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Hollander was late and Ilya hated to be kept waiting. It had almost been an hour since he slipped his key card into the pocket of his rival’s tuxedo jacket on his way out of the boring after party. How long does it take to pretend to finish a drink, give a few performative yawns and excuse yourself from your drunk teammates? Maybe Hollander had lost the card. Was he too scared to just knock? Maybe he’d run into someone compromising in the hallway… Hollander spooks easily, but, fuck, Ilya really needed this freckle-faced 200 pound man to be brave tonight.

Hollander had been huddled around a high top with Boiziau and Pike, gentle smirk tugging at his lips that had briefly stretched all the way to a grin when Ilya approached and patted his chest patronizingly. “Don’t worry Hollander, your mama told me you’ll always be her MVP.” It garnered the expected groans and eye rolls from his teammates, which gave Ilya enough cover to dig the meat of his fingertips into Hollander’s pec.

“Don’t talk about my mother, Rozanov.” Flat, monotone. Zero indication he’d gotten under his skin at all which always made Ilya salivate.

His other hand snaked into Hollander’s suit pocket depositing the key. “Sorry, I forgot losing is a family business when your mom is your manager.”

“Why are you so into Shane’s mom, weirdo.” Ilya had never made eye contact with Hayden Pike and he wasn’t about to start now. Eyes fixed on Hollander, “Don’t be jealous you have never won a trophy to give anyone, Pike.”

“Fuck off Roz, can you gloat literally anywhere else?”

“Sure, where is your wife? Do you think she will do keg stand out of my Hart?”

“I don’t think she’d accept water from you if she was on fire.”

“I could use a water, actually,” Hollander cuts in and Ilya realizes he still has his hand on his chest, it’s sewn in at this point. He slowly drops his palm, lightly grazing his shoulder against Hollander’s instead. Nobody seems to notice. Boiziau just seems perturbed by the interruption. “Can you seriously get lost? We’re trying to discuss something very important with our Captain.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that? New and exciting ways you can fail him in playoffs next year?”

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Pike spat.

“What? Don’t blame me, blame Canada.”

“See you next season, Roz. Enjoy Russia.” Hollander’s tone was final, but his eyes gave him away. He’d be seeing him before Moscow.

His confidence only carried him to the double doors leading to the elevator bank, where Ilya stopped and glanced over his shoulder, watching the Voyageurs confab resume. He waited for Hollander to steal a glance in his direction, confirming he’d soon be following. He had texted the penthouse number, but knew Lily’s texts would all be extra carefully screened at such a public event. Hollander was always careful. Ilya knew this. After seeing him fall apart in the bathroom during the awards ceremony, he knew he didn’t need to worry.

And yet… Hollander’s feet were firmly planted, spread wide as if he was bracing for a check. JJ and Hayden seemed to be hitting him with an animated proposition of their own. Hopefully it didn’t involve leaving this hotel. Ilya was unnerved and felt obvious, stalling in the hallway for a prolonged beat. Before he could wrest his eyes away from Hollander’s broad back he noticed his hand slip into his pocket and undoubtedly fondle the key card. Ilya could swear he saw Hollander’s cheeks flush with color. Satisfied, he practically skipped to the elevator.

That was fifty five minutes ago. Not that he’s keeping track of the minutes. He just knew it had been enough time to eat half a bag of cashews from the mini bar. To drink an ice cold glass of vodka, followed by a cigarette on the balcony. To then brush his teeth and splash water on his face, refresh his curls and reapply his cologne. There had been enough time to do the math and set two alarms, one for his wake up and another for when he would need to call his cab. There had been time to look up the departing flights to Montreal and try and calculate the odds of running into Hollander in the lobby in the morning as they each checked out. Or maybe he’d catch a glimpse of him in the international terminal before they each boarded the flights that would catapult them seven thousand kilometers away from each other for the longest season of the year. Summer.

Ilya had a love-hate relationship with Summer. He loved the freedom to not think about hockey. He loved the sun on his skin and being surrounded by friends and strangers who all spoke his mother tongue. He loved strengthening his body without risk of injury, finely tuning it like a watch. He hated… pretty much everything else. Maybe tomorrow he’d catch Hollander idling in the airport newsstand, buying this week's boring New Yorker to read with his dad at their neighboring lakefront cottages. Fifty seven minutes… This was getting ridiculous.

Ilya poured himself a few more fingers of vodka and let the familiar burn in his throat soothe him. He’d had a nice Russian bottle sent up before the awards show. Being on camera doesn’t make him nervous anymore—a successful Cup run will do that—but he was presenting with Shane. Which he told himself didn’t matter, but then, of course, he’d seen him. And he’d tasted him in the bathroom. And now he needed more.

Ilya hated when he felt needy.

He ran his finger along the vodka bottle and thought about how he could make it last the night. How he could make the night last the entire summer.

The beep of the suite’s door startled him. But he straightened up and smoothed his hair just in time to catch Hollander tottering in, bow tie undone, hair mussed, cheek’s pink… it looked almost as if someone else had gotten to him first…

“I thought you maybe chickened out.”

“Nooo. Bok. Bok. Bok. Bok.”

What the hell was that? Did Shane Hollander just cluck at him like a chicken?

Before Ilya can relax his face Hollander bends over his own knees and giggles. He clutches a water bottle with the label peeled off, slapping it rhythmically against his thigh. When he straightens up, he looks confused, like he can’t believe where he is and with whom. He tries to stuff the laughing attack somewhere inaudible. Ilya’s never seen him like this. Had Hollander been this fucked up downstairs?

“You are drunk?”

“Nuh uh.”

Ilya studies the man before him. His thoughts race with permutations of how the Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs, who he’d almost reduced to his knees in the backstage bathroom, ended up in his hotel room, a full hour late, acting like someone who had been dawdling, acting like someone who had just enjoyed themselves at a party. Had he been diverted on his way up? Had he met someone? The thought of Hollander sharing a drink with someone, some NHL player or pencil pusher, or worse, some stranger, stealing precious minutes from Ilya’s precious night… His nose crinkled in disgust. “Drink more water. Do not need you spoiling my night by falling asleep on me.”

“I’m not tired. And it’s not water.”

“Hollander, you are carrying a water bottle in your hand.”

“I mean it’s not just water. It’s a mixed drink.” He takes a step forward as if he’s going to hand it to Ilya to inspect, but ends up crashing into him like a bat to a piñata. Oof. The wind is nearly punched out of Ilya’s lungs as Hollander head-bumps his chest. He never goes down this easily. Everything is topsy turvy tonight. Ilya glances at his vodka bottle. Maybe he’d had too much to drink as well.

Hollander sighs in his arms. “Sorry. I really don’t feel drunk. I just feel spacey.”

“Hollander…”

Ilya reaches for his chin, tilts his face to meet his. The man’s pupils are blown wide. Oh. Ohhh. This he was not expecting.

“What did you take?”

“What?”

“What drugs are you on, Hollander?” He speaks slowly, hoping his tone conveys how little he likes being lied to. Hollander’s mouth opens in Ilya’s palm, but he doesn’t speak. For a minute the air in the room stands still. Something akin to rage splashes down Ilya’s neck.

A shy repose replaces Hollander’s confusion, as if he already forgot the tenor of Ilya’s question. “I don’t do drugs! I’m just drinking this mixed drink… It kinda tastes like shit.”

“Give it to me.”

He proffers the plastic bottle, two thirds drained already. Ilya uncaps it and brings it to his nose as Hollander mumbles, “...JJ said it’s called Molly Water.”

“Oh my god. Hollander. You’re on ecstasy?!”

Shock rises Hollander’s fluffy lashes to his browline. “What!?”

“MDMA. Molly. You are fucking high right now!”

This revelation is met with pure incredulity. “No. No. Nooooo. It’s just alcohol and water. It’s bitter.”

“Hollander. Molly is like street name for ecstacy. They dissolve it in the water and it gives it bitter taste.” The man in his arms goes ashen. He grabs Ilya’s elbows so tightly he’s pinching nerves.

“They said—I’m on drugs?! They dosed me?” The saucers in Hollander’s eyes bulge out of his skull. Oh no, Ilya’s fantasy of this night is disintegrating rapidly… “Shh sh sh, is okay. Is very mild. Like taking mdma but for kids who are trying for first time.”

