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Penthouse 1. Penthouse 1. He repeats it in his head as he walks from the elevator, slips through the heavy door.
It's a nice space. No overhead lights on, just a bunch of lamps. Had Ilya known that, that too much brightness made the back of Shane's eyes pound? Probably not. It was a stupid thought. And where was Ilya?
Oh, there he was. Leaning against the window and looking at Shane. He was facing the door, and did that mean he'd been looking at it, gazing and waiting for it to open? Maybe, but it still seemed implausible. Implausible because he wasn't like Shane, wasn't desperate for this. Hadn't gone six months without anyone's hands on him. Probably hadn't even gone six days, judging by the frequency with which photos of him with random girls showed up online.
Probably he'd just been looking out the window, thinking of something else altogether.
Shane starts to walk over. He doesn't know what to do with the hand that's not holding his jacket. Puts it in his the pocket, and that immediately feels wrong, but it would be even worse to take it right back out again, and so he keeps it there.
And now Ilya was spreading his arms, posing. "Congratulations." That was the right thing to say, right? It seemed like what the gesture demanded. Ilya still wasn't coming closer, wasn't bridging the gap that remained between them. Last time he'd done just from Shane looking at him, had walked right over and kissed him against his kitchen counter. Kiss me! Shane thinks, and feels annoyed at himself for thinking it.
"Thank you. Now take off your clothes." The tone is matter of fact, like this is obvious. Is it? Should he have started stripping as soon as he walked into the room? Ilya's not taking off his clothes, is just standing there against the wall, drinking from his glass and still not coming closer. But it doesn't seem like a joke or anything. They are here to fuck, after all.
"You're such an asshole."
He steps closer, hoping Ilya will get the message, will step in too, will kiss him or grab him or something. But he doesn't, so Shane starts stripping.
Ilya's not saying anything, is still just standing there drinking while watching him fold his shirt and trousers. He's in his boxers now, nearly naked in a room full of windows with a man who's only said one sentence to him since he walked in, and he's starting to feel... weird. Embarrassed, even though he shouldn't be, because he's doing exactly what Ilya told him to do. And usually that makes something click into place in his brain. Right now, though, he's just thinking about how anyone could see in.
"What?"
Ilya's tone sounds kind of annoyed, or sarcastic, maybe. Like he doesn't understand why Shane's been hesitating for so long. And that makes his stomach twist, because take off your clothes would seem to imply all your clothes. Including underwear. Now Ilya's getting pissed off because Shane can't even follow a simple direction.
"It's a lot of windows."
Hopefully that will get the message across, that Shane wants to obey, would be obeying if it were just them, not them and anyone who could be looking in from somewhere on the Vegas strip.
Ilya tilts his head towards a doorway, turns and goes through, dragging a chair behind him. What do we need a chair for, Shane wants to ask, but doesn't. Just follows.
They're in a bedroom now, and it still has windows, but Ilya is making no move to close the blinds and he already seemed annoyed earlier so Shane decides not to bring it up again. It's fine. This is the penthouse, so it's high up in the air. There are almost definitely no other buildings of this height close enough that someone could look out their window and see the captain of the Montreal Metros behaving so sordidly. Even if they had a camera and zoomed in. Focus. Shane wonders what he should be doing, waits for Ilya to tell him. He's by the chair, does he want Shane to come over? To finally give him a kiss?
"Good." The sound of the word makes a starburst of light flash in Shane's mind, not the bad kind but a perfect one. Good. Good. Good. He followed Ilya into the room, he waited to be told what to do, he did it right.
"Now get on the bed."
Shane looks at the bed, walks over. Gets on. Listening to directions is making something settle in his mind, something that's been roiling all evening. All season, maybe.
Ilya is sitting down on the chair, though, not coming over. Why isn't he coming over?
"This is a good hotel. Very nice vodka. It's hard to find in America."
What the fuck does that have to do with anything? Shane couldn't care less about vodka. Or hotels, for that matter, right now.
"Okay?"
"Touch yourself." Ilya says it in the same way he told Shane to take off his clothes. Self-explanatory.
"What?" Shane wonders if he's joking, maybe.
You haven't even touched me, yet. Your hands are the ones I want doing that.
"Show off for me, I want to watch you."
Shane laughs a little at that. Glances around the room. Show off? He doesn't know how to show off. Is Ilya mixing him with some other person he's slept with, somebody who understands how to be sexy? Shane is having a hard time imagining how watching himself would be a turn-on.
"You what?"
"It's my special day, Hollander. I want to watch."
So he's not joking, probably, unless this is a really long-running joke. Now it's up to Shane to somehow make it clear that this should not be something he wants.
"I've never..."
Will that get the point across?
"No shit," and he's scoffing while he says it, like he's laughing at Shane, and it hurts, a bit. Because of course Shane can't 'put on a show', has never had any reason to do anything remotely like that, but the fact that Ilya's actually completely aware of how fumblingly inexperienced he is still stings.
