Archive of Our Own

The TV droned on, a woman in an tight black dress posing with a small bottle in her hand—another perfume commercial—but Rozanov wasn't paying her any mind, his eyes were glued to the laptop balancing on his lap. He was reclined against the back of his leather couch, bare-feet propped on the coffee table where an empty glass and a quarter empty bottle of Stolichnaya were already taking up the remainder of the space.

He hadn't planned on spending tonight alone in his penthouse but with Svetlana traveling and a snow storm blowing through Moscow, Rozanov was trapped inside for once; no clubbing, no bars, and nothing else to distract from the fact that he was back in Russia again. At the very least, he was relieved he wasn't stuck in his father's mansion, electing to stay in his own apartment instead. He was in no mood for his father's berating, or at least that was the excuse he had given to Alexei; what remained of his father could no longer remember Rozanov's faults, let alone utter them.

Truthfully, he just didn't want to be there—where his father was eroding while he stood by and watched. He stuffed enough money in Alexei's mouth to not have to be there anymore.

Sighing for the umpteenth time, Ilya resigned himself to scrolling endlessly on his socials; access to his public and private Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram accounts all hinged on his VPN working overtime; yet again another reason to leave this country behind.

He looked through his feed, pictures and videos of people he hadn't spoken to in years clogging up most of his timeline—their vacations, their relationships, their workout routines were all on display for the admiration of the public. Rozenov didn't care to like nor comment, just kept scrolling.

Every once in a while his eyes would flick towards his phone, forgotten on the cushion besides him. Sometimes he would even click the screen to life and double check his messages. A couple notifications but nothing from him.

It would be eleven AM over there by now, he should be up.

"This is so pathetic," Rozanov mumbled to himself, the Russian rolling off his tongue.

Outside, with the city streets deserted and the blizzard raging on, wind blew against his window panes, a constant banging on top of the TV's white noise. The sounds did very little to occupy the emptiness inside though and even with the heat on high, Rozenov couldn't tamper the cold he had felt.

Finally, he bent to the urge and searched for Hollander's Instagram page. The same few pictures that Ilya had memorized popped up, mostly sponsored posts and advertisement clips, with no new additions to the bunch. Hollander was private—more so than Ilya, if he could believe that—so any attempts at keeping up to date with Hollander's personal life were impossible without asking. He closed out of the page eventually.

He was staring blankly at his screen, switching between tabs when he stumbled on a Tweet.

Rozanov snorted, looked around the room like there was anyone here who could have heard before looking back at the screen.

He had never made a habit of monitoring his public image and often he'd forget that so many strangers perceived him even when he wasn't paying them any mind; that despite none of them being acquainted with him in anyway, they had already formed radical opinions regarding him and his supposed personality. Clearly the same extended to the other players on the rink—no one was to be spared, including Scott Hunter.

Other than the general questions reporters would hound him on, Rozanov had no idea what people online were saying about him…

Then, overtaken with the sudden itch to fill that knowledge gap, Rozanov searched up his own name. There was the usual shit: a healthy dose of general praise for his play-style, speculation about his personal life, and a sleigh of xenophobic comments that Rozanov glossed over quickly. Nothing of any real interest until he found a more recent Tweet thread:

He really should not have probed. Now all Rozanov felt was a prickle of irritation and a glaring reminder of his own guilt. Fuck. What did any of these people know anyway? With nothing to occupy their lives, they'll clamor at every scrap of shit they find.

Not to mention, if a group of randoms on the internet could dig up dirt on his father, even one as well-buried as his diagnosis had been, then who could say that the next time he and Shane snuck into each other's hotel rooms that there wouldn't be another person waiting to catch them. Their eyes, cameras, and microphones were all lurking, waiting to learn their best kept secrets to release as rumors online and despite how baseless they might be, they'd likely spiral into something uglier. Something that would ruin both his and Shane's careers for life.

