Chapter Text
He's thirteen the last time his father hits him with a belt. A long stretch between the last time and the second last. The second last is the first day back at school after finding his mother. Ilya doesn't remember the reason for every time he was hit. Not by his father, not by Alexei, not by opposing players. It all boils down to a few basic reasons because of the way Ilya is. Some of those reasons are even things he does on purpose.
The last time it's about hockey.
“You play like a child, you will be punished like a child”
(Ilya is still more than decade away from changing his beliefs about what it should mean to be a child)
There's still a scar on his hip from the buckle when he loses his virginity. It wrapped around his waist too high and caught him hard on the hip bone. The girl scratches him there pulling down his underwear.
They were making out on her couch. The couch in her family's apartment, which was also her bed, but he didn't know that. She was in his lap, bird bones and long brown hair. Sticky lip gloss. Cold hands that warmed up under his shirt. She was 15. He was 14.
First their tops came off. The world melted away. He struggled with her bra too long. She kissed him anyways. He kissed like an apology. He opened his lips and let her tongue in, and he knew he was forgiven. He was breathless with it. He could feel all his blood working toward one thing, though he wasn’t exactly sure what that thing was. He was hard, obviously, but his hands were hot now, his mouth buzzing.
“Do you want?” She asked. Her hand was on his pants just above where hip meets torso. She could probably feel the warmth from his cock.
“Have you done it before?” He asked.
“Once,” she admitted. Her eyes were bright. Determined.
“Yes,” he said, kissing her again. She moved her hand to cup him. Light and unsure.
It was different than it is when he takes himself in hand. Obviously. Her nails were painted blush pink. She guided him inside. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. It felt really fucking good. She made small noises when he did certain things. He repeated them and she moaned. Her eyes squeezed tight.
“Okay?” He asked.
“Yes. Don’t do it in me.” He pulled out before he finished. It made a mess. Normally he’s prepared. Instead she had to grab a towel from the bathroom. He lets her clean herself up first.
He watched her closely. She had a hazy smile on. Clear eyes. Her panties were back on, shirt but no bra.
“You are so beautiful,” he told her. She looked at him like there was something worth seeing. He wanted more of that look.
He gets more. He gets a lot more. He learns to use his hands, trusting them with delicate and firm work. Girls, mostly. He’s the youngest on his team at 15 when Emelin’s girlfriend brings a friend to a game, and she teaches Ilya to eat her out. He loves it. It’s all consuming. He likes how her thighs feel under his hands and the gasps she makes. She’s loud. They’re in her house alone. He finds out after she’s 17. He likes the things she says, and learns to find the right words.
Then there’s Sasha.
Sasha has the most beautiful mouth Ilya had ever seen. He has muscle from ballet. Tight and controlled. When Ilya sucked his cock he groaned low and satisfied. It’s like tuning in on a radio frequency and getting a full symphony. Ilya learned to make him feel good. It fuels something in him. Settled something else. At least temporarily.
Sasha says things too. Says them when Ilya’s throat is full of his cock and can’t reply, jokes when he takes them in hand together, rubbing together. Ilya can’t tear his eyes away and the afterimage is the only thing he gets off to for months.
It is three in the morning. Ilya has to be on the ice at 5:30. He hadn’t slept yet. Sasha’s hands are in his hair.
“I want to leave,” he said. “I want to be so great it carries me away.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Sasha replied. Then softer, continued, “You are perfect at this.”
“Can’t I have it all?” Ilya asked. Ilya wondered if Sasha knew how it was all bullshit. Ilya had nothing but impossible hope. Ilya wanted. Ilya had been good enough so far. The hope was dangerous. It made Ilya dangerous. It also needed to make him great. The kind of great that would make him famous.
He figures sex out fast. This is not that surprising. Ilya is not that smart academically - he goes to school these days with his teammates and he’s only middle of the pack there. Ilya knows his body, knows what it can do and how to push it. He knows how to react to someone else. He knows how to read what someone wants and what they will do. The sex is great. When hockey is not good, he can get sex right.
When he is sixteen he makes the National Junior Team. He drops out of the school his mother used to walk him to, and his education is taken over by the team teacher. It is sandwiched between ice team, practice, and conditioning. The older boys get a three hour free block of time while they finish their education. He is still the fastest, but it’s a much closer race. He is still fucking Sasha. He is still fucking girls.