"Fuck you." A thought. "Give me some vodka, at least."
Drinking makes people confident, right? Liquid courage, and all that. Maybe if he gets some vodka in his system he'll transform into some seductive version of himself how understands how to do this right. Because he does want to do it right, wants to follow Ilya's command and make him say good again. Maybe even, you're so good, Hollander. The thought of that, in Ilya's deep voice, makes him flush.
"Mmm, no no no. Vodka is for after, as your reward."
Which sucks, because Shane can think of thousand better rewards (Ilya lying on top of him and pressing him down like his favourite weighted blanket; Ilya holding him on his lap while they kiss; Ilya saying you make me come harder than anyone else), but they would all seem foolish if he voiced them aloud. So he stays silent, looks around the room. Considers how to tackle this task. Leans back and spreads his legs further apart—that seems like a good start. Ilya wants to be able to see, after all. God only knows why.
He looks down, then back up, because staring at his own body is killing any anticipation within him. Maybe he can just imitate what's Ilya's done to him? That's what's felt best, better than anything Shane could ever achieve on his own. Puts a hand against the side of his neck, reaching towards the back. Not as good as Ilya's had felt, last time, but something. Trials the hand down his chest. Touches his nipple and pretends Ilya's the one doing it, closes his eyes and tries to travel back, mentally. That helps, and it's making him breathe more heavily.
Pretend you're both in your apartment, and the sheets have the right texture, and your mouth is still warm from Ilya's being on it, and his hand is the one that's pressing against your cock through the fabric.
"Do you want to know how it feels?"
It jars him out of his head. "What?" What is he talking about? He didn't want to talk before but he wants to now, right when Shane's beginning to feel good.
"Holding the cup."
"You fucking asshole!" This is what he interrupted him with?
"I can barely describe it, oh my god Hollander." He's saying it dramatically, tipping his head backwards, and it's so ridiculous but it's making Shane smile all the same, because this is the most emotion he's gotten out of Ilya since he entered into the hotel room. He shimmies down the bed, takes off his underwear. Throws them at Ilya, because they're being playful, right? They're having fun, now.
But the boxers hit Ilya's glass, knocking some of the remaining vodka onto his shirt, and shit. Ilya's looking down at them, and he's not smiling anymore, in fact looks kind of disdainful. You're such an idiot, he thinks as he adjusts his posture again, sitting up against the headboard. No normal person would've done that. Ilya dropped the underwear somewhere beside the chair, so Shane will have to remember to find it, later.
He looks annoyed, still, and maybe this is a sign that Shane should stop delaying, should just get on with it. Running a hand down his chest and palming his clothed cock once before wasting some of Ilya's very nice vodka is a pretty pathetic show.
So. Something sexy, something that will get the message across to Ilya to come over here and fuck him. He starts touching his hole, first not even fingering, just patting against it, feeling the outside. Then pushing in. This could be your cock! It's not as good but it's something, and it's making him breathe embarrassingly hard. He adds another finger, impatient. Ilya hadn't offering lube or anything and it burns a bit, but he doesn't want to ask, just puts up with sensation until it passes.
Ilya's staring at him. "Fuck..." He says it drawn out, and Shane hopes it's a good thing. Even from this far away he can tell how large Ilya's pupils are, and he feels kind of hypnotized by them. Like in those nature documentaries, when the lion has its gaze locked on the gazelle, and you're yelling at the gazelle to start running. Shane's dad used to get those on VHS for him from the library, when he was a kid. His mom made him stop because they were too intense, a 7 year old can't be watching an animal get devoured, David.
Shane doesn't want to run, though.
He does want to get eaten.
"Are you gonna fuck me?" He's starting to wonder. Has three fingers in his ass, now. Maybe this is some weird power trip for Ilya. Maybe this whole thing will happen without Ilya even touching him at all. That would be awful.
Ilya raises an eyebrow. "We will see."
That's something, right? That means if he behaves right, Ilya will come over here. Does he realize how badly Shane wants that? Has he not been clear enough?
"I need."
Ilya keeps staring. C'mon! Do it! You liked it last time, or seemed to, at least!
"What."
"You know." Surely he knows. He can't not.
"Tell me." An instruction. Shane will follow the instruction; Shane will be good.
"You." Ilya's breathing hard. Was that right? Does Shane have to be more specific in order to do it right? "I need you." At this point, it doesn't even matter how he gets him. His cock would be wonderful, but so would his fingers, or his mouth, anything. Even his arms, clutching Shane. The need is all-encompassing and therefore non-specific; he just needs Ilya.
And Ilya's taking another sip, now, now swallowing, now placing down the glass. Standing. All while keeping his eyes fixed on Shane.
