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Ilya would skip his way into the office if he weren’t carrying two very hot and one very cold beverage in hands. He is in a good mood today, which means that he is both on time and actually excited to put his hands and fingers inside of people’s mouths for the next eight hours or so.
There is nothing that invigorates him quite like being entrusted with a special task. And after nearly two years in Ottawa working under Doctor Scott Hunter—and several other fancy letters that come tacked onto the end—he thinks this one will be very worth the wait.
Maria’s eyes narrow when he slips through the front door to the chime of the little bell. He shimmies the iced coffee out of its spot in the cup carrier and hands it over the desk to her.
“You are looking very beautiful today, Maria. This is new top, yes?”
“You noticed,” she confirms appreciatively, spinning in her chair to show it off. She stops when she’s facing him again, elbows on the counter as she lifts the coffee to her lips. “And you’re early today.”
“I am perfectly on time,” Ilya says.
“Which is early. For you.”
He opens his mouth to argue some more, or maybe for another compliment because flattery gets him just about anything he wants when it comes to Maria. But then Scott exits his office behind the front desk to place a few papers into the outgoing mail stack, and Ilya shifts focus.
“Ah, there he is! Fourth most beautiful in the office!”
Wearily, Scott accepts the coffee Ilya hands over. “There’s only three of us working today.”
“True, yes, but today we are seeing—”
“Patient confidentiality, Rozanov,” Scott interjects with a pointed flick of his eyes. “You remember that clause in your contract? That you signed and agreed to abide by?”
“Yes, yes. So many rules, I know.” Ilya sighs and leans on the front desk. “I promise to be on my best behavior for him. In fact, I promise to be very good for—”
“Enough. He comes here for the discretion, alright? So. Be discreet.” Scott grumbles into his coffee. “As much as you can be, anyway.”
“No problem. I am a consummation professional.”
“Consummate,” Scott corrects flatly. Maria snorts.
Ilya looks at her and shoves a thumb over his shoulder in a universal gesture of ha! get a load of this guy! Not realistically, of course. He is not Ilya’s type. And also the married thing—Ilya has great respect for Scott Hunter’s husband.
“That is what I said. Time for ENT appointment for you, maybe.”
Scott takes a very large sip of coffee and, despite his passion for dentistry, seems to savor the caffeine against his teeth for a minute before he opens his eyes again.
“Let’s just make it through the day without any problems, alright?” he tells them, trying for a smile. It seems genuine. Scott always looks at least a little bit uncomfortable regardless of the situation.
“Aye aye, captain,” Ilya emphasizes with a wink, which Scott does not think is very funny.
That’s fine. It could be worse. Ilya could have worn his #24 jersey into the office today. Maybe he’ll ask Hollander to sign something for him later when he’s here, just to watch Scott’s ears get red as he stumbles through an apology and a statement about professionalism and discretion. That would be amusing.
But there is also an entire day’s work between now and Hollander’s extra special after hours appointment, and so, unfortunately, Ilya must put his hands inside of regular, non-famous people’s mouths for roughly eight hours before he gets to see if Hollander’s teeth are as pretty as the rest of him is.
Downing his own coffee as the front bell tinkles again, Ilya follows at Scott’s shoulder in his scrubs and a smile and reminds himself the only way out is through.
+
The clinic closes officially at five o’clock. Scott briefs him about Hollander’s minor injury while they eat dinner in the break room, and then Hollander himself shows up ten minutes on the dot before his seven o’clock appointment.
All in all, it’s a simple one. Hollander’s already been checked by the sports doctors and is healing nicely, and this is only a precaution. He sits perfectly for the scans and the short physical exam, where Ilya stands in the corner and mourns the fact that it’s Scott’s gloved fingers between Hollander’s teeth and not his own, asks a few questions about the painkillers Scott recommends, and then, with a follow up appointment scheduled—better to be safe than sorry, you know?—and a couple of cursory handshakes, he’s gone.
He had looked different from the pictures that Google pulls up of him. Not that Ilya has not also spent a good amount of time staring at the shots of airbrushed abs and intense stare-downs, because he has, but the version from tonight was… softer. Better, really, because Ilya is greedy for things other people don’t have.
And he does not think many people see Shane Hollander when he is in a comfortable sweatshirt and off-brand sneakers, when his hair is not styled back or helmet-matted, tired and impatient enough at times to make Ilya fond.
Ilya had been close enough to him tonight to see the freckles across his nose, the barely-there twitch of his lips when he tried not to smile at Ilya’s joke around the fingers in his mouth, the sweep of dark lashes against his cheeks when he leaned back in the chair. Ilya seriously considers refusing to wash his hand after Hollander shakes it, but he does work in healthcare, after all.
Now Hollander is gone and the office is calm and empty, Scott finishing up paperwork in his office while Ilya files away Hollander’s patient notes behind the front desk. When it’s nearing eight-thirty Ilya stands, stretches, and goes to lean on the doorframe of his office.
“Thanks again for staying late with me for this tonight,” Scott acknowledges him, handing over the last of the papers fresh off the printer. “All of your… theatrics from before aside, you were very professional and it wouldn’t have gone nearly as smoothly without you.”