There’s a span of four months after his father dropped a glass during some important party where they are hosting biweekly parties. Every other week Ilya is there in his suit, some minor injury hidden under it. His body aches all the time, just a little bit. It’s good, sore muscles and earned injuries. Love bites hidden on pecs that are developing as every day puts muscle on his frame. Every time, Alexei brings his girlfriend. She is much too pretty for Alexei, and he tells her so. Each party he flirts. Gentle at first. He lets the desire run through him, lets it show on his face. He’s allowed to want.
She’s twenty two. He’s only ever slept with other teenagers. He is burning through the competition in Juniors in every sense. She shaves her cunt with a landing strip. She runs her fingers through his curls. He gets her off with his mouth, and she whimpers “Rozanov” and he doesn’t pause, just dives back in. It’s a competition, it’s an order, it’s his fucking name.
Fucking her is so good he almost embarrasses himself with how fast he comes. He loves how she feels under him. Her hips are perfect, her breasts sensitive, and he feels like a king. The body he built is his to command, and it feels like this.
It’s four more months and another two stolen liaisons before Alexei finds out. That also feels good. Alexei wants him fucking dead. Ilya can read it in every line of his body. Alexei can’t actually kill him. Even though he is police now. Alexei doesn’t have Ilya’s commanding loyalty, they’re going to make him captain of the National Junior Team and Alexei couldn’t even keep his girl. Alexei gives killing him a good shot anyways. He fights back, obviously. Ilya is still six months from being taller than his brother. He’s two years away from being heavier. Ilya gets knocked off balance, too used to fighting on ice. Once he’s on the ground, Alexei kicks his stomach until Ilya pukes.
“Now you look like the pathetic child you really are,” Alexei says. Ilya can’t breathe yet, but manages a “fuck you”. He pisses blood for a few days and wins the next few games on pure spite. Alexei didn’t even break ribs.
Then he is on a flight across the ocean, bound for Saskatchewan. Regina is a funny name for a deeply unfunny place. It claims to be a city, but Ilya can see sky between buildings. It’s also fucking cold. Buryat, defence from fucking Siberia takes a deep breath when they step out of the Regina airport and says “feels like home.” He’s grinning. He’s not even wearing a hat, his impossibly light blonde hair shining under a sun that doesn’t deserve to be so bright for it’s complete lack of warmth. It feels like he’s specifically mocking them. Ivankov, who normally plays for the other Moscow team informs him this so-called city does not even have a Metro. He seems distraught. Ilya manages to contribute that they do not have an NHL team either, which allows the conversation to drift.
Ilya is shivering in his jacket that is not warm enough. His ears no longer hurt, he refuses to take off the beanie protecting them. The inside of his nose is cold. He didn’t know that was possible. All he wants is a cigarette. And then there is Shane Hollander. Polite but deeply irritating. Too beautiful for words. The only thing running in Ilya’s veins is desire and nicotine, and then they are world fucking champions. It is only when the desire does not fade on the hours of international travel home does he realize it has a second focus. Shane fucking Hollander.
He steps off the ice one day after training. Tough practice. Slept bad. Has three hours of class on math he’s probably going to be too concussed or wealthy to ever need before afternoon ice time and conditioning. Instead, he gets pulled by their doctor. Normally the Juniors get pulled by trainers, maybe the head of PT. Not Dr. Zalessky.
“Fuck any crack whores recently?” Zalenssky growls at him the second they reach the man's office and the door is slammed shut.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Ilya starts, because while he has no idea what has gone wrong, he knows how to handle an angry man. Zalenssky has a vein bulging in his neck. His hair is gray. His hands look strong. He wonders how hard he will hit.
“Rozanov, you have fucking HIV,” Zalenssky tells him. “We caught it on the blood panels we had to send for World Juniors.”
Dread. Every part of him that is an elite hockey player is replaced with shame. “World Juniors knows?”
“Of course not. You think I’m a fucking idiot?”
No. Because Ilya’s the idiot. Zalenssky can ruin his life right here, right now. This information is the kind of thing that will not only kill his hockey career, but will probably have his father destroy him.
“If anyone finds out, your career is over.” The doctor tells him, like Ilya doesn’t already know.
“If?” Ilya asks. That sickening hope, desire, something hits full force like a damn breaking away.
