Chapter Text
Москва, Июль 2007
Ilya knows what he wants, and he is proud of that. Sure, there are some things he can’t exactly say out loud – but that’s because he isn’t stupid, not because he is ashamed.
He’s young, but not clueless. All in all, he already considers himself an expert at wanting things. He treats the evidence of his exploits like trophies: hickeys and bite marks from his latest conquest, bags under his eyes from another night spent in places he probably shouldn’t have been, a voice hoarse from screaming along to music and smoking too many cigarettes.
But the marks themselves are not the impressive part. The real skill is knowing how to pull people in, how to hold their attention, how to make desire feel inevitable – all while making it look effortless.
More than that, Ilya also knows how and when to stop wanting. Knowing when to walk away is what really matters. Ilya knows when the party is over, when he’s exactly drunk enough, when to get out after a hookup.
Contrary to what most people would assume, Ilya has discipline. Sex and the feeling of getting away with something complement each other beautifully, and Ilya loves to flirt with a bad idea, enjoy it, and then move on – moving on being the crucial part.
There is one area of his life where Ilya allows himself to indulge.
On the ice, the wanting is boundless. Ilya has no intention of ever learning how to stop wanting to be better, faster, stronger than everyone around him. He wants to win. He wants the world to know that he is – without a doubt – the best.
Usually, he’s perfectly capable of keeping those two kinds of wanting separate.
Usually.
*****
School is out for the summer, and Ilya has had all of June to himself. Now hockey practices are already starting again, and while he’s definitely not done partying just yet, he’s looking forward to indulging in another way.
Work hard, play hard, or whatever it is the Americans say. Ilya has it all figured out. His team is going to crush it at the exposition tournament in August. All eyes will be on him. He’ll make the World Junior Championships team next year. He’ll lead Russia to victory, impress scouts left and right, then get drafted to the NHL in 2009.
No matter where in North America he lands, Ilya knows he’ll rule the place just as he does now – king of the ice palace. He loves the Moscow club scene, loves the beautiful girls throwing themselves at him left and right. But Ilya also loves the potential. Once he’s out of Russia, his options will be pretty much limitless. The way Sasha already keeps undressing him with his eyes is proof enough. Over there, Ilya will be able to do whatever he wants.
He is impatient. In Ilya’s opinion, everything has long since been decided. But reality refuses to hurry up and catch up with him, so for now he has to take it step by step.
For now, he’ll go to practice – and absolutely dominate, as he always does. The only change to his routine is the new assistant coach joining the CSKA junior team for the summer, starting today.
*****
Coach Hollander is hot.
Tall and slender, wiry, sleek dark hair, Asian. It seems the rest of the team agrees. Among all the whispers around him, Ilya can clearly hear Pavlovich mumbling, “MILF.”
Ilya had heard that hiring Yuna Hollander was a political decision, one that his father had complained about endlessly, but this is the first time CSKA has ever employed a female coach, so there had to be more to it. Her credentials are impressive enough though – world championships under her belt, part of the coaching staff that led Canada’s women’s hockey team to Olympic gold twice, in 2002 and 2006.
Ilya tries his best to translate her introduction in his head. His English isn’t the best but he has a handful of foreign teammates and knows he’ll have to work on it once he gets drafted into the NHL. Either way, he catches her candidly stating that she is married to some Canadian diplomat, and that she is here temporarily because he has business in Moscow.
What Ilya had not predicted was that Coach Hollander hadn’t come alone.
There is a slight shift in the room when she explains that her son will be joining them for practices and training camp over the summer. Not officially, but enough to skate with them, train with them, take up space among them. A few of the guys glance around, confused. Ilya does too.
Then, on cue, a short boy jumps the boards from the penalty box and skates up to stand beside Coach Hollander.
He definitely resembles his mother: dark eyes, dark hair, the same composed face. He looks too skinny to be a half-decent hockey player, but there is something about him that makes Ilya’s gaze linger a moment too long.
Freckles.
They stretch over the bridge of his nose and across both cheeks, hundreds of little dots decorating his face before thinning out toward his forehead and chin.
Ilya is struck by the invasive desire to grab the boy and count them.
“I’m Shane. You can call me Hollander, or Hollzy if you want,” he says with a monotone voice that matches his flat expression. Ilya wonders whether he is nervous or bored, or whether he feels absolutely nothing. It irritates him a little, not being able to tell.
As the amazing captain that he is, Ilya glides forward to greet the newcomers on behalf of the team – and to get a closer look.
