilya how bad his father’s condition had gotten. He put his foot down, insisted on a diagnosis, arranged for care. Kept his spine straight and his chin up. Did not allow himself to feel, even for a second, the sheer wailing terror that crept up in the quiet moments. No room for weakness now. Anything childish or soft was firmly hidden behind the armor his father helped him forge.
And even when he got on a plane and left, he did not allow himself to relax in the way he would usually loosen the armor. He set his sights on the Cup and flat-out refused to feel anything else. Numb. Strong. He lasted six whole months without texting Shane Hollander.
But here they are.
Ilya keeps his distance, to the best of his ability in the small space. Far enough that the chemical smell of industrial cleaner overpowers the citrus of Shane’s cologne, at least. He drapes an arm over the paper towel dispenser and slouches, giving Shane an arrogant, careless stare, as if Shane asked him to follow and Ilya is getting impatient.
The dim fluorescent light is turning Shane’s golden skin sallow, but his mouth is still very, very pink. He stares at Ilya, and that pretty mouth twists down at the corners.
Ilya huffs out a laugh, shooting him a practiced smirk – the sort designed to make its recipient want to smack it right off his face. And in case that’s not enough, he drawls, “Well…?”
There it is. Anger. Very familiar.
“What? What the fuck do you want, Rozanov?”
To get you out of my system, Ilya thinks. Maybe one more time will do the trick.
He’s fully aware that he sounds like every addict who has ever tried to quit. What a cliche. Terrible.
Shane’s voice echoes off the tiles as he rants: “You haven’t answered a text from me in like six months. You won’t even acknowledge that I exist unless there’s a fucking camera pointed at us, and then it’s for some fucking clown show. So yeah, what the fuck do you actually want from me?”
Ilya almost forgot how much he curses, after six months of only seeing him in public. It’s oddly endearing, knowing that he has such a filthy mouth – maybe because most of the world has no idea that perfect role model Shane fucking Hollander actually swears like a sailor.
“Well?” Shane demands.
Ilya knows this script. He’s very good at playing the asshole. He shrugs elegantly and unbuttons his jacket before saying, “I want you to suck my dick.”
Shane turns his back for a moment, like he wants to bolt, before wheeling around to face Ilya again, and –
Oh.
His eyes. It’s always his eyes. They’re welling up with tears, and Ilya’s stomach drops like he just missed a step on the staircase, a split-second of shock followed by a helium-balloon swell of delight.
Shane’s voice shakes when he spits, “Well, fuck you. You are unbelievable. You suck my dick.”
Then he turns away, tries to hide, but it’s too late. Ilya saw. This is not the sort of anger he knows what to do with; this is the sort of anger that means Shane cares. That he’s wounded, lashing out, nowhere near as unaffected as Ilya is pretending to be.
It shouldn’t feel like a victory, probably, but it does.
Ilya pushes himself up off the wall and stalks closer, and instead of shoving him away, Shane just… freezes. Like a prey animal caught in the gaze of a predator. Appropriate, with the way Ilya wants to devour him.
He grabs Shane by the chin, tilts his face up, sidles in close, and murmurs, “Maybe ask nicely.”
Shane sways closer as if he can’t help himself, but his voice is petulant when he says, “Please.”
Ilya leans in, then pulls back. “If you want me to get on my knees on this filthy bathroom floor and suck your dick, you will have to ask nicer than that.”
When he releases his grip on Shane’s chin, drags his knuckles along Shane’s jaw, Shane follows the touch, chasing Ilya’s fingers with his mouth.
Fuck. He is so fucking transparent. So clearly fucking vulnerable. A careless move could break him, and Ilya is not the sort of person who can be trusted with fragile things. People don’t trust him with much at all. This display makes Ilya want to scream, the way his father used to scream at him. To hurt Shane, teach him a lesson, until he toughens up.
“Please,” says Shane flatly, with his sulky pout and his shining eyes. “Get on your knees on this filthy bathroom floor, and suck my dick. Please.”
Ilya leans closer, and Shane mirrors him, until their noses almost brush. At least it’s not only Ilya who can’t seem to keep his distance. He feels drunk on Shane’s proximity, on the contact with his skin, but… he can hide it. He’s good at hiding that sort of thing. Ilya has had too many years of practice with speaking as if he’s completely sober, or walking as if he is not striped with bruises.
Shane, though – Shane can’t hide his soft underbelly for shit. He sags into Ilya’s touch, eyes liquid and bright, until Ilya pulls back; then he drops his gaze. Embarrassed by his own transparency, maybe. Good. He should be.
Ilya leans into his space again, much too close, until his lips almost brush Shane’s ear. They aren’t touching, not really, just standing so close Ilya can feel the heat of his body; they’re curled around each other, Ilya’s mouth almost brushing Shane’s throat, Shane’s shallow exhales tickling the skin over Ilya’s collar. He’s perfectly prey-animal still, barely breathing.