The doctor sighs. “I will hide this. If you do anything stupid, we will both go down. Then I will kill you myself.”
“Yes, sir.” Ilya replies.
“You take these now.” The doctor hands him two prescription bottles. One has dark blue cylinders and the other has yellow ones. “Each one, once day. Do not fuck it up.”
“I won’t sir,” Ilya replies.
“You’re getting biweekly blood tests from now on. You have a stupid high viral load.”
Ilya does not ask what that means. It must be on his face. The doctor sighs.
“There’s two numbers we care about. One is your viral load - that's how much of the disease is in you. The other is your CD4 count. That tells you how badly it’s fucking your immune system. That’ll be what kills you.”
Ilya nods. He is not ready to die.
“That’s why you take your meds. Viral load goes down. CD4 goes up. No one is any fucking wiser.”
Ilya commits it to memory. Later, he’ll wish he asked for his numbers.
“I’m gonna tell coach you got flagged by World Doping. If anyone asks why I need so much of your damn blood.” He shakes his head.
“Condoms are mandatory for you. Have less sex if you can think with your brain not your cock. If you give this to anyone I will get you kicked off this team.”
The threat barely registers. If anyone finds out his career is over, Zalenssky killing him would be a mercy. What sticks in his mind is condoms. Condoms are one of those things that ebbs and flows in availability in the city. English names and packaging, obnoxious. If Ilya was a rich adult, not the son of a powerful man, he would have connections to not worry. He could just have what he needs. As it stands, he thinks he’s maybe used a condom twice, both times supplied by the girl. He does not ask if condoms would have saved him from this. He doesn’t think he could handle the naive words leaving his mouth.
“Yes, sir.” He feels pathetic. Shame threatens to drown his lungs. He breathes anyways. Tucks the pills in the inside pocket of his jacket. He wonders if this is how mama felt, hiding pills away. Thinking about dying. Feeling trapped.
Zalenssky writes him a note for the teacher, and Ilya walks to a small classroom in the team building for math.
They learnt a little bit about AIDS at school. Not hockey school, his old school. Kids joked it was the disease of drug addicts, whores, and fags. Teacher gave a timeline. First you were a little sick, then you weren’t sick at all, and then you got so sick you died. But it took time, maybe ten years before you got to the so sick you’re dying part. If you were healthy. Ilya realizes he doesn’t know if that’s with or without the pills in his pocket.
Ten years is not very long. He’ll be 26 when he can’t play anymore, based on that estimate. That gives him eight NHL years. He wants twenty years. But if he’s only going to get eight, at least it’s nearly a third of his whole life. If he thinks about it that way, it’s easier to manage the sword of Damocles above his head.
He’s walking home when he realizes he has to tell Svetlana and Sasha. He vomits in an alleyway.
Svetlana has him over under some pretense of another. She goes to kiss his checks, and there’s a terror in him. Cheek kissing isn’t sex, but it is touching. Her eyes narrow, seeing the way he’s tensed. He doesn’t react this way to her, at least not unless he’s delirious with pain.
“Lanochka, you need to get tested,” he tells her, when they are alone in the parlor.
“What do you have?” she asks.
“The bad one,” he whispers.
“Fuck,” she says. Lanka gets a negative result and pages of real information. It’s from a folded paper he reads in the locked bathroom that he finds out he probably has longer than ten years to live. Finds out he cannot pass this with saliva or touching or kissing. That the risk is low for someone blowing him. That he needs to always use a condom. He cries in the shower as he dissolves the paper.
Sasha also tests positive. Ilya is sick with guilt, his treacherous blood boiling. Sasha’s mother was a figure skater, and she gets him his meds without alerting his father. Sasha mostly feels guilty over the bribe money.
“I’m so sorry, Ilusha,” Sasha says.
“I am sorry,” Ilya tells him. “Probably my fault.”
“No,” Sasha says. Touches Ilya. Hand on his shoulder. “It does not matter.”
For almost four months, he only sleeps with Sasha. At the end of the four months, he mostly believes Sasha’s insistence it doesn’t matter who gave it to who. Sometimes Ilya thinks about fighting an older teammate who said some shit to Sasha. Thinks how he wanted to protect Sasha. Maybe failed this one. He has to keep playing the game in front of him. Sasha manages. Sasha’s body is safe despite how sharp it looks. It does not change as he starts medication. He does not look sick. He even laughs sometimes, like when Ilya gets trapped in his own briefs. It is good.