Hollander makes a high pitched sound. “I’ve never taken drugs… We get drug tested... I could get kicked out of the league!”

“Not during the off season, you will be fine.”

“How could they do this to me? I thought they were my friends!”

It’s so earnest, Ilya can’t help but crack a smile. Which is decidedly the wrong move, because Hollander bolts from his arms and makes for the bathroom at breakneck speed.

By the time Ilya registers he should maybe follow, he finds Hollander sprawled over the open toilet, his shirt ripped open, fingers halfway down his throat. An internal alarm blares for Ilya. “Hollander! Stop!”

“Need to throw it up!” He tries again to gag himself.

“Hey hey hey!” Ilya slides between him and the toilet and delicately pulls his hand away from his mouth. When Hollander tries to fight him Ilya holds his wrists tighter, wraps his thighs around his waist, bracketing him in. “Hollander, look at me!”

It takes a moment, but he blinks his moony eyes upwards. His fear on autopilot. Tears welling. “How do you feel?” Hollander is appalled by this question and makes it known with his brattiest tone. “Pissed off!”

“That’s not what I mean.” Hollander rolls those precious eyes at him, bites his bottom lip, maybe becoming aware of the heavy points of contact Ilya has on his body. He settles into the touch as Ilya dances his knuckles across his cheek. “Hey, why don’t you describe to me what it’s like. Maybe you are on very little? Maybe it’s not very strong. You know, just a practical joke.”

“You think so? You try it.” It’s not a challenge. Hollander legitimately wants Ilya to vet the potency of the Molly water for him. He looks down and realizes the water bottle is on the floor next to them.

Ilya uncaps the bottle and takes a small sip, watching Hollander’s eyes fixed on his lips. The bitterness hits his tongue and he does everything in his power to hide his grimace.

“Oh my god.” Hollander retches before he even reaches his fingers for his throat again, but Ilya is faster, cupping his cheeks between his palms, firmly now.

“Stop. Is not bad. Is not very strong.”

“Don’t lie to me, I already feel it! I’m all—floaty!”

“I promise you. It’s not that much. You will feel normal in a couple of hours and you’ll sleep fine. You take melatonin, yes?”

A look of pure horror. “A couple of hours?!”

“Yes, but you will be with me, right?”

“The whole time?”

“Yes. If you want… The whole time.” It strikes Ilya that this sounds a bit like an exchange of vows. He wants to seal it somehow. Before thinking he tilts the water bottle back and chugs the last third.

“Ilya, no!”

Hearing his first name on Hollander’s lips short circuits Ilya’s brain. The intimacy of the moment overwhelms his senses. Shane’s firm obliques pressed between his thighs. His clammy hands vice-gripping his knees. The cool bathroom tile grounding them. The soft sound of water running through the pipes in the walls. A mist of Ilya’s body wash and cologne perfumes the air, swirling with Shane’s musk.

Ilya doesn’t think he’s ever been this low to the ground with Hollander. They’re always switching places, on the ice, on the bed, in the shower, one of them has to have higher ground and oftentimes the ground is won with violence or lust, which sometimes masquerades as violence. But here Hollander…Shane is pressed in his lap on the bathroom floor, clinging to him like a life raft after a capsize. And Ilya, having just jumped overboard himself, has lost the higher ground. Ilya crushes these thoughts as he crushes the empty plastic bottle in his fist.

“Shane,” he tries it out, “I know you are scared but now we do this together hmm?” And, trying to regain a modicum or composure, “It’s going to be fun.”

“But…” Shane whines, “I’m already high and you’re going to be on a different schedule.”

God he’s such a fucking adorable novice. “So I will drink more vodka. We will be even, I promise.” And he can tell this has quieted one prosecutor in Shane’s anxious brain. Ilya decides he will keep a tally.

Shane sighs with his full body. “I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe JJ would do this.”

“He told you it was Molly water?” Ilya probes.

“Yes, he said I should drink it and come with them to some club at the MGM. I thought it was like a cocktail that’s also hydrating!” Ilya can’t help but snort at this. “It’s not funny!”

“Hollander it kind of is. You are golden boy of league, you’ve probably never smoked a cigarette and now you are accidentally on molly water like a raver.”

“I’m not a square, Rozanov. I’m a professional athlete. I take my job seriously… I’ve smoked weed before… twice.”

Ilya buries his features in Shane’s chest to keep from snorting in his face. The vibrations awaken something in Shane and laughter bubbles up in him too. “This is so embarrassing.”

Ilya pops his head up. “Why? Because you try to make yourself puke in front of me?”

“Shut up!”

“You know it’s not the first time I’ve seen you gag?”

The color finally returns to Shane’s cheeks. “I hate you.”

“I think you don’t. And I think you don’t really feel embarrassed.”

“Yes, I do. We’re sitting on the bathroom floor and you’re rubbing my back like I’m in high school.”

Ilya hadn’t realized he was doing that. He stills his hand. Shane nuzzles back into him. “No, don’t stop. Feels nice.” Ilya starts rubbing up and down Shane’s back, more mindfully this time.

“What else do you feel?”

“…Fuzzy.”

“What else?”

“…Hot.”

“Yes, I always tell you this, Hollander.”

“Shut up, like temperature. I’m sweating.”

This won’t do. In one fell swoop Ilya has lifted Shane from the floor and has his shoulders exposed to the cool air, his shirt drawing down past his biceps. While he works, Shane studies him, searching for signs of a shared experience.

“C’mere…” Ilya leads them into the bedroom and plops a shirtless Shane onto the bed. He shimmies him out of his pants next and when he turns to go to the closet and dig out a pair of his thinnest joggers, he feels his arms being yanked back, his hands being pressed over Shane’s bare thighs.

“I can’t tell who is warmer,” Shane asks even though it’s not a question. More like he’s trying to understand thermodynamics. Like the answer to who is generating this intense heat could take years of painstaking experimentation, but luckily he’s dedicated his life to science.

Ilya teases his palms across Shane’s flesh. “You are like a little furnace.”

“It feels like your hands are touching all over my body. Are you touching me everywhere?”

“Not yet, Shane…”

“Ilya…” he gazes up at him, brown irises completely overtaken by pupil now. “I think you should go get some more vodka.”

