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Ilya watches the back of Hollander’s head as he bolts for the exit.
No goodbyes given to his fellow VIPs or People Magazine’s favorite cover model and Hollander’s precious girlfriend, Rose Landry. He leaves the building without looking back. Ilya wonders if anyone else has noticed.
This course of events is certainly preferable to Ilya than being forced to watch Rose Landry shove her hands up Hollander’s shirt while Hollander stares at her with his big, innocent eyes. It was all Ilya could do not to storm up to the two of them in the middle of the club and drag Hollander away himself.
That would have caused a scene. He had to go a more tactical route. Inviting the nearest blonde to the dance floor where he knew he would be in Hollander’s line of sight and shoving his tongue down her throat was much safer.
Cruel? Probably. But while he was dancing with and feeling up the girl whose name he didn’t even know, watching Hollander watch him, his eyes angry and hurt, he couldn’t bring himself to give a shit.
He had needed Hollander to feel even half of what he had been suffering for weeks, forced to endure nothing but Shane Hollander and Rose Landry spotted! Shane Hollander on the X-Squad set! Rose Landry suits up in Shane Hollander’s jersey! Rose Landry Shane Hollander Rose Landry Shane Hollander Rose Landry Shane-
No, he had reached his limit tonight. Being rejected in his own home had been humiliating enough. But Hollander parading his girlfriend out in front of the world? And then in front of him? That could not go unanswered. And it hadn’t.
Watching Hollander leave the club now, remembering the look in his eyes as he had watched him, he senses the scales tipping in his favor again. Power shifting back to his side, where it belongs. It feels good.
But…it still isn’t quite enough.
The blonde girl is kissing his neck, trying to bring his attention back to her. He realizes he’s been standing there staring after Hollander for at least a minute now. An alarm bell goes off in his head. That might have been enough time for Hollander to get away if he was quick.
Ilya disentangles himself from the girl and beelines for the exit. He thinks she says something to him as he goes, but he doesn’t hear it.
It’s cold outside, but not so bad for a Montreal evening. He forgoes his coat.
Once outside, he scans the grounds for wherever Hollander may have gone. There’s a line of people waiting to get in the club, but Ilya doesn’t have the energy to care if anyone recognizes him. The club is set slightly apart from the rest of the bars on the avenue, one of the posher parts of Montreal, and he sees a few well-dressed people coming and going, but no Hollander in his painfully boring club attire.
He chooses the opposite direction of the long line of clubgoers, assuming Hollander would have done the same, and circles the building. He knows there’s a chance Hollander hailed a cab and got out of there the second he was out of the club, but abandoning Rose Landry without a word wasn’t Shane Hollander’s style. Too nice for that Ilya thinks somewhat bitterly. Intuition tells him Hollander is still around.
There’s a group of smokers standing at the street corner, and the smell of nicotine draws a familiar temptation out of him. He could use a cigarette, but he hadn’t smoked in months. One of his better recent life choices, though the desire always remains.
Hollander, of course, is not standing with the pack of smokers, so Ilya blows by them.
Behind the club, off the busier strip, there’s a dive bar. A nicer one than he might expect, given that it’s a dive bar. It’s smaller and more casual than the rest of the area. Thinking it’s the perfect place to hide, Ilya barrels through the front door. It’s not busy, and the music is quiet. A few people turn to look at him. No Hollander in sight, however.
“Did anyone just come in here?” Ilya asks the bartender, noting the urgency in his own voice.
“Are you…Ilya Rozanov?” someone off to the side asks him, somewhat incredulously.
Ilya ignores the person and raises his eyebrows at the bartender, awaiting an answer.
The bartender looks taken aback by his presence but shakes his head. “No, man. No one for a while.”
“Thanks.” There. Ilya has managed a modicum of manners this evening. That’s something, he supposes as he turns around to retreat from the bar. He needs to find a victory somewhere because it looks like finding Hollander is a bust.
He’s decided to head back to the club, giving up the chase, when he hears a noise, like something was thrown or kicked, from the alley next to the dive bar. He stops in his tracks and looks in the direction of the noise, feeling his pulse quicken in anticipation.
Someone is there, pacing back and forth in the darkness, and when Ilya squints, he can see that it’s Hollander. Triumph swells in his chest, having found his prize, as he steps into the alley and moves towards him with sure steps.