Rozanov backspaced, deleting his earlier search and replacing it with Hollander's name instead. His feed was inundated with candid pictures of Hollander during playoffs and the tweets that followed were…strange.

Rozanov blinked, stupefied. What the fuck was a 'fic.' He debated briefly on whether clicking on a link with the potential to infest his laptop with malware was worth his morbid curiosity, and in the end decided it was.

The page loaded into a wall of text that Rozanov's eyes were naturally pulled to read.

Shane Hollander woke up with light streaming through his bedroom window. He stretched his arms and yawned, his jet black hair tussling in the wind. He swept the strands away from his face, exposing his pudding brown orbs to the light. Today he is going to play another game against his mortal enemy the Boston Raiders, he thought.

He walked up to his walk in closet and chose a casual dark wash ripped skinny jeans and a baggy Nike gray hoodie. He quickly tugged the sleeves of his hoodie on where the name of his crush and best friend, Hayden Pike, was first imprinted on his body since he turned 16 years old.

Here in their world of Earth, people had something called a soulmark and when someone turns of age, they will develop ink on their wrist that spells the first name of their destined soulmate. A lot of people hide theirs though, including Shane, because it was really embarrassing to air out their business in public like that.

He went downstairs and started his day with a healthy macro-diet breakfast of cottage cheese scramble (2 eggs, 1 cup of room temperature cottage cheese, a pinch of salt, quartr cup of milk) and a side of protein pancakes (2 eggs, 3/4 cup almond flour, 1 cup of room temperature cottage cheese, 1 ½ teaspoon baking powder, 1 teaspoon cinnamon) and a glass of orange juice (no pulp). Then he pulled out his yoga mat to do some stretches outside, flexing his tight muscular body. He was totally focused on beating the Raiders today, hockey was all he could think about.

Then he drove to the ice rink so he can practice with his team. He walked inside the locker room and there he was, his childhood best friend and his teammate way before he was even drafted on the Metros: Hayden Pike.

-O-oh hello, I didn't expect to see you here so early haha, he said to Hayden, twirling a strand of hair and kicking his feet shyly. Hayden smiled reassuringly.

-Are you ready to kick ass today buddy?

-Of course Hayden!

They got dressed in the locker room and Shane kept glancing towards Haydens hot pecs and big juicy biceps. He was in love with his best friend for so long and all he could think right now is how much he wants to kiss him. But he couldn't say anything or do anything or anything because Hayden was his best friend and teammate and his soul mark wasnt Shanes name, probably, it was his wifes name. He hid it too though so who knows.

Shane sighed in despair and put his uniform on. I guess he just had too keep this secret crush forever.

What he did not know is the moment he looked away that Hayden glanced over with a pained look on his pretty face.

What…what had to possess someone to write something like this. Firstly, Hollander would never think or do any of this. Secondly, Hollander didn't even eat cottage cheese scramble, whatever that was—Rozanov should know that much at least. This was all wrong.

Rozanov hovered his cursor over the close button, but instead of clicking out, he just scrolled near the bottom of the page, skipping a good chunk of this 'story.'

-I cant believe we won! Shane said to Hayden as they hugged. His small petite body fitting snugly in Hayden's big muscley one.

-(cough) Its because of you captain…You are the reason we won, he beamed at Shane, flipping his sweaty chocolate fudge cookie brown hair off of his face.

Shane gulped loudly, sweating bullets at being so close to his crush and best friend.

-Yeah totally! he said

Shane tried to pull back from Hayden's big strong arms but he just wouldnt let go!

-W-what? Hayden what are you…

-Now that we won the Stanely Cup…Shane you have to know…that I…am in love with you…all this time

-Huh! That cant be, Shane said. He thought that his love was unrequited but here was Hayden confessing to him! -But what about Jackie…she's your wife and your soulmate, isnt she?

-No Shane, the truth is that your name is my soulmark. Then he showed his wrist and it was true, he wasnt even lying.