“Добро пожаловать!Welcome!Давай посмотрим, на что ты способен,Let's see what you can do,” lifting one corner of his mouth into a smirk as he offers his hand. A little challenge, just to see if Hollander will flinch.
Hollander hesitates for only a moment before lifting his own hand to shake Ilya’s. As soon as their palms clasp together, determination flashes in his dark eyes, intense and electric, sending a buzz through Ilya and making him grin even wider.
Interesting.
*****
Coach Hollander fits right in with Head Coach Kharlamov and the other assistant coaches. After leaving the team to warm up, she starts them off on a set of drills that get increasingly sadistic as they go on. The only difference so far is that she’s not yelling. Her face is set in a pleasant smile as she watches them suffer.
Maybe, Ilya thinks, she is trying to see how far she can push them.
They have been bag skating for far too long now, and while some of his teammates are clearly starting to run out of steam, Shane Hollander just keeps gliding over the ice, serene as anything. He is fast. Efficient. No wasted movement, no visible strain. He shows no signs of fatigue.
Neither does Ilya.
Hollander notices. And Ilya notices him noticing.
Their eyes meet as they pass each other, and the electric buzzing Ilya felt earlier is back. He is left vibrating with a kind of exhilaration he has never quite encountered before.
And it doesn’t go away.
After a brief intermission, the last item on the agenda is a small scrimmage. Coach Hollander wants to see them in action, and Kharlamov divides them into teams and lines. Ilya gets his usual spot at center, flanked by Nikolai Galkin and Kirill Lipovsky. To his delight, Kharlamov puts Shane Hollander at the opposite side of the face-off circle, centering a line with Radoslav Tóth and Mikhail Sokolov.
Ilya still has no idea what Hollander can actually do with the puck, but otherwise the matchup looks fairly even.
They line up at center ice, and Ilya finds himself confronted with Hollander’s freckles again. There are darker ones across the bridge of his nose, lighter ones scattered over his cheeks, and something inside Ilya tightens, high and sharp, like metal singing under too much heat.
“Не позорь меня, Розанов,Don't embarrass me, Rozanov,” Kharlamov grumbles, giving Ilya a pointed look as he prepares to start the game.
“Good luck,” Ilya smirks at Hollander.
The other boy’s eyes bore into him, and briefly drop to his mouth as Ilya speaks.
“Don’t need it.”
The puck drops.
Hollander wins the face-off, snatching the puck with pin-point precision and taking off. He passes to Sokolov, but Ilya intercepts and turns the play the other way. Hollander is on him instantly. When Ilya sends the puck to Kirill, Hollander slams him into the boards hard enough to make the glass shudder.
After that, it becomes personal.
They chase each other shift after shift, every touch of the puck turns into a challenge. Every time one of them pushes, the other pushes back harder. Their linemates try to keep up as best they can, but the pace between Ilya and Hollander is something else entirely.
When Ilya finally gets the chance to return the favor and drives Hollander into the boards, the shorter boy lets out a sharp gasp. The sound goes straight through him. It makes Ilya want to growl.
Instead, he bites down on his own tongue.
It’s been so long since playing hockey felt like this.
No – screw that. Hockey has never felt like this before, and Ilya cannot get enough.
He is out of breath and soaked in sweat, and all he wants is to keep going. To cross-check Hollander. Strip the puck from him. Outskate him at every turn and slam into him hard enough to hear that gasp again.
When Ilya looks up, Hollander is a few meters away across the ice, chest heaving, face flushed, sweat dripping down his chin. His helmet is off and his sleek dark hair is sticking up wildly. His mouth is open as he pants.
He is already looking back at Ilya.
Then he smiles.
For one insane second, Ilya wonders whether this could be enough to get him off.
He stays on the ice for a few extra minutes after everyone else heads to the locker room, skating lazy circles to calm himself down before he has to strip off his gear.
By the time he finally makes it back, Hollander has taken the previously empty stall beside his. The dark-haired boy is already showered and zipping up his bag. He acknowledges Ilya with a brief nod, then leaves without saying a word.
*****
Once Hollander is gone, the noise in the locker room ramps up.
The team is split on their new comrade. Their thoughts on the new assistant coach are a lot more unified. Coach Hollander is a hardass, apparently, but it’s too early to tell whether she actually knows what she’s doing. The general consensus is also that she is offensively hot for someone who is mom-aged, and that women in general have no business coaching a men’s team. Since her stint here is only temporary, though, most of the guys seem willing to tolerate it – provided she proves herself.
