Chapter Text
The afternoon is going remarkably well, and Ilya’s not only saying that because he just came his brains out at record speed.
There’s a little something extra in the air today - some sort of Chicago magic or something mixed up in all that snow falling past the window.
Realistically, he guesses it could be leftover adrenaline from their win against the Hawks yesterday.
Or maybe it is just post-nut euphoria.
Or maybe it’s because Hollander’s here.
“Jesus Christ…” comes his fucked out, winded declaration next to Ilya, cheeks still red as he slings an arm over his eyes to cool down. And Ilya tries not to think too hard about the fact that Shane’s only here right now, in bed with him, because he switched the flight home from his own game to take a layover in Chicago.
He’s been trying not to think about it the whole time, actually. Trying not to fixate. But it’s difficult. Ilya’s a disciplined man, yes, but not all the time and especially not when it comes to Shane Hollander acting in ways that surprise him.
It’s all very unceremonious. He could be in Montreal right now - home sweet home - doing his strange little routines.
But he’s not.
He’s in Ilya’s hotel bed. After pulling an expressly non-Shane Hollander move.
And if he thinks about it for one more second, there’s a horrifying chance for dots to connect that maybe shouldn’t right now and-
Ping!
The quiet mumble from beside him pulls Ilya back into the present, but not as much as how Shane drags himself up and over, happy as a clam to drape himself sideways along Ilya’s chest so he can grab his phone off the nightstand.
Heavy. Sweaty. A little awkward. But Ilya finds it hard to give him shit when it presents him with this front row seat, plenty of space to sweep over blushy freckles…fingertips lazily mapping down smooth shoulders as Shane stays slumped over him to read the notification…
Damn… Did he say this afternoon is going remarkably well already?
“Oh shit…”
Well… Okay that doesn’t sound too good.
Ilya continues to trail his fingers up and down, but tilts his head forward a bit, immediately curious.
Because Hollander’s finally doing some Hollander shit. Is freezing up on top of him, nothing but the lines beginning to pinch between his eyebrows as his thumb scrolls a thousand miles a minute.
“Shit.”
Okay, he’ll bite. “What.”
But the answer he gets is less than helpful - just sudden movement, the sheets pulling off as Hollander lugs himself completely away until he’s sitting up with his phone, all the way on the other side of the bed.
Okay, this is getting less fun.
Ilya suppresses an eye roll, but the tiny dip in his chest is not so easy to control. “Hollander, what.”
Another flurry of scrolling. “I need to-... …uh…” And then nothing… Nothing… Nothing…
For fuck’s sake.
Ilya huffs, grabbing the phone out of his hand because that’s enough patience. He’s waited plenty, he thinks.
Off in his peripherals, Hollander pulls himself out of bed, running a hand through his astoundingly post-fuck hair as Ilya takes it upon himself to read the words displayed on the screen.
Air Canada
CHICAGO (ORD) → MONTRÉAL (YUL) AC 8958
Flight Cancellation: Inclement Weather
…right.
Okay?
“So you find other flight.”
As if he just insulted his mother, Hollander whips around. “There are no other flights. You think I’d be like this if there were other flights?”
Ilya's pretty sure Hollander doesn’t want to know what he thinks. And he thinks he also doesn’t realize he’s still naked. Well, except for his socks.
“I can’t be stuck in Chicago, it’s-... I’m not even supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be home by now, fuck-”
“So you are late one day-”
“No - you don’t get it, Rozanov. I’ve got-” he gestures unhelpfully around him. Aborts the apparently very difficult work of stringing together a sentence, instead focusing on snatching his phone away.
Ilya slouches back. Watches, with this strange mixture of endearment and annoyance and pity, as Hollander heads for the en suite bathroom with a deathgrip on his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling my mom.”
Ilya blinks. “...you are five years old?”
“What? No, she’s my-...” The time it takes to shoot Ilya another glare isn’t worth it, Hollander must realize, turning again to stay on course. “Fuck you.”
And then he’s disappearing.
And the door slams.
And Ilya is alone.
“You don’t want clothes…?” he calls out after him, voice ringing against the ceiling.
Silence from the bathroom…
Stillness…
Then, like it finally occurs to him that he does not, in fact, want to be calling his mother naked, Hollander shoves himself back out with just enough time to grab his clothes and then shut himself back in.
Another slam of the door. Crisp this time.
And all at once, everything comes to settle over Ilya, replacing the blanket that was so rudely torn off of him in the most uncomfortable way.
He lays back in the quiet, head hitting the pillow and eyes tracing the ceiling to the tune of the muffled voice behind the door.
“Hey mom… Yeah, I’m okay… …I think we’re gonna have to reschedule some stuff…”
It’s a long call.
Hollander’s in there for what feels like an unreasonable amount of time. Long enough, at least, for Ilya to grow bored of waiting in the damage control wings and make his way back out into the suite’s lounge area.
This is not a ‘fuck it out of him’ situation, he’s disappointed to realize.
Instead, Ilya pulls on the sweatpants and long-sleeve that got left behind on the couch earlier. Revisits the welcome basket that he never touched yesterday, then the hotel’s amenities list on the island counter. Not that he needs a distraction. Just that it’s becoming more obvious what the near-future holds for the two of them, despite how half of them is approaching it kicking and screaming.
Except…
That’s not really fair. Is it.
Having to rearrange his strange little routines? Being forced to stay somewhere he doesn’t want to be? Of course Hollander’s freaking out - inspiring visions of him sat up on the edge of the bathtub or something as he sorts shit out with his mother.
Ilya doesn’t understand that completely - their setup - but he doesn’t have to. It’s not his business. Like always, he has his own shit to deal with. And he’s better at it too. Like always.