“I know. I am very good at my job and you are very lucky to have me,” Ilya agrees, hugging the warm prints to his chest. “Can I help with anything else before I go?”
“No, I think I’m okay. You added the other notes to his file, right?”
“Yes, everything is there.”
“Good.” Scott nods. He pauses and, with the ease of someone failing spectacularly to be casual, pulls something out of his desk drawer and hands it over. “Oh, and add the disordered eating pamphlet to his take home paperwork for next time, please.”
Ilya looks down at the pamphlet he’s been handed and frowns. “Disordered eating pamphlet? For Hollander? Why?”
“Because I said so, Rozanov.”
It works just as well as every other time Scott says this, which is to say not at all. Ilya stares at him right between the brows until he caves.
“I know that we both saw the petechiae,” Scott mutters, defeated. “We don’t need to discuss it further. Just put the pamphlet into his things for his follow-up, please.”
“Oh. That?” Ilya waves a hand, tossing the pamphlet into the trash can by the door. “No. That is not what that is.”
Scott makes a noise. “Sorry. Which one of us has an MD somewhere at the end of their name again?”
“You really do not know? You are getting so old, Scott. I cannot keep reminding you of this.”
Turning on his heel, Ilya walks back to the front desk, locates Hollander’s file again and carefully slides the newly paperclipped pages on top to remember to give to him next time. He has just finished locking up the drawer for a second time when Scott appears in the doorway over his shoulder.
“Fine, I’ll bite,” he says, unamused when Ilya snorts at the unintentional pun. “If you don’t think it’s indicative of a possible eating disorder, what do you think it is?”
“The other thing.”
“The… other thing,” Scott repeats, a furrow in his brow.
Ilya sighs. “Scott—”
“Still definitely not allowed to call me that, by the way.”
“—you have a fancy smart-person degree in looking at people’s mouths. You are married. To a man. You have your teeth cleaned four times a year like an insane person. There is no way you do not know what I mean.”
A look crosses Scott’s face like he is solving a very difficult math problem and then, just when Ilya worries he is going to have to get much more graphic about it, realization settles in with a bright flush.
“Christ, Rozanov,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You can’t just assume that about random clients we see. It’s none of our business.”
“Oh, but you can assume they are disorderly about their eating, Mr. Pamphlet Man?” Ilya asks.
“I was an athlete once too. It can get… intense,” Scott says, crossing his arms. “And besides, it doesn’t matter. The other thing is a myth, anyway. There’s no medical proof that those two things can show up interchangeably.”
Ilya blinks. “Do you want proof? We can do exam. I know what you learned is probably outdated. I am very good at lying down and opening my mouth, if you want an example,” he offers. “I am feeling bad now. I should send your lovely husband flowers and apology card.”
Scott drops his now even more red face to his chest and exhales. “You know, I was really looking forward to not having any HR violations this week.”
He blows a raspberry with his tongue. “Boo. Boring.”
Turning back around, Scott collects his bag and coat from his office and turns off the light, locking up.
“Do not talk about my husband anymore, please. And get that damn pamphlet out of the trash can. You’re not calling the shots here, kid.”
“Yes. It would be much more fun if I was,” Ilya says wistfully, spinning in Maria’s chair. His eyes stray to Scott’s personal calendar underneath the client one on her desk. “You have three day weekend coming up. Good time to schedule your colonoscopy and check-up. Very important for people your age.”
Ilya hears the heavy weight of Scott’s forehead thunk against the wood of his office door.
“Colorectal health is nothing to joke about, Scott. I’m not judging. I care about your prostate!”
“My prostate is just fine, Rozanov.”
Ilya’s nose wrinkles. “Gross. TMI.” He pauses. “That means ‘too much in—’”
“I know what it means.” Scott makes a shooing motion at Ilya with his hands. He has achieved final form. “Get out. Go home. Please.”
“Trying to get rid of me?” Ilya pouts, allowing his crossed ankles to be knocked off of the desk onto the floor.
“Yes,” he agrees. “You did good today, kid. You’ve earned it. Go home, get some rest.”
Going back to his empty apartment does not sound particularly thrilling but, contrary to popular belief, Ilya can take a hint.
He grabs his own bag and jacket, double checks the locks, and then follows Scott out to the parking lot.
“Maybe I go home with you instead,” Ilya calls out when they reach their cars. “I am very good at cuddling, if your husband is looking for a third. And also at—”
“Goodnight, Rozanov!”
You can’t win them all, Ilya figures.
He drives home, makes himself a halfhearted second dinner, finds a replay of Montreal’s last game. He shoves his hand down the front of his pants when Hollander comes on the screen, thinking about the curve of his throat when he’d leaned back, the flutter of his eyelids, the can you open a little wider for me? yes, that’s it. just like that. just tell me if you need a break. that was great, Shane, very good.
God. What Ilya would give for him to get to be the one saying all of those things.
He laughs about it when he gets up to wash his dirty hand—that it’s the same one he’d shaken Hollander’s with earlier. Ilya lets the echo of the Voyageur’s victory lull him into deep, dreamless sleep.