“Why, Shane? Are you starting to understand why they call it ecstasy?”

~~~

Ilya stands in the bathroom with the sink running. The bottle of vodka and his glass in hand. He peers at his own pupils, still undilated. A wave of conflicted desire washes over him. Shane is high. Shane, who is calling him by his first name. Shane, who is going to wake up mortified that Ilya of all people saw him in this vulnerable state. Shane, who he promised to share this experience with. Shane, who he promised to take care of. Not in so many words, but he made a vow.

Ilya listens over the steady stream of the faucet for signs of life from the bedroom. How is Shane riding out his come up right now? Mdma makes even the most stoic Slav sensitive to touch, and Shane’s baseline sensitivity is about 100x higher than any Russian he’s ever met. Besides perhaps his mama. But there’s something he’s worried about more than the overstimulation. Molly makes you feel euphoric and wanton, makes all your pretenses slip away like a hard rain, and the combination leaves you completely disarmed, painfully… honest. It’s that last possibility that’s making Ilya’s heart race. Shane may need something he promised himself he would not give him tonight. Or ever frankly. Something Ilya desperately wants to give him.

No—This is not what Ilya had in mind. In fact, this is Ilya’s nightmare. And nagging at his consciousness is the pinprick of tomorrow. Tomorrow when he’s alone, serotonin depleted, on a plane back to Russia.

Ilya hasn’t taken ecstasy since his eighteenth birthday. He was already drafted, weeks away from moving to America. He took a train to Berlin with his friends. They went clubbing for three nights straight. He danced until he had shin splints, fucked two women at the same time in a bathroom at Sisyphos. Had his dick sucked in a basement floor clouded with dry ice in Berghain. He felt like a Greek God. Indulgent and doomed. He wandered home as a periwinkle dawn rose over the Berlin Wall. He stopped at some mural of two men in suits swallowing each other in a kiss. He took a picture on his Blackberry. It came out blurry. His friends had been worried about him. He always took it too far, Svetlana scolded. He doesn’t remember the train back to Moscow. He just remembers his father scowling at him as he dragged his skulking frame through to his bedroom. He climbed in bed but sleep never came. His head pounded with the pulse of the industrial techno. It felt like it would never stop. He stayed in bed, curtains drawn, for a week. He never felt so low in his life. Not since his mama died. It lasted until he flew to Boston. And then he wasn’t sure if it went away or if it just combined with the jet lag and was eventually pummeled out of him on the ice. Endorphins could always make up for what he lacked in dopamine.

But tonight, he’s practically sober. He had half as much of the molly water as Shane. And Shane wanted him to be on his level. Shane trusted him. Ilya was in control. Tomorrow and its consequences were hours away.

He takes a long, punishing pull of vodka and washes it down with some water from the tap. Inside his dopp kit a bottle of lube and strip of condoms taunt him. Not yet, he thinks. He has to make sure Shane is okay, that he even wants sex in his state. That he wants him at all. In the past, Ilya hasn’t exactly been a port in the storm for Shane. “What the fuck do you want from me, Rozanov?” plays in his head. Whatever you’ll offer me, Shane, he wanted to say. But that’s not what he’d said.

IIya cuts the tap and loops back to the living room of the suite, pulling out a Fiji water, a Perrier (he knows there’s no ginger ale, but he checks again anyway), and the rest of the cashews from the mini fridge. He balances the haul in his arms with the vodka bottle dangling precariously in his fingers. He feels like a kid preparing for a sleepover.

“Ilyaaaaaaaaaa!”

“Coming!”

“I’m thirsty!”

“I know lyubimy—” huh. Where did that come from? Ilya shakes it off and dashes back into the bedroom––to find Shane Hollander’s perfect ass cheeks reflecting the dimmer lights from the sconces, boxers abandoned (not folded) on the floor. He’s naked and starfished atop the sheets of Ilya’s king size bed. Jesus Christ. Ilya’s dick twitches.

Shane lifts his head at the sound of Ilya placing all their supplies on the bedside table and snakes his hand around Ilya’s ankle. “I’ve got water. Still and with bubbles. And vodka. They had no ginger ale but I think kitchen is still open, I could call room service—”

“Congratulations.”

“For what?”

“Winning.”

“Oh, the Hart. Yes. It could have been you.”

“No, the cup. You won a Stanley Cup before me. Asshole.”

Ilya settles onto the bed. He doesn’t know why he can’t think of anything snarky to say. Maybe the vodka is beginning to make him fuzzy. That’s good. He needs to find equilibrium with Shane.

He stretches out, propping himself up on his side, and begins tracing a finger lightly over Shane’s lower back, who shudders under the touch. “Thank you. It was, uh... Not a surprise, of course.”

“Of course not,” Shane snickers and turns his head to face Ilya.

“But, yes, it was kind of… indescribable,” Ilya admits.

“You looked so happy.”

“Yes.”

“Never seen you look so happy.”

“I think you have. When you are taking my cock.”

“Shut up, I mean it.”

“Yes. I think you are right.”

“I love watching you win.”

“Wow, Hollander, you are really high.”

“Not against me. Duh. I just love watching you play, I think. Yeah.”

Ilya’s throat has gone dry. He reaches for the Perrier and feels Shane startle at the lack of touch beneath him. “I love watching you play, too. I was sorry you were out in first round.”

“Me too. But we’re gonna win next year.”

Ilya inhales some bubbles up his nose and coughs. Only this man could look cute being so cocky. “Oh really?”

“Really. I think we’re each going to win a lot of cups… Sometimes I wish one of us played in the west so we could face each other in the finals.”

“Uh…” This confession causes the back of Ilya’s throat to constrict. He takes another sip of Perrier, and ghosts his fingers over warm skin. “Shane? How do you feel?”

“Like I’m floating. Like I can hear all the cells in my body whir. They’re kinda like… buzzzzzz…”

“Do you want to sit up and drink some water?” Shane moans and stretches his arms further apart, settling deeper into the mattress. It’s not exactly an invitation, but Ilya leans down and presses gentle kisses into the space between each of his vertebrae anyway. Shane gasps with each kiss, never quite catching on to the pattern. Emboldened, Ilya kisses between his ribs and around the muscles that protect them. By the time Ilya’s lips reach the dimples of his lower back Shane is arching to meet him. He continues kissing down his smooth ass and meaty thighs when he realizes he’s wearing entirely too many clothes.

Ilya peels off his button down and fumbles with his belt before shimmying off his trousers. He laughs to himself at the irony of Shane being facedown on the bed missing his striptease, since Ilya had a whole plan to make the man strip for him as his reward for winning the Hart. This night was full of surprises. He slides off his boxers and finds he’s half hard. Unsurprising, he’s been half hard since he ran his hand down Shane’s back on stage hours earlier.

He crawls back up Shane’s floating body until he can press his chest flat across his back. He hooks his chin over Shane’s shoulder and, for a moment, just lies there, bathing in the sensation of skin to skin. Shane is emanating warmth, like sand after dark that’s soaked up the sun all day. Shane is the ground beneath him. He can feel his dick hardening the rest of the way as it finds its resting place between Shane’s cheeks.

“Feels so nice… you feel so nice.” Gospodi. Why does everything he says sound so sweet tonight? Surely this is the molly talking. Shane’s never this forthcoming with him before sex. He usually makes him work for this candor. Ilya feels another wave of overwhelm crash across the shores of his desire. He’s tumbling in its wake, dizzy, breathless. Before he can get his bearings he rolls off Shane and flips him over to face up. Shane’s breath quickens but he meets his gaze, pupils still blown, a wondrous smile parting his lips.

“Hi.”

It’s uncanny how easily a single syllable rights the lurching in Ilya’s head.

“Hello, Shane. Are you still floating?”

He nods, eyes settling in the dim light, until a familiar look of lust overtakes his golden features. Ilya drapes his face over Shane’s face, until lips tease over lips. Shane rises off the bed to meet him in a kiss, exhaling a note of—astonishment—at the sensation, or the novelty, like he’s never kissed him before, like he forgot what Ilya’s lips felt like. And Ilya wants to catch that breath in his own lungs, hold it in until it’s the last thing keeping him alive. He pins Shane back down to the mattress with his mouth on his mouth.

They exchange furtive, exploratory kisses for who knows how many elastic minutes, in sharp contrast to their usual hungry pace.

Faintly, Ilya knows a clock is ticking down. But somewhere, in the room with them, is the presence of mind to let Shane lead. Ilya’s never let anyone lead in the bedroom. He loves to give pleasure, but he’s never been a servant. He sets the tone, the pace, he pokes and prods and looks for a reaction. Digs, sometimes dynamites, for signs of gold and then extracts. But all he can think about tonight is following Shane’s rhythm. He doesn’t want to chase anything. If they don’t get very far, so be it. They can stay here in this bed forever for all he cares.

As if he can hear his thoughts, Shane’s tongue darts inside Ilya’s mouth with a new ferocity. He moans at the intrusion as Shane laps at his tongue and sucks. Releasing him with a loud pop.

“You taste so good.”

“I never got you water.”

“I drank so much water. Water with drugs in it.”

“We don’t have to do anything…”

“I want to do everything.”

“Shane…”

“But I’m not sure how rough I can take it…”

Ilya winces at the word. Is that what they’d done before? Sure, they’ve had athletic, aggressive sex. It had been unbelievably hot. He could tell Shane liked to be manhandled, to be manipulated and posed and overwhelmed, for his chattering brain to be taken offline so he didn’t have to feel any shame. Whatever they’d stumbled upon was forbidden and uniquely theirs. But Ilya had taken a lot of care to be gentle with him too. To make Shane feel good… “I do not want to be rough with you.”

“Why? You going soft on me Rozanov?”

Ilya stills. It’s an invitation to switch on his usual bravado, to take from Shane what he planned on, what he demanded in that bathroom during the show, to put Shane on his knees and lead him to the precipice between pleasure and pain, to see-saw him over the edge. But Shane stares into his eyes and must see that he’s stuck somewhere, in between lust and tenderness, between desire and loss, between Las Vegas and Moscow. To cut through the noise, Shane grinds his hips up into Ilya’s waist, their equally hard erections shooting electricity through their bodies.

“I can hear you thinking.”

Funny. Now he’s stealing his lines. Well, no use in hiding, Shane may not even remember this. “Did I hurt you, last time?” It comes out as a whisper.

“Oh my God, no,” Shane bellows, and he follows it up with a conclusive kiss. “I mean, it was a lot, but no. It was, um, perfect. For my first time...”

Perfect. That word on Shane’s puffy lips… “Wow. I didn’t realize you were virgin before me, Hollander.”

“Shut up!” His cheeks have gone pink and he’s smiling so wide. “I’ve had lots of—shut up. You know what I mean. It was better, different than anything I’ve done before. It’s just…uh…”

“Just what?”

Neither of them breathe as Shane’s smile recedes.

“It’s just been… awhile. And I’m like extra sensitive right now…”

Ilya thinks he knows what Shane means, but words are becoming slippery. He needs to know for sure. “You have not been with a man since me?”

“Of course not.” Ilya doesn’t know why his chest loosens.

“Because…?”

“Because it’s risky. Because it’s… there’s not…” Anyone. Ilya wants him to say anyone else. But Shane trails off and the silence hangs in the air. Until Ilya shares something he had no intention of sharing. “I have not either. Been with another man, not since…” Shane’s brows knit together, taking this in.

Ilya’s sure they’ve both traveled back to that night in Montreal now. He can feel Shane there, underneath him, a ball of nerves and need. And he’s under him again, it’s the same and it’s different. Because six months have gone by since he’s had Shane under him. Six months since he’s tasted him. Six months since he’s heard the noises he's fairly sure only he has gotten out of Shane. Neither of them have been celibate, obviously, they just haven’t been with other men. Ilya’s not sure why the very practical reality of their limited same sex partners feels so weighted. Why having Shane’s body pressed against his feels like he’s slipped through a portal and landed back in Shane’s bed. The sex they shared that night has replayed on a loop in his mind on all the nights when sleep won’t come, which has been most nights. All of this honesty is starting to make him feel a bit queasy.

“I think about last time a lot.”

Fuck. Shane puts words to what Ilya is thinking so effortlessly. Like it doesn’t haunt him. Ilya searches his eyes, can it really be so simple for him?

But, of course, Shane is high out of his mind. He’s floating and loose-lipped and hungry. These types of truths are fickle. They’re born of the moment and they seek instant gratification. They placate in the dark and dissipate in the morning light. Ilya is well versed in these truths. He has been known to dole them out like candy if it means his bed remains warmed for the preferred duration of time.

Shane smiles up at him, pouting with want. Body swaying side to side as he ruts into Ilya, who, in this moment, only has one choice. To follow his lead.

Ilya seals their lips together, and sends his tongue in to swallow this and any other truths Shane’s ecstacy-fueled brain may surface. It’s obscene the way he swallows him whole, tendrils of saliva connecting them when they part. And then there’s Shane’s eyes, fixed on his, with an open flame of desire he’s never seen before from any partner, man or woman, and Ilya is determined to live up to it.

He remembers having sex on ecstacy in the filthy club bathroom in Berlin, how his body felt like a raw nerve, how the scene felt like a cartoon. A debauched anime. How he’d never let Shane Hollander, the prince of the NHL, debase himself in this way. Still, he flushes with pride that he gets to give Shane another first. Is it selfish that he wants to have all this man’s firsts? He crawls down Shane’s torso, licking the sweat from his neck, his throat, his collarbones, his pecs, teasing his nipples until they’re red and swollen, until he feels Shane’s abs stiffen under his fingers.

“Oh my God. I’m on fire. Ilya.”

He’s not going to make it if Shane keeps saying his name like that. “Too sensitive?”

“No. Feels amazing. Feels like my skin is connected straight to my brain.”

“I think it is, but I’m no neurologist.”

“Wow. Neurology. You’re so—” Ilya kisses his hip bone. “—Goddd, I feel, I feel everything.” He kisses the thin skin of Shane’s inner thigh. “Fuck. It’s, like all connected…” Ilya exhales a steady stream of air over his hard length. “So… intense.” This is so much better than a silly strip tease.

“You tell me if you want me to stop? If anything is too much.”

“Do you feel it too?”

Ilya looks up and finds Shane’s pleading eyes angled down at him. He nods, but he won’t put words to what it is. No more words for the truths he’s feeling tonight. He dives back down to where Shane’s throbbing dick is leaking a perfect pool of precum into his belly button. Ilya happily laps it up.

He then ghosts his breath over Shane’s cock, enjoying watching the interpretive dance it does in response. Ilya drools all his saliva down his shaft, thankful for the Perrier.

“Oh my God. Feels so gooood.”

“I haven’t even sucked you yet.”

“But it’s so wet.”

“Is just my spit.” He places his first kiss to the head of Shane’s dick and the gasp that rains down on him could stop time.

“Ilya holy fuck–I’m not gonna last.”

“I think you will. You are high. It’s not so easy to come on ecstacy.”

“Please. Please please. Oh my god. I can’t—please.”

“Please what? Shane.”

“Please suck me. I’ll do anything.”

The begging is music. Ilya hums in harmony as he takes Shane into his mouth. Swallowing around his own saliva, drowning Shane’s cock in his wet, hot mouth.

“Oh fuckfuckfuck Rozanov.”

Holy shit is he really going to come on molly this quickly? Ilya releases him. “Breathe Shane.” He wants to drag this blow job out, make it unforgettable. He fondles his own dick, equally straining, as Shane takes shallow breaths above him.

“It’s never felt like this before.”

“How many guys have sucked your dick?”

“Shut up, I mean with you idiot.” He feels Shane’s fingers dig along the nape of his neck, combing through his curls. He’s certain now, if he does his job right Ilya is going to ruin Shane for anyone else after the night is through. He almost feels guilty. Almost.

“Please don’t stop…”

“I like it when you beg.”

“I’ll say anything. I’ll do anything.”

“I know.”

And with that Ilya swallows him down, burying his nose in Shane’s carefully trimmed pubic hair. Shane is deep in the back of his throat and Ilya hollows his cheeks around him and slowly drags his tongue along the underside of his cock as he pulls his mouth off. He feels Shane’s fingers tighten in his scalp.

“Fuck… Oh my….Ilya… Fuck… God.”

