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The first time it happens, Ilya's world tilts on its axis.
He has his cock pushed halfway inside a woman's wet pussy when the visceral flash of freckled cheeks and plump, parted lips and raven black hair breeches his focus, jolting him. He immediately stills, molten heat blooming across his chest, up his neck.
The woman–Daphne, maybe? Dana?–beautiful and dripping and very much not who he'd been picturing, whines in a way that tells Ilya she thinks he is teasing her. Making her wait. Please, she begs, legs kicking out in frustration, and Ilya curses under his breath.
He slams forward, buries himself to the hilt, silently hoping that the brute force of it will knock Hollander out of his head. It doesn't work. The image is still there–burned into his synapses, taunting him.
Ilya doesn’t finish that night.
At some point after, the woman leaves. Ilya camps out in the shower for longer than is necessary, and finds her gone when he returns to the bedroom. She’s left her phone number scrawled on a hotel napkin, he notices as he goes for a cigarette from the carton on the bedside table. The numbers, jotted in blue ink, stare back at him hopefully.
Without much thought, he crumples the napkin and tosses it into a nearby trash bin.
Normally, he’d at least save the number to his contacts–with a name like hot girl from bar in Philadelphia–on the off chance he has trouble picking up the next time the team plays in that city and he wants to get laid. It’s good to have a roster, convenient, and there’s certainly no harm in adding to it, even if the sex this one time wasn’t particularly stellar. Not like it had been Daphne-Dana’s fault.
Still, something stops him.
He chalks the whole thing up to exhaustion and a recent string of losses as he finishes his cigarette, discarding the butt in a half-empty glass of water.
When he sleeps that night, he dreams of Hollander.
It happens again, a week later. This time, a woman he met at the club has her lips wrapped around Ilya's cock, fluttering her pretty lashes as she takes more of him into her mouth.
It feels good–of course it does–even a mediocre blowjob is better than no blowjob at all–but Ilya can't help but compare her to a certain someone he knows, who can, and often does, send him hurtling toward the brink with just a flash of his big, beseeching eyes. Always so eager to taste him, so eager to do many things that drive Ilya crazy. Hollander tends to have that effect.
Ilya finds himself blinking hard, letting his thoughts run wild until, without warning, he spills over the woman's tongue.
Shit.
This is unlike him. Normally he’d at least give a warning. Luckily, she seems into it, making a show of opening her mouth and letting Ilya watch her swallow his load. She kisses him, hard and messy, and Ilya wishes her lips were a little rougher. Wishes the perfume wafting from her skin had notes of amber and musk rather than vanilla and coconut.
Wishes she was him.
He calls her a cab before the sweat has dried on either of their chests.
The next time Ilya sees him is at the All-Star Game. They're in Seattle this year, the Space Needle with its extraterrestrial glow visible from Ilya’s Belltown hotel room.
He'd texted the room number to Hollander twenty minutes ago, as soon as he had the chance to slip away from the crowds and the noise in the lobby. It had been more of a feat than he'd anticipated, too many guys from the league wanting to catch up before the big game tomorrow, all looking for a chance to chirp the elusive Ilya Rozanov off the ice.
Finally alone, he pushes out a long exhale. Wanders over to the window and looks ten floors down to the street below. He can barely make out a few pedestrians in their parkas and toques dotting the sidewalk, an indistinguishable sea of fluorescent headlights encompassing three lanes of traffic. He's still looking (for what, he's not entirely sure) when the cautious knock on the door comes. It’s followed by another, even quieter knock.
Hollander is on him as soon as the door closes behind them, licking into Ilya’s mouth like he’s been waiting for this exact moment since he touched down in Seattle. Begrudgingly, Ilya knows he has. A semblance of hope lingers in the back of his head, that maybe seeing Hollander tonight is what he needs–just one more time, and then he’ll move on. Like the final cigarette before a person quits cold turkey. He’ll let his senses be wrung out by Hollander like some fucked up sort of mental cleanse, and then, head clear, he’ll be able to enjoy sex with people who aren’t him again.
The lie fits neatly–as it always does–in the space between his ribs.
Hollander tugs at his hair then, pulling him out of his thoughts and whining into his open mouth. He seems extra needy tonight, perhaps just stressed about the logistics of the game and the rest of the regular season to follow, a high-pitched whine escaping him when Ilya backs him to the wall beside the door, crowding him there. Ilya can already feel his cock thickening in his jeans, a Pavlovian response at this point to the way Hollander’s body wriggles in his hold. He’s searching for friction anywhere he can get it, hips bucking and fingers grasping at the fabric of Ilya’s shirt.
“Please,” Hollander mumbles against Ilya’s neck, and Ilya isn’t convinced he even knows what he’s asking for, drunken desperation already cloaking his voice. His fingers curl deeper into the fabric covering Ilya’s torso, and Ilya pulls back. He lightly tugs at the hem of Hollander’s shirt before he pulls his own up and over his head, a gentle command that Hollander immediately follows. Then Ilya turns him, backing him toward the bed and laying him down on the mattress.
They’ve hooked up enough times that it’s almost like a dance at this point–Hollander following Ilya’s lead with practiced precision, moving with him in a wordless, languid rhythm. Maybe that is the reason Ilya has felt himself gravitating toward him lately–the ease of it all. With Hollander, he doesn’t have to think, doesn’t have to question his next move. Sex with him is a natural progression, gliding from one plane to another, bodies working in a wet tangle to elicit pleasure, and it’s easy.
And well, actually, that’s the problem.
Because it shouldn’t be–not when they are who they are, two top athletes on opposing teams, never meant to abide in synchronicity. They were born to exist in spite of each other, not for each other. But Hollander is tempting, a siren in his own right, and he has certainly succeeded in luring Ilya in, making him want things he should not. Making him feel things that are, quite frankly, dangerous. Reaching for Hollander’s touch when he’s in the near vicinity is acceptable–reaching for it when he’s miles away, another body underneath him, is not.
Still, it’s difficult to dwell on this fact when Hollander is all breathy and loose-limbed, eyes glazing over as he stares up at Ilya. He’s gazing at him as if he’s hung all the stars in the sky, and Ilya needs him to–stop, immediately. It’s too much. Too siren-like.
With a grunt, he flips Hollander onto his stomach, reveling in the surprised sound this pulls from him. Be good, Ilya warns, as if he even needs it, as if he isn’t always so infuriatingly perfect. He rids him of the rest of his layers and then takes his time opening him up with his tongue, slow drags along the soft flesh of Hollander’s rim. When he finally pushes into him with the covered tip of his cock, Hollander is practically weeping into the mattress, rocking his hips back impatiently to meet Ilya’s careful thrust.