As for Coach Hollander’s son, most of them are annoyed at having been shown up. Tóth says he likes Hollander, but Tóth likes all the non-Russians on the team by default. Volkin complains that Hollander’s slapshots are almost as bad as Ilya’s. Abramov gets halfway through a racist comment before he is cut off by Kirill’s elbow lodging itself into his solar plexus.
Ilya lets them talk. His mind is still out on the ice.
When things calm down again, Nikolai approaches him.
“It was bad enough having one of you, Ilyukha, but I don’t know how we’re supposed to handle another.” He claps a hand onto Ilya’s shoulder and laughs, showing off the gap where one of his upper incisors is missing (courtesy of Ilya Rozanov, oops).
“Get your face fixed, Kolya,” Ilya says, rolling his eyes and bumping his shoulder against his friend’s.
*****
The next practice follows the same pattern. Coach Hollander tortures them with a sweet, motherly smile on her face. It only melts into something sterner, something almost sour, when she is confronted with insubordination or a lack of skill.
Every once in a while, Ilya can feel Shane Hollander’s eyes on him. It makes him bold, and when Hollander is on the bench, Ilya may or may not start making a few calculations. Maybe he uses his talent for predicting the next move in a play to his advantage. Maybe he lets Abramov slam him into the boards right in front of Hollander. Who’s to say?
Hollander watches him closely through the plexiglass, but he doesn’t react. His dark eyes do not widen on impact, his face remaining as impassive as ever. Maybe he made all the same calculations as Ilya – and then some. The thought infuriates Ilya almost as much as it excites him.
Their eyes meet for what could not have been more than a fraction of a second, but it is long enough for Hollander’s face to burn itself into Ilya’s brain. Dark hair, smooth skin, the curve of his mouth. Ilya wants to strangle him, lick his freckles, and grind him into the boards. The mix of attraction and animosity leaves him tingling all over, and he wonders whether Hollander feels it too.
*****
Later that night, Ilya finds himself lying on Sveta’s bed while she gets ready to go out. She’s applying a sticky-looking lipgloss while swaying to music playing from a small, tinny-sounding speaker on her desk, next to where Sasha is sitting.
Ilya had completely missed him that afternoon, but apparently Sasha had come to watch his practice (and was not pleased by how little attention Ilya paid him). He is Coach Kharlamov’s son, and as such has access to a lot of extra information on Ilya’s new coach and teammate. He also has a lot of opinions.
“Apparently, this Hollander kid is Canada’s version of you or something,” Sasha scoffs. “What a joke. Like, he’s good or whatever, but he has, like, zero charisma. Father says he and his mother are a pain in his ass, but apparently the kid has already been pre-selected for the championship games next year.”
Ilya raises his eyebrow at that. Maybe Canada did things differently from Russia.
Sasha keeps gossiping, exasperated. Ilya lets his gaze travel up Sasha’s obscenely long legs, appreciating the tight pants he’s in while doing his best to tune out his slightly grating voice. When Sasha notices, he blushes and his monologue stutters to a halt – but then he smirks at Ilya.
“I don’t know,” Sveta says, finally satisfied with her makeup and turning towards the boys, “I looked him up, he’s more than just good. Awkward, for sure, but also kind of hot.”
Ilya snorts at the face Sasha makes in response to that statement.
“What?” Sveta shrugs, faux innocence in her smile as she watches Sasha get more and more irritated. “I’d fuck him.”
Ilya leaves them to bicker back and forth, while Sveta finishes dressing. The three of them have known each other for years, practically grew up together. Maybe that’s why she so casually lets one dress drop to the floor before pulling on another. Or maybe she just gets off on exposing herself.
Probably it’s both, and Ilya loves her for it.
When they finally make it out of the door to go pregame with some of Sveta’s friends, Ilya kisses her. It’s playfully aggressive. Her lipstick really is sticky and tastes like artificial cherries. Sasha watches with hooded eyes, licking his own lips. Sveta punches Ilya in the arm, then grabs both boys by the hand and drags them toward the waiting car.
*****
Ilya thinks he’ll probably never stop being impressed by Sveta. All it takes is a sweet smile, a little pout, a fluttering of her lashes, and the bouncer steps aside for them. No ID checks, no entry fee.
The music isn’t exactly to Ilya’s taste, but he knows Sveta and Sasha are into it, and who is he to deny them? Ilya can dance to anything, can make any sort of dancing dirty, and that is what it’s all about. He dances with both of them for a while, Sveta between them at first, until the shape of it shifts and Sasha ends up behind him. Sasha rests his chin on Ilya’s shoulder, whispers something that is too low for Ilya to actually make out.