~~~

For all his whining and moaning on the brink, Shane comes in silence, breath choked out, his stomach concave, like the tip of a volcano. Ilya swirls the ropes of cum in his mouth, relishing the familiar taste, before letting them dribble back onto Shane’s dick. He looks up to make sure Shane is watching, which he is, wide-eyed and stricken with awe. Ilya gathers Shane’s release in his palm with a few gentle strokes of Shane’s softening dick, Shane throws his head back and squeezes his eyes shut, whimpering from the oversensitivity. Ilya then rises to his knees and lathers his hard dick with Shane’s fluids and begins to stroke. “You’re so pretty when you come.” Shane blinks up at him like he’s seeing the burning bush start to speak.

“I am?”

“Unbelievable. It makes me crazy. I can see you when I close my eyes.” Which he does. He closes his eyes and it’s just Shane’s face frozen in pleasure burned onto his retinas. Shane’s face vibrating, refracting into red, green and blue dots, like an Igor Grabar painting. Shane’s face looking like a blanket of snow in daylight. A rainbow in every granule. Oh no. Ilya is high.

“Will you fuck my face?”

Ilya blinks his eyes open to find Shane propped up on his elbows now, eyes heavy, hair matted to his scalp, mouth already parted. Ilya’s knees shuffle towards him without thinking. His aching dick meets Shane’s warm mouth and Ilya is seeing stars. Literally. Out the window there are fireworks shooting off from one of the hotels on the strip. Everything about this night has conspired to make Ilya lose his god damn mind. He cups Shane’s face in his sticky hands and massages at the hinge where his jaw and ears meet.

“Open for me, lyubimy.”

Shane nods and hums his mouth open.

“Tell me if I hurt you.”

And Ilya rocks his hips into Shane’s inviting mouth and can’t help but notice Shane’s dick twitching below him at the very first thrusts.

Shane moans around him and somehow his shoulders seem to soften despite the strength it must be taking to keep himself propped up on forearms.