It’s only when the shower cuts off in the next room that Ilya starts to feel the curl of anxiety beginning to work inside him too, somehow contagious from a room away.
But he steadies himself.
Keeps it casual, elbows against the island’s marble while he browses the lunch options.
And when Hollander emerges from the bedroom, it’s with wet hair and tight lips, his carefully selected travel clothes back in place.
Ilya lets things hang for a moment, unsure where in the limbo of panic his counterpart currently hangs.
Hmm… “How is mommy…?”
Waters tested and registering luke-warm. Clearly Hollander’s not quite as deep in it as before, because he has time to address the comment with a touchy - “Weird. Don’t say it like that.” - before continuing with his original answer. “She thinks I’m still in Colorado.”
Ilya nods, his sliver of true curiosity immediately quenched.
But of course, the explanations are far from over. “As far as she knows, my original flight got grounded. No layover - no harm, no foul.” He’s shuffling across the lounge area. Directionless. Too much effort to track, Ilya returning to the menu in front of him as he continues. “There’s no practice tomorrow at least. Couldn’t explain my way outta that one, unless I faked sick or something.”
“Mm.”
“Reebok isn’t gonna care about pushing, but I’m gonna have to do the other one on Zoom.”
“...”
“And-... Fuck, I forgot about that magazine…” Constant forward motion. Wrapping his brain around the new plan before he spirals off the face of the planet. That very unique brand of irritation that’s reserved for Ilya when he says it, without stopping. “You’re not even listening.”
Ilya finishes reading the description for the club sandwich and then glances up, uninterested. “I did not ask for full itinerary.” Because he didn’t. For the record.
Not that Shane cares. “Okay well-…I’m sorry. Some of us actually have shit to do. A-...a schedule to follow, fuck.” And then finally, as if he’s beginning to wear himself out, his forward momentum stalls somewhere between the island and the couch - hands on his hips and a huff from his lungs - distracted by Ilya just enough now that it occurs to him to step out of his predetermined path to question him. “What are you doing?”
Ilya isn’t really watching, per se. He can just feel it all happening, not even needing to look up from the piece of paper sprawled out for him on the counter. “Room service.”
A beat. Disbelief. “Now?”
“Fucking you makes me hungry - yes, now.”
And it’s pained, the way Shane says it. Like he’s annoyed but not surprised. “Unbelievable…”
Ilya will be hearing a lot of that in the next twenty four hours, he assumes. “What do you want?”
“A snowplow.”
“I mean from menu, Hollander.” Jesus. “Food, you know?”
“What, you’re gonna order two meals?” Here we go… “Isn’t that-... They’ll know someone else is in here with you.”
“So?”
“So.”
“Big hockey player,” Ilya reasons. “I eat a lot. Enough for two. This is what they’ll think. Not that Shane Hollander is hiding behind corner like a child.”
“I’m not-...” Another huff, and then he’s easing back into motion, choosing a new path to the floor-to-ceiling windows stretched over the back wall. “Whatever.”
Ilya watches this time, eyes trailing over the silhouette he casts against the whiteout of the city.
He’s holding all his tension in his shoulders right now. Does nothing but make it more noticeable as he crosses his arms, frame rising and falling noticeably with each breath.
Contagious restlessness.
Beside him, Ilya’s phone lights up with a notification, drawing his attention back down.
United Airlines
CHICAGO (ORD) → BOSTON (BOS) UA 2067
Flight Cancellation: Inclement Weather
Right…
With a sniff and a decided push of the notification up off his screen, he sets back into motion, walking the unsettled feeling all the way to the room phone nestled on the table by the television.
“Yes…” he says when the line is picked up. “I will be ordering room service.”
He’s closer to Hollander now. From here, Ilya can’t help but be a little captivated by the starkness of his profile meeting the bright white before them. How he seems to try to shrink into it - disappear - despite having the bulk and stature of a professional hockey player.
It’d be pretty if it wasn’t so pitiful.
“Club sandwich, please. No lettuce.” Ilya leans against the table, listening to his order being taken down. “Yes. Also, salmon filet. With vegetables.”
Across the room, Hollander stirs at that, gaze lifting out the window in recognition before silently, secretly, casting it in Ilya’s direction.
But Ilya is already moving on. He doesn’t have the energy to sort through tragic puppydog eyes and shy bewilderment on the sweetest face he’s ever seen. That’s more of a ‘seconds before they tear each other’s clothes off’ thing.
He sets the phone back onto the receiver. Heads to the counter to grab his own. Tosses a look toward the windows, but Hollander has drawn back into himself by now, shoulders tense as before.
“I’ll be back, Hollander,” he says anyway, slipping his shoes on at the door. “Do not jump while I am away. Pricey upcharge for blood.”
He stuffs his wallet into his pocket.
Opens the door.
Gives one more glance back.
No answer.
It’s not a bad hotel to be stuck in.
Ilya’s been put up here more than once for Chicago games over the years, and he’s definitely seen worse.
There’s plenty of space. The gym is great. It’s not too far from a handful of decent clubs, either, when the spirit rises.
The spirit will not be rising in the foreseeable future, he realizes as he exits the elevator and takes on the long stretch of polished flooring to get to the front desk. And even if it did, getting a ride would be a nightmare all on its own, that much clear by all the slushy-shoed shouting currently happening by the hotel’s main doors.
No. Any rising spirits will have to get dealt with upstairs. With Hollander. In his room.
“1821,” specifically. “Need to stay another night. Maybe two.”
