Ilya likes being in cities. He doesn't spend much time outside of cities, save for the occasional bus ride through nowhere, lonely except the drone of the bus and the muffled chatter of his teammates behind his headphones.
Cities are bright. They're noisy and crowded, and he can hide in plain sight. He can watch people and not worry about people watching him. Usually. He doesn't mind when people see him, recognise him, ask for photos or autographs or a video to send their friend. They're nice the vast majority of the time.
He's always thought that he'd find himself living in a city someday. A big city. One that's busy and chaotic, where he can feel small and insignificant. Nobody would think it, but Ilya likes to feel insignificant. Likes to feel irrelevant and unimportant. He likes to disappear into it all just as much as he likes cameras flashing at him.
But.
He likes the quiet too. Especially on days like this, after intense games, after his head has filled with the white noise of applause and cheering, of voices shouting over the thunder of the stadium for reporters to hear them. His throat is sore from shouting into microphones.
His hotel room is silent, and he can still hear it all in his head. Like radio static.
The quiet is nice.
Ilya leans against the wall by the door to his hotel room. It feels weird, leaning here instead of laying on the bed or lounging in the weird chair that's always near the bed in hotel rooms. His hands are in his pockets, his head tilted back to the wall, his eyes closed. He wants to smoke a cigarette, but there are two separate no smoking signs in this room. Stupid country.
He stays. Hovers by the door and waits. Listens to the foggy static in his ears that's still lingering even after hours.
But this is why.
It takes a long while, but his phone buzzes in his pocket, and he has to peel his eyes open to look, feeling half-asleep.
Jane: Hallway.
Ilya ignores the flutter in his chest as he twists the door handle and pulls it open just a crack. He hates these doors that lock automatically.
He's just turning to sit on the edge of the bed when the door swings open. He leans back on his hands, letting his legs spread a little as Hollander comes into the room, shutting the door behind himself the way he always does: one hand on the handle, the other flat against it, pressing until it clicks like he's scared of slamming it. It's kind of cute. Not that Ilya notices.
Hollander is wearing a hoodie, and he tugs the hood down from his head as he turns to find Ilya. He pauses for a moment, his eyes scanning over Ilya's body. Ilya notices. They've been doing this for a while, meeting in hotel rooms, sneaking around and pretending they don't know the things they know about each other, and Hollander is getting better at letting himself.
His eyes didn't used to linger, but they do now. He has a staring problem, really, but Ilya isn't complaining about it. He likes the way Hollander looks at him, like he wants to eat him.
"You will brag about your big win, yes?"
Hollander hums indifferently, shrugging as he ties his shoes off and nudges them next to the door, next to Ilya's. That was intentional. Ilya doesn't feel like listening to him complain about him not taking his shoes off at home. Or in random hotel rooms.
"Maybe," Hollander says, looking at Ilya again. "You feeling butthurt about it?"
Ilya's eyebrows furrow.
"I do not know this word."
It makes Hollander smile, like Ilya is charming, like he's cute.
"Your feelings are hurt," Hollander says. "You're bitter about it." He's coming closer, walking like he has all the time in the world, meandering, and Ilya wants to grab him, but he's still out of reach.
"I'm never bitter," Ilya says. It makes Hollander laugh again. His eyes squint when he smiles like this and Ilya kind of wants to take a picture of him, joyful and giggling.
"Yeah, whatever."
"How was your celebrations?" Ilya asks, looking him up and down, annoyed that he's still dressed even though Ilya is dressed too. "You're late."
"Everyone wanted a picture with number twenty-four," Hollander says, shrugging in a faux-humble gesture. "I got away as fast as I could."
"Not fast enough."
"What, were you just gonna leave me locked out?"
"Maybe."
"Sure you were."
He looks at the ground before his eyes meet Ilya's, and he looks tired. There's a smile teasing his mouth, but Ilya's stomach turns again. He's reaching out the second Hollander is close enough, grabbing his hip and pulling him in sharply.
Hollander collapses heavily onto his lap, straddling him, and Ilya meant to ask if something is wrong, if something happened at the party, or if Hollander was hurt during the game, but his mouth is busy, because Hollander is kissing him like he's desperate, and fuck, Ilya missed his mouth.
His lips are soft and insistent, and Ilya's eyebrows furrow as he holds back a groan. Can't seem too desperate.
Hollander is holding him, his hands buried in Ilya's hair, curling into it like he's trying to pull at it, and Ilya wants to grow his hair out now. If he doesn't cut it until they see each other next, it'll be long enough for Hollander to pull, to hold onto.
Ilya has to tilt his head back to reach, letting Hollander hover above him. Letting him. He wouldn't usually— Normally he would pick him up, roll them over so he's on top, just because. But he lets Hollander have this. For now.
It's intense. Hollander is licking into his mouth, one of his hands sliding to hold Ilya's jaw like he's keeping it open. His tongue tastes like beer and something sweet, some kind of candy, and Ilya is starving for it. He clutches at Hollander's back, fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt like he's trying to tear it open.
It's quiet, but the static in Ilya's head starts to fade. Hollander is already breathing heavily, and part of Ilya wants to tease him, to call him easy, desperate, but the rest of Ilya feels just as fucking needy. Just as hopeless.
Hollander's mouth is wet, his tongue slick and sliding along Ilya's, and Ilya might be losing his mind. His eyes are squeezed shut so tightly he might get a headache, and he slides a hand up the back of Hollander's shirt, up the smooth skin over his spine. It takes every ounce of self-control he has to not claw at him, to not drag his nails over his back and leave red tracks in their wake. He doesn't think the guys on Hollander's team would really care— it would look like Hollander did the fucking.
Hollander lets out a weak sound, and Ilya swallows it. He's sucking on Hollander's fucking tongue, and there's spit on Ilya's chin but he doesn't know whose it is, and it's filthy, and gross, and Ilya loves it. He loves it.
Hollander relaxes against him, slumping over and letting his hands rest in Ilya's neck. He exhales. It sounds like a sigh.
They part slowly. Ilya doesn't want him to go too far.
Hollander is quiet. He should be gloating, making fun of Ilya for their loss tonight. He should be smiling smugly, taunting Ilya like he always does when his team does well— He even does it over text, even when he isn't playing Ilya. Stuff like You saw that? without any context at all. Of course Ilya saw that. Of course he watches Hollander's games.
"You are okay?" Ilya asks. He says it too softly. Hollander looks at him, blinking his eyes open, and he hesitates for a moment.
"Yeah," he says lightly. Too lightly. "Of course."
"Lie."
Hollander snorts, shaking his head as he looks down, and Ilya's chest feels warm.
"What is wrong?" Ilya asks,
"Nothing," Hollander says, shrugging again. "'S just…" He trails off, looking down again. He doesn't seem to be looking at anything in particular. "I don't know."
"Tell me," Ilya says quietly, almost whispering, shaking him a little bit by his waist. "You look sad."
"I'm not sad," Hollander says, laughing a little again, his hands running over the sides of Ilya's neck. It feels nice. "I just… I don't know, I— I feel like I didn't do very well today."
