Chapter Text
"You will not be so friendly when we beat you.", post December 2008
He'd always had trouble falling asleep. Ever since he was a child. Not that there had ever been anything, anyone soothing to turn to, or he didn't remember anymore. Pulling the covers over his head, wrapping his body fully around his pillow underneath, it helped a bit. Plain exhaustion from neverending hockey practice, the crash after the games, helped a lot. Getting his hands on his first pair of headphones and shutting the sounds of the world out had been almost enough.
He was just a stupid kid, expected to be better, always better than the rest of them. Expected to win, keep winning, get the gold, expected to secure the draft, to finally earn the money.
He grinned, he skated, he slammed opponents into the boards, he cursed with the crudest and most offensive words to get under other players' skins, he scored, they loved him for it. And he kept scoring. He was so fucking good at hockey, the best, the best in the world. No one could touch Ilya Rozanov.
And now, again, even though it was way past midnight and his whole body ached with exhaustion, he couldn't sleep. He bit the pillow and groaned. And gave in to what he was well aware was a sick obsession.
What would it feel like to touch that flawless, smooth, rosy skin? To run just a fingertip across that nose, those cheekbones?
He dug the calloused fingers of his left hand into his thigh.
He knew attraction, he knew sex, sex was everywhere. This was different.
A fingertip to trace the dark freckles, very slowly, gently, in silence. To trace the edge of those pink lips. To push past them and feel the wet warmth. To bring his own lips to one of the speckled cheeks and breathe. And taste. Would they stay silent? Tongue on skin on teeth on tongue. Pushing his fingers along the jaw, feeling stubble, moving to lick, to brush his lips against it, suck on the flesh. He needed to smell him, breathe him in, push into him. Fucking see him.
He'd suck marks into that strong neck and down onto one shoulder. Did he have bruises from playing, scars? Where? Could Rozanov leave bruises of his own? Bite? Hard? Mess him up, this polite, focused, driven boy. Destroy him.
How would he sound as Rozanov held him? His breathing, would his heartbeat quicken? Would his skin become damp with sweat? His freckled cheeks grow pink like during the game?
Rozanov loved playing against him on the ice. So fast, so skilled, so smart. Almost better, almost. Almost distracting. He smiled like an idiot every face-off, couldn't help himself. He wanted to explode through the game more than ever before. He felt exhilarated. Initially he thought this brought on his absurd fascination. He'd never obsessed about another player before. They were there to be beaten. Sometimes literally. This was different.
They had shaken hands when they first spoke but he had been so tense that he had no memory of how that had felt. The handshake after their win, when the teams lined up, was brief but felt as if it left an imprint on his palm. Now months have passed and most nights, fuck, every night, he sunk into the pillow and fucking yearned.
Maybe seeing the Canadian at the draft would shake him. Probably he'd turn out to be boring.
This was stupid. He'll move on. Play. Perform. Win. Earn. Fuck.