The young woman behind the excessively long front desk nods and then sets to work on her computer, red lips curling in a cordial, customer friendly smile. “All this snow, right? So many flights are being canceled.”
“Mm. Yes.” He might’ve heard.
Fingers tap away at the keys, prolonging what feels like an already lifelong event when he can feel eyes at the back of his head.
Ilya keeps his attention forward.
Runs his thumb over the corner of his phone in his pocket.
Glances at the nametag pinned with absolute precision on the woman’s lapel.
Monica.
“Alright, Mr. Rozanov, let’s see…” she says finally, scrolling through something Ilya can’t get eyes on before- “Oh. It looks like someone just booked that suite for tomorrow in the rush. Let me see if there’s another I can set you up in.” It’s barely out of her mouth before she looks up at him - seems to see something nailed in his demeanor that English could never touch - fixes her face, very quickly. “Orrr, I can let them know that suite is no longer available.”
Ilya smiles and it’s tight. No teeth. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” More tapping. “No reason to move you around if you’re already settled, right?”
“Yes.”
Visions are already unfolding for him in his head, in fact - packing up all his shit and trying to coax a skittish Shane Hollander into a new room with all his shit.
It’s just not happening.
“Alright, we’re all set, Mr. Rozanov,” Monica confirms with another smile. “Your confirmation details have been emailed to you. We’re happy to have you extend your stay with us.”
Ilya nods, feeling all the more uptight for it somehow. “Good. Thank you.”
And then he’s moving.
By the time Ilya makes it back up to 1821, there’s a rolling tray waiting outside in the hallway.
With a swipe of his keycard, he hip checks the door open, guiding the wheels into the room with only one bump that gets cutlery clattering.
If it draws the attention of his new, temporary roommate, he doesn’t know it. Because Hollander is nowhere to be found.
Whatever.
Ilya pulls the tray over to the long dining room table by the back wall, definitely not grabbing a quick check of the closed bedroom door on his way.
The water comes first - pitcher…clear, spotless glasses. Then the plates - two of them. Ilya sets them on the table and removes the metal covers, avoiding the plume of steam that unfurls from the salmon.
He sits facing the bedroom door.
For no reason.
Gets at least a fourth of his club sandwich down before the thought begins to form in his head… The decision…
And then the bedroom door opens.
He’s not sure what, but something tells Ilya to keep his attention low. To focus on his sandwich instead of the movement that hovers, unsure, and then approaches without a sound.
When Hollander makes it to the table, he can damn near hear the thoughts dialing up in there. Which is what makes it so satisfying when he reaches for the plate of salmon, but doesn’t get very far before Ilya’s reaching out to pull it back with both hands.
“No no - both for me,” Ilya insists with his best serious face, “since you said nothing to me when I asked.”
It’s way too easy.
Literally impossible not to cave and watch the show as Shane backpedals in front of him, “Oh… Um…” stiffly shuffling through the five stages of mortification in the way only he can, “I uh-…”
They should study this guy, he thinks. The scientists.
But, “Joking,” Ilya teases with a grin, barely able to keep the ruse up for a few seconds when Shane’s looking so frazzled on the other side of the table - cheeks heated…hands to himself…eyes dry but ringed with pink when they hadn’t been before Ilya left for the front desk…
…oh.
“Only a joke,” he says again because he needs to for some reason, sliding the plate in Hollander’s direction for good measure. “For you. Eat, if you want.”
And it really could go either way. But there’s a direction he’d much rather see this slide.
Luckily, it’s the direction Hollander arrives at as he huffs out a quiet laugh, annoyed but undeniably playful. “You’re such an asshole...”
“Maybe.” Or maybe he’ll speak up and tell him what he wants next time.
Either way, it’s a breath of fresh air, Ilya’s chest lightening as he watches the salmon plate disappear to the other side of the room. Like maybe they’ve made it through to the other side. Maybe things can go back to normal now. Maybe this won’t be both the longest and most tragic amount of time they’ve ever spent together.
A man can dream.
From his new spot further away, Hollander sits on the couch, facing Ilya but not looking.
He doesn’t need to.
Ilya can hear his faint admission perfectly clear.
“Thanks…”
He swallows his bite, reaching leisurely for the water glass. “You’re welcome.”
“I can uh-… How much was it-”
“Shut up, Hollander.” They’re so past that it’s embarrassing. “Eat your fish.”
In all reality, he should be looking for another flight.
Ilya knows this.
He should be doing some sort of planning, even if it’s only an eighth of the amount of planning Hollander’s doing.
Because he hasn’t stopped, believe it or not. The only break he took was to preciously scoot some broccoli around with his fork and then seal his leftovers away in the suite’s fridge.
Ilya chooses not to weigh in on it.
He’s not his mother.
Who has called three separate times, by the way.
Ilya chooses not to weigh in on that either. There’s no point. Hollander’s gonna do what Hollander’s gonna do - he’s a bit of a huge, stubborn asshole like that, God love him.
But that doesn’t mean Ilya isn’t tempted. Especially when he grows bored of his own phone and decides to default over to the next available one, collapsing next to Hollander on the couch for a peek.
Prices…
Amenities…
Availability…
Wait a minute.
“What’s this.”
Next to him, Hollander shifts, no doubt feeling the befuddlement rolling off of Ilya in waves. “Looking for hotels,” he mutters. “Something close.”
…okay. “...forrr…?”
“W-… I mean…where am I supposed to stay?”
Ilya’s head rears back a bit, like the question has swung at him and barely missed. Because what the fuck?
He offers his hands out in explanation, motioning around the current hotel room Hollander’s very much in. Already. Hello? “The salmon is that bad here…?”
“No… I just…”
“You just what?”