It’s too good, all of it: the tight warmth of Hollander’s ass, the sight of his trembling fingers where Ilya has them pinned at the small of his back, the sound of punched out unh-unh-unghs into already-mussed sheets. Ilya’s rhythm is faltering within minutes, his grip on Hollander’s wrists tightening as his entire body pulls taut. Hollander comes with a garbled cry, and Ilya follows immediately after, spilling into the condom and collapsing halfway, catching himself with a hand on either side of Hollander’s head.
The after is hazy–heaving chests and sweat-strewn skin and lazy, sloppy kisses. Hollander sighs next to him, content, eyelids drooping, and Ilya holds back a smile.
He has to physically force himself up and off the bed to dispose of the condom. By the time he has turned around to face the bed again, it’s empty. He tracks the sound of Hollander’s footsteps to the window where he stops, looking over the city just as Ilya had before he arrived. Ilya doesn’t join him. Instead, he sits down on the edge of the mattress, the distance between their bodies feeling like a weight on his chest that he fights to ignore.
Still naked, the muscles of Hollander’s back ripple under tan skin, strong back and dimpled glutes glistening with sweat. Ilya is nearly salivating from his perch on the bed, fingers digging into the comforter as if that’ll help.
“The Space Needle is so crazy,” Hollander says, leaning closer to the windowsill, his ass jutting out even farther. Ilya clears his throat.
“Yes, crazy.”
Hollander laughs. Turns just enough to flip him off. “C’mon, the structure of the building is like, objectively wild.”
This time, Ilya is unable to hold back his smile. Leave it to Hollander to want to discuss architecture after getting fucked within an inch of his life. The man is predictable, he’ll give him that.
“Very American,” Ilya offers. “Wanting even their buildings to be weird modern art.”
“I guess. Have you gotten a chance to go up inside?”
Ilya laughs, raises his eyebrows. “Oh yes, many times. Did you hit your head on headboard? Forget already?”
“Fuck off. You know that’s now what I…” Hollander trails off. “Nevermind. You’re impossible.”
Ilya notices the blush that climbs his cheeks, up to the tips of his ears. Once again, predictable. When Hollander turns the rest of the way toward him, his sculpted body backlit by the cityscape and by the glow of the stupid Space Needle, Ilya gives up his fight, pushing himself up to his feet and striding over to sidle up next to him.
He kisses him, and Hollander laughs against his lips, an arm automatically coming to snake around Ilya’s middle. When they part, Hollander’s blush has deepened, now a rosy shade of red under his freckles. “I should probably go,” he says quietly–mournfully, even. Ilya doesn’t object.
“Yes. Big game for both of us tomorrow. Lots of cameras. Need–what do they call it–beauty sleep.”
Hollander nods. Begins the search for his various garments strewn across the floor amongst Ilya’s. Still staring out the window, Ilya doesn’t bother to turn when he hears the latch on the door being undone, the small and unsure voice that drifts the few feet between them when Hollander says, “goodnight.”
“Night,” he returns cooly.
Then comes the sound of the door opening and shutting. Ilya chances a glance in that direction only when he is sure Hollander is gone. Ignores the dull and aching feeling of emptiness that forms low in his gut at the confirmation. Eyes flicking back out the window, he swears the glow of the Space Needle has dimmed.
Ilya hates that Svetlana is so perceptive.
It's been this way since they were children, Ilya shutting himself in–for one reason or another–and Sveta seeing right through his uncharacteristically quiet demeanor.
One day, when they were ten, Sveta noticed Ilya moving across the schoolyard more sluggish than usual, his feet dragging through gravel as if he had weights strapped to his ankles. She didn't say anything, but he could see her watching him in his periphery, waiting for him to speak.
When he stayed quiet, she didn't push. Just stuck to his side closer than usual, taking the lead on their group assignment and offering him her kompot at lunchtime because she knew he loved it.
Finally, on their walk home, he broke.
He told her about how he had witnessed his father berating his mother the night before, spit flying from Gregori Rozanov’s mouth like venom, fists balled up tightly at his sides. Irina had looked so terrified, her pretty eyes welling up with tears, and Ilya shouted in his father's direction before he could stop himself.
He knew his interjection would probably make things worse. He didn't care. He hated his father, even back then–hated the way he made his mother feel so small. She was wonderful and beautiful and strong and his father stripped her of all of it like pure acetone.
A sense of relief washed over Ilya when his father redirected his anger toward him. He could take it. His mother didn't deserve it, but maybe he did. The words admittedly stung a bit, jabs at how dumb and useless he was, but he shouldered them, bracing through clenched muscles. “The two of you, so alike,” his father said in Russian, shifting his wicked gaze between Ilya and his mother. He meant it as an insult, but Ilya took it with great pride.
His mother was crying, he realized then, tears streaking her porcelain face. Ilya went to her side in an instant, tucking himself against her warm body. When his father lifted a hand, threatening wordlessly to strike one or both of them, Ilya's mother bristled. Clutched Ilya tighter to her. “Don't you dare,” she warned, voice firm but shaking. “You do not touch him.”
Tension hung in the air for a long moment, the three of them unmoving as they waited for it to snap. Ilya could hear the steady ticking of the grandmother clock in the other room, the trickle of water from the kitchen faucet, the rabbitish beating of his own heart. Eventually, his father lowered his hand and retreated. Stalked down the dark hall in quiet defeat.
His mother sobbed into the fabric of Ilya's shirt, staining the dark fabric. He didn't mind. He could be strong for the both of them. He held her until her breathing evened out, until she lifted her head and pressed a kiss into his golden curls. “My perfect boy,” she said. “I am so sorry.”
Ilya hadn't slept that night. He’d been too worried for his mother, too angry at his father.
Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, hot and acidic in juxtaposition to the frigid winter air. Sveta was steadying him with hands on both of his shoulders, her own eyes big and bleary. Ilya didn't want her to be concerned for him, hadn't meant to drag her into his misery.
He averted his gaze from hers and noticed the silhouette of their apartment building in the near distance, past a scattering of bare trees. They'd walked almost all the way home in the time it had taken him to recount his awful night.
“Ilyusha,” Sveta soothed, running a hand comfortingly along his upper back. He looked back at her again, feeling hopeless and humiliated and so fucking small. He hated it.
Ilya blinked hard, took a labored breath. “I am fine,” he lied.