+
Two weeks later, Hollander returns for his just-in-case follow up, this time one hour earlier than when the clinic opens as opposed to his typical after-hours slot. It goes just as well as the first one did except that Ilya is not as energetic this time, the coffee he’d inhaled earlier unable to completely erase the night of poor, restless sleep.
He’s not at the top of his game. Which is why he buffers in the doorway for a moment when he returns to the patient room to clean up and finds Hollander still in the chair, staring down at the papers in his lap.
“You are all checked out, I think,” Ilya says tentatively as he walks in from behind, but Hollander’s shoulders still jump nonetheless. “Unless you are waiting for something.”
“Oh, yeah, no—I pre-paid for the appointment, so. I’m good.”
Ilya hums, walking politely past the chair to get to the tray in the corner of the room and begin tidying and disinfecting. Hollander does not move from the chair. When Ilya chances a look at him, the lines in his forehead are concerningly deep. Almost as much as Scott’s. That cannot be good.
Hollander clears his throat.
“Hey. It’s—it’s Roz, right?”
He nods. “Or Rozanov. Or just Ilya is okay. Sorry, the name tag is confusing. Hunter says we are using too much on the snack machines to pay for new ones right now.”
“Rozanov, then,” Hollander offers a stiff smile. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” Ilya says.
“Uh. Is there a reason that this was included in my paperwork?”
Finishing up with his organizing, Ilya turns to face him to see what he’s holding up. And, lo and behold, the disordered eating pamphlet has been not-so-subtly slipped between two of the pages of Hollander’s at-home care guide.
Ilya sits down heavily in the rolling chair. “Yes. Dr. Hunter is stupid.”
A strangled laugh escapes Hollander’s flat mouth.
“Isn’t he your boss, technically?”
“Yes,” Ilya says again. “And he is not stupid. He is very smart, actually. But he is stupid about this.”
“I’m not following.”
Hollander stares at him expectantly, and Ilya debates his options, extending a leg out to gently kick the glass door of the room closed.
“My turn to ask you a question now,” he tells Hollander. “You do not have to answer.”
“Okay,” he frowns.
“Do you sometimes have problems with eating? Making yourself sick, maybe?”
“What?” Hollander asks, seeming genuinely surprised by the question.
The way Ilya thought he would, for the record.
“No, I—I mean, I’m on, like, a performance diet, for hockey. Just during the season. It can be a little restrictive, I guess, but it’s not—I don’t ever get sick from it. And definitely not on purpose.”
“Yes, I figured,” Ilya nods.
“So, then why…?”
“You have a little bit of bruising inside of your mouth. We call this palatal petechiae.”
Hollander pales slightly. “What does that mean? I don’t—I haven’t felt anything that seemed out of the ordinary.”
“This is normal. Bruising in the mouth is not so uncommon because the skin is very sensitive there. But you do not have enlarged salivary glands, decay, or blisters, so it is not a concern. Do not worry.”
He lets out a strangled laugh. “You don’t know me. That’s—that’s like all I do, is worry.”
“You also play hockey,” Ilya tells him patiently.
“Yeah, not if I have some kind of mouth disease I’m going to have to manage,” he goes on. Ilya starts to laugh, then makes his face very serious when he realizes Hollander is not at all joking. “What if it’s something that another doctor or specialist notices? I should be aware of it. I have a right to.”
“They will not notice.”
“It’s not unlikely. My job comes with a high risk of oral injuries,” Hollander points out.
Ilya forces down whatever his face is trying to do right now. “I can imagine, yes.”
“I just—why would I have that if it’s not—if I’m not making myself sick? What else would cause it? There must be some reason Dr. Hunter thought he should give it to me.” He glares down at the paper in his lap again, the tilt of his brows a little sad now. “I—I try to do everything right.”
Ugh. Fuck. Ilya is not going to be able to get out of this as easily as he thought he would. Not when he can practically hear Hollander blaming himself for something that isn’t even an issue in the first place. He thinks Scott’s description of intense had probably been correct.
But—and it is a very, very big but—he does not get out of this unscathed either way. On one hand, this is a patient, and Ilya wants to do whatever he can to reassure them, answer their questions, and ease their worries, even if that means talking about uncomfortable truths.
On the other hand. This is also a relatively famous, closeted, Ilya assumes, hockey player who possesses a non-zero chance of laying Ilya out with his fist in this office if Ilya so much as insinuates what he believes is happening here.
When he first took this job, Scott had mentioned that it was ironic because Ilya’s mouth would likely be his undoing. Ilya had embarrassed him and made it sound dirty, and should probably have been fired then.
He does not want to prove Scott right. He takes a breath and leans forward to brace his elbows on his knees, lowering his tone.
“Look, Mr. Hollander,” he says, trying to be placating. “It is really fine, I promise. I told him not to give you this stupid pamphlet. Nothing to worry for. You are very healthy, and you are doing everything right.”
“But you know,” Hollander insists, still staring. “You know what’s causing it.”
Well. “I did not say that.”
“You didn’t not say it.”
Okay, so. Shane Hollander is clever in addition to his looks and his talent. Ilya should have given him more credit.
He leans back, drags a hand through his hair. “Hunter will kill me for this, I think.”
