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After Vegas, Ilya had fucked Hollander a grand total of three more times: in a hotel in Boston, then in fucking Columbus for All-Stars, then Hollander's apartment again. Ilya was starting to like the apartment. Hollander got loud there in a way he wouldn't let himself in other places, and Ilya was pretty sure he could convince Hollander to fuck on the kitchen countertop next time, whatever he said about germs. The height looked right for Ilya to eat Hollander out until he just about lost his mind, or his load—either would be gratifying. Hollander's bare foot kicking back on the island as he came: this was the delightful vision Ilya had tucked away in his back pocket, for the inevitable next time.
Then Hollander was a healthy scratch against Boston, wouldn't answer his texts, and then again at Carolina. And two days after that, press release from the Metros: We are sorry to report that Yuna Hollander, beloved mother of captain Shane Hollander, has passed away.
Ilya looked at the text thread with Jane. Nearly a week ago, from him: a room number, and then a screenshot of the Metros lineup with a question mark. He could have said something else then. He could have said, Sorry for your loss, or Are you okay, or anything else people said when your mother abruptly died in a car accident.
But Ilya hadn't found any of those things particularly helpful, and didn't. In fact, he didn't text Hollander anything the rest of the season. Hollander didn't, either. Obviously.
Summer. Ilya fucked a handful of women in Moscow and thought about picking up a man. Somehow the appeal was thin. He checked the text thread again, dormant since March; he watched the two press availabilities Hollander had done during playoffs.
Yes, somehow the Metros had hung on to their wildcard spot. Knocked out in the conference finals, which was practically a miracle. In the videos Hollander said absolutely nothing of substance. Hockey is a complicated game, we have a great team this year, we're giving it our all. Was he? Certainly the hollowness of Hollander's face was not just the playoffs taking its toll. The reporters had not asked about Yuna Hollander, but he flinched at every question like they had.
Ilya thumbed at the text thread again. How long was appropriate to wait, in this situation? Hollander looked like he needed to forget he had a body; this was something Ilya could provide. Perhaps the fact that he wanted to was, in itself, a problem, but when it came to Hollander, he had lacked self-control from the start. He couldn't be blamed for not having it now, several years into the mess of things.
There was a preseason game in Montreal in September. Ilya waited until he left Moscow to text: Your place next month. On the plane's shitty wifi it took a minute for the message to mark itself as delivered.
Hollander didn't respond. Ilya left the thread open watching for the dots and fell asleep somewhere over the ocean, phone cradled to his chest.
Hollander still hadn't responded by the time Ilya got to his building. Montreal had won the game 3-1. A preseason game, but Hollander hadn't played like it. Beautiful hockey, precise, focused. Ilya had boarded him twice and only got called on it once, but Hollander barely reacted, just wiped off his mouth and got back to his feet. A wrister into the net in the first minute of the power play. In the box, Ilya had tried and failed not to get hard.
This was often the case with Hollander. He texted Fire door, in case Hollander could have forgotten that was the way he'd let Ilya in before. He waited ten minutes in the cold alley, then followed up: I will bang on the door. It will be loud.
Five more minutes. Hollander made him do it, fist against the door, discordant metallic rattles. At the second bang the door opened, and Ilya shoved his way in before Hollander could finish saying, "What the fuck is wrong—"
"Yes, yes," Ilya said, and tried to pin Hollander against the wall. Hollander squirmed away. "Lots wrong with me, I know. You haven't answered my texts."
"I haven't— fuck you," Hollander said. His mouth was dark like a bruise. "Your texts? My mom—"
His voice cracked. Ilya had not screamed after he found his mother. The situation was different with Hollander, of course, but he thought probably Hollander hadn't, either. This was the sound frozen in him, trying and failing to come out.
"Do you want to suck my dick?" he asked, pleasantly, and Hollander jolted, nostrils flaring; then he hit him.
This was what Ilya had come for. There was a bright starburst of pain under his eye, on his cheekbone. Ilya grinned through it and caught Hollander's wrist as he swung again, a hard grinding grasp. Hollander could play dirty on the ice but he fought rarely; he wasn't expecting Ilya's knee to come up between his thighs.
A choked noise hissed out between Hollander's teeth. Ilya kept pushing, back to the wall, wrist high at an awkward angle. Hollander's other fist he wrestled under his armpit. He had to stand on Hollander's toes to stop him trying to kick his shins, but then he did have him pinned, eyes glittering, breath coming thin through his nose. "Get off me," Hollander said, "get the fuck off—"
"You've played hockey," Ilya said. "Great hockey, even. Scared my prospects. Have you done anything else?"