Ilya raises an eyebrow.
"You won."
"I know," Hollander says a little sharply.
"You made winning goal."
"I— I know. I just— I feel like I could have done more, and I just…"
Hollander sighs heavily, dropping his head, his fingers tangling in the fabric of Ilya's shirt. He's wrinkling it, but Ilya finds that he doesn't care.
"I just feel kind of like shit," he says. His voice sounds thick suddenly, like he's going to start crying. It makes Ilya's entire body hurt. "That's all."
"That's all," Ilya repeats, making a face, and Hollander laughs a little bit. Ilya likes that more than Hollander's almost-tears. "Hollander. You played well today."
"I know."
"Hollander."
"Rozanov."
Ilya hesitates, looking up at him. He doesn't usually look up at him, but he kind of likes this. He's also close enough for Ilya to see his freckles, and he's staring as he thinks, like he's star-gazing.
"Can I tell you a secret?" he says quietly. Hollander looks at him.
"Yeah," he says softly. "Of course."
This isn't normal.
Ilya is holding him, his hands pressing into the dips of his waist under his shirt, and Hollander is holding him back, tracing lines over his neck like he's drawing. They're close enough that they're almost whispering, heads tilted in, closer than they need to be.
"You won't tell anyone?" Ilya asks, even though he knows it's a stupid question. Hollander scoffs.
"Not that anyone would believe me."
Ilya grins, lifting his chin a little, and he's tempted to kiss him, but this is already more intimate than they usually are. They're not even naked.
"You are… my favourite player to watch."
It's an understatement. He doesn't tell him that sometimes, he watches videos of him on YouTube. Shane Hollander Highlights 2014 Season. Best of Shane Hollander. Shane Hollander Making Funny Noises. One of Ilya's favourites— a compilation of the sounds Hollander makes when he thinks, when he's catching his breath and caught off guard.
Hollander blinks. It seems to take him a moment, and then a grin spreads across his face, and he's laughing a little, his hands sliding up to cup Ilya's jaw. It feels fond, affectionate, and it's too much. It's much too much.
"That's nice."
"Hollander."
"Yeah?"
"You are amazing player," Ilya says seriously, firmly. "You— You were amazing today."
Hollander's smile fades a little, and he looks at Ilya intently, like he's listening to everything he's saying, like it's important to him.
"You are too hard with yourself," Ilya says, running his fingers over Hollander's waist. "That is my job."
Hollander laughs. Ilya watches, fighting his own smile, pressing his hands into Hollander's waist so he can feel the way his stomach moves when he laughs. His cheeks are pink like he's blushing, like he's shy. Ilya wants to see how bright his cheeks can flush.
"You're sweet when you're not being an asshole," Hollander says. Ilya shrugs.
"I have… What is the word?"
"A reputation?"
"Da. That."
"Yeah, you do," Hollander says. He traces a line on Ilya's neck, watching his own fingertip like he doesn't want to meet Ilya's eyes. "I don't…" He hesitates, swallowing. Ilya watches his throat. "I don't really feel like having sex tonight."
He looks nervous. Ilya's face hardens.
"Hey," he says softly, tugging at Hollander's waist, forcing him to meet his gaze. "That is okay. We will not do anything you do not want."
Hollander looks back and forth between his eyes like he's looking for something. Ilya feels sick.
"I will not make you," he says intently. "You know this, yes? I will not— I will not force you."
"I know," Hollander says, nodding, reaching to hold Ilya's face, cradling it like Ilya is fragile. "I know. I trust you."
And that.
That crosses a line.
They've toed this line before, with soft nothings murmured mid-orgasm, kisses exchanged before they part ways for the next few months. But this feels like more. Clothed, holding each other close, murmuring things like I trust you.
Ilya looks at him. And it's fucking stupid— he should be annoyed, angry with Shane Hollander, whose team kicked Ilya's ass today, but his eyes sting suddenly, and his throat feels tight, and he doesn't really feel like having sex either.
"I am tired," he says suddenly. Because he is.
Hollander nods, and he tenses a little bit, like he's preparing to get up, off of Ilya. Ilya's hands tighten on his waist.
"I can go," Hollander says. Like Ilya is dismissing him.
"Do not go," Ilya says. "I— I do not want you to go."
His face is hot. Hollander looks at him.
"…I can stay," Hollander whispers.
"You should do that," Ilya says seriously, nodding, his thumbs brushing over Hollander's waist. "That is good idea."
Hollander smiles.
"Why are you tired?" he says brushing his fingertips over Ilya's face before he holds his neck again, relaxing against him again. "You hardly did shit today."
"Asshole," Ilya says fondly, pinching him. Hollander giggles, shrinking back from it before he comes back, melting into Ilya's lap. Ilya almost stops there, but his mouth keeps talking without his permission."Reporters," he says. "It is not easy to talk to them sometimes."
"How so?" Hollander asks, toying with the collar of Ilya's shirt before his fingers find his crucifix.
"Is loud during their questions," Ilya says. "Is hard to hear them, to understand them, to answer in English."
He hesitates for a moment, his expression hardening. Hollander notices.
"What is it?"
"One reporter today, he was…"
"Hm?"
"He asked me a question I did not understand. I think— I just needed moment, to— to translate, to think, but he just…" He exhales, shaking his head, pausing before he demonstrates, lifting a hand from Hollander's waist to toss it dismissively.
Hollander makes a face.
"Seriously?"
"Mhmm. It was…"
"That's so fucking rude, Jesus."
Ilya shrugs.
"Happens," he says. "People do not like waiting for me sometimes. Today just…"
"Hit harder," Hollander supplies. Ilya nods.
"Sometimes," Ilya starts slowly. "Sometimes it is… too loud with fans and— and shouting and reporters and team grabbing me and moving me, and I am trying to think in English and understand questions, and it is…" He exhales sharply, gesturing vaguely. "Word. Give me word."
"Overwhelming?" Hollander says, smiling a little. Ilya looks up at him and exhales slowly, sliding his hand back up Hollander's shirt to hold his waist.
"That."
Hollander nods, leaning forward until their foreheads press. Ilya closes his eyes.
They're quiet for a moment. Touching. Holding. Breathing.
"I like this," Hollander whispers.
I like you, Ilya doesn't say.
"Is nice," he says instead. Hollander nods.
They're acting like they have forever here, but Ilya knows they don't. He doesn't say anything about it.
"Why did you come here?" Ilya asks softly. "If you do not want to have sex?"
Hollander is quiet for a moment.
"I just… wanted to see you."
Ilya opens his eyes, but they're too close for him to see him clearly. His eyes are closed too.
"I was at the party, and I— it was a lot. I wanted to be alone, but then I didn't really want to be alone."
"I get it."
Ilya has heard people talk about butterflies. He's been getting better at understanding figurative speech, and he understands butterflies now. They make him feel nauseated, but in a good way.
"Hollander."
"Mhmm."
"Is it okay if I kiss you?'