“You're not,” Sveta said softly. “But I am here.”
Ilya didn't deserve her.
Still doesn't, years later. He knows this, and yet–
"I can feel you staring. Do you mind?"
The words, spoken in Russian, maneuver around the cigarette that hangs from his mouth. Sweat dries on his bare chest and abs, his legs brushing against Sveta's under the bedsheets. She’s still wearing a bra, and her hair has only been slightly mussed. Evidence of Ilya’s failed attempt to fuck her.
Sveta scoffs, snatches the cigarette and brings it to her own lips. "Do you want to tell me what's going on? Or will you keep me waiting?”
She knows him. Well enough to sense when he’s attempting to hide in plain sight.
"Nothing is going on," he lies. A thin ribbon of smoke curls between them.
"You are acting strange. I made a very good joke earlier about San Francisco’s head coach and you did not even laugh. Normally, you'd at least humor me.”
Ilya rolls his eyes. “You are not funny, is all.”
She sighs. Her lips twist up and her brows furrow. Ilya knows where this is going. He'd hoped that she'd spare him and his ego, leave it unsaid. “It’s fine that you could not…”
“What–get hard?” he grits out. “Do we really need to discuss this?”
“Ilyusha–”
“I'm just tired. Or something. It's not a big deal.”
“I know it's not. You know I did not come here just for that. It’s just…unlike you, is all. You are sure you're just tired?”
“Mm,” he hums unconvincingly, plucking the cigarette back from between Sveta’s manicured fingers. She places a gentle hand on his bicep, thumb placatingly pressing into his skin.
Ilya wishes she would drop it, just let him wallow in self-pity alone. But she pushes–both physically, nudging harder at him–and verbally, her words ringing in his ears like the blare of the buzzer indicating the end of third-period in a tied game. “Ilyusha, you can talk to me.”
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? He can’t talk to anyone about Hollander, not even his best friend. Even if she knows, in some roundabout way–constantly asking about Jane, prying for more information–there’s nothing for him to tell. They aren’t serious and they never will be and like some kind of sick cosmic joke, Ilya might now be damned to a life of only ever enjoying sex with the one person he can’t have.
So really, what is there to say?
Sveta’s fingers graze his jaw, too gentle, like he’s some kind of forlorn animal. Weak and helpless. His entire body tenses, a rubber band pulled taut.
“Sweetheart-”
“You are not my mother,” he snaps suddenly, voice booming as he lurches away from her. He watches as her eyes widen and her brows knit together. She scoots back an inch on the bed.
Ilya sighs. Pinches the bridge of his nose.
“You do not have to coddle me like I’m a child.,” he says quieter, but still stern. “I’m a grown man. I don’t need–”
“Don’t need what? Me?”
“That's not what I said, Sveta,” he interjects. She ignores him.
“Because it sure seems like you do, calling me up whenever one of your usual whores isn’t answering. Whenever Jane isn't around.”
The mention of Hollander burns like a brand on his skin, searing through layers of derma like it's nothing. He feels too seen, naked and vulnerable and exposed to the elements.
“So what does that make you, then?”
The words fly out of his mouth before he can stop them.
Sveta slaps him, quick and harsh. The angle is awkward, so his nose gets the brunt of it, but he hadn't been expecting it–so it stings. He grits his teeth, enduring, as Sveta scrambles up and out of the bed to collect her things. She’s breathing hard as she moves through the dark bedroom, muffled sobs escaping her, and Ilya feels like a monster– an actual cyclops with rotten teeth and slimy skin and a cold, barely-there heart.
Cigarette discarded in the ashtray on his bedside table, Ilya stands. Flicks on a light and rounds the bed cautiously to where Sveta is, now dressed and shoving her phone charger back into her packed overnight bag. “Dont–” she warns, bearing her teeth a little. “I don’t want to hear it.”
He backs off. Gives her space. When she makes her way out of the bedroom, he trails her at a respectable distance–like a dog with its tail tucked shamefully between its legs–down the hallway, through the kitchen, and to the front door.
“Please,” he attempts one last time as she crosses over the threshold. He's not even really sure what he's going to say if she lets him, just that he needs to rectify this.
There's no such chance, Sveta whipping around and fixing him with admonishing glare. “I will make sure,” she says, “to be less available from now on. Seeing as that is what you want.”
She slams the door in Ilya’s face.
For a long while after Sveta is gone, Ilya’s body vibrates with anger and shame. He hates that she's right, that he's been such a horrible friend to her. He also hates that she knows just how badly he needs Jane. That it's equally as obvious to her as the color of the sky, or the chances of Boston making the playoffs on any given year.
An unbridled air of self-loathing carries Ilya all the way to the bathroom and into the shower, the stifling spray doing little to soothe him. He scrubs at himself roughly, half-hoping the skin will break, that his entire body will be made clean from the inside-out, thoughts of Hollander to swirl the drain alongside soapy water.
Instead, he just aches. Braces himself with outstretched hands against tile.
He'd told Hollander once, after taking him apart with his mouth, that he had ruined him. That nobody else would do. It was just teasing, of course. Hollander likes to be teased. Except, as it turns out, the words hold some truth. It's just–Ilya is the one who's been ruined.
Despite himself, he wonders what Hollander is doing right now. Is he fucking someone else? He’s never mentioned seeing other people, but then again, he’s never mentioned not seeing other people either. It’s certainly within the realm of possibility that–at this very moment–Hollander is being taken apart by hands or a mouth or a cock not belonging to Ilya, and the jolt of hypocritical jealousy that sends through him is alarmingly sharp.
It’s not like Ilya owns him. Of course not. But would anyone else touch Hollander like he does? Make him gasp and whine and rut like a desperate teenager? Ilya doubts it.
Or… perhaps Hollander is touching himself. Ilya’s cock begrudgingly stirs with interest at that prospect, at the image of Hollander all splayed out in bed, a hand gliding along the wide expanse of his chest the same way it’d done in a certain Vegas penthouse. For Ilya’s viewing pleasure.
Ilya is faintly aware that he’s reaching for his own dick, his hips rutting forward of their own accord. He shouldn’t be chasing this, not after the night he’s had, not with Hollander lodged at the forefront of his skull. Why can’t he think of anyone else–anyone at all?
The fight is useless. Like an untrained dog pulling at its leash, Ilya is hardwired to give in to what tempts him: cigarettes, a skittering puck, a release he’s been dying for. To each, he goes easily–no matter the conditions.