“I won’t tell him,” Hollander assures, leaning forward to give chase. “Please. If you know, I—I need to know. My job expects a lot from me, and I have to be—I have to be perfect. If I don’t know, it’ll drive me crazy.”
His eyes are wide, mostly fixed on Ilya’s mouth, his knuckles white at the edge of the pamphlet in his lap. Ilya believes him.
“Well, I do not want to be the reason famous hockey player cannot focus on the game, ah?”
It is the worst joke he’s made since the moment Hollander stepped foot into their office. The corner of Shane’s mouth lifts in a smile that still sort of looks like he might be sick. Ilya catalogs the trash can in the corner and decides maybe he should start talking.
“Sometimes,” he begins carefully, “palatal petechiae is not from only things going out of the body. Sometimes it is because of… things going in.” He blinks up at Hollander. “Do you understand?”
Hollander stares. “No. You said—I already told you it’s not the food.”
“No, not food,” he agrees. “Um. Is more like, ah. The throat, specifically. Things that go in the throat that might… irritate it. Yes?”
“Rozanov,” Hollander pleads. “Please. Just tell me. I can take it, I promise.”
Ilya chokes. He glances toward the empty hallway and the closed glass door and back to Hollander’s face.
“I want you to know that this conversation does not leave this room. Okay? Not in your file, not in my notes, not to Dr. Hunter,” he murmurs carefully. “Whatever we discuss here is completely private.”
“Oh God. I’m dying,” Hollander laments, tossing his head back against the seat. When Ilya doesn’t immediately rectify this, his neck springs back up. “Am I fucking dying?”
“No! No, you are not dying. You are—” he searches for the right words.
“I’m what?”
“You are a little too good at sucking cock, apparently.”
Hollander takes a steep inhale, wide eyes still on Ilya, and then he freaks the absolute fuck out.
His chest caves as he gasps, his back shoved as far into the chair as he can get, his knees drawn up into his chest. The papers have fallen from his lap and scattered on the floor, the pamphlet staring up at Ilya like it has some kind of personal vendetta against him.
“Hollander. Shane. Fuck. Okay, we are going to breathe—” he tries, hovering a hand near Hollander’s back as he wheezes.
“Fuck you,” he gasps, slipping his hands into his hair. “Oh my God. Fuck you, I’m not—I don’t—”
“I only know because same thing shows up on mine,” Ilya rushes, raising his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Okay? Is not—I am not trying to put you in a scary position here. I am very sorry. I wasn’t going to say anything at all, but then you were very worried, and I thought maybe telling you privately would be okay, but now I am thinking I will be fired and you will sue me, maybe. Probably.”
The word vomit just keeps going, unfortunately, but sometime in the middle of Ilya’s rambling Hollander has stopped clutching at his chest, his gaze wet but not as frantic now.
“I’m not—I’m not gonna fucking sue you,” he sighs, pressing his palms to his eye sockets. “And you're right, I would’ve—I would’ve made myself sick, worrying about it because of that stupid pamphlet.”
He is going to burn this stupid fucking pamphlet. The word has lost all meaning now.
“Just—I’m not. I can’t be, like. Out, you know? I don’t know if you keep up with hockey, but—” Hollander trails off with a grimace.
“I keep up,” Ilya interjects.
“So you’re aware that I can’t—not that I can’t, technically, but I’m not ready to—”
“Shane,” he says, gentler. “That is why I said nothing leaves this room. I will tell no one. I swear to you.” After a moment’s hesitation, Ilya adds, “I would not do this. I—I know how important it is, to have a choice in when and who.”
Hands finally sliding the rest of the way off his face, Hollander’s eyes flick over him, assessing, understanding, maybe. He takes another deep breath, and then nods.
He scrubs his fingers through his hair as he drops back against the seat, huffing a laugh to himself. “Yeah, well. Apparently I already accidentally outed myself to Hunter, so.”
“Mm. I don’t think so. He was very set on the—” Ilya shudders, “—pamphlet.”
“I…” Hollander pauses for a moment at this, glances over his shoulder at the door briefly, and then leans forward to whisper, “Does he not have a husband?”
Ilya slaps a hand against his thigh and bursts out laughing. It seems to startle Hollander, but after a beat his shoulders loosen and his own mouth stretches into a smile.
“That is exactly what I said! This is good. You can probably send a much nicer gift basket than me. You can put game tickets in it too, hockey is a good distraction for… other things.”
The smiles linger, even as the conversation dwindles. Ilya has done most of his cleaning but Hollander has still not made any move to get out of the chair. Ilya is finding himself in a similar situation.
He tries to think about what he would have wanted, before.
“Um. You want me to sign extra… secret thingy? Contract? Saying I will not tell?” He mimes writing with a pen.
Hollander blinks. “Oh. Like an NDA?” he asks. “I don’t know. You—you said you wouldn’t tell anyone, so.”
“I won’t. I promise. There are already patient confidentiality rules. Would just be to make you feel safer, if you wanted.”
His chin dips toward his lap, but his smile stays, softer now. “That’s really nice of you to offer, but. I think—I think it’s okay.”
“Okay.”
Now would probably be a good time, also, for Ilya to stand up. Politely move them toward the door. Every minute that passes without Scott poking his head in to glare at him is making him sweaty, a little.