Ilya drives in and out of his perfect mouth as Shane takes all of him, drool gathering and spilling down his chin and into the creases of Ilya’s long fingers holding him in place. Shane pants out of his nose and stares up at Ilya with a hunger that’s surely kept him at death’s door until this moment when he’s finally sated.

The little puffs of breath on Ilya’s shaft as he rocks in and out are yanking at his spine, the heat and pressure building from a depth he’s never felt the edge of before. Ilya marvels at the sensation, marvels at Shane, so relaxed and quenched before him. Made for me, he thinks. Who gave me him? How do I thank them?

“Perfect,” he grunts out. And the mouth around him sighs. “Fuck, Shane…”

Ilya feels his balls contract and knows it won’t be much longer til he’s over the edge. He pulls out and pinches the base of his dick.

Shane smiles that pleased smile he has when he knows, impossibly, that he’s going to win the face off, like he’s fucking psychic.

“Come on me. Want to see you—“

And that’s all it takes, Ilya shudders as he jerks himself shakily until he’s spurting cum on Shane’s chiseled chest and abs. But they both only see from their periphery, because Shane’s holding Ilya’s gaze, looking up at him like he’s casting a spell, and Ilya wants to look away but he’s just as transfixed.

“Fuck, Hollander…”

“Give it to me, Rozanov.”

~~~

The next few minutes blink in and out of focus. Ilya is collapsed on Shane, smearing his cum between their chests. He peppers kisses and spurts of Russian all over Shane’s face, he closes those eyes that stared into his soul with his lips. Everything is vibrating, everywhere is damp and the breeze from the air conditioning has covered them both in goosebumps. He can feel the deep rise and fall of Shane’s chest. He fumbles for the Fiji water and holds it to Shane’s lips, tilting the steadiest stream down his lightly abused throat.

Then he’s dragging himself off the bed. His limbs are floating across the hardwood and he’s in the bathroom, he’s got a hand towel in one hand and his other is running through his hair. His pupils are dilated. His lips are red and swollen. His face is a bit irritated from Shane’s stubble. There are red marks down his back, Shane’s fingernails. He wets the towel with lukewarm water and squeezes out the excess.

He’s back on the bed. Shane’s eyes are closed but his arms reach for him. He wants Ilya close. Still. Ilya puffs up the pillow under Shane’s neck as he encloses his thighs with his thighs. Their dicks lie limp together and he’s not embarrassed. He runs the towel up Shane’s forehead to smooth his hair out of his face. Then trails it over his neck, his shoulders, even under his armpits—which draws a delicious whine from Shane—he mops his sticky chest and traces each individual abdominal muscle before scooching down to expose his thighs and groin.

It’s a slow, ceremonial process. Ilya methodically canvassing every inch of Shane’s skin. Mapping every detail to redraw in his memory in his bed in Moscow. It feels so natural he can’t even judge himself for the impulse. He knows he’ll need the data to survive the summer. He feels such warmth for Shane and his pulsing body. He thinks he can feel his soul vibrating under his touch. Whatever he has before him, lying in this bed, is precious and sacred. It’s simple. He couldn’t overthink it if he tried. When he’s done he looks up to see Shane watching him.

“You put out the fire.” Shane smiles and he looks so young. A muscular cherub, dusted in freckles.

“I think I’m feeling the Molly.”

“Really? Come here.” He ushers for them to switch places. Ilya lies back. Shane takes the towel from his hand.

“First time good head has gotten you high?”

A smile cracks Ilya’s face in two. “The mdma got me high.”

“I dunno, Rozanov, I think me deep throating you kinda triggered it.”

“Yes. I think you’re right.”

Shane wipes Ilya down with equal devotion, losing himself in the task. Ilya watches him work, watches him worry his bottom lip like there may be tape review of his performance later. He can think of only one other person who had put so much care and effort into ensuring he’s clean. Who had studied his features with such focus. But the melancholy he’d usually find is neutralized here. And evaporates entirely when he feels the towel shimmy down his groin.

Shane kisses over Ilya’s heart to signal he’s done, then settles next to him on the bed. Ilya throws an arm over his shoulder, pulling him to rest his head on his chest. They’re even. On the same schedule. Like Ilya promised. And he’s content. His mind is buzzing but no thoughts materialize. If only everything could always be this quiet, this clear.

“Ilya…”

“Yes, Shane.”

“What happened in Sochi?”

An anvil lands on Ilya’s stomach.

~~~

He knows where he is. He’s in the bed of his penthouse suite at some Vegas hotel he forgot the name of. Mandalay Bay? The Venetian? It must be way past midnight by now. Between 1 and 2am if he had to guess. He’s neither cold nor hot, but he can feel his life force leaking from his extremities. He should get under the covers. He should put his boxers on at least. Strands of Shane’s jet black hair sweep across his chin. The hinge of his rival’s jaw is working at a furious pace. He’s talking so fast, his chest rumbles against Ilya’s. He can feel the words more than hear them. He’s high and he can’t do anything about it but sink into the quicksand. He tries to focus his eyes but the dimmed light from the sconces is now blinding. He winces and presses his eyes shut. Shane’s words rise to the foreground now.

“—I mean you went on to win a cup for God's sake. It wasn’t your fault, obviously, a team is only as good as their goalie, everyone knows that. And I know it’s, like, embarrassing because you were hosting. I wasn’t trying to rub salt in the wound—“

Ilya gets a flash of Shane’s face in the bleachers during the men’s fingerskating competition. First it was shock, then a splash of denial, then it had settled into a sallow disappointment. He’d seen that face on so many people during that trip. His teammates, the officials, the fans, his brother, his father. He’d seen that face on his father his whole life. Seeing it on Shane hadn’t even phased him—a lie, you’re lying, why is he always lying to himself about Shane?—but in Sochi he had kept the guilt he’s feeling now at bay. It seeps into his very DNA tonight.

“—I keep thinking about that stupid text I sent. I should have just left it alone. But we’re friends right? I mean, I don’t think it’s suspicious for me to check in after a loss like that. I just hated thinking that you were beating yourself up or like not enjoying the rest of your time there. We had talked about it in Montreal and I know we were both excited. But obviously it pissed you off that I messaged that so I want to say sorry now because I couldn’t say sorry any other way when you didn’t respond to me…”

And he’s stopped talking. Ilya vaguely knows this is a cue. His turn to say something. His mouth is dry. Shane’s head tilts up to him.

“Are you awake?”

“I need water.”

“Oh, okay, for sure. Hold on…”

And he feels his chest and then the bed get lighter, and he hates himself for the relief that pours in. But then it sinks back down and he feels Shane’s clammy hand on the back of his neck and he’s cradling him to sip the water like Ilya had done for Shane not too long ago. And something snaps. He doesn’t deserve this tenderness. He sits up so fast Shane falls back and almost drops the Perrier.

“Sorry,” Shane mumbles.

“Stop saying sorry.” He grabs the Perrier from his limp hand and chugs it. Buying time. And mercifully Shane fills the void. Because he doesn’t know what he can say. His brain isn’t thinking logically, he’s barely thinking in English. Everything he feels is driving by him like a bus, he can’t hold on to the emotions, but they splash him in filthy puddle water as they pass. He feels soiled by his muddy emotions. He wants to take a bath. He wants to feel floaty again.

And Shane, sweet Shane, he’s so stoned. His jaw and brain are working overtime as he spits these words out so fast it gives Ilya a headache to follow…

“I guess I also just thought we had a nice time at my place. I had a nice time, I mean. And it seemed like you did too.”

I did.

“And I know it’s complicated, but it’s really like such a good thing for me to have that release.”

It’s not a release for me, it’s a trapdoor.

“I know I’ve been weird in the past, but I think seeing each other when we’re playing against each other is totally okay.”

I’ll be weird in the future.

“Maybe for next season, I don’t want to make it complicated, but I think it makes sense.”

It’s nothing but complicated.

“I just wanted to apologize if I made you think I didn’t understand the boundaries or whatever, I really do respect that we’re in a really strange situation and—”

“SHANE STOP SAYING SORRY!”

