Chapter Text
Something was off.
Ilya didn't know when he got so good at reading Hollander. On the ice, this was a point of pride, testament to his skill. He knew how the other team was going to perform before they did. He learned the word for this: intuition. This was a feeling you could not explain, a skill that could not be learned. It came from the gut. It was a gift. That's what they told him, strangers, sportscasters, coach. Ilya's team believed in it as much as any locker room superstition.
Hollander disagreed. It's not some superpower, he would say, rolling his eyes. You're so full of yourself, Rozanov. You just notice things. You're not a god.
He sang a different tune on his back, when he was full of Ilya. But he wasn't wrong that Ilya noticed. Without meaning to, or wanting to: the line of Hollander's shoulders, how his eyes cut to the side. Quick, back again. Tension in his jaw when Ilya grabbed for it. Hollander's mouth parted so easy. He took a breath, and Ilya noticed. He almost said—then didn't.
Hollander had won tonight. Not easily, and not by much, but that didn't matter. Winning mattered. 0-1, playing out the clock for a miserable slog of a game? So be it. Ilya would take what he could get. Yeah, you would, Hollander had huffed. By hook or by crook.
It was a stupid saying, but Ilya liked how he said it. The shape his mouth made.
A win was a win. Take it and go. Hollander didn't think so; it was only worth celebrating if it happened on his terms, went according to his plan. It was only a win if he could feel like he earned it. So Ilya knew he'd be sour tonight. Frustrated. Unsatisfied. These were all good things in Ilya's book. This was raw material for the kind of fuck that they would both feel for days after. The kind of fuck that would tide Ilya over for another week, maybe.
But intuition said it was not that. Hollander's mouth didn't give the way it should. He didn't squirm into Ilya's touch. He was hard, hips twitching as Ilya jerked him, but it was not quite right. Ilya let his callused thumb catch under the head. Hollander flinched, and his cock jumped. But it wasn't quite—
Hollander's anger was not some unknown thing. Ilya cherished his stern brow while he fucked his throat. He liked to fist a hand in Hollander's sweaty hair and draw his red face up from the pillow so he could hear him cursing. Asshole, Hollander would hiss, when Ilya thumbed at where he speared him, stretched him just that much more, take it, like that, you're such an asshole—
He knew that version of Hollander—the one who would keep a frown on his face until Ilya stuffed him full of cock. The one who would squirm away from kisses, make Ilya chase. He knew how to treat him. Melt him. But this Hollander was different. Angry in a different way.
Ilya took his mind back over the last few days, searching for what could have set Hollander off. He hated this shit. Hated having to read someone's cold eyes and pointed silence. Hated to trace every step he had taken to try and figure out what he did yesterday, or the day before, the last time they met, the last time they spoke, what Ilya had said, what he hadn't. Back over days. Years. He hated that Hollander made him do this, controlled his mind in this way. He shouldn't have the power. He didn't have the right.
Still, Ilya thought. They hadn't seen each other for over a month, and then seen each other maybe too much in the past couple days. The Raiders had flown in early. He'd had half a day of training and then Hollander's empty little apartment. Ilya broke curfew because he could. And because Hollander was there, in bed. Because he was smiling.
They watched a video of a man who talked about frogs like it was most interesting thing in the world. It helps me sleep, Hollander explained. It's, like, peaceful. His voice is really soothing. Listen. He's famous for it.
Uh huh, Ilya said. What about my cock? Not so soothing?
That is not the word I would use, Hollander said. His smile made him look young. It made Ilya want a smoke.
But my cock is famous, Ilya told him, and Hollander rolled his eyes. His smile wobbled, because he didn't like to hear about Ilya sleeping around, but that wasn't anything new. And Hollander wasn't angry then, that night; the video was still playing, droning on, saying they are famous, these frogs, for their wrestling skill. But it is a civilized sport. His phone was propped up against the pillow while Ilya got dressed. Hollander was listening to his soothing man talk about frogs, but he was looking at Ilya. He said, bye. Ilya threw him a salute.