Hollander exhales. He nods against Ilya's forehead.
"I'd like that."
Ilya smiles, and he only hates himself a little for it. He reaches up and pulls him into a kiss, cupping the back of his neck and holding him tightly. Hollander lets out a soft noise, a strained groan in the back of his throat, and Ilya opens his mouth desperately, pulling him closer.
Hollander's arms wrap around his neck, hugging him tightly, and he lifts onto his knees a little bit, hovering over Ilya, who leans back a little, tilting his head so their mouths don't separate. It feels good. It always feels good. Even when it isn't for any particular reason, other than just because.
Hollander tilts his head, and his tongue slides between Ilya's lips smoothly. Ilya hums, pressing a hand into the small of Hollander's back, sliding his other hand up to the back of his neck, the fabric of his shirt and hoodie bunching up over Ilya's arm.
Ilya likes the sounds that Hollander makes. They're quiet, like he doesn't even notice himself making them, like he can't help it at all. His breath catches in his throat when Ilya licks at his teeth, when he traces the roof of his mouth. It's gross, and it feels silly, but it feels fucking good. Ilya presses closer when Hollander's hand pushes into his hair, grasping at his curls like he wants to pull at them. His other hand finds the collar of Ilya's shirt, and he pushes down it, sliding his hand over the back of Ilya's neck and down his spine.
Hollander makes a soft noise before he pulls away. Ilya's lips are wet.
"I— I know we're not having sex," Hollander says breathlessly, "but I still kind of want you to take your shirt off. If you want to."
Ilya nods, letting go of him to lean back and reach for the hem of his shirt. Hollander is already reaching to help him, tugging it up over his head. Ilya turns to toss it away, his free hand holding Hollander's hip, and he can barely face forward again before Hollander is leaning down, his face tucking into Ilya's neck, his hands sliding across his chest like he's been waiting, like he's desperate just to touch him.
Ilya swears under his breath, tilting his head back to give Hollander space to do what he wants, which is apparently kiss and lick and mouth aimlessly. He's leaving wet tracks in his path, and it makes Ilya ache, tilting his head back farther. Hollander licks a line up his neck, lingering on his throat.
Ilya's eyes burn again, and he wants so desperately to ask, to demand that Hollander leave a mark, or as many as he possibly can, all across his neck. He wants to be covered in it, in bruises and teeth marks, in Hollander's brand, even if no one knows it. Which maybe is part of the appeal for him— advertising it, showing everyone that someone had Ilya like this, that someone took him apart with their mouth, with no one any the wiser that it was fucking Shane Hollander.
He can't help but bring a hand up to the back of Hollander's head, holding him in place when he starts to look up. He feels Hollander smile against his neck, feels his lips part so his tongue can slide over his skin, and Ilya might die.
He mutters something under his breath, something he doesn't even register himself saying, something he doesn't hear, and Hollander hums against his neck.
"Can I tell you something?" Hollander asks when he finally lifts his head. He looks like a mess, flushed pink, hair messy from Ilya's hand, and they're not having sex. But he looks like he's just had sex, even though all he's done is make out with Ilya's neck.
"Of course," Ilya whispers.
"I love it when you speak Russian."
Ilya blinks.
"Really?"
Hollander hums, nodding, his eyes flickering over Ilya's face.
"I like listening to you talk," he says softly, quietly. Like it's a secret. Which, Ilya supposes, it is. "You have a really nice voice."
"You don't think I sound stupid?" Ilya says skeptically, tilting his head. Hollander shakes his head. His eyes are shiny.
"I don't think you sound stupid," he murmurs. "I love how you sound."
Ilya's chest feels warm.
He stares at him, gazing at his freckles, at the glaze over his eyes, at the way his lips are parted like he's in awe. And there are things Ilya shouldn't be thinking, shouldn't say.
Not in English.
So he says it in Russian, whispers it just to see how Hollander's eyes flutter, just to see how his cheeks flush with colour, just to hear him exhale. Ilya reaches up, touches his face and brings him in closer, until their lips are brushing as he murmurs to him. Hollander breathes in his words, his eyes shut, brows furrowed like he's holding back, like he's fighting his instincts and urges.
He kind of looks like he's going to cry. Ilya keeps talking.
He caresses Hollander's face, which is a bad idea, really, because it's a soft touch. A nice touch. They're not supposed to touch each other like this— It's supposed to be hard, and rough. Unattached.
This is sweet. Tender. Ilya is cradling him, tracing lines between his freckles like he's making new constellations, and Hollander is touching him too, running his hands over his neck and collarbones. Over his chest. He lingers at Ilya's tattoo without even opening his eyes. Ilya's throat tightens.
"You like this?" Ilya whispers after pausing to switch back to English. "You feel good?"
Hollander nods, eyes still closed.
"Yeah," he breathes. "I like it when you're nice to me."
He doesn't even know what Ilya was saying. But he's right. Ilya was being nice.
"I can be nice to you," Ilya says softly. "You deserve it, no?"
Hollander nods a little, like he isn't really sure.
"You do," Ilya murmurs. "Everything people say about you. How amazing are you. How beautiful."
"Rozanov," Hollander mutters, shaking his head a little. Fighting it.
"Hollander," Ilya says firmly. He reaches up. Grabs Hollander's face and pulls so he's eye-level, so Hollander looks. "You are good."
"Rozanov."
"Listen to me."
"I'm listening," Hollander says weakly. "I'm listening."
He sounds pitiful. It makes Ilya's stomach hurt, and he hates it. And loves it.
"You are good," he says again, softly. Hollander's eyes flutter shut for a moment. His cheeks flush pink, and Ilya takes a moment to admire his stupid freckles. "You are amazing hockey player. Say it."
"I…"
"Say it," Ilya repeats, shaking Hollander's head a little, jostling him in a way that should make him angry. It's kind of condescending, mean. But Hollander doesn't get angry. Doesn't make a face or call him an asshole. His eyes close again, and his expression softens as he melts into Ilya's hand, letting him hold him up like this. His cheeks squish a little against Ilya's fingers and thumb. It's cute. Ilya wants to bite him.
"I'm— I'm an amazing hockey player," Hollander says weakly, his voice breaking.
"And you are beautiful."
Hollander is silent. Ilya shakes him again.
"I'm beautiful," Hollander says.
"You are perfect man," Ilya says softly. One of Hollander's hands slides down Ilya's arm and finds his wrist, and he holds it there, like he's scared Ilya will let go of him. "Say it for me."
"Ilya…"
Ilya blinks. His eyes flicker down to Hollander's lips, like he's trying to find his own name in the air between them.
He's never thought much about his name. His last name, sure— How could he not when it was his father's name too? His mother's? His brother's? He's wondered if other traits can be inherited, along with the name. His mother's illnesses. His father's illness. His brother's bullshit. He's wondered if there's something waiting for him down the line, if his last name is a curse that's going to ruin him someday. He doesn't know what with— maybe some kind of illness like his mother, addiction, maybe. He's always thought he's had a bit of an addictive personality. (It didn't take long for him to get stuck on cigarettes. Or Shane Hollander.) Maybe Alzheimer's like his dad. Maybe he'll just turn into a raging cunt like Andrei. He hopes not.
