Chapter Text
Ilya is enveloped in pleasure, want, this. Lightning bolts strike through his body, electricity in every touch. His hips drive forcefully into the writhing body. Such tightness. Moans. Hollander. The other man pliant underneath him. Fuck.
In. Out. In. Out. The rhythm becoming even more erratic, more brutal, and faster, always faster. And then, just when he feels the familiar warmth pooling in him…
“Beep-beep-beep-beep! Beep-beep-beep-beep!”
Ilya snaps his eyes open. It’s the fire alarm, has to be. His hips still have a mind of their own, chasing the orgasm that was within his reach, so close. He hears people running outside, the shrieking of the alarm getting louder or maybe penetrating his trance more clearly. He wills himself to stop.
Hollander moans under him, backing towards him.
“Why’d ya stop?” he whimpers. “Rozanov, please, needmore, needyou…”
“Shhh”, he shushes, listening. There is no doubt, it is a fire alarm.
“Rozanov,” Hollander whines.
“You don’t hear it?” Ilya asks, incredulously. The sound is blaring, but then again, Hollander always disappears into it when they have sex. Sometimes it takes him a long time to come back to himself, and it always takes Ilya helping him for him to be able to do that. They don’t have time, now, though, so Ilya hopes he will just snap out of it. Maybe the shock of the alarm will do it?
Hollander looks at him over his shoulder. It seems to take everything in him to concentrate. He frowns, seems to try to ground himself, and then…
“Shit.” His eyes widen and he scrambles up. He can’t find his balance, all his movements are shaky, and Ilya offers a hand to steady him. They look at each other with wide eyes.
“Shit,” Hollander says again. “I shouldn’t be here.”
They both know it’s true. Shane Hollander, the captain of the Montreal Metros, has no place in this generic hotel in Philadelphia of all places. His team is in New York, getting ready for their match against the Admirals in two days, enjoying a rare day off just doing touristy things after their game in New Jersey the day before. Hollander has fled the city under false pretenses and driven almost two hours in a rental car just to get fucked by his rival. There is no explanation he can give if he is spotted in the same hotel as the whole Boston team after their away game.
Ilya sees the panic in Hollander’s eyes. More clearly, though, he sees how Hollander is still in that place he goes to when they fuck. He cannot really focus his eyes, his movements are slow and heavy but somehow his hands cannot stop shaking. His cheeks are streaked with tears, his hair sticking up. He is still more than half-hard and his cock is wet from pre-cum and lube. Ilya’s own dick has softened because of the situation, of the panic, and he throws away the condom. He knows he is still sweaty, cheeks aflame and his curls all messed up. Still, he must look better than Hollander, because Hollander looks destroyed.
“I can’t go out,” Hollander whimpers and puts his hands over his ears. As if blocking the sound of the alarm will diffuse the situation.
“You are not dying in fire,” Ilya snaps, the one true thing he knows, and throws a hoodie at him. “We figure it out. Come on.”
“I can’t, I can’t,” the other man mutters, avoiding eye contact, not touching the hoodie. “Fuck, I can’t go there like this.”
“Okay. Okay,” Ilya says and touches Hollander’s shoulder. The Canadian flinches and moans like every part of his skin is sensitive, but is shocked into silence when someone barks from the other side of the door:
“Rozanov, fuck you, if you don’t come out right now, I will knock this door down! I am not losing my star player tonight!”
It’s Ilya’s coach. Hollander’s panic is more visible than ever, and it takes a while for Ilya to answer, because all he wants to do is wrap his arms around the other man and tell him that it’s going to be fine.
“Rozanov! Are you there?” LeClaire yells, and the terror in his voice tells Ilya that this is no drill. This is the real deal. He needs to get Hollander to safety.
“Yes, yes!”
He can almost hear the coach exhale.
“Get your ass outside this second! The floor above us is already filled with smoke, we need to evacuate now!”
“I’m coming”, Ilya answers and jumps into his sneakers. Then he takes Hollander’s pants, neatly folded on the chair, and starts dressing the other man. Hollander is like putty, refusing to cooperate, and Ilya has never been this scared.
“I’ll check on Connors”, LeClaire shouts, “but I will trade you faster than you can chirp if I don’t see you downstairs in fifteen seconds!”
Ilya is lifting Hollander up to a standing position so that he can pull his pants up. Then he quickly jams his shoes onto his feet and grabs his chin, forcing him to look straight ahead. Hollander still can’t focus his eyes.
He can’t believe this is how it will end. Four years of hiding their meetings, only fucking a few times a year in secret. Fake names on their phones, lies told to teammates. Ilya has been more careful than he ever thought he could be. He has not pushed the boundaries after the rookie year kiss on a public rooftop because he knows how important this is. How he can’t afford to lose it. And now they are going to be outed because of a fucking fire.
But he will not let Hollander get hurt. It’s Ilya’s fault he is this dazed, so it’s his responsibility to get him out of this hellhole. Ilya considers slapping him to wake him up from his trance, but he doesn’t really want to hurt the other man. He could carry him out, but that kind of honeymoon-esque picture could not be explained away in any way. There would not be an ounce of plausible deniability. Hollander usually responds to competition and Ilya is a few seconds away from telling him that the last one outside is a loser. Finally, he settles for something that usually works just as well as challenges. For some reason, Hollander likes to be told what to do. And he might be just gone enough now to make this really easy.
Ilya brings his most authoritative voice into play, the one he uses when he forbids Hollander to come or orders him to get down on his knees. The low baritone fills the room.
“Hollander. Focus. Go outside. Now. Don’t get burned alive, da?”
Something moves in Hollander’s eyes. He nods slowly, mouth still agape. He seems surprised that he has clothes on. Ilya knows they are in a hurry, but he simply must kiss Hollander right now. It’s a quick peck but Hollander chases it anyway. Ilya hopes that this is not the last kiss they will ever share when he pulls Hollander’s hood up and opens the door to the corridor.
The air smells of smoke, the alarm blares even more loudly. Hollander recoils but Ilya pushes him forward. The hallway is empty, other people have been faster than them. They take the stairs. Ilya is happy to see that Hollander can jog them down even if he looks a bit wobbly. It’s almost like he is on drugs. Ilya has never understood what happens to the other man when they have sex. It’s so intense, something he has never experienced or seen before, and he has had quite a lot of partners. It’s like Hollander just lets go of everything and gives all of himself to Ilya. If Ilya thinks about it too much, he feels like his heart will explode, so he just takes it as a given and doesn’t examine it more closely. Right now, though, is the first time he regrets the way Hollander is wired. The first time he can’t coach Hollander back to Earth. Will he make it alone?
When they reach the atrium, Ilya slows down. If people see Hollander, they cannot see Ilya right behind. Fire be damned. In the atrium, there are some staff members, really shaken but still doing their duty, helping the guests to evacuate, and Ilya can see lights blinking outside. The fire department is coming.
When he sees Hollander exit the hotel, he lets out a breath. The man should be safe from the fire, at least. He counts to ten and runs outside. He must go and find his teammates and explain why their captain was so fucking slow and didn’t worry about the Raiders at all. Why LeClaire was doing what should have been his task, making sure everyone got out in time. When he sees the man in question outside with Connors and all the other Raiders, the relief washes through him. He lets himself breathe.