It’s bad, sometimes. He thinks about the person he was when he met Shane Hollander. He had HIV then too. Was still at risk of infecting the perfect Canadian. All the desire is something burning. Hollander is electric. Brilliant. Lightening. Ilya wants to lick the sweat from his face and win. Hollander is too dangerous to want.
He trains. His Moscow Junior team plays well. He buys three boxes of condoms, uses every single one in less than two weeks. He can’t get more and is stuck with thinking about fucking Hollander and his hand. He practices English. It sounds choppy and dull in his mouth. He tries to use it on the ice, the contrast of being at home on the ice and the foreign words stuck in his throat.
The last time he talks to Dr. Zalenssky before the draft, the older man informs him he can’t bring his antiretrovirals to LA.
“There is a travel ban to America. For HIV. You cannot go if you have been diagnosed.” He says it so casually. This fucking law that makes Ilya’s dream illegal.
“How am I supposed to play in the NHL then?” Ilya feels like a whining child.
“Don’t tell them. Buy your own doctor.” Zalenssky keeps his casual regard. Like he doesn’t know how long Ilya has been hoping for a safer life in America.
Whatever. If the draft goes well, Ilya will be able to buy a doctor. He will be a rich man. LA is the immediate issue: “You said I have to take my pills everyday. What happens if I don’t?”
“Your numbers will go up. Hopefully only a little bit. If they go up a lot, we have to change medicines.” Zalenssky shrugs. He’s a true Soviet doctor, trained when things were what they were.
Ilya is a fucking star. He’s going to be something more. “Will I feel sick?”
“After five days? No.” Good enough.
Ilya walks home, and gives in and smokes three cigarettes, back to back to back. He’s been trying to quit, but only half heartedly. He’s sick with it now, since it's been weeks this time since he last smoked. He was good through the playoffs.
He plans. At any given time, Ilya keeps his meds on him, with five days back up hidden in two separate places in his room. It’s not a perfect system. He ends up leaving his main dose with Lana. She kisses his mouth, because her papa isn’t home.
“Am I the last person to kiss Ilya Rozanov before he becomes number one draft pick?” She teases.
“Depends on the women in LA,” he teases back.
“Brat,” she says. “Remember who loves you now.”
“You are unforgettable,” he tells her.
He would rather die than admit it, but he is afraid walking home without his pills. He goes through American customs, wonders if they will know to test his blood. In Los Angeles, he is dressed in a suit and it hides that he is not legally allowed here. He is getting away with a crime. It is the largest crime he can think of, look at his payout: wealth and fame, his name on an NHL jersey for Boston, a podium, number 1. Shane Hollander beside him, face strained, shoulders brushing his.
Fuck them all. He thinks. He is getting away with this thing because he is better than their fucked up rules. Tonight, he is the best.
His father disagrees. In the hotel room, he receives a backhand. His nose bleeds. He wonders how much poison has built up in his blood. Wonders if his father might take it on. Ilya wishes the man would feel some share of his helplessness.
His father goes to sleep. Ilya goes to the hotel gym. So does Shane fucking Hollander.
Ilya passes the water bottle. Hollander is so beautiful when he obeys. His body settles like he needs it, drowning for it. Ilya couldn't tear his eyes away. If he wanted to. He’d kill anyone who asked.
Ilya’s biggest dream came true a few hours ago. Watching Hollander swallow makes his body feel like any desires he’s had have never been sated.
Then he is alone again. He wonders if Hollander would have shared a water bottle with him if he fucking knew. Would Hollander look at him that way? It kills him not to know and he’s terrified the truth will hurt worse.
He spends the summer training. His viral load goes down the way it needs to. Packs clothes. He flushes his extra pills. A countdown starts in his head until he sees his new American doctor.
The first important thing he spends his NHL check on is the doctors appointment Lanka finds for him. It is more than a blessing for her to have spent time in Boston. Personal doctor. Not team doctor.
Dr. Pereira is the most different from Dr. Zalenssky that Lanka could find. She’s much younger, early forties instead of mid sixties, much darker in skin colour. She has a signed Brazil football jersey in her office. She gives a warm smile when Ilya compliments her on it, warmer still when she jokes about how Americans call it the wrong name.