But his first name, his given name, the one they chose for him, it's not even the name on his jerseys. It's never mattered much to him.
Until now.
It sounds soft in Hollander's mouth. Sweet. Ilya's throat tightens again, and he looks at Hollander desperately, because he wants it again.
"Say it for me," he says weakly. It takes effort not to say more.
Малыш.
"You're perfect," he whispers desperately. "Say it, Shane."
Hollander takes a sharp breath, sniffling a little, hiccuping, because he's crying now. Ilya is making him cry.
But he says it.
It's so soft Ilya hardly hears it, but he sees it. Sees Hollander's lips move, sees the words form in his mouth. It satisfies him.
"Good boy," he says quietly.
Hollander's eyes open, and he looks at Ilya. His eyes are glassy, shining with unshed tears that threaten to spill over. His face is warm, flushed pink. And he is perfect. Ilya's never been a liar.
"You are," he say firmly, nodding, holding Hollander' gaze. "You are good boy, you are so good."
"Ilya," Hollander chokes.
"Is okay," Ilya whispers, nodding. "Take it."
Hollander kisses him like he's dying, and Ilya's entire body aches with it. His hand slides down, fingers wrapping around Hollander's throat. Hollander hugs his neck, pulling him in as close as he can. Ilya holds back a groan. wrapping his free arm around his waist, hugging him.
It's a long kiss. Not like their usual kisses, It lingers, even as they breathe, even as they touch each other. Ilya feels his throat move when he swallows, and he longs to feel it against his tongue, but he can't pull away from this kiss. Not this one.
It takes a while for them to pull away. Ilya doesn't want to pull away, doesn't want this moment to end. But they have to breathe.
Hollander is panting, breathing hard against Ilya's mouth, his breath cool on the spit on Ilya's lips, and Ilya doesn't want him to go too far.
"Okay?" he whispers.
It's small. But it feels bigger than it sounds.
Is this okay with you? You said you don't want to have sex— is this too much? I can let go. I can let you get up, and let you walk away, and I can watch you go. I won't beg.
Hollander nods, but Ilya needs to hear it.
"Tell me," he says firmly.
"It's okay," Hollander says weakly. "This is good, I like this."
Ilya nods, brushing his nose up and down Hollander's, looking at him. He's blurry.
"Good boy," he murmurs, just to see Hollander's cheeks brighten again. He smiles a little, letting their lips touch. "You are so good."
"Fuck," Hollander breathes. He kisses him again, his teeth catching Ilya's lower lip, and Ilya's hand tightens on his neck. He kind of wishes it would leave a mark, a handprint right where everyone could see, just so they know someone held Hollander like this.
Ilya holds him. Presses a hand into the small of his back, his little finger slipping under where his jeans gap. It's not meant to be suggestive. He just wants to be close.
They part after another long moment. Ilya's chest hurts.
"I, uhm…" Hollander trails off, hesitating. Ilya nods.
"We will just kiss," he says softly. "Is okay."
Hollander nods, taking a deep breath.
"Okay," he whispers. "I'd like that."
Ilya smiles too softly. This isn't what this is supposed to be. It's supposed to be quick and dirty and reckless, and this is reckless. It's stupid, and it's dangerous, not because they're being loud, or because Ilya's teammates are all just a few floors down, but because Ilya's heart aches. Because he wants this so fucking badly.
He stands, holding Hollander, lifting him and turning to place him on the bed in a manner that's much too gentle. Hollander's legs wrap around him, pulling him down on top of him, and Ilya has no choice but to let him, but to melt onto his body and exhale.
They're kissing again, heads tilted, tongues sliding, hands rubbing and pressing and pulling. Hollander's hands run across Ilya's back, nails dragging lightly over his skin, It's nice.
"Rozanov," Hollander mumbles against his mouth. Ilya hums.
"Don't call me that," he says softly. Hollander lets out a confused sound. "Say my name, Hollander."
"Ilya."
It bursts out of him, like he's been waiting to say it, like he's been holding it back. He says it again, and then again, mumbled against Ilya's mouth, muffled between his lips, against his tongue. Ilya swallows it.
"Good," he murmurs into Hollander's mouth. "Good boy."
"Jesus, fuck."
"What is it?" Ilya asks, lifting his head, looking at him, at his flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. "You are okay?"
"I'm okay," Hollander says, nodding. "I'm so okay, this is— I feel really good."
"Yeah?" Ilya breathes, eyes flickering to Hollander's glistening lips. "Tell me."
"I— God, I feel fucking high," Hollander says, exhaling heavily, his head dropping to the bed. "What are you doing to me?"
Ilya laughs lightly, giving Hollander a chaste kiss before he tilts his head, mouthing across his cheek and jaw.
"I'm doing nothing," he says. "You just know how to take it."
"Ilya…"
"You do, don't you?" Ilya murmurs, nuzzling into his neck. "You take it like you are supposed to."
Hollander groans, and he shifts, moving against Ilya, holding him tighter.
"I do," he says weakly, nodding. His chin bumps Ilya's head clumsily. "I can— I can take it."
Ilya moans into his neck, nodding.
"You are so perfect for me," he says, pausing to kiss his skin, lingering on that spot that makes him squirm. "My perfect boy."
Hollander whimpers.
Whimpers.
And Ilya wants to fucking eat him. He wants to swallow him whole in ways that aren't actually physically possible because of fucking science and shit, but he had a feeling that if it was possible, Hollander wouldn't be opposed. He would let him. He would take it.
"Can you— Can you say that again?" Hollander chokes, holding the back of Ilya's neck. "Please?"
"My perfect boy," Ilya breathes, letting himself fall between Hollander's legs, burying a hand in his hair. "My boy."
"Shit," Hollander hisses. "I…"
Ilya kisses him. Hollander whines into it, burying his fingers in Ilya's curls, his legs tightening around his hips. It hurts. Everything in Ilya aches, is sore like he has a fever, like he's sick, and he thinks maybe he is. They're breathing hard when they part, lingering with their lips brushing, wet with spit.
"What are we doing?" Hollander breathes. Ilya nudges their noses together, savouring the feeling of Hollander's breath on his face.
"Something stupid," he says. Hollander is quiet. "I can stop."
"Don't stop," Hollander says, clutching at him, catching him. "Please, don't fucking stop, I want this."
Ilya nods. His throat is tight, and his chest hurts, and he might be dying.
"I do too," he whispers. "I want this."
I want you, he doesn't say. He doesn't really have to, he thinks. Hollander gets it.
Hollander pulls him down again, cradling the back of his head like he can't stand to let go, and Ilya lets him. It's slow, almost languid, like they do this all the time, like it's fucking normal. Their hands relax, grip loosening, and after a while, Hollander moves, rolling so Ilya slides off of him onto his side. Ilya slides his hand down Hollander's side, stopping at his leg and pulling at his thigh so Hollander lifts it, hitching it up on his hip.
