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Ilya Rozanov is not a nice guy.
If Ilya was a nice guy, he might have felt bad, even if just slightly, when he catches Shane Hollander’s eye through the crowd milling through the tastefully dim bar the league had rented out for the award show afterparty and notices that Hollander looks frightened to see him.
As it is, all this does is get Ilya a little hard.
Ilya clears his throat and turns away, back to the bar, where he sets his empty glass down on the polished wood with a clunk and signals for the bartender to come back over.
He can tell Hollander is watching him approach, even though Hollander is ostensibly engaged in some very serious conversation with some stuffed suit from the league office, because his eyes keep flicking over to where Ilya is sidling through the crowd, holding the drinks he’s gripping in each hand aloft so as to keep them out of the way.
By the time Ilya gets close enough to Hollander to see the muscles jumping at the hinge of Hollander’s clenched jaw, Hollander has apparently managed to cut his conversation with the suit short, because they’re already shaking hands. Hollander turns away, his eyes narrowed, just as Ilya reaches his side.
He’s impossibly pretty in the light leaking from the stained-glass lamps dangling from the ceiling, clean-shaven and freckled in his suit with its crisp collar stark against his smooth throat, with his hair combed back above his wet dark eyes and his red lips nervously bitten.
“Got you a drink,” Ilya says, and holds it out.
“I don’t drink alcohol at professional events,” Hollander says, although he takes the glass. He’s probably just worried about the scene Ilya would make if it he didn’t take it.
He hasn’t actually met Ilya’s eyes, since that first time they saw each other from across the crowd.
“You look worried,” says Ilya, grinning at him. “People will think we don’t like each other, or something. And here I am, just wanting to say congratulations on Lady Byng.” He lifts his glass, readies it for a toast.
Ilya gets what he wanted out of the endeavor: Hollander, flushing beneath his freckles. “It’s not even a real award,” he mutters, although he obediently lifts his glass to clink it against Ilya’s.
Ilya is delighted. His boy is all out of sorts. “That is very unprofessional thing to say, Hollander,” he says. “You had better hope there are no reporters nearby.”
Hollander’s chin goes up. His eyes dart from side to side, for a moment, checking who might be close enough to hear them and thereby confirming a rather delicious suspicious of Ilya’s. Hollander had been so completely lost in this singing tension between the two of them that he had forgotten, for a moment, where he was.
The muscles at the side of Hollander’s jaw are jumping, again, by the time he brings his gaze back up to meet Ilya’s.
“Don’t,” he says, and nothing else.
Ilya feels giddy. It takes actual concentration, to keep himself from beaming, to instead pinch his lips and tip his head to the side, take a lazy sip of his drink and let his gaze wander a bit like the conversation might be starting to bore him. “Don’t what, Hollander?”
By the time he lets himself look at Hollander again, he sees Hollander’s expression has progressed from tense to faintly murderous. “You know what,” he says. His tone drops so low Ilya has to strain to hear it as he says, “You can’t do anything while we’re in public like this.”
Ilya arches one eyebrow. “Did I say I was going to do something?”
Hollander sinks his teeth into his already tender-looking lower lip. “You know what you’re doing,” he says, stoutly. “You shouldn’t have made me— you should have let me—it’s been too long and now—” and his eyes dart around them, again, like he’s once more had to remind himself where they are.
“Oh,” says Ilya. Brightly, like he’s just caught on to what Hollander is dancing around saying. “How long has it been? I can’t remember.”
Hollander clamps his jaw shut, gives one stiff shake of his head.
“Guess I will have to scroll back, check texts,” Ilya says, reaching for his pocket.
“No,” says sweet, predictable Hollander. His free hand twitches, like he had considered reaching out and stopping Ilya from grabbing his phone before he’d thought better of it. “It’s been sixteen days,” he hisses.
“Wow,” says Ilya. “That is many days.”
Hollander is starting to sound desperate. “Seriously. You can’t mess with me right now. If we’re not careful I might—” and he stops talking, then, as abruptly as if someone had reached underneath his chin and shoved his jaw shut.
Ilya has to force himself not to lean forward, to stay back on his heels, to keep his shoulders loose. He shoves his free hand into his pocket, just in case he forgets and tries to reach out to touch. “You might what, Hollander?”
Hollander blinks at him with his dark wet eyes.
And then there’s another suit at their side, smiling, reaching out to shake Hollander’s hand. Hollander instantly goes stiff, his jaw firming up again as he turns and gives his empty PR smile to the grey-haired man offering his congratulations for the sportsmanship award. “Can’t be easy taking that few penalty minutes,” he chuckles to Hollander. “I know I’d sure want to pop a few guys in the face.”