Ilya’s numbers are still good. She gives them when he asks.
She frowns when Ilya can’t tell her which meds he was on. After describing them, she tells him the names. Then she asks if he had any side effects. Ilya is politely baffled. He mentions the nausea from the first few weeks. Throwing up once after a bag skate he was more than capable of managing. Eight months ago.
She keeps him on them, explains words like protease inhibitor and NRTIS. It’s weird knowing what the pills are actually trying to do. She writes him a prescription and recommends a discreet pharmacy.
She nods. “If there’s anything serious, you need to call my emergency number.” Her voice is sharp and clear.
“No one can know,” he says.
“Yes. We pride ourselves on discretion, Mr. Rozanov,” she tells him. She also gives him a binder of information about managing HIV, facts, myths, managing relationships. It’s very discrete, for what it is.
“It is important to me that my patients have the best possible information about their condition,” she says.
Huh.
Looking through the damn thing, there’s drug information, support groups, a guide to “disclosure”, myths and facts, and options for therapy. A good half the book talks about laws. It has a lot of very dense paragraphs, which lose him at a few places. A lot of words he has to google. Fortunately, each page has a box with “Key Info” above it. In addition to his crime of being here, he has to tell people he has HIV before they have sex. That detail has a little star which says “In about half of the states.” Handwritten on the side says “Not in Massachusetts." That’s a relief, considering he isn’t fucking doing that.
Current research says he is unlikely to spread HIV with a low viral load. He’s unlikely to spread it with condoms or non penetrative sex. He can’t spread it with spit.
Condoms are laughably easy to get in Boston. He can sleep with all the women he wants. There’s virtually no risk to eating pussy, and he enjoys it. It’s a relief to not be expected to speak with his mouth full. He learns English dirty talk on his knees, fluent with the lips in front of him.
He takes a “less is more” approach with his own dirty talk. It gets easier with practice. He figures out fast who will find a word in Russian hot and who barely tolerated his accent. He is fastidious with condoms. Paranoid even.
Lana comes over, something approaching a house warming, except it’s November. They drink the good vodka she brought. They cuddle in his bed, her in panties and a shirt of his he’s sure she’ll steal. It’s a relief to feel her. It’s a relief to smell her.
“It might be getting to me,” he whispers.
“What about it?” She replies, just as conspiratorially.
“I do not want to make anyone feel like this?” He has to whisper it.
“What does it feel like?”
If he had to look at her, he wouldn’t be able to answer. “Dirty.”
“You are not dirty,” she tells him. She kisses him for good measure. Blows him for even more proof. When she rests her head on his thigh it feels like she’s holding his body together.
She’s read the things he has. Probably understood them better. His English is coming in leaps and bounds. Everyone in Boston talks so fucking fast, but he’s always been a sink or swim kind of man. If he’s drowning in a harbour of an unfamiliar chorus, that’s for him to manage.
“If I do spread it,” he starts. He doesn’t say infect only because he’ll feel sick.
“It will be an accident,” she says. “Honest. Risks are part of life.”
It is not only Lanka who tries to convince him. He calls Sasha after reading comments on a news article. He’s not exactly sure what the point of not loathing this is when so many people are disgusted by it. He isn’t crying when he calls. Thinks about the line in his binder from Dr. Periera. Anyone's life can change at any point every day. Sasha says it's selfish to make himself more special than random chance. It doesn’t settle what it needs to. Until the new year, he only gives oral. Pretends to get a call. Says once he’s had too much to drink to get it up. The women have a good time.
His viral load stays low. His CD4 count keeps ticking up.
“You’re in excellent health,” Dr. Pereira tells him.
After Russia loses World Juniors, after Ilya loses World Juniors, and after the phone call with his father about losing World Juniors, Ilya is watching the news in his hotel bed. The HIV travel ban has been lifted. Given Ilya had his meds delivered to him in Ottawa in a way he’s sure isn’t fully legal, instead of taking them across the border, it gives him so much relief he might pass out. He tells his roommate he’s going for a walk.
