Chapter Text
“There is no democracy in any love relation: only mercy.”
— Love’s Work
Ilya’s bad mood had followed him all the way from Russia.
He turned it over in his head, the sink of it all during those early hours back in Moscow, even when some of that old tenderness had seeped, sharp like that first breath of air after a long time underwater. Bad mood during the dinner parties, the evening appearances with important ministers, those daily social callings that gave life and shape and rhythm to the structure of his summer. Bad mood as he lay alone in bed — Sveta, if she wanted to sleep, had long since given up on sharing a bed with him in Russia, but now he sometimes wondered if they should have. He’d wanted to give her space; that’s what she’d wanted after all — arms resting over his stomach and felt it crystallise into a hard edge even as he sloped into sleep. No thought but the fact that he was transforming into the sort of piece-of-shit cunt that gave Grigori Rozanov’s life meaning. From then on there would be no escape from — it’s about time you pulled your finger out, Ilya. You’re lazy and worsening now from a long overstay in America. How can you even claim to have seen a full day of work? Your grandfather, yes the one you’re named after, he worked like a dog, toiled day and night just to provide a roof and food for his family; he would be ashamed to see what has become of you. He would be rolling in his grave and your mother – until the day started again.
There were those few bright spots of relief. Brilliant sparks that dulled the edges of a bad mood down to a quiet spot — Sveta and the vodka and the cigarettes and the drugs that you couldn’t find anywhere else but the clubs in Moscow, the thrum of being back in his city, the people, the language, all his pit stops; those occurrences where Alexei made being a piece-of-shit father Ilya’s responsibility and left his one daughter (the same daughter that would not survive a single hour if Ilya did not transfer Alexei thousands of dollars right that moment now) to Ilya’s care – enough to get him back to Boston.
Except, it had followed him back on the flight, past the gas stations and blocks of flats and fast food joints and telephone wires, right into his home, the ice, a bathroom stall as he fisted his cock in tight jerky motions.
Outside was the sound of someone pissing into a urinal, the flush of a toilet a stall down, running water from a tap. Ilya ignored all this, pressed his forehead to the stall door and jerked off in tighter desperate movements. He’d be on ice in thirty minutes and hadn’t even managed to get half hard. Ilya who hadn’t struggled to get hard since he was twelve felt like the worst sort of pussy.
Sveta. He tried to think of Sveta. Last week they’d fucked their way through all the clubs in Boston until they’d gotten bored and fucked on every other surface back home. He pictured the rise of her tits as she rode him, the flex of her thighs, the feel of her cunt, her hair in her face, how easy it was. How easy she always made it. But the fluorescent light stripped all the heat from the moment. Left nothing but the dry friction of his hand on his cock and something much worse. Hollander.
Ilya hadn’t spoken to him. Since — Christ — before summer probably. His brain didn’t care about that. His brain churned out a memory, nothing sexy or easy. Just that flushed look that Hollander got before he got on his knees. Like he couldn’t figure out how he’d made the journey up in the first place or maybe that he didn’t care. The crackle of white noise started in his ear, got into his head, caved his brain in. When the rest of the night did sludge in, it revealed Hollander in pieces: the arch of his back, his open mouth, the flushed ridge of his ear, his hair curling from the sweat on his nape. Thinking about it too long made him feel unbearable. It made him feel fucking crazy.
No way out of it now. Ilya took out his phone, tilted it down and snapped a photo of his cock, pants pulled down over his thighs.
He sent it over Snapchat with the message: Thinking of you (((.
He was soft again by the time the message delivered. Ilya unlocked the stall and paused in front of the row of mirrors. Long enough to make sure he looked fine. There was a game to win and if he didn’t, if Hollander got so much as a hint that Ilya had somehow fucked it up, he would be worse than pissed. For all his trying, Ilya had never gotten him past that point but Hollander had a way of surprising him. Even back then in his early rookie days when Ilya could tell he couldn’t stand him and wanted to him fuck him all the same. Not for the first time, he wondered with some bemusement how no one had ever caught on. How no one had seen Hollander for the faggot he was back before he was anything worthwhile. It didn’t matter anyways. Ilya wasn’t stupid enough to test it out.
By the time he left the bathroom, the corridor was teaming with publicists, coaches and management. He ducked his head and rushed past the cluster, snared a swipe of conversation – might be good to pair coach and Rozanov for press after the game – and did not stop until he was outside the locker room. His phone pinged with a notification.
One message from Hollander: What the fuck is wrong with you
Then: You’re about to play a game!
And finally: You better delete that shit, Rozanov.