Oh no. He yelled. He really yelled. Ilya heard his own voice raise. He groans. His eyes immediately dart to the vodka bottle on the bedside table. And then back to Shane. Shane who has deflated. His knees instantaneously drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around himself as he shrinks into a slab of muscly flesh that might combust with the force of his own inversion. He has hurt Shane. He wasn’t gentle enough. How can he fix this? How can he make him understand? He hates the English language.

“I don’t want you to apologize,” he attempts. “I was asshole to you and when you apologize it makes me feel like, like shit—”

“—Ilya, no. You weren’t—”

“Shane, please let me talk now. I am trying to find the words but is not as easy for me. But I hear everything you are saying.”

He reaches out and ventures a hand on Shane’s knee. He doesn’t flinch, which feels generous, but does little to make him feel less like a monster. Hovering over him, Shane clearly intimidated, their nakedness an insult now. He crawls off the bed and finds his boxers. He hands Shane his and both men slip on the flimsiest of armor. He sits down next to Shane again, pressures his leg to his. He inhales air, and a prayer…

“I can’t risk anyone finding out about us in Russia. I know I am forward with you here. I know I tease you and push you for months to let me into your bed. And I do not regret it, but I think it was not fair of me to do this. Because it’s not safe for people like me in my country. And doing anything with a man, repeatedly, is risky. In Sochi I got scared that you might not realize this and I think, I was thinking, if I scared you away I could protect you. And me. I know you are not stupid and you were just being a friend to me. But it’s a lot to process when I am home. I have to be a version of myself I do not like so much.”

Shane’s hand is hovering over Ilya’s thigh, he’s desperate for contact and Ilya is too but he doesn’t give permission. Not yet.

“Do you even like it there?”

“Russia?”

“Yeah, like do you even want to go back?”

“It is home. It does not matter if I like it or not. It is where I was born.”

“I think it matters a lot…”

Ilya grimaces and before he knows it he’s up and at the bedside table. There’s a pool of condensation around the base of the vodka bottle. He wonders if it’ll be cold enough anymore. He pours himself a glass and shoots it.

“Do you have to do that?”

“What?”

“Get drunk to talk to me?”

“I thought you wanted me to keep up with you.”

“I don’t think that’s what you’re doing.”

“Okay, your turn to keep up then.”

He hands Shane the glass, tops it off. A challenge. He doesn’t know why he’s being this way. Cruel. He figures if he shows Shane who he really is then he will walk away with no regrets. It’s happening and he can’t stop it and he’s watching himself from the ceiling.

Shane stares at him then shoots the vodka. He coughs. Some alcohol dribbles down his chin. Ilya wants to wipe it away with his tongue but he doesn’t even sit.

Shane looks crushed. “I can leave.”

“No.” But Ilya doesn’t say more. He doesn’t know what he wants anymore.

“I’m gonna leave.”

“Don’t make me beg Shane.”

“Beg? What are you talking about? I’m the one that begs, Ilya! You make me fucking beg. And now you say it’s not fair to me!”

“I am right. I was not fair to you.” He says this as fact. And Shane is indignant. “It’s not up to you to decide for me. I decide. I wanted this. I’m not some little fucking kid. I want this!”

“You don’t know what you want.”

“Fuck you. I want you…” But Shane’s eyes are wet now, and Ilya’s no stranger to wanting things that hurt you.

“Shane you do not want me, you want sex with someone that can make you not think. You can find this with someone else.”

“That’s not it.”

“Come on, yes it is. I am your biggest rival on the ice, this is just a way for us to keep competing off the ice, no? It is a distraction. A release from the pressure.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You said this! Your words!”

“Yeah, but I—that’s not what I meant!”

“Hollander, you don’t even like me.”

Shane snorts like a racehorse. “You really are high.” Ilya waves his vodka glass at him. “Drunk, whatever.”

“I think I am right.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you do.”

A detente cools the room. Shane stews inwardly, fingers twisting at the skin on his forearms, which Ilya tries to ignore. He pours himself another glass of vodka, but sips this one slowly, trying to remember what he’d just said in his big speech. What he’d said about Russia. Could he take it back? Explain himself better. Whatever he’d said had led Shane to the impossible conclusion that he could make some other choice. Choose some other motherland. Choose to be someone else, from somewhere else. The vodka was helping him remember the bitter truth.

On the bed, Shane exhales a burst of air. “You know, you took my virginity and then you didn’t answer a text from me for half a year.” Ilya gags. “…And maybe I sound like a bitch for caring, but I think you care too. I think if you didn’t care you would have just told me it was over. To stop texting. You wouldn’t have followed me into that bathroom tonight. You wouldn’t have kissed me.”

Shane’s got him there.

And he’s not done. “Maybe you don’t care about me. But you want me. You want whatever this is just as much as me… and we could have it. Not all the time, but a handful of times a season and it could be good for both of us, but you’d have to be a fucking human being and come off your mountaintop and not treat me like I’m some puck bunny on the road. Because I’m gonna be in your life, whether you like it or not. You could treat me with a little respect.”

Ilya groans. “Shane, you will get a girlfriend and forget all about me.”

Shane is apoplectic. And he’s not sure why this has set him off over everything, but he’s on his feet now. “What are you talking about, Rozanov!?”

And Ilya meets him in the middle of the room, stares directly into his eyes. “This is not good for us!” And points between their heaving chests as if to say see, I raise your BPM past bedtime. Then he turns his back on Shane.

“You’re wrong! You don’t even know how wrong you are!”

“I am bad for you, Hollander.”

“That’s so patronizing.”

“Is the truth. I am bad influence.”

And to prove the point he grabs his cigarettes and makes for the balcony. Don’t follow me. Don’t follow me. Please follow me.

He turns to slide the door closed and is relieved to see Shane marching towards him, blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He’s steaming still and it annoys Ilya how much he adores Shane mad. And he’s got the vodka bottle and glass in his hand. God damn it.

Shane shuts the balcony behind him and sits down, makes a big show of pouring himself more vodka and shooting it while Ilya lights his cigarette.

“It’s too late to keep drinking.”

“I’m not some innocent kid you’re gonna defile, Rozanov.”

“No, you are responsible adult who wouldn’t be taking drugs and drinking vodka and inhaling secondsmoke and having gay sex if it wasn’t for the bad influence of your Russian nemesis.”

“It was my Canadian teammates that got me high, for the record.”

“I know, Shane. You can do whatever you want. But you are very valuable to the league. And you love hockey. And being with me threatens everything you’ve worked for.”

“Why are you being such a pussy?”

Ilya coughs his smoke out. Offended and impressed.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’re acting like my fucking mom or my coach. Why can’t you just be the hot guy I fuck.” And with this he tilts his chin up and breaks into a fucking grin.

Ilya is incredulous. “Wow Hollander. This is your tactic? Reduce me to object?”

“Play to your ego.”

Ilya scoffs. He lets out a long exhale of smoke that wafts over to Shane, who, if he’s not mistaken, inhales it through his nose.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. It’s called secondhand smoke by the way.” And Ilya loves the way there’s no judgement in this correction. “Can I have a drag?”

“No, Hollander.”

“Fuck you, mom.”

“Why are you doing this? What are you trying to prove? That you’re not boring?”

“It’s the off season. I’m in Vegas drinking vodka and on ecstacy with a guy I hook up with occasionally and I want a cigarette.”

“Guy you hook up with occasionally.”

“Hooked up with. I guess.” He squints at him, challenging him to confirm or deny this development.

Ilya hands him the cigarette instead. Shane takes a baby drag, coughs immediately, tries to swallow it, but his nose scrunches in alarm. A flash of disappointment in his eyes sends a punch to Ilya’s gut. Shane's let himself down. It’s all over his face. He’s never smoked before. And he intended to never smoke. He’s only doing this to prove something to Ilya. What exactly? Prove that he can be as miserable and self sabotaging as him? Shane’s always doing things he normally wouldn’t do with and for him. What kind of a relationship is this? Ilya is a contaminant in Shane’s life. He’s a stain on the otherwise clean record of Shane Hollander’s perfect existence.

“What?” Shane asks.

And Ilya reaches over and plucks the cigarette from his fingers and flicks it off the balcony.

“Hey, I wasn’t done with that.”

“Yes, you were.”