Was that it? He hadn't said goodbye? Maybe Hollander wanted a kiss. He liked to linger; Ilya knew this. He liked for Ilya to stay in him until it was uncomfortable. He liked to keep sucking Ilya's soft cock. He liked to say bye and then get down on his knees and make Ilya come again. Bye. Maybe Ilya had left too soon.
But that was only because it hadn't been a goodbye. They had a game the next day, and standing appointment in the evening. Ilya left smelling of Hollander and thinking of him, of what he would do when he saw him next. How many hours to go. Ilya texted him first thing in the morning, something he couldn't remember now. Something stupid. Something funny. He only got an eye-roll emoji in response. This was Hollander's go-to when he was too focused on the game to bother keeping up the conversation, but too much of a polite young man to not reply.
Hollander had been focused. He played well, even if you couldn't say the same for the rest of his team. But Hollander wasn't angry about the game; Ilya's gut told him that. On the bench, there had been a furrow to his brow that said, I'm going to win. He wasn't even looking at Ilya. That was Shane Hollander, Captain of the Metros, about to jump the boards.
Ilya didn't exist to him. Hollander didn't know how easy he was to notice.
What, then? Busy with his team on their way out, then the press. An hour passed, two. Ilya left his hotel room with no notice and no excuse. The team expected it of him now. Maybe Ilya should have been used to it too, but his body didn't agree. Heart behind his teeth, every time Hollander's building came into view. Ilya hadn't texted when he showed up; he knew where to find the key. Had he said something, when he opened the door? He didn't think so. But Hollander had been off from the go, from the second Ilya walked in and walked up to him and tucked his face into his neck. What, then?
Not everything is about you. Oh, Ilya knew that. Very little was about him. But Hollander, here, when they were like this—this had to be, didn't it? Wasn't this the one thing that was?
Ilya kissed him and Hollander kissed back. It wasn't right. Frustration swelled behind Ilya's ribs. He jerked Hollander faster, shoving aside the briefs he'd never bothered taking off. Maybe it would be better, if Hollander came first. He didn't like to get fucked so soon after, but Ilya could wait. What was the time? It didn't matter. He could wait.
The kisses were slow. Thorough. Ilya abandoned Hollander's jaw to free up a hand so he could tug at his balls, roll them in his palm. Hollander made a noise, low in his throat.
"Hey," Ilya said, mouth at his ear. The soft, sweaty place behind it where he liked to kiss. He had watched Hollander scrub at it very diligently, many times. It tasted like skin. The tip of Hollander's cock was wet, hips twitching. Ilya twisted his hand and made it rougher. "Ok?"
Hollander said nothing. His eyes were closed, nostrils flared. He looked like it felt good. He looked like he was going to come. Then, maybe—he would soften. Maybe he would tell Ilya what he had done wrong.
Ilya kissed his throat, then bit. "Hollander?" His mouth was already swollen, red like he'd been sucking Ilya's cock for hours. From just a few kisses. With his brows tense, jaw tight, he looked—Ilya didn't know the word. It wasn't pretty. Svetlana was pretty. Sasha was pretty. The women Ilya picked out at clubs and bars and games, they were pretty.
Hollander was. Ilya didn't know the word.
"Yes?" Ilya mumbled, kissing him again. "Is ok?"
"Would you stop it?" Hollander's eyes snapped open and the heel of his hand hit Ilya's shoulder, hard. "Stop asking me that."
"What?" Ilya said, somewhat stupidly. His hand was still on Hollander's cock.
Hollander's face twisted. He was looking at some point on Ilya's cheek. "Stop asking me if it's okay. If I want it. You're always, like—whatever. I'm not one of your fucking girls, okay? If I don't like it, I'll stop you. I can make you stop."
Ilya stepped in. That was instinct. Hollander's nails dug into his shoulder as he pushed him back. His mouth was tight. The swell of his bicep made Ilya want to bite.