He knows what it’s about, though. Knows that Sasha has been wanting to get with Ilya for ages now. Knows that he’s hoping tonight’s the night.
Ilya considers it. Wants it too. Sasha is pretty, tall and skinny, dark hair and dark eyes that suddenly seem just a touch more magnetic than they did last week. But they’re here with other friends besides Sveta. More than that, Ilya has to admit that the thrill of fucking his head coach’s son pales in comparison to the electricity he’d felt between himself and his assistant coach’s kid on the ice earlier today.
The appeal isn’t worth the risk, at least not tonight, so Ilya does what he does best and stops wanting.
Later that night, Ilya pulls a pretty, dark-eyed girl into an alcove with him. He has no clue what her name is, but it doesn’t matter – she’s a good kisser and can’t seem to get enough of his hands on her.
When he guides her down to her knees and she wraps her lips around his cock, he wonders what she would look like with freckles on her cheeks.
Hysterical laughter bubbles up inside him. Ilya bites the inside of his cheek until the urge passes.
*****
That night kicks off a pattern Ilya has no intention of interrupting. Better not to think too hard about what he might do without it. The whole thing riles him up. He knows he should probably be at least a little disturbed. Instead, he feels giddy.
It becomes a horrible, delightful little game: finding fragments of Shane Hollander in random girls on random nights, taking what matches and resenting the rest.
It isn’t enough. But for now, Ilya can at least go on and pretend that it is.
*****
Two weeks later, pretending gets a lot harder when Ilya and Shane are put on the same line for the first time during a scrimmage. So far they've mostly found themselves pitted against each other. Suddenly being on the same team, and having to work together, feels almost absurd.
Coach Hollander has the whole team rotating through different positions to improve their mental flexibility or whatever she calls it. Ilya gets it, even if her wording sounds ridiculous. They are supposed to learn to see the game from every angle. It is not the first time they have done something like this, but Yuna Hollander turns out to be exceptionally good at spotting their flaws – and being ruthless when it comes to pointing them out.
Abramov, usually a defenseman, gets moved to center. Watching from the bench, Ilya can’t help but roll his eyes. Abramov is solid on defense, but hopeless as a forward: too bulky, too slow with the puck at the speeds the position demands. When both Kharlamov and Coach Hollander point it out, Ilya catches the snarl tugging at Abramov’s mouth.
Ilya cycles through positions as well. For a brief, horrible second he wonders whether anyone expects him to play goalie too, but thankfully even Coach Hollander is not that deranged. After playing left defense and right wing, he ends up back at center for the final round of the scrimmage. Kolya is on his line too, but on the left now instead of his usual spot on Ilya’s right.
Ilya feels it in his gut before he even looks.
Still, he freezes for half a second when he turns his head and sees who his right winger is.
Shane Hollander is rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck, getting into position. When he notices Ilya looking at him, he gives him a short nod. The boy looks tense. His eyes are a touch narrower than usual, his jaw visibly clenched.
Unfortunately – and not at all surprisingly – the whole thing turns into a disaster.
Neither of them seems capable of stopping long enough to actually work with the other. They keep trying to outplay each other instead. Passes do not come when they should. Their timing is off. Their speed never quite syncs. Thirty seconds in, Ilya is already furious. By the end of the period he has completely fucked up a shot he should have easily made, and somehow their play only keeps getting worse.
Afterward, they’re all gathered for detailed feedback from the coaches. Ilya feels ready to explode.
He had expected Kharlamov to tear into him, but not like this. He expected more yelling, but Kharlamov is clearly making an effort to keep up appearances, speaking in Russian and effectively shutting Coach Hollander out of the conversation. It doesn’t matter. His tone is acidic enough to burn straight through Ilya anyway.
“Какого хрена с тобой, Розанов? Волкин был открыт, а ты всё равно промазал?What the hell is wrong with you, Rozanov? Volkin was wide open, and you still miss? Эта ваша возня с этим пацаном уже зашла слишком далеко. Ты играешь как сука и позоришь мою команду.Your little feud with that kid has gone too far. You're playing like a bitch and making my team look stupid. Я ждал от тебя большего. Исправь это. Мне такие позоры не нужны.I expected more from you. Fix it. I don't need embarrassments.”