-Why did you say so earlier? Shane asked

-I dont know

Shanes puppy eyes started watering like a pail of water watering a garden pot on the patio. He leaned forward and kissed Hayden, their tongues battling for dominance

Suddenly, Jackie walked into the locker room. Her wide eyes of surprise and loud gasp caught both of them off guard. -Whats going on!! she exclaimed

Wait, Shane thought, why is she even in the boys locker room?

-W-w-w-w-WAIT! I can explain, Hayden quickly said with a stutter. Jackie's eyes welled up with alot of unshed tears and she waived her hand.

-Your gay?!?! she asked in total shock. Hayden nodded with hesitation. Yes it was the truth that he couldn't hide any longer. He didn't necessarily identity as gay but more like Shane-sexual but he wasnt going to tell her that so gay seemed like the best explanation.

She looked serious all of a sudden. -But…Hayden…I'm gay too…I'm a lesbian all this time.

What the fuck. Rozanov scrolled further down until his eyes snagged on a familiar name.

Suddenly, Ilya Rozanov walked into the locker room, his angry Russian face surprising everyone

-What are you doing here, Shane growled, stepping in front of Hayden to protect his best friend and now lover.

-Hah, do you think because you got the cup that you can do anything you want? Ilya said and pointed an accusatory finger at them. Then he unveiled his wrist and right there was…gibberish?

-Uhhh what is that? Shane asked

-Its Hayden Pike in Russian, explained Ilya, annoyed

-IMPOSSIBLE! Shane said. This must be some sort of trick, your always playing dirty. You mustve scribbled that with a marker when we werent looking

-Nope, it was there the whole time I just hid it with an oversized bandage and told coach I have carpel tunnel, Ilya explained with a really thick Russian accent thats so thick the rest of the guys (and girl) in the locker room had to squint their ears to understand.

-You wont get between us Rozanov, Hayden said, ready to fight for his love with Shane.

Rozanov finally snapped the laptop shut and had to reign in the urge to smash it against the wall.

Honestly, he should feel slightly reassured that even in idiot-shit made-up stories, he and Hollander were at odds with each other—that no one had taken notice of their concealed affections towards one another. Still, it bothered Rozanov. Because why would anyone look at Pike and Hollander and see something beyond friendship, especially when he was right there? And he hated to admit that the mere existence of a fan club for a fictitious Pike and Hollander pairing got under his skin.

It was decidedly selfish to risk exposure of their relationship if only to prove those deluded strangers online wrong, yet that didn't tamper Rozanov's want to claim Shane as his and his alone. He wanted to leave hickies and bite marks all over Hollander's neck the next time he fucked him, so that when his intrusive fans zoom in on Hollander's pictures the day after, they'll realize that Pike's teeth could never match the shape of those impressions.

Before he realized what he was doing, Rozanov had his phone in hand and Hollander's number dialing. It took two full rings before he thought better of it though and as he moved to hang up, a faint low voice came over the speaker.

"Hello? Rozanov?"

Quickly fumbling the phone against his ear again, Rozanov responded with the most laid-back voice he could muster, his legs having long slipped off the coffee table and now bouncing up and down on the carpet instead. "Yes. Hi."

There was a loaded silence before Hollander spoke. "What's going on? You don't usually call without a heads-up. Did you accidentally butt dial me or something?"

"No, I just…I uh heard about your playoffs against Detroit last night—was good game, yes?"

"Oh uhm yeah. For the Metros it was, I mean. We won, but I guess you already knew that. Did you get spooked watching us beat the other team?"

"No, Hollander, don't flatter yourself. I didn't watch game, they don't even broadcast the NHL on Russian cable, it is only the KHL here. I did see the clips of you online though, you looked pretty good."

"I looked what? Hold on, sorry but you're getting a bit cut off at the end."

"I said—never mind. Is snowing here. Bad storm, bad signal. How is it over there?"

"Not as bad, it's actually sunny for once. It's been raining all week but this morning, it finally cleared up."

"Hm, I'm jealous. So what you are doing then on such nice perfect day?"