But then, “Can I ask you another question?” Hollander chews at his lip. “If—if I’m not taking up too much of your time?”
“Sure.”
As if his nervous system has not been overloaded enough today as it is—and it is only fucking eight in the morning, still—Ilya has the privilege of watching Hollander’s face turn a shade of pink that, for once, makes him feel like he should report himself to HR.
“Is there, uh. Any way to… reduce the, um. The bruising?” Hollander winces. “Like—during. Or after.”
Ilya grins, pulling a notepad out of the cabinet and a pen from the front pocket of his shirt.
“Now that does not come in a pamphlet, but you are lucky I am seasoned professional. I can help you with this.”
He writes down several things that he knows will help, adding little notes about where to find them and when to use them. He should probably be doing them more often himself, but. As he says, not as he does, and all of that.
By the time Hollander has asked all of his questions about those too, Ilya is terribly smitten and also probably late for his other appointments. The notes span two pages, and even when Ilya haphazardly rips them off of the notepad, Hollander treats them like something fragile and important, creasing them precisely in the middle and folding them into his care notes.
Then he removes the pamphlet from under the paperclip and drops it into the trash can, and he laughs when Ilya raises his hand for a high five. It is a beautiful sound. Ilya is fucked.
“You are not doing significant damage. Do not stress too much. Really is only a concern if it was the food thing. Modern medicine does not always account for people as gifted as we are.”
Hollander grins, shakes his head. “You’re fucking crazy.”
“You are not what I expected either, Shane Hollander,” Ilya murmurs.
Finally, when Hollander’s legs unstick from the uncomfortable chair, they stand. Ilya finishes tidying and listens to the zip of Shane’s bag as he settles it onto his shoulder, and then nearly walks straight into Hollander’s outstretched palm when he turns.
“It was really nice to meet you,” he says. “Again. Roz or Rozanov or Ilya.”
“Good memory. It was nice to meet you too,” Ilya echoes, shaking his hand firmly. “Also—” if they are being honest about things, “—maybe do not brush your gums so hard. They are very nice gums. They do not need to be punished.”
Hollander, or, fuck it—Shane laughs again, and Ilya cannot believe his luck. This may be the best day of his life.
“Noted. I’ll save the hard, punishing stuff for… other things.”
Ilya only barely recovers enough to choke out a response to that, and then he’s leading Hollander toward the back exit and then he’s gone.
Six months until Hollander’s next check up.
Ilya rushes to slip into his eight-fifteen appointment and pretends that he isn’t already counting the days.
+
He’s stuffing his face in the break room when Scott walks in with his own lunch, packaged neatly in a box from home that Ilya thinks his husband probably makes for him. He tries to steal Scott’s yummy looking smoothie when he sits down at the table, and claims that he’s going to sue for elder abuse when Scott slaps the back of his hand. They debate for several minutes about that’s not what elder abuse is, Rozanov and but you are an elder and you are abusing me, Scott, et cetera, but Ilya’s heart isn’t in it the way it usually is. He takes another bite of his own sandwich when he tires of the bit.
He can feel Scott’s eyes on him while he eats.
“Everything go okay with Hollander earlier?”
“You were there,” Ilya says. “You tell me.”
“He was still here when I went in for my eight o’clock. And you were late for your eight-fifteen.”
“Yes, well.” Ilya slurps dressing off of his thumb. “I have said before that you rush out of rooms too quickly. He had questions. I answered them. You’re welcome.”
“Questions,” Scott repeats. “About the very straightforward follow up appointment where everything looked great.”
Inhaling heavily, Ilya sets down his sandwich and reaches for Scott’s hand with his own crumby, sticky one. “Well, Scott, it turns out that when you accuse someone of eating disorderly—”
“I didn’t accuse him,” Scott groans, ripping his hand away in search of a napkin and his pocket Germ-X.
“—they tend to be a little confused.”
“And you… cleared things up.”
“Yes. I said this.”
Scott closes his eyes for a moment. “You’re not qualified for that, Rozanov. You were just supposed to give him the materials.”
“He agreed that the materials were stupid!” Ilya defends. “He said this all on his own. There is not much I could do.”
“Fine. Just. Tell me you did not bring up anything about the… other thing,” Scott says, exasperated.
Ilya is many things, but he is not a liar. Usually.
“I answered his questions.”
Scott’s hand pauses halfway to his smoothie.
“Rozanov—”
Ilya looks down at his bare wrist and begins gathering up his trash. “Oh no. Break is over. You know how important it is to me to be punctual, Dr. Hunter.”
“Your eight-fifteen—” Scott starts, then abandons that in favor of, “did you just call me Dr. Hunter?”
“That is your name, no?” Ilya asks, dumping his food into the trash.
“Well, yeah, I mean, you just—” Scott huffs. He picks at the edges of his own crustless sandwich and then glances over at Ilya at the trash can. “You okay, kid?”
For a startling moment, he considers telling Scott that he considers him one of his only true friends. How, when the others are scattered across the states, sometimes it feels like Scott is the only one.
The lapse in judgement passes quickly as he watches Scott nibble awkwardly at the edge of his baby-sandwich.