“I didn’t wanna assume.”
“Assume what?”
“That you’d want me to stay.”
And it’s all getting to be too much. Hollander is getting to be too much - for Ilya’s patience and his heart and his already razor-thin string of self control.
Jesus Christ, this guy.
The most harried sigh known to mankind barrels from Ilya as he grabs at Hollander’s shoulders, lugging him backwards until he’s collapsed into him against the couch because that’s enough. He’ll force him to disengage - give him no other choice when he’s tucked up into Ilya’s side like this.
“You exhaust me, Shane Hollander. Are you not exhausted?”
From under his arm comes the admission, honest and frail. “Almost always...”
It’s got this horrific way of wrapping around Ilya’s chest and tugging him in - tugging him off-center - making him tug it all in closer, ignoring the little voice of reality warning him, until his forehead has settled into Hollander’s hair, mouth brushing against the top of his ear. “Too polite… Good Canadian boy…” It’s almost kind of sickening, the more he thinks about it - the more he imagines how things would look if it was the other way around. “You would let me stay.”
He can feel Hollander’s skin heating over beneath his lips, even with the way he insists. “I fucking wouldn’t.”
But, “You would.” Because he would. And they both know it. So, “Stay.”
Outside, the snow falls so thickly that the buildings across the street get lost in it. He should be colder, Ilya thinks. At least a little.
And yet, with Hollander tucked up against him like this…
“This is my fault.”
Ilya lets it settle for a moment. Lets his drifting thoughts crystallize around it. Because he can’t possibly be hearing what he thinks he’s hearing. “What?”
“I jinxed it… With my layover-”
Ilya lifts his head away, casting a look down at him that he can’t even begin to describe. “You think big snowstorm happened because you wanted dick?”
Hollander frowns. “N-... No, I-...” Except yes, because that’s exactly what he’s saying. And it must finally click for him too - how absolutely insane that train of thought is - how quickly his misplaced guilt has been clocked and then shut down - of course it has been - because what the hell? “Never mind,” he settles on, cheeks pink. “Fuck off.”
It really is a testament to Hollander’s dedication - his commitment to being the most captivatingly awkward motherfucker on the planet, even when he’s sat up all safe and warm under Ilya’s arm.
Exhausting.
Almost always…
With a little self-aware grumble, Hollander lets his head tilt inward, allowing himself to finally settle back into the touch.
Stiff, but soft…
Cardamom in his shampoo…
“Could be worse…” he mumbles, “Could be stuck with someone who’s not gonna suck your dick.”
And all at once, Ilya can feel it wrapping around him again, tugging out a smile that’s far too easy. “Yes… That would be worse…”
Getting caught up in a cloud of contagious restlessness really fucks with your sense of time.
Ilya realizes this an hour later, while he’s standing alone in front of the huge panes of glass, matching each snowed out, structured glow to the buildings he remembers seeing from this view yesterday.
That’s when it all really starts to set - the sun and the realization that this is it. This is happening.
Hollander is here and Ilya is here and neither of them are leaving. They’re in this. In a way they never have been before, despite being tangled up in each other’s turbulence for years.
It’s enough to get Ilya’s pulse shooting off in all different directions. Heady arousal… Impending doom… Giddy excitement, topped off with some of that restlessness that continues to radiate off Hollander against all odds.
But even that is starting to grow on him, Ilya realizes. Hollander may be stressing him out by proxy, but he almost finds himself enjoying that too. In this confusing, fucked up way. It’s the novelty of it, maybe. Just being around him long enough to experience all the intricacies that make Hollander who he is when he’s off the ice. No longer a captain. No longer on. Just Hollander.
Just Shane. Lost in thought as he stands in front of his suitcase on the bedroom floor, staring down into it like maybe something very interesting is going on inside.
Ilya would be remiss to pass up the opportunity, finding himself no better, as he lingers in the doorway to watch.
“Did an elk smuggle from Colorado in your luggage…?”
It’s enough to startle him a bit. To snag his attention to the doorway for a blink. But then Hollander’s right back where he was, assessing his suitcase with this sense of strangely-placed doom lingering over him. “I’m running out of clothes.”
Ah. That’s it, then.
“Mm. So no clothes. This is how I like you anyway.”
“Rozanov…”
He lets the tease hang a bit. Slumps his shoulder against the doorway, watching the thoughts wrap their way around Hollander’s brain again as he stares down into a suitcase stacked with perfectly folded clothing. “I see plenty.”
“I’ve worn them all.”
“So wear them again.”
“They’re dirty.”
The gradually building pitch and insistence in his voice tells Ilya all he needs to know about where this conversation is going. Exactly nowhere. Not like this. Not when Hollander’s got his mind made up about it already.
So. “Okay,” he agrees lightly. A little nod. And then he’s slipping out from the doorway.
It’s not worth riling him up any more than he is. And Ilya’s not sure he has the patience to navigate a pointless task like that. So, enough. He’ll walk away.
And when the front desk picks up, it’s a familiar voice who greets him on the other end.
“Hello, Monica. You have laundry service, yes?”
The sun has set completely now, which is not a difficult thing to achieve in Chicago during the winter.
With the change in light, comes the change in mood - the stark whiteout replaced with deep, warm golds from the lamps placed strategically around the suite’s lounge.
From his spot on the couch, Ilya lets the vibe of it all sink into him. Embraces it, always more comfortable in dim, sultry honey than arena lighting and ice-white. Even the glow from his phone is a little too much right now - a quick peek at the airport situation - all the red that answers him enough to get his phone shut off for good.
He pulls the hotel’s dinner menu back into his lap. Zones out a bit, to the tune of the shower squeaking off once again.