"That's good," Ilya murmurs, nodding. Hollander nods back, moving closer, kissing him desperately. Ilya grips his thigh, squeezes and kneads and clutches, and Hollander lets him. His hands fall between them, one lingering on Ilya's neck before it slides down to his chest. Ilya hums breathily, letting his mouth fall open for Hollander's tongue, and Hollander is touching him like it's easy, like he doesn't even have to think about it. His fingers squeeze Ilya's pec softly, and then harder, and Ilya feels like he's being groped, like Hollander is copping a feel, but it's softer than that. He's touching him. Feeling him.
He hums quietly when Hollander's fingers find his nipple, pinching it between his knuckles and tugging a little. It makes his cock twitch, but he ignores it. He mumbles something that Hollander can't understand, but Hollander hums softly, nodding, pressing closer.
It's lazy. Like they both can't be bothered to sit up, to do more. Hollander's head rests on Ilya's upper arm, which is stretched out under his neck, and Hollander's hand that isn't playing with his nipple is tucked against his own chest sleepily. Ilya likes it, just laying here, half dressed, kissing slowly and messily.
He likes this a lot. Maybe as much as actually having sex.
It kind of feels like sex. The same intensity, just a little different.
They're all Ilya can hear, the wet sounds of their tongues and lips, the soft puffs of Hollander's breathing, the stifled hums and moans they both hold back. He wants to stay here forever, sucking on Shane Hollander's tongue and squeezing his ass and letting him have what he wants because he deserves it.
"My boy," he breathes after a while, when his lips are sore and his chin is wet with spit. "Fuck, you're so…"
Hollander hums, pressing his hand flat to Ilya's chest like he's trying to take up as much space as possible. His eyes are half closed, glassy like he's high, or drunk. Ilya could swear he's glowing.
"Солнышко," Ilya murmurs. Hollander's eyes close. His lips curve into a shy smile, like he has any idea what Ilya is saying. "Твоя улыбка прекрасна."
"Ilya," Hollander whispers. It sounds beautiful.
"Yes," Ilya whispers back.
Hollander just makes a noise, furrowing his eyebrows, and he looks like he might cry. Ilya tilts his head closer, lifting his hand to touch Hollander's face, caressing his cheek for a moment. Hollander turns into his hand, his lips parting, and it's like second nature. Like first nature, like this is how he's supposed to be, all sweet and soft and pliant. This is Shane Hollander.
Ilya presses his thumb into Hollander's mouth. He takes it perfectly, exhaling a sigh, his expression softening. Ilya watches him.
His mouth is warm, and wet, and Ilya's stomach flips at the thought of his own spit on Hollander's tongue. He kind of wants to pull his jaw, to separate his lips just so he can lean over and spit, but he doesn't. Hollander looks too peaceful.
He looks like he's sleeping. Ilya would let him.
His fingers curl around Hollander's chin as his mouth tightens and loosens around Ilya's thumb, sucking almost rhythmically. Ilya lifts his head and kisses just between Hollander's eyebrows.
"Мой сладкий мальчик."
Hollander's eyes are open when Ilya pulls back, looking up at him pitifully. They're dark, glistening, and it makes Ilya want to shut him away from the world, to keep him locked away where no one can ever see him.
"My baby," he says softly, watching the tiny movements of Hollander's lips around his thumb. "You are sweet."
Hollander nods and mumbles around his thumb.
"'M your baby."
"Fuck, Hollander," Ilya hisses, holding his chin a little tighter. "You're fucking— You are not real."
Hollander touches Ilya's wrist. Pulls at it. Sucks at his thumb as it leaves his mouth.
"Kiss me," he says, but it's so quiet Ilya barely hears it. He almost just mouths the words.
Ilya kisses him.
He leaves it chaste, soft and gentle, but Hollander's mouth opens desperately. He's holding his tongue out like he's presenting it to Ilya, and Ilya swears under his breath.
He wants a picture of him like this, glassy-eyed and needy. Pretty. Perfect.
He pushes Hollander gently so he's on his back, and he hovers over him, gazing at his open mouth, at his teeth, his tongue.
"Fuck," Ilya breathes, his eyebrows furrowing a little. Hollander hums, open-mouthed, his eyes closed.
Ilya leans down, pushing his fingers into Hollander's hair, and he slides his tongue over Hollander's slowly, taking his time. Savouring it. He rests his other hand on Hollander's neck, caressing his throat. He can feel it vibrate when Hollander moans.
And he can't help it.
He looks at Hillander's perfect mouth again, at the shine of his teeth, and he gathers spit under his tongue before he lets it drop to Hollander's.
Hollander groans, his hands sliding knee Ilya's bare shoulders and gripping him tightly, and Ilya doesn't even have to tell him to swallow, doesn't have to even ask. He does it like it's instinct, and he's such a good boy.
"There you go," Ilya murmurs. "You like that?"
"Mhmm," Hollander hums, nodding. "Thank you."
Ilya doesn't think he's ever heard Hollander thank him before. It makes him want to give him the world. It almost makes him want to give him the Stanley Cup.
Ilya lays down again. Hollander's eyes open, and he tucks himself into Ilya's chest, tracing the bear quietly.
There are things they aren't saying.
How intense this is, this quiet between them that's usually filled with gasps and moans and curses of each other's names. That Hollander is still fully dressed but it feels like he's bare.
That they like this.
Neither of them says anything about how late it is, how Hollander really should leave. How easy it would be for him to stay.
When Hollander speaks again, his voice is rough.
"If we… If we didn't have to hide," he says slowly, carefully, his eyes trained on Ilya's chest like he's talking to the bear. "What would you do?"
Ilya looks at him.
He thinks he'd marry him.
"Kiss you," he says instead. "I would kiss you."
Hollander smiles.
"You already do that."
"With cameras rolling," Ilya clarifies. "I would kiss you in front of the world."
It's too much. It's a confession.
"Yeah?" Hollander says softly.
"Mm. While you are— Here, I show you."
He sits up, and Hollander watches him, raising an eyebrow, making a face when Ilya's arm pulls away from his neck. Ilya grabs his hand and pulls it, makes him follow him up, stumbling off the bed until they're standing at the end of it.
"What…" Hollander says, his head falling back tiredly.
"Here, you are talking to reporter," Ilya says, moving Hollander so he's facing away from Ilya. "You answer question about something stupid."
Hollander snorts, looking at him. Ilya gestures with a wave of his hand, eyebrows raised.
"Talk."
"This is stupid," Hollander says, but he turns away again, pausing for a moment before he speaks. Ilya standing next to him, watching, pretending he isn't there. "Yeah, this season went really well, and I'm really proud of the guys, you know, we've been working so hard, and I can't think of a better way to end the season than taking the Bears down—"
Ilya scoffs, and he sees Hollander's cheek lift under a smile, and he can't wait anymore. So he reaches out, grabs Hollander's jaw, and he pulls him into a kiss. Hollander lets out a startled sound before he melts against Ilya, his arms wrapping around his neck.