“Not all of us can take these long, luxurious lunches, you know. It’s very unprofessional, Scott, and no one else here is brave enough to say it to your face.”
Ilya smiles at the middle finger he receives. For real, this time. It will be very funny when he has Maria draw up a fake HR slip to put on his desk for this, he thinks.
All in a day’s work.
+
Review from S.H. — ★★★★★
I highly recommend this clinic for any dental related needs. They’ve been very accommodating and responsive for as long as I’ve been visiting, both for regular check ups and for post-op and oral injury management. The dental assistant, Ilya (or Roz) was particularly helpful. He was patient, kind, knowledgeable, and had a great bedside manner. He doesn’t shy away from the hard stuff, which is something I can appreciate. Looking forward to visiting again.
+
Scott catches him red handed when he is finishing pinning the EMPLOYEE OF THE YEAR sign Maria helped him make to the cork board in the staff room. Ilya glances over his shoulder and blinks, thumb still pressed against the butt end of a tack.
“No.”
Ilya makes a noise. “What do you mean, no?”
“It’s supposed to be employee of the month, first of all,” Scott says, crossing over to the snack machine, “and secondly, we don’t even do that here. We’re not competing against each other, we’re a—”
“A team, yes, I know, very fair and boring.” Ilya gestures toward the photograph of himself again, the review printed in neat, overly legible lines underneath it, “But only one of us got five star rating.”
Scott slips a quarter into the machine. “Technically the clinic got a five star rating.”
“Technically, I think this means I should also get your parking spot.”
“Keep dreaming, kid.”
In brutal retaliation, Ilya waits until Scott pulls an energy drink out of the machine and cracks it open, lifting it to his mouth, to say, “Did your husband like the flowers I sent?”
Sputtering on himself, Scott wipes at his mouth and glares. “That was you?” he asks. “What the hell, Rozanov? How did you even—?”
“I stole your address from the staff directory after Maria went home. They were very pretty, no? Maybe a good conversation starter. No need to thank me.”
He squeals when some of Scott’s cold, fizzy energy drink sprays in his direction.
“Not on the poster, Scott, please!”
Somehow, Ilya makes it through another day still employed. He takes the extra copy of the review he’d printed for himself at the office home with him and hangs it up on his fridge. That feels pretty good, too.
.
.
.
Ilya has seen his future, and it has trophy husbandry written all over it.
Trophy in the most literal sense. He bets Shane would let him fuck him in the same room as the Stanley Cup next, if Ilya asked nicely enough. He can be very convincing.
Ambitions aside for now, Ilya finishes making the herbal tea he’d told Shane about on the list—after checking that it didn’t have any ingredients offensive to his diet plan—and rinses off the stirring spoon in the big, fancy kitchen he’s been entrusted to navigate after fucking Shane into the mattress for the last hour or so. It’s a good thing they planned this after his game and not before another one.
He had gotten some use out of his #24 jersey after all.
By the time he nudges open the bedroom door again, careful all the way upstairs not to spill a drop from the mug, Shane is out of his shower and already back in bed, a new blanket put on. He gives Ilya a lazy, bashful smile from where he leans against the headboard, murmuring a raspy thanks as he takes the mug from Ilya’s hands.
“Can I ask you a question?” Ilya says as he slips back underneath the sheets on the opposite side.
Shane grins. “Sure.”
“How did you get my number?”
Ilya has been wondering since the moment he’d received a stiff Hello. Is this Ilya Rozanov? from an unknown number. It had been Ilya, of course, but he wasn’t going to give that up so easily. Eventually, after Hollander sent a selfie holding only one ticket to his next game in Ottawa—a clear message not to bring anyone with him—with Ilya’s name on it, Ilya had realized okay, yes, this was something that was happening.
And fuck if it hadn’t happened.
Shane’s cheeks go pink as he takes a sip of his tea, staring down at that instead of Ilya.
“Oh. Well, I have Hunter’s personal number to set up appointments, so that I can schedule it without going through the front desk,” he explains. “When I called about my next follow-up, his husband answered.”
A laugh bursts out of Ilya. He lays his cheek on his folded arm and watches Shane. “Amazing.”
“Yeah. I may have, uh. Offered him season tickets if he could get me your number… discreetly.”
“Ah, yes. Very discreet.” Ilya nods. “We are a very good match, I think.”
“Why?” Shane asks, looking very much like he already agrees.
“Because we are going to drive Scott Hunter into an early grave.”
“I’d prefer if we didn’t,” he says dryly. “It’d really suck to have to find a new dental office.”
Ilya’s brows climb. “Oh? You are attached to Scott Hunter now? Very scandalous of you, talking to his husband with these feelings.”
“Shut up,” Shane laughs. He traces a finger around the rim of the mug in his lap. “Hunter’s great, yeah, but I wasn’t talking about him.”
“I know. I read your review.”
He tosses Ilya an incredulous look. “You check your reviews?”
“Yes. I am very vain, Hollander,” Ilya sniffs, inspecting his nails. “You should know this about me if we are going to see each other again.”
“Are we?” Shane asks. His eyes linger on Ilya this time, between them, down to his mouth. “Going to see each other again?”