Ilya grinned, and felt something rise straight from the gut. Hollander was uptight. Hollander was boring. Hollander would sometimes leave Ilya on read for hours, busy with whatever the fuck he did outside hockey – although, it was hard to tell what that was most days – enough time for Ilya to stew and grow bored and find his fun elsewhere. He must have been really desperate to respond this quick.
He slunk into the locker room grinning when he was met with the wall of chirps – What time do you fucking call this Rozy? Where you been? – and Hollander tense and stiff in the corner.
“Nice of you to join us, Rozanov,” Hollander said dryly.
“Sorry coach.” His teeth were on edge with that same bubbling sensation, a buzz that sparked his blood wrong and pulled his back tight and calcified the pulse in his brain to something solid. Ilya dumped his phone in the cubby and grabbed his skates from the locker. He laced his right skate tight first and then the left.
When he was done, he slapped his hands together to grab everyone’s attention and shouted, “Listen up you fucks, we’re against coach’s shitty old team.” He laughed and raised his voice over the boos. He could feel the hard edge of Hollander’s attention. If he turned to face him, he’d probably find Hollander bristling, stuck on his third aborted attempt to cut him off. This felt better than coming. It was almost as good as fucking the man himself. The thought got into his head, sunk him back into that crazy-high he’d had back in the toilet stall. Ilya continued. “I know. I know. We can throw tomatoes at him for this later but if we lose, he’ll have our balls. Good enough reason to win, yes”
That did it and they rolled out, whooping and laughing like a bunch of shitfaced teens, and over the din, Marly’s voice heaved over the cheers like oil on the surface of water as he pointed to Hollander, smiling brainlessly all the while and said: “Count this as an early wedding gift, coach.”
Three to Two.
Nowhere near the massacre that Ilya had been gunning for but a win was a win. Not much good it did. Hollander’s mood had darkened by the second intermission and was now gutter black by the time they rolled into the locker room. All the easy loose-limbedness, the magic that visited after a win on home turf curdled into something sour as Hollander methodically dissected all their fuck ups.
It was almost staggering how bad he was at letting a good thing lie. A dog with a bone, St Vic had once described him as. Ilya tried to imagine what Hollander was like at home and couldn’t. He had a kid; Ilya had seen him around a few times at team BBQs. He had a fiancé now too. Maybe he was different with them. Maybe he didn’t bleed out all the fun of a win. Ilya held the image in his head: Hollander eating a meal with his fiancé and son. No talk of hockey at the table, just Hollander as a real life boy, the boring drone of hearing how someone else’s day had gone and caring.
He shivered in his cubby and waited him out. Hollander wasn’t even rude with it. Polite and Canadian as he dragged on about penalties and the power plays and fighting. Ilya didn’t listen. He knew the gist and would get the same breakdown later on.
Later.
He didn’t give a shit about Hollander or his fiancé. Hadn’t cared when he’d first introduced him to Jakob Hołub or when Hollander had tentatively, shyly asked if Ilya was really fine with this, Hollander fucking a friend of a friend. He hadn’t given a shit. Still didn’t give a shit, but Hollander was the sort to pussy out three years later now that there was a ring involved. With cresting panic, Ilya realized that it had been four months since they’d last fucked. Four months and he couldn’t even pull together the full memory. Marly caught his gaze and rolled his eyes as Hollander dug into Connors next.
“Do you have something to add, Rozanov?”
Ilya tilted his head back and raised an eyebrow. When he caught Hollander’s gaze, that tightening furrow between his eyes, he finally shrugged and said: “Nope.”
He let the p pop as he said it — it had been the first word he’d really learnt to enjoy. The one he delighted most in — and felt only the smallest glimmer of satisfaction at the sight of a fat vein throbbing on Hollander’s forehead.
“Alright, I think that’s it. Good game, guys,” Hollander sighed. “I want you all here for noon, so we can go over the tapes from today’s game before practice.”
Loud groans from the rest of them as Hollander left. Ilya bent low to untie his skates.
“I thought gay guys were meant to be happy,” Marly complained. “How the hell is he worse now that he’s engaged?”
Ilya paused for a beat before toeing his skates off and setting them between his feet. He tried to think of a good excuse to move. Hollander’s engagement wasn’t Ilya’s problem but nothing convincing came to mind. It circled through his head again. The same thought he’d had all through the game: what the fuck was he going to do now?
“Gay guys are bitchy, dude. Everyone knows that,” Carmy corrected. He stripped out of his jersey and lobbed it into his bag. “That’s more coach’s vibe.”
A scatter of laughs made an easy backdrop for Ilya to strip off the rest of his gear. One of the younger publicists came in just to say he was needed for press.
