Archive of Our Own

Moscow, 1997

Mama used to tell him stories sometimes. Never when his father was around to hear, obviously, because he would have accused her of babying Ilya, of filling his head with nonsense. But sometimes, when they were alone, when Grigori was at work and Alexei at school, she would tell him stories, old folk tales mostly, stories that her mama had told her when she was a girl.   

One day, she tells him the story of the scorpion and the frog. 

Once upon a time, there was a scorpion who wanted to cross a river to get to the other side. There was just one problem: the scorpion couldn’t swim. He knew if he tried to cross the water on his own that he would drown.  So instead of trying to cross alone, he looked around to see who could help him. 

The scorpion spent a long time waiting. No one wanted to get near him because they were afraid of him, afraid of the stinger on his back, of the way he would raise it in warning when anyone got close. He was beginning to lose hope of ever being able to cross the river when he spotted the frog. The frog was known for being a strong swimmer. The best in the forest, probably. The scorpion knew he’d be able to carry them both.

“Will you carry me across the river?” the scorpion asked. “I know you’re a good swimmer, and I’m sure you could carry me.”

“No, I’m sorry, I can’t,” said the frog apologetically, his nervous eyes darting back and forth between the scorpion’s eyes and his tail. “I’m afraid that if I let you on my back to carry you, you’ll sting me.”

“Why would I sting you?” the scorpion scoffed, trying to project innocence in his voice. “If I sting you, then we’d both drown. It’s in my best interests to keep you safe.”

The frog pondered his answer for a moment, and then nodded. “Alright, I’ll carry you, as long as you promise not to hurt me.”

“I promise. Just let me climb on your back.” 

The frog nodded again, and let the scorpion climb on his back. The scorpion was true to his word, and when he didn’t strike immediately, the frog relaxed ever so slightly and used his powerful legs to hop to the water’s edge. 

The scorpion held on tight as the frog leapt into the water, and started to swim. Even with the extra weight of the scorpion on his back, he was a good swimmer, and in almost no time at all, they had made it halfway across. 

It was all going so well, and it seemed like the scorpion and the frog were going to make it safely to the other side. 

But all of a sudden, right when they were reaching the deepest part of the river, where the currents were strongest and most dangerous, a strange feeling came over the scorpion. He realised he wanted to sting the frog. 

It didn’t make any sense, because if he stung the frog then it would kill them both. The scorpion couldn’t swim on his own, and he needed the frog to keep him from drowning. But even though he knew it would end in death, the scorpion couldn’t help but raise his stinger to stab the frog in the back. 

“Why? Why did you sting me?” cried the frog, his big eyes filled with tears at the betrayal. “I was doing what you said, and we had almost made it safely to the other side of the river. Why would you sting me and kill us both?”

The scorpion didn’t answer at first, too focused on clinging to the frog’s back even as they both began to sink beneath the water. 

“Why?” asked the frog again. “Why kill me when it will kill you too?"

“I couldn’t help it,” the scorpion said as they both took their last breaths. “It’s in my nature to sting.” 

Ilya hates it.

“Why, Mama? Why would the scorpion do that?” he cries, cuddling in closer to her side to hide his tears. “I don’t understand. The frog was his friend, and he didn’t do anything wrong!” 

Mama looks down at him. When he remembers this later, he’ll have an appreciation for the way she’d paused, thinking of the right words to say, but as a child he had only been confused by her sadness.

“Oh, Ilyushenka,” she says gently, running her hands through his curls. “Sometimes, people can’t help it. That’s just the way they are. Sometimes we hurt each other, even when we don’t mean to. It’s not the scorpion’s fault, he was made to sting.”

Ilya thinks of Papa and his temper, and how sometimes he can’t help but hurt them. He thinks of Mama, and how she always forgives him, no matter how badly he treats her. 

He grows up knowing that his father is a scorpion, and his mother is a frog, but what he doesn’t know at first is which one he’ll grow up to be.

And then his mama dies, and he learns that it’s better to be the one that stings than gets stung.

Why did the scorpion want to get to the other side so badly? What was he running from on this side of the river that he was willing to risk death to get away? 

That’s not important. What’s important is that the scorpion wanted to leave.

Toronto, 2010

His father has always said that he ruins everything he touches, and however cruel the sentiment, maybe it was true. Ilya has a knack for it, he knows; he’s a hothead, impulsive, someone that doesn’t think anything through and leaves others to suffer the consequences, never taking responsibility for his own faults. His big, brash hands are unsuited to holding anything delicate or precious. 

And yet, Ilya can’t help but touch Hollander anyway. 

A handshake, or two. You will not be so nice when we beat you. Their fingers overlapping on Ilya’s water bottle. More. Stroking his own cock in the showers as Hollander watches with hungry eyes. I might knock. A hand cupped against Hollander’s jaw. I like trouble. His arm braced on the wall as Hollander gets to his knees. Did you like sucking my cock? The backs of his fingers traced across his swollen bottom lip.You want me to lie on the bed and let you do it some more? His hands tangled in Hollander’s hair. Not bad for first time.

Every touch of his hands corrupting him a little bit more, Ilya knew, but he can’t seem to stop. 

Montreal, 2016

Ilya loves the way Hollander looks when he’s in pain. 

Specifically, he loves how he looks when he’s in pain and trying to be brave about it. There’s a certain expression that he wears every time: face scrunched up, cheeks red, his big brown eyes brimming with tears that he won’t allow to spill over. His perfect, straight, white teeth cutting a line into blush-pink lips, the last line of defence to prevent him from crying out in pain. He isn’t proud of it, the way the slight look of fear in Hollander’s eyes makes arousal pulse harder in his veins, but he can’t deny that he’s addicted to it.

Ilya catches glimpses of it on the ice sometimes, minus the tears of course, when they’re fighting for possession of the puck, bodies slamming against one another. Every time, he has to fight to keep his composure, to not fuck Hollander right there on center ice, under the glare of stadium lights and the watchful gaze of thousands of hockey fans. 

Ilya is inside him. He hadn’t bothered to prep him beyond slicking himself with lube; partly, because it had been two months since they’d last seen each other and they were both impatient to get to the main event already, and partly because Ilya had been itching to see that face. And so he had bullied his way inside, pressing his hips forward in one unrelenting thrust, leveraging the weight of his body until Hollander had had no choice but to yield to the intrusion. 

He pauses once he’s fully seated inside, watching the way Hollander fights to keep still, no sign of protest from him other than that familiar expression on his face and the slight tremble of his body he isn’t able to control. Ilya squeezes his hands around his wrists, tight enough to hurt but not to injure, using his grip to press Hollander more firmly into the mattress, pinning him in place. Hollander lets him, limp and unresisting beneath him, his hole rhythmically clenching around Ilya’s cock. 

The frog nodded, and then held very still to let the scorpion climb on top of him, even though the scorpion could see his eyes were wide and afraid.

Toronto, 2010

“Okay, was fun,” Ilya says, wiping his hand free of his own release. 

A beat, and then, “A-are you serious?” 

Ilya fights to keep the grin off his face, feigning casualness like he hasn’t just come in thirty seconds flat because of Hollander’s inexperienced, fumbling mouth. “What, you need something?”

He waits to see what Hollander will do, whether he’ll lash out at the injustice of it or accept what he’s given. Ilya wouldn’t mind either outcome, wouldn’t mind a Hollander that demanded what he was owed, but of course he’s too sweet for that, too submissive.

Ilya looks over at him, expecting anger. Instead, Hollander looks upset, confused, like he doesn’t know what to do with the possibility of being denied. He doesn’t fight it at all, as if the idea that he could hasn’t even crossed his mind. Hollander simply lies there on his back, not even looking at him, ready to go to bed worked up and unsatisfied, all because Ilya says so. 

He rolls over, moving closer, shifting so that he covers Hollander’s body with his own. He lets his weight rest on his hands, looming over him, studying him for several long moments, staring at that pretty face, at those crestfallen eyes. 

“You think I am asshole?” he teases, taking mercy on him at last. 

“I know you’re an asshole.”

“Oh, I would not leave you like that,” he soothes, his voice just a little mocking.

“No?” Hollander asks, questioning, hopeful, a tiny smile on his lips, his face open and trusting, like a worshiper trusts a god  

“No,” Ilya replies with certainty, leaning down to kiss him, benevolent again.

Boston, 2010

The whole encounter had gone right into Ilya’s spank bank, obviously – being the first man to hook up with Shane Hollander was hot beyond words, so there was plenty of material there to fantasise about, despite Ilya entering and leaving his hotel room inside fifteen fucking minutes– but god, that look on Hollander’s face when he thought Ilya was going to leave him hanging? 

Ilya jerks off to thoughts of that face alone for weeks, fisting his cock as he remembers the distressed quirk of his eyebrows, the dejected slump of his mouth, his watery, hangdog eyes, pleading and sad. He cums thinking about how easily Hollander submitted to Ilya’s control, how he’d lain unresisting beneath him, powerless, desperate and wanting but accepting that it was Ilya’s right to leave him denied. 

Moscow, 2006

Ilya doesn’t remember exactly what age he was when he discovered this part of himself. Maybe it’s always been there.

He remembers it being there as a teenager, when pretty girls had started to turn his head – the pretty boys would come later. He remembers how he liked to tease them, to be a little mean. 