Hollander hears his footsteps and stops his pacing, turning around to face him. His eyes go wide and he immediately reaches up to wipe his face, his palm and fingers dragging down his cheeks.
“Jesus, fuck. What, Rozanov?” Hollander bursts out, louder than Ilya would have expected given they were in public.
Ilya stops then and takes him in. Hollander looks much the same as he did in the club when he was watching him, angry and hurt, though he is doing a lot less to mask all of that now that he isn’t surrounded by other people.
“Was that not enough in there?” Hollander asks, his voice strained. He holds out his arms, in surrender perhaps. “You want more?”
No in answer to the first question. Yes in answer to the second. Ilya steps closer to him, starting to feel like Hollander is maybe close to understanding how Ilya’s been feeling since he walked out of his house.
“Why don’t you go grab your teammates and bring them too?” Hollander says, his voice cracking. “Then you can all have a good laugh, huh?”
“No,” Ilya says easily. Hollander is within grabbing distance now, though Ilya is sure he’d skirt away from him if he tried to do just that. “No, only I can see you like this.”
This was true. He is close enough now to see Hollander’s cheeks are red and wet with shed tears, and his eyes are threatening to spill more of them. The last time Hollander looked like this, they were standing together in a Vegas bathroom at the awards show. At the time, Ilya had managed to take Hollander in hand, but things were different then.
“It’s only with you that I get like this,” Hollander spits out, some of that anger making an appearance.
Ilya doesn’t mind. To Ilya, there could be nothing more satisfying in this moment than taking that smiling man from the tabloids, hand in hand with Rose Landry, and shattering him the way Hollander did to him.
“Only with me?” Ilya loves and hates how emotionally honest Hollander can be. He never seems to even realize he bears his soul so easily, how readily he hands ammo over to Ilya to be used as he wishes.
“What?” Hollander asks, already losing track of what he’s said, still riding the waves of whatever he’s been feeling since the dance floor.
Ilya steps forward and Hollander takes a quick step back. They’ve done this so many times over the years now it’s like muscle memory for both of them. Ilya herding Hollander backwards into the nearest surface, in this case, the alley wall. Ilya stops in front of Hollander when he has nowhere else to go but resists the urge to touch him.
“No one else does this to you,” Ilya answers Hollander’s inquiry, stating it as fact, the same way Hollander had. “Only me, yes?”
Hollander takes this in for a moment before nodding, apparently remembering his earlier admission. It feels like victory to Ilya, to know he’s the only one who can send Shane Hollander out of a room in tears. Him. Not Rose Landry.
He reaches up and finally, finally, touches Hollander, bringing his hand to his face. Hollander flinches slightly but doesn’t pull away as Ilya drags his thumb over his cheek. He’s warm to the touch, and Ilya feels the wetness of drying tears against his skin. He should feel guilty. A month ago, maybe he would have. But not now.
“Your shirt is stupid,” Shane says suddenly.
Ilya nearly laughs as he glances down, having momentarily forgotten what he was wearing. His leopard shirt. Personally, he thinks it’s quite a statement piece. He looks back to Shane and eyes his plain white t-shirt.
“So is yours,” Ilya replies, lips quirking up slightly.
Hollander doesn’t laugh.
“That girl is probably wondering where you went,” Hollander says under his breath, gaze drifting to the ground.
Ilya couldn’t imagine caring less about something right now than whether that girl is wondering where he is. Distantly, he understands that this is a remarkably weak attempt by Hollander to end this conversation. But it won’t work. Ilya hasn’t had his fill of him yet. He lets his hand slide down to Hollander’s collarbone and brings his other hand to his waist.
“Your girlfriend is probably wondering where you went,” Ilya says, leaning closer, so Hollander can feel his breath against his face.
“She’s not really my…” Hollander starts but trails off.
Curiosity piques and Ilya presses his thumb a little harder against Hollander’s skin. “Hm? She’s not what?”
Hollander swallows. “The press just—it’s only been a few weeks…and it’s not like I’ve asked her…” His breathing is picking up again and he keeps his gaze fixed on the ground.
Ilya considers this. In a way, he’s not surprised. Hollander thinking he needs to ask Rose Landry to be his girlfriend like they’re still in high school is nothing short of precious. It’s like he missed this part of how the world works. Sweet, naïve Shane Hollander goes on a few dates with a movie star, invites her to his hockey games, and doesn’t realize the world will determine his relationship status for him.