Not something he’ll weigh in on.
There’s no need.
Just like there’s no need to lift his head when he hears it a moment later - the world seeming to stop spinning one room over, and then the voice that floats out soon after.
“Rozanov… Where are my clothes…”
Predictable. Like the fizz after shaking a Coke. “Laundry…” Ilya answers, making no effort to rise.
The way they showed up while Hollander was in the shower was all very serendipitous, he thinks. Just enough time for him to scoop the helpfully neat stacks of clothing and deposit them with a reminder to consult the tags.
Hollander will appreciate that, at least.
He’s pretty sure.
If he ever speaks again, that is.
Ilya glances up from the menu, met with the confoundingly sexy and pathetic image of Hollander standing there, towel wrapped around his waist and tension wrapped around his shoulders.
Right.
“No need for freakout.”
Hollander steadies himself. “I’m not freaking out-”
But, “You’re freaking out-”
“Okay maybe a little, but like-…”
The rest is cut off by the sheer power of Ilya standing. Each of his steps are watched, Hollander’s posture tightening as he closes the space between them and then-
With a brush of his shoulder, Ilya passes through, not stopping until he grabs the set of clean gym clothes folded up very purposefully at the edge of the bed. His clothes. Ilya’s.
“...you don’t think it’s gonna set off some alarms that Ilya Rozanov has a bunch of Metros stuff?”
Ilya steadies a sigh, and when he returns to Hollander in the lounge, it’s with a sincere hold of his gaze. “What I think, is that people do not pay as much attention as you think they do.” And then he stuffs the clothes against Hollander’s bare stomach, giving him no other option but to reach up and take them. “And I think this is not nice way to say thank you.” Even if he’s swapping one freakout for another.
It’s all very close up now. Ilya can see the water droplets in his hair. The soft rosiness of his skin from the hot water. “Thank you for getting my clothes washed…” Hollander forces out, and yet it doesn’t seem so forced at all.
“You’re welcome.”
“When can I expect them back in my suitcase…”
Ilya shrugs at the near identical delivery of both sentences, turning to saunter his way back to the couch. “An hour? Two? Who knows.”
“I mean, I was hoping you would. Since you’re the one who stole them in the first place.”
And the thing of it is, Ilya already knew before he turned. He knew before he went to get the set of extra clothes that got overlooked in the turbulence. He was never going to make it back onto this couch with the way Hollander’s got a grip around him like this.
Because it’s so clear it hurts. So glaring, as Ilya turns to take him in again, gaze lifting from the obvious allure of his naked torso to settle on the much more interesting attempt at self restraint above all that.
It’d be a shame not to recognize it.
He’s trying so hard not to let this fuck him up over there.
So it’s inevitable, really, when Ilya finds himself right back in front of Hollander. Right up against him. Unable, this time, to stop himself from brushing the pad of his thumb over the warmth of his cheek. “What’s the rush, Hollander…” he murmurs, watching eyelashes flutter. “Where do you have to go?”
And… “Nowhere…” is his answer. Because it’s true. And that’s probably the most intimidating of all. The underlying current. They’re going nowhere. Have nothing, except for the very unavoidable, undeniable pull of the other person.
Ilya allows himself to soothe over Hollander’s freckles one more time. Then, regrettably, he breaks himself free from the trance of clean skin and warm lighting and sincere eyes that overtook him so quickly.
Self restraint doesn’t sound like such a bad idea after all.
“When clothes are done, you will have them. Until then…” He nudges his offering back into Hollander’s stomach. A reminder. A solution. “Or don’t…” he supposes then, allowing himself one more up-down on his way back to the couch. “I like this option better…”
Hollander opts for the former. And Ilya finds, literally instantly, he isn’t the least bit disappointed in the choice.
There is something very satisfying about seeing Hollander wearing his workout clothes. His muscles fill out the fabric so differently. The tanktop is too big for him, but Hollander’s strong - has bulk where it counts - tight, cut shoulders and tasty arms that have Ilya’s mouth watering far before dinner should arrive.
With nothing else to do in this miserable room, he finds his mind wondering… Finds himself curious about how Hollander would look in other sets of his clothes, God help him.
One of his hoodies and track pants…
His black turtleneck…
His jersey, ROZANOV 81 branded across those delicious shoulders.
An embarrassment of riches, all playing free of charge in his mind as he watches Hollander, who moves around the lounge like a gazelle unaware of the lion crouching in the brush a few feet away.
He just looks good, is the thing. Biteable. Maybe pulls it off better than Ilya, when all is said and done.
Ilya won’t tell him this, of course. But he’s got a feeling the sentiment is picked up anyway.
Not eye-fucking Shane Hollander has never been one of his strong suits.
The clean laundry and dinner arrive at the same time, and Ilya has to start wondering if this hotel really is magic.
Not in the ‘fairies and goblins’ way, but in the ‘perfectly lining everything up to spook Hollander the least possible amount’ way.
There has to be something going on, what with the way everything is ready when Ilya opens the door - scoops up the laundry bag - doubles back with an insisting, “Ah- thank you, I will do it,” as the man tries to start wheeling in the dinner tray.
Not that it would’ve been a life or death situation. To his credit, and to no one’s surprise, Hollander has vanished into thin air. They probably could’ve gotten away with it if they had to. But Ilya can just see the look of fiery indignation Hollander would have cooked up for him if he let someone into the room, and he’d rather avoid that.
So avoid that, he does.
And when everything has been secured - when the door has been shut and locked - he lets his voice carry throughout the suite. “Come out, come out, wherever you are…”
Silence.
Stillness.