Not nasty, never nasty, not like his father had treated Mama. But he would put on a mask of disinterest, say things with just enough of an edge that they would get flustered talking to him, cheeks blushing and tongues tripping over what words to say next, desperate to keep hold of his attention. He’d stare, eyebrows raised and a cocky smirk resting on his mouth, and let the girl squirm for just long enough that he would see her hopes fall, and then he would relent. He would say something sweet, or something filthy (often both) until her cheeks flushed up with pleasure rather than embarrassment, and then he would kiss her so softly that her body would turn liquid against his own. 

He liked to be mean so he could be sweet afterwards – he was never interested in one without the other.

Moscow, 1996

The first time he remembers his father hitting him, Ilya had been five years old. 

It’s a Sunday, which means Papa is at home instead of at work, and Mama is in the kitchen, cooking them dinner. 

Ilya just wants to help Mama– she always seems so tired, and Papa is always so hard on her and he knows, even at that age, that Papa won’t let her rest until all the chores are done. So he decides to help her by washing the dishes. 

Her back is to him when he enters the kitchen, her head bowed over the stove. Ilya can see how she’s swaying on her feet, exhaustion in the set of her bones. He tip toes his way to the sink, quiet as a mouse, and picks up one of Papa’s glasses. 

It’s one of the good crystal ones, part of the set Papa uses to serve drinks to his important friends who visit their apartment sometimes. Ilya lifts it carefully so he can wash it, but it is heavier than it looks, too heavy for his childish hands, and the glass slides from his grasp, shattering on the floor.

The sound makes Mama turn around, her face wide in shock, her arms already reaching to scoop him up and rescue him from the graveyard of glass shards scattered around him, but Papa reaches him first, storming in from the sitting room at the noise.

One large hand comes swinging immediately to backhand him across the face, the other clenching around his upper arm, hard enough to bruise, holding him in place, as surely the force of Papa’s slap would send him sprawling otherwise. The shock of the strike freezes him to the spot. 

His cheek throbs in time with the voice in his head going “bad bad bad.”

“Stupid child, why don’t you think!” Another hit, this time a cuff to the back of his head. “ You ruin everything you touch, how dare you touch something that doesn’t belong to you. Stupid little brat.”

Later, after dinner has come and gone without Ilya being allowed to eat, his mama sneaks into his room, pulling him in close, arms holding him tight as he sobs against her chest. She has a big purple bruise on her cheek, just like Ilya does.

“Shhh, it’s okay, malysh,” she says, kissing his forehead, rocking him back and forth until his sobs begin to lessen. “I know you didn’t mean to break the glass. But you mustn’t touch Papa’s things in future. We don’t want to make him hurt us, okay?”

Sochi, 2014

Standing in the rafters of the ice rink, alone in the aftermath of their fight, he curses Hollander’s naivety, because it’s easier than cursing himself. He didn’t want to hurt him, tried to plead with his eyes for Hollander to walk away, but he wasn’t getting the message, didn’t seem to understand the danger he was putting them both in just by trying to talk to him, leaving Ilya no choice but to lash out.

We are not anything. Go away, Hollander. No, I did not answer your boring text. Now will you go?

Ilya would love nothing more than to run after him, to beg for forgiveness, to explain that he didn’t mean any of it. But he can’t, it isn’t safe. There’s too many watching eyes, too many people with a grudge against him right now, the laughing stock of a country, the scapegoat for a nation’s shame. Russia is waiting for him to trip up so they can punish him properly, and he can’t let Hollander get tangled up in that.

And, if he was honest, an angry, bitter part of him had wanted to hurt him, had wanted to wipe that stupid, pitying, hopeful look off Hollander’s face. He was sick of this place, sick of feeling small, and Hollander was there, offering himself up, pretending to care when Ilya knew he had to be gloating inside, and for one, selfish second, Ilya had wanted to make him feel the way he did inside. 

A sick thrum of satisfaction curls in his belly at the dejected slump of Hollander’s broad shoulders as he walks away, intertwined closely with his guilt.  

The scorpion drowned, and then when he woke up he was back on the wrong side of the riverbank. The frog was there too.

The scorpion walked over and stung the frog before another scorpion could. 

Moscow, 2008

A few weeks before he travels to Saskatchewan for the International Prospect Cup, he’s making out with a girl on her bed when he accidentally slaps her in the face.

It’s a miscalculation when it happens, Ilya moving his hand one way to caress her cheek right at the same second as she moves her face the other. That sounds like an excuse, the line some abusive asshole would tell the hospital staff after beating the shit out of his girlfriend, but it’s true.

His heart stops the second his palm makes contact. Panic and arousal flood his body at the same time. He feels like he might be sick. “I’m sorry– I didn’t– are you okay?”

She nods, looking up at him from where she lies beneath him. ”I’m fine. That was really hot,” she says, bitting her lip. “Do it again?”

He hesitates at first – bad, bad, bad – but he doesn’t want to seem like a pussy, not when she might tell her friends that Ilya Rozanov is a bad lay, so he does it. He starts off light, barely a tap with the palm of his hand against her cheek, but she moans at even that, so he does it again, and then harder, hard enough that the sound of it echoes in the room. 

He surprises himself with how much he likes it now that his fear has ebbed, his cock throbbing in his jeans at the pink flush of her face. He likes that she can’t seem to stop her mouth from falling open, her breathing quick with arousal, more turned on by this than by when they’d been making out. Most of all, he likes how, after, she leans the weight of her head into his hand, seeking comfort from the same hand that hurts her when he cradles her cheek to soothe the sting after each hit.

It’s only later once he leaves, when he’s laying in his own bed staring at the ceiling, that his stomach churns with guilt – for hitting her, and for liking it. He can’t stop thinking about his father, about the crack of his palm against his mother’s face, and how Ilya’s hand had made the exact same sound.

He doesn’t respond when she texts him a week later looking for a repeat performance. 

Toronto, 2010

Ilya resists the urge to roll his eyes when, with the taste of his cum still lingering in Ilya’s mouth, Hollander starts to freak out.  

“So, you’re not going to tell any one about this, are you?”

“Me?” Ilya asks unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice. “Yes, Hollander, I’m going to tell everyone.”

“Cause no one can know.”

“No shit,” he says in Russian, irritated.

He probably should have expected this from someone as neurotic as Hollander. He wants to shake him – what would Ilya have to gain by telling everybody Hollander’s secret, when he has the exact same one? An American would probably have understood the concept of mutually assured destruction the same way he did, but this polite Canadian boy has apparently yet to grasp the idea. 

It annoys him, that Hollander is so naive to the fact that Ilya has just as much to lose as he does, if not more so. But as quick as his anger flares, sympathy takes its place. After all, Ilya understands exactly why he’s afraid. 

“Hollander. Look. I am not going to tell anyone, okay?” he reassures, staring at the side of Hollander’s face. 

“Okay.” 

Hollander still won’t look at him – he could be a Greek statue, for all of how his expression is set in stone, giving nothing away, and that, more than anything, is what stings. 

He gets dressed, and leaves, and tries not to resent being placed back into the role of antagonist, of rival, him vs me, rather than the us they’d been two minutes ago.

Nashville, 2011

Bright lights in his eyes. Microphones shoved in his face. His too-tight tie at his neck. 

A long, rambling question, asked in English spoken far too quick for him to decipher. Ilya has no idea what to answer, his brain floundering to translate the question and put enough of the pieces together to respond in time.  

He can hear his father’s voice in his mind. 

Idiot, stupid, slow. What did I pay for all those English lessons for if you’re going to make a fool of yourself the first chance you get? This is why I tell you not to speak, you know, easier to pretend you are not an embarrassment that way.  

Who is he kidding, his father doesn’t care enough about him or his career to watch something as trivial as the All Stars Game press conference; there’s no chance he’ll see this particular humiliation. But maybe that indifference hurts worse.

Ilya feels his face go hot. Already he knows he’s taken too long, the silence stretching into something excruciating.

He doesn’t dare to look at Hollander, waiting for him to enjoy this moment of weakness, to take the power Ilya has so stupidly relinquished and wield it over him, to use this opportunity to make himself feel big and Ilya feel small. He regrets his cockiness from the question before – antagonising people like always, Ilya, you’re never smart enough to think ahead.

“Uh, sorry, not to jump the gun here, but with Rozanov’s permission–“

An unexpected tap against his foot. Hollander giving him back control, returning the knife he could have used to stab him in the back to him hilt first. He risks a glance to the side, sees concern, not contempt, on Hollander’s face, no evidence of the gloating he expected. Ilya grants his permission with the smallest nod of his head he can, trying to keep the confusion and panic he feels inside from showing to the cameras.

He listens, slightly outside his body, as Hollander gives a eloquent, thoughtful answer to whatever bullshit question the reporter had been asking, deflecting attention away from Ilya’s fumble and back onto himself in a way that also manages to be humble. Ilya doesn’t know how to process someone having an opportunity to humiliate him and yet not taking it, especially someone with as much to gain as Hollander. Since his mama died, not even his own family would do what Hollander is doing right now. 

“Ilya?” The reporter asks when Hollander finishes speaking, returning attention to him. 

He pauses for a second, leaning in towards the mic, reaching for the mask of ironic detachment he uses for these things. “What he said,” he says, slipping back into the cocky Russian asshole persona that the media loves so much.  