“I know what you mean,” Hollander says, and very deliberately does not look over at Ilya.
Ilya takes the opportunity to slip away. His mind is buzzing with static as he sidles back into the crowd, raising his glass to his mouth as he goes, taking a sip he barely tastes.
He can’t stop thinking about it as he goes back up to the bar, mostly just for something to do, and orders another drink, even though he’s barely half-done with his first.
Hollander had really expected him to do something, here, surrounded by players and coaches and executives, a real who’s-who of the league milling around and attempting small talk in uncomfortable suits.
Hollander had been expecting to come.
Ilya has to tug at his collar at the thought. His ears feel hot, as he lifts his first drink and gulps down the remainder so quickly the ice comes clinking up against his teeth.
He sets down the empty glass, grips at the edge of the bar, watches as the bartender stirs his next drink with a tall silver spoon. Hollander has a word he can use to cut this off. It’s something they’d agreed on recently, just after their first, tentative conversation about this not being something either of them were particularly interested in ending.
Hollander has not used that word.
Ilya forgets to thank the bartender, as he accepts his second drink. It feels like a miracle he can even keep his grip steady enough to lift the glass as he turns, gets his elbows on the bar and stares blankly out into the crowd.
You can’t mess with me right now, Hollander had said, with that desperate look twisting his pretty mouth. If we’re not careful I might—
And then his jaw had snapped shut before he could say come in my pants.
Something in the structural integrity of the glass in Ilya’s hand gives way.
Ilya blinks. He looks down to see a hairline crack spiderwebbed up the side.
He turns, sets the glass gently down on top of the bar. Then he turns and slides back through the crowd, smiling back at people who smile at him first, shaking a few proffered hands without really seeing who they belong to.
He makes sure not to check if Hollander is watching him as he finally reaches the edge of the crowd and follows the signs for the toilets into a back hall, which is quiet enough for him to finally notice the faint ringing in his ears.
Ilya steadies himself, sets his shoulders. Walks steadily down the hall and pushes his way through the swinging door into the men’s bathroom, a shared space with too-bright lights hanging over multiple stalls and a urinal.
He had been somehow certain the feelings rising hotly in his throat would show on his face, after he makes his way to the sink and stares himself down in the mirror.
It turns out he’s still better at containing things than Hollander, who had probably enjoyed too many childhood years of believing he had no reason not to be an open book. Unlike him, Ilya’s mouth is still flat, his eyes distant. He looks bored.
The only sign that something is awry is the two spots of color pinned high on Ilya’s cheeks.
Ilya watches the reflection of his nostrils flare. He makes himself a silent deal. He’ll piss, and he’ll wash his hands, and if Hollander hasn’t followed him in here by the time he’s done—
The door to the bathroom swings open behind Ilya.
Ilya flicks his eyes up, over his left shoulder, and watches in the mirror as Hollander steps into the bathroom.
The ringing in Ilya’s ears abruptly ceases. By the time he turns, he’s grinning again.
Hollander is just standing there, in front of the closed door to the bathroom, with his hands loose at his sides and an expectant look on his face.
“Hollander,” says Ilya. “What a coincidence. I was just heading back out.” He takes a step toward Hollander, toward the door.
Hollander’s expression hardens. He reaches behind himself, gropes for the lock. Quickly, deliberately, flicks it shut.
Ilya stops. He raises both eyebrows.
Hollander sets his jaw and pushes away from the door, past Ilya, to push open each stall door and satisfy himself that there’s no one else locked in with them. Then he turns to Ilya, squares his shoulders where he's standing there between the stalls and the sinks, and says, “I need it.”
“Oh?” Ilya makes sure to keep his voice distant, polite. “You decide when you need it, now?”
“No,” says Hollander. “You do.”
He says it like it’s obvious, not like he’s trying to impress Ilya but like it’s just a fact, and if Ilya had a shred less discipline it would’ve been enough to get him grabbing at himself through his pants.
Hollander’s voice shakes as he continues. “But— I think we’ve pushed it too far this time, and I—” he lets out an unsteady breath. “I can’t concentrate, out there,” he whispers. “I keep having to adjust myself, and I’m afraid— I’m afraid I’ll bump up against someone and it’ll all be over.”
Ilya swallows, hard. He’s imagining Hollander, swollen and shivering, brushing against someone in a crowd, then going very still as his eyes pop open and his face goes red.