“Probably,” Ilya shrugs. “Your next appointment is scheduled for—”
“Oh my God,” Shane laughs. “Fuck off.”
With a smile of his own, Ilya reaches over, takes a sip of the tea for himself, and then reaches over Shane to set the mug on the nightstand. When he reclines again it puts their faces level, makes the hitch in Shane’s breath something that he can feel.
“I would like to. If you would like to,” Ilya tells him earnestly.
Something relaxes in his posture, and he sighs a little against Ilya’s mouth. “I would, yeah. I don’t… I can’t remember the last time I laughed this much.”
Ilya frowns. “You should hold your dates to higher standards. You should always be laughing.”
“Dates is generous,” Shane says, shifting enough to lay down on his side. “I can’t really be seen out in public, you know. Like this. It feels… unfair to ask anyone to hide themselves for me, so most of the time I just kind of take whatever I can get. Not a lot of time for humor. Or anything else, really.”
Sliding down on his own side, Ilya mirrors him, their knuckles touching in the space between their chests, facing each other on the pillows.
“Maybe if you had someone that could make time,” he proposes lightly, “and also that was very funny and handsome. And is good at keeping secrets.”
The corner of Shane’s mouth twitches. “Really? You’re good at keeping secrets?”
“The important ones, yes.”
The levity is gone just as quickly as it came, and Ilya finds himself suddenly very desperate to prove that he is not joking about this. He bites the bullet and turns his hand, grabs onto Shane’s and threads their fingers together.
“Ilya,” Shane rasps, looking down at their hands. “I can’t…”
“There is no pressure. I know you have hockey, busy schedule,” Ilya assures when Shane doesn’t finish the thought. “But when you are back here, if you ever want company. I would like to see you. When you can. No strings attached.”
“Yeah. Me too.” Shane smiles lightly, eyes flicking up to Ilya’s face. “And it… doesn’t have to be no strings.”
“Oh? I am allowed a little bit of string?” Ilya teases, moving closer.
“Just a little,” Shane allows, rolling easily onto his back. His hand squeezes the outside of Ilya’s bicep. “I can’t trust you with too much.”
He kisses up the side of Shane’s neck. “And why is that?”
“Because you’ll probably tie it to my ankle and I’ll get it all tangled up in my skates. I’d trip on the ice, or something. It’d be very embarrassing.”
“No problem. I will go and get you from the ice and carry you out like prince charming. Everyone will cheer for me. Very romantic.”
Shane snorts. “They’ll cheer for you, will they?”
“Duh. They will say look how big and strong and sexy this man is. I will get Scott so much business he will never be able to fire me.”
“Pretty sure if you were going to get fired it would’ve happened by now,” he says, breathier now as Ilya settles between his thighs.
He kisses Shane’s chin. “Yes. You are probably right.”
“I usually am.”
The offhand, confident way he says it gets Ilya hard again, and the second round is much quicker and lazier than the first. They do it right there, just like that, with Shane on his back and Ilya on top of him, close enough to breathe into each other’s mouths the whole way through. It’s terribly intimate. It does nothing to stop the way Ilya’s heart pounds inside of his chest, the way he obsessively wants more more more. Whatever Shane is willing to give.
He doesn’t think he has been this happy in a long time either.
“Maybe,” Shane says after they’ve cleaned off again, in bed for real this time, his fingers lazy and slow in Ilya’s hair. “Maybe one day, that would be nice.”
Ilya hums, rubbing his cheek against Shane’s chest. “What would be nice?”
“You, out on the ice with me. People seeing,” he whispers into the dim light of the bedroom. “Not anytime soon. But. One day.”
That is—very much more than Ilya had been expecting. He peels his eyes open again, raises himself up on an arm so that he can look at Shane’s face.
“I think you will have to extend my string, Hollander.”
He smiles, tentative but hopeful. “Yeah? Think you can handle it?”
“Mm. Unless you are too busy trying to seduce Scott Hunter’s husband. I would be disappointed, but I would understand. I make jokes to him about it all the time.”
“God, I bet Hunter hates that.”
“He does,” Ilya assures. “Very much.”
They stop talking for a while to kiss instead, mouths loose and open, Ilya’s hand on his cheek, Shane’s leg tossed over and sticking to his as their bodies warm again. It feels good like this, to go slow, moving against each other without any real purpose.
Still, he can’t help himself when the boxers they put on in a shameful attempt at modesty betray them. He pushes his thigh against Shane with a grin.
“Really? Again, Shane? You are so greedy.”
Not the least bit ashamed, Shane traps the weight between both of his own legs and pushes back in a rhythm. He takes the lobe of Ilya’s ear between his teeth and breathes, “Hey. You… you probably aren’t allowed to, like, take any of that equipment home with you. Right?”
“From the office?” A laugh bubbles from Ilya’s chest. “You know that most people are terrified of the dentist, yes?”
“Well, good thing you’re not actually a dentist, then.”
Ilya sighs and pulls him closer. “I should be offended by that, probably.”
“You could be,” Shane levels. “Or you could do your job.”
He reaches down and grabs Ilya’s wrist that’d been groping at his ass, pulls it up between them and to his mouth. He curls two of Ilya’s fingers onto the flat of his tongue and sucks, fellating them with his eyes closed, his hips still moving.