Nothing, and Christ, maybe Hollander finally jumped out that window.
But then comes the movement - the sound of two doors clicking open - first the en suite, then the bedroom - and then Hollander’s head is popping out, distrustful despite it all.
“Coast is clear,” Ilya reassures. And he’d be more annoyed that he wasn’t immediately trusted on that if it wasn’t for the little kick of excitement he gets when he remembers Hollander’s wearing his clothes.
Oh yeah.
Hot.
It’s enough to get a stupid grin tugging as he watches Hollander pad over to him, taking the laundry bag without a word before squirreling himself away in the bedroom with it.
“Dinner is here also,” he feels the need to remind.
“I heard…” muffled from a room away. “Be there in a sec…”
Satisfied with that, Ilya returns to the table to set up, choosing not to weigh in on whatever Hollander’s doing in there. It’s not his business. He can be weird and endearing if he wants to be. Just as long as-...Ilya’s momentum stalls between the knives and the napkins on the tray.
Maybe he’s in there changing back into his own clothes.
Ah.
Okay, well…
Ilya finishes transferring the food to the table, placing it all perfectly, and convinces himself that he won’t be disappointed if Hollander walks out of that room no longer in his workout fit.
He keeps the lid on the salmon this time.
His steak too.
Fills both of their glasses with water and when the bedroom door opens, his attention lifts with it, immediately locking onto the movement across the suite.
The legs of his gym shorts hang past Hollander’s knees. Still. Paired with white socks now that have been pulled up to his shins. As he walks, Hollander drags one of his clean sweaters over his head, tugging it down over Ilya’s tank top.
It leaves his hair swept up.
Makes him mess his fingers through it habitually, gaze flicking up and then away and then back again, as unsure as how he says it. “What…”
Ilya blinks. Tunes back into the pitcher in his hand and stops the pour a literal second before it flows over the lip of Hollander’s glass and causes a waterfall.
Fuck.
“Food is getting cold,” he answers, and it absolutely is not. It’s piping hot, obviously, with the way he’s starting to sweat just from leaning over it.
Or maybe that’s something else.
Before he can do anything stupid, Ilya sits, containing himself in the space between the table and the back wall.
If Hollander has anything to say about it, he keeps it to himself, seeming more focused on pulling his chair out and sitting across from him without adding a flood onto their blizzard warning.
They remove the metal lids from their plates.
Consult the cutlery.
Hollander spears a lima bean onto his fork that never makes it, his efforts more steered towards sounding casual and failing.
“How uh-... How long you think we’ll be here?”
“Where.”
“In Chicago.”
Not long enough, Ilya thinks. “As long as it takes,” he says.
And Hollander must already know that because he nods, and then cuts off a piece of salmon for himself, keeping his gaze low.
It’s all at once overwhelming. Sweeps over Ilya like a tidal wave, as he sits here and watches Hollander eat dinner across from him…at the table this time…each deliberate movement cast in the thick, alluring honeyglow of the suite.
It makes Ilya feel irrational. Feral, almost. Sizing him up as Hollander goes for a drink, immediately slowing himself as the water threatens to crest the edge of his glass.
“Full…” he murmurs, amusement peeking through.
Ilya eats it up with pleasure. “I was, uhh…” what’s the word… “...distracted.” Just like he is now. Just like how he can’t find it in himself to look away, obsessed with the way Hollander very carefully brings the glass to his mouth…very carefully takes a drink…very carefully presses his lips together to dry them. He’s a distracting person. And Ilya’s never been good at hiding that, has he? So fuck it. “I like you in my clothes.”
Across the table, Hollander swallows again, something flashing across his face as he seems to try very hard to stop the smile that tugs at his lips…the slow, thoughtful nod as that must sink in…as he must weigh his answer just as thoughtfully, gaze lowered but committed. “I like me in your clothes too…”
And god, Ilya is fucking ravenous.
He just let himself say that.
Shit, if that’s the case… “Maybe I should let you borrow more often... Something nice for under jersey.”
“Fuck off…” Hollander laughs, but he’s blushing - gorgeous and smitten under the golden light. “But maybe…something a little warmer next time…”
With a bite of his steak, Ilya considers this, mentally carding through his wardrobe for exactly what he’d choose - exactly what would light him on fire as he watches Hollander tear down the ice, knowing a part of him is pressed all along his sweaty chest under his jersey.
Jesus Christ…
“I know just the thing,” Ilya grins. Then, regrettably, “Not available this time. Sorry.”
A tanktop and shorts during a whiteout. Not exactly best-suited.
But Hollander’s taken care of that anyway. He’s striking this mind-bending dichotomy of handsome and heart-wrenchingly homey in his dark knit sweater over there.
And anyway, there are more ways than one to stay warm.
“You know what helps this…?” Ilya asks. “Stiff drink. Vodka, specifically.” He’s already checked the bar cart. He can make it work for them.
Across the table, Hollander smiles, and Ilya wants to take his fork and scoop up a little for himself. “That’s not happening.”
“Just a small glass. Maybe three.”
“No. I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”
“And tonight?” Ilya asks. “What do you want tonight?”
“Um…” That seems to stall him. Has his gaze lifting to float around the room, searching everything but the man in front of him. Like maybe he has a lot of things he wants to do tonight, but thinks it better not to say. “Not…freeze, I guess…”
It’s what comes tumbling out of his mouth.
What’s being kept in his head is undeniably so much better.
“Mm… You won’t freeze,” Ilya assures, and it’s a promise. “You were kind enough to come to me. I will not let you freeze, Hollander.”