Shane’s eyes shrink, his lip trembles. His fingers make a barely perceptible reach towards the vodka glass. And Ilya stares at him, imploring him not to go for it.

There’s no denying it, Ilya is bad for Shane. He has to end this. “I need to go to sleep.”

Shane’s eyes dart to Ilya’s, scanning his retinas for any and all subtext. But the vodka and nicotine have done their job and Ilya knows his features have settled to their familiar stoicism, hazy and unreadable. “I will shower first.” He stands carefully, adjusting to his new level of intoxication, and slides the balcony door open, pausing before stepping inside.

Ilya knows he doesn’t deserve any more of the man’s time, but for some reason he desperately wants to invite Shane to shower with him. No amount of vodka can mute his truth, he still wants Shane at the molecular level, beyond reason. He won’t put words to more of his selfish desires, after a night of pure rapaciousness, but, standing there in the doorway, he does will his body to magnetize Shane to his side. The need and the want vibrate within him, and he can feel the same resonance vibrating through Shane. If only he could draw them together through osmosis. He couldn’t be blamed then, if it’s just biology. Ilya sighs, lingering another moment, before stepping inside. This time, Shane doesn’t follow.

~~~

As the shower warms up, Ilya brushes his teeth. He left the door cracked, but no one walks through. Stupidly, he places one of the suite’s plastic wrapped toothbrushes next to his toothpaste on the counter. In case Shane decides to stay. Which he won’t.

In the shower Ilya has to steady himself against the wall. His head is swimming and he feels an exhaustion setting in that he usually associates with winters in Russia when the sun barely rises at all. Seasonal Affective Disorder Svetlana had told him it was called. He’d told her America was making her soft. He’s not allowed to be soft. He cranks the water temp so hot his skin burns. The steam is making him lightheaded, but the burn is neutering his racing thoughts. All that gets through on a loop is: Shane tonight. Moscow tomorrow. An unforgiving Morse code. Ilya stumbles under the shower head and looks up, forcing himself to open his eyes and mouth and wash away anything that remains. He gags and spits on the shower floor. A pit in his stomach takes shape that the water cannot penetrate.

Ilya towels off quickly. He’s half expecting Shane to be gone already, but he still needs to know. He pads to the bedroom and his chest aches when he sees Shane’s crumpled form lying on the bed turned to face the wall. He must have fallen asleep. As gingerly as possible he settles on the bed next to him, cursing himself for how much vodka he drank. He thinks if he wakes him, this night really does come to a close. Shane tonight, Moscow tomorrow.

But Shane, sweet Shane’s, not asleep. He turns and kisses Ilya's shoulder. Barely a hello or a goodbye. The kind of kiss you absentmindedly give your spouse to acknowledge your proximity. It’s as entitled as it is devoted. Ilya wants to scoop him into his arms and fall asleep wrapped together like a pair of socks. But he’s bone tired from this night, this entire year. Fighting with Shane has taken every last drop of energy he had. And that kiss, so gentle, has leveled him. He lies stiff as a board. He already feels 6 feet under so might as well assume the position. And Shane doesn’t seem to notice Ilya’s restraint, or if he does, he ignores it. He just gets up and walks to the bathroom. A minute later Ilya hears the shower turn on again.

A swirl of relief and fear and yearning pushes Ilya further into the mattress, he can barely lift his legs to tuck them under the blanket. His brain is woozy with vodka and throbs, probably from the molly. He can feel his pulse in his temples. He dimly senses that Shane is taking his time in the shower. The thought arrives like pain. The pain of the clock winding down. There’s not enough time for Shane to share his bed. He’ll have to sneak back into his hotel room. He’ll have to leave. Ilya will wake up alone. He dozes off to this thought.

~~~

When Ilya comes to, he’s been dreaming of a snow angel. Shane stretched out on a blanket of snow, rolling his limbs back and forth to form wings.

He feels his legs being spread apart. Brushes of kisses on his abdomen. The sweep of eyelashes on his groin. He reaches his hand under the covers and feels dizzy at what he finds. Damp hair, firm shoulders, a cheek he knows immediately is covered in freckles.

“Hollander, what are you doing?”

He feels pressure as Shane nuzzles into his groin.

“Shane…?”

And suddenly there he is, from under the covers, panting, kissing up Ilya’s neck.

“I’m not leaving until you fuck me, Rozanov.” Ilya lets out a whimper. This cannot be real. Shane cannot be real. He must be dreaming. “But I’m not gonna beg.”

And it’s Ilya who whines. His head is spinning. “I’m drunk,” Ilya chokes out.

“So what.” Ilya can taste Shane’s desire as his lips and tongue force their way into his mouth. The minty taste mixing with his sleepiness and their shared exhaustion to create an entirely new cocktail, the one that will finally send him over the edge. He won’t survive tonight.

“Shaaane, I’m useless right now. This is not what you want,” he pants.

Shane matches his groan and grabs Ilya’s hand, squeezing around three of his fingers, he drags them behind his ass, following the furl until—Ilya’s breath chokes. Shane’s opened himself up already. He must have done it in the shower.

Shane’s eyes look like a shark’s. “Are you gonna fuck me or not?”

And tears form in Ilya’s eyes as he feels his dick swell underneath Shane’s heavy weight. He completely fucked this night. Shane is on top of him, open like a flower, and he’s already sunken into the place he can’t crawl out of. “I don’t think I can. I’m so tired,” he mutters. He hates himself for admitting his weakness.

“Then I’ll do all the work.” A sob is seized in the back of Ilya’s throat, but he’s helpless as Shane pulls out the lube and strip of condoms from his dopp kit.

“Shane.”

“I said I’m not gonna beg, Ilya.”

But he is. He’s begging Ilya to do something he promised he would not. Ilya is just a void, raw and empty and Shane is so clean and pure on top of him. The sadness is seeping in and he doesn’t want to spoil Shane. He wants to retreat, to curl up and hide away in the dark where he belongs. He doesn’t want to be seen like this. But Shane opened himself up for him. All night he’s been so open. So brave.

Before Ilya can admit to himself he can’t deny Shane anything, Shane squirts some lube on his fingers and slowly strokes, once, twice, up and down on Ilya’s dick. And that’s it. It’s decided. His body decided for him. His body wants Shane so badly, he’s almost angry that his dick won’t lie for him. He wants to tell Shane to leave, to save himself, but instead he grows painfully hard at Shane’s touch. And he shudders when he releases him to tear the condom with his teeth.

“You can tell me to stop.” Shane looks at him, eyes glistening, condom hanging from his fingertips. He looks powerful, almost menacing, totally in control. Ilya isn’t sure what his face looks like, but there’s enough acquiescence for Shane to begin rolling the condom over his now rock hard dick.

“Lie back and don’t do anything.”

Ilya cries out as Shane mounts him, sinking down on his cock, claiming him entirely. They’ve never done it this way, Shane on top. Ilya feels helpless and worthless and surrenders to the feeling. Don’t do anything. Don’t be anything. Just a hard cock for him to ride.

And Shane begins slowly pumping up and down. The grip of his ass dragging so languidly around Ilya’s dick he feels his spine tingle.

“Jesus Christ,” Shane moans. “Missed this. Fuck.” He looks at Ilya and bites his lip. Something dark flashes in his eyes and Ilya is stupefied. “Fuck you—for denying me—I know–you love this too.”

Ilya nods vigorously, too dumb to speak. He can feel tears start to leak down his cheeks. And Shane sees them too. He leans down and licks them back up. Ilya leans up to kiss him, but Shane holds him down, both palms on his chest, grinding harder.

“Fuck, Shane.”

“What’s that?”

Shane lifts off his dick enough to risk slipping out, before mercilessly crashing back down, swallowing him to the hilt.

“You’re so fucking hard for me. Always, Rozanov.” Ilya nods again, feeling used, but he doesn’t mind. He deserves this. And Shane deserves to know how much he wants him, even if he’s a coward who can’t say it.

“Tell me—you didn’t—miss this—!”

And somewhere Ilya finds the strength to lift his hips and meet Shane’s grind, changing the angle enough to drill his prostate. Shane moans and moans, taking it so beautifully, Ilya is in awe, before he collapses onto Ilya’s chest, pausing for a second, catching his breath.