“Fuck,” Ilya groans, long and drawn out. He is going to develop a complex about this for sure, but he wants it too much to stop.
The fingers pop out from between his lips, spit-soaked and glistening.
“C’mon, Roz. Rozanov. Ilya.” Shane moans, pressing kisses to each of his fingertips. “Teach me more about how much my mouth can take.”
Like any good lover of mouths, Ilya obeys. The only way forward is through, and he cannot fucking wait to find out what’s next.
.
.
.
Scott is at the stove when the delivery arrives.
His three day weekend is going swimmingly so far, even if Kip had to work today. The plan was to have dinner ready by the time he got home, but that’s in a half hour or so, and the kitchen is in various stages of disarray. He is not the better cook in their union.
The knock pulls his focus from the pot on the stove that’s formed some sort of gelatinous texture now, and Scott sighs as he turns the heat down and goes to check it. He wipes off his hands and pulls open the door, only to find a delivery man standing there with a bouquet of flowers that nearly dwarfs the guy carrying them completely.
“Stop sending flowers to my husband,” Scott demands when Rozanov finally picks up the phone, staring at the giant thing now sitting on his counter. Rozanov laughs.
“It was not me this time! I swear!” he says. “Maybe someone else is also trying to seduce your husband. I have competition now.”
“That’s not funny,” Scott grumbles.
“Did you check the card?”
Unfortunately, it’s a good idea. A little sheepish now at his outburst, he wrestles with several of the sprawling, longer stems to get to the little white card clipped to the front of the vase.
“For Kip,” he mutters, squinting as he reads the small text, “thank you endlessly for the ‘favor’, I can’t tell you how much it’s paid off. … Hope we can get together soon in person so we can thank you properly. … S.H. … What the fuck?”
Scott flips the card over, reads it again, ignores the voices on the other end of the line as he tries not to spiral. Favor? Thank you properly? What the fuck?
“Does not sound familiar?” Rozanov snickers. “S.H.?”
“No, it doesn’t,” Scott snaps. They sure as hell aren’t from him. He goes to hang up, but Rozanov speaks again.
“Scott. Think. Where have you seen these initials before.”
“I’m not in the mood to play a fucking guessing game right now, Rozanov,” he grits. The thing on the stove is starting to smell bad.
“Okay, since I must spell everything out for you,” Rozanov drawls. “You remember the review?”
“What review?”
“The best one we have ever gotten and will ever get. My magnum opus. My seminal work. My crowning achievement—ha, because crowns, Scott, do you get—”
“Shane Hollander did not send my husband flowers,” Scott interjects before he can keep going, because if there’s anything he’s certain about, it’s that. “He doesn’t even have my address.”
“...Maybe he knows someone that has your address. Maybe.”
“Rozanov,” he says. His head is beginning to hurt. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I told him he could probably send much nicer gift than me and apparently he did,” Rozanov sighs heavily. “Everything is a challenge with him. He has to be the best, you see.”
There’s more noise on the other side of the line and this time it has the distinct tone of bickering. Scott frowns.
“You—what? When did you have that conversation?”
“I have a life outside of my work, Scott,” he lectures. “I know it is difficult to hear, but my life cannot revolve around you, it is unhealthy and—ow.”
Very clearly this time, someone says Ilya.
“Who was that?” Scott asks.
The speaker makes a shuffling noise, as if the phone is being shoved back and forth. Scott pulls the phone back to triple check that he’s on the right line, then hesitantly lifts it back to his ear. Eventually, with a small huff, someone returns to it.
“Um. Hi, Dr. Hunter.”
Scott pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Fucking hell, Rozanov,” he mutters.
After some more hushed mumbling, the phone is passed back to its owner. Unfortunately.
“Also, for the record,” Rozanov announces proudly, “I was right about the pamphlet.”
Scott sets the phone down and drops his head into his hands.
“Oh my God, Ilya,” he hears Shane fucking Hollander say on the other side of the line, and then another quick sorry!, and then the line, finally, goes dead.
He sits there for a moment in the quiet of his kitchen and grapples with the fact that his husband, whom he loves and can typically do no wrong, has decided to play matchmaker and, as a result of this whim, has created a terrible monster that will inevitably terrorize them for the foreseeable future and likely into retirement.
Scott glances at the card again. Favor. Paid off. Hope we can get together soon. In person. He shivers.
Very, very quietly, deep down where he will refuse to acknowledge it after this, Scott can admit that there’s a tiny piece of him that’s relieved to know that Rozanov won’t be alone anymore. Only because it will keep him from bothering Scott so much, of course. That’s all.
He’s in the middle of deciding how the fuck to bring this up to Kip when the pot on the stove makes an ominous gurgling noise, the smell now permeating the dining room as well.
Somehow, he blames Rozanov for this too.
.
.
.
Technically, Kip says later, when they’re cleaning up the take out boxes, this isn’t my fault.
How do you figure? Scott asks.
Kip smirks. You introduced them first. All I did was let it keep happening.
.
.
.
Somewhere on the other side of the city, Ilya swears he can hear a sigh.