The declaration comes out heavy and hangs even heavier between them… Has Ilya’s entire body flushing with possessive heat… Pulls Hollander’s gaze up…up…up…before finally meeting his, holding on through the thickening atmosphere.
And…
Ilya blinks back into reality as Hollander’s chair scoots the tiniest bit, caught up in the momentum of him carefully placing the lid over his plate.
A thought seems to settle in him. Then another, eyes tracing low, invisible rationalizations. And then Hollander is standing, grabbing his plate with a quiet, “Thanks for dinner, Rozanov… Again.”
Ilya watches it all with an analyzing eye. With a cocktail of reactions mixing in his belly as he tracks Hollander’s deliberate reintroduction of space, one cord of recognition pulling very obviously into place.
That was too much.
Ilya pushed and got greedy.
And yet…
He stands without thinking, breaking free from where he placed himself between the table and the wall and maybe Hollander doesn’t know he’s following after him, or maybe he does. Maybe he knows very well. Maybe Ilya can see it in the way those shoulders tighten as he draws closer behind him, barely getting the refrigerator door closed before Ilya’s pressing him against it and fuck…
“Fuck…” he can hear him whisper. Which doesn’t seem right at all until Hollander turns around because that’s when he sees it, the dark, barely controlled heat in Hollander’s eyes that drops immediately to Ilya’s mouth. Hungry.
Oh.
Ilya can feel the smirk that dances along his own lips right before Hollander crashes into him, determined to take it for himself. And if he chuckles into it - suddenly high off the relief of what he thought was impending doom - who can blame him?
Hollander.
Hollander can.
“Shut up,” he demands, but it’s liquid hot - molten. Practically panting into Ilya’s mouth against the chuckle that meets him halfway, “Shut up… Fuck.”
Ilya allows it for a second more and then breaks back, holding Hollander off by the jaw, the back of his head pressed to the fridge.
And there’s just something about him like this. About how he lets Ilya do it. Pupils blown. Wild. Mouth kissed red and slick and panting. On top of everything fucking else that’s been building up. Ilya’s mouth waters just from the sight of him.
“What do you want tonight,” he asks again.
And this time, Hollander answers honestly.
The wind knocks from Ilya’s lungs as he’s forced back, but he fucking loves it, eager to see what comes next.
It reveals itself as his ass hitting the couch. Hollander climbing directly on top of him. Lips against his and fingers tugging at his shirt and all of it’s hungry. Like Ilya’s not the only one who’s been trying to hold off all day.
It’s all come to a head now, under the syrupy lighting and rush of snow that whips past outside, sweeping away the rest of their control.
Ilya grins as Hollander kisses down the side of his neck, taking a detour over his bare chest while he gets to his knees. “Ah…yes…” He can definitely go for this tonight.
Especially when Hollander’s so fast with it - frantic, almost - like if he gives himself a chance to think, he’s scared it’ll all come crashing down.
Ilya won’t let that happen. Not tonight. Not ever. Not when he’s got a say in it, his hands immediately carding through Hollander’s hair as he gets his pants down and swallows him up.
Fuck…
“So hungry…” he teases, like he’s any fucking better. Like the pleasure isn’t all-consuming the second Hollander sucks his cock. Like he hasn’t been wanting to eat this motherfucker alive all day.
Guilty on all three counts.
Between his legs, Hollander bobs his head, finally finding a rhythm that works with the slick slide of his hand a little lower. And despite the fact that they already fucked each other this morning - despite the fact that Ilya was so sure he got everything out of his system - he can feel the cords of pleasure starting to curl low in his belly. Already.
“Fuck…” building, building, building, “Hollander…”
It flows through him with a full-body shudder, both hands not enough to keep Hollander away as he cums in his mouth with a labored breath.
Hollander moans around him. Swallows it down. Licks his lips as he finally leans back and fixes Ilya with this hot, hazy little look and fuck it.
“Come here,” Ilya insists, damn near dragging him off the floor until he’s got Hollander laid out underneath him, pressed between the couch and his body, caught with nowhere to go and Hollander looks so fucking pleased about that, eyes hooded as he blinks up at Ilya and waits for him to do something.
It’s a damn good thing they’re done pretending they have self restraint because Ilya’s fucking starved, immediately swooping down to lick into Hollander’s mouth and taste for himself.
Greed. Hunger. Just a touch of desperation himself, if he’s being honest, barely a breath passing between them before he’s reaching down to pull his gym shorts completely off Hollander’s body.
And there’s something about that too. Putting him in them and taking them off. Ilya’s way too turned on to process it fully, much more swept up in the sudden need to press his mouth into the warm, soft skin of Hollander’s inner thigh.
“Oh fuck…”
It floats down over him. Body squirming. Skin hot beneath Ilya’s tongue as he tastes everything he’s been trying not to envision all day. He trails up into the crook of Hollander’s hip. Presses kisses, open-mouthed and wet, all along the inside of his other thigh, pulling out a strangled groan of frustration.
It’s gorgeous. Delicious.
Ilya is starving.
With the tug on his curls, he follows the redirection, finally nuzzling along the length of Hollander’s cock before taking him into his mouth.
He’s hard already. Irresistibly wet. Good enough to eat, this satisfied groan rumbling from Ilya’s chest as he starts sucking him off like he so obviously wants him to up there.
It’s all in the noises. The breathy “Fu-uck…” The hands in his hair, following along for the ride.
Ilya gets himself good and hunkered in between Hollander’s thighs and he eats up, obsessed with the feeling of soft socked feet resting against his back. There’s nothing like it. He can’t get this anywhere else, everything so sweet and sexy and undeniably Shane, Shane, Shane, Shane…
“Oh my god…” winded and gorgeous and Shane.
