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Ilya has a one night stand with some beautiful girl with dark hair and freckles and he can tell she wants him to stay a little longer but all he wants to do is go back to his house and shower cause somethings not right - something's wrong with him because he feels so, so dirty and so, so guilty. So he makes up some excuse to leave and she tilts her head back for a disappointed goodbye kiss, which he gives to the corner of her mouth before he forces a smile and walks out of her apartment.
He Ubers back to his house and takes a scalding hot shower. He refuses to look at himself in the mirror even as he brushes his teeth. He crawls into bed after, skin raw and tingly and red. He scrubbed too hard. The water was too, too hot. As he clicks the TV on and switches to some rerun of Friends or something, his phone beeps. He checks it, wondering who the fuck is texting him at 1AM.
Jane: good game tonight. Nashville didn’t know what hit them.
Ilya smirks.
Lily: what are you still doing up? don’t you go to bed at like 8?
He can practically hear Hollander's eye roll from across the country.
Jane: fuck you it’s only 10 here
Lily: still late for you, right? i bet you went back to your hotel after your game. didn’t even go out even though it’s early and you’re in LA
Jane: no, i went out.
Ilya's eyebrows reach his hairline. He didn't think Hollander had it in him. He's never seen him go out after games - though to be fair, every time they play against each other, neither of them go out with their teams after.
Lily: i wasn't aware you even knew how to go out after. i feel like a proud mom
Jane: fuck you
Lily: did you have fun?
Typing bubbles appear. Then disappear. Then appear again. Then disappear again. As if Hollander is typing and then second guessing himself.
Ilya nearly texts him, "spit it out, Hollander" when his text comes through.
Jane: can i call?
Ilya stares at his phone. They don't do this. They never do this. But Ilya finds himself frantically reaching for the remote and turning the television down before he types out "Yes."
Incoming Call: Jane
Ilya answers the phone. "Hello?"
It's silent on the other end of the line. But he knows Hollander is there. He swears he can hear him breathing.
"Hollander?"
"Yeah," Hollander's voice comes through the speaker. "I'm here."
"Are you alright?" Ilya asks, mouth pressed into a firm line. Hollander hesitates again.
"Y-yeah," He sounds like he has that one sheepish smile on his face, like he's surprised but also relieved that Ilya agreed to be on the phone with him.
(At least Ilya hopes it's relief.)
"How was your adventure out into exciting LA night life?" Ilya asks, putting the phone on speaker and resting it on his bare chest to keep it nearby.
Hollander's laugh is genuine. He sounds caught off guard, still surprised. But that relief still feels like it's sitting in the air over their call, settling over them like a fog. A shroud.
"Oh, you know me. I don't sing, I don't dance, and I can't act. Triple threat to the entire city of Los Angeles."
"Don't worry, Hollander. You can't be the first boring person to have gone to LA," Ilya's smirking up at the ceiling. He hears a breathy laugh again, as if Hollander is holding the phone up to his ear, his mouth close enough to the receiver to pick up his soft breaths.
"God, you're such an asshole," Hollander says under his breath in a voice that is almost too fond. Ilya hums.
"So, why are you calling me? Want me to lick your wounds 'cause you couldn't get lucky?" Ilya hopes Hollander doesn't pick up on the slight twang of jealousy in his tone. "You couldn't get anyone pretty to go back to your hotel room and fuck you until you were a drooling mess?"
"They wouldn't do it as good as you do, anyways," Hollander mutters. His voice catches as his brain catches up with his mouth. "Um…"
Ilya's brain stalls like an old car. He swears his brain even makes the terrible grinding noise. He can feel heat rising up the back of his neck and into his ears, glad they're not on a video call. Then he'd have to deny he's blushing.
He shakes it off, brain finally turning over and switching gears. He clears his throat and feels a smirk spread across his face.
"Yeah?" he asks quietly. "Only I can do it properly, hm?"
His traitorous brain pipes up, Hollander, who have you been fucking (besides me) that isn't fucking you right? He fights it down, practically bodily shoving the thought into a box and high up on a shelf.
"So, tell me, Hollander," he says conversationally, like they're talking about the weather. He slouches back against his headboard, one arm bent behind his head, the other hand sliding into his shorts. Not to touch himself, but just to hold his hand on his thigh. "If I was there, what would you want me to do?"
"Who said I want you here?" Shane chirps. Ilya snorts.
"Fine," Ilya rolls his eyes fondly. "You know what I would do to you if you were here?"
The other end of the call falls silent. Ilya looks down at his phone to see if the call dropped. The timer for the call is still climbing. "Hollander?"
"I'm here," Hollander says quietly. "What -what would you do?"
"Hm?"
"What would you do if I was there?" Hollander asks breathlessly.
"To you?" Ilya smiles, arching his brows.
"Yeah," Hollander mumbles. Ilya closes his eyes, allowing himself a moment to fall into his own imagination.
"Hmmmm," Ilya hums, his imagination plopping Shane Hollander down in his bed. He's naked, freckled cheeks dusted pink with blush. "You're always so pretty and flushed when I see you like this."
"Like what?"