Coach Hollander is more diplomatic in her feedback, but it comes down to the same points. Captain. Generational talent. Needs to learn how to work with unfamiliar players. Needs to stay out of his own head when things stop going his way. Blah blah blah.
What Ilya doesn’t expect is for Coach Hollander to drop the neutral tone when she turns to her son. The tension in her voice sounds almost exactly like Kharlamov’s did with him – like Shane Hollander’s failure is a personal insult.
Ilya can't make it all out. Her voice is low and tight, and the bursts of French throw him off, but he gets the gist.
“Shane, je pensais qu’on avait déjà parlé de ça.I thought we had already talked about this. You can’t be a whole team all by yourself. It doesn't matter how fast you can go if you end up with no one to pass to. Et je te l’ai dit une douzaine de fois, corrige ton revers. C’était bâclé.And I've told you a dozen times, fix your backhand. It was sloppy.”
Kharlamov holds back on criticizing a player who technically is not his. Probably because the suspicious old bastard doesn’t want to hand anything to the competition or something like that.
“Backhand is weak. Teamwork not good,” is all he says to Hollander.
Once the feedback session is finally over, the team is dismissed. Most of the players head for the locker room looking relieved. Ilya lingers for a while, still trying to figure out how things could have gone so abysmally wrong today. He stares down at the ice like it will give him the answer.
Somewhere behind him, Hollander says something. When Ilya looks up, the other boy is talking to his mother, his freckled face twisted with displeasure.
Coach Hollander sighs, shrugs, and leaves the rink.
Her son stays.
For a moment, it is only the two of them on the ice.
Hollander looks like he wants to say something. He opens his mouth, closes it again, then gives up. Ilya turns toward the locker room just as Hollander starts setting up what looks like shooting drills for himself.
*****
Ilya’s gear feels like it weighs a hundred kilos as he slowly starts to take it off. His teammates must sense his mood, not even Kolya tries to approach him to cheer him up or make light of the situation. By the time he finally makes it to the showers most of the others have already left. So he stands there, naked, by himself, and turns the temperature up until it hurts. Ilya leans his head against the tiles, touches the cross on his necklace and prays for the hot water to wash the day off of him.
It doesn’t.
His prayer goes unanswered.
Ilya is late already, so he will be in trouble once he gets home anyway. But he can’t bear the idea of going home to face Andrei and his father after this horrible practice just yet. So, since trouble is waiting for him either way, he does what he usually does on days like this.
The shower didn’t succeed in burning the skin off of him, unfortunately, so he dries himself off and puts on his clothes. He pats down the pockets of his basketball shorts to make sure his wallet and cigarettes are in there, and then moves to abandon his equipment bag in his stall while he goes on his little quest.
Ilya knows the way to the shitty old vending machine on the other side of the building by heart. He drags himself there without really having to think of where he is going, his thoughts still stuck on today’s failure. He mindlessly retrieves a few rubles from his wallet and pushes them into the machine’s coin slot before selecting #24, Coca Cola.
Ilya frowns at the number.
For a second, it feels like the universe is casually mocking him.
The machine rattles and groans before finally coughing up the can. Ilya bends to retrieve it. The coke is warm, as always. He can’t remember the cooling in this vending machine ever having worked before. Room temperature coke is inferior to cold coke, but the familiarity of it is comforting.
Ilya pockets the coke and moves on to take the closest exit out of the building. The air outside is still warm even though the sun has already set. At least today isn’t too humid, he thinks, then pulls out a cigarette, lighting it up and inhaling deeply. It helps, but it doesn’t calm him down the same way it usually does. He feels weirdly raw but doesn’t know what to do about it, so he just moves on.
Ilya walks back around the outside of the Ice Palace to the player entrance near the lockers and leans against the wall there, taking a last drag of his cigarette before he drops it and stomps it out. Then he retrieves the coke can from his shorts, cracks the tab open and drinks.
It helps more than the cigarette did, but it doesn’t make the raw feeling go away either.
*****
Well then. Time to go and face the music, or whatever.
Ilya opens the door and drops the empty can in the first trash bin he comes across on his way back to the lockers.
He pushes the door to the locker room open and steps inside – only to come to a stop when he notices he’s not alone.
Right. Great.
Shane Hollander is still there, standing by the stall next to Ilya’s, pulling his shirt down over his head. Ilya catches a glimpse of smooth skin before it disappears under the fabric, and the irritation he had tried to soothe comes roaring back, buzzing under his skin.
“Hollander”, Ilya says with a curt nod, distaste obvious in his voice.