Beneath the table, the man behind the mask presses his foot against Hollander’s in thanks. 

The scorpion held on tighter, using the last moments of his life to sting the frog again, and again, and again. The frog did nothing to stop him, holding so still, as if by holding still the scorpion would stop.

Sochi, 2014

Ilya is back on the wrong side of the river, all the progress he’s made to escape undone. 

He’s not the loveable rogue of the MLH, hated and adored in equal measure for his brashness. He’s not the competent captain of the Russian Olympic team, an athlete at the peak of physical fitness hand-picked to represent his country. He’s not the cocky lothario, charming the pants off his lovers, totally in control. No, he’s still the terrified little boy he was a decade ago, standing in front of his father, suffocating under the weight of his disapproval. 

He’s starting to fear he’ll never manage to be anything else.

Las Vegas, 2011

After he loses Rookie of the Year, he heads up to the roof, desperate for a cigarette. He stands on the edge for a long time, watching the Vegas skyline twinkle, people like ants on the streets below. He tries to see if he can make out the differences between each one, if the black dots will resolve into the unique human beings he knows they actually are. Wonders if one of the black dots can see him, if he would be distinguishable from this far up. He hopes not.  

In his pocket, his phone buzzes. His father has already tried to call him, but he declined the call, a move that probably wasn’t worth the risk, but Ilya really needed a cigarette before facing his father’s displeasure. 

Reluctantly, he pulls out his phone to check. It’s from Alexei instead, a blurry photo of a round of shots. 

Alexei: Drinks are on you tonight, Ilyushka 

Ilya: I’m not sending you any more money, asshole

Alexei: No need, this money I won fair and square

Ilya: You are adding gambling to the list of your vices now? 

Ilya: Don’t you have enough?

Alexei: Fuck you, faggot

Alexei: I bet the money you sent on Hollander to win rookie of the year

Alexei: I can always count on you being a disappointment 

Ilya’s face burns. He’s glad there’s no one here to see his humiliation. 

Alexei: Papa is pissed btw. Good luck with that when you get here on Friday. 

Behind him, a voice calls out. “I don’t know if it’s worth jumping over.”

Ilya agrees to disagree. 

Montreal, 2013

A fight on a rooftop and a stupid fucking snowstorm kills the momentum that had been building between them dead, better than an inside edge stop.

It takes two years to get things going again, two years of dogged pursuit to lead Ilya to this moment, sitting in the back of a cab in Montreal, on his way to fuck Shane Hollander for the first time.

If he were a better person, he would say that he didn’t intend for this to happen. That they didn’t intend to let things go this far, that he didn’t intend to message him relentlessly, persistently until Hollander caved and agreed to meet up again, that he didn’t intend to be the first one to fuck him. That it just happened, and how was he supposed to resist? 

But Ilya Rozanov isn’t a liar, and he therefore doesn’t try to pretend to be a better person, a good person, when he knows deep down he isn’t. He wants to fuck Shane Hollander, wants to be the first person to have the privilege, so he’s made sure that he will, and he refuses to feel bad about it. 

Las Vegas, 2014

He pushes open the door of the bathroom to find Hollander standing beside the sinks, body stiff and face blank. Ilya leans against the wall, throws an arm over the hand dryer, aiming for an air of nonchalance. 

For a moment they stare at each other, and then Ilya laughs, smirking at the absurdity of being forced to present an award together. 

“Well…?” he says finally, smirking, expecting Hollander to break and laugh with him.

“What?” Hollander glares. “What the fuck do you want, Rozanov?”

Ilya blinks, his smirk freezing into place on his face. 

“You haven’t answered a text from me in like, six months! You won’t even acknowledge I exist unless there’s a camera pointed at us, and then it’s for some stupid fucking clown show. So yeah, what the fuck do you actually want from me?” 

“Well?” Hollander spits, his eyes boring holes into Ilya’s.

Ilya keeps his face blank, attempting to hide how his heart is beating wildly in his chest at the aggression, guilt weighing on his shoulders as he realises his miscalculation, sees the effect of his actions on Hollander. He makes a split second decision. “I want you to suck my dick.”

“Oh, fuck you. You are unbelievable. You suck my dick.”

Hollander turns away from him, breathing heavy, restless, angry. Ilya watches, recognises that this is his fault, that he needs to pull Hollander out of where he’s floundering in the depths, guide him into shallower waters. He takes a step forward, reaches out to grip Hollander’s chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“Maybe ask nicely,” he says calmly, confident and in control, jerking Hollander’s head up until he’s looking at him and not the ground. “Hmm?”

“Please,” Hollander says petulantly, and Ilya could let it go, should maybe be nice and let it go after how cruel he’s been since Sochi, but he knows that’s not really what Hollander wants, nor what he needs. He needs him to be mean.

“If you want me to get on my knees on this filthy bathroom floor and suck your dick,” he says, keeping his voice firm and his gaze hard, “You will have to ask nicer than that.”

He sweeps his thumb across the plush softness of Hollander’s lower lip, then lets him go. 

“Please get on your knees, on this filthy bathroom floor, and suck my dick,” Hollander says, timid, all the fight drained out of him. He darts his eyes up to Ilya’s for a brief flash, but he looks away again almost instantly, as if Ilya’s gaze is painful. “Please,” he begs. 

He stares at Ilya’s mouth; his eyes downcast and sad, filled with tears threatening to spill. Ilya has never wanted him more. He pulls him in until they’re touching nose to nose, then guides him gently to place his head in the crook of Ilya’s neck, letting him hide there, hiding his own face from view in return. 

“No,” he says simply, speaking the word right into Hollander’s ear.

“What?” Hollander freezes. 

“No,” Ilya repeats. “We will go back to our seats, watch the rest of this boring show, and then go to boring party after.”

He rocks Hollander’s head to the side with his own as he speaks, withdrawing the comfort of his shoulder so that they’re face to face again. He observes how Hollander fights to get his expression under control, how his eyebrows furrow and his cheeks flush with the embarrassment of being denied. Ilya wills himself not to get hard at the sight. 

“And then, when you have been waiting alllll night, you will come back to my hotel room and I will maybe…maybe do more than just suck your dick,” he continues, watching the way Hollander’s lips quirk up in the smallest smile.  

“When did your English get so good?” he asks, so sweet, all the anger and tension that Hollander walked in here with now dissipated. 

“I uh, I read the New Yorker now,” Ilya jokes.  

“Really?” Hollander asks, sincere.

If it was anyone else he’d mock them for not getting such an obvious joke, but with Hollander, he finds he can’t bring himself to. “No. The New Yorker is boring.” 

“My dad loves it.” 

“Ah. So being boring is genetic.”

“Wow, genetic,” Hollander smiles at him, beautiful freckles stretching over his cheeks. Ilya’s stomach swoops.

“Let’s make a deal,” he says. “If you win MVP tonight, I will blow you, fuck you, whatever you want.” 

“And if you win?” Hollander asks, hesitant.

Suddenly Ilya can’t hold back anymore. He surges forward, bringing their mouths together, pushing all he’s feeling that he doesn’t have the courage to say into their kiss. It’s too honest, to answer the question of what he would want if he wins with a kiss, but Ilya is powerless to prevent his desire from spilling out of him.

He pulls back, taps his hand against Hollander’s face twice as a goodbye.

“Good luck tonight,” he says, and then he forces himself to leave. 

Maybe the scorpion stung the frog because he started off his story alone, and he didn’t want to die alone too.

Boston, 2015

Over the years, he gains a reputation amongst the Raiders’ puck bunnies for liking it rough. 

It’s not a reputation he minds, exactly. It certainly makes him a legend in the locker room, his idiot team mates sending him sly grins when tales of his exploits make it back to them, Rozanov, you dirty dog, fucking beautician, how’d you convince her to let you do that?

He’s happy to oblige the bunnies, to put his hockey muscles to good use and fling them around a bit, pull their hair when he fucks their faces, take them from behind on all fours so he can fuck them hard and fast and slap their asses when he cums, or whatever other dumb thing it is they fantasise about him doing. It’s hot, it feels good, everyone is having a good time; he doesn’t feel the need to feel guilty about it, especially not when most of the girls end up asking him to do it again, even if he usually declines. 

But lately, it’s been less satisfying. It feels like he’s starring in a cheesy porno: Big dick hockey player fucks lucky hometown slut after big win. Not because what he’s doing has changed, or at least he doesn’t think so, but because he suddenly feels like he can see through the girl’s performance, every reaction ringing hollow, stinking of artifice, perfectly calculated to appear as sexy as possible rather than a genuine response to whatever it is he’s doing. The feeling isn’t helped by the awareness that every detail of their fuck will be shared amongst the bunnies afterwards, analysed in obsessive detail like a play on the ice. It never bothered him before, but lately it does. 

Maybe it’s the contrast to how thing are with Hollander that’s the problem. Maybe he’s been spoiled by his earnestness, his complete lack of guile in the bedroom, the way he doesn’t act so much as react when they have sex. Maybe it’s the fact that every time one of the girls moans, he can’t help thinking that it’s a pale imitation of how Hollander sounds when he does it.

Objectively, it’s fine. He isn’t under any illusions that puck bunnies are fucking hockey players for anything other than clout, and he’s never gone home without getting off. He likes what they do well enough not to stop. Isn’t all sex a performance on some level anyways? 