“You coming out tonight, Rozy?” Hammers asked.
Ilya stretched a little, flexing his muscles just to get a good feel of the rolling layers of aches and bruises. There was still that same itchy buzz. The same one from back in the stall, and even further back to summer, probably. Sleeping with Sveta hadn’t ground it out nor had antagonising Hollander and winning the game.
“You buying my drinks?”
“Fuck off, Roz,” he said good-naturedly.
Media was boring. Hollander was nowhere in sight —and so much for that plan of pairing them together — which left Ilya to explain how they’d fucked up the power play in the second period. He saw himself from a remove as if a little part of him had been cleaved off clean. The pose he’d struck was easy. Relaxed. Leaning a little against the wall was a good one. He’d have to hold that one for a little longer.
A journalist from ESPN asked whether it felt good to get a win in such a tight game. Ilya said obviously. Another from Athletic asked about the turning point in the third period. Ilya made some shit up about building up a good momentum from the earlier periods, the sort of thing that Hollander might have led with. His mind spiralled back to Hollander. If they were still on for tonight. If there would even be a tonight. The thought sunk in: what the hell would be do if they weren’t? Long enough for a silence to drag. The publicist from earlier caught his eye, gave a questioning look. You ok, she mouthed. Ilya hummed, asked for the question to be repeated. It would have been better to ignore it. The question was mind-numbingly boring. Something on what lessons that he wanted to take from this game to the next. Ilya told the journalist that the only lesson that mattered was scoring more goals and getting pucks in. Those would be the only lessons they took forward.
By the time he was done, the locker room was empty and Ilya was nervous for real. In the quiet, the itch from all the way back before had stirred into something sharper, fused to the bad mood he’d had all through Moscow. It was the sort of feeling that made Ilya drive while drunk and fuck old teammates girlfriends and accept bumps from strangers in clubs. He never knew what he’d do while feeling like that. What he’d fuck up, only that he’d have to do something to burn it out.
A small ping from his phone. By the time Ilya grabbed it and swiped it open, his heart had doubled up in size and was stuck tight in his throat.
Jane: Come to the apartment when you’re done.
And then:
Jane: Good game btw
Ilya carefully touched the screen with his index fingertip and then swiped up. It was kinda crazy what Hollander did to his head. Ilya could go almost all summer not thinking about him and then he’d touch foot in the US and all of it would come rushing back. Nothing in Boston had ever gotten him this dumbstruck. His thumbs were a blur on the screen. You’d think he was writing up the next big American novel with how fast he was going. Eventually he settled on:
I thought we played like shit.
Followed it up with:
Send a pic as award
Jane: Fuck off. Award for what? It took you almost going into overtime to win…
Ilya grinned and tucked his head down. For all their griping, he didn’t think any of his teammates had ever really seen a bitchy Hollander.
Jane: Also, what the hell were you playing at sexting before the game
Greed put everything out of order, like he was seconds ahead of everyone else. He didn’t think to complain about the shower’s water pressure until he’s drying off. Didn’t bother texting Hollander to say he’s on his way until he’s started the car.
Ilya funnelled past a line of houses, a basketball court with a crowd of kids shooting hoops, a cute looking couple holding hands, families bundled into their SUVs and Hondas, the sorts of boring cars that Ilya had always imagined Hollander driving and then been proven correct on. He came to a standstill. The sun was on the move. It contracted into a tiny bright spot. Boston traffic was at its worst.
The car idled for two minutes and then five. Long enough for Ilya to imagine what he’d do to Hollander when he’d made it to his sex dungeon. Hollander probably wouldn’t have much time, probably less now that he was someone’s fiancé, but Ilya would really drag it out this time.
He’d strip him out of all his clothes. He’d bend him over his knees. He’d fuck his fingers in until Hollander was really crying for it until it didn’t matter that they’d gone past the allocated time cause he was just that desperate.
By the time traffic slid into the open road, Ilya felt stretched thin.
A crowd of teens spilled out of the alleyway as Ilya slowed to park. He got a swipe of their conversation through the open window as they rolled past – “I’m gonna ask Jason out. I mean, we kissed, that must mean something” – and shot a picture of the back door. He sent this one with the message: Here.
There were birds clinging onto black telephone wires. The sun sunk down a little, settled stiff on the garbage piling out behind Hollander’s apartment block. It stunk bad. Ilya took out a cigarette and lit one up. He checked for messages and then opened his phone onto Snapchat in case he'd somehow missed it. Nothing yet, not even a seen notification to show that Hollander had at least opened the message. The cigarette burned steadily between his fingers, a tendril of smoke rose in patches and his fingers buzzed with it. That pleasant, grasping suffocation, the acrid scent, and God, maybe he’d needed this all along, not Hollander, not his mouth, just something to grind down the edge a bit. Hollander would be mad. Would hate the smell but it would serve him right.