“Rozanov,” Hollander nods back. His face is blank as ever, but there’s an edge to his voice now. It catches right on that raw spot inside of Ilya.
The tension between them is almost palpable. Ilya straightens his spine as he steps towards his stall. Hollander squares up his shoulders in return. Ilya reaches for the zipper of his equipment bag, fumbling with it for a second. He really should just let this go and leave.
But Hollander is right here. In his space. In his locker room. And picking a fight with him is far more appealing than the fight that is waiting for Ilya at home.
He wants to get under Hollander’s skin the same way Hollander has been getting under his. Wants to find his soft spots and poke back.
Ilya turns towards the other boy and smirks when he says “Next time you play better, да?”
There is a tiny twitch, and then obvious displeasure spreads across Hollander’s face.
Ilya is almost surprised, he thought it would take more than that.
“Don’t want to upset Mama, да?” Ilya is poking – and clearly he’s hit the right spot with that.
“How about you play better next time?” Hollander shoots back. “Learn how to fucking pass, set a good example, Captain.”
The way he says that last word – Captain – is pure venom but sounds oh-so-sweet to Ilya’s ears. It gives him the perfect excuse to shove at Hollander’s shoulder and push things further.
“I know how to pass,” Ilya snaps. “And backhand is great. Think I will be fine, but maybe need to teach you.”
That does it.
”Oh fuck off.”
There is a flash in Hollander’s eyes as he shoves Ilya back hard enough to make his back slam into the lockers. The noise startles both of them. For half a second, surprise flashes across Hollander’s face – not just at the impact, but at himself, like maybe he had not expected to do that either.
Still, his palms stay braced against Ilya’s chest to keep him where he is, the anger winning out over the shock.
“I don't get what your fucking problem is,” Hollander spits.
“Problem?” Ilya echoes, voice tight. He wraps his fingers around Hollander's wrists and pushes back, turning to reverse their positions.
“Ты и есть проблема, блядь,You're the problem, bitch,” Ilya hisses, looking down at Hollander who now has his back pressed against the lockers instead of Ilya. Hollander really isn't that short, but Ilya still has several centimeters on him. They’re too close like this, the proximity makes Ilya feel like he’s back to standing in scalding water.
“God, fuck you! You just can't deal with someone else being better than you!” Hollander is glaring up at Ilya. Up close, his eyes look wrong in a way that makes Ilya’s pulse kick harder – too dark and too bright all at once. Pupils wide, irises glowing. Hollander’s lashes are pitch black. There is a prominent line of freckles just under his lower lash line on the right side of his face.
Ilya knows he should put some distance between them.
He doesn’t want to.
Acting purely on impulse, Ilya lets go of one of Hollander's wrists and lifts his hand to the other boy's face. Hollander's free hand immediately grabs hold of Ilya's collar, ready to fight.
Ilya doesn’t hit him, though it’s clear that is what Hollander had expected. Instead, he grabs Hollander by the jaw, presses his thumb and forefinger into the freckled cheeks, forcing Hollander’s head up to look him in the eyes.
“You are dreaming.” The words are clumsy in English, but the meaning is not. Arrogance is written all over Ilya’s face, making it obvious.
Hollander says nothing.
The moment stretches and they keep glaring at each other. Ilya holding Hollander in place, Hollander’s hand just below Ilya's throat. Ilya is still keenly aware of the buzzing sensation that pricks at him more and more the longer the eye contact lasts. His mouth feels dry, he knows his heart is pounding and he wonders if Hollander can feel it where his right hand is still pressed against Ilya’s chest. Because Ilya is absolutely aware of the pulse jumping under his fingertips where his hand encircles Hollander's wrist.
His gaze drops to Hollander's mouth for a fraction of a second when the other boy’s tongue darts out to lick over his lower lip.
When he looks back up, something in the air between them has changed.
Maybe it is a challenge.
Maybe that is just what Ilya wants it to be.
Either way, he moves before he can stop himself.
His mouth crashes into Hollander's, hard enough to bruise. Ilya takes all the rage he can't put into words the other will understand and pours it into the kiss instead. He runs his tongue over Hollander's lip like the other boy had done just a moment ago, then bites him.
Hollander makes a startled sound against his mouth – but he’s not kissing back.
Fuck.
Ilya read this all wrong.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He jerks back, pulse hammering, and finds Hollander blinking up at him.
Fuckkkkkkk.
Before Ilya can say anything – before he can defend himself, or apologize, or even just drop his hand from where it still rests on Hollander's jaw – he gets yanked forward.