"No," Ilya said, after it was clear Hollander wasn't going to say any more. "You are not a girl. You are big, strong man, yes? Even if you have this—" his free hand to Hollander's face, gripping his chin "—this pretty—" he wasn't pretty "—cocksucking mouth." Hollander wrenched his face out of Ilya's grip, so Ilya used both hands: one tight in his hair, the other back on his jaw. Squeezed. "Even if you bend over and beg to take my cock."
If I don't like it, he said. Hollander didn't know what he fucking liked. Not until Ilya showed him. Not until Ilya asked. He asked for a reason. I'll stop you. Would he?
"You think I treat you like a girl?"
It was the logical conclusion, but Ilya's mind was whirring. Had he said something? Was Hollander holding on to some stupid text from months ago, because he was fucking crazy? It was possible. Ilya didn't understand him. He had said so many things—said so many things, all the time, but Hollander should know better than to take him seriously. Had Ilya ever—
"Don't you?" Hollander's mouth was unhappy. "You don't have to be so careful. Nice, whatever. I'm a sure thing, right? You don't need to convince me."
"Now you say I am too nice," Ilya marveled. What the fuck?
"Shut up. I just mean—I'm not like them." He huffed out a little breath, like Ilya was being stupid. It never failed to make Ilya play stupid. "You can do whatever you want. To me. Stop fucking asking. Just do it."
Was that it—same old simple jealousy? Hollander wouldn't meet his eyes. Ilya hadn't been with a girl for—he couldn't even remember. It had been months. How did Hollander manage to work himself up? How did his fucking mind work? Ilya had caught him, once, scowling at his phone. At a picture of Ilya, over-exposed, outside some club. He had zoomed in on Ilya's hands, massive on some pretty girl's tiny waist. That is very old, Ilya had told him helpfully. Pulled out his phone while Hollander sputtered. You want to see latest?
Hollander had gone just as red then. He gripped Ilya's hand now and drew it away from his burning face. Ilya knew exactly how much force it took. His eyes had taken on that sheen that made Ilya a little dizzy, a little sick. Want cramped his stomach. He would eat him, he thought, crazed. If Hollander let him do whatever he wanted. Ilya would consume him.
"What if," Ilya said, and Hollander finally met his eyes. Ilya shook free of him and released the grip he had in his hair. Stretched his fingers. Then Ilya reached out and grabbed two rough handfuls of Hollander's chest. "What if I want to treat you like a girl?"
Hollander's eyes got brighter. His mouth dropped open.
"Fuck off."
It was so choked as to be noiseless. He slapped Ilya's hands away, then waited, one heavy beat, another. When Ilya didn't move, he put both hands on him and shoved. It wasn't playful. Ilya stumbled back a step before he caught himself. He reached out again, quick enough to catch Hollander's small, sensitive nipple and pinch.
Hollander's breath hitched. He grabbed for Ilya's wrist and dug his nails in. Squeezed so hard Ilya felt the bones grind, felt it in the base of his spine, sparking. Understood him at last.
"Rozanov." Hollander said it low, in his throat. A warning, maybe. It came too late. His eyes made everything an invitation.
"You said," Ilya told him. "Whatever I want. I want to touch your pretty tits, Hollander."
He twisted his arm to get out of Hollander's grip. Hollander was still hard, and his cock tucked right up against Ilya's hip when Ilya wedged a leg in between his. Maybe it was the sudden pressure on his balls that made him slow, the threat. Maybe not. Ilya knew how fast Hollander was. He knew better than anyone else on the planet. He knew what it looked like, when Hollander didn't want to be caught.
So this was what it meant, when he telegraphed every move. His shoulder to Ilya's chest said—hold me. His hand, shoving at Ilya's face—kiss me. His bite, quick and hard—kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.
"Stop it," Hollander said, but he said it how he said please. Ilya's heart was pounding. His teeth ached. It was a small miracle neither of them had lost their balance and gone for the ground. Ilya put his head down and drove Hollander to the bed, wrestled him onto his back. Pinched his nipple again, the same one, hard.