Just as he was about to send another message, the door swung open in one long gaping screech.
“As your coach, I’m gonna need you to stop smoking in places where I can see you.”
Ilya tilted his head back and took him in. He was still in the same ugly slacks from before. His face was pinched, voice hard against the dank backdrop of the building. He was so fucking hot.
Ilya couldn’t work his jaw around what he really wanted to say, so instead lifted his cigarette and took a long greedy drag. He dropped it to the ground and stamped it out. When he looked back up, Hollander was already wrinkling his nose in disgust. Ilya almost wished he’d kept the cigarette at hand just so he could have held Hollander down and blown the smoke in his face.
“I don’t see a coach around. Just a desperate cockslut.” He slid past him and felt the sway of his body, the heat of it as he stepped through the door.
“Fuck all the way off,” Hollander said but he didn’t sound angry about it. Although, his eyes flitted like crazy, first to the top of the stairs and then back to the doorway as if he was expecting someone to jump out from behind a corner.
“I don’t think that’s what you want,” Ilya said over his shoulder and made his way up the stairs. It didn’t take long for Hollander to follow after him.
“How was your summer?” Hollander asked when they were both in his apartment. He sounded formal and awkward. His back was pressed close to the door. Maybe, Ilya had been right to be nervous. Hollander was pussying out now that there was a ring on the table.
Ilya leaned back against a nearby wall and raised an eyebrow. “Fine.” And because he couldn’t help himself added: “You drag me out to your sex dungeon to ask boring questions. You could have messaged me for that.
“Don’t be a fucking asshole,” Hollander said flatly but he relaxed a little. “I’m trying to be polite. You know? Making conversation.”
“Yes,” Ilya crooned and edged closer, felt the long length of Hollander’s body and the give of his muscles and the feel of him softening, bleeding out all that tension. Ilya settled his hands on Hollander’s waist, dug his thumb into the meat of it and the feeling of it, of his hands on Hollander after four months of nothing, churned and expanded and rose into his chest. “You are a polite Canadian boy who always asks how people are doing and what they get up to in summer even though he does not care about anything other than getting fucked.”
“Fuck off!” Hollander said but he was breathing in now harsh and desperate through his open mouth and his cheeks were pinking up and when Ilya splayed a hand on his chest, he could feel the rabbit-pace of his heart beating like crazy, the rise and fall of his big chest. He wanted to ask if he ever felt this desperate when he was with Jakob Hołub. If his fiancé even fucked him as good. Ilya thought he might answer if he did, so gone from just the feel of their bodies pressed together, that he’d say anything, but then Hollander tipped his head forward and caught Ilya’s mouth in a long deep kiss.
Hollander’s hands never knew where to go when he was desperate. They scrabbled at his shoulders and pinched tight at his hair, cupping the sides of his face when Ilya bullied his thigh between Hollander’s legs. He was hard already.
Ilya got a hand around his jaw, pulled away just to see his cheeks pinking up and his eyes wide and dark, his mouth open like he never wanted to close it. Ilya muscled a thumb into the slick hot of his mouth. Pressed the flat of his thumb to the inside, and felt Hollander’s gaping mouth close. Tongue to the pad of his thumb and hollowing cheeks as if he’d been waiting his whole life to get something in his mouth.
Blood pulsed like fucking crazy and a flutter from somewhere deeper just from the feel of Hollander’s mouth and his jerky rutting hips and his hair falling into his eyes. Ilya wanted to brush the hair out of his face. Wanted to get a good look at Hollander’s eyes, see how much wider, how much wetter they could get. Wanted to ask if his fiancé got him as hot for it. Wanted to fuck Hollander just like this. Said instead, meanly: “You are so fucking pathetic, Hollander. So fucking selfish making me do all the work even though I was the one scoring all the goals.”
The sound that came out Hollander’s throat was from somewhere deep in his chest, right down to the gut. Ilya pressed his thumb down hard on Hollander’s tongue and felt a fresh bloom tear right through him. All the bad moods from before slipped away like it had never even mattered in the first place. There really was no room for it here. Ilya only had the choice of one and he chose Hollander.
The sound Hollander emitted was garbled and Ilya felt another spike like the start of a bad heart attack; like the start of something bad; like he could never ever show his face again. “You will have to say that again. I don’t speak slut.”