Moscow, 2012

Ilya doesn’t know why he returns to Russia every summer. 

He spends the only holiday he gets every year miserable– berated by his father, sneered at by his brother, ignored by his step mother. He hates every second, and he gets absolutely no thanks for it, not one ounce of acknowledgement from any of his family that he’s there, that he’s showing up, that he isn’t shirking his responsibility like they accuse him of doing every chance they get. It’s the definition of a thankless task, a zero sum game.

Any sane person wouldn’t go. 

Svetlana tries to talk him out of it every year, suggests that they act like the rich, spoiled brats they are and summer in Monaco or Paris or St Barts or wherever it is people like them escape off to, but he refuses every time. 

No, instead he books his ticket home the minute he’s done with the season, flying as soon as he realistically can, even when that means contorting his body – broken and battered from the playoffs– into shitty airline seats for the 13,18, 24, 26 hours it takes to reach Moscow, stubbornly ignoring the voice screaming in his head to run in the opposite direction. 

He tells himself it’s duty that motivates him, that whether he gets the credit for it or not, this is the one way he can be the kind of son his father expects him to be, one way he can show his love to his family even if they don’t love him back. But really, if he’s honest with himself, he thinks maybe it’s merely habit. That when you grow up letting scorpions crawl on your back, it becomes ingrained within you to hold still and let them sting. 

Boston, 2014

Hollander is on his knees for him in some cheap hotel room in Boston. They’ve just played a hard game against each other, their first of the new season, one that went into overtime before the Raiders cinched the win 4-3, and Ilya is therefore feeling a little lazy, content to sit back and enjoy Hollander’s mouth rather than pushing for more. 

He watches as Hollander sinks his mouth smoothly down on his cock until his lips are almost wrapped around the base, an impressive feat that most of Ilya’s partners do not achieve. He looks up at Ilya from under his dark lashes, somehow managing to look innocent even with Ilya’s dick between his lips. His own mouth is open, panting, trying hard not to blow his load.

Hollander bobs his head a few more times and then pulls off. “You can be rougher. I can take it,” he says, his tone endearingly flat in that particular way of his. 

“You are giving me instructions on how to receive blowjob now, Hollander?” Ilya asks, amused.

Hollander’s eyes widen. “No! No. I just mean… I can take it, y’know? You can do whatever you want.” 

Ilya reaches out to tangle his hands in his hair, tugging with just enough pressure that Hollander has to tilt his head up to relieve the strain. “Whatever I want?” 

Hollander nods as much as he’s able to in his grasp. 

“Okay. So if I wanted to slap you in the face, this would be okay?”

He’s thought about it before, after that girl in Moscow, of course he has – thought about it even more since this thing between them had begun – but he says it as a joke, a tease, wanting nothing more than to see Hollander’s pretty face blush. 

“Fuck, yes, Rozanov – please,” Hollander exhales in rush, like his mouth is working faster than his brain can catch up. 

Ilya raises his eyebrows. 

“Oh, you were– of course it was a joke,” he says, ducking his chin so he ends up addressing the floor between Ilya’s feet. “I’m sorry, I mean, I don’t–“ 

Before he can spiral further, Ilya uses his hand to tilt his head up again. Hollander has his eyes screwed shut in embarrassment, or maybe fear. Ilya’s stomach twists.

“Hollander, look at me,” he says gently as he can. He waits, caressing his cheek with his thumb, until Hollander opens his eyes again, and then slowly draws his hand back until it’s hovering above his cheek, waiting to strike. “Okay?”

Hollander looks at him, gaze flicking back and forth between Ilya’s face and his hand. “Okay,” he says eventually, voice barely above a whisper. 

Ilya slaps Hollander in the face so hard it knocks him sideways. Hollander moans, swaying upright again as fast as he can. 

“This what you wanted?” he asks. “Am I being rough enough for you now, hmm?”

"Yes, Rozanov, yes, fuck, so good, please,” Hollander babbles. “Again. Please do it again. Please, please, please."

Ilya hesitates at first – bad, bad, bad – but Hollander begs so pretty, how could he deny him something they both want?

He hits him again just as hard on the other cheek, so that both sides match, then fists his hands in Hollander’s hair to guide him back down onto his cock. 

The scorpion stroked the frog’s cheek with the tip of his tail, gentle, never piercing the skin, never stinging, but showing him he could, if he wanted to.  

Nashville, 2011

His first All Stars (their first All Stars) passes in a blur. Ilya isn’t humble enough to be surprised to be there, not as the fucking number one draft pick from last year, but it doesn’t mean he isn’t excited to have made the cut. 

Beating Hunter’s record  Давай! Being beaten by Hollander not a minute later. Let’s go!  Hollander’s chipmunk cheeks, smiling so wide and big. Impulsivity driving him to take a stupid risk, shouting his room number right there on the ice where anyone could hear.1221. Waiting, nervous, to see if Hollander will be brave enough to show up. Is someone is chasing you? A token protest, whining about Scott Hunter being right next door, and then within seconds, he’s jumping Ilya’s bones. Wow. 

They moan into each other’s mouths, Hollander’s hands roaming in Ilya’s hair 

“Get on your knees,” he says, the command slipping out without conscious thought, an instinctual response to having his arms full of a very enthusiastic Hollander. He drops instantly, like it’s his life’s purpose to suck Ilya’s dick. 

His blowjob skills have improved exponentially since the last time they hooked up; Ilya can’t help but gasp in pleasure as he takes him into his mouth. He must have been practising a lot in the months since their first hook up to improve so fast. Ilya pushes down the ugly possessiveness that bubbles up inside him at the thought of Hollander with other people, other men – he’s not jealous, he’s not, he simply finds it hard to believe someone as paranoid as Hollander has been sleeping around, that’s all.

As nice as his mouth is – and it is very nice – Ilya hasn’t been able to stop thinking about fucking him all day, not since the press conference, and now they’re alone, together, he’s impatient to get inside him. He drags him to his feet, locking their mouths together again, then lifts under his thighs, walking them both to the bed. 

He strips Hollander of his clothes, shedding his own along the way, then returns the favour, sucking his dick until Hollander moans for him, going even more pliant with pleasure, exactly the way Ilya wants.

“Get on your stomach,” he orders, pulling off, kissing his way back up his torso to his mouth. “On your stomach,” he repeats, impatient, tapping his side for emphasis when Hollander remains frozen underneath him, letting a bit of disapproval bleed into his tone. 

That spurs Hollander into action, and Ilya can’t help the pleased thrill that goes through him at being obeyed. He rewards him by climbing on top of him, kissing his neck while he uses his weight to flatten Hollander against the mattress, crudely showing him who’s on top between them.  

“Have you ever?” he asks, petting Hollander’s hip. 

A minute shake of the head. 

“Do you want to?”

Silence, Hollander’s body tensing beneath him the only answer to his question. 

Ilya withdraws his lips from Hollander’s neck, giving him room to breathe. “You’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“No, is okay,” he says, soothing. He tries to convey that he has no desire to push beyond what Hollander can handle, not for real, no interest in being the kind of man that coerces their partner into something they don’t want to do, no matter how much his dick aches to be inside him already.

Hollander laughs. “I’m not scared,” he insists, sounding more sure of himself than his body language suggests. 

Ilya recalibrates, shifting tactics. “You ever touch yourself here?” he asks, his fingers probing at the breach of his body, not quite penetrating, but making his intent clear. 

Hollander freezes again, though he doesn’t move to get away. “Jesus Christ,” he says, hanging his head down, hiding his face in the hotel sheets.

“What? Does touching your ass make you gay?” he asks, a little mean, his words pushing at Hollander’s discomfort, searching for the shape of it, needling a sore spot until he gets the reaction he wants. 

“Rozanov.”

“Cause you know what else makes you gay? Is sucking my dick,” he replies, bearing his teeth. He uses a thumb to circle Hollander’s entrance, applying pressure until the tip of his thumb is threatening to push in dry, a little bored of Hollander’s closet-case routine when he fucking knows Hollander wants him just as much as Ilya wants him

“Sh-shut up!” Fuck, I’m tryna say I have a thing, okay?”

“A thing?"

“A…dildo.”

The unexpected delight of Hollander surprising him, the delicious mental image of Hollander fucking himself with some plastic dick, slutty and desperate for the real thing. Ilya knows his mouth is hanging open, that he’s panting like a dog in heat, but he doesn’t care.

“What. Colour?” he grits out. 

“Fuck you!”

“Is big?”

“I’m leaving,” he says petulantly, and then he really is moving, like he’s going to run away.

“Noooo, no, Hollander I want to fuck you,” he whines, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck.  

Montreal, 2013

Hollander is lying beneath him, naked, vulnerable. Ilya covers his body with his own, shielding him, though there’s no one there but the two of them to see his vulnerability anyway. 

"You still want?” he asks as gently as he can.

Hollander looks up at him, his brown eyes big and wet and wanting. “Yes, I still want.” 

His voice is steady, but Ilya can feel how tense he is under him. He kisses him, gently, to make him melt, tension bleeding out of him. After a moment, he reaches between them to grasp his cock, aligns himself so he can rub against the soft skin of Hollander’s belly. Like this, he knows the size looks intimidating.  

“Don’t worry, it will fit,” he quips, pleased with himself when it draws a shaky smile out of Hollander that he can then lean down and kiss away. 