Gripping himself with more purpose, Ilya imagines Hollander naked, imagines his cock leaking where it bobs above his abdomen and the precome dripping down to the dark thatch of hair at his pelvis.
Oh, the mess he is making. Poor baby.
If this were real, if Ilya were there, he’d clean him up, let the salty musk of him ruminate on his tongue until it dissolved. Ilya’s cock twitches at the thought, a fresh bead of arousal spurting from his tip. He thinks of how Hollander would clean him up too, how he’d, no doubt, lap at him like an eager puppy, eyes wide and shiny, tongue so smooth against the underside of his dick.
Can I touch myself? Hollander asks, voice faraway and floaty. Ilya nods into the empty shower stall.
“Yes,” he says–out loud. “Touch yourself.”
The Hollander in his head obliges with pleasure, a shaky hand grasping at the shaft of his blushing cock. Ilya mirrors his movements. Gives himself a few painstakingly slow strokes. The fingers on his other hand dig into the grout between tiles, grounding him.
As the fantasy unspools further, Hollander picks up speed, his back bowing off the mattress, hips bucking up into his closed fist. He’s greedy with it, lips curling up into a fucked-out little smile as he chases his release, like even if Ilya told him to pull off now, he wouldn’t listen.
To be fair, Ilya is just as lost in it, his forehead coming to press against the cool tile and his grasp on the wall tightening in tandem with the grasp on his cock. He matches Hollander’s pace, quickly growing delirious with the need to come.
“Bozhe moy”, he grits out, the words evaporating into steam. “You need this so badly Hollander, don’t you?”
Imaginary Hollander nods, biting down on his bottom lip, a garbled mmph escaping him.
“Tell me,” Ilya says, pleasure swelling low in his gut and pinching hot at the base of his spine. “Tell me you want my come. Tell me you want me to cover you in it.”
He can feel himself hurtling toward the brink, a rocket on trajectory to crash with all controls overridden. The image of Hollander in his head goes fuzzy at the edges. His voice though, broken and desperate, pushes through the fog.
Yes; please give it to me.
I need it.
Please come for me, Ilya.
The world goes bright white when Ilya comes, thick ropes spurting over his knuckles and onto the wall in front of him. Ilya, Hollander continues to chant, an unstoppable force. Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. Every new, overwhelming pulse of his release is punctuated by the utterance of his own name, the saccharine sound of Hollander saying it and how right it feels despite being decidedly wrong.
It’s enough to shove him forward, knees buckling and fingers scrabbling as his grip falters. He saves himself just barely from completely toppling over, an exasperated noise fleeing his throat in the process.
Fuck.
Ilya lets himself crumple, crouching low with his head tucked between his knees. He waits for his heart to stop pounding behind his ribs, for his limbs to stabilize. After several minutes, he forces himself back to his feet.
The water is suddenly icy-cold against his spine–when did that happen? He hadn’t noticed it. The difference in temperature is stark now though, a thousand tiny needles puncturing the spaces between his vertebrae.
Ilya. In his head, Hollander said Ilya. Not asshole. Not Rozanov. Not any of the other names Ilya could’ve conjured up that would’ve been more acceptable than that flagrant display of intimacy.
What's worse–he’d come almost instantaneously. Violently. Like his body needed the release–which it did, clearly–but only on this very specific cue. One Ilya would really rather not dwell on.
And yet, it seems impossible to ignore.
God, he needs a fucking cigarette. Maybe a lobotomy.
The following morning, Ilya goes for a run. The temperature outside is below freezing, a neat layer of frost blanketing the ground along his usual route. It’s a biting cold, the kind that makes his skin flush and his lungs burn as they work a little harder than usual to take in air. He welcomes it. If nothing else, it’s a good distraction. Difficult to dwell on arguments with friends or weird obsessions with rivals when you’re fighting to breathe.
Despite the early hour, the city around him is already starting to show signs of life. Bostonians are not known for being lazy, Ilya has come to learn in the years he’s lived here. He passes several other joggers, some in pairs, some walkers too with styrofoam cups of coffee in their hands and phones pressed to their ears. Overachievers.
His calves are screaming at him by the time he turns back, the decision already firm in his mind to get a donut and a latte for breakfast. He’s earned it. Plus, he’s not sure he can physically stomach his usual egg whites and black coffee this morning. Fueled by fresh inspiration, his feet carry him a bit quicker than they had on the way here, the pit stop at his favorite cafe calculated into the journey home.
He returns to his apartment with the loot in tow: a grease-stained paper bag and a steaming cup filled to the brim with milk and various syrups.
Once the roof of his mouth is amply coated in yeast and sugar, he pulls out his phone to run through his schedule for the day: team meeting at nine, practice at eleven, media at noon. Then a post-practice workout, lunch, maybe a nap if he’s lucky. Sometimes, Ilya resents the nonstop nature of his chosen profession. Today, though, he's thankful.
The drive to the Garden is a slow crawl, bumper-to-bumper traffic spanning the length of Storrow Drive. Ilya's current playlist is on shuffle, volume louder than is probably necessary (especially at this hour). It's good, though. Any thoughts he could be forming are squashed at inception by the heavy bass thumping through the speakers of his Mercedes.
Twenty minutes shy of nine, the arena comes into view. The parking garage attendant, George, waves Ilya through as usual–with a smile and a friendly salute. Ilya mirrors the gesture, makes the descent a couple floors down to his usual spot and parks.
Turning the key in the gear, he kills the engine. Then he sits, unmoving, staring at the wall of concrete in front of him. He could head inside now, maybe get a few reps in before the rest of the team starts to arrive. Instead, he texts Svetlana, because he knows he should–and because he needs to fix at least one of his problems.
Ilya [8:39am]: Can you ever forgive me for being so horrible?
Sveta [8:42am]: Perhaps. I'd like to see you grovel, though.
Ilya [8:43am]: This is fair.
Ilya [8:44am]: I am sorry. What I said is inexcusable. Of course I do not see you that way. You are the best thing in my life.
Sveta [8:45am]: I know I am.
Sveta [8:45am]: Continue.
Ilya [8:45am]: And I will never forget that again.
Sveta [8:46am]: Good.
Ilya [8:46am]: I really am sorry.
Sveta [8:46am]: I know, Ilyusha. I am sorry too.
Ilya [8:48am]: No need. I deserved it.
Sveta [8:49am]: This is true. But still. And I know you didn’t want to talk about what was wrong last night, but if you ever do, I’m here.
Ilya [8:50am]: Thank you.
Jane [10:53am]: Game in Montreal next week. Come over after?