He walks by the river. It’s a quiet night. The sports bars are busy. Ottawa is several degrees colder than Moscow. Several degrees colder than Boston. He breathes in the cold air. It almost hurts his lungs. His lungs, which are fine, supplied by blood which is also doing fine. The things in him aren’t criminal here. Russia is complicated, because home is always complicated. The things he wants are dangerous in Russia. Americans are more direct about these things. They can still hurt him. But they cannot deport him in one fell swoop. This secret won’t shatter his life if he shares it. It occurs to him in a brief moment of lucidity, that he wants a life more honest than this.
It would be so fucking stupid to share it with Hollander. He cannot stop thinking about it.
Hollander is hard in the showers. He was so fucking pretty on the ice in his makeup. Ilya isn’t sure if they put mascara on him, or if his eyelashes are just like that.
Ilya has never wanted anything more. Hotel room. Hollander is kissing him.
Kissing Hollander is what he imagines freefall is like. Hollander's lips are soft, if slightly dry. His mouth is inviting, and Ilya dives in. He wants to touch. Wants to feel the freckled skin that shone in the locker room. Wants to push Hollander so he can’t even try to lie, as terrible as he is at it.
Hollander is perfect. It only fans the flames of desire. His body packed muscle during the season, just like Ilya’s own. Ilya has never done this with a body so similar to his own. He wants to laugh hysterically. Hollander's body will never be like his, not in the most important way. Hollander is a perfect competitor, but there is one thing he has won before the game was ever set.
Ilya holds Shane’s face and Shane brings Ilya’s fingers into his fucking mouth. Licks them. His mouth is so fucking wet. His tongue is curious and deliberate.
Ilya is going to show him how to use it. Pins Hollander’s hips to the wall. Feels for the hardening cock in Hollander’s briefs. Hollander is so hard he’s leaking pre. His dick is fucking ridiculous. The patchwork of hair doesn’t take away from the length. Hollander is staring down at him, eyes wide and pupils blown. Ilya holds eye contact and lowers his lips to the head. Hollander looks away first.
He makes little noises, gasping and low as Ilya gives attention to every inch of his damn cock. Ilya takes him deep into his throat and Hollander yelps, “Rozanov, fuck!” He bobs his head up a few times, Hollander tries to buck his hips and Ilya doesn’t let him. He’s biting his lip when Ilya looks up at him.
Ilya wants to tell him to be loud, to make noise and show this whole hotel what Ilya Rozanov does with his desire. Fortunately for that terrible idea, he’s occupied with the cock in his mouth. Hollander doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Ilya takes one and guides it to the side of his face. Hollander’s fingers curl into Ilya’s own curls. The weight of his palm on the side of his face is almost more intimate than anything else. Ilya wants Hollander’s touch everywhere, and it might drive him to madness.
Hollander can feel him at work. Ilya wants to watch Hollander fall apart forever, but he also wants to make him cum. Hollander barely gives him any warning, just a loud, “Shit!”
Ilya finishes with a kiss to Hollander’s public bone. Rises to his feet, running his hands up Hollander's body. Does not know the words to say. In Hollander’s eyes is the promise to run away. Ilya knows it well.
“Do you want,” Hollander says, using his head to gesture to Ilya’s crotch, in what Ilya thinks might be a real feat of bravery. It’s so sweet it takes his breath away.
“Do you want to touch my cock?” Ilya asks. It’s a challenge, but he is genuinely curious. He does not know how deep Hollander's want runs.
Hollander pushes down Ilya’s own briefs in response. The air is cool once he’s exposed. Hollander stares at Ilya’s cock. His hand flexes, stills. It makes Ilya's mouth run dry. He takes his own cock in hand.
“Spit on it,” he says. The fraction of wet heat of Hollander's mouth lands. Hollander is blushing, high on his cheekbones. “You want to touch?” He asks. Hollander fucking nods. Ilya guides his hand down. Hollander takes some fucking initiative. He gropes at Ilya’s chest with his left hand. Uses his thumb on the head of Ilya’s cock, getting more wetness. The friction is delicious. Hollanders’ focus is too. Ilya feeds two fingers to Hollander's open mouth. Hollander glares, as if he’s interrupted his focus, but then takes them, the weight. He hollows his cheeks and Ilya is going to cum. He closes his eyes and immediately regrets it. He wants to look at Hollander every second he’s allowed.
When Hollander leaves, Ilya wonders how much more time he’ll get.