The part of Ilya that felt a rush of happiness at Hollander not thinking he has a girlfriend, he ignores.
“You fuck her yet?” Ilya blurts out.
That gets Hollander’s attention. His gaze snaps back up to Ilya’s. “That’s—what are you—it’s none of your business!” His face is going red and some of that previous anger is returning to him.
“So, that’s ‘no’ then.” Ilya steps closer so their chests are nearly touching. “You miss signals sometimes, so I’ll help you right now. She wants to fuck you, Hollander. Tonight.”
Ilya’s mind drifts back to the club. Standing at the bar, knowing that Hollander was somewhere in the room, searching the crowd for him until his eyes landed on him and Rose Landry on the dance floor. Her hands were up his shirt and Hollander was smiling shyly. Poor girl was almost certainly desperate for Hollander to pick up on what she wanted.
Ilya could empathize. He had to jerk off in front of Hollander in the shower before Hollander finally took a hint.
“You think you can do it?” Ilya asks, his earlier fury at seeing someone else touch Hollander is surfacing again.
Hollander’s face has gone beat red and his jaw is clenched. “I—”
Ilya presses his mouth against Hollander’s ear. “Or do you need me to tell you how?”
This provokes a reaction. Hollander reaches up and grabs Ilya’s shoulders, but instead of shoving him away, like Ilya expects, he digs his nails in, hard. Ilya winces, but his chest glows with satisfaction.
“Fuck. You.” Hollander grits out.
“No, no. You don’t want that anymore.” Ilya moves away from Hollander’s ear so he can make eye contact with him again. “That is what you told me.”
Ilya heats at the memory of what Hollander said to him after he pulled himself out of his lap and ran away, leaving him on the couch with his hand outstretched like a fool. Now, his hand finds its way under Hollander’s shirt at the waist and presses hard against him there.
“Instead, you must try to not give a movie star the worst lay of her life,” Ilya bites out, venomous. “If you can.”
“I’ve fucked women,” Hollander asserts, but his anxiety is practically dripping from his skin.
Ilya has no idea if this is true. He figures it probably is. He knows he was the first man to ever touch Hollander, but Hollander having some trysts with girls as he was coming up in hockey seems likely to him.
Of course I do Hollander had said when Ilya asked him if he liked girls. It didn’t sound so convincing.
Ilya slots his thigh between Hollander’s legs and finds what he’s expecting. He grins. “You get hard like this with them?”
Hollander inhales sharply at the contact and digs his nails deeper into Ilya’s shoulders. “Fuck off,” he breathes out.
Ilya has known since the first time they were naked together how easily Hollander gets hard. Whenever they met over the years, he loved it. It embarrassed Hollander, he knew, but it made Ilya’s blood sing every time Hollander hardened in his pants at just a few light touches, how sensitive he was. It was fun to tease him about it too, to watch the blush rise in his cheeks.
His hand at Hollander’s waist drifts to his rapidly growing erection, and he holds him over his pants. Hollander inhales sharply and Ilya keeps his eyes trained on his face, taking in every twitch.
“This will do,” Ilya says, squeezing his hand around him slightly. “Think you can keep this up until you’re inside of her?”
Hollander’s eyes widen and Ilya sees a flash of fear in them.
“I know, is not the way you like it,” Ilya coos in mock-sympathy. In the years he and Hollander have been fucking, Hollander never, not a single time, even implied he wanted to top, which had suited Ilya just fine. “But if you can make her come, maybe she’ll be nice and fuck you with your toy.”
Ilya had done that to Hollander on one occasion, after Hollander finally relented to his many requests to see his dildo. It had been surprisingly satisfying to watch Hollander come apart on something other than his cock or fingers.
“I-I don’t need that,” Hollander chokes out, insistent.
“No?” Ilya says, pressing the heel of his palm down on Hollander’s erection until he gasps.
Hollander’s fingers are around Ilya’s wrist in a flash, though he doesn’t tear his hand away, just grips him hard. “I can fuck her.” His breathing is becoming labored now. “I can.”
“If you’re sure.” Though the more Hollander asserts on his ability to fuck Rose Landry, the more doubt permeates in Ilya’s mind.