Jane [4:02pm]: I can resend the address if you need? Or we can meet elsewhere. If you want.
A container of meal-prepped chicken and sweet potato sits on the counter in front of Ilya, going cold.
This afternoon, at practice, he’d pushed his body hard, chasing the puck as if it were the absolution he so desperately needed. Running drills like he had a personal vendetta, skates carving into fresh ice. It hadn't mattered–he emerged just as restless as he'd been when he arrived.
Now, half-perched on a barstool, bland dinner in front of him, he really just wants to say fuck it and order takeout. Trade one vice for another. Something fattening and decadent and not at all within his macros, especially after his sugar-bomb of a breakfast. Maybe he'll just smoke a few cigarettes before bed, instead.
It would be easy to say yes to Hollander. Give in to the temptation that has been eating him alive and perhaps feel a semblance of relief for the first time in too long. They could kiss and fuck and then Ilya could go back to his hotel room in Montreal and continue on as usual.
Except–that's not how it would play out. Ilya knows it. Knows that he'd end up firmly back at square one, thinking and fawning and stretching nothings into somethings with eyes fixed on the ceiling of his suite and the remainder of Boston’s games against Montreal circled in red on his mental calendar.
He cuts off a piece of chicken and pushes it around the container aimlessly.
What Ilya needs is distance, space. Which, yes, is an impossible ask given his profession and Hollander’s. At least on the ice, under clinically bright arena lights, he won't be able to see past the glare on Hollander’s face shield. Won't have time, with the game clock ticking down, to track the movement of his brows or catalogue the state of flush on his cheeks after a face off.
And after the game–well, he isn't sure.
Will Hollander text again? Does Ilya want him to? If he does text, will Ilya respond? His restraint is already threadbare as it is, and one more endearingly-worded message could break it. He’s practically willing his phone to light up now where it's propped against a bottle of soy sauce, telling himself it would be a sign, as if he has ever believed in such a thing.
As if the universe has ever steered him right.
He finishes his dinner on autopilot, mechanical maneuvers of cutlery–cut, pick up, eat–and when the container is empty, he is still not sated. The dishes are left in the sink to clean another day, and his phone is placed facedown on his nightstand when he crawls into bed.
Ilya scores the game-winning goal in Montreal, and something shifts.
He’s sure of it. In the middle of the celly, surrounded by his teammates, the fog seems to lift. The noise from the crowd is louder, more perceptable–not muted the way it’s been since he stepped onto the ice at the Bell Centre. And he feels physically lighter, like his muscles have let go of tension they’ve been holding onto for weeks. When he tosses his helmet off and lets Hammersmith jostle him around by the shoulders, he’s celebrating more than a win against his rival team. He’s celebrating a homecoming, back to himself.
Afterward, in the locker room, Marleau proposes a team outing to a bar in Old Port. Some speakeasy the guys have apparently gone to many times before when Ilya was…busy. Tonight, very much not busy, he agrees easily. The alternative is sitting in his hotel room alone, staring at the wall, trying not to think about Hollander–all of which he refuses to do.
He’d done well during the game, maintaining focus, completing passes and making goals like the trained athlete he is, and that will not be undermined. In fact, Ilya is already considering the type of girl he might pick up tonight–what else the city of Montreal may have to offer him that he has not yet explored.
Showered and changed back into his street clothes, Ilya calls a cab, which he shares with a couple of the younger players on the team. Fitzpatrick and Davis, still very much green to the world of professional hockey, regale the night's events from the backseat like they're recounting an action movie, every successful play a pivotal scene worthy of oohing and ahhing over while the ones that did not pan out are forgotten like unimportant dialogue.
Ilya knows better. The win is sweet, yes, but there will be plenty to correct once they watch through the game tape: passes made a fraction of a second too early, defense not aggressive enough here and too aggressive there.
They will learn.
Tonight, though, they celebrate. And Ilya intends to celebrate hard.
They pull up to the bar just as the other guys are also arriving. Ilya follows them to some secret entrance out back where the bouncer is delighted to see Marleau. Mar-Dog, he says in a thick Quebecois accent. I’ve been waiting for you to come back!
Mar-Dog? This guy knows Marleau so well he’s given him a nickname? Wow, Ilya really has missed out on a lot in this city.
It ends now, though. Because he is better, healed, Hollander not even a blip on his radar.
The interior of the place is swanky–dark green velvet paneling along the walls, dark wood bar with rounded edges, warm lighting throughout. Overall, a bit stuffy for Ilya's taste, but–all that matters is that there's alcohol. And women.
Luckily, Ilya finds after a quick scan of the room that there are quite a few prospects worth pursuing: a blonde woman with tattoos covering both of her arms, a curvy brunette in a black slip dress, an attractive friend group hovering by the entrance in matching shirts that say Bridesmaid on the front. He can definitely work with this.
In the back corner of the bar is a small, roped-off section with couches and a singular round table already stocked with a couple bottles of champagne. Marleau leads the rest of the group to it like he owns the place, which–maybe he does? Ilya doesn’t even know at this point.
They settle onto the couches, Connors and Hammersmith already arguing about which one of them gets to bring a girl back to the room tonight, and which will have to stay out until the other is done. To Ilya’s right, Marleau laughs, clearly also listening in. “Speaking of,” he says cooly. “You don’t have to worry about that tonight. I’ve been seeing this girl back home, so…room’s all yours.”
“Marly?” Ilya says incredulously. “Are you telling me you have serious girlfriend? And you have not told me?”
“Fuck off,” Marleau says, shoving gently at Ilya’s shoulder. “I’m telling you now. And don’t make it a big deal, please. Not when I’m being so nice here, trying to get you laid.”
“Ah-ah. I do not need your help getting laid. You know this.”
Ilya thinks back on past nights out, he and Marly prowling the city streets, a force to be reckoned with. Except there was never much effort involved when it came to them picking up. As cocky as it may sound, the women always just sort of…appeared. Eager and willing to go home with one of the two of them. Sure, they’d still talk each other up, because they were good wingmen, but it never really mattered in the end.
They had a system, too–switching off who would get ownership over their shared hotel room on any given night. Apart from in Montreal, of course, where Ilya always let Marly have it. For reasons undisclosed. Assumedly just happy to take the win, Marleau never questioned it.
“Okay,” his co-captain acquiesces. “I’m just saying, man. Have at it. Go hogwild…or whatever. Just maybe not too late, alright? Flight home tomorrow, and all.”