It takes a while to prep him with how nervous Hollander clearly is. Ilya has to use his mouth to open him up first, pointing his tongue to push inside, convincing Hollander’s body to loosen up and let him in, waiting until everything is spit-soaked and relaxed enough for him to slide even one finger inside. It takes time, and more than once Ilya glances up to see Hollander looking anxiously down at him, like he’s worried Ilya is going to be pissed off at foreplay taking so long, blithely unaware of the fact that this is the hottest thing that’s ever happened in Ilya’s life. That he’s already waited two years to be allowed this privilege, so he’s not about to complain about another twenty minutes, not when thorough prep now will mean Ilya gets to stick his dick inside him soon. 

Once his fingers have finally opened Hollander up enough for his dick, Ilya pauses, the head of his cock notched at Hollander’s entrance.

“Is okay?” he asks, waiting for him to relax and nod his assent before he begins to move his hips. 

Ilya keeps his gaze fixed on Hollander’s face, vigilant for any sign of discomfort or pain beyond the level that’s unavoidable when being penetrated for the first time. Thankfully, he only finds evidence of pleasure as he drives into him in one luxurious thrust, Hollander’s head tipping back as he moans, the sound honest and unselfconscious. He glances down, watching where his cock disappears into the tight, wet heat of Hollander’s body. It feels obscene, to have forced his way inside him like this, to have carved a space in his body that wasn’t there before and decided that he’s worthy of occupying it.

The scorpion held the frog down with its pedipalps, his claws digging into the clammy flesh of the frog’s legs. The frog struggled, shutting his eyes, but he didn’t try to get away, not really, even though the scorpion knew the frog was strong enough to throw him off, if he wanted to.

Montreal, 2016 

“Is okay?” he asks, his voice gentle to make up for how his body is not.

“Uh-huh,” Hollander replies, nodding his head minutely, doe eyes staring up at him. Ilya watches, judging whether he’s telling the truth, whether the pain from the absence of any prep has tipped into something bad, not fun for either of them. But Hollander is tougher than he looks, maybe even likes to be in pain more than Ilya likes to cause it, and Ilya watches as Hollander wrestles control of his fear, arousal blooming in its place. 

Ilya thrusts forward, a nasty snap of his hips, just to watch Hollander’s jaw clench. He leans down, presses his teeth to the juncture of his neck, holds Hollander’s skin between his teeth for long enough to remind them both he could bite down, and then withdraws, licking over the spot with broad stripes of his tongue instead. 

Hollander whimpers. Ilya snaps his hips again, hard enough that Hollander slides up the bed a little from the force of it. He struggles a little, instinctively trying to escape.  

“Shhh, just take it, that’s it,” he soothes, kissing Hollander’s neck again. “You’re doing so good - don’t you want to be good for me?” he murmurs into his ear.

Hollander nods frantically.

“Then take it. Take what I give you, Hollander, I know you can do it.”

Hollander surrenders to the pain, and so Ilya rewards him with a kiss, sucking the taste of victory from his tongue. He picks up the pace, uncaring of Hollander’s discomfort as he uses his body to chase his own pleasure.

Despite his indifference, or maybe because of it, Hollander comes before he does. 

Boston, 2013

He recalls it in flashes afterwards on the plane home, disjointed in his memory. 

Hollander’s knees pushed to his chest, Ilya’s tongue deep in his ass, coaxing him to relax in preparation for Ilya’s cock. His breathy moans, unselfconscious in expressing his pleasure, the pleasure Ilya’s responsible for gifting to him. The curve of Hollander’s spine, back arched and elbows braced on the bed in order to take him deeper. His hole, clenching rhythmically around Ilya as he cums hands free. 

All of it so vivid, all of it so perfect, a fucking wet dream come to life. 

And that’s the fucking problem, isn’t it? 

He realises the depths of his fuck up when they’re lying together afterwards, his head pillowed on Hollander’s chest. 

"You killed me Hollander, I am dead,” he jokes, feels the huff of Hollander’s laugh against his head. 

“That was so fucking hot,” Hollander agrees.  

He rubs Hollander’s arm where it sits lazily around his shoulders.  

“Worth the wait?” he asks, half flippant, half serious, mostly expecting Hollander to brush him off, call him cocky or an asshole or accuse him of fishing for compliments, which he is. 

But instead, Hollander caresses Ilya’s throat, uses his hold to guide their noses together. He kisses him on the mouth, saccharine sweet, and then again on his forehead, so soft and gentle and tender and completely inappropriate for the casual hook up this is supposed to be. 

Montreal, 2016

When they’ve both cum, Hollander looks up at him adoringly, fuck-drunk and delirious from the combination of pleasure and pain, barely even wincing when Ilya finally pulls out of his swollen, well-fucked hole.  

His chest swells with affection at the dopey smile on Hollander’s lips. Ilya realises he likes this face as much as the one he makes when he’s in pain, maybe even more so. That feels like the most dangerous thought he’s had all night.   

They both pretend not to notice how Hollander limps as he follows him down the stairs to see him out.

The scorpion stung the frog, and the frog let him.

Las Vegas, 2014

Hollander’s finally left. The snick of the door latching shut confirms it. 

Ilya could hear the way he lingered at the door for a long time, knows that Hollander was waiting for him to call him back, but Ilya didn’t take the bait, no matter how much he wanted to. Not with his return flight to Russia looming over him, choking the life out of him like a hand around his throat. 

He was rough tonight, he knows that. Edging on mean in a way that doesn’t say good things about his character, if he thinks about it. Ilya had realised in that filthy bathroom backstage that his hungry, aching heart would do anything to get Hollander to kiss him like that again, at the same time that he remembered he doesn’t deserve it. He couldn’t let it happen again.

So tonight he had retreated, hidden behind the cocky facade he’s coming to hate, had given in to the urge to be aloof, and cold, and mean, observing from a distance as Hollander had put on a show for him. And then Hollander had hit him with his stupid, earnest honesty – you, I need you – offering himself up to a monster without a second thought, and Ilya hadn’t been able to stay away anymore. He thought that his ironic detachment would save him, that he could take the power Hollander handed him and use it to get them both off and feel nothing beyond arousal, but he was wrong.  All those months of careful, deliberate separation since Sochi were useless. 

He had stood at the end of the bed, Hollander sprawled on his belly beneath him, and he had wanted nothing more than to take, so he did. And Hollander had given him everything he asked for and more. 

There was a moment when Ilya was pounding him into the mattress, fucking him at a brutal pace, that Hollander had started to turn his head towards him. Even from that one glimpse, Ilya had seen the devotion written all over Hollander’s face, the naked trust displayed there for anyone to see. It made anger flare irrationally in his gut. Didn’t Hollander know better than to trust someone like him? Didn’t he know he needed to protect himself?

His chest had clenched with panic, and he had shoved Hollander further into the mattress with a hand between the shoulder blades, afraid that if he kept staring into his earnest, brown eyes his resolve to stay detached would crumple.

Montreal, 2015

Hollander is bruised up – they all are, this late in the season, three weeks before the playoffs begin, but Hollander in particular has taken a few hard hits lately. They’re much easier to see standing across from him in the stairwell of his apartment than they had been during their face offs tonight, partially obscured by his helmet and under the glare of the stadium lights. 

There’s a nasty cut above his eyebrow – five stitches, courtesy of a D-man from Pittsburg – alongside a split lip (Toronto) and a bruise staining his cheekbone (New York).

“Hollander, you know you are supposed to hit puck with stick and not face, yes?” Ilya says, smirking at the familiar fuck off, asshole he gets in response before Hollander is kissing him. 

They make out, right there in the hallway, for several long minutes before they make their way upstairs, first into his apartment, and then upstairs again to his bedroom, the journey made all the longer by how many times they pause to kiss.

They part long enough to get their clothes off, standing at the end of Hollander’s bed.  

Ilya’s throat goes dry when he sees the bruising that runs all down Hollander’s side, from just under the curve of one pec all the way to his navel. 

“Is that?” he asks, refraining from reaching out to touch. 

Hollander nods. “Yeah, that’s from you.” 

It wasn’t intentional, but Ilya can’t claim it was fully accidental either. It must’ve happened when he checked him near the end of the second; Hollander had had possession of the puck, and a Hollander in possession of the puck was in danger of scoring, no matter how far from the goal line they currently were. Ilya could have pried it from his stick cleanly, but sometimes a little brutality is the safer option in hockey, so he had slammed Hollander against the boards instead, taken the minor penalty in order to stop him from getting the puck in the net, although annoyingly, Montreal had eventually won the game. 

“Wow, I really got you good,” Ilya says. “You fucking played through this, Hollander?’”

“Obviously,” Hollander says, rolling his eyes. “I’m not a fucking wuss.”

“I did not say you were,” Ilya replies absently, unable to stop staring at the blue-black colour of Hollander’s ribs. “They are not broken?”

Hollander shakes his head. “Nope, the medics checked. Just really fucking bruised.”

“Fuck.” Ilya swallows, hard. Unable to help himself, he reaches out for Hollander, grabbing his face to kiss him deeply. In his lust, Ilya forgets himself, his grip harsh the way it usually is rather than gentle like it probably should be. 

Hollander winces, rearing back. Ilya drops his hands, apologetically raising them in the space between them.  