Pleasure works up Ilya’s body like he’s the one about to cum.
He hurries his pace and drags a hand up under Shane’s sweater. Feeling his stomach. Feeling his chest. Feeling his gym shirt - Ilya’s - perfect against his skin like that’s exactly where it’s supposed to be and-
“Fuck-…! Roza-”
Shane’s thighs squeeze around Ilya’s head as he cums, socked toes curling against his lower back.
Ilya coaxes him through it. Drinks him in. Blindly accepts the hand that threads fingers with his on top of Shane’s stomach.
A second to orient himself. And then he’s back in the suite. Back on the couch. Back with his supposed rival, who looks at him and huffs a giddy laugh that’s just so perfectly Shane. “Holy fuck…”
Ilya lets out a pleasant sigh before it kills him.
Leaves a kiss on the inside of Shane’s knee while he still can.
Rises to his elbows and then, inspired by the precious rumble that had the decency to wait, gives Shane’s belly a couple lovetaps.
“Dinner now.”
The rest of the night stays wrapped up in that honey-glow.
Food goes down easily, plates finished between grins and friendly ribbing.
Ilya showers and gets ready for bed and is in a trance almost, staring off dreamily under the warm water.
It’s an insane reaction to have after a single blowjob swap. He understands this. He knows. But it feels fucking good. So good that he’s just going to let himself have it, sinking comfortably into one side of the bed as he listens to the calming sounds behind the closed en suite door.
It’s a long bedtime routine.
Shane’s in there for what feels like an unreasonable amount of time.
Ilya’s got no idea what he’s doing in there, to be perfectly honest. Only a few things register as familiar. The sink squeaking on and off a dozen times. The rattle of an uneven towel hanger. He brushes his teeth for what feels like twenty minutes - which actually does make sense - finally an explanation for why a smile from Shane feels like getting hit with the full spectrum of the fucking sun.
He brushes his tongue and he gags on his toothbrush in a way that makes Ilya’s cock jump in muscle memory. And when he finally steps out of the bathroom, he’s lost the sweater and the gym shirt underneath. But Ilya can’t muster up the strength to be fully disappointed. Not with how his heart tugs, caught between making fun of Shane and making a fool of himself as he eyes the soft green plaid pajama pants that have taken their place.
He settles with silence, for once.
Nothing but a grin, slowly feeling it spread across his face as he watches Shane slide stiffly into the other side of the bed, sitting with the sheets across his legs and his hands folded awkwardly on top.
Fuck.
Holy fuck, it’s all too much.
Ilya steadies himself, fully aware that anything that’s coming out of his mouth right now will scare Shane right out of this fucking bed.
Instead, he lets his smile do the talking, allowing himself an eyeful of tight, creamy shoulders and the rise of his bare chest and ah fuck, he’s looking at him.
Shane pins him with a lost little look. A blink, very clearly trying to process what’s got Ilya so smiley. He must be taking the brunt of it for both of them over there - the weight of realization that this is it. This is happening. He’s here and Ilya’s here and neither of them are leaving. They’re in this. In a way they never have been before.
It’s not fair to burden him with the full load so Ilya lightens it, tossing him a cheeky little eyebrow raise that has Shane caving. He's visibly thankful for it, the sigh he lets out perfectly pleased as he rolls his eyes and then lays down, facing the wall to finally settle in.
And that’s nice and all - Ilya’s happy for him - he is.
But there’s no way he’s letting the night end like this.
It’s an easy move when Shane allows his top half to be turned back around, the rush of it sweeping through them both. Ilya keeps him facing up with a hand on his arm. Enjoys the little initial furrow between his brow before it evens out, sweet brown eyes searching between his as Ilya speaks down to him.
“No goodnight…?” he teases in the close space. “No ‘sleep tight, Ilya’...? No bedbugs…?”
And oh, the way it immediately settles into Shane’s tension and pulls it loose is horrible, made even more potent by how he dissolves into a toothy smile, hitting Ilya with the full spectrum of the sun until his insides warm. Jesus. How does he fucking do that?
It’s powerful.
Heady.
Shane’s gaze flicks down to Ilya’s mouth and he feels wild, swept up in the rush of it as he leans down to close the breath of space between them.
It’s a quick kiss.
Honey sweet.
And when Ilya leans back, it’s because he has to, not because he wants to.
But then here’s Shane, reaching up and pulling him back down into another one, dreamy and curious and slow.
A hum slips from Ilya’s mouth into his… Then his tongue, gliding ever so slowly against Shane’s.
Peppermint toothpaste.
An underlying danger, as sweet as it may taste.
If Shane isn’t careful, he’s gonna get Ilya to fuck him silly. Again. And then it’ll all have to start over. The bedtime routine and the twenty minutes of teeth-brushing and they’ll have to strip the bed. He just knows that’ll have to happen. And as willing as Ilya is to do that for him, there’s this sluggishness in the way Shane kisses him. This pleased but drifty way he hums.
Shane’s tired. They both are. It’s been a hell of a day, and they’ve got a whole new one ready for them when they wake up tomorrow, so…
Ilya draws things to a close, lingering on the last press of their lips before leaning back…pressing one more…a quick one to the side of Shane’s mouth and then his bare shoulder, before helping him back into position.
And if he follows the flow as he settles too, it’s only happenstance, his hand a grounding anchor that he keeps on Shane’s arm as he lets his eyes close.
Outside, the blizzard continues to cover the city, tucking them in for the night.
Under the covers, Ilya can’t help the grin as he hears Shane murmur it sleepily, in what he probably thinks is a very good Russian accent.
“No bedbugs…”