“Ah, yes,” Ilya smirks. “Home to see your girlfriend.” He says the words loud enough for the rest of his teammates to hear, and–soon enough–they erupt into a fit of chirps and teasing. Ilya takes it as his opportunity to break away to the bar, leaving Marleau to glare at the back of his head.
An hour and two vodkas later, Ilya is talking to a beautiful woman.
Tucked into a booth across from her, away from the noise of his teammates, he goes through the usual motions. Asks about her job, her interests. Slots in compliments wherever he can fit them.
She's objectively pretty: dark hair, piercing eyes, full lips. Ilya doesn't have a type when it comes to women, but if he did, she'd fit the bill perfectly.
Still, something is…off.
Despite her physical beauty, Ilya finds himself noting, without meaning to, the clear lack of musk in her scent. The bubbly, animated lift in her voice. The way she doesn't retaliate or huff when he teases her for something small, and instead just laughs, genuinely amused. It all feels so–wrong–like sandpaper being dragged across his skin, the grit catching on short strands of hair and yanking, against the grain.
She drawls on about her job in fashion, her studio apartment downtown, the friend she was supposed to meet here tonight that bailed on her last minute. And Ilya is listening, really, he is. Until he isn't.
The thoughts creep up on him slowly at first, like a posse of mischievous housecats, paws treading lightly on hardwood floors before they pounce. I wonder if she’s stubborn. If her ears go red when she's embarrassed. If she cares about real estate.
He shakes them loose, coming back to just as the woman is recounting her last visit to this bar with her aforementioned friend. “She's a lot, but she's fun–you know?”
Ilya nods. He doesn't know, hasn't caught the last few sentences out of her mouth, but–sure.
God, what is wrong with him?
He knows his teammates are probably balking at him from across the room, that he'll get chirped on the bus to the airport tomorrow for actually talking to a woman rather than just hitting on her and then taking her home. He can hear the jeers now, clear as day, punctuated by the sounds of hydraulics and tires on asphalt: Took a lot of convincing, huh? Lose your magic touch, Rozanov?
They can't see though, the way the woman is eyeing him from her side of the booth like any moment she might throw herself across the table. Pupils dilated, body tilted toward Ilya's as if there's a magnet in his chest and she's made of iron, it's clear that she's just waiting for the invitation. All he has to do is say the word.
Except...he can't.
Is she superstitious? Does she have a cluster of freckles on the back of her neck in the shape of a fishing hook? Could she recite the names of every NHL president in history from memory?
Would she insist on proving it, skin still flushed and glistening, because she's a show off? Because she's perfect? Because she wants to burden you with the knowledge that she's perfect and make you live with it because she is also selfish, which makes her no less perfect?
Bile rises in his throat like a threat. Wordlessly, Ilya stumbles out of the booth, shoulders his way through a haze of people with their cocktails and the suggestion of jazz music playing in the background until he reaches the corridor that leads to the restrooms.
Pushing into the men's room, he is relieved to find that he's alone, three stalls standing open and empty and each of the adjacent urinals unoccupied amongst a flash of dark green tile. Fingers that might be his wrap around the lip of the sink, steadying him as he avoids his reflection in the mirror overhead.
It takes several minutes of white-knuckled focus to keep himself from spewing into the basin. Then, when his heart rate has slowed to a reasonable canter, Ilya lifts his head. Faces himself.
And, well, he's certainly seen better days.
Exhaustion colors his features, dark shadows set deep in pale skin, bloodshot eyes staring back at him. It's more than that, though. More than tired, he looks like he's been through a war–which–he kind of feels like he has, in a way. The tense muscles of his face aren't as soft as they once looked, like he's forgotten entirely how to relax them. When was the last time he smiled–actually, genuinely?
The answer he comes up with only makes him feel worse.
With Hollander, when I teased him for being so enthusiastic about the Space Needle and he flipped me off.
Ilya cranks on the tap, gathers icy-cold water in his hands and splashes it on his tired, worn face.
Then, his nerves settled just slightly, he straightens his spine.
What now?
He can go back out there. He can ask the woman to leave with him, take her back to the hotel room that he, very conveniently, has dibs on for the night, and fuck her. He can do those things.
He should do those things. Shouldn't he?
Uselessly, he slumps right back over the sink top. Because deep down, he knows he's not going to do any of that. The decision was made for him before he even stumbled into this empty, very green bathroom. Maybe even before he got to the bar.
Leave it to Hollander to be so competitive that he has to be the best at even this: keeping Ilya's interest, making him feel, peeling back layers of hardened exterior without even really trying. Like he, at the center of it all, has always been there–a celestial body in Ilya's orbit. Or maybe, more accurately, Ilya has been orbiting him all this time–oblivious and powerless to stop it.
Inevitability at its finest.
Even if Ilya continues to fight against it, kicking and screaming with every ounce of strength he has in his athlete body, he will never be free of this. Of him. There is no disrupting the balance of the universe.
The phone in his hand feels like absolution. Acceptance.
He types the message to Hollander and sends it off before he can stop himself.
Ilya [11:46pm]: Are you still awake?
As soon as it’s delivered, Ilya flips the phone back over so that it’s face-down on the marble countertop. He has to remind himself that Hollander might not even answer. That he might have already ruined his chances in ignoring him for so many days.
The possibility is just beginning to settle, like dust in his lungs, when his phone vibrates.
Jane [11:48pm]: Yes.
Ilya reads and re-reads the message a few times, the single word staring, unchanged, back at him. He thinks, fleetingly, of the woman waiting for him in the booth; his teammates in the VIP section; Marleau with his girlfriend and his generosity, hoping to hear tomorrow about how Ilya put their shared hotel room to good use.
Pulse galloping in his throat, he types back.
Ilya [11:50pm]: I will be there in 20.
Ilya arrives at Hollander’s apartment four minutes earlier than promised. He’s vibrating with anticipation as he waits for the door to open, for Hollander to be standing in front of him again.
The corridor buzzes with white noise. Ilya listens for the sound of footsteps approaching, met instead by the blare of a siren somewhere in the distance, fainter and fainter as it retreats. Inside, the silence grows impossibly louder, and he worries that Hollander might be messing with him–that he gave him permission to show up with no intention of actually letting him in, a punishment for leaving his messages unanswered. It wouldn’t be unfair, he thinks, fingernails anxiously digging into the clammy flesh of his palms.