Hollander slapped his face. It wasn't gentle. It made the heat that had been coalescing in Ilya's face trip down his spine, and some muscle memory drove him to move. His teeth set into Hollander's shoulder and he heard the cry as if from far away, heard it, understood it. Please. It hurts. I want more.
It wasn't easy, getting his hands on Hollander's wrists. Pinning him down. A hard check during their last game had left a Philly defenseman with a wired jaw and Ilya with a twinge in his shoulder. He should take it easy. He'd thought tonight Hollander could ride him, and for once Ilya would lie back and let him. No throwing him around, no holding him down. Tonight you do the work, Hollander, he would say. I am tired from winning so much.
His shoulder screamed. Hollander didn't know about it, and Ilya wondered if it would have made a difference. The man underneath him now wasn't fair, sensible captain Shane Hollander. He was something Ilya had only ever seen in the mirror right before he looked away. Ilya drove his entire weight down onto him, and it wasn't enough, he knew it wasn't enough. His nails scrabbled at Hollander's wrists, dug into his pulse. And still, with a buck, a hard knee, Hollander could throw him—Ilya braced for it, held him tighter, fuck the shoulder, pinned him with his arms stretched tight above his head.
When he straddled his chest, Hollander shook his head. "Not like this. Rozanov. Stop it."
His voice was shot. Ilya wanted to stuff his cock down his throat.
"Oh, yes," Ilya said, tensing his thighs around Hollander's ribs, letting his cock slip against his chest, "yes, like this." He needed a hand free, to drive his cock where he wanted. But testing the grip on Hollander's wrists made it clear Ilya couldn't hold him with one hand, so he had to hump his chest, clumsy, tucking in tight. "You have good—what do you say? Good pair. I want to fuck them." Hollander bucked. Ilya wanted to reach back and grab his dripping cock. He didn't have any fucking hands. His cock was smearing precome all over Hollander's chest, leaving streaks. "You said, just do it. So. I am going to fuck your tits before I fuck your pussy."
Hollander's mouth went slack. His eyes—
You are not a god, Hollander told him once. But, oh. When he looked at Ilya like that.
"Will you take off your panties for me," Ilya said, "or do I have to rip them?"
Hollander didn't move, even when Ilya released both wrists. He was breathing through his mouth, quick, shallow. His arms stayed strained, fists denting the pillow above his head. Ilya shuffled down his body, resisting the urge to stretch his shoulder. Hollander's cock was so hard it looked painful, red and leaking. Ilya ignored it to yank his briefs down his legs. Hollander lifted his hips, very helpful, so Ilya didn't rip them. He let his nails drag, scratching as he went, as he came back up. Hollander was still, so still and so stiff, like he had melted right down. Candle wax. He would cry from that, maybe. If Ilya caught the underside of his arm, or his tight, sensitive nipples. The backs of his knees. Those wet eyes would brim right over.
"If you didn't make me wait," Ilya said, or thought he said. He couldn't be sure what was coming out of his mouth. Hollander had that glazed look he got when Ilya spoke Russian, or English too broken to be understood. He didn't wear it often, not anymore. Because it had been years, now, since Ilya—because it had been years. "I would lick you. If you didn't make me wait, Hollander. I would lick your pussy until you came in my mouth. I love the taste." Hollander's legs were pure muscle. Heavy, but so easy to move. "But now it is too late, because you made me wait. I don't have patience anymore. Now, I want to fuck. I want to fuck your little cunt."
One hand under his knee, and Hollander brought the other leg up on his own, all the way, tucked against his chest.
"You're wet enough," Ilya said, thumbing at his hole. Lube tacky, because Hollander had prepped for him despite his upset. Ilya's thumb sank in to the knuckle, and he hooked it, tugged. "That's good. You can take it." And then, mocking and not, because he couldn't fucking help himself. "Ok?"