He can’t help it. He takes three quick steps forward, gets Hollander by his tight supple waist, and steps forward to fit his thigh between Hollander’s legs.
Ilya can feel the stiff outline of Hollander even through the material of the suit.
Hollander makes a noise like he’s been punched in the stomach. His eyes roll back, just a little, just enough that the part of the white usually covered by his lower lid gleams in the fluorescents.
When he grabs at Ilya, gets one hand around his shoulder and his nails in the back of Ilya’s neck, it feels more like desperation than him trying to be sexy. “Ilya,” he groans. This close, Ilya can see the sweat beading on his temple. “I can’t— I, please, I can’t, I don’t want to, please—”
His hands are trembling, his entire body shaking with how badly he’s trying not to shoot, but he's not using the word.
The face of the league is letting Ilya decide whether or not he ruins his fancy suit before he goes back out there and accepts more congratulations for being the biggest gentleman in hockey.
Ilya isn’t doing as good of a job of keeping his tone as disinterested as it had been before when he says, “Is my decision? Still? "
Hollander, red-faced and honest, says, “Yes.”
He would let Ilya ruin his life, if Ilya wanted to.
Ilya tastes blood, as he pulls away, slides his leg out from between Hollander’s legs, removes his hands from Hollander’s waist.
Hollander makes a cracked, longing noise but doesn’t follow. He just pulls his nails out of the nape of Ilya’s neck and slides his hand from his shoulder and stands there, his hands once more empty at his sides, sweaty and disheveled and red-faced and looking at Ilya like he’s never wanted anything in his life quite this much.
Ilya licks his dry lips. “Maybe you should be more polite,” he says.
Hollander says, instantly, "Please."
Jesus, when he's like this Ilya could say jump and he'd already be half a foot in the air before he asked how high. "You had better be quick, then," Ilya says, hoping Hollander doesn't notice how breathless he's starting to sound. “Before people start wondering where Mr. Sportsmanlike went.”
He pulls his phone out of his pocket, tries to ignore the way his fingers are shaking as he taps on the clock and pulls up the timer.
Winds it up to twenty seconds, then thinks for a moment before he swings it up to thirty. Let it never be said that Ilya Rozanov isn’t a generous man.
Ilya turns his phone, presents the screen to Shane. Then he reaches out with his other hand, taps the green button, and says, “Go.”
Shane leans in closer to see what’s on Ilya’s screen. His eyes widen.
He looks up at Ilya, then. Keeps his gaze fixed on Ilya’s even as he’s scrabbling at the front of his suit pants, his strong fingers shaking as he pulls himself out from where he’d tucked himself into his waistband.
He’s already so hard he’s straining against his trembling grip, so hard Ilya can see the mess already smeared wetly over the swollen head.
Shane’s grip on himself is quick, urgent, dry and uncompromising, so tight it looks like it hurts. He’s groaning at the first stroke, almost doubling over in his urgency as his other hand comes down, cups underneath where he is fucking urgently into the tunnel of his fingers.
He’s ready to catch his own come, to stop himself from making a mess, because he already knows he needs to. Because this isn’t the first time he’s done this in public for Ilya.
His eyes keep stuttering closed and then opening again, blinking hard, like even through the tears he's trying to keep looking at Ilya.
Ilya can't help himself. He reaches down, presses his wrist between his legs, hissing in relief even at the slight pressure.
Shane’s gaze doesn’t even drop. It’s like he’s forgotten there’s anywhere else to look but at Ilya’s face.
With his eyes so wet, with his shoulders hunched and his legs spread as wide as his half-shucked trousers will allow, Shane looks like he’s in agony. He looks he’s dying. If you spread his arms wide, he could be a martyr groaning on the cross. If you tucked an arrow between his ribs he would moan prettier than Sebastian himself.
Ilya's so fucking obsessed with him he’s starting to think it’s not only Shane’s life he’ll ruin if he’s not careful.
Ilya pulls his wrist away from between his legs. He leans over, toward the wall, tries to look as casual as possible as he braces his hand there and steadies himself. He's loathe to take his eyes away from Shane's even for the half a moment it takes to check the timer and say, “Ten seconds. Can you do it?"
He hasn’t even gotten the full sentence out before Shane's hips are stuttering to a halt.
He’s still looking at Ilya as he dribbles come into his cupped hand, and even though he’s biting his lip and twisting his face in an effort to keep quiet, he’s letting out little choked-off groans like it’s hurting him.
Ilya lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He shoves his phone into his pocket, steps forward, gets Shane by the chin, pulls Shane's face up so he can shove his tongue deep into Shane’s hot mouth as Shane shudders and twitches against him.