He considers turning on his heels and leaving just as the door swings open. The sight before him makes his mouth go dry: Hollander, devastatingly handsome in a worn Voyageurs hoodie and sweatpants slung low on his hips, a sliver of skin exposed above the waistband. And his face–god, his face. Ilya thinks his freckles may be even darker than usual, which makes no sense given the time of year. And yet, there they are–like pointillism painted over a canvas of glowing tan skin.
It only occurs to him that he’s staring when Hollander clears his throat, moves aside and waves a hand in front of his body. “Coming in?”
Ilya swallows. Nods dumbly. “Oh–yes.”
The door clicks shut behind him. And then Hollander is in his eyeline again, brows furrowed as he takes in the sight of his somewhat unexpected guest. “Are you–is everything alright? You look–”
“Like shit?” Ilya deadpans.
“No.” Hollander shakes his head. “Not like shit. Just–disheveled, maybe?”
Ilya honestly isn't sure what that means. He doesn't ask. “I have been…going through something,” he states, not bothering to elaborate. Outside, a dog barks and someone shouts something in Quebecois French. Hollander glides across the open space to the wall of west-facing windows, sealing a few shut.
“Is that why you weren't answering?” he says finally, leaning against glass.
He's studying Ilya, eyes narrowed, and Ilya gets the familiar temptation to run, feels like a cornered animal with its back up and its teeth bared. Not that he actually wants to flee–not really. Not now, after the sheer hell he went through to get here, to face the man who’s been haunting him. It’s just–overwhelming, is all–Hollander drilling into him with that questioning gaze, the air in the apartment thick with words unsaid. Words that are very conveniently stuck in Ilya’s throat.
English feels hard right now, syllables too clunky, no verbiage adequate enough to explain the self-induced torment he’s gone through this past month or so. “I’m…” he tries, coming up short. “I’ve been…”
Suddenly, his cheek feels wet and warm. It takes a moment to process that he’s crying–he’d let a tear slip at some point in the last five minutes, and now he’s crying in Hollander’s entryway, unable to utter a single complete sentence in English. He kind of hopes the ground will open up and swallow him.
“Hey,” he hears Hollander say, voice growing closer. Ilya’s eyes are truly welling up now, his vision blurry, the hand that comes to rest on his shoulder breaking the dam like a stone lodged perfectly out of place. Hollander hugs him then, strong arms wrapped around his torso and Ilya tenses in his hold.
He and Hollander have never…hugged…before. They’ve held each other in many other ways, against walls and atop mattresses, always with lips pressed to skin and chests heaving–but never like this. Never without lust fogging their minds. Ilya hates that he likes it, likes Hollander soothing him when Ilya hasn’t even asked him to. When he doesn’t even deserve it.
His body melts of its own volition, muscles going gooey and pliant, tears continuing to fall. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out as he wets the shoulder of Hollander’s sweatshirt.
Hollander shushes him, rubs broad circles into his back. “Hey, no. It’s okay. You’re okay.” He’s not even asking Ilya to tell him what’s wrong. Ilya ghosted him, for days on end, and now Hollander is comforting him? This is absurd.
Steeling himself, Ilya pulls back, rubs at his eyes with the sleeves of his jacket. The dog outside barks again, though the sound is somewhat muffled now with the windows closed.
Ilya takes a deep, steadying breath. Forces himself to make eye contact with Hollander. “I am fine,” he starts. “But can we talk, maybe?”
He watches as the color drains from Hollander’s face, as his shoulders bunch up under his ears. “It is not…bad,” he adds, though he really isn’t sure how Hollander is going to react to what he plans on saying. “Complicated, maybe?” That word feels more appropriate.
Hollander nods. Leads him to the living room where they both sit down on the couch, a couple feet apart. Ilya’s head spins with the vodka he drank at the bar and with the realization that he actually has to find a way to explain now, why he's here if not just to fuck.
There's a stretch of silence as he thinks. He thinks of that day in Saskatchewan, years ago now, of himself young and naive and standing next to a man he thought was pretty without considering that he may be so much more. Without considering how that might ruin his life.
With an exaggerated huff, Ilya stares at the ceiling. He's not sure he can look at Hollander’s face right now. “I am sorry. For ignoring you. Not answering your messages.”
“Okay,” Hollander says skeptically.
“It was not fair…I should not have…blyat. I was just. Going through something. Like I said.”
“Right. Did um–did something bad happen?” Hollander asks, and he sounds genuinely concerned. “Did you get hurt?”
“No,” Ilya sighs. “Nothing like that. Was more…” He taps lightly against his skull, as if to say, in here.
“Oh.”
Yeah. Oh.
“I mean,” Hollander continues, “it's not like you owe me an explanation or anything. We’re not…”
And yes– god yes, does Ilya know that they're not. He knows everything they are not better than he knows anything they are, and that's what hurts so goddamn much about this whole thing: the nots. He knows too that it's partially his own fault.
Still, he takes it out on Hollander.
Voice swelling, too big now to be contained, he rises to his feet. Finally locks eyes with Hollander, who looks more than a bit confused. “I know that. I know I do not owe you anything, and yet here I am, crying in your nice apartment, telling you I am fucked in the head, and it is stupid. I know it is stupid. And I’m…” He trails off. Mutters in Russian even though he knows Hollander can't understand. “I'm here when I should be having sex with a beautiful woman, but I can't because all I want is you and it's pathetic.”
Hollander quirks a brow. “I don't–”
“It's pathetic,” he repeats in English this time. “I am pathetic.”
“Rozanov, I don't understand–”
“I am sad, sad man who wants too much, who left the bar to come here and I don't even know what to say, what I can say without ruining everything–”
“Rozanov–”
“What am I even thinking? How did I let it get to this? It's not like you feel the same way. It's not like you also want–”
“Ilya–”
The sound of his name–his first name–stops him in his tracks.
“You–”
“Ilya,” Hollander says again, doubling down. It's more sure this time, rooted in obvious intention. More importantly–it's solid and real and not in Ilya’s imagination.
Ilya feels all of the air leave his lungs at once.
He's on top of Hollander before he can take another inhale, swallowing down a surprised gasp and grasping roughly at the fabric of his sweatshirt. Hollander keens underneath him, his body sliding down the couch in an instant so that Ilya can properly straddle his thighs. Ilya brings a hand behind Hollander’s head to cradle it, only pulling back from the kiss to pant into his open mouth: Shane, Shane, Shane.
“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane breathes back. “Keep calling me that.”
And now that he's started–Ilya doesn't think he could ever stop.