Hollander rocked up against his thigh and he was red and trembling all over. There was a little drool at the corner of his lips from where Ilya had hooked his mouth open. He took his thumb out, smudged it against the fat pink of his bottom lip. Ilya felt the hot wet stuttering hitch of air against the flat of his thumb. Hollander looked up, big brown eyes prying open a hole in Ilya’s chest.
“What do you want?” Hollander asked, and his voice was strong and it was clear.
Ilya’s fingers went tight around his jaw, pressed his thumb down into the give of Hollander’s lip, so there would have to be a mark. Something to make up for the hurt. Hurt always heaved itself into something good. Twenty-two-years in and Ilya already knew this, that you could make a meal out of it. An image, just the thin shadow of it, came to life. Hollander in a bathroom, all the light from the morning and a hanging bulb piling up on him as he peeled back his lower lip to reveal the welt that Ilya had pressed in.
“I want to fuck your face.”
The sound of his pulse rang in his ears as Hollander landed with a thud on his knees, letting out a long keening whine when he nuzzled into Ilya’s crotch. It was clear as day that he had been gagging for it. Gagging for it back in the locker room while he tore them a new one for their power play, and gagging for it all through the game too.
Ilya knotted a hand in his hair and pulled it back just so he could see the long stretch of his neck, the way his Adam’s apple shifted, the look on Hollander’s face when he drew him back. “Do I need to tell you to do everything? Get my fucking dick out, Hollander.”
“Fuck — Rozanov — please,” he breathed out and he was shaky. Shaky hands when he tried to unbuckle his belt too, so Ilya had to swipe him away.
“Fucking useless,” he snapped and hot all over when Hollander moaned again, when his eyes went wider and his mouth dropped open, just the pink hot gape of his widening mouth. Open always. Open just for Ilya. He undid the button. Unzipped the zipper. Fingers thick with all the blood pulsing at his fingertips and leaking by the time he pulled out his dick. Hollander’s face went sweet; no one in the world liked sucking cock as much as he did.
That flutter again deep in his chest when Ilya caught sight of some of the gray that peppercorned the edges of his hairline. Ilya’s heart thumped wrong. Like missing a step and tumbling the rest of the way down. Nothing to do except lay there blinded and knocked flat.
“Do something useful and stick out your tongue,” he ordered and watched Hollander’s tongue roll out like nothing. He tapped the head of his cock against the tip of it, dripped precome onto the slight dip. He felt crazy. He felt fucking insane. There was nothing that Hollander wouldn’t do. Nothing that he wouldn’t take.
He didn’t feel like he was in his body. Like the moment that Ilya got his hands on Hollander, he had slipped out and everything he said, everything he saw was being done by a drunk person, not him but someone else living inside his body. He forced Hollander’s jaw up, and Christ his mouth was still open, and his eyes were so dark. The sound in his head was deafening when Ilya bent his body a little and spat into Hollander’s open mouth.
Hollander jerked up, going still when Ilya’s hands tightened. Would there be marks by the end of it, small dark bruises for Hollander to press down on and to study in the mirror and to gripe over? He liked the thought and the feeling, the image was so great that for a moment Ilya couldn’t say anything. But eventually it sunk into nothing, just the feeling of having Hollander between his open legs.
He managed to say, “You’re such a fucking slut,” before sliding his cock in deep. The heft of his dick stretched Hollander’s mouth open — and there really was no feeling like it — until the tip hit his gag reflex.
He heaved once, throat closing and mouth filling with spit. Ilya gave him no time to adjust, slid his fingers into his hair, held him in place and thrust past his gag.
“Fuck, Hollander your mouth,” Ilya groaned, dragged his dick fast against the heat of it. “Fuck hockey. That mouth is all you are good for. I should keep you locked in here forever. Just come when I want to get my dick sucked.”
Hollander’s eyes were swimming. Ilya’s favorite look on him: Hollander openly crying. His hand fumbled, fell to his neck which was bulging out with Ilya’s cock. His throat constricted. Ilya moaned, a pure wanting sound that filled him to the brim, no way to tamp down the upswell — the magic of his cock down Hollander’s throat.
Hollander’s hands curled into fists, fingers biting into the skin through his jeans. Stubborn with it. Sweet with it even as Ilya fucked his mouth open. He wasn’t able to stop it and touched his thumb gently to his graying hairline and then the freckles scattered across his cheeks.Closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see it. The moment that some of that cockdrunkness receded and he noticed for real. But Hollander followed him down there too. Just the thought of him. Hollander touching a bruise. Hollander arching his back.