“Sorry, I– you startled me,” Hollander says.

Ilya hums, cataloging the way Hollander’s breath has quickened, how his pupils have blown wide. 

Slowly, he reaches out a hand to cup Hollander’s face, intentional this time, enjoying the way Hollander holds himself still and docile under his hand. He starts out gentle, a light caress with his palm, but then he steadily increases the pressure, until he’s digging his thumb into the centre of the bruise on his cheek.

“Fuck,” Hollander says when he finally relents, voice shaky.

Ilya’s cock is throbbing in the space between them. “More?” he asks.

Hollander nods, even though his eyes are watering from the pain. Ilya leans down to kiss him this time as he pushes harder against his cheek. He doesn’t hold back, using his teeth to worry at the cut on his lip, relishing each little hiss of pain Hollander breathes out into his mouth, not stopping until he can taste the copper tang of his blood in his mouth. He pulls back, grinning and licking his lips, enjoying how Hollander’s eyes have already gone hazy just from a little hint of pain.

Ilya pulls him closer again with the hand not touching his face, groping his ass, swallowing the moans he makes hungrily. He lets his hand drifts upwards to pet against the bruising on his ribcage, and then tightens his grip there, until at every point their bodies meet, Ilya is hurting him. 

Hollander is soaking it up, moaning, absorbing the pain and somehow sublimating it to pleasure. Ilya can feel his erection, hard and leaking against his belly.   

Afterwards, they lie on their sides together in bed, foreheads pressed together, exchanging soft little kisses, tender with each other now they’ve both gotten off.  

“Wish they were all from you,” Hollander whispers against his mouth, a confession. 

“Me too,” Ilya confesses back. 

Boston, 2015 

He couldn’t fix it when his father hurt his mother. 

He still can’t fix it when his father hurts him. 

But he can hurt someone, and then fix it himself.

Las Vegas, 2014

Hollander had seemed to enjoy it, anyways, at least on a physical level – Ilya wasn’t quite that kind of monster, he didn’t think – but afterwards he could tell he wanted more from him, wanted Ilya to comfort and reassure him. He’d lain there, side by side, smoking a cigarette even though Hollander wrinkled his nose at the smell, and let every fumbling attempt Hollander had made at conversation die a slow and painful death in the space between them. 

So Russia this year was something else. It’s intense there. So are you heading back soon? To Russia for the summer? Why? Do you have to? Yeah, but, I don’t know, is it safe? I don’t know. Do you even like it there? A pretty big one I think. Oh. Yeah, me too. I should–

He didn’t give in. Better for Hollander to learn that Ilya isn’t someone to rely on for comfort or tenderness, and learn it now, rather than be disappointed later on. A basic trolley problem of suffering, pulling the lever to be a little cruel now to prevent a lot of cruelty later.

Who cares if all Ilya had wanted to do afterwards was kiss him, pet him, to tell Hollander how good he’d been for him, how perfect? To explain how he both longed and dreaded returning to Moscow each summer? What Ilya wanted didn’t matter, would never matter, so there was no point in wanting. No good could come of that for either of them. No good had come of that, after last time. It had ended with Ilya backed into a corner in Sochi, forced to hurt Hollander worse to save them both.

Who cares if Ilya feels like he’s sinking, drowning, dying, without Hollander there in his arms?

He reaches out to grab another cigarette from the pack on the bedside table, even though he feels dizzy from chain smoking so many in a row. 

No, much better to lash out and sting.

“Will you carry me across the river?” the scorpion asked. “I know you’re a good swimmer, and I’m sure you could carry me.”

The frog said “No,” and hopped away.

Las Vegas, 2011

Ilya takes a drag of his cigarette, swallows thickly, steels himself to admit to vulnerability in lieu of apologising for his outburst.

“I go home in three days,” Ilya says eventually, unable to look at Hollander as he says it, the admission costing him deeply. It’s the closest he can get to revealing that he doesn’t want to go back, to admitting the problem isn’t Hollander or the fact that he won, but the fact that his win by necessity means that Ilya lost, that his loss means his father is furious, even from an ocean away, that in three days there won’t be an ocean protecting him from his father’s anger anymore. 

Hollander gazes at the buildings in front of them, leaning on the railing to stay upright. Even from here, Ilya can smell the drink off him. 

“Okay,” he says, confused. “Must be nice.”

Ilya turns his head sharply, his stomach sinking, angry at himself for thinking perfect fucking Shane Hollander would ever be able to understand. He feels more alone now than he did five minutes ago, even with Hollander standing five feet away. The weight of that isolation feels stifling, anger and self loathing tightening his throat. 

“And I guess I thought maybe we’d…” Hollander trails off. “Nevermind.”

Ilya can feel him staring at the side of his head, knows if he turns he’ll see those fucking puppy dog eyes staring back at him, and he can’t do this right now, he can’t. He simply refuses to engage, because he doesn’t know what more horrible things might come out of his mouth right now if he does. 

Eventually, Hollander gets the message. "Okay, I’m gonna…”

Ilya listens as his footsteps retreat, and then stop.

"I guess I’ll uh, see you next season.”

Ilya tries to hold out, but he’s helpless against the quiver in Hollander’s voice. He turns, tries to hold on to his anger, but it’s futile in the face of Hollander standing there with his hand outstretched towards him, a peace offering of a handshake. 

He glances down at Hollander’s hand. Decides to do what he should have done that first time. Stalks forwards, grabs him by the hand, keeps advancing as Hollander is forced to retreat back and back and back until he’s cornered against the wall, and then Ilya is kissing him, invading his mouth with his own.  

And then it’s one push too far (always one push too fucking far, Ilya) and Hollander is flinching back. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” he spits, angry. “We’re both in tuxedoes out in public.”

Ilya laughs, the wrong response. ”No one is looking,” he tries to reassure.  

“You don’t know that!”

Even in the darkness, Ilya can tell Hollander is upset, his eyes glistening with frustrated tears. Instinctively, he goes to kiss him again, to soothe him, to apologise, but this time Hollander pulls back. Ilya goes limp, as he’s pushed away, turned around, his back shoved against the wall, an instant replay of what he had done to Hollander only moments before. But where Ilya had reached out, closed the gap between them with a kiss, Hollander withdraws.

Ilya stands there, heart racing, stunned, as Hollander walks away. “See you next season!” he drawls, trying to provoke another reaction, but Hollander doesn’t rise to the bait.

“Hollander,” he tries again, but once again, he’s left alone.   

But all of a sudden, when they were reaching the deepest part of the river, where the currents were strongest and most dangerous, a strange feeling came over the frog. He realised that the scorpion couldn’t be trusted, that at any moment the scorpion could strike out and sting. 

The frog bucked the scorpion off his back and swam away, leaving him to drown, alone. 

The scorpion didn’t blame him.

Boston, 2016

He’s still unsettled when he comes back from his phone calls with his father and Alexei, his blood pumping, irritation flaring in his gut. It takes conscious effort to pull himself back from the darkness, to push down all the bullshit and return to his previous performance of unbothered nonchalance.

The mask almost slips when Hollander asks about his father, every humiliating word he’d just said in Russian because he thought it was safe flashing through his mind, but when Hollander’s face stays placid and trusting, he realises that he can’t have understood what he was saying.

He smiles, though the expression feels tight on his face, more akin to a grimace than anything denoting happiness. Ilya tugs Hollander in against his chest so he can hide his face, burying his nose in Hollander’s hair as an attempt to get his heart to stop racing in his chest, relishing their closeness even despite his lingering irritation at his family. 

After a few moments, Hollander’s hand starts stroking his thigh, petting at the fabric of Ilya’s sweatpants. Ilya watches, frowning, as Hollander’s hand moves up, coming to cup his dick, at the same time as he drops his head to nuzzle at his crotch. Ilya indulges him, letting Hollander do whatever he wants, as he guides his head to press closer to his dick, slips a hand under Hollander’s shirt (Ilya’s shirt) to pet him skin to skin. 

Shane climbs on top of him to kiss him, leaning back after a moment to strip off his shirt. Ilya stares, transfixed, at the sight of his beautiful, toned body, the solid strength of him in Ilya’s lap. He pulls himself out of his sweatpants, tugging the waistband just low enough to free his cock, his breath quickening as Shane grasps his cock and gives him several firm, toe-curling strokes, arousal flooding his system.

After a moment, Shane stops to free himself, lining their dicks up against one another in the palm of his big fucking hand, curling his fingers around them both to jerk them off at the same time. The feeling is almost indescribable, how the hot line of heat that is Shane’s dick against his own amplifies the intensity of a handjob, the pleasure becoming completely disproportionate to the action.  All the while, their foreheads are pressed together just like their dicks are, so close they’re exchanging the same breath back and forth between their lungs, a call and response of moans passing their lips.  

“You gonna come for me, Rozanov?” Shane asks, breathless, cocky.

"Fucking make me,” Ilya grits out. 

It only takes a few more strokes for the pleasure to crest, overwhelming him. 

“Shane.” The name slips out without Ilya meaning it to, and he’s so distracted by Shane’s hands, Shane’s mouth, Shane’s cock sliding against his own that it doesn’t even occur to him to panic, his orgasm overtaking him seconds after he says it.