Ilya reaches out and places a gentle hand on Imagination-Hollander's cheek, allowing his thumb to brush over his freckles reverently. Imagination-Hollander closes his eyes, sighing softly, nuzzling into Ilya's hand.
"In my bed," Ilya says. "Aching for it."
Hollander's breath catches again. "W-who said that I am?"
"What?"
"Aching for it," Hollander says in a bad impression of Ilya's accent.
"You called me in the middle of the night while you're in one of the sexiest cities in the world," Ilya points out. Hollander huffs.
"Fair enough," Hollander sighs.
Ilya's thumb has slid from Imagination-Hollander's freckles down to his lips. The pad of his thumb presses down on his plush bottom lip, dragging it down to show off his teeth. "Always so pretty. Always so desperate."
"Desperate for what, exactly?" Hollander asks in a voice that he's clearly trying to come across as nonchalant but is falling short.
"You know," Ilya says, finally allowing his hand in his shorts to start sliding from where it's resting atop his thigh to his half-interested dick. "My cock."
Hollander whines high in his throat. Imagination-Hollander opens his mouth for Ilya's thumb and sucks it between his lips and teeth, making the same noise. He opens his eyes, looking up at Ilya through his lashes with bright, blown, brown eyes that Ilya swears sparkle like that every time. Imagination-Hollander begins to bob his head, giving Ilya's thumb a suck.
"Isn't that what you want?" Ilya purrs. "You want to be here, in my bed, with me?"
He expects Actual Hollander to scoff, roll his eyes, and deny it. Expects him to mumble a quick "Fuck off, Rozanov," or "You're such an asshole," or something like that. Instead, Hollander's voice is just as breathy as before as he hisses out:
"God, yes."
The Hollander in his bed slurps at his thumb lewdly, fluttering his lashes up at Ilya.
"Fuck," Ilya mumbles both to the phone and the specter in his bed. "I would strip you naked," he begins, closing his eyes against the image in front of him, hand wrapping tight around the base of his now very interested cock and giving it a squeeze. "I would spread you out. Bare. Kiss you everywhere…."
"Everywhere?" Hollander asks.
"Everywhere," Ilya confirms, opening his eyes. Imagination-Hollander is gone. "I know you don't want me to leave marks, so I would try not to, but once I got to your tits - I'd give up. I'd suck and bite them until they were hard and aching and shiny and red with bites and I could squeeze one while I sucked the other and you'd kick and squirm and whine under me because it was driving you crazy."
Hollander huffs. "Don't call them tits—"
"And once I was done marking your tits," Ilya continues. "I'd kiss down your abs—"
Hollander whimpers.
"Are you hard?" Ilya asks.
"Mm-hmm," Hollander hums.
"Are you touching yourself?"
"Mm-hmm," Hollander repeats, voice rising on the second syllable. "A-are you?"
"Da," Ilya moans back, letting go of his cock and pulling at the waistband of his shorts to take out his leaking cock. He takes his cock back in hand and strokes it, brushing his thumb over the wet head.
"God, I wish I was there," Hollander whispers.
"Miss my cock that much?" Ilya laughs.
"Your cock, your hands, your m-mouth—" Hollander whines.
"Yeah?" Ilya asks. "My mouth?"
"I—I wanna fuck your mouth so badly," Hollander babbles. "F-first time you sucked me, you ruined me for everyone else."
"That was a long time ago," Ilya whistles. "You mean to tell me you've not had anyone else blow you besides me since?" He remembers rolling on top of Hollander, kissing him.
Let me show you how to do this, kid.
"Best mouth I've ever had," Hollander continues babbling. "God, I'm so wet."
"Always so wet for me. Like a girl," Ilya murmurs.
"I'm not a—"
"Believe me, Hollander. I am very aware that you are not a girl. Even if you don't use it right. You have a beautiful, thick, fat co—"
Hollander whines again, "Rozanov—"
"Close already?" Ilya asks with a grin. They've barely begun.
"Shit," Hollander hisses. "Rozanov—"
"If I'm the best mouth you've ever had," Ilya begins. "Does that mean you've been with other people besides me?"
They're not exclusive. They've never discussed being exclusive. Fuck, the whole world knows Ilya Rozanov doesn't do exclusivity. He's very famously Not That Kind of Guy. He has his regular hookups in some of the main cities he plays in, he has Svetlana, and he has Hollander. And then he has any other woman he sets his sights on.
(He'd probably have any man he set his sights on, too, but he hasn't tested that out in a long, long time.)
"Answer me, Hollander."
"Yes," Hollander answers in a quiet whine.
"Tell me about them." Hollander huffs an incredulous laugh.
"Right now?"
"Why not? You busy? You want something?"
"God, I hate you so much," Hollander mutters.
"Do you, though?"
"You're seriously edging me by making me talk about other people I've fucked?"
"I didn't say you had to stop touching yourself," Ilya says with a shrug.
"I don't feel comfortable talking about this with you."
"I've literally been inside of you."
"That has nothing to do with anything. I don't want to kiss and tell."
"I'm not asking for names and addresses, Hollander. I'm asking about what they were like in bed, specifically."