"Anything—else?"
"Anything," Ilya repeated, "since your mother—"
Hollander broke Ilya's grip. "Fuck you," he said. He was crying, now, as he tried to grab at Ilya's face, probably aiming for the eye or something. His nail briefly caught Ilya's ear, but then Ilya had his whole weight on Hollander, pushing him into the wall, elbow into his solar plexus, and he put both hands up to Hollander's throat—his thumbs were pushing into the soft underside of Hollander's jaw—and Hollander went limp like a rabbit.
Hollander was a considerable weight with his strings cut. Ilya lowered him to the floor and sat on his thighs. He could feel that Hollander was a little hard through his sweats; he was still blinking wetly, but his eyes kept closing.
Okay. Ilya could do that. Hollander jerked up at the rattle of Ilya's belt, tried to do—something. Reach for his dick, maybe. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except Ilya pulling the belt free and looping the leather around Hollander's neck.
Hollander rasped, "What."
"Be good," Ilya said, and threaded the end through the buckle, pulled it out smooth. Hollander swallowed when leather tightened over his adam's apple, but that was all.
Hollander's throat was the span of Ilya's two hands, maybe less. Too small for the belt to fit, no hole to hold the prong of the buckle. Ilya had the end in his fist. He could pull too tight, and Hollander would choke. Or Hollander could pull, yank his head away, and—
"Can you breathe?" Ilya said, and Hollander came up to him—crawled, hands and knees in front of his fire door—and put his cheek on Ilya's thigh.
Fuck. Ilya looked up at the ceiling light and took a breath. Another one, while Hollander nosed at the crotch of his jeans. Ilya had never had a dog, and didn't know if it was even the right comparison—Hollander at his feet felt far more dangerous. When he dropped his free hand to Hollander's head, the hair there was greasy and matted with sweat.
Ilya tugged Hollander away from his dick so he could drop down onto his heels. "Did you shower?"
Hollander looked away and didn't respond. Ilya hooked a finger under the point of his chin and drew him back.
"Hollander. Did you shower after the game?"
No answer. The smell of him made it obvious, though. Hollander was hunched and resentful in the shoulders, like he knew Ilya was going to make him, and Ilya didn't know why that started his pulse thundering in his throat.
"Okay," he said. "Up." The makeshift leash was still in his hand when he went up the first step. Hollander could have gotten to his feet—there was nothing stopping him—but he stayed down, an uncomfortable little crawl while his dick tented out his sweats. Second step, then a third. At the fourth step Ilya went too fast, felt real resistance at the end of the belt and nearly panicked, but Hollander only surged up, his head butting into Ilya's knee, breathing hard. At the edge of the belt Ilya could see how the skin went white, then pink under the leather.
At the door to the apartment Ilya kicked his shoes off. Hollander didn't have any on, only his socks. Ilya felt his teeth click together at that, like he wanted to bite. Like he wanted to pick Hollander up and shake.
Well. The downstairs bathroom had a perfectly serviceable tub. Ilya looked at Hollander heaped on the clean tile floor and said, "Get in."
Hollander shook his head.
"No?" Ilya said.
"No," Hollander said. There was the edge of a whine in it. "No, you can't—make me—"
Make him. There was a ringing in Ilya's ears. He was, he realized, the hardest he'd been in quite some time. Hollander was trying to scrabble away and Ilya caught him by the midsection, peeled his t-shirt up—he had to let go of the belt to wrestle it over Hollander's head—and then the sweats, a size too big and ready to slip off his hips, a little more work with the briefs. The briefs were still body-warm, wet at the crotch. Ilya tugged them off Hollander's ankles, then Hollander's socks, one by one.
Hollander was naked now, except for the belt. That was still on his neck, the loose end hanging by his hands. Ilya took it and hauled him over the edge of the tub. He recalled abruptly that Hollander liked folding his clothes when he undressed. Too late for it now. Ilya had Hollander hunched over at his feet, and turned the showerhead on.
"Fuck," Hollander said. The water sluicing over Ilya's feet was cold.