“Ilya,” Shane replies, his gaze focused on Ilya’s own. Ilya feels himself smile, drunk on pleasure, on happiness, on the warmth of having Shane surround him. 

And then a shock, like being dumped in cold water. His lap, previously full of him, now empty.

A bullshit excuse about a forgotten practise, an even more bullshit apology.

Ilya, with his hand stretched out between them, calling his name 

“Hollander,” he says, trying to calm the spooked animal of Hollander’s panic, holding out his hand and pleading with his eyes for him to take it. 

“Hollander,” he begs.

Hollander retreats, running away.

Montreal, 2017

He watches Rose Landry sneak her hands under Hollander's shirt on the dance floor, feeling him up right there where anyone could see, a blatant sign of her ownership. Even from a distance, he can tell Hollander is uncomfortable, his body tensing at her touch, his shoulders practically around his ears he’s so wound up.  

She’s not even aware of it, too busy laughing and swaying to the music, and that more than anything is what makes Ilya seethe. If Ilya was touching him, if Shane was tensing up under his hands, he wouldn’t be tense by accident, as an unintended consequence of his actions. He’d fucking be tense on purpose, if that what Ilya wanted, or relaxed and pliant if that’s what he preferred. And Ilya would be paying enough attention to know the fucking difference. 

He knows he’s frozen to the spot, staring at Hollander and Landry like a freak, can feel people jostling him to get to the bar behind him, but he can’t help it. 

Is this what Hollander has felt like all these years? A frog on a dissection board, flayed open, pinned down, guts exposed so everyone can see inside? 

The thought makes him feel sick, for more reasons than one. 

He sniffs, bringing his hand to rub at his nose, shaking himself out of his stupor. He needs to forget about stupid Hollander and his stupid movie star girlfriend. He needs to get fucking laid. He downs his drink in one go, and scans the crowd for someone willing to hook up. 

Boston 2016

He replays it in his mind that night, after he's removed all traces of their day together, washed the dishes and cleaned the sheets and thrown out the five un-opened cans of ginger ale in his fridge.

Not the moment Sh- Hollander had left, but earlier, after Hollander had ridden him, when they had been lying beside each other in Ilya’s bed and he had agreed to stay. He tortures himself with that moment, how soft and pliant Hollander had been under his attention, how little coaxing he’s needed to be convinced to stick around for a bit longer. 

“Stay,” he had begged, his lips hovering above Hollander’s mouth, his forehead touching Hollander’s nose. 

And then Hollander had relented, had said “Okay”  so agreeably, so graciously, his voice barely above a whisper, but he’d said it. Ilya’s heart had soared, because for once he had asked for something and for once he had been granted it.

In that moment, he had seen that Hollander had wanted him – he had wanted Ilya and he had wanted to stay.

And yet Ilya still ended up here, alone. 

The frog walked up and asked the scorpion “Will you let me carry you across the river?” 

“What? Why? Aren’t you afraid I’ll sting you?”

“Yes, I’m afraid, but I trust you. And I want us both to reach what’s on the other side.”

The scorpion didn’t know what to say, but he climbed onto the frog’s back anyway.

Tampa, 2017

“We can’t be something, Hollander,” Ilya says, shaking his head while he stares at the ugly, beige carpet, too much of a coward to risk looking to his right.

"Would you want to be, if we could?” Hollander asks, hopeful.

“We can’t,” Ilya reminds him firmly, wanting to shut this thread of conversation down before one or both of them gets hurt. A little cruel now to prevent a lot of cruelty later. 

“That’s not what I asked,” Hollander says, exasperated, like Ilya is the one being unreasonable here.

Ilya’s anger flares. Why is he dredging this up, reminding them both of how impossible their circumstances are? He turns his head sharply to look at Hollander, sees his own hollow wanting reflected in his face. “What does it fucking matter?”

Now Hollander is the one who won’t look at him head on. “I don't think I can keep pretending I don’t like you anymore.”

Ilya shakes his head, turning away again. “You don’t like me,” he says flatly. 

“Yeah, I do. I think I maybe like you a little too much.”

Ilya can’t cope with the earnestness in his voice, can’t let himself get his hopes up again when he knows how this will end. “Don’t,” he says, and he hates how his voice isn’t steady. He keeps his gaze fixed on his own lap, picking at a thread on his sweatpants. “Don’t fucking do this Hollander, I’m not–“ worth it, he wants to finish, but instead he trails off.

He sighs. 

“I wouldn’t be able to go home again. Ever,” he explains, and this time their eyes meet. Hollander’s eyebrows are drawn down, his expression serious. “Do you get that?”

“Because of your family?” he asks, voice soft.

“Because Russia!” Ilya snaps, cursing his naivety. “I would not be able to go back to Russia!”

“What would happen to you?” Hollander asks, his eyes wide, his voice nervous, like he’s afraid for him. It feels so foreign to see concern on someone else’s face that’s for him.

“I don't want to find out.”

“But would your parents…” he trails off, his gaze sweeping over Ilya’s face. 

Ilya looks down at his lap again. “My father is police. My brother is police.”

“And your mother?”

“Dead.” 

“I’m sorry,” Shane says. Ilya swallows around the lump in his throat, tries to breathe around the knife of grief stabbing him in the chest.

“I was young,” he says, like that somehow makes it easier, proud of how little emotion is evident in his voice. “My father is very…old fashioned. And sick.”

“Sick like crazy?” Shane asks.

Ilya tilts his head. ”That too a little, but no sick more like–“

“Oh, like cancer.”

“Dementia.”

“That's awful,” Shane says, and something about the matter of fact way he says it makes Ilya realise that it is. It is awful. 

A tear tracks down his cheek, uncontrollable. He turns his face away, as if that’s enough to hide his weakness, trying to push back down the wave of sorrow and loneliness and frustration that threatens to overwhelm him. He hates feeling like this, hates being vulnerable, hates showing his soft underbelly and waiting for the sting again. 

“Hey,” Shane says, his voice so gentle. 

“Sorry,” Ilya says, heart thundering, so fucking embarrassed, feeling pathetic for being unable to control himself. 

He prepares himself for Shane to be angry, to be disgusted, to laugh at his weakness and run away, leaving Ilya alone. He can’t bear it if he leaves again, can’t bear the humiliation of it a second time, even though he knows deep down he deserves it. 

But instead of leaving, Shane climbs on top of him, bringing them closer, straddling his lap. He cups Ilya’s jaw, and kisses him, his mouth so achingly tender Ilya nearly feels sick with it. He shields him, covering Ilya’s body with his own, surrounding and enveloping him in an embrace Ilya has so desperately craved for years, but yet never thought he could have. Shane presses their foreheads together, grounding him, and then guides Ilya’s face into his neck, giving him a place to hide his tears. 

He lets Ilya cry, offering up his whole body in service of comforting him, and Ilya is so thankful and so in love with him he doesn’t know what to do about it. 

Montreal, 2017

He looks down at Shane’s battered face, thinking distantly that the twin bruises beneath each eye make him look a little like a raccoon. 

Shane smiles up at him, completely unguarded, his eyes soft and looking so vulnerable it makes Ilya fucking ache with the urge to cry. He reaches out and sweeps his hand across Shane's cheek, filled with the need to soothe him somehow, his touch so light he barely makes contact at all. Shane hums, the sound practically a little purr of contentment.  

The image of the last time Ilya had seen his face so bruised up appears in his mind’s eye, Ilya remembering out of nowhere how he had dug his thumb harshly into the bruise to make it worse.

Ilya’s stomach lurches, and he withdraws his hand. 

He listens to Shane’s delirious rambling about the cottage, how they could have a week, or even two, be completely alone, together and his chest hurts with how much he wants to say yes, but he can’t. 

What they have is too complicated; there are too many things that could go wrong. Ilya isn’t good for him, is a distraction that could have cost Shane his life tonight, or at the very least his hockey career if Marleau had hit him a little harder or in a slightly different spot. His father was right, he does ruin everything he touches, and worse than that a horrible, dark part of him revels in the ruination. Hollander deserves better than to be ruined by him.

“Maybe, maybe,” he says, wincing when Hollander smiles at him, his expression so happy. 

It’s almost a relief when the nurse interrupts them by walking in, because it forces Ilya to move and walk away, even though his heart, outside his chest and in the possession of the man in the hospital bed in front of him, is begging him to stay.

Boston, 2017

Hunter kisses a man – his partner? – on center ice after he wins the Cup. 

Ilya feels like the room is spinning, like he can suddenly feel the earth’s rotation beneath his feet. He stares at his TV, mesmerised by the sight of two men kissing, right there, out in the open for the whole arena to see. The background noise of his friend’s and teammates reactions fades to static in his ears; he couldn’t care less if they’re cheering or booing, suddenly unable to give a single fuck about anything other than hearing Shane’s voice right now.

I want that, he thinks. I want what Hunter has. I want to be able to kiss Shane like that, one day. I want that and I don’t care what I have to give up to get it. 

As soon as he thinks that, he’s on his feet, leaving the room to find somewhere more private. He thumbs over ‘Jane’s’ contact in his phone, presses call, waits the eternity it takes for him to pick up. 

“What the–“ Shane laughs, delight and confusing evident in his voice. 

“I’m coming to the cottage,” Ilya blurts out, unable to hold back. 

The Cottage, 2017

“Please, please can I come?” Shane begs, his thighs trembling where he holds himself open for Ilya’s mouth. 