He's walking over to the bed, taking off his shirt as he does so, and Shane's relief is so incandescent that he begins to feel lightheaded. Begins to crawl across the bed, too, drawn to Ilya like a magnet, the force of his wanting so strong as to overpower the shame of how needy this must look. Can't even wait five seconds for him to get on the bed, can you.
But now his brain is shutting up because his face is pressed against Ilya's crotch and so everything is alright. And Ilya's hand is on his head, clutching his hair and pushing his face in further and it's not just alright but perfect, perfect. Ilya's hips shove forward, forcing Shane's nose to be compressed against the thick fabric so he can barely breathe. Everything is right in the world.
Shane's mind kind of goes away, during the fucking. He wonders at first why Ilya's still not talking much, or kissing him, because it's so different from last time. But then he thinks about that happening after, once he's done a good job and made Ilya come, and makes himself be content with that. After, after. And for now, lets himself float away, get lost in the sensation of Ilya repeatedly hitting his prostate, somehow knowing how to angle to reach it every time. The sensation is so pleasureable that he can't even linger on which other guys Ilya's used this talent on.
Getting fucked felt sort of like getting drunk. Well, not actually like any time Shane's ever experienced it, because he kind of hates the sense of being out of control, and worries he'll make a fool out of himself. But the way his teammates talk about, like drinking is the most fun thing ever. Anyway, if getting fucked was like being drunk, then Shane is definitely feeling the morning-after regretful-hangover part of things now. Because they'd both come, and now are both sitting up against the headboard again, and Ilya still hadn't kissed him. Isn't even looking at him, in fact. And Shane's mind has returned from whatever blissful, untethered place it went to before, and with its return to reality come all the worries that usually occupy his mental space. The main one being, what had he done wrong?
Ilya had come, he was sure of it, even though he hadn't seen him, had had his face smushed into the mattress, in fact. But he'd felt Ilya tensing, and heard him grunting, and the sounds had been the same as when he'd finished at Shane's apartment. And that meant Shane had been successful, been useful, done something right this evening, so.
Maybe Shane was a bad kisser? He hadn't had as much practice as Ilya, obviously.
But if so, why had Ilya kissed him in the bathroom earlier?
Maybe it was just a new boundary Ilya had. Everyone had sexual preferences and things they didn't want to do, and maybe Ilya had realized his were, I like putting my cock in your ass, but I draw the line at putting my tongue in your mouth. It seemed hard to believe, but if so, wouldn't Shane be the aggressor, trying to force Ilya to do something that made him uncomfortable?
But Shane had seen photos online earlier that month of him with his tongue down a girl's throat at some event. He certainly seemed comfortable enough there.
A new thought came.
Maybe there were, like, levels to having sex, and before Ilya had been doing all that kissing because he thought it was necessary, then, in order to get Shane into bed. And now they had passed that level, and he'd realized just how stupidly easy Shane could be, and naturally assumed kissing wasn't even a requirement anymore. Knew Shane was so desperate for Ilya that he would accept whatever was offered, so why bother kissing?
It made his cheeks feel hot, but not in a nice way. More like he was ashamed. He wonders what Ilya thinks of him. Something like, Shane Hollander: primary purpose, boring hockey player to beat; secondary purpose, available hole to fuck. It's humiliating. Shane had always secretly kind of admired girls who got called sluts, had thought it so different from his plain, undesirable way of being. Wasn't it a compliment, if so many guys wanted to fuck you? Now, though, he's seeing why the term is thrown around the locker room so derisively. Because he'd been all indecent, had let Ilya push him down and rut into him like an animal, and now that Ilya had come Shane was apparently so unimportant so as to not even be worth making eye contact with. Let alone kissing.
He should say something. Not like, kiss me, obviously. That would be insane. But something to remind Ilya that he's not just a body, in fact has a brain attached and is somebody worth talking to.
The problem is, though, he can't think of anything to say. Also, Ilya's smoking now, which makes Shane's nose twitch and eyes water. It would be rude to ask him to stop, though.
"So Russia this year was... something else." He looks at Ilya and nothing, no returned gaze, no response—in fact, Ilya's turning away to ash his stupid fucking cigarette on the tray on the nightstand, further from Shane than ever.
He makes another attempt. "It's intense there." Leans in a tiny bit, even, to Ilya's space, because they're not touching at all now, even though their arms are like less than 30cm apart. Making contact outright feels impudent, but he can try to suggest it, right?
Ilya makes a mention kind of like he's cracking his neck, or something, but still doesn't reply. Why won't he say anything. Look at me, Shane tries to communicate, subliminally. Talk to me. I am right here with you, closer than we have been for half a year, and I don't know when I'll be able to see you like this again.
On that note... "So are you heading back soon?"
"Back."
It's just a single word but it's something, at least. Is this what will get Ilya talking? Should he keep asking direct questions?
