Chapter Text
“Ilya Rozanov?”
They are the words on his heart. It’s not the first time he’s heard them. Lots of coaches, teachers, fans, agents, scouts, their first words to him are asking him his name. But it always makes his heart race, to hear the sound of his name from a brand new voice, wondering if this will be the voice. And this voice doesn’t belong to a grizzled old hockey head-hunter, but a strikingly beautiful teenager. Shane Hollander, dark shiny hair and dark shiny eyes and freckles on beautiful skin.
Ilya always knew the soul mark was written in English, not Cyrillic. He kind of expected his soulmate would be North American. There’s no moment where his mark burns or changes color or the world goes quiet. There’s just a million reasons why it’s definitely him, the one person in the world who is as fucking good at hockey as Ilya, and is fucking up his international debut.
But it might not be. It could still be a girl. There’s still time for Ilya to meet someone else. There’s still people who think that if your soulmate is the same sex you are touched by Satan, a second-class citizen, a degenerate. It’s fucking illogical but since when has bigotry made sense? Hopefully someday it will be seen as normal as being left-handed, but they used to try to beat that out of children too. And in the meantime, Russia has been getting worse year by year, laws being passed harsher and harsher.
Ilya wants to get fucking drafted. He doesn’t want to stay in Russia, under his father’s roof, he wants to get the fuck out, and he wants to make a fuckton of money. He cannot let anything fuck up his chances. There’s not a single openly gay player in the NHL, and Ilya Rozanov, 17 years old, foreign national, prospective draft pick, is not going to be the first.
Hollander is still talking. Fucking English nonsense, Ilya can’t smoke here. It’s fucking freezing, he’s not leaving the wind shelter of this wall. Hollander’s cheeks are pink from the cold, his freckles bright against the backdrop of blush, his lips are red and shiny, fresh chapstick.
Hollander is waiting for Ilya to speak. He wants to say: “Sorry, no English. Отвали, уходи. Leave me alone.” But any of that, it’s too distinctive.
Finally he just says: “Ok.” And it’s not okay. It’s not even a little okay, but maybe if he says it dismissively enough, then it will be. He sees Hollander twitch, and Ilya knows. Those are his words. One little word. Even smaller, more impersonal than Ilya’s. He’s probably heard them a fucking thousand times and he twitches every time and Ilya did that to him. He hates himself in that moment. He should’ve said what he was thinking. You are too beautiful to be mine. Those would’ve been good words. Something for Hollander to show off with pride.
But instead all he gets is “Ok.” And he’s unsure. And Ilya waits for him to ask, blowing smoke in his face like a fucking asshole. But in the end he says nothing. He doesn’t ask. “Good luck in the tournament.” He holds out his hand politely. Ilya takes it, smirking cruelly. Hollander’s a coward too. He doesn’t want Ilya either. Not even enough to be sure he doesn’t already have him.
“You will not be so nice when we beat you.” Ilya twists the knife.
“That’s not happening.” Hollander’s smiling.
“See you in final.” His blood is hot under his cold skin.
And then it’s on.
-
Ilya does it. He gets gold. He beats Hollander. He gets drafted. Number fucking one. He’s going to Boston. He’s getting out. He’s flying high as a kite and he can’t fucking sleep for joy.
Hollander is in the gym too. He looks pissed, and Ilya feels alive. He beats him again, both of them pushing until their fucking legs nearly give out, but Ilya lasts longer.
Then they’re both sitting on the floor and Ilya thinks fuck, I’m too late. He’s drafted now, and “Boston is nice, yes?” and he can almost fucking taste freedom and he wants it to taste like the sweat sliding down Hollander’s throat but he can’t exactly say anything now, can he?
He’s 18 years old and his body is on fire in every possible way and he wants— he wants… He wants.
Hollander scrambles to his feet and runs away and the moment is gone.
-
Ilya is getting a fucking killer endorsement deal with CCM hockey gear. It’s prestigious as fuck, especially for a rookie with no pro ice time yet. And he didn’t think that could get any better until he hears that they’ve also signed Shane Hollander. “Hey, I have crazy idea. What if both of us for commercial? Is good, yes? That we are rivals? Makes good tv.”
He can’t believe they fucking go for it, but soon enough, here Hollander is, delivered to him on a platter, with a professional makeup artist glossing his already perfectly pink lips.
Ilya’s fucking giddy and he can’t help laughing at Hollander’s scrunched up face pretending to be angry for the camera. Once they both start giggling it’s over for them, and the photographers give up.