The relief is so sharp it almost hurts. Their mouths meet and Ilya doesn’t hesitate for even a breath before kissing back. Any restraint he may or may not have had vanishes on the spot, as he nips at Hollander’s mouth until his lips part.
One of Hollander’s hands is still fisted in Ilya’s shirt, the other pressing into his chest. Ilya lets go of the wrist he had still been holding onto, grabbing at Hollander's waist to pull him closer instead. Hollander releases his shirt, apparently satisfied that Ilya is not about to pull away again. Both of his hands slide up to Ilya’s shoulders, fingers digging into the skin so hard, Ilya is sure it will bruise. The thought makes him grin as he licks into Hollander's mouth.
At some point, Ilya drops his hand from Hollander’s jaw and slides his fingers through the other boy’s hair instead.
When Ilya tugs on it, Hollander moans into the kiss.
The noise makes Ilya feel like he is burning alive. Maybe he’s the one dreaming. This whole situation certainly feels like fever-dream material.
He tugs again, tilting Hollander’s head back, and pushes closer. The heat of him feels unbearable at this distance, like the same charged friction from the ice distilled into something smaller and far more dangerous.
When Hollander’s hands land at his hips, Ilya thinks, again, that he may have taken this too far. But instead of pushing him away, Hollander pulls Ilya even closer. Now Ilya is the one gasping, he’s hard and pushing up against Hollander's crotch, the friction is both torturous and absolutely delicious.
Hollander takes full advantage of Ilya’s momentary distraction. He shifts his balance, and before Ilya can register what’s happening, he’s the one being shoved back into the lockers again.
Something in Ilya wants to protest that reversal, but Hollander rocks their hips together again. All complaints evaporate at the desperate little noise Hollander makes, and Ilya swallows it greedily.
The kiss is a struggle for dominance. They push their tongues against each other, sucking and biting. It feels like a continuation of the fight by different means. Spit gets pushed back and forth, leaking out between them, dribbling down his chin. It’s a total mess and should probably feel gross – it doesn’t. At that moment, Ilya couldn’t care less. He's too busy being turned on by it.
Hollander keeps making these breathy little noises, and every one of them goes straight through Ilya. They make him dizzy with wanting more. He slides his hand down from Hollander's waist to his ass, pushing their hips even closer together, holding him there as he begins grinding against the other boy.
The movement pulls a shuddering moan from Hollander, who leans further into it, his fingers now playing with the waistband of Ilya’s shorts. When Ilya makes a noise of approval in response to the unasked question, he can feel Hollander shiver against him.
Then, finally, the other boy starts sliding his hand down Ilya’s boxers to touch his aching cock. Ilya gasps at the contact, and Hollander makes a pleased noise, muffled against Ilya’s lips.
Hollander’s fingers are clumsy, the lack of experience obvious in his movements. But it’s not like Ilya has had any practice in touching someone else’s dick before either. He always thought it couldn’t be that different from touching your own dick, although he’s starting to doubt the notion.
It’s absolutely different from touching himself. Hell – it’s absolutely different from any other handjob Ilya’s ever received up to this point. Hollander’s touches are shaky, but the way his fingertips graze over Ilya’s length still feels like little fireworks going off wherever they touch.
Ilya wants to melt into the sensation, but he can see the determined look on Hollander’s face – he can’t let himself be one-upped. So Ilya hooks his finger into the waistbands of Hollander's shorts and underwear. Briefly, he wonders whether he should say something, check in, but the words don’t translate and the way Hollander is pressing back against his touch is enough to answer the unasked question. Ilya shoves Hollander’s clothes out of the way, just enough to free his hard cock from the fabric. Hollander is gasping, and then inhales again sharply when Ilya wraps his fingers around his length.
It’s a sound Ilya would listen to on repeat forever if he could.
Hollander’s careful touches grow bolder now, his grip tightens as he tries to copy Ilya’s movements. A pleased hum falls from Ilya’s lips as he rocks into the other boy’s hand.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, there is a dim awareness – it shouldn’t feel this good. Objectively, Ilya’s had better kisses, received better handjobs, and had better sex.
But this is different. With all the things he did, he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted it quite this bad. And maybe that should make him feel ashamed. But it doesn’t. Instead, he feels powerful. Hollander is just as desperate for it, judging by the way he responds to Ilya. Every little noise, every touch, feeds Ilya’s ego and makes him want more and more and more.