His timer starts beeping in his pocket.
Ilya, who lost the battle to seem above this about the moment he felt Shane hard against his thigh, smiles giddily around Shane’s tongue.
He pulls away, then, despite Shane’s weak noise of protest, and digs out his phone to silence the timer.
They're running on borrowed time before someone tries to get in here, so Ilya moves quickly, while Shane is still shaking through the aftershocks.
He steps away, grabs some paper towels, runs warm water to get them damp before returning to Shane’s side to wipe him up.
Shane’s come-stained hands are shaky, as he reaches down to assist. Ilya bats them away and finishes himself, then reaches down, pulls Shane’s briefs into place. Smooths his shirt down, makes sure it’s tucked in when he gets his pants back up and buttons the flap.
Then he leads Shane to the sink, because Shane gets a little lost after sex, sometimes, and right now his hands are limp and his eyes are oddly empty, like he might not do this himself if left to his own devices. So Ilya takes Shane’s wrist, brings his fingers under the soap container, pumps some pink goo into it. Then he turns on the faucet, helps Shane guide his hand underneath.
Some kind of autopilot must kick in then, because Shane brings his other hand under the water and starts scrubbing.
His expression is still lost as he turns his face to where Ilya is standing at his side and says, with his voice oddly thin, “Ilya?"
"Yes," Ilya says.
Shane says, his tone dull, "How am I supposed to go back out there now?”
It’s unacceptable, the way he’s looking at Ilya like he’s forgotten who he is.
Ilya will not be the man who breaks Shane Hollander. He simply refuses to be.
He clears his throat, tries not to look too worried as he takes his phone back out. He extends it, face-up, under Shane’s chin and asks, “Shane, what does winning the Lady Byng mean for you?”
Shane, still scrubbing slowly at his hands, blinks owlishly at Ilya. Then he looks down at the phone being held out in front of him, as if it might be recording a voice memo.
Ilya can practically see things clicking back into the places they belong at the back of Shane's hockey-obsessed mind before Shane says, “It’s a tremendous honor to win this award.”
Never before has Ilya been so relieved to hear Shane's interview monotone. “Oh, yes,” Ilya says, nodding exaggeratedly, like that’s the most interesting thing he’s ever heard. “And how did you win this illustrious award?”
Shane’s mouth twitches. He mouths, illustrious. Then he composes himself, says, “I respected everybody else on the ice, while still making sure I always played as hard as I can.”
Ilya nods, a real nod, this time. “Very boring. I think you’re good to go,” he says, and pats Shane twice on the cheek.
Shane’s eyes flutter shut, just for a moment. When he opens them again, his gaze is clearer. He reaches out, turns off the sink, grabs for another paper towel. “I can’t believe we just did that,” he says, wiping at his damp hands.
The mean part of Ilya, the part that loves to tell Shane no and see him hurt, the part that made him wait sixteen days, wants to correct him, say, We? I think it was you doing that, Hollander.
But it seems too cruel to try and make Shane feel alone now, when he still looks a little wobbly on his feet, when he’s still looking at Ilya as if Ilya has at any point been generous or kind to him. Ilya says, instead, “Maybe now will be easier to concentrate, yes?”
"Yes," says Shane. His gaze is getting sharper, clearer. He says again, "Ilya?"
Ilya says, again, "Yes."
"You deserved MVP," Shane says. "It's stupid that you didn't win."
His mouth looks very soft, as it forms the words.
Ilya feels the fondness like a pinch in the center of each palm. He reaches out, touches a thumb to Shane’s tender lower lip.
The knob rattles, sharp and sudden, just before there’s a rap against the other side of the bathroom door.
Shane jumps. Ilya, anticipating it, has already dropped his hand to rub soothingly down the side of his smooth neck. “Go into stall,” he whispers. “Come out later. Don’t worry.” He’s pleased to have a chance to deploy some of the latest English vernacular he’s picked up as he adds, “I’ve got this.”
Shane nods. His eyes dart over Ilya’s face, for a moment, like he’s looking for something. Ilya can’t tell if he’s found it before he turns and disappears obediently into one of the stalls.
Ilya waits for the sound of the bolt sliding shut before he reaches for he turns toward the bathroom door.
He’s stumbling, swaying on his feet, by the time he yanks it open to find one of the suits on the other side.
“So sorry, sir,” Ilya says, making sure his accent is thick, making sure his smile is as sloppy as possible. “Thought, maybe, private bathroom. One too many drinks, yes? Good, but strong, yes?”