He knows he wants Hollander. But much more than that, he wants to know if Hollander wants him too. He wants to know so badly, he gets a little crazy. He stands next to him in the shower. He flexes, he slides his hands down his body sensually, he hopes to fucking God that Hollander is looking.
He is. Oh boy is he. Hollander is fucking flushed, is fucking chubbed up and red and warm and blinking at him slowly like a cat in a sunbeam and even after Ilya calls him on it, he can’t stop stealing glances. And Ilya’s not going to make the first move, not after Hollander had the fucking audacity to not even ask about the words, everyone knows it’s the initial speaker’s responsibility to confirm after the response. But what Ilya is going to do, is offer himself up for the taking. Something…plausible to deny. Hazing, guy shit. Let’s both jerk off in showers and never speak of it again if you freak out.
Hollander does not freak out. Hollander is fucking mesmerized, and Ilya’s never been this turned on in his life. Never been desired, vindicated, like this. He’s on top of the world. “Not here.” Hollander says. And Ilya’s heart skips a beat. Not here means somewhere else, doesn’t it? Where?
“We can forget that happened in there.” Ilya grits his teeth. Like we forget everything else? Everything inconvenient to your perfect fucking Canadian golden boy life?
“What is your room number?”
“1410.” You’re goddamn right.
-
Hollander opens the door for him at 9:07 pm, no maybes about it. And Ilya knows this isn’t a date after all, isn’t romance, Hollander’s wearing a t-shirt and sweats like he wanted to be able to take it off as quickly as possible. They’re not going anywhere except to the bed.
“Do you want to talk?”
“Not really.” They should, but if Ilya has to say it, that he’s not even listening for his name on stranger’s lips anymore, and he has to hear Hollander say… God anything, fucking any response would devastate him.
“This is such a bad idea.” Truer words have never been spoken but Ilya resents them anyway.
“What is?” Say it. Say you’re mine. Say you want me. “This?” Me? And Ilya kisses him and shucks off his own jacket, his own shirt, and lets Shane fucking golden boy Hollander slide to the floor and suck his dick like this is a filthy hookup in a club bathroom.
Like they’re not…
Fuck that’s good. Ilya pulls Hollander back up, he’s breathing hard, open mouthed, slick with spit and precum.
They move to the bed. Ilya strips completely and lays back. Hollander folds his pants up and Ilya grins and then Hollander is standing in front of him, naked and bare and he’s staring at Ilya’s chest. Ilya looks down at the words over his heart. His own name, like an egotistical brand. He looks back up at Hollander. He’s rubbing his own wrist and Ilya leans up and grabs it, turns over his hand and sees it. The little, ok. It’s so small, like a fingerprint, hidden under a watch tan line, barely there. Ilya grips his wrist tightly, pressing his thumb hard into the hollow of Hollander’s forearm, afraid he’s going to do something stupid like brush the pad of his finger reverently over the mark.
Hollander is standing between Ilya’s legs, leaning down over him, breath on Ilya’s face, their hands between them. Ilya can’t stand it. He slides back on the bed. “Come here.” He says, and Hollander does, climbing onto the bed to straddle him, following like he’s on a leash. But maybe that’s because Ilya hasn’t let go of his wrist.
“Have you ever heard your words?” Hollander asks, quiet and breathless, leaning over him, pressing his fingertips to Ilya’s ribs, just beneath his marked skin. Like he really doesn’t know, hasn’t been torturing Ilya. And suddenly Ilya is terrified that he’s made it all up in his head, that it’s all a coincidence, that someone else will say his name someday and Ilya will say something thoughtless and unique and they’ll clutch their pearls and Ilya will never get to touch Hollander again.
“Have you ever heard yours?” Ilya counters.
Hollander nods nervously. “A thousand times.”
“Same.” Ilya says.
And Hollander slides down to lie beside him, but he doesn’t move his hand, and Ilya doesn’t let go and then they’re both just lying there, naked, hard, breathing so loud in the dark, so fucking afraid to say what they both know the other is thinking. Ilya is holding Hollander’s hand, palm pressed tight to his sternum.
“What do you want to do?” Ilya asks.
“I don’t know.”
And Ilya could say something, he could. He could say it’s you. I know it’s you. But he can’t make the words come out. So he turns on his side and slides his palm onto Hollander’s beautiful dick and says “Is this ok?” And Hollander’s hand goes to his own thigh, spasming in pleasure, the little ok still bared to Ilya. And he nods.