Hollander's amused huff came through the speakers, Rozanov closed his eyes like he could feel the warm breath tickling his cheek even continents away. "I'm out having breakfast with my parents, we're at this place that's supposed to be a curated restaurant but it's more like a coffee shop with a couple overpriced sandwiches on the menu. My mom really likes their coffee pour overs though. How—how about you? What are you doing?"

"Talking to you, obviously."

"Right. Rozanov, Why did you cal—"

"What did you order? Cottage cheese scramble?"

"What even is that? No, I just got a black coffee."

"Hm, yes, that sounds very bland. I want you to keep talking about what a boring day you are going to have. Tell me what you are wearing too. It is all making me get super hard."

Hollander stuttered before responding flatly. "Just a T-shit and jeans. What are you—"

Rozanov sighed. "God, Hollander. Would it kill you to play along for little bit?"

There was a lengthy pause where the only exchange between them was that of their quiet breathing and the negligible restaurant hum from Hollander's side. Then, Hollander hissed into the microphone: "I'm in public, asshole"

A smile crept along Rozenov's face, suddenly finding himself far more entertained than he had been over the past week. "Do you want me to stop talking then so you can readjust that boner in your jeans?"

"Fuck you," Hollander said, followed by the sounds of brisk steps across tile floors, clearly Hollander having forgone his usual sneakers for a heel of some sort—rain boots, maybe? Then there was a metallic clatter like the noise of a door-lock.

"Did you run off to hide?"

"No! I'm in a cramped restroom stall so I can—so we can talk without me having to look over my shoulder every two seconds." They sat in the static silence of the phone call, both with the full awareness of exactly what it was they wanted now yet neither daring to cross the line. But when the quiet got too loud and Hollander had to ask if he was even still there, Rozenov finally spoke.

"Hollander," he groaned, letting his free hand stray into the inside of his boxers to palm at his hardening cock. "I miss you."

"You do?"

"Yes." And like he had revealed too much of himself too soon, Rozenov amended his confession, pivoting back to sex because sex was always a safer topic of conversation. "I miss you under me. I tried to watch porn today and it was terrible. The actress was too uh—how you say?—fake? and she didn't have annoying freckles on her face. I had to imagine you rest of way so I can cum."

"Okay. Do you uhm do that a lot? Fantasize about me?"

"Only when I am horny. I like to close my eyes and remember you on all fours, back arched and ready for my cock." Rozenov listened to the minute changes of Hollander's breathing, the way he'd inhale sharply and exhale slow like he was fighting against himself. "Then I put my hands on your waist, my thumbs right on two back dimples you have and I would open your legs up wider for me."

"Fuck." A zipper and a belt buckle falling open echoed inside the stall and back out of Rozenov's speaker. He naturally followed suit, pulling his own cock out to the cool air and stroking himself fully erect.

"You would let me, wouldn't you, Hollander. You would let me have you however I want, when I want, yes?"

"Yes," Hollander said, hasty, practically sighing the word out.

Rozenov hadn't intended to get this far—hadn't even planned for any conversation, truthfully—yet when Hollander bent so easy, so obediently to him, Rozenov lost all intention of stopping. With his hand wrapped around his cock and his boxers tugged further down to his knees, Rozenov fucked up while savoring Hollander's shallow panting on the other end of the line. Once the friction of dry skin against skin got to be too much though, he paused only long enough to spit on his hand before continuing.

"I want to give you gift when I see you. Big pretty box that you will open. Inside will be big pretty butt plug for you to wear. Would you wear it for me? If I ask?"

"Anything—I'd do an-anything."

Rozenov exhaled against the phone, measured and slow. Then, he grunted, more for Hollanders benefit than his own, as his thumb swiped around the head of his cock in circles. He imagined Hollander wearing the butt plug during a game—no, not just any game but specifically the one from yesterday; imagined the way it would fill him, stretching his hole out all loose with lube stuffed slick inside; imagined the plug grinding and bumping against Hollander's inner walls as he skated in the rink to the point where he'd need to bite down on his lips just to suppress the obscene moans that would threaten to pour out of him.