At some point, they must have broken their kiss. Now they’re leaning against each other, forehead to forehead, panting and looking down between them. Ilya is moving his hand up and down Hollander’s cock in a steady rhythm. The other boy is practically leaking precum, easing the slide and Ilya has to bite down on his own lip to suppress the delighted little noise that is building at the back of his throat. He swipes his thumb through the liquid beading at Hollander’s slit and further spreads it over the flushed head of his cock with a twist of his wrist.
Hollander's moans are ringing quiet but clear through the small space between them, no longer muffled between their lips. The rush Ilya gets from this is better than any high. Hollander keeps moving his hand in tandem with Ilya’s, determined to match his tempo. He's biting his lip in concentration and Ilya wonders whether he realizes just how fucked out he looks right now. A dark blush is spreading over his freckled cheeks and all the way down his neck, probably beyond where his collarbones disappear into his shirt. His eyes dark and shiny, focused and yet somehow looking out of it. Lips red and swollen, drool smeared over his chin.
Ilya wants to come over all over his stupid freckles, but he knows he won't last long enough to progress to anything like that.
Instead, he shifts his hips so that their dicks are lined up, bumping against each other. He takes his hand off Hollander’s dick for a moment and is rewarded with a beautifully desperate whine.
Ilya looks deep into Hollander's eyes as he lifts the hand up further. Then he lets a thick glob of spit slide off his tongue to drip onto his palm. Hollander watches, his face twitches and Ilya reads a hint of disgust there, but it's drowned out by desire. He angles his hand towards Hollander and jerks his chin forward, urging him to add his own spit to the mix.
Hollander closes his eyes at that. Lashes resting against his freckled cheeks as he seems to consider it. He closes his parted lips for a second. Then he opens his mouth again to carefully spit on Ilya's palm. Ilya watches in awe, mesmerized as he takes in every detail and commits it into memory. His dick twitches in Hollander's hand.
Then Hollander opens his eyes again. Ilya briefly wonders if his own pupils are just as big as the other boy’s before he drops his gaze back down to where their dicks are rubbing together. He stretches his fingers and slowly wraps his spit-covered hand around both of them. There's an impatient whine coming from Hollander.
“Так отчаянно…So desperate...” Ilya mumbles, his voice sounds deep and scratchy, breathless.
His fingers brush against Hollander's wrist where he is still touching Ilya’s cock, and Hollander shifts to move his hand over Ilya's at the contact.
Then Ilya finally starts to move his hand. Hollander exhales a breath he must have been holding, He whispers something that Ilya thinks must be in French, and shudders. Their spit on Ilya’s palm is mixing with Hollander's precum, making the glide slicker, easier, better.
With every stroke, Ilya can see the way Hollander unravels just a bit more. He knows he probably looks the same. Ilya grits his teeth, trying to stave off his own orgasm while he keeps moving his and Hollander's hand up and down their dicks. Hollander is grinding into him, into the touch and against his cock.
The little “uhn, uhn, uhn” sounds falling from his lips are getting higher and louder.
His breath stutters more and more.
Then it happens.
Watching Shane Hollander come is like watching a rubber band stretch and snap in slow motion.
His dark eyebrows draw together and he bites down on his lip. It looks like Hollander is trying to keep his half-lidded eyes from rolling back into his head, until a groan manages to slip through his teeth despite his best efforts to keep quiet. Ilya can see the way his lashes flutter before his lids fall shut. Suddenly, Hollander is leaning in and his mouth is on Ilya’s again.
Hollander spills over Ilya’s hand with an obscene noise that vibrates against his tongue.
It almost feels like Ilya can taste it.
It feels like the rubber band snaps back against his own skin and then Ilya is coming too.
Groaning, he strokes himself and Hollander through it until the other boy makes a little keening noise from the overstimulation.
They break apart then, breathing hard into the cramped space between them for a while. Hollander's eyes still look glazed. Ilya wonders whether he could get away with kissing him again.
He wants to.
Wants it so bad that he’s starting to lean back in when Hollander’s eyes suddenly snap open wide.
“Oh fuck,” Hollander says and the hazy look disappears – replaced by sheer panic. He recoils as though Ilya’s hands were suddenly burning him. His lower lip wobbles and he pulls his shorts back up. For a moment, Hollander stands there, staring at Ilya like he wants him to say something, but Ilya has lost all of his words.
Before he can even try to find them, Hollander is across the room, grabbing his bag and running out of the locker room.
Ilya lets his head drop back against the locker. Then he moves it forward again to slam it back with more force.
Pretending not to want this seems impossible now.
“Бля…Fuck...”