"I—" Hollander says. "I don't know—" Ilya can see him in his mind's eye, cheeks flushed and biting his swollen bottom lip, averting his gaze from Ilya.
"Anyone good lately?" Ilya asks.
Hollander snorts. "Besides you?"
"Unless you want to tell me how good I am. But I thought you didn't kiss and tell, Hollander."
"Jesus Christ."
Ilya's smile falters as his mind runs away from him. The confirmation that Hollander has been with other people - the idea of other men, in particular - is making his stomach churn. Logically, he knows that he shouldn't - he can't - expect Hollander to not see other people when they're apart - especially since he himself is fucking around with other people, too. But jealousy pinches in his stomach and leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
"Were they as good as me?" he asks softly. Softer than he should. Softer than the question deserves. The question is hard, abrasive. Mean.
Hollander chokes on a whine. "You know they weren't."
"Do they touch you like I do?" Ilya asks, his own fist speeding up on his cock as he pictures Hollander sitting alone in his hotel room, leaning his cheek into the phone, touching himself simply because the sound of Ilya's voice gets him off.
"Mm-mm."
"What's wrong with it?"
"Too…" Hollander sighs. Ilya can hear the slick sounds of Hollander touching himself again. "Too soft. Too light."
"No one touches you like I do," Ilya says with a satisfied smirk. "Do they suck you like I do?"
"No."
"Do they fuck you like I do?"
"Of course not."
"Do they make you cum untouched like me?" Hollander laughs breathlessly.
"No, never."
Then why even fuck anyone else? Ilya wants to scream. God, What is he fucking doing?! He has no claim to Hollander. But his mouth keeps moving, as does his fist.
"How recently?" Ilya asks, knowing he's playing a dangerous game. But jealousy is clouding his judgment right now. It's making him burn.
"Huh?"
"When was the last time someone else touched you?"
"Shit fuck— Rozanov—"
"Answer me, Hollander."
"Fuck you."
"Answer me," he demands.
"Fine! Tonight."
"Tonight?" The bottom drops out of Ilya's stomach. He doesn't understand why his brain is doing this to him. He was with someone else tonight, too. So why is he feeling like this after hearing Hollander was with someone else a few hours before, if that.
"Yes, tonight. While I was out."
"Was it good?" Ilya asks. Hollander grumbles.
"No," he finally mutters.
"Why not?"
"Because…"
"I'm listening." He's gripping the base of his cock, ignoring the tightening sensation in his balls.
"Because he wasn't—"
He. Ilya sees red. The back of his neck is hot. He lets a few curses loose in Russian, growling. He hears Hollander whimper.
"He wasn't what, Hollander?" He grits through his teeth. Hollander whimpers again.
"He wasn't you," he cries.
Ilya cums across his quaking chest with a loud, surprised grunt.
"Did you cum?" Ilya asks. Hollander's whimpering hasn't stopped. If anything, he's keening and whining as if he's trying to get there himself. And failing.
"N-no."
"Tonight, with him. Did you cum?" Ilya ignores the feeling of cum drying on his chest, tries to regulate his breathing back to normal. The pinch of jealousy is still tight in his stomach.
"Even-eventually."
"Did you think of me?" Ilya asks.
"Yes," Hollander moans.
"Why?"
"Rozanov—"
"Why do you think of me when you're with other men?"
"Because no one can make me cum like you can!!" Hollander cries out. "FUCK!!!"
Hollander's cries turn into a long, high-pitched whine. He's cumming. Ilya knows he is. He can practically see it. And the knot of jealousy in his stomach unclenches as he processes Hollander's confession. A smile crosses his lips as he throws an arm over his eyes, basking in the afterglow he didn't have with the girl from the bar earlier.
Hollander's breathing heavily on the other end. "Fuck," he whispers. "Why is that always so much better with you?"
"Because I ruined you, remember?" Ilya grins.
He can hear Hollander's eyes roll. "Fuck you."
"You said it, not me."
Hollander laughs an embarrassed little laugh.
"I gotta go," he sighs. "Gotta get cleaned up. Gotta get to bed. Early flight out."
"Mm," Ilya hums, ignoring the thought that crosses his mind of finding excuses to stay on the phone.
"I'll see you next week?" Hollander asks in a hopeful voice. Ilya thinks of their game roster next week - Montreal against Boston in Boston.
"I'll be here," Ilya says.
"Okay. Bye."
"Bye."
Hollander hesitates - Ilya can hear him breathing - before he sighs and the call ends.
Ilya pulls his arm off his eyes and looks down at his chest that's covered in drying cum. He takes a picture of himself and without thinking about it too hard, pulls up his chat with Hollander and sends it. He then tosses his phone aside and reaches across the nightstand for the box of tissues instead of showering again.
He's dropping the tissues off the side of the bed when his phone beeps. He reaches for it blindly.
Hollander's sent him a picture of his own flushed chest covered in cum. "To tide you over until next week" texted beneath it, almost like an afterthought.
Ilya plops back against the pillows and throws his arm back over his eyes with a mumbled Russian curse.
God, he's so fucking fucked.