Hollander made a sound Ilya had never heard before. He did take it—the blunt nudge of Ilya's cock, relentless, the unending press. He bore down and took it until Ilya was in him all the way, seated. Ilya's throat was so dry. Blood pounded behind his eyes. It made his vision pulse.
"Good," he managed, drew out and snapped his hips. Once he did it, he couldn't stop. "That's good. Take it. You said I could—so take it, Hollander." He couldn't wait. He couldn't slow. Hollander tipped his head back and broke the grit of his teeth to gasp, a wet, hungry noise that hooked Ilya in the gut. His wrists were still on the fucking pillow. Ilya fucked him harder. "That's it. Take it, sweetheart. Let me fuck you. That's it." He reached out to grip Hollander's chest with one hand and nearly lost his balance. Slipped out, but only for a second, only a second until he fucked back in. He couldn't hear the sounds Hollander was making over his own panicky heartbeat, but Hollander's mouth was open, his eyes were open. He was looking at Ilya. "Good," Ilya said. "Thats it. Good girl."
Hollander closed his eyes and came. Lovely, Ilya thought. That was the word.
Come had strung all the way to Hollander's throat. It landed, hot, on the back of Ilya's hand. Hollander was breathing hard, as hard as Ilya, shaking with it. His jaw was clenched tight. Tendons stood stark at his bared throat. Ilya was pounding him, careless, and Hollander didn't like that, didn't like to get fucked after he'd come. Ilya knew this. Because it hurts, Rozanov, he had told him once, frowning in that serious way of his. But Ilya fucked him, and he took it. If I don't like it, I'll make it stop. Jesus, Ilya thought. He was going to come. He was going to come apart. What would happen then?
It was endless. Then Ilya registered, one at a time: the silenced headboard, his aching soles, something beeping in the kitchen. That was Hollander's heart, thumping wildly under Ilya's palm. Those were his eyes, smeared wet under Ilya's mouth.
His skin was so hot. He was straining to breathe under Ilya's weight. Ilya was straining, too.
How to close the wound? Ilya was the wound. It felt like there was no part of them that wasn't touching. Ilya kissed the corner of his mouth. Hollander made a hiccupy noise that Ilya swallowed. It took a very long time to uncurl Hollander's fingers. Ilya did it one at a time, and stayed in him until he was done.
In the bathroom, he threw away the condom and washed his hands and his face and sat down. He couldn't catch his breath. There was a stylish chrome clock hanging above the vanity. Ilya couldn't read it. His eyes wouldn't focus.
He shook out his hands and thought of Hollander's fists on the pillow. His hands must have cramped. Ilya's were numb.
Hollander squeezed a stress ball to help him fall asleep. It was one of many things. He might not be able to use it tonight. Maybe it would hurt too much. The stress ball was yellow, with an angry face on it. Looks like you, Ilya had told him, when you make that—yes, that face.
By the time Ilya came out of the bathroom, Hollander had come upright. He was leaning back against the headboard in the way he did. Stiff, square, the most unnatural way imaginable. The sheet was drawn up over his lap.
Hollander cleared his throat. Looked somewhere over Ilya's shoulder. Tried a smile.
"Bye."
Ilya could feel his pulse in his fingertips. They should make a nature show about him, Ilya thought, feeling mean. His chest hurt. Someone's soothing voice should explain Shane fucking Hollander to him.
"What, bye? Where is my consolation prize?"
Those eyes came back to him. He had taught Ilya the term, some years ago. For when I win, he said, but you still want—
A thousand thoughts flickered over Hollander's face. Ilya wanted to dig and dig and dig until he'd unearthed them all. His bare hands in the open, bloody maw of Hollander's chest. That's what he wanted.
"I want to see my friends, the frogs." Ilya came up around Hollander's side of the bed. He shoved him until he moved into the wet spot, and ignored the way his hand trembled. "Hurry up. Where is your phone? Put it on."
It didn't take any time at all, for his shoulder to relax under the weight of Ilya's head.
Whatever you want. Hollander couldn't have known. But he would learn.