After the match, Hollander would need no preparation for Rozenov to easily slide in and fuck into him. Maybe they would do it in the locker room too, over one of the benches right where that stupid Hayden Pike friend can see and hear.

And if Rozenov's vocabulary was as extensive and vulgar in English as it was in Russian, he would have told Hollander everything. Instead he only said: "I hope is single stall, Hollander."

Static gave way to a light laugh that with such perfect clarity, Rozenov saw Hollander behind closed lids, Hollander's eyes soft and his mouth quirked up ever so slightly.

"I miss you," Rozenov said again. "I want to fuck you right now."

"R-rozenov," Hollander's moan was muffled as though the sound came though the fabric of his sleeve or the gaps between his fingers.

"Are you jerking off?"

"Yes," he replied in between pants. Rozenov was desperate for the details; whether Hollander's jeans were pooled to the floor or held around his knees, whether he was sitting on the toilet lid or leaning with his arm braced against the plastic stall divider. Whether Hollander was touching himself the same as Rozenov was himself now—the same as he would to Hollander.

"What you are thinking when you touch yourself?" He asked instead.

"I dont know, I—" Hollander's voice cut off on a groan. "You, just you. I like hearing your voice."

"Ok."

"Please don't—don't stop. I'm close," he said before breaking off into a soft moan.

There was a brief moment where Rozenov was at a loss for words—often being the case for him with the limited collection he had to choose from. Finally though, he decided that since the content of his speech mattered less to Hollander now than the sound of them, he switched to Russian. "I cant stop thinking about you. Even when we're so far apart, with all the problems I am having—and you don't even know the half of them—I cant help but to remember you laying next to me and how warm I was besides the heat of your body. Its so cold outside now, Hollander. You can't understand, but if I keep saying your name, will you know I'm always talking about you? Hollander, Hollander, Hollander."

Hollander's breathing was erratic and his aborted moans were so frequent that Rozenov was beginning to worry someone may knock on Hollander's door and interrupt him. There wasn't a need to strain his ears anymore either to hear the slap of skin to skin from his speakers.

As Rozenov's own hand worked himself to the edge, he continued to talk, the gruffer lilt of his voice betraying his own actions. "If they could see you now, actually hear you, they'll all know you can be nobody else's except mine. It's bullshit I can't correct them, but at least you should know. You're mine, mine, Hollander. Mine."

Then, in English again, Rozenov's whispered: "Cum for me, Hollander."

A slight clatter and a barley there whimper of his name before Rozenov was for certain that Hollander had cum. Without bothering to speak anymore, Rozenov focused back on his own cock, urgent strokes that wrenched a dizzying orgasm from him soon after, his cum staining his palm as his toes dug into the carpet fibers below.

His groan was the last noise between them for a while. The heavy pause, interrupted only by a faucet running and the sound of tissue paper dispensing from Hollander's end. Rozenov lay motionless, phone pressed to his ear as he waited for Hollander to break the charged quiet.

Finally, Hollander asked: "When are you coming back?—to Boston, I mean."

"End of week."

"Okay. Well, I should go. My parents they uh probably think I got diarrhea now or something. I'll talk to you later?"

"Sure."

"Oh and—Rozenov?"

"Yes?"

"I missed you too."

Shane hung up before he had the chance, the two loud beeps of the phone announcing the end of their call. Like a weight having been shifted off of him, Rozenov stayed slummed against the couch and stared at the ceiling until his eyes blurred over. And he would have gladly welcomed sleep right then and there, disheveled with his boxers still halfway down his legs, were he not still plagued by an insistent nagging. It had been bothering him since he found that 'fic.'

Sitting upright again, Rozenov reached towards his laptop, wiping his cum stained hand on his shirt carelessly before pulling up Google translate. He had decided a final comment was warranted in the end.