Ilya thought again of Hollander and his fiancé; Hollander picking up his kid. He lost the rest of it. It was all unravelling and Ilya was sinking for real. It was only now that he could remember the full picture. The full memory that he’d been chasing all the way back in the bathroom stall. Hollander’s face when he’d sunk three fingers into his hole, his back arching off the bed and all of him flushed red. It was hard to look at. Like the light had broken off and bent at all the sharp angles. How had Hollander explained away his gaping hole that night. Ilya wished he’d asked. He wished he could remember if Hollander had told him in the first place, how he always managed to squirm out of hot spots. He imagined Jakob Hołub touching his stretched out puffy rim where he was reddening, sinking a thumb into the furl of his ass. Voice from the grave, from the hard pit in his gut: have you been playing without me? — lost all the rest when Hollander’s throat got tight. Pulled another groan from deep in his chest.
He couldn’t help it though. The thinking back. He was done for, on the final death spiral and Hollander was all in his head. The wet squelch of Hollander’s ass and the rise of his voice. What he’d said when he’d gotten back home. Had Jakob fucked him afterwards, not the night of but the morning after? The thinking clamped down, fused to the feeling of Hollander’s mouth tightening and his jerking hands and that deep groan from low in his chest. Ilya pitched forward hard and came, so deep that Hollander wouldn’t ever be able to get the taste of him out.
He pulled out and Hollander hacked out a gasp, violent coughing that wrecked the silence. Ilya dropped to his knees and petted his hair, kissed his forehead and the corner of his red-rimmed eyes and his spongy, blowjob lips. He tugged at Hollander’s ugly gray slacks but Hollander shied away. When Ilya raised a brow, he simply shrugged and huffed out an awkward laugh.
“I already came.” He was blushing a little as he said it.
Ilya groaned and sat down heavy on the floor. “Fuck, Hollander.” He tugged him down beside him and got an arm around his shoulder. “You came just from sucking my cock.”
“Fuck off, man,” he grumbled. His body listed sideways until he was leaning heavy against Ilya. Hollander lingered there for a moment before pushing himself away a little. Ilya felt cold all of a sudden. He had the stupidest urge to pull Hollander back in place. He gave a faint smile and then continued: “It was hot.”
“Yes, very,” Ilya agreed and pulled his arm away. He realized with a slight dip that they hadn’t even gotten their shoes off. Hadn’t left the doorway. Ilya hadn’t gotten him out of his clothes.
An awkward silence settled between them. Ilya’s fingers itched. He wanted a cigarette. He wanted to get the fuck out. Hollander stretched his arms high above his head and cracked his shoulder. Ilya stole a glance at a thin strip of his belly when his shirt lifted up.
“When did you start having sex?” Hollander asked abruptly.
He really was the worst at pillow talk. “You want to hear about me fucking other people?” Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Pervert.”
Hollander shoved at his shoulder a little. “Don’t be an asshole. I’m trying to make some conversation.”
“Yes, yes,” Ilya said impatiently. “You are polite boring Canadian who must ask boring stupid questions.”
“Oh, fuck you —“
“I was old enough,” Ilya interrupted, leaning back against his hands. Hollander froze and took that in. He really was annoyingly handsome. His stomach pitched low, a weird jolt like dropping too fast on a flight.
Hollander mirrored his pose. “What age is that?”
“Fifteen,” Ilya lied and then leering, added. “Her pussy was so good, I fucking sobbed. Do you know about good pussy, Hollander?”
“I’m fucking gay, Rozanov.”
“What and you can’t appreciate good pussy? You sound like a misogynist.”
“That’s not how —“ Hollander broke off and shook his head. “When the hell did you learn that word, anyways”
Ilya rolled his eyes. He sometimes wondered whether all the North Americans came hardwired with the same lines — Ahh, Ilya say this. Ilya, that’s the wrong pronunciation. Ilya do a trick next — it would make the most sense. Hollander simply could not help himself; it was ingrained. He was still feeling nice and fucked out though, and there really was no one else that could suck dick as well as Hollander did, so instead he asked: “What about you? When did you lose your virginity? Twenty-eight?”
“Christ, can you not be an asshole for a moment?” His eyes flitted down to his knees and then to a white wall — Silica white, Hollander’s reminder tore through his head. White is rarely ever just white — Ilya felt like he was looking at him through a fogged up window. He felt the sudden brief desire to touch him, just his shoulder but Ilya kept his hands to himself. “I was seventeen. It was with my first girlfriend.” He sounded normal. He sounded like he’d practiced the lines in front of a mirror many times. Ilya’s finger twitched.
“And now what? You are getting big gay married and hate pussy.”
Hollander went stiff. All that easy-out-fuckedness sluiced away and left Hollander and his tensing shoulders rising up to his ears. The cold crept into his fingers.