The suit gives him a stiff smile. “Sure,” he says, amicably enough, and slides past Ilya to set himself up at the urinal.
Ilya hums loudly to himself as he stumbles onwards, out of the bathroom, back into the quiet hall.
Once the door is shut behind him, he pauses, gathers himself. He’s reaching up to straighten his collar when he feels something damp on the back of his neck.
When he pulls his fingers back down in front of himself, he finds they're red with where Shane's nails must have broken skin.
Part of Ilya hopes it's not too noticeable. The less reasonable part hopes he’ll be able to see the crescents later.
He licks at his fingers and, somewhat ruefully, tucks his aching dick more firmly under his waistband before continuing on down the hall.
There is copper in his mouth and a quiet hum in his veins as he rejoins the bar and its boring crowd of boring people, all of who know who Shane Hollander is and none of who own him; because Ilya does own Shane, or at least a part of him. He’d felt it, right there in the bathroom, when Shane had looked at him, afterward.
He’d felt it last week, when he’d been in bed in his Boston apartment, propped up on his pillows, scrolling aimlessly through his phone, and a text from Shane had popped on his screen. Hi, it had said.
Ilya had grinned, sunk deeper into the pillows. Hi, he’d typed back, and waited.
He’d watched Shane’s typing bubble appear and vanish again and then reappear for at least a minute before his next message had come through. Could I ask you maybe kind of a weird question?
Ilya’s response had been instant. Yes pls.
It had been another long wait for the next message. Then, What happens if you start dating someone? Do we still keep doing this?
Ilya had felt his smile fade. He had tapped his pointer finger against the side of his phone for a moment before responding. Would u still want to?
Yes, Shane had said.
Shane is so direct when Ilya least expects it. It sends a thrill through Ilya every time.
Ilya had bitten his lip and started typing out his response, but another text had already popped up before he could finish. It’s okay if you don’t. I would understand. I am just trying to plan ahead.
Plan ahead, like he’d been about to start making a spreadsheet scheduling when to jerk himself off if Ilya had let go of his reins. Ilya had never met a man so ready to be taken in hand, so blissfully happy when he gets the chance to let go.
And that fact that it’s Shane Hollander, giving himself up like that to Ilya—
Ilya had shaken his head in something close to disbelief before typing out, And if u r dating?
Shane’s response had been quicker that time. I think I would still want to, anyway. Is that weird?
Ilya had grinned down at his phone. He sometimes got the sense that, despite it all, Shane hadn’t figured out yet just how rare his proclivities were. How difficult it might be, Ilya had thought with a sick thrill of victory, for him to find someone else who could match him this far past vanilla.
Yes very weird, Ilya had sent. Yes I very want to.
It doesn't seem strong enough. Ilya had added, after a moment, another recent idiomatic pick-up. No matter what.
Okay, Shane had sent. Then, Can I now?
No, Ilya had answered. He’d clasped his phone to his chest, closed his eyes, and fallen asleep smiling.
Ilya blinks away the memory and looks up. He notices instantly that Shane has rejoined the crowd, on the other side of the room, and that he’s now winding his way back toward the side of the bar opposite from where Ilya’s standing.
He looks less tense, now, and there’s color in his cheeks, but to someone who doesn’t own part of him it would look more like an alcohol flush than the redness of someone who just came their guts out in the bathroom.
“There goes the golden boy,” someone says next to Ilya.
Ilya looks over to see that Seattle center, Wilson, a heel on the ice who’s here to pick up a community award for some hospital foundation he’s running, standing next to him with a beer sweating in his hand. He’s looking in the same direction Ilya had been looking.
Ilya isn’t entirely sure Wilson had been speaking to him. “Who?” he says anyway. “Hollander?”
“Obviously,” Wilson says. “Can’t fuckin’ stand that pussy. Easy to pick up a stupid sportsmanship award when you spend every game whining to refs like a little fag.”
Ilya turns to see that Wilson is sweaty and red-faced. He looks drunk. “I’m going to fight you,” he says, pleasantly.
Wilson’s eyes widen. He swings his head away from where he’d been glaring at Hollander to gape at Ilya. “The fuck, Rozanov?”
“Next time we play, I’m going to drop my gloves and punch you in the face,” Ilya says. “Is just fair warning, yes? Now you’ll have time to prepare.”
Ilya leaves Wilson like that, standing there with his beer in hand, looking like he’d already been stunned by a hit to the back of the head. It’s Wilson’s own fault, really. He should have remembered that, in the end, Ilya Rozanov isn't a nice guy at all.