Ilya unbuttons the top of Hollander’s pants and slips his hand in.
“Fuck,” Hollander says under his breath when Ilya’s hand wraps around his cock without any barriers. His own hands slide down Ilya’s chest and stomach before reaching his pants, his frantic fingers trying to undue the button.
“No,” Ilya says, using his free hand to push Hollander’s hands away and down to his sides. “You have a girlfriend now, Hollander. Hands to yourself.”
Confusion dances in Hollander’s eyes but, as ever, he does what he’s told. His fists clenching at his sides with some effort as Ilya runs his thumb over the head of his leaking cock. Ilya is momentarily distracted by the thought of making Hollander come in his pants right here and sending him back to Rose Landry that way. His own stiffening cock twitches at the idea.
“Her hands won’t feel like mine,” Ilya muses, picking up his pace. He knows it’s too rough, too dry without lubrication. “So, you will have to pretend.”
Hollander gasps when Ilya squeezes down just a bit too hard but still manages to shake his head in response to his statement, a mute denial, but not a convincing one.
“When you’re inside her, will be trickier,” Ilya carries on, leaning closer to speak against Hollander’s skin. “But you are allowed to think of me.”
“I-I won’t need to,” Hollander says right away, his voice trembling under Ilya’s ministrations. Despite his words, Ilya feels his cock leak into his hand.
Ilya stills his hand in Hollander’s pants and brings his other hand up to grasp his chin, holding their gazes together. “No?”
“No.” Hollander is trying for firm, but there is doubt in his eyes.
“So,” Ilya allows, resuming his stroking of Hollander’s cock. “You’ll take her home then, let her touch you, and you will touch her, put her on your bed, and fuck her. And that will be enough for you, yes?”
Hollander nods, his pupils blown wide and his chin still in Ilya’s grasp.
Ilya wonders if this is true but quickly realizes it doesn’t matter if it is. The thought of Hollander with someone else, anyone else, getting hard for them, making those tiny, whimpering sounds for them. Someone else making Hollander come…it’s intolerable.
“No,” Ilya says, shaking his head sternly.
Hollander’s eyes widen, and he’s leaning bodily into Ilya now, not steady on his feet.
“You will take her home, touch her, fuck her, make her come if you can,” Ilya rattles off, even as the distaste for this part of what he is saying almost overwhelms him. “And you can come too, Hollander, but only when you think of me.”
Ilya removes his hand from Hollander’s chin, and Hollander immediately drops his head into Ilya’s shoulder, slumping there. Ilya runs his fingers through his hair as he continues to stroke him through his pants. He can feel he’s close.
“You can do that, yes?” Ilya says into his ear.
“I don’t want to.” Hollander’s voice is muffled against his shoulder.
“But you will, because I’m telling you to.”
Ilya feels Hollander shudder against him and pulls his hand from his pants. He buttons him back up and pushes Hollander upright. Hollander doesn’t even protest being denied release, like he had been expecting it all along. Ilya smooths out Hollander’s shirt and pats down his hair so he would look a bit less like he had just gotten jerked off against a brick wall.
“There,” Ilya says when he’s decided Hollander is presentable enough. “It’s time to go back to your girlfriend.”
Hollander doesn’t step away from him, only leans forward and presses his forehead against Ilya’s. Ilya can feel the weight of Hollander’s breath against his face, can see his eyes drooping closed.
“Will you kiss me?” Hollander’s voice is barely a whisper. “I need it.”
Ilya’s eyes drift closed. He thinks of the last time they were together, Hollander in his lap and Ilya pushing himself up, seeking his mouth, desperately trying to kiss him before Hollander pulled away and left him there. He wants so badly to kiss him now, to right that wrong, to mend things.
“Rozanov, please,” Hollander pleads to him now.
Ilya. Please call me Ilya.
He can’t do it. Not after tonight. Not after all these weeks of watching him grin in the tabloids. No matter how much he wants to take Hollander’s face in his hands and kiss him until Hollander is breathless, he can’t do it.
Ilya steps back, away from Hollander’s touch. Hollander’s eyes stay fixed on him.
“Go back, Hollander,” Ilya tells him, and it takes a great deal of effort to keep his voice from breaking. “She’s waiting for you.”
Before Hollander can say anything, before he can ask anything else of him, he turns, walks out of the alley, rounds the corner, and is gone.