Ilya imagines the gasps, the camera flashes, the murmurs in the crowd. The What the fucks and Holy shits from their teams. He grins against Hollander's mouth, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him in so he stumbles against him. Hollander lets him.
They sway, holding each other. Ilya likes how Hollander holds his face, how his fingers curl under Ilya's jaw and behind his ears, how they push into his hair and tug at it weakly. Hollander hums, and he's smiling too, grinning open-mouthed so Ilya can lick at the roof of his mouth, so he can suck on Hollander's tongue the way he likes.
It goes on for too long, long enough that somebody would intervene, would remind them they're in public and they're supposed to be talking to the press. But nobody is interrupting now.
When Ilya turns them, pulling and pushing at Hollander's hips, they fall onto the bed clumsily, collapsing together, and Hollander lets out a beautiful laugh. His arms tighten around Ilya's neck, and he's practically just hugging him, giggling at the ceiling when they fall onto each other.
Ilya grins, shifting to hover over Hollander, kissing him filthily, licking across his open mouth with a moan.
"Fuck," Hollander breathes, his legs wrapping around Ilya's hips again. "Doing that on the ice would hurt."
"I catch you," Ilya murmurs.
"That's sweet."
"Mm. I am sweet person."
Hollander makes a face, tilting his head back and forth. Ilya pokes his waist, pinning him down so he can't get away, and Hollander giggles, catching his hand.
"Is fantasy," Ilya says, his voice low, lips brushing Hillander's. "I kiss you in front of the world, with all the cameras rolling, and all people watching. We make them see."
"You gonna fuck me out on the ice?" Hollander murmurs, nudging their noses. He says it like it's a sure thing, like Ilya has a reminder on his phone for it. Call ESPN for special coverage. Fuck Hollander in the middle of the skating rink.
"I think we would get arrested," Ilya says. "For public… Word."
"Indecency."
"Yes. And ice would be cold on skin."
"Thought this was a fantasy," Hollander says lightly.
"Fine. We melt the ice because we are so hot."
Hollander laughs again, his head falling back on the bed, and Ilya grins, lifting a hand to hold it to Hollander's neck, pressing his throat a little bit. Hollander relaxes, humming, seemingly forgetting about the fantasy.
"That feels good," he says quietly, his chin lifting like he's submitting to Ilya's hand around his neck. Letting him.
"Yeah?" Ilya says.
Hollander nods.
"Tell me," Ilya says firmly, squeezing his neck. "Use your words."
"Fuck, Ilya."
"Tell me, Малыш."
Hollander's eyebrows furrow, and he looks pitiful, pathetic.
"I like it," he says weakly. "I like it, I like you holding me like this."
"Like what?"
"Like you own me."
Ilya blinks. His fingers tighten again. Hillander's eyes open, but they're rolling back the way they do when he comes.
"I do," Ilya says softly. "Don't I?"
"Yeah," Hollander chokes. "You do, I'm fucking yours."
Ilya nods even though his eyes are closed. He feels like he could cry, his throat tight, his eyes burning, and he wishes it was true.
"You're mine," he says softly. "None of them know it, no? Is our secret."
"Yeah," Hollander gasps. "'S just for us."
Ilya hums, leaning down to kiss him, his hand sliding up to hold Hollander's face, gripping him like he's going to escape. It squishes his cheeks, makes his lips pucker, and Hollander hums weakly, his arm falling from Ilya's neck like he's fallen asleep.
"You are so perfect," Ilya murmurs into his mouth. "Such a good boy for me."
Hollander hums.
"Can you…"
"Hm?"
"Again?" Hollander says weakly.
"What again?"
Hollander looks at him desperately, eyes glistening, opening his mouth. Ilya knows what he wants, but he can be mean sometimes. Hollander likes it.
"Ask me nicely, sweetheart."
Hillander's eyes flutter.
"Can you— Can you spit in my mouth again?"
Ilya looks at his lips. He lifts his hand from Hollander's cheeks and touches his mouth, pulling his lower lip down.
"Please…" he whispers condescendingly.
"Please," Hollander chokes. He's crying again. Ilya hates how pretty he looked with tears in his eyes. "Spit in my mouth, please."
"There you go," Ilya says lightly. "Such a good boy."
Hollander's mouth opens. He's holding his tongue out, and Ilya pauses to kiss him, to suck on his tongue for a moment before he pulls away, pauses to collect spit in his mouth. He watches Hollander's face as he lets it fall to his tongue.
He expects him to flinch for some reason. But he doesn't. He groans softly, letting his jaw close a little. And then Ilya expects him to swallow.
He doesn't expect him to do this— slide his tongue all over his teeth, rub Ilya's spit across the roof of his mouth. Like he's playing with it.
"Fuck," Ilya breathes. Hollander's eyes open a little. "Show me."
Hollander opens his mouth again. Shows Ilya the spit on his tongue, shining beautifully.
"Beautiful," Ilya says softly. He caresses Hollander's cheek, brushing his fingertips over his skin by his mouth. Hollander's head tilts toward his hand, his lips still parted, because Ilya hasn't told him to swallow it. "You want more?"
Hollander hums breathily, nodding, tilting toward Ilya's hand again. Ilya's heart aches.
He takes pity on him. It's not hard to do.
Hollander looks at him, watches with his dark, glassy eyes, as he lifts his hand, holds two fingers to his mouth to spit on them before he holds them to Hollander's open mouth.
"Take them," he whispers. Hollander takes them.
It's like he's desperate for them, lifting his head and grabbing at Ilya's wrist to pull his hand closer, taking his fingers into his mouth and sucking Ilya's spit from them. His eyes close blissfully, and Ilya's entire body aches. His heart hurts.
"That's it," he murmurs. Hollander hums, sliding his tongue between Ilya's fingers, holding his hand in place as he sucks at them like he's giving a blowjob. "Fuck."
He moves his fingers, pushes them farther into Hollander's mouth, spreads them apart like he does when he's fingering Hollander's ass open. Hollander's teeth press into his skin, and he likes it.
"Harder," he breathes. Hillander's eyes open and look up at him, and Ilya's never felt like this, so powerful, so in control. It makes his stomach feel warm, like he's been drinking something strong. "Bite me, Малыш."
Hollander's jaw closes. He bites him gently, top and bottom teeth digging into his skin.
"More," Ilya instructs, nodding. "Is okay."
Hollander bites down. It hurts.
Ilya gasps, hissing out a breath and nodding so Hollander doesn't stop. Hollander's fingers tighten around Ilya's wrist, and his other hand moves to Ilya's face, cradling his jaw.
"Fuck, Shane."
Hollander moans. Ilya can feel it on his very fingertips, where they rest on the back of his tongue, and he's ever felt this fucking insane without actual sex. He feels like he's fucking vibrating, like his body is six feet away from where he's laying. He caresses the top of Hollander's head, brushing his fingers through his hair gently, soothingly.