"To Russia?" Shane looks down at his glass of vodka, which he hadn't even wanted, but he hadn't felt like explaining that to Ilya even more, so now it's here, and he's drinking it, because that's what you do when you're holding a beverage. And he's feeling woozily tipsy, because he's a stupid fucking lightweight. Then looks back to Ilya, because he wants to take in the sight of him as much as possible while they're still here in person, not through a screen, and not out on the rink where it's obvious and a distraction from play to stare. "For the summer?"
He gets a glance back. "Oh. Yes." And the glance is finished, attention again on the ashtray. Shane hates the ashtray; he's never stolen from a hotel before but he kind of wants to throw this terrible thing off the balcony.
Shane decides to finish the vodka, even though it hurts his throat and tastes like rubbing alcohol. Very nice, my ass. Maybe this terrible, stilted conversation will be easier if he's drunker. In for a penny, in for a pound, and how many pennies are even in a pound, anyway?
"Why?"
Ilya shakes his head a bit, at that.
"What do you mean, why." He sniffs in that way that always sounds so indescribably Russian, to Shane. Looks down.
"Do you have to?" You could stay here, closer to me. He's stupid, but thankfully not stupid enough to voice that second part aloud.
"There is no have to. It's... it's home." He sounds tired, worn out with Shane, with the whole night, and now Shane's wishing he hadn't come up here at all.
"Yeah. But. I don't know." Ilya looks up at the ceiling, now. Shane really doesn't even know what he himself is getting at, circling some vague notion without having grasped exactly what it is, yet.
"Is it safe?" Because that's it, or part of it. He wants Ilya here, with him, but he also more generally wants Ilya not getting beaten to a pulp or something for kissing some guy in a club. The conversation in Sochi keeps coming back.
"What do you mean, safe." Shane wants him to stop asking what he means, wants him to understand, without this dreadful process of articulating things aloud. "I don't know."
"Do you even. Do you even like it there." Maybe he does. Maybe he likes it there so much he's going to leave and fuck the half of the population he hasn't already had and then marry some beautiful Russian woman who'll have his blonde haired babies. And then that thought disappears, for now, at least, because it's surely coming back again later, because Ilya is looking at him, fully, not just a glance, head turned in his direction. And even as his eyes dart away they then return back again, and their faces are the closest they've been since he left the bathroom hours before.
"What difference does it make."
"A pretty big one, I think." We talked, I proved despite being easy I can still hold a conversation involving some implication of global issues, now kiss me!
It doesn't work. Ilya's leaning away, raising the cigarette again, eyes off in the middle distance of the room. Shane's disappointment is so heavy it could drown him.
"I need to sleep."
"Oh." Even Shane, notoriously bad at picking up on unspoken signals, can understand that one. I need to sleep, and what are you still doing here? Leave, already. Had he overstayed his welcome? Maybe after he'd first gotten up to wipe off his stomach he was supposed to start getting dressed right away. Last time they'd laid together in bed a bit afterwards, and Shane had really, really liked it. But Ilya had been the one to end it then, too, had said he should go. Is Shane being weird? Does he have some absurd, laughable idea about how long a hook-up should last after you've both come?
His limbs feels suddenly awkward, impossible to move properly, but he does his best, begins getting out of bed. "Me too, I should, uh." He has a feeling it'll take ages to fall asleep tonight, actually, but that doesn't matter. What matters is getting the fuck out of here as quickly as possible.
He stumbles back to his pile of clothes on the couch, suddenly realizes his underwear are missing, recalls where they are, remembers how he'd behaved, debates just leaving them. Imagines the sensory nightmare of walking back to his room in with the material of his trousers rubbing against his flaccid dick. Darts back into the room, grabs the boxers without looking at Ilya (who, in his peripheral vision, is still just sitting there smoking), goes back out to the living room. Dresses hurriedly in front of all the big windows. And when he's done, realizes what's happening. He's going to leave, and Ilya still will've done the bare minimum of touching him, just his cock in his ass and his head on his back, nothing more. And Shane wants, desperately. Makes a last ditch attempt.
"So, uh. I'm off." Last time, at his apartment, when they were parting in the stairwell Ilya had kissed him, and then kissed him again. He'd even done so before leaving the bathroom, earlier this evening. But now is evidently nothing like before, and evidently, somewhere along the way he'd fucked up, or Ilya had come to some realization, and all that closeness was off the table. Shane wishes he'd appreciated it more while he'd had it. Ungrateful, he thinks to his months-ago self, who'd gotten so many different kisses in one night so as to be uncountable. Greedy.
"Goodbye, Hollander." And that's a clear dismissal. There's no excuse to keep lingering here any longer, no chance of Ilya coming out to give him a goodbye kiss. For all he knows, that one is the bathroom was the final moment like that between them ever. His shoulders slump. He walks across the room. Slips out.