And Ilya knows he’s supposed to lie there, but he can’t help but squeeze his arms around Shane’s back, crushing their chests together. He kisses along his jaw, his cheek, his temple. Shane tightens around him, squeezes his hole around his cock.

“You feel so good, Shane. Always. I think of this. Always.”

And Shane stills. He slowly lifts his head, his eyes searching for Ilya’s, steely resolve replaced with a new softness. Shane looks at him in that way. Reverent. And it both mesmerizes and breaks Ilya’s heart.

“We could have had this all season.”

And a bullet hole would hurt less, but Ilya finds the strength to grind his hips into Shane, desperate to melt the look on his face into one of pleasure again.

“Fuck, Ilya, don’t stop.” Shane’s rocking back into him, dazed and fuck drunk. The past looks like it’s melting away. Ilya prays it’s leaving him.

Shane’s eyes close, and he starts to hum. Deep inhales and exhales that come out as rumbles. He’s existing purely in sensation now. Ilya remembers this from Montreal. Shane’s close to his orgasm. He’s rocking up and down rhythmically, but he’s not thinking. And good. He shouldn’t have to think. Ilya can give him this. Ilya wants to give him everything, wants to give him the world. He wants, he wants, he wants…

Shane doesn’t open his eyes, but he leans down and kisses Ilya. Or rather he just places his open mouth on his mouth and hums into it steadily. Ilya breathes him in as he holds their tempo.

And it occurs to him that this is exactly what he’s been afraid of all along. There is a word for what Ilya feels in this moment. It’s a word that’s become synonymous with a darkened room, an empty glass, a metro ride home late at night, alone, the lake by his grandparents house, frozen over, the layer of dust on his mama’s jewelry box, the hairs on his forearms sticking up for no reason. The word has always led him to solitude and loss and he won’t let himself feel that now, not when he has something firm and solid pinning him in place. He doesn’t want to feel this with Shane. He knows what happens when he feels too much. Things are ripped from him.

“Ilya, I’m close…”

Shane lifts his head to look into his eyes. “Can you come for me?”

Ilya feels bereft. He wants so many things he can’t have. “I don’t think I can, lyubimy, but I want you to feel good.”

He reaches up and holds Shane’s jaw between his thumb and pointer finger. He knows the least he can do is show him how much he desires him, meeting every one of Shane’s drops with his hardest thrust as Shane chases his orgasm. And just like before he takes in every cell of Shane’s face as he gazes up at him. So beautiful, body held upright like a statue, face frozen in mournful bliss, as he crests the top of his wave of pleasure.

Ilya grasps hold of Shane’s dick, bobbing in between them and tugs it firmly.

“Please, Ilya, God…”

And with one pump, Shane begins spurting in Ilya’s hand and the moan that rips from his lungs is unlike anything he’s ever heard before, it sounds divine, inhuman, and Shane clenches around Ilya and he’s so overwhelmed by having Shane everywhere, filling all his senses, before he realizes it, he’s coming harder than he’s ever come before, pulsing relentlessly into Shane’s warmth.

“Shaaaane—“

The crescendo of Shane’s name on Ilya’s lips is followed up by an unadulterated sob. Remorse replacing ecstacy in an instant, their shared orgasm signaling the true and harrowing end to their evening together. Tonight has become tomorrow.

Until suddenly, Shane is breathing down on him, a look of concern wiping away his post-climax veil. “Ilya?” Shane is all furrowed brow and worried eyes and he’s not making any moves to separate, so there’s nowhere for Ilya to hide.

Ilya looks up at him and feels the tears welling. One more honest thing, before the night is through: “I don’t—I don’t want to go home.”

Oh. Shane’s lips part. “I know. I know.”

And he gathers Ilya into his arms just as the tears really begin to fall.

~~~

They fall asleep like that. Ilya in Shane’s arms, collapsed on their sides, but still tangled together. Pillow and sheets tear and cum-stained. Shane dragging his fingernails through Ilya’s curls until his breathing steadied, until his eyes dried, until he slipped back under. Ilya will never know how long Shane stayed.

When he wakes up, the bed is empty. He’s alone.

The sun pokes through the edges of the blackout shades. He reaches for his phone and sees his alarm is set to go off in half an hour. But there’s no way he can fall back asleep. He’s too hungover and something else much worse that he’ll have to sort out.

He cries on the floor of the shower so hard he throws up. Vodka and bile. He zips his suitcase and when he’s at the door of the bedroom he takes one last look around at the empty bottles and soiled sheets. With a shaky hand he pockets the key card to the suite. He doesn’t plan on returning it.

Later at the airport he’s on edge, his body knows he won’t see Shane, he can feel their tether stretching. Shane is already gone. His stomach is in knots. He ignores a volley of congratulatory texts. He sends Marly to voicemail. He dry heaves in the bathroom again. Pulls his hoodie up over his curls at the sink after splashing his face with water. His reflection surprises him. He looks younger than he remembered. He feels young and foolish.

When he sits back down at the gate all he can do is pray he’ll make it onto the plane before breaking down again. His phone buzzes.

Jane: Are you feeling okay?

How the fuck is he supposed to answer that? No Shane, I think I may be dying from withdrawal. The intercom clicks on for first class boarding. Ilya pops up, suddenly desperate to have this conversation from the privacy of his seat. It takes him the length of the gangway, but he finally drafts and sends:

Lily: Yes and no. Tired.

Too immediately, Shane replies:

Jane: Same. Will probably sleep the whole plane ride.

Lily: I should have made us go to bed earlier.

Jane: I didn’t make it easy on you.

Ilya should make a joke here. He knows the script. His thumbs hover over the keyboard but his mind is a dull chasm. He shoves his phone back in his pocket to stuff his carry-on in the overheard compartment before collapsing into his window seat. He’s overcome with a soul clenching weariness. Shane is texting him. Despite everything that happened last night he’s still reaching out. He often gets weepy on planes, but usually at elevation. It’s too early but the tears are beginning to sting. His phone buzzes again.

Jane: I’m sorry if I said a bunch of crazy shit last night. I was really fucked up.

Lily: Is okay, I was too.

Then. Because he wants to give them both an out.

Lily: I probably don’t remember it all.

Jane: Oh.

Jane: Sorry if I took advantage or put you in a bad situation.

Ilya immediately regrets lying. He remembers everything. He sighs and forces himself to distill all that happened between them into something palatable and not terrifying for Shane. For Hollander.

Lily: Stop apologizing. I invited you to my room. We got high. I have big emo dark night of the soul with my biggest rival. Two orgasms I will never forget. It was fun.

Fun might be the least appropriate word for what had transpired between them last night, but the rest is true.

Jane: Okay. Thanks for babysitting me I guess.

Nope. Shane had him beat. ‘Babysitting’ is worse.

Lily: ‘Thank you’ no better than apology.

Ilya wonders where all these Canadian manners had disappeared to last night. He curses and praises the molly. His mind drifts to the hotel suite, to the intimacy of having Hollander all to himself, in that state. He realizes that’s the longest amount of time they’ve spent with each other uninterrupted. What a disaster. A few more passengers trickle down the plane aisle. He’s about to leave Vegas. His phone buzzes.

Jane: I don’t know what to say.

Lily: I have this problem too.

The ellipsis blinks on and off. For what feels like minutes. The flight attendants close the doors. The plane starts to wheel onto the tarmac. Finally:

Jane: See you next season Rozanov.

Lily: Have a good summer Hollander.

Jane: You too.

The flight attendant performs the safety demonstration. He pantomimes putting on your oxygen mask before helping your partner. Ilya’s phone buzzes again. He looks down and smiles, because Shane Hollander is nothing but an angel in hockey player drag.

Jane: You’ll be back here before you know it.

Ilya types, ‘I will miss you.’ And deletes it. The runway blurs out his window. He stares at their messages. Willing more from Shane because he’s greedy. It doesn’t come. The plane rises into the air, the bars of service on his phone tick down as the Vegas Strip shrinks below. He thinks he can spot their hotel. The penthouse where he fell asleep in Shane’s arms. He turns his phone on airplane mode and lets his heavy lids blanket his bleary eyes. When he wakes up he hopes he’s in Montreal, but knows he’ll be in Moscow.