"Let me see," he whispers after a few moments. Hollander seems hesitant to let his hand go, releasing his fingers from his teeth and sucking on them for a moment before he lets Ilya pull them away.
Ilya looks at his fingers. There are teeth marks just above his knuckles, straight across, indenting the skin, and he bites his lip, gazing at it. He can feel Hollander looking at him, can feel his thumb brush over his cheek softly, tenderly, and he turns his hand over, looking at the matching bite marks on the other side of his fingers.
"Ilya," Hollander breathes.
"Mm."
"Is it…"
"Is perfect," Ilya says. "I love it."
Hollander looks at him, his eyes widening a little almost hopefully.
"Can I…"
"Anything."
Hollander moves, pushing Ilya aside and rolling them over. It startles Ilya, but he goes easily, and he thinks again about being on the ice, letting Hollander have his way with him, letting him take and do whatever he wants. Letting him ride him like that.
Hollander kisses him. He's climbing on top of Ilya, pressing him into the bed, and Ilya loves the weight of his body, loves how heavy he is. He groans, pushing his hands up Hollander's shirt, sliding them over his waist and dragging his nails over his ribs.
Hollander's mouth is so warm. Ilya loves it.
"Fuck, Hollander."
Hollander groans, pressing a hand down against Ilya's chest, licking across his mouth.
"Don't call me that," he says breathlessly. "Not right now."
"Shane," Ilya breathes.
Shane nods, panting against Ilya's mouth.
"Yeah," he gasps. "Say it again, please, please—"
Бля.
Охуеть.
"Shane," Ilya says softly. "Shane, Shane, Shane…"
Shane whines, nodding, and he's not even kissing him anymore. He's just lingering, his forehead pressed to Ilya's cheek like he can't get close enough, breathing hard as he listens to Ilya murmur to him.
"Ilya," Shane breathes.
"Mm."
"Can I bite you?"
"Fuck, yes, please."
"Where?" Shane pants.
"Wherever the fuck you want," Ilya says roughly, his head falling back to the bed as Shane mouths down his neck. "I'm yours."
Shane lets out another sound.
He shouldn't let him do this, bite him wherever he wants, wherever he can. The guys will tease when they see the marks in the locker room. They might ask questions. They do that sometimes.
What's her name?
You think I got a shot with her too?
Fuck, man, what did you do to her?
But right now, with everything in Ilya telling him to give it to Shane, to give fucking everything to Shane, he kind of wants them to ask. Just so he can be smug, just so he can ignore them.
Shane leaves wet tracks after his mouth, using his hand on Ilya's chest as leverage to push himself down until his mouth is on Ilya's chest. He's licking, letting his teeth drag over Ilya's skin lightly, and Ilya wants to beg for it, for Shane to rip him open, to break his skin.
He'd let him. He'd let him devour him.
"Shane…"
"Here?" Shane says softly, sliding his tongue over Ilya's pec.
"Wherever," Ilya chokes. Shane hums.
He bites him. Ilya's head falls back, and he looks at the ceiling, letting his hands drift to Shane's hair, his fingers tangling in it and tightening when Shane bites harder. It hurts. It makes Ilya hard.
He knows Shane can feel it, can feel Ilya's cock hard against his ass, can feel him shifting because he can't help it, but neither of them does anything about it, because they don't have to. Shane is groaning against his chest, teeth clenched into his skin, head tilted, and his hand lifts up to grope the other side of Ilya's chest, squeezing and prodding like Ilya has fucking tits. When he pulls away, he's panting, and it cools the spit on Ilya's skin. It makes him shiver.
"Fuck," Ilya bursts. "Give me another."
Shane nods, pausing to slide his tongue over Ilya's nipple slowly, taking his time. Ilya lifts his head, propping himself up on his elbows to watch, to look at the way Shane's eyes are closed blissfully.
"Right there," Ilya says, shifting to hold Shane in place, pushing his fingers through his hair. "Good boy."
Shane groans again, closing his teeth around Ilya's nipple, biting and tugging and sucking as Ilya hisses air between his teeth, wincing.
He collapses onto his back again after a few moments, moaning. He feels Shane laugh more than he hears it, his breath hot against Ilya's skin.
"You are killing me," Ilya says to the ceiling. "I am dying."
"You're not allowed to die."
"I am not in control of this," Ilya says dryly. "You are in control."
"I'm not in charge here," Shane says, and Ilya doesn't respond, but he doesn't have to. Shane is right, and they both know it.
"Fuck, keep going," Ilya demands instead. "Don't stop, Shane."
"Keep talking to me," Shane murmurs against Ilya's skin. "Please."
"You like listening to me, don't you?" Ilya says. "You like how I talk to you?"
"Mhmm."
"'S good," he says lightly, fondly. "I like talking to you. I like how you listen to me."
Shane bites him again, shifting so he's closer to Ilya's shoulder. It's kind of ridiculous. It's harder for him to get a good grip here, so he reaches up, squeezes like he's giving Ilya a shot.
"You're so perfect," Ilya says, voice strained as he holds back a painful groan. "My perfect baby boy."
Shane moans, nodding, still biting him, leaving his pretty teeth in Ilya's skin.
Ilya only has the one tattoo, the stupid bear that he loves so dearly, but as he mumbles absently, pulling at Shane's hair and rubbing his neck like he's trying to get him to relax, he finds himself thinking about how insane it might be to get Shane's teeth marks tattooed. He doesn't think it would be too obvious— It's not like people pay that much attention to the edges of people's teeth.
He would do it, if Shane asked him to. He would do anything if Shane asked him to.
He mutters in Russian. Or maybe even gibberish. He's barely conscious, eyes drifted shut, fingers digging into the nape of Shane's neck, massaging it absently. He can hear Shane's soft noises again, the little muffled moans and hums, the slurps against Ilya's skin when he starts to drool, sucking on his skin like he's trying to break skin, like he's trying to taste blood.
Ilya groans, his back arching, wincing in pain, and he pulls at Shane's hair sharply. It sounds fucking pornographic, the sounds Ilya is making, the wet sounds of Shane's mouth on him.
"Oh, fuck, Shane—"
"Do you like it?" Shane asks breathlessly, lifting his head and hovering above Ilya, looking at him. Ilya gazes up at him, at the flush of his cheeks, the soft swell of his lips. His chin and cheek are glistening from spit he's smeared clumsily, and Ilya pulls him down by the back of his neck, tilting his head to slide his tongue up the side of his face, licking up the spit that he doesn't even seem to notice. "That's a yes,"
Ilya hums, licking his face again just because.
"I love it," he breathes.
Shane exhales, leaning down so Ilya has easier access to his face, letting him lick him clumsily.
"I left some hickeys," Shane says breathlessly.
"Good."
"What are you gonna tell your teammates?" Shane asks softly. "You gonna tell them your baby left them there?"
"Yeah," Ilya says. "I tell them everything."
He wouldn't do that. They both know he wouldn't. It would ruin them.