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Hollander said flatly. He picked himself up and frowned in disgust. “I’m gonna get cleaned up and head. I still need to pick up Lev.”
His head was pounding. Ilya had meant to drag it out.
“That’s your son, yes? What’s he like?”
Hollander gave him a strange look. He drew his hands into fists and felt the press of them against Hollander’s shiny mahogany floors. He wanted to take it back desperately. It would have been easier if he’d asked about Hollander’s boring fiancé. At least then he’d have something to gloat over.
“Yeah, you’ve probably seen him around a few times,” Hollander said haltingly. Left Ilya to stew in his embarrassment. This is not what they did. “And he’s great. He’s just a normal kid, I guess.”
“So, boring?” Ilya asked and felt a wave of relief when Hollander’s expression closed off.
“Fuck off, Rozanov. And don’t be late for practice.” With that final warning, he left for the bathroom and closed the door with a gentle click.
Hollander really was no good. The best mouth in all of Boston but useless when it really came down to it.
The streets were teeming with other cars and couples and skyscrapers rising into the dark like teeth, people spilling out of bars and restaurants, out into the cooling air. The lights from the neon signs muscled up close to his windows. The shadow he cast was puny, was nothing.
The bad mood had returned worse than ever. It hadn’t been ground out, only momentarily paused and had set in the moment Ilya had slipped back into his car. He hadn’t waited for Hollander to get out of the shower, hadn’t liked the feeling it sunk into him. Ilya felt like jerking off but couldn’t will an erection. He wanted something that would knock him out. He had struck out with Hollander and now something would have to give.
He called Sveta. The phone rang in big looping circles, spiraled through the cramped heat of his Bugatti and went to voicemail. Ilya ended the call and tried again. At the first dial, he cursed and ended that one too.
Instead, he called Hammers. “Are you still out?” he asked when it connected.
It was noisy on the other side, there was a blast of thumping club music that put Ilya’s blood on high. “What was that, Roz?” Hammers shouted over the music, he was slurring a little.
Ilya rolled his eyes. “Where the fuck are you?”
Hammers said something else, but the music swallowed his words and then smothered them. Cursing, he ended that call too and typed a quick text: Send address, before stealing another glance at the road. It was wide open now and under the street lights, had the sticky, gauzy quality of a dream.
Ilya did not do well with dreams nor things that felt like them. It made him feel like a fucking animal from how bad he needed it. For things to turn solid, to fall in place. He wanted to get battered down by the heave of a club. One steamed-up-mind and Ilya getting lost in the surge of it. His phone pinged with a message and Ilya ducked his head a little to read it, eyes flitting between the screen and road.
cme to underbr
Jesus Christ, Hammers was a fucking wreck. Ilya hated Underbar and hadn’t been back of his volition since his wallet had been swiped during his rookie days. The bar was a black money pit and the comedown was even worse. It was usually now only under Sveta’s duress that he went, but Ilya really was desperate. He drove towards the Theatre District and watched as the city passed by in one steady stream, parked when he was walking distance. The bouncer gave him one look and let him in no questions asked.
Here now, he texted and let his hands hang loosely by his side. The pulsing beat of techno music tore through his head and for a moment Ilya really felt like he could breathe. Not even the thought of Hollander losing his shit when he rolled in late to practice could bring him down. He teethed at the image, Hollander stiff and stern, his narrowing eyes and his thick brows but then the crowd heaved forward, a seething pit that pushed all thoughts to the smallest corner of his brain.
He checked his phone. Still nothing from Hammers.
Useless fucking prick.
He made his way to the bar and motioned the staff for a drink once close. His head dipped back and took in the crowd. There was no way he was going to find Hammers in this heave, but it was Underbar or die. Those were the only two options he had left.
He peered down the bar. Paused when a woman caught his eye across to his left. Her hair was dark and short. She looked pretty under the red strobing lights. She offered a sweet shy smile his way when she saw him looking.
Ilya shoved off from the counter and pushed through the crowd until he was close enough to ask if she wanted a drink. She didn’t have any freckles but there was a mole by the corner of her lip and her eyes were so dark that they almost looked black. He had to lean down close and shout it again over the noise, got close enough to see the flush spread down her cheeks, her neck, the tops of her tits.
“Ilya Rozanov is buying me a drink,” she said in a daze and shook her head a little. She rested her hand on his arm and said thank you. His phone buzzed and when Ilya tipped his head down to the screen, he saw a notification from Hammers.