By the end of season, their time together can be measured in minutes. Hours if you were good at decimals. For a man who keeps saying it’s stupid, Hollander is desperate for it. It must be hard for Hollander to debase himself. Ilya cries in the shower and is certain each time is the last one. He sends dick pics certain Hollander wants it the same way he does.
It would be easier, probably, if it wasn’t the best sex of Ilya’s life. Hollander watches with his pretty mouth open while Ilya rolls the condom on. His face is so often impassive, and Ilya is learning all his tells. He’s so tight on Ilya’s fingers. His cock is nearly purple with blood and desperation by the time Ilya has three fingers in him. They’re going to make a mess of this bed. Ilya is making a mess of the masterpiece under him. Hollander is making a mess inside of him.
Hollander takes him beautifully. His breath hitches. He moans. His back muscles tense and relax. Hollander was built for excellence in both hockey and sex, and Ilya is the only one who knows about the second one.
“Rozanov,” he moans, once Ilya is seated deep inside.
“Yes?” He asks, barely keeping his voice controlled.
“Move,” Hollander commands. Ilya find the rhythm, uses Hollander’s punched out moans to guide him.
“You need my cock,” Ilya says. Hollander’s hands are grasping at the sheets and Ilya wishes they were clawing up his back, but knows drawing blood would be a step too far. Hollander has started to collapse into the bed, chest first. His ass is under Ilya’s full control. It’s making his back arc. Ilya imagines his cum pooled at the lowest point. His hips stutter.
“You-” Hollander tries. Whatever it was it dies in a moan.
“Mine, yes,” he responds. Words are harder. Hollander’s hole is all consuming. “You’re going to cum for me,” he says, squeezing Hollander’s hips.
The rhythm is rough and Ilya gives it all to Hollander. Hollander swears, and Ilya can feel his balls draw up as his paints the bed. The way he tightens around Ilya’s cock sends Ilya over the edge. He spills into the condom and slowly draws out.
After, the kisses are so sweet it borders on something uncomfortable. If Hollander stopped it all, Ilya would die missing the kissing the most. Hollander’s mouth is loose and relaxed. Ilya did that. Ilya made his muscles go soft. Shane Hollander is a force of nature. For their stolen minutes and fractured hours, Ilya has some insane claim.
Boston makes it to the playoffs and no further. Ilya plays very well. Hollander plays very well.
Vegas has such a pretty skyline and Ilya keeps wondering if he should throw himself off the roof. Hollander won. The desire is sour in him. Hollander is better than him. Not at hockey, his ego isn’t that bruised. Hollander is good in a way that Ilya was locked out of a long time ago.
Of course, that’s when Hollander arrives. He’s so bright, even in the dark. Ilya stares at his face and Hollander is talking. The darkness doesn’t illuminate his pretty eyes.
Hollander is angry. He’s angry at Ilya. Ilya’s a sore fucking loser, whatever. Except Ilya, for a stupid moment, wants Hollander to know. Wants him to know
“Not everything is about you! I have fucking HIV, okay?” Hollander goes pale. There’s something in his eyes that flashes and makes Ilya wish he had jumped instead of opening his mouth.
“Did you just find out?” Hollander asks. His voice is too level. Dangerous. Ilya is practiced at that tone.
“No,” he replies. He knows from Hollander’s tone that Hollander isn’t asking because he cares about how Ilya feels. That’s fine. Ilya’s lived with this since he was sixteen.
“Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me?” he spits. Ilya didn’t know his lips could hold that contempt. Yet another secret of Hollander's body only he knows.
“You didn’t need to know,” he tries. He wants to sound reassuring, so Hollander knows Ilya can still be trusted with whatever the fuck this is. He wants to sound confident, because no one will ever say he is weak for this. He splits the difference and it comes out apathetic.
Hollander reaches a rage. “Bullshit. What. Is this some fucked attempt to eliminate the competition?”
“I wouldn’t do that. Hollander, I did not give this to you. I will not.” Even while the man is shouting at him, Ilya wants him to know that Ilya would rather die than ruin the thing that is good in Hollander.
“Then why didn’t you fucking tell me?”
Ilya doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have the words in any language.
He is watching Hollander run off, when he remembers how much he thought he wanted to be honest. Stupid. How could he think he could live an honest life when he barely can keep from drowning in the lies the world believes about his body?