"I tell them how good my baby is," he says breathlessly, wrapping his arms around Shane's waist and rolling them over again, tucking his face into his neck and kissing softly. "I tell them how sweet he is, yes? How he takes what I give him."
"Fuck."
"And everyone will think about me, what a lucky bastard," Ilya continues. "He has Stanley Cup and Shane fucking Hollander."
"You're such an asshole."
"You like it."
Shane is quiet, but Ilya can feel him nodding, can feel his head bobbing up and down absently, like he's hypnotised.
"You are so fucking perfect," Ilya says, pausing against Shane's neck to nip at his skin just a little. Not enough to leave anything behind, even though he desperately wants to. He wants to beg for it, to leave his own mark behind so the whole world knows that Shane belongs to someone. But it's a terrible idea, really.
It doesn't matter if Ilya has hickeys on his neck, even clearly visible on international television, even during interviews with reporters, with cameras and countless eyes on him. This is who he is, isn't it? He has a reputation. He's a player, a whore. And it's not like he has any family who will be embarrassed of him, who will contact him just to tell him to get his shit together.
It's different for Shane.
He's a nice guy. He's sweet, and he's polite, and he can be a menace on the ice, everyone knows that, but he's fairly softly-spoken when he's talking to reporters, especially when the microphones are stuck right in his face. He's only ever dated one person publicly, and even that was tucked away, private and quiet, and something like this, something like hickeys on his neck, would cause a stir. He would be on pages in stupid gossip magazines and TMZ or something. And he has parents. Nice parents, who are actually involved in his life and give a shit about him and his life.
But in another world, in this fantasy where it doesn't matter, and it wouldn't destroy Shane's life.
Ilya leaves hickeys in the shape of his initials on Shane's neck. He kisses him mid-interview and fucks him on the ice.
But here, now, late at night and in a hotel room far enough away from Ilya's teammates that none of them will hear them, Ilya kisses him softly. Carefully. Sweetly.
And he does it for a long while. Long enough that Shane falls lax on the bed, his arm wrapped around Ilya's neck lazily, heavily, and his breathing changes, slow and steady and sleepy. When Ilya finally lifts his head, Shane's eyes are closed, and he's got his thumb in his mouth, sucking it lazily.
"Shane," Ilya whispers. Shane hums, nodding absently before his eyes flutter open.
"'M falling asleep," he mumbles around his thumb. Ilya smiles. He doesn't fight it.
"I see that."
Shane sighs heavily. His hand moves away from his mouth.
"I should go."
"No," Ilya says before he can think. "You shouldn't."
"Ilya…"
"Please," Ilya whispers, reaching to touch his face, cradling it. Shane turns his face into Ilya's palm. "Stay here."
Shane looks at him. His eyes are almost shut, shining, half-asleep.
"You're impossible."
"Yes."
"It's such a bad idea," Shane whispers. "I know," Ilya whispers back. "We are bad idea."
Shane doesn't say anything, but Ilya knows he agrees. That he knows it's true. They're a terrible idea. Everything about them is a terrible idea.
"Stay tonight," Ilya says. Pleads. "I can bring you breakfast in morning before I leave."
"How are you gonna smuggle me breakfast without anyone noticing?" Shane says. He's smiling now, his eyes shining like he's amused.
"I have ways."
Shane looks up at him. He touches Ilya's face, tracing a line over his cheek, caressing him so much more softly than Ilya would ever deserve. It's a tender touch, almost fucking loving.
Not that either of them will say it.
"Okay," Shane whispers softly. "Because I'm already falling asleep."
"Of course," Ilya says. "It makes sense, is only logical."
Shane nods, exhaling.
He's quiet for a moment before he opens his eyes again, taking a sharp breath like he's trying to wake himself up. He shifts.
"I really— I shouldn't," he says. His voice is stronger. Ilya groans, letting his head fall to Shane's chest, and he feels Shane's hand on top of his head after a moment, running through his hair.
"We will make it work," Ilya says, trying to not whine, to not beg.
"It's— It's reckless, you know that."
"...I know."
"Ilya."
Shane quiet again.
And then,
"Rozanov."
Ilya blinks. He's looking at Shane's chest, at his hoodie. It's plain, dark green and kind of boring. Like Shane. Like Hollander.
Ilya pushes himself up. Away.
They're quiet. The blankets on the bed rustle when Hollander sits up, his legs stretched across the mattress close enough for Ilya to touch him. Within reach. Hollander's hand rests on the bed next to Ilya's for a moment before it moves, and it touches Ilya's after a moment. Gentle. Hesitant.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
He should pull his hand away. He should tell him to just leave, to get out of here, and forget about all the ridiculous things they said tonight, all the nonsense that wasn't even clouded by orgasm.
But he doesn't do any of that.
His fingers twitch closer to Shane's until they're overlapping, tangling and twisting together. They're both looking, watching their hands join, but they're silent. Like their hands are hidden under a table.
Ilya doesn't know how long they're there. Sitting in silence, holding hands.
Stupid.
"I should go," Hollander finally says again. "It's late."
"Yes," Ilya says.
Do you feel it too? he doesn't say. Do you want this too? Does it all mean the same to you? Do you want to be mine? Can I be yours?
Hollander finally pulls his hand away. Ilya's fingers are cold.
"Text me when you are back at hotel," Ilya says, watching Hollander stand and stretch his back, twisting it so it cracks. He wants to pull him back down.
"Okay," Hollander says.
Ilya sits at the edge of the bed. He doesn't stand, doesn't offer to walk him out, to show him to the door. Hollander doesn't ask him to.
He hesitates, glancing between the door and Ilya, lingering, and then he's turning toward Ilya one last time, reaching for him and leaning down. Their mouths crash together clumsily. It hurts a little, Hollander's teeth catching on Ilya's lip, but he welcomes it, reaching to grab at Hollander's hips, to pull him in closer. Hollander licks into his mouth, exhaling against his cheek. Ilya savours it. The taste of his spit, the warmth of his mouth, the slide of his tongue.
It takes too long. Ilya fights the urge to pull him onto his lap, to start it all over again, from the beginning. To ask Hollander what's wrong.
When Hollander finally pulls away, he pushes at Ilya's shoulders, like he has to tear himself away. It makes Ilya's chest hurt. He doesn't try to catch him.
"I'll text you," Hollander says. His voice is rough. He clears his throat, but he doesn't say anything else.
"Okay," Ilya says softly.
He watches Hollander go, but he sees him glance down before he turns, his eyes flickering to Ilya's chest. It feels like a goodbye.
It's quiet while Hollander puts his shoes back on, and it's quiet when he leaves. The door closes behind him.
And it's quiet again. The rush of the crowd is gone from Ilya's ears, the pounding, pulsing static that comes from the constant noise of the games, but the blankness isn't much better.
He falls onto his back, looking at the ceiling, reaching to find a pillow, pulling it to rest next to his head. It smells like Hollander.
Fucking Hollander.
The bastard.
Ilya's baby boy.
He goes to take a cold shower, and afterwards, he turns on the television just to have some noise in the background while he holds his phone and waits for it to vibrate.