He tucked it away. Hammers could fucking wait. “You want to dance?” he half-shouted when they’d both gotten their drinks, a shot for him and vodka and coke for her. He leaned in close and felt the soft give of her body, the feel of all the breath leaving her in one big rush. Ilya was no seer, but could already see a play-by-play of the rest of the night. He knew her type. He knew she was sweet. He knew she was earnest. He knew he’d fuck her by the end of the hour. She nodded jerkily and took his hand.
Forty minutes later they were beginning to sweat. They’d shared a bag in that time, and twenty minutes in, the drugs had skinned him down to the nerves. The girl – Sofia? Beth? – leaned in closer – and she really did have fucking great tits – and shouted: “Do you want to do another line?”
His phone vibrated, another text from Hammers probably. He’d stopped checking ten minutes after his first shot. “Yes,” he said and pressed his hand to the small of her back. He shoved through the swarm of withering bodies, past a line of guys waiting for the bathroom.
Furious protests followed hot on his back. He caught a slice of a sentence as he swaggered past – Is that Ilya fucking Rozanov. His girl for tonight clung tight to him and did not let go until they were tucked away safe in a stall.
“Fuck,” she breathed out shaky and then laughed. Her eyes were huge. “I thought that guy was gonna bash your head in.”
“Ehh, he would have pussied out before it came to it.” She laughed again, a great big boom that went on and bent her down by the waist. It set him off and soon, Ilya was joining in. He couldn't get his head straight no matter how hard he tried. Each time he got close, he lost it all over again.
“We’re so fucked,” she giggled. She was leaning back against the stall wall, head bent down low as she spilled the first shavings of her baggie onto her key. Her hands were trembling a little but the laughter had faded. She was studious in her concentration now. “I don’t really do shit like this,” she said conversationally.
“Shit like what?” Ilya asked. The light slurred down onto the tremble in her hands. He felt the beat of his heart in slow-motion. She looked up and her eyes were dark just like Hollanders.
“Like this,” she motioned like it was all self-explanatory and then drew the key to her nose, pressed a finger down on her nostril and sniffed hard. She breathed in deep through the nose, and the motion followed down the line of her body. She passed both to him next.
“I will make it good for you,” he promised. He dipped the key into the baggie and tipped it a little back so it fell into one neat line but he was clumsy with it.
“Hey, don’t waste it.” She threw both hands up like they did in the movies. That really set Ilya and he lost his head all over again. Didn’t stop laughing even when he accidentally tipped the key with his coke over. It wasn’t until she heaved close to him, pressed her whole body to his that his laughter tapered off. She was looking at him through her eyelashes. A better flirt than Hollander, he thought, although Ilya hadn’t been able to tell on that first sighting. She pushed her hair out of her face, turned shy for a moment. “You should probably know that I’ve got a boyfriend, but we’re like poly.”
Ilya scrunched his face. He couldn’t get the line to go right. Dimly, he wondered if she might let him do a line on her tits when they left for somewhere else. Too much effort he figured. “Ok,” he said, distracted.
Her tone changed, sharpened. “You’re not just saying that, right?” She paused and then gave him a one-over when Ilya finally looked up. “Cause, it would be pretty homophobic if you were.”
Ilya blinked slow. There were too many English words, and he couldn’t make sense of any of them. “Beth, I do not give a fuck. I just want to do this line and then fuck you.”
Her expression dipped a little. “It’s Jess,” she informed him.
“My English isn’t good,” he said impatiently. Before she could say something else, he dipped his head down and did his line. When he was done, he swiped a little at his nose and rubbed the leftover white residue between his fingers.
There was a slam that bulged the door forward by its hinges. “We can go back to my place,” she said and messed with her hair a little. There was something a little Hollander about it. Decisive, maybe that was it. She knew the order of things and where she fit in; what she would have to do to make it happen. The buzz was slower to sink this time. Ilya got a hand around her jaw, not mean like back with Hollander, softer but enough for her to gasp and for her mouth to fall open.
Later, everything would follow its course. Ilya would fuck two fingers into her pussy and she’s already be soaking wet. He’d get his thumb on her clit, and he'd think of Hollander again. What he was doing. What he was like at home. How he liked to be fucked. The thought would follow him down to the finish line, when Jess whimpered — too much, too much — into his mouth. There would be some cocky cunt slamming at the door who really was that desperate for a shit and was willing to make it everyone else’s problem. They’d fucking swarm them when they finally finally opened the door and let that poor desperate fuck into the stall. There would be the pictures and the posts and Hammers staring gormless at the back of the line — You fucking beautician — and no peace for the next three days. But in that first instance, Ilya was only thinking of getting his dick sucked, if it would compare to Hollander. What he would have to do after to get his next hit.