“No,” Ilya finally says, knife-sharp.
Shane freezes, breath catching. “What?”
Ilya doesn’t know what to do with the twist of vindictive satisfaction he feels at the surprise in his voice. Probably not a word Shane is used to hearing, not any more than Ilya is used to saying it.
Sweet, spoiled, loved Hollander.
If Ilya turned his head right now, he could kiss Shane’s jawline, or rip out his throat. He doesn’t, though; he stares determinedly at the ugly bathroom wall, startled by the intensity of his own vicious desire.
“No,” Ilya says again, and savors the way the word rolls off his tongue. “We will go back to our seats, watch the rest of this boring show, and then go to boring party after.” He pulls back, staring at Shane’s mouth. “And then, when we have been waiting all night… then we will go back to my hotel room, and I will maybe, maybe, do more than just suck your dick.”
He expects an argument, a bitchy retort, but he doesn’t get either. Instead Shane asks, “When did your English get so good?”
He’s smiling, too, tiny but fond. Like he enjoys hearing Ilya talk.
“I, uh, I read the New Yorker now,” Ilya says solemnly.
The smile widens. “Really?”
“No. The New Yorker is boring.”
“My dad loves it.”
“Ah. So being boring is genetic.”
Shane lets out a tiny huff that’s almost a laugh. “Wow. Genetic.”
Ilya’s heart performs an absurd tap-dance against his ribs. He forgot how good this feels – this easy back-and-forth rhythm that they fall into – how it goes to his head, makes him giddy. Makes him lose control.
“Let's make a deal,” he says quietly. “If you win MVP tonight, I will blow you, fuck you, whatever you want.”
“And if you win?”
He will, and they both know it. But Shane is watching him expectantly. Trusting.
Ilya wants to sink his teeth in – wants to rip him apart, claw through the skin, bite down to the bloody core of him.
Instead he kisses Shane. Makes it hungry, demanding, bruising. A taste of what he has in mind. Ilya wonders which hurts worse: the way he sucks on Shane’s lip until it must be throbbing, or the act of wrenching himself away from Shane’s sweet, eager mouth.
“Good luck tonight,” he whispers, and walks out, heading back to the crowd like nothing has happened.
It’s Shane who walks away later that night.
Ilya wasn’t lying. He does need to sleep. And he was the one who pushed Shane toward the door, so the sound of it clicking shut behind him shouldn’t hit Ilya like a gut-punch.
It does, though. The penthouse is empty, and it hurts in a way that makes Ilya feel ill.
He tells himself that this awful raw ache is a temporary pain, like a muscle fiber that needs to be ripped before it can be rebuilt. He tells himself that he will be stronger for it, in the long run. “Pain is weakness leaving the body,” or whatever other motivational bullshit Marley always says when they’re lifting weights.
Ilya was the one who pushed Shane out the door. This was his choice.
Ilya had been pushing him all night. He thought maybe he could push Shane so far that he would snap. He kept waiting for Shane to balk at his orders, but… Shane didn’t. Those soft fucking eyes watched Ilya like he’d hung the moon in the sky, like he was worth listening to, like he could trust Ilya not to rip out his throat, and Ilya –
He wasn’t –
It’s not like he –
If anything, Shane got off on it even more than Ilya did. He flushed at the attention initially, but then he put on one hell of a show. Hell, he came so hard he could barely speak. Ilya’s dick twitches when he thinks about the shudder that went through Shane’s body, and the blissful red O of his slack mouth, and the way he sucked his own come from Ilya’s fingers…
Everybody got what they wanted, right? So what’s the problem?
Ilya could’ve done worse. He didn’t hurt Shane. Not the way he wanted to.
He pours himself another glass of vodka and waits for the ache to fade.
Two days later, Ilya is back in Moscow, and he’s starting to wonder if pushing Shane away wasn’t an act of self-improvement so much as self-mutilation.
Something about that night has gotten under his skin like a splinter. Or – opened him up, maybe. Broken through to a deep well of fucked-up fantasies that Ilya had never considered.
He daydreams about saying no. About Shane on his knees, begging for release, and Ilya denying him. He wants to push Shane to his limit, to find the end of that soft, eager trust and make him fight back. It’s a constant, niggling curiosity: what would it take? What would finally drive him to the edge? What would break him?
He has ideas, now. So much for “one last time.”
Ilya never did learn to leave well enough alone. He has always picked at scabs and tongued at loose teeth and prodded his bruises. No goddamn willpower in the face of a bad idea.
His family demands more money, more help, and Ilya says yes – always yes – before escaping to a club, where nobody listens to him and nobody looks to him for anything more important than picking up the tab. Ilya says yes to drugs and drinks and women, and he surrounds himself with other people who say yes yes yes to everything that comes their way, and it’s fun.
…but he can’t stop thinking about Shane.