"Sorry," Ilya said, watching Hollander shiver, and couldn't tell if he meant it. Hollander's erection hadn't softened either, flushed red and tucked tight under his belly. When the water warmed up Ilya put a hand on the back of Hollander's head and pressed down. Water ran through the hair, slicked it down, revealed the tender curve of his ears. Ilya could have bitten them. Instead he uncapped the shampoo and dripped it beneath the spray until it started lathering. He had to switch the showerhead to his left hand so he could rub with his right, the foam bubbling up beneath his palm. Hollander's wet hair slid easier now through his fingers, and at the edges of his hairline Ilya felt Hollander's cheekbones, his tight jaw. The leather of his belt at the base of Hollander's skull—probably the water was no good for it. The bottom of Ilya's jeans were wet, too. Ilya wanted to kiss the top of Hollander's wet spine. Ilya wanted to—
Hollander was shaking his head, spraying water everywhere. Ilya slid his hand between the belt and Hollander's neck and pressed, hard, fingers digging into flesh. "Stop it."
Hollander stopped. That was the live-beating miracle of Hollander. He always wanted to be good. He wanted a chance to prove he was good, performing as he'd been taught. He wanted to earn his reward.
"Good," Ilya said. Washed the rest of him, arms and shoulders, the heaving chest, back and belly. When he patted Hollander's hip Hollander lifted it up, let Ilya pour soapy water over his ass and thighs, impersonally around his dick. He could have opened up Hollander then, or wrapped his hand around that dick and given Hollander his release, spattering onto the bottom of the tub. But that wasn't what Hollander needed.
Instead Ilya rinsed Hollander off. When the faucet squeaked shut the silence that fell was only interrupted by water dripping from Hollander, and the harshness of Ilya's breathing.
Nearly done. Ilya toweled Hollander dry roughly: hair in the tub, and then kneeling on the bathmat, the rest of him. Damp, his hair stuck to his forehead in a delicate spray.
"Okay," Ilya said, and tossed the towel to the floor. Sat on the edge of the tub and undid the fly of his jeans. "You were good, yes?" Hollander was watching the motion of his hands, but the rest of him was still. "Now you will get your reward."
Hollander—beautiful, wonderful—didn't move until Ilya tugged at the belt. Then he came to push his head between Ilya's knees, to take Ilya's dick into his hot wet mouth. Fuck. Hollander had always had enthusiasm, but this was something deeper, hungrier. It was the way Hollander devoted his whole body to sucking him. Like there was nothing else on earth he needed, except Ilya's dick.
"Yes," Ilya said, cracked, "Hollander, yes—" He shoved a foot between Hollander's knees, the shin of his wet jeans against Hollander's dick. It would hurt. He said, "You can," anyway, felt Hollander's hips start moving. Because Ilya had said. If Ilya had asked to fuck him, bare, no prep; if Ilya had tugged harder on the leash, until Hollander was choking. Ilya realized with perfect clarity that Hollander would stay, Hollander would give it to him. Hollander needed it too.
"Can you come?" Ilya said.
"I don't know," Hollander said around Ilya's dick, "I don't—" but his hips were moving faster, his belly and cock dragging on the wet fabric around Ilya's shin, and Ilya knew: he could, he would.
"You can," Ilya said. He let himself do it then, put his hand down and stroked the pink shell of Hollander's ear. "You can do it, you can be good, Hollander—"
"Can you," Hollander said. He was gasping now, hot breaths hitting the shaft of Ilya's dick, spit smeared across his lips. The bathroom light picked out the wet freckles across his cheeks, unreal definition.
"What do you want, Hollander, tell me—"
Hollander picked up the end of the belt and put it on Ilya's knee. "Harder," he said. "I wanna feel it."
Ilya came. Fuck. He came over Hollander's mouth and his face and he took the belt. "You want—" There was static in his mouth, iron like blood. Hollander had pushed his face into the seam on the inside of Ilya's knee, face smeared with come, with tears, with the water still dripping from his hair. Hollander's throat was trembling under the loose ring of the belt.
Harder. The belt drew through the buckle—pulled tight, settled against Hollander's skin like a kiss. A bite, digging in, the edges starting to chafe under the wet leather. Ilya felt it in his own throat, choking the breath out of him. "Very good," he said, shaky. "Shane. Good boy."
"Fuck," Hollander said. A thin breath of a sound. He was curling up, his belly was trembling, he was coming all over Ilya's shin, his bare wet ankle. "Oh my god, fuck."
Ilya had bitten his lip bloody. "Hollander," he said, and went to the floor. Pulled the belt loose, looked at the pink marks at his throat. He didn't know if he could— he didn't touch them, but Hollander did, his hands coming up, feeling from his collarbones to his jaw. "Are you okay?"
Hollander laughed. A low, rough rasp, but it was a laugh. "I'm," he said. Didn't finish. He was stretched out and naked and beautiful on the bathroom floor, rolling out his shoulders. Looking back up at Ilya, clear-eyed, the glacier of him cracked. "Yeah. Thanks."