Ilya lifts his head, withdrawing from where he had been focused on eating him out, wiping his lips on the back of his hand before he speaks. “Tell me why I should let you.”

Shane stumbles, hazy eyes struggling to focus on Ilya’s face, clearly confused by the question. “Be-because I need it?”

Ilya tuts, tilting his head. “I don’t think this is a need.” He looks down at Shane’s weeping cock, how it juts proudly up towards his belly button. “I think you can wait, no?” He drops his voice to a stage whisper. “You made me wait months, Hollander.” 

“Please– you can’t– that wasn’t my fault. I was injured, and then it was the playoffs, so we wouldn’t have seen each other–“

“Quiet,” he commands, raising his hand dismissively. “I do not need excuses.” 

Shane whimpers. Ilya shifts until he’s covering Shane’s body with his own, kissing his way up. He ducks his head, kissing the side of Shane’s mouth, taking the opportunity to murmur in his ear. “Okay, I am nice. I’ll give you a choice. I can fuck you, or you can come. Which one?”

Shane cranes his neck to look at him. “What?”

“Is very simple,” Ilya says, condescendingly. “I can make you come, now, with my mouth on your slutty hole.” Shane’s cock twitches between them, and Ilya grins. “Or… I can fuck you. Not both. So, pick.”

"Fuck me,” Shane says immediately. 

“Don’t you want to come?” 

“N-no.”

“But I thought you needed it?” he asks, as if confused. 

Shane pauses, sensing the trap. “I do,” he says slowly.

Ilya starts to move lower, shifting his weight backwards. “So I will eat you out now, yes?"

“No, no, no, please, I lied before, I don’t need to come,” Shane pleads, back-pedalling. “Please just fuck me. Please.”

“Okay, if that is what you want,” he says, shrugging, reaching to the bedside table to grab the lube.

He opens him up slowly, torturously, taking care to brush against Shane’s prostate every chance he gets, watching the way his cock twitches and his stomach heaves as he fights against the pleasure. They have to keep pausing when he finally gets to the point of putting his dick inside him, because Shane keeps getting too close, battling between his mind’s need to obey and his body’s desire to cum. 

"I thought you were going to be good for me,” Ilya asks after the forth time he’s had to pause. “This is supposed to be about me and my pleasure, but we keep having to stop because of yours.”

Shane looks up at him, face flushed, eyes filled with tears. “M’sorry, I’m trying, I swear I am, it just feels so good.”

“Pretty slut,” he croons affectionately. “You just like getting fucked so much you can’t help but be turned on, is that it?”

Shane shuts his eyes in embarrassment but nods in agreement anyways. 

“Oh, don’t worry, I will help you, hmm? I will keep you from coming, yes?” he says, reaching between them and squeezing his hand tightly around the base of Shane’s dick and balls, physically preventing him from cumming, digging his fingers harshly into the tender flesh until Shane’s erection starts to flag.  

Shane cries out, back arching at the pain, squirming to get away even as Ilya keeps fucking him anyway. 

“This is nice of me, yes? Say ‘thank you, Ilya, for helping me’.”

“Th-thank you, Ilya, for hell-helping me,” Shane whimpers. 

“You’re welcome, moy lyubimyy,” Ilya says, mock-sweet. He releases his grip after a minute or two, once the threat of Shane cumming has passed, goes to cup Shane’s jaw instead, kissing him deeply, biting and nipping at his mouth. He slides his hands downwards towards Shane’s neck, continuing along his arms until he reaches his wrists, pushing them down into the sheets on either side of his head. He uses his grip to anchor himself, exploiting the extra leverage he gains to fuck Shane harder into the mattress until he falls over the edge of pleasure himself. 

Afterwards, he holds Shane in his arms as he shakes, his adrenaline crashing now it’s over, his cock still hard and urgent at Ilya’s hip while Ilya’s lays spent against his thigh. Ilya pets his hair, murmuring sweet nothings in Russian, all harshness leaving his body now he himself has cum, only softness left behind now that Shane has earned it. 

“What if I hurt you?” the scorpion asked.

“What if I want you to?” the frog replied. 

A few hours later, he slips out of their bed to sit on a rock at the edge of the lake. 

It’s peaceful, watching the first hints of dawn start to peak over the surface of the water. He lets himself be lulled by the soothing sound of the lake lapping against the shore, the world quiet before everything and everyone wakes up for the day. Even the loons are still asleep. 

He takes a long drag of his cigarette, appreciating how the burn of it in his lungs warms him up a little. Laughs at himself and his own priorities, the fact that it occurred to him to grab his pack of cigarettes and a lighter on his way down here but not a shirt. 

So much has happened in the last few days – the last few months – that he doesn’t know how to process. He still can’t comprehend that he’s here at all, sitting on Shane’s property while Shane himself sleeps peacefully inside. Had it really been less than a year ago that he’d watched that cheesy documentary Shane had made about this place, and yearned for a chance to visit one day?

His thoughts flit between a thousand different topics, stones skipping on water. 

His mother and how much he misses her, a constant ache in his chest. His father, and how much he doesn’t miss him; the confusion of guilt tempered by grief. His life in Boston, whether he’s ready to give that up for a chance at happiness, whether he can really say goodbye to his beloved team that gave him a Cup. 

And then, inevitably, he thinks of Shane. His rival turned fuck-buddy turned love of his life. Shane’s startled face when Ilya said he loved him, the steady beat of his heart beneath Ilya’s ear as he held him close and said he loved him too. The musky taste of his hole on Ilya’s tongue, the weight of his cock in Ilya’s mouth, the feel of his body clenching around Ilya’s dick, his beautiful smile when he cums, just for Ilya.  

Alongside these thoughts are others that are less loving, less flattering, less adoring – the thoughts that have driven him out here, away from their bed – the ones that center on the rush of power that Ilya feels when Shane is hurting because of him, how hard it makes him to give him pain and not just pleasure, how much he wants to see him whimper and wince and beg. 

It can’t be good, can it, that Ilya enjoys hurting the man he loves so much. Does he even deserve to be here, to be allowed to be so close, if what he wants to do with that closeness is cause Shane pain? Can that ever really be love? What’s the difference, really, on a practical level, between Ilya and Shane’s relationship, and his late parents’? Can a scorpion ever resist the urge to sting? 

The sound of a sliding door behind him interrupts the quiet morning air, Shane coming out to find him. He doesn’t let himself turn as he hears footsteps draw closer, stubbornly fixing his gaze on the ripples of the water, refusing to move until Shane is tapping him on the arm, handing him a cup of coffee and slipping a blanket around both their shoulders. 

Even in the pale morning light, Ilya can see where bruises ring Shane’s wrists, just visible beneath his shirt cuffs, bruises put there by Ilya’s hands. 

Shane smiles at him, caring, trusting. Ilya smiles back, trying to push down his fears. 

Shane presses in closer to his side, lending him warmth. “You’re cold.”

“Yes,” he says simply, kissing the top of his head. 

“What’re you doing out here?” Shane asks.

“Thinking.”

“A dangerous pastime for someone like you,” Shane says, nudging him with his elbow. 

Ilya shrugs, taking a sip of his drink. 

“What are you thinking about?”

“Lots of things,” he says evasively. 

“Share them with me?” Shane asks earnestly, and as much as Ilya wants to draw the conversation away from what’s on his mind, their policy of honesty here at the cottage has him speaking before he can talk himself out of it again. 

“Does it ever scare you?” 

"Does what scare me? Our… relationship?” Ilya shrugs again, and Shane frowns. “It scares me that people might find out, but the relationship itself doesn’t scare me, no.”

“I mean,” Ilya says, and then stops, taking another sip of his drink to stall. “I mean, do I scare you?”

“What?”

“What I want from you. In bed. Does it scare you?”  

“Oh,” Shane says, blushing. Ilya watches as he digests the question, obviously confused by Ilya’s train of thought. “No, it doesn’t. Not really. Why?”

Ilya inhales, taking a shaky breath in, trying to articulate himself, to express what has him so freaked out this early in the morning. “Sometimes I think if someone asked me to do what I ask you to do for me, I would run for the hills.”

“When you wouldn’t let me cum last night, believe me I thought about it,” Shane quips, a smirk on his lips. 

Ilya turns his head away, the joke twisting unpleasantly in his stomach. 

“Hey, hey, look at me,” Shane whispers, reaching out to turn Ilya’s face back towards his own. He tugs Ilya’s hair gently, bringing their faces closer and closer until they can kiss, a soft peck of their lips to one another’s.

When they part, Shane waits until Ilya’s eyes find his, and then he shrugs. “I love you. I trust you,” he says calmly, like it’s that simple. “Sure, sometimes when we’re…together, I can be afraid. Sometimes what I want or what you ask for is scary, or embarrassing, or hard. But I’ve never been afraid of you. And you’ve never asked me for something I didn’t want to give. Okay?”

Ilya looks at him, really looks at him, sweeping his eyes over his face, searching for evidence of the true fear he’s terrified of causing, but he doesn’t find any. He nods, then leans down for another kiss, pressing their foreheads together afterwards, closing his eyes and trying to remember that the shoreline he’s sitting beside is different to any one he grew up seeing, trying to make himself believe that maybe, somehow, impossibly, the scorpion and the frog have made it to the other side of the river together.