They're drunk on it by the time Shane insists they go to the bedroom, stumbling half-naked up the stairs and down the hall, hand-in-hand the whole way. Once the rest of their clothes have been torn off and discarded, they fall onto the bed in a tangled heap. Time passes in a blur from there, all restless hands and sweat-damp skin.
“Shane,” Ilya whispers against his lips just as he's about to push into him–because he can–beaming at the way it makes Shane shudder and melt into the mattress. And then, because he’s greedy: “can you look at me, Shane?”
Eyelashes fluttering and pupils blown wide, Shane’s attempt to focus is just as endearing as the rest of him, another bullet point on the list of reasons Ilya is in this mess to begin with. Another being his boundless obedience, which is reflected in the way his brows furrow in concentration as Ilya finally breaches that tight ring of muscle, refusing to let his eyes slip shut because Ilya asked him to look.
Ilya is beginning to worry that he may never make it out of Montreal, out of this bed. He’d like to think that if the people of Boston knew just how good this felt, to be entrusted with the honor that is having Shane Hollander in this way, they’d understand.
Anyone should be so lucky, after all.
They take each other apart with foreheads pressed together, Ilya’s eyes boring into Shane’s, too close to make out much more than the slivers of white that encircle massive, dark pupils. It is languid, and intimate, and unlike any other sexual encounter they’ve had, and Ilya is embarrassingly close to bursting into tears again by the time he feels his orgasm cresting.
“Fuck,” he exhales shakily against Shane’s parted lips. Shane, whose own breathing is growing more and more sporadic, the warmth of it further spurring Ilya on. When he says Ilya’s name, this time like a prayer, uttered soft and breathless and punctuated by the dig of blunt fingernails into skin, Ilya spills over–coming with a guttural moan, so hard that his ears ring.
His hand immediately snakes between their sandwiched bodies, finding Shane’s neglected, leaking cock and stroking him once, twice, three times before he too is reaching the precipice, shooting thick ropes across his abs and up onto Ilya’s chest.
When their breathing has mostly slowed, Ilya’s pulse thumping at a reasonable rhythm, he pulls out, collapses next to Shane on the mattress amongst a mess of twisted-up sheets. Shane laughs, and Ilya is not sure why he’s laughing, but then he catches sight of him–fucked out, every hair on his head seemingly out of place–and then he’s laughing too, because he figures he must look equally as crazy.
“Fuck,” he manages, a leg finding its way on top of one of Shane’s.
“Yeah,” Shane agrees, “fuck. That was–”
“Yes. It was.”
Shane turns on his side, moving his leg from under Ilya’s, and Ilya has to bite his tongue to keep from complaining. “Can I ask something?” Shane says after a few seconds of silence. Ilya finds his eyes again, and he looks overwrought with concern. So much so that Ilya finds himself nodding before he can even consider what the question might be, if he’ll be willing to answer.
“What did you mean…” Shane chews his lip. “When you said you wanted…too much? That I wouldn’t want…what you want? ”
Afterglow slipping away, any remaining semblance of postcoital bliss disintegrating into thin air, Ilya feels his skin go cold and a bead of sweat beginning to form on his upper-lip. This is it. They’re talking about this. Here, now, in Shane’s bed, with the Montreal skyline on the other side of the window a stark reminder of how far Ilya is from home–either one–despite feeling for a moment there like he was closer than he’d been in a long time.
Saliva pools in his mouth. He swallows it. Sits up with his back to the headboard. “It is…it is hard to explain.”
“Can you…try?”
He considers hiding behind poor English again, behind whatever additional wall he can construct quickly enough. Except Shane is staring up at him expectantly, something resembling hope in his eyes, and Ilya thinks maybe–maybe, he’ll get what he wants for once.
With a healthy amount of fear still pooling in his gut, he finds the courage to say the words he’s been holding in. “I think I want us to be more than just…this. Sex.”
“Oh,” Shane says, and for a split second Ilya feels the universe beginning to collapse around him, sees a black hole forming in the middle distance, beckoning to him.
But then–
“Could we? Do that, I mean? How would that…how would that work?”
Are Ilya’s ears deceiving him? Shane didn’t turn him down. It wasn’t a yes either, exactly, but he should’ve expected that Shane would have some followup questions.
“I am not sure,” Ilya admits, his body relaxing by a fraction. “I haven’t thought about how. I just know that I…I like you.”
Shane laughs. For once, it isn’t followed immediately by an insult huffed under his breath. Instead, he smiles: real and wide and accompanied by flushed cheeks. His voice cracks when he asks, “you do?”
“God.” Ilya rolls his eyes. “I should not have said this. Your head doesn’t need to get any bigger than it already is. You and your hockey star ego.”
“Fuck off.”
Ah–there it is. There is the Shane he knows. The Shane he likes, very much, despite years of fighting it.
“Ilya,” Shane says, straightening up to mirror him. “You know that I like you too, right? Like…a lot. Maybe too much.”
Ilya’s breath hitches. “Yes?”
“Yes. For…for a long time, I think. I just didn’t know what to…um…”
“What to do with it?”
“Yeah,” Shane sighs. “Or like, what could even be done with it. We’re–” he waves a hand between them– “us, and even if I did like you–do like you–how does that translate, you know?”
Ilya does know, unfortunately. Harder than Russian to English is the jump from his feelings to reality. In his head, the translation is murky–but good enough. In practice, there are words missing, syllables mispronounced, intonation unaccounted for. Even if he and Shane both want a more serious commitment, beyond the physical, how can they actually make that work? On top of their reputations and the pressures of the league, there are misaligned schedules, outside commitments, feelings to be felt rather than shoved into a box, the way Ilya has been doing up until this point.
Still, it doesn’t feel like something he can hide from any longer–the inevitability of it all. It has legs and lungs and a tenacity he cannot outrun.
“I don’t know,” Ilya admits, because it’s true. “But I want to figure it out. If you do.”
“Ilya,” Shane grins wickedly. “Are you saying you want to be my boyfriend?”
“Oh, fuck off.” Ilya shoves at him playfully. Not hard enough to actually mean it. Stop running, his brain says–loud, impossible to ignore. “Yes,” he tacks on. “That is what I am saying.”
And maybe It’s worth it to be so–vulnerable–when it makes Shane beam like this, with wrinkles at the outer corners of his eyes and the freckles on his nose squished into an amorphous cluster and one of his hands wrapping around Ilya’s knee. “Fuck,” he laughs as his head falls onto Ilya’s shoulder. “This is insane. We’re insane.”
Ilya laughs too. “Probably. But you still want?”
“Yeah,” Shane says. “I still want.”